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<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BOOK OF SCOTTISH STORY: HISTORICAL, HUMOROUS, LEGENDARY, AND IMAGINATIVE ***</div>

<div class='tnotes covernote'>

<p class='c000'><strong>Transcriber’s Note:</strong></p>

<p class='c000'>New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.</p>

</div>

<div class='border titlepage'>

<div>
  <h1 class='c001'><span class='xlarge'>THE BOOK</span><br> <span class='small'>OF</span><br> SCOTTISH STORY:<br> <span class='large'><em>HISTORICAL, HUMOROUS, LEGENDARY, AND IMAGINATIVE</em></span>.</h1>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='small'>SELECTED FROM THE</span></div>
    <div class='c003'>Works of Standard Scottish Authors.</div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“<em>Stories to read are delitable,</em></div>
      <div class='line'><em>Suppose that they be nought but fable;</em></div>
      <div class='line'><em>Then should stories that soothfast were,</em></div>
      <div class='line'><em>And they were said on gude manner,</em></div>
      <div class='line'><em>Have double pleasance in hearing.</em>”</div>
      <div class='line in36'><span class='sc'>Barbour.</span></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div>EDINBURGH:</div>
    <div>THE EDINBURGH PUBLISHING COMPANY.</div>
    <div>LONDON: SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, &#38; CO.</div>
  </div>
</div>

</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c005'>
    <div><span class='small'>EDINBURGH:</span></div>
    <div><span class='small'>PRINTED BY THE COMMERCIAL PRINTING COMPANY,</span></div>
    <div><span class='small'>22 HOWE STREET.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='preface' class='c006'>PREFACE.</h2>
</div>

<div class='c007'>
  <img class='drop-capi' src='images/di_p_iii.jpg' width='100' alt=''>
</div><p class='drop-capi_8'>
Next to its Ballads and Songs, the Stories of Scottish
Literature are the most characteristic exponents of the
national spirit. Allowing for the changes which time
and the progress of civilization have effected in the national
manners and character since the beginning of the present century—the
era to which the Stories chiefly refer—they shall be found to
delineate the social and domestic features of Scottish life as faithfully
as the Ballads do the spirit and sentiment of an earlier age; or
as the daily press reflects, rather than portrays, those of the present
day. While Songs—the simple expressions of feelings and sentiments,
musically rendered—change, in so far as they exhibit habits
and manners, yet their form is lasting. Not so the Ballads, whose
true historical successors are Prose Stories, as Novels are those of
Romances.</p>

<p class='c008'>Whether we account for it on the theory that a larger infusion of
the imaginative and romantic elements, characteristic of the Celtic
race, gives additional fervour to the Scottish character, or otherwise,
it is a fact that in no other community, on the same social level as
that of the peasantry and working-classes of Scotland, has this form
of literature had so enthusiastic a reception. There can be no doubt
that this widely diffused and keen appreciation, by an earnest and
self-respecting people, of Stories which are largely graphic delineations
of their own national features, has been the chief stimulus to
the production of so large and excellent a supply as our literature
contains.</p>

<p class='c008'>The present Selection is made on the principle of giving the
best specimens of the most popular authors, with as great a variety,
as to subjects, as is compatible with these conditions.</p>

<p class='c008'>The favourable reception of the issue in the serial form, both by
the press and the public, is looked upon by the projectors as an
earnest—now that the book is completed—that its further reception
will be such as to assure them that they have not fallen short of the
aim announced in their prospectus, viz., to form a Collection of
Standard Scottish Tales calculated to delight the imagination, to
convey interesting information, and to elevate and strengthen the
moral principles of the young.</p>

<p class='c009'><span class='sc'>Edinburgh</span>, <em>August 1876</em>.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='contents' class='c006'>CONTENTS.</h2>
</div>

<table class='table0'>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#the_henpecked_man'>The Henpecked Man,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>John Mackay Wilson</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#duncan_campbell'>Duncan Campbell,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>James Hogg</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#the_lily_of_liddisdale'>The Lily of Liddisdale,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>Professor Wilson</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#the_unlucky_present'>The Unlucky Present,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>Robert Chambers</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#the_sutor_of_selkirk'>The Sutor of Selkirk</a></td>
    <td class='c011'>“<cite>The Odd Volume</cite>,”</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#elsie_morrice'>Elsie Morrice,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><cite>Aberdeen Censor</cite>,</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#how_i_won_the_lairds_daughter'>How I won the Laird’s Daughter,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>Daniel Gorrie</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#moss-side'>Moss-Side,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>Professor Wilson</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#my_first_fee'>My First Fee,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><cite>Edin. Literary Journal</cite>,</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#the_kirk_of_tullibody'>The Kirk of Tullibody,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><cite>Chambers’s Edin. Journal</cite>,</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#the_progress_of_inconstancy'>The Progress of Inconstancy,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><cite>Blackwood’s Magazine</cite>,</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#adam_bell'>Adam Bell,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>James Hogg</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#mauns_stane_or_mine_hosts_tale'>Mauns’ Stane; or, Mine Host’s Tale,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><cite>Aberdeen Censor</cite>,</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#the_freebooter_of_lochaber'>The Freebooter of Lochaber,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>Sir Thomas Dick Lauder</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#an_hour_in_the_manse'>An Hour in the Manse,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>Professor Wilson</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#the_warden_of_the_marches'>The Warden of the Marches,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><cite>Edin. Literary Gazette</cite>,</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#the_alehouse_party'>The Alehouse Party,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'>“<cite>The Odd Volume</cite>,”</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#auchindrane_or_the_ayrshire_tragedy'>Auchindrane; or, the Ayrshire Tragedy,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>Sir Walter Scott</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#a_tale_of_the_plague_in_edinburgh'>A Tale of the Plague in Edinburgh,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>Robert Chambers</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#the_probationers_first_sermon'>The Probationer’s First Sermon,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>Daniel Gorrie</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#the_crimes_of_richard_hawkins'>The Crimes of Richard Hawkins,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>Thomas Aird</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#the_headstone'>The Headstone,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>Professor Wilson</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#the_widows_prediction'>The Widow’s Prediction,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><cite>Edin. Literary Journal</cite>,</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#the_lady_of_waristoun'>The Lady of Waristoun,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><cite>Chambers’s Edin. Journal</cite>,</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#a_tale_of_pentland'>A Tale of Pentland,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>James Hogg</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#graysteel'>Graysteel</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><cite>John o’ Groat Journal</cite>,</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#the_billeted_soldier'>The Billeted Soldier,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><cite>Eminent Men of Fife</cite>,</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#bruntfield'>Bruntfield,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><cite>Chambers’s Edin. Journal</cite>,</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#sunset_and_sunrise'>Sunset and Sunrise,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>Professor Wilson</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#miss_peggy_brodie'>Miss Peggy Brodie,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>Andrew Picken</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#the_death_of_a_prejudice'>The Death of a Prejudice,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>Thomas Aird</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#anent_auld_grandfaither'>Anent Auld Grandfaither, &#38;c.,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>D. M. Moir</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#john_brown'>John Brown; or, the House in the Muir,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><cite>Blackwood’s Magazine</cite>,</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#traditions_of_the_old_tolbooth_of_edinburgh'>Traditions of the Old Tolbooth of Edinburgh,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>Robert Chambers</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#the_lovers_last_visit'>The Lover’s Last Visit,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>Professor Wilson</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#mary_queen_of_scots_and_chatelar'>Mary Queen of Scots and Chatelar,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><cite>Literary Souvenir</cite>,</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#a_night_in_duncan_mgowans'>A Night in Duncan M‘Gowan’s,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><cite>Blackwood’s Magazine</cite>,</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#the_miller_and_the_freebooter'>The Miller and the Freebooter,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>Sir Thomas Dick Lauder</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#benjies_christening'>Benjie’s Christening,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>D. M. Moir</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#the_ministers_widow'>The Minister’s Widow,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>Professor Wilson</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#the_battle_of_the_breeks'>The Battle of the Breeks,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>Robert Macnish</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#my_sister_kate'>My Sister Kate,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>Andrew Picken</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#wat_the_prophet'>Wat the Prophet,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>James Hogg</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#the_snow-storm'>The Snow-Storm,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>Professor Wilson</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#love_at_one_glimpse'>Love at one Glimpse,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><cite>Edin. Literary Journal</cite>,</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#nanny_welsh_the_ministers_maid'>Nanny Welsh, the Minister’s Maid,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>Daniel Gorrie</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#lady_jean'>Lady Jean,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><cite>Chambers’s Edin. Journal</cite>,</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#the_monkey'>The Monkey,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>Robert Macnish</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#the_ladder_dancer'>The Ladder-Dancer,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><cite>Blackwood’s Magazine</cite>,</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#the_elders_death_bed'>The Elder’s Death-Bed,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>Professor Wilson</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#a_highland_feud'>A Highland Feud,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>Sir Walter Scott</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#the_resurrection_men'>The Resurrection Men,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>D. M. Moir</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#mary_wilson'>Mary Wilson,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><cite>Aberdeen Censor</cite>,</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#the_laird_of_cassway'>The Laird of Cassway,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>James Hogg</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#the_elders_funeral'>The Elder’s Funeral,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>Professor Wilson</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#macdonald_the_cattle-riever'>Macdonald, the Cattle-Riever,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><cite>Literary Gazette</cite>,</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#the_murder_hole'>The Murder Hole,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><cite>Blackwood’s Magazine</cite>,</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#the_miller_of_doune'>The Miller of Doune,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'>“<cite>The Odd Volume</cite>,”</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#the_headless_cumins'>The Headless Cumins,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>Sir Thomas Dick Lauder</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#the_lady_isabel'>The Lady Isabel,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><cite>Chambers’s Edin. Journal</cite>,</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#the_desperate_duel'>The Desperate Duel,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>D. M. Moir</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#the_vacant_chair'>The Vacant Chair,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>John Mackay Wilson</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#colkittoch'>Colkittoch,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><cite>Literary Gazette</cite>,</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#the_covenanters'>The Covenanters,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>Robert Macnish</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#the_poor_scholar'>The Poor Scholar,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>Professor Wilson</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#the_crushed_bonnet'>The Crushed Bonnet,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><cite>Glasgow Athenæum</cite>,</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#the_villagers_of_auchincraig'>The Villagers of Auchincraig,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>Daniel Gorrie</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#perling_joan'>Perling Joan,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>John Gibson Lockhart</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#janet_smith'>Janet Smith,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>Professor Thomas Gillespie</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#the_unlucky_top_boots'>The Unlucky Top Boots,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><cite>Chambers’s Edin. Journal</cite>,</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#my_first_and_last_play'>My First and Last Play,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>D. M. Moir</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#jane_malcolm'>Jane Malcolm,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><cite>Edin. Literary Journal</cite>,</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#bowed_joseph'>Bowed Joseph,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>Robert Chambers</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#the_laird_of_wineholm'>The Laird of Wineholm,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>James Hogg</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#an_incident_in_the_great_moray_floods_of_1829'>An Incident in the Great Moray Floods of 1829,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>Sir Thomas Dick Lauder</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#charlie_graham_the_tinker'>Charlie Graham, the Tinker,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>George Penny</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#the_snowing-up_of_strath_lugas'>The Snowing-up of Strath Lugas,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><cite>Blackwood’s Magazine</cite>,</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#ezra_peden'>Ezra Peden,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>Allan Cunningham</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#young_ronald_of_morar'>Young Ronald of Morar,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><cite>Literary Gazette</cite>,</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#the_broken_ring'>The Broken Ring,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'>“<cite>The Odd Volume</cite>,”</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#a_passage_of_my_life'>A Passage of My Life,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><cite>Paisley Magazine</cite>,</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#the_court_cave'>The Court Cave,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>Drummond Bruce</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#helen_waters'>Helen Waters,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>John Malcolm</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#legend_of_the_large_mouth'>Legend of the Large Mouth,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>Robert Chambers</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#richard_sinclair'>Richard Sinclair; or, the Poor Prodigal,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>Thomas Aird</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#the_barley_feverand_rebuke'>The Barley Fever—and Rebuke,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>D. M. Moir</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#elphin_irving_the_fairies_cupbearer'>Elphin Irving, the Fairies’ Cupbearer,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>Allan Cunningham</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#choosing_a_minister'>Choosing a Minister,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>John Galt</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#the_meal_mob'>The Meal Mob,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><cite>Edin. Literary Journal</cite>,</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#the_flitting'>The Flitting,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'>“<cite>My Grandfather’s Farm</cite>,”</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#ewen_of_the_little_head'>Ewen of the Little Head,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><cite>Literary Gazette</cite>,</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#basil_rolland'>Basil Rolland,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><cite>Aberdeen Censor</cite>,</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#the_last_of_the_jacobites'>The Last of the Jacobites,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>Robert Chambers</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#the_grave-diggers_tale'>The Grave-Digger’s Tale,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'>“<cite>The Auld Kirk Yard</cite>,”</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#the_fairy_bride'>The Fairy Bride,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><cite>Edin. Literary Journal</cite>,</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#the_lost_little_ones'>The Lost Little Ones,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'>“<cite>The Odd Volume</cite>,”</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#an_orkney_wedding'>An Orkney Wedding,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>John Malcolm</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#the_ghost_with_the_golden_casket'>The Ghost with the Golden Casket,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>Allan Cunningham</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#ranald_of_the_hens'>Ranald of the Hens,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><cite>Literary Gazette</cite>,</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#the_french_spy'>The French Spy,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>John Galt</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#the_ministers_beat'>The Minister’s Beat,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><cite>Blackwood’s Magazine</cite>,</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#a_scottish_gentlewoman_of_the_last_century'>A Scottish Gentlewoman of the Last Century,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>Miss Ferrier</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#the_faithless_nurse'>The Faithless Nurse,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><cite>Edin. Literary Gazette</cite>,</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#traditions_of_the_celebrated_major_weir'>Traditions of the Celebrated Major Weir,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>Robert Chambers</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#the_windy_yule'>The Windy Yule,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>John Galt</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#grizel_cochrane'>Grizel Cochrane,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><cite>Chambers’s Edin. Journal</cite>,</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#the_fatal_prayer'>The Fatal Prayer,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><cite>Literary Melange</cite>,</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#glenmannow_the_strong_herdsman'>Glenmannow, the Strong Herdsman,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>William Bennet</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#my_grandmothers_portrait'>My Grandmother’s Portrait,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>Daniel Gorrie</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#the_baptism'>The Baptism,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>Professor Wilson</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#the_lairds_wooing'>The Laird’s Wooing,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>John Galt</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#thomas_the_rhymer'>Thomas the Rhymer,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>Sir Walter Scott</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#lachlan_more'>Lachlan More,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><cite>Literary Gazette</cite>,</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#alemoor'>Alemoor,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><cite>Chambers’s Edin. Journal</cite>,</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#tibby_fowler'>Tibby Fowler,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>John Mackay Wilson</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#daniel_cathie_tobacconist'>Daniel Cathie, Tobacconist,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><cite>Edin. Literary Almanac</cite>,</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#the_haunted_ships'>The Haunted Ships,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>Allan Cunningham</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#a_tale_of_the_martyrs'>A Tale of the Martyrs,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>James Hogg</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#the_town_drummer'>The Town Drummer,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>John Galt</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#the_awful_night'>The Awful Night,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>D. M. Moir</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#rose_jamieson'>Rose Jamieson,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>Anon.</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#a_night_at_the_herring_fishing'>A Night at the Herring Fishing,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>Hugh Miller</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#the_twin_sisters'>The Twin Sisters,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>Alexander Balfour</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#albert_bane'>Albert Bane,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>Henry Mackenzie</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#the_penny_wedding'>The Penny Wedding,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>Alexander Campbell</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#peat-casting_time'>Peat-Casting Time,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>Thomas Gillespie</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#an_adventure_with_the_press-gang'>An Adventure with the Press-Gang,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><cite>Paisley Magazine</cite>,</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#the_laird_of_cools_ghost'>The Laird of Cool’s Ghost,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><cite>Old Chap Book</cite>,</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#allan-a-sop'>Allan-a-Sop,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>Sir Walter Scott</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#john_hetheringtons_dream'>John Hetherington’s Dream,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><cite>Old Chap Book</cite>,</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#black_joe_o_the_bow'>Black Joe o’ the Bow,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>James Smith</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#the_fight_for_the_standard'>The Fight for the Standard,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>James Paterson</em></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c010'><a href='#catching_a_tartar'>Catching a Tartar,</a></td>
    <td class='c011'><em>D. M. Moir</em></td>
  </tr>
</table>

<div class='chapter ph1'>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c005'>
    <div><span class='xlarge'>THE BOOK OF</span></div>
    <div class='c003'>SCOTTISH STORY.</div>
  </div>
</div>

</div>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='the_henpecked_man' class='c006'>THE HENPECKED MAN.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By John Mackay Wilson.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>Every one has heard the phrase,
“Go to Birgham!” which signifies
much the same as bidding you go to a
worse place. The phrase is familiar
not only on the borders, but throughout
all Scotland, and has been in use for
more than five hundred years, having
taken its rise from Birgham being the
place where the Scottish nobility were
when they dastardly betrayed their
country into the hands of the first
Edward; and the people, despising the
conduct and the cowardice of the nobles,
have rendered the saying, “Go to Birgham!”
an expression of contempt until
this day. Many, however, may have
heard the saying, and even used it, who
know not that Birgham is a small village,
beautifully situated on the north side
of the Tweed, about midway between
Coldstream and Kelso; though, if I
should say that the village itself is
beautiful, I should be speaking on the
wrong side of the truth. Yet there
may be many who have both heard the
saying and seen the place, who never
heard of little Patie Crichton, the
bicker-maker. Patie was of diminutive
stature, and he followed the profession
(if the members of the <em>learned</em> professions
be not offended at my using the term)
of a cooper, or bicker-maker, in Birgham
for many years. His neighbours
used to say of him, “The puir body’s
henpecked.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Patie was in the habit of attending
the neighbouring fairs with the water-cogs,
cream-bowies, bickers, piggins,
and other articles of his manufacture.
It was Dunse fair, and Patie said he
“had done extraordinar’ weel—the sale
had been far beyond what he expeckit.”
His success might be attributed to the
circumstance that, when out of the
sight and hearing of his better half, for
every bicker he sold he gave his
customers half-a-dozen jokes into the
bargain. Every one, therefore, liked
to deal with little Patie. The fair being
over, he retired with a crony to a public-house
in the Castle Wynd, to crack of
old stories over a glass, and inquire into
each other’s welfare. It was seldom
they met, and it was as seldom that
Patie dared to indulge in a single glass;
but, on the day in question, he thought
they could manage another gill, and
another was brought. Whether the sight
of it reminded him of his domestic
miseries, and of what awaited him at
home, I cannot tell; but after drinking
another glass, and pronouncing the
spirits excellent, he thus addressed his
friend:—</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ay, Robin” (his friend’s name
was Robin Roughead), “ye’re a happy
man—ye’re maister in your ain hoose,
and ye’ve a wife that adores and <em>obeys</em>
ye; but I’m nae better than naebody
at my ain fireside. I’ll declare I’m
waur: wife an’ bairns laugh at me—I’m
treated like an outlan’ body an’ a
fule. Though without me they micht
gang an’ beg, there is nae mair respeck
paid to me than if I were a pair o’ auld
bauchels flung into a corner. Fifteen
years syne I couldna believed it o’ Tibby,
though onybody had sworn it to me.
I firmly believe that a gude wife is the
greatest blessin’ that can be conferred
upon a man on this earth. I can
imagine it by the treasure that my
faither had in my mither; for, though
the best may hae <em>words</em> atween them
occasionally, and I’m no saying that
they hadna, yet they were just like passin’
showers, to mak the kisses o’ the sun
upon the earth mair sweet after them.
Her whole study was to please him and
to mak him comfortable. She was
never happy but when he was happy;
an’ he was just the same wi’ her. I’ve
heard him say that she was worth untold
gold. But, O Robin! if I think that
a guid wife is the greatest blessin’ a man
can enjoy, weel do I ken that a scoldin’,
domineerin’ wife is his greatest curse.
It’s a terrible thing to be snooled in
your ain house—naebody can form an
idea o’t but they wha experience it.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ye remember when I first got
acquainted wi’ Tibby, she was doing
the bondage work at Riselaw. I first
saw her coming out o’ Eccles kirk ae
day, and I really thocht that I had never
seen a better-faured or a more gallant-looking
lass. Her cheeks were red and
white like a half-ripe strawberry, or
rather, I should say, like a cherry; and
she seemed as modest and meek as a
lamb. It wasna very lang until I drew
up; and though she didna gie me ony
great encouragement at first, yet, in a
week or twa, after the ice was fairly
broken, she became remarkably ceevil,
and gied me her oxter on a Sunday.
We used to saunter about the loanings,
no saying meikle, but unco happy;
and I was aye restless whan I was out
o’ her sight. Ye may guess that the
shoemaker was nae loser by it during
the six months that I ran four times a-week,
wet or dry, between Birgham and
Riselaw. But the term-time was drawing
nigh, and I put the important
question, and pressed her to name the
day. She hung her head, and she
seemed no to ken weel what to say;
for she was sae mim and sae gentle then,
that ye wad hae said ‘butter wadna
melt in her mouth.’ And when I pressed
her mair urgently—</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘I’ll just leave it to yoursel, Peter,’
says she.</p>

<p class='c008'>“I thocht my heart wad louped out
at my mouth. I believe there never was
a man sae beside himsel wi’ joy in this
warld afore. I fairly danced again,
and cut as many antics as a merryandrew.
‘O Tibby,’ says I,</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>‘I’m ower happy now!—Oh, haud my head!</div>
      <div class='line'>This gift o’ joy is like to be my dead.’</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c008'>“‘I hope no, Peter,’ said she; ‘I
wad rather hae ye to live than dee for
me.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“I thocht she was as sensible as she
was bonny, and better natured than
baith.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Weel, I got the house set up, the
wedding-day cam, and everything passed
ower as agreeably as onybody could
desire. I thocht Tibby turning bonnier
and bonnier. For the first five or six
days after the weddin’, everything was
‘hinny,’ and ‘my love,’ and ‘Tibby, dear,’
or ‘Peter, dear.’ But matters didna
stand lang at this. It was on a Saturday
nicht, I mind, just afore I was
gaun to drap work, that three or four
acquaintances cam into the shop to
wush me joy, and they insisted I should
pay off for the weddin’. Ye ken I never
was behint hand; and I agreed that I
wad just fling on my coat and step up
wi’ them to Orange Lane. So I gaed
into the house and took down my
market coat, which was hangin’ behint
the bed; and after that I gaed to the
kist to tak out a shilling or twa; for,
up to that time, Tibby had not usurped
the office of Chancellor o’ the Exchequer.
I did it as cannily as I could; but she
had suspected something, and heard
the jinkin’ o’ the siller.</p>

<p class='c008'>“What are ye doing, Patie?’ says
she; ‘whar are ye gaun?’</p>

<p class='c008'>“I had never heard her voice hae
sic a sound afore, save the first time I
drew up to her, when it was rather
sharp than agreeable.</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Ou, my dear,’ says I, ‘I’m just
gaun up to Orange Lane a wee while.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘To Orange Lane!’ says she;
‘what in the name of fortune’s gaun
to tak ye there?’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘O hinny,’ says I, ‘it’s just a
neebor lad or twa that’s drapped in to
wush us joy, and, ye ken, we canna
but be neebor-like.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Ay! the sorrow joy them!’ says
she, ‘and neebor too!—an’ how meikle
will that cost ye?’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Hoot, Tibby,’ says I, for I was
quite astonished at her, ‘ye dinna understand
things, woman.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘No understand them!’ says she;
‘I wish to gudeness that ye wad understand
them though! If that’s the way
ye intend to mak the siller flee, it’s
time there were somebody to tak
care o’t.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“I had put the siller in my pocket,
and was gaun to the door mair surprised
than I can weel express, when
she cried to me—</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Mind what ye spend, and see that
ye dinna stop.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Ye need be under nae apprehensions
o’ that, hinny,’ said I, wishing to
pacify her.</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘See that it be sae,’ cried she, as I
shut the door.</p>

<p class='c008'>“I joined my neebors in a state of
greater uneasiness o’ mind than I had
experienced for a length o’ time. I
couldna help thinkin’ but that Tibby
had rather early begun to tak the upper
hand, and it was what I never expected
from her. However, as I was saying,
we went up to Orange Lane, and we
sat doun, and ae gill brocht on anither.
Tibby’s health and mine were drunk;
we had several capital sangs; and, I
daresay, it was weel on for ten o’clock
afore we rose to gang awa. I was nae
mair affected wi’ drink than I am at
this moment. But, somehow or ither,
I was uneasy at the idea o’ facing
Tibby. I thought it would be a terrible
thing to quarrel wi’ her. I opened
the door, and, bolting it after me,
slipped in, half on the edge o’ my fit.
She was sitting wi’ her hand at her
haffit by the side o’ the fire, but she
never let on that she either saw or
heard me—she didna speak a single
word. If ever there was a woman—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Nursing her wrath to keep it warm,</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c012'>it was her that nicht. I drew in a
chair, and, though I was half-feared
to speak—</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘What’s the matter, my pet?’ says
I—‘what’s happened ye?’</p>

<p class='c008'>“But she sat looking into the fire,
and never let on she heard me. ‘E’en’s
ye like, Meg Dorts,’ thought I, as
Allan Ramsay says; but I durstna say
it, for I saw that there was a storm
brewing. At last, I ventured to say
again—</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘What ails ye, Tibby, dear?—are
ye no weel?’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Weel!’ cried she—‘wha can be
weel? Is this the way ye mean to
carry on? What a time o’ nicht is
this to keep a body to, waiting and
fretting on o’ ye, their lane? Do you
no think shame o’ yoursel?’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Hoot, woman,’ says I, ‘I’m surprised
at ye; I’m sure ye hae naething
to mak a wark about—it’s no late
yet.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘I dinna ken what ye ca’ late,’
said she; ‘it wadna be late amang yer
cronies, nae doubt; but if it’s no late,
it’s early, for I warrant it’s mornin’.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Nonsense!’ says I.</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Dinna tell me it’s nonsense,’ said
she, ‘for I’ll be spoken to in nae sic
way—I’ll let you ken that. But how
meikle has it cost ye? Ye wad be
treating them, nae doubt—and how
meikle hae ye spent, if it be a fair
question?’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Toots, Tibby!’ said I, ‘whar’s
the cause for a’ this? What great deal
could it cost me?’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘But hair by hair maks the carle’s
head bare,’ added she—‘mind ye that;
and mind ye that ye’ve a house to keep
aboon your head noo. But, if ye canna
do it, I maun do it for ye—sae gie me
the key o’ that kist—gie me it instantly;
and I’ll tak care how ye gang drinkin’
wi’ ony body and treatin’ them till
mornin’ again.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“For the sake o’ peace I gied her
the key; for she was speakin’ sae loud
that I thocht a’ the neebors wad hear—and
she had nae suner got it, than awa
she gaed to the kist and counted every
shilling. I had nae great abundance
then mair than I’ve now; and—</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Is that a’ ye hae?’ said she; ‘an’
yet ye’ll think o’ gaun drinkin’ and
treatin’ folk frae Saturday nicht till
Sabbath mornin’! If this is the life ye
intend to lead, I wush to gudeness I had
ne’er had onything to say to ye.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘And if this is the life ye intend to
lead me,’ thought I, ‘I wush the same
thing.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“But that was but the beginnin’ o’
my slavery. From that hour to this
she has continued on from bad to worse.
No man livin’ can form an idea o’ what
I’ve suffered but mysel. In a mornin’,
or rather, I may say, in a forenoon, for
it was aye nine or ten o’clock afore she
got up, she sat doun to her tea and
white scones and butter, while I had to
be content wi’ a scrimpit bicker o’ brose
and sour milk for kitchen. Nor was
this the warst o’t; for, when I cam in
frae my wark for my breakfast, mornin’
after mornin’, the fire was black out;
and there had I, before I could get a
bite to put in my mouth, to bend doun
upon my knees and blaw it, and blaw
it, till I was half-blind wi’ ashes—for
we hadna a pair o’ bellowses; and there
wad she lie grumblin’ a’ the time, ca’in’ me
useless <em>this</em>, and useless <em>that</em>; and I just
had to put up wi’ it. But after our
first bairn was born, she grew far worse,
and I becam mair and mair miserable
every day. If I had been sleeping
through the nicht, and the bairn had
begun a kickin’, or whingin’—then she
was at the scoldin’, and I was sure to
be started out o’ my sleep wi’ a great
drive atween the shouthers, and her
cryin’—</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Get up, ye lazy body, ye—get up,
and see what’s the maiter wi’ this
bairn.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“An’ this was the trade half-a-dizen
o’ times in a nicht.</p>

<p class='c008'>“At last, there was ae day, when a’
that I had dune was simply saying a
word about the denner no bein’ ready,
and afore ever I kenned whar I was, a
cracky-stool that she had bought for
the bairn cam fleein’ across the room,
and gied me a dirl on the elbow, that
made me think my arm was broken.
Ye may guess what a stroke it was,
when I tell ye I couldna lift my hand
to my head for a week to come. Noo,
the like o’ that, ye ken, was what mortal
man couldna stand.</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Tibby,’ said I, and I looked very
desperate and determined, ‘what do ye
mean by this conduct? By a’ that’s
gracious, I’ll no put up wi’ it ony
langer!’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Ye’ll no put up wi’ it, <em>ye cratur</em>!’
said she; ‘if ye gie me ony mair o’ yer
provocation, I’ll pu’ yer lugs for ye—wull
ye put up wi’ that?’</p>

<p class='c008'>“It was terrible for a man to hear
his ain wife ca’ him <em>a cratur</em>!—just as
if I had been a monkey or a laup-doug!</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘O ye disdainfu’ limmer,’ thought
I; ‘but if I could humble your proud
spirit, I wad do it!’ Weel, there was
a grand new ballant hawkin’ about the
country at the time—it was ca’d ‘Watty
and Meg’—ye have nae doubt seen’t.
Meg was just such a terrible termagant
as my Tibby; and I remembered the
perfect reformation that was wrought
upon her by Watty’s bidding her fareweel,
and threatenin’ to list. So it just
struck me that I wad tak a leaf out o’ the
ballant. Therefore, keeping the same
serious and determined look, for I was
in no humour to seem otherwise—‘Tibby,’
says I, ‘there shall be nae
mair o’ this. But I will gang and list
this very day, and ye’ll see what will
come ower ye then—ye’ll maybe repent
o’ yer conduct whan it’s ower late.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘List! ye <i><span lang="la">totum</span></i> ye!’ said she; ‘do
ye say <em>list</em>?’ and she said this in a
tone and wi’ a look o’ derision that
gaed through my very soul. ‘What
squad will ye list into?—what regiment
will tak ye? Do ye intend to list for a
fifer laddie?’ And as she said this,
she held up her oxter, as if to tak me
below’t.</p>

<p class='c008'>“I thought I wad hae drapped doun
wi’ indignation. I could hae strucken
her, if I durst. Ye observe, I am just
five feet twa inches and an eighth, upon
my stockin’-soles. That is rather below
the army standard—and I maun say it’s
a very foolish standard; for a man o’
my height stands a better chance to
shoot anither than a giant that wad fire
ower his head. But she was aware that
I was below the mark, and my threat
was of no avail; so I had just to slink
awa into the shop, rubbin’ my elbow.</p>

<p class='c008'>“But the cracky-stool was but the
beginning o’ her drivin’; there wasna a
week after that but she let flee at me
whatever cam in the way, whenever I
by accident crossed her cankered humour.
It’s a wonder that I’m in the land
o’ the living; for I’ve had the skin
peeled off my legs—my arms maistly
broken—my head cut, and ither parts
o’ my body a’ black and blue, times out
o’ number. I thought her an angel
when I was courtin’ her; but, O Robin!
she has turned out—I’ll no say what—an
adder!—a teeger!—a she fury!</p>

<p class='c008'>“As for askin’ onybody into the
house, it’s a thing I durstna do for the
life that’s in my body. I never did it
but ance, and that was when an auld
schulefellow, that had been several
years in America, ca’ed at the shop to
see me. After we had cracked a
while—</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘But I maun see the wife, Patie,’
says he.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Whether he had heard aboot her
behaviour or no, I canna tell; but, I
assure ye, his request was onything but
agreeable to me. However, I took him
into the house, and I introduced him
wi’ fear and tremblin’.</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Tibby, dear,’ said I—and I dinna
think I had ca’ed her <em>dear</em> for ten years
afore—‘here’s Mr W——, an auld schulefellow
o’ mine, that’s come a’ the way
frae America, an’ ca’ed in to see ye.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Ye’re aye meetin’ wi’ auld schulefellows,
or some set or ither, to tak ye
aff yer wark,’ muttered she, sulkily, but
loud enough for him to hear.</p>

<p class='c008'>“I was completely at a loss what to
do or say next; but, pretending as
though I hadna heard her, I said, as
familiarly and kindly as I could, though
my heart was in a terrible swither—‘Bring
out the bottle, lass.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Bottle!’ quo’ she, ‘what bottle?—what
does the man mean?—has he
pairted wi’ the little sense that he ever
had?’ But had ye seen her as she said
this!—I’ve seen a cloud black when
driven wi’ a hurricane, and I’ve seen it
awfu’ when roarin’ in the agony o’
thunder; but never did I see onything
that I was mair in fear o’ than my
wife’s face at that moment. But, somehow
or ither, I gathered courage to say—‘Hoots,
woman, what’s the use o’
behavin’ that way? I’m sure ye ken
weel aneugh it’s the speerit bottle.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘The speerit bottle!’ cried she, wi’
a scream; ‘and when was there a
speerit bottle within this door? Dinna
show yoursel off to your American
freend for a greater man than ye are,
Patie. I think, if wi’ a’ that ye bring in
I get meat and bits o’ duds for your
bairns, I do very weel.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“This piece o’ impudence completely
knocked me stupid, for, wad ye believe
it, Robin? though she had lang driven
a’ my freends frae about the house, yet,
did ony o’ <em>her</em> freends ca’,—and that
was maistly every Sunday, and every
Coldstream market-day,—there was the
bottle out frae the cupboard, which
she aye kept under lock and key; and
a dram, and a bit short-bread nae less,
was aye and to this day handed round to
every ane o’ them. They hae discovered
that it’s worth while to make Patie the
bicker-maker’s a half-way house. But if
I happen to be in when they ca’, though
she pours out a fu’ glass a-piece for
them, she takes aye gude care to stand
in afore me when she comes to me,
between them and me, so that they
canna see what she is doing, or how
meikle she pours out; and, I assure ye,
it is seldom a thimblefu’ that fa’s to my
share, though she hauds the bottle lang up
in her hand—mony a time, no a weetin’;
and again and again have I shoved my
head past her side, and said, ‘Your
health, Mrs So-and-so’—or, ‘Yours,
Mr Such-a-thing,’ wi’ no as meikle in
my glass as wad droun a midge. Or,
if I was sae placed that she durstna but,
for shame, fill a glass within half-an-inch
o’ the tap or sae, she wad gae me a
look, or a wink, or mak a motion o’
some kind, which weel did I ken the
meanin’ o’, and which was the same as
saying—‘Drink it if ye daur!’ O Robin,
man! it’s weel for ye that kens no
what it is to be a footba’ at your ain
fireside. I daresay, my freend burned
at the bane for me; for he got up,
and—</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘I wish you good-day, Mr Crichton,’
said he; ‘I have business in Kelso to-night
yet, and can’t stop.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“I was perfectly overpowered wi’
shame; but it was a relief to me when
he gaed awa—and I slipped out after
him, and into the shop again.</p>

<p class='c008'>“But Tibby’s isna the only persecution
that I hae to put up wi’; for we hae five
bairns, and she’s brought them a’ up
to treat me as she does hersel. If I
offer to correct them, they cry out—‘I’ll
tell my mither!’—and frae the
auldest to the youngest o’ them, when
they speak aboot me, it is <em>he</em> did this,
or <em>he</em> did that—they for ever talk o’ me
as <em>him!—him!</em> I never get the name
o’ <i><span lang="sco">faither</span></i> frae ane o’ them—and it’s a’
her doings. Now, I just ask ye simply
if ony faither would put up wi’ the like
o’ that? But I maun put up wi’t. If I
were offering to lay hands upon them
for’t, I’m sure and persuaded she wad
rise a’ Birgham about me—my life wadna
be safe where she is—but, indeed, I
needna say that, for it never is.</p>

<p class='c008'>“But there is ae thing that grieves
me beyond a’ that I hae mentioned to
ye. Ye ken my mither, puir auld body,
is a widow now. She is in the seventy-sixth
year o’ her age, and very frail.
She has naebody to look after her but
me—naebody that has a natural right
to do it; for I never had ony brothers,
as ye ken; and, as for my twa sisters, I
daresay they have just a sair aneugh
fecht wi’ their ain families, and as they
are at a distance, I dinna ken how they
are situated wi’ their gudemen—though
I maun say for them, they send her a
stane o’ oatmeal, an ounce o’ tobacco,
or a pickle tea and sugar, now and then,
which is very likely as often as they hae
it in their power; and that is a great
deal mair than I’m <em>allowed</em> to do for her—me
that has a right to protect and maintain
her. A’ that she has to support
her is fifteenpence a-week aff the parish
o’ Mertoun. O Robin, man!—Robin,
man!—my heart rugs within me, when
I talk to you about this. A’ that I hae
endured is naething to it! To see my
puir auld mither in a state o’ starvation,
and no to be allowed to gie her a saxpence!
O Robin, man!—Robin, man!—is
it no awfu’? When she was first
left destitute, and a widow, I tried to
break the matter to Tibby, and to
reason wi’ her.</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘O Tibby, woman!’ said I, ‘I’m
very distressed. Here’s my faither laid
in the grave, and I dinna see what’s to
come o’ my mither, puir body—she is
auld, and she is frail—she has naebody
to look after or provide for her but me.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘You!’ cried Tibby—‘you! I wush
ye wad mind what ye are talkin’ about!
Ye have as many dougs, I can tell ye,
as ye hae banes to pike! Let your
mither do as ither widows hae done
afore her—let the parish look after
her.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘O Tibby, woman!’ said I; ‘but
if ye’ll only consider—the parish money
is very sma’, and, puir body, it will
mak her heart sair to receive a penny
o’t; for she weel kens that my faither
would rather hae dee’d in a ditch than
been behauden to either a parish or an
individual for a saxpence.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘An’ meikle they hae made by
their pride,’ said Tibby. ‘I wush ye
wud haud your tongue.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Ay, but Tibby,’ says I, for I was
nettled mair than I durst show it, ‘but
she has been a gude mother to me, and
ye ken yoursel that she’s no been an ill
gude-mother to ye. She never stood in
the way o’ you an’ me comin’ thegither,
though I was payin’ six shillings a-week
into the house.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘And what am I obliged to her for
that?’ interrupted my Jezebel.</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘I dinna ken, Tibby,’ says I; ‘but
it’s a hard thing for a son to see a
mother in want, when he can assist her.
Now, it isna meikle she takes—she
never was used wi’ dainties; and, if I
may just tak her hame, little will serve
her, and her meat will ne’er be missed.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Ye born idiot!’ cried Tibby. ‘I
aye thought ye a fule—but ye are warse
than a fule! Bring your mither here!
An auld, cross-grained, faut-finding wife,
that I ne’er could hae patience to endure
for ten minutes in my days! Bring her
here, say ye! No! while I live in this
house, I’ll let ye ken that I’ll be
mistress.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ay, and maister too, thought I.
I found it was o’ nae use to argue wi’
her. There was nae possibility o’ gettin’
my mither into the house; and as to
assisting her wi’ a shillin’ or twa at a
time by chance, or paying her house
rent, or sending her a load o’ coals, it
was perfectly out o’ the question, and
beyond my power. Frae the nicht that
I went to Orange Lane to this moment,
I hae never had a saxpence under my
thumb that I could ca’ my ain. Indeed,
I never hae money in my hands, unless
it be on a day like this, when I hae to
gang to a fair, or the like o’ that; and
even then, before I start, her leddyship
sees every bowie, bicker, and piggin,
that gangs into the cart—she kens the
price o’ them as weel as I do; and if I
shouldna bring hame either money or
goods according to her valuation, I
actually believe she wad murder me.
There is nae cheatin’ her. It is by mere
chance that, having had a gude market,
I’ve outreached her the day by a shillin’
or twa; and ane o’ them I’ll spend wi’
you, Robin, and the rest shall gang to
my mither. O man! ye may bless
your stars that ye dinna ken what it is
to hae a termagant wife.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I am sorry for ye, Patie,” said
Robin Roughead; “but really I think,
in a great measure, ye hae yoursel to
blame for it a’!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Me!” said Patie—“what do ye
mean, Robin?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Why, Patie,” said Robin, “I ken
it is said that every ane can rule a bad
wife but he that has her—and I believe
it is true. I am quite convinced that
naebody kens sae weel where the shoe
pinches as they that hae it on; though
I am quite satisfied that, had my case
been yours, I wad hae brought her to
her senses long afore now, though I
had</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Dauded her lugs wi’ Rab Roryson’s bannet,</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c012'>or gien her a <em>hoopin’</em>, like your friend the
cooper o’ Coldingham.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Save us, man!” said Patie, who
loved a joke, even though at secondhand,
and at his own expense; “but
ye see the cooper’s case is not in point,
though I am in the same line; for, as I
hae observed, I am only five feet twa
inches and an eighth in height—my
wife <em>is not the weaker vessel</em>—that I ken
to my sorrow.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Weel, Patie,” said Robin, “I
wadna hae ye to lift your hand—I was
but jokin’ upon that score, it wadna be
manly;—but there is ae thing that ye
can do, and I am sure it wad hae an
excellent effect.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Dear sake! what is that?” cried
Patie.</p>

<p class='c008'>“For a’ that has happened ye,” said
Robin, “ye hae just yoursel to blame,
for giein’ up the key and the siller to
her management that nicht ye gaed to
Orange Lane. That is the short and
the lang o’ a’ your troubles, Patie.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Do you think sae?” inquired the
little bicker-maker.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Yes, I think sae, Peter, and I say
it,” said Robin; “and there is but ae
remedy left.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“And what is that?” asked Patie,
eagerly.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Just this,” said Robin—“<em>stop the
supplies</em>.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“<em>Stop the supplies!</em>” returned Patie—“what
do you mean, Robin? I canna
say that I fully comprehend ye.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I just mean this,” added the other;
“be your ain banker—your ain cashier—be
maister o’ your ain siller—let her
find that it is to you she is indebted for
every penny she has the power to spend;
and if ye dinna bring Tibby to reason
and kindness within a month, my name’s
no Robin Roughead.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Do ye think that wad do it?” said
Patie.</p>

<p class='c008'>“If that wadna, naething wad,”
answered Robin; “but try it for a
twelvemonth—begin this very nicht;
and if we baith live and be spared to
this time next year, I’ll meet ye again,
and I’ll be the death o’ a mutchkin,
but that ye tell me Tibby’s a different
woman—your bairns different—your
hale house different—and your auld
mither comfortable.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“O man, if it might be sae,” said
Patie; “but this very nicht, the moment
I get hame, I’ll try it—and, if I
succeed, I’ll try ye wi’ a bottle o’ wine,
and I believe I never drank ane in
my life.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Agreed,” said Robin; “but mind
ye’re no to do things by halves. Ye’re
no to be feared out o’ your resolution
because Tibby may fire and storm, and
let drive the things in the house at ye—nor
even though she should greet.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I thoroughly understand ye,” said
Patie; “my resolution’s ta’en, and I’ll
stand by it.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Gie’s your hand on’t,” said Robin;
and Patie gave him his hand.</p>

<p class='c008'>Now, the two friends parted, and it
is unnecessary for me either to describe
their parting, or the reception which
Patie, on his arriving at Birgham, met
with from his spouse.</p>

<p class='c008'>Twelve months went round, Dunse
fair came again, and after the fair was
over, Patie Crichton once more went in
quest of his old friend, Robin Roughead.
He found him standing in the horse
market, and—</p>

<p class='c008'>“How’s a’ wi’ ye, my freend?” says
Patie.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Oh, hearty, hearty,” cries the other;
“but how’s a’ wi’ ye?—how is yer
family?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Come and get the bottle o’ wine
that I’ve to gie ye,” said Patie, “and
I’ll tell ye a’ about it.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I’ll do that,” said Robin, “for my
business is dune.”</p>

<p class='c008'>So they went into the same house in
the Castle Wynd where they had been
twelve months before, and Patie called
for a bottle of wine; but he found that
the house had not the wine license, and
was therefore content with a gill of
whisky made into toddy.</p>

<p class='c008'>“O, man,” said he to Robin, “I wad
pay ye half-a-dizen bottles o’ wine wi’
as great cheerfulness as I raise this glass
to my lips. It was a grand advice that
o’ yours—<em>stop the supplies</em>.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I am glad to hear it,” said Robin;
“I was sure it was the only thing that
would do.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ye shall hear a’ about it,” said
Patie. “After parting wi’ ye, I trudged
hame to Birgham, and when I got to
my house—before I had the sneck o’
the door weel out o’ my hand—</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘What’s stopped ye to this time o’
nicht, ye fitless, feckless cratur, ye?’
cried Tibby—‘whaur hae ye been?
Gie an account o’ yoursel.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“An account o’ mysel!’ says I; and
I gied the door a drive ahint me, as if
I wad driven it aff the hinges—‘for
what should I gie an account o’ mysel?—or
wha should I gie it to? I suppose
this house is my ain, and I can come in
and gang out when I like!’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Yours!’ cried she; ‘is the <em>body</em>
drunk?’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘No,’ says I, ‘I’m no drunk, but
I wad hae you to be decent. Where
is my supper?—it is time that I had it.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Ye micht hae come in in time to
get it then,’ said she; ‘folk canna keep
suppers waitin’ on you.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘But I’ll gang whar I can get it,’
said I; and I offered to leave the
house.</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘I’ll tak the life o’ ye first,’ said
she. ‘Gie me the siller. Ye had five
cogs, a dizen o’ bickers, twa dizen o’
piggins, three bowies, four cream dishes,
and twa ladles, besides the wooden
spoons that I packed up mysel. Gie
me the siller—and, you puir profligate,
let me see what ye hae spent.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Gie you the siller!’ says I; ‘na,
na, I’ve dune that lang aneugh—<em>I hae
stopped the supplies</em>, my woman.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Stop your breath!’ cried she;
‘gie me the siller, every farthin’, or wo
betide ye!’</p>

<p class='c008'>“It was needless for her to say <em>every
farthin’</em>; for, had I dune as I used to
do, I kenned she wad search through
every pocket o’ my claes the moment
she thocht me asleep—through every
hole and corner o’ them, to see if I had
cheated her out o’ a single penny—ay,
and tak them up, and shake them, and
shake them, after a’ was dune. But I
was determined to stand fast by your
advice.</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Do as ye like,’ says I; ‘I’ll bring
ye to your senses—<em>I’ve stopped the supplies</em>.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“She saw that I wasna drunk, and
my manner rather dumfoundered her a
little. The bairns—wha, as I have
tauld you, she aye encouraged to mock
me—began to giggle at me, and to mak
game o’ me, as usual. I banged out o’
the house, and into the shop, and took
down the belt o’ the bit turning-lathe,
and into the house I goes again wi’ it
in my hand.</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Wha maks a fule o’ me now?’</p>

<p class='c008'>“And they a’ laughed thegither, and
I up wi’ the belt, and loundered them
round the house and round the house,
till ane screamed and anither screamed,
and even their mither got clouts in
trying to run betwixt them and me;
and it was wha to squeel loudest. Sae,
after I had brocht them a’ to ken what
I was, I awa yont to my mither’s, and
gaed her five shillin’s, puir body; and
after stoppin’ an hour wi’ her, I gaed
back to the house again. The bairns
were a’ abed, and some o’ them were
still sobbin’, and Tibby was sittin’ by the
fire; but she didna venture to say a
word—I had completely astonished her—and
as little said I.</p>

<p class='c008'>“There wasna a word passed between
us for three days; I was beginning
to carry my head higher in the
house; and on the fourth day I observed
that she had nae tea to her
breakfast. A day or twa after, the
auldest lassie cam to me ae morning
about ten o’clock, and says she—</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Faither, I want siller for tea and
sugar.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Gae back to them that sent ye,’
says I, ‘and tell them to fare as I do,
and they’ll save the tea and sugar.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“But it is of nae use dwellin’ on the
subject. I did stop the supplies most
effectually. I very soon brocht Tibby
to ken wha was her bread-winner. An’
when I saw that my object was accomplished,
I showed mair kindness
and affection to her than ever I had
dune. The bairns becam as obedient
as lambs, and she soon cam to say—‘Peter,
should I do this thing?’—or,
‘Peter, should I do that thing?’ So,
when I had brocht her that far—‘Tibby,’
says I, ‘we hae a but and a
ben, and it’s grievin’ me to see my auld
mither starvin’, and left by hersel wi’
naebody to look after her. I think I’ll
bring her hame the morn—she’ll aye be
o’ use about the house—she’ll can knit
the bairns’ stockin’s, or darn them when
they are out o’ the heels.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Weel, Peter,’ said Tibby, ‘I’m
sure it’s as little as a son can do, and
I’m perfectly agreeable.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“I banged up—I flung my arms
round Tibby’s neck—‘Oh! bless ye,
my dear!’ says I; ‘bless ye for that!—there’s
the key o’ the kist and the siller—from
this time henceforth do wi’ it
what ye like.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“Tibby grat. My mother cam hame
to my house the next day. Tibby did
everything to mak her comfortable-a’
the bairns ran at her biddin’—and,
frae that day to this, there isna a happier
man on this wide world than
Patie Crichton, the bicker-maker o’
Birgham.”</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='duncan_campbell' class='c006'>DUNCAN CAMPBELL.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By James Hogg, the “Ettrick Shepherd.”</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>Duncan Campbell came from the
Highlands, when six years of age, to
live with an old maiden aunt in Edinburgh,
and attend the school. His
mother was dead; but his father had
supplied her place by marrying his
housekeeper. Duncan did not trouble
himself about these matters, nor, indeed,
about any other matters, save a
black foal of his father’s and a large
sagacious collie, named Oscar, which
belonged to one of the shepherds.
There being no other boy save Duncan
about the house, Oscar and he were
constant companions; with his garter
tied round Oscar’s neck, and a piece of
deal tied to his big bushy tail, Duncan
would often lead him about the green,
pleased with the idea that he was conducting
a horse and cart. Oscar submitted
to all this with great cheerfulness,
but whenever Duncan mounted to ride
on him, he found means instantly to
unhorse him, either by galloping, or
rolling himself on the green. When
Duncan threatened him, he looked
submissive and licked his face and
hands; when he corrected him with the
whip, he cowered at his feet. Matters
were soon made up. Oscar would lodge
nowhere during the night but at the
door of the room where his young
friend slept, and woe be to the man or
woman who ventured to enter it at
untimely hours.</p>

<p class='c008'>When Duncan left his native home
he thought not of his father, nor any
of the servants. He was fond of the
ride, and some supposed that he scarcely
even thought of the black foal; but
when he saw Oscar standing looking
him ruefully in the face, the tears
immediately blinded both his eyes.
He caught him round the neck, hugged
and kissed him—“Good-bye, Oscar,”
said he, blubbering; “good-bye. God
bless you, my dear Oscar.” Duncan
mounted before a servant, and rode
away—Oscar still followed at a distance,
until he reached the top of the hill—he
then sat down and howled; Duncan
cried till his little heart was like to
burst.</p>

<p class='c008'>“What ails you?” said the servant.</p>

<p class='c008'>“I will never see my poor honest
Oscar again,” said Duncan, “an’ my
heart canna bide it.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Duncan stayed a year in Edinburgh,
but he did not make great progress in
learning. He did not approve highly
of attending the school, and his aunt
was too indulgent to compel his attendance.
She grew extremely ill one day—the
maids kept constantly by her, and
never regarded Duncan. He was an
additional charge to them, and they
never loved him, but used him harshly.
It was now with great difficulty that he
could obtain either meat or drink. In
a few days after his aunt was taken ill
she died. All was in confusion, and
poor Duncan was like to perish with
hunger. He could find no person in
the house; but hearing a noise in his
aunt’s chamber, he went in, and beheld
them dressing the corpse of his kind
relation. It was enough. Duncan was
horrified beyond what mortal breast
was able to endure; he hasted down the
stair, and ran along the High Street
and South Bridge, as fast as his feet
could carry him, crying incessantly all
the way. He would not have entered
that house again if the world had been
offered to him as a reward. Some
people stopped him, in order to ask
what was the matter; but he could
only answer them by exclaiming, “O!
dear! O! dear!” and struggling till
he got free, held on his course, careless
whither he went, provided he got far
enough from the horrid scene he had so
lately witnessed. Some have supposed,
and I believe Duncan has been heard to
confess, that he then imagined he was
running for the Highlands, but mistook
the direction. However that was, he
continued his course until he came to a
place where two ways met, a little
south of Grange Toll. Here he sat
down, and his frenzied passion subsided
into a soft melancholy; he cried no
more, but sobbed excessively, fixed
his eyes on the ground, and made some
strokes in the dust with his finger.</p>

<p class='c008'>A sight just then appeared which
somewhat cheered, or at least interested
his heavy and forlorn heart—it was a
large drove of Highland cattle. They
were the only creatures like acquaintances
that Duncan had seen for a
twelvemonth, and a tender feeling of
joy, mixed with regret, thrilled his
heart at the sight of their white horns
and broad dew-laps. As the van passed
him, he thought their looks were
particularly gruff and sullen; he soon
perceived the cause, they were all in
the hands of Englishmen;—poor exiles
like himself—going far away to be
killed and eaten, and would never see
the Highland hills again! When they
were all gone by, Duncan looked after
them and wept anew; but his attention
was suddenly called away to something
that softly touched his feet; he looked
hastily about—it was a poor, hungry,
lame dog, squatted on the ground,
licking his feet, and manifesting the
most extravagant joy. Gracious heaven!
it was his own beloved and faithful Oscar!
starved, emaciated, and so crippled that
he was scarcely able to walk. He was
now doomed to be the slave of a Yorkshire
peasant (who, it seems, had either
bought or stolen him at Falkirk), the
generosity and benevolence of whose
feelings were as inferior to those of
Oscar, as Oscar was inferior to him in
strength and power. It is impossible
to conceive a more tender meeting than
this was; but Duncan soon observed
that hunger and misery were painted in
his friend’s looks, which again pierced
his heart with feelings unfelt before.
“I have not a crumb to give you, my
poor Oscar!” said he—“I have not
a crumb to eat myself, but I am not so
ill as you are.” The peasant whistled
aloud. Oscar well knew the sound,
and, clinging to the boy’s bosom, leaned
his head upon his thigh, and looked in
his face, as if saying, “O Duncan, protect
me from yon ruffian.” The whistle
was repeated, accompanied by a loud
and surly call. Oscar trembled, but,
fearing to disobey, he limped away
reluctantly after his unfeeling master,
who, observing him to linger and look
back, imagined he wanted to effect his
escape, and came running back to meet
him. Oscar cowered to the earth in the
most submissive and imploring manner,
but the peasant laid hold of him by the
ear, and, uttering many imprecations,
struck him with a thick staff till he lay
senseless at his feet.</p>

<p class='c008'>Every possible circumstance seemed
combined to wound the feelings of poor
Duncan, but this unmerited barbarity
shocked him most of all. He hasted
to the scene of action, weeping bitterly,
and telling the man that he was a cruel
brute, and that if ever he himself grew
a big man he would certainly kill him.
He held up his favourite’s head that he
might recover his breath, and the man,
knowing that he could do little without
his dog, waited patiently to see what
would be the issue. The animal recovered,
and staggered away at the
heels of his tyrant without daring to
look behind. Duncan stood still, but
kept his eyes eagerly fixed upon Oscar;
and the farther he went from him, the
more strong his desire grew to follow
him. He looked the other way, but
all there was to him a blank,—he had
no desire to stand where he was, so he
followed Oscar and the drove of cattle.</p>

<p class='c008'>The cattle were weary and went
slowly, and Duncan, getting a little
goad in his hand, assisted the men
greatly in driving them. One of the
drivers gave him a penny, and another
gave him twopence; and the lad who
had charge of the drove, observing
how active and pliable he was, and how
far he had accompanied him on the
way, gave him sixpence. This was a
treasure to Duncan, who, being extremely
hungry, bought three penny
rolls as he passed through a town; one
of these he ate himself, another he gave
to Oscar; and the third he carried
below his arm in case of further necessity.
He drove on all the day, and at night
the cattle rested upon a height, which,
by his description, seems to have been
that between Gala Water and Middleton.
Duncan went off at a side, in company
with Oscar, to eat his roll, and, taking
shelter behind an old earthen wall,
they shared their dry meal most lovingly
between them. Ere it was quite finished,
Duncan, being fatigued, dropped into a
profound slumber, out of which he did
not awake until the next morning was
far advanced. Englishmen, cattle, and
Oscar, all were gone. Duncan found
himself alone on a wild height, in what
country or kingdom he knew not. He
sat for some time in a callous stupor,
rubbing his eyes and scratching his
head, but quite irresolute what was
farther necessary for him to do, until
he was agreeably surprised by the arrival
of Oscar, who (although he had gone
at his master’s call in the morning) had
found means to escape and seek the retreat
of his young friend and benefactor.
Duncan, without reflecting on the consequences,
rejoiced in the event, and
thought of nothing else but furthering
his escape from the ruthless tyrant who
now claimed him. For this purpose
he thought it would be best to leave
the road, and accordingly he crossed it,
in order to go over a waste moor to the
westward. He had not got forty paces
from the road, until he beheld the
enraged Englishman running towards
him without his coat, and having his
staff heaved over his shoulder. Duncan’s
heart fainted within him, knowing
it was all over with Oscar, and most
likely with himself. The peasant seemed
not to have observed them, as he was
running and rather looking the other
way; and as Duncan quickly lost sight
of him in a hollow place that lay
between them, he crept into a bush of
heath, and took Oscar in his bosom.
The heath was so long that it almost
closed above them. The man had
observed from whence the dog
started in the morning, and hasted to
the place, expecting to find him sleeping
beyond the old earthen dyke; he found
the nest, but the birds were flown;—he
called aloud; Oscar trembled and
clung to Duncan’s breast; Duncan
peeped from his purple covert, like a
heath-cock on his native waste, and
again beheld the ruffian coming straight
towards them, with his staff still heaved,
and fury in his looks. When he came
within a few yards he stood still, and
bellowed out: “Oscar, yho, yho!”
Oscar quaked, and kept still closer to
Duncan’s breast; Duncan almost sank
in the earth. “D——n him,” said the
Englishman, “if I had hold of him I
should make both him and the little
thievish rascal dear at a small price;
they cannot be far gone,—I think I
hear them.” He then stood listening,
but at that instant a farmer came up on
horseback, and having heard him call,
asked him if he had lost his dog? The
peasant answered in the affirmative,
and added, that a blackguard boy had
stolen him. The farmer said that he met
a boy with a dog about a mile forward.
During this dialogue, the farmer’s dog
came up to Duncan’s den,—smelled
upon him, and then upon Oscar,—cocked
his tail, walked round them
growling, and then behaved in a very
improper and uncivil manner to Duncan,
who took all patiently, uncertain
whether he was yet discovered. But
so intent was the fellow upon the
farmer’s intelligence, that he took no
notice of the discovery made by the
dog, but ran off without looking over
his shoulder.</p>

<p class='c008'>Duncan felt this a deliverance so
great that all his other distresses vanished;
and as soon as the man was out
of his sight, he arose from his covert,
and ran over the moor, and ere long,
came to a shepherd’s house, where
he got some whey and bread for his
breakfast, which he thought the best
meat he had ever tasted, yet shared it
with Oscar.</p>

<p class='c008'>Though I had his history from his own
mouth, yet there is a space here which
it is impossible to relate with any degree
of distinctness or interest. He was a
vagabond boy, without any fixed habitation,
and wandered about Heriot Moor,
from one farmhouse to another, for the
space of a year, staying from one to
twenty nights in each house, according
as he found the people kind to him.
He seldom resented any indignity offered
to himself; but whoever insulted Oscar,
or offered any observations on the impropriety
of their friendship, lost Duncan’s
company the next morning.</p>

<p class='c008'>He stayed several months at a place
called Dewar, which he said was haunted
by the ghost of a piper; that piper had
been murdered there many years before,
in a manner somewhat mysterious, or
at least unaccountable; and there was
scarcely a night on which he was not
supposed either to be seen or heard
about the house. Duncan slept in the
cowhouse, and was terribly harassed
by the piper; he often heard him
scratching about the rafters, and sometimes
he would groan like a man dying,
or a cow that was choked in the band;
but at length he saw him at his side
one night, which so discomposed him,
that he was obliged to leave the place,
after being ill for many days. I shall
give this story in Duncan’s own words,
which I have often heard him repeat
without any variation.</p>

<p class='c008'>“I had been driving some young
cattle to the heights of Willenslee—it
grew late before I got home—I was
thinking, and thinking, how cruel it
was to kill the poor piper! to cut out
his tongue, and stab him in the back.
I thought it was no wonder that his
ghost took it extremely ill; when, all
on a sudden, I perceived a light before
me;—I thought the wand in my hand
was all on fire, and threw it away, but
I perceived the light glide slowly by
my right foot, and burn behind me;—I
was nothing afraid, and turned about
to look at the light, and there I saw
the piper, who was standing hard at
my back, and when I turned round, he
looked me in the face.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“What was he like, Duncan?” “He
was like a dead body! but I got a short
view of him; for that moment all around
me grew dark as a pit!—I tried to run,
but sank powerless to the earth, and lay
in a kind of dream, I do not know
how long. When I came to myself, I
got up, and endeavoured to run, but
fell to the ground every two steps. I
was not a hundred yards from the house,
and I am sure I fell upwards of a hundred
times. Next day I was in a high
fever; the servants made me a little
bed in the kitchen, to which I was
confined by illness many days, during
which time I suffered the most dreadful
agonies by night, always imagining the
piper to be standing over me on the one
side or the other. As soon as I was
able to walk, I left Dewar, and for a
long time durst neither sleep alone
during the night, nor stay by myself in
the daytime.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The superstitious ideas impressed
upon Duncan’s mind by this unfortunate
encounter with the ghost of the piper,
seem never to have been eradicated—a
strong instance of the power of early
impressions, and a warning how much
caution is necessary in modelling the
conceptions of the young and tender
mind, for, of all men I ever knew, he
is the most afraid of meeting with
apparitions. So deeply is his imagination
tainted with this startling illusion,
that even the calm disquisitions of reason
have proved quite inadequate to the task
of dispelling it. Whenever it wears
late, he is always on the look-out for
these ideal beings, keeping a jealous
eye upon every bush and brake, in case
they should be lurking behind them,
ready to fly out and surprise him every
moment; and the approach of a person
in the dark, or any sudden noise, always
deprives him of the power of speech for
some time.</p>

<p class='c008'>After leaving Dewar he again wandered
about for a few weeks; and it
appears that his youth, beauty, and
peculiarly destitute situation, together
with his friendship for his faithful Oscar,
had interested the most part of the
country people in his behalf; for he
was generally treated with kindness.
He knew his father’s name, and the
name of his house; but as none of the
people he visited had ever before heard
of either the one or the other, they
gave themselves no trouble about the
matter.</p>

<p class='c008'>He stayed nearly two years in a place
called Cowhaur, until a wretch, with
whom he slept, struck and abused him
one day. Duncan, in a rage, flew to
the loft and cut all his Sunday hat,
shoes, and coat in pieces; and, not
daring to abide the consequences, decamped
that night.</p>

<p class='c008'>He wandered about for some time
longer among the farmers of Tweed and
Yarrow; but this life was now become
exceedingly disagreeable to him. He
durst not sleep by himself, and the
servants did not always choose to allow
a vagrant boy and his great dog to sleep
with them.</p>

<p class='c008'>It was on a rainy night, at the close
of harvest, that Duncan came to my
father’s house. I remember all the
circumstances as well as the transactions
of yesterday. The whole of his
clothing consisted only of a black coat,
which, having been made for a fullgrown
man, hung fairly to his heels;
the hair of his head was rough, curly,
and weather-beaten; but his face was
ruddy and beautiful, bespeaking a
healthy body and a sensible, feeling
heart. Oscar was still nearly as large
as himself, and the colour of a fox,
having a white stripe down his face,
with a ring of the same colour round
his neck, and was the most beautiful
collie I have ever seen. My heart was
knit to Duncan at the first sight, and I
wept for joy when I saw my parents so
kind to him. My mother, in particular,
could scarcely do anything else than
converse with Duncan for several days.
I was always of the party, and listened
with wonder and admiration; but often
have these adventures been repeated to
me. My parents, who soon seemed to
feel the same concern for him as if he
had been their own son, clothed him in
blue drugget, and bought him a smart
little Highland bonnet, in which dress
he looked so charming that I would not
let them have peace until I got one of
the same. Indeed, all that Duncan
said or did was to me a pattern; for I
loved him as my own life. At my
own request, which he persuaded me
to urge, I was permitted to be his bedfellow,
and many a happy night and
day did I spend with Duncan and
Oscar.</p>

<p class='c008'>As far as I remember, we felt no
privation of any kind, and would have
been completely happy if it had not
been for the fear of spirits. When the
conversation chanced to turn upon the
Piper of Dewar, the Maid of Plora, or
the Pedlar of Thirlestane Mill, often
have we lain with the bed-clothes drawn
over our heads till nearly suffocated. We
loved the fairies and the brownies, and
even felt a little partiality for the mermaids,
on account of their beauty and
charming songs; but we were a little
jealous of the water-kelpies, and always
kept aloof from the frightsome pools.
We hated the devil most heartily,
although we were not much afraid of
him; but a ghost! oh, dreadful! the
names, ghost, spirit, or apparition,
sounded in our ears like the knell of
destruction, and our hearts sank within
us, as if pierced by the cold icy shaft of
death. Duncan herded my father’s
cows all the summer—so did I: we
could not live asunder. We grew such
expert fishers, that the speckled trout,
with all his art, could not elude our
machinations; we forced him from his
watery cove, admired the beautiful
shades and purple drops that were
painted on his sleek sides, and forthwith
added him to our number without
reluctance. We assailed the habitation
of the wild bee, and rifled her of all
her accumulated sweets, though not
without encountering the most determined
resistance. My father’s meadows
abounded with hives; they were almost
in every swath—in every hillock. When
the swarm was large, they would beat
us off, day after day. In all these
desperate engagements Oscar came to
our assistance, and, provided that none
of the enemy made a lodgment in his
lower defiles, he was always the last
combatant of our party on the field. I
do not remember of ever being so much
diverted by any scene I ever witnessed,
or laughing as immoderately as I have
done at seeing Oscar involved in a
moving cloud of wild bees, wheeling,
snapping on all sides, and shaking his
ears incessantly.</p>

<p class='c008'>The sagacity which this animal possessed
is almost incredible, while his
undaunted spirit and generosity would
do honour to every servant of our own
species to copy. Twice did he save his
master’s life; at one time when attacked
by a furious bull, and at another time
when he fell from behind my father, off
a horse in a flooded river. Oscar had
just swimmed across, but instantly
plunged in a second time to his master’s
rescue. He first got hold of his bonnet,
but that coming off, he quitted it, and
again catching him by the coat, brought
him to the side, where my father reached
him. He waked Duncan at a certain
hour every morning, and would frequently
turn the cows of his own will,
when he observed them wrong. If
Duncan dropped his knife, or any other
small article, he would fetch it along in
his mouth; and if sent back for a lost
thing, would infallibly find it. When
sixteen years of age, after being unwell
for several days, he died one night
below his master’s bed. On the evening
before, when Duncan came in from
the plough, he came from his hiding-place,
wagged his tail, licked Duncan’s
hand, and returned to his deathbed.
Duncan and I lamented him with unfeigned
sorrow, buried him below the
old rowan tree at the back of my
father’s garden, placing a square stone
at his head, which was still standing
the last time I was there. With great
labour, we composed an epitaph between
us, which was once carved on that
stone; the metre was good, but the
stone was so hard, and the engraving
so faint, that the characters, like those
of our early joys, are long ago defaced
and extinct.</p>

<p class='c008'>Often have I heard my mother relate
with enthusiasm the manner in which
she and my father first discovered the
dawnings of goodness and facility of
conception in Duncan’s mind, though,
I confess, dearly as I loved him, these
circumstances escaped my observation.
It was my father’s invariable custom to
pray with the family every night before
they retired to rest, to thank the Almighty
for his kindness to them during
the bygone day, and to beg His protection
through the dark and silent
watches of the night. I need not inform
any of my readers that that amiable
(and now too much neglected and despised)
duty consisted in singing a few
stanzas of a psalm, in which all the
family joined their voices with my
father’s, so that the double octaves of
the various ages and sexes swelled the
simple concert. He then read a chapter
from the Bible, going straight on
from beginning to end of the Scriptures.
The prayer concluded the devotions of
each evening, in which the downfall of
antichrist was always strenuously urged,
the ministers of the gospel remembered,
nor was any friend or neighbour in distress
forgot.</p>

<p class='c008'>The servants of a family have, in
general, liberty either to wait the evening
prayers, or retire to bed as they
incline, but no consideration whatever
could induce Duncan to go one night
to rest without the prayers, even though
both wet and weary, and entreated by
my parents to retire, for fear of catching
cold. It seems that I had been of
a more complaisant disposition; for I
was never very hard to prevail with in
this respect; nay, my mother used to
say, that I was extremely apt to take a
pain about my heart at that time of the
night, and was, of course, frequently
obliged to betake me to bed before the
worship commenced.</p>

<p class='c008'>It might be owing to this that
Duncan’s emotions on these occasions
escaped my notice. He sung a treble
to the old church tunes most sweetly,
for he had a melodious voice; and
when my father read the chapter, if it
was in any of the historical parts of
Scripture, he would lean upon the table,
and look him in the face, swallowing
every sentence with the utmost avidity.
At one time, as my father read the 45th
chapter of Genesis, he wept so bitterly,
that at the end my father paused, and
asked what ailed him? Duncan told
him that he did not know. At another
time, the year following, my father, in
the course of his evening devotions,
had reached the 19th chapter of the
book of Judges; when he began reading
it, Duncan was seated on the other
side of the house, but ere it was half
done, he had stolen up close to my
father’s elbow. “Consider of it, take
advice, and speak your minds,” said my
father, and closed the book. “Go on,
go on, if you please, Sir,” said Duncan—“go
on, and let’s hear what they
said about it.” My father looked sternly
in Duncan’s face, but seeing him
abashed on account of his hasty breach
of decency, without uttering a word,
he again opened the Bible, and read the
20th chapter throughout, notwithstanding
of its great length. Next day
Duncan was walking about with the
Bible below his arm, begging of every
one to read it to him again and again.
This incident produced a conversation
between my parents, on the expenses
and utility of education; the consequence
of which was, that the week
following, Duncan and I were sent to
the parish school, and began at the
same instant to the study of that most
important and fundamental branch of
literature, the A, B, C; but my sister
Mary, who was older than I, was already
an accurate and elegant reader.</p>

<p class='c008'>This reminds me of another anecdote
of Duncan, with regard to family worship,
which I have often heard related,
and which I myself may well remember.
My father happening to be absent over
night at a fair, when the usual time of
worship arrived, my mother desired a
lad, one of the servants, to act as chaplain
for that night; the lad declined it,
and slunk away to his bed. My mother
testified her regret that we should all be
obliged to go prayerless to our beds for
that night, observing, that she did not
remember the time when it had so happened
before. Duncan said he thought
we might contrive to manage it amongst
us, and instantly proposed to sing the
psalm and pray, if Mary would read the
chapter. To this my mother, with some
hesitation, agreed, remarking, that if he
prayed as he could, with a pure heart,
his prayer had as good a chance of
being accepted as some others that
were “better worded.” Duncan could
not then read, but having learned several
psalms from Mary by rote, he caused
her to seek out the place, and sung the
23d Psalm from end to end with great
sweetness and decency. Mary read a
chapter in the New Testament, and
then (my mother having a child on her
knee) we three kneeled in a row, while
Duncan prayed thus:—“O Lord, be
Thou our God, our guide, and our guard
unto death, and through death,”—that
was a sentence my father often used in
prayer; Duncan had laid hold of it,
and my mother began to think that he
had often prayed previous to that time.
“O Lord, Thou”—continued Duncan;
but his matter was exhausted; a long
pause ensued, which I at length broke
by bursting into a loud fit of laughter.
Duncan rose hastily, and without once
lifting up his head, went crying to his
bed; and as I continued to indulge in
laughter, my mother, for my irreverent
behaviour, struck me across the shoulders
with the tongs. Our evening
devotions terminated exceedingly ill; I
went crying to my bed after Duncan,
even louder than he, and abusing him
for his “useless prayer,” for which I had
been nearly felled.</p>

<p class='c008'>By the time that we were recalled
from school to herd the cows, next
summer, we could both read the Bible
with considerable facility, but Duncan
far excelled me in perspicacity; and so
fond was he of reading Bible history
that the reading of it was now our constant
amusement. Often have Mary
and he and I lain under the same plaid
by the side of the corn or meadow, and
read chapter about in the Bible for
hours together, weeping over the failings
and fall of good men, and wondering
at the inconceivable might of the
heroes of antiquity. Never was man
so delighted as Duncan was when he
came to the history of Samson, and
afterwards of David and Goliath; he
could not be satisfied until he had read
it to every individual with whom he
was acquainted, judging it to be as new
and as interesting to every one as it was
to himself. I have seen him standing
by the girls as they were milking the
cows, reading to them the feats of Samson;
and, in short, harassing every
man and woman about the hamlet for
audience. On Sundays, my parents
accompanied us to the fields, and joined
in our delightful exercise.</p>

<p class='c008'>Time passed away, and so also did
our youthful delights; but other cares
and other pleasures awaited us. As we
advanced in years and strength, we
quitted the herding, and bore a hand in
the labours of the farm. Mary, too,
was often our assistant. She and Duncan
were nearly of an age; he was tall,
comely, and affable; and if Mary was
not the prettiest girl in the parish, at
least Duncan and I believed her to be
so, which, with us, amounted to the
same thing. We often compared the
other girls in the parish with one another,
as to their beauty and accomplishments,
but to think of comparing any of them
with Mary was entirely out of the
question. She was, indeed, the emblem
of truth, simplicity, and innocence,
and if there were few more beautiful,
there were still fewer so good and
amiable; but still, as she advanced in
years, she grew fonder and fonder of
being near Duncan; and by the time
she was nineteen, was so deeply in
love that it affected her manner, her
spirits, and her health. At one time
she was gay and frisky as a kitten;
she would dance, sing, and laugh
violently at the most trivial incidents.
At other times she was silent and sad,
while a languishing softness overspread
her features, and added greatly to her
charms. The passion was undoubtedly
mutual between them; but Duncan,
either from a sense of honour, or some
other cause, never declared himself farther
on the subject than by the most respectful
attention and tender assiduities.
Hope and fear thus alternately swayed
the heart of poor Mary, and produced
in her deportment that variety of affections
which could not fail of rendering
the sentiments of her artless bosom
legible to the eye of experience.</p>

<p class='c008'>In this state matters stood, when an
incident occurred which deranged our
happiness at once, and the time arrived
when the kindest and most affectionate
little social band of friends that ever
panted to meet the wishes of each other
were obliged to part.</p>

<p class='c008'>About forty years ago, the flocks of
southern sheep, which have since that
period inundated the Highlands, had
not found their way over the Grampian
Mountains; and the native flocks of
that sequestered country were so scanty
that it was found necessary to transport
small quantities of wool annually to the
north, to furnish materials for clothing
the inhabitants. During two months of
each summer, the hill countries of the
Lowlands were inundated by hundreds
of women from the Highlands, who
bartered small articles of dress, and of
domestic import, for wool; these were
known by the appellation of “norlan’
netties;” and few nights passed, during
the wool season, that some of them
were not lodged at my father’s house.
It was from two of these that Duncan
learned one day who and what he was;
that he was the Laird of Glenellich’s
only son and heir, and that a large sum
had been offered to any person that
could discover him. My parents certainly
rejoiced in Duncan’s good fortune,
yet they were disconsolate at parting
with him; for he had long ago become
as a son of their own; and I seriously
believe, that from the day they first met,
to that on which the two “norlan’ netties”
came to our house, they never once
entertained the idea of parting. For
my part, I wished that the “netties” had
never been born, or that they had
stayed at their own home; for the
thought of being separated from my
dear friend made me sick at heart. All
our feelings were, however, nothing
when compared with those of my sister
Mary. From the day that the two
women left our house, she was no more
seen to smile; she had never yet divulged
the sentiments of her heart to
any one, and imagined her love for
Duncan a profound secret,—no,</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line in4'>She never told her love;</div>
      <div class='line'>But let concealment, like a worm i’ the bud,</div>
      <div class='line'>Feed on her damask cheek;—she pined in thought;</div>
      <div class='line'>And, with a green and yellow melancholy,</div>
      <div class='line'>She sat like patience on a monument,</div>
      <div class='line'>Smiling at grief.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c008'>Our social glee and cheerfulness were
now completely clouded; we sat down
to our meals, and rose from them in
silence. Of the few observations that
passed, every one seemed the progeny
of embarrassment and discontent, and
our general remarks were strained and
cold. One day at dinner-time, after a
long and sullen pause, my father said,
“I hope you do not intend to leave us
very soon, Duncan?” “I am thinking
of going away to-morrow, sir,” said
Duncan. The knife fell from my
mother’s hand; she looked him steadily
in the face for the space of a minute.
“Duncan,” said she, her voice faltering,
and the tears dropping from her eyes,—“Duncan,
I never durst ask you before,
but I hope you will not leave us altogether?”
Duncan thrust the plate
from before him into the middle of the
table—took up a book that lay on the
window, and looked over the pages.
Mary left the room. No answer was
returned, nor any further inquiry made;
and our little party broke up in silence.</p>

<p class='c008'>When we met again in the evening,
we were still all sullen. My mother
tried to speak of indifferent things, but
it was apparent that her thoughts had
no share in the words that dropped from
her tongue. My father at last said,
“You will soon forget us, Duncan;
but there are some among us who will
not soon forget you.” Mary again left
the room, and silence ensued, until
the family were called together for
evening worship. There was one sentence
in my father’s prayer that night
which I think I yet remember, word
for word. It may appear of little importance
to those who are nowise interested,
but it affected us deeply, and
left not a dry cheek in the family. It
runs thus—“We are an unworthy little
flock Thou seest here kneeling before
Thee, our God; but, few as we are, it
is probable we shall never all kneel
again together before Thee in this
world. We have long lived together
in peace and happiness, and hoped to
have lived so much longer; but since it
is Thy will that we part, enable us to
submit to that will with firmness; and
though Thou scatter us to the four
winds of heaven, may Thy almighty
arm still be about us for good, and
grant that we may all meet hereafter
in another and a better world.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The next morning, after a restless
night, Duncan rose early, put on his
best suit, and packed up some little
articles to carry with him. I lay panting
and trembling, but pretended to be fast
asleep. When he was ready to depart,
he took his bundle below his arm, came
up to the side of the bed, and listened
if I was sleeping. He then stood long
hesitating, looking wistfully to the door,
and then to me, alternately; and I saw
him three or four times wipe his eyes.
At length he shook me gently by the
shoulder, and asked if I was awake.
I feigned to start, and answered as if
half asleep.</p>

<p class='c008'>“I must bid you farewell,” said he,
groping to get hold of my hand.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Will you not breakfast with us,
Duncan?” said I.</p>

<p class='c008'>“No,” said he, “I am thinking that
it is best to steal away, for it would
break my heart to take leave of your
parents, and—”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Who, Duncan?” said I.</p>

<p class='c008'>“And you,” said he.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Indeed, but it is not best, Duncan,”
said I; “we will all breakfast together
for the last time, and then take a formal
and kind leave of each other.”</p>

<p class='c008'>We did breakfast together, and as
the conversation turned on former days,
it became highly interesting to us all.
When my father had returned thanks to
Heaven for our meal, we knew what
was coming, and began to look at each
other. Duncan rose, and after we had
all loaded him with our blessings and
warmest wishes, he embraced my parents
and me. He turned about. His eyes
said plainly, “There is somebody still
wanting,” but his heart was so full, he
could not speak.</p>

<p class='c008'>“What is become of Mary?” said
my father. Mary was gone. We
searched the house, the garden, and
the houses of all the cottagers, but she
was nowhere to be found. Poor lovelorn,
forsaken Mary! She had hid
herself in the ancient yew that grows in
front of the old ruin, that she might see
her lover depart, without herself being
seen, and might indulge in all the
luxury of woe. Poor Mary! how often
have I heard her sigh, and seen her
eyes red with weeping, while the smile
that played on her languid features,
when aught was mentioned in Duncan’s
commendation, would have melted a
heart of adamant.</p>

<p class='c008'>I must pass over Duncan’s journey
to the north Highlands; but on the
evening of the sixth day after leaving
my father’s house, he reached the mansion-house
of Glenellich, which stands in
a little beautiful woody strath, commanding
a view of part of the Hebrides; every
avenue, tree, and rock was yet familiar
to Duncan’s recollection; and the feelings
of his sensible heart, on approaching
the abode of his father, whom he
had long scarcely thought of, can only
be conceived by a heart like his own.
He had, without discovering himself,
learned from a peasant that his father
was still alive, but that he had never
overcome the loss of his son, for whom
he lamented every day; that his wife
and daughter lorded it over him, holding
his pleasure at naught, and rendered
his age extremely unhappy; that they
had expelled all his old farmers and
vassals, and introduced the lady’s
vulgar, presumptuous relations, who
neither paid him rents, honour, nor
obedience.</p>

<p class='c008'>Old Glenellich was taking his evening
walk on the road by which Duncan
descended the strath to his dwelling.
He was pondering on his own misfortunes,
and did not even deign to lift
his eyes as the young stranger approached,
but seemed counting the
number of marks which the horses’ hoofs
had made on the way.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Good e’en to you, sir,” said Duncan.
The old man started and stared
him in the face, but with a look so
unsteady and harassed, that he seemed
incapable of distinguishing any lineament
or feature of it.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Good e’en, good e’en,” said he,
wiping his brow with his arm, and
passing by.</p>

<p class='c008'>What there was in the voice that
struck him so forcibly it is hard to say.
Nature is powerful. Duncan could not
think of aught to detain him; and
being desirous of seeing how matters
went on about the house, thought it
best to remain some days <em>incog.</em> He
went into the fore-kitchen, conversed
freely with the servants, and soon saw
his step-mother and sister appear. The
former had all the insolence and ignorant
pride of vulgarity raised to wealth and
eminence; the other seemed naturally
of an amiable disposition, but was
entirely ruled by her mother, who taught
her to disdain her father, all his relations,
and whomsoever he loved. On
that same evening he came into the
kitchen, where she then was chatting
with Duncan, to whom she seemed
attached at first sight.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Lexy, my dear,” said he, “did you
see my spectacles?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Yes,” said she; “I think I saw
them on your nose to-day at breakfast.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Well, but I have lost them since,”
said he.</p>

<p class='c008'>“You may take up the next you find
then, sir,” said she.</p>

<p class='c008'>The servants laughed.</p>

<p class='c008'>“I might well have known what
information I would get of you,” said
he, regretfully.</p>

<p class='c008'>“How can you speak in such a style
to your father, my dear lady?” said
Duncan. “If I were he I would place
you where you should learn better
manners. It ill becomes so pretty a
young lady to address an old father
thus.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“He!” said she, “who minds him?
He’s a dotard, an old whining, complaining,
superannuated being, worse
than a child.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“But consider his years,” said Duncan;
“and, besides, he may have met
with crosses and losses sufficient to sour
the temper of a younger man. You
should at all events pity and reverence,
but never despise, your father.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The old lady now joined them.</p>

<p class='c008'>“You have yet heard nothing, young
man,” said the old laird; “if you saw
how my heart is sometimes wrung.
Yes, I have had losses indeed.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“You losses!” said his spouse; “no;
you have never had any losses that did
not in the end turn out a vast profit.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Do you then account the loss of a
loving wife and a son nothing?” said
he.</p>

<p class='c008'>“But have you not got a loving wife
and a daughter in their room?” returned
she. “The one will not waste
your fortune as a prodigal son would
have done, and the other will take care
of both you and that, when you can no
longer do either. The loss of your son,
indeed! It was the greatest blessing
you could have received!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Unfeeling woman,” said he; “but
Heaven may yet restore that son to protect
the grey hairs of his old father,
and lay his head in an honoured
grave.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The old man’s spirits were quite
gone; he cried like a child; his lady
mimicked him, and at this his daughter
and servants raised a laugh.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Inhuman wretches!” said Duncan,
starting up and pushing them aside,
“thus to mock the feelings of an old
man, even although he were not the
lord and master of you all. But, take
notice, the individual among you all
that dares to offer such another insult
to him, I’ll roast on that fire.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The old man clung to Duncan, and
looked him ruefully in the face.</p>

<p class='c008'>“You impudent, beggarly vagabond!”
said the lady, “do you know to whom
you speak? Servants, turn that wretch
out of the house, and hunt him with all
the dogs in the kennel.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Softly, softly, good lady,” said
Duncan, “take care that I do not turn
you out of the house.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Alas, good youth!” said the old
laird; “you little know what you are
about; for mercy’s sake, forbear. You
are brewing vengeance both for yourself
and me.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Fear not,” said Duncan, “I will
protect you with my life.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Pray, may I ask you what is your
name?” said the old man, still looking
earnestly at him.</p>

<p class='c008'>“That you may,” replied Duncan;
“no man has so good a right to ask
anything of me as you have—I am
Duncan Campbell, your own son.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“M-m-m-my son!” exclaimed the
old man, and sunk back on a seat with
a convulsive moan.</p>

<p class='c008'>Duncan held him in his arms; he
soon recovered, and asked many incoherent
questions; looked at the two
moles on his right leg, kissed him, and
then wept on his bosom for joy.</p>

<p class='c008'>“O God of heaven!” said he, “it is
long since I could thank Thee heartily
for anything; now, I do thank Thee,
indeed, for I have found my son! my
dear and only son!”</p>

<p class='c008'>Contrary to what might have been
expected, Duncan’s pretty, only sister,
Alexia, rejoiced most of all in his discovery.
She was almost wild with joy
at finding such a brother. The old
lady, her mother, was said to have
wept bitterly in private, but knowing
that Duncan would be her master, she
behaved to him with civility and respect.
Everything was committed to his management,
and he soon discovered that,
besides a good clear estate, his father
had personal funds to a great amount.
The halls and cottages of Glenellich
were filled with feasting, joy, and
gladness.</p>

<p class='c008'>It was not so at my father’s house. Misfortunes
seldom come singly. Scarcely
had our feelings overcome the shock
which they received by the loss of our
beloved Duncan, when a more terrible
misfortune overtook us. My father, by
the monstrous ingratitude of a friend
whom he trusted, lost at once the
greater part of his hard-earned fortune.
The blow came unexpectedly,
and distracted his personal affairs
to such a degree that an arrangement
seemed almost totally impracticable.
He struggled on with securities
for several months; but perceiving that
he was drawing his real friends into
danger by their signing of bonds which
he might never be able to redeem, he
lost heart entirely, and yielded to the
torrent. Mary’s mind seemed to gain
fresh energy every day. The activity
and diligence which she evinced in
managing the affairs of the farm, and
even in giving advice with regard to
other matters, is quite incredible. Often
have I thought what a treasure that
inestimable girl would have been to an
industrious man whom she loved. All
our efforts availed nothing; my father
received letters of horning on bills to a
large amount, and we expected every
day that he would be taken from us and
dragged to a prison.</p>

<p class='c008'>We were all sitting in our little room
one day, consulting what was best to
be done. We could decide upon nothing,
for our case was desperate; we were
fallen into a kind of stupor, but the
window being up, a sight appeared
that quickly thrilled every heart with
the keenest sensations of anguish. Two
men came riding sharply up by the
back of the old school-house.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Yonder are the officers of justice
now,” said my mother; “what shall
we do?”</p>

<p class='c008'>We hurried to the window, and all of
us soon discerned that they were no
other than some attorney, accompanied
by a sheriff’s officer. My mother entreated
of my father to escape and hide
himself until this first storm was overblown,
but he would in no wise consent,
assuring us that he had done nothing of
which he was ashamed, and that he
was determined to meet every one face
to face, and let them do their worst;
so, finding all our entreaties vain, we
could do nothing but sit down and
weep. At length we heard the noise
of their horses at the door.</p>

<p class='c008'>“You had better take the men’s
horses, James,” said my father, “as
there is no other man at hand.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“We will stay till they rap, if you
please,” said I.</p>

<p class='c008'>The cautious officer did not, however,
rap, but, afraid lest his debtor should
make his escape, he jumped lightly
from his horse, and hasted into the
house. When we heard him open the
outer door, and his footsteps approaching
along the entry, our hearts fainted
within us. He opened the door and
stepped into the room—it was Duncan!
our own dearly beloved Duncan. The
women uttered an involuntary scream
of surprise, but my father ran and got
hold of one hand, and I of the other;
my mother, too, soon had him in her
arms; but our embrace was short, for
his eyes fixed on Mary, who stood
trembling with joy and wonder in a
corner of the room, changing her colour
every moment. He snatched her up in
his arms and kissed her lips, and ere
ever she was aware, her arms had
encircled his neck.</p>

<p class='c008'>“O my dear Mary,” said he, “my
heart has been ill at ease since I left
you, but I durst not then tell you a
word of my mind, for I little knew how
I was to find affairs in the place where
I was going; but ah! you little illusive
rogue, you owe me another for
the one you cheated me out of then;”
so saying, he pressed his lips again to
her cheek, and then led her to a
seat.</p>

<p class='c008'>Duncan then recounted all his adventures
to us, with every circumstance of
his good fortune. Our hearts were uplifted
almost past bearing; all our cares
and sorrows were now forgotten, and
we were once more the happiest little
group that ever perhaps sat together.
Before the cloth was laid for dinner,
Mary ran out to put on her white gown,
and comb her yellow hair, but was surprised
at meeting with a smart young
gentleman in the kitchen with a scarlet
neck on his coat and a gold-laced hat.
Mary, having never seen so fine a
gentleman, made him a low courtesy,
and offered to conduct him to the room;
but he smiled, and told her he was the
squire’s servant. We had all of us forgot
to ask for the gentleman that came
with Duncan.</p>

<p class='c008'>Duncan and Mary walked for two
hours in the garden that evening. We
did not know what passed between
them, but the next day he asked her
in marriage of my parents, and never
shall I forget the supreme happiness
and gratitude that beamed in every face
on that happy occasion. I need not
tell my readers that my father’s affairs
were soon retrieved, or that I accompanied
my dear Mary a bride to the
Highlands, and had the satisfaction of
saluting her as Mrs Campbell and Lady
of Glenellich.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='the_lily_of_liddisdale' class='c006'>THE LILY OF LIDDISDALE.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By Professor Wilson.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>The country all around rang with
the beauty of Amy Gordon; and, although
it was not known who first
bestowed upon her the appellation, yet
now she bore no other than the Lily of
Liddisdale. She was the only child of
a shepherd, and herself a shepherdess.
Never had she been out of the valley in
which she was born; but many had
come from the neighbouring districts
just to look upon her as she rested with
her flock on the hill-side, as she issued
smiling from her father’s door, or sat in
her serener loveliness in the kirk on
Sabbath-day. Sometimes there are
living beings in nature as beautiful as
in romance; reality surpasses imagination;
and we see breathing, brightening,
and moving before our eyes, sights
dearer to our hearts than any we ever
beheld in the land of sleep.</p>

<p class='c008'>It was thus that all felt who looked
on the Lily of Liddisdale. She had
grown up under the dews, and breath,
and light of heaven, among the solitary
hills; and now that she had attained to
perfect womanhood, nature rejoiced in
the beauty that gladdened the stillness
of these undisturbed glens. Why should
this one maiden have been created lovelier
than all others? In what did her
surpassing loveliness consist? None
could tell; for had the most imaginative
poet described this maiden, something
that floated around her, an air of
felt but unspeakable grace and lustre,
would have been wanting in his picture.
Her face was pale, yet tinged with such
a faint and leaf-like crimson, that though
she well deserved the name of the Lily,
yet was she at times also like unto
the Rose. When asleep, or in silent
thought, she was like the fairest of all
the lilied brood; but, when gliding
along the braes, or singing her songs
by the river-side, she might well remind
one of that other brighter and
more dazzling flower. Amy Gordon
knew that she was beautiful. She
knew it from the eyes that in delight
met hers, from the tones of so many
gentle voices, from words of affection
from the old, and love from the young,
from the sudden smile that met her
when, in the morning, she tied up at
the little mirror her long raven hair,
and from the face and figure that looked
up to her when she stooped to dip her
pitcher in the clear mountain-well.
True that she was of lowly birth, and
that her manners were formed in a
shepherd’s hut, and among shepherdesses
on the hill. But one week passed
in the halls of the highly-born would
have sufficed to hide the little graceful
symptoms of her humble lineage, and
to equal her in elegance with those
whom in beauty she had far excelled.
The sun and the rain had indeed touched
her hands, but nature had shaped them
delicate and small. Light were her
footsteps upon the verdant turf, and
through the birchwood glades and down
the rocky dells she glided or bounded
along, with a beauty that seemed at
once native and alien there, like some
creature of another clime that still had
kindred with this—an Oriental antelope
among the roes of a Scottish forest.</p>

<p class='c008'>Amy Gordon had reached her nineteenth
summer, and as yet she knew of
love only as she had read of it in old
Border songs and ballads. These
ancient ditties were her delight; and
her silent soul was filled with wild
and beautiful traditions. In them love
seemed, for the most part, something
sad, and, whether prosperous or unhappy,
alike terminating in tears. In
them the young maiden was spoken of
as dying in her prime, of fever, consumption,
or a pining heart; and her
lover, a gallant warrior, or a peaceful
shepherd, killed in battle, or perishing
in some midnight storm. In them,
too, were sometimes heard blessed
voices whispering affection beneath the
greenwood tree, or among the shattered
cliffs overgrown with light-waving trees
in some long, deep, solitary glen. To
Amy Gordon, as she chanted to herself,
in the blooming or verdant desert, all
these various traditionary lays, love
seemed a kind of beautiful superstition
belonging to the memory of the dead.
With such tales she felt a sad and
pleasant sympathy; but it was as with
something far remote—although at times
the music of her own voice, as it gave
an affecting expression to feelings embodied
in such artless words, touched a
chord within her heart, that dimly told
her that heart might one day have its
own peculiar and overwhelming love.</p>

<p class='c008'>The summer that was now shining
had been calm and sunny beyond the
memory of the oldest shepherd. Never
had nature seemed so delightful to Amy’s
eyes and to Amy’s heart; and never had
she seemed so delightful to the eyes and
the hearts of all who beheld her with
her flock. Often would she wreathe
the sprigs of heather round her raven
ringlets, till her dark hair was brightened
with a galaxy of richest blossoms.
Or dishevelling her tresses, and letting
fall from them that shower of glowing
and balmy pearls, she would bind them
up again in simpler braiding, and fix on
the silken folds two or three waterlilies,
large, massy, and whiter than the
snow. Necklaces did she wear in her
playful glee, of the purple fruit that
feeds the small birds in the moors, and
beautiful was the gentle stain then
visible over the blue veins of her milk-white
breast. So were floating by the
days of her nineteenth summer among
the hills. The evenings she spent by
the side of her greyheaded father—and
the old man was blessed. Her nights
passed in a world of gentle dreams.</p>

<p class='c008'>But, though Amy Gordon knew not
yet what it was to love, she was herself
the object of as deep, true, tender, and
passionate love, as ever swelled and
kindled within a human breast. Her
own cousin, Walter Harden, now lived
and would have died for her, but had
not hitherto ventured to tell his passion.
He was a few years older than her, and
had long loved her with the gentle
purity of a brother’s affection. Amy
had no brother of her own, and always
called Walter Harden by that endearing
name. That very name of brother had
probably so familiarised her heart towards
him, that never had she thought
of him, even for a single moment, in
any other light. But, although he too
called Amy sister, his heart burned with
other feelings, and he must win her to
be his bride, and possess her as his
wife, or die. When she was a mere
child he had led her by the hand—when
a fair girl he had in his arms lifted her
across the swollen burns, and over the
snow-drifts—now that she was a woman
he had looked on her in silence, but
with a soul overcharged with a thousand
thoughts, hopes, and desires, which he
feared to speak of to her ear; for he
knew, and saw, and felt, in sorrow,
that she loved him but as a brother.
He knew, however, that she loved none
else; and in that—and that alone—was
his hope,—so he at last determined to
woo the Lily of Liddisdale, and win
her, in her beauty and fragrance, to
bloom within his house.</p>

<p class='c008'>The Lily was sitting alone in a deep
hollow among the hills, with her sheep
and lambs pasturing or playing around
her, while over that little secluded
circle a single hawk was hanging far up
in the sky. She was glad, but not
surprised, to see her brother standing
beside her; and when he sat down by
her side, and took her hand into his, she
looked upon him with a gentle smile,
and asked if he was going upon business
further on among the hills. Walter
Harden instantly poured forth, in a
torrent, the passion of his soul, beseeched
her not to shut up her sweet bosom
against him, but to promise to become,
before summer was over, his wedded
wife. He spoke with fervour but trepidation;
kissed her cheek; and then
awaited, with a fast-throbbing and
palpitating heart, his Amy’s reply.</p>

<p class='c008'>There was no guile, no art, no
hypocrisy in the pure and happy heart
of the Lily of Liddisdale. She took
not away her hand from that of him
who pressed it; she rose not up from
the turf, although her gentle side just
touched his heart; she turned not away
her face so beautiful, nor changed the
silvery sweetness of her speech. Walter
Harden was such a man as in a war
of freemen, defending their mountains
against a tyrant, would have advanced
his plume in every scene of danger, and
have been chosen a leader among his
pastoral compeers. Amy turned her
large beaming hazel eyes upon his face,
and saw that it was overshadowed.
There was something in its expression
too sad and solemn, mingling with the
flush of hope and passion, to suffer her,
with playful or careless words, to turn
away from herself the meaning of what
she had heard. Her lover saw in her
kind but unagitated silence, that to him
she was but a sister; and, rising to go,
he said, “Blessed be thou all the days
of thy life; farewell, my sweet Amy,
farewell!”</p>

<p class='c008'>But they did not thus part. They
walked together on the lonely hill-side,
down the banks of the little wimpling
burn, and then out of one small glen
into another, and their talk was affectionate
and kind. Amy heard him
speak of feelings to her unknown, and
almost wondered that she could be so
dear to him, so necessary to his life, as
he passionately vowed. Nor could
such vows be unpleasant to her ear,
uttered by that manly voice, and enforced
by the silent speech of those
bold but gentle eyes. She concealed
nothing from him, but frankly confessed,
that hitherto she had looked
upon him even as her own father’s son.
“Let us be happy, Walter, as we have
been so long. I cannot marry you—oh—no—no;
but since you say it would
kill you if I married another, then I
swear to you by all that is sacred—yes,
by the Bible on which we have often
read together, and by yonder sun setting
over the Windhead, that you never will
see that day.” Walter Harden was
satisfied; he spoke of love and marriage
no more; and in the sweet, fresh, airless,
and dewy quiet of evening, they walked
together down into the inhabited vale,
and parted, almost like brother and
sister, as they had been used to do for
so many happy years.</p>

<p class='c008'>Soon after this, Amy was sent by her
father to the Priory, the ancient seat of
the Elliots, with some wicker-baskets
which they had made for the young
ladies there. A small plantation of
willows was in the corner of the meadow
in which their cottage stood, and from
them the old shepherd and his daughter
formed many little articles of such elegance
and ingenuity, that they did not
seem out of place even in the splendid
rooms of the Priory. Amy had slung
some of these pieces of rural workmanship
round her waist, while some were
hanging on her arms, and thus she was
gliding along a footpath through the old
elm-woods that shelter the Priory, when
she met young George Elliot, the heir
of that ancient family, going out with
his angle to the river-side. The youth,
who had but a short time before returned
from England, where he had
been for several years, knew at the first
glance that the fair creature before him
could be no other than the Lily of Liddisdale.
With the utmost gentleness
and benignity he called her by that
name, and after a few words of courtesy,
he smilingly asked her for one small
flower-basket to keep for her sake. He
unloosened one from her graceful waist,
and with that liberty which superior
rank justified, but, at the same time,
with that tenderness which an amiable
mind prompted, he kissed her fair forehead,
and they parted—she to the
Priory, and he down to the linn at
the Cushat-wood.</p>

<p class='c008'>Never had the boy beheld a creature
so perfectly beautiful. The silence and
the songs of morning were upon the
dewy woods, when that vision rose before
him; his soul was full of the joy of
youth; and when Amy disappeared, he
wondered how he could have parted so
soon—in a few moments—from that
bright and beaming Dryad. Smiles
had been in her eyes and round her
pearly teeth while they spoke together,
and he remembered the soft and fragrant
lock of hair that touched his lips as he
gently kissed her forehead. The beauty
of that living creature sank into his
soul along with all the sweet influences
of nature now rejoicing in the full, ripe,
rich spirit of summer, and in fancy he
saw that Lily springing up in every
glade through which he was now roaming,
and when he had reached the linn,
on the bank too of every romantic nook
and bay where the clear waters eddied
or slept. “She must recross the bridge
on her way home,” said the enamoured
boy to himself; and, fearing that Amy
Gordon might already be returning
from the Priory, he clambered up the
face of the shrubby precipice, and,
bounding over the large green mossy
stones, and through the entangling
briers and brushwood, he soon was at
the bridge, and sat down on a high
bank, under a cliff, commanding a view
of the path by which the fair maiden
must approach on her homeward
journey.</p>

<p class='c008'>The heart of the innocent Amy had
fluttered, too, as the tall, slim, graceful
stripling had kissed her brow. No
rudeness, no insult, no pride, no
haughty freedom had been in his demeanour
towards her; but she felt
gladly conscious in her mind, that he
had been delighted with her looks, and
would, perhaps, think now and then
afterwards, as he walked through the
woods, of the shepherd’s daughter, with
whom he had not disdained to speak.
Amy thought, while she half looked
back, as he disappeared among the
trees, that he was just such a youth as
the old minstrels sang of in their war or
love ballads, and that he was well
worthy some rich and noble bride,
whom he might bring to his hall on a
snow-white palfrey with silken reins,
and silver bells on its mane. And she
began to recite to herself, as she walked
along, one of those old Border tales.</p>

<p class='c008'>Amy left her baskets at the Priory,
and was near the bridge, on her return,
when she beheld the young heir spring
down from the bank before her, and
come forward with a sparkling countenance.
“I must have that sweet
tress that hangs over thy sweeter forehead,”
said he, with a low and eager
voice; “and I will keep it for the sake
of the fairest Flower that ever bloomed
in my father’s woods—even the Lily of
Liddisdale.” The lock was given—for
how could it be refused? And the
shepherdess saw the young and high-born
heir of the Priory put it into his
breast. She proceeded across the hill,
down the long Falcon-glen, and through
the Witch-wood—and still he was by
her side. There was a charm in his
speech, and in every word he said, and
in his gentle demeanour, that touched
poor Amy’s very heart; and as he gave
her assistance, although all unneeded,
over the uneven hollows, and the springs
and marshes, she had neither the courage,
nor the wish, nor the power, to
request him to turn back to the Priory.
They entered a small quiet green circlet,
bare of trees, in the bosom of a coppicewood;
and the youth, taking her hand,
made her sit down on the mossy trunk
of a fallen yew, and said—“Amy—my
fair Amy!—before we part, will you
sing me one of your old Border songs?
and let it be one of love. Did not the
sons of nobles, long ago, often love
the daughters of them that dwelt in
huts?”</p>

<p class='c008'>Amy Gordon sat there an hour with
the loving, but honourable boy, and
sang many a plaintive tune, and recited
many a romantic story. She believed
every word she uttered, whether of
human lovers, or of the affection of
fairies, the silent creatures of the woods
and knowes, towards our race. For
herself, she felt a constant wild delight
in fictions, which to her were all as
truths; and she was glad and proud
to see how they held in silent attention
him at whose request she recited or
sang. But now she sprang to her feet,
and, beseeching him to forgive the
freedom she had used in thus venturing
to speak so long in such a presence,
but at the same time remembering that
a lock of her hair was near his heart,
and perceiving that the little basket
she had let him take was half filled
with wild-flowers, the Lily of Liddisdale
made a graceful obeisance, and
disappeared. Nor did the youth follow
her—they had sat together for one delightful
hour—and he returned by himself
to the Priory.</p>

<p class='c008'>From this day the trouble of a new
delight was in the heart of young Elliot.
The spirit of innocence was blended
with that of beauty all over Amy, the
shepherdess; and it was their perfect
union that the noble boy so dearly
loved. Yet what could she be to him
more than a gleam of rainbow light—a
phantom of the woods—an imagination
that passed away into the silence of the
far-off green pastoral hills? She belonged
almost to another world—another life.
His dwelling, and that of his forefathers,
was a princely hall. She, and
all her nameless line, were dwellers in
turf-built huts. “In other times,”
thought he, “I might have transplanted
that Lily into mine own garden; but
these are foolish fancies! Am I in love
with poor Amy Gordon, the daughter
of a shepherd?” As these thoughts
were passing through his mind, he was
bounding along a ridge of hills, from
which many a sweet vale was visible;
and he formed a sudden determination
to visit the cottage of Amy’s father,
which he had seen some years ago
pointed out when he was with a gay
party of lords and ladies, on a visit to
the ruins of Hermitage Castle. He
bounded like a deer along; and as he
descended into a little vale, lo! on a
green mound, the Lily of Liddisdale
herding her sheep!</p>

<p class='c008'>Amy was half terrified to see him
standing in his graceful beauty before
her in that solitary place. In a moment
her soul was disquieted within her, and
she felt that it indeed was love. She
wished that she might sink into that
verdant mound, from which she vainly
strove to rise, as the impassioned youth
lay down on the turf at her side, and,
telling her to fear nothing, called her
by a thousand tender and endearing
names. Never till he had seen Amy
had he felt one tremor of love; but now
his heart was kindled, and in that utter
solitude, where all was so quiet and so
peaceful, there seemed to him a preternatural
charm over all her character.
He burst out into passionate vows and
prayers, and called God to witness, that
if she would love him, he would forget
all distinction of rank, and marry his
beautiful Amy, and she should live yet
in his own hall. The words were
uttered, and there was silence. Their
echo sounded for a moment strange to
his own ears; but he fixed his soul upon
her countenance, and repeated them
over and over again with wilder emphasis,
and more impassioned utterance.
Amy was confounded with fear and
perplexity; but when she saw him
kneeling before her, the meek, innocent,
humble girl could not endure the
sight, and said, “Sir, behold in me one
willing to be your servant. Yes, willing
is poor Amy Gordon to kiss your
feet. I am a poor man’s daughter.
Oh, sir! you surely came not hither
for evil? No—no, evil dwells not in
such a shape. Away then—away then,
my noble master; for if Walter Harden
were to see you!—if my old father
knew this, his heart would break!”</p>

<p class='c008'>Once more they parted. Amy returned
home in the evening at the usual
hour; but there was no peace now for
her soul. Such intense and passionate
love had been vowed to her—such
winning and delightful expressions whispered
into her heart by one so far above
her in all things, but who felt no degradation
in equalling her to him in the
warmth and depth of his affection, that
she sometimes strove to think it all but
one of her wild dreams awakened by
some verse or incident in some old
ballad. But she had felt his kisses on
her cheek; his thrilling voice was in
her soul; and she was oppressed with
a passion, pure, it is true, and most
innocently humble, but a passion that
seemed to be like life itself, never to be
overcome, and that could cease only
when the heart he had deluded—for
what else than delusion could it be?—ceased
to beat. Thus agitated, she had
directed her way homewards with hurried
and heedless steps. She minded
not the miry pits—the quivering marshes—and
the wet rushy moors. Instead of
crossing the little sinuous moorland
streams at their narrow places, where
her light feet used to bound across
them, she waded through them in her
feverish anxiety, and sometimes, after
hurrying along the braes, she sat suddenly
down, breathless, weak, and exhausted,
and retraced in weeping bewilderment
all the scene of fear, joy,
endearments, caresses, and wild persuasions,
from which she had torn herself
away, and escaped. On reaching
home, she went to her bed trembling,
and shivering, and drowned in tears;
and could scarcely dare, much as she
needed comfort, even to say her prayers.
Amy was in a high fever; during the
night she became delirious; and her
old father sat by her bedside till morning,
fearing that he was going to lose
his child.</p>

<p class='c008'>There was grief over the great strath
and all its glens when the rumour
spread over them that Amy Gordon
was dying. Her wonderful beauty had
but given a tenderer and brighter character
to the love which her unsullied
innocence and simple goodness had
universally inspired; and it was felt,
even among the sobbings of a natural
affection, that if the Lily of Liddisdale
should die, something would be taken
away of which they were all proud,
and from whose lustre there was a diffusion
over their own lives. Many a
gentle hand touched the closed door of
her cottage, and many a low voice
inquired how God was dealing with
her; but where now was Walter Harden
when his Lily was like to fade?
He was at her bed’s foot, as her father
was at its head. Was she not his sister,
although she would not be his bride?
And when he beheld her glazed eyes
wandering unconsciously in delirium,
and felt her blood throbbing so rapidly
in her beautiful transparent veins, he
prayed to God that Amy might recover,
even although her heart were never to
be his, even although it were to fly to
the bosom of him whose name she constantly
kept repeating in her wandering
fantasies. For Amy, although she sometimes
kindly whispered the name of Walter
Harden, and asked why her brother
came not to see her on her deathbed, yet
far oftener spake beseechingly and passionately
as if to that other youth, and
implored him to break not the heart of
a poor simple shepherdess who was
willing to kiss his feet.</p>

<p class='c008'>Neither the father of poor Amy nor
Walter Harden had known before that
she had ever seen young George
Elliot—but they soon understood, from
the innocent distraction of her speech,
that the noble boy had left pure the
Lily he loved, and Walter said that
it belonged not to that line ever to enjure
the helpless. Many a pang it
gave him, no doubt, to think that his
Amy’s heart, which all his life-long
tenderness could not win, had yielded
itself up in tumultuous joy to one—two—three
meetings of an hour, or perhaps
only a few minutes, with one removed
so high and so far from her humble life
and all its concerns. These were cold,
sickening pangs of humiliation and
jealousy, that might, in a less generous
nature, have crushed all love. But it
was not so with him; and cheerfully
would Walter Harden have taken the
burning fever into his own veins, so
that it could have been removed from
hers—cheerfully would he have laid
down his own manly head on that pillow,
so that Amy could have lifted up
her long raven tresses, now often miserably
dishevelled in her raving, and,
braiding them once more, walk out well
and happy into the sunshine of the
beautiful day, rendered more beautiful
still by her presence. Hard would it
have been to have resigned her bosom
to any human touch; but hideous seemed
it beyond all thought to resign it to
the touch of death. Let heaven but
avert that doom, and his affectionate
soul felt that it could be satisfied.</p>

<p class='c008'>Out of a long deep trance-like sleep
Amy at last awoke, and her eyes fell
upon the face of Walter Harden. She
regarded long and earnestly its pitying
and solemn expression, then pressed
her hand to her forehead and wept.
“Is my father dead and buried—and
did he die of grief and shame for his
Amy? Oh! that needed not have been,
for I am innocent. Neither, Walter,
have I broken, nor will I ever break,
my promise unto thee. I remember it
well—by the Bible—and yon setting
sun. But I am weak and faint. Oh!
tell me, Walter! all that has happened!
Have I been ill—for hours—or for
days—or weeks—or months? For
that I know not,—so wild and so
strange, so sad and so sorrowful, so
miserable and so wretched, have been
my many thousand dreams!”</p>

<p class='c008'>There was no concealment and no
disguise. Amy was kindly and tenderly
told by her father and her brother
all that she had uttered, as far as they
understood it, during her illness. Nor
had the innocent creature anything
more to tell. Her soul was after the
fever calm, quiet, and happy. The
form, voice, and shape of that beautiful
youth were to her little more now than
the words and the sights of a dream.
Sickness and decay had brought her
spirit back to all the humble and tranquil
thoughts and feelings of her lowly
life. In the woods, and among the
hills, that bright and noble being had
for a time touched her senses, her heart,
her soul, and her imagination. All was
new, strange, stirring, overwhelming,
irresistible, and paradise to her spirit.
But it was gone; and might it stay
away for ever: so she prayed, as her
kind brother lifted up her head with
his gentle hand, and laid it down as
gently on the pillow he had smoothed.
“Walter! I will be your wife! for
thee my affection is calm and deep,—but
that other—oh! that was only a
passing dream!” Walter leaned over
her, and kissed her pale lips. “Yes!
Walter,” she continued, “I once promised
to marry none other, but now I
promise to marry thee; if indeed God
will forgive me for such words, lying as
I am, perhaps, on my deathbed. I
utter them to make you happy. If I
live, life will be dear to me only for thy
sake; if I die, walk thou along with my
father at the coffin’s head, and lay
thine Amy in the mould. I am the
Lily of Liddisdale,—you know that was
once the vain creature’s name!—and
white, pale, and withered enough indeed
is, I trow, the poor Lily now!”</p>

<p class='c008'>Walter Harden heard her affectionate
words with a deep delight, but he
determined in his soul not to bind Amy
down to these promises, sacred and fervent
as they were, if, on her complete
recovery, he discovered that they originated
in gratitude, and not in love.
From pure and disinterested devotion
of spirit did he watch the progress of
her recovery, nor did he ever allude to
young Elliot but in terms of respect and
admiration. Amy had expressed her
surprise that he had never come to inquire
how she was during her illness,
and added with a sigh, “Love at first
sight cannot be thought to last long.
Yet surely he would have wept to hear
that I was dead.” Walter then told
her that he had been hurried away to
France the very day after she had seen
him, to attend the deathbed of his
father, and had not yet returned to
Scotland; but that the ladies of the
Priory had sent a messenger to know
how she was every day, and that to
their kindness were owing many of the
conveniences she had enjoyed. Poor
Amy was glad to hear that she had no
reason to think the noble boy would
have neglected her in her illness; and
she could not but look with pride upon
her lover, who was not afraid to vindicate
the character of one who, she had
confessed, had been but too dear to her
only a few weeks ago. This generosity
and manly confidence on the part of her
cousin quite won and subdued her
heart, and Walter Harden never approached
her now without awakening
in her bosom something of that delightful
agitation and troubled joy which her
simple heart had first suffered in the
presence of her young, noble lover.
Amy was in love with Walter almost
as much as he was with her, and the
names of brother and sister, pleasant as
they had ever been, were now laid
aside.</p>

<p class='c008'>Amy Gordon rose from her sickbed,
and even as the flower whose name she
bore, did she again lift up her drooping
head beneath the dews and the sunshine.
Again did she go to the hillside,
and sit and sing beside her flock.
But Walter Harden was oftener with
her than before, and ere the harvest
moon should hang her mild, clear, unhaloed
orb over the late reapers on the
upland grain-fields, had Amy promised
that she would become his wife. She
saw him now in his own natural light—the
best, the most intelligent, the most
industrious, and the handsomest shepherd
over all the hills; and when it was
known that there was to be a marriage
between Walter Harden and Amy
Gordon, none felt surprised, although
some, sighing, said it was seldom,
indeed, that fortune so allowed those to
wed whom nature had united.</p>

<p class='c008'>The Lily of Liddisdale was now
bright and beautiful as ever, and was
returning homewards by herself from
the far-off hills during one rich golden
sunset, when, in a dark hollow, she
heard the sound of horses’ feet, and in
an instant young George Elliot was at
her side. Amy’s dream was over—and
she looked on the beautiful youth with
an unquaking heart. “I have been far
away, Amy,—across the seas. My
father—you may have heard of it—was
ill, and I attended his bed. I loved
him, Amy—I loved my father—but he
is dead!” and here the noble youth’s
tears fell fast. “Nothing now but the
world’s laugh prevents me making you
my wife—yes, my wife, sweetest Lily;
and what care I for the world? for
thou art both earth and heaven to
me.</p>

<p class='c008'>The impetuous, ardent, and impassioned
boy scarcely looked in Amy’s
face; he remembered her confusion, her
fears, her sighs, her tears, his half-permitted
kisses, his faintly repelled embraces,
and all his suffered endearments
of brow, lip, and cheek, in that solitary
dell; so with a powerful arm he lifted
her upon another steed, which, till now,
she had scarcely observed; other horsemen
seemed to the frightened, and
speechless, and motionless maiden to
be near; and away they went over the
smooth turf like the wind, till her eyes
were blind with the rapid flight, and
her head dizzy. She heard kind words
whispering in her ear; but Amy, since
that fever, had never been so strong as
before, and her high-blooded palfrey
was now carrying her fleetly away over
hill and hollow in a swoon.</p>

<p class='c008'>At last she seemed to be falling
down from a height, but softly, as if
borne on the wings of the air; and as
her feet touched the ground, she knew
that young Elliot had taken her from
that fleet courser, and, looking up, she
saw that she was in a wood of old
shadowy trees of gigantic size, perfectly
still, and far away from all known
dwellings both on hill and plain. But
a cottage was before her, and she and
young Elliot were on the green in its
front. It was thickly covered with
honeysuckle and moss-roses that hung
their beautiful full-blown shining lamps
high as the thatched roof; and Amy’s
soul sickened at the still, secluded, lovely,
and lonely sight. “This shall be our
bridal abode,” whispered her lover into
her ear, with panting breath. “Fear
me not—distrust me not; I am not
base, but my love to thee is tender and
true. Soon shall we be married—ay,
this very evening must thou be mine;
and may the hand that now clasps thy
sweet waist wither, and the tongue that
woos thee be palsied, if ever I cease to
love thee as my Amy—my Lily—my
wedded wife!”</p>

<p class='c008'>The wearied and half-fainting maiden
could as yet make no reply. The dream
that she had believed was gone for ever
now brightened upon her in the intense
light of reality, and it was in her power
to become the wife of him for whom she
had, in the innocence and simplicity of
her nature, once felt a consuming passion
that had brought her to the brink
of the grave. His warm breath was
on her bosom; words charged with
bewitching persuasion went thrilling
through her heartstrings; and if she
had any pride (and what human heart
has it not?) it might well mingle now
with love, and impel her into the embrace
that was now open to clasp her
close to a burning heart.</p>

<p class='c008'>A stately and beautiful lady came
smiling from the cottage door, and
Amy knew that it was the sister of
Elliot, and kneeled down before her.
Last time the shepherdess had seen
that lady, it was when, with a fearful
step, she took her baskets into the hall,
and blushing, scarcely lifted up her
eyes, when she and her high-born
sisters deigned to commend her workmanship,
and whisper to each other
that the Lily of Liddisdale deserved
her name. “Amy,” said she, with a
gentle voice, as she took her hand,
“Amy Gordon! my brother loves you;
and he has won me to acknowledge you
as my sister. I can deny my brother
nothing; and his grief has brought low
the pride—perhaps the foolish pride—of
my heart. Will you marry him,
Amy? Will you, the daughter of a
poor shepherd, marry the young heir of
the Priory, and the descendant, Amy,
of a noble race? Amy, I see that thou
art beautiful; I know that thou art
good; may God and my mother forgive
me this, but my sister must thou be;
behold my brother is at his shepherdess’s
feet!”</p>

<p class='c008'>Amy Gordon had now nothing to
fear. That sweet, young, pure, noble
lady was her friend; and she felt persuaded
now that in good truth young
Elliot wished to make her his wife.
Might she indeed live the Lady of the
Priory—be a sister to these beautiful
creatures—dwell among those ancient
woods, and all those spacious lawns and
richest gardens; and might she be, not
in a dream, but in living reality, the
wife of him on whose bosom her heart
had died with joy in that lonely dell,
and love him and yield him her love
even unto the very hour till she was
dead? Such changes of estate had been
long ago, and sung of in many a ballad;
and was she to be the one maiden of
millions, the one born in hundreds of
years, to whom this blessed lot was to
befall? But these thoughts passed on
and away like sun-rays upon a stream;
the cloud, not a dark one, of reality
returned over her. She thought of
Walter Harden, and in an instant her
soul was fixed; nor from that instant
could it be shaken by terror or by love,
by the countenance of death, or the
countenance, far more powerful than of
death—that of the youth before her,
pale and flushed alternately with the
fluctuations of many passions.</p>

<p class='c008'>Amy felt in her soul the collected
voice, as it were, of many happy and
humble years among her hills, and that
told her not to forsake her own natural
life. The flower that lived happily and
beautifully in its own secluded nook,
by the side of the lonely tarn or torrent,
might lose much both of its fragrance
and its lustre, when transplanted into a
richer soil and more sheltered bed.
Could she forget for ever her father’s
ingle—the earthen floor—its simple
furniture of day and night? Could she
forget all the familiar places round about
the hut where she was born? And if
she left them all, and was taken up even
in the arms of love into another sphere
of life, would not that be the same, or
worse than to forget them, and would it
not be sacrilege to the holiness of the
many Sabbath nights on which she had
sat at her widowed father’s knees? Yet
might such thoughts have been destroyed
in her beating heart by the whispered
music of young Elliot’s eloquent and
impassioned voice. But Walter Harden,
though ignorant of her present jeopardy,
seemed to stand before her, and she
remembered his face when he sat beside
her dying bed, his prayers over her
when he thought she slept, and their
oaths of fidelity mutually sworn before
the great God.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Will you, my noble and honoured
master, suffer me, all unworthy as I am
to be yours, to leave your bosom? Sir,
I am too miserable about you, to pretend
to feel any offence, because you
will not let me go. I might well be
proud of your love, since, indeed, it
happens so that you do love me; but
let me kneel down at your beautiful
sister’s feet, for to her I may be able to
speak—to you I feel that it may not be,
for humble am I, although unfortunately
I have found favour in your eyes.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The agitated youth released Amy
from his arms, and she flung herself
down upon her knees before that lovely
lady.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Lady! hear me speak—a simple
uneducated girl of the hills, and tell
me if you would wish to hear me break
an oath sworn upon the Bible, and so
to lose my immortal soul? So have I
sworn to be the wife of Walter Harden—the
wife of a poor shepherd; and,
lady, may I be on the left hand of God
at the great judgment-day, if ever I be
forsworn. I love Walter Harden. Do
you counsel me to break his kind,
faithful heart? Oh, sir—my noble
young master! how dare a creature
such as I speak so freely to your
beautiful sister? how dare I keep my
eyes open when you are at your servant’s
feet? Oh, sir, had I been born
a lady, I would have lived—died for
you—gone with you all over the world—all
over the sea, and all the islands
of the sea. I would have sighed, wept,
and pined away, till I had won your
love, for your love would have been a
blessed thing—that do I well know,
from the few moments you stooped to
let your heart beat against the bosom
of a low-born shepherdess. Even now,
dearly as I love Walter Harden, fain
would I lay me down and die upon this
daisied green, and be buried beneath it,
rather than that poor Amy Gordon
should affect the soul of her young
master thus; for never saw I, and never
can I again see, a youth so beautiful, so
winning, so overwhelming to a maiden’s
heart, as he before whom I now implore
permission to grovel in the dust. Send
me away—spurn me from you—let me
crawl away out of your presence—I
can find my way back to my father’s
house.”</p>

<p class='c008'>It might have been a trying thing to
the pride of this high-minded and high-born
youth, to be refused in marriage
by the daughter of one of his poorest
shepherds; so would it have been had
he loved less; but all pride was extinguished,
and so seemed for ever and
ever the light of this world’s happiness.
To plead further he felt was in vain.
Her soul had been given to another,
and the seal of an oath set upon it,
never to be broken but by the hand of
death. So he lifted her up in his arms,
kissed her madly a hundred times, cheek,
brow, neck, and bosom, and then rushed
into the woods. Amy followed him
with her streaming eyes, and then turned
again towards the beautiful lady, who
was sobbing audibly for her brother’s
sake.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Oh! weep not, lady! that I, poor
Amy Gordon, have refused to become
the wife of your noble brother. The
time will come, and soon too, when he
and you, and your fair sisters and your
stately mother, will all be thankful that
I yielded not to entreaties that would
then have brought disgrace upon your
house! Never—never would your mother
have forgiven you; and as for me,
would not she have wished me dead and
buried rather than the bride of her only
and darling son? You know that,
simple and innocent as I am, I now
speak but the truth; and how, then,
could your noble brother have continued
to love me, who had brought dishonour,
and disagreement, and distraction,
among those who are now all so dear
to one another? O yes—yes, he would
soon have hated poor Amy Gordon,
and, without any blame, perhaps broken
my heart, or sent me away from the
Priory back to my father’s hut. Blessed
be God, that all this evil has not been
wrought by me! All—all will soon be
as before.”</p>

<p class='c008'>She to whom Amy thus fervently
spoke felt that her words were not
wholly without truth. Nor could she
help admiring the noble, heroic, and
virtuous conduct of this poor shepherdess,
whom all this world’s temptations
would have failed to lure from the
right path. Before this meeting she
had thought of Amy as far her inferior
indeed, and it was long before her proper
pride had yielded to the love of her
brother, whose passion she feared might
otherwise have led to some horrible
catastrophe. Now that he had fled
from them in distraction, this terror
again possessed her, and she whispered
it to the pale, trembling shepherdess.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Follow him—follow him, gentle
lady, into the wood; lose not a
moment; call upon him by name, and
that sweet voice must bring him back.
But fear not, he is too good to do evil;
fear not, receive my blessing, and let
me return to my father’s hut; it is but a
few miles, and that distance is nothing
to one who has lived all her life among
the hills. My poor father will think I
have died in some solitary place.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The lady wept to think that she,
whom she had been willing to receive
as her sister, should return all by herself
so many miles at night to a lonely hut.
But her soul was sick with fear for her
brother; so she took from her shoulders
a long rich Indian silk scarf of gorgeous
colours, and throwing it over Amy’s
figure, said, “Fair creature and good,
keep this for my sake; and now, farewell!”
She gazed on the Lily for a
moment in delighted wonder at her
graceful beauty, as she bent on one
knee, enrobed in that unwonted garb,
and then, rising up, gathered the flowing
drapery around her, and disappeared.</p>

<p class='c008'>“God, in His infinite mercy, be
praised!” cried Walter Harden, as he
and the old man, who had been seeking
Amy for hours all over the hills, saw
the Lily gliding towards them up a
little narrow dell, covered from head to
foot with the splendid raiment that
shone in a soft shower of moonlight.
Joy and astonishment for a while held
them speechless, but they soon knew
all that had happened; and Walter
Harden lifted her up in his arms and
carried her home, exhausted now and
faint with fatigue and trepidation, as if
she were but a lamb rescued from a
snow-wreath.</p>

<p class='c008'>Next moon was that which the reapers
love, and before it had waned Amy
slept in the bosom of her husband,
Walter Harden. Years passed on,
and other flowers beside the Lily of
Liddisdale were blooming in his house.
One summer evening, when the shepherd,
his fair wife, and their children
were sitting together on the green before
the door, enjoying probably the
sight and the noise of the imps much
more then the murmurs of the sylvan
Liddal, which perhaps they did not
hear, a gay cavalcade rode up to the
cottage, and a noble-looking young
man, dismounting from his horse, and
gently assisting a beautiful lady to do
the same, walked up to her whom he
had known only by a name now almost
forgotten, and with a beaming smile
said, “Fair Lily of Liddisdale, this is
my wife, the lady of the Priory; come—it
is hard to say which of you should
bear off the bell.” Amy rose from her
seat with an air graceful as ever, but
something more matronly than that of
Elliot’s younger bride; and while these
two fair creatures beheld each other
with mutual admiration, their husbands
stood there equally happy, and equally
proud—George Elliot of the Priory, and
Walter Harden of the Glenfoot.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='the_unlucky_present' class='c006'>THE UNLUCKY PRESENT.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By Robert Chambers, LL.D.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>A Lanarkshire minister (who died
within the present century) was one of
those unhappy persons who, to use the
words of a well-known Scottish adage,
“can never see any green cheese but their
een reels.” He was <em>extremely covetous</em>,
and that not only of nice articles of food,
but of many other things which do not
generally excite the cupidity of the
human heart. The following story is
in corroboration of this assertion.
Being on a visit one day at the house of
one of his parishioners, a poor, lonely
widow, living in a moorland part of the
parish, Mr L—— became fascinated by
the charms of a little cast-iron pot,
which happened at the time to be lying on
the hearth, full of potatoes for the poor
woman’s dinner, and that of her children.
He had never in his life seen such a
nice little pot. It was a perfect conceit
of a thing. It was a gem. No pot on
earth could match it in symmetry. It
was an object altogether perfectly
lovely.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Dear sake! minister,” said the
widow, quite overpowered by the
reverend man’s commendations of her
pot; “if ye like the pot sae weel as a’
that, I beg ye’ll let me send it to the
manse. It’s a kind o’ orra pot wi’ us;
for we’ve a bigger ane, that we use
oftener, and that’s mair convenient every
way for us. Sae ye’ll just tak a present
o’t. I’ll send it ower the morn wi’
Jamie, when he gangs to the schule.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Oh,” said the minister, “I can by
no means permit you to be at so much
trouble. Since you are so good as to
give me the pot, I’ll just carry it home
with me in my hand. I’m so much
taken with it, indeed, that I would
really prefer carrying it myself.”</p>

<p class='c008'>After much altercation between the
minister and the widow, on this delicate
point of politeness, it was agreed
that he should carry home the pot
himself.</p>

<p class='c008'>Off, then, he trudged, bearing this
curious little culinary article alternately
in his hand and under his arm, as seemed
most convenient to him. Unfortunately,
the day was warm, the way long, and
the minister fat; so that he became
heartily tired of his burden before he
had got half-way home. Under these
distressing circumstances, it struck him
that if, instead of carrying the pot awkwardly
at one side of his person, he were
to carry it on his head, the burden would
be greatly lightened; the principles of
natural philosophy, which he had learned
at college, informing him, that when a
load presses directly and immediately
upon any object, it is far less onerous
than when it hangs at the remote end of
a lever. Accordingly, doffing his hat,
which he resolved to carry home in his
hand, and having applied his handkerchief
to his brow, he clapped the pot in
inverted fashion upon his head, where, as
the reader may suppose, it figured much
like Mambrino’s helmet upon the crazed
capital of Don Quixote, only a great
deal more magnificent in shape and
dimensions. There was at first much
relief and much comfort in this new
mode of carrying the pot; but mark the
result. The unfortunate minister having
taken a by-path to escape observation,
found himself, when still a good way
from home, under the necessity of leaping
over a ditch, which intercepted him
in passing from one field to another.
He jumped; but surely no jump was
ever taken so completely <em>in</em>, or, at least,
<em>into</em>, the dark as this. The concussion
given to his person in descending,
caused the helmet to become a hood:
the pot slipped down over his face, and
resting with its rim upon his neck, stuck
fast there; enclosing his whole head as
completely as ever that of a new-born
child was enclosed by the filmy bag with
which nature, as an indication of future
good fortune, sometimes invests the
noddles of her favourite offspring. What
was worst of all, the nose, which had
permitted the pot to slip down over it,
withstood every desperate attempt on
the part of its proprietor to make it slip
back again; the contracted part or neck
of the <i><span lang="la">patera</span></i> being of such a peculiar
formation as to cling fast to the base of
the nose, although it found no difficulty
in gliding along its hypothenuse. Was
ever minister in a worse plight? Was
there ever <i><span lang="fr">contretemps</span></i> so unlucky? Did
ever any man—did ever any minister—so
effectually hoodwink himself, or so
thoroughly shut his eyes to the plain
light of nature? What was to be done?
The place was lonely; the way difficult
and dangerous; human relief was remote,
almost beyond reach. It was impossible
even to cry for help. Or, if a cry
could be uttered, it might reach in
deafening reverberation the ear of the
utterer; but it would not travel twelve
inches farther in any direction. To add
to the distresses of the case, the unhappy
sufferer soon found great difficulty in
breathing. What with the heat occasioned
by the beating of the sun on the
metal, and what with the frequent return
of the same heated air to his lungs, he
was in the utmost danger of suffocation.
Everything considered, it seemed likely
that, if he did not chance to be relieved
by some accidental wayfarer, there
would soon be <em>Death in the Pot</em>.</p>

<p class='c008'>The instinctive love of life, however,
is omni-prevalent: and even very stupid
people have been found when put to the
push by strong and imminent peril, to
exhibit a degree of presence of mind,
and exert a degree of energy, far above
what might have been expected from
them, or what they have ever been known
to exhibit or exert under ordinary circumstances.
So it was with the pot-ensconced
minister of C——. Pressed
by the urgency of his distresses, he
fortunately recollected that there was a
smith’s shop at the distance of about a
mile across the fields, where, if he could
reach it before the period of suffocation,
he might possibly find relief. Deprived
of his eyesight, he could act only as a
man of feeling, and went on as cautiously
as he could, with his hat in his hand.
Half crawling, half sliding, over ridge
and furrow, ditch and hedge, somewhat
like Satan floundering over chaos, the
unhappy minister travelled, with all
possible speed, as nearly as he could
guess in the direction of the place of
refuge. I leave it to the reader to conceive
the surprise, the mirth, the infinite
amusement of the smith and all the
hangers-on of the “smiddy,” when, at
length, torn and worn, faint and exhausted,
blind and breathless, the unfortunate
man arrived at the place, and
let them know (rather by signs than by
words) the circumstances of his case.
In the words of an old Scottish song,</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Out cam the gudeman, and high he shouted;</div>
      <div class='line'>Out cam the gudewife, and low she louted;</div>
      <div class='line'>And a’ the town-neighbours were gathered about it;</div>
      <div class='line in6'>And there was he, I trow!</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c008'>The merriment of the company, however,
soon gave way to considerations
of humanity. Ludicrous as was the
minister, with such an object where
his head should have been, and with
the feet of the pot pointing upwards
like the horns of the great Enemy, it
was, nevertheless, necessary that he
should be speedily restored to his
ordinary condition, if it were for no
other reason than that he might continue
to live. He was accordingly, at his
own request, led into the smithy,
multitudes flocking around to tender
him their kindest offices, or to witness
the process of his release; and having
laid down his head upon the anvil, the
smith lost no time in seizing and poising
his goodly forehammer.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Will I come sair on, minister?”
exclaimed the considerate man of iron
in at the brink of the pot.</p>

<p class='c008'>“As sair as ye like,” was the
minister’s answer; “better a chap i’
the chafts than dying for want of
breath.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Thus permitted, the man let fall a
hard blow, which fortunately broke the
pot in pieces without hurting the head
which it enclosed, as the cook-maid
breaks the shell of the lobster without
bruising the delicate food within. A
few minutes of the clear air, and a glass
from the gudewife’s bottle, restored the
unfortunate man of prayer; but assuredly
the incident is one which will long live
in the memory of the parishioners.—<cite>Edinburgh
Literary Journal.</cite></p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='the_sutor_of_selkirk' class='c006'>THE SUTOR OF SELKIRK:<br> <span class='large'><em>A REMARKABLY TRUE STORY</em></span>.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By one of the Authors of “The Odd Volume.”</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>Once upon a time, there lived in
Selkirk a shoemaker, by name Rabbie
Heckspeckle, who was celebrated both
for dexterity in his trade, and for some
other qualifications of a less profitable
nature. Rabbie was a thin, meagre-looking
personage, with lank black hair,
a cadaverous countenance, and a long,
flexible, secret-smelling nose. In short,
he was the Paul Pry of the town. Not
an old wife in the parish could buy a
new scarlet rokelay without Rabbie
knowing within a groat of the cost;
the doctor could not dine with the
minister but Rabbie could tell whether
sheep’s-head or haggis formed the
staple commodity of the repast; and it
was even said that he was acquainted
with the grunt of every sow, and the
cackle of every individual hen, in his
neighbourhood; but this wants confirmation.
His wife, Bridget, endeavoured
to confine his excursive fancy, and
to chain him down to his awl, reminding
him it was <em>all</em> they had to depend on;
but her interference met with exactly
that degree of attention which husbands
usually bestow on the advice tendered
by their better halves—that is to say,
Rabbie informed her that she knew
nothing of the matter, that her understanding
required stretching, and finally,
that if she presumed to meddle in his
affairs, he would be under the disagreeable
necessity of giving her a topdressing.</p>

<p class='c008'>To secure the necessary leisure for
his researches, Rabbie was in the habit
of rising to his work long before the
dawn; and he was one morning busily
engaged putting the finishing stitches to
a pair of shoes for the exciseman, when
the door of his dwelling, which he
thought was carefully fastened, was
suddenly opened, and a tall figure,
enveloped in a large black cloak, and
with a broad-brimmed hat drawn over
his brows, stalked into the shop.
Rabbie stared at his visitor, wondering
what could have occasioned this early
call, and wondering still more that a
stranger should have arrived in the
town without his knowledge.</p>

<p class='c008'>“You’re early afoot, sir,” quoth
Rabbie. “Lucky Wakerife’s cock
will no craw for a good half hour yet.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The stranger vouchsafed no reply;
but taking up one of the shoes Rabbie
had just finished, deliberately put it on,
and took a turn through the room to
ascertain that it did not pinch his extremities.
During these operations,
Rabbie kept a watchful eye on his
customer.</p>

<p class='c008'>“He smells awfully o’ yird,” muttered
Rabbie to himself; “ane would be
ready to swear he had just cam frae
the plough-tail.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The stranger, who appeared to be
satisfied with the effect of the experiment,
motioned to Rabbie for the other
shoe, and pulled out a purse for the
purpose of paying for his purchase;
but Rabbie’s surprise may be conceived,
when, on looking at the purse, he perceived
it to be spotted with a kind of
earthy mould.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Gudesake,” thought Rabbie, “this
queer man maun hae howkit that purse
out o’ the ground. I wonder where he
got it. Some folk say there are dags o’
siller buried near this town.”</p>

<p class='c008'>By this time the stranger had opened
the purse, and as he did so, a toad and
a beetle fell on the ground, and a large
worm crawling out wound itself round
his finger. Rabbie’s eyes widened;
but the stranger, with an air of nonchalance,
tendered him a piece of gold,
and made signs for the other shoe.</p>

<p class='c008'>“It’s a thing morally impossible,”
responded Rabbie to this mute proposal.
“Mair by token, that I hae as good as
sworn to the exciseman to hae them
ready by daylight, which will no be
long o’ coming” (the stranger here
looked anxiously towards the window);
“and better, I tell you, to affront the
king himsel, than the exciseman.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The stranger gave a loud stamp with
his shod foot, but Rabbie stuck to his
point, offering, however, to have a pair
ready for his new customer in twenty-four
hours; and, as the stranger, justly
enough perhaps, reasoned that half a
pair of shoes was of as little use as half
a pair of scissors, he found himself
obliged to come to terms, and seating
himself on Rabbie’s three-legged stool,
held out his leg to the Sutor, who, kneeling
down, took the foot of his taciturn
customer on his knee, and proceeded to
measure it.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Something o’ the splay, I think,
sir,” said Rabbie, with a knowing
air.</p>

<p class='c008'>No answer.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Where will I bring the shoon to
when they’re done?” asked Rabbie,
anxious to find out the domicile of his
visitor.</p>

<p class='c008'>“I will call for them myself before
cock crowing,” responded the stranger
in a very uncommon and indescribable
tone of voice.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Hout, sir,” quoth Rabbie, “I canna
let you hae the trouble o’ coming for
them yoursel; it will just be a pleasure
for me to call with them at your house.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I have my doubts of that,” replied
the stranger, in the same peculiar
manner; “and at all events, my house
would not hold us both.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“It maun be a dooms sma’ biggin,”
answered Rabbie; “but noo that I hae
ta’en your honour’s measure——”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Take your own!” retorted the
stranger, and giving Rabbie a touch with
his foot that laid him prostrate, walked
coolly out of the house.</p>

<p class='c008'>This sudden overturn of himself and
his plans for a few moments discomfited
the Sutor; but quickly gathering up his
legs, he rushed to the door, which he
reached just as Lucky Wakerife’s cock
proclaimed the dawn. Rabbie flew
down the street, but all was still; then
ran up the street, which was terminated
by the churchyard, but saw only the
moveless tombs looking cold and
chill under the grey light of a winter
morn. Rabbie hitched his red nightcap
off his brow, and scratched his
head with an air of perplexity.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Weel,” he muttered, as he retraced
his steps homewards, “he has warred
me this time, but sorrow take me if I’m
no up wi’ him the morn.”</p>

<p class='c008'>All day Rabbie, to the inexpressible
surprise of his wife, remained as constantly
on his three-legged stool as if he
had been “yirked” there by some brother
of the craft. For the space of twenty-four
hours, his long nose was never seen
to throw its shadow across the threshold
of the door; and so extraordinary
did this event appear, that the neighbours,
one and all, agreed that it predicted
some prodigy; but whether it
was to take the shape of a comet, which
would deluge them all with its fiery tail,
or whether they were to be swallowed
up by an earthquake, could by no
means be settled to the satisfaction of
the parties concerned.</p>

<p class='c008'>Meanwhile, Rabbie diligently pursued
his employment, unheeding the concerns
of his neighbours. What mattered it
to him, that Jenny Thrifty’s cow had
calved, that the minister’s servant, with
something in her apron, had been seen
to go in twice to Lucky Wakerife’s, that
the laird’s dairy-maid had been observed
stealing up the red loan in the gloaming,
that the drum had gone through the
town announcing that a sheep was to
be killed on Friday?—The stranger alone
swam before his eyes; and cow, dairymaid,
and drum kicked the beam. It
was late in the night when Rabbie had
accomplished his task, and then placing
the shoes at his bedside, he lay down in
his clothes, and fell asleep; but the
fear of not being sufficiently alert for his
new customer, induced him to rise a
considerable time before daybreak. He
opened the door and looked into the
street, but it was still so dark he
could scarcely see a yard before his
nose; he therefore returned into the
house, muttering to himself—“What
the sorrow can keep him?” when a
voice at his elbow suddenly said—</p>

<p class='c008'>“Where are my shoes?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Here, sir,” said Rabbie, quite transported
with joy; “here they are, right
and tight, and mickle joy may ye hae
in wearing them, for it’s better to wear
shoon than sheets, as the auld saying
gangs.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Perhaps I may wear both,” answered
the stranger.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Gude save us,” quoth Rabbie, “do
ye sleep in your shoon?”</p>

<p class='c008'>The stranger made no answer; but,
laying a piece of gold on the table and
taking up the shoes, walked out of the
house.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Now’s my time,” thought Rabbie
to himself, as he slipped after him.</p>

<p class='c008'>The stranger paced slowly on, and
Rabbie carefully followed him; the
stranger turned up the street, and the
Sutor kept close to his heels. “’Odsake,
where can he be gaun?” thought
Rabbie, as he saw the stranger turn
into the churchyard; “he’s making to
that grave in the corner; now he’s
standing still; now he’s sitting down.
Gudesake! what’s come o’ him?”
Rabbie rubbed his eyes, looked round
in all directions, but, lo and behold!
the stranger had vanished. “There’s
something no canny about this,” thought
the Sutor; “but I’ll mark the place at
ony rate;” and Rabbie, after thrusting
his awl into the grave, hastily returned
home.</p>

<p class='c008'>The news soon spread from house to
house, and by the time the red-faced
sun stared down on the town, the whole
inhabitants were in commotion; and, after
having held sundry consultations, it was
resolved, <i><span lang="la">nem. con.</span></i>, to proceed in a body
to the churchyard, and open the grave
which was suspected of being suspicious.
The whole population of the Kirk
Wynd turned out on this service.
Sutors, wives, children, all hurried
pell-mell after Rabbie, who led his
myrmidons straight to the grave at
which his mysterious customer had disappeared,
and where he found his awl
still sticking in the place where he had
left it. Immediately all hands went to
work; the grave was opened; the lid
was forced off the coffin; and a corpse
was discovered dressed in the vestments
of the tomb, but with a pair of perfectly
new shoes upon its long bony feet. At
this dreadful sight the multitude fled in
every direction, Lucky Wakerife leading
the van, leaving Rabbie and a few bold
brothers of the craft to arrange matters
as they pleased with the peripatetic
skeleton. A council was held, and it
was agreed that the coffin should be
firmly nailed up and committed to the
earth. Before doing so, however,
Rabbie proposed denuding his customer
of his shoes, remarking that he had no
more need for them than a cart had for
three wheels. No objections were made
to this proposal, and Rabbie, therefore,
quickly coming to extremities, whipped
them off in a trice. They then drove
half a hundred tenpenny nails into the
lid of the coffin, and having taken
care to cover the grave with pretty
thick divots, the party returned to their
separate places of abode.</p>

<p class='c008'>Certain qualms of conscience, however,
now arose in Rabbie’s mind as to
the propriety of depriving the corpse of
what had been honestly bought and
paid for. He could not help allowing,
that if the ghost were troubled with
cold feet, a circumstance by no means
improbable, he might naturally wish to
remedy the evil. But, at the same
time, considering that the fact of his
having made a pair of shoes for a defunct
man would be an everlasting blot on
the Heckspeckle escutcheon, and reflecting
also that his customer, being
dead in law, could not apply to any
court for redress, our Sutor manfully
resolved to abide by the consequences
of his deed.</p>

<p class='c008'>Next morning, according to custom,
he rose long before day, and fell to his
work, shouting the old song of the
“Sutors of Selkirk” at the very top of
his voice. A short time, however,
before the dawn, his wife, who was in
bed in the back room, remarked, that
in the very middle of his favourite verse,
his voice fell into a quaver; then broke
out into a yell of terror; and then she
heard a noise, as of persons struggling;
and then all was quiet as the grave.
The good dame immediately huddled
on her clothes, and ran into the shop,
where she found the three-legged stool
broken in pieces, the floor strewed with
bristles, the door wide open, and
Rabbie away! Bridget rushed to the
door, and there she immediately discovered
the marks of footsteps deeply
printed on the ground. Anxiously
tracing them, on—and on—and on—what
was her horror to find that they
terminated in the churchyard, at the
grave of Rabbie’s customer! The earth
round the grave bore traces of having
been the scene of some fearful struggle,
and several locks of lank black hair were
scattered on the grass. Half distracted,
she rushed through the town to communicate
the dreadful intelligence. A
crowd collected, and a cry speedily
arose to open the grave. Spades,
pickaxes, and mattocks, were quickly
put in requisition; the divots were
removed; the lid of the coffin was once
more torn off, and there lay its ghastly
tenant, with his shoes replaced on his
feet, and Rabbie’s red night-cap clutched
in his right hand!</p>

<p class='c008'>The people, in consternation, fled
from the churchyard; and nothing
further has ever transpired to throw any
additional light upon the melancholy
fate of the Sutor of Selkirk.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='elsie_morrice' class='c006'>ELSIE MORRICE.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>From the “Aberdeen Censor.”</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Oh, wert thou of the golden-wingèd host,</div>
      <div class='line'>Who, having clad thyself in human weed,</div>
      <div class='line'>To earth, from thy prefixèd seat didst post,</div>
      <div class='line'>And, after short abode, fly back with speed,</div>
      <div class='line'>As if to show what creatures Heav’n doth breed,</div>
      <div class='line'>Thereby to set the hearts of men on fire,</div>
      <div class='line'>To scorn the sordid world, and unto Heav’n aspire?—<em>Milton.</em></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>In the neighbourhood of the pleasant
village of ——, on the east coast of
Scotland, lived Janet Morrice and her
grand-daughter Elsie. A small cottage,
overlaid with woodbine on the exterior,
and neat and clean in the interior, contained
this couple; and a small farm
attached to it served to supply all their
humble desires. The place was no
doubt agreeable to look on; but it was
a pair of bright blue eyes, some light
brown locks, and a sweet and modest
face, that drew all the male visitors to
the house of Janet Morrice. Elsie
Morrice, her grandchild, had been left
a young orphan to her charge. She was
the only child of an only son, and thus
came with a double call on the feelings
of her old grandmother. Dearly was
she loved by her, and well did she
deserve it; for a better and a kindlier
girl was not in all the country round.
Out of the many young men that paid
their attentions to Elsie, it was soon
evident that her favourite was William
Gordon. In his person he had nothing
particular to recommend him above his
companions; but there was in him that
respectful demeanour, that eagerness to
please, and that happiness in serving
the object of his affections, which the
eyes of a young woman can so soon
perceive, and her heart so readily
appreciate. In their dispositions, though
not similar, they were drawn to each
other. She was timid, loving, enthusiastic—in
every respect a woman. He
was gifted with those firmer qualities
which bespeak a manly mind, but he had
a heart that could love deeply and feel
acutely;</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>And, if sometimes, a sigh should intervene,</div>
      <div class='line'>Or down his cheek a tear of pity roll,</div>
      <div class='line'>A sigh, a tear so sweet, he wished not to control.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c012'>There was also some resemblance in
their situations; for William’s mother
was dead, and though he still had a
father, yet this parent had never seen
him, and took no concern about him;
so that he was entirely dependent upon
his maternal uncle. To his uncle’s
farm he was to succeed; and William
Gordon and Elsie Morrice were considered
by all the neighbours as soon to
be man and wife.</p>

<p class='c008'>William was seated one evening in
the public-house of the village, reading
the newspaper, when a party of sailors
entered, and, calling for some drink,
casually asked if there were any seamen
in the village. The landlady civilly
replied in the negative; but William,
looking up, remarked, without noticing
the winks of the landlord, that he had
seen Tom Sangster arrive that morning.</p>

<p class='c008'>“And where lives Tom Sangster,
my hearty cock?” said the principal of
the party, slapping him on the back,
while the rest got betwixt the landlady
and the door. He immediately informed
them; and, drinking off their liquor
quickly, they left the house.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Willie,” cried the landlady, “what
hae ye done? It’s the press-gang, and
Tam Sangster ’ll be torn frae his wife
and bairns!”</p>

<p class='c008'>In a moment William was past her,
and, running with full speed, by a nearer
cut, he arrived before the gang at the
house. He had just time to make the
seaman strip his jacket, and put on his
coat, and jump out at the back window,
when the gang entered. William,
without turning round, knocked out the
lamp, when a struggle ensued, which he
contrived to keep up so long as that
Tom Sangster might be out of the way.
He was at last overpowered and carried
aboard the tender, when they discovered
they had lost the regular sailor; but the
one they had got was too likely a young
man to be suffered to depart. The
consciousness of having remedied an
error he had committed, even though in
ignorance, partly consoled William for
parting with his beloved Elsie for a
little. It was at the time when the
news of the glorious victory of the Nile
had arrived, and many a young and
aspiring bosom burned to be under the
command of so gallant an admiral.
William’s father belonged to the navy;
he knew that he fought under Nelson;
and the thought that he might be able
to combat by his side, and under the
eye of the hero who was his country’s
boast, somewhat palliated the idea of
leaving his love. Besides, he would
soon return laden with honours and
riches, and Elsie would share both.</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Auspicious hope! in thy sweet garden grow</div>
      <div class='line'>Wreaths for each toil, a charm for every woe.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c012'>And thus he consoled himself with a
flattering vision in circumstances that
he could not alter. As for poor Elsie,
her timid mind had never contemplated
bloodshed and war. She loved, fervently
loved, and her life had been one scene
of pleasure. She was a dreamer that all
the night long had quaffed the brimful
cup of happiness, and in the morning
waked to wretchedness. To lamentations,
however, succeeded some consultation
for a remedy; and she was
advised, by her sorrowing neighbours,
to apply to the laird for his interest.
Loose, unprincipled, and broken down
in fortune, he had returned, from the
fashionable life he could no longer support,
to live on his estate; and he was
not beloved by his tenants. But when
a woman loves, and the object of her
affection is in danger, where is the
obstacle that can oppose her? Elsie
exerted herself to call on him.</p>

<p class='c008'>The poet has beautifully said,</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Ah, too convincing, dangerously dear,</div>
      <div class='line'>In woman’s eye th’ unanswerable tear,</div>
      <div class='line'>The weapon of her weakness she can wield</div>
      <div class='line'>To save, subdue—at once her spear and shield.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c012'>But there are some men that can look
on woman’s grief, and yet coolly calculate
on turning it to their own purposes; and
so it was in the present case. Elsie
Morrice was lovely, and that was enough
for him. He promised everything, and
her heart overflowed with gratitude. He
not only promised this, but he requested
her grandmother’s lease, to draw it out
anew in her name. Elsie ran home,
and, in a few minutes, without consulting
her grandmother, the lease was in his
hands: for who could doubt the intentions
of him who had pledged his
word that William Gordon should be
put ashore? This was no sooner done,
than came the sneer at her lover, the
information that his Majesty’s navy
must be manned, the hint at the injury
to the landlord in old leases, and the
proposal of the remedy that was to
remove all these evils. The colour fled
from Elsie’s face. She stood the picture
of complete despair, and, for a little
time, reason had to dispute for her
sovereignty in her mind. She rushed
from his presence, and, in her way back
to Sunnybrae, saw, without shedding
one tear, the vessel that contained her
lover spread her broad sails to the wind
and depart. Janet Morrice reproached
her not when she told her what she had
done, but, taking her in her arms, said,
“Come, my Elsie, we maunna bide to
be putten out. I’ve sitten here, and
my fathers afore me, an’ I’m wae to
leave it; but age and innocence will
find a shelter somewhere else.” Next
day they removed to a cottage on a
neighbouring estate. A verbal message
was all that William could send her;
but it was the assurance he would be
soon back to her. Elsie seemed now
to live in another state of existence. She
toiled in the fields, and seemed anxious
to make up to her grandmother the
effects of her imprudence. Time passed
on, and no letter arrived from William,
and Elsie grew sorrowful and melancholy.
Grief and labour bore down a constitution
naturally delicate, and she drooped.</p>

<p class='c008'>There is something to my mind
particularly holy and heavenly in the
death-bed of a lovely woman. When I
look on the pale cheek, which now and
then regains more than its former colour
in some feverish flush—on the sunk eye
which occasionally beams with a short
and transient hope—on the pale lips
which utter low sounds of comfort to
those around—and, more especially, on
that whole countenance and appearance
which bespeak patient resignation and
a trust in that Word which has said
there is another and a better world—I
cannot help thinking that the being,
even in her mortality, is already a
deserving inmate of that place where
all is immortality. I have stood at the
grave while some of my earliest friends
have been lowered into the ground, and
I have wept to think that the bright
hopes of youth were for ever fled—that
the fair promises of youthful genius were
wrapt within the clay-cold tomb—and
that all the anticipations of the world’s
applause had ended in the one formal
bow of a few friends over mouldering
ashes; but I confess I have sorrowed
more at the grave of a young and lovely
woman who had nothing to excite my
compassion but her beauty and her
helplessness; and often have the lines of
that poet, who could be pathetic as
well as sublime, come to my lips,—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Yet can I not persuade me thou art dead,</div>
      <div class='line'>Or that thy corpse corrupts in earth’s dark womb,</div>
      <div class='line'>Or that thy beauties lie in wormy bed,</div>
      <div class='line'>Hid from the world in a low-delvèd tomb.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c008'>It was on a lovely morning in the
month of May that a sad and sorrowful
company assembled to accompany the
remains of poor Elsie Morrice to her last
cold dwelling-place. According to that
old-fashioned and most becoming custom,
she was borne on the bier, and
carried, as is the practice in that part of
the country, for some way by the young
maidens dressed in white. No mother
had she to weep for her, no relation to
bear her head to the grave; but her old
grandmother followed her corpse to the
door—farther she could not; and, when
it was placed on the bier, she attempted
not to speak or to moan, but she leaned
her palsied hands on her staff, and
followed the coffin with her eyes, while
down her furrowed cheeks rolled two
big tears that told too well her inward
grief. Elsie’s young companion, May
Leslie, who was to have been her bestmaid
at the marriage, who had promised
to assist at her marriage dress, and make
her marriage bed, had, in sorrow and
in grief, fashioned that last dress in which
beauty is offered, not to the arms of a
lover, but to the crawling worm, now
supported her head for a few steps to
that bed from which there is no rising
till the last dread trumpet shall sound.
The females then gave the corpse to
the young men, and I could perceive, as
they returned, that many a handkerchief
was soaked in briny tears, and many a
head turned to take a last look at the
departure of her who had been their
companion and their pride. We moved
on, and, after an hour’s walking, arrived
at the old churchyard of ——. It is
situated on the front of a bleak and
barren hill, with neither tree nor shrub
for some way around it; and a few
moss-covered tombstones alone told
us that it was the resting place for
the dead. The church had been rebuilt
in a more convenient place; but, like
the sojourner in distant lands, who sighs
for his native soil, however barren,
there are some that still cling to the
spot which is the grave of their fathers.
Though it may betray some weakness
in reason, still I hope it is an excusable
failing, in feeling minds, that they
desire to mingle in their ashes with their
friends. Here we deposited the remains
of Elsie Morrice, and, when the grave
had been closed over, the company
departed in groups, chiefly engaged in
talking over her unfortunate love.</p>

<p class='c008'>The heather sods had long become
fast, and the hare-bell had blossomed
and withered for some summers on the
grave of Elsie Morrice, when one day
a seaman, singing a merry sea-song to
himself, tript up the pathway leading to
Sunnybrae. It was William Gordon.
The joy he had felt on again entering
amongst scenes so well known to him,
sent itself forth in a song; but, as he
approached the house, it died away,
and gave place to far different feelings.
He had never heard from Elsie; but,
while aboard of ship, he had hushed any
fears that arose, by ascribing this to the
letters miscarrying from the ever changing
station of a sailor. Still he was not
well at ease; and as he came in front of
the house, and saw the woodbine torn
from the walls, the windows here and
there broken and covered with paper,
and the pretty flower-garden of Elsie
turned into a kail-yard, the most fearful
forebodings arose in his breast, and with
a trembling and hurried hand he lifted
the latch. He started back on perceiving
some children playing on the
floor, but again advanced when he saw
a middle-aged woman nursing a child,
and asked, in the best way he was able,
if she could tell him where Janet Morrice
lived? She gave him a direction, and,
without taking one other look at the
cottage he had so often visited, he made
his way to the new dwelling, and on
entering, addressed her in the usual
salutation, “How are you, Granny, and
how is Elsie?”</p>

<p class='c008'>The old woman was seated with her
face to the hearth, and perceived not
his entrance; but on hearing his voice,
without starting or moving, she immediately
answered, “An’ ye’re come back,
Willie Gordon; an’ sae ye’re come back!
I kent a’ this. I kent, when the house
and the ha’ o’ the stranger would be
closed against ye, ye would come back
to your ain country. I saw her yestreen,
as I hae seen her ilka night, and she
tauld me ye would come. But this fire’s
out,” continued she, stirring about the
embers with her stick; “I tried to blaw
that peat, but I wasna able to raise the
low: an’ when she comes and seats hersel
on that stool, it ’ill be sae cauld, an’
she winna complain o’t, but her bonny
face ’ill be sae wan, and her braw white
gown ’ill be sae damp and dewy. Ye’ll
see her, Willie, ye’ll see her wi’ the
bonny new mutch on that May Leslie
made wi’ her ain hand. An’ I’ll shiver
and tremble in my cauld bed, and she
winna lie down wi’ me, but she’ll sit by
the fire an’ aye deck hersel wi’ the
black kerchief that Willie Gordon tied
roun’ her neck lang afore he gaed awa.”</p>

<p class='c008'>William, who had stood riveted to
the earth all this time, now exerted
himself, and, seizing her arm, asked
loudly, “Where is Elsie Morrice?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Whaur is Elsie Morrice?—and wha
speirs that question? They took her
awa frae me lang ago, dressed in white,
like a bride, and mony ane gaed wi’ her,
but I wasna able, though they dressed
me fine in my braw Sunday-claithes.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Granny, ye knew me already,”
said he; “for God’s sake, tell me what
has become of Elsie?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“There were twa bonny voices
ca’d me granny, and I liket to hear
them; but the little feathered flock
picks the craw-berries, an’ the bee sooks
the honey frae the heather on the grave
o’ the ane, and the ither is a faithless
love, and broke the heart o’ the leal
young bairn that lay in my bosom.”</p>

<p class='c008'>William now knew the worst. He
threw himself in agony on the dais,
and wept and cursed his hard lot.
Elsie Morrice was dead, and dead, as
appeared, through his neglect. When
his grief had found some vent, he again
asked the old woman if they had received
no letters from him?</p>

<p class='c008'>She raised her shaking hand, and
tracing every feature of his face, said,
“Though I canna see sae weel that
face, I ken ye’re Willie Gordon; but
oh, Willie, Willie, ye hae come when the
flame ye should hae nourished has been
quenched. We never got ony letters,
or else Elsie would hae tried to live.”</p>

<p class='c008'>It was with great exertion that he
was able to gather from her disjointed
sentences, that the laird had turned them
out of Sunnybrae, and continued to
annoy them, and that Elsie had broken
her heart when he left them and sent no
letters. Many a kind letter had William
written, but they were directed, for
security’s sake, to the care of the laird,
and the mystery of his never receiving
any answer was now cleared away.
“But the laird shall answer for this!”
said he, stepping to the door. “Na,
Willie Gordon,” said she, taking hold
of him, “he manna answer for’t to you.
There is Anither that will judge him for
abusing the widow and the orphan.
Ay, he is already cursed for it,” continued
she, stretching out her lean and
shrivelled arm, and raising herself like
a Sibyl; “his lang list of ancestors is at
end in him. He walks the world the
last of his proud race. A few years,
and yon lordly house will be the
dwalling o’ the hoodie-craw and the
rook; an’ the present proud man will be
lying in his leaden coffin, wi’ the worms
o’ his ain body devouring him, and the
winds o’ heaven will dash his lie-telling
tombstone to pieces, an’ the beasts will
tread on his grave, an’ the rains level it,
an’ none will repair it, for his name
shall be forgotten for ever. But whisht,
Willie, I canna greet wi’ you. Ye’ll
see her, when the hen has been lang on
the roost, an’ the tod has left his hole
to worry the puir beasty, an we’ll get
May Leslie, an’ we’ll hae a blazing fire,
an’ we’ll be merry again in Sunnybrae.”
A shrill and unearthly laugh followed,
and she sank again into her former
querulous muttering.</p>

<p class='c008'>William suddenly left the house and
was never more seen; but some weeks
after, the grave of Elsie Morrice was
found finely dressed, and a stone, with
her name and age carved on it by the
hand of no regular sculptor, at the head
of it. And every spring the greedy
moss was found cleaned away from the
stone, and the grave trimmed. While
Janet Morrice lived, her garden was
delved, and money deposited on her table,
by the same invisible hand. No one
knew what became of William Gordon;
but occasionally, in the gray of a May
morning, as the shepherd was merrily
driving his flocks with the sun to the
pasture, he saw the dark figure of a
man chiselling at the stone, or stretched
on the grave of Elsie Morrice. About
three years ago a shepherd’s dog, one
day, prowling about the old churchyard,
returned, and, by his howling, urged his
master to the spot, where he found the
dead body of a seaman. The letters
W. G. and an anchor on his forearm, and
W. S. and E. M., with a heart between
them, and the Saviour on the cross
above, on his left breast, done with
China ink or gunpowder, after that fashion
which sailors have in order that their
bodies may be known, if picked up after
shipwreck, told too well who had
chosen this place for his death-bed.
Sufficient money was found on him to
pay the expenses of his burial, and he
was laid in the grave he had died upon.
Last summer I visited the spot. The
grave was running into wildness; but,
in a state of mind pleasing yet sad, I
spent half a day in dressing the resting-place
of this unfortunate pair.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='how_i_won_the_lairds_daughter' class='c006'>HOW I WON THE LAIRD’S DAUGHTER.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By Daniel Gorrie.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<h3 class='c013'><span class='sc'>Chapter I.</span></h3>

<p class='c014'>Soon after I had obtained my
diploma, and was dubbed M.D., an
opening for a medical practitioner occurred
in the pleasant village of St
Dunstan, situated on the beautiful banks
of the Tweed. Knowing well that I
might be forestalled by a day’s delay, I
bundled up my testimonials and letters
of recommendation, and departed at
once for the scene of action. The
shadows of a calm October evening
were drooping over the Eildon Hills,
and the Tweed was murmuring peacefully
along its winding course, when I
entered the principal street of the village,
and took up my quarters at the
inn. After refreshing myself with such
entertainment as the house afforded, I
called in the landlord, told him the
object of my visit, and inquired if any
other medical gentlemen had yet made
their appearance. Mine host was a
canny, cautious Scotsman, and manifested
due deliberation in a matter of so
much moment. He surveyed me quietly
for a short time, and did not reply until
he seemed satisfied with his scrutiny.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Na, sir,” he said at length; “ye’re
the first that’s come to the toun yet, and
a’ the folk are wearying for anither
doctor. Ye see, we canna tell what
may happen. The shoemaker’s wife
took unco onweel last nicht, and, frail
as he is himsel, puir man, he had to
gang a’ the way to Melrose for medical
advice. Ye look young like, sir; hae
ye been in ony place afore?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“No,” I replied; “it is not very long
since I passed.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ay, weel, that’s no sae gude; we
rather like a skeely man here. Dr
Sommerville had a great deal o’ experience,
and we were a’ sorry when he
left for Glasgow.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I am glad that the good people of
St Dunstan liked their last doctor so
well,” I rejoined, somewhat nettled at
the plain-spokenness of the worthy landlord
of the Cross-Keys. “But although
my youth may be against me,” I continued,
“here are some testimonials
which I hope may prove satisfactory,
and I have several letters of recommendation
besides to gentlemen in the
village and neighbourhood.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The landlord was a person whom I
saw that it was necessary to gain over.
He was vastly pleased when I recognised
his importance by producing my
testimonials for his inspection. It was
amusing to observe the gravity and
dignity with which he adjusted his
spectacles across the bridge of his nose,
and proceeded to carefully inspect the
documents. At intervals as he read he
gave such running comments as “gude”—“very
gude”—“excellent”—“capital
sir, capital!” I was glad to see the
barometer rising so rapidly. After mine
host had finished the perusal of the
papers, he shook me heartily by the
hand, and said, “You’re the very man
we want, sir; ye hae first-rate certificats.”</p>

<p class='c008'>So far, so good. It was a great
thing to have gained the confidence and
goodwill of one important personage,
and I felt desirous to make further conquests
that evening.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Do you think I might venture to
call to-night upon any of the parties in
the village to whom I have letters of
recommendation?” I inquired.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Surely, surely,” responded the landlord;
“the sooner the better. Just
read me ower their names, sir, and I’ll
tak ye round to their houses. We hae
a better chance o’ gettin’ them in at
nicht than through the day.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Accompanied by the lord of the
Cross-Keys, I accordingly visited the
leading inhabitants of the village, and
made what an expectant member of
Parliament would consider a very satisfactory
canvass. I was received with
much courtesy and civility; and the
minister of the parish, to whom I had
a letter of introduction from a brother
clergyman in Edinburgh, paid me the
most flattering attentions, and pressed
me to take up my abode immediately
at St Dunstan. The ladies, married
and unmarried, with whom I entered
into conversation, were all unanimous
in expressing their desire that I should
remain in their midst. Indeed, I have
observed that the female sex invariably
take the greatest interest in the settlement
of ministers and doctors. I could easily
understand why the unmarried ladies
should prefer a single gentleman like
myself; but I could not comprehend
at the time why their mothers seemed
to take so much interest in a newly-fledged
M.D. It struck me that the
landlord of the inn must have committed
a great mistake in describing
Dr Sommerville as the favourite of all
classes.</p>

<p class='c008'>From many of the people upon whom
we called I received kind invitations to
spend the night in their houses, and I
could have slept in a dozen different
beds if I had felt so inclined; but I
preferred returning to the Cross-Keys,
that, like the Apostle, I might be burdensome
to none. It is a piece of
worldly prudence to give as little trouble
as possible to strangers; and medical
practitioners, of all men in the world,
require to be wary in their ways, and
circumspect in their actions.</p>

<p class='c008'>On our return to the inn, the landlord
appeared to regard my settlement
in St Dunstan as a certainty.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ye’ve got on grandly the nicht,
Dr Wilson,” he said, dropping the
“sir” when he considered me almost
installed in office. “Ye’ve carried
everything afore ye—I never saw the
like o’t. Ye hae got the promise o’
practice frae the hale lot o’ them—that’s
to say, when they need the attendance
o’ a medical man; and, ’od,
doctor, but the womenkind are aften
complainin’.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Well, Mr Barlas,” I said (such was
the landlord’s name), “I have experienced
much kindness and civility, and
in the course of a few hours I have far
outstripped my expectations. If I only
succeed as well with the ladies and
gentlemen in the neighbourhood, I will
not hesitate for a moment in settling
down in the midst of you.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“There’s nae danger o’ that, doctor.
What’s sauce or senna for the goose is
sauce or senna for the gander. I’ve
seen aften eneuch that the grit folk are
no sae ill to please as the sma’. If ye
get ower the Laird,—an’ I think ye’ve
as gude a chance as ony ither body,—ye
needna fear muckle for the rest.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“And who is the Laird, Mr Barlas?”
I asked.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Oh, just the Laird, ye ken—Laird
Ramsay o’ the Haugh; ye’ll surely hae
heard o’ him afore you cam south?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ramsay,” I said; “Ramsay—oh,
yes,—I have a letter of introduction to
a gentleman of that name from a professor
in Edinburgh. Does he rule the
roast in this neighbourhood?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I’ll tell you aboot him i’ the noo;
but wait a wee, doctor, till I bring ye
something warm.”</p>

<p class='c008'>I did not disapprove of the medicine
proposed by the host of the Cross-Keys
of St Dunstan, as I was anxious to
know as much as possible about the
place and people; and the influence of
hot punch in making even silent persons
communicative is quite proverbial.
Mr Barlas, after a brief absence, returned
to the snug little parlour, bearing
his own private blue bottle, capable,
I should think, of holding a good half-gallon
of Islay or Glenlivet; and we
were soon sitting comfortably, with
steaming tumblers before us, beside a
blazing fire.</p>

<p class='c008'>“This is something social like, noo,
doctor,” said the composed and considerate
landlord. “Ye were wantin’ to
hear aboot the Laird. Weel, I’ll tell
ye what sort o’ a being he is, that ye
may be on your guard when ye gang to
the Haugh the morn. Laird Ramsay
has mair gear, doctor, than ony half-dozen
o’ his neighbours for mony miles
roond, and he’s a queer character wi’d
a’. He’s unco auld-fashioned for a man
in his station, an’ speaks muckle sic
like as ye hear me speakin’ i’ the noo.
He gets the name o’ haudin’ a gude
grip o’ his siller; but I’ve nae reason
to compleen, as he spends freely eneuch
when he comes to the Cross-Keys, no
forgettin’ the servant-lass and the ostler;
an’ I ken for a fac’ that he slips a canny
shillin’ noo and again into the loofs o’
the puir folk o’ St Dunstan. He’s
unco douce and proud,—ye micht maist
say saucy,—until ye get the richt side o’
him, an’ then he’s the best o’ freends;
an’ nane better than the Laird at a twa-handed
crack.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“And how do you get to the right
side of him, Mr Barlas?” I interjected.</p>

<p class='c008'>“That’s the very thing I was gaun to
tell ye, doctor. Lay on the butter weel.
Butter him on baith sides, an’ then ye
easy get to the richt side. Praise his
land, his craps, his nowte, his house,
his garden, his Glenlivet, his everything;
but tak care what ye say o’ his
dochter to his face.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“The Laird has got a daughter,
then, it seems?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ay, that he has, an’ a comely
quean she is; but he’ll be a clever man
wha can rin awa wi’ her frae the Haugh.
The Laird just dotes upon her, an’ he
wouldna pairt wi’ her for love or siller.
If she has a sweetheart, I’m thinkin’
he’ll need to sook his thoomb, an’ bide
a wee.”</p>

<p class='c008'>In answer to my inquiries the landlord
informed me that Miss Jessie Ramsay
was the Laird’s only daughter, and
that her mother had been dead for
several years. His information and
anecdotes regarding the eccentric character
of the old-fashioned proprietor of
the Haugh, excited my curiosity so much
that I resolved to pay him an early visit
on the following day. After sitting for
an hour or two, during which time Mr
Barlas became more and more loquacious,
I seized the first favourable
opportunity to propose an adjournment,
and receiving the reluctant assent of
mine host, I retired to rest, and slept
soundly in spite of all the crowing cocks
of St Dunstan.</p>

<p class='c008'>In the morning the tidings were
through the whole village that a new
doctor had come, and several people
became suddenly unwell, for the express
purpose, I presume, of testing my skill.
Three urgent cases I found to be ordinary
headache, and, fearing lest my
trip to the Haugh might be delayed
for two weeks, I hired the best hack
the Cross-Keys could afford, and made
off for the domicile of the eccentric
Laird. The owner of the hack was
very anxious to accompany me, but I
preferred making the excursion alone.
The weather was mild and delightful;
the trees seemed lovelier in decay than
in the fulness of summer life; and the
Tweed flowed and murmured softly as
the waters of Siloah. Half-an-hour’s
riding brought me to the Haugh—an
ancient edifice embosomed among trees.
In the prime of its youth it would doubtless
be considered a splendid mansion;
but in its old age it had an ungainly
appearance, although not altogether
destitute of a certain picturesque air.
After disposing of my hack to a little
Jack-of-all-work urchin, who was looking
about for some work to do, or
meditating mischief, I knocked at the
door, and was ushered, by an old
serving-woman, into a quaint apartment,
crammed with antique furniture.
The mantelpiece absolutely groaned
under its load of ornaments, while a
great spreading plume of peacock’s
feathers waved triumphantly over all.
This must be the Laird’s fancy, I
thought, and not the taste of Miss
Jessie. Several pictures illustrative of
fox-hunting, and two portraits, adorned
the walls. None of them could be
considered as belonging to any particular
school, or as masterpieces in art.
On the window-blinds a besieging force
was represented as assaulting a not very
formidable castle.</p>

<p class='c008'>While I sat amusing myself with the
oddities of the apartment, the door
opened, and the Laird entered. He
was a gray-haired, ruddy-faced, shrewd-looking
man of fifty or thereabouts. I
was rather taken with his dress. He
wore a blue coat of antique cut, knee
breeches, long brown gaiters with metal
buttons, and his vest was beautified with
perpendicular yellow stripes. There
was an air of dignity about him when
he entered as though he were conscious
that he was Laird of the Haugh, and
that I had come to consult him about
some important business. Being a
Justice of the Peace, as I afterwards
learned, he probably wished to impress
a stranger with a sense of his official
greatness. I did not know very well
whether to address him as Mr Ramsay
or the “Laird;” but he relieved me of
the difficulty by saying in broad Scotch,
“This is a grand day, sir; hae ye
ridden far?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“No,” I replied, “only from St
Dunstan.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Just that—just that,” said the Laird,
with a peculiar tone. “I thocht as
much when I met the callant leadin’
awa the Cross-Key’s charger,—puir
beast!”</p>

<p class='c008'>I handed the Laird the letter of introduction
which I had received from one
of the medical professors in Edinburgh.
He read it very slowly, as though he
were spelling and weighing every word,
and he had perused it twice from beginning
to end before he rose and welcomed
me to the Haugh.</p>

<p class='c008'>“He’s a clever man, that professor,”
quoth Laird Ramsay; “an’ he speaks
o’ ye, doctor, in a flattering way; but
the proof o’ the puddin’ is the preein’
o’t, ye ken. Ye’ve shown some spunk
in comin’ sae quick to St Dunstan; but
ye’re young eneuch to be on your ain
coat-tail yet.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“We must begin somewhere and
sometime, Mr Ramsay,” I rejoined.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ye’re richt there,” answered the
Laird; and then added with a chuckle,
“but patients dinna like to be made
victims o’. However, we’ll think aboot
that. Ye’ll be nane the worse o’ something
to eat and drink, I’m thinkin’;
an’ to tell the truth, I want to weet
my ain whistle.”</p>

<p class='c008'>So saying, the Laird o’ the Haugh
rose and rang the bell, and told the
old serving-woman, the handmaiden of
the household, to bid Jessie speak to
him. In a short time Jessie, a tall,
handsome, hearty, fresh-coloured, black-haired
beauty, came tripping into the
room. The Laird was not very ceremonious
so far as the matter of introduction
was concerned, but Jessie was one
of those frank girls who can introduce
themselves, and make you feel perfectly
at home at once. The father and
daughter were evidently strongly attached
to each other.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Bring us some wine first, like a
gude lass,” said the Laird, “an’ then
we’ll tak something mair substantial
when ye’re ready.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Jessie, like a dutiful daughter, placed
the decanters and glasses on the table.
There was an elasticity in her step, a
grace in her every motion, and an
irresistible charm in her frank and
affectionate smile. The Laird did not
seem altogether to relish the manner in
which my eyes involuntarily followed
her movements; and remembering what
mine host of the Cross-Keys had told
me on the previous night, I resolved to
be as circumspect as possible, both in
look and word. The Laird o’ the
Haugh pledged the young doctor, and
the young doctor pledged the Laird.
Meanwhile, Jessie had disappeared to
look after the substantials. A glass or
two of his capital wine warmed Laird
Ramsay into a fine conversational mood,
and we got on famously together. After
dinner, when the punch was produced,
our intimacy increased, and I began to
love the eccentric Laird for the sake of
his beautiful and accomplished daughter.
I discovered that he had a hearty relish
for humorous stories and anecdotes, and
I plied him with them in thick succession,
until the fountain of laughter ran
over in tears. I was determined to take
the old gentleman by storm, and Miss
Jessie, with quick feminine instinct,
appeared to be more than half aware of
my object. However, I carefully abstained
from exciting his suspicion by
conversing directly with Jessie, even
when he appeared to be in the most
genial and pleasant mood.</p>

<p class='c008'>The evening was pretty far advanced
when I left his hospitable board.
“Mind, you’re to be the doctor o’ St
Dunstan,” he said, as I mounted the
Cross-Key’s charger. “We’ll hae naebody
but yoursel, an’ ye mun be sure
an’ come back soon again to the Haugh.”
I rode home to mine inn fully resolved
to locate myself in the village, and
firmly persuaded that if I had not
captivated the Laird’s daughter, I had
at least conquered the Laird himself.</p>

<h3 class='c015'><span class='sc'>Chapter II.</span></h3>

<p class='c014'>“Weel, doctor, is it a’ richt wi’ the
Laird?” inquired Mr Barlas when I
returned to the Cross-Keys.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Yes,” I rejoined, “it’s all right.
Laird Ramsay is now my warmest and
staunchest supporter, and a most companionable
old gentleman he is.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I never heard the like o’ that,” said
the landlord, lifting up his eyebrows in
astonishment. “’Od, doctor, ye’re jist
like that auld Roman reiver, Cæsar,
wha gaed aboot seein’ and conquerin’.
Ye hae a clear coast noo, when ye hae
gotten the gudewill o’ the Laird and
the minister. An’ what think ye o’ the
dochter? Isna she a comely lass, Miss
Ramsay?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“She is, indeed, Mr Barlas,” I
replied. “The young lady seems to do
her best to make her father feel happy
and comfortable, and I have no doubt
that many ‘braw wooers’ will frequently
find their way to the Haugh.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Na, doctor, na. As I tell’t ye
afore, the Laird is unco fond o’ Miss
Jessie, an’ I dinna believe he would
pairt wi’ her to the best man i’ the
kintra-side. But ye hae sic an uncommon
power o’ comin’ roond folk that
I wouldna wonner to see ye tryin’t
yersel.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Stranger things have happened,
Mr Barlas,” I rejoined. “Meantime,
my mind is made up to settle down in
St Dunstan. I like the place and the
people, the Eildon Hills, the Tweed,
and Laird Ramsay.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“No to speak o’ his dochter,”
interjected mine host with a knowing
look.</p>

<p class='c008'>“But where,” I continued, “am I
to take up my quarters?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ye needna put yersel in a peck o’
troubles aboot that, doctor. There’s
Dr Sommerville’s cottage just waitin’
for ye alang the road a bit. It’s a
commodious hoose, wi’ trees roond it
an’ a bonny garden at the back, slopin’
to the south. Dr Sommerville was
fond o’ flowers, an’ I never saw a
pleasanter place than it was in simmer.
But the fac’ is, ye’ll hae to tak it, doctor,
because there’s no anither hoose to let
in the hale toun.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Such being the case, Mr Barlas,
there is no choice, and the matter is
settled.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Just that—just that,” responded
the worthy landlord, and then added,
with an eye to business, “Ye can mak
the Cross-Keys yer hame till ye get the
cottage a’ painted an’ furnished to your
mind.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“So be it, Mr Barlas; and now that
the house is settled, what about a housekeeper?
Was Dr Sommerville married?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Married? of course, he was married,
an’ had lots o’ weans to the bargain.
But just try yer hand wi’ Miss Ramsay.
I would like grand to see ye at that
game, doctor.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Nonsense,” I rejoined. “I do not
want to steal the Laird’s ewe-lamb, and
break with him at the very commencement
of my course. Is there no quiet,
decent, honest body about St Dunstan
who would make a good and active
housekeeper?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“They’re a’ honest an’ decent thegither,
except it be twa or three o’ the
canglin’ mugger folk wha mend auld
pans and break ane anither’s heads.
Let me see—stop a wee—ou, ay—I
have ye noo, doctor; there’s Mrs
Johnston—a clean, thrifty, tidy woman
o’ forty or thereabouts; she’ll fit ye to a
T, an’ keep yer hoose like a new
leek. Her gudeman was an elder;
but he took an inward trouble aboot a
year syne, an’ a’ the skill o’ Doctor
Sommerville couldna keep his life in
when his time was come. I’ll speak to
Mrs Johnston the morn, so ye can keep
yer mind easy aboot a housekeeper.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“We’re getting on famously, Mr
Barlas. The house and housekeeper
are both disposed of. What next?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“What next, doctor? The next
thing, I’m thinkin’, ’ill be a horse. Folk
will be sendin’ for ye post-haste to gang
sax or seven miles awa, an’ ye canna
get on without a beast. Are ye onything
skeely in horseflesh?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“No,” I replied, “not particularly.
I would require to purchase a horse by
proxy.”</p>

<p class='c008'>This reply appeared to give mine
host considerable satisfaction. After a
brief pause he said, “Weel, doctor,
what think ye o’ the beastie that took
ye to the Haugh the day? It’s fine an’
canny, an’ free frae a’ kind o’ pranks.
It would never fling ye aff an’ break
your banes when ye were gaun to mend
ither folk’s bodies. It’ll no cost ye
muckle siller, and ye’ll get a capital
bargain wi’ the beast.”</p>

<p class='c008'>I could not help smiling when the
landlord detailed the excellent qualities
of the Rosinante of the Cross-Keys—the
superb steed which excited the
compassion of Laird Ramsay.</p>

<p class='c008'>“It is an admirable animal, Mr Barlas,”
I replied, always careful to avoid
giving offence; “but the truth is, there
is a friend of mine in Edinburgh who is
great in horses, and who would never
forgive me if I did not permit him to
make the selection and the purchase.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Vera weel, doctor—vera well,”
rejoined the landlord, professing contentment,
although apparently somewhat
chagrined. “Ye may get a
stronger and mair speerity beast; but,
tak my word for’t, ye’ll no get ane to
answer yer purpose better. It’s an
extraordinar’ sensible animal, an’ kens
a’ the roads aboot the kintra-side. In
the darkest winter nicht ye micht fling
the bridle on its neck, and it would
bring ye hame to St Dunstan safe an’
soond. Ye can tak anither thocht about
it, doctor, an’ I mun awa an’ gie the
beast its supper.”</p>

<p class='c008'>A few weeks after the above confab
with the sagacious landlord of the Cross-Keys,
I was quietly domiciled in Oakbank
Cottage, on the outskirts of St
Dunstan, and had commenced the
routine work of a medical practitioner.
Mrs Johnston was duly installed as
housekeeper; and a capital riding-horse,
which Mr Barlas was compelled
to allow “micht do,” arrived from the
metropolis. I liked my cottage very
much. It stood apart from the public
road, and was quiet and secluded. Rows
of poplar trees surrounded the green,
and flower pots in front, and a tall
beechen-hedge girdled on all sides the
sloping garden in the rear. The high
banks of the Tweed, adorned with
many-tinted foliage, swept along close
at hand, and the strong deep gush of
that noble river was borne abroad on
every swell of wind. Oakbank Cottage
was, in my estimation, the sweetest
residence in and around St Dunstan;
and as I, like my predecessor, was fond
of floriculture, I resolved to make the
place look like a little paradise when
the spring and summer months came
round again. I was not long in getting
into a good practice. There was not
much opposition from other gentlemen
in the district, and many miles I rode
both by night and by day. It always
vexed the heart of my worthy housekeeper,
Mrs Johnston, when a special
messenger called me away to a distance
after nightfall, and there was no end to
the instructions she gave me—M.D.
though I was—about the best means of
preventing sore throats and rheumatisms.
Mrs Johnston had never listened to the
learned prelections of medical professors
at any of our universities; nevertheless,
like many other sensible and sedate
women, in her own sphere of life, she
had managed to pick up no inconsiderable
amount of sound medical knowledge.</p>

<p class='c008'>I was soon on the best of terms with
all the people of the village, for it will
generally be found that while a clergyman
has admirers and detractors among
his own hearers, a doctor who is gifted
with a modicum of amiability can easily
make himself a favourite with all classes.
Of course, when any person dies, the
friends of the deceased will not unfrequently
declaim against the imperfection
of the medical treatment; but grumblings
such as these are natural and pardonable,
and fail to shake the general
esteem in which the practitioner is held.
The minister of the parish was a frequent
visitor at Oakbank, and in order to
strengthen our good fellowship, I became
a member of his congregation.
He was an upright and honest-hearted
man, although somewhat too polemical
for my taste. I used to think that he
was in the habit of airing his argumentative
speeches in my presence before
he delivered himself of them at Presbytery
meetings.</p>

<p class='c008'>None of the people in the district
seemed better satisfied than Laird Ramsay
o’ the Haugh that I had located
myself in St Dunstan. He called one
day at Oakbank, soon after my settlement,
just as I was preparing to set out
on a rural ride. The Laird was attired
in the ordinary dress which he wore at
the Haugh. The brown hat, the blue
antique coat, the knee-breeches, the
long gaiters, and the yellow-striped
vest, seemed to form a part of his
eccentric character.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Gude day t’ye, Dr Wilson—gude
day,” said the Laird, as he shook me
by the hand. “What way hae ye
been sae lang in comin’ ower my way?
I’m wearyin’ sair to get anither firlot o’
yon queer humoursome stories oot o’
ye. Can ye come ower to the Haugh
the morn, and tak a bit check o’ dinner
wi’ some freends that I’m just on the
road to inveet to meet you, doctor?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“It will afford me much pleasure,
Mr Ramsay.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“That’s richt—that’s richt. Gie a’
yer patients a double dram o’ medicine
the day, an’ that’ll save ye trouble the
morn. I’ll no deteen ye langer i’ the
noo, since I see ye’re for takin’ the road.
Man, doctor, that’s a capital horse
ye’ve gotten. I’ll try ye a steeplechase
some day, auld as I am.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Next day I did not forget to mount
my horse, which I had christened Prince
Charlie, and ride over to the Haugh.
It was more the desire to meet again
the handsome and black-haired Jessie,
than the expectation of a good dinner,—in
which the laird was said to excel,—that
made me keep my appointment
with scrupulous care, although two or
three of my distant patients thereby
missed an expected visit. I found a
goodly company assembled in the Laird’s
old-fashioned mansion. Several neighbouring
lairds with their wives were
present, my excellent friend the minister
of the parish, and some of the “chief
men” of St Dunstan. A few young
ladies graced the company; but it
struck me as something singular that I
was the only young gentleman who had
been honoured with an invitation. Does
the Laird really think, I asked myself,
that he will keep away the dangerous
disease of love from his charming
daughter’s heart by excluding chivalrous
youths from his dinner-table? What
intense selfishness there may be in the
warmest paternal affection! Nor was
selfishness altogether absent from my
own heart. I began to feel a kind of
secret satisfaction that the coast was
clear, and that undivided attentions
could be given and received. Jessie
was all smiles, grace, and beauty; and
before dinner was finished, I was more
than charmed—I was bewitched with
her manners and conversation. When
the ladies retired from table I endeavoured,
as on the former occasion, to
keep the Laird o’ the Haugh in good
humour, being now determined, for a
particular reason, to rise rather than
fall in his estimation. When the minister
introduced polemics I flung out a
shower of puns; when oxen became
the topic I spiced the talk with some
racy stories. The ruse succeeded.
Between the strong waters and the
stories, Laird Ramsay was elevated into
a hilarious region, and he would have
forgiven his worst enemy on the spot.
He was not aware that I was playing
with him and upon him for a purpose.
When my stock was getting exhausted
I started the minister on his everlasting
expedition to Rome, and managed, at
the commencement of his narrative, to
escape from table unperceived. I was not
particularly anxious to “join the ladies;”
but I was excessively desirous to have,
if possible, some private conversation
with Jessie Ramsay. There could be
no denying the fact that I—the young
medical practitioner of St Dunstan—had
fallen in love, how or why it boots
not to inquire, with the beautiful daughter
of the Laird o’ the Haugh. I felt
it through every vein of my body, and
every fibre of my heart, and I fondly
imagined from sundry stealthy glances
and sweet suggestive smiles that the
dear creature had perceived and reciprocated
my attachment. The golden
silence of love is the highest eloquence,
and the most entrancing song. As good
luck and favouring fortune would have
it, I had no sooner left the dining-hall
than the object of my adoration came
tripping down stairs alone. In looking
over the drawing-room window a rich
flower from her lustrous hair had fallen
to the ground, and the lovely creature
was now hastening to secure the lost
treasure. Here was an opportunity
little anticipated, but long remembered.
It was impossible that I could be so
ungallant as allow her to search for the
fallen flower by herself, and we therefore
went out into the open air together.
There was no moon, but the stars were
shining full and brilliant in the firmament.
Tall holly bushes and other
shrubs surrounded the house within the
outer circle of trees. The only two
sounds I distinctly heard were the beating
of my heart, and the humming
sound of the minister’s voice as he narrated
the incidents of his pilgrimage to
the Eternal City. I blessed the good
man for his unconscious kindness in
granting me this opportunity. Jessie
and I proceeded to the place where the
flower was supposed to be. I saw it at
once, and she saw it at once; but both
of us pretended that we had not seen
it, and so the sweet search continued.
Need I describe, O amiable reader!
how in searching and stooping I felt
the touch of her ringleted hair, the
warmth of her breath, the delicate
softness of her cheek, and imbibed the
honey-balm of her lips? At last the
flower was found,—I blessed it unaware,—and,
under the starlight, replaced it
on that lovely head from which it had
not been untimely plucked, but had
most opportunely fallen.</p>

<p class='c008'>We returned to the house undiscovered.
The Laird, I knew, was in
that pleased and placid state when he
could have listened for many hours to
the Man of the Moon describing the
incidents of his celestial travels and the
wonders he had seen from his specular
tower. I parted with Jessie at the foot
of the staircase, pressed her soft warm
hand, and re-entered the room which I
had rather unceremoniously left. The
minister had got upon the Pope, and
all the symptoms of “tired nature”
were apparent on the faces of most of
the listeners. They had the look of a congregation
when the thirteenth “head”
is being propounded with due deliberation
from the pulpit. The Laird had
not seen me depart, but he saw me
enter. He evidently placed in me the
most implicit reliance, and there was
no suspicion in his look.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Hae ye been snuffin’ the caller air,
doctor?” he inquired.</p>

<p class='c008'>I answered in the affirmative with a
look of perfect innocence, and then the
Laird added, wishing apparently to cut
short the minister’s harangue, “Ay,
weel, let’s join the leddies noo.”</p>

<p class='c008'>After that evening I was a frequent
and welcome visitor at the Haugh.
Prince Charlie soon knew the way to
his own stall in the Laird’s stables.
Some golden opportunities occurred
when the Laird was absent for interviews
and conversations with Jessie.
We plighted our mutual troth, and
were devoted to each other heart and
soul. The one grand difficulty in the
way of our happiness was the removal
of the Laird’s scruples with regard to
the marriage of his daughter. At last,
when jogging leisurely homeward to
Oakbank one evening, I hit upon a
scheme which ultimately resulted in
complete success, and gave me possession
of the being whom I loved dearer
than life.</p>

<p class='c008'>A wealthy and winsome widow lady
resided in the neighbourhood of St
Dunstan, and the project entered my
brain to make her believe that Laird
Ramsay had some notions of her, and
also to make him believe that she had
a warm side of her heart to him. If I
could only get the Laird to marry the
widow, I knew that Jessie would soon
thereafter be mine. The Laird was
open to flattery; he was fond of what
Mr Barlas called “butter;” and I did
not despair of being able to make him
renew his youth. Tact was required
in such a delicate undertaking, and I
resolved to do my spiriting gently. I
began with the Laird first one evening
when he was in his mellow after-dinner
state. I praised the graces and winsome
ways of Mrs Mackinlay, and drew
from the Laird the confession that he
thought her a “very gude and sociable-like
leddy.” I then tried a few dexterous
passes before hinting that she had
a warm side to the Laird o’ the Haugh.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ye dinna mean to say that Mrs
Mackinlay is castin’ a sheep’s e’e at me,
do ye, doctor?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I can assure you, Mr Ramsay,” I
rejoined, “that she speaks of you
always with great respect, and seems
to wonder why you do not honour her
with a visit occasionally.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ay, doctor, it’s queer what way I
never thocht o’ that. She’s a sensible
leddy after a’, Mrs Mackinlay. I think
I could do worse than look ower at her
hoose some o’ these days.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“It’s the very thing you ought to do,
Mr Ramsay,” I replied. “You will find
her company highly entertaining. She
has an accumulated fund of stories and
anecdotes.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Has she, doctor?—has she? Weel,
I’ll gang; but what would Jessie say,
I wunner?”</p>

<p class='c008'>I had now put the Laird on the right
scent, and I tried my best also with
Mrs Mackinlay. I made her aware of
the Laird’s intended visit, and hinted
tenderly its probable object. After a
lengthened conversation, in which I exercised
all the ingenuity I possessed, I
left her with the impression on my mind
that Laird Ramsay’s addresses when he
called would be met half-way. The
meeting did take place—it was followed
by another and another—and the upshot
of the matter was that the eccentric
Laird and the wealthy widow were duly
wedded, to the astonishment of the whole
district. I allowed six months of their
wedded bliss to slip past before I asked
the Laird’s consent to have Jessie removed
from the Haugh to Oakbank.
A sort of dim suspicion of the whole
affair seemed to cross the Laird’s mind
when I addressed him. A pawky twinkle
lit up his eye as he replied, “Ah, ye
rogue!—tak her, an’ my blessin’ alang
wi’ her. Ye ken whaur to look for a
gude wife, an’ I daursay ye’ll no mak
the warst o’ gudemen.” Thus I won
the Laird’s daughter, and the paradise
of Oakbank, in the village of St Dunstan,
was complete in happiness.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='moss-side' class='c006'>MOSS-SIDE.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By Professor Wilson.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>Gilbert Ainslie was a poor man;
and he had been a poor man all the
days of his life, which were not few, for
his thin hair was now waxing gray. He
had been born and bred on the small
moorland farm which he now occupied;
and he hoped to die there, as his father
and grandfather had done before him,
leaving a family just above the more
bitter wants of this world. Labour,
hard and unremitting, had been his lot
in life; but, although sometimes severely
tried, he had never repined; and through
all the mist and gloom, and even the
storms that had assailed him, he had
lived on from year to year in that calm
and resigned contentment which unconsciously
cheers the hearthstone of the
blameless poor. With his own hands
he had ploughed, sowed, and reaped
his often scanty harvest, assisted, as
they grew up, by three sons, who, even
in boyhood, were happy to work along
with their father in the fields. Out of
doors or in, Gilbert Ainslie was never
idle. The spade, the shears, the ploughshaft,
the sickle, and the flail, all came
readily to hands that grasped them well;
and not a morsel of food was eaten
under his roof, or a garment worn
there, that was not honestly, severely,
nobly earned. Gilbert Ainslie was
a slave, but it was for them he loved
with a sober and deep affection. The
thraldom under which he lived God
had imposed, and it only served to give
his character a shade of silent gravity,
but not austere; to make his smiles
fewer, but more heartfelt; to calm his
soul at grace before and after meals,
and to kindle it in morning and evening
prayer.</p>

<p class='c008'>There is no need to tell the character
of the wife of such a man. Meek and
thoughtful, yet gladsome and gay withal,
her heaven was in her house; and her
gentler and weaker hands helped to bar
the door against want. Of ten children
that had been born to them, they had
lost three; and as they had fed, clothed,
and educated them respectably, so did
they give them who died a respectable
funeral. The living did not grudge to
give up, for a while, some of their daily
comforts for the sake of the dead; and
bought, with the little sums which their
industry had saved, decent mournings,
worn on Sabbath, and then carefully
laid by. Of the seven that survived,
two sons and a daughter were farm-servants
in the neighbourhood, while
two daughters and two sons remained
at home, growing, or grown up, a
small, happy, hard-working household.</p>

<p class='c008'>Many cottages are there in Scotland
like Moss-side, and many such humble
and virtuous cottagers as were now
beneath its roof of straw. The eye of
the passing traveller may mark them,
or mark them not, but they stand peacefully
in thousands over all the land; and
most beautiful do they make it, through
all its wide valleys and narrow glens—its
low holms, encircled by the rocky
walls of some bonny burn—its green
mounts, elated with their little crowning
groves of plane-trees—its yellow
corn-fields—its bare pastoral hill-sides,
and all its heathy moors, on whose
black bosom lie shining or concealed
glades of excessive verdure, inhabited
by flowers, and visited only by the farflying
bees. Moss-side was not beautiful
to a careless or hasty eye; but,
when looked on and surveyed, it seemed
a pleasant dwelling. Its roof, overgrown
with grass and moss, was almost
as green as the ground out of which its
weather-stained walls appeared to grow.
The moss behind it was separated from
a little garden, by a narrow slip of
arable land, the dark colour of which
showed that it had been won from the
wild by patient industry, and by patient
industry retained. It required a bright
sunny day to make Moss-side fair, but
then it was fair indeed; and when the
little brown moorland birds were singing
their short songs among the rushes
and the heather, or a lark, perhaps
lured thither by some green barley-field
for its undisturbed nest, rose ringing all
over the enlivened solitude, the little
bleak farm smiled like the paradise of
poverty, sad and affecting in its lone
and extreme simplicity. The boys and
girls had made some plots of flowers
among the vegetables that the little
garden supplied for their homely meals;
pinks and carnations, brought from
walled gardens of rich men farther
down in the cultivated strath, grew
here with somewhat diminished lustre;
a bright show of tulips had a strange
beauty in the midst of that moorland;
and the smell of roses mixed well with
that of the clover, the beautiful fair
clover that loves the soil and the air of
Scotland, and gives the rich and balmy
milk to the poor man’s lips.</p>

<p class='c008'>In this cottage, Gilbert’s youngest
child, a girl about nine years of age,
had been lying for a week in a fever.
It was now Saturday evening, and the
ninth day of the disease. Was she to
live or die? It seemed as if a very few
hours were between the innocent creature
and heaven. All the symptoms
were those of approaching death. The
parents knew well the change that
comes over the human face, whether it
be in infancy, youth, or prime, just
before the departure of the spirit; and
as they stood together by Margaret’s
bed, it seemed to them that the fatal
shadow had fallen upon her features.
The surgeon of the parish lived some
miles distant, but they expected him
now every moment, and many a wistful
look was directed by tearful eyes along
the moor. The daughter who was out
at service came anxiously home on this
night, the only one that could be allowed
her; for the poor must work in their
grief, and servants must do their duty
to those whose bread they eat, even
when nature is sick—sick at heart.
Another of the daughters came in from
the potato-field beyond the brae, with
what was to be their frugal supper.
The calm, noiseless spirit of life was in
and around the house, while death
seemed dealing with one who, a few
days ago, was like light upon the floor,
and the sound of music, that always
breathed up when most wanted; glad
and joyous in common talk—sweet,
silvery, and mournful, when it joined
in hymn or psalm. One after the
other, they all continued going up to
the bedside, and then coming away
sobbing or silent, to see their merry
little sister, who used to keep dancing
all day like a butterfly in a meadowfield,
or, like a butterfly with shut
wings on a flower, trifling for a while
in the silence of her joy, now tossing
restlessly on her bed, and scarcely
sensible to the words of endearment
whispered around her, or the kisses
dropped with tears, in spite of themselves,
on her burning forehead.</p>

<p class='c008'>Utter poverty often kills the affections;
but a deep, constant, and common
feeling of this world’s hardships,
and an equal participation in all those
struggles by which they may be softened,
unite husband and wife, parents
and children, brothers and sisters, in
thoughtful and subdued tenderness,
making them happy indeed, while the
circle round the fire is unbroken, and
yet preparing them every day to bear
the separation, when some one or other
is taken slowly or suddenly away.
Their souls are not moved by fits and
starts, although, indeed, nature sometimes
will wrestle with necessity; and
there is a wise moderation both in the
joy and the grief of the intelligent
poor, which keeps lasting trouble away
from their earthly lot, and prepares them
silently and unconsciously for heaven.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Do you think the child is dying?”
said Gilbert, with a calm voice, to the
surgeon, who, on his wearied horse,
had just arrived from another sick-bed,
over the misty range of hills, and had
been looking steadfastly for some minutes
on the little patient. The humane
man knew the family well, in the midst
of whom he was standing, and replied,
“While there is life there is hope; but
my pretty little Margaret is, I fear, in
the last extremity.” There was no loud
lamentation at these words; all had
before known, though they would not
confess it to themselves, what they now
were told; and though the certainty
that was in the words of the skilful man
made their hearts beat for a little with
sicker throbbings, made their pale faces
paler, and brought out from some eyes
a greater gush of tears, yet death had
been before in this house, and in this
case he came, as he always does, in
awe, but not in terror. There were
wandering and wavering and dreamy
delirious fantasies in the brain of the
innocent child; but the few words she
indistinctly uttered were affecting, not
rending to the heart, for it was plain
that she thought herself herding her
sheep in the green silent pastures, and
sitting wrapped in her plaid upon the
lown and sunny side of the Birk-knowe.
She was too much exhausted—there
was too little life, too little breath in
her heart—to frame a tune; but some of
her words seemed to be from favourite
old songs; and at last her mother wept,
and turned aside her face, when the
child, whose blue eyes were shut, and
her lips almost still, breathed out these
lines of the beautiful twenty-third
Psalm:—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>The Lord’s my shepherd, I’ll not want.</div>
      <div class='line in2'>He makes me down to lie</div>
      <div class='line'>In pastures green: He leadeth me</div>
      <div class='line in2'>The quiet waters by.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c008'>The child was now left with none
but her mother by the bedside, for it
was said to be best so; and Gilbert and
his family sat down round the kitchen
fire, for a while, in silence. In about
a quarter of an hour, they began to rise
calmly, and to go each to his allotted
work. One of the daughters went
forth with the pail to milk the cow, and
another began to set out the table in the
middle of the floor for supper, covering
it with a white cloth. Gilbert viewed
the usual household arrangements with
a solemn and untroubled eye; and there
was almost the faint light of a grateful
smile on his cheek, as he said to the
worthy surgeon, “You will partake of
our fare, after your day’s travel and toil
of humanity?” In a short silent half-hour,
the potatoes and oat-cakes, butter
and milk, were on the board; and
Gilbert, lifting up his toil-hardened but
manly hand, with a slow motion, at
which the room was as hushed as if it
had been empty, closed his eyes in
reverence, and asked a blessing. There
was a little stool, on which no one sat,
by the old man’s side. It had been put
there unwittingly, when the other seats
were all placed in their usual order;
but the golden head that was wont to
rise at that part of the table was now
wanting. There was silence—not a
word was said—their meal was before
them—God had been thanked, and
they began to eat.</p>

<p class='c008'>While they were at their silent meal
a horseman came galloping to the door,
and, with a loud voice, called out that
he had been sent express with a letter
to Gilbert Ainslie; at the same time
rudely, and with an oath, demanding a
dram for his trouble. The eldest son,
a lad of eighteen, fiercely seized the
bridle of his horse, and turned its head
away from the door. The rider, somewhat
alarmed at the flushed face of the
powerful stripling, threw down the letter
and rode off. Gilbert took the
letter from his son’s hand, casting, at
the same time, a half-upbraiding look
on his face, that was returning to its
former colour. “I feared,”—said the
youth, with a tear in his eye,—“I
feared that the brute’s voice, and the
trampling of the horse’s feet, would
have disturbed her.” Gilbert held the
letter hesitatingly in his hand, as if
afraid at that moment to read it; at
length he said aloud to the surgeon:—“You
know that I am a poor man,
and debt, if justly incurred, and punctually
paid when due, is no dishonour.”
Both his hand and his voice shook
slightly as he spoke; but he opened
the letter from the lawyer, and read it
in silence. At this moment his wife
came from her child’s bedside, and,
looking anxiously at her husband, told
him “not to mind about the money,
that no man who knew him would
arrest his goods, or put him into prison.
Though, dear me, it is cruel to be put
to thus, when our bairn is dying, and
when, if so it be the Lord’s will, she
should have a decent burial, poor innocent,
like them that went before her.”
Gilbert continued reading the letter
with a face on which no emotion could
be discovered; and then, folding it up,
he gave it to his wife, told her she
might read it if she chose, and then put
it into his desk in the room, beside the
poor dear bairn. She took it from
him, without reading it, and crushed it
into her bosom: for she turned her ear
towards her child, and thinking she
heard it stir, ran out hastily to its
bedside.</p>

<p class='c008'>Another hour of trial passed, and the
child was still swimming for its life.
The very dogs knew there was grief in
the house, and lay without stirring, as
if hiding themselves, below the long
table at the window. One sister sat
with an unfinished gown on her knees,
that she had been sewing for the dear
child, and still continued at the hopeless
work, she scarcely knew why; and
often, often putting up her hand to wipe
away a tear. “What is that?” said the
old man to his eldest daughter. “What
is that you are laying on the shelf?”
She could scarcely reply that it was a
riband and an ivory comb that she had
brought for little Margaret, against the
night of the dancing-school ball. And
at these words the father could not
restrain a long, deep, and bitter groan;
at which the boy, nearest in age to his
dying sister, looked up weeping in his
face; and, letting the tattered book of
old ballads, which he had been poring
on, but not reading, fall out of his
hands, he rose from his seat, and, going
into his father’s bosom, kissed him, and
asked God to bless him: for the holy
heart of the boy was moved within
him; and the old man, as he embraced
him, felt that, in his innocence and
simplicity, he was indeed a comforter.
“The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh
away,” said the old man; “blessed be
the name of the Lord!”</p>

<p class='c008'>The outer door gently opened, and
he whose presence had in former years
brought peace and resignation hither,
when their hearts had been tried even
as they now were tried, stood before
them. On the night before the Sabbath,
the minister of Auchindown never
left his manse, except, as now, to visit
the sick or dying bed. Scarcely could
Gilbert reply to his first question about
his child, when the surgeon came from
the bedroom, and said—“Margaret
seems lifted up by God’s hand above
death and the grave: I think she will
recover. She has fallen asleep; and,
when she wakes, I hope—I—believe—that
the danger will be past, and that
your child will live.”</p>

<p class='c008'>They were all prepared for death;
but now they were found unprepared
for life. One wept that had till then
locked up all her tears within her
heart; another gave a short palpitating
shriek; and the tender-hearted Isobel,
who had nursed the child when it was
a baby, fainted away. The youngest
brother gave way to gladsome smiles;
and calling out his dog Hector, who
used to sport with him and his little
sister on the moor, he told the tidings
to the dumb irrational creature, whose
eyes, it is certain, sparkled with a sort
of joy. The clock for some days had
been prevented from striking the hours;
but the silent fingers pointed to the
hour of nine; and that, in the cottage
of Gilbert Ainslie, was the stated hour
of family worship. His own honoured
minister took the Book,—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>He waled a portion with judicious care,</div>
      <div class='line'>And, “Let us worship God,” he said, with solemn air.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c008'>A chapter was read—a prayer said;
and so, too, was sung a psalm; but it
was sung low, and with suppressed
voices, lest the child’s saving sleep
might be broken; and now and then
the female voices trembled, or some
one of them ceased altogether; for
there had been tribulation and anguish,
and now hope and faith were tried in
the joy of thanksgiving.</p>

<p class='c008'>The child still slept; and its sleep
seemed more sound and deep. It
appeared almost certain that the crisis
was over, and that the flower was not
to fade. “Children,” said Gilbert,
“our happiness is in the love we bear
to one another; and our duty is in
submitting to and serving God. Gracious,
indeed, has He been unto us.
Is not the recovery of our little darling,
dancing, singing Margaret, worth all
the gold that ever was mined? If we
had had thousands of thousands, would
we not have filled up her grave with
the worthless dross of gold, rather than
that she should have gone down there
with her sweet face and all her rosy
smiles?” There was no reply, but a
joyful sobbing all over the room.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Never mind the letter, nor the
debt, father,” said the eldest daughter.
“We have all some little thing of our
own,—a few pounds,—and we shall be
able to raise as much as will keep arrest
and prison at a distance. Or if they do
take our furniture out of the house, all
except Margaret’s bed, who cares?
We will sleep on the floor; and there
are potatoes in the field, and clear
water in the spring. We need fear
nothing, want nothing; blessed be God
for all His mercies!”</p>

<p class='c008'>Gilbert went into the sick-room, and
got the letter from his wife, who was
sitting at the head of the bed, watching,
with a heart blessed beyond all bliss,
the calm and regular breathings of her
child. “This letter,” said he, mildly,
“is not from a hard creditor. Come
with me while I read it aloud to our
children.” The letter was read aloud,
and it was well fitted to diffuse pleasure
and satisfaction through the dwelling
of poverty. It was from an executor
to the will of a distant relative, who
had left Gilbert Ainslie £1500.</p>

<p class='c008'>“The sum,” said Gilbert, “is a
large one to folks like us, but not, I
hope, large enough to turn our heads,
or make us think ourselves all lords and
ladies. It will do more, far more,
than put me fairly above the world at
last. I believe that, with it, I may
buy this very farm, on which my forefathers
have toiled. But God, whose
providence has sent this temporal blessing,
may He send us wisdom and
prudence how to use it, and humble
and grateful hearts to us all.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“You will be able to send me to
school all the year round now, father,”
said the youngest boy. “And you may
leave the flail to your sons, now,
father,” said the eldest. “You may
hold the plough still, for you draw a
straighter furrow than any of us; but
hard work for young sinews; and you
may sit now oftener in your arm-chair
by the ingle. You will not need to
rise now in the dark, cold, and snowy
winter mornings, and keep threshing
corn in the barn for hours by candlelight,
before the late dawning.”</p>

<p class='c008'>There was silence, gladness, and
sorrow, and but little sleep in Moss-side,
between the rising and the setting
of the stars, that were now out in
thousands, clear, bright, and sparkling
over the unclouded sky. Those who
had lain down for an hour or two in
bed could scarcely be said to have
slept; and when about morning little
Margaret awoke, an altered creature,
pale, languid, and unable to turn
herself on her lowly bed, but with
meaning in her eyes, memory in her
mind, affection in her heart, and coolness
in all her veins, a happy group
were watching the first faint smile that
broke over her features; and never did
one who stood there forget that Sabbath
morning on which she seemed to
look round upon them all with a gaze
of fair and sweet bewilderment, like
one half conscious of having been rescued
from the power of the grave.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='my_first_fee' class='c006'>MY FIRST FEE.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>A Chapter from the Autobiography of an Advocate.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“Fee him, father, fee him.”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>Seven long yearning years had
elapsed since, with the budding anticipation
of youthful hope, I had
assumed the lugubrious insignia of the
bar. During that dreadful time, each
morn, as old St Giles told the hour of
nine, might I be seen insinuating my
emaciated figure within the penetralia
of the Parliament House, where, begowned
and bewigged, and with the zeal
of a Powell or a Barclay, I paced about
till two. These peripatetic practices had
well-nigh ruined me in Wellingtons, and
latterly in shoes. My little Erskine
was in pawn; while my tailor and my
landlady threw out unmistakable and
ominous hints regarding their long
bills and longer credit. I dared not
understand them, but consoled myself
with the thought, that the day would
come when my tailor would cease his
dunning, and my landlady her clamour.</p>

<p class='c008'>I had gone the different circuits, worn
and torn my gown, seated myself in
awful contemplation on the side
benches, maintained angry argument
on legal points with some more favoured
brother, within earshot of a wily
writer. In fine, I had resorted to
every means that fancy could suggest,
or experience dictate; but as yet my
eyes had not seen, nor my pocket felt—a
Fee. Alas! this was denied. I
might be said to be, as yet, no barrister:
for what is a lawyer without a
fee? A nonentity! a shadow! To
my grief, I seemed to be fast verging
to the latter; and I doubt much
whether the “Anatomie vivant” could
have stood the comparison—so much
had my feeless fast fed on my flesh!</p>

<p class='c008'>I cannot divine the reason for this
neglect of my legal services. In my
own heart, I had vainly imagined the
sufficiency of my tact and subtlety in
unravelling a nice point; neither had
I been wanting in attention to my
studies; for Heaven and my landlady
can bear witness, that my consumption
of coal and candle would have sufficed
any two ordinary readers. There was
not a book or treatise on law which I
had not dived into. I was insatiable
in literature; but the world and the
writers seemed ignorant of my brain
be-labouring system, and sedulously
determined that my <em>fee-ling</em> propensities
should not be gratified.</p>

<p class='c008'>Never did I meet an agent either in
or out of Court, but my heart and hand
felt a pleasing glow of hope and of joy
at the prospect of pocketing a fee; but
how often have they turned their backs
without even the mortifying allusion to
such a catastrophe! How often have
I turned round in whirling ecstacy as
I felt some seemingly patronising palm
tap gently on my shoulders with such a
tap as writers’ clerks are wont to use;
but oh, ye gods! a grinning wretch
merely asked me how I did, and passed
on!</p>

<p class='c008'>Nor were my non-legal friends more
kind. There was an old gentleman,
who, I knew (for I made it my business
to enquire), had some thoughts of a
law-plea. From him I received an
invitation to dinner. Joyfully, as at
all times, but more so on this occasion,
was the summons obeyed. I had laid
a train to introduce the subject of his
wrongs at a time which might <em>suit</em> best,
and with this plan I commenced my
machinations. The old fox was too
cunning even for me; he too had his
plot, and had hit upon the expedient of
obtaining my opinion without a fee—the
skinflint! Long and doubtful was
the contest; hint succeeded hint, question
after question was put, till at last
my entertainer was victorious, and I
retired crestfallen and feeless from the
field! By the soul of Erskine, had it
not been for his dinners, I should have
cut him for ever! Still I grubbed with
this one, cultivated an acquaintance
with that, but all to no purpose; no
one pitied my position. My torments
were those of the lost! Hope (not the
President) alone buoyed me up; visions
of future sovereigns, numerous as those
which appeared to Banquo of old, but
of a better and more useful kind, flitted
before my charmed imagination. Pride,
poverty, and starvation pushed me on.
What! said I, shall it be hinted that I
am likely neither to have a fee nor a
feed? Tell it not in the First Division;
publish it not in the Outer House! All
my thoughts were riveted to one object—to
one object all my endeavours were
bent, and to accomplish this seemed
the ultimatum of bliss.</p>

<p class='c008'>Often have I looked with envy upon
the more favoured candidates for judicial
fame—those who never return to their
domicile or their dinner, but to find
their tables groaning with briefs! How
different from my case! My case?
What case? I have no case! Not
one fee to work its own desolateness!
Months and months passed on, still
success came not! The hoped-for
event came not; resolution died within
me; I formed serious intentions of
being even with the profession. As the
profession had cut me, I intended to
have cut the profession. In my wants,
I would have robbed, but my hand was
withheld by the thought that the jesters
of the stove might taunt me thus: “He
could not live, so he died, by the law.”
I have often thought that there is a
great similarity between the hangman
and the want of a fee; the one is the
finisher of the law, the other of
lawyers!</p>

<p class='c008'>Pondering on my griefs, with my
feet on the expiring embers of a seacoal
fire, the chair in that swinging
position so much practised and approved
in Yankee-land,—the seat destined for
a clerk occupied by my cat, for I love
everything of the <em>fe-line</em> species,—my
cogitations were disturbed by an application
for admittance at the outer
door. It was not the rat-tat of the
postman, nor the rising and falling
attack of the man of fashion, but a
compound of both, which evidently
bespoke the knockee unaccustomed to
town. I am somewhat curious in
knocks; I admire the true principles
of the art, by which one may distinguish
the peer from the postman—the
dun from the dilettante—the footman
from the furnisher. But there was
something in this knock which baffled
all my skill; yet sweet withal, thrilling
through my heart with a joy unfelt
before. Some spirit must have presided
in the sound, for it seemed to me the
music of the spheres.</p>

<p class='c008'>A short time elapsed, and my landlady
“opened wide the infernal doors.”
Now hope cut capers—(Lazenby, thou
wert not to blame, for of thy delicacies
I dared not even dream!)—now hope
cut capers within me! Heavy footsteps
were heard in the passage, and one of
the lords of the creation marched his
calves into the apartment. With alacrity,
I conveyed my <i><span lang="la">corpus juris</span></i> to
meet him, and, with all civility, I requested
him to be seated. My landlady
with her apron dusted the arm-chair
(I purchased it at a sale of Lord
M——’s <em>effects</em>, not <em>causes</em>,—expecting
to catch inspiration). In this said
chair my man ensconced his clay.</p>

<p class='c008'>I had commenced my survey of his
person, when my eyes were attracted
by a basilisk-like bunch of papers which
the good soul held in his hand. In
ecstasy I gazed—characters were marked
on them which could not be mistaken;
a less keen glance than mine might
have discovered their import. My joy
was now beyond all bounds, testifying
itself by sundry kickings and contortions
of the body. I began to fear the
worthy man might think me mad, and
repent him of his errand; I calmed myself,
and sat down. My guest thrust
into my hands the papers, and then
proceeded to issue letters of open doors
against his dexter pocket. His intentions
were evident; with difficulty could
I restrain myself. For some minutes
he “groped about the vast abyss,” during
which time my agitation increased so
much that I could not have answered
one question, even out of that favourite
chapter of one of our institutional
writers, “On the Institution of Fees.”
But let me describe the man to whom
I owe so much.</p>

<p class='c008'>He was a short, squat, farmer-looking
being, who might have rented some
fifty acres or so. Though stinted in
his growth upwards, Dame Nature
seemed determined to make him
amends by an increase of dimension
in every other direction. His nose
and face spoke volumes—ay, libraries—of
punch and ale; these potations had
also made themselves manifested lower
down, by the magnitude of the <i><span lang="la">belli-gerent</span></i>
powers. There was in his face a
cunning leer, in his figure a knowing
<i><span lang="fr">tournure</span></i>, which was still further heightened
by his dress; this consisted of a
green coat, which gave evident signs of
its utter incapability of ever being identified
with Stultz; cords and continuations
encased the lower parts of his
carcase; a belcher his throat; while
the whole was surmounted by a castor
of the most preposterous breadth of
brim, and shallow capacity. But in
this man’s appearance there was something
that pleased me; something of a
nature superior to other mortals. I
might have been prejudiced, but his
face and figure seemed to me more
beautiful than morning.</p>

<p class='c008'>Never did I gaze with a more complacent
benevolence on a breeches-pocket.
At last he succeeded in dragging
from its depths a huge old stocking,
through which “the yellow-lettered
Geordie’s keeked.” With what raptures
did I look on that old stocking,
the produce, I presumed, of the stocking
of his farm. It seemed to possess
the power of fascination, for my eyes
could not quit it. Even when my
client (for now I calculated upon him)
began to speak, my attention still
wandered to the stocking. He told
me of a dispute with his landlord
about some matters relating to his farm,
that he was wronged, and would have
the law of the laird, though he should
spend his last shilling (here I looked
with increased raptures at the stocking).
On the recommendation of the minister
(good man!), he had sought me for
advice. He then opened wide the
jaws of his homely purse—he inserted
his paw—now my heart beat—he made
a jingling noise—my heart beat quicker
still—he pulled forth his two interesting
fingers—oh, ecstasy! he pressed five
guineas into my extended hand—they
touched the virgin palm, and oh, ye
gods! I was <span class='sc'>Fee’d</span>!!!—<cite>Edinburgh
Literary Journal.</cite></p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='the_kirk_of_tullibody' class='c006'>THE KIRK OF TULLIBODY.</h2>
</div>

<p class='c007'>The parish of Tullibody, in Clackmannanshire,
now united with Alloa,
was, before the Reformation, an independent
ecclesiastical district. The
manner in which it lost its separate
character is curious. In the year 1559,
when Monsieur D’Oysel commanded
the French troops on the coast of Fife,
they were alarmed by the arrival of the
English fleet, and thought of nothing
but a hasty retreat. It was in the
month of January, and at the breaking
of a great storm. William Kirkaldy of
Grange, commander of the congregational
forces, attentive to the circumstances
in which his enemies were
caught, took advantage of this situation,
and marched with great expedition towards
Stirling, and cut the bridge of
Tullibody, which was over the Devon,
to prevent their retreat. By this
manœuvre, the French found themselves
completely enclosed. They were
driven to an extremity which obliged
them to resort to an extraordinary expedient
to effect their escape. They
lifted the roof off the church of Tullibody,
and laid it along the broken part
of the bridge, by which means they
effected a safe retreat to Stirling.</p>

<p class='c008'>Such a dilapidation of the church
caused the Tullibodians to proceed to
the adjacent kirk of Alloa, and in a
short time the parish ceased to be independent.
The burying-ground round
the ancient place of worship, now repaired,
still remains; and on the north
side of it, where there had been formerly
an entry, there is a stone coffin, with a
niche for the head, and two for the
arms, covered with a thick hollowed
lid like a tureen. The lid is a good
deal broken, but a curious tradition is
preserved of the coffin. It is related
that in early times a young lady of the
neighbourhood had declared her affection
for the minister, who, either from
his station or want of inclination, made
no returns. So vexed was the lady
on perceiving his indifference, that, in
a short while, she sickened, and at
last died of grief. While on her deathbed,
she left it as her last request, that
she should not be buried in the earth,
but that her body should be placed in
a stone coffin, and laid at the entry to
the church; which was done, and to
this day, the stone retains the name of
the “Maiden’s Stone.”—<cite>Chambers’
Edinburgh Journal</cite>, 1832.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='the_progress_of_inconstancy' class='c006'>THE PROGRESS OF INCONSTANCY;<br> <span class='large'><em>OR</em>, <em>THE SCOTS TUTOR</em></span>.</h2>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c016'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“Sweet, tender sex! with snares encompassed round,</div>
      <div class='line'>On others hang thy comforts and thy rest.”—<span class='sc'>Hogg.</span></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>Nature has made woman weak, that
she might receive with gratitude the
protection of man. Yet how often is
this appointment perverted! How
often does her protector become her
oppressor! Even custom seems leagued
against her. Born with the tenderest
feelings, her whole life is commonly a
struggle to suppress them. Placed in
the most favourable circumstances, her
choice is confined to a few objects;
and unless where singularly fortunate,
her fondest partialities are only a modification
of gratitude. She may reject,
but cannot invite: may tell what
would make her wretched, but dare
not even whisper what would make her
happy; and, in a word, exercises merely
a negative influence upon the most important
event of her life. Man has
leisure to look around him, and may
marry at any age, with almost equal
advantage; but woman must improve
the fleeting moment, and determine
quickly, at the hazard of determining
rashly. The spring-time of her beauty
will not last; its wane will be the signal
for the flight of her lovers; and if the
present opportunity is neglected, she
may be left to experience the only
species of misfortune for which the
world evinces no sympathy. How
cruel, then, to increase the misery of
her natural dependence! How ungenerous
to add treachery to strength,
and deceive or disappoint those whose
highest ambition is our favour, and
whose only safety is our honesty!</p>

<p class='c008'>William Arbuthnot was born in a
remote county of Scotland, where his
father rented a few acres of land, which
his own industry had reclaimed from
the greatest wildness to a state of considerable
fertility. Having given, even
in his first attempts at learning, those
indications of a retentive memory,
which the partiality of a parent easily
construes into a proof of genius, he was
early destined for the Scottish Church,
and regarded as a philosopher before
he had emerged from the nursery.
While his father pleased himself with
the prospect of seeing his name associated
with the future greatness of his
son, his mother, whose ambition took
a narrower range, thought she could
die contented if she should see him
seated in the pulpit of his native church;
and perhaps, from a pardonable piece
of vanity, speculated as frequently upon
the effect his appearance would have
upon the hearts of the neighbouring
daughters, as his discourses upon the
minds of their mothers. This practice,
so common among the poorer classes
in Scotland, of making one of their
children a scholar, to the prejudice, as
is alleged, of the rest, has been often
remarked, and sometimes severely censured.
But probably the objections
that have been urged against it, derive
their chief force from the exaggerations
upon which they are commonly founded.
It is not in general true that parents,
by bestowing the rudiments of a liberal
education upon one of the family,
materially injure the condition or prospects
of the rest. For it must be remembered
that the plebeian student is
soon left to trust to his own exertions
for support, and, like the monitor of a
Lancastrian seminary, unites the characters
of pupil and master, and teaches
and is taught by turns.</p>

<p class='c008'>But to proceed with our little narrative.
The parish schoolmaster having
intimated to the parents of his pupil,
that the period was at hand when he
should be sent to prosecute his studies
at the university, the usual preparations
were made for his journey, and his
departure was fixed for the following
day, when he was to proceed to Edinburgh
under escort of the village carrier
and his black dog Cæsar, two of the
eldest and most intimate of his acquaintance.
Goldsmith’s poetical maxim, that
little things are great to little men, is
universally true; and this was an eventful
day for the family of Belhervie, for
that was the name of the residence of
Mr Arbuthnot. The father was as
profuse of his admonitions as the mother
was of her tears, and had a stranger
beheld the afflicted group, he would
have naturally imagined that they were
bewailing some signal calamity, in place
of welcoming an event to which they had
long looked forward with pleasure. But
the feelings of affectionate regret, occasioned
by this separation, were most
seasonably suspended by the receipt of
a letter from Mr Coventry, a respectable
farmer in the neighbourhood, in
which that gentleman offered to engage
their son for a few years, as a companion
and tutor to his children. This was an
offer which his parents were too prudent
to reject, particularly as it might prove
the means of future patronage as well
as of present emolument. It was therefore
immediately agreed upon, that
William should himself be the bearer
of their letter of acceptance, and proceed
forthwith to his new residence.
On this occasion he was admonished
anew; but the advices were different
from those formerly given, and were
delivered by a different person. His
mother was now the principal speaker;
and, instead of warning him against
the snares that are laid for youth in a
great city, she furnished him with some
rude lessons on the principles of good-breeding,
descending to a number of
particulars too minute to be enumerated
here. William listened to her harangue
with becoming reverence and attention,
and on the following morning, for the
first time, bade farewell to his affectionate
parents.</p>

<p class='c008'>On the afternoon of the same day, he
arrived at Daisybank, where he was
welcomed with the greatest cordiality.
His appearance was genteel and prepossessing,
and it was not long before
his new friends discovered, that the
slight degree of awkwardness which at
first clung to his manners, proceeded more
from bashfulness and embarrassment
than natural rusticity. But as he began
to feel himself at home, this embarrassment
of manner gradually gave place
to an easy but unobtrusive politeness.
Indeed it would not have been easy for
a youth of similar views, at his first
outset in life, to have fallen into more
desirable company. Mr and Mrs
Coventry were proverbial among their
neighbours for the simplicity and purity
of their manners, and they had laboured,
not unsuccessfully, to stamp a similar
character upon the minds of their
children. Their family consisted of
two sons and two daughters, the former
of whom were confided to the care of
William.</p>

<p class='c008'>Mary, the eldest of the four, now in
her sixteenth or seventeenth year, was
in every respect the most interesting
object at Daisybank. To a mind
highly cultivated for her years, she
united many of those personal graces
and attractions which command little
homage in the crowd, but open upon
us in the shade of retirement, and lend
to the domestic circle its most irresistible
charms. In stature she scarcely
reached the middle size. To the beauty
derived from form and colour she had
few pretensions; yet when her fine
blue eyes moistened with a tear at a
tale of distress, or beamed an unaffected
welcome to the stranger or the friend,
he must have been more or less than
man who felt not for her a sentiment
superior to admiration. Hers, in a
word, was the beauty of expression—the
beauty of a mind reflected, in which
the dullest disciple of Lavater could
not for a moment have mistaken her
real character. Her education had
been principally conducted under the
eye of her parents, and might be termed
domestic rather than fashionable. Not
that she was entirely a stranger to
those acquirements which are deemed
indispensable in modern education.
She had visited occasionally the great
metropolis, though, owing to the prudent
solicitude of her parents, her residence
there had been comparatively
short, yet probably long enough to
acquire all its useful or elegant accomplishments,
without any admixture of
its fashionable frivolities.</p>

<p class='c008'>From this hasty portraiture of Miss
Coventry, it will be easily believed that
it was next to impossible for a youth
nearly of the same age, and not dissimilar
in his dispositions, to remain
long insensible to charms that were
gradually maturing before his eyes, and
becoming every day more remarkable.
Fortunately, however, the idea of dependence
attached to his situation, and
a temper naturally diffident determined
him to renounce for ever a hope which
he feared in his present circumstances
would be deemed ungrateful and even
presumptuous. But this was waging
war with nature, a task which he soon
found to be above his strength. He
had now, therefore, to abandon the
hope of victory for the safety of retreat,
and content himself with concealing
those sentiments he found it impossible
to subdue. Yet so deceitful is love,
that even this modest hope was followed
with disappointment. One fine evening
in June, when he was about to
unbend from the duties of the day, and
retire to muse on the amiable Mary, he
encountered the fair wanderer herself,
who was probably returning from a
similar errand. He accosted her in
evident confusion; and, without being
conscious of what he said, invited her
to join him in a walk to a neighbouring
height. His request was complied with
in the same spirit it had been made in,
for embarrassment is often contagious,
particularly the embarrassment arising
from love. On this occasion he intended
to summon up all his powers of
conversation, and yet his companion
had never found him so silent. Some
commonplace compliments to the
beauty of the evening were almost the
only observations which escaped his
lips, and these he uttered more in the
manner of a sleep-walker than a lover.
They soon reached the limit of their
walk, and rested upon an eminence
that commanded the prospect of an
extensive valley below. Day was fast
declining to that point which is termed
twilight, when the whole irrational
creation seem preparing for rest, and
only man dares to intrude upon the
silence of nature. Miss Coventry beheld
the approach of night with some
uneasiness, and dreading to be seen
with William alone, she began to rally
him upon his apparent absence and
confusion, and proposed that they
should immediately return to the house.
At mention of this, William started as
from a dream, and being unable longer
to command his feelings, he candidly
confessed to her the cause of his absence
and dejection. He dwelt with much
emotion upon his own demerit, and
voluntarily accused himself for the presumption
of a hope which he never
meant to have revealed until the nearer
accomplishment of his views had rendered
it less imprudent and romantic.
He declared that he would sooner
submit to any hardship that incur the
displeasure of her excellent parents,
and entreated that, whatever were her
sentiments with regard to the suit he
was so presumptuous as to prefer, she
might assist him in concealing from
them a circumstance which he feared
would be attended with that consequence.
To this tender and affectionate
appeal, the gentle Mary could only
answer with her sighs and blushes.
She often indeed attempted to speak, but
the words as often died upon her lips,
and they had nearly reached home before
she could even whisper an answer
to the reiterated question of her lover.
But she did answer at last; and never
was a monarch more proud of his conquest,
or the homage of tributary
princes, than William was of the
simple fealty of the heart of Mary.</p>

<p class='c008'>In the bosom of this happy family
William now found his hours glide
away so agreeably that he looked forward
with real regret to the termination
of his engagement. His condition
was perhaps one of those in which the
nearest approach is made to perfect
happiness; when the youthful mind,
unseduced by the blandishments of
ambition, confines its regards to a few
favourite objects, and dreads a separation
from them as the greatest of evils.
The contrast between the patriarchal
simplicity of his father’s fireside, and
the comparative elegance of Mr
Coventry’s parlour, for a season
dazzled him with its novelty; while
the ripening graces of Mary threw
around him a fascination which older
and more unsusceptible minds than his
might have found it difficult to resist.
In his domestic establishment Mr
Coventry aimed at nothing beyond
comfort and gentility. William was
therefore treated in every respect as an
equal, and was never banished from
his patron’s table to make room for a
more important guest, or condemned to
hold Lent over a solitary meal, while
the family were celebrating a holiday.</p>

<p class='c008'>All our ideas are relative, and we
estimate every thing by comparison.
Upon this principle, William thought
no female so lovely or amiable as Miss
Coventry, and no residence so delightful
as Daisybank. And he would not
have exchanged his feelings, while
seated on a winter evening amidst his
favourite circle, scanning, for their
amusement, a page of history, or the
columns of a newspaper, while the snugness
and comfort that reigned within
made him forget the storm that pelted
without, for the most delicious paradise
an eastern imagination ever painted.</p>

<p class='c008'>It will thus readily be imagined, that
the saddest day of our tutor’s life was
that on which he parted from this
amiable family. He had here, he
believed, spent the happiest moments
of his existence, and instead of rejoicing
that he had passed through one
stage of his apprenticeship, he dwelt
upon the past with pleasure, and looked
forward to the future with pain.</p>

<p class='c008'>Fortune, however, presented an insuperable
obstacle to his spending his
days in the inaction of private study;
and he knew that he could neither
gain, nor deserved to gain, the object
of his affection, without establishing
himself in life, by pursuing the course
which had been originally chalked out
to him. After, therefore, “pledging
oft to meet again,” he bade adieu to
Daisybank, loaded with the blessings
of the best of parents, and followed
with the prayers of the best of daughters.
He now paid a farewell visit to his
own parents; and, after remaining with
them a few days, he proceeded to Edinburgh,
and for a short period felt his
melancholy relieved, by the thousand
novelties that attract the notice of a
stranger in a great city. But this was
only a temporary relief, and as he had
no friend in whom he could confide,
he soon felt himself solitary in the
midst of thousands. Often, when the
Professor was expatiating upon the force
of the Greek particles, his imagination
was hovering over the abodes he had
forsaken; and frequently it would have
been more difficult for him to have
given an account of the lectures he had
been attending, than to have calculated
the probability of what was passing at
a hundred miles’ distance. But this
absence and dejection at last wore off;
and as he possessed good natural talents,
and had been an industrious student
formerly, he soon distinguished himself
in his classes, and before the usual
period was engaged as a tutor in one
of the best families in Scotland.</p>

<p class='c008'>This event formed another important
era in his life. His prospects were now
flattering; and as vanity did not fail to
exaggerate them, he soon dropped a
considerable portion of his humility,
and began to regard himself as a young
man of merit, to whom fortune was
lavish of her favours. In his leisure
hours he was disposed to mingle much
in society, and, as his manners and
address were easy and engaging, scarcely
a week elapsed that that did not add to
the number of his friends. The affections,
when divided into many channels,
cannot run deep in any, and, probably,
for every new acquaintance whom William
honoured with his esteem, it required
a sacrifice of friendship at the
expense of love, and produced some
abatement of that devotion of soul
which accompanies every true and permanent
attachment. At Daisybank he
had seen a simple favourite of the
graces, but here he beheld the daughters
of wealth and of fashion, surrounded
with all the gloss of art, and soon began
to waver in his attachment, and even
to regard his engagement as little more
than a youthful frolic. Still this temper
of mind was not attained without many
struggles between love and ambition,
honour and interest; nor could he ever
for a moment commune with himself,
without feeling remorse for his inconstancy
and ingratitude. He could not
annihilate the conviction, that Miss
Coventry was as faithful and worthy as
ever, and had she been present to appeal
to his senses, it is probable he might
have been preserved from the crime of
apostasy. But these were fits of reflection
and repentance which repetition
soon deprived of their poignancy. The
world, the seductive world, returned
with all its opiates and charms, to stifle
in his bosom the feelings of honour,
and obliterate every trace of returning
tenderness. After this he became less
punctual in his correspondence with Miss
Coventry, and in place of anticipating
the arrival of her letters, as he was
wont to do, he allowed them to be sent
slowly to his lodgings, opened them
without anxiety, and read them without
interest. Of all this inconstancy, ingratitude,
and neglect, the simple Mary
remained a silent, though not unconcerned
spectator. Kind and generous by
nature, and judging of others by herself,
she framed a thousand excuses for
his negligence; and when he did condescend
to write to her, answered him
as though she had been unconscious of
any abatement in his attentions.</p>

<p class='c008'>Matters remained in this uncertain
state for the space of three long years—at
least they seemed long to Miss
Coventry—when William received his
licence as a preacher. He now therefore
thought of redeeming a pledge he
had given to the minister of his native
parish, to make his first public appearance
in his pulpit; and after giving due
intimation, he departed for the parish
of ——, with his best sermon in the
pocket of his best coat. The account
of his visit spread with telegraphic
despatch, long before telegraphs were
invented, and was known over half the
county many days before his arrival.
This was another great and eventful
day for his mother. She blessed Providence
that she had lived to see the
near fulfilment of her most anxious
wish, and rising a little in her ambition,
thought she could now die contented,
if she should see him settled in a living
of his own, and be greeted by her
neighbours with the envied name of
grandmother.—As William was expected
to dine with his parents on his
way to the parsonage, or, as it is
called in Scotland, the manse, of ——,
great preparations were made for his
reception, and for the appearance of the
whole family at church on the following
Sunday. Mrs Arbuthnot drew from
the family-chest her wedding-gown,
which had only seen the sun twice
during thirty summers; and her husband,
for the first time, reluctantly
applied a brush to his holiday suit,
which appeared, from the antiquity of
its fashion, to have descended, like the
garments of the Swiss, through many
successive generations of the Arbuthnots.</p>

<p class='c008'>The little church of H—— was
crowded to the door, perhaps for the
first time, long before the bellman had
given the usual signal. Mr Coventry,
though residing in a different parish,
had made a journey thither with several
of his family, for the purpose of witnessing
the first public appearance of
his friend. In this party was the
amiable Mary, who took a greater interest
in the event than any one, save
the preacher, was aware of.</p>

<p class='c008'>William, on this occasion, recited a
well written discourse with ease and
fluency, and impressed his audience
with a high opinion of his talents and
piety. Some of the elder of them,
indeed, objected to his gestures and
pronunciation, which they thought
“new fangled” and theatrical; but
they all agreed in thinking him a
clever lad, and a great honour to his
parents. His mother was now overwhelmed
with compliments and congratulations
from all quarters, which
she received with visible marks of pride
and emotion. Mr Coventry waited in
the churchyard till the congregation
had retired, to salute his friend, and
invite him to spend a few days at
Daisybank. Mary, who hung on her
father’s arm, curtsied, blushed, and
looked down. She had no well-turned
compliment to offer on the occasion,
but her eyes expressed something at
parting, which once would have been
sweeter to his soul than the applause
of all the world beside.</p>

<p class='c008'>Ambition, from the beginning, has
been the bane of love. War and peace
are not more opposite in their nature
and effects than those rival passions,
and the bosom that is agitated with the
cares of the one has little relish for the
gentle joys of the other. William beheld
in the person of Miss Coventry
all he had been taught to regard as
amiable or estimable in woman; but
the recollection of the respect that had
been shown him by females of distinction,
mixed with exaggerated notions
of his own merit, made him undervalue
those simple unobtrusive graces he once
valued so highly, and think almost any
conquest easy after he had been settled
in the rich living of B——,
which had been promised him by his
patron.</p>

<p class='c008'>On the following day he paid a visit
to Daisybank, and received the most
cordial welcome from a family who
sympathised almost equally with his
parents in his prospects and advancement.
During his stay there, he had
frequent opportunities of seeing Miss
Coventry alone, but he neglected, or
rather avoided them all; and when
rallied on the subject of marriage, declaimed
on the pleasures of celibacy, and
hinted, with a good deal of insincerity,
his intention of living single. Although
these speeches were like daggers to the
mind of her who regretted she could
not rival him in inconstancy and indifference,
they produced no visible
alteration in her behaviour. Hers was
not one of those minds in which vanity
predominates over every other feeling,
and where disappointment is commonly
relieved by the hatred or resentment
which it excites. Her soul was soft as
the passion that enslaved it, and the
traces of early affection are not easily
effaced from a mind into which the
darker passions have never entered.</p>

<p class='c008'>William bade adieu to Miss Coventry
without dropping one word upon
which she could rear the superstructure
of hope, and carried with him her peace
of mind, as he had formerly carried with
him her affections. From that hour she
became pensive and melancholy, in spite
of all her efforts to appear cheerful and
happy. She had rejected many lovers
for the inconstant’s sake, but that gave
her no concern. Her union with him
had been long the favourite object of
her life, and she could have patiently
resigned existence, now that its object
was lost. But she shuddered at the
thought of the shock it would give her
affectionate parents, for the softer feelings
of our nature are all of one family,
and the tenderest wives have ever been
the most dutiful daughters.</p>

<p class='c008'>It was impossible for Mary long to
conceal the sorrow which consumed
her. Her fading cheeks and heavy
eyes gave daily indications of what her
lips refused to utter. Her parents
became deeply alarmed at these symptoms
of indisposition, and anxiously
and unceasingly inquired into the cause
of her illness; but her only answer
was, that she felt no pain. The best
physicians were immediately consulted
upon her case, who recommended
change of air and company; but all
these remedies were tried without effect.
The poison of disappointment had taken
deep root in her heart, and defied the
power of medicine.</p>

<p class='c008'>Her attendants, when they found all
their prescriptions ineffectual, began to
ascribe her malady to its real cause,
and hinted to her parents their apprehensions
that she had been crossed in
love. The good people, though greatly
surprised at the suggestion, had too
much prudence to treat it with indifference,
and they left no means untried,
consistent with a regard for the feelings
of their child, to wile from her the important
secret. At first she endeavoured
to evade their inquiries; but finding it
impossible to allay their apprehensions
without having recourse to dissimulation,
she confessed to her mother her
attachment to William, concealing only
the promises he had made to her, and
every circumstance that imputed to him
the slightest degree of blame. At the
same time she entreated them, with the
greatest earnestness, that no use might
be made of a secret which she wished
to have carried with her to the grave.
This was a hard task imposed upon her
parents. They felt equally with herself
the extreme delicacy of making the
disclosure; but, on the other hand,
they contemplated nothing but the probable
loss of their child; an event, the
bare apprehension of which filled their
minds with the bitterest anguish. After
many anxious consultations, Mr Coventry
determined, unknown to any but
his wife, to pay a visit to William, and
ascertain his sentiments with regard to
his daughter.</p>

<p class='c008'>Upon his arrival at Edinburgh, he
found that his friend had departed for
the manse of B——, with which he had
been recently presented. This event,
which in other circumstances would
have given him the liveliest pleasure,
awakened on this occasion emotions of
a contrary nature, as he feared it would
make his now reverend friend more
elevated in his notions, and consequently
more averse to a union with his
daughter. He did not, however, on
that account conceal the real object of
his journey, or endeavour to accomplish
his purpose by stratagem or deceit.
He candidly disclosed his daughter’s
situation and sentiments, requesting of
his friend that he would open to him
his mind with equal candour; and
added, that although he held wealth to
be an improper motive in marriage,
and hoped that his daughter did not
require such a recommendation, in the
event of this union, whatever he possessed
would be liberally shared with
him.</p>

<p class='c008'>On hearing of the situation of Miss
Coventry, William became penetrated
with the deepest remorse; and being
aware that his affection for her was rather
stifled than estranged, he declared his
willingness to make her his wife. These
words operated like a charm upon the
drooping spirits of the father, who
embraced his friend with ardour, and
besought him immediately to accompany
him home, that they might lose
no time in making a communication,
which he fondly hoped would have a
similar effect upon the spirits of his
daughter.</p>

<p class='c008'>They departed accordingly together,
indulging in the pleasing hope that all
would yet be well; but on their arrival
at Daisybank, they were seriously
alarmed to hear that Miss Coventry
had been considerably worse since her
father left home. She was now entirely
confined to her chamber, and seemed
to care for nothing so much as solitude,
and an exemption from the trouble of
talking. As soon as she was informed
of the arrival of their visitor, she suspected
he had been sent for, and therefore
refused to see him; but upon being
assured by her mother, who found
deceit in this instance indispensable,
that his visit was voluntary and accidental,
she at last consented to give
him an interview.</p>

<p class='c008'>On entering the room, which had
formerly been the family parlour, William
was forcibly struck with the contrast
it exhibited. Every object seemed
to swim before his sight, and it was
some moments before he discovered
Miss Coventry, who reclined upon a
sofa at the farther end of the room.
He advanced with a beating heart, and
grasped the burning hand that was
extended to meet him. He pressed it
to his lips and wept, and muttered
something incoherent of forgiveness and
love. He looked doubtingly on Mary’s
face for an answer,—but her eye darted
no reproach, and her lips uttered no
reflection. A faint blush, that at this
moment overspread her cheek, seemed
a token of returning strength, and
inspired him with confidence and hope.
It was the last effort of nature,—and ere
the blood could return to its fountain, that
fountain had closed for ever. Death
approached his victim under the disguise
of sleep, and appeared divested
of his usual pains and terrors.</p>

<p class='c008'>William retired from this scene of
unutterable anguish, and for a long
period was overwhelmed with the deepest
melancholy and remorse. But time
gradually softened and subdued his sorrow,
and I trust perfected his repentance.
He is since married and wealthy,
and is regarded by the world as an
individual eminently respectable and
happy. But, amidst all his comforts,
there are moments when he would
exchange his identity with the meanest
slave that breathes, and regards himself
as the murderer of Mary Coventry.—<cite>J.
M‘D., in Blackwood’s Magazine</cite>,
1817.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='adam_bell' class='c006'>ADAM BELL.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By James Hogg, the “Ettrick Shepherd.”</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>This tale, which may be depended
on as in every part true, is singular, from
the circumstance of its being insolvable,
either from the facts that have been
discovered relating to it, or by reason;
for though events sometimes occur
among mankind, which at the time
seem inexplicable, yet there being
always some individuals acquainted
with the primary causes of these events,
they seldom fail of being brought to
light before all the actors in them, or
their confidants, are removed from this
state of existence. But the causes
which produced the events here related
have never been accounted for in this
world; even conjecture is left to wander
in a labyrinth, unable to get hold of the
thread that leads to the catastrophe.</p>

<p class='c008'>Mr Bell was a gentleman of Annandale,
in Dumfriesshire, in the south of
Scotland, and proprietor of a considerable
estate in that district, part of which he
occupied himself. He lost his father
when he was an infant, and his mother
dying when he was about 20 years of
age, left him the sole proprietor of the
estate, besides a large sum of money at
interest, for which he was indebted, in
a great measure, to his mother’s parsimony
during his minority. His person
was tall, comely, and athletic, and his
whole delight was in warlike and violent
exercises. He was the best horseman
and marksman in the county, and
valued himself particularly upon his
skill in the broad sword. Of this he
often boasted aloud, and regretted that
there was not one in the county whose
skill was in some degree equal to his
own.</p>

<p class='c008'>In the autumn of 1745, after being
for several days busily and silently employed
in preparing for his journey, he
left his own house, and went to Edinburgh,
giving at the same time such
directions to his servants as indicated
his intention of being absent for some
time.</p>

<p class='c008'>A few days after he had left his
home, one morning, while his housekeeper
was putting the house in order
for the day, her master, as she thought,
entered by the kitchen door, the other
being bolted, and passed her in the
middle of the floor. He was buttoned
in his greatcoat, which was the same
he had on when he went from home;
he likewise had the same hat on his
head, and the same whip in his hand
which he took with him. At sight of
him she uttered a shriek, but recovering
her surprise, instantly said to him,
“You have not stayed so long from us,
Sir.” He made no reply, but went
sullenly into his own room, without
throwing off his greatcoat. After a
pause of about five minutes, she followed
him into the room. He was standing
at his desk with his back towards her.
She asked him if he wished to have a
fire kindled, and afterwards if he was
well enough; but he still made no
reply to any of these questions. She
was astonished, and returned into the
kitchen. After tarrying about other
five minutes, he went out at the front
door, it being then open, and walked
deliberately towards the bank of the
river Kinnel, which was deep and
wooded, and in that he vanished from
her sight. The woman ran out in the
utmost consternation to acquaint the
men who were servants belonging to
the house; and coming to one of the
ploughmen, she told him that their
master was come home, and had certainly
lost his reason, for that he was
wandering about the house and would
not speak. The man loosed his horses
from the plough and came home,
listened to the woman’s relation, made
her repeat it again and again, and then
assured her that she was raving, for
their master’s horse was not in the
stable, and of course he could not be
come home. However, as she persisted
in her asseveration with every appearance
of sincerity, he went into the linn to
see what was become of his mysterious
master. He was neither to be seen
nor heard of in all the country. It
was then concluded that the housekeeper
had seen an apparition, and
that something had befallen their
master; but on consulting with some
old people, skilled in those matters,
they learned that when a “wraith,” or
apparition of a living person, appeared
while the sun was up, instead of being
a prelude of instant death, it prognosticated
very long life; and, moreover,
that it could not possibly be a ghost
that she had seen, for they always chose
the night season for making their visits.
In short, though it was the general
topic of conversation among the servants
and the people in the vicinity, no
reasonable conclusion could be formed
on the subject.</p>

<p class='c008'>The most probable conjecture was,
that as Mr Bell was known to be so
fond of arms, and had left his home on
the very day that Prince Charles Stuart
and his Highlanders defeated General
Hawley on Falkirk Muir, he had gone
either with him or the Duke of Cumberland
to the north. It was, however,
afterwards ascertained, that he had never
joined any of the armies. Week passed
after week, and month after month, but
no word of Mr Bell. A female cousin
was his nearest living relation; her
husband took the management of his
affairs; and concluding that he had
either joined the army, or drowned
himself in the Kinnel, when he was
seen go into the linn, made no more
inquiries after him.</p>

<p class='c008'>About this very time, a respectable
farmer, whose surname was M‘Millan,
and who resided in the neighbourhood
of Musselburgh, happened to be in
Edinburgh about some business. In
the evening he called upon a friend
who lived near Holyrood-house; and
being seized with an indisposition, they
persuaded him to tarry with them all
night. About the middle of the night
he grew exceedingly ill, and not being
able to find any rest or ease in his bed,
imagined he would be the better of a
walk. He put on his clothes, and, that
he might not disturb the family, slipped
quietly out at the back door, and walked
in St Anthony’s garden behind the
house. The moon shone so bright,
that it was almost as light as noonday,
and he had scarcely taken a single turn,
when he saw a tall man enter from the
other side, buttoned in a drab-coloured
greatcoat. It so happened, that at
that time M‘Millan stood in the shadow
of the wall, and perceiving that the
stranger did not observe him, a thought
struck him that it would not be amiss to
keep himself concealed, that he might
see what the man was going to be about.
He walked backwards and forwards for
some time in apparent impatience, looking
at his watch every minute, until at
length another man came in by the
same way, buttoned likewise in a greatcoat,
and having a bonnet on his head.
He was remarkably stout made, but
considerably lower in stature than the
other. They exchanged only a single
word; then turning both about, they
threw off their coats, drew their swords,
and began a most desperate and well-contested
combat.</p>

<p class='c008'>The tall gentleman appeared to have
the advantage. He constantly gained
ground on the other, and drove him
half round the division of the garden in
which they fought. Each of them
strove to fight with his back towards
the moon, so that it might shine full
in the face of his opponent; and many
rapid wheels were made for the purpose
of gaining this position. The engagement
was long and obstinate, and by
the desperate thrusts that were frequently
aimed on both sides, it was
evident that they meant one another’s
destruction. They came at length
within a few yards of the place where
M‘Millan still stood concealed. They
were both out of breath, and at that
instant a small cloud chancing to overshadow
the moon, one of them called
out, “Hold, we cannot see.” They
uncovered their heads, wiped their
faces, and as soon as the moon emerged
from the cloud, each resumed his guard.
Surely that was an awful pause! And
short, indeed, was the stage between
it and eternity with the one! The tall
gentleman made a lounge at the other,
who parried and returned it; and as the
former sprung back to avoid the thrust,
his foot slipped, and he stumbled forward
towards his antagonist, who dexterously
met his breast in the fall with
the point of his sword, and ran him
through the body. He made only
one feeble convulsive struggle, as if
attempting to rise, and expired almost
instantaneously.</p>

<p class='c008'>M‘Millan was petrified with horror;
but conceiving himself to be in a perilous
situation, having stolen out of the house
at that dead hour of the night, he had
so much presence of mind as to hold
his peace, and to keep from interfering
in the smallest degree.</p>

<p class='c008'>The surviving combatant wiped his
sword with great composure;—put on
his bonnet, covered the body with one
of the greatcoats, took up the other,
and departed. M‘Millan returned
quietly to his chamber without awakening
any of the family. His pains were
gone, but his mind was shocked and
exceedingly perturbed; and after deliberating
until morning, he determined
to say nothing of the matter, and to
make no living creature acquainted
with what he had seen, thinking that
suspicion would infallibly rest on him.
Accordingly, he kept his bed next
morning, until his friend brought him
the tidings that a gentleman had been
murdered at the back of the house
during the night. He then arose and
examined the body, which was that of
a young man, seemingly from the country,
having brown hair, and fine manly
features. He had neither letter, book,
nor signature of any kind about him
that could in the least lead to a discovery
of who he was; only a common
silver watch was found in his pocket,
and an elegant sword was clasped in his
cold bloody hand, which had an A.
and B. engraved on the hilt. The
sword had entered at his breast, and
gone out at his back a little below the
left shoulder. He had likewise received
a slight wound on the sword
arm.</p>

<p class='c008'>The body was carried to the dead-room,
where it lay for eight days, and
though great numbers inspected it, yet
none knew who or whence the deceased
was, and he was at length
buried among the strangers in Grayfriars
churchyard.</p>

<p class='c008'>Sixteen years elapsed before M‘Millan
mentioned to any person the circumstance
of his having seen the duel,
but at that period, being in Annandale
receiving some sheep that he had bought,
and chancing to hear of the astonishing
circumstances of Bell’s disappearance,
he divulged the whole. The time, the
description of his person, his clothes,
and above all, the sword with the
initials of his name engraved upon it,
confirmed the fact beyond the smallest
shadow of doubt that it was Mr Bell
whom he had seen killed in the duel
behind the Abbey. But who the person
was that slew him, how the quarrel
commenced, or who it was that appeared
to his housekeeper, remains to this day
a profound secret, and is likely to remain
so, until that day when every deed of
darkness shall be brought to light.</p>

<p class='c008'>Some have even ventured to blame
McMillan for the whole, on account of
his long concealment of facts, and
likewise in consideration of his uncommon
bodily strength and daring disposition,
he being one of the boldest
and most enterprising men of the age
in which he lived; but all who knew
him despised such insinuations, and
declared them to be entirely inconsistent
with his character, which was most
honourable and disinterested; and besides,
his tale has every appearance of
truth. “Pluris est oculatus testis unus
quam auriti decem.”</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='mauns_stane_or_mine_hosts_tale' class='c006'>MAUNS’ STANE; OR, MINE HOST’S TALE.</h2>
</div>

<p class='c007'>In the latter end of the autumn of
——, I set out by myself on an excursion
over the northern part of Scotland;
and, during that time, my chief amusement
was to observe the little changes
of manners, language, &#38;c., in the different
districts. After having viewed, on
my return, the principal curiosities in
Buchan, I made a little alehouse, or
“public,” my head-quarters for the night.
Having discussed my supper in solitude,
I called up mine host to enable
me to discuss my bottle, and to give me
a statistical account of the country
around me. Seated in the “blue” end,
and well supplied with the homely but
satisfying luxuries which the place
afforded, I was in an excellent mood
for enjoying the communicativeness of
my landlord; and, after speaking about
the cave at Slaines, the state of the crop,
and the neighbouring franklins, edged
him, by degrees, to speak about the
Abbey of Deer, an interesting ruin
which I had examined in the course of
the day, formerly the stronghold of the
once powerful family of Cummin.</p>

<p class='c008'>“It’s dootless a bonny place about
the Abbey,” said he, “but naething
like what it was when the great Sir
James the Rose cam to hide i’ the
Buchan woods, wi’ a’ the Grahames
rampagin’ at his tail, whilk you that’s
a beuk learned man ’ill hae read o’;
an’ maybe ye’ll hae heard o’ the saughen
bush where he forgathered wi’ his
joe; or aiblins ye may have seen’t, for
it’s standing yet just at the corner o’
gaukit Jamie Jamieson’s peat-stack. Ay,
ay, the abbey was a brave place ance;
but a’ thing, ye ken, comes till an end.”
So saying, he nodded to me, and
brought his glass to an end.</p>

<p class='c008'>“This place, then, must have been
famed in days of yore, my friend?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ye may tak my word for that,”
said he. “’Od, it <em>was</em> a place! Sic a
sight o’ fechtin’ as they had about it!
But gin ye’ll gang up the trap-stair to
the laft, an’ open Jenny’s kist, ye’ll
see sic a story about it, prented by ane
o’ your learned Aberdeen’s fouk, Maister
Keith, I think; she coft it in Aberdeen
for twal pennies, lang ago, an’ battered
it to the lid o’ her kist. But gang up
the stair canny, for fear that you should
wauken her, puir thing;—or, bide, I’ll
just wauken Jamie Fleep, an’ gar him
help me down wi’t, for our stair’s no
just that canny for them ‘t’s no acquaint
wi’t, let alane a frail man wi’ your
infirmity.”</p>

<p class='c008'>I assured him that I would neither
disturb the young lady’s slumber, nor
Jamie Fleep’s, and begged him to give
me as much information as he could
about this castle.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Weel, wishin’ your gude health
again.—Our minister ance said, that
Soloman’s Temple was a’ in ruins, wi’
whin bushes, an’ broom an’ thristles
growin’ ower the bonny carved wark
an’ the cedar wa’s, just like our ain
Abbey. Noo, I judge that the Abbey
o’ Deer was just the marrow o’t, or the
minister wadna hae said that. But
when it was biggit, Lord kens, for I
dinna. It was just as you see it, lang
afore your honour was born; an’ aiblins,
as the by-word says, may be sae
after ye’re hanged. But that’s neither
here nor there. The Cummins o’
Buchan were a dour and surly race;
and, for a fearfu’ time, nane near han’
nor far awa could ding them, an’ yet
mony a ane tried it. The fouk on their
ain lan’ likit them weel enough; but
the Crawfords, an’ the Grahames, an’
the Mars, an’ the Lovats, were aye trying
to comb them against the hair, an’
mony a weary kempin’ had they wi’
them; but, some way or ither, they
could never ding them; an’ fouk said
that they gaed and learned the black
art frae the Pope o’ Room, wha, I mysel
heard the minister say, had aye a
colleague wi’ the Auld Chiel. I dinna
ken fou it was; in the tail o’ the day,
the hale country rase up against them,
an’ besieged them in the Abbey o’ Deer.
Ye’ll see, my frien’ [by this time mine
host considered me as one of his cronies],
tho’ we ca’ it the Abbey, it had naething
to do wi’ Papistry; na, na, no
sae bad as a’ that either, but just a
noble’s castle, where they keepit sodgers
gaun about in airn an’ scarlet, wi’
their swords an’ guns, an’ begnets, an’
sentry-boxes, like the local militia in
the barracks o’ Aberdeen.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Weel, ye see, they surrounded the
castle, an’ lang did they besiege it;
but there was a vast o’ meat in the
castle, an’ the Buchan fouk fought like
the vera deil. They took their horse
through a miscellaneous passage, half a
mile long, aneath the hill o’ Saplinbrae,
an’ watered them in the burn o’ Pulmer.
But a’ wadna do; they took the castle
at last, and a terrible slaughter they
made amo’ them; but they were sair
disappointed in ae partic’ler, for Cummin’s
fouk sank a’ their goud an’ siller
in a draw-wall, an’ syne filled it up wi’
stanes. They gat naething in the way
of spulzie to speak o’; sae out o’ spite
they dang doon the castle, an’ it’s
never been biggit to this day. But the
Cummins were no sae bad as the Lairds
o’ Federat, after a’.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“And who were these Federats?” I
inquired.</p>

<p class='c008'>“The Lairds o’ Federat?” said he,
moistening his mouth again as a preamble
to his oration. “Troth, frae
their deeds, ane would maist think that
they had a drap o’ the deil’s blude,
like the pyets. Gin a’ tales be true,
they hae the warmest place at his bink
this vera minute. I dinna ken vera
muckle about them, though, but the
auldest fouk said they were just byous
wi’ cruelty. Mony a gude man did they
hing up i’ their ha’, just for their ain
sport; ye’ll see the ring to the fore yet
in the roof o’t. Did ye ever hear o’
Mauns’ Stane, neebour?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Mauns’ what?” said I.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ou, Mauns’ Stane. But it’s no
likely. Ye see it was just a queer
clump o’ a roun’-about heathen, waghtin’
maybe twa tons or thereby. It wasna
like ony o’ the stanes in our countra,
an’ it was as roun’ as a fit-ba’; I’m
sure it wad ding Professor Couplan
himsel to tell what way it cam there.
Noo, fouk aye thought there was something
uncanny about it, an’ some gaed
the length o’ saying, that the deil
used to bake ginshbread upon’t; and,
as sure as ye’re sitting there, frien’,
there was knuckle-marks upon’t, for
my ain father has seen them as aften as
I have taes an’ fingers. Aweel, ye see,
Mauns Crawford, the last o’ the Lairds
o’ Federat, an’ the deil had coost out
(maybe because the Laird was just as
wicked an’ as clever as he was himsel), an’
ye perceive the evil ane wantit to play him
a trick. Noo, Mauns Crawford was ae
day lookin’ ower his castle wa’, and he
saw a stalwart carl, in black claes,
ridin’ up the loanin’. He stopped at this
chuckie o’ a stane, an’, loutin’ himsel,
he took it up in his arms, and lifted it
three times to his saddle-bow, an’ syne
he rade awa out o’ sight, never comin’
near the castle, as Mauns thought he
would hae done. ‘Noo,’ says the
baron till himsel, says he, ‘I didna think
that there was ony ane in a’ the land
that could hae played sic a ploy; but
deil fetch me if I dinna lift it as weel
as he did.’ Sae aff he gaed, for there
was na sic a man for birr in a’ the
countra, an’ he kent it as weel, for he
never met wi’ his match. Weel, he tried,
and tugged, and better than tugged at
the stane, but he coudna mudge it ava;
an’, when he looked about, he saw a
man at his elbuck, a’ smeared wi’
smiddy-coom, snightern’ an’ laughin’ at
him. The Laird d——d him, an’
bade him lift it, whilk he did as gin’t
had been a little pinnin. The Laird
was like to burst wi’ rage at being fickled
by sic a hag-ma-hush carle, and he
took to the stane in a fury, and lifted it
till his knee; but the weight o’t amaist
ground his banes to smash. He held
the stane till his een-strings crackit,
when he was as blin’ as a moudiwort.
He was blin’ till the day o’ his death,—that’s
to say, if ever he died, for there
were queer sayings about it—vera
queer! vera queer! The stane was ca’d
Mauns’ Stane ever after; an’ it was no
thought that canny to be near it after
gloaming; for what says the psalm—hem!—I
mean the sang—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>’Tween Ennetbutts an’ Mauns’ Stane</div>
      <div class='line'>Ilka night there walks ane.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c008'>“There never was a chief of the
family after; the men were scattered,
an’ the castle demolished. The doo
and the hoodie craw nestle i’ their
towers, and the hare maks her form on
their grassy hearthstane.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Is this stone still to be seen?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ou na. Ye see, it was just upon
Johnie Forbes’s craft, an’ fouk cam far
an’ near to leuk at it, an’ trampit down
a’ the puir cottar body’s corn; sae he
houkit a hole just aside it, an’ tumbled
it intil’t: by that means naebody sees’t
noo, but its weel kent that it’s there,
for they’re livin’ yet wha’ve seen it.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“But the well at the Abbey—did no
one feel a desire to enrich himself with
the gold and silver buried there?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Hoot, ay; mony a ane tried to
find out whaur it was, and, for that
matter, I’ve maybe done as foolish a
thing mysel; but nane ever made it
out. There was a scholar, like yoursel,
that gaed ae night down to the Abbey,
an’, ye see, he summoned up the
deil.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“The deuce he did!” said I.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Weel, weel, the <em>deuce</em>, gin ye like it
better,” said he. “An’ he was gaun to
question him where the treasure was,
but he had eneugh to do to get him
laid without deaving him wi’ questions,
for a’ the deils cam about him, like
bees bizzin’ out o’ a byke. He never
coured the fright he gat, but cried out,
‘Help! help!’ till his very enemy wad
hae been wae to see him; and sae he
cried till he died, which was no that
lang after. Fouk sudna meddle wi’ sic
ploys!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Most wonderful! And do you believe
that Beelzebub actually appeared
to him?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Believe it! What for no?” said he,
consequentially tapping the lid of his
snuff-horn. “Didna my ain father see
the evil ane i’ the schule o’ Auld
Deer?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Indeed!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Weel I wot he did that. A wheen
idle callants, when the dominie was
out at his twal-hours, read the Lord’s
Prayer backlans, an’ raised him, but
coudna lay him again; for he threepit
ower them that he wadna gang awa
unless he gat ane o’ them wi’ him. Ye
may be sure this put them in an awfu’
swither. They were a’ squallin’, an’
crawlin’, and sprawlin’ amo’ the couples
to get out o’ his grips. Ane o’ them
gat out an’ tauld the maister about it;
an’ when he cam down, the melted
lead was rinnin’ aff the roof o’ the
house wi’ the heat; sae, flingin’ to the
Black Thief a young bit kittlen o’ the
schule-mistress’s, he sank through the
floor wi’ an awsome roar. I mysel
have heard the mistress misca’in’ her
man about offering up the puir thing,
baith saul and body, to Baal. But,
troth, I’m no clear to speak o’ the like
o’ this at sic a time o’ night; sae, if
your honour be na for anither jug, I’ll
e’en wus you a gude night, for its wearin’
late, an’ I maun awa’ to Skippyfair i’
the mornin’.”</p>

<p class='c008'>I assented to this, and quickly lost in
sleep the remembrance of all these
tales of the olden time.—<cite>Aberdeen
Censor</cite>, 1825.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='the_freebooter_of_lochaber' class='c006'>THE FREEBOOTER OF LOCHABER.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By Sir Thomas Dick Lauder.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>Towards the end of the seventeenth
century, there lived a certain notorious
freebooter, in the county of Moray, a
native of Lochaber, of the name of
Cameron, but who was better known
by his cognomen of <em>Padrig Mac-an-Ts’agairt</em>,
which signifies, “Peter, the
Priest’s Son.” Numerous were the
“creachs,” or robberies of cattle on a
great scale, driven by him from Strathspey.
But he did not confine his depredations
to that country; for, some time
between the years 1690 and 1695, he
made a clean sweep of the cattle from
the rich pastures of the Aird, the territory
of the Frasers. That he might
put his pursuers on a wrong scent, he
did not go directly towards Lochaber,
but, crossing the river Ness at Lochend,
he struck over the mountains of Strathnairn
and Strathdearn, and ultimately
encamped behind a hill above Duthel,
called, from a copious spring on its
summit, <em>Cairn-an-Sh’uaran</em>, or the
Well Hill. But, notwithstanding all
his precautions, the celebrated Simon
Lord Lovat, then chief of the Frasers,
discovered his track, and despatched a
special messenger to his father-in-law,
Sir Ludovick Grant of Grant, begging
his aid in apprehending Mac-an-Ts’agairt,
and recovering the cattle.</p>

<p class='c008'>It so happened that there lived at
this time, on the laird of Grant’s
ground, a man also called Cameron,
surnamed Mugach More, of great
strength and undaunted courage; he
had six sons and a stepson, whom his
wife, formerly a woman of light character,
had before her marriage with
Mugach, and, as they were all brave,
Sir Ludovick applied to them to undertake
the recapture of the cattle. Sir
Ludovic was not mistaken in the man.
The Mugach no sooner received his
orders, than he armed himself and his
little band, and went in quest of the
freebooter, whom he found in the act
of cooking a dinner from part of the
spoil. The Mugach called on Padrig
and his men to surrender, and they,
though numerous, dreading the well-known
prowess of their adversary, fled
to the opposite hills, their chief threatening
bloody vengeance as he went.
The Mugach drove the cattle to a place
of safety, and watched them till their
owners came to recover them.</p>

<p class='c008'>Padrig did not utter his threats without
the fullest intention of carrying
them into effect. In the latter end of
the following spring, he visited Strathspey
with a strong party, and waylaid
the Mugach, as he and his sons were
returning from working at a small patch
of land he had on the brow of a hill,
about half-a-mile above his house.
Padrig and his party concealed themselves
in a thick covert of underwood,
through which they knew that the
Mugach and his sons must pass; but
seeing their intended victims well-armed,
the cowardly assassins lay still
in their hiding-place, and allowed them
to pass, with the intention of taking a
more favourable opportunity for their
purpose. That very night they surprised
and murdered two of the sons,
who, being married, lived in separate
houses, at some distance from their
father’s; and, having thus executed so
much of their diabolical purpose, they
surrounded the Mugach’s cottage.</p>

<p class='c008'>No sooner was his dwelling attacked,
than the brave Mugach, immediately
guessing who the assailants were, made
the best arrangements for defence that
time and circumstances permitted. The
door was the first point attempted; but
it was strong, and he and his four sons
placed themselves behind it, determined
to do bloody execution the moment it
should be forced. Whilst thus engaged,
the Mugach was startled by a noise
above the rafters, and, looking up, he
perceived, in the obscurity, the figure
of a man half through a hole in the
wattled roof. Eager to despatch his
foe as he entered, he sprang upon a
table, plunged his sword into his body,
and down fell—his stepson, whom he
had ever loved and cherished as one of
his own children! The youth had been
cutting his way through the roof, with
the intention of attacking Padrig from
above, and so creating a diversion in
favour of those who were defending the
door. The brave young man lived no
longer than to say, “Dear father, I fear
you have killed me!”</p>

<p class='c008'>For a moment the Mugach stood petrified
with horror and grief, but rage soon
usurped the place of both. “Let me
open the door!” he cried, “and revenge
his death, by drenching my sword in the
blood of the villain!” His sons clung
around him, to prevent what they conceived
to be madness, and a strong
struggle ensued between desperate bravery
and filial duty; whilst the Mugach’s
wife stood gazing on the corpse of her
first-born son, in an agony of contending
passions, being ignorant from all she
had witnessed but that the young man’s
death had been wilfully wrought by her
husband. “Hast thou forgotten our
former days?” cried the wily Padrig,
who saw the whole scene through a
crevice in the door. “How often hast
thou undone thy door to me, and wilt
thou not open it now, to give me way
to punish him who has, but this moment,
so foully slain thy beloved son?”
Ancient recollections, and present affliction,
conspired to twist her to his purpose.
The struggle and altercation between
the Mugach and his sons still
continued. A frenzy seized on the unhappy
woman; she flew to the door,
undid the bolt, and Padrig and his
assassins rushed in.</p>

<p class='c008'>The infuriated Mugach no sooner
beheld his enemy enter, than he sprang
at him like a tiger, grasped him by the
throat, and dashed him to the ground.
Already was his vigorous sword-arm
drawn back, and his broad claymore was
about to find a passage to the traitor’s
heart, when his faithless wife, coming
behind him, threw over it a large canvas
winnowing-sheet, and, before he could
extricate the blade from the numerous
folds, Padrig’s weapon was reeking in
the best heart’s-blood of the bravest
Highlander that Strathspey could boast
of. His four sons, who had witnessed
their mother’s treachery, were paralyzed.
The unfortunate woman herself,
too, stood stupified and appalled.
But she was quickly recalled to her
senses by the active clash of the swords
of Padrig and his men. “Oh, my sons,
my sons!” she cried; “spare my
boys!” But the tempter needed her
services no longer,—she had done his
work. She was spurned to the ground
and trampled under foot by those who
soon strewed the bloody floor around
her with the lifeless corpses of her
brave sons.</p>

<p class='c008'>Exulting in the full success of this
expedition of vengeance, Mac-an-Ts’agairt
beheaded the bodies, and piled
the heads in a heap on an oblong hill
that runs parallel to the road on the
east side of Carr Bridge, from which it
is called <em>Tom-nan-Cean</em>, the Hill of the
Heads. Scarcely was he beyond the reach
of danger, than his butchery was known
at the Castle Grant, and Sir Ludovick
immediately offered a great reward for
his apprehension; but Padrig, who had
anticipated some such thing, fled to
Ireland, where he remained for seven
years. But the restlessness of the murderer
is well known, and Padrig felt it
in all its horrors. Leaving his Irish
retreat, he returned to Lochaber. By
a strange accident, a certain Mungo
Grant, of Muckrach, having had his
cattle and horses carried away by some
thieves from that quarter, pursued them
hot foot, recovered them, and was on
his way returning with them, when, to
his astonishment, he met Padrig Mac-an-Ts’agairt,
quite alone in a narrow pass,
on the borders of his native country.
Mungo instantly seized and made a prisoner
of him. But his progress with his
beasts was tedious; and as he was entering
Strathspey at <em>Lag-na-caillich</em>,
about a mile to the westward of Aviemore,
he espied twelve desperate men,
who, taking advantage of his slow
march, had crossed the hills to gain the
pass before him, for the purpose of
rescuing Padrig. But Mungo was not
to be daunted. Seeing them occupying
the road in his front, he grasped his
prisoner with one hand, and brandishing
his dirk with the other, he advanced
in the midst of his people and animals,
swearing potently that the first motion
at an attempt at rescue by any one of
them should be the signal for his dirk
to drink the life’s-blood of Padrig Mac-an-Ts’agairt.
They were so intimidated
by his boldness that they allowed him
to pass without assault, and left their
friend to his fate. Padrig was forthwith
carried to Castle Grant. But the
remembrance of the Mugach’s murder
had been by this time much obliterated
by many events little less strange, and
the laird, unwilling to be troubled with
the matter, ordered Mungo and his
prisoner away.</p>

<p class='c008'>Disappointed and mortified, Mungo
and his party were returning with their
captive, discussing, as they went, what
they had best do with him. “A fine
reward we have had for all our trouble!”
said one. “The laird may catch the
next thief her nainsel, for Donald!” said
another. “Let’s turn him loose!” said
a third. “Ay, ay,” said a fourth;
“what for wud we be plaguing oursels
more wi’ him?” “Yes, yes! brave,
generous men!” said Padrig, roused by
a sudden hope of life from the moody
dream of the gallows-tree in which he
had been plunged, whilst he was courting
his mournful muse to compose his
own lament, that he might die with an
effect striking, as all the events of his
life had been. “Yes, brave men, free
me from these bonds! It is unworthy
of Strathspey men,—it is unworthy of
Grants to triumph over a fallen foe!
Those whom I killed were no clansmen
of yours, but recreant Camerons, who
betrayed a Cameron! Let me go free,
and that reward of which you have
been disappointed shall be quadrupled
for sparing my life.” Such words as
these, operating on minds so much prepared
to receive them favourably, had
well-nigh worked their purpose. But
“No!” said Muckrach sternly, “it
shall never be said that a murderer
escaped from my hands. Besides, it
was just so that he fairly spake the
Mugach’s false wife. But did he spare
her sons on that account? If ye let
him go, my men, the fate of the
Mugach may be ours; for what
bravery can stand against treachery and
assassination?” This opened an entirely
new view of the question to Padrig’s
rude guards, and the result of the
conference was that they resolved to
take him to Inverness, and to deliver
him up to the sheriff.</p>

<p class='c008'>As they were pursuing their way up
the south side of the river Dulnan, the
hill of <em>Tom-nan-Cean</em> appeared on that
opposite to them. At sight of it the
whole circumstances of Padrig’s atrocious
deed came fresh in to their minds.
It seemed to cry on them for justice,
and with one impulse they shouted
out, “Let him die on the spot where
he did the bloody act!” Without a
moment’s farther delay, they determined
to execute their new resolution. But
on their way across the plain, they
happened to observe a large fir tree,
with a thick horizontal branch growing
at right angles from the trunk, and of a
sufficient height from the ground to
suit their purpose; and doubting if they
might find so convenient a gallows
where they were going, they at once
determined that here Padrig should
finish his mortal career. The neighbouring
birch thicket supplied them
with materials for making a withe; and
whilst they were twisting it, Padrig
burst forth in a flood of Gaelic verse,
which his mind had been accumulating
by the way. His song and the twig
rope that was to terminate his existence
were spun out and finished at the
same moment, and he was instantly
elevated to a height equally beyond his
ambition and his hopes.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='an_hour_in_the_manse' class='c006'>AN HOUR IN THE MANSE.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By Professor Wilson.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>In a few weeks the annual sacrament
of the Lord’s Supper was to be
administered in the parish of Deanside;
and the minister, venerable in old age,
of authority by the power of his talents
and learning, almost feared for his
sanctity, yet withal beloved for gentleness
and compassion that had never
been found wanting, when required
either by the misfortunes or errors of
any of his flock, had delivered for
several successive Sabbaths, to full
congregations, sermons on the proper
preparation of communicants in that
awful ordinance. The old man was a
follower of Calvin; and many, who had
listened to him with a resolution in
their hearts to approach the table of the
Redeemer, felt so awe-stricken and
awakened at the conclusion of his
exhortations, that they gave their souls
another year to meditate on what they
had heard, and by a pure and humble
course of life, to render themselves less
unworthy to partake the mysterious and
holy bread and wine.</p>

<p class='c008'>The good old man received in the
manse, for a couple of hours every
evening, such of his parishioners as
came to signify their wish to partake of
the sacrament; and it was then noted,
that, though he in nowise departed, in
his conversation with them at such
times, from the spirit of those doctrines
which he had delivered from the pulpit,
yet his manner was milder, and more
soothing, and full of encouragement; so
that many who went to him almost
with quaking hearts, departed in tranquillity
and peace, and looked forward
to that most impressive and solemn act
of the Christian faith with calm and
glad anticipation. The old man thought,
truly and justly, that few, if any, would
come to the manse, after having heard
him in the kirk, without due and deep
reflection; and therefore, though he
allowed none to pass through his hands
without strict examination, he spoke to
them all benignly, and with that sort of
paternal pity which a religious man,
about to leave this life, feels towards
all his brethren of mankind, who are
entering upon, or engaged in, its scenes
of agitation, trouble, and danger.</p>

<p class='c008'>On one of those evenings, the servant
showed into the minister’s study a tall,
bold-looking, dark-visaged man, in the
prime of life, who, with little of the
usual courtesy, advanced into the
middle of the room, and somewhat
abruptly declared the sacred purpose of
his visit. But before he could receive
a reply, he looked around and before
him; and there was something so
solemn in the old minister’s appearance,
as he sat like a spirit, with his unclouded
eyes fixed upon the intruder, that that
person’s countenance fell, and his
heart was involuntarily knocking against
his side. An old large Bible, the same
that he read from in the pulpit, was
lying open before him. One glimmering
candle showed his beautiful and
silvery locks falling over his temples, as
his head half stooped over the sacred
page; a dead silence was in the room
dedicated to meditation and prayer; the
old man, it was known, had for some
time felt himself to be dying, and had
spoken of the sacrament of this summer
as the last he could ever hope to
administer; so that altogether, in the
silence, the dimness, the sanctity, the
unworldliness of the time, the place,
and the being before him, the visitor
stood like one abashed and appalled;
and bowing more reverently, or at least
respectfully, he said, with a quivering
voice, “Sir, I come for your sanction
to be admitted to the table of our
Lord.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The minister motioned to him with
his hand to sit down; and it was a relief
to the trembling man to do so, for
he was in the presence of one who, he
felt, saw into his heart. A sudden
change from hardihood to terror took
place within his dark nature; he wished
himself out of the insupportable sanctity
of that breathless room; and a remorse,
that had hitherto slept, or been drowned
within him, now clutched his heartstrings,
as if with an alternate grasp of
frost and fire, and made his knees
knock against each other where he sat,
and his face pale as ashes.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Norman Adams, saidst thou that
thou wilt take into that hand, and put
into those lips, the symbol of the blood
that was shed for sinners, and of the
body that bowed on the cross, and then
gave up the ghost? If so, let us speak
together, even as if thou wert communing
with thine own heart. Never
again may I join in that sacrament, for
the hour of my departure is at hand.
Say, wilt thou eat and drink death to
thine immortal soul?”</p>

<p class='c008'>The terrified man found strength to
rise from his seat, and, staggering towards
the door, said, “Pardon, forgive
me!—I am not worthy.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“It is not I who can pardon, Norman.
That power lies not with man;
but sit down—you are deadly pale—and
though, I fear, an ill-living and a dissolute
man, greater sinners have repented
and been saved. Approach not now
the table of the Lord, but confess all
your sins before Him in the silence of
your own house, and upon your naked
knees on the stone-floor every morning
and every night; and if this you do
faithfully, humbly, and with a contrite
heart, come to me again when the sacrament
is over, and I will speak words of
comfort to you (if then I am able to
speak)—if, Norman, it should be on my
deathbed. This will I do for the sake
of thy soul, and for the sake of thy
father, Norman, whom my soul loved,
and who was a support to me in my
ministry for many long, long years, even
for two score and ten, for we were at
school together; and had your father
been living now, he would, like myself,
have this very day finished his eighty-fifth
year. I send you not from me in
anger, but in pity and love. Go, my
son, and this very night begin your
repentance, for if that face speak the
truth, your heart must be sorely
charged.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Just as the old man ceased speaking,
and before the humble, or at least
affrighted culprit had risen to go,
another visitor of a very different kind
was shown into the room—a young,
beautiful girl, almost shrouded in her
cloak, with a sweet pale face, on which
sadness seemed in vain to strive with
the natural expression of the happiness
of youth.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Mary Simpson,” said the kind old
man, as she stood with a timid courtesy
near the door, “Mary Simpson, approach,
and receive from my hands the
token for which thou comest. Well
dost thou know the history of thy
Saviour’s life, and rejoicest in the life
and immortality brought to light by the
gospel. Young and guileless, Mary,
art thou; and dim as my memory now
is of many things, yet do I well remember
the evening, when first beside my
knee, thou heardst read how the Divine
Infant was laid in a manger, how the
wise men from the East came to the
place of His nativity, and how the
angels were heard singing in the fields
of Bethlehem all the night long.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Alas! every word that had thus been
uttered sent a pang into the poor creature’s
heart, and, without lifting her
eyes from the floor, and in a voice
more faint and hollow than belonged
to one so young, she said, “O sir! I
come not as an intending communicant;
yet the Lord my God knows that I am
rather miserable than guilty, and He
will not suffer my soul to perish, though
a baby is now within me, the child of
guilt, and sin, and horror. This, my
shame, come I to tell you; but for the
father of my babe unborn, cruel though
he has been to me,—oh! cruel, cruel,
indeed,—yet shall his name go down
with me in silence to the grave. I
must not, must not breathe his name
in mortal ears; but I have looked
round me in the wide moor, and when
nothing that could understand was by,
nothing living but birds, and bees, and
the sheep I was herding, often have I
whispered his name in my prayers, and
beseeched God and Jesus to forgive him
all his sins.”</p>

<p class='c008'>At these words, of which the passionate
utterance seemed to relieve her
heart, and before the pitying and bewildered
old man could reply, Mary
Simpson raised her eyes from the floor,
and fearing to meet the face of the
minister, which had heretofore never
shone upon her but with smiles, and of
which the expected frown was to her
altogether insupportable, she turned
them wildly round the room, as if for
a dark resting-place, and beheld Norman
Adams rooted to his seat, leaning
towards her with his white, ghastly
countenance, and his eyes starting from
their sockets, seemingly in wrath, agony,
fear, and remorse. That terrible face
struck poor Mary to the heart, and she
sank against the wall, and slipped down,
shuddering, upon a chair.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Norman Adams, I am old and
weak, but do you put your arm round
that poor lost creature, and keep her
from falling down on the hard floor.
I hear it is a stormy night, and she has
walked some miles hither; no wonder
she is overcome. You have heard her
confession, but it was not meant for
your ear; so, till I see you again, say
nothing of what you have now heard.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“O sir! a cup of water, for my
blood is either leaving my heart altogether,
or it is drowning it. Your
voice, sir, is going far, far away from
me, and I am sinking down. Oh, hold
me!—hold me up! Is it a pit into
which I am falling?—Saw I not Norman
Adams?—Where is he now?”</p>

<p class='c008'>The poor maiden did not fall off the
chair, although Norman Adams supported
her not; but her head lay back
against the wall, and a sigh, long and
dismal, burst from her bosom, that
deeply affected the old man’s heart, but
struck that of the speechless and motionless
sinner, like the first toll of the
prison bell that warns the felon to
leave his cell and come forth to execution.</p>

<p class='c008'>The minister fixed a stern eye upon
Norman, for, from the poor girl’s unconscious
words, it was plain that he
was the guilty wretch who had wrought
all this misery. “You knew, did you
not, that she had neither father nor
mother, sister nor brother, scarcely one
relation on earth to care for or watch
over her; and yet you have used her
so? If her beauty was a temptation
unto you, did not the sweet child’s
innocence touch your hard and selfish
heart with pity? or her guilt and grief
must surely now wring it with remorse.
Look on her—white, cold, breathless,
still as a corpse; and yet, thou bold
bad man, thy footsteps would have
approached the table of thy Lord!”</p>

<p class='c008'>The child now partly awoke from
her swoon, and her dim opening eyes
met those of Norman Adams. She
shut them with a shudder, and said,
sickly and with a quivering voice, “Oh
spare, spare me, Norman! Are we
again in that dark, fearful wood?
Tremble not for your life on earth,
Norman, for never, never will I tell to
mortal ears that terrible secret; but
spare me, spare me, else our Saviour,
with all His mercy, will never pardon
your unrelenting soul. These are cruel-looking
eyes; you will not surely murder
poor Mary Simpson, unhappy as she is,
and must for ever be—yet life is sweet!
She beseeches you on her knees to spare
her life!”—and, in the intense fear of
phantasy, the poor creature struggled off
the chair, and fell down indeed in a
heap at his feet.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Canst thou indeed be the son of
old Norman Adams, the industrious,
the temperate, the mild, and the pious—who
so often sat in this very room
which thy presence has now polluted,
and spake with me on the mysteries of
life and of death? Foul ravisher, what
stayed thy hand from the murder of
that child, when there were none near
to hear her shrieks in the dark solitude
of the great pine-wood?”</p>

<p class='c008'>Norman Adams smote his heart and
fell down too on his knees beside the
poor ruined orphan. He put his arm
round her, and, raising her from the
floor, said, “No, no, my sin is great,
too great for Heaven’s forgiveness;
but, oh sir! say not—say not that I
would have murdered her; for, savage
as my crime was, yet may God judge me
less terribly than if I had taken her
life.”</p>

<p class='c008'>In a little while they were both seated
with some composure, and silence was
in the room. No one spoke, and the
old grayhaired man sat with his eyes
fixed, without reading, on the open
Bible. At last he broke silence with
these words out of Isaiah, that seemed
to have forced themselves on his heedless
eyes:—“Though your sins be as
scarlet, they shall be as white as snow:
though they be red like crimson, they
shall be as wool.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Mary Simpson wept aloud at these
words, and seemed to forget her own
wrongs and grief in commiseration of
the agonies of remorse and fear that
were now plainly preying on the soul
of the guilty man. “I forgive you,
Norman, and will soon be out of the
way, no longer to anger you with the
sight of me.” Then, fixing her streaming
eyes on the minister, she besought
him not to be the means of bringing
him to punishment and a shameful
death, for that he might repent, and
live to be a good man and respected in
the parish; but that she was a poor
orphan for whom few cared, and who,
when dead, would have but a small
funeral.</p>

<p class='c008'>“I will deliver myself up into the
hands of justice,” said the offender, “for
I do not deserve to live. Mine was an
inhuman crime, and let a violent and
shameful death be my doom.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The orphan girl now stood up as if
her strength had been restored, and
stretching out her hands passionately,
with a flow of most affecting and
beautiful language, inspired by a meek,
single, and sinless heart that could not
bear the thought of utter degradation
and wretchedness befalling any one of
the rational children of God, implored
and beseeched the old man to comfort
the sinner before them, and promise
that the dark transaction of guilt should
never leave the concealment of their own
three hearts. “Did he not save the
lives of two brothers once who were
drowning in that black mossy loch,
when their own kindred, at work
among the hay, feared the deep sullen
water, and all stood aloof shuddering
and shaking, till Norman Adams leapt
in to their rescue, and drew them by
the dripping hair to the shore, and then
lay down beside them on the heather
as like to death as themselves? I myself
saw it done; I myself heard their
mother call down the blessing of God
on Norman’s head, and then all the
haymakers knelt down and prayed.
When you, on the Sabbath, returned
thanks to God for that they were saved,
oh! kind sir, did you not name, in the
full kirk, him who, under Providence,
did deliver them from death, and who,
you said, had thus showed himself to
be a Christian indeed? May his sin
against me be forgotten, for the sake of
those two drowning boys, and their
mother, who blesses his name unto this
day.”</p>

<p class='c008'>From a few questions solemnly asked,
and solemnly answered, the minister
found that Norman Adams had been
won by the beauty and loveliness of
this poor orphan shepherdess, as he had
sometimes spoken to her when sitting
on the hill-side with her flock, but that
pride had prevented him from ever
thinking of her in marriage. It appeared
that he had also been falsely informed,
by a youth whom Mary disliked for his
brutal and gross manners, that she was
not the innocent girl that her seeming
simplicity denoted. On returning from
a festive meeting, where this abject
person had made many mean insinuations
against her virtue, Norman
Adams met her returning to her master’s
house, in the dusk of the evening, on
the footpath leading through a lonely
wood; and, though his crime was of
the deepest dye, it seemed to the minister
of the religion of mercy, that by
repentance, and belief in the atonement
that had once been made for sinners,
he, too, might perhaps hope for forgiveness
at the throne of God.</p>

<p class='c008'>“I warned you, miserable man, of
the fatal nature of sin, when first it
brought a trouble over your countenance,
and broke in upon the peaceful integrity
of your life. Was not the silence of the
night often terrible to you, when you
were alone in the moors, and the whisper
of your own conscience told you,
that every wicked thought was sacrilege
to your father’s dust? Step by step,
and almost imperceptibly, perhaps, did
you advance upon the road that leadeth
to destruction; but look back now, and
what a long dark journey have you
taken, standing, as you are, on the
brink of everlasting death! Once you
were kind, gentle, generous, manly,
and free; but you trusted to the deceitfulness
of your own heart; you
estranged yourself from the house of
the God of your fathers; and what has
your nature done for you at last, but
sunk you into a wretch—savage, selfish,
cruel, cowardly, and in good truth a
slave? A felon are you, and forfeited
to the hangman’s hands. Look on
that poor innocent child, and think
what is man without God. What
would you give now, if the last three
years of your reckless life had been
passed in a dungeon dug deep into the
earth, with hunger and thirst gnawing at
your heart, and bent down under a cartload
of chains? Yet look not so
ghastly, for I condemn you not utterly;
nor, though I know your guilt, can I
know what good may yet be left uncorrupted
and unextinguished in your
soul. Kneel not to me, Norman;
fasten not so your eyes upon me; lift
them upwards, and then turn them in
upon your own heart, for the dreadful
reckoning is between it and God.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Mary Simpson had now recovered all
her strength, and she knelt down by the
side of the groaner. Deep was the pity
she now felt for him, who to her had
shown no pity; she did not refuse to lay
her light arm tenderly upon his neck.
Often had she prayed to God to save
his soul, even among her rueful sobs
of shame in the solitary glens; and
now that she beheld his sin punished
with a remorse more than he could
bear, the orphan would have willingly
died to avert from his prostrate head
the wrath of the Almighty.</p>

<p class='c008'>The old man wept at the sight of so
much innocence, and so much guilt,
kneeling together before God, in strange
union and fellowship of a common
being. With his own fatherly arms he
lifted up the orphan from her knees,
and said, “Mary Simpson, my sweet
and innocent Mary Simpson, for innocent
thou art, the elders will give thee a
token, that will, on Sabbath-day, admit
thee (not for the first time, though so
young) to the communion-table. Fear
not to approach it; look at me, and on
my face, when I bless the elements,
and be thou strong in the strength of
the Lord. Norman Adams, return to
your home. Go into the chamber
where your father died. Let your
knees wear out the part of the floor on
which he kneeled. It is somewhat
worn already; you have seen the mark
of your father’s knees. Who knows,
but that pardon and peace may descend
from Heaven upon such a sinner as
thou? On none such as thou have
mine eyes ever looked, in knowledge,
among all those who have lived and
died under my care, for three generations.
But great is the unknown guilt that
may be hidden even in the churchyard
of a small quiet parish like this. Dost
thou feel as if God-forsaken? Or, oh!
say it unto me, canst thou, my poor
son, dare to hope for repentance?”</p>

<p class='c008'>The pitiful tone of the old man’s
trembling voice, and the motion of his
shaking and withered hands, as he
lifted them up almost in an attitude of
benediction, completed the prostration
of that sinner’s spirit. All his better
nature, which had too long been
oppressed under scorn of holy ordinances,
and the coldness of infidelity,
and the selfishness of lawless desires
that insensibly harden the heart they do
not dissolve, now struggled to rise up and
respect its rights. “When I remember
what I once was, I can hope—when I
think what I now am, I only, only
fear.”</p>

<p class='c008'>A storm of rain and wind had come
on, and Mary Simpson slept in the
manse that night. On the ensuing
Sabbath she partook of the sacrament.
A woeful illness fell upon Norman
Adams; and then for a long time no
one saw him, or knew where he had
gone. It was said that he was in a distant
city, and that he was a miserable
creature, that never again could look
upon the sun. But it was otherwise
ordered. He returned to his farm,
greatly changed in face and person, but
even yet more changed in spirit.</p>

<p class='c008'>The old minister had more days
allotted to him than he had thought,
and was not taken away for some
summers. Before he died, he had
reason to know that Norman Adams
had repented in tears of blood, in
thoughts of faith, and in deeds of
charity; and he did not fear to admit
him, too, in good time, to the holy
ordinance, along with Mary Simpson,
then his wife, and the mother of his
children.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='the_warden_of_the_marches' class='c006'>THE WARDEN OF THE MARCHES:<br> <span class='large'><em>A TRADITIONARY STORY OF ANNANDALE</em></span>.</h2>
</div>

<p class='c007'>The predatory incursions of the Scots
and English borderers, on each other’s
territories, are known to every one in
the least acquainted with either the
written or traditional history of his
country. These were sometimes made
by armed and numerous bodies, and it
was not uncommon for a band of marauders
to take advantage of a thick
fog or a dark night for plundering or
driving away the cattle, with which
they soon escaped over the border,
where they were generally secure.
Such incursions were so frequent and
distressing to the peaceable and well-disposed
inhabitants that they complained
loudly to their respective
governments; in consequence of which
some one of the powerful nobles residing
on the borders was invested with
authority to suppress these depredations,
under the title of Warden of the
Marches. His duty was to protect the
frontier, and alarm the country by
firing the beacons which were placed on
the heights, where they could be seen at
a great distance, as a warning to the
people to drive away their cattle, and,
collecting in a body, either to repel or
pursue the invaders, as circumstances
might require. The wardens also
possessed a discretionary power in such
matters as came under their jurisdiction.
The proper discharge of this important
trust required vigilance, courage, and
fidelity, but it was sometimes committed
to improper hands, and consequently the
duty was very improperly performed.</p>

<p class='c008'>In the reign of James V. one of these
wardens was Sir John Charteris of
Amisfield, near Dumfries, a brave but
haughty man, who sometimes forgot
his important trust so far as to sacrifice
his public duties to his private interests.</p>

<p class='c008'>George Maxwell was a young and
respectable farmer in Annandale, who
had frequently been active in repressing
the petty incursions to which that
quarter of the country was exposed.
Having thereby rendered himself particularly
obnoxious to the English borderers,
a strong party was formed,
which succeeded in despoiling him, by
plundering his house and driving
away his whole live stock. At the
head of a large party he pursued and
overtook the “spoil-encumbered foe;”
a fierce and bloody contest ensued, in
which George fell the victim of a former
feud, leaving his widow, Marion,
in poverty, with her son Wallace, an
only child in the tenth year of his age.
By the liberality of her neighbours, the
widow was replaced in a small farm;
but by subsequent incursions she was
reduced to such poverty that she
occupied a small cottage, with a cow,
which the kindness of a neighbouring
farmer permitted to pasture on his fields.
This, with the industry and filial affection
of her son, now in his twentieth
year, enabled her to live with a degree
of comfort and contented resignation.</p>

<p class='c008'>With a manly and athletic form,
Wallace Maxwell inherited the courage
of his father, and the patriotic ardour
of the chieftain after whom he had been
named; and Wallace had been heard
to declare, that although he could not
expect to free his country from the incursions
of the English borderers, he
trusted he should yet be able to take
ample vengeance for the untimely death
of his father.</p>

<p class='c008'>But although his own private wrongs
and those of his country had a powerful
influence on the mind of Wallace
Maxwell, yet his heart was susceptible
of a far loftier passion.</p>

<p class='c008'>His fine manly form and graceful
bearing had attractions for many a rural
fair; and he would have found no difficulty
in matching with youthful beauty
considerably above his own humble
station. But his affections were fixed
on Mary Morrison, a maiden as poor
in worldly wealth as himself; but nature
had been more than usually indulgent
to her in a handsome person and fine
features; and, what was of infinitely
more value, her heart was imbued with
virtuous principles, and her mind better
cultivated than could have been expected
from her station in life. To these
accomplishments were superadded a
native dignity, tempered with modesty,
and a most winning sweetness of manner.
Mary was the daughter of a man
who had seen better days; but he was
ruined by the incursions of the English
borderers; and both he and her mother
dying soon after, Mary was left a helpless
orphan in the twentieth year of her
age. Her beauty procured her many
admirers; and her unprotected state
(for she had no relations in Annandale)
left her exposed to the insidious temptations
of unprincipled villainy; but they
soon discovered that neither flattery,
bribes, nor the fairest promises, had the
slightest influence on her spotless mind.
There were many, however, who sincerely
loved her, and made most honourable
proposals; among whom was
Wallace Maxwell, perhaps the poorest
of her admirers, but who succeeded in
gaining her esteem and affection. Mary
and he were fellow-servants to the farmer
from whom his mother had her
cottage; and, on account of the troublesome
state of the country, Wallace slept
every night in his mother’s house as her
guardian and protector. Mary and he
were about the same age, both in the
bloom of youthful beauty; but both
had discrimination to look beyond external
attractions; and, although they
might be said to live in the light of
each other’s eyes, reason convinced
them that the time was yet distant
when it would be prudent to consummate
that union which was the dearest
object of their wishes.</p>

<p class='c008'>A foray had been made by the English,
in which their leader, the son of a
rich borderer, had been made prisoner,
and a heavy ransom paid to Sir John,
the warden, for his release. This the
avaricious warden considered a perquisite
of his office; and it accordingly
went into his private pocket. Soon
after this, the party who had resolved
on ruining Wallace Maxwell for his
threats of vengeance, took advantage
of a thick fog during the day, succeeded
by a dark night, in making an
incursion on Annandale, principally for
the purpose of capturing the young
man. By stratagem they effected their
purpose; and the widow’s cow, and
Wallace her son, were both carried off
as part of the spoil. The youth’s life
might have been in considerable danger,
had his capture not been discovered by
the man who had recently paid a high
ransom for his own son, and he now
took instant possession of Wallace,
resolving that he should be kept a close
prisoner till ransomed by a sum equal
to that paid to the warden.</p>

<p class='c008'>It would be difficult, if not impossible,
to say whether the grief of Widow
Maxwell for her son, or that of Mary
Morrison for her lover, was greatest.
But early in the ensuing morning the
widow repaired to Amisfield, related
the circumstance to Sir John, with
tears beseeching him, as the plunderers
were not yet far distant, to despatch his
forces after them, and rescue her son,
with the property of which she had
been despoiled, for they had carried off
everything, even to her bed-clothes.</p>

<p class='c008'>Wallace Maxwell had some time before
incurred the warden’s displeasure,
whose mind was not generous enough
either to forget or forgive. He treated
Marion with an indifference approaching
almost to contempt, by telling her
that it would be exceedingly improper
to alarm the country about such a trivial
incident, to which every person in that
quarter was exposed; and although she
kneeled to him, he refused to comply with
her request, and proudly turned away.</p>

<p class='c008'>With a heavy and an aching heart, the
widow called on Mary Morrison on her
way home to her desolate dwelling,
relating the failure of her application,
and uttering direful lamentations for the
loss of her son; all of which were echoed
by the no less desponding maiden.</p>

<p class='c008'>In the anguish of her distress, Mary
formed the resolution of waiting on the
warden, and again urging the petition
which had already been so rudely rejected.
Almost frantic, she hastened
to the castle, demanding to see Sir
John. Her person was known to the
porter, and he was also now acquainted
with the cause of her present distress;
she therefore found a ready admission.
Always beautiful, the wildness of her
air, the liquid fire which beamed in her
eyes, from which tears streamed over
her glowing cheeks, and the perturbation
which heaved her swelling
bosom, rendered her an object of more
than ordinary interest in the sight of
the warden. She fell at his feet and
attempted to tell her melancholy tale;
but convulsive sobs stifled her utterance.
He then took her unresisting hand,
raised her up, led her to a seat, and
bade her compose herself before she
attempted to speak.</p>

<p class='c008'>With a faltering tongue, and eyes
which, like the lightning of heaven,
seemed capable of penetrating a heart
of adamant, and in all the energy and
pathos of impassioned grief, she told
her tale,—imploring the warden, if he
ever regarded his mother, or if capable
of feeling for the anguish of a woman,
to have pity on them, and instantly
exert himself to restore the most dutiful
of sons, and the most faithful of lovers, to
his humble petitioners, whose gratitude
should cease only with their lives.</p>

<p class='c008'>“You are probably not aware,” said
he, in a kindly tone, “of the difficulty
of gratifying your wishes. Wallace
Maxwell has rendered himself the object
of vengeance to the English borderers;
and, before now, he must be in captivity
so secure, that any measure to rescue
him by force of arms would be unavailing.
But, for your sake, I will adopt
the only means which can restore him,
namely, to purchase his ransom by gold.
But you are aware that it must be high,
and I trust your gratitude will be in
proportion.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Everything in our power shall be
done to evince our gratitude,” replied
the delighted Mary, a more animated
glow suffusing her cheek, and her
eyes beaming with a brighter lustre,—“Heaven
reward you.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“To wait for my reward from
heaven, would be to give credit to one
who can make ready payment,” replied
the warden. “You, lovely Mary, have
it in your power to make me a return,
which will render me your debtor, without
in any degree impoverishing yourself;”—and
he paused, afraid or
ashamed to speak the purpose of his
heart. Such is the power which virgin
beauty and innocence can exert on the
most depraved inclinations.</p>

<p class='c008'>Although alarmed, and suspecting
his base design, such was the rectitude
of Mary’s guileless heart, that she could
not believe the warden in earnest; and
starting from his proffered embrace,
she with crimson blushes replied, “I
am sure, sir, your heart could never
permit you so far to insult a hapless
maiden. You have spoken to try my
affection for Wallace Maxwell; let me
therefore again implore you to take such
measures as you may think best for
obtaining his release;” and a fresh
flood of tears flowed in torrents from
her eyes, while she gazed wistfully in
his face, with a look so imploringly
tender, that it might have moved the
heart of a demon.</p>

<p class='c008'>With many flattering blandishments,
and much artful sophistry, he endeavoured
to win her to his purpose; but
perceiving that his attempts were unavailing,
he concluded thus:—“All
that I have promised I am ready to
perform; but I swear by Heaven, that
unless you grant me the favour which
I have so humbly solicited, Wallace
Maxwell may perish in a dungeon, or
by the hand of his enemies; for he
shall never be rescued by me. Think,
then, in time, before you leave me, and
for his sake, and your own future happiness,
do not foolishly destroy it for ever.”</p>

<p class='c008'>With her eyes flashing indignant fire,
and her bosom throbbing with the
anguish of insulted virtue, she flung
herself from his hateful embrace, and,
rushing from his presence, with a
sorrowful and almost bursting heart,
left the castle.</p>

<p class='c008'>Widow Maxwell had a mind not
easily depressed, and although in great
affliction for her son, did not despair of
his release. She was ignorant of
Mary’s application to the warden, and
had been revolving in her mind the
propriety of seeking an audience of the
king, and detailing her wrongs, both
at the hands of the English marauders
and Sir John. She was brooding on
this when Mary entered her cottage, and,
in the agony of despairing love and
insulted honour, related the reception
she had met from the warden. The
relation confirmed the widow’s half
formed resolution, and steeled her
heart to its purpose. After they had
responded each other’s sighs, and
mingled tears together, the old woman
proposed waiting on her friend the
farmer, declaring her intentions, and,
if he approved of them, soliciting his
permission for Mary to accompany her.</p>

<p class='c008'>The warden’s indolent neglect of
duty was a subject of general complaint;
the farmer, therefore, highly approved
of the widow’s proposal, believing that
it would not only procure her redress,
but might be of advantage to the
country. He urged their speedy and
secret departure, requesting that whatever
answer they received might not be
divulged till the final result was seen;
and next morning, at early dawn, the
widow and Mary took their departure
for Stirling. King James was easy of
access to the humblest of his subjects;
and the two had little difficulty in obtaining
admission to the royal presence.
Widow Maxwell had in youth been a
beautiful woman, and, although her early
bloom had passed, might still have been
termed a comely and attractive matron,
albeit in the autumn of life. In a word,
her face was still such as would have
recommended her suit to the king,
whose heart was at all times feelingly
alive to the attraction of female beauty.
But, on the present occasion, although
she was the petitioner, the auxiliary
whom she had brought, though silent,
was infinitely the more powerful pleader;
for Mary might be said to resemble
the half-blown rose in the early
summer, when its glowing leaves are
wet with the dews of morning. James
was so struck with their appearance,
that, before they had spoken, he secretly
wished that their petitions might be
such as he could with justice and
honour grant, for he already felt that it
would be impossible to refuse them.</p>

<p class='c008'>Although struck with awe on coming
into the presence of their sovereign,
the easy condescension and affability of
James soon restored them to comparative
tranquillity; and the widow told
her “plain, unvarnished tale” with such
artless simplicity, and moving pathos,
as would have made an impression on a
less partial auditor than his Majesty.
When she came to state the result of
Mary’s application to Sir John, she
paused, blushed, and still remained
silent. James instantly conjectured the
cause, which was confirmed when he
saw Mary’s face crimsoned all over.</p>

<p class='c008'>Suppressing his indignation, “Well,
I shall be soon in Annandale,” said he,
“and will endeavour to do you justice.
Look at this nobleman,” pointing to
one in the chamber; “when I send
him for you, come to me where he shall
guide. In the meantime, he will find
you safe lodgings for the night, and
give you sufficient to bear your expenses
home, whither I wish you to return as
soon as possible, and be assured that
your case shall not be forgotten.”</p>

<p class='c008'>It is generally known that James,
with a love of justice, had a considerable
share of eccentricity in his character,
and that he frequently went over the
country in various disguises—such as that
of a pedlar, an itinerant musician, or even
a wandering beggar. These disguises
were sometimes assumed for the purpose
of discovering the abuses practised
by his servants, and not unfrequently
from the love of frolic, and, like the
Caliph in the “Arabian Nights,” in
quest of amusement. On these occasions,
when he chose to discover himself,
it was always by the designation of the
“Gudeman of Ballengeich”. He had
a private passage by which he could
leave the palace, unseen by any one,
and he could make his retreat alone, or
accompanied by a disguised attendant,
according to his inclination.</p>

<p class='c008'>On the present occasion, he determined
to visit the warden of the March
<em>incog.</em>; and, making the necessary
arrangements, he soon arrived in Annandale.
His inquiries concerning the
widow and Mary corroborated the opinion
he had previously formed, and
learning where Mary resided, he resolved
to repair thither in person, disguised as
a mendicant. On approaching the farmer’s,
he had to pass a rivulet, at which
there was a girl washing linen, and a
little observation convinced him it was
Mary Morrison. When near, he pretended
to be taken suddenly ill, and
sat down on a knoll, groaning piteously.
Mary came instantly to him, tenderly
enquiring what ailed him, and whether
she could render him any assistance.
James replied, it was a painful distemper,
by which he was frequently attacked;
but if she could procure him a draught
of warm milk, that, and an hour’s rest,
would relieve him. Mary answered, that
if he could, with her assistance, walk
to the farm, which she pointed out near
by, he would be kindly cared for. She
assisted him to rise, and, taking his
arm, permitted him to lean upon her
shoulder, as they crept slowly along.
He met much sympathy in the family,
and there he heard the history of Mary
and Wallace Maxwell (not without
execrations on the warden for his indolence),
and their affirmations that they
were sure, if the king knew how he
neglected his duty, he would either be
dismissed or severely punished; although
the former had spoken plainer than
others whom James had conversed with,
he found that Sir John was generally
disliked, and he became impatient for
the hour of retribution.</p>

<p class='c008'>Marching back towards Dumfries,
James rendezvoused for the night in a
small village called Duncow, in the
parish of Kirkmahoe, and next morning
he set out for Amisfield, which lay
in the neighbourhood, disguised as a
beggar. Part of his retinue he left in
Duncow, and part he ordered to lie in
wait in a ravine near Amisfield till he
should require their attendance. Having
cast away his beggar’s cloak, he appeared
at the gate of the warden’s castle in the
dress of a plain countryman, and requested
the porter to procure him an
immediate audience of Sir John. But
he was answered that the warden had
just sat down to dinner, during which
it was a standing order that he should
never be disturbed on any pretence
whatever.</p>

<p class='c008'>“And how long will he sit?” said
James.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Two hours, perhaps three; he must
not be intruded on till his bell ring,”
replied the porter.</p>

<p class='c008'>“I am a stranger, and cannot wait
so long; take this silver groat, and go
to your master, and say that I wish
to see him on business of importance,
and will detain him only a few minutes.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The porter delivered the message,
and soon returned, saying—“Sir John
says, that however important your business
may be, you must wait his time, or
go the way you came.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“That is very hard. Here are two
groats; go again, and say that I have
come from the Border, where I saw
the English preparing for an incursion,
and have posted thither with the information;
and that I think he will be
neglecting his duty if he do not immediately
fire the beacons and alarm the
country.”</p>

<p class='c008'>This message was also carried, and
the porter returned with a sorrowful look,
and shaking head.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Well, does the warden consent to
see me?” said the anxious stranger,
who had gained the porter’s goodwill
by his liberality.</p>

<p class='c008'>“I beg your pardon, friend,” replied
the menial; “but I must give Sir
John’s answer in his own words. He
says if you choose to wait two hours he
will then see whether you are a knave
or a fool; but if you send another such
impertinent message to him, both you
and I shall have cause to repent it.
However, for your civility, come with
me, and I will find you something
to eat and a horn of good ale, to put
off the time till Sir John can be seen.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I give you hearty thanks, my good
fellow, but, as I said, I cannot wait.
Here, take these three groats; go
again to the warden, and say that the
Gudeman of Ballengeich insists upon
seeing him immediately.”</p>

<p class='c008'>No sooner was the porter’s back
turned, than James winded his buglehorn
so loudly that its echoes seemed
to shake the castle walls; and the
porter found his master in consternation,
which his message changed into fear
and trembling.</p>

<p class='c008'>By the time the warden had reached
the gate, James had thrown off his
coat, and stood arrayed in the garb and
insignia of royalty, while his train of
nobles were galloping up in great haste.
When they were collected around
him, the king, for the first time, condescended
to address the terrified warden,
who had prostrated himself at the
feet of his sovereign.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Rise, Sir John,” said he, with a
stern and commanding air. “You bade
your porter tell me that I was either
knave or fool, and you were right, for I
have erred in delegating my power to a
knave like you.”</p>

<p class='c008'>In tremulous accents the warden
attempted to excuse himself by stammering
out that he did not know he
was wanted by his Majesty.</p>

<p class='c008'>“But I sent you a message that I
wished to speak with you on business
of importance, and you refused to be
disturbed. The meanest of my subjects
has access to me at all times. I hear
before I condemn, and shall do so
with you, against whom I have many
and heavy charges.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Will it please your Majesty to honour
my humble dwelling with your
presence, and afford me an opportunity
of speaking in my own defence?” said
the justly alarmed warden.</p>

<p class='c008'>“No, Sir John, I will not enter
beneath that roof as a judge, where I
was refused admission as a petitioner.
I hold my court at Hoddam Castle,
where I command your immediate
attendance; where I will hear your
answer to the charges I have against
you. In the meantime, before our departure,
you will give orders for the
entertainment of my retinue, men and
horses, at your castle, during my stay in
Annandale.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The king then appointed several of
the lords in attendance to accompany
him to Hoddam Castle, whither he
commanded the warden to follow him
with all possible despatch.</p>

<p class='c008'>Sir John was conscious of negligence,
and even something worse, in the discharge
of his duty, although ignorant of
the particular charges to be brought
against him; but when ushered into the
presence of his sovereign, he endeavoured
to assume the easy confidence of innocence.</p>

<p class='c008'>James proceeded to business, by
inquiring if there was not a recent incursion
of a small marauding party, in
which a poor widow’s cow was carried
off, her house plundered, and her son
taken prisoner; and if she did not early
next morning state this to him, requesting
him to recover her property.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Did you, Sir John, do your utmost
in the case?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I acknowledge I did not; but the
widow shall have the best cow in my
possession, and her house furnished
anew. I hope that will satisfy your
Majesty.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“And her son, how is he to be
restored?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“When we have the good fortune to
make an English prisoner, he can be
exchanged.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Mark me! Sir John. If Wallace
Maxwell is not brought before me in
good health within a week from this date,
you shall hang by the neck from that
tree waving before the window. I have
no more to say at present. Be ready to
wait on me in one hour when your
presence is required.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The warden knew the determined
resolution of the king, and instantly
despatched a confidential servant, vested
with full powers to procure the liberation
of Wallace Maxwell, at whatever
price, and to bring him safely back
without a moment’s delay. In the
meantime, the retinue of men and horses,
amounting to several hundreds, were
living at free quarters, in Sir John’s
castle, and the visits of the king
diffusing gladness and joy over the
whole country.</p>

<p class='c008'>Next morning James sent the young
nobleman, whom he had pointed out to
the widow at Stirling, to bring her and
Mary Morrison to Hoddam Castle.
He received both with easy condescension;
when the widow, with
much grateful humility, endeavoured to
express her thanks, saying that Sir
John had last evening sent her a cow
worth double that she had lost; also
blankets, and other articles of higher
value than all that had been carried
away; but, with tears in her eyes, she
said, all these were as nothing without
her dear son. Assuring them that their
request had not been neglected, James
dismissed them, with the joyful hope of
soon seeing Wallace, as he would send
for them immediately on his arrival.</p>

<p class='c008'>The distress of the warden increased
every hour, for he was a prisoner in his
own castle; and his feelings may be
conjectured, when he received a message
from the king, commanding him to
come to Hoddam Castle next day by
noon, and either bring Wallace Maxwell
along with him, or prepare for a
speedy exit into the next world. He
had just seen the sun rise, of which
it seemed probable he should never see
the setting, when his servant arrived
with Wallace, whose liberty had been
purchased at an exorbitant ransom.
Without allowing the young man to
rest, Sir John hurried him off to Hoddam
Castle, and sent in a message that he
waited an audience of his Majesty.</p>

<p class='c008'>To make sure of the youth’s identity,
the king sent instantly for his mother,
and the meeting called forth all the best
feelings of his heart, for maternal affection
triumphed over every other emotion,
and it was only after the first
ebullition of it had subsided, that she
bade him kneel to his sovereign, to
whom he owed his liberty, and most
probably his life. Wallace gracefully
bent his knee, and took Heaven to
witness that both should be devoted to
his Majesty’s service.</p>

<p class='c008'>James was delighted with the manly
appearance and gallant behaviour of
Wallace; and, after having satisfied himself
of the sincerity of his attachment
to Mary, he ordered him to withdraw.</p>

<p class='c008'>He next despatched a messenger for
Mary, who, the moment she came,
was ushered into the presence of Sir
John; James marking the countenance
of both,—that of Mary flushed with
resentment, while her eye flashed with
indignant fire. The pale and deadly
hue which overspread the warden’s
cheek was a tacit acknowledgment of
his guilt.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Do you know that young woman,
Sir John? Reply to my questions
truly; and be assured that your life
depends upon the sincerity of your
answers,” said the king, in a determined
and stern voice.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Yes, my liege, I have seen her,”
said Sir John, his lip quivering, and
his tongue faltering.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Where?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“At Amisfield.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“On what occasion?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“She came to me for the release of
Wallace Maxwell.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“And you refused her, except upon
conditions which were an insult to her,
and a disgrace to yourself. Speak; is
it not so?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“To my shame, my sovereign, I confess
my guilt; but I am willing to make
all the reparation in my power; and I
leave it to be named by your Majesty.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“You deserve to be hanged, Sir
John; but when I look on that face, I
acknowledge your temptation, and it
pleads a mitigation of punishment. You
know that Mary loves and is beloved
by Wallace Maxwell, whom you have
already ransomed; you shall give him
a farm of not less than fifty acres of
good land, rent-free, during his life, or
that of the woman he marries; and,
further, you shall stock it with cattle,
and every article necessary, with a comfortable
dwelling;—all this you shall
perform within three months from this
date. If you think these conditions
hard, I give you the alternative of
swinging from that tree before sunset.
Take your choice.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“My sovereign, I submit to the conditions,
and promise that I shall do my
best to make the couple happy.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Wallace was now called in, when
Mary clasped him in her arms, both
falling on their knees before their sovereign.
He raised them up and said,
“I have tried both your loves, and
found them faithful. Your Mary is all
that you believed her, and brings you a
dowry which she will explain. I shall
see your hands united before I leave
Annandale, and preside at the feast.
Let your care of the widow be a
remuneration for what she has done
for both, and I trust all of you will long
remember the Gudeman of Ballengeich’s
visit to Annandale.”—<cite>Edinburgh Literary
Gazette.</cite></p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='the_alehouse_party' class='c006'>THE ALEHOUSE PARTY:<br> <span class='large'><em>A CHAPTER FROM AN UNPUBLISHED NOVEL</em></span>.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By the Authors of “The Odd Volume.”</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>The night drave on wi’ sangs and clatter,</div>
      <div class='line'>And aye the ale was growing better.—<span class='sc'>Burns.</span></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>On the evening of that day which
saw Mrs Wallace enter Park a bride,
Robin Kinniburgh and a number of his
cronies met at the village alehouse to
celebrate the happy event. Every
chair, stool, and bench being occupied,
Robin and his chum, Tammy Tacket,
took possession of the top of the meal
girnel; and as they were elevated
somewhat above the company, they
appeared like two rival provosts, looking
down on their surrounding bailies.</p>

<p class='c008'>“It’s a gude thing,” said Tammy,
“that the wives and weans are keepit
out the night; folk get enough o’
them at hame.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I wonder,” said Jamie Wilson,
“what’s become o’ Andrew Gilmour.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Hae ye no heard,” said Robin,
“that his wife died yesterday?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Is she dead?” exclaimed Tammy
Tacket. “Faith,” continued he, giving
Robin a jog with his elbow, “I think
a man might hae waur furniture in his
house than a dead wife.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“That’s a truth,” replied Jamie
Wilson, “as mony an honest man kens
to his cost.—But send round the pint
stoup, and let us hae a health to the
laird and the leddy, and mony happy
years to them and theirs.”</p>

<p class='c008'>When the applause attending this
toast had subsided, Robin was universally
called on for a song.</p>

<p class='c008'>“I hae the hoast,” answered Robin;
“that’s aye what the leddies say when
they are asked to sing.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Deil a hoast is about you,” cried
Wattie Shuttle; “come awa wi’ a sang
without mair ado.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Weel,” replied Robin, “what
maun be, maun be; so I’ll gie ye a
sang that was made by a laddie that
lived east-awa; he was aye daundering,
poor chiel, amang the broomie knowes,
and mony’s the time I hae seen him
lying at the side o’ the wimpling burn,
writing on ony bit paper he could get
haud o’. After he was dead, this bit
sang was found in his pocket, and his
puir mother gied it to me, as a kind o’
keepsake; and now I’ll let you hear
it,—I sing it to the tune o’ ‘I hae laid
a herrin’ in saut.’”</p>

<p class='c008'><span class='sc'>Song.</span></p>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>It’s I’m a sweet lassie, without e’er a faut;</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Sae ilka ane tells me,—sae it maun be true;</div>
      <div class='line'>To his kail my auld faither has plenty o’ saut,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>And that brings the lads in gowpens to woo.</div>
      <div class='line'>There’s Saunders M‘Latchie, wha bides at the Mill,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>He wants a wee wifie, to bake and to brew;</div>
      <div class='line'>But Saunders, for me, at the Mill may stay still,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>For his first wife was pushioned, if what they say’s true.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>The next is Tam Watt, who is grieve to the Laird,—</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Last Sabbath, at puir me a sheep’s e’e he threw;</div>
      <div class='line'>But Tam’s like the picters I’ve seen o’ Blue Beard,</div>
      <div class='line in1'>And sic folk’s no that chancie, if what they say’s true.</div>
      <div class='line'>Then there’s Grierson the cobbler, he’ll fleech an’ he’ll beg,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>That I’d be his awl in awl, darlin’ and doo;</div>
      <div class='line'>But Grierson the cobbler’s a happity leg,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>And nae man that hobbles need come here to woo.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>And there’s Murdoch the gauger, wha rides a blind horse,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>And nae man can mak a mair beautifu’ boo;</div>
      <div class='line'>But I shall ne’er tak him, for better, for worse,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>For, sax days a week, gauger Murdoch is fou.</div>
      <div class='line'>I wonder when Willie Waught’s faither ’ll dee;</div>
      <div class='line in2'>(I wonder hoo that brings the blude to my brow;)</div>
      <div class='line'>I wonder if Willie will then be for me;—</div>
      <div class='line in2'>I wonder if then he’ll be coming to woo?</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c008'>“It’s your turn now to sing, Tammy,”
said Robin, “although I dinna ken that
ye are very gude at it.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Me sing!” cried Tammy, “I canna
even sing a psalm, far less a sang;
but if ye like, I’ll tell you a story.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Come awa then, a story is next
best; but haud a’ your tongues there,
you chiels,” cried Robin, giving the
wink to his cronies; “we a’ ken Tammy
is unco gude at telling a story, mair
especially if it be about himsel.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Aweel,” said Tammy, clearing his
throat, “I’ll tell you what happened to
me when I was ance in Embro’. I fancy
ye a’ ken the Calton hill?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Whatna daftlike question is that,
when ye ken very weel we hae a’ been
in Embro’ as weel as yoursel?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Weel then,” began Tammy, “I
was coming ower the hill—”</p>

<p class='c008'>“What hill?” asked Jamie Wilson.
“Corstorphine hill?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Corstorphine fiddlestick!” exclaimed
Tammy. “Did ye no hear me say the
Calton hill at the first, which, ye ken,
is thought there the principal hill?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“What’s that ye’re saying about
Principal Hill?” asked Robin. “I
kent him weel ance in a day.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Now, Tammy,” cried Willie Walkinshaw,
“can ye no gang on wi’ your
story, without a’ this balwavering and
nonsense about coming ower ane o’ our
Professors; my faith, it’s no an easy
matter to come ower some o’ them.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Very weel,” said Tammy, a little
angrily, “I’ll say nae mair about it,
but just drap the hill.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Whaur, whaur?” cried several
voices at once.</p>

<p class='c008'>“I’m thinkin’,” said Robin, drily,
“some o’ the Embro’ folk would be
muckle obliged to ye if ye would drap
it in the Nor’ Loch.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ye’re a set o’ gomerals!” exclaimed
Tammy, in great wrath. “I meant
naething o’ the sort; but only that I
would gie ower speaking about it.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“So we’re no to hae the story after
a’?” said Matthew Henderson.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Yes,” said Tammy; “I’m quite
agreeable to tell’t, if ye will only sit
still and haud your tongues. Aweel, I
was coming ower the hill ae night.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“’Odsake, Tammy,” cried Robin,
“will ye ne’er get ower that hill? Ye
hae tell’t us that ten times already; gang
on, man, wi’ the story.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Then, to mak a lang story short, as
I was coming ower the hill ae night
about ten o’clock I fell in—”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Fell in!” cried Matthew Henderson,
“Whaur? Was’t a hole, or a
well?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I fell in,” replied Tammy, “wi’ a
man.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Fell in wi’ a man!” said Willie
Walkinshaw. “Weel, as there were twa
o’ ye, ye could help ane anither out.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Na, na,” roared Tammy, “I dinna
mean that at a’; I just cam up wi’
him.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I doubt, Tammy,” cried Robin,
giving a sly wink to his cronies, “if ye
gaed up the Calton hill wi’ a man at
ten o’clock at night, I’m thinking ye’ll
hae been boozing some gate or ither wi’
him afore that.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Me boozing?” cried Tammy. “I
ne’er saw the man’s face afore or since;
unless it was in the police office the
next day.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Now, Tammy Tacket,” said Robin,
gravely, “just tak a’ frien’s advice, and
gie ower sic splores; they’re no creditable
to a decent married man like you;
and dinna be bleezing and bragging
about being in the police office; for it
stands to reason ye wouldna be there for
ony gude.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Deil tak me,” cried Tammy,
jumping up on the meal girnel, and
brandishing the pint stoup, “if I dinna
fling this at the head of the first man
who says a word afore I be done wi’ my
story:—And, as I said before, I fell
in—”</p>

<p class='c008'>Poor Tammy was not at all prepared
for his words being so soon verified,
for, in his eagerness to enforce attention,
he stamped violently with his hobnailed
shoe on the girnel, which giving
way with a loud crash, Tammy suddenly
disappeared from the view of the
astonished party. Robin, who had
barely time to save himself from the
falling ruins, was still laughing with all
his might, when Mrs Scoreup burst in
upon them, saying, “What the sorrow
is a’ this stramash about?”—but seeing
a pale and ghastly figure rearing itself
from the very heart of her meal girnel,
she ejaculated, “Gude preserve us!”
and, retreating a few steps, seized the
broth ladle, and prepared to stand on
the defensive.</p>

<p class='c008'>At this moment Grizzy Tacket made
her appearance at the open door, saying,
“Is blethering Tam here?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Help me out, Robin, man,” cried
Tammy.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Help ye out!” said Grizzy; “What
the sorrow took you in there, ye drucken
ne’er-do-weel?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Dinna abuse your gudeman, wife,”
said Jamie Wilson.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Gudeman!” retorted Grizzy;
“troth, there’s few o’ ye deserve the
name; and as for that idle loon, I ken
he’ll no work a stroke the morn, though
wife and weans should want baith milk
and meal.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“’Odsake, wife,” cried Robin, “if
ye shake Tammy weel, he’ll keep ye a’
in parritch for a week.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“<em>She’ll</em> shake him,” cried the angry
Mrs Scoreup; “cocks are free o’ horses’
corn; <em>I’ll</em> shake him,” making, as she
spoke, towards the unfortunate half-choked
Tammy.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Will ye, faith?” screamed Grizzy,
putting her arms akimbo. “Will ye
offer to lay a hand on my gudeman,
and me standing here? Come out this
minute, ye Jonadub, and come hame to
your ain house.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“No ae fit shall he steer frae this,”
cried Mrs Scoreup, slapping-to the
door, “till I see wha is to pay me for
the spoiling o’ my gude new girnel,
forby the meal that’s wasted.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“New girnel!” exclaimed Grizzy,
with a provoking sneer, “it’s about as
auld as yoursel, and as little worth.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ye ill-tongued randy!” cried Mrs
Scoreup, giving the ladle a most portentous
flourish.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Whisht, whisht, gudewife,” said
Robin; “say nae mair about it, we’ll
mak it up amang us; and now, Grizzy,
tak Tammy awa hame.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“It’s no right in you, Robin,” said
Grizzy, “to be filling Tammy fou, and
keeping decent folks out o’ their beds
till this time o’ night.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“It’s a’ Tammy’s faut,” replied
Robin; “for ye ken as well as me,
that when ance he begins to tell a story,
there’s nae such thing as stopping him;
he has been blethering about the Calton
hill at nae allowance.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The last words seemed to strike on
Tammy’s ear; who hiccuped out, “As
I cam ower the Calton hill—”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Will naebody stap a peat in that
man’s hause?” exclaimed Matthew Henderson.
“For ony sake, honest woman,
tak him awa, or we’ll be keepit on the
Calton hill the whole night.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Tak haud o’ me, Tammy,” said
Robin; “I’ll gang hame wi’ ye.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I can gang mysel,” said Tammy,
giving Robin a shove, and staggering
towards the door.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Gang yoursel!” cried Grizzy, as
she followed her helpmate; “ye dinna
look very like it:” and thus the party
broke up—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>And each went aff their separate way,</div>
      <div class='line'>Resolved to meet anither day.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='auchindrane_or_the_ayrshire_tragedy' class='c006'>AUCHINDRANE; OR, THE AYRSHIRE TRAGEDY.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By Sir Walter Scott.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>John Muir, or Mure, of Auchindrane,
was a gentleman of an ancient
family and good estate, in the west of
Scotland, bold, ambitious, treacherous
to the last degree, and utterly unconscientious,—a
Richard the Third in private
life, inaccessible alike to pity and
remorse. His view was to raise the
power and extend the grandeur of his
own family. This gentleman had married
the daughter of Thomas Kennedy
of Barganie, who was, excepting the
Earl of Cassilis, the most important
person in all Carrick, the district of
Ayrshire which he inhabited, and where
the name of Kennedy held so great a
sway as to give rise to the popular
rhyme,—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>’Twixt Wigton and the town of Ayr,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Portpatrick and the Cruives of Cree,</div>
      <div class='line'>No man need think for to bide there,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Unless he court the Kennedie.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c008'>Now, Muir of Auchindrane, who had
promised himself high advancement by
means of his father-in-law, saw, with
envy and resentment, that his influence
remained second and inferior to the
house of Cassilis, chief of all the
Kennedies. The Earl was indeed a
minor, but his authority was maintained
and his affairs well managed by his
uncle, Sir Thomas Kennedy of Culleyne,
the brother to the deceased earl, and
tutor and guardian to the present. This
worthy gentleman supported his nephew’s
dignity and the credit of the house
so effectually that Barganie’s consequence
was much thrown into the shade, and
the ambitious Auchindrane, his son-in-law,
saw no better remedy than to remove
so formidable a rival as Culleyne
by violent means.</p>

<p class='c008'>For this purpose, in the year 1597, he
came with a party of followers to the
town of Maybole (where Sir Thomas
Kennedy of Culleyne resided), and lay
in ambush in an orchard through which
he knew that his destined victim was to
pass, in returning homewards from a
house where he was engaged to sup.
Sir Thomas Kennedy came alone and
unattended, when he was suddenly
seized and fired upon by Auchindrane
and his accomplices, who, having missed
their aim, drew their swords and rushed
upon him to slay him. But the party
thus assailed at disadvantage had the
good fortune to hide himself for that
time in a ruinous house, where he lay
concealed till the inhabitants of the
place came to his assistance.</p>

<p class='c008'>Sir Thomas Kennedy prosecuted
Muir for this assault, who, finding himself
in danger from the law, made a
sort of apology and agreement with the
Lord of Culleyne, to whose daughter
he united his eldest son, in testimony of
the closest friendship in future. This
agreement was sincere on the part of
Kennedy, who, after it had been entered
into, showed himself Auchindrane’s
friend and assistant on all occasions.
But it was most false and treacherous
on that of Muir, who continued the
purpose of murdering his new friend
and ally on the first opportunity.</p>

<p class='c008'>Auchindrane’s first attempt to effect
this was by means of the young Gilbert
Kennedy of Barganie (for old Barganie,
Auchindrane’s father-in-law, was dead),
whom he persuaded to brave Cassilis,
as one who usurped an undue influence
over the rest of the name. Accordingly,
this hot-headed youth, at the instigation
of Auchindrane, rode past the gate of
the Earl of Cassilis without waiting on
his chief, or sending him any message
of civility. This led to mutual defiance,
being regarded by the earl, according
to the ideas of the time, as a personal
insult. Both parties took the field with
their followers, at the head of about
two hundred and fifty men on each
side. The action which ensued was
shorter and less bloody than might have
been expected. Young Barganie, with
the rashness of headlong courage, and
Auchindrane, fired by deadly enmity to
the house of Cassilis, made a precipitate
attack on the earl, whose men were
strongly posted and under cover. They
were received by a heavy fire. Barganie
was slain. Muir of Auchindrane,
severely wounded in the thigh, became
unable to sit on his horse, and the leaders
thus slain or disabled, their party drew
off without continuing the action. It
must be particularly observed that Sir
Thomas Kennedy remained neuter in
this quarrel, considering his connection
with Auchindrane as too intimate to be
broken even by his desire to assist his
nephew.</p>

<p class='c008'>For this temperate and honourable
conduct he met a vile reward; for
Auchindrane, in resentment of the loss
of his relative Barganie, and the downfall
of his ambitious hopes, continued his
practices against the life of Sir Thomas
of Culleyne, and chance favoured his
wicked purpose.</p>

<p class='c008'>The knight of Culleyne, finding himself
obliged to go to Edinburgh on a
particular day, sent a message by a servant
to Muir, in which he told him, in the
most unsuspecting confidence, the purpose
of his journey, and named the
road which he proposed to take, inviting
Muir to meet him at Duppill, to
the west of the town of Ayr, a place
appointed for the purpose of giving
him any commissions which he might
have for Edinburgh, and assuring his
treacherous ally he would attend to any
business which he might have in the
Scottish metropolis as anxiously as to
his own. Sir Thomas Kennedy’s
message was carried to the town of
Maybole, where his messenger, for some
trivial reason, had the import committed
to writing by a schoolmaster in
that town, and despatched it to its destination
by means of a poor student,
named Dalrymple, instead of carrying it
to the house of Auchindrane in person.</p>

<p class='c008'>This suggested to Muir a diabolical
plot. Having thus received tidings of
Sir Thomas Kennedy’s motions, he
conceived the infernal purpose of having
the confiding friend who sent the information
waylaid and murdered at the
place appointed to meet with him, not
only in friendship, but for the purpose
of rendering him service. He dismissed
the messenger Dalrymple, cautioning
the lad to carry back the letter to Maybole,
and to say that he had not found
him, Auchindrane, in his house. Having
taken this precaution, he proceeded
to instigate the brother of the slain
Gilbert of Barganie, Thomas Kennedy
of Drumurghie by name, and Walter
Muir of Cloncaird, a kinsman of his own,
to take this opportunity of revenging
Barganie’s death. The fiery young men
were easily induced to undertake the
crime. They waylaid the unsuspecting
Sir Thomas of Culleyne at the place
appointed to meet the traitor Auchindrane,
and the murderers having in
company five or six servants well
mounted and armed, assaulted and
cruelly murdered him with many
wounds.</p>

<p class='c008'>The revenge due for his uncle’s murder
was keenly pursued by the Earl of
Cassilis. As the murderers fled from
trial, they were declared outlaws;
which doom being pronounced by three
blasts of a horn, was called “being put
to the horn, and declared the king’s
rebel.” Muir of Auchindrane was
strongly suspected of having been the
instigator of the crime. But he conceived
there could be no evidence to
prove his guilt if he could keep the boy
Dalrymple out of the way, who delivered
the letter which made him acquainted
with Culleyne’s journey, and the place
at which he meant to halt. Muir
brought Dalrymple to his house, but the
youth tiring of this confinement, Muir
sent him to reside with a friend,
Montgomery of Skelmorley, who maintained
him under a borrowed name
amid the desert regions of the then
almost savage island of Arran. Being
confident in the absence of this material
witness, Auchindrane, instead of flying
like his agents Drumurghie and Cloncaird,
presented himself boldly at the
bar, demanded a fair trial, and offered
his person in combat to the death
against any of Lord Cassilis’ friends who
might impugn his innocence. This
audacity was successful, and he was
dismissed without trial.</p>

<p class='c008'>Still, however, Muir did not consider
himself safe so long as Dalrymple was
within the realm of Scotland; and the
danger grew more pressing, when he
learned that the lad had become impatient
of the restraint which he sustained
in the island of Arran, and
returned to some of his friends in
Ayrshire. Muir no sooner heard of
this than he again obtained possession
of the boy’s person, and a second time
concealed him in Auchindrane, until he
found an opportunity to transport him
to the Low Countries, where he contrived
to have him enlisted in Buccleuch’s
regiment; trusting, doubtless,
that some one of the numerous chances
of war might destroy the poor young
man whose life was so dangerous to
him.</p>

<p class='c008'>But after five or six years’ uncertain
safety, bought at the expense of so
much violence and cunning, Auchindrane’s
fears were exasperated with
frenzy, when he found this dangerous
witness, having escaped from all the
perils of climate and battle, had left,
or been discharged from, the Legion of
Borderers, and had again accomplished
his return to Ayrshire. There is ground
to suspect that Dalrymple knew the
nature of the hold which he possessed
over Auchindrane, and was desirous of
extorting from his fears some better
provision than he had found either in
Arran or the Netherlands. But, if so,
it was a fatal experiment to tamper
with the fears of such a man as Auchindrane,
who determined to rid himself
effectually of this unhappy young man.</p>

<p class='c008'>Muir now lodged him in a house of
his own, called Chapeldonan, tenanted
by a vassal and connection of his, named
James Bannatyne. This man he commissioned
to meet him at ten o’clock at
night, on the sea-sands, near Girvan,
and bring with him the unfortunate
Dalrymple, the object of his fear and
dread. The victim seems to have come
with Bannatyne without the least suspicion.
When Bannatyne and Dalrymple
came to the appointed spot,
Auchindrane met them, accompanied by
his eldest son James. Old Auchindrane,
having taken Bannatyne aside, imparted
his bloody purpose of ridding himself
of Dalrymple for ever, by murdering
him on the spot. His own life and
honour were, he said, endangered by
the manner in which this inconvenient
witness repeatedly thrust himself back
into Ayrshire, and nothing could secure
his safety but taking the lad’s life, in
which action he requested James Bannatyne’s
assistance. Bannatyne felt
some compunction, and remonstrated
against the cruel expedient, saying it
would be better to transport Dalrymple
to Ireland, and take precautions against
his return. While old Auchindrane
seemed disposed to listen to this proposal,
his son concluded that the time
was come for accomplishing the purpose
of their meeting, and without
waiting the termination of his father’s
conference with Bannatyne, he rushed
suddenly on Dalrymple, beat him to
the ground, and kneeling down upon
him, with his father’s assistance accomplished
the crime, by strangling the unhappy
object of their fear and jealousy.
Bannatyne, the witness, and partly the
accomplice, of the murder, assisted
them in their attempt to make a hole
in the sand with a spade which they
had brought on purpose, in order to
conceal the dead body. But as the
tide was coming in, the hole which
they made filled with water before they
could get the body buried; and the
ground seemed, to their terrified consciences,
to refuse to be accessory to
concealing their crime. Despairing of
hiding the corpse in the manner they
proposed, the murderers carried it out
into the sea as deep as they dared wade,
and there abandoned it to the billows,
trusting that the wind, which was
blowing off the shore, would drive these
remains of their crime out to sea, where
they would never more be heard of.
But the sea, as well as the land, seemed
unwilling to conceal their cruelty. After
floating for some hours, or days, the
body was, by the wind and tide, again
driven on shore, near the very spot
where the murder had been committed.</p>

<p class='c008'>This attracted general attention; and
when the corpse was known to be that
of the same William Dalrymple whom
Auchindrane had so often spirited out of
the country, or concealed when he was in
it, a strong and general suspicion arose
that this young person had met with
foul play from the bold bad man, who
had shown himself so much interested
in his absence. Auchindrane, indeed,
found himself so much the object of
suspicion from this new crime that he
resolved to fly from justice, and suffer
himself to be declared a rebel and an
outlaw rather than face a trial. He
accordingly sought to provide himself
with some ostensible cause for avoiding
the law, with which the feelings of
his kindred and friends might sympathise;
and none occurred to him as
so natural as an assault upon some
friend and adherent of the Earl of
Cassilis. Should he kill such a one, it
would be indeed an unlawful action,
but so far from being infamous, would
be accounted the natural consequence
of the avowed quarrel between the
families. With this purpose, Muir,
with the assistance of a relative, of
whom he seems always to have had
some ready to execute his worst purposes,
beset Hugh Kennedy of Garriehorne,
a follower of the earl, against
whom they had especial ill-will, fired
their pistols at him, and used other
means to put him to death. But
Garriehorne, a stout-hearted man and
well-armed, defended himself in a very
different manner from the unfortunate
knight of Culleyne, and beat off the
assailants, wounding young Auchindrane
in the right hand, so that he wellnigh
lost the use of it.</p>

<p class='c008'>But though Auchindrane’s purpose
did not entirely succeed, he availed
himself of it to circulate a report that if
he could obtain a pardon for firing upon
his feudal enemy with pistols, weapons
declared unlawful by Act of Parliament,
he would willingly stand his trial for
the death of Dalrymple, respecting
which he protested his total innocence.
The king, however, was decidedly of
opinion that the Muirs, both father and
son, were alike guilty of both crimes,
and used intercession with the Earl of
Abercorn, as a person of power in these
western counties, as well as in Ireland,
to arrest and transmit them prisoners
to Edinburgh. In consequence of the
Earl’s exertions, old Auchindrane was
made prisoner, and lodged in the Tolbooth
of Edinburgh.</p>

<p class='c008'>Young Auchindrane no sooner heard
that his father was in custody, than he
became as apprehensive of Bannatyne,
the accomplice in Dalrymple’s murder,
telling tales, as ever his father had been
of Dalrymple. He therefore hastened
to him, and prevailed on him to pass
over for a while to the neighbouring
coast of Ireland, finding him money
and means to accomplish the voyage,
and engaging in the meantime to take
care of his affairs in Scotland. Secure,
as they thought, in this precaution, old
Auchindrane persisted in his innocence,
and his son found security to stand his
trial. Both appeared with the same
confidence at the day appointed. The
trial was, however, postponed, and Muir
the elder dismissed, under high security
to return when called for.</p>

<p class='c008'>But King James, being convinced of
the guilt of the accused, ordered young
Auchindrane, instead of being sent to
trial, to be examined under the force
of torture, in order to compel him to
tell whatever he knew of the things
charged against him. He was accordingly
severely tortured; but the result
only served to show that such examinations
are as useless as they are cruel.</p>

<p class='c008'>Young Auchindrane, a strong and
determined ruffian, endured the torture
with the utmost firmness, and by the
constant audacity with which, in spite
of the intolerable pain, he continued
to assert his innocence, he spread so
favourable an opinion of his case, that
the detaining him in prison, instead of
bringing him to open trial, was censured
as severe and oppressive. James,
however, remained firmly persuaded of
his guilt, and by an exertion of authority
quite inconsistent with our present
laws, commanded young Auchindrane
to be still detained in close custody till
further light could be thrown on these
dark proceedings.</p>

<p class='c008'>In the meanwhile, old Auchindrane
being, as we have seen, at liberty on
pledges, skulked about in the west,
feeling how little security he had gained
by Dalrymple’s murder, and that he
had placed himself by that crime in the
power of Bannatyne, whose evidence
concerning the death of Dalrympie
could not be less fatal than what Dalrymple
might have told concerning
Auchindrane’s accession to the conspiracy
against Sir Thomas Kennedy
of Culleyne. But though the event had
shown the error of his wicked policy,
Auchindrane could think of no better
mode in this case than that which had
failed in relation to Dalrymple. When
any man’s life became inconsistent with
his own safety, no idea seems to have
occurred to this inveterate ruffian save
to murder the person by whom he might
himself be any way endangered. Bannatyne,
knowing with what sort of men
he had to deal, kept on his guard, and
by this caution disconcerted more than
one attempt to take his life. At length
Bannatyne, tiring of this state of insecurity,
and in despair of escaping
such repeated plots, and also feeling
remorse for the crime to which he had
been accessory, resolved rather to submit
himself to the severity of the law
than remain the object of the principal
criminal’s practices. He surrendered
himself to the Earl of Abercorn, and
was conveyed to Edinburgh, where he
confessed before the king and council
all the particulars of the murder of
Dalrymple, and the attempt to hide
his body by committing it to the
sea.</p>

<p class='c008'>When Bannatyne was confronted with
the two Muirs before the Privy Council,
they denied with vehemence every part
of the evidence he had given, and
affirmed that the witness had been
bribed to destroy them by a false
tale. Bannatyne’s behaviour seemed
sincere and simple, that of Auchindrane
more resolute and crafty. The
wretched accomplice fell upon his knees,
invoking God to witness that all the
land in Scotland could not have bribed
him to bring a false accusation against a
master whom he had served, loved, and
followed in so many dangers, and calling
upon Auchindrane to honour God
by confessing the crime he had committed.
Muir the elder, on the other
hand, boldly replied, that he hoped
God would not so far forsake him as to
permit him to confess a crime of which
he was innocent, and exhorted Bannatyne
in his turn to confess the practices
by which he had been induced to devise
such falsehoods against him.</p>

<p class='c008'>The two Muirs, father and son, were
therefore put upon their solemn trial,
along with Bannatyne, in 1611, and after a
great deal of evidence had been brought
in support of Bannatyne’s confession,
all three were found guilty. The elder
Auchindrane was convicted of counselling
and directing the murder of Sir
Thomas Kennedy of Culleyne, and also
of the actual murder of the lad Dalrymple.
Bannatyne and the younger
Muir were found guilty of the latter
crime, and all three were sentenced to
be beheaded. Bannatyne, however, the
accomplice, received the king’s pardon,
in consequence of his voluntary surrender
and confession. The two Muirs
were both executed. The younger was
affected by the remonstrances of the
clergy who attended him, and he confessed
the guilt of which he was accused.
The father also was at length brought
to avow the fact, but in other respects
died as impenitent as he had lived;
and so ended this dark and extraordinary
tragedy.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='a_tale_of_the_plague_in_edinburgh' class='c006'>A TALE OF THE PLAGUE IN EDINBURGH.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By Robert Chambers, LL.D.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>In several parts of Scotland, such
things are to be found as “tales” of the
Plague. Amidst so much human suffering
as the events of a pestilence necessarily
involved, it is of course to be
supposed that, occasionally, circumstances
would occur of a peculiarly disastrous
and affecting description,—that
many loving hearts would be torn
asunder, or laid side by side in the
grave, many orphans left desolate, and
patriarchs bereft of all their descendants,
and that cases of so painful a sort as
called forth greater compassion at the
time, would be remembered, after much
of the ordinary details was generally
forgotten. The celebrated story of Bessy
Bell and Mary Gray is a case in point. So
romantic, so mournful a tale, appealing
as it does to every bosom, could not
fail to be commemorated, even though
it had been destitute of the great charm
of locality. Neither could such a tale
of suffering and horror as that of the
Teviotdale shepherd’s family ever be
forgotten in the district where it
occurred,—interesting at it is, has been,
and will be, to every successive
generation of mothers, and duly listened
to and shuddered at by so many
infantine audiences. In the course
of our researches, we have likewise
picked up a few extraordinary circumstances
connected with the last visit
paid by the plague to Edinburgh; which,
improbable as they may perhaps appear,
we believe to be, to a certain extent,
allied to truth, and shall now submit
them to our readers.</p>

<p class='c008'>When Edinburgh was afflicted, for
the last time, with the pestilence,
such was its effect upon the energies of
the citizens, and so long was its continuance,
that the grass grew on the
principal street, and even at the Cross,
though that Scottish Rialto was then
perhaps the most crowded thoroughfare
in Britain. Silence, more than that
of the stillest midnight, pervaded the
streets during the day. The sunlight
fell upon the quiet houses as it falls on
a line of sombre and neglected tombstones
in some sequestered churchyard—gilding,
but not altering, their desolate
features. The area of the High
Street, on being entered by a stranger,
might have been contemplated with
feelings similar to those with which
Christian, in the “Pilgrim’s Progress,”
viewed the awful courtyard of Giant
Despair; for, as in that well-imagined
scene, the very ground bore the marks
of wildness and desolation; every window
around, like the loopholes of the dungeons
in Doubting Castle, seemed to
tell its tale of misery within, and the
whole seemed to lie prostrate and
powerless under the dominion of an
unseen demon, which fancy might have
conceived as stalking around in a bodily
form, leisurely dooming its subjects to
successive execution.</p>

<p class='c008'>When the pestilence was at its greatest
height, a strange perplexity began, and
not without reason, to take possession
of the few physicians and nurses who
attended the sick. It was customary
for the distempered to die, or, as the
rare case happened, to recover, on a
particular day after having first exhibited
symptoms of illness. This was an
understood rule of the plague, which
had never been known to fail. All at
once, it began to appear that a good
many people, especially those who were
left alone in their houses by the death or
desertion of friends, died before the
arrival of the critical day. In some of
these cases, not only was the rule of the
disease broken, but, what vexed the
physicians more, the powers of medicine
seemed to have been set at defiance;
for several patients of distinction, who
had been able to purchase good attendance
and were therefore considered as in
less than ordinary danger, were found to
have expired after taking salutary drugs,
and being left with good hopes by their
physicians. It almost seemed as if some
new disease were beginning to engraft
itself upon the pestilence—a new feature
rising upon its horrid aspect. Subtle
and fatal as it formerly was, it was now
inconceivably more so. It could formerly
be calculated upon; but it was now
quite arbitrary and precarious. Medicine
had lost its power over it. God,
who created it in its first monstrous
form, appeared to have endowed it with
an additional sting, against which feeble
mortality could present no competent
shield. Physicians beheld its new ravages
with surprise and despair; and a
deeper shade of horror was spread, in
consequence, over the public mind.</p>

<p class='c008'>As an air of more than natural mystery
seemed to accompany this truly
calamitous turn of affairs, it was, of
course, to be expected, in that superstitious
age, that many would attribute
it to a more than natural cause. By
the ministers, it was taken for an
additional manifestation of God’s wrath,
and as such held forth in not a few
pulpits, accompanied with all the due
exhortations to a better life, which it
was not unlikely would be attended
with good effect among the thin congregations
of haggard and terrified
scarecrows, who persisted in meeting
regularly at places of worship. The
learned puzzled themselves with conjectures
as to its probable causes and
cures; while the common people gave
way to the most wild and fanciful
surmises, almost all of which were as
far from the truth. The only popular
observation worthy of any attention,
was that the greater part of those who
suffered from this new disease died
during the night, and all of them while
unattended.</p>

<p class='c008'>Not many days after the alarm first
arose, a poor woman arrested a physician
in the street, and desired to confer
with him a brief space. He at first
shook her off, saying he was at present
completely engaged, and could take no
new patients. But when she informed
him that she did not desire his attendance,
and only wished to communicate
something which might help to clear up
the mystery of the late premature deaths,
he stopped and lent a patient ear. She
told him that on the previous night,
having occasion to leave her house, in
order to visit a sick neighbour, who lay
upon a lonely death-bed in the second
flat below her own garret, she took a
lamp in her hand, that she might the better
find her way down. As she descended the
stair, which she described as a “turnpike,”
or spiral one, she heard a low and
inexpressibly doleful moan, as if proceeding
from the house of her neighbour,—such
a moan, she said, as she had ever
heard proceed from any of the numerous
death-beds it had been her lot to
attend. She hastened faster down the
stair than her limbs were well able to
carry her, under the idea that her friend
was undergoing some severe suffering,
which she might be able to alleviate.
Before, however, she had reached the
first landing-place, a noise, as of footsteps,
arose from the house of pain, and
caused her to apprehend that all was
not right in a house which she knew no
one ever visited, in that time of desolation,
but herself. She quickened her
pace still more than before, and soon
reached the landing-place at her neighbour’s
door. Something, as she expressed
it, seeming to “swoof” down the
stair, like the noise of a full garment
brushing the walls of a narrow passage,
she drew in the lamp, and looking
down beyond it, saw what she conceived
to be the dark drapery of the
back of a tall human figure, loosely
clad, moving, or rather gliding, out of
sight, and in a moment gone. So uncertain
was she at first of the reality of
what she saw, that she believed it to be
the shadow of the central pile of the
stair gliding downwards as she brought
round the light; but the state of matters
in the inside of the house soon convinced
her, to her horror, that it must have
been something more dreadful and
real—the unfortunate woman being
dead; though as yet it was three days
till the time when, according to the old
rules of the disease, she might have
lived or died. The physician heard this
story with astonishment; but as it only
informed his mind, which was not free
from superstition, that the whole matter
was becoming more and more mysterious,
he drew no conclusions from it; but
simply observing, with a professional
shake of the head, that all was not
right in the town, went upon his way.</p>

<p class='c008'>The old woman, who, of course, could
not be expected to let so good a subject
of gossip and wonderment lie idle in
her mind, like the guinea kept by the
Vicar of Wakefield’s daughters, forthwith
proceeded to dissipate it abroad
among her neighbours, who soon (to
follow out the idea of the coin) reduced
it into still larger and coarser pieces,
and paid it away, in that exaggerated
form, to a wider circle of neighbours,
by whom it was speedily dispersed in
various shapes over the whole town.
The popular mind, like the ear of a
sick man, being then peculiarly sensitive,
received the intelligence with a
degree of alarm, such as the news of a
lost battle has not always occasioned
amongst a people; and, as the atmosphere
is best calculated for the conveyance
of sound during the time of frost, so
did the air of the plague seem peculiarly
well fitted for the propagation of this
fearful report. The whole of the people
were impressed, on hearing the story,
with a feeling of undefined awe, mixed
with horror. The back of a tall figure,
in dark long clothes, seen but for a
moment! There was a picturesque
indistinctness in the description, which
left room for the imagination; taken in
conjunction, too, with the moan heard
at first by the old woman on the stair,
and the demise of the sick woman at
the very time, it was truly startling.
To add to the panic, a report arose
next day, that the figure had been seen
on the preceding evening, by different
persons, flitting about various stairs and
alleys, always in the shade, and disappearing
immediately after being first
perceived. An idea began to prevail
that it was the image of Death—Death,
who had thus come in his personated
form, to a city which seemed to have
been placed so peculiarly under his
dominion, in order to execute his office
with the greater promptitude. It was
thought, if so fantastic a dream may be
assigned to the thinking faculty, that
the grand destroyer, who, in ordinary
times is invisible, might, perhaps, have
the power of rendering himself palpable
to the sight in cases where he approached
his victims under circumstances
of peculiar horror; and this
wild imagination was the more fearful,
inasmuch as it was supposed that, with
the increase of the mortality, he would
become more and more distinctly visible,
till, perhaps, after having despatched
all, he would burst forth in open triumph,
and roam at large throughout a
city of desolation.</p>

<p class='c008'>It happened on the second day after
the rise of this popular fancy, that an
armed ship, of a very singular construction,
and manned by a crew of strangely
foreign-looking men, entered Leith
harbour. It was a Barbary rover;
but the crew showed no intention of
hostility to the town of Leith, though
at the present pass it would have fallen
an easy prey to their arms, being quite
as much afflicted with the pestilence as
its metropolitan neighbour. A detachment
of the crew, comprising one who
appeared to be the commander, immediately
landed, and proceeded to
Edinburgh, which they did not scruple
to enter. They inquired for the provost,
and, on being conducted to the
presence of that dignitary, their chief
disclosed their purpose in thus visiting
Edinburgh, which was the useful one
of supplying it in its present distress
with a cargo of drugs, approved in the
East for their efficacy against the plague,
and a few men who could undertake to
administer them properly to the sick.
The provost heard this intelligence with
overflowing eyes; for, besides the
anxiety he felt about the welfare of the
city, he was especially interested in the
health of his daughter, an only child,
who happened to be involved in the
common calamity. The terms proposed
by the Africans were somewhat
exorbitant. They demanded to have
the half of the wealth of those whom
they restored to health. But the
provost told them that he believed
many of the most wealthy citizens
would be glad to employ them on
these terms; and, for his own part,
he was willing to sacrifice anything he
had, short of his salvation, for the benefit
of his daughter. Assured of at least the
safety of their persons and goods, the
strangers drew from the ship a large
quantity of medicines, and began that
very evening to attend as physicians
those who chose to call them in. The
captain—a man in the prime of life, and
remarkable amongst the rest for his
superior dress and bearing—engaged
himself to attend the provost’s daughter,
who had now nearly reached the crisis
of the distemper, and hitherto had not
been expected to survive.</p>

<p class='c008'>The house of Sir John Smith, the
provost of Edinburgh, in the year 1645,
was situated in the Cap-and-Feather
close, an alley occupying the site of the
present North Bridge. The bottom of
this alley being closed, there was no
thoroughfare or egress towards the
North Loch; but the provost’s house
possessed this convenience, being the
tenement which closed the lower extremity,
and having a back-door that
opened upon an alley to the eastward,
namely, Halkerston’s Wynd. This
house was, at the time we speak of,
crammed full of valuable goods, plate,
&#38;c., which had been deposited in the
provost’s hands by many of his afflicted
fellow-citizens, under the impression that,
if they survived, he was honest enough
to restore them unimpaired, and, if otherwise,
he was worthy to inherit them.
His daughter, who had been seized
before it was found possible to remove
her from the town, lay in a little room
at the back of the house, which, besides
one door opening from the large staircase
in the front, had also a more private
entry communicating with the narrower
and obsolete “turnpike” behind.
At that time, little precaution was taken
anywhere in Scotland about the locking
of doors. To have the door simply
closed, so that the fairies could not
enter, was in general considered sufficient,
as it is at the present day in
many remote parts. In Edinburgh,
during the time of the plague, the
greatest indifference to security of this
sort prevailed. In general, the doors
were left unlocked from within, in order
to admit the cleansers, or any charitable
neighbour who might come to minister
to the bed-rid sick. This was not
exactly the case in Sir John Smith’s
house; for the main-door was scrupulously
locked, with a view to the safety
of the goods committed to his charge.
Nevertheless, from neglect, or from
want of apprehension, the posterior
entrance was afterwards found to have
been not so well secured.</p>

<p class='c008'>The Barbary physician had administered
a potion to his patient soon after
his admission into the house. He knew
that symptoms either favourable or unfavourable
would speedily appear, and
he therefore resolved to remain in the
room in order to watch the result.
About midnight, as he sat in a remote
corner of the room, looking towards the
bed upon which his charge was extended,
while a small lamp burned upon
a low table between, he was suddenly
surprised to observe something like a
dark cloud, unaccompanied by any
noise, interpose itself slowly and gradually
between his eyes and the bed.
He at first thought that he was deceived,—that
he was beginning to fall
asleep,—or that the strange appearance
was occasioned by some peculiarity
of the light, which, being placed almost
directly between him and the bed,
caused him to see the latter object very
indistinctly. He was soon undeceived
by hearing a noise,—the slightest possible,—and
perceiving something like
motion in the ill-defined lineaments of
the apparition. “Gracious Heaven!”
thought he, “can this be the angel of
death hovering over his victim, preparing
to strike the mortal blow, and
ready to receive the departing soul into
the inconceivable recesses of its awful
form?” It almost appeared as if the
cloud stooped over the bed for the performance
of this task. Presently, the
patient uttered a half-suppressed sigh,
and then altogether ceased the regular
respirations, which had hitherto been
monotonous and audible throughout the
room. The awe-struck attendant could
contain himself no longer, but permitted
a sort of cry to escape him, and started
to his feet. The cloud instantly, as it
were, rose from its inclined posture
over the bed, turned hastily round,
and, in a moment contracting itself
into a human shape, glided softly, but
hastily, from the apartment. “Ha!”
thought the African, “I have known
such personages as this in Aleppo.
These angels of death are sometimes
found to be mortal themselves—I shall
pursue and try.” He, therefore, quickly
followed the phantom through the private
door by which it had escaped, not
forgetting to seize his semicircular sword
in passing the table where it lay. The
stair was dark and steep; but he kept
his feet till he reached the bottom.
Casting, then, a hasty glance around
him, he perceived a shadow vanish
from the moon-lit ground, at an angle
of the house, and instantly started forward
in the pursuit. He soon found himself
in the open wynd above-mentioned,
along which he supposed the mysterious
object to have gone. All here was dark;
but being certain of the course adopted
by the pursued party, he did not hesitate
a moment in plunging headlong
down its steep profundity. He was confirmed
in his purpose by immediately
afterwards observing, at some distance
in advance, a small jet of moonlight,
proceeding from a side alley, obscured
for a second by what he conceived to
be the transit of a large dark object.
This he soon also reached, and finding
that his own person caused a similar
obscurity, he was confirmed in his conjecture
that the apparition bore a substantial
form. Still forward and downward
he boldly rushed, till, reaching
an open area at the bottom, part of
which was lighted by the moon, he
plainly saw, at the distance of about
thirty yards before him, the figure as of
a tall man, loosely enveloped in a prodigious
cloak, gliding along the ground,
and apparently making for a small
bridge, which at this particular place
crossed the drain of the North Loch,
and served as a communication with
the village called the Mutries Hill.
He made directly for the fugitive,
thinking to overtake him almost before
he could reach the bridge. But what
was his surprise, when in a moment the
flying object vanished from his sight,
as if it had sunk into the ground, and
left him alone and objectless in his
headlong pursuit. It was possible that
it had fallen into some concealed well
or pit, but this he was never able to
discover.</p>

<p class='c008'>Bewildered and confused, he at
length returned to the provost’s house,
and re-entered the apartment of the
sick maiden. To his delight and astonishment
he found her already in a state
of visible convalescence, with a gradually
deepening glow of health diffusing
itself over her cheek. Whether his
courage and fidelity had been the means
of scaring away the evil demon it is
impossible to say; but certain it is, that
the ravages of the plague began soon
afterwards to decline in Edinburgh, and
at length died away altogether.</p>

<p class='c008'>The conclusion of this singular traditionary
story bears that the provost’s
daughter, being completely restored to
health, was married to the foreigner
who had saved her life. This seems
to have been the result of an affection
which they had conceived for each other
during the period of her convalescence.
The African, becoming joint-heir with
his wife of the provost’s vast property,
abandoned his former piratical life,
became, it is said, a douce Presbyterian,
and settled down for the remainder of
his days in Edinburgh. The match
turned out exceedingly well; and it is
even said that the foreigner became so
assimilated with the people of Edinburgh,
to whom he had proved so memorable
a benefactor, that he held at one time
an office of considerable civic dignity
and importance. Certain it is, that he
built for his residence a magnificent
“land” near the head of the Canongate,
upon the front of which he caused to be
erected a statue of the emperor of
Barbary, in testimony of the respect he
still cherished for his native country;
and this memorial yet remains in its
original niche, as a subsidiary proof of
the verity of the above relation.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='the_probationers_first_sermon' class='c006'>THE PROBATIONER’S FIRST SERMON.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By Daniel Gorrie.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>On a cold March evening, and in the
metropolis of Scotland, I received
licence as a probationer. The reverend
fathers of the Presbytery were so satisfied
with my orthodoxy that they gave
me most cordially the right hand of
fellowship, and warmly wished me
success. I had half-anticipated a reprimand
for heretical tendencies; but
as no censure was uttered, I was at
once overcome by their kindness, and
charmed with their unexpected liberality.
I hastened home to receive the
congratulations of my friends, and then I
repaired to a clothier’s for a suit of
canonical blacks. My mother had
already provided a boxful of white
cravats sufficient to supply the whole
bench of bishops. To err is human,
and it is also human for a humble man to
feel considerably elated in certain circumstances,
and at certain times.</p>

<p class='c008'>I need not be ashamed to confess
that a new dignity seemed to rest upon
me, like the mantle of the prophet, on
that eventful evening. I saw the reflection
of my face on the bowl of a
silver spoon, and wondered at the resemblance
it bore to the bold, heroic
countenance of Edward Irving. High
were my hopes, and few were my fears,
for I only expected to speak and conquer.
The responsibilities of the profession
were great, I knew, but they
only cast their shadow before. The
kind of life on which I was about to
enter possessed all the attractions of
novelty. I was to exchange passivity
for action—the quiet of the cloister for
the stir of the field. Yet, while thus I
thought of the battle, and made my
vows, the still picture of a rural manse,
girdled with incense-breathing flowerplots,
and shaded with murmuring trees,
stole upon my slumbers ere I awoke at
the dawn of the next day—a vision,
alas! too often resembling the unreal
beauty of the mirage in the desert.</p>

<p class='c008'>It may be pardoned in a novitiate,
standing on the threshold, if I saw only
the sunny side of preacher-life. Spring
was coming, like Miriam and her maidens,
with timbrels and with dances, and
the golden summer-tide was following
in her wake, and I knew that I would
look on many lovely scenes, receive
kindness from strangers, enjoy the
hospitality of the humble, and haply
sow some seeds of goodness and truth
in receptive hearts.</p>

<p class='c008'>I had frequently heard strange stories
about preachers, and several times I
had met some curious specimens of the
class. One, it was said, travelled over
the country with a sermon and a-half
and a tobacco-pipe. Another, it was
averred, carried neither parchments nor
portmanteau, went gadding abroad, and
was in fact the generalissimo of gossips.
A third poked his nose into presses,
supped jelly and jam, pocketed lumps
of sugar, and performed other absurdities
not at all creditable to his cloth. I had
also learned from ministers’ wives in the
country, that some were as unsocial
and morose as turnkeys, and others quite
the reverse—lively young fellows, who
could rock the cradle, and keep all the
children in high glee. It was necessary
for me, then, I felt, to be circumspect,
to abstain from all eccentricities, to be
sociable among social people, and dignified
when occasion required. Experience
soon taught me that a joke from clerical
lips sounds like profanity in the
ears of the rigidly righteous. A kind
friend told me to beware of elders who
wished to discuss the doctrine of reprobation,
and to avoid walking arm-in-arm
with any rural beauty.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Were you, in your unsuspecting innocence,”
he said, “to commit this
last enormity, the village gossips would
tell it to the beadle, the beadle to the
managers, the managers to the elders,
and your glory would depart.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The advice was a wise one, as I afterwards
found; but gallantry is more a
characteristic of youth than prudence.</p>

<p class='c008'>I had prepared a considerable supply
of discourses. They were elaborately
written, and I looked with paternal
affection upon the companions of my
future wanderings. I shunned those
dry doctrinal discussions which shed so
sweet an opiate over the eyes of old,
young, and middle-aged. The topics
selected were such as I believed would
interest and instruct all classes of people.
I had enlarged upon the zeal and self-sacrifice
of the sainted men of old,
pictured the Holy One silent in the
death chamber, and weeping at the
tomb, and drawn illustrations from the
heavens above, and the earth beneath.
Something fresh was needed, I thought—a
Christianity rich in blossoms as in
fruit.</p>

<p class='c008'>I received an appointment for the
first Sabbath after licence, and on
Saturday afternoon I was rattling along
Princes’ Street in the Queensferry omnibus.
A small town across the Firth,
in the kingdom of Fife, not far from
the coast, was my destination. Although
the sermon I was to deliver on the
morrow had been well committed to
memory, and frequently declaimed
during the week, yet I found myself
conning it over again ere we had crossed
the Dean Bridge, and certain passages
became mysteriously blended in my
mind with the images of Craigcrook
and Corstorphine. Then I began to wonder
if the other passengers suspected I
was a preacher on my maiden expedition.
One woman was occupied in gazing
very fondly upon the face of a dozing
child three months old; a red-faced,
purple-nosed old gentleman was sucking
the round head of a walking-stick; a
stout elderly lady seemed to find the
leathern cushion very uncomfortable,
since of her down-sitting and up-rising
there was no end; a young gentleman
of the Tittlebat Titmouse tribe breathed
heavily, and at intervals snored; and a
young lady, my <em>vis-a-vis</em> in the opposite
corner, was the only one who seemed
really to be aware of my presence, and
the only one who appeared willing to
break the unsocial silence. I remembered
my friend’s advice, and was
somewhat afraid to speak. Besides,
heads, and particulars, and practical
applications, were making such a thoroughfare
of my mind, that there was
considerable danger of committing absurd
mistakes in conversation. I became
really sorry for the young lady, she
looked at me so inquiringly, and seemed
so anxious that I should speak. There
was a keen frost in the air, and one or
two outsiders were flapping their hands
across their shoulders—might I not say
that the afternoon was cold? Gray-white
clouds were gathering from
horizon to horizon and dimming the
day—might I not suggest the possibility
of snow? Suddenly the light wavering
crystals slid down the window-glass, and
with uplifted eyebrows and look of
innocent surprise, the fair young
traveller exclaimed, “Oh! it snows.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“So it does, ma’am,” I rejoined,
and spoke no more.</p>

<p class='c008'>She might think of me that evening
as very silent or very surly; but she
no doubt changed her opinion next day,
for I saw her sitting in the front gallery
of the church when I rose to give
out the first psalm.</p>

<p class='c008'>In crossing the ferry, I thought not
of the royal dames and princely pageants
that so often in the days of other years
passed to and from the shores of Fife.
The waters of the Forth were dreary
enough. Inchcolm and the opposite
coast were shrouded from view in the
streaming skirts of the snow-clouds.
I rolled myself up in a corner of the
boat where no deacon’s eye could intrude,
and warmed my heart with a
cigar. Then some limping fiend whispered
in my ears the awful words,
“What if you should <em>stick</em>?” Once I
had witnessed an unfortunate being in
that painful predicament in the pulpit.
I had marked, with sickening apprehensions,
the string of unconnected sentences,
the hesitation, the pallor overspreading
his face, the terrible stammer,
the convulsive clutch, the pause, the
sudden gulp, the dead stop, and portentous
silence. A “stickit minister,”
like Dominie Sampson, is nothing to a
preacher who “sticks.” It was a horrid
idea. I resisted the fiend, knit my
brow, clenched my fist, and determined
to speak or die. “Always keep your
mouth open,” was the charge of a
learned divine to his son, and the words
afforded me much consolation.</p>

<p class='c008'>The night was falling fast, and the
snow was falling faster when I reached
the outskirts of the little inland town
where I had been appointed to officiate.
Here my rapid march was arrested by
an elderly man who inquired if I was
the expected preacher, and receiving an
answer in the affirmative, he relieved
me of my portmanteau, which contained
my precious parchment, and led the way
to my lodgings. He gave me to understand
that he was the beadle, and that
I was to lodge with Mrs M‘Bain, who
kept a small grocery shop, and had a
room to spare in her house. The congregation,
with much saving grace, had
let the manse until a new minister was
obtained. Old John, like the great
proportion of country beadles, was a
simple, decent man, and a sort of character
in his way. He was particularly
inquisitive, and asked me some very
plain questions as we trudged along the
narrow street, getting gradually whitened
by the falling snow. He told me
that my predecessor on the previous
Sabbath was a very clever young man,
but only a “wee thocht new-fangled.”
From further inquiry I found that the
learned Theban had been astonishing
John and several members of the congregation
by describing the revolution
of the earth on its axis.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Noo, sir,” said the worthy beadle,
“can ye tell me, if the world is aye
whirlin’ round aboot, what’s the reason
we never come to the warm countries?”</p>

<p class='c008'>I endeavoured to make the matter
plain to his apprehension by supposing
a rotatory motion of the human head,
and the nose always maintaining its
dignified position in the centre between
the right ear and the left—an illustration
which honest John did not seem
to regard as satisfactory in the slightest
degree.</p>

<p class='c008'>Mrs M‘Bain’s house was of a very
humble description; but she appeared
to be a tidy woman, and the room
allotted to me, though small, was clean
and comfortable. John put down my
portmanteau on a chair, with the mien
and manner of one who has done his
duty, and informed me that one of the
elders and the precentor would likely
call in a short time. For the precentor
I was perfectly prepared, knowing well
the psalms that would best suit my discourse;
but I was not so sure what
motive an elder could have for visiting
me on a Saturday night. I inwardly
hoped, at least, that if he did make his
appearance, he would have the good
sense not to trouble me long with his
presence or his conversation, as I was
again anxious to rehearse my discourse
to silent chairs and an attentive table.</p>

<p class='c008'>When Mrs M‘Bain was placing the
tea-dishes on the table, she seemed disposed
for a little talk, while I, on the
contrary, was not at all in a communicative
mood. However, she persevered,
and drew me on by degrees, until at last
she brought a series of queries to a
climax by asking if I had been long a
preacher. Now, this was a most absurd
question for me to answer in my peculiar
circumstances. If the people knew
that I had never “wagged my head in
a poupit” before, they would be sure to
listen to me with the most dreadful
silence, so that the slightest stammer
would be multiplied and magnified by
a hundred echoes. What was to be
done? The question must be answered,
and the truth must be told, despite the
consequences. Mustering up courage, I
told my landlady how the matter stood.
Astonished she was, as might naturally
have been expected. She uplifted her
eyebrows, opened wide her eyes, drew
a long breath, and said—“Dearie me,
sir, ye’ll be awfu’ feared!” With this
ejaculation, which afforded me little
consolation indeed, Mrs M‘Bain left the
apartment, and I knew that the tidings
would be over the town, and talked
about at every fireside in less than
twenty minutes. It could not be
helped; courage and resignation alone
were required.</p>

<p class='c008'>I had just finished swallowing in haste
three cups of very hot tea, when the
precentor entered. He was a man past
middle age, with a countenance somewhat
grim and gaunt, and a very unmusical
mouth. His hair was sandy-coloured,
and he was Sawney all over.
I saw at once, from his steady stare,
and the peculiar expression of his face,
that Mrs M‘Bain had communicated to
him the very pleasant intelligence that
the new arrival was a “green hand.”
He was not long in making me know
that he was aware of the fact, although
he did so in a very cautious, provoking
kind of style. When the ice was fairly
broken, he said, “It’s a kittle thing
standin’ up afore an audience the first
time. I mind fine yet what an awfu’
state I was in when I first sang i’ the
desk. I kent the Auld Hunderd as
weel as I kent my mither; but I wasna
lang begun when I ran awa’ wi’ the
harrows.” This kind of talk was rapidly
becoming unendurable, and I entertained
anything but a Christian sentiment
of brotherly love towards the
conductor of the psalmody.</p>

<p class='c008'>“How long have you acted as precentor,”
I enquired, anxious to change
the current of conversation.</p>

<p class='c008'>“I’ve precented in oor kirk,” he
replied, “for twunty years, and, barrin’
three days last simmer, I’ve never
missed a Sabbath.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“That is very extraordinary,” I
rejoined; “and what was wrong with
you last summer?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Weel, sir, ye see I was howkin’
tatties for the denner in oor yaird ae
day, when I coupit ower a skep by
mistake, and I was awfu’ stung by
bees.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Dear me,” I rejoined (for I could
not resist such a favourable opportunity
of stinging him again), “it was curious
how the bees should have taken you for
a drone!”</p>

<p class='c008'>This remark had the desired effect.
The precentor soon took himself off,
and I was left in undisputed possession
of the room. I had offended the beadle,
and insulted the precentor—how was it
possible that I could preach with
acceptation to the people? I became
nervous lest the elder also should enter,
for I was perfectly persuaded that I
could not escape incurring his reprobation
by some unfortunate reply.</p>

<p class='c008'>As the night wore on, my trepidation
increased. I paced up and down the
room, repeating and re-repeating my
discourse from beginning to end, and
from the end to the beginning. Every
period, colon, hyphen, point of exclamation,
point of interrogation, and
comma was engraved upon my mind,
and yet I was not satisfied. Something
might escape me—some sounding sentence
might take wings and flee away.
I heard Mrs M‘Bain listening at times
behind the door when I went humming
and thrumming across the room; and I
felt a strong inclination to call her in,
and punish her by making her act the
part of a popular audience. I cooled
down somewhat before bedtime, and,
at my landlady’s request, retired early
to bed.</p>

<p class='c008'>“A gude sleep,” she said, “is the
forerunner of a good sermon.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Yes,” I rejoined, “and a good
sleep is the ordinary accompaniment
of a bad one.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Mrs M‘Bain chuckled, and looked as
if she thought there was something
promising in the young man after all.</p>

<p class='c008'>To bed I went, but not to slumber,
knowing well that sleep, like some
eccentric daughters of Eve, must be
won without being wooed. I did not
try to “fall over.” None but the
rankest fool ever thinks of perpetrating
such absurdity. I commenced for the
five hundredth time—what else could I
do?—to con over my discourse. I had
just finished the introduction, without
missing a syllable, when—horror of
horrors!—the first head had vanished—evaporated—gone
to some outrageous
limbo and could not, would not be
recalled. What was to be done? I sat
up in bed—a villanous crib it was—and
the perspiration stood beaded on my
brow. The tingling darkness filled the
room; the snow-flakes fussled on the
window panes. Mrs M‘Bain was in
bed; the candle was out; there were
no lucifers; my precious manuscript
was under my pillow; the missing head
was there, but I could neither see nor
seize it. It was a <i><span lang="la">caput mortuum</span></i>. I
cannot describe the agony that I endured,
the feeling of despair that I
experienced. My heart beat loudly,
and the inexorable clock tick-ticked, as
if everything in the world were going
on with the utmost smoothness and
regularity. I must have sat for an hour
groping about in my benighted brain
for my lost head. But sleep at length
came, and fantastic dreams, born of
fear and excitement, took possession of
me. I thought that I stood on Mars
Hill, and that around me was gathered
a great crowd of Stoics, Epicureans,
Methodists, Mormons, and Mahommedans.
They listened attentively for
a time, but as soon as I had finished
the introduction to my discourse, they
immediately commenced to grin and
make grimaces, shouting, howling, roaring
like legions of demons. In the
twinkling of an eye, the scene changed,
and I stood in the centre of a vast camp-meeting
in the backwoods of America.
Negroes and Red Indians were there as
well as stalwart planters with their
wives and families. A hymn, pealed
with a sea-like sound from a thousand
voices, had just died away, and I was
preparing to address the mighty multitude,
when a sudden storm came crashing
down among the woods, and the
assemblage was scattered abroad like
the leaves of autumn. I was tossed
throughout the night from one wildered
dream to another, and finally awoke in
the morning rather jaded than refreshed.
With the return of consciousness, however,
returned the lost head, and I was
delighted to discover before rising that
my memory was master of my discourse.</p>

<p class='c008'>The morning wore on, stiller for the
snow that lay one or two inches deep
on the ground. The hour of service
approached, the bells began to sound;
I never heard them pealing so loudly
before, even in the largest cities. My
heart beat to the beating of the bells.
At last the beadle came, cool, calm,
imperturbable, hoisted the pulpit Bible
under his arm, and signified to me,
with an easy inclination of his head,
that all was now ready. Mrs M‘Bain
was standing in the passage as we came
out of the room, holding the door-key
in one hand, and her Bible wrapped in
a white pocket handkerchief in the
other. I walked along the street as
steadily and sedately as my perturbation
would permit, and all the little
boys and girls, I thought, knew that I
was to preach my first sermon that day.
There was a death-like stillness in the
church when I entered. My look was
concentrated on the pulpit, but I knew
that every eye in the church was fixed
upon the untried preacher. I managed
to get through the introductory services
with more fluency and calmness than I
anticipated, only I invariably found myself
conning over the first head of my
discourse while the assembled worshippers
were singing the psalms. The
precentor <em>was</em> a drone. Even that
afforded me some satisfaction, although
the unmelodious tones agitated still
more my excited nervous system. At
the close of the second psalm, the time
of my great trial came. I rose and
announced the text with great deliberation.
Then every eye was fixed upon
me; the moment was awful; the silence
was dreadful. The ready manner in
which the first dozen of sentences came
to my recollection made me feel somewhat
calm, comfortable, and composed;
but a sudden sense of the peculiar
nature of my situation, the consciousness
that all the people knew it was
my first appearance in public, disturbed
my equanimity and shook my self-possession.
A dizziness came over
me; the congregation revolved around
the pulpit. I grasped the Bible, and
declaimed vehemently in order if possible
to recover myself; but from the
beginning of the first head to the last
application, although I must have adhered
to my manuscript, I was speaking
like one in a dream, not master of
myself, the will passive, and memory
alone awake. When I concluded the
last period, I could scarcely believe
that I had preached my discourse. The
weakness of my limbs told me of the
struggle. On leaving the church I
overheard some remarks concerning
myself pass between two of the officials.</p>

<p class='c008'>“He’s a brisk bit birkie that,” quoth
the beadle.</p>

<p class='c008'>“’Od ay,” responded the precentor,
but “he has a bee in his bannet.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Sweet reader, if you are studying for
the Church, do not be deterred by vain
fears from prosecuting your labours. It
is a glorious thing to succeed, even
when you are unconscious of your success,
and thus it happened with “My
First Sermon.”</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='the_crimes_of_richard_hawkins' class='c006'>THE CRIMES OF RICHARD HAWKINS.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By Thomas Aird.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>When a young man, Richard Hawkins
was guilty of the heinous crime of
betraying the daughter of a respectable
farmer in the west of Galloway, of the
name of Emily Robson. As he yet
loved the injured maiden, he would
have married her, but in this he was
determinedly opposed by her relatives,
and particularly by her only brother,
betwixt whom and himself an inveterate
hostility had, from various causes, been
growing up since their earliest boyhood.
From remorse partly, and shame
and disappointment, and partly from
other causes, Hawkins hereupon left
his home and went abroad; but after
making a considerable sum of money
he returned to Scotland, determined to
use every remonstrance to win over
Emily’s friends to allow him yet by
marriage to make reparation to the
gentle maiden, the remembrance of
whose beauty and faithful confiding
spirit had unceasingly haunted him in
a foreign land. He arrived first at
Glasgow, and proceeded thence to Edinburgh,
where he purposed to stay a
week or a fortnight before going southward
to his native county, in which
also Emily Robson resided.</p>

<p class='c008'>During his stay in the metropolis,
having been one evening invited to sup
at the house of a gentleman, originally
from the same county with himself,
scarcely had he taken his seat in his
host’s parlour, when Emily’s brother
entered, and, instantly recognizing him,
advanced with a face of grim wrath,
denounced him as a villain, declared he
would not sit a moment in his company,
and to make good his declaration, instantly
turned on his heel and left the
house. The violent spirit of Hawkins
was in a moment stung to madness by
this rash and unseasonable insolence,
which was offered him, moreover, before
a number of gentlemen; he rose,
craved their leave for a moment, that
he might follow, and show Mr Robson
his mistake; and sallying out of the
house, without his hat, he overtook
his aggressor on the street, tapped him
on the shoulder, and thus bespoke him,
with a grim smile:—“Why, sir, give
me leave to propound to you that this
same word and exit of yours are most
preciously insolent. With your leave,
now, I must have you back, gently to
unsay me a word or two; or, by heaven!
this night your blood shall wash out the
imputation!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“This hour—this hour!” replied
Robson, in a hoarse compressed whisper;
“my soul craves to grapple with
you, and put our mutual affair to a
mortal arbitrament. Hark ye, Hawkins,
you are a stranger in this city, I
presume, and cannot reasonably be expected
easily to provide yourself with
a second; moreover, no one would
back such a villain;—now, will you
follow me this moment to my lodgings,
accept from my hand one of a pair of
pistols, and let us, without farther formality,
retire to a convenient place,
and do ourselves a pleasure and a justice.
I am weary of living under the
same sun with you, and if I can shed
your foul blood beneath yon chaste stars
of God, I would willingly die for it.
Dare you follow me?—and, quickly,
before those fellows think of looking
after us?”</p>

<p class='c008'>To Hawkins’ boiling heart of indignation
’twas no hard task so to follow,
and the above proposal of Robson was
strictly and instantly followed up. We
must notice here particularly, that, as the
parties were about to leave the house, a
letter was put into Robson’s hand, who,
seeing that it was from his mother, and
bore the outward notification of mourning,
craved Hawkins’ permission to read
it, which he did with a twinkling in his
eye, and a working, as of deep grief, in
the muscles of his face; but in a minute
he violently crushed the letter, put it into
his pocket, and, turning anew to his foe
with glaring eyes of anger, told him
that all was ready. And now we shall
only state generally, that within an hour
from the first provocation of the evening,
this mortal and irregular duel was
settled, and left Robson shot through
the body by his antagonist.</p>

<p class='c008'>No sooner did Hawkins see him fall,
than horror and remorse for his deed
rushed upon him; he ran to the prostrate
youth, attempted to raise him up,
but dared not offer pity or ask forgiveness,
for which his soul yet panted.
The wounded man rejected his assistance—waved
him off, and thus faintly
but fearfully spoke:—“Now, mine
enemy! I will tell you, that you may
sooner know the curse of God, which
shall for ever cling and warp itself round
all the red cords of your heart. That
letter from my mother, which you saw
me read, told me of the death of that
sister Emily whom I so loved; whom
you—oh, God!—who never recovered
from your villany. And my father,
too!—Off, fiend, nor mock me! You
shall not so triumph—you shall not see
me die!” So saying, the wounded
youth, who was lying on his back, with
his pale writhen features upturned, and
dimly seen in the twilight, with a convulsive
effort now threw himself round,
with his face upon the grass.</p>

<p class='c008'>In a fearful agony stood Hawkins,
twisting his hands, not knowing whether
again to attempt raising his victim, or
to run to the city for a surgeon. The
former he at length did, and found no
resistance; for, alas! the unhappy
youth was dead. The appearance of
two or three individuals now making
towards the bloody spot, which was
near the suburbs of the town, and to
which, in all probability, they had been
drawn by the report of the pistols,
roused Hawkins, for the first time, to a
sense of his own danger. He quickly
left the ground, dashed through the
fields, and, without distinctly calculating
his route, instinctively turned towards
his native district.</p>

<p class='c008'>As he proceeded onwards, he began
to consider the bearings of his difficult
situation, and at last resolved to hasten
on through the country, to lay his case
before his excellent friend Frank Dillon,
who was the only son of a gentleman in
the western parts of Galloway, and
who, he knew, was at present residing
with his father. Full of the most riotous
glee, and nimble-witted as Mercutio,
Frank, he was aware, could be
no less gravely wise as an adviser in a
difficult emergency, and he determined,
in the present case, to be wholly ruled
by his opinion. Invigorated from thus
having settled for himself a definite
course, he walked swiftly forward
through the night, which shone with
the finest beauty of the moon. Yet
what peace to the murderer, whose red
title not the fairest duellist, who has
slain a human being, can to his own
conscience reduce? The cold glittering
leaves on the trees, struck with a quick,
momentary gust, made him start as he
passed; and the shadowy foot and
figure of the lover, coming round from
the back window of the lone cottage,
was to his startled apprehension the
avenger of blood at hand. As he
looked afar along the glittering road,
the black fir trees upon the edge of
the moor seemed men coming running
down to meet him; and the long howl
of some houseless cur, and the distant
hoof of the traveller, which struck his
listening ear with two or three beatings,
seemed all in the track of pursuit and
vengeance.</p>

<p class='c008'>Morning came, and to the weary
fugitive was agreeably cloudy; but the
sun rose upon him in the forenoon,
shining from between the glassy, glistering
clouds with far greater heat than
it does from a pure blue sky. Hawkins
had now crossed many a broad acre of
the weary moorlands, fatigued and
thirsty, his heart beating in his ears,
and not a drop of water that he could
see to sprinkle the dry pulses of his
bosom, when he came to a long morass,
which barred his straightforward path.
His first business was to quench his
thirst from a dull stank, overgrown
with paddowpipe, and black with myriads
of tadpoles. There, finding himself
so faint from fatigue that he could
not brook the idea of going round by
the end of the moss, and being far less
able to make his way through the middle
of it, by leaping from <em>hagg</em> to <em>hagg</em>, he
threw himself down on the sunny side
of some long reeds, and fell fast asleep.</p>

<p class='c008'>He was waked by the screaming of
lapwings, and the noise of a neighbouring
bittern, to a feeling of violent throbbing,
headache, and nausea, which
were probably owing to the sun’s having
beat upon him whilst he lay asleep,
aggravated by the reflection from the
reeds. He arose, but finding himself
quite unable to pursue his journey,
again threw himself down on a small
airy brow of land, to get what breeze
might be stirring abroad. There were
several companies of people at work
digging peats in the moss, and one
party now sat down very near him to
their dinner. One of them, a young
woman, had passed so near him, as to
be able to guess, from his countenance,
that he was unwell; and in a few
minutes, with the fine charity of womanhood,
she came to him with some food,
of which, to satisfy her kindness, rather
than his own hunger, he ate a little.
The air changed in the afternoon, and
streaming clouds of hail crossed over
that wild country, yet he lay still.
Party after party left the moss, and yet
he was there. He made, indeed, a
show of leaving the place at a quick
rate, to disappoint the fears of the
people who had seen him at noon, and
who, as they again came near to gather
up their supernumerary clothes, were
evidently perplexed on his account,
which they showed by looking first
towards him and then at each other.
It was all he could do to get quite out
of their sight beyond a little eminence;
and there, once more, he lay down in
utter prostration of mind and body.</p>

<p class='c008'>Twilight began to darken upon the
pools of that desolate place. The wild
birds were gone to their heathy nests,
all save the curlew, whose bravura was
still sung over the fells, and borne far
away into the dim and silent night.
At length a tall, powerful-looking man
came stepping through the moss, and as
he passed near the poor youth, asked, in
slow speech, who he was. In the reaction
of nature, Hawkins was, in a moment,
anxious about his situation, and replied
to him that he had fallen sick on his
way, and was unable to go in quest of
a resting-place for the night. Approaching
and turning himself round to
the youth as he arose, the genius of the
place had him on his back in a moment,
and went off with him carelessly
and in silence over the heath. In
about half an hour they came to a
lonely cottage, which the kind creature
entered; and, setting the young man
down, without the least appearance of
fatigue on his part, “Here, gudewife,”
said he, “is a bairn t’ye, that I hae
foun’ i’ the moss: now, let us see ye be
gude to him.” Either this injunction
was very effective, or it was not at all
necessary; for, had the youth been her
own son, come from a far country to
see her, this hostess of the cottage
could not have treated him more kindly.
From his little conversation during the
evening, her husband, like most very
bulky men, appeared to be of dull
intellect; but there was a third personage
in the composition of his household,
a younger brother, a very little
man,—the flower of the flock,—who
made ample amends for his senior
brother’s deficiencies as a talker. A
smattering of Church-history had filled
his soul with a thousand stories of persecution
and martyrdom, and, from
some old history of America, he had
gained a little knowledge of Upper
Canada, for which, Hawkins was during
the night repeatedly given to understand,
he was once on the very point of
setting out, an abiding embryo of bold
travel, which, in his own eye, seemed
to invest him with all the honours and
privileges of <em>bona fide</em> voyagers. His
guest had a thousand questions put to
him on these interesting topics, less for
his answers, it was evident, than for an
opportunity to the little man of setting
forth his own information. All this was
tolerably fair; but it was truly disgusting
when the little oracle took the Bible
after supper, and, in place of his elder
brother, who was otherwise also the
head of the family, performed the
religious services of the evening, presuming
to add a comment to the chapter
which he read; to enforce which, his
elbow was drawn back to the sharpest
angle of edification, from which, ever
and anon unslinging itself like a shifting
rhomboid, it forced forward the stiff
information in many a pompous instalment.
The pertinacious forefinger
was at work too; and before it trembled
the mystic Babylon, which, in a side
argument, that digit was uplifted to
denounce. Moreover, the whole lecture
was given in a squeaking, pragmatic
voice, which sounded like the sharping
of thatchers’ knives.</p>

<p class='c008'>Next morning the duellist renewed
his journey, hoping against eveningtide
to reach Dillon’s house, which he
guessed could not now be more than
forty miles distant. About mid-afternoon,
as he was going through a small
hamlet of five or six cottages, he stepped
into one of them, and requested a little
water to drink. There was a hushed
solemnity, he could see in a moment,
throughout the little apartment into
which, rather too unceremoniously, he
had entered; and a kind-looking matron,
in a dark robe, whispered in his ear, as
she gave him a porringer of sweet water,
with a little oatmeal sprinkled upon it,
that an only daughter of the house, a
fine young woman, was lying “a corpse.”
Without noticing his presence, and
indeed with her face hid, sat the mother
doubtless of the maiden, heedless of the
whispered consolations of two or three
officious matrons, and racking in that
full and intense sorrow with which
strangers cannot intermeddle. The
sloping beams of the declining sun
shone beautifully in through a small
lattice, illumining a half-decayed nosegay
of flowers which stood on the sunny
whitewashed sill—emblem of a more
sorrowful decay!—and after traversing
the middle of the apartment, with a
thin deep bar of light, peopled by a
maze of dancing motes, struck into the
white bed, where lay something covered
up and awfully indistinct, like sanctified
thing not to be gazed at, which the
fugitive’s fascinated eye yet tried to shape
into the elegant body of the maiden, as
she lay before her virgin sheets purer
than they, with the salt above her still
and unvexed bosom. The restricted
din of boys at play—for that buoyant
age is yet truly reverential, and feels
most deeply the solemn occasion of
death—was heard faint and aloof from
the house of mourning. This, and the
lonely chirrup of a single sparrow from
the thatch; the soft purring of the cat
at the sunny pane; the muffled tread of
the mourners over the threshold; and
the audible grief of that poor mother,
seemed, instead of interruption, rather
parts of the solemn stillness.</p>

<p class='c008'>As Hawkins was going out, after
lingering a minute in this sacred interior,
he met, in the narrow passage
which led to the door, a man with the
coffin, on the lid of which he read, as
it was pushed up to his very face,
“Emily Robson, aged 22.” The heart
of the murderer—the seducer—was in a
moment as if steeped in the benumbing
waters of petrifaction; he was horrified;
he would fain have passed, but could
not for want of room; and as the coffin
was not to be withdrawn in accommodation
to him, he was pushed again
into the interior of the cottage to encounter
a look of piercing recognition
from Emily’s afflicted mother, who had
started up on hearing the hollow grating
of the coffin as it struck occasionally
on the walls of the narrow entrance.
“Take him away—take him away—take
him away!” she screamed, when
she saw Hawkins, and pressed her face
down on the white bed of death. As
for the youth, who was fearfully conscious
of another bloody woe which had
not yet reached her heart, and of which
he was still the author, and who saw,
moreover, that this poor mother was
now come to poverty, probably from
his own first injury against the peace of
her family, he needed not to be told to
depart. With conscience, that truest
conducting-rod, flashing its moral electricities
of shame and fear, and with
knees knocking against each other, he
stumbled out of the house, and making
his way by chance to an idle quarry,
overgrown with weeds, he there threw
himself down, with his face on the
ground. In this situation he lay the
whole night and all next forenoon;
and in the afternoon—for he had occasionally
risen to look for the assembling
of the funeral train—he joined the small
group who carried his Emily to the
churchyard, and saw her young body
laid in the grave. Oh! who can cast
away carelessly, like a useless thing,
the finely-moulded clay, perfumed with
the lingering beauty of warm motions,
sweet graces, and young charities! But
had not the young man, think ye, tenfold
reason to weep for her whom he
now saw laid down within the dark
shadow of the grave?</p>

<p class='c008'>In the evening, he found his way to
Frank Dillon’s; met his friend by chance
at a little distance from his father’s
house, and told him at once his unhappy
situation. “My father,” replied Frank,
“cannot be an adviser here, because he
is a Justice of the Peace. But he has
been at London for some time, and I
do not expect him home till to-morrow;
so you can go with me to our house for
this night, where we shall deliberate
what next must be done in this truly
sad affair of yours. Come on.”</p>

<p class='c008'>It is unnecessary for us to explain at
length the circumstances which frustrated
the friendly intentions of Dillon,
and which enabled the officers of justice
to trace Hawkins to his place of concealment.
They arrived that very
evening; and, notwithstanding the
efforts of Frank to save his friend,
secured the unhappy duellist, who,
within two days afterwards, found himself
in Edinburgh, securely lodged in
jail.</p>

<p class='c008'>The issue of Hawkins’ trial was that
he was condemned to death as a murderer.
This severe sentence of the law
was, however, commuted into that of
banishment for seven years. But he
never again returned to his native
country. And it must be told of him
also, that no happiness ever shone upon
this after-life of his. Independent of
his first crime, which brought a beautiful
young woman prematurely to the
grave, he had broken rashly “into the
bloody house of life,” and, in the language
of Holy Writ, “slain a young
man to his hurt.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Oh! for that still and quiet conscience—those
third heavens within a man—wherein
he can soar within himself and
be at peace, where the image of God
shines down, never dislimned nor long
hid by those wild racks and deep continents
of gloom which come over the
soul of the blood-guilty man!</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='the_headstone' class='c006'>THE HEADSTONE.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By Professor Wilson.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>The coffin was let down to the bottom
of the grave, the planks were
removed from the heaped-up brink,
the first rattling clods had struck their
knell, the quick shovelling was over,
and the long, broad, skilfully cut pieces
of turf were aptly joined together,
and trimly laid by the beating spade,
so that the newest mound in the churchyard
was scarcely distinguishable from
those that were grown over by the undisturbed
grass and daisies of a luxuriant
spring. The burial was soon
over; and the party, with one consenting
motion, having uncovered their
heads in decent reverence of the place
and occasion, were beginning to separate,
and about to leave the churchyard.
Here some acquaintances, from distant
parts of the parish, who had not had an
opportunity of addressing each other in
the house that had belonged to the
deceased, nor in the course of the few
hundred yards that the little procession
had to move over from his bed to his
grave, were shaking hands, quietly but
cheerfully, and inquiring after the welfare
of each other’s families. There,
a small knot of neighbours were speaking,
without exaggeration, of the respectable
character which the deceased had
borne, and mentioning to one another
little incidents of his life, some of them
so remote as to be known only to the
grayheaded persons of the group; while
a few yards farther removed from the
spot, were standing together parties
who discussed ordinary concerns, altogether
unconnected with the funeral,
such as the state of the markets, the
promise of the season, or change of
tenants; but still with a sobriety of
manner and voice that was insensibly
produced by the influence of the simple
ceremony now closed, by the quiet
graves around, and the shadow of the
spire and gray walls of the house of
God.</p>

<p class='c008'>Two men yet stood together at the
head of the grave, with countenances of
sincere but unimpassioned grief. They
were brothers, the only sons of him who
had been buried. And there was something
in their situation that naturally
kept the eyes of many directed upon
them for a longer time, and more
intently, than would have been the case
had there been nothing more observable
about them than the common symptoms
of a common sorrow. But these two
brothers, who were now standing at the
head of their father’s grave, had for
some years been totally estranged from
each other, and the only words that
had passed between them, during all
that time, had been uttered within a
few days past, during the necessary preparations
for the old man’s funeral.</p>

<p class='c008'>No deep and deadly quarrel was
between these brothers, and neither of
them could distinctly tell the cause of
this unnatural estrangement. Perhaps
dim jealousies of their father’s favour—selfish
thoughts that will sometimes
force themselves into poor men’s hearts
respecting temporal expectations—unaccommodating
manners on both sides—taunting
words that mean little when
uttered, but which rankle and fester in
remembrance—imagined opposition of
interests, that, duly considered, would
have been found one and the same—these,
and many other causes, slight
when single, but strong when rising
up together in one baneful band, had
gradually but fatally infected their
hearts, till at last they who in youth
had been seldom separate, and truly
attached, now met at market, and,
miserable to say, at church, with dark
and averted faces, like different clansmen
during a feud.</p>

<p class='c008'>Surely if anything could have softened
their hearts towards each other, it
must have been to stand silently, side
by side, while the earth, stones, and
clods, were falling down upon their
father’s coffin. And, doubtless, their
hearts were so softened. But pride,
though it cannot prevent the holy
affections of nature from being felt, may
prevent them from being shown; and
these two brothers stood there together,
determined not to let each other know
the mutual tenderness that, in spite of
them, was gushing up in their hearts, and
teaching them the unconfessed folly
and wickedness of their causeless quarrel.</p>

<p class='c008'>A headstone had been prepared, and
a person came forward to plant it.
The elder brother directed him how to
place it—a plain stone, with a sand-glass,
skull, and cross-bones, chiselled not rudely,
and a few words inscribed. The younger
brother regarded the operation with a
troubled eye, and said, loudly enough to
be heard by several of the bystanders,
“William, this was not kind in you;—you
should have told me of this. I
loved my father as well as you could
love him. You were the elder, and, it
may be, the favourite son; but I had a
right in nature to have joined you in
ordering this headstone, had I not?”</p>

<p class='c008'>During these words, the stone was
sinking into the earth, and many persons
who were on their way from the grave
returned. For a while the elder brother
said nothing, for he had a consciousness
in his heart that he ought to
have consulted his father’s son in designing
this last becoming mark of affection
and respect to his memory; so the stone
was planted in silence, and now stood
erect, decently and simply among the
other unostentatious memorials of the
humble dead.</p>

<p class='c008'>The inscription merely gave the name
and age of the deceased, and told that
the stone had been erected “by his
affectionate sons.” The sight of these
words seemed to soften the displeasure
of the angry man, and he said, somewhat
more mildly, “Yes, we were his
affectionate sons, and since my name is
on the stone, I am satisfied, brother.
We have not drawn together kindly of
late years, and perhaps never may;
but I acknowledge and respect your
worth; and here, before our own friends,
and before the friends of our father,
with my foot above his head, I express
my willingness to be on better and other
terms with you, and if we cannot command
love in our hearts, let us, at
least, brother, bar out all unkindness.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The minister, who had attended the
funeral, and had something intrusted to
him to say publicly before he left the
churchyard, now came forward, and
asked the elder brother why he spake
not regarding this matter. He saw
that there was something of a cold and
sullen pride rising up in his heart—for
not easily may any man hope to dismiss
from the chamber of his heart even the
vilest guest, if once cherished there.
With a solemn and almost severe air,
he looked upon the relenting man, and
then, changing his countenance into
serenity, said gently,—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Behold how good a thing it is,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>And how becoming well,</div>
      <div class='line'>Together such as brethren are</div>
      <div class='line in2'>In unity to dwell.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c008'>The time, the place, and this beautiful
expression of a natural sentiment,
quite overcame a heart in which many
kind, if not warm, affections dwelt;
and the man thus appealed to bowed
down his head and wept.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Give me your hand, brother;” and
it was given, while a murmur of satisfaction
arose from all present, and all
hearts felt kindlier and more humanely
towards each other.</p>

<p class='c008'>As the brothers stood fervently, but
composedly, grasping each other’s hands,
in the little hollow that lay between the
grave of their mother, long since dead,
and that of their father, whose shroud
was haply not yet still from the fall of
dust to dust, the minister stood beside
them with a pleasant countenance, and
said, “I must fulfil the promise I made
to your father on his deathbed. I must
read to you a few words which his hand
wrote at an hour when his tongue denied
its office. I must not say that you did
your duty to your old father; for did he
not often beseech you, apart from one
another, to be reconciled, for your own
sakes as Christians, for his sake, and for
the sake of the mother who bare you,
and, Stephen, who died that you might
be born? When the palsy struck him
for the last time, you were both absent,
nor was it your fault that you were not
beside the old man when he died. As
long as sense continued with him here,
did he think of you two, and of you two
alone. Tears were in his eyes; I saw
them there, and on his cheek too, when
no breath came from his lips. But of
this no more. He died with this paper
in his hand; and he made me know
that I was to read it to you over his
grave. I now obey him:</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘My sons, if you will let my bones
lie quiet in the grave, near the dust of
your mother, depart not from my burial
till, in the name of God and Christ, you
promise to love one another as you used
to do. Dear boys, receive my blessing.’”</p>

<p class='c008'>Some turned their heads away to hide
the tears that needed not to be hidden;
and when the brothers had released
each other from a long and sobbing embrace,
many went up to them, and in a
single word or two expressed their joy
at this perfect reconcilement. The
brothers themselves walked away from
the churchyard, arm in arm with the
minister, to the manse. On the following
Sabbath they were seen sitting with
their families in the same pew; and it
was observed that they read together
off the same Bible when the minister
gave out the text, and that they sang
together, taking hold of the same psalm-book.
The same psalm was sung
(given out at their own request), of
which one verse had been repeated at
their father’s grave; and a larger sum
than usual was on that Sabbath found
in the plate for the poor, for Love and
Charity are sisters. And ever after,
both during the peace and the troubles
of this life, the hearts of the brothers
were as one, and in nothing were they
divided.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='the_widows_prediction' class='c006'>THE WIDOW’S PREDICTION:<br> <span class='large'><em>A TALE OF THE SIEGE OF NAMUR</em></span>.</h2>
</div>

<p class='c007'>On the morning of the 30th August
1695, just as the sun began to tinge the
dark and blood-stained battlements of
Namur, a detachment of Mackay’s
Scottish regiment made their rounds,
relieving the last night-sentinels, and
placing those of the morning. As soon
as the party returned to their quarters,
and relaxed from the formalities of military
discipline, their leader, a tall, muscular
man, of about middle age, with a
keen eye and manly features, though
swarthy and embrowned with toil, and
wearing an expression but little akin to
the gentle or the amiable, moved to an
angle of the bastion, and, leaning on his
spontoon, fixed an anxious gaze on the
rising sun. While he remained in this
position, he was approached by another
officer, who, slapping him roughly on
the shoulder, accosted him in these
words—</p>

<p class='c008'>“What, Monteith! are you in a
musing mood? Pray, let me have
the benefit of your morning meditations.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Sir!” said Monteith, turning hastily
round. “Oh! ’tis you, Keppel. What
think you of this morning?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Why, that it will be a glorious day
for some; and for you and me, I hope,
among others. Do you know that the
Elector of Bavaria purposes a general
assault to-day?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I might guess as much, from the
preparations going on. Well, would it
were to-morrow!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Sure you are not afraid, Monteith?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Afraid! It is not worth while to
quarrel at present; but methinks you,
Keppel, might have spared that word.
There are not many men who might
utter it and live.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Nay, I meant no offence; yet permit
me to say, that your words and manner
are strangely at variance with your usual
bearing on a battle-morn.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Perhaps so,” replied Monteith;
“and, but that your English prejudices
will refuse assent, it might be accounted
for. That sun will rise to-morrow with
equal power and splendour, gilding this
earth’s murky vapours, but I shall not
behold his glory.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Now, do tell me some soothful
narrative of a second-sighted seer,” said
Keppel. “I promise to do my best to
believe it. At any rate, I will not
laugh outright, I assure you.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I fear not that. It is no matter to
excite mirth; and, in truth, I feel at
present strangely inclined to be communicative.
Besides, I have a request
to make; and I may as well do something
to induce you to grant it.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“That I readily will, if in my power,”
replied Keppel. “So, proceed with
your story, if you please.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Listen attentively, then—and be at
once my first and my last confidant.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Shortly after the battle of Bothwell
Bridge, I joined the troop commanded
by Irvine of Bonshaw; and
gloriously did we scour the country,
hunting the rebel Covenanters, and
acting our pleasure upon man, woman,
and child, person and property. I was
then but young, and, for a time, rather
witnessed than acted in the wild and
exciting commission which we so amply
discharged. But use is all in all. Ere
half-a-dozen years had sped their round,
I was one of the prettiest men in the
troop at everything. It was in the
autumn of 1684, as I too well remember,
that we were engaged in beating
up the haunts of the Covenanters on
the skirts of Galloway and Ayrshire.
A deep mist, which covered the moors
thick as a shroud—friendly at times to
the Whigs, but, in the present instance,
their foe—concealed our approach, till
we were close upon a numerous conventicle.
We hailed, and bade them
stand; but, trusting to their mosses
and glens, they scattered and fled. We
pursued in various directions, pressing
hard upon the fugitives. In spite of
several morasses which I had to skirt,
and difficult glens to thread, being well
mounted, I gained rapidly on a young
mountaineer, who, finding escape by
flight impossible, bent his course to a
house at a short distance, as hoping for
shelter there, like a hare to her form.
I shouted to him to stand; he ran on.
Again I hailed him; but he heeded
not; when, dreading to lose all trace
of him, should he gain the house, I
fired. The bullet took effect. He fell,
and his heart’s blood gushed on his
father’s threshold. Just at that instant
an aged woman, alarmed by the gallop
of my horse, and the report of the
pistol, rushed to the door, and stumbling,
fell upon the body of her dying
son. She raised his drooping head
upon her knee, kissed his bloody brow,
and screamed aloud, ‘Oh, God of the
widow and the fatherless, have mercy
on me!’ One ghastly convulsive shudder
shook all her nerves, and the next
moment they were calm as the steel of
my sword; then raising her pale and
shrivelled countenance, every feature of
which was fixed in the calm, unearthly
earnestness of utter despair, or perfect
resignation, she addressed me, every
word falling distinct and piercing on
my ear like dropping musketry.</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘And hast thou this day made me a
widowed, childless mother? Hast thou
shed the precious blood of this young
servant of Jehovah? And canst thou
hope that thy lot will be one of unmingled
happiness? Go, red-handed persecutor!
Follow thine evil way! But hear one
message of truth from a feeble and unworthy
tongue. Remorse, like a bloodhound,
shall dog thy steps; and the
serpent of an evil conscience shall coil
around thy heart. From this hour thou
shalt never know peace. Thou shalt
seek death, and long to meet it as a
friend; but it shall flee thee. And
when thou shalt begin to love life, and
dread death, then shall thine enemy
come upon thee; and thou shalt not
escape. Hence to thy bloody comrades,
thou second Cain! Thou accursed and
banished from the face of Heaven and
of mercy!—</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Foul hag!’ I exclaimed, it would
take little to make me send thee to join
thy psalm-singing offspring!’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Well do I know that thou wouldst
if thou wert permitted!’ replied she.
‘But go thy way, and bethink thee
how thou wilt answer to thy Creator for
this morning’s work!’</p>

<p class='c008'>“And, ceasing to regard me, she
stooped her head over the dead body of
her son. I could endure no more, but
wheeled around, and galloped off to
join my companions.</p>

<p class='c008'>“From that hour, I felt myself a
doomed and miserable man. In vain
did I attempt to banish from my mind
the deed I had done, and the words I
had heard. In the midst of mirth and
revelry, the dying groan of the youth,
and the words of doom spoken by his
mother, rung for ever in my ears, converting
the festal board to a scene of
carnage and horror, till the very wine-cup
seemed to foam over with hot
bubbling gore. Once I tried—laugh,
if you will—I tried to pray; but the
clotted locks of the dying man, and the
earnest gaze of the soul-stricken mother,
came betwixt me and Heaven,—my lip
faltered—my breath stopped—my very
soul stood still, for I knew that my
victims were in Paradise, and how could
I think of happiness—<em>I</em>, their murderer—in
one common home with them?
Despair took possession of my whole
being. I rushed voluntarily to the
centre of every deadly peril, in hopes
to find an end to my misery. Yourself
can bear me witness that I have ever
been the first to meet, the last to retire
from, danger. Often, when I heard the
battle-signal given, and when I passed
the trench, or stormed the breach, in
front of my troop, it was less to gain
applause and promotion than to provoke
the encounter of death. ’Twas all in
vain. I was doomed not to die,
while I longed for death. And
now—”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Well, by your own account, you
run no manner of risk, and at the same
time are proceeding on a rapid career
of military success,” said Keppel; “and,
for my life, I cannot see why that should
affect you, supposing it all perfectly
true.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Because you have not yet heard the
whole. But listen a few minutes longer.
During last winter, our division, as you
know, was quartered in Brussels, and
was very kindly entertained by the
wealthy and good-natured Flemings.
Utterly tired of the heartless dissipation
of life in a camp, I endeavoured to make
myself agreeable to my landlord, that I
might obtain a more intimate admission
into his family circle. To this I was
the more incited, that I expected some
pleasure in the society of his daughter.
In all I succeeded to my wish. I
became quite a favourite with the old
man, and procured ready access to the
company of his child. But I was sufficiently
piqued to find, that in spite of
all my gallantry, I could not learn
whether I had made any impression
upon the heart of the laughing Fanchon.
What peace and playful toying could
not accomplish, war and sorrow did.
We were called out of winter quarters,
to commence what was anticipated to
be a bloody campaign. I obtained an
interview to take a long and doubtful
farewell. In my arms the weeping
girl owned her love, and pledged her
hand, should I survive to return once
more to Brussels. Keppel, I am a
doomed man; and my doom is about to
be accomplished! Formerly I wished
to die; but death fled me. Now I wish
to live; and death will come upon me!
I know I shall never more see Brussels,
nor my lovely little Fleming. Wilt
thou carry her my last farewell; and
tell her to forget a man who was unworthy
of her love—whose destiny
drove him to love, and be beloved, that
he might experience the worst of human
wretchedness? You’ll do this for me,
Keppel?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“If I myself survive, I will. But
this is some delusion—some strong
dream. I trust it will not unnerve
your arm in the moment of the
storm.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“No! I may die—<em>must</em> die; but it
shall be in front of my troop, or in
the middle of the breach. Yet how I
long to escape this doom! I have won
enough of glory; I despise pillage and
wealth; but I feel my very heartstrings
shrink from the now terrible idea of
final dissolution. Oh! that the fatal
hour were past, or that I had still my
former eagerness to die! Keppel, if I
dared, I would to-day own myself a
coward.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Come with me,” said Keppel, “to
my quarters. The night air has made you
aguish. The cold fit will yield to a cup
of as generous Rhine wine as ever was
drunk on the banks of the Sambre.”
Monteith consented, and the two moved
off to partake of the stimulating and
substantial comforts of a soldier’s breakfast
in the Netherlands.</p>

<p class='c008'>It was between one and two in the
afternoon. An unusual stillness reigned
in the lines of the besiegers. The
garrison remained equally silent, as
watching in deep suspense on what
point the storm portended by this
terrible calm would burst. A single
piece of artillery was discharged. Instantly
a body of grenadiers rushed from
the intrenchments, struggled over masses
of ruins, and mounted the breach.
The shock was dreadful. Man strove
with man, and blow succeeded to blow,
with fierce and breathless energy. The
English reached the summit, but were
almost immediately beaten back, leaving
numbers of their bravest grovelling
among the blackened fragments. Their
leader, Lord Cutts, had himself received
a dangerous wound in the head; but
disregarding it, he selected two hundred
men from Mackay’s regiment, and
putting them under the command of
Lieutenants Cockle and Monteith, sent
them to restore the fortunes of the
assault. Their charge was irresistible.
Led on by Monteith, who displayed a
wild and frantic desperation, rather
than bravery, they broke through all
impediments, drove the French from
the covered way, seized on one of the
batteries, and turned the cannon against
the enemy. To enable them to maintain
this advantage, they were reinforced by
parties from other divisions. Keppel,
advancing in one of those parties, discovered
the mangled form of his friend
Monteith, lying on heaps of the enemy
on the very summit of the captured
battery. He attempted to raise the
seemingly lifeless body. Monteith
opened his eyes,—“Save me!” he
cried; “save me! I will not die! I dare
not—I must not die!”</p>

<p class='c008'>It were too horrid to specify the
ghastly nature of the mortal wounds
which had torn and disfigured his
frame. To live was impossible. Yet
Keppel strove to render him some
assistance, were it but to soothe his
parting spirit. Again he opened his
glazing eyes,—“I will resist thee to
the last!” he cried, in a raving delirium.
“I killed him but in the discharge of my
duty. What worse was I than others?
Poor consolation now! The doom—the
doom! I cannot—dare not—must
not—<em>will not</em> die!” And while the
vain words were gurgling in his throat,
his head sunk back on the body of a
slaughtered foe, and his unwilling
spirit forsook his shattered body.—<cite>Edinburgh
Literary Journal.</cite></p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='the_lady_of_waristoun' class='c006'>THE LADY OF WARISTOUN.</h2>
</div>

<p class='c007'>The estate of Waristoun, near Edinburgh,
now partly covered by the extended
streets of the metropolis on its
northern side, is remarkable in local
history for having belonged to a gentleman,
who in the year 1600, was
cruelly murdered at the instigation of
his wife. This unfortunate lady, whose
name was Jean Livingstone, was descended
from a respectable ancestry,
being the daughter of Livingstone, the
laird of Dunipace, in Stirlingshire, and
at an early age was married to John
Kincaid, the laird of Waristoun, who,
it is believed, was considerably more
advanced in years than herself. It is
probable that this disparity of age laid
the foundation of much domestic strife,
and led to the tragical event now to be
noticed. The ill-fated marriage and
its results form the subject of an old
Scottish ballad, in which the proximate
cause of the murder is said to have
been a quarrel at the dinner-table:</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>It was at dinner as they sat,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>And when they drank the wine,</div>
      <div class='line'>How happy were the laird and lady</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Of bonny Waristoun!</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>But he has spoken a word in jest;</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Her answer was not good;</div>
      <div class='line'>And he has thrown a plate at her,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Made her mouth gush with blude.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c012'>Whether owing to such a circumstance
as is here alluded to, or a bite which the
laird is said to have inflicted upon her
arm, is immaterial; the lady, who
appeared to have been unable to restrain
her malignant passions, conceived the
diabolical design of having her husband
assassinated. There was something
extraordinary in the deliberation with
which this wretched woman approached
the awful gulf of crime. Having resolved
on the means to be employed
in the murder, she sent for a quondam
servant of her father, Robert
Weir, who lived in the neighbouring city.
He came to the place of Waristoun,
to see her; but it appeares her resolution
failed, and he was not admitted. She
again sent for him, and he again went.
Again he was not admitted. At length,
on his being called a third time, he was
introduced to her presence. Before
this time she had found an accomplice
in the nurse of her child. It was then
arranged that Weir should be concealed
in a cellar till the dead of night, when
he should come forth, and proceed to
destroy the laird as he lay in his
chamber. The bloody tragedy was
acted precisely in accordance with this
plan. Weir was brought up at midnight
from the cellar to the hall by the
lady herself, and afterwards went forward
alone to the laird’s bedroom.
As he proceeded to his bloody work,
she retired to her bed, to wait the
intelligence of her husband’s murder.
When Weir entered the chamber,
Waristoun awoke with the noise, and
leant inquiringly over the bed. The
murderer then leapt upon him. The
unhappy man uttered a great cry.
Weir gave him some severe blows on
vital parts, particularly one on the flank
vein. But as the laird was still able to
cry out, he at length saw fit to take
more effective measures. He seized
him by the throat with both hands,
and, compressing that part with all his
force, succeeded, after a few minutes,
in depriving him of life.</p>

<p class='c008'>When the lady heard her husband’s
first death-shout, she leapt out of bed,
in an agony of mingled horror and
repentance, and descended to the hall;
but she made no effort to countermand
her mission of destruction. She waited
patiently till Weir came down to inform
her that all was over. Weir made an
immediate escape from justice, but
Lady Waristoun and the nurse were
apprehended before the deed was half-a-day
old. Being caught, as the Scottish
law terms it, “red-hand,”—that is,
while still bearing unequivocal marks
of guilt,—they were immediately tried
by the magistrates of Edinburgh, and
sentenced to be strangled and burnt at
the stake.</p>

<p class='c008'>The lady’s father, the Laird of Dunipace,
who was a favourite of King
James VI., made all the interest he
could with his Majesty to procure a
pardon; but all that could be obtained
from the king was an order that the
unhappy lady should be executed by
decapitation, and that at such an early
hour in the morning as to make the
affair as little of a spectacle as possible.
The space intervening between her
sentence and her execution was only
thirty-seven hours, yet in that little
time Lady Waristoun contrived to become
converted from a blood-stained
and unrelenting murderess into a perfect
saint on earth. One of the then ministers
of Edinburgh has left an account
of her conversion, which was lately
published, and would be extremely
amusing, were it not for the loathing
which seizes the mind on beholding
such an instance of perverted religion.
She went to the scaffold with a demeanour
which would have graced a
martyr. Her lips were incessant in the
utterance of pious exclamations. She
professed herself confident of everlasting
happiness. She even grudged every
moment which she spent in this world
as so much taken from that sum of
eternal felicity which she was to enjoy
in the next. The people who came to
witness the last scene, instead of having
their minds inspired with a salutary
horror for her crime, were engrossed in
admiration of her saintly behaviour, and
greedily gathered up every devout word
which fell from her tongue. It would
almost appear, from the narrative of
the clergyman, that her fate was rather
a matter of envy than of any other
feeling. Her execution took place at four
in the morning of the 5th of July, at the
Watergate, near Holyrood-house; and
at the same hour her nurse was burned
on the Castlehill. It is some gratification
to know that the actual murderer,
Weir, was eventually seized and
executed, though not till four years
afterwards.—<cite>Chambers’s Edinburgh
Journal</cite>, 1832.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='a_tale_of_pentland' class='c006'>A TALE OF PENTLAND.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By James Hogg, the “Ettrick Shepherd.”</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>Mr John Haliday having been in
hiding on the hills, after the battle of
Pentland, became impatient to hear
news concerning the sufferings of his
brethren who had been in arms; and
in particular, if there were any troops
scouring the district in which he had
found shelter. Accordingly, he left
his hiding-place in the evening, and
travelled towards the valley until about
midnight, when, coming to the house
of Gabriel Johnstone, and perceiving a
light, he determined on entering, as he
knew him to be a devout man, and one
much concerned about the sufferings of
the Church of Scotland.</p>

<p class='c008'>Mr Haliday, however, approached
the house with great caution, for he
rather wondered why there should be
a light there at midnight, while at the
same time he neither heard psalms singing
nor the accents of prayer. So,
casting off his heavy shoes, for fear of
making a noise, he stole softly up to
the little window from whence the
light beamed, and peeped in, where he
saw, not Johnstone, but another man,
whom he did not know, in the very act
of cutting a soldier’s throat, while
Johnstone’s daughter, a comely girl,
about twenty years of age, was standing
deliberately by, and holding the candle
to him.</p>

<p class='c008'>Haliday was seized with an inexpressible
terror; for the floor was all
blood, and the man was struggling in
the agonies of death, and from his
dress he appeared to have been a
cavalier of some distinction. So completely
was the Covenanter overcome
with horror, that he turned and fled
from the house with all his might.
So much had Haliday been confounded
that he even forgot to lift his shoes,
but fled without them; and he had not
run above half a bowshot before he
came upon two men hastening to the
house of Gabriel Johnstone. As soon
as they perceived him running towards
them they fled, and he pursued them;
for when he saw them so ready to take
alarm, he was sure they were some of
the persecuted race, and tried eagerly
to overtake them, exerting his utmost
speed, and calling on them to stop.
All this only made them run faster;
and when they came to a feal-dyke
they separated, and ran different ways,
and he soon thereafter lost sight of
them both.</p>

<p class='c008'>This house, where Johnstone lived,
is said to have been in a lonely concealed
dell, not far from West Linton,
in what direction I do not know, but
it was towards that village that Haliday
fled, not knowing whether he went,
till he came to the houses. Having no
acquaintances here whom he durst venture
to call up, and the morning
having set in frosty, he began to conceive
that it was absolutely necessary
for him to return to the house of
Gabriel Johnstone, and try to regain
his shoes, as he little knew when or
where it might be in his power to get
another pair. Accordingly, he hasted
back by a nearer path, and coming to
the place before it was day, found his
shoes. At the same time he heard a
fierce contention within the house, but
as there seemed to be a watch he durst
not approach it, but again made his
escape.</p>

<p class='c008'>Having brought some victuals along
with him, he did not return to his
hiding-place that day, which was in a
wild height, south of Biggar, but
remained in the moss of Craigengaur;
and as soon as it drew dark, descended
again into the valley. Again he perceived
a light in the distance, where he
thought no light should have been.
But he went towards it, and as he
approached he heard the melody of
psalm-singing issuing from the place,
and floating far on the still breeze of the
night. He hurried to the spot, and
found the reverend and devout Mr
Livingston, in the act of divine worship,
in an old void barn on the lands of
Slipperfield, with a great number of
serious and pious people, who were
all much affected both by his prayers
and discourse.</p>

<p class='c008'>After the worship was ended, Haliday
made up to the minister, among
many others, to congratulate him on
the splendour of his discourse, and implore
“a further supply of the same
milk of redeeming grace, with which
they found their souls nourished,
cherished, and exalted.” The good
man complied with the request, and
appointed another meeting at the same
place on a future night.</p>

<p class='c008'>Haliday having been formerly well
acquainted with the preacher, convoyed
him on his way home, where they condoled
with one another on the hardness
of their lots; and Haliday told him of
the scene he had witnessed at the house
of Gabriel Johnstone. The heart of
the good minister was wrung with grief,
and he deplored the madness and
malice of the people who had committed
an act that would bring down tenfold
vengeance on the heads of the whole
persecuted race. At length it was resolved
between them that, as soon as
it was day, they would go and reconnoitre,
and if they found the case of
the aggravated nature they suspected,
they would themselves be the first to
expose it, and give the perpetrators up
to justice.</p>

<p class='c008'>Accordingly, next morning they took
another man into the secret, a William
Rankin, one of Mr Livingston’s elders,
and the three went away to Johnstone’s
house, to investigate the case of the cavalier’s
murder; but there was a guard
of three armed men opposed them, and
neither promises nor threatenings, nor
all the minister’s eloquence, could induce
them to give way one inch. The
men advised the intruders to take themselves
off, lest a worse thing should
befall them; and as they continued to
motion them away, with the most impatient
gestures, the kind divine and
his associates thought meet to retire,
and leave the matter as it was; and
thus was this mysterious affair hushed
up in silence and darkness for that time,
no tongue having been heard to mention
it further than as above recited. The
three armed men were all unknown to
the others, but Haliday observed that
one of them was the very youth whom
he saw cutting off the soldier’s head
with a knife.</p>

<p class='c008'>The rage and cruelty of the Popish
party seemed to gather new virulence
every day, influencing all the counsels
of the king; and the persecution of
the Nonconformists was proportionably
severe. One new act of council was
issued after another, all tending to root
the Covenanters out of Scotland, but it
had only the effect of making their
tenets still dearer to them. The longed-for
night of the meeting in the old hay-barn
at length arrived, and it was attended
by a still greater number than
on the night preceding. A more motley
group can hardly be conceived than
appeared in the barn that night, and the
lamps being weak and dim rendered
the appearance of the assembly still
more striking. It was, however, observed
that about the middle of the
service a number of fellows came in
with broad slouch bonnets, and watch-coats
or cloaks about them, who placed
themselves in equal divisions at the two
doors, and remained without uncovering
their heads, two of them being busily
engaged taking notes. Before Mr Livingston
began the last prayer, however,
he desired the men to uncover, which
they did, and the service went on to
the end; but no sooner had the minister
pronounced the word <em>Amen</em>, than the
group of late comers threw off their
cloaks, and drawing out swords and
pistols, their commander, one General
Drummond, charged the whole congregation
in the king’s name to surrender.</p>

<p class='c008'>A scene of the utmost confusion ensued.
The lights being extinguished,
many of the young men burst through
the roof of the old barn in every direction,
and though many shots were fired
at them in the dark, great numbers
escaped; but Mr Livingston and other
eleven were retained prisoners, and
conveyed to Edinburgh, where they
were examined before the council and
cast into prison. Among the prisoners
were Mr Haliday and the identical young
man whom he had seen in the act of
murdering the cavalier, and who turned
out to be a Mr John Lindsay, from
Edinburgh, who had been at the battle
of Pentland, and in hiding afterwards.</p>

<p class='c008'>Great was the lamentation for the
loss of Mr Livingston, who was so
highly esteemed by his hearers. The
short extracts from his sermons in the
barn, that were produced against him
on his trial, prove him to have been a
man endowed with talents somewhat
above the greater part of his contemporaries.
His text that night it appears
had been taken from Genesis:—“And
God saw the wickedness of man
that it was great in the earth, and that
every imagination of the thoughts of
his heart was only evil continually.”
One of the quoted passages concludes
thus:—</p>

<p class='c008'>“Let us join together in breaking
the bands of the oppressors, and casting
their cords from us. As for myself,
as a member of this poor persecuted
Church of Scotland, and an unworthy
minister of it, I hereby call upon you
all, in the name of God, to set your
faces, your hearts, and your hands
against all such acts, which are or shall
be passed against the covenanted work
of reformation in this kingdom; that
we here declare ourselves free of the
guilt of them, and pray that God may
put this in record in heaven.”</p>

<p class='c008'>These words having been sworn to,
and Mr Livingston not denying them,
a sharp debate arose in the council
what punishment to award. The king’s
advocate urged the utility of sending
him forthwith to the gallows; but
some friends in the council got his sentence
commuted to banishment; and
he was accordingly banished the kingdom.
Six more, against whom nothing
could be proven farther than their having
been present at a conventicle,
were sentenced to imprisonment for
two months; among this number, Haliday
was one. The other five were condemned
to be executed at the cross of
Edinburgh, on the 14th of December
following; and among this last unhappy
number was Mr John Lindsay.</p>

<p class='c008'>Haliday now tried all the means he
could devise to gain an interview with
Lindsay, to have some explanation of
the extraordinary scene he had witnessed
in the cottage at midnight, for
it had made a fearful impression upon
his mind, and he never could get rid of
it for a moment; having still in his
mind’s eye a beautiful country maiden
standing with a pleased face, holding a
candle, and Lindsay in the meantime
at his horrid task. His endeavours,
however, were all in vain, for they were
in different prisons, and the jailer paid
no attention to his requests. But there
was a gentleman in the privy council
that year, whose name, I think, was
Gilmour, to whose candour Haliday
conceived that both he and some of his
associates owed their lives. To this
gentleman, therefore, he applied by
letter, requesting a private interview
with him, as he had a singular instance
of barbarity to communicate, which it
would be well to inquire into while the
possibility of doing so remained, for
the access to it would soon be sealed
for ever. The gentleman attended immediately,
and Haliday revealed to
him the circumstances previously mentioned,
stating that the murderer now
lay in the Tolbooth jail, under sentence
of death.</p>

<p class='c008'>Gilmour appeared much interested,
as well as astonished at the narrative,
and taking out a note-book, he looked
over some dates, and then observed—“This
date of yours tallies exactly
with one of my own, relating to an incident
of the same sort; but the circumstances
narrated are so different, that
I must conceive either that you are
mistaken, or that you are trumping up
this story to screen some other guilty
person or persons.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Haliday disclaimed all such motives,
and persevered in his attestations. Gilmour
then took him along with him
to the Tolbooth prison, where the two
were admitted to a private interview
with the prisoner, and there charged
him with the crime of murder in such
a place and on such a night; but he
denied the whole with disdain. Haliday
told him that it was in vain for
him to deny it, for he beheld him in the
very act of perpetrating the murder with
his own eyes, while Gabriel Johnstone’s
daughter stood deliberately and held the
candle to him.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Hold your tongue, fellow!” said
Lindsay, disdainfully, “for you know
not what you are saying. What a
cowardly dog you must be by your own
account! If you saw me murdering a
gentleman cavalier, why did you not
rush in to his assistance?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I could not have saved the gentleman
then,” said Haliday, “and I
thought it not meet to intermeddle in
such a scene of blood.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“It was as well for you that you did
not,” said Lindsay.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Then you acknowledge being in the
cottage of the dell that night?” said
Gilmour.</p>

<p class='c008'>“And if I was, what is that to you?
Or what is it now to me or any person?
I <em>was</em> there on the night specified; but
I am ashamed of the part I there acted,
and am now well requited for it. Yes,
requited as I ought to be, so let it rest;
for not one syllable of the transaction
shall any one hear from me.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Thus they were obliged to leave the
prisoner, and forthwith Gilmour led
Haliday up a stair to a lodging in the
Parliament Square, where they found
a gentleman lying sick in bed, to whom
Mr Gilmour said, after inquiring after
his health, “Brother Robert, I conceive
that we two have found out the
young man who saved your life at the
cottage among the mountains.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I would give the half that I possess
that this were true,” said the sick
gentleman. “Who or where is he?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“If I am right in my conjecture,”
said the privy councillor, “he is lying
in the Tolbooth jail, under sentence
of death, and has but a few days to
live. But tell me, brother, could you
know him, or have you any recollection
of his appearance?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Alas! I have none,” said the other,
mournfully, “for I was insensible,
through the loss of blood, the whole
time I was under his protection; and if
I ever heard his name I have lost it,
the whole of that period being a total
blank in my memory. But he must be
a hero in the first rank; and therefore,
oh, my dear brother, save him whatever
his crime may be.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“His life is justly forfeited to the
laws of his country, brother,” said
Gilmour, “and he must die with the
rest.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“He shall not die with the rest if I
should die for him,” cried the sick man,
vehemently. “I will move heaven and
earth before my brave deliverer shall
die like a felon.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Calm yourself, brother, and trust
that part to me,” said Gilmour. “I
think my influence saved the life of
this gentleman, as well as the lives of
some others, and it was all on account
of the feeling of respect I had for the
party, one of whom, or, rather, two of
whom, acted such a noble and distinguished
part toward you. But pray,
undeceive this gentleman by narrating
the facts to him, in which he cannot
fail to be interested.” The sick man,
whose name, if I remember aright,
was Captain Robert Gilmour, of the
volunteers, then proceeded as follows:—</p>

<p class='c008'>“There having been high rewards
offered for the apprehension of some
south-country gentlemen, whose correspondence
with Mr Welch, and some
other of the fanatics, had been intercepted,
I took advantage of information
I obtained regarding the place of
their retreat, and set out, certain of
apprehending two of them at least.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Accordingly, I went off one morning
about the beginning of November,
with only five followers, well armed and
mounted. We left Gilmerton long
before it was light, and having a trusty
guide, rode straight to their hiding-place,
where we did not arrive till
towards the evening, when we started
them. They were seven in number,
and were armed with swords and
bludgeons; but, being apprized of our
approach, they fled from us, and took
shelter in a morass, into which it was
impossible to follow them on horseback.
But perceiving three more men on another
hill, I thought there was no time to
lose, so giving one of my men our horses
to hold, the rest of us advanced into
the morass with drawn swords and
loaded horse-pistols. I called to them
to surrender, but they stood upon their
guard, determined on resistance; and
just when we were involved to the
knees in the mire of the morass, they
broke in upon us, pell-mell, and for
about two minutes the engagement was
very sharp. There was an old man
struck me a terrible blow with a
bludgeon, and was just about to repeat
it, when I brought him down with a
shot from my pistol. A young fellow
then ran at me with his sword, and as
I still stuck in the moss, I could not
ward the blow, so that he got a fair
stroke at my neck, meaning, without
doubt, to cut off my head; and he would
have done it had his sword been sharp.
As it was, he cut it to the bone, and
opened one of the jugular veins. I
fell; but my men firing a volley in their
faces, at that moment they fled. It
seems we did the same, without loss of
time; for I must now take my narrative
from the report of others, as I remember
no more that passed. My men bore
me on their arms to our horses, and
then mounted and fled, trying all that
they could to stanch the bleeding of
my wound. But perceiving a party
coming down a hill, as with the intent
of cutting off their retreat, and losing
all hopes of saving my life, they carried
me into a cottage in a wild lonely
retreat, commended me to the care of
the inmates; and after telling them my
name, and in what manner I had
received my death wound, they thought
proper to provide for their own safety,
and so escaped.</p>

<p class='c008'>“The only inmates of that lonely
house, at least at that present time,
were a lover and his mistress, but
intercommuned Whigs; and when my
men left me on the floor, the blood,
which they had hitherto restrained in
part, burst out afresh and deluged the
floor. The young man said it was best
to put me out of my pain, but the girl
wept and prayed him rather to render
me some assistance. ‘Oh, Johnny,
man, how can you speak that gate?’
cried she. ‘Suppose he be our mortal
enemy, he is aye ane o’ God’s creatures,
an’ has a soul to be saved as well as
either you or me; and a soldier is
obliged to do as he is bidden. Now
Johnny, ye ken ye were learned to be a
doctor o’ physic; wad ye no rather try
to stop the bleeding, and save the young
officer’s life, as either kill him, or let
him bleed to death on our floor, when
the blame o’ the murder might fa’ on
us!’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Now, the blessing of heaven
light on your head, my dear Sally!’
said the lover, ‘for you have spoken
the very sentiments of my heart; and,
since it is your desire, though we
should both rue it, I here vow to you
that I will not only endeavour to save
his life, but I will defend it against
our own party to the last drop of my
blood.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“He then began, and, in spite of my
feeble struggles, who knew not either
what I was doing or suffering, sewed
up the hideous gash in my throat and
neck, tying every stitch by itself; and
the house not being able to produce a
pair of scissors, it seems that he cut off
all the odds and ends of the stitching
with a large sharp gully knife, and it
was likely to have been during the
operation that this gentleman chanced
to look in at the window. He then
bathed the wound for an hour with
cloths dipped in cold water, dressed it
with plaster of wood-betony, and put
me to bed, expressing to his sweetheart
the most vivid hopes of my recovery.</p>

<p class='c008'>“These operations were scarcely
finished when the maid’s two brothers
came home from their hiding-place;
and it seems they would have been
there much sooner had not this gentleman
given them chase in the contrary
direction. They, seeing the floor all
covered with blood, inquired the cause
with wild trepidation of manner. Their
sister was the first to inform them of
what had happened, on which both
the young men gripped to their weapons,
and the eldest, Samuel, cried out
with the vehemence of a maniac,
‘Blessed be the righteous avenger of
blood! Hoo! Is it then true that the
Lord hath delivered our greatest enemy
into our hands!’ ‘Hold, hold, dearest
brother!’ cried the maid, spreading
out her arms before him. ‘Would you
kill a helpless young man, lying in a
state of insensibility! What! although
the Almighty hath put his life in your
hand, will He not require the blood of
you, shed in such a base and cowardly
way?’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Hold your peace, foolish girl,’
cried he, in the same furious strain. ‘I
tell you, if he had a thousand lives I
would sacrifice them all this moment!
Wo be to this old rusty and fizenless sword
that did not sever his head from his
body when I had a fair chance in the
open field! Nevertheless he shall die;
for you do not yet know that he hath,
within these few hours, murdered our
father, whose blood is yet warm around
him on the bleak height.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Oh! merciful heaven! killed our
father!’ screamed the girl, and flinging
herself down on the resting-chair, she
fainted away. The two brothers regarded
not, but with their bared weapons
made towards the closet, intent
on my blood, and both vowing I should
die if I had a thousand lives. The
stranger interfered, and thrust himself
into the closet door before them, swearing
that, before they committed so
cowardly a murder they should first
make their way through his body.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Samuel retreated one step to have
full sway for his weapon, and the fury
depicted on his countenance proved his
determination. But in a moment his
gallant opponent closed with him, and
holding up his wrist with his left hand,
he with the right bestowed on him a
blow with such energy that he fell flat
on the floor among the soldier’s blood.
The youngest then ran on their antagonist
with his sword and wounded
him, but the next moment he was lying
beside his brother. As soon as her
brothers came fairly to their senses, the
young woman and her lover began and
expostulated with them, at great
length, on the impropriety and unmanliness
of the attempt, until they
became all of one mind, and the two
brothers agreed to join in the defence
of the wounded gentleman, from all of
their own party, until he was rescued
by his friends, which they did. But
it was the maid’s simple eloquence
that finally prevailed with the fierce
Covenanters.</p>

<p class='c008'>“When my brothers came at last,
with a number of my men, and took me
away, the only thing I remember seeing
in the house was the corpse of the old
man whom I had shot, and the beautiful
girl standing weeping over the
body; and certainly my heart smote
me in such a manner that I would not
experience the same feeling again for
the highest of this world’s benefits.
That comely young maiden, and her
brave intrepid lover, it would be the
utmost ingratitude in me, or in any of
my family, ever to forget; for it is
scarcely possible that a man can ever
be again in the same circumstances as
I was, having been preserved from
death in the house of the man whom
my hand had just deprived of life.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Just as he ended, the sick nurse
peeped in, which she had done several
times before, and said, “Will your
honour soon be disengaged, d’ye think?
for ye see because there’s a lass wanting
till speak till ye.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“A lass, nurse? what lass can have
any business with me? what is she
like?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Oo, ’deed, sir, the lass is weel
enough for that part o’t, but she may
be nae better than she should be for a’
that; ye ken, I’se no answer for that,
for ye see because “like is an ill mark”;
but she has been aften up, speiring
after ye, an’ gude troth she’s fairly in
nettle-earnest now, for she winna gang
awa till she see your honour.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The nurse being desired to show her
in, a comely girl entered, with a timid
step, and seemed ready to faint with
trepidation. She had a mantle on, and
a hood that covered much of her face.
The privy councillor spoke to her, desiring
her to come forward and say her
errand, on which she said that “she
only wanted a preevat word wi’ the
captain, if he was that weel as to speak
to ane,” He looked over the bed, and
desired her to say on, for that gentleman
was his brother, from whom he
kept no secrets. After a hard struggle
with her diffidence, but, on the other
hand, prompted by the urgency of the
case, she at last got out, “I’m unco
glad to see you sae weel comed round
again, though I daresay ye’ll maybe no
ken wha I am. But it was me that
nursed ye, an’ took care o’ ye in our
house, when your head was amaist
cuttit off.”</p>

<p class='c008'>There was not another word required
to draw forth the most ardent
expressions of kindness from the two
brothers, on which the poor girl took
courage, and, after several showers of
tears, she said, with many bitter sobs,
“There’s a poor lad wha, in my humble
opinion, saved your life; an’ wha
is just gaun to be hanged the day
after the morn. I wad unco fain beg
your honour’s interest to get his life
spared.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Say not another word, my dear
good girl,” said the councillor; “for
though I hardly know how I can intercede
for a rebel who has taken up arms
against the government, yet, for your
sake and his, my best interest shall be
exerted.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Oh, ye maun just say, sir, that
the poor Whigs were driven to desperation,
and that this young man was
misled by others in the fervour and enthusiasm
of youth. What else can ye
say? But ye’re good—oh, ye’re very
good! and on my knees I beg that ye
winna lose ony time, for indeed there
is nae time to lose!”</p>

<p class='c008'>The councillor lifted her kindly by
both hands, and desired her to stay
with his brother’s nurse till his return,
on which he went away to the president,
and in half-an-hour returned
with a respite for the convict, John
Lindsay, for three days, which he gave
to the girl, along with an order for her
admittance to the prisoner. She
thanked him with the tears in her
eyes, but added, “Oh, sir, will he and
I then be obliged to part for ever at the
end of three days?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Keep up your heart, and encourage
your lover,” said he, “and meet me
here again, on Thursday, at this same
hour, for, till the council meet, nothing
further than this can be obtained.”</p>

<p class='c008'>It may well be conceived how much
the poor forlorn prisoner was astonished
when his own beloved Sally entered to
him with a reprieve in her hand, and
how much his whole soul dilated when,
on the Thursday following, she presented
him with a free pardon. They
were afterwards married, when the
Gilmours took them under their protection.
Lindsay became a highly qualified
surgeon, and the descendants of
this intrepid youth occupy respectable
situations in Edinburgh to the
present day.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='graysteel' class='c006'>GRAYSTEEL:<br> <span class='large'><em>A TRADITIONARY STORY OF CAITHNESS</em></span>.</h2>
</div>

<p class='c007'>In a beautiful valley in the highlands
of Caithness, lies embosomed a small
mountain tarn, called the Loch of
Ranag. The hill of Bencheildt, which
ascends abruptly from the water’s edge,
protects it on the north. On the south
it is overlooked by a chain of lofty
mountains, individually named Scarabine,
Morven, and the Pap, which form
a natural barrier betwixt Sutherland and
Caithness. Morven, the highest in the
range, is nearly two thousand feet above
the level of the sea, and turns up conspicuously
over the neighbouring summits,
like a huge pyramid. The extensive
wild lying between this magnificent
chain of hills and Ranag, is clothed
in the autumnal season with rich purple
heather; and here the plover and the
grouse, the denizens of the solitary
waste, live unmolested, except by the
murderous gun of the sportsman. Near
the north edge of the loch to which we
have just alluded, there is a small
island, on which may be still seen the
ruins of an old keep or castle. The
last proprietor of this fortalice is said
to have been a noted freebooter of the
name of Graysteel, who kept the whole
county in alarm by his predatory incursions
from the Ord to Duncansbay
Head, and, like Rob Roy and others
of the same stamp, rigorously exacted
“black mail,” or protection money. Tradition
also reports, that, besides being
possessed of great bodily strength, he
was an expert swordsman, and a person
of such a jealous and tyrannical disposition,
that none durst venture to hunt or
shoot on his grounds, without being
challenged to single combat; and it
may be added, that none whom he
encountered trespassing in this way ever
escaped alive out of his hands. It happened
that one of the family of Rollo,
while pursuing his sport in the direction,
one day unfortunately encroached
on the sacred property of the robber.
Being informed by some of his retainers
that a stranger was hunting on the west
side of the lake, Graysteel immediately
sallied forth, and, running up towards
the sportsman with menacing looks and
gestures, gave him the accustomed challenge.
Rollo saw he had no alternative
but to give him combat, and being a
high-spirited young man, he instantly
drew his sword; and, although he defended
himself for some time with great
skill and courage, it is needless to say
that he sank at last, mortally wounded,
under the more powerful arm of his
antagonist. The ruffian afterwards
stripped the dead body of every thing
that was of any value, and then threw
it into the loch.</p>

<p class='c008'>The account of this melancholy occurrence,
as soon as it reached the family
and relatives of the unfortunate youth,
plunged them into the deepest distress;
but none did it inspire with more poignant
regret than the young laird of
Durie, who was his bosom friend, and
had just been affianced to his sister, a
very beautiful and interesting girl of
sixteen. The moment he heard of
Rollo’s tragical death, he determined
to avenge it, although he knew he had
little chance of surviving a personal
encounter with such a desperado as
Graysteel. Accordingly, having furnished
himself with a good Highland
broadsword, and without communicating
his intention to any one, he set off
for the residence of the freebooter. Nor
was the route he had to take, any more
than the occasion of the journey, agreeable.
A trackless moor, of some miles
in extent, lay between him and Ranag,
so very bleak and barren, that, in the
words of the poet,</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>The solitary bee</div>
      <div class='line'>Flew there on restless wing,</div>
      <div class='line'>Seeking in vain one blossom where to fix.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c012'>He had not gone far, however, when he
was overtaken by a severe storm, which
rendered it impossible for him to continue
his journey. The wind, which
blew at times with irresistible fury,
dashed the rain in his face, mingled
with hail, and howled like a maniac on
the naked moor. Clouds of turbid
vapour, issuing, as it were, from a vast
furnace, hurried across the sky; and
now and then the rolling of thunder,
while it prognosticated a continuance
of the storm, added not a little to its
terrors. Driven by the wind, and battered
by the rain, our traveller began
anxiously to look around him for some
place of shelter. At length, to his great
joy, he espied, a few hundred yards distant,
a small solitary cottage, situated
on the edge of the moor. Thither he
immediately directed his steps, and, on
entering, found its sole occupant to be
a poor aged widow, who lived upon the
gratuitous bounty of the public. There
was something, however, in her appearance,
though bent down with years and
infirmities, that spoke of better days.
On a small stool beside her lay the
Bible, which she seemed to have been
just reading. She welcomed in the
stranger with a look of much cheerfulness,
and kindly offered him such accommodation
for the night as her scanty
means could afford. As the storm
continued to rage with unabated violence,
Durie gladly accepted the proffered
hospitality; and, in the meantime,
the venerable hostess did all in
her power to make him comfortable, by
putting an additional peat or two on the
hearth, and furnishing him with something
to eat. On examining the scanty
furniture of the apartment, which was
now more distinctly seen by the light of
a blazing turf-fire, he observed, in one
corner, a very uncommon-looking sword,
with the appearance of which he was
not a little struck. The hilt and blade
were covered over with a variety of
strange characters and fantastic devices,
plainly indicating that it was of foreign
manufacture, and belonged to a remote
period. His curiosity was powerfully
excited; and on asking the old woman
how she came by such a magnificent
weapon, she gave him the following
particulars regarding it. The sword,
which had originally belonged to a
noble Saracen, was that of her deceased
husband, who had been a volunteer in
the regiment of Highlanders that had
gone over to Holland under the command
of Lord Reay. He had received
it as a present from a Polish Jew,
whose life he had saved in a moment of
extreme danger. She, moreover, informed
him that her husband, while on
his deathbed, had strictly enjoined her
not to sell or dispose of it in any way,
but to preserve it as an heirloom of the
family. On getting this account of the
sword, Durie told the woman who he
was, and the errand on which he was
going, and begged of her to give him
the use of it for a single day. After
much entreaty, she at last agreed to give
it, on the condition that it should be
strictly returned.</p>

<p class='c008'>The storm, which was short-lived in
proportion to its violence, gradually
died away towards morning; and at the
first peep of dawn our hero, who burned
with impatience to measure weapons
with the murderer of his friend, was up,
and, with his enchanted sword firmly
girt on his side, pursuing his solitary
route across the moors. His spirits
were now buoyant with hope; and he
beheld with a feeling of sympathy the
universal gladness which, after the late
convulsion of its elements, was diffused
over the face of nature. Already the
“bird of the wilderness” sang blithely
overhead, whilst the beams of a brilliant
morning sun were beginning to
dissipate the mists which lay thick and
heavy upon the hills. Our traveller
was not long in reaching the brow of
Benchieldt; and scarcely had he descended
half way down the side fronting
the castle, when he was met by Graysteel,
who, as usual, challenged him for
intruding on his grounds, and desired
him to draw and defend himself. “Villain!”
cried Durie, unsheathing his
weapon, which flashed in his hand like
the Scandinavian monarch’s celebrated
elfin sword—“villain! you wantonly
slew my friend, and you shall this day
atone for it with your heart’s blood!”</p>

<p class='c008'>The robber chief laughed scornfully at
what he considered an empty bravado,
and immediately made a thrust at his
opponent, which the latter parried off
with admirable dexterity. A desperate
struggle now ensued. Graysteel fought
with the fury of an enraged mastiff; but
young Durie pressed upon him so hard
with his never-failing blade, that he was
obliged to give way, and at last received
a mortal wound. After this, the hero
of our tale went immediately home, and,
having raised a body of stout followers,
proceeded back to Ranag, took the
castle, and nearly levelled it with the
ground.</p>

<p class='c008'>The <em>denouement</em> of our little story
may be anticipated. After a decent
period for mourning had elapsed, Durie
led his beautiful bride to the hymeneal
altar. Nor, in the midst of his happiness,
did he forget his good friend, the
old woman of the moor. The sword,
which had proved so invaluable an
auxiliary to him in the hour of need, he
not only returned to her, but he took
her under his protection, and kept her
comfortable for the rest of her days—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Joy seized her withered veins, and one bright gleam</div>
      <div class='line'>Of setting life shone on her evening hours.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='c017'>—<cite>John O’Groat Journal</cite>, 1836.</div>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='the_billeted_soldier' class='c006'>THE BILLETED SOLDIER.</h2>
</div>

<p class='c007'>In the autumn of 1803, the Forfar
and Kincardine militia,—then an infantry
regiment of about 1000 strong,—<i><span lang="fr">en
route</span></i> from the south of Scotland to
Aberdeen, along the coast road, happened
to perform the march between
the towns of Montrose and Bervie on a
Saturday. The want of the required
accommodation in Bervie for so many
men rendered it necessary that a considerable
portion should be billeted in
the adjoining villages of Johnshaven
and Gourdon, and on farmers and others
on the line of march. In carrying out
this arrangement, it so happened that
one private soldier was billeted on a
farmer or crofter of the name of Lyall,
on the estate of East Mathers, situated
about a mile north-west of the village of
Johnshaven. David Lyall, gudeman of
Gateside, was a douce, respectable individual,
a worthy member, if not an
elder, of the secession church, Johnshaven.
His wife, Mrs Lyall, possessed
many of the good qualities of her worthy
husband, whom she highly venerated,
and pithily described as being “as gude
a man as ever lay at a woman’s side.”
Mrs Lyall was a rigid seceder, a strict
Sabbatarian, stern and rigorous in
everything relating to the kirk and kirk
affairs, deeply learned in polemical disquisitions,
had a wondrous “gift of gab,”
and by no means allowed the talent to
lie idle in a napkin.</p>

<p class='c008'>The soldier produced his billet, was
kindly received, treated to the best as
regarded bed and board, was communicative,
and entered into all the news of
the day with the worthy couple. Everything
ran smoothly on the evening of
Saturday, and an agreeable intimacy
seemed to be established in the family;
but the horror of Mrs Lyall may be
conceived, when, on looking out in the
morning rather early, she saw the soldier
stripped to the shirt, switching, brushing,
and scrubbing his clothes on an eminence
in front of the house.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Get up, David Lyall,” she said,
“get up; it ill sets you to be lying there
snoring, an’ that graceless pagan brackin’
the Lord’s day wi’ a’ his might, at oor
door.”</p>

<p class='c008'>David looked up, and quietly composing
himself again, said, “The articles
of war, gudewife, the articles of war;
puir chiel, he canna help himsel—he
maun do duty Sunday as well as Saturday.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The soldier, after cleaning his clothes
and taking a stroll in the romantic dell
of Denfenella adjoining, returned in time
to breakfast, which was a silent meal.
With Mrs Lyall there was only “mony
a sad and sour look,” and on the table
being cleared, she placed on it, or rather
thrust, the “big ha’ Bible” immediately
in front of the soldier.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Weel, mistress,” said the soldier,
“what book is this?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“That’s a beuk, lad,” said the gudewife,
“that I muckle doubt that you
and the like o’ ye ken unco little
about.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Perhaps,” was the reply; “we shall
see.”</p>

<p class='c008'>On opening the book the soldier said,
“I have seen such a book before.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Gin ye’ve seen sic a book before,”
said Mrs Lyall, “let’s hear gin ye can
read ony.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I don’t mind though I do,” said the
soldier, and taking the Bible he read a
chapter that had been marked by Mrs
Lyall as one condemnatory of his seeming
disregard of the Sabbath. The
reading of the soldier was perfect.</p>

<p class='c008'>“There, lad,” said David Lyall, “ye
read like a minister.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“An’ far better than mony ane o’
them,” said the mistress; “but gifts
are no graces,” she continued; “it’s nae
the readin’ nor the hearin’ that maks a
gude man—na, na, it’s the right and
proper application—the practice, that’s
the real thing.”</p>

<p class='c008'>David saw that “the mistress was
aboot to mount her favourite hobbyhorse,”
and cut her lecture short by
remarking that “it was time to make
ready for the kirk.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Aye, ye’ll gae to the kirk,” said Mrs
Lyall, “an’ tak the sodger wi’ ye; and
see that ye fesh the sermon hame atween
ye, as I am no gaun mysel the day.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The soldier acquiesced, and on their
way to church Mr Lyall remarked,
among other things, that “the gudewife
was, if anything, precise and conceited
about kirk matters an’ keepin’ the
Sabbath day, but no that ill a body, fin
fouk had the git o’ her and latten gang
a wee thing her ain git. I keep a calm
sough mysel, for the sake o’ peace, as
she an’ her neebour wife, Mrs Smith,
gudewife o’ Jackston, count themselves
the Jachin an’ Boaz o’ our temple.
Ye’ll mind as muckle o’ the sermon as
ye can, as depend upon it she will be
speirin’.” The soldier said he would
do his best to satisfy her on that head.</p>

<p class='c008'>The parish church of Benholm, as
well as the secession church of Johnshaven,
were that day filled to overflowing
more by red coats than black. On their
return from church, and while dinner
was discussing, Mrs Lyall inquired about
the text at David. He told her the
text.</p>

<p class='c008'>“A bonnie text,” she said; “Mr
Harper” (the name of the minister)
“would say a hantle upon that; fu did
he lay out his discourse?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Weel, gudewife,” said David, “I
can tell ye little mair aboot it; ye may
speir at the sodger there. I can tell ye
he held the killivine (pencil) gaun to
some tune a’ the time.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ye’ve ta’en a note o’ the sermon,
lad?” said the mistress. “I will see it
when we get our dinner.”</p>

<p class='c008'>After dinner, and after the soldier had
read the chapter of which the text formed
part, in the same correct and eloquent
style as he did in the morning, Mrs
Lyall asked him to “favour her with a
sight of the sermon.” After adjusting
her spectacles, Mrs Lyall examined with
seeming seriousness the manuscript,
page after page, glancing a look now
and then at the soldier and her husband.
She took off her specks, and handing
back the sheets to the soldier, said—</p>

<p class='c008'>“Weel, lad, ye are the best reader
that ever I heard, an’ the warst writer
I ever saw; there’s naething there but
dots an’ strokes an’ tirliewhirlies; I
canna mak a word o’ sense o’t; ye’ve
sairly neglected yer handwrite—sairly.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“That may be,” replied the soldier,
“but I can assure you the sermon is all
there.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ye can read it yoursel, then,” said
the gudewife.</p>

<p class='c008'>The soldier took the manuscript and
read, or rather re-delivered, the sermon,
each head and particular, word for
word as Mr Harper had given it.
When he had concluded it, David Lyall,
looking triumphantly at the mistress,
said—</p>

<p class='c008'>“Weel, gudewife, ye’ve gotten the
sermon to Amen. Fat think ye o’
that?”</p>

<p class='c008'>She sat in silent amazement for a considerable
time, and at length ejaculated—“Fat do
I think o’ that? Fat do
I think o’ that? Fa’ wadna think o’
that? I may just say this, that I never
believed before that a red coat had sae
muckle grace about it, but I’ve been
thinkin’, lad, that ye are no a sodger—at
ony rate if ye are ane, ye could be
something else,—I’m doon sure o’
that.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The soldier stated that he was only a
private soldier, that there was nothing
extraordinary in what he had done, that
all or nearly all the men in his regiment
could just do the same thing, and that
many of them were better scholars than
he pretended to be; and taking from his
knapsack a copy of the Greek New
Testament, he laid it before her, saying
that “as she had been so kind as allow
him to read her Bible, he would favour
her with a look of his, and hoped that
she would now in turn read for his
edification.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Mrs Lyall examined the volume with
deep attention for some time, and shaking
her head, said—</p>

<p class='c008'>“Na, na, lad; they maun be deeper
beuk-learned than me that read that
beuk; yer far ayont my thumb.”</p>

<p class='c008'>He told her what book it was, employed
the afternoon or evening of that
Sabbath in reading, expounding, and
giving literal translations of many of the
passages of the New Testament that
seemed doubtful or difficult to Mrs
Lyall. She found the soldier equally
conversant with all her theological
authors—Bunyan, Baxter, Brown, and
Boston, were at his finger-ends; the
origin and history, as well as the fathers,
of the Secession Church were nothing
new to him. The soldier conducted
family worship that evening in a most
solemn and becoming manner for David
Lyall.</p>

<p class='c008'>On resuming his march in the morning
he was urgently pressed by Mrs Lyall
to accept of some of her country cheer,
such as cheese or butter; in fact, she
would have filled his knapsack. A
complete revolution had been effected
in her opinion regarding the moral,
religious, and intellectual qualities of
soldiers. “I aye took them for an
ignorant, graceless pack, the affscourings
o’ creation, but I now see that I have
been far mista’en;” and until the day of
her death, which occurred many years
afterwards, she would tolerate no insinuation
in her presence to the prejudice
of the profession. When such
was attempted in her hearing, she
instantly kindled up with—“Awa wi’
yer lees an’ yer havers, I’ll hear nane o’
them; there shall nae chield speak ill o’
sodgers in my presence, na, na. Mony’s
the minister that I hae seen in my house,—some
better, some waur,—but nane o’
them had either the wisdom, the learning,
the ready unction, of a gallant single
sodger.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The name of “the gallant single
sodger” was Robert Mudie, afterwards
editor of the <cite>Dundee Advertiser</cite> newspaper.—<cite>Eminent
Men of Fife.</cite></p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='bruntfield' class='c006'>BRUNTFIELD:<br> <span class='large'><em>A TALE OF THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY</em></span>.</h2>
</div>

<p class='c007'>The war carried on in Scotland, by
the friends and enemies of Queen Mary,
after her departure into England, was
productive of an almost complete dissolution
of order, and laid the foundation
of many feuds, which were kept up by
private families and individuals long
after all political cause of hostility had
ceased. Among the most remarkable
quarrels which history or tradition has
recorded as arising out of that civil
broil, I know of none so deeply cherished
or accompanied by so many
romantic and peculiar circumstances, as
one which took place between two old
families of gentry in the neighbourhood
of Edinburgh. Stephen Bruntfield,
laird of Craighouse, had been a zealous
and disinterested partisan of the queen.
Robert Moubray of Barnbougle was
the friend successively of Murray and
Morton, and distinguished himself very
highly in their cause. During the
year 1572, when Edinburgh Castle was
maintained by Kirkaldy of Grange in
behalf of the queen, Stephen Bruntfield
held out Craighouse in the same interest,
and suffered a siege from a detachment
of the forces of the Regent, commanded
by the laird of Barnbougle.
The latter baron, a man of fierce and
brutal nature, entered life as a younger
brother, and at an early period chose to
cast his fate among the Protestant
leaders, with a view of improving his
fortunes. The death of his elder brother
in rebellion at Langside enabled the
Regent Murray to reward his services
with a grant of the patrimonial estate,
of which he did not scruple to take
possession by the strong hand, to the
exclusion of his infant niece, the daughter
of the late proprietor. Some incidents
which occurred in the course of the
war had inspired a mutual hatred of the
most intense character into the breasts
of Bruntfield and Moubray; and it was
therefore with a feeling of strong personal
animosity, as well as of political
rancour, that the latter undertook the task
of watching the motions of Bruntfield at
Craighouse. Bruntfield, after holding
out for many months, was obliged, along
with his friends in Edinburgh Castle,
to yield to the party of the Regent.
Like Kirkaldy and Maitland of Lethington,
he surrendered upon a promise of
life and estate; but while his two friends
perished, one by the hand of the
executioner, the other by his own hand,
he fell a victim to the sateless spite of
his personal enemy, who, in conducting
him to Edinburgh as a prisoner, took
fire at some bitter expression on the
part of the captive, and smote him dead
upon the spot.</p>

<p class='c008'>Bruntfield left a widow and three
infant sons. The lady of Craighouse
had been an intimate of the unfortunate
Mary from her early years; was
educated with her in France, in the
Catholic faith; and had left her court
to become the wife of Bruntfield. It
was a time calculated to change the
natures of women, as well as of men.
The severity with which her religion
was treated in Scotland, the wrongs of
her royal mistress, and finally the
sufferings and death of her husband,
acting upon a mind naturally enthusiastic,
all conspired to alter the character of
Marie Carmichael, and substitute for the
rosy hues of her early years the gloom
of the sepulchre and the penitentiary.
She continued, after the restoration of
peace, to reside in the house of her late
husband; but though it was within
two miles of the city, she did not for
many years re-appear in public. With
no society but that of her children, and
the persons necessary to attend upon
them, she mourned in secret over past
events, seldom stirring from a particular
apartment, which, in accordance with a
fashion by no means uncommon, she
had caused to be hung with black, and
which was solely illuminated by a lamp.
In the most rigorous observances of her
faith she was assisted by a priest, whose
occasional visits formed almost the only
intercourse which she maintained with
the external world. One strong passion
gradually acquired a complete sway over
her mind,—<span class='sc'>Revenge</span>,—a passion which
the practice of the age had invested with
a conventional respectability, and which
no kind of religious feeling then known
was able either to check or soften. So
entirely was she absorbed by this fatal
passion, that her very children at length
ceased to have interest or merit in her
eyes, except in so far as they appeared
likely to be the means of gratifying it.
One after another, as they reached the
age of fourteen, she sent them to France,
in order to be educated; but the
accomplishment to which they were
enjoined to direct their principal attention
was that of martial exercise.
The eldest, Stephen, returned at eighteen,
a strong and active youth, with a mind
of little polish or literary information,
but considered a perfect adept at swordplay.
As his mother surveyed his
noble form, a smile stole into the desert
of her wan and widowed face, as a
winter sunbeam wanders over a waste
of snows. But it was a smile of more
than motherly pride; she was estimating
the power which that frame would have
in contending with the murderous
Moubray. She was not alone pleased
with the handsome figure of her firstborn
child; but she thought with a
fiercer and faster joy upon the appearance
which it would make in the single combat
against the slayer of his father.
Young Bruntfield, who, having been
from his earliest years trained to the
purpose now contemplated by his
mother, rejoiced in the prospect, now
lost no time in preferring before the
king a charge of murder against the
laird of Barnbougle, whom he at the
same time challenged, according to a
custom then not altogether abrogated,
to prove his innocence in single combat.
The king having granted the necessary
licence, the fight took place in the
royal park, near the palace; and to the
surprise of all assembled, young Bruntfield
fell under the powerful sword of
his adversary. The intelligence was
communicated to his mother at Craighouse,
where she was found in her
darkened chamber, prostrate before an
image of the Virgin. The priest who
had been commissioned to break the news
opened his discourse in a tone intended
to prepare her for the worst; but she
cut him short at the very beginning with
a frantic exclamation,—“I know what
you would tell—the murderer’s sword
has prevailed; and there are now but
two, instead of three, to redress their
father’s wrongs!” The melancholy
incident, after the first burst of feeling,
seemed only to have concentrated and
increased that passion by which she had
been engrossed for so many years. She
appeared to feel that the death of her
eldest son only formed an addition to that
debt which it was the sole object of her
existence to see discharged. “Roger,”
she said, “will have the death of his
brother, as well as that of his father, to
avenge. Animated by such a double
object, his arm can hardly fail to be
successful.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Roger returned about two years after,
a still handsomer, more athletic, and
more accomplished youth than his brother.
Instead of being daunted by the
fate of Stephen, he burned but the more
eagerly to wipe out the injuries of his
house with the blood of Moubray. On
his application for a licence being presented
to the court, it was objected by
the crown lawyers that the case had
been already closed by <em>mal fortune</em> of
the former challenger. But, while this
was the subject of their deliberation,
the applicant caused so much annoyance
and fear in the court circle by the
threats which he gave out against the
enemy of his house, that the king,
whose inability to procure respect either
for himself or for the law is well-known,
thought it best to decide in favour of
his claim. Roger Bruntfield, therefore,
was permitted to fight in barras
with Moubray; but the same fortune
attended him as that which had already
deprived the widow of her first child.
Slipping his foot in the midst of the
combat, he reeled to the ground embarrassed
by his cumbrous armour.
Moubray, according to the barbarous
practice of the age, immediately sprang
upon and despatched him. “Heaven’s
will be done!” said the widow, when
she heard of the fatal incident; “but
<i><span lang="la">gratias Deo!</span></i> there still remains another
chance.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Henry Bruntfield, the third and last
surviving son, had all along been the
favourite of his mother. Though apparently
cast in a softer mould than
his two elder brothers, and bearing all
the marks of a gentler and more amiable
disposition, he in reality cherished the
hope of avenging his father’s death
more deeply in the recesses of his heart,
and longed more ardently to accomplish
that deed than any of his brothers. His
mind, naturally susceptible of the softest
and tenderest impressions, had contracted
the enthusiasm of his mother’s
wish in its strongest shape; as the
fairest garments are capable of the
deepest stain. The intelligence, which
reached him in France, of the death of
his brothers, instead of bringing to
his heart the alarm and horror which
might have been expected, only braced
him to the adventure which he now
knew to be before him. From this
period he forsook the elegant learning
which he had heretofore delighted
to cultivate. His evenings were spent
in poring over the memoirs of distinguished
knights; his days were consumed
in the tilt-yard of the sword-player.
In due time he entered the
French army, in order to add to mere
science that practical hardihood, the
want of which he conceived to be the
cause of the death of his brothers.
Though the sun of chivalry was now
declining far in the occident, it was not
yet altogether set. Montmorency was
but just dead; Bayard was still alive,—Bayard,
the knight of all others who has
merited the motto, “Sans peur et sans
reproche.” Of the lives and actions
of such men, Henry Bruntfield was a
devout admirer and imitator. No young
knight kept a firmer seat upon his
horse,—none complained less of the
severities of campaigning,—none cherished
lady’s love with a fonder, purer,
or more devout sensation. On first
being introduced at the court of Henry
III., he had signalised, as a matter of
course, Catherine Moubray, the disinherited
niece of his father’s murderer,
who had been educated in a French
convent by her other relatives, and was
now provided for in the household of
the queen. The connection of this
young lady with the tale of his own
family, and the circumstance of her being
a sufferer in common with himself by
the wickedness of one individual, would
have been enough to create a deep interest
respecting her in his breast. But
when, in addition to these circumstances,
we consider that she was beautiful, was
highly accomplished, and in many other
respects qualified to engage his affections,
we can scarcely be surprised that
such was the result of their acquaintance.
Upon one point alone did these
two interesting persons ever think differently.
Catherine, though inspired
by her friends from infancy with an
entire hatred of her cruel relative,
contemplated with fear and aversion
the prospect of her lover being
placed against him in deadly combat,
and did all in her power to dissuade
him from his purpose. Love, however,
was of little avail against the still more
deeply-rooted passion which had previously
occupied his breast. Flowers
thrown upon a river might have been
as effectual in staying its course towards
the cataract, as the gentle entreaties
of Catherine Moubray in withholding
Henry Bruntfield from the enterprise
for which his mother had reared him—for
which his brothers had died—for
which he had all along moved and
breathed.</p>

<p class='c008'>At length, accomplished with all the
skill which could then be acquired in
arms, glowing with all the earnest feelings
of youth, Henry returned to Scotland.
On reaching his mother’s dwelling,
she clasped him, in a transport of
varied feeling, to her breast, and for a
long time could only gaze upon his
elegant person. “My last and dearest,”
she at length said, “and thou too art
to be adventured upon this perilous
course! Much have I bethought me of
the purpose which now remains to be
accomplished. I have not been without
a sense of dread lest I be only
doing that which is to sink my soul in
flames at the day of reckoning; but yet
there has been that which comforts me
also. Only yesternight I dreamed that
your father appeared before me. In
his hand he held a bow and three goodly
shafts; at a distance appeared the fierce
and sanguinary Moubray. He desired
me to shoot the arrows at that arch
traitor, and I gladly obeyed. A first
and a second he caught in his hand,
broke, and trampled on with contempt.
But the third shaft, which was the fairest
and goodliest of all, pierced his guilty
bosom, and he immediately expired.
The revered shade at this gave me an
encouraging smile, and withdrew. My
Henry, thou art that <em>third arrow</em>, which
is at length to avail against the shedder
of our blood. The dream seems a
revelation, given especially that I may
have comfort in this enterprise, otherwise
so revolting to a mother’s feelings.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Young Bruntfield saw that his mother’s
wishes had only imposed upon her reason,
but he made no attempt to break the
charm by which she was actuated, being
glad, upon any terms, to obtain her sanction
for that adventure to which he was
himself impelled by feelings considerably
different. He therefore began, in the
most deliberate manner, to take measures
for bringing on the combat with
Moubray. The same legal objections
which had stood against the second
duel were maintained against the third;
but public feeling was too favourable
to the object to be easily withstood.
The laird of Barnbougle, though somewhat
past the bloom of life, was still a
powerful and active man, and instead
of expressing any fear to meet this third
and more redoubted warrior, rather
longed for a combat which promised,
if successful, to make him one of the
most renowned swordsmen of his time.
He had also heard of the attachment
which subsisted between Bruntfield and
his niece; and in the contemplation of
an alliance which might give some force
to the claims of that lady upon his
estate, found a deeper and more selfish
reason for accepting the challenge of
his youthful enemy. King James himself
protested against stretching the law
of the <i><span lang="la">per duellum</span></i> so far; but, sensible
that there would be no peace between
either the parties or their adherents till
it should be decided in a fair combat, he
was fain to grant the required licence.</p>

<p class='c008'>The fight was appointed to take place
on Cramond Inch, a low grassy island
in the Frith of Forth, near the Castle
of Barnbougle. All the preparations
were made in the most approved manner
by the young Duke of Lennox, who had
been the friend of Bruntfield in France.
On a level spot, close to the northern
beach of the islet, a space was marked
off, and strongly secured by a paling.
The spectators, who were almost exclusively
gentlemen (the rabble not
being permitted to approach), sat upon
a rising ground beside the enclosure,
while the space towards the sea was
quite clear. At one end, surrounded
by his friends, stood the laird of Barnbougle,
a huge and ungainly figure,
whose features displayed a mixture of
ferocity and hypocrisy, in the highest
degree unpleasing. At the other, also
attended by a host of family allies and
friends, stood the gallant Harry Bruntfield,
who, if divested of his armour,
might have realised the idea of a winged
Mercury. A seat was erected close
beside the barras for the Duke of Lennox
and other courtiers, who were to
act as judges; and at a little distance
upon the sea lay a small decked vessel,
with a single female figure on board.
After all the proper ceremonies which
attended this strange legal custom had
been gone through, the combatants advanced
into the centre, and planting foot
to foot, each with his heavy sword in his
hand, waited the command which should
let them loose against each other, in a
combat which both knew would only be
closed with the death of one or other.
The word being given, the fight commenced.
Moubray almost at the first
pass gave his adversary a cut in the
right limb, from which the blood was
seen to flow profusely. But Bruntfield
was enabled by this mishap to perceive
the trick upon which his adversary
chiefly depended, and, by taking care
to avoid it, put Moubray nearly <i><span lang="fr">hors de
combat</span></i>. The fight then proceeded for a
few minutes, without either gaining the
least advantage over the other. Moubray
was able to defend himself pretty
successfully from the cuts and thrusts of
his antagonist, but he could make no
impression in return. The question
then became one of time. It was
evident that, if no lucky stroke should
take effect beforehand, he who first
became fatigued with the exertion would
be the victim. Moubray felt his disadvantage
as the elder and bulkier man,
and began to fight desperately and with
less caution. One tremendous blow, for
which he seemed to have gathered his
last strength, took effect upon Bruntfield,
and brought him upon his knee,
in a half-stupified state, but the elder
combatant had no strength to follow up
the effort. He reeled towards his
youthful and sinking enemy, and stood
for a few moments over him, vainly endeavouring
to raise his weapon for another
and final blow. Ere he could
accomplish his wish, Bruntfield recovered
sufficient strength to draw his dagger,
and thrust it up to the hilt beneath the
breastplate of his exhausted foe. The
murderer of his race instantly lay dead
beside him, and a shout of joy from the
spectators hailed him as the victor. At
the same instant a scream of more
than earthly note arose from the vessel
anchored near the island; a lady descended
from its side into a boat,
and, rowing to the land, rushed up to
the bloody scene, where she fell upon
the neck of the conqueror, and pressed
him with the most frantic eagerness
to her bosom. The widow of Stephen
Bruntfield at length found the yearnings
of twenty years fulfilled,—she saw the
murderer of her husband, the slayer of
her two sons, dead on the sward before
her, while there still survived to her as
noble a child as ever blessed a mother’s
arms. But the revulsion of feeling produced
by the event was too much for
her strength; or, rather, Providence,
in its righteous judgement, had resolved
that so unholy a feeling as that of
revenge should not be too signally
gratified. She expired in the arms of
her son, murmuring <i><span lang="la">Nunc dimittis,
Domine</span></i>, with her latest breath.</p>

<p class='c008'>The remainder of the tale of Bruntfield
may be easily told. After a
decent interval, the young laird of
Craighouse married Catherine Moubray;
and as the king saw it right to
restore that young lady to a property
originally forfeited for service to his
mother, the happiness of the parties
might be considered as complete. A
long life of prosperity and peace was
granted to them by the kindness of
Heaven; and at their death they had
the satisfaction of enjoying that greatest
of all earthly blessings, the love and
respect of a numerous and virtuous
family.—<cite>Chambers’s Edinburgh Journal</cite>,
1832.<a id='r1'></a><a href='#f1' class='c018'><sup>[1]</sup></a></p>

<div class='footnote' id='f1'>
<p class='c008'><a href='#r1'>1</a>. The tale of Bruntfield is founded upon
facts alluded to in “Birrel’s Diary,” “Anderson’s
History of Scotland” (MS., Advocates’
Library), &#38;c.</p>
</div>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='sunset_and_sunrise' class='c006'>SUNSET AND SUNRISE.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By Professor Wilson.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>“This is the evening on which, a
few days ago, we agreed to walk to the
bower at the waterfall, and look at the
perfection of a Scottish sunset. Everything
on earth and heaven seems at this
hour as beautiful as our souls could
desire. Come then, my sweet Anna,
come along, for by the time we have
reached the bower, with your gentle
steps, the great bright orb will be
nearly resting its rim on what you call
the Ruby Mountain. Come along,
and we can return before the dew has
softened a single ringlet on your fair
forehead.” With these words, the
happy husband locked kindly within
his own the arm of his young English
wife; and even in the solitude of his
unfrequented groves, where no eye but
his own now beheld her, looked with
pride on the gracefulness and beauty
that seemed so congenial with the singleness
and simplicity of her soul.</p>

<p class='c008'>They reached the bower just as the
western heaven was in all its glory.
To them, while they stood together
gazing on that glow of fire that burns
without consuming, and in whose mighty
furnace the clouds and the mountaintops
are but as embers, there seemed
to exist no sky but that region of it in
which their spirits were entranced.
Their eyes saw it—their souls felt it;
but what their eyes saw or their souls
felt they knew not in the mystery of
that magnificence. The vast black
bars, the piled-up masses of burnished
gold, the beds of softest saffron and
richest purple, lying surrounded with
continually fluctuating dyes of crimson,
till the very sun himself was for moments
unheeded in the gorgeousness his light
had created; the show of storm, but
the feeling of calm, over all that tumultuous,
yet settled world of cloud, that
had come floating silently and majestically
together, and yet in one little hour
was to be no more;—what might not
beings endowed with a sense of beauty,
and greatness, and love, and fear, and
terror, and eternity, feel when drawing
their breath together, and turning their
steadfast eyes on each other’s faces, in
such a scene as this?</p>

<p class='c008'>But from these high and bewildering
imaginations, their souls returned insensibly
to the real world in which their
life lay; and, still feeling the presence
of that splendid sunset, although now
they looked not towards it, they let
their eyes glide, in mere human happiness,
over the surface of the inhabited
earth. The green fields, that in all
varieties of form lay stretching out
before them, the hedgerows of hawthorn
and sweetbrier, the humble coppices,
the stately groves, and, in the distance,
the dark pine-forest loading the mountain
side, were all their own—and so, too,
were a hundred cottages, on height or
hollow, shelterless or buried in shelter,
and all alike dear to their humble inmates,
on account of their cheerfulness
or their repose. God had given to
them this bright and beautiful portion
of the earth, and he had given them
along with it hearts and souls to feel
and understand in what lay the worth
of the gift, and to enjoy it with a deep
and thoughtful gratitude.</p>

<p class='c008'>“All hearts bless you, Anna; and do
you know that the Shepherd Poet, whom
we once visited in his shieling, has
composed a Gaelic song on our marriage,
and it is now sung by many a pretty
Highland girl, both in cottage and on
hill-side? They wondered, it is said,
why I should have brought them an
English lady; but that was before they
saw your face, or heard how sweet may
be an English voice even to a Highland
ear. They love you, Anna—they
would die for you, Anna; for they
have seen you with your sweet body in
silk and satin, with a jewel on your
forehead and pearls in your hair, moving
to music in your husband’s hereditary
hall; and they have seen you, too, in
russet garb and ringlets unadorned, in
their own smoky cottages, blithe and
free as some native shepherdess of the
hills. To the joyful and the sorrowful
art thou alike dear; and all my tenantry
are rejoiced when you appear, whether
on your palfrey on the heather, or
walking through the hay or harvest-field,
or sitting by the bed of sickness,
or welcoming, with a gentle stateliness,
the old withered mountaineer to his
chieftain’s gate.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The tears fell from the lady’s eyes at
these kind, loving, and joyful words;
and, with a sob, she leaned her cheek
on her husband’s bosom. “Oh! why—why
should I be sad in the midst of the
undeserved goodness of God? Since
the furthest back time I recollect in the
darkness of infancy, I have been perfectly
happy. I have never lost any
dear friend, as so many others have
done. My father and mother live,
and love me well; blessings be upon
them now, and for ever! You love me,
and that so tenderly, that at times my
heart is like to break. But, my husband—forgive
me—pity me—but upbraid
me not, when I tell you that my
soul of late has often fainted within me,
as now it does—for oh! husband! husband!
the fear of death is upon me;
and as the sun sank behind the mountain,
I thought that moment of a large burial-place,
and the vault in which I am to
be interred.”</p>

<p class='c008'>These words gave a shock to her
husband’s heart, and for a few moments
he knew not how to cheer and comfort
her. Almost before he could speak,
and while he was silently kissing her
forehead, his young wife, somewhat
more composedly, said, “I strive against
it—I close my eyes to contain—to crush
the tears that I feel gushing up from my
stricken heart; but they force their way
through, and my face is often ruefully
drenched in solitude. Well may I
weep to leave this world—thee—my
parents—the rooms in which, for a
year of perfect bliss, I have walked,
sat, or slept in thy bosom—all these
beautiful woods, and plains, and hills,
which I have begun to feel every day
more and more as belonging unto me,
because I am thy wife. But, husband!
beyond, far, far beyond them all, except
him of whose blood it is, do I weep to
leave our baby that is now unborn.
May it live to comfort you—to gladden
your eyes when I am gone—yea, to
bring tears sometimes into them, when
its face or form may chance to remember
you of the mother who bore it, and
died that it might see the day.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The lady rose up with these words
from her husband’s bosom; and as a
sweet balmy whispering breath of
wind came from the broom on the
river’s bank, and fanned her cheeks,
she seemed to revive from that desponding
dream; and, with a faint smile,
looked all round the sylvan bower.
The cheerful hum of the bees, that
seemed to be hastening their work
among the honey-flowers before the fall
of dark—the noise of the river, that
had been unheard while the sun was
setting—the lowing of the kine going
leisurely homewards before their infant
drivers—and the loud lofty song of the
blackbird in his grove—these, and a
thousand other mingling influences of
nature, touched her heart with joy, and
her eyes became altogether free from
tears. Her husband, who had been
deeply affected by words so new to him
from her lips, seized these moments of
returning peace to divert her thoughts
entirely from such causeless terrors.
“To this bower I brought you to show
you what a Scottish landscape was, the
day after our marriage; and from that
hour to this, every look, smile, word,
and deed of thine, has been after my
own heart, except these foolish tears.
But the dew will soon be on the grass—so
come, my beloved—nay, I will not
stir unless you smile. There, Anna!
you are your beautiful self again!”
And they returned, cheerful and laughing,
to the Hall; the lady’s face being
again as bright as if a tear had never
dimmed its beauty. The glory of the
sunset was almost forgotten in the
sweet, fair, pensive silence of the twilight;
now fast glimmering on to one of
those clear summer nights which divide,
for a few hours, one day from
another with their transitory pomp of
stars.</p>

<p class='c008'>Before midnight, all who slept awoke.
It was hoped that an heir was about to
be born to that ancient house; and
there is something in the dim and
solemn reverence which invests an
unbroken line of ancestry, that blends
easily with those deeper and more
awful feelings with which the birth of a
human creature, in all circumstances,
is naturally regarded. Tenderly beloved
by all as this young and beautiful
lady was, who, coming a stranger
among them, and as they felt from
another land, had inspired them insensibly
with a sort of pity, mingling
with their pride in her loveliness and
virtue, it may well be thought that now
the house was agitated, and that its
agitation was soon spread from cottage
to cottage, to a great distance round.
Many a prayer, therefore, was said for
her; and God was beseeched soon to
make her, in His mercy, a joyful mother.
No fears, it was said, were entertained
for the lady’s life; but after some hours
of intolerable anguish of suspense, her
husband, telling an old servant whither
he had gone, walked out into the open
air, and in a few minutes, sat down on
a tombstone, without knowing that he
had entered the little churchyard,
which, with the parish church, was
within a few fields and groves of the
house. He looked around him; and
nothing but graves—graves—graves.
“This stone was erected by her husband
in memory of Agnes Ilford, an
Englishwoman, who died in childbed,
aged nineteen.” The inscription
was, every letter of it, distinctly legible
in the moonlight; and he held his eyes
fixed upon it, reading it over and over
with a shudder; and then rising up
and hurrying out of the churchyard, he
looked back from the gate, and thought
he saw a female figure all in white,
with an infant in her arms, gliding
noiselessly over the graves and tombstones.
But he looked more steadfastly—and
it was nothing. He knew
it was nothing; but he was terrified,
and turned his face away from the
churchyard. The old servant advanced
towards him, and he feared to look him
in the face, lest he should know that his
wife was a corpse.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Life or death?” at length he found
power to utter. “My honoured lady
lives, but her son breathed only a few
gasps—no heir, no heir! I was sent
to tell you to come quickly to my lady’s
chamber.”</p>

<p class='c008'>In a moment the old man was alone,
for, recovering from the torpidity of fear,
his master had flown off like an arrow,
and now with soft footsteps was stealing
along the corridor towards the door
of his wife’s apartment. But as he
stood within a few steps of it, composing
his countenance, and strengthening
his heart to behold his beloved Anna
lying exhausted, and too probably ill,
ill indeed,—his own mother, like a
shadow, came out of the room, and not
knowing that she was seen, clasped her
hands together upon her breast, and
lifting up her eyes with an expression
of despair, exclaimed, as in a petition to
God, “Oh! my poor son!—my poor
son! what will become of him!” She
looked forward, and there was her son
before her, with a face like ashes, tottering
and speechless. She embraced
and supported him—the old and feeble
supported the young and the strong. “I
am blind, and must feel my way; but
help me to the bedside, that I may sit
down and kiss my dead wife. I ought
to have been there, surely, when she
died.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The lady was dying, but not dead.
It was thought that she was insensible,
but when her husband said—“Anna,
Anna!” she fixed her hitherto unnoticing
eyes upon his face, and moved her
lips as if speaking, but no words were
heard. He stooped down and kissed
her forehead, and then there was a
smile over all her face, and one word,
“Farewell!” At that faint and loving
voice he touched her lips with his, and
he must then have felt her parting
breath; for when he again looked on
her face, the smile upon it was more
deep, placid, steadfast, than any living
smile, and a mortal silence was on her
bosom that was to move no more.</p>

<p class='c008'>They sat together, he and his mother,
looking on the young, fair, and beautiful
dead. Sometimes he was distracted,
and paced the room raving, and with a
black and gloomy aspect. Then he sat
down perfectly composed, and looked
alternately on the countenance of his
young wife, bright, blooming, and
smiling in death; and on that of his
old mother, pale, withered, and solemn
in life. As yet he had no distinct
thoughts of himself. Overwhelming
pity for one so young, so good, so
beautiful, and so happy, taken suddenly
away, possessed his disconsolate
soul; and he would have wept with
joy to see her restored to life, even
although he were to live with her no
more, though she were utterly to forget
him; for what would that be to him,
so that she were but alive! He felt
that he could have borne to be separated
from her by seas, or by a dungeon’s
walls; for in the strength of his love he
would have been happy, knowing that
she was a living being beneath heaven’s
sunshine. But in a few days is she to
be buried!—And then was he forced
to think upon himself, and his utter
desolation, changed in a few hours from
a too perfect happiness into a wretch
whose existence was an anguish and
a curse.</p>

<p class='c008'>At last he could not sustain the sweet,
sad, beautiful sight of that which was
now lying stretched upon his marriage-bed;
and he found himself passing along
the silent passages, with faint and distant
lamentations meeting his ear, but
scarcely recognised by his mind, until
he felt the fresh air, and saw the gray
dawn of morning. Slowly and unconsciously
he passed on into the woods,
and walked on and on, without aim or
object, through the solitude of awakening
nature. He heard or heeded not
the wide-ringing songs of all the happy
birds; he saw not the wild-flowers
beneath his feet, nor the dew diamonds
that glittered on every leaf of the motionless
trees. The ruins of a lonely
hut on the hill-side were close to him,
and he sat down in stupifaction, as if
he had been an exile in some foreign
country. He lifted up his eyes, and
the sun was rising, so that all the eastern
heaven was tinged with the beautifulness
of joy. The turrets of his own
ancestral mansion were visible among
the dark umbrage of its ancient grove:
fair were the lawns and fields that
stretched away from it towards the orient
light, and one bright bend of the river
kindled up the dim scenery through
which it rolled. His own family estate
was before his eyes, and as the thought
rose within his heart, “All that I see
is mine,” yet felt he that the poorest
beggar was richer far than he, and that
in one night he had lost all that was
worth possessing. He saw the church
tower, and thought upon the place of
graves. “There will she be buried—there
will she be buried,” he repeated
with a low voice, while a groan of
mortal misery startled the little mosswren
from a crevice in the ruin. He
rose up, and the thought of suicide
entered into his sick heart. He gazed
on the river, and, murmuring aloud in
his hopeless wretchedness, said, “Why
should I not sink into a pool and be
drowned? But oh! Anna, thou who
wert so meek and pure on earth, and
who art now bright and glorious in
heaven, what would thy sainted and
angelic spirit feel if I were to appear
thus lost and wicked at the judgment-seat?”</p>

<p class='c008'>A low voice reached his ear, and,
looking round, he beheld his old, faithful,
white-headed servant on his knees—him
who had been his father’s foster-brother,
and who, in the privilege of
age and fidelity and love to all belonging
to that house, had followed him
unregarded—had watched him as he
wrung his hands, and had been praying
for him to God while he continued
sitting in that dismal trance upon that
mouldering mass of ruins. “Oh! my
young master, pardon me for being
here. I wished not to overhear your
words; but to me you have ever been
kind, even as a son to his father. Come,
then, with the old man back into the
hall, and forsake not your mother, who
is sore afraid.”</p>

<p class='c008'>They returned, without speaking,
down the glens and through the old
woods, and the door was shut upon
them. Days and nights passed on, and
then a bell tolled; and the churchyard,
that had sounded to many feet, was
again silent. The woods around the
hall were loaded with their summer
glories; the river flowed on in its
brightness; the smoke rose up to heaven
from the quiet cottages; and nature continued
the same—bright, fragrant, beautiful,
and happy. But the hall stood
uninhabited; the rich furniture now felt
the dust; and there were none to gaze
on the pictures that graced the walls. He
who had been thus bereaved went across
seas to distant countries, from which his
tenantry, for three springs, expected
his return; but their expectations were
never realised, for he died abroad. His
remains were brought home to Scotland,
according to a request in his will, to be
laid by those of his wife; and now
they rest together, beside the same
simple monument.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='miss_peggy_brodie' class='c006'>MISS PEGGY BRODIE.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By Andrew Picken.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>“If I were a man, instead of being
a woman, as unfortunately I happen to
be,” said Miss Peggy Brodie to me, “I
would call a meeting in public, on the
part of the ladies, to petition the king
for another war; for really, since the
peace there is no such thing as any
decent woman getting a husband, nor
is there so much as the least stir or
stramash now-a-days, even to put one
in mind of such a thing. And the king,
God bless him! is a man of sense, and
understands what’s what perfectly,” continued
Miss Peggy; “and I have not
the least doubt that if he were only put
in possession of the real state of the sex
since the peace, he would give us a war
at once, for it is cruel to keep so many
women in this hopeless state.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Indeed, mem,” said I, looking as
wise as I was able, “you may depend
upon it, you are under a mistake.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Don’t tell me, sir,” replied Miss
Brodie; “you men think you know
everything. As if I did not understand
politics sufficient to know that the king
grants all reasonable petitions. I tell
you, Mr What’s-your-name, that the
whole sex in Glasgow, from Crossmyloof
to the Rotten Row, and from
Anderston to Camlachie, are in a state
of the utmost distress since ever the
peace;—and marriages may be made in
heaven, or somewhere else that I do not
know of, but there is none made hereaway,
to my certain knowledge, since
ever the sharpshooters laid down their
arms, the strapping fallows!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I’m sure, mem,” said I, “for a
peaceable man, I have been sadly
deaved about these sharpshooters.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“It’s no for you to speak against the
sharpshooters, Mr Thingumy!” said
Miss Brodie, getting into a pet; “you
that never bit a cartridge in your life,
I know by your look! and kens nae
mair about platoon exercise, and poother
wallets, and ramrods, than my mother
does! But fair fa’ the time when we
had a thriving war, an’ drums rattlin’ at
every corner, an’ fifer lads whistlin’ up
and down the streets on a market-day;
an’ spruce sergeants parading the Saltmarket,
pipe-clayed most beautiful! Then
there was our ain sharpshooters, braw
fallows, looking so noble in their green
dresses, and lang feathers bobbing in
their heads. Besides, there was the
cavalry, and the Merchants’ corps, and
the Trades’ and the Grocers’ corps. Why,
every young man of the least pluck was
a soldier in these heartsome days, and
had such speerit and such pith, and
thought no more of taking a wife then,
than he would of killing a Frenchman
before his breakfast, if he could hae
seen one.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“But, Miss Brodie,” said I, “they
were all so busy taking wives that they
seem to have quite forgot to take you,
in these happy times.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ye needna be so very particular in
your remarks, Mr Thingumy; for it was
entirely my own fault, an’ I might hae
gotten a husband any morning, just for
going to the Green of Glasgow, where
the lads were taking their morning’s
drill; for it was there a’ my acquaintances
got men, to my certain knowledge;
and now it’s naething but “Mistress”
this, an’ “Mistress” that, wi’ a’
the clippy lassocks that were just bairns
the other day; and there they go, oxtering
wi’ their men, to be sure, an’
laughin’ at me. Weel, it’s vera provokin’,
sir, isn’t it?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“’Deed, mem,” said I, “it’s rather
a lamentable case. But why did you
not catch a green sharpshooter yourself,
in those blessed days?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Hoot, Mr Balgownie, it was quite
my ain faut, as I said. I was perfectly
ignorant of the most common principles
of the art, and knew no more of the way
and manner o’ catching a husband, no
more than if I had never been born in
Glasgow. In fac’, I was a perfect
simpleton, an’ thought it the easiest
matter in the warld; an’ ye see, sir, I
had a wee trifle o’ siller, besides my
looks (which, ye ken, Mr Thingumbob,
were far from being disparageable); and
so I was a perfect simple, and just
thocht I was like the lass in the sang—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Set her up on Tintock tap,</div>
      <div class='line'>The wind’ll blaw a man till her.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c012'>But ne’er a man was blawn to me; an’
there’s a’ my giggling acquaintances
married, ane after the ither. There’s
Bell Mushat, an’ Jeanie Doo, an’ Mary
Drab, an’ Beanie Sma’, an’ Sally Daicle—naething
but “marriet,” “marriet;”
and here’s puir me and the cat, leading
a single life until this blessed day. Hochhey!
isn’t it very angersome, sir?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“It is really a case o’ great distress,
when one thinks o’ your worth, Miss
Brodie,” said I, pathetically; “and if
I did not happen to be engaged myself,
it’s impossible to say, but—”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ay, there it is!” exclaimed Miss
Peggy, “there it is! Every decent,
sensible man like you, that sees what
I am, are just married—married themselves,
and tied up. An’ so I may just
sit here, and blaw my fingers ower the
fire wi’ the cat. Hoch-hey!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“But surely, Miss Brodie,” said I,
“you did not use due diligence in time
and season, or you would not now be
left at this sorrowful pass?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I let the sharpshooter times slip
out o’ my fingers, like a stupid simpleton,
as I say; but no woman could
have been more diligent than I hae
been o’ late years, an’ a’ to no purpose.
Haven’t I walked the Trongate?
Haven’t I walked the Green? Haven’t
I gone to a’ the tea-drinkings within
five miles, where I could get a corner
for mysel? Haven’t I gone to the
kirk three times every Sunday, forby
fast days, thanksgiving days, and evening
preachings? Haven’t I attended a’
the Bible meetings, and missionary
meetings, forby auxiliary societies, and
branch associations? Wasn’t I a member
of a’ the ladies’ committees, and penny-a-week
societies, frae Cranston Hill to
the East Toll? Didn’t I gang about
collecting pennies, in cauld March
weather, climbin’ stairs, and knocking
at doors like a beggar, until the folk
were like to put me out, an’ the vera
weans on the stairs used to pin clouts to
our tails, an’ ca’ us penny-a-week auld
maids? Eh! that was a sair business,
sir, an’ little thanks we got; an’ I got
the chilblains in the feet wi’ the cauld,
that keepit me frae sleep for three
weeks.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“It’s really lamentable; but I should
have thought that the saintly plan was
a good one.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“So it would have been, sir, if I had
had more money; but, ye see, fifty
pounds a year is thought nothing o’ now-a-days;
an’ these kinds o’ people are
terrible greedy o’ siller. Na, na, sir,
gie me the sharpshooters yet.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Well now, Miss Brodie,” said I,
“as we’re on the subject, let me hear
how it was you lost your precious opportunities
in the volunteering time.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Oh, sir, that was the time—volunteering!
There never was such days as
the volunteering days. Drums here,
and bands o’ music there; sodgering
up, and sodgering down; an’ then the
young men looked so tall in their
regimentals, and it was such a pleasure
just to get ane o’ them by the arm, and to
parade wi’ them before the Tontine, an’
then a’ your acquaintances to meet you
walking wi’ a braw sharpshooter, and
talking about you after in every house;
and such shaking hands in the Trongate,
and such treating us wi’ cakes in
Baxter’s,—for the volunteering lads
were sae free o’ their siller in thae days,
puir chields! Oh, thae were times!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“There are no such times now, I
fear, Miss Peggy.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Oh, no, sir. An’ then the lads
thought nothing to take you to the play
at night, in thae days; and what a
beautiful thing it was to sit in the front
o’ the boxes o’ the big theatre in Queen
Street, wi’ a red-coated, or a green-coated
volunteer—it was so showy, and
such an attraction, and a talk. To be
sure, sir, it’s no a’thegither right to go
openly to common playhouses; but a
man must be got some place, an’ ye
ken the sharpshooters couldna gang to
the kirk in their green dress, puir
fallows.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“But you never told me, Miss Brodie,
what art or mystery there is in man-catching,
and yet you speak as if some
of your female friends had practised,
something past the common to that
intent.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“It’s not for me to speak to you
about women’s affairs, Mr Balgownie;
but I can tell you one thing. Do you
mind lang Miss M‘Whinnie, dochter of
auld Willie M‘Whinnie, that was elder
in Mr Dumdrone’s kirk?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I think I recollect her face,”
said I.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Weel, sir, this was the way she
used to do. Ye see, she was a great
walker (for she was a lang-leggit lass,
although her father is a wee gutty body),
and if ye took a walk in the Green or
the Trongate, ye’re sure to meet lang-leggit
Nelly M‘Whinnie, lamping wi’
a parasol like a fishing-rod, simmer and
winter, lookin’ ower her shoulder now
and then to see when she should <em>fa’</em> aff
her feet.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Fall, Miss Brodie?—What do you
mean by falling?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Hoot, sir, ye ken naething. Wasn’t
it by fa’in’ that Nelly M‘Whinnie got a
man? I’ll tell you how. She used to
walk by hersel, an’ whenever she came
near a handsome sharpshooter, or
gentleman chield that she wished to
pick acquaintance wi’, she just pretended
to gie a bit stumble, or to fall on one
knee or so; and then, ye ken, the
gentleman couldna do less than rin to
lift her up, and ask if she was hurt,
and so forth; an’ then she wad answer
so sweet, and thank him so kindly, that
the man must sae something civil; and
then she would say, ‘Oh, sir, you are so
obliging and so polite an’ just in this
way she made the pleasantest acquaintances,
an’ got a man by it, or a’ was
done.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ha, ha, ha! That is perfectly
ridiculous, and hardly credible,” said I.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Na, ye needna laugh in the least,”
continued Miss Brodie, “for I’m telling
you the truth; and didna the same
lass break her arm wi’ her fa’ing?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Break her arm, Miss Brodie! Are
you serious?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“It’s perfectly true, Mr Balgownie.
Ye see, sir, she was walking on speculation,
in her usual manner, in the
Green o’ Glasgow it was, as I believe,
and somewhere near the Humanity
House, by the side of the Clyde, when
she observed three strappin’ fellows
come blattering up behind her. This
was an opportunity not to be let pass,
an’ the day being frosty, an’ the road
slightly slippery, afforded an excellent
pretence for a stumble at least. Weel,
sir, just when the gentlemen had got
within three yards o’ her, Nellie gied a
bit awkward sprauchle, and shot out a
leg; but whether Nellie had mista’en
her distance, or whether the men were
up to her fa’in’ system, an’ wadna
bite, never clearly appeared; but they
werena forward in time to catch the
lassie in their arms as she expected;
an’ after a sprauchle an’ a stumble,
down she came in good earnest, an’
broke her arm.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ha, ha, ha! I would rather hear
that story than any one of Mr Dumdrone’s
best discourses,” said I. “But
are you sure it’s true?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Did I no see Miss M‘Whinnie, the
time she was laid up, wi’ the broken
arm in a sling? But you see, sir, the
gentlemen did gather round her when
they saw she was fairly whomel’t, an’
gathered her up, nae doubt; an’ as
soon as she got better o’ the broken
arm, she took to fa’in’ again. But I believe
she never gaed farther than a
stoyter or a stumble after that, till ance
she got a man.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“And so, Miss Brodie, she did fall
into a marriage?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ou, ’deed did she, sir. A fallow
caught her at last, as she fell; and
there was nae mair walking the Trongate
wi’ the lang parasol, like a bellman’s
staff. But in the time o’ the
sharpshooters and the cavalry, and the
Merchants’ corps, and a’ the corps, I
mind as weel as yesterday, how a great
illness took place among the young
women, and neither pills nor boluses
were found to be of the least service,
an’ the doctors were perfectly puzzled
and perplexed, and knew not what to
recommend in this general distress.
But the young women, ane and a’,
prescribed for themselves, from an
inward understanding o’ their complaints,
and nothing, they said, would
cure the prevailing sickness but a walk
in the morning in the Green o’ Glasgow.
Now, sir, it happened so providential,
the whole time that this influenza
lasted, that the Sharpshooter corps, and
the Cavalry corps, and the Trades’ corps,
and the Merchants’ corps, and the
Grocers’ corps, and a’ the corps were
exercising in the Green o’ Glasgow,
where a’ the young ladies were walking
for their health. It was so beautiful
and good for the ladies, when they were
sick, to see thae sharpshooters, how
they marched, wheeled, an’ whooped,
an’ whooped, an’ ran this way, and
that way, an’ whiles they fired on their
knees, an’ then they would clap down
on their backs, and fire at us, puir
chields. And then, ye see, just when
we had gotten an appetite for our breakfasts
by our walk, the corps would be
dismissed, and then the volunteer lads
couldna but spread themselves among
the ladies that were outside, just to spier
after their complaints; an’ then naething
but link arm wi’ the sharpshooters an’
the other corps, dizzens in a row, an’
be escorted hame to breakfast. Many
a lass that was quite poorly and badly
was relieved by these morning walks,
and are now married women. Ah,
thae were pleasant days, Mr Balgownie!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“But, dear me, Miss Brodie,” I
said, “how did it happen that you
were allowed to remain single all this
time? Had you no wooers at all?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“What do you mean, sir, by asking
me such a question? Nae wooers! I
tell you I had dizzens o’ lads running
after me night and day, in thae pleasant
times.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Well, but I don’t mean in the
common way. I mean, had you any
real sweetheart—any absolute offer?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Offer, sir! Indeed I had more than
one. Wasna there Peter Shanks, the
hosier, that perfectly plagued me, the
dirty body? But ye see, sir, I couldna
bear the creature, though he had twa
houses in Camlachie; for, to tell you my
weakness, sir, my heart was set upon—”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Upon whom, Miss Brodie? Ah, tell
me!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Upon a sharpshooter.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Bless my heart! But if you would
just let me hear the tale.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ah, sir, it’s a pitiful story,” said
Miss Peggy, becoming lachrymose.</p>

<p class='c008'>“I delight in pitiful stories,” said I,
taking out my handkerchief.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Weel, sir,—‘love and grief are sair
to bide,’ as the sang says, and my heart
wasna made o’ the adamant rock; so
ye see, sir, there was a lad they ca’d
Pate Peters, an’ he was in the sharpshooters;
and he sat just quite near me
in Mr Dumdrone’s kirk, for ye see, sir,
it was there we fell in. Oh, sir, Pate
was a beautiful youth: teeth like the
ivory, an’ eyes as black as the slae, and
cheeks as red as the rose.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ah, Miss Brodie, Miss Brodie!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“An’ when he was dressed in his
sharpshooter’s dress,—ah, sir, but my
heart was aye too, too susceptible. I
will not trouble you, sir, wi’ the history
o’ our love, which would have come to
the most happy termination, but for a
forward cutty of a companion o’ mine,
of the name of Jess Barbour. But there
can be nae doubt but Pate Peters was a
true lover o’ me; for he used to come
hame wi’ me frae Mr Dumdrone’s
preaching whenever Jess wasna there,
and I’m sure his heart burned wi’ a
reciprocal flame. But ae night, sir,—I’ll
ne’er forget that night!—I was
coming hame frae a tea-drinking at Mr
Warps’, the manufacturer on the other
side o’ Clyde, when just as I got to the
end o’ the wooden brig next the Green,
wha does I meet but Pate Peters!</p>

<p class='c008'>“Weel, sir, it was a moonlight
night,—just such as lovers walk about
in, an’ Pate and me linked arm-in-arm,
walked and walked, round the Green
o’ Glasgow. We stopped by the side
o’ Clyde, an’ lookit up at the moon.</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Miss Peggy,’ says he, ‘do ye see
that moon?’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Yes,’ says I.</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘That changeable moon,’ says he,
‘is the emblem o’ falseness in love.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Yes, Mr Peters,’ said I, an’
my heart was ready to melt.</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘But I will never be false in love!’
says he.</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘I hope you will be true until death,’
says I.</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘To be sure I will, Miss Brodie,’
says he; these were his very words.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ah, Miss Peggy,” I said, as I saw
she was unable to get on, “that is quite
affecting.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“But he talked so sensibly, sir,”
continued Miss Brodie; “he spoke
even of marriage as plain as a man
could speak. ‘Miss Peggy,’ said he,
‘do you remember what Mr Dumdrone,
the minister, said last Sabbath? He
said marriage was made in heaven;
and he said that Solomon, the wisest
of men, expressly said, in the Proverbs,
he that getteth a good wife getteth a
good thing’—Was not that plain speaking,
Mr Balgownie?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Nothing could be plainer, Miss
Peggy; but I’m interested in your story.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Weel, sir, he came home to the
door wi’ me, and—it’s not for me to tell
the endearments that passed between
us!—So, sir, I went to sleep wi’ a light
heart, an’ was for several days considering
and contriving about our marriage,
when—what do you think?—in
three weeks, word was brought to me
that the false and cruel man was married
to Jess Barbour!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Bless me, Miss Brodie, what a
woful story! It’s just like a romance?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“So it is, Mr Balgownie,” said Miss
Peggy, all blubbered with weeping.
“It’s perfect romantic. Ye see, sir,
what trials I had in love! But you’re
not going away in that manner, sir?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Oh, yes, Miss Brodie,” said I,
taking my hat; “I’m not able to stand
it any longer.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“You’re a feeling man,” said she,
shaking me by the hand; “you’re a man
o’ sweet feeling, Mr Balgownie.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“You’re an ill-used woman, Miss
Brodie!—Adieu, Miss Brodie!”—<cite>The
Dominie’s Legacy.</cite></p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='the_death_of_a_prejudice' class='c006'>THE DEATH OF A PREJUDICE.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By Thomas Aird.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>At a late hour one Saturday evening,
as, I was proceeding homewards along
one of the crowded streets of our
metropolis, I felt myself distinctly tapped
on the shoulder, and, on looking round,
a bareheaded man, dressed in a nightgown,
thus abruptly questioned me—</p>

<p class='c008'>“Did you ever, sir, thank God for
preserving your reason?”</p>

<p class='c008'>On my answering in the negative—</p>

<p class='c008'>“Then do it now,” said he, “for I
have lost mine.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Notwithstanding the grotesque accompaniments
of the man’s dress, and
his undignified face, disfigured by a
large red nose, the above appeal to me
was striking and sublimely pathetic;
and when he bowed to me with an
unsteady fervour and withdrew immediately,
I could not resist following him,
which I was the more inclined to do,
as he seemed to be labouring under
some frenzy, and might need to be
looked after.</p>

<p class='c008'>There was another reason for my
being particularly interested in him: I
had seen him before; and his appearance
and interruption had once before
given me great disgust. It was thus:—On
my return to Scotland, after an
absence of five years, which I had passed
in the West Indies, I found the one
beloved dead, for whom had been all
my hopes and all my good behaviour
through those long years. When all
the world, with the hard severity of
truth and prudence, frowned on the
quick reckless spirit of my youth, she
alone had been my gentle prophetess,
and sweetly told that my better heart
should one day, and that soon, give the
lie to the cold prudential foreboders.
For her sweet sake, I tried to be as a
good man should be; and when I returned
to my native land, it was all for
her, to bring her by that one dearest,
closest tie, near to the heart which (I
speak not of my own vanity, but to her
praise) she had won to manly bearing.
O God! O God! I found her in the
dust,—in her early grave; no more to
love me, no more to give me her sweet
approval. It was then my melancholy
pleasure to seek the place where last we
parted by the burn in the lonely glen.
As I approached the place, to throw
myself down on the very same green
spot on which she had sat when last we
met, I found it occupied by a stranger;
I withdrew, but to return the following
evening. I found the sacred spot again
preoccupied by the same stranger, who,
independent of his coarse red face, his
flattened, ill-shaped, bald head (for he
sat looking into his hat), and the undignified
precaution of his coat-skirts
carefully drawn aside, to let him sit on
his outspread handkerchief, disgusted
me by the mere circumstance of his
unseasonable appearance in such a place,
which had thus twice interrupted the
yearning of my heart, to rest me there
one hour alone. This second night
also I hastily withdrew. I came a third
night, and found a continuance of the
interruption. The same individual was
on the same spot, muttering to himself,
and chucking pebbles into a dark pool
of the burn immediately before him. I
retired, cursing him in my heart, and
came no more back to the place.</p>

<p class='c008'>Now, in the frenzied man who
accosted me, as above-mentioned, on
the street by night, I recognized at once
the individual who had so interrupted
me some months before, in the lonely
glen by the side of the burn; and, in
addition to the reason already given for
my wish now to follow him, there was
the superadded anxiety to be kind to a
man in such distress, whom, perhaps
in the very beginning of his sorrows, I
had heartily and unreasonably cursed.
I was still following him, when a
woman, advanced in life, rushed past
me, and, laying hold of him, cried
loudly for assistance. This was easily
found in such a place; and the poor
man was, without delay, forcibly carried
back to her house, where, on my following,
I learned that he was a lodger with
the woman, that he was sick of a brain
fever, and that, during a brief interval
in her watching of him, he had made
his escape down-stairs, and had got
upon the street. I was now deeply
interested in the poor fellow, and determined
to see him again the following
morning, which I did, and found him
much worse. On making inquiry at
the woman of the house respecting him,
she told me that he had no relatives in
this country, though he was a Scotchman;
that he was a half-pay officer in
his Majesty’s service; that he did not
seem to want money; that he was a
noble-hearted, generous man. She
added, moreover, that he had lodged
in her house two months; and that,
previous to his illness, he had spoken
of a friend whom he expected every
day to visit him from a distant part of
the country, to make arrangements for
their going together to the continent.</p>

<p class='c008'>In two days more, poor Lieutenant
Crabbe (such, I learned, was his name
and commission) died; and, by a curious
dispensation of Providence, I ordered
the funeral, and laid in the grave the
head of the man whom, only a few
months before, I had cursed as a disgusting,
impertinent fellow. The alien-mourners
had withdrawn from the
sodded grave, and I had just paid the
sexton for this last office to poor Crabbe,
when the woman in whose house he had
died advanced with a young man, apparently
an officer, in whose countenance
haste and unexpected affliction were
strongly working. “That’s the gentleman,
sir,” said the woman, pointing to
myself.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Very well, good woman,” said the
stranger youth, whose tones bespoke
him an Englishman, and whose voice,
as he spoke, seemed broken with deep
sorrow. “I will see you again, within
an hour, at your house, and settle all
matters.” The woman, who had doubtless
come to show him the churchyard,
hereupon retired; and the young Englishman,
coming up to me, grasped me
kindly by the hand, whilst his eyes
glistened with tears.</p>

<p class='c008'>“So, sir,” said he, “you have kindly
fulfilled my office here, which would to
God I had been in time to do myself
for poor Crabbe! You did not know
him, I believe?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“No,” I answered.</p>

<p class='c008'>“But I did,” returned the youth;
“and a braver, nobler heart never beat
in the frame of a man. He has been
most unhappy, poor fellow, in his relatives.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I am sorry to hear it,” I could only
reply.</p>

<p class='c008'>“If I could honour you in any way,
sir,” rejoined the youth, “which your
heart cares for, beyond its own noble
joy, in acting the manly and humane
part which you have acted towards my
poor friend, I would delight to honour
you. You are at least entitled to some
information about the deceased, which
I may give you in a way which will
best show the praise and the heart of
poor Crabbe. I have some letters here
in my pocket, which I brought with
me, alas! that he might explain something
to me, which they all, more or
less contain, relative to a piece of special
business; from one of them I shall read
an extract, relative to his early history,
and the miserable occasion on which he
found his long-lost father, whom, after
long and patient efforts to trace his
parents, he was at length directed to
seek in one of your villages in the south
of Scotland.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The particular letter was selected, and
the young Englishman, over the grave
of his friend, read as follows:—</p>

<p class='c008'>“I could have wept tears of blood,
on finding things as they are with the
unhappy old man who is indeed my
father. I shall speak to you now as I
would commune with my own heart;
but yet it must be in mild terms, lest I
be wickedly unfilial. Is not this awful?
From the very little which I knew of
myself ere I came to this country, and
from information which I have gathered
within these two weeks from the old
clergyman of this village, it appears
that my mother had died a few days
after giving me birth, and that my
uncle, who had never been satisfied
with the marriage, took me, when very
young, from my father, whose unhappy
peculiarities led him readily to resign
me; gave me my mother’s name, and
carried me with him to Holland, where
he was a merchant. He was very kind
to me in my youth; and, when I was of
proper age, bought me a commission in
the British army, in which I have served,
as you know, for nearly ten years,
and which, you also know, I was obliged
to leave, in consequence of a
wound in one of my ankles, which,
subject to occasional swelling, has rendered
me quite unfit for travel. My
uncle died about three years ago, and
left me heir to his effects, which were
considerable. Nothing in his papers
led me to suppose that my father might
yet be living, but I learned the fact from
a confidential friend of his, who communicated
it to me, not very wisely,
perhaps, since he could not tell me even
my real name. Bitterly condemning
my uncle’s cruel policy, which had not
allowed him to hold any intercourse
whatever with my father, and which
had cut me off from the natural guardian
of my life, I hasted over to this country,
with no certain hope of success in finding
out whose I was, beyond what my
knowledge that I bore my mother’s
name led me to entertain. I had my
own romance connected with the pursuit.
I said to myself, that I might
have little sisters, who should be glad
to own me, unworthy though I was; I
might bring comfort to a good old man,
whose infirmities of age were canonized
by the respect due to his sanctity; who,
in short, had nothing of age but its
reverence; and who, like another patriarch,
was to fall upon my neck, and
weep for joy like a little child. Every
night I was on board, hasting to this
country, I saw my dream-sisters, so
kind, so beautiful: they washed my
feet; they looked at the scars of my
wounds; they were proud of me for
having been a soldier, and leaned on
my arm as we went to church, before
all the people, who were lingering in
the sunny churchyard; and the good
old man went before, looking oft back
to see that we were near behind, accommodating
his step to show that he too
was one of the party, though he did his
best to appear self-denied.</p>

<p class='c008'>“After getting the clue, as mentioned
in my last letter to you, I took a seat in
the mail, which I was told would pass
at a little distance from the village
whither I was bound. Would to God
I had set out the day before, that so I
might have prevented a horrid thing!
The coach was stopped for me at a
little bridge, that I might get out; the
village, about a mile off, was pointed
out to me; and I was advised to follow
a small foot-path, which led along by a
rivulet, as being the nearest way to the
place in question. Twilight was now
beginning to deepen among the elms
that skirted the path into which I had
struck; and in this softest hour of
nature, I had no other thought than
that I was drawing near a home of
peace. I know not whether the glen
which I was traversing could have
roused such indescribable emotions
within me, had I not guessed that scenes
were before me which my childhood
must have often seen; but every successive
revelation of the pass up which I
was going,—pool after pool ringed by
night insects, and shot athwart on the
surface by those unaccountable diverging
lines, so fine, so rapid, which may be
the sport too of invisible insects,—stream
after stream, with its enamelled
manes of cool green velvet, which anon
twined themselves out of sight beneath
the rooted brakes,—one shy green nook
in the bank after another, overwaved
by the long pensile boughs of trees, and
fringed with many a fairy mass of blent
wild flowers;—all these made me start,
as at the melancholy recurrence of long-forgotten
dreams. And when the
blue heron rose from the stream where
he had been wading, and with slow
flagging wing crossed and re-crossed
the water, and then went up the darkened
valley to seek his lone haunt by
the mountain spring, I was sure I had
seen the very same scene, and the very
same bird, some time in my life before.
My dear Stanley, you cannot guess why
I dwell so long on these circumstances!
For it enters my very heart with
anguish, to tell the moral contrast to
my hopes, and to these peaceful accompaniments
of outward nature. It
must be told. Listen to what follows.</p>

<p class='c008'>“I had not walked more than a quarter
of a mile up the valley, when I heard
feeble cries for assistance, as of some
one in the last extremity, drowning in
the stream. I made what haste I could,
and, on getting round a sloping headland
of the bank, which shot forward to
the edge of the rounding water, I found
myself close upon a company of fellows,
habited like Christmas mummers, apparently
amusing themselves with the
struggles of a person in the water, who,
even as he secured a footing, and got
his head above, was again pushed down
by his cruel assailants. I was upon
them ere they were aware, and reached
one fellow, who seemed particularly
active, an excellent thwack with my
ratan, from which, however, recovering,
he took to his heels, followed by his
associates. My next business was to
relieve the object of their cruelty; but
this was no easy task; for, being probably
by this time quite exhausted, he
had yielded to the current; and, ere
I could reach him, was rolled down
into a large black pool. He was on
the point of sinking for ever, when I
caught hold of him—good God! an old
man—by his gray hair, and hauled
him out upon the bank, where he lay to
all appearance quite dead. Using such
means as were in my power to assist in
restoring suspended animation, I succeeded
so well, that ere long the poor
old man showed symptoms of returning
life. I looked round me in this emergency,
but there was neither house nor
living person to be seen; so what could
I do, but take the old, bare headed man
on my back, and carry him to the
village, which I knew was not far off.
And there, God in heaven! who should
I find him to be, but my own father!</p>

<p class='c008'>“To you, Stanley, I can say everything
which I dare whisper to my own
heart; but this is a matter which even
my own private bosom tries to eschew.
It seems—it seems that the unhappy old
man is narrow-hearted—a miser, as they
term it here; and that for some low
petty thefts he was subjected by some
fellows of the village to the above ducking.
I know well, Stanley, you will
not despise me for all this, nor because I
must now wear my own name of Crabbe,
which I am determined, in justice to
that unhappy old father, henceforth to
do. On the contrary, you will only
advise me well how to win upon his
harder nature, and bring him round to
more liberal habits. Listen to the following
scheme of my own for the same
purpose, which struck me one evening
as I sat ‘chewing the cud of sweet and
bitter fancy,’ beside the pool whence I
rescued the poor old man. For indeed—indeed,
I must grapple with the
realities of the moral evil, however
painful or disgusting. That being is
my father; and no one can tell how
much his nature may have been warped
and kept perverse by the loss of the
proper objects of natural affection. Is
it not my bounden duty, then, to be
found to him, and by my constant presence,
to open his heart, which has
been too much constringed by his lonely
situation? I shall hedge him round,
in the first place, from insults; I shall
live with him, in his own house, all at
my expense; and our household economy
shall be as liberal as my finances
will permit. I shall give much money
in charity, and make him the dispenser
of it; for our best feelings are improved
by outward practice. Whenever I may
be honoured by an invitation to a good
man’s table, the slightest hint to bring
him with me shall be taken advantage
of; and he <em>shall</em> go, that the civilities
of honourable men may help his self-respect,
and thereby his virtue. Now,
may God aid me in this moral experiment,
to try it with discretion, to make
the poor old man doubly mine own!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“From this extract,” said the young
Englishman, carefully folding up his
deceased friend’s letter, “you will see
something of the exalted nature of poor
Ramsay—Crabbe, I should say, according
to his own decided wish. I may
here mention, that the death of the old
man, which took place not many weeks
after the above brutalities were inflicted
upon him, and which, in all likelihood,
was hastened by the unhappy infliction,
never allowed his son to put in practice
those noble institutes of moral discipline,
which he had devised, to repair
and beautify the degraded fountain of
his life. I doubt not that this miserable
end of his old parent, and the sense of
his own utter loneliness, in respect of
kindred, preyed upon the generous
soldier, and helped to bring on that
frenzy of fever, which so soon turned
his large, his noble heart, into dust and
oblivion. Peace be with his ashes;
and everlasting honour wait upon his
name!—To-morrow morning, sir,” continued
the youth, “I set out again for
England, and I should like to bear
your name along with me, coupled
with the memory which shall never
leave me, of your disinterested kindness
towards my late friend. I talk little of
thanks; for I hold you well repaid, by
the consciousness of having done the
last duties of humanity for a brave and
good man.”</p>

<p class='c008'>According to the Englishman’s request,
I gave him my name, and received
his in return; and, shaking
hands over the grave of poor Crabbe,
we parted.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Good God!” said I to myself, as
I left the churchyard, “it appears, then,
that at the very moment when this
generous soldier was meditating a wise
and moral plan to win his debased
parent to honour and salvation—at that
very moment I was allowing my heart
to entertain a groundless feeling of dislike
to him.” My second more pleasing
reflection was, that this unmanly prejudice
had easily given way. How
could it last, under the awful presence
of Death, who is the great apostle of
human charity? Moreover, from the
course of incidents above mentioned, I
have derived this important lesson for
myself:—Never to allow a hasty opinion,
drawn from a man’s little peculiarities
of manner or appearance, particularly
from the features of his face,
or the shape of his head, as explained
by the low quackeries of Lavater and
Spurzheim, to decide unfavourably
against a man, who, for aught I truly
know, may be worthy of unqualified
esteem.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='anent_auld_grandfaither' class='c006'>ANENT AULD GRANDFAITHER, AUNTIE BELL, MY AIN FAITHER, &#38;c.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By D. M. Moir.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>The sun rises bright in France,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>And fair sets he;</div>
      <div class='line'>But he has tint the blithe blink he had</div>
      <div class='line in2'>In my ain countree.</div>
      <div class='line in20'><em>Allan Cunningham.</em></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>Auld Grandfaither died when I was
a growing callant, some seven or aught
year auld; yet I mind him full weel;
it being a curious thing how early such
matters take haud of ane’s memory. He
was a straught, tall, auld man, with a
shining bell-pow, and reverend white
locks hinging down about his haffets;
a Roman nose, and twa cheeks blooming
through the winter of his lang age
like roses, when, puir body, he was
sand-blind with infirmity. In his latter
days he was hardly able to crawl about
alane; but used to sit resting himself
on the truff seat before our door, leaning
forit his head on his staff, and finding
a kind of pleasure in feeling the
beams of God’s ain sun beaking on him.
A blackbird, that he had tamed, hung
above his head in a whand cage of my
faither’s making; and he had taken a
pride in learning it to whistle twa or
three turns of his ain favourite sang,
“Ower the Water to Charlie.”</p>

<p class='c008'>I recollect, as well as yesterday, that
on the Sundays he wore a braid bannet
with a red worsted cherry on the tap o’t;
and had a single-breasted coat, square
in the tails, of light Gilmerton blue,
with plaited white buttons, bigger than
crown pieces. His waistcoat was low
in the neck, and had flap pouches,
wherein he kept his mull for rappee,
and his tobacco box. To look at him,
wi’ his rig-and-fur Shetland hose pulled
up ower his knees, and his big glancing
buckles in his shoon, sitting at our doorcheek,
clean and tidy as he was kept,
was just as if one of the ancient
patriarchs had been left on earth, to let
succeeding survivors witness a picture
of hoary and venerable eld. Puir body,
mony a bit Gibraltar-rock and gingerbread
did he give to me, as he would pat
me on the head, and prophesy that I
would be a great man yet; and sing me
bits of auld sangs, about the bloody
times of the Rebellion and Prince
Charlie. There was nothing that I liked
so well as to hear him set a-going with
his auld warld stories and lilts; though
my mother used sometimes to say,
“Wheesht, grandfaither, ye ken it’s no
canny to let out a word of thae things;
let byganes be byganes, and forgotten.”
He never liked to gie trouble, so a
rebuke of this kind would put a tether
to his tongue for a wee; but when we
were left by ourselves, I used aye to egg
him on to tell me what he had come
through in his far-away travels beyond
the broad seas; and of the famous
battles he had seen and shed his precious
blood in; for his pinkie was hacked off
by a dragoon of Cornel Gardiner’s
down by at Prestonpans, and he had
catched a bullet with his ankle over in
the north at Culloden. So it was no
wonder that he liked to crack about
these times, though they had brought
him muckle and no little mischief, having
obliged him to skulk like another
Cain among the Highland hills and
heather, for many a long month and
day, homeless and hungry. Not dauring
to be seen in his own country, where
his head would have been chacked off
like a sybo, he took leg-bail in a ship,
over the sea, among the Dutch folk;
where he followed out his lawful trade
of a cooper, making girrs for the herring
barrels, and so on; and sending,
when he could find time and opportunity,
such savings from his wages as
he could afford, for the maintenance of
his wife and small family of three helpless
weans, that he had been obliged to
leave, dowie and destitute, at their native
home of pleasant Dalkeith.</p>

<p class='c008'>At lang and last, when the breeze
had blown ower, and the feverish pulse
of the country began to grow calm and
cool, auld grandfaither took a longing
to see his native land; and, though not
free of jeopardy from king’s cutters on
the sea, and from spies on shore, he risked
his neck over in a sloop from Rotterdam
to Aberlady, that came across with a
valuable cargo of smuggled gin. When
grandfaither had been obliged to take
the wings of flight for the preservation
of his life and liberty, my faither was a
wean at grannie’s breast: so, by her
fending,—for she was a canny, industrious
body, and kept a bit shop, in
the which she sold oatmeal and red herrings,
needles and prins, potaties and
tape, and cabbage, and what not,—he
had grown a strapping laddie of eleven
or twelve, helping his two sisters, one
of whom perished of the measles in the
dear year, to gang errands, chap sand,
carry water, and keep the housie clean.
I have heard him say, when auld granfaither
came to their door at the dead of
night, tirling, like a thief o’ darkness,
at the window-brod to get in, that he
was so altered in his voice and lingo,
that no living soul kenned him, not
even the wife of his bosom; so he had
to put grannie in mind of things that
had happened between them, before she
would allow my faither to lift the sneck,
or draw the bar. Many and many a
year, for gude kens how long after, I’ve
heard tell that his speech was so
Dutchified as to be scarcely kenspeckle
to a Scotch European; but Nature is
powerful, and in the course of time he
came in the upshot to gather his words
together like a Christian.</p>

<hr class='c019'>

<p class='c008'>Of my auntie Bell, that, as I have
just said, died of measles in the dear
year, at the age of fourteen, I have no
story to tell but one, and that a short
one, though not without a sprinkling of
interest.</p>

<p class='c008'>Among her other ways of doing,
grannie kept a cow, and sold the milk
round about to the neighbours in a
pitcher, whiles carried by my faither,
and whiles by my aunties, at the ransom
of a ha’penny the mutchkin. Well, ye
observe, that the cow ran yield, and it
was as plain as pease that the cow was
with calf;—Geordie Drowth, the horse-doctor,
could have made solemn affidavy
on that head. So they waited on,
and better waited on, for the prowie’s
calving, keeping it upon draff and aitstrae
in the byre; till one morning
every thing seemed in a fair way, and
my auntie Bell was set out to keep
watch and ward.</p>

<p class='c008'>Some of her companions, howsoever,
chancing to come by, took her out to
the back of the house to have a game
at the pallall; and, in the interim,
Donald Bogie, the tinkler from Yetholm,
came and left his little jackass in
the byre, while he was selling about his
crockery of cups and saucers and brown
plates, on the auld ane, through the
town, in two creels.</p>

<p class='c008'>In the middle of auntie Bell’s game,
she heard an unco noise in the byre;
and, kenning that she had neglected
her charge, she ran round the gable,
and opened the door in a great hurry;
when, seeing the beastie, she pulled it
to again, and fleeing, half out of breath,
into the kitchen, cried, “Come away,
come away, mother, as fast as ye can.
Eh, lyst, the cow’s cauffed,—and it’s a
cuddie!”</p>

<hr class='c019'>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>The weaver he gaed up the stair,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Dancing and singing;</div>
      <div class='line'>A bunch o’ bobbins at his back,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Rattling and ringing.</div>
      <div class='line in24'><cite>Old Song.</cite></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c008'>My own faither, that is to say, auld
Mansie Wauch, with regard to myself,
but young Mansie, with reference to my
grandfaither, after having run the errands,
and done his best to grannie during his
early years, was, at the age of thirteen,
as I have heard him tell, bound a ’prentice
to the weaver trade, which, from
that day and date, for better for worse,
he prosecuted to the hour of his death;—I
should rather have said to within a
fortnight o’t, for he lay for that time in
the mortal fever, that cut through the
thread of his existence. Alas! as Job
says, “How time flies like a weaver’s
shuttle!”</p>

<p class='c008'>He was a tall, thin, lowering man,
blackaviced, and something in the physog
like myself, though scarcely so weel-faured;
with a kind of blueness about
his chin, as if his beard grew of that
colour,—which I scarcely think it would
do, but might arise either from the dust
of the blue cloth, constantly flying about
the shop, taking a rest there, or from
his having a custom of giving it a rub
now and then with his finger and thumb,
both of which were dyed of that colour,
as well as his apron, from rubbing
against and handling the webs of checkit
claith in the loom.</p>

<p class='c008'>Ill would it become me, I trust a
dutiful son, to say that my faither was
anything but a decent, industrious, hardworking
man, doing everything for the
good of his family, and winning the
respect of all that kenned the value of
his worth. As to his decency, few—very
few indeed—laid beneath the mools
of Dalkeith kirkyard, made their beds
there, leaving a better name behind
them; and as to industry, it is but little
to say that he toiled the very flesh off
his bones, ca’ing the shuttle from Monday
morning till Saturday night, from
the rising up of the sun even to the
going down thereof; and whiles, when
opportunity led him, or occasion required,
digging and delving away at the
bit kail-yard, till moon and stars were
in the lift, and the dews of heaven that
fell on his head were like the oil that
flowed from Aaron’s beard, even to the
skirts of his garment. But what will ye
say there? Some are born with a silver
spoon in their mouths, and others with
a parritch-stick. Of the latter was my
faither, for, with all his fechting, he
never was able much more than to keep
our heads above the ocean of debt.
Whatever was denied him, a kind Providence,
howsoever, enabled him to do
that; and so he departed this life, contented,
leaving to my mother and me, the
two survivors, the prideful remembrance
of being, respectively, she the widow,
and me the son, of an honest man.
Some left with twenty thousand cannot
boast so much; so ilka ane has their
comforts.</p>

<p class='c008'>Having never entered much into public
life, further than attending the kirk
twice every Sabbath, and thrice when
there was evening service, the days of
my faither glided over like the waters
of a deep river that make little noise in
their course; so I do not know whether
to lament or rejoice at having almost
nothing to record of him. Had Bonaparte
as little ill to account for, it would
be well this day for him; but, losh me!
I had amaist skipped ower his wedding.</p>

<p class='c008'>In the five-and-twentieth year of his
age, he had fallen in love with my
mother, Marion Laverock, at the
christening of a neebour’s bairn, where
they both happened to forgather, little,
I daresay, jalousing, at the time their
een first met, that fate had destined
them for a pair, and to be the honoured
parents of me, their only bairn. Seeing
my father’s heart was catched as in the
net of the fowler, she took every lawful
means, such as adding another knot to
her cockernony, putting up her hair in
screw curls, and so on, to follow up her
advantage; the result of all which was,
that after three months’ courtship, she
wrote a letter out to her friends at
Loanhead, telling them of what was
more than likely to happen, and giving
a kind invitation to such of them as
might think it worth their whiles, to
come in and be spectators of the ceremony.
And a prime day I am told
they had of it, having, by advice of more
than one, consented to make it a penny
wedding; and hiring Deacon Lawrie’s
malt-barn at five shillings for the
express purpose.</p>

<p class='c008'>Many yet living, among whom
James Batter, who was the best man,
and Duncan Imrie, the heel-cutter in
the Fleshmarket Close, are yet aboveboard
to bear solemn testimony to the
grandness of the occasion, and the uncountable
numerousness of the company,
with such a display of mutton
broth, swimming thick with raisins,—and
roasted jiggets of lamb,—to say
nothing of mashed turnips and champed
potatoes,—as had not been seen in the
wide parish of Dalkeith in the memory
of man. It was not only my faither’s
bridal day, but it brought many a lad
and lass together by way of partners at
foursome reels and Hieland jigs, whose
courtship did not end in smoke, couple
above couple dating the day of their
happiness from that famous forgathering.
There were no less than three fiddlers,
two of them blind with the sma’-pox,
and one naturally, and a piper with his
drone and chanter, playing as many
pibrochs as would have deaved a mill-happer,—all
skirling, scraping, and
bumming away throughither, the whole
afternoon and night, and keeping half
the country-side dancing, capering, and
cutting, in strathspey step and quick
time, as if they were without a weary,
or had not a bone in their bodies. In
the days of darkness the whole concern
would have been imputed to magic and
glamour; and douce folk, finding how
they were transgressing over their usual
bounds, would have looked about them
for the wooden pin that auld Michael
Scott the warlock drave in behind the
door, leaving the family to dance
themselves to death at their leisure.</p>

<p class='c008'>Had the business ended in dancing,
so far well, for a sound sleep would
have brought a blithe wakening, and all
be tight and right again; but, alas and
alackaday! the violent heat and fume of
foment they were all thrown into caused
the emptying of so many ale-tankers,
and the swallowing of so muckle toddy,
by way of cooling and refreshing the
company, that they all got as fou as the
Baltic; and many ploys, that shall be
nameless, were the result of a sober
ceremony, whereby two douce and decent
people, Mansie Wauch, my honoured
faither, and Marion Laverock, my respected
mother, were linked together,
for better for worse, in the lawful bonds
of honest wedlock.</p>

<p class='c008'>It seems as if Providence, reserving
every thing famous and remarkable for
me, allowed little or nothing of consequence
to happen to my faither, who
had few crooks in his lot; at least, I
never learned, either from him or any
other body, of any adventures likely
seriously to interest the world at large.
I have heard tell, indeed, that he once
got a terrible fright by taking the bounty,
during the American war, from an
Eirish corporal, of the name of Dochart
O’Flaucherty, at Dalkeith fair, when he
was at his ’prenticeship; he, not being
accustomed to malt-liquor, having got
fouish and frisky—which was not his
natural disposition—over half-a-bottle
of porter. From this it will easily be
seen, in the first place, that it would be
with a fecht that his master would get
him off, by obliging the corporal to
take back the trepan money; in the
second place, how long a date back it is
since the Eirish began to be the death
of us; and in conclusion, that my honoured
faither got such a fleg as to spane
him effectually, for the space of ten
years, from every drinkable stronger
than good spring-well water. Let the
unwary take caution; and may this be
a wholesome lesson to all whom it may
concern.</p>

<p class='c008'>In this family history it becomes me,
as an honest man, to make passing
mention of my faither’s sister, auntie
Mysie, that married a carpenter and
undertaker in the town of Jedburgh;
and who, in the course of nature and
industry, came to be in a prosperous
and thriving way; indeed so much so,
as to be raised from the rank of a private
head of a family, and at last elected,
by a majority of two votes over a famous
cow-doctor, a member of the town-council
itself.</p>

<p class='c008'>There is a good story, howsoever,
connected with this business, with which
I shall make myself free to wind up this
somewhat fusty and fuzzionless chapter.</p>

<p class='c008'>Well, ye see, some great lord,—I
forget his name, but no matter,—that
had made a most tremendous sum of
money, either by foul or fair means,
among the blacks in the East Indies,
had returned before he died, to lay his
bones at home, as yellow as a Limerick
glove, and as rich as Dives in the New
Testament. He kept flunkies with
plush small-clothes, and sky-blue coats
with scarlet-velvet cuffs and collars,—lived
like a princie, and settled, as I
said before, in the neighbourhood of
Jedburgh.</p>

<p class='c008'>The body, though as brown as a
toad’s back, was as pridefu’ and full of
power as auld king Nebuchadneisher;
and how to exhibit all his purple and
fine linen, he aye thought and better
thought, till at last the happy determination
came ower his mind like a
flash of lightning, to invite the bailies,
deacons, and town-council, all in a body,
to come in and dine with him.</p>

<p class='c008'>Save us! what a brushing of coats,
such a switching of stoury trousers, and
bleaching of white cotton stockings, as
took place before the catastrophe of the
feast, never before happened since Jeddart
was a burgh. Some of them that
were forward, and geyan bold in the
spirit, crawed aloud for joy at being
able to boast that they had received an
invitation letter to dine with a great
lord; while others, as proud as peacocks
of the honour, yet not very sure
as to their being up to the trade of
behaving themselves at the tables of
the great, were mostly dung stupid
with not kenning what to think. A
council meeting or two was held in
the gloamings, to take such a serious
business into consideration; some expressing
their fears and inward down-sinking,
while others cheered them up
with a fillip of pleasant consolation.
Scarcely a word of the matter for which
they were summoned together by the
town-offisher—and which was about the
mending of the old bell-rope—was discussed
by any of them. So, after a
sowd of toddy was swallowed, with the
hopes of making them brave men, and
good soldiers of the magistracy, they
all plucked up a proud spirit, and, do
or die, determined to march in a body
up to the gate, and forward to the table
of his lordship.</p>

<p class='c008'>My uncle, who had been one of the
ringleaders of the chicken-hearted, crap
away up among the rest, with his new
blue coat on, shining fresh from the
ironing of the goose, but keeping well
among the thick, to be as little kenspeckle
as possible; for all the folk of
the town were at their doors and windows
to witness the great occasion of
the town-council going away up like
gentlemen of rank to take their dinner
with his lordship. That it was a terrible
trial to all cannot be for a moment
denied; yet some of them behaved
themselves decently; and if we confess
that others trembled in the knees, as if
they were marching to a field of battle,
it was all in the course of human
nature.</p>

<p class='c008'>Yet ye would wonder how they came
on by degrees; and, to cut a long tale
short, at length found themselves in a
great big room, like a palace in a fairy
tale, full of grand pictures with gold
frames, and looking-glasses like the
side of a house, where they could see
down to their very shoes. For a while
they were like men in a dream, perfectly
dazzled and dumfoundered; and
it was five minutes before they could
either see a seat, or think of sitting
down. With the reflection of the looking-glasses,
one of the bailies was so
possessed within himself that he tried
to chair himself where chair was none,
and landed, not very softly, on the carpet;
while another of the deacons, a fat
and dumpy man, as he was trying to make
a bow, and throw out his leg behind
him, tramped on a favourite Newfoundland
dog’s tail, that, wakening out of his
slumbers with a yell that made the roof
ring, played drive against my uncle,
who was standing abaft, and wheeled
him like a butterflee, side foremost,
against a table with a heap o’ flowers
on’t, where, in trying to kep himself,
he drove his head, like a battering
ram, through a looking-glass, and
bleached back on his hands and feet on
the carpet.</p>

<p class='c008'>Seeing what had happened, they were
all frightened; but his lordship, after
laughing heartily, was politer, and kent
better about manners than all that; so,
bidding the flunkies hurry away with
the fragments of the china jugs and jars,
they found themselves, sweating with
terror and vexation, ranged along silk
settees, cracking about the weather and
other wonderfuls.</p>

<p class='c008'>Such a dinner! The fume of it went
round about their hearts like myrrh and
frankincense. The landlord took the
head of the table, the bailies the right
and left of him; the deacons and
councillors were ranged along the sides
like files of sodgers; and the chaplain,
at the foot, said grace. It is entirely
out of the power of man to set down on
paper all that they got to eat and drink;
and such was the effect of French
cookery, that they did not ken fish from
flesh. Howsoever, for all that, they
laid their lugs in everything that lay
before them, and what they could not
eat with forks, they supped with spoons;
so it was all to one purpose.</p>

<p class='c008'>When the dishes were removing, each
had a large blue glass bowl full of
water, and a clean calendered damask
towel, put down by a smart flunkey
before him; and many of them that had
not helped themselves well to the wine
while they were eating their steaks and
French frigassees, were now vexed to
death on that score, imagining that
nothing remained for them but to
dight their nebs and flee up.</p>

<p class='c008'>Ignorant folk should not judge rashly,
and the worthy town-council were here
in error; for their surmises, however
feasible, did the landlord wrong. In a
minute they had fresh wine decanters
ranged down before them, filled with
liquors of all variety of colours, red,
green, and blue; and the table was
covered with dishes full of jargonelles
and pippins, raisins and almonds, shell
walnuts and plum-damases, with nutcrackers,
and everything else they could
think of eating; so that after drinking
“The King, and long life to him,” and
“The constitution of the country at home
and abroad,” and “Success to trade,”
and “A good harvest,” and “May ne’er
waur be among us,” and “Botheration
to the French,” and “Corny toes and
short shoes to the foes of old Scotland,”
and so on, their tongues began at length
not to be so tacked; and the weight of
their own dignity, that had taken flight
before his lordship, came back and
rested on their shoulders.</p>

<p class='c008'>In the course of the evening, his
lordship whispered to one of the flunkies
to bring in some things—they could not
hear what—as the company might like
them. The wise ones thought within
themselves that the best aye comes hindmost;
so in brushed a powdered valet,
with three dishes on his arm of twisted
black things, just like sticks of Gibraltar-rock,
but different in the colour.</p>

<p class='c008'>Bailie Bowie helped himself to a
jargonelle, and Deacon Purves to a
wheen raisins; and my uncle, to show
that he was not frightened, and kent
what he was about, helped himself to
one of the long black things, which,
without much ceremony, he shoved into
his mouth, and began to. Two or
three more, seeing that my uncle was
up to trap, followed his example, and
chewed away like nine-year olds.</p>

<p class='c008'>Instead of the curious-looking black
thing being sweet as honey,—for so
they expected,—they soon found they
had catched a Tartar; for it had a confounded
bitter tobacco taste. Manners,
however, forbade them laying it
down again, more especially as his
lordship, like a man dumfoundered, was
aye keeping his eye on them. So away
they chewed, and better chewed, and
whammelled them round in their
mouths, first in one cheek, and then in the
other, taking now and then a mouthful
of drink to wash the trash down,
then chewing away again, and syne
another whammel from one cheek to
the other, and syne another mouthful,
while the whole time their een were
staring in their heads like mad, and the
faces they made may be imagined, but
cannot be described. His lordship
gave his eyes a rub, and thought he was
dreaming, but no—there they were
bodily, chewing and whammelling, and
making faces; so no wonder that, in
keeping in his laugh, he sprung a button
from his waistcoat, and was like to drop
down from his chair, through the floor,
in an ecstasy of astonishment, seeing
they were all growing sea-sick, and as
pale as stucco-images.</p>

<p class='c008'>Frightened out of his wits at last,
that he would be the death of the whole
council, and that more of them would
poison themselves, he took up one of
the cigars,—every one knows cigars now,
for they are fashionable among the very
sweeps,—which he lighted at the candle,
and commenced puffing like a tobacco-pipe.</p>

<p class='c008'>My uncle and the rest, if they were
ill before, were worse now; so when
they got to the open air, instead of
growing better, they grew sicker and
sicker, till they were waggling from
side to side like ships in a storm; and,
no kenning whether their heels or heads
were uppermost, went spinning round
about like peeries.</p>

<p class='c008'>“A little spark may make muckle
wark.” It is perfectly wonderful what
great events spring out of trifles, or
what seem to common eyes but trifles.
I do not allude to the nine days’ deadly
sickness, that was the legacy of every
one that ate his cigar, but to the awful
truth, that at the next election of
councillors, my poor uncle Jamie was
completely blackballed—a general spite
having been taken to him in the townhall,
on account of having led the
magistracy wrong, by doing what he
ought to have let alone, thereby making
himself and the rest a topic of
amusement to the world at large, for
many and many a month.</p>

<p class='c008'>Others, to be sure, it becomes me to
mention, have another version of the
story, and impute the cause of his having
been turned out to the implacable
wrath of old Bailie Bogie, whose best
black coat, square in the tails, that he
had worn only on the Sundays for nine
years, was totally spoiled, on their way
home in the dark from his lordship’s, by
a tremendous blash that my unfortunate
uncle happened, in the course of nature,
to let flee in the frenzy of a deadly
upthrowing.—<cite>The Life of Mansie
Wauch, Tailor in Dalkeith.</cite></p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='john_brown' class='c006'>JOHN BROWN;<br> <span class='large'><em>OR, THE HOUSE IN THE MUIR</em></span>.</h2>
</div>

<p class='c007'>John Brown, the Ayr, or as he
was more commonly designated by the
neighbours, the Religious, Carrier, had
been absent, during the month of
January (1685), from his home in
the neighbourhood of Muirkirk, for
several days. The weather, in the meantime,
had become extremely stormy,
and a very considerable fall of snow had
taken place. His only daughter, a girl
of about eleven years of age, had
frequently, during the afternoon of
Saturday, looked out from the cottage
door into the drift, in order to report to
her mother, who was occupied with
the nursing of an infant brother, the
anxious occurrences of the evening.
“Help,” too, the domestic cur, had
not remained an uninterested spectator
of the general anxiety, but by several
fruitless and silent excursions into the
night, had given indisputable testimony
that the object of his search had not yet
neared the solitary shieling. It was a
long, and a wild road, lying over an
almost trackless muir, along which
John Brown had to come; and the
cart track, which even in better
weather, and with the advantage of
more daylight, might easily be mistaken,
had undoubtedly, ere this, become
invisible. Besides, John had long
been a marked bird, having rendered
himself obnoxious to the “powers that
were,” by his adherence to the Sanquhar
declaration, his attending field-preachings,
or as they were termed “conventicles,”
his harbouring of persecuted ministers,
and, above all, by a moral, a sober,
and a proverbially devout and religious
conduct.</p>

<p class='c008'>In an age when immorality was
held to be synonymous with loyalty,
and irreligion with non-resistance and
passive obedience, it was exceedingly
dangerous to wear such a character,
and, accordingly, there had not been
wanting information to the prejudice of
this quiet and godly man. Clavers,
who, ever since the affair of Drumclog,
had discovered more of the merciless
and revengeful despot than of the
veteran or hero, had marked his name,
according to report, in his black list;
and when once Clavers had taken his
resolution and his measures, the Lord
have mercy upon those against whom
these were pointed! He seldom
hesitated in carrying his plans into
effect, although his path lay over the
trampled and lacerated feelings of
humanity. Omens, too, of an unfriendly
and evil-boding import, had
not been wanting in the cottage of
John to increase the alarm. The cat
had mewed suspiciously, had appeared
restless, and had continued to glare
in hideous indication from beneath the
kitchen bed. The death-watch, which
had not been noticed since the decease
of the gudeman’s mother, was again, in
the breathless pause of listening suspense,
heard to chick distinctly; and
the cock, instead of crowing, as on
ordinary occasions, immediately before
day-dawn, had originated a sudden and
alarming flap of his wings, succeeded
by a fearful scream, long before the
usual bedtime.</p>

<p class='c008'>It was a gloomy crisis; and after
a considerable time spent in dark
and despairing reflection, the evening
lamp was at last trimmed, and
the peat fire repaired into something
approaching to a cheerful flame. But all
would not do; for whilst the soul within
is disquieted and in suspense, all
external means and appliances are
inadequate to procure comfort, or
impart even an air of cheerfulness.
At last Help suddenly lifted his head
from the hearth, shook his ears, sprung
to his feet, and with something betwixt
a growl and a bark, rushed towards the
door, at which the yird drift was now
entering copiously. It was, however, a
false alarm. The cow had moved beyond
the “hallan,” or the mice had come
into sudden contact, and squeaked
behind the rafters. John, too, it was
reasoned betwixt mother and daughter,
was always so regular and pointed in his
arrivals, and this being Saturday night,
it was not a little or an insignificant
obstruction that could have prevented
him from being home, in due time, at
least, for family worship. His cart, in
fact, had usually been pitched up, with
the trams supported against the peat-stack,
by two o’clock in the afternoon;
and the evening of his arrival from his
weekly excursion to Ayr was always
an occasion of affectionate intercourse,
and more than ordinary interest. Whilst
his disconsolate wife, therefore, turned
her eyes towards her husband’s chair,
and to the family Bible, which lay in a
“bole” within reach of his hand, and
at the same time listened to the howling
and intermitting gusts of the storm, she
could not avoid—it was not in nature
that she should—contrasting her present
with her former situation; thus
imparting even to objects of the most
kindly and comforting association, all
the livid and darkening hues of her disconsolate
mind. But there is a depth
and a reach in true and genuine piety,
which the plummet of sorrow may
never measure. True religion sinks into
the heart as the refreshing dew does into
the chinks and the crevices of the dry
and parched soil; and the very fissures
of affliction, the cleavings of the soul,
present a more ready and inviting, as
well as efficient access, to the softening
influence of piety.</p>

<p class='c008'>This poor woman began gradually to
think less of danger, and more of God—to
consider as a set-off against all her
fruitless uneasiness, the vigilance and
benevolence of that powerful Being, to
whom, and to whose will, the elements,
in all their combinations and relations,
are subservient; and having quieted her
younger child in the cradle, and intimated
her intention by a signal to her
daughter, she proceeded to take down
the family Bible, and to read out in a
soft, and subdued, but most devout and
impressive voice, the following lines:—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>I waited for the Lord my God,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>And patiently did bear;</div>
      <div class='line'>At length to me he did incline</div>
      <div class='line in2'>My voice and cry to hear.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c012'>These two solitary worshippers of Him
whose eyes are on the just, and whose
ear is open to their cry, had proceeded
to the beginning of the fourth verse of
this psalm, and were actually employed
in singing with an increased and increasing
degree of fervour and devotion,
the following trustful and consolatory
expressions—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>O blessed is the man whose trust</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Upon the Lord relies,</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c012'>when the symphony of another and a
well-known voice was felt to be present,
and they became at once assured that the
beloved object of their solicitude had
joined them, unseen and unperceived, in
the worship. This was felt by all to be
as it ought to have been; nor did the
natural and instinctive desire to accommodate
the weary and snow-covered
traveller with such conveniences and
appliances as his present condition manifestly
demanded, prevent the psalm-singing
from going on, and the service from
being finished with all suitable decency.
Having thus, in the first instance,
rendered thanks unto God, and blessed
and magnified that mercy which pervades,
and directs, and over-rules every
agent in nature, no time was lost in
attending to the secondary objects of
inquiry and manifestation, and the kind
heart overflowed, whilst the tongue and
the hand were busied in “answer meet”
and in “accommodation suitable.”</p>

<p class='c008'>In all the wide range of Scotland’s
muirs and mountains, straths and glens,
there was not to be found this evening a
happier family than that over which
John Brown, the religious carrier, now
presided. The affectionate inquiries
and solicitous attentions of his wife,—of
his partner trusty and tried, not only
under the cares and duties of life, but in
the faith, in the bonds of the covenant,
and in all the similarity of sentiment
and apprehension upon religious subjects,
without which no matrimonial
union can possibly ensure happiness,—were
deeply felt and fully appreciated.
They two had sat together in the “Torwood,”
listening to the free and fearless
accents of excommunication, as they
rolled in dire and in blasting destiny
from the half-inspired lips of the learned
and intrepid Mr Donald Cargill. They
had, at the risk of their lives, harboured
for a season, and enjoyed the comfortable
communion and fellowship of Mr Richard
Cameron, immediately previous to his
death in the unfortunate rencounter at
“Airsmoss.” They had followed into
and out the shire of Ayr, the zealous and
eloquent Mr John King, and that even in
spite of the interdict of council, and after
that a price had been set upon the
preacher’s head. Their oldest child
had been baptised by a Presbyterian
and ejected minister under night, and
in the midst of a wreath of snow, and
the youngest was still awaiting the
arrival of an approven servant of God,
to receive the same sanctified ordinance.
And if at times a darker thought
passed suddenly across the disc of their
sunny hearts, and if the cause of a poor
persecuted remnant, the interests of a
reformed, and suffering, and bleeding
church, supervened in cloud upon the
general quietude and acquiescence of
their souls, this was instantly relieved
and dispersed by a deeper, and more
sanctified and more trustful tone of
feeling; whilst amidst the twilight
beams of prophecy, and the invigorating
exercise of faith, the heart was disciplined
and habituated into hope, and
reliance, and assurance. And if at
times the halloo, and the yells, and the
clatter of persecution, were heard upon
the hill-side, or up the glen, where
the Covenanters’ Cave was discovered,
and five honest men were butchered
under a sunny morning, and in cold
blood,—and if the voice of Clavers, or
of his immediate deputy in the work of
bloody oppression, “Red Rob,” came
occasionally in the accents of vindictive
exclamation, upon the breeze of evening;
yet hitherto the humble “Cottage in
the Muir” had escaped notice, and the
tread and tramp of man and horse had
passed mercifully, and almost miraculously
by. The general current of
events closed in upon such occasional
sources of agitation and alarm, leaving
the house in the muir in possession of
all that domestic happiness, and even
quietude, which its retirement and its
inmates were calculated to ensure and
to participate.</p>

<p class='c008'>Early next morning the cottage of
John Brown was surrounded by a troop
of dragoons, with Clavers at their head.
John, who had probably a presentiment
of what might happen, urged his
wife and daughter to remain within
doors, insisting that as the soldiers were,
in all likelihood, in search of some other
individual, he should soon be able to dismiss
them. By this time the noise, occasioned
by the trampling and neighing
of horses, commingled with the hoarse
and husky laugh and vociferations of
the dragoons, had brought John, half-dressed
and in his night-cap, to the door.
Clavers immediately accosted him by
name; and in a manner peculiar to
himself, intended for something betwixt
the expression of fun and irony, he proceeded
to make inquiries respecting
one “Samuel Aitkin, a godly man, and
a minister of the word, one outrageously
addicted to prayer, and occasionally
found with the sword of the flesh in one
hand, and that of the spirit in the other,
disseminating sedition, and propagating
disloyalty among his Majesty’s
lieges.”</p>

<p class='c008'>John admitted at once that the worthy
person referred to was not unknown to
him, asserting, however, at the same
time, that of his present residence or
place of hiding he was not free to speak.
“No doubt, no doubt,” rejoined the
questioner, “you, to be sure, know
nothing!—how should you, all innocence
and ignorance as you are? But here is
a little chip of the old block, which
may probably recollect better, and save
us the trouble of blowing out her father’s
brains, just by way of making him remember
a little more accurately.”
“You, my little farthing rush-light,”
continued “Red Rob,”<a id='r2'></a><a href='#f2' class='c018'><sup>[2]</sup></a> alighting from
his horse, and seizing the girl rudely,
and with prodigious force by the wrists,—“you
remember an old man with a
long beard and a bald head, who was
here a few days ago, baptizing your
sister, and giving many good advices to
father and mother, and who is now
within a few miles of this house, just up
in a nice snug cave in the glen there, to
which you can readily and instantly
conduct us, you know?” The girl
looked first at her mother, who had now
advanced into the doorway, then at her
father, and latterly drooped her head,
and continued to preserve a complete
silence.</p>

<div class='footnote' id='f2'>
<p class='c008'><a href='#r2'>2</a>. “Red Rob,” the “Bothwell,” probably,
of “Old Mortality,” was, in fact, the right
hand man of Clavers on all occasions, and has
caused himself long to be remembered amidst
the peasantry of the West of Scotland, not
only by the dragoon’s red cloak, which he
wore, but still more by his hands, crimsoned
in the blood of his countrymen!</p>
</div>

<p class='c008'>“And so,” continued the questioner,
“you are dumb; you cannot speak;
your tongue is a little obstinate or
so, and you must not tell family
secrets. But what think you, my
little chick, of speaking with your
fingers, of having a pat and a proper
and a pertinent answer just ready, my
love, at your finger ends, as one may
say. As the Lord lives, and as my soul
lives, but this will make a dainty nosegay”
(displaying a thumbikin or fingerscrew)
“for my sweet little Covenanter;
and then” (applying the instrument of
torture, meanwhile, and adjusting it to
the thumb) “you will have no manner
of trouble whatever in recollecting
yourself; it will just come to you like
the lug of a stoup, and don’t knit your
brows so” (for the pain had become insufferable);
“then we shall have you
quite chatty and amusing, I warrant.”
The mother, who could stand this no
longer, rushed upon the brutal executioner,
and with expostulations, threats,
and the most impassioned entreaties,
endeavoured to relax the questioner’s
twist.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Can <em>you</em>, mistress, recollect anything
of this man we are in quest
of?” resumed Clavers, haughtily. “It
may save us <em>both</em> some trouble, and your
daughter a continuance and increase of
her present suffering, if you will just
have the politeness to make us acquainted
with what you happen to know upon
the subject.” The poor woman seemed
for an instant to hesitate; and her
daughter looked most piteously and
distractedly into her countenance, as
if expectant and desirous of respite,
through her mother’s compliance.
“Woman!” exclaimed the husband,
in a tone of indignant surprise, “hast
thou so soon forgot thy God? And
shall the fear of anything which man
can do induce thee to betray innocent
blood?” He said no more; but he had
said enough, for from that instant the
whole tone of his wife’s feelings was
changed, and her soul was wound up as
if by the hand of Omnipotence, into
resolution and daring. “Bravo!”
exclaimed the arch persecutor, “Bravo!
old Canticles; thou word’st it well; and
so you three pretty innocents have laid
your holy heads together, and you have
resolved to die, should it so please God
and us, with a secret in your breast,
and a lie in your mouth, like the rest of
your psalm-singing, hypocritical, canting
sect, rather than discover gude Mr
Aitken!—pious Mr Aitken!—worthy
Mr Aitken! But we shall try what
light this little telescope of mine will
afford upon the subject,” pointing at the
same time to a carabine or holster
pistol, which hung suspended from the
saddle of his horse. “This cold frosty
morning,” continued Clavers, “requires
that one should be employed, were it
for no other purpose than just to gain
heat by the exercise. And so, old
pragmatical, in order that you may not
catch cold, by so early an exposure to
the keen air, we will take the liberty,”
(hereupon the whole troop gathered
round, and presented muskets), “for
the benefit of society, and for the honour
and safety of the King, never to speak
of the glory of God and the good of
souls,—simply and unceremoniously,
and in the neatest and most expeditious
manner imaginable, to <em>blow out your
brains</em>.” John Brown dropped down
instantly, and as it were instinctively,
upon his knees, whilst his wife stood
by in seeming composure, and his
daughter had happily become insensible
to all external objects and transactions
whatever. “What!” exclaimed Clavers,
“and so you must pray too, to be sure,
and we shall have a last speech and a
dying testimony lifted up in the presence
of peat-stack and clay walls and
snow wreaths; but as these are pretty
staunch and confirmed loyalists, I do
not care though we entrust you with
five minutes of devotional exercise, provided
you steer clear of King, Council,
and Richard Cameron,—so proceed,
good John, but be short and pithy. My
lambs are not accustomed to long
prayers, nor will they readily soften
under the pathetic whining of your devotions.”
But in this last surmise
Clavers was for once mistaken; for the
prayer of this poor and uneducated man
ascended that morning in expressions
at once so earnest, so devout, and
so overpoweringly pathetic, that deep
silence succeeded at last to oaths and
ribaldry; and as the following concluding
sentences were pronounced, there
were evident marks of better and relenting
feelings:—“And now, gude Lord,”
continued this death-doomed and truly
Christian sufferer, “since Thou hast
nae mair use for Thy servant in this
world, and since it is Thy good and
rightful pleasure that I should serve
Thee better and love Thee more elsewhere,
I leave this puir widow woman,
with the helpless and fatherless children,
upon Thy hands. We have been
happy in each other here, and now
that we are to part for awhile, we maun
e’en look forward to a more perfect and
enduring happiness hereafter. As for
the puir blindfolded and infatuated
creatures, the present ministers of Thy
will, Lord, reclaim them from the
error and the evil of their courses ere it
be too late; and may they who have
sat in judgment and in oppression in
this lonely place, and on this blessed
morning, and upon a puir weak defenceless
fellow-creature, find that mercy at
last from Thee which they have this day
refused to Thy unworthy but faithful
servant.” “Now, Isbel,” continued this
defenceless and amiable martyr, “the
time is come at last, of which, you know,
I told you on that day when first I proposed
to unite hand and heart with yours;
and are you willing, for the love of God
and His rightful authority, to part with
me thus?” To which the poor woman
replied with perfect composure, “The
Lord gave, and He taketh away. I
have had a sweet loan of you, my dear
John, and I can part with you for His
sake, as freely as ever I parted with a
mouthful of meat to the hungry, or a
night’s lodging to the weary and benighted
traveller.” So saying, she
approached her still kneeling and blindfolded
husband, clasped him round the
neck, kissed and embraced him closely,
and then lifting up her person into an
attitude of determined endurance, and
eyeing from head to foot every soldier
who stood with his carabine levelled,
she retired slowly and firmly to the
spot which she had formerly occupied.
“Come, come, let’s have no more of this
whining work,” interrupted Clavers
suddenly. “Soldiers! do your duty.”
But the words fell upon a circle of
statues; and though they all stood with
their muskets presented, there was not
a finger which had power to draw the
fatal trigger. Then ensued an awful
pause, through which a “God Almighty
bless your tender hearts,” was
heard coming from the lips of the <em>now</em>
agitated and almost distracted wife.
But Clavers was not in the habit of
giving his orders twice, or of expostulating
with disobedience. So, extracting
a pistol from the holster of his
saddle, he primed and cocked it, and
then walking firmly and slowly up
through the circle close to the ear of his
victim.</p>

<hr class='c019'>

<p class='c008'>There was a momentary murmur of discontent
and of disapprobation amongst
the men as they looked upon the
change which a single awful instant had
effected; and even “Red Rob,” though
a Covenanting slug still stuck smarting
by in his shoulder, had the hardihood to
mutter, loud enough to be heard, “By
God, this is too bad!” The widow of
John Brown gave one, and but one shriek
of horror as the fatal engine exploded;
and then, addressing herself leisurely,
as if to the discharge of some ordinary
domestic duty, she began to unfold a
napkin from her neck. “What think
ye, good woman, of your bonny man
now?” vociferated Clavers, returning,
at the same time, the pistol, with a
plunge, into the holster from which it
had been extracted. “I had always
good reason,” replied the woman firmly
and deliberately, “to think weel o’ him,
and I think mair o’ him now than ever.
But how will Graham of Claverhouse
account to God and man for this morning’s
work?” continued the respondent
firmly. “To man,” answered the
ruffian, “I can be answerable; and as
to God, I will take Him in my own
hands.” He then marched off, and
left her with the corpse. She spread the
napkin leisurely upon the snow, gathered
up the scattered fragments of her husband’s
head, covered his body with a
plaid, and sitting down with her
youngest and yet unbaptised infant, wept
bitterly.</p>

<p class='c008'>The cottage, and the kail-yard, and
the peat-stack, and the whole little
establishment of John Brown, the
religious carrier, have long disappeared
from the heath and the muir; but the
little spot, within one of the windings
of the burn, where the “House in the
Muir” stood, is still green amidst surrounding
heath; and in the very centre
of that spot there lies a slab, or flat stone,
now almost covered over with grass, upon
which, with a little clearing away of the
moss from the faded characters, the
following rude but expressive lines may
still be read:—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Clavers might murder godly Brown,</div>
      <div class='line'>But could not rob him of his crown;</div>
      <div class='line'>Here in this place from earth he took departure,</div>
      <div class='line'>Now he has got the garland of the martyr.</div>
      <div class='line in12'><cite>Blackwood’s Magazine</cite>, 1822.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='traditions_of_the_old_tolbooth_of_edinburgh' class='c006'>TRADITIONS OF THE OLD TOLBOOTH OF EDINBURGH.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By Robert Chambers, LL.D.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<h3 class='c013'><span class='sc'>Chapter I.</span></h3>

<p class='c014'>Whosoever is fortunate enough to
have seen Edinburgh previous to the
year 1817—when as yet the greater
part of its pristine character was entire,
and before the stupendous grandeur,
and dense old-fashioned substantiality,
which originally distinguished it, had
been swept away by the united efforts
of fire and foolery—must remember the
Old Tolbooth. At the north-west
corner of St Giles’s Church, and almost
in the very centre of a crowded street,
stood this tall, narrow, antique, and
gloomy-looking pile, with its black
stancheoned windows opening through
its dingy walls, like the apertures of a
hearse, and having its western gable
penetrated by sundry suspicious-looking
holes, which occasionally served—<i><span lang="la">horresco
referens</span></i>—for the projection of
the gallows. The fabric was four
stories high, and might occupy an area
of fifty feet by thirty. At the west end
there was a low projection of little
more than one story, surmounted by a
railed platform, which served for executions.
This, as well as other parts
of the building, contained shops.</p>

<p class='c008'>On the north side, there remained
the marks of what had once been a sort
of bridge communicating between the
Tolbooth and the houses immediately
opposite. This part of the building got
the name of the “Purses,” on account of
its having been the place where, in
former times, on the King’s birthday,
the magistrates delivered donations of
as many pence as the King was years
old to the same number of beggars or
“blue-gowns.” There was a very dark
room on this side, which was latterly
used as a guard-house by the right
venerable military police of Edinburgh,
but which had formerly been the
fashionable silk-shop of the father of
the celebrated Francis Horner. At the
east end there was nothing remarkable,
except an iron box, attached to the
wall, for the reception of small donations
in behalf of the poor prisoners, over
which was a painted board, containing
some quotations from Scripture. In
the lower flat of the south and sunny
side, besides a shop, there was a den
for the accommodation of the outer
door-keeper, and where it was necessary
to apply when admission was required,
and the old gray-haired man was not
found at the door. The main door
was at the bottom of the great turret or
turnpike stair, which projected from the
south-east corner. It was a small but
very strong door, full of large headed
nails, and having an enormous lock,
with a flap to conceal the keyhole,
which could itself be locked, but was
generally left open.</p>

<p class='c008'>One important feature in the externals
of the Tolbooth was, that about one
third of the building, including the
turnpike, was of ashlar work—that is,
smooth freestone—while the rest seemed
of coarser and more modern construction,
besides having a turnpike about the
centre, without a door at the bottom.
The floors of the “west end,” as it
was always called, were somewhat
above the level of those in the “east end,”
and in recent times the purposes of these
different quarters was quite distinct—the
former containing the debtors, and
the latter the criminals. As the “east
end” contained the hall in which the
Scottish Parliament formerly met, we
may safely suppose it to have been the
oldest part of the building—an hypothesis
which derives additional credit from the
various appearance of the two quarters—the
one having been apparently designed
for a more noble purpose than
the other. The eastern division must
have been of vast antiquity, as James
the Third fenced a Parliament in it,
and the magistrates of Edinburgh let
the lower flat for booths or shops, so
early as the year 1480.</p>

<p class='c008'>On passing the outer door, where the
rioters of 1736 thundered with their
sledge-hammers, and finally burnt down
all that interposed between them and
their prey, the keeper instantly involved
the entrant in darkness by reclosing
the gloomy portal. A flight of
about twenty steps then led to an inner
door, which, being duly knocked, was
opened by a bottle-nosed personage
denominated “Peter,” who, like his
sainted namesake, always carried two
or three large keys. You then entered
“the hall,” which, being free to all the
prisoners except those of the “east end,”
was usually filled with a crowd of
shabby-looking, but very merry loungers.
This being also the chapel of the jail,
contained an old pulpit of singular
fashion,—such a pulpit as one could
imagine John Knox to have preached
from; which, indeed, he was traditionally
said to have actually done.
At the right-hand side of the pulpit
was a door leading up the large turnpike
to the apartments occupied by
the criminals, one of which was of
plate-iron. This door was always shut,
except when food was taken up to the
prisoners.</p>

<p class='c008'>On the north side of the hall was the
“Captain’s Room,” a small place like
a counting-room, but adorned with two
fearful old muskets and a sword, together
with the sheath of a bayonet, and one
or two bandeliers, alike understood to
hang there for the defence of the jail.
On the west end of the hall hung a
board, on which—the production, probably,
of some insolvent poetaster—were
inscribed the following emphatic
lines:—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>A prison is a house of care,</div>
      <div class='line'>A place where none can thrive,</div>
      <div class='line'>A touchstone true to try a friend,</div>
      <div class='line'>A grave for men alive—</div>
      <div class='line'>Sometimes a place of right,</div>
      <div class='line'>Sometimes a place of wrong,</div>
      <div class='line'>Sometimes a place for jades and thieves,</div>
      <div class='line'>And honest men among.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c008'>The historical recollections connected
with “the hall” ought not to be passed
over. Here Mary delivered what
Lindsay and other old historians call
her “painted orations.” Here Murray
wheedled, and Morton frowned. This
was the scene of Charles’s ill-omened
attempts to revoke the possessions of the
Church; and here, when his commissioner,
Nithsdale, was deputed to
urge that measure, did the Presbyterian
nobles prepare to set active violence in
opposition to the claims of right and the
royal will. On that occasion, old
Belhaven, under pretence of infirmity,
took hold of his neighbour, the Earl of
Dumfries, with one hand, while with
the other he grasped a dagger beneath
his clothes, ready, in case the act of
revocation were passed, to plunge it into
his bosom.</p>

<p class='c008'>From the hall a lobby extended to the
bottom of the central staircase already
mentioned, which led to the different
apartments—about twelve in number—appropriated
to the use of the debtors.
This stair was narrow, spiral, and
steep—three bad qualities, which the
stranger found but imperfectly obviated
by the use of a greasy rope that served
by way of balustrade. This nasty convenience
was not rendered one whit
more comfortable by the intelligence,
usually communicated by some of the
inmates, that it had hanged a man!
In the apartments to which this stair
led, there was nothing remarkable,
except that in one of them part of the
wall seemed badly plastered. This was
the temporary covering of the square
hole through which the gallows-tree
was planted. We remember communing
with a person who lodged in this room
at the time of an execution. He had
had the curiosity, in the impossibility
of seeing the execution, to try if he
could feel it. At the time when he
heard the psalms and other devotions
of the culprit concluded, and when he
knew, from the awful silence of the
crowd, that the signal was just about to
be given, he sat down upon the end of
the beam, and soon after distinctly felt
the motion occasioned by the fall of the
unfortunate person, and thus, as it
were, played at “see-saw” with the
criminal.</p>

<p class='c008'>The annals of crime are of greater
value than is generally supposed.
Criminals form an interesting portion
of mankind. They are entirely different
from <em>us</em>—divided from us by a pale
which we will not, dare not overleap,
but from the safe side of which we may
survey, with curious eyes, the strange
proceedings which go on beyond. They
are interesting, often, on account of their
courage—on account of their having
dared something which we timorously
and anxiously avoid. A murderer or a
robber is quite as remarkable a person,
for this reason, as a soldier who has
braved some flesh-shaking danger. He
must have given way to some excessive
passion; and all who have ever been
transported beyond the bounds of reason
by the violence of any passion whatever,
are entitled to the wonder, if not the
admiration, of the rest of the species.
Among the inmates of the Old Tolbooth,
some of whom had inhabited it for many
years, there were preserved a few legendary
particulars respecting criminals of
distinction, who had formerly been
within its walls. Some of these I have
been fortunate enough to pick up.</p>

<p class='c008'>One of the most distinguished traits
in the character of the Old Tolbooth
was, that it had no power of retention
over people of quality. It had something
like that faculty which Falstaff
attributes to the lion and himself—of
knowing men who ought to be respected
on account of their rank. Almost every
criminal of more than the ordinary rank
ever yet confined in it, somehow or
other contrived to get free. An insane
peer, who, about the time of the Union,
assassinated a schoolmaster that had
married a girl to whom he had paid
improper addresses, escaped while under
sentence of death. We are uncertain
whether the following curious fact relates
to that nobleman, or to some other
titled offender. It was contrived that
the prisoner should be conveyed out of
the Tolbooth in a trunk, and carried by
a porter to Leith, where some sailors
were to be ready with a boat to take
him aboard a vessel about to leave
Scotland. The plot succeeded so far as
the escape from jail was concerned, but
was knocked on the head by an unlucky
and most ridiculous <i><span lang="fr">contretemps</span></i>. It so
happened that the porter, in arranging
the trunk upon his back, placed the end
which corresponded with the feet of the
prisoner <em>uppermost</em>. The head of the
unfortunate nobleman was therefore
pressed against the lower end of the box,
and had to sustain the weight of the
whole body. The posture was the most
uneasy imaginable. Yet life was preferable
to ease. He permitted himself to
be taken away. The porter trudged
along the Krames with the trunk, quite
unconscious of its contents, and soon
reached the High Street, which he also
traversed. On reaching the Netherbow,
he met an acquaintance, who asked him
where he was going with that large
burden. To Leith, was the answer.
The other enquired if the job was good
enough to afford a potation before proceeding
farther upon so long a journey.
This being replied to in the affirmative,
and the carrier of the box feeling in his
throat the philosophy of his friend’s
enquiry, it was agreed that they should
adjourn to a neighbouring tavern.
Meanwhile, the third party, whose
inclinations had not been consulted in
this arrangement, felt in his neck the
agony of ten thousand decapitations,
and almost wished that it were at once
well over with him in the Grassmarket.
But his agonies were not destined to be
of long duration. The porter, in depositing
him upon the causeway,
happened to make the end of the trunk
come down with such precipitation,
that, unable to bear it any longer, the
prisoner fairly roared out, and immediately
after fainted. The consternation
of the porter, on hearing a noise from
his burden, was of course excessive; but
he soon acquired presence of mind
enough to conceive the occasion. He
proceeded to unloose and to burst open
the trunk, when the hapless nobleman
was discovered in a state of insensibility;
and as a crowd collected immediately,
and the City Guard were not long in
coming forward, there was of course no
farther chance of escape. The prisoner
did not revive from his swoon till he
had been safely deposited in his old
quarters. But, if we recollect aright,
he eventually escaped in another way.</p>

<p class='c008'>Of Porteous, whose crime—if crime
existed—was so sufficiently atoned for
by the mode of his death, an anecdote
which has the additional merit of being
connected with the Old Tolbooth, may
here be acceptable. One day, some
years before his trial, as he was walking
up Liberton’s Wynd, he encountered
one of the numerous hens, which, along
with swine, then haunted the streets of
the Scottish capital. For some reason
which has not been recorded, he struck
this hen with his cane, so that it immediately
died. The affair caused the
neighbours to gather round, and it was
universally thought that the case was
peculiarly hard, inasmuch as the bird
was a “clocker,” and left behind it a
numerous brood of orphan chickens.
Before the captain had left the spot,
the proprietrix of the hen, an old woman
who lived in the upper flat of a house
close by, looked over her window, and
poured down upon the slayer’s head a
whole “gardeloo” of obloquy and reproach,
saying, among other things, that
“she wished he might have as many
witnesses present at his hinder-end as
there were feathers in that hen.”<a id='r3'></a><a href='#f3' class='c018'><sup>[3]</sup></a></p>

<div class='footnote' id='f3'>
<p class='c008'><a href='#r3'>3</a>. It is but charity to suppose Porteous might,
in this case, be only endeavouring to introduce
a better system of street police than had
formerly prevailed. It is not many years
since the magistrates of a southern burgh
drew down the unqualified wrath of all the
good women there by attempting to confiscate
and remove the filth which had been privileged
to grace the causeway from time immemorial.</p>
</div>

<p class='c008'>Porteous went away, not unaffected,
as it would appear, by these idle words.
On the night destined to be his last on
earth, he told the story of the hen to
the friends who then met in the jail to
celebrate his reprieve from the execution
which was to have taken place
that day; and the prophetess of Liberton’s
Wynd was honoured with general
ridicule for the failure of her imprecation.
Before the merry-meeting, however,
was over, the sound of the “deaddrum,”
beat by the approaching rioters,
fell upon their ears, and Porteous, as if
struck all at once with the certainty of
death, exclaimed, “D——n the wife!
she is right yet!” Some of his friends
suggested that it might be the firedrum;
but he would not give ear to
such consolations, and fairly abandoned
all hope of life. Before another hour
had passed, he was in eternity.</p>

<p class='c008'>Nicol Brown, a butcher, executed in
1753 for the murder of his wife, was not
the least remarkable tenant of the
Tolbooth during the last century. A
singular story is told of this wretched
man. One evening, long before his
death, as he was drinking with some
other butchers in a tavern somewhere
about the Grassmarket, a dispute arose
about how long it might be allowable to
keep flesh before it was eaten. From
less to more, the argument proceeded to
bets; and Brown offered to eat a pound
of the oldest and “worst” flesh that
could be produced, under the penalty
of a guinea. A regular bet was
taken, and a deputation of the company
went away to fetch the stuff
which should put Nicol’s stomach to
the test. It so happened that a criminal—generally
affirmed to have been the
celebrated Nicol Muschat—had been
recently hung in chains at the Gallowlee,
and it entered into the heads of
these monsters that they would apply
in that quarter for the required flesh.
They accordingly provided themselves
with a ladder and other necessary
articles, and, though it was now near
midnight, had the courage to go down
that still and solitary road which led
towards the gallows, and violate the
terrible remains of the dead, by cutting
a large collop from the culprit’s hip.
This they brought away, and presented
to Brown, who was not a little shocked
to find himself so tasked. Nevertheless,
getting the dreadful “pound of flesh”
roasted after the manner of a beefsteak,
and adopting a very strong and
drunken resolution, he set himself down
to his horrid mess, which, it is said, he
actually succeeded in devouring. This
story, not being very effectually concealed,
was recollected when he afterwards
came to the same end with Nicol
Muschat. He lived in the Fleshmarket
Close, as appears from the evidence on
his trial. He made away with his wife
by burning her, and said that she had
caught fire by accident. But, as the
door was found locked by the neighbours
who came on hearing her cries,
and he was notorious for abusing her,
besides the circumstance of his not
appearing to have attempted to extinguish
the flames, he was found
guilty and executed. He was also
hung in chains at the Gallowlee, where
Muschat had hung thirty years before.
He did not, however, hang long. A
few mornings after having been put up,
it was found that he had been taken
away during the night. This was
supposed to have been done by the
butchers of the Edinburgh market, who
considered that a general disgrace was
thrown upon their fraternity by his
ignominious exhibition there. They
were said to have thrown his body into
the Quarry Holes.</p>

<h3 class='c015'><span class='sc'>Chapter II.</span></h3>

<p class='c014'>The case of Katherine Nairne, in
1766, excited, in no small degree, the
attention of the Scottish public. This
lady was allied, both by blood and
marriage, to some highly respectable
families. Her crime was the double one
of poisoning her husband, and having
an intrigue with his brother, who was
her associate in the murder. She was
brought from the north country into
Leith harbour in an open boat, and
as fame had preceded her, thousands
of people flocked to the shore to
see her. She has been described to us as
standing erect in the boat, dressed in a
riding-habit, and having a switch in her
hand, with which she amused herself.
Her whole bearing betrayed so much
levity, or was so different from what
had been expected, that the mob raised
a general howl of indignation, and were
on the point of stoning her to death,
when she was with some difficulty
rescued from their hands by the public
authorities. In this case the Old Tolbooth
found itself, as usual, incapable of
retaining a culprit of condition. Sentence
had been delayed by the judges,
on account of her pregnancy. The midwife
employed at her accouchement
(who, by-the-by, continued to practise
in Edinburgh so lately as the year
1805) had the address to achieve a jail-delivery
also. For three or four days
previous to that concerted for the
escape, she pretended to be afflicted
with a prodigious toothache; went out
and in with her head enveloped in
shawls and flannels; and groaned as it
she had been about to give up the
ghost. At length, when all the janitory
officials were become so habituated to
her appearance, as not to heed her
“exits and her entrances” very much,
Katherine Nairne one evening came
down in her stead, with her head
wrapped all round with the shawls, uttering
the usual groans, and holding down
her face upon her hands, as with agony,
in the precise way customary with the
midwife. The inner door-keeper, not
quite unconscious, it is supposed, of the
trick, gave her a hearty thump upon
the back as she passed out, calling her
at the same time a howling old Jezebel
and wishing she would never come
back to annoy his ears, and those of the
other inmates, in such an intolerable
way. There are two reports of the
proceedings of Katherine Nairne after
leaving the prison. One bears that she
immediately left the town in a coach, to
which she was handed by a friend
stationed on purpose. The coachman,
it is said, had orders from her relations,
in the event of a pursuit, to drive into
the sea and drown her—a fate which,
however dreadful, was considered preferable
to the ignominy of a public
execution. The other story runs, that
she went up the Lawnmarket to the
Castlehill, where lived a respectable
advocate, from whom, as he was her
cousin, she expected to receive protection.
Being ignorant of the town,
she mistook the proper house, and,
what was certainly remarkable, applied
at that of the crown agent, who was
assuredly the last man in the world
that could have done her any service.
As good luck would have it, she was not
recognised by the servant, who civilly
directed her to her cousin’s house, where
it is said she remained concealed many
weeks. In addition to these reports,
we may mention that we have seen an
attic pointed out in St Mary’s Wynd,
as the place where Katherine Nairne
found concealment between the period
of her leaving the jail and that of her
going abroad. Her future life, it has
been reported, was virtuous and fortunate.
She was married to a French
gentleman, was the mother of a large
and respectable family, and died at a
good old age. Meanwhile, Patrick
Ogilvie, her associate in the dark crime
which threw a shade over her younger
years, suffered in the Grassmarket.
This gentleman, who had been a lieutenant
in the —— regiment, was so
much beloved by his fellow-soldiers,
who happened to be stationed at that
time in Edinburgh Castle, that the
public authorities judged it necessary
to shut them up in that fortress till the
execution was over, lest they might
have attempted, what they had been
heard to threaten, a rescue.</p>

<p class='c008'>The Old Tolbooth was the scene of
the suicide of Mungo Campbell, while
under sentence of death for shooting the
Earl of Eglintoune. In the country
where this memorable event took place,
it is somewhat remarkable that the fate
of the murderer was more generally
lamented than that of the murdered
person. Campbell, as we have heard,
though what was called “a graceless
man,” and therefore not much esteemed
by the Auld Light people, who there
abound, was rather popular in his profession
of exciseman, on account of his
rough, honourable spirit, and his lenity
in the matter of smuggling. Lord
Eglintoune, on the contrary, was not
liked, on account of the inconvenience
which he occasioned to many of his
tenants by newfangled improvements,
and his introduction into the country
of a generally abhorred article, denominated
rye-grass, which, for some
reason we are not farmer enough to
explain, was fully as unpopular a
measure as the bringing in of Prelacy
had been a century before. Lord
Eglintoune was in the habit of taking
strange crotchets about his farms—crotchets
quite at variance with the
old-established prejudices of his tenantry.
He sometimes tried to rouse
the old stupid farmers of Kyle from
their negligence and supineness, by
removing them to other farms, or
causing two to exchange their possessions,
in order, as he jocularly alleged,
to prevent their furniture from getting
mouldy, by long standing in particular
damp corners. Though his lordship’s
projects were all undertaken in the
spirit of improvement, and though these
emigrations were doubtless salutary in a
place where the people were then involved
in much sloth and nastiness, still
they were premature, and carried on with
rather a harsh spirit. They therefore excited
feelings in the country people not at
all favourable to his character. These,
joined to the natural eagerness of the
common people to exult over the fall of
tyranny, and the puritanical spirit of the
district, which disposed them to regard
his lordship’s peccadilloes as downright
libertinism, altogether conspired against
him, and tended to throw the glory and
the pity of the occasion upon his lordship’s
slayer. Even Mungo’s poaching
was excused, as a more amiable failing
than the excessive love of preserving
game, which had always been the unpopular
mania of the Eglintoune family.
Mungo Campbell was a man respectably
connected, the son of a provost of
Ayr; had been a dragoon in his youth,
was eccentric in his manner, a bachelor,
and was considered at Newmills, where
he resided, as an austere and unsocial,
but honourable, and not immoral man.
There can be no doubt that he rose on
his elbows and fired at his lordship,
who had additionally provoked him by
bursting into a laugh at his awkward
fall. The Old Tolbooth was supposed
by many, at the time, to have had her
usual failing in Mungo’s case. The
Argyll interest was said to have been
employed in his favour, and the body,
which was found suspended over the
door, instead of being his, was thought
to be that of a dead soldier from the
castle, substituted in his place. His
relations, however, who are very respectable
people in Ayrshire, all acknowledge
that he died by his own
hand; and this was the general idea of
the mob of Edinburgh, who, getting the
body into their hands, trailed it down
the street to the King’s Park, and inspired
by different sentiments from
those of the Ayrshire people, were not
satisfied till they got it up to the top
of Salisbury Crags, from which they
precipitated it down the “Cat Nick.”
Aged people in Ayrshire still remember
the unwonted brilliancy of the aurora
borealis on the midnight of Lord
Eglintoune’s death. Strange and awful
whispers then went through the
country, in correspondence, as it were,
with the streamers in the sky, which
were considered by the superstitious
as expressions on the face of heaven of
satisfied wrath in the event.</p>

<p class='c008'>One of the most remarkable criminals
ever confined in the Old Tolbooth was
the celebrated William Brodie. As
may be generally known, this was a
man of respectable connexions, and who
had moved in good society all his life,
unsuspected of any criminal pursuits.
It is said that a habit of frequenting
cock-pits was the first symptom he
exhibited of a defalcation from virtue.
His ingenuity as a joiner gave him a
fatal facility in the burglarious pursuits
to which he afterwards addicted himself.
It was then customary for the
shopkeepers of Edinburgh to hang their
keys upon a nail at the back of their doors,
or at least to take no pains in concealing
them during the day. Brodie used to
take impressions of them in putty or
clay, a piece of which he would carry
in the palm of his hand. He kept a
blacksmith in his pay, of the name of
Smith, who forged exact copies of the
keys he wanted, and with these it was
his custom to open the shops of his
fellow-tradesmen during the night. He
thus found opportunities of securely
stealing whatsoever he wished to possess.
He carried on his malpractices for
many years. Upon one shop in particular
he made many severe exactions.
This was the shop of a company of
jewellers, in the North Bridge Street,
namely, that at the south-east corner,
where it joins the High Street. The
unfortunate tradesmen from time to time
missed many articles, and paid off one
or two faithful shopmen, under the
impression of their being guilty of the
theft. They were at length ruined.
Brodie remained unsuspected, till having
committed a daring robbery upon the
Excise-office in Chessel’s Court, Canongate,
some circumstances transpired,
which induced him to disappear from
Edinburgh. Suspicion then becoming
strong, he was pursued to Holland, and
taken at Amsterdam, standing upright
in a press or cupboard. At his trial,
Henry Erskine, his counsel, spoke
very eloquently in his behalf, representing
in particular, to the jury, how
strange and improbable a circumstance
it was, that a man whom they had
themselves known from infancy as a
person of good repute, should have been
guilty of such practices as those with
which he was charged. He was, however,
found guilty, and sentenced to
death, along with his accomplice Smith.
At the trial he had appeared in a fine
full-dress suit of black clothes, the
greater part of which was of silk, and his
deportment throughout the whole affair
was completely that of a gentleman.
He continued during the period which
intervened between his sentence and
execution to dress himself well and to
keep up his spirits. A gentleman of
our acquaintance, calling upon him in
the condemned room, was astonished to
find him singing the song from the
Beggar’s Opera, “’Tis woman seduces
all mankind.” Having contrived to
cut out the figure of a draught-board
on the stone floor of his dungeon, he
amused himself by playing with any one
who would join him, and, in default of
such, with his right hand against his
left. This diagram remained in the
room where it was so strangely out of
place, till the destruction of the jail.
His dress and deportment at the
gallows were equally gay with those
which he assumed at his trial. As the
Earl of Morton was the first man executed
by the “Maiden,” so was Brodie
the first who proved the excellence of an
improvement he had formerly made on
the apparatus of the gibbet. This was
the substitution of what was called the
“drop,” for the ancient practice of the
double ladder. He inspected the thing
with a professional air, and seemed to
view the result of his ingenuity with a
smile of satisfaction. When placed on
that terrible and insecure pedestal, and
while the rope was adjusted round his
neck by the executioner, his courage
did not forsake him. On the contrary,
even there, he exhibited a sort of joyful
levity, which, though not exactly composure,
seemed to the spectators as
more indicative of indifference; he
shuffled about, looked gaily around,
and finally went out of the world with
his hand stuck carelessly into the open
front of his vest.</p>

<p class='c008'>The Tolbooth, in its old days, as its
infirmities increased, showed itself now
and then incapable of retaining prisoners
of very ordinary rank. Within the
recollection of many people yet alive,
a youth named Reid, the son of an
innkeeper in the Grassmarket, while
under sentence of death for some
felonious act, had the address to make
his escape. Every means was resorted
to for recovering him, by search throughout
the town, vigilance at all the ports,
and the offer of a reward for his apprehension,
yet he contrived fairly to cheat
the gallows. The whole story of his
escape is exceedingly curious. He took
refuge in the great cylindrical mausoleum
of Sir George Mackenzie, in the Greyfriars
churchyard of Edinburgh. This
place, besides its discomfort, was supposed
to be haunted by the ghost of the
persecutor—a circumstance of which
Reid, an Edinburgh boy, must have
been well aware. But he braved all
these horrors for the sake of his life.
He had been brought up in the Hospital
of George Heriot, in the immediate
neighbourhood of the churchyard, and
had many boyish acquaintances still
residing in that munificent establishment.
Some of these he contrived to
inform of his situation, enjoining them
to be secret, and beseeching them to
assist him in his distress. The
Herioters of those days had a very
clannish spirit, insomuch, that to have
neglected the interests or safety of any
individual of the community, however
unworthy he might be of their friendship,
would have been looked upon by
them as a sin of the deepest dye. Reid’s
confidants, therefore, considered themselves
bound to assist him by all means
in their power against that general foe,
the public. They kept his secret most
faithfully, spared from their own meals
as much food as supported him, and
ran the risk of severe punishment, as
well as of seeing ghosts, by visiting him
every night in his horrible abode. They
were his only confidants, his very
parents, who lived not far off, being
ignorant of his place of concealment.
About six weeks after his escape from
jail, when the hue and cry had in a
great measure subsided, he ventured to
leave the tomb, and it was afterwards
known that he escaped abroad.</p>

<p class='c008'>The subsequent history of the Old
Tolbooth contains little that is very
remarkable. It has passed away with
many other venerable relics of the olden
time, and we now look in vain for the
many antique associations which crowded
round the spot it once occupied.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='the_lovers_last_visit' class='c006'>THE LOVER’S LAST VISIT.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By Professor Wilson.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>The window of the lonely cottage of
Hilltop was beaming far above the
highest birchwood, seeming to travellers
at a distance in the long valley below,
who knew it not, to be a star in the
sky. A bright fire was in the kitchen
of that small tenement; the floor was
washed, swept and sanded, and not a
footstep had marked its perfect neatness;
a small table was covered, near
the ingle, with a snow-white cloth, on
which was placed a frugal evening
meal; and in happy but pensive mood
sat there all alone the woodcutter’s only
daughter, a comely and gentle creature,
if not beautiful—such a one as diffuses
pleasure round her hay-field, and
serenity over the seat in which she sits
attentively on the Sabbath, listening to
the word of God, or joining with mellow
voice in His praise and worship. On
this night she expected a visit from her
lover, that they might fix their marriage-day;
and her parents, satisfied and
happy that their child was about to be
wedded to a respectable shepherd, had
gone to pay a visit to their nearest
neighbour in the glen.</p>

<p class='c008'>A feeble and hesitating knock was at
the door, not like the glad and joyful
touch of a lover’s hand; and cautiously
opening it, Mary Robinson beheld a
female figure wrapped up in a cloak,
with her face concealed in a black
bonnet. The stranger, whoever she
might be, seemed wearied and worn
out, and her feet bore witness to a long
day’s travel across the marshy mountains.
Although she could scarcely help
considering her an unwelcome visitor at
such an hour, yet Mary had too much
disposition—too much humanity,—not
to request her to step forward into the
hut; for it seemed as if the wearied
woman had lost her way, and had come
towards the shining window to be put
right upon her journey to the low
country.</p>

<p class='c008'>The stranger took off her bonnet on
reaching the fire; and Mary Robinson
beheld the face of one whom, in youth,
she had tenderly loved; although for
some years past, the distance at which
they lived from each other had kept
them from meeting, and only a letter
or two, written in their simple way, had
given them a few notices of each other’s
existence. And now Mary had opportunity,
in the first speechless gaze of
recognition, to mark the altered face of
her friend,—and her heart was touched
with an ignorant compassion. “For
mercy’s sake! sit down Sarah, and tell
me what evil has befallen you; for you
are as white as a ghost. Fear not to
confide anything to my bosom: we have
herded sheep together on the lonesome
braes;—we have stripped the bark together
in the more lonesome woods;—we
have played, laughed, sung,
danced together;—we have talked
merrily and gaily, but innocently enough
surely, of sweethearts together; and,
Sarah, graver thoughts, too, have we
shared, for when your poor brother died
away like a frosted flower, I wept as if
I had been his sister; nor can I ever be
so happy in this world as to forget him.
Tell me, my friend, why are you here?
and why is your sweet face so ghastly?”</p>

<p class='c008'>The heart of this unexpected visitor
died within her at these kind and affectionate
inquiries; for she had come on
an errand that was likely to dash the
joy from that happy countenance. Her
heart upbraided her with the meanness
of the purpose for which she had paid
this visit; but that was only a passing
thought; for was she, innocent and free
from sin, to submit, not only to desertion,
but to disgrace, and not trust herself
and her wrongs, and her hopes of
redress, to her whom she loved as a
sister, and whose generous nature, she
well knew, not even love, the changer
of so many things, could change utterly,
though, indeed, it might render it colder
than of old to the anguish of a female
friend?</p>

<p class='c008'>“Oh! Mary, I must speak—yet
must my words make you grieve, far
less for me than for yourself. Wretch
that I am, I bring evil tidings into the
dwelling of my dearest friend! These
ribbons, they are worn for his sake—they
become well, as he thinks, the
auburn of your bonny hair;—that blue
gown is worn to-night because he likes
it;—but, Mary, will you curse me to
my face, when I declare before the God
that made us, that that man is pledged
unto me by all that is sacred between
mortal creatures; and that I have here
in my bosom written promises and
oaths of love from him, who, I was this
morning told, is in a few days to be thy
husband? Turn me out of the hut now,
if you choose, and let me, if you choose,
die of hunger and fatigue in the woods
where we have so often walked together;
for such death would be mercy
to me, in comparison with your marriage
with him who is mine for ever,
if there be a God who heeds the oaths
of the creatures He has made.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Mary Robinson had led a happy life,
but a life of quiet thoughts, tranquil
hopes, and meek desires. Tenderly and
truly did she love the man to whom she
was now betrothed; but it was because
she had thought him gentle, manly,
upright, sincere, and one that feared
God. His character was unimpeached—to
her his behaviour had always been
fond, affectionate, and respectful; that
he was a fine-looking man, and could
show himself among the best of the
country round at church, and market,
and fair-day, she saw and felt with
pleasure and with pride. But in the
heart of this poor, humble, contented,
and pious girl, love was not a violent
passion, but an affection sweet and profound.
She looked forward to her marriage
with a joyful sedateness, knowing
that she would have to toil for her family,
if blest with children; but happy in
the thought of keeping her husband’s
house clean, of preparing his frugal
meals, and welcoming him when
wearied at night to her faithful, and
affectionate, and grateful bosom.</p>

<p class='c008'>At first, perhaps, a slight flush of
anger towards Sarah tinged her cheek;
then followed in quick succession, or all
blended together in one sickening pang,
fear, disappointment, the sense of wrong,
and the cruel pain of disesteeming and
despising one on whom her heart
had rested with all its best and purest
affections. But though there was a
keen struggle between many feelings in
her heart, her resolution was formed
during that very conflict, and she said
within herself, “If it be even so, neither
will I be so unjust as to deprive poor
Sarah of the man who ought to marry
her, nor will I be so mean and low-spirited,
poor as I am, and dear as he
has been unto me, as to become his wife.”</p>

<p class='c008'>While these thoughts were calmly
passing in the soul of this magnanimous
girl, all her former affection for Sarah
revived; and, as she sighed for herself,
she wept aloud for her friend. “Be
quiet, be quiet, Sarah, and sob not so
as if your heart were breaking. It need
not be thus with you. Oh, sob not so
sair! You surely have not walked in
this one day from the heart of the parish
of Montrath?”—“I have indeed done
so, and I am as weak as the wreathed
snaw. God knows, little matter if I
should die away; for, after all, I fear
he will never think of me for his wife,
and you, Mary, will lose a husband
with whom you would have been happy,
I feel, after all, that I must appear a
mean wretch in your eyes.”</p>

<p class='c008'>There was silence between them; and
Mary Robinson, looking at the clock,
saw that it wanted only about a quarter
of an hour from the time of tryst.
“Give me the oaths and promises you
mentioned, out of your bosom, Sarah,
that I may show them to Gabriel when
he comes. And once more I promise,
by all the sunny and all the snowy days
we have sat together in the same plaid
on the hillside, or in the lonesome charcoal
plots and nests o’ green in the
woods, that if my Gabriel—did I say
my Gabriel?—has forsaken you and
deceived me thus, never shall his lips
touch mine again—never shall he put
ring on my finger—never shall this head
lie in his bosom—no, never, never;
notwithstanding all the happy, too
happy, hours and days I have been
with him, near or at a distance—on the
corn-rig—among the meadow hay, in
the singing-school—at harvest-home—in
this room, and in God’s own house. So
help me God, but I will keep this vow!”</p>

<p class='c008'>Poor Sarah told, in a few hurried
words, the story of her love and
desertion—how Gabriel, whose business
as a shepherd often took him into Montrath
parish, had wooed her, and fixed
everything about their marriage, nearly
a year ago. But that he had become
causelessly jealous of a young man
whom she scarcely knew; had accused
her of want of virtue, and for many
months had never once come to see her.
“This morning, for the first time, I
heard for a certainty, from one who
knew Gabriel well and all his concerns,
that the banns had been proclaimed in
the church between him and you; and
that in a day or two you were to be
married. And though I felt drowning,
I determined to make a struggle for my
life—for oh! Mary, Mary, my heart is
not like your heart; it wants your
wisdom, your meekness, your piety;
and if I am to lose Gabriel, will I
destroy my miserable life, and face the
wrath of God sitting in judgment upon
sinners.”</p>

<p class='c008'>At this burst of passion Sarah hid her
face with her hands, as if sensible that
she had committed blasphemy. Mary,
seeing her wearied, hungry, thirsty, and
feverish, spoke to her in the most soothing
manner, led her into the little parlour
called the spence, then removed
into it the table, with the oaten cakes,
butter, and milk; and telling her to
take some refreshment, and then lie
down in the bed, but on no account to
leave the room till called for, gave her
a sisterly kiss, and left her. In a few
minutes the outer door opened, and
Gabriel entered.</p>

<p class='c008'>The lover said, “How is my sweet
Mary?” with a beaming countenance;
and gently drawing her to his bosom,
he kissed her cheek. Mary did not—could
not—wished not—at once to
release herself from his enfolding arms.
Gabriel had always treated her as the
woman who was to be his wife; and
though, at this time, her heart knew its
own bitterness, yet she repelled not endearments
that were so lately delightful,
and suffered him to take her almost in
his arms to their accustomed seat. He
held her hand in his, and began to speak
in his usual kind and affectionate language.
Kind and affectionate it was,
for though he ought not to have done so,
he loved her, as he thought, better than
his life. Her heart could not, in one
small short hour, forget a whole year of
bliss. She could not yet fling away
with her own hand what, only a few
minutes ago, seemed to her the hope of
paradise. Her soul sickened within her,
and she wished that she were dead, or
never had been born.</p>

<p class='c008'>“O Gabriel! Gabriel! well indeed
have I loved you; nor will I say, after
all that has passed between us, that you
are not deserving, after all, of a better love
than mine. Vain were it to deny my love,
either to you or to my own soul. But
look me in the face—be not wrathful—think
not to hide the truth either from
yourself or me, for that now is impossible—but
tell me solemnly, as you
shall answer to God at the judgment-day,
if you know any reason why I must
not be your wedded wife.” She kept
her mild moist eyes fixed upon him; but
he hung down his head and uttered not
a word, for he was guilty before her,
before his own soul, and before God.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Gabriel, never could we have been
happy; for you often, often told me,
that all the secrets of your heart were
known unto me, yet never did you tell
me this. How could you desert the
poor innocent creature that loved you;
and how could you use me so, who
loved you perhaps as well as she, but
whose heart God will teach, not to
forget you, for that may I never
do, but to think on you with that
friendship and affection which innocently
I can bestow upon you, when
you are Sarah’s husband. For,
Gabriel, I have this night sworn, not in
anger or passion—no, no—but in sorrow
and pity for another’s wrongs—in sorrow
also, deny it will I not, for my own—to
look on you from this hour, as on one
whose life is to be led apart from my
life, and whose love must never more
meet with my love. Speak not unto
me—look not on me with beseeching
eyes. Duty and religion forbid us ever
to be man and wife. But you know
there is one, besides me, whom you
loved before you loved me, and, therefore,
it may be better too; and that she
loves you, and is faithful, as if God had
made you one, I say without fear—I
who have known her since she was a
child, although, fatally for the peace
of us both, we have long lived apart.
Sarah is in the house; I will bring her
unto you in tears, but not tears of penitence,
for she is as innocent of that sin
as I am, who now speak.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Mary went into the little parlour, and
led Sarah forward in her hand. Despairing
as she had been, yet when she
had heard from poor Mary’s voice
speaking so fervently, that Gabriel had
come, and that her friend was interceding
in her behalf, the poor girl had
arranged her hair in a small looking-glass—tied
it up with a ribbon which
Gabriel had given her, and put into the
breast of her gown a little gilt brooch,
that contained locks of their blended
hair. Pale but beautiful—for Sarah
Pringle was the fairest girl in all the
country—she advanced with a flush on
that paleness of reviving hope, injured
pride, and love that was ready to forgive
all and forget all, so that once
again she could be restored to the place
in his heart that she had lost. “What
have I ever done, Gabriel, that you
should fling me from you? May my
soul never live by the atonement of my
Saviour, if I am not innocent of that sin,
yea, of all distant thought of that sin,
with which you, even you, have in your
hard-heartedness charged me. Look
me in the face, Gabriel, and think of
all I have been unto you, and if you say
that before God, and in your own soul,
you believe me guilty, then will I go
away out into the dark night, and, long
before morning, my troubles will be at
an end.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Truth was not only in her fervent and
simple words, but in the tone of her
voice, the colour of her face, and the
light of her eyes. Gabriel had long
shut up his heart against her. At first,
he had doubted her virtue, and that
doubt gradually weakened his affection.
At last he tried to believe her guilty,
or to forget her altogether, when his
heart turned to Mary Robinson, and he
thought of making her his wife. His
injustice—his wickedness—his baseness—which
he had so long concealed, in
some measure, from himself, by a dim
feeling of wrong done him, and afterwards
by the pleasure of a new love,
now appeared to him as they were, and
without disguise. Mary took Sarah’s
hand and placed it within that of her
contrite lover; for had the tumult of conflicting
passions allowed him to know
his own soul, such at that moment he
surely was, saying with a voice as
composed as the eyes with which she
looked upon them, “I restore you to
each other; and I already feel the comfort
of being able to do my duty. I
will be bride’s-maid. And I now implore
the blessing of God upon your
marriage. Gabriel, your betrothed
will sleep this night in my bosom. We
will think of you, better, perhaps, than
you deserve. It is not for me to tell
you what you have to repent of. Let us
all three pray for each other this night,
and evermore, when we are on our
knees before our Maker. The old
people will soon be at home. Goodnight,
Gabriel.” He kissed Sarah;
and, giving Mary a look of shame,
humility, and reverence, he went home
to meditation and repentance.</p>

<p class='c008'>It was now midsummer; and before
the harvest had been gathered in
throughout the higher valleys, or the
sheep brought from the mountain-fold,
Gabriel and Sarah were man and wife.
Time passed on, and a blooming family
cheered their board and fireside. Nor
did Mary Robinson, the Flower of the
Forest (for so the woodcutter’s daughter
was often called), pass her life in single
blessedness. She, too, became a wife
and mother; and the two families, who
lived at last on adjacent farms, were
remarkable for mutual affection throughout
all the parish, and more than one
intermarriage took place between them,
at a time when the worthy parents had
almost forgotten the trying incident of
their youth.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='mary_queen_of_scots_and_chatelar' class='c006'>MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS AND CHATELAR;<br> <span class='large'><em>OR, TWILIGHT MUSINGS IN HOLYROOD</em></span>.</h2>
</div>

<p class='c007'>There are no mysteries into which
we are so fond of prying as the mysteries
of the heart. The hero of the best
novel in the world, if he could not condescend
to fall in love, might march
through his three volumes and excite no
more sensation than his grandmother;
and a newspaper without a breach of
promise of marriage is a thing not to be
endured.</p>

<p class='c008'>It is not my intention to affect any
singular exception from this natural
propensity, and I am ready to confess
that the next best thing to being in love
oneself, is to speculate on the hopes,
and fears, and fates of others. How
truly interesting are the little schemes
and subterfuges, the romancing and
story-telling of our dove-eyed and
gentle-hearted playfellows! I have
listened to a lame excuse for a stolen
ride in a tilbury, or a duet in the woods,
with wonderful sensibility; and have
witnessed the ceremony of cross-questioning
with as much trepidation
as I could have felt had I been the
culprit myself. It is not, however, to
be maintained that the love adventures
of the present age can, in any way,
compete with the enchantment of days
agone; when tender souls were won by
tough exploits, and Cupid’s dart was a
twenty-foot lance, ordained only to
reach the lady’s heart through the ribs
of the rival. This was the golden age of
love, albeit I am not one to lament it,
thinking, as I do, that it is far more
sensible to aid and abet my neighbour
in toasting the beauty of his mistress,
than to caper about with him in the
lists, for contradiction’s sake, to the
imminent danger and discomfort of us
both. After this came the middle or
dark ages of love, when it had ceased to
be a glory, but had lost nothing of its
fervour as a passion. If there is here
less of romance than in the tilting days,
there is considerably more of interest,
because there is more of mystery. In
the one, the test of true love was to
make boast, in the other it was to keep
secret. Accordingly, for an immense
space of time, we have nothing but
such fragments of adventures as could
be gathered by eavesdroppers, who
leave us to put head and tail to them as
best suits our fancy; and the loves
of Queen Elizabeth, who lived, as it were,
only yesterday, are less known than the
loves of queen Genevra, who perhaps
never lived at all.</p>

<p class='c008'>These amatory reflections occurred to
me some little time ago, during a twilight
reverie in the long, gloomy banqueting-room
of Holyrood. It was the very
land of love and mystery, for there was
scarcely one of the grim visages which
glared upon the walls, but had obtained
his share of celebrity in lady’s bower,
as well as in tented field; and of
scarcely one of whom any certain and
defined adventures have been handed
down. I continued speculating through
this line of kings, blessing the mark
and confounding the painter, who has
given us so little of their history in their
faces, till I grew quite warm upon the
subject, and found myself uniting and
reasoning upon the few facts of which
we are in possession, till I fancied I
could penetrate through two or three
centuries at least, and had a pretty
shrewd idea as to who and who had
been together.</p>

<p class='c008'>Scotland has, I think, in spite of its
sober, money-making character, always
excited a more romantic curiosity than
England. This, perhaps, is more
owing to its peculiar misfortunes than to
any particular difference of disposition.
English heroes have been as brave, and
no doubt as loving, but they do not
walk under such a halo of pity; and
whilst we pry with eagerness into the
secrets of the gallant Jameses, we
suffer those of their English contemporaries
to be “interred with their
bones.” I have always felt this strongly,
and at the time of which I speak, I
felt it stronger than ever. I was
treading upon the very boards which
had bounded to their manly steps, and
was surrounded by the very walls which
possessed the secret whisperings of
their hearts. From that identical
window, perhaps, had the first James
gazed upon the moon, which I saw
rising, and fancied that he almost held
commune with the eyes of his English
beauty. There, perhaps, had the royal
poet entwined her name with the
choicest hopes of his bosom, and woven
a tale of happiness which concealed but
too securely the assassin and the dagger
behind it. There, too, might the
courteous and courageous victims of
Flodden Field and Solway Moss have
planned the loves which characterised
their lives, and the wars which concluded
them, almost at the same moment.
And there might the hapless
Mary have first listened to the poisonous
passion of a Darnley, or a Bothwell,
and afterwards shed the tears of bitterness
and self-reproach.</p>

<p class='c008'>I paced this sad-looking room of
rejoicing quite unconscious of the hours
that were passing; for I was alone, and
in a train of thought which nothing but
a hearty shake could have interrupted.
Mary, and all her beauty, and talents,
and acquirements, continued floating
before me. Her world of lovers and
admirers, who, for the most part, were
sleeping in a bloody bed, seemed rising one
by one to my view, and I wandered with
them through their hopes, and their fears,
and their sorrows, even to the scaffold,
as though I had been the ghost of one
of them myself, and were possessed of
secrets of which there is no living
record.</p>

<p class='c008'>Many of these ill-fated hearts have,
by their nobility, or their exploits, or
by the caprice of historians, received
full meed of applause and pity; many,
no doubt, have sunk into oblivion; and
some, in addition to their misfortunes,
have left their memories to combat with
the censure which has been thought due
to their presumption;—of these last I
have always considered the unfortunate
Chatelar to have been the most hardly
used, and in the course of my musings I
endeavoured to puzzle out something
satisfactory to myself upon his dark and
distorted history.</p>

<p class='c008'>The birth of Chatelar, if not noble,
was in no common degree honourable,
for he was great-nephew to the celebrated
Bayard, <i><span lang="fr">le Chevalier sans peur et
sans tache</span></i>. It is said that he likewise
bore a strong resemblance to him in
person, possessing a handsome face and
graceful figure; and equally in manly
and elegant acquirements, being an
expert soldier and an accomplished
courtier. In addition to this, says
Brantome, who knew him personally, he
possessed a most elegant mind, and
spoke and wrote, both in prose and
poetry, as well as any man in France.</p>

<p class='c008'>Dangerous indeed are these advantages;
and Chatelar’s first meeting with
Mary was under circumstances calculated
to render them doubly dangerous.
Alone, as she conceived herself,
cast off from the dearest ties of her
heart, the land which she had learnt to
consider her native land fading fast from
her eyes, and the billows bearing her to
the banishment of one with which, as
it contained none that she loved, she
could feel no sympathy;—in this scene
of wailing and tears, the first tones of
the poet were stealing upon her ear
with the spirit of kindred feelings and
kindred pursuits. We are to consider
that Mary at this time had obtained but
little experience, and was probably not
overstocked with prudence, having
scarcely attained the age of nineteen
years. Not only, are we told, did she
listen with complacency and pleasure to
Chatelar’s warm and romantic praises of
her beauty, but employed her poetic
talent in approving and replying to
them; putting herself upon a level with
her gifted companion, a course which
was morally certain to convert his
veneration into feelings more nearly
allied to his nature. Had he not been
blamed for his presumption, it is probable
that he would have been condemned
for his stoicism; and his luckless
passion is by no means a singular
proof that where hearts are cast in kindred
moulds, it is difficult to recognise
extrinsic disparities. Chatelar saw the
woman, and forgot the queen; Mary
felt the satisfaction, and was blind to
the consequences.</p>

<p class='c008'>It is much to be lamented by the
lovers of truth, that none of the poetical
pieces which are said to have passed
between Mary and Chatelar have been
handed down to us. One song would
have been a more valuable document in
the elucidation of their history than all
the annals we possess, and would
have taught us at once the degree of
encouragement and intimacy which was
permitted. Whatever it was, it was
such as to rivet the chains which had been
so readily and unadvisedly put on; and
from the period of their first meeting, we
may consider him the most enthusiastic
of her lovers.</p>

<p class='c008'>How long he continued the admiration
and the favourite of Holyrood does
not, I believe, appear. It could not,
however, be any considerable time ere
he was compelled to return with his
friend and patron, Damville, to France,
with full reason to lament his voyage to
Scotland, and with, probably, a firm
determination to revisit it whenever
opportunity should permit. This opportunity
his evil stars were not long in
bringing about. The projected war of
faith between Damville’s party and the
Huguenots afforded him a fair pretext
for soliciting a dispensation of his
services. Of the first he was a servant,
of the last he was a disciple. It was
therefore contrary to his honour and inclinations
to fight against either of them,
and, accordingly, in about fifteen
months, we find him again at Holyrood.</p>

<p class='c008'>Mary, it may reasonably be inferred,
from her extreme love of France, and
unwillingness to leave it, was not very
speedily to be reconciled to her change
of scene and society; a face, therefore,
from the adopted land of her affections,
and a tongue capable of gratifying them
with the minutest accounts of the beloved
objects it contained, must, at this
time, have been acquisitions of no small
interest. Chatelar, too, had already
worked a welcome on his own account.</p>

<p class='c008'>Few of my readers need be reminded
how insensibly and certainly the tongue
which speaks of that which is dear to
our hearts is stored up with it in the
same treasury. The tale and the teller
of it,—the leaf and the wave it falls
upon,—arrive at the same time at the
same destination. Histories, for the
most part, insinuate that Mary’s carriage
towards Chatelar was merely that of
kindness and courtesy; but this, I think,
is an inference not warranted by the
various facts which they have been unable
to repress, and not even the silence
of the inveterate John Knox upon this
head can convince me that Chatelar
had not reason to believe himself
beloved.</p>

<p class='c008'>Let us then imagine, if we can, what
was likely to be the intoxication produced
in the brain as well as the bosom of a man
of an enthusiastic temperament by a free
and daily intercourse, during three
months, with the fascinations of a creature
like Mary. What tales could that
old misshapen boudoir—famous only,
in common estimation, for the murder
of Rizzio and the boot of Darnley—tell
of smiles and tears over the fortunes of
dear and distant companions of childhood,
as narrated by the voice of one to
whom, perhaps, they were equally dear!
What tales could it tell of mingling
music, and mingling poetry, and mingling
looks, and vain regrets, and fearful
anticipations! Here had the day been
passed in listening to the praises of each
other, from lips in which praise was a
talent and a profession; and here had
the twilight stolen upon them when none
were by, and none could know how
deeply the truth of those praises was
acknowledged. Let us imagine all
this, and, likewise, how Chatelar was
likely to be wrought upon by the utter
hopelessness of his case.</p>

<p class='c008'>Had the object of his passion been
upon anything like a level with him,—had
there been the most remote possibility
of a chance of its attainment,—his
subsequent conduct would, most
likely, not have been such as to render
it a subject for investigation. But
Mary must have been as inaccessible to
him as the being of another world. The
devotion which he felt for her was
looked upon by the heads of her court
as a species of sacrilege; and he was
given to believe, that each had a plan for
undermining his happiness and removing
him from her favour. If this could not
be effected, it was a moral certainty
that Mary, in the bloom of her youth and
the plentitude of her power, must become
to some one of her numerous
suitors all which it was impossible that
she could ever become to him. Of these
two cases, perhaps, the one was as bad
as the other, and Chatelar was impelled
to an act of desperation, which, in these
matter-of-fact days, can scarcely be conceived.
On the night of the 12th of
February, 1563, he was found concealed
in the young queen’s bed-chamber.</p>

<p class='c008'>It would, I fear, be a difficult undertaking,
in the eyes of dispassionate and
reasoning persons, to throw a charitable
doubt upon the motives of this unseasonable
intrusion. The fair and obvious
inference is, that he depended upon the
impression he had made upon Mary’s
heart, and the impossibility of their
lawful union. In some degree, too, he
might have been influenced by the
perilous consequences of a discovery,
to which he possibly thought her love
would not permit her to expose him.
The propriety of this argument, if he
made use of it, was not put to the test,
for his discovery fell to the lot of Mary’s
female attendants before she retired.</p>

<p class='c008'>There is, however, another class of
readers who will give him credit for
other thoughts. I mean those best of
all possible judges of love-affairs, in
whom the commonplaces of life have
not entirely destroyed that kindly feeling
of romance which Nature thought it
necessary to implant in them, and which
the usage of modern days renders it
necessary for them to be ashamed of.
The readers of whom I speak will
decide more from the heart than the
head; and then what an interminable
field of defence is laid open! What
strange feelings and unaccountable exploits
might be furnished from the
catalogue of love vagaries! Were
Chatelar to be judged by other examples,
the simple circumstance of his
secreting himself for the mere purpose
of being in the hallowed neighbourhood
of his mistress, and without the most
distant idea of making her acquainted
with it, would appear a very commonplace
and very pardonable occurrence.
And if we keep in mind his poetical
character and chivalrous education,
this belief is materially strengthened.</p>

<p class='c008'>On the following morning the affair
was made known to the Queen by her
ladies. Had they been wise enough to
hold their peace, it is odds but the
lover’s taste for adventure would have
been satisfied by the first essay. Instead
of this, being forbidden all future
access to her presence, he became more
desperate than ever. His motives had
been misconstrued; his actions, he
thought, had been misrepresented; he
was bent on explanation, and he hoped
for pardon. Thus it was that when
Mary, on the same day, quitted Edinburgh,
her disgraced admirer executed
his determination of following her, and,
on the night of the 14th, seized the only
opportunity of an interview by committing
the very same offence for which
he was then suffering: Mary had
no sooner entered her chamber than
Chatelar stood before her.</p>

<p class='c008'>Whatever her feelings may have been
towards him, it is not surprising that
this sudden apparition should have
proved somewhat startling, and have
produced an agitation not very favourable
to his cause. It may be presumed
that she was not mistress of her actions,
for certain it is, that she did that which,
if she possessed one half of the womanly
tenderness for which she has credit,
must have been a blight and a bitterness
upon her after life. Chatelar comes,
wounded to the quick, to supplicate a
hearing, and the Queen, it is said,
“was fain to cry for help,” and desire
Murray, who came at her call, to “put
his dagger into him.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Thus, by dint of unnecessary terrors
and unmeaning words, was Chatelar
given over to an enemy who had always
kept a jealous eye upon him, and to
justice, which seemed determined to
strain a point for his sake, and give him
something more than his due. In a
few days he was tried, and experienced
the usual fate of favourites by being
condemned to death.</p>

<p class='c008'>Alas! how bitter is the recollection
of even trifling injuries towards those
who loved and are lost to us! Yet what
had this been in counterpoise to the
reflections of Mary? She had given over
a fond and a fervent heart to death for
no fault but too much love, and any
attempt to recall the deed might have
afforded a colour to the aspersions which
malignant persons were ever ready to
cast upon her character, but could have
availed no further.</p>

<p class='c008'>For Chatelar there was little leisure
for reflection. The fever of the first
surprise,—the strange, the appalling
conviction as to the hand which hurled
him to his fate,—the shame, the
humiliation, the indignation, had scarce
time to cool in his forfeit blood, before
he was brought out to die the death of
a culprit upon the scaffold.</p>

<p class='c008'>It has been the fashion for writers upon
this subject, in the quiet and safety of
their firesides, to exclaim against his
want of preparation for his transit;
but, under such circumstances, I cannot
much wonder that he should rather
rebel against the usual ceremonies of
psalm-singing and last speeches. If he
chose to nerve himself for death by reading
Ronsard’s hymn upon it, it is no proof
that he looked with irreverence upon
what was to follow it. His last words
are extremely touching; for they prove
that, though he considered that Mary
had remorselessly sacrificed his life, his
sorrow was greater than his resentment,
and his love went with him to the grave.
“Adieu,” he said, turning to the quarter
in which he supposed her to be, “adieu,
most beautiful and most cruel princess
in the world!” and then submitting
himself to the executioner, he met the
last stroke with a courage consistent
with his character.</p>

<p class='c008'>Of Mary’s behaviour on this event,
history, I believe, gives no account.</p>

<p class='c008'>My ponderings upon this singular story
had detained me long. The old pictures
on the walls glistened and glimmered in
the moonshine like a band of spectres;
and, at last, I fairly fancied that I saw
one grisly gentleman pointing at me
with his truncheon, in the act of directing
his Furies to “seize on me and take
me to their torments.” It was almost
time to be gone, but the thought of
Chatelar seemed holding me by the
skirts. I could not depart without
taking another look at the scene of his
happiest hours, and I stole, shadow-like,
with as little noise as I could, through
the narrow passages and staircases, till I
stood in Mary’s little private apartment.
As I passed the antechamber,
the light was shining only on the stain
of blood; the black shadows here and
elsewhere made the walls appear as
though they had been hung with
mourning. I do not know that ever I
felt so melancholy; and had not the
owl just then given a most dismal whoop,
there is no telling but that I might have
had courage and sentiment enough to
have stayed until I had been locked up
for the night. I passed by the low bed,
under which Chatelar is said to have
hidden himself. It must have cost him
some trouble to get there! I glanced
hastily at the faded tambour work,
which, it is possible, he might have
witnessed in its progress; and I shook
my head with much satisfaction to think
that I had a head to shake. “If,”
said I, “there is more interest attached
to the old times of love, it is, after all,
in some degree, counterbalanced by the
safety of the present; and I know not
whether it is not better to be born in
the age when racks and torments are
used metaphorically, than in those in
which it is an even chance that I might
have encountered the reality.”—<cite>Literary
Souvenir</cite>, 1825.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='a_night_in_duncan_mgowans' class='c006'>A NIGHT IN DUNCAN M‘GOWAN’S.</h2>
</div>

<p class='c007'>After traversing a bleak and barren
track of moorland country, I unexpectedly
arrived at the village of Warlockheugh,
a few hours before the sun
had set upon the cheerless and level
horizon of that desolate region. A
scene so bleak and solitary had engendered
a vague and melancholy feeling
of individual helplessness and desertion;
the morning buoyancy of my spirits had
settled down into dull and dejected
sympathy with the exhausted members
of my body; the sharp, clear air that
blew across the moor had whetted my
appetite to an exquisite degree of
keenness, so that I was not a little disposed
to mingle once more with human
society, to invigorate my limbs with
another night’s repose, and to satisfy the
cravings of hunger with some necessary
refreshment. I therefore entered the
village at a quicker pace than I had
exerted for the last ten or twelve miles
of my journey.</p>

<p class='c008'>It is situated in a narrow valley,
which slopes away from the moorland
side, and is surrounded by a ridge of
rocks that rise around it like an iron
barrier, and frown defiance to the
threatened encroachments of the ocean.
A dark brown stream floats along the
moor with a lazy and silent current,
bursts with a single leap over a precipice
at the upper end of the village,
thunders along a broken, rocky channel,
and spouts a roaring cataract, sheer
down through the rifted chasm that
opens towards the coast, and affords
the villagers a view of ocean, which,
environed on all sides by tumultuous
ranges of rugged mountains, expands
its sheet of blue waters like an inland
lake.</p>

<p class='c008'>Having entered the village of Warlockheugh,
I was attracted by the Red
Lion that blazes on the sign of Duncan
M‘Gowan, who kept then, and, as I
understand, still keeps, “excellent entertainment
for men and horses.” I
was shown into Duncan’s best apartment,
but had little leisure and no
inclination to make an inventory of its
contents. Hunger is an urgent creditor,
and not to be reasoned with, so I ordered
the landlord to fetch me some refreshment.
My order was immediately
succeeded by a most delightful concert
of culinary implements, whose risp and
clank, and clatter, and jingle, mingling
harmoniously with the squirt and buzz
of a frying-pan, engendered a hearty
and haggis-like hodge-podge of substantial
and delectable associations.
The table was soon covered with that
plain and solid sort of food which is
generally to be found in the temporary
halting places of such wayfaring men as
coach-drivers and carriers, who are no
mean connoisseurs in the more rational
part of good living. Having done
ample justice to the landlord’s good
cheer, I laid myself back in my chair,
in that state of agreeable languor which
generally succeeds sudden rest after
violent exertion, and abundant refreshment
after long fasting. My imagination,
struggling between the benumbing influence
of sated appetite, and the exhilarating
novelty of my present situation,
floated dimly and drowsily over
the various occurrences of life, till the iris-coloured
texture of existence saddened
into a gray heaviness of eye, whose
twilight vision grew darker and darker,
till the ill-defined line of connexion,
with which consciousness divided the
waking from the slumbering world,
was swallowed up in the blackness of a
profound sleep. And there, as we may
suppose, I sat twanging, through the
trumpet of my nose, my own lullaby,
and rivalling the sonorous drone of
M‘Glashan the piper’s bagpipe, who,
when I came in, was sitting on a stone
at the door, piping his diabolical music
to the happy villagers.</p>

<p class='c008'>I had not long remained in this
“pleasing land of drowsyhead,” when
my slumbers were violently broken
by a tumultuous uproar coming down
from the upper end of the village. I
started from my seat in that state of
giddiness and stupor which one generally
feels when roused from sleep by violent
and alarming sounds. My whole frame
was benumbed by the uneasiness of my
dozing position, and it was with the
utmost pain and difficulty I could
prevail upon my limbs to carry me to
the window, to ascertain the cause of
the uproarious din, which every moment
grew louder and louder. The first
objects that caught my attention were
some straggling villagers, sweeping
down the lane with desperate speed
of foot, and dismal looks of consternation.
I made towards the door, but
the passage was choked full of alarmed
and breathless fugitives, whose apprehensions
had driven them to the first
asylum which opportunity presented.
Ejaculations and exclamations of all
sorts were gasped forth by the multitude
in the passage. Some swore in wrath,
some laughed in self-congratulation,
while others clamorously bewailed
those of their kindred who might yet
be exposed to the approaching danger.
I inquired at a composed-looking middle-aged
personage who stood beside me, the
cause of this uncommon and alarming
occurrence. “Ou,” said he, coolly,
“M‘Harrigle’s bull’s run wud, and
he’s gaun to take the command o’ the
town till we get a new magistrate; for,
as ye maun understand, sir, Bailie
Brodie died yesterday.” The inhabitants
rushed by in greater numbers, the
sounds grew numerous, louder and more
intelligible, as the huddling multitude
approached; and I distinctly heard
several voices bawling out, “Rin, ye
deevil, or ye’ll be torn to ’coupins!—Lord
preserve us! he’ll be ower the
brae face—there he goes—confound ye!
rin—mercy on us! sic a race!” The
uproar and clamour, already run into
utter confusion, turned fiercer and more
riotous as a knot of people flew suddenly
past the window, and left a space behind
them that was immediately occupied by
the bull, tumbling his huge unwieldy
carcass down the lane, followed by an
immense crowd of men, women, and
children, and curs of every denomination.
The hoarse bawling of the men, the
screams of the women, and the clear
treble of the children, the barking of
curs, from the gruff big bow-wow of the
mastiff down to the nyiff-nyaff and yelp-yelp
of the terrier, along with the boo-baloo
and bellow of the bull, formed a wild
and savage uproar that was truly deafening.
I dashed up the window and looked
out. The enraged animal lumbered
along, and heaved his ponderous bulk
into fantastical attitudes, with his posterior
appendage projecting straight
out like a pole and tassel, his back
raised, and his head ploughing on between
his fore-feet. He hobbled, and hurled,
and tumbled along with as blind an
impulse as if he had been a mass of
destructive machinery driven headlong
by the mad impetus of some terrible
and ungovernable energy. Away he
went. The last sight I saw of him
was as he entangled his horns in a
thick stunted bush that grew on the top
of a bank at some distance. The bush
withstood the violence of his shock, and
he tumbled with his feet uppermost.
He struggled for a few moments; at
length succeeded in tearing it out by the
roots, vanished over the precipice, and
went bellowing down the waterfall,
amidst the shouts of the multitude who
pursued him.</p>

<p class='c008'>A group of people, very closely
wedged together, moved slowly up the
village. They were carrying some individual
who had suffered from the fury
of the enraged animal. They shouldered
on towards M‘Gowan’s in mournful procession.
All seemed extremely anxious
to obtain a look of the unhappy sufferer.
Those who were near pressed more
closely towards the centre of the crowd,
while those on the outside, excited by
sympathetic curiosity, were leaping up
round about, asking all the while the
name of the person, and inquiring what
injury he had sustained. “He’s no
sair hurt, I hope,” said one. “Is he
dead?” said another of livelier apprehensions
and quicker sensibility. “It’s
auld Simon Gray,” said a young man,
who came running up out of breath to
M‘Gowan’s door. “Simon Gray’s
dead!” “Simon Gray dead!” cried
M‘Gowan; “God forbid!” So saying,
out at the door he rushed to ascertain
the truth of the mournful intelligence.
“Wae’s me,” said Dame M‘Gowan,
“but this is a sair heart to us a’,”
as she sank down in a chair, and
cried for water to her only daughter,
who stood sorrowfully beside her
mother, alternately wringing her hands
and plaiting the hem of her white
muslin apron over her finger in mute
affliction.</p>

<p class='c008'>Simon Gray the dominie was brought
into M‘Gowan’s. He was bleeding at
the nose and mouth, but did not appear
to have received any very serious
injury. Cold water was dashed on his
face, his temples were bathed with
vinegar, and the occasional opening
and shutting of the eye, accompanied
with a laboured heaving of the breast,
gave evidence that the dominie was not
yet destined to be gathered to his
fathers. The inquiries of the multitude
round the door were numerous, frequent,
and affectionate. The children were
loud and clamorous in their grief, all
except one little white-headed, heavy-browed,
sun-burned vagabond, who,
looking over the shoulder of a neighbour
urchin, asked if there would be
“ony schulin’ the morn;” and upon an
answer being sobbed out in the negative,
the roguish truant sought the nearest
passage out of the crowd, and ran up
the lane whistling “Ower the water to
Charlie,” till his career of unseasonable
mirth was checked by a stout lad, an
old student of Simon’s, who was running
without hat and coat to inquire the fate
of his beloved preceptor, and who,
when he witnessed the boy’s heartlessness,
could not help lending him a box on
the ear, which effectually converted his
shrill whistle of delight into a monotonous
grumble, accompanied by the
common exclamation of wonderment,
“What’s that for, ye muckle brute?”
and a half hesitating stooping for a stone,
which the lad who bowled on towards
M‘Gowan’s took no notice of till the
messenger of the boy’s indignation
lighted at his heels, and bounded on
the road before him.</p>

<p class='c008'>By the affectionate attention of his
friends Simon was soon able to speak
to those around him, but still felt so
weak that he requested to be put to
bed. His revival was no sooner announced
at the door of the inn than a
loud and tumultuous burst of enthusiastic
feeling ran through the crowd, which
immediately dispersed amidst clapping
of hands, loud laughs, and hearty
jokes.</p>

<p class='c008'>The landlord, after ministering to the
necessities of the dominie, came into
the apartment where I was sitting.
“Surely, landlord,” said I, “this old
man Simon Gray is a great favourite
among you.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Troth, sir, it’s nae wonder,” was
the reply to my observation. “He
has gien the villagers of Warlockheugh
their lear, and keepit them lauchin’, for
five-and-twenty years back. He’s a
gude-hearted carle too; he downa see a
puir body in want, and rather than let
the bairns grow up in idleness and
ignorance, he’ll gie them their lear for
naething. A’body’s fond o’ Simon,
and the lasses especially, though he
ne’er maks love to ane o’ them. They
say some flirt o’ a lady disappointed
him when he was at the college, and he
vowed ne’er to mak love to anither.
But I daur say there’s some o’ our
lasses vain eneugh to think they’ll be
able to gar him brak his promise. It’ll
no do,—he’s ower auld a cat to draw a
strae afore.</p>

<p class='c008'>“He’s a real auld bachelor in his
way of leevin’. He maks and mends
his ain claes too, clouts his ain shoon,
darns his ain stockings, and keeps a
lot o’ tools for a’ crafts. His kitchen’s
a no-that-ill-red-up place; but if ye saw
his study, sir, as he ca’s’t, it’s the
queerest, higgledy-piggledy, odds-and-ends
sort o’ place ye ever saw in your
life. It’s eneugh to turn your brain
just to look intil’t. His pianoforte and
his tables a’ covered wi’ a confused
heap o’ books, writings, musical instruments,
colours, oil-paintings, and
loose fragments o’ rough designs, made
wi’ black and white caulk on a nankeen-coloured
kind o’ paper. The wa’ is
stuck fu’ o’ brass-headed nails that he
hings his follies and his nonsense on. He
has a muckle ill-faured image yonder,
that he ca’s an Indian god, standing on
his mantelpiece, wi’ lang teeth made o’
fish-banes, and twa round bits o’ white
airn, with big black-headed tackets
driven through the middle o’ them for
een, and a queer crown on its head,
made o’ split quills, plait strae, and
peacocks’ feathers. It’s eneugh to gar
a body a’ grue just to look at it. He has
bears’ and teegers’ heads girnin’ on the
wa’, and slouched hats, swords, dirks,
and rusty rapiers o’ every kind. He
has twa or three things yonder that he
ca’s Roman helmets (though the maist o’
folk would reckon them nae ither than
barbers’ basins), forby some imitations
o’ auld coats o’ mail, made o’ painted
pasteboard. Na, faith, the deil hae me,”
continued Duncan, laughing at the
whimsical character of the place he was
describing, “if I dinna whiles think
the body’s out o’ his wits. But he
canna be that, either, for they’re great
folks ca’ing upon him, baith far and
near, and he cracks to them whiles in
strange tongues, that nane in the kintra-side
kens but himsel and the minister.
Na, troth, sir, they say that our Mess
John, wha’s no a lame hand himsel, is
just a bairn to him. ’Od he’s a droll,
ready-handed body. He maks a’thing
himsel. He has some orra time on his
hand, ye see; and he’s either crooning
ower some auld Scotch songs, or
fiddling some outlandish tunes; and, my
faith! he can twine them out frae the
grist o’ a common strae-rape to the
fineness o’ a windle-strae. He shakes
and dirls sae wonderfully too, that ye
wad think his fiddle’s no a thing o’
timmer and catgut at a’, but some droll
musical creature o’ flesh and blood.
Eh, my certie! it gars a body’s bowels
a’ tremble wi’ gladness whiles to hear
him. He’ll come in here at an antrin
time, ca’ for his gill o’ gin, and no a
living creature wi’ him, and sit ower’t
for twa or three hours, crackin’ to himsel,
and laughin’ as loudly and heartily
at his ain queer stories, as if he had a
dizzen o’ merry cronies at his elbow.
He ne’er forgets when he’s takin’ his
drams to wish himsel weel; for at every
sip, he says, ‘Here’s to ye, Simon—thanks
to ye, Mr Gray;’ and so on he
goes the whole night, as if he were a
kind of a twafauld body. Ae night
when he sat in my back-room and
loosed his budget of jokes, and laughed
and roared wi’ himsel for twa hours, I
laid my lug to the key-hole o’ the door,
and owerheard the following dialogue.”</p>

<p class='c008'>At this part of mine host’s narrative the
rattling of a wheeled vehicle was heard,
and ceased immediately upon reaching
the door of the inn. Mr Cleekum,
the village lawyer, had come in a few
minutes before, and was sitting beside
us, laughing at M‘Gowan’s narrative, of
the latter part of which he also had been an
auditory witness. M‘Gowan’s loquacity
ceased when he heard the vehicle at the
door; he looked out at the window,
turned round to me, and said hastily,
“Maister Cleekum ’ll tell ye a’ about
it, sir,—he heard it as weel as me.—Excuse
me, there’s a gig at the door.
We maun mind our ain shop, ye ken,
and a rider’s penny’s worth a gangrel’s
groat ony day.”</p>

<p class='c008'>So saying, he hurried out, leaving the
lawyer to gratify my curiosity by the
sequel of the dominie’s solitary dialogue.</p>

<p class='c008'>“M‘Gowan’s description, sir, of this
eccentric being is by no means exaggerated,”
said Mr Cleekum; “and if it
can afford you any amusement, I shall
relate the remainder of Mr Gray’s dialogue,
which I am the better enabled to
do, from having put myself to the trouble
of noting down the particulars, at the
recital of which old Simon and myself
have since laughed very heartily. You
need not be surprised at his broad
Scotch accent; he has such a decided
partiality for it, that he is commonly
averse to using any other tongue, though
no man speaks more politely than himself
when he is so disposed, and when
the persons he converses with render it
necessary.—After having finished his
first measure of indulgence, Mr Gray
proceeded thus:—</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Come now, Sir Simon, and I’ll
help ye hame, ye auld rogue.—I am
much obliged to you, Mr Gray, but I’ll
try to gar my ain shanks serve my
ain turn, and ye may e’en put your ain
hand to your ain hasp, my friend.—If
ye like, we’ll have anither gill, and
then toddle thegither.—Beware o’ dram-drinking,
Sir Simon; ye’ll get an evil
name in the clachan.—I beg your pardon,
Mr Gray; I have been a riddle to
the folks ower lang already, and as I
ne’er do aucht in a corner, but what I
may do on the causey, everybody kens
he’ll no mak onything mair or less o’
me by being inquisitive. Na, na, Mr
Gray, ye’re a’ out there; there is no ane
in the parish would hear an ill word o’
Simon.—But ye’re an auld man, sir,
and set an evil example to others.—Ne’er
a ane do I set an evil example to
but yoursel, Mr Gray; and for a’ your
cant about sobriety, ye take your drams
as regularly as I do; and I defy you—I
defy you or ony other man to say ye
e’er saw me the waur o’ liquor in your
life. Besides, Mr Gray, the progress
of human life is like a journey from
the equator to the north pole. We
commence our career with the heat
of passion and the light of hope, and
travel on, till passion is quenched by
indulgence, and hope, flying round the
ball of life which is blackening before
us, seems to come up behind us,
mingled with dim and regretted reminiscences
of things hoped for,
obtained, enjoyed, and lost for ever
but to memory:</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Oh! age has weary days,</div>
      <div class='line'>And nights of sleepless pain.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c012'>Youth needs no stimulus, it is too hot
already; but when a man is shuffling
forward into the Arctic circle of old age,
he requires a warm potation to thaw
the icicles that crust around his heart,
and freeze up the streams of his affections.
There’s for you, Mr Gray;
what do you think of that?—Why, I
think, Sir Simon, we’ll tell Duncan to
fill’t again.—That now, that now, is
friendly;’ and so saying, he rung
for the landlord to fetch him the
means of prolonging his solitary conviviality.</p>

<p class='c008'>“This is that portion of Mr Gray’s
dialogue with himself which M‘Gowan
and myself, perhaps officiously, listened
to; but as we are upon the subject of
our venerable friend’s peculiarities, it
may not be out of place to recite a little
poetical work, which he composed
some time ago.” Having signified the
pleasure I should derive from being
favoured with the recital of a work from
the pen of so eccentric a humorist as
the dominie, Mr Cleekum proceeded to
draw forth from his pocket and to
read:—</p>

<h3 class='c015'><span class='sc'>The Minister’s Mare.</span></h3>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>The minister’s mare was as gude a gray mare</div>
      <div class='line in2'>As ever was saddled, or bridled, or shod;</div>
      <div class='line'>Be’t foul or be’t fair, be’t late or be’t air,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>She nichered aye gladly when takin’ the road.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>The minister late in the e’ening cam hame,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>And stabled his marie, and heapit her heck,</div>
      <div class='line'>And gae her a forpit o’ oats to her wame,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>And theekit her cozily wi’ an auld sack.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>And the minister’s wife wi’ a bowet cam out,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>For a tenty and mensefu’ wife was she;</div>
      <div class='line'>Glowered round her for gangrels that might be about,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>And syne in the stable-door thrawed round the key.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>And she oxtered the minister up the stair</div>
      <div class='line in2'>To his room, where his supper and slippers were het,</div>
      <div class='line'>Whaur a wee creepie-stool and an elbow chair</div>
      <div class='line in2'>At the blithe ingle-neuk were right cozily set.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>As the reverend carle gaed ben the house laughin’,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>And clappin’ his wife, an’ rubbin’ his hands,</div>
      <div class='line'>She helpit him aff wi’ his green tartan raughen,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>And frae ’neath his round chin loosed his lily-white bands.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>When supper was ower, the minister birsled</div>
      <div class='line in2'>His shins on the creepie upon the hearth-stane;</div>
      <div class='line'>Worn out wi’ fatigue, to his roostin-place hirsled,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>And laid himsel down wi’ a wearied-man’s grane.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>His canny wee wife saw him cozily happit,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Syne drew back the chairs frae the warm ingle-side;</div>
      <div class='line'>Put creesh in the ee o’ the candle, and clappit</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Right kindly and couthily down by his side.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>The cracks o’ the twasome were kindly but few:</div>
      <div class='line in2'>The minister wi’ a “hech-ho,” turned him roun’,</div>
      <div class='line'>O’er his cauld shouther-head the warm blanket he drew,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Syne pu’d down his night-cap and snored snug and soun’.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>The morning’s bright bonfire, that bleezed in the east,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Had meltit in heaven ilk wee siller stern,</div>
      <div class='line'>When the cock crawed reveillè to man, bird, and beast,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>As he sat on an auld knotty rung in the barn.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>The dog in the watch-house yowled eerie and lang,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>And struggled right fiercely to break frae his chain;</div>
      <div class='line'>The auld chapel bell like a burial knell rang,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>And groanings were heard as frae bodies in pain.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>A loud rap cam rap to the minister’s yett,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>The minister’s wife wondered wha might be there;</div>
      <div class='line'>While the reverend carle, glammering, graipit to get</div>
      <div class='line in2'>His drawers and bauchels, to slip down the stair.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>But he warily first frae the stair-winnock keekit,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>To ken wha this early disturber might be;</div>
      <div class='line'>When he saw the dog loose, and the barn-door unsteekit,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>And his mare at the yett, cap’ring wild to be free</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Frae a blackavised rider, wha spurred her and banned her,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Wi’ mony wild curses to tak to the road:</div>
      <div class='line'>And he stuck like a burr, though campsterie he fand her,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>While the minister cried, “There’s been thieves here, gude ——!”</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“Fie, Tibby rise,” roared Mess John, loud as thunder,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>“The mischief’s come o’er us, we’re herriet, undone;</div>
      <div class='line'>The barn’s broke, the dog’s loose, the mare’s aff, and yonder</div>
      <div class='line in2'>She’s rinnin’—fie! bring me my hat, coat, and shoon!”</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>His claes huddled on, wi’ his staff in his han’,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>He out at the yett wi’ a belly-flaught flew;</div>
      <div class='line'>While the stour that his mare raised in clouds o’er the lan’,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Turned into a glaur-drop ilk clear blob o’ dew.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>The stour, borne alang wi’ the wind strong and gusty,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Gar’d the minister look like a miller sae gray;</div>
      <div class='line'>And the sweat on his face, mixed wi’ dust, grew as crusty</div>
      <div class='line in2'>As if he were modelled in common brick-clay.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>And sometimes he haltit, and sometimes he ran,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>And sometime he sat himsel down in despair;</div>
      <div class='line'>And sometimes he grew angry, and sometimes began</div>
      <div class='line in2'>To lighten his sair-burdened heart wi’ a prayer.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>But madly the rider o’er hill and o’er dale,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Wi’ the minister’s mare like a fire-flaught he flew;</div>
      <div class='line'>Whiles seen on a hill-top, whiles lost in a vale,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Till they baith looked like motes on the welkin sae blue.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>The minister by the road-side sat him down,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>As vexed and as wearied as man weel could be;</div>
      <div class='line'>Syne pu’d aff his wig, rubbed the sweat frae his crown,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>And puffed, steghed, and graned like a man gaun to dee.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>When an auld farmer carle, on his yaud trotting by,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Accosted Mess John as he sat in despair;</div>
      <div class='line'>Made a bow like a corn-sack, and as he drew nigh,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Raised his twa waukit loofs, cryin’ “What brought ye there?</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“I’m sure it’s nae mair than an hour since I saw ye</div>
      <div class='line in2'>At Bourtree Brae-head, and that’s eight miles awa!”</div>
      <div class='line'>And he rubbit his een as he cried out, “Foul fa’ me!</div>
      <div class='line in2'>For glammery’s come o’er me, or else you’re grown twa.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“And where is your mare, for she stood at the door,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Wi’ her bridle-reins drawn through a ring in the wa’,</div>
      <div class='line'>At Dawson’s door-cheek, where I saw her before</div>
      <div class='line in2'>I had drunk <i><span lang="gd">deoch-an-dorus</span></i> wi’ Donald M‘Craw.”</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“Ye saw me!” said the minister; “how could that be,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>When I’ve only proceeded thus far on my road?</div>
      <div class='line'>And that this is mysel, by a glance ye may see.”</div>
      <div class='line in2'>“Why, then,” cried the farmer, “the thing’s vastly odd.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“But twa hours ago, sir, your double was sitting</div>
      <div class='line in2'>At Dawson’s fire-side,—faith! as I thoucht, half fou,—</div>
      <div class='line'>And ilk ane at hand thoucht it time to be flitting,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>When ye cursed and blasphemed till the candle burned blue.”</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“Why, Saunders, it’s surely been Sawtan ye’ve seen,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>The foul thief himsel, I could wad a gray groat;</div>
      <div class='line'>He staw my gray mare;—just turn back, my auld friend,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Till I strip the foul thief of his sanctified coat.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“I’ve warsled wi’ Sawtan for many a year;</div>
      <div class='line in2'>I’ve cloured him and loundered him aft times right sair;</div>
      <div class='line'>But the foul fiend has played me a pliskie, I fear;</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Lord save’s, man, I ne’er heard the like, I declare.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“Fie, Saunders, let’s mount, and to Dawson’s let’s hurry,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>And chase the loon back to his ain lowin’ hame;</div>
      <div class='line'>The tod’s in the fauld, God’s ain lambs he may worry;</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Come, Saunders, let’s hunt him, Auld Clootie’s fair game.”</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>And they rode till they came to John Dawson’s fore-door,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Whaur the minister lighted, but wadna step in,</div>
      <div class='line'>When he heard how the deil in his ain likeness swore,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>As he dirled at the door, for the third tappit hen.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>And the folk were confounded,—amazed,—when they saw</div>
      <div class='line in2'>The auld carle himsel they had aft seen before;</div>
      <div class='line'>Some darted into corners, and some ran awa,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>And ithers ran out, and glowered in at the door.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>But the minister beckoned them a’ to come back</div>
      <div class='line in2'>To the room aff-and-on where the devil sat fou;</div>
      <div class='line'>In the wooden partition there gaped a wide crack,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>That ilk ane, by turns, wi’ amazement looked through.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>And there they heard Cloots, in a big elbow-chair,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Snore like thunder far-aff, and now sleeping right sound,</div>
      <div class='line'>And some thought his feet didna look like a pair,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>For the tae o’ the ae boot to the heel was turned round.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>And they saw, when the ither foot once or twice moved,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>That the boot on that foot just turned round the same way;</div>
      <div class='line'>Which, to the onlookers, sufficiently proved,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>They were baith cloven feet,—ay, as clear as the day.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>They saw a bit kitlin, that friskit and pattit</div>
      <div class='line in2'>A muckle black tossel below the big chair;</div>
      <div class='line'>And it swung like a pend’lum, as wee baudrons clawtit</div>
      <div class='line in2'>The end that hung down like a bunch o’ horse-hair.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>When Dawson’s bull-terrier, streeked on the hearth-stane,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Saw Clootie’s tail wagging, he barkit like mad:</div>
      <div class='line'>Sprung till’t like a fury, and tugged might and main,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>And the deevil himsel couldna lowsen his haud.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>But the deil started up wi’ big chair, dog, an’ a’,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>And staggered, and stampit, and ance or twice fell;</div>
      <div class='line'>Mess John cried, “Lord save us!”—Like lightning, awa</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Flew deevil, and big chair, and terrier, to——!</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c008'>“There’s a strange production for
you,” said Mr Cleekum, as he folded
the paper and replaced it in his pocket.</p>

<p class='c008'>“A strange production, indeed,” said
I; “what could be Mr Gray’s object
in writing such a poem?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Merely to please himself, sir, I
suppose,” was the lawyer’s answer.</p>

<p class='c008'>“But,” continued I, “has it any
reference to any particular character or
occurrence; or is it merely an extravagant
fiction of the dominie’s own brain?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“It refers to an old popular tradition,”
answered Mr Cleekum, “concerning
a pious predecessor of our worthy
minister, Mr Singleheart; and, though
the currency of its belief is now somewhat
crossed and obstructed by an
adverse current of growing intelligence,
it still floats in the memories and imaginations
of those venerable annalists,
the old women of the village, with whom
the idle story was likely to perish for
ever, if the dominie’s metrical version
had not contributed to prolong it.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Various remarks were made upon the
merits of the production; but as they
were all blended with statements and
allusions relative to local characters and
incidents not connected with my present
object, I resume my interrupted narrative.</p>

<p class='c008'>The children still continued round
the door, shouting, halooing, and acting
a thousand extravagances, nor
could they be prevailed upon to depart
till they saw the “maister.” Simon,
who had so far collected his scattered
senses, and renewed his exhausted
strength, as to be able to give them
that gratification, had no sooner opened
the door for the purpose of receiving the
congratulations of his scholars, than
those who were nearest leaped up and
embraced him with unfeigned affection.
They pulled and lugged him, crying,
“Maister, maister!” while the beloved
instructor stood hugging his chubby
associates, and embracing them with all
the warmth of an affectionate parent.
These kind-hearted little beings, after
receiving another token of the old man’s
goodness, in the shape of pieces of
biscuit and gingerbread, ran off, huzzaing,
to inform their parents of the
marvellous escape of their venerable
preceptor.</p>

<p class='c008'>Simon, being disengaged from the
warm embraces of his pupils, came into
the room where the landlord, Cleekum
the lawyer, and myself were sitting. I
had now full leisure and opportunity to
examine the appearance of this singular
and eccentric character. It was completely
at variance with every characteristic
of modern gentility. His
dress betokened the hand of the cunning
craftsman of the last century, or his
own whimsical taste had dictated to
some modern son of the goose and
thimble the antique shape of his habiliments;
but, as we were before informed
by the landlord, they were entirely the
fabrication of his own taste and ingenuity.
His single-breasted, rusty-black coat
tapered away from the shoulders towards
his lower extremities in the pyramidal
shape, and when unbuttoned, or
unclasped, rather, swung its copious
folds round his jolly form with cumbrous
and fantastical elegance. Two mother-of-pearl
buttons, of uncommon circumference,
and encircled with brass rings,
were stuck as ornaments upon the
haunches, and the breast was decorated
with grotesque circles of the same
fantastical description, with the addition
of a handsome row of bright silver
clasps. The vest, with its massy superfluity
of cloth, parted in the middle,
and its ample pockets descended half-way
down his thigh, leaving a space
between their separation and the head
of his breeches for his bright linen shirt
to shine through, in the shape of an
isosceles triangle. His blue plush
breeches had three chequered or diced
brass buttons to preserve their connexion,
and terminated at the knee with the
genuine old Cameronian cut. His stockings
were light blue, sprinkled with little
oblong dots of white; and his shoes, cut
square across the toes to save his corns,
were held upon his feet by two antiquated
silver buckles of uncommon
magnitude and curious workmanship.
His personal appearance was that of a
substantial old bachelor, on whom
nature had generously bestowed a
sound constitution, and it was evident
from his looks that he by no means
despised that invaluable inheritance.
His face inclined to the square, but the
features were all curvilinear, rather
prominent, and flushed with that rosy
hue of health which so often beams
from the countenances of the sons and
daughters of rustic labour. His forehead
was highly expressive of intellect,
but the nether part of the face indicated
that lubberly sort of feeling which
glories in a life of good humoured ease
and fat contentment. His eyes were
small, of a bright blue, but not a pair,
for the one squinted outward through
the interstices of his gray, bristly eyebrows;
which, along with a nether lip
somewhat pendulous, a mouth turned
up at the corners, and a long flat chin,
gave the whole face a comical and
risible expression.</p>

<p class='c008'>During the time that Cleekum was
reading his notes of the dominie’s
solitary dialogue, Mr Singleheart, the
village minister, M‘Glashan the piper,
and some others belonging to the village,
came into the room, which seemed to
be as much public property as the
village smithy. On the dominie’s
entrance all rose to salute and congratulate
him upon his fortunate escape;
and I could see, from the cordial manner
in which each in his turn grasped the
old man’s hand, that each had his heart
at his finger-ends. It was not that
puppyish forefinger-and-thumb sort of
salutation which clips another frosty
forefinger-and-thumb as if dreading
contagion, but a hearty, honest grappling
of fist with fist, which drew the
blood from its fountain with a thrilling
impulse, and sent its current warm and
glowing into the clenched extremities,
which were shaken so violently, and
for such a length of time, that an
imaginative and hasty person might
suppose, in the rapidity of his decision,
that each individual was disposed to
graft himself upon the dominie, whose
right arm, at length, seemed as feeble
as that of a poor gut-scraper, who has
jigged at a country wedding for a whole
night.</p>

<p class='c008'>When Simon entered, I was introduced
to him by Cleekum, whom I had
by this time discovered to be an old
school-fellow of my own. He saluted
me with a frank and pleasant smile,
and squeezed my hand so cordially,
that I immediately felt that spontaneous
and indefinable feeling of attachment
towards him which, though the electric
emotion of a moment, is often the
forerunner of a long course of friendly
intimacy. Upon my father’s name
being mentioned, Simon recognised him
as a playmate of his earlier days, and
gave me a kindly invitation to spend a
few days with him, which circumstances
obliged me to refuse. Simon then took
the opportunity of introducing me more
particularly to the rest of the company,
on account of “the old man,” as he
said, meaning my father, for whom he
seemed to entertain a deep sentiment
of regard. He last of all recommended
me with an air of serious solemnity to
the notice of M‘Gowan.</p>

<p class='c008'>“This gentleman,” said he, pointing
to the last-mentioned individual, who
appeared to be a singular compound of
officiousness, selfishness, and benevolence,
and who seemed to be at all times
a standing joke with my venerable
friend, “has some pretensions to
honesty. He’ll do ye a good turn
sometimes when ye’re no thinking o’t;
and, unlike the most of other men, he
likes his friends the better the longer
they sit beside him. Familiarity does
not breed contempt with him, but
poverty does; and yet he’s no the hindmost
to help misery to an awmous when
he’s in a right mood for being goodhearted,
and that happens aye ance or
twice in a twalmonth.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Come, come, now,” said M‘Gowan,
gravely, “we’ll hae nae mair o’ that,
Mr Gray. Ye’re an unco wag. It was
only yestreen ye got me into a foul
scrape wi’ our friend Cleekum there,
and he flang out o’ the house, swearing
like a very heathen that he wad tak
the law o’ me for defamation o’ character.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“For the sake of peace and good
fellowship,” said Mr Singleheart, “it
will be meet and advisable for us to refrain,
as much as in us lies, from profane
joking and oonseasonable raillery;
because joking has small yedification
in it, and raillery is a sort of salt-and-pepper
compound, whilk burneth up the
inward man with a fervent heat, and
profiteth not, neither is meet for bodily
nourishment.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I would be o’ your thocht, Mr
Sinklart,” said Donald M‘Glashlan the
piper; “I would be making peace wi’
peast and pody”—</p>

<p class='c008'>The piper was thus proceeding with
his Highland exhortations to harmony,
when Cleekum, who was sitting looking
out at the window, started suddenly
from his seat and hurried out of the
house. M‘Gowan’s curiosity being
roused by Cleekum’s abrupt departure,
he followed him to the door, and beheld
him and M‘Harrigle the cattle-dealer
at some distance, earnestly
engaged in conversation. All that
M‘Gowan’s ear could catch of their
discourse was concerning the mad bull,
M‘Harrigle’s property, and the occasional
mention of the dominie’s
name.</p>

<p class='c008'>“There’s mischief a-brewing down
the lane there,” said M‘Gowan, when
he came in. “Cleekum and that foolish
passionate body M‘Harrigle are standing
yonder, an’ I could hear they were
sayin’ something o’ you, Mr Gray, but
what it was I couldna weel mak out.
He’s a doited, credulous body, that
M‘Harrigle; an’ I could wager a saxpence
Cleekum’s makin’ a deevil o’ him
some way or anither.”</p>

<p class='c008'>M‘Gowan’s surmises were suddenly
interrupted by vociferous and clamorous
exclamations at the door, and their cause
did not remain long unexplained.
The door of the apartment flew open,
and, rattling against the wall with
violence, admitted the author of this
fresh disturbance. It was M‘Harrigle.
He was a short, square-shouldered man,
of fierce aspect, whose naturally harsh
features were much exaggerated by a
powerful and alarming expression of
rage and resentment. The face was,
indeed, at first sight indescribable, and
the tumultuous feelings and passions
that deepened and darkened every line
of it wrought such fearful and sudden
changes upon its muscular expression that
the whole seemed at first a wizard compound
of different identities.</p>

<p class='c008'>Upon entering, his first salutation was
a deafening and broken torrent of cursing,
poured forth upon the dominie, as
the fancied author of the flight and
death of the mad animal, whose career
had spread such consternation through
the village. It was in vain that the
whole company remonstrated against
the rudeness, absurdity, and brutality
of his conduct. He stood on the middle
of the floor with his fist doubled,
menaced each of us in our turn, as we
interposed between him and the object
of his resentment, or smiled at his
folly and extravagance, and once or
twice grappled the large oaken cudgel
with which he impelled his horned property,
as if he intended to commit the
like beastly violence on those around
him. Cleekum had retired to a corner
to enjoy the sport his wicked waggery
had created. The dominie sat
composedly, and squinted at the cattle-dealer
with a sly and jocular leer, which
showed his soul delighted even in a
very serious joke, from an inveterate
habit of extracting fun from all the petty
and frivolous incidents of common life.
At times he seemed lost in a careless,
musing mood, and at other times burst
out into immoderate fits of laughter,
which seemed to me perfectly unaccountable.
He then, in the true spirit and
feeling of an enthusiastic elocutionist,
recited from Shakspeare some favourite
passage, warbled out a fragment of some
ancient ditty, every now and then interspersing
it with shrill and fitful passages
of a new sonnata, which he had been
practising on the violin, whose shrill
treble fell in between the intervals of
M‘Harrigle’s bass notes, like loose
sand or gravel strewed over a rude
foundation of ruble work. “D—— ye,”
said M‘Harrigle, rising in his wrath at
every fresh interruption of the dominie,
and maddened at his really provoking
coolness and indifference, “d—— ye,
ye think it a’ a joke to hunt a man’s
cattle to destruction, and then mak a
fool o’ himsel wi’ your blackguard and
unknown tongues! Confound your
hide, you glee’d, fiddling vagabond, an
it werna for your coat, I would harle
your hide ower your lugs like a sark!
Pay me my siller—pay me my siller
for the beast, or I’ll turn the nose on
your face like the pin o’ a hand-screw.
Down wi’ the dust—I’ll no leave the
room till I hae satisfaction o’ ye ae way
or ither, that’s for certain.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Let there be peace,” said Mr
Singleheart, “for out of strife cometh
a multitude of evils; and he who in
vain taketh the name of his Maker shall
not be held guiltless. You are an evil
person, M‘Harrigle; and if you refrain
not from that profane and heathenish
habit of cursing, we will, by the advice
and council of our Kirk-Session, be
obligated to debar you from all kirk
preevileges, and leave you to be devoured
and swallowed up by the evil one.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I beg your pardon,” said the credulous
and superstitious cattle-dealer;
“I didna mean offence to you or ony
man in the room; but I’ll hae my ain.
But it’s you, sir—it’s you, sir,” continued
he, addressing the dominie repeatedly,
and extending the tone of his
voice at every repetition, till he had
strained it to the most astounding pitch
of vociferation; “it’s you, sir, that set
ane o’ your mischievous vagabonds to
hunt the poor dumb animal, till he
ran red wud wi’ rage, and flew ower
the craig head. And now he’s at the
bottom o’ the linn, and fient be licket’s
to be seen o’ him, but an ill-faured hash o’
hide, an’ banes, and harrigles, sooming
an’ walloping at the bottom o’ the
pool.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Somebody’s blawn an ill sough in
your lug, friend,” said the dominie, as
he caught M‘Harrigle gently by the
sleeve, and invited him to sit down.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Aff haun’s,” cried M‘Harrigle,
rudely repelling the dominie’s invitation,—“aff
haun’s, I say; no man shall
handle me like a brute beast. I ken
what’s right as weel’s ony man, and I’ll
allow no man to straik me wi’ the hair,
to wyse me his ain gate, and syne row
my tail to gar me rin by my ain byre
door. I want no favours of ony man,
but I’ll hae my ain, if there’s law and
justice in the land.”</p>

<p class='c008'>M‘Harrigle proceeded at great length
to insist upon his right of restitution,
bespattering his slaughter-house observations
with abominable oaths, like
dirty shreds of dunghill rags sewed on
a beggar’s doublet; while the dominie
sat musing, swinging backward and
forward in his chair, making mental
and sometimes audible quotations from
the liquid Latin, and, at other times,
reciting Greek professorially, <i><span lang="la">ore rotundo</span></i>.
At length, awakening from his
learned reverie, and looking over his
shoulder to M‘Harrigle, he said, in a
tone most provokingly cool and indifferent,—</p>

<p class='c008'>“Were ye cursing, M‘Harrigle? Ye
shouldna curse, ye sinfu’ body; for an
ill life maks an ill hinder-end, and
Sawtan’s but a rough nurse to spread
the sheets and draw the curtains o’
ane’s death-bed.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The enraged cattle-dealer, finding all
further threats and remonstrances unavailing,
sat down in sullen and silent
indignation, and, with his arms folded
across his breast, his eyebrows knit, and
his upper teeth firmly compressed
against his nether lip, he scowled upon
the supposed author of his wrongs,
with an expression of face unutterably
horrible. He had just sat down when
Grierson the messenger brought in a
tall, yellow, raw-boned thing of a boy,
about fourteen years of age. He had
been seized in Sir Robert’s poultry-yard,
and although he had nothing in
his possession to convict him as a
criminal, his manner was so embarrassed,
and his appearance altogether
so suspicious, that the servants laid hold
on him, and committed him to the
charge of the officer above mentioned,
to be carried before a Justice of the
Peace and interrogated. He was accordingly
conveyed to M‘Gowan’s, where the
officer expected to find Christopher
Ramsay of Wrendykeside, who, he was
informed, had just alighted at the inn
from his gig. He had gone, however,
and the officer was about to depart with
his charge, when the dominie called
him back, and looking pleasantly at the
boy, exclaimed, “Ah, Geordie, are ye
there, ye wild loon?” The boy started
at the voice of his old preceptor, whom
he had not before observed. He indeed
had heard and believed that his venerable
instructor had been torn to pieces
by the fury of the mad animal, whose
destruction had roused M‘Harrigle’s
wrath to such a pitch of frenzy. He
gazed upon the dominie with open
mouth, and with a pair of large round
eyes, much dilated beyond their usual
circumference by an overpowering feeling
of astonishment; grew pale, and
trembled so fearfully that his gruff
guardian was compelled by humanity to
let him have a seat beside his old master,
who rose for his accommodation. The
afflicted youth made an effort to speak,
but in vain. He stretched out his two
hands, grasped that of his master which
was extended towards him, looked up
in his face, and sobbed as if his heart
would burst. The tears ran in floods
down his cheeks, and he at length cried
out in a choked undertone of bitter
agony,—</p>

<p class='c008'>“Maister, will ye forgie me? Will
ye forgie me? Will they hang me
for’t?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Blessings on’s man, Geordie,”
cried the dominie, “what’s wrang
wi’ ye?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Oh!” cried the afflicted boy, “my
father, and mother, and brothers, and
as sisters, and a’ will get a sair heart for
me yet. Oh!” and he continued to cry
distractedly.</p>

<p class='c008'>“The deil tak the laddie,” said
M‘Harrigle, “it maks a man’s heart
as saft as ill-fed veal to look at him.
What’s come ower ye, ye blubbering
stirk?”</p>

<p class='c008'>Mr Singleheart spoke not a word to
him, but continued clapping him on the
shoulder, while M‘Glashan, every now
and then, cried out, “Hout, laddie,
you’ll be makin’ a fool o’ us a’ noo,” and
so saying, he drew the back of his brawny
fist across his eyes several times, began
to finger his bagpipe in silence, as if he
would soothe his sympathy by the
imagination of playing some merry
spring, but his fingers, after two or three
rapid dumb-show flourishes, stood as
stationary upon the holes as if the piper
and his instrument of sound had been
both chiselled out of the same stone.
The boy still vented his grief as
clamorously and bitterly as ever, clung
to his master with the agony of a conscience-stricken
penitent, and cried,—</p>

<p class='c008'>“Will ye forgie me? It was me
that hunted the bull that I thocht had
killed ye.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“You, ye vagabond!” said M‘Harrigle,
collaring the unhappy youth.
Cleekum seized the opportunity of running
off, rightly considering that he
had carried the joke far beyond the
bounds of discretion, and really apprehensive
that the evil spirit he had conjured
up would turn upon himself and
rend him in its fury. “You!” continued
the irascible cattle-dealer; “what
do ye think that ye deserve, you ill-gi’en
neer-do-weel? But I’ll mak your
father pay.”</p>

<p class='c008'>This last consideration loosened his
grasp, and he seized the dominie’s hands
with both his own, begged a thousand
pardons with a rueful countenance, and
in accents very different from his former
imprecatory addresses. During the time
that he was making this sincere and
penitent apology for his rudeness and
misconduct, he several times glanced
round the apartment for Cleekum, crying
out, “Where is that blackguard
scribe? It was him that did it a’.” He
was safe, however.</p>

<p class='c008'>“There’s nae harm done where
there’s nae ill meant,” said the dominie,
in reply to M‘Harrigle’s confession of
repentance; “only ye shouldna flee on
a body like an ill-bred tyke, when an
ill-disposed neebour cries ‘shoo’ to ye.
Dinna ye be ower ready in telling your
mind to anybody, but let your thoughts
cool as weel as your parritch.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“’Od, Simon,” rejoined the cattle-dealer,
“I am sure ye can hardly forgie
me for the ill-faured words I hae said
to ye the night; I wish I could forget
and forgie them mysel. I’m a wild
brier o’ a body; I’m aye into some
confounded hobbleshow or anither.
But I’m glad, man, I didna lay hands
on ye, for if I had I wad ne’er hae forgi’en
mysel for’t as lang as I live. Can
I do naething to mak amends to ye for
what I’ve done?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Naething at a’,” replied the dominie,
“but to settle as easily as ye can wi’
the laddie’s father.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Peradventure,” Mr Singleheart
suggested, “the youth may be released
from his captivity, and sent to the habitation
of his father.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“There’ll be twa ways o’ that faith!”
exclaimed Grierson. “Na, na, though
the hangman has lost a job, I’ll be paid
for my trouble. I dinna gang about
beating bushes for linties, for deil-belickit
but the pleasure o’ seeing them
fleein’ back again. I’ll cage him.
Ye’re a’ ready enough to wind a hank
aff a neebour’s reel, or tak a nievefu’
out o’ his pock neuk, but ne’er a ane o’
ye’ll gie a duddy loon ae thread to mend
his breeks, or a hungry beggar a handfu’
o’ meal to haud his wame frae stickin’
to his back bane.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“There,” said M‘Harrigle, tossing
down a small sum of money as a bribe
to stop the mouth of this snarling terrier
of the law, “tak that, and save the
parish the expense o’ buying you a
tether.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Grierson picked up the money and
departed, leaving behind him as tokens
of his displeasure, some muttered and
unintelligible growlings; and the boy
was set at liberty, and sent home to his
father.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Come, come,” said M‘Harrigle,
“this affair ’ll no be weel ended till we
hae sowthered our hearts again wi’ a
half mutchkin o’ M‘Gowan’s best.
Come, Duncan, draw the tow, and tell
the gudewife to fetch the mutchkin
stoup, and het water to kirsten’t. I’m
sure I’m a fule o’ a body, for my lang
tongue, my short temper, and my short
wit, hae keepit me in a fry a’ the days
o’ me.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ye’re vera right, M‘Harrigle,”
said the landlord, rubbing his hand
briskly at the blithe proposal. “I’ll
ring for Tibbie; she’ll bring us something
worth preein’ out o’ her ain bole.
She’s a bit eident body, and aye keeps
a drap heart’s comfort in an orra neuk.”</p>

<p class='c008'>M‘Gowan pulled a hare’s foot at the
end of a rope, which was suspended
from an unhewn piece of knotted wood,
of a three-legs-of-man shape, fastened
by a strong screw nail into the wall,
and a solemn bell, most unlike the
merry tinkle of an alehouse warning,
was heard jowin’ and croorin’ in a
distant apartment, from which our hostess
presently made her appearance.</p>

<p class='c008'>Her aspect and demeanour at first
sight bespoke your affection. There was
in her face a look of blithe contentment
with her condition; in her dress a neat
attention to cleanliness and simplicity,
and in her whole manner and behaviour
a hearty and honest desire, not only to
be happy herself, but to make all around
her equally comfortable. She curtseyed
respectfully and smilingly when she
entered the room; but it was not that cut-and-dried
sort of politeness which publicans
in general indiscriminately pay to
all their customers;—it was a kind of
friendly greeting, mingled with no
small portion of gratitude towards those
on whom she was conscious she depended
for subsistence. It was that
warm and kindly expression of affection
which brought one who was removed
from his family fireside in mind of his
mother, and which made imagination
point out her habitation as a quiet resting
place, where the unsettled sojourner
might stop and glean from the barren
field of earthly enjoyment some few ripe
ears of happiness.</p>

<p class='c008'>“My gude will to ye a’, gentlemen;
I’m thinkin’ ye were ca’in’.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“That we were,” said M‘Harrigle.
“Fetch us a mutchkin o’ your best,
gudewife, and some het water.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ye’se no want that,” replied our
hostess; “but ye’ll aiblins aforehand be
pleased to tak a tasting o’ supper; I
hae’t ready for ye yonder, as I guessed
some o’ ye might stand in need o’ some
sma refreshment. I’ll send it ben to ye
in twa or three minutes, and syne get
ye onything else ye want. Ay will ye,”
said the motherly, sonsy, little woman,
as she shut the door behind her with a
gentleness of hand which showed that
her affections had some regard even for
things inanimate.</p>

<p class='c008'>A beautiful tall girl immediately
made her appearance, and prepared the
round oaken table before us for the reception
of the landlady’s hospitality,
by spreading over it a table-cloth of
snowy whiteness, and in arranging the
shining implements, which, from their
brilliant cleanliness, seemed to be kept
as much for ornaments to the kitchen
shelf, as for the more vulgar purpose
of preparing food for the process of
mastication. She was evidently the
daughter of the hostess. Her countenance
indicated all the amiable qualities
of her mother, but her manners were
more polished,—at least they seemed
so, perhaps from the circumstance of
her language being pure English, unmixed
with any of the Doric dialect
of her parent. By the mutual assistance
of the landlady and her daughter,
the table soon groaned beneath a load
of savoury substantialities, most provokingly
pleasant to all but myself.
Our chairs being drawn forward towards
the attractive influence of the supper,
and grace being said by the reverend
Mr Singleheart, they all proceeded
lustily and cheerfully to the work of
repletion.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Oogh!” says M‘Glashan the piper,
as he opened his Celtic jaws, and
disclosed two formidable rows of white
stakes, which stood as a sort of turnpike
gate to the entrance of his stomach, and
demanded toll of all that passed that
way,—“oogh! this’ll pe tooin’ her
good, for her fu’ bag maks a loot trone.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Verily, it is both savoury and refreshing,”
said Mr Singleheart, as he
sawed away with a suppleness of elbow
by no means consistent with the staid
solemnity of his usual motions.</p>

<p class='c008'>“My faith!” said M‘Harrigle to
the dominie, “your mill gangs glibly.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ay,” says the dominie, “the still
sow licks up the draff, and a heapit
plate maks hungry men scant o’ cracks.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“And scant o’ havins too, I think,”
said M‘Gowan; “for the stranger
gentleman’s sittin’ there before us wi’ a
toom plate.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Let him alane,” said the dominie;
“it’s time he were learning that a man
that’s hamely’s aye welcome, and that
frank looks mak kind hearts.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Cleekum had secreted himself in the
kitchen, and, though indebted to Mrs
M‘Gowan’s fidelity for his preservation
from M‘Harrigle’s indignation, he was
by no means satisfied with the amount
of the night’s amusement. It was at
all times a source of delight to him to
observe men acting extravagantly and
foolishly under misconception and
false impressions of one another; and
he at no time hesitated to invent and
circulate fabrications, generally innocent,
indeed, as to intention, but sometimes
productive of serious consequences. He
was commonly the most taciturn individual
in company, and notwithstanding
his frolicsome and mischievous
disposition, enjoyed the reputation
among his neighbours of being a skilful
lawyer, and what is still more creditable,
a man of unimpeached integrity. This
last quality, in some measure, atoned
for his love of mischief, and enabled
him to perform with impunity wild
pranks, which might have seriously injured
almost any other man.</p>

<p class='c008'>When he saw Dame M‘Gowan preparing
supper, his whimsical imagination
suggested to him the very ridiculous
and extravagant trick of making
M‘Glashan believe that his favourite
bagpipes formed a part of the entertainment.
This he accomplished by
giving a little urchin a penny to steal
unperceived into the room and fetch
them away, and an old pair that lay on
a shelf in the kitchen furnished him
with the ready materials for carrying
his whimsical conceit into execution.
Ribbons of the same breadth and colour
with those which garnished M‘Glashan’s
pipes were purchased, and tied upon
the drone, which was then attached to
the “chieftain o’ the pudding race,”
which had never before perhaps been
dignified with such notable marks of
distinction. Mrs M‘Gowan whispered
to her husband a hint of the rarity preparing
for them in the kitchen, and he
gave a sly intimation of the same to the
dominie.</p>

<p class='c008'>Part of the dishes being removed,
the whole company sat in silent expectation
of this new specimen of culinary
skill, for the whispered hint had by
this time been communicated to all
except M‘Glashan himself. The
dominie squinted at M‘Gowan, with
that sly and jocular expression of face
for which he was so remarkable. The
landlord himself could with difficulty restrain
his risibility within the compass of
a well-bred smile. It was evident, from
the various workings of his features,
that it required no small exertion to
master down his inward emotion, and
keep it from leaping forth and divulging
the secret of the coming joke.</p>

<p class='c008'>After a delay of a few minutes our
good hostess entered with a pair of bagpipes
on a large plate. She placed
them on the table and hurried out of
the room, evidently for the purpose of
enjoying a prudential and private laugh.
There stood the piper’s instrument on
the middle of the table, “warm, reeking,
rich,” steaming forth its appetising
fragrance, regaling every nose, delighting
every eye, and provoking instantaneous
peals of laughter from all but
the supposed proprietor of this fantastical
but seemingly substantial piece of
good cheer.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Cod mak a mercy on us a’! An’ I
will teclare, a poiled pagpipe! Who’ll
be toing that, noo? Oogh! oogh!”
said the enraged musician, snuffing
himself into an ungovernable fit of rage,
raising his brawny and ponderous form
into a threatening attitude and doubling
his knotty, iron fists, with the design of
hammering the offender, whose wicked
temerity had dared to brave the indignation
of this half-reclaimed mountaineer.
“An you’ll offer to jag him, and
let out his win’ too, oogh! you’ll petter
be a’ looking ower a house-rigging o’
twa storey. You’ll poil your tam haggis
in my pag, and sotter my trone too,
and the vera ribbons I had at the competeetion.
Shust mine!” cried the enraged
Highlander, looking more intently
at the Scotch haggis with its whimsical
appendages. “An you’ll no tell me the
man wha would be toing that, I will
mak the room my ain in five minutes.
I taur you all to touch him. I’ll mak
a tead man o’ her—oogh! oogh!”</p>

<p class='c008'>I was the only individual in the company
who seemed to feel any apprehensions
about the consequence of this absurd
piece of waggery. All the rest enjoyed
it rarely, not even excepting the
Rev. Mr Singleheart, who, though possessing
none of the elements of jocularity
himself, was yet at times singularly
well pleased to second a piece of innocent
fun with his individual portion of
jocose laughter.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Sit down, ye muckle Highland
stirk,” said M‘Harrigle, “and no mak
a sough there about a boiled bagpipe.
I’se warrant it’s a bit of gude eatin’;
and we’ll see what can be made o’t
when we hae pu’d awa thae whigmaleeries
that are stickin’ round about it.
Faith! I wadna gie a mouthfu’ o’ your
bagpipe, M‘Glashan, for a’ the music
that ever came out o’ its drone.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“It’s quite a musical feast,” quoth the
dominie; “only I fear we’ll be troubled
wi’ wind in our stomachs after making
a meal o’t. Sit down, M‘Glashan,” he
continued, “for, as you were sayin’
before, a fu’ bag maks a loud drone.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Sit town! sit town! and see six
Sassenach teevils tefour the bagpipes
that hae pelanged to a M‘Glashan for
twa hunder year! Oogh! won the
competeetion too!”</p>

<p class='c008'>The gaunt descendant of the Gael
stood grinding his teeth, opening and
clenching his big bony fists, as if he
fancied himself about to grapple with
some sturdy antagonist. His large blue
eyes flaming from beneath the fringe of
his knitted eyebrow, the big muscles
encircling the corner of either eye,
and curving round the mouth in deep
hard folds, and the outward shelving
upper-lip, puckered with a thousand
wrinkles, were rendered more picturesque
and fearful from being hedged
round by an uncommon mass of bristly
gray hair, two large portions of which
hung on his broad, flat cheeks, like two
large bunches of burned furse, while
the whole rugged exterior was rendered
still more imposing by the association
of his favourite guttural interjection,
“oogh!” His aspect lowered so grim
and threatening, his “ooghs” became
so loud and numerous, that all began to
think it time to soothe the spirit of this
Highland storm, lest its rising wrath
should descend with deadly vengeance
on those around him.</p>

<p class='c008'>The landlord stepped out, and returned
with M‘Glashan’s instrument.
The mountaineer looked astonished,
snatched it from him with eagerness,
eyed it round and round, hugged and
kissed the darling object of his affection,
and poured into its capacious bag a
stream of wind which immediately issued
in a wild and stormy pibroch. Delighted
with his own performance, “he hotched
and blew with might and main,” mingling,
every now and then, with his
unearthly music, the half-recitative bass
of a broad rumbling laugh, while
M‘Harrigle’s rugged terrier, with his
two fore paws upon the piper’s knees,
spun out long and eerie howls of canine
sympathy. It was in vain that we
praised the savoury Scotch haggis, and
recommended it to the palate of
M‘Glashan. His heart, as well as his
wind, was in his bagpipe, and he never
once deigned to return an answer to
our reiterated invitations; but having
exhausted his scanty musical budget,
the contents of which amounted to no
more than a few Highland reels and
strathspeys, he droned away in voluntaries
so utterly horrible and dissonant,
that Simon Gray, after swallowing a
few morsels with as rueful contortions of
visage as if every mouthful had been
dipped in sand, ran out of the room
holding his ears, and giving vent to a
harsh German <em>ach!</em> which was powerfully
expressive of his crucified sense of
hearing. The piper piped on, and seemed
to enjoy a sort of triumph over the
wounded feelings of the departed
dominie. None of the rest of the company
followed his example, but each individual
sat still with as much coolness
and composure as if his ears had been
hermetically sealed against the grunting,
groaning, and yelling of this infernal
musical-engine.</p>

<p class='c008'>M‘Glashan’s tempestuous hostility at
length ceased, and the dominie returned
as the large punch-bowl was shedding
its fragrant effluvia through the apartment,
giving to every eye a livelier
lustre, to every heart a warmer glow,
and to every tongue a more joyous and
voluble expression. No more than
two or three glasses had circulated when
Mr Singleheart and the dominie left the
generous beverage to the enjoyment of
the more profane and less responsible
members of this assemblage of convivial
spirits.</p>

<p class='c008'>“He is an ill-hearted tyke who can’t
both give and take a joke,” said
Cleekum, as he burst abruptly into the
apartment. “You would not certainly
quarrel with an old friend, M‘Harrigle?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“No, I’ll be hanged if I do,” was
the reply of the cattle-dealer; “but
Lord, man, if I had cloured Simon,
I might hae run the kintra. Faith!
if ye gang delvin’ about this gate
for fun, ye’ll set your fit on a wasp’s
byke some day. If I had but gotten my
hands ower ye twa hours syne, there
would hae been a job for the doctor. Let
there be nae mair about it;—there’s a
glass to ye.”</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“The night drave on wi’ sangs and clatter.”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c012'>One merry story suggested another,
till the potent spirit of the bowl covered
some all over with slumber “as with a
cloak,” laid others prostrate beneath
the table, and to the maudlin eyes of
the unconquered survivors presented
every object as if of the dual number.
The bustle and hurry of preparation in
the kitchen had died away, orders for
an additional supply of liquor were more
tardily executed, and the kitchen-maid
came in half undressed, holding a short
gown together at the breast, rubbing
her eyes, and staggering under the influence
of a stolen nap at the fireside,
from which she had been hastily
and reluctantly roused. Cleekum,
M‘Harrigle, M‘Glashan, and myself
were the only individuals who had any
pretentions to sobriety. The landlord
had prudently retired to rest an hour
before. Silence reigned in the whole
house, except in one apartment, and
silence would have put down her velvet
footstep there also, but for the occasional
roars of M‘Harrigle, who
bellowed as if he had been holding conversational
communion with his own
nowt; and the engine-without-oil sort
of noise that M‘Glashan made as he
twanged, sputtered, and grunted his
native tongue to M‘Harrigle, who was
turning round to the piper every now
and then, crying “D——n your
Gaelic, you’ve spewed enough o’t the
night; put a bung in your throat, you
beast!”</p>

<p class='c008'>A few flies that buzzed and murmured
round the room were the only joyous
and sleepless creatures that seemed disposed
to prolong the revelry. The cold
toddy having lost its delicious relish,
produced loathing, and its former
exhilarating effluvia was now sickening
to the nose. The candle-wick stood in
the middle of the flickering flame like
a long nail with a large round head,
and sending the light in fitful flashes
against the walls. The cock had
sounded his clarion, the morning
seamed the openings of the window-shutters
with lines of light, and the
ploughman, roused to labour, went
whistling past the door. I opened the
window-shutter. A glare of light rushed
in and condensed the flame of our
little luminary into a single bud of pale
light, whose sickliness seemed to evince
a kindred sympathy with the disorderly
remains of the night’s revelry, and with
the stupified senses and exhausted
bodies of the revellers themselves.</p>

<p class='c008'>I looked out of the window. All was
silent, save the far-off whistle of the
ploughman who had passed, and the
continual roar of the cataract; and all
was motionless, except the blue feathery
smoke which puffed from a single-chimney,
and floated down the glen in a
long wavering stream. How chill and
piercing the morning air feels to the
nervous and debilitated reveller, and
how reproachfully does the light of
another day steal in upon the unseemly
disorder of his privacy! Almost every
man feels himself to be somewhat of a
blackguard who is thus surprised.</p>

<p class='c008'>Going home drunk in a summer
morning! What a beast! Feebleness
of knees, that would gladly lie down by
the wayside,—headache, that makes the
brain a mere puddle of dirty recollections,
and dismal anticipations,—dimness of
eyes, that makes every visible object
caricaturish and monstrous,—filthiness
of apparel enough to shame a very
scavenger,—and a heart sick almost to
the commission of <i><span lang="pt">felo de se</span></i>. Zig-zag,
thump, thump, down again, howling,
swearing, praying. It is a libel on the
brute creation to call it beastliness.
Brutes do no such thing. And the
morning, how fresh, clear, green, and
glittering! Hang that fellow,—going
to work, I imagine. What on earth
roused him at such an unseasonable
hour? To be a spy upon me, I suppose.
Who are you, sir?—A poor man, please
your honour, sir.—A poor man! go
and be hanged then.—These birds
yelping from that thicket are more unmusical
than hurdy-gurdy, marrowbone
and cleaver. I wish each of them
had a pipe-stopple in its windpipe. I
never heard such abominable discord.
The whole world is astir. Who told
them I was going home at this time in
the morning? Who is that singing the
“Flower o’ Dunblane” at the other
side of the hedge? A milkmaid—“and
the milkmaid singeth blithe.” Ah,
John Milton, thy notions of rural
felicity were formed in a closet. You
may have a peep of her through this
“slap.” Rural innocence!—a mere humbug,—a
dirty, tawdry, pudding-legged,
blowsy-faced, sun-burnt drab. What
a thing for a shepherdess in a pastoral!
Confound these road trustees; they
have been drawing the road through a
bore, and have made it ten times its
common length, and a hundred times
narrower than its common breadth.
Horribly rough; no man can walk
steadily on it. Have the blockheads not
heard of M‘Adam? In the words of the
Lawrencekirk album epigrammatist,—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“The people here ought to be hanged,</div>
      <div class='line'>Unless they mend their ways.”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c012'>Hast thou, gentle reader, ever gone
home drunk in a summer morning,
when thy shame, that is day-light, was
rising in the east? Sulky—a question
not to be answered. So much for thy
credit, for there be in this sinful and
wicked world men who boast of such
things. I am glad thou art not one of
them. Neither do I boast of such
doings; for, gentle reader, I went to
bed. My bedroom was one of
M‘Gowan’s garret-rooms. Cleekum
and M‘Harrigle, who lived at some
distance, thought proper to retire to
rest before visiting their own firesides;
and M‘Glashan, being a sort of vagrant
musician, who had no legal domicile in
any particular place, had always a bed
assigned him in M‘Gowan’s when he
visited the village.</p>

<p class='c008'>Stretched in bed after a day’s travelling
and a night’s carousing—exquisite
pleasure! It is worth a man’s while to
travel thirty or forty miles to enjoy such
a blessed luxury. After a few yawnings,
pokings out and drawings up of the legs,
the whole body begins to feel a genial
glow of heat, and he is worse than an
infidel who in such a pleasurable mood
does not feel disposed to bless his Maker.
Everything being properly arranged,
the curtains carefully drawn around,
the night-cap pulled down over the ears
and folded upward on the brow, the pillow
shifted, shuffled, and nicely adjusted to
the head, the clothes pulled and lugged
about, till there is not a single air-hole
left to pinch the body, the downy bed
itself, by sundry tossings and turnings,
converted into an exact mould for the
particular part of the body that has sunk
into it, then does the joyous spirit sing
to itself inwardly, with the mute melody
of gratitude,—“I’m wearin’ awa,
Jean!”—<cite>Blackwood’s Magazine</cite>, 1826.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='the_miller_and_the_freebooter' class='c006'>THE MILLER AND THE FREEBOOTER.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By Sir Thomas Dick Lauder.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>In Glenquoich, in Aberdeenshire, in
the early part of last century, there was
a corn-mill erected for the use of the
neighbourhood, and as the construction
and management of such machines were
ill understood in that part of Scotland
at the time, a miller was brought from
the low country to superintend it. In
this neighbourhood there lived at that
time a certain Donald Mackenzie, a
hero remarkable for his haughty and
imperious manner, and known by the
appellation of “Donald Unasach,” or
Donald the Proud. Being a native of
Glenquoich, he knew as little of the
English language as the miller did of
Gaelic. He was an outlaw, addicted
to freebooting, and of so fierce and
unruly a temper, that the whole country
stood in awe of him. One circumstance
regarding him struck everyone with
superstitious awe, and created much
conjecture and speculation among those
around him: he was never known to be
without abundance of meal, and yet he
was never known to carry any corn to
the mill.</p>

<p class='c008'>But the sagacious miller of Glenquoich
soon discovered that, in order
to bilk him of his proper mill-dues, the
caitiff was in the habit of bringing his
grain to the mill in the night, and
grinding it, and carrying it off before
morning. To charge him directly with
this fraud, was too dangerous an attempt.
But the miller ventured to ask him
now and then, quietly, how he did for
meal, as he never brought any corn to
the mill; to which the freebooter never
returned any other answer than one in
Gaelic, signifying that “strong is the
hand of God!”</p>

<p class='c008'>Provoked at last, the miller determined
to take his own way of curing the evil;
and, having some previous notion of the
next nocturnal visit of his unwelcome
customer, he took care, before leaving
the mill in the evening, to remove the
bush, or that piece of wood which is
driven into the eye of the nether millstone,
for the purpose of keeping the spindle
steady in passing through the upper
stone. He also stopped up the spout
through which the meal discharged itself;
and as the mill was one of those
old-fashioned machines, where the
water-wheel moved horizontally, and
directly under the stones, it follows
that, by this arrangement of things, the
corn would fall into the stream. Having
made these preparations, the miller
locked his house door, and went to
bed.</p>

<p class='c008'>About midnight, Donald arrived with
his people, and some sacks of dry corn,
and finding everything, as he thought,
in good order in the mill, he filled the
hopper, and let on the water. The
machinery revolved with more than
ordinary rapidity; the grain sank fast
in the hopper; but not a particle of it
came out at the place where he was
wont to receive it into his bag as meal.
Donald the Proud and his “gillies” were
all aghast. Frantic with rage, he and
they ran up and down; and, in their
hurry to do everything, they succeeded
in doing nothing. At length Donald
perceived, what even the obscurity of
the night could not hide, a long white
line of fair provender flowing down the
middle of the stream, that left not a
doubt as to where his corn was discharging
itself. But he could neither guess
how this strange phenomenon was produced,
nor how the evil was to be
cured. After much perplexity, he
thought of turning off the water. But here
the wily miller had also been prepared
for him, having so contrived matters,
that the pole, or handle connecting the
sluice with the inside of the mill, had
fallen off as soon as the water was let on
the wheel. Baffled at all points, Donald
was compelled at last to run to the
miller’s house. Finding the door locked,
he knocked and bawled loudly at the
window; and, on the miller demanding
to know who was there, he did his best
to explain, in broken English, the whole
circumstances of the case. The miller
heard him to an end; and turning himself
in his bed, he coolly replied,
“strong is the hand of God!” Donald
Unasach gnashed his teeth, tried the
door again, returned to the window,
and, humbled by the circumstances,
repeated his explanation and entreaties
for help. “<em>Te meal town te purn to te
teil! hoigh, hoigh!</em>” “I thought ye had
been ower weel practeesed in the business
to let ony sic mischanter come
ower ye, Donald,” replied the imperturbable
lowlander; “but, you know,
‘strong is the hand of God!’” The
mountaineer now lost all patience.
Drawing his dirk, and driving it through
the window, he began to strike it so
violently against the stones on the outside
of the wall, that he illuminated
the house with a shower of fire, that
showed the terrified inmates the
ferocious countenance of him who
wielded the weapon. “<em>Te meal to te
mill, te mutter to te mailler</em>,” sputtered
out Donald, in the midst of his wrath,
meaning to imply, that if the miller
would only come and help him, he
should have all his dues in future.
Partly moved by this promise, but still
more by his well-grounded fears, the
miller arose at last, put the mill to
rights, and ground the rest of the corn.
And tradition tells us that after this the
mill-dues were regularly paid, and the
greatest harmony subsisted between
Donald Unasach and the miller of Glenquoich.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='benjies_christening' class='c006'>BENJIE’S CHRISTENING.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By D. M. Moir.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>We’ll hap and row, hap and row,</div>
      <div class='line'>We’ll hap and row the feetie o’t;</div>
      <div class='line'>It is a wee bit weary thing,</div>
      <div class='line'>I dinnie bide the greetie o’t.—<span class='sc'>Provost Creech.</span></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>An honest man, close button’d to the chin,</div>
      <div class='line'>Broad-cloth without, and a warm heart within.—<span class='sc'>Cowper.</span></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>This great globe and all that it inherits shall dissolve,</div>
      <div class='line'>And, like the baseless fabric of a vision,</div>
      <div class='line'>Leave not a rack behind!—<span class='sc'>Shakspeare.</span></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>At the christening of our only bairn,
Benjie, two or three remarkable circumstances
occurred, which it behoves
me to relate. It was on a cold November
afternoon; and really when the
bit room was all redd up, the fire bleezing
away, and the candles lighted, every
thing looked full tosh and comfortable.
It was a real pleasure, after looking
out into the drift that was fleeing like
mad from the east, to turn one’s neb
inwards, and think that we had a
civilised home to comfort us in the
dreary season. So, one after another,
the bit party we had invited to the
ceremony came papping in; and the
crack began to get loud and hearty;
for, to speak the truth, we were blessed
with canny friends and a good neighbourhood.
Notwithstanding, it was very
curious that I had no mind of asking
down James Batter, the weaver, honest
man, though he was one of our own
elders; and in papped James, just
when the company had hafflins met,
with his stocking-sleeves on his arms,
his nightcap on his head, and his blue-stained
apron hanging down before
him, to light his pipe at our fire.</p>

<p class='c008'>James, when he saw his mistake, was
fain to retreat; but we would not hear
tell of it, till he came in, and took a
dram out of the bottle, as we told him
the not doing so would spoil the wean’s
beauty, which is an old freak (the
smallpox, however, afterwards did that);
so, with much persuasion, he took a
chair for a gliff, and began with some
of his drolls—for he is a clever, humoursome
man, as ye ever met with. But
he had not got far on with his jests, when
lo! a rap came to the door, and Mysie
whipped away the bottle under her
apron, saying, “Wheesht, wheesht, for
the sake of gudeness—there’s the minister!”</p>

<p class='c008'>This room had only one door, and
James mistook it, running his head, for
lack of knowledge, into the open closet,
just as the minister lifted the outer-door
sneck. We were all now sitting on
nettles, for we were frightened that James
would be seized with a cough, for he
was a wee asthmatic; or that some,
knowing there was a thief in the pantry,
might hurt good manners by breaking
out into a giggle. However, all for a
considerable time was quiet, and the
ceremony was performed; little Nancy,
our niece, handing the bairn upon my
arm to receive its name. So we thought,
as the minister seldom made a long
stay on similar occasions, that all would
pass off well enough. But wait a wee.</p>

<p class='c008'>There was but one of our company
that had not cast up, to wit, Deacon
Paunch, the flesher, a most worthy
man, but tremendously big, and grown
to the very heels; as was once seen on
a wager, that his ankle was greater than
my brans. It was really a pain to all
feeling Christians, to see the worthy
man waighling about, being, when
weighed in his own scales, two-and-twenty
stone ten ounces, Dutch weight.
Honest man, he had had a sore fecht
with the wind and sleet, and he came
in with a shawl roppined round his
neck, peching like a broken-winded
horse; so fain was he to find a rest for his
weary carcass in our stuffed chintz
pattern elbow-chair by the fire-cheek.</p>

<p class='c008'>From the soughing of wind at the
window, and the rattling in the lum, it
was clear to all manner of comprehension,
that the night was a dismal one; so the
minister, seeing so many of his own
douce folk about him, thought he might
do worse than volunteer to sit still and
try our toddy; indeed, we would have
pressed him before this to do so, but what
was to come of James Batter, who was
shut up in the closet, like the spies in
the house of Rahab the harlot, in the
city of Jericho?</p>

<p class='c008'>James began to find it was a bad
business; and having been driving the
shuttle about from before daylight, he
was fain to crook his hough, and felt round
about him quietly in the dark for a chair
to sit down upon, since better might
not be. But, wae’s me! the cat was
soon out of the pock.</p>

<p class='c008'>Me and the minister were just argle-bargling
some few words on the doctrine
of the camel and the eye of the needle,
when, in the midst of our discourse, as
all was wheesht and attentive, an awful
thud was heard in the closet, which
gave the minister, who thought the
house had fallen down, such a start,
that his very wig louped for a full three-eights
off his crown. I say we were
necessitated to let the cat out of the
pock for two reasons: firstly, because we
did not know what had happened; and,
secondly, to quiet the minister’s fears,
decent man, for he was a wee nervous.
So we made a hearty laugh of it, as well
as we could, and opened the door to bid
James Batter come out, as we confessed
all. Easier said than done, howsoever.
When we pulled open the door,
and took forward one of the candles,
there was James doubled up, sticking
twofold, like a rotten in a sneck-trap,
in an old chair, the bottom of which
had gone down before him, and which,
for some craze about it, had been put
out of the way by Nanse, that no
accident might happen. Save us! if
the deacon had sate down upon it,
pity on our brick-floor!</p>

<p class='c008'>Well, after some ado, we got James,
who was more frightened than hurt,
hauled out of his hidy-hole; and after
lifting off his cowl, and sleeking down
his front hair, he took a seat beside us,
apologeezing for not being in his Sunday’s
garb, the which the minister, who
was a free and easy man, declared there
was no occasion for, and begged him
to make himself comfortable.</p>

<p class='c008'>Well, passing over that business, Mr
Wiggie and me entered into our humours,
for the drappikie was beginning to tell
on my noddle, and made me somewhat
venturesome—not to say that I was not
a little proud to have the minister in
my bit housie; so, says I to him in a
cosh way, “Ye may believe me or no,
Mr Wiggie, but mair than me think
ye out of sight the best preacher in the
parish; nane of them, Mr Wiggie, can
hold the candle to ye, man.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Wheesht, wheesht,” said the body, in
rather a cold way that I did not expect,
knowing him to be as proud as a peacock—“I
daresay I am just like my
neighbours.”</p>

<p class='c008'>This was not quite so kind—so says
I to him, “Maybe sae, for many a one
thinks ye could not hold a candle to Mr
Blowster the Cameronian, that whiles
preaches at Lugton.”</p>

<p class='c008'>This was a stramp on his corny toe.
“Na, na,” answered Mr Wiggie, rather
nettled; “let us drop that subject.
I preach like my neighbours.
Some of them may be worse, and others
better; just as some of your own trade
may make clothes worse, and some
better, than yourself.”</p>

<p class='c008'>My corruption was raised. “I deny
that,” said I, in a brisk manner, which
I was sorry for after—“I deny that,
Mr Wiggie,” says I to him; “I’ll
make a pair of breeches with the face of
clay.”</p>

<p class='c008'>But this was only a passing breeze,
during the which, howsoever, I happened
to swallow my thimble, which
accidentally slipped off my middle
finger, causing both me and the company
general alarm, as there were
great fears that it might mortify in
the stomach; but it did not; and
neither word nor wittens of it have been
seen or heard tell of from that to this
day. So, in two or three minutes, we had
some few good songs, and a round of
Scotch proverbs, when the clock chapped
eleven. We were all getting, I
must confess, a thought noisy; Johnny
Soutter having broken a dram-glass,
and Willie Fegs couped a bottle on the
bit table-cloth: all noisy, I say, except
Deacon Paunch, douce man, who had
fallen into a pleasant slumber; so, when
the minister rose to take his hat, they
all rose except the deacon, whom we
shook by the arms for some time, but in
vain, to waken him. His round, oily
face, good creature, was just as if it had
been cut out of a big turnip, it was so
fat, fozey, and soft; but at last, after
some ado, we succeeded, and he looked
about him with a wild stare, opening
his two red eyes, like Pandore oysters,
asking what had happened; and we
got him hoized up on his legs, tying
the blue shawl round his bull-neck
again.</p>

<p class='c008'>Our company had not got well out of
the door, and I was priding myself in
my heart about being landlord to such
a goodly turn out, when Nanse took me
by the arm, and said, “Come, and see
such an unearthly sight.” This startled
me, and I hesitated; but at long and last
I went in with her, a thought alarmed
at what had happened, and—my
gracious! there, on the easy-chair, was
our bonny tortoise-shell cat, Tommy,
with the red morocco collar about its
neck, bruised as flat as a flounder, and
as dead as a mawk!</p>

<p class='c008'>The deacon had sat down upon it
without thinking; and the poor animal,
that our neighbours’ bairns used to play
with, and be so fond of, was crushed
out of life without a cheep. The thing,
doubtless, was not intended, but it gave
Nanse and me a very sore heart.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='the_ministers_widow' class='c006'>THE MINISTER’S WIDOW.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By Professor Wilson.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>The dwelling of the minister’s widow
stood within a few miles of the beautiful
village of Castle-Holm, about a hundred
low-roofed houses that had taken the
name of the parish of which they were
the little romantic capital. Two small
regular rows of cottages faced each other,
on the gentle acclivity of a hill, separated
by a broomy common of rich pasturage,
through which hurried a translucent
loch-born rivulet, with here and there
its shelves and waterfalls overhung by
the alder or weeping birch. Each
straw-roofed abode, snug and merry as
a beehive, had behind it a few roods of
garden ground; so that, in spring, the
village was covered with a fragrant
cloud of blossoms on the pear, apple,
and plum trees; and in autumn was
brightened with golden fruitage. In
the heart of the village stood the
manse, and in it had she who was now
a widow passed twenty years of privacy
and peace. On the death of her husband,
she had retired with her family—three
boys—to the pleasant cottage
which they now inhabited. It belonged
to the old lady of the castle, who was
patroness of the parish, and who accepted
from the minister’s widow of a mere
trifle as a nominal rent. On approaching
the village, strangers always fixed
upon Sunnyside for the manse itself,
for an air of serenity and retirement
brooded over it, as it looked out from
below its sheltering elms, and the farmyard
with its corn-stack, marking the
homestead of the agricultural tenant,
was there wanting. A neat gravel-walk
winded away, without a weed, from the
white gate by the roadside, through
lilacs and laburnums; and the unruffled
and unbroken order of all the breathing
things that grew around, told that a
quiet and probably small family lived
within those beautiful boundaries.</p>

<p class='c008'>The change from the manse to Sunnyside
had been with the widow a change
from happiness to resignation. Her
husband had died of a consumption;
and for nearly a year she had known
that his death was inevitable. Both of
them had lived in the spirit of that
Christianity which he had preached;
and therefore the last year they passed
together, in spite of the many bitter
tears which she who was to be the survivor
shed when none were by to see,
was perhaps on the whole the best
deserving of the name of happiness of
the twenty that had passed over their
earthly union. To the dying man
Death had lost all his terrors. He sat
beside his wife, with his bright hollow
eyes and emaciated frame, among the
balmy shades of his garden, and spoke
with fervour of the many tender mercies
God had vouchsafed to them here, and
of the promises made to all who believed
in the Gospel. They did not sit together
to persuade, to convince, or to
uphold each other’s faith, for they believed
in the things that were unseen,
just as they believed in the beautiful
blossomed arbour that then contained
them in its shading silence. Accordingly,
when the hour was at hand in
which he was to render up his spirit into
the hand of God, he was like a grateful
and wearied man falling into a sleep.
His widow closed his eyes with her own
hands, nor was her soul then disquieted
within her. In a few days she heard
the bell tolling, and from her sheltered
window looked out, and followed the
funeral with streaming eyes, but an unweeping
heart. With a calm countenance
and humble voice she left and bade
farewell to the sweet manse, where she
had so long been happy; and as her
three beautiful boys, with faces dimmed
by natural grief, but brightened by
natural gladness, glided before her steps,
she shut the gate of her new dwelling
with an undisturbed soul, and moved
her lips in silent thanksgiving to the
God of the fatherless and the widow.</p>

<p class='c008'>Her three boys, each one year older
than the other, grew in strength and
beauty, the pride and flower of the
parish. In school they were quiet and
composed; but in play-hours they
bounded in their glee together like
young deer, and led the sportful flock
in all their excursions through wood or
over moor. They resembled, in features
and in voice, both of their gentle parents;
but nature had moulded to quite another
character their joyful and impetuous
souls. When sitting or walking with
their mother, they subdued their spirits
down to suit her equable and gentle
contentment, and behaved towards her
with a delicacy and thoughtfulness
which made her heart to sing for joy.
So, too, did they sit in the kirk on
Sabbath, and during all that day the
fountain of their joy seemed to subside
and to lie still. They knew to stand
solemnly with their mother, now and
then on the calm summer evenings,
beside their father’s grave. They remembered
well his pale kind face—his
feeble walk—his bending frame—his
hand laid in blessing on their young
heads—and the last time they ever heard
him speak. The glad boys had not
forgotten their father; and that they
proved by their piety unto her whom
most on earth had their father loved.
But their veins were filled with youth,
health, and the electricity of joy; and
they carried without and within the
house such countenances as at any
time coming upon their mother’s eyes
on a sudden, were like a torch held up
in the dim melancholy of a mist, diffusing
cheerfulness and elevation.</p>

<p class='c008'>Years passed on. Although the
youngest was but a boy, the eldest
stood on the verge of manhood, for he
had entered his seventeenth year, and was
bold, straight, and tall, with a voice
deepening in its tone, a graver expression
round the gladness of his eyes, and a
sullen mass of coal-black hair hanging
over the smooth whiteness of his open
forehead. But why describe the three
beautiful brothers? They knew that
there was a world lying at a distance
that called upon them to leave the fields,
and woods, and streams, and lochs of
Castle-Holm; and, born and bred in
peace as they had been, their restless
hearts were yet all on fire, and they
burned to join a life of danger, strife,
and tumult. No doubt it gave their
mother a sad heart to think that all her
three boys, who she knew loved her so
tenderly, could leave her alone, and
rush into the far-off world. But who
shall curb nature? Who ought to try
to curb it when its bent is strong? She
reasoned a while, and tried to dissuade;
but it was in vain. Then she applied
to her friends; and the widow of the
minister of Castle-Holm, retired as his
life had been, was not without friends
of rank and power. In one year her
three boys had their wish;—in one
year they left Sunnyside, one after the
other; William to India, Edward to
Spain, and Harry to a man-of-war.</p>

<p class='c008'>Still was the widow happy. The
house that so often used to be ringing
with joy, was now indeed too, too
silent; and that utter noiselessness
sometimes made her heart sick, when
sitting by herself in the solitary room.
But by nature she was a gentle, meek,
resigned, and happy being; and had
she even been otherwise, the sorrow
she had suffered, and the spirit of religion
which her whole life had instilled,
must have reconciled her to what was
now her lot. Great cause had she to
be glad. Far away as India was, and
seemingly more remote in her imagination,
loving letters came from her
son there in almost every ship that
sailed for Britain; and if at times something
delayed them, she came to believe
in the necessity of such delays, and,
without quaking, waited till the blessed
letter did in truth appear. Of Edward,
in Spain, she often heard—though for
him she suffered more than for the
others. Not that she loved him better,
for, like three stars, each possessed alike
the calm heaven of her heart; but he
was with Wellington, and the regiment
in which he served seemed to be conspicuous
in all skirmishes, and in every
battle. Henry, her youngest boy, who
left her before he had finished his fourteenth
year, she often heard from; his
ship sometimes put into port; and once,
to the terror and consternation of her loving
and yearning heart, the young midshipman
stood before her, with a laughing
voice, on the floor of the parlour,
and rushed into her arms. He had got
leave of absence for a fortnight; and
proudly, although sadly too, did she look
on her dear boy when he was sitting in
the kirk with his uniform on, and his
war-weapons by his side—a fearless and
beautiful stripling, on whom many an
eye was insensibly turned even during
service. And, to be sure, when the
congregation were dismissed, and the
young sailor came smiling out into the
churchyard, never was there such a
shaking of hands seen before. The
old men blessed the gallant boy; many
of the mothers looked at him not without
tears; and the young maidens, who
had heard that he had been in a bloody
engagement, and once nearly shipwrecked,
gazed upon him with unconscious
blushes, and bosoms that beat
with innocent emotion. A blessed
week it was indeed that he was then
with his mother; and never before had
Sunnyside seemed so well to deserve
its name.</p>

<p class='c008'>To love, to fear, and to obey God,
was the rule of this widow’s life; and
the time was near at hand when she
was to be called upon to practise it in
every silent, secret, darkest corner and
recess of her afflicted spirit. Her
eldest son, William, fell in storming a
fort in India, as he led the forlorn-hope.
He was killed dead in a moment, and
fell into the trench with all his lofty
plumes. Edward was found dead at
Talavera, with the colours of his regiment
tied round his body. And the
ship in which Henry was on board,
that never would have struck her flag
to any human power sailing on the sea,
was driven by a storm on a reef of
rocks, went to pieces during the night,
and of eight hundred men, not fifty
were saved. Of that number Henry
was not; but his body was found next
day on the sand, along with those of many
of the crew, and buried, as it deserved,
with all honours, and in a place where
few but sailors slept.</p>

<p class='c008'>In one month—one little month—did
the tidings of the three deaths reach
Sunnyside. A government letter informed
her of William’s death in India,
and added, that, on account of the distinguished
character of the young soldier,
a small pension would be settled on his
mother. Had she been starving of
want instead of blessed with competence,
that word would have had then no
meaning to her ear. Yet true it is,
that a human—an earthly—pride cannot
be utterly extinguished, even by
severest anguish, in a mother’s heart,
yea, even although her best hopes are
garnered up in heaven; and the weeping
widow could not help feeling it now,
when, with the black wax below her
eyes, she read how her dead boy had
not fallen in the service of an ungrateful
state. A few days afterwards a letter
came from himself, written in the
highest spirits and tenderest affection.
His mother looked at every word—every
letter—every dash of the pen;—and
still one thought—one thought
only, was in her soul;—“the living
hand that traced these lines—where,
what is it now?” But this was the first
blow only; ere the new moon was
visible, the widow knew that she was
altogether childless.</p>

<p class='c008'>It was in a winter hurricane that her
youngest boy had perished; and the
names of those whose health had hitherto
been remembered at every festal
Christmas, throughout all the parish,
from the castle to the humblest hut,
were now either suppressed within the
heart, or pronounced with a low voice
and a sigh. During three months,
Sunnyside looked almost as if uninhabited.
Yet the smoke from one chimney
told that the childless widow was
sitting alone at her fireside; and when
her only servant was spoken to at
church, or on the village-green, and
asked how her mistress was bearing
these dispensations, the answer was,
that her health seemed little, if at all
impaired, and that she talked of coming
to divine service in a few weeks, if her
strength would permit. She had been
seen through the leafless hedge standing
at the parlour window, and had
motioned with her hand to a neighbour,
who in passing, had uncovered
his head. Her weekly bounty to
several poor and bedridden persons
had never suffered but one week’s intermission.
It was always sent to them
on Saturday night; and it was on a
Saturday night that all the parish had
been thrown into tears, with the news
that Henry’s ship had been wrecked,
and the brave boy drowned. On that
evening she had forgotten the poor.</p>

<p class='c008'>But now the Spring had put forth her
tender buds and blossoms—had strewn
the black ground under the shrubs with
flowers, and was bringing up the soft,
tender, and beautiful green over the
awakening face of the earth. There was
a revival of the spirit of life and gladness
over the garden, and the one encircling
field of Sunnyside; and so likewise,
under the grace of God, was there
a revival of the soul that had been sorrowing
within its concealment. On the
first sweet dewy Sabbath of May, the
widow was seen closing behind her the
little white gate, which for some months
her hand had not touched. She gave a
gracious, but mournful smile, to all her
friends, as she passed on through the
midst of them along with the minister
who had joined her on entering the
churchyard; and although it was
observed that she turned pale as she sat
down in her pew, with the Bibles and
Psalm-books that had belonged to her
sons lying before her, as they themselves
had enjoined when they went away,
yet her face brightened even as her heart
began to burn within her at the simple
music of the psalm. The prayers of the
congregation had some months before
been requested for her, as a person in
great distress; and, during service, the
young minister, according to her desire,
now said a few simple words, that intimated
to the congregation that the
childless widow was, through his lips,
returning thanks to Almighty God, for
that He had not forsaken her in her
trouble, but sent resignation and peace.</p>

<p class='c008'>From that day she was seen, as before,
in her house, in her garden, along
the many pleasant walks all about the
village; and in the summer evenings,
though not so often as formerly, in the
dwellings of her friends, both high and
low. From her presence a more gentle
manner seemed to be breathed over the
rude, and a more heartfelt delicacy over
the refined. Few had suffered as she
had suffered; all her losses were such
as could be understood, felt, and wept
over by all hearts; and all boisterousness
or levity of joy would have seemed
an outrage on her, who, sad and
melancholy herself, yet wished all
around her happy, and often lighted up
her countenance with a grateful smile
at the sight of that pleasure which she
could not but observe to be softened,
sobered, and subdued for her sake.</p>

<p class='c008'>Such was the account of her, her
sorrow, and her resignation, which I
received on the first visit I paid to a
family near Castle-Holm, after the
final consummation of her grief. Well-known
to me had all the dear boys
been; their father and mine had been
labourers in the same vineyard; and as
I had always been a welcome visitor,
when a boy, at the manse of Castle-Holm,
so had I been, when a man, at
Sunnyside. Last time I had been there,
it was during the holidays, and I had
accompanied the three boys on their
fishing excursions to the lochs in the
moor; and in the evenings pursued
with them their humble and useful
studies. So I could not leave Castle-Holm
without visiting Sunnyside,
although my heart misgave me, and
I wished I could have delayed it till
another summer.</p>

<p class='c008'>I sent word that I was coming to see
her, and I found her sitting in that well-known
little parlour where I had partaken
the pleasure of so many merry
evenings with those whose laughter was
now extinguished. We sat for awhile
together speaking of ordinary topics,
and then utterly silent. But the restraint
she had imposed upon herself she either
thought unnecessary any longer, or felt
it to be impossible; and rising up, went
to a little desk, from which she brought
forth three miniatures, and laid them
down upon the table before us, saying,
“Behold the faces of my three dead
boys!”</p>

<p class='c008'>So bright, breathing, and alive did
they appear, that for a moment I felt
impelled to speak to them, and to
whisper their names. She beheld my
emotion, and said unto me, “Oh!
could you believe that they are all dead?
Does not that smile on Willie’s face
seem as if it were immortal? do not
Edward’s sparkling eyes look so bright
as if the mists of death could never
have overshadowed them? and think—oh!
think, that ever Henry’s golden
hair should have been dragged in the
brine, and filled full—full, I doubt not,
of the soiling sand!”</p>

<p class='c008'>I put the senseless images one by one
to my lips, and kissed their foreheads—for
dearly had I loved these three
brothers; and then I shut them up and
removed them to another part of the
room. I wished to speak, but I could
not; and, looking on the face of her
who was before me, I knew that her
grief would find utterance, and that not
until she had unburdened her heart
could it be restored to repose.</p>

<p class='c008'>“They would tell you, sir, that I
bear my trials well; but it is not so.
Many, many unresigned and ungrateful
tears has my God to forgive in me, a poor,
weak, and repining worm. Almost
every day, almost every night, do I
weep before these silent and beautiful
phantoms; and when I wipe away the
breath and mist of tears from their faces,
there are they, smiling continually upon
me! Oh! death is a shocking thought,
when it is linked in love with creatures
so young as these! More insupportable
is gushing tenderness, than even dry
despair; and, methinks, I could bear
to live without them, and never to see
them more, if I could only cease to pity
them! But that can never be. It is
for them I weep, not for myself. If
they were to be restored to life, would
I not lie down with thankfulness into
the grave? William and Edward were
struck down, and died, as they thought,
in glory and triumph. Death to them
was merciful. But who can know, although
they may try to dream of it in
horror, what the youngest of them, my
sweet Harry, suffered, through that long
dark howling night of snow, when the
ship was going to pieces on the rocks!”</p>

<p class='c008'>That last dismal thought held her for
a while silent; and some tears stood in
drops on her eyelashes, but seemed
again to be absorbed. Her heart appeared
unable to cling to the horrors of
the shipwreck, although it coveted
them; and her thoughts reverted to
other objects. “I walk often into the
rooms where they used to sleep, and
look on their beds till I think I see
their faces lying with shut eyes on their
pillows. Early in the morning do I
often think I hear them singing; I
awaken from troubled unrest, as if the
knock of their sportive hands were at
my door summoning me to rise. All
their stated hours of study and of play,
when they went to school and returned
from it, when they came into meals,
when they said their prayers, when
they went leaping at night to bed as
lightsomely, after all the day’s fatigue,
as if they had just risen—oh! Sir,
at all these times, and many, and many
a time besides these, do I think of them
whom you loved.”</p>

<p class='c008'>While thus she kept indulging the
passion of her grief, she observed the
tears I could no longer conceal; and
the sight of my sorrow seemed to give,
for a time, a loftier character to hers,
as if my weakness made her aware of
her own, and she had become conscious
of the character of her vain lamentations.
“Yet, why should I so bitterly weep?
Pain had not troubled them—passion
had not disturbed them—vice had not
polluted them. May I not say, ‘My
children are in heaven with their father?’—and
ought I not, therefore, to dry up
all these foolish tears now and for evermore?”</p>

<p class='c008'>Composure was suddenly shed over
her countenance, like gentle sunlight
over a cheerless day, and she looked
around the room as if searching for
some pleasant objects that eluded her
sight. “See,” said she, “yonder are
all their books, arranged just as Henry
arranged them on his unexpected visit.
Alas! too many of them are about the
troubles and battles of the sea! But it
matters not now. You are looking at
that drawing. It was done by himself—that
is the ship he was so proud of,
sailing in sunshine and a pleasant breeze.
Another ship, indeed, was she soon after,
when she lay upon the reef! But
as for the books, I take them out of
their places, and dust them, and return
them to their places, every week. I used
to read to my boys, sitting round my
knees, out of many of these books, before
they could read themselves; but
now I never peruse them, for their cheerful
stories are not for me. But there is
one Book I do read, and without it I
should long ago have been dead. The
more the heart suffers, the more does it
understand that Book. Never do I read
a single chapter, without feeling assured
of something more awful in our nature
than I felt before. My own heart misgives
me; my own soul betrays me;
all my comforts desert me in a panic;
but never yet once did I read one whole
page of the New Testament that I did
not know that the eye of God is on all
His creatures, and on me like the rest,
though my husband and all my sons are
dead, and I may have many years yet
to live alone on the earth.”</p>

<p class='c008'>After this we walked out into the little
avenue, now dark with the deep rich
shadows of summer beauty. We looked
at that beauty, and spoke of the surpassing
brightness of the weather during
all June, and advancing July. It is not
in nature always to be sad; and the remembrance
of all her melancholy and
even miserable confessions was now
like an uncertain echo, as I beheld a
placid smile on her face, a smile of such
perfect resignation, that it might not
falsely be called a smile of joy. We
stood at the little white gate; and, with
a gentle voice, that perfectly accorded
with that expression, she bade God
bless me; and then with composed
steps, and now and then turning up, as
she walked along, the massy flower-branches
of the laburnum, as, bent with
their load of beauty, they trailed upon
the ground, she disappeared into that
retirement which, notwithstanding all I
had seen and heard, I could not but
think deserved almost to be called
happy, in a world which even the
most thoughtless know is a world of
sorrow.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='the_battle_of_the_breeks' class='c006'>THE BATTLE OF THE BREEKS:<br> <span class='large'><em>A PASSAGE IN THE LIFE OF WILLIAM M‘GEE, WEAVER IN HAMILTON</em></span>.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By Robert Macnish, LL.D.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>I often wonder when I think of the
tribulations that men bring upon themsels,
through a want of gumption and
common independence of speerit.
There now was I, for nae less than
eighteen years, as henpeckit a man as ever
wrocht at the loom. Maggie and me,
after the first week of our marriage,
never forgathered weel thegither.
There was something unco dour and
imperious about her temper, although,
I maun say, barring this drawback, she
was nae that ill in her way either,—that
is to say, she had a sort of kindness
about her, and behaved in a truly
mitherly way to the bairns, giein them
a’ things needfu’ in the way of feeding
and claithing, so far as our means admitted.
But, oh, man, for a’ that, she
was a dour wife. There was nae pleasing
her ae way or anither; and whenever
I heard the bell ringing for the
kirk, it put me in mind of her tongue—aye
wag, wagging, and abusing me beyond
bounds. In ae word, I was a puir,
broken-hearted man, and often wished
myself in Abraham’s bosom, awa frae
the cares and miseries of this sinfu’
world.</p>

<p class='c008'>I was just saying that folk often rin
their heads into scrapes for want of a
pickle natural spunk. Let nae man
tell me that gude nature and simpleecity
will get on best in this world; na—faith
na. I hae had ower muckle experience
that way; and the langer I live has
proved to me that my auld maister,
James Currie (him in the Quarry Loan),
wasna sae far wrang when he alleged,
in his droll, gude-humoured way, that a
man should hae enough o’ the deil
about him to keep the deil frae him.
That was, after a’, ane of the wisest
observes I hae heard of for a lang time.
Little did I opine that I would ever
be obligated to mak use o’t in my ain
particular case:—but, bide a wee, and
ye shall see how it was brocht about
between me and Maggie.</p>

<p class='c008'>It was on a wintry night when she
set out to pick a quarrel wi’ Mrs Todd,
the huckster’s wife, anent the price of a
pickle flour which I had bought some
days before, for making batter of, but
which didna turn out sae weel as I
expeckit, considering what was paid
for’t. Had I been consulted, I would
hae tell’t her to bide at hame, and no
fash her thumb about the matter, which
after a’ was only an affair of three-ha’pence
farthing, and neither here nor
there. But, na; Maggie was nane o’
the kind to let sic an object stan’ by;
so out she sets, wi’ her red cloak about
her, and her black velvet bonnet—that
she had just that day got hame frae
Miss Lorimer, the milliner—upon her
head. But I maun first tell what passed
between her and me on this wonderful
occasion.</p>

<p class='c008'>“And now, my dear,” quo’ I, looking
as couthy and humble as I could, and
pu’ing my Kilmarnock nicht-cap a wee
grain aff my brow in a kind of half respectfu’
fashion, “what’s this ye’re
ganging to be about? Odds, woman,
I wadna gie a pirn for a’ that has happened.
What signifies a pickle flour,
scrimp worth half a groat?”</p>

<p class='c008'>Faith, I would better hae held my
tongue, for nae sooner was the word
uttered, than takin’ haud of a can, half
fu’ o’ ready-made dressing, which I was
preparing to lay on a wab of blue
check I was working for Mr Andrew
Treddles, the Glasgow manufacturer—I
say, taking haud of this, she let flee
at my head like a cannon-ball. But
Providence was kind, and instead of
knocking out my brains, as I had every
reason to expeck, it gaed bang against
our ain looking-glass, and shattered it
into five hunder pieces. But I didna
a’thegither escape scaith—the dressing
having flown out as the can gaed by me,
and plaistered a’ my face ower in a
manner maist extraordinar to behold.
By jingo! my spirit was roused at this
deadly attempt, and gin she hadna
been my wife, I wad hae thrawn about
her neck, like a tappit-hen’s. But, na—I
was henpeckit, and she had sic a
mastery ower me as nae persuasions of
my ain judgment could owercome. Sae
I could do naething but stan’ glowering
at her like a moudiewart, while she
poured out as muckle abuse as if I had
been her flunkey, instead of her natural
lord and master. Ance or twice I
fand my nieves yeuking to gie her a
clour by way of balancing accounts, but
such was the power of influence she
had obtained, that I durstna cheep for
my very heart’s blude. So awa she
gaed on her errand, leaving me sittin’
by the fire to mak the best of my
desperate condition.</p>

<p class='c008'>“O, Nancy,” said I to my dochter,
as she sat mending her brither’s sark,
opposite to me, “is na your mither an
awfu’ woman?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I see naething awfu’ about her,”
quo’ the cratur; “I think she servit ye
richt; and had I a man, I would just
treat him in the same way, if he daured
to set his nose against onything I
wanted.”</p>

<p class='c008'>I declare to ye, when I heard this frae
my ain flesh and blude, I was perfectly
dumfoundered. The bairn I had brought
up on my knee—that used, when a wee
thing, to come and sit beside me at the
loom, and who was in the custom of
wheeling my pirns wi’ her ain hand—odds,
man, it was desperate. I couldna
say anither word, but I faund a big tear
come hap-happing ower my runkled
cheeks, the first that had wet them sin’
I was a bit laddie rinnin’ about before
the schule door. What was her mither’s
abusiveness to this? A man may thole
muckle frae his wife, but, oh, the harsh
words of an undutifu’ bairn gang like
arrows to his heart, and he weeps tears
of real bitterness. I wasna angry at the
lassie—I was ower grieved to be
angered; and for the first time I fand
that my former sufferings were only as a
single thread to a hale hank of yarn, compared
to them I suffered at this moment.</p>

<p class='c008'>A’thegither, the thing was mair than
I could stand, so rising up, I betaks
mysel to my but-an-ben neighbour,
Andrew Brand. Andrew was an uncommon
sagacious chiel, and, like mysel,
a weaver to his trade. He was beuk-learned,
and had read a hantle on
different subjects, so that he was
naturally looked up to by the folks
round about, on account of his great
lear. When onything gaed wrang about
the Leechlee Street, where we lived, we
were a’ glad to consult him; and his
advice was reckoned no greatly behint
that of Mr Meek, the minister. He was
a great counter, or ’rithmetishian, as he
ca’d it; and it was thocht by mony gude
judges that he could handle a pen as
weel as Mr Dick, the writing-master,
himsel. So, as I was saying, I stappit
ben to Andrew’s, to ask his advice, but,
odds! if ye ever saw a man in sic a
desperate passion as he was in when I
tauld him how I had been used by my
wife and dochter.</p>

<p class='c008'>“William M‘Gee,” said he, raising
his voice,—it was a geyan strong ane,—“ye’re
an absolute gomeril. Oh, man,
but ye’re a henpeckit sumph! I tell
ye, ye’re a gawpus and a lauching-stock,
and no worth the name of a man. Do
ye hear that?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“O ay, I hear’t very weel,” quo’ I,
no that pleased at being sae spoken to,
even by Andrew Brand, who was a man
I could stamach a gude deal frae, in the
way of reproof—“I hear’t a’ weel
eneuch, and am muckle obleeged to ye,
nae doubt, for your consolation.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Hooly and fairly, William,” said
he in a kinder tone, for he saw I was a
degree hurt by his speech. “Come, I
was only joking ye, man, and ye
maunna tak onything amiss I hae said.
But, really, William, I speak to ye as a
frien’, and tell ye that ye are submitting
to a tyranny which no man of common
understanding ought to submit to. Is
this no the land of liberty? Are we no
just as free as the Duke in his grand
palace down by; and has onybody a
richt—tell me that, William M‘Gee—to
tyranneeze ower anither as your wife
does ower you! I’ll no tell ye what to
do, but I’ll just tell ye what I would do
if my wife and dochter treated me as
yours have treated you: losh, man, I
would ding their harns about, and
knock their heads thegither like twa
curling-stanes. I would aye be master
in my ain house.”</p>

<p class='c008'>This was Andrew’s advice, and I
thocht it sounded geyan rational, only
no very easy to be put in practice. Hoosomever,
thinks I to mysel, I’ll consider
about it, and gin I could only
bring mysel to mak the experiment,
wha kens but I micht succeed to a
miracle? On stapping back to my ain
house, the first thing I did was to tak
a thimblefu’ of whisky, by way of gieing
me a pickle spunk, in case of ony
fresh rumpus wi’ the wife, and also to
clear up my ideas; for I hae fand, that
after a lang spell at the loom, the
thochts, as weel as the body, are like to
get stupid and dozey. So I taks a
drappie, and sits down quietly by the
fireside, waiting for the return of
Maggie frae scolding Mrs Todd about
the flour.</p>

<p class='c008'>In she comes, a’ in a flurry. Her
face was as red as a peony rose, her
breathing cam fast, and she lookit
a’thegither like ane that has had a sair
warsle wi’ the tongue. But she was far
frae being downcast. On the contrair,
she lookit as proud as a Turkey cock;
and I saw wi’ the tail o’ my ee that she
had gained a gran’ victory ower puir
Mrs Todd, who was a douce, quiet
woman, and nae match for the like of
her in randying. So she began to stump
and mak a great phrase about the way
she had outcrawed the puir body; and
was a’thegither as upset about it as if
Duke Hamilton had made her keeper
of his palace. Losh! I was mad to
hear’t, and twa or three times had a
gude mind to put in a word, to sic a
degree was my courage raised by the
drap speerits; but aye as the words
were rising to my mouth, the thocht of
the can and the dressing sent them back
again, till they stuck like a bane in my
throat. Very likely I micht hae said
ne’er a word, and Andrew Brand’s
advice micht hae gane for naething, had
it no been for the cratur Nancy, who
was sae lifted up about her mither’s dispute,
that naething would sair her but to
hae the hale affair mentioned cut and
dry.</p>

<p class='c008'>“And did ye cast up to Mrs Todd,
mither,” quo’ the little cutty, “that she
was fat?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ay, that I did,” said Maggie. “I
tell’t her she was like a barn-door. I
tell’t her she was like the side of a
house. ‘Ye’re a sow,’ quo’ I; ‘ye get
fou every hour of the day, wi’ your lump
of a gudeman!’”</p>

<p class='c008'>But this wasna a’—for nae sooner
had Maggie answered her dochter’s first
question, than the cratur was ready wi’
anither: “And, mither, did ye cast up
to her that her faither was a meeser?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Atweel did I, Nancy,” answered
the gudewife. “I tell’t her a’ that.
I coost up to her that her faither was a
meeser, and would ride to Lunnon on
a louse, and mak breeks of its skin,
and candles of its tallow.”</p>

<p class='c008'>I could thole this nae langer. I fand
the hale man working within me, and
was moved to a pitch of daring, mair
like madness than onything else. Faith,
the whisky was of gude service now,
and so was Andrew Brand’s advice. I
accordingly steekit my nieves wi’ desperation,
threw awa my cowl, tucked
up my sark sleeves,—for my coat happened
to be aff at the time,—and got
up frae the three-footed stool I had
been sitting upon in the twinkling of
an ee. I trumbled a’ ower, but whether
it was wi’ fear, or wi’ anger, or wi’
baith put thegither, it would be difficult
to say. I was in an awfu’ passion,
and as fairce as a papist.</p>

<p class='c008'>“And so,” said I, “ye coost up sic
things to the honest woman, Mrs Todd!
O, Maggie M‘Gee, Maggie M‘Gee, are
ye no ashamed of yoursel?”</p>

<p class='c008'>’Od it would hae dune your heart
gude to see how she glowered at me.
She was bewildered, and lookit as if
to see whether I was mysel, and no
some ither body. But her evil speerit
didna lie lang asleep; it soon broke
out like a squib on the king’s birthday,
and I saw that I maun now stand firm,
or be a dead man for ever.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Has your faither been at the whisky
bottle?” said she to her dochter. “He
looks as if he was the waur of drink.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“He had a glass just before ye cam
in,” answered the wicked jimpey; and
scarcely had she spoken the word, when
Maggie flew upon me like a teeger, and
gied me a skelp on the cheek wi’ her
open loof, that made me turn round
tapwise on the middle of the floor.
Seeing that affairs were come to this
pass, I saw plainly that I maun go on,
no forgetting in sae doing my frien’
Andrew’s advice, as also my auld master
Tammas Currie’s observe, anent a
man ha’eing aneuch of the deil in his
temper to keep the deil awa frae him.
So I picked up a’ the spunk I had in
me, besides what I had frae the drap
whisky; and fa’ing to, I gied her sic a
leathering as never woman got in her
born days. In ae word, she met wi’
her match, and roared aloud for mercy;
but this I would on nae account grant,
till she promised faithfully that, in a’
time coming, she would acknowledge
me as her lord and maister, and obey
me in everything as a dutiful wife should
her husband.</p>

<p class='c008'>As soon as this was settled, in stappit
Andrew Brand. At the sight of my
wife greeting, and me sae fairce, he
held up his hands wi’ astonishment.</p>

<p class='c008'>“William M‘Gee,” quo’ he, “it’s
no possible that ye’re maister in this
house!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“It’s no only possible, but it’s true,
Andrew,” was my answer; and, taking
me by the hand, he wished me joy for
my speerit and success.</p>

<p class='c008'>Sae far, sae weel; the first grand
stroke was made, but there was something
yet to do. I had discharged a’
outstanding debts wi’ my wife, and had
brocht her to terms; but I had yet to
reduce my bairns to their senses, and
show them that I was <em>their</em> lord and
maister, as weel as their mither’s. Puir
things! my heart was wae for them, for
they were sairly miseducated, and held
me in nae mair estimation, than if I had
been ane of my ain wabster lads. So,
just wi’ a view to their gude, I took
down a pair of teuch ben-leather taws,
weel burnt at the finger-ends, and gied
Nancy as mony cracks ower the bare
neck, as set her squeeling beyond a’
bounds. It was pitifu’ to see the cratur,
how she skipped about the room, and
ran awa to her mither, to escape my
faitherly rage. But a’ assistance frae
that quarter was at an end now; and she
was fain to fa’ down on her knees, and
beg my forgiveness, and promise to conduct
hersel as became my dochter, in a’
time coming.</p>

<p class='c008'>Just at this moment, in comes wee
Geordie, greeting for his parritch.
He kent naething of what had taken
place in the house; and, doubtless,
expeckit to mak an idiot of me, his
faither, as he had been accustomed
to do, almost frae his very cradle.
I saw that now was the time to thresh
the corruption out of him; and brandishing
the taws ower my head, I made
a stap forrit to lay hand upon him, and
treat him like the lave. He looked as
if he had an inkling of what was forthcoming,
and ran whinging and craiking
to his mither, who stood wiping her een
wi’ her striped apron in a corner of the
room. The terrified laddie clang to
her knees, but she never offered to lend
a helping hand, sae great was the salutary
terror wi’ which I had inspired her.
So I pu’d him awa frae her coats, to
which he was clinging; and, laying him
ower my knee, I gied him hipsie-dipsie
in the presence of his mither, his sister,
and Andrew Brand, who were looking
on.</p>

<p class='c008'>And thus hae I, who for eighteen
years was ruled by my wife, got the
upper hand; and ony man who is henpeckit
as I hae been, should just tak
the same plan, and his success will be
as sure as mine. Andrew Brand aye
said to me that a man should wear his
ain breeks; and I can maintain, frae
present experience, that a wiser saying
is no to be found in the Proverbs of
Solomon, the son of David. No that
Maggie hasna tried nows and thans to
recover her lost power, but I hae on
thae occasions conduckit mysel wi’ sic
firmness, that she has at last gien it up
as a bad job, and is now as obedient a
wife as ye’ll meet wi’ between this and
Bothwell. The twa bairns, too, are
just wonderfully changed, and are as
raisonable as can be expeckit, a’ things
considered. Let men, therefore, whether
gentle or simple, follow my plan, and
the word “henpeckit,” as Andrew
Brand says, will soon slip out of the
dictionair.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='my_sister_kate' class='c006'>MY SISTER KATE.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By Andrew Picken.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>There is a low road (but it is not
much frequented, for it is terribly round
about) that passes at the foot of the
range of hills that skirt the long and
beautiful gut or firth of the Clyde, in
the west of Scotland; and as you go
along this road, either up or down, the
sea or firth is almost at your very side,
the hills rising above you; and you are
just opposite to the great black and
blue mountains on the other side of the
gut, that sweep in heavy masses, or jut
out in bold capes, at the mouth of the
deep lochs that run up the firth into
the picturesque highlands of Argyleshire.</p>

<p class='c008'>You may think of the scene what
you please, because steam-boating has,
of late years, profaned it somewhat into
commonness, and defiled its pure air
with filthy puffs of coal smoke; and
because the Comet and all her unfortunate
passengers were sunk to the bottom
of this very part of the firth; and because,
a little time previous, a whole
boatful of poor Highland reaper girls
were all run down in the night-time,
while they were asleep, and drowned
near the Clough lighthouse hard by;
but if you were to walk this road by the
seaside any summer afternoon, going
towards the bathing village of Gourock,
you would say, as you looked across to
the Highlands, and up the Clyde towards
the rocks of Dumbarton Castle,
that there are few scenes more truly
magnificent and interesting.</p>

<p class='c008'>There is a little village exactly opposite
to you, looking across the firth,
which is called Dunoon, and contains
the burying-place of the great house
of Argyle; and which, surrounded
by a patch of green cultivated land,
sloping pleasantly from the sea, and
cowering snugly by itself, with its
picturesque cemetery, under the great
blue hills frowning behind, looks, from
across the firth, absolutely like a tasteful
little haunt of the capricious spirit of
romance.</p>

<p class='c008'>Well, between this road on the lowland
side of the firth, and the water’s-edge,
and before it winds off round by
the romantic seat of Sir Michael Shaw
Stewart, farther up, there stand, or
stood, two or three small fishing cottages
which, from the hills nearly over them,
looked just like white shells, of a large
size, dropped fancifully down upon the
green common between the hills and
the road. In these cottages, it was
observed, the fishermen had numerous
families, who, while young, assisted
them in their healthful employment; and
that the girls, of which there were a
number, were so wild in their contented
seclusion, that if any passenger on the
road stopped to observe them, as
they sat in groups on the green mending
their father’s nets, they would take
alarm, and rise and run off like fawns,
and hide among the rocks by the sea,
or trip back into the cottages. Now it
happened, once on a time, that a great
event took place to one of the cottager’s
daughters, which, for a long period,
deranged and almost destroyed the
happy equality in which they had
hitherto lived; and becoming the
theme of discourse and inquiry concerning
things beyond the sphere of
the fisher people and all their neighbours
as far as Gourock, introduced among
them no small degree of ambition and
discontent.</p>

<p class='c008'>There was one of the fishermen, a
remarkably decent, well disposed Highlandman,
from the opposite shore of
Argyleshire, named Martin M‘Leod,
and he had two daughters, the youngest
of which, as was no uncommon case,
turned out to be remarkably and even
delicately beautiful.</p>

<p class='c008'>But nobody ever saw or thought
anything about the beauty of Catherine
M‘Leod, except it might be some of
the growing young men in the neighbouring
cottages, several of whom began,
at times, to look at her with a sort
of wonder, and seemed to feel a degree
of awe in her company; while her family
took an involuntary pride in her beyond
all the others; and her eldest sister
somehow imitated her in every thing,
and continually quoted her talk, and
trumpeted about among the neighbours
what was said and done by “my sister
Kate.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Things continued in this way as
Kate grew to womankind; and she was
the liveliest little body about the place,
and used to sing so divertingly at the
house-end, as she busied herself about
her father’s fishing gear, and ran up
and down “among the brekans on the
brae,” behind the cottages, or took her
wanderings off all the way to the Clough
lighthouse at the point. I say things
continued in this way until a gentleman,
who, it turned out, was all the way from
London, came to lodge in Greenock, or
Gourock, or Inverkip, or somewhere
not very far distant; and, being a gentleman,
and, of course, at liberty to do every
sort of out-of-the-way thing that he
pleased, he got a manner of coming
down and wandering about among the
cottages, and asking questions concerning
whatever he chose of the fishermen;
and then it was not long until he got his
eyes upon Kate.</p>

<p class='c008'>“The gentleman,” as her sister used
to tell afterwards, “was perfectly ill,
and smitten at once about our Kate.
He was not able,” she said, “to take
the least rest, but was down constantly
about us for weeks; and then he got to
talking to and walking with Kate, she
linking her arm in his beneath the hill,
just as it had been Sir Michael Stewart
and my lady; and then such presents
as he used to bring for her, bought in
the grand shop of Bailie Macnicol, at
Greenock; gowns, and shawls, and
veils, and fine chip hats, never speaking
of ribbons, and lace edging, and mob
caps—perfectly beautiful.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The whole of the fishermen’s daughters
became mad with envy of poor Kate,
and admiration of her new dress, which
some said was mostly bought by her
father after all, who wanted to have his
daughter made a lady of; and now
nothing was heard in the hamlet but
murmurings and discontented complaints;
every girl looking at herself in
the little cracked glass that her father
used to shave by, to see if she were
pretty, and wishing and longing, not
only for a lover of her own, but even
for a gentleman. So, as matters grew
serious, and the gentleman was fairly
in love, old Martin M‘Leod, who looked
sharply after Kate, behoved to have
sundry conversations with the gentleman
about her; and masters being
appointed to teach her right things,
which the fisher folks never heard of, but
which were to turn her into a lady,
Kate and the gentleman, after a time,
were actually married in Greenock new
church, and set off for London.</p>

<p class='c008'>During all this time, there were various
opinions among the fisher people, how
that Kate never was particularly in love
with the gentleman; and some even
said that she was in love with somebody
else (for pretty maidens must always be
in love), or, at least, that some of the
youths of the neighbourhood were in
love with her; but then the old folks
said, that love was only for gentle
people who could afford to pay for
it; and that when a gentleman was
pleased to fall in love, no one had a
right to say him nay, or pretend to set
up against him. Some of the young
women, to be sure, ventured to contest
this doctrine, and cited various cases
from the authority of printed ballads
bought at the Greenock fair, at a halfpenny
each; and also from the traditionary
literature of Argyleshire, which
was couched in the mellifluous numbers
of the Gaelic language; but, however
this might be, the fame of Catherine
M‘Leod’s happy marriage and great
fortune was noised abroad exceedingly,
among the fisher people throughout these
coasts, as well as about Gourock and
all the parts adjacent.</p>

<p class='c008'>As to the gentleman, it was found
out that his name was Mr Pounteney,
and that little Kate M‘Leod was now
Mrs Pounteney, and a great London
lady, but what quality of a gentleman
Mr Pounteney really was, was a matter
of much controversy and discussion.
Some said that he was a great gentleman,
and others thought that, from
various symptoms, he was not a very
great gentleman; some went so far as
to say he was a lord or a prince, while
others maintained that he was only a
simple esquire.</p>

<p class='c008'>Nothing, therefore, could be talked
of wherever Flora M‘Leod went, but
about “my sister Kate;” and she was
quite in request everywhere, because
she could talk of the romantic history
and happy fortune of her lucky sister.
Mrs Pounteney’s house in London,
therefore, Mrs Pounteney’s grand husband,
and Mrs Pounteney’s coach,
excited the admiration and the discontent
of all the fishermen’s daughters,
for many miles round this romantic seacoast,
and these quiet cottages under
the hills, where the simple people live
upon their fish, and did not know that
they were happy. Many a long summer’s
day, as the girls sat working their nets
on a knoll towards the sea, the sun that
shone warm upon their indolent limbs
on the grass, and the breeze that blew
from the firth, or swept round from
the flowery woods of Ardgowan, seemed
less grateful and delicious, from their
discontented imaginings about the fortune
of Mrs Pounteney; and many a
sweet and wholesome supper of fresh
boiled fish was made to lose its former
relish, or was even embittered by obtrusive
discourse about the fine wines and
the gilded grandeur of “my sister Kate.”
Even the fisher lads in the neighbourhood—fine
fearless youths—found a total
alteration in their sweethearts; their
discourse was not relished, their persons
were almost despised; and there was
now no happiness found for a fisherman’s
daughter, but what was at least to
approach to the state of grandeur and
felicity so fortunately obtained by “my
sister Kate.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The minds of Kate’s family were so
carried by her great fortune, that vague
wishes and discontented repinings followed
their constant meditations upon
her lucky lot. Flora had found herself
above marrying a fisherman; and a
young fellow called Bryce Cameron,
who had long waited for her, and whose
brother, Allan, was once a sweetheart
of Kate’s herself, being long ago discarded;
and she, not perceiving any
chances of a gentleman making his
appearance to take Bryce’s place, became
melancholy and thoughtful; she
began to fear that she was to have
nobody, and her thoughts ran constantly
after London and Mrs Pounteney. With
these anxious wishes, vague hopes began
to mix of some lucky turn to her own
fortune, if she were only in the way of
getting to be a lady; and at length she
formed the high wish, and even the
adventurous resolve, of going all the
way to London, just to get one peep at
her sister’s happiness.</p>

<p class='c008'>When this ambition seized Flora
M‘Leod, she let the old people have
no rest, nor did she spare any exertion
to get the means of making her proposed
pilgrimage to London. In the
course of a fortnight from its first serious
suggestion, she, with a gold guinea in
her pocket, and two one-pound notes
of the Greenock Bank, besides other
coins and valuables, and even a little
old-fashioned Highland brooch, with
which the quondam lover of her sister,
Allan Cameron, had the temerity to
intrust to her, to be specially returned
into the hand of the great lady when
she should see her, besides a hundred
other charges and remembrances from
the neighbours, she set off one dewy
morning in summer, carrying her shoes
and stockings in her hand, to make her
way to London, to get a sight of everything
great, and particularly of her
happy sister Kate.</p>

<p class='c008'>Many a weary mile did Flora M‘Leod
walk, and ride, and sail, through unknown
places, and in what she called
foreign parts; for strange things and
people met her eye, and long dull regions
of country passed her like a rapid
vision, as she was wheeled towards the
great capital, and proper centre of England.
After travelling to a distance
that was to her perfectly amazing, she
was set down in London, and inquired
her way, in the best English she could
command, into one of those long brick
streets, of dark and dull gentility, to
which she was directed; and after much
trouble and some expense, at length
found the door of her sister’s house.
She stood awhile considering, on the
steps of the mansion, and felt a sort of
fear of lifting the big iron knocker that
seemed to grin down upon her; for she
was not in the habit of knocking at
great folk’s doors, and almost trembled
lest somebody from within would frown
her into nothing, even by their high
and lofty looks.</p>

<p class='c008'>And yet she thought the house was
not so dreadfully grand after all;—not
at all such as she had imagined, for she
had passed houses much bigger and
grander than this great gentleman’s; it
was not even the largest in its own
street, and looked dull and dingy, and
shut up with blinds and rails, having
a sort of melancholy appearance.</p>

<p class='c008'>But she must not linger, but see what
was inside. She lifted up the iron
knocker, and as it fell the very clang of
it, and its echo inside, smote upon her
heart with a sensation of strange apprehension.
A powdered man opened it,
and stared at her with an inquisitive
and impertinent look, then saucily asked
what she wanted. Flora courtesied low
to the servant from perfect terror, saying
she wanted to see Mrs Pounteney.</p>

<p class='c008'>“And what can <em>you</em> want with Mrs
Pounteney, young woman, I should like
to know?” said the fellow; for Flora
neither looked like a milliner’s woman
nor any other sort of useful person likely
to be wanted by a lady.</p>

<p class='c008'>Flora had laid various pretty plans in
her own mind, about taking her sister
by surprise, and seeing how she would
look at her before she spoke, and so
forth; at least she had resolved not to
affront her by making herself known
as her sister before the servants; but
the man looked at her with such suspicion,
and spoke so insolently, that
she absolutely began to fear, from the
interrogations of this fellow, that she
would be refused admittance to her own
sister, and was forced to explain and
reveal herself before the outer door was
fully opened to her. At length she was
conducted, on tiptoe, along a passage,
and then upstairs, until she was placed
in a little back dressing-room. The
servant then went into the drawing-room,
where sat two ladies at opposite sides of
the apartment, there to announce Flora’s
message.</p>

<p class='c008'>On a sofa, near the window, sat a
neat youthful figure, extremely elegantly
formed, but <em>petite</em>, with a face that
need not be described, further than that
the features were small and pretty, and
that, as a whole, it was rich in the
nameless expression of simple beauty.
Her dress could not have been plainer,
to be of silk of the best sort; but the
languid discontent, if not melancholy,
with which the female, yet quite in youth,
gazed towards the window, or bent over
a little silk netting with which she carelessly
employed herself, seemed to any
observer strange and unnatural at her
time of life. At a table near the fire was
seated a woman, almost the perfect contrast
to this interesting figure, in the
person of Mr Pounteney’s eldest sister,
a hard-faced, business-like person, who,
with pen and ink before her, seemed
busy among a parcel of household
accounts, and the characteristic accompaniment
of a bunch of keys occasionally
rattling at her elbow.</p>

<p class='c008'>The servant approached, as if fearful
of being noticed by “the old one,” as he
was accustomed to call Miss Pounteney,
and in a half whisper intimated to the
little figure that a female wanted to see
her.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Eh! what!—what is it you say,
John?” cried the lady among the
papers, noticing this manœuvre of the
servant.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Nothing, Madam; it is a person that
wants my lady.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Your lady, sirrah; it must be me!—Eh!
what!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“No, Madam; she wants to see Mrs
Pounteney particularly.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ah, John!” said the little lady
on the sofa; “just refer her to Miss
Pounteney. There is nobody can want
me.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Wants to see Mrs Pounteney particularly!”
resumed the sister-in-law:
“how dare you bring in such a message,
sirrah? Mrs Pounteney particularly,
indeed! Who is she, sirrah! Who comes
here with such a message while I am in
the house?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“You must be mistaken, John,” said
the little lady sighing, who was once the
lively Kate M‘Leod of the fishing
cottage in Scotland; “just let Miss
Pounteney speak to her, you need not
come to me.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“No, madam,” said the servant,
addressing Miss Pounteney, the natural
pertness of his situation now returning
to overcome his dread of “the old
one.” “This young person wants to
see my mistress directly, and I have put
her into her dressing-room; pray, ma’am,
go,” he added, respectfully, to the
listless Kate.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Do you come here to give <em>your</em>
orders, sirrah?” exclaimed Miss Pounteney,
rising like a fury, and kicking
the footstool half way across the room,
“and to put strange people of your
own accord into any dressing-room in
this house! and to talk of <em>your mistress</em>,
and wanting to speak to her directly,
and privately, while <em>I</em> am here! I
wonder what sister Becky would say,
or Mr Pounteney, if he were at home!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Who is it, John? Do just bring
her here, and put an end to this!” said
Kate, imploringly, to the man.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Madam,” said John at last to his
trembling mistress, “it is your sister!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Who, John?” cried Kate, starting
to her feet; “my sister Flora—my own
sister, from Clyde side! Speak, John,
are you sure?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Yes, Madam, your sister from
Scotland.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Oh, where is she, where is she?
Let me go!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“No, no; you must be mistaken,
John,” said the lady with the keys,
stepping forward to interrupt the anxious
Kate. “John, this is all a mistake,”
she added, smoothly; “Mrs Pounteney
has no sister! John, you may leave the
room;” and she gave a determined look
to the other sister, who stood astonished.</p>

<p class='c008'>The moment the servant left the
room, Miss Pounteney came forward,
and stood in renewed rage over the
fragile, melancholy Kate, and burst out
with “What is this, Kate? Is it really
possible, after what you know of my
mind, and all our minds, that you have
dared to bring your poor relations into
my brother’s house? That it is not
enough that we are to have the disgrace
of your mean connections, but we are
to have your sisters and brothers to no
end coming into the very house, and
sending up their beggarly names and
designations by the very servants! Kate,
I must not permit this. I will not—I
shall not;” and she stamped with
rage.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Oh, Miss Pounteney,” said Kate,
with clasped hands, “will you not let
me go and see my sister? Will you
just let me go and weep on the neck of
my poor Flora? I will go to a private
place—I will go to another house, if
you please; I will do anything when I
return to you, if I ever return, for I
care not if I never come into this unhappy
house more!” and, uttering this,
almost with a shriek, she burst past the
two women, and ran through the rooms
to seek her sister.</p>

<p class='c008'>Meantime, Flora had sat so long
waiting, without seeing her sister, that
she began to feel intense anxiety; and,
fancying her little Kate wished to forget
her, because she was poor, had
worked herself up into a resolution of
assumed coldness, when she heard a
hurried step, and the door was instantly
opened. Kate paused for a moment
after her entrance, and stood gazing upon
the companion of her youth, with a look
of such passionate joy, that Flora’s
intended coldness was entirely subdued;
and the two sisters rushed into each
other’s arms in all the ecstacy of sisterly
love.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Oh, Flora, Flora! my dear happy
Flora!” cried Kate, when she could
get words, after the first burst of weeping;
“have you really come all the
way to London to see me?—poor me!”
and her tears and sobs were again like
to choke her. “Kate—my dear little
Kate!” said Flora, “this is not the
way I expected to find you. Do not
greet so dreadfully; surely you are not
happy, Kate?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“But <em>you</em> are happy,” said Kate,
weeping. “And how is my good Highland
father, and mother, and my brother
Daniel? Ah! I think, Flora, your
clothes have the very smell of the seashore,
and of the bark of the nets, and
of the heather hills of Argyleshire.
Alas the happy days you remind me
of, Flora!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“And so, Kate, you are not so <em>very</em>
happy, after all,” said Flora, looking
incredulously in her face; “and you are
so thin, and pale, and your eyes are so
red; and yet you have such a grand
house, Kate! Tell me if you are really
not happy.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I have no house, Flora,” said Kate,
after a little, “and, I may say, no husband.
They are both completely ruled
by his two vixen sisters, who kept house
for him before he married me, and
still have the entire ascendancy over
him. My husband, too, is not naturally
good tempered; yet he once loved me,
and I might enjoy some little happiness
in this new life, if he had the feeling, or
the spirit, to treat me as his wife, and
free himself and the house from the
dominion of his sisters, especially the
eldest. But I believe he is rather disappointed
in his ambitious career, and
in the hopes he entertained of matches
for his sisters, and he is somewhat
sour and unhappy; and I have to bear
it all, for he is afraid of these women;
and I, the youngest in the family, and
the only one who has a chance of being
good tempered, am, on account of my
low origin, forced to bear the spleen of
all in this unhappy house.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“But, Kate, surely your husband
would not behave so bad as to cast up
to you that your father was a fisherman,
when he took you from the bonnie seaside
himself, and when he thought himself
once so happy to get you?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Alas! he does indeed!—too
often—too often—when he is crossed
abroad, and when his sisters set him
on; and it so humbles me, Flora,
when I am sitting at his table, that I
cannot lift my head; and I am so sad,
and so heart-broken among them all!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Bless me! and can people be really
so miserable,” said Flora, simply, “who
have plenty of money, and silk dresses
to wear every day they rise?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“It is little you know, my happy
Flora, of artificial life here in London,”
said Kate, mournfully. “As for dress,
I cannot even order one but as my
sister-in-law chooses; and as for happiness,
I have left it behind me on the
beautiful banks of the Clyde. O that
I were there again!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Poor little Kate!” said Flora, wistfully
looking again in her sister’s face;
“and is that the end of all your grand
marriage, that has set a’ the lasses crazy,
from the Fairlie Roads to Gourock
Point? I think I’ll gang back and
marry Bryce Cameron after a’.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Is Allan Cameron married yet?”
said Kate, sadly. “When did you see
blithe and bonnie Allan Cameron?—Alas
the day!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“He gave me this brooch to return
to you, Kate,” said Flora, taking the
brooch out of her bosom. “I wish he
had not gien it to me for you, for you’re
vexed enough already.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ah! well you may say I am vexed
enough,” said she, weeping and contemplating
the brooch. “Tell Allan
Cameron that I am sensible I did not
use him well—that my vain heart was
lifted up; but I have suffered for it;
many a sad and sleepless night I have
lain in my bed, and thought of the delightful
days I spent near my father’s
happy cottage in Scotland, and about
you, and about Allan. Alas! just
tell him not to think more of me; for I
am a sad and sorry married woman,
out of my own sphere, and afraid to
speak to my own people, panting my
heart out and dying by inches, like the
pretty silver fish that floundered on the
hard stones, after my father had taken
them out of their own clear water.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“God help you, Kate!” said Flora,
rising; “you will break my heart with
grief about you. Let me out of this
miserable house! Let me leave you
and all your grandeur, since I cannot
help you; and I will pray for you, my
poor Kate, every night at my bedside,
when I get back to the bonnie shore of
Argyleshire.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Sad was the parting of the two weeping
sisters, and many a kiss of fraternal
affection embittered, yet sweetened,
the hour; and anxious was Flora
M‘Leod to turn her back upon the
great city of London, and to journey
northwards to her own home in Scotland.</p>

<p class='c008'>It was a little before sundown, on a
Saturday evening, shortly after this, that
a buzz of steam let off at the Mid Quay
of Greenock, indicated that a steamboat
had come in; and it proved to be from
the fair seaport of Liverpool, having on
board Flora M‘Leod, just down from
London. The boat as it passed had
been watched by the cottagers where
she lived up the Firth; and several of
them, their day’s work being over, set
out towards the Clough to see if there
was any chance of meeting Flora.</p>

<p class='c008'>Many were the congratulations, and
more the inquiries, when they met
Flora, lumbering homewards with her
bundle and her umbrella, weary and
looking anxiously out for her own sweet
cottage by Clyde side. “Ah, Flora!
is this you!” cried the whole at once;
“and are you really here again! And
how is your sister, and all the great
people in London? And, indeed, it is
very good of you not to look the least
proud, after coming from such a grand
place!”</p>

<p class='c008'>With such congratulations was Flora
welcomed again among the light-hearted
fisher people in the West
of Scotland. But it was observed that
her tone was now quite altered, and her
own humble contentment had completely
returned. In short, to bring
our story to a close, she was shortly
after married to Bryce Cameron, and
various other marriages soon followed;
for she gave such an account of what
she had seen with her eyes, that a complete
revolution took place in the sentiments
of the whole young people of the
neighbourhood.</p>

<p class='c008'>It was observed in the hamlet that
the unhappy Mrs Pounteney was never
named after this by any but with a
melancholy shake of the head; the
ambition of the girls to get gentlemen
seemed quite extinguished, and Flora
in time began to nurse children of her
own in humble and pious contentment.—<cite>The
Dominie’s Legacy.</cite></p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='wat_the_prophet' class='c006'>WAT THE PROPHET.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By James Hogg, “The Ettrick Shepherd.”</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>About sixty years ago<a id='r4'></a><a href='#f4' class='c018'><sup>[4]</sup></a> there departed
this life an old man, who, for
sixty years previous to that, was known
only by the name of Wat the Prophet.
I am even uncertain what his real surname
was, though he was familiarly
known to the most of my relatives of
that day, and I was intimately acquainted
with his nephew and heir, whose name
was Paterson,—yet I hardly think that
was the prophet’s surname, but that the
man I knew was a maternal nephew.
So far, I am shortcoming at the very
outset of my tale, for in truth I never
heard him distinguished by any other
name than Wat the Prophet.<a id='r5'></a><a href='#f5' class='c018'><sup>[5]</sup></a></p>

<div class='footnote' id='f4'>
<p class='c008'><a href='#r4'>4</a>. This interesting account of a very extraordinary
character was contributed to the
<cite>Edinburgh Literary Journal</cite> in 1829.</p>
</div>

<div class='footnote' id='f5'>
<p class='c008'><a href='#r5'>5</a>. The old prophet’s surname was Laidlaw,
being of a race that has produced more singular
characters than any of our country.</p>
</div>

<p class='c008'>He must have been a very singular
person in every respect. In his youth
he was so much more clever and acute
than his fellows, that he was viewed as
a sort of phenomenon, or rather “a
kind of being that had mair airt than
his ain.” It was no matter what Wat
tried, for either at mental or manual
exertion he excelled; and his gifts
were so miscellaneous, that it was no
wonder his most intimate acquaintances
rather stood in awe of him. At the
sports of the field, at the exposition of
any part of Scripture, at prayer, and at
mathematics, he was altogether unequalled.
By this, I mean in the sphere
of his acquaintance in the circle in
which he moved, for he was the son of
a respectable farmer who had a small
property. In the last-mentioned art
his comprehension is said to have been
truly wonderful. He seemed to have
an intuitive knowledge of the science
of figures from beginning to end, and
needed but a glance at the rules to outgo
his masters.</p>

<p class='c008'>But this was not all. In all the
labours of the field his progress was
equally unaccountable. He could with
perfect ease have mown as much hay
as two of the best men, sown as much,
reaped as much, shorn as many sheep,
and smeared as many, and with a little
extra exertion could have equalled the
efforts of three ordinary men at any
time. As for ploughing, or any work
with horses, he would never put a hand
to it, for he then said he had not the
power of the labour himself. However
unaccountable all this may be, it
is no fabrication; I have myself heard
several men tell, who were wont to
shear and smear sheep with him, when
he was a much older man than they,
that even though he would have been
engaged in some fervent demonstration,
in spite of all they could do, “he was
aye popping off twa sheep, or maybe
three, for their ane.”</p>

<p class='c008'>I could multiply anecdotes of this
kind without number, but these were
mere atoms of the prophet’s character—a
sort of excrescences, which were nevertheless
in keeping with the rest, being
matchless of their kind. He was intended
by his parents for the Church—that
is the Church of the Covenant, to
which they belonged. I know not if
Wat had consented thereto, but his
education tended that way. However,
as he said himself, he was born for a
higher destiny, which was to reveal the
future will of God to mankind for ever
and ever. I have been told that he
committed many of his prophecies to
writing; and I believe it, for he was a
scholar, and a man of rather supernatural
abilities; but I have never
been able to find any of them. I have
often heard fragments of them, but they
were recited by ignorant country people,
who, never having understood them
themselves, could not make them comprehensible
to others. But the history
of his call to the prophecy I have so
often heard, that I think I can state the
particulars, although a little confused
in my recollection of them.</p>

<p class='c008'>This event occurred about this time
one hundred years ago, on an evening in
spring, as Wat was going down a wild
glen, which I know full well. “I was
in a contemplative mood,” he said (for
he told it to any that asked him), “and
was meditating on the mysteries of
redemption, and doubting, grievously
doubting, the merits of an atonement
by blood; when, to my astonishment
in such a place, there was one spoke to
me close behind, saying, in the Greek
language, ‘Is it indeed so? Is thy
faith no better rooted?’</p>

<p class='c008'>“I looked behind me, but, perceiving
no one, my hair stood all on end,
for I thought it was a voice from
heaven; and, after gazing into the firmament,
and all around me, I said fearfully,
in the same language, ‘Who art
thou that speakest?’ And the voice
answered me again, ‘I am one who
laid down my life, witnessing for the
glorious salvation which thou art about
to deny; turn, and behold me!’</p>

<p class='c008'>“And I turned about, for the voice
seemed still behind me, turn as I would,
and at length I perceived dimly the
figure of an old man, of singular aspect
and dimensions, close by me. His form
was exceedingly large and broad, and
his face shone with benignity; his beard
hung down to his girdle, and he had
sandals on his feet, which covered his
ankles. His right arm and his breast
were bare, but he had a crimson mantle
over his right shoulder, part of which
covered his head, and came round his
waist. Having never seen such a figure
or dress, or countenance before, I took
him for an angel, sent from above to
rebuke me; so I fell at his feet to
worship him, or rather to entreat forgiveness
for a sin which I had not
power to withstand. But he answered
me in these words: ‘Rise up, and bow
not to me, for I am thy fellow-servant,
and a messenger from Him whom thou
hast in thy heart denied. Thou shalt
worship the Lord thy God, and Him
only shalt thou serve. Come, I am
commissioned to take thee into the presence
of thy Maker and Redeemer.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“And I said, ‘Sir, how speakest
thou in this wise? God is in heaven, and
we are upon the earth; and it is not
given to mortal man to scale the
heavenly regions, or come into the
presence of the Almighty.’ And he
said, ‘Have thy learning and thy knowledge
carried thee no higher than this?
Knowest thou not that God is present
in this wild glen, the same as in the
palaces of light and glory—that His
presence surrounds us at this moment—and
that He sees all our actions,
hears our words, and knows the inmost
thoughts of our hearts?’</p>

<p class='c008'>“And I said, ‘Yes, I know it.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Then, are you ready and willing at
this moment,’ said he, ‘to step into His
presence, and avow the sentiments
which you have of late been cherishing?’</p>

<p class='c008'>“And I said, ‘I would rather have
time to think the matter over again.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Alack! poor man!’ said he,
‘so you have never been considering
that you have all this while been in His
immediate presence, and have even been
uttering thy blasphemous sentiments
aloud to His face, when there was none
to hear but He and thyself.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“And I said, ‘Sir, a man cannot force
his belief.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“And he said, ‘Thou sayest truly;
but I will endeavour to convince thee.’”</p>

<p class='c008'>Here a long colloquy ensued about
the external and internal evidences of
the Christian religion, which took Wat
nearly half a day to relate; but he still
maintained his point. He asked his
visitant twice who he was, but he declined
telling him, saying he wanted
his reason convinced, and not to take his
word for anything.</p>

<p class='c008'>Their conversation ended by this
mysterious sage leading Wat away by
a path which he did not know, which
was all covered with a cloud of exceeding
brightness. At length they came to a
house like a common pavilion, which
they entered, but all was solemn silence,
and they heard nobody moving in it,
and Wat asked his guide where they
were now.</p>

<p class='c008'>“This is the place where heavenly
gifts are distributed to humanity,” said
the reverend apostle; “but they are now
no more required, being of no repute.
No one asks for them, nor will they
accept of them when offered, for worldly
wisdom is all in all with the men of
this age. Their preaching is a mere
farce—an ostentatious parade, to show
off great and shining qualifications, one-third
of the professors not believing one
word of what they assert. The gift of
prophecy is denied and laughed at; and
all revelation made to man by dreams
or visions utterly disclaimed, as if the
Almighty’s power of communicating
with his creatures were not only
shortened, but cut off for ever. This
fountain of inspiration, once so crowded,
is now, you see, a dreary solitude.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“It was, in truth, a dismal-looking
place, for in every chamber, as we passed
along, there were benches and seats
of judgment, but none to occupy them;
the green grass was peeping through the
seams of the flooring and chinks of the
wall, and never was there a more
appalling picture of desolation.</p>

<p class='c008'>“At length, in the very innermost
chamber, we came to three men sitting
in a row, the middle one elevated above
the others; but they were all sleeping
at their posts, and looked as if they had
slept there for a thousand years, for
their garments were mouldy, and their
faces ghastly and withered.</p>

<p class='c008'>“I did not know what to do or say, for
I looked at my guide, and he seemed
overcome with sorrow; but thinking it
was ill-manners for an intruder not to
speak, I said, ‘Sirs, I think you are
drowsily inclined?’ but none of them
moved. At length my guide said, in a
loud voice, ‘Awake, ye servants of the
Most High! Or is your sleep to be
everlasting?’</p>

<p class='c008'>“On that they all opened their eyes
at once, and stared at me, but their eyes
were like the eyes of dead men, and no
one of them moved a muscle, save the
middlemost, who pointed with pale
haggard hand to three small books, or
scrolls, that lay on the bench before
them.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Then my guide said, ‘Put forth
thine hand and choose one from these.
They are all divine gifts, and in these
latter days rarely granted to any of the
human race.’ One was red as blood,
the other pale, and the third green; the
latter was farthest from me, and my
guide said, ‘Ponder well before you
make your choice. It is a sacred
mystery, and from the choice you make,
your destiny is fixed through time and
eternity.’ I then stretched out my
hand, and took the one farthest from
me, and he said, ‘It is the will of the
Lord; so let it be! That which you
have chosen is the gift of the spirit of
prophecy. From henceforth you must
live a life of sufferance and tribulation,
but your life shall be given you for a
proof, in order that you may reveal to
mankind all that is to befall them in
the latter days.’ And I opened the
book, and it was all written in mystic
characters, which I could not decipher
nor comprehend; and he said, ‘Put up
the book in thy bosom, and preserve it
as thou wouldst do the heart within thy
breast; for as long as thou keepest that
book, shall thy natural life remain, and
the spirit of God remain with thee, and
whatsoever thou sayest in the spirit,
shall come to pass. But beware that
thou deceive not thyself; for, if thou
endeavour to pass off studied speeches,
and words of the flesh for those of the
spirit, woe be unto thee! It had been
better for thee that thou never hadst
been born. Put up the book; thou
canst not understand it now, but it shall
be given thee to understand it, for it is
an oracle of the most high God, and its
words and signs fail not. Go thy ways,
and return to the house of thy fathers
and thy kinsfolk.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“And I said, ‘Sir, I know not where
to go, for I cannot tell by what path
you brought me hither.’ And he took
me by the hand, and led me out by a
back-door of the pavilion; and we
entered a great valley, which was all in
utter darkness, and I could perceive
through the gloom that many people
were passing the same way with ourselves;
and I said, ‘Sir, this is dreadful!
What place is this?’ And he said,
‘This is the Valley of the Shadow of
Death. Many of those you see will
grope on here for ever, and never get
over, for they know not whether they
go, or what is before them. But seest
thou nothing beside?’</p>

<p class='c008'>“And I said, ‘I see a bright and
shining light beyond, whose rays reach
even to this place.’—‘That,’ said he, ‘is
the light of the everlasting Gospel; and
to those to whom it is given to perceive
that beacon of divine love, the passage
over this valley is easy. I have shown
it to you; but if you keep that intrusted
to your care, you shall never enter this
valley again, but live and reveal the
will of God to man till mortality shall
no more remain. You shall renew your
age like the eagles, and be refreshed
with the dews of renovation from the
presence of the Lord. Sleep on now,
and take your rest, for I must leave you
again in this world of sin and sorrow.
Be you strong, and overcome it, for
men will hold you up to reproach and
ridicule, and speak all manner of evil
of you; but see that you join them not
in their voluptuousness and iniquity,
and the Lord be with you!’”</p>

<p class='c008'>There is no doubt that this is a confused
account of the prophet’s sublime
vision, it being from second hands that
I had it; and, for one thing, I know
that one-half of his relation is not contained
in it. For the consequences I
can avouch. From that time forth he
announced his mission, and began prophesying
to such families as he was sent
to. But I forgot to mention a very extraordinary
fact, that this vision of his
actually lasted nine days and nine nights,
and at the end of that time he found
himself on the very individual spot in
the glen where the voice first spoke to
him, and so much were his looks
changed, that, when he went in, none
of the family knew him.</p>

<p class='c008'>He mixed no more with the men of
the world, but wandered about in wilds
and solitudes, and when in the spirit,
he prophesied with a sublimity and
grandeur never equalled. He had
plenty of money, and some property to
boot, which his father left him; but
these he never regarded, but held on
his course of severe abstemiousness,
often subsisting on bread and water,
and sometimes for days on water alone,
from some motive known only to himself.
He had a small black pony on
which he rode many years, and which
he kept always plump and fat. This
little animal waited upon him in all his
fastings and prayings with unwearied
patience and affection. There is a well,
situated on the south side of a burn,
called the Earny Cleuch, on the very
boundary between the shires of Dumfries
and Selkirk. It is situated in a
most sequestered and lonely place, and
is called to this day the Prophet’s
Well, from the many pilgrimages that
he made to it; for it had been revealed
to him in one of his visions that this
water had some divine virtue, partaking
of the nature of the Water of Life. At
one time he lay beside this well for
nine days and nights, the pony feeding
beside him all that time, and though
there is little doubt that he had some food
with him, no body knew of any that he
had; and it was believed that he fasted
all that time, or at least subsisted, on
the water of that divine well.</p>

<p class='c008'>Some men with whom he was familiar—for
indeed he was respected and
liked by everybody, the whole tenor
of his life having been so inoffensive;—some
of his friends, I say, tried to
reason him into a belief of his mortality,
and that he would taste of death
like other men; but that he treated as
altogether chimerical, and not worth
answering; when he did answer, it was
by assuring them, that as long as he
kept his mystic scroll, and could drink
of his well, his body was proof against
all the thousand shafts of death. His
unearthly monitor appeared to him very
frequently, and revealed many secrets
to him, and at length disclosed to him
that he was <span class='sc'>Stephen</span>, the first martyr
for the Gospel of Christ. Our prophet,
in the course of time, grew so familiar
with him, that he called him by the
friendly name of Auld Steenie, and
told his friends <em>when</em> he had seen him,
and <em>part</em> of what he had told him, but
never the whole.</p>

<p class='c008'>When not in his visionary and prophetic
moods, he sometimes indulged
in a little relaxation, such as draught-playing
and fishing; but in these, like
other things, he quite excelled all compeers.
He was particularly noted for
killing salmon, by throwing the spear
at a great distance. He gave all his
fish away to poor people, or such as he
favoured that were nearest to him at the
time; so that, either for his prophetic
gifts, or natural bounty, the prophet
was always a welcome guest, whether
to poor or rich.</p>

<p class='c008'>He prophesied for the space of forty
years, foretelling many things that came
to pass in his lifetime, and many which
have come to pass since his death. I
have heard of a parable of his, to which
I can do no justice, of a certain woman
who had four sons, three of whom were
legitimate, and the other not. The
latter being rather uncultivated in his
manners, and not so well educated as
his brethren, his mother took for him
ample possessions at a great distance
from the rest of the family. The young
blade succeeded in his farming speculations
amazingly, and was grateful to his
parent, and friendly with his brethren
in all their interchanges of visits. But
when the mother perceived his success,
she sent and demanded a tenth from
him of all he possessed. This rather
astounded the young man, and he hesitated
about compliance in parting with
so much, at any rate. But the parent
insisted on her right to demand that
or any sum which she chose, and the
teind she would have. The lad, not
wishing to break with his parent and
benefactor, bade her say no more about
it, and he would give her the full value
of that she demanded as of his own
accord; but she would have it in no
other way than as her own proper
right. On this the headstrong and
powerful knave took the law on his
mother; won, and ruined her; so that
she and her three remaining sons were
reduced to beggary. Wat then continued—“And
now it is to yourselves
I speak this, ye children of my people,
for this evil is nigh you, even at your
doors. There are some here who will
not see it, but there are seven here who
will see the end of it, and then they
shall know that there has been a prophet
among them.”</p>

<p class='c008'>It having been in a private family
where this prophecy was delivered,
they looked always forward with fear
for some contention breaking out among
them. But after the American war and
its consequences, the whole of Wat’s
parable was attributed thereto, and the
good people relieved from the horrors
of their impending and ruinous lawsuit.</p>

<p class='c008'>One day he was prophesying about
the judgment, when a young gentleman
said to him, “O, sir, I wish you
could tell us when the judgment will
be.” “Alas! my man,” returned
he, “that is what I cannot do; for of
that day and of that hour knoweth no
man; no, not the angels which are in
heaven, but the Almighty Father alone.
But there will be many judgments before
the great and general one. In seven
years there will be a judgment on Scotland.
In seven times seven there will
be a great and heavy judgment on all
the nations of Europe; and in other
seven times seven there will be a greater
one on all the nations of the world; but
whether or not that is to be the last
judgment, God only knoweth.”</p>

<p class='c008'>These are dangerous and difficult
sayings of our prophet. I wonder what
the Rev. Edward Irving would say
about them, or if they approach in any
degree to his calculations. Not knowing
the year when this prophecy was
delivered, it is impossible to reason on
its fulfilment, but it is evident that both
the first eras must be overpast. He
always predicted ruin on the cause of
Prince Charles Stuart, even when the
whole country was ringing with applauses
of his bravery and conquests.
Our prophet detested the politics of
that house, and announced ruin and
desolation not only on the whole house,
but on all who supported it. The only
prophecy which I have yet seen in
writing relates to that brave but unfortunate
adventurer, and is contained in
a letter to a Mrs Johnston, Moffat,
dated October 1st, 1745, which must
have been very shortly after the battle
of Prestonpans. After some religious
consolation, he says, “As for that man,
Charles Stuart, let no spirit be cast
down because of him, for he is only a
meteor predicting a sudden storm, which
is destined to quench his baleful light
for ever. He is a broken pot; a vessel
wherein God hath no pleasure. His
boasting shall be turned into dread, and
his pride of heart into astonishment.
Terror shall make him afraid on every
side; he shall look on his right hand,
and there shall be none to know him;
and on his left hand, and lo! destruction
shall be ready at his side—even the
first-born of death shall open his jaws to
devour him. His confidence shall pass
away for ever, even until the king of
terrors arrive and scatter brimstone upon
his habitation. His roots shall be dried
up beneath, and the foliage of his boughs
stripped off above, until his remembrance
shall perish from the face of the
earth. He shall be thrown into the
deep waters, and the billows of God’s
wrath shall pass over him. He shall
fly to the mountains, but they shall not
hide him; and to the islands, but they
shall cast him out. Then shall he be
driven from light into darkness, and
chased out of the land.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Knowest thou not this of old time,
that the triumph of the wicked is of
short duration, and the joy of the hypocrite
but for a moment? Though his
excellency mount up into the heavens,
and his pride reach the stars, yet shall
he perish for ever, like a shadow that
passeth away and is no more. They
who have seen him in the pride of his
might shall say, Where is he? Where
now is the man that made the nations
to tremble? Is he indeed passed away
as a dream, and chased away as a vision
of the night? Yea, the Lord, who sent
him as a scourge on the wicked of the
land, shall ordain the hand of the
wicked to scourge him till his flesh and
his soul shall depart, and his name be
blotted out of the world. Therefore,
my friend in the Lord, let none despond
because of this man, but lay these things
up in thy heart, and ponder on them,
and when they are fulfilled, then shalt
thou believe that the Lord sent me.”</p>

<p class='c008'>From the tenor of this prophecy, it
would appear that he has borrowed
largely from some of the most sublime
passages of Scripture, which could not
fail of giving a tincture of sublimity to
many of his sayings, so much admired
by the country people. It strikes me
there are some of these expressions
literally from the Book of Job; but,
notwithstanding, it must be acknowledged
that some parts of it are peculiarly
applicable to the after-fate of
Charles Edward.</p>

<p class='c008'>When old age began to steal on him,
and his beloved friends to drop out of
the world, one after another, he became
extremely heavy-hearted at being
obliged to continue for ever in the flesh.
He never had any trouble; but he felt
a great change take place in his constitution,
which he did not expect, and it
was then he became greatly concerned
at being obliged to bear a body of fading
flesh about until the end of time,
often saying, that the flesh of man was
never made to be immortal. In this
dejected state he continued about two
years, often entreating the Lord to
resume that which He had given him,
and leave him to the mercy of his Redeemer,
like other men. Accordingly,
his heavenly monitor appeared to him
once more, and demanded the scroll of
the spirit of prophecy, which was delivered
up to him at the well in the wilderness;
and then, with a holy admonition,
he left him for ever on earth. Wat
lived three years after this, cheerful and
happy, and died in peace, old, and full
of days, leaving a good worldly substance
behind him.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='the_snow-storm' class='c006'>THE SNOW-STORM.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By Professor Wilson.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>In summer there is beauty in the
wildest moors of Scotland, and the
wayfaring man who sits down for an
hour’s rest beside some little spring
that flows unheard through the brightened
moss and water-cresses, feels his
weary heart revived by the silent, serene,
and solitary prospect. On every side
sweet sunny spots of verdure smile
towards him from among the melancholy
heather; unexpectedly in the solitude
a stray sheep, it may be with its
lambs, starts half-alarmed at his motionless
figure; insects, large, bright, and
beautiful, come careering by him through
the desert air; nor does the wild want
its own songsters,—the gray linnet, fond
of the blooming furze, and now and
then the lark mounting up to heaven
above the summits of the green pastoral
hills. During such a sunshiny hour,
the lonely cottage on the waste seems
to stand in a paradise; and as he rises
to pursue his journey, the traveller looks
back and blesses it with a mingled
emotion of delight and envy. There,
thinks he, abide the children of Innocence
and Contentment, the two most
benign spirits that watch over human
life.</p>

<p class='c008'>But other thoughts arise in the mind
of him who may chance to journey
through the same scene in the desolation
of winter. The cold bleak sky girdles
the moor as with a belt of ice—life is
frozen in air and on earth. The silence
is not of repose but extinction; and
should a solitary human dwelling catch
his eye, half buried in the snow, he is
sad for the sake of them whose destiny
it is to abide far from the cheerful haunts
of men, shrouded up in melancholy, by
poverty held in thrall, or pining away
in unvisited and untended disease.</p>

<p class='c008'>But, in good truth, the heart of human
life is but imperfectly discovered from
its countenance; and before we can
know what the summer or what the
winter yields for enjoyment or trial to
our country’s peasantry, we must have
conversed with them in their fields and
by their firesides, and made ourselves
acquainted with the powerful ministry
of the seasons, not over those objects
alone that feed the eye and the imagination,
but over all the incidents, occupations,
and events, that modify or constitute
the existence of the poor.</p>

<p class='c008'>I have a short and simple story to tell
of the winter life of the moorland cottager—a
story but of one evening—with
few events and no single catastrophe—which
may haply please those hearts
whose delight it is to think on the humble
underplots that are carrying on in the
great drama of life.</p>

<p class='c008'>Two cottagers, husband and wife,
were sitting by their cheerful peat-fire
one winter evening, in a small lonely
hut on the edge of a wide moor, at some
miles’ distance from any other habitation.
There had been, at one time, several
huts of the same kind erected close together,
and inhabited by families of the
poorest class of day-labourers, who found
work among the distant farms, and at
night returned to dwellings which were
rent-free, with their little gardens won
from the waste. But one family after
another had dwindled away, and the
turf-built huts had all fallen into ruins,
except one that had always stood in the
centre of this little solitary village, with
its summer-walls covered with the richest
honeysuckles, and in the midst of the
brightest of all the gardens. It alone
now sent up its smoke into the clear
winter sky—and its little end window,
now lighted up, was the only ground-star
that shone towards the belated traveller,
if any such ventured to cross, on a
winter night, a scene so dreary and desolate.
The affairs of the small household
were all arranged for the night.
The little rough pony, that had drawn
in a sledge, from the heart of the Black-moss,
the fuel by whose blaze the cottars
were now sitting cheerily, and the little
Highland cow, whose milk enabled them
to live, were standing amicably together,
under cover of a rude shed, of which one
side was formed by the peat-stack, and
which was at once byre, and stable, and
hen-roost. Within, the clock ticked
cheerfully as the fire-light reached its
old oak-wood case, across the yellow-sanded
floor; and a small round table
stood between, covered with a snow-white
cloth, on which were milk and
oat-cakes, the morning, mid-day, and
evening meal of these frugal and contented
cottars. The spades and the
mattocks of the labourer were collected
into one corner, and showed that the
succeeding day was the blessed Sabbath;
while on the wooden chimneypiece
was seen lying an open Bible ready
for family worship.</p>

<p class='c008'>The father and the mother were sitting
together without opening their lips,
but with their hearts overflowing with
happiness, for on this Saturday night
they were, every minute, expecting to
hear at the latch the hand of their only
daughter, a maiden of about fifteen years,
who was at service with a farmer over
the hills. This dutiful child was, as
they knew, to bring home to them “her
sair-won penny fee,” a pittance which,
in the beauty of her girlhood, she earned
singing at her work, and which, in the
benignity of that sinless time, she would
pour with tears into the bosoms she so
dearly loved. Forty shillings a-year
were all the wages of sweet Hannah
Lee; but though she wore at her labour
a tortoise-shell comb in her auburn hair,
and though in the kirk none were more
becomingly arrayed than she, one half
at least of her earnings were to be reserved
for the holiest of all purposes;
and her kind, innocent heart was gladdened
when she looked on the little
purse that was, on the long-expected
Saturday night, to be taken from her
bosom, and put, with a blessing, into
the hand of her father, now growing old
at his daily toils.</p>

<p class='c008'>Of such a child the happy cottars
were thinking in their silence. And
well, indeed, might they be called
happy. It is at that sweet season that
filial piety is most beautiful. Their own
Hannah had just outgrown the mere unthinking
gladness of childhood, but had
not yet reached that time when inevitable
selfishness mixes with the pure current
of love. She had begun to think
on what her affectionate heart had felt
so long; and when she looked on the
pale face and bending frame of her
mother, on the deepening wrinkles and
whitening hairs of her father, often
would she lie weeping for their sakes
on her midnight bed, and wish that
she were beside them as they slept, that
she might kneel down and kiss them,
and mention their names over and over
again in her prayer. The parents whom
before she had only loved, her expanding
heart now also venerated. With
gushing tenderness was now mingled a
holy fear and an awful reverence. She
had discerned the relation in which she,
an only child, stood to her poor parents,
now that they were getting old, and
there was not a passage in Scripture
that spake of parents or of children,
from Joseph sold into slavery to Mary
weeping below the Cross, that was not
written, never to be obliterated, on her
uncorrupted heart.</p>

<p class='c008'>The father rose from his seat, and
went to the door to look out into the
night. The stars were in thousands,
and the full moon was risen. It was
almost light as day, and the snow, that
seemed encrusted with diamonds, was
so hardened by the frost, that his
daughter’s homeward feet would leave
no mark on its surface. He had been
toiling all day among the distant Castle-woods,
and, stiff and wearied as he now
was, he was almost tempted to go to
meet his child; but his wife’s kind
voice dissuaded him, and, returning to
the fireside, they began to talk of her
whose image had been so long passing
before them in their silence.</p>

<p class='c008'>“She is growing up to be a bonny
lassie,” said the mother; “her long
and weary attendance on me during my
fever last spring kept her down a while—but
now she is sprouting fast and fair
as a lily, and may the blessing of God
be as dew and as sunshine to our sweet
flower all the days she bloometh upon
this earth.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ay, Agnes,” replied the father,
“we are not very old yet—though we
are getting older—and a few years will
bring her to woman’s estate; and what
thing on this earth, think ye, human or
brute, would ever think of injuring her?
Why, I was speaking about her yesterday
to the minister, as he was riding
by, and he told me that none answered
at the examination in the kirk so well
as Hannah. Poor thing—I well think
she has all the Bible by heart—indeed,
she has read but little else—only some
stories, too true ones, of the blessed
martyrs, and some o’ the auld sangs o’
Scotland, in which there is nothing but
what is good, and which, to be sure,
she sings, God bless her, sweeter than
any laverock.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ay,—were we both to die this very
night, she would be happy. Not that
she would forget us all the days of her
life. But have you not seen, husband,
that God always makes the orphan
happy? None so little lonesome as
they! They come to make friends o’
all the bonny and sweet things in the
world around them, and all the kind
hearts in the world make friends o’
them. They come to know that God
is more especially the Father o’ them
on earth whose parents he has taken up
to heaven; and therefore it is that they,
for whom so many have fears, fear not
at all for themselves, but go dancing
and singing along like children whose
parents are both alive. Would it not
be so with our dear Hannah? So douce
and thoughtful a child—but never sad
or miserable—ready, it is true, to shed
tears for little, but as ready to dry them
up and break out into smiles! I know
not why it is, husband, but this night
my heart warms towards her beyond
usual. The moon and stars are at this
moment looking down upon her, and
she looking up to them, as she is glinting
homewards over the snow. I wish
she were but here, and taking the comb
out o’ her bonny hair, and letting it all
fall down in clusters before the fire, to
melt away the cranreuch!”</p>

<p class='c008'>While the parents were thus speaking
of their daughter, a loud sough of
wind came suddenly over the cottage,
and the leafless ash-tree under whose
shelter it stood, creaked and groaned
dismally as it passed by. The father
started up, and, going again to the
door, saw that a sudden change had
come over the face of the night. The
moon had nearly disappeared, and was
just visible in a dim, yellow, glimmering
den in the sky. All the remote
stars were obscured, and only one or
two were faintly seen in a sky that half
an hour before was perfectly cloudless,
but that was now driving with rack,
and mist, and sleet, the whole atmosphere
being in commotion. He stood
for a single moment to observe the
direction of this unforeseen storm, and
then hastily asked for his staff. “I
thought I had been more weather-wise—a
storm is coming down from the
Cairnbrae-hawse, and we shall have
nothing but a wild night.” He then
whistled on his dog—an old sheep-dog,
too old for its former labours—and set
off to meet his daughter, who might
then, for aught he knew, be crossing
the Black-moss. The mother accompanied
her husband to the door, and
took a long frightened look at the
angry sky. As she kept gazing, it
became still more terrible. The last
shred of blue was extinguished, the
wind went whirling in roaring eddies,
and great flakes of snow circled about
in the middle air, whether drifted up
from the ground, or driven down from
the clouds, the fear-stricken mother
knew not, but she at least knew that it
seemed a night of danger, despair, and
death. “Lord have mercy on us,
James, what will become of our poor
bairn!” But her husband heard not
her words, for he was already out of
sight in the snow-storm, and she was
left to the terror of her own soul in that
lonesome cottage.</p>

<p class='c008'>Little Hannah Lee had left her
master’s house, soon as the rim of the
great moon was seen by her eyes, that
had been long anxiously watching it
from the window, rising, like a joyful
dream, over the gloomy mountain-tops;
and all by herself she tripped along
beneath the beauty of the silent heaven.
Still as she kept ascending and descending
the knolls that lay in the bosom
of the glen, she sang to herself a song,
a hymn, or a psalm, without the accompaniment
of the streams, now all silent
in the frost; and ever and anon she
stopped to try to count the stars that
lay in some more beautiful part of the
sky, or gazed on the constellations that
she knew, and called them, in her joy,
by the names they bore among the
shepherds. There were none to hear
her voice, or see her smiles, but the
ear and eye of Providence. As on she
glided, and took her looks from heaven,
she saw her own little fireside—her
parents waiting for her arrival—the
Bible opened for worship—her own
little room kept so neatly for her, with
its mirror hanging by the window, in
which to braid her hair by the morning
light—her bed prepared for her by her
mother’s hand—the primroses in her
garden peeping through the snow—old
Tray, who ever welcomed her home
with his dim white eyes—the pony and
the cow;—friends all, and inmates of
that happy household. So stepped
she along, while the snow diamonds
glittered around her feet, and the frost
wove a wreath of lucid pearls round her
forehead.</p>

<p class='c008'>She had now reached the edge of
the Black-moss, which lay half-way
between her master’s and her father’s
dwelling, when she heard a loud noise
coming down Glen-Scrae, and in a few
seconds she felt on her face some flakes
of snow. She looked up the glen, and
saw the snow-storm coming down fast
as a flood. She felt no fears; but she
ceased her song; and had there been a
human eye to look upon her there, it
might have seen a shadow on her face.
She continued her course, and felt
bolder and bolder every step that
brought her nearer to her parents’
house. But the snow-storm had now
reached the Black-moss, and the broad
line of light that had lain in the direction
of her home was soon swallowed up, and
the child was in utter darkness. She
saw nothing but the flakes of snow,
interminably intermingled, and furiously
wafted in the air, close to her head;
she heard nothing but one wild, fierce,
fitful howl. The cold became intense,
and her little feet and hands were fast
being benumbed into insensibility.</p>

<p class='c008'>“It is a fearful change,” muttered
the child to herself; but still she did
not fear, for she had been born in a
moorland cottage, and lived all her days
among the hardships of the hills. “What
will become of the poor sheep!” thought
she,—but still she scarcely thought of
her own danger, for innocence, and
youth, and joy, are slow to think of
aught evil befalling themselves, and,
thinking benignly of all living things,
forget their own fear in their pity for
others’ sorrow. At last, she could no
longer discern a single mark on the
snow, either of human steps, or of
sheep-track, or the footprint of a wildfowl.
Suddenly, too, she felt out of
breath and exhausted, and, shedding
tears for herself at last, sank down in
the snow.</p>

<p class='c008'>It was now that her heart began to
quake with fear. She remembered stories
of shepherds lost in the snow, of a mother
and a child frozen to death on that very
moor—and in a moment she knew that
she was to die. Bitterly did the poor
child weep, for death was terrible to
her, who, though poor, enjoyed the
bright little world of youth and innocence.
The skies of heaven were dearer than
she knew to her—so were the flowers
of earth. She had been happy at her
work, happy in her sleep,—happy in
the kirk on Sabbath. A thousand
thoughts had the solitary child,—and
in her own heart was a spring of happiness,
pure and undisturbed as any fount
that sparkles unseen all the year through,
in some quiet nook among the pastoral
hills. But now there was to be an end
of all this—she was to be frozen to
death—and lie there till the thaw might
come; and then her father would find
her body, and carry it away to be buried
in the kirk-yard.</p>

<p class='c008'>The tears were frozen on her cheeks
as soon as shed; and scarcely had her
little hands strength to clasp themselves
together, as the thought of an overruling
and merciful Lord came across
her heart. Then, indeed, the fears
of this religious child were calmed, and
she heard without terror the plover’s
wailing cry, and the deep boom of the
bittern sounding in the moss. “I will
repeat the Lord’s Prayer;” and, drawing
her plaid more closely around her,
she whispered, beneath its ineffectual
cover,—“Our Father which art in
heaven, hallowed be thy name; thy
kingdom come; thy will be done on
earth as it is in heaven.” Had human
aid been within fifty yards, it could have
been of no avail—eye could not see
her, ear could not hear her in that
howling darkness. But that low prayer
was heard in the centre of eternity—and
that little sinless child was lying
in the snow, beneath the all-seeing eye
of God.</p>

<p class='c008'>The maiden, having prayed to her
Father in heaven, then thought of her
father on earth. Alas! they were not
far separated! The father was lying
but a short distance from his child; he
too had sunk down in the drifting
snow, after having, in less than an hour,
exhausted all the strength of fear, pity,
hope, despair, and resignation, that
could rise in a father’s heart, blindly
seeking to rescue his only child from
death, thinking that one desperate
exertion might enable them to perish in
each other’s arms. There they lay,
within a stone’s-throw of each other,
while a huge snow-drift was every
moment piling itself up into a more
insurmountable barrier between the
dying parent and his dying child.</p>

<p class='c008'>There was all this while a blazing
fire in the cottage, a white-spread
table, and beds prepared for the family
to lie down in peace. Yet was she
who sat therein more to be pitied than
the old man and the child stretched
upon the snow. “I will not go to
seek them—that would be tempting
Providence, and wilfully putting out
the lamp of life. No; I will abide
here, and pray for their souls!”
Then as she knelt down, looked she at
the useless fire burning away so cheerfully,
when all she loved might be dying
of cold; and unable to bear the thought,
she shrieked out a prayer, as if she
might pierce the sky up to the very
throne of God, and send with it her
own miserable soul to plead before Him
for the deliverance of her child and
husband. She then fell down in blessed
forgetfulness of all trouble, in the midst
of the solitary cheerfulness of that bright-burning
hearth, and the Bible, which
she had been trying to read in the
pauses of her agony, remained clasped
in her hands.</p>

<p class='c008'>Hannah Lee had been a servant for
more than six months, and it was not
to be thought that she was not beloved
in her master’s family. Soon after she
had left the house, her master’s son, a
youth of about eighteen years, who had
been among the hills looking after the
sheep, came home, and was disappointed
to find that he had lost an opportunity
of accompanying Hannah part of the
way to her father’s cottage. But the
hour of eight had gone by, and not even
the company of young William Grieve
could induce the kind-hearted daughter
to delay setting out on her journey a
few minutes beyond the time promised
to her parents. “I do not like the
night,” said William; “there will be a
fresh fall of snow soon, or the witch of
Glen-Scrae is a liar, for a snow-cloud is
hanging o’er the Birch-tree-linn, and it
may be down to the Black-moss as soon
as Hannah Lee.” So he called his two
sheep-dogs that had taken their place
under the long table before the window,
and set out, half in joy, half in fear, to
overtake Hannah, and see her safely
across the Black-moss.</p>

<p class='c008'>The snow began to drift so fast, that
before he had reached the head of the
glen, there was nothing to be seen but
a little bit of the wooden rail of the
bridge across the Sauch-burn. William
Grieve was the most active shepherd in
a large pastoral parish; he had often
passed the night among the wintry hills
for the sake of a few sheep, and all the
snow that ever fell from heaven would
not have made him turn back when
Hannah Lee was before him, and, as
his terrified heart told him, in imminent
danger of being lost. As he advanced,
he felt that it was no longer a walk of
love or friendship, for which he had
been glad of an excuse. Death stared
him in the face, and his young soul,
now beginning to feel all the passions
of youth, was filled with frenzy. He
had seen Hannah every day—at the
fireside—at work—in the kirk—on
holidays—at prayers—bringing supper
to his aged parents—smiling and singing
about the house from morning till
night. She had often brought his own
meal to him among the hills; and he
now found that, though he had never
talked to her about love, except smilingly
and playfully, he loved her
beyond father or mother, or his own
soul. “I will save thee, Hannah,”
he cried, with a loud sob, “or lie down
beside thee in the snow—and we will die
together in our youth.” A wild whistling
wind went by him, and the snow-flakes
whirled so fiercely round his
head, that he staggered on for a while
in utter blindness. He knew the path
that Hannah must have taken, and
went forwards shouting aloud, and
stopping every twenty yards to listen
for a voice. He sent his well-trained
dogs over the snow in all directions—repeating
to them her name, “Hannah
Lee,” that the dumb animals might, in
their sagacity, know for whom they
were searching; and, as they looked up
in his face, and set off to scour the moor,
he almost believed that they knew his
meaning (and it is probable they did),
and were eager to find in her bewilderment
the kind maiden by whose hand
they had so often been fed. Often
went they off into the darkness, and as
often returned, but their looks showed
that every quest had been in vain.
Meanwhile the snow was of a fearful
depth, and falling without intermission
or diminution. Had the young shepherd
been thus alone, walking across
the moor on his ordinary business, it is
probable that he might have been
alarmed for his own safety; nay, that,
in spite of all his strength and agility,
he might have sunk down beneath the
inclemency of the night, and perished.
But now the passion of his soul carried
him with supernatural strength along,
and extricated him from wreath and
pitfall. Still there was no trace of
poor Hannah Lee; and one of his dogs
at last came close to his feet, worn out
entirely, and afraid to leave its master,
while the other was mute, and, as the
shepherd thought, probably unable to
force its way out of some hollow, or
through some floundering drift.</p>

<p class='c008'>Then he all at once knew that Hannah
Lee was dead, and dashed himself
down in the snow in a fit of passion. It
was the first time that the youth had
ever been sorely tried; all his hidden
and unconscious love for the fair lost
girl had flowed up from the bottom of
his heart, and at once the sole object
which had blessed his life and made him
the happiest of the happy, was taken
away and cruelly destroyed; so that,
sullen, wrathful, baffled, and despairing,
there he lay cursing his existence, and
in too great agony to think of prayer.
“God,” he then thought, “has forsaken
me, and why should He think on me,
when He suffers one so good and beautiful
as Hannah to be frozen to death?”
God thought both of him and Hannah;
and through His infinite mercy forgave
the sinner in his wild turbulence of
passion. William Grieve had never
gone to bed without joining in prayer,
and he revered the Sabbath-day and
kept it holy. Much is forgiven to the
human heart by Him who so fearfully
framed it; and God is not slow to pardon
the love which one human being
bears to another, in his frailty—even
though that love forget or arraign His
own unsleeping providence. His voice
has told us to love one another—and
William loved Hannah in simplicity,
innocence, and truth. That she should
perish was a thought so dreadful, that,
in its agony, God seemed a ruthless
being. “Blow—blow—blow—and drift
us up for ever—we cannot be far asunder—Oh,
Hannah—Hannah, think ye not
that the fearful God has forsaken us?”</p>

<p class='c008'>As the boy groaned these words
passionately through his quivering lips,
there was a sudden lowness in the air,
and he heard the barking of his absent
dog, while the one at his feet hurried
off in the direction of the sound, and
soon loudly joined the cry. It was not
a bark of surprise, or anger, or fear—but
of recognition and love. William
sprang up from his bed in the snow,
and, with his heart knocking at his
bosom even to sickness, he rushed
headlong through the drifts with a
giant’s strength, and fell down, half
dead with joy and terror, beside the
body of Hannah Lee.</p>

<p class='c008'>But he soon recovered from that fit,
and, lifting the cold corpse in his arms,
he kissed her lips, and her cheeks, and
her forehead, and her closed eyes, till,
as he kept gazing on her face in utter
despair, her head fell back on his
shoulder, and a long deep sigh came
from her inmost bosom. “She is yet
alive, thank God!”—and, as that expression
left his lips for the first time
that night, he felt a pang of remorse:
“I said, O God, that Thou hadst forsaken
us—I am not worthy to be saved;
but let not this maiden perish, for the
sake of her parents, who have no other
child.” The distracted youth prayed
to God with the same earnestness as if
he had been beseeching a fellow-creature,
in whose hand was the power of
life and of death. The presence of the
Great Being was felt by him in the
dark and howling wild, and strength
was imparted to him as to a deliverer.
He bore along the fair child in his
arms, even as if she had been a lamb.
The snow-drift blew not; the wind fell
dead; a sort of glimmer, like that of
an upbreaking and disparting storm,
gathered about him; his dogs barked,
and jumped, and burrowed joyfully in
the snow; and the youth, strong in
sudden hope, exclaimed, “With the
blessing of God, who has not deserted
us in our sore distress, will I carry thee,
Hannah, in my arms, and lay thee
down alive in the house of thy father.”
At this moment there were no stars in
heaven, but she opened her dim blue
eyes upon him in whose bosom she was
unconsciously lying, and said, as in a
dream, “Send the ribbon that ties up
my hair as a keepsake to William
Grieve.” “She thinks that she is on
her deathbed, and forgets not the son
of her master. It is the voice of God
that tells me she will not now die, and
that, under His grace, I shall be her
deliverer.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The short-lived rage of the storm
was soon over, and William could
attend to the beloved being on his
bosom. The warmth of his heart
seemed to infuse life into hers; and, as
he gently placed her feet on the snow,
till he muffled her up in his plaid, as
well as in her own, she made an effort
to stand, and, with extreme perplexity
and bewilderment, faintly inquired
where she was, and what fearful misfortune
had befallen them? She was,
however, too weak to walk; and, as
her young master carried her along,
she murmured, “O William! what if
my father be in the moor?—For if you,
who need care so little about me, have
come hither, as I suppose, to save my
life, you may be sure that my father
sat not within doors during the storm.”
As she spoke, it was calm below, but
the wind was still alive in the upper
air, and cloud, rack, mist, and sleet
were all driving about in the sky. Out
shone for a moment the pallid and
ghostly moon, through a rent in the
gloom, and by that uncertain light came
staggering forward the figure of a man.
“Father—father!” cried Hannah—and
his gray hairs were already on her
cheek. The barking of the dogs, and
the shouting of the young shepherd,
had struck his ear, as the sleep of death
was stealing over him, and, with the
last effort of benumbed nature, he had
roused himself from that fatal torpor,
and pressed through the snow-wreath
that had separated him from his child.
As yet they knew not of the danger
each had endured, but each judged of
the other’s sufferings from their own;
and father and daughter regarded one
another as creatures rescued, and hardly
yet rescued, from death.</p>

<p class='c008'>But a few minutes ago, and the
three human beings who loved each
other so well, and now feared not to
cross the moor in safety, were, as they
thought, on their deathbeds. Deliverance
now shone upon them all like a
gentle fire, dispelling that pleasant but
deadly drowsiness; and the old man
was soon able to assist William Grieve
in leading Hannah along through the
snow. Her colour and her warmth
returned, and her lover—for so might
he well now be called—felt her heart
gently beating against his side. Filled
as that heart was with gratitude to God,
joy in her deliverance, love to her
father, and purest affection for her
master’s son, never before had the
innocent maiden known what was
happiness, and never more was she to
forget it. The night was now almost
calm, and fast returning to its former
beauty, when the party saw the first
twinkle of the fire through the low
window of the Cottage of the Moor.
They soon were at the garden gate,
and, to relieve the heart of the wife and
mother within, they talked loudly and
cheerfully—naming each other familiarly,
and laughing between, like persons
who had known neither danger nor
distress.</p>

<p class='c008'>No voice answered from within—no
footstep came to the door, which stood
open as when the father had left it in
his fear, and now he thought with
affright that his wife, feeble as she was,
had been unable to support the loneliness,
and had followed him out into the
night, never to be brought home alive.
As they bore Hannah into the house,
this fear gave way to worse, for there
upon the hard clay floor lay the mother
upon her face, as if murdered by some
savage blow. She was in the same
deadly swoon into which she had fallen
on her husband’s departure three hours
before. The old man raised her up,
and her pulse was still—so was her
heart—her face pale and sunken—and
her body cold as ice. “I have recovered
a daughter,” said the old man,
“but I have lost a wife;” and he
carried her with a groan to the bed, on
which he laid her lifeless body. The
sight was too much for Hannah, worn
out as she was, and who had hitherto
been able to support herself in the delightful
expectation of gladdening her
mother’s heart by her safe arrival.
She, too, now swooned away, and, as
she was placed on the bed beside her
mother, it seemed, indeed, that Death,
disappointed of his prey on the wild
moor, had seized it in the cottage and
by the fireside. The husband knelt
down by the bedside, and held his
wife’s icy hand in his, while William
Grieve, appalled and awe-stricken,
hung over his Hannah, and inwardly
implored God that the night’s wild adventure
might not have so ghastly an
end. But Hannah’s young heart soon
began once more to beat—and, soon as
she came to her recollection, she rose
up with a face whiter than ashes and
free from all smiles, as if none had ever
played there, and joined her father and
young master in their efforts to restore
her mother to life.</p>

<p class='c008'>It was the mercy of God that had
struck her down to the earth, insensible
to the shrieking winds, and the fears
that would otherwise have killed
her. Three hours of that wild storm
had passed over her head, and she heard
nothing more than if she had been
asleep in a breathless night of the summer
dew. Not even a dream had
touched her brain, and when she opened
her eyes, which, as she thought, had
been but a moment shut, she had
scarcely time to recall to her recollection
the image of her husband rushing
out into the storm, and of a daughter
therein lost, till she beheld that very
husband kneeling tenderly by her bedside,
and that very daughter smoothing
the pillow on which her aching temples
reclined. But she knew from the white
steadfast countenances before her that
there had been tribulation and deliverance,
and she looked on the beloved
beings ministering by her bed, as more
fearfully dear to her from the unimagined
danger from which she felt assured
they had been rescued by the arm of the
Almighty.</p>

<p class='c008'>There is little need to speak of returning
recollection, and returning
strength. They had all now power to
weep, and power to pray. The Bible
had been lying in its place ready for
worship, and the father read aloud that
chapter in which is narrated our Saviour’s
act of miraculous power by which
He saved Peter from the sea. Soon as
the solemn thoughts awakened by that
act of mercy, so similar to that which
had rescued themselves from death, had
subsided, and they had all risen up from
prayer, they gathered themselves in
gratitude round the little table which
had stood so many hours spread; and
exhausted nature was strengthened and
restored by a frugal and simple meal,
partaken of in silent thankfulness. The
whole story of the night was then calmly
recited; and when the mother heard
how the stripling had followed her sweet
Hannah into the storm, and borne her
in his arms through a hundred drifted
heaps—and then looked upon her in her
pride, so young, so innocent, and so
beautiful, she knew, that were the child
indeed to become an orphan, there was
one who, if there was either trust in
nature or truth in religion, would guard
and cherish her all the days of her
life.</p>

<p class='c008'>It was not nine o’clock when the storm
came down from Glen-Scrae upon the
Black-moss, and now in a pause of
silence the clock struck twelve. Within
these three hours William and Hannah
had led a life of trouble and of joy, that
had enlarged and kindled their hearts
within them; and they felt that henceforth
they were to live wholly for each
other’s sakes. His love was the proud
and exulting love of a deliverer, who,
under Providence, had saved from the
frost and the snow, the innocence and
the beauty of which his young passionate
heart had been so desperately enamoured;
and he now thought of his own
Hannah Lee ever more moving about
in his father’s house, not as a servant,
but as a daughter—and, when some few
happy years had gone by, his own most
beautiful and loving wife. The innocent
maiden still called him her young master,
but was not ashamed of the holy affection
which she now knew that she had long
felt for the fearless youth on whose bosom
she had thought herself dying in that
cold and miserable moor. Her heart
leapt within her when she heard her parents
bless him by his name; and when he
took her hand into his before them, and
vowed before that Power who had that
night saved them from the snow, that
Hannah Lee should ere long be his
wedded wife, she wept and sobbed as
if her heart would break in a fit of
strange and insupportable happiness.</p>

<p class='c008'>The young shepherd rose to bid them
farewell—“My father will think I am
lost,” said he, with a grave smile, “and
my Hannah’s mother knows what it is
to fear for a child.” So nothing was
said to detain him, and the family went
with him to the door. The skies
smiled as serenely as if a storm had
never swept before the stars; the moon
was sinking from her meridian, but in
cloudless splendour; and the hollow of
the hills was hushed as that of heaven.
Danger there was none over the placid
night-scene; the happy youth soon
crossed the Black-moss, now perfectly
still; and, perhaps, just as he was
passing, with a shudder of gratitude,
the very spot where his sweet Hannah
Lee had so nearly perished, she was
lying down to sleep in her innocence,
or dreaming of one now dearer to her
than all on earth but her parents.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='love_at_one_glimpse' class='c006'>LOVE AT ONE GLIMPSE;<br> <span class='large'><em>OR, THE GLASGOW GENTLEMAN AND THE LADY</em></span>.</h2>
</div>

<p class='c007'>Some years ago, there used to be
pointed out, upon the streets of Glasgow,
a man whose intellect had been unsettled
upon a very strange account.
When a youth, he had happened to pass
a lady on a crowded throughfare—a
lady whose extreme beauty, though
dimmed by the intervention of a veil,
and seen but for a moment, made an
indelible impression upon his mind.
This lovely vision shot rapidly past
him, and was in an instant lost amidst
the commonplace crowd through which
it moved. He was so confounded by
the tumult of his feelings, that he could
not pursue, or even attempt to see it
again. Yet he never afterwards forgot
it.</p>

<p class='c008'>With a mind full of distracting
thoughts, and a heart filled alternately
with gushes of pleasure and of pain,
the man slowly left the spot where he
had remained for some minutes as it
were thunderstruck. He soon after,
without being aware of what he wished,
or what he was doing, found himself again
at the place. He came to the very spot
where he had stood when the lady passed,
mused for some time about it, went
to a little distance, and then came up
as he had come when he met the exquisite
subject of his reverie—unconsciously
deluding himself with the idea
that this might recall her to the spot.
She came not; he felt disappointed. He
tried again; still she abstained from
passing. He continued to traverse the
place till the evening, when the street
became deserted. By-and-by, he was
left altogether alone. He then saw that
all his fond efforts were vain, and he
left the silent, lonely street at midnight,
with a soul as desolate as that gloomy
terrace.</p>

<p class='c008'>For weeks afterwards he was never off
the streets. He wandered hither and
thither throughout the town, like a forlorn
ghost. In particular, he often
visited the place where he had first
seen the object of his abstracted thoughts,
as if he considered that he had a better
chance of seeing her there than anywhere
else. He frequented every place
of public amusement to which he could
purchase admission; and he made the
tour of all the churches in the town. All
was in vain. He never again placed
his eyes upon that angelic countenance.
She was ever present to his mental
optics, but she never appeared in a
tangible form. Without her essential
presence, all the world beside was to
him as a blank—a wilderness.</p>

<p class='c008'>Madness invariably takes possession
of the mind which broods over much
or over long upon some engrossing idea.
So did it prove with this singular lover.
He grew “innocent,” as the people of
this country tenderly phrase it. His
insanity, however, was little more than
mere abstraction. The course of his
mind was stopped at a particular point.
After this he made no further progress
in any intellectual attainment. He
acquired no new ideas. His whole
soul stood still. He was like a clock
stopped at a particular hour, with some
things, too, about him, which, like the
motionless indices of that machine,
pointed out the date of the interruption.
As, for instance, he ever after
wore a peculiarly long-backed and
high-necked coat, as well as a neckcloth
of a particular spot—being the
fashion of the year when he saw the
lady. Indeed, he was a sort of living
memorial of the dress, gait, and manners
of a former day. It was evident
that he clung with a degree of fondness
to every thing which bore relation to
the great incident of his life. Nor
could he endure any thing that tended
to cover up or screen from his recollection
that glorious yet melancholy circumstance.
He had the same feeling of
veneration for that day, that circumstance,
and for himself, as he then
existed, which caused the chivalrous
lover of former times to preserve upon
his lips, as long as he could, the
imaginary delight which they had
drawn from the touch of his mistress’s
hand.</p>

<p class='c008'>When I last saw this unfortunate
person, he was getting old, and seemed
still more deranged than formerly.
Every female whom he met on the
street, especially if at all good looking,
he gazed at with an enquiring, anxious
expression; and when she had passed,
he usually stood still a few moments
and mused, with his eyes cast upon the
ground. It was remarkable, that he
gazed most anxiously upon women
whose age and figures most nearly
resembled that of his unknown mistress
at the time he had seen her, and that
he did not appear to make allowance
for the years which had passed since
his eyes met that vision. This was
part of his madness. Strange power of
love! Incomprehensible mechanism of
the human heart!—<cite>Edinburgh Literary
Journal</cite>, 1829.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='nanny_welsh_the_ministers_maid' class='c006'>NANNY WELSH, THE MINISTER’S MAID.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By Daniel Gorrie.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>There are now—so far at least as
my experience goes—fewer specimens
of homely, odd, and eccentric characters
to be met with in Scotland than in
former years. In solitary nooks of the
country, away from the boom of cities,
and the rush of railways, many doubtless
still exist, and contribute largely to
the amusement of their rural acquaintances;
but it cannot be denied that the
race of originals is fast disappearing,
and threatens ultimately to become altogether
extinct. Into the cause or
causes of this I do not intend to enter;
it is sufficient to chronicle the melancholy
fact. There may be a beauty in similarity,
but there is a higher beauty in
diversity. Men and women are now so
very much alike, that the study of mankind
is not such a difficult task after all.
The greater facilities for intercourse
which the present generation enjoys
have tended to rub off the angularities
of individual character, and to create a
fusion, or confusion, of all classes in the
community. Such being the case, it is
pleasant at times to revert from the
present to the past, and to recall the
peculiar aspect, the odd sayings, and
eccentric doings of persons with whom
we were familiar in former years.</p>

<p class='c008'>Among a number of others, Nanny
Welsh stands prominent in my recollection.
She was maid-of-all-work in
the old home-manse of Keppel, where I
first saw the light of day, and for many
years afterwards. A rare specimen
Nanny was of the departed or departing
race of familiar domestics. She
had herded the cows of neighbouring
farmers, almost from her childhood, until
she entered upon domestic service, and
she had well nigh attained the prime of
life before she became minister’s maid,
an honour which she highly esteemed
and long enjoyed. She was big-boned
and masculine in the build of her body.
Her face was long and hard, almost
grim, and well freckled, and deeply
browned by frequent exposure to the
sun and air. A white “mutch,” with
a high horse-shoe shaped crown, surmounted
her head at morning, noon,
and night. With her gown tucked up
behind in the old familiar fashion of
domestics, and a youngster strapped on
her back with a shawl, and peering
with his little “pow” over her shoulders,
she went to work, as if the fate of empires,
not to speak of the honour of the
old manse, depended upon her exertions.
She used to boast that she could “pit
mair through her hands in an hour than
ony ither woman i’ the parish.” She
was, in truth, a capital worker; and
while her hands went her tongue wagged.
Nanny could never endure either
to be idle or silent. When engaged in
scrubbing pots and pans, the bairn on
her back was not forgotten, but received
all the benefit of her sayings and soliloquies.
In the discharge of her domestic
duties she liked to carry everything
her own way, and generally managed
to take it, whatever orders might be
given to the contrary.</p>

<p class='c008'>This good woman had the welfare of
the family at heart, and a great favourite
she was amongst us youngsters, although
she had a very summary mode
of disposing of us sometimes when we
attempted to teaze her or became unruly.
I remember well an advice she gave us,
on more than one occasion, when we
were invited out to juvenile tea-parties
in the neighbourhood. “Noo, bairns,”
she would say, after our faces were
scrubbed, and our hair was smoothed,
“see an’ eat weel when ye’re at it, an’
no come hame garavishin’ an’ eatin’.”
We not unfrequently paid the penalty
next day of adhering too strictly to the
letter of this advice; but when children
see heaps of buns, cookies, and shortbread
piled up on the table, who can
blame them if they take no thought of
the morrow? Nanny used to relate
with great glee a saying of one of us
manse bairns. It was the custom at
the communion season in those days
(and it may be the custom in some
places still) for the wealthier members
of country congregations to send the
minister some substantial present for
the bodily benefit of his officiating
friends. One of us, standing at the
garden gate, had seen an expected arrival
approaching, and running with
breathless haste to the kitchen, had
exclaimed—“Nanny, Nanny! here’s a
salmon comin’—this is the <i><span lang="la">rale sacrament</span></i>!”
Nanny, honest woman, never
forgot the sentiment, and often repeated
it to the discomfiture of its juvenile
author.</p>

<p class='c008'>In the fulness of time, and when our
domestic seemed doomed to a life of
single blessedness, a wooer at last appeared
in the person of Peter Pearson,
the pensioner. Peter had lost his wife;
and six months after her decease, he
came to the conclusion that it is not
good—that it is utterly uncomfortable,
in fact—for man to be alone. And so
he looked favourably upon Nanny
Welsh, admired her proportions, estimated
her energy at its true value, and
finally managed to make his way into
the manse kitchen of an evening. It
must have cost him a considerable
effort to effect this at first, as he regarded
the minister with great awe.
Peter had been in the artillery force.
He had served in Spain and South
America, and returned home, not disabled,
but “dull of hearing,” to enjoy
his hard-won pension. He was a quiet
and stolid, but kind-hearted man. He
was very uncommunicative as regarded
his military service and exploits. It
was impossible to force or coax him to
“fight his battles o’er again” by the
fireside. Whether it was owing to want
of narrative power, or to some dark
remembrance that overshadowed his
mind, Peter invariably maintained discreet
silence when soldiers and war
became the topics of conversation. On
one occasion he was asked if he had
ever been at Chili, and his answer was,
“I’ve been at Gibraltar at ony rate!”
This sounds somewhat like the reply of
the smart youth who, when it was inquired
of him, if he had ever been in
Paris, quickly responded, “No; but
my brother has been to Crail!”</p>

<p class='c008'>The wooing of Peter Pearson, pensioner,
and Nanny Welsh, spinster,
might have formed a new era in the
history of courtship. No sighs were
heard. No side-long, loving glances
passed between them. There was no
tremulous pressure of the hands, or
tingling touch of meeting lips. Peter
was “senselessly ceevil,” although, I
verily believe, if he had attempted to
kiss Nanny she would have brained
him on the spot with the beetle, and
left the warrior to die ingloriously on
the hearthstone. No, they did not wish
to make “auld fules” of themselves.
They wooed in their own way, and
understood each other perfectly well.
Peter sat by the hearth, smoking his
twist peacefully, and squirting out the
juice as he had done at camp-fires in
former years; and Nanny went about
cleaning dishes, lifting tables, and
arranging chairs, and only exchanging
occasional words with her future husband.
She was never so talkative
when Peter was present as when he
was absent. It was only on rare occasions
that she ventured to sit down on
a chair beside him. She seemed always
afraid of being caught doing anything
so indecorous in the manse kitchen. I
scarcely think that Peter required to
propose. It was a tacit understanding,
and their marriage-day was fixed, apparently,
by mutual uncommunicated
arrangement.</p>

<p class='c008'>On the night before the bridal some
of the neighbouring domestics and other
women invaded the kitchen, and subjected
Nanny to the painful pleasure
of feet-washing—a ceremony somewhat
different from the annual performance
at Vienna. She kicked furiously at
first, calling her tormentors impudent
hizzies and limmers; but she was compelled
at last to succumb, and yielded
with more reluctance than grace.</p>

<p class='c008'>The marriage was celebrated quietly in
the manse next day, and the youngest of
the family sat crowing on Nanny’s knee,
while she was being told the sum and
substance of her duties as a wife. No
sooner was the ceremony concluded,
than she tucked up her wedding gown,
and expressed her desire and determination
to “see a’ things putten richt
i’ the kitchen afore she gaed awa’.”
Peter had leased a cottage in a little
way-side village, about two miles distant
from the manse, and this was the
extent of their marriage jaunt. No
doubt the evening would be spent
hilariously by their friends and acquaintances,
who would drink the health of
the “happy pair” with overflowing
bumpers.</p>

<p class='c008'>Peter and Nanny lived very happily
together, although “the gray mare was
the better horse.” She continued to be as
industrious as ever, and the pensioner
managed to eke out his government pay
by what is called, in some parts of the
country, “orra wark.” Nanny came
regularly every Sabbath to the manse
between sermons, and took pot-luck
with the family. We were always glad
to see her, and hear her invariable,
“Losh, laddie, is that you?” Many a
time and oft we all visited her cottage in
a body, and what glorious teas she used
to give us! Still do I remember, and
not without stomachic regrets, the mountains
of bannocks, the hills of cakes, the
hillocks of cookies, the ridges of butter,
the red congealed pools of jelly, and the
three tea-spoonfuls of sugar in each cup!
It was a never-to-be-forgotten treat.
Compare Nanny’s tea-parties with the
fashionable “cookey-shines” of the present
generation! But, soft; that way madness
lies! The good woman had a garden
too; and how we youngsters pitched
into her carrots, currants, and gooseberries,
or rather, to speak correctly,
pitched them into ourselves. We remembered
her own advice about not returning
home “garavishin’ and eatin’.”
She prided herself greatly upon her
powers of pig-feeding, and next to the
pleasure of seeing us feasting like locusts
was the delight she experienced in contemplating,
with folded arms, her precious
pig devouring its meal of potatoes
and greens. “Isn’t it a bonny beastie?—did
you ever see sic a bonny beastie?”
she would frequently exclaim. I never
saw so much affection bestowed before
or since upon the lowest of the lower
animals. The pig knew her perfectly
well, and responded to her laudatory
phrases by complacent grunts. Between
Peter and the pig, I am verily
persuaded, she led a happier life than
imperial princes in their palaces. No
little artilleryman ever made his appearance
to disturb the harmony of the
house by tying crackers to the cat’s
tail.</p>

<p class='c008'>Nanny’s first visit to Edinburgh
formed a rare episode in her life. This
happened a good many years after her
marriage. The ride on the top of the
coach through the kingdom of Fife, she
described as “fearsome;” and the
horses dashing up hill and down, excited
her liveliest compassion. When
asked how she felt after her sail between
Kirkcaldy and Leith (the day was
pleasant and the water smooth), her
reply was—“Wonnerfu’—wonnerfu’
weel, after sic a voyage!” The streets
of the city, the high houses, the multitudinous
shops, and the crowds of people,
excited her rustic astonishment beyond
all bounds. “Is’t a market the day?”
she would interject—“whaur’s a’ the
folk gaun?” Her own appearance on
the pavement attracted the notice of
passers-by; and no wonder. Figure a
big-boned, ungainly woman, with long,
freckled face and open mouth, and dressed
in defiance of the fashion of the time,
striding up the Bridges, and “glowering”
into everybody’s face, as if she expected
to see her “aunty’s second cousin”—figure
such a person, and you will form
a respectable picture of Nanny Welsh,
<em>alias</em> Mrs Pearson, as she appeared
many years ago on the streets of Modern
Athens. She could never go out alone
from the house where she was staying
without losing herself. Once she went
to the shop next door, and it took her an
hour to find the way back again. On
another occasion, when she had taken a
longer trip than usual, she went completely
off her reckoning, forgot the
name of the street, mistook the part of
the town, and asked every person she
met, gentle or simple, swells or sweeps,
“Gin they kent whaur Mrs So-and-so
stopit!” I never learned correctly how
she got out of that scrape. All she
could say was that “a ceevil man brocht
her to the bottom o’ the stair.” She
was perfectly dumfoundered when she
saw and heard that the people of Edinburgh
had to buy the “bits o’ sticks”
with which they kindled their fires in
the morning. She protested that she
could bring “a barrowfu’ o’ rosity
roots frae the wuds that would keep
her chimley gaun for a fortnicht.”
Going to the market to buy vegetables
she looked upon as perfectly preposterous.
“Flingin’ awa,” she would say,
“gude white saxpences an’ shillin’s
for neeps, carrots, ingans, an’ kail—it
beats a’!”</p>

<p class='c008'>The open-mouthed wonder of Nanny
reached its height when one night, after
long and urgent solicitation, she was
persuaded to go under good protection
to the Theatre Royal. Mackay was
then in the zenith of his fame, and
attracted crowded houses, more especially
by his unique representation of
Bailie Nicol Jarvie. Nanny was taken
to the pit. The blaze of light, the
galleries rising one above another, the
gaily-dressed ladies, the sea of faces
surging from floor to roof, the whistling,
hooting, and laughing—all these mingled
together produced a bewildering
effect upon the poor woman, and her
bewilderment increased as the curtain
rose and the play proceeded. She was
speechless for about an hour—she did
nothing but gape and gaze. A human
being suddenly transported into some
brilliant and magical hall, or into
another world, could scarcely have
betrayed more abject astonishment.
At last her wonder found vent, and she
exclaimed in the hearing, and much to
the amusement, of those who surrounded
her—“Tak me awa—tak me awa—this
is no a place for me—I’m just Peter
Pearson’s ain wife!” She would not
be persuaded to remain even when the
Bailie kept the house dissolved in
loosened laughter. The idea seemed
to be strong in her mind that the people
were all laughing at <em>her</em>. She was the
best actress, although the most unconscious
one, in the whole house. What
a capital pair the Bailie and Nanny
would have made! She would have
beat Miss Nicol. Her first appearance
on the stage would have been a perfect
triumph—it would have secured the
fame and fortune of Mrs Pearson.
Nanny never liked to be asked her
opinion of the Edinburgh theatre. She
only shook her head, and appeared to
regard it as something akin to Pandemonium.</p>

<p class='c008'>Nanny’s stories about the sayings and
doings of the Edinburgh people served
her for fireside talk many a winter
evening after she returned home to
Peter Pearson. Peter, who had seen
more of the world, used to take a quiet
chuckle to himself when she finished her
description of some “ferlie” that had
excited her astonishment or admiration.
The gilded wonders above shop doors—the
Highlanders taking pinches of
snuff—the wool-packs—the great glittering
spectacles—the rams’ heads and
horns—these had excited her rustic
curiosity almost as much as they attract
the interest of a child. Poor honest
Nanny! she has now slept for years
where the “rude forefathers of the
hamlet sleep,” and Peter, after life’s
fitful fever, sleeps well by her side.—<cite><span lang="la">Pax
Vobiscum!</span></cite></p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='lady_jean' class='c006'>LADY JEAN:<br> <span class='large'><em>A TALE OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY</em></span>.</h2>
</div>

<h3 class='c013'><span class='sc'>Chapter I</span>.</h3>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>The Yerl o’ Wigton had three dauchters,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>O braw walie! they were bonnie!</div>
      <div class='line'>The youngest o’ them and the bonniest too,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Has fallen in love wi’ Richie Storie.</div>
      <div class='line in36'><cite>Old Ballad.</cite></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c008'>The Earl of Wigton, whose name
figures in Scottish annals of the reign of
Charles II., had three daughters, named
Lady Frances, Lady Grizel, and Lady
Jean,—the last being by several years
the youngest, and by many degrees the
most beautiful. All the three usually
resided with their mother at the chief
seat of the family, Cumbernauld House,
in Stirlingshire; but the two eldest
were occasionally permitted to attend
their father in Edinburgh, in order that
they might have some chance of obtaining
lovers at the court held there by the
Duke of Lauderdale, while Lady Jean
was kept constantly at home, and debarred
from the society of the capital,
lest her superior beauty might interfere
with and foil the attractions of her
sisters, who, according to the notion of
that age, had a sort of “right of primogeniture”
in matrimony, as well as in
what was called “heirship.”</p>

<p class='c008'>It may be easily imagined that, while
the two marriageable ladies were enjoying
all the delights of a third flat in one
of the “closes” of the Canongate,
spending their days in seeing beaux,
and their nights in dreaming of them,
Lady Jean led no pleasant life amidst
the remote and solitary splendour of
Cumbernauld, where her chief employment
was the disagreeable one of attending
her mother, a very infirm and
querulous old dame, much given (it
was said) to strong waters. At the
period when our tale opens, Lady
Jean’s charms, though never seen in the
capital, had begun to make some noise
there; and the curiosity excited respecting
them amongst the juvenile party of
the vice-regal court, had induced Lord
Wigton to confine her ladyship even
more strictly than heretofore, lest perchance
some gallant might make a pilgrimage
to his country seat, in order to
behold her, and from less to more, induce
her to quit her retirement, in such
a way as would effectually discomfit his
schemes for the pre-advancement of his
elder daughters. He had been at pains
to send an express to Cumbernauld,
ordering Lady Jean to be confined to the
precincts of the house and the terrace-garden,
and to be closely attended in
all her movements by a trusty domestic.
The consequence was that the young
lady complained most piteously to her
deaf old lady-mother of the tedium and
listlessness of her life, and wished with
all her heart that she was as ugly, old,
and happy as her sisters.</p>

<p class='c008'>Lord Wigton was not insensible to
the cruelty of his policy, however well he
might be convinced of its advantage
and necessity. He loved his youngest
daughter more than the rest; and it was
only in obedience to what he conceived
to be the commands of duty, that he
subjected her to the restraint. His
lordship, therefore, felt anxious to alleviate
in some measure the <em>désagrémens</em>
of her solitary confinement; and
knowing her to be fond of music, he had
sent to her by the last messenger a
theorbo lute, with which he thought she
would be able to amuse herself in a way
very much to her mind,—not considering
that, as she could not play upon the
instrument, it would be little better to
her than an unmeaning toy. By the
return of his messenger, he received a
letter from Lady Jean, thanking him for
the theorbo, but making him aware
of his oversight, and begging him to
send some person who could teach
her to play.</p>

<p class='c008'>The earl, whose acquirements in the
philosophy of politics had never been
questioned, felt ashamed of having committed
such a solecism in so trivial a
matter; and like all men anxious to
repair or conceal an error in judgment,
immediately ran into another of ten
times greater consequence and magnitude:
he gratified his daughter in her
wish.</p>

<p class='c008'>The gentry of Scotland were at that
time in the custom of occasionally employing
a species of servants, whose
accomplishments and duties would now
appear of a very anomalous character,
though at that time naturally arising
from the peculiar situation of this
country, in respect to its southern
neighbour. They were, in general,
humble men who had travelled a good
deal, and acquired many foreign accomplishments;
who, returning to their
native country after an absence of a few
years, usually entered into the service
of the higher class of families, partly
as ordinary livery-men, and partly with
the purpose of instructing the youth of
both sexes, as they grew up and required
such exercises, in dancing, music,
writing, &#38;c., besides a vast variety of
other arts, comprehended in the general
phrase of “breeding.” Though these
men received much higher wages, and
were a thousand times more unmanageable
than common serving men, they
served a good purpose in those days,
when young people had scarcely any
other opportunities of acquiring the
ornamental branches of education, except
by going abroad.</p>

<p class='c008'>It so happened, that not many days
after Lord Wigton received his
daughter’s letter, he was applied to for
employment by one of these useful personages,
a tall and handsome youth,
apparently five-and-twenty, with dark,
Italian-looking features, a slight moustache,
and as much foreign peculiarity
in his dress as indicated that he was
just returned from his travels. After
putting a few questions, his lordship
discovered that the youth was possessed
of many agreeable accomplishments;
was, in particular, perfectly well qualified
to teach the theorbo, and had no objection
to entering the service of a young
lady of quality, only with the proviso
that he was to be spared the disgrace of
a livery. Lord Wigton then made no
scruple in engaging him for a certain
period; and next day saw the youth on
the way to Cumbernauld, with a letter
from his lordship to Lady Jean, setting
forth all his good qualities, and containing
among other endearing expressions,
a hope that she would both benefit by
his instructions, and be in the meantime
content on their account with her
present residence.</p>

<p class='c008'>Any occurrence at Cumbernauld of
higher import than the breaking of
a needle in embroidering, or the miscarriage
of a brewing of currant-wine,
would have been quite an incident in
the eyes of Lady Jean; and even to
have given alms at the castle-gate to an
extraordinary beggar, or to see so much
as a “stranger” in the candle, might
have supplied her with amusement infinite,
and speculation boundless. What,
then, must have been her delight, when
the goodly and youthful figure of
Richard Storie alighted one dull summer
afternoon at the gate, and when
the credentials he presented disclosed
to her the agreeable purpose of his
mission! Her joy knew no bounds;
nor did she know in what terms to
welcome the stranger; she ran from
one end of the house to the other, up
stairs and down stairs, in search of she
knew not what; and finally, in her
transports, she shook her mother out
of a drunken slumber, which the old
lady was enjoying as usual in her large
chair in the parlour.</p>

<p class='c008'>Master Richard, as he was commonly
designated, soon found himself comfortably
established in the good graces of
the whole household of Cumbernauld,
and not less so in the particular favour
of his young mistress. Even the sour
old lady of the large chair was pleased
with his handsome appearance, and was
occasionally seen to give a preternatural
nod and smile at some of his musical
exhibitions, as much as to say she
knew when he performed well, and was
willing to encourage humble merit. As
for Lady Jean, whose disposition was
equally lively and generous, she could
not express, in sufficiently warm terms,
her admiration of his performances,
or the delight she experienced from
them. Nor was she ever content without
having Master Richard in her presence,
either to play himself, or to teach
her the enchanting art. She was a most
apt scholar—so apt, that in a few days
she was able to accompany him with
the theorbo and voice, while he played
upon an ancient harpsichord belonging
to the old lady, which he had rescued
from a lumber room, and had been at
some pains to repair. The exclusive
preference thus given to music for the
time threw his other accomplishments
into the shade, while it, moreover, occasioned
his more constant presence in
the apartments of the ladies than he
would have been otherwise entitled to.
The consequence was, that in a short
time he almost ceased to be looked upon
as a servant, and began gradually to
assume the more interesting character
of a friend and equal.</p>

<p class='c008'>It was Lady Jean’s practice to take a
walk, prescribed by her father, every
day in the garden, on which occasions
the countess conceived herself as acting
up to the letter of her husband’s commands,
when she ordered Master Richard
to attend his pupil. This arrangement
was exceedingly agreeable to Lady
Jean, as they sometimes took out the
theorbo, and added music to the pleasures
of the walk. Another out-of-doors
amusement, in which music formed a
chief part, was suggested to them by
the appropriate frontispiece of a book
of instruction for the theorbo, which
Master Richard had brought with him
from Edinburgh. This engraving represented
a beautiful young shepherdess,
dressed in the fashionable costume of
that period: a stupendous tower of hair
hung round with diamonds, and a voluminous
silk gown with a jewel-adorned
stomacher, a theorbo in her arms, and
a crook by her side,—sitting on a flowery
bank under a tree, with sheep planted
at regular distances around her. At a
little distance appeared a shepherd with
dressed hair, long-skirted coat, and silk
stockings, who seemed to survey his
mistress with a languishing air of admiration,
that appeared singularly ridiculous
as contrasted with the coquettish
and contemptuous aspect of the
lady. The plate referred to a particular
song in the book, entitled “A Dialogue
betwixt Strephon and Lydia; or the
proud Shepherdess’s Courtship,” the
music of which was exceedingly beautiful,
while the verses were the tamest
and most affected trash imaginable.</p>

<p class='c008'>It occurred to Lady Jean’s lively
fancy, that if she and her teacher were
to personify the shepherdess and shepherd,
and thus, as it were, to transform
the song to a sort of opera, making the
terrace-garden the scene, not a little
amusement might be added to the pleasure
she experienced from the mere
music alone. This fancy was easily reduced
to execution; for, by seating herself
under a tree, in her ordinary dress,
with the horticultural implement called
a rake by her side, she looked the very
Lydia of the copperplate; while Richard,
standing at his customary respectful distance,
with his handsome person and
somewhat foreign apparel, was a sufficiently
good representation of Strephon.
After arranging themselves thus, Master
Richard opened the drama by addressing
Lady Jean in the first verse of the song,
which contained, besides some description
of sunrise, a comparison between
the beauties of nature, at that delightful
period, and the charms of Lydia, the
superiority being of course awarded to
the latter. Lady Jean, with the help
of the theorbo, replied to this in a very
disdainful style, affecting to hold the
compliments of lovers very cheap, and
asseverating that she had no regard for
any being on earth besides her father
and mother, and no care but for these
dear innocent sheep (here she looked
kindly aside upon a neighbouring bed
of cabbages), which they had entrusted
to her charge. Other verses of similar
nonsense succeeded, during which the
representative of the fair Lydia could
not help feeling rather more emotion at
hearing the ardent addresses of Strephon
than was strictly consistent with her part.</p>

<p class='c008'>At last it was her duty to rise and
walk softly away from her swain, declaring
herself utterly insensible to both
his praises and his passion, and her resolution
never again to see or speak to
him. This she did in admirable style,
though perhaps rather with the dignified
gait and sweeping majesty of a tragedy-queen,
than with anything like the pettish
or sullen strut of a disdainful rustic.
Meanwhile, Strephon was supposed to
be left inconsolable. Her ladyship continued
to support her assumed character
for a few yards, till a turn of the walk
concealed her from Master Richard;
when, resuming her natural manner,
she turned back, with sparkling eyes, in
order to ask his opinion of her performance,
and it was with some confusion,
and no little surprise, that on bursting
again into his sight, she discovered that
Richard had not yet thrown off his character.
He was standing still as she had
left him, fixed immovably upon the spot
in an attitude expressive of sorrow for
her departure, and bending forward as
if imploring her return. It was the expression
of his face that astonished her
most; for it was not at all an expression
appropriate to either his own character
or to that which he had assumed. It
was an expression of earnest and impassioned
admiration; his whole soul
seemed thrown into her face, which was
directed towards her, or rather the place
where she had disappeared; and his
eyes were projected in the same direction,
with such a look as that perhaps of
an enraptured saint of old at the moment
when a divinity parted from his presence.
This lasted, however, but for a moment,
for scarcely had that minute space of
time elapsed before Richard, startled
from his reverie by Lady Jean’s sudden
return, dismissed from his face all trace
of any extraordinary expression, and
stood before her, endeavouring to appear,
just what he was, her ladyship’s
respectful servant and teacher. Nevertheless,
this transformation did not take
place so quickly as to prevent her ladyship
from observing the present expression,
nor was it accomplished with such
address as to leave her room for passing
it over as unobserved. She was surprised—she
hesitated—she seemed, in
spite of herself, conscious of something
awkward—and finally she blushed slightly.
Richard caught the contagion of her
confusion in a double degree; and Lady
Jean again became more confused on
observing that he was aware of her confusion.
Richard was the first to recover
himself and speak. He made some remarks
upon her singing and acting—not,
however, upon her admirable performance
of the latter part of the drama;
this encouraged her also to speak, and
both soon became somewhat composed.
Shortly afterwards they returned to the
house; but from that moment a chain of
the most delicate, yet indissoluble sympathies
began to connect the hearts of
these youthful beings, so alike in all
natural qualities, and so dissimilar in
every extraneous thing which the world
is accustomed to value.</p>

<p class='c008'>After this interview there took place
a slight estrangement between Master
Richard and Lady Jean that lasted a
few days, during which they had much
less of conversation and music than for
some time before. Both observed this
circumstance; but each ascribed it to
accident, while it was in reality occasioned
by mutual reserve. Master
Richard was afraid that Lady Jean
might be offended were he to propose
anything like a repetition of the garden
drama; and Lady Jean, on her
part, could not, consistently with the
rules of maidenly modesty, utter even a
hint at such a thing, however she might
secretly wish or long for it. The very
consciousness, reciprocally felt, of having
something on their minds, of which
neither durst speak, was sufficient to
produce this reserve, even though the
emotions of the “tender passion” had
not come in, as they did, for a large
share of the cause.</p>

<p class='c008'>At length, however, this reserve was
so far softened down, that they began to
resume their former practice of walking
together in the garden; but, though the
theorbo continued to make one of the
party, no more operatic performances
took place. Nevertheless, the mutual
affection which had taken root in their
hearts, experienced on this account no
abatement, but, on the contrary, continued
to increase.</p>

<p class='c008'>As for Master Richard, it was no
wonder that he should be deeply smitten
with the charms of his mistress; for,
ever as he stole a long, furtive glance at
her graceful form, he thought he had
never seen in Spain or Italy any such
specimens of female loveliness; and (if
we may let the reader so far into the
secret) he had indeed come to Cumbernauld
with the very purpose of falling
in love.</p>

<p class='c008'>Different causes had operated upon
Lady Jean. Richard being the first
love-worthy object she had seen since the
period when the female heart becomes
most susceptible,—the admiration with
which she knew he beheld her,—his
musical accomplishments, which had
tended so much to her gratification,—all
conspired to render him precious in
her sight. In the words of a beautiful
modern ballad, “all impulses of soul
and sense had thrilled” her gentle and
guileless heart—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>——hopes, and fears that kindled hopes,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>An undistinguishable throng,</div>
      <div class='line'>And gentle wishes, long subdued,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Subdued and cherished long,</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c012'>had exercised their tender and delightful
influence over her; like a flower
thrown upon one of the streams of her
own native land, whose course was
through the beauties, the splendours,
and the terrors of nature, she was borne
away in a dream, the magic scenery of
which was alternately pleasing, fearful,
and glorious, and from which she could
no more awake than could the flower
restrain its course on the gliding waters.
The habit of contemplating her lover
every day, and that in the dignified
character of an instructor, gradually
blinded her in a great measure to his
humbler quality, and to the probable
sentiments of her father and the world
upon the subject of her passion. If by
any chance such a consideration was
forced upon her notice, and she found
occasion to tremble lest the sentiments
in which she was so luxuriously indulging
should end in disgrace and disaster,
she soon quieted her fears, by reverting
to an idea which had lately occurred to
her, namely, that <em>Richard was not what
he seemed</em>. She had heard and read of
love assuming strange disguises. A
Lord Belhaven, in the immediately preceding
period of the civil war, had
taken refuge from the fury of Cromwell
in the service of an English nobleman,
whose daughter’s heart he won under the
disguise of a gardener, and whom, on
the recurrence of better times, he carried
home to Scotland as his lady. This
story was then quite popular, and at
least one of the parties still survived to
attest its truth. But even in nursery
tales Lady Jean could find examples
which justified her own passion. The
vilest animals, she knew, on finding
some beautiful dame, who was so disinterested
as to fall in love with them,
usually turned out to be the most handsome
princes that ever were seen, who
invariably married and made happy the
ladies whose affection had restored them
to their natural form and just inheritance.
“Who knows,” she thought,
“but Richard may some day, in a transport
of passion, throw open his coat,
exhibit the star of nobility glittering on
his breast, and ask me to become a
countess!”</p>

<p class='c008'>Such are the excuses which love suggests
to reason, and which the reason
of lovers easily accepts; while those
who are neither youthful nor in love
wonder at the hallucination of their
impassioned juniors. Experience soon
teaches us that this world is not one of
romance, and that few incidents in life
ever occur out of the ordinary way.
But before we acquire this experience
by actual observation, we all of us
regard things in a very different light.
The truth seems to be that, in the eyes
of youth, “the days of chivalry” do
not appear to be gone; our ideas are
then contemporary, or on a par with the
early romantic ages of the world; and
it is only by mingling with mature men,
and looking at things as they are, that
we at length advance towards, and
ultimately settle down in the <em>real era</em> of
our existence. Was there ever yet a
youth who did not feel some chivalrous
impulses,—some thirst for more
glorious scenes than those around
him,—some aspirations after lofty
passion and supreme excellence—or
who did not cherish some pure firstlove
that could not prudentially be
gratified?</p>

<p class='c008'>The greater part of the rest of the
summer passed away before the lovers
came to an <em>eclaircissement</em>; and such,
indeed, was their mutual reserve upon
the subject, that had it not been for the
occurrence of a singular and deciding
circumstance, there appeared little probability
of this ever otherwise taking
place. The Earl of Home, a gay and
somewhat foolish young nobleman, one
morning, after attending a convivial party,
where the charms of Lady Jean Fleming
formed the principal topic of discourse,
left Edinburgh, and took the way to
Cumbernauld, on the very pilgrimage,
and with the very purpose, which Lord
Wigton had before anticipated. Resolved
first to see, then to love, and
lastly to run away with the young lady,
his lordship skulked about for a few
days, and at last had the pleasure of
seeing the hidden beauty over the garden-wall,
as she was walking with
Master Richard. He thought he had
never seen any lady who could be at
all compared to Lady Jean, and, as a
matter of course, resolved to make her
his own, and surprise all his companions
at Edinburgh with his success and her
beauty. He watched again next day,
and happening to meet Master Richard
out of the bounds of Cumbernauld
policy, accosted him, with the intention
of securing his services in making his
way towards Lady Jean. After a few
words of course, he proposed the subject
to Richard, and offered a considerable
bribe, to induce him to work for
his interest. Richard at first rejected
the offer, but immediately after, on
bethinking himself, saw fit to accept it.
He was to mention his lordship’s purpose
to Lady Jean, and to prepare the
way for a private interview with her.
On the afternoon of the succeeding day,
he was to meet Lord Home at the same
place, and tell him how Lady Jean had
received his proposals. With this they
parted—Richard to muse on this unexpected
circumstance, which he saw
might blast all his hopes, unless he
should resolve upon prompt and active
measures, and the Earl of Home to
enjoy himself at the humble inn of the
village of Cumbernauld, where he had
for the last few days enacted the character
of “the daft lad frae Edinburgh,
that seemed to hae mair siller than
sense.”</p>

<p class='c008'>On the morning of the tenth day after
Master Richard’s first interview with
Lord Home, that faithful serving-man
found himself jogging swiftly along the
road to Edinburgh, mounted on a stout
nag, with the fair Lady Jean seated
comfortably on a pillion behind him.
It was a fine morning in autumn, and
the road had a peculiarly gay appearance
from the multitude of country
people, mounted and dismounted, who
seemed also hastening towards the capital.
Master Richard, upon inquiry,
discovered that it was the “market-day,”
a circumstance which seemed
favourable to his design, by the additional
assurance it gave him of not
being recognised among the extraordinary
number of strangers who might be
expected to crowd the city on such an
occasion.</p>

<p class='c008'>The lovers approached the city by
the west, and the first street they entered
was the suburban one called
Portsburgh, which leads towards the
great market-place of Edinburgh. Here
Richard, impatient as he was, found
himself obliged, like many other rustic
cavaliers, to reduce the pace of his
horse to a walk, on account of the
narrowness and crowded state of the
street. This he felt the more disagreeable,
as it subjected him and his interesting
companion to the close and
leisurely scrutiny of the inhabitants.
Both had endeavoured to disguise everything
remarkable in their appearance,
so far as dress and demeanour could
be disguised; yet, as Lady Jean could
not conceal her extraordinary beauty,
and Richard had not found it possible
to part with a slight and dearly beloved
moustache, it naturally followed that
they were honoured with a good deal
of staring. Many an urchin upon the
street threw up his arms as they passed
along, exclaiming, “Oh! the black-bearded
man!” or, “Oh! the bonnie
leddie!”—the men all admired Lady
Jean, the women Master Richard—and
many an old shoemaker ogled them
earnestly over his half-door, with his
spectacles pushed up above his dingy
cowl. The lovers, who had thus to
run a sort of gauntlet of admiration
and remark, were glad when they
reached an inn, which Richard, who
was slightly acquainted with the town,
knew to be a proper place for the
performance of a “half-merk marriage.”</p>

<p class='c008'>They alighted, and were civilly received
by an obsequious landlady, who
conducted them into an apartment at
the back of the house. There Lady
Jean was for a short time left to make
some arrangements about her dress,
while Richard disclosed to the landlady
in another room the purpose upon
which he was come to her house, and
consulted her about procuring a clergyman.
The dame of the house, to whom
a clandestine marriage was the merest
matter of course, showed the utmost
willingness to facilitate the design of
her guests, and said that she believed a
clerical official might be procured in a
few minutes, provided that neither had
any scruples of conscience, as “most
part o’ fouk frae the west had,” in
accepting the services of an episcopal
clergyman. The lover assured her that
so far from having any objection to a
“government minister” (for so they
were sometimes termed), he would prefer
such to any other, as both he and
his bride belonged to that persuasion.
The landlady heard this declaration with
complacency, which showed that she
loved her guests the better for it, and
told Richard, that if he pleased, she
would immediately introduce him to the
Dean of St Giles, who, honest man, was
just now taking his “meridian” in the
little back garret-parlour, along with
his friend and gossip, Bowed Andrew,
the waiter of the West Port. To this
Richard joyfully assented, and speedily
he and Lady Jean were joined in their
room by the said Dean,—a squat little
gentleman, with a drunken but important-looking
face, and an air of consequentiality
even in his stagger that was
partly imposing and partly ridiculous.
He addressed his clients with a patronizing
simper, of which the effect was
grievously disconcerted by an unlucky
hiccup, and in a speech which might
have had the intended tone of paternal
and reverend authority, had it not been
smattered and degraded into shreds by
the crapulous insufficiency of his tongue.
Richard cut short his ill-sustained attempts
at dignity by requesting him to
partake of some liquor. His reverence
almost leaped at the proffered jug, which
contained ale. He first took a tasting,
then a sip—shaking his head between—next
a small draught, with a still more
convulsion-like shake of the head; and,
lastly, he took a hearty and persevering
swill, from the effects of which his lungs
did not recover for at least twenty respirations.
The impatient lover then
begged him to proceed with the ceremony;
which he forthwith commenced
in presence of the landlady and the
above-mentioned Bowed Andrew; and
in a few minutes Richard and Lady
Jean were united in the holy bonds of
matrimony.</p>

<h3 class='c015'><span class='sc'>Chapter II.</span></h3>

<p class='c007'>When the ceremony was concluded,
and both the clergyman and the witnesses
had been satisfied and dismissed, the
lovers left the house, with the design of
walking forward into the city. In conformity
to a previous arrangement, Lady
Jean walked first, like a lady of quality,
and Richard followed closely behind,
with the dress and deportment of her
servant. Her ladyship was dressed in
her finest suit, and adorned with her
finest jewels, all of which she had
brought from Cumbernauld on purpose,
in a mail or leathern trunk—for such
was the name then given to the convenience
now entitled a portmanteau.
Her step was light, and her bearing
gay, as she moved along; not on account
of the success which had attended her
expedition, or her satisfaction in being
now united to the man of her choice, but
because she anticipated the highest
pleasure in the sight of a place whereof
she had heard such wonderful stories,
and from a participation in whose
delights she had been so long withheld.</p>

<p class='c008'>Like all persons educated in the
country, she had been regaled in her
childhood with magnificent descriptions
of the capital—of its buildings, that
seemed to mingle with the clouds—its
shops, which apparently contained more
wealth than all the world beside—of its
paved streets (for paved streets were
then wonders in Scotland)—and, above
all, of the grand folks that thronged its
Highgates, its Canongates, and its
Cowgates—people whose lives seemed
a perpetual holiday, whose attire was
ever new, and who all lived in their
several palaces.</p>

<p class='c008'>Though, of course, Edinburgh had
then little to boast of, the country
people who occasionally visited it did
not regard it with less admiration than
that with which the peasantry of our
own day may be supposed to view it,
now that it is something so very different.
It was then, as well as now, the
capital of the country, and, as such,
bore the same disproportion in point of
magnificence to inferior towns, and to
the country in general. In one respect
it was superior to what it is in the present
day, namely, in being the seat of
government and of a court. Lady Jean
had often heard all its glorious peculiarities
described by her sisters, who,
moreover, took occasion to colour the
picture too highly, in order to raise her
envy, and make themselves appear great
in their alliance and association with so
much greatness. She was, therefore,
prepared to see a scene of the utmost
splendour—a scene in which nothing
horrible or paltry mingled, but which
was altogether calculated to awe or to
delight the senses.</p>

<p class='c008'>Her ladyship was destined to be disappointed
at the commencement, at
least, of her acquaintance with the city.
The first remarkable object which
struck her eye, after leaving the inn,
was the high “bow,” or arch, of the
gate called the West Port. In this
itself there was nothing worthy of particular
attention, and she rather directed
her eyes through the opening beneath,
which half disclosed a wide space beyond,
apparently crowded with people.
But when she came close up to the gate,
and cast, before passing, a last glance
at the arch, she shuddered at the sight
then presented to her eyes. On the
very pinnacle of the arch was stuck the
ghastly and weather-worn remains of a
human head, the features of which,
half flesh, half bone, were shaded and
rendered still more indistinctly horrible
by the long dark hair, which hung in
meagre tresses around them.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Oh, Richard, Richard!” she exclaimed,
stopping and turning round,
“what is that dreadful-looking thing?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“That, madam,” said Richard, without
any emotion, “is the broken remnant
of a west country preacher, spiked
up there to warn his countrymen who
may approach this port, against doing
anything to incur the fate which has
overtaken himself. Methinks he has
preached to small purpose, for yonder
stands the gallows, ready, I suppose,
to bring him some brother in affliction.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Horrible!” exclaimed Lady Jean;
“and is this really the fine town of Edinburgh,
where I was taught to expect so
many grand sights? I thought it was
just one universal palace, and it turns
out to be a great charnel-house!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“It is indeed more like that than
anything else at times,” said Richard;
“but, my dear Lady Jean, you are not
going to start at this bugbear, which the
very children, you see, do not heed in
passing.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Indeed, I think, Richard,” answered
her ladyship, “if Edinburgh is to be at
all like this, it would be just as good to
turn back at once, and postpone our
visit to better times.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“But it is not all like this,” replied
Richard; “I assure you it is not. For
Heaven’s sake, my lady, move on.
The people are beginning to stare at us.
You shall soon see grand sights enough,
if we were once fairly out of this place.
Make for the opposite corner of the
Grassmarket, and ascend the street to
the left of that horrible gibbet. We
may yet get past it before the criminals
are produced.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Thus admonished, Lady Jean passed,
not without a shudder, under the dreadful
arch, and entered the spacious oblong
square called the Grassmarket. This
place was crowded at the west end with
rustics engaged in all the bustle of a
grain and cattle market, and at the
eastern and most distant extremity,
with a mob of idlers, who had gathered
around the gibbet in order to witness
the awful ceremony that was about to
take place. The crowd, which was
scarcely so dense as that which attends
the rarer scene of a modern execution,
made way on both sides for Lady Jean
as she moved along; and wherever she
went, she left behind her a “wake,” as
it were, of admiration and confusion.
So exquisite and so new a beauty, so
splendid a suit of female attire, and so
stout and handsome an attendant—these
were all calculated to inspire
reverence in the minds of the beholders.
Her carriage at the same time
was so stately and so graceful, that no
one could be so rude as to interrupt or
disturb it. The people, therefore,
parted when she approached, and left a
free passage for her on all sides, as if
she had been an angel or a spirit come
to walk amidst a mortal crowd, and
whose person could not be touched, and
might scarcely be beheld—whose motions
were not to be interfered with by
those among whom she chose to walk—but
who was to be received with prostration
of spirit, and permitted to depart
as she had come, unquestioned and
unapproached. In traversing the Grassmarket,
two or three young coxcombs,
with voluminous wigs, short cloaks,
rapiers, and rose-knots at their knees
and shoes, who, on observing her at a
distance, had prepared to treat her with
a condescending stare, fell back, awed
and confounded, at her near approach,
and spent the gaze, perhaps, upon the
humbler mark of her follower, or upon
vacancy.</p>

<p class='c008'>Having at length passed the gibbet,
Lady Jean began to ascend the steep
and tortuous street denominated the
West Bow. She had hitherto been
unable to direct any attention to what
she was most anxious to behold,—the
scenic wonders of the capital. But
having now got clear of the crowd, and
no longer fearing to see the gallows,
she ventured to lift up her eyes and
look around. The tallness and massiveness
of the buildings, some of which bore
the cross of the Knights Templar on
their pinnacles, while others seemed to be
surmounted or overtopped by still taller
edifices beyond, impressed her imagination;
and the effect was rendered
still more striking by the countless
human figures which crowded the windows,
and even the roofs of the houses,
all alike bending their attention, as she
thought, towards herself. The scene
before her looked like an amphitheatre
filled with spectators, while she and
Richard seemed as the objects upon the
arena. The thought caused her to
hurry on, and she soon found herself in
a great measure screened from observation
by the overhanging projections of
the narrower part of the West Bow,
which she now entered.</p>

<p class='c008'>With slow and difficult, but stately
and graceful steps, she then proceeded,
till she reached the upper angle of the
street, where a novel and unexpected
scene awaited her. A sound like that
of rushing waters seemed first to proceed
from the part of the street still
concealed from her view, and presently
appeared round the angle, the first rank
of an impetuous crowd, which, rushing
downward with prodigious force, would
certainly have overwhelmed her delicate
form, had she not dexterously avoided
them, by stepping aside upon a projecting
stair, to which Richard also sprung
just in time to save himself from a similar
fate. From this place of safety,
which was not without its own crowd
of children, women, and sage-looking
elderly mechanics, with Kilmarnock
cowls, they in the next moment saw the
massive mob rush past, like the first
wave of a flood, bearing either along or
down everything that came in their way.
Immediately after, but at a more deliberate
pace, followed a procession of
figures, which struck the heart of Lady
Jean with as heavy a sense of sorrow
as the crowd had just impressed with
terror and surprise. First came a small
company of the veterans of the city-guard,
some of whom had perhaps
figured in the campaigns of Middleton
and Montrose, and whose bronzed,
inflexible faces bore on this melancholy
occasion precisely the same expression
which they ordinarily exhibited on the
joyful one of attending the magistrates
at the drinking of the King’s health on
the 29th of May.</p>

<p class='c008'>Behind these, and encircled by some
other soldiers of the same band, appeared
two figures of a different sort.
One of them was a young-looking, but
pale and woe-worn man, the impressive
wretchedness of whose appearance was
strikingly increased by the ghastly dress
which he wore. He was attired from
head to foot in a white shroud, such as
was sometimes worn in Scotland by
criminals at the gallows, but which was,
in the present instance, partly assumed
as a badge of innocence. The excessive
whiteness and emaciation of his countenance
suited well with this dismal apparel,
and, with the wild enthusiasm
that kindled in his eyes, gave an almost
supernatural effect to the whole scene,
which rather resembled a pageant of the
dead than a procession of earthly men.
He was the only criminal: the person
who walked by his side, and occasionally
supported his steps, being, as the crowd
whispered around, with many a varied
expression of sympathy—his father.
The old man had the air of a devout
Presbyterian, with harsh, intelligent
features, and a dress which bespoke his
being a countryman of the lower rank.
According to the report of the bystanders,
he had educated this, his only son,
for the unfortunate Church of Scotland,
and now attended him to the fate which
his talents and violent temperament had
conspired to draw down upon his head.
If ever he felt any pride in the popular
admiration with which his son was
honoured, no traces of such a sentiment
now appeared. On the contrary, he
seemed humbled to the very earth with
sorrow; and though he had perhaps
contemplated the issue, now about to
take place, with no small portion of
satisfaction, so long as it was at a distance
and uncertain, the feelings of a
father had evidently proved too much
for his fortitude, when the event approached
in all its dreadful reality.
The emotions perceptible in that rough
and rigid countenance were the more
striking, as being so much at variance
with its natural and characteristic expression;
and the tear which gathered
in his eye excited the greater commiseration,
in so far as it seemed a stranger
there. But the hero and heroine of our
tale had little time to make observations
on this piteous scene, for the procession
passed quickly on, and was soon beyond
their sight. When it was gone, the
people of the Bow, who seemed accustomed
to such sights, uttered various
expressions of pity, indignation, and
horror, according to their respective
feelings, and then slowly retired to their
dens in the stairs and booths which lined
the whole of this ancient and singular
street.</p>

<p class='c008'>Lady Jean, whose beautiful eyes were
suffused with tears at beholding so
melancholy a spectacle, was then admonished
by her attendant to proceed.
With a heart deadened to all sensations
of wonder and delight, she moved forward,
and was soon ushered into the
place called the Lawnmarket, then perhaps
the most fashionable district in
Edinburgh, but the grandeur and spaciousness
of which she beheld almost
without admiration. The scene here
was, however, much gayer, and approached
more nearly to her splendid
preconceptions of the capital than any
she had yet seen. The shops were, in
her estimation, very fine, and some of
the people on the street were of that
noble description of which she had believed
all inhabitants of cities to be.
There was no crowd on the street, which,
therefore, afforded room for the better
display of her stately and beautiful person;
and as she walked steadily onwards,
still “ushed” (for such was then the
phrase) by her handsome and noble-looking
attendant, a greater degree of
admiration was excited amongst the gay
idlers whom she passed, than even that
which marked her progress through the
humbler crowd of the Grassmarket.
Various noblemen, in passing towards
their homes in the Castle Hill, lifted
their feathered hats and bowed profoundly
to the lovely vision; and one
or two magnificent dames, sweeping
along with their long silk trains borne
up by liverymen, stared at or eyed askance
the charms which threw their own
so completely into shade. By the time
Lady Jean arrived at the bottom of the
Lawnmarket, that is to say, where it was
partially closed up by the Tolbooth,
she had in a great measure recovered
her spirits, and found herself prepared
to enjoy the sight of the public buildings,
which were so thickly clustered
together at this central part of the city.</p>

<p class='c008'>She was directed by Richard to pass
along the narrow road which then led
between the houses and the Tolbooth on
the south, and which, being continued
by a still narrower passage skirting the
west end of St Giles’ Church, formed
the western approach to the Parliament
Close. Obeying his guidance in this
tortuous passage, she soon found herself
at the opening, or the square space—so
styled on account of its being closed
on more than one side by the meeting-place
of the legislative assembly of Scotland.
Here a splendid scene awaited her.
The whole square was filled with the
members of the Scottish Parliament,
Barons and Commons, who had just left
the House in which they sat together,—with
ladies, who on days of unusual
ceremony were allowed to attend the
House, and with horses richly caparisoned,
and covered with gold-embroidered
foot-cloths, some of which
were mounted by their owners, while
others were held in readiness by footmen.
All was bustle and magnificence.
Noblemen and gentlemen in splendid
attire threaded the crowd in search of
their horses; ladies tripped after them
with timid and careful steps, endeavouring,
by all in their power, to avoid contact
with such objects as were calculated
to injure their fineries; grooms
strode heavily about, and more nimble
lackeys jumped everywhere, here and
there, some of them as drunk as the
Parliament Close claret could make
them, but all intent on doing the duties
of attendance and respect to their
masters. Some smart and well-dressed
young gentlemen were arranging their
cloaks and swords, and preparing to
leave the square on foot, by the passage
which had given entry to Master Richard
and Lady Jean.</p>

<p class='c008'>At sight of our heroine, most of
these gallants stood still in admiration,
and one of them, with the trained
assurance of a rake, observing her to
be beautiful, a stranger, and not too
well protected, accosted her in a strain
of language which caused her at once
to blush and tremble. Richard’s brow
reddened with anger as he hesitated
not a moment in stepping up and telling
the offender to leave the lady alone,
on pain of certain consequences which
might not prove agreeable.</p>

<p class='c008'>“And who are you, my brave fellow?”
said the youth, with bold assurance.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Sirrah!” exclaimed Richard, so
indignant as to forget himself, “I am
that lady’s husband—her servant, I
mean,” and here he stopped short in
some confusion.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Admirable!” exclaimed the other.
“Ha! ha! ha! ha! Here, sirs, is a
lady’s lacquey, who does not know
whether he is his mistress’ servant or
her husband. Let us give him up to
the town-guard, to see whether the
black hole will make him remember
the real state of the case.”</p>

<p class='c008'>So saying, he attempted to push
Richard aside, and take hold of the
lady. But he had not time to touch
her garments with so much as a finger,
before her protector had a rapier flourishing
in his eyes, and threatened him
with instant death, unless he desisted
from his profane purpose. At sight of
the bright steel he stepped back one or
two paces, drew his own sword, and
was preparing to fight, when one of his
more grave associates called out—</p>

<p class='c008'>“For shame, Rollo!—with a lady’s
lacquey, too, and in the presence
of the duke and duchess! I see their
royal highnesses, already alarmed, are
inquiring the cause of the disturbance.”</p>

<p class='c008'>It was even as this gentleman said,
and presently came up to the scene of
contention some of the most distinguished
personages in the crowd, one of whom
demanded from the parties an explanation
of so disgraceful an occurrence.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Why, here is a fellow, my lord,”
answered Rollo, “who says he is the
husband of a lady whom he attends as
a liveryman, and a lady, too, the
bonniest, I daresay, that has been seen
in Scotland since the days of Queen
Magdalen!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“And what matters it to you,” said
the inquirer, who seemed to be a judge
of the Session, “in what relation this
man stands to his lady? Let the parties
both come forward, and tell their ain
tale. May it please your royal highness,”
he continued, addressing a very grave
dignitary, who sat on horseback behind
him, as stiff and formal as a sign-post,
“to hear the <em>declarator</em> of thir twa strange
incomers. But see—see—what is the
matter wi’ Lord Wigton?” he added,
pointing to an aged personage on horseback,
who had just pushed forward,
and seemed about to faint and fall from
his horse. The person alluded to, at
sight of his daughter in this unexpected
place, was, in reality, confounded, and
it was some time before he mastered
voice enough to ejaculate—</p>

<p class='c008'>“Oh, Jean, Jean! what is this ye’ve
been about? or what has brocht you to
Edinburgh?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Lord have a care of us!” exclaimed
at this juncture another venerable peer,
who had just come up, “what has brocht
my sonsie son, Richie Livingstone, to
Edinburgh, when he should have been
fechtin’ the Dutch by this time in
Transylvania?”</p>

<p class='c008'>The two lovers, thus recognised by
their respective parents, stood with
downcast looks, and perfectly silent,
while all was buzz and confusion in the
brilliant circle around them; for the
parties concerned were not more surprised
at the aspect of their affairs, than
were all the rest at the beauty of the
far-famed but hitherto unseen Lady
Jean Fleming. The Earl of Linlithgow,
Richard’s father, was the first to speak
aloud, after the general astonishment
had for some time subsided; and this he
did in a laconic though important query,
which he couched in the simple words,—</p>

<p class='c008'>“Are ye married, bairns?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Yes, dearest father,” said his son,
gathering courage, and coming close up
to his saddle-bow; “and I beseech you
to extricate Lady Jean and me from this
crowd, and I shall tell you all when we
are alone.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“A pretty man ye are, truly,” said
the old man, who never took anything
very seriously to heart, “to be staying
at hame, and getting yoursel married, all
this time you should have been abroad,
winning honour and wealth, as your
gallant granduncle did wi’ Gustavus i’ the
thretties! Hooever, since better mayna
be, I maun try and console my Lord
Wigton, who, I doot, has the worst o’
the bargain, ye ne’er-do-weel!”</p>

<p class='c008'>He then went up to Lady Jean’s
father, shook him by the hand, and
said, that “though they had been made
relations against their wills, he hoped
they would continue good friends. The
young people,” he observed, “are no
that ill-matched; and it is not the first
time that the Flemings and the Livingstones
have melled together, as witness
the blithe marriage of the Queen’s
Marie to Lord Fleming in the fifteen-saxty-five.
At ony rate, my lord, let
us put a good face on the matter, afore
thae glowerin’ gentles, and whipper-snapper
duchesses. I’ll get horses for
the two, and they’ll join the riding’
down the street; and de’il hae me, if
Lady Jean doesna outshine the hale o’
them!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“My Lord Linlithgow,” responded the
graver and more implacable Earl of
Wigton, “it may set you to take this
matter blithely, but let me tell you, its
a muckle mair serious affair for me.
What think ye am I to do wi’ Frances
and Grizzy noo?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Hoot toot, my lord,” said Linlithgow
with a sly smile, “their chance is
as gude as ever it was, I assure you,
and sae will everybody think that kens
them. I <i><span lang="sco">maun</span></i> ca’ horses though, or
the young folk will be ridden ower
afore ever they do more gude, by thae
rampaugin’ young men.” So saying,
and taking Lord Wigton’s moody silence
for assent, he proceeded to cry to
his servants for the best pair of horses
they could get, and these being speedily
procured, Lord Richard and his bride
were requested to mount; after which
they were formally introduced to the
gracious notice of the Duke and Duchess
of York, and the Princess Anne, who
happened to attend Parliament on this
the last day of its session, when it was
customary for all the members to ride
both to and from the House in an
orderly cavalcade.</p>

<p class='c008'>The order was given to proceed, and
the lovers were soon relieved in a great
measure from the embarrassing notice of
the crowd, by assuming a particular
place in the procession, and finding
themselves confounded with more than
three hundred equally splendid figures.
As the pageant, however, moved down
the High Street in a continuous and
open line, it was impossible not to distinguish
the singular loveliness of Lady
Jean, and the gallant carriage of her
husband, from all the rest. Accordingly,
the trained bands and city guard, who
lined the street, and who were in general
quite as insensible to the splendours of
“the Riding” as are the musicians in a
modern orchestra to the wonders of a
melodrama in its fortieth night,—even
they perceived and admired the graces
of the young couple, whom they could
not help gazing after with a stupid and
lingering delight. From the windows,
too, and the “stair-heads,” their beauty
was well observed, and amply conjectured
and commented on; while many a
young cavalier endeavoured, by all sorts
of pretences, to find occasion to break
the order of the cavalcade, and get
himself haply placed nearer to the
exquisite figure, of which he had got
just one killing glance in the square.
Slowly and majestically the brilliant
train paced down the great street of
Edinburgh—the acclamations of the
multitude ceaselessly expressing the delight
which the people of Scotland felt
in this sensible type and emblem of their
ancient independence.</p>

<p class='c008'>At length they reached the courtyard
of Holyrood-house, where the duke and
duchess invited the whole assemblage
to a ball, which they designed to give
that evening in the hall of the palace;
after which all departed to their respective
residences throughout the town,
Lords Wigton and Linlithgow taking
their young friends under their immediate
protection, and seeking the residence
of the former nobleman, a little
way up the Canongate. In riding
thither, the lovers had leisure to explain
to their parents the singular circumstances
of their union, and address
enough to obtain unqualified forgiveness
for their imprudence.</p>

<p class='c008'>On alighting at Lord Wigton’s house,
Lady Jean found her sisters confined to
their rooms with headache, or some such
serious indisposition, and in the utmost
dejection on account of having been
thereby withheld from the Riding of
the Parliament. Their spirits, as may
be supposed, were not much elevated,
when, on coming forth in dishabille to
welcome their sister, they learned that
she had had the good fortune to be
married before them. Their ill-luck
was, however, irremediable, and so,
making a merit of submitting to it,
they condescended to be rather agreeable
during the dinner and the afternoon.
It was not long before all parties
were perfectly reconciled to what
had taken place; and by the time it
was necessary to dress for the ball, the
elder young ladies declared themselves
so much recovered as to be able to
accompany their happy sister.</p>

<p class='c008'>The Earl of Linlithgow and his son
then sent a servant for proper dresses,
and prepared themselves for the occasion
without leaving the house. When
all were ready, a number of chairs were
called to transport their dainty persons
down the street. The news of Lady
Jean’s arrival, and of her marriage,
having now spread abroad, the court
in front of the house, the alley, and
even the open street, were crowded
with people of all ranks, anxious to
catch a passing glimpse of the heroine
of so strange a tale. As her chair was
carried along, a buzz of admiration
from all who were so happy as to be
near it, marked its progress. Happy,
too, was the gentleman who had the
good luck to be near her chair as it
was set down at the palace-gate, and
assist her in stepping from it upon the
lighted pavement. From the outer
gate, along the piazza of the inner
court, and all the way up the broad
staircase to the illuminated hall, two
rows of noblemen and gentlemen formed
a brilliant avenue, as she passed along,
while a hundred plumed caps were
doffed in honour of so much beauty,
and as many youthful eyes glanced
bright with satisfaction at beholding it.
The object of all this attention tripped
modestly along in the hand of the Earl
of Linlithgow, acknowledging, with
many a graceful flexure and undulation
of person, the compliments of the
spectators.</p>

<p class='c008'>At length the company entered the
spacious and splendid room in which
the ball was to be held. At the extremity,
opposite to the entry, upon an
elevated platform, sat the three royal
personages, all of whom, on Lady Jean’s
introduction, rose and came forward to
welcome her and her husband to the
entertainments of Holyrood, and to
hope that her ladyship would often
adorn their circle. In a short time the
dancing commenced; and, amidst all
the ladies who exhibited their charms
and their magnificent attire in that
captivating exercise, who was, either in
person or dress, half so brilliant as Lady
Jean?—<cite>Chambers’s Edin. Journal.</cite></p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='the_monkey' class='c006'>THE MONKEY:<br> <span class='large'><em>A SECOND PASSAGE IN THE LIFE OF WILLIAM M‘GEE, WEAVER IN HAMILTON</em></span>.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By Robert Macnish, LL.D.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>I dinna think that in a’ nature
there’s a mair curiouser cratur than a
monkey. I mak this observe frae being
witness to an extraordinar’ event that
took place in Hamilton, three or four
days after my never-to-be-forgotten
Battle of the Breeks.<a id='r6'></a><a href='#f6' class='c018'><sup>[6]</sup></a> Some even gaed
the length to say that it was to the full
mair curiouser than that affair, in sae
far as the principal performer in the
ae case was a rational man, whereas
in the ither he was only a bit ape.
But folk may talk as they like about
monkeys, and cry them down for
being stupid and mischievous, I for ane
will no gang that length. Whatever
they may be on the score of mischief,
there can be nae doubt, that, sae far as
gumption is concerned, they are just
uncommon; and for wit and fun they
would beat ony man black and blue. In
fact, I dinna think that monkeys are
beasts ava. I hae a half notion that they
are just wee hairy men, that canna or
rather winna speak, in case they may be
made to work like ither folk, instead of
leading a life of idleness.</p>

<div class='footnote' id='f6'>
<p class='c008'><a href='#r6'>6</a>. See <i><span lang="la">ante</span></i>, p. <a href='#the_battle_of_the_breeks'>223</a>.</p>
</div>

<p class='c008'>But to the point. I ance had a
monkey, ane of the drollest looking
deevils ye ever saw. He was gayan big
for a monkey, and was hairy a’ ower,
except his face and his bit hurdies,
which had a degree of bareness about
them, and were nearly as saft as a
lady’s loof. Weel, what think ye that
I did wi’ the beastie? ’Od, man, I
dressed him up like a Heelandman,
and put a kilt upon him, and a lang-tailed
red coat, and a blue bannet,
which for security’s sake I tied, womanlike,
below his chin, wi’ twa bits of
yellow ribbon. I not only did this,
but I learnt him to walk upon his twa
hinder legs, and to carry a stick in his
right hand when he gaed out, the better
to support him in his peregrinations.
He was for a’ the world like a wee man
in kilts—sae much sae, that when
Glengarry, the great Heeland chieftain,
wha happened to be at Hamilton on a
visit to the Duke, saw him by chance,
he swore by the powers that he was
like ane o’ the Celtic Society, and that
if I likit he would endeavour to get him
admitted a member of that body. I
thocht at the time that Glengarry was
jokin’, but I hae since had gude reason
for thinking that he was in real earnest,
as Andrew Brand says that he and the
Celts hae been like to cut ane anither’s
throats, and that he micht mean this as
an affront upon them. Hoosomever I
maun do Glengarry the justice to say,
that had he got my Nosey (that was his
name) made a member, he wadna hae
pruved the least witty or courageous o’
the society, and would hae dune nae
disgrace to the chief’s recommendation.</p>

<p class='c008'>But I am fleeing awa like a shuttle
frae the subject on hand. Weel, it
turned out in this manner, as ye shall
hear. Ae afternoon towards the gloamin’,
I was obligated to tak a stap down to
the cross wi’ a web under my arm,
which I had finished for Mr Weft, the
muslin manufacturer. By way of frolic—a
gayan foolish ane I allow—I brocht
Nosey alang wi’ me. He had on, as for
ordinar, his Heeland dress, and walkit
behind me, wi’ the bit stick in his hand
and his tail sticking out frae below his
kilt, as if he had been my flunkey. It
was, after a’, a queer sicht, and, as may
be supposed, I drew a hale crowd o’
bairns after me, bawling out, “Here’s
Willie M‘Gee’s monkey,” and giein’
him nits and gingerbread, and makin’
as muckle o’ the cratur as could be; for
Nosey was a great favourite in the town,
and everybody likit him for his droll
tricks, and the way he used to girn, and
dance, and tumble ower his head, to
amuse them.</p>

<p class='c008'>On entering Mr Weft’s shop, I faund
it empty; there wasna leiving soul
within. I supposed he had gane out
for a licht; and being gayan familiar
wi’ him, I took a stap ben to the
back shop, leaving Nosey in the fore
ane. I sat for twa or three minutes, but
naebody made his appearance. At last
the front door, which I had ta’en care to
shut after me, opened, and I look’t
to see what it could be, thinking that,
nae doubt, it was Mr Weft, or his
apprentice. It was neither the ane nor
the ither, but a strong middle-aged, redfaced
Heelandman, wi’ specks on, and
wi’ a kilt and a bannet, by a’ the world
like my monkey’s. Now, what think ye
Nosey was about a’ this time? He was
sittin’ behind the counter upon the lang
three-leggit stool that stood forenent Mr
Weft’s desk, and was turning ower the
leaves of his ledger wi’ a look which,
for auld-fashioned sagaciousness, was
wonderfu’ to behold. I was sae tickled
at the sight that I paid nae sort of
attention to the Heelandman, but
continued looking frae the backshop
at Nosey, lauching a’ the time in
my sleeve—for I jaloused that some
queer scene would tak place between
the twa. And I wasna far wrang,
for the stranger, takin’ out a pound
frae his spleuchan, handed it ower
to the monkey, and speered at him,
in his droll norland deealect, if he
could change a note. When I heard
this, I thought I would hae lauched outright;
and naething but sheer curiosity
to see how the thing would end made me
keep my gravity. It was plain that
Donald had ta’en Nosey for ane of his
ain countrymen—and the thing after a’
wasna greatly to be wondered at, and
that for three reasons.</p>

<p class='c008'>Firstly, the shop was rather darkish.</p>

<p class='c008'>Secondly, the Heelandman had on
specks, as I hae just said; and it was
likely on this account that he was rather
short-sighted; and</p>

<p class='c008'>Thirdly, Nosey, wi’ his kilt, and
bannet, and red coat, was to a’ intents
and purposes as like a human creature
as a monkey could weel be.</p>

<p class='c008'>Nae sooner, then, had he got the note
than he opened it out, and lookit at it
wi’ his wee, glowrin’, restless een, as if
to see that it wasna a forgery. He then
shook his head like a doctor when he’s
no very sure what’s wrang wi’ a person,
but wants to mak it appear that he kens
a’ about it—and continued in this style
till the Heelandman’s patience began to
get exhausted.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Can ye no shange the note, old
shentleman?” quo’ Donald. Nosey gied
his head anither shake, and lookit uncommon
wise.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Is the note no goot, sir?” spake
the Heelandman, a second time; but
the cratur, instead of answering him,
only gied anither of his wise shakes, as
much as to say, “I’m no very sure
about it.” At this Donald lost his
temper. “If the note doesna please ye,
sir,” quo’ he, “I’ll thank ye to gie me it
back again, and I’ll gang to some ither
place.” And he stretchit out his hand
to tak haud o’t, when my frien’ wi’
the tail, lifting up his stick, lent him
sic a whack ower the fingers as made
him pu’ back in the twinkling of an ee.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Cot tamn ye, ye auld scoundrel,”
said the man; “de ye mean to tak my
money frae me?” And he lifted up a
rung big eneugh to fell a stot, and let
flee at the monkey; but Nosey was
ower quick for him, and, jumping aside,
he lichted on a shelf before ane could
say Jock Robinson. Here he rowed
up the note like a ba’ in his hand, and
put it into his coat pouch like ony
rational cratur. Not only this, but he
mockit the Heelandman by a’ manner
of means, shooting out his tongue at
him, spitting at him, and girning at him
wi’ his queer outlandish physiognomy.
Then he would tak haud o’ his
tail in his twa hands, and wag it at
Donald, and steeking his nieves, he
would seem to threaten him with a
leatherin’! A’thegither he was desperate
impudent, and eneugh to try the patience
of a saunt, no to speak o’ a het-bluided
Heelandman. It was gude for sair
een to see how Donald behavit on this
occasion. He raged like ane demented,
misca’ing the monkey beyond measure,
and swearing as mony Gaelic aiths as
micht hae saired an ordinar man for a
twalmonth. During this time, I never
steered a foot, but keepit keekin’ frae
the back shop upon a’ that was ganging
on. I was highly delighted; and jalousing
that Nosey was ower supple to
be easily catched, I had nae apprehension
for the event, and remained
snug in my berth to see the upshot.</p>

<p class='c008'>In a short time, in comes Mr Weft,
wi’ a piece of lowing paper in his hand,
that he had got from the next door to
licht the shop; and nae sooner did
Donald see him than he axed him for
his note.</p>

<p class='c008'>“What note, honest man?” said
Mr Weft.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Cot tamn,” quo’ Donald; “the
note the auld scoundrel, your grandfater,
stole frae me.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“My grandfaither!” answered the
ither wi’ amazement. “I am thinking,
honest man, ye hae had a glass ower
muckle. My grandfaither has been
dead for saxteen years, and I ne’er
heard tell till now that he was a fief.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Weel, weel, then,” quo’ the Heelandman,
“I don’t care naething about it.
If he’s no your grandfaither, he’ll be
your faither, or your brither, or your
cousin.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“My faither or my brither, or my
cousin!” repeated Mr Weft. “I maun
tell ye plainly, frien’, that I hae neither
faither, nor brither, nor cousin of ony
description, on this side of the grave.
I dinna understand ye, honest man,
but I reckon that ye hae sat ower
lang at the whisky, and my advice to
ye is to stap awa hame and sleep it
aff.”</p>

<p class='c008'>At this speech the Heelandman lost
a’ patience, and lookit sae awfully
fairce, that ance or twice I was on the
nick of coming forrit, and explaining
how matters really stood; but curiosity
keepit me chained to the back shop,
and I just thoucht I would bide a wee,
and see how the affair was like to end.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Pray, wha are you, sir?” said Donald,
putting his hands in his sides, and
looking through his specks upon Mr
Weft, like a deevil incarnit. “Wha
are you, sir, that daur to speak to me
in this manner?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Wha am I?” said the ither, drapping
the remnant of the paper, which
was burnin’ close to his fingers, “I am
Saunders Weft, manufacturer in Hamilton—that’s
what I am.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“And I am Tonald Campbell, piper’s
sister’s son to his grace the great, grand
Tuke of Argyll,” thundered out the
Heelandman, wi’ a voice that was fearsome
to hear.</p>

<p class='c008'>“And what about that?” quo’ Mr
Weft, rather snappishly, as I thocht.
“If ye were the great, grand Duke
of Argyll himsel, as ye ca’ him, I’ll
no permit you to kick up a dust in my
shop.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ye scounrel,” said Donald, seizing
Mr Weft by the throat, and shaking
him till he tottered like an aspen leaf,
“div ye mean to speak ill of his grace
the Tuke of Argyll?” And he gied
him anither shake—then, laying haud
of his nose, he swore that he would pu’t
as lang as a cow’s tail, if he didna that
instant restore him his lost property.
At this sicht I began to grue a’ ower,
and now saw the needcessity of stapping
ben, and saving my employer frae farther
damage, bodily and itherwise. Nae
sooner had I made my appearance than
Donald let go his grip of Mr Weft’s
nose, and the latter, in a great passion,
cried out—</p>

<p class='c008'>“William M‘Gee, I tak ye to witness
what I hae sufferit frae this bluidthirsty
Heelandman! It’s no to be endured
in a Christian country. I’ll hae the
law of him, that I will. I’ll be whuppit
but I’ll hae amends, although it costs
me twenty pounds!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“What’s the matter?” quo’ I, pretending
ignorance of the hale concern.
“What, in the name of Nebuchadnezzar,
has set ye thegither by the
lugs?”</p>

<p class='c008'>Then Mr Weft began his tale, how
he had been collared and weel nigh
thrappled in his ain shop;—then the
ither tauld how, in the first place, Mr
Weft’s grandfaither, as he ca’d Nosey,
had stolen his note, and how, in the
second place, Mr Weft himself had insulted
the great, grand Duke of Argyll.
In a word, there was a desperate kick-up
between them, the ane threeping
that he would tak the law of the ither
immediately. Na, in this respect
Donald gaed the greatest length, for
he swore that, rather than be defeated,
he wad carry his cause to the House of
Lords, although it cost him thretty
pounds sterling. I now saw it was
time to put in a word.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Hout-tout, gentlemen,” quo’ I,
“what’s the use of a’ this clishmaclaver?
Ye’ve baith gotten the wrang sow by
the lug, or my name’s no William
M‘Gee. I’ll wager ye a penny-piece,
that my monkey Nosey is at the bottom
of the business.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Nae sooner had I spoken the word,
than the twa, looking round the shop,
spied the beastie sitting upon the shelf,
girning at them, and putting out his
tongue, and wiggle-waggling his walking
stick ower his left elbow, as if he had been
playing upon the fiddle. Mr Weft at
this apparition set up a loud laugh; his
passion left him in a moment, when he
saw the ridiculous mistake that the
Heelandman had fa’en into, and I
thocht he would hae bursted his sides
wi’ evendown merriment. At first,
Donald lookit desperate angry, and,
judging frae the way he was twisting
about his mouth and rowing his een,
I opined that he intended some deadly
skaith to the monkey. But his gude
sense, of which Heelandmen are no a’thegither
destitute, got the better of his
anger, and he roared and lauched like the
very mischief. Nor was this a’, for nae
sooner had he began to lauch, than the
monkey did the same thing, and held
its sides in preceesely the same manner,
imitating his actions, in the maist
amusin’ way imaginable. This only
set Donald a-lauching mair than ever,
and when he lifted up his nieve, and
shook it at Nosey in a gude-humoured
way, what think ye that the cratur did?
’Od, man, he took the note frae his
pouch, whaur it lay rowed up like a
ba’, and papping it at Donald, hit him
as fairly upon the nose as if it had been
shot out of a weel-aimed musket.
There was nae resisting this. The
haill three, or rather the haill four, for
Nosey joined us, set up a loud lauch;
and the Heelandman’s was the loudest
of a’, showing that he was really a man
of sense, and could tak a joke as weel
as his neighbours.</p>

<p class='c008'>When the lauchin’ had a wee subsided,
Mr Campbell, in order to show
that he had nae ill will to Mr Weft,
axed his pardon for the rough way
he had treated him, but the worthy
manufacturer wadna hear o’t. “Houts,
man,” quo’ he, “dinna say a word
about it. It’s a mistak a’thegither,
and Solomon himsel, ye ken, whiles
gaed wrang.” Whereupon the Heelandman
bought a Kilmarnock nicht-cap,
price elevenpence ha’penny, frae
Mr Weft, and paid him wi’ part of
the very note that brocht on the ferlie
I hae just been relating. But his gude
wull didna end here, for he insisted on
takin’ us a’—Nosey amang the lave—to
the nearest public, where he gied
us a frien’ly glass, and we keepit talking
about monkeys, and what not, in a
manner at ance edifying and amusing
to hear.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='the_ladder_dancer' class='c006'>THE LADDER DANCER.</h2>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c016'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line in14'>Men should know why</div>
      <div class='line'>They write, and for what end; but note or text,</div>
      <div class='line'>I never know the word which will come next;</div>
      <div class='line'>So on I ramble, now and then narrating,</div>
      <div class='line'>Now pondering.—<em>Byron.</em></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>It was a lovely evening in summer,
when a crowd hallooing and
shouting in the street of L——, a
village of the north of Scotland, at
once disturbed my reveries, and left
me little leisure again to yield myself
to their wayward dominion. In sooth,
I had no pretence for indifference to a
very singular spectacle of a something-like
human being moving in mid-air;
and although its saltatory gambols in
this unusual situation could scarcely be
called dancing, it was certainly intended
to be like it, however little the resemblance
might be approved. A something
between a male and female in
point of dress—a perfect hermaphrodite
in regard to costume—had mounted
herself on gigantic stilts, on which she
hopped about, defying the secrecy even
of the middle floors of the surrounding
houses, and in some cases giving her a
peep into the attic regions of less lofty
domiciles. In this manner, stalking
about from side to side, like a crane
among the reeds, the very Diable
Boiteux himself was never more inquisitive
after the domestic concerns of his
neighbours, or better fitted to explore
them by his invisibility, than she was
by her altitude. Her presence in mid-air,
in more than one instance, was the
subject of alarm to the sober inmates
of the street, who, little suspicious of
such intrusion, might perhaps be engaged
in household cares which did not
court observation, or had sunk into the
relaxations of an undress, after the
fatigues and heat of the day. Everywhere
the windows might be heard
thrown up with impatient haste,—the
sash skirling and creaking in its ascent
with the violence of the effort, and
immediately after, a head might be
seen poked forward to explore the
“whence” and “wherefore,”—in short,
to ask in one word, if it could be so
condensed, the meaning and purpose of
this aërial visitor.</p>

<p class='c008'>The more desultory occupations of
a little village hold but loosely together
the different classes of it. Master
and servant approach more nearly,—the
one is less elevated, and the other
less depressed, than in great towns,—a
show is at least as great a treat to the
one as to the other, and there is nothing
in their respective notions of decorum to
repress their joyous feelings, while under
the irresistible impulse of the inimitable
Mr Punch, or of the demure and clumsy
bear, treading a measure with the graces
of a <em>Mercandotti</em>. In short, the more
simple elements of a villager’s mind
are, like their own more robust frames,
more easily inflamed;—there is more
excitable stuff about them, because they
are less frequently subjected to the tear
and wear of novelty, which towns constantly
afford. The schoolmaster and
the schoolboy alike pour out from the
lowly straw-roofed “academy,” with
the same eager and breathless haste, to
catch a first glance, or secure a favourable
post. Syntax and arithmetic—blessed
oblivion!—are for the moment
forgotten. Think of the ecstacies of
the little culprit, who was perhaps
under the rod, if at that awful moment
a troop of dancing dogs, with their full
accompaniment of pipe and tabor, came
under the school window, and was at
once gladdened with a respite and a
show. One moment watching the grim
smile of the pedagogue; next lost in
wonder at the accomplished puppets—nothing
to disturb his bliss but the
trammels of Concordance, or the intricacies
of the Rule of Three.</p>

<p class='c008'>But if mere novelty has such delights
for the younger portion, to escape from
the monotony of village life has not less
charms for the graver class of its inhabitants.
An old gentleman, evidently
unmindful of his dishabille, popped his
head forth of his casement, heedless
of the red Kilmarnock in which it was
bedight, and gazed with eager curiosity
on the ambitious female who had now
passed his lattice. He seemed to have
caught a hint of the <em>dereglement</em> of his
own costume, by remarking that of his
female neighbour at the adjoining window,
who exposed courageously the
snowy ringlets which begirt the region
of bumps and qualities, in place of the
brown and glossy curls, which, till
that ill-fated moment, were supposed
to have belonged to it.<a id='r7'></a><a href='#f7' class='c018'><sup>[7]</sup></a> He withdrew
from sight with some precipitation, but
whether in horror of his own recklessness,
or in deference to the heedlessness
of his neighbour, must for ever
remain in doubt. Is it then strange if
there was quite a revel-rout in the
streets of the little village, when old
and young alike responded to the wonder
of the scene? To whatever quarter
she passed, not a window was down;
labour was suspended to witness feats
which no labour of theirs could accomplish.
Women, bearing with them the
marks of the household toils in which
they had been last engaged, stood at their
doors, some with sarcastic, but all with
curious gaze; while the sunburnt Piedmontoise
at times danced on her stilts a
kind of mock waltz, or hobbled from side
to side, in ridicule, as it would seem, of
the livelier measure and footing of the
quadrille. When, mounted on the
highest point of her stilts, she strided
across the way, to collect or to solicit
pence, the little urchins hanging about
their mothers, clung more closely to
them as she approached, and looked
up to her, doubting and fearful, as fish
are said to be scared by a passing cloud.
She was most successful among the
male spectators of the village. Her
feats with them excited no feelings of
rivalry, and their notions of decorum
were not so easily disturbed as those of
their helpmates, who, in refusing their
contribution, never withhold their
reprobation of such anti-Christian
gambols.</p>

<div class='footnote' id='f7'>
<p class='c008'><a href='#r7'>7</a>. I love to luxuriate in a note: it is
like hunting in an unenclosed country.
One word about the affectations of Graybeards.
Among all the ten thousand reasons
for their gray hairs, no one ever thought
of years as being at least a probable cause.
It is one of the very few hereditary peculiarities
of physical constitution, which are
loudly proclaimed and gladly seized, to apologise
for the sin of hoary locks. Acute sorrow,
or sudden surprise;—indigestion—that
talismanic thing, the nerves—love, speculation—or
anything, in short, are all approved
theories to explain their first intrusion among
the legitimate ringlets of male and female
persons of “no particular age.” Even it is
said that people have awoke gray who lay
down under very different colours; of course,
they had had a bad dream, or lain on the
wrong side, but no conscientious perruquier
could have sworn to their identity under such
a metamorphosis. In short, gray hairs are
purely accidental; they have nothing to do
with years; and being deemed a misfortune,
have from time immemorial been always spoken
of with reverence, but nowhere that I can
recollect are they spoken of with affection,
save in the beautiful song, “John Anderson,
my Jo,” where the kind-hearted wife invokes
blessings on the frosty pow of her aged
partner.</p>
</div>

<p class='c008'>“Gae awa wi’ you, ye idle randie!
Weel sets the like o’ sic misleard
queans to gang about the country playing
antics like a fule, to fules like yoursel,”
was the answer given by a middle-aged
woman, who stood near me, to
the boy who carried round a wooden
platter for the halfpence, and who
instantly retired, to save herself from
the latter part of her own reproach,
dragging with her a ragged little rogue,
who begged hard to remain till the end
of the exhibition. By this time the procession
had reached the end of the street,
where some of the better class of the
inhabitants resided, and some preparations
were made for a more elaborate
spectacle. The swarthy Savoyard,
who accompanied the ladder-dancer,
after surveying the field, seemed to fix
his station opposite to a respectable-looking
house, whose liberality he
evidently measured by its outward pretensions.</p>

<p class='c008'>There is no state of helplessness equal
to that of ignorance of the language in
which a favour is to be craved, and you
may estimate the proficiency of the foreigner
in the intricacies of our own dialect
by the obsequiousness of his smile, which
he at once adapts to the purposes of
solicitation, and of defence against insult
and ridicule. While with a look of
preparation he bustled about, to gain
attention, he grinned and nodded to the
windows which were occupied, while
he held a ladder upright, and placing
his hat at the bottom of it to receive
the niggard bounty of the spectators,
he stood at the back of it, supporting it
with both his hands. The lady of the
stilts now advanced, and resting on one
of them, with considerable address lifted
up the other and pushed it forward,
with an action that seemed to denote
something like a salutation, or obeisance,—a
kind of aërial salaam. At
this moment the hall-door was opened,
and a portly-looking woman of middle-age,
evidently the mistress of the household,
came forward and planted herself
on the broad landing-place of the stair.
There was about this personage the
round, full look which betokens ease
and affluence; and the firm, steady step
which argues satisfaction with our condition.
She fixed herself on the door-step
with the solid perpendicularity of
Pompey’s Pillar, and now and then
turned round to some young girls who
attended her, as if to chide them for mixing
her up with so silly an exhibition.</p>

<p class='c008'>I had supposed that the Piedmontoise
would have laid aside her stilts when
she ascended the ladder, but far from it,
for in this consisted the singularity of
the exhibition. She climbed the ladder,
still mounted on them, then descended
like a cat on the other side of it; she
hopped down as she had hopped up,
with equal steadiness and agility, and
thought to crown her efforts by a notable
feat, which was no less than standing
on her head on the top of the ladder,
and brandishing the two stilts, from
which she had disengaged herself, round
about her, like the arms of a windmill.
It required no great skill to see that the
old lady was very much offended with
this last performance, for when the little
dish was carried to her, and the ladder-dancer
directed a beseeching look
accompanied by an attitude which
seemed to imply that there were other
feats yet in reserve, if encouragement
was held out, the patroness of the stair-head
could restrain herself no longer,
but poured out a torrent partaking
both of objurgation and admonition.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ne’er-do-weel hussie,” and “vagrant
gipsy,” were some of the sharp
missiles shot at the unsuspecting figurante,
who, as little aware of the meaning
of all this “sharp-toothed violence,”
as the bird is of the mischief aimed at
him by the fowler, sadly misapprehended
its import, and thinking it conveyed
encouragement and approbation, ducked
her head in acknowledgment, while the
thunder of the old lady’s reprobation
rolled about her in the most ceaseless
rapidity of vituperation.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ye’re a pretty ane indeed, to play
sic antics afore ony body’s house! Hae
ye naebody to learn ye better manners
that to rin up and down a ladder like a
squirrel, twisting and turning yoursel
till my banes are sair to look at you?
Muckle fitter gin ye would read your
Bible, if as much grace be left to ye;
or maybe a religious tract, to begin wi’,
for I doubt ye wad need preparation
afore ye could drink at the spring-head
wi’ ony special profit.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The last part was conveyed with a
kind of smile of self-approbation; for
of all tasks, to reclaim a sinner is the
most pleasing and soothing to religious
vanity;—so comfortable it is to be allowed
to scold on any terms, but doubly
delightful, because it always implies
superiority. But the ladder-dancer and
her attendant were aware of no part of
what was passing in the mind of the
female lecturer, and fully as ignorant of
the eloquent address I have just repeated;
she only saw, in the gracious looks in
which her feats were condemned, an approval
of her labours, for it passed her
philosophy to comprehend the ungodly
qualities of standing on the head, or
whirling like a top. Again the ladder-dancer
cringed and bowed to her of the
stair-head; and her male supporter,
who acted as a kind of pedestal to her
elevation, bowed and grinned a little
more grimly, while the boy held out his
plate to receive the results of all this
assiduity. But they could not command
a single word of broad English among
them. Theirs only was the eloquence
of nods and grimaces; a monkey could
have done as much, and in the present
humour of the old lady, would have
been as much approved. The ladder-dancer
grew impatient, and seemed
determined on an effort to close her
labours.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ah, Madame!” she exclaimed;
“Madame” was repeated by the man,
and “Madame” was re-echoed by the
boy.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Nane o’ your nonsense wi’ me,”
was the response from the stair-head;
“your madam’ing, and I dinna ken
what mair havers. Ye needna fash
your head to stand there a’ day girning
at me, and making sic outlandish sport.
I’m mair fule than you, that bides to
look at you; a fine tale they’d hae to
tell that could say they saw me here,
idling my precious time on the like o’
you.”</p>

<p class='c008'>She now whispered to one of the girls,
who retired, and soon after returned,
giving her a small parcel, which she examined,
and seemed to say all was right.
She beckoned the ladder-dancer, who
slid down with cat-like agility, and was
instantly with her, standing a step lower,
in deference to the doughty dame.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Here,” said she, with a gruff air,
which was rather affected than real,
“tak these precious gifts,” handing her
a bunch of religious tracts. “See if ye
canna find out your spiritual wants, and
learn to seek for the ‘Pearl of Price.’
My certie, but ye’re a weel-faured
hussie,” examining her more narrowly,
“but your gaits are no that commendable;
but for a’ that, a mair broken ship
has reached the land.”</p>

<p class='c008'>I could observe that she slipped a
half-crown into the hand of the Piedmontoise;
and as she turned away to
avoid thanks, an elderly gentleman
(perhaps her husband), who stood by,
said in a low voice,—</p>

<p class='c008'>“That’s like yoursel, Darsie; your
bark was aye waur than your bite,
ony day!”—<cite>Blackwood’s Magazine</cite>,
1826.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='the_elders_death_bed' class='c006'>THE ELDER’S DEATH-BED.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By Professor Wilson.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>It was on a fierce and howling day
that I was crossing the dreary moor of
Auchindown, on my way to the manse
of that parish—a solitary pedestrian.
The snow, which had been incessantly
falling for a week past, was drifted into
beautiful but dangerous wreaths, far
and wide, over the melancholy expanse;
and the scene kept visibly shifting before
me, as the strong wind that blew from
every point of the compass struck the
dazzling masses, and heaved them up and
down in endless transformation. There
was something inspiriting in the labour
with which, in the buoyant strength
of youth, I forced my way through the
storm; and I could not but enjoy those
gleamings of sunlight that ever and anon
burst through some unexpected opening
in the sky, and gave a character of
cheerfulness, and even warmth, to the
sides or summits of the stricken hills.
Sometimes the wind stopped of a
sudden, and then the air was as silent
as the snow—not a murmur to be heard
from spring or stream, now all frozen up
over those high moorlands. As the
momentary cessations of the sharp drift
allowed my eyes to look onwards and
around, I saw here and there, up the
little opening valleys, cottages just
visible beneath the black stems of their
snow-covered clumps of trees, or beside
some small spot of green pasture kept
open for the sheep. These intimations
of life and happiness came delightfully
to me in the midst of the desolation;
and the barking of a dog, attending
some shepherd in his quest on the hill,
put fresh vigour into my limbs, telling
me that, lonely as I seemed to be, I
was surrounded by cheerful, though
unseen company, and that I was not
the only wanderer over the snows.</p>

<p class='c008'>As I walked along, my mind was
insensibly filled with a crowd of pleasant
images of rural winter life, that helped
me gladly onwards over many miles of
moor. I thought of the severe but
cheerful labours of the barn—the mending
of farm-gear by the fireside—the
wheel turned by the foot of old age less
for gain than as a thrifty pastime—the
skilful mother making “auld claes look
amaist as weel’s the new”—the ballad
unconsciously listened to by the family
all busy at their own tasks round the
singing maiden—the old traditionary
tale, told by some wayfarer hospitably
housed till the storm should blow by—the
unexpected visit of neighbours on
need or friendship—or the footstep of
lover undeterred by snow-drifts that
have buried up his flocks;—but above
all, I thought of those hours of religious
worship that have not yet escaped from
the domestic life of the peasantry of
Scotland—of the sound of psalms that
the depth of the snow cannot deaden to
the ear of Him to whom they are
chanted—and of that sublime Sabbath-keeping
which, on days too tempestuous
for the kirk, changes the cottage of the
shepherd into the temple of God.</p>

<p class='c008'>With such glad and peaceful images
in my heart, I travelled along that
dreary moor, with the cutting wind in
my face, and my feet sinking in the
snow, or sliding on the hard blue ice
beneath it—as cheerfully as I ever
walked in the dewy warmth of a summer
morning, through fields of fragrance
and of flowers. And now I could discern,
within half an hour’s walk, before
me, the spire of the church, close to
which stood the manse of my aged
friend and benefactor. My heart burned
within me as a sudden gleam of stormy
sunlight tipped it with fire; and I felt,
at that moment, an inexpressible sense
of the sublimity of the character of that
grayheaded shepherd who had, for fifty
years, abode in the wilderness, keeping
together his own happy little flock.</p>

<p class='c008'>As I was ascending a knoll, I saw
before me on horseback an old man,
with his long white hairs beaten against
his face, who, nevertheless, advanced
with a calm countenance against the
hurricane. It was no other than my
father, of whom I had been thinking—for
my father had I called him for many
years, and for many years my father
had he truly been. My surprise at
meeting him on such a moor—on such a
day—was but momentary, for I knew
that he was a shepherd who cared not
for the winter’s wrath. As he stopped
to take my hand kindly into his, and
to give his blessing to his long-expected
visitor, the wind fell calm—the whole
face of the sky was softened, and brightness,
like a smile, went over the blushing
and crimson snow. The very
elements seemed then to respect the
hoary head of fourscore; and after our
first greeting was over, when I looked
around, in my affection, I felt how
beautiful was winter.</p>

<p class='c008'>“I am going,” said he, “to visit a
man at the point of death; a man
whom you cannot have forgotten;
whose head will be missed in the kirk
next Sabbath by all my congregation;
a devout man, who feared God all his
days, and whom, on this awful trial,
God will assuredly remember. I am
going, my son, to the Hazel Glen.”</p>

<p class='c008'>I knew well in childhood that lonely
farmhouse, so far off among the beautiful
wild green hills, and it was not
likely that I had forgotten the name of
its possessor. For six years’ Sabbaths
I had seen the Elder in his accustomed
place beneath the pulpit, and, with a
sort of solemn fear, had looked on his
steadfast countenance during sermon,
psalm, and prayer. On returning to
the scenes of my infancy, I now met
the pastor going to pray by his deathbed;
and, with the privilege which
nature gives us to behold, even in their
last extremity, the loving and the beloved,
I turned to accompany him to
the house of sorrow, resignation, and
death.</p>

<p class='c008'>And now, for the first time, I observed
walking close to the feet of his
horse, a little boy of about ten years of
age, who kept frequently looking up in
the pastor’s face, with his blue eyes
bathed in tears. A changeful expression
of grief, hope, and despair, made
almost pale cheeks that otherwise were
blooming in health and beauty; and I
recognised, in the small features and
smooth forehead of childhood, a resemblance
to the aged man whom we
understood was now lying on his death-bed.
“They had to send his grandson
for me through the snow, mere child as
he is,” said the minister to me, looking
tenderly on the boy; “but love makes
the young heart bold—and there is One
who tempers the wind to the shorn
lamb.”</p>

<p class='c008'>I again looked on the fearless child
with his rosy cheeks, blue eyes, and
yellow hair, so unlike grief or sorrow,
yet now sobbing aloud as if his heart
would break. “I do not fear but that
my grandfather will yet recover, as soon
as the minister has said one single
prayer by his bedside. I had no hope,
or little, as I was running by myself to
the manse over hill after hill, but I am
full of hopes, now that we are together;
and oh! if God suffers my grandfather
to recover, I will lie awake all the long
winter nights blessing Him for His mercy.
I will rise up in the middle of the darkness,
and pray to Him in the cold on my
naked knees!” and here his voice was
choked, while he kept his eyes fixed, as
if for consolation and encouragement,
on the solemn and pitying countenance
of the kind-hearted pious old man.</p>

<p class='c008'>We soon left the main road, and
struck off through scenery that, covered
as it was with the bewildering snow, I
sometimes dimly and sometimes vividly
remembered; our little guide keeping
ever a short distance before us, and
with a sagacity like that of instinct,
showing us our course, of which no
trace was visible, save occasionally his
own little footprints as he had been
hurrying to the manse.</p>

<p class='c008'>After crossing, for several miles,
morass and frozen rivulet, and drifted
hollow, with here and there the top of
a stone-wall peeping through the snow,
or the more visible circle of a sheep-bucht,
we descended into the Hazel-glen,
and saw before us the solitary
house of the dying Elder.</p>

<p class='c008'>A gleam of days gone by came suddenly
over my soul. The last time
that I had been in this glen was on a
day of June, fifteen years before,—a
holiday, the birthday of the king. A
troop of laughing schoolboys, headed by
our benign pastor, we danced over the
sunny braes, and startled the linnets
from their nests among the yellow
broom. Austere as seemed to us the
Elder’s Sabbath face when sitting in the
kirk, we schoolboys knew that it had
its week-day smiles, and we flew on
the wings of joy to our annual festival
of curds and cream in the farm-house of
that little sylvan world. We rejoiced
in the flowers and the leaves of that
long, that interminable summer day;
its memory was with our boyish hearts
from June to June; and the sound of
that sweet name, “Hazel Glen,” often
came upon us at our tasks, and brought
too brightly into the school-room the
pastoral imagery of that mirthful solitude.</p>

<p class='c008'>As we now slowly approached the
cottage through a deep snow-drift,
which the distress within had prevented
the household from removing, we saw
peeping out from the door, brothers
and sisters of our little guide, who
quickly disappeared, and then their
mother showed herself in their stead,
expressing by her raised eyes, and arms
folded across her breast, how thankful
she was to see at last the pastor, beloved
in joy and trusted in trouble.</p>

<p class='c008'>Soon as the venerable old man dismounted
from his horse, our active little
guide led it away into the humble stable,
and we entered the cottage. Not a
sound was heard but the ticking of the
clock. The matron, who had silently
welcomed us at the door, led us, with
suppressed sighs and a face stained with
weeping, into her father’s sick room,
which even in that time of sore distress
was as orderly as if health had blessed
the house. I could not help remarking
some old china ornaments on the chimneypiece,
and in the window was an
ever-blowing rose-tree, that almost
touched the lowly roof, and brightened
that end of the apartment with its blossoms.
There was something tasteful in
the simple furniture; and it seemed as
if grief could not deprive the hand of
that matron of its careful elegance.
Sickness, almost hopeless sickness, lay
there, surrounded with the same cheerful
and beautiful objects which health
had loved; and she, who had arranged
and adorned the apartment in her happiness,
still kept it from disorder and
decay in her sorrow.</p>

<p class='c008'>With a gentle hand she drew the
curtain of the bed, and there, supported
by pillows as white as the snow that
lay without, reposed the dying Elder.
It was plain that the hand of God was
upon him, and that his days on the
earth were numbered.</p>

<p class='c008'>He greeted his minister with a faint
smile, and a slight inclination of the
head—for his daughter had so raised
him on the pillows, that he was almost
sitting up in his bed. It was easy to
see that he knew himself to be dying,
and that his soul was prepared for the
great change; yet, along with the
solemn resignation of a Christian who
had made his peace with God and his
Saviour, there was blended on his white
and sunken countenance an expression
of habitual reverence for the minister
of his faith; and I saw that he could
not have died in peace without that
comforter to pray by his death-bed.</p>

<p class='c008'>A few words sufficed to tell who was
the stranger;—and the dying man,
blessing me by name, held out to me
his cold shrivelled hand, in token of
recognition. I took my seat at a small
distance from the bedside, and left a
closer station for those who were more
dear. The pastor sat down near his
head; and, by the bed, leaning on it
with gentle hands, stood that matron,
his daughter-in-law—a figure that would
have graced and sainted a higher dwelling,
and whose native beauty was now
more touching in its grief. But religion
upheld her whom nature was bowing
down. Not now for the first time were
the lessons taught by her father to be
put into practice, for I saw that she was
clothed in deep mourning and she
behaved like the daughter of a man
whose life had been not only irreproachable
but lofty, with fear and hope fighting
desperately but silently in the core
of her pure and pious heart.</p>

<p class='c008'>While we thus remained in silence,
the beautiful boy, who, at the risk of
his life, had brought the minister of
religion to the bedside of his beloved
grandfather, softly and cautiously opened
the door, and with the hoar-frost yet unmelted
on his bright glistering ringlets,
walked up to the pillow, evidently no
stranger there. He no longer sobbed—he
no longer wept—for hope had risen
strongly within his innocent heart,
from the consciousness of love so fearlessly
exerted, and from the presence of
the holy man in whose prayers he
trusted, as in the intercession of some
superior and heavenly nature. There
he stood, still as an image in his grandfather’s
eyes, that, in their dimness, fell
upon him with delight. Yet, happy as
was the trusting child, his heart was
devoured by fear, and he looked as if
one word might stir up the flood of tears
that had subsided in his heart. As he
crossed the dreary and dismal moors, he
had thought of a corpse, a shroud, and
a grave; he had been in terror, lest
death should strike in his absence the
old man, with whose gray hairs he had
so often played; but now he <em>saw</em> him
alive, and felt that death was not able
to tear him away from the clasps, and
links, and fetters of his grandchild’s
embracing love.</p>

<p class='c008'>“If the storm do not abate,” said the
sick man, after a pause, “it will be
hard for my friends to carry me over
the drifts to the kirkyard.” This sudden
approach to the grave struck, as
with a bar of ice, the heart of the loving
boy; and, with a long deep sigh, he
fell down with his face like ashes on the
bed, while the old man’s palsied right
hand had just strength to lay itself upon
his head. “Blessed be thou, my little
Jamie, even for His own name’s sake
who died for us on the tree!” The
mother, without terror, but with an
averted face, lifted up her loving-hearted
boy, now in a dead fainting-fit, and
carried him into an adjoining room,
where he soon revived. But that child
and the old man were not to be separated.
In vain he was asked to go to his
brothers and sisters;—pale, breathless,
and shivering, he took his place as
before, with eyes fixed on his grandfather’s
face, but neither weeping nor
uttering a word. Terror had frozen up
the blood of his heart; but his were
now the only dry eyes in the room;
and the pastor himself wept—albeit the
grief of fourscore is seldom vented in
tears.</p>

<p class='c008'>“God has been gracious to me, a
sinner,” said the dying man. “During
thirty years that I have been an elder
in your kirk, never have I missed sitting
there one Sabbath. When the mother
of my children was taken from me—it
was on a Tuesday she died, and on
Saturday she was buried—we stood
together when my Alice was let down
into the narrow house made for all
living; on the Sabbath I joined in the
public worship of God: she commanded
me to do so the night before she went
away. I could not join in the psalm
that Sabbath, for her voice was not in
the throng. Her grave was covered
up, and grass and flowers grew there;
so was my heart; but thou, whom,
through the blood of Christ, I hope to
see this night in Paradise, knowest that,
from that hour to this day, never have
I forgotten thee!”</p>

<p class='c008'>The old man ceased speaking, and
his grandchild, now able to endure the
scene (for strong passion is its own support),
glided softly to a little table, and
bringing a cup in which a cordial had
been mixed, held it in his small soft
hands to his grandfather’s lips. He
drank, and then said, “Come closer to
me, Jamie, and kiss me for thine own
and thy father’s sake;” and as the
child fondly pressed his rosy lips on
those of his grandfather, so white and
withered, the tears fell over all the old
man’s face, and then trickled down on
the golden head of the child, at last sobbing
in his bosom.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Jamie, thy own father has forgotten
thee in thy infancy, and me in my old
age; but, Jamie, forget not thou thy
father nor thy mother, for that thou
knowest and feelest is the commandment
of God.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The broken-hearted boy could give
no reply. He had gradually stolen
closer and closer unto the old loving
man, and now was lying, worn out
with sorrow, drenched and dissolved in
tears, in his grandfather’s bosom. His
mother had sunk down on her knees
and hid her face with her hands. “Oh!
if my husband knew but of this—he
would never, never desert his dying
father!” and I now knew that the
Elder was praying on his death-bed for
a disobedient and wicked son.</p>

<p class='c008'>At this affecting time the minister
took the family Bible on his knees, and
said, “Let us sing to the praise and
glory of God, part of the fifteenth
psalm;” and he read, with a tremulous
and broken voice, those beautiful
verses:—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“Within thy tabernacle, Lord,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Who shall abide with thee?</div>
      <div class='line'>And in Thy high and holy hill</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Who shall a dweller be?</div>
      <div class='line'>The man that walketh uprightly,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>And worketh righteousness,</div>
      <div class='line'>And as he thinketh in his heart,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>So doth he truth express.”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c008'>The small congregation sang the noble
hymn of the psalmist to “plaintiff
Martyrs, worthy of the name.” The
dying man himself, ever and anon, joined
in the holy music; and when it feebly
died away on his quivering lips, he
continued still to follow the tune with
the motion of his withered hand, and eyes
devoutly and humbly lifted up to heaven.
Nor was the sweet voice of his loving
grandchild unheard; as if the strong
fit of deadly passion had dissolved in the
music, he sang with a sweet and silvery
voice, that, to a passer-by, had seemed
that of perfect happiness—a hymn sung
in joy upon its knees by gladsome childhood
before it flew out among the green
hills, to quiet labour or gleesome play.
As that sweetest voice came from the
bosom of the old man, where the singer
lay in affection, and blended with his
own so tremulous, never had I felt so
affectingly brought before me the beginning
and the end of life, the cradle
and the grave.</p>

<p class='c008'>Ere the psalm was yet over, the door
was opened, and a tall fine-looking
man entered, but with a lowering and
dark countenance, seemingly in sorrow,
in misery, and remorse. Agitated, confounded,
and awe-struck by the melancholy
and dirge-like music, he sat down
on a chair, and looked with a ghastly
face towards his father’s death-bed.
When the psalm ceased, the Elder said
with a solemn voice, “My son, thou
art come in time to receive thy father’s
blessing. May the remembrance of
what will happen in this room before
the morning again shine over the Hazel
Glen win thee from the error of
thy ways! Thou art here, to witness
the mercy of thy God and thy Saviour,
whom thou hast forgotten.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The minister looked, if not with a
stern, yet with an upbraiding countenance,
on the young man, who had
not recovered his speech, and said,
“William! for three years past your
shadow has not darkened the door of the
house of God. They who fear not the
thunder may tremble at the still small
voice; now is the hour for repentance,
that your father’s spirit may carry up to
heaven tidings of a contrite soul saved
from the company of sinners!”</p>

<p class='c008'>The young man, with much effort,
advanced to the bedside, and at last
found voice to say, “Father, I am not
without the affections of nature, and I
hurried home as soon as I heard that the
minister had been seen riding towards
our house. I hope that you will yet
recover, and if I have ever made you
unhappy, I ask your forgiveness; for
though I may not think as you do on
matters of religion, I have a human
heart. Father! I may have been unkind,
but I am not cruel. I ask your
forgiveness.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Come nearer to me, William;
kneel down by the bedside, and let my
hand find the head of my beloved son—for
blindness is coming fast upon me.
Thou wert my first-born, and thou art
my only living son. All thy brothers
and sisters are lying in the kirkyard,
beside her whose sweet face thine own,
William, did once so much resemble.
Long wert thou the joy, the pride of my
soul—ay, too much the pride, for there
was not in all the parish such a man,
such a son, as my own William. If
thy heart has since been changed, God
may inspire it again with right thoughts.
Could I die for thy sake—could I purchase
thy salvation with the outpouring
of thy father’s blood—but this the Son
of God has done for thee, who hast
denied Him! I have sorely wept for
thee—ay, William, when there was
none near me—even as David wept for
Absalom, for thee, my son, my son!”</p>

<p class='c008'>A long deep groan was the only reply;
but the whole body of the kneeling
man was convulsed; and it was easy to
see his sufferings, his contrition, his remorse,
and his despair. The pastor
said, with a sterner voice and austerer
countenance than were natural to him,
“Know you whose hand is now lying
on your rebellious head? But what
signifies the word father to him who has
denied God, the Father of us all?”—“Oh!
press him not so hardly,” said
the weeping wife, coming forward from
a dark corner of the room, where she
had tried to conceal herself in grief,
fear, and shame. “Spare, oh! spare
my husband—he has ever been kind to
me;” and with that she knelt down
beside him, with her long, soft, white
arms mournfully and affectionately laid
across his neck. “Go thou, likewise,
my sweet little Jamie,” said the Elder,
“go even out of my bosom, and kneel
down beside thy father and thy mother,
so that I may bless you all at once, and
with one yearning prayer.” The child
did as that solemn voice commanded,
and knelt down somewhat timidly by
his father’s side; nor did that unhappy
man decline encircling with his arm the
child too much neglected, but still dear
to him as his own blood, in spite of the
deadening and debasing influence of infidelity.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Put the Word of God into the hands
of my son, and let him read aloud to
his dying father the 25th, 26th, and 27th
verses of the eleventh chapter of the
Gospel according to St John.” The
pastor went up to the kneelers, and,
with a voice of pity, condolence, and
pardon, said, “There was a time when
none, William, could read the Scriptures
better than couldst thou—can it
be that the son of my friend hath forgotten
the lessons of his youth?” He
had not forgotten them; there was no
need for the repentant sinner to lift up
his eyes from the bedside. The sacred
stream of the Gospel had worn a channel
in his heart, and the waters were
again flowing. With a choked voice
he said, “Jesus said unto her, I am the
Resurrection and the Life: he that believeth
in me, though he were dead,
yet shall he live: and whosoever
liveth and believeth in me, shall never
die. Believest thou this? She saith
unto him, Yea, Lord; I believe that
thou art the Christ, the Son of God,
which should come into the world.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“That is not an unbeliever’s voice,”
said the dying man triumphantly; “nor,
William, hast thou an unbeliever’s
heart. Say that thou believest in what
thou hast now read, and thy father will
die happy!”—“I do believe; and as
thou forgivest me, so may I be forgiven
by my Father who is in heaven.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The Elder seemed like a man suddenly
inspired with a new life. His faded
eyes kindled—his pale cheeks glowed—his
palsied hands seemed to wax strong—and
his voice was clear as that of
manhood in its prime. “Into Thy
hands, O God, I commit my spirit!”—and
so saying, he gently sank back
on his pillow; and I thought I heard
a sigh. There was then a long deep
silence, and the father, and mother, and
child rose from their knees. The eyes
of us all were turned towards the white
placid face of the figure now stretched
in everlasting rest; and without lamentations,
save the silent lamentations of
the resigned soul, we stood around
the “Death-bed of the Elder.”</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='a_highland_feud' class='c006'>A HIGHLAND FEUD.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By Sir Walter Scott.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>The principal possessors of the
Hebrides were originally of the name
of MacDonald, the whole being under
the government of a succession of chiefs,
who bore the name of Donald of the
Isles, and were possessed of authority
almost independent of the kings of
Scotland. But this great family becoming
divided into two or three
branches, other chiefs settled in some
of the islands, and disputed the property
of the original proprietors. Thus,
the MacLeods, a powerful and numerous
clan, who had extensive estates on
the mainland, made themselves masters,
at a very early period, of a great part
of the large island of Skye, seized upon
much of the Long Island, as the isles
of Lewis and Harris are called, and
fought fiercely with the MacDonalds
and other tribes of the islands. The
following is an example of the mode in
which these feuds were conducted:—</p>

<p class='c008'>About the end of the sixteenth century,
a boat, manned by one or two of
the MacLeods, landed in Eigg, a small
island peopled by the MacDonalds.
They were at first hospitably received;
but having been guilty of some incivility
to the young women of the island, it
was so much resented by the inhabitants,
that they tied the MacLeods hand
and foot, and putting them on board of
their own boat, towed it to the sea, and
set it adrift, leaving the wretched men,
bound as they were, to perish by
famine, or by the winds and waves, as
chance should determine. But fate so
ordered it, that a boat belonging to the
Laird of MacLeod fell in with that
which had the captives on board, and
brought them in safety to the Laird’s
castle of Dunvegan, in Skye, where
they complained of the injury which
they had sustained from the MacDonalds
of Eigg. MacLeod, in great
rage, put to sea with his galleys, manned
by a large body of his people, which
the men of Eigg could not entertain
any rational hope of resisting. Learning
that their incensed enemy was
approaching with superior forces, and
deep vows of revenge, the inhabitants,
who knew they had no mercy to expect
at MacLeod’s hands, resolved, as the
best chance of safety in their power, to
conceal themselves in a large cavern on
the sea-shore.</p>

<p class='c008'>This place was particularly well-calculated
for that purpose. The entrance
resembles that of a fox-earth,
being an opening so small that a man
cannot enter save by creeping on hands
and knees. A rill of water falls from
the top of the rock, and serves, or rather
served at the period we speak of,
wholly to conceal the aperture. A
stranger, even when apprised of the
existence of such a cave, would find
the greatest difficulty in discovering
the entrance. Within, the cavern rises
to a great height, and the floor is
covered with white dry sand. It is
extensive enough to contain a great
number of people. The whole inhabitants
of Eigg, who, with their wives
and families, amounted to nearly two
hundred souls, took refuge within its
precincts.</p>

<p class='c008'>MacLeod arrived with his armament,
and landed on the island, but could
discover no one on whom to wreak his
vengeance—all was desert. The MacLeods
destroyed the huts of the islanders,
and plundered what property they could
discover; but the vengeance of the chieftain
could not be satisfied with such
petty injuries. He knew that the inhabitants
must either have fled in their
boats to one of the islands possessed by
the MacDonalds, or that they must be
concealed somewhere in Eigg. After
making a strict but unsuccessful search for
two days, MacLeod had appointed the
third to leave his anchorage, when, in
the gray of the morning, one of the seamen
beheld, from the deck of his galley,
the figure of a man on the island. This
was a spy whom the MacDonalds, impatient
of their confinement in the
cavern, had imprudently sent out to see
whether MacLeod had retired or no.
The poor fellow, when he saw himself
discovered, endeavoured, by doubling
after the manner of a hare or fox, to
obliterate the track of his footsteps,
and prevent its being discovered where
he had re-entered the cavern. But all
his art was in vain; the invaders again
landed, and tracked him to the entrance
of the cavern.</p>

<p class='c008'>MacLeod then summoned those who
were within it, and called upon them
to deliver the individuals who had maltreated
his men, to be disposed of at his
pleasure. The MacDonalds, still confident
in the strength of their fastness,
which no assailant could enter but on
hands and knees, refused to surrender
their clansmen.</p>

<p class='c008'>MacLeod then commenced a dreadful
work of indiscriminate vengeance.
He caused his people, by means of a
ditch cut above the top of the rock,
to turn away the stream of water which
fell over the entrance of the precipice.
This being done, the MacLeods collected
all the combustibles which could
be found on the island, particularly
quantities of dry heather, piled them
up against the aperture, and maintained
an immense fire for many hours, until
the smoke, penetrating into the inmost
recesses of the cavern, stifled to death
every creature within. There is no
doubt of the truth of this story, dreadful
as it is. The cavern is often visited by
strangers; and I have myself seen the
place, where the bones of the murdered
MacDonalds still remain, lying as thick
on the floor of the cave as in the charnel-house
of a church.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='the_resurrection_men' class='c006'>THE RESURRECTION MEN.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By D. M. Moir, M.D.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>How then was the Devil drest?</div>
      <div class='line'>He was in his Sunday’s best;</div>
      <div class='line'>His coat was red, and his breeches were blue,</div>
      <div class='line'>With a hole behind, where his tail came through.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Over the hill, and over the dale,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>And he went over the plain:</div>
      <div class='line'>And backward and forward he switched his tail,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>As a gentleman switches his cane.</div>
      <div class='line in36'><em>Coleridge.</em></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>About this time<a id='r8'></a><a href='#f8' class='c018'><sup>[8]</sup></a> there arose a great
sough and surmise that some loons
were playing false with the kirkyard,
howking up the bodies from their damp
graves, and hurling them away to the
college. Words canna describe the
fear, and the dool, and the misery
it caused. All flocked to the kirk
yett; and the friends of the newly
buried stood by the mools, which were
yet dark, and the brown, newly-cast
divots, that had not yet ta’en root,
looking with mournful faces, to descry
any tokens of sinking in.</p>

<div class='footnote' id='f8'>
<p class='c008'><a href='#r8'>8</a>. See <i><span lang="la">ante</span></i>, “Benjie’s Christening,” page <a href='#benjies_christening'>214</a>.</p>
</div>

<p class='c008'>I’ll never forget it. I was standing
by when three young lads took shools,
and, lifting up the truff, proceeded to
howk down to the coffin, wherein they
had laid the gray hairs of their mother.
They looked wild and bewildered like,
and the glance of their een was like
that of folk out of a mad-house; and
none dared in the world to have spoken
to them. They didna even speak to
ane anither; but wrought on wi’ a great
hurry till the spades struck on the
coffin-lid—which was broken. The
dead-claithes were there huddled a’thegither
in a nook, but the dead was
gane. I took haud o’ Willie Walker’s
arm, and looked down. There was a
cauld sweat all ower me;—losh me!
but I was terribly frighted and eerie.
Three mair graves were opened, and a’
just alike, save and except that of a wee
unkirstened wean, which was aff bodily,
coffin and a’.</p>

<p class='c008'>There was a burst of righteous indignation
throughout the parish; nor
without reason. Tell me that doctors
and graduates maun hae the dead; but
tell it not to Mansie Wauch, that our
hearts maun be trampled in the mire of
scorn, and our best feelings laughed at,
in order that a bruise may be properly
plaistered up, or a sair head cured.
Verily, the remedy is waur than the
disease.</p>

<p class='c008'>But what remead? It was to watch
in the session-house, with loaded guns,
night about, three at a time. I never
likit to gang into the kirkyard after
darkening, let-a-be to sit there through
a lang winter night, windy and rainy, it
may be, wi’ nane but the dead around
us. Save us! it was an unco thought,
and garred a’ my flesh creep; but the
cause was gude,—my spirit was roused,
and I was determined no to be dauntoned.</p>

<p class='c008'>I counted and counted, but the dread
day at length came, and I was summonsed.
All the leivelang afternoon,
when ca’ing the needle upon the
brod, I tried to whistle Jenny
Nettles, Niel Gow, and ither funny
tunes, and whiles crooned to mysel between
hands; but my consternation was
visible, and a’ wadna do.</p>

<p class='c008'>It was in November, and the cauld
glimmering sun sank behind the Pentlands.
The trees had been shorn of
their frail leaves; and the misty night
was closing fast in upon the dull and
short day; but the candles glittered at
the shop windows, and leery-light-the-lamps
was brushing about wi’ his ladder
in his oxter, and bleezing flamboy
sparking out behind him. I felt a kind
of qualm of faintness and down-sinking
about my heart and stomach, to the
dispelling of which I took a thimbleful
of spirits, and, tying my red comforter
about my neck, I marched briskly to
the session-house. A neighbour (Andrew
Goldie, the pensioner) lent me
his piece, and loaded it to me. He
took tent that it was only half-cock,
and I wrapped a napkin round the dog-head,
for it was raining. No being
acquaint wi’ guns, I keepit the muzzle
aye awa frae me; as it is every man’s
duty no to throw his precious life into
jeopardy.</p>

<p class='c008'>A furm was set before the session-house
fire, which bleezed brightly, nor
had I ony thought that such an unearthly
place could have been made to look
half so comfortable, either by coal or
candle; so my speerits rose up as if a
weight had been ta’en aff them, and I
wondered in my bravery, that a man
like me could be afeard of onything.
Nobody was there but a touzy, ragged,
halflins callant of thirteen (for I speired
his age), wi’ a desperate dirty face, and
lang carroty hair, tearing a speldrin
wi’ his teeth, which lookit lang and
sharp eneugh, and throwing the skin and
lugs intil the fire.</p>

<p class='c008'>We sat for amaist an hour thegither,
cracking the best way we could in sic a
place; nor was onybody mair likely to
cast up. The night was now pit-mirk;
the wind soughed amid the headstanes
and railings of the gentry (for we maun
a’ dee); and the black corbies in the
steeple-holes cackled and crawed in a
fearsome manner. A’ at ance we heard
a lonesome sound; and my heart began
to play pit-pat—my skin grew a’ rough,
like a poukit chicken—and I felt as if I
didna ken what was the matter with
me. It was only a false alarm, however,
being the warning of the clock; and in
a minute or twa thereafter the bell
struck ten. Oh, but it was a lonesome
and dreary sound! Every chap gaed
through my breast like the dunt of a
forehammer.</p>

<p class='c008'>Then up and spak the red headed
laddie: “It’s no fair; anither
should hae come by this time. I wad
rin awa hame, only I’m frightened to
gang out my lane. Do ye think the
doup o’ that candle wad carry in my
cap?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Na, na, lad; we maun bide here,
as we are here now. Leave me alane!
Lord save us! and the yett lockit, and
the bethrel sleepin’ wi’ the key in his
breek-pouches! We canna win out now,
though we would,” answered I, trying
to look brave, though half frightened
out of my seven senses. “Sit down,
sit down; I’ve baith whisky and porter
wi’ me. Hae, man, there’s a cauker
to keep your heart warm; and set
down that bottle,” quoth I, wiping the
sawdust aff it with my hand, “to get a
toast; I’se warrant it for Deacon Jaffrey’s
best brown stout.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The wind blew higher, and like a
hurricane; the rain began to fall in perfect
spouts; the auld kirk rumbled, and
rowed, and made a sad soughing; and
the bourtree tree behind the house,
where auld Cockburn, that cuttit his
throat, was buried, creakit and crazed
in a frightful manner; but as to the
roaring of the troubled waters, and
the bumming in the lum-head, they
were past a’ power of description.
To make bad worse, just in the heart
of the brattle, the grating sound of the
yett turning on its rusty hinges was
but too plainly heard. What was to be
done? I thought of our baith running
away; and then of our locking oursels
in, and firing through the door; but wha
was to pull the trigger?</p>

<p class='c008'>Gudeness watch ower us! I tremble
yet when I think on’t. We were perfectly
between the deil and the deep sea—either
to stand and fire our gun, or rin
and be shot at. It was really a hang
choice. As I stood swithering and shaking,
the laddie ran to the door, and
thrawing round the key, clapped his
back till’t. Oh! how I lookit at
him, as he stude, for a gliff, like a
magpie hearkening wi’ his lug cockit
up, or rather like a terrier watching
a rotten.</p>

<p class='c008'>“They’re coming! they’re coming!”
he cried out; “cock the piece, ye
sumph,” while the red hair rose up
from his pow like feathers; “they’re
coming, I hear them tramping on the
gravel!” Out he stretched his arms
against the wall, and brizzed his back
against the door like mad; as if he had
been Samson pushing over the pillars in
the house of Dagon. “For the Lord’s
sake, prime the gun,” he cried out, “or
our throats will be cut frae lug to lug,
before we can say Jack Robinson! See
that there’s priming in the pan!”</p>

<p class='c008'>I did the best I could; but my hale
strength could hardly lift up the piece,
which waggled to and fro like a
cock’s tail on a rainy day; my knees
knockit against ane anither, and though
I was resigned to dee—I trust I was
resigned to dee—’od, but it was a frightfu’
thing to be out of ane’s bed, and to
be murdered in an auld session-house, at
the dead hour of night, by unyearthly
resurrection-men—or rather let me call
them devils incarnate—wrapt up in
dreadnoughts, wi’ blackit faces, pistols,
big sticks, and other deadly weapons.</p>

<p class='c008'>A snuff-snuffing was heard; and
through below the door I saw a pair
of glancing black een. ’Od, but my
heart nearly loupit aff the bit—a snouff
and a gur—gurring, and ower a’ the
plain tramp of a man’s heavy tackets
and cuddy-heels amang the gravel.
Then cam a great slap like thunder on
the wall; and the laddie quitting his
grip, fell down, crying, “Fire, fire!—murder!
holy murder!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Wha’s there?” growled a deep
rough voice; “open—I’m a friend.”</p>

<p class='c008'>I tried to speak, but could not; something
like a halfpenny roll was sticking
in my throat, so I tried to cough it up,
but it wadna come. “Gie the pass-word,
then,” said the laddie, staring as
if his een wad loupen out; “gie the
pass-word!”</p>

<p class='c008'>First cam a loud whussle, and then
“Copmahagen,” answered the voice.
Oh! what a relief! The laddie started
up like ane crazy wi’ joy. “Ou! ou!”
cried he, thrawing round the key, and
rubbing his hands, “by jingo! it’s the
bethrel—it’s the bethrel—it’s auld Isaac
himsel!”</p>

<p class='c008'>First rushed in the dog, and then
Isaac, wi’ his glazed hat, slouched ower
his brow, and his horn bowet glimmering
by his knee. “Has the French
landit, do ye think? Losh keep us a’!”
said he, wi’ a smile on his half-idiot
face (for he was a kind of a sort of a
natural, wi’ an infirmity in his leg).
“’Od sauf us, man, put by your gun. Ye
dinna mean to shoot me, do ye? What
are ye aboot here wi’ the door lockit?
I just keppit four resurrectioners louping
ower the wa’.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Gude guide us!” I said, taking a
long breath to drive the blude frae my
heart, and something relieved by Isaac’s
company. “Come now, Isaac, ye’re
just giein’ us a fright. Isn’t that true,
Isaac?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Yes, I’m joking,—and what for
no? But they might have been, for
onything ye wad hae hindered them to
the contrair, I’m thinking. Na, na, ye
maunna lock the door; that’s no fair
play.”</p>

<p class='c008'>When the door was put ajee, and the
furm set fornent the fire, I gied Isaac
a dram to keep his heart up on sic a
cauld, stormy night. ’Od, but he was
a droll fallow, Isaac. He sung and
leuch as if he had been boozing in
Lucky Tamson’s, wi’ some of his
drucken cronies. Fient a hair cared he
about auld kirks, or kirkyards, or vouts,
or through-stanes, or dead folk in their
winding-sheets, wi’ the wet grass growing
ower them; and at last I began to
brighten up a wee mysel; so when he
had gone ower a good few funny stories,
I said to him, quoth I, “Mony folk, I
daresay, mak mair noise about their
sitting up in a kirkyard than it’s
a’ worth. There’s naething here to
harm us.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I beg to differ wi’ ye there,” answered
Isaac, taking out his horn mull
from his coat pouch, and tapping on the
lid in a queer style—“I could gie
anither version of that story. Did ye
no ken of three young doctors—Eirish
students—alang wi’ some resurrectioners,
as waff and wild as themselves,
firing shottie for shottie wi’ the guard
at Kirkmabreck, and lodging three
slugs in ane o’ their backs, forbye firing
a ramrod through anither ane’s hat?”</p>

<p class='c008'>This was a wee alarming. “No,”
quoth I—“no, Isaac, man, I ne’er heard
o’t.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“But let alane resurrectioners, do ye
no think there is sic a thing as ghaists?
Guide ye, my man, my granny could
hae telled ye as muckle about them as
wad hae filled a minister’s sermons
from June to January.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Kay—kay—that’s a’ buff,” I said.
“Are there nae cutty-stool businesses—are
there nae marriages gaun, Isaac?”
for I was keen to change the subject.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ye may kay—kay—as ye like,
though; I can just tell ye this—ye’ll
mind auld Armstrong, wi’ the leather
breeks, and the brown three-storey wig—him
that was the grave—digger?
Weel, he saw a ghaist wi’ his leeving
een—aye, and what’s better, in this
very kirkyard too. It was a cauld
spring morning, and daylight just coming
in, when he cam to the yett yonder,
thinking to meet his man, paidling Jock—but
Jock had sleepit in, and wasna
there. Weel, to the wast corner ower
yonder he gaed, and throwing his coat
ower a headstane, and his hat on the
tap o’t, he dug awa wi’ his spade,
casting out the mools, and the coffin-handles,
and the green banes, and sic-like,
till he stoppit a wee to tak breath.—What!
are ye whistling to yoursel?”
quo’ Isaac to me, “and no hearing
what’s God’s truth?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ou ay,” said I, “but ye didna tell
me if ony body was cried last Sunday?”
I wad hae given every farthing I had
made by the needle to hae been at that
blessed time in my bed wi’ my wife and
wean. Ay, how I was gruing! I
mostly chacked aff my tongue in chitterin’.
But a’ wadna do.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Weel, speaking of ghaists;—when
he was resting on his spade, he looked
up to the steeple, to see what o’clock it
was, wondering what way Jock hadna
come,—when lo, and behold! in the lang
diced window of the kirk yonder, he
saw a lady a’ in white, wi’ her hands
clasped thegither, looking out to the
kirkyard at him.</p>

<p class='c008'>“He couldna believe his een, so he
rubbit them wi’ his sark sleeve, but she
was still there bodily, and, keeping ae
ee on her, and anither on his road to
the yett, he drew his coat and hat to
him below his arm, and aff like mad,
throwing his shool half a mile ahint
him. Jock fand that; for he was
coming singing in at the yett, when his
maister ran clean ower the tap o’ him,
and capseized him like a toom barrel;
and never stoppin’ till he was in at his
ain house, and the door baith bolted
and barred at his tail.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Did ye ever hear the like of that,
Mansie? Weel man, I’ll explain the
hale history o’t to ye. Ye see,—’od!
how sound that callant’s sleeping,”
continued Isaac; “he’s snoring like a
nine-year-auld.”</p>

<p class='c008'>I was glad he had stoppit, for I was
like to sink through the grund wi’ fear;
but na, it wadna do.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Dinna ye ken—sauf us! what a
fearsome night this is! The trees ’ll be
a’ broken. What a noise in the lum!
I dare say there is some auld hag of a
witch-wife gaun to come rumble doun’t.
It’s no the first time, I’ll swear. Hae
ye a silver sixpence? Wad ye like that?”
he bawled up the chimley. “Ye’ll
hae heard,” said he, “lang ago, that a
wee murdered wean was buried—didna
ye hear a voice?—was buried below
that corner—the hearthstane there,
where the laddie’s lying on?”</p>

<p class='c008'>I had now lost my breath, so that I
couldna stop him.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ye never heard tell o’t, didna ye?
Weel, I’se tell’t ye.—Sauf us! what
swurls o’ smoke coming down the chimley—I
could swear something no canny’s
stopping up the lum-head—gang out
and see!”</p>

<p class='c008'>At that moment, a clap like thunder
was heard—the candle was driven ower—the
sleeping laddie roared “Help!”
and “Murder!” and “Thieves!” and
as the furm on which we were sitting
played flee backwards, cripple Isaac
bellowed out, “I’m dead!—I’m killed!
shot through the head!—oh, oh, oh!”</p>

<p class='c008'>Surely I had fainted away; for when
I came to mysel, I found my red comforter
loosed; my face a’ wet—Isaac
rubbing down my waistcoat with his
sleeve—the laddie swigging ale out of
a bicker—and the brisk brown stout,
which, by casting its cork, had caused
a’ the alarm, whizz—whizz—whizzing
in the chimley-lug.—<em>Mansie Wauch.</em></p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='mary_wilson' class='c006'>MARY WILSON.</h2>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c016'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>On her white arm down sunk her head,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>She shivered, sighed, and died.</div>
      <div class='line in32'><em>Mallet.</em></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>Joseph Wilson was a farmer in the
parish of D——. He possessed enough
of the goods of this world to make him
be respected by all his neighbours, and
esteemed by them as the most careful,
well-doing man in the parish. Joseph
knew well enough the value of his riches;
but still the jewel which was nearest
and dearest to his heart was his only
daughter, the beautiful and innocent
Mary Wilson. He loved her—and his
love was not greater than that of Marjory,
his wife—more than all he possessed;
and when rallied by his neighbours on
the depth of his purse, he was wont to
say, that the brightest guinea he adored
was the face of his own sweet Mary.
While a child she was indulged; and
the smiles of her pretty round face, and
her caresses and kisses, gained all her
little wants from her doting parents.
While the daughters of other farmers
assisted in household management, she
was never required to soil her fingers,
but would skip and dance before her
father over the fields and the meadows,
and sport as the little lamb round her
parent. As she advanced from childhood,
her days were clad in the same
fair livery of joy. She danced and she
toyed, and though no longer dandled
and prattling on the knees of her parents,
she made them the confidants of all her
light amusements and secrets, and she
sang to them all the legendary ballads
which she had picked up, and their
hearts were still gladdened in the little
offspring of their wedlock.</p>

<p class='c008'>From a child to the age of fifteen, she
had attended the parish school along with
all the boys and girls, both high and low.
Here she was a general favourite, and
the youths would crowd to attend Mary
Wilson home, because she had the
prettiest little lips, and the kindliest
laugh, of any girl in the school; and
happy was he, and proud of himself,
who obtained her hand to dance at the
Candlemas ball. The father and mother
saw no harm in the adulations paid
to their daughter, for they did not equal
their own; and the good old schoolmaster
loved to see Mary the favourite
of all his youths, because she was a
good scholar and the best singer in the
school and in the church, and on that
account the greatest favourite with himself.
When he raised the tune on the
Sabbath to the praise of the Lord, he
would turn in his desk to the seat of
Mary Wilson for her accompaniment,
and, when her sweet voice was once
heard through the church, then would
the whole congregation join, and every
young man emulate himself to gain the
approbation of the fair and goodly singer.
To those who are in the practice of attending
a country parish church, I need
not mention in how high estimation the
best female singer is held amongst all
the young men of the country side.</p>

<p class='c008'>At the age of fifteen she was removed
to a boarding-school in town. Here
she remained two years, and though
she perfected herself in accomplishments,
and though many young men
dangled after her, yet her heart, albeit
naturally merry, was sensitive; and
vapid appeared to her the revel in the
midnight ball compared to the dance
on the heaven-canopied lawn, when
heart panted with heart, and every
spirit caught the existing flame of pleasure;
and frigid and disagreeable seemed
to her the lips from whom politeness
extorted studied words, compared to
the lips of those who spoke the warm
and momentary feelings of the mind.
She returned to the place of her youth,
and sought again for mirth and pleasure
amongst her old companions; but she
was changed both in person and in
mind. She was no longer the light
airy girl, but she was now the woman
glowing in all the richness and luxuriance
of female beauty. She could not now
associate with the young men, and be
their umpire in all their disputes and
contentions, as in the days of her youth;
nor could she find that delight in the
company of her female companions
which she did ere her departure. Mary
was a flower,—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>A violet by a mossy stone,</div>
      <div class='line'>Half hid from human eyes,</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c012'>that, left undisturbed on the wild, would
have flourished the loveliest of her comrades,
but once transplanted for a little
time into the garden, she took not so
well when removed again to her native
soil. Though she danced, and though
she sung, as she was wont, still part
of that which she had seen in town
mingled itself with that which she
enjoyed in the country; the customs
of a populous city were not to be easily
banished from her, and she could not
be so happy as formerly. To her father
and her mother she was the same
adored object; both rejoiced in her
beauty, and while they would at times
talk of who might be her husband, they
would soon chase away the idea as that
of a robber that would deprive them of
their all.</p>

<p class='c008'>A little after Mary’s return to her
father’s, Charles Morley returned likewise
from the University. He was the
son of the laird, but he had been
at the parish school with the young
men, and once been their constant companion.
He hunted for birds’ nests
with them, he had fished with them,
he had often broken into his father’s
garden with them, and Morley was as
one of themselves. He had ever been
attentive to Mary Wilson; and she, if
the umpire of a race or a wrestle, was
always happy when she could adjudge
the honour of victory to Charlie Morley,
because he would at times snatch a kiss
from her, and would always take her
hand and assist her when wading
through the burns. He had completed
his education at the University, and,
while he had acquired knowledge, he
had lost the command of himself. Long
did he withstand the temptations laid
in his way by more wicked companions,
and long did he endeavour to retain the
principles his old master had instilled
into him; but in vain: while the sage
was discoursing on the nobleness of
man’s nature, and the blessings of wisdom,
and while he acquiesced in all
the learned man said, Charles Morley
had become one of the most profligate
young men in the college.</p>

<p class='c008'>When he returned to the country,
he often met Mary Wilson, both at her
father’s and at the houses of the other
tenants. Their meetings became frequent,
and though they never made assignations,
yet Charles Morley was sure
to meet with Mary Wilson in her walks.
She saw no harm in meeting with her
old school companion, but he had his
schemes laid; he saw her leaning on
him in all her maiden fondness; he
knew human nature, and he knew that
if he attempted to wrong her in their
early meetings, he would discover his
baseness and be spurned. He suffered
therefore her affection to grow upon
her, and, when it had fully ripened, he
gave her his feigned love, and received
hers, as the offerings of a devotee to
his God, in return. For some time she
was almost happy, and though she
knew her situation must soon be known,
she was certain it would not be so till
she was the wife of Charles Morley—for
so he had promised; and could
she doubt him? Time, however,
flew on, and Mary becoming discontented
and frightened, Morley, in order
to draw her from a place where discovery
would have been ruin to himself,
proposed flight. When a woman
has once gone astray, the man who has
ruined her does not require great efforts
to persuade her to anything. She is
his, body and soul. Mary one night
bade adieu to the house of her father,
and fled with her paramour to an obscure
lodging in the capital.</p>

<p class='c008'>Sad was the morning which arose to
her parents on the discovery of her
departure, and more especially the
cause of it, which neighbours were not
slow in surmising and hinting. Her
mother wept in all the bitterness of
woe, but her tears could not express
the sorrow of her heart. The father
was louder in his grief; he wept and
raved by turns. Now he grieved for
her helplessness, and prayed to God to
grant her mercy; then he cursed the
hour in which she was born, and called
down curses on him who had ruined the
hope of his days. In a little time their
violent grief had subsided; the fugitives
could not be traced, and neither Joseph
nor his wife suffered that name which
was nearest to their hearts to pass their
lips. But when Marjory would see the
work-basket of her daughter, she would
throw herself on her bed and weep;
and Joseph, when anything came in his
way that strongly associated the idea
of his Mary, would seize his hat, rush
from the house, and give utterance to a
grief which he would fain conceal from
an already heart-broken wife.</p>

<p class='c008'>It was about five months after the
departure of Mary, when Marjory, hearing
one day a gentle tap at the door,
went to open it. It was Mary who
knocked; but oh! how changed from
her who once was the boast of the
country side! She was pale and emaciated,
her eye had lost its lustre, and
she seemed to be worse than the shadow
of her former loveliness. Her dress was
ragged and torn, and in her arms she
bore a child—the ill-fated offspring of
her illicit amour. Her mother held
the door for some minutes, while she
surveyed with melancholy eyes the woeworn
condition of her daughter. “Mary,”
she said—and her manner was composed—“Mary,
you did not need formerly
to knock at the door of your father’s
house.” Mary stepped over the threshold,
and staggering, rather than walking,
forward into the kitchen, threw
herself on the dais. “Mary,” said her
mother again, “where have you been?
Are you a married woman? Better
be the wife of the poorest man than——.”
Here her daughter buried her
face in the bosom of her child, and
sobbed aloud. “Mary,” again said
her mother, “I reproach you not. God
will grant you His forgiveness, as I do
mine; I feel I cannot live long after
this stroke, and we must all meet with
trials on this side the grave; but Mary,
oh, my darling Mary,” and she threw her
arms around her daughter’s neck and
kissed her, “your father! how will you
bear the look of your father?” Her
words were scarce finished when Joseph
entered. He laid his hat on the table,
he shaded back his gray hairs, and
clasped his hands, and, from his hard-knitted
brows, he seemed about to
pray the vengeance of God on her who
had so dishonoured his old age. He
looked at his daughter; her eyes were
on him, and her once lovely arm was
extended as if to avoid the threatened
curse; his brows relaxed, he unclasped
his hands, and placing them on his face,
wept aloud. She laid her child on the
seat, she was at his feet on her knees,
and her arms grasped him by the waist.
He felt her, he placed one hand in hers,
and raised the other as he said, “May
God forgive thee, my daughter! Ah,
Mary, Mary, thou art still my offspring,
though thou art a defiled vessel in the
eyes of God and man!”</p>

<p class='c008'>On the second Sunday after her return
to her father’s, she prepared to
attend her purification in the kirk. She
had gone through all preliminary forms,
and was now once more to take her
seat in the house of God. She went
muffled up and attended by her father
and mother, and was not recognised.
During the singing of the first and second
psalms she was silent; but at the third,
her father desired her to sing to the
praise of that God who had brought her
back as a lost sheep into His fold. In
the second line she joined the tune;
but weakly and feebly compared to
that voice which used to lead the whole
kirk. It was, however, recognised;
there was a more than momentary stop
while all eyes were turned towards her;
and her old master, turning towards the
seat of his old favourite, strove, while
the big tears rolled down his cheeks, and
his voice faltered, to bear her through
the tune. The minister again rose to
prayer: he stretched his hands to
heaven, and prayed for all mankind;
he prayed for the sinner that had gone
astray, and that the Father of mercies
would have compassion on the wretched,
and again take her into his bosom.
There was not a dry eye in the kirk.
Humanity for once prevailed, and
human selfishness forgot itself in the
woes of a fellow-mortal. She, for
whom they were supplicating, stood
with her hands firmly clasped, her
eyes closed, and her head bowed to the
earth; and though her father and
mother sobbed and wept, she moved
not, but, when service was over, she
walked with a firm step, and uncovered
face and head, through all the parishioners,
to her father’s dwelling. She
laid herself down on her bed, and in
three weeks the grave yawned and
closed on the unfortunate Mary Wilson.</p>

<p class='c008'>A few weeks ago, I made it in my
way to pass through D——. Many
revolutions of a tropical sun had passed
over my head since I had left my native
land, and, on my return, I was anxious
to visit that spot where I passed many
of my happiest days, even though I
knew that all my relatives were
long since in the cold grave. As I
turned round the hill, the well-known
cottage of Joseph Wilson came in view,
and the story of his daughter flashed
vividly on my mind. I approached a
countryman, who was standing with
his plough and horses at the end of a
furrow, wiping the sweat from his brow,
and inquired, if Joseph Wilson was
still living.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Na,” replied he, “nor ane o’ his
kith or kindred. The poor wean that
suckled frae an unfortunate breast died
soon after his mother, like a young
shoot or sapling that has been rashly
cut down. Then Marjory soon followed,
and Joseph became a heart-broken
man; a’thing gaed to wreck, and he
died on the parish. There are sad ups
and downs in life, and nae the lightest
thing to disturb our balance is the
waywardness of a child.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Poor Mary Wilson!” said I. She
became as visible to my mind’s eye as
when I saw her winding in the mazes
of a dance in all her maiden beauty and
innocence; and the lines of my favourite
poet came to my lips:—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>When lovely woman stoops to folly,</div>
      <div class='line'>And finds, too late, that men betray,</div>
      <div class='line'>What charms can soothe her melancholy?</div>
      <div class='line'>What art can wash her guilt away?</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>The only art her guilt to cover,</div>
      <div class='line'>To hide her shame from every eye,</div>
      <div class='line'>To give repentance to her lover,</div>
      <div class='line'>And wring his bosom, is—to die.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c008'>“And what has become of the laird?”
said I, looking to the well-known
mansion.</p>

<p class='c008'>“The old laird is dead, and the young
one, that was once expected to be laird,
lies rotting with many carcases in a
foreign trench. He broke his father’s
heart, spent his substance, and died a
common soldier. The comforting dew
of heaven seldom falls on him who
disregards its commands: seldom does
the friendly hands of woman smooth
the dying bed of the seducer; and still
more rarely does the insulter of a
parent’s gray hairs sleep in the same
grave wi’ him. Ye canna lament Mary
Wilson mair than I do.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Do you possess her father’s land?”
said I.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ay do I,” replied the rustic,—apparently
much moved; “and it
may be that I would hae ploughed
them mair pleasantly, and whistled
mair cheerfully to my horses, had
Mary shared it with a plain man, as
became her station; but we maunna
repine.”</p>

<p class='c008'>I had no wish to proceed farther;
and in my ride back I enjoyed one of
those deep, melancholy musings, far
more congenial to my mind than the
most ecstatic dreams of the most ambitious
men.—<cite>Aberdeen Censor.</cite></p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='the_laird_of_cassway' class='c006'>THE LAIRD OF CASSWAY.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By James Hogg, the “Ettrick Shepherd.”</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<h3 class='c013'><span class='sc'>Chapter I.</span></h3>

<p class='c014'>There is an old story which I have
often heard related, about a great Laird
of Cassway, in an outer corner of Dumfriesshire,
of the name of Beattie, and
his two sons. The incidents of the
story are of a very extraordinary nature.
This Beattie had occasion to be almost
constantly in England, because, as my
informant said, he took a great hand in
government affairs, from which I conclude
that the tradition had its rise about
the time of the civil wars; for about the
close of that time the Scotts took
advantage of the times to put the
Beatties down, who for some previous
ages had maintained the superiority of
that district.</p>

<p class='c008'>Be that as it may, the Laird of Cassway’s
second son, Francis, fell desperately
in love with a remarkably beautiful
girl, the eldest daughter of Henry
Scott of Drumfielding, a gentleman,
but still only a retainer, and far beneath
Beattie of Cassway, both in point of
wealth and influence. Francis was a
scholar newly returned from the university;
was tall, handsome, of a pale
complexion, and gentlemanly appearance,
while Thomas, the eldest son,
was fair, ruddy, and stout made, a perfect
picture of health and good humour,—a
sportsman, a warrior, and a jovial
blade; one who would not suffer a fox
to get rest in the whole moor district.
He rode the best horse, kept the best
hounds, played the best fiddle, danced
the best country bumpkin, and took the
stoutest draught of mountain dew, of
any man between Erick Brae and Teviot
Stone, and was altogether the sort of
young man, that whenever he cast his
eyes on a pretty girl, either at chapel
or at weapon-shaw, she would hide her
face, and giggle as if tickled by some
unseen hand.</p>

<p class='c008'>Now, though Thomas, or the Young
Laird, as he was called, had only spoken
once to Ellen Scott in his life, at which
time he chucked her below the chin,
and bid the deil take him if ever he saw
as bonny a face in his whole born days;
yet for all that, Ellen loved him. It
could not be said that she was “in love”
with him, for a maiden’s heart must be
won before it is given absolutely away;
but hers gave him the preference to any
other young man. She loved to see him,
to hear of him, and to laugh at him;
and it was even observed by the domestics,
that Tam Beattie o’ the Cassway’s
name came oftener into her conversation
than there was any good reason for.</p>

<p class='c008'>Such was the state of affairs when
Francis came home, and fell desperately
in love with Ellen Scott; and his father
being in England, and he under no
restraint, he went frequently to visit
her. She received him with a kindness
and affability that pleased him to the
heart; but he little wist that this was
only a spontaneous and natural glow of
kindness towards him because of his
connections, and rather because he
was the young laird of Cassway’s only
brother, than the poor but accomplished
Francis Beattie, the scholar
from Oxford.</p>

<p class='c008'>He was, however, so much delighted
with her, that he asked her father’s permission
to pay his addresses to her.
Her father, who was a prudent and
sensible man, answered him in this
wise:—“That nothing would give him
greater delight than to see his beloved
Ellen joined with so accomplished
and amiable a young gentleman in the
bonds of holy wedlock, provided his
father’s assent was previously obtained.
But as he himself was subordinate
to another house, not on the best
terms with the house of Cassway, he
would not take it on him to sanction any
such connection without the old Laird’s
full consent. That, moreover, as he,
Francis Beattie, was just setting out in
life as a lawyer, there was but too much
reason to doubt that a matrimonial connection
with Ellen at that time would
be highly imprudent; therefore it was
not to be thought further of till the old
laird was consulted. In the meantime,
he should always be welcome to
his house, and to his daughter’s company,
as he had the same confidence
in his honour and integrity as if he had
been a son of his own.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The young man thanked him affectionately,
and could not help acquiescing
in the truth of his remarks, promised
not to mention matrimony farther till
he had consulted his father, and added,—“But
indeed you must excuse me, if
I avail myself of your permission to
visit here often, as I am sensible that it
will be impossible for me to live for any
space of time out of my dear Ellen’s
sight.” He was again assured of welcome,
and the two parted mutually
pleased.</p>

<p class='c008'>Henry Scott of Drumfielding was a
widower, with six daughters, over whom
presided Mrs Jane Jerdan, their maternal
aunt, an old maid, with fashions and
ideas even more antiquated than herself.
No sooner had the young wooer taken
his leave than she bounced into the
room, the only sitting apartment in the
house, and said, in a loud, important
whisper, “What’s that young swankey
of a lawyer wanting, that he’s aye hankering
sae muckle about our town?
I’ll tell you what, brother Harry, it
strikes me that he wants to make a
wheelwright o’ your daughter Nell.
Now, gin he axes your consent to ony
siccan thing, dinna ye grant it. That’s
a.’ Tak an auld fool’s advice gin ye
wad prosper. Folk are a’ wise ahint
the hand, and sae will ye be.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Dear Mrs Jane, what objections
can you have to Mr Francis Beattie,
the most accomplished young gentleman
of the whole country?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“’Complished gentleman! ’Complished
kirn-milk! I’ll tell ye what,
brother Harry,—afore I were a landless
lady, I wad rather be a tailor’s lay-board.
What has he to maintain a
lady spouse with? The wind o’ his
lungs, forsooth!—thinks to sell that for
goud in goupins. Hech me! Crazy
wad they be wha wad buy it; and they
wha trust to crazy people for their living
will live but crazily. Tak an auld
fool’s advice gin ye wad prosper, else
ye’ll be wise ahint the hand. Have
nae mair to do with him—Nell’s bread
for his betters; tell him that. Or, by
my certie, gin I meet wi’ him face to
face, <em>I’ll</em> tell him!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“It would be unfriendly in me to
keep aught a secret from you, sister,
considering the interest you have taken
in my family. I <em>have</em> given him my
consent to visit my daughter, but at the
same time have restricted him from
mentioning matrimony until he has
consulted his father.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“And what has the visiting to gang
for, then? Awa wi’ him! Our Nell’s
food for his betters. What wad you
think an she could get the young laird,
his brother, wi’ a blink o’ her ee?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Never speak to me of that, Mrs
Jane. I wad rather see the poorest of
his shepherd lads coming to court my
child than see him;” and with these
words Henry left the room.</p>

<p class='c008'>Mrs Jane stood long, making faces,
shaking her apron with both hands,
nodding her head, and sometimes giving
a stamp with her foot. “I have set my
face against that connexion,” said she.
“Our Nell’s no made for a lady to a
London lawyer. It wad set her rather
better to be Lady of Cassway. The
young laird for me! I’ll hae the
branks of love thrown ower the heads
o’ the twasome, tie the tangs thegither,
and then let them gallop like twa kippled
grews. My brother Harry’s a
simple man; he disna ken the credit
that he has by his daughters—thanks
to some other body than him! Niece
Nell has a shape, an ee, and a lady-manner
that wad kilhab the best lord o’ the
kingdom, were he to come under their
influence and my manoovres. She’s a
Jerdan a’ through; and that I’ll let
them ken! Folk are a’ wise ahint the
hand; credit only comes by catch and
keep. Good night to a’ younger brothers,
puffings o’ love vows, and sabs o’ wind!
Gie me the good green hills, the gruff
wedders, and bobtailed yowes; and let
the law and the gospel-men sell the
wind o’ their lungs as dear as they
can!”</p>

<p class='c008'>In a few days, Henry of Drumfielding
was called out to attend his chief on
some expedition; on which Mrs Jane,
not caring to trust her message to any
other person, went over to Cassway,
and invited the young laird to Drumfielding
to see her niece, quite convinced
that her charms and endowments would
at once enslave the elder brother, as they
had done the younger. Tam Beattie
was delighted at finding such a good
back friend as Mrs Jane, for he had not
failed to observe, for a twelvemonth
back, that Ellen Scott was very pretty,
and either through chance or design,
he asked Mrs Jane if the young lady
was privy to this invitation.</p>

<p class='c008'>“<em>She</em> privy to it!” exclaimed Mrs
Jane, shaking her apron. “Ha, weel
I wat, no! She wad soon hae flown in
my face wi’ her gibery and her jaukery,
had I tauld her my errand; but the
gowk kens what the tittling wants,
although it is no aye crying, ‘Give,
give,’ like the horse loch-leech.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Does the horse-leech really cry
that, Mrs Jane? I should think, from
a view of its mouth, that it could scarcely
cry anything,” said Tom.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Are ye sic a reprobate as to deny
the words o’ the Scripture, sir? Hech,
wae’s me! what some folk hae to
answer for! We’re a’ wise ahint the
hand. But hark ye,—come ye ower in
time, else I am feared she may be settled
for ever out o’ your reach. Now, I
canna bide to think on that, for I have
always thought you twa made for ane
anither. Let me take a look o’ you
frae tap to tae—O yes—made for ane
anither. Come ower in time, before
billy Harry come hame again; and let
your visit be in timeous hours, else I’ll
gie you the back of the door to keep.—Wild
reprobate!” she exclaimed to
herself, on taking her leave; “to deny
that the horse loch-leech can speak!
Ha—ha—the young laird is the man
for me!”</p>

<p class='c008'>Thomas Beattie was true to his
appointment, as may be supposed, and
Mrs Jane having her niece dressed in
style, he was perfectly charmed with
her; and really it cannot be denied
that Ellen was as much delighted with
him. She was young, gay, and frolicsome,
and she never spent a more
joyous and happy afternoon, or knew
before what it was to be in a presence
that delighted her so much. While
they sat conversing, and apparently better
satisfied with the company of each
other than was likely to be regarded
with indifference by any other individual
aspiring to the favour of the young lady,
the door was opened, and there entered
no other than Francis Beattie! When
Ellen saw her devoted lover appear
thus suddenly, she blushed deeply, and
her glee was damped in a moment.
She looked rather like a condemned
criminal, or at least a guilty creature,
than what she really was,—a being over
whose mind the cloud of guilt had never
cast its shadow.</p>

<p class='c008'>Francis loved her above all things on
earth or in heaven, and the moment he
saw her so much abashed at being surprised
in the company of his brother,
his spirit was moved to jealousy—to
maddening and uncontrollable jealousy.
His ears rang, his hair stood on end,
and the contour of his face became like
a bent bow. He walked up to his
brother with his hand on his sword-hilt,
and, in a state of excitement which
rendered his words inarticulate, addressed
him thus, while his teeth ground
together like a horse-rattle:—</p>

<p class='c008'>“Pray, sir, may I ask you of your
intentions, and of what you are seeking
here?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I know not, Frank, what right you
have to ask any such questions; but
you will allow that I have a right to
ask at you what you are seeking here
at present, seeing you come so very
inopportunely?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Sir,” said Francis, whose passion
could stay no farther parley, “dare you
put it to the issue of the sword this
moment?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Come now, dear Francis, do not
act the fool and the madman both at a
time. Rather than bring such a dispute
to the issue of the sword between two
brothers who never had a quarrel in
their lives, I propose that we bring it to
a much more temperate and decisive
issue here where we stand, by giving the
maiden her choice. Stand you there at
that corner of the room, I at this, and
Ellen Scott in the middle; let us both
ask, and to whomsoever she comes, the
prize be his. Why should we try to
decide, by the loss of one of our lives,
what we cannot decide, and what may
be decided in a friendly and rational
way in one minute?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“It is easy for you, sir, to talk temperately
and with indifference of such a
trial, but not so with me. This young
lady is dear to my heart.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Well, but so is she to mine. Let
us, therefore, appeal to the lady at once
whose claim is the best; and, as your
pretensions are the highest, do you ask
her first.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“My dearest Ellen,” said Francis,
humbly and affectionately, “you know
that my whole soul is devoted to your
love, and that I aspire to it only in the
most honourable way; put an end to
this dispute, therefore, by honouring me
with the preference which the unequivocal
offer of my hand merits.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Ellen stood dumb and motionless,
looking stedfastly down at the hem of
her jerkin, which she was nibbling with
her hands. She dared not lift an eye
to either of the brothers, though apparently
conscious that she ought to
have recognised the claims of Francis.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ellen, I need not tell you that I
love you,” said Thomas, in a light and
careless manner, as if certain that his
appeal would be successful; “nor need
I attempt to tell how dearly and how
long I will love you, for, in faith, I cannot.
Will you make the discovery for
yourself, by deciding in my favour?”</p>

<p class='c008'>Ellen looked up. There was a smile
on her face; an arch, mischievous, and
happy smile, but it turned not on
Thomas. Her face turned to the contrary
side, but yet the beam of that
smile fell not on Francis, who stood in
a state of as terrible suspense between
hope and fear, as a Roman Catholic
sinner at the gate of heaven, who has
implored St Peter to open the gate,
and awaits a final answer. The die of
his fate was soon cast; for Ellen, looking
one way, yet moving another, straightway
threw herself into Thomas Beattie’s
arms, exclaiming, “Ah, Tom! I fear
I am doing that which I shall rue, but
I must trust to your generosity; for,
bad as you are, I like you the best!”</p>

<p class='c008'>Thomas took her in his arms, and
kissed her; but before he could say a
word in return, the despair and rage of
his brother, breaking forth over every
barrier of reason, interrupted him.</p>

<p class='c008'>“This is the trick of a coward, to
screen himself from the chastisement he
deserves. But you escape me not
thus. Follow me, if you dare!” And
as he said this, Francis rushed from the
house, shaking his naked sword at his
brother.</p>

<p class='c008'>Ellen trembled with agitation at the
young man’s rage; and while Thomas
still continued to assure her of his unalterable
affection, Mrs Jane Jerdan
entered, plucking her apron so as to
make it twang like a bowstring.</p>

<p class='c008'>“What’s a’ this, Squire Tummas?
Are we to be habbled out o’ house and
hadding by this outrageous young lawyer
o’ yours? By the souls o’ the Jerdans,
I’ll kick up sic a stour about his
lugs as shall blind the juridical een o’
him! Its’ queer that men should study
the law only to learn to break it. Sure
am I, nae gentleman, that hasna been
bred a lawyer, wad come into a neighbour’s
house bullyragging that gate, wi’
sword in han’, malice prepense in his
eye, and venom on his tongue. Just as if
a lassie hadna her ain freedom o’ choice,
because a fool has been pleased to ask
her! Haud the grip you hae, niece
Nell; ye hae made a wise choice for
aince. Tam’s the man for my money!
Folk are a’ wise ahint the hand, but
real wisdom lies taking time by the forelock.
But, Squire Tam, the thing that
I want to ken is this—Are you going to
put up wi’ a’ that bullying and threatening,
or do you propose to chastise the
fool according to his folly?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“In truth, Mrs Jane, I am very
sorry for my brother’s behaviour, and
could not, with honour, yield any more
than I did to pacify him. But he must
be humbled. It would not do to suffer
him to carry matters with so high a
hand.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Now, wad ye be but advised and
leave him to me, I would play him sic
a plisky as he shouldna forget till his
dying day. By the souls o’ the Jerdans,
I would! Now, promise to me that ye
winna fight him.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“O promise, promise!” cried Ellen,
vehemently; “for the sake of Heaven’s
love, promise my aunt that.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Thomas smiled and shook his head,
as much as if he had said, “You do not
know what you are asking.” Mrs Jane
went on.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Do it then—do it with a vengence;
and remember this, that wherever ye
set the place o’ combat, be it in hill or
dale, deep linn or moss hag, I shall
have a thirsdman there to encourage you
on. I shall give you a meeting you little
wot of!”</p>

<p class='c008'>Thomas Beattie took all this for
words of course, as Mrs Jane was well
known for a raving, ranting old maid,
whose vehemence few regarded, though
a great many respected her for the care
she had taken of her sister’s family, and
a greater number still regarded her
with terror, as a being possessed of
superhuman powers; so after many
expressions of the fondest love for Ellen,
he took his leave, his mind being made
up how it behoved him to deal with his
brother.</p>

<p class='c008'>I forgot to mention before, that old
Beattie lived at Nether Cassway with
his family; and his eldest son Thomas
at Over Cassway, having, on his father’s
entering into a second marriage, been
put in possession of that castle and
these lands. Francis, of course, lived
in his father’s house when in Scotland;
and it was thus that his brother knew
nothing of his frequent visits to Ellen
Scott.</p>

<p class='c008'>That night, as soon as Thomas went
home, he despatched a note to his
brother to the following purport:
That he was sorry for the rudeness and
unreasonableness of his behaviour. But
if, on coming to himself, he was willing
to make an apology before his mistress,
then he (Thomas) would gladly extend
to him the right hand of love and
brotherhood; but if he refused this, he
would please to meet him on the Crook
of Glendearg next morning by the sunrising.
Francis returned for answer,
that he would meet him at the time and
place appointed. There was then no
farther door of reconciliation left open,
but Thomas still had hopes of managing
him even on the combat field.</p>

<p class='c008'>Francis slept little that night, being
wholly set on revenge for the loss of his
beloved mistress; and a little after daybreak
he arose, and putting himself in
light armour, proceeded to the place of
rendezvous. He had farther to go than
his elder brother, and on coming in
sight of the Crook of Glendearg, he
perceived the latter there before him.
He was wrapt in his cavalier’s cloak,
and walking up and down the Crook
with impassioned strides, on which
Francis soliloquized as follows, as he
hasted on:—“Ah, ha! so Tom is here
before me! This is what I did not expect,
for I did not think the flagitious dog had
so much spirit or courage in him as to
meet me. I am glad he has! for how
I long to chastise him, and draw some
of the pampered blood from that vain
and insolent heart, which has bereaved
me of all I held dear on earth.”</p>

<p class='c008'>In this way did he cherish his wrath
till close at his brother’s side, and then,
addressing him in the same insolent
terms, he desired him to cease his
cowardly cogitations and draw. His
opponent instantly wheeled about,
threw off his horseman’s cloak, and presented
his sword; and, behold, the young
man’s father stood before him, armed
and ready for action! The sword fell
from Francis’ hand, and he stood
appalled, as if he had been a statue, unable
either to utter a word or move a
muscle.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Take up thy sword, caitiff, and let
it work thy ruthless work of vengeance
here. Is it not better that thou shouldst
pierce this old heart, worn out with care
and sorrow, and chilled by the ingratitude
of my race, than that of thy gallant
and generous brother, the representative
of our house, and the chief of our
name? Take up thy sword, I say, and
if I do not chastise thee as thou deservest,
may heaven reft the sword of
justice from the hand of the avenger!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“The God of heaven forbid that I
should ever lift my sword against my
honoured father!” said Francis.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Thou darest not, thou traitor and
coward!” returned the father. “I
throw back the disgraceful terms in thy
teeth which thou usedst to thy brother.
Thou camest here boiling with rancour
to shed his blood; and when I appear
in person for him, thou darest not
accept the challenge.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“You never did me wrong, my dear
father; but my brother has wronged
me in the tenderest part.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Thy brother never wronged thee
intentionally, thou deceitful and sanguinary
fratricide. It was thou alone
who forced this quarrel upon him; and
I have great reason to suspect thee of a
design to cut him off, that the inheritance
and the maid might both be thine own.
But here I swear by Him that made
me, and the Redeemer that saved me,
if thou wilt not go straight and kneel
to thy brother for forgiveness, confessing
thy injurious treatment, and
swearing submission to thy natural
chief, I will banish thee from my house
and presence for ever, and load thee
with a parent’s curse.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The young scholar, being utterly
astounded at his father’s words, and at
the awful and stern manner in which he
addressed him, whom he had never
before reprimanded, was wholly overcome.
He kneeled to his parent, and
implored his forgiveness, promising,
with tears, to fulfil every injunction
which it would please him to enjoin;
and on this understanding, the two
parted on amicable and gracious terms.</p>

<h3 class='c015'><span class='sc'>Chapter II.</span></h3>

<p class='c014'>Francis went straight to the tower
of Over Cassway, and inquired for his
brother, resolved to fulfil his father’s
stern injunctions to the very letter. He
was informed his brother was in his
chamber in bed, and indisposed. He
asked the porter farther, if he had not
been forth that day, and was answered,
that he had gone forth early in the
morning in armour, but had quickly returned,
apparently in great agitation,
and betaken himself to his bed. Francis
then requested to be taken to his
brother, to which the servant instantly
assented, and led him up to the chamber,
never suspecting that there could
be any animosity between the two only
brothers; but on John Burgess opening
the door, and announcing the Tutor,
Thomas, being in a nervous state, was
a little alarmed. “Remain in the room
there, Burgess,” said he. “What,
brother Frank, are you seeking here at
this hour, armed cap-a-pie? I hope
you are not come to assassinate me in
my bed?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“God forbid, brother,” said the other;
“here John, take my sword down with
you, I want some private conversation
with Thomas.” John did so, and the
following conversation ensued; for as
soon as the door closed, Francis dropt
on his knees, and said, “O, my dear
brother, I have erred grievously, and
am come to confess my crime, and implore
your pardon.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“We have both erred, Francis, in
suffering any earthly concern to incite
us against each other’s lives. We have
both erred, but you have my forgiveness
cheerfully; here is my hand on it,
and grant me thine in return. Oh,
Francis, I have got an admonition this
morning, that never will be erased from
my memory, and which has caused me
to see my life in a new light. What or
whom think you I met an hour ago on
my way to the Crook of Glendearg to
encounter you?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Our father, perhaps.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“You have seen him, then?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Indeed I have, and he has given
me such a reprimand for severity as
son never before received from a
parent.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Brother Frank, I must tell you,
and when I do, you will not believe me—It
<em>was not</em> our father whom we both
saw this morning.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“It was no other whom I saw.
What do you mean? Do you suppose
that I do not know my own father?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I tell you it was not, and could not
be. I had an express from him yesterday.
He is two hundred miles from
this, and cannot be in Scotland sooner
than three weeks hence.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“You astonish me, Thomas. This
is beyond human comprehension.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“It is true—that I avouch, and the
certainty of it has sickened me at heart.
You must be aware that he came not
home last night, and that his horse and
retinue have not arrived.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“He was not at home, it is true, nor
have his horse and retinue arrived in
Scotland. Still there is no denying
that our father is here, and that it was
he who spoke to and admonished me.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I tell you it is impossible. A spirit
has spoken to us in our father’s likeness,
for he is not, and cannot be, in Scotland
at this time. My faculties are altogether
confounded by the event, not being able
to calculate on the qualities or condition
of our monitor. An evil spirit it certainly
could not be, for all its admonitions
pointed to good. I sorely dread,
Francis, that our father is no more:
that there has been another engagement,
that he has lost his life, and that his
soul has been lingering around his
family before taking its final leave of
this sphere. I believe that our father
is dead; and for my part I am so sick
at heart, that my nerves are all unstrung.
Pray, do you take horse and post off
for Salop, from whence his commission
to me yesterday was dated, and see
what hath happened to our revered
father.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I cannot, for my life, give credit to
this, brother, or that it was any other
being but my father himself who rebuked
me. Pray allow me to tarry another
day at least before I set out. Perhaps
our father may appear in the neighbourhood,
and may be concealing himself
for some secret purpose. Did you
tell him of our quarrel?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“No. He never asked me concerning
it, but charged me sharply with my
intent on the first word, and adjured
me, by my regard for his blessing, and
my hope of heaven, to desist from my
purpose.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Then he knew it all intuitively;
for when I first went in view of the
spot appointed for our meeting, I perceived
him walking sharply to and fro,
wrapped in his military cloak. He
never so much as deigned to look at
me, till I came close to his side, and
thinking it was yourself, I fell to upbraiding
him, and desired him to draw.
He then threw off his cloak, drew his
sword, and, telling me he came in your
place, dared me to the encounter. But
he knew all the grounds of our quarrel
minutely, and laid the blame on me.
I own I am a little puzzled to reconcile
circumstances, but am convinced my
father is near at hand. I heard his
words, and saw his eyes flashing anger
and indignation. Unfortunately, I did
not touch him, which would have put
an end to all doubts; for he did not
present the hand of reconciliation to me,
as I expected he would have done, on
my yielding implicitly to all his injunctions.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The two brothers then parted, with
protestations of mutual forbearance in
all time coming, and with an understanding,
as that was the morning of
Saturday, that if their father, or some
word of him, did not reach home before
the next evening, the Tutor of Cassway
was to take horse for the county
of Salop early on Monday morning.</p>

<p class='c008'>Thomas, being thus once more left
to himself, could do nothing but toss
and tumble in his bed, and reflect on
the extraordinary occurrence of that
morning; and, after many troubled
cogitations, it at length occurred to his
recollection what Mrs Jane Jerdan had
said to him:—“Do it, then. Do it
with a vengeance!—But remember this,
that wherever ye set the place of combat,
be it in hill or dale, deep linn or
moss hag, I shall have a thirdsman
there to encourage you on. I shall give
you a meeting you little wot of.”</p>

<p class='c008'>If he was confounded before, he was
ten times more so at the remembrance
of these words of most ominous import.</p>

<p class='c008'>At the time he totally disregarded
them, taking them for mere rhodomontade;
but now the idea was to him
terrible, that his father’s spirit, like the
prophet’s of old, should have been conjured
up by witchcraft; and then again
he bethought himself that no witch
would have employed her power to
prevent evil. In the end he knew not
what to think, and so, taking the hammer
from its rest, he gave three raps on
the pipe drum (for there were no bells
in the towers of those days), and up
came John Burgess, Thomas Beattie’s
henchman, huntsman, and groom of the
chambers, one who had been attached
to the family for fifty years, and he says,
in his slow west-border tongue, “How’s
thou now, callan’?—Is thou ony better-lins?
There has been tway stags seen
in the Bloodhope-Linns this morning
already.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ay, and there has been something
else seen, John, that lies nearer to my
heart to-day.” John looked at his
master with an inquisitive eye and
quivering lip, but said nothing. The
latter went on: “I am very unwell to-day,
John, and cannot tell what is the
matter with me. I think I am bewitched.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“It’s very like thou is, callan’. I pits
nae doubt on’t at a’.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Is there anybody in this moor district
whom you ever heard blamed for
the horrible crime of witchcraft?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ay, that there is; mair than ane or
tway. There’s our neighbour, Lucky
Jerdan, for instance, and her niece
Nell,—the warst o’ the pair, I doubt.”
John said this with a sly stupid leer, for
he had admitted the old lady to an
audience with his master the day before,
and had eyed him afterwards bending
his course towards Drumfielding.</p>

<p class='c008'>“John, I am not disposed to jest at
this time; for I am disturbed in mind,
and very ill. Tell me, in reality, did
you ever hear Mrs Jane Jerdan accused
of being a witch?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Why, look thee, master, I dare
nae say she’s a witch; for Lucky has
mony good points in her character.
But it’s weel kenned she has mair power
nor her ain, for she can stop a’ the
plews in Eskdale wi’ a wave o’ her
hand, and can raise the dead out o’
their graves, just as a matter of
coorse.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“That, John, is an extraordinary
power indeed. But did you never hear
of her sending any living men to their
graves? For as that is rather the danger
that hangs over me, I wish you would
take a ride over and desire Mrs Jane
to come and see me. Tell her I am
ill, and request her to come and see
me.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I shall do that, callan’. But are
thou sure it is the auld witch I’m to
bring? For it strikes me the young
ane maybe has done the deed; and if sae,
she is the fittest to effect the cure.
But I shall bring the auld ane.—Dinna
flee intil a rage, for I shall bring the
auld ane; though, gude forgie me! it is
unco like bringing the houdie.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Away went John Burgess to Drumfielding;
but Mrs Jane would not move
for all his entreaties. She sent back
word to his master, to “rise out o’ his
bed, for he wad be waur if ony thing
ailed him; and if he had aught to say
to auld Jane Jerdan, she would be
ready to hear it at hame, though he
behoved to remember that it wasna ilka
subject under the sun that she could
thole to be questioned anent.”</p>

<p class='c008'>With this answer John was forced to
return, and there being no accounts of
old Beattie having been seen in Scotland,
the young men remained all the
Sabbath-day in the utmost consternation
at the apparition of their father they had
seen, and the appalling rebuke they had
received from it. The most incredulous
mind could scarce doubt that they had
had communion with a supernatural
being; and not being able to draw any
other conclusion themselves, they became
persuaded that their father was
dead; and accordingly, both prepared
for setting out early on Monday morning
toward the county of Salop,
from whence they had last heard of
him.</p>

<p class='c008'>But just as they were ready to set out,
when their spurs were buckled on and
their horses bridled, Andrew Johnston,
their father’s confidential servant,
arrived from the place to which they
were bound. He had ridden night and
day, never once stinting the light
gallop, as he said, and had changed his
horse seven times. He appeared as if
his ideas were in a state of derangement
and confusion; and when he saw
his young masters standing together,
and ready-mounted for a journey, he
stared at them as if he scarcely believed
his own senses. They of course asked
immediately about the cause of his
express; but his answers were equivocal,
and he appeared not to be able to assign
any motive. They asked him concerning
their father, and if anything extraordinary
had happened to him. He would not
say either that there had, or that there
had not; but inquired, in his turn, if
nothing extraordinary had happened
with them at home. They looked to
one another, and returned him no
answer; but at length the youngest said,
“Why, Andrew, you profess to have
ridden express for the distance of two
hundred miles; now you surely must
have some guess for what purpose you
have done this? Say, then, at once,
what your message is: Is our father
alive?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ye—es; I think he is.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“You <em>think</em> he is? Are you uncertain,
then?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I am certain he is not dead,—at
least, was not when I left him. But—hum—certainly
there has a change taken
place. Hark ye, masters—can a man
be said to be in life when he is out of
himself?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Why, man, keep us not in this
thrilling suspense. Is our father
well?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“No—not <em>quite</em> well. I am sorry to
say, honest gentlemen, that he is not.
But the truth is, my masters, now that
I see you well and hearty, and about to
take a journey in company, I begin to
suspect that I have been posted all
this way on a fool’s errand; and not
another syllable will I speak on the subject,
till I have some refreshment, and
if you still insist on hearing a ridiculous
story, you will hear it then.”</p>

<p class='c008'>When the matter of the refreshment
had been got over to Andrew’s full
satisfaction, he began as follows:—</p>

<p class='c008'>“Why, faith, you see, my masters, it
is not easy to say my errand to you, for
in fact I have none. Therefore, all that
I can do is to tell you a story—a most
ridiculous one it is, as ever sent a poor
fellow out on the gallop for the matter
of two hundred miles or so. On the
morning before last, right early, little
Isaac, the page, comes to me, and he
says,—‘Johnston, thou must go and
visit master. He’s bad.’”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Bad!” says I, “Whatever way is
he bad?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Why,’ says he, ‘he’s so far ill as
he’s not well, and desires to see you
without one moment’s delay. He’s in
fine taking, and that you’ll find; but
what for do I stand here? Lord, I
never got such a fright. Why, Johnston,
does thou know that master hath lost
himself?’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘How lost himself, rabbit?’ says I;
‘speak plain out, else I’ll have thee lug-hauled,
thou dwarf!’ for my blood rose
at the imp, for fooling at any mishap
of my master’s. But my choler only
made him worse, for there is not a
greater diel’s-buckie in all the Five
Dales.</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Why, man, it is true that I said,’
quoth he, laughing; ‘the old gurly
squire hath lost himself; and it will
be grand sport to see thee going calling
him at all the stane-crosses in the
kingdom, in this here way.—Ho, yes!
and a two times ho, yes! and a three times
ho, yes! Did anybody no see the better
half of my master, Laird of the twa
Cassway’s, Bloodhope, and Pentland,
which was amissing overnight, and
is supposed to have gone a-woolgathering?
If anybody hath seen
that better part of my master, whilk
contains as much wit as a man could
drive on a hurlbarrow, let them restore it
to me, Andrew Johnston, piper, trumpeter,
whacker, and wheedler, to the same
great and noble squire; and high shall
be his reward. Ho, yes!’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘The deuce restore thee to thy right
mind!’ said I, knocking him down, and
leaving him sprawling in the kennel,
and then hasted to my master, whom I
found feverish, restless, and raving, and
yet with an earnestness in his demeanour
that stunned and terrified me. He
seized my hand in both his, which were
burning like fire, and gave me such a
look of despair as I shall never forget.
‘Johnston, I am ill,’ said he, ‘grievously
ill, and know not what is to become
of me. Every nerve in my body is in a
burning heat, and my soul is as it were
torn to fritters with amazement. Johnston,
as sure as you are in the body,
something most deplorable hath happened
to them.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Yes, as sure as I am in the
body, there has, master,’ says I. ‘But
I’ll have you bled and doctored in style,
and you shall soon be as sound as a
roach,’ says I, ‘for a gentleman must
not lose heart altogether for a little fire-raising
in his outworks, if it does not
reach the citadel,’ says I to him. But
he cut me short by shaking his head
and flinging my hand from him.</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘A truce with your talking,’ says he.
‘That which hath befallen me is as
much above your comprehension as the
sun is above the earth, and never will
be comprehended by mortal man; but
I must inform you of it, as I have no
other means of gaining the intelligence
I yearn for, and which I am incapable
of gaining personally. Johnston, there
never was a mortal man suffered what
I have suffered since midnight. I believe
I have had doings with hell; for
I have been disembodied, and embodied
again, and the intensity of my tortures
has been unparalleled.—I was at home
this morning at daybreak.’</p>

<p class='c008'> “‘At home at Cassway!’ says I.
‘I am sorry to hear you say so, master,
because you know, or should know,
that the thing is impossible, you being
in the ancient town of Shrewsbury on
the king’s business.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘I was at home in very deed, Andrew,’
returned he; ‘but whether in the
body or out of the body, I cannot tell—the
Lord only knoweth. But there I
was in this guise, and with this heart
and all its feelings within me, where I
saw scenes, heard words, and spoke
others, which I will here relate to you.
I had finished my despatches last night
by midnight, and was sitting musing on
the hard fate and improvidence of my
sovereign master, when, ere ever I was
aware, a neighbour of ours, Mrs Jane
Jerdan, of Drumfielding, a mysterious
character, with whom I have had some
strange doings in my time, came suddenly
into the chamber, and stood before
me. I accosted her with doubt and
terror, asking what had brought her so
far from home.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘You are not so far from home as
you imagine,’ said she; ‘and it is fortunate
for some that it is so. Your two
sons have quarrelled about the possession
of niece Ellen, and though the
eldest is blameless of the quarrel, yet
has he been forced into it, and they are
engaged to fight at daybreak at the
Crook of Glendearg. There they will
assuredly fall by each other’s hands, if
you interpose not; for there is no other
authority now on earth that can prevent
this woful calamity.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Alas! how can I interfere,’ said I,
‘at a distance? It is already within a
few hours of the meeting, and before I
get from among the windings of the
Severn, their swords will be bathed in
each other’s blood! I must trust to the
interference of Heaven.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Is your name and influence, then,
to perish for ever?’ said she. ‘Is it so
soon to follow your master’s, the great
Maxwell of the Dales, into utter oblivion?
Why not rather rouse into requisition
the energies of the spirits that
watch over human destinies? At least
step aside with me, that I may disclose
the scene to your eyes. You know I
can do it; and you may then act according
to your natural impulse.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“Such was the import of the words
she spoke to me, if not the very words
themselves. I understood them not at
the time; nor do I yet. But when she
had done speaking, she took me by the
hand, and hurried me towards the door
of the apartment, which she opened,
and the first step we took over the threshold,
we stepped into a void space and
fell downward. I was going to call out,
but felt my descent so rapid, that my
voice was stifled, and I could not so
much as draw my breath. I expected
every moment to fall against something,
and be dashed to pieces; and I shut
my eyes, clenched my teeth, and held
by the dame’s hand with a frenzied
grasp, in expectation of the catastrophe.
But down we went—down and down,
with a celerity which tongue cannot describe,
without light, breath, or any
sort of impediment. I now felt assured
that we had both at once stepped from
off the earth, and were hurled into the
immeasurable void. The airs of darkness
sung in my ears with a booming
din as I rolled down the steeps of everlasting
night, an outcast from nature
and all its harmonies, and a journeyer
into the depths of hell.</p>

<p class='c008'>“I still held my companion’s hand,
and felt the pressure of hers; and so
long did this our alarming descent continue,
that I at length caught myself
breathing once more, but as quick as if
I had been in the height of a fever. I
then tried every effort to speak, but
they were all unavailing; for I could
not emit one sound, although my lips
and tongue fashioned the words. Think,
then, of my astonishment, when my companion
sung out the following stanza
with the greatest glee:—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line in8'>‘Here we roll,</div>
      <div class='line in8'>Body and soul,</div>
      <div class='line'>Down to the deeps of the Paynim’s goal—</div>
      <div class='line in8'>With speed and with spell,</div>
      <div class='line in8'>With yo and with yell,</div>
      <div class='line'>This is the way to the palace of hell—</div>
      <div class='line in8'>Sing yo! ho!</div>
      <div class='line in8'>Level and low,</div>
      <div class='line'>Down to the Valley of Vision we go!’</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c008'>“‘Ha, ha, ha! Tam Beattie,’ added
she, ‘where is a’ your courage now?
Cannot ye lift up your voice and sing a
stave wi’ your auld crony? And cannot
ye lift up your een, and see what
region you are in now?’</p>

<p class='c008'>“I did force open my eyelids, and
beheld light, and apparently worlds, or
huge lurid substances, gliding by me
with speed beyond that of the lightning
of heaven. I certainly perceived light,
though of a dim, uncertain nature; but so
precipitate was my descent, I could not
distinguish from whence it proceeded,
or of what it consisted, whether of
the vapours of chaotic wastes, or the
streamers of hell. So I again shut my
eyes closer than ever, and waited the
event in terror unutterable.</p>

<p class='c008'>“We at length came upon something
which interrupted our farther progress.
I had no feeling as we fell
against it, but merely as if we came in
contact with some soft substance that
impeded our descent; and immediately
afterwards I perceived that our motion
had ceased.</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘What a terrible tumble we hae
gotten, Laird!’ said my companion.
‘But ye are now in the place where
you should be; and deil speed the
coward!’</p>

<p class='c008'>“So saying, she quitted my hand,
and I felt as if she were wrested from
me by a third object; but still I durst
not open my eyes, being convinced that
I was lying in the depths of hell, or
some hideous place not to be dreamt of;
so I lay still in despair, not even daring
to address a prayer to my Maker. At
length I lifted my eyes slowly and fearfully;
but they had no power of distinguishing
objects. All that I perceived
was a vision of something in
nature, with which I had in life been
too well acquainted. It was a glimpse
of green glens, long withdrawing ridges,
and one high hill, with a cairn on its
summit. I rubbed my eyes to divest
them of the enchantment, but when I
opened them again, the illusion was
still brighter and more magnificent.
Then springing to my feet, I perceived
that I was lying in a little fairy ring,
not one hundred yards from the door of
my own hall!</p>

<p class='c008'>“I was, as you may well conceive,
dazzled with admiration; still I felt that
something was not right with me, and
that I was struggling with an enchantment;
but recollecting the hideous story
told me by the beldame, of the deadly
discord between my two sons, I hasted
to watch their motions, for the morning
was yet but dawning. In a few seconds
after recovering my senses, I perceived
my eldest son Thomas leave his tower
armed, and pass on towards the place
of appointment. I waylaid him, and
remarked to him that he was very early
astir, and I feared on no good intent.
He made no answer, but stood like one
in a stupor, and gazed at me. ‘I know
your purpose, son Thomas,’ said I;
‘so it is in vain for you to equivocate.
You have challenged your brother, and
are going to meet him in deadly combat;
but as you value your father’s
blessing, and would deprecate his curse—as
you value your hope of heaven,
and would escape the punishment of
hell—abandon the hideous and cursed
intent, and be reconciled to your only
brother.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“On this, my dutiful son Thomas
kneeled to me, and presented his sword,
disclaiming at the same time all intentions
of taking away his brother’s life,
and all animosity for the vengeance
sought against himself, and thanked me
in a flood of tears for my interference.
I then commanded him back to his
couch, and taking his cloak and sword,
hasted away to the Crook of Glendearg,
to wait the arrival of his brother.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Here Andrew Johnston’s narrative
detailed the selfsame circumstances
recorded in a former part of this tale,
as having passed between the father and
his younger son, so that it is needless to
recapitulate them; but beginning where
that broke off, he added, in the words
of the old laird: “As soon as my son
Francis had left me, in order to be reconciled
to his brother, I returned to the
fairy knowe and ring, where I first
found myself seated at daybreak. I
know not why I went there, for though
I considered with myself, I could discover
no motive that I had for doing so,
but was led thither by a sort of impulse
which I could not resist, and from the
same feeling spread my son’s mantle on
the spot, laid his sword beside it,
and stretched me down to sleep. I
remember nothing farther with any
degree of accuracy, for I instantly fell
into a chaos of suffering, confusion, and
racking dismay, from which I was only
of late released by awaking from a trance
on the very seat, and in the same guise
in which I was the evening before. I
am certain I was at home in body or in
spirit—saw my sons—spake these words
to them, and heard theirs in return.
How I returned I know even less, if
that is possible, than how I went; for
it seemed to me that the mysterious force
that presses us to this sphere, and supports
us on it, was in my case withdrawn
or subverted, and that I merely
fell from one part of the earth’s surface
and alighted on another. Now I am so
ill that I cannot move from this couch;
therefore, Andrew, do you mount and
ride straight home. Spare no horseflesh,
by night or by day, to bring me
word of my family, for I dread that
some evil hath befallen them. If you
find them in life, give them many charges
from me of brotherly love and affection;
if not—what can I say, but, in the words
of the patriarch, if I am bereaved of my
children, I am bereaved.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The two brothers, in utter amazement,
went together to the green ring on the
top of the knoll above the castle of
Cassway, and there found the mantle
lying spread, and the sword beside it.
They then, without letting Johnston
into the awful secret, mounted straight,
and rode off with him to their father.
They found him still in bed, and very
ill; and though rejoiced at seeing them,
they soon lost hope of his recovery, his
spirits being broken and deranged in a
wonderful manner. Their conversations
together were of the most solemn
nature, the visitation deigned to them
having been above their capacity. On
the third or fourth day, their father was
removed by death from this terrestrial
scene, and the minds of the young men
were so much impressed by the whole
of the circumstances, that it made a
great alteration in their after life.
Thomas, as solemnly charged by his
father, married Ellen Scott, and Francis
was well known afterwards as the celebrated
Dr Beattie of Amherst. Ellen
was mother to twelve sons; and on the
night that her seventh son was born,
her aunt Jerdan was lost, and never
more heard of, either living or
dead.<a id='r9'></a><a href='#f9' class='c018'><sup>[9]</sup></a></p>

<div class='footnote' id='f9'>
<p class='c008'><a href='#r9'>9</a>. This will be viewed as a most romantic and
unnatural story, as without doubt it is; but I
have the strongest reasons for believing that it
is founded on a literal fact, of which all the
three were sensibly and positively convinced.
It was published in England in Dr Beattie’s
lifetime, and by his acquiescence, and owing to
the respectable source from whence it came, it
was never disputed in that day that it had its
origin in truth. It was again republished, with
some miserable alterations, in a London collection
of 1770, by J. Smith, at No. 15, Paternoster
Row, and though I have seen none of
these accounts, but relate the story wholly from
tradition, yet the assurance obtained from a
friend of their existence, is a curious corroborative
circumstance, and proves that if the story
was not true, the parties at least believed it to
be so.—<em>Note by the Author.</em></p>
</div>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='the_elders_funeral' class='c006'>THE ELDER’S FUNERAL.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By Professor Wilson.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>How beautiful to the eye and to the
heart rise up, in a pastoral region, the
green silent hills from the dissolving
snow-wreaths that yet linger at their
feet! A few warm sunny days, and a
few breezy and melting nights, have
seemed to create the sweet season of
spring out of the winter’s bleakest desolation.
We can scarcely believe that
such brightness of verdure could have
been shrouded in the snow, blending itself,
as it now does, so vividly with the
deep blue of heaven. With the revival
of nature our own souls feel restored.
Happiness becomes milder, meeker,
and richer in pensive thought; while
sorrow catches a faint tinge of joy, and
reposes itself on the quietness of earth’s
opening breast. Then is youth rejoicing—manhood
sedate—and old age
resigned. The child shakes his golden
curls in his glee; he of riper life hails
the coming year with temperate exultation;
and the eye that has been touched
with dimness, in the general spirit of
delight, forgets or fears not the shadows
of the grave.</p>

<p class='c008'>On such a vernal day as this did we,
who had visited the Elder on his death-bed,<a id='r10'></a><a href='#f10' class='c018'><sup>[10]</sup></a>
walk together to his house in
the Hazel Glen, to accompany his
body to the place of burial. On the
night he died, it seemed to be the
dead of winter. On the day he was
buried, it seemed to be the birth of
spring. The old pastor and I were
alone for awhile as we pursued our path
up the glen, by the banks of the little
burn. It had cleared itself off from the
melted snow, and ran so pellucid a race
that every stone and pebble was visible
in its yellow channel. The willows,
the alders, and the birches, the fairest
and the earliest of our native hill-trees,
seemed almost tinged with a verdant
light, as if they were budding; and beneath
them, here and there peeped out,
as in the pleasure of new existence, the
primrose lonely, or in little families and
flocks. The bee had not yet ventured
to leave his cell, yet the flowers reminded
one of his murmur. A few insects
were dancing in the air, and here and
there some little moorland bird, touched
at the heart with the warm and sunny
change, was piping his love-sweet song
among the braes. It was just such a
day as a grave meditative man, like him
we were about to inter, would have
chosen to walk over his farm in religious
contentment with his lot. That was the
thought that entered the pastor’s heart,
as we paused to enjoy one brighter
gleam of the sun in a little meadow-field
of peculiar beauty.</p>

<div class='footnote' id='f10'>
<p class='c008'><a href='#r10'>10</a>. See <em>ante</em>, page <a href='#the_elders_death_bed'>280</a>.</p>
</div>

<p class='c008'>“This is the last day of the week,
and on that day often did the Elder
walk through this little happy kingdom
of his own, with some of his grandchildren
beside and around him, and
often his Bible in his hand. It is, you
feel, a solitary place,—all the vale is
one seclusion—and often have its quiet
bounds been a place of undisturbed meditation
and prayer.”</p>

<p class='c008'>We now came in sight of the cottage,
and beyond it the termination of the glen.
There the high hills came sloping gently
down; and a little waterfall, in the
distance, gave animation to a scene of
perfect repose. We were now joined by
various small parties coming to the
funeral through openings among the
hills; all sedate, but none sad, and
every greeting was that of kindness and
peace. The Elder had died full of years;
and there was no need why any out of
his household should weep. A long life
of piety had been beautifully closed;
and, therefore, we were all going to
commit the body to the earth, assured,
as far as human beings may be so
assured, that the soul was in heaven.
As the party increased on our approach
to the house, there was even cheerfulness
among us. We spoke of the early
and bright promise of spring—of the
sorrows and joys of other families—of
marriages and births—of the new
schoolmaster—of to-morrow’s Sabbath.
There was no topic of which, on any
common occasion, it might have been
fitting to speak, that did not now perhaps
occupy, for a few moments, some
one or other of the group, till we found
ourselves ascending the greensward before
the cottage, and stood below the
bare branches of the sycamores. Then
we were all silent, and, after a short
pause, reverently entered into the house
of death.</p>

<p class='c008'>At the door the son received us with
a calm, humble, and untroubled face;
and in his manner towards the old
minister, there was something that could
not be misunderstood, expressing penitence,
gratitude, and resignation. We
all sat down in the large kitchen; and
the son decently received each person
at the door, and showed him to his
place. There were some old gray heads,
more becoming gray, and many
bright in manhood and youth. But
the same solemn hush was over them
all, and they sat all bound together in
one uniting and assimilating spirit of
devotion and faith. Wine and bread
were to be sent round; but the son
looked to the old minister, who rose,
lifted up his withered hand, and began
a blessing and a prayer.</p>

<p class='c008'>There was so much composure and
stillness in the old man’s attitude, and
something so affecting in his voice,
tremulous and broken, not in grief
but age, that no sooner had he
begun to pray, than every heart
and every breath at once were hushed.
All stood motionless, nor could
one eye abstain from that placid and
patriarchal countenance, with its closed
eyes, and long silvery hair. There was
nothing sad in his words, but they were
all humble and solemn, and at times
even joyful in the kindling spirit of
piety and faith. He spoke of the dead
man’s goodness as imperfect in the eyes
of his Great Judge, but such as, we
were taught, might lead, through intercession,
to the kingdom of heaven.
Might the blessing of God, he prayed,
which had so long rested on the head
now coffined, not forsake that of him
who was now to be the father of this
house. There was more—more joy,
we were told, in heaven, over one
sinner that repenteth, than over ninety
and nine just persons which need no
repentance. Fervently, too, and tenderly,
did the old man pray for her, in
her silent chamber, who had lost so
kind a parent, and for all the little children
round her knees. Nor did he end his
prayer without some allusion to his own
gray hairs, and to the approaching day
on which many then present would
attend his burial.</p>

<p class='c008'>Just as he ceased to speak, one
solitary stifled sob was heard, and all
eyes turned kindly round to a little
boy who was standing by the side of
the Elder’s son. Restored once more
to his own father’s love, his heart had
been insensibly filled with peace since
the old man’s death. The returning
tenderness of the living came in place
of that of the dead, and the child
yearned towards his father now with a
stronger affection, relieved at last from
all his fear. He had been suffered to sit
an hour each day beside the bed on
which his grandfather lay shrouded, and
he had got reconciled to the cold but
silent and happy looks of death. His
mother and his Bible told him to obey
God without repining in all things;
and the child did so with perfect simplicity.
One sob had found its way at
the close of that pathetic prayer; but
the tears that bathed his glistening
cheeks were far different from those
that, on the day and night of his grandfather’s
decease, had burst from the
agony of a breaking heart. The old
minister laid his hand silently upon his
golden head; there was a momentary
murmur of kindness and pity over the
room; the child was pacified, and
again all was repose and peace.</p>

<p class='c008'>A sober voice said all was ready, and
the son and the minister led the way
reverently out into the open air. The
bier stood before the door, and was
lifted slowly up with its sable pall.
Silently each mourner took his place.
The sun was shining pleasantly, and a
gentle breeze, passing through the sycamore,
shook down the glittering raindrops
upon the funeral velvet. The
small procession, with an instinctive
spirit, began to move along; and as I
cast up my eyes to take a farewell look
of that beautiful dwelling, now finally
left by him who so long had blessed it,
I saw at the half-open lattice of the little
bedroom window above, the pale weeping
face of that stainless matron, who
was taking her last passionate farewell of
the mortal remains of her father, now
slowly receding from her to the quiet
field of graves.</p>

<p class='c008'>We proceeded along the edges of the
hills, and along the meadow-fields,
crossed the old wooden bridge over the
burn, now widening in its course to the
plain, and in an hour of pensive silence,
or pleasant talk, we found ourselves entering,
in a closer body, the little gateway
of the churchyard. To the tolling
of the bell we moved across the green
mounds, and arranged ourselves, according
to the plan and order which our
feelings suggested, around the bier and
its natural supporters. There was no
delay. In a few minutes the Elder was
laid among the mould of his forefathers,
in their long-ago chosen spot of rest.
One by one the people dropped away,
and none were left by the new made
grave but the son and his little boy, the
pastor and myself. As yet nothing was
said, and in that pause I looked around
me, over the sweet burial-ground.</p>

<p class='c008'>Each tombstone and grave over which
I had often walked in boyhood arose
in my memory, as I looked steadfastly
upon their long-forgotten inscriptions;
and many had then been erected. The
whole character of the place was still
simple and unostentatious, but from the
abodes of the dead I could see that
there had been an improvement in the
condition of the living. There was a
taste visible in their decorations, not
without much of native feeling, and
occasionally something even of native
grace. If there was any other inscription
than the name and age of the poor
inhabitants below, it was, in general,
some short text of Scripture; for it is
most pleasant and soothing to the pious
mind, when bereaved of friends, to
commemorate them on earth by some
touching expression taken from that
Book which reveals to them a life in
heaven.</p>

<p class='c008'>There is a sort of gradation, a scale
of forgetfulness, in a country churchyard,
where the processes of nature are suffered
to go on over the green place of burial,
that is extremely affecting in the contemplation.
The soul goes from the
grave just covered up, to that which
seems scarcely joined together, on and
on to those folded and bound by the
undisturbed verdure of many, many
unremembered years. It then glides at
last into nooks and corners where the
ground seems perfectly calm and waveless,
utter oblivion having smoothed the
earth over the long mouldered bones.
Tombstones, on which the inscriptions
are hidden in green obliteration, or
that are mouldering, or falling to a side,
are close to others which last week
were brushed by the chisel;—constant
renovation and constant decay—vain
attempts to adhere to memory—and
oblivion, now baffled and now triumphant,
smiling among all the memorials
of human affection, as they keep continually
crumbling away into the world
of undistinguishable dust and ashes.</p>

<p class='c008'>The churchyard, to the inhabitants of
a rural parish, is the place to which, as
they grow older, all their thoughts and
feelings turn. The young take a look
of it every Sabbath-day, not always perhaps
a careless look, but carry away from
it, unconsciously, many salutary impressions.
What is more pleasant than the
meeting of a rural congregation in the
churchyard before the minister appears?
What is there to shudder at in lying
down, sooner or later, in such a peaceful
and sacred place, to be spoken of
frequently on Sabbath among the groups
of which we used to be one, and our
low burial-spot to be visited, at such
times, as long as there remains on earth
any one to whom our face was dear?
To those who mix in the strife and dangers
of the world, the place is felt to be
uncertain wherein they may finally lie at
rest. The soldier—the sailor—the traveller—can
only see some dim grave dug
for him when he dies, in some place obscure,
nameless, and unfixed to the
imagination. All he feels is, that his
burial will be—on earth—or in the sea.
But the peaceful dwellers who cultivate
their paternal acres, or tilling at least
the same small spot of soil, shift only
from a cottage on the hillside to one on
the plain, still within the bounds of one
quiet parish; they look to lay their
bones at last in the burial-place of the
kirk in which they were baptised, and
with them it almost literally is but a
step from the cradle to the grave.</p>

<p class='c008'>Such were the thoughts that calmly
followed each other in my reverie, as I
stood beside the Elder’s grave, and the
trodden grass was again lifting up its
blades from the pressure of many feet,
now all, but a few, departed. What
a simple burial had it been! Dust was
consigned to dust—no more. Bare,
naked, simple, and austere is in Scotland
the service of the grave. It is left
to the soul itself to consecrate, by its
passion, the mould over which tears,
but no words, are poured. Surely there
is a beauty in this; for the heart is left
unto its own sorrow—according as it is
a friend—a brother—a parent—or a
child, that is covered up from our eyes.
Yet call not other rites, however different
from this, less beautiful or pathetic.
For willingly does the soul connect its
grief with any consecrated ritual of the
dead. Sound or silence—music—hymns—psalms—sable
garments, or raiment
white as snow—all become holy symbols
of the soul’s affection; nor is it for any
man to say which is the most natural,
which is the best, of the thousand shows
and expressions, and testimonies of sorrow,
resignation, and love, by which
mortal beings would seek to express
their souls when one of their brethren
has returned to his parent dust.</p>

<p class='c008'>My mind was recalled from all these
sad, yet not unpleasant fancies, by a
deep groan, and I beheld the Elder’s
son fling himself down upon the grave
and kiss it passionately, imploring pardon
from God. “I distressed my father’s
heart in his old age—I repented—and
received thy forgiveness even on thy
death-bed! But how may I be assured
that God will forgive me for having so
sinned against my old, grayheaded father,
when his limbs were weak and his eyesight
dim!” The old minister stood
at the head of the grave without speaking
a word, with his solemn and pitiful eyes
fixed upon the prostrate and contrite
man. His sin had been great, and tears
that till now had, on this day at least,
been compressed within his heart by the
presence of so many of his friends, now
poured down upon the sod as if they
would have found their way to the very
body of his father. Neither of us offered
to lift him up, for we felt awed by the
rueful passion of his love, his remorse,
and his penitence; and nature, we felt,
ought to have her way. “Fear not, my
son,” at length said the old man, in a
gentle voice—“fear not, my son, but
that you are already forgiven. Dost
thou not feel pardon within thy contrite
spirit?” He rose up from his knees
with a faint smile, while the minister,
with his white head yet uncovered, held
his hands over him as in benediction;
and that beautiful and loving child, who
had been standing in a fit of weeping
terror at his father’s agony, now came
up to him and kissed his cheek—holding
in his little hand a few faded primroses
which he had unconsciously gathered
together as they lay on the turf of his
grandfather’s grave.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='macdonald_the_cattle-riever' class='c006'>MACDONALD, THE CATTLE-RIEVER.</h2>
</div>

<p class='c007'>Archibald Macdonald was perhaps
the most perfect master of his
hazardous profession of any who ever
practised it. Archibald was by birth a
gentleman, and proprietor of a small
estate in Argyleshire, which he however
lost early in life. He soon distinguished
himself as a cattle-lifter on an extensive
scale; and weak as the arm of
the law might then have been, he found
it advisable to remove further from its
influence, and he shifted his residence
from his native district of Appin to the
remote peninsula of Ardnamurchan,
which was admirably adapted to his
purpose, from its geographical position.
He obtained a lease of an extensive
farm, and he fitted up a large cowhouse,
though his whole visible live-stock consisted
of one filly. His neighbours
could not help making remarks on this
subject, but he begged of them to have
no anxiety on that head, assuring them
that his byre would be full ere Christmas;
and he was as good as his word.
He had trained the filly to suit his purpose,
and it was a practice of his to tie
other horses to her tail; she then directed
her course homeward by unfrequented
routes, and always found her way in
safety.</p>

<p class='c008'>His expeditions were generally carried
on by sea, and he annoyed the
most distant of the Hebrides, both
to the south and north. He often
changed the colour of his boats and
sails, and adopted whatever appeared
best suited to his immediate purpose.
In consequence of this artifice, his depredations
were frequently ascribed to
others, and sometimes to men of the
first distinction in that country, so
dexterously did he imitate their birlings
and their insignia. He held his land
from Campbell of Lochnell, into whose
favour he had insinuated himself by
his knowledge and address.</p>

<p class='c008'>When Lochnell resided at the castle
of Mingary, Archibald was often ordered
to lie on a mattress in his bedroom, to
entertain him at night with the recitation
of the poems of Ossian, and with
tales. Archibald contrived means to
convert this circumstance to his advantage.
He ordered his men to be in
readiness, and that night he selected one
of his longest poems. As he calculated,
Lochnell fell asleep before he had
finished the recital; the robber slunk
out and soon joined his associates. He
steered for the island of Mull, where
some of his men had been previously
sent to execute his orders; he carried off
a whole fold of cattle, which he landed
safely, and returned to his mattress before
Lochnell awoke. When he lay down
he purposely snored so loudly that the
sleeping chief was disturbed, and complained
of the tremendous noise the
fellow made, observing that, fond as he
was of poetry, he must deprive himself
of it in future on such conditions. To
this Archibald had no objections; his
principal object was then accomplished,
and taking up the tale where he had
stopped when his patron fell asleep, he
finished it, and slept soundly to an
advanced hour.</p>

<p class='c008'>The cattle were immediately missed,
and suspicion fell on Archibald; but he
triumphantly referred to Lochnell for a
proof of his innocence, and this he
obtained. That gentleman solemnly declared
that the robber had never been
out of his room during that night,
and the charge was of course dropped.</p>

<p class='c008'>A wealthy man who resided in the
neighbourhood was noted for his penurious
habits, and he had incurred particular
odium by refusing a supply of
meal to a poor widow in distress. This
man had sent a considerable quantity of
grain to the mill, which, as usual, he
attended himself, and was conveying
the meal home at night on horseback.
The horses were tied in a string, the
halter of one fixed to the tail of another;
and the owner led the foremost by a
long tether. His road lay through a
wood, and Archibald there watched his
approach. The night was dark, and
the man walked slowly, humming a
song; the ground was soft, and the
horses having no shoes (as is still usual
in that country), their tread made no
noise. Archibald ordered one of his
men to loosen the tether from the head
of the front horse, and to hold it, himself
occupying the place of the horse,
and walking on at the same pace. He
thus got possession of the whole. The
miser soon arrived at his own door,
and called for assistance to deposit his
winter store in safety, but, to his astonishment,
found he had but the halter!</p>

<p class='c008'>Availing himself of the credulity of
his countrymen, he pretended to hold
frequent intercourse with a spirit or
genii, still much distinguished in the
West Highlands under the appellation
of Glastig. This he turned to excellent
account, as the stories which his partisans
fabricated of the command he
had over the Glastig, and the connexion
between them, terrified the people so
much, that few could be prevailed upon
to watch their cattle at night, and they
thus fell an easy prey to this artful
rogue.</p>

<p class='c008'>Archibald’s father having died early,
his mother afterwards married a second
husband, who resided in a neighbouring
island. When she died, her son
was out of favour with his stepfather,
and he was refused the privilege of
having the disposal of his mother’s
remains, nor did he think it prudent
to appear openly at her funeral. He
however obtained accurate information
of the place where the corpse was lying.
One dark night, he made an opening in
the thatched roof of the earthen hut,
and the wakers being occupied in the
feats of athletic exercise usually practised
on these occasions, the body being
excluded from their sight by a screen
which hung across the house, Archibald
carried it off to his boat like another
Æneas. He also got possession of the
stock of whisky intended for the occasion,
as it lay in the same place—thus
discharging the last duties of a pious
son with little expense to himself.</p>

<p class='c008'>A fatal event at length occurred,
which rendered it necessary for the man
to retire from trade. He made a descent
on one of the small islands on that
coast, and had collected the cattle, when
the proprietor (who had information of
the circumstance), made his appearance
to rescue them. Archibald was compelled
to yield up his prey, but one
of the villains who accompanied him
levelled his musket at the gentleman,
and shot him dead from the boat.</p>

<p class='c008'>The robber was fully aware of his
danger, and, with the assistance of a
fair wind, he shaped his course for the
mainland. He pushed on with all possible
speed, and arrived at Inveraray
before sunrise the following morning.
Having information that Stewart of
Appin was then in town, he watched
his motions, and at an early hour saw
him on the street in conversation with
the sheriff of the county. Archibald,
who was an old acquaintance, saluted
him, and his salute was returned. When
Appin parted with the sheriff, Archibald
complained that he had taken no
notice of him the preceding day, when
he accosted him in the same place.
Appin said he was conscious of having
seen him, but that he was much hurried
at the time, and hoped he would excuse
him. The robber’s object was accomplished.
Appin had no doubt of the
truth of what he said; and on his trial
for the murder, an alibi was established
in his favour, from this very extraordinary
piece of address. Some of his
crew were afterwards taken in Ross-shire,
and executed there by order of
the Earl of Seaforth, though the actual
murderer escaped punishment. Archibald,
however, never again plundered
on a large scale. He died about the
middle of the 17th century, and his
name still stands unrivalled for cunning
and address in his calling.—<cite>“Traditions
of the Western Highlands,” in the London
Literary Gazette.</cite></p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='the_murder_hole' class='c006'>THE MURDER HOLE:</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>An Ancient Legend of Galloway.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line in16'>Ah, frantic Fear!</div>
      <div class='line'>I see, I see thee near;</div>
      <div class='line'>I know thy hurried step, thy haggard eye!</div>
      <div class='line'>Like thee I start, like thee disordered fly!</div>
      <div class='line in44'><em>Collins.</em></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>In a remote district of country belonging
to Lord Cassilis, between Ayrshire
and Galloway, about three hundred
years ago, a moor of apparently boundless
extent stretched several miles along
the road, and wearied the eye of the
traveller by the sameness and desolation
of its appearance: not a tree varied the
prospect—not a shrub enlivened the eye
by its freshness—not a native flower
bloomed to adorn this ungenial soil.
One “lonesome desert” reached the
horizon on every side, with nothing to
mark that any mortal had ever visited
the scene before, except a few rude huts
that were scattered near its centre; and
a road, or rather pathway, for those
whom business or necessity obliged to
pass in that direction. At length, deserted
as this wild region had always
been, it became still more gloomy.
Strange rumours arose that the path of
unwary travellers had been beset on
this “blasted heath,” and that treachery
and murder had intercepted the solitary
stranger as he traversed its dreary extent.
When several persons, who were known
to have passed that way, mysteriously
disappeared, the inquiries of their relatives
led to a strict and anxious investigation;
but though the officers of justice
were sent to scour the country, and
examine the inhabitants, not a trace
could be obtained of the persons in question,
nor of any place of concealment
which could be a refuge for the lawless
or desperate to horde in. Yet as inquiry
became stricter, and the disappearance
of individuals more frequent,
the simple inhabitants of the neighbouring
hamlet were agitated by the
most fearful apprehensions. Some declared
that the death-like stillness of
the night was often interrupted by
sudden and preternatural cries of more
than mortal anguish, which seemed to
arise in the distance; and a shepherd
one evening, who had lost his way on
the moor, declared he had approached
three mysterious figures, who seemed
struggling against each other with supernatural
energy, till at length one of them,
with a frightful scream, suddenly sunk
into the earth.</p>

<p class='c008'>Gradually the inhabitants deserted
their dwellings on the heath, and settled
in distant quarters, till at length but
one of the cottages continued to be inhabited
by an old woman and her two
sons, who loudly lamented that poverty
chained them to this solitary and mysterious
spot. Travellers who frequented
this road now generally did so in groups
to protect each other; and if night
overtook them, they usually stopped at
the humble cottage of the old woman
and her sons, where cleanliness compensated
for the want of luxury, and
where, over a blazing fire of peat, the
bolder spirits smiled at the imaginary
dangers of the road, and the more timid
trembled as they listened to the tales of
terror and affright with which their hosts
entertained them.</p>

<p class='c008'>One gloomy and tempestuous night
in November, a pedlar-boy hastily traversed
the moor. Terrified to find
himself involved in darkness amidst its
boundless wastes, a thousand frightful
traditions, connected with this dreary
scene, darted across his mind: every
blast, as it swept in hollow gusts over
the heath, seemed to teem with the
sighs of departed spirits; and the birds,
as they winged their way above his
head, appeared, with loud and shrill
cries, to warn him of approaching
danger. The whistle, with which he
usually beguiled his weary pilgrimage,
died away into silence, and he groped
along with trembling and uncertain
steps, which sounded too loudly in his
ears. The promise of Scripture occurred
to his memory, and revived his
courage: “I will be unto thee as a
rock in the desert, and as an hiding-place
in the storm.” “Surely,” thought
he, “though alone, I am not forsaken;”
and a prayer for assistance hovered on
his lips.</p>

<p class='c008'>A light now glimmered in the distance
which would lead him, he conjectured,
to the cottage of the old woman; and
towards that he eagerly bent his way,
remembering, as he hastened along,
that when he had visited it the year
before, it was in company of a large
party of travellers, who had beguiled
the evening with those tales of mystery
which had so lately filled his brain with
images of terror. He recollected, too,
how anxiously the old woman and her
sons had endeavoured to detain him
when the other travellers were departing;
and now, therefore, he confidently
anticipated a cordial and cheering
reception. His first call for admission
obtained no visible marks of attention,
but instantly the greatest noise and
confusion prevailed within the cottage.
“They think it is one of the supernatural
visitants of whom the old lady
talks so much,” thought the boy, approaching
a window, where the light
within showed him all the inhabitants
at their several occupations; the old
woman was hastily scrubbing the stone
floor, and strewing it thickly with sand,
while her two sons seemed, with equal
haste, to be thrusting something large
and heavy into an immense chest, which
they carefully locked.</p>

<p class='c008'>The boy, in a frolicsome mood,
thoughtlessly tapped at the window,
when they all instantly started up
with consternation so strongly depicted
on their countenances, that he shrunk
back involuntarily with an undefined
feeling of apprehension; but before he
had time to reflect a moment longer,
one of the men suddenly darted out at
the door, and seizing the boy roughly
by the shoulder, dragged him violently
into the cottage.</p>

<p class='c008'>“I am not what you take me for,”
said the boy, attempting to laugh; “but
only the poor pedlar who visited you
last year.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Are you <em>alone</em>?” inquired the old
woman, in a harsh, deep tone, which
made his heart thrill with apprehension.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Yes,” said the boy, “I am alone
<em>here</em>; and alas!” he added with a burst
of uncontrollable feeling, “I am alone
in the wide world also! Not a person
exists who would assist me in distress,
or shed a single tear if I died this very
night.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Then you are welcome!” said one
of the men with a sneer, while he
cast a glance of peculiar expression at
the other inhabitants of the cottage.</p>

<p class='c008'>It was with a shiver of apprehension,
rather than of cold, that the boy drew
towards the fire, and the looks which
the old woman and her sons exchanged
made him wish that he had preferred
the shelter of any one of the roofless
cottages which were scattered near,
rather than thrust himself among persons
of such dubious aspect. Dreadful
surmises flitted across his brain; and
terrors which he could neither combat
nor examine imperceptibly stole into
his mind; but alone, and beyond the
reach of assistance, he resolved to
smother his suspicions, or at least not
increase the danger by revealing them.
The room to which he retired for the
night had a confused and desolate
aspect: the curtains seemed to have
been violently torn down from the bed,
and still hung in tatters around it; the
table seemed to have been broken by
some violent concussion, and the fragments
of various pieces of furniture lay
scattered upon the floor. The boy
begged that a light might burn in his
apartment till he was asleep, and
anxiously examined the fastenings of
the door; but they seemed to have been
wrenched asunder on a former occasion,
and were still left rusty and broken.</p>

<p class='c008'>It was long ere the pedlar attempted
to compose his agitated nerves to rest,
but at length his senses began to “steep
themselves in forgetfulness,” though his
imagination remained painfully active,
and presented new scenes of terror
to his mind, with all the vividness of
reality. He fancied himself again
wandering on the heath, which appeared
to be peopled with spectres, who all
beckoned to him not to enter the cottage,
and as he approached it, they vanished
with a hollow and despairing cry.
The scene then changed, and he found
himself again seated by the fire, where
the countenances of the men scowled
upon him with the most terrifying
malignity, and he thought the old
woman suddenly seized him by the arms,
and pinioned them to his side.</p>

<p class='c008'>Suddenly the boy was startled from
these agitated slumbers, by what sounded
to him like a cry of distress; he was
broad awake in a moment, and sat up
in bed; but the noise was not repeated,
and he endeavoured to persuade himself
it had only been a continuation of
the fearful images which had disturbed
his rest, when, on glancing at the door,
he observed underneath it a broad red
stream of blood silently stealing its course
along the floor. Frantic with alarm, it
was but the work of a moment to spring
from his bed, and rush to the door,
through a chink of which, his eye
nearly dimmed with affright, he could
watch unsuspected whatever might be
done in the adjoining room.</p>

<p class='c008'>His fear vanished instantly when he
perceived that it was only a goat that
they had been slaughtering; and he
was about to steal into his bed again,
ashamed of his groundless apprehensions,
when his ear was arrested by
a conversation which transfixed him
aghast with terror to the spot.</p>

<p class='c008'>“This is an easier job than you had
yesterday,” said the man who held the
goat. “I wish all the throats we’ve
cut were as easily and quietly done.
Did you ever hear such a noise as the
old gentleman made last night? It
was well we had no neighbours within
a dozen miles, or they must have heard
his cries for help and mercy.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Don’t speak of it,” replied the other;
“I was never fond of bloodshed.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ha! ha!” said the other, with a
sneer, “you say so, do you?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I do,” answered the first, gloomily;
“the Murder Hole is the thing for me—that
tells no tales; a single scuffle,—a
single plunge,—and the fellow’s dead
and buried to your hand in a moment.
I would defy all the officers in Christendom
to discover any mischief there.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ay, Nature did us a good turn when
she contrived such a place as that.
Who that saw a hole in the heath,
filled with clear water, and so small
that the long grass meets over the top
of it, would suppose that the depth is
unfathomable, and that it conceals more
than forty people, who have met their
deaths there? It sucks them in like a
leech!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“How do you mean to despatch the
lad in the next room?” asked the old
woman in an undertone. The elder
son made her a sign to be silent, and
pointed towards the door where their
trembling auditor was concealed; while
the other, with an expression of brutal
ferocity, passed his bloody knife across
his throat.</p>

<p class='c008'>The pedlar boy possessed a bold and
daring spirit, which was now roused to
desperation; but in any open resistance
the odds were so completely against
him that flight seemed his best resource.
He gently stole to the window, and
having forced back the rusty bolt
by which the casement had been
fastened, he let himself down without
noise or difficulty. “This betokens
good,” thought he, pausing an
instant, in dreadful hesitation what direction
to take. This momentary deliberation
was fearfully interrupted by
the hoarse voice of the men calling
aloud, “<em>The boy has fled—let loose the
bloodhound!</em>” These words sunk like
a death-knell on his heart, for escape
appeared now impossible, and his nerves
seemed to melt away like wax in a furnace.
“Shall I perish without a
struggle?” thought he, rousing himself
to exertion, and, helpless and terrified
as a hare, pursued by its ruthless hunters,
he fled across the heath. Soon
the baying of the bloodhound broke
the stillness of the night, and the voice
of its masters sounded through the moor,
as they endeavoured to accelerate its
speed. Panting and breathless, the boy
pursued his hopeless career, but every
moment his pursuers seemed to gain upon
his failing steps. The hound was
unimpeded by the darkness which was
to him so impenetrable, and its noise
rung louder and deeper on his ear,—while
the lanterns which were carried
by the men gleamed near and distinct
upon his vision.</p>

<p class='c008'>At his fullest speed the terrified boy
fell with violence over a heap of stones,
and having nothing on but his shirt, he
was severely cut in every limb. With
one wild cry to Heaven for assistance,
he continued prostrate on the earth,
bleeding and nearly insensible. The
hoarse voices of the men, and the still
louder baying of the dog, were now so
near, that instant destruction seemed
inevitable; already he felt himself in
their fangs, and the bloody knife of the
assassin appeared to gleam before his
eyes. Despair renewed his energy, and
once more, in an agony of affright that
seemed verging towards madness, he
rushed forward so rapidly that terror
seemed to have given wings to his feet.
A loud cry near the spot he had left
arose in his ears without suspending his
flight. The hound had stopped at the
place where the pedlar’s wounds bled
so profusely, and deeming the chase
now over, it lay down there, and could
not be induced to proceed. In vain the
men beat it with frantic violence, and
cried again to put the hound on the
scent,—the sight of blood satisfied the
animal that its work was done, and
it obstinately resisted every inducement
to pursue the same scent a second time.</p>

<p class='c008'>The pedlar boy in the meantime
paused not in his flight till morning
dawned; and still as he fled, the noise
of steps seemed to pursue him, and the
cry of his would-be assassins sounded
in the distance. He at length reached
a village, and spread instant
alarm throughout the neighbourhood;
the inhabitants were aroused with one
accord into a tumult of indignation—several
of them had lost sons, brothers,
or friends on the heath, and all united
in proceeding immediately to seize the
old woman and her sons, who were
nearly torn to pieces in their furious
wrath. Three gibbets were at once
raised on the moor, and the wretched
culprits confessed before their execution
to the destruction of nearly fifty victims
in the Murder Hole, which they pointed
out, and near which they suffered the
penalty of their crimes. The bones of
several murdered persons were with
difficulty brought up from the abyss into
which they had been thrust; but so
narrow is the aperture, and so extraordinary
the depth, that all who see it
are inclined to coincide in the tradition
of the country people, that it is unfathomable.</p>

<p class='c008'>The scene of these events still continues
nearly as it was three hundred years
ago: the remains of the old cottage, with
its blackened walls (haunted, of course,
by a thousand evil spirits), and the extensive
moor, on which a more modern
inn (if it can be dignified with such an
epithet) resembles its predecessor in
everything but the character of its inhabitants.
The landlord is deformed,
but possesses extraordinary genius; he
has himself manufactured a violin, on
which he plays with untaught skill,—and
if any <em>discord</em> be heard in the house,
or any murder committed in it, <em>this</em> is
his only instrument. His daughter (who
has never travelled beyond the heath)
has inherited her father’s talent, and
learned all his tales of terror and superstition,
which she relates with infinite
spirit; but when you are led by her
across the heath to drop a stone into
that deep and narrow gulf to which our
story relates,—when you stand on its
slippery edge, and, parting the long
grass with which it is covered, gaze
into its mysterious depths,—when she
describes, with all the animation of an
eye-witness, the struggle of the victims
clutching the grass as a last hope of preservation,
and trying to drag in their
assassin as an expiring effort of vengeance,—when
you are told that for three
hundred years the clear waters in this
diamond of the desert have remained
untasted by mortal lips, and that the
solitary traveller is still pursued at night
by the howling of the bloodhound,—it
is then only that it is possible fully to
appreciate the terrors of “The Murder
Hole.”—<cite>Blackwood’s Magazine</cite>, 1829.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='the_miller_of_doune' class='c006'>THE MILLER OF DOUNE:<br> <span class='large'><em>A TRAVELLER’S TALE</em></span>.</h2>
</div>

<h3 class='c013'><span class='sc'>Chapter I.</span></h3>

<p class='c014'>In the reign of James the Fifth, the
mill on the Teath, near Doune, was
possessed, as it had been for abune a
century, by a family of the name of
Marshall.</p>

<p class='c008'>They were a bauld and a strong race
of men, and when the miller of whom
we’re now to speak was in his prime, it
used to be a common saying in the
kintra, “Better get a kick frae a naig’s
foot, than a stroke frae John Marshall;”
and even now that he was threescore
and one, there were unco few that liked
to come to grips wi’ him. But though
John kent he need fear nae man, and
would carry things wi’ a high hand
when needfu’, yet he was onything but
quarrelsome, and was aye mair ready
to gree wi’ a man than to fight wi’
him; and as he was a gash sensible
man, and thoroughly honest, he had
mony frien’s and weel-wishers, and was
muckle respeckit in the hale kintra
side.</p>

<p class='c008'>John’s family consisted of twa sons
and a dochter, who had lost their mither
when they were but weans. The eldest,
James, was as like what his father was
at the same age, as twa peas; only, if
onything, a thought stronger. William,
the next, was mair slender; but though
he couldna put the stane, nor fling the
fore-hammer, within mony an ell o’
James, yet he could jump higher than
ony man he had ever met wi’; and as
for rinnin’, naebody could come near
him. Of Jeanie Marshall we need say
nae mair than that she was a sensible,
spirited, light-hearted lassie, the pride
of her brothers, and her father’s darling.</p>

<p class='c008'>It happened ae night, as the miller
was coming back frae gien his horse
a drink at the water, that he heard
something cheep-cheeping in the grass
at the roadside, and every now and then
it gied a bit flee up in the air, and then
doun again; and upon looking at it
again, the miller saw that it was a robin
chased by a whuttrit, which was trying
to grip it; and the miller said to himsel,
“I canna thole to see the puir bit burdie
riven a’ to coopens afore my very een;”
so he banged aff the horse, and ran and
got it up in his hand, and he let drive
sic a kick at the whuttrit, that the beast
gaed up in the lift, and ower the
hedge, just as if it had been a kuisten
snawba’.</p>

<p class='c008'>On lookin’ at the robin, John saw
some straes stickin’ to’t wi’ burd-lime,
which had stoppit it frae fleein’, and he
begood to pike them aff; but Clod, who
was a restless brute, and was wearyin’
for his stable, tuggit and ruggit sae at
the helter, that the miller could come
nae speed ava. “And now,” says the
miller, “gif I set you doun, puir thing,
as ye are, some beast or anither will
come and worry ye; and it’s no in my
power to get on that dancing deevil’s
back wi’ ae hand—sae gang ye in
there;” and he lifted up the flap o’ his
pouch, and pat in the robin.</p>

<p class='c008'>Now, John Marshall kentna that a’
this time there was a man at the back
o’ the hedge wi’ a cockit gun in his
hand, ready to shoot the whuttrit; but
who, when he saw the miller jump aff
his horse, took doun the gun frae his
shouther, to watch the upshot o’t; and
when he heard what the miller said,
and saw him put the robin in his pouch,
he thought to himsel, “I maun ken
something mair about this man;” sae
he follows the miller at a distance.
And when he sees him come out o’ the
stable, and into the house, and the door
steekit, and a’ quiet, he slips up to a
window which was a wee bit open, and
whaur he could hear and see a’ that
gaed on. The first thing he sees is the
miller and his family preparing for
family worship, for that was a thing
John Marshall ne’er missed; and after
the psalm was dune, the miller spreads
the Bible before him, and pittin’ his
hand into his pouch for his napkin, to
dight his spectacles, out comes napkin,
an’ burd, an’ a’.</p>

<p class='c008'>“’Od,” says Jeanie, saftly, “gif my
father hasna brought hame a robin.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Whaur got ye the bit robin, father?”
said William.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ne’er ye mind, William, my man,”
said the miller; “I’m gaun to read ye
a part o’ the Word o’ God, and that
will do ye mair gude than onything I
hae to tell ye;” and as he pat out his
hand to tak the corner o’ his napkin,
the robin gied him a dab. “Aye,
neebor!” says the miller. “But ye’re
no to blame, puir beastie, for ye wasna
to ken whether I meant ye ill or gude.
And now that I think o’t,” continued
the miller, “I’ll pass by our regular
order the night, and read ye that chapter
whaur we’re tauld that no even a
sparrow shall fa’ to the grund without
the Lord wills it.”</p>

<p class='c008'>When he had finished it, they a’ went
doun on their knees, and the miller,
amang ither things, prayed that He,
wha took care even o’ the bit burds o’
the air, would watch for their welfare,
and gie them grace to resist a’ temptation,
and to live a gude and a godly
life, like men and like Christians.
And when it was ower, and Jeanie was
putting by the Bible, a dirl comes to
the door.</p>

<p class='c008'>“See wha’s that, Jeanie,” cried the
miller. Sae Jeanie opens it, and when
she comes back, she says, “It’s ane
John Murdoch, father, wha’s travell’t
a gey lang bit the day; but gif it’s no
convenient to tak him in, he’ll just
trudge on.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Bring him ben, lassie,” quoth the
miller. Sae in walks John Murdoch, a
plain, honest, kintra-like chiel; and
“Guid e’en to you, miller,” says he.</p>

<p class='c008'>“The same to you, frien’,” says John
Marshall; “and sit ye doun, and pit
by your bonnet. We’re gaun to hae our
parritch belyve, and if ye’ll tak your
share o’ them, and stay a’ night wi’ us,
we’ll mak ye welcome.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Wi’ a’ my heart,” says John Murdoch,
sitting himsel down. “And
ye’ve gotten a bit burdie on the table, I
see,—but it’s a wee douf ways, I
think.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ou aye,” quoth the miller, “the
puir thing’s gotten a bit fright the night;
and it’s a’ stickin’ wi’ burd-lime, and I
kenna how to get it aff.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Let me see’t,” says John Murdoch,
“I hae some bit notion o’ thae things.”
An’ he took a’ the straes aff it, and
dighted and cleaned its feathers, and
made it just as right’s ever.</p>

<p class='c008'>“And whaur’ll we put it now?” said
he.</p>

<p class='c008'>“’Od,” quoth the miller, “it would
amaist be a pity to put it out at the
window the night; sae, Jeanie, see, if
there’s naething to haud it till the morn’s
morning.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“We’ll sune manage that,” said
Jeanie, takin’ doun an auld cage.</p>

<p class='c008'>The robin being safely disposed of,
John Murdoch began to speak to the
miller of a heap o’ things, and he had
the best o’t on maist o’ them; but when
he cam to speak o’ kye, and on kintra
matters, “I hae ye now, man,” thought
the miller; but faith he found John
Murdoch his match there too; and he
said to himsel, “Od, but he’s a queer
man that, sure eneugh.” And John
Murdoch gaed on tellin’ a wheen funny
stories. The miller leugh and better
leugh, and Jeanie was sae ta’en up about
them, that in she rins twa handfu’s o’
saut instead o’ meal into the parritch,
and them sauted afore. Sae when
they’re set on the table, John Murdoch
gets the first platefu’; and when he
tastes them, he says very gravely, “No
that ill; but maybe ye’ll hae run out o’
saut?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Saut!” cried William, “do they
want saut?” and in gangs a spoonfu’.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Gudesake!” cried he, turning roun’
to John Murdoch.</p>

<p class='c008'>“What’s wrang with them, William?”
said the miller.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ou, naething, naething, father—only
they’re as saut’s lick, that’s a’.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Gae awa wi’ your havers,” cried
Jeanie; “let me taste them. Bless me!
an’ how in a’ the wide warl’ could that
happen? I ne’er made sic a mistak in
a’ my days, an’ I canna account for’t in
no gate.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Now dinna ye gang and vex yoursel
about it,” said John Murdoch, “for
they’ll just gaur the yill there gang
doun a’ the better.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“If that’s the gate o’t,” cried the
miller, “they’ll need strong yill frae the
first; sae, Jeanie, put ye that sma’
thing by, and bring the ither.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Na, na, gudeman,” says John Murdoch,
“if we do that, wee’l be fou; sae
let’s begin wi’ the sma’ thing first, and
we can tak the strong yill afterwards, at
our leisure.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Weel, weel,” said the miller, “sae
be’t.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Sae after supper they fell to the strong
yill, and to crackin’, and the miller took
his share in’t, but nane o’ his family said
onything maist; but they couldna keep
their een aff John Murdoch when he was
lookin’ at their father, though they
found that they couldna look him steady
in the face when he turned to them,
just frae something in his ee, they
couldna tell what.</p>

<p class='c008'>“And it’s a bonnie place this o’ yours,
miller,” said John Murdoch; “and nae
doubt you and your folk afore ye hae
been a gey while in’t.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“’Deed hae we,” said the miller, a wee
gravely, “and, as ye say, it’s a gey
bonnie bit place.”</p>

<p class='c008'>John Murdoch was gaun to ask something
mair about it, but he stopped on
getting a particular look frae Jeanie,
and changed the subject; but the miller
noticed it, and guessing the reason, said
to John Murdoch, “Ye see, frien’, that
me and my forefathers hae had this place
for about twa hunder years, and we’re
sweert to leave’t, and my bairns ken
that, and dinna like to speak o’t.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“And what’s makin’ ye leave’t?”
says John Murdoch; “that’s to say, if
its no ony secret.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ou, nane ava,” says the miller;
“it’s just this, ye see: its owner thinks
that it’s worth mair rent, and maybe he
counts on our gien him mair than the
value o’t rather than gang awa, sae he’s
just put the double on’t, and gang we
maun; for to stay here at that rate,
would just rin awa wi’ the wee thing I
hae laid by for my bairns, which I would
be sweert to see. It’s no very muckle,
to be sure; but I can say this, John
Murdoch, that it wasna gotten either
by cheating or idleness. However, we
needna weary you wi’ our concerns, sae
come, we’s drink King James, and lang
life to him.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Wi’ a’ my heart, miller,” quoth
John Murdoch. “And nae doubt ye’ll
a’ be gaun to the sports that’s sune to be
hauden at Stirling; they say there’ll be
grand fun, and I was just thinking that
your auld son there wadna hae a bad
chance o’ winning at puttin’ the stane,
or flinging the mell.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“And I ken,” cried Jeanie, “wha
wad hae some chance at the race, gif
there’s to be ane.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Dinna brag, bairns,” said the miller,
“and then, if ye’re waured, there’s naething
to be ashamed o’; but whether we
gang there or no, time will show; in
the meantime, Jeanie, bring anither
bottle o’ strong yill.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Miller,” quoth John Murdoch, “ken
ye what hour it’s?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Me!” said the miller, “not I—maybe
half an hour after nine.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Because it just wants five minutes
of eleven,” quoth John Murdoch.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Five minutes o’ eleven!” cried the
miller, “and me no in my bed! Faith, then,
frien’, since ye dinna seem for’t yoursel,
we’ll just let the yill stan’, and be aff to
our nests; sae a gude soun’ sleep to you.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“And the same to you and yours,”
quoth John Murdoch, as he raise and
gaed awa wi’ William.</p>

<h3 class='c015'><span class='sc'>Chapter II.</span></h3>

<p class='c014'>Next morning the miller’s family
were up and out at the usual hour; but
John Murdoch, who had wearied himsel
the day before, and who hadna,
maybe, been used to sae muckle strong
yill at ance, lay still; and it was aught
o’clock when he cam into the kitchen
and bade Jeanie gude mornin’.</p>

<p class='c008'>“And how’s the gudeman? and is he
out or in?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“How!” cries Jeanie, “he and the
lave hae been up and out at their wark
three hours syne.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“And what are <em>ye</em> gaun to be about,
my dawtie?” says John Murdoch.</p>

<p class='c008'>“I’m gaun to wash the kirn,” says
Jeanie.</p>

<p class='c008'>“And suppose I haud it for ye, and
help ye?” says he.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Weel aweel,” says Jeanie, “gin ye
like; we’ll hae’t the sooner ower.”</p>

<p class='c008'>And John Murdoch did his best, and
was very active; and when a’ was dune,
he says, “An’ now, my dawtie, what
am I to get for helping ye?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Nae mair,” quoth Jeanie, “than
the thanks ye hae gotten already.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“But in my kintra,” says John
Murdoch, “when a lad helps a lass to
clean out a kirn, he aye gets <em>ae</em> kiss at
least.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“We ken naething about thae fashions
hereabouts,” says Jeanie, “sae haud ye
out o’ my gate!”</p>

<p class='c008'>But as she passed him, John Murdoch,
who thought she wasna in earnest,
drew her suddenly to him, and he
had ta’en twa or three kisses before Jeanie
could recollect herself; but the next
minute she threw him frae her, and
catching the ladle, she ran to the
parritch-pat on the fire, and whipped
aff the lid; and if John Murdoch, who
saw what was coming, hadna darted
out at the back door, he wad hae had
it a’ about him; as it was, a part o’ the
het parritch played splarge aff the wa’
on his coat.</p>

<p class='c008'>“And now,” thought John Murdoch,
“is this real anger, or is’t put on?”
and he stood a wee bit aff, joking an’
jeering her.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Aye, aye,” says he, “ye’re makin’
an unco wark about it, just as if ye
hadna been kissed a dozen times frae
lug to lug, an’ by as mony lads, and no
said a word about it.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ye notorious vagabond that ye
are,” cried Jeanie,—“but I’se sort ye
for’t;” and she flung down the ladle
and ran to loose the muckle dog.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ye’re surely no gaun to set the dog
on me?” says John Murdoch.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Am I no?” says Jeanie, drawing
and working wi’ the collar wi’ a’ her
might.</p>

<p class='c008'>John Murdoch, seeing her sae determined,
slips to ae side, and gets
his gun frae whaur he had hidden’t.</p>

<p class='c008'>“And now, Jeanie,” cries he, “haud
your hand, for see, I’ve a gun.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I dinna care gin ye had twenty
guns,” said Jeanie, who had now unbuckled
the collar, an’ held it in her
hands; “sae tak leg-bail an’ aff wi’
ye, my man, or Bawtie comes to
ye.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Jeanie,” quoth John Murdoch,
“I’m ready to walk awa peaceably,
since it maun be sae; but I’ll no be
hunted frae your father’s house like
a thief an’ a scoundrel; sae keep up your
dog, if ye’re wise.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“We’ll sune try that,” says Jeanie,
loosening the collar; “sae at him,
Bawtie! an’ we’ll sune see him
rin.”</p>

<p class='c008'>But John Murdoch stirredna ae step,
and when Bawtie made at him, he
keepit him aff for a while, till the brute
gettin’ below the muzzle, made a dart
at him; and if John Murdoch hadna
jumped quickly to ae side, he wad hae
gripped him; as it was, he took awa ane
o’ the tails o’ his coat. And when
Jeanie saw that, she was in a terrible
fright, for she didna wish him hurt, and
thought he wad hae ran for’t when she
loosed the dog, and she cried wi’ a’ her
might for Bawtie to come back. But
the beast wadna mind her, for he had
gotten twa or three gude paps on the
nose, which made him furious; and sae
when he’s gaun to mak anither spring,
John Murdoch, who saw there was naething
else for it, levels at him and lets
drive; and round and round the beast
gaed, and then ower wi’ him; and when
Jeanie saw he was killed, she set up a
great screigh, and ran till him, abusing
John Murdoch.</p>

<p class='c008'>“I’m sorry for’t, but it’s a’ your ain
faut, Jeanie,” says he, “an’ canna
now be helpit; sae fare-ye-weel.” An’
as he gaed awa, William comes runnin’
in at the other side o’ the house,
an’ cries to Jeanie to ken what’s the
matter.</p>

<p class='c008'>“It’s a’ John Murdoch’s doings,”
cried Jeanie; “he first affronted me,
an’ now he’s killed poor Bawtie.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“An’ which way is he gane?” cried
William.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Out that gate,” said Jeanie; and
away went William like a shot.</p>

<p class='c008'>But John Murdoch, who had heard
what passed, and didna want to hae ony
mair to do in the matter, coured down
ahint some bushes till William was
passed; then rising up, he took anither
direction, an’ thought he had got clear
o’ him, but as he was stappin’ ower a
dike, William got a glimpse o’ him.
Doun he comes after him at a bonnie
rate; an’ as he gets near him, “Stop,
ye rascal!” he cries to him; “ye
may just as weel stop at ance, for ye
may depend on my laying a dizzen on
ye for every hunder ell ye mak me rin
after ye.”</p>

<p class='c008'>And when John Murdoch heard that,
the blude gaed up into his brow, an’ he
was thinking o’ standin’ still, when he
hears James cry out,—</p>

<p class='c008'>“What’s the matter, William? An’
what are ye chasing the man for?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“He’s misbehaved to Jeanie, an’
shot Bawtie,” cried William.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Then taigle him, just taigle him,
till I come up,” cried James.</p>

<p class='c008'>“It’s needless,” thought John Murdoch
to himself, “to fight wi’ twa o’
them, an’ ane o’ them a second Samson,
and to mak an explanation or
apology wad be ten times waur, sae
I’ll e’en pit on;” an’ aff he gaed at
nearly the tap o’ his fit. After rinning
a gude bit, he looks o’er his shouther,
an’ seeing naebody near him, he thinks
they’ve gien’t up; but just as he’s
coming to the end o’ a bit wood, he
sees William, wha had ta’en a nearer
cut, just afore him; an’ round he comes
on him, crying, “Now, my man, I hae
ye now,” putting out his hand to catch
John Murdoch; but John drave down
his hand in a moment, an’ clapping his
foot ahint William’s, an’ whirling him
to ae side, “Tak ye that, my man,”
says he; an’ William gaed down wi’ sic
a breinge, that the blude spouted out
frae his nose, an’ the hale warld gaed
round wi’ him.</p>

<p class='c008'>It was a wee while or James cam
up, an’ when he saw William lying
covered wi’ blude, “The Lord preserve
us,” cried he, “the callant’s killed!”
an’ he sat down beside him, an’ got
William’s head on his knee, an’ tried to
recover him. By an’ by, William opens
his een, an’ when he sees James,
“After him, after him,” cries he, “an’
no mind me.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“After him,” says James, “an’ the
man a mile agate already? It wad be
nonsense for me to try’t.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Then let me up, an’ I’ll try it mysel,”
cried William.</p>

<p class='c008'>But James held him fast. “The
deil’s in the callant,” says he, “to think
o’ runnin’, an’ him no able to stand his
lane. Lie still, I tell ye!” And
William, who knew it was in vain for
him to strive with his strong brither,
thought it best no to struggle ony mair.
When he had gotten quite round again,
James helpit him up, an’ as they’re
gaun down to the water for William to
wash himsel, they meet Jeanie coming
fleein’ up the path; and when she saw
William’s bloody face and claes, she
clasped her hands thegither, an’ would
hae fa’en, if James hadna keppit her.
When they questioned her about what
had happened, she tell’t it to them
honestly frae first to last, and blamed
hersel sair for being sae angry an’ rash,
when, after a’, the man meant nae ill;
but the thought o’ what Geordie Wilson
might think if he heard o’t, an’ the
shootin’ o’ Bawtie thegither, had perfectly
dumfoundered her. “However,”
continued Jeanie, “I’m thankfu’ that
things are nae waur, an’ that the man’s
awa.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Aye, he’s awa,” says James, “but
gin him an’ me foregather again, I’se
promise him the best paid skin he e’er
got since he was kirstened.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Weel, weel,” said Jeanie, “but I
hope ye’ll ne’er meet; an’ now we must
gang and pit puir Bawtie out o’ the
gate, an’ think on something to say
about him, and about John Murdoch’s
gangin’ awa sae early, before our father
comes in to his breakfast.”</p>

<h3 class='c015'><span class='sc'>Chapter III.</span></h3>

<p class='c014'>The time was now drawing near for
the sports to be held at Stirling, and
William was aye wanting to speak to
his father about it, and to ken if they
were gaun; but Jeanie advised against
it. “If ye speak till him, and fash him
about it enow,” says she, “it’s ten to
ane but he’ll say no, and then, ye ken,
there’s an’ end o’t; but gif ye say naething,
and keep steady to your wark,
like enough he may speak o’ gaun himsel;
sae tak my advice an’ sae naething
ava about it.”</p>

<p class='c008'>William did as Jeanie wanted him,
but still the miller didna speak, an’ now
it was the afternoon of the day before
the sports were to come on, an’ no a
word had been said about them; an’
William was unco vexed, an’ didna weel
ken what to do. When he’s sitting
thinking about it, the door opens, an’
in steps their neebour, Saunders Mushet,
just to crack a wee; an’ by an’ by he
says, “Weel, miller, an’ what time
will ye be for setting aff the morn’s
morning?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Me!” said the miller, “an’ what
to do?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“What to do?” says Saunders, “why,
to see the sports at Stirling, to be sure;
you’ll surely never think o’ missing sic
a grand sight?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“An’ troth, Saunders,” says the miller,
“I had clean forgotten’t. ’Od, I daursay
there’ll be grand fun, an’ my bairns
wad maybe like to see’t; an’ now that I
think o’t, they’ve dune unco weel this
while past, especially William there,
wha’s wrought mair than e’er I saw him
do afore in the same space o’ time; sae
get ye ready, bairns, to set out at five
o’clock the morn’s morning, an’ we’ll
tak Saunders up as we gae by.”</p>

<p class='c008'>This was glad news to the miller’s
family, an’ ye needna doubt but they
were a’ ready in plenty o’ time; an’
when they cam to Stirling, they got
their breakfast, an’ a gude rest before
aught o’clock cam, which was the hour
when the sports were to begin; an’
grand sports they were, an’ muckle diversion
gaed on; but nane o’ the miller’s
family took ony share in them, till they
cam to puttin’ the stane, and flingin’
the mell.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Now James, my man,” says Jeanie,
squeezing his arm.</p>

<p class='c008'>“I’ll do my best, Jeanie,” says James,
“ye may depend on that; and if I’m
beaten, I canna help it, ye ken.”</p>

<p class='c008'>James lost at the puttin’-stane,—by
about an inch just; the folk said by the
ither man’s slight o’ hand, an’ having
the art o’t. But when they cam to
fling the mell, there wasna a man could
come within twa ell o’ him. Sae James
got the prize, which was a grand gun
an’ a fine pouther horn.</p>

<p class='c008'>An’ now the cry gaed round to clear
the course, and for the rinners to come
forrit; and Jeanie she helps William
aff wi’ his coat and waistcoat, and maks
him tie it round his waist, and gies him
mony a caution no to rin ower fast at
first, but to hain himsel for the push;
an’ when she has him a’ right and sorted,
she begins to look at the aught that’s to
rin wi’ him. When her ee cam to the
middle ane,—“Gudesake,” says she,
“wha’s that? Surely—yes—no—an’
yet, if he had but yellow hair in place o’
red, I could swear to him. Friend,”
continues Jeanie to the man next to her,
“can ye tell me what’s his name amang
the rinners there,—the man in the
middle, I mean, wi’ the red head?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Why, honest woman,” said he,
hesitating a little, “I’m not just sure,—that
is to say,—but why do you ask?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“For a reason I ken mysel,” said
Jeanie; “but since ye canna, or winna,
tell me, I’ll try somebody else.”</p>

<p class='c008'>She then turned to look for James,
but the signal was given, an’ awa they
went helter skelter, as if it was deil tak
the hindmost. But mony o’ them couldna
rin lang at that rate, and they drapped
aff ane after anither, till naebody
was left but William and the red-headed
man; an’ the cry got up that the miller’s
son wad win, for William had
keepit foremost from the first. But
some gash carles noticed that though
the red-headed man was hindmost, he
lost nae grund, an’ there was nae saying
how it might end. William himsel
began to be a wee thing feared, for he
had mair than ance tried to leave the
ither man farer ahint him; but as he
quickened his pace, sae did the ither,
an’ he was never nearer nor ever farer
frae him than about ten yards. In a
little while afterwards they cam up to
the distance-post, and when they had
passed it a wee bit,—“Now’s my
time,” thought William to himsel; and
he puts on faster, an’ the cry raise that
the miller’s son had it clean, an’ was
leaving the ither ane fast, fast; but that
was sune followed by anither cry, that
the red-haired man was coming up again.
William heard him gaining on him, an’
he gained an’ gained, till he was fairly
up wi’ him; an’ now they ran awhile
breast an’ breast thegither; but in spite
o’ a’ that William could do, the red-headed
man gaed by him, little by little,
an’ wan the race by four yards.</p>

<p class='c008'>“My ain puir William,” cried Jeanie,
dawtin’ an’ makin’ o’ him, “no to be
first. But ne’er mind it,” continued she,
“for ye hae muckle credit by it; for a’
the folk round me said that they ne’er
saw sic a race since Stirling was a toun,
sae ye’re no to tak it to heart.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Surely no,” said William; “an
yet it’s gey hard to be beaten.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Weel, weel,” said Jeanie, “so it is—so
it is; but dinna speak,—dinna speak
yet; just tak breath an’ rest ye.”</p>

<p class='c008'>A cry now got up to mak room, an’
gie air; an’ the crowd fell back an’
made an open space between the twa
runners; an’ when Jeanie turned round,
lo and behold! she sees John Murdoch,
standing wi’ his red wig in ae hand, an’
rubbin’ his lang yellow hair wi’ a napkin
in the tither. An’ what he had dune to
her an’ to Bawtie, an’ makin’ William
lose the race too, made her sae angry,
that up she flees to him,—“An’ how
daured ye kill our Bawtie?” she cries;
“I say, how daured ye kill our Bawtie?”</p>

<p class='c008'>Wi’ that up starts James, “An’ by
my faith, John Murdoch, but ye’ll hae
the weight o’ my nieve now;” but before
he could do anything, in comes the Earl
o’ Lennox between them,—“What,
sir, dare to strike your sovereign?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Preserve us a’,” cried Jeanie, jumping
back, and turning white and red,
time about.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Here,” continued the earl, “seize
this fellow, and keep him fast till we can
examine into it.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“No, no, Lennox,” cried the King,
panting for breath; “don’t touch him,—don’t
touch him; there’s no harm done.
But where’s the Miller o’ Doune?—Bring
John Marshall.” An’ the cry
raise up for the Miller o’ Doune.</p>

<p class='c008'>“An’ wha wants me?” quoth John
Marshall. “I’m here.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Your sovereign wants ye,” says ane
o’ the courtiers; “sae come ye to King
James. An’ now tak aff yer bonnet, an’
stand there.” John Marshall stood
still without lookin’ up, waiting to hear
what King James wanted wi’ him.</p>

<p class='c008'>An’ he hears a voice say,—“Look at
me, miller, an’ tell me if you think we
e’er met before.”</p>

<p class='c008'>John Marshall raised his een, and
after a pause, he says, “An please your
Majesty, if it wadna offend your Grace,
I wad say that ye had ance been at the
Mill o’ Doune.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ye’re right, miller,” said James,
“ye’re quite right. An’ little did ye
ken, when ye louped aff your horse to
save the robin, an’ to tak it hame wi’ ye,
that your sovereign was so near ye, an’
saw it all, as well as the way that ye
bring up your family to serve their
Maker; an’ it gied me a gude opinion
o’ ye, miller, an’ all that I hae learned
since has confirmed me in it, an’ makes
me say, before a’ the folk here present,
that ye’re a gude and an honest man. Ye
tell’t me, miller, that ye wad hae to
leave the mill; but I tell ye that I hae
settled it, an’ that it’s yours at the auld
rent, while grass grows an’ water
rins, an’ lang may you an’ yours possess
it.”</p>

<p class='c008'>King James having finished, the miller
tried to say something; but his lip began
to quiver, an’ his ee to fill, an’ he
couldna speak; sae he claspit his bonnet
between his twa hands, laid it to his
breast, and bowed his head in silence to
the king.</p>

<p class='c008'>“It’s enough,” said King James;
“an’ now call Geordie Wilson o’ the
Hope.” Sae Geordie was brought and
placed before him, and the king said to
him, “I hear, young man, that ye hae
met wi’ some misfortunes of late, an’ I
hae been askin’ about you, an’ find that
ye’re an industrious man, an’ a man o’
character, an’ hae behaved yoursel weel
in a’ respects; sae gang ye hame to the
Hope, an’ ye’ll maybe find something,
baith in the house an’ out o’ the house,
that will please ye. An’ hear ye,
Geordie Wilson,” continued King James,
“if it happens, as it <em>may</em> happen, that
ye court a lass, tak ye gude care that
she’s no quick o’ the temper” (an’ he
glanced at Jeanie); “an’ dinna mak
ower muckle o’ her, or gie her a’ her
ain way; for there’s a saying, A birkie
wife, an’ a new lightit candle, are the
better o’ haein’ their heads hauden
doun.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Come hither, William Marshall,”
said King James; “this prize was for
the best runner among his subjects, and
the king canna tak it, sae it’s yours;
and, young man,” continued the king,
in a lower voice, “ye got a sairer fa’
than I intended ye, but my blude was
up at the time,—for kings are no muckle
used to haein’ hands laid on them.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“My liege,” cried the Earl of Lennox,
“the Queen fears that danger may
arise from your Majesty’s remaining so
long uncovered after your late exertion,
and her Majesty entreats that you will
be pleased to throw this cloak around
you.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“’Tis well thought of, Lennox,”
said the king; “and now for a brisk
walk, and a change of dress, and all
will be well;” and as he went away the
people threw up their hats and bonnets,
and the air resounded with cries of,
“Long live the good King James!”</p>

<h3 class='c015'><span class='sc'>Chapter IV.</span></h3>

<p class='c014'>An’ now the folk set aff for their ain
hames, an’ the miller and his family
crackit wi’ their neebours till they parted
at the road that led to the mill; and
then nane o’ them said onything, for
they were a’ busy wi’ their ain thoughts;
an’ when the miller gaed into the kitchen,
the robin chirped and chirped,
for he aye fed it, an’ it was glad to
see him.</p>

<p class='c008'>The miller gets some seed in his
hand, an’ as he’s feeding the robin, his
heart begins to swell, an’ his ee to fill,
an’ he says, “Bairns, wha wad hae
thought it; I say,” clearing his throat,
“wha wad hae thought it, bairns, that
sae muckle gude wad hae fa’en to our
lot, an’ a’ coming out o’ saving the life
o’ a bit burdie?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“An’ wha kens, father,” said Jeanie,
“but ye may be now rewarded for a’
the gude that grandfather Thomas did,
an’ about which ye hae often tell’t us?
For ye ken there’s a promise to that
effect in the Bible, an’ as the Bible
canna lie, I ken wha’ll hae a gude
chance too.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ye’re right, Jeanie,” quoth the
miller, “ye’re very right; and gie me
doun the Bible, and I’se read it to you.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Just as it was dune, the door flees
open, an’ in comes Geordie Wilson,
clean out o’ breath wi’ running.</p>

<p class='c008'>“What’s the matter now, man?”
says William.</p>

<p class='c008'>“I’m sure it’s something gude,” says
James; “I ken by his ee.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ou aye, ou aye,” cries Geordie,
“grand news! grand news!” an’ he
gaspit for breath.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Tak a wee thought time,” says
James; “and now tell us.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Weel, ye ken,” says Geordie, “that
we lost four cows, and an auld horse
and a young ane, by the fire, an’ a sair
loss it was; an’ when I heard what the
king said, I wonder’t, and I better wonder’t,
what could be the meaning o’t.
An’ Jeanie, she says to me, ‘If I was
you, in place o’ standing wondering
there, I wad be aff to the Hope;’ sae
aff I rins; and when I gets up till’t, lo
and behold! I sees sax fine cows, an’
twa as pretty naigs as e’er I set een on,
a’ thrang puing awa at the grass; an’
as I’m standing glowerin’ at them, an’
wondering whaur they cam frae, a man
comes up to me, an’ he says, ‘Are ye
Geordie Wilson?’ says he. ‘That’s
me,’ says I.</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Weel then,’ says he, ‘there’s a
paper for ye’; an’ as he put it into my
hand he began to move awa.</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘But will ye no stap in, frien’, an’
tak something?’ says I.</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘No, no,’ cries he, ‘I daurna bide;’
an’ aff he rins.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Sae I opens the paper, an’ there I
sees a letter from our landlord, telling
me that as I was a man o’ gude character,
an’ very industrious, he had sent me the
kye an’ the horse in a compliment to
mak up my loss; an’ saying that as he
had a gude opinion o’ me, he wad gie
me a twa nineteen years’ lease o’ the
Hope at the auld rent; and sae we’ll be
happy yet, Jeanie.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“What, sir!” cries the miller, “are
ye thinking o’ my Jeanie, an’ we sae
honour’t as we hae been this day?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Gude Heaven!” exclaimed Geordie
Wilson, grippin’ the back o’ a chair to
keep himsel up;—an’ nae wonder at it,
when the miller spak sae gravely, that
Jeanie hersel gied a great start. But weel
can a bairn read what’s in a parent’s ee,
though anither canna; an’ the next
minute she had the miller round the
neck,—“An’ how daured ye, father, gie
me sic a fright?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Is—is—is your father only joking,
Jeanie?” stammered Geordie Wilson.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Atweel was I,” said the miller;
“sae, tak her; an’ a’ that I hae to
say is, that if I kent ony man that deserved
her better, ye wadna hae gotten
her. But dinna ye dawt her ower
muckle, my man, or gie her a’ her ain
way,—but mind ye what King James
said the day.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Geordie held up his hand, an’
lookit at Jeanie, as much as to say, “Do
ye hear that, madam?”</p>

<p class='c008'>But Jeanie, she half steekit her een,
an’ made a mouth at him, just like, “An’
wha cares?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“An’ now, bairns,” continued the
miller, “I’m gaun to my room, and
mauna be disturbit.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“He’s awa to pray to his Maker,”
says Jeanie, “for a’ that’s happened to
us, an’ I think we should a’ do the same.
At ony rate, I can read the Bible.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Hout now, woman,” says Geordie
Wilson, “can ye no just let it stand a
wee, an’ gang outby for a little?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I dinna think it,” says Jeanie.</p>

<p class='c008'>“But just a wee bit,” says Geordie;
“nae mair than ten staps, unless ye
like.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Aweel,” says Jeanie, “but mind,
I’ll gang nae farer than just the end o’
the lane.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Jeanie,” says William, “ye’d better
put on the pat for the kail.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Put on the pat!” exclaimed Jeanie,
“an’ it no muckle past eleven o’clock!
Is the man gane gyte?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“There’s time eneugh, nae doubt,”
said William, “gif ye’re back in time.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Back in time!” echoed Jeanie,
“an’ me only gaun to the end o’ the
lane—gae awa wi’ your havers, man!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Weel, weel,” said William, “we’ll
see, we’ll see.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ou aye,” said Jeanie, “ye’re aye
thinking yoursel wiser than ither folk.”</p>

<hr class='c019'>

<p class='c008'>“I really maist dinna ken what to
do wi’ mysel the day,” said William;
“I can neither settle to work, nor yet
sit still; ’od, by-the-by, I’ll gang an’
’oup my fishing rod, to be ready for the
neist shower.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Sae he taks it doun an’ begins
working at it, and presently he sees
James rise and put on his bonnet.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Whaur are ye gaun, James,”
says he.</p>

<p class='c008'>“I was thinking,” says James, “o’
gaun up to Wattie Simpson’s to see if
they want ony potatoes.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Just as if they didna get a bow o’
them last Tuesday!” said William.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Weel, I can stap in an’ speir how
they like them.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Are ye sure, James, you’re gaun
there?” asked William, a wee slily.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Where’er I’m gaun, William,” said
James, “I’m gaun for nae harm.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I’ve gane far eneugh wi’ Samson,”
thought William; “sae I’ll say nae
mair.” An’ sae he keeps tying his
fishing-rod; but no muckle minding
what he’s doing, the string plays snap
in twa.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Toots!” says William, a wee
angered, “and me sae near dune!”
Sae he begins ower again, wi’ mair
care; but he sune forgets himsel again,
an’ snap gangs the twine a second
time.</p>

<p class='c008'>“The deil tak the string and the
whaun too!” cried he, “I’ll meddle nae
mair wi’t the day.” Sae he hangs it up,
and then draws out his watch and
examines it again. “It’s really a grand
siller watch, an’ a grand siller chain
too, an’ mony a ane will be asking to
look at it;—and I think Elie Allison
wad like to see it;—and now that I
mind o’t, gif I didna promise to ca’ and
tell her a’ the news, and me to forget it
a’ this time!”</p>

<p class='c008'>Sae awa William fares to Elie’s, and
there he sits crackin’ and laughin’ at an
unco rate, and never thinking o’ the
time o’ day. And Elie’s auntie, she
says to him, “And now, William, are
ye for takin’ a potato wi’ us, or are ye
gaun hame?”</p>

<p class='c008'>An’ his face turned a wee red, for he
thought she wantit him awa; and he
said he was gaun hame, to be sure.</p>

<p class='c008'>“But dinna tak it amiss,” said the
auntie, “for I thought ye wad be ower
late for hame.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Nae fear o’ that,” said William,
“for we dinna dine till twa o’clock.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I kent that,” said she, “but it’s
past it already.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“The deuce it is!” cried William,
jumping up; “then fareweel—I’ll maybe
see ye the morn.”</p>

<p class='c008'>As he’s hurrying hame, he sees
somebody coming frae the road to the
Hope, and walking unco fast.</p>

<p class='c008'>“’Od,” thought he, “can that be
Jeanie?—’deed is’t, an’ I’ll lay my lugs
she hasna been hame yet. But I maun
get before her, and then see if I dinna gie
her’t, for what she said to me the day.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Sae awa he sets wi’ a’ his might, an’
as he gets near the mill, aff wi’ his coat,
an’ up wi’ a spade, an’ begins delving;
an’ keeking ower his shouther, he sees
Jeanie turning the corner o’ the plantin’,
but he never lets on, nor looks round,
till she’s just beside him, an’ speaks to
him.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Hech!” says he, “I’m glad he’s
ready at last;—’od, I really thought we
were to get nae dinner the day.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Is my father in the house?” says
Jeanie.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Is your father in the house!” repeated
William, “’odsake, lassie, hae ye
no been hame yet?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I was taigled,” answered Jeanie,
looking a wee foolish.</p>

<p class='c008'>“An’ the kail will no be on yet,”
cried he; “I was sure o’t now—quite
sure o’t!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“An’ what for did ye no gang in and
put them on yoursel, then, if ye was sae
sure o’t?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“An’ sae I wad, if you hadna threepit,
and better threepit, that ye was gaun
nae farer than the lane. But dinna put
aff time here, for I’se warrant my father’s
in a bonny kippidge already.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I’m no fear’t for that,” says Jeanie
but she wasna very easy for a’ that.</p>

<p class='c008'>Sae when she comes in at the kitchen
door, she sees the kail-pat standin’ on
the floor, and her father gien a bit pick
to the robin.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Did ever mortal ken the like o’
this?” cried she: “naething to be dune,
and my gude auld father sitting just as
contentit there as if the dinner was
ready to be put on the table; but we’ll
no be lang o’ makin’ something.” An’
she up wi’ the stoup, and aff wi’ the lid
o’ the pat, when the miller cries to her,
“Tak care, Jeanie, an’ no spoil the
kail!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Weel, I declare,” she exclaimed,
“if that callant shouldna get his paiks,
for gauring me believe that the kail
wasna ready: but it was thoughtfu’ o’
him, after a’, to pit them on; and troth,”
says she, “they’re uncommon gude.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“An’ what for no, Jeanie?” asked
the miller. “Did ye think that your
father had forgotten how to mak a patfu’
o’ kail?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Did ye mak them, father?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Troth did I; wha else was there to
do it?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“But couldna ye hae cried in William,
father? I’m sure it wad hae been better
for him to hae been in the house, than
puttin’ himsel into sic a terrible heat wi’
delving this warm day.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“If William’s in a heat,” quoth the
miller, “it’s no wi’ delving, for I haena
seen him near the house the hale day,
an’ I was out twa or three times.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Then I’ll lay onything I ken whaur
he’s been,” said Jeanie; “and him to hae
the impudence to speak to me yon gate—but
I’se gie him’t;—an’ yet what
right hae I to be angry wi’ him, me that’s
forgotten mysel sae muckle?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Dinna vex yoursel about that, my
bairn,” quoth the miller; “what has
happened the day’s enough to put us a’
out o’ sorts; but we’ll a come to oursels
belyve. An’ now, Jeanie, gang ye
out an’ look if ye can see James coming
hame, an’ then we’ll hae our dinner.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Sae awa she gangs, and when William
sees her coming, he pretends to be
unco busy working.</p>

<p class='c008'>“William,” cries she, “ken ye whaur
James is gane?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Me!” said William, “how should
I ken whaur folk stravaig to? I might
rather hae askit you gif ye had fa’en in
wi’ him, I think.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Aye, aye, my man, but ye’re speaking
rather crouse. And whaur hae ye
been yoursel a’ day, I wonder? No
delvin’, I’m sure, gif ane may judge
by the wee pickle yird that’s turned
up.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“An’ do ye think,” said William,
“that after a’ my racing and rinnin’,
I should hae been delving a’ day,
and lighter wark to do about the
farm?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“An’ whaur was ye, then, that
father couldna see you when he was
out?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Did my father cry on me?” asked
William.</p>

<p class='c008'>“No,” said Jeanie; “at least he didna
say’t.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Then that’s it,—just it; for he
cries sae loud, that it wad hae wakened
a man wi’ the hale haystack
abune him, forbye lyin’ at the side
o’t.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“An’ sae ye’ll hae me to believe,”
says Jeanie, “that ye was sleepin’; but
I’m thinking ye was anither gate. I’se
find it out yet.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Women’s tongues, women’s tongues!”
said William, beating a piece yird as
if he wad mak pouther o’t; “they’re
aye either fleechin’ or flytin’.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Did ye ever say that to Elie Allison?
Ye’ve been there, I’ve a notion.
But we’ll say nae mair about it enow,
for yonder’s James; sae pit ye on your
coat, and bring in your spade; or if
ye’ll wait, James will carry it for ye,
for your arms maun be unco wearit!”</p>

<p class='c008'>When William saw James coming
alang, as grave-like as frae a preaching,
and thought on whaur he had been,
he kent he wad laugh in his face
downright if he met him, and that might
anger Samson; sae he set aff by himsel
an’ put by his spade. An’ when he
saw him fairly in the house, an’ had his
laugh out alane, he composed himsel,
and walked into the kitchen as if naething
had happened.</p>

<h3 class='c015'><span class='sc'>Chapter V.</span></h3>

<p class='c014'>Neist day the miller spoke to James
anent his marriage, an’ tell’t him, as
they were no to move frae the mill, it
needna be putten aff ony langer; sae
it was settled to be in a fortnight, an’
that created an unco bustle in the house.
An’ Jeanie was every now and then
speakin’ o’ how they were a’ to manage,
but the miller ne’er seemed to mind
her.</p>

<p class='c008'>So ae day, when they’re in the kitchen
by themsels, she begins on’t again:
“An’ James an’ his wife will hae to get
the room that he an’ William are in;
an’ then William he maun either get
mine, or sleep outby, for there’ll be nae
puttin’ him in yon cauld, damp bed, unless
we want him to gang like a
cripple; sae I dinna ken what’s to be
dune.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ye forget, Jeanie,” said the miller,
“that John Murdoch sleepit there,
an’ he didna seem to be the waur
o’t.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Aye, for ae night, nae doubt, and in
fine weather; but how lang will that
last?”</p>

<p class='c008'>The miller gies her nae answer; but
after sittin’ thinking a wee, he rises and
taks down his bonnet.</p>

<p class='c008'>“It’s a fine day for being out,” says
Jeanie; “but are ye gaun far, father?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Nae farer than the Hope,” said the
miller.</p>

<p class='c008'>“The Hope!” exclaimed Jeanie, as
her face reddened.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ay,” says the miller; “and I’m
thinking o’ speirin’ if there’s room there
for ane o’ ye.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Now God bless my gude auld
father,” said Jeanie; “he sees brawly
what I wanted, and wadna even look
me in the face to confuse me.”</p>

<hr class='c019'>

<p class='c008'>“Geordie Wilson,” cries the miller,
“when will it suit you to marry my
dochter?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“The day—the morn—ony day,”
answers Geordie, as happy’s a prince.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Because I was thinking,” says the
miller, “that it might be as weel to pit
James’s waddin’ and yours ower thegither.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Wi’ a’ my heart,” says Geordie,
“wi’ a’ my heart!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Weel, then,” quoth the miller, “I’ll
awa hame and see what our Jeanie says
to’t.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“And I’ll gang wi’ you,” cries
Geordie.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Come your wa’s then, my man,”
says the miller.</p>

<p class='c008'>And sae as they’re gaun down the
road thegither, they meets William, an’
Geordie tells him how matters stood.
An’ when William hears o’t, he shakes
Geordie by the hand, an’ awa he flees
ower ditch and dyke, an’ is hame in nae
time. An’ after resting himsel a minute,
an’ to tak breath, in he gangs to the
kitchen; an’ when Jeanie sees him, she
says, “Ye’re warm-like, William,—ye’ve
surely been running?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Is onything wrang wi’ my father?”
asked he.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Gude forbid!” said Jeanie; “but
what maks ye speir?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ou, naething ava, amaist; but only
I met him walking unco grave-like, an’
he scarcely spak to me; an’ I met wi’
Geordie Wilson too, and he didna say
muckle either.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Preserve us a’!” cries Jeanie; “if
onything has happened atween the
twa!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“What could put that nonsense in
your head, lassie?” said William. “By-the-by,”
continues he, after a pause,
“Geordie’s at the end o’ the lane, an’
wishing muckle to speak to ye.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“An’ what for did ye no tell me that
at first, ye haverel?” cried Jeanie; and
out she flees. An’ just as she’s turning
the corner, she runs against her father
wi’ a great drive.</p>

<p class='c008'>“The lassie’s in a creel, I think!”
quoth the miller; “but it’s the same wi’
them a’.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Jeanie! my ain Jeanie!” whispers
Geordie, “an’ it’s a’ settled for neist
week, and we’ll be sae happy!”</p>

<p class='c008'>Jeanie held him at arm’s length frae
her, that she might look him in the
face.</p>

<p class='c008'>“I see it’s true! I see it’s true!”
she said, “an’ ye’re no joking me! An’
that wicked callant, to gang and gie me
sic a fright! Hech! I haena gotten
the better o’t yet!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“An’ now, Jeanie, that I hae seen ye,”
says Geordie, “I maun rin awa hame
and tell my gude auld mither that it’s a’
fixed; for she wasna in when your father
cam to the Hope; and then I maun awa
to the toun for things. An’ what’ll I
bring ye, Jeanie? what’ll I bring?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ou, just onything ye like,” said
she; “bring back yoursel, that’s a’
Jeanie cares about.”</p>

<p class='c008'>An’ she stands an’ looks after him till
he’s out o’ sight; an’ as she turns about,
“Jeanie! my ain Jeanie!” says James,
takin’ her in his arms.</p>

<p class='c008'>“My ain gude and aye kind brither!”
said Jeanie, resting her head on his
shouther.</p>

<p class='c008'>“She’ll no speak to <em>me</em>, nae doubt,”
says William, his voice shakin’ a wee.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ah, ye wicked callant!” says
Jeanie, kissing his cheek. “But ye
mauna plague me nae mair; na, ye’ll no
daur do’t!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“No!” cries William, “I’m sure
I’m fit for a’ that Geordie Wilson can
do ony day, an’ maybe mair.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Jeanie was gaun to answer, but she got
her ee on the miller standing at the door.</p>

<p class='c008'>“I maun hae <em>his</em> blessing first,” she
cries, “and then Jeanie’s heart will be
at peace.”</p>

<p class='c008'>When the miller saw her coming, he
gaes slowly back to his ain room, an’
in she comes after him, and, “Bless me,
bless your bairn, my gude auld father!—you
that’s been father an’ mither, an’
a’ to her since before she could guide
hersel! Bless your Jeanie, an’ she’ll
hae naething mair to wish for!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“How like she’s to her mither!” said
the miller in a low voice; “but ye’ll
no mind her sae weel, Jeanie. I mind
weel, that on the night before she dee’t,
an’ when I was like ane distrackit, ‘It’s
the will o’ Providence, John,’ says she,
‘and we maun a’ bow till’t; but dinna
ye grieve sae sair for my loss, John; for
young as she is yet, my heart tells me
that I’m leaving ane ahint me, wha’ll
be a blessing an’ a comfort to ye when
I’m awa;’ and ne’er were truer words
spoken,” continued the miller, “for ne’er
frae that day to this was her father’s
heart wae for Jeanie; sae bless you, my
bairn, an’ may a’ that’s gude attend ye,
an’ may ye be spared to be a comfort
and an example to a’ around ye, lang,
lang after your auld father’s head’s laid
low.” An’ as he raised her frae her
knees he kissed her, an’ then turned
slowly frae her, an’ Jeanie slippit saftly
awa.</p>

<p class='c008'>On the neist Friday the twa marriages
took place, an’ a’ the folk sat down to a
gude an’ a plentifu’ dinner, an’ there
was an unco deal o’ fun an’ laughing
gaed on. An’ when dinner was ower
and thanks returned, the miller cried for
a’ to fill a fu’, fu’ bumper. “An’ now,”
says he, “we’ll dring King James’s
health, an’ lang may he and his rule
ower us.”</p>

<p class='c008'>This led them to speak o’ his coming
there as John Murdoch; and some o’
them that hadna heard the hale story,
askit the miller to tell’t.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Wi’ a’ my heart,” quoth the miller;
“but first open that cage-door, Jeanie,
for it’s no fitting that <em>it</em>, wha had sae
muckle share in’t, should be a prisoner
at sic a time.”</p>

<p class='c008'>An’ the robin cam fleein’ out to the
miller’s whistle, an’ lightit on the table
beside him.</p>

<p class='c008'>When the miller was dune wi’ the
story, “An’ now, frien’s,” said he, “ye
may learn this frae it, that it’s aye best
to do as muckle gude and as little ill as
we can. But there’s a time for a’thing,”
continued he; “sae here, Jeanie, my
dawtie, put ye by the robin again; and
now, lads, round wi’ the whisky.”</p>

<p class='c008'>They a’ sat crackin’ an’ laughin’
thegither, till it was time for Geordie
an’ his wife to be settin’ aff for the Hope,
and the rest o’ the folk gaed wi’ them,
an’ a’ was quiet at the mill again.</p>

<p class='c008'>In twa year after that, William was
married to Elie Allison. And when he
was three score and ten, the miller
yielded up his spirit to Him that gied
it; an’ when King James heard that he
was dead, he said publicly, that he had
lost a gude subject and an honest man,
and that he wished there was mair folk
in the kintra like John Marshall.</p>

<p class='c008'>And James succeeded to his father;
an’ after James cam James’s sons, and
their sons after them for never sae lang;
and, for aught I ken to the contrair,
there’s a Marshall in the Mill o’ Doune
at this day.—“<cite>The Odd Volume.</cite>”</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='the_headless_cumins' class='c006'>THE HEADLESS CUMINS.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By Sir Thomas Dick Lauder.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>In the parish of Edinkellie, a place
towards the centre of Morayshire, in the
northern part of Scotland, there is a
romantic and fearful chasm, supposed
to have been at one time the bed of the
river Divie. It has two entrances at
the upper end, and the ancient courses
which led the river into these successively
are easily traceable. The lower extremity
of the ravine terminates abruptly
about forty feet high above the Divie,
that flows at its base. This spot is one
of a very interesting nature. Its name
in Gaelic signifies “the Hollow of the
Heads;” a name originating, it is said,
in the following transaction:—</p>

<p class='c008'>Near the upper end of the ravine
there is a curious cavern, formed of
huge masses of fallen crags, that cover
the bottom of the place. It enters
downwards like a pit, and the mouth,
which is no more than wide enough to
admit a man, is not easily discovered.
Here it was that the brave Allister Bane
secreted himself after the Battle of the
Lost Standard. At this time the
Castle of Dunphail was besieged by
Randolph, Earl of Moray; and Allister
Bane, who could no longer make head
against him in the open field, contented
himself with harassing the enemy.
Knowing that his father and his garrison
were reduced to great want, he and a
few of his followers disguised themselves
as countrymen, and, driving a parcel of
horses, yoked in rude sledges, laden
with sacks, they came to the edge of the
glen where Randolph’s beleaguering
party lay, and, pretending to be peasants
carrying meal from the low country to
the Highlands, they entreated their protection
from one Allister Bane, of whom
they were afraid. Their prayer being
granted, they unyoked their horses, and
took care to leave their sledges at the
brink of the precipice, so that, on a
given signal agreed on with the garrison,
they tumbled sledges, sacks, and all
over into the glen below, and the
garrison, making a sally at the same time,
each man bore off a sack on his back,
whilst the pretended peasants sprang
on their horses, and were out of sight
before the astonished sentinels of the
enemy had well given the alarm.</p>

<p class='c008'>Randolph was so provoked on learning
who the author of this trick was,
that he set a price upon his head. A
certain private pique led a Cumin to
betray his master’s lurking-place. His
enemies hurried to the spot to make
sure of their game; but when they saw
the small uncouth-looking aperture,
they paused in a circle round it. One
only could descend at a time, and the
death of him who should attempt it was
certain; for the red glare of the Cumin’s
eye in the obscurity within, and the
flash of his dirk-blade, showed that he
had wound up his dauntless soul to die
with the “<em>courage</em>” of the lion on his
crest. They called on him to surrender
at discretion. He replied by howling
a deep note of defiance from the dark
womb of the rocks,—“Let me but come
out, and with my back to that crag, I
will live or die like a Cumin!” “No!”
exclaimed the leader of his foes; “thou
shalt die like a fox as thou art!” Brushwood
was quickly piled over the hole,
but no word of entreaty for mercy ascended
from below. Heap after heap
was set fire to, and crammed blazing
down upon him. His struggles to force
a way upwards were easily repelled by
those above, and after a sufficient quantity
of burning matter had been thrust in to
ensure his suffocation, they rolled stones
over the mouth of the hole.</p>

<p class='c008'>When the cruel deed was done, and
the hole opened, Allister Bane was
found reclining in one corner, his head
muffled in his plaid, and resting on the
pummel of his sword, with two or three
attendants around him, all dead. To
make sure of them, their heads were
cut off and thrown, one after another,
into the fortress, with this horrible taunt
to the old man,—“Your son provided
you with meal, and we now send you
flesh to eat with it.” The veteran warrior
recognised the fair head of his son.
“It is a bitter morsel indeed,” said he,
as he took it up, kissed it, and wept
over it; “but I will gnaw the last bone
of it before I surrender.”</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='the_lady_isabel' class='c006'>THE LADY ISABEL:<br> <span class='large'><em>A LEGENDARY TALE OF THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY</em></span>.</h2>
</div>

<p class='c007'>The Lady Isabel was a Scottish
baron’s daughter, and far was she
famed. Were others fair, she was fairer;
were others rich, she was richer. In
short, all perfections were said to be
centred in the Lady Isabel, and yet that
quality for which she ought to have
been most prized, seemed the one which
made the least noise in the world,—this
was her devoted duty to her father.
She was his only child—the child of his
old age, the idol of his heart, and the
lamp of his life. But still was he a
cruel father; for in return for her duteous
affection, he had determined to wed her
to a man she had never seen, while he
knew that her heart was another’s.</p>

<p class='c008'>The Lord of Ormisdale was the son
of his ancient friend, and the possessor
of broad lands in a distant part of Scotland.
The two old men had sworn to
each other that their children should be
united, but ere this paction, the youth
had been sent abroad to be initiated in
the art of war—an art but too much
practised in his native country at that
time; for be it known that our peerless
beauty bloomed in the 15th century,
when the feuds of the Scottish nobility
were frequent and deadly. Much was
bruited abroad of the goodly person and
brave qualities of the young earl, but of
this Lady Isabel had no opportunity of
judging, for never, as has been told,
had she seen him. She had, however,
but too often seen his cousin Roderick,
and to him was her heart devoted. It
was true he had neither title, nor lands,
nor vassals; but he was a handsome, a
noble, and a gallant youth, and he had
knelt at her feet, confessed his love,
and swore eternal constancy; and
though, when she thought of her father,
she turned coldly away, it was but to
treasure his image in her heart, and to
weep most bitter tears for the hapless
fate which doomed her to wed another.
Roderick, by-and-by, went away to a
foreign land, distraught by his passion
for the Lady Isabel; and the time was
long, and he returned not, and none
spoke of him, or seemed to think of him,
save his disconsolate love. But it was
not so; for the old Baron loved him for
his worth and manly bearing; and when
he saw his daughter drooping her head
like a lily, he too was unhappy, and
repented him of his rash vow, though
he would rather have sacrificed his own
life, and hers too, than have broken his
oath. And so time passed on, and
many were the suitors that sought the
hand of the Lady Isabel. Some loved
her for herself, some for her great
possessions, and some for both; but all
were sent hopeless away.</p>

<p class='c008'>And now the time was at hand when
the sun was to shine upon the nineteenth
birthday of the baron’s daughter, and
multitudes were invited to his castle to
celebrate the festival with mirth and
revelry. Many were the reasons on
which he had thrown wide his castle
gates and welcomed numerous guests,
and ample the hospitable provision he
had made for them; but never, during
his life, or that of his forefathers, had
there been such doings as now. Whole
hecatombs of sheep and oxen bled on
the occasion, with wain-loads of deer,
wild and tame fowl, and other creatures.
Every country seemed to have been
taxed for fruit and other delicacies,
while beer of the strongest, and wines
of the richest, seemed, by the quantities
provided, to be intended absolutely to
flow in rivers. The birthday of the
Lady Isabel had been celebrated, as it
came round, ever since that on which
she first drew her breath, but never had
there been even imagined such preparations
as this. The tongues of all the
gossiping old dowagers in the kingdom
were set a-going on the occasion: some
assigned one reason for this extraordinary
entertainment, and some another.
There were several whose eager
curiosity caused them so much uneasiness,
that they went so far as to ask an
explanation of the old baron himself.
They were all, however, foiled in
the attempt to penetrate the mystery,
and therefore settled in their own
minds that the old man had either
lost his wits altogether, or was in his
dotage.</p>

<p class='c008'>Nor, to speak the truth, did the
young lady, on whose account was all
this turmoil, feel less surprised than
other people at her father’s unbounded
extravagance, especially as there arrived
from the capital chest after chest, packed
with the richest vestments, cut in the
approved fashion of the day, and boxes
filled with jewellery, which, added to
the family gems she already possessed,
might have furnished the dowry of a
princess.</p>

<p class='c008'>The day at length arrived for which
all this extraordinary preparation had
been made; and the baron, not content
with charging his daughter to apparel
herself in a suit which, by its exceeding
splendour, seemed to have been particularly
intended for the occasion, and to
wear her most costly jewels, also commanded
her maidens to tax their wits
in ornamenting and setting off, to the
best advantage, the charms of their
young mistress.</p>

<p class='c008'>And now, after having arranged all
things, and being promised implicit
obedience by his daughter, the mystery
of all his magnificent proceedings was
partly unravelled by his telling her that
they were that night to expect the
arrival of the Earl of Ormisdale. He
moreover presented her with a mask, and
informed her that he had taken order that
each of his guests should put on a visor
before they enter the ball-room, after they
left the banqueting-hall, and that he had
done this for her sake, that the eye of
idle curiosity should not read in her
features what was passing in her mind
when she first met her betrothed. It
was in vain that the afflicted Lady
Isabel pled most movingly for a more
private meeting, for her father was deaf
to her entreaties, while he affirmed that
his precaution of the visor would do
away all objections, and was so peremptory
in the matter, that, as usual,
she acquiesced; and having thanked
and kissed his dutiful daughter, he
withdrew from her with renewed youth
in his step, and joy in his eye. How
different, however, were the feelings of
his daughter on this momentous subject!
and sore averse was she to meet
the man she was sure that she could
never love; and many were the tears
shed, and many the resolves she
made to retract all her promises, and
live and die in solitude. But then she
bethought her of the despair of her poor
old father—of his tender, though mistaken
love—of the few remaining years
of his life embittered by disappointment—and
his death probably hurried on
through her means. All this was too
much when laid in the balance with
only her own happiness, and she still
sustained the character of a dutiful
daughter, by heroically determining to
sacrifice all selfishness at the altar of
filial duty and affection.</p>

<p class='c008'>But though this was her ultimate
resolve, we need not be surprised that,
when decked in her splendid attire,
and presiding in the gorgeous banqueting-hall
of her father, she looked and
felt as if assisting at a funeral feast, and
that she even then would have been the
better of the visor to prevent many conjectures
on what her saddened looks
might mean. But the time for assuming
the mask arrived, and the nobles of
the land, with their haughty dames, and
many a knight, and many a damsel fair,
bedight in silk and cloth of gold, and
blazing with jewels, graced the tapestried
ball-room, on which a flood of
brilliant light was poured from lamp
and torch. And each in joyous mood,
cheered by the merry minstrels, and by
the sound of harp and viol, impatiently
awaited the commencement of the
dance, when they were informed that it
was stayed for an expected and honourable
guest. And now again curiosity
was at its height. But presently there
was a flourish of the music, and a cry
of the ushers to make way for the noble
Earl of Ormisdale, and the large doors
at the foot of the hall were flung wide
open, and the gallant young earl, masked,
and attended by a train of young
gentlemen, all his kinsmen, or picked
and chosen friends, advanced amid murmurs
of admiration to the middle of
the hall. Here they were met and
welcomed by the baron, who led the
earl to his lovely daughter, and having
presented him to her, the guests were
presently gratified by seeing the gallant
young nobleman take the hand of the
Lady Isabel, and lead her out to dance.
Nor were there any present whose eyes
did not follow them with admiration,
though the measure chosen by the high-born
damsel savoured more that night
of grace and dignity than lightness of
either heart or heel. Meantime, the
old baron was so full of joy and delight,
that it was remarked by all, as he was
still seen near his daughter and her
partner. But their hearts were both
quaking: the unhappy Lady Isabel’s
with thinking of her promise to her
father, and that of her betrothed with
a fear known only to himself, for he had
heard that she had loved, and now observed
her narrowly. And, not content
with this, he asked her, as he sat beside
her, many a wily question, till at last
he spoke his fears in plain guise, and she,
with many sighs and tears shed within
her mask, confessed the truth; still
saying, that for her father’s sake she
would be his wife, if he accepted of her
on such terms. But now her father
whispered to her that she must presently
prepare to keep her word, as this must
be her bridal-night, for to that purpose
alone was this high wassail kept. Her
lover, too, no way daunted by his knowledge
of her heart, pressed on his suit to
have it so. And now was the despairing
damsel almost beside herself, when
her father, announcing aloud his purpose
to the astonished guests, called for the
priest, and caused all to unmask. But
in what words shall we paint the surprise,
the delight, the flood of joy that
came upon the heart of the Lady
Isabel, when the earl’s mask was
removed, and she beheld in him her
much beloved Roderick, who, his cousin
being dead, was now the Earl of
Ormisdale!</p>

<p class='c008'>And now was each corner of the castle,
from basement stone to turret height,
filled with joyous greetings, and the
health and happiness of the noble Earl
Roderick, and of his bride, the dutiful
Lady Isabel, deeply drank in many a
wassail bowl.</p>

<p class='c008'>The stately castle and its revels, the
proud baron and his pomp, the beauteous
dame and her children’s children, have
now passed away into oblivion, save
this slight record, which has only
been preserved in remembrance of
the daughter’s virtue, who preferred
her father’s happiness to her own.—<cite>Chambers’s
Edinburgh Journal</cite>,
1833.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='the_desperate_duel' class='c006'>THE DESPERATE DUEL.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By D. M. Moir, M.D.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Nay, never shake thy gory locks at me;</div>
      <div class='line'>Thou canst not say I did it!—<cite>Macbeth.</cite></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>It was on a fine summer morning,
somewhere about four o’clock, when I
waukened from my night’s rest, and
was about thinking to bestir mysel,
that I heard the sound of voices in the
kail-yard, stretching south frae our back
windows. I listened—and I listened—and
I better listened—and still the
sound of the argle-bargling became
more distinct, now in a fleeching way,
and now in harsh angry tones, as if
some quarrelsome disagreement had
ta’en place. I hadna the comfort of
my wife’s company in this dilemma;
she being awa, three days before, on
the top of Tammy Trundle the carrier’s
cart, to Lauder, on a visit to her folks
there; her mother (my gudemother,
like) having been for some time ill,
with an income in her leg, which threatened
to make a lameter of her in her
old age; the twa doctors there, no
speaking of the blacksmith, and sundry
skeely old women, being able to mak
naething of the business; so nane happened
to be wi’ me in the room, saving
wee Benjie, who was lying asleep at
the back of the bed, with his little Kilmarnock
on his head, as sound as a top.
Nevertheless, I lookit for my claes;
and opening one-half of the window-shutter,
I saw four young birkies well
dressed; indeed three of them customers
of my ain, all belanging to the toun;
twa of them young doctors; ane of
them a writer’s clerk; and the ither a
grocer; the hale looking very fierce
and fearsome, like turkey cocks; swaggering
about with their hands and arms
as if they had been the king’s dragoons;
and priming a pair of pistols, which ane
of the surgeons, a speerity, out-spoken lad,
Maister Blister, was haddin’ in his grip.</p>

<p class='c008'>I jaloused at ance what they were
after, being now a wee up to firearms;
so I saw that skaith was to come o’t,
and that I wad be wanting in my duty
on four heads—first, as a Christian;
second, as a man; third, as a subject;
and fourth, as a father, if I withheld
mysel frae the scene, nor lifted up my
voice, however fruitlessly, against such
crying iniquity as the wanton letting
out of human blood; sae furth I hastened—half-dressed,
with my gray stockings
rolled up my thighs, over my
corduroys, and my auld hat aboon my
cowl—to the kail-yard of contention.</p>

<p class='c008'>I was just in the nick of time, and
my presence checked the effusion of
blood for a little;—but wait a wee. So
high and furious were at least three of
the party, that I saw it was catching
water in a sieve to waste words on them,
knowing, as clearly as the sun serves
the world, that interceding would be of
no avail. Howsomever, I made a feint,
and threatened to bowl awa for a magistrait,
if they wadna desist, and stop
from their barbarous and bluidy purpose;
but, i’fegs, I had better have
keepit my counsel till it was asked for.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Tailor Mansie,” quoth Maister
Thomas Blister, with a furious cock of
his eye (he was a queer Eirish birkie,
come ower for his yedication), “since
ye have ventured to thrust your nose,”
said he, “where nobody invited ye, you
must just stay,” said he, “and abide
by the consequences. This is an affair
of honour,” quoth he; “and if ye venture
to stir one foot from the spot, och
then,” said he, “by the poker of St
Patrick, but whisk through ye goes one
of these leaden playthings, as sure as
ye ever spoiled a coat, or cabbaged
broadcloth. Ye have now come out,
ye observe, hark ye,” said ye, “and are
art and part in the business;—and, if
one, or both, of the principals be killed,
poor devils,” said he, “we are all alike
liable to take our trial before the Justiciary
Court, hark ye; and, by the
powers,” said he, “I doubt not but
that, on proper consideration, they will
allow us to get off mercifully, on this
side of hanging, by a verdict of manslaughter.”</p>

<p class='c008'>’Od, I fund mysel immediately in a
scrape; but how to get out of it baffled
my gumption. It set me all a shivering;
yet I thought that, come the warst
when it wad, they surely wad not hang
the faither of a helpless sma family, that
had naething but his needle for their
support, if I made a proper affidavy,
about having tried to make peace between
the youths. So, conscience being
a brave supporter, I abode in silence,
though not without many queer and
qualmish thochts, and a pit-patting of the
heart, no unco pleasant in the tholing.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Blood and wounds!” bawled Maister
Thomas Blister, “it would be a disgrace
for ever on the honourable profession of
physic,” egging on puir Maister Willie
Magneezhy, whose face was as white as
double-bleached linen, “to make any
apology for such an insult. You not
fit to doctor a cat,—you not fit to bleed
a calf,—you not fit to poultice a pig,—after
three years apprenticeship,” said
he, “and a winter with Doctor Monro?
By the cupping-glasses of ’Pocrates,”
said he, “and by the pistol of Gallon,
but I would have caned him on the spot,
if he had just let out half as much to me.
Look ye, man,” said he, “look ye, man,
he is all shaking” (this was the
truth); “he’ll turn tail. At him like fire,
Willie.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Magneezhy, though sadly frightened,
looked a thocht brighter, and made a
kind o’ half stap forrit. “Say that ye’ll
ask my pardon once more,—and if no,”
said the puir lad, with a voice broken
and trembling, “then we must just shoot
one another.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Devil a bit,” answered Mr Bloatsheet,
“devil a bit. No, sir; you must
down on your bare knees, and beg ten
thousand pardons for calling me out
here, in a raw morning; or I’ll have a
shot at you, whether you will or no.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Will you stand that?” said Blister,
with eyes like burning coals. “By the
living jingo and the holy poker, Magneezhy,
if you stand that—if you stand
that, I say, I stand no longer your
second, but leave you to disgrace, and
a caning. If he likes to shoot you like
a dog, and not as a gentleman, then let
him do it and be done.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“No, sir,” replied Magneezhy, with a
quivering voice, which he tried in vain,
puir fellow, to render warlike (he had
never been in the volunteers, like me).
“Hand us the pistols, then, and let us
do or die!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Spoken like a hero, and brother of
the lancet: as little afraid at the sight
of your own blood, as at that of your
patients,” said Blister. “Hand over
the pistols.”</p>

<p class='c008'>It was an awfu’ business. Gude save
us, such goings on in a Christian land!
While Mr Bloatsheet, the young writer,
was in the act of doing what he was
bid, I again, but to no purpose, endeavoured
to slip in a word edgeways.
Magneezhy was in an awfu’ case; if he
had been already shot, he could not
have looked mair clay and corpse-like;
so I took a kind of whispering, while
the stramash was drawing to a bloody
conclusion, with Maister Harry Molasses,
the fourth in the spree, who was
standing behind Bloatsheet, with a large
mahogany box under his arm, something
in shape like that of a licensed packman,
ganging about from house to
house through the country-side, selling
toys and trinkets, or niffering
plated ear-rings and sic like, wi’ young
lasses, for auld silver coins or cracked
tea-spoons.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Oh!” answered he, very composedly,
as if it had been a canister fu’ of black
rappee, or blackguard, that he had just
lifted down from his tap shelf, “it’s just
Doctor Blister’s saws, whittles, and big
knives, in case ony of their legs or arms
be blawn away, that he may cut them
off.” Little wad have prevented me
sinking down through the ground, had
I not remembered, at the preceese
moment, that I myself was a soldier,
and liable, when the hour of danger
threatened, to be called out, in marching
order, to the field of battle. But by
this time the pistols were handed to the
two infatuated young men—Mr Bloatsheet,
as fierce as a hussar dragoon, and
Magneezhy, as supple in the knees as if
he was all on oiled hinges; so the next
consideration was to get weel out of the
way, the lookers-on running nearly as
great a chance of being shot as the principals,
they no being accustomed, like
me, for instance, to the use of arms; on
which account, I scougged mysel behind
a big pear-tree; baith being to fire when
Blister gied the word “Off!”</p>

<p class='c008'>I had hardly jouked into my hidy-hole,
when “crack, crack” played the
pistols like lightning, and as soon as I
got my cowl ta’en from my een, and
looked about, wae’s me, I saw Magneezhy
clap his hand to his brow, wheel round
like a peerie, or a sheep seized wi’ the
sturdie, and then play flap down on his
braidside, breaking the necks of half a
dozen cabbage-stocks, three of which
were afterwards clean lost, as we couldna
pit them all into the pat at ae time.
The hale o’ us ran forrit, but foremost
was Bloatsheet, who, seizing Magneezhy
by the hand, said wi’ a mournful face,
“I hope you forgive me?—Only say this
as long as you have breath, for I am off
to Leith harbour in half a minute.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The blude was rinning ower puir
Magneezhy’s een, and drib-dribbling
frae the neb o’ his nose; so he was
truly in a pitiful state; but he said
with more strength than I thocht he
could have mustered,—“Yes, yes, fly
for your life, I am dying without much
pain—fly for your life, for I am a gone
man!”</p>

<p class='c008'>Bloatsheet bounced through the bit
kail-yard like a maukin, clamb ower the
bit wa’, and aff like mad; while Blister
was feeling Magneezhy’s pulse with ane
hand, and looking at his doctor’s watch,
which he had in the ither.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Do ye think that the puir lad will
live, doctor?” said I till him.</p>

<p class='c008'>He gave his head a wise shake, and
only observed, “I dare say, it will be a
hanging business amang us. In what
direction do you think, Mansie, we
should all take flight?”</p>

<p class='c008'>But I answered bravely, “Flee them
that will, I’se flee nane. If am ta’en
prisoner, the town-officers maun haul
me frae my ain house; but nevertheless
I trust the visibility of my innocence
will be as plain as a pikestaff to the een
of the fifteen.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“What then, Mansie, will we do
with poor Magneezhy? Give us your
advice in need.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Let us carry him down to my ain
bed,” answered I; “I wad not desert
a fellow-creature in his dying hour!
Help me down wi’ him, and then flee
the country as fast as you are able!”</p>

<p class='c008'>We immediately proceeded, and
lifted the poor lad, wha had now
dwaumed away, upon our wife’s hand-barrow,
Blister taking the feet, and
me the oxters, whereby I got my waistcoat
a’ japanned with blude; so, when
we got him laid right, we proceeded to
carry him between us down the close,
just as if he had been a stickit sheep,
and in at the back door, which cost us
some trouble, being narrow, and the
barrow getting jammed in; but, at lang
and last, we got him streeked out aboon
the blankets, having previously shooken
Benjie, and waukened him out of his
morning’s nap.</p>

<p class='c008'>A’ this being accomplished, and got
ower, Blister decamped, leaving me my
leeful lane, excepting Benjie, wha was
next to naebody, in the house with the
deein’ man. What a frightfu’ face he
had, all smeared ower with blude and
pouther! And I really jaloused, that if
he deed in that room, it wad be haunted
for ever mair, he being in a manner a
murdered man, so that, even should I
be acquitted of art and part, his ghaist
might still come to bother us, making
our house a hell upon yirth, and frightening
us out of our seven senses. But, in
the midst of my dreadful surmeeses,
when all was still, so that you might
hae heard a pin fall, a knock-knock-knock
cam to the door, on which,
recovering my senses, I dreaded first
that it was the death-chap, and syne
that the affair had gotten wind, and that
it was the beagles come in search
of me; so I kissed little Benjie, wha
was sitting on his creepie, blubbering
and greeting for his parritch, while a
tear stood in my ain ee, as I gaed forrit
to lift the sneck, to let the officers, as I
thocht, harry our house, by carrying aff
me, its master; but it was—thank
Heaven!—only Tammy Bodkin coming
in whistling to his wark with some
measuring-papers hinging round his neck.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ah, Tammy,” said I to him, my
heart warming at a kent face, and
making the laddie, although my bounden
servant by a regular indenture of five
years, a friend in my need, “come in,
my man. I fear ye’ll hae to tak charge
of the business for some time to come.
Mind what I tell’d ye about the shaping
and the cutting, and no making the
goose ower warm, as I doubt I am about
to be harled awa to the Tolbooth.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Tammy’s heart louped to his mouth.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ay, maister,” he said, “ye’re joking.
What should ye have done that
ye should be ta’en to sic an ill place?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ah, Tammy, lad,” answered I, “it
is but ower true.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Weel, weel,” quo’ Tammy—I really
thought it a great deal of the laddie—“weel,
weel, they canna prevent me
coming to sew beside ye; and, if I can
tak the measure of customers without,
ye can cut the claith within. But what
is’t for, maister?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Come in here,” said I to him, “and
believe your ain een, Tammy, my man.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Losh me!” cried the puir laddie,
glowering at the bluidy face of the man
in the bed. “Ay—ay—ay! maister;
save us, maister; ay—ay—ay—you
have na cloured his harnpan wi’ the
goose? Ay, maister, maister! what
an unyirthly sight!! I doubt they’ll
hang us a’;—you for doing’t, and me
on suspicion, and Benjie as art and
part, puir thing. But I’ll rin for a
doctor. Will I, maister?”</p>

<p class='c008'>The thocht had never struck me
before, being in a sort of a manner dung
stupid; but catching up the word, I
said wi’ all my pith and birr, “Rin,
rin, Tammy, rin for life and death!”</p>

<p class='c008'>Tammy bolted like a nine-year-auld,
never looking ahint his tail: so,
in less than ten minutes, he returned,
hauling alang auld Doctor Gripes, whom
he had wakened out o’ his bed by the
lug and horn, at the very time I was
trying to quiet young Benjie, wha was
following me up and doun the house, as
I was pacing to and fro in distraction,
girning and whinging for his breakfast.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Bad business, bad business; bless
us, what is this?” said the auld doctor,
staring at Magneezhy’s bluidy face
through his silver spectacles—“What’s
the matter?”</p>

<p class='c008'>The puir patient knew at once his
maister’s tongue, and, lifting up ane of
his eyes—the other being stiff and
barkened down—said in a melancholy
voice, “Ah, master, do ye think I’ll get
better?”</p>

<p class='c008'>Doctor Gripes, auld man as he was,
started back, as if he had been a French
dancing-master, or had strampit on a
het bar of iron. “Tom, Tom, is this
you? What, in the name of wonder, has
done this?” Then feeling his wrist—“But
your pulse is quite good. Have
you fallen, boy? Where is the blood
coming from?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Somewhere about the hairy scaup,”
answered Magneezhy, in his own sort
of lingo. “I doubt some artery’s cut
through!”</p>

<p class='c008'>The doctor immediately bade him lie
quiet, and hush, as he was getting a
needle and silken thread ready to sew
it up; ordering me to get a basin and
water ready, to wash the puir lad’s
physog. I did so as hard as I was able,
though I wasna sure about the blude
just; auld Doctor Gripes watching ower
my shouther, wi’ a lighted penny candle in
ae hand, and the needle and thread in
the ither, to see where the bluid spouted
frae. But we were as daft as wise; so
he bade me tak my big shears, and cut
out a’ the hair on the fore part of the
head as bare as my loof; and syne we
washed, and better washed; so Magneezhy
got the ither ee up, when the
barkened blude was loosed, looking,
though as pale as a clean shirt, mair
frighted than hurt; until it became
plain to us all, first to the doctor, syne
to me, and syne to Tammy Bodkin, and
last of a’ to Magneezhy himsel, that his
skin was na sae much as peeled; so we
helped him out of the bed, and blithe
was I to see the lad standing on the floor,
without a haud, on his ain feet.</p>

<p class='c008'>I did my best to clean his neckcloth
and sark-neck of the blude, making him
look as decentish as possible, considering
circumstances; and lending him,
as the Scripture commands, my tartan
mantle to hide the infirmity of his bluidy
breeks and waistcoat. Hame gaed he
and his maister thegither, me standing
at our close mouth, wishing them a
gude morning, and blithe to see their
backs. Indeed, a condemned thief
with the rope about his neck, and the
white cowl tied ower his een, to say
naething of his hands yerked thegither
behind his back, and on the nick of
being thrown ower, couldna been mair
thankfu’ for a reprieve than I was, at
the same blessed moment. It was like
Adam seeing the deil’s rear marching
out o’ Paradise, if ane may be allowed
to think sic a thing.</p>

<p class='c008'>The hale business—tag, rag, and bobtail—soon,
however, spunkit out, and
was the town talk for mair than ae day.
But ye’ll hear.</p>

<p class='c008'>At the first I pitied the puir lads,
that I thocht had fled for ever and aye
from their native country to Bengal,
Seringapatam, Copenhagen, Botany Bay,
or Jamaica; leaving behint them all their
friends and auld Scotland, as they might
never hear o’ the gudeness of Providence
in their behalf. But—wait a wee.</p>

<p class='c008'>Wad ye believe it? As sure’s death,
the hale was but a wicked trick played
by that mischievous loon Blister and
his cronies, upon ane that was a simple
and saft-headed callant. Deil a haet
was in the ae pistol but a pluff o’
pouther; and, in the ither, a cartridge
paper, fu’ o’ bull’s blood, was rammed
down upon the charge, the which, hiting
Magneezhy on the ee-bree, had caused
a business that seemed to have put
him out o’ life, and nearly put me
(though ane of the volunteers) out of
my seven senses.—<em>Mansie Wauch.</em></p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='the_vacant_chair' class='c006'>THE VACANT CHAIR.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By John Mackay Wilson.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>You have all heard of the Cheviot
mountains. They are a rough, rugged,
majestic chain of hills, which a poet
might term the Roman wall of nature;
crowned with snow, belted with storms,
surrounded by pastures and fruitful fields,
and still dividing the northern portion of
Great Britain from the southern. With
their proud summits piercing the clouds,
and their dark, rocky declivities frowning
upon the glens below, thay appear
symbolical of the wild and untamable
spirits of the Borderers who once inhabited
their sides. We say, you have
all heard of the Cheviots, and know
them to be very high hills, like a huge
clasp riveting England and Scotland
together; but we are not aware that
you may have heard of Marchlaw, an
old, gray-looking farm-house, substantial
as a modern fortress, recently, and,
for aught we know to the contrary, still
inhabited by Peter Elliot, the proprietor
of some five hundred surrounding acres.
The boundaries of Peter’s farm, indeed,
were defined neither by fields, hedges,
nor stone walls. A wooden stake here,
and a stone there, at considerable distances
from each other, were the general
landmarks; but neither Peter nor his
neighbours considered a few acres worth
quarrelling about; and their sheep frequently
visited each other’s pastures in
a friendly way, harmoniously sharing a
family dinner, in the same spirit as their
masters made themselves free at each
other’s tables.</p>

<p class='c008'>Peter was placed in very unpleasant
circumstances, owing to the situation of
Marchlaw House, which, unfortunately,
was built immediately across the “ideal
line,” dividing the two kingdoms; and
his misfortune was, that, being born
within it, he knew not whether he was
an Englishman or a Scotchman. He
could trace his ancestral line no farther
back than his great-grandfather, who,
it appeared from the family Bible, had,
together with his grandfather and father,
claimed Marchlaw as their birthplace.
They, however, were not involved in
the same perplexities as their descendant.
The parlour was distinctly acknowledged
to be in Scotland, and two-thirds of the
kitchen were as certainly allowed to be
in England;—his three ancestors were
born in the room over the parlour, and,
therefore, were Scotchmen beyond question;
but Peter, unluckily, being brought
into the world before the death of his
grandfather, his parents occupied a room
immediately over the debatable boundary
line which crossed the kitchen.
The room, though scarcely eight feet
square, was evidently situated between
the two countries; but, no one being
able to ascertain what portion belonged
to each, Peter, after many arguments
and altercations upon the subject, was
driven to the disagreeable alternative of
confessing he knew not what countryman
he was. What rendered the confession
the more painful was, that it
was Peter’s highest ambition to be
thought a Scotsman. All his arable
land lay on the Scottish side; his mother
was collaterally related to the Stuarts;
and few families were more ancient or
respectable than the Elliots. Peter’s
speech, indeed, bewrayed him to be a
walking partition between the two kingdoms—a
living representation of the
Union; for in one word he pronounced
the letter <em>r</em> with the broad, masculine
sound of the North Briton, and in the
next with the liquid <em>burr</em> of the Northumbrians.</p>

<p class='c008'>Peter, or, if you prefer it, Peter Elliot,
Esquire of Marchlaw, in the counties of
Northumberland and Roxburgh, was,
for many years, the best runner, leaper,
and wrestler between Wooler and Jedburgh.
Whirled from his hand, the
ponderous bullet whizzed through the
air like a pigeon on the wing; and the
best “putter” on the Borders quailed
from competition. As a feather in his
grasp, he seized the unwieldy hammer,
swept it round and round his head, accompanying
with agile limb its evolutions,
swiftly as swallows play around a
circle, and hurled it from his hands like a
shot from a rifle, till antagonists shrunk
back, and the spectators burst into a
shout. “Well done, squire! the squire
for ever!” once exclaimed a servile observer
of titles. “Squire! wha are ye
squiring at?” returned Peter. “Confound
ye! where was ye when I was
christened squire? My name’s Peter
Elliot—your man, or onybody’s man,
at whatever they like!”</p>

<p class='c008'>Peter’s soul was free, bounding, and
buoyant as the wind that carolled in a
zephyr, or shouted in a hurricane, upon
his native hills; and his body was thirteen
stone of healthy substantial flesh,
steeped in the spirits of life. He had
been long married, but marriage had
wrought no change upon him. They
who suppose that wedlock transforms
the lark into an owl, offer an insult to
the lovely beings who, brightening our
darkest hours with the smiles of affection,
teach us that that only is unbecoming
in the husband which is disgraceful
in the man. Nearly twenty
years had passed over them; but Janet
was still as kind, and, in his eyes, as
beautiful as when, bestowing on him
her hand, she blushed her vows at the
altar; and he was still as happy, as
generous, and as free. Nine fair children
sat around their domestic hearth,
and one, the youngling of the flock,
smiled upon its mother’s knee. Peter
had never known sorrow; he was blest
in his wife, in his children, in his flocks.
He had become richer than his fathers.
He was beloved by his neighbours, the
tillers of his ground, and his herdsmen:
yea, no man envied his prosperity. But
a blight passed over the harvest of his
joys, and gall was rained into the cup
of his felicity.</p>

<p class='c008'>It was Christmas-day, and a more
melancholy-looking sun never rose on
the 25th of December. One vast,
sable cloud, like a universal pall, overspread
the heavens. For weeks the
ground had been covered with clear,
dazzling snow; and as throughout the
day the rain continued its unwearied
and monotonous drizzle, the earth assumed
a character and appearance
melancholy and troubled as the heavens.
Like a mastiff that has lost its owner,
the wind howled dolefully down the
glens, and was re-echoed from the caves
of the mountains, as the lamentations
of a legion of invisible spirits. The
frowning, snow-clad precipices were
instinct with motion, as avalanche upon
avalanche, the larger burying the less,
crowded downward in their tremendous
journey to the plain. The simple
mountain rills had assumed the majesty
of rivers; the broader streams were
swollen into the wild torrent, and, gushing
forth as cataracts, in fury and in foam,
enveloped the valleys in an angry flood.
But at Marchlaw the fire blazed blithely;
the kitchen groaned beneath the
load of preparations for a joyful feast;
and glad faces glided from room to
room.</p>

<p class='c008'>Peter Elliot kept Christmas, not so
much because it was Christmas, as in
honour of its being the birthday of
Thomas, his first-born, who that day
entered his nineteenth year. With a
father’s love, his heart yearned for all
his children; but Thomas was the pride
of his eyes. Cards of apology had not
then found their way among our Border
hills; and as all knew that, although
Peter admitted no spirits within his
threshold, nor a drunkard at his table,
he was, nevertheless, no niggard in his
hospitality, his invitations were accepted
without ceremony. The guests were
assembled; and the kitchen being the
only apartment in the building large
enough to contain them, the cloth was
spread upon a long, clean, oaken table,
stretching from England into Scotland.
On the English end of the board were
placed a ponderous plum-pudding, studded
with temptation, and a smoking
sirloin; on Scotland, a savoury and
well-seasoned haggis, with a sheep’shead
and trotters; while the intermediate
space was filled with the good things
of this life, common to both kingdoms
and to the season.</p>

<p class='c008'>The guests from the north and from
the south were arranged promiscuously.
Every seat was filled—save one. The
chair by Peter’s right hand remained
unoccupied. He had raised his hands
before his eyes, and besought a blessing
on what was placed before them, and
was preparing to carve for his visitors,
when his eyes fell upon the vacant chair.
The knife dropped upon the table.
Anxiety flashed across his countenance,
like an arrow from an unseen hand.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Janet, where is Thomas?” he inquired;
“hae nane o’ ye seen him?”
and, without waiting an answer, he continued—“How
is it possible he can be
absent at a time like this? And on
such a day, too? Excuse me a minute,
friends, till I just step out and see if I
can find him. Since ever I kept this
day, as mony o’ ye ken, he has always
been at my right hand, in that very
chair; I canna think o’ beginning our
dinner while I see it empty.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“If the filling of the chair be all,”
said a pert young sheep-farmer, named
Johnson, “I will step into it till Master
Thomas arrive.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ye’re not a father, young man,”
said Peter, and walked out of the room.</p>

<p class='c008'>Minute succeeded minute, but Peter
returned not. The guests became
hungry, peevish, and gloomy, while an
excellent dinner continued spoiling before
them. Mrs Elliot, whose goodnature
was the most prominent feature
in her character, strove, by every possible
effort, to beguile the unpleasant
impressions she perceived gathering
upon their countenances.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Peter is just as bad as him,” she
remarked, “to hae gane to seek him
when he kenned the dinner wouldna
keep. And I’m sure Thomas kenned
it would be ready at one o’clock to a
minute. It’s sae unthinking and unfriendly
like to keep folk waiting.”
And, endeavouring to smile upon a
beautiful black-haired girl of seventeen,
who sat by her elbow, she continued in
an anxious whisper—“Did ye see naething
o’ him, Elizabeth, hinny?”</p>

<p class='c008'>The maiden blushed deeply; the
question evidently gave freedom to a
tear, which had, for some time, been an
unwilling prisoner in the brightest eyes
in the room; and the monosyllable,
“No,” that trembled from her lips,
was audible only to the ear of the inquirer.
In vain Mrs Elliot despatched one of her
children after another, in quest of their
father and brother; they came and went,
but brought no tidings more cheering
than the moaning of the hollow wind.
Minutes rolled into hours, yet neither
came. She perceived the prouder of
her guests preparing to withdraw, and,
observing that “Thomas’s absence was
so singular and unaccountable, and so
unlike either him or his father, she didna
ken what apology to make to her
friends for such treatment; but it was
needless waiting, and begged they would
use no ceremony, but just begin.”</p>

<p class='c008'>No second invitation was necessary.
Good humour appeared to be restored,
and sirloins, pies, pasties, and moorfowl
began to disappear like the lost son.
For a moment, Mrs Elliot apparently
partook in the restoration of cheerfulness;
but a low sigh at her elbow again
drove the colour from her rosy cheeks.
Her eye wandered to the farther end of
the table, and rested on the unoccupied
seat of her husband, and the vacant
chair of her first-born. Her heart fell
heavily within her; all the mother
gushed into her bosom; and, rising
from the table, “What in the world
can be the meaning o’ this?” said she,
as she hurried, with a troubled countenance,
towards the door. Her husband
met her on the threshold.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Where hae ye been, Peter?” said
she, eagerly. “Hae ye seen naething o’
him?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Naething, naething,” replied he;
“is he no cast up yet?” And, with a
melancholy glance, his eyes sought an
answer in the deserted chair. His lips
quivered, his tongue faltered.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Gude forgie me,” said he, “and
such a day for even an enemy to be out
in! I’ve been up and doun every way
that I can think on, but not a living
creature has seen or heard tell o’ him.
Ye’ll excuse me, neebors,” he added,
leaving the house; “I must awa again,
for I canna rest.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I ken by mysel, friends,” said
Adam Bell, a decent-looking Northumbrian,
“that a faither’s heart is as
sensitive as the apple o’ his e’e; and I
think we would show a want o’ natural
sympathy and respect for our worthy
neighbour, if we didna every one get
his foot into the stirrup without loss o’
time, and assist him in his search. For,
in my rough, country way o’ thinking,
it must be something particularly out o’
the common that would tempt Thomas
to be amissing. Indeed, I needna say
tempt, for there could be no inclination
in the way. And our hills,” he concluded,
in a lower tone, “are not ower
chancy in other respects, besides the
breaking up o’ the storm.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Oh!” said Mrs Elliot, wringing
her hands, “I have had the coming o’
this about me for days and days. My
head was growing dizzy with happiness,
but thoughts came stealing upon me
like ghosts, and I felt a lonely soughing
about my heart, without being able to
tell the cause; but the cause is come at
last! And my dear Thomas—the very
pride and staff o’ my life—is lost—lost
to me for ever!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I ken, Mrs Elliot,” replied the
Northumbrian, “it is an easy matter
to say compose yourself, for them that
dinna ken what it is to feel. But, at
the same time, in our plain, country
way o’ thinking, we are always ready to
believe the worst. I’ve often heard my
father say, and I’ve as often remarked it
myself, that, before anything happens
to a body, there is a something comes
ower them, like a cloud before the face
o’ the sun; a sort o’ dumb whispering
about the breast from the other world.
And though I trust there is naething o’
the kind in your case, yet as you observe,
when I find myself growing dizzy, as it
were, with happiness, it makes good a
saying o’ my mother’s, poor body.
‘Bairns, bairns,’ she used to say, ‘there is
ower muckle singing in your heads to-night;
we will have a shower before bedtime.’
And I never, in my born days,
saw it fail.”</p>

<p class='c008'>At any other period, Mr Bell’s dissertation
on presentiments would have been
found a fitting text on which to hang all
the dreams, wraiths, warnings, and marvellous
circumstances, that had been
handed down to the company from the
days of their grandfathers; but, in the
present instance, they were too much
occupied in consultation regarding the
different routes to be taken in their
search.</p>

<p class='c008'>Twelve horsemen, and some half-dozen
pedestrians, were seen hurrying
in divers directions from Marchlaw, as
the last faint lights of a melancholy day
were yielding to the heavy darkness
which appeared pressing in solid masses
down the sides of the mountains. The
wives and daughters of the party were
alone left with the disconsolate mother,
who alternately pressed her weeping
children to her heart, and told them to
weep not, for their brother would soon
return; while the tears stole down her
own cheeks, and the infant in her arms
wept because its mother wept. Her
friends strove with each other to inspire
hope, and poured upon her ear their
mingled and loquacious consolation.
But one remained silent. The daughter
of Adam Bell, who sat by Mrs Elliot’s
elbow at table, had shrunk into an
obscure corner of the room. Before her
face she held a handkerchief wet with
tears. Her bosom throbbed convulsively;
and, as occasionally her broken
sighs burst from their prison house, a
significant whisper passed among the
younger part of the company.</p>

<p class='c008'>Mrs Elliot approached her, and taking
her hand tenderly within both of hers—“Oh,
hinny! hinny!” said she, “yer
sighs gae through my heart like a knife!
An’ what can I do to comfort ye?
Come, Elizabeth, my bonny love, let us
hope for the best. Ye see before ye a
sorrowin’ mother—a mother that fondly
hoped to see you an’—I canna say it—an’
I am ill qualified to gie comfort,
when my own heart is like a furnace!
But, oh! let us try and remember the
blessed portion, ‘Whom the Lord
loveth He chasteneth,’ an’ inwardly
pray for strength to say ‘His will be
done!’”</p>

<p class='c008'>Time stole on towards midnight, and
one by one the unsuccessful party
returned. As foot after foot approached,
every breath was held to listen.</p>

<p class='c008'>“No, no, no,” cried the mother, again
and again, with increasing anguish,
“it’s no the foot o’ my ain bairn;”
while her keen gaze still remained
riveted upon the door, and was not
withdrawn, nor the hope of despair
relinquished, till the individual entered,
and with a silent and ominous shake of
his head, betokened his fruitless efforts.
The clock had struck twelve; all
were returned, save the father. The wind
howled more wildly; the rain poured
upon the windows in ceaseless torrents;
and the roaring of the mountain rivers gave
a character of deeper ghostliness to their
sepulchral silence; for they sat, each wrapt
in forebodings, listening to the storm;
and no sounds were heard, save the
groans of the mother, the weeping of
her children, and the bitter and broken
sobs of the bereaved maiden, who
leaned her head upon her father’s bosom,
refusing to be comforted.</p>

<p class='c008'>At length the barking of the farm dog
announced footsteps at a distance.
Every ear was raised to listen, every
eye turned to the door; but, before the
tread was yet audible to the listeners—“Oh!
it is only Peter’s foot!” said
the miserable mother, and, weeping,
rose to meet him.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Janet, Janet!” he exclaimed, as he
entered, and threw his arms around her
neck, “what’s this come upon us at
last?”</p>

<p class='c008'>He cast an inquisitive glance around
his dwelling, and a convulsive shiver
passed over his manly frame, as his eye
again fell on the vacant chair, which no
one had ventured to occupy. Hour
succeeded hour, but the company
separated not; and low, sorrowful
whispers mingled with the lamentations
of the parents.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Neighbours,” said Adam Bell, “the
morn is a new day, and we will wait to
see what it may bring forth; but, in the
meantime, let us read a portion o’ the
Divine Word, an’ kneel together in
prayer, that, whether or not the day-dawn
cause light to shine upon this
singular bereavement, the Sun o’
Righteousness may arise wi’ healing on
His wings, upon the hearts o’ this afflicted
family, an’ upon the hearts o’ all
present.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Amen!” responded Peter, wringing
his hands; and his friend, taking down
the “Ha’ Bible,” read the chapter wherein
it is written—“It is better to be in the
house of mourning than in the house of
feasting;” and again the portion which
saith—“It is well for me that I have
been afflicted, for before I was afflicted
I went astray.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The morning came, but brought no
tidings of the lost son. After a solemn
farewell, all the visitants, save Adam
Bell and his daughter, returned every
one to their own house; and the disconsolate
father, with his servants, again
renewed the search among the hills
and surrounding villages.</p>

<p class='c008'>Days, weeks, months, and years rolled
on. Time had subdued the anguish of
the parents into a holy calm; but their
lost first-born was not forgotten, although
no trace of his fate had been discovered.
The general belief was, that he had
perished on the breaking up of the
snow; and the few in whose remembrance
he still lived, merely spoke of
his death as a “very extraordinary circumstance,”
remarking that “he was a
wild, venturesome sort o’ lad.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Christmas had succeeded Christmas,
and Peter Elliot still kept it in commemoration
of the birthday of him who
was not. For the first few years after
the loss of their son, sadness and silence
characterized the party who sat down
to dinner at Marchlaw, and still at
Peter’s right hand was placed the vacant
chair. But, as the younger branches of
the family advanced in years, the remembrance
of their brother became less
poignant. Christmas was, with all
around them, a day of rejoicing, and
they began to make merry with their
friends; while their parents partook in
their enjoyment, with a smile, half of
approval and half of sorrow.</p>

<p class='c008'>Twelve years had passed away;
Christmas had again come. It was the
counterpart of its fatal predecessor. The
hills had not yet cast off their summer
verdure; the sun, although shorn of its
heat, had lost none of its brightness or
glory, and looked down upon the earth
as though participating in its gladness;
and the clear blue sky was tranquil as
the sea sleeping beneath the moon.
Many visitors had again assembled at
Marchlaw. The sons of Mr Elliot, and
the young men of the party, were
assembled upon a level green near the
house, amusing themselves with throwing
the hammer, and other Border
games, while himself and the elder
guests stood by as spectators, recounting
the deeds of their youth. Johnson, the
sheep-farmer, whom we have already
mentioned, now a brawny and gigantic
fellow of two-and-thirty, bore away in
every game the palm from all competitors.
More than once, as Peter beheld
his sons defeated, he felt the spirit of
youth glowing in his veins, and, “Oh!”
muttered he, in bitterness, “had my
Thomas been spared to me, he would
hae thrown his heart’s blude after the
hammer, before he would hae been beat
by e’er a Johnson in the country!”</p>

<p class='c008'>While he thus soliloquized, and with
difficulty restrained an impulse to compete
with the victor himself, a dark,
foreign-looking, strong-built seaman,
unceremoniously approached, and, with
his arms folded, cast a look of contempt
upon the boasting conqueror. Every
eye was turned with a scrutinizing glance
upon the stranger. In height he could
not exceed five feet nine, but his whole
frame was the model of muscular
strength; his features open and manly,
but deeply sunburnt and weather-beaten;
his long, glossy, black hair, curled into
ringlets by the breeze and the billow,
fell thickly over his temples and forehead;
and whiskers of a similar hue,
more conspicuous for size than elegance,
gave a character of fierceness to a countenance
otherwise possessing a striking
impress of manly beauty. Without
asking permission, he stepped forward,
lifted the hammer, and, swinging it
around his head, hurled it upwards of
five yards beyond Johnson’s most successful
throw. “Well done!” shouted
the astonished spectators. The heart
of Peter Elliott warmed within him,
and he was hurrying forward to grasp
the stranger by the hand, when the
words groaned in his throat, “It was
just such a throw as my Thomas would
have made!—my own lost Thomas!”
The tears burst into his eyes, and, without
speaking, he turned back, and hurried
towards the house to conceal his
emotion.</p>

<p class='c008'>Successively, at every game, the
stranger had defeated all who ventured
to oppose him, when a messenger announced
that dinner waited their arrival.
Some of the guests were already seated,
others entering; and, as heretofore,
placed beside Mrs Elliot was Elizabeth
Bell, still in the noontide of her beauty;
but sorrow had passed over her features,
like a veil before the countenance of an
angel. Johnson, crest-fallen and out of
humour at his defeat, seated himself by
her side. In early life he had regarded
Thomas Elliot as a rival for her affections;
and, stimulated by the knowledge
that Adam Bell would be able
to bestow several thousands upon his
daughter for a dowry, he yet prosecuted
his attentions with unabated assiduity,
in despite of the daughter’s aversion and
the coldness of her father. Peter had
taken his place at the table; and still
by his side, unoccupied and sacred, appeared
the vacant chair, the chair of his
first-born, whereon none had sat since
his mysterious death or disappearance.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Bairns,” said he, “did nane o’ye
ask the sailor to come up and tak a bit
o’ dinner wi’ us?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“We were afraid it might lead to a
quarrel with Mr Johnson,” whispered
one of the sons.</p>

<p class='c008'>“He is come without asking,” replied
the stranger, entering; “and the wind
shall blow from a new point if I destroy
the mirth or happiness of the company.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ye’re a stranger, young man,” said
Peter, “or ye would ken this is no a
meeting o’ mirth-makers. But, I assure
ye, ye are welcome, heartily welcome.
Haste ye, lasses,” he added to the servants;
“some o’ ye get a chair for the
gentleman.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Gentleman, indeed!” muttered
Johnson between his teeth.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Never mind about a chair, my
hearties,” said the seaman; “this will
do!” And, before Peter could speak
to withhold him, he had thrown himself
carelessly into the hallowed, the venerated,
the twelve years unoccupied chair!
The spirit of sacrilege uttering blasphemies
from a pulpit could not have
smitten a congregation of pious worshippers
with deeper horror and consternation,
than did this filling of the
vacant chair the inhabitants of Marchlaw.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Excuse me, sir! excuse me, sir!”
said Peter, the words trembling upon
his tongue; “but ye cannot—ye cannot
sit there!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“O man! man!” cried Mrs Elliot,
“get out o’ that! get out o’ that!—take
my chair!—take ony chair i’ the
house!—but dinna, dinna sit there! It
has never been sat in by mortal being
since the death o’ my dear bairn!—and
to see it filled by another is a thing I
canna endure!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Sir! sir!” continued the father,
“ye have done it through ignorance,
and we excuse ye. But that was my
Thomas’s seat! Twelve years this very
day—his birthday—he perished, Heaven
kens how! He went out from our
sight, like the cloud that passes over
the hills—never, never to return. And,
O sir, spare a father’s feelings! for to
see it filled wrings the blood from my
heart!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Give me your hand, my worthy
soul!” exclaimed the seaman; “I revere—nay,
hang it! I would die for
your feelings! But Tom Elliot was my
friend, and I cast anchor in this chair
by special commission. I know that a
sudden broadside of joy is a bad thing;
but as I don’t know how to preach a
sermon before telling you, all I have to
say is—that Tom aint dead.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Not dead!” said Peter, grasping
the hand of the stranger, and speaking
with an eagerness that almost choked
his utterance. “O sir! sir! tell me
how!—how!—Did ye say living?—Is
my ain Thomas living?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Not dead, do ye say?” cried Mrs
Elliot, hurrying towards him and
grasping his other hand—“not dead!
And shall I see my bairn again? Oh!
may the blessing o’ Heaven, and the
blessing o’ a broken-hearted mother be
upon the bearer o’ the gracious tidings!
But tell me—tell me, how is it possible?
As ye would expect happiness here or
hereafter, dinna, dinna deceive me!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Deceive you!” returned the stranger,
grasping, with impassioned earnestness,
their hands in his—“Never!—never!
and all I can say is—Tom Elliot is alive
and hearty.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“No, no!” said Elizabeth, rising
from her seat, “he does not deceive
us; there is that in his countenance
which bespeaks a falsehood impossible.”
And she also endeavoured to move towards
him, when Johnson threw his
arm around her to withhold her.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Hands off, you land-lubber!” exclaimed
the seaman, springing towards
them, “or, shiver me! I’ll show daylight
through your timbers in the turning
of a handspike.” And, clasping the
lovely girl in his arms, “Betty! Betty,
my love!” he cried, “don’t you know
your own Tom? Father, mother, don’t
you know me? Have you really forgot
your own son? If twelve years have
made some change on his face, his heart
is as sound as ever.”</p>

<p class='c008'>His father, his mother, and his
brothers clung around him, weeping,
smiling, and mingling a hundred questions
together. He threw his arms
around the neck of each, and in answer
to their enquiries, replied—“Well!
well! there is time enough to answer
questions, but not to-day—not to-day!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“No, my bairn,” said his mother,
“we’ll ask you no questions—nobody
shall ask you any! But how—how
were you torn away from us, my love?
And, O hinny! where—where hae you
been?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“It’s a long story, mother,” said he,
“and would take a week to tell it.
But, howsoever, to make a long story
short, you remember when the smugglers
were pursued, and wished to conceal
their brandy in our house, my father
prevented them; they left muttering
revenge—and they have been revenged.
This day twelve years, I went out with
the intention of meeting Elizabeth and
her father, when I came upon a party
of the gang concealed in Hell’s Hole.
In a moment half-a-dozen pistols were
held to my breast, and, tying my hands
to my sides, they dragged me into the
cavern. Here I had not been long
their prisoner, when the snow, rolling
down the mountains, almost totally
blocked up its mouth. On the second
night they cut through the snow, and,
hurrying me along with them, I was
bound to a horse between two, and,
before daylight, found myself stowed,
like a piece of old junk, in the hold of a
smuggling lugger. Within a week I was
shipped on board a Dutch man-of-war,
and for six years was kept dodging
about on different stations, till our old
yawning hulk received orders to join
the fleet, which was to fight against the
gallant Duncan at Camperdown. To
think of fighting against my own
countrymen—my own flesh and blood—was
worse than to be cut to pieces by a
cat-o’-nine tails; and, under cover of
the smoke of the first broadside, I sprang
upon the gunwale, plunged into the sea,
and swam for the English fleet. Never,
never shall I forget the moment that
my feet first trod upon the deck of a
British frigate! My nerves felt as firm
as her oak, and my heart free as the
pennant that waved defiance from her
masthead! I was as active as any one
during the battle; and when it was
over, and I found myself again among
my own countrymen, and all speaking
my own language, I fancied—nay, hang
it! I almost believed—I should meet
my father, my mother, or my dear Bess,
on board of the British frigate. I expected
to see you all again in a few weeks at
farthest; but, instead of returning to old
England, before I was aware, I found
it was helm about with us. As
to writing, I never had an opportunity
but once. We were anchored before a
French fort; a packet was lying alongside
ready to sail; I had half a side
written, and was scratching my head to
think how I should come over writing
about you, Bess, my love, when, as
bad luck would have it, our lieutenant
comes to me, and says he, ‘Elliot,’
says he, ‘I know you like a little
smart service; come, my lad, take the
head oar, while we board some of those
French bum-boats under the batteries.’
I couldn’t say no. We pulled ashore,
made a bonfire of one of their craft, and
were setting fire to a second, when a
deadly shower of small shot from the
garrison scuttled our boat, killed our
commanding officer with half of the
crew, and the few who were left of us
were made prisoners. It is of no use
bothering you by telling how we escaped
from a French prison. We did escape,
and Tom once more fills his vacant chair.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Should any of our readers wish
farther acquaintance with our friends,
all we can say is, the new year was still
young when Adam Bell bestowed his
daughter’s hand upon the heir of Marchlaw,
and Peter beheld the once vacant
chair again occupied, and a namesake
of the third generation prattling on his
knee.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='colkittoch' class='c006'>COLKITTOCH.</h2>
</div>

<p class='c007'>The name of Colkittoch often occurs
in the history of the great rebellion in
the reign of Charles I. By some he is
denominated Macdonald of Colkittoch,
by others Colkittoch, and by many he
is confounded with his son. His name
was Coll, or Colle, Macdonald: he was
a native of Ireland. His father was
Archibald Macdonell, who was an
illegitimate son of the Earl of Antrim.
With the aid of his partisans, Coll took
violent possession of the island of Colonsay,
one of the Hebrides, having driven
away the Macfees, who had held it for
many centuries. Coll was denominated
Kittoch, or, more correctly, Ciotach,
from his being left-handed. Coll had
distinguished himself in the unhappy
disturbances in Ireland, and when Lord
Antrim sent troops to Scotland as
auxiliaries in the royal cause, he served
as an officer under his own son, Allister,
or Alexander, who had the chief command
of the corps. The father and
son were well qualified for this service,
both of them being well known in the
Highlands, and connected by blood or
marriage with some of the best families
in that country.</p>

<p class='c008'>Coll was noted for his strength and
prowess, though tainted with the cruelty
too familiar to his countrymen at that
time. He fought in all the battles in
which the Irish auxiliaries were engaged
under Montrose; he was also
concerned in their plundering expeditions
in Argyleshire, where private revenge
was unfortunately added to the horrors
of war. Many of the lyric compositions
of those days extol his bravery and his
bloody vengeance on his antagonists,
the Campbells, though it seems he was
on very friendly terms with some of
that name.</p>

<p class='c008'>Coll had possession of the Castle of
Duntroon, and having placed a garrison
in it, he went to another quarter;
but in his absence it was taken by stratagem.
He was ignorant of this misfortune,
and on his return he steered his
boat direct for the castle. His own
piper was then a prisoner there; and
knowing his master’s boat, to warn
him of his danger, he played a tune
which he composed for the purpose;
and so accurately did the sound correspond
with the meaning, that Coll understood
the intention, and avoided the
castle.</p>

<p class='c008'>After the defeat of Montrose at
Philiphaugh, and the retreat of his son
Alexander to Ireland, Coll was left in
command of the castle of Dunaovaig,
the ancient seat of the Macdonalds of
Islay. The garrison consisted of 150
men; but the pipes which conveyed the
water being cut by the enemy, on the
assurance of Sir David Leslie, who
commanded the parliamentary forces,
Coll was induced to go out of the castle
to hold parley with his old friend Campbell
of Dunstaffnage. Leslie basely
broke his word, and made Coll prisoner.
The Marquis of Argyle was present on
the occasion, and was blamed for this.
After the Restoration, when Argyle
was brought to trial, he was accused of
the heinous crime of having ordered
this garrison to be put on a rock, surrounded
by the sea, to perish without
food or water. He denied all knowledge
of any such thing; and the proof
on this point does not appear satisfactory,
nor could we find any tradition
in that country of such an atrocious
action.</p>

<p class='c008'>Coll was committed to the custody of
the captain of Dunstaffnage, in whose
castle he was confined, and the tower
where he lay is still named after him.
That gentleman being no doubt sensible
of the dishonourable treatment his
prisoner had received, gave him every
possible indulgence. He permitted
Coll to walk about the place, but he
had cause to repent his lenity. The
Marquis of Argyle charged him with
misconduct; and dreading the well-known
severity of his chief, Dunstaffnage
denied it. Argyle swore that if
Coll should be found at large, the captain
would be severely punished, and a
messenger was despatched to ascertain
the fact. Dunstaffnage being at Inveraray
at the time, ordered his foster-brother
to set off with all speed, and
outrun the other, which he did; and on
coming in sight of the castle, he cried
out, “Coll in irons! Coll in irons!”
Coll was occupied in superintending
the shearing of corn at the time, and
was the first who heard the cries. Conjecturing
what the cause might be, he
instantly retired to his dungeon, and
with his own hands put on the irons.
He was soon after this brought to trial
before the sheriff of Argyle, in the
castle where he was confined. Maclean
of Ardgour, who originally had been on
the royal side, was one of the jury; and
wishing to display his zeal for the republican
cause, which, with many others,
he then espoused, asked Coll if he had
been present at the battle of Inverlochy;
the prisoner boldly replied, “By my
baptism! I was so, carle, and did more
service there than thyself.” He was
condemned to die, and was executed,
by hanging from the mast of his own
boat, laid across the cleft of a rock.<a id='r11'></a><a href='#f11' class='c018'><sup>[11]</sup></a>
He suffered death without dismay,
requesting that his body might be laid
so near that of his friend, the captain of
Dunstaffnage, that they might exchange
snuff-boxes in their graves; and this request
was complied with. The fate of
Collkittoch was amply avenged: at the
Restoration, his death and sufferings
formed some of the most serious and
fatal charges against the Marquis of
Argyle.—<cite>“Traditions of the Western
Highlands,” in the London Literary
Gazette.</cite></p>

<div class='footnote' id='f11'>
<p class='c008'><a href='#r11'>11</a>. Coll’s execution took place in 1647.</p>
</div>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='the_covenanters' class='c006'>THE COVENANTERS:<br> <span class='large'><em>A TRADITIONARY TALE OF LANARKSHIRE</em></span>.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By Robert Macnish, LL.D.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<h3 class='c013'><span class='sc'>Chapter I.</span></h3>

<p class='c014'>During the persecutions in Scotland,
consequent upon the fruitless
attempt to root out Presbyterianism
and establish Episcopacy by force,
there lived one Allan Hamilton, a
farmer, at the foot of the Lowther
mountains in Lanarkshire. His house
was situated in a remote valley, which,
though of small extent, was beautiful
and romantic, being embosomed on all
sides by hills covered to their summits
with rich verdure. Around the house
was a considerable piece of arable
ground, and behind it a well-stocked
orchard and garden. A few tall trees
grew in front, waving their ample foliage
over the roof, while at each side of
the door was a little plot planted with
honeysuckle, wallflower, and various
odoriferous shrubs. The owner of this
neat mansion was a fortunate man; for
the world had hitherto gone well with
him, and if he had lost his wife—an
affliction which sixteen years had mellowed
over—he was blessed with an
affectionate and virtuous daughter. He
had two male and as many female
servants to assist him in his farming
operations; and so well had his industry
been rewarded, that he might be considered
as one of the most prosperous
husbandmen in that part of the
country.</p>

<p class='c008'>Mary Hamilton, his only child, was,
at the time we speak of, nineteen years
of age. She was an extremely handsome
girl, and, though living in so remote a
quarter, the whole district of the
Lowthers rung with the fame of her
beauty. But this was the least of her
qualifications, for her mind was even
fairer than her person; and on her pure
spirit the impress of virtue and affection
was stamped in legible characters.</p>

<p class='c008'>Allan, though a religious man, was
not an enthusiast; and, from certain
prudent considerations, had forborne
to show any of that ardent zeal for the
faith which distinguished many of his
countrymen. He approved secretly in
his heart of the measures adopted by
the Covenanters, and inwardly prayed
for their success; but these matters he
kept to his own mind, reading his Bible
with his daughter at home, and not
exposing himself or her to the machinations
of the persecuting party.</p>

<p class='c008'>It was on an August evening that he
and his daughter were seated together in
their little parlour. He had performed all
his daily labours, and had permitted his
servants to go to some rural meeting
several miles off. Being thus left undisturbed,
he enjoyed with her that quiet
rest so grateful after a day spent in
toil. The day had been remarkably
beautiful; but towards nightfall, the
heavens were overcast with dark clouds,
and the sun had that sultry glare
which is so often the forerunner of a
tempest. When this luminary disappeared
beneath the mountains, he
left a red and glowing twilight behind
him; and over the firmament a tissue of
crimson clouds was extended, mingled
here and there with black vapours. The
atmosphere was hot, sickening, and
oppressive, and seemed to teem with
some approaching convulsion.</p>

<p class='c008'>“We shall have a storm to-night,”
Allan remarked to his daughter. “I
wish that I had not let the servants
out; they will be overtaken in it to a
certainty as they cross the moors.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“There is no fear of them, father,”
replied Mary; “they know the road
well; at any rate, the tempest will be
over before they think of stirring from
where they are.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Allan did not make any answer, but
continued looking through the window
opposite to which he was placed. He
could see from it the mountain of Lowther,
the highest in Lanarkshire; its
huge shoulders and top were distinctly
visible, standing forth in grand relief
from the red clouds above and behind
it. The last rays of the sun, bursting
from the rim of the horizon, still lingered
upon the hill, and, casting over its western
side a broad and luminous glare,
gave to it the appearance of a burnished
pyramid towering from the earth. This
gorgeous vision, however, did not continue
long. In a few minutes the mountain
lost its ruddy tint, and the sky
around it became obscurer. Shortly
afterwards a huge sable cloud was
observed hovering over its summit.
“Look, Mary,” cried Allan to his
daughter, “did you ever see anything
grander than this? Look at yon black
cloud that hangs over Lowther.” Mary
did so, and saw the same thing as was
remarked by her father. The cloud
came down slowly and majestically,
enveloped the summit of the mountain,
and descended for some way upon its
sides. At last, when it had fairly
settled, confirming, as it were, its dismal
empire, a flash of fire was seen suddenly
to issue from the midst of it. It
revealed, for an instant, the summit of
Lowther; then vanishing with meteor-like
rapidity, left everything in the
former state of gloom. Mary clung
with alarm to her father. “Hush, my
dear,” said Allan, pressing her closely
to him, “and you will hear the thunder.”
He had scarcely pronounced the word
when a clap was heard, so loud that the
summit of the mountain appeared to be
rent in twain. The terrific sound continued
some time, for the neighbouring
hills caught it up and re-echoed it to
each other, till it died away in the distance.
A succession of flashes and peals
from different quarters succeeded, and,
in a short time, a deluge of rain poured
down with the utmost violence.</p>

<p class='c008'>The two inmates did not hear this
noise without alarm. The rain beat
loudly upon the windows, while, every
now and then, fearful peals of thunder
burst overhead. Without, no object
was visible: darkness alone prevailed,
varied at intervals with fierce glares of
lightning. Thereafter gusts of wind
began to sweep with tumult through the
glen; and the stream which flowed past
the house was evidently swollen, from
the increased noise of its current rushing
impetuously on.</p>

<p class='c008'>The tempest continued to rage with
unabated violence, when a knock was
heard at the door. Allan opened it,
expecting to find his domestics; but to
his astonishment and dismay he beheld
the Rev. Thomas Hervey, one of the
most famous preachers of the Covenant.
He was a venerable old man, and
seemed overcome with fatigue and
want, for he was pale and drooping,
while his thin garments were drenched
with rain. Now, though Allan Hamilton
would yield to no man in benevolence,
he never, on any occasion, felt so
disposed, as at present, to outrage his
own feelings, and cast aside the godlike
virtue of charity. Mr Hervey, like
many other good men, was proscribed
by the ruling powers; and persecution
then ran so high, that to grant him a
night’s lodging amounted to a capital
crime. Many persons had already been
shot for affording this slight charity to
the outlawed Covenanters: Allan himself
had been an unwilling witness of
this dreadful fact. It was not, therefore,
with his usual alacrity that he
welcomed in the way-worn stranger.
On the contrary, he held the door half-shut,
and in a tone of embarrassment
asked him what he wanted.</p>

<p class='c008'>“I see, Mr Hamilton,” said the
minister, calmly, “that you do not wish
I should cross your threshold. You
ask me what I want. Is that Christian?
What can any one want in a night like
this, but lodgment and protection? If
you grant it to me, I shall pray for
you and yours; if you refuse it, I can
only shake the dust off my feet and
depart, albeit it be to death.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Mr Hervey,” said Allan, “you know
your situation, and you know mine.
I would be loth to treat the meanest
thing that breathes as I have now
treated you; but you are an outlawed
man, and a lodging for one night under
my roof is as much as my life is worth.
Was it not last month I saw one of my
nearest neighbours cruelly slain for doing
a less thing,—even for giving a morsel
of bread to one of your brethren? Mr
Hervey, I repeat it, and with sorrow,
that you know my situation, and that
for the sake of my poor daughter and
myself I have no alternative.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Yes, I know your situation,”
answered the preacher, drawing himself
up indignantly. “You are one of those
faint-hearted believers who, for the sake
of ease and temporal gain, have deserted
that glorious cause for which your
fathers have struggled. You are one
of those who can stand by coolly and
see others fight the good fight; and
when they have overcome, you will
doubtless enjoy the blessed fruits of their
combating. You held back in the time
of need: you have abetted prelacy and
persecution, in so far as you have not
set your shoulder to the wheel of the
Covenant. Now, when a humble forwarder
of that holy cause craves from
you an hour of shelter, you stand with
your door well-nigh closed, and refuse
him admittance. I leave God to judge
of your iniquity, and I quit your
inhospitable and unchristian mansion.”</p>

<p class='c008'>He was moving off when Mary Hamilton,
who had listened with a beating
heart to this colloquy, rushed forward and
caught him by the arm. Her beautiful
eyes were wet with tears, and she looked
at her parent with an expression in
which entreaty and upbraiding were
mingled together. “You will not turn
out this poor old man, father? Indeed
you will not. You were only jesting.
Come in, Mr Hervey; my father
did not mean what he said;”—and she
led him in by the hand, pushing gently
back Allan, who still stood by the
door. “Now, Mr Hervey, sit down
there and dry yourself; and, father,
shut the door.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Thank you, my fair maiden,” said
the minister. “The Lord, for this
good deed, will aid you in your distresses.
You have shown that the old may be
taught by the young; and I pray that
this lesson of charity, which you have
given to your father, may not turn out
to your scaith or his.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Allan said nothing; he felt that the
part he had acted was hardly a generous
one, although perhaps justified by the
stern necessity of the times. His heart
was naturally benevolent, and in the
consciousness of self-reproach every
dread of danger was obliterated.</p>

<p class='c008'>The first attention of him and Mary
was directed to their guest. His garments
having been thoroughly dried,
food was placed before him, of which
he partook, after returning thanks to
God in a lengthened grace, for so disposing
towards him the hearts of His
creatures. When he had finished the
repast, he raised his face slightly towards
heaven, closed his eyes, and
clasping his hands together, fervently
implored the blessings of Providence
on the father of that mansion and his
child. When he had done this, he
took a small Bible from his pocket, and
read some of the most affecting passages
of the Old Testament, descanting upon
them as he went along: how God fed
Elijah in the wilderness; how he conducted
the Israelites through their forty
years of sojourn; how Daniel, by faith,
remained unhurt in the lion’s den; and
how Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego,
walked through the fiery furnace, and
not even their garments were touched
by the flames. Allan and Mary listened
with the most intense interest to the
old man, whose voice became stronger,
whose form seemed to dilate, and whose
eyes were lit up with a sort of prophetic
rapture, as he threw his spirit into those
mysteries of Holy Writ.</p>

<p class='c008'>After having concluded this part of
his devotions, and before retiring to
rest, he proposed that evening prayer
should be offered up. Each accordingly
knelt down, and he commenced in a
strain of ardent and impassioned language.
He deplored the afflicted state
of God’s kirk; prayed that the hearts
of those who still clung to it might be
confirmed and made steadfast; that
confidence might be given to the wavering;
that those who from fear or worldly
considerations had held off from the
good cause, might be taught to see the
error of their ways; and that all backsliders
might be reclaimed, and become
goodly members of the broken and distressed
Covenant. “O Lord!” continued
he, “Thou who hast watched over
us in all time—who from Thy throne in
the highest heaven hast vouchsafed to
hearken to the prayer of Thy servants,
Thou will not now abandon us in our
need. We have worshipped Thee from
the depths of the valley, and the rocks
and hills of the desert have heard our
voices calling upon Thy name. ‘Where
is your temple, ye outcast remnant?’
cry the scorners. We answer, O Lord,
that we have no temple, but such as
Thou hast created; and yet from that
tabernacle of the wilderness hast thou
heard us, though storms walked around.
We have trod the valley of the shadow
of death, and yet Thou hast been a light
in our path; we have been chased like
wild beasts through the land, yet Thy
spirit hath not deserted us; armed men
have encompassed us on all sides,
threatening to destroy, yet our hearts
have not failed; neither has the prison
nor the torture had power to make us
abjure Thy most holy laws.”</p>

<p class='c008'>During the whole of his supplication,
which he had poured forth with singular
enthusiasm, the storm continued without,
and distant peals of thunder were occasionally
heard. This convulsion of
the elements did not, however, distract
his thoughts; on the contrary, it rendered
them more ardent; and in apostrophising
the tempest he frequently
rose to a pitch of wild sublimity.
Mary listened with deep awe. Her
feelings, constitutionally warm and religious,
were aroused, and she sobbed
with emotion. Allan Hamilton, though
not by nature a man of imagination,
was also strongly affected; he breathed
hard, and occasionally a half-suppressed
groan came from his breast. He could
not help feeling deep remorse for the
lukewarmness he had shown to the
great cause then at stake.</p>

<p class='c008'>The night, though fearfully tempestuous,
did not prevent slumber from
falling on the eyes of all. Each slept
soundly, and the old minister, perhaps,
more so than any. Many months had
elapsed since he had stretched himself
on such a couch as that which Mary
Hamilton had prepared for him; for he
was a dweller in the desert, and had
often lain upon the heath, with no other
shelter than his plaid afforded. His
slumbers, therefore, were delicious; but
they were not long, for no sooner had
the morning light begun to peep through
the window of his chamber than he was
up and at his devotions. Allan, though
an early riser, was still in bed, and not
a little astonished when he heard his
door open, and saw the old man walk
softly up to his side.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Hush! Allan Hamilton, do not
awaken the dear maiden, your daughter,
in the next room. I have come to
thank you and to bid you farewell. The
morning sun is up, and I may not
tarry longer here, consistent with my
own safety or yours. There are spies
through all the country; but peradventure
I have escaped their observation.
I am going a few miles off near the
Clyde, to meet sundry of my flock who
are to assemble there. May God bless
you, and send better times to this
afflicted land!”</p>

<h3 class='c015'><span class='sc'>Chapter II.</span></h3>

<p class='c014'>When Allan and his daughter sat
down to their homely breakfast, the
morning presented a pleasing contrast
to the previous night. The sky was
perfectly clear and serene. Every
mountain sparkled, and the earth had a
peculiar freshness diffused over its surface.
The few clouds visible were at a
great elevation, and were hurrying away,
as if not to leave a stain on the transparent
concave of heaven. There was
little wind on the lower regions, scarcely
sufficient to ruffle the surface of a
slumbering lake. The dampness of the
grass, the clay washed from the pebbles,
and the rivulet swollen and turbid,
were the only relics of the tempest.
The weather continued beautifully
serene, and when the sun was at its
height, one of the finest days was presented
that ever graced this most
gorgeous month of the year.</p>

<p class='c008'>It was about the middle of the day
when Mary, who happened to look out,
perceived six armed troopers approaching.
They were on foot, their broadswords
hanging at their sides, and
carbines swung over their shoulders. In
addition to this, each had a couple of
pistols stuck in his belt. As soon as she
saw them she ran in to her father with
manifest looks of alarm, and informed
him of their approach. Allan could
not help feeling uneasy at this intelligence;
for the military were then universally
dreaded, and whenever a number
were seen together, it was almost
always on some errand of destruction.
He went to the door; but just as he
reached it the soldiers were on the
point of entering. The leader of this
body he recognised to be the ferocious
Captain Clobberton, who had rendered
himself universally infamous by his
cruelties; and who, it was reported,
had in his career of persecution caused
no less than seventeen persons to be put
to death, in cold blood, without even
the formality of a trial. He was one of
the chief favourites of Dalzell, who used
to call him his “lamb.” The man’s
aspect did not belie his heart, for it was
fierce, lowering, and cruel. His companions,
with a single exception, seemed
well suited to their leader, and fit
instruments to carry his bloody mandates
into execution. Allan, when he
confronted this worthy agent of tyranny,
turned back, followed by him and his
crew into the house.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Shut the door, my dear chucks,”
said Clobberton; “we must have some
conversation with this godly man. So,
Mr Hamilton, you have taken up with
that pious remnant: you have turned a
psalm-singer, eh? Come, don’t stare
at me as if you saw an owl; answer my
question—yes or no.” Allan looked at
him with a steady eye. “Captain
Clobberton, you have asked me no
question. I shall not scruple to answer
anything which may be justly
commanded of me.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Answer me, then, sir,” continued
the captain. “Were you not present at
the field-preaching near Lanark, when
one of the king’s soldiers was slain, in
attempting with several others to disperse
it?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I was not,” answered Allan; “I
never in my life attended a field-preaching.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Or a conventicle?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Nor a conventicle either.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Do you mean to deny that you
are one of that hypocritical set, who
preach their absurd and treasonable
jargon in defiance of the law? In a
word, do you deny that you are one of
the sworn members of the Covenant?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I do deny it, stoutly.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Acknowledge it, and save your
wretched life. Acknowledge it, or I will
confront you with a proof which will
perhaps astonish you, and cost you
more than you are aware of.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I will tell no untruth, even to save
my life.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Then on your own stupid head rest
the consequences. Do you know one
Hervey, a preacher?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I do,” said Allan, firmly.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ha, here it comes! You have
then spoken to that man, most godly
Allan?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I have spoken to him.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“He has been in your house?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I do not mean to deny that he
has.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Has he not sung psalms in your
house, and prayed in your house, and
lodged in your house? Eh? And was
it not last night that these doings were
going on?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I will gainsay nothing of what you
have said.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Then Allan Hamilton,” said the
other, “I tell you plainly that you have
harboured a traitor; and that unless
you deliver him up, or tell where he
may be found, I shall hold you guilty
of treason, and punish you accordingly.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“The Lord’s will be done,” answered
Hamilton, with a deep sigh. “What I
did was an act of common charity.
The old man applied to me in his distress;
and it would have been cruel to
have closed my door against him.
Wreak your will upon me as it pleases
you. Where he has gone I know not;
and though I did know, I should hardly
consider myself justified in telling
you.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Then we shall make short work
with you,” rejoined Clobberton with an
oath. “Ross, give him ten minutes to
say his prayers, and then bind up his
eyes. It is needless to palaver with
him. We have other jobs of a like
kind to manage to-day.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Here Mary, who stood in a corner
listening with terrified heart, uttered
a loud scream when she heard her
father’s doom pronounced. She rushed
forth into the middle of the room, and
fell upon her knees before Clobberton.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Oh, captain, do not slay my
father! Take <em>my</em> life. It was <em>my</em>
fault alone that the old man was let
into the house. My father refused to
admit him. Take my life and save his.
I shall be his murderess if he die—for I
brought him into this trouble.”</p>

<p class='c008'>She continued some moments in
this attitude, gazing up at him with
looks of fear and entreaty, and clasping
his knees. He had, however, been too
long accustomed to scenes of this afflicting
nature to be much moved; and he
extricated himself from the unhappy
girl with brutal rudeness. She fell
speechless at his feet.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Confound the wench! Was there
ever seen the like of it? She takes me
for one of your chicken-hearted milksops,—out
of the way with the ninny.”</p>

<p class='c008'>He was about to lay rough hands
upon her, when a trooper, stepping forward,
raised her gently up and placed
her on a seat. This was the only one
of Clobberton’s followers whose appearance
was at all indicative of humanity.
He was a handsome and strongly-built
young man of six feet. His countenance
was well formed; but its expression
was rather dissolute, and rendered
stern, apparently by the prevalence of
some fierce internal passion. The marks
of a generous heart were, notwithstanding,
imprinted upon its bold outlines;
and whoever looked upon him could
not help thinking that his natural disposition
had been perverted by the
wicked characters and scenes among
which he was placed.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Captain,” said he, “I do not see
the use of shooting this old fool. I begin
to feel that we have had a surfeit of
this work. Besides, if what the girl declares
is correct, there is no great matter
of treason in the case. At all events, I
would vote to leave the business to the
Justiciary.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Graham,” said Clobberton, eyeing
him sternly, “give me none of your
cursed whining palaver. What is your
liver made of? When there is anything
in the way of justice to be done,
you are as mealy and cream-faced as if
you saw the devil. A fine fellow to
wear the king’s uniform! If you say
another word,” added he, with a frightful
oath, “I’ll have you reported to the
general!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Captain,” said Graham, stepping
modestly but firmly forward, “you may
speak of me as you please—you are my
officer—(though neither you nor any
man of the regiment need be told that
when my service was needed in real
danger, I was never behind); but I cannot
stand by unmoved and see downright
butchery. If you have anything
to urge against this man, let him be
brought to Edinburgh, and there tried
by the commission, which will punish
him severely enough, in all conscience,
if he be really guilty. I have assisted
in some of these murders; but my conscience
tells me that I have done wrong;
and whatever the consequences be, I
shall assist at them no more.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ay,” said Clobberton, “you are a
pretty dainty fellow—fitter to strut
about in regimentals before wenches
than behave like a man; but, Mr John
Graham, let me tell you that your eloquence,
instead of retarding, has hastened
the fate of this rascally traitor.
And, let me tell you farther, that on my
arrival at head-quarters, I shall have
you arraigned for mutiny and disobedience
of orders. Ross, blindfold
Hamilton and lead him out.”</p>

<p class='c008'>His command was instantly executed;
while Mary, in a fit of distraction, flew
up to her father, cast her arms round
his neck, and kissed him with the most
heart-rending affliction.</p>

<p class='c008'>“My father, my father, I am your
murderess! I will die with you! Ye
cruel-hearted men, will none of you
save him from this bloody death?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“My dear Mary, may God protect
you, and send you a happier lot than
mine,” was all that the unhappy parent
could articulate. He was then torn
from her with violence, and hurried out
to the green before the house. Mary,
on this separation, fell into a short
swoon; on awakening from which she
found herself in the chamber with no
one except Graham. His face was
flushed with anger, and he walked
impatiently up and down. By a sudden
impulse she ran to the window, and the
first sight which caught her eye was her
father kneeling down, and opposite to
him the four troopers, seemingly waiting
for the signal of Clobberton, who looked
intently at his watch. At this terrifying
spectacle, and in an agony of desperation,
she threw herself on her knees
before the soldier.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Young man—young man, save my
father’s life! Oh, try at least to save
him. I will love you, and work for
you, and be your slave for ever. Blessings
on your kind heart, you will do it—yes,
you will do it.” And she rose
up and threw her arms round his
neck, and kissed him on the cheek.
A tear rolled from Graham’s manly
eye, and his soul was moved with compassion
for the lovely being who clung
to him and implored him so feelingly.
He turned an instant to the window.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Let me go, my dear—the accursed
miscreant is putting up his watch and
has told them to present; there is not
a second to lose.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Without saying another word, he unslung
his carbine, rushed to the open
air—and shot Clobberton dead on the
spot.</p>

<p class='c008'>The troopers were confounded at this
sudden action. They lowered the
weapons which they had that instant
raised to their shoulders, and stood for
some time gazing confusedly at each
other—then at Graham—then at the
body of their captain. When they recovered
their self-possession, they raised
up the latter to see if any spark of life
remained. He was perfectly dead. The
following colloquy then ensued between
them.</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Russell.</em>—Why, I thinks as how he
be dead.</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Smith.</em>—Dead! ay, as dead as Julius
Cæsar. I wonder what old Dalzell
will say when he hears of his dear
“lamb” being butchered thus?</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Russell.</em>—Now hang it, Smith, don’t
speak ill of the captain. He was a
worthy man—that is to say, after his
own fashion; and no one ever sarved
his country better in the way of ridding
it of crop-eared preachers: he was
worth a score of hangmen.</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Ross.</em>—Gentlemen, there is no occasion
to stand jesting and talking nonsense.
Here is as pretty a piece of
murder as ever was committed; and it
remains for us to decide what we will
do, first with the traitor, Hamilton,
and secondly with the murderer,
Graham.</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Graham.</em>—Whatever you do with me,
I hope you will not harm that poor
man. Let him go; and thus do a
charitable action for once in your
lives.</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Russell.</em>—I always, do you see, gentlemen,
goes with the majority. Hang it,
shoot or not is all one to Dick Russell.
If you make up your minds to let him
go scot-free, why, I’se not oppose
it.</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Jones.</em>—Well, well, let him go and
sing psalms in his own canting fashion.</p>

<p class='c008'>The fact is, these men were getting
sick of shedding innocent blood, and
although ready to spill more on being
ordered, rather shunned it than otherwise—especially
when their victims were
unresisting.</p>

<p class='c008'>“I see, comrades, you are agreed to
let the old fool go unharmed,” said
Ross. Then walking up to Allan, who
still knelt—his daughter with her arms
around him, awaiting in terrible suspense
the result of their deliberation,
“Get up,” said he, “and bless your
stars; but take care in future of your
treasonable Covenanting tricks under the
cloak of charity. It is not every day
you will get a young fellow to shoot your
executioner and save your life. As for
you, Graham,” turning to his companion,
“I hold you prisoner. You must accompany
us to head-quarters, and there take
your trial for this business. You have
committed a black murder on the body
of your officer; and if we failed to bring
you up, old Dalzell would have us
shot like so many pyets the minute
after.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Graham’s carbine and pistols were
immediately taken from him, and his
hands tied behind his back by the
remaining troopers.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Farewell, young woman,” said he to
Mary, who looked at him with tears of
gratitude, “farewell! I have saved
your father’s life and forfeited my own:
don’t forget Jack Graham.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The unfortunate girl was distracted
at this heartrending sight; and she
rushed forward to entreat his guards to
give him liberty. One of them presented
his carbine at her—</p>

<p class='c008'>“Off, mistress; blast my heart, if it
were not for your pretty face, I would
send an ounce of cold lead through you.
What the devil—haven’t we spared
your father’s life, and you would have
us connive at the escape of a murderer,
to the risk of our own necks!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Do not distress yourself about me,
my sweet girl,” cried Graham—“farewell
once more!”</p>

<p class='c008'>And she turned back weeping, while
the troopers held their way towards the
western outlet of the valley.</p>

<h3 class='c015'><span class='sc'>Chapter III.</span></h3>

<p class='c014'>Mary was too generous to be happy
in the safety of her father, when that
was bought with the life of his brave
deliverer. When Graham was taken
away, she felt a pang as if he had been
led to execution. Instead, therefore,
of indulging in selfish congratulation,
her whole soul was taken up in the
romantic and apparently hopeless
scheme of extricating him from his
danger. There was not a moment to
lose; and she asked her father if he
could think of any way in which a rescue
might be attempted.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Mary, my dear, I know of none,”
was his answer. “We live far from any
house, and before assistance could be
procured, they would be miles beyond
our reach.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Yes, father, there is a chance,” said
she, with impatience. “Gallop over to
Allister Wilson’s on the other side of
the hills. He is a strong and determined
man, and, as well as some of his near
neighbours, is accustomed to contest.
You know he fought desperately at
Drumclog; and though he blamed you
for not joining the cause, he will not be
loth to assist in this bitter extremity.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Allan, at these words, started up as if
awakened from a reverie. “That will
do, my dear bairn. I never thought of
it; but your understanding is quicker
than mine. I shall get out the horse;
follow me on foot, as hard as you
can.”</p>

<p class='c008'>This was the work of a minute. The
horse was brought from the stable, and
Allan lashed him to his full speed across
the moor. Most fortunately he arrived
at Allister’s house as the latter was on
the point of leaving it. He carried a
musket over his shoulder, and a huge
claymore hung down from a belt girded
round his loins.</p>

<p class='c008'>“You have just come in time,” said
this stern son of the Covenant, after
Allan had briefly related to him what
had happened. “I am on my way to
hear that precious saint, Mr Hervey,
hold forth. You see I am armed to
defend myself against temporal foes,
and so are many others of my friends
and brethren in God, who will be
present on that blessed occasion. Come
away, Allan Hamilton, you are one of
the timid and faint-hearted flock of
Jacob, but we will aid you as you wish,
and peradventure save the young man
who has done you such a good turn.”</p>

<p class='c008'>They went on swiftly to a retired
spot at the distance of half a mile;
it was a small glen nearly surrounded
with rocks. There they beheld the
Reverend Mr Hervey standing upon a
mound of earth, and preaching to a
congregation, the greater part of the
males of which were armed with
muskets, swords, or pikes; they formed,
as it were, the outworks of the assembly,—the
women, old men, and children
being placed in the centre. These were
a few of the devoted Christians who,
from the rocks and caves of their native
land, sent up their fearless voices to
heaven—who, disowning the spiritual
authority of a tyrannic government,
thought it nowise unbecoming or treasonable
to oppose the strong arm of lawless
power with its own weapons; and who
finally triumphed in the glorious contest,
establishing that pure religion, for
which posterity has proved, alas, too
ungrateful!</p>

<p class='c008'>In the pressing urgency of the case,
Allister did not scruple to go up to the
minister, in the midst of his discourse.
Such interruptions indeed were common
in these distracted times, when it was
necessary to skulk from place to place,
and perform divine worship as if it was
an act of treason against the state. Mr
Hervey made known to his flock in a
few words what had been communicated
to him, taking care to applaud highly
the scheme proposed by Wilson. There
was no time to be lost, and under the
guidance of Allister the whole of the
assemblage hurried to a gorge of the
mountains through which the troopers
must necessarily pass. As the route of
the latter was circuitous, time was allowed
to this sagacious leader to arrange
his forces. This he did by placing all
the armed men—about twenty-five in
number—in two lines across the pass.
Those who were not armed, together
with the women and children, were
sent to the rear. When, therefore, the
soldiers came up, they found to their
surprise a formidable body ready to dispute
the passage.</p>

<p class='c008'>“What means this interruption?”
said Ross, who acted the part of spokesman
to the rest. Whereupon Mr Hervey
advanced in front—“Release,”
said he, “that young man whom ye
have in bonds.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Release him!” replied Ross.
“Would you have us release a murderer?
Are you aware that he has
shot his officer?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I am aware of it,” Mr Hervey
answered, “and I blame him not for
the deed. Stand forth, Allan Hamilton,
and say if that is the soldier who
saved your life; and you, Mary Hamilton,
stand forth likewise.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Both, to the astonishment of the
soldiers, came in front of the crowd.
“That,” said Allan, “is the man, and
may God bless him for his humanity.”—“It
is the same,” cried his daughter;
“I saw him with these eyes shoot the
cruel Clobberton. On my knees I begged
him to sue for mercy, and his kind
heart had pity upon me, and saved my
father.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Soldiers,” said Mr Hervey, “I
have nothing more to say to you. That
young man has slain your captain, but
he has done no murder. His deed was
justifiable: yea, it was praiseworthy, in
so far as it saved an upright man, and
rid the earth of a cruel persecutor.
Deliver him up, and go away in peace,
or peradventure ye may fare ill among
these armed men who stand before
you.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The troopers consulted together for a
short time, till, seeing that resistance
would be utter madness against such
odds, they reluctantly let go their
prisoner. The first person who came
up to him was Mary Hamilton. She
loosened the cords that tied him, and
presented him with conscious pride to
those of her own sex who were assembled
round.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Good bye, Graham,” cried Ross,
with a sneer;—“you have bit us once,
but it will puzzle you to do so again.
We shall soon ‘harry’ you and your
puritanical friends from your strongholds.
An ell of strong hemp is in
readiness for you at the Grassmarket of
Edinburgh. Take my defiance for a
knave, as you are,” added he, with an
imprecation.</p>

<p class='c008'>He had scarcely pronounced the last
sentence when Graham unsheathed the
weapon which hung at his side, sprang
from the middle of the crowd, and stood
before his defier. “Ross, you have
challenged me, and you shall abide it—draw!”
Here there was an instantaneous
movement among the Covenanters,
who rushed in between the two fierce
soldiers, who stood with their naked
weapons, their eyes glancing fire at each
other. Mary Hamilton screamed aloud
with terror, and cries of “separate
them!” were heard from all the women.
Mr Hervey came forward and entreated
them to put up their swords, and he was
seconded by most of the old men; but
all entreaties were in vain. They stood
fronting each other, and only waiting
for free ground to commence their desperate
game.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Let me alone,” said Graham, furiously,
to some who were attempting to
draw him back; “am I to be bearded to
my teeth by that swaggering ruffian?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Come on, my sweet cock of the
Covenant,” cries Ross, with the most
insulting derision, “you or any one of
your canting crew—or a dozen of you,
one after the other.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Let Graham go,” was heard from
the deep stern voice of Allister Wilson;
“let him go, or I will meet that man
with my own weapon. Mr Hervey,
your advice is dear to us all, and well
do we know that the blood of God’s
creatures must not be shed in vain; but
has not that man of blood openly defied
us, and shall we hinder our champion
from going forward to meet him? No;
let them join in combat and try which
is the better cause. If the challenger
overcomes, we shall do him no harm,
but let him depart in peace: if he be
overcome, let him rue the consequences
of his insolence.”</p>

<p class='c008'>This proposition, though violently
opposed by the women and the aged
part of the crowd, met the entire approbation
of the young men. Each felt himself
personally insulted, and allowed, for
a time, the turbulent passions of his nature
to get the better of every milder feeling.
A space of ground was immediately
cleared for the combat, the friends of
Ross being allowed to arrange matters
as they thought fit. They went about
it with a coolness and precision which
showed that to them this sort of pastime
was nothing new. “All is right—fall
on,” was their cry, and in a moment
the combatants met in the area. The
three troopers looked on with characteristic
<i><span lang="fr">sang froid</span></i>, but it was otherwise
with the rest of the bystanders,
who gazed upon the scene with the
most intense interest. Some of the
females turned away their eyes from it,
and among them Mary Hamilton, who
almost sank to the earth, and was with
difficulty supported by her father.</p>

<p class='c008'>The combat was desperate, for the
men were of powerful strength, and of
tried courage and skill in their
weapons. The blows were parried for
some time on both sides with consummate
address, and neither could
be said to have the advantage. At
length, after contending fiercely, Ross
exhibited signs of exhaustion—neither
guarding himself nor assaulting his
opponent so vigorously as at first.
Graham, on noticing this, redoubled his
efforts. He acted now wholly on the
offensive, sending blow upon blow with
the rapidity of lightning. His last and
most desperate stroke was made at the
head of his enemy. The sword of the
latter, which was held up in a masterly
manner to receive it, was beat down by
Graham’s weapon, which descended
forcibly upon his helmet. The blow
proved decisive, and Ross fell senseless
upon the ground. His conqueror immediately
wrested the weapon from him,
while a shout was set up by the crowd
in token of victory. The troopers
looked mortified at this result of the
duel, which was by them evidently unexpected.
Their first care was to raise
up their fellow comrade. On examination,
no wound was perceived upon
his head. His helmet had been penetrated
by the sword, which, however,
did not go further. His own weapon
had contributed to deaden the blow, by
partially arresting that of Graham in its
furious descent. It was this only which
saved his life. In a few minutes he so
far recovered as to get up and look
around him. The first object which
struck him was his opponent standing
in the ring wiping his forehead.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Well, Ross,” said one of his companions,
“I always took you to be the
best swordsman in the regiment; but I
think you have met your match.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“My match? confound me!” returned
the vanquished man, “I thought
I would have made minced meat of him.
There, for three years, have I had the
character of being one of the best men
in the army at my weapon, and here is
all this good name taken out of me in a
trice. How mortifying—and to lose
my good sword too!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Here is your sword, Ross, and keep
it,” said Graham. “You have behaved
like a brave man; and I honour such a
fellow, whether he be my friend or foe.
Only don’t go on with your insolent
bragging—that is all the advice I have
to give you; nor call any man a knave
till you have good proof that he is so.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Well, well, Graham,” answered the
other, “I retract what I said; I have
a better opinion of you than I had ten
minutes ago. Take care of old Dalzell—his
“lambs” will be after you, and
you had better keep out of the way.
Take this advice in return for my weapon
which you have given me back.
It would, after all, be a pity to tuck up
such a pretty fellow as you are; although
I would care very little to see your long-faced
acquaintances there dangling by
their necks. Give us your hand for old
fellowship, and shift your quarters as
soon as you choose. Good bye.” So
saying, he and his three comrades
departed.</p>

<p class='c008'>After these doings, it was considered
imprudent for the principal actors to
remain longer in this quarter. Mr
Hervey retired about twenty miles to
the northward, in company with Allan
Hamilton and his daughter, and Allister
Wilson. Graham went by a circuitous
route to Argyleshire, where he secreted
himself so judiciously, that though the
agents of government got information
of his being in that country, they could
never manage to lay hand upon
him. These steps were prudent in all
parties; for the very day after the
rescue, a strong body of dragoons was
sent to the Lowthers, to apprehend the
above named persons. They behaved
with great cruelty, burning the cottages
of numbers of the inhabitants, and
destroying their cattle. They searched
Allan Hamilton’s house, took from it
everything that could be easily carried
away, and such of his cattle as were
found on the premises. Among other
things, they carried off the body of the
sanguinary Clobberton, which they
found on the spot where it had been left,
and interred it in Lanark churchyard,
with military honours. None of the
individuals, however, whom they sought
for were found.</p>

<p class='c008'>For a short time after this, the persecution
raged with great violence in the
south of Lanarkshire; but happier days
were beginning to dawn; and the
arrival of King William, and the dethronement
of the bigoted James, put an
end to such scenes of cruelty. When
these events occurred, the persecuted
came forth from their hiding-places. Mr
Hervey, among others, returned to the
Lowthers, and enjoyed many happy
days in this seat of his ministry
and trials. Allan and his daughter
were among the first to make their
appearance. Their house soon recovered
its former comfort; and in the course of
time every worldly concern went well
with them. Mary, however, for a
month or more after their return, did
not feel entirely satisfied. She was
duller than was her wont, and neither
she nor her father could give any explanation
why it should be so. At this
time a tall young man paid them a visit,
and, strange to say, she became perfectly
happy. This visitor was no other than
the wild fighting fellow Graham,—now
perfectly reformed from his former evil
courses, by separation from his profligate
companions, and by the better company
and principles with which his late troubles
had brought him acquainted.</p>

<p class='c008'>A few words more will end our story.
This bold trooper and the beautiful
daughter of Allan Hamilton were seen
five weeks thereafter going to church as
man and wife. It was allowed that
they were the handsomest couple ever
seen in the Lowthers. Graham proved
a kind husband; and it is hardly necessary
to say that Mary was a most affectionate
and exemplary wife. Allan
Hamilton attained a happy old age, and
saw his grandchildren ripening into
fair promise around him. His daughter,
many years after his death, used to
repeat to them the story of his danger
and escape, which we have here imperfectly
related. The tale is not fictitious.
It is handed down in tradition over the
upper and middle wards of Lanarkshire,
and with a consistency which leaves no
doubt of its truth.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='the_poor_scholar' class='c006'>THE POOR SCHOLAR.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By Professor Wilson.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>The vernal weather, that had come so
early in the year as to induce a fear that
it would not be lasting, seemed, contrary
to that foreboding of change, to
become every day more mild and genial,
and the spirit of beauty, that had at
first ventured out over the bosom of the
earth with timid footsteps, was now
blending itself more boldly with the
deep verdure of the ground, and the
life of the budding trees. Something
in the air, and in the great wide blue
bending arch of the unclouded sky,
called upon the heart to come forth
from the seclusion of parlour or study,
and partake of the cheerfulness of
nature.</p>

<p class='c008'>We had made some short excursions
together up the lonely glens, and over
the moors, and also through the more
thickly inhabited field-farms of his
parish, and now the old minister proposed
that we should pay a visit to a
solitary hut near the head of a dell,
which, although not very remote from
the manse, we had not yet seen; and I
was anxious that we should do so, as,
from his conversation, I understood that
we should see there a family—if so a
widow and her one son could be called—that
would repay us by the interest we
could not fail to feel in their character,
for the time and toil spent on reaching
their secluded and guarded dwelling.</p>

<p class='c008'>“The poor widow woman,” said the
minister, “who lives in the hut called
Braehead, has as noble a soul as ever
tenanted a human bosom. One earthly
hope alone has she now—but I fear it
never will be fulfilled. She is the
widow of a common cottar, who lived
and died in the hut which she and her
son now inhabit. Her husband was a
man of little education, but intelligent,
even ingenious, simple, laborious, and
pious. His duties lay all within a
narrow circle, and his temptations, it
may be said, were few. Such as they
were, he discharged the one and withstood
the other. Nor is there any
reason to think that, had they both been
greater, he would have been found
wanting. He was contented with meal
and water all his days, and so fond of
work that he seemed to love the
summer chiefly for the length of its
labouring days. He had a slight genius
for mechanics; and during the long
winter evenings he made many articles
of curious workmanship, the sale of
which added a little to the earnings of
his severer toil. The same love of
industry excited him from morning to
night; but he had also stronger, tenderer,
and dearer motives; for if his wife and
their one pretty boy should outlive him,
he hoped that, though left poor, they
would not be left in penury, but enabled
to lead, without any additional hardships,
the usual life, at least, of the
widow and the orphans of honest hardworking
men. Few thought much about
Abraham Blane while he lived, except
that he was an industrious and blameless
man; but, on his death, it was
felt that there had been something far
more valuable in his character; and
now, I myself, who knew him well,
was pleasingly surprised to know that
he had left his widow and boy a small
independence. Then the memory of
his long summer days, and long winter
nights, all ceaselessly employed in some
kind of manual labour, dignified the
lowly and steadfast virtue of the unpretending
and conscientious man.</p>

<p class='c008'>“The widow of this humble-hearted
and simple-minded man, whom we
shall this forenoon visit, you will remember,
perhaps,—although then neither
she nor her husband were much known
in the parish,—as the wife of the basket-maker.
Her father had been a clergyman—but
his stipend was one of the
smallest in Scotland, and he died in
extreme poverty. This, his only daughter,
who had many fine feelings and
deep thoughts in her young innocent
and simple heart, was forced to become
a menial servant in a farmhouse. There,
subduing her heart to her situation, she
married that inoffensive and good man;
and all her life has been—maid, wife,
and widow—the humblest among the
humble. But you shall soon have an
opportunity of seeing, what sense, what
feeling, what knowledge, and what
piety, may all live together, without their
owner suspecting them, in the soul of
the lonely widow of a Scottish cottar;
for except that she is pious, she thinks
not that she possesses any other treasure;
and even her piety she regards,
like a true Christian, as a gift bestowed.</p>

<p class='c008'>“But well worthy of esteem, and, to
speak in the language of this world’s
fancies, of admiration, as you will
think this poor solitary widow, perhaps
you will think such feelings bestowed
even more deservedly on her only son.
He is now a boy only of sixteen years of
age, but in my limited experience of life,
never knew I such another. From his
veriest infancy he showed a singular
capacity for learning; at seven years of
age he could read, write, and was even
an arithmetician. He seized upon
books with the same avidity with which
children in general seize upon playthings.
He soon caught glimmerings
of the meaning even of other languages;
and, before he was ten years old, there
were in his mind clear dawnings of the
scholar, and indications not to be
doubted of genius and intellectual
power. His father was dead—but his
mother, who was no common woman,
however common her lot, saw with pure
delight, and with strong maternal pride,
that God had given her an extraordinary
child to bless her solitary hut. She
vowed to dedicate him to the ministry,
and that all her husband had left should
be spent upon him, to the last farthing,
to qualify him to be a preacher of God’s
Word. Such ambition, if sometimes
misplaced, is almost always necessarily
honourable. Here it was justified by
the excelling talents of the boy—by his
zeal for knowledge, which was like a
fever in his blood—and by a childish
piety, of which the simple, and eloquent,
and beautiful expression has more than
once made me shed tears. But let us
leave the manse, and walk to Braehead.
The sunshine is precious at this early
season; let us enjoy it while it smiles!”</p>

<p class='c008'>We crossed a few fields—a few coppice
woods—an extensive sheep-pasture,
and then found ourselves on the edge
of a moorland. Keeping the shelving
heather ridge of hills above us, we
gently descended into a narrow rushy
glen, without anything that could be
called a stream, but here and there
crossed and intersected by various runlets.
Soon all cultivation ceased, and
no houses were to be seen. Had the
glen been a long one, it would have
seemed desolate, but on turning round
a little green mount that ran almost
across it, we saw at once an end to our
walk, and one hut, with a peatstack
close to it, and one or two elder, or, as
we call them in Scotland, bourtrie
bushes, at the low gable-end. A little
smoke seemed to tinge the air over the
roof uncertainly—but except in that,
there was nothing to tell that the hut
was inhabited. A few sheep lying near
it, and a single cow of the small hill-breed,
seemed to appertain to the hut,
and a circular wall behind it apparently
enclosed the garden. We sat down together
on one of those large mossy
stones that often lie among the smooth
green pastoral hills, like the relics of
some building utterly decayed—and my
venerable friend, whose solemn voice
was indeed pleasant in this quiet solitude,
continued the simple history of the
poor scholar.</p>

<p class='c008'>“At school he soon outstripped all
the other boys, but no desire of superiority
over his companions seemed to
actuate him—it was the pure native love
of knowledge. Gentle as a lamb, but
happy as a lark, the very wildest of
them all loved Isaac Blane. He procured
a Hebrew Bible and a Greek
Testament, both of which he taught
himself to read. It was more than
affecting—it was sublime and awful to
see the solitary boy sitting by himself
on the braes shedding tears over the
mysteries of the Christian faith. His
mother’s heart burned within her towards
her son; and if it was pride, you
will allow that it was pride of a divine
origin. She appeared with him in the
kirk every Sabbath, dressed not ostentatiously,
but still in a way that showed
she intended him not for a life of manual
labour. Perhaps, at first, some half
thought that she was too proud of him;
but that was a suggestion not to be
cherished, for all acknowledged that he
was sure to prove an honour to the
parish in which he was born. She
often brought him to the manse, and
earth did not contain a happier creature
than she, when her boy answered all
my questions, and modestly made his
own simple, yet wise remarks on the
sacred subjects gradually unfolding before
his understanding and his heart.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Before he was twelve years of age
he went to college; and his mother
accompanied him to pass the winter in
the city. Two small rooms she took near
the cathedral; and while he was at the
classes, or reading alone, she was not
idle, but strove to make a small sum to
help to defray their winter’s expenses.
To her that retired cell was a heaven
when she looked upon her pious and
studious boy. His genius was soon conspicuous;
for four winters he pursued
his studies in the university, returning
always in summer to this hut, the door
of which during their absence was closed.
He made many friends, and frequently
during the three last summers, visitors
came to pass a day at Braehead, in a
rank of life far above his own. But in
Scotland, thank God, talent and learning,
and genius and virtue, when found
in the poorest hut, go not without their
admiration and their reward. Young
as he is, he has had pupils of his own—his
mother’s little property has not been
lessened at this hour by his education;
and besides contributing to the support
of her and himself, he has brought
neater furniture into that lonely hut,
and there has he a library, limited in
the number, but rich in the choice of
books, such as contain food for years of
silent thought to the poor scholar—if
years indeed are to be his on earth.”</p>

<p class='c008'>We rose to proceed onwards to the
hut, across one smooth level of greenest
herbage, and up one intervening knowe,
a little lower than the mount on which
it stood. Why, thought I, has the old
man always spoken of the poor scholar
as if he had been speaking of one now
dead? Can it be, from the hints he has
dropped, that this youth, so richly
endowed, is under the doom of death,
and the fountain of all those clear and
fresh-gushing thoughts about to be sealed?
I asked, as we walked along, if
Isaac Blane seemed marked out to be
one of those sweet flowers “no sooner
blown than blasted,” and who perish
away like the creatures of a dream?
The old man made answer that it
was even so, that he had been unable
to attend college last winter, and that
it was to be feared he was now far
advanced in a hopeless decline. “Simple
is he still as a very child; but with a
sublime sense of duty to God and man—of
profound affection and humanity
never to be appeased towards all the
brethren of our race. Each month—each
week—each day, has seemed visibly to
bring him new stores of silent feeling
and thought—and even now, boy as he
is, he is fit for the ministry. But he has
no hopes of living to that day—nor have
I. The deep spirit of his piety is now
blended with a sure prescience of an
early death. Expect, therefore, to see
him pale, emaciated, and sitting in the
hut like a beautiful and blessed ghost.”</p>

<p class='c008'>We entered the hut, but no one was
in the room. The clock ticked solitarily,
and on a table, beside a nearly extinguished
peat fire, lay the open Bible,
and a small volume, which, on lifting it
up, I found to be a Greek Testament.</p>

<p class='c008'>“They have gone out to walk, or to
sit down for an hour in the warm sunshine,”
said the old man. “Let us sit
down and wait their return. It will not
be long.” A long, low sigh was heard in
the silence, proceeding, as it seemed,
from a small room adjoining that in
which we were sitting, and of which the
door was left half open. The minister
looked into that room, and, after a long
earnest gaze, stepped softly back to me
again, with a solemn face, and taking
me by the hand, whispered to me to
come with him to that door, which he
gently moved. On a low bed lay the
poor scholar, dressed as he had been for
the day, stretched out in a stillness too
motionless and profound for sleep, and
with his fixed face up to heaven. We
saw that he was dead. His mother was
kneeling, with her face on the bed, and
covered with both her hands. Then
she lifted up her eyes and said, “O
merciful Redeemer, who wrought that
miracle on the child of the widow of
Nain, comfort me—comfort me, in this
my sore distress. I know that my son
is never to rise again until the great judgment
day. But not the less do I bless Thy
holy name, for Thou didst die to save us
sinners.”</p>

<p class='c008'>She arose from her knees, and, still
blind to every other object, went up to
his breast. “I thought thee lovelier,
when alive, than any of the sons of the
children of men, but that smile is beyond
the power of a mother’s heart to
sustain.” And, stooping down, she
kissed his lips, and cheeks, and eyes,
and forehead, with a hundred soft,
streaming, and murmuring kisses, and
then stood up in her solitary hut, alone
and childless, with a long mortal sigh,
in which all earthly feelings seemed
breathed out, and all earthly ties broken.
Her eyes wandered towards the door,
and fixed themselves with a ghastly and
unconscious gaze for a few moments on the
gray locks and withered countenance of
the holy old man, bent towards her with
a pitying and benignant air, and stooped,
too, in the posture of devotion. She
soon recognised the best friend of her
son, and leaving the bed on which his
body lay, she came out into the room,
and said, “You have come to me at a
time when your presence was sorely
needed. Had you been here but a few
minutes sooner you would have seen my
Isaac die!”</p>

<p class='c008'>Unconsciously we were all seated;
and the widow, turning fervently to
her venerated friend, said, “He was
reading the Bible—he felt faint—and
said feebly, ‘Mother, attend me to my
bed, and when I lie down, put your arm
over my breast and kiss me.’ I did just
as he told me; and, on wiping away
a tear or two vainly shed by me on my
dear boy’s face, I saw that his eyes,
though open, moved not, and that the
lids were fixed. He had gone to
another world. See—sir! there is the
Bible lying open at the place he was
reading—God preserve my soul from
repining!—only a few, few minutes
ago.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The minister took the Bible on his
knees, and laying his right hand, without
selection, on part of one of the
pages that lay open, he read aloud the
following verses:—</p>

<p class='c008'>“Blessed are the poor in spirit: for
theirs is the kingdom of heaven.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Blessed are they that mourn: for
they shall be comforted.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The mother’s heart seemed to be
deeply blest for a while by these words.
She gave a grateful smile to the old
man, and sat silent, moving her lips.
At length she again broke forth:—</p>

<p class='c008'>“Oh! death, whatever may have
been our thoughts or fears, ever comes
unexpectedly at last. My son often—often
told me, that he was dying, and I
saw that it was so ever since Christmas.
But how could I prevent hope from entering
my heart? His sweet happy
voice—the calmness of his prayers—his
smiles that never left his face whenever
he looked or spoke to me—his
studies, still pursued as anxiously as
ever—the interest he took in any little
incident of our retired life—all forced
me to believe at times that he was not
destined to die. But why think on all
these things now? Yes! I will always
think of them, till I join him and my
husband in heaven!”</p>

<p class='c008'>It seemed now as if the widow had
only noticed me for the first time. Her
soul had been so engrossed with its
passion of grief, and with the felt
sympathy and compassion of my venerable
friend. She asked me if I had
known her son; and I answered, that if
I had, I could not have sat there so
composedly; but that I was no stranger
to his incomparable excellence, and felt
indeed for her grievous loss. She
listened to my words, but did not seem
to hear them, and once more addressed
the old man.</p>

<p class='c008'>“He suffered much sickness, my poor
boy. For although it was a consumption,
that is not always an easy death.
But as soon as the sickness and the racking
pain gave way to our united prayers,
God and our Saviour made us happy;
and sure he spake then as never mortal
spake, kindling into a happiness that
was beautiful to see, when I beheld his
face marked by dissolution, and knew,
even in those inspired moments (for I
can call them nothing else), that ere
long the dust was to lie on those
lips now flowing over with heavenly
music!”</p>

<p class='c008'>We sat for some hours in the widow’s
hut, and the minister several times
prayed with her, at her own request.
On rising to depart, he said that he
would send up one of her dearest
friends to pass the night with her, and
help her to do the last offices to her son.
But she replied that she wished to be
left alone for that day and night, and
would expect her friend in the morning.
We went towards the outer door, and
she, in a sort of sudden stupor, let us
depart without any farewell words, and
retired into the room where her son
was lying. Casting back our eyes before
our departure, we saw her steal into
the bed beside the dead body, and
drawing the head gently into her
bosom, she lay down with him in her
arms, and as if they had in that manner
fallen asleep.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='the_crushed_bonnet' class='c006'>THE CRUSHED BONNET.</h2>
</div>

<p class='c007'>Towards the close of a beautiful
autumnal day in 18—, when pacing
slowly on my way, and in a contemplative
mood admiring the delightful scenery between
Blair Athole and Dunkeld, on my
return from a survey of the celebrated
pass of Killiecrankie, and other places
rendered famous in Scottish story, I
was accosted by a female, little past the
prime of life, but with two children
of unequal age walking by her side, and
a younger slung upon her back. The
salutation was of the supplicatory kind,
and while the tones were almost perfectly
English, the pronunciation of the
words was often highly Scottish. The
words, a “sodger’s widow”—“three
helpless bairns”—and “Waterloo,”
broke my meditations with the force of
an enchantment, excited my sympathy,
and made me draw my purse. While
in the act of tendering a piece of money—a
cheap and easy mode of procuring the
luxury of doing good—I thought the countenance,
though browned and weather-beaten,
one which I before had seen, without
exactly recollecting when or where.
My curiosity thus raised, many interrogatives
and answers speedily followed,
when at last I discovered that there stood
before me Jeanie Strathavon, once the
beauty and the pride of my own native
village. Ten long and troublous years
had passed away since Jeanie left the
neighbourhood in which she was born to
follow the spirit-stirring drum; and
where she had gone, or how she
had afterwards fared, many enquired,
though but few could tell. The incident
which led to all her subsequent
toil and suffering seemed but trivial at
the time, yet, like many other trivial
occurrences, became to her one fraught
with mighty consequences.</p>

<p class='c008'>She was an only daughter, her father
was an honest labourer, and though not
nursed in the bosom of affluence, she
hardly knew what it was to have a wish
ungratified. She possessed mental vivacity,
and personal attractions, rarely
exhibited, especially at the present day,
by persons in her humble sphere of life.
Though she never could boast what
might properly be called education, yet
great care had been taken to render her
modest, affectionate, and pious. Her
parents, now in the decline of life, looked
upon her as their only solace. She
had been from her very birth the idol
of their hearts; and as there was no
sunshine in their days but when she was
healthy and happy, so their prospects
were never clouded but when she was
the reverse. Always the favourite of one
sex, and the envy of another, when not
yet out of her teens, she was importuned
by the addresses of many both of her
own rank and of a rank above her own, to
change her mode of life. The attentions
of the latter, in obedience to the suggestions
of her affectionate but simple
hearted parents, she always discouraged,
for they never would allow themselves to
think that “folk wi’ siller would be looking
after their bairn for ony gude end.”
Among those of her own station, she could
hardly be said to have yet shown a decided
preference to any one, though the
glances which she cast at Henry
Williams, when passing through the
kirkyard on Sundays, seemed to every
one to say where, if she had her own
unbiassed will, her choice would light.
Still she had never thought seriously
upon the time when, nor the person
for whom, she would leave her fond
and doting parents. Chance or accident,
however, in these matters, often
outruns the speed of deliberate choice;
at least such was the case with poor
Jeanie.</p>

<p class='c008'>Decked out one Sabbath morning in
her best, to go to what Burns calls a
“Holy Fair,” in the neighbouring
parish, though viewed in a far different
light by her, Jeanie had on her brawest
and her best; and among other things,
a fine new bonnet, which excited the
gossip and the gaze of all the lasses in
the village. Having sat for an hour or
two at the tent, listening earnestly and
devoutly to a discourse which formed a
complete body of divinity, she, with
many others, was at length obliged to
take refuge in the church, to shun a
heavy summer shower, which unexpectedly
arrested the out-door devotions.
Here, whether wearied with the long
walk she had in the morning, or overpowered
with the heat and suffocation
consequent upon such a crowd, she
began to feel a serious oppression of
sickness, and before she could effect her
escape she entirely fainted away, requiring
to be carried out in a state of
complete insensibility.</p>

<p class='c008'>It was long before she came to herself;
and when she did, she found that the rough
hands of those who had caught her when
falling, and borne her through the crowd
to the open air, had, amidst the anxiety
for her recovery, treated her finery with
but very little ceremony. Among other
instances of this kind, she found that
her bonnet had been hastily torn from her
head, thrown carelessly aside, and, being
accidentally trod upon, had been so
crushed, as to render it perfectly
useless. The grief which this caused
made her forget the occasion which
produced such disaster; and adjusting
herself as well as she could, she
did not wait the conclusion of the
solemn service, but sought her father’s
cottage amidst much sorrow and confusion.</p>

<p class='c008'>When she reached home, she found her
parents engaged in devotional reading,
their usual mode of spending the Sabbath
evenings. As it was not altogether with
their consent that she had not accompanied
them that day to their usual place
of being instructed in divine things, the
plight in which she returned to them
excited, especially on the mother’s part,
a hasty burst of displeasure, if not of
anger; and the calm improving peace
of the evening was entirely broken.
Sacred as to them the day appeared,
they could not restrain inquiry as to the
cause of her altered appearance, and
maternal anxiety gave birth to suspicions
which poor Jeanie’s known veracity and
simple unaffected narrative could not
altogether repress. Thus, for the first
time in her life, had Jeanie excited the
frown of her parents, and every reproving
look and word was as a dagger
to her heart.</p>

<p class='c008'>Night came, and she retired to rest, but
her innocent breast was too much agitated
to allow her eyes to close in sleep; and the
return of morning only brought with it an
additional burden to her heart, by a
renewed discussion of the events of the
previous day. This was more than she
was able to stand, and she took the first
opportunity to escape from that roof
where, till now, she had never known
aught but delight, to go to pour her
complaint into the ear of one who
seemed to love her almost to distraction,—her
youthful admirer, Henry Williams.
Their interview, though not long, terminated
in the proposal on his part to
relieve her from her embarrassed situation
by forthwith making her his own.
Whether this was what she desired, in
having recourse to such an adviser,
cannot be known, but, at all events,
she acceded with blamable facility to
his wishes. She could not endure the
thought of being without a friend, and
she knew not that the friendship and
affection of her parents had suffered no
abatement, though their great concern for
her innocence and welfare had pushed
their reproofs further than they intended,
or than prudence under such circumstances
would warrant.</p>

<p class='c008'>Henry was little more than her own
age, of but moderate capacity, handsome
in person, and ill provided with
the means of making matrimony a state
of enjoyment; and too much addicted
to the frivolities of his years to be fitted
for the serious business of being the
head of a family. Youth and inexperience
seldom consider consequences, and
the desire of the one to receive, and of
the other to afford relief, under existing
circumstances, made them resolve neither
to ask parental consent to their
purpose, nor wait the ordinary steps
prescribed by the Church. The connection
was therefore no less irregular
than it was precipitate, and Jeanie
never so much as sought to see her
father’s house till the solemn knot was
tied.</p>

<p class='c008'>In her absence many inquiries were
made respecting her by the villagers,
who had witnessed or heard of what
had happened to her on the previous
day. Her truth and innocence being
thus put beyond the shadow of a doubt,
consternation at the long absence of
their child, and compunction for the
severity of their reproofs, drove the
unhappy parents almost frantic. When
the news of the re-appearance of
their daughter dispelled their direful
apprehensions as to her safety, though
they felt a momentary gleam of joy,
yet they experienced nothing like heartfelt
satisfaction.</p>

<p class='c008'>Jeanie made as sweet and loving a
wife as she had been a daughter; but
the cares of providing for more than
himself soon made Henry regret his
rashness, and the prospect of these cares
speedily increasing made him more and
more dissatisfied with his new state of
life. All Jeanie’s care and anxiety to
soothe and please him were unavailing.
It is not in the power of beauty, youth,
and innocence, to check and control
the sallies of ignorance and caprice.
Chagrined because his youthful wife
had not prepared his morning meal
to his liking, on a day when he was
to visit a neighbouring city for some
trifling purpose, he determined to free
himself from the yoke into which he
had so heedlessly run, and returned
home on the evening of the following
day somewhat altered in dress and appearance,
and with the king’s money in
his pocket. The grief and agony of
Jeanie, and of her affectionate parents,
were past all description; and the consideration
of her rashness and imprudence
having been the occasion of so
much distress to herself and others,
rendered her almost desperate.</p>

<p class='c008'>Henry was not long in the hands of
the drill sergeant till he became nearly
as penitent and full of regrets as his
lovely young wife, and he willingly
would, had he been permitted, have returned
to a faithful discharge of the
duties of a husband; but the country
was at that time in too great need of
men such as Henry, to part with him
either for money or interest. When he
began to reap the bitter fruits of his
own folly, his affection for Jeanie, if it
ever deserved so sacred a name, returned
with redoubled intensity; and
that object, for the abandonment of
which he had plunged himself into the
hardships of which he complained, he
thought he could not now live without.
He was shortly to be marched off to his
regiment, and poor Jeanie, whose attachment
remained unshaken amidst
the severe treatment she had suffered,
determined to follow him through all
the casualties of the military life; and
at any rate preferred hardship to the
disgrace which she thought she had
brought upon herself by her own imprudence.
She had at this time been a
mother for little more than two months;
but even this could not change her resolution
to follow the father of her child,
exposed as she must be to all the privations
and hardships of the soldier’s wife.
She saw her father and mother on the
morning of her departure, but neither
she nor they were able to exchange
words, so full were their hearts; save
that the old man said, “God help and
bless you, Jeanie!” Scarcely a dry eye
was to be seen in the village that morning,
and a crowd of youths, amidst silent
dejection, saw her far on her way,
carrying her baby and her bundle by
turns. The toils through which she
passed in following her husband were
too many and too severe to be here related.
He was ultimately one of those
who assisted to decide the dreadful conflict
at Waterloo, and received a severe
wound when the day was just about
won. In a foreign hospital, though he
suffered much, he at length recovered;
but upon returning home, his wounds
broke forth afresh, and at last carried
him off. Jeanie was now left quite unfriended.
She had seen her two eldest
children laid in the dust, the one in a
distant clime, and the other, though on
British soil, yet far from the tomb
of her fathers. She still had three surviving,
and her parents being gone to
their long home, her only resource at
the time I met her was dependence on
public charity.—“<cite>The Athenæum</cite>,”—<cite>Glasgow
University Annual</cite>, 1830.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='the_villagers_of_auchincraig' class='c006'>THE VILLAGERS OF AUCHINCRAIG.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By Daniel Gorrie.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>In one of the eastern counties of
Scotland, there is a pleasant secluded
valley, known by the name of Strathkirtle.
It is well cultivated, growing
good grain crops, abounding in rich
pasture-land, and beautified by the
water of Kirtle, which winds smoothly
along between its fertile banks, and loses
itself at last in the German Ocean.
Strips and roundels of woodland, snug
farm steadings, and the sheltering hills
on either side, impart an air of peace and
an aspect of comfort to this secluded
Scottish strath, such as may rarely be
witnessed in other countries. Spring
nurses there her sweetest wild-flowers,
on the meadows, in the woods, and by
the water-courses; summer comes early
with choirs of singing-birds, and the
voice of the cuckoo; autumn adorns the
fields with the mellowest beauty, and
touches the green leaves into gold; and
winter ever spares some gladsome
relics of the sister seasons, to cheer
the hearts of the inhabitants at Strathkirtle.</p>

<p class='c008'>In the centre of the valley, and close
beside the stream, there formerly stood
the ancient village of Auchincraig; but
the progress of improvement has, I am
told, almost swept its last vestiges
away. It was, without exception, the
oddest, old-fashioned place in which I
ever resided for any length of time.
The dwelling-houses were of all shapes
and sizes, and they had been built,
whether solitary, in rows, or in batches,
in utter contempt of all order and
regularity. One might almost have
imagined that they had fallen down in
dire confusion from the clouds, and
been allowed to stand peaceably where
they fell. Some had their gables to the
street, some were planted back to back,
some frowned front to front. The roofs
of not a few rose in ridges like the back
of a dromedary, while the appearance
of others betokened a perilous collapse
and sudden downfall. Auchincraig
could boast of styles of architecture
unknown to Grecian and Roman fame.
The primitive builders had not been
particular regarding the situation of the
doors, and evidently considered windows
as useless breaks in the walls. Houses
two storeys high, with weather-worn
and weather-stained slate roofs, stood
beside humbler dwellings, low and
long, and covered with thatch. The
parish church was situated in the burial
ground at the east end of the village.
It was an old edifice, with ivy-mantled
spire, which seemed ready to sink down
and mingle with the dust of the many
generations who slept around. Jackdaws
congregated on its summit, and
swallows, unmolested, built their nests
in all the windows of the hoary pile.
The parish manse, which appeared
scarcely less ancient than the church,
stood about a stone’s cast from the
place of graves. Primeval trees hung
their foliage over it in summer, shading
its roof and windows from the sunrays,
and groaned mournfully throughout all
their bare bulk when the bitter blast of
winter swept over the exposed churchyard.
A beechen hedge encircled the
manse and the garden attached. The
residence of the minister was by far the
pleasantest abode in Auchincraig.</p>

<p class='c008'>Queer and old-fashioned as the village
was, it was far surpassed in these
respects by the villagers. I could
scarcely have believed that it was possible
to find so many odd characters and
strange mortals collected together in
one locality. Nothing astonished me
more than the number of old people,
male and female, who, “daunered”
about the village streets, or sat dozing
on three-legged stools at the doors of
their dwellings. It seemed as if the
promise, “Thou shalt live long upon
the land,” had been specially vouchsafed
to them. The old men wore
knee-breeches, home-made stockings,
blue coats with metal buttons, and red
Kilmarnocks; while the old women
looked the very picture of sedate, sagacious,
and decent eld, with their white
coifs and black ribbons, and bone
spectacles bestriding their attenuated
noses. The village children had an
“auld-farrant” appearance; and the
young men and women, whose principal
employment was weaving and spinning,
partook somewhat of the gravity of
their elders with whom they associated
so much. It was only at such festive
seasons as Hallowe’en, Hansel Monday,
and the annual summer Fair, that the
natural hilarity of youth displayed
itself in any remarkable degree.</p>

<p class='c008'>One of the odd characters of this
venerable village was the minister himself.
He belonged to that quaint, homely
class of Scottish rural pastors, the
last remnants of which have now altogether
vanished. A strange, eccentric
old man was the Rev. Thomas Watson—more
generally and familiarly known
by the name of “Tammy”—parish
minister of Auchincraig. He was a
grayhaired man, but stout of body and
ruddy of countenance, hale and hearty
as an old farmer, and fond of his own
creature comfort, while he imparted to
others spiritual consolation. He was
generally attired, at home and abroad,
in a broad-brimmed hat, knee breeches,
and a loose coat, cut in the shape of a
jockey’s jacket. He had a habit of
screwing his face and shrugging his
shoulders, both in the pulpit and out of
it, when anything unpleasant occurred.
It was amusing to see him engaged in
conversation with one of his aged
parishioners on the streets of the village.
He applied vigorously to his
snuff-box, and a hearty slap on the
shoulder of his auditor was the invariable
prelude to a humorous remark. One
day, while he was thus enjoying a
“twa-handed crack” with an aged
member of his congregation, he administered
a heavier slap than was desirable,
upon which the parishioner exclaimed,
with more familiarity than reverence,
“Tammy, Tammy! my banes are no
made o’ brass—dinna hit sae sair!”
Tammy, notwithstanding his slapping
propensities, was a great favourite
amongst the people, and I have heard
the villagers repeating with great glee
some of his witty remarks, and telling
anecdotes regarding his eccentricities.
He always addressed the people in
broad Scotch from the pulpit. Indeed
it is more than probable that they would
have accused him of preaching heresy if
he had ever attempted English. He
felt himself as much at home, and said
as homely things, in the church and before
the congregation, as when sitting
in social converse beside the manse
hearth. Several instances of this I distinctly
remember. One Sabbath forenoon,
his own servant-girl entered the
church rather late—in fact, the first
psalm had been sung, and the Rev.
Thomas was in the midst of his
lengthy opening prayer. Janet, flurried
no doubt by disturbing the devotions of
the congregation, omitted to shut the
door behind her, and a breeze blew up
the passage and waved the gray locks of
the minister. This was more than the
reverend gentleman could endure. He
opened his eyes, saw the culprit, and
said with his own broad peculiar accent,
“Janet, woman, Janet! can ye no
steek the door ahint ye, an’ keep the
wund oot!” Ludicrous as this remark
might have appeared in the circumstances
to a stranger, it was listened to
by his hearers as devoutly as if it had
been an ordinary part of the service.</p>

<p class='c008'>On another occasion “Tammy” was
holding an evening diet of worship in
the church. This, it must be confessed,
was with him a rare event indeed. It
was the winter season, and, at the close
of the first devotional exercise, the
candles were emitting a light faint, and
feeble as that of the waning crescent-moon.
“Tammy” took up the psalmbook
and adjusted his spectacles, but it
was of no avail. The solitary “dips”
at each side of the pulpit showed long
wicks but little flame. The minister
fumbled about for a time, but could not
find the object of his search. At last,
screwing his face, and shrugging his
shoulders, he exclaimed, addressing the
beadle (who was also the grave-digger),
“Pate, I say, Pate! what’s come ower
ye?—whaur’s the snuffers, man?”</p>

<p class='c008'>Numerous anecdotes of a similar
kind are recorded of the eccentric divine
of Auchincraig. Once, however, on a
baptismal occasion in the church, he
committed what was regarded as a
sacrilegious act by many of his parishioners.
It set the tongues of all the
mothers and grandmothers a-wagging
for a month, and “Tammy” narrowly
escaped a presbyterial investigation.
The affair was innocent enough, allowing
a margin for oddity of character,
and he would, in all probability, have
come off triumphant from a trial,
unless the members of the presbytery
had been rigid disciplinarians. The
circumstances of the case may briefly be
told. At the conclusion of the forenoon’s
discourse, a child was brought up
for baptism. The father received the
customary exhortations and took his
vows, and “Tammy” had just folded
up his sleeve preparatory to sprinkling
the baptismal water on the infant’s face,
when he found to his surprise that Peter,
otherwise Pate, the beadle, had stinted
somewhat the necessary supply of liquid,
perhaps in deference to the wishes of
the child’s mother. The eccentric
minister had conscientious objections at
performing the sacred rite in a perfunctory
manner, and he accordingly
lifted the large pewter basin from its
place, much to the amazement of the
congregation, and sprinkled the whole
contents to the last drop over the face
and white attire of the squalling babe!
He then coolly continued the service, in
his own peculiar style, as if nothing extraordinary
had occurred.</p>

<p class='c008'>The Reverend Thomas Watson made
himself at home wherever he was.
When breakfasting with any of his
parishioners, or in the neighbouring
manses of brother clergymen, he invariably
took possession of the largest
egg, giving as his excuse and speaking
from his experience, that “the biggest
were aye the maist caller!” He was
very fond of porter, and could drink as
much toddy as any laird in all Strathkirtle,
without showing the slightest
symptoms that he had imbibed more
than was good for the health of his
body and brain. “Tammy,” it must
be confessed, with all his good qualities,
was rather lazy and self indulgent. To
have spent more than an hour or two in
the preparation of a discourse he would
have regarded as a culpable waste of
precious time. A clergyman in the
neighbourhood once narrated to me a
ludicrous instance of the manner in
which the Auchincraig minister rolled
the burden of duty upon the shoulders of
others, and managed to escape himself.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Tammy,” on a certain occasion,
was assisting at the dispensation of the
sacrament in another part of the county.
The good cheer provided for clergymen
in the manses at communion seasons
he relished with infinite zest, and he
generally contrived to coax the younger
“hands” into undertaking a large
share of his allotted spiritual work.
When he could not succeed by coaxing,
he adopted more effective means. On the
special occasion referred to, he had
taken as little part as he possibly could
in the Saturday and Sunday services.
It was his duty on Monday to preach
one of two sermons; but that was with
him the great day of the feast; a good
winding-up dinner was expected in the
afternoon, and he felt little inclination
for ministerial work. Accordingly, as
soon as breakfast was finished, and an
hour before the commencement of
public worship, he mysteriously disappeared.
When the bell began to toll, the
Rev. Thomas was searched for through
every room of the house, and in every
nook of the manse garden, but he
could not be discovered, and another
clergyman present was compelled, at a
moment’s notice, to undertake the duty
of the renegade. Meanwhile, “Tammy”
was stretched at full length in an adjoining
corn-field, quietly sunning himself,
with much self-complacent composure,
and listening to the voice of psalms
floating upwards to the summer heavens
from the lips of the assembled worshippers.
He did not leave his lair until
the guests were assembled for dinner,
and then he returned to the manse, and
heartily thanked the “dear brother”
who had officiated in his stead. His
ready wit, his contagious laugh, his
fund of racy anecdotes, would doubtless
be regarded by the company as some
compensation for the sin he had committed
in failing to discharge his ministerial
duty. Many years have elapsed
since old Tammy Watson was gathered
to his fathers; and of the ancient kirk
of Auchincraig in which he preached
not one stone now stands upon another.
<i><span lang="la">Requiescat in pace!</span></i></p>

<p class='c008'>The parish dominie was another of
the eccentric characters in the village.
He inhabited a house that had once
seen better days, and he appeared also
to have seen them himself. He was a
tall, thin, silent, swarthy man, past
middle age, abstemious and even
miserly in his habits. Dominie Dawson
was a bachelor, and few people ever
crossed his threshold. He disliked old
“Tammy,” who took a malicious pleasure
in plaguing and bantering him upon
the spareness of his body. Never were
two men, occupying the highest posts
in a parish, more utterly opposed to
each other in appearance, tastes, and
habits. “Tammy” was always ready
with his joke; dominie Dawson had
never even perpetrated a pun all his
life. “Tammy” laughed immoderately
when anything tickled his fancy;
dominie Dawson was seldom seen to
relax his grim countenance by a smile.
Some men seem to have all things in
common, but these two had absolutely
nothing. The dominie never dined at
the manse, and the minister never
supped with the dominie. Still there
was room in the parish for them both,
and each held on the tenor of his way,
independent of the other. The dominie,
it could not be denied, was by far a
more learned man than the minister.
He was a capital linguist, as had been
proved on more than one occasion,
although his knowledge of languages
was of little practical avail in the village
of Auchincraig. He was also an
enthusiastic naturalist. He returned
from solitary rambles among the woods,
and along the banks of the Kirtle, with
his hat full of wild flowers and “weeds
of glorious feature.” The old wives of
the village used to say, “the man mun
be crazed, for he’s aye houkin’ among
divots!” On Saturday afternoons he
sent bands of the school children away
in search of beetles, moths, butterflies,
and all varieties of insects; and these,
after much study and careful examination,
he pinned carefully on squares of
pasteboard. Dominie Dawson was, in
fact, an unrecognised genius. He
seemed quite out of place in that secluded
village, and yet it was almost
impossible that he could have existed
anywhere else. He was neither very
much beloved, nor particularly disliked
by his scholars. He flourished the
birch pretty vigorously at times, and it
was universally allowed that he made
an excellent teacher. He opened his
school each day with a prayer, which
he had repeated so often that he could
think on other matters during the time
of its delivery. He always kept his
eyes wide open when engaged in the
act of devotion, watching intently the
behaviour of his scholars, and no sooner
was the prayer finished than he proceeded
to apply the birchen rod as a
corrective to misconduct, and an incitement
to devotional feeling. “Tammy,”
alluding to this circumstance, said to
him one day—“Skelpin’ may mak
gude scholars, dominie, but it’s sure to
mak bad Christians.” After school-hours,
the dominie either kept within
doors, or walked forth alone. He had
not a single companion in the whole
village, nor did he cultivate any one’s
society. He returned a salutation with
civility, but appeared to have no desire
for further intercourse. He was still
parish teacher when I left the village;
but it is more than probable that the
loneliness of his life has now merged
into the solitude of the grave.</p>

<p class='c008'>After the minister and dominie, the
village crier must not be forgotten. He
used a large hand-bell instead of the
kettle-drum which is employed in most
country places to herald important public
announcements. “Pob Jamie” was the
name by which the bellman, as he
was called, was generally known
throughout the district. A squalid,
ragged, cadaverous, miserable-looking
object he was. He wore a hat “which
was not all a hat,” part of the rim being
gone, and the rain and sunshine finding
a free passage through its rents of ruin.
A long gaberlunzie’s gaberdine, formed,
like Joseph’s coat, of many colours, and
adorned with many streamers, descended
from his neck to his heels. His feet
were strapped over the soles of old
shoes that served the purpose of sandals.
Thus arrayed, he shuffled with his bell
through the streets of Auchincraig, like
the presiding genius of the place.
It was no use attempting to clothe
him in better attire. If he had been
presented over night with a royal mantle,
he would have appeared at his vocation
next day in his many-coloured
and tattered gaberdine. “Pob Jamie”
was “cracked,” and public pity alone
kept him in his responsible office. It
was one of the most ludicrous sights in
the world to see him actively engaged
in the discharge of his duty, for which
he seemed to think he had special calling.
After tingling his bell for a time,
he planted his staff behind him, and leant
upon it in a half-sitting posture, and
then drawing a long breath, commenced
thus, in drawling tones, to give the
world the benefit of his announcement:—“Go-od
faa-aat bee-eef to be so-old at
Mustruss Ma-act-avushes sho-op at
sa-axpence the pund.” Poor Pob made
a sad mess of long roup-bills and documents
of a similar kind. The villagers,
accustomed to his voice and manner,
could make some meaning out of his
words; but to strangers it sounded like
a language never spoken before on earth
since the dispersion at the Tower of
Babel. The village boys annoyed the
bellman greatly by mimicking his attitude
and voice when he was in the act
of “crying” through the streets. It
invariably excited his somewhat irascible
temper, and he prolonged and intensified
his tones to an amusing extent.
Jamie had a withered, ill-natured, half-crazed
old woman for a wife, and a
wretched cat-and-dog life they led together
in their tottering hovel. The
union of these two miserable beings
was a melancholy caricature of the
matrimonial alliance. They were never
known to exchange a single word of
affection. In fact, they were apparently
bound to each other by mutual hatred.
It was strange to think for what purpose
they had been created, or why they
should exist in the world so long. One
winter day, after going his customary
round, Pob fell sick, and rapidly declined.
In the course of a day or two it
was apparent that he was on the very
verge of death. His old wife contemplated
with evident pleasure the prospect
of his speedy dissolution, and
within five minutes of his death the
half-crazed hag hissed these words into
his ear, “Dee, ye deevil, dee!”</p>

<p class='c008'>Space would fail me to describe minutely
all the oddities of Auchincraig. There
was the keeper of the post-office—a
dwarfish man, with elfin locks, and a
notorious squint, who knew all the
secrets of the village, and seemed to
possess the power of reading the contents
of letters without breaking the
seals. There was “burnewin,”—a man
of huge stature and gigantic strength,—whose
“smiddy” after nightfall,
when the furnace blazed, was the favourite
resort of all the cockfighters,
poachers, and blackguards throughout
Strathkirtle. There were the “souter”
and the tailor, politicians both, and
hard drinkers to boot. Nor did the
village want its due complement of
“innocents.” It had greatly more than
the average number; and throughout
all my wanderings, and during all my
residences in towns and remote villages,
I have never met so many odd characters
gathered together as in old Auchincraig.
It seemed to me strange that in a valley
so beautiful,—where nature is prodigal
of her richest gifts, where flowers bloom,
birds sing, and corn-fields rustle in the
summer breeze,—humanity should have
appeared in such strange shapes and
eccentric manifestations. But the old
village is gone, and the old villagers
have departed, and the sun now shines
upon new homes and fresher hearts.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='perling_joan' class='c006'>PERLING JOAN.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By John Gibson Lockhart, LL.D.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>Our Laird was a very young man
when his father died, and he gaed awa
to France, and Italy, and Flanders, and
Germany, immediately, and we saw
naething o’ him for three years; and
my brother, John Baird, went wi’ him
as his own body-servant. When that
time was gane by, our Johnny cam
hame and tauld us that Sir Claud wad
be here the next day, an’ that he was
bringing hame a foreign lady wi’ him—but
they were not married. This news
was a sair heart, as ye may suppose, to a’
that were about the house; and we
were just glad that the auld lady was
dead and buried, not to hear of sic
doings. But what could we do? To
be sure, the rooms were a’ put in order,
and the best chamber in the hale house
was got ready for Sir Claud and her.
John tauld me, when we were alane
together that night, that I wad be
surprised wi’ her beauty when she
came.</p>

<p class='c008'>But I never could have believed, till
I saw her, that she was sae very young—such
a mere bairn, I may say; I’m
sure she was not more than fifteen.
Such a dancing, gleesome bit bird of a
lassie was never seen; and ane could
not but pity her mair than blame her
for what she had done, she was sae
visibly in the daftness and light-headedness
of youth. Oh, how she sang, and
played, and galloped about on the wildest
horses in the stable, as fearlessly as
if she had been a man! The house was
full of fun and glee; and Sir Claud and
she were both so young and so comely,
that it was enough to break ane’s very
heart to behold their thoughtlessness.
She was aye sitting on his knee, wi’
her arm about his neck; and for weeks
and months this love and merriment
lasted. The poor body had no airs wi’ her;
she was just as humble in her speech to
the like of us, as if she had been a cottar’s
lassie. I believe there was not one of
us that could help liking her, for a’ her
faults. She was a glaiket creature; but
gentle and tender-hearted as a perfect
lamb, and sae bonny! I never sat eyes
upon her match. She had never any
colour but black for her gown, and it
was commonly satin, and aye made in
the same fashion; and a’ the perling
about her bosom, and a great gowden
chain stuck full of precious rubies and
diamonds. She never put powder on
her head neither; oh proud, proud was
she of her hair! I’ve often known her
comb and comb at it for an hour on
end; and when it was out of the
buckle, the bonny black curls fell as low
as her knee. You never saw such a head
of hair since ye were born. She
was the daughter of a rich auld Jew in
Flanders, and ran awa frae the house
wi’ Sir Claud, ae night when there was
a great feast gaun on,—the Passover
supper, as John thought,—and out she
came by the back-door to Sir Claud,
dressed for supper wi’ a’ her braws.</p>

<p class='c008'>Weel, this lasted for the maist feck
of a year; and Perling Joan (for that
was what the servants used to ca’ her,
frae the laces about her bosom), Mrs
Joan lay in and had a lassie.</p>

<p class='c008'>Sir Claud’s auld uncle, the colonel,
was come hame from America about
this time, and he wrote for the laird to
gang in to Edinburgh to see him, and
he behoved to do this; and away he
went ere the bairn was mair than a
fortnight auld, leaving the lady wi’
us.</p>

<p class='c008'>I was the maist experienced body
about the house, and it was me that got
chief charge of being with her in her
recovery. The poor young thing was
quite changed now. Often and often
did she greet herself blind, lamenting to
me about Sir Claud’s no marrying her;
for she said she did not take muckle
thought about thae things afore; but
that now she had a bairn to Sir Claud,
and she could not bear to look the wee
thing in the face, and think a’ body
would ca’ it a bastard. And then she
said she was come of as decent folk as
any lady in Scotland, and moaned and
sobbit about her auld father and her
sisters.</p>

<p class='c008'>But the colonel, ye see, had gotten
Sir Claud into the town; and we soon
began to hear reports that the colonel
had been terribly angry about Perling
Joan, and threatened Sir Claud to
leave every penny he had past him, if
he did not put Joan away, and marry a
lady like himself. And what wi’
fleeching, and what wi’ flyting, sae it
was that Sir Claud went away to the
north wi’ the colonel, and the marriage
between him and lady Juliana was
agreed upon, and everything settled.</p>

<p class='c008'>Everybody about the house had heard
mair or less about a’ this, or ever a word
of it came her length. But at last, Sir
Claud himself writes a long letter,
telling her what a’ was to be; and
offering to gie her a heap o’ siller, and
send our John ower the sea wi’ her, to
see her safe back to her friends—her
and her baby, if she liked best to take
it with her; but if not, the colonel was
to take the bairn hame, and bring her
up a lady, away from the house here,
not to breed any dispeace.</p>

<p class='c008'>This was what our Johnny said was
to be proposed; for as to the letter
itself, I saw her get it, and she read it
twice ower, and flung it into the fire
before my face. She read it, whatever
it was, with a wonderful composure;
but the moment after it was in the fire she
gaed clean aff into a fit, and she was out
of one and into anither for maist part of
the forenoon. Oh, what a sight she
was! It would have melted the heart
of stone to see her.</p>

<p class='c008'>The first thing that brought her to
herself was the sight of her bairn. I
brought it, and laid it on her knee,
thinking it would do her good if she
could give it a suck; and the poor
trembling thing did as I bade her; and
the moment the bairn’s mouth was at
the breast, she turned as calm as the
baby itsel—the tears rapping ower her
cheeks, to be sure, but not one word
more. I never heard her either greet
or sob again a’ that day.</p>

<p class='c008'>I put her and the bairn to bed that
night—but nae combing and curling o’
the bonnie black hair did I see then.
However, she seemed very calm and
composed, and I left them, and gaed to
my ain bed, which was in a little room
within hers.</p>

<p class='c008'>Next morning, the bed was found
cauld and empty, and the front door of
the house standing wide open. We
dragged the waters, and sent man and
horse every gate, but ne’er a trace of her
could we ever light on, till a letter came
twa or three weeks after, addressed to
me, frae hersel. It was just a line or
twa, to say that she was well, and
thanking me, poor thing, for having
been attentive about her in her down-lying.
It was dated frae London. And she
charged me to say nothing to anybody
of having received it. But this was what
I could not do; for everybody had set it
down for a certain thing, that the poor
lassie had made away baith wi’ hersel
and the bairn.</p>

<p class='c008'>I dinna weel ken whether it was
owing to this or not, but Sir Claud’s
marriage was put aff for twa or three
years, and he never cam near us a’ that
while. At length word came that the
wedding was to be put over directly;
and painters, and upholsterers, and I
know not what all, came and turned the
hale house upside down, to prepare for
my lady’s hame-coming. The only
room that they never meddled wi’ was
that that had been Mrs Joan’s: and no
doubt they had been ordered what to do.</p>

<p class='c008'>Weel, the day came, and a braw
sunny spring day it was, that Sir Claud
and the bride were to come hame to the
Mains. The grass was a’ new mawn
about the policy, and the walks sweepit,
and the cloth laid for dinner, and
everybody in their best to give them
their welcoming. John Baird came
galloping up the avenue like mad, to
tell us that the coach was amaist within
sight, and gar us put oursels in order
afore the ha’ steps. We were a’ standing
there in our ranks, and up came the
coach rattling and driving, wi’ I dinna
ken how mony servants riding behind
it; and Sir Claud lookit out at the
window, and was waving his handkerchief
to us, when, just as fast as fire
ever flew frae flint, a woman in a red
cloak rushed out from among the auld
shrubbery at the west end of the house,
and flung herself in among the horses’
feet, and the wheels gaed clean out
ower her breast, and crushed her dead
in a single moment. She never stirred.
Poor thing! she was nae Perling Joan
then. She was in rags—perfect rags all
below the bit cloak; and we found the
bairn, rowed in a checked apron, lying
just behind the hedge. A braw heartsome
welcoming for a pair of young
married folk!—<cite>The History of Matthew
Wald.</cite></p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='janet_smith' class='c006'>JANET SMITH.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By Professor Thomas Gillespie.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>Old Janet Smith lived in a cottage
overshadowed by an ash-tree, and flanked
by a hawthorn, called Lasscairn,—so
named, in all probability, from a
cairn of stones, almost in the centre of
which this simple habitation was placed,
in which, even within the period of my
remembrance, three maiden veterans
kept “rock and reel, bleezing hearth and
reeking lum.” They were uniformly
mentioned in the neighbourhood as “the
lasses o’ Lasscairn,” though their united
ages might have amounted to something
considerably above three-score thrice
told. Janet, however, of whom I am
now speaking, had been married in her
teens, and her husband having lost his
life in a lime-quarry, she had been left
with an only child, a daughter, whom, by
the help of God’s blessing, and her wee
wheel, she had reared and educated as
far as the Proofs and Willison’s. This
daughter having attained to a suitable
age, had been induced one fine summer
evening, whilst her mother was engaged
in her evening devotion under the
shadow of the ash-tree, to take a pleasure
walk with Rob Paton, a neighbouring
ploughman, but then recently
enlisted, and to share his name and his
fortunes for twenty-four months to come.
At the end of this period, she found her
mother nearly in the same position in
which she had left her, praying earnestly
to her God to protect, direct, and
return her “bairn.” There were, however,
two bairns for the good old woman
to bless, instead of one, and the young
Jessie Paton was said to be the very picture
of her mother. Be that as it may,
old Janet, now a grannie, loved the
bairn, forgave the mother, and by the
help of an additional wheel, which, in
contradistinction to her own, was designated
“muckle,” she, and her “broken-hearted,
deserted” daughter, contrived
for years to earn such a subsistence as
their very moderate wants required.
At last a severe fever cut off the mother,
and left a somewhat sickly child at about
nine years of age, under the sole protection
of an aged and enfeebled grandmother.
It was at this stage of old
Janet’s earthly travail that, in the character
of a schoolboy, I became acquainted
with her and her daughter,—for ever
after the mother’s death, the child knew
her grandmother by no other name, and
under no other relation.</p>

<p class='c008'>Janet had a particular way—still the
practice in Dumfriesshire—of dressing
or preparing her meal of potatoes.
They were scraped, well-dried, salted,
beetled, buttered, milked, and ultimately
rumbled into the most beautiful and
palatable consistency. In short, they
became that first, and—beyond the limits
of the south country—least known of all
delicacies, “champit potatoes.” As I
returned often hungry and weary from
school, Janet’s pot presented itself to
me, hanging in the reek, and at a considerable
elevation above the fire, as the
most tempting of all objects. In fact,
Janet, knowing that my hour of return
from school was full two hours later
than hers of repast, took this method of
reserving for me a full heaped spoonful
of the residue of her and her Jessie’s
meal. Never whilst I live, and live by
food, shall I forget the exquisite feelings
of eager delight with which that single
overloaded spoonful of beat or “champit”
potatoes was devoured. There are
pleasures of sentiment and imagination
of which I have occasionally partaken,
and others connected with what is called
the heart and affections; all these are
beautiful and engrossing in their way and
in their season, but to a hungry schoolboy,
who has devoured his dinner
“piece” ere ten o’clock a.m., and is
returning to his home at a quarter before
five, the presentiment, the sight,
and, above all, the taste and reflection
connected with the swallowing of a
spoonful—and such a spoonful!—of
Janet Smith’s potatoes, is, to say nothing
flighty or extravagant, not less seasonable
than exquisite. As my tongue
walked slowly and cautiously round and
round the lower and upper boundaries
of the delicious load, as if loath rapidly
to diminish that bulk, which the craving
stomach would have wished to have been
increased had it been tenfold, my whole
soul was wrapped in Elysium; it tumbled
about, and rioted in an excess of
delight—a kind of feather-bed of downy
softness. Drinking is good enough in
its season, particularly when one is
thirsty; but the pleasures attendant on
the satisfying of <em>the appetite</em> for me!—this
is assuredly the great, the master
gratification.</p>

<p class='c008'>But Janet did not only deal in potatoes;
she had likewise a cheese, and, on
pressing occasions, a bottle of beer
besides. The one stood in a kind of
corner press or cupboard, whilst the
other occupied a still less dignified
position beneath old Janet’s bed. To
say the truth of Janet’s cheese, it was
not much beholden to the maker. It
might have been advantageously cut
into bullets or marbles, such was its
hardness and solidity; but then, <em>in those
days</em>, my teeth were good; and, with a
keen stomach and a willing mind, much
may be effected even on a “three times
skimmed sky-blue!” The beer—for
which I have often adventured into the
terra incognita already mentioned, even
at the price of a prostrate person and a
dusty jacket—was excellent, brisk,
frothy, and nippy;—my breath still
goes when I think of it. And then
Janet wore such long strings of tape,
blue and red, white and yellow, all
striped and variegated like a gardener’s
garter! I shall never be such a beau
again, as when my stockings on Sabbath
were ornamented with a new pair of
Janet’s well-known, much-prized, and
admired garters.</p>

<p class='c008'>It was, however, after all, on Sabbath
that Janet appeared to move in
her native element. It was on Sabbath
that her face brightened, and her step
became accelerated—that her spectacles
were carefully wiped with the corner of
a clean neck-napkin, and her Bible was
called into early and almost uninterrupted
use. It was on Sabbath that
her devotions were poured forth—both
in a family and private capacity—with
an earnestness and a fervency which I
have never seen surpassed in manse or
mansion, in desk or pulpit. There is,
indeed, nothing in nature so beautiful
and elevating as sincere and heartfelt,
heart-warming devotion. There is a
poor, frail creature, verging on three-score
and ten years, with an attendant
lassie, white-faced, and every way
“shilpy” in appearance. Around them
are nothing more elevating or exciting
than a few old sticks of furniture,
sooty rafters, and a smoky atmosphere.
Surely imbecility has here clothed herself
in the forbidding garb of dependence
and squalid poverty! The worm
that crawls into light through the dried
mole-hill, all powdered over with the
dust from which it is escaping, is a fit
emblem of such an object and such
a condition. But over all this let us
pour the warm and glowing radiance
of genuine devotion! The roots of
that consecrated ash can bear witness
to those half-articulated breathings,
which connect the weakness of man
with the power of God,—the squalidness
of poverty with the radiant richness of
divine grace. Do those two hearts,
which under one covering <em>now</em> breathe
forth their evening sacrifice in hope and
reliance—do they feel, do they acknowledge
any alliance with the world’s
opinions, the world’s artificial and cruel
distinctions? If there be one object
more pleasing to God and to the holy
ministers of His will than another, it is
this—age uniting with youth, and youth
with age, in the giving forth into
audible, if not articulate expression, the
fulness of the devout heart!</p>

<p class='c008'>Lord W——, whose splendid residence
stands about fifteen miles distant
from Lasscairn, happened to be engaged
in a hunting expedition in the neighbourhood
of this humble and solitary
abode, and having separated from his
attendants and companions, he bethought
himself of resting for a little
under a roof, however humble, from
which he saw smoke issuing. But when
he put his thumb to the latch it would
not move; and after an effort or two,
he applied first his eye, and lastly his
ear, to the keyhole, to ascertain the
presence of the inhabitants. The solemn
voice of fervent prayer met his ear,
uttered by a person evidently not in a
kneeling, but in an erect position; he
could, in short, distinctly gather the
nature and tendency of Janet’s address
to her Maker.</p>

<p class='c008'>She was manifestly engaged in
asking a blessing on her daily meal,
and was proceeding to enumerate,
with the voice of thanksgiving, the
many mercies with which, under God’s
good providence, she and hers had been
visited. After an extensive enumeration,
she came at last to speak of that
<em>ample provision</em> on which she was now
imploring a blessing. In this part of
her address she dwelt with peculiar
cheerfulness, as well as earnestness of
tone, on that goodness which had provided
so bountifully for her, whilst
many better deserving than she were
worse circumstanced. The whole tenor
of her prayer tended to impress the
listener with the belief that Janet’s
board, though spread in a humble hut,
must be at least amply supplied with
the necessaries of life. But what was
Lord W——’s surprise, on entrance, to
find that a round oaten bannock, toasting
before a brick at a peat fire, with a
basin of whey,—the gift of a kind neighbour,—composed
that <em>ample and bountiful
provision</em> for which this humble,
but contented and pious woman expressed
so much gratitude! Lord
W—— was struck with the contrast
between his own condition and feelings
and those of this humble pair; and, in
settling upon Janet and her inmate £6
a-year for life, he enabled her to accommodate
herself with a new plaid and
black silk hood, in which she appeared,
with her granddaughter, every Sabbath,
occupying her well-known and acknowledged
position on the lowest step of
the pulpit stair, and paying the same
respect to the minister in passing as if
she had been entirely dependent on her
own industry and the good will of her
neighbours as formerly.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='the_unlucky_top_boots' class='c006'>THE UNLUCKY TOP BOOTS.</h2>
</div>

<h3 class='c013'><span class='sc'>Chapter I.</span></h3>

<p class='c014'>Top Boots, as everybody must have remarked,
are now [1833] nearly altogether
out of fashion. Their race is all but
extinct. An occasional pair may indeed
still be seen encasing the brawny
legs of a stout elderly country gentleman
on a market day, or on the
occasion of a flying visit to the metropolis;
but with this exception, and
with probably that of some hale obstinate
bachelor octogenarian, who, in full
recollection of the impression which
his top boots had made on the public
mind some fifty years since, still persists
in thrusting his shrivelled shanks into
the boots of his youth;—we say, with
the first positive, and the last probable
exception, this highly respectable-looking,
and somewhat flashy, article of dress
has entirely disappeared.</p>

<p class='c008'>Time was, however, and we recollect
it well, when matters stood far otherwise
with top boots. We have a distinct
vision of numberless pairs flitting
before our eyes, through the mazes
of the various thoroughfares of the city;
but, alas! they have vanished, one after
another, like stars before the light of
approaching day. Rest to their <em>soles</em>—they
are now gathered to their fathers—their
brightness is extinguished—their
glory is gone. The Conqueror of
Waterloo hath conquered them also.
The top boots have fallen before the
Wellingtons!</p>

<p class='c008'>We have said that we recollect when
it was otherwise with top boots, and
so we do. We recollect when a pair
of top boots was a great object of ambition
with the young, whose worldly
prosperity was all yet to come—whose
means of indulging in such little vanities
of the flesh were yet to be acquired.
To them a pair of top boots was a sort
of land-mark in the voyage of life; a
palpable, prominent, and desirable object
to be attained; a sort of Cape
Horn to be doubled. Nor were they
less objects of ambition at the time we
speak of—say about 40 years since—to
the more advanced, whose circumstances
required a long previous hint to prepare
for such an event as the purchase of a
pair of top boots. In short, top boots
were the rage of the day. The apprentice,
the moment he got “out” of his
time, got “into” his top boots. The
first thing the young grocer did was to
get a pair of top boots. No lover then
went to woo his mistress but in top
boots, or at least if he did, the chance
was, that he would go to very little
purpose. The buckishly-inclined mechanic,
too, hoarded his superfluous earnings
until they reached the height of a
pair of top boots, in which to entomb
his lower limbs. Although their visits
now, as we have already hinted, are
“few and far between,” we have seen the
day when, instead of being but occasionally
seen, like solitary points of light
as they are now, on the dusky street,
they converted it by their numbers into
an absolute <i><span lang="la">via lactea</span></i>,—a perfect galaxy
of white leather,—or shot, frequent, pale,
and flitting, like northern streamers,
through the dark tide of humanity as
it strolled along.</p>

<p class='c008'>No marvel is it, therefore, that, in the
midst of the wide prevalence of this
top boot epidemic, poor Tommy Aikin
should have fallen a victim to the disease—that
his heart should have been
set upon a pair of top boots; nor is it
a marvel that Mr Aikin should have
been able finally to gratify this longing
of his, seeing that he was in tolerable
circumstances, or at least in such circumstances
as enabled him, by retrenching
a little somewhere else, to
attain the great object of his ambition—a
pair of top boots. No marvel, then,
as we have said, are these things which
we have related of Mr Aikin; but great
marvel is it that a pair of top boots
should have wrought any man such
mischief, as we shall presently show they
did to that honest man. But let us not
anticipate. Let us, as has been before
wisely said, begin at the beginning, and
say who Mr Aikin was, and what
were the evils in which his top boots
involved him.</p>

<p class='c008'>Be it known, then, to all whom it
may concern, that Mr Thomas Aikin
was an officer of Excise, and was,
at the period to which our story
relates, residing in a certain small
town not more than fifty miles distant
from the city of Glasgow. Mr Aikin
was a stout-made middle-aged man, exceedingly
good-natured, kind, civil, and
obliging. In short, he was an excellent
fellow, honest and upright in all his dealings,
and a faithful servant of the revenue.
Everybody liked Mr Aikin, and Mr
Aikin liked everybody; and sorely
did everybody lament his misfortunes
when they fell upon him. Mr Aikin
had for many years led a happy life in
the bosom of his family. He laughed
and joked away, took his jug of toddy,
caressed his children, spoke always
affectionately to and of his wife, and
was so spoken to and of by her in
return. In short, Mr Aikin was a happy
man up to that evil hour when he conceived
the idea of possessing himself of
a pair of top boots.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Mary,” said Mr Aikin, one luckless
evening, to his loving wife, after
having sat for about half an hour looking
into the fire.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Aweel, Thomas?” said his spouse,
in token of her attention.</p>

<p class='c008'>“I wad like to hae a pair o’ tap
boots,” replied Mr Aikin, shortly, and
without further preamble, although he
had in reality bestowed a good deal of
thought on the subject previously; indeed,
a dim undefined vision of top
boots had been floating before his mind’s
eye for nearly a month before it took
the distinct shape of such a determination
as he was now about to express.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Aweel, Thomas,” replied his better
half, with equal brevity, “ye had better
get a pair.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“They’re decent lookin’ things,”
rejoined Mr Aikin.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Indeed are they,” said his indulgent
spouse,—“very decent and respectable,
Thomas.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Rather flashy though, I doubt, for
the like o’ me,” quoth Mr Aikin.</p>

<p class='c008'>“I dinna see that, Thomas, sae lang
as ye’re able to pay for them,” remarked
Mrs Aikin.</p>

<p class='c008'>“No so very able, my dear,” responded
her husband; “but I wad like
to hae a pair for a’ that, just to wear on
Sundays and collection days.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Aweel, Thomas, get them; and
what for no?” replied Mrs Aikin,
“since your mind’s bent on them.
We’ll save the price o’ them aff something
else.”</p>

<p class='c008'>We need not pursue further the amiable
colloquy which took place on this
fatal night between Mr Aikin and his
wife. Suffice it to say, that that night
fixed Mr Aikin’s resolution to order a
pair of top boots. On the very next day
he was measured for the said boots;
and late on the Saturday evening following,
the boots, with their tops carefully
papered, to protect them from
injury, were regularly delivered by an
apprentice boy into the hands of Mrs
Aikin herself, for her husband’s interest.</p>

<p class='c008'>As Mr Aikin was not himself in the
house when the boots were brought
home, they were placed in a corner of
the parlour to await his pleasure; and
certainly nothing could look more
harmless or more inoffensive than did
these treacherous boots, as they now
stood, with their muffled tops and shining
feet, in the corner of Mr Aikin’s
parlour. But alas! alas! shortsighted
mortals that we are, that could not
foresee the slightest portion of the
evils with which these rascally boots
were fraught! To shorten our story as
much as possible, we proceed to say
that Mr Aikin at length came home,
and being directed to where the boots
lay, he raised them up in one hand,
holding a candle in the other; and
having turned them round and round
several times, admiring their gloss and
fair proportions, laid them down again
with a calm quiet smile of satisfaction,
and retired to bed.</p>

<p class='c008'>Sunday came, the church bells rang,
and Mr Aikin sallied forth in all the pomp
and glory of a pair of spick and span
new top boots. With all Mr Aikin’s
good qualities, there was, however,—and
we forgot to mention it before,—a
“leetle” touch of personal vanity; the
slightest imaginable it was, but still
such an ingredient did enter into the
composition of his character, and it was
this weakness, as philosophers call it,
which made him hold his head at an
unwonted height, and throw out his legs
with a flourish, and plant his foot with
a firmness and decision on this particular
Sunday, which was quite unusual
with him, or, at least, which had passed
unnoticed before. With the exception,
however, of a few passing
remarks, in which there was neither
much acrimony nor much novelty, Mr
Aikin’s boots were allowed to go to
and from the church in peace and
quietness. “Hae ye seen Mr Aikin’s
tap boots?” “Faith, Mr Aikin looks
weel in his tap boots.” “Mr Aikin
was unco grand the day in his tap
boots.” Such and such like were the
only observations which Mr Aikin’s top
boots elicited on the first Sunday of their
appearance. Sunday after Sunday came
and departed, and with the Sundays
came also and departed Mr Aikin’s top
boots, for he wore them only on that
sacred day, and on collection days, as he
himself originally proposed. Like every
other marvel, they at length sank
quietly to rest, becoming so associated
and identified with the wearer, that no
one ever thought of discussing them
separately. Deceitful calm—treacherous
silence!—it was but the gathering of the
storm.</p>

<p class='c008'>It so happened that Mr Aikin,
in the language of the Excise, surveyed,
that is, ascertained and levied the duties
payable by a tanner, or leather dresser,
who carried on his business in the town
in which Mr Aikin resided. Now, the
Honourable Board of Excise were in
those days extremely jealous of the
fidelity of their officers, and in a spirit
of suspicion of the honour and faith of
man peculiar to themselves, readily
listened to every report prejudicial to the
character of their servants. Here, then,
was an apparently intimate connection,
and of the worst sort,—a pair of top
boots,—between a revenue officer and a
trader, a dresser of leather. Remote and
obscure hints of connivance between the
former and the latter began to arise,
and in despite of the general esteem in
which Mr Aikin was held, and the high
opinion which was entertained of his
worth and integrity, these hints and
suspicions—such is the wickedness and
perversity of human nature—gradually
gained ground, until they at length
reached the ears of the Board, with the
most absurd aggravations.</p>

<p class='c008'>Their honours were told, but by
whom was never ascertained, that the
most nefarious practices were going on
in ——, and to an enormous extent.
Large speculations in contraband
leather, on the joint account of the
officer and trader, were talked of; the
one sinking his capital, the other sacrificing
the king’s duties. Whole hogsheads
of manufactured boots and shoes
were said to be exported to the West
Indies, as the common adventure of the
officer and trader. The entire family
and friends of the former, to the tenth
degree of propinquity, were said to have
been supplied gratis with boots and
shoes for the last ten years. In short,
the whole affair was laid before their
honours, the Commissioners of Excise,
decked out in the blackest colours, and
so swollen, distorted, and exaggerated,
that no man could have conceived for a
moment that so monstrous a tale of dishonesty
and turpitude could have been
manufactured out of a thing so simple
as a pair of top boots. Indeed, how
could he? For the boots—the real ground
of the vile fabrication—were never once
mentioned, nor in the slightest degree
alluded to; but, as it was, the thing
bore a serious aspect, and so thought
the Honourable Board of Excise.</p>

<p class='c008'>A long and grave consultation was held
in the Board-room, and the result was,
an order to the then collector of Excise in
Glasgow to make a strict and immediate
inquiry into the circumstances of the
case, and to report thereon; a measure
which was followed up, in a day or two
afterwards, by their honours dispatching
two surveying-generals, as they are
called, also to Glasgow, to assist at and
superintend the investigation which the
collector had been directed to set on
foot. On the arrival of these officers at
Glasgow, they forthwith waited upon
the collector, to ascertain what he had
learned regarding Mr Aikin’s nefarious
practices. The result of the consultation,
which was here again held,
was a determination, on the part of the
generals and the collector, to proceed
to the scene of Mr Aikin’s ignominy,
and to prosecute their inquiries on the
spot, as the most likely way of arriving
at a due knowledge of the facts.</p>

<p class='c008'>Accordingly, two chaises were hired at
the expense of the Crown, one for the
two generals, and another for the
collector and his clerk—all this, good
reader, be it remembered, arising from
the simple circumstance of Mr Aikin’s
having indulged himself in the luxury
of a single solitary pair of top boots,—and,
moreover, the first pair he ever
had. The gentlemen, having seated
themselves in the carriages, were joined,
just before starting, by a friend of
the collector’s, on horseback, who,
agreeably to an arrangement he had
made with the latter on the preceding
day, now came to ride out with them
to the scene of their impending labours;
and thus, though of course he had
nothing to do with the proceedings of
the day, he added not a little to the
imposing character of the procession,
which was now about to move in the
direction of Mr Aikin’s top boots.</p>

<p class='c008'>An hour and a half’s drive brought the
whole cavalcade into the little town in
which the unfortunate owner of the said
boots resided; and little did he think,
honest man, as he eyed the procession
passing the windows, marvelling the
while what it could mean—little, we
say, did he think that the sole and only
object, <i><span lang="la">pro tempore</span></i> at least, of those
who composed it, was to inquire how,
and by what means, and from whom,
he had gotten his top boots. Of this
fact, however, he was soon made aware.
In less than half an hour he was sent for,
and told, for the first time, of the heavy
charges which lay against him. A long,
tedious investigation took place; item
after item of poor Aikin’s indictment
melted away beneath the process of
inquiry; until at length the whole affair
resolved itself into the original cause of
all the mischief,—the pair of top boots.
Nothing which could in the slightest
degree impugn Mr Aikin’s honesty remained
but these unlucky top boots,
and for them he immediately produced
his shoemaker’s receipt:—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Mr <span class='sc'>Aikin</span>,</div>
      <div class='line'><em>Bought of</em> <span class='sc'>David Anderson</span>,</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>One pair of Top Boots,       £2, 2s.</div>
      <div class='line'>Settled in full,</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'><span class='sc'>David Anderson</span>.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c012'>With this finisher the investigation
closed, and Mr Aikin stood fully and
honourably acquitted of all the
charges brought against him. The
impression, however, which the affair
made at head-quarters, was far from
being favourable to him. He was ever
after considered there in the light, not
of an innocent man, but as one against
whom nothing could be proven; and his
motions were watched with the utmost
vigilance. The consequence was, that,
in less than three months, he was dismissed
from the service of the revenue,
ostensibly for some trifling omission
of duty; but he himself thought, and so
did everybody else, that the top boots
were in reality the cause of his misfortune.</p>

<p class='c008'>One would have thought that this
was quite enough of mischief to arise
from one pair of top boots, and so
thought everybody but the top boots
themselves, we suppose. This, however,
was but a beginning of the calamities
into which they walked with their
unfortunate owner.</p>

<h3 class='c015'><span class='sc'>Chapter II.</span></h3>

<p class='c014'>About four miles distant from the
town in which Mr Aikin lived, there
resided an extensive coal-mine proprietor
of the name of Davidson; and
it so happened that he, too, had a predilection
for that particular article of
dress, already so often named, viz., top
boots; indeed, he was never known to
wear anything else in their place.
Davidson was an elderly gentleman,
harsh and haughty in his manner, and
extremely mean in all his dealings—a
manner and disposition which made
him greatly disliked by the whole
country, and especially by his workmen,
the miners, of whom he employed
upwards of a hundred and fifty. The
abhorrence in which Mr Davidson was
at all times held by his servants, was at
this particular moment greatly increased
by an attempt which he was making to
reduce his workmen’s wages; and to
such a height had their resentment risen
against their employer, that some of the
more ferocious of them were heard to
throw out dark hints of personal violence;
and it was much feared by Davidson’s
friends—of whom he had, however, but
a very few, and these mostly connected
with him by motives of interest—that
such an occurrence would, in reality,
happen one night or other, and that at
no great distance of time. Nor was
this fear groundless.</p>

<p class='c008'>Mr Davidson was invited to dine
with a neighbouring gentleman. He
accepted the invitation, very foolishly,
as his family thought; but
he did accept it, and went accordingly.
It was in the winter time,
and the house of his host was
about a mile distant from his own residence.
Such an opportunity as this
of giving their employer a sound drubbing
had been long looked for by some
half dozen of Mr Davidson’s workmen,
and early and correct information on
the subject of his dining out enabled
them to avail themselves of it. The
conspirators, having held a consultation,
resolved to waylay Davidson on his return
home. With this view they proceeded,
after it became dark, in the
direction of the house in which their
employer was dining. Having gone
about half way, they halted, and held
another consultation, whereat it was determined
that they should conceal themselves
in a sunk fence which ran
alongside of the road, until the object
of their resentment approached, when
they should all rush out upon him at
once, and belabour him to their hearts’
content. This settled, they all cowered
down into the ditch, to await the arrival
of their victim. “But how will
we ken him i’ the dark?” said Jock
Tamson, one of the conspirators, in a
low whisper, to his next neighbour;
“we may fa’ foul o’ somebody else in a
mistak.” The question rather posed
Jock’s neighbour, who immediately put
it to the person next him, and he again
to the next, and on went the important
query, until all were in possession of it;
but none could answer it. At length,
one of more happy device than the rest
suggested that Mr Davidson might be
recognised by his top boots. The idea
pleased all, and was by all considered
infallible, for the fame of Mr Aikin’s
boots had not yet reached this particular
quarter of the country. Satisfied that
they had hit upon an unerring mark by
which to know their man, the ruffians
waited patiently for his approach.</p>

<p class='c008'>At length, after fully two hours’ watching,
the fall of a footstep broke faintly on
their ears; it came nearer and nearer,
and became every moment more and
more distinct. Breathless with the intensity
of their feelings, the conspirators,
in dead silence, grasped their cudgels
with increased energy, and sunk themselves
in the ditch until their eyes were
on a level with the ground, that they
might at once place the approaching
object full before them, and between
them and the feeble light which lingered
in the western sky. In the meantime,
the wayfarer approached; two dim
whitey objects glimmered indistinctly in
the darkness. They were instantly recognized
to be Mr Davidson’s top boots;
a loud shout followed this feeling of
conviction; the colliers rushed from
their hiding-place, and in the next instant
half a dozen bludgeons whistled
round the ears of the unfortunate wayfarer.
The sufferer roared lustily for
mercy, but he roared in vain. The
blows fell thick and fast upon his luckless
head and shoulders, for it was
necessary that the work should be done
quickly; and a few seconds more saw
him lying senseless and bleeding in the
ditch in which his assailants had concealed
themselves. Having satisfied
their vengeance, the ruffians now fled,
leaving their victim behind them in the
condition we have described. Morning
came; a man was found in a ditch,
speechless, and bleeding profusely from
many severe wounds on the head and
face. He was dragged out, and, after
cleansing his face from the blood and
dirt with which it was encrusted, the
unfortunate man was recognised to be—Mr
Thomas Aikin!</p>

<p class='c008'>The unlucky boots, and they alone,
were the cause of poor Aikin’s mischance.
He had, indeed, been mauled
by mistake, as the reader will have
already anticipated. There was no intention
whatever on the part of the colliers
to do Mr Aikin any injury, for Mr
Aikin, in the whole course of his harmless
life, had never done them any; indeed,
he was wholly unknown to them,
and they to him. It was the top boots,
and nothing but the top boots, that did
all the mischief. But to go on with our
story. Aikin was carried home, and,
through the strength of a naturally good
constitution and skilful surgical assistance,
recovered so far in six weeks as
to be able to go about as usual, although
he bore to his grave with him on his
face the marks of the violence which he
had received, besides being disfigured
by the loss of some half dozen of his
front teeth.</p>

<p class='c008'>The top boots, which poor Aikin had
worn before as articles of dress, and, of
course, as a matter of choice, he was
now obliged to wear daily from necessity,
being, as we have already related,
dismissed from his situation in the Excise.
One would think that Aikin had
now suffered enough for his predilection
for top boots, seeing—at least so far as
we can see—that there was no great
harm in such an apparently inoffensive
indulgence; but Mr Aikin’s evil stars,
or his top boots themselves, we do not
know which, were of a totally different
opinion, and on this opinion they forthwith
proceeded to act.</p>

<p class='c008'>Some weeks after the occurrence of
the disaster just recorded, the little
town of ——, where Aikin resided,
was suddenly thrown into a state of the
utmost horror and consternation by the
report of a foul murder and robbery
having been committed on the highway,
and within a short distance of the town;
and of all the inhabitants who felt horror-struck
on this occasion, there was
no one more horrified than Mr Thomas
Aikin. The report, however, of the
murder and robbery was incorrect, in
so far as the unfortunate man was still
living, although little more, when found
in the morning, for the deed had been
committed over night. Being a stranger,
he was immediately conveyed to the
principal inn of the town, put to bed, and
medical aid called in. The fiscal, on
learning that the man was still in existence,
instantly summoned his clerk,
and, accompanied by a magistrate, hastened
to the dying man’s bedside, to
take down whatever particulars could
be learnt from him regarding the assault
and robbery. After patiently and
laboriously connecting the half intelligible
and disjointed sentences which
they from time to time elicited from
him, they made out that he was a cattle-dealer,
that he belonged to Edinburgh,
that he had been in Glasgow, and that,
having missed the evening coach which
plies between the former and the latter
city, he had taken the road on foot, with
the view of accomplishing one stage,
and there awaiting the coming up of the
next coach. They further elicited from
him that he had had a large sum of
money upon him, of which, of course,
he had been deprived. The fiscal next
proceeded to inquire if he could identify
the person or persons who attacked him.
He mumbled a reply in the negative.</p>

<p class='c008'>“How many were there of them?”
inquired the magistrate. “Were there
more than one?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Only one,” muttered the unfortunate
man.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Was there any peculiarity in his
dress or appearance that struck you?”
asked the fiscal.</p>

<p class='c008'>He mumbled a reply, but none of
the bystanders could make it out. The
question was again put, and both the
magistrate and fiscal stooped down simultaneously
to catch the answer. After
an interval it came—and what think you
it was, good reader? Why, “top
boots,” distinctly and unequivocally.
The fiscal and magistrate looked at
each other for a second, but neither
durst venture to hint at the astounding
suspicion which the mention of these
remarkable objects forced upon them.</p>

<p class='c008'>“He wore top boots, you say?”
again inquired the fiscal, to make sure
that he had heard aright.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Y-e-s, t-o-p b-o-o-ts,” was again
the reply.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Was he a thin man, or a stout
man?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“A stout man.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Young or middle-aged?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Middle-aged.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Tall or short?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Short,” groaned out the sufferer,
and, with that word, the breath of life
departed from him.</p>

<p class='c008'>This event, of course, put an immediate
end to the inquiry. The
fiscal and magistrate now retired to
consult together regarding what was
best to be done, and to consider the
deposition of the murdered man. There
was a certain pair of top boots present
to the minds of both, but the
wearer of them had hitherto borne an
unblemished character, and was personally
known to them both as a kindhearted,
inoffensive man. Indeed, up to
this hour, they would as soon have
believed that the minister of the parish
would commit a robbery as Mr Aikin—we
say Mr Aikin, for we can no
longer conceal the fact, that it was Mr
Aikin’s boots, however reluctantly
admitted, that flashed upon the minds
of the two gentlemen of whom we are
now speaking.</p>

<p class='c008'>“The thing is impossible, incredible
of such a man as Mr Aikin,” said the
magistrate, in reply to the first open
insinuation of the fiscal, although, in
saying this, he said what was not in
strict accordance with certain vague
suspicions which had taken possession
of his own mind.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Why, I should say so too,” replied
the officer of the law, “were I to judge
by the character which he has hitherto
borne; but here,” he said, holding up
the deposition of the murdered man,
“here are circumstances which we
cannot be warranted in overlooking,
let them implicate whom they may.
There is in especial the top boots,”
went on the fiscal; “now, there is
not another pair within ten miles of us
but Aikin’s; for Mr Davidson, the
only man whom I know that wears
them besides, is now in London. There
is the personal description, too, exact.
And besides all this, bailie,” continued
the law officer, “you will recollect that
Mr Aikin is and has been out of employment
for the last six months; and
there is no saying what a man who has
a large family upon his hands will do
in these circumstances.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The bailie acknowledged the force of
his colleague’s observations, but remarked,
that, as it was a serious charge,
it must be gone cautiously and warily
about. “For it wad be,” he said,
“rather a hard matter to hang a man
upon nae ither evidence than a pair o’
tap boots.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Doubtless it would,” replied the
fiscal; “but here is,” he said, “a
concatenation of circumstances—a chain
of evidence, so far as it goes, perfectly
entire and connected. But,” he continued,
as if to reconcile the bailie to
the dangerous suspicion, “an alibi on
the part o’ Mr Aikin will set a’ to
rights, and blaw the hale charge awa,
like peelin’s o’ ingans; and if he be an
innocent man, bailie, he can hae nae
difficulty in establishing an alibi.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Not so fast, Mr Fiscal, not so fast, if
you please; this alibi was not so easily
established, or rather it could not be
established at all. Most unfortunately
for poor Aikin, it turned out, upon an
inquiry which the official authorities
thought it necessary to set on foot before
proceeding to extremities—that is,
before taking any decisive steps against
the object of their suspicion—that he
had been not only absent from his own
house until a late hour of the night on
which the murder and robbery were
committed, but had actually been at
that late hour on the very identical
road on which it had taken place. The
truth is, that Aikin had been dining
with a friend who lived about a mile
into the country, and, as it unfortunately
happened, in the very direction in
which the crime had been perpetrated.
Still, could it not have been shown that
no unnecessary time had elapsed between
the moment of his leaving his
friend’s house and his arrival at his own?
Such a circumstance would surely have
weighed something in his favour. So
it would, probably; but alas! even
this slender exculpatory incident could
not be urged in his behalf; for the poor
man, little dreaming of what was to
happen, had drunk a tumbler or two
more than enough, and had fallen
asleep on the road. In short, the fiscal,
considering all the circumstances of the
case as they now stood, did not think it
consistent with his duty either to delay
proceedings longer against Aikin, or to
maintain any further delicacy with regard
to him. A report of the whole
affair was made to the sheriff of Glasgow,
who immediately ordered a warrant
to be made out for the apprehension
of Aikin. This instrument was
given forthwith into the custody of two
criminal officers, who set out directly
in a post-chaise to execute their commission.</p>

<p class='c008'>Arriving in the middle of the night,
they found poor Aikin, wholly unconscious
of the situation in which he
stood, in bed and sound asleep. Having
roused the unhappy man, and barely
allowed him time to draw on his top
boots, they hurried him into the chaise,
and in little more than an hour thereafter,
Aikin was fairly lodged in Glasgow
jail, to stand his trial for murder
and robbery, and this mainly, if not
wholly, on the strength of his top boots.</p>

<p class='c008'>The day of trial came. The judge
summed up the evidence, and, in an
eloquent speech, directed the special
attention of the jury to Aikin’s top
boots: indeed, on these he dwelt so
much, and with such effect, that the
jury returned a verdict of guilty against
the prisoner at the bar, who accordingly
received sentence of death, but was
strongly recommended to mercy by the
jury, as well on the ground of his
previous good character, as on that of
certain misgivings regarding the top
boots, which a number of the jury
could not help entertaining, in despite
of their prominence in the evidence
which was led against their unfortunate
owner.</p>

<p class='c008'>Aikin’s friends, who could not be
persuaded of his guilt, notwithstanding
the strong circumstantial proof with
which it was apparently established,
availing themselves of this recommendation
of the jury, immediately set to
work to second the humane interference;
and Providence in its mercy
kindly assisted them. From a communication
which the superintendent of
police in Glasgow received from the
corresponding officer in Edinburgh,
about a week after Aikin’s condemnation,
it appeared that there were more
gentlemen of suspicious character in
the world who wore top boots than
poor Aikin. The letter alluded to announced
the capture of a notorious
character—regarding whom information
had been received from Bow Street—a
“flash cove,” fresh from London, on a
foraying expedition in Scotland. The
communication described him as being
remarkably well dressed, and, in
especial, alluded to the circumstance of
his wearing top boots; concluding the
whole, which was indeed the principal
purpose of the letter, by inquiring if
there was any charge in Glasgow
against such a person as he described.
The circumstance, by some fortunate
chance, reached the ears of Aikin’s
friends, and in the hope that something
might be made of it, they employed an
eminent lawyer in Edinburgh to sift the
matter to the bottom.</p>

<p class='c008'>In the meantime, the Englishman in
the top boots was brought to trial
for another highway robbery, found
guilty, and sentenced to death without
hope of mercy. The lawyer
whom Aikin’s friends had employed,
thinking this a favourable opportunity
for eliciting the truth from
him, seeing that he had now nothing
more to fear in this world, waited upon
the unfortunate man, and, amidst a confession
of a long series of crimes, obtained
from him that of the murder and robbery
for which poor Aikin had been
tried and condemned. The consequence
of this important discovery was, the immediate
liberation of Aikin, who again
returned in peace to the bosom of his
family. His friends, however, not contented
with what they had done, represented
the whole circumstances of the
case to the Secretary of State for the
Home Department; and under the impression
that there lay a claim on the
country for reparation for the injury,
though inadvertent, which its laws had
done to an innocent man, the application
was replied to in favourable
terms in course of post, and in less than
three weeks thereafter, Mr Thomas
Aikin was appointed to a situation in
the custom-house in London, worth
two hundred pounds a-year. His
steadiness, integrity, and general good
conduct, soon procured him still further
advancement, and he finally died, after
enjoying his appointment for many
years, in the annual receipt of more
than double the sum which we have
just named. And thus ends the eventful
history of Mr Thomas Aikin and
his Top Boots.—<cite>Chambers’s Edinburgh
Journal.</cite></p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='my_first_and_last_play' class='c006'>MY FIRST AND LAST PLAY.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By D. M. Moir, M.D.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>The time of Tammie Bodkin’s apprenticeship
being nearly worn through, it
behoved me, as a man attentive to
business and the interests of my family,
to cast my een around me in search of
a callant to fill his place, as it is customary
in our trade for our young men,
when their time is out, taking a year’s
journeymanship in Edinburgh to perfect
them in the mair intricate branches
of the business, and learn the newest
manner of the French and London
fashions, by cutting claith for the young
advocates, the college students, and the
rest of the principal tip-top bucks.</p>

<p class='c008'>Having, though I say it myself, the
word of being a canny maister, mair
than ane brought their callants to me,
on reading the bill of “An Apprentice
Wanted” plaistered on my shop window.
Offering to bind them for the
regular time, yet not wishing to take
but ane, I thocht best no to fix in a
hurry, and make choice of him that
seemed mair exactly cut out for my
purpose. In the course of a few weeks
three or four cast up, among whom was
a laddie of Ben Aits, the mealmonger,
and a son of William Burlings, the
baker; to say little of Saunders Broom,
the sweep, that wad fain hae putten his
blackit-looking bit creature with the ae
ee under my wing; but I aye lookit to
respectability in these matters, so glad
was I when I got the offer of Mungo
Glen.—But more of this in half a
minute.</p>

<p class='c008'>I must say I was glad of any feasible
excuse to make to the sweep, to get
quit of him and his laddie,—the father
being a drucken ne’er-do-weel, that I
wonder didna fa’ lang ere this time of
day from some chumley-head, and get
his neck broken; so I tell’t him at lang
and last, when he came papping into
the shop, plaguing me every time he
passed, that I had fittit mysel, and that
there would be nae need of his taking
the trouble to call again. Upon which
he gaed his blackit neeve a desperate
thump on the counter, making the observe,
that out of respect for him I might
have given his son the preference.
Though I was a wee puzzled for an
answer, I said to him, for want of a
better, that having a timber leg, he
couldna weel crook his hough to the
labroad for our trade.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Hout, tout,” said Saunders, giving
his lips a smack—“crook his hough,
ye body you! Do ye think his timber
leg canna screw off? That’ll no pass.”</p>

<p class='c008'>I was a wee dumbfoundered at this
cleverness; so I said, mair on my
guard, “True, true, Saunders; but he’s
ower little.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ower little, and be hanged to ye!”
cried the disrespectful fellow, wheeling
about on his heel, as he graspit the
sneck of the shop door, and gaed a
grin that showed the only clean pairts
of his body—to wit, the whites o’ his
een, and his sharp teeth,—“Ower
little!—Pu, pu!—He’s like the blackamoor’s
pig, then, Maister Wauch,—he’s
like the blackamoor’s pig—he may be
ver’ little, but he be tam ould;” and
with this he showed his back, clapping
the door at his tail without wishing a
good day; and I am scarcely sorry
when I confess that I never cuttit claith
for either father or son from that day to
this ane, the losing of such a customer
being no great matter at best, and
amaist clear gain, compared with saddling
mysel wi’ a callant with only ae
ee and ae leg, the tane having fa’en a
victim to the dregs of the measles, and
the ither having been harled aff wi’ a
farmer’s threshing-mill. However, I
got mysel properly suited.—But ye
shall hear.</p>

<p class='c008'>Our neighbour, Mrs Grassie, a widow
woman, unco intimate wi’ our wife, and
very attentive to Benjie when he had
the chincough, had a far-away cousin
o’ the name o’ Glen, that haddit out
amang the howes of the Lammermoor
hills—a distant part of the country, ye
observe. Auld Glen, a decent-looking
body of a creature, had come in wi’ his
sheltie about some private matters of
business—such as the buying of a horse,
or something to that effect, where he
could best fa’ in wi’t, either at our fair,
or the Grassmarket, or sic like; so he
had up-pitting free of expense from Mrs
Grassie, on account of his relationship,
Glen being second cousin to Mrs
Grassie’s brother’s wife, wha is deceased.
I might, indeed, have mentioned, that
our neighbour hersel had been twice
married, and had the misery of seeing
out baith her gudemen; but sic was the
will of fate, and she bore up with perfect
resignation.</p>

<p class='c008'>Having made a bit warm dinner
ready—for she was a tidy body, and
kent what was what—she thought she
couldna do better than ask in a reputable
neighbour to help her friend to eat
it, and take a cheerer wi’ him; as,
maybe, being a stranger here, he wouldna
like to use the freedom of drinking by
himsel—a custom which is at the best
an unsocial ane—especially wi’ nane
but women-folk near him, so she did
me the honour to make choice of me,
though I say’t, wha should na say’t;
and when we got our jug filled for the
second time, and began to grow better
acquainted, ye would just wonder to
see how we became merry, and crackit
away just like twa pen-guns. I asked
him, ye see, about sheep and cows, and
corn and hay, and ploughing and
thrashing, and horses and carts, and
fallow land, and lambing-time, and
har’st, and making cheese and butter,
and selling eggs, and curing the sturdie,
and the snifters, and the batts, and sic
like; and he, in his turn, made enquiry
regarding broad and narrow claith,
Kilmarnock cowls, worsted comforters,
Shetland hose, mittens, leather caps,
stuffing and padding, metal and mule-buttons,
thorls, pocket-linings, serge,
twist, buckram, shaping, and sewing,
back-splaying, rund-gooseing, measuring,
and all the ither particulars belanging
to our trade, which he said, at lang
and last, after we had jokit thegither,
was a power better ane than the farming.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ye should mak yer son ane, then,”
said I, “if ye think sae. Have ye ony
bairns?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ye’ve het the nail on the head.
’Od, man, if ye wasna sae far away, I
would bind our auldest callant to yersel,
I’m sae weel pleased wi’ yer gentlemanly
manners. But I’m speaking
havers.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Havers here or havers there; what,”
said I, “is to prevent ye boarding him,
at a cheap rate, either wi’ our friend
Mrs Grassie, or wi’ the wife? Either
of the twa wad be a sort of mother till
him.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“’Deed, I daursay they would,” answered
Maister Glen, stroking his chin,
which was gey rough, and hadna got a
clean sin’ Sunday, having had four days
of sheer growth—our meeting, ye’ll observe
by this, being on the Thursday
afternoon—“’Deed would they. ’Od, I
maun speak to the mistress about it.”</p>

<p class='c008'>On the head of this we had anither
jug, three being cannie, after which we
were baith a wee tozy-mozy; so I daursay
Mrs Grassie saw plainly that we
were getting into a state where we wad
not easily make a halt; so, without
letting on, she brought in the tea things
before us, and showed us a play-bill,
to tell us that a company of strolling
play-actors had come in a body in the
morning, with a hale cartful of scenery
and grand dresses, and were to make
an exhibition at seven o’clock, at the
ransom of a shilling a head, in Laird
Wheatley’s barn.</p>

<p class='c008'> Mony a time and often had I heard
of play-acting, and of players making
themselves kings and queens, and saying
a great many wonderful things; but
I had never before an opportunity of
making mysel a witness to the truth of
these hearsays. So Maister Glen being
as fu’ o’ nonsense, and as fain to have his
curiosity gratified as mysel, we took
upon us the stout resolution to gang out
thegither, he offering to treat me, and
I determined to rin the risk of Maister
Wiggie our minister’s rebuke for the
transgression, hoping it would make
no lasting impression on his mind,
being for the first and only time. Folks
shouldna at a’ times be ower scrupulous.</p>

<p class='c008'>After paying our money at the door,
never, while I live and breathe, will I
forget what we saw and heard that
night; it just looks to me, by all the
world, when I think on’t, like a fairy
dream. The place was crowded to the
full; Maister Glen and me having nearly
got our ribs dung in before we fand
a seat, and them behint were obliged to
mount the back benches to get a sight.
Right to the forehand of us was a large
green curtain, some five or six ells wide,
a guid deal the waur of the wear, having
seen service through twa three simmers;
and, just in the front of it, were eight or
ten penny candles stuck in a board fastened
to the ground, to let us see the
players’ feet like, when they came on the
stage,—and even before they came on
the stage,—for the curtain being scrimpit
in length, we saw legs and feet moving
behind the scenes very neatly; while
twa blind fiddlers they had brought with
them played the bonniest ye ever heard.
’Od, the very music was worth a sixpence
of itsel.</p>

<p class='c008'>The place, as I said before, was
choke-full, just to excess, so that one
could scarcely breathe. Indeed, I never
saw ony part sae crowded, not even at
a tent-preaching, when the Rev. Mr
Roarer was giving his discourses on the
building of Solomon’s Temple. We
were obligated to have the windows
opened for a mouthful of fresh air, the
barn being as close as a baker’s oven,
my neighbour and me fanning our red
faces wi’ our hats, to keep us cool;
and, though all were half stewed, we
certainly had the worst o’t,—the toddy
we had ta’en having fermented the blood
of our bodies into a perfect fever.</p>

<p class='c008'>Just at the time that the twa blind
fiddles were playing “The Downfall of
Paris,” a handbell rang, and up goes
the green curtain; being hauled to the
ceiling, as I observed wi’ the tail of my
ee, by a birkie at the side, that had
haud of a rope. So, on the music
stopping, and all becoming as still as
that you might have heard a pin fall,
in comes a decent old gentleman at his
leisure, weel powthered, wi’ an auld
fashioned coat on, waistcoat with flap-pockets,
brown breeches with buckles
at the knees, and silk stockings with
red gushets on a blue ground. I never
saw a man in sic distress; he stampit
about, dadding the end of his staff on
the ground, and imploring all the
powers of heaven and yearth to help
him to find out his runawa’ daughter,
that had decampit wi’ some ne’er-do-weel
loon of a half-pay captain, that
keppit her in his arms frae her bedroom
window, up twa pair o’ stairs. Every
father and head of a family maun hae
felt for a man in his situation, thus to
be rubbit of his dear bairn, and an only
daughter too, as he tell’t us ower and
ower again, as the saut, saut tears ran
gushing down his withered face, and
he aye blew his nose on his clean calendered
pocket napkin. But, ye ken,
the thing was absurd to suppose that
we should ken onything about the
matter, having never seen either him
or his daughter between the een afore,
and no kenning them by headmark;
so though we sympathised with him, as
folks ought to do wi’ a fellow-creature
in affliction, we thought it best to haud
our tongues, to see what might cast up
better than he expected. So out he
gaed stumping at the ither side, determined,
he said, to find them out, though
he should follow them to the world’s
end, Johnny Groat’s House, or something
to that effect.</p>

<p class='c008'>Hardly was his back turned, and
amaist before ye could cry Jack Robinson,
in comes the birkie and the very
young leddy the auld gentleman described,
arm-in-arm thegither, smoodging
and lauching like daft. Dog on it! it
was a shameless piece of business. As
true as death, before all the crowd of
folk, he pat his arm round her waist,
and ca’ed her his sweatheart, and love,
and dearie, and darling, and everything
that is sweet. If they had been courting
in a close thegither on a Friday
night, they couldna hae said mair to ane
anither, or gaen greater lengths. I
thought sic shame to be an ee-witness
to sic ongoings, that I was obliged at last
to haud up my hat afore my face, and
look down; though, for a’ that, the
young lad, to be sic a blackguard as his
conduct showed, was weel enough faured,
and had a gude coat to his back, wi’
double-gilt buttons, and fashionable
lapells, to say little of a very weel-made
pair of buckskins, a little the waur o’
the wear to be sure, but which, if they
had been weel cleaned, would hae lookit
amaist as gude as new. How they had
come we never could learn, as we
neither saw chaise nor gig; but, from
his having spurs on his boots, it is mair
than likely they had lightit at the back-door
of the barn frae a horse, she riding
on a pad behint him, maybe with her
hand round his waist.</p>

<p class='c008'>The faither lookit to be a rich auld
bool, baith from his manner of speaking
and the rewards he seemed to offer for
the apprehension of his daughter; but,
to be sure, when so many of us were
present, that had an equal right to the
spulzie, it wadna be a great deal a
thousand pounds when divided, still it
was worth the looking after; so we just
bidit a wee.</p>

<p class='c008'>Things were brought to a bearing,
howsomever, sooner than either themsels,
I daursay, or anybody else present,
seemed to hae the least glimpse of;
for, just in the middle of their fine goings-on,
the sound of a coming fit was
heard, and the lassie taking guilt to her,
cried out, “Hide me, hide me, for the
sake of gudeness, for yonder comes my
auld faither!”</p>

<p class='c008'>Nae sooner said than done. In he
stappit her into a closet; and after
shutting the door on her, he sat down
upon a chair, pretending to be asleep in
a moment. The auld faither came bouncing
in, and seeing the fellow as sound as
a tap, he ran forrit and gaed him sic a
shake, as if he wad hae shooken him a’
sundry, which sune made him open his
een as fast as he had steekit them.</p>

<p class='c008'>After blackguarding the chield at no
allowance, cursing him up hill and down
dale, and ca’ing him every name but a
gentleman, he held his staff ower
his crown, and gripping him by the
cuff o’ the neck, askit him what he
had made o’ his daughter. Never
since I was born did I ever see sic
brazen-faced impudence. The rascal
had the brass to say at ance, that
he hadna seen word or wittens of his
daughter for a month, though mair than
a hundred folks sitting in his company
had seen him dauting her with his arm
round her jimpy waist not five minutes
before. As a man, as a father, as an
elder of our kirk, my corruption was
raised,—for I aye hated leeing, as a puir
cowardly sin, and an inbreak on the
ten commandments; and I found my
neebour, Mr Glen, fidgeting on the
seat as well as me, so I thocht that
whaever spoke first wad hae the best
right to be entitled to the reward;
whereupon, just as he was in the act of
rising up, I took the word out of his
mouth, saying, “Dinna believe him,
auld gentleman—dinna believe him,
friend; he’s telling a parcel of lees.
Never saw her for a month! It’s no
worth arguing, or ca’ing witnesses;
just open that press door, and ye’ll see
whether I’m speaking truth or no.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The auld man stared, and lookit
dumfoundered; and the young man,
instead of rinnin’ forrit wi’ his doubled
nieves to strike me—the only thing I
was feared for—began a lauching, as if
I had dune him a gude turn. But never
since I had a being, did ever I witness sic
an uproar and noise as immediately took
place. The hale house was sae glad that
the scoundrel had been exposed, that
they set up siccan a roar o’ lauchter, and
they thumpit away at siccan a rate at the
boards wi’ their feet, that at lang and
last, wi’ pushing and fidgeting, clapping
their hands, and hadding their sides,
down fell the place they ca’ the gallery,
a’ the folk in’t being hurled tapsy-turvy,
head foremost amang the sawdust
on the floor below; their guffawing
sune being turned to howling, ilka ane
crying louder than anither at the tap of
their voices, “Murder! Murder! haud
aff me. Murder, my ribs are in. Murder!
I’m killed—I’m speechless!” and ither
lamentations to that effect; so that a
rush to the door took place, in which
everything was overturned—the doorkeeper
being wheeled away like wildfire;
the furms strampit to pieces; the
lights knockit out; and the twa blind
fiddlers dung head foremost ower the
stage, the bass fiddle cracking like
thunder at every bruise. Siccan tearing
and swearing, and tumbling and squealing,
was never witnessed in the memory
of man, since the building of Babel; legs
being likely to be broken, sides staved
in, een knocked out, and lives lost;
there being only one door, and that a sma’
ane; so that, when we had been carried
aff our feet that length, my wind was
fairly gane, and a sick dwalm cam ower
me, lights of a’ manner of colours, red,
blue, green, and orange, dancing before
me, that entirely deprived me o’ my
common sense, till on opening my een
in the dark, I fand myself leaning wi’
my braid side against the wa’ on the opposite
side of the close. It was some time
before I mindit what had happened;
so, dreading scaith, I fand first the ae
arm, and then the ither, to see if they
were broken—syne my head—and syne
baith o’ my legs; but a’ as weel as I
could discover was skin-hale and scart-free;
on perceiving which, my joy was
without bounds, having a great notion
that I had been killed on the spot. So
I reached round my hand very thankfully
to tak out my pocket napkin, to
gie my brow a wipe, when, lo and behold,
the tail of my Sunday’s coat was
fairly aff an’ away—dockit by the hench
buttons.</p>

<p class='c008'>Sae muckle for plays and play-actors—the
first and last, I trust in grace,
that I shall ever see. But indeed I
could expect nae better, after the warning
that Maister Wiggie had mair than
ance gien us frae the puppit on the subject;
sae, instead of getting my grand
reward for finding the auld man’s
daughter, the hale covey o’ them, nae
better than a set of swindlers, took legbail,
and made that very night a moonlight
flitting, and Johnny Hammer, honest
man, that had wrought frae sunrise
to sunset, for twa days, fitting up their
place by contract, instead of being well
paid for his trouble, as he deserved, got
naething left him but a rackle of his own
gude deals, a’ dung to shivers.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='jane_malcolm' class='c006'>JANE MALCOLM:<br> <span class='large'><em>A VILLAGE TALE</em></span>.</h2>
</div>

<p class='c007'>Every town in Scotland has its
“character,” in the shape of some bedlamite,
innocent, or odd fish. There is
something interesting about these out-of-the-way
beings. Everything they do is
a kind of current chapter of biography
among their neighbours;—what they
say is regarded as the words of an oracle—more
worthy of memory than the inquiries
of the laird or the advice of the
parson. They are in a manner immortalised.</p>

<p class='c008'>Having, in the course of different
summers, taken up a short residence in
some of the smaller borough towns and
villages scattered through Scotland, I
took no small delight in observing the
peculiarities of many of those objects of
compassion, and in tracing the source
of that dismal malady which laid prostrate
the edifice of reason, and arrested
the harmonious mechanism of an organized
mind. The task was sometimes
of a melancholy nature: I found
histories—real histories—turning upon
incidents the most tragical, and only
wonder they are so little known, and
meet with such slender sympathy. The
crisis of a well-written romance brings
out more tears than were ever shed for
the fall of man; but never have I read
of anything so pathetic as was developed
in the following sketch—a sketch which
the pen of a Scott could do little to
adorn. The naked truth of the story is
a series of catastrophes, a parallel to
which imagination seldom produces.
It was told me by a sister of the unfortunate
female who figures so conspicuously
in it.</p>

<p class='c008'>Jane Malcolm was the daughter of a
lint-mill proprietor in the small town
of K——n. Her father, being a
wealthy man, held for a long time the
provostship of the place—a Scottish
burgh. His family consisted of two
daughters and a son. Jane was the
youngest of these, and her father’s
favourite. There was something about
the girl extremely attractive; she possessed
all the advantages of personal
beauty, combined with a gentleness of
disposition and quickness of understanding,
that wrought upon the affections of
all she knew. At the manse she was
peculiarly beloved; the good old minister
recognised in her the image of one
he had lost; the illusion strengthened as
she grew up, and Jane Malcolm was as
much an inmate there as she was in the
house of her father. A few years saw
her removed to Edinburgh, to finish an
education imperfectly carried on under the
superintendence of a village governess.
She returned graceful and accomplished,
to be looked up to by all her former
companions. But Jane was not proud;—her
early friendships she disdained
to supplant by a feeling so unworthy—so
unlike herself. Her over-bending
nature, indeed, was her fault: it brought
the vulgar and undiscerning mind into
too much familiarity with her own. It
became the cause of all her misery.</p>

<p class='c008'>Among those most intimate with her
was one Margaret Innes, a young and
lively girl, but far below Jane’s rank in
life. The daughter of an aged fisherman,
it was not uncommon for Jane to
find her employed in offices the most
menial. For all this she loved her not
the less. The affection and humble virtues
of Margaret amply repaid Jane for
her condescension. Mr Malcolm himself
saw no harm in this growing friendship,
marked, as it was, with such a
strong disparity of situation. But he
overlooked the circumstance that Margaret
Innes had a brother, a handsome,
fearless lad. A sailor by profession, it
is true he was seldom at home, but
though seldom, he was often enough for
Jane to discover that his every return
brought with it a stronger impression in
his favour. When very young they
were play-fellows together, and now
when both were grown up, she could
not refuse a smile or a word, whenever,
after a long voyage, the light-hearted
sailor returned to his native home.
Sandy felt vain of her notice, but by no
means attempted more familiarity than
was consistent with his station. Without
daring to love, he would have done
anything to serve Miss Malcolm, and his
readiness was not unfrequently put to
the test.</p>

<p class='c008'>Nothing Jane loved better than a
short excursion upon the neighbouring
sea. The boat of the old fisherman was
often in request for this purpose, and he
himself, accompanied by his daughter
Margaret, made up the party on these
occasions. When Sandy was at home,
he supplied the place of his father, and
his active and skilful hand directed
many a pleasant voyage—made more
pleasant by a fund of amusing anecdotes
and adventures picked up in the course
of his travels. One afternoon, on the
day after his return from the coast of
Norway, this little group had embarked
to enjoy the delightful freshness of the
sea-breeze, after a noon of intolerable
heat. Standing up to gaze at a flock of
sea-birds, collected for the purpose of
devouring the small fry of the herring
which at that season visited the coast,
Jane Malcolm accidentally fell into the
water. The boat receded rapidly from
the spot, its sail being filled by the
wind. Immediately, however, Sandy
Innes swam towards the terrified girl.
She clung to him for support. It was
no easy matter to reach the boat, carried
along as it was by the breeze, and not
till Margaret had recovered from her
first alarm, was she able, by turning the
helm, to give them the required assistance.
They were soon safe. This adventure
called forth the liveliest feelings
of gratitude on the part of Jane Malcolm.
She regarded the youthful sailor
as her preserver, and thought no recompense
too liberal for the service he had
rendered. Imprudently she revealed to
his sister the secret of her growing attachment.
Margaret was too generous
all at once to give her brother the advantage
offered. She reasoned with
Jane on the impropriety—the unsuitableness
of such a union as was hinted
at; and, to render it impracticable for
the present, she induced Sandy to engage
with a ship bound for North America.
Accordingly, he again left the
country.</p>

<p class='c008'>Miss Malcolm was not to be deterred.
She upbraided Margaret for her want of
feeling; and, in short, took it so much
to heart, that the poor girl, on Sandy’s
return, was, out of self-defence, obliged
to communicate to him the tidings she
willingly would have hid. To be brief,
they were married without Mr Malcolm’s
consent. This was a blow the
old man never got over; he died a few
days after the ceremony. His only son
had just returned from England, a lieutenant
in the army; alas! it was to lay
in the grave the remains of a heart-broken
father. Enraged at the cause of
this melancholy blow, he vowed revenge
against the innocent intruder into his
domestic peace. The feelings of his unhappy
sister he thought no sacrifice to
win retaliation; the step she had already
taken showed them, in his eye, to
be blunted and incapable of injury. To
have challenged one so much his inferior
never entered into his mind; he brooded
over a purpose more dark and sanguinary,
though less consistent with his
honour. His design was to have the
husband of his sister murdered, and he
appears to have formed it without a
moment’s hesitation. Professing regard
for his new brother-in-law, he pretended
to be reconciled to the unfortunate marriage,
and even divided with him and
his other sister the patrimony of the deceased.
This show of friendship had
the effect of producing a seeming intimacy
between them. Many a time they
went out for a few hours upon fishing
excursions, without any discovery being
made by Sandy Innes of the growing
hostility harboured by young Malcolm.
One evening, however—the latter having,
by various excuses, delayed their return
to shore till after sunset—as the boat was
lying quietly at anchor, about a mile
from harbour, the unsuspecting sailor
leant over to recover an oar which Malcolm
had purposely dropped, when he
found himself suddenly precipitated into
the sea. In attempting to regain the
vessel, he was driven back, and violently
struck with the boat-hook, which his
villanous brother-in-law had seized,
with the intent to put the finish to his
murderous treachery. In this, however,
he was disappointed. Sandy Innes, with
strong presence of mind, caught hold of
the instrument, managing, at the same
time, to overset the boat, and thus involve
Malcolm in the same fate with
himself. Both had a hard struggle for
life; but alas! without success. Next
morning the bodies of the two young men
were discovered lying upon the beach.
They were carried into Jane’s habitation
without her knowledge—the unfortunate
girl having gone out to a different
part of the shore in quest of the
boat, which, she fancied, had, by the wish
of her brother, harboured all night at
Inchkeith. When she returned, the
first object that met her eyes was the
body of her own dear husband—a cold
corpse, with the long black hair hanging
down over his once noble brow,
and the dark eyes wide open, as if fixed
in death upon her and heaven. A few
days afterwards the young men were
buried, side by side,—for a fearful story
was whispered of Malcolm’s guilt: how
he was seen by the crew of a boat that
had landed, without notice, upon a
neighbouring rock, at the moment he
attempted the atrocious deed. Their
assistance, though instantly offered, was
too late, for both had gone down ere
they reached the spot.</p>

<p class='c008'>After that sad catastrophe Jane was
never herself. A fever carried away her
intellects, and left her mind in ruins.
Though possessed of a competency, it
has never been used. The same weeds,
though now reduced to rags, still cover
her in her long and sorrowful widowhood.
The last time I saw her, I saw
a fearful picture—a beautiful female altered
to a revolting spectacle of squalidness
and deformity. She was gathering
the shell-fish from among the
brown layers of tangle, beyond the
farthest ebb of the tide. Now and then
she broke the shells with her teeth,
muttering,—“We shall find him here—we
shall find him here;” and then she
threw the shells round about her, with a
sad sigh, as if her heart were longing to
break, but felt chained up in a lone and
weary prison. As I passed, I called to
her—“Jane, this is a cold day, and you
seem at cold work.” “Ay! ay!” she
replied, “and so are the worms! But
did ye see him? Bonny Sandy! If ye
be gaun to the town, tell Meg Innes to
come; for he’s a wild laddie, and maybe
she’ll ken whaur he’s hidden himsel!”
Poor creature, thought I, she will find
rest in the grave!—<cite>Edin. Lit. Jour.</cite></p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='bowed_joseph' class='c006'>BOWED JOSEPH:<br> <span class='large'><em>A LAST-CENTURY EDINBURGH “CHARACTER.”</em></span></h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='fss'>BY ROBERT CHAMBERS, LL.D.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>The mobs of Edinburgh have ever
been celebrated as among the fiercest
in Europe. The one which accomplished
the death of Porteous, as narrated
in the tale of the Heart of Midlothian,
was a most surprising instance
of popular vengeance, almost surpassing
the bounds of belief; though it must
sink considerably in our admiration,
when we reflect upon the power and
ferocity which at all periods have characterised
the actions of this monstrous
and danger-fraught collective. The
time has been, when, in the words of
the old song, “all Edinburgh” would
“rise by thousands three,” and present
such a strength to the legal authorities,
that all opposition to their capricious
will would be in vain. In the younger
days of many now living, even the boys
of the High School, and of Heriot’s
Hospital, could erect themselves into a
formidable body, equally resistless and
indomitable. It is a fact, ludicrous
enough too, that when the lads of these
different schools were engaged in any
of those squabbles, formerly so frequent
and fatal, between them, they always
showed a singular degree of political
sagacity when assailed by the town-guard,
in immediately joining their
strengths, and combining against the
common foe, when for the most part
they succeeded in driving them from the
scene of action. When such was the
power of boys and striplings in this ill-protected
city, and such the disorderliness
of holiday assemblies, there is little left
for wonder at the ravages committed
by a mob formed of adults, actuated by
violent feelings of jealousy, bigotry, and
revenge.</p>

<p class='c008'>Of this uncontrollable omnipotence
of the populace, the annals of Edinburgh
present many fearful records. At the
various periods of the Reformation and
the Revolution, the Chapel of Roslin
was destroyed by a mob, whose purpose
neither cooled nor evaporated during a
walk of eight miles. James the Sixth was
besieged and threatened in his courts,
and in the midst of his Parliaments,
by a rabble of mechanics, who, but for
the stout walls of the Tolbooth, might
perhaps have taken his life. The fine
chapel of Holyrood-house was pillaged of
not only its furniture and other valuables,
but also of the still more sacred bones
which lay within its precincts, by a mob
which rose at the Revolution, and did
such deeds of violence and rapine as
fanaticism and ignorance alone could
have excited. At the unfortunate issue
of the Dover expedition, at the execution
of Captain Green, at the Union,
and at many other events of less importance,
the populace of Edinburgh distinguished
themselves by insurrection
and acts of outrage, such as have alone
found parallels, perhaps, in the various
transactions of the French Revolution.
Even so late as 1812, there happened a
foray of a most appalling nature; the
sports of an occasion of rejoicing were
converted into scenes of frightful riot,
unexampled as they were unlooked for.
The fatal melancholy catastrophe of this
event, had, however, the good effect of
quenching the spirit of licentiousness and
blackguardism in the Edinburgh youth,
and finally undermined that system of
unity and promptitude in action and in
council by which its mobs had so often
triumphed in their terrible resolutions.</p>

<p class='c008'>In this fierce democracy, there once
arose a mighty leader, who contrived,
by means of great boldness, sagacity,
and other personal merits, to subject the
rabble to his will, and to elect himself
dictator of all its motives and exploits.
The person who thus found means to
collect all the monstrous heads of the
hydra within the grand grasp of his command
was a little decrepit being, about
four feet high, almost deprived of legs,
and otherwise deformed. His name
was Joseph Smith, or more commonly,
“Bowed Joseph.” He lived in Leith
Wynd, and his trade as a private citizen
was a buff belt maker. This singular
being—low, miserable, and contemptible
as he appeared—might be said to have
had at one time the complete command
of the metropolis of Scotland. Whenever
any transaction took place in the
Town Council which Joseph considered
to be of very improper tendency; whenever
meal rose to whatever Joseph considered
to be an improper price; whenever
anything occurred in the city which
did not accord with Joseph’s idea of
right and wrong; in short, “when they
werna gude bairns,” this hero could, in
the course of an hour, collect a mob of
ten thousand persons, all alike ready to
execute his commands, or to disperse at
his bidding. For this purpose, he is said
to have employed a drum; and never
surely had “fiery cross” of the Highland
chieftain such an effect upon the warlike
devotion of his clan, as “Bowed
Joseph’s drum” had upon the <em>tinder</em>
spirits of the Edinburgh rabble.</p>

<p class='c008'>The “lazy corner” was a lazy corner
no longer as he marched along—the
“town rats,” as they peeped forth like old
cautious snails from their Patmos in the
High Street, drew in their horns and
shut their door as he approached—the
West Bow ceased to clink as he descended.
It seemed to be their enthusiasm
to obey him in every order—whether
to sack a granary, break the
windows of an offensive magistrate, or
to besiege the Town Council in their
chamber. With all this absolute dominion
over the affections and obedience
of the mob, it is to be recorded to the
honour of Bowed Joseph, that however
irregular the nature of his authority, he
never in any of his actions could be said
to have transgressed the bounds of propriety.
With great natural sagacity,
he possessed a clear and quick-sighted
faculty of judgment. And the real
philanthropy of his disposition was not
less remarkable than his other singular
qualities. He was, in short, an advocate
for “fair play,” as he called it, in everything.
Fair play alone was the object
of his government, and nothing else.</p>

<p class='c008'>The following interesting story is
handed down concerning Bowed Joseph,
which proves his strong love of justice,
as well as the humanity of his heart. A
poor man in the Pleasance, from certain
untoward circumstances, found it impossible
to pay his rent at Martinmas;
and his hard-hearted landlord, refusing
a portion of the same with a forlorn
promise of the remainder being soon
paid, sold off the whole effects of the
tenant, and threw him, with a family of
six children, in the most miserable condition
upon the wide world. The unfortunate
man, in a fit of despair, immediately
put an end to his existence, by which the
family were only rendered still more destitute.
Bowed Joseph, however, did not
long remain ignorant of the case. As soon
as the affair became generally known
throughout the city, he shouldered his
drum, and after half-an-hour’s beating
through the streets, found himself followed
by a mob of ten thousand people.
With this enormous army he marched to
an open space of ground, named in former
times Thomson’s Park, where, mounted
on the shoulders of six of his lieutenant-generals,
he harangued them in the true
“Cambyses vein,” concerning the flagrant
and fatal proceedings for the redress
of which they were assembled. He
concluded by directing his men to seek
the premises of the cruel landlord; and
as his house lay directly opposite the spot
in the Pleasance, there was no time lost in
executing his orders. The mob entered,
and seized upon every article of furniture
that could be found, and in ten
minutes the whole was packed in the
park. Joseph set fire to the pile with
his own hands, though the magistrates
stood by with a guard of soldiers, and
entreated him to desist. The eight-day
clock is said to have struck twelve just
as it was consigned to the flames.</p>

<p class='c008'>When such was the strength and
organisation of an Edinburgh mob so
late as the year 1780, we need scarcely
be surprised at the instance on which
the tale of the Heart of Midlothian is
founded, happening, as it did, at a much
earlier period, and when the people
were prompted to their terrible purpose
by the sternest feelings of personal
revenge.</p>

<p class='c008'>In the exercise of his perilous office,
it does not appear that Bowed Joseph
ever drew down the vengeance of the
more lawfully constituted authorities
of the land. He was, on the contrary,
in some degree countenanced by the
magistrates of the city, who frequently
sent for him to the Council Chamber,
in cases of emergency, to consult him on
the best means to be adopted for appeasing
and dispersing the mob.</p>

<p class='c008'>On an occasion of this moment, he
was accustomed to look very large and
consequential. With one hand carelessly
applied to his side, and the other banged
resolutely down upon the table, and with
as much majesty as four feet of stature,
and a beard of as many weeks old,
could assume, and with as much turbulence
in his fiery little eye, as if he was
himself a mob, he would stand before
them pleading the cause of his compeers,
or directing the trembling Council
to the most expeditious method of
assuaging their fury. The dismissal of
a mob, on these occasions, was usually
accomplished at the expense of a few
hogsheads of ale, broached on the Calton
Hill, and by the subsequent order of
their decrepit general, expressed in the
simple words, “Disperse, my lads.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Having for many years exercised an
unlimited dominion over the affections
of the rabble, Bowed Joseph met his
death at last in a manner most unworthy
of his character and great reputation.
He fell from the top of a Leith coach
in a state of intoxication, and broke
his neck, which caused instantaneous
death. He had been at the Leith races,
and was on his return to Edinburgh when
the accident took place; and his skeleton
has the honour of being preserved in the
anatomical class-room of the College of
Edinburgh.</p>

<p class='c008'>An Edinburgh mob, although it
may supply excellent subjects for
tales, in all its characteristic fierceness
and insubordination, is now a matter
of mere antiquity. In the present
day, the working classes of Edinburgh,
from whom it may be supposed the
principal materials of the mobs used
to be drafted, are in the highest
degree orderly, both in private conduct,
and in their public appearances
in bodies. The printing press, the
schoolmaster, and that general improvement
of manners which now prevails,
have entirely altered the character
of the populace, and any mischief now
committed through the public uproar
is seen to arise not from the adult,
but the juvenile and neglected portion
of the community.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='the_laird_of_wineholm' class='c006'>THE LAIRD OF WINEHOLM.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By James Hogg, the “Ettrick Shepherd.”</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>“Have you heard anything of the
apparition which has been seen about
Wineholm-place?” said the dominie.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Na, I never heard o’ sic a thing, as
yet,” quoth the smith; “but I wadna
wonder muckle that the news should
turn out to be true.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The dominie shook his head, and
muttered, “h’m—h’m—h’m,” as if he
knew more than he was at liberty
to tell.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Weel, that beats the world,” said
the smith, as he gave up blowing the
bellows, and looked over the spectacles
at the dominie’s face.</p>

<p class='c008'>The dominie shook his head again.</p>

<p class='c008'>The smith was now in the most ticklish
quandary; eager to learn particulars,
and spread the astounding news through
the whole village, and the rest of the
parish to boot, but yet afraid to press
the inquiry, for fear the cautious dominie
should take the alarm of being reported
as a tattler, and keep all to himself. So
the smith, after waiting till the windpipe
of the great bellows ceased its
rushing noise, and he had covered the
gloss neatly up with a mixture of small
coals, culm, and cinders; and then,
perceiving that nothing more was forthcoming
from the dominie, he began
blowing again with more energy than
before—changed his hand—put the
other sooty one into his breeches-pocket—leaned
to the horn—looked in a careless
manner towards the window, or
rather gazed on vacancy, and always
now and then stole a sly look at the
dominie’s face. It was quite immovable.
His cheek was leaned upon his open
hand, and his eyes fixed on the glowing
fire.</p>

<p class='c008'>It was very teasing for poor Clinkum,
the smith. But what could he do?
He took out his glowing iron, and
made a shower of fire sweep through
the whole smithy, whereof a good part,
as intended, sputtered upon the dominie,
but he only shielded his face with
his elbow, turned his shoulder half
round and held his peace. Thump—thump!
clink—clink! went the hammer
for a space; and then, when the iron
was returned to the fire, “Weel, that
beats the world!” quoth the smith.</p>

<p class='c008'>“What is this that beats the world,
Mr Clinkum?” said the dominie, with
the most cool and provoking indifference.</p>

<p class='c008'>“This story about the apparition,”
quoth the smith.</p>

<p class='c008'>“What story?” said the dominie.</p>

<p class='c008'>Now, really this insolence was hardly
to be borne, even from the learned
dominie, who, with all his cold indifference
of feeling, was sitting toasting
himself at a good smithy fire. The
smith felt this, for he was a man of
acute feeling, and therefore he spit upon
his hand and fell a-clinking and pelting
at the stithy with both spirit and resignation,
saying within himself, “These
dominie bodies just beat the world!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“What story?” reiterated the dominie.
“For my part I related no story,
nor have ever given assent to a belief
in such story that any man has heard.
Nevertheless, from the results of ratiocination,
conclusions may be formed,
though not algebraically, yet corporately
by constituting a quantity, which shall
be equivalent to the difference, subtracting
the less from the greater, and
striking a balance in order to get rid of
any ambiguity or paradox.”</p>

<p class='c008'>At the long adverb, <em>nevertheless</em>, the
smith gave over blowing, and pricked
up his ears, but the definition went beyond
his comprehension.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ye ken that just beats the whole
world for deepness,” said the smith,
and again began blowing the bellows.</p>

<p class='c008'>“You know, Mr Clinkum,” continued
the dominie, “that a proposition is an
assertion of some distinct truth, which
only becomes manifest by demonstration.
A corollary is an obvious, or
easily inferred consequence <em>of</em> a proposition;
while a hypothesis is a <em>sup</em>position,
or concession made, during
the process of demonstration. Now, do
you take me along with you? Because,
if you do not, it is needless to proceed.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Yes, yes, I understand you middling
weel; but I wad like better to hear
what other folks say about it than
you.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“And why so? Wherefore would
you rather hear another man’s demonstration
than mine?” said the dominie,
sternly.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Because, ye ken, ye just beat the
world for words,” quoth the smith.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ay, ay! that is to say, words without
wisdom,” said the dominie, rising
and stepping away. “Well, well,
every man to his sphere, and the smith
to his bellows.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ye’re quite wrang, maister,” cried
the smith after him. “It isna the <em>want</em>
o’ wisdom in you that plagues me; it is
the owerplush o’t.”</p>

<p class='c008'>This soothed the dominie, who returned,
and said mildly,—</p>

<p class='c008'>“By-the-by, Clinkum, I want a
leister of your making, for I see no
other tradesman makes them so well.
A five-grained one make it; at your
own price.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Very weel, sir. When will you be
needing it?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Not till the end of the close time.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ay, ye may gar the three auld anes
do till then.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“What do you wish to insinuate,
sir? Would you infer, because I have
three leisters, that therefore I am a
breaker of the laws? That I, who am
placed here as a pattern and monitor of
the young and rising generation, should
be the first to set them an example of
insubordination?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ye ken, that just beats a’ in words;
but we ken what we ken, for a’ that,
maister.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“You had better take a little care
what you say, Mr Clinkum; just a
<em>little</em> care. I do not request you to take
particular care, for of that your tongue
is incapable, but a very little is a correlative
of consequences. And mark
you—don’t go to say that I said this or
that about a ghost, or mentioned such
a ridiculous story.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“The crabbitness o’ that body beats
the world!” said the smith to himself,
as the dominie went halting homeward.</p>

<p class='c008'>The very next man who entered the
smithy door was no other than John
Broadcast, the new laird’s hind, who
had also been hind to the late laird for
many years, and who had no sooner
said his errand, than the smith addressed
him thus:—</p>

<p class='c008'>“Have <em>you</em> ever seen this ghost that
there is such a noise about?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ghost? Na, goodness be thankit!
I never saw a ghost in my life, save
ance a wraith. What ghost do you
mean?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“So you never saw nor heard tell of
any apparition about Wineholm-place,
lately?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“No, I hae reason to be thankfu’ I
have not.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Weel, that beats the world! Wow,
man, but ye are sair in the dark! Do
you no think there are siccan things in
nature, as folk no coming fairly to their
ends, John?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Goodness be wi’ us! Ye gar a’ the
hairs o’ my head creep, man. What’s
that you’re saying?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Had ye never ony suspicions o’ that
kind, John?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“No; I canna say that I had.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“None in the least? Weel, that
beats the world!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“O, haud your tongue—haud your
tongue! We hae great reason to be
thankfu’ that we are as we are!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“How as you are?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“That we are nae stocks or stanes,
or brute beasts, as the minister o’ Traquair
says. But I hope in God there is
nae siccan a thing about my master’s
place as an unearthly visitor.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The smith shook his head, and uttered
a long hem! hem! hem! He had felt
the powerful effect of that himself, and
wished to make the same appeal to the
feelings and longings after information
of John Broadcast. The bait took;
for the latent spark of superstition was
kindled in the heart of honest John, and
there being no wit in the head to counteract
it, the portentous hint had its
full sway. John’s eyes stelled in his
head, and his visage grew long, assuming
meanwhile something of the hue of
dried clay in winter.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Hech, man! but that’s an awsome
story,” exclaimed he. “Folks hae great
reason to be thankfu’ that they are as
they are. It is truly an awsome story.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ye ken, it just beats the world for
that,” rejoined the smith.</p>

<p class='c008'>“And is it really thought that this
laird made away wi’ our auld maister?”
said John.</p>

<p class='c008'>The smith shook his head again, and
gave a straight wink with his eyes.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Weel, I hae great reason to be
thankfu’ that I never heard siccan a
story as that!” said John. “Wha was
it tauld you a’ about it?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“It was nae less a man than our
mathewmatical dominie,” said the smith,
“he that kens a’ things, and can prove
a proposition to the nineteenth part of
a hair. But he is terrified lest the tale
should spread; and therefore ye maunna
say a word about it.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Na, na; I hae great reason to be
thankfu’ I can keep a secret as weel as
the maist part of men, and better than
the maist part of women. What did he
say? Tell us a’ that he said.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“It is not so easy to repeat what he
says, for he has sae mony lang-nebbit
words. But he said, though it was only
a supposition, yet it was easily made
manifest by positive demonstration.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Did you ever hear the like o’ that?
Now, have we no reason to be thankfu’
that we are as we are? Did he say it
was by poison that he was taken off, or
that he was strangled?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Na; I thought he said it was by a
collar, or collary, or something to that
purpose.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Then it wad appear there is no
doubt of the horrid transaction? I
think the doctor has reason to be thankfu’
that he’s no taken up. Is no that
strange?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“O, ye ken, it just beats the world.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“He deserves to be torn at young
horses’ tails,” said the ploughman.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ay, or nippit to death with red-hot
pinchers,” quoth the smith.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Or harrowed to death, like the
children of Ammon,” said the ploughman.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Na, I’ll tell you what should be
done wi’ him—he should just be docked,
and fired like a farcied horse,” quoth
the smith. “’Od help ye, man, I could
beat the world for laying on a proper
punishment!”</p>

<p class='c008'>John Broadcast went home full of
terror and dismay. He told his wife
the story in a secret—she told the dairymaid
with a tenfold degree of secrecy;
and as Dr Davington, or the New Laird,
as he was called, sometimes kissed the
pretty dairymaid for amusement, it gave
her a great deal of freedom with her
master, so she went straight and told
him the whole story to his face. He
was unusually affected at hearing such
a terrible accusation against himself,
and changed colour again and again;
and as pretty Martha, the dairymaid,
supposed it was from anger, she fell to
abusing the dominie without mercy—for
he was session-clerk, and had been
giving her some hints about her morality
of which she did not approve. She
therefore threw the whole blame upon
him, assuring her master that he was
the most spiteful and malicious man on
the face of the earth; “and to show
you that, sir”, added Martha, wiping
her eyes, “he has spread it through the
hale parish that you and I baith deserve
to sit wi’ the sacking-gown on us.”</p>

<p class='c008'>This enraged the doctor still farther,
and he forthwith dispatched Martha to
desire the dominie to come up to the
Place to speak with her master, as he
had something to say to him. Martha
went, and delivered her message in so
insulting a manner, that the dominie
suspected there was bad blood a-brewing
against him; and as he had too much
self-importance to think of succumbing
to any man alive, he sent an impertinent
answer to the laird’s message, bearing
that if Dr Davington had any business
with him, he would be so good as
attend at his class-room when he dismissed
his scholars. And then he added,
waving his hand towards the door,
“Go out. There is contamination in
your presence. What hath such a
vulgar fraction ado to come into the
halls of uprightness and science?”</p>

<p class='c008'>When this message was delivered, the
doctor, being almost beside himself with
rage, instantly dispatched two village
constables with a warrant to seize the
dominie, and bring him before him, for
the doctor was a justice of the peace.
Accordingly, the poor dominie was
seized at the head of his pupils, and
dragged away, crutch and all, up before
the new laird, to answer for such an
abominable slander. The dominie denied
everything anent it, as indeed he
might, save having asked the smith the
simple question, “if he had heard
aught of a ghost at the Place?” But
he refused to tell <em>why</em> he had asked
that question. He had his own reasons
for it, he said, and reasons that to him
were quite sufficient; but as he was not
obliged to disclose them, neither would
he.</p>

<p class='c008'>The smith was then sent for, who
declared that the dominie had told him
of the ghost being seen, and a murder
committed, which he called a <em>rash
assassination</em>, and said it was obvious
and easily inferred that it was done by
a collar.</p>

<p class='c008'>How the dominie did storm! He
even twice threatened to knock down
the smith with his crutch; not for the
slander,—he cared not for that nor the
doctor a pin, but for the total subversion
of his grand illustration from geometry;
and he, therefore, denominated the
smith’s head <em>the logarithm to number
one</em>, a reproach of which I do not
understand the gist, but the appropriation
of it pleased the dominie exceedingly,
made him chuckle, and put him
in better humour for a good while. It
was in vain that he tried to prove that
his words applied only to the definition
of a problem in geometry,—he could
not make himself understood; and the
smith maintaining his point firmly, and
apparently with conscientious truth,
appearances were greatly against the
dominie, and the doctor pronounced
him a malevolent and dangerous person.</p>

<p class='c008'>“O, ye ken, he just beats the world
for that,” quoth the smith.</p>

<p class='c008'>“I a malevolent and dangerous person,
sir!” said the dominie, fiercely,
and altering his crutch from one place
to another of the floor, as if he could
not get a place to set it on. “Dost
thou call me a malevolent and dangerous
person, sir? what, then, art thou? If
thou knowest not, I will tell thee. Add
a cipher to a ninth figure, and what
does that make? Ninety you will say.
Ay, but then put a cipher <em>above</em> a nine,
and what does that make? Ha—ha—ha—I
have you there! Your case exactly
in higher geometry! For say the
chord of sixty degrees is radius, then
the sine of ninety degrees is equal to
the radius, so the secant of 0 (that is
nihil-nothing, as the boys call it), is
radius, and so is the co-sine of 0. The
versed sine of ninety degrees is radius
(that is nine with a cipher added, you
know), and the versed sine of 180 degrees
is the diameter; then, of course,
the sine increases from nought (that is,
cipher or nothing) till it becomes radius,
and then it decreases till it becomes
nothing. After this you note it lies on
the <em>contrary</em> side of the diameter, and
consequently, if positive before, is negative
now; so that it must end in 0, or a
cipher above a nine at most.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“This unintelligible jargon is out of
place here, Mr Dominie; and if you
can show no better reasons for raising
such an abominable falsehood, in representing
me as an incendiary and murderer,
I shall procure you a lodging
in the house of correction.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Why, sir, the long and the short
of the matter is this:—I only asked at
that fellow there—that logarithm of
stupidity—if he had heard aught of a
ghost having been seen about Wineholm
Place. I added nothing farther, either
positive or negative. Now, do you
insist on my reasons for asking such a
question?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I insist on having them.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Then what will you say, sir, when
I inform you, and declare my readiness
to depone to the truth of it, that I saw
the ghost myself? Yes, sir, that I saw
the ghost of your late worthy father-in-law
myself, sir; and though I said no
such thing to that decimal fraction, yet
it told me, sir,—yes, the spirit of your
father-in-law told me, sir, that you are
a murderer.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Lord, now, what think ye o’ that?”
quoth the smith. “Ye had better hae
letten him alane; for, ’od, ye ken, he’s
the deevil of a body as ever was made.
He just beats the world!”</p>

<p class='c008'>The doctor grew as pale as death,
but whether from fear or rage, it was
hard to say.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Why, sir,” said he, “you are mad!
stark, raving mad; therefore, for your
own credit, and for the peace and comfort
of my wife and myself, and our
credit among our retainers, you must
unsay every word that you have now
said.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I’ll just as soon say that the parabola
and the ellipsis are the same,”
said the dominie; “or that the diameter
is not the longest line that can be
drawn in the circle. And now, sir,
since you have forced me to divulge
what I was much in doubt about, I have
a great mind to have the old laird’s
grave opened to-night, and have the
body inspected before witnesses.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“If you dare disturb the sanctuary
of the grave,” said the doctor vehemently,
“or with your unhallowed
hands touch the remains of my venerable
and revered predecessor, it had been
better for you, and all who make the
attempt, that you never had been born.
If not then for my sake, for the sake of
my wife, the sole daughter of the man
to whom you have all been obliged, let
this abominable and malicious calumny
go no farther, but put it down; I pray
of you to put it down, as you would
value your own advantage.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I have seen him, and spoke with
him—that I aver,” said the dominie.
“And shall I tell you what he said
to me?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“No, no! I’ll hear no more of such
absolute and disgusting nonsense,” said
the doctor.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Then, since it hath come to this,
I will declare it in the face of the whole
world, and pursue it to the last,” said
the dominie, “ridiculous as it is, and I
confess that it is even so. I have seen
your father-in-law within the last twenty-four
hours; at least a being in his form
and habiliments, and having his aspect
and voice. And he told me that he
believed you were a very great scoundrel,
and that you had helped him off
the stage of time in a great haste, for
fear of the operation of a will, which he
had just executed, very much to your
prejudice. I was somewhat aghast, but
ventured to remark, that he must surely
have been sensible whether you murdered
him or not, and in what way.
He replied that he was not very certain,
for at the time you put him down, he
was much in his customary way of
nights—very drunk; but that he greatly
suspected you had hanged him, for ever
since he had died, he had been troubled
with a severe crick in his neck. Having
seen my late worthy patron’s body deposited
in the coffin, and afterwards
consigned to the grave, these things
overcame me, and a kind of mist came
over my senses; but I heard him saying
as he withdrew, what a pity it was
that my nerves could not stand this disclosure!
Now, for my own satisfaction,
I am resolved that, to-morrow, I shall
raise the village, with the two ministers
at the head of the multitude, and have
the body, and particularly the neck of
the deceased, minutely inspected.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“If you do so, I shall make one of
the number,” said the doctor. “But I
am resolved that, in the first place,
every means shall be tried to prevent a
scene of madness and absurdity so disgraceful
to a well-regulated village and
a sober community.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“There is but one direct line that
can be followed, and any other would
either form an acute or obtuse angle,”
said the dominie; “therefore I am resolved
to proceed right forward, on
mathematical principles;” and away he
went, skipping on his crutch, to arouse
the villagers to the scrutiny.</p>

<p class='c008'>The smith remained behind, concerting
with the doctor how to controvert
the dominie’s profound scheme of unshrouding
the dead; and certainly the
smith’s plan, viewed professionally, was
not amiss—</p>

<p class='c008'>“O, ye ken, sir, we maun just gie
him another heat, and try to saften him
to reason, for he’s just as stubborn as
Muirkirk airn. He beats the world
for that.”</p>

<p class='c008'>While the two were in confabulation,
Johnston, the old house servant, came
in, and said to the doctor—</p>

<p class='c008'>“Sir, your servants are going to leave
the house, every one, this night, if you
cannot fall on some means to divert
them from it. The old laird is, it
seems, risen again, and come back
among them, and they are all in the
utmost consternation. Indeed, they
are quite out of their reason. He
appeared in the stable to Broadcast, who
has been these two hours dead with
terror, but is now recovered, and telling
such a tale downstairs as never was
heard from the mouth of man.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Send him up here,” said the doctor.
“I will silence him. What does the
ignorant clown mean by joining in this
unnatural clamour?”</p>

<p class='c008'>John came up, with his broad bonnet
in his hand, shut the door with hesitation,
and then felt thrice with his hand
if it was really shut.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Well, John,” said the doctor, “what
absurd lie is this that you are vending
among your fellow-servants, of having
seen a ghost?”</p>

<p class='c008'>John picked some odds and ends of
threads out of his bonnet, and said
nothing.</p>

<p class='c008'>“You are an old superstitious dreaming
dotard,” continued the doctor; “but
if you propose in future to manufacture
such stories, you must, from this instant,
do it somewhere else than in my service,
and among my domestics. What have
you to say for yourself?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Indeed, sir, I hae naething to say
but this, that we hae a’ muckle reason
to be thankfu’ that we are as we are.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“And whereon does that wise saw
bear? What relation has that to the
seeing of a ghost? Confess then, this
instant, that you have forged and vended
a deliberate lie.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Indeed, sir, I hae muckle reason
to be thankfu’—”</p>

<p class='c008'>“For what?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“That I never tauld a deliberate lie
in my life. My late master came and
spoke to me in the stable; but whether
it was his ghaist or himself—a good
angel or a bad ane—I hae reason to be
thankfu’ I never said; for I <em>do—not—ken</em>.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Now, pray let us hear from that
sage tongue of yours, so full of sublime
adages, what this doubtful being said
to you?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I wad rather be excused, an’ it were
your honour’s will, and wad hae reason
to be thankfu’.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“And why should you decline telling
this?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Because I ken ye wadna believe a
word o’t, it is siccan a strange story.
O, sirs, but folks hae muckle reason to
be thankful that they are as they are!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Well, out with this strange story of
yours. I do not promise to credit it,
but shall give it a patient hearing, providing
you swear that there is no forgery
in it.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Weel, as I was suppering the horses
the night, I was dressing my late kind
master’s favourite mare, and I was just
thinking to mysel, an’ he had been leeving,
I wadna hae been my lane the
night, for he wad hae been standing
ower me, cracking his jokes, and swearing
at me in his good-natured hamely
way. Ay, but he’s gane to his lang
account, thinks I, and we puir frail dying
creatures that are left ahint, hae muckle
reason to be thankfu’ that we are as
we are; when I looks up, and behold
there’s my auld master standing leaning
against the trivage as he used to do, and
looking at me. I canna but say my
heart was a little astoundit, and maybe
lap up through my midriff into my
breath-bellows—I couldna say; but in
the strength o’ the Lord I was enabled
to retain my senses for a good while.
‘John Broadcast,’ said he, with a deep
angry tone,—‘John Broadcast, what
the d—l are you thinking about? You
are not currying that mare half. What
lubberly way of dressing a horse is
that?’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Lord make us thankfu’, master,’
says I; ‘are you there?’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Where else would you have me be
at this hour of the night, old blockhead?’
says he.</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘In another hame than this, master,’
says I; ‘but I fear it is nae good ane,
that ye are sae soon tired o’t.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘A d—d bad one, I assure you,’
says he.</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Ay, but master,’ says I, ‘ye hae
muckle reason to be thankfu’ that ye
are as ye are.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘In what respect, dotard?’ says he.</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘That ye hae liberty to come out
o’t a start now and then to get the air,’
says I; and oh, my heart was sair for
him when I thought o’ his state! And
though I was thankfu’ that I was as I
was, my heart and flesh began to fail
me, at thinking of my speaking face to
face wi’ a being frae the unhappy place.
But out he breaks again wi’ a great
round o’ swearing, about the mare being
ill-keepit; and he ordered me to cast
my coat and curry her weel, for he had
a lang journey to take on her the morn.</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘You take a journey on her!’ says
I; ‘I doubt my new master will dispute
that privilege wi’ you, for he rides her
himsel the morn.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘He ride her!’ cried the angry
spirit; and then he burst out into a lang
string of imprecations, fearsome to hear,
against you, sir; and then added,
‘Soon, soon, shall he be levelled with
the dust!—the dog! the parricide!
First to betray my child, and then to
put down myself! But he shall not
escape—he shall not escape!’ he cried
with such a hellish growl that I fainted,
and heard no more.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Weel, that beats the world,” exclaimed
the smith. “I wad hae thought
the mare wad hae luppen ower yird and
stane, or fa’en down dead wi’ fright.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Na, na,” said John, “in place o’
that, whenever she heard him fa’ a
swearing, she was sae glad that she fell
a nichering.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Na, but that beats the hale world
a’ thegither!” quoth the smith. “Then
it has been nae ghaist ava, ye may depend
on that.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I little wat what it was,” replied
John, “but it was a being in nae gude
or happy state o’ mind, and is a warning
to us how muckle reason we hae to be
thankfu’ that we are as we are.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The doctor pretended to laugh at the
absurdity of John’s narration, but it was
with a ghastly and doubtful expression
of countenance, as though he thought
the story far too ridiculous for any clodpoll
to have contrived out of his own
head; and forthwith he dismissed the
two dealers in the marvellous, with
very little ceremony, the one protesting
that the thing beat the world, and the
other that they had both reason to be
thankful that they were as they were.</p>

<p class='c008'>Next morning the villagers, small and
great, were assembled at an early hour
to witness the lifting of the body of the
late laird, and, headed by the established
and dissenting clergymen, and two surgeons,
they proceeded to the tomb, and
soon extracted the splendid coffin, which
they opened with all due caution and
ceremony. But instead of the murdered
body of their late benefactor, which they
expected in good earnest to find, there
was nothing in the coffin but a layer of
gravel, of about the weight of a corpulent
man.</p>

<p class='c008'>The clamour against the new laird
then rose all at once into a tumult that
it was impossible to check, every one
declaring that he had not only murdered
their benefactor, but, for fear of discovery,
had raised the body, and given,
or rather sold it, for dissection. The
thing was not to be tolerated; so the
mob proceeded in a body to Wineholm
Place, to take out their poor deluded
lady, and burn the doctor and his basely
acquired habitation to ashes. It was
not till the multitude had surrounded
the house that the ministers and two or
three other gentlemen could stay them,
which they only did by assuring the
mob that they would bring out the
doctor before their eyes, and deliver him
up to justice. This pacified the throng;
but on inquiry at the hall, it was found
that the doctor had gone off early that
morning, so that nothing further could
be done for the present. But the coffin,
filled with gravel, was laid up in the
aisle, and kept open for inspection.</p>

<p class='c008'>Nothing could now exceed the consternation
of the simple villagers of
Wineholm at these dark and mysterious
events. Business, labour, and employment
of every sort, were at a stand, and
the people hurried about to one another’s
houses, and mingled their conjectures
together in one heterogeneous mass.
The smith put his hand to his bellows,
but forgot to blow till the fire went out;
the weaver leaned on his loom, and
listened to the legend of the ghastly
tailor. The team stood in mid-furrow,
and the thrasher agape over his flail;
and even the dominie was heard to declare
that the geometrical series of events
was increasing by no <em>common</em> ratio, and
therefore ought to be calculated rather
arithmetically than by logarithms; and
John Broadcast saw more and more
reason for being thankfu’ that he was
as he was, and neither a stock, nor a
stone, nor a brute beast.</p>

<p class='c008'>Every new thing that happened was
more extraordinary than the last; and
the most puzzling of all was the circumstance
of the late laird’s mare, saddle,
bridle, and all, being off before daylight
next morning; so that Dr Davington
was obliged to have recourse to his own,
on which he was seen posting away on
the road towards Edinburgh. It was
thus but too obvious that the late laird
had ridden off on his favourite mare,—but
whither, none of the sages of Wineholm
could divine. But their souls
grew chill as an iceberg, and their very
frames rigid, at the thought of a spirit
riding away on a brute beast to the
place appointed for wicked men. And
had not John Broadcast reason to be
thankfu’ that he was as he was?</p>

<p class='c008'>However, the outcry of the community
became so outrageous of murder
and foul play, in so many ways, that
the officers of justice were compelled
to take note of it; and accordingly the
sheriff-substitute, the sheriff-clerk, the
fiscal, and two assistants, came in two
chaises to Wineholm to take a precognition;
and there a court was held
which lasted the whole day, at which
Mrs Davington, the late laird’s only
daughter, all the servants, and a great
number of the villagers, were examined
on oath. It appeared from the evidence
that Dr Davington had come to the
village and set up as a surgeon; that he
had used every endeavour to be employed
in the laird’s family in vain, as the
latter detested him; that he, however,
found means of inducing his only
daughter to elope with him, which put
the laird quite beside himself, and from
thenceforward he became drowned in
dissipation; that such, however, was
his affection for his daughter, that he
caused her to live with him, but would
never suffer the doctor to enter his door;
that it was, nevertheless, quite customary
for the doctor to be sent for to
his lady’s chamber, particularly when
her father was in his cups; and that on
a certain night, when the laird had had
company, and was so overcome that he
could not rise from his chair, he had
died suddenly of apoplexy; and that
no other skill was sent for, or near him,
but this his detested son-in-law, whom
he had by will disinherited, though the
legal term for rendering that will competent
had not expired. The body was
coffined the second day after death,
and locked up in a low room in one of
the wings of the building; and nothing
farther could be elicited. The doctor
was missing, and it was whispered that
he had absconded; indeed it was evident,
and the sheriff acknowledged that,
according to the evidence taken, the
matter had a very suspicious aspect,
although there was no direct proof
against the doctor. It was proved that
he had attempted to bleed the patient,
but had not succeeded, and that at that
time the old laird was black in the
face.</p>

<p class='c008'>When it began to wear nigh night,
and nothing further could be learned,
the sheriff-clerk, a quiet considerate
gentleman, asked why they had not
examined the wright who had made the
coffin, and also placed the body in it.
The thing had not been thought of; but
he was found in court, and instantly
put into the witness-box, and examined
on oath. His name was James Sanderson,
a little, stout-made, shrewd-looking
man, with a very peculiar squint.
He was examined thus by the procurator-fiscal:—</p>

<p class='c008'>“Were you long acquainted with the
late Laird of Wineholm, James?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Yes, ever since I left my apprenticeship;
for, I suppose, about nineteen
years.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Was he very much given to drinking
of late?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I could not say; he took his glass
geyan heartily.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Did you ever drink with him.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“O yes, mony a time.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“You must have seen him very drunk,
then? Did you ever see him so drunk,
for instance, that he could not rise?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Never; for long afore that, I could
not have kenned whether he was sitting
or standing.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Were you present at the corpse-chesting?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Yes, I was.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“And were you certain the body was
then deposited in the coffin?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Yes; quite certain.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Did you screw down the coffin lid
firmly then, as you do others of the same
make?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“No, I did not.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“What were your reasons for that?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“They were no reasons of mine; I
did what I was ordered. There were
private reasons, which I then wist not
of. But, gentlemen, there are some
things connected with this affair, which
I am bound in honour not to reveal. I
hope you will not compel me to divulge
them at present.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“You are bound by a solemn oath,
James, the highest of all obligations;
and, for the sake of justice, you must
tell everything you know; and it would
be better if you would just tell your tale
straightforward, without the interruption
of question and answer.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Well, then, since it must be so:—That
day, at the chesting, the doctor
took me aside and said to me, ‘James
Sanderson, it will be necessary that
something be put into the coffin to prevent
any unpleasant odour before the
funeral; for owing to the corpulence,
and the inflamed state of the body by
apoplexy, there will be great danger of
this.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Very well, sir,’ says I; ‘what
shall I bring?’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘You had better only screw down
the lid lightly at present, then,’ said
he; ‘and if you could bring a bucketful
of quicklime a little while hence,
and pour it over the body, especially
over the face, it is a very good thing, an
excellent thing, for preventing any deleterious
effluvia from escaping.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Very well, sir,’ said I; and so I
followed his directions. I procured the
lime; and as I was to come privately
in the evening to deposit it in the coffin,
in company with the doctor alone, I
was putting off the time in my workshop,
polishing some trifle, and thinking
to myself that I could not find in my
heart to choke up my old friend with
quicklime, even after he was dead, when,
to my unspeakable horror, who should
enter my workshop but the identical
laird himself, dressed in his dead-clothes
in the very same manner in which I had
seen him laid in the coffin, but apparently
all streaming in blood to the feet.
I fell back over against a cart-wheel,
and was going to call out, but could
not; and as he stood straight in the
door, there was no means of escape.
At length the apparition spoke to me in
a hoarse trembling voice, and it said to
me, ‘Jamie Sanderson! O, Jamie Sanderson!
I have been forced to appear
to you in a d—d frightful guise!’
These were the very first words it spoke,
and they were far from being a lie; but
I halfflins thought to mysel that a being
in such circumstances might have spoken
with a little more caution and decency.
I could make no answer, for my tongue
refused all attempts at articulation, and
my lips would not come together; and
all that I could do was to lie back
against my new cart-wheel, and hold
up my hands as a kind of defence. The
ghastly and blood-stained apparition,
advancing a step or two, held up both
its hands, flying with dead ruffles, and
cried to me in a still more frightful
voice, ‘Oh, my faithful old friend, I
have been murdered! I am a murdered
man, Jamie Sanderson! And if you do
not assist me in bringing upon the
wretch due retribution, dire will be
your punishment in the other world.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“This is sheer raving, James,” said
the sheriff, interrupting him. “These
words can be nothing but the ravings of
a disturbed and heated imagination. I
entreat you to recollect that you have
appealed to the Great Judge of heaven
and earth for the truth of what you
assert here, and to answer accordingly.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I know what I am saying, my Lord
Sheriff,” said Sanderson; “and I am
telling naething but the plain truth, as
nearly as my state of mind at the time
permits me to recollect. The appalling
figure approached still nearer and nearer
to me, breathing threatenings if I would
not rise and fly to his assistance, and
swearing like a sergeant of dragoons at
both the doctor and myself. At length
it came so close to me that I had no
other shift but to hold up both feet and
hands to shield me, as I had seen herons
do when knocked down by a goshawk,
and I cried out; but even my voice
failed, so that I only cried like one
through his sleep.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘What the d—l are you lying gaping
and braying at there?’ said he, seizing
me by the wrist and dragging me after
him. ‘Do you not see the plight I am
in, and why won’t you fly to succour
me?’</p>

<p class='c008'>“I now felt, to my great relief, that
this terrific apparition was a being of
flesh, blood, and bones like myself;—that,
in short, it was indeed my kind
old friend the laird popped out of his
open coffin, and come over to pay me
an evening visit, but certainly in such a
guise as earthly visit was never paid. I
soon gathered up my scattered senses,
took my old friend into my room,
bathed him all over, and washed him
well with lukewarm water; then put
him into a warm bed, gave him a glass
or two of hot punch, and he came round
amazingly. He caused me to survey
his neck a hundred times, I am sure;
and I had no doubt he had been
strangled, for there was a purple ring
round it, which in some places was
black, and a little swollen; his voice
creaked like a door-hinge, and his features
were still distorted. He swore
terribly at both the doctor and myself;
but nothing put him half so
mad as the idea of the quicklime
being poured over him, and particularly
over his face. I am mistaken if
that experiment does not serve him for
a theme of execration as long as he
lives.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“So he is alive, then, you say?”
asked the fiscal.</p>

<p class='c008'>“O yes, sir, alive, and tolerably well,
considering. We two have had several
bottles together in my quiet room; for
I have still kept him concealed, to see
what the doctor would do next. He is
in terror for him, somehow, until sixty
days be over from some date that he
talks of, and seems assured that the dog
will have his life by hook or crook, unless
he can bring him to the gallows
betimes, and he is absent on that business
to-day. One night lately, when
fully half seas over, he set off to the
schoolhouse, and frightened the dominie;
and last night he went up to the stable,
and gave old Broadcast a hearing for
not keeping his mare well enough.</p>

<p class='c008'>“It appears that some shaking motion
in the coffining of the laird had brought
him back to himself, after bleeding
abundantly both at mouth and nose;
that he was on his feet ere he knew how
he had been disposed of, and was quite
shocked at seeing the open coffin on the
bed, and himself dressed in his grave-clothes,
and all in one bath of blood.
He flew to the door, but it was locked
outside; he rapped furiously for something
to drink, but the room was far
removed from any inhabited part of the
house, and none regarded; so he had
nothing for it but to open the window,
and come through the garden and the
back lane leading to my workshop.
And as I had got orders to bring a
bucketful of quicklime, I went over in
the forenight with a bucketful of heavy
gravel, as much as I could carry, and a
little white lime sprinkled on the top of
it; and being let in by the doctor, I
deposited it in the coffin, screwed down
the lid, and left it. The funeral followed
in due course, the whole of which the
laird viewed from my window, and gave
the doctor a hearty day’s cursing for
daring to support his head and lay it in
the grave. And this, gentlemen, is
the substance of what I know concerning
this enormous deed, which is, I
think, quite sufficient. The laird bound
me to secrecy until such time as he
could bring matters to a proper bearing
for securing the doctor; but as you
have forced it from me, you must stand
my surety, and answer the charges
against me.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The laird arrived that night with
proper authority, and a number of
officers, to have the doctor, his son-in-law,
taken into custody; but the bird
had flown; and from that day forth he
was never seen, so as to be recognised,
in Scotland. The laird lived many
years after that; and though the
thoughts of the quicklime made him
drink a great deal, yet from that time
he never suffered himself to get <em>quite</em>
drunk, lest some one might take it into
his head to hang him, and he not know
anything about it. The dominie acknowledged
that it was as impracticable
to calculate what might happen in
human affairs as to square the circle,
which could only be effected by knowing
the ratio of the circumference to
the radius. For shoeing horses, vending
news, and awarding proper punishments,
the smith to this day just beats the
world. And old John Broadcast is as
thankfu’ to heaven as ever that things
are as they are.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='an_incident_in_the_great_moray_floods_of_1829' class='c006'>AN INCIDENT IN THE GREAT MORAY FLOODS OF 1829.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By Sir Thomas Dick Lauder.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>The flood, both in the Spey and its
tributary burn, was terrible at the village
of Charlestown of Aberlour. On the
3d of August, Charles Cruickshanks,
the innkeeper, had a party of friends in
his house. There was no inebriety,
but there was a fiddle; and what Scotsman
is he who does not know that the
well-jerked strains of a lively strathspey
have a potent spell in them that goes
beyond even the witchery of the bowl?
On one who daily inhales the breezes
from the musical stream that gives
name to the measure, the influence is
powerful, and it was that day felt by
Cruickshanks with a more than ordinary
degree of excitement. He was joyous
to a pitch that made his wife grave.
Mrs Cruickshanks was deeply affected
by her husband’s jollity. “Surely my
goodman is daft the day,” said she
gravely; “I ne’er saw him dance at
sic a rate. Lord grant that he binna
<i><span lang="sco">fey</span></i>!”<a id='r12'></a><a href='#f12' class='c018'><sup>[12]</sup></a></p>

<div class='footnote' id='f12'>
<p class='c008'><a href='#r12'>12</a>. “‘I think,’ said the old gardener to one of
the maids, ‘the gauger’s <em>fie</em>’—by which word
the common people express those violent spirits,
which they think a presage of death.”—<em>Guy
Mannering.</em></p>
</div>

<p class='c008'>When the river began to rise rapidly
in the evening, Cruickshanks, who had
a quantity of wood lying near the mouth
of the burn, asked two of his neighbours
to go and assist him in dragging it out
of the water. They readily complied,
and Cruickshanks getting on the loose
raft of wood, they followed him, and
did what they could in pushing and
hauling the pieces of timber ashore, till
the stream increased so much, that,
with one voice, they declared they would
stay no longer, and, making a desperate
effort, they plunged over-head, and
reached the land with the greatest difficulty.
They then tried all their
eloquence to persuade Cruickshanks to
come away, but he was a bold and experienced
floater, and laughed at their
fears; nay, so utterly reckless was he,
that having now diminished the crazy
ill-put-together raft he stood on, till it
consisted of a few spars only, he employed
himself in trying to catch at and
save some haycocks belonging to the
clergyman, which were floating past
him. But while his attention was so
engaged, the flood was rapidly increasing,
till, at last, even his dauntless heart
became appalled at its magnitude and
fury. “A horse! a horse!” he loudly
and anxiously exclaimed; “run for one
of the minister’s horses, and ride in
with a rope, else I must go with the
stream.” He was quickly obeyed, but
ere a horse arrived, the flood had
rendered it impossible to approach
him.</p>

<p class='c008'>Seeing that he must abandon all hope
of help in that way, Cruickshanks was
now seen as if summoning up all his
resolution and presence of mind to make
the perilous attempt of dashing through
the raging current, with his frail and
imperfect raft. Grasping more firmly
the iron-shod pole he held in his hand—called
in floater’s language a <em>sting</em>—he
pushed resolutely into it; but he had
hardly done so when the violence of the
water wrenched from his hold that which
was all he had to depend on. A shriek
burst from his friends, as they beheld
the wretched raft dart off with him
down the stream, like an arrow freed
from the bowstring. But the mind of
Cruickshanks was no common one to
quail before the first approach of danger.
He poised himself, and stood balanced,
with determination and self-command
in his eye, and no sound of fear, or of
complaint, was heard to come from
him.</p>

<p class='c008'>At the point where the burn met the
river, in the ordinary state of both,
there grew some trees, now surrounded
by deep and strong currents, and far
from the land. The raft took a direction
towards one of these, and seeing
the wide and tumultuous waters of the
Spey before him, in which there was no
hope that his loosely-connected logs
could stick one moment together, he
coolly prepared himself, and, collecting
all his force into one well-timed and
well-directed effort, he sprang, caught
a tree, and clung among its boughs,
whilst the frail raft, hurried away from
under his foot, was dashed into fragments,
and scattered on the bosom of
the waves. A shout of joy arose from
his anxious friends, for they now deemed
him safe; but <em>he</em> uttered no shout in
return. Every nerve was strained to
procure help. “A boat!” was the
general cry, and some ran this way, and
some that, to endeavour to procure one.
It was now between seven and eight
o’clock in the evening. A boat was
speedily obtained, and though no one
was very expert in its use, it was quickly
manned by people eager to save Cruickshanks
from his perilous situation. The
current was too terrible about the tree
to admit of their nearing it, so as to
take him directly into the boat; but
their object was to row through the
smoother water, to such a distance as
might enable them to throw a rope to
him, by which means they hoped to
drag him to the boat. Frequently did
they attempt this, and as frequently
were they foiled, even by that which
was considered as the gentler part of
the stream, for it hurried them past the
point whence they wished to make the
cast of their rope, and compelled them
to row up again by the side, to start on
each fresh adventure.</p>

<p class='c008'>Often were they carried so much in
the direction of the tree as to be compelled
to exert all their strength to pull
themselves away from him they would
have saved, that they might avoid the
vortex that would have caught and
swept them to destruction. And often
was poor Cruickshanks tantalized with
the approach of help, which came but
to add to the other miseries of his situation
that of the bitterest disappointment.
Yet he bore all calmly. In the transient
glimpses they had of him, as they were
driven past him, they saw no blenching
on his dauntless countenance—they
heard no reproach, no complaint, no
sound, but an occasional short exclamation
of encouragement to persevere in
their friendly endeavours. But the
evening wore on, and still they were
unsuccessful. It seemed to them that
something more than mere natural causes
was operating against them. “His
hour is come!” said they, as they
regarded one another with looks of
awe; “our struggles are vain.” The
courage and the hope which had hitherto
supported them began to fail, and the
descending shades of night extinguished
the last feeble sparks of both, and put
an end to their endeavours.</p>

<p class='c008'>Fancy alone can picture the horrors
that must have crept on the unfortunate
man, as, amidst the impenetrable darkness
which now prevailed, he became
aware of the continued increase of the
flood that roared around him, by its
gradual advance towards his feet, whilst
the rain and the tempest continued to
beat more and more dreadfully upon
him. That these were long ineffectual
in shaking his collected mind, we know
from the fact, afterwards ascertained,
that he actually wound up his watch
while in this dreadful situation. But,
hearing no more the occasional passing
exclamations of those who had been
hitherto trying to succour him, he began
to shout for help in a voice that became
every moment more long-drawn and
piteous, as, between the gusts of the
tempest, and borne over the thunder
of the waters, it fell from time to time
on the ears of his clustered friends, and
rent the heart of his distracted wife.
Ever and anon it came, and hoarser
than before, and there was an occasional
wildness in its note, and now and then
a strange and clamorous repetition for a
time, as if despair had inspired him with
an unnatural energy; but the shouts
became gradually shorter,—less audible
and less frequent,—till at last their
eagerly listening ears could catch them
no longer. “Is he gone?” was the
half-whispered question they put to one
another; and the smothered responses
that were muttered around but too
plainly told how much the fears of all
were in unison.</p>

<p class='c008'>“What was that?” cried his wife in a
delirious scream; “that was his whistle
I heard!” She said truly. A shrill
whistle, such as that which is given with
the fingers in the mouth, rose again over
the loud din of the deluge and the yelling
of the storm. He was not yet
gone. His voice was but cracked by his
frequent exertions to make it heard,
and he had now resorted to an easier
mode of transmitting to his friends the
certainty of his safety. For some time
his unhappy wife drew hope from such
considerations, but his whistles, as they
came more loud and prolonged, pierced
the ears of his foreboding friends like
the ill-omened cry of some warning
spirit; and it may be matter of question
whether all believed that the sounds
they heard were really mortal. Still
they came louder and clearer for a brief
space; but at last they were heard no
more, save in his frantic wife’s fancy,
who continued to start, as if she still
heard them, and to wander about, and
to listen, when all but herself were satisfied
that she could never hear them
again.</p>

<p class='c008'>Wet and weary, and shivering with
cold, was this miserable woman, when
the tardy dawn of morning beheld her
straining her eye-balls through the imperfect
light, towards the trees where
Cruickshanks had been last seen. There
was something there that looked like
the figure of a man, and on that her
eyes fixed. But those around her saw,
alas! too well, that what she fondly
supposed to be her husband was but a
bunch of wreck gathered by the flood
into one of the trees,—for the one to
which he clung had been swept away.</p>

<p class='c008'>The body of poor Cruickshanks was
found in the afternoon of next day, on
the Haugh of Dandaleith, some four or
five miles below. As it had ever been
his uniform practice to wind up his
watch at night, and as it was discovered
to be nearly full wound when it was
taken from his pocket, the fact of his
having had self-possession enough to
obey his usual custom, under circumstances
so terrible, is as unquestionable
as it is wonderful. It had stopped
at a quarter of an hour past eleven
o’clock, which would seem to fix that
as the fatal moment when the tree
was rent away; for when that happened,
his struggles amidst the raging
waves of the Spey must have been
few and short.</p>

<p class='c008'>When the men, who had so unsuccessfully
attempted to save him, were
talking over the matter, and arguing
that no human help could have availed
him,—</p>

<p class='c008'>“I’m thinkin’ I could hae ta’en him
out,” said a voice in the circle.</p>

<p class='c008'>All eyes were turned towards the
speaker, and a general expression of
contempt followed; for it was a boy of
the name of Rainey, a reputed idiot,
from the foot of Benrinnes, who spoke.</p>

<p class='c008'>“You!” cried a dozen voices at
once; “what would you have done, you
wise man?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I wud hae tied an empty anker-cask
to the end o’ a lang, lang tow, an’
I wud hae floated it aff frae near aboot
whaur the raft was ta’en first awa; an’
syne, ye see, as the stream teuk the
raft till the tree, maybe she wud hae
ta’en the cask there too; an’ if Charlie
Cruickshanks had ance gotten a haud o’
this rope——”</p>

<p class='c008'>He would have finished, but his
auditors were gone: they had silently
slunk away in different directions, one
man alone having muttered, as he went,
something about “wisdom coming out
of the mouth of fools.”</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='charlie_graham_the_tinker' class='c006'>CHARLIE GRAHAM, THE TINKER.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By George Penny.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>The notorious Charlie Graham belonged
to a gang of tinkers, who had
for a long time travelled through the
country, and whose headquarters were
at Lochgelly, in Fife. They were to
be found at all markets, selling their
horn spoons, which was their ostensible
occupation. But there was a great deal
of business done in the pickpocket line,
and other branches of the thieving art.
About Charlie there were some remarkable
traits of generosity. In the midst
of all the crimes he committed, he was
never known to hurt a poor man, but
often out of his plunder helped those in
a strait. His father was in the same
line, and was long at the head of the
gang; but being afterwards imprisoned
for theft, housebreaking, &#38;c., he was
banished the county, banished Scotland,
and publicly whipped. On one occasion
he was banished, with certification that
if he returned, he was to be publicly
whipped the first market-day, and thereafter
to be banished. Old Charlie was
not long away when he returned, and
was apprehended and conveyed to Perth
jail. A vacancy having occurred in the
office of executioner, the first market-day
was allowed to pass without inflicting
the sentence, upon which Charlie
entered a protest, and was liberated.
In various ways he eluded justice,—sometimes
by breaking the prison, and
sometimes for want of evidence. The
last time he was brought in, he was met
by an old acquaintance, who asked,
“What is the matter now?” to which
old Charlie replied, “Oh, just the auld
thing, and nae proof;” which saying
has since become a proverb. But this
time they did find proof, and he was
again publicly whipped, and sent out
of the country. One of his daughters,
Meg Graham, who had been bred from
her infancy in the same way, was every
now and then apprehended for some
petty theft. Indeed, she was so often in
jail, that she got twenty-eight dinners
from old John Rutherford, the writer,
who gave the prisoners in the jail a
dinner every Christmas. Meg, in her
young days, was reckoned one of the
first beauties of the time; but she was
a wild one. She had been whipped
and pilloried, but still the root of the
matter remained.</p>

<p class='c008'>Young Charlie was a man of uncommon
strength and size, being about
six feet high, and stout in proportion.
His wrist was as thick as that of two
ordinary men; he had long been the
terror of the country, and attended all
markets at the head of his gang, where
they were sure to kick up a row among
themselves. Two of their women would
commence a battle-royal in the midst of
the throng, scratch and tear one another’s
caps, until a mob was assembled, when
the rest were very busy in picking
pockets. In this way they were frequently
very successful.</p>

<p class='c008'>At a market to the west of Crieff a
farmer got his pocket-book taken from
him. It being ascertained that Charlie
Graham and his gang were in the
market,—who were well known to
several of the respectable farmers, who
frequently lodged them on their way to
the country,—it was proposed to get
Charlie and give him a glass, and
tell him the story. Charlie accepted
the invitation; and during the circulation
of the glass, one of the company
introduced the subject, lamenting the
poor man’s loss in such a feeling way,
that the right chord was struck, and
Charlie’s generosity roused. An appeal
was made to him to lend the poor man
such a sum, as his credit was at stake.
Charlie said they had done nothing that
day, but if anything cast up, he would
see what could be done. During this
conversation another company came into
the room; amongst whom was a man
with a greatcoat, a Highland bonnet,
and a large drover whip. After being
seated, this personage was recognised as
belonging to the gang, and they were
invited to drink with them, whilst the
story of the robbery was repeated. On
this Charlie asked his friend if he could
lend him forty pounds to give to the
poor man, and he would repay him in
a few days. The man replied that he
had forty pounds which he was going to
pay away; but if it was to favour a
friend, he would put off his business and
help him; when, to their astonishment,
the identical notes which the man had
lost were tossed to him; and Charlie said
that that would relieve him in the meantime,
and he could repay him when convenient.
It was evident that Charlie
smelt a rat, and took this method to get
off honourably. Of course, the forty
pounds were never sought after.</p>

<p class='c008'>Charlie was one day lodged with a
poor widow, who had a few acres of
ground, and kept a public-house. She
complained to him that she was unable
to raise her rent, that the factor was
coming that night for payment, and that
she was considerably deficient. Charlie
gave her what made it up, and in the
evening went out of the way, after learning
at what time the factor would be
there. The factor came, received payment,
and returned home; but on the
way he was met by Charlie, who eased
him of his cash, and returned the rent
to the poor widow.</p>

<p class='c008'>The Rev. Mr Graham of Fossoway
came one day to Perth to discount
some bills in the Bank of Scotland.
Having got his bills cashed, his spirits
rose to blood-heat, and a hearty glass
was given to his friends, until the parson
got a little muddy. His friends, loth
to leave him in that state, hired a horse
each to convey him home. It was dark
and late when they set out, and by the
time they reached Damhead, where they
put up their horses, it was morning.
The house was re-building at the
time, and the family living in the barn
when the parson and his friends were
introduced. Here they found Charlie
and some of his friends over a bowl, of
which the minister was cordially invited
to partake. His companions also joined,
and kept it up with great glee for some
time—the minister singing his song, and
Charlie getting very big. One of the
friends, knowing how the land lay, was
very anxious to be off, for fear of the
minister’s money, and ordered out the
horses; but to this Charlie would by
no means consent. This alarmed the
friends still more; as for the minister,
he was now beyond all fear. However,
in a short time a number of men came
in and called for drink, and then
Charlie, after the glass had gone round,
said he thought it was time for the
minister to get home, and went out to
see them on their horses; when he told
them he had detained them till the return
of these men, who, if they had met
them, might have proved dangerous
neighbours; but now they could go
home in safety.</p>

<p class='c008'>He was one day on his way to Auchterarder
market, when he met a farmer
going from home, in whose barn he had
frequently lodged, when Charlie told
him he was to lodge with him that
night. The farmer said he could not
take strangers into his barn in its present
state, as his summer’s cheese, and
many other things, were lodged there.
“D—n your cheese,” replied Charlie;
“do you think, old boy, that I would
lay down my honesty for your trash o’
cheese?” They parted, and Charlie got
permission from the gudewife for himself,
as there were no others with him.
The farmer came home late, and knew
not that Charlie was there. In the
morning when he went into the barn,
he was astonished to find it all in an
uproar. Upwards of twenty individuals—men,
women, and children—were
lying among the straw. The wife was
called upon to see what state the barn
was in; and the old man, in no very
soft voice, railed at her for admitting
such a band. She replied that she
would send them away quietly: and
this she did by giving them as much
brose and milk as they could take. On
their departure, Charlie told him he was
a mean old crab, and that his wife
was worth a hundred of him. However,
he kept his word as to the cheese,
and nothing was touched.</p>

<p class='c008'>In the market next day, a good deal
of business was done in his way; several
pockets were picked, and a number of
petty thefts committed. Charlie being
in the habit of dealing with respectable
merchants for horn spoons, he was one
day in the shop getting payment for a
parcel. The money was counted down,
but during the time his wife was taking
it up, the merchant turned to speak to
some one in the shop; the wife, on taking
up the money, said she wanted five
shillings; the merchant said he was positive
he laid down the whole. She still
insisted that she wanted five shillings,
and the merchant was determined to
resist; on which Charlie interfered,
saying, “Come, come, ye limmer,
down with the money; none of your
tricks here.”</p>

<p class='c008'>At one time he took it into his head
to enlist for a regiment in India, with a
party in Perth; he did very well until
they were ordered to join the regiment.
All the recruits being assembled but
Charlie, he at last was found drinking
in a public-house, but would not stir a
foot. The officer was got, and the
party attempted, after fair means had
failed, to take him by force. They
only got him the length of the street,
when he drew a short bludgeon from an
inside pocket, and laid about him from
right to left, in such a way that the
whole were soon sprawling on the
street, and he escaped. The officer,
seeing what kind of a character he was,
desired the sergeant not to look after
him, as he would have nothing to do
with him.</p>

<p class='c008'>At all the fairs he was present with
his gang. If any row commenced he
was sure to take a lead,—and whichever
party he joined were generally left
masters of the field. One midsummer
market at Perth, a dreadful row got up
between the weavers and the farmer
lads, hundreds of whom attended the
market at that time. Charlie and his
friends joined the weavers; the streets
were soon in a perfect uproar; the chapmen’s
stands were upset, and themselves
tumbled in the midst of their goods;
sweeties and gingerbread were scattered
in all directions by the pressure of the
contending parties; and broken heads
and faces were to be seen in abundance.
The whole fair was thrown into a dreadful
state of confusion, until a party of
military were brought out, who at length
succeeded in restoring order; but Charlie
and his friends were not to be found.
Many individuals lost their hats, &#38;c.,
and got bruised bones and torn coats;
it was also discovered that many pockets
had been picked during the affray.</p>

<p class='c008'>Charlie had often been convicted of
theft, imprisoned, and banished the
county. He not unfrequently made his
escape by breaking out of prison; but
was at length apprehended for horse
stealing; and during his confinement
was put in irons, in one of the strong
cages in the old jail. During his imprisonment
he was very cheerful, often
declaring they could have no proof
against him; but a short time convinced
him of his folly. He was tried, found
guilty, and sentenced to be hanged.
When brought out to execution, he was
attended by four artillerymen, for fear
of resistance. He recognised many of
his old acquaintances in the multitude—particularly
the merchant with whom
he dealt in spoons, and gave him a bow
and a wave of his hand. When the
fatal hour approached he appeared quite
subdued, and submitted to his fate with
calm resignation. After his body was
cut down it was conveyed to the grave
by an immense multitude; the coffin
was opened and filled with quicklime,
to render it useless for the surgeon.</p>

<p class='c008'>Charlie’s death was a severe loss to
the gang; immediately after this Charlie
Brown, his brother-in-law, became
leader. This fellow, although not so
large a man, was stout, firmly built, of
great activity, and, like Graham, had
been frequently in the hands of the law,
and made shift to get clear, until at last
the fiscal was determined to have him.
It being ascertained that he was in the
neighbourhood, a party of light dragoons
was sent out with the officers,
who traced him to Auchtergaven.
When he saw the party, he set off
through the fields, until fairly run down
by two of the horsemen, and brought to
Perth. This desperate character had
on him about eighty guineas; he was
charged with several crimes, convicted,
and sent to Botany Bay for life. After
this the gang, who had for a long period
infested the country, dispersed, and was
seldom heard of.—<cite>Traditions of Perth.</cite></p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='the_snowing-up_of_strath_lugas' class='c006'>THE SNOWING-UP OF STRATH LUGAS;<br> <span class='large'><em>OR, THE MATCH-MAKING LAIRD</em></span>.</h2>
</div>

<p class='c007'>Jolly old Simon Kirkton! thou art
the very high-priest of Hymen. There
is something softly persuasive to matrimony
in thy contented, comfortable
appearance; and thy house,—why,
though it is situated in the farthest part
of Inverness-shire, it is as fertile in
connubial joys as if it were placed upon
Gretna Green. Single blessedness is a
term unknown in thy vocabulary;
heaven itself would be a miserable place
for thee, for <em>there</em> is neither marrying
nor giving in marriage!</p>

<p class='c008'>Half the county was invited to a
grand dinner and ball at Simon’s house
in January 1812. All the young ladies
had looked forward to it in joyous
anticipation and hope, and all the
young gentlemen, with considerable
expectation—and fear. Everything was
to be on the greatest scale: the dinner
in the ancient hall, with the two family
pipers discoursing sweet music between
the courses, and the ball in the splendid
new drawing-room, with a capital band
from the county town. The Duke was
to be there with all the nobility, rank, and
fashion of the district; and, in short,
such a splendid entertainment had never
been given at Strath Lugas in the
memory of man. The editor of the
county paper had a description of it
in type a month before, and the milliners
far and near never said their
prayers without a supplication for the
health of Mr Kirkton. All this time
that worthy gentleman was not idle.
The drawing-room was dismantled of
its furniture, and the floors industriously
chalked over with innumerable groups
of flowers. The larder was stocked as
if for a siege; the domestics drilled into
a knowledge of their duties; and every
preparation completed in the most
irreproachable style. I question whether
Gunter ever dreamt of such a supper
as was laid out in the dining-room:
venison in all its forms, and fish of
every kind. It would have victualled
a seventy-four to China.</p>

<p class='c008'>The day came at last,—a fine, sharp,
clear day, as ever gave a bluish tinge
to the countenance, or brought tears to
“beauty’s eye.” There had been a
great fall of snow a few days before,
but the weather seemed now settled into
a firm, enduring frost. The laird had
not received a single apology, and
waited in the hall along with his lady
to receive the guests as they arrived.</p>

<p class='c008'>“My dear, isna that a carriage coming
up the Brose-fit-knowe? Auld Leddy
Clavers, I declare. She’ll be going to
dress here, and the three girls. Anne’s
turned religious; so I’m thinking she’s
ower auld to be married. It’s a pity
the minister’s no coming: his wife’s
just dead; but Jeanie’ll be looking out
for somebody. We maun put her next
to young Gerfluin. Elizabeth’s a thocht
ower young; she can stay at the side-table
with Tammy Maxwell—he’s just a
hobbletehoy—it wad be a very good
match in time.”</p>

<p class='c008'>In this way, as each party made its
appearance, the laird arranged in a
moment the order in which every
individual was to be placed at table;
and even before dinner, he had the
satisfaction of seeing his guests breaking
off into the quiet <i><span lang="fr">tête-à-têtes</span></i>, which the
noise and occupation of a general company
render sweet and secluded as a
meeting “by moonlight alone.” While
his eye wandered round the various
parties thus pleasantly engaged, it
rested on the figure of a very beautiful
girl whom he had not previously remarked.
She sat apart from all the
rest, and was amusing herself with looking
at the pictures suspended round the
room, apparently unconscious of the
presence of so many strangers. She
seemed in deep thought; but as she
gazed on the representation of a battlepiece,
her face changed its expression
from the calmness of apathy to the
most vivid enthusiasm.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Mercy on us a’!” whispered the
laird to his wife, “wha’s she that?
that beautiful young lassie in the white
goon? An’ no’ a young bachelor within
a mile o’ her. Deil ane o’ them deserves
such an angel!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“It’s a Miss Mowbray,” was the
reply; “she came with Mrs Carmichael,—a
great heiress they say: it’s the first
time she was ever in Scotland.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Aha! say ye sae? Then we’ll see
if we canna keep her among us noo that
she is come. Angus M‘Leod—na, he’ll
no do—he’s a gude enough lad, but he’s
no bonnie. Chairlie Fletcher—he wad
do weel enough; but I’m thinking he’ll
do better for Bell Johnson. ’Od, donnered
auld man, no to think o’ him before!
Chairlie Melville’s the very man—the
handsomest, bravest, cleverest chield
she could hae; and if she’s gotten the
siller, so much the better for Chairlie—they’ll
mak a bonnie couple.”</p>

<p class='c008'>And in an instant the laird laid his
hand on the shoulder of a young man,
who was engaged with a knot of gentlemen
discussing some recent news from
the Peninsula, and dragging him away,
said,—</p>

<p class='c008'>“For shame, Chairlie, for shame!
Do you no see that sweet, modest lassie
a’ by hersel? Gang up to her this minute—bide
by her as lang as ye can—she’s
weel worth a’ the attention ye can
pay her. Miss Mowbray,” he continued,
“I’m sorry my friend, Mrs Carmichael,
has left ye sae much to yoursel;
but here’s Chairlie, or rather I should
say, Mr Charles, or rather I should say,
Lieutenant Charles Melville, that will
be happy to supply her place. He’ll tak
ye in to yer dinner, and dance wi’ ye
at the ball.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“All in place of Mrs Carmichael,
sir?” replied the young lady, with an
arch look.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Weel said, my dear, weel said;
but I maun leave younger folks to answer
ye. I’ve seen the time I wadna hae
been very blate to gie ye an answer
that wad hae stoppit your ‘wee bit mou,
sae sweet and bonnie.’” Saying these
words, and whispering to his young
friend, “Stick till her, Chairlie,” he
bustled off, “on hospitable thoughts
intent,” to another part of the room.</p>

<p class='c008'>After the introduction, the young
people soon entered into conversation;
and, greatly to the laird’s satisfaction,
the young soldier conducted Miss Mowbray
into the hall, sat next her all the
time of dinner, and seemed as delighted
with his companion as the most match-making
lady or gentleman could desire.
The lady, on the other hand, seemed in
high spirits, and laughed at the remarks
of her neighbour with the greatest appearance
of enjoyment.</p>

<p class='c008'>“How long have you been with Mrs
Carmichael?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I came the day before yesterday.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Rather a savage sort of country, I
am afraid, you find this, after the polished
scenes of your own land?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Do you mean the country,” replied
the lady, “or the inhabitants? They are
not nearly such savages as I expected;
some of them seem half-civilised.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“It is only your good-nature that
makes you think us so. When you
know us better, you will alter your
opinion.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Nay; now don’t be angry, or talk
as all other Scotch people do, about
your national virtues. I know you are
a very wonderful people—your men all
heroes, your peasants philosophers, and
your women angels; but seriously, I
was very much disappointed to find you
so like other people.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Why, what did you expect? Did
you think we were ‘men whose heads
do grow beneath their shoulders?’”</p>

<p class='c008'>“No, I did not expect that; but I
expected to find everything different
from what I had been accustomed to.
Now, the company here are dressed
just like a party in England, and behave
in the same manner. Even the language
is intelligible at times; though the laird,
I must say, would require an interpreter.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ah, the jolly old laird! His face
is a sort of polyglot dictionary—it is the
expression for good-humour, kindness,
and hospitality, in all languages.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“And who is that at his right
hand?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“What? the henchman? That’s
Rory M‘Taggart—he was piper for
twenty years in the 73d, and killed
three men with his own hand at
Vimiera.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“And is that the reason he is called
the henchman?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Yes; henchman means, ‘the piper
with the bloody hand—the slaughterer
of three.’”</p>

<p class='c008'>“What a comprehensive word! It
is almost equal to the laird’s face.”</p>

<p class='c008'>But here the laird broke in upon
their conversation.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Miss Mowbray, dinna be frightened
at a’ the daft things the wild sodger is
saying to you.” Then he added, in a
lower tone, “Chairlie wad settle down
into a douce, quiet, steady, married
man, for a’ his tantrums. It wad be a
pity if a Frenchman’s gun should spoil
his beauty, puir fallow!”</p>

<p class='c008'>The young lady bowed without comprehending
a syllable of the speech of
the worthy host.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Are you likely to be soon ordered
abroad?” she said.</p>

<p class='c008'>“We expect the route for Spain every
day; and then huzza for a peerage or
Westminster Abbey!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ah! war is a fine game when it is
played at a distance. Why can’t kings
settle their disputes without having recourse
to the sword?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I really can’t answer your question,
but I think it must be out of a kind
regard for the interest of younger
brothers. A war is a capital provision
for poor fellows like myself, who were
born to no estate but that excessively
large one which the Catechism calls the
‘estate of sin and misery.’ But come,
I see from your face you are very romantic,
and are going to say something
sentimental—luckily his Grace is proposing
a removal into the ball-room;
may I beg the honour of your hand?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Aha, lad!” cried the laird, who
had heard the last sentence; “are ye
at that wark already—asking a leddy’s
hand on sic short an acquaintance? But
folk canna do’t ower sune.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The bustle caused by the secession
of those who preferred Terpsichore to
Bacchus, lucidly prevented Miss Mowbray’s
hearing the laird’s observation,
and in a few minutes she found herself
entering with heart and soul into the
full enjoyment of a country dance.</p>

<p class='c008'>Marriages, they say, are made in
heaven. Charles Melville devoutly
wished the laird’s efforts might be successful,
and that one could be made on
earth. She was indeed, as the laird expressed
it, “a bonnie cratur to look at.”
I never could describe a beauty in my
life—so the loveliness of the English
heiress must be left to the imagination.
At all events, she was “the bright
consummate flower of the whole wreath”
which was then gathered together at
Strath Lugas; and even Lady Clavers
said that—</p>

<p class='c008'>“Miss Mowbray’s very weel put on
indeed, for sae young a lassie. Her
hair’s something like our Anne’s—only
I think Anne’s has a wee richer tinge
o’ the golden.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Preserve us a’!” whispered the
laird; “puir Anne’s hair is as red as
a carrot.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“An’ dinna ye think her voice,”
said her ladyship—“dinna ye think
her voice is something like our Jeanie’s—only
maybe no sae rich in the tone?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Feth, ma’am,” answered the laird,
“I maun wait till I hear Miss Mowbray
speak the Gaelic, for really the saft sort
o’ beautiful English she speaks gies her
a great advantage.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“As ye say, Mr Kirkton,” continued
her ladyship, who, like all great talkers,
never attended to what any one said
but herself, “Jeanie has a great advantage
ower her; but she’s weel enough,
for a’ that.”</p>

<p class='c008'>In the meantime the young lady, who
was the subject of this conversation,
troubled herself very little as to what
Lady Clavers said or thought on that
occasion. I shall not on any account
say that she was in love, for I highly
disapprove of such a speedy surrender
to Dan Cupid in the softer sex; but at
all events she was highly delighted
with the novelty of the scene, and
evidently pleased with her partner.
No scruple of the same kind restrains
me from mentioning the state of Charlie
Melville’s heart. He was as deeply in
love as ever was the hero of a romance,
and in the pauses of the dance indulged
in various reveries about love and a
cottage, and a number of other absurd
notions, which are quite common, I
believe, on such occasions. He never
deigned to think on so contemptible an
object as a butcher’s bill, or how inconvenient
it would be to maintain a wife
and four or five angels of either sex on
ninety pounds a year; but at the same
time, I must do him the justice to state,
that, although he was a Scotsman, the
fact of Miss Mowbray’s being an heiress
never entered into his contemplation;
and if I may mention my own opinion,
I really believe he would have been
better pleased if she had been as portionless
as himself.</p>

<p class='c008'>But time and tide wear through the
roughest day; no wonder, then, they
wore very rapidly through the happiest
evening he had ever spent. The Duke
and the more distant visitors had taken
their leave; “the mirth and fun grew
fast and furious” among the younger
and better acquainted parties who were
left; but, greatly to the mortification
of the young soldier, his partner was
called away at the end of a dance, just
when he had been anticipating a delightful
<i><span lang="fr">tête-à-tête</span></i> while the next was
forming. With his heart nearly bursting
with admiration and regret, he
wrapt her in her cloaks and shawls,
and in silent dejection, with only a
warm pressure of the hand, which he
was enchanted to find returned, he
handed her into Mrs Carmichael’s old-fashioned
open car, though the night
was dark and stormy,—and after listening
to the last sound of the wheels as
they were lost among the snow, he
slowly turned, and re-entered the ball-room.</p>

<p class='c008'>Their absence, to all appearance, had
not been noticed by a single eye,—a
thing at which he, as a lover under such
circumstances is bound to be, was
greatly surprised. “Blockheads!” he
said, “they would not see the darkness
if the sun were extinguished at midday.”
And he fell into a train of reflections,
which, from the expression of his
countenance, did not seem to be of a
very exhilarating nature. In about
twenty minutes, however, after his
return, he was roused by the henchman,
whom he had spoken of at dinner, who
beckoned him from the hall.</p>

<p class='c008'>“The bonny cratur!—the bonny
cratur!” he began,—“an’ sic a nicht
to gang hame in!—the stars a’ put out,
the snaw beginning to drift, and a spate
in the Lugas! Noo, if auld Andrew
Strachan, the Leddy Carmichael’s coachman,—doited
auld body, an’ mair than
half fou’,—tries the ford, oh, the lassie,
the bonny lassie’ll be lost! an’ I’ll
never hae the heart to spend the crownpiece
she slippit into my hand just afore
the dancin’!”</p>

<p class='c008'>But what more the worthy henchman
might have said must remain a mystery
to all succeeding time; for long before
he had come to the episode of the crown,
Charles had rushed hatless into the open
air, and dashed forward at the top of
his speed to overtake the carriage, in
time to warn them from the ford. But
the snow had already formed itself into
enormous wreaths, which, besides impeding
his progress, interfered greatly
with his knowledge of the localities;
and he pursued his toilsome way more
in despair than hope. He shouted, in
the expectation of his voice being heard,
but he heard no reply. He stooped
down to see the track of the wheels, but
the snow fell so fast and drifted at the
same time, that it was quite undistinguishable,
even if the darkness had not
been so deep. However, onwards he
pressed towards the ford, and shouted
louder and louder as he approached it.</p>

<p class='c008'>The roaring of the stream, now swollen
to a prodigious height, drowned his cries,
and his eyes in vain searched for the
object of his pursuit; far and near
he directed his gaze, and felt a transport
of joy at the hope, which their absence
presented, that they had gone round
by the bridge and were saved. He was
about to return, when he thought he
heard, in a bend in the river, a little
way down, a faint scream above the
roaring of the torrent. Quick as lightning
he rushed towards the spot, and
hallooed as loud as he could. The
shriek was distinctly repeated, and a
great way out in the water he saw some
substance of considerable size. He
shouted again, and a voice replied to
him from the river. In an instant he
had plunged into the stream, and though
it was rushing with great impetuosity,
it was luckily not so deep as to prevent
his wading. And after considerable
toil, for the water was above his breast,
he succeeded in reaching the object
he had descried from the bank. It was,
indeed, Mrs Carmichael’s car, and in it
he had the inexpressible delight to find
the two ladies, terrified, indeed, but
happily in full possession of their presence
of mind.</p>

<p class='c008'>In a few hurried words, he desired
them to trust entirely to him, and begging
the elder lady to remain quiet in
the carriage, he lifted the younger in
his arms,—but in the most earnest language
she implored him to save her
companion first, as she had such confidence
in herself that she was certain she
could remain in the carriage till he had
effected his return. Pressing her to
his heart in admiration of such magnanimity,
he laid her gently back, and
lifting Mrs Carmichael from her seat,
he pushed desperately for the shore.
The water even in this short time had
perceptibly risen, and on reaching the
bank, and depositing his burden in safety,
he rushed once more through the torrent,
fearful lest a moment’s delay should
make it impracticable to reach the car.
That light equipage was now shaking
from the impetuous attacks of the
stream, and at the moment when the
fainting girl was lifted up, a rush of
greater force taking it, now unbalanced
by any weight, forced it on its side, and
rolled it off into the great body of the
river. It had been carried more than
fifty yards below the ford, without, however,
being overturned, and had luckily
become entangled with the trunk of a
tree; the horse, after severe struggles,
had been drowned, and his inanimate
weight had helped to delay the progress
of the carriage. The coachman was
nowhere to be found. Meanwhile the
three, once more upon the land, pursued
their path back to Strath Lugas. Long
and toilsome was the road, but cheered
to the young soldier by the happy consciousness
that he had saved his “heart’s
idol” from death. Tired, and nearly
worn out with the harassing nature of
their journey and of their feelings, they
at length reached the hospitable mansion
they had so lately quitted.</p>

<p class='c008'>The music was still sounding, the
lights still burning brightly,—but when
old Simon Kirkton saw the party enter
his hall, no words can do justice to the
horror of his expression. The ladies
were consigned to the attention of his
wife. He himself took especial care of
the hero of the story; and after having
heard the whole adventure, when the
soldier, refreshed, and in a suit of the
laird’s apparel, was entering the dancing
room, he slapped him on the shoulder,
and said—</p>

<p class='c008'>“Deil a doubt o’t noo. If ye’re no
laird o’ the bonny English acres, and
gudeman o’ the bonny English leddy,
I’ve nae skill in spaein’, that’s a’.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The adventure quickly spread, and
people were sent off in all directions
with lights, to discover, if possible,
the body of the unfortunate Andrew
Strachan. After searching for a long
time, our friend the henchman thought
he heard a voice close beside him, on
the bank. He held down his lantern,
and, sure enough, there he saw the
object of their pursuit, lying at the very
edge of the water, and his body on the
land! The water from time to time
burst over his face, and it was only on
these occasions that an almost inarticulate
grunt showed that the comatose
disciple of John Barleycorn was yet
alive. The henchman summoned his
companions, and on attentively listening
to the groans, as they considered them,
of the dying man, they distinctly heard
him, as he attempted to spit out the
water which broke in tiny waves over
his mouth, exclaiming, “Faugh, faugh!
I doot ye’re changing the liquor—a wee
drap mair whisky, and a sma’ spoonfu’
o’ sugar.” The nodding charioteer had
been ejected from his seat on the first
impetus of the “spate,” and been safely
floated to land, without perceiving any
remarkable change of situation. It is
needless to say he was considerably
surprised to discover where he was on
being roused by the henchman’s party.</p>

<p class='c008'>“It’s my belief,” said Jock Stewart,
the piper, “the drucken body thocht
he was tipplin’ a’ the time in the butler’s
ha’! It wad be a gude deed to let the
daidlin’ haveril follow his hat and wig;
and I’m thinkin’ by this time they’ll be
down about Fort-George.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The weather was become so stormy,
and the snow so deep, that it was impossible
for any one to leave the house
that night. The hospitable laird immediately
set about making accommodation
for so large a party, and by a little
management he contrived to render
everybody comfortable. The fiddlers
were lodged in the barn, the ladies
settled by the half-dozen in a room, and
a supply of cloaks was collected for the
gentlemen in the hall. Where people
are willing to be pleased, it is astonishing
how easy they find it. Laughter
long and loud resounded through all the
apartments, and morn began to stand
“upon the misty mountain-tops” ere
sleep and silence took possession of the
mansion. Next day the storm still continued.
The prospect, as far as the eye
could reach, was a dreary waste of snow;
and it was soon perceived, by those who
were skilful in such matters, that the
whole party were fairly snowed-up, and
how long their imprisonment might last
no one could tell. It was amazing with
what equanimity the intelligence was
listened to; one or two young ladies,
who had been particularly pleased with
their partners, went as far as to say it
was delightful.</p>

<p class='c008'>The elders of the party bore it with
great good-humour, on being assured
from the state of the larder that there
was no danger of a famine; and, above
all, the laird himself, who had some
private schemes of his own to serve,
was elevated into the seventh heaven
by the embargo laid on his guests.</p>

<p class='c008'>“If this bides three days there’ll be
a dizzen couple before Leddy-day. It’s
no possible for a lad and a lass to be
snawed up thegither three days without
melting;—but we’ll see the night how
it’s a’ to be managed. Has onybody
seen Mrs Carmichael and Miss Mowbray
this morning?”</p>

<p class='c008'>But before this question could be
answered the ladies entered the room.
They were both pale from their last
night’s adventure; but while the elder
lady was shaking hands with her friends,
and receiving their congratulations, the
eyes of her young companion wandered
searchingly round the apartment till they
fell on Charles Melville. Immediately
a flush came over her cheek, which before
was deadly pale, and she started
forward and held out her hand. He
rushed and caught it, and even in presence
of all that company could scarcely
resist the inclination to put it to his lips.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Thanks! thanks!” was all she said;
and even in saying these short words her
voice trembled, and a tear came to her
eye. But when she saw that all looks
were fixed on her, she blushed more
deeply than ever, and retired to the side
of Mrs Carmichael. The scene passed
by no means unheeded by the laird.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Stupid whelp!” he said, “what
for did he no kiss her, an it were just to
gie her cheeks an excuse for growing sae
rosy? ’Od, if I had saved her frae drooning,
I wadna hae been sae nice,—that’s to
say, my dear,” he added to his wife, who
was standing by, “if I hadna a wife o’
my ain.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The storm lasted for five days. How
the plans of the laird with regard to the
matrimonial comforts of his guests prospered,
I have no intention of detailing.
I believe, however, he was right in his
predictions, and the minister was presented
with eight several sets of tea-things
within three months. Many a
spinster at this moment looks back with
regret to her absence from the snow-party
of Strath Lugas, and dates all her
misfortunes from that unhappy circumstance.
On the fourth morning of their
imprisonment the laird was presented
with a letter from Charles Melville. In
it he informed him that he dared not be
absent longer, in case of his regiment
being ordered abroad, and that he had
taken his chance and set off on his
homeward way in spite of the snow.
It ended with thanks for all his kindness,
and an affectionate farewell.
When this was announced to the party
they expressed great regret at his absence.
It seemed to surprise them all.
Mrs Carmichael was full of wonder on
the occasion; but Miss Mowbray seemed
totally unmoved by his departure. She
was duller in spirits than before, and
refused to dance; but in other respects
the mirth was as uproarious, and the
dancing as joyous, as ever;—and in a
day the snow was sufficiently cleared
away—the party by different conveyances
broke up—and the laird was left
alone, after a week of constant enjoyment.</p>

<p class='c007'>Four years after the events I have
related, a young man presented himself
for the first time in the pump-room at
Bath. The gossips of that busy city
formed many conjectures as to who and
what he could be. Some thought him
a foreigner, some a man of consequence
<em>incog.</em>; but all agreed that he was a
soldier and an invalid. He seemed to
be about six-and-twenty, and was evidently
a perfect stranger. After he had
stayed in the room a short time, and
listened to the music, he went out into
the street, and just as he made his
exit by one door, the marvels of the old
beldames who congregated under the
orchestra were called into activity by
the entrance, through the other, of a
young lady leaning on the arm of an
old one. Even so simple an incident
as this is sufficient in a place like Bath
to give rise to various rumours and conjectures.
She was tall, fair, and very
beautiful, but she also seemed in bad
health, and to be perfectly unknown.
Such an event had not occurred at the
pump-room for ages before. Even the
master of the ceremonies was at fault.
“As near as he could guess, to the best
of his conjecture, he believed he had
never seen either the gentleman or the
lady.”</p>

<p class='c008'>While surmises of all kinds were
going their rounds in this manner, the
gentleman pursued his walk up Milsom
Street. His pace was slow, and his
strength did not seem equal even to so
gentle an exertion. He leant for support
upon his walking-stick, and heard,
mingled with many coughs, a voice
which he well knew, calling,—</p>

<p class='c008'>“Chairlie—Chairlie Melville, I say!
pull, ye deil’s buckie,—ugh—ugh!—sic
a confounded conveyance for a Highland
gentleman. Ah, Chairlie, lad,”
said our old acquaintance the laird,
who had now got up to where his
friend was standing, “sad times for
baith of us. Here am I sent here wi’
a cough that wad shake a kirk, ugh—ugh.—An’
the gout in baith my feet,—to
be hurled about in a chair that gangs
upon wheels,—ugh—ugh,—by a lazy
English vagabond that winna understand
a word that I say till him.—An’
you,” and here the old man looked up in
the young soldier’s face—“Oh, Chairlie,
Chairlie! is this what the wars hae
brocht ye to?—ugh—ugh—yer verra
mither wadna ken ye,—but come awa,—come
awa to my lodgings in Pultney
Street, and tell us a’ about what ye’ve
been doin’,—ugh—ugh,—my fit, my fit,—pu’
awa’, ye ne’er-do-weel; turn
about, and be hanged till ye,—do ye
no ken the road to Pultney Street yet?
Come awa, Chairlie, my man, dinna
hurry.” And thus mingling his commands
to his chairman, with complaints
of the gout to his friend, the laird
led the way to his lodgings.</p>

<p class='c008'>Charlie’s story was soon told. He
had shared in all the dangers and
triumphs of the last three years of the
war. He had been severely wounded
at Waterloo, and had come to Bath
with a debilitated frame and a major’s
commission. But though he spoke of
past transactions as gaily as he could,
the quick eyes of the laird perceived
there was some “secret sorrow” which
weighed down his spirits.</p>

<p class='c008'>“An’ did ye meet with nae love
adventure in your travels? For ye
maunna tell me a bit wound in the
shouther would mak ye sae doun-hearted
as ye are. Is there nae Spanish
or French lassie that gies ye a sair
heart? Tell it a’ to me, an’ if I can
be of ony use in bringin’ it about, ye
may depend I’ll do all in my power to
help ye.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“No,” replied Charles, smiling at
the continued match-making propensities
of his friend; “I shall scarcely
require your services on that score. I
never saw Frenchwoman or Spaniard
that cost me a single sigh.” And here,
as if by the force of the word itself, the
young man sighed.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Weel, it must be some English or
Scotch lassie then; for it’s easy to be
seen that somebody costs ye a sigh. I
ance thocht you were in a fair way o’
winnin’ yon bonny cratur ye saved frae
the spate o’ the Lugas; but ye gaed
awa in such a hurry the plant hadna
time to tak root.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“She was too rich for the poor
penniless subaltern to look to,” replied
the young man, a deep glow coming
over his face.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Havers! havers! She wad hae
given a’ her lands yon night for a foot
o’ dry grund. An’ as ye won her, ye
had the best right to wear her. And
I’m muckle mista’en if the lassie didna
think sae hersel.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Miss Mowbray must have overrated
my services; but at all events I had
no right to take advantage of that fortunate
accident to better my fortunes,
by presuming on her feelings of gratitude
to her preserver.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“What for no? what for no?” cried
the laird; “ye should hae married her
on the spot. There were eight couples
sprang frae the snaw-meeting—ye
should hae made the ninth, and then ye
needna hae had a ball put through your
shouther, nor ever moved frae the braw
holmes o’ Surrey. ’Od, I wish it had
been me that took her out o’ the water;
that is, if I had been as young as you,
and Providence had afflicted me with
the loss o’ Mrs Kirkton.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“If I had been on a level with her
as to fortune”——</p>

<p class='c008'>“Weel, but noo yer brither’s dead,
ye’re heir o’ the auld house, an’ ye’re a
major—what’s to forbid the banns
noo?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I have never heard of Miss Mowbray
from that hour to this. In all
probability she is married to some lucky
fellow”——</p>

<p class='c008'>“She wasna married when I saw
Mrs Carmichael four months since; she
was in what leddies call delicate health
though; she had aye been melancholy
since the time of the water business.
Mrs Carmichael thought ye were a great
fule for rinnin’ awa.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Mrs Carmichael is very kind.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“’Deed is she,” replied the laird,
“as kind-hearted a woman as ever
lived. She’s maybe a thocht ower
auld, or I dinna doubt she wad be very
happy to marry you hersel.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I hope her gratitude would not
carry her to such an alarming length,”
said Charles, laughing. “It would
make young men rather tender of saving
ladies’ lives.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“If I knew where she was just now,
I wad soon put everything to rights.
It’s no ower late yet, though ye maun
get fatter before the marriage—ye wad
be mair like a skeleton than a bridegroom.
But, save us! what’s the matter
wi’ ye? are ye no weel? headache?
gout? what is’t, man? Confound my
legs, I canna stir. Sit down, and rest ye.”</p>

<p class='c008'>But Charles, with his eyes intently
fixed on some object in the street, gazed
as if some horrible apparition had met
his sight. Alternately flushed and pale,
he continued as if entranced, and then,
deeply sighing, sunk senseless on the
floor.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Rory, Rory!” screamed the laird—“ugh,
ugh! oh, that I could get at
the bell! Cheer up, Chairlie. Fire!
fire! ugh, ugh!—the lad will be dead
before a soul comes near him. Rory,
Rory!”</p>

<p class='c008'>And luckily the ancient henchman,
Rory MacTaggart, made his appearance
in time to save his master from
choking through fear and surprise.
Charlie was soon recovered, and, when
left again alone with the laird, he
said—</p>

<p class='c008'>“As I hope to live, I saw her from
this very window, just as we were
speaking of her. Even her face I saw!
Oh, so changed and pale! But her
walk—no <em>two</em> can have such a graceful
carriage!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Seen wha?” said the laird. “Mrs
Carmichael? For it was her we were
speaking o’—ay, she’s sair changed;
and her walk is weel kent; only I
thocht she was a wee stiffer frae the
rheumatism last year. But whaur is
she?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“It was Miss Mowbray I saw. She
went into that house opposite.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“What! the house wi’ the brass
knocker, green door—the verandah
with the flower-pots, an’ twa dead
geraniums?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Yes.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Then just ring the bell, and tell
that English cratur to pu’ me in the
wee whirligig across the street.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Impossible, my dear laird! recollect
your gout.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Deil hae the gout and the cough
too! Order the chair; I’ll see if it’s
her in five minutes.”</p>

<p class='c008'>And away, in spite of all objections
and remonstrances, went the laird to
pay his visit. Now, if any one should
doubt of the success of his negotiations,
I—the writer of this story—Charles
Melville, late major, —th regiment,
shall be happy to convince him of it, if
he will drop in on me any day at Mowbray
Hall, by my own evidence, and
also that of my happy and still beautiful
Madeline, though she is the mother
of three rosy children, who at this moment
are making such an intolerable
noise that I cannot understand a sentence
I am writing. I may just mention,
that the laird attended the wedding,
and that his cough entirely left
him. He does not suffer an attack of
the gout more than once a year. He
has adopted my second boy, and every
autumn we spend three months with
him at Strath Lugas. Oh, that all
match-makers were as innocent and
disinterested as jolly old Simon Kirkton!—<cite>Blackwood’s
Magazine.</cite></p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='ezra_peden' class='c006'>EZRA PEDEN.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By Allan Cunningham.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c016'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>I sat and watched while all men slept, and lo!</div>
      <div class='line'>Between the green earth and the deep green sea</div>
      <div class='line'>I saw bright spirits pass, pure as the touch</div>
      <div class='line'>Of May’s first finger on the eastern hill.</div>
      <div class='line'>Behind them followed fast a little cloud;</div>
      <div class='line'>And from the cloud an evil spirit came—</div>
      <div class='line'>A damnèd shape—one who in the dark pit</div>
      <div class='line'>Held sovereign sway; and power to him was given</div>
      <div class='line'>To chase the blessèd spirits from the earth,</div>
      <div class='line'>And rule it for a season.</div>
      <div class='line in24'>Soon he shed</div>
      <div class='line'>His hellish slough, and many a subtle wile</div>
      <div class='line'>Was his to seem a heavenly spirit to man.</div>
      <div class='line'>First he a hermit, sore subdued in flesh,</div>
      <div class='line'>O’er a cold cruse of water and a crust,</div>
      <div class='line'>Poured out meek prayers abundant. Then he changed</div>
      <div class='line'>Into a maid when she first dreams of man,</div>
      <div class='line'>And from beneath two silken eyelids sent</div>
      <div class='line'>The sidelong light of two such wondrous eyes,</div>
      <div class='line'>That all the saints grew sinners. He subdued</div>
      <div class='line'>Those wanton smiles, and grew a reverend dame,</div>
      <div class='line'>With wintry ringlets, and grave lips, which dropt</div>
      <div class='line'>Proverbial honey in her grandson’s ear.</div>
      <div class='line'>Then a professor of God’s Word he seemed,</div>
      <div class='line'>And o’er a multitude of upturned eyes</div>
      <div class='line'>Showered blessed dews, and made the pitchy path,</div>
      <div class='line'>Down which howl damnèd spirits, seem the bright</div>
      <div class='line'>Thrice-hallowed way to heaven. Yet grimly through</div>
      <div class='line'>The glorious veil of those seducing shapes</div>
      <div class='line'>Frowned out the fearful spirit.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<h3 class='c013'><span class='sc'>Chapter I.</span></h3>

<p class='c014'>The religious legend which supplies
my story with the motto, affords me no
further assistance in arranging and interpreting
the various traditional remembrances
of the colloquies between one
of the chiefs of the ancient Presbyterian
Kirk and one of the inferior spirits of
darkness. It is seldom that tradition
requires any illustration; its voice is
clear, and its language simple. It seeks
to conceal nothing; what it can explain
it explains, and scorns, in the homely
accuracy of its protracted details, all
mystery and reservation. But in the
present story, there is much which the
popular spirit of research would dread
to have revealed;—a something too
mystical and hallowed to be sought into
by a devout people. Often as I have
listened to it, I never heard it repeated
without mutual awe in the teller and
the auditor. The most intrepid peasant
becomes graver and graver as he proceeds,
stops before the natural termination
of the story, and hesitates to pry
into the supernatural darkness of the
tradition. It would be unwise, therefore,
to seek to expound or embellish
the legend,—it shall be told as it was
told to me; I am but as a humble priest
responding from the traditionary oracles,
and the words of other years pass without
change from between my lips.</p>

<p class='c008'>Ezra Peden was one of the shepherds
of the early Presbyterian flock, and distinguished
himself as an austere and
enthusiastic pastor; fearless in his ministration,
delighting in wholesome discipline,
and guiding in the way of grace
the peer as well as the peasant. He
grappled boldly with the infirmities and
sins of the times; he spared not the rod
in the way of his ministry; and if in
the time of peril he laid his hand on
the sword, in the time of peace his
delight was to place it on the horns of
the altar. He spared no vice, he compounded
with no sin, and he discussed
men’s claims to immortal happiness
with a freedom which made them
tremble. Amid the fervour of his eloquence,
he aspired, like some of his
fellow-professors of that period, to the
prophetic mantle. Plain and simple in
his own apparel, he counted the mitred
glory and exterior magnificence of the
hierarchy a sin and an abomination,
and preferred preaching on a wild hill,
or in a lonesome glen, to the most
splendid edifice.</p>

<p class='c008'>Wherever he sojourned, dance and
song fled;—the former he accounted a
devoting of limbs which God made to
the worship of Satan; the latter he
believed to be a sinful meting out of
wanton words to a heathen measure.
Satan, he said, leaped and danced, and
warbled and sung, when he came to
woo to perdition the giddy sons and
daughters of men. He dictated the
colour and the cut of men’s clothes—it
was seemly for those who sought salvation
to seek it in a sober suit; and the
ladies of his parish were obliged to
humble their finery, and sober down their
pride, before his sarcastic sermons on
female paintings, and plumings, and
perfumings, and the unloveliness of
love-locks. He sought to make a
modest and sedate grace abound among
women; courtship was schooled and
sermoned into church controversy, and
love into mystical professions; the common
civilities between the sexes were
doled out with a suspicious hand and
a jealous charity, and the primrose path
through the groves of dalliance to the
sober vale of marriage was planted with
thorns and sown with briars.</p>

<p class='c008'>He had other endowments not uncommon
among the primitive teachers
of the Word. In his day, the empire
of the prince of darkness was more
manifest among men than now, and his
ministry was distinguished, like the
reign of King Saul, by the persecution
of witches, and elves, and evil spirits.
He made himself the terror of all those
who dealt in divinations, or consulted
the stars, or sought to avert witchcraft
by sinful spell and charm, instead of
overcoming it by sorrowings and spiritual
watchings. The midnight times of
planetary power he held as the prime
moments of Satan’s glory on earth, and
he punished Hallowmas revellers as
chief priests in the infernal rites. He
consigned to church censure and the
chastening of rods a wrinkled dame
who sold a full sea and a fair wind to
mariners, and who insulted the apostles,
and made a mystical appeal to the
twelve signs of heaven in setting a brood
goose with a dozen eggs. His wrath,
too, was observed to turn against all
those who compounded with witches,
and people who carried evil influence
in their eyes—this was giving tribute to
the fiend, and bribing the bottomless
pit.</p>

<p class='c008'>He rebuked the venerable dame,
during three successive Sundays, for
placing a cream bowl and new-baked
cake in the paths of the nocturnal elves
who, she imagined, had plotted to steal
her grandson from the mother’s bosom.
He turned loose many Scripture threatenings
against those diminutive and
capricious beings, the fairies, and sought
to preach them from the land. He
prayed on every green hill, and held
communings in every green valley. He
wandered forth at night, as a spiritual
champion, to give battle to the enemies
of the light. The fairies resigned the
contest with a foe equipped from such
an armoury, and came no more among
the sons and daughters of men. The
sound of their minstrelsy ceased on the
hill; their equestrian processions were
seen no more sweeping past at midnight
beneath the beam of the half-filled
moon; and only a solitary and sullen
elf or two remained to lament the loss
of their immemorial haunts. With the
spirits of evil men and the lesser angels
of darkness he waged a fierce and
dubious war; he evoked an ancient
ghost from a ruined tower, which it
had shared for generations with the
owl; and he laid or tranquillized a fierce
and troubled spirit which had haunted
the abode of a miser in a neighbouring
churchyard, and seemed to gibber and
mumble over his bones. All these
places were purified by prayer, and
hallowed by the blessing of the gifted
pastor Ezra Peden.</p>

<p class='c008'>The place of his ministry seemed
fitted by nature, and largely endowed
by history, for the reception and entertainment
of all singular and personified
beliefs. Part was maritime, and part
mountainous, uniting the aërial creeds
of the shepherds with the stern and
more imposing beliefs of the husbandman,
and the wild and characteristic
superstitions of the sailors. It often
happened, when he had marched against
and vanquished a sin or a superstition
of native growth, he was summoned to
wage war with a new foe; to contend
with a legion of errors, and a strange
race of spirits from the haunted coasts
of Norway or Sweden. All around him
on every side were records of the
mouldering influence of the enemies of
faith and charity. On the hill where
the heathen Odin had appeared to his
worshippers in the circle of granite, the
pillars of his Runic temple promised to
be immortal; but the god was gone,
and his worship was extinct. The
sword, the spear, and the banner, had
found sanctuary from fields of blood on
several lofty promontories; but shattered
towers and dismantled castles told
that for a time hatred, oppression, and
revenge had ceased to triumph over
religion. Persecution was now past
and gone, a demon exorcised by the
sword had hallowed three wild hills and
sanctified two little green valleys with
the blood of martyrs. Their gravestones,
bedded among heather or long
grass, cried up to heaven against their
oppressors in verses which could not
surely fail to elude the punishment
awarded by the Kirk against poesy.
Storms, and quicksands, and unskilful
mariners, or, as common belief said, the
evil spirits of the deep, had given to
the dangerous coast the wrecks of three
stately vessels; and there they made
their mansions, and raised whirlwinds,
and spread quicksands, and made sandbanks,
with a wicked diligence, which
neither prayer nor preaching could
abate. The forms under which these
restless spirits performed their pranks
have unfortunately been left undefined
by a curious and poetical peasantry.</p>

<p class='c008'>It happened one winter, during the
fifteenth year of the ministry of Ezra
Peden, and in the year of grace 1705,
that he sat by his fire pondering deep
among the treasures of the ancient
Presbyterian worthies, and listening
occasionally to the chafing of the coming
tide against cliff and bank, and the
fitful sweep of heavy gusts of wind over
the roof of his manor. During the day
he had seemed more thoughtful than
usual; he had consulted Scripture with
an anxious care, and fortified his own
interpretation of the sacred text by the
wisdom of some of the chiefs and
masters of the calling. A Bible, too,
bound in black oak, and clasped with
silver, from the page of which sin had
received many a rebuke, and the abominations
of witchcraft and sorcery had
been cleansed from the land, was
brought from its velvet sanctuary and
placed beside him. Thus armed and
prepared, he sat like a watcher of old
on the towers of Judah; like one who
girds up his loins and makes bare his
right arm for some fierce and dubious
contest.</p>

<p class='c008'>All this stir and preparation passed
not unnoticed of an old man, his predecessor’s
coeval, and prime minister of
the household; a person thin, religious,
and faithful, whose gifts in prayer
were reckoned by some old people
nearly equal to those of the anointed
pastor. To such a distinction Josiah
never thought of aspiring; he contented
himself with swelling the psalm into
something like melody on Sunday;
visiting the sick as a forerunner of his
master’s approach, and pouring forth
prayers and graces at burials and banquetings,
as long and dreary as a hill
sermon. He looked on the minister as
something superior to man; a being
possessed by a divine spirit; and he
shook his head with all its silver hairs,
and uttered a gentle groan or two, during
some of the more rapt and glowing
passages of Ezra’s sermons.</p>

<p class='c008'>This faithful personage stood at the
door of his master’s chamber, unwilling
to go in, and yet loath to depart.
“Josiah, thou art called, Josiah,” said
Ezra, in a grave tone, “so come hither;
the soul of an evil man, a worker of
iniquity, is about to depart; one who
drank the blood of saints, and made
himself fat with the inheritance of the
righteous. It hath been revealed to
me that his body is sorely troubled;
but I say unto you, he will not go from
the body without the strong compulsion
of prayer, and therefore am I summoned
to war with the enemy; so I shall arm
me to the task.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Josiah was tardy in speech, and before
he could reply, the clatter of a
horse’s hoofs was heard at the gate: the
rider leapt down, and, splashed with
mire and sprinkled with sleet, he stood
in an instant before the minister.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ah, sir,” said the unceremonious
messenger, “haste! snatch up the looms
of redemption, and bide not the muttering
of prayer, else auld Mahoun will have
his friend Bonshaw to his cauldron, body
and soul, if he hasna him half-way hame
already. Godsake, sir, start and fly, for
he cannot shoot over another hour! He
talks of perdition, and speaks about a
broad road and a great fire, and friends
who have travelled the way before him.
He’s no his lane, however,—that’s one
comfort; for I left him conversing with
an old cronie, whom no one saw but himself—one
whose bones are ripe and
rotten; and mickle they talked of a
place called Tophet,—a hot enough
region, if one can credit them; but I
aye doubt the accounts of such travellers,—they
are like the spies of the
land of promise”——</p>

<p class='c008'>“Silence thine irreverent tongue,
and think of thy latter end with fear and
trembling,” said Ezra, in a stern voice.
“Mount thy horse, and follow me to
the evil man, thy master; brief is the
time, and black is the account, and
stern and inexorable will the summoning
angel be.”</p>

<p class='c008'>And leaping on their horses, they
passed from the manse, and sought out
the bank of a little busy stream, which,
augmented by a fall of sleet, lifted up a
voice amid its rocky and desolate glen
equal to the clamour of a mightier
brook. The glen or dell was rough
with sharp and projecting crags, which,
hanging forward at times from opposite
sides, seemed to shut out all further
way; while from between their dark-gray
masses the rivulet leapt out in
many divided streams. The brook
again gathered together its waters, and
subsided into several clear deep pools,
on which the moon, escaping for a moment
from the edge of a cloud of snow,
threw a cold and wavering gleam.
Along the sweeps of the stream a rough
way, shaped more by nature than by the
hand of man, winded among the rocks;
and along this path proceeded Ezra,
pondering on the vicissitudes of human
life.</p>

<p class='c008'>At length he came where the glen
expanded, and the sides became steep
and woody; amid a grove of decaying
trees, the mansion of Bonshaw rose,
square and gray. Its walls of rough
granite were high and massive; the
roof, ascending steep and sharp, carried
a covering of red sandstone flags;
around the whole the rivulet poured its
scanty waters in a deep moat, while a
low-browed door, guarded by loopholes,
gave it the character of a place of refuge
and defence. Though decayed and
war-worn now, it had, in former times,
been a fair and courtly spot. A sylvan
nook or arbour, scooped out of the
everlasting rock, was wreathed about
with honeysuckle; a little pool, with a
margin studded with the earliest primroses,
lay at its entrance; and a garden,
redeemed by the labour of man from
the sterile upland, had its summer roses
and its beds of lilies, all bearing token
of some gentle and departed inhabitant.</p>

<p class='c008'>As he approached the house, a candle
glimmered in a small square window,
and threw a line or two of straggling
light along the path. At the foot of
the decayed porch he observed the
figure of a man kneeling, and presently
he heard a voice chanting what sounded
like a psalm or a lyke-wake hymn.
Ezra alighted and approached,—the
form seemed insensible of his presence,
but stretched his hands towards the
tower; and while the feathery snow
descended on his gray hair, he poured
his song forth in a slow and melancholy
manner.</p>

<p class='c008'>“I protest,” said the messenger,
“here kneels old William Cameron,
the Covenanter. Hearken, he pours
out some odd old-world malison against
Bonshaw. I have heard that the laird
hunted him long and sore in his youth,
slew his sons, burned his house, threw
his two bonny daughters desolate,—that
was nae gentle deed, however,—and
broke the old mother’s heart with
downright sorrow. Sae I canna much
blame the dour auld carle for remembering
it even now, though the candles
of Bonshaw are burning in the socket,
and his light will soon be extinguished
for ever. Let us hearken to his psalm
or his song; it is no every night we
have minstrelsy at Bonshaw gate, I can
tell ye that.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The following are the verses, which
have been preserved under the title of
“Ane godly exultation of William
Cameron, a chosen vessel, over Bonshaw,
the persecutor.” I have adopted
a plainer, but a less descriptive
title—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>THE DOWNFALL OF DALZELL.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line in16'>I.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>The wind is cold, the snow falls fast,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>The night is dark and late,</div>
      <div class='line'>As I lift aloud my voice and cry</div>
      <div class='line in2'>By the oppressor’s gate.</div>
      <div class='line'>There is a voice in every hill,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>A tongue in every stone;</div>
      <div class='line'>The greenwood sings a song of joy,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Since thou art dead and gone;</div>
      <div class='line'>A poet’s voice is in each mouth,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>And songs of triumph swell,</div>
      <div class='line'>Glad songs, that tell the gladsome earth</div>
      <div class='line in2'>The downfall of Dalzell.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line in16'>II.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>As I raised up my voice to sing,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>I heard the green earth say,</div>
      <div class='line'>Sweet am I now to beast and bird,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Since thou art passed away:</div>
      <div class='line'>I hear no more the battle shout,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>The martyrs’ dying moans;</div>
      <div class='line'>My cottages and cities sing</div>
      <div class='line in2'>From their foundation-stones;</div>
      <div class='line'>The carbine and the culverin’s mute,—</div>
      <div class='line in2'>The death-shot and the yell</div>
      <div class='line'>Are turned into a hymn of joy,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>For thy downfall, Dalzell</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line in16'>III.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>I’ve trod thy banner in the dust,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>And caused the raven call</div>
      <div class='line'>From thy bride-chamber to the owl</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Hatched on thy castle wall;</div>
      <div class='line'>I’ve made thy minstrels’ music dumb,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>And silent now to fame</div>
      <div class='line'>Art thou, save when the orphan casts</div>
      <div class='line in2'>His curses on thy name.</div>
      <div class='line'>Now thou may’st say to good men’s prayers</div>
      <div class='line in2'>A long and last farewell:</div>
      <div class='line'>There’s hope for every sin save thine,—</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Adieu, adieu, Dalzell!</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line in16'>IV.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>The grim pit opes for thee her gates,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Where punished spirits wail,</div>
      <div class='line'>And ghastly Death throws wide his door,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>And hails thee with a Hail.</div>
      <div class='line'>Deep from the grave there comes a voice,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>A voice with hollow tones,</div>
      <div class='line'>Such as a spirit’s tongue would have</div>
      <div class='line in2'>That spoke through hollow bones:—</div>
      <div class='line'>“Arise, ye martyred men, and shout</div>
      <div class='line in2'>From earth to howling hell;</div>
      <div class='line'>He comes, the persecutor comes!</div>
      <div class='line in2'>All hail to thee, Dalzell!”</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line in16'>V.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>O’er an old battle-field there rushed</div>
      <div class='line in2'>A wind, and with a moan</div>
      <div class='line'>The severed limbs all rustling rose,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Even fellow bone to bone.</div>
      <div class='line'>“Lo! there he goes,” I heard them cry,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>“Like babe in swathing band,</div>
      <div class='line'>Who shook the temples of the Lord,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>And passed them ’neath his brand.</div>
      <div class='line'>Cursed be the spot where he was born,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>There let the adders dwell,</div>
      <div class='line'>And from his father’s hearthstone hiss:</div>
      <div class='line in2'>All hail to thee, Dalzell!”</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line in16'>VI.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>I saw thee growing like a tree,—</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Thy green head touched the sky,—</div>
      <div class='line'>But birds far from thy branches built,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>The wild deer passed thee by;</div>
      <div class='line'>No golden dew dropt on thy bough,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Glad summer scorned to grace</div>
      <div class='line'>Thee with her flowers, nor shepherds wooed</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Beside thy dwelling-place;</div>
      <div class='line'>The axe has come and hewed thee down,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Nor left one shoot to tell</div>
      <div class='line'>Where all thy stately glory grew:</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Adieu, adieu, Dalzell!</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line in16'>VII.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>An ancient man stands by thy gate,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>His head like thine is gray;</div>
      <div class='line'>Gray with the woes of many years,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Years fourscore and a day.</div>
      <div class='line'>Five brave and stately sons were his;</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Two daughters, sweet and rare;</div>
      <div class='line'>An old dame, dearer than them all,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>And lands both broad and fair;—</div>
      <div class='line'>Two broke their hearts when two were slain,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>And three in battle fell,—</div>
      <div class='line'>An old man’s curse shall cling to thee,—</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Adieu, adieu, Dalzell!</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line in16'>VIII.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>And yet I sigh to think of thee,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>A warrior tried and true</div>
      <div class='line'>As ever spurred a steed, when thick</div>
      <div class='line in2'>The splintering lances flew.</div>
      <div class='line'>I saw thee in thy stirrups stand,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>And hew thy foes down fast,</div>
      <div class='line'>When Grierson fled, and Maxwell failed,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>And Gordon stood aghast;</div>
      <div class='line'>And Graeme, saved by thy sword, raged fierce</div>
      <div class='line in2'>As one redeemed from hell.</div>
      <div class='line'>I came to curse thee,—and I weep:</div>
      <div class='line in2'>So go in peace, Dalzell!</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c008'>When this wild and unusual hymn
concluded, the Cameronian arose and
departed, and Ezra and his conductor
entered the chamber of the dying man.</p>

<p class='c008'>He found him stretched on a couch
of state, more like a warrior cut in marble
than a breathing being. He had
still a stern and martial look, and his
tall and stalwart frame retained something
of that ancient exterior beauty for
which his youth was renowned. His
helmet, spoiled by time of its plumage,
was placed on his head; a rusty corslet
was on his bosom; in his arms, like a
bride, lay his broad and famous sword;
and as he looked at it, the battles of his
youth passed in array before him. Armour
and arms hung grouped along the
walls, and banners, covered with many
a quaint and devotional device, waved
in their places as the domestic closed
the door on Ezra and the dying warrior
in the chamber of presence.</p>

<p class='c008'>The devout man stood and regarded
his ancient parishioner with a meek and
sorrowful look; but nothing visible or
present employed Bonshaw’s reflections
or moved his spirit—his thoughts had
wandered back to earlier years, and to
scenes of peril and blood. He imagined
himself at the head of his horsemen in
the hottest period of the persecution,
chasing the people from rock to rock,
and from glen to cavern. His imagination
had presented to his eye the
destruction of the children of William
Cameron. He addressed their mother
in a tone of ironical supplication,—</p>

<p class='c008'>“Woman, where is thy devout husband,
and thy five holy sons? Are
they busied in interminable prayers or
everlasting sermons? Whisper it in
my ear, woman,—thou hast made that
reservation doubtless in thy promise of
concealment. Come, else I will wrench
the truth out of thee with these gentle
catechists, the thumbscrew and the
bootikin. Serving the Lord, sayest
thou, woman? Why, that is rebelling
against the king. Come, come, a better
answer, else I shall make thee a bride
for a saint on a bloody bed of heather!</p>

<p class='c008'>Here he paused and waved his hand
like a warrior at the head of armed men,
and thus he continued,—</p>

<p class='c008'>“Come, uncock thy carbine, and
harm not the woman till she hear the
good tidings. Sister saint, how many
bairns have ye? I bless God, saith she,
five—Reuben, Simon, Levi, Praisegod,
and Patrick. A bonny generation,
woman. Here, soldier, remove the
bandages from the faces of those two
young men before ye shoot them. There
stands Patrick, and that other is Simon;—dost
thou see the youngest of
thy affections? The other three are in
Sarah’s bosom—thyself shall go to
Abraham’s. The woman looks as if
she doubted me;—here, toss to her
those three heads—often have they lain
in her lap, and mickle have they prayed
in their time. Out, thou simpleton!
canst thou not endure the sight of the
heads of thine own fair-haired sons, the
smell of powder, and the flash of a
couple of carbines?”</p>

<p class='c008'>The re-acting of that ancient tragedy
seemed to exhaust for a little while the
old persecutor. He next imagined himself
receiving the secret instructions of
the Council.</p>

<p class='c008'>“What, what, my lord, must all this
pleasant work fall to me? A reeking
house and a crowing cock shall be scarce
things in Nithsdale. Weepings and
wailings shall be rife—the grief of
mothers, and the moaning of fatherless
babes. There shall be smoking ruins
and roofless kirks, and prayers uttered
in secret, and sermons preached at a
venture and a hazard on the high and
solitary places. Where is General
Turner?—Gone where the wine is
good?—And where is Grierson?—Has
he begun to talk of repentance?—Gordon
thinks of the unquenchable fire
which the martyred Cameronian raved
about; and gentle Graeme vows he will
cut no more throats unless they wear
laced cravats. Awell, my lords; I am
the king’s servant, and not Christ’s, and
shall boune me to the task.”</p>

<p class='c008'>His fancy flew over a large extent of
time, and what he uttered now may be
supposed to be addressed to some
invisible monitor; he seemed not aware
of the presence of the minister.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Auld, say you, and gray-headed,
and the one foot in the grave; it is
time to repent, and spice and perfume
over my rottenness, and prepare for
heaven? I’ll tell ye, but ye must not
speak on’t—I tried to pray late yestreen—I
knelt down, and I held up my hands
to heaven—and what think ye I beheld?
a widow woman and her five fair sons
standing between me and the Most
High, and calling out, ‘Woe, woe, on
Bonshaw.’ I threw myself with my
face to the earth, and what got I between
my hands? A gravestone which
covered five martyrs, and cried out
against me for blood which I had
wantonly shed. I heard voices from
the dust whispering around me; and
the angel which watched of old over
the glory of my house hid his face with
his hands, and I beheld the evil spirits
arise with power to punish me for a
season. I’ll tell ye what I will do—among
the children of those I have
slain shall my inheritance be divided;
so sit down, holy sir, and sit down,
most learned man, and hearken to my
bequest. To the children of three men
slain on Irongray Moor—to the children
of two slain on Closeburn-hill—to—no,
no, no, all that crowd, that multitude,
cannot be the descendants of those
whom I doomed to perish by the rope,
and the pistol, and the sword. Away,
I say, ye congregation of zealots and
psalm-singers!—disperse, I say, else I
shall trample ye down beneath my
horse’s hoofs! Peace, thou whiteheaded
stirrer of sedition, else I shall
cleave thee to the collar!—wilt thou
preach still?”</p>

<p class='c008'>Here the departing persecutor uttered
a wild imprecation, clenched his teeth,
leaped to his feet, waved his sword,
and stood for several moments, his eyes
flashing from them a fierce light, and
his whole strength gathered into a blow
which he aimed at his imaginary adversary.
But he stiffened as he stood—a
brief shudder passed over his frame,
and he was dead before he fell on the
floor, and made the hall re-echo.</p>

<p class='c008'>The minister raised him in his arms—a
smile of military joy still dilated his
stern face—and his hand grasped the
sword hilt so firmly that it required
some strength to wrench it from his
hold. Sore, sore the good pastor
lamented that he had no death-bed
communings with the departed chief,
and he expressed this so frequently,
that the peasantry said, on the day of
his burial, that it would bring back his
spirit to earth and vex mankind, and
that Ezra would find him particularly
untractable and bold. Of these whisperings
he took little heed, but he
became somewhat more grave and
austere than usual.</p>

<h3 class='c015'><span class='sc'>Chapter II.</span></h3>

<p class='c007'>It happened on an evening about the
close of the following spring, when the
oat braird was flourishing, and the
barley shot its sharp green spikes above
the clod, carrying the dew on the third
morning, that Ezra Peden was returning
from a wedding at Buckletiller. When
he left the bridal chamber it was about
ten o’clock. His presence had suppressed
for a time the natural ardour
for dancing and mirth which characterises
the Scotch; but no sooner was
he mounted, and the dilatory and departing
clatter of his horse’s hoofs
heard, than musicians and musical
instruments appeared from their hiding-places.
The floor was disencumbered
of the bridal dinner-tables, the maids
bound up their long hair, and the hinds
threw aside their mantles, and, taking
their places and their partners, the
restrained mirth broke out like a whirlwind.
Old men looked on with a sigh,
and uttered a feeble and faint remonstrance,
which they were not unwilling
should be drowned in the abounding
and augmenting merriment.</p>

<p class='c008'>The pastor had reached the entrance
of a little wild and seldom frequented
glen, along which a grassy and scarce
visible road winded to an ancient
burial-ground. Here the graceless and
ungodly merriment first reached his
ears, and made the woody hollow ring
and resound. Horse and rider seemed
possessed of the same spirit—the former
made a full halt when he heard the
fiddle note, while the latter, uttering a
very audible groan, and laying the
bridle on his horse’s neck, pondered on
the wisest and most effectual way of
repressing this unseemly merriment—of
cleansing the parish of this ancient
abomination. It was a beautiful night;
the unrisen moon had yet a full hour of
travel before she could reach the tops
of the eastern hills; the wind was
mute, and no sound was abroad save
the chafing of a small runnel, and the
bridal mirth.</p>

<p class='c008'>While Ezra sat casting in his own mind
a long and a dubious contest with this
growing and unseemly sin, something
like the shadowy outline of a horse and
rider appeared in the path. The night
was neither light nor dark, and the
way, grassy and soft, lay broad and
uninterrupted between two hazel and
holly groves. As the pastor lifted up
his eyes, he beheld a dark rider reining
up a dark horse side by side with his
own, nor did he seem to want any
accoutrement necessary for ruling a
fine and intractable steed. As he
gazed, the figure became more distinct;
it seemed a tall martial form, with a
slouched hat and feather, and a dark
and ample mantle, which was muffled
up to his eyes. From the waist downward
all was indistinct, and horse and
rider seemed to melt into one dark mass
visible in the outline alone. Ezra was
too troubled in spirit to court the intrusion
of a stranger upon his meditations;
he bent on him a look particularly
forbidding and stern, and having made
up his mind to permit the demon of
mirth and minstrelsy to triumph for the
present, rode slowly down the glen.</p>

<p class='c008'>But side by side with Ezra, and step
by step, even as shadow follows substance,
moved the mute and intrusive
stranger. The minister looked at his
companion, and stirred his steed onward;
with corresponding speed moved
the other, till they came where the
road branched off to a ruined castle.
Up this way, with the wish to avoid his
new friend, Ezra turned his horse; the
other did the same. The former seemed
suddenly to change his mind, and returned
to the path that led to the old
burial-ground; the latter was instantly
at his side, his face still hidden in the
folds of his mantle.</p>

<p class='c008'>Now, Ezra was stern and unaccommodating
in kirk controversy, and the
meek and gentle spirit of religion, and
a sense of spiritual interest, had enough
to do to appease and sober down a
temper naturally bold, and even warlike.
Exasperated at this intruding
stranger, his natural triumphed over his
acquired spirit, and lifting his riding-stick,
and starting up in his stirrups, he
aimed a blow equal to the unhorsing of
any ordinary mortal. But the weapon
met with no obstruction—it seemed to
descend through air alone. The minister
gazed with dread on this invulnerable
being; the stranger gazed on him; and
both made a halt like men preparing
for mortal fray. Ezra, who felt his
horse shuddering beneath him, began
to suspect that his companion pertained
to a more dubious state of existence
than his own, and his grim look and
sable exterior induced him to rank him
at once among those infamous and evil
spirits which are sometimes permitted
to trouble the earth, and to be a torment
to the worthy and the devout.</p>

<p class='c008'>He muttered a brief and pithy prayer,
and then said,—</p>

<p class='c008'>“Evil shape, who art thou, and
wherefore comest thou unto me? If
thou comest for good, speak; if for
my confusion and my harm, even
do thine errand; I shall not fly from
thee.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I come more for mine own good
than for thy harm,” responded the
figure. “Far have I ridden, and much
have I endured, that I might visit thee
and this land again.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Do you suffer in the flesh, or are
you tortured in the spirit?” said the
pastor, desirous to know something certain
of his unwelcome companion.</p>

<p class='c008'>“In both,” replied the form. “I
have dwelt in the vale of fire, in the den
of punishment, hollow, and vast, and
dreadful; I have ridden through the
region of snow and the land of hail;
I have swam through the liquid wilderness
of burning lava,—passed an illimitable
sea, and all for the love of one
hour of this fair green earth, with its
fresh airs and its new-sprung corn.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Ezra looked on the figure with a
steady and a penetrating eye. The
stranger endured the scrutiny.</p>

<p class='c008'>“I must know of a truth to whom
and what I speak—I must see you face
to face. Thou mayest be the grand
artificer of deceit come to practise upon
my immortal soul. Unmantle thee, I
pray, that I may behold if thou art a
poor and an afflicted spirit punished for
a time, or that fierce and restless fiend
who bears the visible stamp of eternal
reprobation.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I may not withstand thy wish,”
muttered the form in a tone of melancholy,
and dropping his mantle, and
turning round on the pastor, said,
“Hast thou forgotten me?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“How can I forget thee?” said Ezra,
receding as he spoke. “The stern and
haughty look of Bonshaw has been
humbled indeed. Unhappy one, thou
art sorely changed since I beheld thee
on earth with the helmet-plume fanning
thy hot and bloody brow as thy right
hand smote down the blessed ones of
the earth! The Almighty doom—the
evil and the tormenting place—the vile
companions—have each in their turn
done the work of retribution upon thee;
thou art indeed more stern and more
terrible, but thou art not changed beyond
the knowledge of one whom thou
hast hunted and hounded, and sought
to slay utterly.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The shape or spirit of Bonshaw,
dilated with anger, and in a quicker
and fiercer tone, said—</p>

<p class='c008'>“Be charitable; flesh and blood, be
charitable. Doom not to hell-fire and
grim companions one whose sins thou
canst not weigh but in the balance of
thine own prejudices. I tell thee, man
of God, the uncharitableness of the sect
to which thou pertainest has thronged
the land of punishment as much as those
who headed, and hanged, and stabbed,
and shot, and tortured. I may be
punished for a time, and not wholly
reprobate.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Punished in part, or doomed in
whole, thou needs must be,” answered
the pastor, who seemed now as much at
his ease as if this singular colloquy had
happened with a neighbouring divine.
“A holy and a blessed spirit would
have appeared in a brighter shape. I
like not thy dubious words, thou half-punished
and half-pardoned spirit.
Away, vanish! shall I speak the sacred
words which make the fiends howl, or
wilt thou depart in peace?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“In peace I come to thee,” said the
spirit, “and in peace let me be gone.
Hadst thou come sooner when I summoned
thee, and not loitered away the
precious death-bed moments, hearkening
the wild and fanciful song of one
whom I have deeply wronged, this
journey might have been spared—a
journey of pain to me, and peril to
thyself.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Peril to me!” said the pastor;
“be it even as thou sayest. Shall I
fly for one cast down, over whose prostrate
form the purging fire has passed?
Wicked was thy course on earth—many
and full of evil were thy days—and now
thou art loose again, thou fierce and
persecuting spirit,—a woe, and a woe
to poor Scotland!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“They are loose who never were
bound,” answered the spirit of Bonshaw,
darkening in anger, and expanding
in form, “and that I could soon
show thee. But, behold, I am not
permitted;—there is a watcher—a holy
one come nigh prepared to resist and to
smite. I shall do thee no harm, holy
man—I vow by the pains of punishment
and the conscience-pang—now the
watcher has departed.”</p>

<p class='c008'> “Of whom speakest thou?” inquired
Ezra. “Have we ministering spirits
who guard the good from the plots of
the wicked ones? Have we evil spirits
who tempt and torment men, and teach
the maidens ensnaring songs, and lighten
their feet and their heads for the wanton
dance?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Stay, I pray thee,” said the spirit;
“there are spirits of evil men and of
good men made perfect, who are permitted
to visit the earth, and power is
given them for a time to work their will
with men. I beheld one of the latter
even now, a bold one and a noble;
but he sees I mean not to harm thee,
so we shall not war together.”</p>

<p class='c008'>At this assurance of protection, the
pastor inclined his shuddering steed
closer to his companion, and thus he
proceeded:—</p>

<p class='c008'>“You have said that my sect—my
meek and lowly, and broken, and long
persecuted remnant—have helped to
people the profound hell; am I to
credit thy words?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Credit them or not as thou wilt,”
said the spirit; “whoso spilleth blood
by the sword, by the word, and by
the pen, is there: the false witness;
the misinterpreter of the Gospel; the
profane poet; the profane and presumptuous
preacher; the slayer and
the slain; the persecutor and the persecuted;
he who died at the stake, and
he who piled the faggot;—all are there,
enduring hard weird and penal fire for
a time reckoned and days numbered.
They are there whom thou wottest not
of,” said the confiding spirit, drawing
near as he spoke, and whispering the
names of some of the worthies of the
Kirk, and the noble, and the far-descended.</p>

<p class='c008'>“I well believe thee,” said the pastor;
“but I beseech thee to be more particular
in thy information: give me the names
which some of the chief ministers of
woe in the nether world were known by
in this. I shall hear of those who
built cathedrals and strongholds, and
filled thrones spiritual and temporal.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ay, that thou wilt,” said the spirit,
“and the names of some of the mantled
professors of God’s humble Presbyterian
Kirk also; those who preached a burning
fire and a devouring hell to their
dissenting brethren, and who called
out with a loud voice, ‘Perdition to the
sons and daughters of men; draw the
sword; slay and smite utterly.’”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Thou art a false spirit assuredly,”
said the pastor; “yet tell me one thing.
Thy steed and thou seem to be as one,
to move as one, and I observed thee
even now conversing with thy brute
part; dost thou ride on a punished
spirit, and is there injustice in hell as
well as on earth?”</p>

<p class='c008'>The spirit laughed.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Knowest thou not this patient and
obedient spirit on whom I ride?—what
wouldst thou say if I named a name
renowned at the holy altar? the name
of one who loosed the sword on the
bodies of men, because they believed in
a humble Saviour, and he believed in a
lofty. I have bestrode that mitred personage
before now; he is the hack to
all the Presbyterians in the pit, but he
cannot be spared on a journey so distant
as this.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“So thou wilt not tell me the name
of thy steed?” said Ezra; “well, even
as thou wilt.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Nay,” said the spirit, “I shall not
deny so good a man so small a matter.
Knowest thou not George Johnstone,
the captain of my troop,—as bold a
hand as ever bore a sword and used it
among fanatics? We lived together in
life, and in death we are not divided.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“In persecution and in punishment,
thou mightest have said, thou scoffing
spirit,” said the pastor. “But tell me,
do men lord it in perdition as they did
on earth; is there no retributive justice
among the condemned spirits?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I have condescended on that already,”
said the spirit, “and I will tell
thee further: there is thy old acquaintance
and mine, George Gordon; punished
and condemned though he be, he
is the scourge, and the whip, and the
rod of fire to all those brave and valiant
men who served those equitable and
charitable princes, Charles Stewart, and
James, his brother.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I suspect why those honourable
cavaliers are tasting the cup of punishment,”
said the pastor; “but what
crime has sedate and holy George
done that his lot is cast with the
wicked?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Canst thou not guess it, holy Ezra?”
answered the spirit. “His crime was
so contemptible and mean that I scorn
to name it. Hast thou any further
questions?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“You spoke of Charles Stuart, and
James, his brother,” said the pastor;
“when sawest thou the princes for
whom thou didst deluge thy country
with blood, and didst peril thine own
soul?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ah! thou cunning querist,” said the
spirit, with a laugh; “canst thou not
ask a plain question? Thou askest
questions plain and pointed enough of
the backsliding damsels of thy congregation—why
shouldst thou put thy sanctified
tricks on me, a plain and straightforward
spirit, as ever uttered response
to the godly? Nevertheless, I will tell
thee; I saw them not an hour ago—Charles
saddled me my steed; wot ye
who held my stirrup?—even James, his
brother. I asked them if they had any
message to the devout people of their
ancient kingdom of Scotland. The former
laughed, and bade me bring him
the kirk repentance-stool for a throne.
The latter looked grave, and muttered
over his fingers like a priest counting
his beads; and hell echoed far and wide
with laughter at the two princes.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ay, ay!” said the pastor; “so I
find you have mirth among you: have
you dance and song also?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ay, truly,” answered the spirit;
“we have hymns and hallelujahs from
the lips of that holy and patriotic band
who banished their native princes, and
sold their country to an alien; and the
alien himself rules and reigns among
them; and when they are weary with
the work of praise, certain inferior and
officious spirits moisten their lips with
cupfuls of a curious and cooling liquid,
and then hymn and thanksgiving recommence
again.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ah, thou dissembler,” said the
minister; “and yet I see little cause
why they should be redeemed, when
so many lofty minds must wallow with
the sinful for a season. But, tell me;
it is long since I heard of Claud Hamilton,—have
you seen him among you?
He was the friend and follower of the
alien—a mocker of the mighty minds
of his native land—a scoffer of that
gifted and immortal spirit which pours
the glory of Scotland to the uttermost
ends of the earth—tell me of him, I
pray.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Loud laughed the spirit, and replied
in scorn—</p>

<p class='c008'>“We take no note of things so mean
and unworthy as he; he may be in some
hole in perdition, for aught I know or
care. But, stay; I will answer thee
truly. He has not passed to our kingdom
yet; he is condemned to the punishment
of a long and useless life on
earth; and even now you will find him
gnawing his flesh in agony to hear the
name he has sought to cast down renowned
over all the earth.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The spirit now seemed impatient to
be gone; they had emerged from the
glen; and vale and lea, brightened by
the moon, and sown thick with evening
dew, sparkled far and wide.</p>

<p class='c008'>“If thou wouldst question me farther,”
said the frank and communicative spirit
of Bonshaw, “and learn more of the
dead, meet me in the old burial-ground
an hour before moon-rise on Sunday
night: tarry at home if thou wilt; but
I have more to tell thee than thou
knowest to ask about; and hair of thy
head shall not be harmed.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Even as he spoke the shape of horse
and rider underwent a sudden transformation—the
spirit sank into the shape
of a steed, the steed rose into the form
of the rider, and wrapping his visionary
mantle about him, and speaking to his
unearthly horse, away he started, casting
as he flew a sudden and fiery glance
on the astonished pastor, who muttered,
as he concluded a brief prayer,—</p>

<p class='c008'>“There goes Captain George Johnstone,
riding on his fierce old master!”</p>

<h3 class='c015'><span class='sc'>Chapter III.</span></h3>

<p class='c007'>The old burial-ground, the spirit’s
trysting-place, was a fair but a lonely
spot. All around lay scenes renowned
in tradition for blood, and broil, and
secret violence. The parish was formerly
a land of warrior’s towers, and of
houses for penance, and vigil, and mortification.
But the Reformation came,
and sacked and crushed down the houses
of devotion; while the peace between
the two kingdoms curbed the courage,
and extinguished for ever the military
and predatory glory of those old Galwegian
chieftains. It was in a burial-ground
pertaining to one of those ancient
churches, and where the peasants still
loved to have their dust laid, that Ezra
trusted to meet again the shadowy representative
of the fierce old Laird of
Bonshaw.</p>

<p class='c008'>The moon, he computed, had a full
hour to travel before her beams would
be shed on the place of conference, and
to that eerie and deserted spot Ezra was
observed to walk like one consecrating
an evening hour to solitary musing on
the rivulet side. No house stood within
half a mile; and when he reached the
little knoll on which the chapel formerly
stood, he sat down on the summit to
ponder over the way to manage this
singular conference. A firm spirit, and
a pure heart, he hoped, would confound
and keep at bay the enemy of man’s
salvation; and he summed up, in a short
historical way, the names of those who
had met and triumphed over the machinations
of fiends. Thus strengthened
and reassured, he rose and looked
around, but he saw no approaching
shape. The road along which he expected
the steed and rider to come was
empty; and he walked towards the broken
gate, to cast himself in the way, and
show with what confidence he abode
his coming.</p>

<p class='c008'>Over the wall of the churchyard, repaired
with broken and carved stones
from the tombs and altar of the chapel,
he now looked, and it was with surprise
that he saw a new made widow
kneeling over her husband’s grave,
and about to pour out her spirit in
lamentation and sorrow. He knew her
form and face, and the deepest sorrow
came upon him. She was the daughter
of an old and a faithful elder: she had
married a seafaring youth, and borne
him one fair child. Her husband was
returning from a distant voyage; had
entered the sea of Solway; his native
hills—his own home—rose to his view,
and he saw the light streaming from the
little chamber window, where his wife
and his sweet child sat awaiting his return.
But it was not written that they
were to meet again in life. She heard
the sweep of a whirlwind, and she heard
a shriek, and going to her chamber-door,
she saw the ship sinking, and
her husband struggling in the agitated
water. It is needless to lengthen a
sorrowful story: she now threw herself
weeping over his grave, and poured out
the following wail:—</p>

<p class='c008'>“He was the fairest among men, yet
the sea swept him away: he was the
kindest hearted, yet he was not to remain.
What were all other men compared
to him,—his long curling hair,
and his sweet hazel eyes, and his kind
and gladsome tongue? He loved me
long, and he won me from many
rivals; for who could see his face,
and not love him? who could listen to
his speech, and refuse him aught?
When he danced, maids stood round,
and thought his feet made richer music
than the instruments. When he sang,
the maids and matrons blessed him;
and high-born dames loved the song of
my frank and gentle sailor. But there
is no mercy in the ocean for the sons of
men; and there is nought but sorrow
for their daughters. Men go gray-headed
to the grave, who, had they
trusted the unstable deeps, would have
perished in their prime, and left fatherless
babes, and sorrowing widows.
Alas, alas! in lonely night, on this
eerie spot, on thy low and early grave,
I pour forth my heart! Who now shall
speak peace to my mind, and open the
latch of my little lonely home with thy
kind and anxious hand? Who now
shall dandle my sweet babe on his
knee, or love to go with me to kirk
and to preaching,—to talk over our
old tales of love and courtship,—of the
secret tryst and the bridal joy!”</p>

<p class='c008'>And, concluding her melancholy
chant, she looked sorrowfully and
steadfastly at the grave, and recommenced
anew her wailing and her
tears.</p>

<p class='c008'>The widow’s grief endured so long
that the moon began to make her approach
manifest by shooting up a long
and a broad stream of thin, lucid, and
trembling light over the eastern ridge
of the Cumberland hills. She rose
from her knees, shed back her moist
and disordered locks, showing a face
pale but lovely, while the watery light
of two large dark eyes, of liquid and
roving blue, was cast mournfully on
the way homewards, down which she
now turned her steps to be gone. Of
what passed in the pastor’s mind at this
moment, tradition, which sometimes
mocks, and at other times deifies, the
feelings of men, gives a very unsatisfactory
account. He saw the hour of
appointment with his shadowy messenger
from the other world arrive and
pass without his appearance; and he
was perhaps persuaded that the pure,
and pious, and overflowing grief of the
fair young widow had prevented the
intrusion of a form so ungracious and
unholy. As she advanced from the
burial-ground, the pastor of her parish
stood mute and sorrowful before her.
She passed him as one not wishing to
be noticed, and glided along the path
with a slow step and a downcast eye.</p>

<p class='c008'>She had reached the side of a little
lonely stream, which glided half seen,
half hid, underneath its banks of broom
and honeysuckle, sprinkled at that hour
with wild daisies, and spotted with
primroses—when the voice of Ezra
reached her ears. She made a full
stop, like one who hears something
astounding, and turned round on the
servant of the altar a face radiant with
tears, to which her tale of woe, and the
wild and lonely place, added an interest
and a beauty.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Young woman,” he began, “it is
unseemly in thee to bewail thy loss at
this lonely hour, and in this dreary
spot: the youth was given to thee, and
ye became vain. I remarked the pride
of thy looks, and the gaudiness of thine
apparel, even in the house of holiness;
he is taken from thee, perhaps, to
punish thy pride. There is less meekness
in thy sorrow than there was
reason in thy joy; but be ye not discomforted.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Here the weeping lady turned the
sidelong glance of her swimming eyes
on Ezra, shed back the locks which
usurped a white brow and snowy
temples, and folding her hands over
a bosom, the throbbings of which made
the cambric that concealed it undulate
like water, stood still, and drank in his
words of comfort and condolence.</p>

<p class='c008'>Tradition always conducts Ezra and
the mariner’s widow to this seldom frequented
place. A hundred and a hundred
times have I mused over the scene
in sunlight and moonlight; a hundred
and a hundred times have I
hearkened to the wild and variable
accounts of the peasantry, and sought
to make bank, and bush, and stream,
and tree assist in unravelling the mystery
which must still hang over the
singular and tragic catastrophe. Standing
in this romantic place, a pious man,
not over-stricken in years, conversing
with a rosy young widow, a vain and
a fair creature, a bank of blossomed
flowers beside them, and the new risen
moon scattering her slant and ineffectual
beams on the thick budded branches
above them,—such is the picture which
tradition invariably draws, while imagination
endeavours to take up the tender
thread of the story, and imagination
must have this licence still. Truth
contents herself with the summary of
a few and unsatisfactory particulars.
The dawn of morning came, says Truth,
and Ezra had not returned to his manse.
Something evil hath happened, said
Imagination, scattering as she spoke a
thousand tales of a thousand hues, many
of which still find credence among the
pious people of Galloway.</p>

<p class='c008'>Josiah, the old and faithful servant of
Ezra, arrived in search of his master at
the lonely burial-ground, about the
dawn of the morning. He had become
alarmed at his long absence, and his
alarm was not abated by the unholy
voices which at midnight sailed round
the manse and kirk, singing, as he
imagined, a wild and infernal hymn of
joy and thanksgiving. He traced his
steps down the footpath by the rivulet
side till he came to the little primrose
bank, and found it trodden upon and
pressed as if two persons had been
seated among the flowers. Here all
further traces ceased, and Josiah stood
pondering on the power of evil spirits,
and the danger of holding tryst with
Beelzebub or any of the lesser spirits of
darkness.</p>

<p class='c008'>He was soon joined by an old shepherd,
who told a tale which pious men
refuse to believe, though they always
listen to it. The bright moonlight had
made him imagine it was morning, and
he arose and walked forth to look at
his lambs on the distant hill—the moon
had been up for nearly an hour. His
way lay near the little lonely primrose
bank, and as he walked along he heard
the whispering of tongues: he deemed
it some idle piece of lovemaking, and
he approached to see who they might
be. He saw what ought not to be seen,
even the reverend Ezra seated on the
bank, and conversing with a buxom
young dame and a strange one. They
were talking wondrous kindly. He
observed them for a little space; the
young dame was in widow’s weeds;
the mariner’s widow wore the only
weeds, praise be blest, in the parish,
but she was a raven to a swan compared
to the quean who conversed with the
minister. She was indeed passing fair,
and the longer he looked on her she
became the lovelier—ower lovely for
mere flesh and blood. His dog shrunk
back and whimpered, and an owl that
chased a bird in the grove uttered a
scream of terror as it beheld her, and
forsook its prey. At length she turned
the light of her eyes on himself; Will-o’-the-wisp
was but a proverb to them;
they had a glance he should never get
the better of, and he hardly thought his
legs carried him home, he flew with
such supernatural speed.</p>

<p class='c008'>“But, indeed,” added the cautious
peasant, “I have some doubts that the
whole was a fiction of the auld enemy,
to make me think ill of the douce man
and the godly; and if he be spared to
come home, so I shall tell him. But if
Ezra, pious man, is heard of nae mair,
I shall be free to believe that what I
heard I heard, and what I saw I saw.
And Josiah, man, I may as weel give
you the benefit of my own opinion.
I’ll amaist aver on my Bible, that the
minister, a daring man and a courageous,—ower
courageous, I doubt,—has been
dared out to the lonely place by some
he, or, maybe, she-fiend—the latter
maist likely; and there he has been
overcome by might or temptation, and
now Satan may come atween the stilts
of the gospel plough, for the right hand
of Ezra will hold it no longer; or I
shouldna wonder,” added the shepherd,
“but that the old dour persecutor
Bonshaw has carried him away on his
fiend-steed Geordie Johnstone; conscience!
nought mair likely; and I’ll
warrant even now they are ducking
him in the dub of perdition, or
picking his banes ahint the hallan
o’ hell.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The whole of this rustic prediction
was not fulfilled. In a little deep wild
dell, at the distance of a gunshot, they
found Ezra Peden lying on the ground,
uttering words which will be pardoned,
since they were the words of a delirious
tongue. He was carried home amid
the sympathy and sorrow of his parishioners;
he answered no question, nor
seemed to observe a single face, though
the face of many a friend stood round
him. He only raved out words of
tenderness and affection, addressed to
some imaginary person at his side; and
concluded by starting up, and raising
such an outcry of horror and amazement,
as if the object of his regard had
become a demon: seven strong men
could hardly hold him. He died on
the third day, after making a brief disclosure,
which may be readily divined
from this hasty and imperfect narrative.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='young_ronald_of_morar' class='c006'>YOUNG RONALD OF MORAR:<br> <span class='large'><em>A TRADITIONARY TALE OF THE WESTERN HIGHLANDS</em></span>.</h2>
</div>

<p class='c007'>Angus Macdonald, a son of Clanranald,
having quarrelled with his
neighbour and namesake, the Laird of
Morar, he made an irruption into that
district, at the head of a select portion
of his followers. One of his men was
celebrated for his dexterity as a marksman;
and on their march he gave a
proof of this, by striking the head off
the <i><span lang="sco">canna</span></i>, or moss cotton, with an
arrow. This plant is common on mossy
ground in the Highlands; it is as white
as the driven snow, and not half the
size of the lily.</p>

<p class='c008'>Having got possession of the cattle,
Angus was driving away the <em>spreith</em> to
his own country; but Dugald of Morar
pursued him with a few servants who
happened to be at hand; and, being
esteemed a man of great bravery, Angus
had no wish to encounter him. He
ordered the marksman to shoot him
with an arrow; but the poor fellow,
being unwilling to injure Dugald, aimed
high, and overshot him. Angus observed
this, and expressed his surprise
that a man who could hit the <em>canna</em>
yesterday, could not hit Dugald’s broad
forehead that day; and drawing his
sword, swore that he would cleave the
marksman’s head should he miss him
again. John then reluctantly drew his
bow, and Dugald fell to rise no more.</p>

<p class='c008'>Angus got into his hands the only
son of the dreaded Morar, then very
young; and the treatment which the
unfortunate boy received was calculated
to injure his health and shorten his life.
A poor girl, who attended the calves,
had pity on him, and at last contrived
to carry him away, wrapped up in a
large fleece of wool. Having escaped
from her pursuers, she made her way to
the house of Cameron of Lochiel. Here
she and the boy were most hospitably
received; and, according to the custom
of the country in those days, they passed
a year and a day without being asked
any question. At the end of that period,
Lochiel made inquiry regarding the boy,
and the girl candidly told him her story.
He thus discovered that the boy was the
son of his own wife’s sister; but he concealed
the whole from his lady, of whose
secrecy he was not very confident. But
he treated young Ronald with great
kindness. Lochiel had a son much of
the same age; the two boys frequently
quarrelled, and the lady was angry to
see her own son worsted. She at last
swore that “the girl and her vagabond
must quit the house next morning.”
The generous Lochiel set out with the
boy to Inverness, where he boarded
him under a false name, and placed
the woman in the service of a friend in
the neighbourhood, that she might have
an eye to his condition.</p>

<p class='c008'>Ronald received such education as
befitted his birth; and when he grew
up to manhood, he paid a visit to
Lochiel, his kind benefactor, in Lochaber,
who was so much satisfied with
him, that he determined on giving him
his powerful assistance in recovering
his paternal estate, which was then in
the possession of Angus.</p>

<p class='c008'>Lochiel ordered a hundred men to
attend himself and Ronald on this occasion;
and they arrived in Morar on a
Sunday, when the usurper and all his
people were in church at mass. He
congratulated the young man on the
opportunity he now had of avenging his
father’s blood, and destroying all his
enemies at once, by burning them in the
church. Ronald humanely objected, that
though many of those persons then in
the church were guilty of his father’s
death, yet there were others innocent
of that crime; and he declared that if
his estate could not be recovered otherwise,
he would rather want it, and trust
to Providence and his own valour.
Lochiel did not at all relish such sentiments,
and left Ronald to his fate.</p>

<p class='c008'>Ronald took refuge in a cavern, and
the daughter of Angus, his only child,
frequently passed that way, in looking
after her father’s fold. He sometimes
got into conversation with her; and,
though but a child, she became attached
to him. He prevailed upon her to get
his shirts washed for him. Her father
having accidentally discovered the linen
bleaching, observed the initial letters of
Ronald’s name; and making inquiry
into the circumstances, soon suspected
that he was at hand. He attempted to
persuade his daughter to decoy Ronald
into his power; but she told the young
man all that her father proposed to her;
and he, finding that Angus was still
thirsting for his blood, immediately left
the country, and took the girl along
with him. With much difficulty he
conveyed her in safety to Inverness,
from whence he procured a passage to
France, where he placed her in a convent.
He entered the French army,
and was much distinguished for his
bravery; he was thus enabled to support
himself, and to defray the expense
of her education. When the young
woman was of age, they were married,
and returned to Scotland. Ronald
having obtained strong recommendations
to the king, he found means of
being reconciled to Angus, who was
then old, and had become very penitent.
He made great professions of friendship
and attachment to Ronald; but his
daughter was always doubtful of his
sincerity, and it would appear that she
had justly appreciated his disposition.
One night, Ronald having feigned intoxication
and retired to rest, the old
barbarian calculated that he would sleep
very soundly, and slunk into his apartment,
armed with a dirk, to stab his
son-in-law; but the young man watched
the treacherous hypocrite, and put him
to death. Ronald obtained possession of
his paternal estate, and, after a long and
prosperous life, became the founder of
a very respectable family.—<cite>Lit. Gazette.</cite></p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='the_broken_ring' class='c006'>THE BROKEN RING.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By one of the Authors of the “Odd Volume.”</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>“Hout, lassie,” said the wily Dame
Seton to her daughter, “dinna blear
your een wi’ greeting. What would
honest Maister Binks say, if he were to
come in the now, and see you looking
baith dull and dour? Dight your een,
my bairn, and snood back your hair—I’se
warrant you’ll mak a bonnier bride
than ony o’ your sisters.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I carena whether I look bonny or
no, since Willie winna see me,” said
Mary, while her eyes filled with tears.
“Oh, mother, ye have been ower hasty
in this matter; I canna help thinking
he will come hame yet, and make me
his wife. It’s borne in on my mind
that Willie is no dead.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Put awa such thoughts out o’ your
head, lassie,” answered her mother;
“naebody doubts but yoursel that the
ship that he sailed in was whumelled
ower in the saut sea—what gars you
threep he’s leeving that gate?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ye ken, mother,” answered Mary,
“that when Willie gaed awa on that
wearifu’ voyage, ‘to mak the crown a
pound,’ as the auld sang says, he left a
kist o’ his best claes for me to tak care
o’; for he said he would keep a’ his braws
for a day that’s no like to come, and
that’s our bridal. Now, ye ken it’s said,
that as lang as the moths keep aff folk’s
claes, the owner o’ them is no dead,—so
I e’en took a look o’ his bit things
the day, and there’s no a broken thread
among them.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ye had little to do to be howking
among a dead man’s claes,” said her
mother; “it was a bonny like job for
a bride.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“But I’m no a bride,” answered
Mary, sobbing. “How can ye hae the
heart to speak o’t, mother, and the
year no out since I broke a ring wi’
my ain Willie!—Weel hae I keepit my
half o’t; and if Willie is in this world,
he’ll hae the other as surely.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I trust poor Willie is in a better
place,” said the mother, trying to sigh;
“and since it has been ordered sae, ye
maun just settle your mind to take honest
Maister Binks; he’s rich, Mary, my
dear bairn, and he’ll let ye want for
naething.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Riches canna buy true love,” said
Mary.</p>

<p class='c008'>“But they can buy things that will
last a hantle longer,” responded the
wily mother; “so, Mary, ye maun tak
him, if you would hae me die in peace.
Ye ken I can leave ye but little. The
house and bit garden maun gang to
your brother, and his wife will mak him
keep a close hand;—she’ll soon let you
see the cauld shouther. Poor relations
are unco little thought o’; so, lassie, as
ye would deserve my benison, dinna
keep simmering it and wintering it any
longer, but take a gude offer when it’s
made ye.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I’ll no hae him till the year is out,”
cried Mary. “Wha kens but the ship
may cast up yet?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I fancy we’ll hae to gie you your
ain gate in this matter,” replied the
dame, “mair especially as it wants but
three weeks to the year, and we’ll need
that to hae ye cried in the kirk, and to
get a’ your braws ready.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Oh, mother, mother, I wish ye
would let me die!” was Mary’s answer,
as she flung herself down on her
little bed.</p>

<p class='c008'>Delighted at having extorted Mary’s
consent to the marriage, Dame Seton
quickly conveyed the happy intelligence
to her son-in-law elect, a wealthy burgess
of Dunbar; and having invited
Annot Cameron, Mary’s cousin, to visit
them, and assist her in cheering the
sorrowful bride, the preparations for the
marriage proceeded in due form.</p>

<p class='c008'>On the day before that appointed for
the wedding, as the cousins sat together,
arranging the simple ornaments of the
bridal dress, poor Mary’s feelings could no
longer be restrained, and her tears fell fast.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Dear sake, Mary, gie ower greeting,”
said Annot; “the bonny white
satin ribbon is wringing wet.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Sing her a canty sang to keep up
her heart,” said Dame Seton.</p>

<p class='c008'>“I canna bide a canty sang the
day, for there’s ane rinnin’ in my head
that my poor Willie made ae night as we
sat beneath the rowan-tree outby there,
and when we thought we were to gang
hand in hand through this wearifu’ world,”
and Mary began to sing in a low voice.</p>

<p class='c008'>At this moment the door of the
dwelling opened, and a tall, dark-complexioned
woman entered, and saying,
“My benison on a’ here,” she seated
herself close to the fire, and lighting her
pipe, began to smoke, to the great
annoyance of Dame Seton.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Gudewife,” said she gruffly, “ye’re
spoiling the lassie’s gown, and raising
such a reek, so here’s an awmous to
ye, and you’ll just gang your ways,
we’re unco thrang the day.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Nae doubt,” rejoined the spaewife,
“a bridal time is a thrang time, but it
should be a heartsome ane too.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“And hae ye the ill-manners to say
it’s otherwise?” retorted Dame Seton.
“Gang awa wi’ ye, without anither
bidding; ye’re making the lassie’s braws
as black as coom.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Will ye hae yer fortune spaed, my
bonny May?” said the woman, as she
seized Mary’s hand.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Na, na,” answered Mary, “I ken
it but ower weel already.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“You’ll be married soon, my bonny
lassie,” said the sibyl.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Hech, sirs, that’s piper’s news, I
trow,” retorted the dame, with great
contempt; “can ye no tell us something
better worth the hearing?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Maybe I can,” answered the spaewife.
“What would you think if I
were to tell you that your daughter
keeps the half o’ the gold ring she
broke wi’ the winsome sailor lad near
her heart by night and by day?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Get out o’ my house, ye tinkler!”
cried Dame Seton, in wrath; “we want
to hear nae such clavers.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ye wanted news,” retorted the
fortune-teller; “and I trow I’ll gie ye
mair than you’ll like to hear. Hark ye,
my bonnie lassie, ye’ll be married soon,
but no to Jamie Binks,—here’s an
anchor in the palm of your hand, as
plain as a pikestaff.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Awa wi’ ye, ye leein’ Egyptian
that ye are,” cried Dame Seton, “or
I’ll set the dog on you, and I’ll promise
ye he’ll no leave ae dud on your back
to mend another.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I wadna rede ye to middle wi’ me,
Dame Seton,” said the fortune-teller.
“And now, having said my say, and
wishing ye a blithe bridal, I’ll just be
stepping awa;” and ere another word
was spoken, the gipsy had crossed the
threshold.</p>

<p class='c008'>“I’ll no marry Jamie Binks,” cried
Mary, wringing her hands; “send to
him, mother, and tell him sae.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“The sorrow take the lassie,” said
Dame Seton; “would you make yoursel
and your friends a warld wonder,
and a’ for the clavers o’ a leein’ Egyptian,—black
be her fa’, that I should
ban.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Oh, mother, mother!” cried Mary,
“how can I gie ae man my hand, when
another has my heart?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Troth, lassie,” replied her mother,
“a living joe is better than a dead ane
ony day. But whether Willie be dead
or living, ye shall be Jamie Binks’ wife
the morn. Sae tak nae thought o’ that
ill-deedy body’s words, but gang ben
the house and dry your een, and Annot
will put the last steek in your bonny
white gown.”</p>

<p class='c008'>With a heavy heart Mary saw the
day arrive which was to seal her fate;
and while Dame Seton is bustling about,
getting everything in order for the
ceremony, which was to be performed
in the house, we shall take the liberty
of directing the attention of our readers
to the outside passengers of a stagecoach,
advancing from the south, and
rapidly approaching Dunbar. Close
behind the coachman was seated a
middle-aged, substantial-looking farmer,
with a round, fat, good-humoured face,
and at his side was placed a handsome
young sailor, whose frank and jovial
manner, and stirring tale of shipwreck
and captivity, had pleasantly beguiled
the way.</p>

<p class='c008'>“And what’s taking you to Dunbar
the day, Mr Johnstone?” asked the
coachman.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Just a wedding, John,” answered
the farmer. “My cousin, Jamie Binks,
is to be married the night.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“He has been a wee ower lang about
it,” said the coachman.</p>

<p class='c008'>“I’m thinking,” replied the farmer,
“it’s no the puir lassie’s fault that the
wedding hasna been put off langer;
they say that bonny Mary has little
gude will to her new joe.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“What Mary is that you are speaking
about?” asked the sailor.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Oh, just bonny Mary Seton that’s
to be married the night,” answered the
farmer.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Whew!” cried the sailor, giving a
long whistle.</p>

<p class='c008'>“I doubt,” said the farmer, “she’ll
be but a waefu’ bride, for the sough
gangs that she hasna forgotten an auld
joe; but ye see he was away, and no
likely to come back, and Jamie Binks
is weel to pass in the world, and the
mother, they say, just made her life
bitter till the puir lassie was driven to
say she would take him. It is no right
in the mother, but folks say she is a
dour wife, and had aye an ee to the
siller.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Right!” exclaimed the young
sailor, “she deserves the cat-o’-nine
tails!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Whisht, whisht, laddie,” said the
farmer. “Preserve us! where is he
gaun?” he continued, as the youth
sprung from the coach and struck across
the fields.</p>

<p class='c008'>“He’ll be taking the short cut to the
town,” answered the coachman, giving
his horses the whip.</p>

<p class='c008'>The coach whirled rapidly on, and
the farmer was soon set down at Dame
Seton’s dwelling, where the whole of
the bridal party was assembled, waiting
the arrival of the minister.</p>

<p class='c008'>“I wish the minister would come,”
said Dame Seton.</p>

<p class='c008'>“We must open the window,” answered
Annot, “for Mary is like to
swarf awa.”</p>

<p class='c008'>This was accordingly done, and as
Mary sat close by the window, and
gasping for breath, an unseen hand
threw a small package into her lap.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Dear sirs, Mary,” said Dame Seton,
“open up the bit parcel, bairn; it will be
a present frae your Uncle Sandie; it’s a
queer way o’ gieing it, but he ne’er
does things like ony ither body.” The
bridal guests gathered round Mary as
she slowly undid fold after fold.
“Hech!” observed Dame Seton, “it
maun be something very precious to be
in such sma’ bouk.” The words were
scarcely uttered when the half of a gold
ring lay in Mary’s hand.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Where has this come frae?” exclaimed
Mary, wringing her hands.
“Has the dead risen to upbraid me?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“No, Mary, but the living has come
to claim you,” cried the young sailor,
as he vaulted through the open window,
and caught her in his arms.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Oh, Willie, Willie, where hae ye
been a’ this weary time?” exclaimed
Mary, while the tears fell on her pale
cheek.</p>

<p class='c008'>“That’s a tale for another day,”
answered the sailor; “I can think of
nothing but joy while I haud you to
my breast, which you will never leave
mair.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“There will be twa words to that
bargain, my joe,” retorted Dame Seton.
“Let go my bairn, and gang awa wi’
ye; she’s trysted to be this honest
man’s wife, and his wife she shall
be.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Na, na, mistress,” said the bridegroom,
“I hae nae broo o’ wedding
another man’s joe: since Willie Fleming
has her heart, he may e’en tak her
hand for me.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Gude save us,” cried the farmer,
shaking the young sailor by the hand,
“little did I ken wha I was speaking
to on the top of the coach. I say,
guidwife,” he continued, “ye maun
just let Willie tak her; nae gude e’er
yet come o’ crossing true love.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“’Deed, that’s a truth,” was answered
by several bonny bridesmaids. Dame
Seton, being deserted by her allies, and
finding the stream running so strongly
against her, at length gave an unwilling
consent to the marriage of the lovers,
which was celebrated amidst general
rejoicings; and at the request of his
bride, Willie, on his wedding-day,
attired himself in the clothes which
the moths had so considerately spared
for the happy occasion.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='a_passage_of_my_life' class='c006'>A PASSAGE OF MY LIFE.</h2>
</div>

<p class='c007'>Maiden aunts are very tough. Their
very infirmities seem to bring about a
new term of life. They are like old
square towers—nobody knows when
they were built, and nobody knows
when they will tumble down. You
may unroof them, unfloor them, knock
in their casements, and break down
their doors, till the four old black walls
stand, and stand through storm and
sunshine year after year, till the eye,
accustomed to contemplate the gradual
decay of everything else, sickens to
look at this anomaly in nature. My
aunt, dear good soul, seemed resolved
never to die,—at least to outlive her
hopeful nephew. I thought she was to
prove as perdurable as a dried mummy,—she
was by this time equally yellow
and exsiccated as any of the daughters
of Pharaoh.</p>

<p class='c008'>I had run myself quite aground. But
my extravagances, as well as my distresses,
I had the policy to conceal from
my aged relative. She, honest lady,
occasionally had pressed me to accept
of some slight pittances of two or three
£50’s at different times, which, after
much difficulty and entreaty, I made a
merit of accepting, stoutly asserting that
I only received them to avoid hurting
her feelings—that my own income was
amply sufficient for the limited wants
of a scholar, or to any one who could
put in practice the rules of wholesome
economy; but this trifle certainly would
enable me to purchase a few rather expensive
publications which I could not
otherwise have hoped to do, and which
would prove of essential use in furthering
the progress of the two great works
I had commenced while at college, and
had been busy with ever since, viz.:
“A History of Antediluvian Literature,
Arts, and Sciences,” and, “A Dissertation
on the Military Tactics of the Assyrians,”
which I intended should appear
along with the last volume of Valpy’s
Greek Dictionary, or the first of Sir James
Mackintosh’s History of Great Britain.</p>

<p class='c008'>Fortune at last grew tired of persecuting
me; she fairly turned her wheel,
and put me on the brightest spoke.
My aunt’s factor called one day, and
let me know that he thought I
should make my visits at Broadcroft
more frequent—take a little interest in
looking over the ditching and draining
of the estate (short-sighted man, he
little knew how much I had ditched
and drained it by anticipation!)—walk
through the woods and plantations,
and bestow my opinion as to thinning
them (they were long ago, in my own
mind, transferred to the timber-yard)—apply
myself a little to master the details
of business connected with agricultural
affairs, such as markets, green
and white crops, manure, &#38;c. &#38;c.; and
concluded by telling me that his son
was a remarkably clever lad, knew
country matters exceedingly well, and
would be a most valuable acquisition as
factor or land grieve to any gentleman
of extensive landed property. The
drift of this communication I perfectly
understood. I listened with the most
profound attention, lamented my own
ignorance of the subjects wherein his
clever son was so much at home, and
wished only that I had an estate, that I
might entrust it to the care of so intelligent
a steward. After dispatching a
bottle or two of claret, we parted mutually
pleased.</p>

<p class='c008'>He had seen my aunt’s will, and, in
the fulness of his heart, ran over the
legal jargon which constituted me the
owner of Broadcroft, Lilliesacre, Kittleford,
Westerha’, Cozieholm, Harperston,
and Oxgang, with hale parts and
pendicles, woods and fishings, mills
and mill-lands, muirs and mosses,
rights of pasturage and commonty. I
never heard more delightful music all
my days than the hour I spent hearkening
to this old rook cawing over the
excellent lands that were mine in prospective.
My aunt’s letters, after this,
I found assumed a querulous tone, and
became strongly impregnated with religious
commonplaces—a sure sign to
me that she herself was now winding
up her earthly affairs—and generally
concluded with some such sentence as
this: “I am in a comfortable frame of
spirit, but my fleshly tabernacle is sorely
decayed—great need hath it of a sure
prop in the evening of its days.” These
epistles I regularly answered, seasoning
them with scriptural texts as well as I
could. Some, to be sure, had no manner
of connection or application whatsoever;
but I did not care for that if
they were there. I stuck them thick
and threefold, for I knew my aunt was
an indulgent critic, provided she got
plenty of matter. I took the precaution
also of paying the postage, for I learned,
with something like satisfaction, that of
late she had become rather parsimonious
in her habits. I also heard that she
daily took much comfort in the soul-searching
and faith-fortifying discourses
of Mr Samuel Salmasius Sickerscreed, a
migratory preacher of some denomination
or other, who had found it convenient
for some months to pitch his tent in the
Broadcroft. Several of my aunt’s letters
told me, in no measured terms, her
high opinion of his edifying gifts. With
these opinions, as a matter of course, I
warmly coincided. Sheet after sheet
now poured in from Broadcroft. I
verily thought all the worthy divines,
from the Reformation downwards, had
been put in requisition to batter me to
pieces with choice and ghostly counsel.</p>

<p class='c008'>This infliction I bore up against with
wonderful fortitude, and repaid with my
weightiest metal. To supply the extraordinary
drafts thus made on my stores
of devout phraseology, I had to call in
my worthy friend Tom ——. He had
been a regularly-bred theologian, but
finding the casque more fitting for his
hot head than the presbyter’s cowl, he
now lived in elegant starvation as a
dashing cornet in the —— Dragoons,
and a better fellow never breathed. His
assistance was of eminent service: when
we exhausted our own invention, we
immediately transcribed the sermon of
some forgotten divine of last century,
and sent it thundering off. These we
denominated <em>shells</em>. At this time Tom’s
fortune and mine were hanging on the
same pin; we were both up to the chin
in debt; we had stretched our respective
personal credits, as far as they would go,
for each other. We were involved in such
a beautiful multitude and labyrinth of
mutual obligations, that we could neither
count them nor see our way out of them.
In the holy siege of Broadcroft citadel
we therefore joined heart and hand.</p>

<p class='c008'>In this manner things went on
smoothly. My aunt was becoming
daily weaker, seldom left her own bedroom,
and permitted no person to see
her save the Rev. S. S. Sickerscreed. Indeed,
every letter I received from my
aunt intimated more plainly than its
predecessor that I might make up my
mind for a great and sudden change,
and prepare myself for afflictions. As
in duty bound, my answers breathed
of sorrow and resignation—lamented the
mutability of this world—its nothingness—the
utter vanity of all earthly joys.
I really loved the good old lady; but I
was hampered most villanously. I knew
not a spot where I could put the sole of
my foot, without some legal mine blowing
me up a shivered rag into the azure
firmament,—a fate a thousand times
more picturesque than pleasant. I may
therefore be excused for confessing
that I looked upon my aunt’s release
from this world as the dawn of my
own deliverance. Yet, even then, I
felt shame when I looked into the
chambers of my heart, and found
that every feeling of grief I had there
for my aunt’s illness was beautifully
edged with a gleam of satisfaction.
The cypresses and yews, and other
mournful trees that threw their pensive
shadows around me, were positively
resting above a burning volcano of joy.
No; it was not in human nature for a
desperate man like me to exclude from
his contemplation the bills, bonds,
moneys, and manors that had accumulated
for years under her thrifty and
prudent management.</p>

<p class='c008'>One morning, while musing in this
indescribable state of feeling, a little
ragged boy, besmeared with dust and
sweat, whom I recognised as turnspit
and running footman of the establishment
at Broadcroft, thrust a crumpled
greasy-like billet in my hand.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Come awa, laird, come awa, gin
ye would like to see your auld auntie
afore she gangs aff a’thegither.”</p>

<p class='c008'>I started up, threw down the “Sporting
Magazine,” and instinctively snatched
up my hat.</p>

<p class='c008'>“When did it happen, wee Jamie?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“This morning, nae far’er gane—but
come awa; everything’s gaun tap-salteerie
at Braidcraft—sae unexpected
by us a’! Has your horse been fed yet?
Dinna put aff, but come awa. We’re
a’ dementit ower the way, and ye’re
muckle wanted, and sair missed.”</p>

<p class='c008'>With this wee Jamie darted away;
I roared after him to obtain further
particulars, but wee Jamie shot off like
an arrow, only twisting his head over
his shoulder, notwithstanding his trot,
he screamed—</p>

<p class='c008'>“Gerss maunna grow under my heels,
if I care for my lugs. But it’s a’ by noo,
and there’s nae gude in granin’.”</p>

<p class='c008'>With which sapient remark the
kitchen boy got out of hearing, and soon
out of sight.</p>

<p class='c008'>I now hastily broke the black wax of
the billet. The note was subscribed by
Mr S. S. Sickerscreed, and was written
in his most formal small-text hand.
He had been a schoolmaster in his
youth, and could write legibly, which
no gentleman who regards his <em>caste</em>
should do. The three big S S S were
dearer to me than a collar of knighthood.
It required my immediate presence
at Broadcroft to talk over certain
serious and impressive matters. So had
Mr Samuel Salmasius Sickerscreed
penned his billet, and in the fulness of
my heart I gave the poor man credit for
an excess of delicacy more than I ever
noticed had belonged to him before.
Poor dear man, he, too, has lost a valuable
friend. Judging of the exquisiteness
of my feelings by the agony of his own,
he has kindly delayed the fatal announcement
of my aunt’s demise, till my heart
has been prepared to meet the shock
with becoming fortitude. How considerate—how
very compassionate he
has been! Worthy man—would I
could repay his kindness with a benifice!
Thus did I soliloquise over the
dispatch from Broadcroft; but notwithstanding
the tumult which it and its
bearer raised in my bosom, I did not
omit communicating to Tom the unexpected
change which a few hours had
produced in our destinies, and charging
him at the same time to moderate
his transports till I returned with a confirmation
of our hopes.</p>

<p class='c008'>Then backing my stoutest hunter,
and taking a crow’s flight across the
country, I spared not her heaving flanks,
nor drew bridle, till I reached the long,
straight, dusky avenue that led to the
tall, narrow slip of a house yclept Broadcroft
Place. Here I slackened my pace,
and left my wearied and panting brute
to crawl as lazily as she liked along the
avenue. I, too, lengthened my visage
to the requisite degree necessary for the
melancholy purpose on which I came.
The very trees had a lugubrious and
sepulchral aspect. I took them in fancy
to be so many <em>Sawlies</em> waiting the time
for heading the funeral procession of
my lamented aunt. They seemed to
mourn for her in sincere sorrow, and, in
fact, walking under their shadows disposed
my mind very much to melancholy.
Now a green leaf, now a withered one,
dropped on my beaver as I passed, and
in the deep silence that reigned around
me, I could not, despite my constitutional
recklessness, be wholly insensible
to the appeals these mute emblems
of man’s mortality made to reflection.</p>

<p class='c008'>But a pleasanter train of feelings arose
when I looked at the stately trunks of
the venerable oaks, their immense girth,
and (with a glow of patriotic virtue,
quite common now-a-days) pictured
forth to myself how admirably they were
suited to bear Britannia’s thunders
triumphantly across the wave. Yes,
every tree of them shall be devoted to
the service of my country. Perish the
narrow thought, that for its own gratification
would allow them to vegetate in
unprofitable uselessness, when they can
be so beneficially employed for the
state. Every old, druidical-looking oak
which my eye scanned was, of course,
devoted to the axe. I already saw the
timber yards piled with Broadcroft oak,
and the distant sea my imagination soon
whitened with a fleet of noble barks
wholly built of them. Thus did I
speculate till I reached the end of the
avenue, where, to my surprise, I found
a travelling post-chaise and four drawn
up before the door of the mansion.
This vehicle, an apparition of rare
occurrence in so secluded a part of the
country, and at the residence of so
retired a lady as my departed aunt, was
literally crushed with trunks, and boxes,
and bags, and packages of one kind or
another, strapped above, behind, and
before it.</p>

<p class='c008'>Being never unfertile in surmises, I
immediately guessed that the equipage
I saw must, of necessity, belong to the
clerk to the signet, my aunt’s city
lawyer, who had trundled himself into
the country with the whole muniments
of my estate, for the mere purpose of
welcoming me, and regulating my
deceased relative’s affairs. His prompt
appearance, I attributed, with my usual
goodness of heart, to the kindly foresight
of Mr Samuel. I really did not
know how I could sufficiently recompense
him for the warm, disinterested,
and valuable services he had rendered
in this season of affliction. But my
aunt must have remembered him in her
testament. She was ever grateful.
She cannot possibly have overlooked
him. As the d—l would have it, I
then asked myself, now, if your aunt
has forgotten Mr Samuel Salmasius
Sickerscreed altogether, how will you
act? At first, I said he must have
£100 at least; then as I looked on my
own necessities, the uncertainty of rents,
the exorbitance of taxes, this sum
speedily subsided into half the amount.
And by the time I fairly reached
my aunt’s door, I found my mind
reconciling itself to the handsome duty
of presenting Mr Sickerscreed with a
snuff-box, value £2, 10s., a mourning
ring worth 30s., a new coat, and ten
guineas; in all, some twenty pieces of
gold or thereby.</p>

<p class='c008'>On alighting, I gave my horse to the
servant to walk and cool. John was
old as his late mistress—a very good,
foolish, gray-headed domestic, marvellously
fond of the family he served with,
and marvellously fond of conversation.
He looked profoundly melancholy when
he took my reins.</p>

<p class='c008'>“It’ll be a sair dispensation to you,
Maister William,” quoth John, “this
morning’s news. Ye wud be wonderfully
struck and put about when ye
heard it.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“It is, indeed,” said I, throwing as
much of mournfulness as possible into
the tones of my voice. “Heavy news
indeed, and most unexpected. Great
cause have I to grieve. My poor dear
aunt to be thus lost to me for ever!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Nae doubt, nae doubt, Maister
William, ye maun hae a heavy heartfu’.
We were a’ jalousing as muckle,—that’s
me, Souple Rab, and wee Jamie; however,
it’ll no do to be coosten down
a’thegither,—a rainy night may bring a
blithe morrow. Every thing is uncertain
in this world but death! But come
on, Kate;” and John and my reeking
jade disappeared in the direction towards
the stable; John, no doubt,
bursting with impatience till he could
communicate to his select cabinet,
Souple Rab and wee Jamie, the awsome
and doncie looks of the young laird.</p>

<p class='c008'>I was yet lingering on the threshold
in a most comfortable frame of mind,
when the door was thrown open.
Imagine my horror when the first figure
I saw was my aunt herself, not in the
drapery of the grave, but bedizzened
with ribbons from head to heel, and
leaning her withered hand on the arm
of the Reverend Mr Sickerscreed. I
gasped for breath—my tongue swelled
and clung to the roof of my mouth—my
eyes literally started from their sockets as
if they would leave their bony casements
altogether. Had I not caught hold of
the porch, down I should have dropped.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Am I in my senses, aunt? Do I see
you really alive? Is this no unreal mockery—no
cruel hallucination? Resolve
me, for Heaven’s sake, else I go mad.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Dear me, nephew,” said the old
lady, “what agitates you so? I feel so
glad that you have paid me this visit ere
I set off on my marriage jaunt with the
elect of my heart, your worthy connection,
Mr Sickerscreed.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Marriage!” thundered I, “marriage!—I
came to mourn over your
bier, not to laugh at your bridal. O,
the infernal cruelty, Mr What’s-your-name,
to despatch your pharisaical letter
sealed with black wax.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Young wrathful,” meekly rejoined
Mr Samuel, “it was dark green wax,
most emblematic, as I said to your
aunt, my dear spouse, of the unfading
verdure of our harmonious affections.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Black and green fiends dog you to
Satan,” roared I. “What an ass you
have made of me! Farewell, a long farewell,
to all my greatness. Oh! Broadcroft,
Lilliesacre, Kittleford, Cozieholm,
and Oxgang, perished in the clap of a
hand, and for ever! The churchman’s
paw is upon you, and a poor fellow has
no chance now of a single rood!”</p>

<p class='c008'>With some more stuff of this kind, I
parted with my venerable aunt and her
smooth-tongued spouse. These petrifactions
of humanity had the charity, I
suppose, to consider me moon-struck.
I heard Mr Samuel sweetly observe,
that verily the young lad’s scholarship
had driven him mad. I wished the
rogue at the bottom of the Red Sea, or
in the farthest bog of Connaught, paring
turf and cultivating potatoes—anywhere
but where I now saw him. I could
have eaten him up raw and unsodden,
without salt or pepper, where he stood—ground
his bones to dust, or spit upon
him till he was drowned in the flood of
my spite. I did neither; but throwing
myself again on the back of Kate, off I
scampered home, more like a fury than
a man.</p>

<p class='c008'>In my way there was not a rascal I
met but seemed to my heated imagination
to know my misfortunes, and enjoy,
with sly satisfaction, their fearful consummation.
Two fellows I cut smartly
across the cheek; they were standing
coolly by the wayside, with their hands
in their pockets, interchanging winks,
and thrusting their tongues provokingly
out like hounds on a hot day. They
did not relish the taste of my thong,
and one of them made an awkward
squelsh into a ditch on receipt, head
over heels, immensely to my heart’s
content.</p>

<p class='c008'>It was evening when I reached the
little village where my head-quarters
for some weeks had been established.
To add to my miseries, I found that
Tom had, in my absence, with his usual
volatility of temperament, been entertaining
a numerous party in the Cross
Keys, on the faith of my accession of
property. When I rode past the tavern,
my ears were assailed with most extraordinary
sounds of festivity, and my
head endangered by a shower of bottles
and glasses that his reckless boon
companions were discharging from the
windows. Some of these windows, too,
were illuminated with multitudes of <em>dips</em>—the
extravagant dog!—three to the
pound. And some coarse transparencies
were flaunting in my face pithy sentences,
such as—“A Glorious Revolution,”
“Splendid Victory,” “Jubilee to
Hopeless Creditors,” “Intelligence Extraordinary!!”
&#38;c. Then, at every pause
of the maddening din, the explosion of
another bottle of champagne smote my
ear like a death-knell. Cork after
cork popped against the ceiling—crack,
crack, they went like a running fire
along a line of infantry, while loud
above the storm rose the vociferations
of my jolly friend, as he cheered them
on to another bumper, with all the
honours, or volunteered his own song.
Poor Tom, he had only one song, which
he wrote himself, and never failed to
sing to the deafening of every one when
he was drunk. It was never printed,
and here you have as much of it as I
remember, to vary the melancholy texture
of my story:—</p>

<p class='c008'>SONG.</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line in4'>Fill a can, let us drink,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>For ’tis nonsense to think</div>
      <div class='line'>Of the cares that may come with to-morrow;</div>
      <div class='line in4'>And ’tis folly as big</div>
      <div class='line in4'>As the Chancellor’s wig,</div>
      <div class='line'>To dash present joy with dull sorrow.</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Hip! hip! hip! fill away;</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Our life’s but a day,</div>
      <div class='line'>And ’twere pity that it proved a sad one;</div>
      <div class='line in4'>’Twas in a merry pin</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Our life did begin,</div>
      <div class='line'>And we’ll close it, brave boys, in a mad one!</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Hip! hip! hip! &#38;c.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line in4'>Never shrink, boys, but stand,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>With a can in each hand,</div>
      <div class='line'>Like a king with his globe and his sceptre;</div>
      <div class='line in4'>And though slack in your joints,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Yet thus armed at all points,</div>
      <div class='line'>The devil himself can’t you capture.</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Hip! hip! hip! fill aright,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Should he seek us to-night,</div>
      <div class='line'>We’ll toss off the old rogue as a whetter;</div>
      <div class='line in4'>When the hot cinder’s down,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Take my oath on’t, you’ll own,</div>
      <div class='line'>That good luck could not furnish a better.</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Hip! hip! hip! &#38;c.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line in4'>Dull sophists may say,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Who have ne’er wet their clay,</div>
      <div class='line'>That merry old wine gives no bliss,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>But the flask’s sparkling high,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Gives the dotards the lie,</div>
      <div class='line'>Crying, kiss me, my roaring lads, kiss!</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Hip! hip! hip! jolly boys!</div>
      <div class='line in4'>He who quarrels with those joys,</div>
      <div class='line'>Which the longer they’re sipped of grow sweeter,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>May he live to be wise,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>And then when he sighs</div>
      <div class='line'>For a smack, let him choke with this metre.</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Hip! hip! hip! &#38;c.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c012'>This was followed with what Tom
emphatically styled a grand crash of
melody; that is, overturning the table,
and burying in one indiscriminate ruin,
bowls, bottles, glasses, and all things
brittle.</p>

<p class='c008'>My heart sickened at the riot, and,
broken in spirit and penniless, I retreated
to my lodgings.</p>

<p class='c008'>Here I had at least peace to ruminate
over my prostrate fortunes; but as meditation
would not mend them, and next
morning would assuredly bring the dire
intelligence of my aunt’s marriage, I,
that same night, made a forced march,
anxious to secure a convenient spot for
rustication and retirement, till fortune
should again smile, or the ferocity of
my creditors be somewhat tamed. Poor
Tom! I had the savage satisfaction of
breaking up his carousal by a few cabalistic
words written in a strong half-text
hand: “Stole away! Done up.—Fooled
and finished.—Run, if you
love freedom, and hate stone walls.
You will find me earthed in the old
hole.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Next evening I was joined by my
luckless shadow. He had a hard run
for it; the scent lay strong, and the
pack were sure-nosed and keen as
razors. But he threw them out from
his superior knowledge of localities.
After this we both became exceedingly
recluse and philosophical in our habits.
We had the world to begin anew, and
we had each our own very particular
reasons for not making a noise about it.—<cite>Paisley
Magazine.</cite></p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='the_court_cave' class='c006'>THE COURT CAVE:<br> <span class='large'><em>A LEGENDARY TALE OF FIFESHIRE</em></span>.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By Drummond Bruce.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<h3 class='c013'><span class='sc'>Chapter I.</span></h3>

<p class='c007'>A few years before the pride of Scotland
had been prostrated by English
bows and bills, on the disastrous day of
Flodden, the holding of Balmeny, in
the county of Fife, was possessed by
Walter Colville, then considerably advanced
in years. Walter Colville had
acquired this small estate by the usual
title to possession in the days in which
he lived. When a mere stripling, he
had followed the latest Earl of Douglas,
when the banner of the bloody heart
floated defiance to the Royal Stuart.
But the wavering conduct of Earl James
lost him at Abercorn the bravest of his
adherents, and Walter Colville did not
disdain to follow the example of the
Knight of Cadzow. He was rewarded
with the hand of the heiress of
Balmeny, then a ward of Colville of
East Wemyss. That baron could not
of course hesitate to bestow her on one
who brought the king’s command to
that effect; and in the brief wooing
space of a summer day, Walter saw
and loved the lands which were to reward
his loyal valour, and wooed and
wedded the maiden by law appended
to the enjoyment of them. The marriage
proved fruitful; for six bold sons
sprung up in rapid succession around
his table, and one “fair May” being
added at a considerable interval after,
Walter felt, so far as his iron nature
could feel, the pure and holy joys of
parental love, as his eye lighted on the
stalwart frames and glowing aspects of
his boys, and on the mild blue eyes and
blooming features of the young Edith,
who, like a fair pearl set in a carcanet
of jaspers, received an added lustre from
her singleness. But alas for the stability
of human happiness! The truth
of the deep-seated belief that the instrument
of our prosperity shall also be that
of our decay, was mournfully displayed
in the house of Walter Colville. By
the sword had he cut his way to the
station and wealth he now enjoyed; by
the sword was his habitation rendered
desolate, and his gray hairs whitened
even before their time. On the field of
Bannockburn—once the scene of a more
glorious combat—three of his sons paid
with their lives for their adherence to
the royal cause. Two more perished
with Sir Andrew Wood, when Steven
Bull was forced to strike to the
“Floure and Yellow Carvell.” The
last, regardless of entreaties and commands,
followed the fortunes of the
“White Rose of York,” when Perkin
Warbeck, as history malignantly continues
to style the last Plantagenet,
carried his fair wife and luckless cause
to Ireland; and there young Colville
found an untimely fate and bloody grave
near Dublin.</p>

<p class='c008'>Thus bereft of so many goodly objects
of his secret pride, the heart of
Walter Colville naturally sought to compensate
the losses which it had sustained
in an increased exercise of affection towards
his daughter. The beauties of
infancy had now been succeeded by those
of ripening maidenhood. The exuberant
laugh, which had so often cheered
his hours of care or toil, while she was
yet a child, had given place to a smile
still more endearing to his time-stricken
feelings; face and form had been matured
into their most captivating proportions,
and nothing remained of the
blue-eyed, fair-haired child, that had
once clung round his knee, save the
artless openness of her disposition, and
the unsullied purity of her heart. Yet,
strange to tell, the very intensity of his
affection was the source of bitter sorrow
to her who was its object, and his misdirected
desire to secure her happiness,
threatened to blench, with the paleness
of secret sorrow, the cheek it was his
dearest wish to deck with an ever-during
smile of happiness.</p>

<p class='c008'>Edith Colville was but an infant when
her three brothers fell at Sauchie, and
had scarcely completed her eighteenth
year, when the death of her youngest
brother made her at once the object of
her father’s undivided regard, and of
pursuit to many who saw and were
smitten with charms in the heiress of
Balmeny, which had failed to attract
their attention while her brother yet
stood between the maiden and that heritage.
But the heart they now deemed
worth the winning was no longer hers
to give. The death of her mother while
she was yet a child, had left her her own
mistress long before the period when
maternal care is most essential; and
Edith’s love was sought and won by
one who had little but youth and a warm
heart to recommend him.</p>

<p class='c008'>Arthur Winton was the orphan son
of a small proprietor in the neighbourhood,
who, having been deprived of the
best part of his property by what he
conceived the injustice of King James
III., and the rapacity of his favourite
Cochrane, was easily induced to join the
insurgent nobles who wrought the destruction
of that monarch. He was,
however, disappointed in his expectations
of personal reward, having fallen
in the conflict; and his son was too
young to vindicate his claim in an age
so rude as that of which we write.</p>

<p class='c008'>Walter Colville, whose family had
been so sadly thinned in the battle we
have mentioned, though they had fought
on the other side, naturally bore no goodwill
to the boy; but his younger son,
who was nearly of the same age, viewed
him with different feelings. He was
much about the house of Balmeny; and,
to be brief, he won the affections of the
young Edith long before she knew either
their nature or their value. Until the departure
of young Walter Colville, Arthur’s
visits were attributed by the old man
to his friendship for his son, but when
Edith had unhappily become his heiress,
he at once attributed them to their
proper cause. A stern prohibition of
their repetition was the consequence,
and the lovers were henceforth reduced
to hurried and sorrowful meetings in
secret.</p>

<p class='c008'>On the morning wherein we have
chosen to begin the following veritable
narrative, the youthful pair had met unobserved,
as they imagined, in a shady
corner of Balmeny wood, and had begun,
the one to lament, and the other to
listen, when the sudden apparition of
the angry father checked the pleasing
current of their imaginings.</p>

<p class='c008'>He drew his sword as he approached,
but the recollection of his seventy years,
and his now enfeebled arm, crossing his
mind, he replaced the useless weapon,
and contented himself with demanding
how the youth had dared thus clandestinely
to meet his daughter.</p>

<p class='c008'>Arthur attempted to allay his anger,
and to plead his passion as he best
could; but the grim and angry frown
that sat on Walter Colville’s brow, as
he listened to him, soon showed how
vainly he was speaking, and he ceased
in confusion.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Have you finished, young master?”
said Colville, with a sneer. “Then
listen: you are not the wooer I look for
to Edith. I should prefer him something
richer, something wiser, and something
truer to the king, than any son of
your father is likely ever to prove; so
set your heart at rest on that matter.
And you giglot, sooth! to your rock
and your chisart. But stay; before you
go, tell this gallant gay to prowl no
longer about my dwelling. By St
Bride, an he does, he may chance to
meet a fox’s fate!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Dear father,” said the weeping
girl, “upbraid us not. Never will I
disobey you, never be his, without your
own consent.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Hold there,” replied Colville, smiling
grimly, “I ask no more.” And he
led away the maiden, who dared not so
much as steal a parting look.</p>

<p class='c008'>Arthur Winton bore this fiat of the
old man, and the dutiful acquiescence
of his daughter (though he doubtless
thought the latter pushed to the very
extreme of filial obedience), if not with
equanimity, at least with so much of it
as enabled him to leave the presence of
his mistress and her father with something
like composure. He wandered
slowly to the beach, which lay at no
great distance, as if he had hoped to
inhale with the cool breeze that floated
from off the waters, some portion of the
calmness in which they then lay bound,
his mind occupied in turning over ill-assorted
plans for the future, ever broken
in upon by some intruding recollection
of the past. The place where he now
walked was one well calculated, according
to the creed of those who believe in
the power exercised over the mind by
the face of external nature, to instil soothing
and tranquillizing feelings. It was a
smooth grassy lawn, forming the bottom
of a gentle eminence, undulating and
stretching downwards to the pebbly
beach, among whose round white stones
the quiet waters of the Firth fell kissingly.
The view was bounded to the
north by the rising eminences we have
mentioned, and shut in on the west by
the woody promontory which is still
crowned by Wemyss Castle. To the
eastward several rocky eminences stretch
into the Firth, the more distant still increasing
their seaward march until the
bay is closed by the distant point of Kincraig.
Before him lay the silver Firth,
and, half-veiled in distance, the green
fields and hills of Lothian, terminated
by the picturesque Law of North Berwick,
and the great Bass, frowning like
some vast leviathan awakening from
his sleep. One or two white-sailed
barks lay motionless upon the water.
The effect of the whole was so stilling
and sedative, that Arthur, half forgetting
his recent disappointment, stretched
himself upon the sward, and abandoned
himself to contemplation.</p>

<p class='c008'>While he lay thus chewing the cud of
sweet and bitter fancy, the sounds of
distant song and merriment occasionally
broke upon his ear. He at first regarded
them as the mere offspring of
imagination, but at length the choral
swell of a seemingly joyous ballad, followed
by a hearty, far-reverberated
shout, convinced him that the merry-making
was real, and at no great distance.
He started to his feet in some
alarm, for his first impression was that
the Good Neighbours were holding their
revels near him, and he well knew the
danger of being detected as a prying
overlooker of their mystic merriment.
A moment served to dissipate this fear.
The voices which he had listened to
were too rough and boisterous ever to be
mistaken for the singing of those tiny
minstrels, whose loudest notes never exceeded
in sound the trumpet of the bee.
There was no fairy ring round the spot
on which he had lain, nor was the hour
either the “eye of day” or that of midnight,
at which, as is well known, the
elfin power was most formidable. After
looking and listening for some time, he
ascertained that the sounds proceeded
from a cave, which we have not yet
mentioned, but which forms a striking
ornament to the beach, and an object
of considerable interest to the geologist,
having been doubtless formed long
before the Forth had found its present
modest limits. Being anxious to dispel
the feelings that now preyed on his
peace, by a diversion of whatever kind,
he walked towards the place. As he
approached, the mirth was renewed with
increased vehemence, and he perceived,
at the western entrance of the cave, a
female, from whose swarthy hue and
singular habiliments he at once divined
the nature of its present inmates. The
woman, whose features were stern and
somewhat repulsive, wore a long gown,
of some coarse dark-coloured material,
which fell almost to her feet, having
short wide sleeves, which left the arms
at perfect liberty, and coming up to the
neck, was there fastened with a golden
brooch. Her head-dress consisted of a
red and yellow coloured shawl, twisted
fantastically into a conical shape. Pendants
of gold hung from her ears, and
rings of the same metal, in many of
which were set rubies and other sparkling
gems, garnished her tawny fingers.
Arthur at once recognised an Egyptian
or gipsy in the dark-featured damsel
who stood before him, and hesitated a
moment whether he should pursue
the determination of mixing with the
revellers within, to which his eager
desire of escaping from his present unhappy
feelings had prompted him. The
Egyptians were in those days of a much
darker character than the remnants of
their descendants, which, in spite of press-gangs
and justice-warrants, still linger
amongst us. Murder among themselves
was a thing of everyday occurrence, and
desperate robberies, committed upon
the king’s lieges, by no means rare.
The present gang, from their vociferation,
seemed in a state of excitement likely to
remove any little restraints which the
fear of the law’s vengeance might at
another time have imposed on them,
and the features of the woman, contrary
to their custom, wore no look of invitation,
but rather seemed to deepen into
a warning frown the nearer he approached
the door at which she was
posted. On the other hand, the honour
of the race, to such as trusted them, was
proverbial. His curiosity to know
more intimately the manners of a people
so remarkable as the Egyptians then
were, and still are—perhaps a latent
wish of being able to extract from their
prophetic powers some favourable auspice
to his almost expiring hopes—or
that nameless something which at times
impels us to court the danger we at
other times shun with care—all conspired
to induce him to enter the cave, and he
accordingly attempted to do so. In
this, however, he was opposed by the
gipsy, who, stepping exactly in his
way, waved her arm in a repelling attitude;
and, seeing him disinclined to
obey this silent injunction, coming still
closer to him, whispered, “Get you
gone; your life will be endangered if
you enter here.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Before Arthur could reply to this
injunction, she who gave it was suddenly
attacked by a man, who, issuing
from the entrance, struck her a smart
blow across the shoulders with a staff
which he carried, and then, with a
scowling look and angry accent, spoke
a few words to her in a language which
Arthur understood not. She muttered
something in reply, and proceeded
towards the beach. “The woman is
mad at times, young sir,” said the man,
now addressing Arthur. “Heed her
not, I beseech you. We are only a few
wandering puir folks, making merry,
and if you wish to share our revelry,
enter, and welcome. Some of our
women may be able to read your weird,
should you so incline; you have nothing
to fear.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Arthur was by no means satisfied
either that the woman was mad, or that
the man meant him fairly; but as he
could not now retreat without betraying
his fear to the dark searching eye which
the gipsy bent on him, and was besides
conscious that he possessed a well-proved
sword, and considerable skill
and strength in the handling of it, he
signified his wish to join the merrymaking,
and followed the gipsy into
the cave.</p>

<p class='c008'>On entering he found himself in the
interior of a high-roofed cavern, of considerable
extent, partly exposed to the
seaward side by two arched openings
between the lofty recesses of rock which
support the roof, that towards the east
being the smaller and lower of the two;
and the other rising in height nearly to
the roof, affording a view of the Firth,
and admitting light to the place.</p>

<p class='c008'>The inhabitants of the cave had
ranged themselves along the north and
inner side. Nearest the western entrance,
stretched on sacks, sheepskins,
cloaks, and other nondescript articles
of clothing, sat, or rather lay, ten or
twelve men, with rather more than
double that number of women, all
busily engaged in drinking; farther off,
some ragged crones were busily superintending
the operation of a wood fire
on a suspended pot; while, farther off
still, a few barebacked asses, and a
plentiful variety of worse clad children,
were enjoying their common straw.</p>

<p class='c008'>Arthur was immediately introduced
to the company of carousers, some of
whom received him with a shout of
welcome, but others with evident dissatisfaction;
and he overheard, as he
seated himself, what seemed an angry
expostulation and reply pass between
his conductor and one of the party.
This individual, who was evidently the
chief of the gang, was an aged man,
with a beard of silver gray, which, as
he sat, descended to his lap, entirely
covering his breast. His head was
quite bald, with the exception of a few
hairs that still struggled for existence
behind his ears, and this, added to the
snowy whiteness of his eyebrows, and
the deep wrinkles in his brow and
cheeks, would have conferred an air of
reverence on his countenance, had not
the sinister expression of his small and
fiery-looking eyes destroyed the charm.
On each side of him sat a young girl—the
prettiest of the company; and the
familiar manner in which they occasionally
lolled on the old man’s bosom,
and fondled with his neck and beard,
showed the intimate terms on which
they lived with him. The rest of the
men were of various ages, and though
all of them were marked with that
mixed expression of daring recklessness
and extreme cunning which has long
been “the badge of all their tribe,”
they attracted (with one exception)
little of Arthur’s attention. Of the
women, the very young ones were
extremely pretty, the middle-aged and
old ones, more than equally ugly.
Young and old, pretty and ill-favoured,
all were alike deficient in that retiring
modesty of expression without which no
face can be accounted truly lovely, and
the want of which darkens into hideousness
the plainness of homely features.
They joined freely in the draughts,
which their male companions were
making from the horns, which, filled
with wine and ale, circulated among
the company, and laughed as loud and
joked as boldly as they did.</p>

<p class='c008'>Arthur seated himself in silence, and,
somewhat neglectful of the kindness of
the female who sat next him, occupied
himself in surveying the motley group
before him. His eye soon rested on a
man seated next the damsel who occupied
the place immediately to the left
of the chief, and the moment he did he
became anxious and interested. The
individual was a man of rather more
than middle height, of a muscular,
though by no means brawny frame.
His countenance was ruddy, and of a
pleasant mirthful expression; his eyes
were full, of a dark hazel colour; his
nose, though prominent, gracefully
formed, and his mouth small and piquant.
His beard was of a dark auburn
hue, and he wore moustaches of the
same colour. He was dressed in a
hodden-gray doublet and hose, which
were fastened round his body by a
strong leathern girdle, from which hung
a broad sword of the two-edged shape.
The manner of this individual was
evidently different from those of his
present companions, and that from the
very pains which he took to assimilate
it. There was all their mirth without
their grossness, and his kind, affable
demeanour to the female part of the
company differed widely from the blunt
and sometimes brutal behaviour of his
comrades.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Who is that on the left of the old
man?” whispered Arthur to the man
who had introduced him.</p>

<p class='c008'>“That—that’s his favourite dell,”
replied the man.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Nay, I mean not the woman—the
man upon her left.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Why, I know not—he’s none of us—strayed
in like you to share the revelry,
I fancy,—though, if he takes not
better care of his eyes and hands, an
inch or two of cold iron will pay his
reckoning. I think he dallies too much
with the mort.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The cool, even tone in which this
annunciation of probable murder was
uttered, rendered the communication
more startling to Arthur than if it had
been made with a vindictive exclamation
or suppressed groan; and he looked
anxiously and steadily on the stranger,
whose gallant bearing more and more
attracted him. The latter had observed
him more than once bending his eyes
on him, and was not apparently pleased
with the strictness of his scrutiny.
Twice, when their eyes met, the stranger
had checked a rising frown by emptying
the horn which he held in his hand;
the third time he set it down untasted,
and, fixing on Arthur a look of calm
commanding dignity, which seemed
more native to him than aught around,
exclaimed, in a deep and powerful
accent,—</p>

<p class='c008'>“Friend, wherefore peer you so
steadily this way? If you have aught
to say, out with it—if not, reserve your
ogling for some of the fair eyes near
you.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Arthur felt abashed beneath the
rebuke which his solicitude for this individual
had exposed him to, and he
could only mutter in reply something
about the young damsel beside him.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ah! ah!” replied the stranger,
resuming his good humour, “it is to
her your looks were sent? Soul of
Bruce! but she is well worthy of your
wonder. Never—and I have seen many
bright eyes—have I lighted on a pair so
witching.” Then, turning to the object
of these praises, he took her hand,
and whispered in her ear something,
which, though inaudible to those present,
was evidently of no unpleasing
nature, as her dimpling cheek unquestionably
testified.</p>

<p class='c008'>The patriarch had viewed, for some
time, with ill-dissembled anger, the
approaches of the stranger to the temporary
sovereign of his affections. But
whether he thought them becoming too
close, or was enraged at the placidity
with which they were received, his indignation
now burst out, and as is usual
in matters of violence, the weight of his
vengeance fell heaviest on the weaker
individual. He smote the girl violently
on the cheek, and, addressing the
stranger in a voice hoarse with passion,
poured forth a torrent of words which
were to Arthur utterly unintelligible.</p>

<p class='c008'>The stranger, who did not seem to
understand the expressions of this address,
could not, however, mistake its
meaning. The language of passion is
universal—and the flashing eye and
shrivelled brow of the Egyptian chief
were too unequivocal to be misunderstood.
He remained silent but a
moment, and then, drawing from his
bosom a purse, apparently well-filled,
he took out a golden Jacobus, and
proffered it to the patriarch, as a peace-offering
to his awakened anger. The
fire of indignation fled from the old
man’s eyes as they lighted on the gold,
but they were instantaneously lighted
up by a fiercer and more deadly meaning.
Arthur could observe significant
looks circulating among the men, who
also began to speak to one another in
a jargon unintelligible to him. He felt
convinced that the purse which the incautious
stranger had produced had determined
them to destroy him; and,
prepossessed with this idea, he saw at
once the necessity of the keenest observation,
and of the danger which attended
his scrutiny being detected. He pretended
to begin to feel the influence of
the potations in which he had indulged,
and apparently occupied himself in toying
with the willing dell who sat beside
him. He now perceived one or two of
the men rise, and proceed to the several
openings of the cave, evidently to see
that no one approached from without,
or perhaps to cut off retreat. He saw,
too, that they plied the stranger and
himself with wine and ale; and, more
convincing than all, he perceived on
the darkening brow and gleaming eye
of the hoary Egyptian, the awakening
excitement of a murderous design. The
stranger, in the meantime, apparently
unconscious of the peril he was in, began
again to bandy kind words and
looks with the favourite of the chief.
The old man looked grimly on, but
did not now seem to wish to interrupt
the dalliance. Suddenly he drew his
hand from his bosom. It was filled
with a dagger, which he raised high,
evidently with the intention of slaying
the unguarded stranger, who was too
much occupied with the eyes and hands
of the beauty to perceive his villanous
intention.</p>

<p class='c008'>Arthur, who at the moment was lifting
to his mouth the ponderous pewter
“stoup,” or flagon, containing the ale
on which the Egyptians were regaling,
saw the wretch’s intent, and on the impulse
of the moment flung the vessel at
the lifted hand. His aim was fortunately
true; the villain’s arm fell powerless
by his side, while the dagger flew
to a considerable distance. Arthur then
rose, and crying hastily to the stranger
to defend himself, drew his blade and
made towards him.</p>

<p class='c008'>The stranger had perceived the intended
blow, though, entangled as he at
the moment was, he would unquestionably
have fallen a victim to it. He now
leaped hastily up, and exclaiming loudly,
“<i><span lang="fr">Morte de ma vie!</span></i>—Treason!” drew out
his sword, and looked for the foe. Arthur
now joined him, and, setting their
backs to the rocky wall of the cave, they
prepared to defend themselves against
the enraged gipsies, who, now shouting
wildly, drew from under their cloaks
long sharp knives, which they brandished
furiously in their faces.</p>

<p class='c008'>The stranger swept his sword around
him in a manner that proved him a
practised master, and Arthur manfully
seconding him, the Egyptians were kept
completely at bay, for none seemed
daring enough to trust himself within
the sweep of the stranger’s sword, or
that of his new companion. But it was
only while they could keep their backs
to the rocky wall that they could hope
to cope with their savage enemies, who,
though they did not come near enough
to stab, surrounded them as nearly as
they could, and yelled and shouted like
so many disappointed fiends. There
was apparently no means of escape,
though there might be of resistance, as
the moment they quitted the wall their
backs would have been exposed to the
daggers of the infuriated assassins.
Arthur perceived, too, to his dismay,
that sure means were taken to render
their length of sword unavailing.
Several women were clambering up the
rock behind them carrying large blankets
and other cloths, clearly for the
purpose of throwing over their swords
and themselves, and thus yielding them
up a fettered prey to these ruffians. All
hope of escape died in his bosom as he
discovered the well-laid design, and he
was about to rush on the savages, and at
least sell his life dearly, when he observed
the women who carried the blankets
pause and look upwards. He too looked
up, and saw, with a consternation
that for a moment unmanned him, an
immense fragment of loose rock in the
very act of being removed from its immemorial
resting-place, and precipitated
on their heads.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Holy Virgin! help us, or we are
lost!” exclaimed the youth; and the
prayer had hardly left his lips ere the
threatened engine of their destruction
was converted into the means of their
immediate escape. The ponderous stone
dropped so far directly on its fatal errand,
that Arthur instinctively crouched beneath
the apparently inevitable blow;
but encountering a few feet only above
his head a projecting piece of rock, it
rebounded from the side of the cave in
a slanting direction, and, falling clear of
its intended victims, smote to the earth
the hoary head of the patriarch. He
fell beneath the huge fragment, which
hid from their sight the face and neck of
the Egyptian; but the convulsive writhings
of the unhappy man, which for a
moment contorted his frame, only to
leave it in utter stillness, told plainly that
his long career had ceased, and that the
man of blood had become the victim of
his own pitiless design.</p>

<p class='c008'>The Egyptians, panic-struck by this
sudden death-blow, set up a loud and
stunning wail, as they crowded round
the body of their chief; but the stranger
and Arthur stayed not to observe their
farther demeanour, and, taking advantage
of the opening among their enemies,
which was now afforded them,
sprang out of the cave, and ascended
at the top of their speed to the brow of
the eminence behind it.</p>

<p class='c008'>They continued their rapid walk for
some time in silence, induced, no doubt,
by the tumultuous nature of their feelings,
and the violence of their present
exertion. At length, having entered a
few yards into a wood, which then decorated
the place, though soon after to
be converted into keel and timbers for
the “Great Michael,” the stranger
halted, and, taking Arthur by the hand,
said breathlessly,—</p>

<p class='c008'>“By Saint Andrew, young sir, you
have done us this day good service. I
never thought to have been so indebted
to a pint-stoup, trow me.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“But what sorrow tempted you,
man,” replied Arthur, rather crossly,
“to play the fool with the old villain’s
dearie in yon wild sort of fashion; and,
above all, what induced you to flourish
your well-filled purse in the eyes of
those who love gold better than anything
else save blood?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Whim—chance—<em>fate</em>—I thought at
one time. It is long since cunning men
have told me that I shall die for a
woman, and, by the Bruce’s soul! I
thought the hour had come. As for
my Jacobuses, I rejoice I saved them
from the filching crew, as they will
serve for an earnest—a poor one, to
be sure—of my thankfulness to my
brave deliverer;” and so saying, he
drew from his bosom the purse which
had excited the fatal cupidity of the
Egyptians, and gracefully proffered it
to the youth.</p>

<p class='c008'>Arthur had all along suspected—nay,
felt assured—that his companion was of
a rank superior to his appearance; and,
had it not been so, his present conduct
would have convinced him.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Whoever you are, sir,” said he,
“that in this lowly guise speak the language
and the sentiments of a noble-born,
your own heart will, I know, convince
you that I dare not accept your gold.
The service I rendered you I would have
rendered to the poorest carle in Fife,
but were it ten times greater than it
was, it must not be repaid with coin.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“All are not carles who wear hodden
gray and blue bonnets with you, I find,”
replied the stranger, smiling approvingly.
“But come, if gold cannot repay
the service you have done me, tell me
what can.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Nothing in your power to perform,”
replied Arthur, calmly.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Try,” continued the stranger; “I
bear with me a talisman which can
command all objects which men in
general desire. Choose, then—wealth,
worship, or a fair wife!”</p>

<p class='c008'>There was something so frank, open,
yet condescending, in the tone and appearance
of this extraordinary stranger,
that Arthur could not resist their fascinating
influence, and although he could
not imagine that any interference on the
part of his new friend would produce
the slightest change in the stern sentence
of Walter Colville, he communicated to
him a general outline of his present
situation.</p>

<p class='c008'>The stranger listened attentively to
the detail—then demanded how far
distant the dwelling of Colville was;
and, on being informed of its near vicinity
to the spot on which they then
stood, declared his intention of immediately
proceeding thither and using his
influence in Arthur’s behalf.</p>

<p class='c008'>The latter opposed this resolution
but faintly; for, though he was, as we
have said, utterly at a loss to conceive
how his cause was to be benefited by
the proffered kindness of the stranger,
yet a vague and almost latent hope of
still obtaining Edith never entirely forsook
him.</p>

<p class='c008'>He conducted the stranger through
the wood, therefore, by the path which
led most directly to the house of Balmeny.
On reaching the skirt of the
forest, it was agreed that the former
should proceed alone to the dwelling of
Colville, and that Arthur should remain
where he was, and await the result.</p>

<h3 class='c015'><span class='sc'>Chapter II.</span></h3>

<p class='c007'>The stranger set out on his voluntary
mission at a rapid pace, and soon arrived
at the house. The door stood open,
and he entered with the careless sauntering
air of one entirely indifferent as to
the welcome he might be greeted with.
He found Colville seated apparently in
no very pleasant humour, and his daughter,
bustling about among the servant-maidens,
wearing on her flushed cheek
and suffused eye undoubted symptoms
of the sorrow with which the morning’s
adventure had afflicted her.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Give you good-e’en, gudeman of
Balmeny,” said the stranger, seating
himself, without waiting an invitation,
on the bench opposite Colville.</p>

<p class='c008'>“The same to you, neebour,” said
the landlord, in a tone that had little of
welcome in it.</p>

<p class='c008'>A few moments’ silence now ensued,
Colville evidently waiting with some
impatience for the tidings which the
other seemed in no haste to communicate
to him. But this could not
last.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Have you anything to tell, ask, or
deliver, friend?” at last said Colville.</p>

<p class='c008'>“This bright-e’ed maiden is the
bonny lass of Balmeny, I’m thinking,”
was the unreplying answer.</p>

<p class='c008'>“That is my daughter, truly,” said
the landlord, becoming more and more
impatient; “does your coming concern
her?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“That it does,” replied the stranger.
“There’s an auld bye word, that ‘foul
fish and fair daughters are nae keeping
ware.’ This fair May is the object of
my visit; in short, gudeman, I come
awooing.”</p>

<p class='c008'>At the sound of this magnetic word,
a universal commotion arose in the
dwelling of Colville. The maiden,
who was its object, surveyed the stranger
with indignation and surprise; the servants
whispered and tittered among each
other; and Colville seemed for a moment
about to give vent to the feelings of his
anger, when the current of his feelings
suddenly changed, and, directing a look
of malicious joy to his daughter, he
addressed the stranger—</p>

<p class='c008'>“Welcome, wooer—welcome. Come,
lasses, set meat and drink before this
gentle here; as the auld Earl of Douglas
said, ‘It’s ill arguing between a fu’
man and a fasting.’”</p>

<p class='c008'>The order was obeyed with great
readiness by the serving maidens, who
set before the stranger the household
bread and cheese, and a bicker of no
scanty dimensions, containing the reaming
ale for which Scotland has been so
long famous. There was a malicious
merriment twinkling from every eye as
the scene went on; for all knew well that
the over-strained kindness of the host
was soon to be converted into outrageous
and overwhelming abuse of the
guest. The stranger, however, seemed
either not to notice or to slight these
indications. He partook heartily of the
good cheer set before him, and amused
himself by returning with good-humoured
smiles the stolen looks of the simpering
maidens. He looked in vain, however,
for Edith, who had retired from the
place.</p>

<p class='c008'>“And now,” said Colville, who began
to think the stranger somewhat more
at ease than he could have wished,
“Your name, wooer?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“My name?” said the stranger,
somewhat embarrassed.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ay, your name—all men have a
name. <em>Knaves</em> [laying an emphasis on
the word] many.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“True, gudeman, true. My name,
then, is Stuart—James Stuart. I hope
it pleases you?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“The name is the best in the land,”
said the old man, touching his bonnet.
“As to the wearer—hem!—‘a Stuarts
are no sib to the king’, ye ken. What
countryman are you?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I was born at Stirling,” said the
stranger.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ay, ay, it may be, it may be,”
replied Walter Colville; “but, to bring
the matter to a point, what lands and
living hae ye, friend?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Sometimes less, sometimes more,”
replied the stranger, “as I happen to
be in the giving or the taking humour.
At the lowest ebb, however, I think
they are at least worth all that ever
called a Colville master.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Faith, and that’s a bauld word,
neebour,” cried Colville, bitterly—“and
one that, I’m jalousing, you’ll find it
difficult to make gude.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“At your own time it shall be proved,
gudeman; but it is not for myself I
come to woo the bonny lass of Balmeny.
I am, thanks to a wise old man who sits
in Windsor, wived already.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“And who, in Beelzebub’s name,
may you be blackfit for?” demanded
Colville, rising in wrath.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Give your daughter to the youth I
shall name, and I will, on her wedding-day,
fill you up one lippie with the red
gold, and five running o’er with silver.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Give her! To whom?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“To one who loves her dearly; and,
what is more, is dearly loved in return,
old man.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Who is he?” reiterated Colville.</p>

<p class='c008'>“One who is worthy already of the
hand of the best ae daughter of any
laird in Fife; and who, ere to-morrow’s
sun sets, will be wealthier than yourself.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Who—who—who is he?” cried the
old man, stamping in a paroxysm of
rage.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Arthur Winton!” said the stranger.</p>

<p class='c008'>The anger of Colville, when this unpleasing
name was uttered, almost overwhelmed
him.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Out of my doors, you rascally impostor,”
at length he was able to exclaim;
“out of my doors! Swith away
to the minion who sent you here, an
you would wish not to taste the discipline
of the whip, or to escape being
worried by the tykes.”</p>

<p class='c008'>To the stranger, the anger of the old
man, instead of fear, seemed only to occasion
merriment. He laughed so heartily
at the violence into which the rage of
his host seduced him, that the tears
actually stood in his eyes—conduct that
naturally increased the passion which it
fed on. The servants stood looking on
in silent wonder; and Edith, startled by
the noise of the discordant sounds, returned
to the place in wonder and alarm.</p>

<p class='c008'>An unexpected termination was suddenly
put to the scene by the entrance
of Arthur Winton. His cheek was
flushed with haste; and he was so
breathless that he could hardly exclaim,—</p>

<p class='c008'>“Save yourself, sir stranger, by instant
flight; the Egyptians have tracked
our path hither, and are pursuing us
here with numbers ten times exceeding
those we encountered in the cave.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Let them come,” said the stranger,
with a smile; “Egyptians though they
be, they cannot eat through stone walls
or oaken doors. We will carouse within
while they howl without, and drink
the <em>dirige</em> of their chief.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Arthur said nothing, but looked
doubtingly at Colville.</p>

<p class='c008'>“And do you really imagine, worthy
youth, and no less worthy blackfit, that
I am to have my house sieged, my cattle
stolen, and my corn carried off, to shield
you from the consequences of your
drunken brawls? Not I, by the cat of
the blessed Bride. Out of my doors, ye
caitiffs,—they can but slay you, and the
whittle has crossed the craig of mony a
better fellow than any of ye twasome is
likely to prove. Begone, I say.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Nay, my dear father,” said Edith,
imploringly, “do not drive them forth
now; the Egyptians are approaching the
house—they cannot escape.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“And they shall not stay here,” replied
the old man, harshly, the tone
of agony in which Edith’s entreaties
were uttered recalling all the bitterness
of his feelings against Arthur.</p>

<p class='c008'>“At least, Walter Colville,” said
Arthur, “save this stranger. He cannot
have offended you. It was on my
errand he came hither. I will go forth
alone. Perhaps one victim may suffice.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Nay, brave youth,” said the stranger,
“we go together. Farewell, old man.
You are a Scot, and yet have betrayed
your guest. You are a Colville, and
the first of the line that ever turned
his back upon a Stuart at his utmost
need.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The tone and sentiment of these
words had a powerful effect on Walter
Colville. A momentary confusion rested
on his countenance, and then, with a
smile ill put on, he said,—</p>

<p class='c008'>“Come, come, sirs; I but joked wi’
ye. Did you really think that Walter
Colville would abandon to his enemy
any who have bitten his bannock, and
kissed his cup as you have done? Na,
na; here you are safe while the auld
wa’s stand. Sit down. I’ll go above
and look out for the landloupers.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The old man left the place accordingly,
and Arthur, seizing the opportunity,
retired to one corner with Edith,
where the nature of their conversation
could be only guessed from the animated
looks and gestures of the affectionate
pair.</p>

<p class='c008'>The stranger in the meantime strode
up and down the place, regardless of
the affrighted servants, singing to himself—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“O whaur will I get a bonny boy,</div>
      <div class='line'>That will win hose and shoon;</div>
      <div class='line'>That will rin to Lord Barnard’s yett,</div>
      <div class='line'>And bid his ladye come?”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c012'>“What say you, my little man?” he
continued, addressing a boy of twelve
or thirteen years, who sat before the
fire, sharing, with a shaggy collie, the
contents of an ample cog, altogether
unheeding the agitation which reigned
around him; “will you run to Wemyss
Castle with a message to Sir David?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I’ the noo!” said the boy, looking
up with an air expressive of the sense
of the unparalleled oppression proposed
in interrupting him during the sacred
ceremony of supper.</p>

<p class='c008'>The stranger laughed, and drawing
from his bosom the purse we have so
often spoken of, he displayed a Jacobus,
and offered it to the boy. “Na, I’ll no
gang for the yellow bawbee,” said the
urchin; “but if ye’ll gie me the braw
whittle, I’ll rin.” The stranger immediately
put into his hand the dagger he
coveted, and drawing him aside, conveyed
to him in whispers the message
he was to deliver.</p>

<p class='c008'>Walter Colville now re-entered, and
informed them that he had reconnoitred
the Egyptians, who, including women
and children, seemed to amount to
above a hundred.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Could I but get this younker beyond
their clutches,” said the stranger,
“a short half hour would disperse them
like the leaves in autumn.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Colville stared at this avowal, but
was silent. The conviction of Arthur,
that the speaker was not what he seemed,
now seized on his mind also, but it
appeared to inspire him with no pleasant
feeling; on the contrary, anxiety
deepened on his countenance the more
and more he gazed on the handsome
features of his guest, and the wild
shouts of the Egyptians, which he had
previously heard with comparative indifference,
now evidently inspired him
with the deepest terror.</p>

<p class='c008'>It was agreed at length that the boy
should make the attempt. To get him
out of the house, without endangering
the inmates, was comparatively easy,
as the Egyptians as yet stood at some
distance from the door. Once out,
they had only his own ready wit and
speed of foot to trust to. While Colville
and Arthur therefore undid with due
caution the massive bars and bolts
which protected the oaken door, the
stranger, anxious to witness the success
of his messenger, ascended to the upper
storey, and stood at the open casement.
He was immediately observed by the
Egyptians, who set up a yell of savage
impatience at the sight, the men brandishing
their weapons, and the women
waving their arms, as if threatening
vengeance against him.</p>

<p class='c008'>Their attention was now, however,
directed from him to the youthful messenger,
who approached towards them
undauntedly. They went forward to
meet him.</p>

<p class='c008'>“The master sent me to see what
ye’re a’ here for,” said the boy.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Tell him,” said one of the Egyptians
harshly, “we are come to demand
the two strangers who have just entered
his dwelling. Let him give them to
our vengeance, and we will depart
peaceably—not a feather or a rag of his
shall be scathed by us.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“And what if he shouldna just agree
to this?” said the boy, edging towards
the west, covering the manœuvre, as if
retiring towards the house.</p>

<p class='c008'>“If he refuse us, woe unto him. We
will leave him neither corn nor cattle,
kith nor kin; burn his house with fire,
and his own red blood shall lapper on
his cold hearth-stone.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Haith, carle, you maun tell him
that yoursel,” said the boy, as with one
wild bound he sprung from the group,
and, with the speed of a grayhound,
made for the wood.</p>

<p class='c008'>There was a cry of disappointment
burst forth from the Egyptians as they
perceived his intention, and many set
out in pursuit. The chase was viewed
with deep interest by the inmates of the
house—for Colville, Edith, and Arthur
Winton had now joined the stranger.
The wood was not far distant; the boy
was famous for his swiftness of foot;
and they could see that his pursuers
were falling fast behind. To their dismay,
however, they perceived at length
that there was a powerful dog among
the number, who continued the chase
after all his human competitors had
abandoned it in despair. He gained
fast upon the boy. “He is lost!”
said Edith, piteously; “that villanous
dog will tear him to pieces.” But the
event belied the maiden’s fear. Just as
the ferocious animal seemed about to
seize him, the boy was seen to turn upon
his pursuer. The dog gave a loud howl,
and fell to the ground, and the stranger
could perceive his own dagger gleaming
in the stripling’s hand, as he waved it
in triumph o’er his head ere he disappeared
among the trees.</p>

<p class='c008'>“I could stake an earldom,” said the
stranger exultingly, “on that boy’s
proving a noble soldier! By the soul
of Bruce, he can both fight and flee.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Colville’s terror, as he listened to
these words, fairly mastered the composure
which he had hitherto affected.
He took off his bonnet, and bending
lowly to the stranger, said in a tremulous
voice—</p>

<p class='c008'>“In Heaven’s name, say, oh! say,
sir, you are not the king!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Even so, good Walter, James of
Scotland stands before you. Are you
sorry to see me? By Saint Andrew, I
had hoped I should be welcome to
every honest house,—ay, and every
honest heart, in my dominions.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Walter had dropped on his knee as
the truth, which he had for some time
suspected, was confirmed to him, and,
looking up to his royal guest, while
tears stood in his eyes—“Welcome,
my noble prince; what is it of Walter
Colville’s, from the bodle in his purse
to the last drop of his heart’s blood,
that the king’s not welcome to? I and
mine, my liege, have fought, and bled,
and died for the royal house. But to
see your grace here in peril, surrounded
by so many villains, and this old arm
alone left to assist you! Oh! for the
six braw fellows that I have seen
prancing on yonder lea,—they would
have cleared a way for your highness
through them all!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Never fear for me, Walter Colville;
I am not doomed to fall by a brawl of
this kind, or in mine own land;—so
runs the rede.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The king now turned round, and perceived
Arthur and Edith, who had retired
to a little distance. When they
saw they were observed, they advanced
and would have kneeled; but the
prince prevented this. He took them
both by the hand, and imprinted on the
lips of Edith a kiss, savouring as much
of warm affection as of kingly courtesy.</p>

<p class='c008'>Their attention was now directed to
the operations of the Egyptians. They
perceived, with some surprise, that a
considerable number of them left the
rest, and made for the wood, and that
those who remained ceased the yelling
manifestations of sorrow and revenge
which had so affrighted Edith.</p>

<p class='c008'>“They are meditating a retreat, methinks,”
said the king.</p>

<p class='c008'>“I fear, my liege,” said Colville,
“they are rather planning some mode
of successful assault;” and the return
of the Egyptians too soon verified the
apprehension. They bore with them
the trunk of a fallen tree, and the besieged
at once saw the use for which
this powerful engine was intended.</p>

<p class='c008'>“My door can never withstand the
shock of a ram like this,” cried Walter;
“they will force a passage, and out and
alas! your highness will be murdered—murdered
in the house of Balmeny!”</p>

<p class='c008'>James was proverbially brave, but it
cannot be denied that he looked a little
grave as he perceived the ponderous
engine borne along, which in all probability
would, in a few minutes, lay open
the passage to a band of miscreants
thirsting for his blood, and against
whose rage the bravery of himself and
his friends seemed a poor defence.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Let the worst come to the worst,”
said he at length, “we three will make
good this staircase for a stricken hour
at least; before then the rescue must
arrive.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The king, Colville, and Arthur now
sought the floor below; Edith, with the
serving-maidens, being stationed above,
to be, in case of the Egyptians forcing an
entry, still within the defence of the stair.</p>

<p class='c008'>The door was of massive oak, studded
with iron nails, and supported by three
iron bolts of considerable thickness.
An additional defence was now added
in the shape of planks placed diagonally
under these bolts, and for a few moments
the besieged imagined it might
withstand the efforts of the assailants.
But a few strokes of the tree soon
showed the fallacy of this hope. The
door shook under the first blow, and
ere a score had been given, the yielding
hinges showed that the Egyptians had
well calculated the force of their instrument.</p>

<p class='c008'>“It must be cold steel that saves us
after all,” said the king, retreating to
the staircase.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Oh, that I and all my kin were
stark dead on this floor, and your highness
safe on Falkland green!” exclaimed
Colville, wringing his wrinkled hands,
and following.</p>

<p class='c008'>They had scarcely gained their intended
position at the upper landing of
the staircase, when, yielding to a
desperate stroke, the door flew open,
and the infuriated Egyptians, shouting,
made their way to the interior. Not
finding those they sought below, they
next proceeded to ascend the stair.
This, however, was an ascent fatal to all
who attempted it. Corpse after corpse
fell backward among the enraged
ruffians under the blows of the king and
Arthur, until no one could be found
daring enough to attempt the passage.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Let us smeek them in their hive,”
at length cried a hoarse voice, “and so
let them either roast or come forth.”</p>

<p class='c008'>A shout of approbation followed this
advice, and, while a chosen few remained
to guard the stair, the remainder
roamed about the house collecting together
everything which could assist
their diabolical design.</p>

<p class='c008'>The king’s heart, and that of his
brave companions, sunk as they heard
this resistless plan of destruction proposed
and set about. It was for a
moment only, however, for suddenly
they heard the clear sweet voice of Edith
exclaiming, “We are saved, we are
saved! yonder comes the Lord of
Wemyss and his gallant followers!”
and immediately after the maiden herself
appeared to reiterate the tidings.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Are you sure of what you say,
Edith?” asked the king eagerly. “How
do the horsemen ride?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“As if their coursers were winged,”
replied Edith, “all of them; but one
who backs a gray steed of surpassing
power, is far before the rest, and ever
and anon turns round, as if upbraidingly,
to his followers.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“My trusty David!” exclaimed the
king, with emotion, “well wert thou
worthy of the gallant gray!”</p>

<p class='c008'>There was now heard a peculiar shout
from among the Egyptians without,
which was rightly interpreted as a
signal of retreat; for it was immediately
followed by the evacuation of the house;
and so speedy and simultaneous was
their flight, that the king could only
perceive the latest of the tribe as they
made for the wood, leaving to Wemyss
and his companions a deserted field and
an open entrance.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Thanks, David, for this timely rescue,”
said the king, as the knight bended
the knee before him. “By my crown,
the spurs were well bestowed on one
who can so fairly use them!”</p>

<p class='c008'>James, followed by Sir David, Walter,
Arthur, and the rest, now led the
way to the upper chamber where the
immoderate joy and hospitality of the
old man displayed itself in the most
substantial form. When they had
caroused for some time, the king, turning
to Colville, said,—</p>

<p class='c008'>“Mine host, did I hear rightly when
you said there was nothing beneath this
roof-tree to which I was not welcome?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Your highness heard rightly.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Give me then this fair maiden.
We kings, you know, seldom choose the
least valuable of our subjects’ chattels.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Your grace may command me,”
said Colville, though somewhat hesitatingly,
for he saw the turn which things
were taking.</p>

<p class='c008'>“And you too, sweet Edith?” said
the king, again saluting the blushing
girl; and then, without waiting for an
answer, continued, “that you may all
know, my lieges, that we accept your
benevolences merely for your own benefits,
I give away this treasure, tempting
as it is, to one who has well deserved
the favour at our hand. Take her,
Arthur, and confess that I have found
a way to repay the debt I owed you.
Receive his hand, fair maiden, and if it
will add anything to its value in your
eyes, know that it has this day saved a
king’s life.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The old man’s sentiments in regard
to Arthur Winton had been undergoing
a change imperceptible even to himself,
from the moment he had perceived him
the companion and probable favourite
of the king; but the revolution was
completed when he was made acquainted
with the particulars of his interference
in the royal behalf,—a merit which in his
eyes would have outweighed a thousand
faults in his intended son-in-law.</p>

<p class='c008'>King James shortly afterwards left
the house of Balmeny amid the blessings
of its inmates; and to close our tale, we
have only to add, that the gift of the
monarch was shortly after confirmed
at the altar, where Edith became the
happy bride of Arthur Winton; and
that the royal gratitude flowed freely on
the wedded pair, as any who chooses to
pursue the time-worn records of the
Great Seal may satisfy himself.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='helen_waters' class='c006'>HELEN WATERS:<br> <span class='large'><em>A TRADITIONARY TALE OF THE ORKNEYS</em></span>.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By John Malcolm.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>The lost, the castaway on desert isles,</div>
      <div class='line'>Or rocks of ocean, where no human aid</div>
      <div class='line'>Can reach them more.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>The mountains of Hoy, the highest
of the Orkney Islands, rise abruptly out
of the ocean to an elevation of fifteen
hundred feet, and terminate on one side
in a cliff, sheer and stupendous, as if the
mountain had been cut down through
the middle, and the severed portion of
it buried in the sea. Immediately on
the landward side of this precipice lies
a soft green valley, embosomed among
huge black cliffs, where the sound of
the human voice, or the report of a gun,
is reverberated among the rocks, where
it gradually dies away into faint and
fainter echoes.</p>

<p class='c008'>The hills are intersected by deep and
dreary glens, where the hum of the
world is never heard, and the only voices
of life are the bleat of the lamb and the
shriek of the eagle;—even the sounds
of inanimate nature are of the most doleful
kind. The breeze wafts not on its
wings the whisper of the woodland; for
there are no trees in the island, and the
roar of the torrent-stream and the sea’s
eternal moan for ever sadden these
solitudes of the world.</p>

<p class='c008'>The ascent of the mountains is in some
parts almost perpendicular, and in all
exceedingly steep; but the admirer of
nature in her grandest and most striking
aspects will be amply compensated for
his toil, upon reaching their summits,
by the magnificent prospect which they
afford. Towards the north and east,
the vast expanse of ocean, and the
islands, with their dark heath-clad hills,
their green vales, and gigantic cliffs,
expand below as far as the eye can
reach. The view towards the south is
bounded by the lofty mountains of
Scarabin and Morven, and by the wild
hills of Strathnaver and Cape Wrath,
stretching towards the west. In the
direction of the latter, and far away in
mid-ocean, may be seen, during clear
weather, a barren rock, called Sule
Skerry, which superstition in former
days had peopled with mermaids and
monsters of the deep. This solitary
spot had been long known to the Orcadians
as the haunt of seafowl and seals,
and was the scene of their frequent
shooting excursions, though such perilous
adventures have been long since
abandoned. It is associated in my mind
with a wild tale, which I have heard
in my youth, though I am uncertain
whether or not the circumstances which
it narrates are yet in the memory of
living men.</p>

<p class='c008'>On the opposite side of the mountainous
island of which I speak, and
divided from it by a frith of several
miles in breadth, lie the flat serpentine
shores of the principal island or mainland,
where, upon a gentle slope, at a
short distance from the sea-beach, may
still be traced the site of a cottage, once
the dwelling of a humble couple of the
name of Waters, belonging to that class
of small proprietors which forms the
connecting link betwixt the gentry and
the peasantry.</p>

<p class='c008'>Their only child Helen, at the time
to which my narrative refers, was just
budding into womanhood; and though
uninitiated into what would now be
considered the indispensable requisites
of female education, was yet not altogether
unaccomplished for the simple
times in which she lived; and, though
a child of nature, had a grace beyond
the reach of art, untaught and unteachable.
There was a softness and delicacy
in her whole demeanour, never
looked for and seldom found in the
humble sphere of life to which she belonged.
Yet her beauty did not startle
or surprise, but stole over the heart
almost insensibly, like the gentle fall of
the summer evenings of her own native
isles, and, like that, produced in the
beholder an emotion almost allied to
sadness.</p>

<p class='c008'>Such a being was not likely to be
appreciated by the rude and commonplace
minds by whom she was surrounded,
and with whom a rosy cheek
and a laughing eye constitute the <i><span lang="fr">beau-ideal</span></i>
of woman; but she awakened a
world of romance in one young heart,
with which her own gentle bosom shared
the feelings she inspired.</p>

<p class='c008'>Henry Graham, the lover of Helen
Waters, was the son of a small proprietor
in the neighbourhood; and being of
the same humble rank with herself,
and, though not rich, removed from
poverty, their views were undisturbed
by the dotage of avarice or the fears of
want, and the smiles of approving
friends seemed to await their approaching
union.</p>

<p class='c008'>The days of courtship were drawing
towards a close, and the period of their
marriage was at last condescended
upon by the bride. Among the middling
and lower classes of society in
the Orkneys, it is customary for the
bridegroom to invite the wedding-guests
in person; for which purpose, a few
days previous to the marriage, young
Graham, accompanied by his friend,
took a boat and proceeded to the island
of Hoy, to request the attendance of a
family residing there; which done, on
the following day they joined a party of
young men upon a shooting excursion
to Rackwick, a village romantically
situated on the opposite side of the
island. They left the house of their
friends on a bright, calm, autumnal
morning, and began to traverse the wild
and savage glens which intersect the
hills, where their progress might be
guessed at by the reports of their guns,
which gradually became faint and
fainter among the mountains, and at
last died away altogether in the distance.</p>

<p class='c008'>That night and the following day
passed, and they did not return to the
house of their friends; but the weather
being extremely fine, it was supposed
they had extended their excursion to the
opposite coast of Caithness, or to some
of the neighbouring islands, so that their
absence created no alarm whatever.</p>

<p class='c008'>The same conjectures also quieted
the anxieties of the bride, until the
morning previous to that of the marriage,
when her alarm could no longer
be suppressed. A boat was manned in
all haste, and dispatched to Hoy in
quest of them, but did not return during
that day nor the succeeding night.</p>

<p class='c008'>The morning of the wedding-day
dawned at last, bright and beautiful,
but still no intelligence arrived of the
bridegroom and his party; and the
hope which lingered to the last, that
they would still make their appearance
in time, had prevented the invitations
from being postponed, so that the
marriage party began to assemble about
mid-day.</p>

<p class='c008'>While the friends were all in amazement,
and the bride in a most pitiable
state, a boat was seen crossing from
Hoy, and hope once more began to
revive; but, upon landing her passengers,
they turned out to be the members
of the family invited from that
island, whose surprise at finding how
matters stood was equal to that of the
other friends.</p>

<p class='c008'>Meantime all parties united in their
endeavours to cheer the poor bride; for
which purpose it was agreed that the
company should remain, and that the
festivities should go on,—an arrangement
to which the guests the more willingly
consented, from a lingering hope
that the absentees would still make
their appearance, and partly with a
view to divert in some measure the
intense and painful attention of the
bride from the untoward circumstance;
while she, on the other hand, from
feelings of hospitality, exerted herself,
though with a heavy heart, to make her
guests as comfortable as possible; and,
by the very endeavour to put on an
appearance of tranquillity, acquired so
much of the reality as to prevent her
from sinking altogether under the
weight of her fears.</p>

<p class='c008'>Meantime the day advanced, the festivities
went on, and the glass began to
circulate so freely, that the absence of
the principal actor of the scene was so
far forgotten, that at length the music
struck up, and dancing commenced with
all the animation which that exercise inspires
among the natives of Scotland.</p>

<p class='c008'>Things were going on in this way,
when, towards night, and during one of
the pauses of the dance, a loud rap was
heard at the door, and a gleam of hope
was seen to lighten every face, when
there entered, not the bridegroom and
his party, but a wandering lunatic,
named Annie Fae, well known and not
a little feared in all that country-side.
Her garments were little else than a
collection of fantastic and party-coloured
rags, bound close around her waist with
a girdle of straw, and her head had no
other covering than the dark tangled
locks that hung, snake-like, over her
wild and weather-beaten face, from
which peered forth her small, deep-sunk
eyes, gleaming with the baleful light of
insanity.</p>

<p class='c008'>Before the surprise and dismay excited
by her sudden and unwelcome appearance
had subsided, she addressed the
company in the following wild and incoherent
manner:—</p>

<p class='c008'>“Hech, sirs, but here’s a merry
meeting indeed,—a fine company, by
my faith; plenty o’ gude meat and
drink here, and nae expense spared!
Aweel, it’s no a’ lost neither; this
blithe bridal will mak a braw burial,
and the same feast will do for baith.
But what’s the folk a’ glowering at?
I’se warrant now ye’re cursing Annie
Fae for spoiling your sport. But ye
ken I maun just say my say, and that
being done, I’ll no detain you langer,
but jog on my journey; only I wad just
hint, that, for decency’s sake, ye suld
stop that fine fiddling and dancing; for
ye may weel believe that thae kind o’
things gie nae great pleasure to the
dead!”</p>

<p class='c008'>Having thus delivered herself, she
made a low curtsey, and brushed out of
the house, leaving the company in that
state of painful excitement which, in
such circumstances, even the ravings of
a poor deranged wanderer could not
fail to produce.</p>

<p class='c008'>In this state we, too, will leave them
for the present, and proceed with the
party who set off on the preceding day
in search of the bridegroom and his
friends. The latter were traced to
Rackwick; but there no intelligence
could be gained, except that, some days
previous, a boat, having on board
several sportsmen, had been seen putting
off from the shore, and sailing away
in the direction of Sule Skerry.</p>

<p class='c008'>The weather continuing fine, the
searching party hired a large boat, and
proceeded to that remote and solitary
rock, upon which, as they neared it,
they could discover nothing, except
swarms of seals, which immediately
began to flounder towards the water-edge.
Upon landing, a large flock of
sea-fowl arose from the centre of the
rock with a deafening scream; and upon
approaching the spot, they beheld, with
dumb amazement and horror, the dead
bodies of the party of whom they had
come in search, but so mangled and
disfigured by the seals and sea-fowl,
that they could barely be recognised.</p>

<p class='c008'>It appeared that these unfortunates,
upon landing, had forgot their guns in
the boat, which had slipt from her
fastenings, and left them upon the rock,
where they had at last perished of cold
and hunger.</p>

<p class='c008'>Fancy can but feebly conceive, and
still less can words describe, the feelings
with which the lost men must have beheld
their bark drifting away over the face
of the waters, and found themselves
abandoned in the vast solitude of the
ocean. Their sensations must have
resembled his who wakens in the grave
from a death-like trance, to find himself
buried alive!</p>

<p class='c008'>With what agony must they have
gazed upon the distant sails, gliding
away over the deep, but keeping far
aloof from the rock of desolation, and
have heard the shrieks which they sent
over the flood, in the vain hope of their
reaching some distant ship, mocked by
the doleful scream of the sea-fowl!
How must their horrors have been
aggravated by the far-off view of their
native hills, lifting their lonely peaks
above the wave, and awakening the
dreadful consciousness that they were
still within the grasp of humanity, yet
no arm stretched forth to save them;
while the sun was riding high in the
heavens, and the sea basking in his
beams below, and nature looking with
reckless smiles upon their dying agonies!</p>

<p class='c008'>As soon as the stupor of horror and
amazement had subsided, the party
placed the dead bodies in their boat,
and, crowding all sail, stood for the
Orkneys. They landed at night upon
the beach, immediately below the house
where the wedding guests were assembled;
and there, while they were debating
in what manner to proceed, were
overheard by the insane wanderer, the
result of whose visit has already been
described.</p>

<p class='c008'>She had scarcely left the house, when
a low sound of voices was heard approaching.
An exclamation of joy
broke from the bride. She rushed out
of the house with outstretched arms to
embrace her lover, and the next moment,
with a fearful shriek, fell upon his corpse!
With that shriek reason and memory
passed away for ever. She was carried
to bed delirious, and died towards morning.
The bridal was changed into a
burial, and Helen Waters and her lover
slept in the same grave!</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='legend_of_the_large_mouth' class='c006'>LEGEND OF THE LARGE MOUTH.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By Robert Chambers</span>, LL.D.</div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c016'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“Here’s a large mouth indeed!”</div>
      <div class='line in20'><span class='sc'>Shakspeare</span>—<cite>King John</cite>.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c008'>Arriving one evening at an inn in
Glasgow, I was shown into a room
which already contained a promiscuous
assemblage of travellers. Amongst
these gentlemen—<em>commercial</em> gentlemen
chiefly—there was one whose features
struck me as being the most ill-favoured
I had ever beheld. He was a large,
pursy old man, with a forehead “villanous
low,” hair like bell-ropes, eyes the
smallest and most porkish of all possible
eyes, and a nose which showed no
more prominence in a side-view than
that of the moon, as exhibited in her
first quarter upon a freemason’s apron.
All these monstrosities were, however,
as beauties, as absolute perfections, compared
with the mouth—the enormous
mouth, which, grinning beneath, formed
a sort of rustic basement to the whole
superstructure of his facial horrors.
This mouth—if mouth it could be called,
which bore so little resemblance to the
mouths of mankind in general—turned
full upon me as I entered, and happening
at the moment to be employed in a
yawn, actually seemed as if it would
have willingly received me into its prodigious
crater, and consigned me to the
fate of Empedocles, without so much
as a shoe being left to tell the tale.</p>

<p class='c008'>The company of a traveller’s room is
generally very stiff, every man sitting
by his own table in his own corner,
with his back turned upon the rest.
It was not so, however, on the present
occasion. The most of the present
company seemed to have been so long
together in the hotel as to have become
very gracious with each other; while
any recent comers, finding themselves
plumped into a society already thawed
and commingled, had naturally entered
into the spirit of the rest. Soon discovering
how matters stood, I joined in
the conversation, and speedily found
that the man with the large mouth was
one of the most polite and agreeable of
mankind. He was one of those old,
experienced gentlemen of the road, who
know everything that is necessary to
be known, and are never at a loss about
anything. His jokes, his anecdotes, his
remarks, were all excellent, and kept
the rest bound, as it were, in a chain.
The best of him was, that he seemed
quite at ease on the subject of his
mouth.</p>

<p class='c008'>No doubt he was conscious of his
preternatural ugliness—for whatever
may be said about the blinding effect of
self-love, and so forth, I hold that the
most of people know pretty nearly how
they stand as to personal attractions;
but he had none of that boggling, unsteady,
uncomplacent deportment, so
remarkable in the generality of ill-looking
people. On the contrary, there was
an air of perfect self-satisfaction about
him, which told that he either was so
familiar with the dreadful fact as to
mind it not, or that he was a thorough
man of the world, above considering
so trivial a particular, or that he was
rich, and could afford to be detested.
It was curious, however, that even
while he almost convulsed the rest with
his jokes, he never laughed in the least
himself. He evidently dared not; the
guffaw of such a man must have produced
consequences not to be calmly
contemplated. Part, indeed, of the
humorous effect of his conversation arose
from the cautious way in which he
managed his mouth. A small aperture
at one side, bearing the same proportion
to the whole that the wicket of a carriage-gate
does to the whole gate itself,
served for the emission of his words.
Anything else would have been a mere
waste of lip.</p>

<p class='c008'>On my ordering refreshment, I was
informed by the company, that in consideration
of this being the anniversary
of a distinguished historical event, they
had agreed to sup together in a rather
more formal way than usual, and that
they would be happy if I would join
them. Having assented to the proposal,
I began to reflect with some anxiety
upon the probable conduct of the Mouth
at table. How so extraordinary a feature
would behave, what it would ask
for, after what manner it would masticate,
and, above all, how much it
would devour, were to me subjects of
the most interesting speculation. The
wicket won’t do there (thought I to
myself), or I’m much mistaken. Yet
again,—so ran my thoughts,—many
large men have been known to eat very
little, while your true devourers are
found to be lean, shrivelled creatures,
who do not seem to be ever the better
of it. “A large mouth,” says the Scottish
proverb, “has always a good luck
for its meat.” That may be, thought I,
and yet the large mouth may be quite
indifferent to what it is so sure of getting.
All kinds of ideas connected with
this subject ran through my mind; but
in the end I found it all a riddle. The
Mouth might prove either gluttonous or
abstemious, without exciting more surprise
by the one event than by the other.</p>

<p class='c008'>By-and-by some one asked a waiter
if supper was nearly ready, and on an
answer in the affirmative being given, I
observed the Mouth suddenly bustle up,
and assume an air of eager promptitude
that almost seemed to decide the
question. The man rose, and, going to
a corner of the room where his greatcoat
was hanging, brought forth a
small package, which he proceeded to
untie at a side-table. The only article
it contained was a spoon, which he
immediately brought forward and laid
upon the table, accompanying the
action with an air that might have befitted
a surgeon in arranging his instruments
for an operation. I had no
longer any doubt as to the gastronomical
character of the Mouth, for here was an
article that might have served in the
nursery of Glumdalclitch. It was an
antique silver implement, with a short
handle, and a rim about four inches in
diameter, like an ordinary saucer.
Observing the curiosity of the company
to be strongly excited, the old man
showed it round with good-natured
politeness, telling us that he had been
so long accustomed at home to the use
of this goodly article, that he could
now hardly discuss either soup or dessert
without it, and therefore made a point
of carrying it along with him in his
travels.</p>

<p class='c008'>“But, indeed, gentlemen,” said he,
“why should I make this a matter of
delicacy with you? The truth is, the
spoon has a history, and my mouth—none
of the least, you see—has also a
history. If you feel any curiosity upon
these points, I will give you a biographical
account of the one, and an autobiographical
account of the other, to
amuse you till supper is ready.”</p>

<p class='c008'>To this frank proposal we all cordially
agreed, and the old man, sitting down
with the spoon in his hand, commenced
a narrative which I shall here give in
the third person.</p>

<p class='c008'>His mouth was the chieftain and representative
of a long ancestral line of
illustrious and most extensive mouths,
which had flourished for centuries at a
place called Tullibody. According to
tradition, the mouth came into the
family by marriage. An ancestor of
the speaker wooed, and was about to
wed, a lady of great personal attractions,
but no fortune, when his father interfered,
and induced him, by the threat
of disinheritation on the one hand, and
the temptation of great wealth on the
other, to marry another dame, the
heiress of a large fortune and large
mouth, both bequeathed to her by her
grandfather, one of the celebrated
“kail-suppers of Fife.” When his
resolution was communicated to the
tocherless lady, she was naturally very
much enraged, and wished that the
mouth of her rival might descend, in all
its latitude, to the latest generation of
her faithless swain’s posterity; after
which she took her bed—and married
another lover, her <em>second-best</em>, next
week, by way of revenge.</p>

<p class='c008'>The country people, who pay great
attention to the sayings of ladies condemned
to wear the willow, waited
anxiously for the fulfilment of her
malediction, and accordingly shook
their heads and had their own thoughts,
when the kail-supper’s descendant
brought forth a son whose mouth, even
in his swaddling-clothes, reflected back
credit on her own. The triumph of the
ill-wisher was considered complete, when
the second, the third, and all the other
children, were found to be distinguished
by this feature; and what gave the
triumph still more poignancy was, that
the daughters were found to be no more
exempted than the sons from the family
doom. In the second generation, moreover,
instead of being softened or diluted
away, the mouth rather increased,
and so it had done in every successive
generation since that time. The race
having been very prolific, it was now
spread so much that there was scarcely
a face in Tullibody or the neighbourhood
altogether free of the contagion;
so that the person addressing us, who
had his permanent residence there,
could look round him upon several
hundreds of kindred mouths, with all
the patriarchal feelings of the chief of a
large Highland clan.</p>

<p class='c008'>If there had been any disposition in
the family to treat their fate ill-humouredly,
it would have been neutralised by
the luck which evidently accompanied
the introduction and transmission of
this singular feature. So far, however,
from entertaining any grudge or regret
upon the subject, it had been the habit
of the family to treat it as a capital
joke, and to be always the first to laugh
at it themselves. So much was this
the case, that a wealthy representative
of the family, about a century ago,
founded, not an hospital or a school,
but a <em>spoon</em>, which should be handed
down from mouth to mouth as a practical
and traditionary jest upon the family
feature, and, though not entailed, be
regarded, he hoped, as a thing never to
be parted with for any consideration,
unless fate should capriciously contract
the mouths of his descendants to such a
degree as to render its use inconvenient.
This elegant symbol, after passing
through the hands of a long train of
persons, who had each been more able
than another to use it effectively, came
at length into the possession of the
individual now addressing us—a person
evidently qualified to do full justice to
the intentions of his ancestor.</p>

<p class='c008'>It was, therefore, with the apprehension
of something awful, that after the
conclusion of the story, and the introduction
of supper, I took a place at the
well-spread board. In sitting down, I
cast a look at the Mouth. It was
hovering, like a prodigious rainbow,
over the horizon of the table, uncertain
where to pitch itself. There was an
air of terrible resolution about it, which
made me almost tremble for what was
to ensue. It was evident that we were
to have “a scene.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The Mouth—for so it might be
termed <i><span lang="fr">par excellence</span></i>—was preferred by
acclamation to the head of the table,—a
distinction awarded, as I afterwards
understood, not so much on account of
its superior greatness, as in consideration
of its seniority, though I am sure
it deserved the <i><span lang="gd">pas</span></i> on both accounts.
The inferior and junior mouths all sat
down at different distances from the
great Mouth, like satellites round a
mighty planet. It uttered a short,
gentleman-like grace, and then began
to ask its neighbours what they would
have. Some asked for one thing, some
for another, and in a short time all
were served except itself. For its own
part it complained of weak appetite,
and expressed a fear that it should not
be able to take anything at all. I
could scarcely credit the declaration.
It added, in a singularly prim tone of
voice, that, for its part, it admired the
taste of Beau Tibbs in Goldsmith—“Something
nice, and a little will do.
I hate your immense loads of meat;
that’s country all over.” Hereupon, I
plucked up courage, and ventured to
look at it again. It was still terrible,
though placid. Its expression was that
of a fresh and strong warrior, who
hesitates a moment to consider into
what part of a thick battle he shall
plunge himself, or what foes he shall
select as worthy of particular attack.
Its look belied its word; but again I
was thrown back by its words belying
its look. It said to a neighbour of
mine, that it thought it might perhaps
manage the half of the tail of one of the
herrings at his elbow, if he would be so
kind as carve. Was there ever such a
puzzling mouth! I was obliged again
to give credit to words; yet again was
I disappointed. My neighbour thinking
it absurd to mince such a matter as a
“Glasgow magistrate,” handed up a
whole one to the chairman. The
Mouth received it with a torrent of
refusals and remonstrances, in the midst
of which it began to eat, and I heard it
continue to mumble forth expostulations,
in a fainter and fainter tone, at the
intervals of bites, for a few seconds;
till, behold, the whole corporate substance
of the burghal dignitary had
melted away to a long meagre skeleton!
When done, its remonstrances
changed into a wonder how it should
have got through so plump a fish;
it was perfectly astonishing; it had
never eaten a whole herring in its
life before; it was an unaccountable
miracle.</p>

<p class='c008'>I did not hear the latter sentences of
its wonderments; but, towards the
conclusion, heard the word “fowl”
distinctly pronounced. The fowls lying
to my hand, I found myself under the
necessity of entering into conference
with it, though I felt a mortal disinclination
to look it in the mouth, lest I
should betray some symptom of emotion
inconsistent with good manners. Drawing
down my features into a resolute
pucker, and mentally vowing I would
speak to it though it should blast me,
I cast my eyes slowly and cautiously
towards it, and made inquiry as to its
choice of bits. In return for my
interrogation, I received a polite convulsion,
intended for a smile, and a
request, out of which I only caught the
important words, “breast” and “wing.”
I made haste to execute the order; and,
on handing away the desired viands,
received from the mouth another grateful
convulsion, and then, to my great
relief, all was over!</p>

<p class='c008'>Well, thought I, at this juncture, a
herring and a fragment of fowl are no
such great matters; perhaps the Mouth
will prove quite a natural mouth after
all. In brief space, however, the chairman’s
plate was announced as again
empty; and I heard it receive, discuss,
and answer various proposals of replenishment
made to it by its more
immediate neighbours. I thought I
should escape; but no—the fowl was
really so good that it thought it would
trouble me for another breast, if I
would be so kind, &#38;c. I was of course
obliged to look at it again, in order to
receive its request in proper form;
when neglecting this time my former
preparations of face, I had nearly committed
myself by looking it full in the
mouth with my eyes wide open, and
without having screwed my facial
muscles into their former resolute astringency.
However, instantly apprehending
the amount of its demands,
my glance at the Mouth fortunately
required to be only momentary, and I
found immediate relief from all danger
in the ensuing business of carving. Yet
even that glance was in itself a dreadful
trial—it sufficed to inform me that the
Mouth was now more terrible than
before—that there was a fearful vivacity
about it, a promptitude, an alacrity,
and energy, which it did not formerly
exhibit. Should this increase, thought
I, it will soon be truly dreadful. I
handed up a whole fowl to it, in a sort
of desperation. It made no remonstrances,
as in the case of the herring,
at the abundance of my offering. So
far from that, it seemed to forgive my
disobedience with the utmost goodwill;
received the fowl, dispatched it with
silence and celerity, and then began to
look abroad for further prey. Indeed,
it now began to crack jokes upon itself—a
sportive species of suicide. It spoke
of the spoon; lamented that, after all,
there should be no soups at table
whereon it might have exhibited itself;
and finally vowed that it would visit
the deficiencies of the supper upon the
dessert, even unto the third and fourth
dish of <em>blancmange</em>.</p>

<p class='c008'>The proprietor of the mouth then laid
down the spoon upon the table, there to
lie in readiness till such time as he should
find knives and forks of no farther service—as
the Scottish soldiery in former
times used to lay their shields upon the
ground while making use of their spears.
I now gave up all hopes of the Mouth
observing any propriety in its future
transactions. Having finished my own
supper, I resolved to set myself down to
observe all its sayings and doings. Its
placidity was now gone—its air of self-possession
lost. New powers seemed
to be every moment developing themselves
throughout its vast form—new
and more terrible powers. It was beginning
to have a <em>wild look</em>! It was
evident that it was now <em>fleshed</em>—that its
naturally savage disposition, formerly
dormant for want of excitement, was
now rising tumultuously within it—that
it would soon perform such deeds as
would scare us all!</p>

<p class='c008'>It had engaged itself, before I commenced
my observations, upon a roast
gigot of mutton, which happened to lie
near it. This it soon nearly finished.
It then cast a look of fearful omen at a
piece of cold beef, which lay immediately
beyond, and which, being placed
within reach by some kind neighbour,
it immediately commenced to, with as
much fierceness as it had just exemplified
in the case of the mutton. The
beef also was soon laid waste, and another
look of extermination was forthwith
cast at a broken pigeon-pie, which
lay still farther off. Hereupon the eye
had scarcely alighted, when the man
nearest it, with laudable promptitude,
handed it upwards. Scarcely was it
laid on the altar of destruction, when it
disappeared too, and a fourth, and a fifth,
and a sixth look, were successively cast
at other dishes, which the different
members of the party as promptly sent
away, and which the Mouth as promptly
dispatched.</p>

<p class='c008'>By this time all the rest of the party
were lying upon their oars, observing
with leisurely astonishment the progress
of the surviving, and, as it appeared
to them, endless feeder. He
went on, rejoicing in his strength, unheeding
their idleness and wonder, his
very soul apparently engrossed in the
grand business of devouring. They
seemed to enter into a sort of tacit
compact, or agreement, to indulge and
facilitate him in his progress, by making
themselves, as it were, his servitors.
Whatever dish he looked at, therefore,
over the wide expanse of the table,
immediately disappeared from its place.
One after another, they trooped off
towards the head of the table, like the
successive brigades which Wellington
dispatched, at Waterloo, against
a particular field of French artillery;
and still, dish after dish, like said brigades,
came successively away, broken,
diminished, annihilated. Fish, flesh,
and fowl disappeared at the glance of
that awful eye, as the Roman fleet
withered and vanished before the grand
burning-glass of Archimedes. The end
of all things seemed at hand. The
Mouth was arrived at a perfect transport
of voracity! It seemed no more
capable of restraining itself than some
great engine, full of tremendous machinery,
which cannot stop of itself. It had
no self-will. It was an unaccountable
being. It was a separate creature, independent
of the soul. It was not a
human thing at all. It was everything
that was superhuman—everything that
was immense—inconceivably enormous!
All objects seemed reeling and toppling
on towards it, like the foam-bells upon
a mighty current, floating silently on
towards the orifice of some prodigious
sea-cave. It was like the whirlpool of
Maëlstrom, everything that comes within
the vortex of which, for miles around,
is sure of being caught, inextricably involved,
whirled round and round and
round, and then down that monstrous
gulph—that mouth of the mighty ocean,
the lips of which are overwhelming
waves, whose teeth are prodigious
rocks, and whose belly is the great
abyss!</p>

<p class='c008'>Here I grew dizzy, fainted, and—I
never saw the Mouth again.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='richard_sinclair' class='c006'>RICHARD SINCLAIR;<br> <span class='large'><em>OR, THE POOR PRODIGAL IN THE AISLE</em></span>.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By Thomas Aird.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<h3 class='c015'><span class='sc'>Chapter I.</span></h3>

<p class='c007'>With many noble qualities—firmness,
piety, integrity, and a thorough
affection for his family—the father of
the poor prodigal, Richard Sinclair,
had many of the hard points of the
Scottish character; a want of liberality
in his estimate of others, particularly of
their religious qualities; a jealousy
about his family prerogative, when it
was needless to assert it; and a liking
for discipline, or, as he styled it, nurture,
without tact to modify its applications.
Towards his eldest son—a shy
and affectionate youth—his behaviour,
indeed, seemed distinctly opposite to
what we may characterise as its usual
expression—overbearing gravity. Without
this son’s advice, he never ventured
on any speculation that seemed doubtful.
He was softly amenable to the
mild wisdom of the lad, and paid it a
quiet deference, of which, indeed, he
sometimes appeared to be ashamed, as
a degree of weakness in himself. But
the youth had never disobeyed his parents’
will in any one particular; he was
grave and gentle; and his father, who
had been brought up amidst a large
and rugged family, and was thus accustomed
to rather stormy usages, was
now at a loss, in matters of rebuke,
how to meet this new species of warfare,
which lay in mild and quiet habits, and
eventually became afraid of the censure
which was felt in the affectionate silence
of his eldest son.</p>

<p class='c008'>This superiority might have offended
old Sinclair’s self-love; but the youth,
as already stated, made ample amends,
by paying in his turn a scrupulous and
entire deference to his parent, whom he
thus virtually controlled, as a good
wife knows to rule her husband, by not
seeming to rule at all. From this subdued
tone of his favourite prerogative
in the father before us there was a reaction—something
like a compensation
to the parental authority—which began
to press too hard upon his second son
Richard, who, being of a bolder character
than his brother, was less scrupulously
dealt with; besides that the
froward temperament of this younger
boy frequently offended against what
his father honestly deemed propriety
and good rule.</p>

<p class='c008'>He lost no opportunity, when Richard
had done anything in the slightest degree
wrong, of checking him with disproportioned
censure, and of reminding
him of what he owed to his parents;
and this was repeated, till bearing
blame in the boy became a substitute
for gratitude—till the sense of obligation,
instead of being a special call to
love, was distinctly felt to be an intolerable
burden. From all these circumstances
there naturally grew up a
shyness betwixt father and son, which
was unintentionally aggravated by
Richard’s mother, who, aware of her
husband’s severe temper, tried to
qualify it by her own soft words and
deeds of love. This only brought out
the evil more distinctly in its hard outline;
and the very circumstance that
she constantly tried to explain into
good his father’s austerity became her
own refutation, and stamped that austerity
as a great degree of tyranny.</p>

<p class='c008'>Home thus became associated with
disagreeable feelings to young Richard
Sinclair; who, being a boy of a giddy
character, and naturally self-willed,
could not cling to the good, despite
of the admixture of evil. He neglected
his books, fell into gross irregularities;
and the admonitions of his father,
rendered useless from the above miserable
system of discipline, were now,
when most needed, thoroughly despised.
The death of his elder brother, by which
he was left an only son, softened for a
while the harsh intercourse which subsisted
between Richard and his father,
and checked the youth for a little in
his bad habits. But vice overcame him
anew; and, growing daily worse, he
at length completed the character of
the prodigal, by running off to sea,
hardening his heart against his father’s
worth, and heedless of the soft affection
of his mother.</p>

<p class='c008'>The hardships of a sea-faring life,
heightened by a series of peculiar misfortunes,
still farther aggravated by a
long course of bad health, gradually
subdued the young prodigal’s heart;
and after the lapse of several years we
find him on his way returning to his
native village, clad in the meanest
attire, slow and irregular in his step;
his countenance, besides being of a
dead yellow hue from late jaundice,
thin and worn to the bone; yet improved
in his moral nature, caring not
for pride, ready to forgive, and anxious
to be forgiven; and, above all, yearning
to confess his crimes and sorrows to
a mother’s unchanging love.</p>

<p class='c008'>About the noon of an October day,
he reached the churchyard of his native
parish, his heart impelling him first to
visit the burying-ground of his family,
under the fear, not the less striking
because altogether vague, that he might
there see a recent grave; for he had
heard nothing of his parents since his
first departure to sea. As he entered
the graveyard by a small postern, he
saw a funeral coming in by the main
gate on the opposite side; and wishing
not to be observed, he turned into a
small plantation of poplars and silver
firs, which hid the place of graves from
the view of the clergyman’s manse windows.
Onward came the sable group
slowly to the middle of the churchyard,
where lay, indicating the deep parallel
grave beside it, the heap of fat, clammy
earth, from which two or three ragged
boys were taking handfuls, to see, from
its restless crumbling, whether it was
the dust of the wicked, which, according
to a popular belief, never lies still
for a moment. The dark crowd took
their places round the grave; a little
bustle was heard as the coffin was uncovered;
it was lowered by the creaking
cords, and again the heads of the
company were all narrowly bent over it
for a moment. Not a sound was heard
in the air, save the flitting wing of some
little bird among the boughs; the ruffling
of another, as, with bill engulfed in
its feathers, it picked the insects from
its skin; and the melancholy cry of a
single chaffinch, which foretold the
coming rain.</p>

<p class='c008'>In natural accordance with the solemnity
of the mourners before him, our
youth, as he stood in the plantation,
raised his hat; and when the crowd
drew back to give room to the sexton
and his associates to dash in the earth,
he leant upon the wall, looking earnestly
over it, to recognise, if possible, the
prime mourner. At the head of the
grave, more forward a little than the
others, and apart in his sad privilege,
stood a man, apparently about sixty
years of age, of a strong frame,—in
which yet there was trembling,—and a
fine open bald forehead; and, notwithstanding
that the face of the mourner
was compressed with the lines of unusual
affliction, and bowed down over his hat,
which with both hands was pressed
upon his mouth, Richard saw him and
knew him but too well—Oh, God! his
own father! And wildly the youth’s
eyes rambled around the throng, to
penetrate the mystery of his own loss,
till on his dim eyeballs reeled the whole
group, now scattered and melted to mist,
now gathered and compressed into one
black, shapeless heap.</p>

<p class='c008'>But now the thick air began to twinkle,
as it still darkened; and the rain,
which to the surprise of all had been
kept up so long, began to fall out in
steep-down streams from the low-hung
clouds, driving the black train from the
half-finished grave, to mix with a throng
of other people, apparently assembling
for public worship, who ran along the
sides of the church in haste to reach
the doors. The bell began to toll,
but ceased almost in a minute; the
clergyman hurried by in his white
bands; and before Richard could leave
the plantation and advance into the
churchyard,—perhaps for the purpose
of inquiring who was the person just
entombed,—every one was in save that
bareheaded man—God bless him!—who,
heedless of the rain, still stood by
the sexton, whose spade was now beating
round the wet turf of the compacted
grave. The young prodigal had not the
heart, under a most awful sense of his
own errors, which now overcame him,
to advance to his afflicted father. On
the contrary, to avoid his observation,
he slunk away behind the church, and
by a door, which likewise admitted to
an old staircase leading to a family division
of the gallery, he got into a back
aisle, thickly peopled with spectral
marbles, which, through two or three
small panes, admitted a view of the
interior of the church. “Have I lived
not to know,” said he to himself, “when
comes God’s most holy Sabbath-day?
Assuredly, this loss of reckoning, this
confusion of heart, is of very hell itself.
But hold—to-day is Monday; then it
must be the day after a solemn commemoration,
in this place, of Christ’s
bleeding sacrifice for men. I shall sit
me down on this slab a while, and see
if there may be any good thing for me—any
gleam of the glorious shield that
wards off evil thoughts and the fears of
the soul—any strong preparation of
faith to take me up by the hand, and
lead me through my difficulties. At all
events, I shall try to pray with the good
for the mourners, that claim from me a
thousand prayers: and God rest that
dead one!”</p>

<p class='c008'>Owing to the unusual darkness in the
church, the twenty-third psalm was
chosen by the clergyman, as one that
could be sung by most of the congregation
without referring to the book; and
its beautiful pastoral devotion suited
well with the solemn dedication which
yesterday had been made of a little flock
to the care of the Great Shepherd, and
with their hopes of His needful aid.
And the sweet voices of the young,
who in early piety had vowed themselves
to God, seemed to have caught
the assured and thrilling song of the
redeemed; and their white robes, as
they rose to pray, twinkled like glimpses
of angels’ parting wings, bringing home
more deeply to the heart of the poor
youth in the aisle a sense of his misery
as an alien and an outcast from the
ordinances of salvation.</p>

<p class='c008'>Richard made an effort to attend to
the instructions of the clergyman; but
his heart was soon borne away from
attention; and so anxious did he become
in the new calculation, which of his
father’s family it might be whom he had
just seen interred, that he could not
refrain from going out before the church
windows and looking at the new grave.
Heedless of being seen, he measured
it by stepping, and was convinced, from
its length, that either his mother or his
sister Mary must be below. “God
forbid!” he ejaculated, “that it should
be my poor mother’s grave! that she
should be gone for ever, ere I have
testified my sense of all her love!”
It struck him, with a new thought of
remorse, that he was wishing the other
alternative, that it might be his sister
Mary’s. And then he thought upon
early days, when she who was his first
playmate led him with her little hand
abroad in summer days to the green
meadows, and taught him to weave the
white-fingered rushes, and introduced
him, because she was his elder, to new
sports and playfellows; whose heart, he
knew, would brook to lie beneath the
cold flowers of the spring sooner than
give up its love for him, prodigal though
he was; and how was the alternative
much better, if it was she whom he had
lost! As he made these reflections, he
was again sauntering into the aisle,
where, sitting down in his former seat,
the sad apprehension that his mother
was dead laid siege to his heart. Her
mild image, in sainted white, rose to
his mind’s eye; and she seemed to bend
over him, and to say to him, “Come,
my care-worn boy, and tell me how it
has fared with you in the hard world?”
This vision soon gave place to severe
realities; and in bitter sadness he
thought of her who came each night to
his bedside when he was a little child,
to kiss him, and arrange the clothes
around him that his little body might
be warm.</p>

<p class='c008'>With a reeling unsteadiness of mind
which, from very earnestness, could
not be stayed upon its object, he tried
to remember his last interview with her,
and the tenor of his last letter to her,
to find out what kind expressions he had
used, till, painfully conscious that he
could muster little to make up an argument
of his love, he was again left to
guess his mother’s anguish of soul in her
last hour over his neglect, and to grapple
with the conviction that his own folly
had brought her down prematurely to
the grave. At length his heart, becoming
passive amidst the very multitude and
activity of reflections that were tugging
at it from all sides, yielded to the weariness
which the day’s fatigue, acting upon
his frame, worn by late fever, had induced,
and he fell into a deep sleep.
When he awoke, the voice of the clergyman
had ceased, and all was silence in
the church; the interior of which as he
looked through the small pane, he saw
had been darkened by the shutting of
the window-boards. Next moment he
glanced at the aisle door and saw it
closed upon him. Then looking round
all over the place, with that calmness
which signifies a desperate fear at hand,
“Here I am, then!” he exclaimed;
“if that door be locked upon me, as I
dread it is!” Cautiously he went to it,
as if afraid of being resolved in his dreadful
apprehension; and, after first feeling
with his hand that the bolt was drawn
upon him, he tried to open it, and was
made distinctly aware of his horrid captivity.
Sharply he turned aghast, as if
to address some one behind him; then
turning again to the door, he shook it
with all his strength, in the hope that
some one might yet be lingering in the
churchyard, and so might hear him. No
one, however, came to his assistance; and
now the reflection burst full and black
upon him, that here he might remain unheard
till he died of hunger. His heart
and countenance fell, when he remembered
how remote the churchyard was
from the village, and from the public
way, and how long it was till next Sunday
should come round. From boyhood
recollection he remembered well this
same aisle door; that it was black on
the outside, with here and there large
white commas to represent tears; and
that it was very thick, and yet farther
strengthened by being studded with a
great number of large iron nails.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Yet I must try to the very utmost,”
he said, “either to break it or make
myself be heard by the inmates of the
manse, which is my best chance of
release.” Accordingly he borrowed as
much impetus as the breadth of the
vault allowed him, and flung himself
upon the door in a series of attacks,
shouting at the same time with all his
might. But the door stood firm as a rock
despite of him; nor could he distinguish,
as he listened from time to time, the
slightest symptoms of his having been
heard by any one. He went to the small
grated window which lighted this house
of death, and after watching at it for
some time, he saw an old woman pass
along a footpath beyond the graveyard,
with a bundle of sticks upon her head;
but she never seemed to hear him when
he called upon her. A little afterwards
he saw two boys sauntering near the
gate of the burying-ground; but though
they heard him when he cried, it only
made them scamper off, to all appearance
mightily terrified.</p>

<h3 class='c015'><span class='sc'>Chapter II.</span></h3>

<p class='c007'>With the calmness almost of despair,
when the closing eve took away his
chance of seeing any more stray passengers
that day, the poor youth groped his
way to his marble slab, and again sat
down with a strange vacuity of heart, as
if it would refuse further thought of his
dismal situation. A new fear came over
him, however, when daylight thickened
at the grated window of his low room,
and the white marbles grew dark around
him. And not without creeping horror
did he remember that from this very
aisle it was that old Johnny Hogg, a
former sexton, was said to have seen a
strange vile animal issue forth one moonlight
night, run to a neighbouring stream,
and after lapping a little, hurry back,
trotting over the blue graves, and slinking
through beneath the table stones, as
if afraid of being shut out from its dull,
fat haunt. Hurriedly, yet with keen inspection,
was young Sinclair fascinated
to look around him over the dim floor;
and while the horrid apprehension came
over him, that he was just on the point
of seeing the two eyes of the gloating
beast, white and muddy from its unhallowed
surfeits, he drew up his feet on
the slab on which he sat, lest it should
crawl over them. A thousand tales—true
to boyish impressions—crowded on his
mind; and by this rapid movement of
sympathetic associations, enough of itself,
while it lasts, to make the stoutest
heart nervous, and from the irritation of
his body from other causes, so much
was his mind startled from its propriety
that he thought he heard the devil ranging
through the empty pews of the
church; and there seemed to flash before
his eyes a thousand hurrying shapes,
condemned and fretted ghosts of malignant
aspect, that cannot rest in their
wormy graves, and milky-curdled babes
of untimely birth, that are buried in
twilights, never to see the sun.</p>

<p class='c008'>Soon, however, these silly fears went
off, and the tangible evil of his situation
again stood forth, and drove him to
renew his cries for assistance, and his
attacks upon the door, ere he should be
quite enfeebled by hunger and disease.
Again he had to sit down, after spending
his strength in vain.</p>

<p class='c008'>By degrees, he fell into a stupor of
sleep, peopled with strange dreams, in
all of which, from natural accordance
with his waking conviction that he had
that day seen his mother’s burial, her
image was the central figure. In danger
she was with him—in weariness—in
captivity; and when he seemed to be
struggling for life, under delirious fever,
then, too, she was with him, with her
soft assuaging kiss, which was pressed
upon his throbbing brow, till his frenzy
was cooled away, and he lay becalmed
in body and in spirit beneath her love.
Under the last modification of his dream,
he stood by confused waters, and saw
his mother drowning in the floods.
He heard her faintly call upon his
name; her arms were outstretched to
him for help, as she was borne fast
away into the dim and wasteful ocean;
and, unable to resist this appeal, he
stripped off his clothes and plunged in
to attempt her rescue. So vivid was
this last part of his vision, that in actual
correspondence with the impulse of his
dream, the poor prodigal in the aisle
threw off his clothes to the shirt to
prepare himself for swimming to her
deliverance. One or two cold ropy
drops, which at this moment fell from
the vaulted roof upon his neck, woke
him distinctly, and recalled him to a
recollection of his situation as a captive.
But being unable to account for his
being naked, he thought that he had
lost, or was about to lose, his reason;
and, weeping aloud like a little child,
he threw himself upon his knees, and
cried to God to keep fast his heart and
mind from that dismal alienation. He
was yet prostrate when he heard feet
walking on the echoing pavement of
the church; and at the same time a
light shone round about him, filling
the whole aisle, and showing distinctly
the black letters on the white tombstones.</p>

<p class='c008'>His first almost insane thought was
that a miraculous answer was given to
his prayer, and that, like the two
apostles of old, he had won an angel
from heaven to release him from his
midnight prison. But the footsteps
went away again by the door, and
ceased entirely; whilst at the same time
the light was withdrawn, leaving him
to curse his folly, which, under an
absurd hope, had lost an opportunity of
immediate disenthralment. He was
about to call aloud, to provoke a return
of the visitation, when, through the
grated window of the aisle, he observed
a light among the graves, which he set
himself to reconnoitre. It was one of
those raw, unwholesome nights, choked
up with mists to the very throat, which
thicken the breath of old men with
asthma, and fill graveyards with gross
and rotten beings; and, though probably
not more than twenty yards distant,
Sinclair could not guess what the
light was, so tangled and bedimmed
was it with the spongy vapours.</p>

<p class='c008'>At length he heard human voices,
and was glad to perceive the light
approaching his window. When the
men, whom he now saw were two in
number, had got within a few yards of
him, he called out,—</p>

<p class='c008'>“I pray you, good people, be not
alarmed; I have been locked up in this
aisle to-day, and must die of hunger in
it if you do not get me out. You can
get into the church, and I doubt not
you will find the key of this aisle-door
in the sexton’s closet. Now, I hope
you have enough of manhood not to let
me remain in this horrid place from any
silly fears on your part.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Instead of answering to this demand,
the fellows took instantly to their heels,
followed by the vehement reproaches of
our hero, whose heart at the same time
was smitten by the bitter reflection, that
every chance of attracting attention to
his captivity was likely to be neutralized
by the superstitious fears of such as
might hear him from his vault. In a
few minutes the light again approached,
and after much whispering betwixt
themselves, one of the men demanded
who and what the prisoner was.</p>

<p class='c008'>“I can only tell you farther,” replied
Sinclair, “that I fell asleep in
this place during the sermon,—no very
creditable confession, you will observe,—and
that, when I awoke, I found myself
fairly entrapped.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The men retired round the church,
and with joy Richard heard next minute
the rattling of the keys as they were
taken from the sexton’s closet. In
another minute he heard the door of
his dungeon tried; it opened readily;
and with a start, as if they thought it
best at once to rush upon their danger,
his two deliverers, whom he recognised
to be of his native village, advanced a
little into the aisle, the foremost bearing
the light, which he held forward
and aloft, looking below it into the
interior, to be aware for what sort of
captive they had opened. No sooner
did Sinclair stand disclosed to them,
naked as he was to the shirt—for he
had not yet got on his clothes—than
the sternmost man, with something
between a yell and a groan, bended on
his knees, whilst his hair bristled in the
extremity of his terror, and catching
hold of his companion’s limbs, he looked
through betwixt them upon the naked
spirit of the aisle. The foremost man
lowered the light by inches, and cried
aloud,—</p>

<p class='c008'>“Fear-fa’ me! take haud o’ me,
Geordie Heart! It’s the yellow dead
rising from their graves. Eh! there’s
the lightning! and is yon no an auld
crooked man i’ the corner?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Will Balmer! Will Balmer! whaur
are ye?” cried the other, from between
Will’s very knees, which, knocking upon
the prostrate man’s cheeks, made him
chatter and quiver in his wild outcry.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Oh! there’s the lightning again! Gin
we could but meet wife and bairns ance
mair!” ejaculated the foremost man.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Lord have mercy on my widow and
sma’ family!” echoed the sternmost.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Tout! it’s but the laird’s drucken
mulatto after a’!” said the former,
gathering a little confidence.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Oh, if it were! or but a man wi’
the jaundice, our days might be lengthened,”
cried the latter.</p>

<p class='c008'>Richard advanced to explain; but at
that moment the dull firmament in the
east, which had been lightning from
time to time (as often happens previously
to very rainy weather), opened
with another sheeted blaze of white fire,
the reflection of which on Richard’s
yellow face, as he came forward, seemed
to the terrified rustics a peculiar attribute
of his nature. With a groan, he
in the van tried a backward retreat; but
being straitened in the legs, he tumbled
over his squatted companion. Leaving
his neighbour, however, to sit still upon
his knees, he that was the foremost man
gathered himself up so well, that he
crept away on his hands and feet, till,
getting right below the bell-rope at the
end of the church, he ventured to rise
and begin to jow it, making the bell toll
at an unusual rate. The inmates of
the manse were immediately alarmed;
and first came the minister’s man, who
demanded the meaning of such ill-timed,
ringing.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Oh! Tam Jaffray! Tam Jaffray!
sic a night’s in this kirkyard! If sae be
it’s ordeened that I may ring an’ live,
I’ll haud to the tow. Oh! Tam Jaffray!
Tam Jaffray! what’s become o’
puir Geordie Heart? If the Wandering
Jew o’ Jerusalem, or the Yellow Fever
frae Jamaica, is no dancing mother-naked
in the aisle, then it behoves to be
the dead rising frae their graves. I
trust we’ll a’ be found prepared! Rin
for a lantern, Tam.—Eh! look to that
lightning!”</p>

<p class='c008'>A light was soon brought from the
manse; and a number of people from
the village having joined the original
alarmists, a considerable muster advanced
to the aisle door just as Sinclair
was stepping from it. Taking the light
from one of the countrymen, he returned
to the relief of the poor villager, who
was still upon his knees, and who, with
great difficulty, was brought to comprehend
an explanation of the whole affair.
The crowd made way as Sinclair proceeded
to leave the graveyard; but
whether it was that they were indignant
because the neighbourhood had been so
much disturbed, or whether they considered
that proper game was afoot for
sportive insolence, they began to follow
and shout after him—</p>

<p class='c008'>“Come back, ye yellow neegur!
we’ll no send ye!—stop him! Come
back, ye squiff, and we’ll gie ye a dead
subject!—Stop the resurrectionist!—After
him, gie him a paik, and see if
he’s but a batch o’ badger skins dyed
yellow—hurrah!”</p>

<p class='c008'>Sinclair wishing, for several reasons,
to be clear at once of the mob, was in
the act of springing over the dyke into
the plantation already mentioned, when
he was struck by a stick on the head,
which brought him back senseless to
the ground. The crowd was instantly
around the prostrate youth, and in the
caprice or better pity of human nature,
began to be sorry for his pale condition.</p>

<p class='c008'>“It was a pity to strike the puir lad
that gate,” said one. “Some folk
shouldna been sae rash the day, I
think,” remarked another. “Stand
back,” cried Tam Jaffray, pushing
from right to left; “stand back,
and gie the puir fallow air. Back,
Jamieson, wi’ your shauchled shins; it
was you that cried first that he was a
resurrectionist.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The clergyman now advanced and
asked what was the matter.</p>

<p class='c008'>“It’s only a yellow yorlin we’ve
catched in the aisle,” cried an insolent
clown, who aspired to be the prime wit
of the village; “he was a bare gorblin
a few minutes syne, and now he’s full
feathered.” This provoked a laugh from
groundlings of the same stamp, and the
fellow, grinning himself, was tempted to
try another bolt,—“And he’s gayan weel
tamed by this time.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Peace, fellow,” said the minister,
who had now seen what was wrong;
“peace, sir, and do not insult the unfortunate.
I am ashamed of all this.”</p>

<p class='c008'>By the directions of the clergyman,
the poor prodigal was carried into the
manse, where he soon recovered from
the immediate stunning effects of the
blow he had received.</p>

<p class='c008'>“How is all this?” was his first question
of surprise, addressed to his host.
“May I request to know, sir, why I am
here?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“In virtue of a rash blow, which we
all regret,” answered the minister.</p>

<p class='c008'>“I crave your pardon, sir,” returned
the youth. “I can now guess that I am
much indebted to your kindness.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“May we ask you, young man,” said
the clergyman, “how it has happened
that you have so alarmed our peaceful
neighbourhood?”</p>

<p class='c008'>The poor prodigal succinctly stated
the way of his imprisonment in the aisle;
and with this explanation the charitable
old clergyman seemed perfectly satisfied.
Not so, however, was his ruling elder,
who, deeming his presence and authority
indispensable in any matter for which
the parish bell could be rung, had early
rushed to the scene of alarm, and was
now in the manse, at the head of a number
of the villagers. He, on the contrary,
saw it necessary to remark (glancing at
his superior for approbation),—</p>

<p class='c008'>“Sae, mind, young man, in times
future, what comes of sleeping in the
time of two peeous and yedifying
discoorses.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“A good caution, John,” said the
mild old minister; “but we must make
allowances.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Was it you that struck me down?”
said Richard eagerly to an old man,
who, with evident sorrow working in
his hard muscular face, stood watching
this scene with intense interest, and
who, indeed, was his own father.</p>

<p class='c008'>Smitten to the heart by this sudden
question of the youth, ashamed of his
own violent spirit on such a night, and
grieved, after the explanation given, for
the condition of the poor lad before him,
old Sinclair groaned, turned quickly
half round, shifted his feet in the agony
of avowal,—then seizing his unknown
prodigal boy by the hand, he wrung it
eagerly, and said,—</p>

<p class='c008'>“There’s my hand, young man, in
the first place; and now, it was me indeed
that struck you down, but I
thought——”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Oh! my prophetic conscience!” interrupted
the poor prodigal, whilst he
looked his father ruefully in the face, and
returned fervently the squeeze of his
hand. “Make no apologies to me, thou
good old man; thy blow was given under
a most just dispensation.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I sent two neighbours,” said the old
man, still anxious to explain, “to see
that all was right about the grave. I
heard the alarm, and came off wi’ my
stick in my hand. I heard them crying
to stop ye, for ye were a resurrectionist.
I saw ye jumping suspiciously into the
planting. Ye maun forgie me the rest,
young man, for I thought ye had been
violating the grave of a beloved wife.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“My own poor mother!” sobbed forth
the prodigal.</p>

<p class='c008'>Old Sinclair started—his strong chest
heaved—the recollection of his rash blow,
together with the circumstance that it
had been dispensed on such a solemn
night, and near the new grave of one
whose gentle spirit had been but too
much troubled by the harshness and
waywardness of both husband and son,
came over his heart with the sudden conviction
that his boy and himself were
justly punished by the same blow, for
their mutual disrespect in former years.
Yearning pity over that son’s unhappy
appearance, and the natural flow of a
father’s heart, long subdued on behalf of
his poor lost prodigal, were mingled in
the old man’s deep emotion; and he
sought relief by throwing himself in his
boy’s arms, and weeping on his neck.</p>

<p class='c008'>His sturdy nature soon recovered itself
a little; yet the bitter spray was winked
from his compressed eyes as he shook
his head; and the lower part of his
face quivered with unusual affliction, as
he said in a hoarse whisper—</p>

<p class='c008'>“My own Richard!—my man, has
your father lived to strike you to the
ground like a brute beast, and you sae
ill?—on the very day, too, o’ your
mother’s burial, that loved ye aye sae
weel! But come away wi’ me to your
father’s house, for ye are sick as death,
and the auld man that used ye ower ill
is sair humbled the night, Richard!”</p>

<p class='c008'>The prodigal’s heart could not stand
this confession of a father. His young
bosom heaved as if about to be rent to
pieces; the <em>mother</em>, and <i><span lang="la">hysterica passio</span></i>
of old Lear, rose in his straitened throat,
overmastering the struggling respiration,
and he fell back in a violent fit. His
agonized parent ran to the door, as if
seeking assistance, he knew not what
or where; then checking himself in a
moment, and hastening back, yet without
looking on his son, he grasped the
clergyman strongly by the hand, crying
out, “Is he gone?—is my callant dead?”</p>

<p class='c008'>Ordering the people to withdraw
from around the prostrate youth, whose
head was now supported by the clergyman’s
beautiful and compassionate
daughter, the kind old pastor led forward
the agonised father, and pointing
to his reviving son, told him that all
would soon be well again. With head
depressed upon his bosom, his hard
hands slowly wringing each other, while
they were wetted with the tears which
rained from his glazed eyes, old Sinclair
stood looking down upon the ghastly
boy, whose eye was severely swollen,
whilst his cheek was stained with the
clotted blood which had flowed from
the wound above the temples, inflicted
by his own father.</p>

<p class='c008'>After standing a while in this position,
the old man drew a white napkin
from his pocket, and, as if himself unable
for the task, he gave it to one of
his neighbours, and pointed to the blood
on the face of his prodigal boy, signifying
that he wished it wiped away. This
was done accordingly; and, in a few
moments more, Richard rose, recovered
from his fit, and modestly thanking the
clergyman and his beautiful daughter for
their attentions to him, he signified his
resolve to go home immediately with
his father. The kind old minister would
fain have kept him all night, alleging
the danger of exposing himself in such
a state to the night air; but the youth
was determined in his purpose; and old
Sinclair cut short the matter by shaking
the hand of his pastor, whilst, without
saying a word, he looked him kindly in
the face to express his thanks, and then
by leading his son away by the arm.</p>

<p class='c008'>The villagers, who had crowded into
the manse, judging this one of those
levelling occasions when they might
intrude into the best parlour, allowed
the father and son to depart without
attempting immediately to follow—nature
teaching them that they had no
right to intermeddle with the sacred
communings of the son and father’s repentance
and forgiveness, or with the
sorrow of their common bereavement.
Yet the rude throng glanced at the
minister, as if surprised and disappointed
that the thing had ended so simply; then
slunk out of the room, apprehensive,
probably, of some rebuke from him.
The ruling elder, however, remained
behind, and wherefore not?</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='the_barley_feverand_rebuke' class='c006'>THE BARLEY FEVER—AND REBUKE.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By D. M. Moir (“Delta”).</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Sages their solemn een may steek,</div>
      <div class='line'>And raise a philosophic reek,</div>
      <div class='line'>And, physically, causes seek</div>
      <div class='line in2'>In clime and season;</div>
      <div class='line'>But tell me <em>Whisky’s</em> name in Greek,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>I’ll tell the reason.—<em>Burns.</em></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>On the morning after the business of
the playhouse happened,<a id='r13'></a><a href='#f13' class='c018'><sup>[13]</sup></a> I had to take
my breakfast in my bed,—a thing very
uncommon for me, being generally up
by cock-craw, except on Sunday mornings
whiles, when ilka ane, according
to the bidding of the Fourth Commandment,
has a license to do as he likes,—having
a desperate sore head, and a
squeamishness at the stomach, occasioned,
I jalouse, in a great measure
from what Mr Glen and me had discussed
at Widow Grassie’s, in the shape
of warm toddy, over our cracks concerning
what is called the agricultural
and the manufacturing interests. So
our wife, puir body, pat a thimbleful
of brandy—Thomas Mixem’s real—into
my first cup of tea, which had a wonderful
virtue in putting all things to rights;
so that I was up and had shapit a pair
of leddy’s corsets (an article in which
I sometimes dealt) before ten o’clock,
though, the morning being gey cauld,
I didna dispense with my Kilmarnock.</p>

<div class='footnote' id='f13'>
<p class='c008'><a href='#r13'>13</a>. See <em>ante</em>, “My First and Last Play,” p. <a href='#my_first_and_last_play'>394</a>.</p>
</div>

<p class='c008'>At eleven in the forenoon, or thereabouts,—maybe
five minutes before or
after, but nae matter,—in comes my
crony Maister Glen, rather dazed-like
about the een, and wi’ a large piece of
white sticking-plaister, about half-a-nail
wide, across one of his cheeks, and over
the brig o’ his nose; giving him a wauff,
outlandish, and rather blackguard sort
of appearance, so that I was a thocht
uneasy at what neebours might surmeese
concerning our intimacy; but the honest
man accounted for the thing in a very
feasible manner, from the falling down
on that side of his head of one of the
brass candlesticks, while he was lying
on his braidside, before ane of the furms
in the stramash.</p>

<p class='c008'>His purpose of calling was to tell me
that he couldna leave the town without
looking in upon me to bid me fareweel;
mair betoken, as he intended sending
in his son Mungo wi’ the carrier for a
trial, to see how the line of life pleased
him, and how I thocht he wad answer—a
thing which I was glad came from
his side of the house, being likely to be
in the upshot the best for both parties.
Yet I thocht he wad find our way of
doing so canny and comfortable, that it
wasna very likely he could ever start
objections; and I must confess, that I
lookit forrit with nae sma’ degree of
pride, seeing the probability of my sune
having the son of a Lammermuir farmer
sitting cross-leggit, cheek for jowl wi’ me,
on the board, and bound to serve me at
all lawful times, by night and day, by a
regular indenture of five years. Maister
Glen insisted on the laddie having a
three months’ trial; and then, after a
wee show of standing out, just to make
him aware that I could be elsewhere
fitted if I had a mind, I agreed that the
request was reasonable, and that I had
nae yearthly objections to conforming
wi’t. So, after giein’ him his meridian,
and a bit of shortbread, we shook hands,
and parted in the understanding, that
his son would arrive on the tap of limping
Jamie the carrier’s cart, in the course,
say, of a fortnight.</p>

<p class='c008'>Through the hale course of the forepart
of the day, I remained geyan
queerish, as if something was working
about my inwards, and a droll pain
atween my een. The wife saw the case
I was in, and advised me, for the sake
of the fresh air, to take a step into the
bit garden, and try a hand at the spade,
the smell of the fresh earth being likely to
operate as a cordial; but na—it wadna
do; and whan I came in at ane o’clock to
my dinner, the steam of the fresh broth,
instead of making me feel as usual as
hungry as a hawk, was like to turn my
stamach, while the sight of the sheep’s-head,
ane o’ the primest anes I had seen
the hale season, made me as sick as a
dog; so I could dae naething but take
a turn out again, and swig awa’ at the
sma’ beer that never seemed able to
slocken my drouth. At lang and last,
I mindit having heard Andrew Redbeak,
the excise-offisher, say, that naething
ever pat him right after a debosh,
except something they ca’ a bottle of soda-water;
so my wife dispatched Benjie to
the place where he kent it could be found,
and he returned in a jiffie with a thing
like a blacking-bottle below his daidly,
as he was bidden. There being a wire
ower the cork, for some purpose or
ither, or maybe just to look neat, we
had some fight to get it torn away, but
at last we succeeded. I had turned
about for a jug, and the wife was rummaging
for a screw, while Benjie was
fiddling away wi’ his fingers at the
cork—sauf us! a’ at ance it gaed a thud
like thunder, driving the cork ower puir
Benjie’s head, while it spouted up in his
een like a fire-engine, and I had only
just time to throw down the jug, and up
with the bottle to my mouth. Luckily,
for the sixpence it cost, there was a drap
o’t left, which tasted by all the world
just like brisk dish-washings; but, for
a’ that, it had a wonderful power of setting
me to rights; and my noddle in a
while began to clear up, like a March-day
after a heavy shower.</p>

<p class='c008'>I mind very weel too, on the afternoon
of the dividual day, that my doorneebour,
Thomas Burlings, pappit in;
and, in our twa-handit crack ower the
counter, after asking me in a dry, curious
way, if I had come by nae skaith in the
business of the play, he said, the thing
had now spread far and wide, and was
making a great noise in the world. I
thocht the body a thocht sharp in his
observes; so I pretended to take it
quite lightly, proceeding in my shaping-out
a pair of buckskin-breeches, which
I was making for ane of the duke’s
huntsmen; so, seeing he was aff the
scent, he said in a mair jocose way—“Weel,
speaking about buckskins, I’ll
tell ye a gude story about that.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Let us hear’t,” said I; for I was in
that sort of queerish way, that I didna
care muckle about being very busy.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ye’se get it as I heard it,” quo’
Thomas; “and it’s no less worth telling,
that it bears a gude moral application
in its tail, after the same fashion
that a blister does gude by sucking
away the vicious humours of the body,
thereby making the very pain it gies
precious.” And here—though maybe
it was just my thocht—the body strokit
his chin, and gied me a kind of half
glee, as muckle as saying, “take that
to ye, neebour.” But I deserved it all,
and couldna take it ill aff his hand,
being, like mysel, ane of the elders of
our kirk, and an honest enough, preceese-speaking
man.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ye see, ye ken,” said Thomas,
“that the Breadalbane Fencibles, a
wheen Highland birkies, were put into
camp on Fisherraw links, maybe for the
benefit of their douking, on account of
the fiddle<a id='r14'></a><a href='#f14' class='c018'><sup>[14]</sup></a>—or maybe in case the
French should land at the water-mouth—or
maybe to gie the regiment the
benefit of the sea air—or maybe to
make their bare houghs hardier, for it
was the winter time, frost and snaw
being as plenty as ye like, and no sae
scarce as pantaloons among the core,
or for some ither reason, gude, bad, or
indifferent, which disna muckle matter.
But, ye see, the lang and the short o’ the
story is, that there they were encamped,
man and mother’s son of them, going
through their dreels by day, and sleeping
by night—the privates in their tents,
and the offishers in their markees;
living in the course of nature on their
usual rations of beef and tammies, and
sae on. So, ye understand me, there
was nae such smart orderings of things
in the army in thae days, the men not
having the beef served out to them by
a butcher, supplying each company or
companies by a written contract, drawn
up between him and the paymaster
before sponsible witnesses; but ilka ane
bringing what pleased him, either tripe,
trotters, steaks, cow’s-cheek, pluck,
hough, spar-rib, jiggot, or so forth.”</p>

<div class='footnote' id='f14'>
<p class='c008'><a href='#r14'>14</a>. <em>See</em> Dr Jamieson’s “Scottish Dictionary.”</p>
</div>

<p class='c008'>“’Od!” said I, “Thomas, ye crack
like a minister. Where did ye happen
to pick up all that knowledge?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Where should I have got it? but
from an auld half-pay sergeant-major,
that lived in our spare room, and had
been out in the American war, having
seen a power of service, and been twice
wounded,—ance in the aff cuit, and
the ither time in the cuff of the neck.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I thocht as muckle,” said I;
“but say on, man; it’s unco entertaining.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Weel,” continued he, “let me see
where I was at when ye stoppit me;
for maybe I’ll hae to begin at the beginning
again. For gif ye yenterrupt me,
or edge in a word, or put me out by
asking questions, I lose the thread of
my discourse, and canna proceed.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ou, let me see,” said I, “ye was
about the contract concerning the beef.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Preceesely,” quo’ Thomas, stretching
out his forefinger; “ye’ve said it
to a hair. At that time, as I was
observing, the butcher didna supply a
company or companies, according to
the terms of a contract, drawn up before
sponsible witnesses, between him and
the paymaster; but the soldiers got
beef-money along with their pay; with
which said money, given them, ye observe,
for said purpose, they were bound
and obligated, in terms of the statute,
to buy, purchase, and provide the said
beef, twice a week or oftener, as it
might happen; an orderly offisher
making inspection of the camp-kettles
regularly every forenoon at ane o’clock
or thereabouts.</p>

<p class='c008'>“So, as ye’ll pay attention to observe,
there was a private in Captain
M‘Tavish’s company, the second to the
left of the centre, of the name of Duncan
MacAlpine, a wee, hardy, blackavised,
in-knee’d creature, remarkable for naething
that ever I heard tell of, except
being reported to have shotten a gauger
in Badenoch, or thereabouts; and for
having a desperate red nose, the effects,
ye observe, I daursay,—the effects of
drinking malt speerits.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Weel, week after week passed ower,
and better passed ower, and Duncan
played aff his tricks, like anither Herman
Boaz, the slight-o’-hand juggler—him
that’s suspecket to be in league and
paction with the deil. But ye’ll hear.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“’Od, it’s diverting, Thomas,” said I
to him; “gang on, man.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Weel, ye see, as I was observing.
Let me see, where was I at? Ou ay,
having a paction wi’ the deil. So, when
all were watching beside the camp-kettles,
some stirring them wi’ spurtles,
or parritch-sticks, or forks, or whatever
was necessary, the orderly offisher made
a point and practice of regularly coming
by, about the chap of ane past meridian,
as I observed to ye before, to make
inspection of what ilka ane had wared
his pay on; and what he had got simmering
in the het water for his dinner.</p>

<p class='c008'>“So, on the day concerning which I
am about to speak, it fell out, as usual,
that he happened to be making his
rounds, halting a moment—or twa,
maybe—before ilka pat; the man that
had the charge thereof, by the way of
stirring like, clapping down his lang
fork, and bringing up the piece of meat,
or whatever he happened to be making
kail of, to let the inspector see whether
it was lamb, pork, beef, mutton, or veal.
For, ye observe,” continued Thomas,
gieing me, as I took it to mysel, anither
queer side look, “the purpose of the
offisher making the inspection, was to
see that they laid out their pay-money
conform to military regulation; and no
to filling their stamicks, and ruining
baith soul and body, by throwing it
away on whisky, as but ower mony,
that aiblins should hae kent better, have
dune but ower aften.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“’Tis but too true,” said I till him;
“but the best will fa’ intil a faut sometimes.
We have a’ our failings,
Thomas.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Just so,” answered Thomas; “but
where was I at? Ou, about the whisky.
Weel, speaking about the whisky: ye
see, the offisher, Lovetenant Todrick, I
b’lief they called him, had made an
observe about Duncan’s kettle; so,
when he cam to him, Duncan was sitting
in the lown side of a dyke, with his red
nose, and a pipe in his cheek, on a big
stane, glowering frae him anither way;
and, as I was saying, when he cam to
him he said, ‘Weel, Duncan MacAlpine,
what have ye in your kettle the day,
man?’</p>

<p class='c008'>“And Duncan, rinning down his lang
fork, answered in his ain Highland
brogue way—‘Please your honour, just
my auld fav’rite, tripe.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“’Deed, Duncan,” said Lovetenant
Todrick, or whatever they ca’d him,
“it is an auld fav’rite, surely, for I have
never seen ye have onything else for
your denner, man.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Every man to his taste, please your
honour,” answered Duncan MacAlpine;
“let ilka ane please her nainsel,”—hauling
up a screed half a yard lang;
“ilka man to his taste, please your
honour, Lovetenant Todrick.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“’Od, man,” said I to him; “’od,
man, ye’re a deacon at telling a story.
Ye’re a queer hand. Weel, what cam
next?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“What think ye should come next?”
quo’ Thomas, drily.</p>

<p class='c008'>“I’m sure I dinna ken,” answered I.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Weel,” said he, “I’ll tell; but where
was I at?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ou, at the observe of Lovetenant
Todrick, or what they ca’ed him, about
the tripe; and the answer of Duncan
MacAlpine on that head, that ‘ilka
man had his ain taste.’”</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Vera true,’ said Lovetenant Todrick;
‘but lift it out a’thegither on that
dish, till I get my specs on; for never
since I was born, did I ever see before
boiled tripe with buttons and button-holes
intil’t.’”</p>

<p class='c008'>At this I set up a loud laughing,
which I couldna help, though it was
like to split my sides; but Thomas
Burlings bade me whisht till I heard
him out.</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Buttons and button-holes!’ quo’
Duncan MacAlpine. ‘Look again, wi’
yer specs; for ye’re surely wrang,
Lovetenant Todrick.’”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Buttons and button-holes! and ’deed
I am surely right, Duncan,’ answered
Lovetenant Todrick, taking his specs
deliberately aff the brig o’ his nose,
and faulding them thegither, as he put
them, first into his morocco case, and
syne into his pocket. ‘Howsomever,
Duncan MacAlpine, I’ll pass ye ower
for this time, gif ye take my warning,
and for the future ware yer paymoney
on wholesome butcher’s meat, like a
Christian, and no be trying to delude
your ain stamick, and your offisher’s
een, by haddin’ up, on a fork, such a
heathenish make-up for a dish, as the
leg of a pair o’ buckskin breeches!’”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Buckskin breeches!” said I; “and
did he really and actually boil siccan
trash to his dinner?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Nae sae far south as that yet,
friend,” answered Thomas. “Duncan
wasna sae bowed in the intellect as ye
imagine, and had some spice of cleverality
about his queer manœuvres.—Eat
siccan trash to his dinner! Nae mair,
Mansie, than ye intend to eat that iron
guse ye’re rinning alang that piece
claith; but he wantit to make his
offishers believe that his pay gaed the
right way—like the Pharisees of old
that keepit praying, in ell-lang faces,
about the corners of the streets, and
gaed hame wi’ hearts full of wickedness
and a’ manner of cheatrie.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“And what way did his pay gang
then?” askit I; “and hoo did he
live?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I telled ye before, frien,” answered
Thomas, “that he was a deboshed
creature; and, like ower mony in the
warld, likit weel what didna do him ony
good. It’s a wearyfu’ thing that whisky.
I wish it could be banished to Botany
Bay.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“It is that,” said I. “Muckle and
nae little sin does it breed and produce
in this world.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I’m glad,” quo’ Thomas, stroking
down his chin in a slee way. “I’m
glad the guilty should see the folly o’
their ain ways: it’s the first step, ye
ken, till amendment;—and indeed I
tell’t Maister Wiggie, when he sent me
here, that I could almost become gude
for yer being mair wary o’ yer conduct
for the future time to come.”</p>

<p class='c008'>This was like a thunder-clap to me,
and I didna ken, for a jiffy, what to
feel, think, or do, mair than perceiving
that it was a piece of devilish cruelty on
their pairts, taking things on this strict.
As for myself, I could freely take sacred
oath on the Book, that I hadna had a
dram in my head for four months before;
the knowledge of which made my
corruption rise like lightning, as a man
is aye brave when he is innocent; so,
giein’ my pow a bit scart, I said briskly,
“So ye’re after some session business in
this veesit, are ye?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ye’ve just guessed it,” answered
Thomas Burlings, sleeking down his
front hair with his fingers, in a sober
way; “we had a meeting this forenoon;
and it was resolved ye should stand a
public rebuke in the meeting-house, on
Sunday next.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Hang me, if I do!” answered I,
thumping my nieve down with all my
might on the counter, and throwing
back my cowl behind me, into a corner.</p>

<p class='c008'>“No, man!” added I, snapping with
great pith my finger and thumb in
Thomas’s een; “no for all the ministers
and elders that ever were cleckit. They
may do their best; and ye may tell
them sae if ye like. I was born a free
man; I live in a free country; I am
the subject of a free king and constitution;
and I’ll be shot before I submit
to such rank diabolical papistry.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Hooly and fairly,” quo’ Thomas,
staring a wee astonished like, and not
a little surprised to see my birse up in
this manner; for, when he thought upon
shearing a lamb, he fund he had catched
a tartar; so, calming down as fast as
ye like, he said—“Hooly and fairly,
Mansie” (or Maister Wauch, I believe,
he did me the honour to ca’ me),
“they’ll maybe no be sae hard as they
threaten. But ye ken, my friend, I’m
speaking to ye as a brither; it was an
unco-like business for an elder, not only
to gang till a play, which is ane of the
deevil’s rendezvouses, but to gang there
in a state of liquor; making yoursel a
warld’s wonder—and you an elder of
our kirk!—I put the question to yourself
soberly?”</p>

<p class='c008'>His threatening I could despise, and
could have fought, cuffed, and kickit,
wi’ a’ the ministers and elders of the
General Assembly, to say naething of
the Relief Synod, and the Burgher
Union, before I wad demeaned mysel
to yield to what my inward speerit
plainly telled me to be rank cruelty
and injustice; but ah! his calm, britherly,
flattering way I couldna thole
wi’, and the tears came rapping into
my een faster than it cared my manhood
to let be seen; so I said till him,
“Weel, weel, Thomas, I ken I have
dune wrang; and I am sorry for’t—they’ll
never find me in siccan a scrape
again.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Thomas Burlings then cam forrit in
a friendly way, and shook hands wi’
me; telling that he wad go back and
plead afore them in my behalf. He
said this ower again, as we pairted, at
my shop door; and, to do him justice,
surely he hadna been waur than his
word, for I have aye attended the kirk
as usual, standing, whan it came to my
rotation, at the plate, and naebody,
gentle nor semple, ever spoke to me on
the subject of the playhouse, or minted
the matter of the rebuke from that day
to this.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='elphin_irving_the_fairies_cupbearer' class='c006'>ELPHIN IRVING, THE FAIRIES’ CUPBEARER.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By Allan Cunningham.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<h3 class='c013'><span class='sc'>Chapter I.</span></h3>

<p class='c014'>The romantic vale of Corriewater,
in Annandale, is regarded by the inhabitants,
a pastoral and unmingled people,
as the last border refuge of those beautiful
and capricious beings, the fairies.
Many old people, yet living, imagine
they have had intercourse of good words
and good deeds with the “gude folk;”
and continue to tell that in the ancient
days the fairies danced on the hill, and
revelled in the glen, and showed themselves,
like the mysterious children of
the Deity of old, among the sons and
daughters of men. Their visits to the
earth were periods of joy and mirth to
mankind, rather than of sorrow and
apprehension. They played on musical
instruments of wonderful sweetness
and variety of note, spread unexpected
feasts, the supernatural flavour of which
overpowered on many occasions the religious
scruples of the Presbyterian
shepherds, performed wonderful deeds
of horsemanship, and marched in midnight
processions, when the sound of
their elfin minstrelsy charmed youths
and maidens into love for their persons
and pursuits; and more than one family
of Corriewater have the fame of augmenting
the numbers of the elfin chivalry.
Faces of friends and relatives,
long since doomed to the battle trench,
or the deep sea, have been recognised
by those who dared to gaze on the fairy
march. The maid has seen her lost
lover, and the mother her stolen child;
and the courage to plan and achieve their
deliverance has been possessed by, at
least, one border maiden. In the legends
of the people of Corrievale, there is a
singular mixture of elfin and human
adventure, and the traditional story of
the Cupbearer to the Queen of the
Fairies appeals alike to our domestic
feelings and imagination.</p>

<p class='c008'>In one of the little green loops or
bends, on the banks of Corriewater,
mouldered walls, and a few stunted
wild plum-trees and vagrant roses, still
point out the site of a cottage and garden.
A well of pure spring-water leaps
out from an old tree-root before the
door; and here the shepherds, shading
themselves in summer from the influence
of the sun, tell to their children the wild
tale of Elphin Irving and his sister
Phemie; and, singular as the story
seems, it has gained full credence among
the people where the scene is laid.</p>

<p class='c008'>“I ken the tale and the place weel,”
interrupted an old woman, who, from
the predominance of scarlet in her apparel,
seemed to have been a follower
of the camp; “I ken them weel, and
the tale’s as true as a bullet to its aim,
and a spark to powder. Oh, bonnie
Corriewater! a thousand times have I
pu’ed gowans on its banks wi’ ane that
lies stiff and stark on a foreign shore in
a bloody grave:” and sobbing audibly,
she drew the remains of a military cloak
over her face, and allowed the story to
proceed.</p>

<p class='c008'>When Elphin Irving and his sister
Phemie were in their sixteenth year (for
tradition says they were twins), their
father was drowned in Corriewater,
attempting to save his sheep from a
sudden swell, to which all mountain
streams are liable; and their mother,
on the day of her husband’s burial, laid
down her head on the pillow, from
which, on the seventh day, it was lifted
to be dressed for the same grave. The
inheritance left to the orphans may be
briefly described: seventeen acres of
plough and pasture land, seven milk
cows, and seven pet sheep (many old
people take delight in odd numbers);
and to this may be added seven bonnet
pieces of Scottish gold, and a broadsword
and spear, which their ancestor
had wielded with such strength and
courage in the battle of Dryfe-sands,
that the minstrel who sang of that deed
of arms ranked him only second to the
Scotts and the Johnstones.</p>

<p class='c008'>The youth and his sister grew in
stature and in beauty. The brent
bright brow, the clear blue eye, and
frank and blithe deportment of the
former, gave him some influence among
the young women of the valley; while
the latter was no less the admiration of
the young men, and at fair and dance,
and at bridal, happy was he who touched
but her hand, or received the benediction
of her eye. Like all other Scottish
beauties, she was the theme of many a
song; and while tradition is yet busy
with the singular history of her brother,
song has taken all the care that rustic
minstrelsy can of the gentleness of her
spirit, and the charms of her person.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Now I vow,” exclaimed a wandering
piper, “by mine own honoured
instrument, and by all other instruments
that ever yielded music for the joy and
delight of mankind, that there are more
bonnie songs made about fair Phemie
Irving than about all the other maidens
of Annandale, and many of them are
both high and bonnie. A proud lass maun
she be, if her spirit hears; and men say
the dust lies not insensible of beautiful
verse; for her charms are breathed
through a thousand sweet lips, and no
farther gone than yestermorn, I heard
a lass singing on a green hillside what
I shall not readily forget. If ye like to
listen, ye shall judge; and it will not
stay the story long nor mar it much,
for it is short, and about Phemie Irving.”
And accordingly he chanted the following
rude verses, not unaccompanied by
his honoured instrument, as he called his
pipe, which chimed in with great effect,
and gave richness to a voice which felt
better than it could express:—</p>

<p class='c008'>FAIR PHEMIE IRVING.</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>I.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Gay is thy glen, Corrie,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>With all thy groves flowering:</div>
      <div class='line'>Green is thy glen, Corrie,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>When July is showering;</div>
      <div class='line'>And sweet is yon wood, where</div>
      <div class='line in2'>The small birds are bowering,</div>
      <div class='line'>And there dwells the sweet one</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Whom I am adoring.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>II.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Her round neck is whiter</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Than winter when snowing;</div>
      <div class='line'>Her meek voice is milder</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Than Ae in its flowing;</div>
      <div class='line'>The glad ground yields music</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Where she goes by the river;</div>
      <div class='line'>One kind glance would charm me</div>
      <div class='line in2'>For ever and ever.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>III.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>The proud and the wealthy</div>
      <div class='line in2'>To Phemie are bowing;</div>
      <div class='line'>No looks of love win they</div>
      <div class='line in2'>With sighing or suing;</div>
      <div class='line'>Far away maun I stand</div>
      <div class='line in2'>With my rude wooing,</div>
      <div class='line'>She’s a flow’ret too lovely</div>
      <div class='line in2'>To bloom for my pu’ing—</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>IV.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>O were I yon violet</div>
      <div class='line in2'>On which she is walking;</div>
      <div class='line'>O were I yon small bird</div>
      <div class='line in2'>To which she is talking;</div>
      <div class='line'>Or yon rose in her hand,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>With its ripe ruddy blossom;</div>
      <div class='line'>Or some pure gentle thought,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>To be blest with her bosom!</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c008'>This minstrel interruption, while it
established Phemie Irving’s claim to
grace and to beauty, gave me additional
confidence to pursue the story.</p>

<p class='c008'>But minstrel skill and true love tale
seemed to want their usual influence,
when they sought to win her attention;
she was only observed to pay most respect
to those youths who were most
beloved by her brother; and the same
hour that brought these twins to the
world, seemed to have breathed through
them a sweetness and an affection of
heart and mind, which nothing could
divide. If, like the virgin queen of the
immortal poet, she walked “in maiden
meditation fancy free,” her brother
Elphin seemed alike untouched with
the charms of the fairest virgins in
Corrie. He ploughed his field, he
reaped his grain, he leaped, he ran and
wrestled, and danced and sang, with
more skill and life and grace than all
other youths of the district; but he had
no twilight and stolen interviews. When
all other young men had their loves by
their side, he was single, though not
unsought; and his joy seemed never
perfect save when his sister was near
him. If he loved to share his time with
her, she loved to share her time with
him alone, or with the beasts of the
field, or the birds of the air. She
watched her little flock late, and she
tended it early; not for the sordid love
of the fleece, unless it was to make
mantles for her brother, but with the
look of one who had joy in its company.
The very wild creatures, the deer and
the hares, seldom sought to shun her
approach, and the bird forsook not its
nest, nor stinted its song, when she
drew nigh; such is the confidence which
maiden innocence and beauty inspire.</p>

<p class='c008'>It happened one summer, about three
years after they became orphans, that
rain had been for a while withheld from
the earth; the hillsides began to parch,
the grass in the vales to wither, and the
stream of Corrie was diminished between
its banks to the size of an ordinary
rill. The shepherds drove their flocks
to moorlands, and marsh and tarn had
their reeds invaded by the scythe, to
supply the cattle with food. The sheep
of his sister were Elphin’s constant care;
he drove them to the moistest pastures
during the day, and he often watched
them at midnight, when flocks, tempted
by the sweet dewy grass, are known to
browse eagerly, that he might guard
them from the fox, and lead them to the
choicest herbage. In these nocturnal
watchings he sometimes drove his little
flock over the water of Corrie, for the
fords were hardly ankle-deep; or permitted
his sheep to cool themselves in
the stream, and taste the grass which
grew along the brink. All this time
not a drop of rain fell, nor did a cloud
appear in the sky.</p>

<p class='c008'>One evening during her brother’s absence
with the flock, Phemie sat at her
cottage door, listening to the bleatings
of the distant folds, and the lessened
murmur of the water of Corrie, now
scarcely audible beyond its banks. Her
eyes, weary with watching along the accustomed
line of road for the return of
Elphin, were turned on the pool beside
her, in which the stars were glimmering
fitful and faint. As she looked, she
imagined the water grew brighter and
brighter; a wild illumination presently
shone upon the pool, and leaped from
bank to bank, and, suddenly changing
into a human form, ascended the margin,
and passing her, glided swiftly into
the cottage. The visionary form was so
like her brother in shape and air, that,
starting up, she flew into the house, with
the hope of finding him in his customary
seat. She found him not; and impressed
with the terror which a wraith or apparition
seldom fails to inspire, she
uttered a shriek so loud and so piercing
as to be heard at Johnstonebank, on the
other side of the vale of Corrie.</p>

<p class='c008'>An old woman now rose suddenly
from her seat in the window-sill, the
living dread of shepherds, for she travelled
the country with a brilliant reputation
for witchcraft, and thus she broke
in upon the narrative: “I vow, young
man, ye tell us the truth upset and downthrust;
I heard my douce grandmother
say that on the night when Elphin Irving,
disappeared—disappeared, I shall
call it, for the bairn can but be gone for
a season, to return to us in his own appointed
time,—she was seated at the fireside
at Johnstonebank; the laird had
laid aside his bonnet to take the Book,
when a shriek mair loud, believe me,
than a mere woman’s shriek,—and they
can shriek loud enough, else they’re
sair wranged,—came over the water of
Corrie, so sharp and shrilling, that the
pewter plates dinnelled on the wall;
such a shriek, my douce grandmother
said, as rang in her ear till the hour of
her death, and she lived till she was
aughty and aught, forty full ripe years
after the event. But there is another
matter, which, doubtless, I cannot compel
ye to believe; it was the common
rumour that Elphin Irving came not
into the world like the other sinful creatures
of the earth, but was one of the
Kane-bairns of the fairies, whilk they
had to pay to the enemy of man’s salvation
every seventh year. The poor
lady-fairy,—a mother’s aye a mother, be
she elf’s flesh or Eve’s flesh,—hid her
elf son beside the christened flesh in
Marion Irving’s cradle, and the auld
enemy lost his prey for a time. Now
hasten on with your story, which is not
a bodle the waur for me. The maiden
saw the shape of her brother, fell into
a faint or a trance, and the neighbours
came flocking in. Gang on wi’ your
tale, young man, and dinna be affronted
because an auld woman helped ye
wi’ it.”</p>

<p class='c008'>It is hardly known, I resumed, how
long Phemie Irving continued in a state
of insensibility. The morning was far
advanced, when a neighbouring maiden
found her seated in an old chair, as
white as monumental marble; her hair,
about which she had always been solicitous,
loosened from its curls, and hanging
disordered over her neck and bosom,
her hands and forehead. The maiden
touched the one and kissed the other;
they were as cold as snow; and her eyes,
wide open, were fixed on her brother’s
empty chair, with the intensity of gaze
of one who had witnessed the appearance
of a spirit. She seemed insensible
of any one’s presence, and sat fixed, and
still, and motionless. The maiden,
alarmed at her looks, thus addressed
her: “Phemie, lass, Phemie Irving!
Dear me, but this is awful! I have come
to tell ye that seven o’ yer pet sheep
have escaped drowning in the water;
for Corrie, sae quiet and sae gentle
yestreen, is rolling and dashing frae
bank to bank this morning. Dear me,
woman, dinna let the loss o’ the world’s
gear bereave ye of your senses. I would
rather make ye a present of a dozen mug-ewes
of the Tinwald brood mysel; and
now I think on’t, if ye’ll send ower
Elphin, I will help him hame with them
in the gloaming mysel. So Phemie,
woman, be comforted.”</p>

<p class='c008'>At the mention of her brother’s name,
she cried out, “Where is he? oh, where
is he?”—gazed wildly round, and, shuddering
from head to foot, fell senseless
on the floor. Other inhabitants of the
valley, alarmed by the sudden swell of
the river, which had augmented to a
torrent deep and impassable, now came
in to inquire if any loss had been sustained,
for numbers of sheep and teds of
hay had been observed floating down
about the dawn of the morning. They
assisted in reclaiming the unhappy
maiden from her swoon; but insensibility
was joy compared to the sorrow
to which she awakened.</p>

<p class='c008'>“They have ta’en him away, they
have ta’en him away;” she chanted in a
tone of delirious pathos; “him that
was whiter and fairer than the lily on
Lyddal-lee. They have long sought,
and they have long sued, and they had
the power to prevail against my prayers
at last. They have ta’en him away;
the flower is plucked from among the
weeds, and the dove is slain amid a
flock of ravens. They came with shout,
and they came with song, and they
spread the charm, and they placed the
spell, and the baptised brow has been
bowed down to the unbaptised hand.
They have ta’en him away, they have
ta’en him away; he was too lovely, and
too good, and too noble, to bless us
with his continuance on earth; for what
are the sons of men compared to him?—the
light of the moonbeam to the
morning sun; the glow-worm to the
eastern star. They have ta’en him
away, the invisible dwellers of the
earth. I saw them come on him, with
shouting and with singing, and they
charmed him where he sat, and away
they bore him; and the horse he rode
was never shod with iron, nor owned
before the mastery of human hand.
They have ta’en him away, over the
water, and over the wood, and over the
hill. I got but ae look o’ his bonnie
blue ee, but ae look. But as I have
endured what never maiden endured,
so will I undertake what never maiden
undertook,—I will win him from them
all. I know the invisible ones of the
earth; I have heard their wild and
wondrous music in the wild woods, and
there shall a christened maiden seek
him and achieve his deliverance.”</p>

<p class='c008'>She paused, and glancing round a
circle of condoling faces, down which
the tears were dropping like rain, said,
in a calm, but still delirious tone,—</p>

<p class='c008'>“Why do you weep, Mary Halliday?
and why do you weep, John Graeme?
Ye think that Elphin Irving,—oh, it’s
a bonnie, bonnie name, and dear to
many a maiden’s heart as well as mine,—ye
think that he is drowned in Corrie,
and ye will seek in the deep, deep
pools for the bonnie, bonnie corse, that
ye may weep over it, as it lies in its last
linen, and lay it, amid weeping and
wailing, in the dowie kirkyard. Ye may
seek, but ye shall never find; so leave
me to trim up my hair, and prepare my
dwelling, and make myself ready to
watch for the hour of his return to upper
earth.”</p>

<p class='c008'>And she resumed her household
labours with an alacrity which lessened
not the sorrow of her friends.</p>

<h3 class='c015'><span class='sc'>Chapter II.</span></h3>

<p class='c007'>Meanwhile, the rumour flew over
the vale that Elphin Irving was drowned
in Corriewater. Matron and maid,
old man and young, collected suddenly
along the banks of the river, which now
began to subside to its natural summer
limits, and commenced their search;
interrupted every now and then by calling
from side to side, and from pool to
pool, and by exclamations of sorrow for
this misfortune. The search was fruitless:
five sheep, pertaining to the flock
which he conducted to pasture, were
found drowned in one of the deep
eddies; but the river was still too
brown, from the soil of its moorland
sources, to enable them to see what
its deep shelves, its pools, and its
overhanging and hazelly banks concealed.
They remitted further search
till the stream should become pure;
and old man taking old man aside,
began to whisper about the mystery of
the youth’s disappearance: old women
laid their lips to the ears of their coevals,
and talked of Elphin Irving’s
fairy parentage, and his having been
dropped by an unearthly hand into a
Christian cradle. The young men and
maids conversed on other themes; they
grieved for the loss of the friend and
the lover, and while the former thought
that a heart so kind and true was not
left in the vale, the latter thought, as
maidens will, on his handsome person,
gentle manners, and merry blue eye,
and speculated with a sigh on the time
when they might have hoped a return
for their love. They were soon joined
by others who had heard the wild and
delirious language of his sister: the old
belief was added to the new assurance,
and both again commented upon by
minds full of superstitious feeling, and
hearts full of supernatural fears, till the
youths and maidens of Corrievale held
no more love trysts for seven days and
nights, lest, like Elphin Irving, they
should be carried away to augment the
ranks of the unchristened chivalry.</p>

<p class='c008'>It was curious to listen to the speculations
of the peasantry. “For my
part,” said a youth, “if I were sure
that poor Elphin escaped from that
perilous water, I would not give the
fairies a pound of hiplock wool for their
chance of him. There has not been a
fairy seen in the land since Donald
Cargill, the Cameronian, conjured them
into the Solway for playing on their
pipes during one of his nocturnal preachings
on the hip of the Burnswark hill.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Preserve me, bairn,” said an old
woman, justly exasperated at the incredulity
of her nephew, “if ye winna
believe what I both heard and saw at
the moonlight end of Craigyburnwood
on a summer night, rank after rank of
the fairy folk, ye’ll at least believe a
douce man and a ghostly professor, even
the late minister of Tinwaldkirk; his
only son (I mind the lad weel, with his
long yellow locks and his bonnie blue
eyes, when I was but a gilpie of a lassie),
<em>he</em> was stolen away from off the horse
at his father’s elbow, as they crossed
that false and fearsome water, even
Locherbriggflow, on the night of the
Midsummer Fair of Dumfries. Ay, ay,
who can doubt the truth of that? Have
not the godly inhabitants of Almsfieldtown
and Timwaldkirk seen the sweet
youth riding at midnight, in the midst
of the unhallowed troop, to the sound of
flute and of dulcimer; and though meikle
they prayed, naebody tried to achieve
his deliverance?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I have heard it said, by douce folk
and sponsible,” interrupted another,
“that every seven years the elves and
fairies pay kane, or make an offering of
one of their children to the grand enemy
of salvation, and that they are permitted
to purloin one of the children of
men to present to the fiend; a more
acceptable offering, I’ll warrant, than
one of their own infernal brood, that are
Satan’s sib allies, and drink a drop of
the deil’s blood every May morning.
And touching this lost lad, ye all ken
his mother was a hawk of an uncannie
nest, a second cousin of Kate Kimmer,
of Barfloshan, as rank a witch as ever
rode on ragwort. Ay, sirs, what’s bred
in the bone is ill to come out o’ the
flesh.”</p>

<p class='c008'>On these and similar topics, which
a peasantry full of ancient tradition and
enthusiasm and superstition, readily associate
with the commonest occurrences
of life, the people of Corrievale continued
to converse till the fall of evening;
when each seeking their home,
renewed again the wondrous subject,
and illustrated it with all that popular
belief and poetic imagination could so
abundantly supply.</p>

<p class='c008'>The night which followed this melancholy
day was wild with wind and rain;
the river came down broader and deeper
than before, and the lightning, flashing
by fits over the green woods of Corrie,
showed the ungovernable and perilous
flood sweeping above its banks. It
happened that a farmer, returning from
one of the border fairs, encountered the
full swing of the storm; but, mounted
on an excellent horse, and mantled from
chin to heel in a good gray plaid, beneath
which he had the farther security
of a thick great-coat, he sat dry in his
saddle, and proceeded in the anticipated
joy of a subsided tempest, and a glowing
morning sun. As he entered the
long grove, or rather remains of the old
Galwegian forest, which lines for some
space the banks of the Corriewater,
the storm began to abate, the wind
sighed milder and milder among the
trees; and here and there a star, twinkling
momentarily through the sudden
rack of the clouds, showed the river
raging from bank to brae. As he shook
the moisture from his clothes, he was
not without a wish that the day would
dawn, and that he might be preserved
on a road which his imagination beset
with greater perils than the raging
river; for his superstitious feeling let
loose upon his path elf and goblin, and
the current traditions of the district
supplied very largely to his apprehension
the ready materials of fear.</p>

<p class='c008'>Just as he emerged from the wood,
where a fine sloping bank, covered with
short green sward, skirts the limit of the
forest, his horse made a full pause,
snorted, trembled, and started from
side to side, stooped his head, erected
his ears, and seemed to scrutinize every
tree and bush. The rider, too, it may
be imagined, gazed round and round,
and peered warily into every suspicious-looking
place. His dread of a supernatural
visitation was not much allayed,
when he observed a female shape seated
on the ground at the root of a huge old
oak tree, which stood in the centre of
one of those patches of verdant sward,
known by the name of “fairy rings,”
and avoided by all peasants who wish
to prosper. A long thin gleam of
eastern daylight enabled him to examine
accurately the being who, in
this wild place and unusual hour, gave
additional terror to this haunted spot.
She was dressed in white from the neck
to the knees; her arms, long, and
round, and white, were perfectly bare;
her head, uncovered, allowed her long
hair to descend in ringlet succeeding
ringlet, till the half of her person was
nearly concealed in the fleece. Amidst
the whole, her hands were constantly
busy in shedding aside the tresses which
interposed between her steady and uninterrupted
gaze, down a line of old
road which winded among the hills to
an ancient burial-ground.</p>

<p class='c008'>As the traveller continued to gaze,
the figure suddenly rose, and wringing
the rain from her long locks, paced
round and round the tree, chanting in
a wild and melancholy manner an
equally wild and delirious song:—</p>

<p class='c008'>THE FAIRY OAK OF CORRIEWATER.</p>

<p class='c008'>I.</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>The small bird’s head is under its wing,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>The deer sleeps on the grass;</div>
      <div class='line'>The moon comes out, and the stars shine down,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>The dew gleams like the glass:</div>
      <div class='line'>There is no sound in the world so wide,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Save the sound of the smitten brass,</div>
      <div class='line'>With the merry cittern and the pipe</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Of the fairies as they pass.—</div>
      <div class='line'>But oh! the fire maun burn and burn,</div>
      <div class='line'>And the hour is gone, and will never return.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>II.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>The green hill cleaves, and forth, with a bound,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Come elf and elfin steed;</div>
      <div class='line'>The moon dives down in a golden cloud,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>The stars grow dim with dread;</div>
      <div class='line'>But a light is running along the earth,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>So of heaven’s they have no need:</div>
      <div class='line'>O’er moor and moss with a shout they pass,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>And the word is, spur and speed.—</div>
      <div class='line'>But the fire maun burn, and I maun quake,</div>
      <div class='line'>And the hour is gone that will never come back.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>III.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>And when they come to Craigyburn wood,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>The Queen of the Fairies spoke:—</div>
      <div class='line'>“Come, bind your steeds to the rushes so green,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>And dance by the haunted oak:</div>
      <div class='line'>I found the acorn on Heshbon-hill,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>In the nook of a palmer’s poke,</div>
      <div class='line'>A thousand years since; here it grows!”</div>
      <div class='line in2'>And they danced till the greenwood shook.—</div>
      <div class='line'>But oh! the fire, the burning fire,</div>
      <div class='line'>The longer it burns, it but blazes the higher.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>IV.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“I have won me a youth,” the Elf-queen said,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>“The fairest that earth may see;</div>
      <div class='line'>This night I have won young Elph Irving,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>My cupbearer to be.</div>
      <div class='line'>His service lasts but for seven sweet years,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>And his wage is a kiss of me.”</div>
      <div class='line'>And merrily, merrily laughed the wild elves,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Round Corrie’s greenwood tree.—</div>
      <div class='line'>But oh! the fire it glows in my brain,</div>
      <div class='line'>And the hour is gone, and comes not again.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>V.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>The Queen she has whispered a secret word,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>“Come hither, my Elphin sweet,</div>
      <div class='line'>And bring that cup of the charmèd wine,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Thy lips and mine to weet.”</div>
      <div class='line'>But a brown elf shouted a loud, loud shout,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>“Come, leap on your coursers fleet,</div>
      <div class='line'>For here comes the smell of some baptized flesh,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>And the sounding of baptized feet.”—</div>
      <div class='line'>But oh! the fire that burns, and maun burn;</div>
      <div class='line'>For the time that is gone will never return.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>VI.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>On a steed as white as the new-milked milk,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>The Elf-queen leaped with a bound,</div>
      <div class='line'>And young Elphin a steed like December snow</div>
      <div class='line in2'>’Neath him at the word he found.</div>
      <div class='line'>But a maiden came, and her christened arms</div>
      <div class='line in2'>She linked her brother around,</div>
      <div class='line'>And called on God, and the steed with a snort</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Sank into the gaping ground.—</div>
      <div class='line'>But the fire maun burn, and I maun quake,</div>
      <div class='line'>And the time that is gone will no more come back.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>VII.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>And she held her brother, and lo! he grew</div>
      <div class='line in2'>A wild bull waked in ire;</div>
      <div class='line'>And she held her brother, and lo! he changed</div>
      <div class='line in2'>To a river roaring higher;</div>
      <div class='line'>And she held her brother, and he became</div>
      <div class='line in2'>A flood of the raging fire;</div>
      <div class='line'>She shrieked and sank, and the wild elves laughed,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Till mountain rang and mire.—</div>
      <div class='line'>But oh! the fire yet burns in my brain,</div>
      <div class='line'>And the hour is gone, and comes not again.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>VIII.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“Oh, maiden, why waxed thy faith so faint,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Thy spirit so slack and slaw?</div>
      <div class='line'>Thy courage kept good till the flame waxed wud,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Then thy might began to thaw,</div>
      <div class='line'>Had ye kissed him with thy christened lip,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Ye had won him frae ’mang us a’.</div>
      <div class='line'>Now bless the fire, the elfin fire,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>That made thee faint and fa’;</div>
      <div class='line'>Now bless the fire, the elfin fire,</div>
      <div class='line'>The longer it burns it blazes the higher.”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c008'>At the close of this unusual strain,
the figure sat down on the grass, and
proceeded to bind up her long and disordered
tresses, gazing along the old
and unfrequented road.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Now God be my helper,” said the
traveller, who happened to be the Laird
of Johnstonebank, “can this be a trick
of the fiend, or can it be bonnie Phemie
Irving, who chants this dolorous song?
Something sad has befallen, that makes
her seek her seat in this eerie nook
amid the darkness and tempest: through
might from abune, I will go on and
see.”</p>

<p class='c008'>And the horse, feeling something of
the owner’s reviving spirit in the application
of the spur-steel, bore him at
once to the foot of the tree. The poor
delirious maiden uttered a piercing yell
of joy as she beheld him, and, with the
swiftness of a creature winged, linked
her arms round the rider’s waist, and
shrieked till the woods rang.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Oh, I have ye now, Elphin, I have
ye now!” and she strained him to her
bosom with a convulsive grasp.</p>

<p class='c008'>“What ails ye, my bonnie lass?”
said the Laird of Johnstonebank, his
fears of the supernatural vanishing when
he beheld her sad and bewildered look.</p>

<p class='c008'>She raised her eyes at the sound, and,
seeing a strange face, her arms slipped
their hold, and she dropped with a
groan on the ground.</p>

<p class='c008'>The morning had now fairly broken:
the flocks shook the rain from their
sides, the shepherds hastened to inspect
their charges, and a thin blue smoke
began to stream from the cottages of the
valley into the brightening air. The laird
carried Phemie Irving in his arms, till
he observed two shepherds ascending
from one of the loops of Corriewater,
bearing the lifeless body of her brother.
They had found him whirling round and
round in one of the numerous eddies,
and his hands, clutched and filled with
wool, showed that he had lost his life in
attempting to save the flock of his sister.</p>

<p class='c008'>A plaid was laid over the body, which,
along with the unhappy maiden in a
half lifeless state, was carried into a
cottage, and laid in that apartment distinguished
among the peasantry by the
name of “the chamber.” While the
peasant’s wife was left to take care of
Phemie, old man, and matron, and
maid had collected around the drowned
youth, and each began to relate the
circumstances of his death, when the
door suddenly opened, and his sister,
advancing to the corpse with a look of
delirious serenity, broke out into a wild
laugh, and said,—</p>

<p class='c008'>“O, it is wonderful, it’s truly wonderful!
that bare and death-cold body,
dragged from the darkest pool of Corrie,
with its hands filled with fine wool,
wears the perfect similitude of my own
Elphin! I’ll tell ye—the spiritual
dwellers of the earth, the fairyfolk of
our evening tale, have stolen the living
body, and fashioned this cold and
inanimate clod to mislead your pursuit.
In common eyes, this seems all that
Elphin Irving would be, had he sunk
in Corriewater; but so it seems not to
me. Ye have sought the living soul,
and ye have found only its garment.
But oh, if ye had beheld him, as I
beheld him to-night, riding among the
elfin troop, the fairest of them all; had
you clasped him in your arms, and
wrestled for him with spirits and terrible
shapes from the other world, till your
heart quailed and your flesh was subdued,
then would ye yield no credit to
the semblance which this cold and
apparent flesh bears to my brother.
But hearken—on Hallowe’en, when
the spiritual people are let loose on
earth for a season, I will take my stand
in the burial-ground of Corrie; and
when my Elphin and his unchristened
troop come past with the sound of all
their minstrelsy, I will leap on him and
win him, or perish for ever.”</p>

<p class='c008'>All gazed aghast on the delirious
maiden, and many of her auditors gave
more credence to her distempered speech
than to the visible evidence before them.
As she turned to depart, she looked
round, and suddenly sunk upon the
body, with tears streaming from her
eyes, and sobbed out, “My brother!
oh, my brother!” She was carried out
insensible, and again recovered; but
relapsed into her ordinary delirium, in
which she continued till the Hallow-eve
after her brother’s burial.</p>

<p class='c008'>She was found seated in the ancient
burial-ground, her back against a broken
grave-stone, her locks white with frost-rime,
watching with intensity of look
the road to the kirk-yard; but the
spirit which gave life to the fairest form
of all the maids of Annandale was fled
for ever.</p>

<p class='c007'>Such is the singular story which the
peasants know by the name of Elphin
Irving, the Fairies’ Cupbearer; and
the title, in its fullest and most supernatural
sense, still obtains credence
among the industrious and virtuous
dames of the romantic vale of Corrie.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='choosing_a_minister' class='c006'>CHOOSING A MINISTER.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By John Galt.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>The Rev. Dr Swapkirk having had
an apoplexy, the magistrates were obligated
to get Mr Pittle to be his helper.
Whether it was that, by our being used
to Mr Pittle, we had ceased to have a
right respect for his parts and talents, or
that in reality he was but a weak brother,
I cannot in conscience take it on me to
say; but the certainty is, that when the
Doctor departed this life, there was
hardly one of the hearers who thought
Mr Pittle would ever be their placed
minister, and it was as far at first from the
unanimous mind of the magistrates, who
are the patrons of the parish, as anything
could well be, for he was a man
of no smeddum in discourse. In verity,
as Mrs Pawkie, my wife, said, his
sermons in the warm summer afternoons
were just a perfect hushabaa, that no
mortal could hearken to without sleeping.
Moreover, he had a sorning way
with him, that the genteeler sort couldna
abide, for he was for ever going from
house to house about tea-time, to save
his ain canister. As for the young ladies,
they couldna endure him at all, for he
had aye the sough and sound of love
in his mouth, and a round-about ceremonial
of joking concerning the same,
that was just a fasherie to them to hear.
The commonality, however, were his
greatest adversaries; for he was, notwithstanding
the spareness of his abilities,
a prideful creature, taking no interest
in their hamely affairs, and seldom
visiting the aged or the sick among them.</p>

<p class='c008'>Shortly, however, before the death of
the Doctor, Mr Pittle had been very
attentive to my wife’s full cousin, Miss
Lizzie Pinkie,—I’ll no say on account of
the legacy of seven hundred pounds left
her by an uncle, that made his money in
foreign parts, and died at Portsmouth
of the liver complaint, when he was
coming home to enjoy himself; and Mrs
Pawkie told me, that as soon as Mr
Pittle could get a kirk, I needna be surprised
if I heard o’ a marriage between
him and Miss Lizzie.</p>

<p class='c008'>Had I been a sordid and interested
man, this news could never have given
me the satisfaction it did, for Miss Lizzie
was very fond of my bairns, and it was
thought that Peter would have been her
heir; but so far from being concerned
at what I heard, I rejoiced thereat, and
resolved in secret thought, whenever a
vacancy happened (Dr Swapkirk being
then fast wearing away), to exert the best
of my ability to get the kirk for Mr
Pittle,—not, however, unless he was
previously married to Miss Lizzie; for, to
speak out, she was beginning to stand
in need of a protector, and both me and
Mrs Pawkie had our fears that she
might outlive her income, and in her
old age become a cess upon us. And
it couldna be said that this was any
groundless fear; for Miss Lizzie, living a
lonely maiden life by herself, with only
a bit lassie to run her errands, and no
being naturally of an active or eydent
turn, aften wearied, and to keep up her
spirits, gaed, maybe, now and then,
oftener to the gardevin than was just
necessar, by which, as we thought, she
had a tavert look. Howsoever, as Mr
Pittle had taken a notion of her, and
she pleased his fancy, it was far from
our hand to misliken one that was sib to
us; on the contrary, it was a duty laid
on me by the ties of blood and relationship
to do all in my power to further
their mutual affection into matrimonial
fruition; and what I did towards that
end is the burden of this narrative.</p>

<p class='c008'>Dr Swapkirk, in whom the spark of
life was long fading, closed his eyes, and
it went utterly out, as to this world, on
a Saturday night, between the hours of
eleven and twelve. We had that afternoon
got an inkling that he was drawing
near to his end. At the latest, Mrs
Pawkie herself went over to the manse,
and stayed till she saw him die. “It
was a pleasant end,” she said, for he
was a godly, patient man; and we were
both sorely grieved, though it was a
thing for which we had been long prepared,
and, indeed, to his family and
connections, except for the loss of the
stipend, it was a very gentle dispensation,
for he had been long a heavy handful,
having been for years but, as it were, a
breathing lump of mortality, groosy and
oozy, and doozy, his faculties being shut
up and locked in by a dumb palsy.</p>

<p class='c008'>Having had this early intimation of
the Doctor’s removal to a better world,
on the Sabbath morning when I went
to join the magistrates in the council-chamber,
as the usage is, to go to the laft,
with the town-officers carrying their
halberts before us, according to the
ancient custom of all royal burghs,
my mind was in a degree prepared to
speak to them anent the successor.
Little, however, passed at that time, and
it so happened that, by some wonder of
inspiration (there were, however, folk
that said it was taken out of a book of
sermons, by one Barrow, an English
divine), Mr Pittle that forenoon
preached a discourse that made an
impression, insomuch that, on our way
back to the council-chamber, I said to
Provost Vintner that then was—</p>

<p class='c008'>“Really, Mr Pittle seems, if he would
exert himself, to have a nerve. I could
not have thought it was in the power of
his capacity to have given us such a
sermon.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The provost thought as I did; so I
replied—</p>

<p class='c008'>“We canna, I think, do better than
keep him among us. It would, indeed,
provost, no be doing justice to the young
man to pass another over his head.”</p>

<p class='c008'>I could see that the provost wasna
quite sure of what I had been saying;
for he replied, that it was a matter that
needed consideration.</p>

<p class='c008'>When we separated at the council-chamber,
I threw myself in the way of
Bailie Weezle, and walked home with
him, our talk being on the subject of
the vacancy; and I rehearsed to him
what had passed between me and the
provost, saying, that the provost had
made no objection to prefer Mr Pittle,
which was the truth.</p>

<p class='c008'>Bailie Weezle was a man no overladen
with worldly wisdom, and had
been chosen into the council principally
on account of being easily managed.
In his business, he was originally by
trade a baker in Glasgow, where he
made a little money, and came to settle
among us with his wife, who was a
native of the town, and had her relations
here. Being, therefore, an idle man,
living on his money, and of a soft and
quiet nature, he was, for the reason
aforesaid, chosen into the council, where
he always voted on the provost’s side;
for in controverted questions every one
is beholden to take a part, and he
thought it his duty to side with the
chief magistrate.</p>

<p class='c008'>Having convinced the bailie that Mr
Pittle had already, as it were, a sort of
infeoffment in the kirk, I called in the
evening on my old predecessor in the
guildry, Bailie M‘Lucre, who was not a
hand to be so easily dealt with; but I
knew his inclinations, and therefore I
resolved to go roundly to work with him.
So I asked him out to take a walk, and
I led him towards the town-moor, conversing
loosely about one thing and
another, and touching softly here and
there on the vacancy.</p>

<p class='c008'>When we were well on into the middle
of the moor, I stopped, and, looking
round me, said,—</p>

<p class='c008'>“Bailie, surely it’s a great neglec’
of the magistrates and council to let
this braw broad piece of land, so near
the town, lie in a state o’ nature, and
giving pasturage to only twa-three of
the poor folks’ cows. I wonder you,
that’s now a rich man, and with een worth
pearls and diamonds,—that ye dinna
think of asking a tack of this land; ye
might make a great thing o’t.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The fish nibbled, and told me that he
had for some time entertained a thought
on the subject; but he was afraid that I
would be over extortionate.</p>

<p class='c008'>“I wonder to hear you, bailie,” said
I; “I trust and hope no one will ever
find me out of the way of justice; and to
convince you that I can do a friendly
turn, I’ll no objec’ to gie you a’ my influence
free gratis, if ye’ll gie Mr Pittle
a lift into the kirk; for, to be plain with
you, the worthy young man, who, as ye
heard to-day, is no without an ability,
has long been fond of Mrs Pawkie’s
cousin, Miss Lizzie Pinkie; and I would
fain do all that lies in my power to help
on the match.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The bailie was well pleased with my
frankness, and before returning home, we
came to a satisfactory understanding;
so that the next thing I had to do was
to see Mr Pittle himself on the subject.
Accordingly, in the gloaming, I went
over to where he stayed: it was with
Miss Jenny Killfuddy, an elderly maiden
lady, whose father was the minister of
Braehill, and the same that is spoken of
in the chronicle of Dalmailing, as having
had his eye almost put out by a clash of
glaur, at the stormy placing of Mr
Balwhidder.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Mr Pittle,” said I, as soon as I was
in, and the door closed, “I’m come to
you as a friend. Both Mrs Pawkie and
me have long discerned that ye have had
a look more than common towards our
friend Miss Lizzie, and we think it our
duty to inquire your intents, before
matters gang to greater length.”</p>

<p class='c008'>He looked a little dumfoundered at
this salutation, and was at a loss for an
answer; so I continued—</p>

<p class='c008'>“If your designs be honourable, and
no doubt they are, now’s your time;—strike
while the iron’s hot. By the
death of the Doctor, the kirk’s vacant,
the town-council have the patronage;
and if ye marry Miss Lizzie, my interest
and influence shall not be slack in helping
you into the poopit.”</p>

<p class='c008'>In short, out of what passed that
night, on the Monday following, Mr
Pittle and Miss Lizzie were married; and
by my dexterity, together with the able
help I had in Bailie M‘Lucre, he was in
due season placed and settled in the
parish; and the next year, more than
fifty acres of the town-moor were inclosed,
on a nine hundred and ninety-nine
years’ tack, at an easy rate, between
me and the bailie, he paying the half of
the expense of the ditching and rooting
out of the whins; and it was acknowledged,
by every one that saw it, that
there had not been a greater improvement
for many years in all the country-side.
But to the best actions there will
be adverse and discontented spirits; and,
on this occasion, there were not wanting
persons naturally of a disloyal opposition
temper, who complained of the inclosure
as a usurpation of the rights and property
of the poorer burghers. Such revilings,
however, are what all persons
in authority must suffer; and they had
only the effect of making me button my
coat, and look out the crooser to the
blast.—“<cite>The Provost.</cite>”</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='the_meal_mob' class='c006'>THE MEAL MOB.</h2>
</div>

<p class='c007'>During the winter of 18—, there
was a great scarcity of grain in the
western districts of Scotland. The expediency
of the corn laws was then
hotly discussed, but the keen hunger of
wives and children went further to embitter
the spirits of the lower orders.
The abstract question was grasped at as
a vent for ill-humour, or despairingly, as
a last chance for preservation. As usual,
exaggerated reports were caught up and
circulated by the hungry operatives, of
immense prices demanded by grain-merchants
and farmers, and of great
stores of grain garnered up for exportation.
As a natural consequence
of all these circumstances, serious disturbances
took place in more than one
burgh.</p>

<p class='c008'>The town of ——, in which I then
resided, had hitherto been spared, but a
riot was, in the temper of the poor,
daily to be expected. Numbers of
special constables were sworn in. The
commander of the military party then
in the barracks was warned to hold himself
in readiness. Such members of the
county yeomanry corps as resided in or
near the town were requested to lend
their aid, if need should be.</p>

<p class='c008'>I was sitting comfortably by my fireside,
one dark, cold evening, conversing
with a friend over a tumbler of toddy,
when we were both summoned to
officiate in our capacity of constables.
The poor fellows who fell at Waterloo
sprang from their hard, curtainless beds
with less reluctance. We lingered
rather longer than decency allowed of,
buttoning our greatcoats and adjusting
our comforters. At last, casting a
piteous look at the fire, which was just
beginning to burn up gloriously, we
pressed our hats deeper over our eyes,
grasped our batons, and sallied forth.</p>

<p class='c008'>The mischief had begun in the mills at
the town-head, and as the parties employed
in the mob went to work with less
reluctance than we had done, the premises
were fairly gutted, and the plunderers,
(or, more properly speaking, devastators)
on their way to another scene of action,
before a sufficient <i><span lang="la">posse</span></i> of our body
could be mustered. We encountered
the horde coming down the main street.
The advanced guard consisted of an
immense swarm of little ragged boys,
running scatteredly with stones in their
hands and bonnets. These were flanked
and followed by a number of dirty,
draggle-tailed drabs, most of them with
children in their arms. Upon them
followed a dense mass of men of all
ages, many of them in the garb of
sailors, for the tars had learned that the
soldiery were likely to be employed
against the people, and there is a
standing feud between the “salt-waters”
and the “lobsters.” There was also a
vague and ill-regulated sympathy for the
suffering they saw around them, working
at the bottom. All this array we half
saw, half conjectured, by the dim light
of the dirty street lamps. The body
was silent, but for the incessant pattering
of their feet as they moved along.</p>

<p class='c008'>The word was given to clear the
street, and we advanced with right ill-will
upon them. The first ranks gave
back, but there arose immediately a
universal and deafening hooting, groaning,
yelling, and whistling. The shrill
and angry voices of women were heard
above all, mingled with the wailing of
their terrified babes. “We maun hae
meat;” “Fell the gentle boutchers;”
“Belay there! spank him with your
pole;” resounded on every side, in the
screaming tones of women, and the
deep voices of sailors, garnished and
enforced with oaths too dreadful to
mention. Nor was this all: a shower
of stones came whizzing past our ears
from the boy-tirailleurs mentioned
above, levelling some of our companions,
jingling among the windows, and extinguishing
the lamps. Some of the
boldest of the men next attempted to
wrest the batons from the constables
who stood near them. In this they
were assisted by the women, who
crushed into our ranks, and prevented
us giving our cudgels free play. The
stones continued to fly in all directions,
hitting the rioters as often as the preservers
of the peace. The parties
tugged and pulled at each other most
stubbornly, while the screams of pain
and anger, the yell of triumph, and
hoarse execrations, waxed momentarily
louder and more terrific.</p>

<p class='c008'>At last the constables were driven
back, with the loss of all their batons
and most of their best men. The mob
rushed onward with a triumphant hurrah,
and turned down a side street leading
to a granary, in which they believed a
great quantity of grain was stored up.
The proprietor’s house stood beside it.
A volley of stones was discharged
against the latter, which shattered every
window in the house, and the missiles
were followed by a thunder-growl of
maledictions, which made the hair of
the innocent inmates stand on their
heads, and their hearts die within them.
The crowd stood irresolute for a moment.
A tall athletic sailor advanced to the
door of the granary. “Have you never
a marlin-spike to bouse open the hatchway
here?” A crowbar was handed to
him. “A glim! a glim!” cried voices
from different parts of the crowd. It
was now for the first time discovered
that some of the party had provided
themselves with torches, for after a few
minutes’ fumbling a light was struck,
and immediately the pitch brands cast
a lurid light over the scene. The state
of the corn merchant’s family must now
have been dreadful. The multitude
stood hushed as death, or as the coming
thunderstorm. All this time the sailor
of whom I have spoken had been
prising away with his bar at the granary
door.</p>

<p class='c008'>At this moment a heavy-measured
tread was heard indistinctly in the distance.
It drew nearer, and became
more distinct. Some respectable burghers,
who had assembled, and stood
aloof gazing on the scene, now edged
closer to the crowd, and addressed the
nearest women in a low voice: “Yon’s
the sodgers.” The hint was taken, for,
one by one, the women gathered their
infants closer in their arms, and dropped
off. First one and then another pale-faced,
consumptive-looking weaver followed
their example in silence. The
trampling now sounded close at hand,
and its measured note was awful in the
hush of the dark night. The panic now
spread to the boys, who flew asunder
on all sides—like a parcel of carrion
flies when disturbed by a passenger—squalling,
“Yon’s the sodgers!” So
effectual was the dispersion that ensued,
that when the soldiers defiled into the
wider space before the granary, no one
remained except the door-breaker, and
one or two of the torch-holders.</p>

<p class='c008'>The latter threw down their brands
and scampered. The lights were
snatched up before they were extinguished,
by some of the boldest constables.
Of all the rioters only one
remained—the tall sailor, who may be
termed their ringleader. The foremost
rank of the soldiers was nearly up to
him, and others were defiling from
behind to intercept him should he
attempt to reach the side streets. He
stood still, watchful as a wild beast
when surrounded by hunters, but with
an easy roll of his body, and a good-humoured
smile upon his face. “Yield,
Robert Jones,” cried the provost, who
feared he might meditate a desperate
and unavailing resistance. But instead
of answering, Robert sprung upon a
soldier who was forming into line at his
right side, struck up the man’s musket,
twisted off the bayonet, and making it
shine through the air in the torchlight
like a rocket, tripped up his heels.
“Not yet, lobster!” he exclaimed, as
the bayonet of the fallen hero’s left-hand
man glanced innocuously past him,
so saying, the sailor rapidly disappeared
down a dark lane.—<cite>Edinburgh Literary
Journal.</cite></p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='the_flitting' class='c006'>THE FLITTING.</h2>
</div>

<p class='c007'>It was on the day before the flitting,
or removal, that John Armour’s farm-stock,
and indeed everything he had, excepting
as much as might furnish a small
cottage, was to be rouped to meet his
debts. No doubt it was a heart-rending
scene to all the family, though his wife
considered all their losses light, when
compared with her husband’s peace of
mind. The great bustle of the sale,
however, denied him the leisure which
a just view of his condition made most
to be dreaded; so that it was not till
late in the evening, when all was quiet
again,—his cherished possessions removed,
and time allowed him to brood
over his state,—that the deep feelings
of vexation and despair laid hold of his
spirit.</p>

<p class='c008'>The evening was one of remarkable
beauty; the birds never more
rapturous, the grass never greener
around the farm-house. The turf
seat on which old Hugh was wont to
rest, in the corner of the little garden,
was white with gowans; the willows
and honeysuckles that overarched it
all full of life; the air was bland, the
cushat’s distant cooing very plaintive;—all
but the inhabitants of the humble
dwelling was tranquil and delighted.
But they were downcast; each one pursued
some necessary preparation for tomorrow’s
great change, saying little,
but deeply occupied with sad thoughts.
Once the wife ejaculated—</p>

<p class='c008'>“Oh, that the morn was ower!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Yes,” said her husband, “the morn,
and every morn o’ them!—but I wish
this gloaming had been stormy.”</p>

<p class='c008'>He could not settle—he could not
eat—he avoided conversation; and, with
his hat drawn over his brow, he
traversed wearily the same paths, and
did over and over again the same
things. It was near bedtime, when
one of the children said to her mother—</p>

<p class='c008'>“My faither’s stan’in’ at the corner
o’ the stable, and didna speak to me
when I spak to him;—gang out,
mother, and bring him in.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“If he wad but speak to me!” was
the mother’s answer. She went out,—the
case had become extreme,—and she
ventured to argue with and reprove him.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ye do wrang, John—this is no like
yoursel;—the world’s fu’ of affliction—ithers
ken that as weel as you—ye
maunna hae a’ things your ain way:
there’s Ane abune us wha has said,
‘In sorrow shalt thou eat thy bread all
the days of thy life.’ Ye canna expect
to gang free; and I maun say it wadna
be gude for ony o’ us. Maybe greater
ills are yet to befa’ ye, and then ye’ll
rue sair that ye hae gien way at this
time; come in, John, wi’ me; time
will wear a’ this out o’ mind.”</p>

<p class='c008'>He struck his hand against his brow—he
grasped at his neckcloth—and
after choking on a few syllables which
he could not utter, tears gushed from
his eyes, and he melted in a long heartrending
fit of weeping. Oh, it is a
sorrowful thing to see a strong hard-featured
man shedding tears! His sobs
are so heavy, his wail so full-toned!
John Armour, perhaps for twenty years
a stranger to weeping, had now to burst
the sealed sluices of manhood’s grief,
which nothing but the resistless struggle
of agony could accomplish, ere relief
could reach his labouring breast. Now
it was he sought the dearest sanctuary on
earth—he leaned upon his wife’s bosom,
and she lavished on him the riches of a
woman’s love. At length he went to
rest, gentler in spirit, and borne down
by a less frightful woe than what had
lately oppressed him.</p>

<p class='c008'>Next morning brought round the
bustle of flitting. There is a deep
interest attending a scene of this kind,
altogether separate from the feelings of
those who have to leave a favourite
abode. Circumstances of antiquity—of
mystery—belong to it. The demolition
even of an old house has something
melancholy; the dismantling it of furniture
is not less affecting. Some of the
servants that had been at one time about
the farm assisted on this occasion, and
entered fully into the sentiments now
described.</p>

<p class='c008'>“That press has been there, I’ll warran’,
this fifty years; it was his mother’s,
and cam on her blithe marriage-day;
the like o’t ye’ll no see now-a-days—it’s
fresh yet. Few hae seen the back o’
thee, I trow, these twa days, but the
wabsters and sclaters; they winna ken
what to mak o’ this wark; let me look
into the back o’t.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I wad be a wee eerie,” said another,
feeling the gloomy appearance of the
old empty dwelling suggest thoughts
allied to superstition, “about ganging
into that toom house at night; I wad
aye be thinkin’ o’ meeting wi’ auld
Hugh, honest man.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The flitting set off to a cottage about
two miles distant; two cart loads of
furniture, one milk cow, and the old
watch-dog, were its amount. John
Armour lingered a little behind, as did
his wife, for she was unwilling to leave
him there alone. He then proceeded
to every part of the premises. The
barn and stable kept him a few moments;
the rest he hurried over, excepting
the kitchen and spence. When he
came to the kitchen (for it was the
apartment he visited last), he leant his
head for an instant against the mantelpiece,
and fixed his eyes on the hearthstone.
A deep sigh escaped him, and
his wife then took him by the hand to
lead him away, which he resisted not,
only saying,—</p>

<p class='c008'>“I hae mind o’ mony a thing that
happened here;”—then casting his eyes
hastily round the desolate apartment,—“but
fareweel to thee for ever!” In a
few minutes they overtook the flitting,
nor did he once turn again his head towards
the desolate place which had so
firm a hold of his heart.—“<cite>My Grandfather’s
Farm.</cite>”</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='ewen_of_the_little_head' class='c006'>EWEN OF THE LITTLE HEAD:<br> <span class='large'><em>A LEGEND OF THE WESTERN ISLES</em></span>.</h2>
</div>

<p class='c007'>About three hundred years ago,
Ewen Maclean of Lochbuy, in the island
of Mull, having been engaged in a
quarrel with a neighbouring chief, a
day was fixed for determining the affair
by the sword. Lochbuy, before the
day arrived, consulted a celebrated
witch as to the result of the feud.
The witch declared, that if Lochbuy’s
wife should on the morning of that day
give him and his men food unasked,
he would be victorious; but if not,
the result would be the reverse. This
was a disheartening response for the
unhappy votary, his wife being a noted
shrew.</p>

<p class='c008'>The fatal morning arrived, and the
hour for meeting the enemy approached;
but there appeared no symptoms of
refreshment for Lochbuy and his men.
At length the unfortunate man was
compelled to ask his wife to supply them
with food. She set down before them
curds, but without spoons. The men
ate the curds as well as they could with
their hands; but Lochbuy himself ate
none. After behaving with the greatest
bravery in the bloody conflict which
ensued, he fell covered with wounds,
leaving his wife to the execration of his
people.</p>

<p class='c008'>But the miseries brought on the
luckless chief by his sordid and shrewish
spouse did not end with his life, for he
died fasting; and his ghost is frequently
seen to this day riding the very horse on
which he was mounted when he was
killed. It was a small, but very neat
and active pony, dun or mouse coloured,
to which Lochbuy was much attached,
and on which he had ridden for many
years before his death. His appearance
is as accurately described in the island
of Mull as any steed is in Newmarket.
The prints of his shoes are discerned by
connoisseurs, and the rattling of his
curb is recognized in the darkest night.
He is not particular in regard to roads,
for he goes up hill and down dale with
equal velocity. His hard-fated rider
still wears the same green cloak which
covered him in his last battle; and he is
particularly distinguished by the small
size of his head.</p>

<p class='c008'>It is now above three hundred years
since Ewen-a-Chin-Vig (<em>Anglice</em>, “Hugh
of the Little Head”) fell in the field of
honour; but neither the vigour of the
horse nor of the rider is yet diminished.
His mournful duty has always been to
attend the dying moments of every
member of his own numerous tribe,
and to escort the departed spirit on its
long and arduous journey.</p>

<p class='c008'>Some years ago, he accosted one of his
own people (indeed, he has never been
known to notice any other), and shaking
him cordially by the hand, he
attempted to place him on the saddle
behind himself, but the uncourteous
dog declined the honour. Ewen
struggled hard, but the clown was a
great strong, clumsy fellow, and stuck
to the earth with all his might. He
candidly acknowledged, however, that
his chief would have prevailed, had it
not been for a birch tree which stood
by, and which he got within the fold of
his left arm. The contest became then
very warm indeed. At length, however,
Ewen lost his seat for the first time; and
the instant the pony found he was his
own master, he set off with the fleetness
of lightning. Ewen immediately pursued
his steed, and the wearied rustic
sped his way homeward.—<cite>Lit. Gazette.</cite></p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='basil_rolland' class='c006'>BASIL ROLLAND.</h2>
</div>

<h3 class='c013'><span class='sc'>Chapter I.</span></h3>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>In May, quhen men yied everichone</div>
      <div class='line'>With Robene Hoid and Littil John,</div>
      <div class='line'>To bring in bowis and birken bobynis,</div>
      <div class='line'>Now all sic game is fastlings gone,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Bot gif if be amangs clowin Robbynis.—<em>A. Scott.</em></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c008'>The period at which the circumstances
recorded in the following narrative happened
was in the troubled year of 1639.
At that time the points in dispute betwixt
Charles and his subjects were
most violently contested, and the partizans
of each were in arms all over the
country, endeavouring, by partial and
solitary operations, to gain the ascendancy
for their faction. The first cause
of these disturbances was the attempt
of the monarch to establish Episcopacy
over Scotland—a form of worship which
had always been disliked by the Scotch,
as they considered it but a single step
removed from Popery. The intemperate
zeal with which Charles prosecuted his
views (occasioned by a misconception
of the national character of his subjects),
and his averseness to compromise or
conciliation, first gave rise to the combination
called the Covenanters; weak
at first, but in a short time too powerful
to be shaken by the exertions of the
High Churchmen.</p>

<p class='c008'>One of the first and most politic steps
taken by the Council of the Covenant,
denominated “the Tables,” was the
framing of the celebrated Bond or
Covenant; the subscribers of which
bound themselves to resist the introduction
of Popery and Prelacy, and to
stand by each other in case of innovations
on the established worship.
Charles seeing, at last, the strength of
this association, uttered, in his turn, a
covenant renouncing Popery; he also
dispensed with the use of the Prayer
Book, the Five Articles of Perth, and
other things connected with public
worship which were obnoxious to the
Covenanters.</p>

<p class='c008'>During this contention, the citizens of
Aberdeen remained firmly attached to
the royal interest, and appear to have
come in with every resolution that was
adopted by the government. In 1638,
a deputation from “the Tables,”
among whom was the celebrated
Andrew Cant (from whom the mission
was denominated “Cant’s Visitation”),
arrived in the town, for the purpose of
inducing the inhabitants to subscribe
the Covenant; but as their representations
entirely failed of success, they
were obliged to desist. The Earl of
Montrose arrived in Aberdeen in the
spring of 1639, and, partly by the terror
of his arms, partly by the representations
of the clergy that accompanied him,
succeeded in imposing the Covenant on
the townsmen. After his departure, a
body of the royalists, commanded by
the Laird of Banff, having routed the
forces of Frazer and Forbes, took
possession of the town, and wreaked
their vengeance on all who had subscribed
the Covenant. They only remained
five days in the town, and, on
their departure, it was occupied by the
Earl of Marischal, who in turn harassed
the royalists. As soon as Montrose
heard of these occurrences, being doubtful
of the fidelity of the inhabitants, he
marched to Aberdeen again, disarmed
the citizens, and imposed a heavy fine
upon them. The citizens, who had
been impoverished by these unjust
exactions, were somewhat relieved, when
Montrose, their greatest scourge, after
another short visit, marched into Angus
and disbanded his army.</p>

<p class='c008'>It was in the month of June that the
citizens began to feel themselves elated
by the prospect, if not of peace, of the
seat of the war being removed from
their dwellings, on the disbanding of
Montrose’s forces, and at liberty to
say anything about the Covenant that
might seem good unto them. Those
who had subscribed it under the influence
of fear (and they were not a small
number) veered round to the king’s
party, and sounded the praises of the
Viscount of Aboyne, who had landed at
Aberdeen on the part of his Majesty.
Their former losses and sufferings were
all forgotten, and a general disposition
for rejoicing was to be seen among them.
Provost Leslie and his colleagues were
inclined to encourage this, as it might
lead those who had a hankering after
the Covenant to turn to the loyal side,
which allowed them greater latitude in
their games and plays. It was therefore
announced that, in the ensuing week,
the pastime of Robin Hood and Little
John (which had not been celebrated in
the beginning of May, the usual time,
on account of the disturbances) should
be practised on the playfield, along
with the usual helps to merriment.</p>

<p class='c008'>Of all the crowds that poured out
from the town on that day to see the
spectacle, it is our business only to take
notice of a young man and maiden that
tripped along just as it was commencing.
They appeared to be of the first order
of the citizens. The maiden was a
lively, interesting little girl, with blue
eyes and a fine complexion; her limbs
moulded into the most exact symmetry,
and her whole appearance in the utmost
degree fascinating. Her dress was white,
with a sort of scarf or plaid wound
round her person, and fastened by a loop
and silver button on the left shoulder.
Her flaxen hair, except a few ringlets
which strayed down her neck, was
confined by a silken snood, which,
even at that period, was the badge of
Scottish maidens. Her companion was
above the middle size, of rather a slender
make and ruddy complexion, with expressive
dark eyes, and coal black hair
flowing down, according to the fashion
of the royalists, in large and glossy curls.
He was about twenty years of age, and
though his figure was somewhat boyish,—or
feminine if you will,—yet the fire
of his eye, the intelligence of his countenance,
and the activity of his frame,
confirmed his claims to manhood. Although
the young man intended only to
be a spectator of the revels, he was
dressed in green, with bow and arrows,
which was the dress of the actors of the
play.</p>

<p class='c008'>As they approached the playfield, now
called Gilcomston, the shouts of the
delighted populace were heard, mingled
with the sounds of the pipe, fiddle, and
trumpet, the songs of the minstrels, and
the cries of the jugglers. The Abbot
and Prior of Bon-Accord (or, as they
were called after the Reformation, Robin
Hood and Little John) had just arrived;
and having been greeted by the populace,
were forming a ring for the celebration
of the sports, which was guarded
by a body of their archers. We have
no need to detail the performance;
suffice it to say, that the piece was
intended for a satire on the Covenanters,
they being shown to the lieges under
the semblance of evil spirits, and the
royalists of angels of light. Towards
the close of it, the young man whom
we have mentioned felt his sleeve
pulled by a person behind him.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Thou art he whom I seek,” said
the person who thus forced himself on
his notice; “and thy name is Basil
Rolland.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“It is,” returned he; “declare your
business.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Not here. Thou seest we are surrounded
by the multitude. Remove
with me to a little distance, for I would
hold some secret converse with thee.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“That may not be. I came to squire
this maiden to the revels, and may not
leave her alone.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Suffer the damsel to tarry here for
a short space, and follow me to a little
distance.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Go with the stranger, Basil,” said
she, “and I will remain in the same
spot till you return.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Do so then, Mary,” said Basil;
“I’ll return anon.”</p>

<p class='c008'>As they retired to some distance from
the crowd, Basil had leisure to note the
appearance of the stranger. From his
dress little could be learned; it was in
the extremity of plainness. He had
been a man of uncommon muscular
strength, but it seemed much decayed,
perhaps from the struggles of an active
life. His eyes were sunk, but retained
their lustre; and premature furrows
were on his brow. When he halted,
Basil addressed him:</p>

<p class='c008'>“Will it please you then, sir, to
communicate your tidings?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Then I ask thee, Basil Rolland,
what dost thou here?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Why, grave sir, I’ll answer thy
question with another,” said Basil,
laughing at this solemn opening of the
conference: “what dost <em>thou</em> here?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“My gray hairs, young man, are a
testimony unto thee that I come not
here on any light matter.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Why then, my foolish face may be
a testimony to thee of the lightness of the
cause that brought me hither. Marry!
we have at last got rid of Montrose and
his prickeared gang, wherefore we may
be allowed to enjoy ourselves on the
prospect of peace.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Enjoy thyself!” said he. “And
what enjoyment canst thou gain from
these absurd and impious mummeries?
They are a sacrifice to the evil one; a
bloody engine of Prelacy to betray the
unthinking soul. Peace! What have
ye to do with peace? Have not thy
friends been treacherous as a snare, and
unstable as water? Hath not the finger
of Heaven written bitter things against
them for their guile and deceit? Have
not their enemies trampled them under
foot, and they in whom they trusted
been as a scourge and as a snare unto
them? Have they not been lukewarm
in the good cause, regarding the favour
of men more than the will of God?
Are they not even now triumphing at
the hurt of Israel, and rejoicing that
the pure evangel has been withdrawn
from them? Let them lean on those
whom they have chosen, and well shall
it be for them if they can protect them
against the just wrath of the godly.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Your words are dark and threatening,
old man, but to me they appear as
the ravings of a feverish dreamer. You
seem to tell me of some danger hanging
over us; but our enemy’s forces are
disbanded, and in my judgment there is
nothing to fear. The town is fortified:
Aboyne, with a strong army, possesses
it. So away with these fancies; and if
you have aught to say that concerns me
particularly, say on, for I must return
to my sister.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Thy sister? Well, Mary Leslie may deserve
the name. I am thy friend, wherefore
I am so thou shalt quickly know.
Ponder well what I have said. Remember
that the calm often precedes the
storm, and that it is better to take part
with the faithful, even in adversity, than
to be the friend of covenant-breaking,
soul-seducing prelatists. I will see thee
to-morrow at the booth of Samuel Fairtext
at eventide. Meet me there, and
it shall be for thy good. Farewell,
mayst thou be partaker of all covenant
blessings.”</p>

<p class='c008'>So saying, he walked off, and in a
short time was lost among the crowd,
leaving Basil at a loss what to make of
his insinuations. When he came up
with Mary Leslie, the Skinners, who represented
the royalists, had succeeded
in driving the Litsters, who represented
the Covenanters, into a smoky den or
booth, which, in a moment after, took
fire, while the whole angelic train joined
in a song to the praise of the Viscount
of Aboyne.</p>

<p class='c008'>He remarked, however, that the spectators
were now very inattentive to the
sports. They were drawn together into
small knots, all over the field, in earnest
conversation, which, as it became more
general, entirely drowned the iron voices
of the performing cherubs. The spectators
began to leave the field in great
numbers. Robin Hood’s body-guard
even followed their example, and Little
John, by the same inexplicable spirit
of discontent, deserted his friend and
leader. The whisper (as it was at first)
was not long in extending to the
spot where Basil and Mary were standing.
The cause of the disturbance
may be gathered from the following
conversation:—</p>

<p class='c008'>“Now, the like o’ this I never saw,”
said Thomas Chalmers, deacon of the
fleshers. “That deil’s buckie Montrose
is to the road again, an’ comin’ wi’
thousands upon thousands to the town.
Fient a hoof mair will I get killed till
we be clear o’ him.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Weel, weel,” said Jamie Jingle, the
bellman, “it’s a gude thing it’s nae
waur. Come wha like, they’ll aye need
a bellman.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Nae waur, ye clappertongue!” said
another. “I wad like to ken what
waur could come? Willna a’ thing we
hae be spulzied by thae rascals,—black
be their cast!—an’ wunna there be
anither speel at the Covenant, whilk we
hae a’ ta’en an’ unta’en about half-a-dozen
o’ times already?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ye’re vera right, Saunders,” said the
chief of the tanners; “but for a’ that,
Aboyne may gie him his kail through the
reek; and, if the news be true, there
will be a great demand for shoon and
belts, whilk sud be a source o’ comfort,
ye ken.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“What hae I to do wi’ your belts an’
your brogues, Benjie Barkhide? What
hae I to do wi’ them, I say? A murrain
on the Covenanters, say I, and a’ that
pertains to them.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“A curse on the Covenanters an’
prelatemongers baith, conjunctly and
severally!” said another citizen. “I
wish the deil would snite his nose with
the hale clanjamphry, though he sud
get me to the bet o’ the bargain, for
wishing them sae.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Wha would hae thought o’ this in
the morning?” said Barkhide. “Weel,
lads, I think we sud a gae hame, an’
put as mony o’ our bits o’ things out o’
the way as we can.”</p>

<p class='c008'>They departed, and this sentiment
becoming general, in a short time the
play field was emptied of the revellers.</p>

<p class='c008'>As Mary and Basil moved homewards
with the rest, the latter evaded the
questions put to him concerning the
stranger. He saw, however, a coincidence
between his darkly expressed hints
and the events of the day; and while he
resolved for the present to keep this
secret, he anxiously wished for the
promised interview.</p>

<h3 class='c015'><span class='sc'>Chapter II.</span></h3>
<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>The red cross glares on Frazer’s towers,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>My love, I dare not stay;</div>
      <div class='line'>The bugle peals through Lovat’s bowers,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>My love, I must away.—<cite>Old Ballad.</cite></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c008'>We shall now conduct the reader to
a shop in the Broadgate, over which
appeared in ancient characters,—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'><span class='blackletter'>Patrick Leslie &#38; Samuel Fairtext.</span></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c012'>It is not to be supposed that the street
had the same appearance which it now
exhibits; neither are the unsophisticated
to imagine that the shops resembled
those of our own times, with lofty roofs,
gigantic windows, mahogany counters,
splendid chandeliers, and elegant gas
burners. The windows were not much
larger than the loop-holes of a modern
prison; the roof was low and covered
with cobwebs, and the goods exposed
for sale were all lying at sixes and
sevens. The forepart of the shop extended
about ten feet forward into the
street, and was decorated on the outside
with swatches of the various commodities
that were to be sold within. In
the back shop, which was nearly as
dark as midnight, were deposited the
whole of the goods, except the specimens
just mentioned. In the inmost
recess of these penetralia, was Provost
Leslie, with three or four stout fellows,
removing, under his command, the
goods in the back shop or warehouse.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Saunders,” said the provost, “ye’ll
tak awa yon silks an’ velvets, and put
them into the vault i’ the dryest—ay,
that’s anither flask broken, ye careless
gowk! I’ll set ye about your business
gin ye wunna tak mair tent. As soon’s
you get that barrel awa, ye’ll tak down
the Prayer-Books from that shelf, and
put up twa or three dozen o’ Confessions
o’ Faith. An’, my little man,
ye’ll run up to my lasses, and tell them
to leave a’ their wark an’ come down
to grease the sword blades, for fear
that they rust in the cellar, an’ syne
tell the same to Sammy Fairtext’s
maidens, an’ bring them a’ wi’ you as
fast’s ye can.—Ay, Basil, are ye there?
Troth, gentle or semple, ye maun help’s
the day. You are a canny lad, sae try
if ye can collect a’ the trinkets and the
siller cups and spoons, and take them
up by to my chamber.—Ye ne’er-do-weel!
ye haverel, Sandie Hackit, what
garred you spill the wine on that web?
Ye needna mind it now, ye sorrow; it’s
nae worth puttin’ out o’ Montrose’s
way.”</p>

<p class='c008'>When Basil Rolland returned from
executing his commission, the stranger
whom he had seen on the former day
was in the shop, engaged in conversation
with Fairtext. The latter bade
Basil conduct him to his house, whether
he himself would follow when he had
dispatched some necessary business.
When they were seated, the stranger
began—</p>

<p class='c008'>“Thou hast seen, youth, that the
things which I hinted to thee are in
part come to pass. The city is in
confusion, the men of war are discouraged,
so that they will assuredly be a
prey, and a spoil, and a derision to
their adversaries. What dost thou now
intend?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“What but to join the army of
Aboyne, and do battle with my best
blood against these murdering rebels.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“And what would be thy reward,
young man? Thy good sense tells thee
that it is wrong to deprive free-born
men of liberty of conscience. You
would fight for your own slavery.
Charles is one who regardeth not covenants.
He will reward jugglers and
lewd ones, rather than those who have
shed their blood for his wicked house.
But he already totters on his throne,
and the day may not be distant when
he himself shall cry for mercy from
those whose fathers, mothers, and children
he hath slain. If you are vanquished
in the approaching contest, all
with you is lost; if successful, you are
nothing the better, except for upholding
a Papistical hierarchy, the raw project
of a godless debauchee. Thy grandfather
did battle on the wrong side,
and, after his fall at the battle of Pinkie,
the family fell from its former power,
which it has never been able to regain.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Let me ask what comfort or reward
could I expect by deserting my friends?
The Covenanters have renounced their
oath of allegiance, and have imbrued
their hands in their countrymen’s blood.
Good can never follow an enterprise
begun by perjury, and continued with
carnage.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“And did not Charles first deliberately
break his oath and the covenant
made with the people? The paction
was therefore nullified by him, and
could not bind the other party. If they
have shed blood, their blood has been
shed; and it was not till every attempt
at pacification failed that they took up
the carnal weapon. And, for comfort, I
have long supported this cause, and I can
look back with greater pleasure to my
conduct in this respect than thou canst
on the picture of thy lady love which
even now is peeping from thy bosom.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“It is my mother’s picture,” said
Basil, blushing to the eyes.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Thy mother’s!” said the stranger,
while, with an emotion which he had
not yet exhibited, he caught at the
picture with such violence as to break
the silken riband with which it was
suspended, and, unconscious of Basil’s
presence, riveted his eyes upon it,
scanning the features with the greatest
eagerness.</p>

<p class='c008'>“The same, the same,” said he to
himself; “the arched brow and the
feeling eye, the smiling lips and the
rosy cheek. But where is the principle
that gave these their value? Where is
the life, the soul?” continued he,
kissing the senseless painting. “How
inferior was this once to thy beauty,
and how superior now to thy mouldering
ashes! Didst thou appear as the
ideal charmer of a flitting dream, or
wert thou indeed the pride of my
youth, the light of my eyes, and the
mistress of my heart? Thou wert!
thou wert! my sorrows tell it.—Preserve
this picture, young man. Thou never,
alas! knewest a mother’s love—or a
father’s affection: the former flame was
rudely quenched, the latter burned unknown
to thee.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Then you knew my mother?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ay, Basil, I knew her. We ran
together in infancy, we danced together
on the braes of Don, and wove each
other garlands of the wild-flowers that
grew on its banks. Then we thought
this world was as heaven, while we
were as innocent as angels. As we
grew up, the sun, the wood, the rock,
was our temple, where we admired the
beauteous novelty of this earth. All
was love, and peace, and joy; but sorrow
came, and those sweet dreams have
vanished.”</p>

<p class='c008'>During these unexpected communications,
Basil felt himself strangely agitated.
The old man seemed to know
his history, and with a mixture of doubt
and anxiety he inquired if he knew his
father.</p>

<p class='c008'>“<em>I</em> am thy father,” said the stranger,
weeping, and throwing himself into his
arms; “I am thy parent, thy joyous,
sorrowing parent. How often have I
wished for this day! It is now come,
and thou art all that I could wish—except
in one thing, and that is not thy
fault. I have claimed thee at a time
when the boy must act the man, and
take part boldly in the great struggle.
We must depart from this place to-night.
The citizens, thou knowest, are summoned
to join the royalists under pain
of death, so that we may be delayed if
we tarry longer.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“But whither, my father, shall we
go?” said Basil.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Where but to the persecuted remnant
that are even now struggling for
freedom. We will fight under the
banner of the Covenant.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I have now found a father,” said
Basil, “and his commands I must and
will obey; but you will not bid me
lift the sword when every stroke must
fall upon an acquaintance or a schoolmate?”</p>

<p class='c008'>Isaac Rolland then began to mention to
his son the reasons which induced him to
join this party. He had no more of enthusiasm
than it becomes one to have who
knows he is embarked in a good cause.
He mentioned his own early history,
which we shall blend with that of his
son. He had been one of the mission,
headed by Sir Thomas Menzies, that
visited King James in 1620 on civil
business. About eighteen months before,
he had lost a loving and beloved wife,
with whom he had been acquainted
from early infancy. She died on the
birth of Basil. After this affliction,
Isaac Rolland could find no pleasure in
the place of his nativity, where everything
reminded him of some dear departed
joy; wherefore, having interest
to obtain a situation at court, he left his
only son Basil under the guardianship
of his friend Fairtext, and contented
himself by hearing often about him,
without ever visiting him till the time
at which this story commences. Rolland
was acquainted partially with the
circumstances of his birth. He knew
that his mother died when she gave
him life; he knew also that his father
existed, but nothing farther. Isaac laid
before his son, in a clear and methodic
manner, the reasons for which the
Covenanters took up arms, the reasonableness
of their demands, and the
tyranny of their enemies. He neither
palliated nor denied the excesses of
either party, but contended that these
should teach all to use their superiority
mercifully. The forcible point of view
in which he set his arguments wrought
instant conviction in Basil’s mind, which
his father observing,—</p>

<p class='c008'>“Come, then,” said he, “and let us
prepare for this struggle. If we be
successful (and shall we not be so in
such a cause?), we shall have the consolation
of having given peace and freedom
to the land. I have a sufficiency
of world’s goods, and thou and thy
Mary—nay, start not, I know all—thou
and thy Mary will be the support and
comfort of my old age, and the subject
of my last prayer, as ye have been of
many, many in the days bygone. Bid
your friends farewell, and an hour
hence we meet to part no more. Be
cautious, however, my son, for these
men of Belial have set a guard on the
city, and death is the lot of all who
seem about to leave it. Farewell! God
bless thee, my dear son;” and he again
folded him in his arms.</p>

<p class='c008'>When Basil was left to himself, it
would have been difficult to say whether
he was more sorrowful or joyful. He
had found his father, a fond and doting
father; but his heart revolted at turning
his back on the scenes of his youth and
the smiling face of his Mary. The
latter was the more distressing. She
had listened to his suit, and the good-natured
provost, when acquainted with
it, had sworn that no other should
marry his Mary. His own father seemed
to approve his passion; wherefore he
resolved to bid her farewell, and moved
accordingly to the provost’s house.</p>

<p class='c008'>She was alone, and received him
with her usual smile of joy, but was
startled at the unusual expression of
sorrow on his countenance. “Mary,”
said he; but his lips could articulate
nothing farther.</p>

<p class='c008'>She became alarmed. “Basil, you
are ill!” said she.</p>

<p class='c008'>He seized her hand. “Mary, I am
come to bid you farewell—perhaps a
long farewell.”</p>

<p class='c008'>She became pale in her turn, and
asked him to explain himself. He
resumed,—</p>

<p class='c008'>“When we were young, Mary, you
were my only companion, and I yours.
You were unhappy when away from
Basil Rolland, and I when absent from
Mary Leslie. When, in the folly of
play, I had girded myself with your
father’s sword, you complained to him,
while the tears ran down your cheeks,
that brother Basil was leaving you to
become a soldier. Such things at the
time are trifling; but how often are
they the types of blessed love in riper
years. I am now to leave you to mingle
in scenes of strife: let me carry with
me the consciousness of your continued
love; confirm to me the troth that you
have plighted, and, come life or death,
I shall be happy.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“But why, O Basil, why are you
leaving us? Have we not more need
of thy presence than ever?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I have found my father, and by his
command I leave you this very night.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“This night!” said she, while the
tears coursed in torrents down her pale
cheek. Basil caught her in his arms,
and they wept together who had never
known sorrow before.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Be comforted, Mary,” said Basil at
length; “we shall meet again, and the
present sorrow will enhance the gladness
of the meeting. My happiness
depends entirely on you, and my father
looks fondly to our union.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Oh! when you are gone far from
this, you will soon forget the vows that
you have made. I have no mother to
guide me; oh, do not then deceive me,
Basil.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I swear that my heart never owned
the influence of another, and that its
last beat shall be true to you.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Then,” said she, throwing herself
into his arms, “I am happy!”</p>

<p class='c008'>Basil hastily explained to her what
he knew of his destination, and, with a
chaste kiss of mutual transport, they
separated.</p>

<p class='c008'>He acquainted no other person with
his intention of departing, but returned
to make some preparations for his
journey. These were soon completed;
he was joined by his father, and leaving
the town at sunset, they walked leisurely
to Stonehaven, where Montrose’s army
was encamped.</p>

<h3 class='c015'>Chapter III.</h3>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>See how he clears the points o’ faith.—<em>Burns.</em></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'><em>Hamlet.</em> Hold you the watch to-night?</div>
      <div class='line'><em>Horatio.</em> We do, my lord.—<cite>Shakspeare.</cite></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c008'>Day was dawning as our travellers
reached the camp of the Covenanters.
They rested for some time to partake of
victuals, which their journey rendered
necessary. Isaac Rolland then judged
it proper to present his son to Montrose,
and accordingly conducted him to Dunottar,
where the general then was.
They were admitted to his presence.</p>

<p class='c008'>“I expected you sooner, Rolland,”
said Montrose. “What intelligence
have you gathered?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“The enemy are preparing to take
the field with a numerous and well-appointed
force, and I have gathered, from
a sure source, that it is their intention
to attack our forces as soon as some
needful supplies are received from the
north.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“How do the citizens stand affected?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Almost to a man they have joined
Aboyne. They have fortified the city
and the bridge, and are determined to
hold out to the last.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“The ungrateful truce-breaking
slaves!” said Montrose. “But vengeance
is at hand. Who is this young
man whom thou hast brought with
thee?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“My son,” said Isaac, “whom grace
hath inclined to take part with us.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“A youth of gallant bearing! Young
man, thy father’s faithfulness is a warrant
for thine. Let thy fidelity equal
thy reputed spirit, and thou shalt not
lack the encouragement due to thy
deserts. You may both retire to rest,
and I will apprise you of the duties required
of you.”</p>

<p class='c008'>They saluted the general, and retired.</p>

<p class='c008'>A foraging party returned with a report
that Aboyne was already on his
march. This was found to be incorrect
by some scouts who had been dispatched
that evening to gather what information
they could about the enemy’s motions.
They brought the intelligence, however,
that Aboyne’s equipments were completed,
and that it was the popular belief
that he would march immediately to meet
the Covenanters. Preparations were
accordingly made for immediate marching.
Numerous foraging parties scoured
the adjacent country for provisions, and
horses for transporting the baggage and
ammunition. According to the custom
of the Congregation, when about to engage
in warfare, the next day was appointed
for a general fast throughout
the host.</p>

<p class='c008'>There perhaps never was assembled
any body for the purposes of religious
worship that exhibited such an appearance
of romantic sublimity as the
Covenanters did on such occasions. At
the present time they were assembled
under the blue canopy of heaven, in a
hollow valley betwixt two mountains,
the summits of which were planted with
sentinels, to give notice to the main
body of any interruption. Upon the
declivity of one of the mountains was
erected a wooden pulpit, before which
was assembled the army, to the number
of about 2000 men. A dead stillness
prevailed among them, while the
preacher, a man richly endowed with
that nervous and fiery eloquence which
was the most effectual with men in their
situation, explained to them a passage
from the fifteenth chapter of Second
Samuel:—“Thus saith the Lord of
hosts, I remember that which Amalek
did to Israel, how he laid wait for him
in the way, when he came up from
Egypt. Now go and smite Amalek,
and utterly destroy all that they have,
and spare them not; but slay both man
and woman, infant and suckling, ox
and sheep, camel and ass.” This passage
he applied to the condition of the
Covenanters. He described the sufferings
and grievances of the persecuted
kirk, and showed that the Almighty did
not disregard these, but, in His own
time, would avenge the blood of His
saints. He told them that God was
now calling on all who were on His side
to fight for the good of the land, and
that His soul could have no pleasure in
those who drew back from the approaching
contest. “And now,” said
he, while the fire flashed from his eyes,
as with prophetic ardour, which was
answered by a corresponding enthusiasm
in his hearers; “and now the men of
Babylon have set up an image of gold,
even a molten image, and they say,
‘Fall down and worship the image that
we have set up;’ and they have fenced
themselves with trenched cities, and
they have encompassed themselves with
spears, and a multitude of horsemen
and slingers, and archers, and they say
unto this help from Egypt, ‘This shall
be for a deliverance unto us.’ But fear
not ye the multitude of their strong
ones, neither be dismayed at the neighing
of their horses; for the Lord of hosts
is on our side, and His right hand shall
work valiantly for us. He breaketh
the iron weapon, and burneth the
chariot in the fire. He laugheth at the
bow of steel and the rattling of the
quiver. Walled cities are no defence
against His hand, nor the place of
strength, when His thunder muttereth
in the sky. Wherefore, gird up your
loins to fight the battles of the Lord.
Smite the Amalekites from Dan even
unto Beersheba. Destroy the lines of
their tents, and their choice young men,
that the reproach may be removed from
the camp of Israel. Turn not aside
from the sacrifice like the faint-hearted
Saul, but smite them till they be utterly
consumed, and their name become a
hissing, and an abomination, and a
by-word upon the earth. Think on
your children, and your children’s children,
from age to age, who shall hold
your name in everlasting remembrance,
and look to the reward of Him who
sitteth between the cherubim, who hath
said, that whosoever layeth down his
life for My sake shall find it.</p>

<p class='c008'>“The days are now come when the
father shall deliver up the son to death,
and the son the father; when the
brother shall be divided against the
sister, and the sister against the mother.
But the days of Zion’s peace shall also
come, when all the princes of the earth
shall bow down before her, and call her
the fairest among women. (Canticles,
sixth and first.) The house of the Lord
shall be established on the tops of the
mountains. The New Jerusalem shall
appear as a bride adorned for her
husband. (Revelations, twenty-first and
second.) The tabernacle of God shall
be with men, and He will dwell with
them, and they shall be His people, and
God himself shall be with them, and be
their God; and God shall wipe away
all tears from their eyes, and there shall
be no more death, neither sorrow nor
sighing, neither shall there be any more
pain, for the former things shall have
passed away. Go forth, then, to the
battle. Quit yourselves like men. Be
strong. Look to those ancient worthies
who, through faith, subdued kingdoms,
stopped the mouths of lions, waxed
valiant in fight, turned to flight the
armies of the alien. Fear not their
multitude nor their fury, for he that is
with you is greater than your enemies.
Think on the persecuted state of Zion,
and may the God of battles be for a
buckler and a defence unto you!”</p>

<p class='c008'>A hum of approbation ran along the
lines of the Covenanters at the conclusion
of this discourse, while the
preacher called upon them to join with
him in praising the Almighty. The
part chosen was that eloquent passage
of the eightieth psalm, where the
Israelites are spoken of under the similitude
of a vine.</p>

<p class='c008'>As the last note of this hymn ascended
in solemn strains to the lofty heaven,
several of the scouts made their appearance,
with jaded horses, bringing
the news that Aboyne was already on
his march, and approaching rapidly to
Stonehaven. Orders were immediately
given to the army of the Covenanters to
set out on their journey. These were
promptly obeyed, and, in a few hours,
the armies met at Megray Hill. This
was announced to the Covenanters by
their advanced guard being driven back
by the royalists. It was not, however,
Aboyne’s intention to hazard a general
engagement, as his soldiers were wearied
by the march. But Montrose, dispatching
a strong band of infantry, supported
by a detachment of cavalry, broke upon
them suddenly both in flank and rear,
involved them in the greatest confusion,
and forced them to seek Aberdeen by a
rapid flight, after leaving a considerable
number dead on the field. Montrose
pursued them, with the greatest possible
dispatch, to Aberdeen, where they
made a stand. The Bridge of Dee was
fortified in a very strong manner, and
protected by four field-pieces and a
strong guard of the citizens. Montrose
made several attempts at forcing it, but
was vigorously repulsed by the defenders,
who poured in a shower of
missiles with effect on the assailants,
while they themselves were so sheltered
by their breastworks that they received
little injury. Montrose was obliged,
therefore, to draw off his forces, and, as
it was evening, gave up the thought of
any farther attack. Having found a
convenient place, he pitched his camp
about a mile from the bridge, and
stationed his sentinels on the little eminences
in its neighbourhood, while those
of Aboyne were planted on both sides
of the river for a considerable distance
above and below the bridge. Both
armies, fatigued with the exertions of
the day, availed themselves of the repose
offered by their situation, and in
a short time the busy hum of both
camps was changed into stillness.</p>

<p class='c008'>Our hero had accompanied the army
during the march, with that wonder
and admiration which youthful minds
feel in such spirit-stirring scenes. The
strictness of the military duty, the contempt
of danger, the degree of subordination
and regularity that prevailed (for
the abilities of Montrose prevented that
ruinous confusion which the camp of
the Covenanters too often exhibited),
and the promptness and patience with
which the necessary commands were
executed made an impression on the
mind of Basil strongly in favour of his
military life. The general, at the commencement
of the march, ordered him
to be near his person, and by means, as
the Covenanters would have said, of
a “soul-searching” conversation, contrived
to get a clear view of his character
and worth. The opinion that he
made up was in favour of Basil, and he
scrupled not to give him more direct
assurances of his favour than he had
hitherto done. The honours that had
been paid him by this distinguished
statesman and general gave rise to a
new train of ideas in his mind; and,
as the army was preparing for the
night’s repose, he was charging the
enemy at the head of his own troops,
succouring the distressed damsel, and
hurling unheard-of destruction on his
foes. But the mightiest conquerors
have often found themselves conquered
when they least expected it; and, as
the valiant Don Quixote felt his very
soul withering when thinking on the
absence of his Dulcinea, so our hero regarded
the short time that he had been
separated from his Mary to be an age.
An ugly river and a hostile army lay
between him and his love. If Leander
swam across the Hellespont, surely
he might cross the Dee, and trust the
rest to his prudence and good fortune.</p>

<p class='c008'>His father was engaged with the
general; so out he wandered, and, by
his correct local knowledge, succeeded
in passing the various sentinels, and
getting to the banks of the river, a little
below the rocks called the Craig-lug,
where he had the fortune to find a small
fishing-boat (for, so far back as the year
1290, Aberdeen is celebrated in history
for its salmon-fishings). He easily
rowed himself across the river, and,
fastening the boat on the northern bank,
stole along the water’s edge, and entered
that part of the town which, as fronting
the harbour, was not walled. He
directed his course to the Broadgate,
and, as there were still several stragglers
in the street, ensconced himself
behind a projecting shop till all should
be quiet.</p>

<p class='c008'>When he left the camp, the night was
calm and serene. The breeze that
floated by was unable to curl the surface
of the river, and the moonbeams were
dancing in silvery circles on the placid
waters as they gurgled by. But this
was not of long continuance. The
atmosphere became quickly loaded with
clouds, the moon was obscured, the rain
fell in torrents, and the sullen howling
of the east wind, with the hollow muttering
of the thunder, indicated one of
those storms which not unfrequently
disturb the beauty of summer. Basil
wrapped his cloak the closer around
him, and hastened to the provost’s house.
All in it was dark and still. He
knocked; but no one returned an
answer. Astonished at this, he endeavoured
to open the door, but it
resisted his efforts. Being acquainted
with all the intricacies of the provost’s
domicile, he gained admission by a
window, but found the house deserted
of its inhabitants and stripped of its
furniture. Mary Leslie’s apartment was
then the object of his search. It was
also desolate. Her lute, her books, and
her landscapes were all removed. In
groping through the room, his hand fell
on a small picture, which the next flash
of lightning discovered to be her
miniature. He pressed it to his lips and
hid it in his bosom, regarding it, as the
holy man did the prophetic mantle, as
the last unexpected memorial of a lost
friend. It would be vain to attempt to
describe his amazement at these appearances.
He trembled for his friends,
when he knew the deeds of violence
that were daily practised in these perilous
times. He determined to arouse
the neighbourhood—to search for, pursue,
and destroy in one breath, all who
had been any way concerned in this
outrage. Reason, however, came to
his aid, and he saw the utter uselessness
of <em>his</em> attempting such a thing, except
by the assistance that he could obtain
from the Covenanters. He therefore
turned sorrowfully to retrace his steps,
which, from the darkness of the night
and the violence of the storm, was not
an easy matter. Having rowed himself
across the river by the little boat, he
was making a circuit to reach the camp,
when he saw a light at a small distance
from the landing-place. It proceeded
from a hut that was built at the foot of
the rock for the accommodation of the
fishermen. Curious to know who were
in it at this untimely hour, he pressed
forward, and listened to the following
dialogue:—</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ay! an’ will ye tell me that the
possession of Joash, the Abiezrite, wasna
in Ophrah? But it’s just like a’
your fouk; ye ken naething about the
Scriptures, but daze yourselves wi’ that
ill-mumbled mass, the prayer-beuk. But
your yill’s very gude, and far better
than what we have.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I doubtna, my lad,” said another
voice; “your fouk are sae stocked, I
daresay Montrose is gaun to mak you
a’ Nazarenes, for he gies you neither
wine nor strong drink.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Dinna speak lightly o’ the Scriptures,
Sawnie Hackit; ye’re just a
blaspheming Shemei, or a time-serving
Balaam.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Hout,” said Hackit, “gie’s nane o’
your foul-mou’d misca’ings. I wunner
what the deil garred you turn a
Covenanter, Tammas Granehard, for ye
usedna to be that fond o’ covenants,
unless it was ane for a fou pint stoup
at Jamie Jinks’ hostelry.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I wasna aye i’ the right way,
Sandie, muckle to my shame; but
better late mend than never do weel;
an’ I’m thinking it would be better for
you if ye would come wi’ us, for your
fouk can never stand ours, and, instead
o’ getting share o’ the spuilzie, ye’ll
maybe get but a weel-clawed crown.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I doubtna but ye’re very right,
Tammas; but what would come o’ my
ten achisons ilka day, forby the jibble
o’ drink, an’ my place at Provost
Leslie’s?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I’m doubtin’ your place there’ll
no’ be worth muckle, if we tak the town.
The provost isna a man to be passed
over, wha can sae weel afford to pay
for’s idolatry.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Did ye ever hear,” said Hackit,
“o him ever losing ony thing when
the whigs had the town one day and
the royalists the next?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Weel, Sandie,” said the other, “I
canna just charge my memory wi’ ony
thing o’ the kind; and gif it wasna,
it was that God-fearing man, Samuel
Fairtext, that saved him.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ay,” said Hackit; “and, when
the royalists were here, it was the jolly
old cavalier that saved Fairtext. Troth,
it’s the only wiselike partnership that
I ken o’ at present; for, if they had
been baith whigs or baith royalists,
they would have been ruined out o’
house and ha’ ere this time. But, ye
see, when the royalists were in the
town, Fairtext kept himself quiet, and
they wadna meddle wi’ him on Provost
Leslie’s account. And now a’ the gudes
are removed, an’ put under Fairtext’s
care; sae that the Covenanters wudna
tak the value of a shoe-tie frae him,
for he can pray and grane as weel as
ony o’ them. The provost and his
dochter have left their ain house, and
are to dwell wi’ Fairtext till the danger
be ower.”</p>

<p class='c008'>By the latter part of this conversation,
Basil felt as if the imaginary weight of
sorrow were removed from his bosom;
but, instead of it, his arms were pinioned
on a sudden, by a strong physical force,
so firmly, that he was unable to move
himself round to discover the occasion
of this unceremonious embrace.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Come here, ye dotterels!” said a
strong voice; “ye sit there, gabbin’
an’ drinkin’ awa, nae caring wha may
be hearing you. An’ you, my birkie,
will better be as quiet ’s you can, or, deil
tak me,—an’ I’m no used to swear,—but
I’ll scour my durk atween the ribs
o’ ye.”</p>

<p class='c008'>A couple of men now came out of
the hut and assisted in dragging Basil
into it. As soon as they had forced
him in, the person who had first seized
him quitted his hold, exclaiming, “Eh,
sirs! is that you?” Hackit also let
him go, and Basil was able to look
around him. There was neither chair
nor table in the booth, but turf seats
around the walls, plentifully littered
with straw. A candle, fixed in the
neck of an empty bottle, illuminated
the place, and revealed a goodly quantity
of bottles, with two or three horn
drinking-cups on the floor, by which
it appeared that the party had been engaged
in a debauch.</p>

<p class='c008'>Thomas Granehard still kept his hold,
and, in a stern voice, demanded what
he was?</p>

<p class='c008'>“What the deil’s your business wi’
that?” said Hackit. “I ken him, an’
that’s eneuch.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“But I am strong in spirit,” muttered
the Covenanter.</p>

<p class='c008'>“The toom bottles testify that, to a
certainty, Tammas,” said the other.
“But, never mind; get anither stoup,
Geordie, an’ sit down, Master Basil.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Blithely,” said Geordie; “and troth,
Master Rolland, I didna ken it was
you, or I wudna hae handled you sae
roughly. But sit down, for it’s a coarse
night.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I may not,” said Basil. “I must
to the camp. But why do I find you
here?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ou,” said Hackit, “ye see Geordie
and me belangs to Aboyne, for the
provost sent a’ his servants to him.
We’re upon the watch the night, ye
maun ken. But wha, i’ the name of
the seventy disciples, could stand thereout
in a night like this? Sae we made
up to the Covenanters’ warders, and
met in wi’ Tammas there, an auld
acquaintance; and we thought it best
to come here and keep ourselves warm
wi’ sic liquor as we could get, and let
the camps watch themselves.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Do you know that you all expose
yourselves to death for this frolic?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“There gang twa words to that
bargain. We’ve done a’ that could be
reasonably expected,—we watched till
the storm came.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Well, you are not accountable to
me; I must depart.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Weel, a gude evening to you. But
stop!—now that I mind—ye maun gie
me the pass-word.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“The pass-word!” said Basil, in a
tone of surprise.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ay, the pass-word! Ye see, Sergeant
Clinker says to me, ‘Now,
Saunders, if ony ane comes to you that
canna say <em>Balgownie</em>, ye’re to keep him
and bring him to me.’ Sae, for as
weel’s I like you, Master Basil, ye
canna pass without it.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Balgownie, then,” said Basil laughing.</p>

<p class='c008'>Hackit turned on his heel, saying it
was “vera satisfactory,” when Granehard
remembered that he had got a
similar injunction; wherefore, making
shift to steady himself a little by leaning
on his arquebuss, he delivered himself
thus:—</p>

<p class='c008'>“Beloved brethren,—I mean young
man,—I, even I, have also received a
commandment from ancient Snuffgrace,
saying, ‘Thou shalt abstain from wine
and strong drink; and whosoever
cometh unto thee that cannot give the
pass, <em>Tiglathpeleser</em>, thou shalt by no
means allow him to escape, otherwise
thou shalt be hanged on a tree, as was
the bloody Haman, the son of Hammedatha,
the Agagite.’ Wherefore,
now, repeat unto me the word—the
light of the moon is darkened—another
cup, Sandie—woe to the Man
of Sin—a fearsome barking—dumb
dogs—Malachi——” And he sank
down in a state of complete and helpless
intoxication.</p>

<p class='c008'>Basil earnestly advised Hackit and
his companions to return immediately
to their posts, and retraced his steps to
the camp, as the reader may judge, not
excessively gratified with the issue of
the night’s adventure.</p>

<h3 class='c015'><span class='sc'>Chapter IV.</span></h3>
<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>With forkis and flales they lait grit flappis,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>And flang togedder lyk freggis,</div>
      <div class='line'>With bougars of barnis they best blew kappis,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Quhyle they of bernis made briggis;</div>
      <div class='line'>The reird rais rudelie with the rappis,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Quhen rungis were layd on riggis,</div>
      <div class='line'>The wyffis cam furth with cryis and clappis,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>‘Lo! quhair my lyking liggis,’</div>
      <div class='line in24'>Quo they;</div>
      <div class='line'>At Christis Kirk on the Grene that day.—<em>King James I.</em></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c008'>Basil was dreaming about Mary
Leslie when he was awakened by the
dreadful note of preparation. The
bugles were sounding, men and horses
hurrying to and fro, and a body of
Cameronians—or “hill-fouk”—had
formed themselves into a conventicle
beside his tent, and were listening with
the greatest attention to a favourite
preacher. When he came out, the
scene was beyond measure animating.
There was no trace of the late storm,
and the little birds sang their accustomed
songs. All was bustle, both in the
camp of the Covenanters and that of the
royalists. The latter were repairing
the fortifications of the bridge, which
had suffered in the last night’s attack.
The royalists were already under arms,
but Montrose had no design of attacking
them, till the ebbing of the tide should
render the lower fords passable in case
he should be unable to force the bridge.
The Covenanters remained idle during
the forenoon, while the royalists stood
in order of battle, uncertain as to the
time of attack.</p>

<p class='c008'>About two in the afternoon, the shrill
sound of a bugle collected the Covenanters
to their standards; and Aboyne’s
sentinels, who till now had kept on the
south bank of the river, fell back to the
main body. Our hero was ordered by
Montrose to lead a body of horsemen
to the lower ford, to remain there till
informed of the bridge’s being taken,
when he was to push to the town and
guard Aboyne’s house from being
plundered, and seize on all papers that
might be found in it. He departed
accordingly.</p>

<p class='c008'>Aboyne, being aware that Montrose’s
intention was to storm the bridge, drew
all his forces to its defence. In a valley,
at a small distance from the bridge,
Montrose stationed the flower of his
army, and, with the rest, including the
waggoners and other followers of the
camp, to make a more formidable appearance,
made a feint as if he intended
to ford the river above the bridge.
This stratagem succeeded, for Aboyne
instantly withdrew the greater part of
his forces to oppose them, and thus left
the most important station almost at
the mercy of the enemy. The ambuscade
rose immediately, and advanced
even to the cannons’ mouths. The
artillery, however, of that period, was
not so formidable as it is now. It was
ill-served, ill-directed, and did little
execution. A brisk engagement took
place at the bridge, which, however,
was maintained but a few minutes; for
the Covenanters, clearing the bridge of
its defenders, and quickly removing the
barricades, opened to the right and left
a path for their cavalry, who drove the
citizens off the field with considerable
loss. Aboyne returned quickly with
his men to assist the citizens, but their
courage was now damped with their
loss; so that, by the first charge of the
Covenanters, their ranks were broken,
and they began to fly in every direction.
It was no longer a battle but a rout.
The Covenanters hewed down without
mercy their flying enemies; and, so
exasperated were they at their obstinate
fickleness in former times, that the more
merciful among them were hardly able
to obtain quarter for those who confessed
themselves vanquished. Aboyne,
with great exertion, having rallied one
hundred horse, made for the town,
determined if possible to defend it.
Montrose dispatched a party after him,
and both, plunging their rowels into
their horses’ sides, dashed forward over
friends and enemies indiscriminately,
and arrived close at each other’s heels
in the town. There was no possibility
of shutting the gates; so both entered
by St Nicholas Fort at the same instant.
The intention of Aboyne was
thus frustrated, and he found it not an
easy matter to escape with his followers
by the Gallowgate Port.</p>

<p class='c008'>The inhabitants had waited with
breathless expectation the event of this
day’s battle, and had in some measure
made up their minds in case of Aboyne’s
failure. But the anticipation fell far
short of the reality. The town was in
the possession of the enemy. At every
turning of the streets there were parties
engaged in desperate combat, while
the troops of cavalry that occasionally
passed sometimes trampled down both
friend and foe, never more to rise. The
poor citizens were endeavouring to
escape from the place with whatever of
their effects they could lay hands on.
The aged were feebly endeavouring to
leave the resting-place of their youth.
Wives, mothers, and sisters were searching
in tears for their friends, while a
loud and piercing shriek announced the
agony of the maidens when informed of
the death of their betrothed. The innocent
children in the confusion were left
to wander, neglected by their guardians,—and
the records from which this tale
is compiled say, that a little boy and
girl, who were twins, while wandering
hand-in-hand in the streets, unconscious
of danger, were crushed by the coursers’
hoofs, while their mother was hastening
to remove them from danger. But why
dwell upon the horrors of this scene?</p>

<p class='c008'>On a signal given, Basil forded the
Dee with his followers, and advanced
to the city. Having taken possession
of his post, he kept himself on the
alert, to restrain any irregularity among
his men, which the scene before them
was but too well calculated to superinduce.
The town was given up to be
pillaged. It had been set on fire in
different places; therefore it required the
utmost attention to prevent his followers
from mingling with their companions.
He had remained at his post a considerable
time, when he heard a piercing
shriek in a voice well known to him.
He sprang to the place whence it seemed
to come, and beheld Mary Leslie struggling
with a Covenanter, who was plundering
her of the trinkets that adorned
her dress. “Villain!” said he, drawing
his sword; but the exclamation put
the Covenanter on his guard. He aimed
a fearful blow at him, but the Covenanter’s
blade, being of better temper than
Basil’s, stood the blow, while the other
was shivered into a thousand pieces.
The Covenanter’s weapon was now
within a few inches of his breast, when
Basil, in a state of desperation, enveloped
his hand in his cloak, and seizing
the blade suddenly, bent it with such
force that it snapped at the hilt—when,
seizing a partisan that lay near him, he
dealt the Covenanter such a blow with
it as felled him to the earth. Basil then
hastily asked Mary what she did here.</p>

<p class='c008'>She informed him that the soldiers
had broken into the house in search of
plunder, and that she had been obliged
to fly when she met with the Covenanter.
He asked her where her father was.
She told him, weeping, that forty-eight
of the principal citizens, along with her
father, had been bound, and cast into
the common prison.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Then,” said he, “you must allow
me to conduct you to a place of safety.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“No, Basil, I cannot. My dear
father”——</p>

<p class='c008'>“He is in no danger; and this is no
place for maidens;” and running speedily
for his horse, he placed her, more dead
than alive, behind him, and galloped out
of the town.</p>

<p class='c008'>When he returned, which was about
eight, the confusion had in a great
measure ceased; the magistrates, by a
largess of 7000 merks, having prevailed
on Montrose to put a stop to the pillage.
When Basil came near to his post, he
discovered that the house had been
plundered, and that an attempt had
been made to set it on fire. Montrose
and his suite were standing before it;
his father was also there, and ran to
meet him.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Thank God, my son, that thou art
come. This,” looking round him,
“this looks not like treason.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Come hither, Basil Rolland,” said
Montrose, “and answer me truly. My
bowels yearn for thee; yet if what is
testified against thee be true, though
thou wert my mother’s son, God do so
to me, and more also, if thou shalt not
die the death. Why—why, young man,
didst thou desert the important trust
assigned to thee?”</p>

<p class='c008'>Basil told the naked truth.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Thou hast done wrong, young man;
yet thy father, thy youth, thine inexperience,
all—all plead with me for thee.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Heaven bless you, my lord, for the
word,” said Isaac Rolland. “My life
for it, he is innocent!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Believe me,” said Montrose, “I
would fain that he were so. There is
not in his eye the alarmed glance of
conscious guiltiness. Answer me again,
didst thou not join the camp with
traitorous intent? Didst thou not, last
night, under cloud of darkness, betake
thee to the camp of the enemy to tell
the Viscount of Aboyne what thou
knewest about the strength and intentions
of the host?”</p>

<p class='c008'>The truth and falsehood were here so
blended together, that Basil betrayed
signs of the greatest confusion, and was
silent.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Nay, now,” said Montrose, “he
denies it not; his confusion betrays
him. One of the sentinels discovered
him,—the very man against whom he
this day drew the sword for a prelatemonging
maiden. Young man, this
hath destroyed my aversion to sacrifice
thee; and the good cause demands that
such treachery pass not unpunished.
If thou hast any unrepented sin, prepare
thyself; for yet two days, and thou
art with the dead. Bind him, soldiers;
and on the second day hence let him
suffer the punishment due to his crimes.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Stop, my lord,” said Isaac Rolland,
“and shed not innocent blood. O cut
not down the flower in the bud! Exhaust
your vengeance on me; but spare,
oh, spare my son!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Entreaty avails not. My duty
to the host demands it. And know,
I do nothing but what I wish may
be my own lot if I betray the good
cause. If I betray it, may my best
blood be spilled on the scaffold,
and may the hangmen put on my
shroud!”</p>

<p class='c008'>This was spoken in an inflexible and
enthusiastic tone; but he knew not that
he was condemning himself. His wish
was accomplished; for they who had
that day witnessed his proud desire,
ere many years, saw one of his
mangled limbs bleaching over the
city gates. Basil was led off by the
guards; while his father, unable to
follow, stood speechless and motionless
as a statue.</p>

<h3 class='c015'><span class='sc'>Chapter V.</span></h3>
<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Farewell, ye dungeons, dark and strong,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>The wretch’s destinie;</div>
      <div class='line'>Macpherson’s time will not be long</div>
      <div class='line in2'>On yonder gallows-tree.—<cite>Old Song.</cite></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c008'>Basil Rolland was conducted into
one of the cells of the common prison,
and, notwithstanding his excitement,
fell into a profound slumber; but it
was of that troubled kind which nature
obtains by force when the mind is disposed
for watchfulness. He imagined
himself by the sea, on a beautiful summer
evening, walking with his love by
the murmuring shore. On a sudden
they were separated; and he, in a small
boat, was on the bosom of the ocean.
The tempest was raging in all its grandeur,
and the unwilling bark was whirling
and reeling on the mountainous
waves; it struck upon a rock, and was
dashed into a thousand pieces. He
felt the waters rushing in his ears;
he saw the sea-monsters waiting for
their prey; and his bubbling screams
filled his own heart with horror. He
sunk—but the waters receded and receded,
till he stood firmly on a dry
rock. A vast plain was around him—a
black and barren wilderness, without
one plant, one shrub, or one blade of
grass. It lay stretched before him, as
far as his eye could reach, the same dismal,
monotonous scene of desolation.
On a sudden, the mists that covered
its termination were dispelled, and piles
of rocky mountains, whose tops touched
the clouds, began to close around him.
A vast amphitheatre of smooth and
perpendicular stone surrounded him,
and chained him to the desert. The
rocky walls began to contract themselves,
and to move nearer to the spot
where he stood. Their summits were
covered with multitudes of spectators,
whose fiendish shout was echoed from
rock to rock, until it fell upon his aching
ear. Wild, unearthly faces were before
him on every side; and fingers pointed
at him with a demoniacal giggle. The
rocks still moved on. The narrow
circle on which he stood was darkened
by their height—he heard the clashing
of their collision—he felt his body
crushed and bruised by the gigantic
pressure. He raised his voice to shriek
his last farewell; but the scene was
changed. The grave had given up her
dead; and the sea, the dead that were
in her. He was among the companions
of his childhood; and not one was
wanting. The jest and the game went
on as in the days of his youth. His
departed mother awaited his return;
but her kiss of welcome blenched his
cheek with cold. Again he was involved
in a scene of strife. The death-bearing
missiles were whizzing around
him; but he had not the power to lift
an arm in his own defence. A supernatural
energy chained him to the spot,
and paralysed all his efforts. A gigantic
trooper levelled his carbine at him;
the aim was taken deliberately; he
heard the snap of the lock; he saw the
flash of fire; he gave a loud and piercing
shriek, and awoke in agony, gasping
for breath.</p>

<p class='c008'>The sun was shining through the
grated window when he awoke, weak
and exhausted by his unrefreshing sleep.
He found the sober form of the
Covenanting preacher seated beside
his pallet, with a small Bible in his
hand.</p>

<p class='c008'>“I thought it my duty,” said the
preacher, “to visit thee, and mark how
thou bearest thyself under this dispensation,
and to offer thee that consolation,
in the name of my Master, which
smoothes the passage to the tomb.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“You have my thanks,” said the unfortunate
youth. “Have you waited
long in the apartment?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I came at daybreak; but often was
I tempted to rouse thee from thy
slumbers, for thy dreams seemed terrifying.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I have indeed passed a fearful
night. Fancy has chased fancy in my
scorching brain till it appeared reality.
But I can spend only another such
night.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I grieve to tell thee, young man,
that thy days are numbered: all the
intercession of thy father and his friends
hath been fruitless. I also talked to
James of Montrose concerning thee;
for I hold that he hath overstretched
the limit of his power, and that there is
no cause of death in thee: but he
treated me as one that mocketh, when
I unfolded the revealed will of God, that
the earth will not cover Innocent blood;
wherefore turn, I beseech thee, thine
eyes to the Lord,—for vain is the help
of man. Look to the glory on the other
side of the grave. Fear not them which
can kill the body, but after that can
have no power; but fear Him that can
cast both soul and body into hell.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I fear not, father; I fear not death.
I could close my eyes for ever on
the green land of God without a sigh.
Had death met me in the field, the
bugle would have sung my requiem, and
I would have laid me on the turf, happy
in being permitted to die like a man;
but to die like a thief—like a dog—is
fearful and appalling. Besides, there are
ties which bind to earth souls stronger
than mine. Alas! alas! what is the
common approach of Death to the
stealthy and ignominious step with
which he visits me!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Compose thyself,” said the preacher,
“and let these earthly wishes have no
place in thy thoughts. Time, to thee,
is nearly done, and eternity is at hand.
Approach thy Creator, as the Father of
Mercy, in His Son. Murmur not at His
dispensations; for He chasteneth in
love.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“A hard lesson!” said Basil. “Tell
me, didst though ever love a wife, a
son, or a daughter?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I lost a wife and a son,” said the
preacher with emotion.</p>

<p class='c008'>“In what manner?” said Basil.</p>

<p class='c008'>“I visited the west country, on
business of the Congregation, and in
my absence the hand of Death was
busy in my house. When I returned,
my wife and son were both beneath the
sod. But God’s will be done! They
are now in heaven,” said he, while the
tears stole down his cheeks.</p>

<p class='c008'>“And,” said Basil, “did you never
feel a desire again to see them? Did
you not wish that the decree of fate had
been altered, and that your family had
been again restored to you?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Often—often,” said he, wringing
his hands. “God forgive me! often
have I murmured at His dispensation.
At some seasons I would have bartered
my life—nay, my soul’s weal—for one
hour of their society.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“And yet ye bid me do that which
ye confess to be above your efforts!
You lost but your wife and child; I
lose my own life—my fame—my Mary.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“But your father”——</p>

<p class='c008'>“Peace! I have no father—no friend—no
love. To-morrow’s sun will see
me as I was before my being; all of me
gone, except my name coupled with
hated murderers and traitors. Away,
away, old man! it drives me to madness.
But, if the spirits of the dead can burst
the sepulchre, I will be near my
murderer. In the blackness of night I
will be near him, and whisper in his
thoughts dark, dark as hell.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Have patience”——</p>

<p class='c008'>“Patience! Heaven and earth!
Remove these bonds,” said he, striking
his manacles together till the vaulted
roof echoed the clanking. “Give me
my sword,—place Montrose before me,—and
I’ll be patient! very patient!”—and
he burst into a fit of hysterical
laughter which made the preacher
shudder.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Prepare to meet thy God, young
man,” exclaimed the Covenanter. He
succeeded in gaining his attention, and
resumed: “Thy thoughts are full of
carnal revenge, forgetting Him who
hath said, ‘vengeance is mine.’ I tell
thee that thy thoughts are evil, and
not good. Turn thyself to thy Saviour,
and, instead of denouncing woe on thy
fellows, prepare thyself for thy long
journey.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Long, indeed!” said Basil, entering
into a new train of ideas. “Ere to-morrow’s
sun go down, my soul, how far
wilt thou have travelled? Thou wilt outstrip
the lightning’s speed. And then,
the account! I am wrong, good man;
but my brain is giddy. Leave me now,—but,
prithee, return.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I shall see thee again. Put thy
trust in the Lord. Compose thy troubled
mind, and God be with thee! Thy
father is soliciting thy pardon; and he
bade me tell thee he would visit thee to-day.
I’ll go to Montrose myself,—for
he shall pardon thee.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The day following, a dark gibbet
frowned in the centre of the market-place,
erected in the bore of the millstone which
lies at this day in the middle of Castle
Street. At an early hour the whole
square was filled with spectators to witness
the tragedy. A powerful band of
the Covenanters guarded the scaffold.
A deep feeling of sympathy pervaded
the multitude, for the wretched prisoner
was known to almost every individual.
Every one was talking to his neighbour
on the distressing event, with an interest
which showed the intensity of their
sympathy with the sufferer.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Willawins! willawins!” said an
aged woman; “I suckled him at this
auld breast, and dandled him in these
frail arms. On the vera last winter,
when I was ill wi’ an income, he was
amaist the only ane that came to speir
for me; an’ weel I wat, he didna come
toom-handed. I just hirpled out, because
I thought I wad like to see his
bonny face and his glossy curls ance
mair; but I canna thole that black
woodie! It glamours my auld een.
Lord be wi’ him! Eh, sirs! eh, sirs!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Vera right, cummer,” said Tenor
the wright; “it’s a waesome business.
Troth, ilka nail that I drave into that
woodie, I could have wished to have
been a nail o’ my ain coffin.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“And what for stand ye a’ idle here?”
said a withered beldame, whom Basil
had found means to save from being tried
for witchcraft, which, as the reader is
aware that “Jeddart justice” was administered
on these occasions, was
tantamount to condemnation. “Why
stand ye idle here? I’ve seen the time
when a’ the Whigs in the land dauredna
do this. Tak the sword! tak the
sword! The day ’ill come when the
corbies will eat Montrose’s fause heart,
and”——</p>

<p class='c008'>“Whisht, sirs! whisht!” exclaimed
several voices; and there was a rush
among the crowd, which made the
whole mass vibrate like the waves of the
sea. It was the appearance of our hero,
surrounded by a guard of the insurgents.
His arms were bound. The cart followed
behind; but he was spared the
indignity of riding in it. It contained
the executioner, a miserable-looking
man, tottering in the extremity of old
age. It also bore the prisoner’s coffin.
His demeanour was calm and composed,
his step firm and regular; but the flush
of a slight hectic was on his cheek. He
was attended by the Covenanting
preacher, whom, on his coming out, he
asked, “If <em>she</em> knew of this?” He
whispered in his ear. “Then the bitterness
of death is past;” and the procession
moved on. These were the last
words he was heard to utter. He never
raised his eyes from the ground till he
reached the scaffold, when, with a determined
and convulsive energy, he
bent his eyes upon the scene before him.
It was but for a moment; and they
sank again to the earth, while his lips
were moving in secret prayer.</p>

<p class='c008'>We must now retrograde a little in
our story, to mark the progress of two
horsemen, who, about noon, were advancing
with the utmost rapidity to
Aberdeen. These were Isaac Rolland
and Hackit, Provost Leslie’s servant.
To explain their appearance here, it
will be necessary to notice some events
of the preceding day. Isaac Rolland
and his friends had applied earnestly to
Montrose for the repeal of his hasty sentence;
and their representations seemed
to have great weight with him. He
told them to return early next morning
to receive his answer. At the first
peep of day Isaac was at his lodgings,
and found, to his surprise and sorrow,
that news had arrived of the pacification
of Berwick late the evening before,
and that Montrose had instantly taken
horse for the south. There was no
time to be lost, and, accompanied by
Hackit, he set out on horseback to
Arbroath, where Montrose was to rest
for a little, and reached it as the other
was preparing to depart.</p>

<p class='c008'>The pardon was readily granted, as
peace was now established between all
the king’s subjects. Montrose, moreover,
acknowledged that he had proceeded
too hastily.</p>

<p class='c008'>They accordingly set out on their
journey, and spared neither whip nor
spur, lest they should arrive too late.
They changed horses at Dunottar, and
rode on to Aberdeen with all the speed
they could make. When about six
miles from the town, Isaac Rolland’s
horse broke down under him, when
Hackit, who was better mounted, seized
the papers, and, bidding him follow as
fast as possible, pushed on. The noble
animal that bore him went with the
speed of lightning, but far too slowly
for the impatient rider. Having shot
along the bridge of Dee at full gallop,
he arrived at Castle Street, by the Shiprow
with his horse panting and foaming,
while the clotted blood hung from
the armed heels of his rider.</p>

<p class='c008'>“A pardon! a pardon!” shouted
Hackit, as he recklessly galloped over
and through the thick-set multitude,
and lancing to the quick his horse’s
sides with his deep rowels at every
exclamation. “A pardon! a pardon!”
cried he, advancing still faster, for the
rope was adjusted, and all was ready
for the fatal consummation. “Lord
hae mercy on him!” His horse with
one bound brought him to the foot of
the scaffold, and then dropped down
dead, while a loud execration burst
from the spectators, which drowned his
cries. The prisoner was thrown off just
in Hackit’s sight as he advanced, the
Covenanters having dreaded that this
was the beginning of some commotion.
He threw the sealed pardon at the head
of the commandant, and, mounting the
scaffold, cut the cord in a twinkling,
letting the body fall into the arms of
some of the crowd who had followed
him; and, quicker than thought, conveyed
him into an adjacent house, where
every means was tried to restore
animation. There was not one who
could refrain from tears when they compared
the crushed and maimed being
before them with the jovial young man
he was a few days before. His eyes,
bleared and bloodshot, were protruded
from their sockets; a red circle surrounded
his neck, and the blood,
coagulated under his eyes, showed the
effects of strangulation. After some
time he heaved a sigh, and attempted
to raise his right hand to his breast;
his intention was anticipated, and a
picture that hung round his neck was
put into his hand. At this moment
Mary Leslie entered the apartment. A
tremulous shuddering ran through his
frame; he attempted to raise himself,
but life ebbed by the effort, and, with a
deep groan, he fell back into the arms
of death. Mary Leslie, however, did
not witness his departure, for she had
sunk senseless on the floor. When she
recovered, all was calm, save her eye
which rolled with the quickness of
insanity.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Hush!” said she; “he sleeps, and
you will waken him. I’ll cover him
with my own plaid, for it is cold—cold.”
She set herself to cover him, and sang
the verse of the ballad—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>My love has gone to the good green wood</div>
      <div class='line in2'>To hunt the dark-brown daes;</div>
      <div class='line'>His beild will be the ferny den,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Or the shade of the heathery braes.</div>
      <div class='line'>But I’ll build my love a bonny bower——</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c012'>“Basil, awake! the old man waits you
at the Playfield—arise! He hears me
not—ha—I remember!” and she sank
again on the floor, and was carried
home by her friends.</p>

<p class='c008'>A fair company of young men bore
Basil to his grave; and by his side a
weeping band of maidens carried Mary
Leslie. They were lovely in their lives,
and in death they were not separated.
One grave contains them both, which
was long hallowed by the remembrance
of this tragical transaction. The sacred
spot has now become common ground,
and I have searched in vain for it, that
I might shed one tear to the memory of
the unfortunate lovers.</p>

<p class='c008'>The goodwill of his fellow-citizens
called Patrick Leslie several times to be
their chief magistrate; but life to him
had lost its savour, and he lingered for
several years in this world as one whose
hopes and enjoyments were elsewhere.
It was said that Isaac Rolland, at stated
intervals, visited the grave of his son,
and watered it with the tear of unavailing
sorrow. He afterwards involved
himself with the factions that tore the
kingdom asunder, and, it was supposed,
perished at the battle between the
Covenanters and Oliver Cromwell, at
Dunbar, in 1650.—<cite>Aberdeen Censor.</cite></p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='the_last_of_the_jacobites' class='c006'>THE LAST OF THE JACOBITES.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By Robert Chambers, LL.D.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>I had occasion to mention, at the
conclusion of my “History of the Insurrection
of 1745,” that after that period
the spirit of Jacobitism became a very
different thing from what it had formerly
been; that, acquiring no fresh
adherents among the young subsequent
to that disastrous year, it grew old, and
decayed with the individuals who had
witnessed its better days; and that, in
the end, it became altogether dependent
upon the existence of a few aged enthusiasts,
more generally of the female than
the male sex.</p>

<p class='c008'>These relics of the party—for they
could be called nothing else—soon became
isolated in the midst of general
society; and latterly were looked upon,
by modern politicians, with a feeling
similar to that with which the antediluvian
patriarchs must have been regarded in
the new world, after they had survived
several generations of their short-lived
descendants. As their glory lay in all
the past, they took an especial pride in
retaining every description of manners
and dress which could be considered
old-fashioned, much upon the principle
which induced Will Honeycomb to continue
wearing the wig in which he had
gained a young lady’s heart. Their
manners were entirely of that stately
and formal sort which obtained at the
commencement of the eighteenth century,
and which is so inseparably associated
in the mind of a modern with
ideas of full-bottomed perukes, long-backed
coats, gold-buckled shoes, and
tall walking canes. Mr Pitt’s tax,
which had so strong an effect upon the
heads of the British public, did not
perhaps unsettle one grain of truly
Jacobite powder; nor is it hypothetical
to suppose that the general abandonment
of snuff-taking by the ladies,
which happened rather before that
period, wrenched a single box from the
fingers of any ancient dame, whose
mind had been made up on politics, as
her taste had been upon black rappee,
before the year of grace 1745.</p>

<p class='c008'>In proportion as the world at large
ceased to regard the claims of the house
of Stuart, and as old age advanced upon
those who still cherished them, the
spirit of Jacobitism, once so lofty and
so chivalrous, assimilated more and
more with the mere imbecility of dotage.
What it thus lost, however, in
extensive application, it gained in virulence;
and it perhaps never burned in
any bosoms with so much fervour as
in those few which last retained it.
True, the generosity which characterised
it in earlier and better times had now
degenerated into a sort of acrid humour,
like good wine turned into vinegar.
Yet, if an example were wanting of the
true inveterate Jacobite, it could not be
found anywhere in such perfection as
amongst the few who survived till recent
times, and who had carried the
spirit unscathed and unquenched through
three-quarters of a century of every
other kind of political sentiment.</p>

<p class='c008'>As no general description can present
a very vivid portraiture to the mind, it
may be proper here to condescend upon
the features of the party, by giving a
sketch of an individual Jacobite who
was characterised in the manner alluded
to, and who might be considered a fair
specimen of his brethren. The person
meant to be described, might be styled
the <span class='sc'>Last of the Jacobites</span>; for, at
the period of his death in 1825, there
was not known to exist, at least in
Edinburgh, any person, besides himself,
who refused to acknowledge the reigning
family. His name was Alexander
Halket. He had been, in early life, a
merchant in the remote town of Fraserburgh,
on the Moray Firth; but had
retired for many years before his death,
to live upon a small annuity in Edinburgh.
The propensity which characterised
him, in common with all the
rest of his party, to regard the antiquities
of his native land with reverence,
joined with the narrowness of his fortune
in inducing him to take up his abode
in the Old Town.</p>

<p class='c008'>He lodged in one of those old stately
hotels near the palace of Holyroodhouse,
which had formerly been occupied
by the noblemen attendant upon
the Scottish court, but which have latterly
become so completely overrun by
the lower class of citizens. Let it not be
supposed that he possessed the whole
of one of these magnificent hotels. He
only occupied two rooms in one of the
floors or “flats” into which all such
buildings in Edinburgh are divided;
and these he possessed only in the
character of a lodger, not as tenant at
first hand. He was, nevertheless, as
comfortably domiciled as most old
gentlemen who happen to have survived
the period of matrimony. His room—for
one of them was so styled <i><span lang="fr">par
excellence</span></i>—was cased round with white-painted
panelling, and hung with a
number of portraits representing the
latter members of the house of Stuart,
among whom the Old and Young Chevaliers
were not forgotten.<a id='r15'></a><a href='#f15' class='c018'><sup>[15]</sup></a> His windows
had a prospect on the one hand of the
quiet and cloistered precincts of Chessels’
Court, and on the other to the gilded
spires and gray, time-honoured turrets
of Holyroodhouse. Twice a year, when
he held a card party, with three candles
on the table, and the old joke about the
number which adorn that of the laird of
Grant, was he duly gratified with compliments
upon the comfortable nature
of his “room,” by the ancient Jacobite
spinsters and dowagers, who, in silk
mantles and pattens, came from Abbeyhill
and New Street to honour him with
their venerable company.</p>

<div class='footnote' id='f15'>
<p class='c008'><a href='#r15'>15</a>. Some rascally picture-dealer had imposed
upon him a nondescript daub of the female face
divine as a likeness of the beautiful Queen
Mary. How he accomplished this it is not easy
to say; probably he was acquainted with Mr
Halket’s ardent devotion to the cause of the
house of Stuart, at every period of its history,
and availed himself of this knowledge to palm
the wretched portrait upon the old gentleman’s
unsuspecting enthusiasm. Certain it is that
the said portrait was hung in the place of honour—over
the mantelpiece—in Mr Halket’s
apartment, and was, on state occasions, exhibited
to his guests with no small complacency.
Many of his friends were, like himself, too blindly
attached to everything that carried a show of
antiquity to suspect the cheat; and others were
too good-natured to disturb a harmless delusion,
from the indulgence of which he derived
so much satisfaction. One of them, however,
actuated by an unhappy spirit of connoisseurship,
was guilty of the cruelty of undeceiving
him, and not only persuaded him that the
picture was not a likeness of the goddess
of his idolatry,—Queen Mary,—but possessed
him with the belief that it represented
the vinegar aspect of the hated Elizabeth.
Mr Halket, however, was too proud to acknowledge
his mortification by causing the picture
to be removed, or perhaps it might not
have been convenient for him to supply its
place; and he did not want wit to devise a pretext
for allowing it to remain, without compromising
his hostility to the English queen
one whit. “Very well,” said he, “I am glad
you have told me it is Elizabeth; for I shall
have the pleasure of showing my contempt of
her every day by turning my back upon her
when I sit down to table.”</p>
</div>

<p class='c008'>Halket was an old man of dignified
appearance, and generally wore a dress
of the antique fashion above alluded to.
On Sundays and holidays he always
exhibited a sort of court-dress, and
walked with a cane of more than ordinary
stateliness. He also assumed this
dignified attire on occasions of peculiar
ceremony. It was his custom, for instance,
on a particular day every year,
to pay a visit to the deserted court of
Holyrood in this dress, which he considered
alone suitable to an affair of so
much importance. On the morning of
the particular day which he was thus
wont to keep holy, he always dressed
himself with extreme care, got his hair
put into order by a professional hand, and,
after breakfast, walked out of doors with
deliberate steps and a solemn mind.
His march down the Canongate was
performed with all the decorum which
might have attended one of the state
processions of a former day. He did
not walk upon the pavement by the side
of the way. That would have brought
him into contact with the modern existing
world, the rude touch of which
might have brushed from his coat the
dust and sanctitude of years. He assumed
the centre of the street, where, in
the desolation which had overtaken the
place, he ran no risk of being jostled by
either carriage or foot-passenger, and
where the play of his thoughts and the
play of his cane-arm alike got ample
scope. There, wrapped up in his own
pensive reflections, perhaps imagining
himself one in a court-pageant, he
walked along, under the lofty shadows
of the Canongate,—a wreck of yesterday
floating down the stream of to-day, and
almost in himself a procession.</p>

<p class='c008'>On entering the porch of the palace
he took off his hat; then, pacing along
the quadrangle, he ascended the staircase
of the Hamilton apartments, and
entered Queen Mary’s chambers. Had
the beauteous queen still kept court
there, and still been sitting upon her
throne to receive the homage of mankind,
Mr Halket could not have entered
with more awe-struck solemnity of deportment,
or a mind more alive to the
nature of the scene. When he had gone
over the whole of the various rooms, and
also traversed in mind the whole of the
recollections which they are calculated
to excite, he retired to the picture-gallery,
and there endeavoured to recall, in the
same manner, the more recent glories
of the court of Prince Charles. To
have seen the amiable old enthusiast
sitting in that long and lofty hall, gazing
alternately upon vacant space and the
portraits which hang upon the walls,
and to all appearance absorbed beyond
recall in the contemplation of the scene,
one would have supposed him to be
fascinated to the spot, and that he conceived
it possible, by devout wishes,
long and fixedly entertained, to annul
the interval of time, and reproduce upon
that floor the glories which once pervaded
it, but which had so long passed
away. After a day of pure and most
ideal enjoyment, he used to retire to his
own house, in a state of mind approaching,
as near as may be possible on this
earth, to perfect beatitude.<a id='r16'></a><a href='#f16' class='c018'><sup>[16]</sup></a></p>

<div class='footnote' id='f16'>
<p class='c008'><a href='#r16'>16</a>. He paid a visit, in full dress, with a sword
by his side, to the Crown Room, in Edinburgh
Castle, immediately after the old regalia of the
kingdom had been there discovered in 1818.
On this occasion a friend of the author saw
him, and endeavoured to engage him in conversation,
as he was marching up the Castle
Hill; but he was too deeply absorbed in
reflection upon the sacred objects which he
had to see, to be able to speak. He just
gazed on the person accosting him, and walked
on.</p>
</div>

<p class='c008'>Mr Halket belonged, as a matter of
course, to the primitive apostolical
church, whose history has been so intimately
and so fatally associated with
that of the house of Stuart. He used
to attend an obscure chapel in the Old
Town; one of those unostentatious
places of worship to which the Episcopalian
clergy had retired, when dispossessed
of their legitimate fanes at the
Revolution, and where they have since
performed the duties of religion, rather,
it may be said, to a family, or at most
a circle of acquaintances, than to a congregation.
He was one of the old-fashioned
sort of Episcopalians, who
always used to pronounce the responses
aloud; and, during the whole of the
Liturgy, he held up one of his hands in
an attitude of devotion. One portion
alone of that formula did he abstain
from assenting to—the prayer for the
Royal Family. At that place, he always
blew his nose, as a token of contempt.
In order that even his eye might not be
offended by the names of the Hanoverian
family, as he called them, he used a
prayer-book which had been printed
before the Revolution, and which still
prayed for King Charles, the Duke of
York, and the Princess Anne. He was
excessively accurate in all the forms of
the Episcopalian mode of worship;
and indeed acted as a sort of fugleman
to the chapel; the rise or fall
of his person being in some measure
a signal to guide the corresponding
motions of all the rest of the congregation.</p>

<p class='c008'>Such was Alexander Halket—at least
in his more poetical and gentlemanly
aspect. His character and history, however,
were not without their disagreeable
points. For instance, although but
humbly born himself, he was perpetually
affecting the airs of an aristocrat, was
always talking of “good old families,
who had seen better days,” and declaimed
incessantly against the upstart
pride and consequence of people who
had originally been nothing. This
peculiarity, which was, perhaps, after
all, not inconsistent with his Jacobite
craze, he had exhibited even when a
shopkeeper in Fraserburgh. If a person
came in, for instance, and asked to
have a hat, Halket would take down
one of a quality suitable, as he thought,
to the rank or wealth of the customer,
and if any objection was made to it, or
a wish expressed for one of a better
sort, he would say, “That hat, sir, is
quite good enough for a man in your
rank of life. I will give you no other.”
He was also very finical in the decoration
of his person, and very much of a
hypochondriac in regard to little incidental
maladies. Somebody, to quiz
him on this last score, once circulated a
report that he had caught cold one
night, going home from a party, in consequence
of having left off wearing a
particular gold ring. And it really was
not impossible for him to have believed
such a thing, extravagant as it may
appear.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='the_grave-diggers_tale' class='c006'>THE GRAVE-DIGGER’S TALE.</h2>
</div>

<p class='c007'>It was one cold November morning,
on the day of an intended voyage, when
Mrs M‘Cosey, my landlady, tapped at my
bed-chamber door, informing me that
it was “braid day light;” but on reaching
the caller air I found, by my watch
and the light of the moon, that I had
full two hours to spare for such sublunary
delights as such a circumstance
might create. A traveller, when he
has once taken his leave, and rung the
changes of “farewell,” “adieu,” “goodbye,”
and “God bless you,” on the
connubial and domestic harmonies of
his last lodgings, will rather hazard his
health by an exposure to the “pelting
of the pitiless storm,” for a handful of
hours, than try an experiment on his
landlady’s sincerity a second time, within
the short space of the same moon. If
casualty should force him to make an
abrupt return, enviable must be his
feelings if they withstand the cold unfriendly
welcome of “Ye’re no awa yet!”
delivered by some quivering Abigail, in
sylvan equipment, like one of Dian’s
foresters, as she slowly and uninvitingly
opens the creaking door—a commentary
on the forbidding salute. He enters,
and the strong caloric now beginning
to thaw his sensibilities, he makes for
his room, which he forgets is no longer
<em>his</em>; when, though he be still in the
dark, he has no need of a candle to
enable him to discover that some kind
remembrancer has already been rummaging
his corner cupboard, making
lawful seizure and removal (“‘convey’
the wise it call”) of the contents of his
tea-caddy, butter-kit, sugar-bowl, and
“comforter;” to which he had looked
forward, on his return, as a small solace
for the disappointment of the morning,
affording him the means of knocking
up a comfortable “check,” without again
distressing the exchequer.</p>

<p class='c008'>I had therefore determined not to
return to Mrs M‘Cosey’s; for “frailty,
thy name is woman;” and I felt myself
getting into a sad frame of mind, as I
involuntarily strolled a considerable distance
along the high road, pondering on
the best means of walking “out of the
air,” as Hamlet says, when, as the
moon receded behind a black cloud,
my head came full butt against a wall;
the concussion making it ring, till I
actually imagined I could distinguish
something like a tune from my brain.
Surely, said I, this is no melody of my
making; as I now heard, like two
voices trolling a merry stave—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Duncan’s comin’, Donald’s comin’, &#38;c.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c008'>Turning round to the direction from
whence the sound seemed to proceed,
I perceived I was in the neighbourhood
of the “Auld Kirk Yard;” where, by
the light from his lantern, I could discover
the old grave-digger at work—his
bald head, with single white and
silvery-crisped forelock, making transits
over the dark line of the grave, like a
white-crested dove, or a sea-gull, flaunting
over the yawning gulf.</p>

<p class='c008'>One stride, and I had cleared the
wall of the Auld Kirk Yard.</p>

<p class='c008'>“You seem merry, old boy!—You
are conscious, I presume, that this world
has few troubles that can affect you in
your present situation—the grave.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I was takin’ my medicine to keep
my heart up, sir; but I wasna merry:
yet I’m content wi’ my station, and am
a thocht independent. I court the company
o’ nae man alive; I boo to nae
man breathin’—I quarrel nane wi’ my
neebours;—yet am I sought after by
high and low, rich and puir; the king
himsel maun come under my rule—this
rod of airn;—though I’m grown frail
and feckless afore my time: for healthy
as my looks be, I’m aye, aye at death’s
door; our work, ye see, sir, ’s a’ below
the breath; and that’s a sair trade for
takin’ the wind oot o’ a body. Then, I
hae my trials,—sair visitations, sic as
fa’ to the lot o’ nae man on this side
the grave but mysel! It’s true, that
when the wind gaes round merrily to
the east, I get a sma’ share o’ what’s
gaun; but just look at that yird, sir,—as
bonnie a healthy yird as ane could
delight to lie in;—neist, look at that
spear,—a fortnight’s rust upon that
dibble! Mind, I downa complain;—<em>Live,
and let live</em>, say I!</p>

<p class='c008'>“But what’s the use of talkin’ sae to
a life-like, graceless, thochtless, bairn-getting
parish?—the feck o’ whom,
after having lived on the fat o’ the kintra-side,
naething will sair, but they maun
gang up to the town to lay their banes
amang the gentles, and creesh some
hungry yird wi’ their marrow! The fa’
o’ the leaf is come and gane; an’ saving
some twa or three consumptions—for
whilk the Lord be thankit, as a sma’
fend—tak the parish a’ ower head—frae
head to tail—and for ane that gaes out
at my gate-end, ye’ll find a score come
in at the howdie’s!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“<i><span lang="la">Damna famæ majora quam quæ
æstimari possint.</span></i>”<a id='r17'></a><a href='#f17' class='c018'><sup>[17]</sup></a></p>

<div class='footnote' id='f17'>
<p class='c008'><a href='#r17'>17</a>. The loss of reputation is greater than can
be reckoned.</p>
</div>

<p class='c008'>“I hae lost my Gaelic, sir; but ye
speak like a sensible man. The fame
o’ the place is just as ye say, there’s
ower mony <em>merry pows in’t</em>. But see,
there’s a sober pow, wi’ a siller clasp
on’t.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“With all due gravity, may I ask,
whose property was that?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Hech, man! that’s a skeigh tune
for a dry whistle; sae, gin ye please,
we’ll tak our morning first.”</p>

<p class='c008'>So saying, he took his spade, and
cutting steps in the side of the grave he
was digging, he mounted to the surface;
then, walking off a few paces, I saw
him strike some dark substance lying
on a flat stone; when, to my astonishment,
a Flibbertigibbet-looking creature
unrolled itself, from a mortcloth, at
my feet.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Hannibal Grub, my ’prentice, sir,
at your service.—Hawney, tak the
shanker ower to Jenny Nailor’s, an’
bring a dooble-floorer to the gentleman;
an’, hear ye, say it’s for the minister’s
wife—fourpenny strunt, Grub, mind—nae
pinchin’. If ye meet his reverence,
honest man, tell him ye’re gaun for oil
to the cruizie.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“That auld wizzened pow is a’ that’s
left o’ the Laird o’ Nettleriggs. It was
lying face down, when I cam till’t this
morning, maist horrifu’ to see; for he
maun hae turned in his kist, or been
buried back upwards! It was ae blawy,
sleety nicht, about this time twal-year,
when I was sent for express to speak
wi’ the laird. Thinkin’ that he maybe
wanted the family lair snodded out, or
a new coat o’ paint to the staunchels,
I set out without delay. I had four
mile o’ gate to gang on a darksome
dreary road, an’ I couldna but say that
I felt mair eerie than I had ever felt
in my ain plantin’, amang honest folk.
Sae, wi’ your leave, I’ll just put in ane o’
Jenny’s screws, afore I gae ony farther.
Here’s wishing better acquaintance to
us, sir.—Is this frae the ‘Broon Coo,’
Grub?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ay!” groaned an unearthly voice,
as if the “Broon Cow” herself had
spoken.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Weel, I gaed, an’ I better gaed.
‘The wind blew as ’twad blawn its last;’
the fitfu’ changes o’ the shrouded moon
threw flitting shadows across my path;—whiles
like a muckle colley, and syne
as if I stood on the brink o’ a dreadfu’
precipice, when I wad then stand still,
till the moon shone again. The bleachfield
dogs sent round their lang, uncanny
bodings; the vera cocks crawed,—sic
horror had the time; the last leaves o’
hairst were driftin’ an’ clatterin’ amang
my feet—whiles hittin’ me like a whup
on the face; or tappin’ me on the back,
as if ane wad say, ‘Saunders, this is
death!’ when I wad then stand stockstill
again, my knees fechtin’ an’ thumpin’
at ane anither, and my teeth gaun like
a watchman’s rattle; while noos and
thans, the wind wad howl and birr, as
if the Prince o’ Air himsel were pipin’
to the clouds. I ne’er doubted thae
things to be the bodings o’ death; but I
thocht sic feydoms might hae been better
wared on a muckle better man than me.
At length I got to the house-door, as
the laird’s messan began to bark.</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Look to the door, Peggy!’ quo’
the gudewife.</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Ay, mither. Jock, look to the
door for your mither, will ye no?’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Look till’t yersel! Can I gang,
when I’m greetin’ this way?—Pate—look
to the door!’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘I’m greetin’ too,’ says Pate.</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Peggy Mucklewham, will ye no
look to the door, for your deein’ faither’s
sake?’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Tuts!’ quo’ Peggy, ‘Can ye not
get up yersel—fashin’ folk?’</p>

<p class='c008'>“Weel, I then got entrance—the
sneck being cannily lifted, an’ the bairns
makin’ a breenge into a hidin’ corner,
until, by the light o’ the fire, they kent
my face.</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Ou, it’s auld Saunders, as sure as
death. Ay, man, my faither’s real ill—he’s
just gaspin’, and that’s a’! Hear
till that—that’s him whistlin’! Hae ye
no brought Towzie wi’ ye? Man, Pate
and me wad hae’n sic grand fun chasin’
the mawkins, when my mither’s at the
kirk the morn.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Are ye sorry to lose your faither,
bairnies?’ quo’ I.</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Ou, ay,’ quo’ Pate, ‘but I dinna
like to look at him, he maks sic awfu’
faces, man; but I hae been thrang
greetin’, sin’ four o’clock even on—twice
as muckle’s Jock!’</p>

<p class='c008'>“A lang deep groan now was heard
from out o’ the spence, whaur the laird
was lying; and the bairnies, in a fricht,
ran screeching to anither apartment,
leaving the youngest wean by the fireside,
rowed in ane o’ the auld man’s
black coats.</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Gude save us, lammie!’ quo’ I,
‘is there naebody tending your puir
auld faither? Whaur’s uncle, lammie?
and aunty? and your minnie, lammie?’
I mind weel the bit bairnie’s answer—‘Unkey
a’ doon—aunty a’ doon—daddy
a’ doon!’</p>

<p class='c008'>“Mrs Mucklewham was a stout buirdly
quean, like a house-end; and the laird
was just a bit han’fu’ o’ a cratur—a bit
saxteen-to-the-dizzen body. They were
a pair o’ whom it was said, by the kintra-side,
that they had married afore they
had courted. The laird was an auld
man when he brought hame a woman
thirty years younger than himsel;—auld
folk are twice bairns, and he was beginning
to need nursing. It’s wonderfu’ to
think how little a matter hinders gentlebred
folk frae getting on in the warld!
A’ that Jenny Screameger wantit o’ the
complete leddy was the bit dirty penny
siller; an’ sae they were joined thegither,
without its ever being mentioned in the
contract, or understood, that they bound
and obliged themselves to hae a heartliking
for ane anither!</p>

<p class='c008'>“She had been keepit by the gudeman
geyan short by the tether; sae as
her hale life was made just a dull round
till her—o’ rising and lying down—eating,
drinking, and sleeping—feeding the
pigs, milking the cow—flyting the servant—and
skelping the weans a’
round;—unless when she dreamed o’
burials, or saw a spale at the candle—or
heard o’ a murder committed in the
neighbourhood—or a marriage made or
broken aff—or a criminal to suffer on
the gallows; till at her advanced time
o’ life it was grown just as neccessar’ that
food should be gotten for her mind’s
maintenance, as it was for her body’s.</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘This is a sair time for ye, Mrs
Mucklewhaum,’ quo’ I, as she cam ben
frae her bedroom gauntin’.</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Hey! ho! hy! Saunders—I haena
closed an ee thae twa lang nichts! But
I hear there’s something gaun to be dune
noo—Hey! ho! hy!’</p>

<p class='c008'>“I stappit ben wi’ her to the laird’s
room; and I saw in his face he was bespoken.
Everything was laid out in
the room, comfortable and in apple-pie
order, befitting the occasion. The
straughtin’ board, on whilk his death’s
ee was fixed, stood up against the wa’;
here lay a bowt o’ tippeny knittin’ for
binding his limbs, and as mony black
preens as wad hae stockit a shop; there
hung his dead shirt, o’ new hamespun
claith, providently airing afore the
fire.</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Gin ye be thrang, Saunders, ye
needna wait on the gudeman—ye ken
his length—and gie him a deep biel,’
quo’ the gudewife; when just as I laid
my hand upon his brow, he fixed his ee
upon me like a hawk; an’ after anither
kirkyard groan—the like I never heard
from mortal man—he seemed reviving,
an’ new strength to be filling his limbs,
as he rose up on his elbow, on the bed,
and laid his other hand on mine—sic an
icy hand as I never felt abune grund!—thus
speaking to me in his seeming
agony:</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Saunders, do not pray for me; I
have been long a dead man; lay your
hand upon my bosom, and you will feel
the flames of hell ascending to my
soul!’ I laid my hand upon his heart,
and I declare, sir, I thocht the flesh wad
hae cindered aff the finger-banes! The
heat was just awfu’!</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘I was made life-renter of a sum
which at my decease descends to the
younger branches of my father’s family;
and my life has been miserable to myself—a
burden to others—and my death
the desire of my kindred!’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘He’s raving, Saunders—he’s clean
raving! An’ I canna persuade him he’s
a deein’ man,’ quo’ Mrs Mucklewham,
as she stapped forrit wi’ a red bottle,
to gie him a quatenin’ dram.</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Haud, haud!’ quo’ I, ‘he’ll do
without it,’ as the laird, raising his voice,
began again to speak:</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘I had but one friend in the
world,—the highwayman that robbed
me, and then laid my skull open with
the butt-end of his whip;—would to
God he had made me a beggar, and
saved my soul! I had no worse wish
to bestow on him than that he might
be a life-renter for his poor relations.
Saunders, look on the face of that unfeeling
woman—more horrible to me
than death itself;—look on my deserted
death-bed, and my chamber decorated
like a charnel house? Horrible as the
sensation of death is, as his iron gropings
are stealing round my heart, there
is yet to me a sight more hideous, and
which I thank God I shall be spared
witnessing—<em>when the dead shall bury
the dead</em>!’</p>

<p class='c008'>“Mrs Mucklewham broke frae my
weak hand—wrenched open his locked
teeth, and emptied the hale contents
down his throat—grunds an’ a’—o’ his
‘quatenin’ draught;’ I felt myself a’ <em>ug</em>,
as I saw his teeth gnash thegither, an’
his lips close in quateness for ever.</p>

<p class='c008'>“I gaed out wi’ the mortclaith; I saw
the gathering; I was present when the
bread an’ dram service were waiting for
the grace:—‘Try ye’t, John,’ quo’ ane.
‘Begin yersel; ye’re dead sweer,’ quo’
anither; when I heard ane break down
an’ auld prayer into twa blessin’s.
Some were crackin’ about the rise o’
oats; some about the fa’ o’ hay. His
bit callans were there in rowth o’ claith;
auld elbows of coats mak gude breekknees
for bairns. I saw the coffin
carried out to the hearse without ane
admiring its bonnie gilding—quite sair
and melancholy to see! I saw the
bedral bodies, wi’ their light-coloured
gravats, an’ rusty black cowls, stuffing
their wide pouches—maist pitifu’, I
thought, to behold. Then I saw the
house-servants, wha had drunk deepest
o’ the cup o’ woe; till sae mista’en were
their notions o’ sorrow, that they were
just by the conception o’ the mind o’
man. Then there was sic a clanjamphry
o’ beggars; some praising the laird for
virtues that they wha kenned him kent
they were failings in him; an’ ithers
were cracking o’ familiarities wi’ him,
that might hae been painful to his nearest
o’ kin to hear: there was but sma’ grief
when they first gathered; but when
they learned there was nae awmous for
them, I trow ony tears that were shed
at the burial were o’ their drappin’.</p>

<p class='c008'>“There was the witless idewit Jock
Murra, mair mournfu’ to see than a’ that
was sad there; when just as the hearse
began to move on, he liltit up a rantin’
sang—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Mony an awmous I’ve got.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c012'>I lookit round me when the company
began to move on frae the house wi’
the hearse; but as I shall answer, sir,
there wasna ae face that lookit sad but
might as well hae smiled; the vera look
o’t, in a Christian land, broucht the saut
tears gushing frae my ain auld dry
withered ee!</p>

<p class='c008'>“In compliance with the friends’ request,
as it was a lang road to come back,
his will had been read afore the interment;
when sae muckle was left to ae hospit
an’ sae muckle to anither, as if the only
gude he had ever done was reserved for
the day o’ his burial; or like ane wha
delays his letter till after the mail shuts,
and then pays thrice the sum to overtake
the coach. It was the certainty o’ thae
things that made it the maist mournfu’
plantin’ I e’er made; an’ I threw the
yird on him, as he was let down by
stranger hands (for the friends excused
themselves frae gaun ony farther, after
they had heard his will), and happit
him up, wi’ a heavier heart than on
the morning when I took my ain
wifie frae my side, an’ laid her in the
clay.—You’ll excuse me, sir; here’s
‘success to trade!’”—“<cite>The Auld Kirk
Yard.</cite>”</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='the_fairy_bride' class='c006'>THE FAIRY BRIDE:<br> <span class='large'><em>A TRADITIONARY TALE</em></span>.</h2>
</div>

<p class='c007'>A short time before the rising of
the Presbyterians, which terminated in
the rout at Pentland, a young gentleman
of the name of Elliot had been called
by business to Edinburgh. On his way
homeward, he resolved to pay a visit to
an old friend named Scott, whose residence
was either upon the banks of the
Tweed or some of its larger tributaries,—for
on this point the tradition is not
very distinct. Elliot stopped at a small
house of entertainment not far from
Scott’s mansion, in order to give his
parting directions to a servant he was
despatching home with some commissions.</p>

<p class='c008'>The signs of the times had not altogether
escaped the notice of our hero.
The people were quiet, but reserved,
and their looks expressed anything but
satisfaction. In Edinburgh there were
musterings and inspections of troops,
and expresses to and from London were
hourly departing and arriving. As
Elliot travelled along, he had more
than once encountered small parties of
military reconnoitring the country, or
hastening to some post which had been
assigned them. Fewer labourers were
to be seen in the fields than was usual
at the season. The cottars lounged before
their doors, and gazed after the
passing warriors with an air of sullen
apathy. There was no violence or disturbance
on the part of the people,—there
had as yet been no arrestments,—but
it was evident to the most careless
that hostile suspicion was rapidly taking
the place of that inactive dislike which
had previously existed between the
governors and the governed.</p>

<p class='c008'>It was natural that in such a condition
of the national temper, affairs of state
should form the chief subject of gossip
around the fireside of a country inn.
Elliot was not surprised, therefore,
while sitting at the long deal table,
giving directions to his servant, to hear
the name of his friend frequent in the
mouths of the peasantry. It was a
matter of course that at such a period
the motions and inclinations of a
wealthy and active landholder of old
family should be jealously watched.
But it struck him that Scott’s name was
always uttered in a low, hesitating tone,
as if the speakers were labouring under
a high degree of awe. He continued,
therefore, some time after he had dismissed
his attendant, sitting as if lost
in thought, but anxiously listening to
the desultory conversation dropping
around him, like the few shots of a
distant skirmish. The allusions of the
peasants were chiefly directed to his
friend’s wife. She was beautiful and
kind, but there was an unearthly light
in her dark eye. Then there was a
dark allusion to a marriage on the hillside,—far
from human habitation,—to
the terror of the clergyman who officiated,
at meeting so lovely a creature in
so lonely a place. The Episcopalian
predilections of the family of Scott were
not passed unnoticed. And it seemed
universally admitted that the house
had been given over to the glamour and
fascination of some unearthly being.
The power of a leader so connected, in
the impending strife, was the subject of
dark forebodings.</p>

<p class='c008'>Rather amused to find his old crony
become a person of such consequence,
Elliot discharged his reckoning, mounted
his steed, and on reaching Scott’s residence,
was warmly and cheerfully welcomed.
He was immediately introduced
to the lady, whom he regarded
with a degree of attention which he
would have been ashamed to confess to
himself was in some degree owing to the
conversation he had lately overheard.
She was a figure of a fairy size, delicately
proportioned, with not one feature
or point of her form to which objection
could be urged. Her rich brown hair
clustered down her neck, and lay in
massive curls upon her bosom. Her
complexion was delicate in the extreme,
and the rich blood mantled in her face
at every word. Her eyes were a rich
brownish hazel, and emitted an almost
preternatural light, but there was nothing
ungentle in their expression. The honeymoon
had not elapsed, and she stood
before the admiring traveller in all the
beauty of a bride—the most beautiful
state of woman’s existence, when, to
the unfolding delicate beauty of girlhood
is superadded the flush of a fuller
consciousness of existence, the warmth
of affection which dare now utter itself
unchecked, the first half-serious, half-playful
assumption of matronly dignity.
After a brief interchange of compliment
with her guest, she left the apartment,
either because “the house affairs did
call her thence,” or because she wished
to leave the friends to the indulgence
of an unrestrained confidential conversation.</p>

<p class='c008'>“A perfect fairy queen,” said Elliot,
as the door closed behind her.</p>

<p class='c008'>“So you have already heard that
silly story?” answered his host. “Well!
I have no right to complain, for I have
only myself to thank for it.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Elliot requested that he would explain
his meaning, and he in compliance narrated
his “whole course of wooing.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I was detained abroad, as you well
know, for some years after his Majesty’s
restoration, partly on account of the
dilapidated state of my fortunes, and
partly because I wished to prosecute
the career of arms I had commenced.
It is now about nine months since I
returned to my native country. It was
a gloomy day as I approached home.
You remember the footpath which strikes
across the hill behind the house, from
the bed of the stream which mingles,
about a mile below us, with that on
whose banks we now are. Where it
separates from the public road, I gave
my horse to the servant, intending to
pursue the by-path alone, resolved that
no one should watch my emotions when
I again beheld the home of my fathers.
I was looking after the lad, when I
heard the tread of horses close behind
me. On turning, I saw a tall, elderly
gentleman, of commanding aspect, and
by his side a young lady upon a slender
milk-white palfrey. I need not describe
her; you have seen her to-day. I was
struck with the delicacy of her features,
the sweet smile upon her lips, and the
living fire that sparkled from her eyes.
I gazed after her until a turning of the
road concealed her from my view.</p>

<p class='c008'>“It was in vain that I inquired among
my relations and acquaintances. No
person was known in the neighbourhood
such as I described her. The
impression she left upon me, vivid
though it was at the moment, had died
away, when one day, as I was walking
near the turn of the road where I had
lost her, she again rode past me with
the same companion. The sweet smile,
the glance of the eye, were heightened
this time by a blush of recognition.
The pair were soon lost to me round
the elbow of the road. I hurried on,
but they had disappeared. The straggling
trees which obscured the view,
ceased at a bridge which stood a couple
of gun-shots before me. Ere I could
reach it, I caught a glimpse of the
companions. They were at the edge
of the stream, a little way above the
bridge—their horses were drinking. I
pressed onward, but before I had cleared
the intervening trees and reached the
bridge, they had once more disappeared.
There was a small break in the water
immediately beneath the place where
they had stood. For a moment, I
thought that I must have mistaken its
whiteness for the white palfrey, but the
glance I had got of them was too clear
to have been an illusion. Yet no road
led in that direction. I examined the
banks on both sides of the river, but
that on which I saw them was too hard
to receive a hoof-print, and the opposite
bank was loose shingle, which refused
to retain it when made. The exceeding
beauty of the maiden, the mysterious
nature of her disappearance, the irritable
humour into which I had worked myself
by conjectures and an unavailing search,
riveted her impression upon my memory.
I traversed the country telling my story,
and making incessant inquiry. In vain!
No one knew of such a person. The
peasants began to look strangely on me,
and whisper in each other’s ears, that I
had been deluded by some Nixy. And
many were the old prophecies regarding
my family remembered—or manufactured—for
the occasion.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Five months passed away in vain
pursuit. My pertinacity was beginning
to relax, when one evening, returning
from a visit to our friend Whitelee, I
heard a clashing of swords on the road
before me. Two fellows ran off as I
rode hastily up, leaving a gentleman,
who had vigorously defended himself
against their joint assault. ‘Are you
hurt, sir?’ was my first inquiry. ‘I
fear I am,’ replied the stranger, whom
I immediately recognised as the companion
of the mysterious beauty. ‘Can
I assist you?’ He looked earnestly at
me, and with an expression of hesitation
on his countenance. ‘Henry Scott,
you are a man of honour.’ He paused,
but immediately resumed, ‘I have no
choice, and I dare trust a soldier. Lend
me your arm, sir. My dwelling is not
far from here.’ I accompanied him, he
leaning heavily upon me, for the exertion
of the combat had shaken his frame,
and the loss of blood weakened him.
We followed the direction he indicated
for nearly half an hour round the trackless
base of a hill, until we came in
sight of one of those old gray towers
which stud our ravines. ‘There,’ said
my companion, pointing to the ruin.
I recognised it immediately; it stood
not far distant from the place where he
and his fair fellow-traveller had disappeared,
and had often been examined
by me, but always in vain.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Turning an angle of the building,
we approached a heap of <em>debris</em>, which
in one part encumbered its base. Putting
aside some tangled briers which
clustered around, he showed me a narrow
entry between the ruins and the wall.
Passing up to this, he stopped before a
door, and gave three gentle knocks; it
opened, and we were admitted into a
rude, narrow vault. It was tenanted, as
I had anticipated, by his fair companion.
As soon as her alarm at seeing her
father return exhausted, bleeding, and
in company with a stranger, was stilled,
and the old man’s wound dressed, he
turned to explain to me the circumstances
in which I found him. His
story was brief. He was of good family;
had killed a cadet of a noble house, and
was obliged to save himself from its
resentment by hiding in ruins and holes
of the earth. In all his wanderings his
gentle daughter had never quitted his
side.</p>

<p class='c008'>“I need not weary you with the
further details of our growing acquaintance.
It is the common story of a
young man and a young woman thrown
frequently into each other’s company in
a lonely place. But, oh! tame though
it may appear to others, the mere memory
of the three months of my life which
followed is ecstasy! I saw her daily—in
that unfrequented spot there was
small danger of intrusion, and she dared
range the hillside freely. We walked,
and sat, and talked together in the
birchen wood beneath the tower, and
we felt our love unfold itself as their
leaves spread out to the advancing
summer. There was no check in the
tranquil progress of our affections—no
jealousies, for there was none to be
jealous of. Unmarked, it overpowered
us both. It swelled upon us, like the
tide of a breathless summer day, purely
and noiselessly.</p>

<p class='c008'>“A few weeks ago her father took
me aside, and prefacing that he had
marked with pleasure our growing
attachment, asked me if I had sufficient
confidence in my own constancy
to pledge myself to be for life an affectionate
and watchful guardian of his
child? He went on to say, that means
of escaping from the country had been
provided, and offers of promotion in
the Spanish service made to him. Your
own heart will suggest my answer; and
I left him, charged to return after nightfall
with a clergyman. Our good curate
is too much attached to the family to
refuse me anything. To him I revealed
my story. At midnight he united me
to Ellen, and scarcely was the ceremony
over, when Sir James tore himself away,
leaving his weeping child almost insensible
in my arms.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Two gentlemen, who accompanied
Sir James to the coast, were witnesses
of the marriage. It was therefore unnecessary
to let any of the household
into the secret. You may guess their
astonishment, therefore, when, having
seen the curate and me ride up the
solitary glen alone under cloud of night,
they saw us return in the course of a
few hours with a lady, who was introduced
to them as their mistress. Great
has been their questioning, and great
has been the delight of our jolly priest
to mystify them with dark hints of
ruined towers, hillsides opening, and
such like. The story of the Nixy has
been revived, too, and Ellen is looked
on by many with a superstitious awe. I
rather enjoyed the joke at first, but now
begin to fear, from the deep root the
folly seems to have taken, that it may
one day bear evil fruits for my delicate
girl.”</p>

<p class='c008'>His augury of evil was well-founded,
but the blight fell upon his own heart.
As soon as he heard of the rising in the
west, he joined the royal forces at the
head of his tenantry. During his absence,
and while the storm of civil war
was raging over the land, his cherished
one was seized with the pangs of premature
labour. She lay in the same
grave with her child, before her husband
could reach his home. The remembrance
of what she had undergone, her
loneliness amid the tempests of winter,
her isolation from all friends, had so
shaken her frame that the first attack
of illness snapped the thread of life.
Her sufferings were comparatively short.
But the widower! He sought to
efface the remembrance of his loss in active
service. Wherever insubordination
showed itself, he prayed for employment.
The Presbyterians learned at
last to consider him as the embodied
personification of persecution. The
story of his mysterious marriage got
wind. He was regarded as one allied
to, and acting under, the influence of
unholy powers. He knew it, and, in
the bitterness of his heart, he rejoiced
to be marked out by their fear and
terror, as one who had nothing in common
with them. His own misery, and
this outcast feeling, made him aspire to
be ranked in their minds as a destroying
spirit. The young, gallant, and
kind-hearted soldier became the most
relentless persecutor of the followers of
the Covenant. Even yet does his memory,
and that of his Fairy Bride, live in
popular tradition like a thunderstorm,
gloomy and desolating, yet not without
lambent flashes of more than earthly
beauty.—<cite>Edinburgh Literary Journal.</cite></p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='the_lost_little_ones' class='c006'>THE LOST LITTLE ONES.</h2>
</div>

<h3 class='c013'><span class='sc'>Chapter I.</span></h3>

<p class='c014'>I have a story to tell relative to what
happened to Sir George and Lady
Beaumont, the excellent and beloved
proprietors of the Hermitage, in a
neighbouring county. At the period
of which I speak, their family consisted
of five children, three sons and two
daughters; and their eldest, a daughter
called Charlotte, was then nine years of
age. She was a remarkably clever
child, and a great favourite of her
parents; but her mother used to remark
that her vivacity required checking,
and, notwithstanding her partiality for
her, she never failed to exercise it when
it became necessary. It would have
been well had others acted equally
judiciously.</p>

<p class='c008'>It happened one day, as the family
were going to sit down to dinner, that
Charlotte did not make her appearance.
The maid was sent up to her room,
but she was not there. The dinner-bell
was ordered to be rung again, and a
servant was at the same time dispatched
to the garden; and this having been
done, Sir George and his lady proceeded
with the other youngsters to the dining-room,
not doubting but Charlotte would
be home immediately. The soup,
however, was finished without any
tidings of her, when, Lady Beaumont
seeming a little uneasy, Sir George
assured her there was no cause for
alarm, as Charlotte would probably be
found under her favourite gooseberry
bush. Lady Beaumont seemed to acquiesce
in this, and appeared tolerably
composed, till the servant who had
been sent to the garden came back to
say that she was not there. Sir George
insisted that the man had probably
passed her without seeing her, the garden
being so large; but the servant averred
that he had been through the whole of
it, and had shouted repeatedly Miss
Charlotte’s name.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Oh!” exclaimed Sir George, “she
has pretended not to hear you, Robert,
and, I daresay, will be back immediately,
now that she has succeeded in
giving you a race round the garden;
however,” added he, “you may go
back again, and take Samuel and
Thomas with you, and if you do not
find her hiding herself in the garden,
you may take a peep into the shrubbery,
as she may slip in there, on seeing you
returning; and as you go along, you
may call to her, and say that dinner
waits, and that Lady Beaumont is much
displeased with her being out at this
time of the day. And now, my love,”
continued Sir George to his lady, “just
let us proceed with dinner, and compose
yourself.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Lady Beaumont forced a smile, and
busied herself in attending to her young
ones; but her own plate was neglected,
and her eyes were continually turned
towards the window which looked upon
the lawn.</p>

<p class='c008'>“What can keep Robert, papa?”
said Charles to his father.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Indeed, my boy,” said Sir George,
“I do not know. Charlotte,” continued
he to Lady Beaumont, “do you see any
thing?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“They are all coming back,” exclaimed
Lady Beaumont, “and alone!”
and she rose hastily from her chair.</p>

<p class='c008'>Robert and the other men now entered,
and reported that they had searched
every spot in the garden and the shrubbery,
but without finding any trace of
her; and the people who had been
working there all day had seen nothing
of her. Lady Beaumont now became
excessively alarmed, and Sir George
himself was far from easy, though he
appeared before his lady to treat the
matter lightly.</p>

<p class='c008'>“She’ll have gone up to the cottages
to see her god-brother,” said Sir George;
“or perhaps have wandered over to the
mill.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“And if she has fallen into the
stream!” ejaculated Lady Beaumont.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Now, dear Charlotte, do not needlessly
alarm yourself; there’s no fear
but we shall soon find her.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“God grant it!” said Lady Beaumont,
“but my mind misgives me
sadly.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Messengers were now dispatched to
the cottages, and to the mill, and in
various other directions around the
Hermitage, but all came back without
having obtained any tidings of the
missing child. Sir George, now very
seriously alarmed, gave private directions
for having the fish-pond, and the
stream which ran at the bottom of the
garden, carefully dragged. It was done,
but nothing was found. The whole
household was now in motion, and as
the story spread, the tenants and neighbours
came pouring from all quarters,
with offers to search the country round
in every direction; so much was Sir
George esteemed and beloved by all
classes. Their offers were thankfully
accepted, and after choosing their ground,
and dividing themselves into different
parties, they set out from the Hermitage,
resolved, as they said, to find the little
one, if she was above ground. Sir
George and his lady went out as the
parties set off in their different directions,
and continued walking up and
down the avenue, that they might the
sooner perceive the approach of those
bringing intelligence; but hour after
hour elapsed, and no one came. Sir
George then proposed that Lady Beaumont
should go home and see the young
ones put to bed. She did so, but soon
returned again.</p>

<p class='c008'>“I know,” said she, answering Sir
George’s look, “that you wished me to
remain at home and rest myself; but
what rest can there be for me, till we
have some intelligence of”——and her
voice faltered.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Well, well, then,” said Sir George,
pressing her arm in his, “let us take a
few more turns—surely we must hear
something soon.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The people now began to come
dropping in from different quarters, but
all had the same melancholy answer—no
one had seen or heard of her. The
hearts of the poor parents were sadly
depressed, for daylight was fast closing
in, and almost all those who had set off
on the search had now returned, and
amongst them their faithful servant
Robert, principally from anxiety to learn
if any intelligence had been obtained of
his favourite. But when he found that
all had returned unsuccessful, he declared
his determination to continue the
search during the night; and he, and a
good many others who joined him, set
off soon afterwards, being supplied with
torches and lanterns of various descriptions.</p>

<p class='c008'>This determination gave new hopes
to the inmates of the Hermitage, and
Lady Beaumont endeavoured to rally her
spirits; but when at length, as daylight
broke, Robert and his party returned
alone, and without intelligence, nature
exhausted gave way, and she fell senseless
in her husband’s arms.</p>

<p class='c008'>In the morning Robert tapped at Sir
George’s door, and communicated
quietly to him his recollecting to have
seen a rather suspicious-looking woman
near the Hermitage the previous day,
and that he had just heard from a neighbour,
that a woman of that description,
with a child in her arms, had been seen
passing to the eastward. Orders were
immediately given for a pursuit on
horseback;—Sir George giving directions
to bring in every one whom they
suspected; saying, that he would compensate
those who had reason to
complain of being used in this way.
But, though many were brought to the
Hermitage, and large rewards were
offered, yet week after week passed
over without bringing them the smallest
intelligence of their lost little one.</p>

<p class='c007'>Some months had elapsed since their
child had disappeared, and the minds
of the parents had become comparatively
composed, when their attention was
one evening attracted by the appearance
of an unusual number of people in the
grounds below the terrace, and whose
motions it seemed difficult to understand.</p>

<p class='c008'>“What can have brought so many
people there?” asked Lady Beaumont;
“and what are they doing?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Indeed, my love, I do not know,”
said Sir George, “but there’s Robert,
passing down the walk, and he will tell
us;” and he called to Robert, who,
however, seemed rather not to wish to
hear; but Sir George called again, and
so loudly, that Robert was obliged to
stop. “Robert,” said Sir George,
“what do these people seek in the low
grounds there?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“They are looking for —— of Widow
Watt’s, your honour,” said Robert.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Did you hear what it was, my
dear?” said Sir George to his lady.</p>

<p class='c008'>“No,” said Lady Beaumont; “but
probably her pet lamb, or more likely
her cow, has strayed.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Is it her cow that’s amissing,
Robert?” called Sir George.</p>

<p class='c008'>“No, your honour,” said Robert.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Her lamb then, or some other
beast?” asked Sir George.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Naething o’ the kind, your honour,”
answered Robert.</p>

<p class='c008'>“What then?” demanded Sir George,
in a tone that showed he would be
answered.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Why, your honour, they say that
wee Leezie Watt’s no come hame, and
the folk are gaun to seek for her; and
nae doubt they’ll soon find her,” added
Robert, stepping hastily away to join
them.</p>

<p class='c008'>Sir George had felt Lady Beaumont’s
convulsive grasp of his arm, and gently
led her to a seat, where after a while
she became more composed, and was
able to walk to the Hermitage.</p>

<p class='c008'>“And now,” said she, on reaching
the door, “think no more of me, but
give all your thoughts to the most likely
means of restoring the poor child to its
widowed parent.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Spoken like yourself,” said Sir
George, pressing her hand; and immediately
flew to give directions for making
the most thorough and effectual search.
But this search, alas! proved equally
unavailing as the former one, and no
trace whatever could be found of the
widow’s child.</p>

<p class='c008'>The story, joined to the disappearance
of Sir George’s daughter, made a great
noise, and created considerable alarm
in that part of the country; and this
alarm was increased fourfold, when, in
three weeks afterwards, another child
was lost. The whole population now
turned out, and people were stationed
to watch in different places by night
and by day. But no discovery was
made; and, to add to their horror,
child after child disappeared, till the
number of the lost little ones amounted
to seven. Parents no longer durst
trust their children for a moment out of
their sight. They went with them to
school, and also went to bring them
back again; and these precautions had
the best effect, many weeks having
elapsed without anything unpleasant
happening. The neighbours now began
to congratulate each other on the probability,
or rather certainty, that those
who had inflicted so much misery in
that quarter of the country had gone
somewhere else, and that they would
now be able to live in some kind of
peace and comfort. But this peaceful
state was not destined to continue.</p>

<p class='c008'>One of Sir George’s best tenants,
David Williams, had been busily
engaged in ploughing the whole day,
and was thinking of unyoking and
going home, when his wife looked over
the dyke, and asked him how he was
coming on. “But whaur,” continued
she, “are the bairns? are they at the
t’ither end o’ the field?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“The bairns!” said David, “I haena
seen them; but is’t time for their being
back frae the school?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Time!” exclaimed his wife; “muckle
mair than time, they should hae been
hame an hour syne; and that brought
me out to see gif they were wi’ you, as
you said ye wad may be lowse and gang
to meet them!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“’Od, I was unco keen,” said David,
“to finish this bit lea, and had nae
notion it was sae far in the day.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Preserve us!” exclaimed Matty,
“gif anything has happened to them!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Nonsense,” cried David, “when
there’s three o’ them thegither; but,
here,” says he, “tak ye the beasts hame,
and I’se be off, and will soon be back
wi’ them; sae dinna vex yoursel.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I hope it may be sae,” said Matty,
“but my heart misgies me sair—however,
dinna wait to speak about it.”</p>

<p class='c008'>David Williams was not long of
reaching the school, where he learned
from the mistress, that his children had
remained a good while after the rest,
expecting him to come for them; but
that they had at length set out to meet
him, as she understood, and that they
had been gone above an hour, and she
thought they would have been home
long ago. “But, perhaps,” continued
she, “they may have called in at their
aunt’s, for I heard them speaking of
her to-day.”</p>

<p class='c008'>David took a hasty leave, and posted
away to his sister’s, but the children had
not been there, nor had any one seen
them. His brother-in-law, John Maxwell,
seeing his distress, proposed taking
one road, while David took the other,
towards home, and to meet at the corner
of the planting near his house.
They did so, and arrived nearly at the
same time, and each without having
heard or seen anything of the children.
David Williams was now in a perfect
agony, and the perspiration ran like
water from his forehead.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Maybe they’re hame already,” said
his brother-in-law; “I daurna gang up
mysel to speir, bit we’ll send yon herd
laddie.”</p>

<p class='c008'>John went, and gave the boy his
directions to ask, first, if David Williams
was at hame, and then to ask,
cannie-like, if the weans were in. He
then sat down beside David, keeping
his eye on the cottage, when he sees
Matty come fleeing out like one distracted.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Down, David! down wi’ your head,
man,” cried John, “that she mayna
see us.” But Matty had got a glimpse
of them, and came right down on them
as fast as she could run.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Whaur’s my bairns, David?” cried
she; “whaur’s our bonnie bairns? I
kent weel, whenever the callant askit if
they were come hame, what was the
meaning o’t. They’re lost, they’re
lost!” continued the poor woman,
wringing her hands, “and what’ll
become o’ me?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Now Matty, Matty, my ain wife,”
said David, “dinna ye gang on at
that gate, and hurt yoursel; naebody
but John and me has been looking for
them, and we’ve come straught hame,
and there’s a heap o’ ither ways, ye ken,
that they may hae gane by.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ay, ower mony—ower mony ways,
I’m doubtin’,” said Matty mournfully,
shaking her head; “but dinna let us
put aff time this gate. Rin ye baith an’
alarm the neebours, and I’ll awa to the
Hermitage, where we’re sure to get
help; and God grant it mayna end wi’
mine as it did wi’ ithers!”</p>

<h3 class='c015'><span class='sc'>Chapter II.</span></h3>

<p class='c014'>“By heavens!” exclaimed Sir
George, while the blood mounted to
his forehead, “but this is infamous.
Ring the alarm bell,” continued he,
“and let all my tenants and domestics
turn out on foot or on horseback, and
form as large a circle round the place
as possible; and let them bring out all
their dogs, in case this horrid business
is caused by some wild animal or
another which may have broken from
its keeper; and Robert,” continued
Sir George, “see that no strangers are
allowed to pass the circle, on any pretence
whatever, without my having
seen and examined them.”</p>

<p class='c008'>These orders were immediately
obeyed, and the alarm having spread
far and near, an immense body of
people quickly assembled, and commenced
a most determined and active
search, gradually narrowing their circle
as they advanced.</p>

<p class='c008'>Lady Beaumont, ascending to the top
of the Hermitage, which commanded a
view of the whole surrounding country,
watched their proceedings with the
most intense interest; trusting that the
result would be not only the restoration
of David Williams’ children, but the
discovery also of the others which had
disappeared, and of her own little one
amongst the number. At times, single
horsemen would dash from the circle at
a gallop, and presently return with
some man or woman for Sir George’s
examination; and while that lasted,
Lady Beaumont’s heart beat fast and
thick; but the dismissal of the people,
and the re-commencement of the search,
painfully convinced her that no discovery
had yet been made; and sighing
deeply, she again turned her eyes on
the searchers. At other times, the
furious barking of the dogs, and the
running of the people on foot towards
the spot, seemed to promise some discovery;
but the bursting out from the
plantation of some unfortunate calf or
sheep, showed that the people had been
merely hastening to protect them from
the unruly animals which had been
brought together, and who, having
straggled away from their masters,
were under no control.</p>

<p class='c008'>The day was now fast closing in, and
the circle had become greatly diminished
in extent; and when, in a short time
afterwards, it had advanced on all sides
from the plantations, and nothing but a
small open space divided the people
from each other, Sir George directed
them to halt, and, after thanking them
for what they had done, he requested
them to rest themselves on the grass
till refreshments could be brought from
the Hermitage, after partaking of
which they had best move homewards,
as it seemed in vain to attempt anything
more till next day. He then took
leave of them, and hurried home to the
Hermitage, from whence a number of
people were soon seen returning with
the promised refreshments.</p>

<p class='c008'>Having finished what was set before
them, and sufficiently rested themselves,
most of them departed, having first
declared their readiness to turn out the
moment they were wanted. But when
his friends proposed to David Williams
his returning home, he resolutely
refused, declaring his determination to
continue his search the whole night;
and the poor man’s distress seemed so
great, that a number of the people
agreed to accompany him. Robert, on
being applied to, furnished them, from
the Hermitage, with a quantity of
torches and lanterns; and the people
themselves, having got others from the
cottages in the neighbourhood, divided
into bands, and, fixing on John Maxwell’s
house for intelligence to be sent to,
parted in different ways on their search.</p>

<p class='c008'>At first all were extremely active,
and no place the least suspicious was
passed by; but as the night advanced
their exertions evidently flagged, and
many of them began to whisper to each
other that it was in vain to expect doing
any good in the midst of darkness; and,
as the idea gained ground, the people
gradually separated from each other,
and returned to their homes, promising
to be ready early in the morning to
renew the search.</p>

<p class='c008'>“An’ now, David,” said John Maxwell,
“let’s be gaun on.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“No to my house,” cried David;—“not
to my ain house. I canna face
Matty, and them no found yet.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Aweel, then,” said John, “suppose
ye gang hame wi’ me, and fling yersel
down for a wee; an’ then we’ll be
ready to start again at gray daylight.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“An’ what will Matty think in the
meantime?” answered David. “But
gang on, gang on, however,” he added,
“an’ I’se follow ye.”</p>

<p class='c008'>John Maxwell, glad that he had got
him this length, now led the way,
occasionally making a remark to David,
which was very briefly answered, so
that John, seeing him in that mood,
gave up speaking to him, till, coming
at length to a bad step, and warning
David of it, to which he got no answer,
he hastily turned round and found that
he was gone. He immediately went
back, calling to David as loud as he
could, but all to no purpose. It then
occurred to him that David had probably
changed his mind, and had gone
homewards; and, at any rate, if he had
taken another direction, that it was in
vain for him to attempt following him,
the light he carried being now nearly
burnt out. He therefore made the best
of his way to his own house.</p>

<p class='c008'>In the meantime, poor David
Williams, who could neither endure the
thought of going to his own house nor
to his brother-in-law’s, and had purposely
given him the slip, continued to
wander up and down without well
knowing where he was, or where he
was going to, when he suddenly found
himself, on coming out of the wood,
close to the cottage inhabited by a
widow named Elie Anderson.</p>

<p class='c008'>“I wad gie the world for a drink o’
water,” said he to himself; “but the
puir creature will hae lain down lang
syne, an’ I’m sweer to disturb her;”
and as he said this, he listened at the
door, and tried to see in at the window,
but he could neither see nor hear anything,
and was turning to go away,
when he thought he saw something like
the reflection of a light from a hole in
the wall, on a tree which was opposite.
It was too high for him to get at it
without something to stand upon; but
after searching about, he got part of an
old hen-coop, and placing it to the side
of the house, he mounted quietly on it.
He now applied his eye to the hole
where the light came through, and the
first sight which met his horrified gaze
was the body of his eldest daughter,
lying on a table quite dead,—a large
incision down her breast, and another
across it!</p>

<p class='c008'>David Williams could not tell how
he forced his way into the house; but
he remembered bolts and bars crashing
before him,—his seizing Elie Anderson,
and dashing her from him with all his
might; and that he was standing gazing
on his murdered child when two young
ones put out their hands from beneath
the bed-clothes.</p>

<p class='c008'>“There’s faither,” said the one.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Oh, faither, faither,” said the other,
“but I’m glad ye’re come, for Nanny’s
been crying sair, sair, an’ she’s a’ bluiding.”</p>

<p class='c008'>David pressed them to his heart in a
perfect agony, then catching them up
in his arms, he rushed like a maniac
from the place, and soon afterwards
burst into John Maxwell’s cottage,—his
face pale, his eye wild, and gasping
for breath.</p>

<p class='c008'>“God be praised,” cried John Maxwell,
“the bairns are found! But
where’s Nanny?”</p>

<p class='c008'>Poor David tried to speak, but could
not articulate a word.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Maybe ye couldna carry them a’?”
said John; “but tell me whaur Nanny
is, and I’se set out for her momently.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ye needna, John, ye needna,” said
David; “it’s ower late, it’s ower late!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“How sae? how sae?” cried John;
“surely naething mischancy has happened
to the lassie?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“John,” said David, “grasping his
hand, she’s murdered—my bairn’s murdered,
John!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Gude preserve us a’,” cried John;
“an’ wha’s dune it?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Elie Anderson,” answered David;
“the poor innocent lies yonder a’ cut
to bits;” and the unhappy man broke
into a passion of tears.</p>

<p class='c008'>John Maxwell darted off to Saunders
Wilson’s. “Rise, Saunders!” cried he,
thundering at the door; “haste ye and
rise!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“What’s the matter now?” said
Saunders.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Elie Anderson’s murdered David’s
Nanny; sae haste ye, rise, and yoke
your cart, that we may tak her to the
towbuith.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Up jumped Saunders Wilson, and up
jumped his wife and his weans, and in
a few minutes the story was spread like
wildfire. Many a man had lain down
so weary with the long search they had
made, that nothing they thought would
have tempted them to rise again; but
now they and their families sprung from
their beds, and hurried, many of them
only half-dressed, to John Maxwell’s,
scarcely believing that the story could
be true. Amongst the first came
Geordie Turnbull, who proposed that a
number of them should set off immediately,
without waiting till Saunders
Wilson was ready, as Elie Anderson
might abscond in the meantime; and
away he went, followed by about a
dozen of the most active. They soon
reached her habitation, where they found
the door open and a light burning.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ay, ay,” said Geordie, “she’s
aff, nae doubt, but we’ll get her yet.
Na, faith,” cried he, entering, “she’s
here still; but, gudesake, what a sight’s
this!” continued he, gazing on the
slaughtered child. The others now
entered, and seemed filled with horror
at what they saw.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Haste ye,” cried Geordie, “and
fling a sheet or something ower her,
that we mayna lose our wits a’thegither.
And now, ye wretch,” turning to Elie
Anderson, “your life shall answer for
this infernal deed. Here,” continued
he, “bring ropes and tie her, and whenever
Saunders comes up, we’ll off wi’
her to the towbuith.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Ropes were soon got, and she was
tied roughly enough, and then thrown
carelessly into the cart; but notwithstanding
the pain occasioned by her
thigh-bone being broken by the force
with which David Williams dashed her
to the ground, she answered not one
word to all their threats and reproaches,
till the cart coming on some very uneven
ground, occasioned her such exquisite
pain, that, losing all command
over herself, she broke out into such a
torrent of abuse against those who surrounded
her, that Geordie Turnbull
would have killed her on the spot,
had they not prevented him by main
force.</p>

<p class='c008'>Shortly afterwards they arrived at
the prison; and having delivered her
to the jailor, with many strict charges
to keep her safe, they immediately
returned to assist in the search for the
bodies of the other children, who, they
had no doubt, would be found in or
about her house.</p>

<p class='c008'>When they arrived there, they found
an immense crowd assembled, for the
story had spread everywhere; and all
who had lost children, accompanied by
their friends and neighbours and
acquaintances, had repaired to the spot,
and had already commenced digging
and searching all round. After working
in this way for a long while, without
any discovery being made, it was at
length proposed to give up the search
and return home, when Robin Galt,
who was a mason, and who had been
repeatedly pacing the ground from the
kitchen to the pig-sty, and from the
pig-sty to the kitchen, said, “Frien’s,
I’ve been considering, and I canna help
thinking that there maun be a space
no discovered atween the sty and the
kitchen, an’ I’m unco fond to hae that
ascertained.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“We’ll sune settle that,” says
Geordie Turnbull. “Whereabouts
should it be?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Just there, I think,” says Robin.</p>

<p class='c008'>Geordie immediately drove a stone
or two out, so that he could get his
hand in.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Does onybody see my hand frae the
kitchen?” asked he.</p>

<p class='c008'>“No a bit o’t,” was the answer.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Nor frae the sty?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Nor frae that either.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Then there maun be a space, sure
enough,” cried Geordie, drawing out
one stone after another, till he had
made a large hole in the wall. “An’
now,” said he, “gie me a light;” and
he shoved in a lantern, and looked into
the place. “The Lord preserve us
a’!” cried he, starting back.</p>

<p class='c008'>“What is’t—what is’t?” cried the
people, pressing forward on all sides.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Look an’ see!—look an’ see!” he
answered; “they’re a there—a’ the
murdered weans are there, lying in a
raw!”</p>

<p class='c008'>The wall was torn down in a
moment; and, as he had said, the
bodies of the poor innocents were found
laid side by side together. Those who
entered first gazed on the horrid scene
without speaking, and then proceeded
to carry out the bodies, and to lay them
on the green before the house. It was
then that the grief of the unhappy
parents broke forth; and their cries and
lamentations, as they recognised their
murdered little ones, roused the passions
of the crowd to absolute frenzy.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Hanging’s ower gude for her,”
cried one.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Let’s rive her to coupens,” exclaimed
another.</p>

<p class='c008'>A universal shout was the answer;
and immediately the greater part of
them set off for the prison, their
numbers increasing as they ran, and all
burning with fury against the unhappy
author of so much misery.</p>

<p class='c008'>The wretched woman was at this
moment sitting with an old crony who
had been admitted to see her, and to
whom she was confessing what had
influenced her in acting as she had
done.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ye ken,” said she, “I haena jist
been mysel since a rascal that had a
grudge at me put aboot a story of my
having made awa wi’ John Anderson,
wi’ the help o’ arsenic. I was ta’en up
and examined aboot it, and afterwards
tried for it, and though I was acquitted,
the neebours aye looked on me wi’ an
evil eye, and avoided me. This drave
me to drinking and other bad courses,
and it ended in my leaving that part of
the kintra, and coming here. But the
thing rankled in my mind, and many
a time hae I sat thinkin’ on it, till I
scarcely kent where I was, or what I
was doing. Weel, ae day, as I was
sitting at the roadside, near the Hermitage,
and very low about it, I heard
a voice say, ‘Are you thinking on
John Anderson, Elie? Ay, woman,’
said Charlotte Beaumont, for it was
her, ‘what a shame in you to poison
your own gudeman!’ and she pointed
her finger, and hissed at me. When I
heard that,” continued Elie, “the whole
blood in my body seemed to flee up to
my face, an’ my very een were like to
start frae my head; an’ I believe I wad
hae killed her on the spot, hadna ane
o’ Sir George’s servants come up at the
time; sae I sat mysel doun again, an’
after a lang while, I reasoned mysel,
as I thought, into the notion that I
shouldna mind what a bairn said; but
I hadna forgotten’t for a’ that.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Weel, ae day that I met wi’ her
near the wood, I tell’t her that it wasna
right in her to speak yon gate, an’
didna mean to say ony mair, hadna the
lassie gane on ten times waur nor she
had done before, and sae angered me,
that I gied her a wee bit shake, and
then she threatened me wi’ what her
faither wad do, and misca’ed me sae
sair, that I struck her, and my passion
being ance up, I gaed on striking her
till I killed her outright. I didna ken
for a while that she was dead; but
when I found that it was really sae, I
had sense enough left to row her in
my apron, an’ to tak her hame wi’ me;
an’ when I had barred the door, I laid
her body on a chair, and sat down on
my knees beside it, an’ grat an’ wrung
my hands a’ night lang.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Then I began to think what would
be done to me if it was found out; an’
thought o’ pittin’ her into a cunning
place, which the man who had the
house before me, and who was a great
poacher, had contrived to hide his
game in; and when that was done, I
was a thought easier, though I couldna
forgie mysel for what I had done, till
it cam into my head that it had been
the means o’ saving her frae sin, and
frae haein’ muckle to answer for; an’
this thought made me unco happy. At
last I began to think that it would be
right to save mair o’ them, and that it
would atone for a’ my former sins; an’
this took sic a hold o’ me, that I was
aye on the watch to get some ane or
ither o’ them by themselves, to dedicate
them to their Maker, by marking their
bodies wi’ the holy cross:—but oh!”
she groaned, “if I hae been wrang in
a’ this!”</p>

<p class='c008'>The sound of the people rushing
towards the prison was now distinctly
heard; and both at once seemed to apprehend
their object.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Is there no way of escape, Elie,”
asked her friend, wringing her hands.</p>

<p class='c008'>Elie pointed to her broken thigh, and
shook her head. “Besides,” said she,
“I know my hour is come.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The mob had now reached the
prison, and immediately burst open the
doors. Ascending to the room where
Elie was confined, they seized her by
the hair, and dragged her furiously
downstairs. They then hurried her to
the river, and, with the bitterest curses,
plunged her into the stream; but their
intention was not so soon accomplished
as they had expected; and one of the
party having exclaimed that a witch
would not drown, it was suggested, and
unanimously agreed to, to burn her. A
fire was instantly lighted by the waterside,
and when they thought it was
sufficiently kindled, they threw her into
the midst of it. For some time her wet
clothes protected her, but when the fire
began to scorch her, she made a strong
exertion, and rolled herself off. She
was immediately seized and thrown on
again; but having again succeeded in
rolling herself off, the mob became
furious, and called for more wood for
the fire; and by stirring it on all hands,
they raised it into a tremendous blaze.
Some of the most active now hastened
to lay hold of the poor wretch, and to
toss her into it; but in their hurry one
of them having trod on her broken
limb, caused her such excessive pain,
that when Geordie Turnbull stooped to
assist in lifting her head, she suddenly
caught him by the thumb with her
teeth, and held him so fast, that he
found it impossible to extricate it. She
was therefore laid down again, and
in many ways tried to force open her
mouth, but without other effect than
increasing Geordie’s agony; till at
length one of them seizing a pointed
stick from the fire, and thrusting it into
an aperture occasioned by the loss of
some of her teeth, the pressure of its
sharp point against the roof of her
mouth, and the smoke setting her
coughing, forced her to relax her hold,
when the man’s thumb was got out of
her grasp terribly lacerated. Immediately
thereafter she was tossed in the
midst of the flames, and forcibly held
there by means of long prongs; and
the fire soon reaching the vital parts,
the poor wretch’s screams and imprecations
became so horrifying, that
one of the bystanders, unable to bear it
any longer, threw a large stone at her
head, which, hitting her on the temples,
deprived her of sense and motion.</p>

<p class='c008'>Their vengeance satisfied, the people
immediately dispersed, having first
pledged themselves to the strictest
secrecy. Most of them returned home,
but a few went back to Elie Anderson’s,
whose house, and everything belonging
to her, had been set on fire by the
furious multitude. They then retired,
leaving a few men to watch the remains
of the children, till coffins could be
procured for them. “Never in a’ my
days,” said John Maxwell, when speaking
of it afterwards, “did I weary for
daylight as I did that night. When the
smoke smothered the fire, and it was
quite dark, we didna mind sae muckle;
but when a rafter or a bit o’ the roof
fell in, and a bleeze raise, then the firelight
shining on the ghastly faces of the
puir wee innocents a’ laid in a row,—it
was mair than we could weel stand;
and it was mony a day or I was my
ainsel again.”</p>

<h3 class='c015'><span class='sc'>Chapter III.</span></h3>

<p class='c014'>Next morning the parents met, and
it being agreed that all their little ones
should be interred in one grave, and
that the funeral should take place on
the following day, the necessary preparations
were accordingly made. In
the meantime, Matty went over to her
brother John Maxwell, to tell him, if
possible, to persuade David Williams
not to attend the funeral, as she was
sure he could not stand it. “He hadna
closed his ee,” she said, “since that
terrible night, and had neither ate nor
drank, but had just wandered up and
down between the house and the fields,
moaning as if his heart would break.”
John Maxwell promised to speak to
David, but when he did so, he found
him so determined on attending, that it
was needless to say any more on the
subject.</p>

<p class='c008'>On the morning of the funeral, David
Williams appeared very composed; and
John Maxwell was saying to some of
the neighbours that he thought he would
be quite able to attend, when word was
brought that Geordie Turnbull had
died that morning of lock-jaw, brought
on, it was supposed, as much from the
idea of his having been bitten by a
witch, or one that was not canny, as
from the injury done to him.</p>

<p class='c008'>This news made an evident impression
on David Williams, and he
became so restless and uneasy, and felt
himself so unwell, that he at one time
declared he would not go to the funeral;
but getting afterwards somewhat more
composed, he joined the melancholy
procession, and conducted himself with
firmness and propriety from the time of
their setting out till all the coffins were
lowered into the grave. But the first
spadeful of earth was scarcely thrown
in, when the people were startled by
his breaking into a long and loud
laugh;—</p>

<p class='c008'>“There she’s!—there she’s!” he
exclaimed; and, darting through the
astonished multitude, he made with all
his speed to the gate of the churchyard.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Oh! stop him,—will naebody stop
him?” cried his distracted wife; and
immediately a number of his friends
and acquaintances set off after him, the
remainder of the people crowding to
the churchyard wall, whence there was
an extensive view over the surrounding
country. But quickly as those ran who
followed him, David Williams kept far
a-head of them, terror lending him
wings,—till at length, on slackening his
pace, William Russel, who was the only
one near, gained on him, and endeavoured,
by calling in a kind and
soothing manner, to prevail on him to
return. This only made him increase
his speed, and William would have
been thrown behind farther than ever,
had he not taken a short cut, which
brought him very near him.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Thank God, he will get him now!”
cried the people in the churchyard;
when David Williams, turning suddenly
to the right, made with the utmost
speed towards a rising ground, at the
end of which was a freestone quarry of
great depth. At this sight a cry of
horror arose from the crowd, and most
fervently did they pray that he might
yet be overtaken; and great was their
joy when they saw that, by the most
wonderful exertion, William Russel had
got up so near as to stretch out his arm
to catch him; but at that instant his
foot slipped, and ere he could recover
himself, the unhappy man, who had
now gained the summit, loudly shouting,
sprung into the air.</p>

<p class='c008'>“God preserve us!” cried the people,
covering their eyes that they might not
see a fellow-creature dashed in pieces;
“it is all over!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Then help me to lift his poor wife,”
said Isabel Lawson. “And now stan’
back, and gie her a’ the air, that she may
draw her breath.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“She’s drawn her last breath already,
I’m doubting,” said Janet Ogilvie, an
old skilful woman; and her fears were
found to be too true.</p>

<p class='c008'>“An’ what will become o’ the poor
orphans?” said Isabel.</p>

<p class='c008'>She had scarcely spoken, when Sir
George Beaumont advanced, and, taking
one of the children in each hand, he
motioned the people to return towards
the grave.</p>

<p class='c008'>“The puir bairns are provided for
now,” whispered one to another, as they
followed to witness the completion of
the mournful ceremony. It was hastily
finished in silence, and Sir George having
said a few words to his steward, and
committed the orphans to his care, set
out on his way to the Hermitage,
the assembled multitude all standing
uncovered as he passed, to mark
their respect for his goodness and humanity.</p>

<p class='c008'>As might have been expected, the
late unhappy occurrences greatly affected
Lady Beaumont’s health, and Sir
George determined to quit the Hermitage
for a time; and directions were
accordingly given to prepare for their
immediate removal. While this was
doing, the friend who had been with
Elie Anderson in the prison happened
to call at the Hermitage, and the servants
crowded about her, eager to learn
what had induced Elie to commit such
crimes. When she had repeated what
Elie had said, a young woman, one of
the servants, exclaimed, “I know
who’s been the cause of this; for if
Bet,”——and she suddenly checked
herself.</p>

<p class='c008'>“That must mean Betsy Pringle,”
said Robert, who was her sweetheart,
and indeed engaged to her; “so you
will please let us hear what you have to
say against her, or own that you’re a
slanderer.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I have no wish to make mischief,”
said the servant; “and as what I said
came out without much thought, I would
rather say no more; but I’ll not be
called a slanderer neither.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Then say what you have to say,”
cried Robert; “it’s the only way to
settle the matter.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Well, then,” said she, “since I
must do it, I shall. Soon after I came
here, I was one day walking with the
bairns and Betsy Pringle, when we met
a woman rather oddly dressed, and
who had something queer in her manner,
and, when she had left us, I asked
Betsy who it was. ‘Why,’ said Betsy,
‘I don’t know a great deal about her,
as she comes from another part of the
country; but if what a friend of mine
told me lately is true, this Elie Anderson,
as they call her, should have been
hanged.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Hanged!’ cried Miss Charlotte;
‘and why should she be hanged,
Betsy?’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Never you mind, Miss Charlotte,’
said Betsy, ‘I’m speaking to Fanny
here.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘You can tell me some other time,’
said I.</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Nonsense,’ cried Betsy, ‘what can a
bairn know about it? Weel,’ continued
she, ‘it was believed that she had made
away with John Anderson, her gudeman.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘What’s a gudeman, Betsy?’ asked
Miss Charlotte.</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘A husband,’ answered she.</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘And what’s making away with
him, Betsy?’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘What need you care?’ said Betsy.</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘You may just as well tell me,’ said
Miss Charlotte; ‘or I’ll ask Elie
Anderson herself all about it, the first
time I meet her.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘That would be a good joke,’ said
Betsy, laughing; ‘how Elie Anderson
would look to hear a bairn like you
speaking about a gudeman, and making
away with him; however,’ she continued,
‘that means killing him.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Killing him!’ exclaimed Miss
Charlotte. ‘Oh, the wretch; and how
did she kill him, Betsy?’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘You must ask no more questions,
miss,’ said Betsy, and the subject
dropped.</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Betsy,’ said I to her afterwards,
you should not have mentioned these
things before the children; do you forget
how noticing they are?’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Oh, so they are,’ said Betsy, ‘but
only for the moment; and I’ll wager
Miss Charlotte has forgotten it all
already.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“But, poor thing,” Fanny added,
“she remembered it but too well.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I’ll not believe this,” cried Robert.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Let Betsy be called, then,” said the
housekeeper, “and we’ll soon get at the
truth.” Betsy came, was questioned
by the housekeeper, and acknowledged
the fact.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Then,” said Robert, “you have
murdered my master’s daughter, and
you and I can never be more to one
another than we are at this moment;”
and he hastily left the room.</p>

<p class='c008'>Betsy gazed after him for an instant,
and then fell on the floor. She was
immediately raised up and conveyed to
bed, but recovering soon after, and
expressing a wish to sleep, her attendant
left her. The unhappy woman,
feeling herself unable to face her mistress
after what had happened, immediately
got up, and, jumping from the
window, fled from the Hermitage. The
first accounts they had of her were contained
in a letter from herself to Lady
Beaumont, written on her death-bed,
wherein she described the miserable life
she had led since quitting the Hermitage,
and entreating her ladyship’s forgiveness
for the unhappiness which she had
occasioned.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Let what has happened,” said Lady
Beaumont, “be a warning to those who
have the charge of them, to <em>beware of
what they say before children</em>;—a sentiment
which Sir George considered as
so just and important, that he had it
engraven on the stone which covered
the little innocents, that their fate
and its cause might be had in
everlasting remembrance.”—“<cite>The Odd
Volume.</cite>”</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='an_orkney_wedding' class='c006'>AN ORKNEY WEDDING.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By John Malcolm.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>To me more dear, congenial to my heart,</div>
      <div class='line'>One native charm, than all the gloss of art.—<em>Goldsmith.</em></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>Gentle reader! you, I doubt not,
have seen many strange sights, and
have passed through a variety of
eventful scenes. Perhaps you have
visited the Thames Tunnel, and there
threaded your way under ground and
under water, or you may have witnessed
Mr Green’s balloon ascent, and seen him
take an airing on horseback among the
clouds.</p>

<p class='c008'>Perhaps, too, you have been an observer
of human life in all its varieties
and extremes: one night figuring away
at Almack’s with aristocratic beauty,
and the next footing it with a band of
gipsies in Epping Forest. But, pray
tell me, have you ever seen an Orkney
Wedding? If not, as I have just received
an invitation to one, inclusive
of a friend, you shall, if it so please you,
accompany me to that scene of rural
hospitality.</p>

<p class='c008'>In conformity with the custom of the
country, I have sent off to the young
couple a pair of fowls and a leg of
mutton, to play their parts upon the
festive board; and as every family contributes
in like manner, a general pic-nic
is formed, which considerably diminishes
the expense incident to the occasion;
although, as the festivities are frequently
kept up for three or four days by a
numerous assemblage of rural beauty
and fashion, the young people must
contrive to live upon love, if they can,
during the first year of their union,
having little else left upon which to
subsist, except the fragments of the
mighty feast.</p>

<p class='c008'>Well, then, away we go, and about
noon approach the scene of festivity,—a
country-seat built in the cottage style,
thatched with straw, and flanked with
a barn and a well-filled corn-yard,
enclosed with a turf-dyke.</p>

<p class='c008'>The wedding company are now seen
making their way towards the place of
rendezvous; and the young women,
arrayed in white robes of emblematic
purity, exhibit a most edifying example
of economy. With their upper garments
carried to a height to which the fashion
of short petticoats never reached even
at Paris, they trip it away barefooted
through the mud, until they reach the
banks of a purling stream, about a
quarter of a mile distant from the
wedding-house. Here their feet, having
been previously kissed by the crystal
waters, and covered with cotton stockings,
which in whiteness would fain vie
with the skin they enviously conceal,
are inserted into shoes, in whose mirror
of glossy black the enamoured youth
obtains a peep of his own charms,
while stooping down to adjust their ties
into a love-knot.</p>

<p class='c008'>Immediately in front of the outer-door,
or principal entrance of the house,
and answering the double purpose of
shelter and ornament, stands a broad
square pile, composed of the most
varied materials, needless to be enumerated,
and vulgarly denominated a <em>midden</em>,
around the base of which some
half-dozen of pigs are acting the part of
miners, in search of its hidden treasures.
It is separated from the house by a
sheet of water, tinged with the fairest
hues of heaven and earth, viz., blue and
green, and over which we pass by a
bridge of stepping-stones.</p>

<p class='c008'>And now, my friend, before entering
the house, it may be as well to consider
what character you are to personate
during the entertainment; for the good
people in these islands, like their neighbours
of the mainland of Scotland, take
that friendly interest in other people’s
affairs, which the thankless world very
unkindly denominates impertinent curiosity.</p>

<p class='c008'>If I pass you off as a lawyer, you
will immediately be overwhelmed with
statements of their quarrels and grievances;
for they are main fond of law,
and will expend the hard-earned savings
of years in litigation, although the subject-matter
of dispute should happen to
be only a goose. You must not, therefore,
belong to the bar, since, in the
present case, consultations would produce
no fees.</p>

<p class='c008'>I think I shall therefore confer upon
you the degree of M.D., which will do
as well for the occasion as if you had
obtained it by purchase at the University
of Aberdeen; although I am not sure
that it also may not subject you to some
trouble in the way of medical advice.</p>

<p class='c008'>And now having safely passed over
the puddle, and tapped gently at the
door, our arrival is immediately announced
by a grand musical chorus,
produced by the barking of curs, the
cackling of geese, the quacking of ducks,
and the grunting and squeaking of pigs.
After this preliminary salutation, we
are received by the bridegroom, and
ushered, with many kind welcomes,
into the principal hall, through a half
open door, at one end of which we are
refreshed with a picture of rural felicity,
namely, some sleek-looking cows, <em>ruminating</em>
in philosophical tranquillity on
the subject of diet.</p>

<p class='c008'>In the middle of the hall is a large
blazing turf fire, the smoke of which
escapes in part through an aperture in
the roof, while the remainder expands
in the manner of a pavilion over the
heads of the guests.</p>

<p class='c008'>A door at the other end of the hall
opens into the withdrawing-room, the
principal furniture of which consists of
two large chests filled with oat and
barley meal and home-made cheeses, a
concealed bed, and a chest of drawers.
Both rooms have floors inlaid with earth,
and roofs of a dark soot colour, from
which drops of a corresponding hue
occasionally fall upon the bridal robes
of the ladies, with all the fine effect
arising from contrast, and ornamental
on the principle of the patch upon the
cheek of beauty.</p>

<p class='c008'>Separated from the dwelling-house
only by a puddle dotted with stepping-stones
stands the barn, which, from its
length and breadth, is admirably adapted
for the purposes of a ball-room.</p>

<p class='c008'>Upon entering the withdrawing-room,
which the good people with admirable
modesty call <em>the ben</em>, we take our seats
among the elders and chiefs of the
people, and drink to the health of the
young couple in a glass of delicious
Hollands, which, unlike Macbeth’s
“Amen,” does not stick in our throats,
although we are well aware that it never
paid duty, but was slily smuggled over
sea in a Dutch lugger, and safely stowed,
during some dark night, in the caves of
the more remote islands.</p>

<p class='c008'>The clergyman having now arrived,
the company assembled, and the ceremony
of marriage being about to take
place, the parties to be united walk in,
accompanied by the best man and the
bride’s maid,—those important functionaries,
whose business it is to pull off
the gloves from the right hands of their
constituents, as soon as the order is
given to “join hands,”—but this they
find to be no easy matter, for at that
eventful part of the ceremony their
efforts are long baffled, owing to the
tightness of the gloves. While they
are tugging away to no purpose, the
bridegroom looks chagrined, and the
bride is covered with blushes; and
when at last the operation is accomplished,
and perseverance crowned with
success, the confusion of the scene seems
to have infected the parson, who thus
blunders through the ceremony:</p>

<p class='c008'>“Bridegroom,” quoth he, “do you
take the woman whom you now hold
by the hand, to be your lawful married
husband?”</p>

<p class='c008'>To which interrogation the bridegroom
having nodded in the affirmative,
the parson perceives his mistake,
and calls out, “Wife, I mean.” “Wife,
I mean,” echoes the bridegroom; and
the whole company are in a titter.</p>

<p class='c008'>But, thank heaven, the affair is got
over at last; and the bride being well
saluted, a large rich cake is broken
over her head, the fragments of which
are the subject of a scramble among
the bystanders, by whom they are picked
up as precious relics, having power to
produce love-dreams.</p>

<p class='c008'>And now the married pair, followed
by the whole company, set off to church,
to be <em>kirked</em>, as the phrase is. A performer
on the violin (not quite a Rossini)
heads the procession, and plays a
variety of appropriate airs, until he
reaches the church-door. As soon as
the party have entered and taken their
seats, the parish-clerk, in a truly impressive
and orthodox tone of voice,
reads a certain portion of Scripture,
wherein wives are enjoined to be obedient
to their husbands. The service
is concluded with a psalm, and the
whole party march back, headed as
before by the musician.</p>

<p class='c008'>Upon returning from church, the company
partake of a cold collation, called
the <em>hansel</em>, which is distributed to each
and all by the bride’s mother, who for
the time obtains the elegant designation
of <em>hansel-wife</em>. The refreshments consist
of cheese, old and new, cut down in
large slices, or rather junks, and placed
upon oat and barley cakes,—some of
the former being about an inch thick,
and called <em>snoddies</em>.</p>

<p class='c008'>These delicate viands are washed
down with copious libations of new ale,
which is handed about in a large wooden
vessel, having three handles, and ycleped
a <em>three-lugged cog</em>.<a id='r18'></a><a href='#f18' class='c018'><sup>[18]</sup></a> The etherial beverage
is seasoned with pepper, ginger,
and nutmeg, and thickened with eggs
and pieces of toasted biscuit.</p>

<div class='footnote' id='f18'>
<p class='c008'><a href='#r18'>18</a>. Also called <em>the Bride’s cog</em>.—<span class='sc'>Ed.</span></p>
</div>

<p class='c008'>These preliminaries being concluded,
the company return to the barn, where
the music strikes up, and the dancing
commences with what is called the
Bride’s Reel; after which, two or three
young men take possession of the floor,
which they do not resign until they
have danced with every woman present;
they then give place to others, who pass
through the same ordeal, and so on.
The dance then becomes more varied
and general. Old men and young ones,
maids, matrons, and grandmothers,
mingle in its mazes. And, oh! what
movements are there,—what freaks
of the “fantastic toe,”—what goodly
figures and glorious gambols in a dance;—compared
to which the waltz is but
the shadow of joy, and the quadrille
the feeble effort of Mirth upon her
last legs.</p>

<p class='c008'>Casting an eye, however, upon the
various performers, I cannot but observe
that the old people seem to have
monopolised all the airs and graces;
for, while the young maidens slide
through the reel in the most quiet and
unostentatious way, and then keep
bobbing opposite to their partners in
all the monotony of the back-step, their
more gifted grandmothers figure away
in quite another style. With a length
of waist which our modern belles do
not wish to possess, and an underfigure,
which they cannot if they would,
even with the aid of pads, but which is
nevertheless the true court-shape, rendering
the hoop unnecessary, and which
is moreover increased by the swinging
appendages of huge scarlet pockets,
stuffed with bread and cheese, behold
them sideling up to their partners in a
kind of <em>echellon</em> movement, spreading
out their petticoats like sails, and then,
as if seized with a sudden fit of bashfulness,
making a hasty retreat rearwards.
Back they go at a round trot; and
seldom do they stop until their career
of retiring modesty ends in a somersault
over the sitters along the sides of the
room.</p>

<p class='c008'>The old men, in like manner, possess
similar advantages over the young ones;
the latter being sadly inferior to their
seniors in address and attitudes. Nor
is this much to be wondered at, the
young gentlemen having passed most
of their summer vacations at Davis’
Straits, where their society consisted
chiefly of bears; whereas the old ones
are men of the world, having in early
life entered the Company’s service (I
do not mean that of the East Indies,
but of Hudson’s Bay), where their
manners must no doubt have been highly
polished by their intercourse with the
Squaws, and all the beauty and fashion
of that interesting country.</p>

<p class='c008'>Such of them as have sojourned there
are called north-westers, and are distinguished
by that modest assurance,
and perfect ease and self-possession,
only to be acquired by mixing frequently
and freely with the best society.
Indeed, one would suppose that their
manners were formed upon the model
of the old French school; and <i><span lang="fr">queues</span></i>
are in general use among them—not,
however, those of the small pigtail kind,
but ones which in shape and size
strongly resemble the Boulogne sausage.</p>

<p class='c008'>And now, amidst these ancients, I
recognise my old and very worthy
friend, Mr James Houston, kirk-officer
and sexton of the parish, of whom a few
words, perhaps, may not be unacceptable.</p>

<p class='c008'>His degree of longitude may be about
five feet from the earth, and in latitude
he may extend at an average to about
three. His countenance, which is
swarthy, and fully as broad as it is
long, although not altogether the model
which an Italian painter would select
for his Apollo, would yet be considered
handsome among the Esquimaux; or,
as James calls them, the <em>Huskinese</em>.
His hair, which (notwithstanding an
age at which Time generally saves us
the expense of the powder-tax) is jet
black, is of a length and strength that
would not shrink from comparison with
that of a horse’s tail, and hangs down
over his broad shoulders in a fine and
generous flow. The coat which he
wears upon this, as upon all other
occasions, is cut upon the model of the
spencer; its colour, a “heavenly blue,”
varied by numerous dark spots, like
clouds in a summer sky; while his
nether bulk is embraced by a pair of
tight buckskin “unmentionables.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Extending from the bosom down to
the knee he wears a leather apron.
This part of his dress is never dispensed
with, except at church; and though I
have not been able to ascertain its precise
purpose with perfect certainty, I
am inclined to think it is used as a perpetual
pinafore, to preserve his garments
from the pollution of soup and grease-drops
at table.</p>

<p class='c008'>The principal materials of his dress
are, moreover, prepared for use by his
own hands: Mr Houston being at
once sole proprietor and operative of a
small manufactory, consisting of a single
loom; when not employed at which,
or in spreading the couch of rest in the
churchyard, he enjoys a kind of perpetual
<i><span lang="la">otium cum dignitate</span></i>.</p>

<p class='c008'>His chief moveables, in addition to
the loom, consist of three Shetland
ponies and a small Orkney plough, by
the united aid of which he is enabled to
scratch up the surface of a small estate,
which supplies him with grain sufficient
for home consumption, but not for
exportation.</p>

<p class='c008'>His peculiar and more shining accomplishments
consist in the art of mimicking
the dance of every man and woman
in the parish, which he does with a
curious felicity, and in executing short
pieces of music on that sweetest of lyres,
the Jew’s harp.</p>

<p class='c008'>Like most of his profession, he is a
humorist; and though he has long
“walked hand-in-hand with death,”
nobody enjoys life with a keener relish
at the festive board or the midnight
ball, which he finds delightful relaxations
from his <em>grave</em> occupations during
the day; and yet even these latter
afford him a rare and consolatory joy
denied to other men,—I mean that of
meeting with his old friends, after they
have been long dead, and of welcoming,
with a grin of recognition, the skulls of
his early associates, as he playfully pats
them with his spade, and tosses them
into the light of day.</p>

<p class='c008'>But it is in his capacity of kirk-officer
that Mr Houston appears to the
greatest advantage, while ushering the
clergyman to the pulpit, and marching
before him with an air truly magnificent,
and an erectness of carriage somewhat
beyond the perpendicular, he performs
his important function of opening and
shutting the door of the pulpit, and
takes his seat under an almost overwhelming
sense of dignity, being for the
time a kind of lord high constable,
with whom is entrusted the execution
of the law. And that he does not bear
the sword in vain is known to their
cost, by all the litigious and churchgoing
dogs of the parish; for no sooner
do they begin to growl and tear each
other, with loud yells, which they
generally do, so as to chime in with the
first notes of the first psalm, than starting
up with a long staff,—the awe-inspiring
baton of office,—he belabours
the yelping curs with such blessed effect
as to restore them to a sense of propriety,
and prevent them from mingling
their unhallowed chorus with that of
the melodious choir.</p>

<p class='c008'>Having given this brief outline of
Mr Houston, we shall proceed through
the remaining part of the scene. A
large and very substantial dinner forms
an agreeable variety in the entertainments
of the day; and in the evening
the scene of elegant conviviality is
transferred to the ball-room, where
dancing again commences with renovated
spirit. The perpetual motion,
also, seems at last to be discovered in that
of the <em>three-lugged cog</em>, which circulates
unceasing as the sun;—like that, diffusing
life and gladness in its growing
orbit round the room, and kissed in its
course by so many fair lips, bears off
upon its edges much of their balmy
dew, affording a double-refined relish
to its inspiring draughts.</p>

<p class='c008'>At length the supper is announced, and
a rich repast it is: quarters of mutton,
boiled and roasted, flocks of fat hens,
in marshalled ranks, flanked with roasted
geese, luxuriously swimming in a savoury
sea of butter, form the <i><span lang="fr">élite</span></i> of the feast;
from which all manner of vegetables are
entirely excluded, being considered as
much too humble for such an occasion.</p>

<p class='c008'>The company do ample justice to the
hospitality of their entertainers; and
even the bride, considering the delicacy
of her situation, has already exceeded
all bounds of moderation. This, however,
is entirely owing to her high sense
of politeness; for she conceives that it
would be rude in her to decline eating
so long as she is asked to do so by the
various carvers. But now I really begin
to be alarmed for her: already has she
dispatched six or seven services of animal
food, and is even now essaying to disjoint
the leg and wing of a goose; but,
thank Heaven!—in attempting to cut
through the bone, she has upset her
plate, and transferred its contents into
her lap; which circumstance, I trust,
she will consider a providential warning
to eat no more.</p>

<p class='c008'>And now, before leaving the wedding,
we will have a little conversation with
some of my country friends, who are
fond of chatting with those whom they
call <em>the gentry</em>; and who, being particularly
partial to a pompous phraseology,
and addicted to the use of words, of
which they either do not understand the
meaning at all, or very imperfectly, are
all of the Malaprop school, and often
quite untranslatable. A fair specimen
of their style may be had from my friend
Magnus Isbister, who has taken his
seat upon my left hand, but at such a
distance from the table that his victuals
are continually dropping betwixt his
plate and his mouth. I will speak to
him.</p>

<p class='c008'>“I am glad to see you here, Magnus;
and looking so well, that I need not
inquire after your health.”</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Magnus.</em> “Why, thanks to the Best,
sir, I’m brave and easy that way; but
sairly hadden down wi’ the laird, wha’s
threatenin’ to raise my rent that’s ower
high already; but he was aye a <em>raxward</em>
man,—and, between you and me,
he’s rather greedy.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“That’s a hard case, Magnus; you
should speak to the factor, and explain
your circumstances to him.”</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Mag.</em> “Oh, sir, I hae been doin’
that already; but he got into a <em>sevandable</em>
passion, an’ said something about
‘his eye and Betty Martin;’—I’m sure I
ken naething about her; but ye maun
ken he’s a <em>felonious</em> arguer, an’ ower
deep for the like o’ us puir <em>infidel
bodies</em>.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Had you not better sit nearer to
the table, Magnus? You are losing
your victuals by keeping at such a
distance.”</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Mag.</em> “Na, na, sir; I doubt ye’re
mockan’ me noo; but I ken what gude
manners is better than do ony siccan a
thing.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Where is your son at present?”</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Mag.</em> “Why, thanks be praised, sir,
he’s doing bravely. He follows the
<em>swindling</em> trade awa in the south,
whaur they tell me the great Bishops o’
Lunnon are proclaiming war wi’ the
Papists.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“That they are, Magnus, and ever
will do.”</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Mag.</em> “Can ye tell me, sir, if it’s
true that the king’s intending to part
wi’ his ministers? I’m thinking it would
be a’ the better for the like o’ us boons
folk, and wad free us frae the tithes.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“You misunderstand the thing,
Magnus; the king’s ministers are not
those of the Church, but of the State.”</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Mag.</em> “Oh—is that it? Weel, I
never kent that before. But can ye tell
me, sir, wha that gentleman is upon
your ither side?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“He is a young Englishman, who
has come north to see this country.”</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Mag.</em> “Is he indeed, sir? And, by
your leave, what <em>ack o’ parliament</em> does
he drive?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“He is, I believe, a doctor of
medicine.”</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Mag.</em> “Just so, sir; I wonder if he
could tell what would be good for me?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I thought you told me you were
in good health?”</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Mag.</em> “Weel, as I said before, I’m
brave and easy that way, indeed; but
yet I’m whiles fashed wi’ the <em>rheumaticisms</em>,
and sometimes I’m very <em>domalis</em>.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Domalis!—what’s that, Magnus?”</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Mag.</em> “Weel, never might there be
the waur o’ that; I thought you, that’s
been at college, wad hae kent that;—domalis
is just ‘<em>flamp</em>’ (listless).”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I would advise you to keep clear
of the doctors, Magnus; believe me,
you don’t require them at present;—but
come, favour me with a toast.”</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Mag.</em> (<em>Filling his glass.</em>) “Weel,
sir, I’se do my best to gie ye a gude
ane (<em>scratching his head</em>);—weel, sir,
‘Here’s luck.’”</p>

<p class='c008'>“An excellent toast, Magnus, which
I drink with all my heart; and, in return
‘Here’s to your health and happiness,
and that of the bride and
bridegroom, and the rest of this pleasant
company, and a good night to
you all.’”</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='the_ghost_with_the_golden_casket' class='c006'>THE GHOST WITH THE GOLDEN CASKET.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By Allan Cunningham.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line in22'>Is my soul tamed</div>
      <div class='line'>And baby-rid with the thought that flood or field</div>
      <div class='line'>Can render back, to scare men and the moon,</div>
      <div class='line'>The airy shapes of the corses they enwomb?</div>
      <div class='line'>And what if ’tis so—shall I lose the crown</div>
      <div class='line'>Of my most golden hope, ’cause its fair circle</div>
      <div class='line'>Is haunted by a shadow?</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>From the coast of Cumberland the
beautiful old castle of Caerlaverock is
seen standing on the point of a fine
green promontory, bounded by the river
Nith on one side, by the deep sea on
another, by the almost impassable
morass of Solway on a third; while,
far beyond, you observe the three
spires of Dumfries, and the high green
hills of Dalswinton and Keir. It was
formerly the residence of the almost
princely names of Douglas, Seaton,
Kirkpatrick, and Maxwell: it is now
the dwelling-place of the hawk and the
owl; its courts are a lair for cattle,
and its walls afford a midnight shelter
to the passing smuggler, or, like those
of the city doomed in Scripture, are
places for the fishermen to dry their
nets. Between this fine old ruin and
the banks of the Nith, at the foot of a
grove of pines, and within a stone-cast
of tide-mark, the remains of a rude
cottage are yet visible to the curious
eye; the bramble and the wild plum
have in vain tried to triumph over the
huge gray granite blocks, which composed
the foundations of its walls. The
vestiges of a small garden may still be
traced, more particularly in summer,
when roses and lilies, and other relics
of its former beauty, begin to open their
bloom, clinging, amid the neglect and
desolation of the place, with something
like human affection, to the soil. This
rustic ruin presents no attractions to the
eye of the profound antiquary, compared
to those of its more stately companion,
Caerlaverock Castle; but with this
rude cottage and its garden, tradition
connects a tale so wild and so moving,
as to elevate it, in the contemplation of
the peasantry, above all the princely feasts
and feudal atrocities of its neighbour.</p>

<p class='c008'>It is now some fifty years since I
visited the parish of Caerlaverock; but
the memory of its people, its scenery,
and the story of the Ghost with the
Golden Casket, are as fresh with me as
matters of yesterday. I had walked
out to the river bank one sweet afternoon
of July, when the fishermen were
hastening to dip their nets in the coming
tide, and the broad waters of the
Solway sea were swelling and leaping
against bank and cliff, as far as the eye
could reach. It was studded over with
boats, and its more unfrequented bays
were white with water-fowl. I sat
down on a small grassy mound between
the cottage ruins and the old garden
plot, and gazed, with all the hitherto
untasted pleasure of a stranger, on the
beautiful scene before me. On the
right, and beyond the river, the
mouldering relics of the ancient religion
of Scotland ascended, in unassimilating
beauty, above the humble kirk of
New Abbey and its squalid village;
farther to the south rose the white
sharp cliffs of Barnhourie; while on
the left stood the ancient Keeps of
Cumlongan and Torthorald, and the
Castle of Caerlaverock. Over the
whole looked the stately green mountain
of Criffel, confronting its more stately
but less beautiful neighbour, Skiddaw;
while between them flowed the deep
wide sea of Solway, hemmed with cliff,
and castle, and town.</p>

<p class='c008'>As I sat looking on the increasing
multitudes of waters, and watching the
success of the fishermen, I became aware
of the approach of an old man, leading,
as one will conduct a dog in a string, a fine
young milch cow, in a halter of twisted
hair, which, passing through the ends
of two pieces of flat wood, fitted to the
animal’s cheek-bones, pressed her nose,
and gave her great pain whenever she
became disobedient. The cow seemed
willing to enjoy the luxury of a browse
on the rich pasture which surrounded
the little ruined cottage; but in this
humble wish she was not to be indulged;
for the aged owner, coiling up the tether,
and seizing her closely by the head,
conducted her past the tempting herbage
towards a small and close-cropt hillock,
a good stone-cast distant. In this piece
of self-denial the animal seemed reluctant
to sympathise—she snuffed the
fresh green pasture, and plunged, and
startled, and nearly broke away. What
the old man’s strength seemed nearly
unequal to was accomplished by
speech:—</p>

<p class='c008'>“Bonnie leddy, bonnie leddy,” said
he, in a soothing tone, “it canna be,
it maunna be; hinnie! hinnie! what
would become of my three-bonnie
grandbairns, made fatherless and mitherless
by that false flood afore us, if they
supped milk, and tasted butter, that
came from the greensward of this doomed
and unblessed spot?”</p>

<p class='c008'>The animal appeared to comprehend
something in her own way from the
speech of her owner: she abated her
resistance; and, indulging only in a
passing glance at the rich deep herbage,
passed on to her destined pasture.</p>

<p class='c008'>I had often heard of the singular
superstitions of the Scottish peasantry,
and that every hillock had its song,
every hill its ballad, and every valley its
tale. I followed with my eye the old
man and his cow: he went but a little
way, till, seating himself on the ground,
retaining still the tether in his hand,
he said,—</p>

<p class='c008'>“Now, bonnie leddy, feast thy fill
on this good greensward; it is halesome
and holy, compared to the sward at the
doomed cottage of auld Gibbie Gyrape—leave
that to smugglers’ nags: Willie o’
Brandyburn and roaring Jock o’ Kempstane
will ca’ the Haunted Ha’ a hained
bit—they are godless fearnoughts.”</p>

<p class='c008'>I looked at the person of the peasant.
He was a stout hale old man, with a
weather-beaten face, furrowed something
by time, and perhaps by sorrow.
Though summer was at its warmest, he
wore a broad chequered mantle, fastened
at the bosom with a skewer of steel;
a broad bonnet, from beneath the circumference
of which straggled a few
thin locks, as white as driven snow,
shining like amber, and softer than the
finest flax; while his legs were warmly
cased in blue-ribbed boot-hose. Having
laid his charge to the grass, he
looked leisurely around him, and espying
me,—a stranger, and dressed above
the manner of the peasantry,—he acknowledged
my presence by touching
his bonnet; and, as if willing to communicate
something of importance, he
struck the tethered stake in the ground
and came to the old garden fence.</p>

<p class='c008'>Wishing to know the peasant’s reason
for avoiding the ruins, I thus addressed
him:—</p>

<p class='c008'>“This is a pretty spot, my aged friend,
and the herbage looks so fresh and abundant,
that I would advise thee to bring
thy charge hither; and while she continues
to browse, I would gladly listen
to the history of thy white locks, for
they seem to have been bleached in many
tempests.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ay, ay,” said the peasant, shaking his
white head with a grave smile; “they have
braved sundry tempests between sixteen
and sixty; but touching this pasture, sir,
I know of none who would like their
cows to crop it: the aged cattle shun
the place;—the bushes bloom, but bear
no fruit,—the birds never build in the
branches,—the children never come
near to play,—and the aged never choose
it for a resting-place; but, pointing it
out as they pass to the young, tell them
the story of its desolation. Sae ye see,
sir, having nae gude-will to such a spot
of earth myself, I like little to see a
stranger sitting in such an unblessed
place; and I would as good as advise
ye to come ower wi’ me to the cowslip
knoll—there are reasons mony that an
honest man shouldna sit there.”</p>

<p class='c008'>I arose at once, and seating myself
beside the peasant on the cowslip knoll,
desired to know something of the
history of the spot from which he had
just warned me. The old man looked
on me with an air of embarrassment.</p>

<p class='c008'>“I am just thinking,” said he, “that,
as ye are an Englishman, I shouldna
acquaint ye wi’ such a story. Ye’ll
mak it, I’m doubting, a matter of
reproach and vaunt when ye gae hame,
how Willie Borlan o’ Caerlaverock
told ye a tale of Scottish iniquity, that
cowed a’ the stories in southern book
or history.”</p>

<p class='c008'>This unexpected obstacle was soon
removed.</p>

<p class='c008'>“My sage and considerate friend,” I
said, “I have the blood in my bosom
that will keep me from revealing such a
tale to the scoffer and the scorner. I
am something of a Caerlaverock man—the
grandson of Marion Stobie of
Dookdub.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The peasant seized my hand—“Marion
Stobie! bonnie Marion
Stobie o’ Dookdub—whom I wooed
sae sair, and loved sae lang!—Man,
I love ye for her sake; and well was it
for her braw English bridegroom that
William Borlan—frail and faded now,
but strong and in manhood then—was
a thousand miles from Caerlaverock,
rolling on the salt sea, when she was
brided. Ye have the glance of her ee,—I
could ken it yet amang ten thousand,
gray as my head is. I will tell
the grandson of bonnie Marion Stobie
ony tale he likes to ask for; and the
story of the Ghost and the Gowd
Casket shall be foremost.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“You may imagine then,” said the
old Caerlaverock peasant, rising at once
with the commencement of his story
from his native dialect into very passable
English—“you may imagine these
ruined walls raised again in their
beauty,—whitened, and covered with a
coating of green broom; that garden,
now desolate, filled with herbs in their
season, and with flowers, hemmed
round with a fence of cherry and plumtrees;
and the whole possessed by a
young fisherman, who won a fair subsistence
for his wife and children from
the waters of the Solway sea: you may
imagine it, too, as far from the present
time as fifty years. There are only two
persons living now, who remember
when the Bonne Homme Richard—the
first ship ever Richard Faulder commanded—was
wrecked on the Pelock
sands: one of these persons now addresses
you, the other is the fisherman who
once owned that cottage,—whose name
ought never to be named, and whose
life seems lengthened as a warning to
the earth, how fierce God’s judgments
are. Life changes—all breathing
things have their time and their
season; but the Solway flows in the
same beauty—Criffel rises in the same
majesty—the light of morning comes,
and the full moon arises now, as they
did then;—but this moralizing matters
little. It was about the middle of
harvest—I remember the day well; it
had been sultry and suffocating, accompanied
by rushings of wind, sudden
convulsions of the water, and cloudings
of the sun:—I heard my father sigh
and say, ‘Dool, dool to them found on
the deep sea to-night; there will happen
strong storm and fearful tempest!’</p>

<p class='c008'>“The day closed, and the moon came
over Skiddaw: all was perfectly clear
and still; frequent dashings and whirling
agitations of the sea were soon heard
mingling with the hasty clang of the
water-fowls’ wings, as they forsook the
waves, and sought shelter among the
hollows of the rocks. The storm was
nigh. The sky darkened down at once;
clap after clap of thunder followed; and
lightning flashed so vividly, and so frequent,
that the wide and agitated expanse
of Solway was visible from side
to side—from St Bees to Barnhourie.
A very heavy rain, mingled with hail,
succeeded; and a wind accompanied it,
so fierce, and so high, that the white
foam of the sea was showered as thick
as snow on the summit of Caerlaverock
Castle.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Through this perilous sea, and amid
this darkness and tempest, a bark was
observed coming swiftly down the middle
of the sea; her sails rent, and her decks
crowded with people. The ‘carry,’
as it is called, of the tempest was direct
from St Bees to Caerlaverock; and
experienced men could see that the bark
would be driven full on the fatal shoals
of the Scottish side; but the lightning
was so fierce that few dared venture to
look on the approaching vessel, or take
measures for endeavouring to preserve
the lives of the unfortunate mariners.
My father stood on the threshold of his
door, and beheld all that passed in the
bosom of the sea. The bark approached
fast, her canvas rent to shreds, her
masts nearly levelled with the deck,
and the sea foaming over her so deep,
and so strong, as to threaten to sweep
the remains of her crew from the little
refuge the broken masts and splintered
beams still afforded them. She now
seemed within half a mile of the shore,
when a strong flash of lightning, that
appeared to hang over the bark for a
moment, showed the figure of a lady
richly dressed, clinging to a youth who
was pressing her to his bosom.</p>

<p class='c008'>“My father exclaimed, ‘Saddle me
my black horse, and saddle me my gray,
and bring them down to the Dead-man’s
bank,’—and, swift in action as he was
in resolve, he hastened to the shore, his
servants following with his horses. The
shore of Solway presented then, as it
does now, the same varying line of
coast; and the house of my father stood
in the bosom of a little bay, nearly a
mile distant from where we sit. The
remains of an old forest interposed
between the bay at Dead-man’s bank,
and the bay at our feet; and mariners
had learned to wish, that if it were their
doom to be wrecked, it might be in the
bay of douce William Borlan, rather
than that of Gilbert Gyrape, the proprietor
of that ruined cottage. But
human wishes are vanities, wished
either by sea or land. I have heard
my father say, he could never forget the
cries of the mariners, as the bark smote
on the Pellock bank, and the flood
rushed through the chasms made by the
concussion; but he could far less forget
the agony of a lady—the loveliest that
could be looked upon, and the calm and
affectionate courage of the young man
who supported her, and endeavoured to
save her from destruction. Richard
Faulder, the only man who survived,
has often sat at my fireside, and sung
me a very rude, but a very moving
ballad, which he made on this young
and unhappy pair; and the old mariner
assured me he had only added rhymes,
and a descriptive line or two, to the
language in which Sir William Musgrave
endeavoured to soothe and support his
wife.”</p>

<p class='c008'>It seemed a thing truly singular, that
at this very moment two young fishermen,
who sat on the margin of the sea
below us, watching their halve-nets,
should sing, and with much sweetness,
the very song the old man had described.
They warbled verse and verse alternately;
and rock and bay seemed to retain and
then release the sound. Nothing is so
sweet as a song by the seaside on a
tranquil evening.</p>

<h3 class='c015'>SIR WILLIAM MUSGRAVE.</h3>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line in12'><em>First Fisherman.</em></div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“O lady, lady, why do you weep?</div>
      <div class='line'>Tho’ the wind be loosed on the raging deep,</div>
      <div class='line'>Tho’ the heaven be mirker than mirk may be,</div>
      <div class='line'>And our frail bark ships a fearful sea,—</div>
      <div class='line'>Yet thou art safe—as on that sweet night</div>
      <div class='line'>When our bridal candles gleamed far and bright.”—</div>
      <div class='line'>There came a shriek, and there came a sound,</div>
      <div class='line'>And the Solway roared, and the ship spun round.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line in12'><em>Second Fisherman.</em></div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“O lady, lady, why do you cry?</div>
      <div class='line'>Though the waves be flashing top-mast high,</div>
      <div class='line'>Though our frail bark yields to the dashing brine,</div>
      <div class='line'>And heaven and earth show no saving sign,</div>
      <div class='line'>There is One who comes in the time of need,</div>
      <div class='line'>And curbs the waves as we curb a steed.”—</div>
      <div class='line'>The lightning came, with the whirlwind blast,</div>
      <div class='line'>And cleaved the prow, and smote down the mast.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line in12'><em>First Fisherman.</em></div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“O lady, lady, weep not nor wail,</div>
      <div class='line'>Though the sea runs howe as Dalswinton vale,</div>
      <div class='line'>Then flashes high as Barnhourie brave,</div>
      <div class='line'>And yawns for thee, like the yearning grave—</div>
      <div class='line'>Tho’ twixt thee and the ravening flood</div>
      <div class='line'>There is but my arm and this splintering wood,</div>
      <div class='line'>The fell quicksand, or the famished brine,</div>
      <div class='line'>Can ne’er harm a face so fair as thine.”</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line in12'><em>Both.</em></div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“O lady, lady, be bold and brave,</div>
      <div class='line'>Spread thy white breast to the fearful wave,</div>
      <div class='line'>And cling to me with that white right hand,</div>
      <div class='line'>And I’ll set thee safe on the good dry land.”</div>
      <div class='line'>A lightning flash on the shallop strook,</div>
      <div class='line'>The Solway roared, and Caerlaverock shook;</div>
      <div class='line'>From the sinking ship there were shriekings cast,</div>
      <div class='line'>That were heard above the tempest’s blast.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c008'>The young fishermen having concluded
their song, my companion proceeded.</p>

<p class='c008'>“The lightning still flashed vivid
and fast, and the storm raged with unabated
fury; for, between the ship and
the shore, the sea broke in frightful
undulation, and leaped on the greensward
several fathoms deep abreast.
My father, mounted on one horse, and
holding another in his hand, stood prepared
to give all the aid that a brave
man could to the unhappy mariners;
but neither horse nor man could endure
the onset of that tremendous surge.
The bark bore for a time the fury of
the element; but a strong eastern wind
came suddenly upon her, and crushing
her between the wave and the freestone
bank, drove her from the entrance of
my father’s little bay towards the dwelling
of Gibbie Gyrape, and the thick
forest intervening, she was out of sight
in a moment. My father saw, for the
last time, the lady and her husband
looking shoreward from the side of the
vessel, as she drifted along; and as he
galloped round the head of the forest,
he heard for the last time the outcry of
some, and the wail and intercession of
others. When he came before the
fisherman’s house, a fearful sight presented
itself: the ship, dashed to atoms,
covered the shore with its wreck, and
with the bodies of the mariners—not a
living soul escaped, save Richard Faulder,
whom the fiend who guides the
spectre shallop of the Solway had rendered
proof to the perils of the deep.
The fisherman himself came suddenly
from his cottage, all dripping and
drenched, and my father addressed
him:—</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘O, Gilbert, Gilbert, what a fearful
sight is this! Has Heaven blessed thee
with making thee the means of saving a
human soul?’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Nor soul nor body have I saved,’
said the fisherman, doggedly. ‘I have
done my best; the storm proved too
stark, and the lightning too fierce for
me; their boat alone came near with a
lady and a casket of gold, but she was
swallowed up with the surge.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“My father confessed afterwards that
he was struck with the tone in which
these words were delivered, and made
answer—</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘If thou hast done thy best to save
souls to-night, a bright reward will be
thine;—if thou hast been fonder for
gain than for working the mariners’
redemption, thou hast much to answer
for.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“As he uttered these words, an immense
wave rolled landward, as far as
the place where they stood; it almost
left its foam on their faces, and suddenly
receding, deposited at their feet the
dead body of the lady. As my father
lifted her in his arms, he observed that
the jewels which had adorned her hair—at
that time worn long—had been forcibly
rent away; the diamonds and gold
that enclosed her neck, and ornamented
the bosom of her rich satin dress, had
been torn off,—the rings removed from
her fingers,—and on her neck, lately so
lily-white and pure, there appeared the
marks of hands—not laid there in love
and gentleness, but with a fierce and
deadly grasp.</p>

<p class='c008'>“The lady was buried with the body
of her husband, side by side, in Caerlaverock
burial-ground. My father
never openly accused Gilbert the fisherman
of having murdered the lady for
her riches, as she reached the shore,
preserved from sinking, as was supposed,
by her long, wide, and stiff satin
robes;—but from that hour till the hour
of his death, my father never broke
bread with him—never shook him or
his by the hand, nor spoke with them
in wrath or in love. The fisherman
from that time, too, waxed rich and
prosperous; and from being the needy
proprietor of a halve-net, and the tenant
at will of a rude cottage, he became, by
purchase, lord of a handsome inheritance,
proceeded to build a bonny mansion,
and called it Gyrape-ha’; and
became a leading man in a flock of a
purer kind of Presbyterians, and a precept
and example to the community.</p>

<p class='c008'>“But though the portioner of Gyrape-ha’
prospered wondrously, his claims to
parochial distinction, and the continuance
of his fortune, were treated with
scorn by many, and with doubt by all;
though nothing open or direct was said,
yet looks, more cutting at times than
the keenest speech, and actions still
more expressive, showed that the hearts
of honest men were alienated—the cause
was left to his own interpretation. The
peasant scrupled to become his servant;
sailors hesitated to receive his grain on
board, lest perils should find them on
the deep; the beggar ceased to solicit
alms; the drover and horse-couper—an
unscrupulous generation—found out a
more distant mode of concluding bargains
than by shaking his hand; his
daughters, handsome and blue-eyed,
were neither wooed nor married; no
maiden would hold tryst with his
sons, though maidens were then as
little loth as they are now; and the
aged peasant, as he passed his new
mansion, would shake his head and
say—‘The voice of spilt blood will be
lifted up against thee; and a spirit shall
come up from the waters, and cause the
corner-stone of thy habitation to tremble
and quake.’</p>

<p class='c008'>It happened, during the summer which
succeeded this unfortunate shipwreck,
that I accompanied my father to the
Solway, to examine his nets. It was
near midnight, the tide was making, and
I sat down by his side and watched the
coming of the waters. The shore was
glittering in starlight as far as the eye
could reach. Gilbert, the fisherman,
had that morning removed from his
cottage to his new mansion; the former
was therefore untenanted, and the
latter, from its vantage-ground on the
crest of the hill, threw down to us the
sound of mirth, and music, and dancing,—a
revelry common in Scotland on
taking possession of a new house. As
we lay quietly looking on the swelling
sea, and observing the water-fowl
swimming and ducking in the increasing
waters, the sound of the merriment
became more audible. My father
listened to the mirth, looked to the sea,
looked to the deserted cottage, and then
to the new mansion, and said—</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘My son, I have a counsel to give
thee; treasure it in thy heart, and
practise it in thy life: the daughters of
<em>him</em> of Gyrape-ha’ are fair, and have an
eye that would wile away the wits of the
wisest. Their father has wealth,—I say
nought of the way he came by it,—they
will have golden portions doubtless.
But I would rather lay thy head aneath
the gowans in Caerlaverock kirkyard
(and son have I none beside thee), than
see thee lay it on the bridal pillow with
the begotten of that man, though she
had Nithsdale for her dowry. Let not
my words be as seed sown on the ocean.
I may not now tell thee why this warning
is given. Before that fatal shipwreck,
I would have said Prudence
Gyrape, in her kirtle, was a better bride
than some who have golden dowers. I
have long thought some one would see
a sight; and often, while holding my
halve-net in the midnight tide, have I
looked for something to appear, for
where blood is shed there doth the
spirit haunt for a time, and give warning
to man. May I be strengthened to
endure the sight!’</p>

<p class='c008'>“I answered not, being accustomed
to regard my father’s counsel as a matter
not to be debated, as a solemn command:
we heard something like the
rustling of wings on the water, accompanied
by a slight curling motion of the
tide. ‘God haud His right hand about
us!’ said my father, breathing thick
with emotion and awe, and looking on
the sea with a gaze so intense that his
eyes seemed to dilate, and the hair of
his forehead to project forward, and
bristle into life. I looked, but observed
nothing, save a long line of thin and
quivering light, dancing along the surface
of the sea: it ascended the bank,
on which it seemed to linger for a
moment, and then entering the fisherman’s
cottage, made roof and rafter
gleam with a sudden illumination. ‘I’ll
tell thee what, Gibbie Gyrape,’ said my
father, ‘I wouldna be the owner of thy
heart, and the proprietor of thy right
hand, for all the treasures in earth and
ocean.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“A loud and piercing scream from
the cottage made us thrill with fear, and
in a moment the figures of three human
beings rushed into the open air, and ran
towards us with a swiftness which supernatural
dread alone could inspire. We
instantly knew them to be three noted
smugglers who infested the country;
and rallying when they found my father
maintain his ground, they thus mingled
their fears and the secrets of their trade,
for terror fairly overpowered their
habitual caution.</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘I vow by the night tide, and the
crooked timber,’ said Willie Weethause,
‘I never beheld sic a light as yon since
our distillation pipe took fire, and made
a burnt instead of a drink offering
of our spirits; I’ll uphold it comes for
nae good—a warning maybe—sae ye
may gang on, Wattie Bouseaway,
wi’ yer wickedness; as for me, I’se
gang hame and repent.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Saulless bodie!’ said his companion,
whose natural hardihood was
considerably supported by his communion
with the brandy cup—‘saulless
bodie, for a flaff o’ fire and a maiden’s
shadow, would ye foreswear the gallant
trade? Saul to gude! but auld Miller
Morison shall turn yer thrapple into a
drain-pipe to wyse the waste water from
his mill, if ye turn back now, and help
us nae through wi’ as strong an importation
as ever cheered the throat,
and cheeped in the crapin. Confound
the fuzhionless bodie! he glowers as
if this fine starlight were something frae
the warst side o’ the world, and thae
staring een o’ his are busy shaping
heaven’s sweetest and balmiest air into
the figures of wraiths and goblins.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Robert Telfer,’ said my father,
addressing the third smuggler, ‘tell me
naught of the secrets of your perilous
trade; but tell me what you have seen,
and why ye uttered that fearful scream,
that made the wood-doves start from
Caerlaverock pines.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘I’ll tell ye what, goodman,’ said
the mariner, ‘I have seen the fires of
heaven running as thick along the sky,
and on the surface of the ocean, as ye
ever saw the blaze on a bowl o’ punch
at a merry-making, and neither quaked
nor screamed; but ye’ll mind the light
that came to that cottage to-night was
one for some fearful purport, which
let the wise expound; sae it lessened
nae one’s courage to quail for sic an
apparition? ’Od, if I thought living
soul would ever make the start I gied
an upcast to me, I’d drill his breast-bane
with my dirk like a turnip-lantern.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“My father mollified the wrath of
this maritime desperado, by assuring
him that he beheld the light go from
the sea to the cottage, and that he
shook with terror, for it seemed no
common light.</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Ou, then,’ said hopeful Robin,
‘since it was ane o’ our ain cannie sea
apparitions, I care less about it. I
took it for some landward sprite! And
now I think on’t, where were my een?
Did it no stand amang its ain light,
with its long hanks of hair dripping
and drenched; with a casket of gold in
ae hand, and the other guarding its
throat? I’ll be bound it’s the ghost o’
some sonsie lass that has had her neck
nipped for her gold; and had she
stayed till I emptied the bicker o’
brandy, I would have asked a cannie
question or twa.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“Willie Weethause had now fairly
overcome his consternation, and began
to feel all his love return for the ‘gallant
trade,’ as his comrade called it.</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘The tide serves, lads! the tide
serves; let us slip our drap o’ brandy
into the bit bonnie boat, and tottle
awa amang the sweet starlight as far as
the Kingholm or the town quarry—ye
ken we have to meet Bailie Gardevine
and Laird Soukaway o’ Ladlemouth.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“They then returned, not without
hesitation and fear, to the old cottage;
carried their brandy to the boat; and
as my father and I went home, we heard
the dipping of their oars in the Nith,
along the banks of which they sold their
liquor, and told their tale of fear, magnifying
its horror at every step, and
introducing abundance of variations.</p>

<p class='c008'>“The story of the Ghost with the
Golden Casket flew over the country
side with all its variations, and with
many comments. Some said they saw
her, and some thought they saw her;
and those who had the hardihood to
keep watch on the beach at midnight
had their tales to tell of terrible lights
and strange visions. With one who
delighted in the marvellous, the spectre
was decked in attributes that made the
circle of auditors tighten round the
hearth; while others, who allowed to
a ghost only a certain quantity of thin
air to clothe itself in, reduced it in their
description to a very unpoetic shadow,
or a kind of better sort of will-o’-the-wisp,
that could for its own amusement
counterfeit the human shape. There were
many others who, like my father, beheld
the singular illumination appear at midnight
on the coast; saw also something
sailing along with it in the form of a
lady in bright garments, her hair long
and wet, and shining in diamonds; and
heard a struggle, and the shriek as of a
creature drowning.</p>

<p class='c008'>“The belief of the peasantry did not
long confine the apparition to the sea
coast; it was seen sometimes late at
night far inland, and following Gilbert
the fisherman, like a human shadow—like
a pure light—like a white garment—and
often in the shape and with the
attributes in which it disturbed the
carousal of the smugglers. I heard
douce Davie Haining—a God-fearing
man, and an elder of the Burgher congregation,
and on whose word I could
well lippen, when drink was kept from
his head—I heard him say that as he
rode home late from the Roodfair of
Dumfries—the night was dark, there
lay a dusting of snow on the ground,
and no one appeared on the road but
himself; he was lilting and singing the
canny end of the auld sang, ‘There’s a
cutty stool in our kirk,’ which was
made on some foolish quean’s misfortune,
when he heard the sound of
horses’ feet behind him at full gallop,
and ere he could look round, who
should flee past, urging his horse with
whip and spur, but Gilbert the fisherman!
‘Little wonder that he galloped,’
said the elder, ‘for a fearful form
hovered around him, making many a
clutch at him, and with every clutch
uttering a shriek most piercing to hear.
But why should I make a long story of
a common tale? The curse of spilt
blood fell on him, and on his children,
and on all he possessed; his sons and
daughters died; his flocks perished;
his grain grew, but never filled the ear;
and fire came from heaven, or rose from
hell, and consumed his house and all
that was therein. He is now a man of
ninety years; a fugitive and a vagabond
on the earth, without a house to put
his white head in, and with the unexpiated
curse still clinging to him.’</p>

<p class='c008'>While my companion was making
this summary of human wretchedness, I
observed the figure of a man, stooping
to the earth with extreme age, gliding
through among the bushes of the ruined
cottage, and approaching the advancing
tide. He wore a loose great-coat,
patched to the ground, and fastened
round his waist by a belt and buckle;
the remains of stockings and shoes
were on his feet; a kind of fisherman’s
cap surmounted some remaining white
hairs, while a long peeled stick supported
him as he went. My companion
gave an involuntary shudder when he
saw him—</p>

<p class='c008'>“Lo and behold, now, here comes
Gilbert the fisherman! Once every
twenty-four hours does he come, let
the wind and the rain be as they will,
to the nightly tide, to work o’er again,
in imagination, his old tragedy of
unrighteousness. See how he waves
his hand, as if he welcomed some one
from the sea; he raises his voice, too,
as if something in the water required
his counsel; and see how he dashes up
to the middle, and grapples with the
water as if he clutched a human being!”</p>

<p class='c008'>I looked on the old man, and heard
him call in a hollow and broken
voice—</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ahoy! the ship ahoy,—turn your
boat’s head ashore! And, my bonnie
leddy, keep haud o’ yer casket. Hech
be’t! that wave would have sunk a
three-decker, let a be a slender boat.
See—see an she binna sailing abune the
water like a wild swan!”—and wading
deeper in the tide as he spoke, he
seemed to clutch at something with
both hands, and struggle with it in
the water.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Na, na—dinna haud your white
hands to me; ye wear ower mickle
gowd in your hair, and ower mony
diamonds on your bosom, to ’scape
drowning. There’s as mickle gowd
in this casket as would have sunk thee
seventy fathom deep.” And he continued
to hold his hands under the
water, muttering all the while.</p>

<p class='c008'>“She’s half gane now; and I’ll be
a braw laird, and build a bonnie house,
and gang crousely to kirk and market.
Now I may let the waves work their
will; my wark will be ta’en for theirs.”</p>

<p class='c008'>He turned to wade to the shore, but
a large and heavy wave came full dash
on him, and bore him off his feet, and
ere any assistance reached him, all
human aid was too late; for nature
was so exhausted with the fulness of
years, and with his exertions, that a
spoonful of water would have drowned
him. The body of this miserable
old man was interred, after some opposition
from the peasantry, beneath
the wall of the kirkyard; and from that
time the Ghost with the Golden
Casket was seen no more, and only
continued to haunt the evening tale of
the hind and the farmer.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='ranald_of_the_hens' class='c006'>RANALD OF THE HENS:<br> <span class='large'><em>A TRADITION OF THE WESTERN HIGHLANDS</em></span>.</h2>
</div>

<p class='c007'>Early in the sixteenth century,
Macdonald of Clanranald married the
daughter of Fraser Lord Lovat, and
from this connection some very unfortunate
consequences to both these
powerful families followed. Soon after
his marriage Clanranald died, and left
but one lawful son, who was bred and
educated at Castle Donie, the seat of
Lovat, under the care of his maternal
grandfather. The name of the young
chieftain was Ranald, and, unhappily
for himself, he was distinguished by the
appellation <em>Gaulta</em>, or Lowland, because
Lovat’s country was considered
as approaching towards the manners,
customs, and appearance of the Lowlands,
compared to his own native land
of Moidart, one of the most barren and
mountainous districts in the Highlands.</p>

<p class='c008'>Ranald was an accomplished youth,
and promised to be an ornament to his
family and his country; his disposition
was amiable, and his personal appearance
extremely handsome and prepossessing.
While yet a stripling, he
visited his estate; and his people being
desirous to give him the best reception
in their power, he found at every house
great entertainments provided, and
much expense incurred by the slaughter
of cattle and other acts of extravagance,
which appeared to Ranald very superfluous.
He was a stranger to the
customs of the country, and it would
seem that he had no friendly or judicious
counsellor. In an evil hour, he
remarked that he was extremely averse
to this ruinous practice, which he was
convinced the people could ill afford;
and said that, for his own part, he
would be perfectly satisfied to dine on
a fowl. Ranald had an illegitimate
brother (or, as some say, an uncle’s son),
who was born and bred on the estate.
He was many years older than the
young Clanranald, and was possessed
of very superior abilities in his way.
He was active, brave, and ambitious,
to which were added much address and
shrewdness. Having always resided in
Moidart, where he associated with the
people, and had rendered himself very
popular, he had acquired the appellation
of <em>Ian Muidartich</em>, or John of
Moidart,—a much more endearing distinction
than <em>Gaulta</em>.</p>

<p class='c008'>The remark Ranald had made as to
the extravagance of his people gave
great offence; and the preference he
gave to a fowl was conceived to indicate
a sordid disposition, unbecoming the
representative of so great a family.
John Muidartich and his friends encouraged
these ideas, and Ranald was
soon known by the yet more contemptuous
appellation of “Ranald of
the Hens.” He soon left Moidart, and
returned to his grandfather’s house.
His brother (and now his opponent)
remained in that country, and he used
all the means in his power to strengthen
his interest. He married the daughter
of Macdonald of Ardnamurchan, the
head of a numerous and turbulent tribe,
whose estate bordered on Moidart, and his
intention to oppose Ranald became daily
more evident. Several attempts were
made by mutual friends to effect a compromise,
without any permanent result.
At length a conference between the
brothers was appointed at Inverlochy,
where Ranald attended, accompanied
by old Lovat and a considerable body of
his clan; but especially a very large portion
of the principal gentlemen of his name
were present. John also appeared, and,
to prevent any suspicion of violence, the
number of his attendants was but small,
and his demeanour was pacific and unassuming.</p>

<p class='c008'>Lovat made proposals on the part of
his grandson, and with very little hesitation
they were acceded to by John and
his friends. All parties appeared to be
highly pleased, and they separated,—John
and his small party directing their
course homeward, whilst Ranald accompanied
his aged relation to his own
country, which was much more distant.</p>

<p class='c008'>John of Moidart, however, was all
along playing a deep game: he ordered
a strong body of his father-in-law’s
people to lie in ambush in a certain spot
near the path by which Lovat and his
men must necessarily pass on their
return home; and he took care to join
them himself, by travelling all night
across the mountains.</p>

<p class='c008'>The Frasers and young Clanranald
appeared, and they were attacked by
their wily foe. The combat was fearfully
bloody and fatal. It is said that no
more than six of Lovat’s party escaped,
and not triple that number of their
enemies—Ranald, unquestionably the
lawful representative of the family, fell
covered with wounds, after having given
proof that he was possessed of the
greatest bravery; and his memory is
to this day respected even among the
descendants of those who destroyed him.
John of Moidart obtained possession of
the whole estate, and led a very turbulent
life. Tradition says that he compromised
the claims of Macdonald of Morar for a
third part of his lands, which he yielded
up to him on relinquishing further right.</p>

<p class='c008'>The conflict is distinguished by the
designation of <em>Blar Leine</em>, or the Battle
of the Shirts, the combatants having
stripped themselves during the action. It
was fought at the eastern end of Loch
Lochy, near the line of the Caledonian
Canal, in July 1554.—<cite>Literary Gazette.</cite></p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='the_french_spy' class='c006'>THE FRENCH SPY.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By John Galt.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>One day—in the month of August
it was—I had gone on some private
concernment of my own to Kilmarnock,
and Mr Booble, who was then oldest
bailie, naturally officiated as chief magistrate
in my stead.</p>

<p class='c008'>There had been, as the world knows,
a disposition, on the part of the grand
monarque of that time, to invade and
conquer this country, the which made it
a duty incumbent on all magistrates to
keep a vigilant eye on the incomings
and outgoings of aliens and other suspectable
persons. On the said day, and
during my absence, a Frenchman, that
could speak no manner of English,
somehow was discovered in the Cross
Key Inn. What he was, or where he
came from, nobody at the time could
tell, as I was informed; but there he
was, having come into the house at the
door, with a bundle in his hand, and a
portmanteau on his shoulder, like a traveller
out of some vehicle of conveyance.
Mrs Drammer, the landlady, did not like
his looks; for he had toozy black whiskers,
was lank and wan, and moreover
deformed beyond human nature, as she
said, with a parrot nose, and had no
cravat, but only a bit black riband drawn
through two button-holes, fastening his
ill-coloured sark-neck, which gave him
altogether something of an unwholesome,
outlandish appearance.</p>

<p class='c008'>Finding he was a foreigner, and
understanding that strict injunctions
were laid on the magistrates by the
king and government anent the egressing
of such persons, she thought, for the
credit of her house, and the safety of the
community at large, that it behoved her
to send word to me, then provost, of
this man’s visibility among us; but as
I was not at home, Mrs Pawkie, my
wife, directed the messenger to Bailie
Booble’s. The bailie was, at all times,
overly ready to claught at an alarm;
and when he heard the news, he went
straight to the council-room, and sending
for the rest of the council, ordered
the alien enemy, as he called the forlorn
Frenchman, to be brought before him.
By this time the suspicion of a spy in
the town had spread far and wide; and
Mrs Pawkie told me, that there was a
pallid consternation in every countenance
when the black and yellow man—for he
had not the looks of the honest folks of
this country—was brought up the street
between two of the town officers, to
stand an examine before Bailie Booble.</p>

<p class='c008'>Neither the bailie, nor those that were
then sitting with him, could speak any
French language, and “the alien enemy”
was as little master of our tongue. I
have often wondered how the bailie did
not jalouse that he could be no spy,
seeing how, in that respect, he wanted
the main faculty. But he was under
the enchantment of a panic, partly thinking
also, perhaps, that he was to do a
great exploit for the government in my
absence.</p>

<p class='c008'>However, the man was brought before
him, and there was he, and them
all, speaking loud out to one another as
if they had been hard of hearing, when
I, on coming home from Kilmarnock,
went to see what was going on in the
council. Considering that the procedure
had been in hand some time before
my arrival, I thought it judicious to
leave the whole business with those
present, and to sit still as a spectator;
and really it was very comical to observe
how the bailie was driven to his wits’-end
by the poor lean and yellow Frenchman,
and in what a pucker of passion the
panel put himself at every new interlocutor,
none of which he could understand.
At last, the bailie getting no
satisfaction—how could he?—he directed
the man’s portmanteau and bundle
to be opened; and in the bottom of
the forementioned package, there, to be
sure, was found many a mystical and
suspicious paper, which no one could
read; among others, there was a strange
map, as it then seemed to all present.</p>

<p class='c008'>“I’ gude faith,” cried the bailie, with
a keckle of exultation, “here’s proof
enough now. This is a plain map o’
the Frith o’ Clyde, all the way to the
Tail of the Bank at Greenock. This
muckle place is Arran; that round ane
is the Craig of Ailsa; the wee ane between
is Pladda. Gentlemen, gentlemen,
this is a sore discovery; there will be
hanging and quartering on this.” So
he ordered the man to be forthwith
committed as a king’s prisoner to the
tolbooth; and turning to me said—“My
Lord Provost, as ye have not been
present throughout the whole of this
troublesome affair, I’ll e’en gie an account
mysel to the Lord Advocate of
what we have done.” I thought, at the
time, there was something fey and overly
forward in this, but I assented; for I
know not what it was that seemed to
me as if there was something neither
right nor regular; indeed, to say the
truth, I was no ill pleased that the bailie
took on him what he did; so I allowed
him to write himself to the Lord Advocate;
and, as the sequel showed, it was
a blessed prudence on my part that I
did so. For no sooner did his lordship
receive the bailie’s terrifying letter, than
a special king’s messenger was sent to
take the spy into Edinburgh Castle;
and nothing could surpass the great importance
that Bailie Booble made of
himself on the occasion, on getting the
man into a coach, and two dragoons to
guard him into Glasgow.</p>

<p class='c008'>But oh! what a dejected man was the
miserable Bailie Booble, and what a
laugh rose from shop and chamber,
when the tidings came out from Edinburgh
that “the alien enemy” was but
a French cook coming over from Dublin,
with the intent to take up the trade
of a confectioner in Glasgow, and that
the map of the Clyde was nothing but
a plan for the outset of a fashionable
table—the bailie’s island of Arran being
the roast beef, and the Craig of Ailsa
the plum-pudding, and Pladda a butterboat.
Nobody enjoyed the jocularity
of the business more than myself; but
I trembled when I thought of the escape
that my honour and character had with
the Lord Advocate. I trow, Bailie
Booble never set himself so forward
from that day to this.—“<em>The Provost.</em>”</p>

<div  class='figcenter id001'>
<img src='images/i_1347.jpg' alt='Fleuron' class='ig001'>
</div>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='the_ministers_beat' class='c006'>THE MINISTER’S BEAT.</h2>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c016'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line in14'>A man he was to all the country dear.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>       ·       ·       ·       ·       ·</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Even children followed with endearing wile,</div>
      <div class='line'>And plucked his gown, to share the good man’s smile.—<em>Goldsmith.</em></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<h3 class='c013'><span class='sc'>Chapter I.</span></h3>

<p class='c014'>“I am just about to make a round of
friendly visits,” said the minister; “and
as far as our roads lie together, you will
perhaps go with me. You are a bad
visitor, I know, Mr Frank; but most
of my calls will be where forms are unknown,
and etiquette dispensed with.”</p>

<p class='c008'>I am indeed a bad visitor, which, in
the ordinary acceptation of the term,
means no visitor at all; but I own the
temptation of seeing my worthy friend’s
reception, and the hope of coming in
for a share of the cordial welcome he was
sure to call forth, overcame my scruples;
especially as in cottages and farm-steadings
there is generally something to be
learned even during a morning call;—some
trait of unsophisticated nature
to be smiled at, or some sturdy lesson
of practical wisdom to be treasured for
future use.</p>

<p class='c008'>We had not ridden far when my companion,
turning up a pretty rough cart-road
leading to a large farmhouse on
the right, said, with an arch smile,—“I
love what our superstitious forefathers
would esteem a lucky beginning even to
a morning’s ride, and am glad ours commences
with a wedding visit. Peter
Bandster has taken a wife in my absence,
and I must go and call him to account
for defrauding me of the ploy. Have
you heard anything, Mr Francis, about
the bride?”</p>

<p class='c008'>More than I could wish, thinks I to
myself; for my old duenna, who indemnifies
herself for my lack of hospitality
by assiduous frequentation of all
marriages, christenings, and gossipings
abroad, had deaved me for the last
three weeks with philippics about this
unlucky wedding. The folly of Peter
in marrying above his own line; the
ignorance of the bride, who scarce knew
lint-yarn from tow, or bere from barley;
her unpardonable accomplishments of
netting purses and playing on the spinnet;
above all, her plated candlesticks,
flounced gown, and fashionable bonnet,
had furnished Hannah with inexhaustible
matter for that exercise of the tongue,
which the Scots call “rhyming,” and
the English “ringing the changes;”
to which, as to all other noises, custom
can alone render one insensible.</p>

<p class='c008'>I had no mind to damp the minister’s
benevolent feelings towards the couple,
and contented myself with answering,
that I heard the bride was both bonnie
and braw. The good man shook his
head. “We have an old proverb, and
a true one,” said he, “‘a bonnie bride is
sune buskit;’ but I have known gawdy
butterflies cast their painted wings, and
become excellent housewives in the end.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“But there stands Peter—no very
blithe bridegroom, methinks!” said I,
as my eye rested on the tall and usually
jolly young farmer, musing disconsolately
in his cattle-yard over what
appeared to be the body of a dead cow.
He started on seeing the minister, as if
ashamed of his sorrow or its cause, and
came forward to meet us, struggling to
adapt his countenance a little better to
his circumstances.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Well, Peter,” said the minister,
frankly extending his hand, “and so I
am to wish you joy! I thought when I
gave you your name, five-and-twenty
years ago, if it pleased God to spare
me, to have given you your helpmate
also; but what signifies it by whom the
knot is tied, if true love and the blessing
of God go with it? Nay, never hang
your head, Peter; but tell me, before
we beat up the young gudewife’s quarters,
what you were leaning over so wae-like
when we rode forward.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“’Od, sir,” cried Peter, reddening
up, “it wasna the value o’ the beast,
though she was the best cow in my
mother’s byre, but the way I lost her,
that pat me a wee out o’ tune. My
Jessie (for I maunna ca’ her gudewife,
it seems, nor mistress neither) is an ill
guide o’ kye, ay, and what’s waur, o’
lasses. We had a tea-drinking last
night, nae doubt, as new-married folk
should; and what for no?—I’se warrant
my mither had them too in her daft
days. But she didna keep the house
asteer the hale night wi’ fiddles and
dancin’, and it neither New Year nor
Hansel Monday; nor she didna lie in
her bed till aught or nine o’clock, as my
Jess does; na, nor yet”——</p>

<p class='c008'>“But what has all this to do with
the loss of your cow, Peter?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ower muckle, sir; ower muckle.
The lasses and lads liket reels as weel
as their mistress, and whisky a hantle
better. They a’ sleepit in, and mysel
among the lave. Nae mortal ever lookit
the airt that puir Blue Bell was in, and
her at the very calving; and this morning,
when the byre-door was opened,
she was lying stiff and stark, wi’ a dead
calf beside her. It’s no the cow, sir
(though it was but the last market I
had the offer o’ fifteen pund for her),
it’s the thought that she was sae sair
neglected amang me, and my Jess, and
her tawpies o’ lasses.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Come, come, Peter,” said the good
minister, “you seem to have been as
much to blame as the rest; and as for
your young town bride, she maun creep,
as the auld wives say, before she can
gang. Country thrift can no more be
learnt in a day than town breeding;
and of that your wife, they say, has
her share.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ower muckle, may be,” was the
half-muttered reply, as he marshalled
us into the house. The “ben” end of
the old-fashioned farm-house, which,
during the primitive sway of Peter’s
mother, had exhibited the usual decorations
of an aumrie, a clock, and a
pair of press-beds, with a clean swept
ingle, and carefully sanded floor, had
undergone a metamorphosis not less
violent than some of Ovid’s or Harlequin’s.
The “aumrie” had given place
to a satin-wood work-table, the clock
to a mirror, and the press-beds (whose
removal no one could regret) to that
object of Hannah’s direst vituperations—the
pianoforte; while the fire-place
revelled in all the summer luxury of
elaborately twisted shavings, and the
once sanded floor was covered with an
already soiled and faded carpet, to whose
delicate colours Peter, fresh from the
clay furrows, and his two sheep-dogs
dripping from the pond, had nearly
proved equally fatal.</p>

<p class='c008'>In this <i><span lang="la">sanctum sanctorum</span></i> sat the
really pretty bride, in all the dignity of
outraged feeling which ignorance of life
and a lavish perusal of romances could inspire,
on witnessing the first cloud on her
usually good-natured husband’s brow.
She hastily cleared up her ruffled looks,
gave the minister a cordial, though
somewhat affected welcome, and dropped
me a curtsey which twenty years’
rustication enabled me very inadequately
to return.</p>

<p class='c008'>The good pastor bent on this new
lamb of his fold a benignant yet searching
glance, and seemed watching where,
amid the fluent small talk which succeeded,
he might edge in a word of
playful yet serious import to the happiness
of the youthful pair. The bride
was stretching forth her hand with all
the dignity of her new station, to ring
the bell for cake and wine, when Peter
(whose spleen was evidently waiting for
a vent), hastily starting up, cried out,
“Mistress! if ye’re ower grand to serve
the minister yoursel, there’s ane ’ill be
proud to do’t. There shall nae quean
fill a glass for him in this house while
it ca’s me master. My mither wad hae
served him on her bended knees, gin he
wad hae let her; and ye think it ower
muckle to bring ben the bridal bread to
him! Oh, Jess, Jess! I canna awa wi’
your town ways and town airs.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The bride coloured and pouted; but
there gathered a large drop in her eye,
and the pastor hailed it as an earnest
of future concession. He took her hand
kindly, and put it into Peter’s not reluctant
one. “‘Spring showers make May
flowers,’ my dear lassie, says the old
proverb, and I trust out o’ these little
clouds will spring your future happiness.
You, Jessy, have chosen an honest,
worthy, kind-hearted, country husband,
whose love will be well worth the
sacrifice of a few second-hand graces.
And you, Peter, have taken, for better
and for worse, a lassie, in whose eye,
in spite of foreign airs, I read a heart to
be won by kindness. Bear and forbear,
my dear bairns—let each be apter to
yield than the other to exact. You are
both travelling to a better country;
see that ye fall not out by the way.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The bride by this time was sobbing,
and Peter’s heart evidently softened.
So leaving the pair to seal their reconciliation
in this favourable mood, the
good minister and I mounted our horses,
and rode off without further parley.</p>

<p class='c008'>We were just turning the corner of
the loan to regain the high road, when
a woman from a cottage in an adjoining
field came running to intercept us.
There was in her look a wildness
bordering on distraction, but it was
evidently of no painful kind. She seemed
like one not recovered from the first
shock of some delightful surprise, too
much for the frail fabric of mortality to
bear without tottering to its very foundations.
The minister checked his horse,
whose bridle she grasped convulsively,
panting partly from fatigue and more
from emotion, endeavouring, but vainly,
to give utterance to the tidings with
which her bosom laboured. Twice she
looked up, shook her head, and was silent;
then with a strong effort faltered out,—</p>

<p class='c008'>“He’s come back!—the Lord be
praised for it!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Who is come back, Jenny?” said
the pastor, in the deepest tone of
sympathy,—“Is it little Andrew, ye
mean?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Andrew!” echoed the matron,
with an expression of contempt, which
at any other time this favourite grandchild
would have been very far from
calling forth—“Andrew!—Andrew’s
<em>father</em>, I mean my ain first-born son
Jamie, that I wore mournings for till
they would wear nae langer, and thought
lying fifty fathoms down in solid ice, in
yon wild place Greenland, or torn to
pieces wi’ savage bears, like the mocking
bairns in Scripture,—he’s yonder!”
said she, wildly pointing to the house;
“he’s yonder, living, and living like;
and oh, gin ye wad come, and maybe
speak a word in season to us, we might
be better able to praise the Lord, as is
His due.”</p>

<p class='c008'>We turned our horses’ heads, and
followed her as she ran, or rather flew,
towards the cottage with the instinct of
some animal long separated from its
offspring. The little boy before mentioned
ran out to hold our horses, and
whispered as the minister stooped to
stroke his head, “Daddy’s come hame
frae the sea.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The scene within the cottage baffles
description. The old mother, exhausted
with her exertion, had sunk down
beside her son on the edge of the bed
on which he was sitting, where his blind
and bed-rid father lay, and clasped his
withered hands in speechless prayer.
His lips continued to move, unconscious
of our presence, and ever and anon he
stretched forth a feeble arm to ascertain
the actual vicinity of his long-mourned
son. On a low stool, before the once
gay and handsome, but now frost-nipt
and hunger-worn mariner, sat his young
wife, her hand firmly clasped in his, her
fixed eye riveted on his countenance,
giving no other sign of life than a convulsive
pressure of the former, or a big
drop descending unwiped from the
latter; while her unemployed hand was
plucking quite mechanically the badge
of widowhood from her duffle cloak,
which (having just reached home as her
husband knocked at his father’s door)
was yet lying across her knee.</p>

<p class='c008'>The poor sailor gazed on all around
him with somewhat of a bewildered air,
but most of all upon a rosy creature
between his knees, of about a year and
a half old, born just after his departure,
and who had only learned the sad word
“Daddy,” from the childish prattle of
his older brother Andrew, and his
sisters. Of these, one had been summoned,
wild and barelegged, from the
herding, the other, meek and modest,
from the village school. The former,
idle and intractable, half shrunk in fear
of her returned parent’s well-remembered
strictness; the other, too young not to
have forgotten his person, only wondered
whether this was the Father in heaven
of whom she had heard so often. She
did not think it could be so, for there
was no grief or trouble there, and this
father looked as if he had seen much of
both.</p>

<p class='c008'>Such was the group to whose emotions,
almost too much for human nature,
our entrance gave a turn.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Jamie,” said the good pastor (gently
pressing the still united hands of the
mariner and his faithful Annie), “you
are welcome back from the gates of
death and the perils of the deep. Well
is it said, that they who go down to the
sea in ships see more of the wonders of
the Lord than other men; but it was
not from storm and tempests alone that
you have been delivered,—cold and
famine, want and nakedness—wild beasts
to devour, and darkness to dismay;—these
have been around your dreary
path—but He that was with you was
mightier than all that were against you;
and you are returned a living man to
tell the wondrous tale. Let us praise
the Lord, my friends, for His goodness,
and His wonderful works to the children
of men.” We all knelt down and
joined in the brief but fervent prayer
that followed. The stranger’s heartfelt
sigh of sympathy mingled with the
pastor’s pious orisons, with the feeble
accents of decrepitude, the lisp of
wondering childhood, the soul-felt piety
of rescued manhood, and the deep,
unutterable gratitude of a wife and
mother’s heart!</p>

<p class='c008'>For such high-wrought emotions
prayer is the only adequate channel.
They found vent in it, and were calmed
and subdued to the level of ordinary
intercourse. The minister kindly addressed
Jamie, and drew forth, by his
judicious questions, the leading features
of that marvellous history of peril and
privations, endured by the crew of a
Greenland ship detained a winter in the
ice, with which all are now familiar, but
of which a Parry or a Franklin can perhaps
alone appreciate the horrors. They
were related with a simplicity that did
them ample justice.</p>

<p class='c008'>“I never despaired, sir,” said the
hardy mariner; “we were young and
stout. Providence, aye when at the
warst, did us some gude turn, and this
kept up our hearts. We had mostly a’
wives or mithers at hame, and kent
that prayers wadna be wanting for our
safety; and little as men may think o’
them on land, or even at sea on a prosperous
voyage,—a winter at the Pole
makes prayers precious. We had little
to do but sleep; and oh, the nights
were lang! I was aye a great dreamer;
and, ye maunna be angry, sir (to the
minister), the seeing Annie and the
bairns amaist ilka time I lay down, and
aye braw and buskit, did mair to keep
up my hopes than a’ the rest. I never
could see wee Jamie, though,” said he,
smiling, and kissing the child on his
knee; “I saw a cradle weel enough,
but the face o’ the bit creature in’t I
never could mak out, and it vexed
me; for whiles I thought my babe was
dead, and whiles I feared it had never
been born; but God be praised he’s
here, and no that unlike mysel neither.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Annie!” said the minister, gently
loosing her renewed grasp of Jamie’s
hand, “you are forgetting your duty as
a gudewife—we maun drink to Jamie’s
health and happiness ere we go—we’ll
steal a glass or two out of old Andrew’s
cordial bottle; a drop of this day’s joy
will be better to him than it a’.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Atweel, that’s true,” said the old
father, with a distinctness of utterance,
and acuteness of hearing, he had not
manifested for many months. The
bottle was brought, the health of the
day went round; I shook the weather-beaten
sailor warmly by the hand, and
begging leave to come and hear more of
his story at a fitter season, followed the
minister to the door.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Andrew,” said he, giving the little
patient equerry a bright new sixpence,
“tell your daddy I gave you this for
being a dutiful son to your mother
when he was at the sea.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The child’s eye glistened as he ran
into the cottage to execute the welcome
command, and we rode off, our
hearts too full for much communication.</p>

<h3 class='c015'><span class='sc'>Chapter II.</span></h3>

<p class='c014'>The day was advancing. These two
scenes had encroached deeply on the
privileged hours for visiting, and the
minister, partly to turn the account of
our thoughts into a less agitating channel,
partly to balance the delights of the last
hour with their due counterpoise of
alloy, suggested the propriety of going
next to pay, at the house of his patron,
the laird of the parish, the visit of duty
and ceremony, which his late return,
and a domestic affliction in the family,
rendered indispensable. There were
reasons which made my going equally
proper and disagreeable; and formal
calls being among the many evils which
are lightened by participation, I gladly
availed myself of the shelter of the
minister’s name and company.</p>

<p class='c008'>Mr Morison, of Castle Morison, was
one of those spoiled children of fortune,
whom in her cruel kindness she renders
miserable. He had never known contradiction,
and a straw across his path
made him chafe like a resisted torrent;
he had never known sorrow, and was,
consequently, but half acquainted with
joy; he was a stranger to compassion,
and consequently himself an object of
pity to all who could allow for the force
of early education in searing and hardening
the human heart. He had, as a boy,
made his mother tremble; it is little to
be wondered that in manhood he was
the tyrant of his wife and children.
Mrs Morison’s spirit, originally gentle,
was soon broken; and if her heart was
not equally so, it was because she
learned reluctantly to despise her tyrant,
and found compensation in the double
portion of affection bestowed on her by
her son and daughters. For the latter,
Mr Morison manifested only contempt.
There was not a horse in his stable, nor
a dog in his kennel, which did not
engross more of his attention; but like
the foxes and hares which it was the
business of these favourite animals to
hunt down, girls could be made to
afford no bad sport in a rainy day. It
was no wonder, that with them fear
usurped the place of reverence for such
a parent. If they did not hate him,
they were indebted to their mother’s
piety and their own sweet dispositions;
and if they neither hated nor envied
their only brother, it was not the fault
of him, who, by injudicious distinctions
and blind indulgence, laid the foundation
for envy and all uncharitableness in
their youthful bosoms. In that of his
favourite, they had the usual effect of
generating self-will and rebellion; and
while Jane and Agnes, well knowing
nothing they did would be thought right,
rarely erred from the path of duty, Edmund,
aware that he could scarce do
wrong, took care his privileges should
not rust for want of exercise.</p>

<p class='c008'>But though suffered in all minor
matters to follow the dictates of caprice,
to laugh at his tutor, lame the horse,
and break rules (to all others those of
the Medes and Persians), with impunity,
he found himself suddenly reined up in his
headlong career by an equally capricious
parent, precisely at the period when
restraint was nearly forgotten, and
peculiarly irksome. It was tacitly agreed
by both parties, that the heir of Castle
Morison could only go into the army;
but while the guards or a dragoon regiment
was the natural enough ambition
of Edmund, Morison was suddenly seized
with a fit of contradiction, which he
chose to style economy, and talked of
a marching regiment, with, perhaps an
extra £100 per annum to the undoubted
heir of nearly ten thousand a-year.
Neither would yield—the one had taught,
the other learned, stubbornness; and
Edmund, backed by the sympathy of
the world, and the clamours of his companions,
told his father he had changed
his mind, and was going to India with
a near relation, about to proceed to
Bombay in a high official character.</p>

<p class='c008'>Morison had a peculiar prejudice
against the East, and a personal pique
towards the cousin to whose patronage
Edmund had betaken himself. His
rage was as boundless as his former
partiality, and the only consolation his
poor wife felt when her darling son left
his father’s house, alike impenitent and
unblest, was, that her boy’s disposition
was originally good, and would probably
recover the ascendant; and that it was
out of the power of her husband to make
his son a beggar as well as an exile.
The estate was strictly entailed, and the
knowledge of this, while it embittered
Morison’s sense of his son’s disobedience,
no doubt strengthened the feeling of
independence so natural to headstrong
youth.</p>

<p class='c008'>While Morison was perverting legal
ingenuity, in vain hopes of being able
to disinherit his refractory heir, his unnatural
schemes were anticipated by a
mightier agent. An epidemic fever
carried off, in one short month (about
two years after his quitting England),
the unreconciled, but no longer unconciliatory
exile, and his young and beautiful
bride, the daughter of his patron,
his union with whom had been construed,
by the causeless antipathy of his father,
into a fresh cause of indignation. Death,
whose cold hand loosens this world’s
grasp, and whose deep voice stills this
world’s strife, only tightens the bonds
of nature, and teaches the stormiest
spirits to “part in peace.” Edmund
lived to write to his father a few lines of
undissembled and unconditional penitence;
to own, that if the path of duty
had been rugged, he had in vain sought
happiness beyond it, and to entreat that
the place he had forfeited in his father’s
favour might be transferred to his unoffending
child.</p>

<p class='c008'>All this had been conveyed to Mr
Monteith and myself by the voice of
rumour some days before, and we had
been more shocked than surprised to
learn that Morison’s resentment had
survived its object, and that he disclaimed
all intention of ever seeing or
receiving the infant boy who, it was gall
to him to reflect, must inherit his estate.
Mrs Morison had exerted, to soften his
hard heart, all the little influence she
now possessed. Her tender soul yearned
towards her Edmund’s child; and sometimes
the thought of seeking a separation,
and devoting herself to rear it, crossed
her despairing mind. But her daughters
were a tie still more powerful to her
unhappy home. She could neither leave
them, unprotected, to its discomforts,
nor conscientiously advise their desertion
of a parent, however unworthy; so she
wandered, a paler and sadder inmate
than before of her cold and stately
mansion; and her fair, subdued-looking
daughters shuddered as they passed the
long-locked doors of their brother’s nursery
and schoolroom.</p>

<p class='c008'>The accounts of young Morison’s
death had arrived since the good pastor’s
departure, and it was with feelings of
equal sympathy towards the female
part of the family, and sorrow for the
unchristian frame of its head, that he
prepared for our present visit. As we
rode up the old straight avenue, I perceived
a postchaise at the door, and
instead of shrinking from this probable
accession of strangers, felt that any addition
to the usually constrained and
gloomy family circle must be a relief. On
reaching the door, we were struck with a
very unusual appendage to the dusty and
travel-stained vehicle, in the shape of an
ancient, venerable-looking Asiatic, in the
dress of his country, beneath whose
ample muslin folds he might easily
have been mistaken for an old female
nurse, a character which, in all its skill
and tenderness, was amply sustained by
this faithful and attached Oriental. His
broken English and passionate gestures
excited our attention, already awakened
by the singularity of his costume and
appearance; and as we got close to
him, the big tears which rolled over
his sallow and furrowed cheeks, powerfully
called forth our sympathy, and
told, better than words, his forcible
exclusion from the splendid mansion
which had reluctantly admitted within
its precincts the child dearer to him
than country and kindred!</p>

<p class='c008'>Our visit (had it borne less of a pastoral
character) had all the appearance
of being very ill-timed. There were
servants running to and fro in the hall,
and loud voices in the dining-room;
and from a little parlour on one side
the front door, issued female sobs,
mingled with infant wailings in an unknown
dialect.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Thank God!” whispered the minister,
“the bairn is fairly in the house.
Providence and nature will surely do
the rest.”</p>

<p class='c008'>It was not a time to intrude abruptly,
so we sent in our names to Mr Morison,
and during our pretty long detention on
horseback, could not avoid seeing in at
the open window of the parlour before-mentioned,
a scene which it grieved us
to think was only witnessed by ourselves.</p>

<p class='c008'>Mrs Morison was sitting in a chair
(on which she had evidently sunk down
powerless), with her son’s orphan boy
on her knee, the bright dark eyes of
the little wild unearthly-looking creature
fixed in steadfast gaze on her pale
matronly countenance. “No cry,
Mama Englise,” said the child, as her
big tears rolled unheeded on his bosom—“Billy
Edmund will be welly welly
good.” His youngest aunt, whose keen
and long-repressed feelings found vent
in sobs of mingled joy and agony, was
covering his little hands with showers
of kisses, while the elder (his father’s
favourite sister) was comparing behind
him the rich dark locks that clustered
on his neck with the locket which,
since Edmund’s departure, had dwelt
next her heart.</p>

<p class='c008'>A message from the laird summoned
us from this affecting sight, and, amid
the pathetic entreaties of the old Oriental,
that we would restore his nursling,
we proceeded to the dining-room, made
aware of our approach to it by the still-storming,
though half-suppressed imprecations
of its hard-hearted master.
He was pacing in stern and moody
agitation through the spacious apartment.
His welcome was evidently
extorted, and his face (to use a strong
Scripture expression) set as a flint
against the voice of remonstrance and
exhortation, for which he was evidently
prepared. My skilful coadjutor went
quite another way to work.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Mr Morison,” said he, apparently
unconscious of the poor man’s pitiable
state of mind, “I came to condole, but
I find it is my lot to congratulate. The
Lord hath taken away with the one
hand, but it has been to give with the
other. His blessing be with you and
your son’s son, whom He hath sent to
be the staff and comfort of your age!”
This was said with his usual benign
frankness, and the hard heart, which
would have silenced admonition, and
scorned reproof, scarce knew how to
repulse the voice of Christian congratulation.
He walked about, muttering
to himself—“No son of mine—bad
breed! Let him go to those who taught
his father disobedience, and his mother
artifice!—anywhere they please; there
is no room for him here.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Have you seen your grandchild yet,
Mr Morison?” resumed the minister,
nothing daunted by the continued obduracy
of the proud laird. “Let me
have the joy of putting him into your
arms. You must expect to be a good
deal overcome; sweet little fellow, there
is a strong likeness!”</p>

<p class='c008'>A shudder passed across the father’s
hard frame, and he recoiled as from an
adder, when worthy Mr Monteith,
gently grasping his arm, sought to draw
him, still sullen, though more faintly
resisting, towards the other room. A
shrill cry of infant agony rose from the
parlour as we crossed the hall, and
nature never perhaps exhibited a
stronger contrast than presented itself
between the cruel old man, struggling
to escape from the presence of his
grandchild, and the faithful ancient
domestic shrieking wildly to be admitted
into it.</p>

<p class='c008'>As I threw open the door for the entrance
of the former, little Edmund,
whose infant promises of good behaviour
had soon given way before the continued
society of strangers, was stamping in all
the impotence of baby rage (and in this
unhallowed mood too faithful a miniature
of both father and grandfather),
and calling loudly for the old Oriental.
With the first glance at the door his
exclamations redoubled. We began to
fear the worst effect from this abrupt
introduction; but no sooner had the
beautiful boy (beautiful even in passion)
cast a second bewildered glance on his
still erect and handsome grandfather,
than, clapping his little hands, and calling
out, “My Bombay papa!” he flew
into his arms!</p>

<p class='c008'>The servants, concluding the interdict
removed by their master’s entrance
into the apartment, had ceased to obstruct
the efforts of the old Hindoo to
fly to his precious charge; and while
the astonished and fairly overwhelmed
Morison’s neck was encircled by the
infant grasp of his son’s orphan boy,
his knees were suddenly embraced by
that son’s devoted and gray-haired domestic.</p>

<p class='c008'>One arm of little Edmund was instantly
loosened from his grandfather’s
shoulder, and passed round the neck of
the faithful old Oriental, who kissed
alternately the little cherub hand of his
nursling, and the hitherto iron one of
the proud laird. It softened, and the
hard heart with it! It was long since
love—pure unsophisticated love, and
spontaneous reverence—had been Morison’s
portion, and they were proportionally
sweet. He buried his face in
his grandson’s clustering ringlets. We
heard a groan deep as when rocks are
rending, and the earth heaves with long
pent-up fires. It was wildly mingling
with childish laughter and hysteric
bursts of female tenderness, as, stealing
cautiously and unheeded from the spot,
we mounted our horses and rode
away.</p>

<p class='c008'>“God be praised!” said the minister,
with a deep-drawn sigh, when, emerging
from the gloomy avenue, we regained
the cheerful beaten track. “This
has been a day of strange dispensations,
Mr Francis—we have seen much
together to make us wonder at the
ways of Providence, to soften, and, I
hope, improve our hearts. But, after
such solemn scenes, mine (and yours, I
doubt not, also) requires something to
cheer and lighten it; and I am bound
where, if the sight of virtuous happiness
can do it, I am sure to succeed. Do
let me persuade you to be my companion
a little longer, and close this
day’s visitation at the humble board of,
I’ll venture to say, the happiest couple
in Scotland. I am engaged to christen
the first-born of honest Willie Meldrum
and his bonnie Helen, and to dine, of
course, after the ceremony. Mrs Monteith
and the bairns will be there to
meet me; and, as my friend, you’ll be
‘welcome as the flowers in May.’”</p>

<p class='c008'>After some slight scruples about intruding
on this scene of domestic enjoyment,
easily overruled by the hearty
assurances of the divine, and my own
natural relish for humble life, we marched
towards the farmhouse of Blinkbonnie;
and during our short ride the minister
gave me, in a few words, the history of
its inmates.</p>

<h3 class='c015'><span class='sc'>Chapter III.</span></h3>

<p class='c014'>“I don’t know, Mr Francis, if you
remember a bonny orphan lassie, called
Helen Ormiston, whom my wife took
some years back into the family to
assist her in the care of the bairns.
Helen was come of no ungentle kin;
but poverty had sat down heavily on
her father and mother, and sunk them
into an early grave; and it was a godsend
to poor Helen to get service in a
house where poverty would be held no
reproach to her. If ye ever saw the
creature, ye wadna easily forget her.
Many bonnier, blither lassies are to be
seen daily; but such a look of settled
serenity and downcast modesty ye might
go far to find. It quite won my wife’s
heart and mine, and more hearts than
ours, as I shall tell you presently. As
for the bairns, they just doated on
Helen, and she on them; and my poor
youngest, that is now with God, during
all her long, long decline, was little if
ever off her knee. No wonder, then, that
Helen grew pale and thin, ate little, and
slept less. I first set it down to anxiety,
and, when the innocent bairn was released,
to grief; and from these, no
doubt, it partly arose. But when all was
over, and when weeks had passed away,
when even my poor wife dried her
mother’s tears, and I could say, ‘God’s
will be done,’ still Helen grew paler and
thinner, and refused to be comforted;
so I saw there was more in it than appeared,
and I bade her open her heart
to me; and open it she did, with a flood
of tears that would have melted a stone.</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Sir,’ said she, ‘I maun go away.
I think it will kill me to leave you and
Mrs Monteith, and the dear bairns in
the nursery, and wee Jeanie’s grave in
the kirkyard; but stay I canna, and I
will tell you why. It is months, ay,
amaist years, since Willie Meldrum,
auld Blinkbonnie’s son, fell in fancy wi’
me, and a sair sair heart, I may say, I
have had ever sin syne. His auld hard
father, they tell me, swears (wi’ sic oaths
as wad gar ye grue to hear them) that
he will cut him off wi’ a shilling if ever
he thinks o’ me; and oh! it wad be a
puir return for the lad’s kindness to do
him sic an ill turn! so I maun awa
out of the country till the auld man
dies, or Willie taks a wife to his mind,
for I’ve seen ower muckle o’ poverty,
Mr Monteith, to be the cause o’t to ony
man, though I whiles think it wad be
naething to me, that’s sae weel used
till’t mysel.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Helen,’ said I, ‘when did Willie
Meldrum find opportunities to gain your
heart? I never saw him in the house
in my life.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Oh, sir!’ said she, ‘gin I could
hae bidden in the house, he wad never
hae seen me either; but I was forced
to walk out wi’ the bairns, and there
was nae place sae quiet and out o’ the
gate, but Willie was sure to find me
out. If I gaed down the burn, Willie
was aye fishing; if I gaed up the loan,
there was aye something to be dune
about the kye. At the kirk door,
Willie was aye at hand to spier for your
honour, and gie the bairns posies; and
after our sair distress, when I was little
out for mony a day, I couldna slip out
ae moonlight night, to sit a moment
upon Jeanie’s grave, but Willie was
there like a ghaist aside me, and made
my very heart loup to my mouth!’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘And do you return his good-will,
Helen?’ said I, gravely.</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Oh, sir,’ said the poor thing, trembling,
‘I darena tell you a lie. I tried
to be as proud and as shy as a lassie
should be to ane abune her degree, and
that might do sae muckle better, puir
fallow! I tried to look anither gate
when I saw him, and mak mysel deaf
when he spoke o’ his love; but oh! his
words were sae true and kindly, that I
doubt mine werena aye sae short and
saucy as they sud hae been. It’s hard
for a tocherless, fatherless lassie to be
cauldrife to the lad that wad tak her to
his heart and hame; but oh! it wad be
harder still, if she was to requite him
wi’ a father’s curse! It’s ill eneuch to
hae nae parents o’ my ain, without
makin’ mischief wi’ ither folk’s. The
auld man gets dourer and dourer ilka
day, and the young ane dafter and
dafter—sae ye maun just send me aff
the country to some decent service, till
Willie’s a free man, or a bridegroom.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘My dear Helen,’ said I, ‘you are
a good upright girl, and I will forward
your honest intentions. If it be God’s
will that Willie and you come together,
the hearts of men are in His hand. If
otherwise, yours will never at least
reproach you with bringing ruin on
your lover’s head.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“So I sent Helen, Mr Francis, to
my brother’s in the south country, where
she proved as great a blessing and as
chief a favourite as she had been with
us. I saw her some months afterwards;
and though her bloom had not
returned, she was tranquil and contented,
as one who has cast her lot into the lap
of Heaven.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Well, to make a long story short,
Willie, though he was unreasonable
enough, good, worthy lad as he is, to
take in dudgeon Helen’s going away
(though he might have guessed it was
all for his good), was too proud, or too
constant, to say he would give her up,
or bind himself never to marry her, as
his father insisted. So the old man,
one day, after a violent altercation,
made his will, and left all his hard-won
siller to a rich brother in Liverpool,
who neither wanted nor deserved it.
Willie, upon this quarrel, had left home
very unhappy, and stayed away some
time, and during his absence old Blinkbonnie
was taken extremely ill. When
he thought himself dying, he sent for
me (I had twice called in vain before),
and you may be sure I did my best not
to let him depart in so unchristian a
frame towards his only child. I did
not deny his right to advise his son in
the choice of a wife; but I told him he
might search the world before he found
one more desirable than Helen, whose
beauty and sense would secure his son’s
steadiness, and her frugality and sobriety
double his substance. I told him how
she had turned a deaf ear to all his son’s
proposals of a clandestine marriage and
made herself the sacrifice to his own
unjust and groundless prejudices. Dying
men are generally open to conviction;
and I got a fresh will made in favour of
his son, with a full consent to his marriage
honourably inserted among its provisions.
This he deposited with me, feeling
no great confidence in the lawyer who
had made his previous settlement, and desired
me to produce it when he was gone.</p>

<p class='c008'>“It so happened that I was called
to a distance before his decease, and did
not return till some days after the
funeral. Willie had flown home on
hearing of his father’s danger, and had
the comfort to find him completely
softened, and to receive from his nearly
speechless parent many a silent demonstration
of returned affection. It was,
therefore, a doubly severe shock to him,
on opening the first will (the only one
forthcoming in my absence), to find
himself cut off from everything, except
the joint lease of the farm, and instead
of five thousand pounds, not worth a
shilling in the world. His first exclamation,
I was told, was, ‘It’s hard
to get baith scorn and skaith—to lose
baith poor Helen and the gear. If I
had lost it for her, they might hae ta’en
it that likit!’</p>

<p class='c008'>“About a week after, I came home
and found on my table a letter from
Helen. She had heard of Willie’s misfortune,
and in a way the most modest
and engaging, expressed herself ready,
if I thought it would still be acceptable,
to share his poverty and toil with him
through life. ‘I am weel used to work,’
said she, ‘and, but for you, wad hae
been weel used to want. If Willie will
let me bear a share o’ his burden, I
trust in God we may warsle through
thegither; and, to tell you the truth,’
added she, with her usual honesty, ‘I
wad rather things were ordered as they
are, than that Willie’s wealth should
shame my poverty.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“I put this letter in one pocket, and
his father’s will in the other, and walked
over to Blinkbonnie. Willie was working
with the manly resolution of one
who has no other resource. I told him I
was glad to see him so little cast down.</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Sir,’ said he, ‘I’ll no say but I am
vexed that my father gaed to his grave
wi’ a grudge against me, the mair sae,
as when he squeezed my hand on his
death-bed I thought a’ was forgotten.
But siller is but warld’s gear, and I
could thole the want o’t, an’ it had nae
been for Helen Ormiston, that I hoped
to hae gotten to share it wi’ me. She
may sune do better now, wi’ that bonnie
face and kind heart o’ hers!’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘It is indeed a kind heart, Willie,’
answered I: ‘if ever I doubted it, this
would have put me to shame!’——So
saying, I reached him the letter, and oh,
that Helen could have seen the flush of
grateful surprise that crossed his manly
brow as he read it! It passed away,
though, quickly, and he said, with a
sigh, ‘Very kind, Mr Monteith, and very
like hersel; but I canna take advantage
o’ an auld gude will, now that I canna
reward it as it deserves!’”</p>

<p class='c008'>‘And what if ye could, Willie?’
said I, ‘as far, at least, as worldly wealth
can requite true affection? There is
your father’s will, made when it pleased
God to touch his heart, and you are as
rich a man as you were when Helen
Ormiston first refused to make you a
beggar.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“Willie was not insensible to this happy
change in his prospects; but his kind
heart was chiefly soothed by his father’s
altered feelings, and at the honourable
mention of Helen’s name he fairly began
to greet.</p>

<p class='c008'>“The sequel is easily told; but I
think the jaunt I made to Tweeddale
with Willie, to bring back Helen Ormiston
in triumph, was the proudest journey
of my life.</p>

<p class='c008'>“A year ago I married them at the
manse, amid much joy, but abundance
of tears in the nursery. To-day, when,
according to an old promise, I am to
christen my name-son Charlie, I expect
to be fairly deaved with the clamorous
rejoicings of my young fry, who, I verily
believe, have not slept this week for
thinking of it. But” (pulling out his
watch), “it is near four o’clock: sad
quality hour for Blinkbonnie! The
hotch-potch will be turned into porridge,
and the how-towdies burnt to sticks, if
we don’t make haste!”</p>

<p class='c007'>I wish, my dear reader, you could see
the farm of Blinkbonnie, lying as it does
on a gently sloping bank, sheltered from
the north by a wooded crag or knoll,
flanked upon the east by a group of
venerable ashes, enlivened and perfumed
on the west by a gay luxuriant garden,
and open on the south to such a sea-view,
as none but dwellers on the Firth
of Forth have any idea of. Last Saturday,
it was the very <i><span lang="fr">beau ideal</span></i> of rural
comfort and serenity. The old trees
were reposing, after a course of somewhat
boisterous weather, in all the dignity
and silence of years. The crows,
their usual inhabitants, having gone on
their Highland excursion, those fantastic
interlopers, Helen’s peacocks (a present
from the children at the manse), were
already preparing for their “siesta” on
the topmost boughs. Beneath the
spreading branches the cows were dreaming
delightfully, in sweet oblivion of the
heats of noon. In an adjoining paddock,
graceful foals, and awkward calves,
indulged in their rival gambols; while
shrieks of joy from behind the garden
hedge, told these were not the only
happy young things in creation.</p>

<p class='c008'>We deposited our horses in a stable,
to whose comforts they bore testimony
by an approving neigh, and made our
way by a narrow path, bordered with
sweet-brier and woodbine, to the front
of the house. Its tall, good-looking
young master came hastily to meet us,
and I would not have given his blushing
welcome, and the bashful scrape that
accompanied it, for all the most elaborate
courtesies of Chesterfield.</p>

<p class='c008'>No sooner were our footsteps heard
approaching, than out poured the minister’s
whole family from the little honey-suckled
porch, with glowing faces and
tangled hair, and frocks, probably white
some hours before, but which now
claimed affinity with every bush in the
garden.</p>

<p class='c008'>Mrs Monteith gently joined in the
chorus of reproaches to papa for being
so late; but the look with which she
was answered seemed to satisfy her,
as it usually did, that he could not be in
fault. We were then ushered into the
parlour, whose substantial comforts, and
exquisite consistency, spoke volumes in
favour of its mistress. Opulence might
be traced in the excellent quality of the
homely furniture—in the liberal display
of antique china (particularly the choice
and curious christening-bowl)—but
there was nothing incongruous, nothing
out of keeping, nothing to make you for
a moment mistake this first-rate farmhouse
parlour for a clumsy, ill-fancied
drawing-room. A few pots of roses, a
few shelves of books, bore testimony to
Helen’s taste and education; but there
were neither exotics nor romances in the
collection; and the piece of furniture
evidently dearest in her eyes was the
cradle, in which reposed, amid all the
din of this joyous occasion, the yet unchristened
hero of the day. It is time
to speak of Helen herself, and she was
just what, from her story, I knew she
must be. The actors, in some striking
drama of human life, often disappoint
us by their utter dissimilitude to the
pictures of our mind’s eye, but Helen
was precisely the perfection of a gentle,
modest, self-possessed Scottish lassie,—the
mind, in short, of Jeanie Deans,
with the personal advantages of poor
Effie. Her dress was as suitable as anything
else. Her gown, white as snow,
and her cap of the nicest materials, were
neither of them on the pattern of my
lady’s; but they had a matronly grace
of their own, worth a thousand second-hand
fashions; and when Helen, having
awakened her first-born, delivered
him, with sweet maternal solicitude, into
the outstretched arms of the minister’s
proud and favoured youngest girl, I
thought I never saw a picture worthier
the pencil of Correggio. It was completed,
when, bending in all the graceful
awkwardness of a novice over the group,
Willie received his boy into his arms,
and vowed before his pastor and his God
to discharge a parent’s duty, while a
parent’s transport sparkled in his eyes.</p>

<p class='c008'>I have sat, as Shakspeare says, “at
good men’s feasts ere now”—have ate
turtle at the lord mayor’s and venison
at peers’ tables, and <i><span lang="fr">soufflés</span></i> at diplomatic
dinners—have ate sturgeon at
St Petersburg, and mullet at Naples;
mutton in Wales, and grouse in the
Highlands; roast-beef with John Bull,
and <em>volauxvents</em> at Beauvilliers’; but
I have no hesitation in saying that the
hotch-potch and how-towdies of Blinkbonnie
excelled them all. How far
the happy human faces of all ages
round the table contributed to enhance
the gusto, I do not pretend to decide;
but I can tell Mr Véry that,
among all his <i><span lang="fr">consommés</span></i>, there is
nothing like a judicious mixture of youth
and beauty, with manliness, integrity,
and virtue.—<cite>Blackwood’s Magazine.</cite></p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='a_scottish_gentlewoman_of_the_last_century' class='c006'>A SCOTTISH GENTLEWOMAN OF THE LAST CENTURY.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By Susan Edmonstone Ferrier.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>“Though last, not least of nature’s
works, I must now introduce you to a
friend of mine,” said Mr Douglas, as
they bent their steps towards the
Castlehill of Edinburgh. “Mrs
Violet Macshake is an aunt of my
mother’s, whom you must often have
heard of, and the last remaining branch
of the noble race of Girnachgowl.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I am afraid she is rather a formidable
person, then?” said Mary.</p>

<p class='c008'>Her uncle hesitated.</p>

<p class='c008'>“No, not formidable,—only rather
particular, as all old people are; but
she is very good-hearted.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I understand; in other words, she
is very disagreeable. All ill-tempered
people, I observe, have the character
of being good-hearted, or else all
good-hearted people are ill-tempered—I
can’t tell which.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“It is more than reputation with
her,” said Mr Douglas, somewhat
angrily; “for she is, in reality, a very
good-hearted woman, as I experienced
when a boy at college. Many a crown-piece
and half-guinea I used to get
from her. Many a scold, to be sure,
went along with them; but that, I
daresay, I deserved. Besides, she is
very rich, and I am her reputed heir;
therefore gratitude and self-interest
combine to render her extremely amiable
in my estimation.”</p>

<p class='c008'>They had now reached the airy
dwelling where Mrs Macshake resided,
and having rung, the door was at
length most deliberately opened by
an ancient, sour-visaged, long-waisted
female, who ushered them into an
apartment, the <i><span lang="fr">coup d’œil</span></i> of which
struck a chill to Mary’s heart. It was
a good-sized room, with a bare
sufficiency of small-legged dining-tables,
and lank hair-cloth chairs,
ranged in high order round the walls.
Although the season was advanced,
and the air piercing cold, the grate
stood smiling in all the charms of
polished steel; and the mistress of
the mansion was seated by the side
of it in an arm-chair, still in its summer
position. She appeared to have no
other occupation than what her own
meditations afforded; for a single
glance sufficed to show that not a
vestage of book or work was harboured
there. She was a tall, large-boned
woman, whom even Time’s iron hand
had scarcely bent, as she merely
stooped at the shoulders. She had a
drooping snuffy nose, a long turned-up
chin, small, quick, gray eyes, and her
face projected far beyond her figure,
with an expression of shrewd, restless
curiosity. She wore a mode (not
<i><span lang="fr">a-la-mode</span></i>) bonnet, and cardinal of the
same; a pair of clogs over her shoes,
and black silk mittens on her arms.</p>

<p class='c008'>As soon as she recognized Mr
Douglas, she welcomed him with much
cordiality, shook him long and heartily
by the hand,—patted him on the back,—looked
into his face with much seeming
satisfaction; and, in short, gave all
the demonstrations of gladness usual
with gentlewomen of a certain age.
Her pleasure, however, appeared to be
rather an <em>impromptu</em> than a habitual
feeling; for as the surprise wore off, her
visage resumed its harsh and sarcastic
expression, and she seemed eager to
efface any agreeable impression her
reception might have excited.</p>

<p class='c008'>“An’ wha thought o’ seein’ you
e’noo?” said she, in a quick gabbling
voice; “what’s brought you to the
toun? Are ye come to spend your
honest faither’s siller, ere he’s weel
cauld in his grave, puir man?”</p>

<p class='c008'>Mr Douglas explained, that it was
upon account of his niece’s health.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Health!” repeated she, with a
sardonic smile, “it wad mak a howlet
laugh to hear the wark that’s made
about young fowk’s health noo-a-days.
I wonder what ye’re a’ made o’,” grasping
Mary’s arm in her great bony hand;
“a wheen puir feckless windle-straes—ye
maun awa to England for yer healths.
Set ye up! I wonder what came o’
the lasses i’ my time, that but to bide
hame? And whilk o’ ye, I sud like to
ken, will e’er live to see ninety-sax, like
me?—Health! he! he!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“You have not asked after any of
your Glenfern friends,” said Mr Douglas,
hoping to touch a more sympathetic
chord.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Time eneugh—will ye let me draw
my breath, man?—fowk canna say a’
thing at ance. An’ ye but to hae an
English wife, too?—A Scotch lass
wadna ser’ ye. An’ yer wean, I’se
warran’, it’s ane o’ the warld’s wonders—it’s
been unco lang o’ comin’—he!
he!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“He has begun life under very
melancholy auspices, poor fellow!”
said Mr Douglas, in allusion to his
father’s death.</p>

<p class='c008'>“An’ wha’s faut was that?—I ne’er
heard tell the like o’t, to hae the bairn
kirsened an’ its grandfather deein’!
But fowk are neither born, nor kirsened,
nor do they wad or dee as they used to
do—a’thing’s changed.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“You must indeed have witnessed
many changes,” observed Mr Douglas,
rather at a loss how to utter anything of
a conciliatory nature.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Changes!—weel a wat, I sometimes
wonder if it’s the same warld, an’
if it’s my ain head that’s upon my
shouthers.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“But with these changes you must
also have seen many improvements?”
said Mary, in a tone of diffidence.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Impruvements!” turning sharply
round upon her, “what ken ye about
impruvements, bairn? A bonnie impruvement
to see tylors and sclaters
leevin’ whaur I mind Jukes and Yerls.
An’ that great glowerin’ New Town
there,” pointing out of her windows,
“whaur I used to sit and look at bonnie
green parks, and see the kye milket,
and the bits o’ bairnies rowin’ an’ tumblin’,
an’ the lasses trampin’ in their tubs;—what
see I noo, but stane and lime, and
stour and dirt, and idle chiels, and
dunket-out madams prancing.—Impruvements,
indeed!”</p>

<p class='c008'>Here a long pinch of snuff caused a
pause in the old lady’s harangue; but
after having duly wiped her nose with
her coloured handkerchief, and shook
off all the particles that might be presumed
to have lodged upon her cardinal,
she resumed:</p>

<p class='c008'>“An’ nae word o’ ony o’ your sisters
gaun to get men yet? They tell me
they’re but coorse lasses; an’ wha’ll tak
ill-faured, tocherless queans, when there’s
walth o’ bonny faces an’ lang purses i’
the market?—he, he!” Then resuming
her scrutiny of Mary,—“An’ I’se warran’
ye’ll be lookin’ for an English
sweetheart too;—that’ll be what’s
takin’ ye awa to England!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“On the contrary,” said Mr Douglas,
seeing Mary was too much frightened
to answer for herself—“on the contrary,
Mary declares she will never marry any
but a true Highlander—one who wears
the dirk and plaid, and has the ‘second
sight.’ And the nuptials are to be
celebrated with all the pomp of feudal
times; with bagpipes and bonfires, and
gatherings of clans, and roasted sheep,
and barrels of whisky, and”——</p>

<p class='c008'>“Weel a wat an’ she’s i’ the right
there,” interrupted Mrs Mackshake,
with more complacency than she had yet
shown. “They may ca’ them what
they like, but there’s nae waddin’s noo.
Wha’s the better o’ them but innkeepers
and chaise-drivers? I wadna count
mysel married i’ the hidlin’s way they
gang aboot it noo.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Mr Douglas, who was now rather
tired of the old lady’s reminiscences,
availed himself of the opportunity of a
fresh pinch to rise and take leave.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ou, what’s takin’ ye awa, Archie,
in sic a hurry? Sit doon there,” laying
her hand upon his arm, “an’ rest ye,
and tak a glass o’ wine; or maybe,”
turning to Mary, “ye wad rather hae
a drap broth to warm ye. What gars
ye look sae blae, my bairn? I’m sure
it’s no cauld; but ye’re just like the
lave; ye gang a’ skiltin’ about the
streets half-naked, an’ then ye maun sit
and birsle yersels afore the fire at
hame.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The wine being drunk, and the
cookies discussed, Mr Douglas made
another attempt to withdraw, but in vain.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Canna ye sit still a wee, man, an’
let me speir after my auld freens at
Glenfern? Hoo’s Grizzy, an’ Jacky,
an’ Nicky?—aye working awa at the
pills and the drogs?—he, he! I ne’er
swallowed a pill, nor gaed a doit for
drogs, a’ my days, an’ see an ony of
them’ll run a race wi’ me when they’re
naur five score.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Mr Douglas here paid her some compliments
upon her appearance, which
were pretty well received; and added
that he was the bearer of a letter from
his aunt Grizzy, which he would send
along with a roebuck and a brace of
moor game.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Gin your roebuck’s nae better than
your last, atweel it’s no worth the sending,—puir
fushionless dirt, no worth
the chewing; weel a wat, I begrudged
my teeth on’t. Your muirfowl was
no that ill, but they’re no worth the
carrying; they’re dang cheap i’ the
market e’noo, so it’s nae great compliment.
Gin ye had brought me a leg o’
good mutton, or a caller sawmont,
there would hae been some sense in’t;
but ye’re ane o’ the fowk that’ll ne’er
harry yoursel wi’ your presents; it’s
but the pickle poother they cost you,
an’ I’se warrant ye’re thinking mair o’
your ain diversion than o’ my stamack
when ye’re at the shooting o’ them, puir
beasts.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Mr Douglas had borne the various
indignities levelled against himself and
his family with a philosophy that had
no parallel in his life before; but to
this attack upon his game he was not
proof. His colour rose, his eyes flashed
fire, and something resembling an oath
burst from his lips, as he strode indignantly
towards the door.</p>

<p class='c008'>His friend, however, was too nimble
for him. She stepped before him, and
breaking into a discordant laugh, as
she patted him on the back,—</p>

<p class='c008'>“So, I see ye’re just the auld man,
Archie,—aye ready to tak the strumps,
an ye dinna get a’thing yer ain way.
Mony a time I had to fleech ye oot o’
the dorts when ye was a callant. Div
ye mind hoo ye was affronted because
I set ye doon to a cauld pigeon
pie an’ a tanker o’ tippenny, ae night to
yer four-hours, afore some leddies? he,
he, he! Weel a wat, your wife maun
hae her ain adoos to manage ye, for
ye’re a cumstarie chield, Archie.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Mr Douglas still looked as if he
was irresolute whether to laugh or be
angry.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Come, come, sit ye doon there till
I speak to this bairn,” said she, as she
pulled Mary into an adjoining bed-chamber,
which wore the same aspect
of chilly neatness as the one they had
quitted. Then pulling a large bunch
of keys from her pocket, she opened a
drawer, out of which she took a pair of
diamond ear-rings.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Hae, bairn,” said she, as she stuffed
them into Mary’s hand; “they belanged
to your faither’s grandmother.
She was a good woman, an’ had four
and twenty sons and dochters, an’ I wuss
ye nae waur fortin than just to hae as
mony. But mind ye,” shaking her
bony finger, “they maun a’ be Scots.
Gin I thocht ye wad marry ony pock-puddin’,
fient hait wad ye gotten
frae me. Noo, haud yer tongue, and
dinna deave me wi’ thanks,” almost
pushing her into the parlour again;
“and sin’ ye’re gaun awa the morn, I’ll
see nae mair o’ ye e’noo—so fare ye
weel. But, Archie, ye maun come an’
tak your breakfast wi’ me. I hae
muckle to say to you;—but ye maunna
be sae hard upon my baps as ye used to
be,” with a facetious grin to her mollified
favourite, as they shook hands and
parted.—“<cite>Marriage: a Novel.</cite>”</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='the_faithless_nurse' class='c006'>THE FAITHLESS NURSE:<br> <span class='large'><em>A LEGENDARY TALE OF THE GREAT REBELLION</em></span>.</h2>
</div>

<p class='c007'>Most of our readers who are citizens
of “our own romantic town,” are familiarly
acquainted with the valley which,
winding among the Pentland Hills,
forms the path by which the waters of
Glencorse seek their way to those of the
more celebrated Esk. It has long been
the haunt of those “pilgrims of his
genius” who loved to see with their
own eyes the sacred scene chosen by
the Pastoral Poet of Scotland for the
display of lowly loves and rustic
beauty; and it has now—alas the day!—acquired
attractions for spirits of a far
different sort; and who can see without
a sigh the triumphs of art domineering
over and insulting the sweetest charms
of nature? It is not, however, to visit
the stupendous and unseemly barrier
which now chains up the gentle waters
of the burn, nor even to seek the summer-breathing
spot where Patie sung
and Roger sighed, that we now request
the attendance of our readers; but
simply to point out to their attention a
party of three individuals, who, on a still
September evening, in the memorable
year 1644, might have been seen slowly
riding up the glen.</p>

<p class='c008'>Two of the party were entitled in
courtesy to be termed fair; but of these
twain, one would have been acknowledged
lovely by the most uncourteous
boor that ever breathed. She had
hardly reached the earliest years of
womanhood, ’tis true, and the peachy
bloom that mantled o’er her cheek
showed as yet only the dawn of future
loveliness; but her fair brow, on which,
contrary to the fashion—we had almost
said <em>taste</em>—of the times, her auburn
locks danced gracefully; the laughing
lustre of her dark-blue eye, and the
stinging sweetness of her pouting lip,
aided by an expression of indomitable
gentleness of heart and kindliness of
manner, lent a witchery to her countenance
which few could gaze upon
unmoved.</p>

<p class='c008'>The other female had thrice the years
of Lady Lilias Hay; but they had not
brought her one tithe of that maiden’s
beauty, and what little God had given
her, she had, long ere the day we saw
her first, destroyed, by screwing her
features into an unvarying cast of prim
solemnity, which, had she practised it,
would have blighted the cheek of Venus
herself.</p>

<p class='c008'>The “squire of dames” who accompanied
the pair we have described was
also young, his chin as yet being guiltless
of a hair. But there was a firmness
in his look, a dark something in his
eye, that bespoke his courage superior
to his years; and a scar that trenched
his open brow showed that he had
arrived at the daring, if not the wisdom
of manhood.</p>

<p class='c008'>On the present occasion, however,
it was not a feeling of recklessness
which characterised the demeanour of
the youth. He was thoughtful and
abstracted, riding silently by the side
of the maiden, who more than once attempted
to dispel the gloom which hung
over the gallant. It gave way, indeed, to
the influence of her gentle voice; but it
was for a moment only, and the downcast
eye and contracted brow ever and
anon returned when the accents of her
voice had ceased.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Nay, prithee, cousin Maurice, do
doff the visor of thy melancholy, and
let us behold thy merry heart unmasked.
I could stake my little jennet here to
Elspeth’s favourite “baudrons,” that if
Montrose should meet thee in this
moody temperament, he will rather
promote thee to a halter as a spy from
the Committee of Estates, than to honourable
command befitting one who
has bled beneath the eye, and been
knighted by the honour-giving hand of
his royal master! Do laugh with me
a little.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Why, my dearest Lilias, you seem
in higher spirits to-day than is usual
with you. Cannot the surety of our
parting to-morrow, and the uncertainty
of our ever meeting again, throw even
a passing cloud over your gaiety?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Modestly put, my valiant cousin.
I am well reminded of my unbecoming
conduct. It must, of course, be night
with me when you, bright sun of my
happiness, shall have withdrawn your
beams from me.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Nay, banter me not, sweet Lily.
Have you never known an hour when
the sweetest sights were irksome to the
eye, and the softest strains of music fell
harshly on the ear?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Pshaw! if you will neither smile
nor talk, of what use are you by a
lady’s side? What say you to a race?
Yonder stands the kirk of Saint Catherine.
Will you try your roan that
length? An you ride not so fast now
as you did from Cromwell at Longmarston
Moor, I shall beat you. <i><span lang="fr">Via!</span></i>”</p>

<p class='c008'>And so saying, the light-hearted girl
gave rein to her snowy palfrey, and
flew up the glen toward the edifice she
had mentioned, at a speed which Maurice
Ogilvy had some difficulty in equalling,
and which prevented him from overtaking
her until she had reached the gate.</p>

<p class='c008'>All who have visited—and who has
not?—Roslin’s “proud chapelle,” are
familiar with the legend of Sir William
St Clair, and his venturous boast to
the Bruce, that he would find, on peril
of his head, a dog that would bring
down the deer ere it could cross Glencorse
burn;—how the trusty hound did
redeem his own credit and his master’s
life, by seizing the quarry in the very
middle of the stream;—and how, in
gratitude to the gentle saint by whose
intercession this mighty feat was accomplished,
he built a church on the bank
of the stream, and dedicated it to Saint
Catherine of the Howe. This virgin
martyr was unfortunately no more successful
than her sister saints in protecting
her mansions from the desolating
zeal of the earlier reformers. The
church was destroyed by a fanatical
mob, and nothing now remains to
record the kindness of Catherine, and
the gratitude of the “high Saint
Clair,” but a few uneven grassy heaps
of deeper green than the surrounding
verdure, and the name of the neighbouring
farm town, which is yet called
Kirkton. At the time we are at present
writing of, however, the roofless walls
of the building, though gray with the
ruin of a hundred years, were still
almost entire, and the cemetery then and
long after continued to be used by the
neighbouring peasantry.</p>

<p class='c008'>When Maurice reached the church,
he found that the Lady Lilias had dismounted.
He too alighted, and sought
her in the interior. She was seated on
a fallen stone, and the deep melancholy
which now shadowed her fair countenance
was more in unison with the sombre
aspect of the place and of the hour, than
he had expected to find it. She arose
at his approach, and addressed him.</p>

<p class='c008'>“You have something to tell me,
Maurice, and you wished to do it alone.
We have now an opportunity. What
has befallen us?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Nay, fair Lily, why should you
think so? Is not the thought that to-morrow
we must part of itself sufficient
to dull my spirit and sadden my countenance?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Pshaw! trifle not with me now.
Your face has no secrets for one who
has conned its ill-favoured features so
frequently as I have done. Out with
your secret! Elspeth will be with us
forthwith.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Maurice seemed for some moments
undecided how he should act, but at
length, with a look of no little embarrassment,
replied,—</p>

<p class='c008'>“Sweet Lilias, you shall be obeyed.
You can only laugh at me; and thanks
to your merry heart, that is a daily
pastime of yours.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Nay, nay—say on; I will be as grave
as Argyle.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Know then, that while I waited for
you and Elspeth at the bottom of the
glen, a remarkable thing befell me. I
had alighted, and while Rupert was
trying to pick a scanty meal among the
bent, I flung myself on the ground, and
endeavoured to beguile the time by
thinking sometimes of you, and sometimes
of King Charles.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“How! sir cousin, I am not always
the companion of your reveries, it seems,
then? Heigho! to think what a change
a single day’s matrimony has accomplished!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ungenerous Lilias,” said Maurice,
taking her hand, “listen to me. Lifting
my head accidentally, I was surprised
to perceive a man and woman
walking away at some distance from me.
The more attentively I looked at these
individuals, the more uneasy I became,
until my terror was completed by the
figures slowly turning round and presenting
to me the identical features of
you, dear Lilias, and myself.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Maurice, Maurice! you amaze me!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Though fully aware of the unearthly
nature of these appearances, I could not
resist the desire I felt of following them.
I did so, tracing their silent steps up
the glen, until I saw them enter the
churchyard without. I hastened after,
but when I too entered the cemetery,
the figures had disappeared!”</p>

<p class='c008'>The lady’s cheek grew pale as she
listened to this narration, for in those
days the belief in such prognostications
was universal; and the time of day
when Maurice had seen the wraiths,
their retiring motion, and the fatal spot
to which he had traced them, were all
indicative of fast approaching doom.
She clung around her husband’s neck
for a few moments in silence, until the
deep-seated conviction of safety while
with him, which forms so striking a
characteristic of feminine affection,
revived her spirits; and though the
tear still hung on her silken eyelash as
she looked up in his face, there was a
languid smile on her cheek as she said,—</p>

<p class='c008'>“Beshrew you, Maurice, for frightening
me so deeply on my wedding-day!
Could you find no other time than this
to see bogles?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Well said, love,” answered Maurice,
who felt no little alarm at seeing the
effect which his story had produced on
his wife: “’twas doubtless a mere
delusion.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Even should it prove true,” replied
Lilias, “we shall at least die together;
and there is a tranquillising influence in
that thought, Maurice, which would go
far to make even death agreeable.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Let us leave this place,” said
Maurice, after the emotion which so bewitching
a confusion excited had in some
measure subsided; “I fear Elspeth will
miss us.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“What then?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“You know that I have ever distrusted
that woman. She and I are as
different from each other as day from
darkness. She is a staunch Covenanter—I
a graceless Cavalier. She rails at
love-locks, love-songs, and love-passages—I
adore them all. She prays for
MacCallummore, and would fain see his
bonnet nod above the crown of King
Charles, and the caps of his merry men;—I
would rather see his head frowning
on the Netherbow Port. While she
opposed my suit to you, I only hated
her; now that she connives at it—shall
I confess it to you?—I fear her.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Nay, now you are unjust. While
in the lawful exercise of woman’s just
prerogative,—coquetry,—I seemed to
balance the contending claims of Sir
Mungo Campbell and yourself for this
poor hand, Elspeth doubtlessly favoured
the cause of her kinsman (all Campbell’s
being of course cousins); but our sovereign
will once unequivocally declared,
she became all submission, and has not
even attempted to impugn the decision
which we, somewhat foolishly perhaps,
have pronounced in your favour. Besides,
Maurice,” continued Lilias, leaving
off the mock-heroic tone in which
she had hitherto spoken for one more
akin to natural feeling, “Elspeth
Campbell was my nurse, has a mother’s
affection for me, and therefore would
not, I am confident, engage in any
scheme inimical to my happiness.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Still she is a Covenanter, and a
Campbell,” replied Maurice, “and as
such, her dearest wish, even for your
own sake, must be to see you the wife
of him who is both the one and the
other.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Well,” rejoined Lilias, colouring
highly as she spoke, “that at least
you have put out of her power: and
yet I regret that I trusted her not in
that matter. It was a secret for a
woman, and a nursing mother.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Fear not, she shall know in time.
I know, I feel it is unmanly, the dread
I entertain; but I cannot quell it. I
wish we had not agreed to make this
Logan House the trysting-place of my
gallant friends: my father’s dwelling
had been the safer place.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Yes; and so have set my worthy
guardian, Gillespie Grumach, and his
obsequious friend Sir Mungo, on our
track. Come, come, your alarm is
unbecoming. At dawn we leave Logan
House. The madcap disguise which
you have prevailed on me to adopt will
prevent any recognition till you have
consigned me to my noble kinswoman
of Huntly; and you—but I wrong
you—fear not for yourself.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Kindly spoken, my love,—would
to Heaven you indeed were in Strathbogie,
and I among the gallant Grahams!
But here comes Elspeth, looking as demure
as if she were afraid that the idolatrous
sacrifice of the mass, like the
leprosy of old, might still stick to those
time-worn walls, and infect her godly
heart. Let us go.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Lilias looked earnestly on the countenance
of her nurse as they met; for
though she had not acknowledged so
much to Maurice, her heart had misgiven
her as she listened to his discourse.
Whether it might proceed from
the melancholy truth, that suspicion
once excited against an individual cannot
be entirely quieted by any innocence
whatever, or whether the countenance
of Elspeth really afforded ground for the
doubt of her mistress, we are unable
to determine, but certainly the latter
imagined at least that she could detect
alarm, solicitude, and fear, lurking amid
the apparent placidity of her nurse’s
features.</p>

<p class='c008'>Nothing was said, however; and the
party, remounting their horses, shortly
afterwards arrived at their destination
for the night, namely, the Peel or
Tower of Logan House. This edifice,
which crowns the summit of a small
knoll or brae on the northern side of
Glencorse water, was one of the many
places built for the safety of the population
against any sudden but short-lived
attack, and, from the walls, which are
still left, must have been of considerable
strength. It was, at the time we speak
of, entire, and consisted of two storeys;
the lower being devoted to the accommodation
of the servants of the house,
and that of the family bestial, while the
upper was divided into the few apartments
then thought sufficient for the accommodation
of the gentles.</p>

<p class='c008'>As they rode into the courtyard,
Maurice was struck by the want of
attendance which the place betrayed.
At that day the laudable customs of the
“queen’s old courtier” had not entirely
gone into desuetude, and every holding,
however small, was filled with a number
of retainers, that in the present day
would be deemed excessive. At Logan
House, however, things were very different.
A stripling—half-man, half-boy—seemed
the only representative of male
vassalage, and the woman-servants,
though more numerous, did not amount
to anything near the average number
which in those days divided amongst
themselves, with commendable chariness,
the duties of a household.</p>

<p class='c008'>The faggots, however, blazed cheerfully
in the upper apartment, and food
and wine having been prepared in abundance,
Maurice for a moment forgot his
suspicions, and Lilias regained her
sprightliness. They conversed gaily
together of days gone by, and of courts
and masques and pageants which they
had seen, to the evident discomfort of
Elspeth, who not only thought her
presence becoming in her character of
nurse, but somewhat necessary in the
existing condition, as she imagined, of
the youthful pair. Maurice soon saw
her uneasiness, and wickedly resolved
to make it a means of pastime to himself
and Lilias.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Do you recollect, sweet Lily, when
the good King Charles kissed your cheek
in Holyroodhouse, and vowed, on a
king’s word, to find a husband for you?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I do; and how a malapert page
sounded in my ear that he would save
his Majesty the trouble.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“And have I not kept my word—ha,
lady mine? The great Argyle and all
his men will hardly, I think, undo the
links that bind us to each other;” and
inspired, as it seemed, by the pleasant
thought, the youth took the lady’s
hand in his, and pressed it warmly and
frequently to his lips.</p>

<p class='c008'>Elspeth looked on in amazement at
the familiarity of intercourse in which
the lady indulged her cousin, and which
was equally repugnant to her natural
and acquired feelings on the subject.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Pshaw! you foolish man, desist!”
cried Lilias, blushing and laughing at
the same time, when Maurice attempted
to substitute her rosy lips for the hand
he had been so fervently kissing.
“What will Elspeth think?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Think, Lady Lilias!” said Elspeth
bitterly; “think! I cannot think; but
I can feel for the impropriety—the sinful
levity—into which, for the first time,
I see my mistress fallen.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The fair neck of Lilias crimsoned as
she listened to the taunt. For a moment
a frown gathered on her brow,
before which the nurse’s countenance
fell; but it died away in a moment, and,
with a beseeching smile, which lay
nestled among rosy blushes, she stretched
out her hand and said,—</p>

<p class='c008'>“Forgive me, Elspeth, we are married!”</p>

<p class='c008'>This brief annunciation had a striking
effect on the individual to whom it
was addressed. She clasped together
her withered hands, and continued for a
few moments gazing wildly in the faces
of the startled pair, seemingly anxious
to discover there some contradiction of
what she had just heard; and then
uttering a loud long shriek, dashed her
face against the wooden board, and
groaned audibly.</p>

<p class='c008'>The terrified Lilias tried to raise the
old woman’s head from the table, but
she for some time resisted the kindly
effort. At length, raising her pale and
now haggard features to those of the
lady, she exclaimed,—</p>

<p class='c008'>“Unsay, child of my affection, the
dreadful tidings you have told;—tell me
not that I have murdered the daughter
of my mistress. Often when the <em>taish</em>
was on me have I seen the dirk in your
bosom. Little did I dream that my
own hand should guide it there. Oh!
say you are not married.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Lilias, who knew the violent temper
of her nurse, and imagined her present
ravings proceeded from offended pride
at not having been made privy to the
marriage, now attempted to soothe her
feelings.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Nay, my dear Elspeth, take not
on so; you know Sir Maurice and I
have long loved each other; to-morrow
morning he rides to join Montrose,
who has conquered for the king at
Tippermuir. I tremble to be left
behind, and have therefore resolved
to accompany him; in these circumstances,
was it not fitting that he
should have a husband’s title to protect
me? ’Twas but this morning we were
wedded; and I ever meant to tell you
here.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Here, said you?” replied the old
woman, shuddering. “But I am guiltless.
You were ordained to be the
destruction of each other before the
world was. James Graham will look
long and wearily for your coming, I
fear. Hush! the Campbells are about
the house; and <em>he</em> is coming to seek
you here.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Who?—Sir Mungo Campbell?”
said Lilias and her husband, in the
same breath.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Even he,” replied Elspeth; “he
brings the warrant of the Estates to
apprehend Sir Maurice, and has orders
from the Marquis of Argyle to secure
your own person.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Treacherous, infamous wretch!”—“Cruel,
unkind Elspeth!” burst again
simultaneously from the lips of Maurice
and his bride.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Upbraid me not, Lady Lilias;
alas! what must fall will fall. Oh,
that you had trusted me. I fondly
hoped that Sir Mungo Campbell might
yet be your husband, and that I should
see you the proud and happy mistress
of Castle Lorn; but married!—he will
water this floor with our blood!”</p>

<p class='c008'>And again the wretched old woman,
overcome with remorse and terror,
shrieked aloud. Then, as if stung
by some instantaneous and overpowering
feeling, she hastily quitted the
apartment. The betrayed and devoted
pair gazed for a few minutes at each
other in silent sadness. There was
more of grief than terror in these
mournful looks; for it was for the
calamity of the other that each heart
bled. At length the lady sunk, weeping,
into his arms.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Oh, Maurice, Maurice, bitterly
are our fears fulfilled! We are lost!
There is no escape from the bloodhounds
who have beset us.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Nay, nay, my love,” replied the
knight, feigning the tranquillity he did
not feel; “think not so. I must have
heard the arrival of the party, had we
been yet surrounded. There still is
time to escape from the net prepared
for us. Once on horseback, between
the darkness of the night, and the
wild nature of these hills, we may
manage to escape.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Ere Lilias could make answer to
this cheering discourse, Elspeth entered
the apartment.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Haste!” she exclaimed in an
emphatic whisper, “a moment yet is
left. Sir Mungo has not arrived.
Leave, oh leave, this fearful place!”
and she wrung her hands impatiently.</p>

<p class='c008'>The lovers lost no time in obeying
this invitation. Two large riding-cloaks
were supplied by Elspeth, in
order to conceal their forms, if they
should unhappily be met by Sir
Mungo; while, still more to defeat
detection, it was agreed that Lilias
should mount the nurse’s pony.</p>

<p class='c008'>“And you, Elspeth,” said the lady,
with a kind-heartedness which no
personal danger could destroy, “what
shall become of you?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Fear not for me,” replied Elspeth
chokingly; “I fear nothing—fly!”</p>

<p class='c008'>Maurice now led his lady to the
open plain, and here saw, with sorrow,
that the moon, which shone dazzlingly
bright, would destroy almost every
hope of escaping the recognition of
Sir Mungo Campbell, should that individual
meet them; and this was, alas!
too soon to happen. They had only
turned the angle of the building, with
the intention of taking the hillward
path, when they saw a band of armed
men, at the head of whom stood one
whom hatred and fear at once enabled
both to pronounce the man they sought
to shun.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Who comes there?” cried Sir
Mungo, harshly.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Friends to King Charles,” replied
Maurice, undauntedly.</p>

<p class='c008'>“That may well be,” replied
Campbell, “and yet deep foes to
Scotland. Sir Maurice Ogilvy, I arrest
thee of high treason!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Win me, and wear me, Roundhead!”
cried the knight; and, throwing
off the cloak which cumbered him,
he drew his sword with one hand,
while with the other he plucked Lilias
from her seat, and placed her before
him. Then giving the rowel to his
horse, he dashed among the astonished
Highlanders, who either fell before, or
yielded a passage to the gallant steed.</p>

<p class='c008'>A wild yell arose amid the stillness
of the night, as the Campbells perceived
the rapid pace at which Maurice
rode, and which, if continued for a
few minutes, must soon place him
beyond the chance of capture, and
matchlocks and pistols were employed
in vain to interrupt his career. But,
alas! Heaven had decreed the triumph
of the guilty. Urged to his utmost
speed, Rupert would soon have saved
his master, and his yet more precious
load, when, his foot striking against
a piece of earthfast rock, he stumbled—made
a futile effort to recover himself—and
at last fell on his side. Sir
Maurice instantly sprung to his feet,
but Lilias lay apparently lifeless on the
turf. He kneeled down, and raised
her in his arms, but she replied not
to his eager questionings. He could
feel no pulse, to tell him of returning
life; and to his despair, he perceived
the blood flowing profusely from her
white brow.</p>

<p class='c008'>“She is gone!” cried he, bitterly.
“Now, Campbell, for thy heart;” and
as he spoke, he lifted his weapon from
the grass. He had hardly regained it,
when he was surrounded by the
Highlanders.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Yield thee, Sir Maurice, or thou
diest.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Never to one of thy detested clan
will Maurice Ogilvy give up his sword.
Send back your murderers, Campbell,
and let us settle here our long arrear of
hatred.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Once more I bid thee yield.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Again do I defy thee.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Thy blood be on thy head then.
Smite the braggart to the dust.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The word was barely uttered when
the upraised arm of one who stood
behind the youth buried a dirk in his
bosom. He reeled to the earth, tried
with dimming eye to scan the features
of Lilias as she lay still prostrate on the
ground, and then casting his eyes upwards,
murmured out, “Bear witness,
Heaven, I die true to love, and faithful
to the king!” A moment more, and he
was silent.</p>

<p class='c008'>Campbell next proceeded to raise the
body of Lilias from the ground. It
seemed as if her deep-rooted aversion
to this person was so vital as even to
govern her while in a state of insensibility;
for no sooner had his fingers
touched her waist, than she started from
the ground, and, drawing her hands
across her eyes, gazed wildly around.
A moment sufficed to show her the
cureless ruin which had befallen her
hopes and happiness, and, bursting
from the grasp of her hated suitor, and
exclaiming in a voice hoarse in agony,
“Stand off, monster! I am his wife!”
she threw herself with reckless violence
on the prostrate corpse. Even the heart
of Campbell was touched by her extreme
misery, and some minutes elapsed
ere he could give directions for her
removal. That was now needless. In
her frantic despair, poor Lilias regarded
death as an enviable blessing; the
dagger of Maurice afforded her the
ready means of escaping at once from
all her worldly woe, and her cruel
captors only raised her to discover that
her heart’s blood was now mingling on
the same turf with that of him who had
alone possessed her living love.</p>

<p class='c008'>On the following morning, the wandering
shepherds of the neighbourhood
perceived a new-made grave in the
churchyard of Saint Catherine, and a
wretched being in female attire seated
beside it. Hers was a grief “too deep
for tears”—a sorrow too mighty for
mortal alleviation. She spoke to no
one, replied to no one, but continued,
with her head resting on her lap, to
spend the livelong day by the side of
the unfortunates whom her well-meant
treachery had stretched so untimely
there. As the winter advanced, she
grew weaker and weaker, but still she
abstained not from her daily vigil.
Even when, from debility, she was unable
to walk, she prevailed on some one
to carry her to the lonely cemetery; and
her dying words to her pitying neighbours
were—“Bury me at the feet of
Lady Lilias—remember, at the feet.”—<cite>Edinburgh
Literary Gazette.</cite></p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='traditions_of_the_celebrated_major_weir' class='c006'>TRADITIONS OF THE CELEBRATED MAJOR WEIR.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By Robert Chambers</span>, LL.D.</div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>In one of the most ancient streets of
Edinburgh, called the West Bow, stood
the house formerly inhabited by Major
Weir, whose name is scarcely more
conspicuous in the Criminal Records of
Scotland, than it is notorious in the
mouth of popular tradition. The awful
tenement was situated in a small court
at the back of the main street, accessible
by a narrow entry leading off to the
east, about fifty yards from the top of
the Bow. It was a sepulchral-looking
fabric, with a peculiarly dejected and
dismal aspect, as if it were conscious of
the bad character which it bore among
the neighbouring houses.</p>

<p class='c008'>It is now about one hundred and fifty
years since Major Weir, an old soldier
of the civil war, and the bearer of some
command in the City Guard of Edinburgh,
closed a most puritanical life, by
confessing himself a sorcerer, and being
burnt accordingly at the stake. The
scandal in which this involved the Calvinistic
party seems to have been met,
on their part, by an endeavour to throw
the whole blame upon the shoulders of
Satan; and this conclusion, which was
almost justified by the mystery and
singularity of the case, has had the
effect of connecting the criminal’s name
inalienably with the demonology of
Scotland.</p>

<p class='c008'>Sundry strange reminiscences of
Major Weir and his house are preserved
among the old people of Edinburgh,
and especially by the venerable gossips
of the West Bow. It is said he derived
that singular gift of prayer by which he
surprised all his acquaintance, and procured
so sanctimonious a reputation,
from his walking-cane! This implement,
it appears, the Evil One, from whom
he procured it, had endowed with the
most wonderful properties and powers.
It not only inspired him with prayer,
so long as he held it in his hand, but it
acted in the capacity of a Mercury, in
so far as it could go an errand, or run a
message. Many was the time it went
out to the neighbouring shops for
supplies of snuff to its master! And as
the fact was well known, the shopkeepers
of the Bow were not startled at
the appearance of so strange a customer.
Moreover, it often “answered the door,”
when people came to call upon the
Major, and it had not unfrequently been
seen running along before him, in the
capacity of link-boy, as he walked
down the Lawnmarket. Of course,
when the Major was burnt, his wooden
lieutenant and valet was carefully burnt
with him, though it does not appear in
the Justiciary Records that it was
included in the indictment, or that
Lord Dirleton subjected it, in common
with its master, to the ceremony of
a sentence.</p>

<p class='c008'>It is also said that the spot on which
the Major was burnt,—namely, the
south-east corner of the esplanade on
the Castle-Hill,—continued ever after
scathed and incapable of vegetation.
But we must beg to suggest the possibility
of this want of verdure being occasioned
by the circumstance of the esplanade
being a hard gravel-walk. We
are very unwilling to find scientific
reasons for last-century miracles,—to
withdraw the veil from beautiful deceptions,—or
to dispel the halo which fancy
may have thrown around the incidents
of a former day. But a regard for truth
obliges us to acknowledge, that the same
miracle, attributed to the burning-place
of Wishart, at St Andrews, may be
accounted for in a similar way, the spot
being now occupied by what the people
thereabouts denominate, in somewhat
homely phrase, “a mussel midden.”</p>

<p class='c008'>For upwards of a century after Major
Weir’s death, he continued to be the
bugbear of the Bow, and his house
remained uninhabited. His apparition
was frequently seen at night flitting, like
a black and silent shadow, about the
purlieus of that singular street. His
house, though known to be deserted by
everything human, was sometimes observed
at midnight to be full of lights,
and heard to emit strange sounds, as of
dancing, howling, and, what is strangest
of all, spinning. It was believed, too,
that every night, when the clock of St
Giles tolled twelve, one of the windows
sprung open, and the ghost of a tall
woman in white, supposed to be the
Major’s equally terrible sister, came
forward, and bent her long figure thrice
over the window, her face every time
touching the wall about three feet down,
and then retired, closing the window
after her with an audible clang.</p>

<p class='c008'>Some people had occasionally seen
the Major issue from the low “close,”
at the same hour, mounted on a black
horse without a head, and gallop off in
a whirlwind of flame. Nay, sometimes
the whole of the inhabitants of the Bow
together were roused from their sleep at
an early hour in the morning, by the
sound as of a coach-and-six, first rattling
up the Lawnmarket, and then
thundering down the Bow, stopping at
the head of the terrible “close” for a few
minutes, and then rattling and thundering
back again,—being neither more nor
less than Satan come in one of his best equipages,
to take home to his abode the
ghosts of the Major and his sister, after
they had spent a night’s leave of absence
in their terrestrial dwelling. In support
of these beliefs, circumstances, of course,
were not awanting. One or two venerable
men of the Bow, who had, perhaps,
on the night of the 7th September 1736,
popped their night-capped heads out of
their windows, and seen Captain
Porteous hurried down their street to
execution, were pointed out by children
as having actually witnessed some of
the dreadful doings alluded to. One
worthy, in particular, declared he had
often seen coaches parading up and
down the Bow at midnight, drawn by
six black horses without heads, and
driven by a coachman of the most
hideous appearance, whose flaming eyes,
placed at an immense distance from each
other in his forehead, as they gleamed
through the darkness, resembled nothing
so much as the night-lamps of a
modern vehicle.</p>

<p class='c008'>About forty years ago, when the
shades of superstition began universally
to give way in Scotland, Major Weir’s
house came to be regarded with less
terror by the neighbours, and an attempt
was made by the proprietor to
find a person who would be bold
enough to inhabit it. Such a person
was procured in William Patullo, a poor
man of dissipated habits, who, having
been at one time a soldier and a traveller,
had come to disregard in a great
measure the superstitions of his native
country, and was now glad to possess a
house upon the low terms offered by
the landlord, at whatever risk. Upon
it being known in the town that Major
Weir’s house was about to be re-inhabited,
a great deal of curiosity was
felt by people of all ranks as to the result
of the experiment; for there was
scarcely a native of the city who had
not felt since his boyhood an intense
interest in all that concerned that awful
fabric, and yet remembered the numerous
terrible stories which he had heard
told respecting it. Even before entering
upon his hazardous undertaking,
William Patullo was looked upon with
a flattering sort of interest—an interest
similar to that which we feel respecting
a culprit under sentence of death, a man
about to be married, or a regiment on
the march to active conflict. It was
the hope of many that he would be the
means of retrieving a valuable possession
from the dominion of darkness.
But Satan soon let them know that he
does not ever tamely relinquish the outposts
of his kingdom.</p>

<p class='c008'>On the very first evening after Patullo
and his spouse had taken up their
abode in the house, a circumstance took
place which effectually deterred them
and all others from ever again inhabiting
it. About one in the morning, as
the worthy couple were lying awake in
their bed, not unconscious of a considerable
degree of fear, a dim uncertain
light proceeding from the gathered embers
of their fire, and all being silent
around them, they suddenly saw a
form like that of a calf, but without the
head, come through the lower panel of
the door and enter the room. A spectre
more horrible, or more spectre-like
conduct, could scarcely have been conceived.
The phantom immediately
came forward to the bed; and setting
its fore-feet upon the stock, looked
steadfastly in all its awful headlessness
at the unfortunate pair, who were of
course almost ready to die with fright.
When it had contemplated them thus for
a few minutes, to their great relief it at
length took away its intolerable person,
and slowly retiring, gradually vanished
from their sight. As might be expected,
they deserted the house next morning;
and from that time forward, no other
attempt was ever made to embank this
part of the world of light from the
aggressions of the world of darkness.</p>

<hr class='c019'>

<p class='c008'>In the course of our experience we
have met with many houses in “Auld
Reekie” which have the credit of being
haunted. There is one at this day
[1829] in Buchanan’s Court, Lawnmarket,
in the same “land” in which
the celebrated editor of the <cite>Edinburgh
Review</cite> first saw the light. It is a flat,
and has been shut up from time immemorial.
The story goes, that one
night, as preparations were making for
a supper party, something occurred
which obliged the family, as well as all
the assembled guests, to retire with precipitation,
and lock up the house.
From that night to this it has never
once been opened, nor was any of the
furniture withdrawn;—the very goose
which was undergoing the process of
being roasted at the time of the dreadful
occurrence is still at the fire! No
one knows to whom the house belongs;
no one ever inquires after it; no one living
ever saw the inside of it;—it is a
condemned house! There is something
peculiarly dreadful about a house under
these circumstances. What sights of
horror might present themselves if it
were entered! Satan is the <i><span lang="la">ultimus
hæres</span></i> of all such unclaimed property.</p>

<p class='c008'>Besides the numberless old houses in
Edinburgh that are haunted, there are
many endowed with the simple credit of
having been the scenes of murders and
suicides. Some we have met with,
containing rooms which had particular
names commemorative of such events,
and these names, handed down as they
had been from one generation to
another, usually suggested the remembrance
of some dignified Scottish
families, probably the former tenants
of the houses.</p>

<p class='c008'>The closed house in Mary King’s
Close (behind the Royal Exchange) is
believed by some to have met with that
fate for a very fearful reason. The inhabitants
at a very remote period were,
it is said, compelled to abandon it by
the supernatural appearance which took
place in it, on the very first night after
they had made it their residence. At
midnight, as the goodman was sitting
with his wife by the fire, reading his
Bible, and intending immediately to go
to bed, a strange dimness which suddenly
fell upon the light caused him to
raise his eyes from the book. He
looked at the candle, and saw it was
burning blue. Terror took possession
of his frame. He turned away his eyes
from the ghastly object; but the cure
was worse than the disease. Directly
before him, and apparently not two
yards off, he saw the head as of a dead
person looking him straight in the face.
There was nothing but a head, though
that seemed to occupy the precise situation
in regard to the floor which it
might have done had it been supported
by a body of the ordinary stature. The
man and his wife fainted with terror.
On awaking, darkness pervaded the
room. Presently the door opened, and
in came a hand holding a candle. This
advanced and stood—that is, the body
supposed to be attached to the hand
stood—beside the table, whilst the
terrified pair saw two or three couples
of feet skip along the floor, as if dancing.
The scene lasted a short time,
but vanished quite away upon the man
gathering strength to invoke the protection
of Heaven. The house was of
course abandoned, and remained ever
afterwards shut up.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='the_windy_yule' class='c006'>THE WINDY YULE.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By John Galt.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>It was in the course of the winter
after the decease of Bailie M‘Lucre,
that the great loss of lives took place,
which, everybody agreed, was one of
the most calamitous things that had for
many a year befallen the town.</p>

<p class='c008'>Three or four vessels were coming
with cargoes of grain from Ireland;
another from the Baltic with Norway
deals; and a third from Bristol, where
she had been on a charter for some
Greenock merchants.</p>

<p class='c008'>It happened that, for a time, there
had been contrary winds, against which
no vessel could enter the port, and the
ships whereof I have been speaking
were all lying together at anchor in the
bay, waiting a change of weather.
These five vessels were owned among
ourselves, and their crews consisted of
fathers and sons belonging to the place,
so that, both by reason of interest and
affection, a more than ordinary concern
was felt for them; for the sea was so
rough, that no boat could live in it to
go near them, and we had our fears
that the men on board would be very
ill off. Nothing, however, occurred but
this natural anxiety, till the Saturday,
which was Yule. In the morning the
weather was blasty and sleety, waxing
more and more tempestuous till about
midday, when the wind checked suddenly
round from the nor’-east to the sou’-west,
and blew a gale as if the prince of the
powers of the air was doing his utmost
to work mischief. The rain blattered,
the windows clattered, the shop-shutters
flapped, pigs from the lum-heads
came rattling down like thunder claps,
and the skies were dismal both with
cloud and carry. Yet, for all that,
there was in the streets a stir and a
busy visitation between neighbours, and
every one went to their high windows,
to look at the five poor barks that were
warsling against the strong arm of the
elements of the storm and the ocean.</p>

<p class='c008'>Still the lift gloomed, and the wind
roared, and it was as doleful a sight as
ever was seen in any town afflicted with
calamity to see the sailors’ wives, with
their red cloaks about their heads, followed
by their hirpling and disconsolate
bairns, going one after another to the
kirkyard, to look at the vessels where
their helpless bread-winners were
battling with the tempest. My heart
was really sorrowful, and full of a sore
anxiety to think of what might happen
to the town, whereof so many were in
peril, and to whom no human magistracy
could extend the arm of protection.
Seeing no abatement of the
wrath of heaven, that howled and roared
around us, I put on my big-coat, and
taking my staff in my hand, having tied
down my hat with a silk handkerchief,
towards gloaming I walked likewise to
the kirkyard, where I beheld such an
assemblage of sorrow, as few men in
a public situation have ever been put
to the trial to witness.</p>

<p class='c008'>In the lee of the kirk many hundreds
of the town were gathered together;
but there was no discourse among them.
The major part were sailors’ wives and
weans, and at every new thud of the
blast, a sob arose, and the mothers drew
their bairns closer in about them, as if
they saw the visible hand of a foe raised
to smite them. Apart from the multitude,
I observed three or four young
lasses standing behind the Whinnyhill
family’s tomb, and I jaloused that they
had joes in the ships; for they often
looked to the bay, with long necks and
sad faces, from behind the monument.
A widow woman, one old Mary Weery,
that was a lameter, and dependent on
her son, who was on board the <em>Louping
Meg</em> (as the Lovely Peggy was nicknamed
at the shore), stood by herself,
and every now and then wrung her
hands, crying, with a woeful voice,
“The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh
away; blessed be the name of the Lord;”—but
it was manifest to all that her
faith was fainting within her. But of
all the piteous objects there, on that
doleful evening, none troubled my
thoughts more than three motherless
children, that belonged to the mate of
one of the vessels in the jeopardy. He
was an Englishman that had been settled
some years in the town, where his
family had neither kith nor kin; and
his wife having died about a month
before, the bairns, of whom the eldest
was but nine or so, were friendless
enough, though both my gudewife, and
other well-disposed ladies, paid them
all manner of attention till their father
would come home. The three poor
little things, knowing that he was in
one of the ships, had been often out
and anxious, and they were then sitting
under the lee of a headstone, near their
mother’s grave, chittering and creeping
closer and closer at every squall. Never
was such an orphan-like sight seen.</p>

<p class='c008'>When it began to be so dark that the
vessels could no longer be discerned
from the churchyard, many went down
to the shore, and I took the three babies
home with me, and Mrs Pawkie made
tea for them, and they soon began to
play with our own younger children,
in blithe forgetfulness of the storm.
Every now and then, however, the
eldest of them, when the shutters rattled
and the lum-head roared, would pause
in his innocent daffing, and cower in
towards Mrs Pawkie, as if he was
daunted and dismayed by something he
knew not what.</p>

<p class='c008'>Many a one that night walked the
sounding shore in sorrow, and fires were
lighted along it to a great extent; but
the darkness and the noise of the raging
deep, and the howling wind, never intermitted
till about midnight: at which
time a message was brought to me, that
it might be needful to send a guard of
soldiers to the beach, for that broken
masts and tackle had come in, and that
surely some of the barks had perished.
I lost no time in obeying this suggestion,
which was made to me by one of the
owners of the <em>Louping Meg</em>; and to
show that I sincerely sympathised with
all those in affliction, I rose and dressed
myself, and went down to the shore,
where I directed several old boats to be
drawn up by the fires, and blankets to
be brought, and cordials to be prepared,
for them that might be spared with life
to reach the land; and I walked the beach
with the mourners till daylight.</p>

<p class='c008'>As the day dawned, the wind began
to abate in its violence, and to wear
away from the sou’-west into the norit,
but it was soon discovered that some of
the vessels with the corn had perished;
for the first thing seen was a long fringe
of tangle and grain along the line of the
high-water mark, and every one strained
with greedy and grieved eyes, as the
daylight brightened, to discover which
had suffered. But I can proceed no
further with the dismal recital of that
doleful morning. Let it suffice here to
be known, that, through the haze, we
at last saw three of the vessels lying on
their beam-ends with their masts broken,
and the waves riding like the furious
horses of destruction over them. What
had become of the other two was never
known; but it was supposed that they
had foundered at their anchors, and that
all on board perished.</p>

<p class='c008'>The day being now Sabbath, and the
whole town idle, everybody in a manner
was down on the beach, to help and
mourn as the bodies, one after another,
were cast out by the waves. Alas! few
were the better of my provident preparation,
and it was a thing not to be
described to see, for more than a mile
along the coast, the new-made widows
and fatherless bairns, mourning and
weeping over the corpses of those they
loved. Seventeen bodies were, before
ten o’clock, carried to the desolated
dwellings of their families; and when
old Thomas Pull, the betheral, went to
ring the bell for public worship, such
was the universal sorrow of the town,
that Nanse Donsie, an idiot natural, ran
up the street to stop him, crying, in the
voice of pardonable desperation, “Wha,
in sic a time, can praise the Lord?”</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='grizel_cochrane' class='c006'>GRIZEL COCHRANE.</h2>
</div>
<h3 class='c013'><span class='sc'>Chapter I.</span></h3>

<p class='c014'>The age which this noble woman
adorned with her life and heroic actions
was that gloomy one extending between
the Restoration and Revolution (from
1660 to 1688), when the Scottish nation
suffered under a cruel oppression, on
account of their conscientious scruples
respecting the existing forms of Church
and State. Three insurrections, more
bold than wise, marked the impatience
of the Scots under this bloody rule; but
it was with the last solely that Grizel
Cochrane was connected.</p>

<p class='c008'>Sir John Cochrane of Ochiltree, the
father of our heroine, was the second
son of the first Earl of Dundonald, and
the ancestor of the present line of that
noble and ingenious family. He was a
distinguished friend of Sidney, Russell,
and other illustrious men, who signalised
themselves in England by their
opposition to the court; and he had so
long endeavoured in vain to procure
some improvement in the national
affairs, that he at length began to despair
of his country altogether, and
formed the design of emigrating to
America. Having gone to London in
1683, with a view to a colonising expedition
to South Carolina, he became
involved in the deliberations of the
Whig party, which at that time tended
towards a general insurrection in England
and Scotland, for the purpose of
forcing an alteration of the royal councils,
and the exclusion of the Duke of York
from the throne. In furtherance of this
plan, Sir John pledged himself to assist
the Earl of Argyle in raising the malcontents
in Scotland. This earl was, if
not the acknowledged head of the party
in that kingdom, at least the man of
highest rank who espoused its interests.</p>

<p class='c008'>By the treachery of some of his subordinate
agents, this design was detected
prematurely; and while some were unfortunately
taken and executed, among
whom were Sidney and Lord Russell,
the rest fled from the kingdom. Of the
latter number were the Earl of Argyle,
Sir John Cochrane, and Sir Patrick
Hume of Polwarth,—the last a patriot
rivalling Cochrane in talent and purity
of motives, and also, like him, destined
to experience the devotedness of
a daughter’s love. The fugitives found
safety in Holland, where they remained
in peace till the death of Charles the
Second, in February 1685, when the
Duke of York, the object politically of
their greatest detestation, became king.
It was then determined to invade
Scotland with a small force, to embody
the Highland adherents of Argyle with
the west country Presbyterians, and,
marching into England, to raise the
people as they moved along, and not
rest till they had produced the desired
melioration of the State.</p>

<p class='c008'>The expedition sailed in May, but
the Government was enabled to take
such precautions as, from the very first,
proved a complete frustration to their
designs. Argyle lingered timidly in his
own country, and finally, against the
advice of Cochrane and Hume, who
were his chief officers, made some
unfortunate movements, which ended
in the entire dissolution of his army,
and his own capture and death. While
this well-meaning but weak nobleman
committed himself to a low disguise,
in the vain hope of effecting his escape,
Sir John Cochrane and Sir Patrick
Hume headed a body of 200 men,
formed out of the relics of the army,
and bravely resolved, even with that
small force, to attempt the accomplishment
of their original intention—namely,
a march into England. They accordingly
crossed the Clyde into Renfrewshire,
where they calculated on obtaining
some reinforcement. The boats on
this occasion being insufficient to transport
the whole at once, the first party,
headed by the two patriots, was obliged
to contend, on the opposite bank of the
river, with a large squadron of militia,
while the boats returned for the remainder;
after which the united force
caused their opponents to retreat. The
militia returned, however, in greater
force, and renewed the assault at a
place called Muirdykes, in the parish
of Lochwinnoch. They were now commanded
by Lord Ross and a Captain
Clellan, and amounted to two troops,
while Sir John Cochrane’s men had
decreased to seventy in number.</p>

<p class='c008'>In this predicament they were called
on by the royal troops to lay down
their arms, and surrender themselves
prisoners. But preferring the risk of
death on the field to the tender mercies
of a vindictive foe, they rejected the
terms with disdain, and, entering a
sheepfold, used its frail sod walls as a
defence against the furious attack of the
enemy, whom, after a keen conflict, in
which every man fought hand to hand
with his opponents, they at length
succeeded in beating off, with the loss
of their captain and some other men,
while Lord Ross was wounded.
Cochrane, however, soon after learned
that the enemy was returning with a
great reinforcement, and fearing that he
could not much longer defend himself
on the field, retired with his troops to
a neighbouring wilderness or morass,
where he dismissed them, with the
request that each man would provide
the best way he could for his own
safety. For himself, having received
two severe contusions in the body during
the engagement, and being worn
out with fatigue, he sought refuge in
the house of his uncle, Mr Gavin
Cochrane of Craigmuir, who lived at
no great distance from the place of
encounter. This gentleman, however,
as it unfortunately happened, had
married a sister of the Captain Clellan
killed in the late battle, and, filled with
revenge for the death of her brother,
this lady secretly informed against her
guest, who was immediately seized and
removed to Edinburgh, where, after
being paraded through the streets,
bound and bareheaded, and conducted
by the common hangman, he was lodged
in the Tolbooth on the 3d of July 1685,
there to await his trial as a traitor.
The day of trial came, and he was
condemned to death, in spite of the
most strenuous exertions of his aged
father, the Earl of Dundonald, who,
having received his title from the hands
of Charles the Second, had, from motives
of honour, never conspired against him.</p>

<p class='c008'>Where is the tongue that can express
all the secret and varied anguish that
penetrates the yearning heart, when
about to leave for ever the warm precincts
of mortality, to quit the loving
charities of life, and to have all the
cords which bound it to existence suddenly
torn asunder? Natural strength
of mind may suffice to conceal much of
this mortal conflict, or even to hide it
altogether from the eye of the careless
observer, but still it is at work within,
and grapples in deadly struggle with
the spirit.</p>

<p class='c008'>Such was the state of Cochrane’s
mind on the night of his condemnation,
when left once more to the gloomy
solitude of his prison. It was not the
parting stroke of death he feared, however
sharp. He was a father, loving
and beloved; and the thoughts of the
sorrow his children were doomed to
suffer on his account, wrung his heart,
and burning tears, which his own fate
could not have called forth, were shed
for them. No friend or relative had
been permitted to see him from the time
of his apprehension; but it was now
signified to him, that any of his family
that he desired to communicate with
might be allowed to visit him. Anxious,
however, to deprive his enemies of an
opportunity of an accusation against
his sons, he immediately conveyed
to them his earnest entreaties, and
indeed commands, that they should
refrain from availing themselves of
this leave till the night before his
execution. This was a sacrifice
which it required his utmost fortitude
to make; and it had left him to a sense
of the most desolate loneliness, insomuch
that when, late in the evening,
he heard his prison door unlocked, he
lifted not his eyes towards it, imagining
that the person who entered could only
be the jailer, who was particularly repulsive
in his countenance and manner.
What, then, was his surprise and momentary
delight, when he beheld before
him his only daughter, and felt her
arms entwining his neck! Yet, when
he looked on her face, and saw the
expression it bore of mute despairing
agony, more fearful than the most
frantic manifestations of misery, and
marked her pale cheeks, which no
longer bloomed with the tints of health
and happiness, and felt the cold dampness
of her brow, he thought himself
wrong for having given way for an
instant to the joy her presence had
created, and every other sensation fled
before the fear of what might be the consequence
to her of this interview. He
had no sooner, however, expressed his
feelings on this subject, than she
became sensible that, in order to
palliate his misery, she must put a
strong curb upon her own, and in a
short time was calm enough to enter
into conversation with her father upon
the dismal subject of his present situation,
and to deliver a message from the
old earl, her grandfather, by which he
was informed that an appeal had been
made from him to the king, and means
taken to propitiate Father Peters, his
Majesty’s confessor, who, it was well
known, often dictated to him in matters
of State. It appeared evident, however,
by the turn which their discourse
presently took, that neither father nor
daughter was at all sanguine in their
hopes from this negotiation. The Earl
of Argyle had been executed but a few
days before, as had also several of his
principal adherents, though men of less
consequence than Sir John Cochrane;
and it was therefore improbable that he,
who had been so conspicuously active in
the insurrection, should be allowed to
escape the punishment which it was now
in their power to inflict. Besides all this,
the treaty to be entered into with
Father Peters would require some time
to adjust, and meanwhile the arrival
of the warrant for execution must every
day be looked for.</p>

<p class='c008'>Under these circumstances, several
days passed, each of which found Miss
Grizel Cochrane an inmate of her father’s
prison for as many hours as she was
permitted. During these interviews of
the father and daughter, while heart
clung unto heart, they reaped all the
consolation which an undisguised knowledge
of the piety and courage of each
could bestow. Still, after such intercourse,
the parting scene which they
anticipated seemed more and more dreadful
to think of; and, as the daughter
looked on the pale and dejected countenance
of her parent, her bosom was
penetrated with the sharpest pangs.
The love of her father might be termed
a component part of her nature. She
had cherished this filial love ever since
she possessed a consciousness of thought,
and it was now strong and absorbing,
in proportion to the danger in which he
stood. Grizel Cochrane was only at
that period eighteen years old; but it
is the effect of such perilous times as
those in which she lived to sober the
reckless spirit of youth, and make men
and women of children. She had, however,
a natural strength of character,
that would, on all extraordinary occasions,
have displayed itself without such
a tuition, and which, being now joined
with what she conceived the necessity
of the case, rendered her capable of a
deed which has caused her history to
vie with that of the most distinguished
of heroines.</p>

<p class='c008'>Ever since her father’s condemnation,
her daily and nightly thoughts had
dwelt on the fear of her grandfather’s
communication with the king’s confessor
being rendered unavailable, for want of
the time necessary for enabling the
friends in London, to whom it was
trusted, to make their application, and
she boldly determined to execute a
plan, whereby the arrival of the death
warrant would be retarded. A short
time, therefore, before it was expected
by the council in Edinburgh, she thought
it necessary, in her visit to her father,
to mention that some urgent affair would
prevent her from seeing him again for a
few days. Alarmed at this, and penetrating
her design of effecting somewhat
in his favour, he warned her against
attempting impossibilities.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Nothing is impossible to a determined
mind,” said she; “and fear nothing
for me.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“But the inexperience of youth, my
child,” he replied, “may involve you
in danger and in blame; and did you
but know the characters of those you
must encounter, while vainly pleading
for your father’s life, you would fear,
as I do, the sullying of your fair fame.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I am a Cochrane, my father!”
said the heroic girl—an answer how
brief, but to him how expressive! He
could say no more; he beheld in his
child, so young, so beautiful, and so
self-devoted, all the virtues of her race
combined, and he felt for the moment
that the courage she had prayed for
would be granted to carry her through
the undertaking she meditated, whatever
that might be. She felt grateful
to her father that he did not urge her
further; but she trembled as she turned,
at her departure, to catch another look
of those loved and venerated features;
for his eye appeared to be following her
with a parting expression, which seemed
to say it was the last fond look.</p>

<h3 class='c015'><span class='sc'>Chapter II.</span></h3>

<p class='c014'>At that time horses were used as a
mode of conveyance so much more than
carriages, that almost every gentlewoman
had her own steed, and Miss
Cochrane, being a skilful rider, was
possessed of a well-managed palfrey, on
whose speed and other qualities she had
been accustomed to depend. On the
morning after she had bid her father
farewell, long ere the inhabitants of
Edinburgh were astir, she found herself
many miles on the road to the
Borders. She had taken care to attire
herself in a manner which corresponded
with the design of passing herself off for
a young serving-woman journeying on a
borrowed horse to the house of her
mother in a distant part of the country;
and by only resting at solitary cottages,
where she generally found the family
out at work, save perhaps an old
woman or some children, she had the
good fortune, on the second day after
leaving Edinburgh, to reach in safety
the abode of her old nurse, who lived on
the English side of the Tweed, four miles
beyond the town of Berwick. In this
woman she knew she could place implicit
confidence, and to her, therefore,
revealed her secret. She was resolved,
she said, to make an attempt to save her
father’s life, by stopping the postman,
an equestrian like herself, and forcing
him to deliver up his bags, in which she
expected to find the fatal warrant.
Singular as such a determination may
appear in a delicate young woman,
especially if we consider that she was
aware of the arms always carried by the
man to whose charge the mail was committed,
it is nevertheless an undoubted
fact that such was her resolve. In
pursuance of this design, she had
brought with her a brace of small
pistols, together with a horseman’s
cloak tied up in a bundle, and hung on
the crutch of her saddle; and now
borrowed from her nurse the attire of
her foster-brother, which, as he was
a slight-made lad, fitted her reasonably
well.</p>

<p class='c008'>At that period, all those appliances
which at this day accelerate the progress
of the traveller were unknown, and the
mail from London, which now arrives
in about ten hours, took eight days in
reaching the Scottish capital. Miss
Cochrane thus calculated on a delay of
sixteen or seventeen days in the execution
of her father’s sentence—a space
of time which she deemed amply sufficient
to give a fair trial to the treaty
set on foot for his liberation. She
had, by means which it is unnecessary
here to detail, possessed herself of
the most minute information with regard
to the places at which the postmen
rested on their journey, one of which
was a small public-house, kept by a
widow woman, on the outskirts of the
little town of Belford. There the man
who received the bag at Durham was
accustomed to arrive about six o’clock
in the morning, and take a few hours’
repose before proceeding farther on his
journey.<a id='r19'></a><a href='#f19' class='c018'><sup>[19]</sup></a> In pursuance of the plan
laid down by Miss Cochrane, she
arrived at this inn about an hour after
the man had composed himself to sleep,
in the hope of being able, by the exercise
of her wit and dexterity, to ease him
of his charge.</p>

<div class='footnote' id='f19'>
<p class='c008'><a href='#r19'>19</a>. Lest it should appear at issue with probability
that the postman should thus “take his
ease at his inn,” it may be mentioned, as a fact
defying all question, that this official, at a
period much later, used sometimes to dismount
on a muir, near the place here mentioned, and
partake of a game at quoits, or other sports
which might be proceeding by the wayside.</p>
</div>

<p class='c008'>Having put her horse into the stable,
which was a duty that devolved on the
guests at this little change-house, from
its mistress having no ostler, she
entered the only apartment which the
house afforded, and demanded refreshment.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Sit down at the end of that table,”
said the old woman, “for the best I
have to give you is there already; and
be pleased, my bonnie man, to make
as little noise as ye can, for there’s ane
asleep in that bed that I like ill to
disturb.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Miss Cochrane promised fairly; and
after attempting to eat some of the
viands, which were the remains of the
sleeping man’s meal, she asked for
some cold water.</p>

<p class='c008'>“What!” said the old dame, as she
handed it to her; “ye are a water-drinker,
are ye? It’s but an ill custom
for a change-house.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I am aware of that,” replied her
guest; “and therefore, when in a public-house,
I always pay for it the price of
the stronger potation, which I cannot
take.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Indeed!—well, that is but just,”
said the landlady; “and I think the
more of you for such reasonable conduct.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Is the well where you get this
water near at hand?” said the young
lady; “for if you will take the trouble
to bring me some from it, as this is
rather warm, it shall be considered in
the lawing.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“It is a good bit off,” responded the
landlady; “but I cannot refuse to fetch
some for such a civil, discreet lad, and
will be as quick as I can; but, for any
sake, take care and don’t meddle with
these pistols,” she continued, pointing
to a pair of pistols on the table, “for
they are loaded, and I am always terrified
for them.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Saying this, she disappeared; and
Miss Cochrane, who would have contrived
some other errand for her, had
the well been near, no sooner saw the
door shut, than she passed, with trembling
eagerness, and a cautious but
rapid step, to the place where the man
lay soundly sleeping, in one of those
close wooden bedsteads common in the
houses of the poor, the door of which
was left half open to admit the air,
and which she opened still wider, in the
hope of seeing the mail-bag, and being
able to seize upon it. But what was her
dismay when she beheld only a part of
the integument which contained what
she would have sacrificed her life a
thousand times to obtain, just peeping
out from below the shaggy head and
brawny shoulders of its keeper, who lay
in such a position upon it as to give
not the smallest hope of its extraction
without his being aroused from his
nap.</p>

<p class='c008'>A few bitter moments of observation
served to convince her that possession
of this treasure must be obtained in
some other way; and, again closing the
door of the bed, she approached the
pistols, and having taken them from
the holsters, she as quickly as possible
drew the loading, which having
secreted, she then returned them to
their cases, and resumed her seat at the
foot of the table. She had barely time
to recover from the agitation into which
the fear of the man’s awakening during
her recent occupation had thrown her,
when the old woman returned with the
water; and having taken a draught, of
which she stood much in need, she
settled her account much to her landlady’s
content, by paying for the water
the price of a pot of beer. Having
then carelessly asked and ascertained
how much longer the other guest was
likely to continue his sleep, she left the
house, and mounting her horse, set
off at a trot, in a different direction
from that in which she had arrived.</p>

<p class='c008'>Making a compass of two or three
miles, she once more fell into the high
road between Belford and Berwick,
where she walked her horse gently on,
awaiting the coming up of the postman.
Though all her faculties were now
absorbed in one aim, and the thought
of her father’s deliverance still reigned
supreme in her mind, yet she could not
help occasionally figuring to herself
the possibility of her tampering with
the pistols being discovered, and their
loading replaced, in which case it was
more than likely that her life would be
the forfeit of the act she meditated. A
woman’s fears would still intrude, notwithstanding
all her heroism, and the
glorious issue which promised to attend
the success of her enterprise. When
she at length saw and heard the postman
advancing behind her, the strong
necessity of the case gave her renewed
courage; and it was with perfect coolness
that, on his coming close up, she
civilly saluted him, put her horse into
the same pace with his, and rode on for
some way in his company. He was a
strong, thick-set fellow, with a good-humoured
countenance, which did not
seem to Miss Cochrane, as she looked
anxiously upon it, to savour much of
hardy daring. He rode with the mail-bags
(for there were two—one containing
the letters direct from London, and
the other those taken up at the different
post-offices on the road) strapped firmly
to his saddle in front, close to the holsters.
After riding a short distance
together, Miss Cochrane deemed it time,
as they were nearly half-way between
Belford and Berwick, to commence her
operations. She therefore rode nearly
close to her companion, and said, in a
tone of determination,—</p>

<p class='c008'>“Friend, I have taken a fancy for
those mail-bags of yours, and I must
have them; therefore, take my advice,
and deliver them up quietly, for I am provided
for all hazards. I am mounted, as
you see, on a fleet steed; I carry firearms;
and, moreover, am allied with those
who are stronger, though not bolder
than myself. You see yonder wood,”
she continued, pointing to one at the
distance of about a mile, with an accent
and air which was meant to carry intimidation
with it; “again, I say, take my
advice; give me the bags, and speed
back the road you came for the present,
nor dare to approach that wood for at
least two or three hours to come.”</p>

<p class='c008'>There was in such language from a
stripling something so surprising that
the man looked on Miss Cochrane for
an instant in silent and unfeigned
amazement.</p>

<p class='c008'>“If you mean, my young master,”
said he, as soon as he found his tongue,
“to make yourself merry at my expense,
you are welcome. I am no sour churl
to take offence at the idle words of a
foolish boy. But if,” he said, taking
one of the pistols from the holster, and
turning its muzzle towards her, “ye are
mad enough to harbour one serious
thought of such a matter, I am ready
for you. But, methinks, my lad, you
seem at an age when robbing a garden
or an old woman’s fruit-stall would
befit you better, if you must turn thief,
than taking his Majesty’s mails upon
his own highway, from such a stout
man as I am. Be thankful, however,
that you have met with one who will
not shed blood if he can help it, and
sheer off before you provoke me to
fire.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Nay,” said his young antagonist,
“I am not fonder of bloodshed than
you are; but if you will not be persuaded,
what can I do? for I have told
you a truth, <em>that mail I must and will
have</em>. So now choose,” she continued,
as she drew one of the small pistols
from under her cloak, and deliberately
cocking it, presented it in his face.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Then your blood be upon your own
head,” said the fellow, as he raised his
hand, and fired his pistol, which, however,
only flashed in the pan. Dashing
this weapon to the ground, he lost not
a moment in pulling out the other,
which he also aimed at his assailant,
and fired with the same result. In a
transport of rage and disappointment,
the man sprung from his horse, and
made an attempt to seize her; but by
an adroit use of her spurs she eluded
his grasp, and placed herself out of his
reach. Meanwhile his horse had moved
forward some yards, and to see and
seize the advantage presented by this
circumstance was one and the same to
the heroic girl, who, darting towards it,
caught the bridle, and having led her
prize off about a hundred yards, stopped
while she called to the thunderstruck
postman to remind him of her advice
about the wood. She then put both
horses to their speed, and on turning to
look at the man she had robbed, had
the pleasure of perceiving that her
mysterious threat had taken effect, and
he was now pursuing his way back to
Belford.</p>

<p class='c008'>Miss Cochrane speedily entered the
wood to which she had alluded, and
tying the strange horse to a tree, out of
all observation from the road, proceeded
to unfasten the straps of the mail. By
means of a sharp penknife, which set at
defiance the appended locks, she was
soon mistress of the contents, and with
an eager hand broke open the Government
dispatches, which were unerringly
pointed out to her by their address to
the council in Edinburgh, and their
imposing weight and broad seals of
office. Here she found not only the
warrant for her father’s death, but also
many other sentences inflicting different
degrees of punishment on various delinquents.
These, however, it may be
readily supposed, she did not then stop
to examine; she contented herself with
tearing them into small fragments, and
placing them carefully in her bosom.</p>

<p class='c008'>The intrepid girl now mounted her
steed, and rode off, leaving all the
private papers as she had found them,
imagining—what eventually proved the
case—that they would be discovered ere
long, from the hints she had thrown out
about the wood, and thus reach their
proper places of destination. She now
made all haste to reach the cottage of
her nurse, where, having not only committed
to the flames the fragments of
the dreaded warrant, but also the other
obnoxious papers, she quickly resumed
her female garments, and was again,
after this manly and daring action, the
simple and unassuming Miss Grizel
Cochrane. Leaving the cloak and
pistols behind her, to be concealed by
her nurse, she again mounted her horse,
and directed her flight towards Edinburgh,
and by avoiding as much as possible
the high road, and resting at sequestered
cottages, as she had done before (and
that only twice for a couple of hours
each time), she reached town early in
the morning of the next day.</p>

<p class='c008'>It must now suffice to say that the
time gained by the heroic act above related
was productive of the end for
which it was undertaken, and that Sir
John Cochrane was pardoned, at the
instigation of the king’s favourite counsellor,
who interceded for him in consequence
of receiving a bribe of five
thousand pounds from the Earl of Dundonald.
Of the feelings which on this
occasion filled the heart of his courageous
and devoted daughter, we cannot
speak in adequate terms; and it is
perhaps best at any rate to leave them
to the imagination of the reader. The
state of the times was not such for
several years as to make it prudent
that her adventure should be publicly
known; but after the Revolution, when
the country was at length relieved from
persecution and danger, and every man
was at liberty to speak of the trials
he had undergone, and the expedients
by which he had mastered them, her
heroism was neither unknown nor unapproved.
Miss Cochrane afterwards
married Mr Ker of Moriston, in the
county of Berwick; and there can be
little doubt that she proved equally
affectionate and amiable as a wife, as
she had already been dutiful and devoted
as a daughter.—<cite>Chambers’s Edinburgh
Journal.</cite></p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='the_fatal_prayer' class='c006'>THE FATAL PRAYER.</h2>
</div>

<p class='c007'>The village of Gourock is situated
on the shore of a fine bay, about two
miles from the town of Greenock. I
was taken with the pleasantness of its
situation, when one day viewing it at
a little distance on the Greenock road,
and sat down on the dyke by the roadside
to enjoy the prospect at my leisure.</p>

<p class='c008'>Presently an elderly man, of a grave
aspect and a maritime appearance, passing
slowly along the road, came and
sat down near the same place. I
guessed him to be one of the better
class of fishermen, who had purchased,
with the toil of his youth and his
manhood, a little breathing-time to
look about him in the evening of his
days, ere the coming of night. After
the usual salutations, we fell into discourse
together, and I found him to be
a man who had looked well about him
in his pilgrimage, and reasoned on
things and feelings—not living as the
brutes that perish. After a pause in
the conversation, he remarked, to my
thinking, in a disjointed manner—</p>

<p class='c008'>“Is it not strange, sir, that the thoughts
that sometimes come into the brain of
a man sleeping or waking—like a wind
that blows across his bosom, coming he
knows not whence, and going he knows
not whither—leave behind them an
impression and a feeling, and become
the springs of human action, and mingle
in the thread of human destiny?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Strange, indeed,” said I. “What
you say has more than once occurred to
me; but being unable to reason satisfactorily
on the subject, I set down
altogether such ideas as having no
better foundation than the fears and
superstitions of the ignorant. But it
seems to me that your remark, though
of a general nature, must have been
made in mental reference to some
particular thing; and I would fain
crave to know what it is.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“You are right,” said he; “I was
thinking at the moment of something
which has sat, for some days past, like
a millstone on my mind: and I will
tell it to you with pleasure.”</p>

<p class='c008'>So I edged myself closer to him on
the stones, that I might hear the better;
and without more ado he began to
discourse as follows:</p>

<p class='c008'>“About six months ago, a wedding
took place in the village, and a more
comely and amiable couple never came
together. Mr Douglas, though the son
of a poor man, had been an officer in
the army,—an ensign, I believe,—and
when his regiment was disbanded, he
came to live here on his half-pay, and
whatever little else he might have.
Jeanie Stuart at the time was staying
with an uncle, one of our own folk, her
parents having both been taken away
from her; and she made up, as far as
she could, for her board, by going in
the summer season to sew in the
families that come from the great towns
for the sea-bathing. So gentle she was,
and so calm in her deportment, and so
fair to look on withal, that even these
nobility of the loom and the sugar-hogshead
thought it no dishonour to
have her among them; and unconsciously,
as it were, they treated her
just as if she had been of the same
human mould with themselves.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Well, they soon got acquainted,—our
Jeanie and Mr Douglas,—and drew
kindly together; and the end of it was
they were married. They lived in a
house there, just beyond the point that
you may see forms the opposite angle
of the bay, not far from a place called
Kempock; and Mr Douglas just employed
himself, like any of us, in fishing
and daundering about, and mending
his nets, and such like. Jeanie was
the happy woman now, for she had
aye a mind above the commonality;
and, I am bold to say, thought her
stay long enough among these would-be
gentry, where she sat many a wearisome
day for no use, and would fain
have retired from their foolishness into
the strength and greenness of her own
soul. But now she had a companion
and an equal, and indeed a superior;
for Mr Douglas had seen the world,
and had read both books and men,
and could wile away the time in
discoursing of what he had seen and
heard tell of in foreign lands, among
strange people and unknown tongues.
And Jeanie listened, and listened, and
thought her husband the first of mankind.
She clung to him as the honeysuckle
clings to the tree: his pleasure
was her pleasure—his sorrow was her
sorrow—his bare word was her law.</p>

<p class='c008'>“One day, about two weeks ago,
she appeared dull and dispirited, and
complained of a slight headache; on
which Mr Douglas advised her to go
to bed and rest herself awhile; which
she said she would do; and having
some business in the village he went
out. On coming back, however, in
the forenoon, he found her just in the
same spot, leaning her head on her
hand; but she told him she was better,
and that it was nothing at all. He
then began to get his nets ready, saying
he was going out with some lads of
the village to the deep-sea fishing, and
would be back the next day. She
looked at him, but said nothing; long
and strangely she looked, as if wondering
what he was doing, and not understanding
anything that was going on.
But finally when he came to kiss her
and bid her good-bye, she threw her
arms round him, and when he would
have gone she held him fast, and her
bosom heaved as if her heart would
break; but still she said nothing.</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘What can be the matter with
you, Jeanie?’ said Mr Douglas.</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Stay with me to-day,’ said she
at last; ‘depart not this night, just
this one night—it is not much to ask—to-morrow
you may go where you
please, and I will not be your hindrance
a moment.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“But Mr Douglas was vexed at such
folly, and she could answer nothing to
his questions, except that a thought
had come into her head, and she could
not help it. So he was resolved to go,
and kissing her fondly, he threw his
nets on his shoulders and went away.</p>

<p class='c008'>“For some minutes after his departure
Jeanie did not move from the spot, but
stood looking at the door whence he
had gone out, and then began to tremble
all over like the leaf of a tree. At
length, coming to herself with a start,
she knelt down, and throwing back her
hair from her forehead, turned her face
up towards heaven, and prayed with a
loud voice to the Almighty, that she
‘might have her husband in her arms
that night.’ For some moments she
remained motionless and silent in the
same attitude, till at length a sort of
brightness, resembling a calm smile,
passed over her countenance like a
gleam of sunshine on the smooth sea,
and bending her head low and reverently,
she rose up. She then went as
usual about her household affairs, and
appeared not anything discomposed,
but as tranquil and happy as if nothing
had happened.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Now the weather was fine and
calm in the morning, but towards the
afternoon it came on to blow; and indeed
the air had been so sultry all day,
that the seafarers might easily tell there
would be a racket of the elements before
long. As the wind, however, had
been rather contrary, it was supposed
that the boats could not have got far
enough out to be in the mischief, but
would put back when they saw the signs
in the sky. But in the meantime the
wind increased, till towards night it
blew as hard a gale as we have seen in
these parts for a long time. The ships
out there, at the Tail of the Bank, were
driven from their moorings, and two of
them stranded on their beam ends on
the other side; every stick and stitch
on the sea made for any port they could
find; and as the night came on in darkness
and thunder, it was a scene that
might cow even hearts that had been
brought up on the water as if it was
their proper element, and been familiar
with the voice of the tempest from their
young days. There was a sad lamenting
and murmuring then, among the
women folk especially—them that were
kith or kin to the lads on the sea; and
they went to one another’s houses in
the midst of the storm and the rain, and
put in their pale faces through the darkness,
as if searching for hope and comfort,
and drawing close to one another
like a flock of frightened sheep in their
fellowship of grief and fear. But there
was one who stirred not from her house,
and who felt no terror at the shrieking
of the night-storm, and sought for no
comfort in the countenance of man—and
that was the wife of Mr Douglas.
She sometimes, indeed, listened to the
howling of the sea that came by fits on
her ear like the voice of the water-kelpie,
and starting would lay down her work
for a moment; but then she remembered
the prayer she had prayed to Him who
holds the reins of the tempest in His
hands, and who says to the roaring
waters, ‘Be still,’ and they are still—and
the glorious balm she had felt to
sink into her heart at that moment of
high and holy communion, even like the
dew of heaven on a parched land. So
her soul was comforted, and she said to
herself, ‘God is not a man that He
can lie;’ and she rested on His assurance
as on a rock, and laughed to scorn the
tremblings of her woman’s bosom. For
why? The anchor of her hope was in
heaven, and what earthly storm was so
mighty as to remove it? Then she got up,
and put the room in order, and placed her
husband’s slippers to air at the fireside;
and stirred up the fuel, and drew in the
arm-chair for her weary and storm-beaten
mariner. Then would she listen at the
door, and look out into the night for
his coming; but she could hear no
sound save the voice of the waters, and
the roar of the tempest, as it rushed
along the deep. She re-entered the
house, and walked to and fro in the
room with a restless step, but an unblenched
cheek.</p>

<p class='c008'>“At last the neighbours came to her
house, knowing that her husband was
one of those who had gone out that day,
and told her that they were going to walk
down towards the Clough, even in the
mirk hour, to try if they could not hear
some news of the boats. So she went
with them, and we all walked together
along the road—women and men, it might
be, some twenty or thirty of us. But it
was remarked, that though she came not
hurriedly nor in fear, yet she had not
even thrown her cloak on her shoulders,
to defend her from the night air, but
came forth with her head uncovered,
and in her usual raiment of white, like
a bride to the altar. As we passed
along, it must have been a strange sight
to see so many pale faces by the red
glare of the torches they carried, and to
hear so many human wailings filling up
the pauses of the storm; but at the
head of our melancholy procession there
was a calm heart and a firm step, and
they were Jeanie’s. Sometimes, indeed,
she would look back, as some cry of
womanish foreboding from behind would
smite on her ear, and strange thoughts
would crowd into her mind; and once
she was heard to mutter—if her prayer
had but saved her husband to bind some
other innocent victim to the mysterious
altar of wrath! And she stopped for a
moment, as if in anguish at the wild
imagination.</p>

<p class='c008'>“But now as we drew nearer the
rocks where the lighthouse is built,
sounds were heard distinctly on the
shore, and we waved the torches in the
air, and gave a great shout, which
was answered by known voices—for
they were some of our own people—and
our journey was at an end. A
number of us then went on before, and
groped our way among the rocks as
well as we could in the darkness; but
a woful tale met our ear; for one of
the boats had been shattered to pieces
while endeavouring to land there, and
when he went down they were just
dragging the body of a comrade, stiff
and stark, from the sea. When the
women behind heard of this, there was
a terrible cry of dismay, for no one
knew but it might be her own husband,
son, or brother; and some who carried
lights dropped them from fear, and
others held them trembling to have the
terrors of their hearts confirmed.</p>

<p class='c008'>“There was one, however, who stood
calm and unmoved by the side of the
dead body. She spoke some words of
holy comfort to the women, and they
were silent at her voice. She then
stepped lightly forward, and took a
torch from the trembling hand that
held it, and bent down with it beside
the corpse. As the light fell one
moment on her own fair face, it showed
no signs of womanish feeling at the
sight and touch of mortality; a bright
and lovely bloom glowed on her cheek,
and a heavenly lustre beamed in her
eye; and as she knelt there, her white
garments and long dark hair floating
far on the storm, there was that in her
look which drew the gaze even of that
terrified group from the object of their
doubt and dread. The next moment
the light fell on the face of the dead—the
torch dropped from her hand, and
she fell upon the body of her husband!
<em>Her prayer was granted.</em> She held her
husband in her arms that night, and
although no struggles of parting life were
heard or seen, she died on his breast.”</p>

<p class='c008'>When the fisherman had concluded
his story—and after some observations
were made by us both, touching the
mysterious warning, joined with a
grateful acknowledgment that the stroke
of death might be as often dealt in
mercy as in wrath—we shook hands;
and asking one another’s names, as it
might so fortune that we should once
more, in the course of our earthly
pilgrimage, be within call of one
another, the old man and I parted,
going each his several way.—<cite>Literary
Melange.</cite></p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='glenmannow_the_strong_herdsman' class='c006'>GLENMANNOW, THE STRONG HERDSMAN.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By William Bennet.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>Duke James of Queensberry, like
others of our nobility and gentry,
resided during a part of the year in
London; and on one of his visits to the
metropolis, he and a party of friends
happened to have a match at discus,
or, as it is more commonly called,
“putting the stone.” Several adepts
happened to be of the party, who
boasted much of their superior strength
and adroitness, and after making one
of their best throws, offered to stake a
large sum that not one of their companions
knew of or could find a person
to match it.</p>

<p class='c008'>“The throw is certainly a good one,”
said the Duke of Queensberry; “yet
I think it were easy to find many
champions of sufficient muscle to show
us a much better. I myself have a
homely unpractised herdsman in Scotland,
on whose head I will stake the
sum you mention, that he shall throw
the quoit fully two yards over the best
of you.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Done! produce your man!” was
the reply of all; and the duke accordingly
lost no time in dispatching a
letter to one of his servants at
Drumlanrig, ordering him to set out
immediately on its receipt for Glenmannow,
and to come with honest
John M‘Call to London without delay.</p>

<p class='c008'>The duke’s letter with Glenmannow
was not less absolute than the order of
an emperor. He wondered, but never
thought of demurring; and without
any further preparation than clothing
himself in his Sunday’s suit, and giving
Mally his wife a few charges about
looking to the hill in his absence, he
assumed his large staff, and departed
with the servant for “Lunnun.”</p>

<p class='c008'>On his arrival, the duke informed
him of the purpose for which he had
been sent, and desired that on the day,
and at the hour appointed, he should
make his appearance along with one
of his servants, who knew perfectly
the back streets and by-lanes of
London, and who, after he should have
decided the bet, would conduct him
immediately in safety from the ground,
as it was not improbable that his
appearance and performance might
attract a crowd and lead to unpleasant
consequences. When the day arrived,
the party assembled and proceeded to
the ground, where, to the duke’s
surprise, though not to his terror, his
crafty opponents chose a spot directly
in front of a high wall, and at such a
distance that the best of their party
should pitch the quoit exactly to the
foot of it; so that their antagonist, to
make good the duke’s boast of “two
yards over them,” should be obliged to
exceed them those two yards in height,
instead of straight forward distance.
This implied such an effort as amounted
in their minds to a physical impossibility;
and as the duke, from having
neglected to specify the particular
nature of the ground, could not legally
object to this advantage, they looked
upon the victory as already their own.</p>

<p class='c008'>The quoit chosen was a large ball
of lead, and already had the champion
of the party tossed it to the wall, and
demanded of the duke to produce the
man appointed to take it up. His
grace’s servant, who fully comprehended
the instructions given to him,
entered at this crisis with the ‘buirdly’
and, to them, uncouth Glenmannow.
His appearance attracted no small
notice, and even merriment; but the
imperturbable object of it regarded the
whole scene with the indifference peculiar
to his character; and, with his
mind fixed only upon the great end
for which he was there, requested to
be shown the quoit, and the spots from
which and to where it had been thrown.
This demand was soon complied with,
and while he assumed his station, with
the quoit in his hand, the duke
whispered in his ear the deception
which had been practised, and urged
him to exert his whole force in order
to render it unavailing.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Will you throw off your coat? It
will give you more freedom,” said his
Grace in conclusion.</p>

<p class='c008'>“My coat! Na, na; nae coats aff
wi’ me for this silly affair,” replied he.
“I thocht it had been some terrible
I throw or ither that thae chaps had
made, when I was ca’ed for a’ the way
to Lunnun to see to gang ayont them;
but if this be a’, I wadna hae meaned
ye to hae done’t yoursel.” Then
poising the ball for a little in his hand,
and viewing it with an air of contempt,
“There!” said he, tossing it carelessly
from him into the air, “he that likes
may gang and fetch it back.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The ball, as if shot from the mouth
of a cannon, flew on in a straight line
completely over the wall, and alighted
on the roof of a house at some distance
beyond it. Its weight and velocity
forced it through the tiles, and with a
crash which immediately caused the
house to be evacuated by its inmates,
it penetrated also the garret floor, and
rolled upon that of the next storey. An
instantaneous hubbub ensued,—the
party staring at each other in silence,
and the crowd swearing it was the
devil! but the servant knew his duty,
and in a twinkling Glenmannow was
no longer amongst them.</p>

<p class='c008'>His Grace, after paying for the
damage done to the house, conducted
the whole party to his residence, there
to discharge their forfeit, and to gaze
upon the prodigy by whom they were
vanquished. Glenmannow was well
rewarded for his trouble and loss of
time in journeying to London; and,
over and above the immediate bounty
of his Grace, he returned to his honest
Mally with a discharge for one year’s
rent of the farm in his pocket.</p>

<p class='c008'>One summer, during his Grace’s
residence at Drumlanrig, his friend the
Duke of Buccleuch, who was at that
time colonel of a regiment of fencibles,
happened to be passing between
Dumfries and Sanquhar with a company
of his grenadiers; and having
made Thornhill a station for the night,
he went and billeted himself upon his
Grace of Queensberry, by whom he
was received with a hearty welcome.
The two friends deeming one night’s
intercourse too short, and Buccleuch’s
marching orders not being peremptory
in regard to time, it was agreed between
them that they should spend the
two succeeding days together, and that
the soldiers, during that period, should
be distributed among the tenantry
around the castle.</p>

<p class='c008'>Buccleuch, though a personal stranger
to Glenmannow, was no stranger to his
fame; and it was contrived between
them, that a few of the grenadiers
should be dispatched to beat up his
quarters, and endeavour to force themselves
upon him as his guests. Six
of the stoutest were accordingly selected
for this purpose, and after being told
the character of the person to whom
they were sent, and the joke which
was intended to follow it, they received
a formal billet, and set out for their
destination. Their orders were to
enter the house in a seemingly rough
manner, to find fault with everything,
to quarrel with Glenmannow, and
endeavour, if possible, to overpower
and bind him; but not on any account
to injure either his person or effects
in even the slightest degree. The
soldiers, their commander knew, were
arch fellows, and would acquit themselves
in the true spirit of their
instructions.</p>

<p class='c008'>In those days few roads, excepting
footpaths,—and those frequently too
indistinctly marked to be traced by
a stranger,—existed in the interior parts
of the country. The soldiers, therefore,
experienced no small difficulty in marshalling
their way around the slope of
the huge Cairnkinnow, in evading bogs
and brakes, leaping burns and march
dykes, and in traversing all the heights
and hollows which lay between them
and their secluded bourne. But the
toils of their journey were more than
compensated by the pleasures of it, for
the pilgrim must possess little of either
fancy or feeling, who could wander
without delight amid the wild scenery
of that mountainous district. When the
top of Glenquhargen is reached, and
the bottom of the Glen of Scaur is
beheld far, far beneath your feet; when
the little river, which gives to the glen
its name, is seen, descending from the
hills, like an infant commencing the
journey of life, into the long level holm
which spreads its bosom to receive it;
when, after descending, the eyes are
cast around on its amphitheatre of
Alpine hills, arrayed in “the brightness
of green,” and on the clouds that slumber,
or the mists that curl along their
summits; and when the head is thrown
backward to contemplate the rocky peak
of Glenquhargen, with the hawk, the
gled, and the raven whirling, screaming,
and croaking around it, that individual
were dull and despicable indeed whose
spirit would not fly forth and mingle,
and identify itself, as it were, with the
grand and the beautiful around him.</p>

<p class='c008'>In a truly picturesque situation, on
the side of one of the most northern of
those hills, the soldiers beheld the house
of Glenmannow. It was a low, thatchroofed
building, with a peat-stack leaning
against one gable, and what might
well be denominated a hut, which
served for barn, byre, and stable,
attached to the other; while a short
way farther up the hill stood a round
bucht, in which, upon occasion, the
sturdy tenant was in the habit of
penning his flock. A more modern
structure has now been reared in the
immediate vicinity of Glenmannow’s
domicile; yet in the beginning of the
present century some vestiges of the
ancient one were still remaining.</p>

<p class='c008'>It was nearly noon when the party
arrived in the “door-step;” yet at that
late hour they found Mally busied in
making a quantity of milk porridge for
her own and her husband’s breakfast,
who had not yet returned from his
morning visit to the hill. The appearance
of soldiers in so sequestered a
spot was to her a matter of scarcely less
surprise than was that of the Spaniards
to the simple Indians, on their first
landing upon the shores of the New
World. Soldiers, too, are generally
objects of terror in such places, where
their names are associated in the minds
of the peasantry only with ideas of
oppression and of slaughter; and at
the period referred to, this feeling was
in much greater force than at present.
Poor Mally endeavoured as much as
possible to conceal her fears and
embarrassment, and with all the politeness
she was mistress of, desired the
party to be seated. Her artifice, however,
was far from equalling their
penetration: they soon remarked her
timorous side—glances and hesitating
manner, as she walked backward and
forward through the house; and they
therefore resolved to divert themselves
a little by working upon her prejudices.</p>

<p class='c008'>“That bayonet of mine,” said one
of the fellows, “will never be as clear
again, I am afraid. The blood of that
old herd, whom we did away with
as we came, sticks confoundedly to it.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Mally was at this moment dishing
the porridge in two <em>goans</em>, one for
herself and another for John, and on
hearing this horrible annunciation, she
made a dead pause, and letting go the
foot of the pot, suffered it to fall to
its perpendicular with a bang which
forced the cleps out of her hand, and
precipitated the whole, with a large
quantity of undished porridge, to the
floor.</p>

<p class='c008'>“If we do any more such tricks
to-day,” continued another wag, “I
shall wipe mine well before the blood
dries upon it, and then it will not
rust as yours has done.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Mally, regardless of the porridge she
had spilt, now stepped with cautious,
but quick and trembling steps to the
door. Before she had reached the
threshold—</p>

<p class='c008'>“Come,” cried the soldier who had
thus spoken, “let us taste this food
which the mistress has been preparing.
Good woman, return and give us
spoons. No flinching! We won’t
harm you, unless you provoke us to
it. Why do you hesitate? Are you
unwilling to part with your victuals?
By my faith! the walk we have had
this morning has given us such
appetites, that if you are not active,
we shall have a slice off yourself!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“O mercy!” cried Mally, staring
wildly, “hae patience a wee, an I’se
gie ye ocht that’s in the house; but
dinna meddle wi’ that goanfu’ o’
porridge, I beseech ye. They’re our
John’s; and if he comes frae the hill,
and finds them suppet, he’ll brain some
o’ ye, as sure as I’m livin’.”</p>

<p class='c008'>She then made for the cupboard,
and began to draw from thence bread,
butter, and cheese; but the rogues, on
hearing that John was so partial to
his porridge, deemed this opportunity
of arousing his ire too favourable to
be lost, and they therefore insisted
on being accommodated with spoons in
order to “scart the coggie.” Mally
was obliged reluctantly to hand each
a spoon from the wicker-creel which
hung in the corner, and the six fellows
were just in the act of devouring the
contents of the goan, when honest
Glenmannow made his appearance.</p>

<p class='c008'>“What’s a’ this?” were his first
words, on entering and perceiving such
a bevy of red-coats.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Why, honest man, we have got
a billet upon you,” said one of them.</p>

<p class='c008'>“A billet! Wha frae?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“From the Duke of Queensberry,
with whom our colonel, the Duke of
Buccleuch, is stopping at present. We
are just arrived; it was a deuced long
walk; we were very hungry, and are just
making free with your breakfast, until
something better be prepared for us.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ye’re makin’ mair free than welcome,
I doubt, my lads. I hae nae
objection, since our juke has sent ye,
to gie ye a nicht’s quarters, an’ to let
ye live on the best we can afford; but
I think ye micht hae haen mair mense
than to fa’ on my parritch that way,
like a wheen collies.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Like what? Hold your peace,
sir,” thundered the whole at once.
“We are upon the king’s service, and
have a right to what we please, wherever
we are billeted.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“For a’ sakes, John, let them
alane!” cried Mally, who saw the
tempest that was gathering on her
husband’s brow. “We hae plenty
o’ meal in the house, and canna be
mickle the waur o’ what they’ll tak for
ae day an’ nicht. Ye’se get something
else to your breakfast directly.” Then
she went close to his side, and whispered
into his ear the fearful conversation
she had heard. Glenmannow,
though he never knew what it was to
fear, was of a disposition too quiet and
mild not to be easily pacified, and the
soldiers saw with regret his looks
beginning to brighten under the influence
of Mally’s eloquence.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Egad! there’s a fine calf before
the window,” cried one of them, whom
a new thought had opportunely struck;
“Tom, go out and put a ball through
it. We shall have a fine roast of veal,
if this old lady knows how to manage
it.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ye’ll hae a fine roast deevil!”
roared Glenmannow, now provoked
beyond sufferance; “I’ll gie ye” ——</p>

<p class='c008'>“Down, down with him!” cried the
whole party at once, springing up, and
endeavouring to surround him. But in
this they resembled a posse of mastiffs
attacking some lordly bull, which the
enraged animal shakes from his sides
and tramples in the dust. In one
instant Glenmannow’s plaid was flung
from him upon the bed; his staff also,
which was too long for use at such
close quarters, was relinquished, and
seizing by the collar and thigh the first
of the fellows who attacked him, he
used him against the others, both as a
weapon and shield, with such fury and
effect, that they were all glad to
provide for their safety by an instant
retreat. Fortunately for them, the
door chanced to be open, so that they
reached the bent with comparatively
little injury. But the poor fellow who
was trussed in Glenmannow’s grasp,
and dashed against this and the other
of them with such violence, had his
body beaten almost to a mummy, and
kept howling and calling for mercy in
a most lamentable manner. By Glenmannow,
however, he was totally unheard,
until, on rushing to the door, his
eye chanced to fall upon one of his
own cars placed on end, and leaning
against the side of the house. Tossing
the soldier from him upon the grass, he
immediately seized this rude vehicle,
and, wrenching from it a limb, cast the
huge weapon upon his shoulder, and
bounded off in pursuit of his enemies.</p>

<p class='c008'>By this time the soldiers had gained
a hundred yards in advance, and were
stretching away like greyhounds toward
the summit of Glenquhargen. They
were all nimble-footed, and the panic
with which they were now actually
seized gave wings to their speed, and
rendered a matter of no regard the
rocks and other impediments over
which they were flying. Their pursuer
was not more speedy, but much longer
winded, and the rage which then
impelled him was not less potent than
their terror. He possessed a fund of
physical ability which was almost inexhaustible,
and he had sworn not to
drop the pursuit till he had “smashed
the hale set,” so that from the length
of the race the poor wights had but a
small chance of safety. At length the
top of Glenquhargen, then Cairnkinnow,
and next Gowkthorn, were
reached, without any loss or advantage
to either party. From the latter of
these places, the ground declines nearly
the whole way to Drumlanrig, and the
soldiers, with the start in their favour,
flew on with a glimmering of hope that
now they could scarcely be overtaken.
Their hope was realised, but not without
such overstraining as had nearly
proved equally fatal with the vengeance
from which they fled. Leaning forward
almost to the ground, and staggering
like drunkards from excess of
fatigue, they at last reached the western
staircase which leads into the court of
the castle. Behind them Glenmannow
rushed on also with abated speed, but
with indignation as hot as ever. He
still bore upon his shoulder the ponderous
car limb; his face was literally
bathed in perspiration; and the wild
expression of his eyes, and the foam
which was beginning to appear at each
corner of his mouth, rendered him a
true personification of Giant Madness
broken from his chains.</p>

<p class='c008'>The two dukes, who had been
informed of their approach by some
servants who observed them descending
the opposite heights, were waiting to
receive them within the balustrade
which runs along that side of the
castle; but on marking the fury of
Glenmannow, Duke James deemed it
prudent to retire with the exhausted
soldiers until the storm should be
passed; for while his tenant remained
in that mood of mind, he dared not,
absolute as was his authority, to come
into his presence. His brother of
Buccleuch was therefore left to bear
the first brunt of the salutation, who,
on Glenmannow’s approach, called out,
“What is the matter? What is to
do?” Glenmannow, without regarding
this interrogatory further than by
darting upon him a wild and fierce
look, sprang up stairs, and rushed
past him into the court of the castle.
But here his progress was stopped; for
among the several doors which lead
from thence to every part of the castle,
he knew not by which his enemies had
entered. One, however, was known to
him, and along that passage he rapidly
hastened, until he at length arrived in
the kitchen. There he was equally at
fault, and there his pursuit was ended;
for the smiles of the sonsy cook, and
the fondlements of the various servants
who thronged around him, succeeded in
restoring his mind to a degree of calmness
and repose. The cook eased his
shoulder of the car limb, with the intention
of repaying herself for the trouble
by using it as fuel; others divested him
of his bonnet; and all, with many
words, prevailed upon him at last to
assume a chair. After a moment’s
silence, in which he seemed to be lost
in reflection, “Ay, ay,” said he, “I
see through a’ this noo. It has been a
trick o’ the juke’s makin’ up.” Then,
with a serious air, he added, “But it
was dangerous though; for if I had
gotten a haud o’ thae chaps, wha kens
what I might hae done!”</p>

<p class='c008'>The duke, on being informed of this
change wrought upon his tenant, and
having learnt from the soldiers the way
in which he had been deprived of his
breakfast, ordered him a plentiful refreshment,
and afterwards sent for him
into the presence of himself and of
Buccleuch. The breach between them
was speedily healed; and Glenmannow,
nothing poorer for his race, returned
shortly afterwards with a servant on
horseback, who was dispatched to convey
to headquarters the poor grenadier
who had been so roughly handled in
the affray.</p>

<p class='c008'>Mally, with a humanity and forgiveness
which the soldier had little right
to expect, had succeeded in removing
him from the spot where he was cast
down, into the house, and having there
laid him upon a bed, tended him with
such kindness and care, that, by the
time of Glenmannow’s return, he was
so far recovered as to be able to sit
upon the horse sent to remove him.
Glenmannow, after Mally had wrapped
round him a pair of blankets, bore
him out in his arms, and placed him
behind the servant, who in this manner
conducted him in safety to Drumlanrig.</p>

<p class='c008'>This is the last exploit of a remarkable
kind which I have been able to
glean respecting Glenmannow. He
lived to a pretty long age, yet his life
was abridged within its natural period
by imprudently taxing his great strength
beyond its actual capability. A high
dyke was in the course of being built,
from the heights on the left of the Nith
into the channel of the river, about
four miles above Drumlanrig, on the
way to Sanquhar, and in order to resist
the force of the current, the largest
stones that could be moved were built
into the dyke at its termination. One
in particular, which lay near the place,
was deemed excellently fitted for that
purpose, but its weight rendered it
unmanageable. Glenmannow undertook
to lift it into its place, and in
reality did so; but in the effort he
injured his breast and spine, and brought
on a lingering disorder, of which he died
in less than a twelvemonth afterwards,
in the year 1705. I am not aware of his
having left any descendants to perpetuate
and spread his name; one thing at
least is certain, that in the present day
none such are to be found in that
district which was the principal scene
of his exploits, and where still is
cherished to such a degree his singular
yet honest renown.—<cite>Traits of Scottish
Life, and Pictures of Scenes and Character.</cite></p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='my_grandmothers_portrait' class='c006'>MY GRANDMOTHER’S PORTRAIT.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By Daniel Gorrie.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>In picture galleries, or in private
apartments, portraits seldom receive
much attention from visitors, unless
they happen to have known the
originals, or to be aware that the
pictures are the productions of distinguished
artists. And yet, whether
we have known the originals or not,
and apart altogether from the general
artistic merit of the works, there are
many portraits which have a wonderful
effect in giving the mind a reflective
and inquisitive turn. Portraits of this
description may occasionally be seen
in retired country houses of modest
dimensions, where one need scarcely
expect to find specimens of the highest
class of art. Faces we may there
observe, silently depending from the
walls, on which strongly-pronounced
character is depicted in spite of every
artistic defect, and through the deep
lines of which the record of a stirring
or painful life seems to struggle earnestly
for utterance. People are too much in
the habit of regarding every person as
commonplace and uninteresting who
has not managed somehow to make a
noise in the world; but in these
“counterfeit presentments” of men
and women who have died in comparative
obscurity, known only to
their own circle of friends, we may
see much that strangely moves our
hearts, and makes us long to learn
what their history has been.</p>

<p class='c008'>Let the reader look in fancy on that
old portrait hanging before me there on
the wall. To me it is no dead picture,
but rather does it seem the living
embodiment of a maternal grandmother—a
heroic old dame, who never lost
heart whatever might betide, and of
whom that image is now almost the
sole remaining relic. Even a stranger
could scarcely fail to note with curious
interest that small round face with nose
and chin attenuated by years—those
peering eyes, where a twinkle of youth
yet breaks through the dim of eld—that
wrinkled brow, shaded with a
brown frontage-braid of borrowed hair—and
that compact little head, encased
in a snow-white cap with its broad
band of black ribbon. The least
skilful artist could hardly have failed
in depicting the features; but the old
familiar expression is also there, preserved
as in amber, and the aged face
is pleasantly blended in my mind with
memories of early days. Detached
incidents in her life, which she was
fond of frequently relating to her
grandchildren, who eagerly clustered
around her, listening to the oft-told
tale, recur to me with considerable
freshness after the lapse of many years.</p>

<p class='c008'>At the time when that portrait was
taken, Mrs Moffat—as I shall name her—was
well-nigh eighty years of age.
For about the half of that period she
had led a widowed life. Her husband,
who witnessed many stirring scenes on
sea and shore, had been a surgeon in
the Royal Navy, and she was left
“passing rich with forty pounds a
year” of government pension.</p>

<p class='c008'>There was one remarkable incident
in his history to which she frequently
recurred. Samuel Moffat obtained an
appointment as surgeon on board the
ill-fated <em>Royal George</em>; but before the
time set apart for her leaving port, he
found that the smell of the fresh paint
of the new vessel created a feeling of
nausea, which would have rendered him
unfit for duty; and by his good fortune
in getting transferred, on this account, to
another man-of-war, he escaped the sad
fate that befell so many hapless victims—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>When Kempenfelt went down</div>
      <div class='line'>With twice four hundred men.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c012'>A striking incident of this kind naturally
made a deep impression on his own
mind, and it also formed a prominent
reminiscence in the memory of his faithful
partner during the long remainder of
her life.</p>

<p class='c008'>The earlier period of Mrs Moffat’s
widowhood was passed in Edinburgh;
but when death and marriage had scattered
her family, she followed one of
her married daughters to the country,
and took up her abode in a neat poplar-shaded
cottage on the outskirts of a
quiet village, situated in a fertile and
beautiful valley of the county that lies
cradled in the twining arms of the
Forth and the Tay. That cottage, with
its garden behind, and pretty flower-borders
in front, and with its row of
poplar and rowan-trees, through which
the summer breeze murmured so pleasantly,
comes up vividly before my
mind’s eye at this moment. Beautiful
as of yore the valley smiles around,
with its girdling ridges belted with
woods, and dotted with pleasant
dwellings; and away to westward,
shutting in the peaceful scene from
the tumult of the great world, rise the
twin Lomond hills, glorious at morn
and eve, when bathed in the beams
of the rising and setting sun. The
good old lady, who had spent a large
portion of her life in “Auld Reekie,”
when narrow Bristo Street and Potterrow
and the adjoining courts were inhabited
by the better class of citizens,
took kindly to the country cottage, and
she was fond of the garden and flowers.
With a basket on her arm, she trotted
about the garden, apparently very
busy, but doing little after all. In
autumn, after a gusty night, one of
her first morning occupations was to
gather up the fallen ruddy apples,
which she preserved for the special
gratification of her grandchildren.
Many a time and oft were they debarred
from touching the red berries of the
rowan-trees, which look as tempting
in children’s eyes as did the forbidden
fruit in those of Mother Eve. The
girls were even enjoined not to make
necklaces of these clustering red
deceivers.</p>

<p class='c008'>In that retired village there were, in
those days, a good many well-to-do
people, who had not found it very difficult
to make money out of a generous
soil. The different families lived on
very sociable terms, and during the
winter season there were rounds of tea-parties,
winding up with cold suppers
and hot toddy. Teetotalism was a
thing unknown in that district and in
those days, though I shall do the good
folks the justice of saying that they
knew the virtues of moderation. To all
those winter gatherings of the local
gentry, Mrs Moffat invariably received
an invitation. They could not do without
her, relishing as they did her ready
wit and hearty good-humour. She was,
in sooth, the life of every party. On
such occasions she displayed all the
artless buoyancy of youth, as if she had
never endured the agonies of bereavement,
or borne the burdens of life.
She was then the very image of “Old
Delight,” and her aged face renewed its
youth in the sunshine of joy. Some of
the knowing lairds tried by bantering
and otherwise to draw her out, and her
quick cutting repartees were followed by
explosions of mirth. It seemed marvellous
that such a well of sunny mirth
should be encased in that tiny frame.
Indeed, it was nothing unusual for the
hearty old lady to treat the company to
a “canty” song at these village parties,
and touches of melody still lingered
about the cracks of her voice. When
bothered overmuch to sing another song
after she had already done enough, she
generally met the request with a solitary
stanza to this effect:—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>There was a wee mannie an’ a wee wifie,</div>
      <div class='line'>And they lived in a vinegar bottle;</div>
      <div class='line'>“And O,” says the wee mannie to the wee wifie,</div>
      <div class='line'>“Wow, but oor warld is little, is little!</div>
      <div class='line'>Wow, but oor warld is little!”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c012'>Rare encounters of wit and amusing
banter occasionally took place between
her and a strange eccentric humorist of
a lawyer of the old school, who frequently
visited the village from a neighbouring
country town. Old Bonthron
was the name by which he was familiarly
known.</p>

<p class='c008'>It may readily be imagined that, when
old Mr Bonthron and Mrs Moffat met in
the same company, the fun would grow
“fast and furious,” and such certainly was
the case. I have seen the hearty old humorist
take the equally hearty old lady
on his knee, and dandle her there like
a child, greatly to their own delight and
to the infinite amusement of the company.
There will be less genial and
boisterous mirth now-a-days, I should
imagine, in that sequestered village.</p>

<p class='c008'>Such was Mrs Moffat in her lightsome
hours, when friends met friends;
but her grandchildren were as much delighted
with her when, in graver mood,
she recalled early recollections, told them
pleasant little stories, and narrated
graphically what to her were eventful
incidents in her life.</p>

<p class='c008'>I can still remember some of the pleasant
pictures she gave us of her early
days. She was born in the town of Dalkeith,
which is beautiful for situation,
being planted in the midst of the richest
woodland scenery, and she imprinted
in our hearts vivid impressions of the
delighted feelings with which, in the
days of her girlhood, she looked
through the gate of the Duke’s great
park, and saw the long winding avenue
and the greensward traversed by
nibbling sheep, and the magnificent trees
whose “shadowing shroud” might
cover a goodly company at their rural
feast in the noontide of a summer’s day.
She described the rustic seats and
summer-houses on the banks of a brook,
that wandered at its own sweet will
through the wooded grounds—regions
and resorts of joyance, where the children
of the town, through the kindness
of the then reigning Duke of Buccleuch,
were permitted to spend the livelong
summer’s day, thus enabling them to
store their memories with pleasing recollections,
which might come back
upon them in their declining days, like
visions of beauty from lands of old
romance. There was a pathetic story
about a family of larks that had their
nest in the Duke’s Park, which she recited
to us over and over again, by way
of inculcating the virtue of treating
kindly all the creatures of God. Her
story was, that some of the young rascals
of Dalkeith had caught the mother-bird
in the nest, and had carried off her and
the whole family of young ones at one
fell swoop. The male bird, thus deprived
at once of mate and family, took
up his melancholy station near the nest,
and mourned his loss with plaintive pipe
for two days, at the end of which time
the broken-hearted warbler died.
This affecting incident, told with much
seriousness and feeling, was not unproductive
of good effect upon the young
listeners. Cities and towns being still
to us mysteries of which we had only a
vague conception, it pleased us much to
hear her tell how the bells of Dalkeith
tolled children to bed, and how little
boys walked through the streets at night,
calling “Hot pies for supper!” It
struck us that at whatever hour the bell
tolled, we should have liked to remain
out of bed till the pies went round.</p>

<p class='c008'>On winter evenings, beside the good
old lady’s cottage fire, she was often
constrained to recount her famous
voyage to London, in which she wellnigh
suffered shipwreck. The war-vessel
on board of which her husband
acted as surgeon had arrived in the
Thames. He could not then obtain
leave of absence, and as they had not
met for many long months, she determined—protracted
as the passage then
was from Leith to London—to make
an effort to see her husband, and to
visit the great metropolis. Steamers
had not, at that period, come into existence,
and the clipper-smacks that
traded between Leith and London, and
took a few venturesome passengers on
their trips, dodged along the Scotch
and English coasts for days and weeks,
thus making a lengthened voyage of
what is now a brief and pleasant sail.
It was considered a bold and hazardous
undertaking, in those days, for any lady
to proceed alone on such a voyage.
This, however, she did, as she was
gifted with a wonderful amount of
pluck, leaving her family in the charge
of some friends till she returned.</p>

<p class='c008'>The vessel had scarcely left the
Firth of Forth, and got out into the
open sea, when the weather underwent
a bad turn, and soon they had to
encounter all the fury of a severe storm,
which caused many shipwrecks along
the whole eastern seaboard. With a
kind of placid contentment—nay, even
with occasional glee—would she describe
the protracted miseries and hardships
they endured, having run short of supplies,
and every hour expecting the
vessel to founder. It was three weeks
after leaving Leith until the smack was,
as she described it, towed up the
Thames like a dead dog, without
either mast or bowsprit—a hapless and
helpless hulk. However, she managed
to see her husband, and the happiness
of the meeting would be considered a
good equivalent for the mishaps of the
voyage. She saw, in the great metropolis,
the then Prince of Wales—the
“First Gentleman in Europe,” and used
to relate, with considerable gusto (old
ladies being more rough-and-ready then
than now), how the Prince, as he was
riding in St James’s Park, overheard
a hussar in the crowd exclaiming,
“He’s a d——d handsome fellow!”
and immediately lifting his hat, his
Royal Highness replied, “Thank you,
my lad; but you put too much spice
in your compliments!” That London
expedition was a red-letter leaf in Mrs
Moffat’s biography, and it was well
thumbed by us juveniles. Her return
voyage was comparatively comfortable,
and much more rapid; but she never
saw her husband again, as he died at
sea, and was consigned to the deep.</p>

<p class='c008'>Even more interesting than the
London trip were all the stories and
incidents connected with her only son—our
uncle who <em>ought</em> to have been,
but who was dead before any of us were
born. Through the kindness and
influence of Admiral Greig of the
Russian navy, he obtained a commission
in the Russian service at an
unusually early age—Russia and Britain
being at that time in close alliance.
Neither the Russian navy nor army
was in the best condition, and the
Emperor was very desirous to obtain
the services of British officers, Scotsmen
being preferred. Mrs Moffat loved her
son with all the warmth of her kindly
nature, and when he had been about a
year or two in the Russian service, the
news spread through Edinburgh one
day, that a Russian man-of-war was
coming up the Firth to Leith roads.
I have heard the good lady relate the
eventful incidents of that day with
glistening eyes and tremulous voice.</p>

<p class='c008'>The tidings were conveyed to her by
friends who knew that she had some
reason to be interested in the news.
She had received no communication
from her son for some time, as the
mails were then very irregular, and
letters often went amissing; and, filled
with the hope that he might be on
board the Russian vessel that was
approaching the roads, she immediately
hurried off for Leith, whither crowds
of people were already repairing, as a
Russian war-vessel in the Forth was as
great a rarity then as it is now. Before
she arrived at the pier, the vessel had
anchored in the roads, and the pier,
neither so long nor so commodious as
it is now, was thronged with people
pressing onwards to get a sight of the
stranger ship. Nothing daunted by the
crowd, Mrs Moffat squeezed herself
forward, at the imminent risk of being
seriously crushed. A gentleman who
occupied a “coigne of vantage,” out of
the stream of the crowd, observed this
slight-looking lady pressing forward
with great eagerness. He immediately
hailed her, and asked, as she appeared
very much interested, if she expected
any one, or had any friends on board.
She replied that she half expected her
son to be with the vessel. The gentleman,
who was to her a total stranger,
but who must have been a gentleman
every inch, immediately took her under
his protection, and having a telescope
in his hand, he made observations, and
reported progress.</p>

<p class='c008'>One of the ship’s boats had been let
down, and he told her that he observed
officers in white uniform rapidly descending.
Mrs Moffat’s eagerness and
anxiety were now on the increase.
The boat put off from the ship,
propelled by sturdy and regular strokes,
cutting the water into foam, which
sparkled in the sunshine. When the
boat had approached midway between
the ship and the shore, Mrs Moffat
asked her protector if he could distinguish
one officer apparently younger
than the others.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Yes,” he replied; “there is one
who seems scarcely to have passed
from boyhood to manhood.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Her eager impatience, with hope and
fear alternating in her heart, seemed
now to agitate her whole frame, and
the bystanders, seeing her anxiety,
appeared also to share in her interest.</p>

<p class='c008'>At last the boat, well filled with
officers, shot alongside the pier, the
crowd rushing and cheering, as it sped
onward to the upper landing-place.
It was with great difficulty that the
gentleman could restrain the anxious
mother from dashing into the rushing
stream of people. When the crowd
had thinned off a little, they made
their way up the pier, and found that
the officers had all left the boat and
gone into the Old Ship Inn—probably
because they had no desire of being
mobbed. Mrs Moffat immediately
went to the inn, and requested an
attendant to ask if one of the officers
belonged to Scotland, and if so, to be
good enough to mention his name.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Yes—Moffat!” was the cheery response,
and in a short time mother
and son were locked in each other’s
arms in the doorway of the Old Ship.</p>

<p class='c008'>With a glee, not unmingled with
tender regrets, she used to tell how,
when she and the spruce young officer
were proceeding up Leith Walk together
to Edinburgh, an old woman
stopped them, and, clapping him
kindly on the shoulder, said—“Ay,
my mannie, ye’ll be a captain yet!”
This prophecy of the old woman certainly
met its fulfilment.</p>

<p class='c008'>After staying a few days in the old
home near the Meadows, young Moffat
again took his departure, never more
to see his affectionate mother, or the
bald crown of Arthur Seat rising by
the side of the familiar Firth. He
joined the army (changes of officers
from the navy to the army being then
frequent in the Russian service), and reenacted
his part honourably in many
memorable scenes. Still do I remember
the tender and tearful care with
which his old mother opened up the
yellow letters, with their faded ink-tracings,
which contained descriptions
of the part he played in harassing the
French, during their disastrous retreat
after the burning of Moscow. One of
these letters, I recollect, commenced
thus—“Here we are, driving the French
before us like a flock of sheep;” and
in others he gave painful descriptions of
their coming up to small parties of
French soldiers who were literally glued
by the extreme frost to the ground—quite
stiff and dead, but still in a standing
attitude, and leaning on their muskets.
Poor wretches! that was their sole
reward for helping to whet the appetite
of an insatiable ambition. In those
warlike times, young Moffat grew into
favour, and gained promotion. He
received a gold-hilted sword from the
Emperor for distinguished service, but
he succumbed to fatigue, and died on
foreign soil. The gold-headed sword
and his epaulets, which he had bequeathed
to a favourite sister, fell into
the hands of harpies in London, and to
this day have never reached Scotland.</p>

<p class='c008'>In the quiet village Mrs Moffat spent
her declining days in peace and sweet
content, and she now sleeps in the
village churchyard, till the last spring
that visits the world shall waken
inanimate dust to immortal life.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='the_baptism' class='c006'>THE BAPTISM.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By Professor Wilson.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>It is a pleasant and impressive time,
when, at the close of divine service, in
some small country church, there takes
place the gentle stir and preparation for
a baptism. A sudden air of cheerfulness
spreads over the whole congregation;
the more solemn expression of all
countenances fades away; and it is at
once felt that a rite is about to be performed
which, although of a sacred and
awful kind, is yet connected with a
thousand delightful associations of
purity, beauty, and innocence. Then
there is an eager bending of smiling
faces over the humble galleries—an
unconscious rising up in affectionate
curiosity—and a slight murmuring
sound, in which is no violation of the
Sabbath sanctity of God’s house, when,
in the middle passage of the church, the
party of women is seen, matrons and
maids, who bear in their bosoms, or in
their arms, the helpless beings about to
be made members of the Christian communion.</p>

<p class='c008'>There sit, all dressed becomingly in
white, the fond and happy baptismal
group. The babies have been intrusted,
for a precious hour, to the bosoms of
young maidens, who tenderly fold them
to their yearning hearts, and with endearments
taught by nature, are stilling,
not always successfully, their plaintive
cries. Then the proud and delighted
girls rise up, one after the other, in
sight of the whole congregation, and
hold up the infants, arrayed in neat caps
and long flowing linen, into their fathers’
hands. For the poorest of the poor, if
he has a heart at all, will have his infant
well dressed on such a day, even
although it should scant his meal for
weeks to come, and force him to spare
fuel to his winter fire.</p>

<p class='c008'>And now the fathers were all standing
below the pulpit, with grave and
thoughtful faces. Each has tenderly
taken his infant into his toil-hardened
hands, and supports it in gentle and
steadfast affection. They are all the
children of poverty, and if they live, are
destined to a life of toil. But now
poverty puts on its most pleasant aspect,
for it is beheld standing before the altar
of religion with contentment and faith.
This is a time when the better and
deeper nature of every man must rise up
within him, and when he must feel,
more especially, that he is a spiritual and
immortal being making covenant with
God. He is about to take upon himself
a holy charge; to promise to look after
his child’s immortal soul; and to keep
its little feet from the paths of evil, and
in those of innocence and peace. Such
a thought elevates the lowest mind
above itself, diffuses additional tenderness
over the domestic relations, and
makes them who hold up their infants
to the baptismal font, better fathers,
husbands, and sons, by the deeper insight
which they then possess into their
nature and their life.</p>

<p class='c008'>The minister consecrates the water;
and, as it falls on his infant’s face, the
father feels the great oath in his soul.
As the poor helpless creature is wailing
in his arms, he thinks how needful indeed
to human infancy is the love of
Providence! And when, after delivering
each his child into the arms of the
smiling maiden from whom he had
received it, he again takes his place for
admonition and advice before the pulpit,
his mind is well disposed to think on the
perfect beauty of that religion of which
the Divine Founder said, “Suffer little
children to be brought unto me, for of
such is the kingdom of heaven!”</p>

<p class='c008'>The rite of baptism had not thus been
performed for several months in the
kirk of Lanark. It was now the hottest
time of persecution; and the inhabitants
of that parish found other places in
which to worship God and celebrate the
ordinances of religion. It was now the
Sabbath-day, and a small congregation
of about a hundred souls had met for
divine service in a place of worship more
magnificent than any temple that human
hands had ever built to Deity. Here,
too, were three children about to be
baptised. The congregation had not
assembled to the toll of the bell, but
each heart knew the hour and observed
it; for there are a hundred sun-dials
among the hills, woods, moors, and fields,
and the shepherd and the peasant see the
hours passing by them in sunshine and
shadow.</p>

<p class='c008'>The church in which they were assembled
was hewn by God’s hand out
of the eternal rocks. A river rolled its
way through a mighty chasm of cliffs,
several hundred feet high, of which the
one side presented enormous masses,
and the other corresponding recesses,
as if the great stone girdle had been
rent by a convulsion. The channel was
overspread with prodigious fragments
of rock or large loose stones, some of
them smooth and bare, others containing
soil and verdure in their rents and fissures,
and here and there crowned with shrubs
and trees. The eye could at once command
a long stretching vista, seemingly
closed and shut up at both extremities
by the coalescing cliffs. This majestic
reach of river contained pools, streams,
rushing shelves, and waterfalls innumerable;
and when the water was low,
which it now was in the common
drought, it was easy to walk up this
scene, with the calm blue sky overhead,
an utter and sublime solitude. On
looking up, the soul was bowed down
by the feeling of that prodigious height
of unscaleable and often overhanging
cliff. Between the channel and the
summit of the far-extended precipices
were perpetually flying rooks and wood-pigeons,
and now and then a hawk,
filling the profound abyss with their
wild cawing, deep murmur, or shrilly
shriek. Sometimes a heron would
stand erect and still on some little stone
island, or rise up like a white cloud
along the black wall of the chasm and
disappear. Winged creatures alone
could inhabit this region. The fox and
wild-cat chose more accessible haunts.
Yet there came the persecuted Christians
and worshipped God, whose hand hung
over their heads those magnificent
pillars and arches, scooped out those
galleries from the solid rock, and laid
at their feet the calm water in its transparent
beauty, in which they could see
themselves sitting in reflected groups,
with their Bibles in their hands.</p>

<p class='c008'>Here, upon a semicircular ledge of
rocks, over a narrow chasm, of which
the tiny stream played in a murmuring
waterfall, and divided the congregation
into two equal parts, sat about a hundred
persons, all devoutly listening to
their minister, who stood before them
on what might well be called a small
natural pulpit of living stone. Up to
it there led a short flight of steps, and
over it waved the canopy of a tall graceful
birch-tree. This pulpit stood in the
middle of the channel, directly facing
that congregation, and separated from
them by the clear deep sparkling pool
into which the scarce-heard water
poured over the blackened rock. The
water, as it left the pool, separated into
two streams, and flowed on each side
of that altar, thus placing it on an
island, whose large mossy stones were
richly embowered under the golden
blossoms and green tresses of the broom.
Divine service was closed, and a row of
maidens, all clothed in purest white,
came gliding off from the congregation,
and crossing the stream on some stepping-stones,
arranged themselves at the
foot of the pulpit, with the infants about
to be baptized. The fathers of the
infants, just as if they had been in their
own kirk, had been sitting there during
worship, and now stood up before the
minister. The baptismal water, taken
from the pellucid pool, was lying consecrated
in a small hollow of one of the
upright stones that formed one side or
pillar of the pulpit, and the holy rite
proceeded. Some of the younger ones
in that semicircle kept gazing down into
the pool, in which the whole scene was
reflected, and now and then, in spite of
the grave looks or admonishing whispers
of their elders, letting a pebble fall into
the water, that they might judge of its
depth from the length of time that
elapsed before the clear air-bells lay
sparkling on the agitated surface. The
rite was over, and the religious services
of the day closed by a psalm. The
mighty rocks hemmed in the holy sound,
and sent it in a more compacted volume,
clear, sweet, and strong, up to heaven.
When the psalm ceased, an echo, like a
spirit’s voice, was heard dying away
up among the magnificent architecture
of the cliffs, and once more might be
noticed in the silence the reviving voice
of the waterfall.</p>

<p class='c008'>Just then a large stone fell from the
top of the cliff into the pool, a loud
voice was heard, and a plaid hung over
on the point of a shepherd’s staff.
Their watchful sentinel had descried
danger, and this was his warning.
Forthwith the congregation rose.
There were paths dangerous to unpractised
feet, along the ledges of the
rocks, leading up to several caves and
places of concealment. The more
active and young assisted the elder—more
especially the old pastor, and the
women with the infants; and many
minutes had not elapsed, till not a
living creature was visible in the
channel of the stream, but all of them
hidden, or nearly so, in the clefts and
caverns.</p>

<p class='c008'>The shepherd who had given the
alarm had lain down again in his plaid
instantly on the greensward upon the
summit of these precipices. A party of
soldiers were immediately upon him,
and demanded what signals he had
been making, and to whom; when one
of them, looking over the edge of the
cliff, exclaimed, “See, see, Humphrey!
we have caught the whole tabernacle of
the Lord in a net at last. There they
are, praising God among the stones of
the river Mouss. These are the Cartland
Craigs. By my soul’s salvation, a
noble cathedral!” “Fling the lying
sentinel over the cliffs. Here is a
canting Covenanter for you, deceiving
honest soldiers on the very Sabbath-day.
Over with him, over with him—out of
the gallery into the pit.” But the
shepherd had vanished like a shadow;
and, mixing with the tall green broom
and brushes, was making his unseen
way towards the wood. “Satan has
saved his servant. But come, my lads,
follow me; I know the way down
into the bed of the stream, and the
steps up to Wallace’s Cave. They are
called the ‘Kittle Nine Stanes.’ The
hunt’s up—we’ll be all in at the death.
Halloo, my boys, halloo!”</p>

<p class='c008'>The soldiers dashed down a less
precipitous part of the wooded banks,
a little below the “Craigs,” and hurried
up the channel. But when they
reached the altar where the old grayhaired
minister had been seen standing,
and the rocks that had been covered
with people, all was silent and solitary—not
a creature to be seen.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Here is a Bible dropped by some
of them,” cried a soldier; and with his
foot spun it away into the pool.</p>

<p class='c008'>“A bonnet! a bonnet!” cried another.
“Now for the pretty sanctified
face that rolled its demure eyes below it.”</p>

<p class='c008'>But after a few jests and oaths the
soldiers stood still, eyeing with a kind
of mysterious dread the black and silent
walls of the rock that hemmed them
in, and hearing only the small voice
of the stream that sent a profounder
stillness through the heart of that
majestic solitude. “Curse these
cowardly Covenanters! What if they
tumble down upon our heads pieces
of rock from their hiding-places?
Advance? Or retreat?”</p>

<p class='c008'>There was no reply; for a slight fear
was upon every man. Musket or
bayonet could be of little use to men
obliged to clamber up rocks, along
slender paths, leading they knew not
where; and they were aware that
armed men now-a-days worshipped
God,—men of iron hearts, who feared
not the glitter of the soldier’s arms,
neither barrel nor bayonet; men of
long stride, firm step, and broad breast,
who, on the open field, would have
overthrown the marshalled line, and
gone first and foremost if a city had to
be taken by storm.</p>

<p class='c008'>As the soldiers were standing together
irresolute, a noise came upon
their ears like distant thunder, but even
more appalling; and a slight current
of air, as if propelled by it, passed
whispering along the sweetbriers and
the broom, and the tresses of the birch-trees.
It came deepening and rolling,
and roaring on, and the very Cartland
Craigs shook to their foundation as if
in an earthquake. “The Lord have
mercy upon us!—what is this?” And
down fell many of the miserable
wretches on their knees, and some on
their faces, upon the sharp-pointed
rocks. Now it was like the sound of
many myriad chariots rolling on their
iron axles down the stony channel of
the torrent. The old grayhaired
minister issued from the mouth of
Wallace’s Cave, and said, with a loud
voice, “The Lord God terrible reigneth!”
A waterspout had burst up
among the moorlands, and the river, in
its power, was at hand. There it came—tumbling
along into that long reach
of cliffs, and in a moment filled it with
one mass of waves. Huge agitated
clouds of foam rode on the surface of
a blood-red torrent. An army must
have been swept off by that flood. The
soldiers perished in a moment; but high
up in the cliffs, above the sweep of
destruction, were the Covenanters—men,
women, and children, uttering
prayers to God, unheard by themselves
in that raging thunder.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='the_lairds_wooing' class='c006'>THE LAIRD’S WOOING.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By John Galt.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>The laird began the record of his
eighteenth year in these words:—</p>

<p class='c008'>There lived at this time, on the farmstead
of Broomlands, a person that was
a woman, by calling a widow; and she
and her husband, when he was in this
life, had atween them Annie Daisie, a
dochter;—very fair she was to look upon,
comely withal, and of a feleecity o’
nature.</p>

<p class='c008'>This pretty Annie Daisie, I know not
hoo, found favour in my eyes, and I
made no scruple of going to the kirk
every Sabbath day to see her, though
Mr Glebeantiends was, to a certainty, a
vera maksleepie preacher. When I forgathered
with her by accident, I was all
in a confusion; and when I would hae
spoken to her wi’ kindly words, I could
but look in her clear een and nicher like
Willie Gouk, the haverel laddie; the
which made her jeer me as if I had a
want, and been daft likewise; so that
seeing I cam no speed in courting for
myself, I thocht o’ telling my mother;
but that was a kittle job,—howsoever, I
took heart, and said—</p>

<p class='c008'>“Mother!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Well, son,” she made answer, “what
would ye?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I’m going to be marriet,” quo’ I.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Marriet!” cried she, spreading out
her arms wi’ consternation. “And
wha’s the bride?”</p>

<p class='c008'>I didna like just to gie her an even
down answer, but said I thought myself
old enough for a helpmeet to my table,
which caused her to respond with a
laugh; whereupon I told her I was
thinking of Annie Daisie.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ye’ll surely ne’er marry the like o’
her;—she’s only a gair’ner’s dochter.”</p>

<p class='c008'>But I thocht of Adam and Eve, and
said—“We’re a’ come of a gair’ner;”—the
which caused her presently to wax
vera wroth with me; and she stampit
with her foot, and called me a blot on
the ‘scutcheon o’ Auldbiggins; then she
sat down, and began to reflec’ with herself;
and, after a season, she spoke rawtional
about the connection, saying she
had a wife in her mind for me, far more
to the purpose than such a causey-dancer
as Annie Daisie.</p>

<p class='c008'>But I couldna bide to hear Annie
Daisie mislikened, and yet I was feart to
commit the sin of disobedience, for my
mother had no mercy when she thought
I rebelled against her authority; so I sat
down, and was in a tribulation, and
then I speir’t, with a flutter of affliction,
who it was that she had willed to be my
wife.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Miss Betty Græme,” said she; “if
she can be persuaded to tak sic a headowit.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Now this Miss Betty Græme was the
tocherless sixth daughter o’ a broken
Glasgow provost, and made her leevin’
by seamstress-work and flowering lawn;
but she was come of gentle blood, and
was herself a gentle creature, though no
sae blithe as bonnie Annie Daisie; and
for that I told my mother I would never
take her, though it should be the death
o’ me. Accordingly I ran out of the
house, and took to the hills, and wistna
where I was, till I found myself at the
door of the Broomlands, with Annie
Daisie before me, singing like a laverock
as she watered the yarn of her ain spinning
on the green. On seeing me, however,
she stoppit, and cried—</p>

<p class='c008'>“Gude keep us a’, laird!—what’s
frightened you to flee hither?”</p>

<p class='c008'>But I was desperate, and I ran till her,
and fell on my knees in a lover-like
fashion; but wha would hae thocht it?—she
dang me ower on my back, and
as I lay on the ground she watered me
with her watering-can, and was like
to dee wi’ laughing: the which sign
and manifestation of hatred on her
part quenched the low o’ love on mine;
an’ I raise an’ went hame, drookit
and dripping as I was, and told my
mother I would be an obedient and
dutiful son.</p>

<p class='c008'>Soon after this, Annie Daisie was
marriet to John Lounlans; and there
was a fulsome phrasing about them when
they were kirkit, as the comeliest couple
in the parish. It was castor-oil to
hear’t; and I was determined to be
upsides with them, for the way she had
jilted me.</p>

<p class='c008'>In the meanwhile my mother, that
never, when she had a turn in hand,
alloo’t the grass to grow in her path,
invited Miss Betty Græme to stay a
week with us; the which, as her father’s
family were in a straitened circumstance,
she was glad to accept; and being come,
and her mother with her, I could discern
a confabbing atween the twa auld
leddies—Mrs Græme shaking the head
of scrupulosity, and my mother laying
down the law and the gospel;—all denoting
a matter-o’-money plot for me
and Miss Betty.</p>

<p class='c008'>At last it came to pass, on the morning
of the third day, that Miss Betty
did not rise to take her breakfast with
us, but was indisposed; and when she
came to her dinner, her een were
bleared and begrutten. After dinner,
however, my mother that day put down,
what wasna common with her housewifery,
a bottle o’ port in a decanter,
instead o’ the gardevin for toddy, and
made Miss Betty drink a glass to mak
her better, and me to drink three, saying,
“Faint heart never won fair leddy.”
Upon the whilk hint I took another
myself, and drank a toast for better
acquaintance with Miss Betty. Then
the twa matrons raise to leave the room,
and Miss Betty was rising too; but her
mother laid her hand upon her shouther,
and said—</p>

<p class='c008'>“It’s our lot, my dear, and we maun
bear with it.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Thus it came to pass that I and Miss
Betty were left by ourselves in a very
comical situation.</p>

<p class='c008'>There was silence for a space of time
between us; at last she drew a deep
sigh, and I responded, to the best o’
my ability, with another. Then she
took out her pocket-napkin, and began
to wipe her eyes. This is something
like serious courting, thocht I to myself,
for sighs and tears are the food of love;
but I wasna yet just ready to greet;
hoosever, I likewise took up my pocket-napkin,
and made a sign of sympathy
by blowing my nose, and then I said—</p>

<p class='c008'>“Miss Betty Græme, how would ye
like to be Leddy of Auldbiggins, under
my mother?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Oh, heavens!” cried she, in a voice
that gart me a’ dinnle; and she burst
into a passion of tears—the whilk to see
so affectit me that I couldna help greeting
too; the sight whereof made her rise
and walk the room like a dementit
bedlamite.</p>

<p class='c008'>I was terrified, for her agitation wasna
like the raptures I expectit; but I rose
from my seat, and going round to the
other side of the table where she was
pacing the floor, I followed her, and
pulling her by the skirt, said, in a gallant
way, to raise her spirits—</p>

<p class='c008'>“Miss Betty Græme, will ye sit doon
on my knee?”</p>

<p class='c008'>I’ll ne’er forget the look she gied for
answer; but it raised my courage, and
I said, “E’en’s ye like, Meg Dorts”—and
with a flourish o’ my heel, I left her
to tune her pipes alane. This did the
business, as I thocht; for though I saw
her no more that night, yet the next
morning she came to breakfast a subdued
woman, and my mother, before the
week was out, began to make preparations
for the wedding.</p>

<p class='c008'>But, lo and behold! one afternoon,
as Miss Betty and me were taking a
walk, at her own request, on the high
road, by came a whisky with a young
man in it, that had been a penny-clerk
to her father, and before you could say,
hey cockolorum! she was up in the gig,
and doon at his side, and aff and away
like the dust in a whirlwind.</p>

<p class='c008'>I was very angry to be sae jiltit a
second time, but it wasna with an anger
like the anger I suffered for what I
met with at the hands of Annie Daisie.
It was a real passion. I ran hame like
a clap o’ thunder, and raged and rampaged
till Mrs Græme was out of the
house, bag and baggage. My mother
thought I was gane wud, and stood and
lookit at me, and didna daur to say nay
to my commands. Whereas, the thocht
o’ the usage I had gotten frae Annie
Daisie bred a heart-sickness of humiliation,
and I surely think that if she had
not carried her scorn o’ me sae far as
to prefer a bare farmer lad like John
Lounlans, I had hae sank into a decline,
and sought the grave with a broken
heart. But her marrying him roused
my corruption, and was as souring to
the milk of my nature. I could hae
forgiven her the watering; and had she
gotten a gentleman of family, I would
not have been overly miscontented;
but to think, after the offer she had from
a man of my degree, that she should
take up with a tiller of the ground, a
hewer of wood and a drawer of water,
was gall and wormwood. Truly, it was
nothing less than a kithing of the evil
spirit of the democraws that sae withered
the green bay-trees of the world, when
I was made a captain in the volunteers,
by order of the Lord Lieutenant, ’cause,
as his lordship said, of my stake in the
country.—“<cite>The Last of the Lairds.</cite>”</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='thomas_the_rhymer' class='c006'>THOMAS THE RHYMER:<br> <span class='large'><em>AN ANCIENT FAIRY LEGEND</em></span>.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By Sir Walter Scott.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>Thomas of Erceldoune, in Lauderdale,
called the Rhymer on account of
his producing a poetical romance on the
subject of Tristrem and Yseult, which
is curious as the earliest specimen of
English verse known to exist, flourished
in the reign of Alexander III. of Scotland.
Like other men of talent of the
period, Thomas was suspected of magic.
He was also said to have the gift of
prophecy, which was accounted for in
the following peculiar manner, referring
entirely to the Elfin superstition. As
Thomas lay on Huntly Bank (a place
on the descent of the Eildon hills,
which raise their triple crest above the
celebrated monastery of Melrose), he
saw a lady so extremely beautiful that
he imagined it must be the Virgin Mary
herself. Her appointments, however,
were those rather of an amazon, or
goddess of the woods. Her steed was
of the highest beauty, and at his mane
hung thirty silver bells and nine, which
were music to the wind as she paced
along. Her saddle was of “royal
bone” (ivory), laid over with “orfeverie”
(goldsmith’s work). Her stirrups—her
dress—all corresponded with
her extreme beauty and the magnificence
of her array. The fair huntress
had her bow in hand, and her arrows
at her belt. She led three greyhounds
in a leash, and three raches, or hounds
of scent, followed her closely.</p>

<p class='c008'>She rejected and disclaimed the
homage which Thomas desired to pay
to her; so that, passing from one
extremity to the other, Thomas became
as bold as he had at first been humble.
The lady warns him that he must
become her slave, if he should prosecute
his suit towards her in the manner
he proposes. Before their interview
terminates, the appearance of the beautiful
lady is changed into that of the
most hideous hag in existence. A witch
from the spital or almshouse would have
been a goddess in comparison to the
late beautiful huntress. Hideous as
she was, Thomas’s irregular desires had
placed him under the control of this
hag, and when she bade him take leave
of the sun, and of the leaf that grew on
the tree, he felt himself under the
necessity of obeying her. A cavern
received them, in which, following his
frightful guide, he for three days
travelled in darkness, sometimes hearing
the booming of a distant ocean,
sometimes walking through rivers of
blood, which crossed their subterranean
path. At length they emerged into
daylight, in a most beautiful orchard.
Thomas, almost fainting for want of
food, stretches out his hand towards the
goodly fruit which hangs around him,
but is forbidden by his conductress,
who informs him that these are the
fatal apples which were the cause of
the fall of man. He perceives also
that his guide had no sooner entered
this mysterious ground, and breathed
its magic air, than she was revived in
beauty, equipage, and splendour, as
fair or fairer than he had first seen her
on the mountain. She then proceeds
to explain to him the character of the
country.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Yonder right hand path,” she says,
“conveys the spirits of the blest to
paradise. Yon downward and well-worn
way leads sinful souls to the place
of everlasting punishment. The third
road, by yonder dark brake, conducts
to the milder place of pain, from which
prayer and mass may release offenders.
But see you yet a fourth road, sweeping
along the plain to yonder splendid
castle? Yonder is the road to Elfland,
to which we are now bound. The lord
of the castle is king of the country, and
I am his queen. And when we enter
yonder castle, you must observe strict
silence, and answer no question that is
asked at you, and I will account for
your silence by saying I took your
speech when I brought you from middle
earth.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Having thus instructed her lover,
they journeyed on to the castle, and
entering by the kitchen, found themselves
in the midst of such a festive
scene as might become the mansion of
a great feudal lord or prince.</p>

<p class='c008'>Thirty carcases of deer were lying on
the massive kitchen board, under the
hands of numerous cooks, who toiled to
cut them up and dress them, while the
gigantic greyhounds which had taken
the spoil lay lapping the blood, and
enjoying the sight of the slain game.
They came next to the royal hall,
where the king received his loving
consort without censure or suspicion.
Knights and ladies, dancing by threes,
occupied the floor of the hall, and
Thomas, the fatigues of his journey
from the Eildon hills forgotten, went
forward and joined in the revelry. After
a period, however, which seemed to him
a very short one, the queen spoke with
him apart, and bade him prepare to return
to his own country.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Now,” said the queen, “how long
think you that you have been here?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Certes, fair lady,” answered Thomas,
“not above these seven days.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“You are deceived,” answered the
queen; “you have been seven years in
this castle; and it is full time you were
gone. Know, Thomas, that the archfiend
will come to this castle to-morrow
to demand his tribute, and so handsome
a man as you will attract his eye. For
all the world would I not suffer you to
be betrayed to such a fate; therefore up,
and let us be going.”</p>

<p class='c008'>This terrible news reconciled Thomas
to his departure from Elfin land, and
the queen was not long in placing him
upon Huntly Bank, where the birds
were singing. She took a tender leave
of him, and to ensure his reputation bestowed
on him the tongue which <em>could
not lie</em>. Thomas in vain objected to
this inconvenient and involuntary adhesion
to veracity, which would make
him, as he thought, unfit for church or
for market, for king’s court or for lady’s
bower. But all his remonstrances were
disregarded by the lady, and Thomas
the Rhymer, whenever the discourse
turned on the future, gained the credit
of a prophet whether he would or not;
for he could say nothing but what was
sure to come to pass.</p>

<p class='c008'>Thomas remained several years in
his own tower near Erceldoune, and
enjoyed the fame of his predictions,
several of which are current among the
country people to this day. At length,
as the prophet was entertaining the
Earl of March in his dwelling, a cry of
astonishment arose in the village, on the
appearance of a hart and hind, which
left the forest, and, contrary to their shy
nature, came quietly onward, traversing
the village towards the dwelling of
Thomas. The prophet instantly rose
from the board; and acknowledging
the prodigy as the summons of his fate,
he accompanied the hart and hind into
the forest, and though occasionally seen
by individuals to whom he has chosen
to show himself, he has never again
mixed familiarly with mankind.</p>

<p class='c008'>Thomas of Erceldoune, during his
retirement, has been supposed, from
time to time, to be levying forces to
take the field in some crisis of his
country’s fate. The story has often been
told, of a daring horse-jockey having
sold a black horse to a man of venerable
and antique appearance, who appointed
the remarkable hillock upon Eildon
hills, called the Lucken-hare, as the
place where, at twelve o’clock at night,
he should receive the price. He came,
and his money was paid in ancient
coin, and he was invited by his customer
to view his residence. The
trader in horses followed his guide in
the deepest astonishment through several
ranges of stalls, in each of which a
horse stood motionless, while an armed
warrior lay equally still at the charger’s
feet.</p>

<p class='c008'>“All these men,” said the wizard in
a whisper, “will awaken at the battle
of Sheriffmuir.”</p>

<p class='c008'>At the extremity of this extraordinary
depôt hung a sword and a horn, which
the prophet pointed out to the horse-dealer
as containing the means of dissolving
the spell. The man in confusion
took the horn, and attempted to wind
it. The horses instantly started in
their stalls, stamped, and shook their
bridles; the men arose and clashed
their armour, and the mortal, terrified
at the tumult he had excited, dropped
the horn from his hand. A voice
like that of a giant, louder even than
the tumult around, pronounced these
words:—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Woe to the coward that ever he was born,</div>
      <div class='line'>That did not draw the sword before he blew the horn!</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c012'>A whirlwind expelled the horse-dealer
from the cavern, the entrance to which
he could never again find. A moral
might, perhaps, be extracted from the
legend,—namely, that it is best to be
armed against danger before bidding it
defiance. But it is a circumstance worth
notice, that although this edition of the
tale is limited to the year 1715, by the
very mention of Sheriffmuir, yet a similar
story appears to have been current during
the reign of Queen Elizabeth, which
is given by Reginald Scot. The narrative
is edifying as peculiarly illustrative
of the mode of marring a curious
tale in telling it, which was one of the
virtues professed by Caius when he
hired himself to King Lear. Reginald
Scot, incredulous on the subject of
witchcraft, seems to have given some
weight to the belief of those who
thought that the spirits of famous men
do, after death, take up some particular
habitations near cities, towns, and countries,
and act as tutelary and guardian
spirits to the places they loved while in
the flesh.</p>

<p class='c008'>“But more particularly to illustrate
this conjecture,” says he, “I could
name a person who hath lately appeared
thrice since his decease, at least some
ghostly being or other that calls itself
by the name of such a person, who was
dead a hundred years ago, and was in
his lifetime accounted as a prophet or
predicter, by the assistance of sublunary
spirits; and now, at his appearance,
did also give strange predictions respecting
famine and plenty, war and bloodshed,
and the end of the world. By
the information of the person that had
communication with him, the last of his
appearances was in the following manner:—‘I
had been,’ said he, ‘to sell a
horse at the next market town, but not
attaining my price, as I returned home,
by the way I met this man, who began
to be familiar with me, asking what
news, and how affairs moved through
the country. I answered as I thought
fit; withal I told him of my horse,
whom he began to cheapen, and proceeded
with me so far that the price
was agreed upon. So he turned back
with me, and told me that if I would
go along with him, I should receive my
money. On our way we went,—I upon
my horse, and he on another milk-white
beast. After much travel, I
asked him where he dwelt, and what
his name was. He told me that his
dwelling was a mile off, at a place
called <em>Farran</em>, of which place I had
never heard,<a id='r20'></a><a href='#f20' class='c018'><sup>[20]</sup></a> though I knew all the
country round about. He also told
me that he himself was the person of the
family of Learmonths,<a id='r21'></a><a href='#f21' class='c018'><sup>[21]</sup></a> so much spoken
of as a prophet. At which I began to
be somewhat fearful, perceiving we
were on a road which I had never been
on before, which increased my fear
and amazement more. Well! on we
went till he brought me under ground,
I knew not how, into the presence of a
beautiful woman, who paid me the
money without speaking a word. He
conducted me out again through a large
and long entry, where I saw above six
hundred men in armour laid prostrate
on the ground as if asleep. At last I
found myself in the open field, by the
help of the moonlight, in the very place
where I first met him, and made a shift
to get home by three in the morning.
But the money I received was just
double of what I esteemed it when the
woman paid me, of which, at this instant,
I have several pieces to show,
consisting of ninepennies, thirteenpence-halfpennies,
&#38;c.’”</p>

<div class='footnote' id='f20'>
<p class='c008'><a href='#r20'>20</a>. In this Sir Walter confesses himself “in
the same ignorance as his namesake Reginald,
though having at least as many opportunities
of information.”</p>
</div>

<div class='footnote' id='f21'>
<p class='c008'><a href='#r21'>21</a>. In popular tradition, the name of Thomas
the Rhymer was always averred to be Learmonth,
though he neither uses it himself, nor
is described by his son other than Le Rymour.
The Learmonths of Dairsie, in Fife, claimed
descent from the prophet.</p>
</div>

<p class='c008'>It is a great pity that this horse-dealer,
having specimens of the fairy
coin, of a quality more permanent than
usual, had not favoured us with an
account of an impress so valuable to
medallists. It is not the less edifying,
as we are deprived of the more picturesque
parts of the story, to learn that
Thomas’s payment was as faithful as his
prophecies. The beautiful lady who
bore the purse must have been undoubtedly
the Fairy Queen, whose affection,
though, like that of his own Yseult, we
cannot term it altogether laudable,
seems yet to have borne a faithful and
firm character.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='lachlan_more' class='c006'>LACHLAN MORE:<br> <span class='large'><em>A TRADITIONARY TALE OF THE WESTERN HIGHLANDS</em></span>.</h2>
</div>

<p class='c007'>Lachlan More Maclean, of
Duart, was one of the most remarkable
men connected with the Highlands of
Scotland in his days. His father having
died early, King James the Fifth took
a considerable interest in this young
man, and he was educated at his
expense. Lachlan’s grandfather had
been at the fatal battle of Flodden,
with a large body of his clan, and he
was killed in the immediate defence of
his unfortunate prince.</p>

<p class='c008'>The son and successor of James the
Fourth was not unmindful of this, and
he was desirous of forming a matrimonial
connection between the young chief and
the heiress of Athole. Preliminaries
having been settled among the parties,
the bridegroom was suddenly called to
his own country, and on his way he
visited the Earl of Glencairn, at his
castle on the banks of the Clyde.
Cards were introduced in the evening,
and Maclean’s partner was one of the
earl’s daughters. In the course of the
evening the game happened to be
changed, and the company again cut
for partners; on which another of the
daughters whispered in her sister’s
ear, that if the Highland chief had
been her partner, she would not have
hazarded the loss of him by cutting
anew. The chief heard the remark,
and was so pleased with the compliment,
and so fascinated with the
charm of Lady Margaret Cunningham,
that a match was made up between
them, and they were speedily married.
Maclean thus gave great offence to the
king, and lost the richest heiress at
that time in Scotland.</p>

<p class='c008'>Lachlan More’s sister was married to
Angus Macdonald, of Islay and Kintyre,
then the most powerful of the branches
which sprung from the Lord of the
Isles. These two chiefs appear to
have been much of the same disposition,—both
were violent, ambitious,
and turbulent. Their bloody feuds
were productive of much misery to
their people, and ended injuriously to
all parties. Macdonald, on his return
from the Isle of Skye, was forced to
take shelter in that portion of the
island of Jura which was the property
of Maclean; and it unfortunately
happened that two villains of the clan
Macdonald, whose bad conduct had
induced them to take refuge in Mull, to
escape punishment from their own
chief, happened to be then in Jura. It
would seem that they delighted in
mischief, and they adopted an expedient
which effectually answered their
purpose.</p>

<p class='c008'>Maclean had some cattle close to the
place where the Macdonalds lay; the
two renegades slaughtered some of
these, and carried away many more of
them. They left Jura before daylight,
and contrived to convey information to
Lachlan More that Macdonald had
done him all this damage. Duart
collected a considerable number of his
men, and arrived in Jura before the
Macdonalds departed. Without making
proper inquiry into the circumstances,
he rashly attacked the other
party, and many of them were slain,
but their chief escaped. It appears to
be admitted on all hands that this was
the beginning of the sanguinary warfare
which followed, and Maclean was
certainly culpable. Mutual friends interfered,
and endeavoured to effect a
reconciliation between persons so nearly
connected. The Earl of Argyle was
maternal uncle to Lachlan, and chiefly
by his powerful intercession the further
effusion of blood was prevented for a
time.</p>

<p class='c008'>Macdonald had occasion to be again
in Skye, and on his return he was
invited by Maclean to visit him in the
castle of Duart. After dinner, some unfortunate
circumstance occurred which
produced a quarrel. Tradition varies
in regard to what immediately followed.
It seems, however, that Maclean demanded
that the other should yield to
him possession of the whole island of
Islay, of which he then held but the
half. Some consideration was to have
been given in return for this concession;
but Maclean chose to detain as hostages,
to ensure the fulfilment of the treaty,
the eldest son of Macdonald, then a
boy, and also a brother, together with
several other persons of some note.
Maclean soon after set out for Islay to
take possession of that island. His
nephew accompanied him, but the
other hostages were left in Mull until
the whole business should be arranged.
What ensued was no more than might
have been expected: Macdonald pretended
to be disposed for an amicable
adjustment of the terms formerly agreed
upon, and prevailed on Lachlan More
to visit him at his house in Islay, where
nothing appeared to create alarm.</p>

<p class='c008'>After supper, Maclean and his people
retired to a barn for rest; but Macdonald
soon knocked at the door, and
said he had forgot to give his guests
their reposing draught, and desired to
be admitted for that purpose. A large
force had by this time been collected,
and Lachlan soon understood that he
would be made to suffer for his former
conduct. He was determined, however,
to make a resolute defence. He
stood in the door fully armed, and in
his left hand he held his nephew, who
lay with him. He was a man of extraordinary
size and strength, as the
appellation <em>More</em> indicates, and his
situation required all his prowess.
Macdonald, desirous to save the life of
his son, agreed to permit Lachlan to
quit the barn, which had by this time
been set on fire. The greater part of
his attendants also followed their chief;
but the two Macdonalds, who had first
fomented this unhappy quarrel, were
consumed in the flames.</p>

<p class='c008'>Macdonald of Islay having now recovered
possession of his son, was determined
to put Maclean and all his people
to death; but fortunately for them, he
had a fall from his horse, by which one
of his legs was fractured. This retarded
the execution of his fell purpose, and
enabled the Earl of Argyle to make a
representation of the case to the government.
Maclean was permitted to return
to Mull; but several of the principal
gentlemen of his clan, who had accompanied
them to Islay, were retained as
hostages for the safety of those who
still remained in the same condition at
Duart.</p>

<p class='c008'>Very soon after Maclean’s departure
from Islay, Macdonald of Ardnamurchan,
commonly distinguished by the
patronimic of <em>Mac-vic-Ian</em>, the son of
John’s son, arrived there, and falsely
informed Macdonald that Lachlan More
had destroyed all his hostages on his
return home. This was retaliated on
Maclean’s hostages, who were all put to
death, and the next day the other hostages
arrived safely from Mull.</p>

<p class='c008'>This is a specimen of the deplorable
state of barbarism into which Scotland
sunk during the minority of James the
Sixth. The whole kingdom was full of
blood and rapine, but the Highlands
were in the worst condition of all. For
a century afterwards very little amelioration
seems to have taken place; but it
is pleasing to reflect that for the last
fifty years there is not in Europe a
country where the law bears more absolute
sway than in the Scottish Highlands.</p>

<p class='c008'>Macdonald and Maclean were both
committed to ward, one in the Bass,
and the other in the Castle of Edinburgh,
where they were detained for several
years. They were liberated on strong
assurances of peaceable conduct, and on
giving hostages. Maclean was afterwards
ordered to join the Earl of Argyle,
who took the command of the army
appointed to oppose the Earls of Huntly
and Errol, then in open rebellion against
the government of James the Sixth.</p>

<p class='c008'>The two armies encountered at Glenlivat,
and the rebels were victorious.
Argyle, though brave, was young and
inexperienced, nor were all his officers
faithful to their trust. Innes, in his
History of Moray, asserts that some of
the principal men of his own name were
in correspondence with the enemy; and
other writers ascribe much effect to the
cannon used by the rebel earls. On
this occasion Lachlan More was greatly
distinguished for bravery and for prudence,
having acted the part of an experienced
commander, and gained the
applause of both armies.</p>

<p class='c008'>It were well if he had always confined
his warfare to such honourable combats.
Soon after we find him again engaged in
Islay against his nephew, James Macdonald,
Angus, his former antagonist,
being dead. On this occasion, it would
seem, however, that he was disposed for
peace. Lachlan had embraced the Protestant
religion; and it was a practice
with his Catholic ancestors to walk thrice
in procession around the shores of a
small island lying in Lochspelvie, invoking
success to the expedition on which
they were about to be engaged. With
singular absurdity, Lachlan resolved to
show his contempt for Catholic superstition:
he walked thrice around the
island, but his ancestors had always
walked right about, or in the same
course with the sun; but this enlightened
Protestant reversed it. The day
following he departed with his forces for
Islay, and he never returned. The
weather became boisterous, and he was
compelled to bear away for Island Nare,
in the mouth of Loch Gruinard. A day
was appointed for a conference between
himself and his nephew; and Lachlan,
attended by a small portion of his men,
was to be met by Macdonald with an
equal number. Macdonald had, however,
placed a large body in ambush at
some distance. The conference commenced
under favourable appearances,
but a misunderstanding soon arose, and
swords were drawn. A dreadful conflict
ensued, and Maclean fought with astonishing
bravery. The reserve which had
lain concealed joined their friends; but
both were on the eve of being defeated,
when a body of auxiliaries from the
island of Arran arrived, and Lachlan
More was killed, with all those who had
accompanied him on this fatal expedition.<a id='r22'></a><a href='#f22' class='c018'><sup>[22]</sup></a></p>

<div class='footnote' id='f22'>
<p class='c008'><a href='#r22'>22</a>. Lachlan More was killed in the year 1598.</p>
</div>

<p class='c008'>His son had remained on the island
with a much larger force, but the pacific
appearances deceived him, and he neglected
to keep the boats afloat. When
the fight commenced on shore, he and
his men were looking on, but could not
launch their heavy boats, or render assistance.
The Macdonalds suffered
severe loss, and James (afterwards Sir
James) was left for dead on the field.</p>

<p class='c008'>A poor woman of his own clan, assisted
by her son, conveyed Lachlan’s
body on a sledge to the church of Kilchomen,
in Islay, where she got him buried.
By the jolting of the sledge, the features
of the body acquired a particular expression,
at which the young man smiled.
His name was Macdonald, and his
mother was so enraged at his sneer, that
she made a thrust at him with a dirk,
and wounded him severely.—<cite>Lit. Gazette.</cite></p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='alemoor' class='c006'>ALEMOOR:<br> <span class='large'><em>A TALE OF THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY</em></span>.</h2>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c016'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Sad is the wail that floats o’er Alemoor’s lake,</div>
      <div class='line'>And nightly bids her gulfs unbottomed quake,</div>
      <div class='line'>While moonbeams, sailing o’er her waters blue,</div>
      <div class='line'>Reveal the frequent tinge of blood-red hue.</div>
      <div class='line'>The water-birds, with shrill discordant scream,</div>
      <div class='line'>Oft rouse the peasant from his tranquil dream;</div>
      <div class='line'>He dreads to raise his slow unclosing eye,</div>
      <div class='line'>And thinks he hears an infant’s feeble cry.—<em>Leyden.</em></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<h3 class='c013'><span class='sc'>Chapter I.</span></h3>

<p class='c014'>In one of those frequent incursions
which the Scottish Borderers used to
make into the sister territory, it was
the misfortune of Sir John Douglas, a
gallant and distinguished warrior, to be
taken prisoner by Richard de Mowbray,
who, to a naturally proud and vindictive
temper, added a bitter and irreconcilable
hatred to that branch of the house
of Douglas to which his prisoner belonged.
Instead of treating the brave
and noble youth with that courtesy
which the law of arms and the manners
of the times authorised, he loaded his
limbs with fetters, and threw him into
one of the deepest dungeons of his
baronial castle of Holme Cultrum. Earl
de Mowbray, his father, was then at the
English court, in attendance on his
sovereign, so that he had none to gainsay
his authority, but yielded, without
hesitation or restraint, to every impulse
of his passions. To what lengths the
savage cruelty of his temper might have
led him in practising against the life of
his youthful prisoner is not known, for
he was also summoned to London to
assist in the stormy councils of that distracted
period.</p>

<p class='c008'>Meanwhile, Douglas lay on the floor
of his dungeon, loaded with fetters, and
expecting every hour to be led out to
die. No murmur escaped his lips. He
waited patiently till the fatal message
arrived, only regretting that it had not
pleased Heaven to suffer him to die
sword in hand, like his brave ancestors.
“Yes!” he exclaimed, as he raised his
stately and warlike form from the
ground, and clashing his fettered hands
together, while his dark eye shot fire;
“yes! let false tyrannical Mowbray
come with all his ruffian band—let them
give me death by sword or by cord—my
cheek shall not blanch, nor my look
quail before them. As a Douglas I
have lived, as a Douglas I shall die!”
But the expected summons came not.
Day after day passed on in sullen monotony,
more trying to a brave mind than
even the prospect of suffering. No
sound broke in on the silence around
him, but the daily visit of a veteran
man-at-arms, who brought him his scanty
meal. No entreaties could induce this
man to speak, so that the unfortunate
prisoner could only guess at his probable
fate. Sometimes despondency, in spite
of his better reason, would steal over his
mind. “Shall I never again see my
noble, my widowed mother? my innocent,
playful sister?—never again wander
through the green woods of Drumlanrig,
or hunt the deer on its lordly
domain? Shall my sight never again
be greeted by the green earth or cheerful
sun? Will these hateful walls enclose
me till damp and famine destroy me,
and my withered limbs be left in this
charnel-house, a monument of the
cruelty and unceasing hatred of De
Mowbray?”</p>

<p class='c008'>Seven long weeks had rolled tediously
along when the prisoner was surprised
by his allowance being brought
by a stranger in the dress of a Cumbrian
peasant. Eagerly, rapidly he questioned
the man respecting Mowbray, his intentions,
and why he had been so long
left without being allowed to name a
ransom. The peasant told him of De
Mowbray’s absence, and added that, as
there was to be a general invasion of
Scotland, all the men-at-arms had been
marched away that morning to join
their companions, except the warders,
by whom he had been ordered to bring
food to the prisoner. Joy now thrilled
through the heart and frame of the
youthful warrior, but he had still enough
of caution left to make no further inquiries,
but allow his new jailer to
depart without exciting his suspicions
too early.</p>

<p class='c008'>It is well known to those who are
conversant with the history of that
period, that, however bitter the animosities
of the two nations were while
engaged in actual warfare, yet in times
of peace, or even of truce, the commons
lived on friendly terms, and carried on
even a sort of trade in cattle. All this
was known to Sir John, who hoped,
through the means of his new attendant,
to open a communication with his retainers,
if he could not engage him to
let him free, and become a follower of
the Douglas, whose name was alike
dreaded in both nations. But events
over which he had no control were even
then working for him, and his deliverance
was to come from a quarter he
thought not of.</p>

<p class='c008'>At the date of this tale, the ladies of
rank had few amusements when compared
to those of modern times. Books,
even if they could have been procured,
would sometimes not have been valued
or understood, from the very limited
education which, in those days, was
allowed to females. Guarded in their
inaccessible towers or castles, their only
amusement was listening to the tales of
pilgrims, or the songs of wandering
minstrels, both of whom were always
made welcome to the halls of nobles,
and whose persons, like those of heralds,
were deemed sacred even among contending
parties. To be present at a
tournament was considered as an event
of the first importance, and looked forward
to with the highest expectation,
and afterwards formed an era in their
lives. When such amusements were
not to be had, a walk on the ramparts,
attended by their trusty maid, was the
next resource against the tedium of
time. It was during such a walk as
this that Emma, only daughter of Earl
Mowbray, addressed her attendant as
follows:—</p>

<p class='c008'>“Do you think it possible, Edith,
that the prisoner, whom my brother is
so solicitous to conceal, can be that
noble Douglas of whom we have heard
so much, and about whom Graham, the
old blind minstrel, sung such gallant
verses?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Indeed, my sweet lady,” replied
her attendant, “the prisoner in yonder
dungeon is certainly of the house of
Douglas, and, as I think, the very Sir
John of whom we have heard so much.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“How knowest thou that?” inquired
her lady, eagerly.</p>

<p class='c008'>“I had always my own thoughts of
it,” whispered Edith cautiously, and
drawing nearer her mistress; “but
since Ralph of Teesdale succeeded grim
old Norman as his keeper, I am almost
certain of it. He knows every Douglas
of them, and, from his account, though
the dungeon was dark, he believes it was
Sir John who performed such prodigies
of valour at the taking of Alnwick.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“May Heaven, then, preserve and
succour him!” sighed the Lady Emma,
as she clasped her hands together.</p>

<p class='c008'>Emma De Mowbray, the only daughter
of the most powerful and warlike of
the northern earls, was dazzlingly fair,
and her very beautiful features were
only relieved from the charge of insipidity
on the first look, by the lustre of
her dark blue eyes, which were shaded
by long and beautiful eye-lashes. Her
stature was scarcely above the middle
size, but so finely proportioned, that
the eye of the beholder never tired
gazing on it. She was only seventeen,
and had not yet been allowed to grace
a tournament, her ambitious father having
determined to seclude his northern
flower till he could astonish the Court
of England with her charms, and secure
for her such an advantageous settlement
as would increase his own power
and resources. Thus had Emma grown
up the very child of nature and tenderness.
Shut out from society of every
kind, her imagination had run riot, and
her most pleasing hours, when not occupied
by devotional duties, were spent in
musing over the romantic legends which
she had heard either from minstrels, or
those adventurers who ofttimes found a
home in the castle of a powerful chief,
and which were circulated among the
domestics till they reached the ear of
their youthful lady. These feelings had
been unconsciously fostered by her
spiritual director, Father Anselm, who,
of noble birth himself, had once been a
soldier, and delighted, in the long winter
evenings, to recount the prowess of
his youth; and in the tale of other
years, often and often was the noble
name of Douglas introduced and dwelt
upon with enthusiastic rapture, as he
narrated the chief’s bravery in the Holy
Land. In short, every circumstance
combined to feed and excite the feverish
exalted imagination of this untutored
child. Had her mother lived, the sensibilities
of her nature had been cherished
and refined, and taught to keep within
the bounds of their proper channel. As
it was, they were allowed to run riot,
and almost led her to overstep the limits
of that retiring modesty which is so
beautiful in the sex. No sooner, then,
had she learnt that Douglas was the
captive of her haughty brother, and
perhaps doomed to a lingering or ignominious
death, than she resolved to
attempt his escape, be the consequences
what they would. A wild tumultuary
feeling took possession of her mind as
she came to this resolution. What would
the liberated object say to her, or how
look his thanks? and, oh! if indeed he
proved to be the hero of her day-dreams,
how blessed would she be to have it in
her power to be his guardian angel!
The tear of delight trembled in her eye,
as she turned from the bartisan of the
castle, and sought the solitude of her
chamber.</p>

<p class='c008'>It was midnight—the last stroke of
the deep-toned castle bell had been
answered by the echoes from the neighbouring
hills, when two shrouded figures
stood by the couch of the prisoner. The
glare of a small lantern, carried by one
of them, awoke Douglas. He sprung
to his feet as lightly as if the heavy
fetters he was loaded with had been of
silk, and in a stern voice told them he
was ready. “Be silent and follow us,”
was the reply of one of the muffled
visitors. He bowed in silence, and
prepared to leave his dungeon,—not an
easy undertaking, when it is remembered
that he was so heavily ironed;
but the care and ingenuity of his conductors
obviated as much as possible
even this difficulty; one came on each
side, and prevented as much as possible
the fetters from clashing on each other.
In this manner they hurried him on
through a long subterraneous passage,
then crossed some courts which seemed
overgrown with weeds, and then entered
a chapel, where Douglas could perceive
a noble tomb surrounded by burning
tapers. “You must allow yourself to
be blindfolded,” said one of them in a
sweet, musical, but suppressed voice;
he did so, and no sooner was the bandage
made fast, than he heard the snap
as of a spring, and was immediately led
forward. In a few minutes more he
felt he had left the rough stones of the
church, and its chill sepulchral air, for
a matted floor and a warmer atmosphere;
the bandage dropped from his
eyes, and he found himself in a small
square room, comfortably furnished,
with a fire blazing in the chimney; a
second look convinced him he was in
the private room of an ecclesiastic, and
that he was alone.</p>

<p class='c008'>It need not be told the sagacious
reader that this escape was the work of
Lady Emma, aided by Father Anselm,
and Ralph Teesdale, who was her foster-brother,
and therefore bound to serve
her almost at the risk of his life—so very
strong were such ties then considered.
No sooner did Douglas learn from the
venerable ecclesiastic to whom he owed
his life and liberty, than he pleaded for
an interview with all the warmth of
gratitude which such a boon could
inspire.</p>

<p class='c008'>Recruited by a night of comfortable
repose, and refreshed by wholesome
food, our youthful warrior looked more
like those of his name than when
stretched on the floor of the dungeon.
It was the evening of the second day
after his liberation, while Douglas was
listening to his kind and venerable host’s
account of the daring deeds by which
his ancestor, the good Lord James, had
been distinguished, when the door
opened, and Lady Emma and her
attendant entered. Instantly sinking
on one knee, Sir John poured forth his
thanks in language so courtly, so refined,
yet so earnest and heartfelt, that
Lady Emma’s heart beat tumultuously,
and her eyes became suffused with
tears.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Suffer me,” continued Douglas,
“to behold the features of her who
has indeed been a guardian angel to
the descendant of that house who
never forgave an injury, nor ever,
while breath animated them, forgot a
favour.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Lady Emma slowly raised her veil,
and the eyes of the youthful pair met,
and dwelt on each other with mutual
admiration. Again the knight knelt,
and, pressing her hand to his lips,
vowed that he would ever approve
himself her faithful and devoted champion.
The conversation then took a
less agitating turn, and, in another
hour, Lady Emma took her leave of
the good father and his interesting companion,
in whose favour she could not
conceal that she was already inspired
with the most fervent feelings. Nor
did she chide Edith, who, while she
braided the beautiful locks of her mistress,
expatiated on the fine form and
manly features of Douglas, and rejoiced
in his escape.</p>

<p class='c008'>It was now time for Sir John to make
some inquiries of Father Anselm about
the state of the country, and if the
Scotch had beat back their assailants
in the attack made upon them, and
learned, to his pleasure and surprise,
that the enemy were then too much
divided among themselves to think of
making reprisals, the whole force of the
kingdom being then gathered together
to decide the claims of York and Lancaster
to the crown of England; that
Earl Mowbray and his son, adherents
of the queen, were then lying at York
with their retainers, ready to close in
battle with the adverse party. It might
be supposed that this intelligence would
inspire the captive with the wish to
complete his escape, and return to
Scotland. But no. A secret influence—a
sort of charm—bound him to the
spot; he was fascinated; he had no
power to fly, even if the massy gates
of the castle had unfolded themselves
before him.</p>

<p class='c008'>Bred up in the camp, Douglas was
unused to the small sweet courtesies of
life; his hours, when in his paternal
towers of Drumlanrig, were chiefly spent
in the chase, or in warlike exercises
with his brothers, and the vassals of
their house. His mother, a lady of
noble birth, descended from the bold
Seatons, encouraged such feelings, and
kept up that state in her castle and
retinue which befitted her high rank.
His sister Bertha was a mere child,
whom he used to fondle and caress in
his moments of relaxation. But now a
new world broke upon his astonished
senses. He had seen a young, a beautiful
lady, to whom he owed life and
liberty, who, unsought, had generously
come forward to his relief. Of the
female character he knew nothing; if
he did think of them, it was either
invested with the matronly air of his
mother, or the playful fondness of his
sister. His emotions were new and
delightful, and he longed to tell his fair
deliverer all he felt; and he did tell
her, and—she listened.</p>

<p class='c008'>But why prolong the tale? Interview
succeeded interview, till even Father
Anselm became aware of their growing
attachment. Alas! the good priest saw
his error too late; and although, even
then, he attempted to reason with both
on the consequences of their passion,
yet his arguments made no impression.</p>

<p class='c008'>“You will turn war into peace,”
whispered Lady Emma, as she listened
to her spiritual director, “by healing
the feud between the families.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“And you will, by uniting us,”
boldly exclaimed the youthful lover,
“give to the Mowbrays a friend who
will never fail in council or in field.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Overcome by these and similar arguments,
the tender-hearted Anselm at
last consented to join their hands. At
the solemn hour of midnight, when the
menials and retainers were bound in
sleep, an agitated yet happy group
stood by the altar of the castle chapel.
There might be seen the noble form of
Douglas, with a rich mantle wrapped
round him, and the fair and beautiful
figure of his bride, as she blushingly
left the arm of her attendant to bestow
her hand where her heart was already
given. The light of the sacred tapers
fell full upon the reverend form of
Father Anselm, and the chapel reverberated
the solemn words he uttered as
he invoked Heaven to bless their union.
The athletic figure of Ralph Teesdale
was seen near the door to guard against
surprise.</p>

<h3 class='c015'><span class='sc'>Chapter II.</span></h3>

<p class='c014'>Nothing occurred for some time to
mar the harmony and peace of the
married lovers. At length their tranquillity
was broken by accounts of the
fatal and bloody battle of Towton,
which gave a death-blow to the interests
of the Lancastrians. This news spread
consternation among the small party at
Holme Cultrum. The question was,
whether to remain and boldly confront
the Mowbrays, or fly towards Scotland
and endeavour to reach Drumlanrig;
but the distracted state of the country
forbade this plan, and the arrival of
some fugitives from the field of battle
having brought the intelligence that
both Earl Mowbray and his son were
unwounded, and had fled to France,
determined the party to remain where
they were. This, however, they soon
repented of, when they understood that a
large body of Yorkists were in full march
northwards to demolish all the castles
held by the insurgent noblemen. This
trumpet-note roused the warlike spirit
of Douglas. He boldly showed himself
to the soldiers, and swore to defend
the castle to the last, or be buried in its
ruins, if they would stand by him.
But the men-at-arms, either unwilling
to fight under a stranger, or panicstruck
at their late defeat, coldly met
this proposal; and while Father Anselm
and Douglas were examining the outward
works, they made their escape by
a postern, leaving only two or three
infirm old men, besides the menials, to
resist the conquering army. Sir John,
undaunted by the dastardly behaviour
of the men, still continued his preparations,
and inspired such courage into
the hearts of his little garrison, that
they vowed to stand by him to the last.
But these preparations proved needless:
Edward, either allured by the prospect
of greater booty in some richer castle,
or afraid of harassing his troops, turned
aside into the midland counties, and
left the bold-hearted Douglas to the
enjoyment of his wife’s society.</p>

<p class='c008'>Months of unalloyed felicity were
theirs; and while England was torn by
civil dissensions,—when the father pursued
the son, and the son the father,
and the most sacred bonds of nature
were rent asunder at the shrine of party,
and while the unburied dead gave the
fields of merry England the appearance
of a charnel-house,—all was peace, love,
and joy within the walls of Holme
Cultrum. Seated in the lofty halls of
her fathers, Lady Emma appeared the
personification of content; hers was
indeed that felicity she had not dared
to hope for even in her wildest daydreams.
It was indeed a lovely sight
to behold her leaning on the arm of her
noble husband, listening to his details
of well-fought fields; her eye now
sparkling with hope, and her cheek now
blanched with terror, as they paced in
the twilight the ample battlements of
the castle: it was like the ivy clinging
and clasping round the stately oak. If
at such moments Douglas wearied of the
monotony of existence, and half-wished
he was once more in the front of battle,
he had only to look in the soft blue eye
of his Emma, press her to his heart, and
everything else was forgot.</p>

<p class='c008'>Summer had passed away, and the
fields wore the golden livery of autumn.
It was on a beautiful evening, while
Douglas, Lady Emma, and Father
Anselm, were enjoying the soothing
breeze, when Ralph Teesdale rushed before
them, his face pale and his trembling
accents proclaiming his terror.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Fly, my lord!” addressing Douglas;
“fly, for you are betrayed; the earl is
come, at the head of a band of mercenaries,
and vows to have your head
stuck on the battlements before tomorrow’s
sun rise.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I will not fly,” said Douglas;
“boldly will I confront the earl, and
claim my wife.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“My father is good, is kind; he will
yield to the prayers and tears of his
Emma.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Alas, alas! my dearest and honoured
lady,” rejoined her foster-brother, “your
noble father is no more, and ’tis your
brother who now seeks the life of
Douglas.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The first part of the sentence was
only heard by Lady Emma, who fell
senseless into the arms of her husband,
and was immediately conveyed to her
chamber by her ever-ready attendant.
A hasty council was then held between
Father Anselm and Douglas.</p>

<p class='c008'>“You had better take the advice of
that faithful fellow, and give way. You
know,” continued the priest, “the dreadful
temper and baleful passions of
Richard de Mowbray. Not only
your own life, but that of your wife,
may fall a sacrifice to his fury, were he
to find you. I am well aware that he
has long considered his sister as an
encumbrance on his succession, and will
either cause her to be shut up in a convent,
or secretly destroyed.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Douglas shuddered at the picture,
and asked the holy father what he
should do.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Retreat to my secret chamber, in
the first instance; it were madness, and
worse, to attempt to exclude the Earl de
Mowbray from his castle, even if we
had sufficient strength within, which
you know we have not. I shall cause
Lady Emma to be conveyed there also
when she recovers; we must resolve on
some scheme instantly; the secret of
the spring is unknown to all but your
faithful friends.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Sir John at length complied, and was
shortly afterwards joined in his retreat
by Lady Emma and Edith. Flight—instant
flight—was resolved on; and
the timid and gentle Emma, who had
hardly ever ventured beyond the walls
of the castle, declared she was ready to
dare everything rather than be torn
from her husband, or be the means of
his being consigned to endless captivity,
or, it might be, a cruel and lingering
death. Father Anselm set off again in
search of Ralph, and soon returned with
the joyful intelligence that De Mowbray
was still at a castle a few miles distant;
that those of his followers who had
already arrived were then carousing
deeply; and as soon as the first watch
was set, a pair of fleet horses would be
waiting at the small postern, to which
Douglas and his lady could steal unobserved,
wrapt in horsemen’s cloaks.
The short interval which intervened
was spent by Edith in making such
preparations as were required for the
travellers, and by the churchman in
fervent petitions to Heaven for their
safety. At length the expected signal
was given from the chapel, and the
agitated party stood at the low postern,
where Ralph waited with the horses.
It was some moments before the lady
could disengage herself from the arms
of her weeping attendant; but the
father hurried them away, and soon
their figures were lost in the gloom,
and their horses’ tread became faint in
the distance.</p>

<p class='c008'>Well it was for the fugitives that their
plans had been so quickly executed, for
ere midnight the trumpets of De Mowbray
sounded before the castle gate.
There all was uproar and confusion.
The means of refreshment had been
given with unsparing hand, and the
wild spirits of the mercenaries whom
he commanded were then in a state
bordering on stupefaction from their
lengthened debauch. The few who
accompanied him were not much better,
and he himself had all his evil passions
inflamed by the wine he had quaffed
with the Lord of Barnard Castle.
Hastily throwing himself from his reeking
charger, he entered his castle sword
in hand, and ordered his sister to be
brought before him, and the castle to
be searched, from turret to foundation
stone, for the presumptuous Douglas.
Pale, trembling, and in tears, Edith
threw herself at his feet.</p>

<p class='c008'>“O, my good lord, my lady, my dear
lady is ill, very ill, ever since she heard of
the death of her honoured father. To-morrow
she will endeavour to see you.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Off, woman!” he exclaimed. “This
night I must and shall see my sister,
dead or alive,” and he arose with fury
in his looks.</p>

<p class='c008'>But Wolfstone, his lieutenant, a
brave young man, stepped before him,
and, drawing his sword, exclaimed—</p>

<p class='c008'>“You must pass over my dead body
ere you break in upon the sacred sorrows
of Lady Emma.”</p>

<p class='c008'>There was something in the brave
bearing of the gallant foreigner which
even De Mowbray respected, for he
lowered his voice, and stealing his hand
from his dagger, said—</p>

<p class='c008'>“And where is Father Anselm, that
he comes not to welcome me to the
halls of my fathers?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“He is gone,” returned Edith, “to
the neighbouring monastery, to say a
mass for the honoured dead,” and she
devoutly crossed herself, turning her
tearful eye on Wolfstone, who, with the
most respectful tone, added—</p>

<p class='c008'>“Go, faithful maiden! say to your
lady that Conrad Wolfstone guards her
chamber till her pleasure is known.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Now lead in our prisoner there;”
but a dozen of voices exclaimed against
further duty that night.</p>

<p class='c008'>“He sleeps sound in his dungeon,”
said De Mowbray’s squire; “and tomorrow
you may make him sleep
sounder, if you will. A cup of wine
would be more to the purpose, methinks,
after our long and toilsome march.”</p>

<p class='c008'>A hundred voices joined in the request.
The wine was brought, and the
tyrant soon forgot his projects of
vengeance in a prolonged debauch.
He slept too—that unnatural monster
slept—and dreamt of his victims, and
the sweet revenge that was awaiting
him. It was owing to the presence of
mind of Ralph that the flight of Douglas
was not discovered. He had the address
to persuade the half-inebriated
soldiers that the prisoner was actually
securely fettered in the dungeon which
he had all along occupied. No sooner
did he see them engaged in the new
carousal than he hastened to join Edith
in the secret chamber, where they united
with Father Anselm in his devotions,
and prayed for blessings on the head of
their noble lord and lady.</p>

<p class='c008'>Meanwhile the fugitives had reached
Scotland, and were now leisurely pursuing
their way, thinking themselves
far beyond the reach of pursuit. On
their first crossing the border, a shepherd’s
hut afforded the agitated Lady
Emma an hour’s repose and a draught
of milk. The morning air revived her
spirits, and once more she smiled
sweetly as her husband bade her welcome
to his native soil. From the fear
of pursuit, they durst not take the most
direct road to Drumlanrig, but continued
to follow the narrow tracks among the
hills, known only to huntsmen and
shepherds.</p>

<p class='c008'>It was now evening; the sun was
sinking among a lofty range of mountains,
tinging their heathy summits with
a purple hue, as his broad disc seemed
to touch their tops. The travellers
were entering a narrow defile, at the
end of which a small but beautiful
mountain lake or loch burst upon their
sight; its waters lay delightfully still
and placid, reflecting aslant a few alder
bushes which grew on its banks, while
the canna, or wild cotton grass, reared
its white head here and there among
the bushes of wild thyme which sent
their perfume far on the air. The wild
and melancholy note of the curlew, as
she was roused from her nest by the
travellers, or the occasional bleat of a
lamb, was all that broke the universal
stillness.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ah, my love,” said Lady Emma, riding
up close to her husband, “what a
scene of peace and tranquillity! Why
could we not live here, far from courts
and camps, from battle and bloodshed?
But,” she continued, looking fondly and
fixedly at her husband, “this displeases
you,—think of it only as a fond dream,
and pardon me.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“True, my Emma,” returned Douglas,
“these are but fond dreams; the state
of our poor country commands every
man to do his duty, and how could the
followers of the Bloody Heart sheath
their swords, and live like bondsmen?
Never—never! But let us ride on
now; the smoke from yonder cabin
on the brow of the hill promises shelter
for the night, and, ere to-morrow’s sun
go down, you shall be welcomed as the
daughter of one of the noblest dames of
Scotland. Ride on—the night wears
apace.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Scarcely had the words passed his
lips, when the quick tramp of a steed
behind caused him to turn round. It
was Mowbray, his eyes glaring with
fury, and his frame trembling with rage
and excitement.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Turn, traitor! coward! robber!
turn, and meet your just punishment!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Coward was never heard by a
Douglas unrevenged,” was the haughty
answer to this defiance, as he wheeled
round to meet the challenger, at the
same time waving to Lady Emma to
ride on; but she became paralysed
with fear and surprise, and sat on her
palfrey motionless. Both drew their
swords, and the combat began. It was
furious but short: Douglas unhorsed
his antagonist, and then, leaping from
his own steed, went to assist in raising
him, unwilling farther to harm the
brother of his wife. But oh, the
treachery and cruelty of the wicked!
No sooner did the tender-hearted
Douglas kneel down beside him to
ascertain the nature of his wounds,
than Mowbray drew his secret dagger,
and stabbed him to the heart.</p>

<p class='c007'>The moon rose pale and cold on the
waters of this inland lake, and showed
distinctly the body of a female lying
near its shore, while a dark heap,
resembling men asleep, was seen at a
little distance on a rising ground,—the
mournful howl of a large dog only
broke the death-like stillness. Soon,
however, a horseman was seen descending
the pass; he was directed by the
dog to the female, who still lay as if
life indeed had fled. He sprung from
his horse, and brought water from the
lake, which he sprinkled on her face
and hands. Long his efforts were
unavailing, but at last the pulse of life
began once more to beat, the eye
opened, and she wildly exclaimed—</p>

<p class='c008'>“O do not kill him!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“He is safe for me, lady,” said the
well-known voice of Ralph Teesdale.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Thou here, my trusty friend!”
murmured Lady Emma; “bear me to
Douglas, and all may yet be well.”</p>

<p class='c008'>She could utter no more; insensibility
again seized her, and Ralph,
lifting her up, bore her in his arms to
what he supposed to be a shepherd’s
cottage, but found it only a deserted
summer sheiling. He was almost
distracted, and, laying down his
precious burden, wrapped in his horseman’s
cloak, he ran out again in search
of assistance, though hardly hoping to
find it in such a wild district, still
closely followed by the dog, which
continued at intervals the same dismal
howl which had attracted the notice of
Ralph as they ascended the hill. The
sad note of the hound was answered
by a loud barking, and never fell
sounds more welcome on the ear of the
faithful vassal. He followed the
sounds, and they led him to a hut
tenanted by a shepherd and his wife.
His tale was soon told. They hastened
with him to the deserted sheiling, where
they found the object of their solicitude
in a situation to demand instant and
female assistance. There, amid the
wilds of Scotland, in a comfortless
cabin, the heir of the warlike and noble
Sir John Douglas first saw the light.
Long ere perfect consciousness returned,
Lady Emma was removed to
the more comfortable home of the
shepherd, and there his wife paid her
every possible attention.</p>

<p class='c008'>The care of Ralph consigned the
remains of the rival chiefs to one grave.
It was supposed that De Mowbray had
expired soon after giving Douglas the
fatal stroke, as his fingers still firmly
grasped the hilt of his dagger. Their
horses and accoutrements were disposed
of by the shepherd, and thus furnished
a fund for the maintenance of the
noble lady, who was so strangely cast
upon their care. Many weeks elapsed
ere she was aware she had neither husband
nor brother.</p>

<p class='c007'>Time, which calms or extinguishes
every passion of the human heart, had
exerted its healing influence over the
mind of Lady Emma. She sat watching
the gambols of her son on the
banks of the peaceful lake, whose
waters had first recalled her to life on
the disastrous evening of his birth.
There was even a smile on her pale
thin lip, as he tottered to her knee,
and laid there a handful of yellow wildflowers.
She clasped the blooming
boy to her heart, murmuring, “My
Douglas!” On her first awakening to
a full sense of her loss and forlorn condition,
it was only by presenting her
son to her that she could be persuaded
to live; and when her strength returned,
she determined to go to Drumlanrig,
and claim protection for herself and
child. But the prudence of Ralph
suggested the propriety of his first
going to ascertain the state of the
family; and recommending his lady to
the care of Gilbert Scott and his kind-hearted
wife, he set out on his embassy.
But sad was his welcome: the noble
pile was a heap of blackened and
smoking ruins, and the lady fled no
one knew whither. Sad and sorrowful
he returned to the mountain retreat,
and was surprised at the calmness with
which his honoured mistress heard his
tale. Alas! he knew not that the pang
she had already suffered made every
other loss appear trivial!</p>

<p class='c008'>The lonely sheiling was repaired
and furnished. Here Lady Emma, in
placid content, nursed her child, attended
by her faithful foster-brother,
who made occasional excursions to the
neighbouring town to supply her with
any necessary she required. On an
occasion of this kind, when the lovely
boy was nearly two years old, she sat
at the door of her humble dwelling,
listening to his sweet prattle. It was
the first time he had attempted to say
the most endearing of all words. She
forgot her sorrows, and was almost
happy. Her attention was soon called
to some domestic concern within the
cottage. The boy was on his accustomed
seat at the door, when a shrill
and piercing scream caused her to run
out. Need her anguish and despair be
painted, when she saw her lovely boy
borne aloft in the air in the talons of an
eagle? To run, to scream, to shout,
was the first movement of the frenzied
mother; but vain had been her efforts,
had she not been almost immediately
joined by some of her neighbours,
whose united efforts made the fatigued
bird quit its prey and drop it into the
loch. Many a willing heart, many an
active hand, was ready to save the boy.
He was delivered to his mother, but,
alas! only as a drenched and nerveless
corse. Human nature could endure no
more. Her brain reeled, and reason
fled for ever. Her faithful and attached
follower returned to find his lady a
wandering maniac. Year after year
did he follow her footsteps, nor, till
death put a period to her sufferings,
did his care slacken for one instant.
After he had seen her laid by her
husband and brother, he bade adieu to
the simple inhabitants, and it is supposed
he fell in some of the border
raids of the period, as he was never
more heard of.</p>

<p class='c008'>Reader, this tale is no idle fiction.
On the borders of Alemoor Loch, in
Selkirkshire, may still be seen a small
clump of moss-grown trees, among
which were one or two of the crab-apple
kind, which showed that here the
hand of cultivation had once been.
Within this enclosure was a small
green mound, to which tradition, in
reference to the above story, gave the
name of the Lady’s Seat; and about
half a mile to the south-west of the
lonely loch is an oblong bench, with a
rising ground above, still called the
Chieftain’s Grave.—<cite>Chambers’s Edinburgh
Journal.</cite></p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='tibby_fowler' class='c006'>TIBBY FOWLER.</h2>
</div>

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    <div><span class='sc'>By John Mackay Wilson.</span></div>
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      <div class='line'>Tibby Fowler o’ the glen,</div>
      <div class='line'>A’ the lads are wooin’ at her.—<cite>Old Song.</cite></div>
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<p class='c007'>All our readers have heard and
sung of “Tibby Fowler o’ the glen;”
but they may not all be aware that the
glen referred to lies within about four
miles of Berwick. No one has seen
and not admired the romantic amphitheatre
below Edrington Castle, through
which the Whitadder coils like a beautiful
serpent glittering in the sun, and
sports in fantastic curves beneath the
pasture-clad hills, the gray ruin, the
mossy and precipitous crag, and the
pyramid of woods, whose branches,
meeting from either side, bend down
and kiss the glittering river, till its
waters seem lost in their leafy bosom.
Now, gentle reader, if you have looked
upon the scene we have described, we
shall make plain to you the situation of
Tibby Fowler’s cottage, by a homely
map, which is generally <em>at hand</em>. You
have only to bend your arm, and suppose
your shoulder to represent Edrington
Castle, your hand Clarabad, and
near the elbow you will have the spot
where “ten cam rowing ower the
water;” a little nearer to Clarabad is
the “lang dyke side,” and immediately
at the foot of it is the site of Tibby’s
cottage, which stood upon the Edrington
side of the river; and a little to the
west of the cottage, you will find a
shadowy row of palm-trees, planted, as
tradition testifieth, by the hands of
Tibby’s father, old Ned Fowler, of
whom many speak until this day. The
locality of the song was known to
many; and if any should be inclined
to inquire how we became acquainted
with the other particulars of our story,
we have only to reply, that that belongs
to a class of questions to which we do
not return an answer. There is no
necessity for a writer of tales taking
for his motto—<i><span lang="la">vitam impendere vero</span></i>.
Tibby’s parents had the character of
being “bien bodies;” and, together
with their own savings, and a legacy
that had been left them by a relative,
they were enabled at their death to
leave their daughter in possession of
five hundred pounds. This was esteemed
a fortune in those days, and
would afford a very respectable foundation
for the rearing of one yet.
Tibby, however, was left an orphan,
as well as the sole mistress of five
hundred pounds, and the proprietor
of a neat and well-furnished cottage,
with a piece of land adjoining, before
she had completed her nineteenth
year; and when we add that she had
hair like the raven’s wings when the
sun glances upon them, cheeks where
the lily and the rose seemed to have
lent their most delicate hues, and eyes
like twin dew-drops glistening beneath
a summer moonbeam, with a waist and
an arm rounded like a model for a
sculptor, it is not to be wondered at
that “a’ the lads cam wooin’ at her.”
But she had a woman’s heart as well
as woman’s beauty and the portion of
an heiress. She found her cottage
surrounded, and her path beset, by a
herd of grovelling pounds-shillings-and-pence
hunters, whom her very soul
loathed. The sneaking wretches, who
profaned the name of lovers, seemed
to have <em>money</em> written on their very
eyeballs, and the sighs they professed
to heave in her presence sounded to
her like stifled groans of—<em>Your gold—your
gold!</em> She did not hate them,
but she despised their meanness; and
as they one by one gave up persecuting
her with their addresses, they consoled
themselves with retorting upon her the
words of the adage, that “her <em>pride</em>
would have a fall!” But it was not
from pride that she rejected them, but
because her heart was capable of love—of
love, pure, devoted, unchangeable,
springing from being beloved, and
because her feelings were sensitive as
the quivering aspen, which trembles
at the rustling of an insect’s wing.
Amongst her suitors there might have
been some who were disinterested;
but the meanness and sordid objects of
many caused her to regard all with
suspicion, and there was none among
the number to whose voice her bosom
responded as the needle turns to the
magnet, and frequently from a cause as
inexplicable. She had resolved that
the man to whom she gave her hand
should wed her for herself—and for
herself only. Her parents had died in
the same month; and about a year
after their death she sold the cottage
and the piece of ground, and took her
journey towards Edinburgh, where the
report of her being a “great fortune,”
as her neighbours termed her, might be
unknown. But Tibby, although a
sensitive girl, was also, in many
respects, a prudent one. Frequently
she had heard her mother, when she
had to take but a shilling from the
legacy, quote the proverb, that it was</p>

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    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Like a cow in a clout,</div>
      <div class='line'>That soon wears out.</div>
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<p class='c012'>Proverbs we know are in bad taste, but
we quote it, because by its repetition
the mother produced a deeper impression
on her daughter’s mind than could
have been effected by a volume of
sentiment. Bearing therefore in her
memory the maxim of her frugal
parent, Tibby deposited her money in
the only bank, we believe, that was at
that period in the Scottish capital, and
hired herself as a child’s maid in the
family of a gentleman who occupied a
house in the neighbourhood of Restalrig.
Here the story of her fortune
was unknown, and Tibby was distinguished
only for a kind heart and
a lovely countenance. It was during
the summer months, and Leith Links
became her daily resort; and there she
was wont to walk, with a child in her
arms and leading another by the hand,
for there she could wander by the side
of the sounding sea; and her heart still
glowed for her father’s cottage and its
fairy glen, where she had often heard
the voice of its deep waters, and she
felt the sensation which we believe
may have been experienced by many
who have been born within hearing of
old ocean’s roar, that wherever they
may be, they hear the murmur of its
billows as the voice of a youthful
friend; and she almost fancied, as she
approached the sea, that she drew
nearer the home which sheltered her
infancy. She had been but a few
weeks in the family we have alluded
to, when, returning from her accustomed
walk, her eyes met those of a
young man habited as a seaman. He
appeared to be about five-and-twenty,
and his features were rather manly
than handsome. There was a dash of
boldness and confidence in his countenance;
but as the eyes of the maiden
met his, he turned aside as if abashed,
and passed on. Tibby blushed at her
foolishness, but she could not help it;
she felt interested in the stranger.
There was an expression, a language,
an inquiry in his gaze, she had never
witnessed before. She would have
turned round to cast a look after him,
but she blushed deeper at the thought,
and modesty forbade it. She walked
on for a few minutes, upbraiding herself
for entertaining the silly wish,
when the child who walked by her side
fell a few yards behind. She turned
round to call him by his name. Tibby
was certain that she had no motive but
to call the child, and though she did
steal a sidelong glance towards the
spot where she had passed the stranger,
it was a mere accident; it could not be
avoided—at least so the maiden wished
to persuade her conscience against her
conviction; but that glance revealed
to her the young sailor, not pursuing
the path on which she had met him,
but following her within the distance
of a few yards, and until she reached
her master’s door she heard the sound
of his footsteps behind her. She
experienced an emotion between being
pleased and offended at his conduct,
though we suspect the former eventually
predominated; for the next day she
was upon the Links as usual, and there
also was the young seaman, and again
he followed her to within sight of her
master’s house. How long this sort of
dumb love-making, or the pleasures
of diffidence, continued, we cannot tell.
Certain it is that at length he spoke,
wooed, and conquered; and about a
twelvemonth after their first meeting,
Tibby Fowler became the wife of
William Gordon, the mate of a foreign
trader. On the second week after their
marriage, William was to sail upon a
long, long voyage, and might not be
expected to return for more than twelve
months. This was a severe trial for
poor Tibby, and she felt as if she would
not be able to stand up against it. As
yet her husband knew nothing of her
dowry, and for this hour she had
reserved its discovery. A few days
before their marriage she had drawn her
money from the bank and deposited it
in her chest.</p>

<p class='c008'>“No, Willie, my ain Willie,” she
cried, “ye maunna, ye winna leave me
already: I have neither faither, mother,
brother, nor kindred; naebody but
you, Willie; only you in the wide
world; and I am a stranger here,
and ye winna leave your Tibby. Say
that ye winna, Willie?” And she
wrung his hand, gazed in his face, and
wept.</p>

<p class='c008'>“I maun gang, dearest; I maun
gang,” said Willie, and pressed her to
his breast; “but the thocht o’ my ain
wifie will mak the months chase ane
anither like the moon driving shadows
ower the sea. There’s nae danger in
the voyage, hinny; no a grain o’ danger;
sae dinna greet; but come, kiss me,
Tibby, and when I come hame I’ll mak
ye leddy o’ them a’.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Oh no, no, Willie!” she replied;
“I want to be nae leddy; I want naething
but my Willie. Only say that ye’ll
no gang, and here’s something here,
something for ye to look at.” And she
hurried to her chest, and took from it a
large leathern pocket-book that had been
her father’s, and which contained her
treasure, now amounting to somewhat
more than six hundred pounds. In a
moment she returned to her husband;
she threw her arms around his neck;
she thrust the pocket-book into his
bosom. “There, Willie, there!” she
exclaimed; “that is yours—my faither
placed it in my hand wi’ a blessing, and
wi’ the same blessing I transfer it to
you; but dinna, dinna leave me.” Thus
saying, she hurried out of the room.
We will not attempt to describe the
astonishment, we may say the joy, of
the fond husband, on opening the
pocket-book and finding the unlooked-for
dowry. However intensely a man
may love a woman, there is little chance
that her putting an unexpected portion
of six hundred pounds into his hands
will diminish his attachment; nor did
it diminish that of William Gordon.
He relinquished his intention of proceeding
on the foreign voyage, and
purchased a small coasting vessel, of
which he was both owner and commander.
Five years of unclouded prosperity
passed over them, and Tibby had
become the mother of three fair children.
William sold his small vessel, and
purchased a larger one, and in fitting it
up all the gains of his five successful
years were swallowed up. But trade
was good. She was a beautiful brig,
and he had her called the <em>Tibby Fowler</em>.
He now took a fond farewell of his wife
and little ones upon a foreign voyage
which was not calculated to exceed four
months, and which held out high promise
of advantage. But four, eight,
twelve months passed away, and there
was no tidings of the <em>Tibby Fowler</em>.
Britain was then at war; there were
enemies’ ships and pirates upon the sea,
and there had been fierce storms and
hurricanes since her husband left; and
Tibby thought of all these things and
wept; and her lisping children asked
her when their father would return, for
he had promised presents to all, and she
answered, to-morrow, and to-morrow,
and turned from them, and wept again.
She began to be in want, and at first
she received assistance from some of the
friends of their prosperity; but all hope
of her husband’s return was now
abandoned. The ship was not insured,
and the mother and her family were
reduced to beggary. In order to support
them, she sold one article of
furniture after another, until what remained
was seized by the landlord in
security for his rent. It was then that
Tibby and her children, with scarce a
blanket to cover them, were cast friendless
upon the streets, to die or to beg.
To the last resource she could not yet
stoop, and from the remnants of former
friendship she was furnished with a
basket and a few trifling wares, with
which, with her children by her side,
she set out, with a broken and sorrowful
heart, wandering from village to
village. She had journeyed in this
manner for some months, when she
drew near her native glen, and the
cottage that had been her father’s—that
had been her own—stood before her.
She had travelled all the day and sold
nothing. Her children were pulling by
her tattered gown, weeping and crying,
“Bread, mother, give us bread!” and
her own heart was sick with hunger.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Oh, wheesht, my darlings, wheesht!”
she exclaimed, and she fell upon her
knees, and threw her arms round the
necks of all the three, “You will get
bread soon; the Almighty will not permit
my bairns to perish; no, no, ye
shall have bread.”</p>

<p class='c008'>In despair she hurried to the cottage
of her birth. The door was opened by
one who had been a rejected suitor.
He gazed upon her intently for a few
seconds; and she was still young, being
scarce more than six-and-twenty, and
in the midst of her wretchedness yet
lovely.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Gude gracious, Tibby Fowler!”
he exclaimed, “is that you? Poor
creature! are ye seeking charity? Weel,
I think ye’ll mind what I said to you
now, that your pride would have a fa’!”</p>

<p class='c008'>While the heartless owner of the
cottage yet spoke, a voice behind her
was heard exclaiming, “It is her! it is
her! my ain Tibby and her bairns!”</p>

<p class='c008'>At the well-known voice, Tibby
uttered a wild scream of joy, and fell
senseless on the earth; but the next
moment her husband, William Gordon,
raised her to his breast. Three weeks
before, he had returned to Britain, and
traced her from village to village, till
he found her in the midst of their
children, on the threshold of the place
of her nativity. His story we need not
here tell. He had fallen into the hands
of the enemy; he had been retained for
months on board of their vessel; and
when a storm had arisen, and hope
was gone, he had saved her from being
lost and her crew from perishing. In
reward for his services, his own vessel
had been restored to him, and he was
returned to his country, after an absence
of eighteen months, richer than when
he left, and laden with honours. The
rest is soon told. After Tibby and her
husband had wept upon each other’s
neck, and he had kissed his children,
and again their mother, with his youngest
child on one arm, and his wife
resting on the other, he hastened from
the spot that had been the scene of such
bitterness and transport. In a few
years more, William Gordon having
obtained a competency, they re-purchased
the cottage in the glen, where
Tibby Fowler lived to see her children’s
children, and died at a good old age in
the house in which she had been born—the
remains of which, we have only to
add, for the edification of the curious,
may be seen until this day.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='daniel_cathie_tobacconist' class='c006'>DANIEL CATHIE, TOBACCONIST.</h2>
</div>

<p class='c007'>Daniel Cathie was a reputable
dealer in snuff, tobacco, and candles, in
a considerable market town in Scotland.
His shop had, externally, something
neat and enticing about it. In the
centre of one window glowed a transparency
of a ferocious-looking Celt,
bonneted, plaided, and kilted, with his
unsheathed claymore in one hand, and
his ram’s-horn mull in the other; intended,
no doubt, to emblem to the
spectator, that from thence he recruited
his animal spirits, drawing courage
from the titillation of every pinch.
Around him were tastefully distributed
jars of different dimensions, bearing
each the appropriate title of the various
compounds within, from Maccuba and
Lundy Foot down to Beggar’s Brown
and Irish Blackguard. In the other, one
half was allotted to tobacco pipes of all
dimensions, tastefully arranged, so as
to form a variety of figures, such as
crosses, triangles, and squares; decorated
at intervals with rolls of twist,
serpentinings of pigtail, and monticuli
of shag. The upper half displayed
candles, distributed with equal exhibition
of taste, from the prime four
in the pound down to the halfpenny
dip; some of a snowy whiteness, and
others of an aged and delicate yellow
tinge; enticing to the eyes of experienced
housewives and spectacled
cognoscenti. Over the door rode a
swarthy son of Congo, with broad
nostrils, and eyes whose whites were
fearfully dilated,—astride on a tobacco
hogshead,—his woolly head bound with
a coronal of feathers, a quiver peeping
over his shoulder, and a pipe in his
cheeks blown up for the eternity of his
wooden existence, in the ecstasy of inhalation.</p>

<p class='c008'>Daniel himself, the autocrat of this
domicile, was a little squat fellow, five
feet and upwards, of a rosy complexion,
with broad shoulders, and no inconsiderable
rotundity of paunch. His
eye was quick and sparkling, with
something of an archness in its twinkle,
as if he loved a joke occasionally, and
could wink at any one who presumed
so far in tampering with his shrewdness.
His forehead was bald, as well as no
small portion of either temple; and the
black curls, which projected above his
ears, gave to his face the appearance of
more than its actual breadth, which was
scantily relieved by a slight blue spotted
handkerchief, loosely tied around a
rather apoplectic neck.</p>

<p class='c008'>His dress was commonly a bottle-green
jacket, single-breasted, and square
in the tails; a striped cotton waistcoat;
velveteen breeches, and light blue
ridge-and-furrow worsted stockings. A
watch-chain, of a broad steel pattern,
hung glittering before him, at which
depended a small gold seal, a white
almond-shaped shell, and a perforated
Queen Anne’s sixpence. Over all this
lower display, suppose that you fasten
a clean, glossy linen apron, and you
have his entire portrait and appearance.</p>

<p class='c008'>From very small beginnings he had
risen, by careful industry, to a respectable
place in society, and was now the landlord
of the property he had for many
years only rented.</p>

<p class='c008'>Matters prospered, and he got on by
slow but steady paces. Business began
to extend its circle around him,
and his customers became more respectable
and genteel.</p>

<p class='c008'>In a short time Daniel opened accounts
with his banker. His establishment
became more extensive; and after the
lapse of a few not unimproved years, he
took his place in the first rank of the
merchants of a populous burgh.</p>

<p class='c008'>His lengthening purse and respectable
character pointed him out as a fit
candidate for city honours, and the
town-council pitched upon him as an
eligible person to grace their board.
This was a new field opened for him.
His reasoning powers were publicly
called into play; and he had, what he
had never before been accustomed to,
luxurious eating and drinking, and both
without being obliged to put his hand
into his breeches-pocket. Daniel was
a happy man—</p>

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    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>No dolphin ever was so gay</div>
      <div class='line'>Upon the tropic sea.</div>
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<p class='c008'>He now cogitated with his own
mighty mind on the propriety of entering
upon the matrimonial estate, and
of paying his worship to the blind god.
With the precision of a man of business,
he took down in his note-book a list of
the ladies who, he thought, might be
fit candidates for the honour he intended
them, the merits of the multitude
being settled, in his mind, in exact
accordance with the supposed extent of
their treasures. Let not the reader
mistake the term. By treasure he
neither meant worth nor beauty, but
the article which can be paid down in
bullion or in bank-notes, possessing the
magic properties of adding field to field,
and tenement to tenement.</p>

<p class='c008'>One after another the pen was drawn
through their names, as occasion offered
of scrutinising their means more clearly,
or as lack-success obliged him, until the
candidates were reduced to a couple; to
wit—Miss Jenny Drybones, a tall
spinster, lean and ill-looking, somewhat
beyond her grand climacteric;
and Mrs Martha Bouncer, a brisk
widow, fat, fair, and a few years on the
better side of forty.</p>

<p class='c008'>Miss Jenny, from her remote youth
upwards, had been housekeeper to her
brother, a retired wine merchant, who
departed this life six years before, without
occasioning any very general
lamentation; having been a man of
exceedingly strict habits of business,
according to the jargon of his friends;
that is to say, in plain English, a keen,
dull, plodding, avaricious old knave.</p>

<p class='c008'>But he was rich, that was one felicity;
therefore he had friends. It is a great
pity that such people ever die, as their
worth, or, in other words, their wealth,
cannot gain currency in the other world;
but die he did, in spite of twenty
thousand pounds and the doctor, who
was not called in till death had a firm
grip of the old miser’s windpipe,
through which respiration came scant
and slow, almost like the vacant yawns
of a broken bellows.</p>

<p class='c008'>Expectant friends were staggered, as
by a thunder-stroke, when the read will,
too legal for their satisfaction, left Miss
Jenny in sure and undivided possession
of goods and chattels all and sundry.</p>

<p class='c008'>For the regular period she mourned
with laudable zeal, displaying black
feathers, quilled ruffles, crape veils, and
starched weepers, in great and unwonted
prodigality, which no one objected to,
or cavilled about, solely because no one
had any business to do so.</p>

<p class='c008'>It was evident that her views of life
from that era assumed a new aspect, and
the polar winter of her features exhibited
something like an appearance
of incipient thaw; but the downy chin,
wrinkled brow, and pinched nose, were
still, alas! too visible. Accordingly, it
is more than probable that, instead of
renewing her youth like the eagles, she
had only made a bold and laudable
attempt to <em>rifacciamento</em>, in thus lighting
up her features with a more frequent
and general succession of smiles.</p>

<p class='c008'>No one can deny that, in as far as
regards externals, Miss Jenny mourned
lugubriously and well, not stinting the
usually allotted number of calendar
months. These passed away, and so
did black drapery; garments brightening
by progressive but rapid strides. Ere
the twelve months expired, Miss Jenny
flaunted about in colours as gaudy as
those of “the tiger-moth’s deep damasked
wings,”—the counterpart of the bird of
paradise, the rival of the rainbow.</p>

<p class='c008'>Widow Martha Bouncer was a lady
of a different stamp. Her features still
glowed in the freshness of youthful
beauty, though the symmetry of her
person was a little destroyed by a tendency
to corpulency. She dressed well;
and there was a liveliness and activity
about her motions, together with an
archness in her smile, which captivated
the affections of the tobacconist, rather
more than was compatible with his
known and undisguised hankering after
the so-called good things of this life,
the flesh-pots of Egypt.</p>

<p class='c008'>Mrs Bouncer was the widow of a
captain in a marching regiment; consequently
she had seen a good deal of the
world, and had a budget of adventures
ever open for the admiration of the
listening customer. Sometimes it might
even be objected, that her tongue went
a little too glibly; but she had a pretty
face and a musical voice, and seldom
failed in being attended to.</p>

<p class='c008'>The captain did not, as his profession
might lead us to surmise, decamp
to the other world, after having swallowed
a bullet, and dropped the death-dealing
blade from his blood-besmeared
hand on the field of battle, but quietly
in his bed, with three pairs of excellent
blankets over him, not reckoning a
curiously quilted counterpane. Long
anticipation lessens the shock of fate;
consequently the grief of his widow
was not of that violent and overwhelming
kind which a more sharply-wound-up
catastrophe is apt to occasion; but,
having noticed the slow but gradual
approaches of the grim tyrant, in the
symptoms of swelled ankles, shrivelled
features, troublesome cough, and excessive
debility, the event came upon
her as an evil long foreseen; and the
sorrow occasioned by the exit of the
captain was sustained with becoming
fortitude.</p>

<p class='c008'>Having been fully as free of his
sacrifices to Bacchus as to the brother
of Bellona, the captain left his mate in
circumstances not the most flourishing;
but she was enabled to keep up appearances,
and to preserve herself from the
gulf of debt, by an annuity bequeathed
to her by her father, and by the liberality
of the widows’ fund.</p>

<p class='c008'>Time passed on at its usual careless
jog-trot; and animal spirits, being a
gift of nature, like all strong natural
impulses, asserted their legitimate sway.
Mrs Martha began to smile and simper
as formerly. Folks remarked, that
black suited her complexion; and
Daniel Cathie could not help giving
breath to the gallant remark, as he was
discharging her last year’s account, that
he never before had seen her looking
half so well.</p>

<p class='c008'>On this hint the lady wrought.
Daniel was a greasy lubberly civilian to
be sure, and could not escort her about
with powdered collar, laced beaver,
and glittering epaulettes; but he was a
substantial fellow, not amiss as to looks,
and with regard to circumstances,
possessing everything to render a wife
comfortable and snug. Elysian happiness,
Mrs Martha was too experienced
a stager to expect on this side of the
valley of death. Moreover, she had
been tossed about sufficiently in the
world, and was heartily tired of a
wandering life. The height of her
wise ambition, therefore, reached no
higher than a quiet settlement and a
comfortable domicile. She knew that
the hour of trial was come, and sedulously
set herself to work, directing
against Daniel the whole artillery of her
charms. She passed before his door
every morning in her walk; and sometimes
stood with her pretty face directed
to the shop window, as if narrowly
examining some article in it. She
ogled him as he sat in church; looking
as if she felt happy at seeing him seated
with the bailies; and Daniel was never
met abroad, but the lady drew off her
silken glove, and yielded a milk-white
delicate hand to the tobacconist, who
took a peculiar pleasure in shaking it
cordially. A subsequent rencontre in a
stage coach, where they enjoyed a delightful
<i><span lang="fr">téte-à-téte</span></i> together for some
miles (<i><span lang="la">procul, ô procul esto profani</span></i>),
told with a still deeper effect; and
everything seemed in a fair way of
being amicably adjusted.</p>

<p class='c008'>Miss Jenny, undismayed by these
not unmarked symptoms of ripening
intimacy, determined to pursue her own
line of amatory politics, and set her
whole enginery of attack in readiness for
operation. She had always considered
the shop at the cross as the surest path
for her to the temple of Bona Fortuna.
Thence driven, she was lost in hopeless
mazes, and knew not where to turn.</p>

<p class='c008'>She flaunted about, and flashed her
finery in the optical observers of Daniel,
as if to say, This is a specimen,—<i><span lang="la">ex uno
disce omnes</span></i>,—thousands lie under this
sample. Hope and fear swayed her
heart by turns, though the former
passion was uppermost; yet she saw a
snake, in the form of Mrs Bouncer,
lurking in her way; and she took every
lawful means, or such as an inamorata
considers such, to scotch it.</p>

<p class='c008'>Well might Daniel be surprised at
the quantity of candles made use of in
Miss Jenny’s establishment. It puzzled
his utmost calculation; for though the
whole house had been illuminated from
top to bottom, and fours to the pound
had been lighted at both ends, no such
quantity could be consumed. But there
she was, week after week, with her
young vassal with the yellow neck behind
her, swinging a large wicker-basket
over his arm, in which were deposited,
layer above layer, the various produce of
Miss Jenny’s marketing.</p>

<p class='c008'>On Daniel, on these occasions, she
showered her complaisance with the
liberality of March rains; inquiring
anxiously after his health; cautioning
him to wear flannel, and beware of the
rheumatics; telling him her private
news, and admiring the elegance of his
articles, while all the time her shrivelled
features “grinned horrible a ghastly
smile,” which only quadrupled the “fold
upon fold innumerable” of her wrinkles,
and displayed gums innocent of teeth,—generosity
not being able to elevate
three rusty stumps to that honour and
dignity.</p>

<p class='c008'>There was a strong conflict in Daniel’s
mind, and the poor man was completely
“bamboozled.” Ought he to let nature
have its sway for once, take to his
arms the blushing and beautiful widow,
and trust to the success of his efforts
for future aggrandisement? Or must
strong habit still domineer over him, and
Miss Jenny’s hook, baited with twenty
thousand pounds, draw him to the
shores of wedlock, “a willing captive?”
Must he leave behind him sons and
daughters with small portions, and
“the world before them, where to
choose;” or none—and his name die
away among the things of the past,
while cousins ten times removed alike
in blood and regard, riot on his substance?
The question was complicated,
and different interrogatories put to the
oracle of his mind afforded different
responses. The affair was one, in every
respect, so nicely balanced, that “he
wist not what to do.” Fortune long
hung equal in the balance, and might
have done so much longer, had not an
unforeseen accident made the scale of the
widow precipitately mount aloft, and
kick the beam.</p>

<p class='c008'>It was about ten o’clock on the
night of a blustering November day,
that a tall, red-haired, moustachioed, and
raw-boned personage, wrapt up in a
military great-coat, alighted from the
top of the <em>Telegraph</em> at the Salutation
Inn, and delivered his portmanteau into
the assiduous hands of Bill the waiter.
He was ushered into a comfortable
room, whose flickering blazing fire
mocked the cacophony of his puckered
features, and induced him hastily to
doff his envelopments, and draw in an
arm-chair to the borders of the hearthrug.</p>

<p class='c008'>Having discussed a smoking and
substantial supper, he asked Bill, who
was in the act of supplying his rummer
with hot water, if a Mrs Bouncer, an
officer’s widow, resided in the neighbourhood.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Yes,” replied Bill, “I know her
well; she lives at third house round the
corner, on the second floor, turning to
the door on your right hand.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“She is quite well, I hope?” asked
the son of Mars.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Oh! quite well, bless you; and
about to take a second husband. I
hear they are to be proclaimed next
week. She is making a good bargain.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Next week to be married!” ejaculated
the gallant captain, turning up his
eyes, and starting to his legs with a
hurried perplexity.</p>

<p class='c008'>“So I believe, sir,” continued Bill
very calmly. “If you have come to
the ceremony, you will find that it does
not take place till then. Depend upon
it, sir, you have mistaken the date of
your invitation card.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Well, waiter, you may leave me,” said
the captain, stroking his chin in evident
embarrassment; “but stop, who is she
about to get?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Oh, I thought everybody knew Mr
Daniel Cathie, one of the town-council,
sir; a tobacconist, and a respectable
man; likely soon to come to the provostry,
sir. He is rather up in years to
be sure; but he is as rich as a Jew.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“What do you say is his name?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Daniel Cathie, Esq., tobacconist,
and a candlemaker near the Cross.
That is his name and designation,—a
very respectable man, sir.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Well, order the girl to have my bed
well warmed, and to put pens, ink, and
paper into the room. In the meantime,
bring me the boot-jack.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The captain kept his fiery feelings in
restraint before Bill; but the intelligence
hit him like a cannon-shot. He
retired almost immediately to his bed-chamber;
but a guest in the adjoining
room declared in the morning, that he
had never been allowed to close his
eyes, from some person’s alternately
snoring or speaking in his sleep, as if in
violent altercation with some one; and
that, whenever these sounds died away,
they were only exchanged for the
irregular tread of a foot measuring the
apartment, seemingly in every direction.</p>

<p class='c008'>It was nine in the morning; and
Daniel, as he was ringing a shilling on
the counter, which he had just taken for
“value received,” and half ejaculating
aloud as he peered at it through his
spectacles—“Not a Birmingham, I
hope”—had a card put into his hand by
Jonas Bunting, the Salutation shoeblack.</p>

<p class='c008'>Having broken the seal, Daniel read
to himself,—“A gentleman wishes to
see Mr Cathie at the Salutation Inn, on
particular business, as speedily as
possible. Inquire for the gentleman in
No. 7.—A quarter before nine, <span class='fss'>A.M.</span>”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Some of these dunning travellers!”
exclaimed Daniel to himself. “They are
continually pestering me for orders.
If I had the lighting up of the moon, I
could not satisfy them all. I have a
good mind not to go, for this fellow not
sending his name. It is impudence
with a vengeance, and a new way of
requesting favours!” As he was muttering
these thoughts between his teeth,
however, he was proceeding in the
almost unconscious act of undoing his
apron, which having flung aside, he
adjusted his hair before the glass, carefully
pressed his hat into shape, and
drew it down on his temples with
both hands; after which, with hasty
steps, he vanished from behind the
counter.</p>

<p class='c008'>Arriving at the inn, he was ushered
into No. 7 by the officious Bill, who
handed his name before him, and
closed the door after him.</p>

<p class='c008'>“This is an unpleasant business, Mr
Cathie,” said the swaggering captain,
drawing himself up to his full length,
and putting on a look of important ferocity.
“It is needless to waste words
on the subject: there is a brace of
pistols, both are loaded,—take one, and
I take the other; choose either, sir.
The room is fully eight paces,” added
he, striding across in a hurried manner,
and clanking his iron heels on the
carpet.</p>

<p class='c008'>“It would, I think, be but civil,” said
Daniel, evidently in considerable mental
as well as bodily agitation, “to inform
me what are your intentions, before
forcing me to commit murder. Probably
you have mistaken me for some
other; if not, please let me know in
what you conceive I have offended
you!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“By the powers!” said Captain
Thwackeray with great vehemence, “you
have injured me materially,—nay,
mortally,—and either your life, sir, or
my own, sir, shall be sacrificed to the
adjustment.”</p>

<p class='c008'>While saying this, the captain took
up first the one pistol, and then the
other, beating down the contents with
the ramrod, and measuring with his
finger the comparative depth to which
each was loaded.</p>

<p class='c008'>“A pretty story, certainly, to injure
a gentleman in the tenderest part, and
then to beg a recital of the particulars.
Have you no regard for my feelings,
sir?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Believe me, sir, on the word of an
honest man, that as to your meaning in
this business, I am in utter darkness,”
said Daniel with cool firmness.</p>

<p class='c008'>“To be plain, then,—to be explicit,—to
come to the point, sir,—are you not
on the eve of marrying Mrs Bouncer?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Mrs Bouncer!” echoed the tallow-chandler,
starting back, and crimsoning.
Immediately, however, commanding
himself, he continued:—“As to the
truth of the case, that is another matter;
but were it as you represent it, I was
unaware that I could be injuring any
one in so doing.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Now, sir, we have come to the
point; <i><span lang="la">rem tetigisti acu</span></i>; and you speak
out plainly. Take your pistol,” bravoed
the captain.</p>

<p class='c008'>“No, no,—not so fast;—perhaps we
may understand each other without
being driven to that alternative.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Well then, sir, abjure her this moment,
and resign her to me, or one of
our lives must be sacrificed.”</p>

<p class='c008'>While he was saying this, Daniel
laid his hands on one of the pistols,
and appeared as if examining it; which
motion the captain instantly took for
a signal of acquiescence, and “changed
his hand, and checked his pride.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I hope,” continued he, evidently much
softened, “that there shall be no need
of resorting to desperate measures. In
a word, the affair is this:—I have a
written promise from Mrs Bouncer, that,
if ever she married a second time, her
hand was mine. It matters not with
the legality of the measure, though the
proceeding took place in the lifetime of
her late husband, my friend, Captain
Bouncer. It is quite an affair of honour.
I assure you, sir, she has vowed to
accept of none but me, Captain
Thwackeray, as his successor. If you
have paid your addresses to her in
ignorance of this, I forgive you; if not,
we stand opposed as before.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Oh ho! if that be the way the land
lies,” replied Daniel, with a shrill whistle,
“she is yours, captain, for me, and
heartily welcome. I resign her unconditionally,
as you military gentlemen
phrase it. A great deal of trouble is
spared by one’s speaking out. If you
had told me this, there would have been
no reason for loading the pistols. May
I now wish you a good morning! ’Od
save us! but these are fearful weapons
on the table! Good morning, sir.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Bless your heart, no,” said Captain
Thwackeray, evidently much relieved
from his distressing situation. “Oh no,
sir; not before we breakfast together;”
and, so saying, before Daniel had a
moment’s time for reply, he pulled the
bell violently.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Bill, bring in breakfast for two, as
expeditiously as possible—(<em>Exit Bill</em>).
I knew that no man of honour, such as
I know or believe you to be (your
appearance bespeaks it), would act such
a selfish part as deprive me of my legal
right; and I trust that this transaction
shall not prevent friendly intercourse
between us, if I come, as my present
intention is, to take up my abode among
you in this town.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“By no means,” said Daniel; “Mrs
Bouncer is yours for me; and as to
matrimonials, I am otherwise provided.
There are no grounds for contention,
captain.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Breakfast was discussed with admirable
appetite by both. The contents
of the pistols were drawn, the powder
carefully returned into the flask, the
two bullets into the waistcoat pocket,
and the instruments of destruction themselves
deposited in a green woollen
case. After cordially shaking each
other by the hand, the captain saw Mr
Daniel to the door, and made a very
low <i><span lang="fr">congé</span></i>, besides kissing his hand at
parting.</p>

<p class='c008'>The captain we leave to fight his
own battles, and return to our hero,
whose stoicism, notwithstanding its
firmness, did not prevent him from
feeling considerably on the occasion.
Towards Mrs Bouncer he had not a
Romeo-enthusiasm, but certainly a
stronger attachment than he had ever
experienced for any other of her sex.
Though the case was hopeless, he did
not allow himself to pine away with “a
green and yellow melancholy,” but reconciled
himself to his fate with the
more facility, as the transaction between
Thwackeray and her was said to have
taken place during the lifetime of her late
husband, which considerably lessened
her in his estimation; having been
educated a rigid Presbyterian, and
holding in great abhorrence all such
illustrations of military morality. “No,
no,” thought he; “my loss is more
apparent than real: the woman who
was capable of doing such a thing, would
not content herself with stopping even
there. Miss Jenny Drybones is the
woman for <em>me</em>—I am the man for <em>her</em>
money.” And here a thousand selfish
notions crowded on his heart, and confirmed
him in his determination, which
he set about without delay.</p>

<p class='c008'>There was little need of delicacy in
the matter; and Daniel went to work
quite in a business-like style. He
commenced operations on the offensive,
offered Miss Jenny his arm, squeezed
her hand, buttered her with love-phrases,
ogled her out of countenance,
and haunted her like a ghost. Refusal
was in vain; and after a faint, a feeble,
and sham show of resistance, the damsel
drew down her flag of defiance, and
submitted to honourable terms of capitulation.</p>

<p class='c008'>Ten days after Miss Jenny’s surrender,
their names were proclaimed in church;
and as the people stared at each other
in half wonder and half good-humour,
the precentor continued, after a slight
pause, “There is also a purpose of
marriage between Mrs Martha Bouncer,
at present residing in the parish, and
Augustus Thwackeray, Esq., captain
of the Bengal Rangers; whoever can
produce any lawful objections against
the same, he is requested to do so,
time and place convenient.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Every forenoon and evening between
that and the marriage-day, Daniel and
his intended enjoyed a delightful <i><span lang="fr">tête-à-tête</span></i>
in the lady’s garden, walking arm-in-arm,
and talking, doubtless, of home-concerns
and Elysian prospects that
awaited them. The pair would have
formed a fit subject for the pencil of a
Hogarth,—about “to become one flesh,”
and so different in appearance. The
lady, long-visaged and wrinkled, stiff-backed
and awkward, long as a maypole;
the bridegroom, jolly-faced like
Bacchus, stumpy like an alder-tree, and
round as a beer-barrel.</p>

<p class='c008'>Ere Friday had beheld its meridian
sunshine, two carriages, drawn up at the
door, the drivers with white favours
and Limerick gloves, told the attentive
world that Dr Redbeak had made them
one flesh. Shortly after the ceremony,
the happy couple drove away amid the
cheering of an immense crowd of neighbours,
who had planted themselves
round the door to make observations
on what was going on. Another coincidence
worthy of remark also occurred
on this auspicious day. At the same
hour, had the fair widow Martha yielded
up her lily-white hand to the whiskered,
ferocious-looking, but gallant Captain
Thwackeray; and the carriages containing
the respective marriage-parties
passed one another in the street at a
good round pace. The postilions, with
their large flaunting ribbon-knots,
huzza’d in meeting, brandishing their
whips in the air, as if betokening individual
victory. The captain looking
out, saw Miss Jenny, in maiden pride,
sitting stately beside her chosen tobacconist;
and Daniel, glancing to the left,
beheld Mrs Martha blushing by the side
of her moustachioed warrior. Both
waved their hands in passing, and
pursued their destinies.—<cite>Janus; or, the
Edinburgh Literary Almanac.</cite></p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='the_haunted_ships' class='c006'>THE HAUNTED SHIPS.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By Allan Cunningham.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line in14'>Though my mind’s not</div>
      <div class='line'>Hoodwinked with rustic marvels, I do think</div>
      <div class='line'>There are more things in the grove, the air, the flood,</div>
      <div class='line'>Yea, and the charnelled earth, than what wise man,</div>
      <div class='line'>Who walks so proud as if his form alone</div>
      <div class='line'>Filled the wide temple of the universe,</div>
      <div class='line'>Will let a frail mind say. I’d write i’ the creed</div>
      <div class='line'>O’ the sagest head alive, that fearful forms,</div>
      <div class='line'>Holy or reprobate, do page men’s heels;</div>
      <div class='line'>That shapes, too horrid for our gaze, stand o’er</div>
      <div class='line'>The murderer’s dust, and for revenge glare up,</div>
      <div class='line'>Even till the stars weep fire for very pity.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<h3 class='c013'><span class='sc'>Chapter I.</span></h3>

<p class='c014'>Along the sea of Solway—romantic
on the Scottish side, with its woodlands,
its bays, its cliffs, and headlands;
and interesting on the English side,
with its many beautiful towns with
their shadows on the water, rich pastures,
safe harbours, and numerous
ships—there still linger many traditional
stories of a maritime nature,
most of them connected with superstitions
singularly wild and unusual. To
the curious, these tales afford a rich
fund of entertainment, from the many
diversities of the same story; some dry
and barren, and stripped of all the embellishments
of poetry; others dressed
out in all the riches of a superstitious
belief and haunted imagination. In
this they resemble the inland traditions
of the peasants; but many of the oral
treasures of the Galwegian or the Cumbrian
coast have the stamp of the Dane
and the Norseman upon them, and
claim but a remote or faint affinity with
the legitimate legends of Caledonia.
Something like a rude prosaic outline
of several of the most noted of the
northern ballads—the adventures and
depredations of the old ocean kings—still
lend life to the evening tale; and,
among others, the story of the Haunted
Ships is still popular among the maritime
peasantry.</p>

<p class='c008'>One fine harvest evening I went on
board the shallop of Richard Faulder,
of Allanbay, and committing ourselves
to the waters, we allowed a gentle wind
from the east to waft us at its pleasure
towards the Scottish coast. We passed
the sharp promontory of Siddick, and
skirting the land within a stone-cast,
glided along the shore till we came
within sight of the ruined Abbey of
Sweetheart. The green mountain of
Criffell ascended beside us; and the
bleat of the flocks from its summit,
together with the winding of the evening
horn of the reapers, came softened
into something like music over land
and sea. We pushed our shallop into
a deep and wooded bay, and sat silently
looking on the serene beauty of the
place. The moon glimmered in her
rising through the tall shafts of the pines
of Caerlaverock; and the sky, with
scarce a cloud, showered down on wood,
and headland, and bay, the twinkling
beams of a thousand stars, rendering
every object visible. The tide, too,
was coming with that swift and silent
swell observable when the wind is
gentle; the woody curves along the
land were filling with the flood, till it
touched the green branches of the
drooping trees; while in the centre
current the roll and the plunge of a
thousand pellecks told to the experienced
fisherman that salmon were
abundant.</p>

<p class='c008'>As we looked, we saw an old man
emerging from a path that winded to
the shore through a grove of doddered
hazel; he carried a halve-net on his
back, while behind him came a girl
bearing a small harpoon, with which
the fishers are remarkably dexterous in
striking their prey. The senior seated
himself on a large gray stone, which
overlooked the bay, laid aside his
bonnet, and submitted his bosom and
neck to the refreshing sea breeze; and
taking his harpoon from his attendant,
sat with the gravity and composure of a
spirit of the flood, with his ministering
nymph behind him. We pushed our
shallop to the shore, and soon stood at
their side.</p>

<p class='c008'>“This is old Mark Macmoran, the
mariner, with his granddaughter Barbara,”
said Richard Faulder, in a
whisper that had something of fear
in it; “he knows every creek, and
cavern, and quicksand in Solway,—has
seen the Spectre Hound that haunts the
Isle of Man; has heard him bark, and
at every bark has seen a ship sink; and
he has seen, too, the Haunted Ships in
full sail; and, if all tales be true, has
sailed in them himself;—he’s an awful
person.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Though I perceived in the communication
of my friend something of the
superstition of the sailor, I could not
help thinking that common rumour had
made a happy choice in singling out
old Mark to maintain her intercourse
with the invisible world. His hair, which
seemed to have refused all acquaintance
with the comb, hung matted upon
his shoulders; a kind of mantle, or
rather blanket, pinned with a wooden
skewer round his neck, fell mid-leg
down, concealing all his nether garments
as far as a pair of hose, darned
with yarn of all conceivable colours,
and a pair of shoes, patched and
repaired till nothing of the original
structure remained, and clasped on his
feet with two massive silver buckles.</p>

<p class='c008'>If the dress of the old man was rude
and sordid, that of his granddaughter
was gay, and even rich.</p>

<p class='c008'>She wore a boddice of fine wool,
wrought round the bosom with alternate
leaf and lily, and a kirtle of the same
fabric, which almost touching her white
and delicate ankle, showed her snowy
feet, so fairy-light and round that they
scarcely seemed to touch the grass where
she stood. Her hair—a natural ornament
which woman seeks much to improve—was
of a bright glossy brown,
and encumbered rather than adorned
with a snood, set thick with marine
productions, among which the small
clear pearl found in the Solway was
conspicuous. Nature had not trusted
to a handsome shape, and a sylph-like
air, for young Barbara’s influence over
the heart of man; but had bestowed a
pair of large bright blue eyes, swimming
in liquid light, so full of love, and
gentleness, and joy, that all the sailors,
from Annanwater to far St Bees, acknowledged
their power, and sung songs
about the bonnie lass of Mark Macmoran.
She stood holding a small
gaff-hook of polished steel in her hand,
and seemed not dissatisfied with the
glances I bestowed on her from time to
time, and which I held more than
requited by a single glance of those
eyes which retained so many capricious
hearts in subjection.</p>

<p class='c008'>The tide, though rapidly augmenting,
had not yet filled the bay at our feet.
The moon now streamed fairly over the
tops of Caerlaverock pines, and showed
the expanse of ocean dimpling and
swelling, on which sloops and shallops
came dancing, and displaying at every
turn their extent of white sail against
the beam of the moon. I looked on old
Mark the Mariner, who, seated motionless
on his gray stone, kept his eye
fixed on the increasing waters with a
look of seriousness and sorrow in which
I saw little of the calculating spirit of a
mere fisherman. Though he looked on
the coming tide, his eyes seemed to
dwell particularly on the black and
decayed hulls of two vessels, which, half
immersed in the quicksand, still addressed
to every heart a tale of shipwreck
and desolation. The tide wheeled and
foamed around them; and creeping inch
by inch up the side, at last fairly threw
its waters over the top, and a long and
hollow eddy showed the resistance
which the liquid element received.</p>

<p class='c008'>The moment they were fairly buried
in the water, the old man clasped his
hands together, and said—</p>

<p class='c008'>“Blessed be the tide that will break
over and bury ye for ever! Sad to
mariners, and sorrowful to maids and
mothers, has the time been you have
choked up this deep and bonnie bay.
For evil were you sent, and for evil
have you continued. Every season
finds from you its song of sorrow and
wail, its funeral processions, and its
shrouded corses. Woe to the land
where the wood grew that made ye?
Cursed be the axe that hewed ye on the
mountains, the bands that joined ye
together, the bay that ye first swam in,
and the wind that wafted ye here!
Seven times have ye put my life in
peril; three fair sons have ye swept
from my side, and two bonnie grandbairns;
and now, even now, your
waters foam and flash for my destruction,
did I venture my frail limbs in
quest of food in your deadly bay. I
see by that ripple and that foam, and
hear by the sound and singing of your
surge, that ye yearn for another victim,
but it shall not be me or mine.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Even as the old mariner addressed
himself to the wrecked ships, a young
man appeared at the southern extremity
of the bay, holding his halve-net in his
hand, and hastening into the current.
Mark rose, and shouted, and waved
him back from a place which, to a
person unacquainted with the dangers
of the bay, real and superstitious,
seemed sufficiently perilous: his granddaughter,
too, added her voice to his,
and waved her white hands; but the
more they strove the faster advanced
the peasant, till he stood to his middle
in the water, while the tide increased
every moment in depth and strength.
“Andrew, Andrew!” cried the young
woman, in a voice quavering with
emotion, “turn, turn, I tell you. O
the ships, the haunted ships!” But
the appearance of a fine run of fish had
more influence with the peasant than
the voice of bonnie Barbara, and forward
he dashed, net in hand. In a moment
he was borne off his feet, and mingled
like foam with the water, and hurried
towards the fatal eddies which whirled
and reared round the sunken ships.
But he was a powerful young man, and
an expert swimmer: he seized on one
of the projecting ribs of the nearest
hulk, and clinging to it with the grasp
of despair, uttered yell after yell, sustaining
himself against the prodigious
rush of the current.</p>

<p class='c008'>From a sheiling of turf and straw within
the pitch of a bar from the spot where
we stood, came out an old woman bent
with age, and leaning on a crutch.
“I heard the voice of that lad Andrew
Lammie; can the chield be drowning,
that he skirls sae uncannily?” said the
old woman, seating herself on the ground
and looking earnestly at the water.
“Ou ay,” she continued, “he’s doomed,
he’s doomed; heart and hand never
can save him; boats, ropes, and man’s
strength and wit, all vain! vain! he’s
doomed, he’s doomed!”</p>

<p class='c008'>By this time I had thrown myself into
the shallop, followed reluctantly by
Richard Faulder, over whose courage
and kindness of heart superstition had
great power; and with one push from
the shore, and some exertion in sculling,
we came within a quoit-cast of the
unfortunate fisherman. He stayed not
to profit by our aid; for when he perceived
us near, he uttered a piercing
shriek of joy, and bounded toward us
through the agitated element the full
length of an oar. I saw him for a
second on the surface of the water; but
the eddying current sucked him down;
and all I ever beheld of him again was
his hand held above the flood, and clutching
in agony at some imaginary aid.
I sat gazing in horror on the vacant sea
before us; but a breathing-time before, a
human being, full of youth, and strength,
and hope, was there: his cries were
still ringing in my ears, and echoing in
the woods; and now nothing was seen
or heard save the turbulent expanse of
water, and the sound of its chafing on
the shores. We pushed back our shallop,
and resumed our station on the cliff
beside the old mariner and his descendant.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Wherefore sought ye to peril your
own lives fruitlessly,” said Mark, “in
attempting to save the doomed? Whoso
touches these infernal ships never
survives to tell the tale. Woe to the
man who is found nigh them at midnight
when the tide has subsided, and they
arise in their former beauty, with forecastle,
and deck, and sail, and pennon,
and shroud! Then is seen the streaming
of lights along the water from their
cabin windows, and then is heard the
sound of mirth and the clamour of tongues
and the infernal whoop and halloo, and
song, ringing far and wide. Woe to the
man who comes nigh them!”</p>

<p class='c008'>To all this my companion listened
with a breathless attention. I felt something
touched with a superstition to
which I partly believed I had seen one
victim offered up; and I inquired of the
old mariner—</p>

<p class='c008'>“How and when came these haunted
ships there? To me they seem but the
melancholy relics of some unhappy
voyagers, and much more likely to warn
people to shun destruction, than entice
and delude them to it.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“And so,” said the old man with a
smile, which had more of sorrow in it
than of mirth; “and so, young man,
these black and shattered hulks seem
to the eye of the multitude. But things
are not what they seem: that water, a
kind and convenient servant to the
wants of man, which seems so smooth,
and so dimpling, and so gentle, has
swallowed up a human soul even now;
and the place which it covers, so fair
and so level, is a faithless quicksand out
of which none escape. Things are
otherwise than they seem. Had you
lived as long as I have had the sorrow
to live; had you seen the storms, and
braved the perils, and endured the
distresses which have befallen me; had you
sat gazing out on the dreary ocean at
midnight on a haunted coast; had you
seen comrade after comrade, brother
after brother, and son after son, swept
away by the merciless ocean from your
very side; had you seen the shapes of
friends, doomed to the wave and the quicksand,
appearing to you in the dreams
and visions of the night; then would
your mind have been prepared for crediting
the strange legends of mariners; and
the two haunted Danish ships would
have had their terrors for you, as they
have for all who sojourn on this coast.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Of the time and cause of their
destruction,” continued the old man, “I
know nothing certain; they have stood
as you have seen them for uncounted
time; and while all other ships wrecked
on this unhappy coast have gone to
pieces, and rotted, and sunk away in a
few years, these two haunted hulks have
neither sunk in the quicksand, nor has
a single spar or board been displaced.
Maritime legend says, that two ships of
Denmark having had permission, for a
time, to work deeds of darkness and
dolour on the deep, were at last condemned
to the whirlpool and the sunken
rock, and were wrecked in this bonnie
bay, as a sign to seamen to be gentle
and devout. The night when they were
lost was a harvest evening of uncommon
mildness and beauty: the sun had newly
set; the moon came brighter and
brighter out; and the reapers, laying
their sickles at the root of the standing
corn, stood on rock and bank, looking
at the increasing magnitude of the
waters, for sea and land were visible
from St Bees to Barnhourie.</p>

<p class='c008'>“The sails of the two vessels were
soon seen bent for the Scottish coast;
and with a speed outrunning the swiftest
ship, they approached the dangerous
quicksands and headland of Borranpoint.
On the deck of the foremost ship not a
living soul was seen, or shape, unless
something in darkness and form resembling
a human shadow could be called a
shape, which flitted from extremity to
extremity of the ship, with the appearance
of trimming the sails, and directing
the vessel’s course. But the decks of its
companion were crowded with human
shapes; the captain, and mate, and
sailor, and cabin boy, all seemed there;
and from them the sound of mirth and
minstrelsy echoed over land and water.
The coast which they skirted along was
one of extreme danger; and the reapers
shouted to warn them to beware of
sandbank and rock; but of this friendly
counsel no notice was taken, except
that a large and famished dog, which
sat on the prow, answered every shout
with a long, loud, and melancholy
howl. The deep sandbank of Carsethorn
was expected to arrest the career
of these desperate navigators; but they
passed, with the celerity of waterfowl,
over an obstruction which had wrecked
many pretty ships.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Old men shook their heads, and
departed, saying, ‘We have seen the
fiend sailing in a bottomless ship; let
us go home and pray:’ but one young
and wilful man said, ‘Fiend! I’ll
warrant it’s nae fiend, but douce Janet
Withershins, the witch, holding a
carouse with some of her Cumberland
cummers, and mickle red wine will be
spilt atween them. ’Od, I would gladly
have a toothfu’! I’ll warrant it’s nane
o’ your cauld sour slae-water, like a
bottle of Bailie Skrinkie’s port, but
right drap-o’-my-heart’s-blood stuff, that
would waken a body out of their last
linen. I wonder whaur the cummers
will anchor their craft?’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘And I’ll vow,’ said another rustic,
‘the wine they quaff is none of your
visionary drink, such as a drouthy body
has dished out to his lips in a dream;
nor is it shadowy and unsubstantial,
like the vessels they sail in, which are
made out of a cockle-shell, or a cast-off
slipper, or the paring of a seaman’s
right thumb-nail. I once got a handsel
out of a witch’s quaigh myself;—auld
Marion Mathers of Dustiefoot,
whom they tried to bury in the old
kirkyard of Dunscore; but the cummer
raise as fast as they laid her down, and
naewhere else would she lie but in the
bonnie green kirkyard of Kier, among
douce and sponsible folk. So I’ll vow
that the wine of a witch’s cup is as fell
liquor as ever did a kindly turn to a
poor man’s heart; and be they fiends,
or be they witches, if they have red
wine asteer, I’ll risk a droukit sark for
ae glorious tout on’t.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Silence, ye sinners,’ said the minister’s
son of a neighbouring parish, who
united in his own person his father’s
lack of devotion with his mother’s
love of liquor. ‘Whisht! Speak as
if ye had the fear of something holy
before ye. Let the vessels run their
own way to destruction: who can stay
the eastern wind, and the current of
the Solway sea? I can find ye
Scripture warrant for that: so let them
try their strength on Blawhooly rocks,
and their might on the broad quicksand.
There’s a surf running there
would knock the ribs together of a
galley built by the imps of the pit, and
commanded by the Prince of Darkness.
Bonnily and bravely they sail away
there; but before the blast blows by
they’ll be wrecked; and red wine and
strong brandy will be as rife as dykewater,
and we’ll drink the health of
bonnie Bell Blackness out of her left
foot slipper.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“The speech of the young profligate
was applauded by several of his companions,
and away they flew to the bay
of Blawhooly, from whence they never
returned. The two vessels were observed
all at once to stop in the bosom
of the bay, on the spot where their
hulls now appear: the mirth and the
minstrelsy waxed louder than ever;
and the forms of the maidens, with
instruments of music and wine-cups in
their hands, thronged the decks. A
boat was lowered; and the same
shadowy pilot who conducted the ships
made it start towards the shore with
the rapidity of lightning, and its head
knocked against the bank where the
four young men stood, who longed for
the unblest drink. They leaped in
with a laugh, and with a laugh were
they welcomed on deck; wine cups
were given to each, and as they raised
them to their lips the vessels melted
away beneath their feet; and one loud
shriek, mingled with laughter still
louder, was heard over land and water
for many miles. Nothing more was
heard or seen till the morning, when
the crowd who came to the beach saw
with fear and wonder the two Haunted
Ships, such as they now seem, masts
and tackle gone; nor mark, nor sign,
by which their name, country, or
destination, could be known, was left
remaining. Such is the tradition of
the mariners.”</p>

<h3 class='c015'><span class='sc'>Chapter II.</span></h3>

<p class='c014'>“And trow ye,” said the old woman,
who, attracted from her hut by the
drowning cries of the young fisherman,
had remained an auditor of the mariner’s
legend; “and trow ye, Mark
Macmoran, that the tale of the Haunted
Ships is done? I can say no to that.
Mickle have my ears heard, but more
mine eyes have witnessed since I came
to dwell in this humble home by the
side of the deep sea. I mind the night
weel: it was on Hallow-e’en, the nuts
were cracked, and the apples were
eaten, and spell and charm were tried
at my fireside; till, wearied with diving
into the dark waves of futurity, the lads
and lasses fairly took to the more
visible blessings of kind words, tender
clasps, and gentle courtship.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Soft words in a maiden’s ear, and
a kindly kiss o’ her lip, were old world
matters to me, Mark Macmoran; though
I mean not to say that I have been free
of the folly of daundering and daffin’
with a youth in my day, and keeping
tryst with him in dark and lonely
places. However, as I say, these times
of enjoyment were past and gone with
me; the mair’s the pity that pleasure
should flee sae fast away,—and as I
couldna make sport I thought I would
not mar any; so out I sauntered into
the fresh cold air, and sat down behind
that old oak, and looked abroad on the
wide sea. I had my ain sad thoughts,
ye may think, at the time; it was in
that very bay my blythe gudeman perished,
with seven more in his company;
and on that very bank where ye see the
waves leaping and foaming, I saw seven
stately corses streeked, but the dearest
was the eighth. It was a woful sight to
me, a widow, with four bonnie boys, with
nought to support them but these twa
hands, and God’s blessing, and a cow’s
grass. I have never liked to live out of
sight of this bay since that time; and
mony’s the moonlight night I sit looking
on these watery mountains, and these
waste shores; it does my heart good,
whatever it may do to my head. So ye
see it was Hallow-e’en; and looking on
sea and land sat I; and my heart
wandering to other thoughts soon made
me forget my youthful company at
hame. It might be near the howe
hour of the night; the tide was making,
and its singing brought strange old-world
stories with it; and I thought on
the dangers that sailors endure, the
fates they meet with, and the fearful
forms they see. My own blithe gude-man
had seen sights that made him
grave enough at times, though he aye
tried to laugh them away.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Aweel, between that very rock
aneath us and the coming tide, I saw,
or thought I saw (for the tale is so
dream-like that the whole might pass
for a vision of the night) the form of
a man. His plaid was gray; his face
was gray; and his hair, which hung low
down till it nearly came to the middle
of his back, was as white as the white
sea-foam. He began to houk and dig
under the bank; and God be near me!
thought I, this maun be the unblessed
spirit of auld Adam Gowdgowpin, the
miser, who is doomed to dig for shipwrecked
treasure, and count how many
millions are hidden for ever from man’s
enjoyment. The form found something,
which in shape and hue seemed a left-foot
slipper of brass; so down to the
tide he marched, and placing it on the
water, whirled it thrice round; and the
infernal slipper dilated at every turn,
till it became a bonnie barge with its
sails bent, and on board leaped the
form, and scudded swiftly away. He
came to one of the haunted ships; and
striking it with his oar, a fair ship, with
mast and canvas, and mariners, started
up: he touched the other haunted ship,
and produced the like transformation;
and away the three spectre ships bounded,
leaving a track of fire behind them on
the billows, which was long unextinguished.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Now wasna that a bonnie and a
fearful sight to see beneath the light of
the Hallowmas moon? But the tale
is far frae finished; for mariners say
that once a year, on a certain night, if
ye stand on the Borranpoint, ye will
see the infernal shallops coming snoring
through the Solway; ye will hear
the same laugh, and song, and mirth,
and minstrelsy, which our ancestors
heard; see them bound over the sandbanks
and sunken rocks like sea-gulls,
cast their anchor in Blawhooly Bay,
while the shadowy figures lower down
the boat, and augment their numbers
with the four unhappy mortals to whose
memory a stone stands in the kirkyard,
with a sinking ship and a shoreless sea
cut upon it. Then the spectre-ships
vanish, and the drowning shriek of
mortals and the rejoicing laugh of
fiends are heard, and the old hulls are
left as a memorial that the old spiritual
kingdom has not departed from the
earth. But I maun away and trim my
little cottage fire, and make it burn and
blaze up bonnie, to warm the crickets,
and my cauld and crazy bones, that
maun soon be laid aneath the green sod
in the eerie kirkyard.”</p>

<p class='c008'>And away the old dame tottered to
her cottage, secured the door on the
inside, and soon the hearth-flame was
seen to glimmer and gleam through the
key-hole and the window.</p>

<p class='c008'>“I’ll tell ye what,” said the old
mariner, in a subdued tone, and with a
shrewd and suspicious glance of his eye
after the old sibyl, “it’s a word that may
not very well be uttered, but there are
many mistakes made in evening stories
if old Moll Moray there, where she
lives, knows not mickle more than she
is willing to tell of the Haunted Ships,
and their unhallowed mariners. She
lives cannily and quietly; no one
knows how she is fed or supported;
but her dress is aye whole, her cottage
ever smokes, and her table lacks neither
of wine, white and red, nor of fowl and
fish, and white bread and brown. It
was a dear scoff to Jock Matheson,
when he called old Moll the uncannie
carline of Blawhooly: his boat ran
round and round in the centre of the
Solway—everybody said it was enchanted—and
down it went head foremost;
and hadna Jock been a swimmer
equal to a sheldrake, he would have
fed the fish; but I warrant it sobered
the lad’s speech, and he never reckoned
himself safe till he made auld
Moll the present of a new kirtle and a
stone of cheese.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“O father,” said his granddaughter
Barbara, “ye surely wrong poor old
Mary Moray: what use could it be to
an old woman like her, who has no
wrongs to redress, no malice to work
out against mankind, and nothing to
seek of enjoyment save a cannie hour
and a quiet grave—what use could the
fellowship of the fiends, and the
communion of evil spirits, be to her? I
know Jenny Primrose puts rowan-tree
above the doorhead when she sees old
Mary coming; I know the goodwife of
Kittlenacket wears rowan-berry leaves
in the head-band of her blue kirtle, and
all for the sake of averting the unsonsie
glance of Mary’s right ee; and I know
that the auld laird of Burntroutwater
drives his seven cows to their pasture
with a wand of witchtree, to keep
Mary from milking them. But what
has all that to do with haunted shallops,
visionary mariners, and bottomless
boats? I have heard myself as pleasant
a tale about the Haunted Ships and
their unworldly crews as any one would
wish to hear in a winter evening. It
was told me by young Benjie Macharg,
one summer night, sitting on Arbiglandbank;
the lad intended a sort of lovemeeting,
but all that he could talk of
was about smearing sheep and shearing
sheep, and of the wife which the
Norway elves of the Haunted Ships
made for his uncle Sandie Macharg.
And I shall tell ye the tale as the honest
lad told it to me.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Alexander Macharg, besides being
the laird of three acres of peat-moss,
two kail gardens, and the owner of
seven good milch cows, a pair of
horses, and six pet sheep, was the
husband of one of the handsomest
women in seven parishes. Many a lad
sighed the day he was brided; and a
Nithsdale laird and two Annandale
moorland farmers drank themselves to
their last linen, as well as their last
shilling, through sorrow for her loss.
But married was the dame; and home
she was carried, to bear rule over her
home and her husband, as an honest
woman should. Now ye maun ken
that though flesh-and-blood lovers of
Alexander’s bonnie wife all ceased to
love and to sue her after she became
another’s, there were certain admirers
who did not consider their claim at all
abated, or their hopes lessened, by the
kirk’s famous obstacle of matrimony.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ye have heard how the devout
minister of Tinwald had a fair son
carried away, and bedded against his
liking to an unchristened bride, whom
the elves and the fairies provided: ye
have heard how the bonnie bride of the
drunken laird of Soukitup was stolen
by the fairies out at the back window
of the bridal chamber the time the
bridegroom was groping his way to the
chamber door; and ye have heard—but
why need I multiply cases? Such
things in the ancient days were as common
as candlelight. So ye’ll no hinder
certain water-elves and sea-fairies, who
sometimes keep festival and summer
mirth in these old haunted hulks, from
falling in love with the weel-faured wife
of Laird Macharg; and to their plots
and contrivances they went, how they
might accomplish to sunder man and
wife; and sundering such a man and
such a wife was like sundering the
green leaf from the summer, or the
fragrance from the flower.</p>

<p class='c008'>“So it fell on a time that Laird
Macharg took his halve-net on his
back, and his steel spear in his hand,
and down to Blawhooly Bay gaed he,
and into the water he went right between
the two haunted hulks, and
placing his net awaited the coming of
the tide. The night, ye maun ken,
was mirk, and the wind lown, and the
singing of the increasing waters among
the shells and the pebbles was heard for
sundry miles. All at once lights began
to glance and twinkle on board the two
Haunted Ships from every hole and
seam, and presently the sound as of a
hatchet employed in squaring timber
echoed far and wide. But if the toil
of these unearthly workmen amazed
the laird, how much more was his
amazement increased when a sharp
shrill voice called out, ‘Ho! brother,
what are you doing now?’ A voice
still shriller responded from the other
haunted ship, ‘I’m making a wife to
Sandie Macharg.’ And a loud quavering
laugh running from ship to ship,
and from bank to bank, told the joy
they expected from their labour.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Now the laird, besides being a
devout and a God-fearing man, was
shrewd and bold; and in plot and
contrivance, and skill in conducting his
designs, was fairly an overmatch for any
dozen land elves. But the water elves
are far more subtle; besides, their
haunts and their dwellings being in the
great deep, pursuit and detection are
hopeless, if they succeed in carrying
their prey to the waves. But ye shall
hear.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Home flew the laird, collected his
family around the hearth, spoke of the
signs and the sins of the times, and
talked of mortification and prayer for
averting calamity; and finally, taking
from the shelf his father’s Bible, brass
clasps, black print, and covered with
calf-skin, he proceeded, without let or
stint, to perform domestic worship. I
should have told ye that he bolted and
locked the door, shut up all inlet to the
house, threw salt into the fire, and proceeded
in every way like a man skilful
in guarding against the plots of fairies
and fiends. His wife looked on all this
with wonder; but she saw something in
her husband’s looks that hindered her
from intruding either question or advice,
and a wise woman was she.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Near the mid-hour of the night the
rush of a horse’s feet was heard, and the
sound of a rider leaping from his back,
and a heavy knock came to the door,
accompanied by a voice, saying, ‘The
cummer’s drink’s hot, and the knave
bairn is expected at Laird Laurie’s to-night;
sae mount, gudewife, and come.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Preserve me!’ said the wife of
Sandie Macharg, ‘that’s news indeed!
who could have thought it? The laird
has been heirless for seventeen years.
Now, Sandie, my man, fetch me my
skirt and hood.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“But he laid his arm round his wife’s
neck and said—</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘If all the lairds in Galloway go
heirless, over this door threshold shall
you not stir to-night; and I have said
it, and I have sworn it: seek not to
know why and wherefore,—but, Lord,
send us Thy blessed moonlight!’</p>

<p class='c008'>The wife looked for a moment in her
husband’s eyes, and desisted from
further entreaty.</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘But let us send a civil message to
the gossips, Sandie; and hadna ye better
say I’m sair laid wi’ a sudden sickness?—though
it’s sinful-like to send the poor
messenger a mile agate with a lie in his
mouth without a glass of brandy.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘To such a messenger, and to those
who sent him, no apology is needed,’
said the austere laird, ‘so let him depart.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“And the clatter of a horse’s hoofs
was heard, and the muttered imprecations
of its rider on the churlish treatment
he had experienced.</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Now, Sandie, my lad,’ said his
wife, laying an arm particularly white
and round about his neck as she spoke,
‘are you not a queer man and a stern?
I have been your wedded wife now
these three years, and, beside my dower,
have brought you three as bonnie
bairns as ever smiled aneath a summer
sun. O man! you a douce man, and
fitter to be an elder than even Willie
Greer himsel,—I have the minister’s ain
word for’t,—to put on these hard-hearted
looks, and gang waving your
arms that way, as if ye said, “I winna
tak’ the counsel o’ sic a hempie as you.”
I’m your ain leal wife, and will and
maun hae an explanation.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“To all this Sandy Macharg replied,
‘It is written, “Wives, obey your husbands;”
but we have been stayed in
our devotion, so let us pray;’ and down
he knelt. His wife knelt also, for she was
as devout as bonnie; and beside them
knelt their household, and all lights were
extinguished.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Now this beats a’,’ muttered his
wife to herself; ‘however, I shall be
obedient for a time; but if I dinna ken
what all this is for before the morn by
sunket-time, my tongue is nae langer a
tongue, nor my hands worth wearing.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“The voice of her husband in prayer
interrupted this mental soliloquy; and
ardently did he beseech to be preserved
from the wiles of the fiends and the
snares of Satan; ‘from witches, ghosts,
goblins, elves, fairies, spunkies, and
water-kelpies; from the spectre shallop
of Solway; from spirits visible and
invisible; from the Haunted Ships and
their unearthly tenants; from maritime
spirits that plotted against godly men,
and fell in love with their wives’——</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Nay, but His presence be near us!’
said his wife in a low tone of dismay.
‘God guide my gudeman’s wits! I
never heard such a prayer from human
lips before. But, Sandie, my man, for
Lord’s sake, rise; what fearful light is
this?—barn, and byre, and stable, maun
be in a blaze; and Hawkie and Hurley,
Doddie and Cherrie, and Damson-plum,
will be smoored with reek and scorched
with flame.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“And a flood of light, but not so
gross as a common fire, which ascended
to heaven and filled all the court before
the house, amply justified the good
wife’s suspicions. But to the terrors of
fire, Sandie was as immovable as he
was to the imaginary groans of the
barren wife of Laird Laurie; and he
held his wife, and threatened the weight
of his right hand—and it was a heavy
one—to all who ventured abroad, or
even unbolted the door. The neighing
and prancing of horses, and the bellowing
of cows, augmented the horrors of
the night; and to any one who only
heard the din, it seemed that the whole
onstead was in a blaze, and horses and
cattle perishing in the flame. All wiles,
common or extraordinary, were put in
practice to entice or force the honest
farmer and his wife to open their door;
and when the like success attended
every new stratagem, silence for a little
while ensued, and a long, loud, and
shrilling laugh wound up the dramatic
efforts of the night.</p>

<p class='c008'>“In the morning, when Laird Macharg
went to the door, he found standing
against one of the pilasters a piece of
black ship oak, rudely fashioned into
something like a human form, and
which skilful people declared would
have been clothed with seeming flesh
and blood, and palmed upon him by
elfin adroitness for his wife, had he
admitted his visitants. A synod of
wise men and women sat upon the
woman of timber, and she was finally
ordered to be devoured by fire, and that
in the open air. A fire was soon made,
and into it the elfin sculpture was tossed
from the prongs of two pairs of pitchforks.
The blaze that rose was awful
to behold; and hissings, and burstings,
and loud cracklings, and strange noises,
were heard in the midst of the flame;
and when the whole sank into ashes, a
drinking cup of some precious metal
was found; and this cup, fashioned no
doubt by elfin skill, but rendered harmless
by the purification with fire, the
sons and daughters of Sandie Macharg
and his wife drink out of to this
day.”</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='a_tale_of_the_martyrs' class='c006'>A TALE OF THE MARTYRS.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By James Hogg, the “Ettrick Shepherd.”</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>Red Tam Harkness came into the
farm-house of Garrick, in the parish of
Closeburn, one day, and began to look
about for some place to hide in, when
the gudewife, whose name was Jane
Kilpatrick, said to him in great alarm,
“What’s the matter, what’s the matter,
Tam Harkness!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Hide me, or else I’m a dead man:
that’s the present matter, gudewife,”
said he. “But yet, when I have time—if
ever I hae mair time—I have heavy
news for you. For Christ’s sake, hide
me, Jane, for the killers are hard at
hand.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Jane Kilpatrick sprung to her feet,
but she was quite benumbed and powerless.
She ran to one press and opened
it, and then to another; there was not
room to stuff a clog into either of them.
She looked into a bed; there was no
shelter there, and her knees began to
bend under her weight with terror.
The voices of the troopers were by this
time heard fast approaching, and Harkness
had no other shift but in one moment
to conceal himself behind the outer
door, which was open, but the place
where he stood was quite dark. He
heard one of them say to another, “I
fear the scoundrel is not here after all.
Guard all the outhouses.”</p>

<p class='c008'>On that three or four of the troop
rushed by him, and began to search the
house and examine the inmates. Harkness
that moment slid out without being
observed, and tried to escape up a narrow
glen called Kinrivah, immediately
behind the house, but unluckily two
troopers, who had been in another
chase, there met him in the face.
When he perceived them, he turned and
ran to the eastward; on which they
both fired, which raised the alarm, and
instantly the whole pack were after
him. It was afterwards conjectured
that one of the shots had wounded him,
for though he, with others, had been
nearly surrounded that morning, and
twice waylaid, he had quite outrun the
soldiers; but now it was observed that
some of them began to gain ground on
him, and they still continued firing, till
at length he fell into a kind of slough
east from the farm-house of Locherben,
where they came up to him, and ran
him through with their bayonets. The
spot is called Red Tam’s Gutter to this
day.</p>

<p class='c008'>Jane Kilpatrick was one of the first
who went to his mangled corpse—a
woful sight, lying in the slough, and
sore did she lament the loss of that
poor and honest man. But there was
more: she came to his corpse by a sort
of yearning impatience to learn what
was the woful news he had to communicate
to her. But, alas! the intelligence
was lost, and the man to whose
bosom alone it had haply been confided
was no more; yet Jane could scarcely
prevail on herself to have any fears for
her own husband, for she knew him to
be in perfectly safe hiding in Glen
Govar; still Tam’s last words hung
heavy on her mind. They were both
suspected to have been at the harmless
rising at Enterkin for the relief of a
favourite minister, which was effected;
and that was the extent of their crime.
And though it was only suspicion, four
men were shot on the hills that morning
without trial or examination, and their
bodies forbidden Christian burial.</p>

<p class='c008'>One of these four was John Weir of
Garrick, the husband of Jane Kilpatrick,
a man of great worth and honour, and
universally respected. He had left his
hiding-place in order to carry some intelligence
to his friends, and to pray
with them, but was entrapped among
them and slain. Still there was no intelligence
brought to his family, save the
single expression that fell from the lips
of Thomas Harkness in a moment of
distraction. Nevertheless, Jane could
not rest, but set out all the way to her
sister’s house in Glen Govar, in Crawford
Muir, and arrived there at eleven o’clock
on a Sabbath evening. The family
being at prayers when she went, and
the house dark, she stood still behind
the hallan, and all the time was convinced
that the voice of the man that
prayed was the voice of her husband,
John Weir. All the time that fervent
prayer lasted the tears of joy ran from
her eyes, and her heart beat with gratitude
to her Maker as she drank into her
soul every sentence of the petitions
and thanksgiving. Accordingly, when
worship was ended, and the candle
lighted, she went forward with a light
heart and joyful countenance. Her sister
embraced her, though manifestly embarrassed
and troubled at seeing her
there at such a time. From her she
flew to embrace her husband, but he
stood still like a statue, and did not
meet her embrace. She gazed at him—she
grew pale, and, sitting down, she
covered her face with her apron. This
man was one of her husband’s brothers,
likewise in hiding, whom she had never
before seen; but the tones of his voice,
and even the devotional expressions
that he used, were so like her husband’s,
that she mistook them for his.</p>

<p class='c008'>All was now grief and consternation,
for John Weir had not been seen or
heard of there since Wednesday evening,
when he had gone to warn his
friends of some impending danger; but
they all tried to comfort each other as
well as they could, and, in particular, by
saying they were all in the Lord’s hand,
and it behoved Him to do with them
as seemed to Him good, with many other
expressions of piety and submission.
But the next morning, when the two
sisters were about to part, the one says
to the other,—“Jane, I cannot help
telling you a strange confused dream
that I had just afore ye wakened me.
Ye ken I put nae faith in dreams, and
I dinna want you to regard it; but it is
as well for friends to tell them to ane
anither, and then, if aught turn out
like it in the course o’ Providence,
it may bring it to baith their minds
that their spirits had been conversing
with God.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Na, na, Aggie, I want nane o’ your
confused dreams. I hae other things to
think o’, and mony’s the time and oft
ye hae deaved me wi’ them, an’ sometimes
made me angry.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I never bade ye believe them,
Jeanie, but I likit aye to tell them to
you; and this I daresay rose out o’ our
conversation yestreen. But I thought
I was away (ye see I dinna ken where
I was); and I was feared and confused,
thinking I had lost my way. And then
I came to an auld man, an’ he says to
me, ‘Is it the road to heaven that you
are seeking, Aggie?’ An’ I said, ‘Ay,’
for I didna like to deny’t.</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Then I’ll tell you where you maun
gang,’ said he; ‘ye maun gang up by
the head of yon dark, mossy cleuch,
an’ you will find ane there that will
show you the road to heaven;’ and I
said ‘Ay,’ for I didna like to refuse,
although it was an uncouth looking
road, and ane that I didna like to gang.
But when I gaed to the cleuch-head,
wha do I see sitting there but your ain
gudeman, John Weir, and I thought I
never saw him look sae weel; and when
I gaed close up to him, there I saw
another John Weir, lying strippet to the
sark, and a’ bedded in blood. He was
cauld dead, and his head turned to ae
side, and when I saw siccan a sight, I
was terrified, an’ held wide aff him.
But I gaed up to the living John Weir,
and said to him,—‘Gudeman, how’s
this?’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Dinna ye see how it is, sister
Aggie?’ says he, ‘I’m just set to herd
this poor man that’s lying here.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Then I think ye’ll no hae a sair
post, John,’ says I, ‘for he disna look
as if he wad rin far away.’ It was very
unreverend o’ me to speak that gate,
sister, but these were the words that I
thought I said; an’ as it is but a dream,
ye ken ye needna heed it.</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Alas, poor Aggie,’ says he, ‘ye
are still in the gall o’ bitterness. Look
ower your right shoulder, an’ ye will
see what I hae to do. An’ sae I looked
ower my right shoulder, and there saw
a hale drove o’ foxes and wulcats, an’
fumarts, an’ martins, an’ corby-craws,
an’ a hunder vile beasts, a’ staunin’
round wi’ glaring een, eager to be at the
corpse of the dead John Weir; an’
then I was terribly astoundit, an’ I says
to him, ‘Gudeman, how is this?’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘I am commissioned to keep these
awa,’ said he. ‘Do you think these
een that are yet open to the light o’
heaven, and that tongue that has to
syllable the praises of a Redeemer far
within yon sky, should be left to become
a prey o’ siccan vermin as these?’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Will it make sae vera muckle difference,
John Weir,’ said I, ‘whether
the carcass is eaten up by these or by
the worms?’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Ah, Aggie, Aggie! worms are
worms; but ye little wot what these
are,’ says he. ‘But John Weir has
warred wi’ them a’ his life, an’ that to
some purpose, and they maunna get the
advantage o’ him now.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘But which is the right John Weir?’
said I; ‘for here is ane lying stiff and
lappered in his blood, and another in
health and strength and sound mind.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘I am the right John Weir,’ says
he. ‘Did you ever think the good man
o’ Garrick could die! Na, na, Aggie;
Clavers could only kill the body, an’
that’s but the poorest part o’ the man.
But where are you gaun this wild
gate?’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘I was directed this way on my
road to heaven,’ said I.</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘Ay, an’ ye were directed right,
then,’ says he; ‘for this is the direct
path to heaven, and there is no other.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘That is very extraordinary,’ says I.
‘And, pray, what is the name of this
place, that I may direct my sister Jane,
your wife, and all my friends by the
same way.’</p>

<p class='c008'>“‘This is Faith’s Hope,’ says he.</p>

<p class='c008'>At the mention of this place, Jane
Kilpatrick of Garrick rose slowly up to
her feet, and held up both her hands.
“Hold, hold, sister Aggie,” cried she,
“you have told enough. Was it in the
head of Faith’s Hope that you saw this
vision of my dead husband?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Yes; but at the same time I saw
your husband alive.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Then I fear your dream has a double
meaning,” she answered; “for though
it appears like a religious allegory, you
do not know that there really is such a
place, and that not very far from our
house. I have often laughed at your
dreams, sister, but this one hurries me
from you to-day with a heavy and
trembling heart.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Jane left Glen Govar by the break
of day, and took her way through the
wild ranges of Crawford Muir, straight
for the head of Faith’s Hope. She had
some bread in her lap, and a little Bible
that she always carried with her; and
without one to assist or comfort her,
she went in search of her lost husband.
Before she reached the head of that
wild glen, the day was far spent, and
the sun wearing down. The valley of
Nith lay spread far below her in all its
beauty, but around her there was nothing
but darkness, dread, and desolation.
The mist hovered on the hills, and on
the skirts of the mist the ravens sailed
about in circles, croaking furiously, which
had a most ominous effect on the heart
of poor Jane. As she advanced further
up, she perceived a fox and an eagle
sitting over against each other, watching
something which yet they seemed
terrified to approach; and right between
them, in a little green hollow, surrounded
by black haggs, she found the corpse
of her husband in the same manner as
described by her sister. He was stripped
of his coat and vest, which it was
thought he had thrown from him when
flying from the soldiers, to enable him
to effect his escape. He was shot
through the heart with two bullets, but
nothing relating to his death was ever
known, whether he died praying, or was
shot as he fled; but there was he found
lying, bathed in his blood, in the wilderness,
and none of the wild beasts of the
forest had dared to touch his lifeless
form.</p>

<p class='c008'>The bitterness of death was now past
with poor Jane. Her staff and shield
was taken from her right hand, and
laid low in death by the violence of
wicked men. True, she had still a
home to go to, although that home
was robbed and spoiled; but she found
that without him it was no home, and
that where his beloved form reposed,
there was the home of her rest. She
washed his wounds and the stains of
blood from his body, tied her napkin
round his face, covered him with her
apron, and sat down and watched beside
him all the livelong night, praying to the
Almighty, and singing hymns and spiritual
songs alternately. The next day
she warned her friends and neighbours,
who went with her the following night,
and buried him privately in the northwest
corner of the churchyard of Morton.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='the_town_drummer' class='c006'>THE TOWN DRUMMER.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By John Galt.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>For many a year one Robin Boss
had been town drummer; he was a relic
of some American war fencibles, and
was, to say the truth of him, a divor
body, with no manner of conduct, saving
a very earnest endeavour to fill
himself fou as often as he could get the
means; the consequence of which was,
that his face was as plooky as a curran
bun, and his nose as red as a partan’s tae.</p>

<p class='c008'>One afternoon there was need to
send out a proclamation to abolish a
practice that was growing into a custom,
in some of the by-parts of the town, of
keeping swine at large—ordering them
to be confined in proper styes, and
other suitable places. As on all occasions
when the matter to be proclaimed
was from the magistrates, Thomas, on
this, was attended by the town-officers
in their Sunday garbs, and with their
halberts in their hands; but the abominable
and irreverent creature was so
drunk, that he wam’let to and fro over
the drum, as if there had not been a
bane in his body. He was seemingly
as soople and as senseless as a bolster.
Still, as this was no new thing with
him, it might have passed; for James
Hound, the senior officer, was in the
practice, when Robin was in that state,
of reading the proclamations himself.
On this occasion, however, James happened
to be absent on some hue and cry
quest, and another of the officers (I forget
which) was appointed to perform
for him. Robin, accustomed to James,
no sooner heard the other man begin to
read than he began to curse and swear
at him as an incapable nincompoop—an
impertinent term that he was much
addicted to. The grammar school was
at the time skailing, and the boys seeing
the stramash, gathered round the
officer, and yelling and shouting, encouraged
Robin more and more into rebellion,
till at last they worked up his corruption
to such a pitch, that he took the drum
from about his neck, and made it fly
like a bombshell at the officer’s head.</p>

<p class='c008'>The officers behaved very well, for
they dragged Robin by the lug and the
horn to the tolbooth, and then came
with their complaint to me. Seeing
how the authorities had been set at
nought, and the necessity there was of
making an example, I forthwith ordered
Robin to be cashiered from the service
of the town; and as so important a concern
as a proclamation ought not to be
delayed, I likewise, upon the spot, ordered
the officers to take a lad that had been
also a drummer in a marching regiment,
and go with him to make the proclamation.</p>

<p class='c008'>Nothing could be done in a more
earnest and zealous public spirit than
this was done by me. But habit had
begot in the town a partiality for the
drunken ne’er-do-well, Robin; and this
just act of mine was immediately condemned
as a daring stretch of arbitrary
power; and the consequence was, that
when the council met next day, some
sharp words flew among us, as to my
usurping an undue authority; and the
thanks I got for my pains was the mortification
to see the worthless body
restored to full power and dignity, with
no other reward than an admonition to
behave better for the future. Now, I
leave it to the unbiassed judgment of
posterity to determine if any public man
could be more ungraciously treated by
his colleagues than I was on this occasion.
But, verily, the council had their
reward.</p>

<p class='c008'>The divor Robin Boss being, as I
have recorded, reinstated in office, soon
began to play his old tricks. In the
course of the week after the Michaelmas
term at which my second provostry
ended, he was so insupportably drunk
that he fell head foremost into his drum,
which cost the town five-and-twenty
shillings for a new one—an accident
that was not without some satisfaction
to me; and I trow I was not sparing
in my derisive commendations on the
worth of such a public officer. Nevertheless,
he was still kept on, some befriending
him for compassion, and others as
it were to spite me.</p>

<p class='c008'>But Robin’s good behaviour did not
end with breaking the drum, and costing
a new one. In the course of the
winter it was his custom to beat, “Go
to bed, Tom,” about ten o’clock at
night, and the reveille at five in the
morning. In one of his drunken fits
he made a mistake, and instead of going
his rounds as usual at ten o’clock, he
had fallen asleep in a change-house, and
waking about the midnight hour in the
terror of some whisky dream, he seized
his drum, and running into the streets,
began to strike the fire-beat in the most
awful manner.</p>

<p class='c008'>It was a fine clear frosty moonlight, and
the hollow sound of the drum resounded
through the silent streets like thunder.
In a moment everybody was afoot,
and the cry of “Whaur is’t? whaur’s the
fire?” was heard echoing from all sides.
Robin, quite unconscious that he alone
was the cause of the alarm, still went
along beating the dreadful summons.
I heard the noise and rose; but while
I was drawing on my stockings in the
chair at the bed-head, and telling Mrs
Pawkie to compose herself, for our
houses were all insured, I suddenly recollected
that Robin had the night before
neglected to go his rounds at ten o’clock
as usual, and the thought came into my
head that the alarm might be one of his
inebriated mistakes; so, instead of
dressing myself any further, I went to
the window, and looked out through
the glass, without opening it, for, being
in my night-clothes, I was afraid of
taking cold.</p>

<p class='c008'>The street was as throng as on a
market day, and every face in the moonlight
was pale with fear. Men and lads
were running with their coats, and
carrying their breeches in their hands;
wives and maidens were all asking
questions at one another, and even
lasses were fleeing to and fro, like waternymphs
with urns, having stoups and
pails in their hands. There was swearing
and tearing of men, hoarse with the
rage of impatience, at the tolbooth,
getting out the fire-engine from its
stance under the stair; and loud and terrible
afar off, and over all, came the peal
of alarm from drunken Robin’s drum.</p>

<p class='c008'>I could scarcely keep my composity
when I beheld and heard all this, for I
was soon thoroughly persuaded of the
fact. At last I saw Deacon Girdwood,
the chief advocate and champion of
Robin, passing down the causeway like
a demented man, with a red nightcap,
and his big-coat on; for some had cried
that the fire was in his yard.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Deacon,” cried I, opening the window,
forgetting, in the jocularity of the
moment, the risk I ran from being so
naked; “whaur away sae fast, deacon?”</p>

<p class='c008'>The deacon stopped and said, “Is’t
out? is’t out?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Gang your ways home,” quo’ I, very
coolly, “for I hae a notion that a’ this
hobleshow’s but the fume of a gill in
your friend Robin’s head.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“It’s no possible!” exclaimed the
deacon.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Possible here or possible there,
Mr Girdwood,” quo’ I, “it’s ower
cauld for me to stand talking wi’ you
here; we’ll learn the rights o’t in the
morning, so good night;” and with
that I pulled down the window. But
scarcely had I done so, when a shout of
laughter came gathering up the street,
and soon after poor drunken Robin was
brought along by the cuff of the neck,
between two of the town-officers, one
of them carrying his drum. The next
day he was put out of office for ever, and
folk recollecting in what manner I had
acted towards him before, the outcry
about my arbitrary power was forgotten
in the blame that was heaped upon
those who had espoused Robin’s cause
against me.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='the_awful_night' class='c006'>THE AWFUL NIGHT.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By D. M. Moir (Delta).</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Ha!—’twas but a dream;</div>
      <div class='line'>But then so terrible, it shakes my soul!</div>
      <div class='line'>Cold drops of sweat hang on my trembling flesh;</div>
      <div class='line'>My blood grows chilly, and I freeze with horror.</div>
      <div class='line in24'>—<em>Richard the Third.</em></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>The Fire-King one day rather amorous felt;</div>
      <div class='line'>He mounted his hot copper filly;</div>
      <div class='line'>His breeches and boots were of tin, and the belt</div>
      <div class='line'>Was made of cast-iron, for fear it should melt</div>
      <div class='line'>With the heat of the copper colt’s belly.</div>
      <div class='line'>Oh! then there was glitter and fire in each eye,</div>
      <div class='line'>For two living coals were the symbols;</div>
      <div class='line'>His teeth were calcined, and his tongue was so dry,</div>
      <div class='line'>It rattled against them as though you should try</div>
      <div class='line'>To play the piano on thimbles.</div>
      <div class='line in24'>—<cite>Rejected Addresses.</cite></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>In the course of a fortnight from the
time I parted with Maister Glen, the
Lauder carrier, limping Jamie, brought
his callant to our shop door in his hand.
He was a tall, slender laddie, some
fourteen years old, and sore grown
away from his clothes. There was
something genty and delicate like about
him, having a pale, sharp face, blue
eyes, a nose like a hawk’s, and long
yellow hair hanging about his haffets,
as if barbers were unco scarce cattle
among the howes of the Lammermoor
hills. Having a general experience of
human nature, I saw that I would have
something to do towards bringing him
into a state of rational civilisation; but,
considering his opportunities, he had
been well educated, and I liked his appearance
on the whole not that ill.</p>

<p class='c008'>To divert him a while, as I did not
intend yoking him to work the first day,
I sent out Benjie with him, after giving
him some refreshment of bread and milk,
to let him see the town and all the uncos
about it. I told Benjie first to take
him to the auld kirk, which is a
wonderful building, steeple and aisle;
and as for mason work, far before anything
to be seen or heard tell of in our
day; syne to Lugton brig, which is a
grand affair, hanging over the river Esk
and the flour-mills like a rainbow; syne
to the Tolbooth, which is a terror to
evil-doers, and from which the Lord
preserve us all! syne to the Market,
where ye’ll see lamb, beef, mutton, and
veal, hanging up on the cleeks, in roasting
and boiling pieces—spar-rib, jiggot,
shoulder, and heuk-bane, in the great
prodigality of abundance; and syne
down to the Duke’s gate, by looking
through the bonny white painted iron-staunchels
of which ye’ll see the deer
running beneath the green trees; and
the palace itself, in the inside of which
dwells one that needs not be proud to
call the king his cousin.</p>

<p class='c008'>Brawly did I know, that it is a little
after a laddie’s being loosed from his
mother’s apron-string, and hurried from
home, till the mind can make itself up
to stay among fremit folk; or that the
attention can be roused to anything said
or done, however simple in the uptake.
So, after Benjie brought Mungo home
again, gey forfaughten and wearied-out
like, I bade the wife give him his four-hours,
and told him he might go to his
bed as soon as he liked. Jalousing
also, at the same time, that creatures
brought up in the country have strange
notions about them with respect to
supernaturals—such as ghosts, brownies,
fairies, and bogles—to say nothing of
witches, warlocks, and evil-spirits, I
made Benjie take off his clothes and lie
down beside him, as I said, to keep him
warm; but, in plain matter of fact
(between friends), that the callant
might sleep sounder, finding himself
in a strange bed, and not very sure as
to how the house stood as to the matter
of a good name.</p>

<p class='c008'>Knowing by my own common sense,
and from long experience of the ways
of a wicked world, that there is nothing
like industry, I went to Mungo’s bedside
in the morning, and wakened him
betimes. Indeed, I’m leein’ there; I
need not call it wakening him, for
Benjie told me, when he was supping
his parritch out of his luggie at breakfast-time,
that he never winked an eye
all night, and that sometimes he heard
him greetin’ to himself in the dark—such
and so powerful is our love of
home and the force of natural affection.
Howsoever, as I was saying, I took him
ben the house with me down to the
workshop, where I had begun to cut out
a pair of nankeen trowsers for a young
lad that was to be married the week
after to a servant-maid of Mr Wiggie’s,—a
trig quean, that afterwards made
him a good wife, and the father of a
numerous small family.</p>

<p class='c008'>Speaking of nankeen, I would advise
everyone, as a friend, to buy the Indian,
and not the British kind, the expense
of outlay being ill hained, even at sixpence
a-yard—the latter not standing
the washing, but making a man’s legs,
at a distance, look like a yellow yorline.</p>

<p class='c008'>It behoved me now as a maister,
bent on the improvement of his prentice,
to commence learning Mungo some few
of the mysteries of our trade; so having
showed him the way to crook his hough
(example is better than precept, as
James Batter observes), I taught him
the plan of holding the needle; and
having fitted his middle-finger with a
bottomless thimble of our own sort, I
set him to sewing the cotton-lining into
one leg, knowing that it was a part not
very particular, and not very likely to
be seen; so that the matter was not
great, whether the stitching was exactly
regular, or rather in the zigzag line.
As is customary with all new beginners,
he made a desperate awkward hand at
it, and of which I would of course have
said nothing, but that he chanced to
brog his thumb, and completely soiled
the whole piece of work with the stains
of blood; which, for one thing, could
not wash out without being seen; and,
for another, was an unlucky omen to
happen to a marriage garment.</p>

<p class='c008'>Every man should be on his guard:
this was a lesson I learned when I was
in the volunteers, at the time Buonaparte
was expected to land down at
Dunbar. Luckily for me in this case,
I had, by some foolish mistake or
another, made an allowance of a half
yard over and above what I found I
could manage to shape on; so I boldly
made up my mind to cut out the piece
altogether, it being in the back seam.
In that business I trust I showed the
art of a good tradesman, having managed
to do it so neatly that it could not
be noticed without the narrowest inspection;
and, having the advantage of
a covering by the coat flaps, had indeed
no chance of being so, except on
desperately windy days.</p>

<p class='c008'>In the week succeeding that on
which this unlucky mischance happened,
an accident almost as bad befell,
though not to me, further than that
every one is bound by the ten commandments,
to say nothing of his own
conscience, to take a part in the afflictions
that befall their door-neighbours.</p>

<p class='c008'>When the voice of man was whisht,
and all was sunk in the sound sleep of
midnight, it chanced that I was busy
dreaming that I was sitting, one of the
spectators, looking at another playacting
business. Before coming this
length, howsoever, I should by right
have observed, that ere going to bed I
had eaten for my supper part of a black
pudding and two sausages, that widow
Grassie had sent in a compliment to
my wife, being a genteel woman, and
mindful of her friends—so that I must
have had some sort of nightmare, and
not been exactly in my seven senses,
else I could not have been even
dreaming of siccan a place. Well, as
I was saying, in the play-house I
thought I was; and all at once I heard
Maister Wiggie, like one crying in the
wilderness, hallooing with a loud voice
through the window, bidding me flee
from the snares, traps, and gin-nets of
the Evil One, and from the terrors of
the wrath to come. I was in a terrible
funk; and just as I was trying to rise
from the seat, that seemed somehow
glued to my body and would not let
me, to reach down my hat, which, with
its glazed cover, was hanging on a pin
to one side, my face all red, and
glowing like a fiery furnace, for shame
of being a second time caught in deadly
sin, I heard the kirk-bell jow-jowing,
as if it was the last trump summoning
sinners to their long and black account;
and Maister Wiggie thrust in his arm
in his desperation, in a whirlwind of
passion, claughting hold of my hand
like a vice, to drag me out head foremost.
Even in my sleep, howsoever,
it appears that I like free-will, and ken
that there are no slaves in our blessed
country; so I tried with all my might
to pull against him, and gave his arm
such a drive back, that he seemed to
bleach over on his side, and raised a
hullaballoo of a yell, that not only
wakened me, but made me start upright
in my bed.</p>

<p class='c008'>For all the world such a scene! My
wife was roaring “Murder, murder!—Mansie
Wauch, will ye no wauken?—Murder,
murder! ye’ve felled me wi’
your nieve,—ye’ve felled me outright,—I’m
gone for evermair,—my hale teeth
are doun my throat. Will ye no wauken,
Mansie Wauch?—will ye no wauken?—Murder,
murder!—I say murder, murder, murder, murder!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Who’s murdering us?” cried I,
throwing my cowl back on the pillow,
and rubbing my eyes in the hurry of a
tremendous fright.—“Wha’s murdering
us?—where’s the robbers?—send for the
town officer!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“O Mansie!—O Mansie!” said
Nanse, in a kind of greeting tone, “I
daursay ye’ve felled me—but no matter,
now I’ve gotten ye roused. Do ye no
see the hale street in a bleeze of flames?
Bad is the best; we maun either be
burned to death, or out of house and
hall, without a rag to cover our nakedness.
Where’s my son?—where’s my
dear bairn, Benjie?”</p>

<p class='c008'>In a most awful consternation, I
jumped at this out to the middle of the
floor, hearing the causeway all in an
uproar of voices; and seeing the flichtering
of the flames glancing on the
houses in the opposite side of the street,
all the windows of which were filled
with the heads of half-naked folks in
round-eared mutches or Kilmarnocks,
their mouths open, and their eyes staring
with fright; while the sound of the
fire-engine, rattling through the streets
like thunder, seemed like the dead cart
of the plague come to hurry away the
corpses of the deceased for interment in
the kirkyard.</p>

<p class='c008'>Never such a spectacle was witnessed
in this world of sin and sorrow since the
creation of Adam. I pulled up the
window and looked out; and, lo and
behold! the very next house to our own
was all in a lowe from cellar to garret;
the burning joists hissing and cracking
like mad; and the very wind blew
along as warm as if it had been out of
the mouth of a baker’s oven!</p>

<p class='c008'>It was a most awful spectacle! more
by token to me, who was likely to be
intimately concerned with it; and beating
my brow with my clenched nieve
like a distracted creature, I saw that the
labour of my whole life was likely to go
for nought, and me to be a ruined man;
all the earnings of my industry being
laid out on my stock-in-trade, and on
the plenishing of our bit house. The
darkness of the latter days came over
my spirit like a vision before the prophet
Isaiah; and I could see nothing in the
years to come but beggary and starvation;
myself a fallen old man, with an
out-at-the-elbows coat, a greasy hat,
and a bald pow, hirpling over a staff,
requeeshting an awmous; Nanse a
broken-hearted beggar wife, torn down
to tatters, and weeping like Rachel
when she thought on better days; and
poor wee Benjie going from door to door
with a meal-pock on his back.</p>

<p class='c008'>The thought first dung me stupid, and
then drove me to desperation; and not
even minding the dear wife of my
bosom, that had fainted away as dead as
a herring, I pulled on my trowsers like
mad, and rushed out into the street,
bareheaded and barefoot as the day that
Lucky Bringthereout dragged me into
the world.</p>

<p class='c008'>The crowd saw in the twinkling of
an eyeball that I was a desperate man,
fierce as Sir William Wallace, and not
to be withstood by gentle or simple. So
most of them made way for me; they
that tried to stop me finding it a bad
job, being heeled over from right to left,
on the broad of their backs, like flounders,
without respect of age or person; some
old women that were obstrepulous being
gey sore hurt, and one of them has a
pain in her hainch even to this day.
When I had got almost to the doorcheek
of the burning house, I found
one grupping me by the back like grim
death; and in looking over my shoulder,
who was it but Nanse herself, that,
rising up from her faint, had pursued
me like a whirlwind. It was a heavy
trial, but my duty to myself in the first
place, and to my neighbours in the
second, roused me up to withstand it;
so, making a spend like a greyhound, I
left the hindside of my shirt in her
grasp, like Joseph’s garment in the
nieve of Potiphar’s wife, and up the
stairs head-foremost among the flames.</p>

<p class='c008'>Mercy keep us all! what a sight for
mortal man to glower at with his living
eyes! The bells were tolling amid the
dark, like a summons from above for
the parish of Dalkeith to pack off to
another world; the drums were beat-beating
as if the French were coming,
thousand on thousand, to kill, slay, and
devour every maid and mother’s son of us;
the fire-engine pump-pump-pumping like
daft, showering the water like rainbows,
as if the windows of heaven were opened,
and the days of old Noah come back
again; and the rabble throwing the good
furniture over the windows like onion
peelings, where it either felled the folk
below, or was dung to a thousand
shivers on the causey. I cried to them
for the love of goodness to make search
in the beds, in case there might be any
weans there, human life being still more
precious than human means; but not a
living soul was seen but a cat, which,
being raised and wild with the din,
would on no consideration allow itself
to be catched. Jacob Dribble found
that to his cost; for right or wrong,
having a drappie in his head, he swore
like a trooper that he would catch her,
and carry her down beneath his oxter;
so forward he weired her into a corner,
crouching on his hunkers. He had
much better have let it alone; for it
fuffed over his shoulder like wildfire,
and, scarting his back all the way down,
jumped like a lamplighter head-foremost
through the flames, where, in the raging
and roaring of the devouring element,
its pitiful cries were soon hushed to
silence for ever and ever.</p>

<p class='c008'>At long and last, a woman’s howl was
heard on the street, lamenting, like
Hagar over young Ishmael in the wilderness
of Beersheba, and crying that
her old grannie, that was a lameter, and
had been bedridden for four years come
the Martinmas following, was burning
to a cinder in the fore-garret. My heart
was like to burst within me when I
heard this dismal news, remembering
that I myself had once an old mother,
that was now in the mools; so I brushed
up the stair like a hatter, and burst
open the door of the fore-garret—for in
the hurry I could not find the sneck,
and did not like to stand on ceremony.
I could not see my finger before me,
and did not know my right hand from
the left, for the smoke; but I groped
round and round, though the reek mostly
cut my breath, and made me cough at
no allowance, till at last I catched hold
of something cold and clammy, which I
gave a pull, not knowing what it was,
but found out to be the old wife’s nose.
I cried out as loud as I was able for the
poor creature to hoise herself up into
my arms; but, receiving no answer, I
discovered in a moment that she was
suffocated, the foul air having gone
down her wrong hause; and, though I
had aye a terror at looking at, far less
handling, a dead corpse, there was something
brave within me at the moment,
my blood being up; so I caught hold of
her by the shoulders, and hurling her
with all my might out of her bed, got
her lifted on my back heads and thraws
in the manner of a boll of meal, and
away as fast as my legs could carry
me.</p>

<p class='c008'>There was a providence in this haste;
for ere I was half-way down the stair,
the floor fell with a thud like thunder;
and such a combustion of soot, stour,
and sparks arose, as was never seen or
heard tell of in the memory of man since
the day that Samson pulled over the
pillars in the house of Dagon, and
smoored all the mocking Philistines as
flat as flounders. For the space of a
minute I was as blind as a beetle, and
was like to be choked for want of breath;
however, as the dust began to clear up,
I saw an open window, and hallooed
down to the crowd for the sake of mercy
to bring a ladder, to save the lives of
two perishing fellow-creatures, for now
my own was also in imminent jeopardy.
They were long of coming, and I did not
know what to do; so thinking that the
old wife, as she had not spoken, was
maybe dead already, I was once determined
just to let her drop down upon
the street, but I knew that the so doing
would have cracked every bone in her
body, and the glory of my bravery
would thus have been worse than lost.
I persevered, therefore, though I was
ready to fall down under the dead
weight, she not being able to help herself,
and having a deal of beef in her
skin for an old woman of eighty; but I
got a lean, by squeezing her a wee
between me and the wall.</p>

<p class='c008'>I thought they would never have
come, for my shoeless feet were all
bruised and bleeding from the crunched
lime and the splinters of broken stones;
but, at long and last, a ladder was
hoisted up, and having fastened a kinch
of ropes beneath her oxters, I let her
slide down over the upper step, by way
of a pillyshee, having the satisfaction of
seeing her safely landed in the arms of
seven old wives, that were waiting with
a cosey warm blanket below. Having
accomplished this grand manœuvre,
wherein I succeeded in saving the precious
life of a woman of eighty, that
had been four long years bedridden, I
tripped down the steps myself like a
nine-year-old, and had the pleasure,
when the roof fell in, to know that I
for one had done my duty; and that,
to the best of my knowledge, no living
creature, except the poor cat, had
perished within the jaws of the devouring
element.</p>

<p class='c008'>But bide a wee; the work was, as
yet, only half done. The fire was still
roaring and raging, every puff of wind
that blew through the black firmament
driving the red sparks high into the air,
where they died away like the tail of a
comet, or the train of a sky-rocket;
the joisting crazing, cracking, and
tumbling down; and now and then
the bursting cans playing flee in a hundred
flinders from the chimney-heads.
One would have naturally enough
thought that our engine could have
drowned out a fire of any kind whatsoever
in half a second, scores of folks
driving about with pitcherfuls of water,
and scaling half of it on one another
and the causey in their hurry; but,
woe’s me! it did not play puh on the
red-het stones that whizzed like iron
in a smiddy trough; so, as soon as it
was darkness and smoke in one place,
it was fire and fury in another.</p>

<p class='c008'>My anxiety was great. Seeing that I
had done my best for my neighbours, it
behoved me now, in my turn, to try
and see what I could do for myself; so,
notwithstanding the remonstrances of
my friend James Batter—whom Nanse,
knowing I had bare feet, had sent out
to seek me, with a pair of shoon in his
hand, and who, in scratching his head,
mostly rugged out every hair of his wig
with sheer vexation—I ran off, and
mounted the ladder a second time, and
succeeded, after muckle speeling, in
getting upon the top of the wall; where,
having a bucket slung up to me by
means of a rope, I swashed down such
showers on the top of the flames, that
I soon did more good, in the space of
five minutes, than the engine and the
ten men, that were all in a broth of
perspiration with pumping it, did the
whole night over; to say nothing of
the multitude of drawers of water, men,
wives, and weans, with their cuddies,
leglins, pitchers, pails, and water-stoups;
having the satisfaction, in a short time,
to observe everything getting as black
as the crown of my hat, and the gable
of my own house becoming as cool as
a cucumber.</p>

<p class='c008'>Being a man of method, and acquainted
with business, I could have
liked to have given a finishing stitch to
my work before descending the ladder;
but, losh me! sic a whingeing, girning,
greeting, and roaring got up all of a
sudden, as was never seen or heard of
since Bowed Joseph<a id='r23'></a><a href='#f23' class='c018'><sup>[23]</sup></a> raised the mealmob,
and burned Johnnie Wilkes in
effigy, and, looking down, I saw Benjie,
the bairn of my own heart, and the
callant Glen, my apprentice on trial,
that had both been as sound as tops
till this blessed moment, standing in
their nightgowns and their little red
cowls, rubbing their eyes, cowering with
cold and fright, and making an awful
uproar, crying on me to come down
and not be killed. The voice of Benjie
especially pierced through and through
my heart, like a two-edged sword, and
I could on no manner of account suffer
myself to bear it any longer, as I
jaloused the bairn would have gone
into convulsion fits if I had not heeded
him; so, making a sign to them to be
quiet, I came my ways down, taking
hold of one in ilka hand, which must
have been a fatherly sight to the spectators
that saw us. After waiting on the
crown of the causey for half-an-hour, to
make sure that the fire was extinguished,
and all tight and right, I saw the crowd
scaling, and thought it best to go in too,
carrying the two youngsters along with
me. When I began to move off, however,
siccan a cheering of the multitude
got up as would have deafened a cannon;
and, though I say it myself, who
should not say it, they seemed struck
with a sore amazement at my heroic
behaviour, following me with loud
cheers, even to the threshold of my
own door.</p>

<div class='footnote' id='f23'>
<p class='c008'><a href='#r23'>23</a>. A noted Edinburgh character.</p>
</div>

<p class='c008'>From this folk should condescend to
take a lesson, seeing that, though the
world is a bitter bad world, yet that
good deeds are not only a reward to
themselves, but call forth the applause
of Jew and Gentile; for the sweet
savour of my conduct, on this memorable
night, remained in my nostrils for
goodness knows the length of time,
many praising my brave humanity in
public companies and assemblies of the
people, such as strawberry ploys, council
meetings, dinner parties, and so
forth; and many in private conversation
at their own ingle-cheek, by way
of two-handed crack; in stage-coach
confab, and in causey talk in the forenoon,
before going in to take their
meridians. Indeed, between friends,
the business proved in the upshot of no
small advantage to me, bringing to me
a sowd of strange faces, by way of customers,
both gentle and simple, that I
verily believe had not so muckle as ever
heard of my name before, and giving
me many a coat to cut, and cloth to
shape, that, but for my gallant behaviour
on the fearsome night aforesaid,
would doubtless have been cut, sewed,
and shaped by other hands. Indeed,
considering the great noise the thing
made in the world, it is no wonder that
every one was anxious to have a garment
of wearing apparel made by the individual
same hands that had succeeded,
under Providence, in saving the precious
life of an old woman of eighty, that had
been bedridden, some say, four years
come Yule, and others, come Martinmas.</p>

<p class='c008'>When we got to the ingle-side, and,
barring the door, saw that all was safe,
it was now three in the morning; so we
thought it by much the best way of
managing, not to think of sleeping any
more, but to be on the look-out—as we
aye used to be when walking sentry in
the volunteers—in case the flames
should, by ony mischancy accident or
other, happen to break out again. My
wife blamed my hardihood muckle, and
the rashness with which I had ventured
at once to places where even masons
and slaters were afraid to put foot on;
yet I saw, in the interim, that she
looked on me with a prouder eye—knowing
herself the helpmate of one
that had courageously risked his neck,
and every bone in his skin, in the cause
of humanity. I saw this as plain as a
pikestaff, as, with one of her kindest
looks, she insisted on my putting on a
better happing to screen me from the
cold, and on my taking something comfortable
inwardly towards the dispelling
of bad consequences. So, after half a
minute’s stand-out, by way of refusal
like, I agreed to a cupful of het-pint,
as I thought it would be a thing Mungo
Glen might never have had the good
fortune to have tasted, and as it might
operate by way of a cordial on the
gallant Benjie, who kept aye smally
and in a dwining way. No sooner said
than done, and off Nanse brushed in
a couple of hurries to make the het-pint.</p>

<p class='c008'>After the small beer was put into the
pan to boil, we found, to our great mortification,
that there was no eggs in the
house, and Benjie was sent out with a
candle to the hen-house, to see if any of
the hens had laid since gloaming, and
fetch what he could get. In the middle
of the meantime, I was expatiating to
Mungo on what taste it would have, and
how he had never seen anything finer
than it would be, when in ran Benjie,
all out of breath, and his face as pale as
a dish-clout.</p>

<p class='c008'>“What’s the matter, Benjie, what’s
the matter?” said I to him, rising up
from my chair in a great hurry of a
fright. “Has onybody killed ye? or is
the fire broken out again? or has the
French landed? or have ye seen a
ghost? or are”—</p>

<p class='c008'>“Eh, crifty!” cried Benjie, coming
till his speech, “they’re a’ aff—cock and
hens and a’; there’s naething left but the
rotten nest-egg in the corner!”</p>

<p class='c008'>This was an awful dispensation. In
the midst of the desolation of the fire—such
is the depravity of human nature—some
ne’er-do-weels had taken advantage
of my absence to break open
the hen-house door; and our whole
stock of poultry, the cock along with
our seven hens—two of them tappit,
and one muffled—were carried away
bodily, stoop and roop.</p>

<p class='c008'>On this subject, howsoever, I shall
say no more, but merely observe in
conclusion, that, as to our het-pint, we
were obliged to make the best of a
bad bargain, making up with whisky
what it wanted in eggs; though our
banquet could not be called altogether
a merry one, the joys of our escape
from the horrors of the fire being
damped, as it were by a wet blanket,
on account of the nefarious pillaging of
our hen-house.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='rose_jamieson' class='c006'>ROSE JAMIESON.</h2>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c016'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>I looked on thy death-cold face, my lassie,—</div>
      <div class='line in2'>I looked on thy death-cold face;</div>
      <div class='line'>Thou seemed a lily new cut i’ the bud,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>And fading at its place.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Thy lips were ruddy and calm, my lassie,—</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Thy lips were ruddy and calm;</div>
      <div class='line'>But gane was the holy breath o’ heaven,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>To sing the evening psalm.—<em>Allan Cunningham.</em></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>Andrew Jamieson was a thorough-paced
Cameronian. He held hats in
abomination, as they savoured of Erastianism;
abhorred boots, because the
troopers of 1685 wore them while galloping
over the wilds of Dumfriesshire
in quest of the persecuted remnant;
testified against the use of “fanners”
in the process of separating the chaff
from the wheat, as a tacit renunciation
of the doctrine of a superintending Providence.
He judged of the excellences
or defects of a sermon by its length;
and on that of prayer by the colloquial
familiarity which the clergyman held
with the Deity; pronounced on his
orthodoxy by the complexion of his
text; and lifted up his voice against
gowns, bands, and white pocket-handkerchiefs,
as frippery belonging to the
scarlet lady. Academical honours were
his loathing, as he knew that, like
plenary indulgences, they are, and were,
to be had for money; nor would his
prejudice allow him to distinguish between
the man who received a D.D.-ship
as the honourable reward of a life
devoted to sacred literature, and him
who carried it by lodging a professor’s
wife and daughter during the race week.</p>

<p class='c008'>Sermons in MS., though they had
been the composition of a Chalmers,
and read with the classic elocution of a
Thomson, appeared to him as sounding
brass and a tinkling cymbal; or, in his
own vernacular phrase, “in at the tae
lug, and out at the tither.” ’Twas the
pride of his heart to travel twenty or
thirty miles on foot to hear a favourite
preacher; or to attend sacramental occasions
in the air, in unfrequented districts,
in imitation of the heroes of the
covenant, who scorned to square their
creed to the mandates of a tyrannical
government; and I verily believe that
a slight touch of persecution would have
added to his enjoyments in this sublunary
sphere; but this, as he frequently
hinted, was too great a privilege to
hope for from a government “neither
cold nor hot.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Andrew was a small farmer in the
uplands of Nithsdale, had been prudent
to a proverb in worldly matters, and
consequently was rich, not only in his
hopes of futurity, but in the more tangible
currency of this sinful world.
Frugality had been one of his most
prominent characteristics; and while
many less wealthy neighbours sported
broad cloth at fairs and preachings,
according to his inimitable countryman—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>His garb was gude gray hodden,—</div>
      <div class='line'>His bonnet was a broad one;</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c012'>which garb, and which bonnet, had been
familiar to the frequenters of “tent
preachings” for the greater part of forty
years. Such was the father of Rose
Jamieson, the beautiful, the meek, the
modest Rose Jamieson, whose fame
extended for many a mile round her
father’s dwelling; and whose fortune
perhaps lent her an additional charm
in the eyes of the less worthy of her
suitors. Beautiful women have been
so often described by master-spirits,
that it would be presumptuous in me
to attempt it. I entreat the reader,
therefore, to place before his mind’s
eye Milton’s Eve, or Thomson’s Lavinia,
or Campbell’s Gertrude, or some
of the still more glorious creations of
Scott or Shakspeare; ’twill serve my
purpose a thousand times better, and
save me a world of trouble. Having
thus briefly disposed of her bodily and
mental attractions, it is needless to add
that she was sought in marriage by the
flower of the peasantry, and even by
many above that rank in life, but shrunk
from their society, as the sensitive plant
shrinks from the human touch, or the
sunflower when its idol withdraws to his
ocean bed.</p>

<p class='c008'>Her pursuits were of an intellectual
nature. She loved literature immensely;
and though her parent was sufficiently
rigid and unbending in general, relative
to what he designated the “vanities,”
yet he gladly supplied her with
the means of gratifying her taste for
books, and even condescended at intervals
to direct her in the choice of their
“mute friends;” but his selections
generally consisted of those tremendous
folios of divinity, both doctrinal and
controversial, which even yet may be
seen on the shelves of our more unsophisticated
peasantry; and her masculine
mind was not slow in making herself
mistress of their voluminous contents.</p>

<p class='c008'>By a careful perusal, however, of the
immaculate Volume which the great
Founder of Christianity left as a guide
to His followers, she perceived that her
father’s favourite authors did not always
resemble their Divine Master in the milder
virtues—such as charity, which thinketh
no evil; brotherly kindness, which is
ever and anon ready to bear with an
erring being; and that humility of spirit
which is ever ready to esteem another
better than one’s self. As her mind got
emancipated from the thraldom of the
austere dogmas which had been inculcated
on it from infancy, she saw a very
great deal to admire, nay, to love, in the
doctrines of those very persons whom
her father had branded with the name
of “prelatists” and “malignants;”
and hence she began to examine more
closely into the merits of the controversy
which raged with so much violence
between persons worshipping the same
God, through the mediation of the same
Redeemer.</p>

<p class='c008'>The result was, that she saw much
to praise and much to blame on both
sides, and she endeavoured to cover the
failings of either party with the mantle
of Christian love. That many of the
Episcopalian clergy of that unhappy
period, when the lieges were forced to
attend the parish church at the point of
the bayonet, disgraced their sacred profession,
and brought obloquy on the
holy name by which they were called,
can neither be denied nor disputed.
That some of them acted like incarnations
of the devil, will not be controverted
even in our own times, when
truth, like the meridian sun, has dissipated
the clouds of error and prejudice;
but it is equally true, that there were
men among them who adorned their
profession by a walk and conversation
becoming the Gospel, and who lamented
in secret the evils which their circumscribed
influence could not avert. Who
does not revere the memory of the great
and good Leighton, whose philanthropy
extended to all mankind—whose whole
existence was a living commentary on
the great doctrine which was ever on
his lips—namely, that the Founder of
Christianity came to proclaim “peace
on earth, good-will to men?” After the
Revolution, when Presbyterianism again
unfurled her banners to the mountain-breezes
of our country—banners which,
alas! had been wofully trampled under
foot, and in defending which the best
blood in Scotland had been poured out
like water—the son of one of the ejected
curates settled in the parish of ——
as a farmer, retaining, however, the
religious principles in which he had
been educated, and which were now
doubly dear to him in the hour of his
church’s adversity.</p>

<p class='c008'>Like his father, he was a Christian,
not only in theory, but in practice; his
faith was evinced, not by vague declamation,
not by ultra-sanctimoniousness,
but by its genuine fruits—namely,
good works.</p>

<p class='c008'>Son succeeded sire in the same district
and the same principles; and it
seemed that a peculiar blessing had
descended on the whole race; as whatever
things were lovely, or of good
report, these things they did; and the
promise to the meek was fulfilled them,
for they literally “inherited the earth.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Their flocks and herds were numerous;
their corn and pasture fields
ample;—they enlarged their borders,
and, at the time this sketch commences,
they mingled with the aristocracy of the
county.</p>

<p class='c008'>The youngest son of a branch of this
family had studied at the University of
Oxford, with a view to the Church of
which his family had been such distinguished
members. He was a youth
not only of ardent piety, but of intense
application; he fearlessly grappled with
the most abstruse subjects; he divested
philosophy of its jargon, and divinity of
its verbosity; and nothing was so dear
to his heart as when he discovered
truth like a diamond amidst the heaps
of rubbish which had been accumulating
for ages.</p>

<p class='c008'>But, alas! like the gentle Kirke
White, while his mind was expanding
and luxuriating amid the treasures of
Greece and Rome, and the still more
sacred stores of Palestine, his body
was declining with corresponding rapidity;
therefore, with attenuated frame
and depressed spirits, he sought once
more his native vale, to inhale health
with its invigorating breezes.</p>

<p class='c008'>Secluded from the great world, and
debarred from pursuing his favourite
studies, he sought the society of Rose
Jamieson as an antidote to that <i><span lang="fr">ennui</span></i>
which will inevitably obtrude itself on
the mind amid the solitudes of a thinly
peopled country. The great poet of
nature has told us that the recluse may
find—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,</div>
      <div class='line'>Sermons in stones, and good in everything.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c012'>And I have no doubt that the amiable
and interesting student would have been
sufficiently charmed with the beauties
of external nature, and instructed by
her eloquence, had there not been
“metal more attractive” in the beautiful
being who shared his walks and his
friendship.</p>

<p class='c008'>The lovely Rose Jamieson became
his ministering angel; her smile chased
away the languor that brooded over his
intelligent countenance; her sweet voice
quickened his sluggish pulse, and made
his heart thrill with an indescribable
joy—a heretofore unknown rapture;
her sunny glances diffused life, light,
and gladness through his whole frame.</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>The golden hours on angel wing</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c012'>flew over them; the summer day became
too short for them; their walks
became Eden, and their day-dreams Elysium;
they loved—fervently—mutually.</p>

<p class='c008'>Soon as morning gleamed on the
mountains, the fond pair were to be
seen brushing the dew from the clover,
by the banks of the romantic Nith, or
climbing the daisied uplands with elastic
steps and buoyant hearts—for the
mountain air had already renovated the
youth’s enfeebled frame, and hope had
animated his spirits, and given vivacity
to his conversation. They expatiated
on the beauty and sublimity of the
scenery around them—on the power and
goodness of the Deity, displayed alike
in the creation of the sun in the firmament,
and the production of the myriads
of wild-flowers which enamelled the
green sward beneath their feet. The
rushing of the mighty river to a still
mightier ocean, and the diamond dewdrop
hid in the petal of the half-opened
rose; the wide-spreading and venerable
oak of a century, and the lowly gowan
of yesterday, afforded inexhaustible
themes for discussion; and the conclusion
which invariably forced itself on their attention,
was that of the pious Addison—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>In Reason’s ear they all rejoice,</div>
      <div class='line'>And utter forth a glorious voice;</div>
      <div class='line'>For ever singing, as they shine,</div>
      <div class='line'>“The hand that made us is divine.”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c008'>The summer months glided over the
youthful pair imperceptibly; but with
returning health, imperative duty impelled
the enamoured scholar to resume
his studies; to resign the delicious
society of her he loved for the musty
tome, the midnight lamp, and the emulation
approaching hostility, within the
time-hallowed walls of Oxford. Already
had his trunks been packed, the day
of his departure fixed, and his adieus
uttered—all but <em>one</em>.</p>

<p class='c008'>They met for this purpose one Sabbath
evening in a sequestered glen; the
larch and laburnum formed a rude
arbour over them, and a nameless
streamlet murmured at their feet. The
stock-doves uttered mournful cadences,
and the plovers over the neighbouring
heath sent forth ominous wailings.
The early autumnal breeze moaned
through the thick foliage, and the rustle
of the overhanging leaves gave a dreary
response. ’Twas a sad hour; they
vowed eternal fidelity—mingled their
tears—exchanged Bibles—and parted—he
to the crowded haunts of science, she
to the solitude of her own little apartment,
to brood over the waking dreams
of bliss which she had so lately experienced.
On opening the little Bible
which she had received from the hands
of her lover, she found the following
text written on the fly-leaf, in a tremulous
hand:—“Thou shalt not forswear
thyself, but shalt perform unto the
Lord thine oaths,” and she could trace,
moreover, certain globular stains, the
cause of which was not ill to define.
“Yes!” she exclaimed, while the tears
started from her large blue eyes, “I
will perform all I have vowed to thee,
to the very letter. I will love thee as
woman never loved—in sorrow and in
sickness, in poverty and in exile—nay,
in death itself I will love thee; neither
shall the influence of wealth, rank,
talent, manly beauty, nor shall the
authority, which preponderates more
than all these together, even that of my
only parent, ever alienate my affections
from thee, thou chosen of my heart!”</p>

<p class='c008'>At this moment the door was opened,
and her father stood before her. A
harsh expression pervaded his rigid
countenance; there was a stern inflexibility
in his eye, and his lip quivered
with emotion; he held his staff with a
convulsive grasp, and his whole frame
trembled with conflicting passions.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Daughter,” said he, in a tremulous
and hollow voice, “daughter, I had
indeed suspected that the corbie was
attempting to gain the dove’s nest—that
the descendant of the malignant, with
malicious wile, was endeavouring to
secure an interest in thine affections,
and bitterly do I rue that I did not put
a stop to it sooner. But little did I
think that thou, the child of my love,
the only daughter of thy sainted mother,
whom I have cherished like the apple
of mine eye, wouldst have so far forgotten
thy duty as to vow love and
obedience to a scion of an abjured prelatical
stock, against whom thy father
and thy father’s fathers have lifted up
their testimony, since the glorious carved
work of the sanctuary has been defaced
by their unhallowed hands. Did they
not shed the blood of the saints in torrents?
Were they not butchered in the
face of the sun, and in cold blood?
And did not their cries enter—but my
blood curdles to enumerate the half of
their enormities, and I shall therefore
refrain from adverting to branding,
mutilation, fine, imprisonment, exile,
and death. Daughter,” said he, in a
sepulchral voice, “thou must break off
all intercourse and connection with this
young man instantly; between us there
is an impassable gulf. And if thou
perseverest in thine ill-starred choice;
if thou art disobedient to thy hoary-headed
father; if thou cherish his
image in thy bosom, or even at some
future period, when I am gathered to
my fathers, become his wife, I shall
bequeath thee my malison for thy dowry,
and my ban for thine inheritance.”</p>

<p class='c008'>So saying, he flung himself out of the
chamber in a paroxysm of rage. His
beauteous daughter, meanwhile, had
become inanimate on the couch. The
usual remedies in these cases were
promptly resorted to; and after a short
interval, she opened her eyes, but it was
only to gaze on vacancy. The “silver
cord was loosed, and the golden bow
was broken.” Her reason had fled,
and never returned. In one month she
was where the wicked cease from troubling,
and where the weary are at rest.
Her father, though he deemed he had
only done an imperative duty, could not
withstand the shock. Nature sunk beneath
the unlooked-for calamity; he
mourned, and he <em>would not</em> be comforted.
In a few weeks he breathed
his last; and another tenant was added
to the house appointed for all living.</p>

<p class='c008'>But who may paint the misery of the
unhappy youth when he learnt the harrowing
intelligence? Sorrow is sacred,
and we shall not enter into its detail.
Suffice it to say, that he gave up his
studies, returned to his native vale with
a broken heart; and in the words of his
celebrated countryman (who no doubt
had the pair in his mind’s eye when he
penned the touchingly simple ballad),
he is reported to have said—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Low there thou lies, my lassie,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Low there thou lies;</div>
      <div class='line'>A bonnier form ne’er went to the yird,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Nor frae it will arise!</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>There’s nought but dust now mine, lassie,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>There’s nought but dust now mine;</div>
      <div class='line'>My soul’s with thee in the cauld, cauld grave,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>And why should I stay behin’?</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='a_night_at_the_herring_fishing' class='c006'>A NIGHT AT THE HERRING FISHING.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By Hugh Miller.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>In the latter end of August 1819, I
went out to the fishing then prosecuted
on Guilliam in a Cromarty boat. The
evening was remarkably pleasant. A
low breeze from the west scarcely
ruffled the surface of the frith, which
was varied in every direction by unequal
stripes and patches of a dead calmness.
The bay of Cromarty, burnished by the
rays of the declining sun until it glowed
like a sheet of molten fire, lay behind,
winding in all its beauty beneath purple
hills and jutting headlands; while before
stretched the wide extent of the
Moray Frith, speckled with fleets of
boats which had lately left their several
ports, and were now all sailing in one
direction. The point to which they
were bound was the bank of Guilliam,
which, seen from betwixt the Sutors,
seemed to verge on the faint blue line
of the horizon; and the fleets which
had already arrived on it had, to the
naked eye, the appearance of a little
rough-edged cloud resting on the water.
As we advanced, this cloud of boats
grew larger and darker; and soon after
sunset, when the bank was scarcely a
mile distant, it assumed the appearance
of a thick leafless wood covering a low
brown island.</p>

<p class='c008'>The tide, before we left the shore,
had risen high on the beach, and was
now beginning to recede. Aware of
this, we lowered sail several hundred
yards to the south of the fishing ground;
and after determining the point from
whence the course of the current would
drift us direct over the bank, we took
down the mast, cleared the hinder part
of the boat, and began to cast out the
nets. Before the Inlaw appeared in
the line of the Gaelic Chapel (the
landmark by which the southernmost
extremity of Guilliam is ascertained),
the whole drift was thrown overboard
and made fast to the swing. Night
came on. The sky assumed a dead
and leaden hue. A low dull mist
roughened the outline of the distant
hills, and in some places blotted them
out from the landscape. The faint
breeze that had hitherto scarcely been
felt now roughened the water, which
was of a dark blue colour, approaching
to black. The sounds which predominated
were in unison with the
scene. The almost measured dash of
the waves against the sides of the boat
and the faint rustle of the breeze were
incessant; while the low dull moan of
the surf breaking on the distant beach,
and the short sudden cry of an aquatic
fowl of the diving species, occasionally
mingled with the sweet though rather
monotonous notes of a Gaelic song.
“It’s ane o’ the Gairloch fishermen,”
said our skipper; “puir folk, they’re
aye singin’ an’ thinkin’ o’ the Hielands.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Our boat, as the tides were not powerful,
drifted slowly over the bank. The
buoys stretched out from the bows in
an unbroken line. There was no sign
of fish, and the boatmen, after spreading
the sail over the beams, laid themselves
down on it. The scene was at the time
so new to me, and, though of a somewhat
melancholy cast, so pleasing, that
I stayed up. A singular appearance
attracted my notice. “How,” said I
to one of the boatmen, who a moment
before had made me an offer of his
greatcoat, “how do you account for
that calm silvery spot on the water,
which moves at such a rate in the line
of our drift?” He started up. A
moment after he called on the others to
rise, and then replied, “That moving
speck of calm water covers a shoal of
herrings. If it advances a hundred
yards farther in that direction, we shall
have some employment for you.” This
piece of information made me regard
the little patch, which, from the light it
caught, and the blackness of the surrounding
water, seemed a bright opening
in a dark sky, with considerable
interest. It moved onward with increased
velocity. It came in contact
with the line of the drift, and three of
the buoys immediately sunk. A few
minutes were suffered to elapse, and we
then commenced hauling. The two
strongest of the crew, as is usual, were
stationed at the cork, the two others at
the ground baulk. My assistance,
which I readily tendered, was pronounced
unnecessary, so I hung over
the gunwale watching the nets as they
approached the side of the boat. The
three first, from the phosphoric light of
the water, appeared as if bursting into
flames of a pale green colour. The
fourth was still brighter, and glittered
through the waves while it was yet
several fathoms away, reminding me of
an intensely bright sheet of the aurora
borealis. As it approached the side,
the pale green of the phosphoric matter
appeared as if mingled with large flakes
of snow. It contained a body of fish.
“A white horse! a white horse!”
exclaimed one of the men at the cork
baulk; “lend us a haul.” I immediately
sprung aft, laid hold on the rope,
and commenced hauling. In somewhat
less than half an hour we had all the
nets on board, and rather more than
twelve barrels of herrings.</p>

<p class='c008'>The night had now become so dark,
that we could scarcely discern the boats
which lay within gunshot of our own;
and we had no means of ascertaining
the position of the bank except by
sounding. The lead was cast, and soon
after the nets shot a second time. The
skipper’s bottle was next produced, and
a dram of whisky sent round in a tin
measure containing nearly a gill. We
then folded down the sail, which had
been rolled up to make way for the
herrings, and were soon fast asleep.</p>

<p class='c008'>Ten years have elapsed since I laid
myself down on this couch, and I was
not then so accustomed to a rough bed
as I am now, when I can look back on
my wanderings as a journeyman mason
over a considerable part of both the
Lowlands and Highlands of Scotland.
About midnight I awoke quite chill,
and all over sore with the hard beams
and sharp rivets of the boat. Well,
thought I, this is the tax I pay for my
curiosity. I rose and crept softly over
the sail to the bows, where I stood, and
where, in the singular beauty of the
scene, which was of a character as different
from that I had lately witnessed
as is possible to conceive, I soon lost all
sense of every feeling that was not
pleasure. The breeze had died into a
perfect calm. The heavens were glowing
with stars, and the sea, from the smoothness
of the surface, appeared a second
sky, as bright and starry as the other,
but with this difference, that all its stars
appeared comets. There seemed no line
of division at the horizon, which rendered
the allusion more striking. The
distant hills appeared a chain of dark
thundery clouds sleeping in the heavens.
Tn short, the scene was one of the
strangest I ever witnessed; and the
thoughts and imaginations which it suggested
were of a character as singular.
I looked at the boat as it appeared in
the dim light of midnight, a dark irregularly-shaped
mass; I gazed on the sky
of stars above, and the sky of comets
below, and imagined myself in the centre
of space, far removed from the earth and
every other world—the solitary inhabitant
of a planetary fragment. This allusion,
too romantic to be lasting, was
dissipated by an incident which convinced
me that I had not yet left the world. A
crew of south shore fishermen, either by
accident or design, had shot their nets
right across those of another boat, and,
in disentangling them, a quarrel ensued.
Our boat lay more than half a mile from
the scene of contention, but I could hear,
without being particularly attentive, that
on the one side there were terrible
threats of violence, immediate and bloody;
and on the other, threats of the still
more terrible pains and penalties of the
law. In a few minutes, however, the
entangled nets were freed, and the roar
of altercation gradually sunk into a
silence as dead as that which had preceded
it.</p>

<p class='c008'>An hour before sunrise, I was somewhat
disheartened to find the view on
every side bounded by a dense low bank
of fog, which hung over the water, while
the central firmament remained blue and
cloudless. The neighbouring boats appeared
through the mist huge misshapen
things, manned by giants. We commenced
hauling, and found in one of the
nets a small rock-cod and a half-starved
whiting, which proved the whole of our
draught. I was informed by the fishermen,
that even when the shoal is
thickest on the Guilliam, so close does
it keep by the bank, that not a solitary
herring is to be caught a gunshot from
the edge on either side.</p>

<p class='c008'>We rowed up to the other boats, few
of whom had been more successful in
their last haul than ourselves, and none
equally so in their first. The mist prevented
us from ascertaining, by known
landmarks, the position of the bank,
which we at length discovered in a
manner that displayed much of the
peculiar art of the fisherman. The
depth of the water, and the nature of
the bottom, showed us that it lay to
the south. A faint tremulous heave
of the sea, which was still calm, was
the only remaining vestige of the gale
which had blown from the west in the
early part of the night, and this heave,
together with the current, which at
this stage of the flood runs in a southwestern
direction, served as our compass.
We next premised how far our
boat had drifted down the frith with
the ebb-tide, and how far she had been
carried back again by the flood. We
then turned her bows in the line of the
current, and in rather less than half an
hour were, as the lead informed us, on
the eastern extremity of Guilliam, where
we shot our nets for the third time.</p>

<p class='c008'>Soon after sunrise the mist began to
dissipate, and the surface of the water to
appear for miles around roughened as if
by a smart breeze, though there was not
the slightest breath of wind at the time.
“How do you account for that appearance?”
said I to one of the fishermen.
“Ah, lad, that is by no means so
favourable a token as the one you asked
me to explain last night. I had as lief
see the <em>Bhodry-more</em>.” “Why, what
does it betoken? and what is the
<em>Bhodry-more</em>?” “It betokens that the
shoal have spawned, and will shortly
leave the frith; for when the fish are
sick and weighty they never rise to the
surface in that way. But have you
never heard of the <em>Bhodry-more</em>?” I
replied in the negative. “Well, but
you shall.” “Nay,” said another of the
crew, “leave that for our return; do
you not see the herrings playing by
thousands round our nets, and not one
of the buoys sinking in the water?
There is not a single fish swimming so
low as the upper baulks of our drift.
Shall we not shorten the buoy-ropes,
and take off the sinkers?” This did
not meet the approbation of the others,
one of whom took up a stone, and flung
it in the middle of the shoal. The fish
immediately disappeared from the surface
for several fathoms round. “Ah,
there they go!” he exclaimed; “if they
go but low enough; four years ago I
startled thirty barrels of light fish into
my drift just by throwing a stone among
them.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The whole frith at this time, so far as
the eye could reach, appeared crowded
with herrings; and its surface was so
broken by them as to remind one of the
pool of a waterfall. They leaped by
millions a few inches into the air, and
sunk with a hollow plumping noise,
somewhat resembling the dull rippling
sound of a sudden breeze; while to the
eye there was a continual twinkling,
which, while it mocked every effort
that attempted to examine in detail,
showed to the less curious glance like a
blue robe sprinkled with silver. But it
is not by such comparisons that so
singular a scene is to be described so as
to be felt. It was one of those which,
through the living myriads of creation,
testify of the infinite Creator.</p>

<p class='c008'>About noon we hauled for the third
and last time, and found nearly eight
barrels of fish. I observed when hauling
that the natural heat of the herring
is scarcely less than that of quadrupeds
or birds; that when alive its sides are
shaded by a beautiful crimson colour
which it loses when dead; and that
when newly brought out of the water,
it utters a sharp faint cry somewhat
resembling that of a mouse. We had
now twenty barrels on board. The
<em>easterly har</em>, a sea-breeze so called by
fishermen, which in the Moray Frith,
during the summer months, and first
month of autumn, commonly comes on
after ten o’clock <span class='fss'>A.M.</span>, and fails at four
o’clock <span class='fss'>P.M.</span>, had now set in. We
hoisted our mast and sail, and were
soon scudding right before it.</p>

<p class='c008'>The story of the <em>Bhodry-more</em>, which
I demanded of the skipper as soon as
we had trimmed our sail, proved interesting
in no common degree, and was
linked with a great many others. The
<em>Bhodry-more</em><a id='r24'></a><a href='#f24' class='c018'><sup>[24]</sup></a> is an active, mischievous
fish of the whale species, which has
been known to attack and even founder
boats. About eight years ago, a very
large one passed the town of Cromarty
through the middle of the bay, and was
seen by many of the townsfolks leaping
out of the water in the manner of a
salmon, fully to the height of a boat’s
mast. It appeared about thirty feet in
length. This animal may almost be regarded
as the mermaid of modern times:
for the fishermen deem it to have fully as
much of the demon as of the fish. There
have been instances of its pursuing a boat
under sail for many miles, and even of
its leaping over it from side to side.
It appears, however, that its habits and
appetites are unlike those of the shark;
and that the annoyance which it gives
the fisherman is out of no desire of
making him its prey, but from its predilection
for amusement. It seldom
meddles with a boat when at anchor,
but pursues one under sail, as a kitten
would a rolling ball of yarn. The large
physalus whale is comparatively a dull,
sluggish animal; occasionally, however,
it evinces a partiality for the amusements
of the <em>Bhodry-more</em>. Our skipper said,
that when on the Caithness coast, a
few years before, an enormous fish of
the species kept direct in the wake of
his boat for more than a mile, frequently
rising so near the stern as to be
within reach of the boat-hook. He described
the expression of its large goggle
eyes as at once frightful and amusing;
and so graphic was his narrative that
I could almost paint the animal stretching
out for more than sixty feet behind
the boat, with his black marble-looking
skin and cliff-like fins. He at length
grew tired of its gambols, and with a
sharp fragment of rock struck it between
the eyes. It sunk with a sudden plunge,
and did not rise for ten minutes after,
when it appeared a full mile a-stern.
This narrative was but the first of I no
not know how many, of a similar cast,
which presented to my imagination the
<em>Bhodry-more</em> whale and hun-fish in
every possible point of view. The latter,
a voracious formidable animal of the
shark species, frequently makes great
havoc among the tackle with which cod
and haddock are caught. Like the
shark, it throws itself on its back when
in the act of seizing its prey. The
fishermen frequently see it lying motionless,
its white belly glittering through
the water, a few fathoms from the boat’s
side, employed in stripping off every fish
from their hooks as the line is drawn
over it. This formidable animal is
from six to ten feet in length, and
formed like the common shark.</p>

<div class='footnote' id='f24'>
<p class='c008'><a href='#r24'>24</a>. Properly, perhaps, the musculous whale.</p>
</div>

<p class='c008'>One of the boatmen’s stories, though
somewhat in the Munchausen style, I
shall take the liberty of relating. Two
Cromarty men, many years ago, were
employed on a fine calm day in angling
for coal-fish and rock-cod, with rods
and hand-lines. Their little skiff rode
to a large oblong stone, which served
for an anchor, nearly opposite a rocky
spire termed the chapel, three miles
south of Shandwick. Suddenly the stone
was raised from the bottom with a jerk,
and the boat began to move. “What
can this mean!” exclaimed the elder of
the men, pulling in his rod, “we have
surely broken loose; but who could have
thought that there ran such a current
here!” The other, a young daring
fellow, John Clark by name, remarked
in reply, that the apparent course of the
skiff was directly contrary to that of the
current. The motion, which was at
first gentle, increased to a frightful
velocity; the rope a-head was straitened
until the very stem cracked; and the
sea rose upon either bows into a furrow
that nearly overtopped the gunwale.
“Old man,” said the young fellow,
“didst thou ever see the like o’ that!”
“Guid save us, boy,” said the other;
“cut, cut the swing.” “Na, na, bide
a wee first, I manna skaith the rape:
didst thou ever see the like o’ that!”</p>

<p class='c008'>In a few minutes, according to
the story, they were dragged in this
manner nearly two miles, when the
motion ceased as suddenly as it had
begun, and the skiff rode to the swing
as before.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='the_twin_sisters' class='c006'>THE TWIN SISTERS.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By Alexander Balfour.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>One of these men is genius to the other;</div>
      <div class='line'>And so, of these which is the natural man,</div>
      <div class='line'>And which the spirit? Who decyphers them?</div>
      <div class='line in36'><em>Shakspeare.</em></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>Emma and Emily Graham were
twin daughters of a respectable farmer
and cattle-dealer in Perthshire. The
girls bore such a striking resemblance
to each other, that their mother found
it necessary to clothe them in different
colours, as the only method by which
they could be distinguished. As they
grew up, their similarity became, if
possible, more perfect; the colour of
their eyes and hair had no shade of
difference; and, indeed, every feature
of their faces, their form and stature,
were so exactly alike, that the same
distinction of different dresses continued
necessary. They had a brother,
Edward, about fifteen months younger,
who bore as great a likeness to both as
they did to each other. When the girls
arrived at nine or ten years of age, they
gave promise of being rather above the
ordinary stature of their sex, with a
very considerable share of personal
beauty. But it was only in externals
that the resemblance was complete;
for, although both had excellent dispositions,
with a large share of good
nature, their minds were in most respects
dissimilar.</p>

<p class='c008'>Emma was sedate and modest, even
to bashfulness; while Emily was so free
and lively, that many thought her forward,
and her lightheartedness akin to
levity. Edward’s mind resembled that
of his younger sister as closely as his
personal appearance. She was all mirth
and frolic, and, by changing clothes
with her sister, amused, perplexed, and
sometimes fretted her parents; in all
which Edward delighted to bear a part.
At school there was an ample field for
these sportive tricks; and the teacher
himself was often sadly teased by their
playful metamorphoses.</p>

<p class='c008'>When the sisters completed their
seventeenth year, they had more the
appearance of grown women than is
common at that age; and their resemblance
still continued perfect. Their
voices, although slightly masculine,
were pleasant and musical; and both
had the same tone and sound, pitched
to the same key. The dispositions
which they had exhibited in childhood
still seemed to “grow with their growth,
and strengthen with their strength.”
In one thing they, however, agreed,
which was, that whenever they appeared
in public, they dressed perfectly alike,
and were frequently amused and delighted
with the mistakes produced by
the uniformity. To distinguish their
clothes, every article belonging to
Emma was marked Em. G., and those
of Emily with E. G. only.</p>

<p class='c008'>As Edward grew up, his striking
likeness to his sisters continued; even
their difference of voice could be distinguished
only by a fine and delicate
ear; and with this close resemblance
he was so highly pleased, that he used
every means by which it could be preserved.
To add to the perplexity of
their friends, Emma would assume
more than her usual vivacity, while
Emily would put herself under some
restraint; although the one was apt to
become suddenly grave, and the other
relax into lightheartedness. But they
were now divided; for Emma went to
reside with an aunt, at fifty miles’ distance,
and there she continued for a
considerable time.</p>

<p class='c008'>Both the girls had been courted
occasionally by the young men of their
acquaintance; but their hearts had
never felt a reciprocal passion. There
was, in particular, an old widower,
Francis Meldrum, who had become
enamoured of Emily; and, as he was
rich, her parents anxiously wished to
promote the match. But their daughter
shrunk from it with the most decided
aversion: no repulse, however, could
release her from the importunity of his
addresses, as he was countenanced and
encouraged by her parents.</p>

<p class='c008'>During the summer, their father was
in the practice of going into England
with a drove of cattle, sometimes not
returning till the approach of harvest.
He now departed on his usual excursion;
and, soon after, the mother was called
away to visit her sick grandmother,
from whom the family had considerable
expectations. The farm and house
were thus left under the charge of
Edward and Emily, both willing to do
their duty, but both thoughtless, and
delighting in frolic; which, now that
they were relieved from the surveillance
and remonstrances of the sedate Emma,
they had a better opportunity of indulging.</p>

<p class='c008'>There was a fair in Perth, only a few
miles distant, and Emily requested her
brother to accompany her thither, that
they might have at least one day of
pleasure. Her proposal was most
readily acceded to by Edward; and
they departed together. A company of
military, part of the —— regiment, were
quartered in Perth, under the command
of Captain Munro, who had received
orders to recruit during his stay. The
fair was a good opportunity for that
purpose, and the Captain, with his
troop, paraded the streets in their best
array. From a window in the inn
where they were dining, Edward and
his sister saw them pass along the street.
Emily had never known what it was to
love; but she had a susceptible heart.
Her hour was now come, and her lively
fancy was enraptured with the fine,
martial appearance of the gallant Captain.
Little accustomed to reflection,
she fell in love at first sight; and
unpractised in disguising her feelings,
although she did not express her
thoughts to her brother, she was at
little pains to conceal the impression
made on her heart. This he soon perceived,
and began to rally her on the
subject, when she frankly acknowledged
that she thought the officer the most
handsome-looking man she had ever
seen, expressing an anxious wish to
know his rank and name. That information
was easily obtained by Edward,
in a casual conversation with the waiter,
who said he was from the same quarter
with Captain Munro, who was the son
and heir of a landed gentleman in
Aberdeenshire, was unmarried, and a
great favourite with the ladies in town.
When the couple reached home,
Emily’s head and heart both full of the
handsome Captain, they had a message
from her mother, intimating that the
old woman was dying, and that she
could not return till she saw the result.
There was also a letter from their father,
requesting Edward to follow him into
England with a supply of cattle, as
speedily as possible.</p>

<p class='c008'>Captain Munro had occupied Emily’s
sleeping and waking thoughts; and she
began to wish that an opportunity
might occur for her becoming acquainted
with him. With her characteristic love
of frolic, she formed a plan which promised
to facilitate her wishes; and circumstances
seemed favourable for its
execution, but it required the assistance
of her brother for carrying it into effect.
It was communicated to Edward; and
he, equally rash and imprudent as herself,
was prevailed upon to play his
part, which was no less than to enlist
himself with Captain Munro as a recruit,
and trust to his sister relieving him,
according to a scheme pointed out by
her, and which appeared feasible to
Edward. In compliance with the plan
which they had concerted, Edward,
with a servant, left the farm for the
cattle. Having put them on the way,
and arranged to rejoin the servant, he
rode into Perth, and enlisted with the
Captain, receiving a shilling of earnest.
Promising to come back next morning
to receive his bounty, and be attested,
Edward mounted his horse, and pushed
forward to England, leaving Emily to
settle the business as best she could.</p>

<p class='c008'>The day when he had promised to
return passed away without any appearance
of the recruit. Being a
fine-looking fellow, the officer was
reluctant to loose him; therefore, next
morning, he despatched a serjeant,
with a party, to inquire after him.
On their arrival at the farm, they
found only Emily and the servants.
The serjeant had seen Edward when he
enlisted, and now believed that he saw,
in Emily, the same person in disguise;
in consequence of which he threatened
to carry her before his commanding
officer; but, preserving her good
humour, she held his threats in defiance,
and, for his own sake, requested him to
take care what he did. Some of the
party had remained in the kitchen, and
there learned from the servants, that
Emily sometimes assumed her brother’s
dress; and, they had no doubt, had
personated her brother, as a joke
on the Captain. Emily now regaled
the party with hospitable cheer,
and, dismissing them in excellent
humour, requested the serjeant to make
her compliments to Captain Munro,
trusting that he would take better care
of his next recruit. The serjeant
imparted all this to his superior, together
with what the soldiers had heard in the
kitchen, from which the officer was persuaded,
that either himself or the serjeant
had been completely hoaxed, and,
determined to investigate the matter
fully, both in discharge of his duty, and
for the gratification of his curiosity,
which had been highly excited, he
next morning visited the farm, intending
to judge for himself. This was just
what Emily wished and expected. She
had therefore taken care to inform herself,
in a short interview with her
brother, of almost every circumstance
which had passed between him and the
Captain, the relation of which, she
trusted, would convince him of her
being the recruit. The moment Captain
Munro looked at her, he was
convinced of her being the identical
person he had enlisted, although
he still had doubts about her sex;
while, at the same time, he felt
that he had never seen one of his
own with features so fine and delicate.
Although Captain Munro was in
every respect a gentleman, yet the
extraordinary circumstances which had
produced this interview, warranted a
freedom of manner which, in other
cases, he could not have employed,
where he was so much a stranger. He
therefore now informed Emily, that he
was fully convinced of her being the
person who had enlisted with him, and
also quite satisfied that she now appeared
in the habit which belonged to her sex;
still, he presumed he had some right to
inquire her motive for a step so
uncommon, and which she appeared so
early to relinquish.</p>

<p class='c008'>This question, although she had anticipated
it, brought deep blushes into
Emily’s face; and her heart palpitated
as she replied, that, although she now
regretted having adopted a measure so
incompatible with female delicacy, she
felt it a duty which she owed to herself,
to inform him of her inducement, lest it
might be attributed to something still
more unbecoming. She then went on
to state that she had, for a long time
past, been persecuted with the odious
addresses of a widower, old enough to
be her father, and whom her parents
wished her to marry because he was
rich; but, although he had been her
equal in age, their dispositions were so
opposite, that she must have despised
him, for he was a miserly, stingy,
jealous, and contemptible wretch; and
she had availed herself of the absence of
her parents to adopt a measure which,
she was sure, would, on its coming to
his knowledge, have the effect of relieving
her from his offensive importunities;
and, although she now saw the imprudent
folly she had committed, her regret
would be diminished, if it produced the
consequences she so anxiously wished.</p>

<p class='c008'>The part she was now acting, and the
situation in which she had placed herself,
in spite of all Emily’s natural forwardness,
called forth that modest timidity
which still adds to the loveliness
of a young and beautiful woman, suffusing
her cheeks with crimson, and softening
the brightness of her sparkling eye.
Altogether, her appearance and behaviour
made a powerful impression on
the heart of the gallant soldier; and he
contrived to protract the interview till
the latest period that good breeding
permitted. When Emily offered to
return the shilling which her brother
had received, the Captain refused it,
saying, with a smile, that he had not
yet renounced his claim on her, but
reserved it for further investigation, for
the discussion of which he proposed
repeating his visit.</p>

<p class='c008'>With self-possession, but becoming
modesty, Emily replied, that although
she had already overstepped the bounds
of female decorum, she was neither
ignorant of, nor indifferent to, that propriety
of conduct which her situation
required; and would therefore request,
that if he was again inclined to visit the
farm of Greenbraes, it might be after
the return of her parents. The Captain
now left Emily, nearly as much fascinated
with her as she had been with his
first appearance; while the respectful
propriety of his behaviour, in a case
where some freedom of speech might
have been excusable, raised him in her
estimation; and she flattered herself
that he had not seen her with indifference.</p>

<p class='c008'>The Captain was now impatient for
the return of her parents; as, afraid of
incurring the displeasure of Emily, he
could not venture to visit Greenbraes
till that time; but he, oftener than
once, threw himself in the way by walking
in the vicinity, hoping to meet her
whom he now found it impossible to
forget. Emily had seen him sauntering
in the fields, and rightly conjectured his
purpose; but she, actuated, no doubt,
partly by a little coquetry, had uniformly
disappointed him.</p>

<p class='c008'>Her father now returned from England;
and Emily, who had never before
disguised her actions, convinced that
her parent must soon hear, from some
officious friend, what had already made
much noise in the place, resolved to tell
as much of the truth as suited her purpose.
She therefore informed her
father that Edward, in a frolic, had
enlisted; but that she had sent him out
of the way, and represented him when
the Captain came to claim his recruit,
and that officer had laughed heartily at
the joke.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ah, Emily! you are a light-hearted,
and lighter-headed lassie,” said the
fond father. “You carry things ower
far; and I’m fleyed ye’ll tine your ain
character, or render it no worth the
keeping. What will Francie Meldrum
say to that business? I’ll think shame
to see him.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“My dear father, if naebody’s angry
but Francie, I’ll never rue doing that
for my brother. Say that <em>you’re</em> no
angry, father, and set my heart at ease.”
And, looking in her father’s face with a
timid, but affectionate smile, she laid
her arm around his neck, pressing her
glowing lip to his bronzed cheek.</p>

<p class='c008'>“I am angry, you little flattering
gipsey; but promise to gie ower thae
light-headed pranks, and I’ll forgive
you for this.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Emily had reason to congratulate
herself on this speedy reconciliation
with her father, who she saw was in
good humour; for, looking from the
window, she saw Francis, the object of
her detestation, approaching, although
he had never tormented her during the
absence of her parents. Leaving her
father to receive the unwelcome visitor,
Emily secreted herself in an adjoining
closet, where she could hear every word
of the conversation, which soon became
more agreeable to her than she had
expected; for Francis began to speak
of her frolic with an asperity which her
father did not think it merited. They
came to high words, the result of which
was, that the farmer conducted his
guest to the door, requesting him never
to enter it again till Emily bade him
welcome. This was so far beyond
Emily’s expectations, that her heart
bounded with delight; and, had it not
been that she must have betrayed her
being a listener, she would have rushed
in, and, kneeling to her father, thanked
him for the deliverance.</p>

<p class='c008'>The fact was, that her father, on his
return from England, had stayed in
Perth to deposit some money with his
banker, who insisted on his dining with
him, as he was to see a few friends that
day. Captain Munro happened to be
of the party, and, hearing the farmer’s
name and residence, endeavoured to
make himself as agreeable as possible,
in which he succeeded admirably.
Before parting, he took an opportunity
of having a private conversation with
the farmer, relating circumstantially
what the reader is already acquainted
with, as far as consisted with his own
knowledge. He concluded by confessing
the impression which Emily had
made on him, which all that he had
since heard concerning her had contributed
to deepen; and that her motive
for the frolic which had given him the
pleasure of knowing her was a sufficient
apology; and, as it was obvious she
would never consent to marry the
widower, he begged the farmer to sanction
his addresses, instead of a man
whose age certainly rendered the match
very unsuitable. For his own character
and family he referred him to the banker,
under whose roof they were, requesting
the pleasure of another interview before
he left town.</p>

<p class='c008'>The honest farmer was rather vexed
at the first part of this relation, but the
conclusion put him in good humour;
and, in a conversation with the banker,
he learned that Captain Munro was the
son and heir of a landed gentleman in
Aberdeenshire, and that the young
officer bore a highly respectable character,
both as a man and a soldier.
The farmer and Captain again met,
when the former gave the officer his
hearty permission to address his daughter,
adding, that as she had several
times perplexed him with her harmless
tricks, of which the Captain had seen
and felt a specimen, he wished this
interview to be kept secret, and, when
they met at Greenbraes, that they might
appear strangers to each other. The
Captain approved of the suggestion,
esteeming it a good joke; and they
parted, both in high spirits.</p>

<p class='c008'>Emily was highly delighted with the
dismissal of the importunate widower;
and, just as she was wondering whether
the Captain knew that her father had
returned, she, one morning, saw him
approaching the house.</p>

<p class='c008'>Although this was by no means a
disagreeable discovery, yet, when commanded
by her father to join them in
the parlour, she entered with a palpitating
heart, and her cheeks blushing like
a half-blown rose.</p>

<p class='c008'>The Captain met her with the respectful
ease of a gentleman and an old
acquaintance, when her father, in rather
a severe tone, said, “Emily, you informed
me of a joke which you played
off upon this gentleman, and gave me to
understand it was all settled and forgotten;
but I find that is not the case.
Captain Munro insists that you received
earnest money from him, which you
still retain; and, therefore, he is entitled
either to your services, or satisfaction
for the insult offered to him. What do
you say?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“When Captain Munro explains
what he wants, I shall then know how
to answer,” replied Emily.</p>

<p class='c008'>“That is easily done, Miss Graham,”
replied the Captain. “You engaged to
be a soldier for life, and I claim the fulfilment
of your agreement—wish you
to follow the drum. In a word, dear
Emily, I love you, and wish to make
you a soldier’s wife. When I last had
the pleasure of seeing you, I informed
you that I reserved my claim for further
discussion, and requested permission to
visit you, which you very prudently
declined till your father’s return. He
is now present, and I wait your reply.
A soldier hates trifling.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“My first engagement with you,
Captain, was rash, and I repented,”
replied Emily. “I am afraid you have
imitated my folly, in the present declaration,
which you would probably regret
on reflection. I shall take time to
deliberate; and, when we both know
each other better, if you continue in the
same mind, I shall then be prepared to
reply.”</p>

<p class='c008'>This response, while it did credit to
Emily’s prudence, was such as gave the
suitor every reasonable hope of success;
as the expression, “when we know
each other better,” was sufficiently
encouraging to induce him to continue
his visits. Love had already done his
work with both hearts, and in a short
time they perfectly understood each
other.</p>

<p class='c008'>Emily’s mother now returned; and,
after the necessary preparations, the
wedding-day was appointed, when the
Captain was called to Edinburgh, as
member of a court-martial, to be held
in the Castle. They had known each
other but a short time, and both had
been so much engrossed with their own
affairs, that, although the Captain had
heard Emma’s name mentioned, he was
ignorant of the striking resemblance
which she bore to her sister. Emily
had also continued unacquainted with
the Captain’s first interview with her
father, till she happened to overhear the
latter relating it to her mother, and
chuckling over it as a good joke which
he and the Captain had played off on
Emily. Although not displeased at the
imposition practised on her, she resolved,
sooner or later, to pay both her father
and lover in their own coin; and her
fertile invention soon contrived a scheme,
in which, if she could engage her sister
as a confederate, she trusted to enjoy
the pleasure of full retaliation.</p>

<p class='c008'>A letter had been despatched to
Emma, announcing the intended nuptials,
and requesting her presence, to
officiate as bride’s maid on the occasion.
This message had, however, been crossed
on the road by another from Emma, to
the same tune; informing her parents
of her intended marriage, two days
before that fixed for Emily’s wedding,
and requesting the same service of her
sister which had been expected from
her.</p>

<p class='c008'>This <i><span lang="fr">contretemps</span></i> was a disappointment
to both; however, a second letter
arrived from Emma, congratulating
Emily on the approaching event, and
intimating that she and her husband
intended doing themselves the pleasure
of being with them in time to witness
the ceremony.</p>

<p class='c008'>The absence of some important witnesses
in the case before the court-martial
had prevented its sitting; and
a letter arrived from Captain Munro,
intimating, that, however much it vexed
him, he found it would be impossible
for him to be at Greenbraes sooner than
the day appointed for their union; and,
even then, the hour of his arrival was
uncertain, but he hoped to be in time
for dinner.</p>

<p class='c008'>Edward arrived from England on the
eve of the wedding-day; and Emma,
with her husband, in the morning.
After the mutual congratulations among
so many friends, Emily took an early
opportunity of communicating her intentions,
and requesting their assistance;
especially as it was the last opportunity
she would have of indulging in frolic;
as, in a few hours, she should be sworn
to love, honour, and obey her husband.
Edward was highly delighted with the
scheme; and Emma’s husband, who
loved a joke, prevailed on her to comply
with her sister’s request, and perform
her share in the plot, as explained
by Emily; and the striking likeness of
the two sisters being still as strong as
ever, rendered success almost certain.
As a necessary preliminary, it was
agreed that the sisters should be dressed
exactly alike, in every, the minutest
article, except that Emma should wear
a <i><span lang="fr">bandeau</span></i> of artificial rosebuds, by
which she could be at once distinguished
from her sister. All this was carried
into effect; and, when dressed, the distinction
was pointed out to their parents,
to prevent, as they said, any ridiculous
mistake at the approaching ceremony.</p>

<p class='c008'>The farmhouse of Greenbraes had,
in former times, been the mansion-house
of the estate, and still had attached to
it an extensive and old-fashioned
garden. The house stood on a rising
ground, and had a commanding view of
the road by which the bridegroom must
approach. Emily had every thing
ready; and, when she saw him at some
distance, she joined her brother, with
Emma and her husband, in the garden,
where they had been for some time;
but, as she passed out, requested her
mother to conduct Captain Munro to
the garden, on his arrival, contriving
some excuse for leaving him as he entered,
as she wished to she him privately.</p>

<p class='c008'>The party had disposed themselves
in order, waiting his approach; and,
when they heard the garden-door open,
Edward and Emily withdrew, secreting
themselves in a thicket of evergreens;
and the Captain entering, beheld Emma
and her husband sauntering most lovingly,
at a little distance before him.
They did not seem to observe the bridegroom;
but, on turning the corner of a
new-clipped yew-hedge, Emma, as if
by accident, dropped her handkerchief,
and the next moment they were out of
sight. Captain Munro believed at first
glance that it was Emily he had seen,
but still was reluctant to suppose it
possible that she would permit any other
man to use the freedom he had just
witnessed; and endeavoured to persuade
himself that the lady must be a stranger,
invited to the wedding. However,
the handkerchief seemed a probable clue
to solve his doubts; he approached,
took it up, and found it marked Em. G.
In no very pleasant mood, he stepped
forward a little farther, when he heard
a soft whisper, which he knew proceeded
from a rustic bower; and he was aware
that, by a slight circuit, he could discover
the occupants without being seen.
He now saw, as he believed, Emily
seated in the bower, her head leaning
on the shoulder of a handsome-looking
young man, whose arm encircled her
waist. Rage and jealousy now took
possession of the bridegroom’s soul, and
he was at first disposed to leave the
farm, without speaking to any one, but,
standing for a few minutes in a stupor,
he determined to see the face of him
for whom he had been so cruelly
deceived. He therefore walked up in
front of the bower, and, with all the
calm respect which he could assume,
said, “Madam, permit me to present
your handkerchief, which you dropped
in the walk.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I thank you, Sir,” replied Emma;
“may I inquire to whom I am indebted
for restoring it to its owner?”</p>

<p class='c008'>The cool composure with which this
question was put, raised the indignation
of the maddened bridegroom to its
highest pitch; and, with a glance of
the most sovereign contempt which he
could assume, he replied, “To one,
madam, who despises you from his soul,
and thanks God for his timely discovery
of your infamy!”</p>

<p class='c008'>Her husband now started to his feet,
and said, “Sir, you bear the insignia,
although you want the manners of a
gentleman. But were you of the blood-royal,
you should not insult my wife
with impunity.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Captain Munro started at the word,
and repeated, “Wife! did you say,
Sir? Permit me to ask one question,
to which your candid reply will oblige
me. How long has that woman been
your wife?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“For these two days.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Enough. Farewell for ever! infamous
woman!”</p>

<p class='c008'>Edward now sprung from the thicket,
and standing right before the Captain,
in the exact costume in which he had
enlisted, said, with an arch and good-humoured
smile, “My honoured Captain,
excuse the freedom of your recruit.
I cannot patiently hear those opprobrious
epithets applied to my sister;
perhaps she could explain all this if you
had patience.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The Captain was now fairly bewildered,
and stood staring, first at the one,
and then the other, in half-frantic
amazement, when, to his relief, the
farmer approached; and, seeing the
four looking in gloomy silence on each
other, exclaimed, “Why, what is the
matter with all of you, that you stare
as if bewitched?”</p>

<p class='c008'>Captain Munro, recovering himself a
little, replied, “It is even so, Sir; and
you are come in time to remove the
spell. Say, who are these before you?”</p>

<p class='c008'>The farmer surveyed the group, and
observing that Emma had not the <i><span lang="fr">bandeau</span></i>
of rose-buds by which she was to be
distinguished from her sister, replied:
“Captain, what do you mean? The
young man is my son Edward; the other
is Dr Malcolm, my son-in-law: you
surely do not require to be told that
the female is <em>my</em> daughter, and <em>your</em>
bride.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“She is no bride of mine—I renounce
her for ever!” said the angry soldier,
in a most indignant tone.</p>

<p class='c008'>While the farmer stood, as much
amazed as the Captain had been, Emily
came forward from the thicket, and,
standing close beside her sister, said,
“Dear father, let not the gentlemen
quarrel; you have certainly a daughter
for each of them; and as both of us are
quite willing to have husbands, have
the goodness to give our hands to those
for whom you intend us;” and both
sisters stood with the stillness, gravity,
and silence of statues. The astonished
father found the distinguishing badge
wanting in both, and replied, “I must
confess I am fairly bewildered; gentlemen,
choose for yourselves, for I cannot!”</p>

<p class='c008'>Edward now put on Emily’s playful
smile, and looked at the Captain in a
manner which made him at once clasp
the youth in his arms, crying, “My
dear Emily! I know you now.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The loud laughter of the party again
renewed the confusion of the bridegroom
and farmer, which was enjoyed for a
considerable time before they condescended
to give any explanation. It
was, however, at last made; all was set
right, and the evening passed at Greenbraes
in hilarity and unclouded happiness.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='albert_bane' class='c006'>ALBERT BANE:<br> <span class='large'><em>AN INCIDENT OF THE BATTLE OF CULLODEN</em></span>.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By Henry Mackenzie.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>When I was, last autumn, at my
friend Colonel Caustic’s in the country,
I saw there, on a visit to Miss Caustic,
a young gentleman and his sister, children
of a neighbour of the Colonel’s,
with whose appearance and manner I
was particularly pleased.</p>

<p class='c008'>The history of their parents, said my
friend, is somewhat particular, and I love
to tell it, as I do everything that is
to the honour of our nature. Man is so
poor a thing, taken in the gross, that when
I meet with an instance of nobleness in
detail, I am fain to rest upon it long,
and to recall it often, as in coming
thither over our barren hills you would
look with double delight on a spot of
cultivation or of beauty.</p>

<p class='c008'>The father of those young folks,
whose looks you were struck with, was
a gentleman of considerable domains
and extensive influence on the northern
frontier of our country. In his youth
he lived, as it was then more the fashion
than it is now, at the seat of his
ancestors, surrounded with Gothic grandeur,
and compassed with feudal followers
and dependants, all of whom
could trace their connection at a period
more or less remote with the family of
their chief. Every domestic in his
house bore the family-name, and looked
on himself as in a certain degree partaking
its dignity, and sharing its fortunes.
Of these, one was in a particular
manner the favourite of his master.
Albert Bane (the surname, you know, is
generally lost in a name descriptive of
the individual) had been his companion
from his infancy. Of an age so much
more advanced as to enable him to be a
sort of tutor to his youthful lord, Albert
had early taught him the rural exercises
and rural amusements, in which himself
was eminently skilful; he had
attended him in the course of his education
at home, of his travels abroad, and
was still the constant companion of his
excursions, and the associate of his
sports.</p>

<p class='c008'>On one of those latter occasions, a
favourite dog of Albert’s, whom he had
trained himself, and of whose qualities
he was proud, happened to mar the
sport which his master expected, who,
irritated at the disappointment, and
having his gun ready cocked in his hand,
fired at the animal, which, however, in
the hurry of his resentment, he missed.
Albert, to whom Oscar was a child,
remonstrated against the rashness of the
deed in a manner rather too warm for
his master, ruffled as he was with the
accident, and conscious of being in the
wrong, to bear. In his passion he
struck his faithful attendant, who suffered
the indignity in silence: and
retiring, rather in grief than in anger,
left his native country that very night;
and when he reached the nearest town,
enlisted with a recruiting party of a
regiment then on foreign service. It
was in the beginning of the war with
France, which broke out in 1744, rendered
remarkable for the rebellion
which the policy of the French court
excited, in which some of the first
families of the Highlands were unfortunately
engaged. Among those who
joined the standard of Charles, was the
master of Albert.</p>

<p class='c008'>After the battle of Culloden, so
fatal to that party, this gentleman,
along with others who had escaped
the slaughter of the field, sheltered
themselves from the rage of the unsparing
soldiery among the distant recesses
of their country. To him his native
mountains offered an asylum; and
thither he naturally fled for protection.
Acquainted, in the pursuits of the chase,
with every secret path and unworn track,
he lived for a considerable time, like
the deer of his forest, close hid all day,
and only venturing down at the fall of
evening, to obtain from some of his
cottagers, whose fidelity he could trust,
a scanty and precarious support. I have
often heard him (for he is one of my
oldest acquaintances) describe the scene
of his hiding-place, at a later period,
when he could recollect it in its sublimity,
without its horror. “At times,” said he,
“when I ventured to the edge of the wood,
among some of those inaccessible crags
which you remember a few miles from
my house, I have heard, in the pauses of
the breeze which rolled solemn through
the pines beneath me, the distant voices
of the soldiers, shouting in answer to
one another amidst their inhuman search.
I have heard their shouts re-echoed from
cliff to cliff, and seen reflected from the
deep still lake below the gleam of those
fires which consumed the cottages of
my people. Sometimes shame and indignation
wellnigh overcame my fear,
and I have prepared to rush down the
steep, unarmed as I was, and to die at
once by the swords of my enemies; but
the instinctive love of life prevailed, and
starting, as the roe bounded by me, I
have again shrunk back to the shelter I
had left.</p>

<p class='c008'>“One day,” continued he, “the noise
was nearer than usual; and at last, from
the cave in which I lay, I heard the
parties immediately below so close upon
me, that I could distinguish the words
they spoke. After some time of horrible
suspense, the voices grew weaker and
more distant; and at last I heard them
die away at the further end of the
wood. I rose and stole to the mouth of
the cave, when suddenly a dog met me,
and gave that short quick bark by which
they indicate their prey. Amidst the
terror of the circumstance, I was yet
master enough of myself to discover that
the dog was Oscar; and I own to you
I felt his appearance like the retribution
of justice and of heaven. ‘Stand!’
cried a threatening voice, and a soldier
pressed through the thicket, with his
bayonet charged. It was Albert!
Shame, confusion, and remorse stopped
my utterance, and I stood motionless
before him. ‘My master!’ said he,
with the stifled voice of wonder and of
fear, and threw himself at my feet. I
had recovered my recollection. You
are revenged, said I, and I am your
prisoner. ‘Revenged! Alas! you have
judged too harshly of me; I have not
had one happy day since that fatal one on
which I left my master; but I have lived,
I hope, to save him. The party to which
I belong are passed; for I lingered
behind them among those woods and
rocks, which I remember so well in
happier days. There is, however, no
time to be lost. In a few hours this
wood will blaze, though they do not
suspect that it shelters you. Take my
dress, which may help your escape, and
I will endeavour to dispose of yours.
On the coast, to the westward, we have
learned there is a small party of your
friends, which, by following the river’s
track till dusk, and then striking over
the shoulder of the hill, you may join
without much danger of discovery.’
I felt the disgrace of owing so much to
him I had injured, and remonstrated
against exposing him to such imminent
danger of its being known that he
favoured my escape, which, from the
temper of his commander, I knew would
be instant death. Albert, in an agony
of fear and distress, besought me to think
only of my own safety. ‘Save us both,’
said he, ‘for if you die, I cannot live.
Perhaps we may meet again; but whatever
comes of Albert, may the blessing
of God be with his master!’”</p>

<p class='c008'>Albert’s prayer was heard. His
master, by the exercise of talents which,
though he had always possessed, adversity
only taught him to use, acquired
abroad a station of equal honour and
emolument; and when the proscriptions
of party had ceased, returned home to
his own country, where he found Albert
advanced to the rank of a lieutenant in
the army, to which his valour and merit
had raised him, married to a lady, by
whom he had got some little fortune,
and the father of an only daughter, for
whom nature had done much, and to
whose native endowments it was the
chief study and delight of her parents to
add everything that art could bestow.
The gratitude of the chief was only
equalled by the happiness of his follower,
whose honest pride was not long after
gratified by his daughter becoming the
wife of that master whom his generous
fidelity had saved. That master, by the
clemency of more indulgent and liberal
times, was again restored to the domains
of his ancestors, and had the satisfaction
of seeing the grandson of Albert enjoy
the hereditary birthright of his race. I
accompanied Colonel Caustic on a visit
to this gentleman’s house, and was
delighted to observe his grateful attention
to his father-in-law, as well as the
unassuming happiness of the good old
man, conscious of the perfect reward
which his former fidelity had met with.
Nor did it escape my notice, that the
sweet boy and girl, who had been our
guests at the Colonel’s, had a favourite
brown and white spaniel, whom they
caressed much after dinner, whose name
was Oscar.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='the_penny_wedding' class='c006'>THE PENNY-WEDDING.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By Alex. Campbell.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>If any of our readers have ever seen a
Scottish penny-wedding, they will agree
with us, we daresay, that it is a very
merry affair, and that its mirth and
hilarity is not a whit the worse for its
being, as it generally is, very homely
and unsophisticated. The penny-wedding
is not quite so splendid an affair
as a ball at Almack’s; but, from all we
have heard and read of these aristocratic
exhibitions, we for our own parts would
have little hesitation about our preference,
and what is more, we are quite
willing to accept the imputation of having
a horrid bad taste.</p>

<p class='c008'>It is very well known to those who
know anything at all of penny-weddings,
that, when a farmer’s servant is about
to be married—such an occurrence
being the usual, or, at least, the most
frequent occasion of these festivities—all
the neighbouring farmers, with their
servants, and sometimes their sons and
daughters, are invited to the ceremony;
and to those who know this, it is also
known that the farmers so invited are
in the habit of contributing each something
to the general stock of good things
provided for the entertainment of the
wedding guests—some sending one
thing and some another, till materials
are accumulated for a feast, which, both
for quantity and quality, would extort
praise from Dr Kitchener himself, than
whom no man ever knew better what
good living was. To all this a little
money is added by the parties present,
to enable the young couple to <em>plenish</em>
their little domicile.</p>

<p class='c008'>Having given this brief sketch of
what is called a penny-wedding, we
proceed to say that such a merry doing
as this took place, as it had done a
thousand times before, in a certain
parish (we dare not be more particular)
in the south of Scotland, about five-and-twenty
years ago. The parties—we
name them, although it is of no consequence
to our story—were Andrew
Jardine and Margaret Laird, both servants
to a respectable farmer in that
part of the country of the name of
Harrison, and both very deserving and
well-doing persons.</p>

<p class='c008'>On the wedding-day being fixed,
Andrew went himself to engage the
services of blind Willie Hodge, the
parish fiddler, as he might with all
propriety be called, for the happy occasion;
and Willie very readily agreed
to attend gratuitously, adding, that he
would bring his best fiddle along with
him, together with an ample supply of
fiddle-strings and rosin.</p>

<p class='c008'>“An’ a wee bit box o’ elbow grease,
Willie,” said Andrew, slily; “for ye’ll
hae gude aught hours o’t, at the very least.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I’ll be sure to bring that too,
Andrew,” replied Willie, laughing;
“but it’s no aught hours that’ll ding
me, I warrant. I hae played saxteen
without stoppin, except to rosit.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“And to weet your whistle,” slipped
in Andrew.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Pho, that wasna worth coontin. It
was just a mouthfu’ and at it again,”
said Willie. “I just tak, Andrew,”
he went on, “precisely the time o’ a
demisemiquaver to a tumbler o’ cauld
liquor, such as porter or ale; and twa
minims or four crochets to a tumbler o’
het drink, such as toddy; for the first,
ye see, I can tak aff at jig time, but the
other can only get through wi’ at the
rate o’ ‘Roslin Castle,’ or the ‘Dead
March in Saul,’ especially when its
brought to me scadding het, whilk sude
never be done to a fiddler.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Now, as to this very nice chromatic
measurement by Willie, of the time
consumed in his potations, while in the
exercise of his calling, we have nothing
to say. It may be perfectly correct
for aught we know; but when Willie
said that he played at one sitting, and
with only the stoppages he mentioned,
for sixteen hours, we rather think he
was drawing fully a longer bow than
that he usually played with. At all
events, this we know, that Willie was a
very indifferent, if not positively a very
bad fiddler; but he was a good-humoured
creature, harmless and inoffensive,
and, moreover, the only one of his calling
in the parish, so that he was fully
as much indebted to the necessities of
his customers for the employment he
obtained, as to their love or charity.</p>

<p class='c008'>The happy day which was to see the
humble destinies of Andrew Jardine and
Margaret Laird united having arrived,
Willie attired himself in his best, popped
his best fiddle—which was, after all,
but a very sober article, having no more
tone than a salt-box—into a green bag,
slipped the instrument thus secured
beneath the back of his coat, and proceeded
towards the scene of his impending
labours. This was a large barn,
which had been carefully swept and
levelled for the “light fantastic <em>toes</em>” of
some score of ploughmen and dairymaids,
not formed exactly after the
Chinese fashion. At the further end
of the barn stood a sort of platform,
erected on a couple of empty herring-barrels;
and on this again a chair was
placed. This distinguished situation,
we need hardly say, was designed for
Willie, who from that elevated position
was to pour down his heel-inspiring
strains amongst the revellers below.
When Willie, however, came first upon
the ground, the marriage party had not
yet arrived. They were still at the
manse, which was hard by, but were
every minute expected. In these circumstances,
and it being a fine summer
afternoon, Willie seated himself on a
stone at the door, drew forth his fiddle,
and struck up with great vigour and
animation, to the infinite delight of
some half-dozen of the wedding guests,
who, not having gone with the others
to the manse, were now, like himself,
waiting their arrival. These immediately
commenced footing it to Willie’s music
on the green before the door, and thus
presented a very appropriate prelude
to the coming festivities of the evening.</p>

<p class='c008'>While Willie was thus engaged, an
itinerant brother in trade, on the look-out
for employment, and who had heard
of the wedding, suddenly appeared, and
stealing up quietly beside him, modestly
undid the mouth of his fiddle-bag, laid
the neck of the instrument bare, and
drew his thumb carelessly across the
strings, to intimate to him that a rival
was near his throne. On hearing the
sound of the instrument, Willie stopped
short.</p>

<p class='c008'>“I doubt, frien, ye hae come to the
wrang market,” he said, guessing at
once the object of the stranger. “An’
ye hae been travellin too, I daresay?”
he continued, good-naturedly, and not
at all offended with the intruder, for
whom and all of his kind he entertained
a fellow feeling.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ay,” replied the new Orpheus, who
was a tall, good-looking man of about
eight-and-twenty years of age, but very
poorly attired, “I hae been travellin,
as ye say, neebor, an’ hae came twa or
three miles out o’ my way to see if I
could pick up a shilling or twa at this
weddin.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I am sorry now, man, for that,”
said Willie, sympathisingly. “I doot
ye’ll be disappointed, for I hae been
engaged for’t this fortnight past. But
I’ll tell ye what: if ye’re onything guid
o’ the fiddle, ye may remain, jist to
relieve me now an’ then, an’ I’ll mind ye
when a’s ower; an’ at ony rate ye’ll aye
pick up a mouthfu’ o’ guid meat and
drink—an’ that ye ken’s no to be fand
at every dyke-side.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“A bargain be’t,” said the stranger,
“an’ much obliged to you, frien. I
maun just tak pat-luck and be thankfu.
But isna your waddin folks lang o’
comin?” he added.</p>

<p class='c008'>“They’ll be here belyve,” replied
Willie, and added, “Ye’ll no be blin,
frien?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ou, no,” said the stranger; “thank
goodness I hae my sight; but I am
otherwise in such a bad state o’ health,
that I canna work, and am obliged to
tak the fiddle for a subsistence.”</p>

<p class='c008'>While this conversation was going
on, the wedding folks were seen dropping
out of the manse in twos and
threes, and making straight for the
scene of the evening’s festivities, where
they all very soon after assembled.
Ample justice having been done to all
the good things that were now set
before the merry party, and Willie and
his colleague having had their share,
and being thus put in excellent trim for
entering on their labours, the place was
cleared of all encumbrances, and a fair
and open field left for the dancers. At
this stage of the proceedings, Willie
was led by his colleague to his station,
and helped up to the elevated chair
which had been provided for him,
when the latter handed him his instrument,
while he himself took up his
position, fiddle in hand, on his principal’s
left, but standing on the ground,
as there was no room for him on the
platform.</p>

<p class='c008'>Everything being now ready, and the
expectant couples ranged in their respective
places on the floor, Willie was
called upon to begin, an order which
he instantly obeyed by opening in great
style.</p>

<p class='c008'>On the conclusion of the first reel, in
the musical department of which the
strange fiddler had not interfered, the
latter whispered to his coadjutor, that if
he liked he would relieve him for the next.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Weel,” replied the latter, “if ye
think ye can gae through wi’t onything
decently, ye may try your hand.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I’ll no promise much,” said the
stranger, now for the first time drawing
his fiddle out of its bag; “but, for the
credit o’ the craft, I’ll do the best I
can.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Having said this, Willie’s colleague
drew his bow across the strings of his
fiddle, with a preparatory flourish,
when instantly every face in the apartment
was turned towards him with an
expression of delight and surprise.
The tones of the fiddle were so immeasurably
superior to those of poor
Willie’s salt-box, that the dullest and
most indiscriminating ear amongst the
revellers readily distinguished the amazing
difference. But infinitely greater
still was their surprise and delight when
the stranger began to play. Nothing
could exceed the energy, accuracy, and
beauty of his performances. He was,
in short, evidently a perfect master of
the instrument, and this was instantly
perceived and acknowledged by all,
including Willie himself, who declared,
with great candour and goodwill, that
he had never heard a better fiddler in
his life.</p>

<p class='c008'>The result of this discovery was, that
the former was not allowed to lift a bow
during the remainder of the night, the
whole burden of its labours being deposited
on the shoulders, or perhaps we
should rather say the finger-ends, of the
stranger, who fiddled away with an
apparently invincible elbow.</p>

<p class='c008'>For several hours the dance went on
without interruption, and without any
apparent abatement whatever of vigour
on the part of the performers; but, at
the end of this period, some symptoms
of exhaustion began to manifest themselves,
which were at length fully
declared by a temporary cessation of
both the mirth and music.</p>

<p class='c008'>It was at this interval in the revelries
that the unknown fiddler, who had
been, by the unanimous voice of the
party, installed in Willie’s elevated
chair, while the latter was reduced to
his place on the floor, stretching himself
over the platform, and tapping
Willie on the hat with his bow, to draw
his attention, inquired of him, in a
whisper, if he knew who the lively
little girl was that had been one of the
partners in the last reel that had been
danced.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Is she a bit red-cheeked, dark-ee’d,
and dark-haired lassie, about nineteen
or twenty?” inquired Willie, in his
turn.</p>

<p class='c008'>“The same,” replied the fiddler.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ou, that’s Jeanie Harrison,” said
Willie, “a kind-hearted, nice bit lassie.
No a better nor a bonnier in a’ the
parish. She’s a dochter o’ Mr Harrison
o’ Todshaws, the young couple’s maister,
an’ a very respectable man. He’s here
himsel, too, amang the lave.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Just so,” replied his colleague.
And he began to rosin his bow, and to
screw his pegs anew, to prepare for the
second storm of merriment, which he
saw gathering, and threatening to burst
upon him with increased fury. Amongst
the first on the floor was Jeanie Harrison.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Is there naebody’ll tak me out for
a reel?” exclaimed the lively girl; and
without waiting for an answer, “Weel,
then, I’ll hae the fiddler.” And she
ran towards the platform on which the
unknown performer was seated. But
he did not wait her coming. He had
heard her name her choice, laid down
his fiddle, and sprang to the floor with
the agility of a harlequin, exclaiming,
“Thank ye, my bonny lassie, thank ye
for the honour. I’m your man at a
moment’s notice, either for feet or
fiddle.”</p>

<p class='c008'>It is not quite certain that Jeanie was
in perfect earnest when she made choice
of the musician for a partner, but it was
now too late to retract, for the joke had
taken with the company, and, with one
voice, or rather shout, they insisted on
her keeping faithful to her engagement,
and dancing a reel with the fiddler;
and on this no one insisted more stoutly
than the fiddler himself. Finding that
she could do no better, the good-natured
girl put the best face on the frolic she
could, and prepared to do her partner
every justice in the dance. Willie having
now taken bow in hand, his colleague
gave him the word of command,
and away the dancers went like meteors;
and here again the surprise of the party
was greatly excited by the performances
of our friend the fiddler, who danced as
well as he played. To say merely that
he far surpassed all in the room would
not, perhaps, be saying much; for there
were none of them very great adepts in
the art. But, in truth, he danced with
singular grace and lightness, and much
did those who witnessed it marvel at
the display. Neither was his bow to
his partner, nor his manner of conducting
her to her seat on the conclusion of
the reel, less remarkable. It was distinguished
by an air of refined gallantry
certainly not often to be met with in
those in his humble station in life. He
might have been a master of ceremonies;
and where the beggarly-looking fiddler
had picked up these accomplishments
every one found it difficult to conjecture.</p>

<p class='c008'>On the termination of the dance, the
fiddler—as we shall call him, <i><span lang="fr">par excellence</span></i>,
and to distinguish him from Willie—resumed
his seat and his fiddle, and
began to drive away with even more
than his former spirit; but it was
observed by more than one that his eye
was now almost constantly fixed, for the
remainder of the evening, as, indeed, it
had been very frequently before, on his
late partner, Jeanie Harrison. This
circumstance, however, did not prevent
him giving every satisfaction to those
who danced to his music, nor did it in
the least impair the spirit of his performances;
for he was evidently too much
practised in the use of the instrument,
which he managed with such consummate
skill, to be put out, either by the
contemplation of any chance object
which might present itself, or by the
vagaries of his imagination.</p>

<p class='c008'>Leaving our musician in the discharge
of his duty, we shall step over to where
Jeanie Harrison is seated, to learn what
she thinks of her partner, and what the
Misses Murray, the daughters of a
neighbouring farmer, between whom
she sat, think of him, and of Jeanie
having danced with a fiddler.</p>

<p class='c008'>Premising that the Misses Murray,
not being by any means beauties themselves,
entertained a very reasonable
and justifiable dislike and jealousy of
all their own sex to whom nature had
been more bountiful in this particular;
and finding, moreover, that, from their
excessively bad tempers (this, however,
of course, not admitted by the ladies
themselves), they could neither practise
nor share in the amenities which usually
mark the intercourse of the sexes, they
had set up for connoisseurs in the
articles of propriety and decorum, of
which they professed to be profound
judges—premising this, then, we proceed
to quote the conversation that passed
between the three ladies—that is, the
Misses Murray and Miss Harrison; the
latter taking her seat between them after
dancing with the fiddler.</p>

<p class='c008'>“My certy!” exclaimed the elder,
with a very dignified toss of the head,
“ye warna nice, Jeanie, to dance wi’ a
fiddler. I wad hae been very ill aff,
indeed, for a partner before I wad hae
taen up wi’ such a ragamuffin.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“An’ to go an’ ask him too!” said
the younger, with an imitative toss.
“I wadna ask the best man in the land
to dance wi’ me, let alane a fiddler! If
they dinna choose to come o’ their ain
accord, they may stay.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Tuts, lassies, it was a’ a piece o’
fun,” said the good-humoured girl. “I’m
sure everybody saw that but yersels.
Besides, the man’s well aneugh—na,
a gude deal mair than that, if he was
only a wee better clad. There’s no a
better-lookin man in the room; and
I wish, lassies,” she added, “ye may
get as guid dancers in your partners—that’s
a’.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Umph! a bonny like taste ye hae,
Jeanie, an’ a very strange notion o’
propriety!” exclaimed the elder, with
another toss of the head.</p>

<p class='c008'>“To dance wi’ a fiddler!” simpered
out the younger—who, by the way, was
no chicken either, being but a trifle on
the right side of thirty.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ay, to be sure, dance wi’ a fiddler
or a piper either. I’ll dance wi’ baith
o’ them—an’ what for no?” replied
Jeanie. “There’s neither sin nor shame
in’t; and I’ll dance wi’ him again, if
he’ll only but ask me.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“An’ faith he’ll do that wi’ a’ the
pleasure in the warld, my bonny lassie,”
quoth the intrepid fiddler, leaping down
once more from his high place; for,
there having been a cessation of both
music and dancing while the conversation
above recorded was going on, he
had heard every word of it. “Wi’ a’ the
pleasure in the warld,” he said, advancing
towards Jeanie Harrison, and
making one of his best bows of invitation;
and again a shout of approbation
from the company urged Jeanie to accept
it, which she readily did, at once to
gratify her friends and to provoke the
Misses Murray.</p>

<p class='c008'>Having accordingly taken her place
on the floor, and other couples having
been mustered for the set, Jeanie’s
partner again called on Willie to strike
up; again the dancers started, and again
the fiddler astonished and delighted the
company with the grace and elegance of
his performances. On this occasion,
however, the unknown musician’s predilection
for his fair partner exhibited a
more unequivocal character; and he
even ventured to inquire if he might
call at her father’s, to amuse the family
for an hour or so with his fiddle.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Nae objection in the warld,” replied
Jeanie. “Come as aften as ye like;
and the aftener the better, if ye only
bring yer fiddle wi’ ye, for we’re a’ fond
o’ music.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“A bargain be’t,” said the gallant
fiddler; and, at the conclusion of the
reel, he again resumed his place on the
platform and his fiddle.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Time and the hour,” says Shakspeare,
“will wear through the roughest
day;” and so they will, also, through
the merriest night, as the joyous party
of whom we are speaking now soon
found.</p>

<p class='c008'>Exhaustion and lassitude, though long
defied, finally triumphed; and even the
very candles seemed wearied of giving
light; and, under the influence of these
mirth-destroying feelings, the party at
length broke up, and all departed,
excepting the two fiddlers.</p>

<p class='c008'>These worthies now adjourned to a
public-house, which was close by, and
set very gravely about settling what was
to them the serious business of the
evening. Willie had received thirty-one
shillings as payment in full for
their united labours; and, in consideration
of the large and unexpected portion
of them which had fallen to the stranger’s
share, he generously determined, notwithstanding
that he was the principal
party, as having been the first engaged,
to give him precisely the one-half of the
money, or fifteen shillings and sixpence.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Very fair,” said the stranger, on
this being announced to him by his
brother in trade—“very fair; but what
would ye think of our drinking the odd
sixpences?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Wi’ a’ my heart,” replied Willie,
“wi’ a’ my heart. A very guid notion.”</p>

<p class='c008'>And a jug of toddy, to the value of
one shilling, was accordingly ordered
and produced, over which the two got
as thick as ben-leather.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ye’re a guid fiddler—I’ll say that
o’ ye,” quoth Willie, after tossing down
the first glass of the warm, exhilarating
beverage. “I would never wish to hear
a better.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I have had some practice,” said the
other modestly, and at the same time
following his companion’s example with
his glass.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Nae doot, nae doot, sae’s seen on
your playin,” replied the latter. “How
do you fend wi’ yer fiddle? Do ye
mak onything o’ a guid leevin o’t?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“No that ill ava,” said the stranger.
“I play for the auld leddy at the castle—Castle
Gowan, ye ken; indeed, I’m
sometimes ca’d the leddy’s fiddler, and
she’s uncommon guid to me. I neither
want bite nor sowp when I gang there.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“That’s sae far weel,” replied Willie.
“She’s a guid judge o’ music that Leddy
Gowan, as I hear them say; and I’m
tauld her son, Sir John, plays a capital
bow.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“No amiss, I believe,” said the
stranger; “but the leddy, as ye say, is
an excellent judge o’ music, although
whiles, I think, rather ower fond o’t,
for she maks me play for hours thegither,
when I wad far rather be wi’
Tam Yule, her butler, a sonsy, guid-natured
chiel, that’s no sweer o’ the cap.
But, speaking o’ that, I’ll tell ye what,
frien,” he continued, “if ye’ll come up
to Castle Gowan ony day, I’ll be blithe
to see you, for I’m there at least ance
every day, and I’ll warrant ye—for ye
see I can use every liberty there—in a
guid het dinner, an’ a jug o’ hetter toddy
to wash it ower wi’.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“A bargain be’t,” quoth Willie; “will
the morn do?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Perfectly,” said the stranger; “the
sooner the better.”</p>

<p class='c008'>This settled, Willie proceeded to a
subject which had been for some time
near his heart, but which he felt some
delicacy in broaching. This feeling,
however, having gradually given way
before the influence of the toddy, and of
his friend’s frank and jovial manner, he
at length ventured, though cautiously,
to step on the ice.</p>

<p class='c008'>“That’s an uncommon guid instrument
o’ yours, frien,” he said.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Very good,” replied his companion,
briefly.</p>

<p class='c008'>“But ye’ll hae mair than that ane,
nae doot?” rejoined the other.</p>

<p class='c008'>“I hae ither twa.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“In that case,” said Willie, “maybe
ye wad hae nae objection to pairt wi’
that ane, an’ the price offered ye wur a’
the mair temptin. I’ll gie ye the fifteen
shillins I hae won the nicht, an’ my
fiddle, for’t.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Thank ye, frien, thank ye for your
offer,” replied the stranger; “but I
daurna accept o’t, though I war willin.
The fiddle was gien to me by Leddy
Gowan, and I daurna pairt wi’t. She
wad miss’t, and then there would be the
deevil to pay.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Oh, an’ that’s the case,” said Willie,
“I’ll sae nae mair aboot it; but it’s a
first-rate fiddle—sae guid a ane, that it
micht amaist play the lane o’t.”</p>

<p class='c008'>It being now very late, or rather early,
and the toddy jug emptied, the blind
fiddler and his friend parted, on the understanding,
however, that the former
would visit the latter at the castle
(whither he was now going, he said, to
seek a night’s quarters) on the following
day.</p>

<p class='c008'>True to his appointment, Willie appeared
next day at Gowan House, or
Castle Gowan, as it was more generally
called, and inquired for “the fiddler.”
His inquiry was met with great civility
and politeness by the footman who opened
the door. He was told “the fiddler”
was there, and desired to walk in. Obeying
the invitation, Willie, conducted
by the footman, entered a spacious
apartment, where he was soon afterwards
entertained with a sumptuous
dinner, in which his friend the fiddler
joined him.</p>

<p class='c008'>“My word, neighbour,” said Willie,
after having made a hearty meal of the
good things that were set before him,
and having drank in proportion, “but
ye’re in noble quarters here. This is
truly fiddlin to some purpose, an’ treatin
the art as it ought to be treated in the
persons o’ its professors. But what,” he
added, “if Sir John should come in
upon us? He wadna like maybe a’
thegither to see a stranger wi’ ye?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Deil a bodle I care for Sir John,
Willie! He’s but a wild harum-scarum
throughither chap at the best, an’ no
muckle to be heeded.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ay, he’s fond o’ a frolic, they tell
me,” quoth Willie; “an’ there’s a heap
o’ gie queer anes laid to his charge,
whether they be true or no; but his
heart’s in the richt place, I’m thinkin,
for a’ that. I’ve heard o’ mony guid
turns he has dune.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ou, he’s no a bad chiel, on the
whole, I daresay,” replied Willie’s companion.
“His bark’s waur than his
bite—an’ that’s mair than can be said o’
a rat-trap, at ony rate.”</p>

<p class='c008'>It was about this period, and then
for the first time, that certain strange
and vague suspicions suddenly entered
Willie’s mind regarding his entertainer.
He had remarked that the latter gave
his orders with an air of authority which
he thought scarcely becoming in one who
occupied the humble situation of “the
lady’s fiddler;” but, singular as this
appeared to him, the alacrity and silence
with which these orders were obeyed,
was to poor Willie still more unaccountable.
He said nothing, however; but
much did he marvel at the singular good
fortune of his brother-in-trade. He had
never known a fiddler so quartered before;
and, lost in admiration of his
friend’s felicity, he was about again to
express his ideas on the subject, when
a servant in splendid livery entered the
room, and bowing respectfully, said,
“The carriage waits you, Sir John.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I will be with you presently, Thomas,”
replied who? inquires the reader.</p>

<p class='c008'>Why, Willie’s companion!</p>

<p class='c008'>What! is he then Sir John Gowan—he,
the fiddler at the penny-wedding,
Sir John Gowan of Castle Gowan, the
most extensive proprietor and the wealthiest
man in the county?</p>

<p class='c008'>The same and no other, good reader,
we assure thee.</p>

<p class='c008'>A great lover of frolic, as he himself
said, was Sir John; and this was one
of the pranks in which he delighted.
He was an enthusiastic fiddler; and, as
has been already shown, performed
with singular skill on that most difficult,
but most delightful, of all musical instruments.</p>

<p class='c008'>We will not attempt to describe poor
Willie’s amazement and confusion when
this singular fact became known to him;
for they are indescribable, and therefore
better left to the reader’s imagination.
On recovering a little from his surprise,
however, he endeavoured to express his
astonishment in such broken sentences
as these—“Wha in earth wad hae ever
dreamed o’t? Rosit an’ fiddle-strings!—this
beats a’. Faith, a’n I’ve been
fairly taen in—clean dune for. A knight
o’ the shire to play at a penny-waddin
wi’ blin Willie Hodge the fiddler! The
like was ne’er heard tell o’.”</p>

<p class='c008'>As it is unnecessary, and would certainly
be tedious, to protract the scene
at this particular point in our story, we
cut it short by saying, that Sir John
presented Willie with the fiddle he had
so much coveted, and which he had
vainly endeavoured to purchase; that
he then told down to him the half of
the proceeds of the previous night’s
labours which he had pocketed, added
a handsome <i><span lang="fr">douceur</span></i> from his own purse,
and finally dismissed him with a pressing
and cordial invitation to visit the
castle as often as it suited his inclination
and convenience.</p>

<p class='c008'>Having arrived at this landing-place
in our tale, we pause to explain one or
two things, which is necessary for the
full elucidation of the sequel. With
regard to Sir John Gowan himself, there
is little to add to what has been already
said of him; for, brief though these
notices of him are, they contain nearly
all that the reader need care to know
about him. He was addicted to such
pranks as that just recorded; but this,
if it was a defect in his character, was
the only one. For the rest, he was an
excellent young man—kind, generous,
and affable; of the strictest honour, and
the most upright principles. He was,
moreover, an exceedingly handsome man,
and highly accomplished. At this period,
he was unmarried, and lived with his
mother, Lady Gowan, to whom he was
most affectionately attached. Sir John
had, at one time, mingled a good deal
with the fashionable society of the
metropolis; but soon became disgusted
with the heartlessness of those who
composed it, and with the frivolity of
their pursuits; and in this frame of
mind he came to the resolution of retiring
to his estate, and of giving himself
up entirely to the quiet enjoyments of a
country life, and the pleasing duties
which his position as a large landed
proprietor entailed upon him.</p>

<p class='c008'>Simple in all his tastes and habits,
Sir John had been unable to discover,
in any of the manufactured beauties to
whom he had been, from time to time,
introduced while he resided in London,
one to whom he could think of intrusting
his happiness. The wife he desired
was one fresh from the hand of nature,
not one remodelled by the square and
rule of art; and such a one he thought
he had found during his adventure of
the previous night.</p>

<p class='c008'>Bringing this digression, which we
may liken to an interlude, to a close,
we again draw up the curtain, and
open the second act of our little drama
with an exhibition of the residence of
Mr Harrison at Todshaws.</p>

<p class='c008'>The house or farm-steading of this
worthy person was of the very best description
of such establishments. The
building itself was substantial, nay, even
handsome, while the excellent garden
which was attached to it, and all the
other accessories and appurtenances
with which it was surrounded, indicated
wealth and comfort. Its situation was
on the summit of a gentle eminence
that sloped down in front to a noisy
little rivulet, that careered along through
a narrow rugged glen overhanging with
hazel, till it came nearly opposite the
house, where it wound through an
open plat of green sward, and shortly
after again plunged into another little
romantic ravine similar to the one it had
left.</p>

<p class='c008'>The approach to Mr Harrison’s house
lay along this little rivulet, and was
commanded, for a considerable distance,
by the view from the former—a circumstance
which enabled Jeanie Harrison
to descry, one fine summer afternoon,
two or three days after the occurrence
of the events just related, the approach
of the fiddler with whom she had
danced at the wedding. On making
this discovery, Jeanie ran to announce
the joyful intelligence to all the other
members of the family, and the prospect
of a merry dancing afternoon opened
on the delighted eyes of its younger
branches.</p>

<p class='c008'>When the fiddler—with whose identity
the reader is now as well acquainted as
we are—had reached the bottom of the
ascent that led to the house, Jeanie, with
excessive joy beaming in her bright and
expressive eye, and her cheek glowing
with the roseate hues of health, rushed
down to meet him, and to welcome him
to Todshaws.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Thank ye, my bonny lassie—thank
ye,” replied the disguised baronet, expressing
himself in character, and speaking
the language of his assumed station.
“Are ye ready for anither dance?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Oh, a score o’ them—a thousand o’
them,” said the lively girl.</p>

<p class='c008'>“But will your faither, think ye, hae
nae objections to my comin?” inquired
the fiddler.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Nane in the warld. My faither is
nane o’ your sour carles that wad deny
ither folk the pleasures they canna enjoy
themsels. He likes to see a’body happy
around him—every ane his ain way.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“An’ your mother?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Jist the same. Ye’ll find her waur
to fiddle doun than ony o’ us. She’ll
dance as lang’s a string hauds o’t.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Then, I may be quite at my ease,”
rejoined Sir John.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Quite so,” replied Jeanie—and she
slipped half-a-crown into his hand—“and
there’s your arles; but ye’ll be
minded better ere ye leave us.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“My word, no an ill beginnin,” quoth
the musician, looking with well-affected
delight at the coin, and afterwards
putting it carefully into his pocket.
“But ye could hae gien me a far mair
acceptable arles than half-a-crown,” he
added, “and no been a penny the poorer
either.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“What’s that?” said Jeanie, laughing
and blushing at the same time, and
more than half guessing, from the looks
of the <em>pawky</em> fiddler, what was meant.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Why, my bonny leddie,” he replied,
“jist a kiss o’ that pretty little mou o’
yours.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Oh, ye gowk!” exclaimed Jeanie,
with a roguish glance at her humble
gallant; for, disguised as he was, he
was not able to conceal a very handsome
person, nor the very agreeable expression
of a set of remarkably fine features—qualities
which did not escape the
vigilance of the female eye that was now
scanning their possessor. Nor would
we say that these qualities were viewed
with total indifference, or without producing
their effect, even although they
did belong to a fiddler.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Oh, ye gowk!” said Jeanie;
“wha ever heard o’ a fiddler preferring
a kiss to half-a-crown?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“But <em>I</em> do, though,” replied the disguised
knight; “and I’ll gie ye yours
back again for’t.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“The mair fule you,” exclaimed
Jeanie, rushing away towards the
house, and leaving the fiddler to make
out the remainder of the way by himself.</p>

<p class='c008'>On reaching the house, the musician
was ushered into the kitchen, where a
plentiful repast was instantly set before
him, by the kind and considerate hospitality
of Jeanie, who, not contented with
her guest’s making a hearty meal at table,
insisted on his pocketing certain pieces
of cheese, cold meat, &#38;c., which were
left. These the fiddler steadily refused;
but Jeanie would take no denial, and
with her own hands crammed them into
his capacious pockets, which, after the
operation, stuck out like a well-filled
pair of saddle-bags. But there was no
need for any one who might be curious
to know what they contained, to look
into them for that purpose. Certain
projecting bones of mutton and beef,
which it was found impossible to get
altogether out of sight, sufficiently indicated
their contents. Of this particular
circumstance, however—we mean
the projection of the bones from the
pockets—we must observe, the owner of
the said pockets was not aware, otherwise,
we daresay, he would have been
a little more positive in rejecting the
provender which Jeanie’s warmheartedness
and benevolence had forced upon
him.</p>

<p class='c008'>Be this as it may, however, so soon
as the musician had finished his repast,
he took fiddle in hand, and opened the
evening with a slow pathetic Scottish
air, which he played so exquisitely that
Jeanie’s eye filled with a tear, as she
listened in raptures to the sweet but
melancholy turns of the affecting tune.</p>

<p class='c008'>Twice the musician played over the
touching strain, delighted to perceive
the effects of the music on the lovely
girl who stood before him, and rightly
conceiving it to be an unequivocal proof
of a susceptible heart and of a generous
nature.</p>

<p class='c008'>A third time he began the beautiful
air; but he now accompanied it with a
song, and in this accomplishment he was
no less perfect than in the others which
have been already attributed to him.
His voice was at once manly and melodious,
and he conducted it with a skill
that did it every justice. Having played
two or three bars of the tune, his rich
and well-regulated voice chimed in with
the following words:—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Oh, I hae lived wi’ high-bred dames,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Each state of life to prove,</div>
      <div class='line'>But never till this hour hae met</div>
      <div class='line in2'>The girl that I could love.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>It’s no in fashion’s gilded ha’s</div>
      <div class='line in2'>That she is to be seen;</div>
      <div class='line'>Beneath her father’s humble roof</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Abides my bonny Jean.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Oh, wad she deign ae thought to wair,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Ae kindly thought on me,</div>
      <div class='line'>Wi’ pearls I wad deck her hair,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Though low be my degree.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Wi’ pearls I wad deck her hair,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Wi’ gowd her wrists sae sma’;</div>
      <div class='line'>An’ had I lands and houses, she’d</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Be leddy ower them a’.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>The sun abune’s no what he seems,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Nor is the night’s fair queen;</div>
      <div class='line'>Then wha kens wha the minstrel is</div>
      <div class='line in2'>That’s wooin bonny Jean?</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c008'>Jeanie could not help feeling a little
strange as the minstrel proceeded with
a song which seemed to have so close a
reference to herself.</p>

<p class='c008'>She, of course, did not consider this
circumstance otherwise than as merely
accidental; but she could not help,
nevertheless, being somewhat embarrassed
by it; and this was made
sufficiently evident by the blush that
mantled on her cheek, and by the confusion
of her manner under the fixed
gaze of the singer, while repeating the
verses just quoted.</p>

<p class='c008'>When he had concluded, “Well,
good folks all,” he said, “what think ye
of my song?” And without waiting
for an answer, about which he seemed
very indifferent, he added, “and how
do you like it, Jeanie?” directing the
question exclusively to the party he
named.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Very weel,” replied Jeanie, again
blushing, but still more deeply than
before; “the song is pretty, an’ the air
delightfu’; but some o’ the verses are
riddles to me. I dinna thoroughly
understand them.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Don’t you?” replied Sir John,
laughing; “then I’ll explain them to
you by-and-by; but, in the meantime, I
must screw my pegs anew, and work for
my dinner, for I see the good folk about
me here are all impatience to begin.”
A fact this which was instantly acknowledged
by a dozen voices; and straightway
the whole party proceeded, in
compliance with a suggestion of Mr
Harrison, to the green in front of the
house, where Sir John took up his
position on the top of an inverted wheelbarrow,
and immediately commenced
his labours.</p>

<p class='c008'>For several hours the dance went on
with uninterrupted glee, old Mr Harrison
and his wife appearing to enjoy the
sport as much as the youngest of the
party, and both being delighted with
the masterly playing of the musician.
But although, as on a former occasion,
Sir John did not suffer anything to interfere
with, or interrupt the charge of
the duties expected of him, there was
but a very small portion of his mind or
thoughts engrossed by the employment
in which he was engaged. All, or
nearly all, were directed to the contemplation
of the object on which his
affections had now become irrevocably
fixed.</p>

<p class='c008'>Neither was his visit to Todshaws,
on this occasion, by any means dictated
solely by the frivolous object of affording
its inmates entertainment by his
musical talents. His purpose was a
much more serious one. It was to
ascertain, as far as such an opportunity
would afford him the means, the dispositions
and temper of his fair enslaver.
Of these, his natural shrewdness had
enabled him to make a pretty correct
estimate on the night of the wedding;
but he was desirous of seeing her in
other circumstances, and he thought
none more suitable for his purpose than
those of a domestic nature.</p>

<p class='c008'>It was, then, to see her in this position
that he had now come; and the
result of his observations was highly
gratifying to him.</p>

<p class='c008'>He found in Miss Harrison all that
he, at any rate, desired in woman. He
found her guileless, cheerful, gentle,
kind-hearted, and good-tempered, beloved
by all around her, and returning
the affection bestowed on her with a
sincere and ardent love.</p>

<p class='c008'>Such were the discoveries which the
disguised baronet made on this occasion;
and never did hidden treasure half so
much gladden the heart of the fortunate
finder, as these did that of him who
made them. It is true that Sir John
could not be sure, nor was he, that his
addresses would be received by Miss
Harrison, even after he should have
made himself known; but he could not
help entertaining a pretty strong confidence
in his own powers of persuasion,
nor being, consequently, tolerably sanguine
of success. All this, however,
was to be the work of another day. In
the meantime, the dancers having had
their hearts’ content of capering on the
green sward, the fiddle was put up, and
the fiddler once more invited into the
house, where he was entertained with
the same hospitality as before, and
another half-crown slipped into his
hand. This he also put carefully into
his pocket; and having partaken lightly
of what was set before him, rose up to
depart, alleging that he had a good way
to go, and was desirous of availing himself
of the little daylight that still
remained. He was pressed to remain
all night, but this he declined; promising,
however, in reply to the urgent
entreaties with which he was assailed
on all sides to stay, that he would very
soon repeat his visit. Miss Harrison
he took by the hand, and said, “I promised
to explain to you the poetical
riddle which I read, or rather attempted
to sing, this evening. It is now too
late to do this, for the explanation is a
long one; but I will be here again,
without fail, in a day or two, when I
shall solve all, and, I trust, to your
satisfaction. Till then, do not forget
your poor fiddler.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“No, I winna forget ye,” said Jeanie.
“It wadna be easy to forget ane that
has contributed so much to our happiness.
Neither would it be more than
gratefu’ to do so, I think.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“And you are too kind a creature to
be ungrateful to any one, however
humble may be their attempts to win
your favour; of that I feel assured.”
Having said this, and perceiving that
he was unobserved, he quickly raised
the fair hand he held to his lips, kissed
it, and hurried out of the door.</p>

<p class='c008'>What Jane Harrison thought of this
piece of gallantry from a fiddler, we
really do not know, and therefore will
say nothing about it. Whatever her
thoughts were, she kept them to herself.
Neither did she mention to any
one the circumstance which gave rise to
them. Nor did she say, but for what
reason we are ignorant, how much she
had been pleased with the general
manners of the humble musician, with
the melodious tones of his voice, and
the fine expression of his dark hazel eye.
Oh, love, love! thou art a leveller,
indeed, else how should it happen that
the pretty daughter of a wealthy and
respectable yeoman should think for a
moment, with certain indescribable feelings,
of a poor itinerant fiddler? Mark,
good reader, however, we do not say
that Miss Harrison was absolutely in
love with the musician. By no means.
That would certainly be saying too
much. But it is as certainly true, that
she had perceived something about him
that left no disagreeable impression—nay,
something which she wished she
might meet with in her future husband,
whoever he might be.</p>

<p class='c008'>Leaving Jeanie Harrison to such
reflections as these, we will follow the
footsteps of the disguised baronet. On
leaving the house, he walked at a rapid
pace for an hour or so, till he came to a
turn in the road, at the distance of about
four miles from Todshaws, where his
gig and man-servant, with a change of
clothes, were waiting him by appointment.
Having hastily divested himself
of his disguise, and resumed his own
dress, he stepped into the vehicle, and
about midnight arrived at Castle
Gowan.</p>

<p class='c008'>In this romantic attachment of Sir
John Gowan’s, or rather in the romantic
project which it suggested to him
of offering his heart and hand to the
daughter of a humble farmer, there
was but one doubtful point on his side
of the question, at any rate. This was,
whether he could obtain the consent of
his mother to such a proceeding. She
loved him with the utmost tenderness;
and, naturally of a mild, gentle, and
affectionate disposition, her sole delight
lay in promoting the happiness of her
beloved son. To secure this great
object of her life, there was scarcely any
sacrifice which she would not make,
nor any proposal with which she would
not willingly comply. This Sir John
well knew, and fully appreciated; but
he felt that the call which he was now
about to make on her maternal love
was more than he ought to expect she
would answer. He, in short, felt that
she might, with good reason, and without
the slightest infringement of her
regard for him, object to his marrying
so far beneath his station. It was not,
therefore, without some misgivings that
he entered his mother’s private apartment
on the day following his adventure
at Todshaws, for the purpose of divulging
the secret of his attachment, and
hinting at the resolution he had formed
regarding it.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Mother,” he said, after a pause
which had been preceded by the usual
affectionate inquiries of the morning,
“you have often expressed a wish that
I would marry.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I have, John,” replied the good old
lady. “Nothing in this world would
afford me greater gratification than to
see you united to a woman who should
be every way deserving of you—one
with whom you could live happily.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ay, that last is the great, the
important consideration, at least with
me. But where, mother, am I to find
that woman? I have mingled a good
deal with the higher ranks of society,
and there, certainly, I have not been
able to find her. I am not so uncharitable
as to say—nay, God forbid I
should—that there are not as good, as
virtuous, as amiable women, in the
upper classes of society as in the lower.
I have no doubt there are. All that I
mean to say is, that I have not been
fortunate enough to find one in that
sphere to suit my fancy, and have no
hopes of ever doing so. Besides, the
feelings, sentiments, and dispositions of
these persons, both male and female,
are so completely disguised by a factitious
manner, and by conventional rules,
that you never can discover what is their
real nature and character. They are
still strangers to you, however long you
may be acquainted with them. You
cannot tell who or what they are. The
roller of fashion reduces them all to
one level; and, being all clapped into
the same mould, they become mere
repetitions of each other, as like as peas,
without exhibiting the slightest point of
variety. Now, mother,” continued Sir
John, “the wife I should like is one
whose heart, whose inmost nature,
should be at once open to my view,
unwarped and undisguised by the
customs and fashions of the world.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Upon my word, John, you are
more than usually eloquent this morning,”
said Lady Gowan, laughing. “But
pray now, do tell me, John, shortly and
unequivocally, what is the drift of this
long, flowery, and very sensible speech
of yours? for that there is a drift in it I
can clearly perceive. You are aiming
at something which you do not like
to plump upon me at once.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Sir John looked a good deal confused
on finding that his mother’s shrewdness
had detected a latent purpose in his
remarks, and endeavoured to evade the
acknowledgment of that purpose, until
he should have her opinion of the observations
he had made; and in this he
succeeded. Having pressed her on this
point—</p>

<p class='c008'>“Well, my son,” replied Lady
Gowan, “if you think that you cannot
find a woman in a station of life corresponding
to your own that will suit your
taste, look for her in any other you please;
and, when found, take her. Consult your
own happiness, John, and in doing so
you will consult mine. I will not object
to your marrying whomsoever you
please. All that I bargain for is, that
she be a perfectly virtuous woman, and
of irreproachable character; and I don’t
think this is being unreasonable. But
do now, John, tell me at once,” she
added, in a graver tone, and taking her
son solemnly by the hand, “have you
fixed your affections on a woman of
humble birth and station? I rather
suspect this is the case.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I have then, mother,” replied Sir
John, returning his mother’s expressive
and affectionate pressure of the hand;
“the daughter of a humble yeoman, a
woman who——” But we will spare the
reader the infliction of the high-flown
encomiums of all sorts which Sir John
lavished on the object of his affections.
Suffice it to say, that they included
every quality of both mind and person
which go to the adornment of the
female sex.</p>

<p class='c008'>When he had concluded, Lady Gowan,
who made the necessary abatements from
the panegyric her son had passed on the
lady of his choice, said that, with regard
to his attachment, she could indeed
have wished it had fallen on one somewhat
nearer his own station in life, but
that, nevertheless, she had no objection
whatever to accept of Miss Harrison as
a daughter-in-law, since she was his
choice. “Nay,” she added, smiling,
“if she only possesses one-tenth—ay,
one-tenth, John—of the good qualities
with which you have endowed her,
I must say you are a singularly fortunate
man to have fallen in with such
a treasure. But, John, allow me to
say that, old woman as I am, I think
that I could very easily show you that
your prejudices, vulgar prejudices I must
call them, against the higher classes
of society, are unreasonable, unjust, and,
I would add, illiberal, and therefore
wholly unworthy of you. Does the
elegance, the refinement, the accomplishments,
the propriety of manner
and delicacy of sentiment, to be met
with in these circles, go for nothing
with you? Does——”</p>

<p class='c008'>“My dear mother,” here burst in Sir
John, “if you please, we will not argue
the point; for, in truth, I do not feel
disposed just now to argue about anything.
I presume I am to understand,
my ever kind and indulgent parent, that
I have your full consent to marry Miss
Harrison—that is, of course, if Miss
Harrison will marry me?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Fully and freely, my child,” said the
old lady, now flinging her arms around
her son’s neck, while a tear glistened in
her eye; “and may God bless your
union, and make it happy!”</p>

<p class='c008'>Sir John with no less emotion returned
the embrace of his affectionate parent,
and, in the most grateful language he
could command, thanked her for her
ready compliance with his wishes.</p>

<p class='c008'>On the day following that on which the
preceding conversation between Sir John
Gowan and his mother took place, the
inmates of Todshaws were surprised at
the appearance of a splendid equipage
driving up towards the house.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Wha in a’ the world’s this?” said
Jeanie to her father, as they both stood
at the door, looking at the glittering
vehicle, as it flashed in the sun and
rolled on towards them. “Some travellers
that hae mistaen their road.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Very likely,” replied her father;
“yet I canna understand what kind o’
a mistake it could be that should bring
them to such an out-o’-the-way place as
this. It’s no a regular carriage road—that
they micht hae seen; an’ if they
hae gane wrang, they’ll find some difficulty
in getting richt again. But here
they are, sae we’ll sune ken a’ about
it.”</p>

<p class='c008'>As Mr Harrison said this, the carriage,
now at the distance of only some
twenty or thirty yards from the house,
stopped; a gentleman stepped out, and
advanced smiling towards Mr Harrison
and his daughter. They looked surprised,
nay confounded; for they could
not at all comprehend who their visitor
was.</p>

<p class='c008'>“How do you do, Mr Harrison?”
exclaimed the latter, stretching out his
hand to the person he addressed; “and
how do you do, Miss Harrison?” he
said, taking Jeanie next by the hand.</p>

<p class='c008'>In the stranger’s tones and manner
the acute perceptions of Miss Harrison
recognised something she had heard and
seen before, and the recognition greatly
perplexed her; nor was this perplexity
lessened by the discovery which she also
made, that the countenance of the
stranger recalled one which she had seen
on some former occasion. In short, the
person now before her she thought presented
a most extraordinary likeness to
the fiddler—only that he had no fiddle,
that he was infinitely better dressed,
and that his pockets were not sticking
out with lumps of cheese and cold beef.
That they were the same person, however,
she never dreamed for a moment.</p>

<p class='c008'>In his daughter’s perplexity on account
of the resemblances alluded to,
Mr Harrison did not participate, as,
having paid little or no attention to the
personal appearance of the fiddler, he
detected none of them; and it was thus
that he replied to the stranger’s courtesies
with a gravity and coolness which contrasted
strangely with the evident embarrassment
and confusion of his daughter,
although she herself did not well
know how this accidental resemblance,
as she deemed it, should have had such
an effect upon her.</p>

<p class='c008'>Immediately after the interchange of
the commonplace civilities above mentioned
had passed between the stranger
and Mr Harrison and his daughter—</p>

<p class='c008'>“Mr Harrison,” he said, “may I
have a private word with you?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Certainly, sir,” replied the former.
And he led the way into a little back
parlour.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Excuse us for a few minutes, Miss
Harrison,” said the stranger, with a
smile, ere he followed, and bowing
gallantly to her as he spoke.</p>

<p class='c008'>On entering the parlour, Mr Harrison
requested the stranger to take a seat,
and placing himself in another, he
awaited the communication of his
visitor.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Mr Harrison,” now began the
latter, “in the first place, it may be
proper to inform you that I am Sir John
Gowan of Castle Gowan.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Oh!” said Mr Harrison, rising from
his seat, approaching Sir John, and extending
his hand towards him; “I am
very happy indeed to see Sir John
Gowan. I never had the pleasure of
seeing you before, sir; but I have heard
much of you, and not to your discredit,
I assure you, Sir John.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Well, that is some satisfaction, at
any rate, Mr Harrison,” replied the
baronet, laughing. “I am glad that
my character, since it happens to be a
good one, has been before me. It may
be of service to me. But to proceed to
business. You will hardly recognise in
me, my friend, I daresay,” continued
Sir John, “a certain fiddler who played
to you at a certain wedding lately, and
to whose music you and your family
danced on the green in front of your
own house the other night.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Mr Harrison’s first reply to this extraordinary
observation was a broad
stare of amazement and utter non-comprehension.
But after a few minutes’
pause thus employed, “No, certainly
not, sir,” he said, still greatly perplexed
and amazed. “But I do not understand
you. What is it you mean, Sir
John?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Why,” replied the latter, laughing,
“I mean very distinctly that <em>I</em> was the
musician on both of the occasions alluded
to. The personification of such
a character has been one of my favourite
frolics; and however foolish it may be
considered, I trust it will at least be
allowed to have been a harmless one.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Well, this is most extraordinary,”
replied Mr Harrison, in great astonishment.
“Can it be possible? Is it
really true, Sir John, or are ye jesting?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Not a bit of that, I assure you, sir.
I am in sober earnest. But all this,”
continued Sir John, “is but a prelude
to the business I came upon. To be
short, then, Mr Harrison: I saw and
particularly marked your daughter on
the two occasions alluded to, and the
result, in few words, is, that I have conceived
a very strong attachment to her.
Her beauty, her cheerfulness, her good
temper, and simplicity, have won my
heart, and I have now come to offer
her my hand.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Why, Sir John, this—this,” stammered
out the astonished farmer, “is
more extraordinary still. You do my
daughter and myself great honour, Sir
John—great honour, indeed.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Not a word of that,” replied the
knight, “not a word of that, Mr Harrison.
My motives are selfish. I am
studying my own happiness, and therefore
am not entitled to any acknowledgments
of that kind. You, I hope, sir,
have no objection to accept of me as a
son-in-law; and I trust your daughter
will have no very serious ones either.
Her affections, I hope, are not preengaged?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Not that I know of, Sir John,”
replied Mr Harrison; “indeed, I may
venture to say positively that they are
not. The girl has never yet, that I am
aware of, thought of a husband—at
least, not more than young women
usually do; and as to my having any
objections, Sir John, so far from that, I
feel, I assure you, extremely grateful for
such a singular mark of your favour and
condescension as that you have just
mentioned.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“And you anticipate no very formidable
ones on the part of your daughter?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Certainly not, Sir John; it is impossible
there should.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Will you, then, my dear sir,” added
Sir John, “be kind enough to go to
Miss Harrison and break this matter to
her, and I will wait your return?”</p>

<p class='c008'>With this request the farmer instantly
complied; and having found his daughter,
opened to her at once the extraordinary
commission with which he was charged.
We would fain describe, but find ourselves
wholly incompetent to the task,
the effect which Mr Harrison’s communication
had upon his daughter, and
on the other female members of the
family, to all of whom it was also soon
known. There was screaming, shouting,
laughing, crying, fear, joy, terror, and
amazement, all blended together in one
tremendous medley, and so loud that it
reached the ears of Sir John himself,
who, guessing the cause of it, laughed
very heartily at the strange uproar.</p>

<p class='c008'>“But, oh! the cauld beef an’ the
cheese that I crammed into his pockets,
father,” exclaimed Jeanie, running
about the room in great agitation.
“He’ll never forgie me that—never,
never,” she said, in great distress of
mind. “To fill a knight’s pockets wi’
dauds o’ beef and cheese! Oh! goodness,
goodness! I canna marry him.
I canna see him after that. It’s impossible,
father—impossible, impossible!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“If that be a’ your objections,
Jeanie,” replied her father, smiling,
“we’ll soon get the better o’t. I’ll
undertake to procure ye Sir John’s
forgiveness for the cauld beef and
cheese—that’s if ye think it necessary
to ask a man’s pardon for filling his
pockets wi’ most unexceptionable provender.
I wish every honest man’s
pouches war as weel lined, lassie, as
Sir John’s was that nicht.” Saying
this, Mr Harrison returned to Sir John,
and informed him of the result of his
mission, which was—but this he had
rather made out than been told, for
Jeanie could not be brought to give any
rational answer at all—that his addresses
would not, he believed, be disagreeable
to his daughter, “which,” he added,
“is, I suppose, all that you desire in
the meantime, Sir John.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Nothing more, nothing more, Mr
Harrison; she that’s not worth wooing’s
not worth winning. I only desired
your consent to my addresses, and a
regular and honourable introduction to
your daughter. The rest belongs to
me. I will now fight my own battle,
since you have cleared the way, and
only desire that you may wish me
success.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“That I do with all my heart,” replied
the farmer; “and, if I can lend
you a hand, I will do it with right good
will.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Thank you, Mr Harrison, thank
you,” replied Sir John; “and now, my
dear sir,” he continued, “since you have
so kindly assisted me thus far, will you
be good enough to help me just one step
farther? Will you now introduce me in
my new character to your daughter?
Hitherto she has known me only,” he
said, smiling as he spoke, “as an
itinerant fiddler, and I long to meet her
on a more serious footing—and on one,”
he added, again laughing, “I hope, a
trifle more respectable.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“That I’ll very willingly do, Sir John,”
replied Mr Harrison, smiling in his
turn; “but I must tell you plainly, that
I have some doubts of being able to
prevail on Jane to meet you at this particular
moment. She has one most
serious objection to seeing you.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Indeed!” replied Sir John, with an
earnestness that betokened some alarm.
“Pray, what is that objection?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Why, sir,” rejoined the latter, “allow
me to reply to that question by
asking you another. Have you any
recollection of carrying away out of my
house, on the last night you were
here, a pocketful of cheese and cold
beef?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Oh! perfectly, perfectly,” said Sir
John, laughing, yet somewhat perplexed.
“Miss Harrison was kind enough to
furnish me with the very liberal supply
of the articles you allude to; cramming
them into my pocket with her own fair
hands.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Just so,” replied Mr Harrison, now
laughing in his turn. “Well, then, to
tell you a truth, Sir John, Jane is so
dreadfully ashamed of that circumstance,
that she positively will not face you.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Oh ho! is that the affair?” exclaimed
the delighted baronet. “Why, then, if
she won’t come to us, we’ll go to her;
so lead the way, Mr Harrison, if you
please.” Mr Harrison did lead the
way, and Jane was caught.</p>

<p class='c008'>Beyond this point our story need not
be prolonged, as here all its interest
ceases. We have only now to add,
then, that the winning manners, gentle
dispositions, and very elegant person of
Sir John Gowan, very soon completed
the conquest he aimed at; and Jeanie
Harrison, in due time, became <span class='sc'>Lady
Gowan</span>.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='peat-casting_time' class='c006'>PEAT-CASTING TIME.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By Thomas Gillespie.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>In the olden times, there were certain
fixed occasions when labour and frolic
went hand in hand—when professional
duty and kindhearted glee mutually
kissed each other. The “rockin’”
mentioned by Burns—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>On Fasten e’en we had a rockin’—</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c012'>I still see in the dim and hazy distance
of the past. It is only under the refractive
medium of vigorous recollection
that I can again bring up to view (as
the Witch of Endor did Samuel) those
images that have been reposing, “’midst
the wreck of things that were,” for
more than fifty years. Yet my early
boyhood was familiar with these social
senile and juvenile festivities. <em>There</em>
still sits Janet Smith, in her toy-mutch
and check-apron, projecting at intervals
the well-filled spindle into the distance.
Beside her is Isabel Kirk, elongating
and twirling the yet unwound thread.
Nanny Nivison occupies a <em>creepy</em> on the
further side of the fire (making the third
Fate!), with her shears. Around, and
on bedsides, are seated Lizzy Gibson,
with her favoured lad; Tam Kirkpatrick,
with his jo Jean on his knee; Rob
Paton the stirk-herd; and your humble
servant. And “now the crack gaes
round, and who so wilful as to put it
by?” The story of past times; the report
of recent love-matches and miscarriages;
the gleeful song, bursting
unbid from the young heart, swelling
forth in beauty and in brightness like
the waters from the rock of Meribah;
the occasional female remonstrance
against certain <em>welcome</em> impertinences,
in shape of, “Come now, Tam—nane
o’ yer nonsense.” “Will! I say, be
peaceable, and behave yersel afore folk.
’Od, ye’ll squeeze the very breath out o’
a body.”</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line in4'>Till, in a social glass o’ strunt,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>They parted off careering</div>
      <div class='line in22'>On sic a night.</div>
    </div>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>I’ve heard a lilting at our ewe-milking.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c012'>How few of the present generation have
ever heard of this “lilting,” except in
song. It is the gayest and sunniest
season of the year. The young lambs,
in their sportive whiteness, are coursing
it, and bleating it, responsive to their
dams, on the hill above. The old ewes
on the plain are marching—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>The labour much of man and dog—</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c012'>to the pen or fold. The response to
the clear-toned bleat of their woolly progeny
is given, anon and anon, in a short,
broken, low bass. It is the raven conversing
with the jackdaw! All is bustle,
excitement, and badinage.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Weer up that ewe, Jenny, lass.
Wha kens but her woo may yet be a
blanket for you and ye ken wha to sleep
in!”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Haud yer tongue, Tammie, and
gang hame to yer books and yer schoolin.
Troth, it will be twa days ere the craws
dirty your kirk riggin!”</p>

<p class='c008'>Wouf, wouf, wouf!—hee, hee, hee!—hoch,
hoch, hoch!—there <em>in</em> they go,
and in they are, their horny heads
wedged over each other, and a trio of
stout, well-made damsels, with petticoats
tied up “<i><span lang="fr">à la breeches</span></i>,” tugging
away at their well-filled dugs.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Troth, Jenny, that ewe will waur
ye; ’od, I think ye hae gotten haud o’
the auld tup himsel. He’s as powerfu,
let me tell ye, as auld Francie, wham ye
kissed sae snug last nicht ayont the
peat-mou.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Troth, at weel, Tam, ye’re a fearfu
liar. They wad be fonder than I am o’
cock birds wha wad gie tippence for the
stite o’ a howlet.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Howlet here, howlet there, Jenny,
ye ken weel his auld brass will buy you
a new pan.”</p>

<p class='c008'>At this crisis the crack becomes
general and inaudible from its universality,
mixed as it is with the bleating of
ewes, the barking of dogs, together with
the singing of herd-laddies and of your
humble servant.</p>

<p class='c008'>Harvest is a blithe time! May all
the charms of “Sycorax, toads, beetles,
bats, light on him” who shall first invent
a reaping-machine! The best of
all reaping-machines is “the human
<em>arm</em> divine,” whether brawny or muscular,
or soft and rounded. The old
woman of sixty sits all year long at her
domestic occupations—you would deem
her incapable of any out-door exertions;
but, at the sound of the harvest-horn,
she renews her youth, and sallies forth
into the harvest-field, with hook over
shoulder, and a heart buoyant with the
spirit of the season, to take her place
and drive her rig with the youngest
there. The half-grown boy and girl of
fourteen are mingled up in duty and in
frolic, in jest and jibe, and jeer and
laugh, with the stoutest and the most
matured. Mothers and daughters, husbands
and wives, and, above and
beyond all, “lads and lasses, lovers
gay!” mix and mingle in one united
band, for honest labour and exquisite
enjoyment; and when at last the joyous
kirn is won—when the maiden of straw
is borne aloft and in triumph, to adorn
for twelve months the wall of the farmer’s
ben—when the rich and cooling
curds-and-cream have been ramhorn-spooned
into as many mouths as there
are persons in the “toun”—then comes
the mighty and long-anticipated festival,
the roasted ox, the stewed sheep, the
big pot enriched with the cheering and
elevating draught, the punch dealt about
in ladles and in jugs, the inspiring
fiddle, the maddening reel, and the
Highland fling.</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'><em>We</em> cannot but remember such things were,</div>
      <div class='line'>And were most dear to us!</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c008'>Hay harvest, too, had its soft and
delicate tints, resembling those of the
grain harvest. As the upper rainbow
curves and glows with fainter colouring
around the interior and the brighter, so
did the hay harvest of yore anticipate
and prefigure, as it were, the other.
The hay tedded to the sun; the barefooted
lass, her locks floating in the
breeze, her cheeks redolent of youth,
and her eyes of joy, scattering or collecting,
carting or ricking, the sweetly-scented
meadow produce, under a June
sun and a blue sky!</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Oh, to feel as I have felt,</div>
      <div class='line'>Or be what I have been!—</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c012'>the favoured lover, namely, of that
youthful purity, now in its fourteenth
summer—myself as pure and all unthinking
of aught but affection the most
intense, and feelings the most soft and
unaccountable.</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Ah, little did thy mother think,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>That day she cradled thee,</div>
      <div class='line'>What lands thou hadst to travel in,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>What death thou hadst to dee!</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c012'>Poor Jeanie Johnston! I have seen
her, only a few weeks ago, during the
sittings of the General Assembly, sunk
in poverty, emaciated by disease, the
wife of an old soldier, himself disabled
from work, tenanting a dark hovel in
Pipe’s Close, Castlehill of Edinburgh.</p>

<p class='c008'>In the upper district of Dumfriesshire—the
land of my birth, and of all
those early associations which cling to
me as the mistletoe to the oak, and
which are equally hallowed with that
druidical excrescence—there are no coals,
but a superabundance of moss; consequently
peat-fires <em>are</em> very <em>generally</em>
still, and <em>were</em>, at the time of which I
speak, <em>universally</em>, made use of; and a
peat-fire, on a cold, frosty night of
winter, when every star is glinting and
goggling through the blue, or when the
tempest raves, and</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>There’s no a star in a’ the cary,</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c012'>is by no means to be despised. To be
sure, it is short-lived—but then it kindles
soon; it does not, it is true, entertain us
with fantastic and playful jets of flame—but
then its light is full, united, and
steady; the heat which it sends out on
all sides is superior to that of coals.
Wood is sullen and sulky, whether in
its log or faggot form. It eats away
into itself, in a cancer ignition. But
the blazing peat—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>The bleezing ingle, and the clean hearth-stane—</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c012'>is the very soul of cheerfulness and comfort.
But then peats must be prepared.
They do not grow in hedges, nor vegetate
in meadows. They must be cut
from the black and consolidated moss;
and a peculiarly-constructed spade, with
a sharp edge and crooked ear, must be
made use of for that purpose; and into
the field of operation must be brought, at
casting-time, the spademen, with their
spades; and the barrowmen, and women,
boys, and girls, with their barrows; and
the breakfast sowans, with their creamy
milk, cut and crossed into circles and
squares; and the dinner stew, with
its sappy potatoes and gusty-onioned
mutton fragments; and the rest at noon,
with its active sports and feats of agility;
and, in particular, with its jumps from
the moss-brow into the soft, marshy
substance beneath—and <em>thereby hangs
my tale</em>, which shall be as short and
simple as possible.</p>

<p class='c008'>One of the loveliest visions of my
boyhood is Nancy Morrison. She was
a year or so older than me; but we
went and returned from school together.
She was the only daughter of
a poor widow woman, who supported
herself in a romantic glen on the skirts
of the Queensberry Hills, by bleaching
or whitening webs. In those days, the
alkalies and acids had not yet superseded
the slower progress of whitening
green linen by soap-boiling, trampling,
and alternate drying in the sun, and
wetting with pure running water.
Many is the time and oft that Nanny
and I have wielded the watering-pan,
in this fairy, sunny glen, all day long.
Whilst the humble-bee boomed past us,
the mavis occupied the thorn-tree, and
the mother of Nanny employed herself
in some more laborious department of
the same process, Nanny and I have set
us down on the greensward—<i><span lang="la">in tenaci
gramine</span></i>—played at chucks, “head him
and cross him,” or some such amusement.
At school, Nanny had ever a
faithful defender and avenger in me;
and I have even purloined apples and
gooseberries from the castle garden—and
all for the love I bore “to my
Nanny, oh!”</p>

<p class='c008'>I know not that any one has rightly
described a first love. It is not the
love of man and woman, though that be
fervent and terrible; it is not the love
of mere boy and girlhood, though that
be disinterested and engrossing; but it
is the love of the period of life which
unites the two. “Is there a man whose
blood is warm within him” who does
not recollect it? Is there a woman who
has passed through the novitiate of
fifteen, who has not still a distinct impression
of the feeling of which I speak?
It is not sexual, and yet it can only
exist betwixt the sexes. It is the sweetest
delusion under which the soul of a
created being can pass. It is modest,
timid, retiring, bashful; yet, in absence
of the adored—in seclusion, in meditation,
and in dreams—it is bold, resolute,
and determined. There is no
plan, no design, no right conception of
<em>cause</em>; yet the <em>effect</em> is sure and the bliss
perfect. Oh, for one hour—one little
hour—from the thousands which I have
idled, sported, dreamed away in the
company of my darling school-companion,
Nancy!</p>

<p class='c008'>Will Mather was about two years
older than Nancy—a fine youth, attending
the same school, and evidently an
admirer of Nancy. Mine was the love
of comparative boyhood; but his was
a passion gradually ripening (as
the charms of Nancy budded into
womanhood) into a manly and matrimonial
feeling. I loved the girl merely
as such—his eye, his heart, his whole
soul were in his future bride. Marriage
in no shape ever entered into my computations;
but his eager look and heaving
bosom bespoke the definite purpose—the
anticipated felicity. I don’t know
exactly why, but I was never jealous of
Will Mather. We were companions;
and he was high-souled and generous,
and stood my friend in many perilous
quarrels. I knew that <em>my</em> pathway in
life was to be afar from that in which
Nancy and Will were likely to walk;
and I felt in my heart that, dear as this
beautiful rosebud was to me, I was not
<em>man</em> enough—I was not <em>peasant</em> enough
to wear it in my bosom. Had Nancy
on any occasion turned round to be
kissed by me, I would have fled over
muir and dale to avoid her presence;
and yet I had often a great desire to
obtain that favour. Once, indeed, and
only once, did I obtain, or rather steal
it. She was sitting beside a bird’s nest,
the young ones of which she was feeding
and cherishing—for the parent birds, by
the rapacity of a cat, had recently perished.
As the little bills were expanding
to receive their food, her countenance
beamed with pity and benevolence.
I never saw even <em>her</em> so lovely; so, in
a moment, I had her round the neck,
and clung to her lips with the tenacity
of a creature drowning. But, feeling at
once the awkwardness of my position,
I took to my heels, becoming immediately
invisible amidst the surrounding
brushwood.</p>

<p class='c008'>Such was Will Mather, and such
was Nancy Morrison, at the period of
which I am speaking. We must now
advance about two or three years in our
chronology, and find Will possessed of
a piece of information which bore
materially on his future fortunes. Will
was an illegitimate child. His mother
had kept the secret so well that he did
not know his father, though he had frequently
urged her to reveal to him privately
all that she knew of his parentage.
In conversing, too, with Nancy, his
now affianced bride, he had expressed
similar wishes; whilst she, with a becoming
and feminine modesty, had
urged him not to press an aged parent
on so delicate a point. At last the old
woman was taken seriously ill, and, on
her death-bed and at midnight, revealed
to her son the secret of his birth. He
was the son of a proprietor in the parish,
and a much-respected man. The
youth, so soon as he had closed his
mother’s eyes, hurried off, amidst the
darkness, to the abode of his father,
and, entering by a window, was in his
father’s bed-chamber and over his body
ere he was fully awake.</p>

<p class='c008'>“John Scott!” said the son, in a
firm and terrible tone, grasping his parent
meantime convulsively round the
neck, “John Scott of Auchincleuch,
<em>I am thy son</em>!”</p>

<p class='c008'>The conscience-stricken culprit, being
taken by surprise, and almost imagining
this a supernatural intimation from
Heaven, exclaimed, in trembling accents:</p>

<p class='c008'>“But who are you that makes this
averment?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I am thy son, father—oh, I am thy
son!”</p>

<p class='c008'>Will could say no more; for his heart
was full, and his tears dropped hot and
heavy on a father’s face.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Yes,” replied the parent, after a
convulsive solemn sob—(O Heaven!
thou art just!)—“yes, thou <em>art</em> indeed
my son—my long-denied and ill-used
boy—whom the fear of the world’s
scorn has tempted me, against all the
yearnings of my better nature, to use so
unjustly. But come to my bosom—to a
father’s bosom <em>now</em>, for I know that
voice too well to distrust thee.”</p>

<p class='c008'>In a few months after this interesting
disclosure, John Scott was numbered
with his fathers, and Will Scott (no
longer Mather) became Laird of Auchincleuch.</p>

<p class='c008'>Poor Nancy was at first somewhat
distressed at this discovery, which put
her betrothed in a position to expect a
higher or genteeler match. But there
was no cause of alarm. Will was true
to the backbone, and would as soon
have burned his Bible as have sacrificed
his future bride. After much
pressing for an early day on the part of
the lover, it was agreed, at last, that the
marriage should take place at “Peatcasting
Time,” and that Nancy should,
for the last time, assist at the casting of
her mother’s peats.</p>

<p class='c008'>I wish I could stop here, or at least
proceed to give you an account of the
happy nuptials of Will Scott and Nancy
Morrison, the handsomest couple in the
parish of Closeburn. But it may not be!
These eyes, which are still filled (though
it is forty-eight years since) with tears,
and this pen, which trembles as I proceed,
must attest and record the catastrophe.</p>

<p class='c008'>Nancy, the beautiful bride, and I
(for I was now on the point of leaving
school for college) agreed to have a
jump for the last time (often had we
jumped before) from a suitable moss-brow.</p>

<p class='c008'>“My frolicsome days will sune be
ower,” she cried, laughing; “the Gudewife
of Auchincleuch will hae something
else to do than jump frae the
moss-brow; and, while my name is
Nancy Morrison, I’ll hail the dules, or
jump wi’ the best o’ my auld playmates.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Weel dune, Nancy!” cried I;
“you are now to be the wife o’ the
Laird o’ Auchincleuch, when your
jumping days will be at an end; and I
am soon to be sent to college, where the
only jump I may get may be from the
top of a pile of old black-letter folios—no
half sae gude a point of advantage as
the moss-brow.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“There’s the Laird o’ Auchincleuch
coming,” cried Peggy Chalmers, one
of the peat-casters, who was standing
aside, along with several others. “He’s
nae langer the daft Will Mather, wha
liked a jump as weel as the blithest
swankie o’ the barnyard. Siller maks
sair changes; and yet, wha wad exchange
the Will Scott of Auchincleuch,
your rich bridegroom, Nancy, for the
Will Mather, your auld lover? Dinna
tempt Providence, my hinny! The
laird winna like to see his bride jumpin
frae knowe to knowe like a daft giglet,
within a week o’ her marriage.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Tout!” cried Nancy, bursting out
into a loud laugh; “see, he’s awa round
by the Craw Plantin, and winna see us—and
whar’s the harm if he did? Come
now, Tammie, just ae spring and the
last, and I’ll wad ye my kame against
your cravat, that I beat ye by the
length o’ my marriage slipper.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Weel dune, Nancy!” cried several
of the peat-casters, who, leaning on
their spades, stood and looked at us
with pleasure and approbation.</p>

<p class='c008'>The Laird had, as Nancy said, crossed
over by what was called the Craw
Plantin, and was now out of sight. To
make the affair more ludicrous (for we
were all bent on fun), Nancy took out,
from among her high-built locks of
auburn hair, her comb—a present from
her lover—and impledged it in the
hands of Billy Watson, along with my
cravat, which I had taken off, and
handed to the umpire.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Here is a better moss-brow,” cried
one, at a distance.</p>

<p class='c008'>And so to be sure it was, for it was
much higher than the one we had fixed
upon, and the landing-place was soft
and elastic. Our practice was, always
to jump together, so that the points of
the toes could be measured when both
the competitors’ feet were still fixed in
the moss. We mounted the mossbrow.
I was in high spirits, and
Nancy could scarcely contain herself
for pure, boisterous, laughing glee. I
went off, but the mad girl could not
follow, for she was still holding her
sides, and laughing immoderately. I
asked her what she laughed at. She
could not tell. She was under the
influence of one of those extraordinary
cachinations that sometimes convulse
our diaphragms, without our being able
to tell why, and certainly without our
being able to put a stop to them. Her
face was flushed, and the fire of her
glee shone bright in her eye. I took
my position again.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Now!” cried I; and away we flew,
and stuck deeply in the soft and
spongy moss.</p>

<p class='c008'>I stood with my feet in the ground,
that the umpire might come and mark
the distance. A loud scream broke on
my ear. I looked round, and, dreadful
sight! I saw Nancy lying extended on
the ground, with the blood pouring out
at her mouth in a large stream! She
had burst a blood-vessel. The fit of
laughing which preceded her effort to
leap had, in all likelihood, distended
her delicate veins, and predisposed her
to the unhappy result.</p>

<p class='c008'>The loud scream had attracted the
notice of the bridegroom, who came running
from the back of the Craw Plantin.
The sight appalled and stupefied him.
He cried for explanation, and ran forward
to his dead or dying bride, in wild
confusion. Several voices essayed an
explanation, but none were intelligible.
I was as unable as the rest to satisfy the
unhappy man; but, though we could
not speak intelligibly, we could act, and
several of us lifted her up. This step
sealed her fate. The change in her
position produced another stream of
blood. She opened her eyes once,
and fixed them for a moment on Will
Scott. She then closed them, and for
ever.</p>

<p class='c008'>I saw poor Nancy carried home.
Will Scott, who upheld her head,
fainted before he proceeded twenty
yards, and I was obliged to take his
place. I was almost as unfit for the
task as himself; for I reproached myself
as the cause of her death. I have
lived long. Will the image of that procession
ever pass from my mind? The
blood-stained moss-ground, the bleeding
body, the trailing clothes, the unbound
locks, are all before me. I can proceed
no further. Would that I could
stop the current of my thoughts as easily
as that of this feathered chronicler of
sorrow! But—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>There is a silent sorrow here,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>A grief I’ll ne’er impart;</div>
      <div class='line'>It breathes no sigh, it sheds no tear,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>But it consumes my heart.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c008'>I have taken up my pen to add, that
Will Mather still remains a bachelor,
and that on every visit I make to Dumfriesshire,
I take my dinner, <i><span lang="la">solus cum
solo</span></i>, at Auchincleuch, and that many
tears are annually shed, over a snug
bottle, for poor Nancy.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='an_adventure_with_the_press-gang' class='c006'>AN ADVENTURE WITH THE PRESS-GANG.</h2>
</div>

<p class='c007'>How goes the press? was, as usual,
our first and most anxious inquiry
when the pilot boat came alongside to
the westward of Lundy Island. The
brief but emphatic reply was, “As hot
as blazes.” Knowing therefore what
we had to expect, the second mate and
I, and one or two others, applied to the
captain to set us ashore at Ilfracomb,
but he would not listen to us. A double-reefed
topsail breeze was blowing from
the westward, and a vigorous flood-tide
was setting up channel, enabling us to
pass over the ground about fifteen knots.
Such advantages the captain was no
way disposed to forego, so that there
was nothing for us but to trust to Providence
and our stow holes. The
breeze flagged towards sunset, and it
was not until an hour after dusk that
we dropped anchor in Kingroad.</p>

<p class='c008'>As soon as the ship was brought up,
I stepped in the main rigging to lend a
hand to furl the topsail, but had not
reached the top, when I heard the
cabin boy calling out in an Irish whisper,
“Bobstay, down, down, the press-boat
is alongside.” I was on deck in
a twinkling, and was springing to the
after scuttle, when I found myself
seized violently by the arm. I trembled.
It was the same boy that had called me
down. “They are already in the
mizen chains,” said he; “to the fore
scuttle, or you are a gone man.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Down the fore peak I went with the
rapidity of lightning, and down jumped
three of the gang after me with little
less velocity.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Oho, my tight little fellow,” said
one of them, thrusting his cutlass down
a crevice over my head; “I see you;
out you must come, or here goes an inch
or two of cold steel into your bread-bag.”</p>

<p class='c008'>I knew well that I was beyond his
reach, and took care to let him have
all the talk to himself. They rummaged
about all over the hold, thrusting
their cutlasses down every chink they
could perceive, but no one could they find
give a single squeak. In about half an hour
I heard the well-known voice of the cabin
boy calling me on deck. On reaching
the deck, I found that the gang had carried
off three of our hands, and had expressed
their determination to renew their search
next day. Of course my grand object
was to get ashore without delay. The
moment we anchored, the captain had
gone off to Bristol to announce his
arrival to his owners; and as the mate
and I were not on good terms, he refused
to allow me the use of the ship’s
boat. None of the watermen whose
boats we hailed would come alongside,
because if they had been found assisting
the crew of merchant vessels to
escape the press, they themselves would
have been subjected to its grasp. About
midnight, however, one waterman came
alongside, with whom the love of money
overcame the fear of danger, and he
agreed to pull the second mate, boatswain,
and myself ashore, for half a
guinea each. I had brought from the
West Indies a small venture in sugar, a
cask of which, about a hundredweight,
I took into the boat with me, to clear
present expenses.</p>

<p class='c008'>Shortly after we had shoved off, we
found ourselves chased by a long boat,
which the waterman knew, by the
sound of the oars, to be the guard-boat.
How we did pull! But it seemed in
vain; we found it would be impossible
to reach the landing-place, so we pulled
for the nearest point of land. The
moment the boat touched the ground,
I took the cask of sugar on my shoulder,
and expecting solid ground under the
boat’s bows, jumped ashore. Instead of
solid ground, I found myself above the
knees in mud. The guard-boat was
within a hundred yards of the shore, and
what was to be done! All that a man
has will he give for his liberty, so away
went the cask of sugar. Thus lightened,
I soon scrambled out, when the three
of us scampered off as fast as it was
possible for feet to carry us. What became
of the waterman, or his boat, or
my cask of sugar, we never knew; nor
did we think of stopping to breathe or
look round us, till we reached the town
of Peel, where by a blazing fire and
over a dish of beef-steaks, and a few
tankards of brown stout, we soon forgot
our dangers and our fears.</p>

<p class='c008'>Our residence here, as far as liberty
was concerned, was pretty nearly on a
par with prison residence. The second
mate and I lodged together, and during
daylight we never durst show our faces,
except, perhaps, between four and six in
the morning, when we sometimes took
a ramble in a neighbouring burying-ground,
to read epitaphs; and this,
from the love of the English to poetical
ones, was equivalent to the loan of a
volume of poetry. But Time’s pinions
seemed in our eyes loaded with lead,
and we were often inclined to sing with
the plaintive swain,</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Ah! no, soft and slow</div>
      <div class='line in2'>The time it winna pass,</div>
      <div class='line'>The shadow of the trysting thorn,</div>
      <div class='line in2'>Is tether’d on the grass.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c012'>And had it not been for the kindly
attentions of our landlord’s two handsome
daughters, to whose eyebrows we
indited stanzas, I know not how we
would have got the time killed.</p>

<p class='c008'>Snug as we thought ourselves, the
press-gang had by some means or other
been put on the scent, and one day
very nearly pounced on us. So cautious
had they been in their visit, that their approach
was not perceived until they were
actually in the kitchen. Fortunately
we were at this time in an upper room,
and one of the daughters rightly judging
of the purpose of their visit, flew upstairs
to warn us of our danger, and
point out a place of safety. This place
was above the ceiling, and the only
access to it was through a hole in the
wall a little way up the vent. It was
constructed as a secure place to lodge
a little brandy or geneva, that sometimes
found its way to the house, without
having been polluted with the exciseman’s
rod. It was excellently adapted
to our purpose, and the entrance to it
was speedily pointed out by our pretty
little guardian angel. Up the vent we
sprung like a brace of chimney sweeps,
and had scarcely reached our place of
concealment, when the gang rushed upstairs,
burst open the door, and began
to rummage every corner of the room.
The bed was turned out, the presses all
minutely examined, and even the vent
itself underwent a scrutiny, but no seamen
could be found.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Tell us, my young lady, whereabout
you have stowed away them there fellows,
for we knows they are in the house?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“What fellows?” said the dear little
girl, with a composure which we
thought it impossible for her to assume
so soon after her violent trepidation.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Why, them there fellows as came
ashore from one of the West Indiamen
t’other day; we knows they are here,
and are determined to have ’em.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“You have certainly been misinformed,”
said she; “you are welcome
to search the house, but be assured you
will find no such men here.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Come, come, my little fair un, that
is all in my eye and Betty Martin.
Here they are, this is certain, and we
are determined to make our quarters
good till we find them out;” and away
they went to search the other apartments
of the house.</p>

<p class='c008'>Meanwhile our charming little protectress,
alarmed at the threatened siege,
and fearing that we would be starved
into a surrender, took the opportunity,
while the gang were rummaging the
parlour and some other bedrooms, to
supply our garrison with provisions.
A basket with boiled ham, a couple of
capons, a household loaf of ample dimensions,
half-a-dozen of brown stout,
the family bottle of excellent stingo,
and a can of water, were expeditiously
handed up the vent. This supply set
our minds quite at ease, as we knew it
would enable us to stand a week’s close
siege. Our patience, however, was not
put to this trial, for the gang, after a two
hours’ vigilant search, abandoned their
pursuit in despair, and departed.</p>

<p class='c008'>We could not, of course, think of venturing
up to Bristol to look after our
wages, so we employed our landlord to
perform this duty. After a good many
vexatious delays, we succeeded in getting
our money, paid off all scores, and
began to think how we were to dispose
of ourselves. My companion Lindsay
was so deeply smitten with the charms of
one of the youthful sirens, that he found
it impossible to depart; and I had to
concert all my future projects alone,
and leave him bound in Cupid’s silken
chain.</p>

<p class='c008'>My blue jacket and fringed dimity
trousers, my check shirt and scarlet
vest, were at once discarded, and their
places supplied by articles of a more
landward appearance. I knew that it
would be impossible to travel the country
safely in seaman’s dress, so I determined
to try my fortune as a beau.
The body of Bill Bobstay incased in a
ruffled shirt, silk vest, white stockings,
breeches buttoned at the knees, and a
swallow-tailed coat, presented such a
curious spectacle, that he himself could
scarcely help laughing at it, and it
seemed to produce the same effects
on the landlord’s daughter, as she
with a witching smile chucked up my
chin, until she arranged the bights and
ends of my white neckcloth, according
to the most approved form. She took
as long to perform this little office as I
could have rigged <em>in toto</em>, and seamen are
never backward in acts of courtesy,
when the ladies are concerned. Her
ruby lips were all the while within
marlingspike’s length of my own, and
how could I avoid saluting them?</p>

<p class='c008'>Thus equipped, I set out on foot for
Bath, but as I had no business to perform
in that city of invalided nabobs, I
immediately took coach for London, and
after travelling all night, I, on awaking
from a short nap, found myself rattling
over the stones at Hyde Park corner.</p>

<p class='c008'>My object was to procure a passage
to the northward, in one of the Leith or
Berwick smacks, and I expected in
eight or ten days, after an absence of as
many years, to set foot once more on my
native soil. As soon therefore as the
coach stopped in Piccadilly, I alighted,
and knowing the bearing by compass of
London Bridge, I, without waiting to
breakfast, winded my way through the
Haymarket, past Charing Cross, along
the Strand, Fleet Street, and Ludgate
Hill, till I arrived at St Paul’s. From
this point I took a fresh departure, and
holding as nearly as cross streets would
admit, a south-easterly course, gained
Thames Street, and soon found myself
in the vicinity of the Tower.</p>

<p class='c008'>Smartly as I had moved my body
along, my imagination, as is usual with
me, had got a long way a-head. It
had obtained a passage, secured a fair
wind, landed me on the pier of Leith,
and was arranging my introductory
visit to my friends, so as to produce the
greatest sum of agreeable surprise. But
there is much, says the old proverb, between
the cup and the lip. In the
midst of this agreeable reverie, as I was
crossing Tower Hill, I found myself
tapped on the shoulder, and on looking
round, was accosted by a man in seaman’s
dress in the words, “What ship?”
I assumed an air of gravity and surprise,
and told him I apprehended he
was under some mistake, as my business
did not lie among shipping. But the fellow
was too well acquainted with his
business to be thus easily put off. He
gave a whistle, the sound of which still
vibrates in my ear, and in a moment
I was surrounded by half-a-dozen
ruffians, whom I immediately suspected,
and soon found out to be the press-gang.
They dragged me hurriedly through
several lanes and alleys, amid the
mingled sympathy and execrations of a
numerous crowd, which had collected
to witness my fate, and soon landed me
in the rendezvous. I was immediately
ushered into the presence of the lieutenant
of the gang, who questioned me
as to my name, country, profession, and
what business had led me to Tower Hill.
Totally unexpecting any such interruption,
I had not thought of concocting
any plausible story, and my answers
were evasive and contradictory. I did
not acknowledge having been at sea; but
my hands were examined, found hard
with work, and discoloured with tar.
This circumstance condemned me, and
I was remanded for further examination.</p>

<p class='c008'>Some of the gang then offered me
spirits, affected to pity me, and pretended
to comfort me under my misfortune,
but like the comforters of Job,
miserable comforters were they all.
The very scoundrel who first seized me
put on a sympathising look, and observed
what a pity it was to be disappointed
when so near the object of my
wishes. Such sympathy from such a
source was truly provoking; but having
no way of showing my resentment, I
was constrained to smother it.</p>

<p class='c008'>In a short time I was reconducted into
the presence of the lieutenant, who
told me, as I was already in his hands,
and would assuredly be kept, I
might as well make a frank confession
of my circumstances. It would save
time, and insure me better treatment.
What could I do? I might indeed have
continued silent and sullen, but of what
service could this prove? It might, or
might not, have procured me worse treatment,
but one thing I knew well, it
would not restore me to liberty. I
therefore acknowledged that I had been
a voyage to the West Indies, and had
come home carpenter of a ship. His
eye brightened at this intelligence.</p>

<p class='c008'>“I am glad of this, my lad. We are
very much in want of carpenters. Step
along with these lads, and they will give
you a passage aboard.”</p>

<p class='c008'>The same fellows who had first
seized me led me along the way we
came, handed me into a pinnace lying
at Tower Wharf, and before mid-day I
was safely handed on board the Enterprize.</p>

<p class='c008'>What crosses and vexations, and
reverses and disappointments, are we
mortals destined to meet with in life’s
tempestuous voyage! At eight in the
morning I entered London a free agent,
elated with joy, and buoyed up with
hope. At noon I entered a prison ship,
a miserable slave, oppressed with sorrow,
and ready to despair.</p>

<p class='c008'>Despair, did I say? No. I will have
nothing to do with that disturber of
human peace. When misfortune befalls
us, we are not to sit down in despondency
and sigh. Up and be doing, is the
wise man’s maxim, and it was the maxim
I was resolved to observe. What befell
me on my arrival on board the Enterprize,
what reception I met with, and
what mirth I excited as I was lowered
into the press-room, with my short
breeches and swallow-tailed coat—what
measures I exerted to regain my liberty,
and what success attended these measures—the
space at my disposal prevents me
setting forth.—<cite>Paisley Magazine.</cite></p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='the_laird_of_cools_ghost' class='c006'>THE LAIRD OF COOL’S GHOST.</h2>
</div>

<p class='c007'>Upon the 3d day of February 1722
at seven o’clock in the evening, after
I had parted with Thurston, and coming
up the burial road, one came up
riding after me. Upon hearing the noise
of the horse’s feet, I took it to be
Thurston; but looking back, and seeing
the horse of a gray colour, I called,
“Who’s there?” The answer was, “The
Laird of Cool; be not afraid.” Looking
to him with the little light the moon
afforded, I took him to be Collector Castlelaw,
who had a mind to put a trick upon
me, and immediately I struck with all
my force with my cane, thinking I would
leave a mark upon him that would make
him remember his presumption; but
although sensible I aimed as well as ever
I did in my life, yet my cane finding no
resistance, but flying out of my hand to
the distance of sixty feet, and observing
it by its white head, I dismounted and
took it up, but had some difficulty in
mounting again, partly by reason of a
certain sort of trembling throughout my
whole joints, something also of anger
had its share in my confusion; for though
he laughed when my staff flew out of my
hand, coming up with him again (who
halted all the time I was seeking my
staff), I asked him once more who he
was? He answered, “The Laird of Cool.”
I inquired, first, if he was the Laird of
Cool; secondly, what brought him
thither? and thirdly, what was his
business with me? He answered, “The
reason that I want you is, that I know
you are disposed to do for me what
none of your brethren in Nithsdale will
so much as attempt, though it serve
never so good a purpose.” I told him I
would never refuse to do anything to
serve a good purpose, if I thought I
was obliged to do it as my duty. He
answered, that I had undertaken what
few in Nithsdale would, for he had
tried several persons on that subject,
who were more obliged to him than I
was to any person living. Upon
this I drew my bridle reins, and asked
in surprise, what I had undertaken? He
answered, “That on Sabbath last, I heard
you condemned Mr Paton, and the other
ministers of Dumfries, for dissuading
Mr Menzies from keeping his appointment
with me; and if you had been in
their place, would have persuaded the
lad to do as I desired, and that you
would have gone with him yourself, if he
had been afraid; and if you had been in
Mr Paton’s place, you would have delivered
my commissions yourself, as they
tended to do several persons justice.” I
asked him, “Pray, Cool, who informed
you that I talked at that rate?” to which
he answered, “You must know that we
are acquainted with many things that
the living know nothing about; these
things you did say, and much more to
that purpose, and deliver my commissions
to my loving wife.” Upon this I
said, “’Tis a pity, Cool, that you who
know so many things should not know
the difference between an absolute and
conditional promise; I did, indeed, at
the time you mention, blame Mr Paton,
for I thought him justly blamable, in
hindering the lad to meet with you, and
if I had been in his place, I would have
acted quite the reverse; but I did never
say, that if you would come to Innerwick
and employ me, that I would go all the
way to Dumfries on such an errand; that
is what never so much as entered into
my thoughts.” He answered, “What
were your thoughts I don’t pretend to
know, but I can depend on my information
these were your words. But I
see you are in some disorder; I will wait
upon you when you have more presence
of mind.”</p>

<p class='c008'>By this time we were at James
Dickson’s enclosure, below the churchyard;
and when I was recollecting in
my mind, if ever I had spoken these
words he alleged, he broke off from me
through the churchyard, with greater
violence than any man on horseback is
capable of, with such a singing and
buzzing noise, as put me in greater disorder
than I was in all the time I was
with him. I came to my house, and my
wife observed more than ordinary paleness
in my countenance, and alleged
that something ailed me. I called for a
dram, and told her I was a little uneasy.
After I found myself a little refreshed,
I went to my closet to meditate on this
most astonishing adventure.</p>

<p class='c008'>Upon the 5th of March 1722, being
at Harehead, baptizing the shepherd’s
child, I came off about sunsetting, and
near William White’s march, the Laird of
Cool came up with me as formerly; and
after his first salutation bade me not be
afraid. I told him I was not in the least
afraid, in the name of God and Christ
my Saviour, that he would do me the
least harm; for I knew that He in whom
I trusted was stronger than all they put
together; and if any of them should attempt
to do, even to the horse that I
ride upon, as you have done to Doctor
Menzies’ man, I have free access to
complain to my Lord and Master, to
the lash to whose resentment you are
as liable now as before.</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Cool.</em> You need not multiply words
on that head, for you are safe with me;
and safer, if safer can be, than when I
was alive.</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Ogil.</em> Well then, Cool, let me have a
peaceable and easy conversation with
you for the time we ride together, and
give me some information concerning
the affairs of the other world, for no man
inclines to lose his time in conversing
with the dead, without hearing or learning
something useful.</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Cool.</em> Well, sir, I will satisfy you as
far as I think proper and convenient.
Let me know what information you
want.</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Ogil.</em> May I then ask you, if you be
in a state of happiness or not?</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Cool.</em> There are a great many things
I can answer that the living are ignorant
of; there are a great many things
that, notwithstanding the additional
knowledge I have acquired since my
death, I cannot answer; and there are
a great many questions you may start,
of which the last is one that I will not
answer.</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Ogil.</em> Then I know how to manage
our conversation; whatever I inquire
of you, I see you can easily shift me; to
that I might profit more by conversing
with myself.</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Cool.</em> You may try.</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Ogil.</em> Well, then, what sort of a body
is that you appear in; and what sort of
a horse is that you ride upon, which
appears to be so full of mettle?</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Cool.</em> You may depend upon it, it is
not the same body that I was witness to
your marriage in, nor in which I died,
for that is in the grave rotting; but it is
such a body as serves me in a moment,
for I can fly as fleet with it as my soul
can do without it; so that I can go to
Dumfries, and return again, before you
can ride twice the length of your horse;
nay, if I have a mind to go to London, or
Jerusalem, or to the moon, if you please,
I can perform all these journeys equally
soon, for it costs me nothing but a
thought or wish: for this body is as
fleet as your thought, for in the moment
of time you can turn your thoughts on
Rome, I can go there in person; and
as for my horse, he is much like myself,
for he is Andrew Johnston, my tenant,
who died forty-eight hours before me.</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Ogil.</em> So it seems when Andrew
Johnston inclines to ride, you must
serve him in the quality of a horse, as
he does you now.</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Cool.</em> You are mistaken.</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Ogil.</em> I thought that all distinctions
between mistresses and maids, lairds
and tenants, had been done away at
death.</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Cool.</em> True it is, but you do not take
up the matter.</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Ogil.</em> This is one of the questions you
won’t answer.</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Cool.</em> You are mistaken, for the question
I can answer, and after you may
understand it.</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Ogil.</em> Well then, Cool, have you never
yet appeared before God, nor received
any sentence from Him as a Judge?</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Cool.</em> Never yet.</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Ogil.</em> I know you was a scholar, Cool,
and ’tis generally believed there is a
private judgment, besides the general at
the great day, the former immediately
after death. Upon this he interrupted
me, arguing.</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Cool.</em> No such thing, no such thing!
No trial; no trial till the great day!
The heaven which good men enjoy after
death consists only in the serenity of
their minds, and the satisfaction of a
good conscience; and the certain hopes
they have of eternal joy, when that day
shall come. The punishment or hell of
the wicked, immediately after death,
consists in the stings of an awakened
conscience, and the terrors of facing the
great Judge, and the sensible apprehensions
of eternal torments ensuing!
And this bears still a due proportion to
the evils they did when living. So indeed
the state of some good folks differ
but little in happiness from what they
enjoyed in the world, save only that they
are free from the body, and the sins and
sorrows that attended it. On the other
hand, there are some who may be said
rather not to have been good, than that
they are wicked; while living, their
state is not easily distinguished from that
of the former; and under that class
comes a great herd of souls—a vast
number of ignorant people, who have
not much minded the affairs of eternity,
but at the same time have lived in much
indolence, ignorance, and innocence.</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Ogil.</em> I thought that their rejecting
the terms of salvation offered was
sufficient ground for God to punish them
with eternal displeasure; and as to their
ignorance, that could never excuse them,
since they live in a place of the world
where the true knowledge of these things
might have been easily attained.</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Cool.</em> They never properly rejected
the terms of salvation; they never,
strictly speaking, rejected Christ; poor
souls, they had as great a liking both to
Him and heaven, as their gross imaginations
were capable of. Impartial reason
must make many allowances, as the
stupidity of their parents, want of
education, distance from people of good
sense and knowledge, and the uninterrupted
applications they were obliged to
give to their secular affairs for their daily
bread, the impious treachery of their
pastors, who persuaded them, that if
they were of such a party all was well;
and many other considerations which
God, who is pure and perfect reason itself,
will not overlook. These are not so
much under the load of Divine displeasure,
as they are out of His grace
and favour; and you know it is one
thing to be discouraged, and quite
another thing to be persecuted with all
the power and rage of an incensed
earthly king. I assure you, men’s faces
are not more various and different in
the world, than their circumstances are
after death.</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Ogil.</em> I am loath to believe all that
you have said at this time, Cool (but I
will not dispute those matters with you),
because some things you have advanced
seem to contradict the Scriptures, which
I shall always look upon as the infallible
truth of God. For I find, in the parable
of Dives and Lazarus, that the one
was immediately after death carried up
by the angels into Abraham’s bosom, and
the other immediately thrust down to hell.</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Cool.</em> Excuse me, sir, that does not
contradict one word that I have said;
but you seem not to understand the
parable, whose only end is to illustrate
the truth, that a man may be very happy
and flourishing in this world, and
wretched and miserable in the next; and
that a man maybe miserable in this world,
and happy and glorious in the next.</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Ogil.</em> Be it so, Cool, I shall yield
that point to you, and pass to another,
which has afforded me much speculation
since our last encounter; and that is,
How you came to know that I talked
after the manner that I did concerning
Mr Paton, on the first Sabbath of
February last? Was you present with
me, but invisible? He answered very
haughtily, No, sir, I was not present
myself. I answered, I would not have
you angry, Cool. I proposed this question
for my own satisfaction; but if you
don’t think proper to answer, let it pass.
After he had paused, with his eyes on
the ground, for three or four minutes of
time at most, with some haste and seeming
cheerfulness, he says—</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Cool.</em> Well, sir, I will satisfy you in
that point. You must know that there
are sent from heaven angels to guard
and comfort, and to do other good services
to good people, and even the
spirits of good men departed are employed
in that errand.</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Ogil.</em> And do you not think that every
man has a good angel?</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Cool.</em> No, but a great many particular
men have: there are but few houses of
distinction especially, but what have at
least one attending them; and from
what you have already heard of spirits,
it is no difficult matter to understand
how they may be serviceable to each
particular member, though at different
places at a great distance. Many
are the good offices which the good
angels do to them that fear God, though
many times they are not sensible of it:
and I know assuredly, that one powerful
angel, or even an active clever soul
departed, may be sufficient for some
villages; but for your great cities, such
as London, Edinburgh, or the like, there
is one great angel that has the superintendence
of the whole; and there are
inferior angels, or souls departed, to
whose particular care such a man, of such
a particular weight or business, is
committed. Now, sir, the kingdom of
Satan does ape the kingdom of Christ
as much in matters of politics as can
be, well knowing that the court of
wisdom is from above; so that from
thence are sent out missionaries in the
same order. But because the kingdom
of Satan is much better replenished than
the other, instead of one devil there are
in many instances two or three commissioned
to attend a particular family
of influence and distinction.</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Ogil.</em> I read that there are ten thousand
times ten thousand of angels that
wait upon God, and sing His praise and
do His will; and I cannot understand
how the good angels can be inferior in
number to the evil.</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Cool.</em> Did not I say, that whatever the
number be, the spirits departed are employed
in the same business; so that as
to the number of original deities, whereof
Satan is chief, I cannot determine,
but you need not doubt but there are
more souls departed in that place, which
in a loose sense you call hell, by almost
an infinity, than what are gone to that
place, which, in a like sense, you call
heaven, which likewise are employed
in the same purpose; and I can assure
you that there is as great a difference
between angels, both good and bad, as
there is among men, with respect to
their sense, knowledge, cunning, cleverness,
and action; nay, which is more,
the departed souls on both sides outdo
severals, from their very first departure,
of the original angels. This you will
perhaps think a paradox, but is true.</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Ogil.</em> I do not doubt it; but what is
that to my question, about which I am
solicitous?</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Cool.</em> Take a little patience, sir; from
what I have said you might have understood
me, if you had your thoughts
about you; but I shall explain myself
to you. Both the good and the bad
angels have stated times of rendezvous,
and the principal angels, who have the
charge either of towns, cities, or kingdoms,
not to mention particular persons,
villages, and families, and all that is
transacted in these several parts of the
country, are there made open; and at
their re-encounter on each side, every
thing is told, as in your parish, in milns,
kilns, and smithies, with this difference,
that many things false are talked at the
living re-encounters, but nothing but
what is exact truth is said or told among
the dead; only I must observe to you,
that, as I am credibly informed, several
of the inferior bad angels, and souls of
wicked men departed, have told many
things that they have done, and then
when a more intelligent spirit is sent out
upon inquiry, and the report of the
former seeming doubtful, he brings in a
contrary report, and makes it appear
truth, the former fares very ill: nevertheless
their regard to truth prevents
it; for while they observe the truth,
they do their business and keep their
station, for God is truth.</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Ogil.</em> So much truth being among the
good angels, I am apt to think that lies
and falsehood will be as much in vogue
among the bad.</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Cool.</em> A gross mistake, and it is not
alone the mistake which the living folks
fall under with respect to the other
world; for the case plainly is this: an
ill man will not stick at a falsehood to
promote his design; as little will an
evil soul departed stop at anything
that can make himself successful; but
in admitting report he must tell the
truth, or woe be to him. But besides
their monthly, quarterly, or yearly meetings,
or whatever they be, departed
souls acquainted may take a trip to see
one another yearly, weekly, daily, or
oftener, if they please. Thus, then, I
answer your question that you was so
much concerned about; for my information
was from no less than three
persons, viz., Aikman, who attends
Thurston’s family; James Corbet, who
waits upon Mr Paton; for at that time
he was then looking after Mrs Sarah
Paton, who was at your house, and an
original emissary appointed to wait upon
yours.</p>

<p class='c008'>At this I was much surprised, and
after a little thinking, I asked him, And
is their really, Cool, an emissary from
hell, in whatever sense you take it, that
attends my family?</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Cool.</em> You may depend upon it.</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Ogil.</em> And what do you think is his
business?</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Cool.</em> To divert you from your duty,
and cause you to do as many ill things
as he can; for much depends on having
the minister on their side.</p>

<p class='c008'>Upon this I was struck with a sort of
terror, which I cannot account for. In
the meantime he said several things I
did not understand. But after coming
to my former presence of mind,
said—</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Ogil.</em> But, Cool, tell me, in earnest, if
there be a devil that attends my family,
though invisible.</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Cool.</em> Just as sure as you are breathing;
but be not so much dejected upon
this information, for I tell you likewise
that there is a good angel who attends
you, who is stronger than the other.</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Ogil.</em> Are you sure of that, Cool?</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Cool.</em> Yes; there is one riding on
your right hand, who might as well
have been elsewhere, for I meant you
no harm.</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Ogil.</em> And how long has he been with
me?</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Cool.</em> Only since we passed Brand’s
Lee, but now he is gone.</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Ogil.</em> We are just upon Elenscleugh,
and I desire to part with you, though
perhaps I have gained more by conversation
than I could have otherwise
done in a twelvemonth. I choose rather
to see you another time, when you’re at
leisure, and I wish it were at as great a
distance from Innerwick as you can.</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Cool.</em> Be it so, sir; but I hope you
will be as obliging to me next re-encounter,
as I have been to you this.</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Ogil.</em> I promise you I will, as far as
is consistent with my duty to my Lord
and Master Christ Jesus; and since you
have obliged me so much by information,
I will answer all the questions
you propose, as far as consists with my
knowledge; but I believe you want no
information from me.</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Cool.</em> I came not here to be instructed
by you, but I want your help of another
kind.</p>

<p class='c008'>Upon the 5th of April 1722, as I was
returning from Old Hamstocks, Cool
came up with me on horseback at the
foot of the ruinous enclosure, before we
came to Dod. I told him his last conversation
had proved so acceptable to
me, that I was well pleased to see him
again; that there was a number of
things that I wanted to inform myself
further of, if he would be so good as
satisfy me.</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Cool.</em> Last time we met, I refused you
nothing you asked; and now I expect
that you shall refuse me nothing that I
shall ask.</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Ogil.</em> Nothing, sir, that is in my
power, or that I can do with safety to
my reputation and character. What,
then, are your demands?</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Cool.</em> All that I desire of you is, that
as you promised that on a Sabbath-day
you would go to my wife, who now
possesses all my effects, and tell her the
following particulars—tell her in my
name to rectify these matters:—First,
That I was owing justly to Provost
Crosby £50 Scots, and three years’
interest, but on hearing of his death,
my good-brother the Laird of C—l and
I forged a discharge, narrated the bond,
the sum, and other particulars, with
this honourable clause, “And at the
time it had fallen by, and could not be
found;” with an obligation on the
provost’s part to deliver up this bond as
soon as he could hit upon it. And this
discharge was dated three months before
the provost’s death. And when his son
and successor, Andrew Crosby, wrote to
me concerning this bond, I came to him
and showed him the forged discharge,
which silenced him; so that I got up
my bond without more ado. And when
I heard of Robert Kennedy’s death,
with the same help of C—l, I got a bill
upon him for £190, of which I got full
and complete payment. C—l got the
half. When I was at Dumfries, the
same day that Robert Grier died, to
whom I was owing an account of £36,
C—l, my good-brother, was then at
London; and not being able of myself,
being but a bad writer, to make out
a discharge of the account, which I
wanted, I met accidently with one
Robert Boyd, a poor writer lad in
Dumfries; I took him to Mrs Carnock’s,
and gave him a bottle of wine, and told
him I had paid Thomas Grier’s account,
but had neglected to get a discharge,
and if he would help me to one I would
reward him. He flew away from me in a
great passion, saying, he would rather be
hanged; but if I had a mind for these
things, I had better wait till C—l came
home. This gave me great trouble, fearing
what C—l and I had done formerly
was no secret. I followed Boyd to the
street, and made an apology, saying, I
was jesting, commending him for his
honesty, and got his promise never to
repeat what had passed. I sent for my
Cousin B—m H—rie, your good-brother,
who, with no difficulty, for a guinea and
a half, undertook and performed all that
I wanted; and for a guinea more made
me up a discharge for £200 Scots that
I was owing to your father-in-law and
his friend Mr Muirhead, which discharge
I gave to John Ewart, when he desired
the money; and he, at my desire, produced
it to you, which you sustained.</p>

<p class='c008'>A great many of the like instances
were told, of which I cannot remember
the persons, names, and things; but,
says he, what vexes me more than all
these, is the injustice I did Homer
Maxwell, tenant to my Lord Nithsdale,
for whom I was factor. I borrowed
£2000 from him, £500 of which he
borrowed from another hand: I gave
him my bond, and, for reasons I contrived,
I obliged him to secrecy. He
died within the year, and left nine
children, his wife being dead before
himself. I came to seal up his papers
for my lord’s security; his eldest
daughter entreated me to look through
them all, and to give her an account
of what was their stock and what was
their debt. I very willingly undertook
it; and in going through the papers, I
put my own bond in my pocket. His
circumstances proving bad, his nine
children are now starving. These things
I desire you to represent to my wife,
and take her brother with you, and let
them be immediately rectified, for she
has a sufficient fund to do it upon;
and if it were done, I think I would
be easy, and therefore I hope you will
make no delay.</p>

<p class='c008'>After a short pause, I answered, ’Tis a
good errand, Cool, you are sending me
to do justice to the oppressed and injured;
but notwithstanding I see myself
come in for £200 Scots, yet I beg a
little time to consider the matter. And
since I find you are as much master of
reason now as ever, and more than ever,
I will reason upon the matter in its
general view, and then with respect to
the expediency of my being the messenger;
and this I will do with all
manner of frankness. From what you
have said, I see clearly what your present
condition is, so that I need not ask
any more questions on that head; and
you need not bid me take courage, for
at this moment I am no more afraid of
you than a new-born child.</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Cool.</em> Well, say on.</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Ogil.</em> Tell me, then, since such is your
ability that you can fly a thousand miles
in the twinkling of an eye, if your desire
to do the oppressed justice be as great
as you pretend, what’s the reason you
don’t fly to the coffers of some rich Jew
or banker, where are thousands of gold
and silver, invisibly lift, and invisibly
return it to the coffers of the injured?
And since your wife has sufficient funds,
and more, why cannot you empty her
purse invisibly, to make these people
amends?</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Cool.</em> Because I cannot.</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Ogil.</em> You have satisfied me entirely
upon that head. But pray, Cool, what
is the reason that you cannot go to your
wife yourself, and tell her what you
have a mind? I should think this a
more sure way to gain your point.</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Cool.</em> Because I will not.</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Ogil.</em> That is not an answer to me,
Cool.</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Cool.</em> That is one of the questions that
I told you long ago I would not answer:
but if you go as I desire, I promise to
give you full satisfaction after you have
done your business. Trust me for once,
and believe me I will not disappoint you.</p>

<p class='c008'>Upon the 10th of April 1722,
coming from Old Cambus, upon the
post-road, I met with Cool on the head
of the heath called the Pees. He
asked me, if I had considered the
matter he had recommended? I told
him I had, and was in the same opinion
I was in when we parted; that I would
not possibly undertake his commissions,
unless he could give me them in writing
under his hand. I told him that
the list of his grievances were so great
that I could not possibly remember
them without being put in writing; and
that I wanted nothing but reason to
determine me in that, and all other
affairs of my life.</p>

<p class='c008'>“I know,” says he, “this is a
mere evasion: but tell me if the
Laird of Thurston will do it?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“I am sure,” said I, “he will not; and if
he should, I would do all that I could to
hinder him; for I think he has as little
to do in these matters as myself. But
tell me, Cool, is it not as easy to write
your story as tell it, or ride on what-do-ye-call-him?
for I have forgot your
horse’s name.”</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Cool.</em> No, sir, it is not; and perhaps
I may convince you of the reasonableness
of it afterwards.</p>

<p class='c008'><em>Ogil.</em> I would be glad to hear a
reason that is solid for not speaking to
your wife yourself; but, however, any
rational creature may see what a fool I
would make of myself, if I would go to
Dumfries, and tell your wife you had
appeared to me, and told so many
forgeries and villanies that you had
committed, and that she behoved to
make reparation; the consequence
might perhaps be, that she would
scold me; for she would be loath to
part with any money she possesses, and
therefore tell me I was mad, or possibly
pursue me for calumny. How would I
vindicate myself; how could I prove that
you ever spoke with me? Mr Paton
and other ministers in Dumfries would
tell me the devil had spoken with me;
and why should I repeat these things
for truth which he, that was a liar
from the beginning, had told me?
C—p—l and B—r— H—rie would be
upon me, and pursue me before the
commissary; everybody would look
upon me as brain-sick or mad: therefore,
I entreat you, do not insist upon
sending me so ridiculous an errand.
The reasonableness of my demands I
leave to your own consideration, as you
did your former to mine. But dropping
the matter till our next interview, give
me leave to enter upon some more
diverting subject. I do not know, Cool,
but the information you have given
may do as much service to mankind,
as the redress of all these grievances
I would amount to. Mr Ogilvie died very
soon after.—<cite>Old Chap Book.</cite></p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='allan-a-sop' class='c006'>ALLAN-A-SOP.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By Sir Walter Scott.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>The MacLeans, a bold and hardy
race, who, originally followers of the
Lords of the Isles, had assumed independence,
seized upon great part both
of the Isle of Mull and the still more
valuable island of Islay, and made war
on the MacDonalds with various success.
There is a story belonging to this clan,
which I may tell you, as giving another
striking picture of the manners of the
Hebrideans.</p>

<p class='c008'>The chief of the clan, MacLean of
Duart, in the Isle of Mull, had an
intrigue with a beautiful young woman of
his own clan, who bore a son to him.
In consequence of the child’s being, by
some accident, born on a heap of straw,
he received the name of Allan-a-Sop, or
Allan of the Straw, by which he was
distinguished from others of his clan.
As his father and mother were not
married, Allan was, of course, a bastard,
or natural son, and had no inheritance
to look for, save that which he might
win for himself.</p>

<p class='c008'>But the beauty of the boy’s mother
having captivated a man of rank in the
clan, called MacLean of Torloisk, he
married her, and took her to reside with
him at his castle of Torloisk, situated
on the shores of the sound, or small
strait of the sea, which divides the
smaller island of Ulva from that of
Mull. Allan-a-Sop paid his mother
frequent visits at her new residence,
and she was naturally glad to see the
poor boy, both from affection, and on
account of his personal strength and
beauty, which distinguished him above
other youths of his age. But she was
obliged to confer marks of her attachment
on him as privately as she could,
for Allan’s visits were by no means so
acceptable to her husband as to herself.
Indeed, Torloisk liked so little to see
the lad, that he determined to put some
affront on him, which should prevent
his returning to the castle for some
time. An opportunity for executing his
purpose soon occurred.</p>

<p class='c008'>The lady one morning, looking from
the window, saw her son coming wandering
down the hill, and hastened to put
a girdle cake upon the fire, that he
might have hot bread for breakfast.
Something called her out of the apartment
after making this preparation, and
her husband, entering at the same time,
saw at once what she had been about,
and determined to give the boy such a
reception as should disgust him for the
future. He snatched the cake from the
girdle, thrust it into his stepson’s hands,
which he forcibly closed on the scalding
bread, saying, “Here, Allan, here is a
cake which your mother has got ready
for your breakfast.” Allan’s hands
were severely burnt; and, being a
sharp-witted and proud boy, he resented
this mark of his step-father’s ill-will,
and came not again to Torloisk.</p>

<p class='c008'>At this time the western seas were
covered with the vessels of pirates, who,
not unlike the sea-kings of Denmark at
an early period, sometimes settled and
made conquests on the islands. Allan-a-Sop
was young, strong, and brave to
desperation. He entered as a mariner
on board of one of these ships, and in
process of time obtained the command,
first of one galley, then of a small flotilla,
with which he sailed round the seas and
collected considerable plunder, until his
name became both feared and famous.
At length he proposed to himself to pay
a visit to his mother, whom he had not
seen for many years; and setting sail
for this purpose, he anchored one morning
in the sound of Ulva, and in front
of the house of Torloisk. His mother
was dead, but his step-father, to whom
he was now as much an object of fear
as he had been formerly of aversion,
hastened to the shore to receive his formidable
stepson, with great affectation
of kindness and interest in his prosperity;
while Allan-a-Sop, who, though
very rough and hasty, does not appear
to have been sullen or vindictive, seemed
to take his kind reception in good part.</p>

<p class='c008'>The crafty old man succeeded so well,
as he thought, in securing Allan’s
friendship, and obliterating all recollections
of the former affront put on him,
that he began to think it possible to
employ his stepson in executing his
own private revenge upon MacQuarrie
of Ulva, with whom, as was usual between
such neighbours, he had some
feud. With this purpose, he offered
what he called the following good
advice to his stepson:—“My dear Allan,
you have now wandered over the seas
long enough: it is time you should have
some footing upon land—a castle to
protect yourself in winter, a village
and cattle for your men, and a harbour
to lay up your galleys. Now, here
is the island of Ulva, near at hand,
which lies ready for your occupation,
and it will cost you no trouble, save that
of putting to death the present proprietor,
the Laird of MacQuarrie, a
useless old carle, who has cumbered the
world long enough.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Allan-a-Sop thanked his step-father
for so happy a suggestion, which he
declared he would put in execution
forthwith. Accordingly, setting sail the
next morning, he appeared before
MacQuarrie’s house an hour before
noon. The old chief of Ulva was much
alarmed at the menacing apparition of
so many galleys, and his anxiety was
not lessened by the news that they were
commanded by the redoubted Allan-a-Sop.
Having no effectual means of
resistance, MacQuarrie, who was a
man of shrewd sense, saw no alternative
save that of receiving the invaders,
whatever might be their purpose, with
all outward demonstrations of joy and
satisfaction; the more especially as he
recollected having taken some occasional
notice of Allan during his early youth,
which he now resolved to make the
most of. Accordingly, MacQuarrie
caused immediate preparations to be
made for a banquet, as splendid as circumstances
admitted, hastened down to
the shore to meet the rover, and welcomed
him to Ulva with such an appearance
of sincerity, that the pirate
found it impossible to pick any quarrel,
which might afford a pretence for
executing the violent purpose which he
had been led to meditate.</p>

<p class='c008'>They feasted together the whole day;
and, in the evening, as Allan-a-Sop was
about to retire to his ships, he thanked
the laird for his hospitality, but remarked,
with a sigh, that it had cost him very
dear.</p>

<p class='c008'>“How can that be,” said MacQuarrie,
“when I bestowed this entertainment
upon you in free goodwill?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“It is true, my friend,” replied the
pirate, “but then it has quite disconcerted
the purpose for which I came
hither; which was to put you to death,
my good friend, and seize upon your
house and island, and so settle myself in
the world. It would have been very
convenient for me, this island of Ulva;
but your friendly reception has rendered
it impossible for me to execute my
purpose, so that I must be a wanderer
on the seas for some time longer.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Whatever MacQuarrie felt at learning
he had been so near to destruction, he
took care to show no emotion save
surprise, and replied to his visitor:
“My dear Allan, who was it that put
into your mind so unkind a purpose
towards your old friend; for I am sure
it never arose from your own generous
nature? It must have been old
Torloisk, who made such an indifferent
husband to your mother, and such an
unfriendly step-father to you when you
were a helpless boy; but now, when he
sees you a bold and powerful leader, he
desires to make a quarrel betwixt you
and those who were the friends of your
youth. If you consider this matter
rightly, Allan, you will see that the
estate and harbour of Torloisk lie to the
full as conveniently for you as those of
Ulva, and that, if you are disposed (as
is very natural) to make a settlement by
force, it is much better it should be
at the expense of the old churl, who
never showed you kindness or countenance,
than at that of a friend like me,
who always loved and honoured you.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Allan-a-Sop was struck with the
justice of this reasoning; and the old
offence of his scalded fingers was suddenly
recalled to his mind. “It is
very true what you say, MacQuarrie,”
he replied, “and, besides, I have not
forgotten what a hot breakfast my step-father
treated me to one morning.
Farewell for the present; you shall
soon hear news of me from the other
side of the Sound.” Having said thus
much, the pirate got on board, and
commanding his men to unmoor the
galleys, sailed back to Torloisk, and
prepared to land in arms. MacLean
hastened to meet him, in expectation to
hear of the death of his enemy, MacQuarrie.
But Allan greeted him in a
very different manner from what he
expected.</p>

<p class='c008'>“You hoary old traitor,” he said,
“you instigated my simple good-nature
to murder a better man than
yourself! But have you forgotten how
you scorched my fingers twenty years
ago with a burning cake? The day is
come that that breakfast must be paid
for.”</p>

<p class='c008'>So saying, he dashed out the old
man’s brains with a battle-axe, took
possession of his castle and property,
and established there a distinguished
branch of the clan of MacLean.—<cite>From
Tales of a Grandfather.</cite></p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='john_hetheringtons_dream' class='c006'>JOHN HETHERINGTON’S DREAM.</h2>
</div>

<p class='c007'>In a certain small town in the south
of Scotland, there lived, about three
years ago, a very respectable tailor, of
the name of John Hetherington—that
is to say, John wore well with the
world; but, like too many of his craft,
he was sorely addicted to cabbaging.
Not a coat could he make, not a pair
of trousers could he cut out, not a
waistcoat could he stitch up, but he
must have a patch of this, that, and
t’other, were it for no other purpose
but just to serve as a bit of a memorial.
One very warm evening towards the
end of August 1826, John had gone to
bed rather earlier than usual, but not
without having laid in a very good
share of a very tasty Welsh rabbit;
which said rabbit, being composed of
about a pound of tough cheese, of
course furnished the poor tailor, after he
had fairly tumbled over into the land
of Nod, with something of a very
curious Welsh-rabbit vision. It suddenly
struck him that this life, with all
its cares and anxieties, was over with
him; that the finishing stitch had been
put to the great work of life, and the
thread of his existence cut through.
In the other world, to his misfortune,
he found things not moving so comfortably
as he would have wished; and the
old gentleman with the short horns and
the long tail, rigged out in his best suit
of black, was the first friend he forgathered
with after passing the border.</p>

<p class='c008'>“There’s a fine morning,” said the
wily old dog; “how do you find yourself
after long travel?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“No that weel,” stammered out the
half-dead son of a goose; “no that
weel; and I dinna think, all things
considered, it would benefit me much
to be found in such company, no offence
to your reverence,” as he saw his new
friend’s choler rise; “no offence to your
reverence, I trust; but if I may be so
bold, I would thank you to tell me the
reason of my being here; and, above
all, who’s to be thankit for the honour
of an introduction to your reverence?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“That you will know shortly, friend;
nay, John Hetherington, for you see I
know you;” and taking a large parcel
from below his left arm, he commenced
to unroll it, and to the astonishment of
poor John, unfolded a long sheet of
patchwork, in which were found scraps
of every hue, a web of many colours, all
neatly stitched together; and in the
middle, by way of a set off, a large bit
of most excellent blue cloth, which had
been cabbaged that very morning from
a prime piece which he had got into his
hands for the purpose of making a
marriage coat for his neighbour the
blacksmith.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Was all this stuff got fairly and
honestly, good man?” said the old
gentleman, with a sneer quite worthy
of Beelzebub. “I suppose you will be
able to recognise some of these old bits.
What think you now of that piece in the
middle which your eyes are fixed on—cabbaged
no farther back than this morning?
Come along, my old boy, come
along; you are a true son of your old
father, I see, and I will furnish you
with as warm winter quarters as you
ever enjoyed when you was half-stewed
with your old maiden aunt, at the top
of fifteen pair of stairs in the High
Street of Edinburgh, when serving your
apprenticeship with Dick Mouleypouches.”</p>

<p class='c008'>A cold sweat broke over the poor tailor,
and he felt as if he could have sunk snugly
into the earth, if it had only had
the goodness to open at that moment
for his especial accommodation, when he
saw the long bony arm stretched out,
with its sharp eagle claws, to clutch
him: he made a sharp bolt back, and
giving vent to his feelings in a loud and
long howl, which rung horribly in his
ears long after opening his eyes, he
found himself sprawling in the middle
of his wooden floor, with all the
bed-clothes tumbled above him. It was
the first breaking out of a fine morning:
the sun was rising, and all nature
looked fresh and fair; but poor John
was at the point of death with sheer
bodily fear and trembling, so that to
get to bed again, and to sleep, would
have been martyrdom; therefore he
huddled on his clothes, and walked out
“to snuff the caller air,” and muse over
his wonderful dream. The more he
thought of it, the more he saw the
necessity of reforming his mode of life;
and, before finishing his stroll, he was
an altered man, and had made up
his mind never more to cabbage an
inch of cloth; and, by walking circumspect
and just, he trusted that his past
offences might be wiped out, and that
the wonderful web of many colours
should no more be brought up as
evidence against him. To make him
the more secure in the event of forgetfulness
in the hour of temptation, his
foreman was let into the great secret,
and had orders at all times to rub up
his remembrance when there was any
thing good going, which he used to do
by the laconic phrase of, “Master, mind
the sheet!”</p>

<p class='c008'>A year passed over, and the terror
of the dream being yet fresh in his
memory, John’s transactions were strictly
honest. He could cut out with somewhat
more considerable ease, and had
lost a good deal the knack of cutting
out the sly piece at the corner. But,
alas! for the stability of all human
resolutions, our friend was sorely
tempted, and how he stood we shall
soon see. He had got to hand a beautiful
piece of red cloth, for what purpose
I know not, whether for the coat of a
field officer, or the back of a fox hunter,
but a prime piece of cloth that was; he
turned it over to this side, and back to
that, viewed it in all lights and shades,
rubbed it against the grain, and found
it faultless. He had never seen such a
fine piece of cloth before—scissors had
never before cut such immaculate stuff.
He fixed his eye wistfully on a tempting
corner, looked up, and his foreman
John was staring firmly in his face: he
had read his thoughts.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Master, mind the sheet!” solemnly
ejaculated John.</p>

<p class='c008'>“I’m just swithering, John; I’m just
swithering: now when I mind, there
wasna a piece of red cloth in all the
sheet; and mair by token, there was a
bit gap at one of the corners. Now, I’m
just thinking, since it maun be that all
these bit odds and ends are to be evidence
against me when I come to the
lang count, it would be better to snick
a bit aff the corner here; and that you see,
John, will fill all deficiencies, and mak
the sheet, since it maun appear against
me, evidence, John, without a flaw!”</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='black_joe_o_the_bow' class='c006'>BLACK JOE O’ THE BOW.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By James Smith.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>In the days no sae very lang syne,
when the auld West Bow o’ Edinburgh
was in the deadthraw o’ its glory, there
lived an auld blackymore named Joe
Johnson. He was weel kent through
a’ the toun for his great ingenuity in
makin’ ships an’ automaton figures—something
like the “Punch and Judy”
o’ present times, but mair exquisitely
finished an’—what d’ye ca’ that fine
word?—<em>artistic</em>?—that’s it. Aweel,
this man, commonly ca’d Black Joe,
lived up a lang stair in the Bow, on the
richt-hand side gaun doun. He made
his livin’ in simmer by the bonnie bits
o’ ships he made, displaying them for
sale at the front gate o’ Heriot’s Wark,
in Lauriston; an’ whiles he took a
change at the drum an’ pan-pipes, wi’
a wee doggie ca’d Pincher, that stood
on its hint-legs when Joe was playin’,
wi’ a tin saucer in its mouth to haud
the coppers. Sometimes, when Joe
was playin’, and naething was comin’
in, the dog wad bite somebody’s leg by
mistake to vary the entertainment, to
Joe’s unspeakable delight. But this was
often followed by somebody roaring oot—“Horselip!
Horselip!” an’ then the
drumstick flew through the crowd at
somebody’s head, an’ Joe was generally
marched to the office between twa
policemen. But for a’ his fiery temper
when roused, he had a kind, canny way
wi’ him when civilly treated, an’ wadna
hae wranged a livin’ cratur.</p>

<p class='c008'>When the lang winter nichts set in,
Joe had a show at the fit o’ his stair;
an’ aften the Bow rang wi’ his drum
an’ pan-pipes, as he stood at the outside
o’ the show, wi’ a lichtit paper lantern
stuck up in front, whereon was
painted a rough sketch o’ Billy Button
on the road to Brentford, the Babes in
the Wood, Tam o’ Shanter on his mare
Meg, pursued by the witches, wi’ Cutty
Sark makin’ a catch at Maggie’s tail,
or some ither scenic representation.
Whiles, when Joe was burstin’ his
black face in the middle o’ a fine tune,
some ragged imp wad roar—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Hey cocky dawdy, hey cocky dow—</div>
      <div class='line'>Horselip, Horselip’s comin doun the Bow,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Wi’ his drum an’ his pipe, an’ his pipe, pipe, pipe!</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c012'>Doun went the drum, an’ aff ran Joe
after the malicious urchin, the doggie
first and foremost in the chase. For
whether the beast had been trained, or
acted through the force o’ instinct,
certain it is, that nae sooner was its
maister ca’d “Horselip,” than aff it
sprang, an’ fixed its teeth in the shins o’
the first ane that cam in its way.</p>

<p class='c008'>There was ae New Year’s nicht that
an unco mess took place wi’ Joe’s show.
There was a wee funny dancin’ figure o’
a man that the laddies aye ca’d “Tooral”—ane
o’ the best figures in the show.
This figure was on the stage singin’
“Tooraladdy,” an’ he was at the last
verse—</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c004'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>Tak the pan an’ break his head—</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Tooraladdy, tooraladdy;</div>
      <div class='line'>That’s a’ as fac’ as death—</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c012'>when a wild loon, that had been lookin’
on wi’ a greedy e’e an’ a watery mouth
at the figures a’ nicht, unable ony
langer to resist temptation, made a dart
at “Tooral,” and vanished wi’ him oot
o’ the show. This created an unco commotion,
for when the folk begoud to
rise up in the gallery—it was a’ gallery
thegither—as Joe rushed out after the
thief, cryin’ “Polish! polish! polish!—catch
a thief! catch a thief!” the whole
rickety concern cam doun wi’ a great
crash. But they didna fa’ far; for it
wasna muckle mair than five or six
inches frae the ground a’thegither.
But the thief was never gotten that
nicht, tho’ it’s a consolation to ken that
he was banished shortly afterwards for
stealin’ a broon tammy an’ a quarter o’
saut butter frae a puir widdy woman, as
she was comin’ out o’ a provision shop
in the Canongate.</p>

<p class='c008'>But Joe was thrown into sic a state
wi’ rinnin’ through the toun after
the thief, that next day he was delirious
wi’ a ragin’ fever. My mither lived but
an’ ben wi’ Joe; an’ it was while gaun
in noo an’ then to see how the puir
body was doing, that a strange interest
in Joe’s history was awakened in her
breast. For he had cam oot wi’ some
very strange expressions when lyin’ in
the delirious state. Ance or twice he
cried, “Me nebber shoot massa—me
nebber shoot massa. Major murder
him broder—me see ’im do it. Got
pistol yet—me tell truth—me no tell
lie;” an’ sae he wad gang ravin’ on at
this gait for hours. When at last the
fever had abated, an’ Joe was able to
come ben an’ sit doun by my mither’s
fireside, she asked him, in her ain
canny way, if he wadna like to gang
back again to his native country.
But the black fell a tremblin’, an’ shook
his head, sayin’ “Nebber—nebber—nebber
more!” This roused my
mither’s curiosity to the highest pitch,
for she was convinced noo, mair than
ever, that some dark history was locked
up in the African’s breast. Ae day, a
while after this, Joe cam ben an’ sat
doun by the fireside, as usual; for
though the day was scorching hot, being
in the heat o’ simmer, the cratur was
aye shiverin’ and cowerin’ wi’ the cauld.
Takin oot his cutty pipe, as usual, he
began to fill’t, sayin’—“Missy, me no
lib long; me no strength—me weak as
water—me no happy—wish ’im was
dead.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“What way that?” asked my mither;
“by my faith, ye’ll live mony a lang
day yet. Deein’! deil the fear o’ ye!”</p>

<p class='c008'>But Joe aye shook his head.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Joe,” says my mither, takin’ his
puir wasted hand in her ain, “there’s
something mair than weakness the
matter wi’ ye. I ken that, whatever ye
may say; and the best thing for ye to
do’s to mak a clean breast o’t. Whatever
ye may say to me, I promise shall
be as secret as the grave. Ye ken me
ower weel to doot that.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Joe lookit earnestly in her face, an’
syne at the door. My mither cannily
closed the door, an’ sat doun beside
him. Then the nigger, cautioning her
to mind her promise, telt her a story
that sent her to her bed that nicht wi’ a
gey quaking heart. But as this story
wadna be richtly understood to gie’t in
the nigger’s strange broken English, I’ll
tell’t in my ain way.</p>

<p class='c008'>Ten years before Joe cam to Edinburgh,
baith him an’ his wife were
slaves on Zedekiah Gilroy’s plantation
in Jamaica. This Zedekiah Gilroy was
the second son o’ Colonel Gilroy, o’
Hawkesneb Hoose. I mind o’ the
place mysel’ as weel as if it were yesterday;
for mony a time I’ve passed it on
the road to my aunty’s at Cockleburgh.
It’s a gude fourteen hours’ journey frae
Edinburgh—try’t ony day ye like.
Aweel, the eldest son o’ this Colonel
Gilroy had gotten a commission in the
East India Company, an’ had risen to
the rank o’ major in ane o’ the native
regiments; but brocht himsel’ into
disgrace there by causing the death o’
ane o’ his servants wi’ his merciless
cruelty, an’ was obliged to sell oot, an’
come hame in disgrace. He hadna
been lang hame, when a letter cam frae
his brither, requesting him to come oot
an’ look after his estate, for he had
been twice attacked by yellow fever,
an’ was utterly incompetent to look
after’t. His overseers, he said, were
rivin’ him oot o’ hoose an’ ha’, an’
a’thing was gaun wrang thegither. His
wife had been struck doun by the same
fell disease, an’ a lowness o’ spirits had
ta’en possession o’ him, that a’ the
luxuries o’ high life an’ plenty o’ siller
couldna diminish. His only wish was
to see his brither oot beside him, an’ tak
for a while the oversicht o’ his affairs,
till health an’ strength blessed him ance
mair. Aweel, under a’ thae circumstances,
the auld colonel advised his
son to gang oot an’ do his best to help
his brither in his sair extremity. Sae
the major, wi’ an unco show o’ reluctance,
at last consented, an’ aff he gaed
to Jamaica, to play the deevil there, as
he had done before in the East Indies.</p>

<p class='c008'>Major Gilroy wasna lang at Jamaica
when an unco change for the waur took
place. There was naething but orderin’,
cursin’, swearin’, an’ lashin’ o’ slaves
frae mornin’ till nicht. Joe’s wife was
amang the first that succumbed to the
murderous whip, an’ Joe himsel’ cam in
for mair than his share. Rumours soon
began to spread that the maister himsel’
was tyrannised ower by his brither. He
was ane o’ the very kindest o’ maisters
to his slaves, until his brither cam like
a frosty blicht, and filled the whole
estate wi’ lamentation. Sae this state
o’ things gaed on for nearly six months,
when ae day Joe, exasperated at the
inhuman treatment he was receivin’ at
the major’s instigation, took leg-bail to
the sea-shore, an’ hid himsel’ amang the
cliffs. There he lurked, day after day,
crawlin’ oot at nicht to gather shell-fish
an’ dulse frae the rocks, an’ castin’ his
e’e ower the wide watery waste for the
welcome sicht o’ a sail to bear him frae
the accursed spot. Mair than ance he
had heard the shouts o’ the manhunters
on his track, intermingling wi’ the
terrible bay o’ the bluidhound. But a’
their vigilance was eluded by the impregnable
nature o’ his position, high
up amang the rocks.</p>

<p class='c008'>On the morning o’ the thirteenth day
after his escape, he cautiously emerged
frae his high den, an’ looked around him
as usual. The air was intensely hot,
an’ dark-red masses o’ cloud were fast
drivin’ through a black, lowering sky,
the certain presage o’ a fearfu’ storm.
The sea lay calm and still, for there
wasna a breath o’ wind stirring, an’
flocks o’ sea-birds were filling the sultry
air wi’ their harsh, discordant cries.
Suddenly a flash o’ forked lichtnin’
illumined the black, murky sky, an’ a
loud clap o’ thunder reverberated amang
the mountains. Then the lichtnin’ an’
thunder became incessant, the sea lashed
itsel’ into foam an’ fury, an’ the rain
poured doun in torrents. As the slave
surveyed the elements thus ragin’ in a’
their terrific grandeur, the distant sound
o’ carriage-wheels caught his ear.
Nearer an’ nearer they cam, till he
recognised a gig driven by the major
comin’ on at a rattlin’ pace. His brither
sat beside him, propped up wi’ shawls
and cushions, an’ appeared to be at that
moment in an attitude o’ earnest
entreaty; while every noo and then the
faint sound o’ voices in noisy altercation
was borne on the gale that noo roared
ower land an’ sea, though what they
said it was utterly impossible to distinguish.
The slave looked on, first in
astonishment, an’ syne in horror; for,
instead o’ turnin’ the horse’s head hamewards
as the storm cam on, the major
persisted in drivin’ richt on through the
sands as the spring-tide was fast cornin’
in, in spite o’ the agonised entreaties o’
his brither to turn. At last the gig was
stopped, as the horse, plunging and
restive, went up to the middle in water.
Then a deadly struggle took place that
lasted scarcely a minute, when the
report o’ a pistol reverberated amid the
thunder, an’ the next instant the body
o’ the invalid was hurled into the roaring
surge. Then, indeed, the horse’s
head was turned hameward, an’ aff went
the gig in richt earnest, but no before a
wild yell o’ execration frae the cliff
warned the murderer that the deed had
been witnessed by mair than the e’e o’
God abune. Scarcely had the sound o’
the wheels died away, when the slave
descended the lofty precipitous rocks
wi’ the agility o’ a wild cat, an’ plunged
into the sea to save, if it were yet possible,
his puir maister. But the dark
purple streaks on the surface o’ the
water where the deed was accomplished
telt, ower fearfully, that the sharks
were already thrang at their horrid
wark, an’ that a’ hope o’ saving him,
if he werena clean deid after the pistol-shot
was fired, was for ever gane.
Therefore he reluctantly swam back to
the shore, wi’ barely enough o’ time to
save himsel’. Before scaling the cliff,
he lifted the pistol that the murderer,
in the hurry an’ confusion o’ the moment,
had left behind him on the beach.
This incident filled the slave wi’ fresh
alarm, for it was certain the major wad
come back for’t before lang. Sae a’
that nicht he wearied sair for the mornin’
to come in. Slowly at last the storm
subsided, as the first pale streaks o’
dawn were visible in the horizon; an’
as the daylicht lengthened mair an’ mair,
he saw a dark speck floating on the
waves, that on a nearer approach proved
to be a boat that had burst frae its moorings
frae some ship in the distant harbour.
Fervently thanking God for this
providential means o’ deliverance, he descended
frae his friendly shelter for the last
time, an’ boldly struck out for the boat,
which he reached in safety. Seizing the
oars, he steered oot to the open sea, wi’ a
fervent prayer that the dark drizzly fog
that enveloped the ocean wad continue to
shield him, for a time, frae his merciless
enemy, till some friendly ship wad tak
him up. It was high time; for he hadna
gi’en half-a-dozen strokes, when the
sound o’ angry voices, among which
was the major’s, was borne on the breeze,
an’ again the deep-toned bay o’ the
bluidhound nerved his arms wi’ a’ the
energy o’ desperation. Farther an’
farther oot he gaed, battling wi’ the
heavily swelling rollers that threatened
every moment to engulph the boat he
steered sae bravely. For mony a lang
and weary hour he struggled wi’ the
giant waves, enveloped in fog, till the
darkness o’ nicht had nearly set in; an’
he was fast gi’en up a’ hopes o’ succour,
when the tout o’ a horn near at hand
warned him that a ship was bearing
doun upon him. He had barely time
to steer oot o’ her way, when he was
hailed by the captain, an’ asked where
he cam frae. Joe made answer that he
was the sole survivor o’ the <em>Nancy</em>,
bound for England, that had sprung a
leak, an’ foundered in last nicht’s gale.
At that moment a terrible wave capsized
the boat, and Joe was struggling in the
water. But a rope was flung oot to
him, an’ he speedily drew himsel’ on
board. This circumstance o’ the boat’s
being swamped was a mercy for Joe;
for had the name o’ the ship she belanged
to met the captain’s e’e, the lee wad
hae been fand oot, an’ it micht hae
fared waur wi’ him. But the captain
treated Joe wi’ great kindness, and telt
him he micht work his passage to Leith,
which was the port o’ their destination.
The vessel was a Leith trader named
the <em>William and Mary</em>, an’ was on her
passage hame frae the Island o’ Cuba.</p>

<p class='c008'>Here, let it be remembered, Joe wasna
to be blamed a’thegither for the doonricht
lee he telt the captain. He was a
rinaway slave in the first place, an’ had
the captain kent the truth, it’s mair than
likely he wad hae delivered him up at
the first port he touched at on the
voyage hame. In the second place,
there was nae ither witness o’ the fearfu’
crime binna himsel’; an’ he had the
tact to see that evidence resting on the
sole testimony o’ a rinaway slave, mair
especially when that slave micht be
reasonably suspected o’ vindictive feelings
against the murderer, wad be
treated wi’ scorn an’ indignation, an’
even add to the horrors o’ his ain death.
Therefore Joe kept his ain coonsel, and
when the vessel arrived at Leith, he
wandered up to Edinburgh, and resided
for mony a lang year in the West Bow,
makin’ his livin’ in the manner already
related, and wi’ the secret carefully
locked up in his breast until now.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Aweel, Joe,” said my mither, when
she had heard him oot, “that’s an unco
story, man. But are ye aware that the
auld colonel’s aye livin’ yet, an’ that it
wad be a duty to let him ken the truth?”
Here Joe lookit in her face sae pitifu’
an’ imploring like, that she didna find
it in her heart to press the question ony
mair at that time. But when the body
gaed awa’ ben, my mither sat thinkin’
and thinkin’ till the day was far spent;
an’ for mony a lang day after that she
hadna muckle peace o’ mind.</p>

<p class='c008'>Ae mornin’ she put on her bannit
and shawl, and said she wadna be hame
till late. Although I was a bit lassie
at the time, I jaloused where she was
gaun, but I never let on. It wasna till
late, late at nicht that she cam hame,
an’ then she telt me she had been at
Hawkesneb Hoose on a pretence to
see if an auld servant she had kent
mony a year sin’ was aye bidin’ there.
As she rang the gate-bell, she said a
fearfu’ sense o’ shame an’ disgrace
comin’ ower an auld man made her
swither; but there was the lodgekeeper’s
wife comin’ to the gate, an’ it
was ower late noo to gang back. She
then inquired for ane Jess Tamson, that
had been a servant up at the big hoose
three years sin’; but the woman
said she didna ken o’ onybody o’ that
name servin’ there noo. My mither
said that was an unco pity, as she had
cam a lang way to see her, an’ her feet
were sair blistered wi’ the roads. The
woman then opened the gate, an’ asked
my mither into the lodge, an’ offered
her a cup o’ tea, for which my mither
was very thankfu’. Then, when the
twa fell on the crack, my mither said
the laird wad be gey far doon the brae
noo, for he was an auld man in Jess’s
time. My mither came oot wi’ this in
her ain pawky way, to hear for certain
whether the colonel were dead or livin’.</p>

<p class='c008'>“The auld colonel’s dead an’ gane a
year sin’,” said the woman, “but his
son the major’s expected hame in a
month; an’ I’m sure there has been sic
a scrubbin’ an’ cleanin’ an’ hammerin’,
that what wi’ masons, joiners, plasterers,
painters, and glaziers, there hasna been
muckle rest for the servants this last
fortnicht.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“An’ is the major married?” asked
my mither.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Married! no as yet,” said the
woman. “They say he’s turned unco
silent and cantankerous since his
brither’s death, sees naebody, an’
never gangs to sleep without wax
candles burnin’ a’ nicht by his bedside.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“The major never gangs to sleep
without wax candles burnin’ a’ nicht by
his bedside!” said my mither, slowly
comin’ ower the words after her.
“Deary me, that’s strange!” tryin’
sair to keep in her breath. “What
kind o’ death was’t his brither dee’d o’,
hae ye heard?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“What kind o’ death was’t? It was
murder, dounricht murder!” said the
woman; “an’ done too by ane o’ his
ain slaves through revenge. But it was
a grand day for the major when his
brither dee’d; for he wasna a month
gane when the plantation was selt aff,
an’ the major left Jamaica wi’ mony a
braw thousand pound in his pouch.”</p>

<p class='c008'>My mither then asked if the major
cam hame at that time. The woman
said, “No, he had gane to Italy, and
aye kept sendin’ letters to his faither
every noo and then, makin’ apologies
about his health being in a delicate
state, and declaring his resolution to
abide by the advice o’ his doctors to
remain in a warmer climate, in spite o’
the auld laird’s anxious entreaties for
him to come hame. I often used to
wonder at the major’s continued absence;
an’ it lookit strange that he didna
come to lay his faither’s head in the
grave, though he’s comin’ hame noo.
As for the slave that did the deed, they
raised a hue an’ cry after him for a while;
but the murderer was never gotten, an’
it’s not likely he ever will be noo. It
seems the major had been gi’en his
brither an airing in a gig, when they
were attacked by the slave frae behind,
wha fired a pistol at his brither oot o’
revenge, and then fled, wounding him
mortally. The major pursued, but
when he had gane a lang distance and
fand he couldna mak up to him, he
cam back to the spot where the murder
had been committed, expecting to see
the body; but, astonishing to relate, the
body had disappeared. And the man
that did the deed, as I said before, was
never gotten; nor is it very likely he
ever will be, after sic a lang lapse o’
time. It seems he fled awa to the
mountains among the Maroons, as they
ca’ them.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“That’s hard, hard to say,” said my
mither; “but God has his ain ways o’
workin’, lass, an’ maybe the deed’ll be
brocht to licht in a way that you an’
me little dream o’.” Then she rose up,
an’ spoke o’ gaun hame; but the
woman wadna hear o’t, sayin’ the nicht
was ower far gane, an’ she wad mak
her very welcome to a bed beside the
bairns. At that moment the gudeman
himsel’ cam in, an’ seeing her anxiety to
gang awa, he said the mail-coach wad
be gaun by in half an hour, an’ he had
nae doot the guard wad gie her a lift into
the toun. Sae she waited till the coach
cam by, an’ fortunately got a ride in.</p>

<p class='c008'>Aweel, when my mither had composed
hersel’ a bit, after she had telt
this, she filled her cutty-pipe, an’
begoud to blaw. “Lassie,” says she to
me, after a wee, “fetch doun yer faither’s
Bible frae the shelf.” It aye got the
name o’ my faither’s Bible, though he
had been deid an’ gane mony a year. Sae
I gied her the Bible; an’ then I heard
her slowly readin’ ower thae verses frae
the Book o’ Proverbs—“Be not afraid
of sudden fear, neither of the desolation
of the wicked when it cometh; for the
Lord shall be thy confidence, and shall
keep thy foot from being taken.” This
she read ower twa-three times to hersel’,
an’ syne put a mark at the place, and
gaed awa to her bed. And lang after
that, as the puir body lay half doverin’,
I heard her comin’ ower and ower thae
bonnie verses, till she was fast asleep.
The first thing she did, when the
mornin’ cam in, was to tell Joe o’ her
journey an’ its result. The puir African
lifted up his hands in astonishment when
she telt him the murder had been laid
to his charge. But she took doun the
Bible again, an’ read ower the verses
that had sae powerfully arrested her attention
the nicht before; and as she read
them, a gleam o’ triumphant exultation
shone in the e’e o’ the puir nigger—a
look o’ conscious innocence, that dispelled
every vestige o’ doot in my
mither’s mind, if she ever had ony, an’
made her sympathise a’ the mair wi’
the lingerin’ agony he had endured since
the murder was committed. He noo
declared his readiness to lodge an
accusation against Major Gilroy; for the
fear o’ his word being misdooted
vanished as if by magic frae his mind,
mair especially when my mither led him
to understand that, being in a free
country, nae slave-owner could touch
him, and that his word would be ta’en
wi’ the best white man among them a’.
Hooever, my mither advised him no to
be rash, but to bide a wee till the
major’s arrival, as an accusation preferred
against him in his absence micht
be construed into an evidence o’ guilt
on the part o’ the accuser; for the wily,
lang-headit bodies o’ lawyers were fit
for onything, an’ siller could do an
awfu’ lot, an’ mak black look white
ony day. Besides, Great Britain was
at this time deeply engaged in the
Slave Trade, and micht be ower glad to
tak the major’s part. Sae Joe took her
advice, an’ prayed that Job wad teach
him patience.</p>

<p class='c008'>Three weeks had passed away, when
Joe, unable ony langer to control the
wild tumult that reigned in his breast,
gaed awa oot to Hawkesneb Hoose,
carryin’ his drum an’ pan-pipes wi’ him
as usual. It had been a drizzly sma’
rain a’ day; an’ when he reached his
journey’s end, as nicht set in, he was
wet through an’ through. The place
was a’ in darkness, and as he stood at
the gate, an’ looked up the lang dusky
avenue, he half resolved to gang back,
an’ trust to time an’ the retributive
justice o’ Heaven to prove his innocence.
But an impulse he couldna resist chained
him to the spot, an’ he rang the gate-bell.
Nae answer was returned; a
second time’ he rang, but still wi’ the
same result. Then he pushed the gate
forward, and to his surprise it swung
heavily back on its hinges. Wi’ an
unsteady, tremblin’ step, he advanced
up the dark avenue till he reached the
mansion. The hoose seemed silent an’
deserted, binna a sma’ licht that twinkled
in ane o’ the lower windows, an’ as he
drew nearer, the sound o’ voices reached
his ear. Then the resolve to gang back
again took possession o’ him; but the
strange impulse to advance gained the
mastery, an’ he lifted the kitchen
knocker. A lass wasna lang in makin’
her appearance at the door wi’ a lichtit
candle in her hand; an’ nae sooner did
she see the black man stannin’ oot in the
dark than she gied a roar as if Joe had
been the very deevil himsel’. This
brocht ben a’ the rest o’ the servants;
an’ a bonnie hurly-burly was set up as
this ane an’ the ither ane wondered hoo
he had got in.</p>

<p class='c008'>“That’s your negligence, Willie
Johnston,” said an auld leddy dressed
in black, that appeared to be the hoosekeeper;
“I’m sure ye needna hae been
sae thochtless as that, particularly at
a time when the major’s lookit for
every minute.”</p>

<p class='c008'>This was addressed to the keeper o’
the lodge, that had come up to the big
hoose wi’ his wife at the hoosekeeper’s
invitation, to while awa the nicht wi’ a
cup o’ tea an’ a dram. Willie Johnston
fell a swearin’, an’ was aboot to lay
violent hands on Joe, when the butler,
a wee fat birsy body, but no bad-hearted,
ordered him to desist; and seeing the
nicht was sae cauld an’ wat, he brocht
Joe into the kitchen, and thinkin’ him
a cadger, he set doun baith bread, meat,
an’ beer before him, tellin’ him to look
alive, for it wadna do to stay lang there.
The hoosekeeper didna offer ony objection
to this, as mony a ane wad hae dune;
but to tell the truth, it seems that the
twa were unco gracious, for when the
tane took whisky, the tither took yill—sae
that settles that. When Joe had
sat for a while preein’ the mercies set
before him, ane o’ them—the laundry-maid—gi’en
a wistfu’ look at Joe’s drum
an’ pan-pipes, said she hadna haen a
dance since gude kens the time, an’ the
cook, an’ the kitchen-maid, an’ a young
crater o’ a flunkey, expressed themsel’s
in a similar manner.</p>

<p class='c008'>“A dance!” cried the hoosekeeper,
makin’ a pretence o’ being angry. “A
bonnie daft-like thing it wad be to welcome
hame the laird wi’ a drum an’
pan-pipes, as if he were the keeper o’ a
wild-beast show. A fiddle michtna be
sae bad.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Joe saw what was wanted. It was
only a quiet invitation to play for naething;
sae he took a lang heavy pull at
the beer-jug, an’ syne struck up a lilt
that set them a’ up on their feet thegither.
An’ sae on he played, tune
after tune, until a breathin’ time was
ca’ed; an’ the whisky an’ beer in plenty
were again gaun round, when the gate-bell
was rung wi’ great violence.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Flee for yer life to the gate, Willie
Johnston,” cried the hoosekeeper, “an’
stop that skirlin’. I’m sure I never expected
him the nicht noo, when it’s sae
late. What’s to be dune? Haste ye,
Sally, to the major’s room, an’ on wi’ a
fire like winkin’!” and in an instant a’
was confusion, an’ every ane stannin’ in
each ither’s road.</p>

<p class='c008'>The soond o’ carriage wheels was
heard comin’ up the avenue, and the
lood gruff voice o’ Major Gilroy cursing
the carelessness o’ the lodge-keeper
startled every ane there, but nane mair
sae than Joe; for that voice brocht back
the past in a’ its terrible reality, an’ he
kent the crisis was comin’ wi’ a crash
either for him or his auld relentless
oppressor. But him and his pan-pipes
were then as completely forgotten by
the servants as if they had never been
there. But as quietness was at last restored,
an’ the major had shut himsel’
up in his room, wi’ a stern injunction
to the butler that he wasna to be disturbed
wi’ supper or onything else that
nicht, an’ threatenin’ instant dismissal
to the first that gied him ony cause o’
annoyance, Joe asked the hoosekeeper,
wi’ a palpitatin’ heart, if he micht gang
noo.</p>

<p class='c008'>“No, for a thoosand pound I wadna
open that door,” said the hoosekeeper;
“ye had better bide awhile yet till he’s
asleep. I never saw sic a savage-lookin’
man in my life, as he cam in at the
front door. He’s completely changed
since I mind o’ him, when he wasna
muckle mair than a laddie. An’ sic a
restless, suspicious e’e as he’s got! I
dinna like it—I positively dinna like it.
But I’ll never pit up wi’ sic a man—I’ll
tak to drink, as sure’s I’m a livin’
woman. An’ what the deil brocht
<em>you</em> here?—makin’ things fifty times
waur! Ye’ll never get oot o’ here this
nicht—I’m certain o’ that. An’ yet
there’s that brute,” pointing to Pincher,
that a’ this time had been keepin’ quiet
under the table, thrang worryin’ at a
big bane—“what’s to be dune if it
barks?”</p>

<p class='c008'>But Joe gied her to understand there
was nae fear o’ that, for he had him
ower weel trained to mak ony disturbance;
but oh! he was anxious—anxious
to be off. The woman, hooever, remained
inexorable. There was therefore
nae help for’t but to sit doun on a
chair by the kitchen fireside, an’ be slippit
oot cannily in the mornin’ before the
major was up. Sae they a’ gaed awa
to their beds, an’ Joe was left alane in
the kitchen, wi’ Pincher snockerin’ at
his side. But Joe couldna close an e’e,
wi’ the intensity o’ his thocht; for here,
at last, had the providence o’ God
brocht the murderer and his accuser
beneath the same roof. Joe lay
doverin’ an’ waitin’ wearily for the
mornin’ comin’ in. The weather had
cleared up, an’ the moon was streamin’
in through the kitchen windows. The
fire had gane oot, an’ the air felt cauld
an’ chill; an’ gradually a feeling o’
horror took possession o’ Joe that he
couldna shake off. At last Pincher
gaed a low growl, as if he had heard
somebody comin’. Joe could hear naething
at first, but by degrees he became
sensible that a step was advancin’, saft,
an’ almost noiseless, doun the kitchen
stair; an’ slowly the door opened as a
figure dressed in a lang dressin’-goun,
an’ a lichtit wax candle in its hand,
entered the kitchen. Speechless and
unable to move, Joe saw his mortal
enemy, the major, starin’ him in the
face; but as he silently returned the
gaze, he became sensible that it was
void o’ consciousness. The major was
walkin’ in his sleep, that was evident,
for he kept movin’ up an’ doun the
kitchen, mutterin’ to himsel’. He laid
doun the candle on the floor in ane o’
his rounds, an’ said in a tone sae distinct
that Joe could hear every word—</p>

<p class='c008'>“Will the sea give up its dead?—No,
no. Why does his face always
turn up amid the roaring waves, as if
to taunt me with the crime, and drag
me to eternal perdition? Pshaw! it’s
but a fancy after all. But the slave
who eluded my vengeance—curses on
him!—where is <em>he</em>? Wandering over
the face of the earth, to confront me at
last, perhaps, and accuse me as my
brother’s murderer. But will they believe
<em>him</em>? They will not—nay, they
dare not—they dare not. Yet oh! the
black countenance of that infernal fiend
dogs me wherever I go, and will not
give me peace—peace—peace!”</p>

<p class='c008'>Then he took up the candle an’ made
for the door, drew back, an’ again cam
into the kitchen; then left the kitchen a
second time, an’ opened the door. The
sudden rush o’ the nicht air put oot the
candle, an’ he again entered the kitchen.
At that moment he stumbled ower a
chair, an’ Pincher gaed a loud bark, as
the major started to his feet, restored to
consciousness. And as the moon’s rays
revealed every surrounding object wi’
a ghastly distinctness, the first sicht that
met his e’e was Joe—Joe stannin’ before
him, rigid and motionless—an auld rusty
pistol in his richt hand presented at
him, an’ a wild glare o’ rage an’ defiance
flashin’ in his unearthly-lookin’
e’en. The suddenness o’ the appearance
o’ this apparition—for apparition he
thocht Joe to be—completely paralysed
him for the moment. His knees gaed
knock, knockin’ thegither, as Joe
cried—</p>

<p class='c008'>“Murderer! murderer! murderer!
Me tell truth—me no tell lie. You dam
rascal—you villain—me hear to speak
truth, and truth me speak spite of
eberyting. Ha! what you say now?”</p>

<p class='c008'>As Joe said this, he advanced nearer
an’ nearer, till the pistol touched the
major’s breast. But there he stood,
powerless to resist; for his belief still
was that Joe was a phantom, till the
growlin’ o’ the doggie brocht him to himsel’
mair than onything else; and, fired
by the energy o’ desperation, he made a
snatch at the pistol. But the nigger
was ower quick for him; for he sprang
past the major, and oot at the kitchen
door that the major had providentially
opened in his sleep, darted doun the
avenue and oot at the gate, syne awa at
full speed on his lang journey hame,
which he reached by nine o’clock in the
mornin’, mair deid than alive. He cam
into my mither’s just as she sat doun to
her tea, an’ gaed her the history o’ his
last nicht’s adventure, as already related.
My mither’s advice to him was to gang
directly to the authorities, an’ lodge an
accusation. Joe did sae, and the result
was that Captain S——, accompanied
by half a dozen constables, immediately
took the coach for Hawkesneb Hoose,
which they reached about seven o’clock.</p>

<p class='c008'>When they arrived there, the butler,
hoosekeeper, an’ a’ the lave o’ them
cam out, wonderin’ at seein’ the police
authorities, accompanied by the black
man. But when Captain S—— asked,
in a stern manner, if he could see the
major, an’ telling the men to watch the
hoose, baith back and front, their surprise
was turned into consternation.
The major wasna up yet, the butler
said; and his orders the nicht before
were that naebody was to disturb him
unless his bell rang. And it was neither
his business nor onybody else’s to intrude
where they werena wanted. On
hearing this, the captain peremptorily
demanded to see his maister, otherwise
it wad be necessary to force an entrance
into his room. At this the hoosekeeper
and butler baith gaed up, an’ cried the
major’s name; but nae answer cam.
Then they tried to open the door, but
the door was evidently locked frae the
inside, for it wadna open. When the
captain heard this, he gaed up himsel’,
an’ burst open the door. On entering
the room, he lookit round, but could
see naething. The bed lay untouched;
there had been naebody there, that was
evident. But there was a sma’ dressing-room
that opened frae the bedroom,
and on lookin’ there he saw the major
lyin’ in a doubled-up position on the
carpet, wi’ his hands clenched, an’ his
e’en starin’ wide open. An empty
phial lay beside him, that telt, ower
surely, what he had been after. The
captain placed his hand on his face,
but it was quite cauld; an’ there wasna
the least doot that he had been dead
for a lang time. When the captain
cam doun and communicated the news,
there was sair wonder an’ astonishment,
but no muckle grief, ’od knows. The
major had been a perfect stranger to
them a’, except the auld hoosekeeper;
an’ to do the body justice, she shed a
tear or twa; but it’s my belief a third
never made its appearance, for a’ she
tried.</p>

<p class='c008'>Naething farther could be done in
the matter. The major had anticipated
the demands o’ justice by takin’ justice
on himsel’, an’ the wuddy had been
cheated o’ a victim, an’ a multitude o’
morbid sightseers rightly ungratified.
But oh, the joy o’ Joe’s heart when he
cam into my mither’s next mornin’! for
it seems they had remained in the hoose
a’ that nicht, till the coach cam by on
the Edinburgh journey. The fear that
had hung ower him like a nichtmare
was dispelled for ever, an’ his innocence
triumphantly established beyond the
least shadow o’ a doot. Kindly my
mither shook him by the hand, as she
said—“The hand o’ God’s been in’t,
Joe, my man; an’ praise be to his
name for sendin’ a bonnie glint o’ sunshine
oot o’ the lang dreary darkness
that’s encompassed ye. An’ never forget
the verses that gaed ye sic blessed consolation;”
an’ saftly an’ solemnly she
cam ower them again—“Be not afraid
of sudden fear, neither of the desolation
of the wicked when it cometh;
for the Lord shall be thy confidence,
an’ shall keep thy foot from being
taken.” An’ Joe looked happy an’
contented, an’ never forgot my mither’s
kindness.</p>

<p class='c008'>Joe gaed aboot the streets o’ Edinburgh
mony a lang day after this. He
never taen up the show again, that I
mind o’; but mony a bonnily riggit
ship he selt at Heriot’s Wark, and on
the Earthen Mound, amang the panoramas
and the wild-beast shows, and
doun at the stairs at bonnie auld Shakespeare
Square, that’s noo awa; an’
mony a time hae I heard his drum an’
pan-pipes when I was baith a young
quean an’ a married wife. He dee’d a
short time before the richt-hand side o’
the West Bow was taen doun, an’
there’s no a single vestige noo to be
seen o’ the auld land where the show
used to be, wi’ the lichtit paper-lantern
at the door, an’ the pan-pipes playin’
“Tooraladdy,” that cheered sae mony
young hearts in the days that are noo
past an’ gane.—<cite>From “Peggy Pinkerton’s
Recollections.”</cite></p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='the_fight_for_the_standard' class='c006'>THE FIGHT FOR THE STANDARD.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By James Paterson.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>Lieutenant Charles Ewart,
better known as “Sergeant Ewart of the
Greys,” was born in Kilmarnock about
the year 1767, and enlisted in that
regiment in 1789. He served under the
Duke of York in the Low Country
Campaigns of 1793–4, and shared in
all the victories and defeats which the
allied arms experienced. The disasters
encountered by the British arose in a
great measure from the duplicity of the
Dutch, as well as from the military
incapacity of the Royal general. At
the battle, if we mistake not, of Fleurus,
in the Netherlands, where the Republican
forces, after a protracted contest,
were the victors, Ewart had the misfortune
to be taken prisoner. Towards
the close of the action, the Greys were
so thoroughly surrounded by the enemy
that escape was considered next to impossible.
As the only means of preventing
their entire capture, they were
ordered to disperse in small parties of
twos and threes, each to exert himself as
he best might in finding his way to the
allied army, which had undertaken a
retrograde movement. It was evening
as Ewart and his companions endeavoured
to thread their way amidst
the smoke and spreading darkness by
which they were enveloped. They had
not proceeded far, when, perceiving a
body of French cavalry at a short distance,
they were compelled to seek
safety in an opposite direction. Though
hotly pursued, they put spurs to their
horses, and soon distanced their enemies.
At length they found themselves in the
vicinity of a wood, and, ignorant of the
direction in which they were proceeding,
they determined on taking advantage of
its shelter for the night. Tying their
jaded horses to a tree, they lay down
beside them. Tired out with the day’s
fatigue, they fell soundly asleep; nor
did they awaken until rudely stirred
from their slumber in the morning by a
large body of French infantry who had
taken possession of the wood. Resistance
being out of the question, they
instantly surrendered; but nothing could
save them from the abuse and insult of
the soldiers, by whom they were plundered
of everything valuable. Fortunately,
not above two hours afterwards,
the advance corps of the French were
beaten back by a number of Austrian
troops, who in turn took the captors
captive, and Ewart and his comrades
were restored to their regiment, not,
however, without having obtained permission
of the Austrian officer in charge
of the prisoners to take from the Frenchmen
the property of which they had
been plundered, and which they did
with something of <em>interest</em>, by way of
repaying the usage they had experienced.</p>

<p class='c008'>In the retreat of the British through
Holland after the disastrous battle of
Nimguen, though conducted by Sir
Ralph Abercrombie with great skill
and success, considering the desperate
circumstances in which they were placed,
the army suffered the utmost privations.
The winter was unprecedentedly severe,
and the loss of the stores and baggage
added greatly to their sufferings.
Hundreds perished from excessive cold,
hunger, and fatigue. Many affecting
anecdotes are told of the vicissitudes
endured. While on the march one day,
near a place, the name of which we
forget, the faint wailings of a child were
heard not far from the roadside. Ewart
dismounted, and proceeding to the spot,
found a woman and child lying amongst
the snow. The mother was dead, but
the infant, still in life, was in the act of
sucking the breast of its lifeless parent.
“Albeit unused to the melting mood,”
Ewart felt overcome by the spectacle.
There was no time, however, for sentimentalism;
but lifting the child in his
arms, and wrapping his cloak around it,
he remounted with his tender charge.
On reaching the encampment for the
evening, he applied to the colonel, who
generously offered to defray the expenses
of a nurse; but so entirely were the women
of the army absorbed with their own
misfortunes, that not one of them could
be found to take care of the little orphan.
Ewart was at length fortunate in discovering
the father of the child, a sergeant
of the 60th regiment, who was so
much affected that he could scarcely be
restrained from retracing his steps in the
vain hope of finding his partner still in
life. Three years after the return of the
army to Britain, and while the Greys
were stationed in the south of England,
Ewart was one evening called to the
head inn of the town. The soldier to
whom he was introduced grasped him
warmly by the hand, as he inquired
whether he knew him. Ewart replied
in the negative. A short explanation
sufficed. The stranger was the father
of the child whom he had saved, come
to tender his thanks in a more substantial
manner than was in his power on the
retreat in Holland. He had since that
period been raised to the rank of
sergeant-major, and the little orphan
was then a thriving boy at home with
his grandmother. He insisted on presenting
Ewart with a sum of money, but
the offer was firmly rejected. He pressed
him, however, to accept a silver watch
as a memento of his gratitude.</p>

<p class='c008'>With the exception of a small
portion of the regiment which took part
in the Peninsular War, the Scots Greys
were not again called abroad till 1815.
During the intervening period, no opportunity
of distinguishing themselves
occurred. Ewart, who had borne himself
with uniform propriety, and gained
the esteem of his superior officers by
his soldierly conduct, was early advanced
as a sergeant, while his skill in the sword
exercise procured him further emolument
by being appointed master-of-fence
to the regiment. The unlooked-for
escape of Napoleon from Elba gave a
new impulse to the military ardour of
this country. The Greys, as well as the
household troops, were called to arms,
and in the short but important campaign
in Belgium, covered themselves
with glory on the plains of Waterloo.
The splendid charge of General Ponsonby’s
cavalry brigade—composed of
the First Royals, Greys, and Inniskillings—is
matter of history. It was in one of
those dashing affairs on the 18th, when
covering the Highland brigade against a
dense mass of Invincibles, that the two
eagles were captured by the Greys and
Royals. As the cavalry passed through the
open columns of the Highlanders, the cry
of “Scotland for ever!” created an enthusiasm
which nothing could withstand,
and the French infantry were scattered
before them. Upwards of two thousand
prisoners were taken in this single onset.
Sergeant Ewart was engaged hand to
hand with an officer, whom he was about
to cut down, when a young ensign of the
Greys interceded in his behalf, and
desired that he might be passed to the
rear. He had scarcely complied with
the request, when, on hearing the report
of a pistol, he turned and beheld the
ensign falling from his saddle, and the
French officer in the act of replacing the
weapon with which he had savagely taken
the life of his preserver. Enraged at
the ingratitude of the Frenchman,
Ewart immediately turned upon him,
and, deaf to his supplications, cut him
down to the brisket. This was the work
only of a moment, for the conflict still
raged, the French infantry having
been supported by a numerous array of
cuirassiers and lancers. Dashing forward,
he now came within reach of the
standard-bearer of one of the Invincible
regiments to which they were opposed.
A short conflict ensued, when the French
officer fell beneath Ewart’s sword, and
the staff of the eagle stuck fast in the
ground, which was soft, so that he was
enabled to lay hold of it without further
trouble. Had the standard fallen, he
could not have recovered it in the <em>melée</em>.
Wheeling round, Ewart was in the act
of making off with his prize, when a
lancer, singling him out, galloped forward
and hurled his spear at his breast.
With all his reputed quickness in
defence, he had just strength enough to
ward off the blow, so that the lance
merely grazed his side; then raising
himself in his stirrups, he brought his
antagonist to the ground with one cut
of his sword. In riding away with the
valuable trophy, Ewart experienced
another narrow escape—a wounded
Frenchman, whom he had supposed to
be dead, having raised himself on his
elbow, and fired at him as he passed.
The ball fortunately missed him, and he
escaped to the rear, when he was ordered
to proceed with the standard to Brussels.</p>

<p class='c008'>The prowess of Ewart was greatly applauded,
not less in Belgium and France
than in Britain, and he subsequently,
through the influence of the late Sir
John Sinclair, obtained a commission in
a veteran battalion as a reward for his
services. When in Edinburgh in 1816,
he was invited to a Waterloo dinner at
Leith, where Sir Walter Scott proposed
his health in an eloquent and highly
complimentary speech. Little accustomed
to civilian society, Lieutenant
Ewart felt diffident to reply; and, in a
note to the chairman, begged that he
might be excused, adding, with the
bluntness of a soldier, that “he would
rather fight the battle of Waterloo over
again, than face so large an assemblage.”
The company, however, would not be
denied the gratification of a full-length
view of his person, and he was under
the necessity of shaking off his diffidence
by acknowledging the toast in a brief
reply, which he made amidst the
rapturous cheers of his entertainers. He
was also publicly entertained at dinner
in Ayr and Kilmarnock, and was presented
with the freedom of Irvine.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <h2 id='catching_a_tartar' class='c006'>CATCHING A TARTAR.</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><span class='sc'>By D. M. Moir.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c007'>From the first moment I clapped eye
on the caricature thing of a coat that
Tammie Bodkin had, in my absence,
shaped out for Cursecowl the butcher,
I foresaw, in my own mind, that a
catastrophe was brewing for us; and
never did soldier gird himself to fight
the French, or sailor prepare for a
sea-storm, with greater alacrity, than I
did to cope with the bull-dog anger,
and buffet back the uproarious vengeance
of our heathenish customer.</p>

<p class='c008'>At first I thought of letting the thing
take its natural course, and of threaping
down Cursecowl’s throat that he must
have been feloniously keeping in his
breath when Tammie took his measure;
and, moreover, that as it was the fashion
to be straight-laced, Tammie had done
his utmost trying to make him look like
his betters; till, my conscience checking
me for such a nefarious intention, I
endeavoured, as became me in the relations
of man, merchant, and Christian,
to solder the matter peaceably, and
show him, if there was a fault committed,
that there was no evil intention on my
side of the house. To this end I
despatched the bit servant wench, on
the Friday afternoon, to deliver the
coat, which was neatly tied up in brown
paper, and directed, “Mr Cursecowl,
with care,” and to buy a sheep’s-head;
bidding her, by way of being civil,
give my kind compliments, and inquire
how Mr and Mrs Cursecowl, and the
five little Miss Cursecowls, were keeping
their healths, and trusting to his
honour in sending me a good article.
But have a moment’s patience.</p>

<p class='c008'>Being busy at the time turning a pair
of kuttikins for old Mr Mooleypouch
the mealmonger, when the lassie came
back I had no mind of asking a sight of
the sheep’s-head, as I aye like the little
blackfaced in preference to the white,
fat, fozy Cheviot breed; but most
providentially I catched a gliskie of the
wench passing the shop window, on the
road over to Jamie Coom the smith’s, to
get it singed, having been dispatched
there by her mistress. Running round
the counter like lightning, I opened the
sneck, and halooed to her to wheel to
the right about, having, somehow or
other, a superstitious longing to look at
the article. As I was saying, there was a
providence in this, which, at the time,
mortal man could never have thought of.</p>

<p class='c008'>James Batter had popped in with a
newspaper in his hand, to read me a
curious account of a mermaid that was
seen singing a Gaelic song, and combing
its hair with a tortoise-shell comb,
someway terrible far north about
Shetland, by a respectable minister of
the district, riding home in the gloaming
after a Presbytery dinner. So, as he
was just taking off his spectacles cannily,
and saying to me—“And was not that
droll?”—the lassie spread down her
towel on the counter, when, lo, and
behold! such an abominable spectacle!
James Batter observing me run back,
and turn white, put on his glasses again,
cannily taking them out of his well-worn
shagreen case, and, giving a stare down
at the towel, almost touched the beast’s
nose with his own.</p>

<p class='c008'>“And what, in the name of goodness,
is the matter?” quo’ James Batter; “ye
seem in a wonderful quandary.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“The matter!” answered I, in
astonishment, looking to see if the
man had lost his sight or his senses;
“the matter! who ever saw a sheep’shead
with straight horns, and a visnomy
all colours of the rainbow—red, blue,
orange, green, yellow, white, and black?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“’Deed it is,” said James, after a
nearer inspection; “it must be a lowsynaturay.
I’m sure I have read most of
Buffon’s books, and I have never heard
tell of the like. It’s gey and queerish.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“’Od, James,” answered I, “ye take
everything very canny; you’re a philosopher,
to be sure; but I daresay if the
moon was to fall from the lift, and
knock down the old kirk, ye would say
no more than ‘it’s gey and queerish.’”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Queerish, man! Do ye not see
that?” added I, shoving down his head
mostly on the top of it. “Do ye not
see that? awful, most awful! extonishing!!
Do ye not see that long beard?
Who, in the name of goodness, ever
was an eyewitness to a sheep’s-head, in
a Christian land, with a beard like an
unshaven Jew, crying ‘owl clowes,’ with
a green bag over his left shoulder?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Dog on it,” said James, giving a
fidge with his hainches; “dog on it,
as I am a living sinner, that is the head
of a Willie-goat.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Willie or Nannie,” answered I,
“it’s not meat for me; and never shall
an ounce of it cross the craig of my
family—that is as sure as ever James
Batter drave a shuttle. Give counsel in
need, James: what is to be done?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“That needs consideration,” quo’
James, giving a bit hoast. “Unless he
makes ample apology, and explains the
mistake in a feasible way, it is my
humble opinion that he ought to be
summoned before his betters. That is the
legal way to make him smart for his sins.”</p>

<p class='c008'>At last a thought struck me, and I
saw farther through my difficulties than
ever mortal man did through a millstone;
but, like a politician, I minted not the
matter to James. Keeping my tongue
cannily within my teeth, I then laid the
head, wrapped up in the bit towel, in
a corner behind the counter; and turning
my face round again to James, I
put my hands into my breeches-pockets,
as if nothing in the world had happened,
and ventured back to the story of the
mermaid. I asked him how she looked—what
kind of dress she wore—if she
swam with her corsets—what was
the colour of her hair—where she would
buy the tortoise-shell comb—and so
on; when just as he was clearing his
pipe to reply, who should burst open
the shop-door like a clap of thunder,
with burning cat’s een, and a face as
red as a soldier’s jacket, but Cursecowl
himself, with the new killing-coat in his
hand, which, giving a tremendous
curse (the words of which are not
essentially necessary for me to repeat,
being an elder of our kirk), he made
play flee at me with such a birr, that it
twisted round my neck, and mostly
blinding me, made me doze like a tottum.
At the same time, to clear his way, and
the better to enable him to take a good
mark, he gave James Batter a shove,
that made him stoiter against the wall,
and snacked the good new farthing
tobacco-pipe, that James was taking
his first whiff out of; crying at the
same blessed moment—</p>

<p class='c008'>“Hold out o’ my road, ye long,
withered wabster. Ye’re a pair of
havering idiots; but I’ll have pennyworths
out of both your skins, as I’m
a sinner!”</p>

<p class='c008'>What was to be done? There was no
time for speaking; for Cursecowl, foaming
like a mad dog with passion, seized
hold of the ell-wand, which he flourished
round his head like a Highlander’s
broadsword, and stamping about with
his stockings drawn up his thighs,
threatened every moment to commit
bloody murder.</p>

<p class='c008'>If James Batter never saw service
before, he learned a little of it that day,
being in a pickle of bodily terror not to
be imagined by living man; but his
presence of mind did not forsake him,
and he cowered for safety and succour
into a far corner, holding out a web of
buckram before him, me crying all the
time—“Send for the town-officer! Will
ye not send for the town-officer?”</p>

<p class='c008'>You may talk of your General
Moores and your Lord Wellingtons as
ye like; but never, since I was born,
did I ever see or hear tell of anything
braver than the way Tammy Bodkin
behaved, in saving both our precious
lives, at that blessed nick of time, from
touch-and-go jeopardy; for, when Cursecowl
was rampauging about, cursing and
swearing like a Russian bear, hurling
out volleys of oaths that would have
frighted John Knox, forbye the like of
us, Tammie stole in behind him like a
wild cat, followed by Joseph Breekey,
Walter Cuff, and Jack Thorl, the three
apprentices, on their stocking-soles;
and having strong and dumpy arms,
pinned back his elbows like a flash of
lightning, giving the other callants time
to jump on his back, and hold him like
a vice; while, having got time to draw
my breath, and screw up my pluck, I
ran forward like a lion, and houghed
the whole concern—Tammie Bodkin,
the three faithful apprentices, Cursecowl,
and all, coming to the ground like a
battered castle.</p>

<p class='c008'>It was now James Batter’s time to
come up in line; and though a douce
man (being savage for the insulting way
that Cursecowl had dared to use him),
he dropped down like mad, with his
knees on Cursecowl’s breast, who was
yelling, roaring, and grinding his buck-teeth
like a mad bull, kicking right and
spurring left with fire and fury; and,
taking his Kilmarnock off his head,
thrust it, like a battering-ram, into
Cursecowl’s mouth, to hinder him from
alarming the neighbourhood, and bringing
the whole world about our ears.</p>

<p class='c008'>Such a stramash of tumbling, roaring,
tearing, swearing, kicking, pushing,
cuffing, rugging, and riving about the
floor!! I thought they would not have
left one another with a shirt on: it
seemed a combat even to the death.
Cursecowl’s breath was choked up
within him, like wind in an empty
bladder; and when I got a gliskie of his
face, from beneath James’s cowl, it was
growing as black as the crown of my
hat. It feared me much that murder
would be the upshot, the webs being
all heeled over, both of broad cloth,
buckram, cassimir, and Welsh flannel;
and the paper shapings and worsted
runds coiled about their throats and
bodies like fiery serpents. At long and
last, I thought it became me, being the
head of the house, to sound a parley,
and bid them give the savage a mouthful
of fresh air, to see if he had anything
to say in his defence.</p>

<p class='c008'>Cursecowl, by this time, had forcible
assurance of our ability to overpower
him, and finding he had by far the
worst of it, was obliged to grow tamer,
using the first breath he got to cry out—</p>

<p class='c008'>“A barley, ye thieves! a barley! I
tell you, give me wind. There’s not a
man in nine of ye!”</p>

<p class='c008'>Finding our own strength, we saw,
by this time, that we were masters of the
field; nevertheless we took care to make
good terms when they were in our power,
nor would we allow Cursecowl to sit upright
till after he had said, three times
over, on his honour as a gentleman,
that he would behave as became one.</p>

<p class='c008'>After giving his breeches-knees a
skuff with his loof, to dad off the stoure,
he came, right foot foremost, to the
counter-side, while the laddies were
dighting their brows, and stowing away
the webs upon their ends round about,
saying,—</p>

<p class='c008'>“Maister Wauch, how have ye the
conscience to send hame such a piece o’
wark as that coat to ony decent man?
Do ye dare to imagine that I am a
Jerusalem spider, that I could be
crammed, neck and heels, into such
a thing as that? Fie, shame—it would
not button on yourself, man, scarecrow-looking
mortal though ye be!”</p>

<p class='c008'>James Batter’s blood was now up,
and boiling like an old Roman’s; so he
was determined to show Cursecowl that
I had a friend in court, able and willing
to keep him at stave’s end.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Keep a calm sough,” said James
Batter, interfering; “and not miscall
the head of the house in his own shop;
or, to say nothing of present consequences,
by way of showing ye the road
to the door, perhaps Maister Sneckdrawer,
the penny-writer, ’ll give ye a
caption-paper with a broad margin,
to claw your elbow with at your leisure,
my good fellow.”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Pugh, pugh!” cried Cursecowl,
snapping his finger and thumb at James’s
beak; “I do not value your threatening
an ill halfpenny. Come away out your
ways to the crown of the causey, and
I’ll box any three of ye, over the bannys,
for half-a-mutchkin. But, ’odsake,
Batter, my man, nobody’s speaking to
you,” added Cursecowl, giving a hack
now and then, and a bit spit down
on the floor; “go hame, man, and get
your cowl washed; I daresay you have
pushioned me, so I have no more to say
to the like of you. But now, Maister
Wauch, just speaking hooly and fairly,
do you not think black burning shame
of yourself, for putting such an article
into any decent Christian man’s hand,
like mine?”</p>

<p class='c008'>“Wait a wee—wait a wee, friend,
and I’ll give ye a lock salt to your
broth,” answered I, in a calm and cool
way; for, being a confidential elder of
Maister Wiggie’s, I kept myself free
from the sin of getting into a passion,
or fighting, except in self-defence, which
is forbidden neither by law nor gospel;
and, stooping down, I took up the
towel from the corner, and, spreading
it upon the counter, bade him look, and
see if he knew an auld acquaintance!</p>

<p class='c008'>Cursecowl, to be such a dragoon, had
some rational points in his character;
so, seeing that he lent ear to me with a
smirk on his rough red face, I went on:</p>

<p class='c008'>“Take my advice as a friend, and
make the best of your way home, killing-coat
and all; for the most perfect will
sometimes fall into an innocent mistake,
and, at any rate, it cannot be helped now.
But if ye show any symptom of obstripulosity,
I’ll find myself under the
necessity of publishing you abroad to
the world for what you are, and show
about that head in the towel for a
wonder to broad Scotland, in a manner
that will make customers flee from your
booth, as if it was infected with the
seven plagues of Egypt.”</p>

<p class='c008'>At sight of the goat’s head, Cursecowl
clapped his hand on his thigh two
or three times, and could scarcely muster
good manners enough to keep himself
from bursting out a-laughing.</p>

<p class='c008'>“Ye seem to have found a fiddle,
friend,” said I; “but give me leave to
tell you, that ye’ll may be find it liker a
hanging-match than a musical matter.
Are you not aware that I could hand you
over to the sheriff, on two special indictments?
In the first place, for an action
of assault and batterification, in cuffing
me, an elder of our kirk, with a sticked
killing-coat, in my own shop; and, in the
second place, as a swindler, imposing
on his Majesty’s loyal subjects, taking
the coin of the realm on false pretences,
and palming off goat’s flesh upon Christians,
as if they were perfect Pagans.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Heathen though Cursecowl was, this
oration alarmed him in a jiffie, soon
showing him, in a couple of hurries,
that it was necessary for him to be our
humble servant; so he said, still keeping
the smirk on his face—</p>

<p class='c008'>“Keh, keh, it’s not worth making a
noise about after all. Gie me the jacket,
Mansie, my man, and it’ll maybe serve
my nephew, young Killim, who is as
lingit in the waist as a wasp. Let us
take a shake of your paw over the
counter, and be friends. Bye-ganes
should be bye-ganes.”</p>

<p class='c008'>Never let it be said that Mansie
Wauch, though one of the king’s
volunteers, ever thrust aside the olive
branch of peace; so, ill-used though I had
been, to say nothing of James Batter,
who had got his pipe smashed to crunches,
and one of the eyes of his spectacles
knocked out, I gave him my fist frankly.</p>

<p class='c008'>James Batter’s birse had been so
fiercely put up, and no wonder, that it
was not so easily sleeked down; so, for
a while, he looked unco glum, till Cursecowl
insisted that our meeting should not
be a dry one; nor would he hear a
single word on me and James Batter
not accepting his treat of a mutchkin of
Kilbagie.</p>

<p class='c008'>I did not think James would have
been so doure and refractory, funking
and flinging like old Jeroboam; but at
last, with the persuasion of the treat, he
came to, and, sleeking down his front
hair, we all three took a step down to
the far end of the close, at the back
street, where Widow Thamson kept the
sign of ‘The Tankard and the Tappit
Hen;’ Cursecowl, when we got ourselves
seated, ordering in the spirits with
a loud rap on the table with his
knuckles, and a whistle on the landlady
through his foreteeth, that made the roof
ring. A bottle of beer was also brought;
so, after drinking one another’s healths
round, with a tasting out of the dram
glass, Cursecowl swashed the rest of the
raw creature into the tankard, saying—</p>

<p class='c008'>“Now take your will o’t; there’s drink
fit for a king; that’s real ‘Pap-in.’”</p>

<p class='c008'>He was an awful body, Cursecowl,
and had a power of queer stories, which,
weel-a-wat, did not lose in the telling.
James Batter, beginning to brighten up,
hodged and leuch like a nine-year-old;
and I freely confess, for another, that I
was so diverted, that, I daresay, had it
not been for his fearsome oaths, which
made our very hair stand on end, and were
enough to open the stone-wall, we would
have both sate from that time to this.</p>

<p class='c008'>We got the whole story of the
Willie-goat, out and out, it seeming to
be with Cursecowl a prime matter of
diversion, especially that part of it
relating to the head, by which he had
won a crown-piece from Deacon Paunch,
who wagered that the wife and me
would eat it, without ever finding out
our mistake. But, aha, lad!</p>

<p class='c008'>The long and the short of the matter
was this. The Willie-goat had, for
eighteen years, belonged to a dragoon
marching regiment, and, in its better
days, had seen a power of service
abroad; till, being now old and infirm,
it had fallen off one of the baggage-carts,
and got its leg broken on the road to
Piershill, where it was sold to Cursecowl,
by a corporal, for half-a-crown
and a dram. The four quarters he had
managed to sell for mutton, like
lightning, this one buying a jigget, that
one a back ribs, and so on. However,
he had to weather a gey brisk gale in
making his point good. One woman
remarked that it had an unearthly,
rank smell; to which he said, “No,
no—ye do not ken your blessings, friend;
that’s the smell of venison, for the beast
was brought up along with the deers in
the Duke’s parks.” And to another
wife, that, after smell-smelling at it,
thought it was a wee humphed, he
replied, “Faith, that’s all the thanks
folks get for letting their sheep crop
heather among the Cheviot hills,” and
such-like lies. But as for the head,
that had been the doure business. Six
times had it been sold and away, and
six times had it been brought back
again. One bairn said that her “mother
didna like a sheep’s-head with horns like
these,” and wanted it changed for
another one. A second one said, that
“it had tup’s een, and her father liked
wether mutton.” A third customer
found mortal fault with the colours,
which, she said, “were not canny, or
in the course of nature.” What the
fourth one said, and the fifth one took
leave to observe, I have stupidly forgotten,
though, I am sure, I heard
both; but I mind one remarked, quite
off-hand, as she sought back her money,
that “unless sheep could do without
beards, like their neighbours, she would
keep the pot boiling with a piece beef,
in the meantime.” After all this—would
any mortal man believe it?—Deacon
Paunch, the greasy Daniel Lambert
that he is, had taken the wager,
as I before took opportunity to remark,
that our family would swallow the bait!
But, aha, he was off his eggs there!</p>

<p class='c008'>James and me were so tickled with
Cursecowl’s wild, outrageous, off-hand,
humoursome way of telling his crack,
that, though sore with neighering, none
of the two of us ever thought of rising;
Cursecowl chapping in first one stoup,
and then another, and birling the
tankard round the table, as if we had
been drinking dub-water. I daresay I
would never have got away, had I not
slipped out behind Lucky Thamson’s
back—for she was a broad fat body,
with a round-eared mutch, and a full-plaited
check apron—when she was
drawing the sixth bottle of small beer,
with her corkscrew between her knees;
Cursecowl lecturing away, at the
dividual moment, like a Glasgow professor,
to James Batter, whose een
were gathering straws, on a pliskie he
had once, in the course of trade, played
on a conceited body of a French sick-nurse,
by selling her a lump of fat pork
to make beef-tea of to her mistress, who
was dwining in the blue Beelzebubs.</p>

<p class='c008'>Ohone, and woe’s me, for old
Father Adam and the fall of man!
Poor, sober, good, honest James Batter
was not, by a thousand miles, a match
for such company. Everything, however,
has its moral, and the truth will
out. When Nanse and me were sitting
at our breakfast next morning, we
heard from Benjie, who had been early
up fishing for eels at the water-side, that
the whole town talk was concerning the
misfortunate James Batter, who had
been carried home, totally incapable,
far in the night, by Cursecowl and an
Irish labourer—that sleeped in Widow
Thamson’s garret—on a hand-barrow,
borrowed from Maister Wiggie’s servant-lass,
Jenny Jessamine.—<em>Mansie
Wauch.</em></p>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c002'>
    <div><em>Commercial Printing Company, Edinburgh.</em></div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c003'>
</div>
<div class='tnotes x-ebookmaker'>

<div class='chapter ph2'>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c005'>
    <div>TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES</div>
  </div>
</div>

</div>

 <ol class='ol_1 c002'>
    <li>Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in spelling.

    </li>
    <li>Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.
    </li>
  </ol>

</div>

<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BOOK OF SCOTTISH STORY: HISTORICAL, HUMOROUS, LEGENDARY, AND IMAGINATIVE ***</div>
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