{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_11032/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_11032","id":"gutenberg_11032","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/11032","summary":null,"tags":["Category: British Literature","Category: Historical Novels","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Short Stories","Scottish Borders (Scotland) -- Fiction"],"text":"Wilson's\n\nTALES OF THE BORDERS\n\nAND OF SCOTLAND.\n\n  HISTORICAL, TRADITIONARY, & IMAGINATIVE.\n\n\n  REVISED BY\n  ALEXANDER LEIGHTON,\n  _One of the Original Editors and Contributors_.\n\nVOL. XXIII.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS.\n\n\n  THE LAWYER'S TALES (_Alexander Leighton_)--LORD KAMES'S PUZZLE.\n\n  THE ORPHAN (_John Mackay Wilson_).\n\n  THE BURGHER'S TALES (_Alexander Leighton_)--THE\n  BROWNIE OF THE WEST BOW.\n\n  GLEANINGS OF THE COVENANT (_Professor Thomas\n  Gillespie_)--THE LAST SCRAP.\n\n  THE STORY OF MARY BROWN (_Alexander Leighton_).\n\n  TIBBY FOWLER (_John Mackay Wilson_).\n\n  THE CRADLE OF LOGIE (_Alexander Leighton_).\n\n  THE DEATH OF THE CHEVALIER DE LA BEAUT\u00c9 (_John Mackay Wilson_).\n\n  THE STORY OF THE PELICAN (_Alexander Leighton_).\n\n  THE WIDOW'S AE SON (_John Mackay Wilson_).\n\n  THE LAWYER'S TALES (_Alexander Leighton_)--THE\n  STORY OF MYSIE CRAIG.\n\n  THE TWIN BROTHERS (_John Mackay Wilson_).\n\n  THE GIRL FORGER (_Alexander Leighton_).\n\n  THE TWO RED SLIPPERS (_Alexander Leighton_).\n\n  THE FAITHFUL WIFE (_Alexander Leighton_).\n\n\n  WILSON'S\n  TALES OF THE BORDERS,\n  AND OF SCOTLAND.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\n\nTHE LAWYER'S TALES.\n\nLORD KAMES'S PUZZLE.\n\n\nOn looking over some Session papers which had belonged to Lord Kames,\nwith the object, I confess, of getting hold of some facts--those\nentities called by Quintilian the bones of truth, the more by token, I\nfancy, that they so often stick in the throat--which might contribute to\nmy legends, I came to some sheets whereon his lordship had written some\nhasty remarks, to the effect that the case Napier _versus_ Napier was\nthe most curious puzzle that ever he had witnessed since he had taken\nhis seat on the bench. The papers were fragmentary, consisting of parts\nof a Reclaiming Petition and some portion of a Proof that had been led\nin support of a brieve of service; but I got enough to enable me to give\nthe story, which I shall do in such a connected manner as to take the\nreader along with me, I hope pleasantly, and without any inclination to\nchoke upon the foresaid bones.\n\nWithout being very particular about the year, which really I do not know\nwith further precision than that it was within the first five years of\nLord Kames's senator-ship, I request the reader to fancy himself in a\nsmall domicile in Toddrick's Wynd, in the old city of Edinburgh; and I\nrequest this the more readily that, as we all know, Nature does not\nexclude very humble places from the regions of romance, neither does she\ndeny to very humble personages the characters of heroes and heroines.\nNot that I have much to say in the first instance either of the place or\nthe persons; the former being no more than a solitary room and a\nbed-closet, where yet the throb of life was as strong and quick as in\nthe mansions of the great, and the latter composed of two persons--one,\na decent, hard-working woman called Mrs. Hislop, whose duty in this\nworld was to keep her employers clean in their clothes, wherein she\nstood next to the minister, insomuch as cleanliness is next to\ngodliness--in other words, she was a washerwoman; the other being a\nyoung girl, verging upon sixteen, called Henrietta, whose qualities,\nboth of mind and body, might be comprised in the homely eulogy, \"as\nblithe as bonnie.\" So it may be, that if you are alarmed at the humility\nof the occupation of the one--even with your remembrance that Sir Isaac\nNewton experimented upon soap-bubbles--as being so intractable in the\nplastic-work of romance, you may be appeased by the qualities of the\nother; for has it not been our delight to sing for a thousand years,\nyea, in a thousand songs, too, the praises of young damsels, whether\nunder the names of Jenny or Peggy, or those of Clarinda or Florabella,\nor whether engaged in herding flocks by Logan Waters, or dispensing\nknights' favours under the peacock? But we cannot afford to dispose of\nour young heroine in this curt way, for her looks formed parts of the\nlines of a strange history; and so we must be permitted the privilege of\nnarrating that, while Mrs. Hislop's _proteg\u00e9e_ did not come within that\ncharmed circle which contains, according to the poets, so many angels\nwithout wings, she was probably as fair every whit as Dowsabell. Yet,\nafter all, we are not here concerned with beauty, which, as a specialty\nin one to one, and as a universality in all to all, is beyond the power\nof written description. We have here to do simply with some traits\nwhich, being hereditary, not derived from Mrs. Hislop, have a bearing\nupon our strange legend: the very slightest cast in the eyes, which in\nits piquancy belied a fine genial nature in the said Henney; and a\nclassic nose, which, partaking of the old Roman type, and indicating\npride, was equally untrue to a generosity of feeling which made friends\nof all who saw her--_except one_. A strange exception this _one_; for\nwho, even in this bad world, could be an enemy to a creature who\nconciliated sympathy as a love, and defied antipathy as an\nimpossibility? Who could _he_ be? or rather, who could _she_ be? for man\nseems to be excluded by the very instincts of his nature. The question\nmay be answered by the evolution of facts; than which what other have we\neven amidst the dark gropings into the mystery of our wonderful being?\n\nMrs. Hislop's head was over the skeil, wherein lay one of the linen\nsheets of Mr. Dallas, the writer to the signet, which, with her broad\nhands, she was busy twisting into the form of a serpent; and no doubt\nthere were indications of her efforts in the drops of perspiration which\nstood upon her good-humoured, gaucy face, so suggestive of dewdrops\n('bating the poetry) on the leaves of a big blush peony. In this work\nshe was interrupted by the entrance of Henney, who came rushing in as if\nunder the influence of some emotion which had taken her young heart by\nsurprise.\n\n\"What think ye, minny?\" she cried, as she held up her hands.\n\n\"The deil has risen again from the grave where he was buried in\nKirkcaldy,\" was the reply, with a laugh.\n\n\"No, that's no it,\" continued the girl.\n\n\"Then what is it?\" was the question.\n\n\"He's dead,\" replied Henney.\n\n\"Who is dead?\" again asked Mrs. Hislop.\n\n\"The strange man,\" replied the girl.\n\nAnd a reply, too, which brought the busy worker to a pause in her work,\nfor she understood who the _he_ was, and the information went direct\nthrough the ear to the heart; but Henney, supposing that she was not\nunderstood, added--\n\n\"The man who used to look at me with yon terrible eyes.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, dear, I understand you,\" said the woman, as she let the coil\nfall, and sat down upon a chair, under the influence of strong emotion.\n\"But who told you?\"\n\n\"Jean Graham,\" replied the girl.\n\nAn answer which seemed, for certain reasons known to herself, to satisfy\nthe woman, for the never another word she said, any more than if her\ntongue had been paralyzed by the increased action of her heart; but as\nwe usually find that when that organ in woman is quiet more useful\npowers come into action, so the sensible dame began to exercise her\njudgment. A few minutes sufficed for forming a resolution; nor was it\nsooner formed than that it was begun to be put into action, yet not\nbefore the excited girl was away, no doubt to tell some of her\ncompanions of her relief from the bugbear of the man with the terrible\neyes. The formation of a purpose might have been observed in her\npuckered lips and the speculation in her grey eyes. The spirit of\nromance had visited the small house in Toddrick's Wynd, where for\nfifteen years the domestic _lares_ had sat quietly surveying the economy\nof poverty. She rose composedly from the chair into which the effect of\nHenney's exclamation had thrown her, went to the blue chest which\ncontained her holiday suit, took out, one after another, the chintz\ngown, the mankie petticoat, the curch, the red plaid; and, after washing\nfrom her face the perspiration drops, she began to put on her humble\nfinery--all the operation having been gone through with that quiet\naction which belongs to strong minds where resolution has settled the\nquivering chords of doubt.\n\nFollowing the dressed dame up the High Street, we next find her in the\nwriting-booth of Mr. James Dallas, writer to his Majesty's Signet. The\ngentleman was, after the manner of his tribe, minutely scanning some\npapers--that is, he was looking into them so sharply that you would have\ninferred that he was engaged in hunting for \"flaws;\" a species of game\nthat is both a prey and a reward--_et praeda et premium_, as an old\nproverb says. Nor shall we say he was altogether pleased when he found\nhis inquiry, whatever it might be, interrupted by the entrance of Mrs.\nMargaret Hislop of Toddrick's Wynd; notwithstanding that to this\npersonage he and Mrs. Dallas, and all the Dallases, were indebted for\nthe whiteness of their linen. No doubt she would be wanting payment of\nher account; yet why apply to him, and not to Mrs. Dallas? And, besides,\nit needed only one glance of the writer's eye to show that his visitor\nhad something more of the look of a client than a cleaner of linen; a\nconclusion which was destined to be confirmed, when the woman, taking up\none of the high-backed chairs in the room, placed it right opposite to\nthe man of law, and, hitching her round body into something like stiff\ndignity, seated herself. Nor was this change from her usual deportment\nthe only one she underwent; for, as soon appeared, her style of speech\nwas to pass from broad Scotch, not altogether into the \"Inglis\" of the\nupper ranks, but into a mixture of the two tongues; a feat which she\nperformed very well, and for which she had been qualified by having\nlived in the service of the great.\n\n\"And so Mr. Napier of Eastleys is dead?\" she began.\n\n\"Yes,\" answered the writer, perhaps with a portion of cheerfulness,\nseeing he was that gentleman's agent, or \"doer,\" as it was then called;\na word far more expressive, as many clients can testify, at least after\nthey are \"done;\" and seeing also that a dead client is not finally\n\"done\" until his affairs are wound up and consigned to the green box.\n\n\"And wha is his heir, think ye?\" continued his questioner.\n\n\"Why, Charles Napier, his nephew,\" answered the writer, somewhat\ncarelessly.\n\n\"I'm no just a'thegither sure of that, Mr. Dallas,\" said she, with\nanother effort at dignity, which was unfortunately qualified by a\nknowing wink.\n\n\"The deil's in the woman,\" was the sharp retort, as the writer opened\nhis eyes wider than he had done since he laid down his parchments.\n\n\"The deil's in me or no in me,\" said she; \"but this I'm sure of, that\nHenrietta Hislop--that's our Henney, ye ken--the brawest and bonniest\nlass in Toddrick's Wynd (and that's no saying little), is the lawful\nheiress of Mr. John Napier of Eastleys, and was called Henrietta after\nher mother.\"\n\n\"The honest woman's red wud,\" said the writer, laughing. \"Why, Mrs.\nHislop, I always took you for a shrewd, sensible woman. Do you really\nthink that, because you bore a child to Mr. John Napier, therefore\nHenney Hislop is the heiress of her reputed father?\"\n\n\"_Me_ bear a bairn to Mr. Napier!\" cried the offended client. \"Wha ever\nsaid I was the mother of Henney Hislop?\"\n\n\"Everybody,\" replied he. \"We never doubted it, though I admit she has\nnone of your features.\"\n\n\"Everybody is a leear, then,\" rejoined the woman tartly. \"There's no a\ndrap of blood in the lassie's body can claim kindred with me or mine;\nthough, if it were so, it would be no dishonour, for the Hislops were\nlairds of Highslaps in Ayrshire at the time of Malcolm Mucklehead.\"\n\n\"And whose daughter, by the mother's side, is she, then?\" asked he, as\nhis curiosity began to wax stronger.\n\n\"Ay, you have now your hand on the cocked egg,\" replied she, with a look\nof mystery. \"The other was a wind ane, and you've just to sit a little\nand you'll see the chick.\"\n\nThe writer settled himself into attention, and the good dame thought it\nproper, like some preachers who pause two or three minutes (the best\npart of their discourse) after they have given out the text, to raise a\nwonder how long they intend to hold their tongue, and thereby produce\nattention, to retain her speech until she had attained the due\nsolemnity.\n\n\"It is now,\" she began, in a low mysterious voice, \"just sixteen years\ncome June,--and if ye want the day, it will be the 15th,--and if ye want\nthe hour, we may say eleven o'clock at night, when I was making ready\nfor my bed,--I heard a knock at my door, and the words of a woman, 'Oh,\nMrs. Hislop, Mrs. Hislop!' So I ran and opened the door; and wha think\nye I saw but Jean Graham, Mr. Napier's cook, with een like twa candles,\nand her mouth as wide as if she had been to swallow the biggest sup of\nporridge that ever crossed ploughman's craig?\"\n\n\"'What's ado, woman?' said I, for I thought something fearful had\nhappened.\n\n\"'Oh,' cried she, 'my lady's lighter, and ye're to come to Meggat's\nLand, even noo, this minute, and bide nae man's hindrance.'\n\n\"'And so I will,' said I, as I threw my red plaid ower my head; then I\nblew out my cruse, and out we came, jolting each other in the dark\npassage through sheer hurry and confusion--down the Canongate, t'll we\ncame to Meggat's Land, in at the kitchen door, ben a dark passage, up a\nstair, then ben another passage, till we came to a back room, the door\nof which was opened by somebody inside. I was bewildered--the light in\nthe room made my een reel; but I soon came to myself, when I saw a man\nand Mrs. Kemp the howdie busy rowing something in flannel.\n\n\"'Get along,' said the man to Jean; 'you're not wanted here.'\n\n\"And as Jean made off, Mrs. Kemp turned to me--\n\n\"'Come here, Mrs. Hislop,' said she.\n\n\"So I slipt forward; but the never a word more was said for ten minutes,\nthey were so intent on getting the bairn all right--for ye ken, sir, it\nwas a new-born babe they were busy with: they were as silent as the\ngrave; and indeed everything was so still, that I heard their breathing\nlike a rushing of wind, though they breathed just as they were wont to\ndo. And when they had finished--\n\n\"'Mrs. Hislop,' said the man, as he turned to me, 'you're to take this\nchild and bring it up as your own, or anybody else's you like, except\nMr. Napier's, and you're never to say when or how you got it, for it's a\nbanned creature, with the curse upon it of a malison for the sins of him\nwho begot it and of her who bore it. Swear to it;' and he held up his\nhand.\n\n\"And I swore; but I thought I would just take the advice of the Lord how\nfar my words would bind me to do evil, or leave me to do gude, when the\ntime came. So I took the bairn into my arms.\n\n\"'And wha will pay for the wet-nurse?' said I; 'for ye ken I am as dry\nas a yeld crummie. But there is a woman in Toddrick's Wynd wha lost her\nbairn yestreen: she is threatened wi' a milk-fever, and by my troth this\nlittle stranger will cure her; but, besides the nourice-fee, there is my\ntrouble.'\n\n\"'I was coming to that,' said he, 'if your supple tongue had left you\npower to hear mine. In this leathern purse there are twenty gowden\nguineas--a goodly sum; but whether goodly or no, you must be content;\nyea, the never a penny more you may expect, for all connection between\nthis child and this house or its master is to be from this moment\nfinished for ever.'\n\n\"And a gude quittance it was, I thought, with a bonny bairn and twenty\nguineas on my side, and nothing on the other but maybe a father's anger\nand salt tears, besides the wrath of God against those who forsake their\nchildren. So with thankfulness enough I carried away my bundle; and\nye'll guess that Henney Hislop is now the young woman of fifteen who was\nthen that child of a day.\"\n\n\"And is this all the evidence,\" said the writer, \"you have to prove that\nHenrietta Hislop is the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Napier?\"\n\n\"Maybe no,\" replied she; \"if ye weren't so like the English stranger wha\ncurst the Scotch kail because he did not see on the table the beef that\nwas coming from the kitchen, besides the haggis and the bread-pudding.\nYou've only as yet got the broth, and, for the rest, I will give you Mrs.\nKemp, wha told me, as a secret, that the child was brought into the\nworld by her own hands from the living body of Mrs. Napier. Will that\nsatisfy you?\"\n\n\"No,\" replied Mr. Dallas, who had got deeper and deeper into a study.\n\"Mr. Napier, I know, was at home that evening when his wife bore a\nchild: that child never could have been given away without his consent;\nand as for the consent itself, it is a still greater improbability,\nseeing that he was always anxious for an heir to Eastleys.\"\n\n\"And so maybe he was,\" replied she; \"but I see you are only at the beef\nyet, and you may be better pleased when you have got the haggis, let\nalone the pudding. Yea, it is even likely Mr. Napier wanted an heir,\nand, what is more, he got one, at least an heiress; but sometimes God\ngives and the devil misgives. And so it was here; for Mr. Napier took it\ninto his head that the child was not his, and, in place of being pleased\nwith an heir, he thought himself cursed with a bastard, begotten on his\nwife by no other than Captain Preston, his lady's cousin. And where did\nthe devil find that poison growing but in the heart of Isabel Napier,\nthe sister of that very Charles who is now thinking he will heir\nEastleys by pushing aside poor Henney? And then the poison, like the old\napple, was so fair and tempting; for Mr. Napier had been married ten\nyears, and enjoyed the love that is so bonnie a 'little while when it is\nnew,' and yet had no children, till this one came so exactly nine months\nafter the captain's visit to Scotland, that Satan had little more to do\nthan hold up the temptation. You see, sir, how things come round; but\nstill, according to the old fashion, after a long, weary, dreary turn.\nMrs. Napier died next day after the birth; Mr. Napier lived a miserable\nman; Henney was brought up in poverty, and sometimes distress, but now I\nhope she has come to her kingdom.\"\n\nHere Mrs. Hislop stopped; and as there could be no better winding-up of\na romance than by bringing her heroine to her kingdom at last, she felt\nso well pleased with her conclusion, that she could afford to wait\nlonger for her expected applause than the fair story-tellers in the\n_brigata_ under Queen Pampinea; and it was as well that she was thus\nfortified, for the writer, in place of declaring his satisfaction, with\nher proofs, seemed, as he lay back in his chair in a deep reverie, to be\noccupied once more in hunting for flaws. At length, raising himself on\nhis chair, and fixing his eyes upon her with that look of scepticism\nwhich a writer assumes when he addresses a would-be new client who wants\nto push out an old one with a better right--\n\n\"Mrs. Hislop,\" said he, \"if it had not been that I have always taken you\nfor an honest woman, I would say that you are art and part in\nfabricating a story without a particle of foundation. There may possibly\nbe some mystery about the birth and parentage of the young girl. You may\nhave got her out of the house of Meggat's Land in the Canongate from a\nman--not Mr. Napier, you admit--who may have been the father of it by\nsome mother residing in the house; and Mrs. Kemp may have been actuated,\nby some unknown means, to remove the paternity from the right to the\nwrong person. All this is possible; but that the child could be that one\nwhich Mrs. Napier bore is impossible, for this reason--and I beg of you\nto listen to it--that Mrs. Napier's child _was dead-born, and was,\naccording to good evidence, buried in the same coffin with the mother_.\"\n\nA statement this, which, delivered in the solemn manner of an attorney\nwho was really honest, and who knew much of this history, appeared to\nMrs. Hislop so strange that her tongue was paralyzed; an effect which\nhad never before been produced by any one of all the five causes of the\nmetaphysicians. Even her eyes seemed to have lost their power of\nmovement; and as for her wits, they had, like those of the renowned\nAstolpho, surely left, and taken refuge in the moon.\n\n\"If you are not satisfied with my words,\" continued the writer (no doubt\nironically, for where could he have found better evidence of the effect\nof his statement?), \"I will give you writing for the truth of what I\nhave said to you.\"\n\nAnd rising and going towards a green tin box, he opened the same, and\ntaking therefrom a piece of paper, he resumed his seat.\n\n\"Now listen,\" said he, as he unfolded an old yellow-coloured sheet of\npaper, and then he read these words: \"'Your presence is requested at the\nfuneral of Henrietta Preston, my wife, and of a child still-born, from\nmy house, Meggat's Land, Canongate, to the burying-ground at St.\nCuthberts, on Friday the 19th of this month June, at one o'clock;' and\nthe name at this letter,\" continued Mr. Dallas, \"is that of 'John Napier\nof Eastleys.' Will that satisfy you?\"\n\nAnd the \"doer\" for Mr. Charles Napier, conceiving that he had at last\neffectually \"done\" his client's opponent, seemed well pleased to sit and\nwitness the further effect of his evidence on the bewildered woman; but\nwe are to remember that a second stroke sometimes only takes away the\npain of the former, and a repetition of blows will quicken the reaction\nwhich slumbered under the first. Whether this was so or not in our\npresent instance, or whether Mrs. Hislop had recovered her wits by a\nprocess far shorter than that followed by the foresaid Astolpho, we know\nnot; but certain it is, that she recovered the powers of both her eyes\nand her tongue in much less time than the writer expected, and in a\nmanner, too, very different from that for which he was probably\nprepared.\n\n\"Weel,\" replied she, smiling, \"it would just seem that even the haggis\nhas not pleased you, Mr. Dallas;\" and, putting her hand into a big\nside-pocket, that might have served a gaberlunzie for a wallet, she\nextracted a small piece of paper. She continued: \"But ye see a guid,\nhonest Scotchwoman's no to be suspected of being shabby at her own\ntable; so read ye that, which you may take for the bread-pudding.\"\n\nAnd the writer, having taken the paper, and held it before his face for\nso long a time that it might have suggested the suspicion that the words\ntherein written stuck in his eyes, and would not submit to that strange\nprocess whereby, unknown to ourselves, we transfer written vocables to\nthe ear before we can understand them, turned a look upon the woman of\ndark suspicion--\n\n\"Where, in God's name, got you this?\" he said.\n\n\"Just read it out first,\" replied she. \"Ye read yer ain paper, and why\nno mine?\"\n\nAnd the writer read, perhaps more easily than he could understand, the\nstrange words:\n\n\"This child, born of my wife, and yet neither of my blood nor my\nlineage, I repudiate, and, unable to push it back into the dark world of\nnothing from which it came, I leave it with a scowl to the mercy which\ncountervaileth the terrible decree whereby the sins of the parent shall\nbe visited on the child. This I do on the 15th of June 17--. JOHN NAPIER\nof Eastleys, in the county of Mid-Lothian.\"\n\nAfter reading this extraordinary denunciation, Mr. Dallas sat and\nconsidered, as if at a loss what to say; but whether it was that\nscepticism was at the root of his thoughts, or that he assumed it as a\nmask to conceal misgivings to which he did not like to confess, he put a\nquestion:\n\n\"Where got you this notable piece of evidence?\"\n\n\"Ay,\" replied Mrs. Hislop, \"you are getting reasonable on the last dish.\nThat bit of paper, which to me and my dear Henney is werth the haill\nestate of Eastleys, was found by me carefully pinned to the flannel in\nwhich the child was wrapt.\"\n\n\"Wonderful enough surely,\" repeated he, \"_if true_\"--the latter words\nbeing pronounced with emphasis which made the rough liquid letter sound\nlike a hurling stone; \"but,\" he continued, \"the whole document, in its\nterms of crimination and exposure, and not less the wild manner of its\napplication, is so unlike the act of a man not absolutely frantic, that\nI cannot believe it to be genuine.\"\n\n\"But you know, Mr. Dallas,\" replied she, \"that Mr. John Napier was a man\nwho, if he threw a stone, cared little whether it struck the kirk window\nor the mill door.\"\n\n\"That is so far true; but, passionate and unforgiving as he was, he was\nnot so reckless as to be regardless whether the stone did not come back\non his own head.\"\n\n\"And it's no genuine!\" she resumed, as, disregarding his latter words,\nshe relapsed into her more familiar dialect. \"The Lord help ye! canna ye\nlook at first the ae paper and then the ither? and if they're no alike,\nmustna the ither be the forgery?\"\n\nAn example of the conditional syllogism which might have amused even a\nwriter to the signet, if he had not been at the very moment busy in the\nexamination of the handwriting of the funeral letter and that of the\npaper of repudiation and malison--the resemblance, or rather the\nidentity of which was so striking, as to reduce all his theories to\nconfusion.\n\n\"By all that's good in heaven, the same,\" he muttered to himself; and\nthen addressing his visitor, \"I confess, Mrs. Hislop,\" said he, \"that\nthis paper has driven me somewhat off my point of confidence; but I\nsuppose you will see that, if the child was actually, as the letter\nindicates, buried with its mother, Henrietta's rights are at an end. It\nis just possible, however, I fairly admit, that Mr. Napier, who was a\nvery eccentric man, may have so worded the letter as to induce the world\nto believe that the so-considered illegitimate child had been dead-born,\nwhile he gratified--privately he might verily think--his vengeance by\nwriting this terrible curse. Still I think you are wrong; but as this\nwonderful paper gives you a plausible plea, I would recommend you to Mr.\nWhite, in Mill's Court, who will see to the young woman's rights. He\nwill be the flint, and I the steel; and between our friendly opposition\nwe will produce a spark which will light up the candle of truth.\"\n\n\"Ay,\" replied she; \"only as the spark of fire comes from the steel,\nwe'll just suppose you are the flint--and by my troth you're hard\nenough; but, come as it may, it will light the lantern that will show\nHenney Napier to the bonnie haughs of Eastleys.\"\n\nMrs. Hislop having got back her paper from Mr. Dallas, left the writer's\nchambers, and directed her steps to Mill's Court, where she found Mr.\nWhite, even as she had Mr. Dallas, busy poring over law papers. She was,\nas we have seen, one of those people who can make their own introduction\nacceptable, and, moreover, one of those women, few as they are, who can\ntell a story with the continuity and fitting emphasis necessary to\nsecure the attention of a busy listener. So Mr. White heard her\nnarrative, not only with interest, but even a touch of the pervading\nsympathy of the spirit of romance. And so he might; for who doesn't see\nthat the charm of mystery can be enhanced by the hope of turning it to\naccount of money? Then he was so much of a practical man as to know that\nwhile every string has two ends, the true way to get hold of both is to\nmake sure in the first place of one. Wherefore he began to interrogate\nhis client as to who could speak to the doings in the house in Meggat's\nLand on that eventful night when the child was born; and having taken\nnotes of the answers to his questions, he paused a little, as if to\nconsider what was the first step he ought to take into the region of\ndoubt, and perhaps of intrigue, where at least there must be lies\nfloating about like films in the clear atmosphere of truth. Nor had he\nmeditated many minutes till he rose, and taking up his square hat and\nhis gold-headed cane, he said--\n\n\"Come, we will try what we can discover in a quarter where an end of the\nravelled string ought to be found, whether complicated into a knot by\nthe twisting power of self-interest or no.\"\n\nAnd leading the way, he proceeded with his client down the High Street,\nwhere, along under the glimmering lamps, were the usual crowds of\nloungers, composed of canny Saxon and fiery Celt, which have always made\nthis picturesque thoroughfare so remarkable. Not one of all these had\nany interest for our two searchers; but it was otherwise when they came\ntoward the Canongate Tolbooth, where, out from a dark entry sprang a\nyoung woman, and bounding forward, seized our good dame round the neck.\nThis was no other than Henney Hislop herself, who, having been alarmed\nat the long absence of her \"mother,\" as she called her, and of course\nbelieved her to be, was so delighted to find her, that she sobbed out\nher joy in such an artless way, that even the writer owned it was\ninteresting to behold. Nor was the picture without other traits\ncalculated to engage attention; for the girl whose fortunes had been so\nstrange, and were perhaps destined to be still more strange, was dressed\nin the humblest garb--the short gown and the skirt peculiar to the time;\nbut then every tint was so bright with pure cleanliness, the earrings\nset off so fine a skin, the indispensable strip of purple round the head\nimparted so much of the grace of the old classic wreath; and beyond all\nthis, which might be said to be extraneous, her features--if you abated\nthe foresaid cast or slight squint in the eyes, which imparted a\npiquancy--were so regular, if not handsome, that you could not have\ndenied that she deserved to be a Napier, if she was not a very Napier in\nreality. A few words whispered in Mrs. Hislop's ear, and the girl was\noff, leaving our couple to proceed on their way. Even this incident had\nits use; for Mr. White, who had known Mr. Napier, and had faith (as who\nhas not?) in the hereditary descent of bodily aspects, could not\nrestrain himself from the remark, however much it might inflame the\nhopes of his client--\"The curse has left no blight there,\" said he.\n\"That is the very face of Mr. Napier--the high nose especially; and as\nfor the eyes, with that unmistakeable cast, why, I have seen their\nforetypes in the head of John Napier a hundred times.\"\n\nAn observation so congenial to Mrs. Hislop, that she could not help\nbeing a little humorous, even in the depth of an anxiety which had kept\nher silent for the full space of ten minutes.\n\n\"Nose, sir! there wasn't a man frae the castle yett to Holyrood wha\ncould have produced that nose except John Napier.\"\n\nAnd without further interruption than her own laugh, they proceeded till\nthey came to the entry called Big Lochend Close, up which they went some\nforty or fifty steps till they came to an outer door, which led by a\nshort dark passage to two or three inner doors in succession, all\nleading to separate rooms occupied by separate people. No sooner had\nthey turned into this passage than they encountered a woman in a plaid\nand with a lantern in her hand, who had just left the third or innermost\nroom, and whose face, as it peered through the thick folds of her\nhead-covering, was illuminated by a gleam from the light she carried.\nShe gave them little opportunity for examination, having hurried away as\nif she had been afraid of being searched for stolen property.\n\n\"Isbel Napier,\" whispered Mrs. Hislop; \"she wha first brought evil into\nthe house of the Napiers, with all its woe.\"\n\n\"And who bodes us small hope here,\" said he, \"if she has been with the\nnurse.\"\n\nAnd entering the room from which the ill-omening woman had issued, they\nfound another, even her of whom they were in search, sitting by the\nfire, torpid and corpulent, to a degree which indicated that as it had\nbeen her trade to nurse others, she had not forgotten herself in her\nministrations.\n\n\"Mrs. Temple,\" said Mr. White, who saw the policy of speaking fair the\nwoman who had been so recently in the company of an evil genius; \"I am\nglad to find you so stout and hearty.\"\n\n\"Neither o' the twa, sir,\" replied she; \"for I am rather weak and\nheartless. Many a ane I hae nursed into health and strength, but a'\nnursing comes hame in the end.\"\n\n\"And some, no doubt, have died under your care,\" continued the writer,\nwith a view to introduce his subject; \"and therefore you should be\ngrateful for the life that is still spared to you. You could not save\nthe life of Mrs. Napier.\"\n\n\"That's an auld story, and a waefu' ane,\" she replied, with a side-look\nat Mrs. Hislop; \"and I hae nae heart to mind it. Some said the lady\nwasna innocent; and doubtless Mr. Napier thought sae, for he took high\ndealings wi' her, and looked at her wi' a scorn that would have scathed\nwhinstanes. Sae it was better she was ta'en awa--ay, and her baby wi'\nher; for if it had lived, it would have dree'd the revenge o' that stern\nman.\"\n\n\"The child!\" said Mr. White, \"did it die too?\"\n\n\"Dee! ye may rather ask if it ever lived; for it never drew breath, in\nthis world at least.\"\n\nA statement so strange, that it brought the eyes of the two visitors to\neach other; and no doubt both of them recurred in memory to the\nstatement in the funeral letter, which, whatever may have been the case\nwith the assertion now made by the nurse, never could have been dictated\nby her they had met in the passage; and no doubt, also, they both\nremembered the statement made by Mr. Dallas, to the effect that both the\nmother and child were buried together.\n\n\"Never drew breath, you say, nurse!\" resumed Mr. White, with an air of\nastonishment; \"why, I have been given to understand, not only that the\nchild was born alive, but that it is actually living now.\"\n\n\"Weel,\" replied the nurse, \"maybe St. Cuthbert has wrought a miracle,\nand brought the child out o' the grave by the West Church; but he has\nwrought nae miracle on me, to mak' me forget what my een saw, and my\nhands did, that day when I helped to place the dead body o' the innocent\non the breast o' its dead mother; ay, and bent her stiff arms sae as to\nbring them ower her bairn, just as if she had been faulding it to her\nbosom. And sae in this fashion were they buried.\"\n\n\"And you would swear to that, Mrs. Temple?\" said the writer.\n\n\"Ay, upon fifty Bibles, ane after anither,\" was the reply, in something\nlike a tone of triumph.\n\nNor could the woman be induced to swerve from these assertions,\nnotwithstanding repeated interrogations; and the writer was left to the\nconclusion--which he preferred, rather than place any confidence in the\nfuneral letter--that the nurse's statement was in some mysterious way\nconnected with the visit of Isabel Napier; and yet, not so very\nmysterious, after all, when we are to consider that her brother was\npreparing to claim Eastleys, as well as the valuable furniture of the\nhouse in Meggat's Land, as the nearest lawful heir of his deceased\nuncle. The salvo was at least comfortable to both Mr. White and his\nclient, and no doubt it helped to lighten their steps, as, bidding adieu\nto the \"hard witness,\" they left her to the nursing which comes \"aye\nhame in the end.\"\n\nBut their inquiries were not finished; and retracing their steps up the\nCanongate, they landed in the Fountain Close, where, under the leading\nof Mrs. Hislop, the writer was procured another witness, with a name\nalready familiar to him through the communication of his client; and\nthis was no other than that same Jean Graham, who was sent to Toddrick's\nWynd on that eventful night, fifteen years before, to bring Mrs. Hislop\nto the house in Meggat's Land;--one of those simple souls--we wish there\nwere more of them in the world--who look upon a lie as rather an operose\naffair, and who seem to be truthful from sheer laziness. There was,\naccordingly, no difficulty here; for the woman rolled off her story just\nas if it had been coiled up in her mind for all that length of time.\n\n\"There was a terrible stir in the house that night,\" she began. \"The\nnurse, wha is yet living in Lochend Close, and Mrs. Kemp the howdie, wha\nis dead, were wi' my lady; and John Cowie, the butler, was busy\nattending our master, who had been the haill day in ane o' his dark\nfits, for we heard him calling for Cowie in a fierce voice ever and\nagain; and his step sounded ower our heads upon the floor as he walked\nback and fore in his wrath. Then I was sent for you, and brought you,\nand you'll mind how Cowie bade me go along; but I had mair sense, for I\nlistened at the door, and heard what the butler said to ye when he gied\nye the bairn; and think ye I didna see ye carry it along the passage as\nye left? Sae far I could understand; but when I heard nurse say the\nbairn was dead, Mrs. Kemp say the bairn was still-born, and Cowie\ndeclare it was better it was dead and awa, I couldna comprehend this\nava; nor do I weel yet; but we just thought that as there was something\nwrang between master and my lady, he wanted us to believe that the bairn\nwas dead, for very shame o' being thought the father, when maybe he\nwasna. And then he was so guid to me and my neighbour Anne Dickson,--ye\nmind o' her--puir soul, she's dead too,--that we couldna, for the very\nheart o' us, say a word o' what we knew. But now when Mr. Napier is\ndead, and the brother o' that wicked Jezebel, Isbel Napier, may try to\ntake the property frae Henney, wha I aye kenned as a Napier, with the\nvery nose and een o' the father, I have spoken out; and may the Lord gie\nthe right to whom the right is due!\"\n\n\"It's all right,\" said the writer, after he had jotted with a pencil the\nevidence of Jean, as well as that of the nurse; \"and if we could find\nthis John Cowie, we might so fortify the orphan's rights, as to defy\nMiss Napier and her brother, and Mr. Dallas, and all the witnesses they\ncan bring.\"\n\n\"Ay,\" continued the woman, \"but I doubt if you'll catch him. He left Mr.\nNapier's service about ten years ago, and I never heard mair o' him.\"\n\n\"Nor I either,\" said Mrs. Hislop.\n\n\"Well, we must search for him,\" added Mr. White; \"for that man alone, so\nfar as I can see, is he who will unravel this strange business.\"\n\nAnd thus the day's work finished. The writer parted for Mill's Court,\nand Mrs. Hislop, filled with doubts, hopes, and anxieties, sought her\nhumble dwelling in Toddrick's Wynd, where Henney waited for her with all\nthe solicitude of a daughter; but a word did not escape her lips that\nmight carry to the girl's mind a suspicion that the golden cord of their\nsupposed relationship ran a risk of being severed, even with the\neventual condition that one, if not both of the divisions, would be\ntransmuted into a string of diamonds.\n\nMeanwhile the agent was in his own house, revolving all the points of a\npuzzle more curious than any that had yet come within the scope of his\nexperience. Sometimes he felt confidence, and at other times despair;\nand of course he had the consolation, which belongs to all litigants,\nthat the opposite party was undergoing the same process of oscillation.\nIt was clear enough that Cowie was the required Oedipus; and if it\nshould turn out that he was dead, or could not be found, the advantage\nwas, with a slight declination, on the part of Charles Napier; insomuch\nas, while he was indisputably the nephew of the deceased, the orphan,\nHenrietta, was under the necessity of proving her birth and pedigree.\nAnd so, as it appeared, Mr. Dallas was of that opinion, for the very\nnext day he applied to Chancery for a brieve to get Charles Napier\nserved nearest and lawful heir to his uncle; and as in legal warfare,\nwhere the judges are cognisant only of patent claims, there is small\nroom for retiring tactics, Mr. White felt himself obliged, however\nanxious he was to gain time, to follow his opponent's example by taking\nout a competing brieve in favour of Henrietta.\n\nThe parties were now face to face in court, and the battle behoved to be\nfought out; but as in all legal cases, where the circumstances are\nstrange or peculiar, the story soon gets wind, so here the Meggat's Land\nromance was by-and-by all over the city. Nor did it take less fantastic\nforms than usual, where sympathies and antipathies are strong in\nproportion to the paucity of the facts on which they are fed. It was a\nfavourite opinion of some, that the case could only be cleared by\nsupposing that a dead stranger child had been surreptitiously passed\noff, and even coffined, as the true one; while others, equally skilled\nin the art of divining, maintained that the child given to Mrs. Hislop\nby Cowie was a bastard of his own, by the terrible woman Isabel Napier,\nwho was thus, according to the ordinary working of public prejudice,\nraised to a height of crime sufficient to justify the hatred of the\npeople: on which presumption, it behoved to be assumed that the paper\ncontaining the curse was a forgery by Cowie and his associate in crime,\nand that the money paid to Mrs. Hislop was furnished by the lady; all\nwhich suppositions, and others not less incredible, were greedily\naccepted, for the very reason that it required something prodigious to\nexplain an enigma which exhausted the ordinary sources of man's\ningenuity; just as we find in many religions, where miracles--the more\nabsurd, the more acceptable--are resorted to to explain the mystery of\nman's relation to God, a secret which no natural light can illuminate.\n\nBut all these suppositions were destined to undergo refractions through\nthe medium of a new fact. The case, by technical processes, came before\nthe Court of Session, where the diversity of opinion was, proportionably\nto the number of judges, as great as among the quidnuncs outside. The\nonly clear idea in the heads of the robed and wigged wiseacres was, that\nthe case, Napier _versus_ Napier, was a puzzle which no man could read\nor solve. It seemed fated to be as famous as the old Sphinx, the\ninsoluble Moenander, or the tortuous labyrinth, or the intricate key of\nHercules--_ne Apollo quidem intelligat_; and if it had not happened that\nLord Kames suggested the possibility of getting an additional piece of\nevidence through the examination of the coffin wherein Mrs. Napier was\nburied, the court might have been sitting over the famous case even in\nthis year of the nineteenth century. The notion was worthy of his\nlordship's ingenuity; and accordingly a commission was issued to one of\nthe Faculty to proceed to the West Church burying-ground, and there\ncause to be laid open and examined the coffin of the said Mrs. Henrietta\nPreston or Napier, with the view to ascertain whether or not the body of\na child had been placed therein along with the corpse of the mother.\n\nThis commission was accordingly executed, and the report bore, that \"he,\nthe commissioner, had proceeded to the burying-ground of the parish of\nSt. Cuthberts, and there caused David Scott, the sexton, to lay open the\ngrave of the said Henrietta Preston or Napier, and to open the coffin\ntherein contained; which having accordingly been done by the said David\nScott and his assistants, the commissioner, upon a faithful examination,\naided by the experience of the said David Scott, did find the skeletons\nof two bodies in the said coffin identified as that of the said lady,\none whereof was that of a woman apparently of middle age, and the other\nthat of a babe, which lay upon the chest of the larger skeleton in such\na way or manner as to be retained or held in that position by the arms\nof the same being laid across it; that having satisfied himself of these\nfacts, the commissioner caused the coffin to be again closed and the\ngrave covered with all decency and care. And he accordingly made this\nreport to their lordships.\"\n\nThe fact thus ascertained, in opposition to the expectation of those who\nfavoured the orphan, was viewed by the court as depriving, to a great\nextent, the case of that aspect of a riddle by which it had been so\nunfortunately distinguished; and as the case had been hung up even\nbeyond the time generally occupied by cases at that period, when, as it\nwas sometimes remarked, law-suits were as often settled by the old rule,\n_Romanus sedendo vincit_--by the death of one or other of the\nparties--as by a judgment, the case was again put to the Roll for a\nhearing on the effect of the new evidence. It was contended for the\nnephew by Mr. Wight, that the question was now virtually settled,\ninsomuch that the court was not bound to solve riddles, but to find to\nwhom pertained a certain right of inheritance. The birth of the child\nhad been sworn to by the nurse, as well as its death, and the final\nplacing of it in the coffin; and now the court had, as it were, ocular\ndemonstration of these facts by the body having been seen by their own\ncommissioner, placed on the breast of the mother in that very peculiar\nway described by Mrs. Temple. All claim on the part of the girl was thus\nvirtually excluded, for the proceedings which took place that evening in\nanother room, under circumstances of suspicion, were sworn to only by\nMrs. Hislop herself, an interested witness, and were only partially\nconfirmed by an eavesdropper, who, as eavesdroppers generally do (except\nwhen their own characters are concerned), perhaps heard according as\nforegone prejudices induced her to wish. These suspicious proceedings\nmight be explained by as many hypotheses as had been devised by the wise\njudges of the taverns, among which was the theory of the living child\nbeing Cowie's own by Isabel Napier, and palmed off as Mrs. Napier's to\nhide the shame of the true mother,--all unlikely enough, no doubt, but\nnot so impossible as that the coffined child should now be alive and\nawaiting the issue of this case, in the expectation of being Lady of\nEastleys.\n\nOn the other side, Mr. Andrews, counsel for Henrietta, maintained that\nwhile his learned brother assumed the one half of the case as proved,\nand repudiated the other as a lie or a myth, he had a right to embrace\nthe other half, and pronounce the first a stratagem or trick. The\nproceedings in the back-room into which Jean Graham introduced Mrs.\nHislop were more completely substantiated than those in the bedroom\nwhere Mrs. Napier lay; for while the one were sworn to by Mrs. Hislop\nherself, a soothfast witness, and confirmed in all points by the woman\nGraham, the other were attempted to be proven by the solitary testimony\nof the nurse Temple. The paper containing the curse was as indisputably\nin the handwriting of Mr. Napier as was the funeral letter. The money\npaid was proved by the fact that the orphan had been kept and educated\nfor fifteen years. The name Henrietta was not likely to have been a mere\ncoincidence, and it was still more unlikely that a respectable woman\nsuch as Mrs. Hislop would invent a story of affiliation so strangely in\nharmony with the secrets of the house in Meggat's Land, and fortify it\nby a forged document. Then Mrs. Hislop was unable to write, and no\nattempt had been made on the other side to prove that Henrietta had a\nfather other than he who was pointed out by the paper of the curse. So\nhe (the counsel) might follow the example of his brother, and hold the\nother half of the case to be unexplainable by hypotheses, however\nridiculous. The child having been disposed of to Mrs. Hislop,--a fact\nthus proved,--what was to prevent him (the counsel) from going also to\nthe haunts of the _tabernian_ Solons, or anywhere else in the regions of\nfancy, for the theory that Mr. Napier, or some plotter for him in the\nshape of Mrs. Kemp or John Cowie, substituted the dead child of a\nstranger for the living one of his wife, and bribed the nurse Temple to\ntell the tale she had told? to which she would be the more ready by the\ngolden promptings of the woman Isabel Napier, the niece, whose brother\nwould, in the event of the stratagem being concealed, succeed to the\nestate of Eastleys.\n\nAt the conclusion of these pleadings, the judges were inclined to be\neven more humorous than they had been previous to the issuing of the\ncommission, for they had thought they saw their way to a judgment\nagainst the orphan. The president (Braxfield), it is said, indulged in a\njoke, to the effect that he had read _somewhere_--it was not for so\nreligious a man to say where--of a child having been claimed by two\nmothers; he would like to see two fathers at that work, at least he\nwould not be one; but here the claim was set up by Death on the one\nside, and Life (if a personification could be allowed) on the other, and\nthey could not follow the old precedent, because he suspected none of\ntheir lordships would like to see the grim claimant at the bar to\nreceive his half. And so they chuckled, as judges sometimes do, at their\nown jokes--generally very bad--altogether oblivious of the fable of the\nfrogs who could see no fun in a game which was death to them; for, as we\nhave indicated, the opinion of a great majority was against the claim of\nthe young woman: nor would the decision have been suspended that day,\nhad not Mr. Andrews risen and made a statement--perhaps _as_ fictitious\nas a counsel's conscience would permit--to the effect that the agent\n(Mr. White) had procured some trace of the butler Cowie, who could throw\nmore light on the case than Death had done, and that if some time were\naccorded to complete the inquiry, something might turn up which would\nalter the complexion even of this Protean mystery. The request was\ngranted.\n\nBut, in truth, Mr. Andrews' suggestion was simply a bit of ingenuity,\nintended to ward off an unfavourable judgment, and allow a development\nof the chapter of accidents;--a wise policy; for as the womb of Time is\nnever empty, so Fate writes in the morning a chapter of every man's life\nof a day, at which in the evening he is sometimes a little surprised. No\ntrace had yet been got of Cowie; it was not even known whether he was\nalive. But if we throw some fourteen days into the wallet-bag of Saturn,\nwe may come to a day whereupon a certain person, in an inn far down in a\nvalley of Westmoreland, and in the little town called Kirby Lonsdale,\nwas busy reading the _Caledonian Mercury_--for it was not more easy to\nsay where the winged _Mercury_ of that time would not go, than it is to\ntell where a certain insect without wings, \"which aye travels south,\"\nmight not be found in England as an immigrant. It was at least no wonder\nthat the paper should contain an account of the romance wrapped up in\nthe case Napier _versus_ Napier; and certainty, if we could have judged\nfrom the face of the individual, we would have set him down as one given\nto the reading of riddles; for, after he had perused the paragraph, he\nlooked as if he knew more about that case than all the fifteen, with the\nmacers to boot. Nor was he contented with an indication of a mere look\nof wisdom: he actually burst out into a laugh--an expression wondrously\nunsuited to the gravity of the subject. You who read this will no doubt\nsuspect that we are merely shading this man for the sake of effect: and\nthis is true; but you are to remember that, while we are chroniclers of\nthings mysterious, we work for the advantage to you of putting into your\npower to venture a shrewd guess; in making which, you are only working\nin the destined vocation of man, for the world is only guesswork all\nover, and you yourself are only guesswork as a part of it. The reader of\nthe _Mercury_ was verily Mr. John Cowie, whilom butler to Mr. John\nNapier, and now waiter in the Lonsdale Arms of the obscure Kirby--a\nplace like Peebles, where, if you wanted to deposit a secret, you could\ndo so by crying it out at the market-cross; and, moreover, he was verily\nin possession of the key to the Napier mystery.\n\nAccordingly, Mr. White of Mill's Court in two days afterwards received a\nletter, informing him that John Cowie was the writer of the same, and\nthat, if a reasonable consideration were held out to him, he would\nproceed to the northern metropolis, and there settle for ever a case\nwhich apparently had kept the newsmongers of Edinburgh in aliment for a\nlength of time much exceeding the normal nine days. Opportune and\nhappily come in the very nick of time as the latter was--for the delay\nallowed by the court had all but expired--Mr. White saw the danger of\npromising anything which could be construed into a reward; but he could\nuse other means of decoying the shy bird into his meshes; and these he\nused in his answer with such effect, that the man who could solve the\nmystery was in Edinburgh at the end of a week. Nor was Mr. White\nunprepared to receive him, for he had previously got a commission to\nexamine him and take his deposition: but then an agent likes to know\nwhat a witness will say before he cites him; and the canny Scotchman, of\nall men in the world, is the most uncanny if brought to swear without\nsome hope of being benefited by his oath. There was, therefore, need of\ntact as well as delicacy; and Mr. White contrived in the first place to\nget his man to take up his quarters in the house in Mill's Court. A good\nsupper and chambers formed the first demulcent--we do not say bribe,\nbecause, by a legal fiction, all eating and drinking is set down to the\nscore of hospitality. A Scotch breakfast followed in the morning, at\nwhich were present Mrs. White and Mrs. Hislop, and our favourite\nHenney--the last of whom, spite of all the efforts of her putative\nmother to keep from her the secret of her birth and prospects, had\ncaught the infection of the general topic of the city, and wondered at\nher strange fortune, much as the paladin in the \"Orlando\" did when he\ngot into the moon. No man can precognosce like a woman, and here were\nthree; but perhaps they might have all failed, had it not been for the\nnatural art of Henney, who, out of pure goodness and gratitude, was so\ndelighted with the man who had rolled her in a blanket and sent her to\nher beloved mother, as she still called her, that she promised to make\nhim butler at Eastleys, and keep him comfortable all his days.\n\n\"Now,\" said the cautious agent, \"this promise of Henney's is not made in\nconsideration of your giving evidence for her before the commissioner.\"\n\n\"I'm thinking of nothing but her face,\" said John. \"I could swear to it\nout of a thousand; and Heaven bless her! for I think I am again in the\nonce happy house in Meggat's Land.\"\n\nAnd John pretended he was wiping a morsel of egg from his mouth, while\nthe handkerchief was extended as far as the eye.\n\n\"A terrible night that was,\" he continued. \"Mrs. Napier had been in\nlabour all day; and when Mrs. Kemp told me to tell my master that my\nlady had been delivered of TWINS--\"\n\n\"_Twins_!\" cried they all, as if moved by some sympathetic chord which\nran from heart to heart.\n\n\"Ay, twins,\" he repeated; \"one dead, and another living--even you\nyourself, Henney, who are as like your father as if there never had been\na Captain Preston in the world.\"\n\nAnd thus was John Cowie precognosced. We need not say that he was that\nvery day examined before the commissioner. He gave an account of all the\nproceedings of the house in Meggat's Land on the eventful night to which\nwe have referred. The case was no longer a puzzle; and accordingly a\ndecision was given in favour of Henrietta, whereby we have one other\nexample of truth and right emerging from darkness into light. Some time\nafterwards, the heiress, with Mrs. Hislop alongside, and John Cowie on\nthe driver's box, proceeded to Eastleys and took possession; where\nHenrietta acted the part of a generous lady, Mrs. Hislop that of a kind\nof a dowager, and John was once more butler in the house of the Napiers.\nWe stop here. Those who feel interest enough in the fortunes of Henney\nto inquire when and whom she married, and what were the subsequent\nfortunes of a life so strangely begun, will do well to go to Eastleys.\n\n\n\n\nTHE ORPHAN.\n\n\nAbout forty years ago, a post-chaise was a sight more novel in the\nlittle hamlet of Thorndean, than silk gowns in country churches during\nthe maidenhood of our great-grandmothers; and, as one drew up at the\nonly public-house in the village, the inhabitants, old and young,\nstartled by the unusual and merry sound of its wheels, hurried to the\nstreet. The landlady, on the first notice of its approach, had hastily\nbestowed upon her goodly person the additional recommendation of a clean\ncap and apron; and, still tying the apron-strings, ran bustling to the\ndoor, smiling, colouring, and courtesying, and courtesying and colouring\nagain, to the yet unopened chaise. Poor soul! she knew not well how to\nbehave--it was an epoch in her annals of innkeeping. At length the\ncoachman, opening the door, handed out a lady in widow's weeds. A\nbeautiful, golden-haired child, apparently not exceeding five years of\nage, sprang to the ground without assistance, and grasped her extended\nhand. \"What an image o' beauty!\" exclaimed some half-dozen bystanders,\nas the fair child lifted her lovely face of smiles to the eyes of her\nmother. The lady stepped feebly towards the inn, and though the\nlandlady's heart continued to practise a sort of fluttering motion,\nwhich communicated a portion of its agitation to her hands, she waited\nupon her unexpected and unusual guests with a kindliness and humility\nthat fully recompensed for the expertness of a practised waiter. About\nhalf an hour after the arrival of her visitors, she was seen bustling\nfrom the door, her face, as the villagers said, bursting with\nimportance. They were still in groups about their doors, and in the\nmiddle of the little street, discussing the mysterious arrival; and, as\nshe hastened on her mission, she was assailed with a dozen such\nquestions as these--\"Wat ye wha she is?\" \"Is she ony great body?\" \"Hae\nye ony guess what brought her here?\" and, \"Is yon bonny creature her ain\nbairn?\" But to these and sundry other interrogatories, the important\nhostess gave for answer, \"Hoot, I hae nae time to haver the noo.\" She\nstopped at a small, but certainly the most genteel house in the village,\noccupied by a Mrs. Douglas, who, in the country phrase, was a very\ndouce, decent sort of an old body, and the widow of a Cameronian\nminister. In the summer season Mrs. Douglas let out her little parlour\nto lodgers, who visited the village to seek health, or for a few weeks'\nretirement. She was compelled to do this from the narrowness of her\ncircumstances; for, though she was a \"clever-handed woman,\" as her\nneighbours said, \"she had a sair fecht to keep up an appearance onyway\nlike the thing ava.\" In a few minutes Mrs. Douglas, in a clean cap, a\nmuslin kerchief round her neck, a quilted black bombazine gown, and\nsnow-white apron, followed the landlady up to the inn. In a short time\nshe returned, the stranger lady leaning upon her arm, and the lovely\nchild leaping like a young lamb before them. Days and weeks passed away,\nand the good people of Thorndean, notwithstanding all their surmises and\ninquiries, were no wiser regarding their new visitor; all they could\nlearn was, that she was the widow of a young officer, who was one of the\nfirst that fell when Britain interfered with the French Revolution; and\nthe mother and her child became known in the village by the designation\nof \"Mrs. Douglas's twa pictures!\"--an appellation bestowed on them in\nreference to their beauty.\n\nThe beautiful destroyer, however, lay in the mother's heart, now paling\nher cheeks like the early lily, and again scattering over them the rose\nand the rainbow. Still dreaming of recovery, about eight months after\nher arrival in Thorndean, death stole over her like a sweet sleep. It\nwas only a few moments before the angel hurled the fatal shaft, that the\ntruth fell upon her soul. She was stretching forth her hand to her\nwork-basket, her lovely child was prattling by her knee, and Mrs.\nDouglas smiling like a parent upon both, striving to conceal a tear\nwhile she smiled, when the breathing of her fair guest became difficult,\nand the rose, which a moment before bloomed upon her countenance,\nvanished in a fitful streak. She flung her feeble arms around the neck\nof her child, who now wept upon her bosom, and exclaimed, \"Oh! my\nElizabeth, who will protect you now, my poor, poor orphan?\" Mrs. Douglas\nsprang to her assistance. She said she had much to tell, and endeavoured\nto speak; but a gurgling sound only was heard in her throat; she panted\nfor breath; the rosy streaks, deepening into blue, came and went upon\nher cheeks like the midnight dances of the northern lights; her eyes\nflashed with a momentary brightness more than mortal, and the spirit\nfled. The fair orphan still clung to the neck, and kissed the yet warm\nlips of her dead mother.\n\nAs yet she was too young to see all the dreariness of the desolation\naround her; but she was indeed an orphan in the most cruel meaning of\nthe word. Her mother had preserved a mystery over her sorrows and the\ncircumstances of her life, which Mrs. Douglas had never endeavoured to\npenetrate. And now she was left to be as a mother to the helpless child,\nfor she knew not if she had another friend; and all that she had heard\nof the mother's history was recorded on the humble stone which she\nplaced over her grave: \"_Here resteth the body of Isabella Morton, widow\nof Captain Morton; she died amongst us a stranger, but beloved_.\" The\nwhole property to which the fair orphan became heir by the death of her\nmother did not amount to fifty pounds, and amongst the property no\ndocument was found which could throw any light upon who were her\nrelatives, or if she had any. But the heart of Mrs. Douglas had already\nadopted her as a daughter; and, circumscribed as her circumstances were,\nshe trusted that He who provided food for the very birds of heaven,\nwould provide the orphan's morsel.\n\nYears rolled on, and Elizabeth Morton grew in stature and in beauty, the\npride of her protector, and the joy of her age. But the infirmities of\nyears grew upon her foster-mother, and, disabling her from following her\nhabits of industry, stern want entered her happy cottage. Still\nElizabeth appeared only as a thing of joy, contentment, and gratitude;\nand often did her evening song beguile her aged friend's sigh into a\nsmile. And to better their hard lot, she hired herself to watch a few\nsheep upon the neighbouring hills, to the steward of a gentleman named\nSommerville, who, about the time of her mother's death, had purchased\nthe estate of Thorndean. He was but little beloved, for he was a hard\nmaster, and a bad husband; and more than once he had been seen at the\nhour of midnight, in the silent churchyard, standing over the grave of\nMrs. Morton. This gave rise to not a few whisperings respecting the\nbirth of poor Elizabeth. He had no children; and a nephew, who resided\nin his house, was understood to be his heir. William Sommerville was\nabout a year older than our fair orphan; and ever, as he could escape\nthe eye of his uncle, he would fly to the village to seek out Elizabeth\nas a playmate. And now, while she tended the few sheep, he would steal\nround the hills, and placing himself by her side, teach her the lessons\nhe had that day been taught, while his arm in innocence rested on her\nneck, their glowing cheeks touched each other, and her golden curls\nplayed around them. Often were their peaceful lessons broken by the\nharsh voice and the blows of his uncle. But still William stole to the\npresence of his playmate and pupil, until he had completed his\nfourteenth year; when he was to leave Thorndean, preparatory to entering\nthe army. He was permitted to take a hasty farewell of the villagers,\nfor they all loved the boy; but he went only to the cottage of Mrs.\nDouglas. As he entered, Elizabeth wept, and he also burst into tears.\nTheir aged friend beheld the yearnings of a young passion that might\nterminate in sorrow; and taking his hand, she prayed God to prosper him,\nand bade him farewell. She was leading him to the door, when Elizabeth\nraised her tearful eyes; he beheld them, and read their meaning, and,\nleaping forward, threw his arms round her neck, and printed the first\nkiss on her forehead! \"Do not forget me, Elizabeth,\" he cried, and\nhurried from the house.\n\nSeven years from this period passed away. The lovely girl was now\ntransformed into the elegant woman, in the summer majesty of her beauty.\nFor four years Elizabeth had kept a school in the village, to which her\ngentleness and winning manners drew prosperity; and her grey-haired\nbenefactress enjoyed the reward of her benevolence. Preparations were\nmaking at Thorndean Hall for the reception of William, who was now\nreturning as Lieutenant Sommerville. A post-chaise in the village had\nthen become a sight less rare; but several cottagers were assembled\nbefore the inn to welcome the young laird. He arrived, and with him a\ngentleman between forty and fifty years of age. They had merely become\nacquainted as travelling companions; and the stranger being on his way\nnorthward, had accepted his invitation to rest at his uncle's for a few\ndays. The footpath to the Hall lay through the churchyard, about a\nquarter of a mile from the village. It was a secluded path, and\nElizabeth was wont to retire to it between school hours, and frequently\nto spend a few moments in silent meditation over her mother's grave. She\nwas gazing upon it, when a voice arrested her attention, saying,\n\"Elizabeth--Miss Morton!\" The speaker was Lieutenant Sommerville,\naccompanied by his friend. To the meeting of the young lovers we shall\nadd nothing. But the elder stranger gazed on her face and trembled, and\nlooked on her mother's grave and wept. \"Morton!\" he repeated, and read\nthe inscription on the humble stone, and again gazed on her face, and\nagain wept. \"Lady!\" he exclaimed, \"pardon a miserable man--what was the\nname of your mother?--who the family of your father? Answer me, I\nimplore you!\" \"Alas! I know neither,\" said the wondering and now unhappy\nElizabeth. \"My name is Morton,\" cried the stranger; \"I had a wife; I had\na daughter once, and my Isabella's face was thy face!\" While he yet\nspoke, the elder Sommerville drew near to meet his nephew. His eyes and\nthe stranger's met. \"Sommerville!\" exclaimed the stranger, starting.\n\"The same,\" replied the other, his brow blackening like thunder, while a\ntrembling passed over his body. He rudely grasped the arm of his nephew,\nand dragged him away. The interesting stranger accompanied Elizabeth to\nthe house of Mrs. Douglas. Painful were his inquiries; for, while they\nkindled hope and assurance, they left all in cruel uncertainty. \"Oh,\nsir!\" said Mrs. Douglas, \"if ye be the faither o' my blessed bairn, I\ndinna wonder at auld Sommerville growing black in the face when he saw\nye; for, when want came hard upon our heels, and my dear motherless and\nfaitherless bairn was driven to herd his sheep by the brae-sides--there\nwad the poor, dear, delicate bairn (for she was as delicate then as she\nis bonnie now) been lying--the sheep a' feeding round about her, and her\nreadin' at her Bible, just like a little angel, her lee lane, when the\nbrute wad come sleekin' down ahint her, an' giein' her a drive wi' his\nfoot, cursed her for a little lazy something I'm no gaun to name, an'\nrugged her bonnie yellow hair, till he had the half o' it torn out o'\nher head; or the monster wad riven the blessed book out o' her hand, an'\nthrown it wi' an oath as far as he could drive. But the nephew was aye a\nbit fine callant; only, ye ken, wi' my bairn's prospects, it wasna my\npart to encourage onything.\"\n\nEagerly did the stranger, who gave his name as Colonel Morton, hang over\nthe fair being who had conjured up the sunshine of his youth. One by\none, he was weeping and tracing every remembered feature of his wife\nupon her face, when doubt again entered his mind, and he exclaimed in\nbitterness, \"Merciful Heaven! convince me! Oh, convince me that I have\nfound my child!\" The few trinkets that belonged to Mrs. Morton had been\nparted with in the depth of her poverty. At that moment Lieutenant\nSommerville hastily entered the cottage. He stated that his uncle had\nleft the Hall, and delivered a letter from him to Colonel Morton. It was\nof few words, and as follows:\n\n\"Morton,--We were rivals for Isabella's love; you were made happy, and I\nmiserable. But I have not been unrevenged. It was I who betrayed you\ninto the hands of the enemy. It was I who reported you dead--who caused\nthe tidings to be hastened to your widowed wife, and followed them to\nEngland. It was I who poisoned the ear of her friends, until they cast\nher off; I dogged her to her obscurity, that I might enjoy my triumph;\nbut death thwarted me as you had done. Yet I will do one act of\nmercy--she sleeps beneath the grave where we met yesterday; and the lady\nbefore whom you wept--is your own daughter.\"\n\nHe cast down the letter, and exclaimed, \"My child! my long lost child!\"\nAnd, in speechless joy, the father and the daughter rushed to each\nother's arms. Shall we add more? The elder Sommerville left his native\nland, which he never again disgraced with his presence. William and\nElizabeth wandered by the hill-side in bliss, catching love and\nrecollections from the scene. In a few months her father bestowed on him\nher hand, and Mrs. Douglas, in joy and in pride, bestowed upon both her\nblessing.\n\n\n\n\nTHE BURGHER'S TALES.\n\nTHE BROWNIE OF THE WEST BOW.\n\n\nI cannot say so much for the authenticity of the legend I am now to\nrelate, as I have been able to do for some of the others in this\ncollection; but that is no reason, I hope, for its failing to interest\nthe reader, who makes it a necessary condition of his acceptance, that a\nlegend shall keep within the bounds of human nature: not that any one of\nus can say what these bounds are, for every day of our experience is\nextending them in both the inner and outer worlds; and we never can be\nvery sure whether the things which rise upon the distant horizon of our\nnocturnal visions are less unstable and uncertain than those that exist\nunder our noses. True it is, at any rate, that the legend was narrated\nto me in a meagre form by a lady, sufficiently ancient to be supposed to\nbe a lover of strange stories, and not imaginative or wicked enough to\nconcoct them.\n\nThat part of Edinburgh called the West Bow was, at the date of our\nlegend, the tinsmiths' quarter; a fact which no one who chanced to walk\ndown that way could have doubted, unless indeed he was deaf. Among the\nfraternity there was one destined to live in annals even with more\nposthumous notoriety than he of the same place and craft, who long got\nthe credit of being the author of the \"Land o' the Leal.\" His name was\nThomas, or, according to the Scottish way of pronouncing it, Tammas\nDodds; who, with a wife going under the domestic euphuism of Jenny,\noccupied as a dwelling-house a small flat of three rooms, in the near\nneighbourhood of his workshop. This couple had lived together five\nyears, without having any children procreated of their bodies, or any\nquarrel born of their spirits; and thus they might have lived to the end\nof their lives, if a malign influence, born of the devil, had not got\npossession of the husband's heart.\n\nThis influence, which we may be permitted by good Calvinists to call\ndiabolical, was, as a consequence, not only in its origin, but also in\nits medium, altogether extraneous to our couple. For so far as regards\nMrs. Jenny Dodds, she was, as much as a good wife could be, free from\nany great defects of conduct; and as for the tinsmith himself, he had\nhitherto lived so sober and douce a life, that we cannot avoid the\nnotion, that if he had not been subject to \"aiblins a great temptation,\"\nhe would not have become the victim of the arch-enemy. Thus much we say\nof the dispositions of the two parties; and were it not that certain\npeculiarities belonged to Jenny, which, as reappearing in an after-part\nof our story, it is necessary to know, we would not have gone further\ninto mere character--an element which has little to do generally with\nlegends, except in so far as it either produces the incidents, or may be\ndeveloped through them. The first of these peculiarities was a settled\nconviction that she had as good a right to rule Tammas Dodds, as being\nher property, as if she had drunk of the waters of St. Kevin. Nor was\nthis conviction merely natural to her; for she could lay her finger on\nthat particular part of Sacred Writ which is the foundation of the\ngenerally-received maxim, \"One may do what one likes with one's own.\" No\ndoubt, she knew another passage in the same volume with a very different\nmeaning; but then Mrs. Dodds did not _wish_ to remember that, or to obey\nit when she did remember it; and we are to consider, without going back\nto that crazy school of which a certain Aristippus was the dominie, that\nwishing or not wishing has a considerable influence upon the aspects of\nmoral truth, if it does not exercise over them a kind of legerdemain of\nwhich we are unconscious, whereby it changes one of these aspects into\nanother, even when these are respectively to each other as white is to\nblack. This \"claim of right\" does not generally look peaceful. No more\nit should; for it is clearly enough against nature; and one seldom kicks\nat her without getting sore toes. True enough, there do appear cases\nwhere it seems to work pretty well; but when they are inquired into, it\nis generally found either that the husband is a simpleton, submitting by\nmere inanity, or a man who has resisted to the uttermost, and is at last\ncrumpled up by pure \"Caudlish\" iteration and perseverance. How Tammas\ntook it may yet appear.\n\nProceeding with the peculiarities: another of these was, that Mrs.\nDodds, like her of Auchtermuchty, or Mrs. Grumlie, carried domesticity\nto devotion, scarcely anything in the world having any interest to her\nsoul save what was contained in the house--from Tammas, the chief\narticle of furniture, down, through the mahogany table, to the\nporridge-pot; clouting, mending, darning, cleaning, scouring, washing,\nscraping, wringing, drying, roasting, boiling, stewing, being all of\nthem done with such duty, love, and intensity of purpose, that they were\nveritable sacrifices to the _lares_. This was doubtless a virtue; and as\ndoubtless it was a vice, insomuch as, if we believe another old Greek\npedagogue of the name of Aristotle, \"all virtues are medial vices, and\nall vices extreme virtues.\" How Tammas viewed this question may also\nappear. But we may proceed to state, that Mrs. Janet Dodds was not\ncontent with doing all those things with such severity of love or duty.\nShe was always telling herself what she intended to do, either at the\nmoment or afterwards. \"This pan needs to be scoured.\" \"Thae stockings\nmaun be darned.\" \"This sark is as black as the lum, and maun be\nplotted.\" \"The floor needs scrubbing.\" \"Tammas's coat is crying, 'A\nsteek in time saves nine,' and by my faith it says true;\" and so on. Nor\ndid it signify much whether Thomas or any other person was in the house\nat the time--the words were not intended for anybody but herself; and to\nherself she persisted in telling them with a stedfastness which only the\nears of a whitesmith could tolerate; even with the consideration that he\nwas not, as so many are, deaved with scandal--a delectation which Janet\ndespised, if she did not care as little for what was going on\ndomestically within the house on the top of the same stair, as she did\nfor the in-door affairs of Japan or Tobolsk. We may mention, also, that\nshe persevered in reading the same chapter of the Bible, and in singing\nthe same psalm, every Sunday morning. In addition to these\ncharacteristics, Janet made it a point never to change the form or\ncolour of her dress; so that if all the women in Edinburgh had been of\nher taste and mode of thinking, all the colours by which they are\ndiversified and made interesting would have been reduced to the dead\nlevel of hodden-grey; the occupation of the imp Fashion would have been\ngone; nay, the angels, for fear of offending mortals, would have\neschewed the nymph Iris, from whom the poets say they steal tints, and\ndipt their wings in a grey cloud before appearing in the presence of the\ndouce daughters of men.\n\nWith all these imperfections--and how many husbands would term some of\nthem perfections!--the married life of Thomas and Janet Dodds might have\ngone on for another five years, and five to that, if it had not been\nthat Thomas, in a weary hour, cast a glance with a scarlet ray in it on\na certain Mary Blyth, who lived in the Grassmarket--a woman of whom our\nlegend says no more than that she was a widow, besides being fair to the\neye, and pleasant to the ear. We could wish that we had it not to say;\nbut as truth is more valuable than gold, yea, refined gold, we are under\nthe necessity of admitting that that red ray betokened love, if an\naffection of that kind could be called by a name so hallowed by the\nbenedictions of poets and the songs of angels. You must take it in your\nown way, and with your own construction; but however that may be, we\nmust all mourn for the fearful capabilities within us, and the not less\nawful potentialities in the powers without--the one hidden from us up to\nthe moment when the others appear, and all wrestling with the enemy\nprevented by what is often nothing less than a fatal charm. From that\nmoment, Thomas Dodds was changed after the manner of action of moral\npoisons; for we are to remember that while the physical kill, the other\nonly transmute, and the transmutation _may be_ from any good below grace\nto any evil above the devil.\n\nThis change in the mind of the husband included his manner of viewing\nthose peculiarities in the mental constitution of Janet to which we have\nalluded. Her desire to rule him was now rebellion; her devotion to\n\"hussyskep\" was nothing better than mercenary grubbing; her adhesion to\nher hodden-grey was vulgar affectation; and as to her monologues, they\nwere evidence of insanity. Such changes in reference to other objects\nhappen to every one of us every day in the year, only we don't look at\nand examine them; nor, if we did, could we reconcile them to any theory\nof the mind--all that we can say being, that if we love a certain\nobject, we hate any other which comes between us and our gratification;\nand thus, just as Mr. Thomas Dodds loved Mrs. Mary Blyth, so in an equal\nratio he hated his good helpmate Jenny. And then began that other\nwonderful process called reconciliation, whereby the wish gradually\novercomes scruples through the cunning mean of falsifying their aspects.\nWhereunto, again, the new mistress contributed in the adroit way of all\nsuch wretches--instilling into his ear the moral poison which deadened\nthe apperception of these scruples at the same time that it brought out\nthe advantages of disregarding them. The result of all which was, that\nJenny's husband, of whom she had made a slave, for his own good and\nbenefit, as she thought, and not without reason, arrived, by small\ndegrees, and by relays of new motives, one after another, at the\nconclusion of actually removing her from this big world, and of course\nalso from that little one to her so dear, even that of her household\nempire.\n\nA resolution this, which, terrible and revolting as it may appear to\nthose who are happily beyond the influence of \"the wish,\" was far more\neasily formed than executed; for Nature--although improvident herself of\nher children, swallowing them up in thousands by earthquakes, tearing\nthem by machinery, and drowning them in the sea by shiploads--is very\ncareful to defend one of them against another. Every scheme the husband\ncould think of was surrounded with difficulties, and one by one was laid\naside, till he came to that of precipitating his faithful Jenny, as if\nby accident, into a deep pool in the North Loch, that sheet of water\nwhich contained as many secrets in its bosom as that more romantic one\nin Italy, not far removed from a certain pious nunnery. Even here there\nwas the difficulty of getting Jenny out at night, and down Cranstoun's\nClose, and to west of the foot thereof, where the said deep pool was,\nfor no other ostensible purpose in the world than to see the moon\nshedding her beams on the surface of the water--an object not half so\nbeautiful to her as the clear tin pan made by her own Tammas, and in\nwhich she made her porridge every morning. But the adage about the will\nand the way is of such wondrous universality, that one successful effort\nseems as nothing in the diversity of man's inventions; and so it turned\nout to be comparatively easy to get Janet out one evening for the reason\nthat her husband did not feel very well, and would like his supper the\nbetter for a walk along the edge of the loch, in which, if it was her\npleasure, she would not refuse to accompany him. So pleasant a way of\nputting the thing harmonized with Janet's love of rule, and she agreed\nupon the condition she made with herself, by means of the eternal\nsoliloquy, that she would put on the stew to be progressing towards\nunctuousness and tenderness before they went. Was that to be Janet's\nlast act of her darling hussyskep? It would not be consistent with our\nart were we to tell you; but this much is certain, that Janet Dodds went\ndown Cranstoun's Close along with her beloved Tammas, that shortly after\nshe was plunged by him into the said deep hole of the loch, and cruelly\nleft there to sink or swim, while he hastened back to tell his new love,\nMrs. Blyth, how desperately he had done her bidding. But sometimes\nrunning away has a bad look; and it happened that as Thomas was hurrying\nup the dark close, he met a neighbour brother of the craft, who cried to\nhim, \"What, ho! Tammas Dodds; whaur frae and whaur tae, man?\" To which,\nseeing how the act of running away would look in the Justiciary Court,\nhe replied with wonderful invention for the moment, that Janet had\nfallen into the deep pool of the loch, and that though he had\nendeavoured to get her out, he had failed, by reason of his not being\nable to swim, and that he was running to get some one to help to save\nher, whereupon he entreated his brother craftsman to go with him to the\nspot, and help him to rescue his beloved wife, if she weren't yet dead.\nSo away they went, in a great hurry, but to no purpose; for when they\ncame to the said pool, no vestige of a creature being therein they could\nsee, except some air-bubbles reflecting the moonbeams, and containing,\nno doubt, the living breath of the drowned woman.\n\nNor when the terrible news was spread through the city, and a boat and\ndrags were made to do their uttermost, under the most willing hands,\ncould the body be found. It was known that the bank there was pretty\nsteep in declivity, and the presumption was, that the body had rolled\ndown into the middle of the loch, where, in consequence of the muddiness\nof the waters, it would be difficult to find it. The efforts were\ncontinued next morning, and day by day, for a week, with no better\nsuccess, till at last it was resolved to wait for \"the bursting of the\ngall-bladder,\" when, no doubt, Mrs. Janet Dodds's body would rise and\nswim on the top of the waters. An event this which did not occur till\nabout three weeks had passed; at the end of which time a crowd of people\nappeared at Mr. Dodds's door, bearing a corpse in a white sheet. It was\nreceived by the disconsolate Thomas with becoming resignation, and laid\non the bed, even the marriage-bed, realizing that strange meeting of two\nends which equalizes pain and pleasure, and reduces the product to\n_nil_. Nor were many hours allowed to pass when, decayed and defaced as\nit was, it was consigned to a coffin without Mr. Dodds being able to\nbring his resolution to the sticking point of trying to recognise in the\nconfused mass of muscle and bone, forming what was once a face, the\nlineaments of her who had been once his pride, and now, by his own act,\nhad become his shame and condemnation in the sight of Heaven. Next day\nshe was consigned to the tomb, in so solemn a manner, that if man were\nnot man, one would have had a difficulty in recognising in that gentle\nhand that held the head-cord, and dropped it so softly on the coffin,\nthe same member which drove the innocent victim into the deep waters.\n\nThere is a continuous progress in all things; a fact which we know only\nafter we get hold of the clue. And so, when Mrs. Mary Blyth appeared as\nMrs. Mary Dodds, in room of the domesticated Jenny, it was in perfect\naccordance with the law of cause and effect. No doubt they did their\nbest to be happy, as all creatures do, even the devil's children, only\nin a wrong shaft; but they had made that fearful miscalculation, which\nis the wages of sin, when they counted upon conscience as a pimp to\ntheir pleasures, in place of a king's-evidence against them, that king\nbeing the Lord of heaven and earth. And so it turned out in the course\nof several years, that, as their love lost its fervour, their respective\nmonitors acquired greater power in pleading the cause of her who was\ndead, and convincing them, against their will (for the all-powerful wish\nhas no virtue here), that they had done a cruel thing, for which they\nwere amenable to an avenging guardian of the everlasting element of good\nin nature's dualism. Yet, strange enough, each of the two kept his and\nher own secret. Their hearts burned, even as the fire which consumes the\nwicked, under the smother of a forced silence--itself a torment and an\nagony; yea, neither of the two would mention the name of Jenny Dodds for\nthe entire world. And there was more than a mutual fear that one should\nknow what the other thought. Each was under a process of exculpation and\ninculpation--a mutual blaming of each other in their hearts, without\never yet a word said to indicate their thoughts. It was the quarrel of\ndevils, who make the lesser crime a foil to show the greater, and call\nit a virtue for the reason that they would rather be the counterfeits of\ngood than the base metal of evil; yet with no advantage, for hypocrisy\nis only the glow which conceals the worm in its retreat within it. The\nplea of the wife was, that she was courted by the man, and that although\nshe might have wished Jenny out of the way, and hinted as much, she\nnever meant actual murder; while his, again, was the old Barnwell\ncharge, that his better nature had been corrupted by the woman, and that\nhe did it at her suggestion, and under the influence of her siren power.\nThey thus got gradually into that state of feeling by which the runaway\nconvicts from a penal settlement were actuated, when, toiling away\nthrough endless brakes and swamps where neither meat nor drink could be\nprocured, they were so maddened by hunger, that each, with a concealed\nknife under his sleeve, watched his neighbour for an opportunity to\nstrike; nor could one dare to fall behind, without the suspicion being\nraised in the minds of his companions, that he was to execute his\npurpose when they were off their guard. So like, in other respects too;\nfor these men, afraid to speak their thoughts of each other, journeyed\non in deep silence, and each was ready to immolate his friend at the\naltar of selfishness, changed into a bloodthirsty Dagon by the fiends\nHunger and Thirst.\n\nThe years were now to be counted as seven since Janet Dodds was plunged\ninto the deep pool of the North Loch, and the state of mind of the\nmarried criminals, which we have tried to describe, had been growing and\ngrowing, for two of these years, as if it threatened to get stronger the\nolder they grew, and the nearer the period of judgment. One morning when\nthey were in bed--for even yet, while they concealed their thoughts from\neach other, and the name of Jenny Dodds was a condemned word in their\nvocabulary, even as the sacred name among the Romans, they had evinced\nno spoken enmity to each other--they heard a tirl at the door. The hour\nwas early, and the douce genius of the grey dawn was deliberating with\nherself whether it was time to give place to her advancing sister, the\nmorning. Mrs. Mary Dodds rose to answer the knock, and Thomas listened\nwith natural curiosity to know who the early visitor was, and what was\nwanted. He heard a suppressed scream of fear from his wife, and the next\nmoment she came rushing into the room; yet the never a word she uttered,\nand her lips were so white and dry that you might have supposed that her\nsilence was the result of organic inability. Nor even when she got into\nbed again, and tried to hide her head with the bed-clothes, did her\nterror diminish, or her lips become more obedient to the feeling within;\nso that Thomas knew not what to think, except it was that she had seen a\nghost--not an unnatural supposition at a time when occult causes and\nspiritual appearances were as undoubted as the phenomena of the electric\ntelegraph are in our day. But he was not destined to be left many\nminutes more in ignorance of the cause of Mrs. Mary Dodds's terror, for,\nupon listening, he heard some one come into the kitchen, and bolt the\ndoor on the inside--so much for his ears; then he turned his eyes to the\nkitchen, into which he could, as well as the light of the grey dawn\nwould permit, see from where he lay; and what did he see?\n\n  \"How comes it? whence this mimic shape?\n  In look and lineament so like our kind.\n  You might accost the spectral thing, and say,\n  'Good e'en t'ye.'\"\n\nNo other than the figure of Mrs. Janet Dodds herself. Yes, there she was\nin her old grey dress, busy taking off that plaid which Thomas knew so\nwell, and hanging the same upon the peg, where she had hung it so often\nfor five long years. Thomas was now as completely deprived of the power\nof speech as she who lay, equally criminal as himself, alongside of him;\nbut able at least to look, or rather, unable to shut their eyes, they\nwatched the doings of the strange morning visitor. They saw that she was\nmoving about as if she were intent upon domestic work; and, by-and-by,\nthere she was busy with coals and sticks brought from their respective\nplaces, putting on the fire, which she lighted with the indispensable\nspunk applied to the spark in the tinder-box. Next she undertook the\nsweeping of the floor, saying to herself--and they heard the words--\"It\nlooks as if it hadna been swept for seven years.\" Next she washed the\ndishes, which had been left on the table, indulging in the appropriate\nmonologue implying the necessity of the work. Thereafter it appeared as\nif she was dissatisfied with the progress of the fire, for she was\npresently engaged in using the bellows, every blast of which was heard\nby the quaking couple in bed, and between the blasts the words came,\n\"Ower late for Tammas's breakfast.\" So the blowing continued, till it\nwas apparent enough, from the reflection of the flame on the wall, that\nshe was succeeding in her efforts. Then, having made herself sure of the\nfire, she went to the proper place for the porridge goblet, took the\nsame and put a sufficient quantity of water therein, placed it on the\nfire, and began to blow again with the same assiduity as before, with\nstill interjected sentences expressive of her confidence that she would\novercome the obstinacy of the coals. And overcome it she did, as\nappeared from the entire lighting up of the kitchen. Was ever Border\nBrownie so industrious! Some time now elapsed, as if she were sitting\nwith due patience till the water should boil. Thereafter she rose, and\nthey saw her cross the kitchen to the lobby, where the meal was kept,\nthen return with a bowl containing what she no doubt considered a\nsufficient quantity. The stirring utensil called a \"theedle\" had also\ngot into its proper place, and by-and-by they heard the sound of the\nsame as it beat upon the bottom and sides, guided by an experienced\nhand, and, every now and then, the sweltering and totling of the pot.\nThis process was now interrupted by the getting of the grey basin into\nwhich the porridge behoved to be poured; and poured it was, the process\nbeing followed by the sound of \"the clauting o' the laggan,\" so familiar\nto Scotch ears. \"Now it's ready for him,\" said the figure, as it moved\nacross the kitchen again, to get the spoon and the bowl of milk, both of\nwhich they saw her place beside the basin.\n\nAll things being thus completed according to the intention of the\nindustrious worker, a period of silence intervened, as if she had been\ntaking a rest in the chair which stood by the fire. A most ominous\ninterlude, for every moment the couple in bed expected that she would\nenter the bedroom, were it for nothing else than to \"intimate\nbreakfast;\" an intimation which, if one could have judged by their erect\nhair and the sweat that stood in big drops on their brows, they were by\nno means prepared for. They were not to be subjected to this fearful\ntrial, for the figure (so we must persist in calling it) was seen again\nto cross the kitchen, take down the plaid, and adjust it over the head\naccording to the manner of the times. They then heard her draw the bolt,\nopen the door, and shut the same again after her as she departed. She\nwas gone.\n\nMr. Thomas Dodds and his wife now began to be able to breathe more\nfreely. The hair resumed its flexibility, and the sweat disappeared;\nbut, strange as it may seem, they never exchanged a word with each other\nas to who the visitor was, nor as to the morning's work she had so\nindustriously and silently (with the exception of her monologues)\nexecuted. Too certain in their convictions as to the identity, whether\nin spirit or body, of the figure with that of her they had so cruelly\nput out of the way, they seemed to think it needless to question each\nother; and, independently of this, the old terror of the conscience was\nsufficient to seal their lips now, as it had done for a period before.\nEach of them supposed that the visitor was sent for the special purpose\nof some particular avengement of the crime upon the other; the\nappearance in so peaceful a way, in the meantime, being merely a\npremonition to show them that their consciences were not working in\nvain; and if Thomas was the greater sinner, which he no doubt suspected,\nin spite of himself, he might place against that conviction the fact\nthat the inscrutable visitor had shown him the kindness at least of\npreparing his breakfast, and entirely overlooking the morning\nrequirements of his spouse. Under these thoughts they rose and repaired\nwith faltering step and fearful eyes to the kitchen. There everything\nwas in the order they had anticipated from what they had seen and heard.\nEach looked with a shudder at the basin of porridge as if it had been\ninvested with some terrible charm--nay, might it not have been\npoisoned?--a thought which rushed instantaneously into the head of\nThomas, and entirely put to flight the prior hypothesis that he had been\nfavoured by this special gift of cookery. The basin was accordingly laid\naside by hands that trembled to touch it, and fear was a sufficient\nbreakfast for both of them on that most eventful morning.\n\nThis occurrence, as may readily be supposed, was kept a profound secret.\nThey both saw that it might be the forerunner of divine means to bring\ntheir evil deeds to light; and, under this apprehension, their\ntaciturnity and mutual discontent, if not growing hatred, continued,\nbroken only by occasional growls and curses, and the ejaculations forced\nout by the inevitable circumstances of their connection. The effect of\nthe morning visit was meanwhile most apparent upon the man who committed\nthe terrible act. He could not remain in the house, which, even in their\nhappiest condition, was slovenly kept, showing everywhere the want of\nthe skilled hands of that queen of housewives, Mrs. Janet Dodds--so\nill-requited for her devotion to her husband. Nay, he felt all this as a\nreproof to him, and sorely and bitterly lamented the fatal act whereby\nhe had deprived of life the best of wives, and the most honest and\npeaceful of womankind. Then the awe of divine vengeance deepened these\nshadows of the soul till he became moody and melancholy, walking hither\nand thither without an object, and in secluded places, looking fearfully\naround him as if he expected every moment the spectre visitor of the\nmorning to appear before him. Nor was he less miserable at home, where\nthe growing hatred made matters worse and worse every hour, and where,\nwhen the grey dawn came, he expected another visit and another scene of\nthe same description as the last.\n\nNearly a week had thus passed, and it was Sabbath morning. The\ntinsmiths' hammers were silent, the noisy games of the urchins were\nhushed, the street of the Bow resounded only occasionally to the sound\nof a foot--all Edinburgh was, in short, under the solemnity enjoined by\nthe Calvinism so much beloved by the people; and surely the day might\nhave been supposed to be held in such veneration by ministering spirits,\nsent down to earth to execute the purposes of Heaven, that no visit of\nthe feared shadow would disturb even the broken rest of the wicked. So\nperhaps thought our couple; but their thoughts belied them, for just\nagain, as the dawn broke over the tops of the high houses, the\nwell-known tirl was heard at the door. Who was to open it? For days the\nmind of the wife had been made up. She would not face that figure again;\nno, if all the powers of the world were there to compel her; and as for\nThomas, conscience had reduced the firmness of a man who once upon a\ntime could kill to a condition of fear and trembling. Yet terrified as\nhe was, he considered that he was here under the obligation to obey\npowers even higher than his conscience, and disobedience might bring\nupon him some evil greater than that under which he groaned. So up he\ngot, trembling in every limb, and proceeding to the door, opened the\nsame. What he saw may be surmised, but what he felt no one ever knew,\nfor the one reason that he had never the courage to tell it, and for the\nother that no man or woman was ever placed in circumstances from which\nthey could draw any conclusion which could impart even a distant\nanalogy. This much, however, was known: Thomas retreated instantly to\nbed, and the visitor, in the same suit of hodden-grey, again entered,\npassed the bolt, took off her plaid, hung it up, and began the duties\nwhich she thought were suited to the day and the hour. So much being\nthus alike, the couple in the bedroom no doubt augured a repetition of\nthe old process. They were right, and they were wrong. Their eyes were\nfixed upon her, and watched her movements; but the watch was that of the\ncharmed eye, which is said to be without motive. They saw her once more\ngo deliberately and tentily through the old process of putting on the\nfire, and they heard again the application of the bellows, every blast\nsucceeding another with the regularity of a clock, until the kitchen was\nilluminated by the rising flame. This was all that could be called a\nrepetition; for in place of going for the porridge goblet, she went\ndirect for the tea-kettle, into which she poured a sufficient quantity\nof water, saying the while to herself, \"Tammas maun hae his tea\nbreakfast on Sabbath morning\"--words which Thomas, as he now lay quaking\nin bed, knew very well he had heard before many a time and oft. Nor were\nthe subsequent acts less in accordance with the old custom of the\ndwelling. There was no sweeping of the floor or scouring of pans on the\nsacred morning; in place of all which she had something else to do, for\nsurely we must suppose that this gentle visitor was a good Calvinist,\nand would perform only the acts of necessity and mercy. These she had\ndone in so far as regarded necessity, and now they saw her go to the\nshelf on which the Bible was deposited--a book which, alas! for seven\nyears had not been opened by either of the guilty pair. Having got what\nshe wanted, she sat down by the table, opened the volume at a place well\nthumbed, and began to read aloud a chapter in the Corinthians, which\nThomas Dodds, the more by reason that he had heard it read two hundred\nand fifty times, knew by heart. This being finished, she turned up a\npsalm, yea, that very psalm which Janet Dodds had sung every Sunday\nmorning, and, presently, the kitchen was resonant with the rising notes\nof the Bangor, as they came from a throat trembling with devotion--\n\n  \"I waited on the Lord my God,\n    And patiently did bear;\n  At length to me He did incline\n    My voice and cry to hear.\n\n  \"He took me from a fearful pit,\n    And from the miry clay,\n  And on a rock He set my feet,\n    Establishing my way.\"\n\nThe service finished, they saw her replace the book where she had found\nit; and by this time the kettle was spewing from the mouth thereof a\nvolume of steam, as if it were calling to its old mistress to relieve it\nfrom the heat of the fire; nor was she long in paying due obedience. The\ntea-pot was got where she seemed to know it would be found, so also the\ntea-canister. The quantity to be put in was a foregone conclusion, and\nsteadily measured with the spoon. The water was poured in, and the\nutensil placed on the cheek of the chimney in order to the indispensable\ninfusion. Next the cup and saucer were placed on the table, then\nfollowed the bread and butter, and the sugar and the milk; all being\nfinished by the words to herself, \"There's nae egg in the house.\" Having\nthus finished her work, she took down her plaid, adjusted it carefully,\nopened the door, and departed.\n\nThe effect produced by this second spectral appearance could scarcely be\nexaggerated, yet we suspect you will not find it of that kind which is\nmost in harmony with human nature, except in the case of Mrs. Dodds the\nsecond, who lay, as on the former occasion, sweating and trembling. It\nwas now different with the husband, on whom apparently had fallen some\nof the seeds of the word, as they were scattered by the lips of the\nstrange visitor, and conscience had prepared the soil. The\nconstitutional strength of character which had enabled him to perpetrate\na terrible deed of evil, was ready as a power to achieve his\nemancipation, and work in the direction of good. So, without saying a\nword of all that had been acted that morning, he rose and dressed\nhimself, and, going into the kitchen, he sat down without the fear of\npoison, and partook of the breakfast which had been so strangely\nprepared for him, nor was he satisfied till he read the chapter and\npsalm with which he had been so long familiar. He then returned to the\nbedroom, and addressing his wife--\n\n\"You now see,\" said he, \"that Heaven has found us out. That visitor is\nnae ither than Mrs. Janet Dodds returned frae the grave, and sure it is\nthat nane are permitted to leave that place o' rest except for a\npurpose. No, it's no for naething that Janet Dodds comes back to her\nauld hame. What the purpose may be, the Lord only knows; but this seems\nto me to be clear enough--that you and I maun pairt. You see that nae\nbreakfast has been laid for you. I have taen mine, and nae harm has come\no't; a clear sign that though we are baith great criminals, you are\nconsidered to be the warst o' the twa. It was you wha put poison into my\near and cast glamour ower my een; it was you wha egged me on, for 'the\nlips of a strange woman drop as a honeycomb, and her words are smoother\nthan oil; but her feet take hold of hell.' That I am guilty, I know; and\n'though hand join in hand, the wicked shall not go unpunished.' I will\ndree my doom whatever it may be, and so maun you yours; but there may be\na difference, and so far as mortal can yet see, yours will be waur to\nbear than mine. But, however a' that may be, the time is come when you\nmaun leave this house. 'Cast out the strange woman, and contention shall\ngo out; yea, strife and reproach shall cease;' but 'go not forth hastily\nto strive, lest thou know not what to do in the end, when thy neighbour\nhath put thee to shame.' Keep your secret frae a' save the Lord; and may\nHe hae mercy on your soul!\"\n\nWith which words, savouring as they did of the objurgations of the black\npot to the kettle, Mr. Thomas Dodds left his house, no doubt in the\nexpectation that Mrs. Dodds _secunda_ would move her camp, and betake\nherself once more to her old place of residence in the Grassmarket.\nWhere he went that day no man ever knew, further than that he was seen\nin the afternoon in St. Giles's Church, where, no doubt, he did his best\nto make a cheap purchase of immunity to his soul and body, in\nconsideration of a repentance brought on by pure fear, produced by a\nspectre; and who knows but that that was a final cause of the spectre's\nappearance? We have seen that it was a kindly spirit, preparing porridge\nand tea for him at the same time that it made his hair stand on end, and\nbig drops of sweat settle upon his brow or roll down therefrom--a\nconjunction this of the tawse and the jelly-pot, whereby kind and loving\nparents try to redeem naughty boys. Nor let it be said that this kindly\ndealing with a murderer is contrary to the ways of Heaven; for, amidst a\nthousand other examples, did not Joshua, after the wall of Jericho lay\nflat at the blast of a trumpet, save that vile woman Rahab at the same\ntime that he slew the young and the old, nay, the very infants, with the\nedge of the sword? All which, though we are not, by token of our sins,\nable to see the reason thereof, is doubtless consonant to a higher\njustice--altogether unlike our goddess, who is represented as blind,\nmerely because she is supposed not to see a bribe when offered to her by\na litigant. So the penitence of Mr. Thomas Dodds might be a very dear\naffair after all, in so much as terror is a condition of the soul which,\nof all we are doomed to experience, is the most difficult to bear,\nespecially if it is a terror of divine wrath. On his return to his house\nin the evening, he found that Mrs. Mary had taken him at his word and\ndecamped, but not without providing herself with as good a share of the\n\"goods in communion\" as she could, perhaps, at two or three returns,\ncarry off. So was she like Zebulun in all save her righteousness, for\nshe \"rejoiced in her going out;\" nay, she had some reason, for she had\ndiscovered that in a secret drawer of an old cabinet there was a pose of\ngold collected by the industrious hands of Mrs. Janet, and unknown to\nher husband, every piece of which she carried off in spite of all fear\nof the spectre, which, if a sensible one, might have been supposed to be\nmore irritated at this heedless spoliation than at all the Jezebel had\nyet done, with the exception of the counselling her death in the deep\nhole of the North Loch. On seeing all this robbery, Mr. Dodds became\nmore and more aware of the bad exchange he had made by killing his good\nspouse to enable him to take another, who had merely found more favour\nin his eyes by reason of her good looks; and we may augur how much\ndeeper his feeling of regret would have been, had he known the secret\npose, so frugally and prudently laid up, perhaps for his sake, at least\nfor the sake of both, when disease or old age might overtake them, in a\nworld where good and evil, pleasure and pain, appear to be fixed\nquantities, only shoved from one to another by wisdom and prudence, yet\nsometimes refusing to be moved even by these means.\n\nAfter satisfying himself of the full extent of the robbery, which, after\nall, he had brought upon himself, and very richly deserved, he sat down\nupon a chair and began to moralize, after the manner of those late\npenitents who have found themselves out to be either rogues or\nfools--the number of whom comprehends, perhaps, all mankind. He had\ncertainly good reason to be contrite. The angel in the house had become\na spectre, and she who was no angel, either in the house or out of it,\nhad carried off almost everything of any value he possessed. Nor did he\nstop at mere unspoken contrition, he bewailed in solemn tones his\ndestiny, and then began to cast up all the perfections of good Janet,\nthe more perfect and beautiful these seeming in proportion as he felt\nthe fear of her reappearance, perhaps next time, in place of making his\nbreakfast, to run away with him to the dire place of four letters. All\nher peculiarities were now virtues--nay, the very things which had\nappeared to him the most indefensible took on the aspect of angelic\nendowments. While her careful housewifery was all intended for his\nbodily health and comfort, her perseverance in adhering to the one\nchapter and the one psalm was due to that love of iteration which\ninspires those who are never weary of well-doing. And what was more\nextraordinary, one verse of the psalm--that which we have quoted--had\nspecial reference to the manner of her death, and her deliverance from\ncondemnation in the world to come. No doubt the man who meditates upon\nhis own crime or folly at the very moment when he is suffering from its\nsharp recalcitrations, is just about as miserable a wretch as the\nreformatory of the world can present; but when, to the effects upon\nhimself, he is compelled to think of the cruelty he has exercised\ntowards others--and those perhaps found out to be his best friends--we\ndoubt if there are any words beyond the vocabulary of the condemned that\nare sufficient to express his anguish. Even this did not comprehend all\nthe suffering of Mr. Dodds, for, was he not under doom without knowing\nwhat form it was to assume, whether the spectre (whose cookery might be\na sham) would choke him, burn him, or run away with him?\n\nDeeply steeped in this remorseful contemplation, during which the figure\nof his ill-used wife flitted before the eye of his fancy with scarcely\nless of substantial reality than she had shown in her spectral form, he\nfound that he had lost all regard to time. The night was fast setting\nin, the shadows of the tall houses were falling deeper and deeper on the\nroom, and the Sabbath stillness was a solemn contrast to the\nperturbations inside the chamber of his soul, where \"the serpents and\nthe cockatrices would not be charmed.\" Still, everything within and\nwithout was dreary, and the spoliation of his means did not tend to\nenliven the outer scene, or impart a charm to the owner. While in this\nstate of depression, Tammas heard a knock at the door. It was not, as on\nthe former occasions, what is called a tirl. It might be a neighbour, or\nit might be an old crony, and he stood in need of some one to raise his\nspirits, so he went to the door and opened it. But what was his horror\nwhen he saw enter a female figure, in all respects so like his feared\nvisitor that he concluded in the instant that she was the same! nor\ncould all his penitence afford him resolution enough to make a proper\nexamination; besides, it was grey dark, and even a pair of better eyes\nthan he could boast of, might, under the circumstances soon to appear,\nhave been deceived. Retreating into the kitchen, he was followed by this\ndubious, and yet not dubious visitor, who, as he threw himself upon a\nchair, took a seat right opposite to him.\n\n\"Ye'll no ken me, Tammas Dodds?\" said she.\n\nWhereupon Tammas looked and looked again, and still the likeness he\ndreaded was so impressive, that, in place of moving his tongue, he\nmoved, that is, he shuddered, all over.\n\n\"What--eh?\" at length he stuttered; \"ken ye? wha in God's name are ye?\nNo surely Mrs. Janet Dodds in the likeness of the flesh!\"\n\n\"No, but her sister, Mrs. Paterson,\" replied the other. \"And is it\npossible ye can hae forgotten the only woman who was present at your\nfirst marriage?\"\n\n\"Ay, ay,\" replied Tammas, as he began to come to a proper condition of\nperceiving and thinking; \"and it was you, then, wha was here this\nmorning?\"\n\n\"No, no,\" replied she; \"I have not been here for seven long years, even\nsince that terrible night when you pushed Janet into the North Loch.\"\n\n\"And may Heaven and its angels hae mercy upon me!\" ejaculated he.\n\n\"Aiblins they may,\" said she, \"for your purpose was defeated; yea, even\nby that Heaven and thae angels.\"\n\n\"What mean you, woman?\" cried the astonished man. \"What, in the name o'\na' that's gude on earth and holy in heaven, do ye mean?\"\n\n\"Just that Janet Dodds is at this hour a leevin' woman,\" was the reply.\n\n\"The Lord be thanked!\" cried Tammas again, \"for 'He preserveth all them\nthat love Him.'\"\n\n\"'But all the wicked He will destroy,'\" returned she; \"and surely it was\nwicked to try to drown sae faithful a wife and sae gude a Christian.\"\n\n\"Wicked!\" rejoined he, in rising agony. \"'Let the righteous smite me, it\nshall be a kindness; and let them reprove me, it shall,' as Solomon\nsays, 'be an excellent oil.'\"\n\n\"I am glad,\" continued the woman, \"to find you with a turned heart; but\nwhaur is the Jezebel ye took in her place?\"\n\n\"Awa this day,\" replied he. \"I have found her out, and never mair is she\nwife o' mine.\"\n\n\"Sae far weel and better,\" said she.\n\n\"Ay, but speak to me o' Janet,\" cried he, earnestly. \"Come, tell me how\nshe escaped, whaur she is, and how she is; for now I think there is\nlight breaking through the fearfu' cloud.\"\n\n\"Light indeed,\" continued Mrs. Paterson; \"and now, listen to a strange\ntale, mair wonderfu' than man's brain ever conceived. When ye thought ye\nhad drowned her, and cared naething doubtless--for ye see I maun speak\nplain--whether her spirit went to the ae place or the ither, ay, and ran\nawa to add to murder a lee, she struggled out o' the deep, yea--\n\n  'He took her from the fearfu' pit,\n    And from the miry clay.'\n\nAnd when she got to the bank she ran as for the little life was in her,\nuntil she came to the foot of Halkerstone's Wynd, where she crossed to\nthe other side of the loch. When she thought hersel' safe, she took the\nroad to Glasgow, where I was then living wi' my husband, wha is since\ndead. The night was dark, but self-preservation maks nae gobs at\ndangers; so on she went, till in the grey morning she made up to the\nGlasgow carrier, wha agreed to gie her a cast even to the end o' his\njourney. It was the next night when she arrived at my door, cold and\nhungry, and, what was waur, sair and sick at heart. She told me the hail\nstory as weel as she could for sobs and greeting; for the thought aye\nrugged at her heart that the man she had liked sae weel, and had toiled\nfor night and day, should hae turned out to be the murderer o' his ain\nwife.\"\n\n\"And weel it might hae rugged and rugged,\" ejaculated Tammas.\n\n\"I got aff her wet clothes,\" continued she, \"and gave her some strong\ndrink to warm her, and then we considered what was to be dune. My\nhusband was for off to Edinburgh to inform on ye, even if there should\nhae been a drawing o' the neck on't; but Janet cried, and entreated\nbaith him and me to keep the thing quiet. She said she couldna gae back\nto you; and as for getting you punished, she couldna bear the thought\no't. And then we a' thought what a disgrace it would be to our family if\nit were thought that my sister had been attempted to be murdered by her\nhusband. We knew weel enough ye would say she had fallen in by accident;\nand when afterwards we heard that ye had buried a body that had been\nfound in the loch, we made up our minds as to what we would do. We just\nagreed to keep Janet under her maiden name. Nane in Glasgow had ever\nseen her before, and her ain sorrows kept her within doors, so that the\nsecret wasna ill to keep. Years afterwards, my husband was ta'en from\nme, and Janet and I came, about twa months syne, to live at Juniper\nGreen, wi' John Paterson, my husband's brother, wha had offered us a\nhame.\"\n\n\"And is Janet there now?\" cried Tammas, impatiently.\n\n\"Ay,\" continued Mrs. Paterson; \"but, alas! she's no what she was. She\ngets at times out o' her reason, and will be that way for days\nthegether. The doctor has a name for it ower lang for my tongue, but it\ntells naething but what we ken ower weel. When in thae fits she thinks\nshe is here in the Bow, and living with you, and working and moiling in\nthe house just as she used to do langsyne. Mairower, and that troubles\nus maist ava, she will be out when the reason's no in, so that we are\nobliged to watch her. Five days syne she was aff in the morning before\ndaylight, and even so late as this morning she played us the same trick;\nwhaur she gaed we couldna tell, but I had some suspicion she was here.\"\n\n\"Ay,\" replied Mr. Dodds, as he opened his eyes very wide; \"she was here\nwi' a vengeance.\"\n\nThus Mrs. Paterson's story was finished; and our legend of the Brownie,\nmore veritable, we opine, than that of Bodsbeck, is also drawing to a\nconclusion. Tammas, after a period of meditation, more like one of\nJanet's hallucinations than a fit of rational thinking, asked his\nsister-in-law whether she thought that Janet, in the event of her\ngetting quit of her day-dreams, would consent to live with him again. To\nwhich question she answered that she was not certain; for that Janet,\nwhen in her usual state of mind, was still wroth against him for the\nattempt to take away her life; but she added that she had no objection,\nseeing he was penitent, to give him an opportunity to plead for himself.\nShe even went further, and agreed to use her influence to bring about a\nreconciliation. It was therefore agreed between them that the sister\nshould call again when Janet had got quit of her temporary derangement,\nand Thomas might follow up this intimation with a visit. About four days\nthereafter, accordingly, Mrs. Paterson kept her word, and next day Mr.\nDodds repaired to Juniper Green. At first Janet refused to see him; but\nupon Mrs. Paterson's representations of his penitence and suffering, she\nbecame reconciled to an interview. We may venture to say, without\nattempting a description of a meeting unparalleled in history, that if\nJanet Dodds had not been a veritable Calvinist, no good could have come\nof all Mr. Dodds's professions; but she knew that the Master cast out\nthe dumb spirit which tore the possessed, and that that spirit attempted\nmurder not less than Tammas. Wherefore might not _his_ dumb spirit be\ncast out as well by that grace which aboundeth in the bosom of the\nSaviour? We do not say that a return of her old love helped this\ndeduction, because we do not wish to mix up profane with sacred things.\nEnough if we can certify that a very happy conclusion was the result.\nThe doctor did his duty, and Janet having been declared _compos mentis_,\nreturned to her old home. Her first duty was to look for \"the pose.\" It\nwas gone in the manner we have set forth; but Janet could collect\nanother, and no doubt in due time did; nor did she fail of any of her\nold peculiarities, all of which became endeared to Thomas by reason of\ntheir being veritable sacrifices to his domestic comfort.\n\n\n\n\nGLEANINGS OF THE COVENANT.\n\nTHE LAST SCRAP.\n\n\nIt is a fact well known to Dr. Lee, and to many besides, that\nnotwithstanding the extensive researches of Wodrow and others, there\nhave died away in the silent lapse of time, or are still hovering over\nour cleuchs and glens, in the aspect of a dim and misty tradition, many\ninstances of extreme cruelty and wanton oppression, exercised (during\nthe reign of Charles II.) over the poor Covenanters, or rather\nNonconformists, of the south and west counties of Scotland. In\nparticular, although the whole district suffered, it was in the vale of\nthe Nith, and in the hilly portion of the parish of Closeburn, that the\nfury of Grierson, Dalzell, and Johnstone--not to mention an occasional\nsimoom, felt on the withering approach of Clavers _with his lambs_--was\nfelt to the full amount of merciless persecution and relentless cruelty.\nThe following anecdote I had from a sister of my grandmother, who lived\ntill a great age, and who was lineally descended from one of the\nparties. I have never seen any notice whatever taken of the\ncircumstances; but am as much convinced of its truth, in all its leading\nfeatures, as I am of that of any other similar statements which are made\nin Wodrow, \"Naphtali,\" or the \"Cloud of Witnesses.\"\n\nThe family of Harkness has been upwards of four hundred years tenants on\nthe farm of Queensberry, occupying the farm-house and steading situated\nupon the banks of the Caple, and known by the name of Mitchelslacks. The\ndistrict is wild and mountainous, and, at the period to which I refer,\nin particular, almost inaccessible through any regularly constructed\nroad. The hearts, however, of these mountain residents were deeply\nattuned to religious and civil liberty, and revolted with loathing from\nthe cold doctrines and compulsory ministrations of the curate of\nCloseburn. They were, therefore, marked birds for the myrmidons of\noppression, led on by Claverhouse, and \"Red Rob,\" the scarlet-cloaked\nleader of his band.\n\nIt was about five o'clock of the afternoon, in the month of August, that\na troop of horse was seen crossing the Glassrig--a flat and heathy\nmuir--and bearing down with great speed upon Mitchelslacks. Mrs.\nHarkness had been very recently delivered of a child, and still occupied\nher bed, in what was denominated the chamber, or cha'mer--an apartment\nseparated from the rest of the house, and set apart for more particular\noccasions. Her husband, the object of pursuit, having had previous\nintimation, by the singing or whistling of a bird (as was generally\nreported on such occasions), had betaken himself, some hours before, to\nthe mountain and the cave--his wonted retreat on similar visits. From\nthis position, on the brow of a precipice, inaccessible by any save a\npractised foot, he could see his own dwelling, and mark the movements\nwhich were going on outside. The troop, having immediately surrounded\nthe houses, and set a guard upon every door and window, as well as an\noutpost, or spy, upon an adjoining eminence, immediately proceeded with\nthe search--a search conducted with the most brutal incivility, and even\nindelicacy; subjecting every child and servant to apprehensions of the\nmost horrid and revolting character. It would be every way improper to\nmention even a tithe of the oaths and blasphemy which were not only\npermitted, but sanctioned and encouraged, by their impious and\nregardless leader. Suffice it to say, that after every other corner and\ncrevice was searched in vain, the cha'mer was invaded, and the privacy\nof a female, in very interesting and delicate circumstances, rudely and\nsuddenly entered.\n\n\"The old fox is here,\" said Clavers, passing his sword up to the hilt\nbetwixt the mother and her infant, sleeping unconsciously on her arm,\nand thrusting it home with such violence that the point perforated the\nbed, and even penetrated the floor beneath.\n\n\"Toss out the whelp,\" vociferated Red Rob--always forward on such\noccasions; \"and the b--ch will follow.\" And, suiting the action to the\nword, he rolled the sleeping, and happily well-wrapped, infant on the\nfloor.\n\n\"The Lord preserve my puir bairn!\" was the instantaneous and instinctive\nexclamation of the agonized and now demented mother, springing at the\nsame time from her couch, and catching up her child with a look of the\nmost despairing alarm. A cloud of darkened feeling seemed to pass over\nthe face and features of the infant,[*] and a cry of helpless suffering\nsucceeded, at once to comfort and to madden the mother. \"A murderous and\nmonstrous herd are ye all,\" said she, again resuming her position, and\npressing the affrighted, rather than injured child to her breast. \"Limbs\nof Satan and enemies of God, begone! He whom ye seek is not here; nor\nwill the God _he_ serves and _you_ defy, ever suffer him, I fervently\nhope and trust, to fall into your merciless and unhallowed hands.\"\n\n  [note *: \"In the light of heaven its face\n  Grew dark as they were speaking.\"]\n\nAt this instant a boy about twelve years of age was dragged into the\nroom, and questioned respecting the place of his father's retreat,\nsometimes in a coaxing, and at others in a threatening manner. The boy\npresented, to every inquiry, the aspect of dogged resistance and\ndetermined silence.\n\n\"Have the bear's cub to the croft,\" said Clavers, \"and shoot him on the\nspot.\"\n\nThe boy was immediately removed; and the distracted mother left, happily\nfor herself, in a state of complete insensibility. There grew, and there\nstill grows, a rowan-tree in the corner of the garden or kailyard of\nMitchelslacks; to this tree or bush the poor boy was fastened with\ncords, having his eyes bandaged, and being made to understand, that, if\nhe did not reveal his father's retreat, a ball would immediately pass\nthrough his brain. The boy shivered, attempted to speak, then seemed to\nrecover strength and resolution, and continued silent.\n\n\"Do you wish to smell gunpowder?\" ejaculated Rob, firing a pistol\nimmediately under his nose, whilst the ball perforated the earth a few\npaces off.\n\nThe boy uttered a loud and unearthly scream, and his head sunk upon his\nbreast. At this instant, the aroused and horrified mother was seen on\nher bended knees, with clasped hands, and eyes in which distraction\nrioted, at the feet of the destroyers. But nature, which had given her\nstrength for the effort, now deserted her, and she fell lifeless at the\nfeet of her apparently murdered son. Even the heart of Clavers was\nsomewhat moved at this scene; and he was in the act of giving orders for\nan immediate retreat, when there rushed into the circle, in all the\nfrantic wildness of a maniac, at once the father and the husband. He had\nobserved from his retreat the doings of that fearful hour: and, having\nevery reason to conclude that he was purchasing his own safety at the\nexpense of the lives of his whole family, he had issued from the cave,\nand hurled himself from the steep, and was now in the presence of those\nwhom he deemed the murderers of his family.\n\n\"Fiends--bloody, brutal, heartless fiends--are ye all! And is this your\nwork, ye sons of the wicked and the accursed one? What! could not _one_\ncontent ye? Was not the boy enough to sacrifice on your accursed temple\nto Moloch, but ye must imbrue your hands in the blood of a weak, an\ninfirm, a helpless woman! Oh, may the God of the Covenant,\" added he,\nbending reverently down upon his knees, and looking towards heaven, \"may\nthe God of Jacob forgive me for cursing ye! And, thou man of blood\"\n(addressing Clavers personally), \"think ye not that the blood of Brown,\nand of my darling child, and my beloved wife--think ye not, wot ye not,\nthat their blood, and the blood of the thousand saints which ye have\nshed, will yet be required, ay, fearfully required, even to the last\ndrop, by an avenging God, at your hands?\"\n\nHaving uttered these words with great and awful energy, he was on the\npoint of drawing his sword, concealed under the flap of his coat, and of\nselling his life as dearly as possible, when Mrs. Harkness, who had now\nrecovered her senses, rushed into his arms, exclaiming--\n\n\"Oh Thomas, Thomas, what is this ye hae done? Oh, beware, beware!--I am\nyet alive and unskaithed. God has shut the mouths of the lions; they\nhave not been permitted to hurt _me_. And our puir boy, too, moves his\nhead, and gives token of life. But you, you, my dear, dear, infatuated\nhusband--oh, into what hands have ye fallen, and to what a death are ye\nnow reserved!\"\n\n\"Unloose the band,\" vociferated Clavers; \"make fast your prisoner's\nhands, and, in the devil's name, let us have done with this drivelling!\"\n\nThere was a small public-house at this time at Closeburn mill, and into\nthis Clavers and his party went for refreshment; whilst an adjoining\nbarn, upon which a guard was set, served to secure the prisoner. No\nsooner was Mr. Harkness left alone, and in the dark--for it was now\nnightfall--than he began to think of some means or other of effecting\nhis escape. The barn was happily known to him; and he recollected that,\nthough the greater proportion of the gable was built of stone and lime,\nyet that a small part towards the top, as was sometimes the case in\nthese days, was constructed of turf, and that, should he effect an\nopening through the soft material, he might drop with safety upon the\ntop of a peat-stack, and thus effect his escape to Creechope Linn, with\nevery pass and cave of which he was intimately acquainted. In a word,\nhis escape was effected in this manner; and though the alarm was\nimmediately given, and large stones rolled over the precipices of the\nadjoining linn, he was safely ensconced in darkness, and under the\ncovert of a projecting rock; and ultimately (for, in the course of a few\ndays, King William and liberty were the order of the day) he returned to\nhis wife and his family, there to enjoy for many years that happiness\nwhich the possession of a conscience void of offence towards God and\ntowards man is sure to impart. The brother, however, of this more\nfavoured individual was not so fortunate, as may be gathered from\nWodrow, and the \"Cloud of Witnesses;\" for he was executed ere the day of\ndeliverance, at the Gallowlee, and his most pathetic and eloquent\naddress is still extant.\n\nLet us rejoice with trembling that we live in an age and under a\ngovernment so widely different from those now referred to; and whilst on\nour knees we pour forth the tribute of thankfulness to God, let us teach\nour children to prize the precious inheritance so dearly purchased by\nour forefathers.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\n\nTHE STORY OF MARY BROWN.\n\n\nIf the reader of what I am going to relate for his or her edification,\nor for perhaps a greater luxury, viz. wonder, should be so unreasonable\nas to ask for my authority, I shall be tempted, because a little piqued,\nto say that no one should be too particular about the source of\npleasure, inasmuch as, if you will enjoy nothing but what you can prove\nto be a reality, you will, under good philosophical leadership, have no\ngreat faith in the sun--a thing which you never saw, the existence of\nwhich you are only assured of by a round figure of light on the back of\nyour eye, and which may be likened to tradition; so all you have to do\nis to believe like a good Catholic, and be contented, even though I\nbegin so poorly as to try to interest you in two very humble beings who\nhave been dead for many years, and whose lives were like a steeple\nwithout a bell in it, the intention of which you cannot understand till\nyour eye reaches the weathercock upon the top, and then you wonder at so\ngreat an erection for so small an object. The one bore the name of\nWilliam Halket, a young man, who, eight or nine years before he became\nof much interest either to himself or any other body, was what in our\nday is called an Arab of the City--a poor street boy, who didn't know\nwho his father was, though, as for his mother, he knew her by a pretty\nsharp experience, insomuch as she took from him every penny he made by\nholding horses, and gave him more cuffs than cakes in return. But Bill\ngot out of this bondage by the mere chance of having been taken a fancy\nto by Mr. Peter Ramsay, innkeeper and stabler, in St. Mary's Wynd (an\nancestor, we suspect, of the Ramsays of Barnton), who thought he saw in\nthe City Arab that love of horse-flesh which belongs to the Bedouin, and\nwho accordingly elevated him to the position of a stable-boy, with board\nand as many shillings a week as there are days in that subdivision of\ntime.\n\nNor did William Halket--to whom for his merits we accord the full\nChristian name--do any discredit to the perspicacity of his master, if\nit was not that he rather exceeded the hopes of his benefactor, for he\nwas attentive to the horses, civil to the farmers, and handy at anything\nthat came in his way. Then, to render the connection reciprocal, William\nwas gratefully alive to the conviction that if he had not been, as it\nwere, taken from the street, the street might have been taken from him,\nby his being locked up some day in the Heart of Midlothian. So things\nwent on in St. Mary's Wynd for five or six years, and might have gone on\nfor twice that period, had it not been that at a certain hour of a\ncertain day William fell in love with a certain Mary Brown, who had come\non that very day to be an under-housemaid in the inn; and strange\nenough, it was a case of \"love at first sight,\" the more by token that\nit took effect the moment that Mary entered the stable with a glass of\nwhisky in her hand sent to him by Mrs. Ramsay. No doubt it is seldom\nthat a fine blooming young girl, with very pretty brown hair and very\nblue eyes, appears to a young man with such a recommendation in her\nhand; but we are free to say that the whisky had nothing to do with an\neffect which is well known to be the pure result of the physical\nattributes of the individual. Nay, our statement might have been proved\nby the counterpart effect produced upon Mary herself, for she was struck\nby William at the same moment when she handed him the glass; and we are\nnot to assume that the giving of a pleasant boon is always attended with\nthe same effect as the receiving of it.\n\nBut, as our story requires, it is the love itself between these two\nyoung persons, whose fates were so remarkable, we have to do with--not\nthe causes, which are a mystery in all cases. Sure it is, humble in\nposition as they were, they could love as strongly, as fervently,\nperhaps as ecstatically, as great people--nay, probably more so, for\neducation has a greater chance of moderating the passion than increasing\nit; and so, notwithstanding of what Plutarch says of the awfully\nconsuming love between Phrygius and Picrea, and also what Shakespeare\nhas sung or said about a certain Romeo and a lady called Juliet, we are\ncertain that the affection between these grand personages was not _more_\ngenuine, tender, and true, than that which bound the simple and\nunsophisticated hearts of Will Halket and Mary Brown. But at best we\nmerely play on the surface of a deep subject when we try with a pen to\ndescribe feelings, and especially the feelings of love. We doubt, if\neven the said pen were plucked from Cupid's wing, whether it would help\nus much. We are at best only left to a choice of expressions, and\nperhaps the strongest we could use are those which have already been\nused a thousand times--the two were all the world to each other, the\nworld outside nothing at all to them; so that they could have been as\nhappy on the top of Mount Ararat, or on the island of Juan Fernandez,\nprovided they should be always in each other's company, as they were in\nSt. Mary's Wynd. And as for whispered protestations and chaste kisses--\nfor really their love had a touch of romance about it you could hardly\nhave expected, but which yet kept it pure, if not in some degree\nelevated above the loves of common people--these were repeated so often\nabout the quiet parts of Arthur's Seat and the King's Park, and the\nfields about the Dumbiedykes and Duddingstone Loch, that they were the\nvery moral aliments on which they lived. In short, to Mary Brown the\ngreat Duke of Buccleuch was as nothing compared to Willie Halket, and to\nWillie Halket the beautiful Duchess of Grammont would have been as\nnothing compared to simple Mary Brown. All which is very amiable and\nvery necessary; for if it had been so ordained that people should feel\nthe exquisite sensations of love in proportion as they were beautiful,\nor rich, or endowed with talent (according to a standard), our world\nwould have been even more queer than that kingdom described by Gulliver,\nwhere the ugliest individual is made king or queen.\n\nThings continued in this very comfortable state at the old inn in St.\nMary's Wynd for about a year, and it had come to enter into the\ncontemplation of Will that upon getting an increase of his wages he\nwould marry Mary, and send her to live with her mother, a poor,\nhard-working washerwoman, in Big Lochend Close; whereunto Mary was so\nmuch inclined, that she looked forward to the day as the one that\npromised to be the happiest that she had yet seen, or would ever see.\nBut, as an ancient saying runs, the good hour is in no man's choice; and\nabout this time it so happened that Mr. Peter Ramsay, having had a\ncommission from an old city man, a Mr. Dreghorn, located as a planter in\nVirginia, to send him out a number of Scottish horses, suggested to\nWilliam that he would do well to act as supercargo and groom. Mr.\nDreghorn had offered to pay a good sum to the man who should bring them\nout safe, besides paying his passage over and home. And Mr. Ramsay would\nbe ready to receive Will into his old place again on his return. As for\nMary, with regard to whom the master knew his man's intentions, she\nwould remain where she was, safe from all temptation, and true to the\nchoice of her heart. This offer pleased William, because he saw that he\ncould make some money out of the adventure, whereby he would be the\nbetter able to marry, and make a home for the object of his affections;\nbut he was by no means sure that Mary would consent; for women, by some\nnatural divining of the heart, look upon delays in affairs of love as\nominous and dangerous. And so it turned out that one Sabbath evening,\nwhen they were seated beneath a tree in the King's Park, and William had\ncautiously introduced the subject to her, she was like other women.\n\n\"The bird that gets into the bush,\" she said, as the tears fell upon her\ncheeks, \"sometimes forgets to come back to the cage again. I would\nrather hae the lean lintie in the hand, than the fat finch on the wand.\"\n\n\"But you forget, Mary, love,\" was the answer of Will, \"that you can feed\nthe lean bird, but you can't feed me. It is I who must support you. It\nis to enable me to do that which induces me to go. I will come with\nguineas in my pocket where there are now only pennies and placks; and\nyou know, Mary, the Scotch saying, 'A heavy purse makes a light heart.'\"\n\n\"And an unsteady one,\" rejoined Mary. \"And you may bring something else\nwi' you besides the guineas; maybe a wife.\"\n\n\"One of Mr. Dreghorn's black beauties,\" said Will, laughing. \"No, no,\nMary, I am too fond of the flaxen ringlets, the rosy cheeks, and the\nblue eyes; and you know, Mary, you have all these, so you have me in\nyour power. But to calm your fears, and stop your tears, I'll tell you\nwhat I'll do.\"\n\n\"Stay at hame, Will, and we'll live and dee thegither.\"\n\n\"No,\" replied Will; \"but, like the genteel lover I have read of, I will\nswear on your Bible that I will return to you within the year, and marry\nyou at the Tron Kirk, and throw my guineas into the lap of your\nmarriage-gown, and live with you until I die.\"\n\nFor all which and some more we may draw upon our fancy; but certain it\nis, as the strange story goes, that Will did actually then and\nthere--for Mary had been at the Tron Kirk, and had her Bible in her\npocket (an article, the want of which is not well supplied by the\nscent-bottle of our modern Maries)--swear to do all he had said,\nwhereupon Mary was so far satisfied that she gave up murmuring--perhaps\nno more than that. Certain also it is, that before the month was done,\nWill, with his living, kicking charges, and after more of these said\ntears from Mary than either of them had arithmetic enough to enable them\nto count, embarked at Leith for Richmond, at which place the\nsugar-planter had undertaken to meet him.\n\nWe need say nothing of the voyage across the Atlantic, somewhat arduous\nat that period, nor need we pick up Will again till we find him in\nRichmond, with his horses all safe, and as fat and sleek as if they had\nbeen fed by Neptune's wife, and had drawn her across in place of her own\nsteeds. There he found directions waiting from Mr. Dreghorn, to the\neffect that he was to proceed with the horses to Peach Grove, his\nplantation, a place far into the heart of the country. But Will was\ncontent; for had he not time and to spare within the year, and he would\nsee some more of the new world, which, so far as his experience yet\nwent, seemed to him to be a good place for a freeman to live in? So off\nhe went, putting up at inns by the way, as well supplied with food and\nfodder as Mr. Peter Ramsay's, in St. Mary's Wynd, and showing off his\nnags to the planters, who wondered at their bone and muscle, the more by\nreason they had never seen Scotch horses before. As he progressed, the\ncountry seemed to Will more and more beautiful, and by the time he\nreached Peach Grove he had come to the unpatriotic conclusion that all\nit needed was Mary Brown, with her roses, and ringlets, and eyes,\npassing like an angel--lovers will be poets--among these ebon beauties,\nto make it the finest country in the world.\n\nNor when the Scotsman reached Peach Grove did the rosy side of matters\nrecede into the shady; for he was received in a great house by Mr.\nDreghorn with so much kindness, that, if the horses rejoiced in maize\nand oats, Will found himself, as the saying goes, in five-bladed clover.\nBut more awaited him, even thus much more, that the planter, and his\nfine lady of a wife as well, urged him to remain on the plantation,\nwhere he would be well paid and well fed; and when Will pleaded his\nengagement to return to Scotland within the year, the answer was ready,\nthat he might spend eight months in Virginia at least, which would\nenable him to take home more money,--an answer that seemed so very\nreasonable, if not prudent, that \"Sawny\" saw the advantage thereof and\nagreed. But we need hardly say that this was conceded upon the condition\nmade with himself, that he would write to Mary all the particulars, and\nalso upon the condition, acceded to by Mr. Dreghorn, that he would take\nthe charge of getting the letter sent to Scotland.\n\nAll which having been arranged, Mr. Halket--for we cannot now continue\nto take the liberty of calling him Will--was forthwith elevated to the\nposition of driving negroes in place of horses, an occupation which he\ndid not much relish, insomuch that he was expected to use the lash, an\ninstrument of which he had been very chary in his treatment of\nfour-legged chattels, and which he could not bring himself to apply with\nanything but a sham force in reference to the two-legged species. But\nthis objection he thought to get over by using the sharp crack of his\nJehu-voice as a substitute for that of the whip; and in this he\npersevered, in spite of the jeers of the other drivers, who told him the\nthing had been tried often, but that the self-conceit of the negro met\nthe stimulant and choked it at the very entrance to the ear; and this he\nsoon found to be true. So he began to do as others did; and he was the\nsooner reconciled to the strange life into which he had been\nprecipitated by the happy condition of the slaves themselves, who, when\ntheir work was over, and at all holiday hours, dressed themselves in the\nbrightest colours of red and blue and white, danced, sang, ate\ncorn-cakes and bacon, and drank coffee with a zest which would have done\na Scotch mechanic, with his liberty to produce a lock-out, much good to\nsee. True, indeed, the white element of the population was at a discount\nat Peach Grove. But in addition to the above source of reconciliation,\nHalket became day by day more captivated by the beauty of the country,\nwith its undulating surface, its wooded clumps, its magnolias,\ntulip-trees, camellias, laurels, passion-flowers, and palms, its\nbright-coloured birds, and all the rest of the beauties for which it is\nfamous all over the world. But nature might charm as it might--Mary\nBrown was three thousand miles away.\n\nMeanwhile the time passed pleasantly, for he was accumulating money;\nMary's letter would be on the way, and the hope of seeing her within the\nappointed time was dominant over all the fascinations which charmed the\nsenses. But when the month came in which he ought to have received a\nletter, no letter came--not much this to be thought of, though Mr.\nDreghorn tried to impress him with the idea that there must be some\nchange of sentiment in the person from whom he expected the much-desired\nanswer. So Halket wrote again, giving the letter, as before, to his\nmaster, who assured him it was sent carefully away; and while it was\ncrossing the Atlantic he was busy in improving his penmanship and\narithmetic, under the hope held out to him by his master that he would,\nif he remained, be raised to a book-keeper's desk; for the planter had\nseen early that he had got hold of a long-headed, honest, sagacious\n\"Sawny,\" who would be of use to him. On with still lighter wing the\nintermediate time sped again, but with no better result in the shape of\nan answer from her who was still the object of his day fancies and his\nmidnight dreams. Nor did all this kill his hope. A third letter was\ndespatched, but the returning period was equally a blank. We have been\ncounting by months, which, as they sped, soon brought round the\ntermination of his year, and with growing changes too in himself; for as\nthe notion began to worm itself into his mind that his beloved Mary was\neither dead or faithless, another power was quietly assailing him from\nwithin,--no other than ambition in the most captivating of all\nshapes--Mammon. We all know the manner in which the golden deity\nacquires his authority; nor do we need to have recourse to the conceit\nof the old writer who tells us that the reason why gold has such an\ninfluence upon man, lies in the fact that it is of the colour of the\nsun, which is the fountain of light, and life, and joy. Certain it is,\nat least, that Halket having been taken into the counting-house on a\nraised salary, began \"to lay by,\" as the Scotch call it; and by-and-by,\nwith the help of a little money lent to him by his master, he began by\npurchasing produce from the neighbouring plantations, and selling it\nwhere he might,--all which he did with advantage, yet with the ordinary\nresult to a Scotsman, that while he turned to so good account the king's\nhead, the king's head began to turn his own.\n\nAnd now in place of months we must begin to count by lustrums; and the\nfirst five years, even with all the thoughts of his dead, or, at least,\nlost Mary, proved in Halket's case the truth of the book written by a\nFrenchman, to prove that man is a plant; for he had already thrown out\nfrom his head or heart so many roots in the Virginian soil that he was\nbidding fair to be as firmly fixed in his new sphere as a magnolia, and\nif that bore golden blossoms, so did he; yet, true to his first love,\nthere was not among all these flowers one so fair as the fair-haired\nMary. Nay, with all hope not yet extinguished, he had even at the end of\nthe period resolved upon a visit to Scotland, when, strangely enough,\nand sadly too, he was told by Mr. Dreghorn, that having had occasion to\nhear from Mr. Peter Ramsay on the subject of some more horse-dealings,\nthat person had reported to him that Mary Brown, the lover of his old\nstable-boy, was dead. A communication this which, if it had been made at\nan earlier period, would have prostrated Halket altogether, but it was\nsoftened by his long foreign anticipations, and he was thereby the more\neasily inclined to resign his saddened soul to the further dominion of\nthe said god, Mammon; for, as to the notion of putting any of those\nbeautiful half-castes he sometimes saw about the planter's house at\nPeach Grove, in the place of her of the golden ringlets, it was nothing\nbetter than the desecration of a holy temple. Then the power of the god\nincreased with the offerings, one of which was his large salary as\nmanager, a station to which he was elevated shortly after he had\nreceived the doleful tidings of Mary's death. Another lustrum is added,\nand we arrive at ten years; and yet another, and we come to fifteen; at\nthe end of which time Mr. Dreghorn died, leaving Halket as one of his\ntrustees, for behoof of his wife, in whom the great plantation vested.\nIf we add yet another lustrum, we find the Scot--fortunate, save for one\nmisfortune that made him a joyless worshipper of gold--purchasing from\nthe widow, who wished to return to England, the entire plantation under\nthe condition of an annuity.\n\nAnd Halket was now rich, even beyond what he had ever wished; but the\nchariot-wheels of Time would not go any slower--nay, they moved faster,\nand every year more silently, as if the old Father had intended to cheat\nthe votary of Mammon into a belief that he would live for ever. The\nlustrums still passed: another five, another, and another, till there\nwas scope for all the world being changed, and a new generation taking\nthe place of that with which William Halket and Mary Brown began. And he\nwas changed too, for he began to take on those signs of age which make\nthe old man a painted character; but in one thing he was not changed,\nand that was the worshipful stedfastness, the sacred fidelity, with\nwhich he still treasured in his mind the form and face, the words and\nthe smiles, the nice and refined peculiarities that feed love as with\nnectared sweets, which once belonged to Mary Brown, the first creature\nthat had moved his affections, and the last to hold them, as the object\nof a cherished memory for ever. Nor with time, so deceptive, need we be\nso sparing in dealing out those periods of five years, but say at once\nthat at last William Halket could count twelve of them since first he\nset his foot on Virginian soil; yea, he had been there for sixty\nsummers, and he had now been a denizen of the world for seventy-eight\nyears. In all which our narrative has been strange, but we have still\nthe stranger fact to set forth, that at this late period he was seized\nwith that moral disease (becoming physical in time) which the French\ncall _mal du pays_, the love of the country where one was born, and\nfirst enjoyed the fresh springs that gush from the young heart. Nor was\nit the mere love of country, as such, for he was seized with a\nparticular wish to be where Mary lay in the churchyard of the Canongate,\nto erect a tombstone over her, to seek out her relations and enrich\nthem, to make a worship out of a disappointed love, to dedicate the last\nof his thoughts to the small souvenirs of her humble life. Within a\nmonth this old man was on his way to Scotland, having sold the\nplantation, and taken bills with him to an amount of little less than a\nhundred thousand pounds.\n\nIn the course of five weeks William Halket put his foot on the old pier\nof Leith, on which some very old men were standing, who had been urchins\nwhen he went away. The look of the old harbour revived the image which\nhad been imprinted on his mind when he sailed, and the running of the\none image into the other produced the ordinary illusion of all that long\ninterval appearing as a day; but there was no illusion in the change,\nthat Mary Brown was there when he departed, and there was no Mary Brown\nthere now. Having called a coach, he told the driver to proceed up Leith\nWalk, and take him to Peter Ramsay's inn, in St. Mary's Wynd; but the\nman told him there was no inn there, nor had been in his memory. The man\nadded that he would take him to the White Horse in the Canongate, and\nthither accordingly he drove him. On arriving at the inn, he required\nthe assistance of the waiter to enable him to get out of the coach; nor\nprobably did the latter think this any marvel, after looking into a face\nso furrowed with years, so pale with the weakness of a languid\ncirculation, so saddened with care. The rich man had only an inn for a\nhome, nor in all his native country was there one friend whom he hoped\nto find alive. Neither would a search help him, as he found on the\nsucceeding day, when, by the help of his staff, he essayed an infirm\nwalk in the great thoroughfare of the old city. The houses were not much\naltered, but the signboards had got new names and figures; and as for\nthe faces, they were to him even as those in Crete to the Cretan, after\nhe awoke from a sleep of forty-seven years--a similitude only true in\nthis change, for Epimenidas was still as young when he awoke as when he\nwent to sleep, but William Halket was old among the young and the grown,\nwho were unknown to him, as he was indeed strange to them. True, too, as\nthe coachman said, Peter Ramsay's inn, where he had heard Mary singing\nat her work, and the stable where he had whistled blithely among his\nfavourite horses, were no longer to be seen--_etiam cineres\nperierunt_--their very sites were occupied by modern dwellings. What of\nthat small half-sunk lodging in Big Lochend Close, where Mary's mother\nlived, and where Mary had been brought up, where perhaps Mary had died?\nWould it not be a kind of pilgrimage to hobble down the Canongate to\nthat little lodging, and might there not be for him a sad pleasure even\nto enter and sit down by the same fireplace where he had seen the\ndearly-beloved face, and listened to her voice, to him more musical than\nthe melody of angels?\n\nAnd so, after he had walked about till he was wearied, and his steps\nbecame more unsteady and slow, and as yet without having seen a face\nwhich he knew, he proceeded in the direction of the Big Close. There\nwas, as regards stone and lime, little change here; he soon recognised\nthe half-sunk window where, on the Sunday evenings, he had sometimes\ntapped as a humorous sign that he was about to enter, which had often\nbeen responded to by Mary's finger on the glass, as a token that he\nwould be welcome. It was sixty years since then. A small corb would now\nhold all that remained of both mother and daughter. He turned away his\nhead as if sick, and was about to retrace his steps. Yet the wish to\nenter that house rose again like a yearning; and what more in the world\nthan some souvenir of the only being on earth he ever loved was there\nfor him to yearn for? All his hundred thousand pounds were now, dear as\nmoney had been to him, nothing in comparison of the gratification of\nseeing the room where she was born--yea, where probably she had died. In\nas short a time as his trembling limbs would carry him down the stair,\nwhich in the ardour of his young blood he had often taken at a bound, he\nwas at the foot of it. There was there the old familiar dark passage,\nwith doors on either side, but it was the farthest door that was of any\ninterest to him. Arrived at it, he stood in doubt. He would knock, and\nhe would not; the mystery of an undefined fear was over him; and yet,\nwhat had he to fear? For half a century the inmates had been changed, no\ndoubt, over and over again, and he would be as unknowing as unknown. At\nlength the trembling finger achieves the furtive tap, and the door was\nopened by a woman, whose figure could only be seen by him in coming\nbetween him and the obscure light that came in by the half-sunk window\nin front; nor could she, even if she had had the power of vision, see\nmore of him, for the lobby was still darker.\n\n\"Who may live here?\" said he, in the expectation of hearing some name\nunknown to him.\n\nThe answer, in a broken, cracked voice, was not slow--\n\n\"Mary Brown; and what may you want of her?\"\n\n\"Mary Brown!\" but not a word more could he say, and he stood as still as\na post; not a movement of any kind did he show for so long a time that\nthe woman might have been justified in her fear of a very spirit.\n\n\"And can ye say nae mair, sir?\" rejoined she. \"Is my name a bogle to\nterrify human beings?\"\n\nBut still he was silent, for the reason that he could not think, far\nless speak, nor even for some minutes could he achieve more than the\nrepetition of the words, \"Mary Brown.\"\n\n\"But hadna ye better come in, good sir?\" said she. \"Ye may ken our auld\nsaying, 'They that speak in the dark may miss their mark;' for words\ncarry nae light in their een ony mair than me, for, to say the truth, I\nam old and blind.\"\n\nAnd, moving more as an automaton than as one under a will, Halket was\nseated on a chair, with this said old and blind woman by his side, who\nsat silent and with blank eyes waiting for the stranger to explain what\nhe wanted. Nor was the opportunity lost by Halket, who, unable to\nunderstand how she should have called herself Mary Brown, began, in the\nobscure light of the room, to scrutinize her form and features; and in\ndoing this, he went upon the presumption that this second Mary Brown\nonly carried the name of the first; but as he looked he began to detect\nfeatures which riveted his eyes; where the reagent was so sharp and\npenetrating, the analysis was rapid--it was also hopeful--it was also\nfearful. Yes, it was true that that woman was _his_ Mary Brown. The\nlight-brown ringlets were reduced to a white stratum of thin hair; the\nblue eyes were grey, without light and without speculation; the roses on\nthe cheeks were replaced by a pallor, the forerunner of the colour of\ndeath; the lithe and sprightly form was a thin spectral body, where the\nsinews appeared as strong cords, and the skin seemed only to cover a\nskeleton. Yet, withal, he saw in her that identical Mary Brown. That\nwreck was dear to him; it was a relic of the idol he had worshipped\nthrough life; it was the only remnant in the world which had any\ninterest for him; and he could on the instant have clasped her to his\nbreast, and covered her pale face with his tears. But how was he to act?\nA sudden announcement might startle and distress her.\n\n\"There was once a Mary Brown,\" said he, \"who was once a housemaid in Mr.\nPeter Ramsay's inn in St. Mary's Wynd.\"\n\n\"And who can it be that can recollect that?\" was the answer, as she\nturned the sightless orbs on the speaker. \"Ye maun be full o' years.\nYes, that was my happy time, even the only happy time I ever had in this\nworld.\"\n\n\"And there was one William Halket there at that time also,\" he\ncontinued.\n\nWords which, as they fell upon the ear, seemed to be a stimulant so\npowerful as to produce a jerk in the organ; the dulness of the eyes\nseemed penetrated with something like light, and a tremor passed over\nher entire frame.\n\n\"That name is no to be mentioned, sir,\" she said nervously, \"except\naince and nae mair; he was my ruin; for he pledged his troth to me, and\npromised to come back and marry me, but he never came.\"\n\n\"Nor wrote you?\" said Halket.\n\n\"No, never,\" replied she; \"I would hae gien the world for a scrape o'\nthe pen o' Will Halket; but it's a' past now, and I fancy he is dead and\ngone to whaur there is neither plighted troth, nor marriage, nor giving\nin marriage; and my time, too, will be short.\"\n\nA light broke in upon the mind of Halket, carrying the suspicion that\nMr. Dreghorn had, for the sake of keeping him at Peach Grove, never\nforwarded the letters, whereto many circumstances tended.\n\n\"And what did you do when you found Will had proved false?\" inquired\nHalket. \"Why should that have been your ruin?\"\n\n\"Because my puir heart was bound up in him,\" said she, \"and I never\ncould look upon another man. Then what could a puir woman do? My mother\ndied, and I came here to work as she wrought--ay, fifty years ago, and\nmy reward has been the puir boon o' the parish bread; ay, and waur than\na' the rest, blindness.\"\n\n\"Mary!\" said Halket, as he took her emaciated hand into his, scarcely\nless emaciated, and divested of the genial warmth.\n\nThe words carried the old sound, and she started and shook.\n\n\"Mary,\" he continued, \"Will Halket still lives. He was betrayed, as you\nhave been betrayed. He wrote three letters to you, all of which were\nkept back by his master, for fear of losing one who he saw would be\nuseful to him; and, to complete the conspiracy, he reported you dead\nupon the authority of Peter Ramsay. Whereupon Will betook himself to the\nmaking of money; but he never forgot his Mary, whose name has been heard\nas often as the song of the birds in the groves of Virginia.\"\n\n\"Ah, you are Will himself!\" cried she. \"I ken now the sound o' your\nvoice in the word 'Mary,' even as you used to whisper it in my ear in\nthe fields at St. Leonard's. Let me put my hand upon your head, and move\nmy fingers ower your face. Yes, yes. Oh, mercy, merciful God, how can my\npoor worn heart bear a' this!\"\n\n\"Mary, my dear Mary!\" ejaculated the moved man, \"come to my bosom and\nlet me press you to my heart; for this is the only blissful moment I\nhave enjoyed for sixty years.\"\n\nNor was Mary deaf to his entreaties, for she resigned herself as in a\nswoon to an embrace, which an excess of emotion, working on the\nshrivelled heart and the wasted form, probably prevented her from\nfeeling.\n\n\"But, oh, Willie!\" she cried, \"a life's love lost; a lost life on both\nour sides.\"\n\n\"Not altogether,\" rejoined he, in the midst of their mutual sobs. \"It\nmay be--nay, it is--that our sands are nearly run. Yea, a rude shake\nwould empty the glass, so weak and wasted are both of us; but still\nthere are a few grains to pass, and they shall be made golden. You are\nthe only living creature in all this world I have any care for. More\nthousands of pounds than you ever dreamt of are mine, and will be yours.\nWe will be married even yet, not as the young marry, but as those marry\nwho may look to their knowing each other as husband and wife in heaven,\nwhere there are no cruel, interested men to keep them asunder; and for\nthe short time we are here you shall ride in your carriage as a lady,\nand be attended by servants; nor shall a rude breath of wind blow upon\nyou which it is in the power of man to save you from.\"\n\n\"Ower late, Willie, ower late,\" sighed the exhausted woman, as she still\nlay in his arms. \"But if all this should please my Will--I canna use\nanother name, though you are now a gentleman--I will do even as you\nlist, and that which has been by a cruel fate denied us here we may\nshare in heaven.\"\n\n\"And who shall witness this strange marriage?\" said he. \"There is no one\nin Edinburgh now that I know or knows me. Has any one ever been kind to\nyou?\"\n\n\"Few, few indeed,\" answered she. \"I can count only three.\"\n\n\"I must know these wonderful exceptions,\" said he, as he made an attempt\nat a grim smile; \"for those who have done a service to Mary Brown have\ndone a double service to me. I will make every shilling they have given\nyou a hundred pounds. Tell me their names.\"\n\n\"There is John Gilmour, my landlord,\" continued she, \"who, though he\nneeded a' his rents for a big family, passed me many a term, and forbye\nbrought me often, when I was ill and couldna work, many a bottle o'\nwine; there is Mrs. Paterson o' the Watergate, too, who aince, when I\ngaed to her in sair need, gave me a shilling out o' three that she\nneeded for her bairns; and Mrs. Galloway, o' Little Lochend, slipt in to\nme a peck o' meal ae morning when I had naething for breakfast.\"\n\n\"And these shall be at our marriage, Mary,\" said he. \"They shall be\ndressed to make their eyes doubtful if they are themselves. John Gilmour\nwill wonder how these pounds of his rent he passed you from have grown\nto hundreds; Mrs. Paterson's shilling will have grown as the widow's\nmite never grew, even in heaven; and Mrs. Galloway's peck of meal will\nbe made like the widow's cruse of oil--it will never be finished while\nshe is on earth.\"\n\nWhereupon Mary raised her head. The blank eyes were turned upon him, and\nsomething like a smile played over the thin and wasted face. At the same\nmoment a fair-haired girl of twelve years came jumping into the room,\nand only stopped when she saw a stranger.\n\n\"That is Helen Kemp,\" said Mary, who knew her movements. \"I forgot\nHelen; she lights my fire, and when I was able to gae out used to lead\nme to the Park.\"\n\n\"And she shall be one of the favoured ones of the earth,\" said he, as he\ntook by the hand the girl, whom the few words from Mary had made sacred\nto him, adding, \"Helen, dear, you are to be kinder to Mary than you have\never been;\" and, slipping into the girl's hand a guinea, he whispered,\n\"You shall have as many of these as will be a bigger tocher to you than\nyou ever dreamed of, for what you have done for Mary Brown.\"\n\nAnd thus progressed to a termination a scene, perhaps more extraordinary\nthan ever entered into the head of a writer of natural things and events\nnot beyond the sphere of the probable. Nor did what afterwards took\nplace fall short of the intentions of a man whose intense yearnings to\nmake up for what had been lost led him into the extravagance of a vain\nfancy. He next day took a great house, and forthwith furnished it in\nproportion to his wealth. He hired servants in accordance, and made all\nthe necessary arrangements for the marriage. Time, which had been so\ncruel to him and his sacred Mary, was put under the obligation of\nretribution. John Gilmour, Mrs. Paterson, Mrs. Galloway, and Helen Kemp\nwere those, and those alone, privileged to witness the ceremony. We\nwould not like to describe how they were decked out, nor shall we try to\ndescribe the ceremony itself. But vain are the aspirations of man when\nhe tries to cope with the Fates! The changed fortune was too much for\nthe frail and wasted bride to bear. She swooned at the conclusion of the\nceremony, and was put into a silk-curtained bed. Even the first glimpse\nof grandeur was too much for the spirit whose sigh was \"vanity, all is\nvanity,\" and, with the words on her lips, \"A life's love lost,\" she\ndied.\n\n\n\n\nTIBBY FOWLER.\n\n\n  \"Tibby Fowler o' the glen,\n  A' the lads are wooin' at her.\"--_Old Song_.\n\nAll our readers have heard and sung of \"Tibby Fowler o' the glen;\" but\nthey may not all be aware that the glen referred to lies within about\nfour miles of Berwick. No one has seen and not admired the romantic\namphitheatre below Edrington Castle, through which the Whitadder coils\nlike a beautiful serpent glittering in the sun, and sports in fantastic\ncurves beneath the pasture-clad hills, the grey ruin, the mossy and\nprecipitous crag, and the pyramid of woods, whose branches, meeting from\neither side, bend down and kiss the glittering river, till its waters\nseem lost in their leafy bosom. Now, gentle reader, if you have looked\nupon the scene we have described, we shall make plain to you the\nsituation of Tibby Fowler's cottage, by a homely map, which is generally\n_at hand_. You have only to bend your arm, and suppose your shoulder to\nrepresent Edrington Castle, your hand Clarabad, and near the elbow you\nwill have the spot where \"ten cam' rowing owre the water;\" a little\nnearer to Clarabad is the \"lang dyke side,\" and immediately at the foot\nof it is the site of Tibby's cottage, which stood upon the Edrington\nside of the river; and a little to the west of the cottage, you will\nfind a shadowy row of palm-trees, planted, as tradition testifieth, by\nthe hands of Tibby's father, old Ned Fowler, of whom many speak until\nthis day. The locality of the song was known to many; and if any should\nbe inclined to inquire how we became acquainted with the other\nparticulars of our story, we have only to reply, that that belongs to a\nclass of questions to which we do not return an answer. There is no\nnecessity for a writer of tales taking for his motto--_vitam impendere\nvero_. Tibby's parents had the character of being \"bien bodies;\" and,\ntogether with their own savings, and a legacy that had been left them by\na relative, they were enabled at their death to leave their daughter in\npossession of five hundred pounds. This was esteemed a fortune in those\ndays, and would afford a very respectable foundation for the rearing of\none yet. Tibby, however, was left an orphan, as well as the sole\nmistress of five hundred pounds, and the proprietor of a neat and\nwell-furnished cottage, with a piece of land adjoining, before she had\ncompleted her nineteenth year; and when we add that she had hair like\nthe raven's wings when the sun glances upon them, cheeks where the lily\nand the rose seemed to have lent their most delicate hues, and eyes like\ntwin dew-drops glistening beneath a summer moonbeam, with a waist and an\narm rounded like a model for a sculptor, it is not to be wondered at\nthat \"a' the lads cam' wooin' at her.\" But she had a woman's heart as\nwell as woman's beauty and the portion of an heiress. She found her\ncottage surrounded, and her path beset, by a herd of grovelling\npounds-shillings-and-pence hunters, whom her very soul loathed. The\nsneaking wretches, who profaned the name of lovers, seemed to have\n_money_ written on their very eyeballs, and the sighs they professed to\nheave in her presence sounded to her like stifled groans of--_your\ngold_--_your gold_! She did not hate them, but she despised their\nmeanness; and as they one by one gave up persecuting her with their\naddresses, they consoled themselves with retorting upon her the words of\nthe adage, that \"her _pride_ would have a fall!\" But it was not from\npride that she rejected them, but because her heart was capable of love\n--of love, pure, devoted, unchangeable, springing from being beloved,\nand because her feelings were sensitive as the quivering aspen, which\ntrembles at the rustling of an insect's wing. Amongst her suitors there\nmight have been some who were disinterested; but the meanness and sordid\nobjects of many caused her to regard all with suspicion, and there was\nnone among the number to whose voice her bosom responded as the needle\nturns to the magnet, and frequently from a cause as inexplicable. She\nhad resolved that the man to whom she gave her hand should wed her for\nherself--and for herself only. Her parents had died in the same month;\nand about a year after their death she sold the cottage and the piece of\nground, and took her journey towards Edinburgh, where the report of her\nbeing a \"great fortune,\" as her neighbours term her, might be unknown.\nBut Tibby, although a sensitive girl, was also, in many respects, a\nprudent one. Frequently she had heard her mother, when she had to take\nbut a shilling from the legacy, quote the proverb, that it was\n\n  \"Like a cow in a clout,\n  That soon wears out.\"\n\nProverbs we know are in bad taste, but we quote it, because by its\nrepetition the mother produced a deeper impression on her daughter's\nmind than could have been effected by a volume of sentiment. Bearing\ntherefore in her memory the maxim of her frugal parent, Tibby deposited\nher money in the only bank, we believe, that was at that period in the\nScottish capital, and hired herself as a child's maid in the family of a\ngentleman who occupied a house in the neighbourhood of Restalrig. Here\nthe story of her fortune was unknown, and Tibby was distinguished only\nfor a kind heart and a lovely countenance. It was during the summer\nmonths, and Leith Links became her daily resort; and there she was wont\nto walk with a child in her arms and another leading by the hand, for\nthere she could wander by the side of the sounding sea; and her heart\nstill glowed for her father's cottage and its fairy glen, where she had\noften heard the voice of its deep waters, and she felt the sensation\nwhich we believe may have been experienced by many who have been born\nwithin hearing of old Ocean's roar, that wherever they may be, they hear\nthe murmur of its billows as the voice of a youthful friend, and she\nalmost fancied, as she approached the sea, that she drew nearer the home\nwhich sheltered her infancy. She had been but a few weeks in the family\nwe have alluded to, when, returning from her accustomed walk, her eyes\nmet those of a young man habited as a seaman. He appeared to be about\nfive-and-twenty, and his features were rather manly than handsome. There\nwas a dash of boldness and confidence in his countenance; but as the\neyes of the maiden met his, he turned aside as if abashed and passed on.\nTibby blushed at her foolishness, but she could not help it, she felt\ninterested in the stranger. There was an expression, a language, an\ninquiry in his gaze, she had never witnessed before. She would have\nturned round to cast a look after him, but she blushed deeper at the\nthought, and modesty forbade it. She walked on for a few minutes,\nupbraiding herself for entertaining the silly wish, when the child who\nwalked by her side fell a few yards behind. She turned round to call him\nby his name--Tibby was certain that she had no motive but to call the\nchild, and though she did steal a sidelong glance towards the spot where\nshe had passed the stranger, it was a mere accident, it could not be\navoided--at least so the maiden wished to persuade her conscience\nagainst her conviction; but that glance revealed to her the young\nsailor, not pursuing the path on which she had met him, but following\nher within the distance of a few yards, and until she reached her\nmaster's door, she heard the sound of his footsteps behind her. She\nexperienced an emotion between being pleased and offended at his\nconduct, though we suspect the former eventually predominated, for the\nnext day she was upon the Links as usual, and there also was the young\nseaman, and again he followed her to within sight of her master's house.\nHow long this sort of dumb love-making, or the pleasures of diffidence\ncontinued, we cannot tell. Certain it is that at length he spoke, wooed,\nand conquered; and about a twelvemonth after their first meeting, Tibby\nFowler became the wife of William Gordon, the mate of a foreign trader.\nOn the second week after their marriage William was to sail upon a long,\nlong voyage, and might not be expected to return for more than twelve\nmonths. This was a severe trial for poor Tibby, and she felt as if she\nwould not be able to stand up against it. As yet her husband knew\nnothing of her dowry, and for this hour she had reserved its discovery.\nA few days before their marriage she had lifted her money from the bank\nand deposited it in her chest.\n\n\"No, Willie, my ain Willie,\" she cried, \"ye maunna, ye winna leave me\nalready: I have neither faither, mother, brother, nor kindred; naebody\nbut you, Willie; only you in the wide world; and I am a stranger here,\nand ye winna leave your Tibby. Say that ye winna, Willie.\" And she wrung\nhis hand, gazed in his face, and wept.\n\n\"I maun gang, dearest; I maun gang,\" said Willie, and pressed her to his\nbreast; \"but the thocht o' my ain wifie will mak the months chase ane\nanither like the moon driving shadows owre the sea. There's nae danger\nin the voyage, hinny, no a grain o' danger; sae dinna greet; but come,\nkiss me, Tibby, and when I come hame I'll mak ye leddy o' them a'.\"\n\n\"Oh no, no, Willie!\" she replied; \"I want to be nae leddy; I want\nnaething but my Willie. Only say that ye'll no gang, and here's\nsomething here, something for ye to look at.\" And she hurried to her\nchest, and took from it a large leathern pocket-book that had been her\nfather's, and which contained her treasure, now amounting to somewhat\nmore than six hundred pounds. In a moment she returned to her husband;\nshe threw her arms around his neck; she thrust the pocket-book into his\nbosom. \"There, Willie, there,\" she exclaimed; \"that is yours--my faither\nplaced it in my hand wi' a blessing, and wi' the same blessing I\ntransfer it to you--but dinna, dinna leave me.\" Thus saying, she hurried\nout of the room. We will not attempt to describe the astonishment, we\nmay say the joy, of the fond husband, on opening the pocket-book and\nfinding the unlooked-for dowry. However intensely a man may love a\nwoman, there is little chance that her putting an unexpected portion of\nsix hundred pounds into his hands will diminish his attachment; nor did\nit diminish that of William Gordon. He relinquished his intention of\nproceeding on the foreign voyage, and purchased a small coasting vessel,\nof which he was both owner and commander. Five years of unclouded\nprosperity passed over them, and Tibby had become the mother of three\nfair children. William sold his small vessel and purchased a larger one,\nand in fitting it up all the gains of his five successful years were\nswallowed up. But trade was good. She was a beautiful brig, and he had\nher called the _Tibby Fowler_. He now took a fond farewell of his wife\nand little ones upon a foreign voyage which was not calculated to exceed\nfour months, and which held out high promise of advantage. But four,\neight, twelve months passed away, and there were no tidings of the\n_Tibby Fowler_. Britain was then at war; there were enemies' ships and\npirates upon the sea, and there had been fierce storms and hurricanes\nsince her husband left; and Tibby thought of all these things and wept;\nand her lisping children asked her when their father would return, for\nhe had promised presents to all, and she answered, to-morrow, and\nto-morrow, and turned from them and wept again. She began to be in want,\nand at first she received assistance from some of the friends of their\nprosperity; but all hope of her husband's return was now abandoned; the\nship was not insured, and the mother and her family were reduced to\nbeggary. In order to support them, she sold one article of furniture\nafter another, until what remained was seized by the landlord in\nsecurity for his rent. It was then that Tibby and her children, with\nscarce a blanket to cover them, were cast friendless upon the streets,\nto die or to beg. To the last resource she could not yet stoop, and from\nthe remnants of former friendship she was furnished with a basket and a\nfew trifling wares, with which, with her children by her side, she set\nout, with a broken and a sorrowful heart, wandering from village to\nvillage. She had travelled in this manner for some months, when she drew\nnear her native glen, and the cottage that had been her father's, that\nhad been her own, stood before her. She had travelled all the day and\nsold nothing. Her children were pulling by her tattered gown, weeping\nand crying, \"Bread, mother, give us bread!\" and her own heart was sick\nwith hunger.\n\n\"Oh, wheesht, my darlings, wheesht!\" she exclaimed, and she fell upon\nher knees and threw her arms round the necks of all the three, \"you will\nget bread soon; the Almighty will not permit my bairns to perish; no,\nno; ye shall have bread.\"\n\nIn despair she hurried to the cottage of her birth. The door was opened\nby one who had been a rejected suitor. He gazed upon her intently for a\nfew seconds; and she was still young, being scarce more than\nsix-and-twenty, and in the midst of her wretchedness, yet lovely.\n\n\"Gude gracious, Tibby Fowler!\" he exclaimed, \"is that you? Poor\ncreature! are ye seeking charity? Weel, I think ye'll mind what I said\nto you now, that your pride would have a fa'!\"\n\nWhile the heartless owner of the cottage yet spoke, a voice behind her\nwas heard exclaiming, \"It is her! it is her! my ain Tibby and her\nbairns!\"\n\nAt the well-known voice, Tibby uttered a wild scream of joy, and fell\nsenseless on the earth; but the next moment her husband, William Gordon,\nraised her to his breast. Three weeks before he had returned to Britain,\nand traced her from village to village, till he found her in the midst\nof their children, on the threshold of the place of her nativity. His\nstory we need not here tell. He had fallen into the hands of the enemy;\nhe had been retained for months on board of their vessel; and when a\nstorm had arisen, and hope was gone, he had saved her from being lost\nand her crew from perishing. In reward for his services, his own vessel\nhad been restored to him, and he was returned to his country, after an\nabsence of eighteen months, richer than when he left, and laden with\nhonours. The rest is soon told. After Tibby and her husband had wept\nupon each other's neck, and he had kissed his children, and again their\nmother, with his youngest child on one arm, and his wife resting on the\nother, he hastened from the spot that had been the scene of such\nbitterness and transport. In a few years more, William Gordon having\nobtained a competency, they re-purchased the cottage in the glen, where\nTibby Fowler lived to see her children's children, and died at a good\nold age in the house in which she had been born--the remains of which,\nwe have only to add, for the edification of the curious, may be seen\nuntil this day.\n\n\n\n\nTHE CRADLE OF LOGIE.\n\n\nIt is not very easy, when we consider the great desire manifested by\nauthors and editors to serve up piquant dishes of fiction on the broad\ntable of literature, to account for the fact that the undoubtedly true\nstory of the Cradle of Logie and the Indian Princess, as she is often\ncalled, should never have appeared in print. It has apparently escaped\nthe sharpest eyes of our chroniclers. Sir Walter Scott did not appear to\nhave much fancy for Angus; but it would seem that the facts of this\nstrange occurrence in a civilised country, and not very far back, had\nnever reached him. Even the histories of Forfarshire are silent; and the\npictures of Scotland for tourists, which generally seize on any romantic\ntrait connected with a locality or an old ruin, have also overlooked\nthem. Yet the principal personage in the drama was one whose name was\nfor years in the mouths of the people, not only for peculiarities of\ncharacter, but retribution of fate; and this local fame has died away\nonly within a comparatively recent period. It was in my very early years\nthat I saw the Cradle, and heard, imperfectly, its tale from my mother;\nbut her account was comparatively meagre. I sought long for details; nor\nwas I by any means successful till I fell in with a man named Aminadab\nFairweather, a resident at the Scouring Burn, in Dundee, who was in the\nhabit of frequenting Logie House, and who, though very old, remembered\nmany of the circumstances.\n\nThe truth is, there were rich flesh-pots in Logie House--richer than\nthose which supplied the muscles of the Theban mummies, so enduring\nthrough long ages, no doubt, from being so well fed; for Mr. Fletcher of\nLindertes,[*] who was proprietor of the mansion, was the greatest\nepicurean and glossogaster that ever lived since Leontine\ntimes. Then a woman called Jenny McPherson, who had in early\nlife, like \"a good Scotch louse,\" who \"aye travels south,\" found her way\nfrom Lochaber to London, where she had got into George's kitchen, and\nlearned something better than to make sour kraut, was the individual who\nadministered to her master's epicureanism, if not gulosity. Nay, it was\nsaid she had a hand in the tragedy of the Cradle; but, however that may\nbe, it is certain she was deep in the confidences of Fletcher. But then\nMrs. McPherson, as she chose to call herself--though the never a\nMcPherson was connected with her except by the ties of blood, which,\nlike those of all Celts, had their loose terminations dangling into\ninfinity at the beginning of the world's history--was given to\nadministering the contents of her savoury flesh-pots to others than the\nfamily of Logie; yea, like a true Highlander, she delighted in having\nhenchmen--or haunchmen truly, in this instance--who gave her love in\nreturn for her edible luxuries. It happened that our said Aminadab was\none of those favoured individuals; and it is lucky for this generation\nthat he was, for if he had not been, there would assuredly have been no\nrecords of the Cradle and the black lady.\n\n  [note *: Mr. Fletcher had also the property of Balinsloe as well\n  as Logie. They've all passed into other hands.]\n\nIt was in a little parlour off the big kitchen that Janet received her\nhenchmen. And was there ever man so happy as our good Aminadab?--and\nthat for several human reasons, whereof the first was certainly the\nLogie flesh-pots; the second, the stories about the romantic place\nwherewith she contrived to garnish and spice these savoury mouthfuls;\nand last, Janet herself, who was always under the feminine delusion that\nshe was the corporate representative of the first of these reasons, if,\nindeed, the others were not mere _adjecta_, not to be taken into\naccount; whereas there were doubts if she was for herself ever counted\nat all, except as the mere \"old-pot\" which contained the realities. And\ntheir happiness would certainly have been complete if it had not\nbeen--at least in the case of Aminadab--that it could be enjoyed only by\npassing through that grim medium, a churchyard. But then, is not all\ncelestial bliss burdened by this condition; nay, is not even our earthly\nbliss, which is a foretaste of heaven, only a flower raised upon the\nrottenness of other flowers--a type of the soul as it issues from\ncorruption? Yes, Aminadab could not get to the holy of holies except by\npassing through Logie kirkyard, a small and most romantic Golgotha, on\nthe left of the road leading to Lochee, whose inhabitants it contained,\nand which was so limited and crowded, that one might prefigure it as one\nof those holes or dungeons in Michael Angelo's pictures, belching forth\nspirits in the shape of inverted tadpoles, the tail uppermost, and yet\nrepresenting ascending sparks. The wickets that surrounded Logie\nHouse--lying as it does upon the south side of Balgay Hill, and flanked\non the east by a deep gully, wherethrough runs a small stream, which, so\nfar as I know, has no name--were locked at night. The terrors of this\nplace, at the late hours when these said henchmen behoved to seek their\nsavoury rewards, were the only drawback to Aminadab's supreme bliss.\n\nAnd if the time of these symposial meetings had been somewhat later in\nthe century, how much more formidable would have been a passage through\nthis contracted valley of tumuli and bones! No churchyard, except those\nof Judea, was ever invested with such terrors--not the mystical fears of\na divine fate seen in the descending cloud, with Justice gleaming with\nfiery eyes on Sin, and holding those scales, the decision of which would\ndestine to eternal bliss or eternal woe, and that Justice personified in\nHim \"whose glory is a burning like the burning of a fire,\"--no, but the\nrevolting fears produced by the profanity of that poor worm of very\ncommon mud, which has been since the beginning of time acting the God.\nAy, the aurelia-born image of grace sees a difference when it looks from\nthe sun to the epigenetic thing which He raises out of corruption. There\nwas, in that small place of skulls, a rehearsal of the great day. We\nhear little of these freaks now-a-days; but it was different then, when\nmen made themselves demons by drink. One night William Maule of Panmure,\nthen in his days of graceless frolic; Fletcher Read, the nephew of the\nlaird, and subsequently the laird himself, of Logie; Rob Thornton, the\nmerchant, Dudhope, and other kindred spirits, who used to sing in the\ninn of Sandy Morren, the hotel-keeper, \"Death begone, here's none but\nsouls,\" sallied drunk from the inn. The story goes that the night was\ndark, and there stood at the door a hearse, which had that day conveyed\nto the \"howf,\" now about to be shut up because of its offence against\nthe nostrils of men who are not destined to need a grave, the wife of an\ninconsolable husband and the mother of children; and thereupon came from\nMaule's mouth--for wickedness will seek its playful function in a\npun--the proposition that the bacchanals should have a rehearsal in the\nkirkyard of Logie. Well, it signified, of course, nothing that the Black\nPrincess had been buried there, so far away from the land of \"the balmy\nEast,\"\n\n  \"Where the roses blow and the oranges grow,\n  And all is divine but man below.\"\n\nFletcher Read might have recollected this, but what though? Was not the\npun a good one--worthy of Hood? They all mounted the hearse, Panmure\nbeing driver; nor could Sandy Morren give to these white-robed spirits,\nwho were so soon to rise in glory from the envious earth, more than a\nsour-milk horn and half a dozen of snow-white table-cloths for the\ntheatrical property of the great players. So it has been since the time\nwhen the shepherd who killed the son of Aebolus, for that he gave them\nwine which they thought was poison, because they found their heads out\nof order--wine still generates on folly the afflatus of madness. The\nstory goes on. The night was as dark as those places they were to\nillumine with their white robes, alas! not of innocence. But the\ndarkness was not of the moon's absence in another hemisphere; only that\ndarkness which is cloud-born, and must cede in twinkling yet glorious\nintervening moments to the moon, when she will salute the graves and the\nmarriage-guests; and the hearse, as it slowly wended its way up the road\nto Lochee, every now and then pouring forth from its dark inside peals\nof laughter. The travellers on the road look with wide eyes at the grim\napparition, and flee. They arrive at the rough five-bar stile; it is\nthrown back, and the hearse is driven into the place of the dead. The\nstory goes on. There is silence everywhere, and appropriately there,\nwhere the four brick corners of the smoke-coloured Cradle rise from the\nhollow of Balgay Hill. They waited till the moon shone out again in her\ncalm, breathless repose; and then resounded from the clanging black\nboards of the hearse a terrible din resembling thunder, and already each\nman, with his table-cover rolled round him, was snug behind the solemn\nhead-stones, storied with domestic loves severed by the dark angel.\n\nNow was the time for the trumpet-call, which behoved to be sounded by\nthe cycloborean lungs of the broad-chested Panmure. The story has no\nreason to flag where the stake of the _grimelinage_ is the upraising of\nwhite-robed spirits. The sour-milk horn is sounded as it never was\nsounded before on the earth which had passed away; every spirit comes\nforth from below the head-stones; and there rose a wail of misery which\nnothing but wine could have produced.\n\n\"Mercy on our poor souls!\"\n\n\"Justice,\" cried Maule. \"Stand out there, Bob Thornton, and answer for\nthe sins done in the body.\" The story goes on, and it intercalates \"fie,\nfie, on man.\" Thornton stands forth shrieking for the said mercy.\n\n\"Was not you, sir, last night, of the time of the past world, in the inn\nkept by Sandy Morren, in the town called Bonnie Dundee--bonnie in all\nsave its sin, and its magistracy gone a-begging, and its\nhemp-spinners,[*] and the effect of Sandy Riddoch's reign--drinking and\nswearing?\"\n\n  [note *: There is some prevision here which I cannot explain.]\n\n\"I was.\"\n\n\"Then down with you to the pit which has no bottom whatsomever.\"\n\nAnd Thornton disappears in the hollow not far from where the brick\nCradle stands.\n\n\"Stand forth, Fletcher Read.\"\n\n\"Weren't you, sir, art and part in confining in yonder dungeon the poor\nunfortunate black lady, whereby she was murdered by that villain of an\nuncle of yours, Fletcher of Lindertes?\"\n\n\"I was.\"\n\n\"Down with you to the pit and the lake of brimstone.\"\n\nAnd down he went into the same valley.\n\n\"Stand forth, Dudhope.\"\n\n\"Were not you, sir, seen, on the 21st of December of the late dynasty of\ntime, in the company of one of these denizens of Rougedom in the\nOvergate, that disgrace of the last world, for which it has very\nproperly been burnt up like a scroll of Sandy Riddoch's peculations?\"\n\n\"I was.\"\n\n\"Then down to the pit.\"\n\nAnd Dudhope--even he the representative of Graham of opprobrious\nmemory--disappeared.\n\n\"You're all (cried Maule) like the Lady of Luss's kain eggs, every one\nof which fell through the ring into the tub, and didn't count.\"\n\nAnd so on with the rest, till there were no more to go down. Yet the\nhorn sounded again, for Maule was not so drunk that he did not remember\nthere were any more to come; but then, had he not been singing in Sandy\nMorren's, \"Death begone, here's none but souls?\" The story goes on. The\nhorn having sounded, there stood forth a figure that did not belong to\nthis crowd of sinners. It was a woman dressed in dark clothes, with a\nblack bonnet, and an umbrella in her hand. How the great God can show\nhis power over the little god, man! The woman was no other than a Mrs.\nGeddes of Lochee, who, having got a little too much at the Scouring\nBurn, had, on her way home, slipped into the resting-place of her\nhusband, who had been buried only a week before, and having got drowsy,\nhad fallen asleep on the flat stone which covered him. In a half dreamy\nstate she had seen all this terrible mummery--no mummery to her; for she\nthought it real: and as every one stood forward by name, she often said\nto herself, \"When will it be Johnnie's turn, poor man? for he was an\nawfu' sinner; I fear the pit's owre guid for him.\" But Johnnie was not\ncalled. And then she expected her own summons--fell agony of a moment of\nthe expectation of scorching flames to envelope her body, the flesh of\nwhich, as she pinched herself, had feeling and sensibility. Then if\nthese great men, whose names she had often heard of, and who, as having\nwhite robes, and riches, and honours, might have expected to get to\nheaven, and yet didn't, what was to become of her, who had only dark\ngarments, and who had been drinking that night at the Scouring Burn?\nThere was no great wonder that Mrs. Geddes was distressed, yea\nmiserable; and when she heard the horn sounded and no one went\nforward--Johnnie was of course afraid, and was concealing himself--she\nstood up with her umbrella in her hand. And Maule, now getting terrified\nthrough the haze of his drunkenness, cried out, \"Who are you?\"\n\n\"Mrs. Geddes, Johnnie Geddes's wife, o' the village o' Lochee, just twa\nmiles frae that sink o' sin, Bonnie Dundee. I hae been a great sinner. I\nkept company wi' Sandy Simpson when Johnnie was living, and came here to\ngreet owre his grave.\"\n\n\"A woman!\" cried Maule; \"then to heaven as fast as your wings will carry\nyou.\"\n\nAnd this man, who braved God, shook with terror before a weak woman; and\nso did all these brave bacchanals, who, on hearing the horn when no more\nremained to be condemned, thought their false God had called them, and\nhad returned to witness the object of their new-born fear. Hurrying into\nthe hearse, the party were in a few minutes posting to Dundee in solemn\nsilence, where they arrived about two o'clock, not to resume their\norgies, but to separate each for his home, with the elements in him of a\nsense of retribution, not forgotten for many a day. At the long run the\nstory finishes, and the chronicler, lifting up his hands to heaven,\ncries, \"Is there no end, Lord, is there no end to the profanity of man?\nLord, why stayeth the hand of vengeance?\"\n\nIf guidman Aminadab had known these things--which he couldn't do,\nbecause, like Sir James Colquhoun's last day (of the session), which he\nwanted the judges to abolish, this last day (of the world) happened\nafter the said Aminadab was in the habit of seeking Mrs. M'Pherson's\nparlour--he would have had greater deductions from his pleasure; for\nAminadab read his Bible, and belonged to the first Secession. And so it\nwas better he didn't, especially on that night when Mrs. M'Pherson had\nbeen so extraordinarily condescending to her henchman as to set before\nhim a fine piece of pork, in recognition of his adherence to the\nresolution of leaving the flesh-pots of Egypt--the old Church. It was a\ndark night in January. There was a cheerful fire in the neat parlour,\nand Janet was communicative, if not chatty, in good English, got in\nGeorge's kitchen at Kew.\n\n\"I would like all this better,\" said Aminadab, \"if I had not that\nchurchyard to come through; and then there's that fearful-looking Cradle\nin the hollow, with four lums like the stumpt posts of a child's\nrocking-bed. What is it, Janet?--it's not a cow-house, nor a henhouse,\nbut a pure dungeon, fearful to free men, who might shudder to be\nconfined in it.\"\n\n\"What more?\" said Janet. \"Do you know anything more, Aminadab?\"\n\n\"Yes; but I am eating Logie's pork, and don't like to say much.\"\n\n\"Never mind the pork, man; speak out. Do the folks down in the town say\nanything, or shake their heads, or point their fingers?\"\n\n\"Well, they say there's a human being confined in it,\" replied Aminadab.\n\"And so they may, for sounds have been heard coming from the dark\nhole--ay, and I have heard them myself--deep moans and weeping. I would\nlike to know if there's a secret.\"\n\n\"Hush, hush, Aminadab. There is a secret, and you're the only man I\nwould speak of it to.\"\n\nAnd Mrs. McPherson rose solemnly and locked the door upon herself and\nher henchman.\n\n\"You know, Aminadab, that my master came from Bombay some years ago, and\nbrought home with him a black wife. Dear, good soul--so kind, so timid,\nso cheerful too; but, Heaven help me, what could I do?--for you know Mr.\nFletcher is a terrible man. He does not fear the face of clay; and the\nscowl upon his face when he is in his moods is terrible. I am bound to\nobey.\"\n\n\"But what of her?\" said Aminadab. \"It's no surely she who is in the\nhorrid hole?\"\n\n\"Never you mind that, but eat your bacon, you fool for stopping me. When\nI'm stopped, I seldom begin again for a day and night at least.\"\n\n\"Something like your master, Janet.\"\n\n\"No, Aminadab; I have _a heart_, lad.\"\n\n\"That I know, Janet,\" said Aminadab, with a lump of pork in his mouth;\n\"and--and--it--is--fat--lass.\"\n\n\"And the easier swallowed,\" said she\n\n\"I meant your heart, Mrs. McPherson.\n\n\"And I must swallow that too, as it seems to come up my throat and choke\nme, even as the pork seems to do you. Take time, Aminadab. There's no\nhurry, man. Ah well, then, we have it all among the servants how Mr.\nFletcher got my lady. He was a great man in Bombay--governor, I think,\nor something near that--and my lady was the only daughter of the Nawab\nor Nabob of some kingdom near Bombay--I forget the strange Indian name.\nShe was the very petted child of her father; and when Mr. Fletcher saw\nher, she was running about the palace like a wild, playful creature--I\nmay say, our bonny little roes of the Highland hills, or maybe another\ncreature she used to speak about, I think they call it gazelle, with\nsuch wonderful eyes for shining, that you cannot look into them no more\nyou could at the sun. For, oh, Aminadab! they have strange things in\nthese places, which are much nearer the sun than we are here in this old\ncountry. But the mighty Nabob was unwilling to give her to the\nwhite-faced lover, even though he was the governor of Bombay, forbye\nhaving Balinsloe and Lindertes in Scotland too. Maybe he thought a\nScotsman could not like a black Indian princess, though she was with her\ngrand shawls about her, and her jewelled turban, and diamonds and\npearls, and all that; and maybe, Aminadab, he thought\"--and here Janet\nlowered her husky voice--\"that it was just for these fine things he\nwanted her, rich though he was himself. Yet, strange enough too, the\nNabob had promised the man who should marry his daughter the weight of\nherself in fine Indian gold, weighed in a balance, as her tocher. Heard\nye ever the like of a tocher, man?\"\n\n\"That would depend upon her size and weight, Janet, lass. Now, had you a\ntocher like that, it would be a gey business, I think,--fourteen\npotato-stones at the very least, I would say, eh?\"--and he must get quit\nof the mouthful before he could finish--\"Eh, Janet?\"\n\n\"And if you go on at that rate with my pork, you will not, by-and-by, be\nmuch behind me. But, guid faith, Aminadab, I'm not ashamed, lad, of my\nsize. A poor, smoke-dried, shrivelled cook shames her guid savoury\ndishes, intended to fatten mankind and make them jolly. But you are\nright about the offer of the Nabob. The creature was small, and light,\nand lithe, and could not weigh much. But then, think of the jewels!\nThese did not depend upon her weight, but upon their own light. Oh, what\ndiamonds, and rubies, and pearls as big as marbles! I have looked at\nthem till my eyes reeled with the light of them; and no wonder, when I\nhave heard them valued at a hundred thousand guineas--and to think of\nall that being held in a little box! There is one necklace worth fifteen\nthousand itself.\"\n\n\"And yet a small neck, too, maybe?--'And thou shalt make a necklace to\nfit her neck,' said the Lord. It would not be half the girth of yours,\nMrs. M'Pherson?\"\n\n\"Ay, Aminadab; not a half, nor anything like it. But don't stop me\nagain, lad, or I'll stop the pork. (A pause.) Ah, well, I fear it was\nthe shining jewels, and not the black face, did the business on my\nmaster's side. And, of course, he would be all smiles at the Nabob's\ncourt; for, Aminadab, my lad, there never was on the face of God's earth\na man who could so soon change the horrid dark scowl into the very light\nof sunshine as Mr. Fletcher. I have seen him, when in company with\nKincaldrum, and Dudhope, and Gleneagles, and the rest, laughing till his\nface was as red as the sun, then, all of a sudden, when some of his\nmoods came over him, turn just like a fiend new come out of--oh, I'll\njust say it out, Aminadab, though ye be of the Seceders--just hell,\nlad.\"\n\n\"But, good mother Janet--\"\n\n\"Mother your own mother, man, till you be a father, Aminadab. Have I not\ntold you to let me go on? There's no honour in a mother: that sow you\nare eating was the mother six times of thirteen at each litter; and I\nthink that's about seventy-eight. Mother, forsooth! Ay, and yet you'll\nsee a beggar wretch, clad in tanterwallops--rags is owre guid a\nword--coming to Logie door, and looking as if she had the right to\ndemand meal from me, merely because she has two at her feet and one in\nher arms. Such honourable gaberlunzies get no meal from me. My master\nwas keen for the match; but the Nabob was shy of the white face. And\nhere's a curious thing--I got it from my lady herself. She said the\nNabob, her papa, as she called him--for, just like us here, they have\nkindly words and real human feelings--made a bargain with my master,\nthat if he took her away out of India to where the big woman they call\nthe Company lives, he would be kind to her, and '_treat her as he would\ndo a child which is rocked in a cradle_.'\"\n\n\"Better than Naomi's wish,\" said Aminadab; \"'And the Lord grant ye find\nrest in the house of thy husband.'\"\n\n\"That bargain they made him sign with blood drawn just right over his\nheart; and the Nabob signed, too, for the weight of gold and the jewels.\nThen came the marriage. Such a day had not been witnessed in Bombay for\nyears, if ever, when a great son of the big woman was to be married to\nthe daughter of a Nawab. All the great men of Bombay, and the rich\nParsees, she called them, were at the king's court, and the little\nprinces round about for hundreds of miles, and all the ministers of\nIndian state,--for you must know that the marriage was in the English\nfashion, as the Nawab thought he could bind the bridegroom best in that\nway. Then the grand feast, and such dancing, and deray, and firing of\ncannons, and waving of flags, was never seen!\"\n\n\"'And all Israel shouted with a great shout, so that the earth rang\nagain.'\"\n\n\"Just so, guid auld Burgher lad,\" rejoined Mrs. M'Pherson.\n\n\"They had only been a few months married, when Mr. Fletcher's health\nhaving failed him,--and surely his liver is rotten to this day, if not\nhis heart too,--he came home with his wife, and bought this bonnie\nplace. She brought with her a squalling half-and-half thing,--there he's\nat the door this moment.\" By-and-by, \"My little prince (she cried), go\nto Aditi--Ady, we call her--that's the black ayah my lady brought home\nwith her.\"\n\n\"That will be another wife, I fancy,\" said Aminadab. \"They have all two\nor three wives in the East, haven't they? Guid faith, ane's mair than\neneugh here, if the Nawab's daughter's in her cradle.\"\n\n\"No, no, no, ye fool.\"\n\n\"'And I shall cut off the multitude of No,' Ezekiel thirtieth, fifteen.\"\n\n\"An ayah is a servant; and Ady's a good black soul as ever foolishly\nwashed her face when there's no occasion for the trouble. And yet these\nblack creatures are for ever washing themselves. They wash before\nbreakfast and after breakfast, before dinner and after dinner, before\nsupper and after supper, but the never a bit whiter they are that ever I\ncould see.\"\n\n\"Yea, they might save themselves a great deal of trouble,\" said\nAminadab.\n\n\"But they won't,\" rejoined Janet. \"We have been tortured with their\nwashings. Sometimes, when angry, I say to Ady, Can't you go down to the\n_Scouring Burn_?\"\n\n\"'And wash thyself in the brook Cherith, which is before Jordan.'\"\n\n\"But she says it's Brahma that bids her--that's their biggest god; and\nthis Brahma is a trouble to us too. It seems he is everywhere; and Ady\nseeks him on Balgay Hill and in the churchyard o' nights, when the\nmoon's out; thereafter coming in with those eyes of hers like flaming\ncoals, darting them on us, who don't believe in Brahma, as if we were\nthe real heathens, and not she and her mistress.\"\n\n\"'And thou shalt not erect a temple to Dagon, but cut him down to the\nstumps,'\" said Amimadab.\n\n\"Hush, hush, man. Our servants are all in terror. They say that Ady is\nright, for that they have seen him in about the skirts of Balgay woods,\nand down in the hollow of the ravine, moving about like a spirit of\ndarkness, with something white round his head, and a wide cloak wrapped\nabout him.\"\n\nAminadab had just taken up a large tankard of ale, wherewith he intended\nto make a clean sweep of his hearty supper down his throat; but he\npaused, laid down the tankard, turned pale, shook, and looked wistfully\ninto the face of his chieftainess. Nor did he speak a word, because some\nidea had probably magnetized his tongue at the wrong end, and the other\nwould not move.\n\n\"Ady says, and so do the servants, that he has no shadow; and we should\nthink he shouldn't, because our ghosts hereaway have none that ever I\nheard of. But that's a lie of their foolish religion; for I could swear\nI one night saw his shadow flit like that of a sun-dial, when the sun's\nin a hurry to get the curtains round his head, away past the east end of\nthe house, and disappear in a moment. But I'll tell you what, Aminadab,\nhe may, like our spirits, be a shadow himself. I could hardly speak for\nfear, though five minutes before I had as good a tankard of that\nLogie-brewed as you have before you; but I got my tongue through the ale\nat the other end o't, and cried out with Zechariah, wherein I was\nsomething like you, Aminadab, 'Ho, ho, come forth, and flee from the\nland of the north.'\"\n\n\"That would stump his Dagonship,\" said Aminadab, with an effort to be\ncheerful in spite of the foresaid idea, whatever it was. \"Ay,\" he\ncontinued, after drinking off the tankard, and getting courage and wit\nat same time, \"a line from the Bible is just like a rifle-shot in the\nhinder-end of these false gods. They can't stand it nohow.\"\n\n\"And you've stumpt me,\" replied the cook, \"with the chopping-knife of\nyour folly, so that I don't know where to find my legs again. It was a\nyear after he came to Logie before another half-and-half was born--a boy\ntoo; and then there came a change over Mr. Fletcher's mind. There's\nsomething strange about those English that live long in India. I've\nnoticed it when I was in London, in George's house; but it's all from\nthe liver,\" continued the cook. \"First grilled upon the ribs, then\ncooled with champagne, then healed up with curry, chiles, and ginger. No\nwonder the devil gets into the kitchen, where a dish like that is\nwaiting him. Then they're so proud and selfish, and fond of themselves\nand their worthless lives.\"\n\n\"'Skin for skin, yea, all that they have, will they give for their\nlives.' So the devil said of him of Uz.\"\n\n\"But you see it's all in the liver,\" continued the cook. \"Aditi came to\nme one day, and said, 'De 'Gyptians in India tink body divided into\nsixteen parts, with God to each part! he! he! Janette!' and the black\ncreature laughed. Then I say, the liver of an Englishman, after he comes\nfrom India, is the devil's part; and so it was with Mr. Fletcher. He\nbegan first to interfere with Kalee's religion. 'Oh, terrible, Janette!'\ncried Ady, on another day; 'master cut off head of Kartekeya's peacock,\nand smashed de tail of Garoora.' On another day, 'Right eye of elephant\nhead of Ganeso knocked into de skull.' Another day, this time in tears,\nweeping awfully, 'Oh, Janette! tail of holy cow clean snapt over de\nrump!'\"\n\n\"All right,\" said Aminadab of the first Secession. \"'And I will cause\ntheir images to cease out of Noph.'\"\n\n\"Ay, but I am 'wide,'\" continued the cook.\n\n\"Three feet and a half across the bosom,\" said Aminadab, who was still\nin his reverie, with the secret idea still exercising a power over him,\neven after the tankard of ale.\n\n\"Wide in my mind and charities, ye fool, man,\" continued she, not\ndisinclined this time to laugh; for she was proud of being jolly in the\nperson. \"I felt for poor Kalee. She wept incessantly at the loss of the\ncow's tail, and asked me if I had seen it, nay, implored me like a\nworshipper to try to recover it for her. I said, God forgive me, that I\nhad seen it in the dung-pit, and that George had carted it away. 'And\ndidn't know de value!' cried Ady. 'Worth de necklace of diamonds;' and\nboth she and Kalee broke out into such a yell as made the house ring.\nYet with all this, Kalee still loved the gloomy man. She would throw her\njewelled arms about his neck, and hang upon him, with her feet off the\nground, so little, light, and lithe. She was so like a sapling, you\ncould have bent her any way. And when the love was in her heart, and it\nwas never absent, she was really bonny. Our eyes hereaway are mere\ncinders to these glowing churley bits of flaming sulphur; and then that\nstrange look of the shining face, just as if she yearned to enter into\nhis very soul,--ay, as the souls of these black creatures go up and form\na part of Brahma's spirit, that's all over the earth.\"\n\n\"All art,\" cried Aminadab, getting impatient of Janet's\neloquence--eloquence, I say; for Janet was a superior woman, and, though\na cook, a natural genius. \"All art. 'And he made her to use\nenchantments, and deal with familiar spirits and wizards,'\"\n\n\"No, no, man, it was all real nature. But it wasna real nature made him\nthrow the poor black soul away, whose gold and jewels he had bartered\nhis white, I should say yellow, rotten-livered body for. Ay, if she had\nbeen a man, I would have liked her better than him; for, as I hate the\nskin of an old hen when the fat becomes rancid and golden, so do I hate\na yellow-faced man, with the devil sitting gnawing at his liver.\"\n\n\"The reason the devil's so bitter,\" said Aminadab.\n\n\"Ay, if you were to try a beef-steak off his rump or spare-rib, ye'll\nfind it more like the absynth I use in the kitchen than the flesh of a\ncapon or three-year old stot.\"\n\n\"Yea, I would be like unto him who was made to 'suck honey out of the\nliving rock.'\"\n\n\"The cruel man threw her away from him, just as if her tocher had been\nthe weight of herself in copper, instead of gold. And oh! it was so\neasily done; for the creature was not only, as I have said, light, but\nshe had such a touchiness when her glancing eye saw that her love was\nnot returned by him she loved beyond all the earth, that you would have\nthought she shrunk all up into a tiny child, couring in the corner of\nthe big drawing-room, so like a wounded bird.\"\n\n\"Yaw-aw-aw,\" yawned the Seceder, half asleep. \"'And he gave up the ghost\nin the room, while he sought his meat to relieve his soul.'\"\n\n\"Asleep and dreaming,\" cried Mrs. M'Pherson, who had got into the very\nspirit of description. \"Away to the Scouring Burn, and never show your\nface here again.\"\n\nBut Aminadab soon pacified the wide-souled and wide-bodied cook, who,\nbeing of his own persuasion, really loved the man. Yes, she was a\nSeceder from the old faith; and such a Seceder! No wonder there was a\nblank among the congregation of mere bodies.\n\nIt was now well on to twelve, and Aminadab had that Cradle to pass, and\nthe kirkyard to get through; all, too, with that idea in his head to\nwhich we have alluded, and which, we may as well tell, was no other than\na vivid recollection of having seen this Brahma on a prior night. He had\ndischarged the notion at the time as an illusion, though in general he\nhad little power over his supernatural fears, which were to him not\nindeed supernatural, but very natural; so much so, as we have said, that\na mere inanimate and dead, very dead burying-place, had been more than\nonce the means of cutting him out of a savoury piece of pork, and a good\nLogie-brewed tankard. It was the allusion made by Janet that recalled\nthe suspicion that he had seen \"something.\" Ah, \"something!\" what a\npregnant vocable--so mysterious, so provocative of curiosity--an\n\"it!\"--of all the words in our language, the most suggestive of a\ndifference from the real being of flesh and blood, carrying a name got\nat the baptismal font, whereby it shall be known and pass current like a\ncounter. And is it not at best only a counter, yea, a counterfeit? We\nare only to each other as signs of things which are not seen; and yet we\nlaugh when we hear the \"it,\" as if it might not be the very thing of\nwhich we are one of the signs! Is it not thus that we are all humbugged\nin this world of ours? For we take the sign for the thing; yea, talk to\nthe sign, and love it, or hate it, or worship it--all the while being as\nignorant as mules, \"ne pictum quidem vidit;\" the very sign may be as far\nfrom the reality, as in philosophy we see it every day. And thus, all\nwandering and groping in the dark, the blind leading the blind, we\nscreech like owls at a spark of light from the real fountain beyond\nAldebaran.\n\nAnd the owls were more busy than pleasant that night in the deep woods\nof Balgay Hill. It was a sign that the moon was not kindly to their\nheavy eyes. The scene, as Aminadab issued from the postern, might have\nbeen felt as beautiful, from the very awe which it inspired. But\nAminadab was no lover of Nature, especially if he saw in her recesses\nany hiding-places for such beings as Brahma, more mysterious to him from\nknowing nothing at all about him, except that he was some Ashtoreth, or\nChemosh, or Milcom, in a new form, let loose from hell, to disturb the\npure souls of Seceders destined for heaven. The full moon fell on the\nhollow in the hills, surmounted by the dark woods of Balgay right aface\nof him, the house of Logie behind, and the declinations on either side,\nin one of which lay the little Golgotha. There, in the midst of the\nhollow, stood, grim and desolate, the dark brick-built Cradle, casting\nits shadow to the south; the four-corner prominences shooting out like\nhorns, and so unlike the habitation of a human being, yea, unlike any\ncomposition of brick and lime ever reared by the hand of a genius for\nhouse-making. The shadow lay on the grass like those ghastly\nsun-pictures so called, yet more like moon-born things; and then the\nsolemn silence, only relieved to be deepened by the occasional to-hoo!\nwas oppressive to him, as if a medium for some footsteps to startle him\ninto superstition. Yet he was drawn towards the horrid dungeon in spite\nof his very self. Janet's story would come at last, he thought, to a\ntermination which would justify his own suspicions. And even there\nbefore him was evidence in the same direction; for having thrown\nhimself, as if by an effort, into the shade of the dungeon, he could see\nbeyond its verge, and by, as it were, looking round the corner, the body\nof the dark-faced Aditi. She had, no doubt, come stealthily from the\nhouse, and was postured in an attitude far deeper in humiliation and\nadjuration than we practise in our land. Her face was covered by her\nhands; for, in truth, she could see nothing through these mere\nlight-permitting slips of a brick's width, wherewith this horrible hole\nwas supplied, as if by a relaxation of severity in its last stage of\nperfect inhumanity. No, nothing could be seen, but something might be\nheard; yea, the most piteous moans that ever burst from an oppressed\nheart, and yet so soft, so uncomplaining, as if the sufferer found no\nfault with aught in the world but herself. Then Aditi's sounds were\nsomething like responses, rising as the internal sounds rose, and as\nthey died away--a jabbering wail of an Eastern tongue. Aminadab, blunt\nthough he was, and fonder of pork than poetry, and of scriptural\nquotations--which he had always at his tongue's end for conclaves of\nweavers--than impassioned sentiments, rising at the inspiring touch of\nthis strange world's endless and ever-occurring occasions, was\nimpressed. He looked over the dark abode, up at the moon, then at the\nprostrate Ady, and thought of the distance between that prisoner and the\ngay palace where she was brought up, with its paradise of flowers, and\naromas, and singing birds of gold and azure--far away, far away. And\nthen that blood-written oath--oh, so literally fulfilled and obeyed! But\nthe thought was evanescent from very fear. Nor was his nervousness\nunjustified; for, even as he turned his head, he saw a figure wrapped up\nin a dark cloak, and surmounted by a white coil of pure linen, as he\nthought, emerging from the clump of thick trees that stood on the north\nend of the burying-ground. The figure, having run as it were in fear so\nfar forward, no sooner saw the projecting head of Aminadab, than it\nturned and retreated. At the same instant Ady rose, as if disturbed, and\nran to the house. Yet the moaning did not cease. It seemed interminable;\nor, if to be terminated by the absence of Ady, the sufferer did not know\nshe was gone. And oh, these wails!--Aminadab fled and took them along\nwith him, nor did they ever leave him.\n\nEven when he went to bed they were fresh upon his ear, claiming\nprecedence to the vision of his eye; though that, too, asserted its\nauthority as something miraculous--whether the Eastern mystery itself,\nor some tutelary genius brought from heaven by the shriek of man's\ncruelty. Nor could he rest for the thought that, humble as he was, he\nwas surely taken there that he might go to the powers of earth to ask\nthem to aid the powers of heaven. Why, that Cradle had been built within\nthe limits of civilisation. Even the mason was known: the bricks were\nnot Egyptian bricks, nor the mortar foreign, nor the wood a tree from\nthe heart of Africa; and yet, why was it there--nay, why was the use of\nit not inquired into? If Jeshurun had waxed fat and kicked against the\nLord of heaven, was there no lord of earth that could tame this\nyellow-livered worshipper of Baal, who yet was received among the chiefs\nof Israel to drink the pure juice of the grape, and make a god of his\nbelly, and to sing obscene songs? Even in that house there was riot and\ndebauchery upon the spoils of that woman, encaged like a beast, and at\nthe world's end from her natural protectors.\n\nYea, our good soul Aminadab became bold. He was privileged, if not\ncalled. But then that Brahma--that incarnation of a power confessed by\nmillions on millions of people possessed of souls, and therefore\nsomething in God's reckonings! It was no illusion. Twice he had seen the\nmysterious being. How did he come hither to the Ultima Thule, as it\nwere, of the known world? Why did he come just at a juncture when the\ndaughter of a king of his own favoured people was immured in a dungeon,\nand calling for his help? Because he must have known that a spark of the\nspirit that belonged to him, and would go back to him, was threatened to\nbe extinguished by power in a land owing no obedience to him. But didn't\nthat same moon shine on the children of Brahma as well as on the\nchildren of Christ? and were there no powers in heaven but what we\nconfessed? How philosophical all this in a Scouring Burn weaver in\nhysterics! Yet there are greater men than Aminadab who could not explain\nsuch things. Ah, well; to the honour of poor Aminadab, it was for once\nnot pork he sought at Logie House. Next night at ten he was in the\nparlour; but how did he get there, and Brahma in these very woods?\nAminadab very probably could not have told himself; yet there he was.\n\n\"Come again so soon, Aminadab?\"\n\n\"Ay,\" replied he. \"'Though a man may fall, he may be raised up again.' I\nstumbled in front of my friend, but she will not kick me; yea, she will\nlift me up.\"\n\n\"Be silent,\" she said. \"You were seen last night near the Cradle, where\nno one dare approach. None of the servants go there save me; and even\nAdy, if she goes, it is by stealth. Ah, you know something now; but\nthere's one thing you don't know, and that is, that rich men can pay\nwatchers to discover those who search into their iniquities.\"\n\n\"Whatever I know,\" said Aminadab, \"I am ignorant of this: why that\ndungeon, containing a human being, can keep its place at the distance of\na mile from a town with 30,000 inhabitants.\"\n\n\"But they don't know it, lad. Be you quiet, and pick that leg of a\nchicken; that is better than the knowledge that kills. There is not one\nof the magistrates would dare to touch a hair on Mr. Fletcher's head,\nno, for all that lies in the power of Brahma.\"\n\n\"But why do you keep the secret? 'The steps of a good woman are ordered\nby the Lord;' but does He order you to step to the Cradle?\"\n\n\"I do it for good,\" said she, \"because I can soften griefs that are\nunbearable; and cooks have something in their power. But if I were to\nsay a word to Fletcher, I would be turned away, and another might treat\nthe prisoner worse.\"\n\n\"But why would not the powers interfere?\"\n\n\"Because bailies love a dinner and fine wines; and it is easier to wink\nthan think, and easier to think than get themselves out of trouble by\nacting on their thoughts. Will that satisfy you? It is a strange\nbusiness; but the world's a strange place, and strange men and women\nlive therein. Meat and drink and honour are better than wisdom. Look to\nyour plate, Aminadab. Oh! I wish I knew less; but I saw what was coming\nwhen I saw George Cameron begin to build what he said was to be like a\ncradle. Did I not recollect what Kalee told me about the blood-bond? Did\nwe not all witness the growing gloom gathering day by day over his face?\nThen separate beds. Then no more companionship, out or in. The gloom for\never, and the tears of Kalee for ever and ever, and the terror and\nanguish of poor soul Aditi! Ah! yes; but he never struck her, never\nupbraided her; and at length she shrunk from him as if from a serpent.\nAnd this he could not bear: it made his dun-yellow black, Aminadab!\nThen, when the Cradle was finished, and a truckle and a table and a\nchair were put in, he called me to him, and said, with a horrid smile on\nhis face, 'M'Pherson, you are a Highlander, and staunch to your master.\nI am true to my word. Yes, I signed a bond, when I married Kalee, that I\nwould treat her as a father would a child whom he rocked in a cradle. I\nhave obeyed. Kalee goes into the Cradle to-night. You are to give her\nchild's food; but you cannot rock the Cradle. Let the winds which drive\nin past Balgay woods do that if they can. My honour is pure. Swear to\nobey me.'\n\n\"I could not say no, and look on that face. Kalee has been in that\ndungeon, fed by me, and has never seen her children for a whole year.\"\n\n\"The vengeance of the Lord hangeth over the wicked by a burnt thread,\"\nsaid Aminadab.\n\n\"Yes, who was to know that her own protector, even the great spirit of\nher land, was to come here to help her? He was seen last night again! He\nwanders about and about--flits hither and thither. He needs no rest--no\nfood. He is independent of rain, and wind, and thunder, and storms.\"\n\n\"But he does not help her,\" said Aminadab.\n\n\"His time is coming. Kalee is dying.\"\n\n\"Dying!\"\n\n\"Ay, dying. Then Brahma will claim that which is a part of himself, and\nthen will be the time of his return to his chosen people.\"\n\n\"Horrible!\" ejaculated Aminadab. The chicken stood untasted. \"Does Mr.\nFletcher know this?\"\n\n\"Why, to be sure, haven't I told him? But may not a child die in its own\ncradle, and the father continue feasting with the lords and the lairds,\ndrinking and swearing, and debauching, when he knows that his honour is\ndischarged,--ay, and the blood-bond paid?\"\n\n\"And the body, when she dies--\"\n\n\"Will be in Logie burying-ground; ay, and strange people from the East,\na long way beyond where our sun rises, with black faces and bleeding\nhearts, will come and bend over the little grave, and weep for the\ndaughter of their prince. Ah! Aminadab, grief makes a learned woman of\nme, a poor servant; but I cannot save Kalee, none can save her now.\nConsumption has set in; and bad air, and a rejected love, and a mother's\nyearning will do the work. I was with her now with my cruse--all alone\nwith her; for no one dare approach. She knows she's dying. She asked for\nthe children--\n\n\"'Will you not let me see my boys?'\n\n\"I shook my head.\n\n\"'And will Fletcher not see me before I die, to receive my last kiss?'\n\n\"I shook my head.\n\n\"'And Aditi, who will return to my father's palace, is she to be kept\nfrom me to the end?'\n\n\"I shook my head.\"\n\n\"And will no one watch?\" said Aminadab.\n\n\"Yes, I will watch all night; but it will be unknown to Fletcher. No one\ncan speak to him now. He goes hither and thither. He has no rest yet;\nthe gloom is deeper than ever.\"\n\n\"Horrible mystery!\" again ejaculated Aminadab. \"But 'the wicked shall\nperish; they shall consume into smoke, they shall consume away.'\"\n\nOccasions make heroes of very ordinary men; and Aminadab felt that he\ncould be one of these worthies that night. He soon left after these\nwords of Janet; but he was now more upon his guard against watchers.\nPerhaps Janet had mentioned them to induce him to avoid too minute an\nexamination where there was danger of another kind; and this rather\nencouraged him. The only fault of his heroism was the strange feelings\nwhich arose in his mind when he thought of the Indian spirit. Somehow\nthis vision could not be got rid of, or analyzed by the small philosophy\nhe had. As for Fletcher, he viewed him merely as a human monster,--no\nuncommon phenomenon at a time when, although there might not be any\ngreater evil than now, men were more reckless of consequences, more dead\nto shame, less under the control of public opinion, probably not less\nunder the fear of God. He cleared the wicket. It was again a bright\nmoonlight night. He passed again the Cradle, and was bold enough to\nlisten again. Alas! the wail was weaker, the bright lamp of these eyes\nwas fast losing its oil. So he thought; for he could hear only now and\nthen a very inaudible sob, and occasionally a very weak wail, shrill and\nyet low. He could not stay, for Janet would be coming stealthily with\nher cruse,--yes, her cruse; for, so far as he could see by the narrow\nslips, all was darkness around the dying stranger, in a proud land of\nliberty and humanity--the proudest seen on the face of the earth, or\nperhaps ever will be seen; yet by-and-by to have more reason to be\nproud--by-and-by, when Kalee would be asleep in the bosom of Brahma, her\nbody only the monument of the shams of that proud land of liberty and\nhumanity, and the true religion of God's covenant from the beginning.\n\nRetreating quickly, he proceeded over the green hollow, and got into the\nskirt of Balgay wood. There he stood patiently, still fearful, but with\nthe new-born zeal of curiosity and sympathy. By-and-by he saw Janet come\nout with her cruse, and walk as lightly as her huge body would permit.\nShe looked round and round, as if in great fear of Fletcher, probably of\nthe Indian spirit; for it was clear she had a conviction of the truth of\nthe real presence of Brahma. All is still; no Fletcher seen, nor watch.\nBut in about half an hour the dark Aditi came trotting out, clothed in\npure white, looking also fearfully about her; but it was more clear that\nshe expected some one. Stranger still, she made for the very spot where\nAminadab was watching. He studied her direction to the breadth of a\nline, and stepped aside. There was plenty of foliage and some thick\nbushes. He threw himself down on the ground, and heard the sighing of\nAdy as if almost close to him. By-and-by she was joined by the\nmystery--yes, that being who had so long been the terror of Logie House\nto all but the master, who knew nothing of him. He was there; but\nAminadab could not see more of him than his head, which was, as usual,\nenveloped in the same white cloth. He heard their conversation, of which\nnot a word could he understand. But oh, that natural language of the\nheart, which is the same in all lands, and will be the same in\nheaven--those quick utterances, deep sighs, shakings of the frame as if\nthe beings were convulsed! It seemed to be the last meeting; it was so\neloquent of heart loves, so mysterious in religious aspirations. But\nhere occurred a strange incident. Even at the distance where they were,\na loud, shrill scream was heard, as if the last of expiring human\nnature. How it shook these two, till the very leaves rustled, and the\nnight-hawks and owls screamed their terrible discord! All was still\nagain. The male ran, as if moved by the frenzy of a dervish, forward\ntowards the Cradle; then, as he saw the door half open, retreated.\nAminadab could make nothing of the figure, beyond the conviction that it\nwas the same he had seen by fitful glimpses before. It was altogether\nindescribable, unlike anything he had ever seen or read of. On his\nreturn, Ady met him and caught him in her arms, as if to lead him back\nto the wood. Yet he was fitful, anxious, and flighty, as if he knew not\nwhere to go, or what to do. Again the rapid whisperings, so sharp and\nintense as sometimes to appear like hissing of strange foreign\ncreatures. It seemed as if his soul was on fire, and urged him he knew\nnot whither. At that instant the door of the Cradle opened altogether,\nand Janet came out with the light. Ady darted forward like a moonbeam in\nthe midst of another moonbeam, and seen by its superior whiteness. An\ninstant served for some communication between her and Janet. Then a\nshrill scream from Ady, a running hither and thither on the part of the\nmale figure, and at length, darting into the wood, he disappeared.\nAminadab now saw Janet go into the house. Was all over? Aminadab could\nnot tell. Ady still hung round the Cradle. She even circled it like a\nhovering ghost. At length she neared the door. The key had been left,\nand she entered.\n\nNow was Aminadab's time. He rushed forward, opened the door, and entered\nthe dungeon. A terrible sight met his eyes--sight! yes; even in the\ncomparative darkness, there was enough in the small glimmer of moonlight\nentering by one of the holes to carry objects to eyes that would have\npierced the deepest gloom. There is said to be no darkness in the world\nsufficient to conceal objects entirely; but here there was, in addition\nto the attenuated beam, the white dress of Ady, and the bed where Kalee\nlay. Janet had described it, and the table and the chair: what more than\nthe bare walls was there to describe? Nothing. On that bed, covered by a\nthin white cloth, lay this Indian princess dead, with Ady hanging over\nher, and pulling at her, and offering to her blank eyes, once like\ndiamonds, a small figure of an Indian god. Then the groans and\nsuppressed shrieks of the faithful soul, as she still pulled and shook\nthe corpse, as if she could get from it one last look directed to the\nwooden figure. Too late! Kalee had died, not only away from her people,\nbut away from the gods of her people. All of a sudden the ayah ceased\nher endeavours, and directed her eagle eye, suffused with tears, up to\nthe roof. Quick words followed the look. Aminadab could not understand\nthem, but the motions and aspirations convinced him that she cried,\n\"There, there, Brahma; there she goes, to be of thy eternal and infinite\nsoul, from which she came, and to which she flies.\"\n\nThen, suddenly, she rushed out of the dungeon. Aminadab looked after\nher. She did not go to Logie House, but in the direction of the wood,\nwhither the indescribable figure had gone. Aminadab heard no more,\nscarcely saw more, if it was not the corpse lying before him. He was\nafraid of Janet, more of Fletcher, who might now at length come to pass\nhis eyes over the body in the Cradle, where he was to cherish her as a\nfather cherisheth his child; yet he would look, and look again. How\nshrivelled that face of darkness, yet how calm and loving-like; as if,\neven in the midst of the agony of the last hour, it smiled love to her\ndestroyer!\n\nBy-and-by a light again approached. It was Janet with a white sheet.\n\n\"You here! Good heavens! Away, away! Fletcher is to look at her; yes, he\nis to look at her in the cradle he promised her. Away! no more.\"\n\n\"I saw Brahma,\" said Aminadab; \"yes, true Brahma, Brahma!\"\n\n\"Fool, fool! Man, I only told you it was Brahma to keep you from the\nCradle for your own safety.\"\n\n\"Then who was the strange being?\"\n\n\"I dare not tell you that; but I fear Ady's away with him, without hat,\nor cloak, or box, or supper.\"\n\n\"To where?\"\n\n\"Nor that, lad. But I fear you will hear more of this Scotch tragedy\nsome day. Get you gone; there is Fletcher.\"\n\nAminadab obeyed.\n\nAnd Fletcher did see her. Some time after the departure of Aminadab he\ncrossed the green. It seemed that night he had refrained from company,\nnot through penitence, or any motive that man could divine in the nature\nof the man. Strangely-formed beings do things which do not seem to\nbelong to their natures or to human nature, and it is this that makes\nthem strange. Before he entered this, not, alas! Domdaniel, he called\nJanet to the door. He wanted to be alone. She gave him the cruse; and\nwith the old gloom upon his face, perhaps he wanted to test his courage.\nIt could not be that he wanted to look once more on the face of the\nmother of his children; nor that he felt now that there had been one in\nthe world who really did love him, as few women have ever loved. Then\nman measures woman's love by his own; but when was man's heart stirred\nby nature's strongest passion like that of devoted woman? while now the\nworld did not contain one heart that was moved to him by anything\nstronger than dithyrambic delirium. Who knows? But there was Fletcher\nlooking on the corpse of his wife, and waving over her face the light of\nthe small cruse he held in his hand! Was he moved, as he saw the still,\ndeath-bound features, that once could not contain the expression which\nthe leaping heart, with that burning fire in it of that land of the sun,\ntried in vain to force into it; the eye, too, that flashed and leapt as\nnever is seen in our country of humid fogs, stifling the inborn heat and\nblearing the vision; and those arms that entwined him so as the vine\nholds the olive in its grasp, as if it would give the juice which fires\nand inebriates, for the oil that calms, and fattens, and sustains? All\nover that lithe body which enabled her, when he saw her first in the\nland of her fathers, to bound and flee as if she had wings, and these\nbeautiful as the monaul's, ay, and enabled her, too, to play round him\nin that Eastern gaiety which had charmed him, if he ever loved her, and\neven for a time made his home like Fairydom! Who shall say there was no\nmovement in his stern features, no moisture in his eye, no trembling of\nthe lip, no tremor of the body, as he might have read the last effort of\nnature in the expression of calm forgiveness or continued affection? Who\ncould read _him_?\n\nAt midnight, two days after, Kalee slept in Logie kirkyard. There is no\nstone to point out the grave of the Indian princess, who lies--as\nbecomes, too, in our boasted land of liberty, entitled to her boast in\nan equality at length, which even pride cannot deny--among the humble\nartisans and cottars of Lochee. Did Fletcher Read, on that after day,\nwhen Panmure blew the white iron trump, not expect to see Kalee rise up\nand seek judgment on the house of Logie? The blood was hereditary, and\nthe heart that is fed by the blood, and which impels it.\n\nIf it had not been that Aminadab married the portly Janet, we might have\nheard no more of the fortunes of this man. But how true Aminadab's\nquotation, that God's vengeance never sleeps! Where, in all the scathed\ncorpses of heaven's lightning, was there ever one that told its tale\nlike that of Fletcher of Balinsloe, Lindertes, and Logie? He was\nrecalled to India again.\n\n\"Ay, Aminadab, he was forced to go by the Government; but maybe the\nGovernment was only like a thing that is moved by the storm, and cuts in\ntwain, where its own silly power could do nothing. Before he went, he\nmarried a beautiful little woman,[*] perhaps the most spirited in the\nshire, white as Kalee was black, and come, too, of gentle blood. Why did\nshe marry this man? Had she not heard of the fate of Kalee? Had she not\nseen the Cradle (still standing in the hollow of the hill)? No doubt;\nbut woman will go through worse storms than man's passion to get to the\ngoal of wealth and honour. Then there is a frenzy in woman, Aminadab.\nShe is like the boys, who seek danger for its own sake, and will skim on\nskates the rim of the black pool that descends from the film of ice down\nto the bubbling well of death below. Women have an ambition to tame wild\nmen; ay, even wild men have a charm for them, which the tame sons of\nprudence and industry cannot inspire. So it was: they were married, and\nhe took her to India.\"\n\n  [note *: Afterwards, as I have heard, the wife of Milne of\n  Milneford. She lived till nearly a hundred.]\n\n\"'So the Lord did lead him; and there was no strange god with them.'\"\n\n\"Ay, but there was a God _before_ him, lad.\"\n\n\"What mean you, Janet?\"\n\n\"Do you not recollect of Brahma?\"\n\n\"Do not mention that strange figure, Janet. My blood runs cold.\"\n\nJanet laughed.\n\n\"Runs cold, lad, at what? Brahma was just one of the Nawab's great men,\nwhom he sent over here to watch the fate of his daughter. Why, man, he\nlodged next door to you, with Mrs. Lyon at the Scouring Burn.\"\n\n\"The black man the boys used to run after?\"\n\n\"The very same. He returned with Ady, and was at the court of the Nawab\nand told all, ay, and more than we knew--that Fletcher would be obliged\nto visit Bombay again ere long after. He had got this from some of the\nauthorities in England. For many a day did the prince weep for his\nKalee; for many a day did he watch for the murderer's arrival, ay, as a\ntiger of his jungles watches in the night with fiery eyes for a beast\neven more cruel than himself. He had even all the coast of Coromandel, I\nthink they call it, to give intelligence of the vessel. The very name of\nthe vessel was known; the very paint of its sides, and the flag it\nbore--so well had he kept up his knowledge of what was going on in\nEngland.\"\n\n\"Wonderful!\" cried Aminadab. \"'And the fowler that did slay, falleth\ninto his own net.'\"\n\n\"And a terrible net, with meshes of sharp steel to hold and cut.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" cried Aminadab, as he rubbed his hands, and chuckled like a big\nboy who sees the porridge boiling.\n\n\"You may well be anxious, lad; but you'll have more than you want.\"\n\n\"No, unless he is put into a fiery pit and burnt to a cinder, or into a\nden of tigers, or a nest of hooded snakes, or--\"\n\n\"Peace, lad; better than all. But surely we are forgetting that we are\nChristians, that we have seen the new light of grace, Aminadab.\"\n\n\"Ay, true. Mercy pertaineth to the Lord. We belong to the furnace which\ntrieth gold; not to the refining-pot of the Old Church, which is for\nsilver.\"\n\n\"Ah, well! God's judgment was soon executed. The ship was recognised and\nhailed long before she arrived at Bombay. A crowd of black devils\nboarded her, seized Fletcher, and dragged him on shore. Not an instant\nwas lost. Trial was a laughter. They danced round in joy, making the\nvery Brahma hear their orgies. Four horses, ropes, victim between two\nand two, whip, yell, and Fletcher is in four quarters.\n\n\"Nor did they end here. They had forgotten the white wife. She\ntoo--justice demanded it. They did not ask why; but the sailors had\nsuspected what was going on; and when they saw the devils coming back,\nthey put Mrs. Fletcher into a big basket, and hoisted her to the\ntop-mast. The poor woman could see from that height the mangled remains\nof her husband; but she was an extraordinary woman. She kept her place\ncomposedly as she heard the yells of the demons. They could not find\nher, and went away like wild animals deprived of their bloody prey. The\nship went on. Mrs. Fletcher returned safe to Scotland, where she was\nknown as the heroine who had gone through so much for the love of a\nvillain.\"\n\nThe story of Fletcher has died away in Angus; but at one time it was in\nevery mouth, and many a head was shaken as the Sunday loiterers from\nDundee and Lochee passed by the Cradle in their walks on Balgay Hill. I\nhave heard that it was demolished as a disgrace to Scotland somewhere\nabout 1810 or 1812. The hollow where the ruins stood is quite visible\nyet, and the old circumambulating ghost, which, by-the-bye, has\nunfortunately a white face, is not yet laid.\n\n\n\n\nTHE DEATH OF THE CHEVALIER DE LA BEAUT\u00c9.\n\n\nIt was near midnight, on the 12th of October 1516, when a horseman,\nspurring his jaded steed, rode furiously down the path leading to the\nstrong tower of Wedderburn. He alighted at the gate, and knocked loudly\nfor admission.\n\n\"What would ye?\" inquired the warder from the turret.\n\n\"Conduct me to your chief,\" was the laconic reply of the breathless\nmessenger.\n\n\"Is your message so urgent that ye must deliver it to-night?\" continued\nthe warder, who feared to kindle the fiery temper of his master, by\ndisturbing him with a trifling errand.\n\n\"Urgent, babbler!\" replied the other, impatiently; \"to-day the best\nblood of the Homes has been lapped by dogs upon the street; and I have\nseen it.\"\n\nThe warder aroused the domestics in the tower, and the stranger entered.\nHe was conducted into a long, gloomy apartment, dimly lighted by a\nsolitary lamp. Around him hung rude portraits of the chiefs of\nWedderburn, and on the walls were suspended their arms and the spoils of\ntheir victories. The solitary apartment seemed like the tomb of war.\nEvery weapon around him had been rusted with the blood of Scotland's\nenemies. It was a fitting theatre for the recital of a tale of death. He\nhad gazed around for a few minutes, when heavy footsteps were heard\ntreading along the dreary passages, and the next moment Sir David Home\nentered, armed as for the field.\n\n\"Your errand, stranger?\" said the young chief of Wedderburn, fixing a\nsearching glance upon him as he spoke.\n\nThe stranger bowed, and replied, \"The Regent\"------\n\n\"Ay!\" interrupted Home, \"the enemy of our house, the creature of our\nhands, whom we lifted from exile to sovereignty, and who now with his\nminions tracks our path like a bloodhound! What of this gracious Regent?\nAre ye, too, one of his myrmidons, and seek ye to strike the lion in his\nden?\"\n\n\"Nay,\" answered the other; \"but from childhood the faithful retainer of\nyour murdered kinsman.\"\n\n\"My murdered kinsman!\" exclaimed Wedderburn, grasping the arm of the\nother. \"What! more blood! more! What mean ye, stranger?\"\n\n\"That, to gratify the revenge of the Regent Albany,\" replied the other,\n\"my lord Home and your kinsman William have been betrayed and murdered.\nCalumny has blasted their honour. Twelve hours ago I beheld their heads\ntossed like footballs by the foot of the common executioner, and\nafterwards fixed over the porch of the Nether Bow, for the execration\nand indignities of the slaves of Albany. All day the blood of the Homes\nhas dropped upon the pavement, where the mechanic and the clown pass\nover and tread on it.\"\n\n\"Hold!\" cried Home, and the dreary hall echoed with his voice. \"No\nmore!\" he continued; and he paced hurriedly for a few minutes across the\napartment, casting a rapid glance upon the portraits of his ancestors.\n\"By heavens! they chide me,\" he exclaimed, \"that my sword sleeps in the\nscabbard, while the enemies of the house of Home triumph.\" He drew his\nsword, and approaching the picture of his father, he pressed the weapon\nto his lips, and continued, \"By the soul of my ancestors, I swear upon\nthis blade, that the proud Albany and his creatures shall feel that one\nHome still lives!\" He dashed the weapon back into its sheath, and\napproaching the stranger, drew him towards the lamp, and said, \"Ye are\nTrotter, who was my cousin's henchman, are ye not?\"\n\n\"The same,\" replied the messenger.\n\n\"And ye come to rouse me to revenge?\" added Sir David. \"Ye shall have\nit, man--revenge that shall make the Regent weep--revenge that the four\ncorners of the earth shall hear of, and history record. Ye come to\nremind me that my father and my brother fell on the field of Flodden, in\ndefence of a foolish king, and that I, too, bled there--that there also\nlie the bones of my kinsman, Cuthbert of Fastcastle, of my brother\nCockburn and his son, and the father and brother of my Alison. Ye come\nto remind me of this; and that, as a reward for the shedding of our\nblood, the head of the chief of our house has been fixed upon the gate\nof Edinburgh as food for the carrion crow and the night owl! Go, get\nthee refreshment, Trotter; then go to rest, and dream of other heads\nexalted, as your late master's is, and I will be the interpreter of your\nvisions.\"\n\nTrotter bowed and withdrew, and Lady Alison entered the apartment.\n\n\"Ye are agitated, husband,\" said the gentle lady, laying her hand upon\nhis; \"hath the man brought evil tidings?\"\n\n\"Can good tidings come to a Home,\" answered Sir David, \"while the tyrant\nAlbany rides rough-shod over the nobility of Scotland, and, like a\nviper, stings the bosom that nursed him? Away to thy chamber, Alison;\nleave me, it is no tale for woman's ears.\"\n\n\"Nay, if you love me, tell me,\" she replied, laying her hand upon his\nbrow, \"for since your return from the field of Flodden, I have not seen\nyou look thus.\"\n\n\"This is no time to talk of love, Aley,\" added he. \"But come, leave me,\nsilly one, it concerns not thee; no evil hath overtaken the house of\nBlackadder, but the Homes have become a mark for the arrows of\ndesolation, and their necks a footstool for tyrants. Away, Alison;\nto-night I can think of but one word, and that is--vengeance!\"\n\nLady Alison wept, and withdrew in silence; and Wedderburn paced the\nfloor of the gloomy hall, meditating in what manner he should most\neffectually resent the death of his kinsman.\n\nIt was only a few weeks after the execution of the Earl of Home and his\nbrother, that the Regent Albany offered an additional insult to his\nfamily by appointing Sir Anthony D'Arcy warden of the east marches, an\noffice which the Homes had held for ages. D'Arcy was a Frenchman, and\nthe favourite of the Regent; and, on account of the comeliness of his\nperson, obtained the appellation of the _Sieur de la Beaut\u00e9_. The\nindignation of Wedderburn had not slumbered, and the conferring the\nhonours and the power that had hitherto been held by his family upon a\nforeigner, incensed him to almost madness. For a time, however, no\nopportunity offered of causing his resentment to be felt; for D'Arcy was\nas much admired for the discretion and justice of his government as for\nthe beauty of his person. To his care the Regent had committed young\nCockburn, the heir of Langton, who was the nephew of Wedderburn. This\nthe Homes felt as a new indignity, and, together with the Cockburns,\nthey forcibly ejected from Langton Castle the tutors whom D'Arcy had\nplaced over their kinsman. The tidings of this event were brought to the\nChevalier while he was holding a court at Kelso; and immediately\nsummoning together his French retainers and a body of yeomen, he\nproceeded with a gay and a gallant company by way of Fogo to Langton.\nHis troop drew up in front of the castle, and their gay plumes and\nburnished trappings glittered in the sun. The proud steed of the\nFrenchman was covered with a panoply of gold and silver, and he himself\nwas decorated as for a bridal. He rode haughtily to the gate, and\ndemanded the inmates of the castle to surrender.\n\n\"Surrender! boasting Gaul!\" replied William Cockburn, the uncle of the\nyoung laird; \"that is a word the men of Merse have yet to learn. But\nyonder comes my brother Wedderburn; speak it to him.\"\n\nD'Arcy turned round, and beheld Sir David Home and a party of horsemen\nbearing down upon them at full speed. The Chevalier drew back, and\nwaiting their approach, placed himself at the head of his company.\n\n\"By the mass! Sir Warden,\" said Sir David, riding up to D'Arcy, \"and ye\nhave brought a goodly company to visit my nephew. Come ye in peace, or\nwhat may be your errand?\"\n\n\"I wish peace,\" replied the Chevalier, \"and come to enforce the\nestablishment of my rights; why do you interfere between me and my\nward?\"\n\n\"Does a Frenchman talk of his rights upon the lands of Home?\" returned\nSir David; \"or by whose authority is my nephew your ward?\"\n\n\"By the authority of the Regent, rebel Scot!\" retorted D'Arcy.\n\n\"By the authority of the Regent!\" interrupted Wedderburn; \"dare ye,\nforeign minion, speak of the authority of the murderer of the Earl of\nHome, while within the reach of the sword of his kinsman?\"\n\n\"Ay! and in his teeth dare tell him,\" replied the Chevalier, \"that the\nHome now before me is not less a traitor than he who proved false to his\nsovereign on the field of Flodden, who conspired against the Regent, and\nwhose head now adorns the port of Edinburgh.\"\n\n\"Wretch!\" exclaimed the henchman Trotter, dashing forward, and raising\nhis sword, \"said ye that my master proved false at Flodden?\"\n\n\"Hold!\" exclaimed Wedderburn, grasping his arm. \"Gramercy, ye\nuncivilised dog! for the sake of your master's head would ye lift your\nhand against that face which ladies die to look upon? Pardon me, most\nbeautiful Chevalier! the salutation of my servant may be too rough for\nyour French palate, but you and your master treated my kinsman somewhat\nmore roughly. What say ye, Sir Warden? do ye depart in peace, or wish ye\nthat we should try the temper of our Border steel upon your French\nbucklers?\"\n\n\"Depart ye in peace, vain boaster,\" replied D'Arcy, \"lest a worse thing\nbefall you.\"\n\n\"Then on, my merry men!\" cried Wedderburn, \"and to-day the head of the\nRegent's favourite, the Chevalier of Beauty, for the head of the Earl of\nHome!\"\n\n\"The house of Home and revenge!\" shouted his followers, and rushed upon\nthe armed band of D'Arcy. At first the numbers were nearly equal, and\nthe contest was terrible. Each man fought hand to hand, and the ground\nwas contested inch by inch. The gilded ornaments of the French horses\nwere covered with blood, and their movements were encumbered by their\nweight. The sword of Wedderburn had already smitten three of the\nChevalier's followers to the ground, and the two chiefs now contended in\nsingle combat. D'Arcy fought with the fury of despair, but Home\ncontinued to bear upon him as a tiger that has been robbed of its cubs.\nEvery moment the force of the Chevalier was thinned, and every instant\nthe number of his enemies increased, as the neighbouring peasantry\nrallied round the standard of their chief. Finding the most faithful of\nhis followers stretched upon the earth, D'Arcy sought safety in flight.\nDashing his silver spurs into the sides of his noble steed, he turned\nhis back upon his desperate enemy, and rushed along in the direction of\nPouterleiny, and through Dunse, with the hope of gaining the road to\nDunbar, of which town he was governor. Fiercely Wedderburn followed at\nhis heels, with his naked sword uplifted, and ready to strike;\nimmediately behind him rode Trotter, the henchman of the late earl, and\nanother of Home's followers named Dickson. It was a fearful sight as\nthey rushed through Dunse, their horses striking fire from their heels\nin the light of the very sunbeams, and the sword of the pursuer within a\nfew feet of the fugitive. Still the Chevalier rode furiously, urging on\nthe gallant animal that bore him, which seemed conscious that the life\nof its rider depended upon its speed. His flaxen locks waived behind him\nin the wind, and the voice of his pursuers ever and anon fell upon his\near, like a dagger of death thrust into his bosom. The horse upon which\nWedderburn rode had been wounded in the conflict, and, as they drew near\nBroomhouse, its speed slackened, and his followers, Trotter and Dickson,\ntook the lead in the pursuit. The Chevalier had reached a spot on the\nright bank of the Whitadder, which is now in a field of the farm of\nSwallowdean, when his noble steed, becoming entangled with its cumbrous\ntrappings, stumbled, and hurled its rider to the earth. The next moment\nthe swords of Trotter and Dickson were through the body of the\nunfortunate Chevalier.\n\n\"Off with his head!\" exclaimed Wedderburn, who at the same instant\nreached the spot. The bloody mandate was readily obeyed; and Home,\ntaking the bleeding head in his hand, cut off the flaxen tresses, and\ntied them as a trophy to his saddle-bow. The body of the _Chevalier de\nla Beaut\u00e9_ was rudely buried on the spot where he fell. A humble stone\nmarks out the scene of the tragedy, and the people in the neighbourhood\nyet call it \"_Bawty's Grave_.\" The head of the Chevalier was carried to\nDunse, where it was fixed upon a spear at the cross, and Wedderburn\nexclaimed, \"Thus be exalted the enemies of the house of Home!\"\n\nThe bloody relic was then borne in triumph to Home Castle, and placed\nupon the battlements. \"There,\" said Sir David, \"let the Regent climb\nwhen he returns from France for the head of his favourite; it is thus\nthat Home of Wedderburn revenges the murder of his kindred.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE STORY OF THE PELICAN.\n\n\nThough not so much a tradition as a memory still fresh probably in the\nminds of some of the good old Edinburgh folks, we here offer, chiefly\nfor the benefit of our young female readers who are fond of a story\nwherein little heroines figure, as in B\u00e9ranger's _Sylphide_, an account\nof a very famous adventure of a certain little Jeannie Deans in our\ncity--the more like the elder Jeannie, inasmuch as they both were\nconcerned in a loving effort to save the life of a sister. Whereunto, as\na very necessary introduction, it behoves us to set forth that there\nwas, some sixty years ago, more or less, a certain Mr. William Maconie,\nwho was a merchant on the South Bridge of Edinburgh, but who, for the\nsake of exercise and fresh air--a commodity this last he need not have\ngone so far from the Calton Hill to seek--resided at Juniper Green, a\nlittle village three or four miles from St. Giles's. Nor did this\ndistance incommode him much, seeing that he had the attraction to\nquicken his steps homewards of a pretty young wife and two little twin\ndaughters, Mary and Annie, as like each other as two rosebuds partially\nopened, and as like their mother, too, as the objects of our simile are\nto themselves when full blown.\n\nPeculiar in this respect of having twins at the outset, and sisters\ntoo--a good beginning of a contract to perpetuate the species--Mr.\nMaconie was destined to be even more so, inasmuch as there came no more\nof these pleasant _deliciae domi_, at least up to the time of our curious\nstory--a circumstance the more to be regretted by the father, in\nconsequence of a strange fancy (never told to his wife) that possessed\nhim of wishing to insure the lives of his children as they came into the\nworld, or at least after they had got through the rather uninsurable\nperiod of mere infant life. And in execution of this fancy--a very fair\nand reasonable one, and not uncommon at that time, whatever it may be\nnow, when people are not so provident--he had got an insurance to the\nextent of five hundred pounds effected in the Pelican Office--perhaps\nthe most famous at that time--on the lives of the said twins, Mary and\nAnnie, who were, no doubt, altogether unconscious of the importance they\nwere thus made to hold in the world.\n\nYet, unfortunately for the far-seeing and provident father, this scheme\nthreatened to fructify sooner than he wished, if indeed it could ever\nhave fructified to his satisfaction; for the grisly spectre of typhus\nlaid his relentless hand upon Mary when she--and of a consequence\nAnnie--was somewhere about eight years old. And surely, being as we are\nvery hopeful optimists in the cause of human nature, we need not say\nthat the father, as he and his wife watched the suffering invalid on\nthrough the weary days and nights of the progress towards the crisis of\nthat dangerous ailment, never once thought of the Pelican, except as a\nbird that feeds its young with the warm blood of its breast. But,\nsorrowful as they were, their grief was nothing in comparison with the\ndistress of little Annie, who slipped about listening and making all\nmanner of anxious inquiries about her sick sister, whom she was\nprohibited from seeing for fear of her being touched by the said\nspectre; nor was her heart the less troubled with fears for her life,\nthat all things seemed so quiet and mysterious about the house--the\ndoctor coming and going, and the father and mother whispering to each\nother, but never to her, and their faces so sad-like and mournful, in\nplace of being, as was their wont, so cheerful and happy.\n\nAnd surely all this solicitude on the part of Annie Maconie need not\nexcite our wonder, when we consider that, from the time of their birth,\nthe twin sisters had never been separated, but that, from the moment\nthey had made their entrance on this world's stage, they had been always\neach where the other was, and had run each where the other ran, wished\neach what the other wished, and wept and laughed each when the other\nwept or laughed. Nature indeed, before it came into her fickle head to\nmake two of them, had in all probability intended these little\nsisters--\"little cherries on one stalk\"--to be but one; and they could\nonly be said not to be _one_, because of their bodies being two--a\ncircumstance of no great importance, for, in spite of the duality of\nbody, the spirit that animated them was a unity, and as we know from an\nold philosopher called Plato, the spirit is really the human creature,\nthe flesh and bones constituting the body being nothing more than a mere\nhusk intended at the end to feed worms. And then the mother helped this\nsameness by dressing them so like each other, as if she wanted to make a\n_Comedy of Errors_ out of the two little female Dromios.\n\nBut in the middle of this mystery and solicitude, it happened that Annie\nwas to get some light; for, at breakfast one morning--not yet that of\nthe expected crisis--when her father and mother were talking earnestly\nin an undertone to each other, all unaware that the child, as she was\nmoving about, was watching their words and looks, much as an older\nvictim of credulity may be supposed to hang on the cabbalistic movements\nand incantations of a sibyl, the attentive little listener eagerly drank\nin every word of the following conversation:--\n\n\"The doctor is so doubtful,\" said the anxious mother, with a tear in her\neye, \"that I have scarcely any hope; and if she is taken away, the very\nlook of Annie, left alone 'bleating for her sister lamb,' will break my\nheart altogether.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" rejoined Mr. Maconie, \"it would be hard to bear; but\"--and it was\nthe first time since Mary's illness he had ever remembered the\ninsurance--\"it was wise that I insured poor Mary's life in the Pelican.\"\n\n\"Insured her life in the Pelican!\" echoed the wife in a higher tone.\n\"That was at least lucky; but, oh! I hope we will not need to have our\ngrief solaced by that comfort in affliction for many a day.\"\n\nAnd this colloquy had scarcely been finished when the doctor entered,\nhaving gone previously into the invalid's room, with a very mournful\nexpression upon his face; nor did his words make that expression any\nmore bearable, as he said--\n\n\"I am sorry to say I do not like Mary's appearance so well to-day. I\nfear it is to be one of those cases where we cannot discover anything\nlike a crisis at all; indeed I have doubts about this old theory being\napplicable to this kind of fever, where the virus goes on gradually\nworking to the end.\"\n\n\"The end!\" echoed Mrs. Maconie; \"then, doctor, I fear you see what that\nwill be.\"\n\n\"I would not like to say,\" added he; \"but I fear you must make up your\nmind for the worst.\"\n\nNow, all this was overheard by Annie, who, we may here seize the\nopportunity of saying, was, in addition to being a sensitive creature,\none of those precocious little philosophers thinly spread in the female\nworld, and made what they are often by delicate health, which reduces\nthem to a habit of thinking much before their time. Not that she wanted\nthe vivacity of her age, but that it was tempered by periods of serious\nmusing, when all kinds of what the Scotch call \"auld farrant\" (far yont)\nthoughts come to be where they should not be, the consequence being a\nweird-like kind of wisdom, very like that of the aged; so the effect on\na creature so constituted was just equal to the cause. Annie ran out of\nthe room with her face concealed in her hands, and got into a small\nbedroom darkened by the window-blind, and there, in an obscurity and\nsolitude suited to her mind and feelings, she resigned herself to the\ngrief of the young heart. It was now clear to her that her dear Mary was\nto be taken from her; had not the doctor said as much? And then she had\nnever seen death, of which she had read and heard and thought so much,\nthat she looked upon it as a thing altogether mysterious and terrible.\nBut had she not overheard her father say that he had insured poor dear\nMary's life with the Pelican? and had she not heard of the pelican--yea,\nthe pelican of the wilderness--as a creature of a most mythical kind,\nthough she knew not aught of its nature, whether bird or beast, or man\nor woman, or angel? But whatever it might be, certain it was that her\nfather would never have got this wonderful creature to insure Mary's\nlife if it was not possessed of the power to bring about so great a\nresult. So she cogitated and mused and philosophized in her small way,\ntill she came to the conclusion that the pelican not only had the\ndestiny of Mary in its hands, but was under an obligation to save her\nfrom that death which was so terrible to her. Nor had she done yet with\nthe all-important subject; for all at once it came into her head as a\nfaint memory, that one day, when her father was taking her along with\nher mother through the city, he pointed to a gilded sign, with a large\nbird represented thereon, tearing its breast with its long beak, and\nletting out the blood to its young, who were holding their mouths open\nto drink it in. \"There,\" said he, \"is the Pelican;\" words she remembered\neven to that hour, for they were imprinted upon her mind by the\nformidable appearance of the wonderful-looking creature feeding its\nyoung with the very blood of its bosom. But withal she had sense enough\nto know--being, as we have said, a small philosopher--that a mere bird,\nhowever endowed with the power of sustaining the lives of its offspring,\ncould not save that of her sister, and therefore it behoved to be only\nthe symbol of some power within the office over the door of which the\nsaid sign was suspended. Nor in all this was Annie Maconie more\nextravagant than are nineteen-twentieths of the thousand millions in the\nworld who still cling to occult causes.\n\nAnd with those there came other equally strange thoughts; but beyond all\nshe could not for the very life of her comprehend that most inexcusable\napathy of her father, who, though he had heard with his own ears, from\ngood authority, that her beloved Mary was lying in the next bedroom\ndying, never seemed to think of hurrying away to town--even to that very\nPelican who had so generously undertaken to insure Mary's life. It was\nan apathy unbecoming a father; and the blood of her little heart warmed\nwith indignation at the very time that the said heart was down in sorrow\nas far as its loose strings would enable it to go. But was there no\nremedy? To be sure there was, and Annie knew, moreover, what it was; but\nthen it was to be got only by a sacrifice, and that sacrifice she also\nknew, though it must of necessity be kept in the meantime as secret as\nthe wonderful doings in the death-chamber of the palace of a certain\nBluebeard.\n\nGreat thoughts these for so little a woman as Annie Maconie; and no\ndoubt the greatness and the weight of them were the cause why, for all\nthat day--every hour of which her father was allowing to pass--she was\nmore melancholy and thoughtful than she had ever been since Mary began\nto be ill. But, somehow, there was a peculiar change which even her\nmother could observe in her; for while she had been in the habit of\nweeping for her sister, yea, and sobbing very piteously, she was all\nthis day apparently in a reverie. Nor even up to the time of her going\nto bed was she less thoughtful and abstracted, even as if she had been\nengaged in solving some problem great to her, however small it might\nseem to grown-up infants. As for sleeping under the weight of so much\nresponsibility, it might seem to be out of the question; and so, verily,\nit was; for her little body, acted on by the big thoughts, was moved\nfrom one side to another all night, so that she never slept a wink,\nstill thinking and thinking, in her unutterable grief, of poor Mary, her\nfather's criminal passiveness, and that most occult remedy which so\ncompletely engrossed her mind.\n\nBut certainly it was the light of morning for which sister Annie sighed;\nand when it came glinting in at the small window, she was up and\nbeginning to dress, all the while listening lest the servant or any\nother one in the house should know she was up at that hour. Having\ncompleted her toilet, she slipped down stairs, and having got to the\nlobby, she was provident enough to lay hold of an umbrella, for she\nsuspected the elements as being in league against her. Thus equipped,\nshe crept out by the back door, and having got thus free, she hurried\nalong, never looking behind her till she came to the main road to\nEdinburgh, when she mounted the umbrella--one used by her father, and so\nlarge that it was more like a main-sheet than a covering suitable to so\nsmall a personage; so it behoved, that if she met any other \"travellers\non purpose bent,\" the moving body must have appeared to be some small\ntent on its way to a fair, carried by the proprietor thereof, of whom no\nmore could be seen but the two short toddling legs, and the hem of the\nblack riding-hood. But what cared Annie? She toiled along; the miles\nwere long in comparison of the short legs, but then there was a large\npurpose in that little body, in the view of which miles were of small\naccount, however long a time it might take those steps to go over them.\nNor was it any drawback to all this energy, concentrated in so small a\nbulk, that she had had no breakfast. Was the dying sister Mary able to\ntake any breakfast? and why should Annie eat when Mary, who did all she\ndid--and she always did everything that sister Mary did--could not? The\nargument was enough for our little logician.\n\nBy the time she reached, by those short steps of hers, the great city,\nit was half-past eleven, and she had before her still a great deal to\naccomplish. She made out, after considerable wanderings, the street\nsignalized above all streets by that wonderful bird; but after she got\ninto it, the greater difficulty remained of finding the figure itself,\nwhereto there was this untoward obstacle, that it was still drizzling in\nthe thick Scotch way of concrete drops of mist, and the umbrella which\nshe held over her head was so large that no turning it aside would\nenable her to see under the rim at such an angle as would permit her\nscanning so elevated a position, and so there was nothing for it but to\ndraw it down. But even this was a task--heavy as the mainsheet was with\nrain, and rattling in a considerable wind--almost beyond her strength;\nand if it hadn't been that a kindly personage who saw the little maid's\ndifficulty gave her assistance, she might not have been able to\naccomplish it. And now, with the heavy article in her hand, she peered\nabout for another half-hour, till at length her gladdened eye fell upon\nthe mystic symbol.\n\nAnd no sooner had she made sure of the object than she found her way\ninto the office, asking the porter as well as a clerk where the pelican\nwas to be found,--questions that produced a smile; but smile here or\nsmile there, Annie was not to be beat; nor did she stop in her progress\nuntil at last she was shown into a room where she saw, perched on a high\nstool, with three (of course) long legs, a strange-looking personage\nwith a curled wig and a pair of green spectacles, who no doubt must be\nthe pelican himself. As she appeared in the room with the umbrella, not\nmuch shorter or less in circumference than herself, the gentleman looked\ncuriously at her, wondering no doubt what the errand of so strange a\nlittle customer could be.\n\n\"Well, my little lady,\" said he, \"what may be your pleasure?\"\n\n\"I want the pelican,\" said Annie.\n\nThe gentleman was still more astonished, even to the extent that he laid\ndown his pen and looked at her again.\n\n\"The pelican, dear?\"\n\n\"Ay, just the pelican,\" answered she deliberately, and even a little\nindignantly. \"Are you the pelican?\"\n\n\"Why, yes, dear; all that is for it below the figure,\" said he, smiling,\nand wondering what the next question would be.\n\n\"I am so glad I have found you,\" said she; \"because sister Mary is\ndying.\"\n\n\"And who is sister Mary?\"\n\n\"My sister, Mary Maconie, at Juniper Green.\"\n\nWhereupon the gentleman began to remember that the name of William\nMaconie was in his books as holder of a policy.\n\n\"And what more?\"\n\n\"My father says the pelican insured Mary's life; and I want you to come\ndirect and do it, because I couldn't live if Mary were to die; and\nthere's no time to be lost.\"\n\n\"Oh! I see, dear. And who sent you?\"\n\n\"Nobody,\" answered Annie. \"My father wouldn't come to you; and I have\ncome from Juniper Green myself without telling my father or mother.\"\n\n\"Oh yes, dear! I understand you.\"\n\n\"But you must do it quick,\" continued she, \"because the doctor says\nshe's in great danger; so you must come with me and save her\nimmediately.\"\n\n\"I am sorry, my dear little lady,\" rejoined he, \"that I cannot go with\nyou; but I will set about it immediately, and I have no doubt, being\nable to go faster than you, that I will get there before you, so that\nall will be right before you arrive.\"\n\n\"See that you do it, then,\" said she; \"because I can't live if Mary\ndies. Are you quite sure you will do it?\"\n\n\"Perfectly sure, my little dear,\" added he. \"Go away home, and all will\nbe right; the pelican will do his duty.\"\n\nAnd Annie being thus satisfied, went away, dragging the main-sheet after\nher, and having upon her face a look of contentment, if not absolute\nhappiness, in place of the sorrow which had occupied it during all the\ntime of her toilsome journey. The same road is to be retraced; and if\nshe had an object before which nerved her little limbs, she had now the\ndelightful consciousness of that object having been effected--a feeling\nof inspiration which enabled her, hungry as she was, to overcome all the\ntoil of the return. Another two hours, with that heavy umbrella over\nhead as well as body, brought her at length home, where she found that\npeople had been sent out in various directions to find the missing\nAnnie. The mother was in tears, and the father in great anxiety; and no\nsooner had she entered and laid down her burden, than she was clasped to\nthe bosom, first of one parent, and then of the other.\n\n\"But where is the pelican?\" said the anxious little maid.\n\n\"The pelican, my darling!\" cried the mother; \"what do you mean?\"\n\n\"Oh! I have been to him at his own office at Edinburgh to get him to\ncome and save Mary's life, and he said he would be here before me.\"\n\n\"And what in the world put it in your head to go there?\" again asked the\nmother.\n\n\"Because I heard my father say yesterday that the pelican had insured\ndear sister Mary's life, and I went to tell him to come and do it\nimmediately; because if Mary were to die, I couldn't live, you know.\nThat's the reason, dear mother.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes,\" said the father, scarcely able to repress a smile which rose\nin spite of his grief. \"I see it all. You did a very right thing, my\nlove. The pelican has been here, and Mary is better.\"\n\n\"Oh! I am so glad,\" rejoined Annie; \"for I wasn't sure whether he had\ncome or not; because, though I looked for him on the road, I couldn't\nsee him.\"\n\nAt the same moment the doctor came in, with a blithe face.\n\n\"Mary is safe now,\" said he. \"There has been a crisis, after all. The\nsweat has broken out upon her dry skin, and she will be well in a very\nshort time.\"\n\n\"And there's no thanks to you,\" said Annie, \"because it was I who went\nfor the pelican.\"\n\nWhereupon the doctor looked to the father, who, taking him aside,\nnarrated to him the story, at which the doctor was so pleased that he\nlaughed right out.\n\n\"You're the noblest little heroine I ever heard of,\" said he.\n\n\"But have you had anything to eat, dear, in this long journey?\" said the\nmother.\n\n\"No, I didn't want,\" was the answer; \"all I wanted was to save Mary's\nlife, and I am glad I have done it.\"\n\nAnd glad would we be if, by the laws of historical truth, our stranger\nstory could have ended here; but, alas! we are obliged to pain the good\nreader's heart by saying that the demon who had left the troubled little\nbreast of Mary Maconie took possession of Annie's. The very next day she\nlay extended on the bed, panting under the fell embrace of the\nrelentless foe. As Mary got better, Annie grew worse; and her case was\nso far unlike Mary's, that there was more a tendency to a fevered state\nof the brain. The little sufferer watched with curious eyes the anxious\nfaces of her parents, and seemed conscious that she was in a dangerous\ncondition. Nor did it fail to occur to her as a great mystery as well as\nwonder, why they did not send for the wonderful being who had so\npromptly saved the life of her sister. The thought haunted her, yet she\nwas afraid to mention it to her mother, because it implied a sense of\ndanger--a fear which one evening she overcame. Fixing her eyes, now\nevery moment waxing less clear, on the face of her mother--\n\n\"Oh mother, dear,\" she whispered, \"why do you not send for the pelican?\"\n\nIn other circumstances the mother would have smiled; but, alas, no smile\ncould be seen on that pale face. Whether the pelican was sent for we\nknow not, but certain it is, that he had no power to save poor Annie,\nand she died within the week. But she did not die in vain, for the large\nsum insured upon her life eventually came to Mary, whom she loved so\ndearly.\n\n\n\n\nTHE WIDOW'S AE SON.\n\n\nWe will not name the village where the actors in the following incidents\nresided; and it is sufficient for our purpose to say that it lay in the\ncounty of Berwick, and within the jurisdiction of the Presbytery of\nDunse. Eternity has gathered forty winters into its bosom since the\nprincipal events took place. Janet Jeffrey was left a widow before her\nonly child had completed his tenth year. While her husband lay upon his\ndeathbed, he called her to his bedside, and, taking her hand within his,\nhe groaned, gazed on her face, and said, \"Now, Janet, I'm gaun a lang\nand a dark journey; but ye winna forget, Janet--ye winna forget--for ye\nken it has aye been uppermost in my thoughts and first in my desires, to\nmak Thamas a minister; promise me that ae thing, Janet, that, if it be\nHIS will, ye will see it performed, an' I will die in peace.\" In sorrow\nthe pledge was given, and in joy performed. Her life became wrapt up in\nher son's life; and it was her morning and her evening prayer that she\nmight live to see her \"dear Thamas a shining light in the kirk.\" Often\nshe declared that he was an \"auld farrant bairn, and could ask a\nblessing like ony minister.\" Our wishes and affections, however, often\nblind our judgment. Nobody but the mother thought the son fitted for the\nkirk, nor the kirk fitted for him. There was always something original,\nalmost poetical about him; but still Thomas was \"no orator as Brutus\nwas.\" His mother had few means beyond the labour of her hands for their\nsupport. She had kept him at the parish school until he was fifteen, and\nhe had learned all that his master knew; and in three years more, by\nrising early and sitting late at her daily toils, and the savings of his\nfield labour and occasional teaching, she was enabled to make\npreparation for sending him to Edinburgh. Never did her wheel spin so\nblithely since her husband was taken from her side, as when she put the\nfirst lint upon the rock for his college sarks. Proudly did she show to\nher neighbours her double spinel yarn--observing, \"It's nae finer than\nhe deserves, poor fallow, for he'll pay me back some day.\" The web was\nbleached and the shirts made by her own hands; and the day of his\ndeparture arrived. It was a day of joy mingled with anguish. He attended\nthe classes regularly and faithfully; and truly as St. Giles's marked\nthe hour, the long, lean figure of Thomas Jeffrey, in a suit of shabby\nblack, and half a dozen volumes under his arm, was seen issuing from his\ngarret in the West Bow, darting down the frail stair with the velocity\nof a shadow, measuring the Lawnmarket and High Street with gigantic\nstrides, gliding like a ghost up the South Bridge, and sailing through\nthe Gothic archway of the College, till the punctual student was lost in\nits inner chambers. Years rolled by, and at length the great, the awful\nday arrived--\n\n\"Big with the fate of Thomas and his mother.\"\n\nHe was to preach his trial sermon; and where? In his own parish--in his\nnative village! It was summer, but his mother rose by daybreak. Her son,\nhowever, was at his studies before her; and when she entered his bedroom\nwith a swimming heart and swimming eyes, Thomas was stalking across the\nfloor, swinging his arms, stamping his feet, and shouting his sermon to\nthe trembling curtains of a four-post bed, which she had purchased in\nhonour of him alone. \"Oh, my bairn! my matchless bairn!\" cried she,\n\"what a day o' joy is this for your poor mother! But oh, hinny, hae ye\nit weel aff? I hope there's nae fears o' ye stickin' or using notes!\"\n\"Dinna fret, mother--dinna fret,\" replied the young divine; \"stickin'\nand notes are out o' the question. I hae every word o' it as clink as\nthe A B C.\" The appointed hour arrived. She was first at the kirk. Her\nheart felt too big for her bosom. She could not sit--she walked again to\nthe air--she trembled back--she gazed restless on the pulpit. The parish\nminister gave out the psalm--the book shook while she held it. The\nminister prayed, again gave out a psalm, and left the pulpit. The book\nfell from Mrs. Jeffrey's hand. A tall figure paced along the passage. He\nreached the pulpit stairs--took two steps at once. It was a bad omen;\nbut arose from the length of his limbs--not levity. He opened the\ndoor--his knees smote upon one another. He sat down--he was paler than\ndeath. He rose--his bones were paralytic. The Bible was opened--his\nmouth opened at the same time, and remained open, but said nothing. His\nlarge eyes stared wildly around. At length his teeth chattered, and the\ntext was announced, though half the congregation disputed it. \"My\nbrethren!\" said he once, and the whiteness of his countenance increased;\nbut he said no more. \"My bre--thren!\" responded he a second time; his\nteeth chattered louder; his cheeks became clammy and death-like. \"My\nbrethren!\" stammered he a third time emphatically, and his knees fell\ntogether. A deep groan echoed from his mother's pew. His wildness\nincreased. \"My mother!\" exclaimed the preacher. They were the last words\nhe ever uttered in a pulpit. The shaking and the agony began in his\nheart, and his body caught the contagion. He covered his face with his\nhands, fell back, and wept. His mother screamed aloud, and fell back\nalso; and thus perished her toils, her husband's prayer, her fond\nanticipations, and the pulpit oratory of her son. A few neighbours\ncrowded round her to console her and render her assistance. They led her\nto the door. She gazed upon them with a look of vacancy--thrice\nsorrowfully waved her hand, in token that they should leave her; for\ntheir words fell upon her heart like dew upon a furnace. Silently she\narose and left them, and reaching her cottage, threw herself upon her\nbed in bitterness. She shed no tears; neither did she groan, but her\nbosom heaved with burning agony. Sickness smote Thomas to his very\nheart; yea, even unto blindness he was sick. His tongue was like heated\niron in his mouth, and his throat like a parched land. He was led from\nthe pulpit. But he escaped not the persecution of the unfeeling titter,\nand the expressions of shallow pity. He would have rejoiced to have\ndwelt in darkness for ever, but there was no escape from the eyes of his\ntormentors. The congregation stood in groups in the kirkyard, \"just,\" as\nthey said, \"to hae anither look at the orator;\" and he must pass through\nthe midst of them. With his very soul steeped in shame, and his cheeks\ncovered with confusion, he stepped from the kirk door. A humming noise\nissued through the crowd, and every one turned their faces towards him.\nHis misery was greater than he could bear. \"Yon was oratory for ye!\"\nsaid one. \"Poor deevil!\" added another, \"I'm sorry for him; but it was\nas guid as a play.\" \"Was it tragedy or comedy?\" inquired a third,\nlaughing as he spoke. The remarks fell upon his ear--he grated his teeth\nin madness, but he could endure no more; and, covering his face with his\nhands, he bounded off like a wounded deer to his mother's cottage. In\ndespair he entered the house, scarce knowing what he did. He beheld her\nwhere she had fallen upon the bed, dead to all but misery. \"Oh mother,\nmother!\" he cried, \"dinna ye be angry--dinna ye add to the afflictions\nof your son! Will ye no, mother?--will ye no?\" A low groan was the only\nanswer. He hurried to and fro across the room, wringing his hands.\n\"Mother,\" he again exclaimed, \"will ye no speak ae word? Oh, woman! ye\nwadna be angry if ye kenned what an awfu' thing it is to see a thousan'\neen below ye, and aboon ye, and round about ye, a' staring upon ye like\ncondemning judges, an' looking into your very soul--ye hae nae idea o'\nit, mother; I tell ye, ye hae nae idea o't, or ye wadna be angry. The\nvery pulpit floor gaed down wi' me, the kirk wa's gaed round about, and\nI thought the very crown o' my head wad pitch on the top o' the\nprecentor. The very een o' the multitude soomed round me like\nfishes!--an' oh, woman! are ye dumb? will ye torment me mair? can ye no\nspeak, mother?\" But he spoke to one who never spoke again. Her reason\ndeparted, and her speech failed, but grief remained. She had lived upon\none hope, and that hope was destroyed. Her round ruddy cheeks and portly\nform wasted away, and within a few weeks the neighbours, who performed\nthe last office of humanity, declared that a thinner corpse was never\nwrapt in a winding sheet than Mrs. Jeffrey. Time soothed, but did not\nheal the sorrows, the shame, and the disappointment of the son. He sank\ninto a village teacher, and often, in the midst of his little school, he\nwould quote his first, his only text--imagine the children to be his\ncongregation--attempt to proceed--gaze wildly round for a moment, and\nsit down and weep. Through these aberrations his school dwindled into\nnothingness, and poverty increased his delirium. Once, in the midst of\nthe remaining few, he gave forth the fatal text. \"My brethren!\" he\nexclaimed, and smiting his hand upon his forehead, cried, \"Speak,\nmother!--speak now!\" and fell with his face upon the floor. The children\nrushed screaming from the school, and when the villagers entered, the\ntroubled spirit had fled for ever.\n\n\n\n\nTHE LAWYER'S TALES.\n\nTHE STORY OF MYSIE CRAIG.\n\n\nIn detailing the curious circumstances of the following story, I am\nagain only reporting a real law case to be found in the Court of Session\nRecords, the turning-point of which was as invisible to the judges as to\nthe parties themselves--that is, until the end came; a circumstance\nagain which made the case a kind of developed romance. But as an end\nimplies a beginning, and the one is certainly as necessary as the other,\nwe request you to accompany us--taking care of your feet--up the narrow\nspiral staircase of a tenement called Corbet's Land, in the same old\ntown where so many wonderful things in the complicated drama--or dream,\nif you are a Marphurius--of human life have occurred. Up which spiral\nstair having got by the help of our hands, almost as indispensable as\nthat of the feet, we find ourselves in a little human dovecot of two\nsmall rooms, occupied by two persons not unlike, in many respects, two\ndoves--Widow Craig and her daughter, called May, euphuized by the Scotch\ninto Mysie. The chief respects in which they might be likened, without\nmuch stress, to the harmless creatures we have mentioned, were their\nlove for each other, together with their total inoffensiveness as\nregarded the outside world; and we are delighted to say this, for we see\nso many of the multitudinous sides of human nature dark and depraved,\nthat we are apt to think there is no bright side at all. Nor shall we\nlet slip the opportunity of saying, at the risk of being considered very\nsimple, that of all the gifts of felicity bestowed, as the Pagan Homer\ntells, upon mankind by the gods, no one is so perfect and beautiful as\nthe love that exists between a good mother and a good daughter.\n\nFor so much we may be safe by having recourse to instinct, which is\ndeeper than any secondary causes we poor mortals can see. But beyond\nthis, there were special reasons tending to this same result of mutual\naffection, which come more within the scope of our observation. In\nexplanation of which, we may say that the mother, having something in\nher power during her husband's life, had foreseen the advantages of\nusing it in the instruction of her quick and intelligent daughter in an\nart of far more importance then than now--that of artistic, needlework.\nNay, of so much importance was this beautiful art, and to such\nperfection was it brought at a time when a lady's petticoat, embroidered\nby the hand, with its profuse imitations of natural objects, flowers,\nand birds, and strange devices, would often cost twenty pounds Scots,\nthat a sight of one of those operose achievements of genius would make\nus blush for our time and the labours of our women. Nor was the\nperfection in this ornamental industry a new thing, for the daughters of\nthe Pictish kings confined in the castle were adepts in it; neither was\nit left altogether to paid sempstresses, for great ladies spent their\ntime in it, and emulation quickened both the genius and the diligence.\nSo we need hardly say it became to the mother a thing to be proud of,\nthat her daughter Mysie proved herself so apt a scholar that she became\nan adept, and was soon known as one of the finest embroideresses in the\ngreat city. So, too, as a consequence, it came to pass that great ladies\nemployed her; and often the narrow spiral staircase of Corbet's Land was\nbrushed on either side by the huge masses of quilted and emblazoned silk\nthat, enveloping the belles of the day, were with difficulty forced up\nto and down from the small room of the industrious Mysie.\n\nBut we are now speaking of art, while we should have more to say (for it\nconcerns us more) of the character of the young woman who was destined\nto figure in a stranger way than in making beautiful figures on silk.\nMysie was one of a class: few in number they are indeed, but on that\naccount more to be prized. Her taste and fine manipulations were but\ncounterparts of qualities of the heart--an organ to which the pale face,\nwith its delicate lines and the clear liquid eyes, was a suitable index.\nThe refinement which enabled her to make her imitation of beautiful\nobjects on the delicate material of her work was only another form of a\nsensibility which pervaded her whole nature--that gift which is only\nconceded to peculiar organizations, and is such a doubtful one, too, if\nwe go, as we cannot help doing, with the poet, when he sings that\n\"chords that vibrate sweetest pleasures,\" often also \"thrill the deepest\nnotes of woe.\" Nay, we might say that the creatures themselves seem to\nfear the gift, for they shrink from the touch of the rough world, and\nretire within themselves as if to avoid it, while they are only courting\nits effects in the play of an imagination much too ardent for the duties\nof life; and, as a consequence, how they seek secretly the support of\nstronger natures, clinging to them as do those strange plants called\nparasites, which, with their tender arms and something so like fingers,\ncling to the nearest stem of a stouter neighbour, and embracing it, even\nthough hollow and rotten, cover it, and choke it with a flood of\nflowers. So true is it that woman, like the generous vine, lives by\nbeing supported and held up; yet equally true that the strength she\ngains is from the embrace she gives; and so it is also that goodness, as\nour Scottish poet Home says, often wounds itself, and affection proves\nthe spring of sorrow.\n\nAll which might truly be applied to Mysie Craig; but as yet the stronger\nstem to which she clung was her mother, and it was not likely, nor was\nit in reality, that that affection would prove to her anything but the\nspring of happiness, for it was ripened by love; and the earnings of the\nnimble fingers, moving often into the still hours of the night, not only\nkept the wolf from the door, but let in the lambs of domestic harmony\nand peace. Would that these things had so continued! But there are other\nwolves than those of poverty, and the \"ae lamb o' the fauld\" cannot be\nalways under the protection of the ewe; and it so happened on a certain\nnight, not particularized in the calendar, that our Mysie, having\nfinished one of these floral petticoats on which she had been engaged\nfor many weeks, went forth with her precious burden to deliver the same\nto its impatient owner, no other than the then famous Anabella Gilroy,\nwho resided in Advocate's Close--of which fine lady, by the way, we may\nsay, that of all the gay creatures who paraded between \"the twa Bows,\"\nno one displayed such ample folds of brocaded silk, nodded her pon-pons\nmore jauntily, or napped with a sharper crack her high-heeled shoes, all\nto approve herself to \"the bucks\" of the time, with their square coats\nbrocaded with lace, their three-cornered hats on the top of their\nbob-wigs, their knee-buckles and shoe-buckles. And certainly not the\nleast important of those, both in his own estimation and that of the\nsprightly Anabella, was George Balgarnie, a young man who had only a\nyear before succeeded to the property of Balgruddery, somewhere in the\nnorth, and of whom we might say that, in forming him, Nature had taken\nso much pains with the building up of the body, that she had forgotten\nthe mind, so that he had no more spiritual matter in him than sufficed\nto keep his blood hot, and enable his sensual organs to work out their\nown selfish gratifications; or, to perpetrate a metaphor, he was all the\npolished mahogany of a piano, without any more musical springs than\nmight respond to one keynote of selfishness. And surely Anabella had\napproved herself to the fop to some purpose; for when our sempstress\nwith her bundle had got into the parlour of the fine lady, she\nencountered no other than Balgarnie--a circumstance apparently of very\nsmall importance; but we know that a moment of time is sometimes like a\nsmall seed, which contains the nucleus of a great tree--perhaps a\npoisonous one. And so it turned out that, while Anabella was gloating\nover the beautiful work of the timid embroideress, Balgarnie was busy\nadmiring the artist, but not merely--perhaps not at all--as an artist,\nonly as an object over whom he wished to exercise power.\n\nThis circumstance was not unobserved by the little embroideress, but it\nwas only observed to be shrunk from in her own timid way; and probably\nit would soon have passed from her mind, if it had not been followed up\nby something more direct and dangerous. And it was; for no sooner had\nMysie got to the foot of the stairs than she encountered Balgarnie, who\nhad gone out before her; and now began one of those romances in daily\nlife of which the world is full, and of which the world is sick.\nBalgarnie, in short, commenced that kind of suit which is nearly as old\nas the serpent, and therefore not to be wondered at; neither are we to\nwonder that Mysie listened to it, because we have heard so much about\n\"lovely woman stooping to folly,\" that we are content to put it to the\nlarge account of natural miracles. And not very miraculous either, when\nwe remember that if the low-breathed accents of tenderness awaken the\ngerm of love, they awaken at the same time faith and trust. And such was\nthe beginning of the romance which was to go through the normal\nstages,--the appointment to meet again, the meeting itself, the others\nthat followed, the extension of the moonlight walks, sometimes to the\nHunter's Bog between Arthur's Seat and Salisbury Crags, and sometimes to\nthe song-famed \"Wells o' Weary,\"--all which were just as sun and shower\nto the germ of the plant. The love grew and grew, and the faith grew and\ngrew also which saw in him that which it felt in itself. Nay, if any of\nthose moonlight-loving elves that have left their foot-marks in the\nfairy rings to be seen near St. Anthony's Well had whispered in Mysie's\near, \"Balgarnie will never make you his wife,\" she would have believed\nthe words as readily as if they had impugned the sincerity of her own\nheart. In short, we have again the analogue of the parasitic plant. The\nvery fragility and timidity of Mysie were at once the cause and\nconsequence of her confidence. She would cling to him and cover him with\nthe blossoms of her affection; nay, if there were unsoundness in the\nstem, these very blossoms would cover the rottenness.\n\nThis change in the life of the little sempstress could not fail to\nproduce some corresponding change at home. We read smoothly the play we\nhave acted ourselves; and so the mother read love in the daughter's\neyes, and heard it, too, in her long sighs; nor did she fail to read the\nsign that the song which used to lighten her beautiful work was no\nlonger heard; for love to creatures so formed as Mysie Craig is too\nserious an affair for poetical warbling. But she said nothing; for while\nshe had faith in the good sense and virtue of her daughter, she knew\nalso that there was forbearance due to one who was her support. Nor, as\nyet, had she reason to fear, for Mysie still plied her needle, and the\nroses and the lilies sprang up in all their varied colours out of the\nground of the silk or satin as quickly and as beautifully as they were\nwont, though the lilies of her checks waxed paler as the days flitted.\nAnd why the latter should have been, we must leave to the reader; for\nourselves only hazarding the supposition that, perhaps, she already\nthought that Balgarnie should be setting about to make her his wife--an\nissue which behoved to be the result of their intimacy sooner or later;\nfor that in her simple mind there should be any other issue, was just\nabout as impossible as that, in the event of the world lasting as long,\nthe next moon would not, at her proper time, again shine in that green\nhollow, between the Lion's Head and Samson's Ribs, which had so often\nbeen the scene of their happiness. Nay, we might say that though a doubt\non the subject had by any means got into her mind, it would not have\nremained there longer than it took a shudder to scare the wild thing\naway.\n\nOf course, all this was only a question of time; but certain it is, that\nby-and-by the mother could see some connection between Mysie's being\nmore seldom out on those moonlight nights than formerly, and a greater\npaleness in her thin face, as if the one had been the cause of the\nother. But still she said nothing, for she daily expected that Mysie\nwould herself break the subject to her; and so she was left only to\nincreasing fears that her daughter's heart and affections had been\ntampered with, and perhaps she had fears that went farther. Still, so\nfar as yet had gone, there was no remission in the labours of Mysie's\nfingers, as if in the midst of all--whatever that all might be--she\nrecognised the paramount necessity of bringing in by those fingers the\nrequired and usual amount of the means of their livelihood. Nay, somehow\nor other, there was at that very time, when her cheek was at the palest,\nand her sighs were at their longest, and her disinclination to speak was\nat the strongest, an increase of work upon her; for was not there a\ngrand tunic to embroider for Miss Anabella, which was wanted on a given\nday; and were there not other things for Miss Anabella's friend, Miss\nAllardice, which were not to be delayed beyond that same day? And so she\nstitched and stitched on and on, till sometimes the little lamp seemed\nto go out for want of oil, while the true cause of her diminished light\nwas really the intrusion of the morning sun, against which it had no\nchance. It might be, too, that her very anxiety to get these grand\ndresses finished helped to keep out of her mind ideas which could have\ndone her small good, even if they had got in.\n\nBut at length the eventful hour came when the gentle sempstress withdrew\nthe shining needle, made clear by long use, from the last touch of the\nlast rose; and doubtless, if Mysie had not been under the cloud of\nsorrow we have mentioned, she would have been happier at the termination\nof so long a labour than she had ever been, for the finishing evening\nhad always been celebrated by a glass of strong Edinburgh ale--a drink\nwhich, as both a liquor and a liqueur, was as famous then as it is at\nthis day. But of what avail was this work-termination to her now? Was it\nnot certain that she had not seen Balgarnie for two moons? and though\nthe impossibility of his not marrying her was just as impossible as\never, why were these two moons left to shine in the green hollow and on\nthe rising hill without the privilege of throwing the shadows of Mysie\nCraig and George Balgarnie on the grass, where the fairies had left the\ntraces of their dances? Questions these which she was unable to answer,\nif it were not even that she was afraid to put them to herself. Then,\nwhen was it that she felt herself unable to tie up her work in order to\ntake it home, and that her mother, seeing the reacting effect of the\nprior sleepless nights in her languid frame, did this little duty for\nher, even as while she was doing it she looked through her tears at her\nchanged daughter? But Mysie would do so much. While the mother should go\nto Miss Allardice, Mysie would proceed to Miss Anabella; and so it was\narranged. They went forth together, parting at the Nether Bow; and\nMysie, in spite of a weakness which threatened to bring her with her\nburden to the ground, struggled on to her destination. At the top of\nAdvocate's Close she saw a man hurry out and increase his step even as\nher eye rested on him; and if it had not appeared to her to be among the\nultimate impossibilities of things, natural as well as unnatural, she\nwould have sworn that that man was George Balgarnie; but then, it just\nso happened that Mysie came to the conclusion that such a circumstance\nwas among these ultimate impossibilities.\n\nThis resolution was an effort which cost her more than the conviction\nwould have done, though doubtless she did not feel this at the time, and\nso with a kind of forced step she mounted the stair; but when she got\ninto the presence of Miss Gilroy, she could scarcely pronounce the\nwords--\n\n\"I have brought you the dress, ma'am.\"\n\n\"And I am so delighted, Miss Craig, that I could almost take you into my\narms,\" said the lady; \"but what ails ye, dear? You are as white as any\nsnow I ever saw, whereas you ought to have been as blithe as a\nbridesmaid, for don't you know that you have brought me home one of my\nmarriage dresses? Come now, smile when I tell you that to-morrow is my\nwedding-day.\"\n\n\"Wedding-day,\" muttered Mysie, as she thought of the aforesaid utter\nimpossibility of herself not being soon married to George Balgarnie; an\nimpossibility not rendered less impossible by the resolution she had\nformed not to believe that within five minutes he had flown away from\nher.\n\n\"Yes, Miss Craig, and surely you must have heard who the gentleman is;\nfor does not the town ring of it from the castle to the palace, from\nKirk-o'-Field to the Calton?\"\n\n\"I have not been out,\" said Mysie.\n\n\"That accounts for it,\" continued the lady; \"and I am delighted at the\nreason, for wouldn't it have been terrible to think that my marriage\nwith George Balgarnie of Balgruddery was a thing of so small a note as\nnot to be known everywhere?\"\n\nIf Mysie Craig had appeared shortly before to Miss Gilroy paler than any\nsnow her ladyship had ever seen, she must now have been as pale as some\nother kind of snow that nobody ever saw. The dreadful words had indeed\nproduced the adequate effect, but not in the most common way, for we are\nto keep in view that it is not the most shrinking and sensitive natures\nthat are always the readiest to faint; and there was, besides, the\naforesaid conviction of impossibility which, grasping the mind by a\ncertain force, deadened the ear to words implying the contrary. Mysie\nstood fixed to the spot, as if she were trying to realize some certainty\nshe dared not think was possible, her lips apart, her eyes riveted on\nthe face of the lady--mute as that kind of picture which a certain\nancient calls a silent poem, and motionless as a figure of marble.\n\nAn attitude and appearance still more inexplicable to Anabella, perhaps\nirritating as an unlucky omen, and therefore not possessing any claim\nfor sympathy--at least it got none.\n\n\"Are you the Mysie Craig,\" she cried, as she looked at the girl, \"who\nused to chat to me about the dresses you brought, and the flowers on\nthem? Ah, jealous and envious, is that it? But you forget, George\nBalgarnie never could have made _you_ his wife--a working needlewoman;\nhe only fancied you as the plaything of an hour. He told me so himself\nwhen I charged him with having been seen in your company. So, Mysie, you\nmay as well look cheerful. Your turn will come next with some one in\nyour own station.\"\n\nThere are words which stimulate and confirm; there are others that seem\nto kill the nerve and take away the sense, nor can we ever tell the\neffect till we see it produced; and so we could not have told\nbeforehand--nay, we would have looked for something quite opposite--that\nMysie, shrinking and irritable as she was by nature, was saved from a\nfaint (which had for some moments been threatening her) by the cruel\ninsult which thus had been added to her misfortune. She had even power\nto have recourse to that strange device of some natures, that of\n\"affecting to be not affected;\" and casting a glance at the fine lady,\nshe turned and went away without uttering a single word. But who knows\nthe pain of the conventional concealment of pain except those who have\nexperienced the agony of the trial? Even at the moment when she heard\nthat George Balgarnie was to be married, and that she came to know that\nshe had been for weeks sewing the marriage dress of his bride, she was\ncarrying under her heart the living burden which was the fruit of her\nlove for that man. Yet not the burden of shame and dishonour, as our\nstory will show, for she was justified by the law of her country--yea,\nby certain words once written by an apostle to the Corinthians, all\nwhich may as yet appear a great mystery; but as regards Mysie Craig's\nagony, as she staggered down Miss Gilroy's stairs on her way home, there\ncould be no doubt or mystery whatever.\n\nNor, when she got home, was there any comfort there for the daughter who\nhad been so undutiful as to depart from her mother's precepts, and\nconceal from her not only her unfortunate connection with a villain, but\nthe condition into which that connection had brought her. But she was at\nleast saved from the pain of a part of the confession, for her mother\nhad learned enough from Miss Allardice to satisfy her as to the cause of\nher daughter's change from the happy creature she once was, singing in\nthe long nights, as she wrought unremittingly at her beautiful work, and\nthe poor, sighing, pale, heart-broken thing she had been for months. Nor\ndid she fail to see, with the quick eye of a mother, that as Mysie\nimmediately on entering the house laid herself quietly on the bed, and\nsobbed in her great agony, she had learned the terrible truth from Miss\nGilroy that the robe she had embroidered was to deck the bride of her\ndestroyer. Moreover, her discretion enabled her to perceive that this\nwas not the time for explanation, for the hours of grief are sacred, and\nthe heart must be left to do its work by opening the issues of Nature's\nassuagement, or ceasing to beat. So the night passed, without question\nor answer; and the following day, that of the marriage, was one of\nsilence, even as if death had touched the tongue that used to be the\nmedium of cheerful words and tender sympathies--a strange contrast to\nthe joy, if not revelry, in Advocate's Close.\n\nIt was not till after several days had passed that Mysie was able, as\nshe still lay in bed, to whisper, amidst the recurring sobs, in the ear\nof her mother, as the latter bent over her, the real circumstances of\nher condition; and still, amidst the trembling words, came the\nvindication that she considered herself to be as much the wife of George\nBalgarnie as if they had been joined by \"Holy Kirk;\" a statement which\nthe mother could not understand, if it was not to her a mystery,\nrendered even more mysterious by a reference which Mysie made to the law\nof the country, as she had heard the same from her cousin, George\nDavidson, a writer's clerk in the Lawnmarket. Much of which, as it came\nin broken syllables from the lips of the disconsolate daughter, the\nmother put to the account of the fond dreams of a mind put out of joint\nby the worst form of misery incident to young women. But what availed\nexplanations, mysteries or no mysteries, where the fact was patent that\nMysie Craig lay there, the poor heartbroken victim of man's perfidy--her\npowers of industry broken and useless--the fine weaving genius of her\nfancy, whereby she wrought her embroidered devices to deck and adorn\nbeauty, only engaged now on portraying all the evils of her future life;\nand above all, was she not soon to become a mother?\n\nMeanwhile, and in the midst of all this misery, the laid-up earnings of\nMysie's industry wore away, where there was no work by those cunning\nfingers, now thin and emaciated; and before the days passed, and the\ncritical day came whereon another burden would be imposed on the\nhousehold, there was need for the sympathy of neighbours in that form\nwhich soon wears out--pecuniary help. That critical day at length came.\nMysie Craig gave birth to a boy, and their necessities from that hour\ngrew in quicker and greater proportion than the generosity of friends.\nThere behoved something to be done, and that without delay. So when\nMysie lay asleep, with the innocent evidence of her misfortune by her\nside, Mrs. Craig put on her red plaid and went forth on a mother's duty,\nand was soon in the presence of George Balgarnie and his young wife. She\nwas under an impulse which made light of delicate conventionalities, and\ndid not think it necessary to give the lady an opportunity of being\nabsent: nay, she rather would have her to be present; for was she, who\nhad been so far privy to the intercourse between her husband and Mysie,\nto be exempt from the consequences which she, in a sense, might have\nbeen said to have brought about?\n\n\"Ye have ruined Mysie Craig, sir!\" cried at once the roused mother. \"Ye\nhave ta'en awa her honour. Ye have ta'en awa her health. Ye have ta'en\nawa her bread. Ay, and ye have reduced three human creatures to want, it\nmay be starvation; and I have come here in sair sorrow and necessity to\nask when and whaur is to be the remeid?\"\n\n\"When and where you may find it, woman!\" said the lady, as she cast a\nside-glance to her husband, probably by way of appeal for the truth of\nwhat she thought it right to say. \"Mr. Balgarnie never injured your\ndaughter. Let him who did the deed yield the remeid!\"\n\n\"And do you stand by this?\" said Mrs. Craig.\n\nBut the husband had been already claimed as free from blame by his wife,\nwho kept her eye fixed upon him; and the obligation to conscience, said\nby sceptics to be an offspring of society, is sometimes weaker than what\nis due to a wife, in the estimation of whom a man may wish to stand in a\ncertain degree of elevation.\n\n\"You must seek another father to the child of your daughter,\" said he\nlightly. And not content with the denial, he supplemented it by a laugh\nas he added, \"When birds go to the greenwood, they must take the chance\nof meeting the goshawk.\"\n\n\"And that is your answer?\" said she.\n\n\"It is; and you need never trouble either my wife or me more on this\nsubject,\" was the reply.\n\n\"Then may the vengeance o' the God of justice light on the heads o'\nbaith o' ye!\" added Mrs. Craig, as she went hurriedly away.\n\nNor was her threat intended as an empty one, for she held on her way\ndirect to the Lawnmarket, where she found George Davidson, to whom she\nrelated as much as she had been able to get out of Mysie, and also what\nhad passed at the interview with Balgarnie and his lady. After hearing\nwhich, the young writer shook his head.\n\n\"You will get a trifle of aliment,\" said he; \"perhaps half-a-crown a\nweek, but no more; and Mysie could have made that in a day by her\nbeautiful work.\"\n\n\"And she will never work mair,\" said the mother, with a sigh.\n\n\"For a hundred years,\" rejoined he, more to himself than to her, and\nprobably in congratulation of himself for his perspicacity, \"and since\never there was a College of Justice, there never was a case where a man\npulled up on oath for a promise of marriage admitted the fact. It is a\ngood Scotch law, only we want a people to obey it. But what,\" he added\nagain, \"if we were to try it, though it were only as a grim joke and a\nrevenge in so sad and terrible a case as that of poor Mysie Craig!\"\n\nWords which the mother understood no more than she did law Latin; and so\nshe was sent away as sorrowful as she had come, for Davidson did not\nwant to raise hopes which there was no chance of being fulfilled; but he\nknew as a Scotchman that a man who trusts himself to a \"strae rape\" in\nthe hope of its breaking, may possibly hang himself; and so it happened\nthat the very next day a summons was served upon George Balgarnie, to\nhave it found and declared by the Lords of Session that he had promised\nto marry Mysie Craig, whereupon a child had been born by her; or, in\nfault of that, he was bound to sustain the said child. Thereupon,\nwithout the ordinary law's delay, certain proceedings went on, in the\ncourse of which Mysie herself was examined as the mother to afford what\nthe lawyers call a _semiplena probatio_, or half proof, to be\nsupplemented otherwise, and thereafter George Balgarnie stood before the\naugust fifteen. He denied stoutly all intercourse with Mysie, except an\noccasional walk in the Hunter's Bog; and this he would have denied also,\nbut he knew that he had been seen, and that it would be sworn to by\nothers. And then came the last question, which Mr. Greerson, Mysie's\nadvocate, put in utter hopelessness. Nay, so futile did it seem to try\nto catch a Scotchman by advising him to put his head in a noose on the\npretence of seeing how it fitted his neck, that he smiled even as the\nwords came out of his mouth--\n\n\"Did you ever promise to marry Mysie Craig?\"\n\nWas prudence, the chief of the four cardinal virtues, ever yet\nconsistent with vice? Balgarnie waxed clever--a dangerous trick in a\nwitness. He stroked his beard with a smile on his face, and answered--\n\n\"_Yes, once--when I was drunk_!\"\n\nWords which were immediately followed by the crack of a single word in\nthe dry mouth of one of the advocates--the word \"NICKED.\"\n\nAnd nicked he was; for the presiding judge, addressing the witness,\nsaid--\n\n\"The drunkenness may be good enough in its own way, sir; but it does not\ntake away the effect of your promise; nay, it is even an aggravation,\ninsomuch as having enjoyed the drink, you wanted to enjoy with impunity\nwhat you could make of the promise also.\"\n\nIf Balgarnie had been a reader, he might have remembered Waller's\nverse--\n\n  \"That eagle's fate and mine are one,\n    Which on the shaft that made him die\n  Espied a feather of his own,\n    Wherewith he wont to soar so high.\"\n\nSo Mysie gained her plea, and the marriage with Anabella, for whom she\nhad embroidered the marriage gown, was dissolved. How matters progressed\nafterwards for a time, we know not; but the Scotch know that there is\nwisdom in making the best of a bad bargain, and in this case it was a\ngood one; for, as the Lady of Balgruddery, Mysie Craig did no dishonour\nto George Balgarnie, who, moreover, found her a faithful wife, and a\ngood mother to the children that came of this strange marriage.\n\n\n\n\nTHE TWIN BROTHERS.\n\n\nWilliam Sim was the son of a feuar in the southern part of\nDumfriesshire, who, by dint of frugality, had hoarded together from\nthree to four hundred pounds. This sum he was resolved to employ in\nsetting up his son in business; and, in pursuance of this resolution, at\nthe age of fourteen William was bound as an apprentice to a wealthy old\ngrocer in Carlisle; and it was his fortune in a few months to ingratiate\nhimself into the favour and confidence of his master. The grocer had a\ndaughter, who, though not remarkable for the beauty of her face or the\nelegance of her person, had nevertheless an agreeable countenance, and\nten thousand independent charms to render it more agreeable. She was\nsome eighteen months older than William; and when he first came to be an\napprentice with her father, and a boarder in his house, she looked upon\nhim as quite a boy, while she considered herself to be a full-grown\nwoman. He was, indeed, a mere boy--and a clownish-looking boy too. He\nwore a black leathern cap, edged and corded with red, which his mother\ncalled a _bendy_; a coarse grey jacket; a waistcoat of the same; and his\ntrousers were of a brownish-green cord, termed _thickset_. His shoes\nwere of the double-soled description, which ought more properly to be\ncalled brogues; and into them, on the evening previous to his departure,\nhis father had driven tackets and sparables innumerable, until they\nbecame like a plate of iron or a piece of warlike workmanship,\nresembling the scaled cuirass of a mailed knight in the olden time;\n\"for,\" said he, \"the callant will hae runnin' about on the causeway and\nplainstanes o' Carlisle sufficient to drive a' the shoon in the world\naff his feet.\" When, therefore, William Sim made his debut behind the\ncounter of Mr. Carnaby, the rich grocer of Carlisle, and as he ran on a\nmessage through the streets, with his bendy cap, grey jacket, thickset\ntrousers, and ironed shoes, striking fire behind him as he ran, and\nmaking a noise like a troop of cavalry, the sprucer youngsters of the\ncity said he was \"new caught.\" But William Sim had not been two years in\nCarlisle when he began to show his shirt collar; his clattering brogues\ngave place to silent pumps, his leathern bendy to a fashionable hat, and\nhis coarse grey jacket to a coat with tails. Moreover, he began to bow\nand smile to the ladies when they entered the shop; he also became quite\na connoisseur in teas and confections; he recommended them to them, and\nhe bowed and smiled again as they left. Such was the work of less than\ntwo years; and before three went round, there was not a smarter or a\nbetter dressed youth in all Carlisle than William Sim. He became a\nfavourite subject of conversation amongst the young belles; and there\nwas not one of them who, if disengaged, would have said to him, \"Get\nthee behind me.\" Miss Carnaby heard the conversation of her young\ncompanions, and she gradually became conscious that William was not a\nboy; in fact, she began to wonder how she had ever thought so, for he,\nas she said unto herself, was \"certainly a very interesting _young\nman_.\" Within other four years, and before the period of his\napprenticeship had expired, William began to repeat poetry--some said to\nwrite it, but that was not the fact; he only twisted or altered a few\nwords now and then, to suit the occasion; and almost every line ended\nwith words of such soft sounds as bliss, kiss--love, dove--joy, cloy,\nand others equally sweet, the delightful meanings of which are only to\nbe met with in the sentimental glossary. He now gave Miss Carnaby his\narm to church; and, on leaving it in the afternoons, they often walked\ninto the fields together. On such occasions,\n\n  \"Talk of various kinds deceived the road;\"\n\nand even when they were silent, their silence had an eloquence of its\nown. One day they had wandered farther than their wont, and they stood\non the little bridge where the two kingdoms meet, about half a mile\nbelow Gretna. I know not what soft persuasion he employed, but she\naccompanied him up the hill which leadeth through the village of\nSpringfield, and they went towards the far-famed Green together. In less\nthan an hour, Miss Carnaby that was, returned towards Carlisle as Mrs.\nSim, leaning affectionately on her husband's arm.\n\nWhen the old grocer heard of what had taken place, he was exceedingly\nwroth; and although, as has been said, William stood high in his favour,\nhe thus addressed him--\n\n\"Ay, ay, sir!--fine doings! This comes of your Sunday walking! And I\nsuppose you say that my daughter is yours--that she is your wife; and\n_she_ may be _yours_--but I'll let you know, sir, my _money_ is _mine_;\nand I'll cut you both off. You shan't have a sixpence. I'll rather build\na church, sir; I'll give it towards paying off the national debt, you\nrascal. You would steal my daughter--eh!\"\n\nThus spoke Mr. Carnaby in his wrath; but when the effervescence of his\nindignation had subsided, he extended to both the hand of forgiveness,\nand resigned his business in favour of his son-in-law.\n\nMr. William Sim, therefore, began the world under the most favourable\ncircumstances. He found a fortune prepared to his hands; he had only to\nimprove it. In a few years the old grocer died; and he bequeathed to\nthem the gains of half a century. For twenty years Mr. Sim continued in\nbusiness, and he had nearly doubled the fortune which he obtained with\nhis wife. Mrs. Sim was a kind-hearted woman; but by nature, or through\neducation, she had also a considerable portion of vanity, and she began\nto think that it was the duty of her opulent husband to retire from\nbusiness, and assume the character of an independent gentleman; or\nrather, I ought to say, of a country gentleman--a squire. She professed\nto be the more anxious that he should do this on account of the health\nof her daughter--the sole survivor of five children--and who was then\nentering upon womanhood. Maria Sim (for such was their daughter's name)\nwas a delicate and accomplished girl of seventeen. The lovely hue that\ndwelt upon her cheeks, like the blush of a rainbow, was an emblem of\nbeauty, not of health. At the solicitations of her mother, her father\ngave up his business, and purchased a neat villa, and a few acres that\nsurrounded it, in the neighbourhood of Windermere. The house lay in the\nbosom of poetry; and the winds that shouted like a triumphant army\nthrough the mountain glens, or in gentle zephyrs sighed upon the lake,\nand gambolled with the ripples, made music around it.\n\nThe change, the beauty, I had almost said the deliciousness of their\nplace of abode, had effected a wondrous improvement in the health of\nMaria; yet her mother was not happy. She was not treated by her\nneighbours with the obsequious reverence which she believed to be due to\npersons possessed of twenty thousand pounds. The fashionable ladies in\nthe neighbourhood, also, called her \"a mean person\"--\"a nobody\"--\"an\nupstart of yesterday.\" In truth, there were not a few who so spoke,\nbecause they envied the wealth of the Sims, and were resolved to humble\nthem.\n\nAn opportunity for them to do so soon occurred. A subscription ball or\nassembly, patronized by all the fashionables in the district, was to\ntake place at Keswick. Mrs. Sim, in some measure from a desire of\ndisplay, and also, as she said, to bring out Maria, put down her\nhusband's name, her own, and their daughter's, on the list. Many of the\npersonages above referred to, on seeing the names of the Sim family on\nthe subscription paper, turned upon their heel, and exclaimed--\"Shocking!\"\n\nBut the important evening arrived. Mrs. Sim had ordered a superb dress\nfrom London expressly for the occasion. A duchess might have worn it at\na drawing-room. The dress of Maria was simplicity typified, and\nconsisted of a frock of the finest and the whitest muslin; while her\nslender waist was girdled with a lavender ribbon, her raven hair\ndescended down her snowy neck in ringlets, and around her head she wore\na wreath of roses.\n\nWhen Mr. Sim, with his wife and daughter, entered the room, there was a\nstare of wonderment amongst the company. No one spoke to them, no one\nbowed to them. The spirit of dumbness seemed to have smitten the\nassembly. But a general whispering, like the hissing of a congregation\nof adders, succeeded the silence. Then, at the head of the room, the\nvoices of women rose sharp, angry, and loud. Six or eight, who appeared\nas the representatives of the company, were in earnest and excited\nconversation with the stewards; and the words--\"low people!\"--\"vulgar!\"\n--\"not to be borne!\"--\"cheese! faugh!\"--\"impertinence!\"--\"must be humbled!\"\n--became audible throughout the room. One of the stewards, a Mr. Morris of\nMorris House, approached Mr. Sim, and said--\n\n\"You, sir, are Mr. Sim, I believe, late grocer and cheesemonger in\nCarlisle?\"\n\n\"I suppose, sir,\" replied the other, \"you know that without me telling\nyou; if you do not, you have some right to know me.\"\n\n\"Well, sir,\" continued the steward of the assembly, \"I come to inform\nyou that you have made a mistake. This is not a _social dance_ amongst\n_tradesmen_, but an _assembly_ of _ladies_ and _gentlemen_; therefore,\nsir, your presence cannot be allowed here.\"\n\nPoor Maria became blind, the hundred different head-dresses seemed to\nfloat around her. She clung to her father's arm for support. Her mother\nwas in an agony of indignation.\n\n\"Sir,\" said Mr. Sim, \"I don't know what you call _gentlemen_; but if it\nbe not _genteel_ to have sold teas and groceries, it is at least more\n_honourable_ than to use them and never pay for them. You will remember,\nsir, there is a considerable sum standing against you in my books; and\nif the money be not paid to me tonight, you shall have less space to\ndance in before morning.\"\n\n\"Insolent barbarian!\" exclaimed Squire Morris, stamping his foot upon\nthe floor.\n\nMrs. Sim screamed; Maria's head fell upon her father's shoulder. A dozen\ngentlemen approached to the support of the steward; and one of them,\nwaving his hand and addressing Mr. Sim, said, \"Away, sir!\"\n\nThe retired merchant bowed and withdrew, not in confusion, but with a\nsmile of malignant triumph. He strove to soothe his wife--for his\ndaughter, when relieved from the presence of the disdainful eyes that\ngazed on her, bore the insult that had been offered them meekly--and,\nafter remaining an hour in Keswick, they returned to their villa in the\nsame chaise in which they had arrived.\n\nIn the assembly room the dance began, and fairy forms glided through the\nfloor, lightly, silently, as a falling blossom embraceth the earth. Mr.\nMorris was leading down a dance, when a noise was heard at the door.\nSome person insisted on being admitted, and the door-keepers resisted\nhim. But the intruder carried with him a small staff, on the one end of\nwhich was a brass crown, and on its side the letters G. R. It was a\ntalisman potent as the wand of a magician; the doorkeepers became\npowerless before it. The intruder entered the room--he passed through\nthe mazes of the whirling dance--he approached Mr. Morris--he touched\nhim on the shoulder--he put a piece of paper in his hand--he whispered\nin his ear--\n\n\"You are my prisoner!--come with me!\"\n\nHis lady and his daughters were present, and they felt most bitterly the\nindignity which a low tradesman had offered them. Confusion paralyzed\nthem; they stood still in the middle of the dance, and one of the young\nladies swooned away and fell upon the ground. The time, the place, the\nmanner of arrest, all bespoke malignant and premeditated insult.\n\nMr. Morris gnashed his teeth together, but, without speaking,\naccompanied the officer that had arrested him in the room. He remained\nin custody in an adjoining inn throughout the night; on the following\nday, was released on bail; and, within a week, his solicitor paid the\ndebt, by augmenting the mortgage on Morris House estate.\n\nIt is hardly necessary to say--for such is human nature--that, after\nthis incident, the hatred between Mr. Sim and Squire Morris became\ninveterate; and the wives of both, and the daughters of the latter,\npartook in the relentless animosity. Two years passed, and every day the\nmutual hatred and contempt in which they held each other increased. At\nthat period, a younger son of Squire Morris, who was a lieutenant in the\nservice of the East India Company, obtained leave to visit England and\nhis friends. It was early in June; the swallows chased each other in\nsport, twittering as they flew over the blue bosom of Windermere; every\nbush, every tree--yea, it seemed as if every branch sent forth the music\nof singing birds, and the very air was redolent with melody, from the\nbold songs of the thrush and the lark to the love-note of the\nwood-pigeon; and even the earth rejoiced in the chirp of the\ngrasshopper, its tiny but pleasant musician. The fields and the leaves\nwere in the loveliness and freshness of youth, luxuriating in the\nsunbeams, in the depth of their summer green; and the butterfly sported,\nand the bee pursued its errand from flower to flower. The mighty\nmountains circled the scene, and threw their dun shadow on the lake,\nwhere, a hundred fathoms deep, they seemed a bronzed and inverted world.\nAt this time, Maria Sim was sailing upon the lake in a small boat that\nher father had purchased for her, and which was guided by a boy.\n\nA sudden, but not what could be called a strong, breeze came away. The\nboy had little strength and less skill, and, from his awkwardness in\nshifting the sail, he caused the boat to upset. Maria was immersed in\nthe lake. The boy clung to the boat, but terror deprived him of ability\nto render her assistance. She struggled with the waters, and her\ngarments bore her partially up for a time. A boat, in which was a young\ngentleman, had been sailing to and fro, and, at the time the accident\noccurred, was within three hundred yards of her. On hearing her sudden\ncry, and the continued screams of the boy, he drew in his sail, and,\ntaking the oars, at his utmost strength pulled to her assistance. Almost\nat every third stroke he turned round his head to see the progress he\nhad made, or if he had yet reached her. Twice he beheld her disappear\nbeneath the water--a third time she rose to the surface--he was within a\nfew yards of her. He sprang from his boat. She was again sinking. He\ndived after her, he raised her beneath his arm, and succeeded in placing\nher in his boat. He also rescued the boy, and conveyed them both to\nland.\n\nMaria, though for a time speechless, was speedily, through the exertions\nof her deliverer, restored to consciousness. Even before she was capable\nof thanking him or of speaking to him--yea, before her eyes had opened\nto meet his--he had gazed with admiration on her beautiful features,\nwhich were lovely, though the shadow of death was then over them, almost\nits hand upon them. In truth, he had never gazed upon a fairer face, and\nwhen she spoke, he had never listened to a sweeter or a gentler voice.\nHe had been beneath an Indian sun, where the impulses of the heart are\nfervid as the clime, and where, when the sun is gazed upon, its\ninfluence is acknowledged. But, had she been less beautiful than she\nwas, and her features less lovely to look upon, there was a strong\nsomething in the very manner and accident of their being brought into\neach other's society, which appealed more powerfully to the heart than\nbeauty could. It at least begot an interest in the fate of each other;\nand an interest so called is never very widely separated from affection.\nThe individual who had saved Maria's life was Lieutenant Morris.\n\nHe conveyed her first to a peasant's cottage, and afterwards to her\nfather's villa. He knew nothing of the feeling of hatred that existed\nbetween their families; and when Mr. Sim heard his name, though for a\nmoment it caused a glow to pass over his face, every other emotion was\nspeedily swallowed up in gratitude towards the deliverer of his child;\nand when Maria was sufficiently recovered to thank him, though she knew\nhim to be the son of her father's enemy, it was with tears too deep for\nwords--tears that told what eloquence would have failed to express. Even\nMrs. Sim, for the time, forgot her hatred of the parents in her\nobligations to the son.\n\nWhen, however, the young lieutenant returned to Morris House, and made\nmention of the adventure in which he had been engaged, and spoke at the\nsame time, in the ardour of youthful admiration, of the beauty and\ngentleness of the fair being he had rescued from untimely death, the\ncheeks of his sisters became pale, their eyeballs distended as if with\nhorror. The word \"wretch!\" escaped from his mother's lips, and she\nseemed struggling with smothered rage. He turned towards his father for\nan explanation of the change that had so suddenly come over the\nbehaviour of his mother and sisters.\n\n\"Son,\" said the squire, \"I had rather thou hadst perished than that a\nson of mine should have put forth his hand to assist a dog of the man\nwhose daughter thou hast saved!\"\n\nOn being made acquainted with the cause of the detestation that existed\nbetween the two families, Lieutenant Morris, in some degree, yielded to\nthe whisperings of wounded pride, and began to regret that he had\nentered the house of a man who had offered an indignity to his father\nthat was not to be forgiven. But he thought also of the beauty of Maria,\nof the sweetness of her smile, and of the tears of voiceless gratitude\nwhich he had seen bedimming the lustre of her bright eyes.\n\nHe had promised to call again at her father's on the day after the\naccident; and with an ardent kindliness, Mr. Sim had welcomed him to do\nso. But he went forth, he wandered by the side of the lake, he\napproached within sight of the house, there was a contention of strange\nfeelings in his breast, and he returned without paying his promised\nvisit. Nevertheless, thoughts of Maria haunted him, and her image\nmingled with all his fancies. She became as a spirit in his memory that\nhe could not expel, and that he would not if he could.\n\nThree weeks passed on--it was evening--the sun was sinking behind the\nmountains, and Lieutenant Morris was wandering through a wooded vale,\ntowards Mr. Sim's mansion; for though he entered it not, he nightly drew\ntowards it, as if instinctively, wandering around it, and gazing on its\nwindows as he did so, marvelling as he gazed. He was absorbed in one of\nthose dreamy reveries in which men saunter, speak, and muse\nunconsciously, when, in following the windings of a footpath which led\nthrough a thicket, he suddenly found himself in the presence of a young\nlady, who was walking slowly across the wood with a book in her hand.\nTheir eyes met--they startled--the book dropped by her side--it was\nMaria.\n\nI must not, however, dwell longer on this part of the subject; for the\nstory of the twin brothers is yet to begin. Let it be sufficient to say\nthat William, or, as I have hitherto called him, Lieutenant Morris, and\nMaria whom he saved, became attached to each other. Their dispositions\nwere similar; they seemed formed for each other. Affection took deep\nroot in their hearts; and to root up that affection in the breast of\neither, was to destroy the heart itself. He made known his attachment\ntowards Maria to his father; and galled pride and hatred to those who\nhad injured him being stronger in the breast of the old squire than the\nsmall still voice of affection, he spurned his son from him, and ordered\nhim to leave his house for ever.\n\nThe parents of Maria, notwithstanding their first feelings of gratitude\ntowards the saviour of their daughter, were equally averse to a union\nbetween them; but with Maria the impulse of the heart and the lover's\npassionate prayer prevailed over her parents' frowns. They were wed,\nthey became all to each other, and were disowned by those who gave them\nbirth.\n\nWhen Lieutenant Morris left India, he obtained permission to remain in\nEngland for three years; and it was about twelve months after his\narrival that the marriage between him and Maria took place. He had still\ntwo years to spend in his native land, and he hired a secluded and neat\ncottage on the banks of the Annan for that period, for the residence of\nhimself and his young and beautiful wife.\n\nTwelve months after their marriage, Maria became the mother of\ntwins--the twin brothers of our tale. But three months had not passed,\nnor had her infants raised their first smile towards their mother's\nface, when the sterile hand of death touched the bosom that supplied\nthem with life. The young husband wept by the bed of death, with the\nhand of her he loved in his.\n\n\"William!\" said the gentle Maria--and they were her dying words, for she\nspoke not again--\"my eyes will not behold another sun! I must leave you,\nlove! Oh my husband! I must leave our poor, our helpless infants! It is\nhard to die thus! But when I am gone, dearest--when my babes have no\nmother--oh, go to _my mother_, and tell her--tell her, William--that it\nwas the dying request of her Maria, that she would be as a mother to\nthem. Farewell, love!--farewell! If\"--\n\nEmotion and the strugglings of death overpowered her--her speech\nfailed--her eyes became fixed--her soul passed away, and the husband sat\nin stupefaction and in agony, holding the hand of his dead wife to his\nbreast. He became conscious that she stirred not--that she breathed\nnot--oh! that she was not! and the wail of the distracted widower rang\nsuddenly and wildly through the cottage, startling his infants from\ntheir slumber, and, as some who stood round the bed said, causing even\nthe features of the dead to move, as though the departed spirit had\nlingered, casting a farewell glance upon the body, and passed over it\nagain, as the voice it had loved to hear rose loud in agony.\n\nThe father of Maria came and attended her body to its last, long\nresting-place. But he did no more; and he left the churchyard without\nacknowledging that he perceived his grief-stricken son-in-law.\n\nIn a few months it was necessary for Lieutenant Morris to return to\nIndia, and he could not take his motherless and tender infants thither.\nHe wrote to the parents of his departed Maria; he told them of her last\nrequest, breathed by her last words; he implored them, as they had once\nloved her, during his absence to protect his children.\n\nBut the hatred between Mr. Sim and Squire Morris had in no degree\nabated. The former would have listened to his daughter's prayer, and\ntaken her twins and the nurse into his house; but his wife was less\nsusceptible to the influence of natural feeling, and even, while at\nintervals she wept for poor Maria, she said--\n\n\"Take both of them, indeed! No, no! I loved our poor, thoughtless,\ndisobedient Maria, Mr. Sim, as well as you did, but I will not submit to\nthe Morrises. They have nothing to give the children; we have. But they\nhave the same, they have a greater right to provide for them than we\nhave. They shall take one of them, or none of them come into this\nhouse.\" And again she broke into lamentations over the memory of Maria,\nand, in the midst of her mourning, exclaimed--\"But the child that we\ntake shall never be called Morris.\"\n\nMr. Sim wrote an answer to his son-in-law, as cold and formal as if it\nhad been a note added to an invoice; colder indeed, for it had no\nequivalent to the poor, hackneyed phrase in all such, of \"_esteemed\nfavours_.\" In it he stated that he would \"bring up\" one of the children,\nprovided that Squire Morris would undertake the charge of the other. The\nunhappy father clasped his hands together on perusing the letter, and\nexclaimed--\n\n\"Must my poor babes be parted?--shall they be brought up to hate each\nother? Oh Maria! would that I had died with you, and our children also!\"\n\nTo take them to India with him, where a war was threatened, was\nimpossible, and his heart revolted from the thought of leaving them in\nthis country with strangers. At times he was seen, with an infant son on\neach arm, sitting over the stone upon the grave of their mother which he\nhad reared to her memory, kissing their cheeks and weeping over them,\nwhile they smiled in his face unconsciously, and offered to him, in\nthose smiles, affection's first innocent tribute. On such occasions\ntheir nurse stood gazing on the scene, wondering at her master's grief.\n\nMorris, of Morris House, reluctantly consented to take one of his\ngrandchildren under his care; but at the same time he refused to see his\nson previous to his departure.\n\nThe widowed father wept over his twin sons, and invoking a blessing on\nthem, saw their little arms sundered, and each conveyed to the houses of\nthose who had undertaken to be their protectors, while he again\nproceeded towards India. The names of the twin sons were George and\nCharles: the former was committed to the care of Mr. Morris, the other\nto Mr. Sim. Yet it seemed as if these innocent pledges of a family\nunion, instead of destroying, strengthened the deep-rooted animosity\nthat existed between them. Not a month passed that they did not, in some\nway, manifest their hatred of and their persecution towards each other.\n\nThe squire exhibited a proof of his vindictiveness, in not permitting\nthe child of his son to remain beneath his roof. He had a small property\nin Devonshire, which was rented by an individual who, with his wife, had\nbeen servants under his father. To them George Morris, one of the infant\nsons of poor Maria, before he was yet twelve months old, was sent, with\nan injunction that he should be brought up as their own son, that he\nshould be taught to consider himself as such, and bear their name.\n\nThe boy Charles, whose lot it was to be placed under the protection of\nhis mother's parents, was more fortunate. The love they had borne\ntowards their Maria they now lavished upon him. They called him by their\nown name--they spoke of him as their heir, as their _sole_ heir, and\nthey inquired not after his brother. That brother became included in the\nhatred which Mrs. Sim, at least, bore to his father's family. As he grew\nup, his father's name was not mentioned in his presence. He was taught\nto call his grandfather--father, and his grandmother--mother; and\nwithal, his mother so called instilled into his earliest thoughts an\nabhorrence of the inmates of Morris House. At times his grandfather\nwhispered to her on such occasions, \"Do not do the like of that, dear;\nwe know not how it may end.\" But she regarded not his admonitions, and\nshe strove that her grandchild should hold the very name of Morris in\nhatred.\n\nThe peasants to whose keeping George was confided, occupied, as has been\nstated, a small farm under his grandfather, which lay on the banks of\nthe Dart, a few miles from Totnes. Their name was Prescot: they were\ncold-hearted and ignorant people; they had no children of their own, nor\naffection for those of others; neither had they received instructions to\nshow any to him whom they were to adopt as a son; and if they had been\narraigned for not doing so, they were of a character to have said with\nShylock--\"It is not in the bond.\" When he grew up, there was then no\nschool in that part of Devonshire to which they could have sent him, had\nthey been inclined; but they were not inclined; though, if they had had\nthe power to educate him, they could have referred again to their bond,\nand said that no injunction to educate him was mentioned there. His\nfirst ideas were a consciousness of cruelty and oppression. At seven\nyears of age he was sent to herd a few sheep upon Dartmoor; before he\nwas nine, he was placed as a parish apprentice to the owner of a tin\nmine, and buried from the light of heaven.\n\nOften and anxiously Lieutenant Morris wrote from India, inquiring after\nhis sons. He sent presents--love-gifts to each; but his letters were\nunheeded, his presents disregarded. His children grew up in ignorance of\nhis existence, or of the existence of each other.\n\nIt was about eighteen years after the death of Maria, and what is called\nan annual _Revel_ was held at Ashburton. Prizes were to be awarded to\nthe best wrestlers, and hundreds were assembled from all parts of\nDevonshire to witness the sports of the day. Two companies of soldiers\nwere stationed in the town at the time, and the officers, at the\nsuggestion of a young ensign called Charles Sim, agreed to subscribe a\npurse of ten guineas towards the encouragement of the games. The young\nensign was from Cumberland, where the science of wrestling is still a\npassion; and he, as the reader will have anticipated from the name he\nbore, was none other than one of the twin brothers. The games were\nskilfully and keenly contested; and a stripling from the neighbourhood\nof Totnes, amidst the shouts of the multitude, was declared the victor.\nThe last he had overcome was a gigantic soldier, a native of Cumberland.\nWhen the young ensign beheld his champion overcome, his blood rose for\nthe honour of his native county, and he regretted that he had not\nsustained it in his own person.\n\nThe purse subscribed by the officers was still to be wrestled for, and\nthe stripling victor re-entered the ring to compete for it. On his\ndesign being perceived, others who wished to have contended for it drew\nback, and he stood in the ring alone, no one daring to come forward to\ncompete with him. The umpire of the games was proclaiming that, if no\none stood against him, the purse would be awarded to him who had already\nbeen pronounced the victor of the day, when Ensign Sim, who, with his\nbrother officers, had witnessed the sports from the windows of an\nadjacent inn, said--\n\n\"Well, the lad shall have the purse, though I don't expect he will win\nit; for, if no one else will, I shall give him a throw to redeem the\ncredit of old Cumberland.\"\n\n\"Bravo, Sim!\" cried his brother officers, and they accompanied him\ntowards the ring.\n\nThe people again shouted when they perceived that there was to be\nanother game, and the more so when they discovered that the stranger\ncompetitor was a gentleman. The ensign, having cast off his regimentals,\nand equipped himself in the strait canvas jacket worn by wrestlers,\nentered the ring. But now arose a new subject of wonderment, which in a\nmoment was perceived by the whole multitude; and the loud huzzas that\nhad welcomed his approach were hushed in a confused murmur of\nastonishment.\n\n\"Zwinge!\" exclaimed a hundred voices, as they approached each other;\n\"they be loik one anoother as two beans!\"\n\n\"Whoy, which be which?\" inquired others.\n\nThe likeness between the two wrestlers was indeed remarkable; their age,\ntheir stature, the colour of their hair, their features, were alike.\nSpectators could not trace a difference between the one and the other.\nThe ensign had a small and peculiar mark below his chin; he perceived\nthat his antagonist had the same. They approached each other, extending\ntheir arms for the contest. They stood still, they gazed upon each\nother; as they gazed they started; their arms dropped by their sides;\nthey stood anxiously scrutinizing the countenance of each other, in\nwhich each saw himself as in a glass. Astonishment deprived them of\nstrength; they forgot the purpose for which they met; they stretched\nforth their hands, they grasped them together, and stood eagerly looking\ninto each other's eyes.\n\n\"Friend,\" said the ensign, \"this is indeed singular; our extraordinary\nresemblance to each other fills me with amazement. What is your name?\nfrom whence do you come?\"\n\n\"Whoy, master,\" rejoined the other, \"thou art so woundy like myself,\nthat had I met thee anywhere but in the middle o' these folk, I should\nhave been afeared that I was agoing to die, and had zeen mysel'. My name\nis George Prescot, at your sarvice. I coom from three miles down the\nriver there; and what may they call thee?\"\n\n\"My name,\" replied the soldier, \"is Charles Sim. I am an orphan; my\nparents I never saw. And tell me--for this strange resemblance between\nus almost overpowers me--do yours live?\"\n\n\"Whoy,\" was the reply, \"old Tom Prescot and his woif be alive; and they\nzay as how they be my vather and moother, and I zuppose they be; but\nzoom cast up to them that they bean't.\"\n\nNo wrestling match took place between them; but hand in hand they walked\nround the ring together, while the spectators gazed upon them in silent\nwonder.\n\nThe ensign presented the youth, who might have been styled his\nfac-simile, with the purse subscribed by his brother officers and\nhimself; and in so doing he offered to double its contents. But the\nyouth, with a spirit above his condition, peremptorily refused the\noffer, and said--\n\n\"No, master--thank you the zame--I will take nothing but what I have\nwon.\"\n\nCharles was anxious to visit \"old Tom Prescot and his wife,\" of whom the\nstranger had spoken; but the company to which he belonged was to march\nforward to Plymouth on the following day, and there to embark. His\nbrother officers also dissuaded him from the thought.\n\n\"Why, Sim,\" said they, \"the likeness between you and the conqueror of\nthe ring was certainly a very pretty coincidence, and your meeting each\nother quite a drama. But, my good fellow,\" added they, laughing, \"take\nthe advice of older heads than your own--don't examine too closely into\nyour father's faults.\"\n\nThree years passed, and Charles, now promoted to the rank of a\nlieutenant, accompanied the Duke of York in his more memorable than\nbrilliant campaign in Holland. A soldier was accused of having been\nfound sleeping on guard; he was tried, found guilty, and condemned to be\nshot. A corporal's guard was accompanying the doomed soldier from the\nplace where sentence had been pronounced against him to the\nprison-house, from whence he was to be brought forth for execution on\nthe following day. Lieutenant Sim passed near them. A voice exclaimed--\n\n\"Master! master!--save me! save me!\"\n\nIt was the voice of the condemned soldier. The lieutenant turned round,\nand in the captive who called to him for assistance he recognised the\nDevonshire wrestler--the strange portrait of himself. And even now, if\nit were possible, the resemblance between them was more striking than\nbefore; for, in the stranger, the awkwardness of the peasant had given\nplace to the smartness of the soldier. Charles had felt an interest in\nhim from the first moment he beheld him; he had wished to meet him\nagain, and had resolved to seek for him should he return to England; and\nnow the interest that he had before felt for him was increased tenfold.\nThe offence and the fate of the doomed one were soon told. The\nlieutenant pledged himself that he would leave no effort untried to save\nhim; and he redeemed his pledge. He discovered, he obtained proof that\nthe condemned prisoner, George Prescot, had been employed on severe and\ndangerous duties, against which it was impossible for nature longer to\nstand up, but in all of which he had conducted himself as a good, a\nbrave, and a faithful soldier; and, more, that it could not be proved\nthat he was actually found asleep at his post, but that he was stupified\nthrough excess of fatigue.\n\nHe hastened to lay the evidence he had obtained respecting the conduct\nand innocence of the prisoner before his Royal Highness, who, whatever\nwere his faults, was at least the soldier's friend. The Duke glanced\nover the documents which the lieutenant laid before him; he listened to\nthe evidence of the comrades of the prisoner. He took a pen; he wrote a\nfew lines; he placed them in the hands of Lieutenant Sim. They contained\nthe free pardon of Private Prescot. Charles rushed with the pardon in\nhis hand to the prisoner; he exclaimed--\n\n\"Take this--you are pardoned--you are free!\"\n\nThe soldier would have embraced his knees to thank him; but the\nlieutenant said--\n\n\"No! kneel not to me--consider me as a brother. I have merely saved the\nlife of an innocent and deserving man. But the strange resemblance\nbetween us seems to me more than a strange coincidence. You have doubts\nregarding your parentage; I know but little of mine. Nature has written\na mystery on our faces which we need to have explained. When this\ncampaign is over, we shall inquire concerning it. Farewell for the\npresent; but we must meet again.\"\n\nThe feelings of the reprieved and unlettered soldier were too strong for\nhis words to utter; he shook the hand of his deliverer and wept.\n\nA few days after this some sharp fighting took place. The loss of the\nBritish was considerable, and they were compelled to continue their\nretreat, leaving their dead, and many of their wounded, exposed, as they\nfell behind them. When they again arrived at a halting-place, Lieutenant\nSim sought the regiment to which the soldier who might be termed his\nsecond self belonged. But he was not to be found; and all that he could\nlearn respecting him was, that, three days before, George Prescot had\nbeen seen fighting bravely, but that he fell covered with wounds, and in\ntheir retreat was left upon the field.\n\nTears gushed into the eyes of the lieutenant when he heard the tidings.\nHis singular meeting with the stranger in Devonshire; their mysterious\nresemblance to each other; his meeting him again in Holland under\ncircumstances yet more singular; his saving his life; and the dubious\nknowledge which each had respecting their birth and parentage,--all had\nsunk deep into his heart, and thoughts of these things chased sleep from\nhis pillow.\n\nIt was but a short time after this that the regiment of Lieutenant Sim\nwas ordered to India, and he accompanied it; and it was only a few\nmonths after his arrival, when the Governor-General gave an\nentertainment at his palace, at which all the military officers around\nwere present. At table, opposite to Lieutenant Sim, sat a man of middle\nage; and, throughout the evening, his eyes remained fixed upon him, and\noccasionally seemed filled with tears. He was a colonel in the Company's\nservice, and a man who, by the force of merit, had acquired wealth and\nreputation.\n\n\"I crave your pardon, sir,\" said he, addressing the lieutenant; \"but if\nI be not too bold, a few words with you in private would confer a favour\nupon me, and if my conjectures be right, will give us both cause to\nrejoice.\"\n\n\"You may command me, sir,\" said the youth.\n\nThe colonel rose from the table and left the room, and the lieutenant\nrose also and accompanied him. They entered an adjoining apartment. The\nelder soldier gazed anxiously on the face of the younger, and again\naddressing him, said--\n\n\"Sir, do not attribute this strange behaviour upon my part to rudeness.\nIt has been prompted by feelings painfully, deeply, I may add tenderly,\ninteresting to me. It may be accident, but your features bring memories\nbefore my eyes that have become a part of my soul's existence. Nor is it\nyour features only, but I have observed that there is the mark of a\nrose-bud beneath your chin. I remember twins on whom that mark was\nmanifest, and the likeness of a countenance is graven upon my heart, the\nlineaments of which were as yours are. Forgive me then, sir, in thus\nabruptly requesting your name.\"\n\nThe lieutenant looked surprised at the anxiety and looks of the\nstranger, and he answered--\n\n\"My name is Charles Sim.\"\n\n\"Yes! yes!\" replied the colonel, gasping as he spoke; \"I saw it; I felt\nit! Your name is Charles, but not Sim; that was your mother's name--your\nsainted mother's. You bear it from your grandfather You come from\nCumberland?\"\n\n\"I do!\" was the reply, in accents of astonishment.\n\n\"My son! my son!--child of my Maria!\" were the accents that broke from\nthe colonel, as he fell upon the neck of the other.\n\n\"My father!\" exclaimed Charles, \"have I then found a father?\" And the\ntears streamed down his cheeks.\n\nMany questions were asked, many answered; and amongst others, the father\ninquired--\n\n\"Where is your brother--my little George? Does he live? You were the\nminiatures of your mother; and so strikingly did you resemble each\nother, that while you were infants, it was necessary to tie a blue\nribbon round his arm, and a green one round yours, to distinguish you\nfrom each other.\"\n\nCharles became pale; his knees shook; his hands trembled.\n\n\"Then I _had_ a brother?\" he cried.\n\n\"You had,\" replied his father; \"but wherefore do you say you _had_ a\nbrother? Is it possible that you do not know him? He has been brought up\nwith my father--Mr. Morris of Morris House.\"\n\n\"No, he has not,\" replied Charles; \"the man you speak of, and whom you\nsay is my grandfather, has brought up no one--none of my age. I have\nhated him from childhood, for he has hated me; and but that you have\ntold me he is my grandfather, I would hate him still. But he has brought\nup no one that could be a brother of mine.\"\n\n\"Then my child has died in infancy,\" rejoined the colonel.\n\n\"No, no,\" added Charles; \"I knew not that I had a brother--not even that\nI had a father; but you say my brother resembled me; that I from my\nbirth had the mark beneath my chin which I have now, and that he had the\nsame: then I know him; I have seen my brother!\"\n\n\"Where, where? when, when?\" breathlessly inquired the anxious parent.\n\"Speak, my son!--oh speak!\"\n\n\"Shortly after I had joined my regiment,\" continued Charles, \"I was\npresent in Devonshire, at what is called a revel. Our mess gave a purse\ntowards the games. We put forward a Cumberland man belonging to the\nregiment, in the full confidence that he would be the victor of the day;\nbut a youth, a mere youth, threw not only our champion, but all who\ndared to oppose him. I was stung for the honour of Cumberland; I was\nloath to see the hero carry his laurels so easily from the field. I\naccoutred myself in the wrestler's garb; I entered the ring. The\nshouting of the multitude ceased instantaneously. I gazed upon my\nantagonist, he gazed upon me. Our hands fell; we both shook; we were the\nimage of each other. Three years afterwards I was in Holland. A soldier\nwas unjustly condemned to die; I saved him; I obtained his pardon. He\nwas my strange counterpart whom I met in Devonshire. He had the mark of\nthe rose-bud beneath his chin that I have, and which you say my brother\nhas.\"\n\n\"And where is he now?\" eagerly inquired the colonel.\n\n\"Alas! I know not,\" answered Charles; \"nor do I think he lives. Three\ndays after I had rescued him from unmerited death, I learned that he had\nfallen bravely on the field; and whether he be now a prisoner or with\nthe dead, I cannot tell.\"\n\n\"Surely it was thy brother,\" said the colonel; \"yet how he should be in\nDevonshire, or a soldier in the ranks, puzzles me to think. No, no,\nCharles, it cannot be; it is a coincidence, heightened by imagination.\nYour grandfather has not been kind to me, but he is not capable of the\ncruelty which the tale you have told would imply he had exercised\ntowards the child I entrusted to his care. He hates me, but surely he\ncould not be cruel to my offspring. You know Morris House?\" he added.\n\n\"I know it well,\" replied Charles; \"but I never knew in it one who could\nbe my brother, nor one of my age; neither did I know Mr. Morris to be my\ngrandfather; nor yet have I heard of him but as one who had injured my\nmother while she lived, and who had been the enemy of her parents.\"\n\n\"Enough, enough, my son,\" said the colonel; \"my soul is filled with\nwords which I cannot utter. I weep for your angel-mother; I weep for my\nson, your brother; and I mourn for the unceasing hatred that exists\nbetween your grandsires. But, Charles, we must return to England; we\nmust do so instantly. I have now fortune enough for you and for your\nbrother also, if he yet live, and if we can find him. But we must\ninquire after and go in quest of him.\"\n\nWithin three months Charles Morris, or Lieutenant Sim as he has hitherto\nbeen called, and his father returned to England together. But instead of\nfollowing them, I shall return to George Prescot, the prize-wrestler and\nthe condemned and pardoned soldier. It has been mentioned that he was\nwounded and left upon the field by a retreating army. I have to add that\nhe was made prisoner, and when his wounds were healed, he was, though\nnot perceptibly, disabled for active service. Amongst his brethren in\ncaptivity was a Captain Paling, who, when an exchange of prisoners took\nplace, hastened to join his regiment, and gave George, who was deemed\nunfit for service, a letter to his mother and sisters who resided in\nDartmouth. The letter was all that the captain could give him, for he\nwas penniless as George was himself.\n\nGeorge Prescot feeling himself once more at liberty, took his passage\nfrom Rotterdam in a sloop bound for Dartmouth, and with only the letter\nof Captain Paling in his pocket to pay for his conveyance. He perceived\nthat the skipper frequently cast suspicious glances towards him, as\nthough he were about to ask, \"Where is your money, sir?\" But George saw\nthis, and he bore it down with a high hand. He knew that the certain way\nof being treated with the contempt and neglect which poverty always\nintroduces in its train, was to plead being poor. He was by no means\nlearned, but he understood something of human nature, and he knew a good\ndeal of the ways of men--of the shallowness of society, and the depths\nof civility. He therefore carried his head high. He called for the best\nthat the ship could afford, and he fared as the skipper did, though he\npartook but sparingly.\n\nBut the vessel arrived in Dartmouth harbour; it entered the mouth of the\nromantic river, on the one side of which was the fort, still bearing the\nname of Cromwell, and on the other Kingsbridge, which Peter Pindar hath\ncelebrated; while on both sides, as precipitous banks, rose towering\nhills, their summits covered by a stunted furze, and the blooming\norchard meeting it midway.\n\nSome rather unpleasant sensations visited the disabled soldier as the\nvessel sailed up the river towards the town. The beauty of its situation\nmade no impression upon him, for he had seen it a thousand times; and it\nwas perhaps as well that it did not; for to look on it from the river,\nor from a distant height--like a long line of houses hung on the breast\nof romance--and afterwards to enter it and find yourself in the midst of\na narrow, dingy street, where scarce two wheelbarrows could pass,\nproduceth only disappointment, and that, too, of the bitterest kind. It\nseems, indeed, that the Devonians have conceded so much of their\nbeautiful county to the barrenness of Dartmoor, that they grudge every\ninch that is occupied as a street or highway. Ere this time, George\nPrescot had in a great measure dropped his Devonshire dialect; and now,\ntaking the letter of Captain Paling from his pocket, he placed it in the\nhands of the commander of the packet, saying, \"Send your boy ashore with\nthis to a widow lady's of the name of Paling; you will know her family,\nI suppose. You may tell the boy to say that the letter is from her son,\nCaptain Paling, and that I shall wait here until I receive her answer\nbefore proceeding up the river.\"\n\nThe skipper stated that he knew Mrs. Paling well, who was a most\nrespectable lady, and that he remembered also her son, who was an\nofficer in the army, and who for some time had been a prisoner of war.\n\nThe boy went on shore with the letter, and within a quarter of an hour\nreturned, having with him a young gentleman, accompanied by a couple of\npointer dogs. The stranger was the brother of Captain Paling. He\ninquired for George Prescot, and on seeing him, invited him to his\nmother's house. The skipper, on seeing his passenger in such respectable\ncompany, let fall no hint that the passage-money was not paid; and the\nsoldier and the brother of Captain Paling went on shore together.\n\nIn his letter the captain dwelt on many kindnesses which he had received\nfrom its bearer, and of the bravery which he had seen him evince on the\nfield; informing them also that his pockets would be but ill provided\nwith cash, and regretting his own inability to replenish them.\n\nThe kindness of Mrs. Paling and her family towards him knew no limits.\nShe asked him a hundred questions respecting her son, her daughters\nconcerning their brother; and they imagined wants for him, that they\nmight show him a kindness. Now, however, twelve miles was all that lay\nbetween him and his home. They entreated him to remain until next day;\nbut he refused, for\n\n  \"Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home.\"\n\nIt is true, he could hardly give the name of home to the house of those\nwhom he called his parents, for it had ever been to him the habitation\nof oppressors; yet it was his home, as the mountain covered with eternal\nsnow is the home of the Greenlander, and he knew no other. The usual\nroad to it was by crossing the Dart at a ferry about a hundred yards\nabove the house of Mrs. Paling. Any other road caused a circuit of many\nmiles.\n\n\"If you will not remain with us to-night,\" said the brother of Captain\nPaling, who had conducted him from the vessel to his mother's house, \"I\nshall accompany you to the ferry.\"\n\n\"No, I thank you--I thank you,\" said George, confusedly; \"there is no\noccasion for it--none whatever. I shall not forget your kindness.\"\n\nHe did not intend to go by the ferry; for though the charge of the\nboatman was but a halfpenny, that halfpenny he had not in his\npossession; and he wished to conceal his poverty.\n\nBut women have sharp eyes in these matters. They see where men are\nblind; and a sister of Captain Paling named Caroline read the meaning of\ntheir guest's confusion, and of his refusing to permit her brother to\naccompany him to the shore; and, with a delicacy which spoke to the\nheart of him to whom the words were addressed, she said--\n\n\"Mr. Prescot, you have only now arrived from the Continent, and it is\nmost likely that you have no small change in your pocket. The ferrymen\nare unreasonable people to deal with. If you give them a crown, they\nwill row away and thank you, forgetting to return the change. The\nregular charge is but a halfpenny; therefore you had better take coppers\nwith you;\" and as she spoke, she held a halfpenny in her fingers towards\nhim.\n\n\"Well, well,\" stammered out George, with his hand in his pocket, \"I\nbelieve I have no coppers;\" and he accepted the halfpenny from the hand\nof Caroline Paling; and while he did so, he could not conceal the tears\nthat rose to his eyes.\n\nBut, trifling as the amount of her offer was, it must be understood that\nthe person to whom it was tendered was one who would not have accepted\nmore--who was ashamed of his poverty, and strove to conceal it; and\nthere was a soul, there was a delicacy, in her manner of tendering it\nwhich I can speak of, but not describe. It saved him also from having to\nwander weary and solitary miles at midnight.\n\nNo sooner had the disabled soldier crossed the river, and entered the\nnarrow lanes overshadowed by dark hedges of hazel, than he burst into\ntears, and his first words were, \"Caroline, I will remember thee!\"\n\nIt was near midnight when he approached the house which he called his\nhome. The inmates were asleep. He tapped at the window, the panes of\nwhich were framed in lead after the form of diamonds.\n\n\"Who be there?\" cried an angry voice.\n\n\"Your son! your son!\" he replied. \"George!\"\n\n\"Zon!\" repeated the voice; \"we have no zon. If it be thee, go to\nCoomberland, lad. We have noughts to do with thee. Thy old grandfather,\nZquire Morris, be now dead, and he ha'n't paid us so well for what we\nhave done as to have oughts to zay to thee again; zo good night, lad.\"\n\n\"Father! mother!\" cried George, striking more passionately on the\nwindow, \"what do you mean?\"\n\n\"Whoy, ha'n't I told thee?\" answered the voice that had spoken to him\nbefore. \"Thou art no zon of ours. Thou moost go to Coomberland, man, to\nZquire Morris--to his zeketors,[*] I mean, for he is dead. They may tell\nthee who thou art; I can't. We ha'n't been paid for what we have done\nfor thee already. However, thou may'st coom in for t'night;\" and as the\nold man who had professed to be his father spoke, he arose and opened\nthe door.\n\n  [note *: Executors.]\n\nGeorge entered the house, trembling with agitation.\n\n\"Father,\" he said--\"for thou hast taught me to call thee father; and if\nthou art not, tell me who I am.\"\n\n\"Ha'n't I told thee, lad?\" answered the old man. \"Go to Coomberland; I\nknow noughts about thee.\"\n\n\"To Cumberland!\" exclaimed George; and he thought of the young officer\nwhom he had twice met, who belonged to that county, and whose features\nwere the picture of his own. \"Why should I go to Cumberland?\"\n\n\"Whoy, I can't tell thee whoy thou shouldst go,\" said the old man; \"but\nthou was zent me from there, and there thou moost go back again, vor a\nbad bargain thou hast been to me. Zquire Morris zent thee here, and\nforgot to pay for thee; and if thou lodgest here to-night, thou won't\nforget to be a-moving, bag and baggage, in the morning.\"\n\nGeorge was wearied, and glad to sleep beneath the inhospitable roof of\nthose whom he had considered as his parents; but on the following\nmorning he took leave of them, after learning from them all that they\nknew of his history.\n\nBut I must again leave him, and return to Colonel Morris, and his son\nCharles.\n\nThey came to England together, and hastened towards Morris House; and\nthere the long disowned son learned that his father was dead, and that\nhis mother and his sisters knew not where his child was, or what had\nbecome of him. But his kindred had ascertained that he was now rich, and\nthey repented of their unkindness towards him.\n\n\"Son,\" said his mother, \"I know nothing of thy child. Thy father was a\nstrange man--he told little to me. If any one can tell thee aught\nconcerning thy boy, it will be John Bell, the old coachman; but he has\nnot been in the family for six years, and where he now is I cannot tell,\nthough I believe he is still somewhere in the neighbourhood.\"\n\nWith sad and anxious hearts the colonel and his son next visited the\nhouse of Mr. Sim--the dwelling-place in which the infancy, the\nchildhood, and what may be called the youth, of the latter had been\npassed.\n\nTears gathered in the eyes of Charles as he approached the door. He knew\nthat his grandsire and his grandmother had acted wrongly towards him, in\nnever speaking to him of his father, or making known to him that such a\nperson lived; but when he again saw the house which had been the scene\nof a thousand happy days, round which he had chased the gaudy butterfly\nand the busy bee, or sought the nest of the chaffinch, the yellowhammer,\nand the hedge-sparrow, the feelings of boyhood rose too strong in his\nsoul for resentment; and on meeting Mr. Sim (his grandfather) as they\napproached the door of the house, Charles ran towards him, and,\nstretching out his hand, cried, \"Father!\"\n\nThe old man recognised him, and exclaimed, \"Charles!--Charles!--child of\nmy Maria!\" and wept.\n\nAt the mention of her name, the colonel wept also.\n\n\"What gentleman is this with thee, Charles?\" inquired Mr. Sim.\n\n\"It is _my father!_\" was the reply.\n\nMr. Sim, who was now a grey-haired man, reeled back a few paces--he\nraised his hands--he exclaimed, \"Can I be forgiven?\"\n\n\"Forgiven!--ay, doubly forgiven!\" answered Colonel Morris, \"as the\nfather of lost, loved Maria, and as having been more than a father to my\nboy, who is now by my side. But know you nothing of my other son? My\nMaria bore twins.\"\n\n\"Nothing! nothing!\" replied Mr. Sim; \"that question has cost me many an\nanxious thought. It has troubled also the conscience of my wife; for it\nwas her fault that he also was not committed to my charge; and I would\nhave inquired after your child long ago, but that there was no good-will\nbetween your father and me; and I was a plain, retired citizen--he a\nmagistrate, and a justice of the peace for the county, who could do no\nwrong.\"\n\nThe colonel groaned.\n\nThey proceeded towards the villa together. Mrs. Sim met her grandson\nwith a flood of tears, and, in her joy at meeting him, she forgot her\ndislike to his father and her hatred to that father's family.\n\nThe colonel endeavoured to obtain information from his father-in-law\nrespecting his other son; and he told him all that his mother had said,\nof what she had spoken regarding the coachman, and also of what Charles\nhad told him, in twice meeting one who so strongly resembled himself.\n\n\"Colonel,\" said Mr. Sim, \"I know the John Bell your mother speaks of; he\nnow keeps an inn near Langholm. To-morrow we shall go to his house, and\nmake inquiry concerning all that he knows.\"\n\n\"Be it so, father,\" said the colonel. And on the following day they took\na chaise and set out together--the grandfather, the father, and the son.\n\nThey had to cross the Annan, and to pass the churchyard where Maria\nslept. As they drew near to it, the colonel desired the driver to stop.\n\n\"Follow me, Charles,\" he said; and Mr. Sim accompanied them. They\nentered the churchyard; the colonel led them to the humble grave-stone\nthat he had raised to the memory of his Maria. He sat down upon it, he\npressed his lips to it and wept.\n\n\"Charles,\" said he, \"look on your mother's grave. Here, on this stone,\nday after day, I was wont to sit with you and your brother upon my knee,\nfondling you, breathing your mother's name in your ears; and though\nneither of you knew what I said, you smiled as I wept and spoke. Oh\nCharles! though you then filled my whole heart (and you do now), I could\nonly distinguish you from each other by the ribbons on your arms. Would\nto Heaven that I may discover my child! and, whatever be his condition,\nI shall forgive my father for the injustice he has done me and mine--I\nshall be happy. And, oh! should we indeed find your brother--should he\nprove to be the youth whom you have twice met--I shall say that Heaven\nhas remembered me when I forgot myself! But come hither, Charles--come,\nkneel upon your mother's grave--kiss the sod where she lies, and angels\nwill write it in their books, and show it to your mother, where she is\nhappy. Come, my boy.\"\n\nCharles knelt on his mother's grave. He had arisen, and they were about\nto depart; for his grandfather had accompanied them, and was a silent\nbut tearful spectator of the scene.\n\nThey were leaving the churchyard, joined in the arms of each other, when\ntwo strangers entered it. The one was John Bell, the other George\nPrescot.\n\n\"Colonel! Colonel! there is John Bell that you spoke of,\" exclaimed Mr.\nSim.\n\n\"Father! father!\" at the same instant cried his son, \"he is here--it is\nhim!--my brother--or--he whom I have told you of, who so strangely\nresembles me.\"\n\nCharles rushed forward--it was George Prescot--and he took the proffered\nhand of the other, and said, \"Sir, I rejoice to meet thee again--it\nseems I belong to Cumberland as well as thou dost; and this gentleman\n(pointing to John Bell), who seems to know more of me than I do myself,\nhas promised to show me here my mother's grave!\"\n\n\"And where is that grave?\" cried the colonel earnestly, who had been an\ninterested spectator of all that passed.\n\n\"Even where the wife of your youth is buried, your honour,\" answered\nJohn Bell; \"you have with you one son--behold his twin brother!\"\n\nThe colonel pressed his new-found son to his breast. With his children\nhe sat down on the stone over Maria's grave, and they wept together.\n\nOur tale is told. Colonel Morris and his sons had met. His elder\nbrothers died, and he became the heir of his father's property. Mr. Sim\nalso stated that, in his will, he should divide his substance equally\nbetween the brothers; and he did so. I have but another word to add.\nGeorge forgot not Caroline Paling, who had assisted him when his heart\nwas full and his pocket empty, and within twelve months he again visited\nDartmouth; but when he returned from it, Caroline accompanied him as his\nwife; and when he introduced her to his father and his brother--\"Behold,\"\nsaid he, \"what a halfpenny, delicately tendered, may produce.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE STORY OF THE GIRL FORGER.\n\n\nIt is a common thing for writers of a certain class, when they want to\nproduce the feeling of wonder in their readers, to introduce some\nfrantic action, and then to account for it by letting out the secret\nthat the actor was mad. The trick is not so necessary as it seems, for\nthe strength of human passions is a potentiality only limited by\nexperience; and so it is that a sane person may under certain stimulants\ndo the maddest thing in the world. The passion itself is always true--it\nis only the motive that may be false; and therefore it is that in\nnarrating for your amusement, perhaps I may add instruction, the\nfollowing singular story--traces of the main parts of which I got in the\nold books of a former procurator-fiscal--I assume that there was no more\ninsanity in the principal actor, Euphemia, or, as she was called, Effie\nCarr, when she brought herself within the arms of the law, than there is\nin you, when now you are reading the story of her strange life. She was\nthe only daughter of John Carr, a grain merchant, who lived in Bristo\nStreet. It would be easy to ascribe to her all the ordinary and\nextraordinary charms that are thought so necessary to embellish\nheroines; but as we are not told what these were in her case, we must be\ncontented with the assurance that nature had been kind enough to her to\ngive her power over the hearts of men. We shall be nearer our purpose\nwhen we state, what is necessary to explain a peculiar part of our\nstory, that her father, in consequence of his own insufficient\neducation, had got her trained to help him in keeping his accounts with\nthe farmers, and in writing up his books; nay, she enjoyed the privilege\nof writing his drafts upon the Bank of Scotland, which the father\ncontrived to sign, though in his own illiterate way, and with a\npeculiarity which it would not have been easy to imitate.\n\nBut our gentle clerk did not consider these duties imposed upon her by\nher father as excluding her either from gratifying her love of domestic\nhabits, by assisting her mother in what at that time was denominated\nhussyskep or housekeeping, or from a certain other gratification, which\nmight without a hint from us be anticipated--no other than the luxury of\nfalling head and ears, and heart too we fancy, in love with a certain\ndashing young student of the name of Robert Stormonth, then attending\nthe University, more for the sake of polish than of mere study, for he\nwas the son of the proprietor of Kelton, and required to follow no\nprofession. How Effie got entangled with this youth we have no means of\nknowing, so we must be contented with the Scotch proverb--\n\n  \"Tell me where the flea may bite,\n  And I will tell where love may light.\"\n\nThe probability is, that from the difference of their stations and the\nretiring nature of our gentle clerk, we shall be safe in assuming that\nhe had, as the saying goes, been smitten by her charms in some of those\nstreet encounters, where there is more of love's work done than in\n\"black-footed\" tea coteries expressly held for the accommodation of\nCupid. And that the smiting was a genuine feeling we are not left to\ndoubt; for in addition to the reasons we shall afterwards have too good\noccasion to know, he treated Effie not as those wild students who are\ngreat men's sons do \"the light o' loves\" they meet in their escapades,\nfor he entrusted his secrets to her, he took such small counsel from her\npoor head as a \"learned clerk\" might be supposed able to give; nay, he\ntold her of his mother, and how one day he hoped to be able to introduce\nher at Kelton as his wife. All which Effie repaid with the devotedness\nof that most wonderful affection called the first or virgin love--the\npurest, the deepest, the most thorough-going of all the emotions of the\nhuman heart. But as yet he had not conceded to her wish that he should\nconsent to their love being made known to Effie's father and mother.\nLove is only a leveller to itself and its object: the high-born youth,\ninured to refined manners, shrank from a family intercourse, which put\nhim too much in mind of the revolt he had made against the presumed\nwishes and intentions of his proud parents. Wherein, after all, he was\nonly true to the instincts of that institution, apparently so inhumane\nas well as unchristian in its exclusiveness, called aristocracy, and yet\nwith the excuse that its roots are pretty deeply set in human nature.\n\nBut, proud as he was, Bob Stormonth, the younger of Kelton, was amenable\nto the obligations of a necessity, forged by his own imprudent hands. He\nhad, by a fast mode of living, got into debt--a condition from which his\nfather, a stern man, had relieved him twice before, but with a threat on\nthe last occasion, that if he persevered in his prodigality, he would\nwithdraw from him his yearly allowance, and throw him upon his own\nresources. The threat proved ineffectual, and this young heir of entail,\nwith all his pride, was once in the grasp of low-born creditors; nay,\nthings in this evil direction had gone so far that writs were out\nagainst him, and one in the form of a caption was already in the hands\nof a messenger-at-arms. That the debts were comparatively small in\namount, was no amelioration where the purse was all but empty; and he\nhad exhausted the limited exchequers of his chums, which with college\nyouths was, and is, not difficult to do. So the gay Bob was driven to\nhis last shift, and that, as is generally the case, was a mean one; for\nnecessity, as the mother of inventions, does not think it proper to\nlimit her births to genteel or noble devices to please her proud\nconsort. He even had recourse to poor Effie to help him; and, however\nridiculous this may seem, there were reasons that made the application\nappear not so desperate as some of his other schemes. It was only the\ncaption that as yet quickened his fears; and as the sum for which the\nwrit was issued was only twenty pounds, it was not, after all, so much\nbeyond the power of a clerk.\n\nIt was during one of their ordinary walks in the Meadows that the\npressing necessity was opened by Stormonth to the vexed and terrified\ngirl. He told her that, but for the small help he required in the\nmeantime, he would be ruined. The wrath of his father would be excited\nonce more, and probably to the exclusion of all reconciliation; and he\nhimself compelled to flee, but whither he knew not. He had his plan\nprepared, and proposed to Effie, who had no means of her own, _to take a\nloan_ of the sum out of her father's cash-box--words very properly\nchosen according to the euphemistic policy of the devil; but Effie's\ngenuine spirit was roused and alarmed.\n\n\"Dreadful!\" she whispered, as if afraid that the night wind would carry\nher words to honest ears. \"Besides,\" she continued, \"my father, who is a\nhard man, keeps his desk lockit.\"\n\nWords which took Stormonth aback, for even he saw there was here a\nnecessity as strong as his own; yet the power of invention went to work\nagain.\n\n\"Listen, Effie,\" said he. \"If you cannot help me, it is not likely we\nshall meet again. I am desperate, and will go into the army.\"\n\nThe ear of Effie was chained to a force which was direct upon the heart.\nShe trembled and looked wistfully into his face, even as if by that look\nshe could extract from him some other device less fearful, by which she\nmight have the power of retaining him for so short a period as a day.\n\n\"You draw out your father's drafts on the bank, Effie,\" he continued.\n\"Write one out for me, and I will put your father's name to it. You can\ndraw the money. I will be saved from ruin; and your father will never\nknow.\"\n\nA proposal which again brought a shudder over the girl.\n\n\"Is it Robert Stormonth who asks me to do this thing?\" she whispered\nagain.\n\n\"No,\" said he; \"for I am not myself. Yesterday, and before the messenger\nwas after me, I would have shrunk from the suggestion. I am not myself,\nI say, Effie. Ay or no; keep me or lose me--that is the alternative.\"\n\n\"Oh, I cannot,\" was the language of her innocence, and for which he was\nprepared; for the stimulant was again applied in the most powerful of\nall forms--the word farewell was sounded in her ear.\n\n\"Stop, Robert! let me think.\" But there was no thought, only the heart\nbeating wildly. \"I will do it; and may the penalty be mine, and mine\nonly.\"\n\nSo it was: \"even virtue's self turns vice when misapplied.\" What her\nmind shrank from was embraced by the heart as a kind of sacred duty of a\nlove making a sacrifice for the object of its first worship. It was\narranged; and as the firmness of a purpose is often in proportion to the\nprior disinclination, so Effie's determination to save her lover from\nruin was forthwith put in execution; nay, there was even a touch of the\nheroine in her, so wonderfully does the heart, acting under its primary\ninstincts, sanctify the device which favours its affection. That same\nevening Effie Carr wrote out the draft for twenty pounds on the Bank of\nScotland, gave it to Stormonth, who, from a signature of the father's,\nalso furnished by her, perpetrated the forgery--a crime at that time\npunishable by death. The draft so signed was returned to Effie. Next\nforenoon she went to the bank, as she had often done for her father\nbefore; and the document being in her handwriting, as prior ones of the\nsame kind had also been, no scrutinizing eye was turned to the\nsignature. The money was handed over, but _not counted_ by the\nrecipient, as before had been her careful habit--a circumstance with its\neffect to follow in due time. Meanwhile Stormonth was at a place of\nappointment out of the reach of the executor of the law, and was soon\nfound out by Effie, who gave him the money with trembling hands. For\nthis surely a kiss was due. We do not know; but she returned with the\nsatisfaction, overcoming all the impulses of fear and remorse, that she\nhad saved the object of her first and only love from ruin and flight.\n\nBut even then the reaction was on the spring; the rebound was to be\nfearful and fatal. The teller at the bank had been struck with Effie's\nmanner; and the non-counting of the notes had roused a suspicion, which\nfought its way even against the improbability of a mere girl\nperpetrating a crime from which females are generally free. He examined\nthe draft, and soon saw that the signature was a bad imitation.\nThereupon a messenger was despatched to Bristo Street for inquiry. John\nCarr, taken by surprise, declared that the draft, though written by his\ndaughter, was forged--the forgery being in his own mind attributed to\nGeorge Lindsay, his young salesman. Enough this for the bank, who had in\nthe first place only to do with the utterer, against whom their evidence\nas yet only lay. Within a few hours afterwards Effie Carr was in the\nTolbooth, charged with the crime of forging a cheque on her father's\naccount-current.\n\nThe news soon spread over Edinburgh--at that time only an overgrown\nvillage, in so far as regarded local facilities for the spread of\nwonders. It had begun there, where the mother was in recurring faints,\nthe father in distraction and not less mystery, George Lindsay in terror\nand pity. And here comes in the next strange turn of our story. Lindsay\nall of a sudden declared he was the person who imitated the name--a\ndevice of the yearning heart to save the girl of his affection from the\ngallows, and clutched at by the mother and father as a means of their\ndaughter's redemption. One of those thinly-sown beings who are\ncold-blooded by nature, who take on love slowly but surely, and seem\nfitted to be martyrs, Lindsay defied all consequences, so that it might\nbe that Effie Carr should escape an ignominious death. Nor did he take\ntime for further deliberation: in less than half an hour he was in the\nprocurator-fiscal's office--the willing self-criminator; the man who did\nthe deed; the man who was ready to die for his young mistress and his\nlove. His story, too, was as ready as it was truth-seeming. He declared\nthat he had got Effie to write out the draft as if commissioned by John\nCarr; that he took it away, and with his own hands added the name; that\nhe had returned the check to Effie to go with it to the bank, and had\nreceived the money from her on her return. The consequence was his wish,\nand it was inevitable. That same day George Lindsay was lodged also in\nthe Tolbooth, satisfied that he had made a sacrifice of his life for one\nwhom he had loved for years, and who yet had never shown him even a\nsymptom of hope that his love would be returned.\n\nAll which proceedings soon came on the wings of rumour to the ears of\nRobert Stormonth, who was not formed to be a martyr even for a love\nwhich was to him as true as his nature would permit. He saw his danger,\nbecause he did not see the character of a faithful girl who would die\nrather than compromise her lover. He fled--aided probably by that very\nmoney he had wrung out of the hands of the devoted girl; nor was his\ndisappearance connected with the tragic transaction; for, as we have\nsaid, the connection between him and Effie had been kept a secret, and\nhis flight could be sufficiently accounted for by his debt.\n\nMeanwhile the precognitions or examination of the parties went on, and\nwith a result as strange as it was puzzling to the officials. Effie was\nfirm to her declaration, that she not only wrote the body of the cheque,\nbut attached to it the name of her father, and had appropriated the\nmoney in a way which she declined to state. On the other hand, Lindsay\nwas equally staunch to his statement made to the procurator-fiscal, that\nhe had got Effie to write the draft, had forged the name to it, and got\nthe money from her. The authorities very soon saw that they had got more\nthan the law bargained for or wanted; nor was the difficulty likely soon\nto be solved. The two parties could not both be guilty, according to the\nevidence, nor could one of them be guilty to the exclusion of the other;\nneither, when the balance was cast, was there much difference in the\nweight of the scales, because, while it was in one view more likely that\nLindsay signed the false name, it was beyond doubt that Effie wrote the\nbody of the document, and she had, moreover, presented it. But was it\nfor the honour of the law that people should be hanged on a likelihood?\nIt was a new case without new heads to decide it, and it made no\ndifference that the body of the people, who soon became inflamed on the\nsubject, took the part of the girl and declared against the man. It was\neasy to be seen that the tracing of the money would go far to solve the\nmystery; and accordingly there was a strict search made in Lindsay's\nlodgings, as well as in Effie's private repositories at home. We need\nnot say with what effect, where the money was over the Border and away.\nIt was thus in all views more a case for Astraea than common heads; but\nthen she had gone to heaven. The Lord Advocate soon saw that the law was\nlikely to be caught in its own meshes. The first glimpse was got of the\ndanger of hanging so versatile, so inconsistent, so unsearchable a\ncreature as a human being on a mere confession of guilt. That that had\nbeen the law of Scotland in all time, nay, that it had been the law of\nthe world from the beginning, there was no doubt. Who could know the\nmurderer or the forger better than the murderer or the forger himself?\nand would any one throw away his life on a false plea? The reasoning\ndoes not exhaust the deep subject; there remains the presumption that\nthe criminal will, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, deny, and deny\nboldly. But our case threw a new light on the old law, and the Lord\nAdvocate was slow to indict where he saw not only reasons for failure,\nbut also rising difficulties which might strike at the respect upon\nwhich the law was founded.\n\nThe affair hung loose for a time, and Lindsay's friends, anxious to save\nhim, got him induced to run his letters--the effect of which is to give\nthe prosecutor a period wherein to try the culprit, on failure of which\nthe person charged is free. The same was done by Effie's father; but\nquickened as the Lord Advocate was, the difficulty still met him like a\nghost that would not be laid, that if he put Effie at the bar, Lindsay\nwould appear in the witness-box; and if he put Lindsay on his trial,\nEffie would swear he was innocent; and as for two people forging _the\nsame name_, the thing had never been heard of. And so it came to pass\nthat the authorities at last, feeling they were in a cleft stick, where\nif they relieved one hand the other would be caught, were inclined to\nliberate both panels. But the bank was at that time preyed upon by\nforgeries, and were determined to make an example now when they had a\nculprit, or perhaps two. The consequence was, that the authorities were\nforced to give way, vindicating their right of choice as to the party\nthey should arraign. That party was Effie Carr, and the choice justified\nitself by two considerations: that she, by writing and uttering the\ncheque, was so far committed by evidence exterior to her\nself-inculpation; and secondly, that Lindsay might break down in the\nwitness-box under a searching examination. Effie was therefore indicted\nand placed at the bar. She pleaded guilty, but the prosecutor,\nnotwithstanding, led evidence, and at length Lindsay appeared as a\nwitness for the defence. The people who crowded the court had been aware\nfrom report of the condition in which Lindsay stood; but the deep\nsilence which reigned throughout the hall when he was called to answer,\nevinced the doubt whether he would stand true to his self-impeachment.\nThe doubt was soon solved. With a face on which no trace of fear could\nbe perceived, with a voice in which there was no quaver, he swore that\nit was he who signed the draft and sent Effie for the money. The\noscillation of sympathy, which had for a time been suspended, came round\nagain to the thin pale girl, who sat there looking wistfully and\nwonderingly into the face of the witness, and the murmuring approbation\nthat broke out, in spite of the shrill \"silence\" of the crier, expressed\nat once admiration of the man--criminal as he swore himself to be--and\npity for the accused. What could the issue be? Effie was acquitted, and\nLindsay sent back to gaol. Was he not to be tried? The officials felt\nthat the game was dangerous. If Lindsay had stood firm in the box, had\nnot Effie sat firm at the bar, with the very gallows in her eye, and\nwould not she, in her turn, be as firm in the box? All which was too\nevident, and the consequence in the end came to be, that Lindsay was in\nthe course of a few days set at liberty.\n\nAnd now there occurred proceedings not less strange in the house of John\nCarr. Lindsay was turned off, because, though he had made a sacrifice of\nhimself to save the life of Effie, the sacrifice was only that due to\nthe justice he had offended. The dismissal was against the protestations\nof Effie, who alone knew he was innocent; and she had to bear the\nfurther grief of learning that Stormonth had left the city on the very\nday whereon she was apprehended--a discovery this too much for a frame\nalways weak, and latterly so wasted by her confinement in prison, and\nthe anguish of mind consequent upon her strange position. And so it came\nto pass in a few more days that she took to her bed, a wan, wasted,\nheart-broken creature; but stung as she had been by the conduct of the\nman she had offered to die to save, she felt even more the sting of\ningratitude in herself for not divulging to her mother as much of her\nsecret as would have saved Lindsay from dismissal, for she was now more\nand more satisfied that it was the strength of his love for her that had\ndriven him to his great and perilous sacrifice. Nor could her mother, as\nshe bent over her daughter, understand why her liberation should have\nbeen followed by so much sorrow; nay, loving her as she did, she even\nreproached her as being ungrateful to God.\n\n\"Mother,\" said the girl, \"I have a secret that lies like a stane upon my\nheart. George Lindsay had nae mair to do with that forgery than you.\"\n\n\"And who had to do with it then, Effie, dear?\"\n\n\"Myself,\" continued the daughter; \"I filled up the cheque at the bidding\no' Robert Stormonth, whom I had lang loved. It was he wha put my\nfaither's name to it. It was to him I gave the money, to relieve him\nfrom debt, and he has fled.\"\n\n\"Effie, Effie,\" cried the mother; \"and we have done this thing to George\nLindsay--ta'en from him his basket and his store, yea, the bread o' his\nmouth, in recompense for trying to save your life by offering his ain!\"\n\n\"Yes, mother,\" added Effie; \"but we must make that wrang richt.\"\n\n\"And mair, lass,\" rejoined the mother, as she rose abruptly and\nnervously, and hurried to her husband, to whom she told the strange\nintelligence. Then John Carr was a just man as well as a loving parent;\nand while he forgave his unfortunate daughter, he went and brought back\nGeorge Lindsay to his old place that very night; nor did he or Mrs. Carr\nknow the joy they had poured into the heart of the young man, for the\nreason that they did not know the love he bore to their daughter. But if\nthis was a satisfaction to Effie, in so far as it relieved her heart of\na burden, it brought to her a burden of another kind. The mother soon\nsaw how matters stood with the heart of Lindsay, and she, moreover, saw\nthat her or her daughter's gratitude could not be complete so long as he\nwas denied the boon of being allowed to marry the girl he had saved from\nthe gallows, and she waited her opportunity of breaking the delicate\nsubject to Effie. It was not time yet, when Effie was an invalid, and\neven so far wasted and worn as to cause apprehensions of her ultimate\nfate, even death; nor perhaps would that time ever come when she could\nbear to hear the appeal without pain; for though Stormonth had ruined\nher character and her peace of mind--nay, had left her in circumstances\nalmost unprecedented for treachery, baseness, and cruelty--he retained\nstill the niche where the offerings of a first love had been made: his\nimage had been indeed burned into the virgin heart, and no other form of\nman's face, though representing the possessor of beauty, wealth, and\nworldly honours, would ever take away that treasured symbol. It haunted\nher even as a shadow of herself, which, disappearing at sundown, comes\nagain at the rising of the noon; nay, she would have been contented to\nmake other sacrifices equally great as that which she had made; nor wild\nmoors, nor streams, nor rugged hills, would have stopped her in an\neffort to look upon him once more, and replace that inevitable image by\nthe real vision, which had first taken captive her young heart.\n\nBut time passed, bringing the usual ameliorations to the miserable.\nEffie got so far better in health that she became able to resume, in a\nlanguid way, her former duties, with the exception of those of \"the\ngentle clerk\"--for of these she had had enough; even the very look of a\nbank-draft brought a shudder over her; nor would she have entered the\nBank of Scotland again, even with a good cheque for a thousand pounds,\nto have been all her own. Meanwhile the patient George had plied a suit\nwhich he could only express by his eyes or the attentions of one who\nworships, but he never alluded, even in their conversations, to the old\nsacrifice. The mother too, and not less the father, saw the advantages\nthat might result as well to the health of her mind as that of her body.\nThey had waited--a vain waiting--for the wearing out of the traces of\nthe obdurate image; and when they thought they might take placidity as\nthe sign of what they waited for, they first hinted, and then expressed\nin plain terms, the wishes of their hearts. For a time all their efforts\nwere fruitless; but John Carr getting old and weak, wished to be\nsucceeded in his business by George; and the wife, when she became a\nwidow, would require to be maintained--reasons which had more weight\nwith Effie than any others, excepting always the act of George's\nself-immolation at the shrine in which his fancy had placed her. The\nimportunities at length wore out her resistings, without effacing the\nlines of the old and still endeared image, and she gave a cold, we may\nsay reluctant, consent. The bride's \"ay\" was a sigh, the rapture a tear\nof sadness. But George was pleased even with this: Effie, the\nlong-cherished Effie, was at length his.\n\nIn her new situation, Effie Carr--now Mrs. Lindsay--performed all the\nduties of a good and faithful wife; by an effort of the will no doubt,\nthough in another sense only a sad obedience to necessity, of which we\nare all, as the creatures of motives, the very slaves. But the old image\nresisted the appeals of her reason, as well as the blandishments of a\nhusband's love. She was only true, faithful, and kind, till the birth of\na child lent its reconciling power to the efforts of duty. Some time\nafterwards John Carr died--an event which carried in its train the\nsubsequent death of his wife. There was left to the son-in-law a\ndwindling business, and a very small sum of money, for the father had\nmet with misfortunes in his declining years, which impaired health\nprevented him from resisting. Time wore on, and showed that the power of\nthe martyr-spirit is not always that of the champion of worldly success,\nfor it was now but a struggle between George Lindsay, with a stained\nname, and the stern demon of misfortune. He was at length overtaken by\npoverty, which, as affecting Effie, preyed so relentlessly upon his\nspirits, that within two years he followed John Carr to the grave. Effie\nwas now left with two children to the work of her fingers, a poor weapon\nwherewith to beat off the wolf of want, and even this was curtailed by\nthe effects of the old crime, which the public still kept in green\nremembrance.\n\nThroughout, our story has been the sensationalism of angry fate, and\neven less likely to be believed than the work of fiction. Nor was the\nvulture face of the Nemesis yet smoothed down. The grief of her\nbereavement had only partially diverted Effie's mind from the\nrecollections of him who had ruined her, and yet could not be hated by\nher, nay, could not be but loved by her. The sensitized nerve, which had\nreceived the old image, gave it out fresh again to the reviving power of\nmemory, and this was only a continuation of what had been a corroding\ncustom of years and years. But, as the saying goes, it is a long road\nthat does not offer by its side the spreading bough of shade to the\nway-worn traveller. One day, when Effie was engaged with her work, of\nwhich she was as weary as of the dreaming which accompanied it, there\nappeared before her, without premonition or foreshadowing sign, Robert\nStormonth of Kelton, dressed as a country gentleman, booted, and with a\nwhip in his hand.\n\n\"Are you Effie Carr?\"\n\nThe question was useless to one who was already lying back in her chair\nin a state of unconsciousness, from which she recovered only to open her\neyes and avert them, and shut them and open them again, like the victim\nof epilepsy.\n\n\"And do you fear me?\" said the excited man, as he took her in his strong\narms and stared wildly into her face; \"I have more reason to fear you,\nwhom I ruined,\" he continued. \"Ay, brought within the verge of the\ngallows. I know it all, Effie. Open your eyes, dear soul, and smile once\nmore upon me. Nay, I have known it for years, during which remorse has\nscourged me through the world. Look up, dear Effie, while I tell you I\ncould bear the agony no longer; and now opportunity favours the wretched\npenitent, for my father is dead, and I am not only my own master, but\nmaster of Kelton, of which you once heard me speak. Will you not look up\nyet, dear Effie? I come to make amends to you, not by wealth merely, but\nto offer you again that love I once bore to you, and still bear. Another\nsuch look, dear--it is oil to my parched spirit. You are to consent to\nbe my wife; the very smallest boon I dare offer.\"\n\nDuring which strange rambling speech Effie was partly insensible; yet\nshe heard enough to afford her clouded mind a glimpse of her condition,\nand of the meaning of what was said to her. For a time she kept staring\ninto his face as if she had doubts of his real personality; nor could\nshe find words to express even those more collected thoughts that began\nto gather into form.\n\n\"Robert Stormonth,\" at length she said, calmly, \"and have you suffered\ntoo? Oh, this is more wonderful to me than a' the rest o' these\nwonderful things.\"\n\n\"As no man ever suffered, dear Effie,\" he answered. \"I was on the eve of\ncoming to you, when a friend I retained here wrote me to London of your\nmarriage with the man who saved you from the fate into which I\nprecipitated you. How I envied that man who offered to die for you! He\nseemed to take from me my only means of reparation; nay, my only chance\nof happiness. But he is dead. Heaven give peace to so noble a spirit!\nAnd now you are mine. It is mercy I come to seek in the first instance;\nthe love--if that, after all that is past, is indeed possible--I will\ntake my chance of that.\"\n\n\"Robert,\" cried the now weeping woman, \"if that love had been aince\nless, what misery I would have been spared! Ay, and my father, and\nmother, and poor George Lindsay, a' helped awa to the grave by my crime,\nfor it stuck to us to the end.\" And she buried her head in his bosom,\nsobbing piteously.\n\n\"_My_ crime, dear Effie, not yours,\" said he. \"It was you who saved my\nlife; and if Heaven has a kindlier part than another for those who err\nby the fault of others, it will be reserved for one who made a sacrifice\nof love. But we have, I hope, something to enjoy before you go there,\nand as yet I have not got your forgiveness.\"\n\n\"It is yours--it is yours, Robert,\" was the sobbing answer. \"Ay, and\nwith it a' the love I ever had for you.\"\n\n\"Enough for this time, dear Effie,\" said he. \"My horse waits for me.\nExpect me to-morrow at this hour with a better-arranged purpose.\" And\nfolding her in his arms, and kissing her fervently, even as his remorse\nwere thereby assuaged as well as his love gratified, he departed,\nleaving Effie to thoughts we should be sorry to think ourselves capable\nof putting into words. Nor need we say more than that Stormonth kept his\nword. Effie Carr was in a few days Mrs. Stormonth, and in not many more\nthe presiding female power in the fine residence of Kelton.\n\n\n\n\nTHE BURGHER'S TALES.\n\nTHE TWO RED SLIPPERS.\n\n\nThe taking down of the old house of four or five flats called\nGowanlock's Land, in that part of the High Street which used to be\ncalled the Luckenbooths, has given rise to various stories connected\nwith the building. Out of these I have selected a very strange\nlegend--so strange indeed, that, if not true, it must have been the\nproduction, _quod est in arte summa_, of a capital inventor; nor need I\nsay that it is of much importance to talk of the authenticity of these\nthings, for the most authentic are embellished by invention--and it is\ncertainly the best embellished that live the longest; for all which we\nhave very good reasons in human nature.\n\nGowanlock's Land, it would seem, merely occupied the site of an older\nhouse, which belonged, at the time of Prince Charlie's occupation of the\ncity, to an old town councillor of the name of Yellowlees. This older\nhouse was also one of many stories--an old form in Edinburgh, supposed\nto have been adopted from the French; but it had, which was not\nuncommon, an entry from the street running under an arch, and leading to\nthe back of the premises to the lower part of the tenement, that part\noccupied by the councillor. There was a lower flat, and one above, which\nthus constituted an entire house; and which, moreover, rejoiced in the\nprivilege of having an extensive garden, running down as far as the\nsheet of water called the North Loch, that secret \"domestic witness,\" as\nthe ancients used to say, of many of the dark crimes of the old city.\nThese gardens were the pride of the rich burghers of the time, decorated\nby Dutch-clipped hollies and trim boxwood walks; and in our special\ninstance of Councillor Yellowlees' retreat, there was, in addition, a\nsummer-house or rustic bower standing at the bottom, that is, towards\nthe north, and close upon the loch. I may mention also that, in\nconsequence of the damp, this little bower was strewed with rushes for\nthe very special comfort of Miss Annie Yellowlees, the only and much\npetted child of the good councillor.\n\nAll which you must take as introductory to the important fact that the\nsaid Miss Annie, who, as a matter of course, was \"very bonnie,\" as well\nas passing rich to be, had been, somewhat previous to the prince's entry\nto the town, pledged to be married to no less considerable a personage\nthan Maister John Menelaws, a son of him of the very same name who dealt\nin pelts in a shop of the Canongate, and a student of medicine in the\nEdinburgh University; but as the councillor had in his secret soul\nhankerings after the prince, and the said student, John, was a red-hot\nroyalist, the marriage was suspended, all to the inexpressible grief of\nour \"bonnie Annie,\" who would not have given her John for all the\nCharlies and Geordies to be found from Berwick to Lerwick. On the other\nhand, while Annie was depressed, and forced to seek relief in solitary\nmusings in her bower by the loch, it is just as true that \"it is an ill\nwind that blaws naebody gude;\" nay, the truth of the saying was verified\nin Richard Templeton, a fellow-student of Menelaws, and a rival, too, in\nthe affections of Annie; who, being a Charlieite as well as an Annieite,\nrejoiced that his companion was in the meantime foiled and disappointed.\n\nMeanwhile, and, I may say, while the domestic affairs of the\ncouncillor's house were still in this unfortunate position, the prince's\nbubble burst in the way which history tells us of, and thereupon out\ncame proscriptions of terrible import, and, as fate would have it, young\nTempleton's name was in the bloody register; the more by reason that he\nhad been as noisy as Edinburgh students generally are in the\nproclamation of his partisanship. He must fly or secrete himself, or\nperhaps lose a head in which there was concealed a considerable amount\nof Scotch cunning. He at once thought of the councillor's house, with\nthat secluded back garden and summer-house, all so convenient for\nsecrecy, and the envied Annie there, too, whom he might by soft wooings\ndetach from the hated Menelaws, and make his own through the medium of\nthe pity that is akin to love. And so, to be sure, he straightway, under\nthe shade of night, repaired to the house of the councillor, who, being\na tender-hearted man, could not see a sympathiser with the glorious\ncause in danger of losing his head. Templeton was received--a report set\nabroad that he had gone to France--and all proper measures were taken\nwithin the house to prevent any domestic from letting out the secret.\n\nIn this scheme, Annie, we need hardly say, was a favouring party; not\nthat she had any love for the young man, for her heart was still true to\nMenelaws (who, however, for safety's sake, was now excluded from the\nhouse), but that, with a filial obedience to a beloved father, she felt,\nwith a woman's heart, sympathy for one who was in distress, and a martyr\nto the cause which her father loved. Need we wonder at an issue which\nmay already be looming on the vision of those who know anything of human\nnature? The two young folks were thrown together. They were seldom out\nof each other's company. Suffering is love's opportunity, and Templeton\nhad to plead for him not only his misfortune, but a tongue rendered\nsubtle and winning by love's action in the heart. As the days passed,\nAnnie saw some new qualities in the martyr prisoner which she had not\nseen before; nay, the pretty little domestic attentions had the usual\nreflex effect upon the heart which administered them, and all that the\nrecurring image of Menelaws could do to fight against these rising\npredilections was so far unavailing, that that very image waxed dimmer\nand dimmer, while the present object was always working through the\nmagic of sensation. Yes, Annie Yellowlees grew day by day fonder of her\n_prot\u00e9g\u00e9_, until at length she got, as the saying goes, \"over head and\nears.\" Nay, was she not, in the long nights, busy working a pair of red\nslippers for the object of her new affections, and were not these so\nvery suitable to one who, like Hercules, was reduced almost to the\ndistaff, and who, unlike that woman-tamed hero, did not need them to be\napplied anywhere but to the feet?\n\nIn the midst of all this secluded domesticity, there was all that\ncomfort which is said to come from stolen waters. Then was there not the\nprospect of the proscription being taken off, and the two would be made\nhappy? Even in the meantime they made small escapades into free space.\nWhen the moon was just so far up as not to be a tell-tale, Templeton\nwould, either with or without Annie, step out into the garden with these\nvery red slippers on his feet. That bower by the loch, too, was\nfavourable to the fondlings of a secret love; nor was it sometimes less\nto the prisoner a refuge from the eeriness which comes of _ennui_--if it\nis not the same thing--under the pressure of which strange feeling he\nwould creep out at times when Annie could not be with him; nay,\nsometimes when the family had gone to bed.\n\nAnd now we come to a very wonderful turn in our strange story. One\nmorning Templeton did not make his appearance in the breakfast parlour,\nbut of course he would when he got up and got his red slippers on. Yet\nhe was so punctual; and Annie, who knew that her father had to go to the\ncouncil chamber, would see what was the cause of the young man's delay.\nShe went to his bedroom door. It was open; but where was Templeton? He\nwas not there. He could not be out in the city; he could not be even in\nthe garden with the full light of a bright morning sun shining on it. He\nwas not in the house; he was not in the garden, as they could see from\nthe windows. He was nowhere to be found; and, what added to the wonder,\nhe had taken with him his red slippers, wherever he had gone. The\ninmates were in wonderment and consternation, and, conduplicated evil!\nthey could make no inquiry for one who lay under the ban of a bloody\nproscription.\n\nBut wonders, as we all know, generally ensconce themselves in some snug\ntheory, and die by a kind of pleasant euthanasia; and so it was with\nthis wonder of ours. The councillor came, as the days passed, to the\nconclusion that Templeton, wearied out by his long confinement, had\nbecome desperate, and had gone abroad. As good a theory as could be got,\nseeing that he had not trusted himself in going near his friends; and\nAnnie, whose grief was sharp and poignant, came also to settle down with\na belief which still promised her her lover, though perhaps at a long\ndate. But, somehow or another, Annie could not explain why, even with\nall the fondness he had to the work of her hands, he should have elected\nto expose himself to damp feet by making the love-token slippers do the\nduty of the pair of good shoes he had left in the bedroom.\n\nEven this latter wonder wore away; and months and months passed on the\nrevolving wheel which casts months, not less than moments, into that\ngulf we call eternity. The rigour of the Government prosecutions was\nrelaxed, and timid sympathisers began to show their heads out of doors,\nbut Richard Templeton never returned to claim either immunity or the\nwoman of his affections. Nor within all this time did John Menelaws\nenter the house of the councillor; so that Annie's days were renounced\nto sadness, and her nights to reveries. But at last comes the eventful\n\"one day\" of the greatest of all story-tellers, Time, whereon happen his\nstartling discoveries. Verily one day Annie had wandered disconsolately\ninto the garden, and seated herself on the wooden form in the\nsummer-house, where in the moonlight she had often nestled in the arms\nof her proscribed lover, who was now gone, it might be, for ever.\nObjective thought cast her into a reverie, and the reverie brought up\nagain the images of these objects, till her heart beat with an affection\nrenewed through a dream. At length she started up, and, wishing to hurry\nfrom a place which seemed filled with images at once lovable and\nterrible, she felt her foot caught by an impediment whereby she\nstumbled. On looking down she observed some object of a reddish-brown\ncolour; and becoming alarmed lest it might be one of the toads with\nwhich the place was sometimes invaded, she started back. Yet curiosity\nforced her to a closer inspection. She applied her hand to the object,\nand brought away one of those very slippers which she had made for\nTempleton. All very strange; but what maybe conceived to have been her\nfeelings when she saw, sticking up from beneath the rushes, the white\nskeleton of a foot which had filled that very slipper! A terrible\nsuspicion shot through her mind. She flew to her father, and, hurrying\nhim to the spot, pointed out to him the grim object, and showed him the\nslipper which had covered it. Mr. Yellowlees was a shrewd man, and soon\nsaw that, the foot being there, the rest of the body was not far away.\nHe saw, too, that his safety might be compromised either as having been\nconcerned in a murder or the harbourage of a rebel; and so, making\ncaution the better part of his policy, he repaired to a sympathiser, and\nhaving told him the story, claimed his assistance. Nor was this refused.\nThat same night, by the light of a lamp, they exhumed the body of\nTempleton, much reduced, but enveloped with his clothes; only they\nobserved that the other red slipper was wanting. On examining the body,\nthey could trace the evidence of a sword-stab through the heart. All\nthis they kept to themselves; and that same night they contrived to get\nthe sexton of the Canongate to inter the body as that of a rebel who had\nbeen killed, and left where it was found.\n\nThis wonder also passed away, and, as time sped, old things began to get\nagain into their natural order. Menelaws began to come again about the\nhouse; and as an old love, when the impediments are removed, is soon\nrekindled again, he and Annie became even all that which they had once\nbeen to each other. The old vows were repeated without the slightest\nreference being made by either party to the cause which had interfered\nto prevent them from having been fulfilled. It was not for Annie to\nproffer a reason, and it did not seem to be the wish of Menelaws to ask\none. In a short time afterwards they were married.\n\nThe new-married couple, apparently happy in the enjoyment of an\naffection which had continued so long, and had survived the crossing of\na new love, at least on one side, removed to a separate house farther up\nin the Lawnmarket. Menelaws had previously graduated as a doctor, and he\ncommenced to practise as such, not without an amount of success.\nMeanwhile the councillor died, leaving Annie a considerable fortune. In\nthe course of somewhere about ten years they had five children. They at\nlength resolved on occupying the old house with the garden, for Annie's\nreluctance became weakened by time. It was on the occasion of the\nflitting that Annie had to rummage an old trunk which Menelaws, long\nafter the marriage, had brought from the house of his father, the dealer\nin pelts. There at the bottom, covered over by a piece of brown paper,\nshe found--what? The very slipper which matched the one she still\nsecretly retained in her possession. _Verbum sapienti_. You may now see\nwhere the strange land lies; nor was Annie blind. She concluded in an\ninstant, and with a horror that thrilled through her whole body, that\nMenelaws had murdered his rival. She had lain for ten years in the arms\nof a murderer. She had borne to him five children. Nay, she loved him\nwith all the force of an ardent temperament. The thought was terrible,\nand she recoiled from the very possibility of living with him a moment\nlonger. She took the fatal memorial and secreted it along with its\nneighbour; and having a friend at a little distance from Edinburgh, she\nhurried thither, taking with her her children. Her father had left in\nher own power a sufficiency for her support, and she afterwards returned\nto town. All the requests of her husband for an explanation she\nresisted, and indeed they were not long persisted in, for Menelaws no\ndoubt gauged the reason of her obduracy--a conclusion the more likely\nthat he subsequently left Scotland. I have reason to believe that some\nof the existing Menelaws' are descended from this strange union.\n\n\n\n\nTHE FAITHFUL WIFE\n\n\nThere is very prevalent, along the Borders, an opinion that the arms of\nthe town of Selkirk represent an incident which occurred there at the\ntime of the battle of Flodden. The device, it is well known, consists of\na female bearing a child in her arms, seated on a tomb, on which is also\nplaced the Scottish lion. Antiquaries tell us that this device was\nadopted in consequence of the melancholy circumstance of the wife of an\ninhabitant of the town having been found, by a party returning from the\nbattle, lying dead at the place called Ladywood-edge, with a child\nsucking at her breast.\n\nWe have not the slightest wish to disturb this venerable legend. It\ncommemorates, with striking force, the desolation of one of Scotland's\ngreatest calamities; and though the device is rudely and coarsely\nimagined, there is a graphic strength in the conception, which,\nindependently of the truth of the story, recommends it to the lover of\nthe bold and fervid genius of our countrymen. We must, at same time, be\nallowed to say that there is another version, and this we intend,\nshortly, now to lay before the public, without vouching for its\nsuperiority of accuracy over its more favoured and cherished brother;\nand rather, indeed, cautioning the credulous lovers of old legends to be\nupon their guard, lest Dr. Johnson's reproof of Richardson be applicable\nto us, in saying that we have it upon authority.\n\nWhen recruits were required by King James the Fourth for the invasion of\nthe English territory, which produced the most lamentable of all our\ndefeats, it is well known that great exertions were used in the cause by\nthe town-clerk of Selkirk, whose name was William Brydone, for which\nKing James the Fifth afterwards conferred on him the honour of\nknighthood. Many of the inhabitants of Selkirk, fired with the ardour\nwhich the chivalric spirit of James infused into the hearts of his\npeople, and with the spirit of emulation which Brydone had the art of\nexciting among his townsmen, as Borderers, joined the banners of their\nprovost. Among these was one, Alexander Hume, a shoemaker, a strong\nstalwart man, bold and energetic in his character, and extremely\nenthusiastic in the cause of the king. He was deemed of considerable\nimportance by Brydone, being held the second best man of the hundred\ncitizens who are said to have joined his standard. When he came among\nhis companions he was uniformly cheered. They had confidence in his\nsagacity and prudence, respected his valour, and admired his strength.\n\nIf Hume was thus courted by his companions, and urged by Brydone to the\ndangerous enterprise in which the king, by the wiles and flattery of the\nFrench queen, had engaged, he was treated in a very different manner by\nMargaret, his wife,--a fine young woman, who, fond to distraction of her\nhusband, was desirous of preventing him from risking his life in a cause\nwhich she feared, with prophetic feeling, would bring desolation on her\ncountry. Every effort which love and female cajolery could suggest was\nused by this dutiful wife to keep her husband at home. She hung round\nhis neck,--held up to his face a fine child five months old, whose mute\neloquence softened the heart, but could not alter the purpose of the\nfather,--wept, prayed, implored. She asked him the startling\nquestion--Who, when he was dead--and die he might--would shield her from\ninjury and misfortune, and cherish, with the tenderness and love which\nits beauty and innocence deserved, the interesting pledge of their\naffection? She painted in glowing colours--which the imagination,\nexcited by love, can so well supply--the situation of her as a widow and\nher child as an orphan. Their natural protector gone, what would be left\nto her but grief, what would remain for her child but destitution? His\nspirit would hear her wails; but beggary would array her in its rags,\nand hunger would steal from her cheek the vestiges of health and the\nlineaments of beauty.\n\nThese appeals were borne by Hume by the panoply of resolution. He loved\nMargaret as dearly, as truly as man could love woman, as a husband could\nlove the partner of his life and fortunes. He answered with tears and\nembraces; but he remained true to the cause of his king and his country.\n\n\"Would you hae me, Margaret,\" he said, \"to disgrace mysel' in the face\no' my townsmen? Doesna our guid king intend to leave his fair Margaret,\nand risk the royal bluid o' the Bruce for the interests o' auld\nScotland? and doesna our honoured provost mean to desert, for a day o'\nglory, his braw wife, that he may deck her wimple wi' the roses o'\nEngland, and her name wi' a Scotch title? Wharfore, then, should I, a\npuir tradesman, fear to put in jeopardy for the country that bore me the\nlife that is hers as weel as yours, and sacrifice, sae far as the guid\nthat my arm can produce, the glory o' my king and the character o' my\ncountry?\"\n\nMargaret heard this speech with the most intense grief. She was\nincapable of argument. She was inconsolable. Her husband remained\ninexorable, and entreaty gave way to anger. She had adopted the idea\nthat Hume was buoyed up with the pride of leadership; and she told him,\nwith some acrimony, that his ambition of being thought the bravest man\nof Selkirk would not, in the event of his death, supply the child he was\nbound to work for with a bite of bread. Her love and anger carried her\nbeyond bounds. She used other language of a harsher character, which\nforced her good-natured husband to retaliate in terms unusual to him,\nunsuited to the serious subject which they had in hand, and far less to\nthe dangerous separation which they were about to experience. The\nconversation got more acrimonious. Words of a high cast produced\nexpressions stronger still, and Hume left his wife in anger, to go to\nthe field from which he might never return.\n\nRegret follows close upon the heels of incensed love. Alexander Hume had\nnot been many paces from his own house, when his wife saw, in its proper\nlight, the true character of her situation. Her husband had gone on a\nperilous enterprise. He might perish. She had perhaps got her last look\nof him who was dearest to her bosom. That look was in anger. The idea\nwas terrible. Those who know the strength and delicacy of the feelings\nof true affection may conceive the situation of Margaret Hume. Unable to\ncontrol herself, she threw her child into its crib, and rushed out of\nthe house. One parting glance of reconciliation was all she wanted. She\nhurried through the town with an excited and terrified aspect, searching\neverywhere for her husband. He had departed with his companions; and\nMargaret was left in the agony of one whose sorrow is destined to be\nincreased by the workings of an excited fancy, and the remorseful\nfeelings of self-impeachment.\n\nIn the meantime, Hume having joined his companions, proceeded to the\nmain army of the king, which was encamped on the hill of Flodden, lying\non the left of the river Till. The party with which he was associated\nput themselves under the command of Lord Home; who, with the Earls of\nCrawford and Montrose, led the left of the van of the Scottish army.\nThis part of the king's troops, it is well known, was opposed to Sir\nEdmund Howard. They were early engaged, and fought so successfully that\nHoward soon stood in need of succour from Lord Dacre, to save him from\nbeing speared on the field.\n\nIn this struggle Alexander Hume displayed the greatest prowess. He was\nseen in every direction dealing out death wherever he went. He was not,\nhowever, alone. His companions kept well up to him; and, in particular,\none individual, who had joined the party as they approached the field,\nfought with a bravery equal to that of Hume himself. That person kept\ncontinually by his side, and seemed to consider the brave Borderer as\nhis chosen companion-in-arms, whom he was bound to defend through all\nthe perils of the fight. A leather haubergeon and an iron helmet, in\nwhich there was placed a small white feather, plucked from a cock's\nwing, constituted the armour of this brave seconder of Hume's gallantry.\nWhen Hume was attacked by the English with more force than his\nindividual arm could sustain, no one of his companions was more ready to\nbring him aid than this individual. On several occasions he may be said\nto have saved his life, for Hume's recklessness drew him often into the\nvery midst of the fight, where he must have perished had it not been for\nthe timely assistance of his friend. On one occasion, in particular, an\nEnglishman came behind him, and was in the very act of inserting a spear\nbetween the clasps of his armour, when his companion struck the\ndastardly fellow to the earth, and resumed the fight in front of the\nbattle.\n\nThis noble conduct was not unappreciated by Hume; for where is bravery\nfound segregated from gratitude and generosity? He called upon him, even\nin the midst of the battle, for his name, that he might, in the event of\ntheir being separated, recollect and commemorate his friendship. The\nrequest was not complied with, but the superintending and saving arm of\nthe stranger continued to be exercised in favour of the Borderer. They\nfought together to the end of the battle. The result of the bloody\ncontest is but too well known. The strains of poetry have carried the\nwail of bereavement to the ends of the earth, and sorrow has claimed the\nsounds as its own individual expression.\n\nThe Scottish troops took their flight in different directions. Hume and\nhis companions were obliged to lie in secret for a considerable time in\nthe surrounding forests. He made many inquiries among his friends for\nthe individual who had fought with him so bravely and saved his life. He\ncould find no trace of him, beyond the information that he had\ndisappeared when Hume had given up the fight. The direction in which he\nwent was unknown; nor could any one tell the place from which he came.\n\nThe people of Selkirk who had been in the fight, sought their town as\nsoon as they could with safety get out of the reach of the English.\nTheir numbers formed a sorry contrast to those who had, with light\nhearts and high hopes, sought the field of battle; and it has been\nreported that when the wretched wounded and bloodstained remnant entered\nthe town, a cry of sorrow was raised by the inhabitants collected to\nmeet them, the remembrance of which remained on the hearts of their\nchildren long after those who uttered it had been consigned with their\ngriefs to the grave.\n\nHume, who had also grievously repented of the harsh words he had applied\nto his beloved wife on the occasion of their separation, was all\nimpatience to clasp her to his bosom, and seal their reconciliation with\na kiss of repentance and love. Leaving his companions as they entered\nthe town, he flew to the house. He approached the door. He reached it\nwith a trembling heart. He had prepared the kind words of salutation. He\nhad wounds to show, and to get dressed by the tender hand of sympathy.\nLifting the latch, he entered. No one came to meet him. No sound, either\nof wife or child, met his ear. On looking round he saw, sitting in an\narm-chair, the person who had accompanied him in battle, wearing the\nsame haubergeon, the same helmet, the individual white feather that had\nattracted his attention. That person was Margaret Hume. She was dead.\nHer head reclined on the back of the chair, her arms hung by her side,\nthe edge of her haubergeon was uplifted, and at her white bosom, from\nwhich flowed streams of blood, her child sucked the milk of a dead\nmother. _Omissis nugis rem experiamur_.\n\n\nEND OF VOL. XXIII.","title":"Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland, Volume 23","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":77520}