| By Author | [ A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z | Other Symbols ] |
| By Title | [ A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z | Other Symbols ] |
| By Language |
|
Download this book: [ ASCII ] Look for this book on Amazon Tweet |
Title: The book of Scottish story: historical, humorous, legendary, and imaginative : Selected from the works of standard Scottish authors
Author: Various
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.
*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The book of Scottish story: historical, humorous, legendary, and imaginative : Selected from the works of standard Scottish authors" ***
THE BOOK
OF
SCOTTISH STORY:
_HISTORICAL, HUMOROUS, LEGENDARY, AND IMAGINATIVE_.
SELECTED FROM THE
Works of Standard Scottish Authors.
“_Stories to read are delitable,
Suppose that they be nought but fable;
Then should stories that soothfast were,
And they were said on gude manner,
Have double pleasance in hearing._”
BARBOUR.
EDINBURGH:
THE EDINBURGH PUBLISHING COMPANY.
LONDON: SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, & CO.
EDINBURGH:
PRINTED BY THE COMMERCIAL PRINTING COMPANY,
22 HOWE STREET.
PREFACE.
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.
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.
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.
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.
EDINBURGH, _August 1876_.
CONTENTS.
The Henpecked Man, _John Mackay Wilson_
Duncan Campbell, _James Hogg_
The Lily of Liddisdale, _Professor Wilson_
The Unlucky Present, _Robert Chambers_
The Sutor of Selkirk “_The Odd Volume_,”
Elsie Morrice, _Aberdeen Censor_,
How I won the Laird’s Daughter, _Daniel Gorrie_
Moss-Side, _Professor Wilson_
My First Fee, _Edin. Literary
Journal_,
The Kirk of Tullibody, _Chambers’s Edin.
Journal_,
The Progress of Inconstancy, _Blackwood’s Magazine_,
Adam Bell, _James Hogg_
Mauns’ Stane; or, Mine Host’s Tale, _Aberdeen Censor_,
The Freebooter of Lochaber, _Sir Thomas Dick
Lauder_
An Hour in the Manse, _Professor Wilson_
The Warden of the Marches, _Edin. Literary
Gazette_,
The Alehouse Party, “_The Odd Volume_,”
Auchindrane; or, the Ayrshire Tragedy, _Sir Walter Scott_
A Tale of the Plague in Edinburgh, _Robert Chambers_
The Probationer’s First Sermon, _Daniel Gorrie_
The Crimes of Richard Hawkins, _Thomas Aird_
The Headstone, _Professor Wilson_
The Widow’s Prediction, _Edin. Literary
Journal_,
The Lady of Waristoun, _Chambers’s Edin.
Journal_,
A Tale of Pentland, _James Hogg_
Graysteel _John o’ Groat
Journal_,
The Billeted Soldier, _Eminent Men of Fife_,
Bruntfield, _Chambers’s Edin.
Journal_,
Sunset and Sunrise, _Professor Wilson_
Miss Peggy Brodie, _Andrew Picken_
The Death of a Prejudice, _Thomas Aird_
Anent Auld Grandfaither, &c., _D. M. Moir_
John Brown; or, the House in the Muir, _Blackwood’s Magazine_,
Traditions of the Old Tolbooth of Edinburgh, _Robert Chambers_
The Lover’s Last Visit, _Professor Wilson_
Mary Queen of Scots and Chatelar, _Literary Souvenir_,
A Night in Duncan M‘Gowan’s, _Blackwood’s Magazine_,
The Miller and the Freebooter, _Sir Thomas Dick
Lauder_
Benjie’s Christening, _D. M. Moir_
The Minister’s Widow, _Professor Wilson_
The Battle of the Breeks, _Robert Macnish_
My Sister Kate, _Andrew Picken_
Wat the Prophet, _James Hogg_
The Snow-Storm, _Professor Wilson_
Love at one Glimpse, _Edin. Literary
Journal_,
Nanny Welsh, the Minister’s Maid, _Daniel Gorrie_
Lady Jean, _Chambers’s Edin.
Journal_,
The Monkey, _Robert Macnish_
The Ladder-Dancer, _Blackwood’s Magazine_,
The Elder’s Death-Bed, _Professor Wilson_
A Highland Feud, _Sir Walter Scott_
The Resurrection Men, _D. M. Moir_
Mary Wilson, _Aberdeen Censor_,
The Laird of Cassway, _James Hogg_
The Elder’s Funeral, _Professor Wilson_
Macdonald, the Cattle-Riever, _Literary Gazette_,
The Murder Hole, _Blackwood’s Magazine_,
The Miller of Doune, “_The Odd Volume_,”
The Headless Cumins, _Sir Thomas Dick
Lauder_
The Lady Isabel, _Chambers’s Edin.
Journal_,
The Desperate Duel, _D. M. Moir_
The Vacant Chair, _John Mackay Wilson_
Colkittoch, _Literary Gazette_,
The Covenanters, _Robert Macnish_
The Poor Scholar, _Professor Wilson_
The Crushed Bonnet, _Glasgow Athenæum_,
The Villagers of Auchincraig, _Daniel Gorrie_
Perling Joan, _John Gibson Lockhart_
Janet Smith, _Professor Thomas
Gillespie_
The Unlucky Top Boots, _Chambers’s Edin.
Journal_,
My First and Last Play, _D. M. Moir_
Jane Malcolm, _Edin. Literary
Journal_,
Bowed Joseph, _Robert Chambers_
The Laird of Wineholm, _James Hogg_
An Incident in the Great Moray Floods of 1829, _Sir Thomas Dick
Lauder_
Charlie Graham, the Tinker, _George Penny_
The Snowing-up of Strath Lugas, _Blackwood’s Magazine_,
Ezra Peden, _Allan Cunningham_
Young Ronald of Morar, _Literary Gazette_,
The Broken Ring, “_The Odd Volume_,”
A Passage of My Life, _Paisley Magazine_,
The Court Cave, _Drummond Bruce_
Helen Waters, _John Malcolm_
Legend of the Large Mouth, _Robert Chambers_
Richard Sinclair; or, the Poor Prodigal, _Thomas Aird_
The Barley Fever—and Rebuke, _D. M. Moir_
Elphin Irving, the Fairies’ Cupbearer, _Allan Cunningham_
Choosing a Minister, _John Galt_
The Meal Mob, _Edin. Literary
Journal_,
The Flitting, “_My Grandfather’s
Farm_,”
Ewen of the Little Head, _Literary Gazette_,
Basil Rolland, _Aberdeen Censor_,
The Last of the Jacobites, _Robert Chambers_
The Grave-Digger’s Tale, “_The Auld Kirk Yard_,”
The Fairy Bride, _Edin. Literary
Journal_,
The Lost Little Ones, “_The Odd Volume_,”
An Orkney Wedding, _John Malcolm_
The Ghost with the Golden Casket, _Allan Cunningham_
Ranald of the Hens, _Literary Gazette_,
The French Spy, _John Galt_
The Minister’s Beat, _Blackwood’s Magazine_,
A Scottish Gentlewoman of the Last Century, _Miss Ferrier_
The Faithless Nurse, _Edin. Literary
Gazette_,
Traditions of the Celebrated Major Weir, _Robert Chambers_
The Windy Yule, _John Galt_
Grizel Cochrane, _Chambers’s Edin.
Journal_,
The Fatal Prayer, _Literary Melange_,
Glenmannow, the Strong Herdsman, _William Bennet_
My Grandmother’s Portrait, _Daniel Gorrie_
The Baptism, _Professor Wilson_
The Laird’s Wooing, _John Galt_
Thomas the Rhymer, _Sir Walter Scott_
Lachlan More, _Literary Gazette_,
Alemoor, _Chambers’s Edin.
Journal_,
Tibby Fowler, _John Mackay Wilson_
Daniel Cathie, Tobacconist, _Edin. Literary
Almanac_,
The Haunted Ships, _Allan Cunningham_
A Tale of the Martyrs, _James Hogg_
The Town Drummer, _John Galt_
The Awful Night, _D. M. Moir_
Rose Jamieson, _Anon._
A Night at the Herring Fishing, _Hugh Miller_
The Twin Sisters, _Alexander Balfour_
Albert Bane, _Henry Mackenzie_
The Penny Wedding, _Alexander Campbell_
Peat-Casting Time, _Thomas Gillespie_
An Adventure with the Press-Gang, _Paisley Magazine_,
The Laird of Cool’s Ghost, _Old Chap Book_,
Allan-a-Sop, _Sir Walter Scott_
John Hetherington’s Dream, _Old Chap Book_,
Black Joe o’ the Bow, _James Smith_
The Fight for the Standard, _James Paterson_
Catching a Tartar, _D. M. Moir_
THE BOOK OF
SCOTTISH STORY.
THE HENPECKED MAN.
BY JOHN MACKAY WILSON.
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 _learned_ 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.”
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:—
“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
_obeys_ 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 _words_ 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.
“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—
“‘I’ll just leave it to yoursel, Peter,’ says she.
“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,
‘I’m ower happy now!—Oh, haud my head!
This gift o’ joy is like to be my dead.’
“‘I hope no, Peter,’ said she; ‘I wad rather hae ye to live than dee for
me.’
“I thocht she was as sensible as she was bonny, and better natured than
baith.
“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.
“What are ye doing, Patie?’ says she; ‘whar are ye gaun?’
“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.
“‘Ou, my dear,’ says I, ‘I’m just gaun up to Orange Lane a wee while.’
“‘To Orange Lane!’ says she; ‘what in the name of fortune’s gaun to tak
ye there?’
“‘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.’
“‘Ay! the sorrow joy them!’ says she, ‘and neebor too!—an’ how meikle
will that cost ye?’
“‘Hoot, Tibby,’ says I, for I was quite astonished at her, ‘ye dinna
understand things, woman.’
“‘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.’
“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—
“‘Mind what ye spend, and see that ye dinna stop.’
“‘Ye need be under nae apprehensions o’ that, hinny,’ said I, wishing to
pacify her.
“‘See that it be sae,’ cried she, as I shut the door.
“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—
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm,
it was her that nicht. I drew in a chair, and, though I was half-feared
to speak—
“‘What’s the matter, my pet?’ says I—‘what’s happened ye?’
“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—
“‘What ails ye, Tibby, dear?—are ye no weel?’
“‘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?’
“‘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.’
“‘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’.’
“‘Nonsense!’ says I.
“‘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?’
“‘Toots, Tibby!’ said I, ‘whar’s the cause for a’ this? What great deal
could it cost me?’
“‘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.’
“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—
“‘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.’
“‘And if this is the life ye intend to lead me,’ thought I, ‘I wush the
same thing.’
“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 _this_, and useless _that_; 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’—
“‘Get up, ye lazy body, ye—get up, and see what’s the maiter wi’ this
bairn.’
“An’ this was the trade half-a-dizen o’ times in a nicht.
“At last, there was ae day, when a’ that I had dune was simply saying a
word about the denner no bein’ ready, and afore ever I kenned whar I
was, a cracky-stool that she 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.
“‘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!’
“‘Ye’ll no put up wi’ it, _ye cratur_!’ said she; ‘if ye gie me ony mair
o’ yer provocation, I’ll pu’ yer lugs for ye—wull ye put up wi’ that?’
“It was terrible for a man to hear his ain wife ca’ him _a cratur_!—just
as if I had been a monkey or a laup-doug!
“‘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.’
“‘List! ye _totum_ ye!’ said she; ‘do ye say _list_?’ 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.
“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.
“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!
“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—
“‘But I maun see the wife, Patie,’ says he.
“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’.
“‘Tibby, dear,’ said I—and I dinna think I had ca’ed her _dear_ 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.’
“‘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.
“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.’
“‘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.’
“‘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.’
“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’ _her_ 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—
“‘I wish you good-day, Mr Crichton,’ said he; ‘I have business in Kelso
to-night yet, and can’t stop.’
“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.
“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 _he_ did this, or _he_ did that—they for ever talk o’ me
as _him!—him!_ I never get the name o’ _faither_ 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.
“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 _allowed_ 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.
“‘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.’
“‘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.’
“‘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.’
“‘An’ meikle they hae made by their pride,’ said Tibby. ‘I wush ye wud
haud your tongue.’
“‘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.’
“‘And what am I obliged to her for that?’ interrupted my Jezebel.
“‘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.’
“‘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.’
“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.”
“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’!”
“Me!” said Patie—“what do ye mean, Robin?”
“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
Dauded her lugs wi’ Rab Roryson’s bannet,
or gien her a _hoopin’_, like your friend the cooper o’ Coldingham.”
“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 _is not the weaker
vessel_—that I ken to my sorrow.”
“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.”
“Dear sake! what is that?” cried Patie.
“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.”
“Do you think sae?” inquired the little bicker-maker.
“Yes, I think sae, Peter, and I say it,” said Robin; “and there is but
ae remedy left.”
“And what is that?” asked Patie, eagerly.
“Just this,” said Robin—“_stop the supplies_.”
“_Stop the supplies!_” returned Patie—“what do you mean, Robin? I canna
say that I fully comprehend ye.”
“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.”
“Do ye think that wad do it?” said Patie.
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“I thoroughly understand ye,” said Patie; “my resolution’s ta’en, and
I’ll stand by it.”
“Gie’s your hand on’t,” said Robin; and Patie gave him his hand.
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.
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—
“How’s a’ wi’ ye, my freend?” says Patie.
“Oh, hearty, hearty,” cries the other; “but how’s a’ wi’ ye?—how is yer
family?”
“Come and get the bottle o’ wine that I’ve to gie ye,” said Patie, “and
I’ll tell ye a’ about it.”
“I’ll do that,” said Robin, “for my business is dune.”
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.
“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—_stop the supplies_.”
“I am glad to hear it,” said Robin; “I was sure it was the only thing
that would do.”
“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—
“‘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.’
“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!’
“‘Yours!’ cried she; ‘is the _body_ drunk?’
“‘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.’
“‘Ye micht hae come in in time to get it then,’ said she; ‘folk canna
keep suppers waitin’ on you.’
“‘But I’ll gang whar I can get it,’ said I; and I offered to leave the
house.
“‘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.’
“‘Gie you the siller!’ says I; ‘na, na, I’ve dune that lang aneugh—_I
hae stopped the supplies_, my woman.’
“‘Stop your breath!’ cried she; ‘gie me the siller, every farthin’, or
wo betide ye!’
“It was needless for her to say _every farthin’_; 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.
“‘Do as ye like,’ says I; ‘I’ll bring ye to your senses—_I’ve stopped
the supplies_.’
“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.
“‘Wha maks a fule o’ me now?’
“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.
“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—
“‘Faither, I want siller for tea and sugar.’
“‘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.’
“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.’
“‘Weel, Peter,’ said Tibby, ‘I’m sure it’s as little as a son can do,
and I’m perfectly agreeable.’
“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.’
“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.”
DUNCAN CAMPBELL.
BY JAMES HOGG, THE “ETTRICK SHEPHERD.”
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.
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.
“What ails you?” said the servant.
“I will never see my poor honest Oscar again,” said Duncan, “an’ my
heart canna bide it.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
“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.”
“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.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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,
She never told her love;
But let concealment, like a worm i’ the bud,
Feed on her damask cheek;—she pined in thought;
And, with a green and yellow melancholy,
She sat like patience on a monument,
Smiling at grief.
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.
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.”
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.
“I must bid you farewell,” said he, groping to get hold of my hand.
“Will you not breakfast with us, Duncan?” said I.
“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—”
“Who, Duncan?” said I.
“And you,” said he.
“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.”
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.
“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.
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.
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.
“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.
“Good e’en, good e’en,” said he, wiping his brow with his arm, and
passing by.
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 _incog._ 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.
“Lexy, my dear,” said he, “did you see my spectacles?”
“Yes,” said she; “I think I saw them on your nose to-day at breakfast.”
“Well, but I have lost them since,” said he.
“You may take up the next you find then, sir,” said she.
The servants laughed.
“I might well have known what information I would get of you,” said he,
regretfully.
“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.”
“He!” said she, “who minds him? He’s a dotard, an old whining,
complaining, superannuated being, worse than a child.”
“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.”
The old lady now joined them.
“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.”
“You losses!” said his spouse; “no; you have never had any losses that
did not in the end turn out a vast profit.”
“Do you then account the loss of a loving wife and a son nothing?” said
he.
“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!”
“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.”
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.
“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.”
The old man clung to Duncan, and looked him ruefully in the face.
“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.”
“Softly, softly, good lady,” said Duncan, “take care that I do not turn
you out of the house.”
“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.”
“Fear not,” said Duncan, “I will protect you with my life.”
“Pray, may I ask you what is your name?” said the old man, still looking
earnestly at him.
“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.”
“M-m-m-my son!” exclaimed the old man, and sunk back on a seat with a
convulsive moan.
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.
“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!”
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.
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.
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.
“Yonder are the officers of justice now,” said my mother; “what shall we
do?”
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.
“You had better take the men’s horses, James,” said my father, “as there
is no other man at hand.”
“We will stay till they rap, if you please,” said I.
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.
“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.
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.
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.
THE LILY OF LIDDISDALE.
BY PROFESSOR WILSON.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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?”
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.
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!
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!”
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.
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.
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.
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!”
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!”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!”
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.
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!”
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.
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.
“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.”
The agitated youth released Amy from his arms, and she flung herself
down upon her knees before that lovely lady.
“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.”
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.
“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.”
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.
“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.”
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.
“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.
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.
THE UNLUCKY PRESENT.
BY ROBERT CHAMBERS, LL.D.
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
_extremely covetous_, 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.
“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.”
“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.”
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.
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 _in_, or, at least, _into_,
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 _patera_
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 _contretemps_ 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 _Death in the Pot_.
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,
Out cam the gudeman, and high he shouted;
Out cam the gudewife, and low she louted;
And a’ the town-neighbours were gathered about it;
And there was he, I trow!
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.
“Will I come sair on, minister?” exclaimed the considerate man of iron
in at the brink of the pot.
“As sair as ye like,” was the minister’s answer; “better a chap i’ the
chafts than dying for want of breath.”
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.—_Edinburgh Literary Journal._
THE SUTOR OF SELKIRK:
_A REMARKABLY TRUE STORY_.
BY ONE OF THE AUTHORS OF “THE ODD VOLUME.”
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 _all_ 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.
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.
“You’re early afoot, sir,” quoth Rabbie. “Lucky Wakerife’s cock will no
craw for a good half hour yet.”
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.
“He smells awfully o’ yird,” muttered Rabbie to himself; “ane would be
ready to swear he had just cam frae the plough-tail.”
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.
“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.”
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.
“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.”
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.
“Something o’ the splay, I think, sir,” said Rabbie, with a knowing air.
No answer.
“Where will I bring the shoon to when they’re done?” asked Rabbie,
anxious to find out the domicile of his visitor.
“I will call for them myself before cock crowing,” responded the
stranger in a very uncommon and indescribable tone of voice.
“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.”
“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.”
“It maun be a dooms sma’ biggin,” answered Rabbie; “but noo that I hae
ta’en your honour’s measure——”
“Take your own!” retorted the stranger, and giving Rabbie a touch with
his foot that laid him prostrate, walked coolly out of the house.
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.
“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.”
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.
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—
“Where are my shoes?”
“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.”
“Perhaps I may wear both,” answered the stranger.
“Gude save us,” quoth Rabbie, “do ye sleep in your shoon?”
The stranger made no answer; but, laying a piece of gold on the table
and taking up the shoes, walked out of the house.
“Now’s my time,” thought Rabbie to himself, as he slipped after him.
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.
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, _nem.
con._, 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.
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.
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!
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.
ELSIE MORRICE.
FROM THE “ABERDEEN CENSOR.”
Oh, wert thou of the golden-wingèd host,
Who, having clad thyself in human weed,
To earth, from thy prefixèd seat didst post,
And, after short abode, fly back with speed,
As if to show what creatures Heav’n doth breed,
Thereby to set the hearts of men on fire,
To scorn the sordid world, and unto Heav’n aspire?—_Milton._
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;
And, if sometimes, a sigh should intervene,
Or down his cheek a tear of pity roll,
A sigh, a tear so sweet, he wished not to control.
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.
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.
“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.
“Willie,” cried the landlady, “what hae ye done? It’s the press-gang,
and Tam Sangster ’ll be torn frae his wife and bairns!”
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.
Auspicious hope! in thy sweet garden grow
Wreaths for each toil, a charm for every woe.
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.
The poet has beautifully said,
Ah, too convincing, dangerously dear,
In woman’s eye th’ unanswerable tear,
The weapon of her weakness she can wield
To save, subdue—at once her spear and shield.
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.
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,—
Yet can I not persuade me thou art dead,
Or that thy corpse corrupts in earth’s dark womb,
Or that thy beauties lie in wormy bed,
Hid from the world in a low-delvèd tomb.
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.
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?”
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.”
William, who had stood riveted to the earth all this time, now exerted
himself, and, seizing her arm, asked loudly, “Where is Elsie Morrice?”
“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.”
“Granny, ye knew me already,” said he; “for God’s sake, tell me what has
become of Elsie?”
“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.”
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?
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.”
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.
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.
HOW I WON THE LAIRD’S DAUGHTER.
BY DANIEL GORRIE.
CHAPTER I.
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.
“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?”
“No,” I replied; “it is not very long since I passed.”
“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.”
“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.”
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.”
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.
“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.
“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.”
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.
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.
On our return to the inn, the landlord appeared to regard my settlement
in St Dunstan as a certainty.
“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’.”
“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.”
“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.”
“And who is the Laird, Mr Barlas?” I asked.
“Oh, just the Laird, ye ken—Laird Ramsay o’ the Haugh; ye’ll surely hae
heard o’ him afore you cam south?”
“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?”
“I’ll tell you aboot him i’ the noo; but wait a wee, doctor, till I
bring ye something warm.”
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.
“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.”
“And how do you get to the right side of him, Mr Barlas?” I interjected.
“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.”
“The Laird has got a daughter, then, it seems?”
“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.”
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.
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.
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?”
“No,” I replied, “only from St Dunstan.”
“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!”
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.
“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.”
“We must begin somewhere and sometime, Mr Ramsay,” I rejoined.
“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.”
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.
“Bring us some wine first, like a gude lass,” said the Laird, “an’ then
we’ll tak something mair substantial when ye’re ready.”
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.
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.
CHAPTER II.
“Weel, doctor, is it a’ richt wi’ the Laird?” inquired Mr Barlas when I
returned to the Cross-Keys.
“Yes,” I rejoined, “it’s all right. Laird Ramsay is now my warmest and
staunchest supporter, and a most companionable old gentleman he is.”
“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?”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“No to speak o’ his dochter,” interjected mine host with a knowing look.
“But where,” I continued, “am I to take up my quarters?”
“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.”
“Such being the case, Mr Barlas, there is no choice, and the matter is
settled.”
“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.”
“So be it, Mr Barlas; and now that the house is settled, what about a
housekeeper? Was Dr Sommerville married?”
“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.”
“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?”
“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.”
“We’re getting on famously, Mr Barlas. The house and housekeeper are
both disposed of. What next?”
“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?”
“No,” I replied, “not particularly. I would require to purchase a horse
by proxy.”
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.”
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.
“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.”
“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.”
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.
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.
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.
“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?”
“It will afford me much pleasure, Mr Ramsay.”
“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.”
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.
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.
“Hae ye been snuffin’ the caller air, doctor?” he inquired.
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.”
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.
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.
“Ye dinna mean to say that Mrs Mackinlay is castin’ a sheep’s e’e at me,
do ye, doctor?”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“Has she, doctor?—has she? Weel, I’ll gang; but what would Jessie say, I
wunner?”
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.
MOSS-SIDE.
BY PROFESSOR WILSON.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
“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:—
The Lord’s my shepherd, I’ll not want.
He makes me down to lie
In pastures green: He leadeth me
The quiet waters by.
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.
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.
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!”
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.”
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,—
He waled a portion with judicious care,
And, “Let us worship God,” he said, with solemn air.
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.
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.
“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!”
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.
“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.”
“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.”
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.
MY FIRST FEE.
A CHAPTER FROM THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ADVOCATE.
“Fee him, father, fee him.”
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.
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!
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 _fee-ling_ propensities should not be gratified.
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!
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 _suit_ 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.
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!
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 _fe-line_ 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.
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 _corpus juris_ 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 _effects_, not
_causes_,—expecting to catch inspiration). In this said chair my man
ensconced his clay.
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.
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 _belli-gerent_ powers. There was in his
face a cunning leer, in his figure a knowing _tournure_, 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.
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 FEE’D!!!—_Edinburgh Literary Journal._
THE KIRK OF TULLIBODY.
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.
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.”—_Chambers’ Edinburgh Journal_,
1832.
THE PROGRESS OF INCONSTANCY;
_OR_, _THE SCOTS TUTOR_.
“Sweet, tender sex! with snares encompassed round,
On others hang thy comforts and thy rest.”—HOGG.
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!
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.—_J. M‘D., in Blackwood’s Magazine_, 1817.
ADAM BELL.
BY JAMES HOGG, THE “ETTRICK SHEPHERD.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.”
MAUNS’ STANE; OR, MINE HOST’S TALE.
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,
&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.
“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.
“This place, then, must have been famed in days of yore, my friend?”
“Ye may tak my word for that,” said he. “’Od, it _was_ 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.”
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.
“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.
“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’.”
“And who were these Federats?” I inquired.
“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?”
“Mauns’ what?” said I.
“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—
’Tween Ennetbutts an’ Mauns’ Stane
Ilka night there walks ane.
“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.”
“Is this stone still to be seen?”
“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.”
“But the well at the Abbey—did no one feel a desire to enrich himself
with the gold and silver buried there?”
“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.”
“The deuce he did!” said I.
“Weel, weel, the _deuce_, 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!”
“Most wonderful! And do you believe that Beelzebub actually appeared to
him?”
“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?”
“Indeed!”
“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’.”
I assented to this, and quickly lost in sleep the remembrance of all
these tales of the olden time.—_Aberdeen Censor_, 1825.
THE FREEBOOTER OF LOCHABER.
BY SIR THOMAS DICK LAUDER.
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 _Padrig
Mac-an-Ts’agairt_, 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, _Cairn-an-Sh’uaran_, 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.
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.
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.
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!”
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.
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.
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 _Tom-nan-Cean_, 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 _Lag-na-caillich_, 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.
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.
As they were pursuing their way up the south side of the river Dulnan,
the hill of _Tom-nan-Cean_ 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.
AN HOUR IN THE MANSE.
BY PROFESSOR WILSON.
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.
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.
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.”
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.
“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?”
The terrified man found strength to rise from his seat, and, staggering
towards the door, said, “Pardon, forgive me!—I am not worthy.”
“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.”
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.
“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.”
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.”
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.
“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.”
“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?”
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.
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!”
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.
“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?”
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.”
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.”
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.
“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.”
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.”
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.
“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.”
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.
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?”
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.”
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.
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.
THE WARDEN OF THE MARCHES:
_A TRADITIONARY STORY OF ANNANDALE_.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
“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.”
“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.”
“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.
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.
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.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.”
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.
On the present occasion, he determined to visit the warden of the March
_incog._; 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.
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.
“And how long will he sit?” said James.
“Two hours, perhaps three; he must not be intruded on till his bell
ring,” replied the porter.
“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.”
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.”
“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.”
This message was also carried, and the porter returned with a sorrowful
look, and shaking head.
“Well, does the warden consent to see me?” said the anxious stranger,
who had gained the porter’s goodwill by his liberality.
“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.”
“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.”
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.
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.
“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.”
In tremulous accents the warden attempted to excuse himself by
stammering out that he did not know he was wanted by his Majesty.
“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.”
“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.
“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.”
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.
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.
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.
“Did you, Sir John, do your utmost in the case?”
“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.”
“And her son, how is he to be restored?”
“When we have the good fortune to make an English prisoner, he can be
exchanged.”
“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.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
“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.
“Yes, my liege, I have seen her,” said Sir John, his lip quivering, and
his tongue faltering.
“Where?”
“At Amisfield.”
“On what occasion?”
“She came to me for the release of Wallace Maxwell.”
“And you refused her, except upon conditions which were an insult to
her, and a disgrace to yourself. Speak; is it not so?”
“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.”
“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.”
“My sovereign, I submit to the conditions, and promise that I shall do
my best to make the couple happy.”
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.”—_Edinburgh Literary
Gazette._
THE ALEHOUSE PARTY:
_A CHAPTER FROM AN UNPUBLISHED NOVEL_.
BY THE AUTHORS OF “THE ODD VOLUME.”
The night drave on wi’ sangs and clatter,
And aye the ale was growing better.—BURNS.
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.
“It’s a gude thing,” said Tammy, “that the wives and weans are keepit
out the night; folk get enough o’ them at hame.”
“I wonder,” said Jamie Wilson, “what’s become o’ Andrew Gilmour.”
“Hae ye no heard,” said Robin, “that his wife died yesterday?”
“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.”
“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.”
When the applause attending this toast had subsided, Robin was
universally called on for a song.
“I hae the hoast,” answered Robin; “that’s aye what the leddies say when
they are asked to sing.”
“Deil a hoast is about you,” cried Wattie Shuttle; “come awa wi’ a sang
without mair ado.”
“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.’”
SONG.
It’s I’m a sweet lassie, without e’er a faut;
Sae ilka ane tells me,—sae it maun be true;
To his kail my auld faither has plenty o’ saut,
And that brings the lads in gowpens to woo.
There’s Saunders M‘Latchie, wha bides at the Mill,
He wants a wee wifie, to bake and to brew;
But Saunders, for me, at the Mill may stay still,
For his first wife was pushioned, if what they say’s true.
The next is Tam Watt, who is grieve to the Laird,—
Last Sabbath, at puir me a sheep’s e’e he threw;
But Tam’s like the picters I’ve seen o’ Blue Beard,
And sic folk’s no that chancie, if what they say’s true.
Then there’s Grierson the cobbler, he’ll fleech an’ he’ll beg,
That I’d be his awl in awl, darlin’ and doo;
But Grierson the cobbler’s a happity leg,
And nae man that hobbles need come here to woo.
And there’s Murdoch the gauger, wha rides a blind horse,
And nae man can mak a mair beautifu’ boo;
But I shall ne’er tak him, for better, for worse,
For, sax days a week, gauger Murdoch is fou.
I wonder when Willie Waught’s faither ’ll dee;
(I wonder hoo that brings the blude to my brow;)
I wonder if Willie will then be for me;—
I wonder if then he’ll be coming to woo?
“It’s your turn now to sing, Tammy,” said Robin, “although I dinna ken
that ye are very gude at it.”
“Me sing!” cried Tammy, “I canna even sing a psalm, far less a sang; but
if ye like, I’ll tell you a story.”
“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.”
“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?”
“Whatna daftlike question is that, when ye ken very weel we hae a’ been
in Embro’ as weel as yoursel?”
“Weel then,” began Tammy, “I was coming ower the hill—”
“What hill?” asked Jamie Wilson. “Corstorphine hill?”
“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?”
“What’s that ye’re saying about Principal Hill?” asked Robin. “I kent
him weel ance in a day.”
“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.”
“Very weel,” said Tammy, a little angrily, “I’ll say nae mair about it,
but just drap the hill.”
“Whaur, whaur?” cried several voices at once.
“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.”
“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.”
“So we’re no to hae the story after a’?” said Matthew Henderson.
“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.”
“’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.”
“Then, to mak a lang story short, as I was coming ower the hill ae night
about ten o’clock I fell in—”
“Fell in!” cried Matthew Henderson, “Whaur? Was’t a hole, or a well?”
“I fell in,” replied Tammy, “wi’ a man.”
“Fell in wi’ a man!” said Willie Walkinshaw. “Weel, as there were twa o’
ye, ye could help ane anither out.”
“Na, na,” roared Tammy, “I dinna mean that at a’; I just cam up wi’
him.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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—”
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.
At this moment Grizzy Tacket made her appearance at the open door,
saying, “Is blethering Tam here?”
“Help me out, Robin, man,” cried Tammy.
“Help ye out!” said Grizzy; “What the sorrow took you in there, ye
drucken ne’er-do-weel?”
“Dinna abuse your gudeman, wife,” said Jamie Wilson.
“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.”
“’Odsake, wife,” cried Robin, “if ye shake Tammy weel, he’ll keep ye a’
in parritch for a week.”
“_She’ll_ shake him,” cried the angry Mrs Scoreup; “cocks are free o’
horses’ corn; _I’ll_ shake him,” making, as she spoke, towards the
unfortunate half-choked Tammy.
“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.”
“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.”
“New girnel!” exclaimed Grizzy, with a provoking sneer, “it’s about as
auld as yoursel, and as little worth.”
“Ye ill-tongued randy!” cried Mrs Scoreup, giving the ladle a most
portentous flourish.
“Whisht, whisht, gudewife,” said Robin; “say nae mair about it, we’ll
mak it up amang us; and now, Grizzy, tak Tammy awa hame.”
“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.”
“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.”
The last words seemed to strike on Tammy’s ear; who hiccuped out, “As I
cam ower the Calton hill—”
“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.”
“Tak haud o’ me, Tammy,” said Robin; “I’ll gang hame wi’ ye.”
“I can gang mysel,” said Tammy, giving Robin a shove, and staggering
towards the door.
“Gang yoursel!” cried Grizzy, as she followed her helpmate; “ye dinna
look very like it:” and thus the party broke up—
And each went aff their separate way,
Resolved to meet anither day.
AUCHINDRANE; OR, THE AYRSHIRE TRAGEDY.
BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.
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,—
’Twixt Wigton and the town of Ayr,
Portpatrick and the Cruives of Cree,
No man need think for to bide there,
Unless he court the Kennedie.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
A TALE OF THE PLAGUE IN EDINBURGH.
BY ROBERT CHAMBERS, LL.D.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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, &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.
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.
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.
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.
THE PROBATIONER’S FIRST SERMON.
BY DANIEL GORRIE.
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.
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.
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.
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.
“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.”
The advice was a wise one, as I afterwards found; but gallantry is more
a characteristic of youth than prudence.
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.
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 _vis-a-vis_ 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.”
“So it does, ma’am,” I rejoined, and spoke no more.
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.
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
_stick_?” 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.
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.
“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?”
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.
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.
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.
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.
“How long have you acted as precentor,” I enquired, anxious to change
the current of conversation.
“I’ve precented in oor kirk,” he replied, “for twunty years, and,
barrin’ three days last simmer, I’ve never missed a Sabbath.”
“That is very extraordinary,” I rejoined; “and what was wrong with you
last summer?”
“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.”
“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!”
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.
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.
“A gude sleep,” she said, “is the forerunner of a good sermon.”
“Yes,” I rejoined, “and a good sleep is the ordinary accompaniment of a
bad one.”
Mrs M‘Bain chuckled, and looked as if she thought there was something
promising in the young man after all.
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
_caput mortuum_. 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.
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 _was_ 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.
“He’s a brisk bit birkie that,” quoth the beadle.
“’Od ay,” responded the precentor, but “he has a bee in his bannet.”
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.”
THE CRIMES OF RICHARD HAWKINS.
BY THOMAS AIRD.
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.
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!”
“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?”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 _hagg_ to _hagg_, he threw himself down on
the sunny side of some long reeds, and fell fast asleep.
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.
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 _bona fide_ 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.
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.
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?
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.”
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.
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.”
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!
THE HEADSTONE.
BY PROFESSOR WILSON.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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?”
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.
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.”
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,—
Behold how good a thing it is,
And how becoming well,
Together such as brethren are
In unity to dwell.
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.
“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.
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:
“‘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.’”
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.
THE WIDOW’S PREDICTION:
_A TALE OF THE SIEGE OF NAMUR_.
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—
“What, Monteith! are you in a musing mood? Pray, let me have the benefit
of your morning meditations.”
“Sir!” said Monteith, turning hastily round. “Oh! ’tis you, Keppel. What
think you of this morning?”
“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?”
“I might guess as much, from the preparations going on. Well, would it
were to-morrow!”
“Sure you are not afraid, Monteith?”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“That I readily will, if in my power,” replied Keppel. “So, proceed with
your story, if you please.”
“Listen attentively, then—and be at once my first and my last confidant.
“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.
“‘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!—
“‘Foul hag!’ I exclaimed, it would take little to make me send thee to
join thy psalm-singing offspring!’
“‘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!’
“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.
“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—_I_, 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—”
“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.”
“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?”
“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.”
“No! I may die—_must_ 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.”
“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.
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!”
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—_will not_ 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.—_Edinburgh Literary Journal._
THE LADY OF WARISTOUN.
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:
It was at dinner as they sat,
And when they drank the wine,
How happy were the laird and lady
Of bonny Waristoun!
But he has spoken a word in jest;
Her answer was not good;
And he has thrown a plate at her,
Made her mouth gush with blude.
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.
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.
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.—_Chambers’s Edinburgh Journal_, 1832.
A TALE OF PENTLAND.
BY JAMES HOGG, THE “ETTRICK SHEPHERD.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
_Amen_, 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.
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.
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:—
“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.”
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.
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.
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.”
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.
“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?”
“I could not have saved the gentleman then,” said Haliday, “and I
thought it not meet to intermeddle in such a scene of blood.”
“It was as well for you that you did not,” said Lindsay.
“Then you acknowledge being in the cottage of the dell that night?” said
Gilmour.
“And if I was, what is that to you? Or what is it now to me or any
person? I _was_ 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.”
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.”
“I would give the half that I possess that this were true,” said the
sick gentleman. “Who or where is he?”
“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?”
“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.”
“His life is justly forfeited to the laws of his country, brother,” said
Gilmour, “and he must die with the rest.”
“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.”
“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:—
“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.
“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.
“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!’
“‘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.’
“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.
“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?’
“‘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.’
“‘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.
“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.
“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.”
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.”
“A lass, nurse? what lass can have any business with me? what is she
like?”
“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.”
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.”
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.”
“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.”
“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!”
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?”
“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.”
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.
GRAYSTEEL:
_A TRADITIONARY STORY OF CAITHNESS_.
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.
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,
The solitary bee
Flew there on restless wing,
Seeking in vain one blossom where to fix.
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.
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!”
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.
The _denouement_ 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—
Joy seized her withered veins, and one bright gleam
Of setting life shone on her evening hours.
—_John O’Groat Journal_, 1836.
THE BILLETED SOLDIER.
In the autumn of 1803, the Forfar and Kincardine militia,—then an
infantry regiment of about 1000 strong,—_en route_ 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.
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.
“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.”
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.”
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.
“Weel, mistress,” said the soldier, “what book is this?”
“That’s a beuk, lad,” said the gudewife, “that I muckle doubt that you
and the like o’ ye ken unco little about.”
“Perhaps,” was the reply; “we shall see.”
On opening the book the soldier said, “I have seen such a book before.”
“Gin ye’ve seen sic a book before,” said Mrs Lyall, “let’s hear gin ye
can read ony.”
“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.
“There, lad,” said David Lyall, “ye read like a minister.”
“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.”
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.”
“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.”
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.
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.
“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?”
“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.”
“Ye’ve ta’en a note o’ the sermon, lad?” said the mistress. “I will see
it when we get our dinner.”
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—
“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.”
“That may be,” replied the soldier, “but I can assure you the sermon is
all there.”
“Ye can read it yoursel, then,” said the gudewife.
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—
“Weel, gudewife, ye’ve gotten the sermon to Amen. Fat think ye o’ that?”
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.”
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.”
Mrs Lyall examined the volume with deep attention for some time, and
shaking her head, said—
“Na, na, lad; they maun be deeper beuk-learned than me that read that
beuk; yer far ayont my thumb.”
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.
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.”
The name of “the gallant single sodger” was Robert Mudie, afterwards
editor of the _Dundee Advertiser_ newspaper.—_Eminent Men of Fife._
BRUNTFIELD:
_A TALE OF THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY_.
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.
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,—REVENGE,—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.”
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 _mal fortune_ 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
_gratias Deo!_ there still remains another chance.”
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.
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 _third arrow_, 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.”
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 _per duellum_ 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.
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 _hors de combat_. 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 _Nunc dimittis, Domine_, with her latest breath.
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.—_Chambers’s Edinburgh Journal_, 1832.[1]
Footnote 1:
The tale of Bruntfield is founded upon facts alluded to in “Birrel’s
Diary,” “Anderson’s History of Scotland” (MS., Advocates’ Library),
&c.
SUNSET AND SUNRISE.
BY PROFESSOR WILSON.
“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.
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?
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.
“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.”
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.”
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.”
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.
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.
“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.”
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.”
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.
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.
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?”
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.”
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.
MISS PEGGY BRODIE.
BY ANDREW PICKEN.
“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.”
“Indeed, mem,” said I, looking as wise as I was able, “you may depend
upon it, you are under a mistake.”
“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!”
“I’m sure, mem,” said I, “for a peaceable man, I have been sadly deaved
about these sharpshooters.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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?”
“’Deed, mem,” said I, “it’s rather a lamentable case. But why did you
not catch a green sharpshooter yourself, in those blessed days?”
“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—
Set her up on Tintock tap,
The wind’ll blaw a man till her.
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?”
“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—”
“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!”
“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?”
“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.”
“It’s really lamentable; but I should have thought that the saintly plan
was a good one.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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!”
“There are no such times now, I fear, Miss Peggy.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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?”
“I think I recollect her face,” said I.
“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 _fa’_ aff her feet.”
“Fall, Miss Brodie?—What do you mean by falling?”
“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.”
“Ha, ha, ha! That is perfectly ridiculous, and hardly credible,” said I.
“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?”
“Break her arm, Miss Brodie! Are you serious?”
“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.”
“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?”
“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.”
“And so, Miss Brodie, she did fall into a marriage?”
“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!”
“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?”
“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.”
“Well, but I don’t mean in the common way. I mean, had you any real
sweetheart—any absolute offer?”
“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—”
“Upon whom, Miss Brodie? Ah, tell me!”
“Upon a sharpshooter.”
“Bless my heart! But if you would just let me hear the tale.”
“Ah, sir, it’s a pitiful story,” said Miss Peggy, becoming lachrymose.
“I delight in pitiful stories,” said I, taking out my handkerchief.
“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.”
“Ah, Miss Brodie, Miss Brodie!”
“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!
“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.
“‘Miss Peggy,’ says he, ‘do ye see that moon?’
“‘Yes,’ says I.
“‘That changeable moon,’ says he, ‘is the emblem o’ falseness in love.’
“‘Yes, Mr Peters,’ said I, an’ my heart was ready to melt.
“‘But I will never be false in love!’ says he.
“‘I hope you will be true until death,’ says I.
“‘To be sure I will, Miss Brodie,’ says he; these were his very words.”
“Ah, Miss Peggy,” I said, as I saw she was unable to get on, “that is
quite affecting.”
“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?”
“Nothing could be plainer, Miss Peggy; but I’m interested in your
story.”
“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!”
“Bless me, Miss Brodie, what a woful story! It’s just like a romance?”
“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?”
“Oh, yes, Miss Brodie,” said I, taking my hat; “I’m not able to stand it
any longer.”
“You’re a feeling man,” said she, shaking me by the hand; “you’re a man
o’ sweet feeling, Mr Balgownie.”
“You’re an ill-used woman, Miss Brodie!—Adieu, Miss Brodie!”—_The
Dominie’s Legacy._
THE DEATH OF A PREJUDICE.
BY THOMAS AIRD.
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—
“Did you ever, sir, thank God for preserving your reason?”
On my answering in the negative—
“Then do it now,” said he, “for I have lost mine.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
“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.
“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?”
“No,” I answered.
“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.”
“I am sorry to hear it,” I could only reply.
“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.”
The particular letter was selected, and the young Englishman, over the
grave of his friend, read as follows:—
“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.
“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.
“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!
“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 _shall_ 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!”
“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.”
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.
“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.
ANENT AULD GRANDFAITHER, AUNTIE BELL, MY AIN FAITHER, &c.
BY D. M. MOIR.
The sun rises bright in France,
And fair sets he;
But he has tint the blithe blink he had
In my ain countree.
_Allan Cunningham._
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.”
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.
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.
* * * * *
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.
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.
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.
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!”
* * * * *
The weaver he gaed up the stair,
Dancing and singing;
A bunch o’ bobbins at his back,
Rattling and ringing.
_Old Song._
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!”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
“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.
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.—_The Life of
Mansie Wauch, Tailor in Dalkeith._
JOHN BROWN;
_OR, THE HOUSE IN THE MUIR_.
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.
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.
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.
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:—
I waited for the Lord my God,
And patiently did bear;
At length to me he did incline
My voice and cry to hear.
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—
O blessed is the man whose trust
Upon the Lord relies,
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.”
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.
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.”
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,”[2] 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.
Footnote 2:
“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!
“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.
“Can _you_, mistress, recollect anything of this man we are in quest
of?” resumed Clavers, haughtily. “It may save us _both_ 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 _blow out your
brains_.” 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 _now_ 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.
* * * * *
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.
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:—
Clavers might murder godly Brown,
But could not rob him of his crown;
Here in this place from earth he took departure,
Now he has got the garland of the martyr.
_Blackwood’s Magazine_, 1822.
TRADITIONS OF THE OLD TOLBOOTH OF EDINBURGH.
BY ROBERT CHAMBERS, LL.D.
CHAPTER I.
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—_horresco referens_—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.
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.
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.
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.
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:—
A prison is a house of care,
A place where none can thrive,
A touchstone true to try a friend,
A grave for men alive—
Sometimes a place of right,
Sometimes a place of wrong,
Sometimes a place for jades and thieves,
And honest men among.
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.
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.
The annals of crime are of greater value than is generally supposed.
Criminals form an interesting portion of mankind. They are entirely
different from _us_—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.
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 _contretemps_. It
so happened that the porter, in arranging the trunk upon his back,
placed the end which corresponded with the feet of the prisoner
_uppermost_. 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.
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.”[3]
Footnote 3:
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.
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.
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.
CHAPTER II.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
THE LOVER’S LAST VISIT.
BY PROFESSOR WILSON.
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.
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.
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?”
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?
“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.”
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.
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.”
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.”
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!”
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.”
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.
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.
“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.
“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.”
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.”
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.
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.
MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS AND CHATELAR;
_OR, TWILIGHT MUSINGS IN HOLYROOD_.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
The birth of Chatelar, if not noble, was in no common degree honourable,
for he was great-nephew to the celebrated Bayard, _le Chevalier sans
peur et sans tache_. 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
Of Mary’s behaviour on this event, history, I believe, gives no account.
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.”—_Literary Souvenir_, 1825.
A NIGHT IN DUNCAN M‘GOWAN’S.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.”
“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.
“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.”
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.”
So saying, he hurried out, leaving the lawyer to gratify my curiosity by
the sequel of the dominie’s solitary dialogue.
“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:—
“‘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:
Oh! age has weary days,
And nights of sleepless pain.
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.
“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:—
THE MINISTER’S MARE.
The minister’s mare was as gude a gray mare
As ever was saddled, or bridled, or shod;
Be’t foul or be’t fair, be’t late or be’t air,
She nichered aye gladly when takin’ the road.
The minister late in the e’ening cam hame,
And stabled his marie, and heapit her heck,
And gae her a forpit o’ oats to her wame,
And theekit her cozily wi’ an auld sack.
And the minister’s wife wi’ a bowet cam out,
For a tenty and mensefu’ wife was she;
Glowered round her for gangrels that might be about,
And syne in the stable-door thrawed round the key.
And she oxtered the minister up the stair
To his room, where his supper and slippers were het,
Whaur a wee creepie-stool and an elbow chair
At the blithe ingle-neuk were right cozily set.
As the reverend carle gaed ben the house laughin’,
And clappin’ his wife, an’ rubbin’ his hands,
She helpit him aff wi’ his green tartan raughen,
And frae ’neath his round chin loosed his lily-white bands.
When supper was ower, the minister birsled
His shins on the creepie upon the hearth-stane;
Worn out wi’ fatigue, to his roostin-place hirsled,
And laid himsel down wi’ a wearied-man’s grane.
His canny wee wife saw him cozily happit,
Syne drew back the chairs frae the warm ingle-side;
Put creesh in the ee o’ the candle, and clappit
Right kindly and couthily down by his side.
The cracks o’ the twasome were kindly but few:
The minister wi’ a “hech-ho,” turned him roun’,
O’er his cauld shouther-head the warm blanket he drew,
Syne pu’d down his night-cap and snored snug and soun’.
The morning’s bright bonfire, that bleezed in the east,
Had meltit in heaven ilk wee siller stern,
When the cock crawed reveillè to man, bird, and beast,
As he sat on an auld knotty rung in the barn.
The dog in the watch-house yowled eerie and lang,
And struggled right fiercely to break frae his chain;
The auld chapel bell like a burial knell rang,
And groanings were heard as frae bodies in pain.
A loud rap cam rap to the minister’s yett,
The minister’s wife wondered wha might be there;
While the reverend carle, glammering, graipit to get
His drawers and bauchels, to slip down the stair.
But he warily first frae the stair-winnock keekit,
To ken wha this early disturber might be;
When he saw the dog loose, and the barn-door unsteekit,
And his mare at the yett, cap’ring wild to be free
Frae a blackavised rider, wha spurred her and banned her,
Wi’ mony wild curses to tak to the road:
And he stuck like a burr, though campsterie he fand her,
While the minister cried, “There’s been thieves here, gude ——!”
“Fie, Tibby rise,” roared Mess John, loud as thunder,
“The mischief’s come o’er us, we’re herriet, undone;
The barn’s broke, the dog’s loose, the mare’s aff, and yonder
She’s rinnin’—fie! bring me my hat, coat, and shoon!”
His claes huddled on, wi’ his staff in his han’,
He out at the yett wi’ a belly-flaught flew;
While the stour that his mare raised in clouds o’er the lan’,
Turned into a glaur-drop ilk clear blob o’ dew.
The stour, borne alang wi’ the wind strong and gusty,
Gar’d the minister look like a miller sae gray;
And the sweat on his face, mixed wi’ dust, grew as crusty
As if he were modelled in common brick-clay.
And sometimes he haltit, and sometimes he ran,
And sometime he sat himsel down in despair;
And sometimes he grew angry, and sometimes began
To lighten his sair-burdened heart wi’ a prayer.
But madly the rider o’er hill and o’er dale,
Wi’ the minister’s mare like a fire-flaught he flew;
Whiles seen on a hill-top, whiles lost in a vale,
Till they baith looked like motes on the welkin sae blue.
The minister by the road-side sat him down,
As vexed and as wearied as man weel could be;
Syne pu’d aff his wig, rubbed the sweat frae his crown,
And puffed, steghed, and graned like a man gaun to dee.
When an auld farmer carle, on his yaud trotting by,
Accosted Mess John as he sat in despair;
Made a bow like a corn-sack, and as he drew nigh,
Raised his twa waukit loofs, cryin’ “What brought ye there?
“I’m sure it’s nae mair than an hour since I saw ye
At Bourtree Brae-head, and that’s eight miles awa!”
And he rubbit his een as he cried out, “Foul fa’ me!
For glammery’s come o’er me, or else you’re grown twa.
“And where is your mare, for she stood at the door,
Wi’ her bridle-reins drawn through a ring in the wa’,
At Dawson’s door-cheek, where I saw her before
I had drunk _deoch-an-dorus_ wi’ Donald M‘Craw.”
“Ye saw me!” said the minister; “how could that be,
When I’ve only proceeded thus far on my road?
And that this is mysel, by a glance ye may see.”
“Why, then,” cried the farmer, “the thing’s vastly odd.
“But twa hours ago, sir, your double was sitting
At Dawson’s fire-side,—faith! as I thoucht, half fou,—
And ilk ane at hand thoucht it time to be flitting,
When ye cursed and blasphemed till the candle burned blue.”
“Why, Saunders, it’s surely been Sawtan ye’ve seen,
The foul thief himsel, I could wad a gray groat;
He staw my gray mare;—just turn back, my auld friend,
Till I strip the foul thief of his sanctified coat.
“I’ve warsled wi’ Sawtan for many a year;
I’ve cloured him and loundered him aft times right sair;
But the foul fiend has played me a pliskie, I fear;
Lord save’s, man, I ne’er heard the like, I declare.
“Fie, Saunders, let’s mount, and to Dawson’s let’s hurry,
And chase the loon back to his ain lowin’ hame;
The tod’s in the fauld, God’s ain lambs he may worry;
Come, Saunders, let’s hunt him, Auld Clootie’s fair game.”
And they rode till they came to John Dawson’s fore-door,
Whaur the minister lighted, but wadna step in,
When he heard how the deil in his ain likeness swore,
As he dirled at the door, for the third tappit hen.
And the folk were confounded,—amazed,—when they saw
The auld carle himsel they had aft seen before;
Some darted into corners, and some ran awa,
And ithers ran out, and glowered in at the door.
But the minister beckoned them a’ to come back
To the room aff-and-on where the devil sat fou;
In the wooden partition there gaped a wide crack,
That ilk ane, by turns, wi’ amazement looked through.
And there they heard Cloots, in a big elbow-chair,
Snore like thunder far-aff, and now sleeping right sound,
And some thought his feet didna look like a pair,
For the tae o’ the ae boot to the heel was turned round.
And they saw, when the ither foot once or twice moved,
That the boot on that foot just turned round the same way;
Which, to the onlookers, sufficiently proved,
They were baith cloven feet,—ay, as clear as the day.
They saw a bit kitlin, that friskit and pattit
A muckle black tossel below the big chair;
And it swung like a pend’lum, as wee baudrons clawtit
The end that hung down like a bunch o’ horse-hair.
When Dawson’s bull-terrier, streeked on the hearth-stane,
Saw Clootie’s tail wagging, he barkit like mad:
Sprung till’t like a fury, and tugged might and main,
And the deevil himsel couldna lowsen his haud.
But the deil started up wi’ big chair, dog, an’ a’,
And staggered, and stampit, and ance or twice fell;
Mess John cried, “Lord save us!”—Like lightning, awa
Flew deevil, and big chair, and terrier, to——!
“There’s a strange production for you,” said Mr Cleekum, as he folded
the paper and replaced it in his pocket.
“A strange production, indeed,” said I; “what could be Mr Gray’s object
in writing such a poem?”
“Merely to please himself, sir, I suppose,” was the lawyer’s answer.
“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?”
“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.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“I would be o’ your thocht, Mr Sinklart,” said Donald M‘Glashlan the
piper; “I would be making peace wi’ peast and pody”—
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.
“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.”
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.
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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.
“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.”
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, _ore
rotundo_. 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,—
“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.”
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,—
“Maister, will ye forgie me? Will ye forgie me? Will they hang me
for’t?”
“Blessings on’s man, Geordie,” cried the dominie, “what’s wrang wi’ ye?”
“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.
“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?”
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,—
“Will ye forgie me? It was me that hunted the bull that I thocht had
killed ye.”
“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.”
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.
“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.”
“’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?”
“Naething at a’,” replied the dominie, “but to settle as easily as ye
can wi’ the laddie’s father.”
“Peradventure,” Mr Singleheart suggested, “the youth may be released
from his captivity, and sent to the habitation of his father.”
“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.”
“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.”
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.
“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.”
“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.”
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.
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.
“My gude will to ye a’, gentlemen; I’m thinkin’ ye were ca’in’.”
“That we were,” said M‘Harrigle. “Fetch us a mutchkin o’ your best,
gudewife, and some het water.”
“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.
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.
“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.”
“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.
“My faith!” said M‘Harrigle to the dominie, “your mill gangs glibly.”
“Ay,” says the dominie, “the still sow licks up the draff, and a heapit
plate maks hungry men scant o’ cracks.”
“And scant o’ havins too, I think,” said M‘Gowan; “for the stranger
gentleman’s sittin’ there before us wi’ a toom plate.”
“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.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
“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!”
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.
“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.”
“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.”
“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!”
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.
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 _ach!_ 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.
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.
“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?”
“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.”
“The night drave on wi’ sangs and clatter.”
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!”
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.
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.
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 _felo de
se_. 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,—
“The people here ought to be hanged,
Unless they mend their ways.”
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.
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!”—_Blackwood’s
Magazine_, 1826.
THE MILLER AND THE FREEBOOTER.
BY SIR THOMAS DICK LAUDER.
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.
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!”
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.
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. “_Te meal town te purn to te teil! hoigh, hoigh!_”
“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. “_Te meal to te mill, te mutter to te mailler_,”
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.
BENJIE’S CHRISTENING.
BY D. M. MOIR.
We’ll hap and row, hap and row,
We’ll hap and row the feetie o’t;
It is a wee bit weary thing,
I dinnie bide the greetie o’t.—PROVOST CREECH.
An honest man, close button’d to the chin,
Broad-cloth without, and a warm heart within.—COWPER.
This great globe and all that it inherits shall dissolve,
And, like the baseless fabric of a vision,
Leave not a rack behind!—SHAKSPEARE.
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.
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!”
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.
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.
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?
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.
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!
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.
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.”
“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.”
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.”
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.”
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.”
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.
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!
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.
THE MINISTER’S WIDOW.
BY PROFESSOR WILSON.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!”
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!”
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.
“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!”
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.”
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?”
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.”
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.
THE BATTLE OF THE BREEKS:
_A PASSAGE IN THE LIFE OF WILLIAM M‘GEE, WEAVER IN HAMILTON_.
BY ROBERT MACNISH, LL.D.
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.
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.
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.
“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?”
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.
“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?”
“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.”
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.
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.
“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?”
“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.”
“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.”
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.
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.
“And did ye cast up to Mrs Todd, mither,” quo’ the little cutty, “that
she was fat?”
“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!’”
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?”
“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.”
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.
“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?”
’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.
“Has your faither been at the whisky bottle?” said she to her dochter.
“He looks as if he was the waur of drink.”
“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.
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.
“William M‘Gee,” quo’ he, “it’s no possible that ye’re maister in this
house!”
“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.
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 _their_ 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.
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.
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.
MY SISTER KATE.
BY ANDREW PICKEN.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.”
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.
“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.”
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.
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.
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.
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.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
“And what can _you_ 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.
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.
On a sofa, near the window, sat a neat youthful figure, extremely
elegantly formed, but _petite_, 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.
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.
“Eh! what!—what is it you say, John?” cried the lady among the papers,
noticing this manœuvre of the servant.
“Nothing, Madam; it is a person that wants my lady.”
“Your lady, sirrah; it must be me!—Eh! what!”
“No, Madam; she wants to see Mrs Pounteney particularly.”
“Ah, John!” said the little lady on the sofa; “just refer her to Miss
Pounteney. There is nobody can want me.”
“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?”
“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.”
“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.
“Do you come here to give _your_ 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 _your mistress_, and wanting
to speak to her directly, and privately, while _I_ am here! I wonder
what sister Becky would say, or Mr Pounteney, if he were at home!”
“Who is it, John? Do just bring her here, and put an end to this!” said
Kate, imploringly, to the man.
“Madam,” said John at last to his trembling mistress, “it is your
sister!”
“Who, John?” cried Kate, starting to her feet; “my sister Flora—my own
sister, from Clyde side! Speak, John, are you sure?”
“Yes, Madam, your sister from Scotland.”
“Oh, where is she, where is she? Let me go!”
“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.
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.
“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.
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.
“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?”
“But _you_ 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!”
“And so, Kate, you are not so _very_ 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.”
“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.”
“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?”
“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!”
“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?”
“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!”
“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’.”
“Is Allan Cameron married yet?” said Kate, sadly. “When did you see
blithe and bonnie Allan Cameron?—Alas the day!”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
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.
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.
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!”
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.
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.—_The Dominie’s Legacy._
WAT THE PROPHET.
BY JAMES HOGG, “THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD.”
About sixty years ago[4] 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.[5]
Footnote 4:
This interesting account of a very extraordinary character was
contributed to the _Edinburgh Literary Journal_ in 1829.
Footnote 5:
The old prophet’s surname was Laidlaw, being of a race that has
produced more singular characters than any of our country.
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.
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.”
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.
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?’
“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!’
“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.’
“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?’
“And I said, ‘Yes, I know it.’
“‘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?’
“And I said, ‘I would rather have time to think the matter over again.’
“‘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.’
“And I said, ‘Sir, a man cannot force his belief.’
“And he said, ‘Thou sayest truly; but I will endeavour to convince
thee.’”
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.
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.
“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.”
“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.
“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.
“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?’
“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.
“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.’
“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?’
“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!’”
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.
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.
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 STEPHEN, 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 _when_ he had seen him, and _part_ of what he had told
him, but never the whole.
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.
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.”
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.
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.”
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.
“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.”
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.
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.
THE SNOW-STORM.
BY PROFESSOR WILSON.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
“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.”
“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.”
“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!”
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.
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.
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.
“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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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?”
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.
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.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
LOVE AT ONE GLIMPSE;
_OR, THE GLASGOW GENTLEMAN AND THE LADY_.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!—_Edinburgh Literary Journal_, 1829.
NANNY WELSH, THE MINISTER’S MAID.
BY DANIEL GORRIE.
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.
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.
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 _rale sacrament_!” Nanny, honest woman, never
forgot the sentiment, and often repeated it to the discomfiture of its
juvenile author.
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!”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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,
_alias_ 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’!”
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 _her_. 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.
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.—_Pax Vobiscum!_
LADY JEAN:
_A TALE OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY_.
CHAPTER I.
The Yerl o’ Wigton had three dauchters,
O braw walie! they were bonnie!
The youngest o’ them and the bonniest too,
Has fallen in love wi’ Richie Storie.
_Old Ballad._
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.”
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.
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 _désagrémens_ 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.
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.
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, &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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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—
——hopes, and fears that kindled hopes,
An undistinguishable throng,
And gentle wishes, long subdued,
Subdued and cherished long,
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
_Richard was not what he seemed_. 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!”
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 _real era_ 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?
The greater part of the rest of the summer passed away before the lovers
came to an _eclaircissement_; 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.”
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.
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.”
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.
CHAPTER II.
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.
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.
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.
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.
“Oh, Richard, Richard!” she exclaimed, stopping and turning round, “what
is that dreadful-looking thing?”
“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.”
“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!”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
“And who are you, my brave fellow?” said the youth, with bold assurance.
“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.
“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.”
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—
“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.”
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.
“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!”
“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 _declarator_ 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—
“Oh, Jean, Jean! what is this ye’ve been about? or what has brocht you
to Edinburgh?”
“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?”
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,—
“Are ye married, bairns?”
“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.”
“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!”
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!”
“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?”
“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 _maun_ 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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?—_Chambers’s Edin.
Journal._
THE MONKEY:
_A SECOND PASSAGE IN THE LIFE OF WILLIAM M‘GEE, WEAVER IN HAMILTON_.
BY ROBERT MACNISH, LL.D.
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.[6] 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.
Footnote 6:
See _ante_, p. 223.
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.
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.
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.
Firstly, the shop was rather darkish.
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
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.
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.
“Can ye no shange the note, old shentleman?” quo’ Donald. Nosey gied his
head anither shake, and lookit uncommon wise.
“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.
“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.
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.
“What note, honest man?” said Mr Weft.
“Cot tamn,” quo’ Donald; “the note the auld scoundrel, your grandfater,
stole frae me.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
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.
“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?”
“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.”
“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.
“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.”
“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—
“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!”
“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?”
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.
“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.”
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.
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.
THE LADDER DANCER.
Men should know why
They write, and for what end; but note or text,
I never know the word which will come next;
So on I ramble, now and then narrating,
Now pondering.—_Byron._
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.
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 _Mercandotti_. 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.
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 _dereglement_ 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.[7] 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.
Footnote 7:
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.
“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.
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.
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.
“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.
“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.”
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.
“Ah, Madame!” she exclaimed; “Madame” was repeated by the man, and
“Madame” was re-echoed by the boy.
“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.”
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.
“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.”
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,—
“That’s like yoursel, Darsie; your bark was aye waur than your bite, ony
day!”—_Blackwood’s Magazine_, 1826.
THE ELDER’S DEATH-BED.
BY PROFESSOR WILSON.
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.
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.
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.
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.
“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.”
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.
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.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 _saw_ 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.
“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.
“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!”
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.
“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.”
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.
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:—
“Within thy tabernacle, Lord,
Who shall abide with thee?
And in Thy high and holy hill
Who shall a dweller be?
The man that walketh uprightly,
And worketh righteousness,
And as he thinketh in his heart,
So doth he truth express.”
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.
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.”
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!”
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.”
“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!”
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.
“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.”
“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.”
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.”
A HIGHLAND FEUD.
BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.
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:—
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
THE RESURRECTION MEN.
BY D. M. MOIR, M.D.
How then was the Devil drest?
He was in his Sunday’s best;
His coat was red, and his breeches were blue,
With a hole behind, where his tail came through.
Over the hill, and over the dale,
And he went over the plain:
And backward and forward he switched his tail,
As a gentleman switches his cane.
_Coleridge._
About this time[8] 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.
Footnote 8:
See _ante_, “Benjie’s Christening,” page 214.
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’.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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?”
“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.”
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?
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.
“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!”
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.
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!”
“Wha’s there?” growled a deep rough voice; “open—I’m a friend.”
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!”
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!”
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’.”
“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?”
“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.”
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.”
“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?”
This was a wee alarming. “No,” quoth I—“no, Isaac, man, I ne’er heard
o’t.”
“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.”
“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.
“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?”
“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.
“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.
“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.
“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.”
I was glad he had stoppit, for I was like to sink through the grund wi’
fear; but na, it wadna do.
“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?”
I had now lost my breath, so that I couldna stop him.
“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!”
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!”
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.—_Mansie Wauch._
MARY WILSON.
On her white arm down sunk her head,
She shivered, sighed, and died.
_Mallet._
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.
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.
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,—
A violet by a mossy stone,
Half hid from human eyes,
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!”
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.
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.
“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.”
“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:—
When lovely woman stoops to folly,
And finds, too late, that men betray,
What charms can soothe her melancholy?
What art can wash her guilt away?
The only art her guilt to cover,
To hide her shame from every eye,
To give repentance to her lover,
And wring his bosom, is—to die.
“And what has become of the laird?” said I, looking to the well-known
mansion.
“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.”
“Do you possess her father’s land?” said I.
“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.”
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.—_Aberdeen Censor._
THE LAIRD OF CASSWAY.
BY JAMES HOGG, THE “ETTRICK SHEPHERD.”
CHAPTER I.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.”
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.
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.”
“Dear Mrs Jane, what objections can you have to Mr Francis Beattie, the
most accomplished young gentleman of the whole country?”
“’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, _I’ll_ tell him!”
“It would be unfriendly in me to keep aught a secret from you, sister,
considering the interest you have taken in my family. I _have_ 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.”
“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?”
“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.
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!”
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.
“_She_ 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.”
“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.
“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!”
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.
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:—
“Pray, sir, may I ask you of your intentions, and of what you are
seeking here?”
“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?”
“Sir,” said Francis, whose passion could stay no farther parley, “dare
you put it to the issue of the sword this moment?”
“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?”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
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.
“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?”
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!”
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.
“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.
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.
“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?”
“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.”
“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.”
“O promise, promise!” cried Ellen, vehemently; “for the sake of Heaven’s
love, promise my aunt that.”
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.
“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!”
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.
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.
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.
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.”
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.
“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!”
“The God of heaven forbid that I should ever lift my sword against my
honoured father!” said Francis.
“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.”
“You never did me wrong, my dear father; but my brother has wronged me
in the tenderest part.”
“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.”
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.
CHAPTER II.
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?”
“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.”
“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?”
“Our father, perhaps.”
“You have seen him, then?”
“Indeed I have, and he has given me such a reprimand for severity as son
never before received from a parent.”
“Brother Frank, I must tell you, and when I do, you will not believe
me—It _was not_ our father whom we both saw this morning.”
“It was no other whom I saw. What do you mean? Do you suppose that I do
not know my own father?”
“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.”
“You astonish me, Thomas. This is beyond human comprehension.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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?”
“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.”
“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.”
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.
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.”
If he was confounded before, he was ten times more so at the remembrance
of these words of most ominous import.
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.”
“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.”
“It’s very like thou is, callan’. I pits nae doubt on’t at a’.”
“Is there anybody in this moor district whom you ever heard blamed for
the horrible crime of witchcraft?”
“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.
“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?”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
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.”
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.
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?”
“Ye—es; I think he is.”
“You _think_ he is? Are you uncertain, then?”
“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?”
“Why, man, keep us not in this thrilling suspense. Is our father well?”
“No—not _quite_ 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.”
When the matter of the refreshment had been got over to Andrew’s full
satisfaction, he began as follows:—
“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.’”
“Bad!” says I, “Whatever way is he bad?”
“‘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?’
“‘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.
“‘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!’
“‘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.’
“‘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.
“‘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.’
“‘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.’
“‘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.’
“‘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.’
“‘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.’
“‘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.’
“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.
“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:—
‘Here we roll,
Body and soul,
Down to the deeps of the Paynim’s goal—
With speed and with spell,
With yo and with yell,
This is the way to the palace of hell—
Sing yo! ho!
Level and low,
Down to the Valley of Vision we go!’
“‘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?’
“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.
“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.
“‘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!’
“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!
“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.’
“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.”
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.”
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.[9]
Footnote 9:
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.—_Note by the Author._
THE ELDER’S FUNERAL.
BY PROFESSOR WILSON.
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.
On such a vernal day as this did we, who had visited the Elder on his
death-bed,[10] 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.
Footnote 10:
See _ante_, page 280.
“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.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
MACDONALD, THE CATTLE-RIEVER.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!
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.
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.
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.
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.—_“Traditions of the Western
Highlands,” in the London Literary Gazette._
THE MURDER HOLE:
AN ANCIENT LEGEND OF GALLOWAY.
Ah, frantic Fear!
I see, I see thee near;
I know thy hurried step, thy haggard eye!
Like thee I start, like thee disordered fly!
_Collins._
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
“I am not what you take me for,” said the boy, attempting to laugh; “but
only the poor pedlar who visited you last year.”
“Are you _alone_?” inquired the old woman, in a harsh, deep tone, which
made his heart thrill with apprehension.
“Yes,” said the boy, “I am alone _here_; 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.”
“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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
“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.”
“Don’t speak of it,” replied the other; “I was never fond of bloodshed.”
“Ha! ha!” said the other, with a sneer, “you say so, do you?”
“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.
“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!”
“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.
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, “_The boy has
fled—let loose the bloodhound!_” 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.
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.
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.
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 _discord_ be heard in the house, or any
murder committed in it, _this_ 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.”—_Blackwood’s Magazine_,
1829.
THE MILLER OF DOUNE:
_A TRAVELLER’S TALE_.
CHAPTER I.
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.
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.
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.
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’.
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.
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’.
“’Od,” says Jeanie, saftly, “gif my father hasna brought hame a robin.”
“Whaur got ye the bit robin, father?” said William.
“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.”
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.
“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.”
“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.
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.
“And whaur’ll we put it now?” said he.
“’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.”
“We’ll sune manage that,” said Jeanie, takin’ doun an auld cage.
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?”
“Saut!” cried William, “do they want saut?” and in gangs a spoonfu’.
“Gudesake!” cried he, turning roun’ to John Murdoch.
“What’s wrang with them, William?” said the miller.
“Ou, naething, naething, father—only they’re as saut’s lick, that’s a’.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“Weel, weel,” said the miller, “sae be’t.”
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.
“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.”
“’Deed hae we,” said the miller, a wee gravely, “and, as ye say, it’s a
gey bonnie bit place.”
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.”
“And what’s makin’ ye leave’t?” says John Murdoch; “that’s to say, if
its no ony secret.”
“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.”
“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.”
“And I ken,” cried Jeanie, “wha wad hae some chance at the race, gif
there’s to be ane.”
“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.”
“Miller,” quoth John Murdoch, “ken ye what hour it’s?”
“Me!” said the miller, “not I—maybe half an hour after nine.”
“Because it just wants five minutes of eleven,” quoth John Murdoch.
“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.”
“And the same to you and yours,” quoth John Murdoch, as he raise and
gaed awa wi’ William.
CHAPTER II.
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’.
“And how’s the gudeman? and is he out or in?”
“How!” cries Jeanie, “he and the lave hae been up and out at their wark
three hours syne.”
“And what are _ye_ gaun to be about, my dawtie?” says John Murdoch.
“I’m gaun to wash the kirn,” says Jeanie.
“And suppose I haud it for ye, and help ye?” says he.
“Weel aweel,” says Jeanie, “gin ye like; we’ll hae’t the sooner ower.”
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?”
“Nae mair,” quoth Jeanie, “than the thanks ye hae gotten already.”
“But in my kintra,” says John Murdoch, “when a lad helps a lass to clean
out a kirn, he aye gets _ae_ kiss at least.”
“We ken naething about thae fashions hereabouts,” says Jeanie, “sae haud
ye out o’ my gate!”
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.
“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.
“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.”
“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.
“Ye’re surely no gaun to set the dog on me?” says John Murdoch.
“Am I no?” says Jeanie, drawing and working wi’ the collar wi’ a’ her
might.
John Murdoch, seeing her sae determined, slips to ae side, and gets his
gun frae whaur he had hidden’t.
“And now, Jeanie,” cries he, “haud your hand, for see, I’ve a gun.”
“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.”
“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.”
“We’ll sune try that,” says Jeanie, loosening the collar; “sae at him,
Bawtie! an’ we’ll sune see him rin.”
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.
“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.
“It’s a’ John Murdoch’s doings,” cried Jeanie; “he first affronted me,
an’ now he’s killed poor Bawtie.”
“An’ which way is he gane?” cried William.
“Out that gate,” said Jeanie; and away went William like a shot.
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.”
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,—
“What’s the matter, William? An’ what are ye chasing the man for?”
“He’s misbehaved to Jeanie, an’ shot Bawtie,” cried William.
“Then taigle him, just taigle him, till I come up,” cried James.
“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.
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.”
“After him,” says James, “an’ the man a mile agate already? It wad be
nonsense for me to try’t.”
“Then let me up, an’ I’ll try it mysel,” cried William.
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.”
“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.”
“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.”
CHAPTER III.
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.”
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?”
“Me!” said the miller, “an’ what to do?”
“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?”
“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.”
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.
“Now James, my man,” says Jeanie, squeezing his arm.
“I’ll do my best, Jeanie,” says James, “ye may depend on that; and if
I’m beaten, I canna help it, ye ken.”
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.
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?”
“Why, honest woman,” said he, hesitating a little, “I’m not just
sure,—that is to say,—but why do you ask?”
“For a reason I ken mysel,” said Jeanie; “but since ye canna, or winna,
tell me, I’ll try somebody else.”
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.
“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.”
“Surely no,” said William; “an yet it’s gey hard to be beaten.”
“Weel, weel,” said Jeanie, “so it is—so it is; but dinna speak,—dinna
speak yet; just tak breath an’ rest ye.”
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?”
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?”
“Preserve us a’,” cried Jeanie, jumping back, and turning white and red,
time about.
“Here,” continued the earl, “seize this fellow, and keep him fast till
we can examine into it.”
“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.
“An’ wha wants me?” quoth John Marshall. “I’m here.”
“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.
An’ he hears a voice say,—“Look at me, miller, an’ tell me if you think
we e’er met before.”
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.”
“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.”
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.
“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 _may_ 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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“’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!”
CHAPTER IV.
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.
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?”
“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.”
“Ye’re right, Jeanie,” quoth the miller, “ye’re very right; and gie me
doun the Bible, and I’se read it to you.”
Just as it was dune, the door flees open, an’ in comes Geordie Wilson,
clean out o’ breath wi’ running.
“What’s the matter now, man?” says William.
“I’m sure it’s something gude,” says James; “I ken by his ee.”
“Ou aye, ou aye,” cries Geordie, “grand news! grand news!” an’ he gaspit
for breath.
“Tak a wee thought time,” says James; “and now tell us.”
“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.
“‘Weel then,’ says he, ‘there’s a paper for ye’; an’ as he put it into
my hand he began to move awa.
“‘But will ye no stap in, frien’, an’ tak something?’ says I.
“‘No, no,’ cries he, ‘I daurna bide;’ an’ aff he rins.
“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.”
“What, sir!” cries the miller, “are ye thinking o’ my Jeanie, an’ we sae
honour’t as we hae been this day?”
“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?”
“Is—is—is your father only joking, Jeanie?” stammered Geordie Wilson.
“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.”
Geordie held up his hand, an’ lookit at Jeanie, as much as to say, “Do
ye hear that, madam?”
But Jeanie, she half steekit her een, an’ made a mouth at him, just
like, “An’ wha cares?”
“An’ now, bairns,” continued the miller, “I’m gaun to my room, and mauna
be disturbit.”
“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.”
“Hout now, woman,” says Geordie Wilson, “can ye no just let it stand a
wee, an’ gang outby for a little?”
“I dinna think it,” says Jeanie.
“But just a wee bit,” says Geordie; “nae mair than ten staps, unless ye
like.”
“Aweel,” says Jeanie, “but mind, I’ll gang nae farer than just the end
o’ the lane.”
“Jeanie,” says William, “ye’d better put on the pat for the kail.”
“Put on the pat!” exclaimed Jeanie, “an’ it no muckle past eleven
o’clock! Is the man gane gyte?”
“There’s time eneugh, nae doubt,” said William, “gif ye’re back in
time.”
“Back in time!” echoed Jeanie, “an’ me only gaun to the end o’ the
lane—gae awa wi’ your havers, man!”
“Weel, weel,” said William, “we’ll see, we’ll see.”
“Ou aye,” said Jeanie, “ye’re aye thinking yoursel wiser than ither
folk.”
* * * * *
“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.”
Sae he taks it doun an’ begins working at it, and presently he sees
James rise and put on his bonnet.
“Whaur are ye gaun, James,” says he.
“I was thinking,” says James, “o’ gaun up to Wattie Simpson’s to see if
they want ony potatoes.”
“Just as if they didna get a bow o’ them last Tuesday!” said William.
“Weel, I can stap in an’ speir how they like them.”
“Are ye sure, James, you’re gaun there?” asked William, a wee slily.
“Where’er I’m gaun, William,” said James, “I’m gaun for nae harm.”
“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.
“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.
“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!”
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?”
An’ his face turned a wee red, for he thought she wantit him awa; and he
said he was gaun hame, to be sure.
“But dinna tak it amiss,” said the auntie, “for I thought ye wad be ower
late for hame.”
“Nae fear o’ that,” said William, “for we dinna dine till twa o’clock.”
“I kent that,” said she, “but it’s past it already.”
“The deuce it is!” cried William, jumping up; “then fareweel—I’ll maybe
see ye the morn.”
As he’s hurrying hame, he sees somebody coming frae the road to the
Hope, and walking unco fast.
“’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.”
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.
“Hech!” says he, “I’m glad he’s ready at last;—’od, I really thought we
were to get nae dinner the day.”
“Is my father in the house?” says Jeanie.
“Is your father in the house!” repeated William, “’odsake, lassie, hae
ye no been hame yet?”
“I was taigled,” answered Jeanie, looking a wee foolish.
“An’ the kail will no be on yet,” cried he; “I was sure o’t now—quite
sure o’t!”
“An’ what for did ye no gang in and put them on yoursel, then, if ye was
sae sure o’t?”
“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.”
“I’m no fear’t for that,” says Jeanie but she wasna very easy for a’
that.
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.
“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!”
“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.”
“An’ what for no, Jeanie?” asked the miller. “Did ye think that your
father had forgotten how to mak a patfu’ o’ kail?”
“Did ye mak them, father?”
“Troth did I; wha else was there to do it?”
“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.”
“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.”
“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?”
“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.”
Sae awa she gangs, and when William sees her coming, he pretends to be
unco busy working.
“William,” cries she, “ken ye whaur James is gane?”
“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.”
“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.”
“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?”
“An’ whaur was ye, then, that father couldna see you when he was out?”
“Did my father cry on me?” asked William.
“No,” said Jeanie; “at least he didna say’t.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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’.”
“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!”
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.
CHAPTER V.
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.
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.”
“Ye forget, Jeanie,” said the miller, “that John Murdoch sleepit there,
an’ he didna seem to be the waur o’t.”
“Aye, for ae night, nae doubt, and in fine weather; but how lang will
that last?”
The miller gies her nae answer; but after sittin’ thinking a wee, he
rises and taks down his bonnet.
“It’s a fine day for being out,” says Jeanie; “but are ye gaun far,
father?”
“Nae farer than the Hope,” said the miller.
“The Hope!” exclaimed Jeanie, as her face reddened.
“Ay,” says the miller; “and I’m thinking o’ speirin’ if there’s room
there for ane o’ ye.”
“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.”
* * * * *
“Geordie Wilson,” cries the miller, “when will it suit you to marry my
dochter?”
“The day—the morn—ony day,” answers Geordie, as happy’s a prince.
“Because I was thinking,” says the miller, “that it might be as weel to
pit James’s waddin’ and yours ower thegither.”
“Wi’ a’ my heart,” says Geordie, “wi’ a’ my heart!”
“Weel, then,” quoth the miller, “I’ll awa hame and see what our Jeanie
says to’t.”
“And I’ll gang wi’ you,” cries Geordie.
“Come your wa’s then, my man,” says the miller.
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?”
“Is onything wrang wi’ my father?” asked he.
“Gude forbid!” said Jeanie; “but what maks ye speir?”
“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.”
“Preserve us a’!” cries Jeanie; “if onything has happened atween the
twa!”
“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.”
“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.
“The lassie’s in a creel, I think!” quoth the miller; “but it’s the same
wi’ them a’.”
“Jeanie! my ain Jeanie!” whispers Geordie, “an’ it’s a’ settled for
neist week, and we’ll be sae happy!”
Jeanie held him at arm’s length frae her, that she might look him in the
face.
“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!”
“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?”
“Ou, just onything ye like,” said she; “bring back yoursel, that’s a’
Jeanie cares about.”
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.
“My ain gude and aye kind brither!” said Jeanie, resting her head on his
shouther.
“She’ll no speak to _me_, nae doubt,” says William, his voice shakin’ a
wee.
“Ah, ye wicked callant!” says Jeanie, kissing his cheek. “But ye mauna
plague me nae mair; na, ye’ll no daur do’t!”
“No!” cries William, “I’m sure I’m fit for a’ that Geordie Wilson can do
ony day, an’ maybe mair.”
Jeanie was gaun to answer, but she got her ee on the miller standing at
the door.
“I maun hae _his_ blessing first,” she cries, “and then Jeanie’s heart
will be at peace.”
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!”
“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.
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.”
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.
“Wi’ a’ my heart,” quoth the miller; “but first open that cage-door,
Jeanie, for it’s no fitting that _it_, wha had sae muckle share in’t,
should be a prisoner at sic a time.”
An’ the robin cam fleein’ out to the miller’s whistle, an’ lightit on
the table beside him.
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.”
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.
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.
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.—“_The Odd
Volume._”
THE HEADLESS CUMINS.
BY SIR THOMAS DICK LAUDER.
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:—
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.
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 “_courage_” 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.
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.”
THE LADY ISABEL:
_A LEGENDARY TALE OF THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY_.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!
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.
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.—_Chambers’s Edinburgh Journal_, 1833.
THE DESPERATE DUEL.
BY D. M. MOIR, M.D.
Nay, never shake thy gory locks at me;
Thou canst not say I did it!—_Macbeth._
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.
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.
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.
“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.”
’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.
“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.”
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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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!”
“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.”
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.
“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!”
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.”
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!”
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.
“Do ye think that the puir lad will live, doctor?” said I till him.
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?”
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.”
“What then, Mansie, will we do with poor Magneezhy? Give us your advice
in need.”
“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!”
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.
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.
“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.”
Tammy’s heart louped to his mouth.
“Ay, maister,” he said, “ye’re joking. What should ye have done that ye
should be ta’en to sic an ill place?”
“Ah, Tammy, lad,” answered I, “it is but ower true.”
“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?”
“Come in here,” said I to him, “and believe your ain een, Tammy, my
man.”
“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?”
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!”
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.
“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?”
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?”
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?”
“Somewhere about the hairy scaup,” answered Magneezhy, in his own sort
of lingo. “I doubt some artery’s cut through!”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.—_Mansie Wauch._
THE VACANT CHAIR.
BY JOHN MACKAY WILSON.
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.
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 _r_ with the broad, masculine sound of the
North Briton, and in the next with the liquid _burr_ of the
Northumbrians.
Peter, or, if you prefer it, Peter Elliot, Esquire of 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!”
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.
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.
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.
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.
“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.”
“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.”
“Ye’re not a father, young man,” said Peter, and walked out of the room.
Minute succeeded minute, but Peter returned not. The guests became
hungry, peevish, and gloomy, while an 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.
“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?”
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.”
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.
“Where hae ye been, Peter?” said she, eagerly. “Hae ye seen naething o’
him?”
“Naething, naething,” replied he; “is he no cast up yet?” And, with a
melancholy glance, his eyes sought an answer in the deserted chair. His
lips quivered, his tongue faltered.
“Gude 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.”
“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.”
“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!”
“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.”
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.
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.
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!’”
Time stole on towards midnight, and one by one the unsuccessful party
returned. As foot after foot approached, every breath was held to
listen.
“No, no, no,” cried the mother, again and again, with increasing
anguish, “it’s no the foot o’ my ain bairn;” while her keen gaze still
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.
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.
“Janet, Janet!” he exclaimed, as he entered, and threw his arms around
her neck, “what’s this come upon us at last?”
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.
“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.”
“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.”
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.
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.”
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.
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!”
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.
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.
“Bairns,” said he, “did nane o’ye ask the sailor to come up and tak a
bit o’ dinner wi’ us?”
“We were afraid it might lead to a quarrel with Mr Johnson,” whispered
one of the sons.
“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.”
“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.”
“Gentleman, indeed!” muttered Johnson between his teeth.
“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.
“Excuse me, sir! excuse me, sir!” said Peter, the words trembling upon
his tongue; “but ye cannot—ye cannot sit there!”
“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!”
“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!”
“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.”
“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?”
“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!”
“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.”
“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.
“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.”
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!”
“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?”
“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.”
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.
COLKITTOCH.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.[11] 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.—_“Traditions of the Western Highlands,” in the London Literary
Gazette._
Footnote 11:
Coll’s execution took place in 1647.
THE COVENANTERS:
_A TRADITIONARY TALE OF LANARKSHIRE_.
BY ROBERT MACNISH, LL.D.
CHAPTER I.
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.
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.
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.
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.
“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.”
“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.”
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.
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.
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.
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
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.”
“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.”
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.
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.
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.”
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.
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.
“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!”
CHAPTER II.
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.
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.
“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.”
“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?”
“I was not,” answered Allan; “I never in my life attended a
field-preaching.”
“Or a conventicle?”
“Nor a conventicle either.”
“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?”
“I do deny it, stoutly.”
“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.”
“I will tell no untruth, even to save my life.”
“Then on your own stupid head rest the consequences. Do you know one
Hervey, a preacher?”
“I do,” said Allan, firmly.
“Ha, here it comes! You have then spoken to that man, most godly Allan?”
“I have spoken to him.”
“He has been in your house?”
“I do not mean to deny that he has.”
“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?”
“I will gainsay nothing of what you have said.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
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.
“Oh, captain, do not slay my father! Take _my_ life. It was _my_ 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.”
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.
“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.”
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.
“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.”
“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!”
“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.”
“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.”
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.
“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?”
“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.
“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.
“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.”
Without saying another word, he unslung his carbine, rushed to the open
air—and shot Clobberton dead on the spot.
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.
_Russell._—Why, I thinks as how he be dead.
_Smith._—Dead! ay, as dead as Julius Cæsar. I wonder what old Dalzell
will say when he hears of his dear “lamb” being butchered thus?
_Russell._—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.
_Ross._—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.
_Graham._—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.
_Russell._—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.
_Jones._—Well, well, let him go and sing psalms in his own canting
fashion.
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.
“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.”
Graham’s carbine and pistols were immediately taken from him, and his
hands tied behind his back by the remaining troopers.
“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.”
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—
“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!”
“Do not distress yourself about me, my sweet girl,” cried
Graham—“farewell once more!”
And she turned back weeping, while the troopers held their way towards
the western outlet of the valley.
CHAPTER III.
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.
“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.”
“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.”
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.”
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.
“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.”
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!
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.
“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.”
“Release him!” replied Ross. “Would you have us release a murderer? Are
you aware that he has shot his officer?”
“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.”
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.”
“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.”
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.
“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.
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.
“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?”
“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.”
“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.”
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 _sang froid_, 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.
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.
“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.”
“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!”
“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.”
“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.
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.
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.
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.
THE POOR SCHOLAR.
BY PROFESSOR WILSON.
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.
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.
“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.
“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.
“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!”
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.
“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.
“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.”
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.”
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.
“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.”
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!”
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.”
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:—
“Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
“Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted.”
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:—
“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!”
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.
“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!”
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.
THE CRUSHED BONNET.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.—“_The Athenæum_,”—_Glasgow
University Annual_, 1830.
THE VILLAGERS OF AUCHINCRAIG.
BY DANIEL GORRIE.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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?”
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.
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.
“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. _Requiescat in pace!_
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.
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!”
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.
PERLING JOAN.
BY JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART, LL.D.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!—_The History of
Matthew Wald._
JANET SMITH.
BY PROFESSOR THOMAS GILLESPIE.
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.
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 _the appetite_ for
me!—this is assuredly the great, the master gratification.
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, _in those days_, 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.
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 _now_ 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!
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.
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 _ample provision_ 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 _ample and bountiful
provision_ 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.
THE UNLUCKY TOP BOOTS.
CHAPTER I.
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.
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 _soles_—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!
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 _via lactea_,—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.
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.
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.
“Mary,” said Mr Aikin, one luckless evening, to his loving wife, after
having sat for about half an hour looking into the fire.
“Aweel, Thomas?” said his spouse, in token of her attention.
“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.
“Aweel, Thomas,” replied his better half, with equal brevity, “ye had
better get a pair.”
“They’re decent lookin’ things,” rejoined Mr Aikin.
“Indeed are they,” said his indulgent spouse,—“very decent and
respectable, Thomas.”
“Rather flashy though, I doubt, for the like o’ me,” quoth Mr Aikin.
“I dinna see that, Thomas, sae lang as ye’re able to pay for them,”
remarked Mrs Aikin.
“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.”
“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.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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, _pro tempore_ 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:—
Mr AIKIN,
_Bought of_ DAVID ANDERSON,
One pair of Top Boots, £2, 2s.
Settled in full,
DAVID ANDERSON.
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.
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.
CHAPTER II.
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.
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.
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!
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.
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.
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.
“How many were there of them?” inquired the magistrate. “Were there more
than one?”
“Only one,” muttered the unfortunate man.
“Was there any peculiarity in his dress or appearance that struck you?”
asked the fiscal.
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.
“He wore top boots, you say?” again inquired the fiscal, to make sure
that he had heard aright.
“Y-e-s, t-o-p b-o-o-ts,” was again the reply.
“Was he a thin man, or a stout man?”
“A stout man.”
“Young or middle-aged?”
“Middle-aged.”
“Tall or short?”
“Short,” groaned out the sufferer, and, with that word, the breath of
life departed from him.
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.
“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.
“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.”
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.”
“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.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.—_Chambers’s Edinburgh
Journal._
MY FIRST AND LAST PLAY.
BY D. M. MOIR, M.D.
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.
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.
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.
“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.”
I was a wee dumbfoundered at this cleverness; so I said, mair on my
guard, “True, true, Saunders; but he’s ower little.”
“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.
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.
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.
“Ye should mak yer son ane, then,” said I, “if ye think sae. Have ye ony
bairns?”
“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.”
“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.”
“’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.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!”
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.
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.”
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.
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.
JANE MALCOLM:
_A VILLAGE TALE_.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!—_Edin. Lit. Jour._
BOWED JOSEPH:
_A LAST-CENTURY EDINBURGH “CHARACTER.”_
BY ROBERT CHAMBERS, LL.D.
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.
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.
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 _tinder_ spirits of the
Edinburgh rabble.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.”
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.
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.
THE LAIRD OF WINEHOLM.
BY JAMES HOGG, THE “ETTRICK SHEPHERD.”
“Have you heard anything of the apparition which has been seen about
Wineholm-place?” said the dominie.
“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.”
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.
“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.
The dominie shook his head again.
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.
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.
“What is this that beats the world, Mr Clinkum?” said the dominie, with
the most cool and provoking indifference.
“This story about the apparition,” quoth the smith.
“What story?” said the dominie.
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!”
“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.”
At the long adverb, _nevertheless_, the smith gave over blowing, and
pricked up his ears, but the definition went beyond his comprehension.
“Ye ken that just beats the whole world for deepness,” said the smith,
and again began blowing the bellows.
“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
_of_ a proposition; while a hypothesis is a _sup_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.”
“Yes, yes, I understand you middling weel; but I wad like better to hear
what other folks say about it than you.”
“And why so? Wherefore would you rather hear another man’s demonstration
than mine?” said the dominie, sternly.
“Because, ye ken, ye just beat the world for words,” quoth the smith.
“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.”
“Ye’re quite wrang, maister,” cried the smith after him. “It isna the
_want_ o’ wisdom in you that plagues me; it is the owerplush o’t.”
This soothed the dominie, who returned, and said mildly,—
“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.”
“Very weel, sir. When will you be needing it?”
“Not till the end of the close time.”
“Ay, ye may gar the three auld anes do till then.”
“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?”
“Ye ken, that just beats a’ in words; but we ken what we ken, for a’
that, maister.”
“You had better take a little care what you say, Mr Clinkum; just a
_little_ 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.”
“The crabbitness o’ that body beats the world!” said the smith to
himself, as the dominie went halting homeward.
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:—
“Have _you_ ever seen this ghost that there is such a noise about?”
“Ghost? Na, goodness be thankit! I never saw a ghost in my life, save
ance a wraith. What ghost do you mean?”
“So you never saw nor heard tell of any apparition about Wineholm-place,
lately?”
“No, I hae reason to be thankfu’ I have not.”
“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?”
“Goodness be wi’ us! Ye gar a’ the hairs o’ my head creep, man. What’s
that you’re saying?”
“Had ye never ony suspicions o’ that kind, John?”
“No; I canna say that I had.”
“None in the least? Weel, that beats the world!”
“O, haud your tongue—haud your tongue! We hae great reason to be
thankfu’ that we are as we are!”
“How as you are?”
“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.”
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.
“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.”
“Ye ken, it just beats the world for that,” rejoined the smith.
“And is it really thought that this laird made away wi’ our auld
maister?” said John.
The smith shook his head again, and gave a straight wink with his eyes.
“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?”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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?”
“Na; I thought he said it was by a collar, or collary, or something to
that purpose.”
“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?”
“O, ye ken, it just beats the world.”
“He deserves to be torn at young horses’ tails,” said the ploughman.
“Ay, or nippit to death with red-hot pinchers,” quoth the smith.
“Or harrowed to death, like the children of Ammon,” said the ploughman.
“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!”
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.”
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?”
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 _why_ 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.
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 _rash
assassination_, and said it was obvious and easily inferred that it was
done by a collar.
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 _the
logarithm to number one_, 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.
“O, ye ken, he just beats the world for that,” quoth the smith.
“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 _above_ 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 _contrary_ 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.”
“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.”
“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?”
“I insist on having them.”
“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.”
“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!”
The doctor grew as pale as death, but whether from fear or rage, it was
hard to say.
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“I have seen him, and spoke with him—that I aver,” said the dominie.
“And shall I tell you what he said to me?”
“No, no! I’ll hear no more of such absolute and disgusting nonsense,”
said the doctor.
“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.”
“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.”
“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.
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—
“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.”
While the two were in confabulation, Johnston, the old house servant,
came in, and said to the doctor—
“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.”
“Send him up here,” said the doctor. “I will silence him. What does the
ignorant clown mean by joining in this unnatural clamour?”
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.
“Well, John,” said the doctor, “what absurd lie is this that you are
vending among your fellow-servants, of having seen a ghost?”
John picked some odds and ends of threads out of his bonnet, and said
nothing.
“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?”
“Indeed, sir, I hae naething to say but this, that we hae a’ muckle
reason to be thankfu’ that we are as we are.”
“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.”
“Indeed, sir, I hae muckle reason to be thankfu’—”
“For what?”
“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
_do—not—ken_.”
“Now, pray let us hear from that sage tongue of yours, so full of
sublime adages, what this doubtful being said to you?”
“I wad rather be excused, an’ it were your honour’s will, and wad hae
reason to be thankfu’.”
“And why should you decline telling this?”
“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!”
“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.”
“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?’
“‘Lord make us thankfu’, master,’ says I; ‘are you there?’
“‘Where else would you have me be at this hour of the night, old
blockhead?’ says he.
“‘In another hame than this, master,’ says I; ‘but I fear it is nae good
ane, that ye are sae soon tired o’t.’
“‘A d—d bad one, I assure you,’ says he.
“‘Ay, but master,’ says I, ‘ye hae muckle reason to be thankfu’ that ye
are as ye are.’
“‘In what respect, dotard?’ says he.
“‘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.
“‘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.’
“‘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.”
“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.”
“Na, na,” said John, “in place o’ that, whenever she heard him fa’ a
swearing, she was sae glad that she fell a nichering.”
“Na, but that beats the hale world a’ thegither!” quoth the smith. “Then
it has been nae ghaist ava, ye may depend on that.”
“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.”
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.
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.
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.
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
_common_ 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.
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?
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.
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:—
“Were you long acquainted with the late Laird of Wineholm, James?”
“Yes, ever since I left my apprenticeship; for, I suppose, about
nineteen years.”
“Was he very much given to drinking of late?”
“I could not say; he took his glass geyan heartily.”
“Did you ever drink with him.”
“O yes, mony a time.”
“You must have seen him very drunk, then? Did you ever see him so drunk,
for instance, that he could not rise?”
“Never; for long afore that, I could not have kenned whether he was
sitting or standing.”
“Were you present at the corpse-chesting?”
“Yes, I was.”
“And were you certain the body was then deposited in the coffin?”
“Yes; quite certain.”
“Did you screw down the coffin lid firmly then, as you do others of the
same make?”
“No, I did not.”
“What were your reasons for that?”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.’
“‘Very well, sir,’ says I; ‘what shall I bring?’
“‘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.’
“‘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.’
“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.”
“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.”
“‘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?’
“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.”
“So he is alive, then, you say?” asked the fiscal.
“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.
“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.”
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 _quite_ 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.
AN INCIDENT IN THE GREAT MORAY FLOODS OF 1829.
BY SIR THOMAS DICK LAUDER.
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 _fey_!”[12]
Footnote 12:
“‘I think,’ said the old gardener to one of the maids, ‘the gauger’s
_fie_’—by which word the common people express those violent spirits,
which they think a presage of death.”—_Guy Mannering._
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.
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 _sting_—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.
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 _he_ 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.
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.
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.
“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.
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.
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.
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,—
“I’m thinkin’ I could hae ta’en him out,” said a voice in the circle.
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.
“You!” cried a dozen voices at once; “what would you have done, you wise
man?”
“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——”
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.”
CHARLIE GRAHAM, THE TINKER.
BY GEORGE PENNY.
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, &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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.”
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.
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, &c., and got bruised bones and torn coats;
it was also discovered that many pockets had been picked during the
affray.
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.
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.—_Traditions of Perth._
THE SNOWING-UP OF STRATH LUGAS;
_OR, THE MATCH-MAKING LAIRD_.
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 _there_ is neither marrying nor giving in marriage!
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.
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.
“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.”
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 _tête-à-têtes_, 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.
“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!”
“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.”
“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.”
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,—
“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.”
“All in place of Mrs Carmichael, sir?” replied the young lady, with an
arch look.
“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.
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.
“How long have you been with Mrs Carmichael?”
“I came the day before yesterday.”
“Rather a savage sort of country, I am afraid, you find this, after the
polished scenes of your own land?”
“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.”
“It is only your good-nature that makes you think us so. When you know
us better, you will alter your opinion.”
“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.”
“Why, what did you expect? Did you think we were ‘men whose heads do
grow beneath their shoulders?’”
“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.”
“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.”
“And who is that at his right hand?”
“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.”
“And is that the reason he is called the henchman?”
“Yes; henchman means, ‘the piper with the bloody hand—the slaughterer of
three.’”
“What a comprehensive word! It is almost equal to the laird’s face.”
But here the laird broke in upon their conversation.
“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!”
The young lady bowed without comprehending a syllable of the speech of
the worthy host.
“Are you likely to be soon ordered abroad?” she said.
“We expect the route for Spain every day; and then huzza for a peerage
or Westminster Abbey!”
“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?”
“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?”
“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.”
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.
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—
“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.”
“Preserve us a’!” whispered the laird; “puir Anne’s hair is as red as a
carrot.”
“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?”
“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.”
“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.”
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.
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 _tête-à-tête_ 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.
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.
“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’!”
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.
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.
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.
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—
“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’.”
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.
“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.”
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.
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.
“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?”
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.
“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.
“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.”
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.
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 _incog._; 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.”
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,—
“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.
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.
“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.”
“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.
“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.”
“She was too rich for the poor penniless subaltern to look to,” replied
the young man, a deep glow coming over his face.
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“If I had been on a level with her as to fortune”——
“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?”
“I have never heard of Miss Mowbray from that hour to this. In all
probability she is married to some lucky fellow”——
“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.”
“Mrs Carmichael is very kind.”
“’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.”
“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.”
“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.”
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.
“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!”
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—
“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 _two_ can have such a graceful carriage!”
“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?”
“It was Miss Mowbray I saw. She went into that house opposite.”
“What! the house wi’ the brass knocker, green door—the verandah with the
flower-pots, an’ twa dead geraniums?”
“Yes.”
“Then just ring the bell, and tell that English cratur to pu’ me in the
wee whirligig across the street.”
“Impossible, my dear laird! recollect your gout.”
“Deil hae the gout and the cough too! Order the chair; I’ll see if it’s
her in five minutes.”
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!—_Blackwood’s Magazine._
EZRA PEDEN.
BY ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.
I sat and watched while all men slept, and lo!
Between the green earth and the deep green sea
I saw bright spirits pass, pure as the touch
Of May’s first finger on the eastern hill.
Behind them followed fast a little cloud;
And from the cloud an evil spirit came—
A damnèd shape—one who in the dark pit
Held sovereign sway; and power to him was given
To chase the blessèd spirits from the earth,
And rule it for a season.
Soon he shed
His hellish slough, and many a subtle wile
Was his to seem a heavenly spirit to man.
First he a hermit, sore subdued in flesh,
O’er a cold cruse of water and a crust,
Poured out meek prayers abundant. Then he changed
Into a maid when she first dreams of man,
And from beneath two silken eyelids sent
The sidelong light of two such wondrous eyes,
That all the saints grew sinners. He subdued
Those wanton smiles, and grew a reverend dame,
With wintry ringlets, and grave lips, which dropt
Proverbial honey in her grandson’s ear.
Then a professor of God’s Word he seemed,
And o’er a multitude of upturned eyes
Showered blessed dews, and made the pitchy path,
Down which howl damnèd spirits, seem the bright
Thrice-hallowed way to heaven. Yet grimly through
The glorious veil of those seducing shapes
Frowned out the fearful spirit.
CHAPTER I.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.”
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.
“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”——
“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.”
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.
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.
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.
“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.”
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—
THE DOWNFALL OF DALZELL.
I.
The wind is cold, the snow falls fast,
The night is dark and late,
As I lift aloud my voice and cry
By the oppressor’s gate.
There is a voice in every hill,
A tongue in every stone;
The greenwood sings a song of joy,
Since thou art dead and gone;
A poet’s voice is in each mouth,
And songs of triumph swell,
Glad songs, that tell the gladsome earth
The downfall of Dalzell.
II.
As I raised up my voice to sing,
I heard the green earth say,
Sweet am I now to beast and bird,
Since thou art passed away:
I hear no more the battle shout,
The martyrs’ dying moans;
My cottages and cities sing
From their foundation-stones;
The carbine and the culverin’s mute,—
The death-shot and the yell
Are turned into a hymn of joy,
For thy downfall, Dalzell
III.
I’ve trod thy banner in the dust,
And caused the raven call
From thy bride-chamber to the owl
Hatched on thy castle wall;
I’ve made thy minstrels’ music dumb,
And silent now to fame
Art thou, save when the orphan casts
His curses on thy name.
Now thou may’st say to good men’s prayers
A long and last farewell:
There’s hope for every sin save thine,—
Adieu, adieu, Dalzell!
IV.
The grim pit opes for thee her gates,
Where punished spirits wail,
And ghastly Death throws wide his door,
And hails thee with a Hail.
Deep from the grave there comes a voice,
A voice with hollow tones,
Such as a spirit’s tongue would have
That spoke through hollow bones:—
“Arise, ye martyred men, and shout
From earth to howling hell;
He comes, the persecutor comes!
All hail to thee, Dalzell!”
V.
O’er an old battle-field there rushed
A wind, and with a moan
The severed limbs all rustling rose,
Even fellow bone to bone.
“Lo! there he goes,” I heard them cry,
“Like babe in swathing band,
Who shook the temples of the Lord,
And passed them ’neath his brand.
Cursed be the spot where he was born,
There let the adders dwell,
And from his father’s hearthstone hiss:
All hail to thee, Dalzell!”
VI.
I saw thee growing like a tree,—
Thy green head touched the sky,—
But birds far from thy branches built,
The wild deer passed thee by;
No golden dew dropt on thy bough,
Glad summer scorned to grace
Thee with her flowers, nor shepherds wooed
Beside thy dwelling-place;
The axe has come and hewed thee down,
Nor left one shoot to tell
Where all thy stately glory grew:
Adieu, adieu, Dalzell!
VII.
An ancient man stands by thy gate,
His head like thine is gray;
Gray with the woes of many years,
Years fourscore and a day.
Five brave and stately sons were his;
Two daughters, sweet and rare;
An old dame, dearer than them all,
And lands both broad and fair;—
Two broke their hearts when two were slain,
And three in battle fell,—
An old man’s curse shall cling to thee,—
Adieu, adieu, Dalzell!
VIII.
And yet I sigh to think of thee,
A warrior tried and true
As ever spurred a steed, when thick
The splintering lances flew.
I saw thee in thy stirrups stand,
And hew thy foes down fast,
When Grierson fled, and Maxwell failed,
And Gordon stood aghast;
And Graeme, saved by thy sword, raged fierce
As one redeemed from hell.
I came to curse thee,—and I weep:
So go in peace, Dalzell!
When this wild and unusual hymn concluded, the Cameronian arose and
departed, and Ezra and his conductor entered the chamber of the dying
man.
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.
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,—
“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!
Here he paused and waved his hand like a warrior at the head of armed
men, and thus he continued,—
“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?”
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.
“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.”
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.
“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?”
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.
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.
CHAPTER II.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
He muttered a brief and pithy prayer, and then said,—
“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.”
“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.”
“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.
“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.”
Ezra looked on the figure with a steady and a penetrating eye. The
stranger endured the scrutiny.
“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.”
“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?”
“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.”
The shape or spirit of Bonshaw, dilated with anger, and in a quicker and
fiercer tone, said—
“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.”
“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?”
“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.”
“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!”
“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.”
“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?”
“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.”
At this assurance of protection, the pastor inclined his shuddering
steed closer to his companion, and thus he proceeded:—
“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?”
“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.
“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.”
“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.’”
“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?”
The spirit laughed.
“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.”
“So thou wilt not tell me the name of thy steed?” said Ezra; “well, even
as thou wilt.”
“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.”
“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?”
“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.”
“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?”
“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?”
“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?”
“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.”
“Ay, ay!” said the pastor; “so I find you have mirth among you: have you
dance and song also?”
“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.”
“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.”
Loud laughed the spirit, and replied in scorn—
“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.”
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.
“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.”
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,—
“There goes Captain George Johnstone, riding on his fierce old master!”
CHAPTER III.
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.
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.
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:—
“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!”
And, concluding her melancholy chant, she looked sorrowfully and
steadfastly at the grave, and recommenced anew her wailing and her
tears.
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.
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.
“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.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
“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.”
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.
YOUNG RONALD OF MORAR:
_A TRADITIONARY TALE OF THE WESTERN HIGHLANDS_.
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 _canna_, 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.
Having got possession of the cattle, Angus was driving away the
_spreith_ 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 _canna_ 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.—_Lit.
Gazette._
THE BROKEN RING.
BY ONE OF THE AUTHORS OF THE “ODD VOLUME.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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?”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“Riches canna buy true love,” said Mary.
“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.”
“I’ll no hae him till the year is out,” cried Mary. “Wha kens but the
ship may cast up yet?”
“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.”
“Oh, mother, mother, I wish ye would let me die!” was Mary’s answer, as
she flung herself down on her little bed.
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.
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.
“Dear sake, Mary, gie ower greeting,” said Annot; “the bonny white satin
ribbon is wringing wet.”
“Sing her a canty sang to keep up her heart,” said Dame Seton.
“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.
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.
“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.”
“Nae doubt,” rejoined the spaewife, “a bridal time is a thrang time, but
it should be a heartsome ane too.”
“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.”
“Will ye hae yer fortune spaed, my bonny May?” said the woman, as she
seized Mary’s hand.
“Na, na,” answered Mary, “I ken it but ower weel already.”
“You’ll be married soon, my bonny lassie,” said the sibyl.
“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?”
“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?”
“Get out o’ my house, ye tinkler!” cried Dame Seton, in wrath; “we want
to hear nae such clavers.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.
“I’ll no marry Jamie Binks,” cried Mary, wringing her hands; “send to
him, mother, and tell him sae.”
“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.”
“Oh, mother, mother!” cried Mary, “how can I gie ae man my hand, when
another has my heart?”
“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.”
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.
“And what’s taking you to Dunbar the day, Mr Johnstone?” asked the
coachman.
“Just a wedding, John,” answered the farmer. “My cousin, Jamie Binks, is
to be married the night.”
“He has been a wee ower lang about it,” said the coachman.
“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.”
“What Mary is that you are speaking about?” asked the sailor.
“Oh, just bonny Mary Seton that’s to be married the night,” answered the
farmer.
“Whew!” cried the sailor, giving a long whistle.
“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.”
“Right!” exclaimed the young sailor, “she deserves the cat-o’-nine
tails!”
“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.
“He’ll be taking the short cut to the town,” answered the coachman,
giving his horses the whip.
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.
“I wish the minister would come,” said Dame Seton.
“We must open the window,” answered Annot, “for Mary is like to swarf
awa.”
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.
“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.
“Where has this come frae?” exclaimed Mary, wringing her hands. “Has the
dead risen to upbraid me?”
“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.
“Oh, Willie, Willie, where hae ye been a’ this weary time?” exclaimed
Mary, while the tears fell on her pale cheek.
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“’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.
A PASSAGE OF MY LIFE.
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.
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.
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,
&c. &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.
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.
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 _shells_. 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.
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.
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.
“Come awa, laird, come awa, gin ye would like to see your auld auntie
afore she gangs aff a’thegither.”
I started up, threw down the “Sporting Magazine,” and instinctively
snatched up my hat.
“When did it happen, wee Jamie?”
“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.”
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—
“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’.”
With which sapient remark the kitchen boy got out of hearing, and soon
out of sight.
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 _caste_ 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.
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
_Sawlies_ 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.
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.
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.
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.
“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.”
“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!”
“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.
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.
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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!”
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.
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.
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 _dips_—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!!” &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:—
SONG.
Fill a can, let us drink,
For ’tis nonsense to think
Of the cares that may come with to-morrow;
And ’tis folly as big
As the Chancellor’s wig,
To dash present joy with dull sorrow.
Hip! hip! hip! fill away;
Our life’s but a day,
And ’twere pity that it proved a sad one;
’Twas in a merry pin
Our life did begin,
And we’ll close it, brave boys, in a mad one!
Hip! hip! hip! &c.
Never shrink, boys, but stand,
With a can in each hand,
Like a king with his globe and his sceptre;
And though slack in your joints,
Yet thus armed at all points,
The devil himself can’t you capture.
Hip! hip! hip! fill aright,
Should he seek us to-night,
We’ll toss off the old rogue as a whetter;
When the hot cinder’s down,
Take my oath on’t, you’ll own,
That good luck could not furnish a better.
Hip! hip! hip! &c.
Dull sophists may say,
Who have ne’er wet their clay,
That merry old wine gives no bliss,
But the flask’s sparkling high,
Gives the dotards the lie,
Crying, kiss me, my roaring lads, kiss!
Hip! hip! hip! jolly boys!
He who quarrels with those joys,
Which the longer they’re sipped of grow sweeter,
May he live to be wise,
And then when he sighs
For a smack, let him choke with this metre.
Hip! hip! hip! &c.
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.
My heart sickened at the riot, and, broken in spirit and penniless, I
retreated to my lodgings.
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.”
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.—_Paisley Magazine._
THE COURT CAVE:
_A LEGENDARY TALE OF FIFESHIRE_.
BY DRUMMOND BRUCE.
CHAPTER I.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
“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!”
“Dear father,” said the weeping girl, “upbraid us not. Never will I
disobey you, never be his, without your own consent.”
“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.
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.
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.”
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.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
“Who is that on the left of the old man?” whispered Arthur to the man
who had introduced him.
“That—that’s his favourite dell,” replied the man.
“Nay, I mean not the woman—the man upon her left.”
“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.”
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,—
“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.”
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.
“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.
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.
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.
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.
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, “_Morte de ma
vie!_—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.
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.
“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.
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.
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,—
“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.”
“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?”
“Whim—chance—_fate_—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.
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.
“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.”
“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.”
“Nothing in your power to perform,” replied Arthur, calmly.
“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!”
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.
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.
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.
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.
CHAPTER II.
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.
“Give you good-e’en, gudeman of Balmeny,” said the stranger, seating
himself, without waiting an invitation, on the bench opposite Colville.
“The same to you, neebour,” said the landlord, in a tone that had little
of welcome in it.
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.
“Have you anything to tell, ask, or deliver, friend?” at last said
Colville.
“This bright-e’ed maiden is the bonny lass of Balmeny, I’m thinking,”
was the unreplying answer.
“That is my daughter, truly,” said the landlord, becoming more and more
impatient; “does your coming concern her?”
“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.”
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—
“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.’”
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.
“And now,” said Colville, who began to think the stranger somewhat more
at ease than he could have wished, “Your name, wooer?”
“My name?” said the stranger, somewhat embarrassed.
“Ay, your name—all men have a name. _Knaves_ [laying an emphasis on the
word] many.”
“True, gudeman, true. My name, then, is Stuart—James Stuart. I hope it
pleases you?”
“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?”
“I was born at Stirling,” said the stranger.
“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?”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“And who, in Beelzebub’s name, may you be blackfit for?” demanded
Colville, rising in wrath.
“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.”
“Give her! To whom?”
“To one who loves her dearly; and, what is more, is dearly loved in
return, old man.”
“Who is he?” reiterated Colville.
“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.”
“Who—who—who is he?” cried the old man, stamping in a paroxysm of rage.
“Arthur Winton!” said the stranger.
The anger of Colville, when this unpleasing name was uttered, almost
overwhelmed him.
“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.”
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.
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,—
“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.”
“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 _dirige_ of their chief.”
Arthur said nothing, but looked doubtingly at Colville.
“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.”
“Nay, my dear father,” said Edith, imploringly, “do not drive them forth
now; the Egyptians are approaching the house—they cannot escape.”
“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.
“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.”
“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.”
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,—
“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.”
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.
The stranger in the meantime strode up and down the place, regardless of
the affrighted servants, singing to himself—
“O whaur will I get a bonny boy,
That will win hose and shoon;
That will rin to Lord Barnard’s yett,
And bid his ladye come?”
“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?”
“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.
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.
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.
“Could I but get this younker beyond their clutches,” said the stranger,
“a short half hour would disperse them like the leaves in autumn.”
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.
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.
Their attention was now, however, directed from him to the youthful
messenger, who approached towards them undauntedly. They went forward to
meet him.
“The master sent me to see what ye’re a’ here for,” said the boy.
“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.”
“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.
“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.”
“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.
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.
“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.”
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—
“In Heaven’s name, say, oh! say, sir, you are not the king!”
“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.”
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!”
“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.”
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.
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.
“They are meditating a retreat, methinks,” said the king.
“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.
“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!”
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.
“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.”
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.
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.
“It must be cold steel that saves us after all,” said the king,
retreating to the staircase.
“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.
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.
“Let us smeek them in their hive,” at length cried a hoarse voice, “and
so let them either roast or come forth.”
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.
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.
“Are you sure of what you say, Edith?” asked the king eagerly. “How do
the horsemen ride?”
“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.”
“My trusty David!” exclaimed the king, with emotion, “well wert thou
worthy of the gallant gray!”
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.
“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!”
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,—
“Mine host, did I hear rightly when you said there was nothing beneath
this roof-tree to which I was not welcome?”
“Your highness heard rightly.”
“Give me then this fair maiden. We kings, you know, seldom choose the
least valuable of our subjects’ chattels.”
“Your grace may command me,” said Colville, though somewhat
hesitatingly, for he saw the turn which things were taking.
“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.”
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.
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.
HELEN WATERS:
_A TRADITIONARY TALE OF THE ORKNEYS_.
BY JOHN MALCOLM.
The lost, the castaway on desert isles,
Or rocks of ocean, where no human aid
Can reach them more.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 _beau-ideal_ of woman; but she
awakened a world of romance in one young heart, with which her own
gentle bosom shared the feelings she inspired.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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:—
“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!”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!
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!
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.
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!
LEGEND OF THE LARGE MOUTH.
BY ROBERT CHAMBERS, LL.D.
“Here’s a large mouth indeed!”
SHAKSPEARE—_King John_.
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—_commercial_ 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
“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.”
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.
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 _second-best_, next week, by
way of revenge.
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.
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
_spoon_, 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.
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.”
The Mouth—for so it might be termed _par excellence_—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
_pas_ 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.
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!
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, &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 _blancmange_.
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 _wild look_! It was evident
that it was now _fleshed_—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!
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.
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!
Here I grew dizzy, fainted, and—I never saw the Mouth again.
RICHARD SINCLAIR;
_OR, THE POOR PRODIGAL IN THE AISLE_.
BY THOMAS AIRD.
CHAPTER I.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!”
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.
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.
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.
“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.
CHAPTER II.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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,—
“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.”
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.
“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.”
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,—
“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?”
“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.
“Oh! there’s the lightning again! Gin we could but meet wife and bairns
ance mair!” ejaculated the foremost man.
“Lord have mercy on my widow and sma’ family!” echoed the sternmost.
“Tout! it’s but the laird’s drucken mulatto after a’!” said the former,
gathering a little confidence.
“Oh, if it were! or but a man wi’ the jaundice, our days might be
lengthened,” cried the latter.
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.
“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!”
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—
“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!”
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.
“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.”
The clergyman now advanced and asked what was the matter.
“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.”
“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.”
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.
“How is all this?” was his first question of surprise, addressed to his
host. “May I request to know, sir, why I am here?”
“In virtue of a rash blow, which we all regret,” answered the minister.
“I crave your pardon, sir,” returned the youth. “I can now guess that I
am much indebted to your kindness.”
“May we ask you, young man,” said the clergyman, “how it has happened
that you have so alarmed our peaceful neighbourhood?”
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),—
“Sae, mind, young man, in times future, what comes of sleeping in the
time of two peeous and yedifying discoorses.”
“A good caution, John,” said the mild old minister; “but we must make
allowances.”
“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.
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,—
“There’s my hand, young man, in the first place; and now, it was me
indeed that struck you down, but I thought——”
“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.”
“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.”
“My own poor mother!” sobbed forth the prodigal.
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.
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—
“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!”
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 _mother_, and
_hysterica passio_ 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?”
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.
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.
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?
THE BARLEY FEVER—AND REBUKE.
BY D. M. MOIR (“DELTA”).
Sages their solemn een may steek,
And raise a philosophic reek,
And, physically, causes seek
In clime and season;
But tell me _Whisky’s_ name in Greek,
I’ll tell the reason.—_Burns._
On the morning after the business of the playhouse happened,[13] 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.
Footnote 13:
See _ante_, “My First and Last Play,” p. 394.
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.
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.
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.
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.”
“Let us hear’t,” said I; for I was in that sort of queerish way, that I
didna care muckle about being very busy.
“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.
“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[14]—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.”
Footnote 14:
_See_ Dr Jamieson’s “Scottish Dictionary.”
“’Od!” said I, “Thomas, ye crack like a minister. Where did ye happen to
pick up all that knowledge?”
“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.”
“I thocht as muckle,” said I; “but say on, man; it’s unco entertaining.”
“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.”
“Ou, let me see,” said I, “ye was about the contract concerning the
beef.”
“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.
“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.
“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.”
“’Od, it’s diverting, Thomas,” said I to him; “gang on, man.”
“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.
“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.”
“’Tis but too true,” said I till him; “but the best will fa’ intil a
faut sometimes. We have a’ our failings, Thomas.”
“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?’
“And Duncan, rinning down his lang fork, answered in his ain Highland
brogue way—‘Please your honour, just my auld fav’rite, tripe.’
“’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.”
“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.”
“’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?”
“What think ye should come next?” quo’ Thomas, drily.
“I’m sure I dinna ken,” answered I.
“Weel,” said he, “I’ll tell; but where was I at?”
“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.’”
“‘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.’”
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.
“‘Buttons and button-holes!’ quo’ Duncan MacAlpine. ‘Look again, wi’ yer
specs; for ye’re surely wrang, Lovetenant Todrick.’”
“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!’”
“Buckskin breeches!” said I; “and did he really and actually boil siccan
trash to his dinner?”
“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.”
“And what way did his pay gang then?” askit I; “and hoo did he live?”
“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.”
“It is that,” said I. “Muckle and nae little sin does it breed and
produce in this world.”
“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.”
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?”
“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.”
“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.
“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.”
“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?”
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.”
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.
ELPHIN IRVING, THE FAIRIES’ CUPBEARER.
BY ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.
CHAPTER I.
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.
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.
“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.
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.
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.
“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:—
FAIR PHEMIE IRVING.
I.
Gay is thy glen, Corrie,
With all thy groves flowering:
Green is thy glen, Corrie,
When July is showering;
And sweet is yon wood, where
The small birds are bowering,
And there dwells the sweet one
Whom I am adoring.
II.
Her round neck is whiter
Than winter when snowing;
Her meek voice is milder
Than Ae in its flowing;
The glad ground yields music
Where she goes by the river;
One kind glance would charm me
For ever and ever.
III.
The proud and the wealthy
To Phemie are bowing;
No looks of love win they
With sighing or suing;
Far away maun I stand
With my rude wooing,
She’s a flow’ret too lovely
To bloom for my pu’ing—
IV.
O were I yon violet
On which she is walking;
O were I yon small bird
To which she is talking;
Or yon rose in her hand,
With its ripe ruddy blossom;
Or some pure gentle thought,
To be blest with her bosom!
This minstrel interruption, while it established Phemie Irving’s claim
to grace and to beauty, gave me additional confidence to pursue the
story.
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.
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.
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.
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.”
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.”
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.
“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.”
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,—
“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.”
And she resumed her household labours with an alacrity which lessened
not the sorrow of her friends.
CHAPTER II.
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.
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.”
“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), _he_ 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?”
“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.”
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.
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.
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.
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:—
THE FAIRY OAK OF CORRIEWATER.
I.
The small bird’s head is under its wing,
The deer sleeps on the grass;
The moon comes out, and the stars shine down,
The dew gleams like the glass:
There is no sound in the world so wide,
Save the sound of the smitten brass,
With the merry cittern and the pipe
Of the fairies as they pass.—
But oh! the fire maun burn and burn,
And the hour is gone, and will never return.
II.
The green hill cleaves, and forth, with a bound,
Come elf and elfin steed;
The moon dives down in a golden cloud,
The stars grow dim with dread;
But a light is running along the earth,
So of heaven’s they have no need:
O’er moor and moss with a shout they pass,
And the word is, spur and speed.—
But the fire maun burn, and I maun quake,
And the hour is gone that will never come back.
III.
And when they come to Craigyburn wood,
The Queen of the Fairies spoke:—
“Come, bind your steeds to the rushes so green,
And dance by the haunted oak:
I found the acorn on Heshbon-hill,
In the nook of a palmer’s poke,
A thousand years since; here it grows!”
And they danced till the greenwood shook.—
But oh! the fire, the burning fire,
The longer it burns, it but blazes the higher.
IV.
“I have won me a youth,” the Elf-queen said,
“The fairest that earth may see;
This night I have won young Elph Irving,
My cupbearer to be.
His service lasts but for seven sweet years,
And his wage is a kiss of me.”
And merrily, merrily laughed the wild elves,
Round Corrie’s greenwood tree.—
But oh! the fire it glows in my brain,
And the hour is gone, and comes not again.
V.
The Queen she has whispered a secret word,
“Come hither, my Elphin sweet,
And bring that cup of the charmèd wine,
Thy lips and mine to weet.”
But a brown elf shouted a loud, loud shout,
“Come, leap on your coursers fleet,
For here comes the smell of some baptized flesh,
And the sounding of baptized feet.”—
But oh! the fire that burns, and maun burn;
For the time that is gone will never return.
VI.
On a steed as white as the new-milked milk,
The Elf-queen leaped with a bound,
And young Elphin a steed like December snow
’Neath him at the word he found.
But a maiden came, and her christened arms
She linked her brother around,
And called on God, and the steed with a snort
Sank into the gaping ground.—
But the fire maun burn, and I maun quake,
And the time that is gone will no more come back.
VII.
And she held her brother, and lo! he grew
A wild bull waked in ire;
And she held her brother, and lo! he changed
To a river roaring higher;
And she held her brother, and he became
A flood of the raging fire;
She shrieked and sank, and the wild elves laughed,
Till mountain rang and mire.—
But oh! the fire yet burns in my brain,
And the hour is gone, and comes not again.
VIII.
“Oh, maiden, why waxed thy faith so faint,
Thy spirit so slack and slaw?
Thy courage kept good till the flame waxed wud,
Then thy might began to thaw,
Had ye kissed him with thy christened lip,
Ye had won him frae ’mang us a’.
Now bless the fire, the elfin fire,
That made thee faint and fa’;
Now bless the fire, the elfin fire,
The longer it burns it blazes the higher.”
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.
“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.”
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.
“Oh, I have ye now, Elphin, I have ye now!” and she strained him to her
bosom with a convulsive grasp.
“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.
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.
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.
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,—
“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.”
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.
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.
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.
CHOOSING A MINISTER.
BY JOHN GALT.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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—
“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.”
The provost thought as I did; so I replied—
“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.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
When we were well on into the middle of the moor, I stopped, and,
looking round me, said,—
“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.”
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.
“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.”
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.
“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.”
He looked a little dumfoundered at this salutation, and was at a loss
for an answer; so I continued—
“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.”
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.—“_The Provost._”
THE MEAL MOB.
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.
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.
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.
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 _posse_ 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.—_Edinburgh Literary Journal._
THE FLITTING.
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.
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—
“Oh, that the morn was ower!”
“Yes,” said her husband, “the morn, and every morn o’ them!—but I wish
this gloaming had been stormy.”
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—
“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.”
“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.
“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.”
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.
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.
“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.”
“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.”
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,—
“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.—“_My Grandfather’s Farm._”
EWEN OF THE LITTLE HEAD:
_A LEGEND OF THE WESTERN ISLES_.
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.
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.
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.
It is now above three hundred years since Ewen-a-Chin-Vig (_Anglice_,
“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.
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.—_Lit. Gazette._
BASIL ROLLAND.
CHAPTER I.
In May, quhen men yied everichone
With Robene Hoid and Littil John,
To bring in bowis and birken bobynis,
Now all sic game is fastlings gone,
Bot gif if be amangs clowin Robbynis.—_A. Scott._
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
“Thou art he whom I seek,” said the person who thus forced himself on
his notice; “and thy name is Basil Rolland.”
“It is,” returned he; “declare your business.”
“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.”
“That may not be. I came to squire this maiden to the revels, and may
not leave her alone.”
“Suffer the damsel to tarry here for a short space, and follow me to a
little distance.”
“Go with the stranger, Basil,” said she, “and I will remain in the same
spot till you return.”
“Do so then, Mary,” said Basil; “I’ll return anon.”
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:
“Will it please you then, sir, to communicate your tidings?”
“Then I ask thee, Basil Rolland, what dost thou here?”
“Why, grave sir, I’ll answer thy question with another,” said Basil,
laughing at this solemn opening of the conference: “what dost _thou_
here?”
“My gray hairs, young man, are a testimony unto thee that I come not
here on any light matter.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
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.
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:—
“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.”
“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.”
“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?”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
They departed, and this sentiment becoming general, in a short time the
play field was emptied of the revellers.
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.
CHAPTER II.
The red cross glares on Frazer’s towers,
My love, I dare not stay;
The bugle peals through Lovat’s bowers,
My love, I must away.—_Old Ballad._
We shall now conduct the reader to a shop in the Broadgate, over which
appeared in ancient characters,—
=Patrick Leslie & Samuel Fairtext.=
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.
“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.”
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—
“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?”
“What but to join the army of Aboyne, and do battle with my best blood
against these murdering rebels.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“It is my mother’s picture,” said Basil, blushing to the eyes.
“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.
“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.”
“Then you knew my mother?”
“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.”
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.
“_I_ 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.”
“But whither, my father, shall we go?” said Basil.
“Where but to the persecuted remnant that are even now struggling for
freedom. We will fight under the banner of the Covenant.”
“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?”
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,—
“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.
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.
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.
She became alarmed. “Basil, you are ill!” said she.
He seized her hand. “Mary, I am come to bid you farewell—perhaps a long
farewell.”
She became pale in her turn, and asked him to explain himself. He
resumed,—
“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.”
“But why, O Basil, why are you leaving us? Have we not more need of thy
presence than ever?”
“I have found my father, and by his command I leave you this very
night.”
“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.
“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.”
“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.”
“I swear that my heart never owned the influence of another, and that
its last beat shall be true to you.”
“Then,” said she, throwing herself into his arms, “I am happy!”
Basil hastily explained to her what he knew of his destination, and,
with a chaste kiss of mutual transport, they separated.
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.
Chapter III.
See how he clears the points o’ faith.—_Burns._
_Hamlet._ Hold you the watch to-night?
_Horatio._ We do, my lord.—_Shakspeare._
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.
“I expected you sooner, Rolland,” said Montrose. “What intelligence have
you gathered?”
“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.”
“How do the citizens stand affected?”
“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.”
“The ungrateful truce-breaking slaves!” said Montrose. “But vengeance is
at hand. Who is this young man whom thou hast brought with thee?”
“My son,” said Isaac, “whom grace hath inclined to take part with us.”
“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.”
They saluted the general, and retired.
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.
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.
“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!”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 _his_ 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:—
“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.”
“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.”
“Dinna speak lightly o’ the Scriptures, Sawnie Hackit; ye’re just a
blaspheming Shemei, or a time-serving Balaam.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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?”
“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.”
“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?”
“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.”
“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.”
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.
“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.”
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.
Thomas Granehard still kept his hold, and, in a stern voice, demanded
what he was?
“What the deil’s your business wi’ that?” said Hackit. “I ken him, an’
that’s eneuch.”
“But I am strong in spirit,” muttered the Covenanter.
“The toom bottles testify that, to a certainty, Tammas,” said the other.
“But, never mind; get anither stoup, Geordie, an’ sit down, Master
Basil.”
“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.”
“I may not,” said Basil. “I must to the camp. But why do I find you
here?”
“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.”
“Do you know that you all expose yourselves to death for this frolic?”
“There gang twa words to that bargain. We’ve done a’ that could be
reasonably expected,—we watched till the storm came.”
“Well, you are not accountable to me; I must depart.”
“Weel, a gude evening to you. But stop!—now that I mind—ye maun gie me
the pass-word.”
“The pass-word!” said Basil, in a tone of surprise.
“Ay, the pass-word! Ye see, Sergeant Clinker says to me, ‘Now, Saunders,
if ony ane comes to you that canna say _Balgownie_, 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.”
“Balgownie, then,” said Basil laughing.
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:—
“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, _Tiglathpeleser_, 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.
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.
CHAPTER IV.
With forkis and flales they lait grit flappis,
And flang togedder lyk freggis,
With bougars of barnis they best blew kappis,
Quhyle they of bernis made briggis;
The reird rais rudelie with the rappis,
Quhen rungis were layd on riggis,
The wyffis cam furth with cryis and clappis,
‘Lo! quhair my lyking liggis,’
Quo they;
At Christis Kirk on the Grene that day.—_King James I._
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.
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.
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.
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?
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.
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.
“Then,” said he, “you must allow me to conduct you to a place of
safety.”
“No, Basil, I cannot. My dear father”——
“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.
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.
“Thank God, my son, that thou art come. This,” looking round him, “this
looks not like treason.”
“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?”
Basil told the naked truth.
“Thou hast done wrong, young man; yet thy father, thy youth, thine
inexperience, all—all plead with me for thee.”
“Heaven bless you, my lord, for the word,” said Isaac Rolland. “My life
for it, he is innocent!”
“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?”
The truth and falsehood were here so blended together, that Basil
betrayed signs of the greatest confusion, and was silent.
“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.”
“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!”
“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!”
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.
CHAPTER V.
Farewell, ye dungeons, dark and strong,
The wretch’s destinie;
Macpherson’s time will not be long
On yonder gallows-tree.—_Old Song._
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.
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.
“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.”
“You have my thanks,” said the unfortunate youth. “Have you waited long
in the apartment?”
“I came at daybreak; but often was I tempted to rouse thee from thy
slumbers, for thy dreams seemed terrifying.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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!”
“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.”
“A hard lesson!” said Basil. “Tell me, didst though ever love a wife, a
son, or a daughter?”
“I lost a wife and a son,” said the preacher with emotion.
“In what manner?” said Basil.
“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.
“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?”
“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.”
“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.”
“But your father”——
“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.”
“Have patience”——
“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.
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
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.
“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!”
“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.”
“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”——
“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 _she_ 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.
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.
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.
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.
“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.
“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—
My love has gone to the good green wood
To hunt the dark-brown daes;
His beild will be the ferny den,
Or the shade of the heathery braes.
But I’ll build my love a bonny bower——
“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.
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.
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.—_Aberdeen Censor._
THE LAST OF THE JACOBITES.
BY ROBERT CHAMBERS, LL.D.
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.
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.
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.
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 LAST OF THE JACOBITES; 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.
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 _par excellence_—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.[15] 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.
Footnote 15:
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.”
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.
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.[16]
Footnote 16:
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.
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.
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.
THE GRAVE-DIGGER’S TALE.
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 _his_; 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.
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—
Duncan’s comin’, Donald’s comin’, &c.
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.
One stride, and I had cleared the wall of the Auld Kirk Yard.
“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.”
“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;—_Live, and let live_, say I!
“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!”
“_Damna famæ majora quam quæ æstimari possint._”[17]
Footnote 17:
The loss of reputation is greater than can be reckoned.
“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 _merry pows in’t_. But
see, there’s a sober pow, wi’ a siller clasp on’t.”
“With all due gravity, may I ask, whose property was that?”
“Hech, man! that’s a skeigh tune for a dry whistle; sae, gin ye please,
we’ll tak our morning first.”
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.
“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.”
“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?”
“Ay!” groaned an unearthly voice, as if the “Broon Cow” herself had
spoken.
“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.
“‘Look to the door, Peggy!’ quo’ the gudewife.
“‘Ay, mither. Jock, look to the door for your mither, will ye no?’
“‘Look till’t yersel! Can I gang, when I’m greetin’ this way?—Pate—look
to the door!’
“‘I’m greetin’ too,’ says Pate.
“‘Peggy Mucklewham, will ye no look to the door, for your deein’
faither’s sake?’
“‘Tuts!’ quo’ Peggy, ‘Can ye not get up yersel—fashin’ folk?’
“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.
“‘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.’
“‘Are ye sorry to lose your faither, bairnies?’ quo’ I.
“‘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!’
“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.
“‘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!’
“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!
“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.
“‘This is a sair time for ye, Mrs Mucklewhaum,’ quo’ I, as she cam ben
frae her bedroom gauntin’.
“‘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!’
“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.
“‘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:
“‘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’!
“‘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!’
“‘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.
“‘Haud, haud!’ quo’ I, ‘he’ll do without it,’ as the laird, raising his
voice, began again to speak:
“‘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—_when the dead shall bury the dead_!’
“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’ _ug_, as I saw his teeth gnash
thegither, an’ his lips close in quateness for ever.
“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’.
“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—
Mony an awmous I’ve got.
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!
“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!’”—“_The Auld Kirk Yard._”
THE FAIRY BRIDE:
_A TRADITIONARY TALE_.
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.
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.
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.
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.
“A perfect fairy queen,” said Elliot, as the door closed behind her.
“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.”
Elliot requested that he would explain his meaning, and he in compliance
narrated his “whole course of wooing.”
“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.
“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.
“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.
“Turning an angle of the building, we approached a heap of _debris_,
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.
“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.
“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.
“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.”
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.—_Edinburgh Literary
Journal._
THE LOST LITTLE ONES.
CHAPTER I.
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.
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.
“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.”
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.
“What can keep Robert, papa?” said Charles to his father.
“Indeed, my boy,” said Sir George, “I do not know. Charlotte,” continued
he to Lady Beaumont, “do you see any thing?”
“They are all coming back,” exclaimed Lady Beaumont, “and alone!” and
she rose hastily from her chair.
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.
“She’ll have gone up to the cottages to see her god-brother,” said Sir
George; “or perhaps have wandered over to the mill.”
“And if she has fallen into the stream!” ejaculated Lady Beaumont.
“Now, dear Charlotte, do not needlessly alarm yourself; there’s no fear
but we shall soon find her.”
“God grant it!” said Lady Beaumont, “but my mind misgives me sadly.”
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.
“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.
“Well, well, then,” said Sir George, pressing her arm in his, “let us
take a few more turns—surely we must hear something soon.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
“What can have brought so many people there?” asked Lady Beaumont; “and
what are they doing?”
“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?”
“They are looking for —— of Widow Watt’s, your honour,” said Robert.
“Did you hear what it was, my dear?” said Sir George to his lady.
“No,” said Lady Beaumont; “but probably her pet lamb, or more likely her
cow, has strayed.”
“Is it her cow that’s amissing, Robert?” called Sir George.
“No, your honour,” said Robert.
“Her lamb then, or some other beast?” asked Sir George.
“Naething o’ the kind, your honour,” answered Robert.
“What then?” demanded Sir George, in a tone that showed he would be
answered.
“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.
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.
“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.”
“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.
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.
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?”
“The bairns!” said David, “I haena seen them; but is’t time for their
being back frae the school?”
“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!”
“’Od, I was unco keen,” said David, “to finish this bit lea, and had nae
notion it was sae far in the day.”
“Preserve us!” exclaimed Matty, “gif anything has happened to them!”
“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.”
“I hope it may be sae,” said Matty, “but my heart misgies me
sair—however, dinna wait to speak about it.”
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.”
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.
“Maybe they’re hame already,” said his brother-in-law; “I daurna gang up
mysel to speir, bit we’ll send yon herd laddie.”
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.
“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.
“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?”
“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.”
“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!”
CHAPTER II.
“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.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
“An’ now, David,” said John Maxwell, “let’s be gaun on.”
“No to my house,” cried David;—“not to my ain house. I canna face Matty,
and them no found yet.”
“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.”
“An’ what will Matty think in the meantime?” answered David. “But gang
on, gang on, however,” he added, “an’ I’se follow ye.”
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.
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.
“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!
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.
“There’s faither,” said the one.
“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.”
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.
“God be praised,” cried John Maxwell, “the bairns are found! But where’s
Nanny?”
Poor David tried to speak, but could not articulate a word.
“Maybe ye couldna carry them a’?” said John; “but tell me whaur Nanny
is, and I’se set out for her momently.”
“Ye needna, John, ye needna,” said David; “it’s ower late, it’s ower
late!”
“How sae? how sae?” cried John; “surely naething mischancy has happened
to the lassie?”
“John,” said David, “grasping his hand, she’s murdered—my bairn’s
murdered, John!”
“Gude preserve us a’,” cried John; “an’ wha’s dune it?”
“Elie Anderson,” answered David; “the poor innocent lies yonder a’ cut
to bits;” and the unhappy man broke into a passion of tears.
John Maxwell darted off to Saunders Wilson’s. “Rise, Saunders!” cried
he, thundering at the door; “haste ye and rise!”
“What’s the matter now?” said Saunders.
“Elie Anderson’s murdered David’s Nanny; sae haste ye, rise, and yoke
your cart, that we may tak her to the towbuith.”
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.
“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.
“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.”
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.
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.
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.”
“We’ll sune settle that,” says Geordie Turnbull. “Whereabouts should it
be?”
“Just there, I think,” says Robin.
Geordie immediately drove a stone or two out, so that he could get his
hand in.
“Does onybody see my hand frae the kitchen?” asked he.
“No a bit o’t,” was the answer.
“Nor frae the sty?”
“Nor frae that either.”
“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.
“What is’t—what is’t?” cried the people, pressing forward on all sides.
“Look an’ see!—look an’ see!” he answered; “they’re a there—a’ the
murdered weans are there, lying in a raw!”
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.
“Hanging’s ower gude for her,” cried one.
“Let’s rive her to coupens,” exclaimed another.
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.
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.
“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.
“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.
“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!”
The sound of the people rushing towards the prison was now distinctly
heard; and both at once seemed to apprehend their object.
“Is there no way of escape, Elie,” asked her friend, wringing her hands.
Elie pointed to her broken thigh, and shook her head. “Besides,” said
she, “I know my hour is come.”
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.
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.”
CHAPTER III.
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.
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.
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;—
“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.
“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.
“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.
“God preserve us!” cried the people, covering their eyes that they might
not see a fellow-creature dashed in pieces; “it is all over!”
“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.”
“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.
“An’ what will become o’ the poor orphans?” said Isabel.
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.
“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.
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.
“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.”
“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.”
“Then say what you have to say,” cried Robert; “it’s the only way to
settle the matter.”
“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.’
“‘Hanged!’ cried Miss Charlotte; ‘and why should she be hanged, Betsy?’
“‘Never you mind, Miss Charlotte,’ said Betsy, ‘I’m speaking to Fanny
here.’
“‘You can tell me some other time,’ said I.
“‘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.’
“‘What’s a gudeman, Betsy?’ asked Miss Charlotte.
“‘A husband,’ answered she.
“‘And what’s making away with him, Betsy?’
“‘What need you care?’ said Betsy.
“‘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.’
“‘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.’
“‘Killing him!’ exclaimed Miss Charlotte. ‘Oh, the wretch; and how did
she kill him, Betsy?’
“‘You must ask no more questions, miss,’ said Betsy, and the subject
dropped.
“‘Betsy,’ said I to her afterwards, you should not have mentioned these
things before the children; do you forget how noticing they are?’
“‘Oh, so they are,’ said Betsy, ‘but only for the moment; and I’ll wager
Miss Charlotte has forgotten it all already.’
“But, poor thing,” Fanny added, “she remembered it but too well.”
“I’ll not believe this,” cried Robert.
“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.
“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.
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.
“Let what has happened,” said Lady Beaumont, “be a warning to those who
have the charge of them, to _beware of what they say before children_;—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.”—“_The
Odd Volume._”
AN ORKNEY WEDDING.
BY JOHN MALCOLM.
To me more dear, congenial to my heart,
One native charm, than all the gloss of art.—_Goldsmith._
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 _midden_, 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.
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.
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.
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.
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, _ruminating_ in philosophical tranquillity on
the subject of diet.
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.
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.
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.
Upon entering the withdrawing-room, which the good people with admirable
modesty call _the ben_, 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.
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:
“Bridegroom,” quoth he, “do you take the woman whom you now hold by the
hand, to be your lawful married husband?”
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.
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.
And now the married pair, followed by the whole company, set off to
church, to be _kirked_, 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.
Upon returning from church, the company partake of a cold collation,
called the _hansel_, which is distributed to each and all by the bride’s
mother, who for the time obtains the elegant designation of
_hansel-wife_. 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
_snoddies_.
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 _three-lugged cog_.[18] The etherial beverage is seasoned
with pepper, ginger, and nutmeg, and thickened with eggs and pieces of
toasted biscuit.
Footnote 18:
Also called _the Bride’s cog_.—ED.
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.
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 _echellon_ 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.
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.
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 _queues_ 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.
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.
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 _Huskinese_. 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.”
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.
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 _otium cum dignitate_.
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.
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.
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 _grave_ 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.
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.
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
_three-lugged cog_, 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.
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 _élite_ of the feast; from which all manner of
vegetables are entirely excluded, being considered as much too humble
for such an occasion.
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.
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 _the gentry_; 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.
“I am glad to see you here, Magnus; and looking so well, that I need not
inquire after your health.”
_Magnus._ “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 _raxward_ man,—and, between
you and me, he’s rather greedy.”
“That’s a hard case, Magnus; you should speak to the factor, and explain
your circumstances to him.”
_Mag._ “Oh, sir, I hae been doin’ that already; but he got into a
_sevandable_ 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
_felonious_ arguer, an’ ower deep for the like o’ us puir _infidel
bodies_.”
“Had you not better sit nearer to the table, Magnus? You are losing your
victuals by keeping at such a distance.”
_Mag._ “Na, na, sir; I doubt ye’re mockan’ me noo; but I ken what gude
manners is better than do ony siccan a thing.”
“Where is your son at present?”
_Mag._ “Why, thanks be praised, sir, he’s doing bravely. He follows the
_swindling_ trade awa in the south, whaur they tell me the great Bishops
o’ Lunnon are proclaiming war wi’ the Papists.”
“That they are, Magnus, and ever will do.”
_Mag._ “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.”
“You misunderstand the thing, Magnus; the king’s ministers are not those
of the Church, but of the State.”
_Mag._ “Oh—is that it? Weel, I never kent that before. But can ye tell
me, sir, wha that gentleman is upon your ither side?”
“He is a young Englishman, who has come north to see this country.”
_Mag._ “Is he indeed, sir? And, by your leave, what _ack o’ parliament_
does he drive?”
“He is, I believe, a doctor of medicine.”
_Mag._ “Just so, sir; I wonder if he could tell what would be good for
me?”
“I thought you told me you were in good health?”
_Mag._ “Weel, as I said before, I’m brave and easy that way, indeed; but
yet I’m whiles fashed wi’ the _rheumaticisms_, and sometimes I’m very
_domalis_.”
“Domalis!—what’s that, Magnus?”
_Mag._ “Weel, never might there be the waur o’ that; I thought you,
that’s been at college, wad hae kent that;—domalis is just ‘_flamp_’
(listless).”
“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.”
_Mag._ (_Filling his glass._) “Weel, sir, I’se do my best to gie ye a
gude ane (_scratching his head_);—weel, sir, ‘Here’s luck.’”
“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.’”
THE GHOST WITH THE GOLDEN CASKET.
BY ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.
Is my soul tamed
And baby-rid with the thought that flood or field
Can render back, to scare men and the moon,
The airy shapes of the corses they enwomb?
And what if ’tis so—shall I lose the crown
Of my most golden hope, ’cause its fair circle
Is haunted by a shadow?
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.
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.
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:—
“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?”
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.
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,—
“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.”
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.
Wishing to know the peasant’s reason for avoiding the ruins, I thus
addressed him:—
“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.”
“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.”
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.
“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.”
This unexpected obstacle was soon removed.
“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.”
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.”
“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!’
“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.
“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.
“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.”
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.
SIR WILLIAM MUSGRAVE.
_First Fisherman._
“O lady, lady, why do you weep?
Tho’ the wind be loosed on the raging deep,
Tho’ the heaven be mirker than mirk may be,
And our frail bark ships a fearful sea,—
Yet thou art safe—as on that sweet night
When our bridal candles gleamed far and bright.”—
There came a shriek, and there came a sound,
And the Solway roared, and the ship spun round.
_Second Fisherman._
“O lady, lady, why do you cry?
Though the waves be flashing top-mast high,
Though our frail bark yields to the dashing brine,
And heaven and earth show no saving sign,
There is One who comes in the time of need,
And curbs the waves as we curb a steed.”—
The lightning came, with the whirlwind blast,
And cleaved the prow, and smote down the mast.
_First Fisherman._
“O lady, lady, weep not nor wail,
Though the sea runs howe as Dalswinton vale,
Then flashes high as Barnhourie brave,
And yawns for thee, like the yearning grave—
Tho’ twixt thee and the ravening flood
There is but my arm and this splintering wood,
The fell quicksand, or the famished brine,
Can ne’er harm a face so fair as thine.”
_Both._
“O lady, lady, be bold and brave,
Spread thy white breast to the fearful wave,
And cling to me with that white right hand,
And I’ll set thee safe on the good dry land.”
A lightning flash on the shallop strook,
The Solway roared, and Caerlaverock shook;
From the sinking ship there were shriekings cast,
That were heard above the tempest’s blast.
The young fishermen having concluded their song, my companion proceeded.
“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:—
“‘O, Gilbert, Gilbert, what a fearful sight is this! Has Heaven blessed
thee with making thee the means of saving a human soul?’
“‘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.’
“My father confessed afterwards that he was struck with the tone in
which these words were delivered, and made answer—
“‘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.’
“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.
“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.
“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.’
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—
“‘My son, I have a counsel to give thee; treasure it in thy heart, and
practise it in thy life: the daughters of _him_ 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!’
“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.’
“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.
“‘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.’
“‘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.’
“‘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.’
“‘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.’
“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.
“‘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.’
“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.
“‘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.’
“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.
“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.
“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.’
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—
“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!”
I looked on the old man, and heard him call in a hollow and broken
voice—
“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.
“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.
“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.”
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.
RANALD OF THE HENS:
_A TRADITION OF THE WESTERN HIGHLANDS_.
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
_Gaulta_, 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.
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 _Ian Muidartich_, or John of Moidart,—a much more
endearing distinction than _Gaulta_.
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.
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.
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.
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.
The conflict is distinguished by the designation of _Blar Leine_, 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.—_Literary Gazette._
THE FRENCH SPY.
BY JOHN GALT.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
“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.
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.—“_The Provost._”
[Illustration: Fleuron]
THE MINISTER’S BEAT.
A man he was to all the country dear.
· · · · ·
Even children followed with endearing wile,
And plucked his gown, to share the good man’s smile.—_Goldsmith._
CHAPTER I.
“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.”
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.
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?”
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.
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.”
“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.
“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.”
“’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”——
“But what has all this to do with the loss of your cow, Peter?”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.
In this _sanctum sanctorum_ 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.
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.”
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.”
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.
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,—
“He’s come back!—the Lord be praised for it!”
“Who is come back, Jenny?” said the pastor, in the deepest tone of
sympathy,—“Is it little Andrew, ye mean?”
“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 _father_, 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.”
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.”
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.
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.
Such was the group to whose emotions, almost too much for human nature,
our entrance gave a turn.
“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!
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.
“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.”
“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’.”
“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.
“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.”
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.
CHAPTER II.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!
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.
“Thank God!” whispered the minister, “the bairn is fairly in the house.
Providence and nature will surely do the rest.”
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.
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.
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.
“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.”
“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!”
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.
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!
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.
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.
“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.’”
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.
CHAPTER III.
“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.
“‘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.’
“‘Helen,’ said I, ‘when did Willie Meldrum find opportunities to gain
your heart? I never saw him in the house in my life.’
“‘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!’
“‘And do you return his good-will, Helen?’ said I, gravely.
“‘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.’
“‘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.’
“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.
“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.
“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!’
“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.’
“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.
“‘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!’
“‘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!’”
‘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.’
“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.
“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.
“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!”
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 _beau ideal_ 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.
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.
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.
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.
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 _soufflés_
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 _volauxvents_ 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 _consommés_, there is nothing like a
judicious mixture of youth and beauty, with manliness, integrity, and
virtue.—_Blackwood’s Magazine._
A SCOTTISH GENTLEWOMAN OF THE LAST CENTURY.
BY SUSAN EDMONSTONE FERRIER.
“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.”
“I am afraid she is rather a formidable person, then?” said Mary.
Her uncle hesitated.
“No, not formidable,—only rather particular, as all old people are; but
she is very good-hearted.”
“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.”
“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.”
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 _coup d’œil_ 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 _a-la-mode_) bonnet, and cardinal of the same; a
pair of clogs over her shoes, and black silk mittens on her arms.
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
_impromptu_ 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.
“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?”
Mr Douglas explained, that it was upon account of his niece’s health.
“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!”
“You have not asked after any of your Glenfern friends,” said Mr
Douglas, hoping to touch a more sympathetic chord.
“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!”
“He has begun life under very melancholy auspices, poor fellow!” said Mr
Douglas, in allusion to his father’s death.
“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.”
“You must indeed have witnessed many changes,” observed Mr Douglas,
rather at a loss how to utter anything of a conciliatory nature.
“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.”
“But with these changes you must also have seen many improvements?” said
Mary, in a tone of diffidence.
“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!”
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:
“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!”
“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”——
“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.”
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.
“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.”
The wine being drunk, and the cookies discussed, Mr Douglas made another
attempt to withdraw, but in vain.
“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.”
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.
“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.”
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.
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,—
“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.”
Mr Douglas still looked as if he was irresolute whether to laugh or be
angry.
“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.
“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.—“_Marriage: a Novel._”
THE FAITHLESS NURSE:
_A LEGENDARY TALE OF THE GREAT REBELLION_.
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.
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 _taste_—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.
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.
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.
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.
“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.”
“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?”
“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.”
“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?”
“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.
_Via!_”
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.
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.
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.
“You have something to tell me, Maurice, and you wished to do it alone.
We have now an opportunity. What has befallen us?”
“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?”
“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.”
Maurice seemed for some moments undecided how he should act, but at
length, with a look of no little embarrassment, replied,—
“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.”
“Nay, nay—say on; I will be as grave as Argyle.”
“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.”
“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!”
“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.”
“Maurice, Maurice! you amaze me!”
“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!”
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,—
“Beshrew you, Maurice, for frightening me so deeply on my wedding-day!
Could you find no other time than this to see bogles?”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“What then?”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
“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?”
“I do; and how a malapert page sounded in my ear that he would save his
Majesty the trouble.”
“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.
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.
“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?”
“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.”
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,—
“Forgive me, Elspeth, we are married!”
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.
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,—
“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
_taish_ 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.”
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.
“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.”
“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 _he_ is coming to
seek you here.”
“Who?—Sir Mungo Campbell?” said Lilias and her husband, in the same
breath.
“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.”
“Treacherous, infamous wretch!”—“Cruel, unkind Elspeth!” burst again
simultaneously from the lips of Maurice and his bride.
“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!”
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.
“Oh, Maurice, Maurice, bitterly are our fears fulfilled! We are lost!
There is no escape from the bloodhounds who have beset us.”
“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.”
Ere Lilias could make answer to this cheering discourse, Elspeth entered
the apartment.
“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.
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.
“And you, Elspeth,” said the lady, with a kind-heartedness which no
personal danger could destroy, “what shall become of you?”
“Fear not for me,” replied Elspeth chokingly; “I fear nothing—fly!”
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.
“Who comes there?” cried Sir Mungo, harshly.
“Friends to King Charles,” replied Maurice, undauntedly.
“That may well be,” replied Campbell, “and yet deep foes to Scotland.
Sir Maurice Ogilvy, I arrest thee of high treason!”
“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.
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.
“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.
“Yield thee, Sir Maurice, or thou diest.”
“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.”
“Once more I bid thee yield.”
“Again do I defy thee.”
“Thy blood be on thy head then. Smite the braggart to the dust.”
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.
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.
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.”—_Edinburgh Literary Gazette._
TRADITIONS OF THE CELEBRATED MAJOR WEIR.
BY ROBERT CHAMBERS, LL.D.
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.
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.
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.
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.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
* * * * *
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 _Edinburgh Review_ 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 _ultimus hæres_ of all such unclaimed property.
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.
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.
THE WINDY YULE.
BY JOHN GALT.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 _Louping Meg_ (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.
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.
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 _Louping Meg_; 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.
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.
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?”
GRIZEL COCHRANE.
CHAPTER I.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
“Nothing is impossible to a determined mind,” said she; “and fear
nothing for me.”
“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.”
“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.
CHAPTER II.
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.
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.[19] 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.
Footnote 19:
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.
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.
“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.”
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.
“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.”
“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.”
“Indeed!—well, that is but just,” said the landlady; “and I think the
more of you for such reasonable conduct.”
“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.”
“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.”
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.
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.
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,—
“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.”
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.
“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.”
“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, _that mail I must and will have_. 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.
“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.
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.
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.
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.—_Chambers’s Edinburgh
Journal._
THE FATAL PRAYER.
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.
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—
“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?”
“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.”
“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.”
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:
“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.
“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.
“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.
“‘What can be the matter with you, Jeanie?’ said Mr Douglas.
“‘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.’
“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.
“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.
“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.
“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.
“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.
“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! _Her prayer was granted._ 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.”
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.—_Literary Melange._
GLENMANNOW, THE STRONG HERDSMAN.
BY WILLIAM BENNET.
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.
“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.”
“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.
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.”
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.
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.
“Will you throw off your coat? It will give you more freedom,” said his
Grace in conclusion.
“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.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
“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.”
Mally was at this moment dishing the porridge in two _goans_, 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.
“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.”
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—
“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!”
“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’.”
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.
“What’s a’ this?” were his first words, on entering and perceiving such
a bevy of red-coats.
“Why, honest man, we have got a billet upon you,” said one of them.
“A billet! Wha frae?”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.
“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.”
“Ye’ll hae a fine roast deevil!” roared Glenmannow, now provoked beyond
sufferance; “I’ll gie ye” ——
“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.
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.
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!”
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.
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.
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.—_Traits of Scottish Life, and
Pictures of Scenes and Character._
MY GRANDMOTHER’S PORTRAIT.
BY DANIEL GORRIE.
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.
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.
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.
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 _Royal George_; 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—
When Kempenfelt went down
With twice four hundred men.
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.
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.
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:—
There was a wee mannie an’ a wee wifie,
And they lived in a vinegar bottle;
“And O,” says the wee mannie to the wee wifie,
“Wow, but oor warld is little, is little!
Wow, but oor warld is little!”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Even more interesting than the London trip were all the stories and
incidents connected with her only son—our uncle who _ought_ 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.
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.
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.
“Yes,” he replied; “there is one who seems scarcely to have passed from
boyhood to manhood.”
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.
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.
“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.
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.
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.
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.
THE BAPTISM.
BY PROFESSOR WILSON.
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.
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.
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.
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!”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!”
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.
“Here is a Bible dropped by some of them,” cried a soldier; and with his
foot spun it away into the pool.
“A bonnet! a bonnet!” cried another. “Now for the pretty sanctified face
that rolled its demure eyes below it.”
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?”
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.
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.
THE LAIRD’S WOOING.
BY JOHN GALT.
The laird began the record of his eighteenth year in these words:—
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.
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—
“Mother!”
“Well, son,” she made answer, “what would ye?”
“I’m going to be marriet,” quo’ I.
“Marriet!” cried she, spreading out her arms wi’ consternation. “And
wha’s the bride?”
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.
“Ye’ll surely ne’er marry the like o’ her;—she’s only a gair’ner’s
dochter.”
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.
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.
“Miss Betty Græme,” said she; “if she can be persuaded to tak sic a
headowit.”
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—
“Gude keep us a’, laird!—what’s frightened you to flee hither?”
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.
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.
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.
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—
“It’s our lot, my dear, and we maun bear with it.”
Thus it came to pass that I and Miss Betty were left by ourselves in a
very comical situation.
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—
“Miss Betty Græme, how would ye like to be Leddy of Auldbiggins, under
my mother?”
“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.
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—
“Miss Betty Græme, will ye sit doon on my knee?”
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.
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.
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.—“_The Last of the Lairds._”
THOMAS THE RHYMER:
_AN ANCIENT FAIRY LEGEND_.
BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.
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.
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.
“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.”
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.
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.
“Now,” said the queen, “how long think you that you have been here?”
“Certes, fair lady,” answered Thomas, “not above these seven days.”
“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.”
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 _could not lie_. 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.
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.
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.
“All these men,” said the wizard in a whisper, “will awaken at the
battle of Sheriffmuir.”
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:—
Woe to the coward that ever he was born,
That did not draw the sword before he blew the horn!
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.
“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 _Farran_, of which place I had never
heard,[20] though I knew all the country round about. He also told me
that he himself was the person of the family of Learmonths,[21] 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, &c.’”
Footnote 20:
In this Sir Walter confesses himself “in the same ignorance as his
namesake Reginald, though having at least as many opportunities of
information.”
Footnote 21:
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.
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.
LACHLAN MORE:
_A TRADITIONARY TALE OF THE WESTERN HIGHLANDS_.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
_More_ 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.
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.
Very soon after Maclean’s departure from Islay, Macdonald of
Ardnamurchan, commonly distinguished by the patronimic of _Mac-vic-Ian_,
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.[22]
Footnote 22:
Lachlan More was killed in the year 1598.
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.
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.—_Lit. Gazette._
ALEMOOR:
_A TALE OF THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY_.
Sad is the wail that floats o’er Alemoor’s lake,
And nightly bids her gulfs unbottomed quake,
While moonbeams, sailing o’er her waters blue,
Reveal the frequent tinge of blood-red hue.
The water-birds, with shrill discordant scream,
Oft rouse the peasant from his tranquil dream;
He dreads to raise his slow unclosing eye,
And thinks he hears an infant’s feeble cry.—_Leyden._
CHAPTER I.
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.
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?”
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.
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.
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:—
“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?”
“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.”
“How knowest thou that?” inquired her lady, eagerly.
“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.”
“May Heaven, then, preserve and succour him!” sighed the Lady Emma, as
she clasped her hands together.
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.
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.
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.
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.
“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.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
“You will turn war into peace,” whispered Lady Emma, as she listened to
her spiritual director, “by healing the feud between the families.”
“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.”
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.
CHAPTER II.
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.
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.
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.
“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.”
“I will not fly,” said Douglas; “boldly will I confront the earl, and
claim my wife.”
“My father is good, is kind; he will yield to the prayers and tears of
his Emma.”
“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.”
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.
“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.”
Douglas shuddered at the picture, and asked the holy father what he
should do.
“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.”
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.
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.
“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.”
“Off, woman!” he exclaimed. “This night I must and shall see my sister,
dead or alive,” and he arose with fury in his looks.
But Wolfstone, his lieutenant, a brave young man, stepped before him,
and, drawing his sword, exclaimed—
“You must pass over my dead body ere you break in upon the sacred
sorrows of Lady Emma.”
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—
“And where is Father Anselm, that he comes not to welcome me to the
halls of my fathers?”
“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—
“Go, faithful maiden! say to your lady that Conrad Wolfstone guards her
chamber till her pleasure is known.”
“Now lead in our prisoner there;” but a dozen of voices exclaimed
against further duty that night.
“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.”
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.
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.
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.
“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.”
“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.”
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.
“Turn, traitor! coward! robber! turn, and meet your just punishment!”
“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.
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—
“O do not kill him!”
“He is safe for me, lady,” said the well-known voice of Ralph Teesdale.
“Thou here, my trusty friend!” murmured Lady Emma; “bear me to Douglas,
and all may yet be well.”
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.
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.
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!
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.
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.—_Chambers’s Edinburgh Journal._
TIBBY FOWLER.
BY JOHN MACKAY WILSON.
Tibby Fowler o’ the glen,
A’ the lads are wooin’ at her.—_Old Song._
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
_at hand_. 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—_vitam impendere
vero_. 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
_money_ written on their very eyeballs, and the sighs they professed to
heave in her presence sounded to her like stifled groans of—_Your
gold—your gold!_ 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 _pride_ would have a fall!” But it was not from pride that she
rejected them, but because her heart was capable of love—of love, pure,
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
Like a cow in a clout,
That soon wears out.
Proverbs we know are in bad taste, but we quote it, because by its
repetition the mother produced a deeper impression on her daughter’s
mind than could have been 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.
“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.
“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’.”
“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 _Tibby Fowler_. 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
_Tibby Fowler_. 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.
“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.”
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.
“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’!”
While the heartless owner of the cottage yet spoke, a voice behind her
was heard exclaiming, “It is her! it is her! my ain Tibby and her
bairns!”
At the well-known voice, 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.
DANIEL CATHIE, TOBACCONIST.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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—
No dolphin ever was so gay
Upon the tropic sea.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 _rifacciamento_, in thus
lighting up her features with a more frequent and general succession of
smiles.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
_téte-à-téte_ together for some miles (_procul, ô procul esto profani_),
told with a still deeper effect; and everything seemed in a fair way of
being amicably adjusted.
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.
She flaunted about, and flashed her finery in the optical observers of
Daniel, as if to say, This is a specimen,—_ex uno disce
omnes_,—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.
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.
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.
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.
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 _Telegraph_ 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.
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.
“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.”
“She is quite well, I hope?” asked the son of Mars.
“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.”
“Next week to be married!” ejaculated the gallant captain, turning up
his eyes, and starting to his legs with a hurried perplexity.
“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.”
“Well, waiter, you may leave me,” said the captain, stroking his chin in
evident embarrassment; “but stop, who is she about to get?”
“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.”
“What do you say is his name?”
“Daniel Cathie, Esq., tobacconist, and a candlemaker near the Cross.
That is his name and designation,—a very respectable man, sir.”
“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.”
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.
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.
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,
A.M.”
“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.
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.
“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.
“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!”
“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.”
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.
“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?”
“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.
“To be plain, then,—to be explicit,—to come to the point, sir,—are you
not on the eve of marrying Mrs Bouncer?”
“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.”
“Now, sir, we have come to the point; _rem tetigisti acu_; and you speak
out plainly. Take your pistol,” bravoed the captain.
“No, no,—not so fast;—perhaps we may understand each other without being
driven to that alternative.”
“Well then, sir, abjure her this moment, and resign her to me, or one of
our lives must be sacrificed.”
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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.
“Bill, bring in breakfast for two, as expeditiously as possible—(_Exit
Bill_). 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.”
“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.”
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 _congé_, besides kissing his hand at
parting.
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 _me_—I am the
man for _her_ money.” And here a thousand selfish notions crowded on his
heart, and confirmed him in his determination, which he set about
without delay.
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.
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.”
Every forenoon and evening between that and the marriage-day, Daniel and
his intended enjoyed a delightful _tête-à-tête_ 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.
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.—_Janus; or, the Edinburgh Literary Almanac._
THE HAUNTED SHIPS.
BY ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.
Though my mind’s not
Hoodwinked with rustic marvels, I do think
There are more things in the grove, the air, the flood,
Yea, and the charnelled earth, than what wise man,
Who walks so proud as if his form alone
Filled the wide temple of the universe,
Will let a frail mind say. I’d write i’ the creed
O’ the sagest head alive, that fearful forms,
Holy or reprobate, do page men’s heels;
That shapes, too horrid for our gaze, stand o’er
The murderer’s dust, and for revenge glare up,
Even till the stars weep fire for very pity.
CHAPTER I.
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.
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.
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.
“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.”
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.
If the dress of the old man was rude and sordid, that of his
granddaughter was gay, and even rich.
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.
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.
The moment they were fairly buried in the water, the old man clasped his
hands together, and said—
“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.”
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.
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!”
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.
“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!”
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—
“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.”
“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.
“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.
“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.
“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?’
“‘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.’
“‘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.’
“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.”
CHAPTER II.
“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.
“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.
“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.
“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.”
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.
“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.”
“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.
“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.
“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.
“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.
“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.
“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.
“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.’
“‘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.’
“But he laid his arm round his wife’s neck and said—
“‘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!’
The wife looked for a moment in her husband’s eyes, and desisted from
further entreaty.
“‘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.’
“‘To such a messenger, and to those who sent him, no apology is needed,’
said the austere laird, ‘so let him depart.’
“And the clatter of a horse’s hoofs was heard, and the muttered
imprecations of its rider on the churlish treatment he had experienced.
“‘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.’
“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.”
“‘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.’
“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’——
“‘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.’
“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.
“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.”
A TALE OF THE MARTYRS.
BY JAMES HOGG, THE “ETTRICK SHEPHERD.”
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!”
“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.”
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.”
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.
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.
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.
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.”
“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.”
“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.
“‘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?’
“‘Dinna ye see how it is, sister Aggie?’ says he, ‘I’m just set to herd
this poor man that’s lying here.’
“‘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.
“‘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?’
“‘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?’
“‘Will it make sae vera muckle difference, John Weir,’ said I, ‘whether
the carcass is eaten up by these or by the worms?’
“‘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.’
“‘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.’
“‘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?’
“‘I was directed this way on my road to heaven,’ said I.
“‘Ay, an’ ye were directed right, then,’ says he; ‘for this is the
direct path to heaven, and there is no other.’
“‘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.’
“‘This is Faith’s Hope,’ says he.
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?”
“Yes; but at the same time I saw your husband alive.”
“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.”
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.
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.
THE TOWN DRUMMER.
BY JOHN GALT.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
“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?”
The deacon stopped and said, “Is’t out? is’t out?”
“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.”
“It’s no possible!” exclaimed the deacon.
“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.
THE AWFUL NIGHT.
BY D. M. MOIR (DELTA).
Ha!—’twas but a dream;
But then so terrible, it shakes my soul!
Cold drops of sweat hang on my trembling flesh;
My blood grows chilly, and I freeze with horror.
—_Richard the Third._
The Fire-King one day rather amorous felt;
He mounted his hot copper filly;
His breeches and boots were of tin, and the belt
Was made of cast-iron, for fear it should melt
With the heat of the copper colt’s belly.
Oh! then there was glitter and fire in each eye,
For two living coals were the symbols;
His teeth were calcined, and his tongue was so dry,
It rattled against them as though you should try
To play the piano on thimbles.
—_Rejected Addresses._
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!”
“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!”
“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?”
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.
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!
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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[23] 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.
Footnote 23:
A noted Edinburgh character.
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.
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.
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.
“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”—
“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!”
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.
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.
ROSE JAMIESON.
I looked on thy death-cold face, my lassie,—
I looked on thy death-cold face;
Thou seemed a lily new cut i’ the bud,
And fading at its place.
Thy lips were ruddy and calm, my lassie,—
Thy lips were ruddy and calm;
But gane was the holy breath o’ heaven,
To sing the evening psalm.—_Allan Cunningham._
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.
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.”
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—
His garb was gude gray hodden,—
His bonnet was a broad one;
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.”
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.
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.
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.
Secluded from the great world, and debarred from pursuing his favourite
studies, he sought the society of Rose Jamieson as an antidote to that
_ennui_ 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—
Tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in everything.
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.
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.
The golden hours on angel wing
flew over them; the summer day became too short for them;
their walks became Eden, and their day-dreams Elysium; they
loved—fervently—mutually.
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—
In Reason’s ear they all rejoice,
And utter forth a glorious voice;
For ever singing, as they shine,
“The hand that made us is divine.”
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 _one_.
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!”
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.
“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.”
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 _would not_ be comforted. In a few weeks he breathed his
last; and another tenant was added to the house appointed for all
living.
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—
Low there thou lies, my lassie,
Low there thou lies;
A bonnier form ne’er went to the yird,
Nor frae it will arise!
There’s nought but dust now mine, lassie,
There’s nought but dust now mine;
My soul’s with thee in the cauld, cauld grave,
And why should I stay behin’?
A NIGHT AT THE HERRING FISHING.
BY HUGH MILLER.
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.
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.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 _Bhodry-more_.” “Why, what
does it betoken? and what is the _Bhodry-more_?” “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 _Bhodry-more_?” 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.”
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.
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 _easterly har_, 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 A.M., and fails at
four o’clock P.M., had now set in. We hoisted our mast and sail, and
were soon scudding right before it.
The story of the _Bhodry-more_, 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 _Bhodry-more_[24] 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 _Bhodry-more_. 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 _Bhodry-more_
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.
Footnote 24:
Properly, perhaps, the musculous whale.
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!”
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.
THE TWIN SISTERS.
BY ALEXANDER BALFOUR.
One of these men is genius to the other;
And so, of these which is the natural man,
And which the spirit? Who decyphers them?
_Shakspeare._
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
“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.”
“My dear father, if naebody’s angry but Francie, I’ll never rue doing
that for my brother. Say that _you’re_ 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.
“I am angry, you little flattering gipsey; but promise to gie ower thae
light-headed pranks, and I’ll forgive you for this.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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?”
“When Captain Munro explains what he wants, I shall then know how to
answer,” replied Emily.
“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.”
“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.”
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.
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.
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.
This _contretemps_ 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.
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.
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 _bandeau_ 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.
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.
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.”
“I thank you, Sir,” replied Emma; “may I inquire to whom I am indebted
for restoring it to its owner?”
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!”
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.”
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?”
“For these two days.”
“Enough. Farewell for ever! infamous woman!”
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.”
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?”
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?”
The farmer surveyed the group, and observing that Emma had not the
_bandeau_ 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 _my_ daughter, and _your_ bride.”
“She is no bride of mine—I renounce her for ever!” said the angry
soldier, in a most indignant tone.
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!”
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.”
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.
ALBERT BANE:
_AN INCIDENT OF THE BATTLE OF CULLODEN_.
BY HENRY MACKENZIE.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
“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!’”
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.
THE PENNY-WEDDING.
BY ALEX. CAMPBELL.
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.
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 _plenish_ their little
domicile.
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.
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.
“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.”
“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.”
“And to weet your whistle,” slipped in Andrew.
“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.”
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.
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 _toes_”
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.
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.
“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.
“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.”
“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.”
“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.
“They’ll be here belyve,” replied Willie, and added, “Ye’ll no be blin,
frien?”
“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.”
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.
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.
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.
“Weel,” replied the latter, “if ye think ye can gae through wi’t
onything decently, ye may try your hand.”
“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.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
“Is she a bit red-cheeked, dark-ee’d, and dark-haired lassie, about
nineteen or twenty?” inquired Willie, in his turn.
“The same,” replied the fiddler.
“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.”
“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.
“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.”
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.
On the termination of the dance, the fiddler—as we shall call him, _par
excellence_, 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.
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.
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.
“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.”
“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.”
“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’.”
“Umph! a bonny like taste ye hae, Jeanie, an’ a very strange notion o’
propriety!” exclaimed the elder, with another toss of the head.
“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.
“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.”
“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.
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.
“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.”
“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.
“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.
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.
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.
“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?”
“Wi’ a’ my heart,” replied Willie, “wi’ a’ my heart. A very guid
notion.”
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.
“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.”
“I have had some practice,” said the other modestly, and at the same
time following his companion’s example with his glass.
“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?”
“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.”
“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.”
“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’.”
“A bargain be’t,” quoth Willie; “will the morn do?”
“Perfectly,” said the stranger; “the sooner the better.”
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.
“That’s an uncommon guid instrument o’ yours, frien,” he said.
“Very good,” replied his companion, briefly.
“But ye’ll hae mair than that ane, nae doot?” rejoined the other.
“I hae ither twa.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
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.
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.
“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?”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
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.”
“I will be with you presently, Thomas,” replied who? inquires the
reader.
Why, Willie’s companion!
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?
The same and no other, good reader, we assure thee.
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.
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’.”
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 _douceur_ 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
“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?”
“Oh, a score o’ them—a thousand o’ them,” said the lively girl.
“But will your faither, think ye, hae nae objections to my comin?”
inquired the fiddler.
“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.”
“An’ your mother?”
“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.”
“Then, I may be quite at my ease,” rejoined Sir John.
“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.”
“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.”
“What’s that?” said Jeanie, laughing and blushing at the same time, and
more than half guessing, from the looks of the _pawky_ fiddler, what was
meant.
“Why, my bonny leddie,” he replied, “jist a kiss o’ that pretty little
mou o’ yours.”
“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.
“Oh, ye gowk!” said Jeanie; “wha ever heard o’ a fiddler preferring a
kiss to half-a-crown?”
“But _I_ do, though,” replied the disguised knight; “and I’ll gie ye
yours back again for’t.”
“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.
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, &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.
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.
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.
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:—
Oh, I hae lived wi’ high-bred dames,
Each state of life to prove,
But never till this hour hae met
The girl that I could love.
It’s no in fashion’s gilded ha’s
That she is to be seen;
Beneath her father’s humble roof
Abides my bonny Jean.
Oh, wad she deign ae thought to wair,
Ae kindly thought on me,
Wi’ pearls I wad deck her hair,
Though low be my degree.
Wi’ pearls I wad deck her hair,
Wi’ gowd her wrists sae sma’;
An’ had I lands and houses, she’d
Be leddy ower them a’.
The sun abune’s no what he seems,
Nor is the night’s fair queen;
Then wha kens wha the minstrel is
That’s wooin bonny Jean?
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.
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.
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.
“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.”
“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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.”
“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.”
“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.
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.
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.
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.
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
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—
“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.”
“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.
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——”
“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?”
“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!”
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.
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.
“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.”
“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.”
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.
“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.
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.
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.
Immediately after the interchange of the commonplace civilities above
mentioned had passed between the stranger and Mr Harrison and his
daughter—
“Mr Harrison,” he said, “may I have a private word with you?”
“Certainly, sir,” replied the former. And he led the way into a little
back parlour.
“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.
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.
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
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?”
“Why,” replied the latter, laughing, “I mean very distinctly that _I_
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.”
“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?”
“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.”
“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.”
“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?”
“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.”
“And you anticipate no very formidable ones on the part of your
daughter?”
“Certainly not, Sir John; it is impossible there should.”
“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?”
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.
“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!”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“Indeed!” replied Sir John, with an earnestness that betokened some
alarm. “Pray, what is that objection?”
“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?”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.
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 LADY GOWAN.
PEAT-CASTING TIME.
BY THOMAS GILLESPIE.
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—
On Fasten e’en we had a rockin’—
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. _There_ 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 _creepy_ 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 _welcome_ 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.”
Till, in a social glass o’ strunt,
They parted off careering
On sic a night.
I’ve heard a lilting at our ewe-milking.
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—
The labour much of man and dog—
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.
“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!”
“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!”
Wouf, wouf, wouf!—hee, hee, hee!—hoch, hoch, hoch!—there _in_ 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 “_à la breeches_,”
tugging away at their well-filled dugs.
“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.”
“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.”
“Howlet here, howlet there, Jenny, ye ken weel his auld brass will buy
you a new pan.”
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.
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 _arm_ 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.
_We_ cannot but remember such things were,
And were most dear to us!
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!
Oh, to feel as I have felt,
Or be what I have been!—
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.
Ah, little did thy mother think,
That day she cradled thee,
What lands thou hadst to travel in,
What death thou hadst to dee!
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.
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 _are_
very _generally_ still, and _were_, at the time of which I speak,
_universally_, 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
There’s no a star in a’ the cary,
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—
The bleezing ingle, and the clean hearth-stane—
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 _thereby
hangs my tale_, which shall be as short and simple as possible.
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—_in
tenaci gramine_—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!”
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
_cause_; yet the _effect_ 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!
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
_my_ 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 _man_ enough—I was not _peasant_ 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 _her_ 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.
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.
“John Scott!” said the son, in a firm and terrible tone, grasping his
parent meantime convulsively round the neck, “John Scott of
Auchincleuch, _I am thy son_!”
The conscience-stricken culprit, being taken by surprise, and almost
imagining this a supernatural intimation from Heaven, exclaimed, in
trembling accents:
“But who are you that makes this averment?”
“I am thy son, father—oh, I am thy son!”
Will could say no more; for his heart was full, and his tears dropped
hot and heavy on a father’s face.
“Yes,” replied the parent, after a convulsive solemn sob—(O Heaven! thou
art just!)—“yes, thou _art_ 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 _now_, for I know that voice too well to
distrust thee.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“Weel dune, Nancy!” cried several of the peat-casters, who, leaning on
their spades, stood and looked at us with pleasure and approbation.
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.
“Here is a better moss-brow,” cried one, at a distance.
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.
“Now!” cried I; and away we flew, and stuck deeply in the soft and
spongy moss.
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.
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.
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—
There is a silent sorrow here,
A grief I’ll ne’er impart;
It breathes no sigh, it sheds no tear,
But it consumes my heart.
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, _solus cum solo_, at Auchincleuch, and that many tears are
annually shed, over a snug bottle, for poor Nancy.
AN ADVENTURE WITH THE PRESS-GANG.
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.
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.”
Down the fore peak I went with the rapidity of lightning, and down
jumped three of the gang after me with little less velocity.
“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.”
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.
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.
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,
Ah! no, soft and slow
The time it winna pass,
The shadow of the trysting thorn,
Is tether’d on the grass.
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.
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.
“Tell us, my young lady, whereabout you have stowed away them there
fellows, for we knows they are in the house?”
“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.
“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.”
“You have certainly been misinformed,” said she; “you are welcome to
search the house, but be assured you will find no such men here.”
“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.
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.
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.
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 _in toto_, 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?
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
“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.”
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.
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.
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.—_Paisley Magazine._
THE LAIRD OF COOL’S GHOST.
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.”
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.
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.
_Cool._ 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.
_Ogil._ 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.
_Cool._ Well, sir, I will satisfy you as far as I think proper and
convenient. Let me know what information you want.
_Ogil._ May I then ask you, if you be in a state of happiness or not?
_Cool._ 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.
_Ogil._ 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.
_Cool._ You may try.
_Ogil._ 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?
_Cool._ 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.
_Ogil._ So it seems when Andrew Johnston inclines to ride, you must
serve him in the quality of a horse, as he does you now.
_Cool._ You are mistaken.
_Ogil._ I thought that all distinctions between mistresses and maids,
lairds and tenants, had been done away at death.
_Cool._ True it is, but you do not take up the matter.
_Ogil._ This is one of the questions you won’t answer.
_Cool._ You are mistaken, for the question I can answer, and after you
may understand it.
_Ogil._ Well then, Cool, have you never yet appeared before God, nor
received any sentence from Him as a Judge?
_Cool._ Never yet.
_Ogil._ 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.
_Cool._ 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.
_Ogil._ 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.
_Cool._ 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.
_Ogil._ 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.
_Cool._ 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.
_Ogil._ 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—
_Cool._ 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.
_Ogil._ And do you not think that every man has a good angel?
_Cool._ 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.
_Ogil._ 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.
_Cool._ 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.
_Ogil._ I do not doubt it; but what is that to my question, about which
I am solicitous?
_Cool._ 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.
_Ogil._ 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.
_Cool._ 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.
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?
_Cool._ You may depend upon it.
_Ogil._ And what do you think is his business?
_Cool._ 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.
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—
_Ogil._ But, Cool, tell me, in earnest, if there be a devil that attends
my family, though invisible.
_Cool._ 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.
_Ogil._ Are you sure of that, Cool?
_Cool._ Yes; there is one riding on your right hand, who might as well
have been elsewhere, for I meant you no harm.
_Ogil._ And how long has he been with me?
_Cool._ Only since we passed Brand’s Lee, but now he is gone.
_Ogil._ 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.
_Cool._ Be it so, sir; but I hope you will be as obliging to me next
re-encounter, as I have been to you this.
_Ogil._ 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.
_Cool._ I came not here to be instructed by you, but I want your help of
another kind.
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.
_Cool._ Last time we met, I refused you nothing you asked; and now I
expect that you shall refuse me nothing that I shall ask.
_Ogil._ Nothing, sir, that is in my power, or that I can do with safety
to my reputation and character. What, then, are your demands?
_Cool._ 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.
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.
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.
_Cool._ Well, say on.
_Ogil._ 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?
_Cool._ Because I cannot.
_Ogil._ 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.
_Cool._ Because I will not.
_Ogil._ That is not an answer to me, Cool.
_Cool._ 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.
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.
“I know,” says he, “this is a mere evasion: but tell me if the Laird of
Thurston will do it?”
“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.”
_Cool._ No, sir, it is not; and perhaps I may convince you of the
reasonableness of it afterwards.
_Ogil._ 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.—_Old Chap
Book._
ALLAN-A-SOP.
BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.”
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.
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.
“How can that be,” said MacQuarrie, “when I bestowed this entertainment
upon you in free goodwill?”
“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.”
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.”
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.
“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.”
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.—_From Tales of a
Grandfather._
JOHN HETHERINGTON’S DREAM.
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.
“There’s a fine morning,” said the wily old dog; “how do you find
yourself after long travel?”
“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?”
“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.
“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.”
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!”
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.
“Master, mind the sheet!” solemnly ejaculated John.
“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!”
BLACK JOE O’ THE BOW.
BY JAMES SMITH.
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?—_artistic_?—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.
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—
Hey cocky dawdy, hey cocky dow—
Horselip, Horselip’s comin doun the Bow,
Wi’ his drum an’ his pipe, an’ his pipe, pipe, pipe!
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.
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—
Tak the pan an’ break his head—
Tooraladdy, tooraladdy;
That’s a’ as fac’ as death—
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.
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.”
“What way that?” asked my mither; “by my faith, ye’ll live mony a lang
day yet. Deein’! deil the fear o’ ye!”
But Joe aye shook his head.
“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.”
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.
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.
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.
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
_Nancy_, 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 _William and
Mary_, an’ was on her passage hame frae the Island o’ Cuba.
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.
“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.
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’.
“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.”
“An’ is the major married?” asked my mither.
“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.”
“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?”
“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.”
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.”
“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.
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.
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.
“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.”
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.
“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.”
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.
“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.
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.
“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
_you_ 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?”
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—
“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 _he_? 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 _him_? 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!”
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—
“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?”
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.
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.
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.
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.—_From “Peggy Pinkerton’s
Recollections.”_
THE FIGHT FOR THE STANDARD.
BY JAMES PATERSON.
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 _interest_, by way of
repaying the usage they had experienced.
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.
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 _melée_. 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.
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.
CATCHING A TARTAR.
BY D. M. MOIR.
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.
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.
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.
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.
“And what, in the name of goodness, is the matter?” quo’ James Batter;
“ye seem in a wonderful quandary.”
“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?”
“’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.”
“’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.’”
“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?”
“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.”
“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?”
“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.”
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—
“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!”
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.
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?”
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.
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.
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.
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—
“A barley, ye thieves! a barley! I tell you, give me wind. There’s not a
man in nine of ye!”
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.
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,—
“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!”
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.
“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.”
“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?”
“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!
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:
“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.”
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.
“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.”
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—
“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.”
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.
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.
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—
“Now take your will o’t; there’s drink fit for a king; that’s real
‘Pap-in.’”
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.
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!
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!
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.
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.—_Mansie Wauch._
_Commercial Printing Company, Edinburgh._
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
1. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in
spelling.
2. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.
3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.
4. Enclosed blackletter font in =equals=.
*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The book of Scottish story: historical, humorous, legendary, and imaginative : Selected from the works of standard Scottish authors" ***
Copyright 2023 LibraryBlog. All rights reserved.