{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_11334/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_11334","id":"gutenberg_11334","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/11334","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Historical Novels","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Short Stories","Scottish Borders (Scotland) -- Fiction"],"text":"Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland.\n\n\n\nHISTORICAL, TRADITIONARY, & IMAGINATIVE.\n\nWITH A GLOSSARY.\n\n\n\nREVISED BY ALEXANDER LEIGHTON,\n\n_One of the Original Editors and Contributors_.\n\n\nVOL. XXII.\n\n\n\n1884.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS.\n\n\nUPS AND DOWNS; OR, DAVID STUART'S ACCOUNT OF HIS PILGRIMAGE, (_John\nMackay Wilson_),\n\nTHE BURGHER'S TALES. THE ANCIENT BUREAU. (_Alexander Leighton_),\n\nLADY RAE, (_Alexander Campbell_),\n\nTHE DIAMOND EYES, (_Alexander Leighton_),\n\nDAVID LORIMER, (_Anon_.)\n\nTHE CONVICT, (_Anon_.)\n\nTHE AMATEUR ROBBERY, (_Alexander Leighton_),\n\nTHE PROCRASTINATOR, (_John Mackay Wilson_),\n\nTHE TEN OF DIAMONDS, (_Alexander Leighton_),\n\n\n\n\nWILSON'S TALES OF THE BORDERS, AND OF SCOTLAND.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\n\nUPS AND DOWNS; OR, DAVID STUART'S ACCOUNT OF HIS PILGRIMAGE.\n\n\nOld David Stuart was the picture of health--a personification of\ncontentment. When I knew him, his years must have considerably exceeded\nthreescore; but his good-natured face was as ruddy as health could make\nit; his hair, though mingled with grey, was as thick and strong as if he\nhad been but twenty; his person was still muscular and active; and,\nmoreover, he yet retained, in all their freshness, the feelings of his\nyouth, and no small portion of the simplicity of his childhood. I loved\nDavid, not only because he was a good man, but because there was a great\ndeal of _character_ or _originality_ about him; and though his brow was\ncheerful, the clouds of sorrow had frequently rested upon it. More than\nonce when seated by his parlour fire, and when he had finished his pipe,\nand his afternoon tumbler stood on the table beside him, I have heard\nhim give the following account of the ups and downs--the trials, the\njoys, and sorrows--which he had encountered in his worldly pilgrimage;\nand, to preserve the interest of the history, I shall give it in David's\nown idiom, and in his own words.\n\n\"I ne'er was a great traveller,\" David was wont to begin: \"through the\nlength o' Edinburgh, and as far south as Newcastle, is a' that my legs\nken about geography. But I've had a good deal o' crooks and thraws, and\nups and downs, in the world for a' that. My faither was in the droving\nline, and lived in the parish o' Coldstream. He did a good deal o'\nbusiness, baith about the fairs on the Borders, at Edinburgh market\nevery week, and sometimes at Morpeth. He was a bachelor till he was\nfive-and-forty, and he had a very decent lass keep'd his house, they\nca'd Kirsty Simson. Kirsty was a remarkably weel-faur'd woman, and a\nnumber o' the farm lads round about used to come and see her, as weel as\ntrades' chields frae about Coldstream and Birgham--no that she gied them\nony encouragement, but that it was her misfortune to hae a gude-looking\nface. So, there was ae night that my faither cam' hame frae Edinburgh,\nand, according to his custom, he had a drap in his e'e--yet no sae\nmeikle but that he could see a lad or twa hingin' about the house. He\nwas very angry; and, 'Kirsty,' said he, 'I dinna like thae youngsters to\ncome about the house.'\n\n\"'I'm sure, sir,' said she, 'I dinna encourage them.'\n\n\"'Weel, Kirsty,' said he, 'if that's the way, if ye hae nae objections,\nI'll marry ye mysel'.'\n\n\"'I dinna see what objections I should hae,' said she, and, without ony\nmair courtship, in a week or twa they were married; and, in course o'\ntime, I was born. I was sent to school when I was about eight years\nauld, but my education ne'er got far'er than the rule o' three. Before I\nwas fifteen, I assisted my faither at the markets, and in a short time\nhe could trust me to buy and sell. There was one very dark night in the\nmonth o' January, when I was little mair than seventeen, my faither and\nme were gaun to Morpeth, and we were wishing to get forward wi' the\nbeasts as far as Whittingham; but just as we were about half a mile doun\nthe loanin' frae Glanton, it cam' awa ane o' the dreadfu'est storms that\ne'er mortal was out in. The snaw literally fell in a solid mass, and\nevery now and then the wind cam' roarin' and howlin' frae the hills, and\nthe fury o' the drift was terrible. I was driven stupid and half\nsuffocated. My faither was on a strong mare, and I was on a bit powney;\nand amang the cattle there was a camstairy three-year-auld bull, that\nwad neither hup nor drive. We had it tied by the foreleg and the horns;\nbut the moment the drift broke ower us, the creature grew perfectly\nunmanageable; forward it wadna gang. My faither had strucken at it, when\nthe mad animal plunged its horns into the side o' the mare, and he fell\nto the ground. I could just see what had happened, and that was a'. I\njumped aff the powney, and ran forward. 'O faither!' says I, 'ye're no\nhurt, are ye?' He was trying to rise, but before I could reach\nhim--indeed, before I had the words weel out o' my mouth--the animal\nmade a drive at him! 'O Davy!' he cried, and he ne'er spak mair! We\ngenerally carried pistols, and I had presence o' mind to draw ane out o'\nthe breast-pocket o' my big coat, and shoot the animal dead on the spot.\nI tried to raise my faither in my arms, and, dark as it was, I could see\nhis blood upon the snaw--and a dreadfu' sight it was for a son to see! I\ncouldna see where he had been hurt; and still, though he groaned but\nonce, I didna think he was dead, and I strove and strove again to lift\nhim upon the back o' the powney, and take him back to Glanton; but\nthough I fought wi' my heart like to burst a' the time, I couldna\naccomplish it. 'Oh, what shall I do?' said I, and cried and shouted for\nhelp--for the snaw fell sae fast, and the drift was sae terrible, that I\nwas feared that, even if he werena dead, he wad be smothered and buried\nup before I could ride to Glanton and back. And, as I cried, our poor\ndog Rover came couring to my faither's body and licked his hand, and its\npitiful howls mingled wi' the shrieks o' the wind. No kennin' what to\ndo, I lifted my faither to the side o' the road, and tried to place him,\nhalf sitting like, wi' his back to the drift, by the foot o' the hedge.\n'Oh, watch there, Rover,' said I; and the poor dog ran yowlin' to his\nfeet, and did as I desired it. I sprang upon the back o' the powney, and\nflew up to the town. Within five minutes I was back, and in a short time\na number o' folk wi' lichts cam' to our assistance. My faither was\ncovered wi' blood, but without the least sign o' life. I thought my\nheart wad break, and for a time my screams were heard aboon the ragin'\no' the storm. My faither was conveyed up to the inn, and, on being\nstripped, it was found that the horn o' the animal had entered his back\nbelow the left shouther; and when a doctor frae Alnwick saw the body\nnext day, he said he must have died instantly--and, as I have told ye,\nhe never spoke, but just cried, 'O Davy!'\n\n\"My feelings were in such a state that I couldna write mysel', and I got\na minister to send a letter to my mother, puir woman, stating what had\nhappened. An acquaintance o' my faither's looked after the cattle, and\ndisposed o' them at Morpeth; and I, having hired a hearse at Alnwick,\ngot the body o' my faither taen hame. A sorrowfu' hame-gaun it was, ye\nmay weel think. Before ever we reached the house, I heard the shrieks o'\nmy puir mither. 'O my faitherless bairn!' she cried, as I entered the\ndoor; but before she could rise to meet me, she got a glent o' the\ncoffin which they were takin' out o' the hearse, and utterin' a sudden\nscream, her head fell back, and she gaed clean awa.\n\n\"After my faither's funeral, we found that he had died worth only about\nfour hundred pounds when his debts were paid; and as I had been bred in\nthe droving line, though I was rather young, I just continued it, and my\nmother and me kept house thegither.\n\n\"This was the only thing particular that happened to me for the next\nthirteen years, or till I was thirty. My mother still kept the house,\nand I had nae thoughts o' marrying: no but that I had gallanted a wee\nbit wi' the lasses now and then, but it was naething serious, and was\nonly to be neighbour-like. I had ne'er seen ane that I could think o'\ntakin' for better for warse; and, anither thing, if I had seen ane to\nplease me, I didna think my mother would be comfortable wi' a young wife\nin the house. Weel, ye see, as I was telling ye, things passed on in\nthis way till I was thirty, when a respectable flesher in Edinburgh that\nI did a good deal o' business wi', and that had just got married, says\nto me in the Grassmarket ae day: 'Davy,' says he, 'ye're no gaun out o'\nthe toun the night--will ye come and tak' tea and supper wi' the wife\nand me, and a freend or twa?'\n\n\"'I dinna care though I do,' says I; 'but I'm no just in a tea-drinkin'\ndress.'\n\n\"'Ne'er mind the dress,' says he. So, at the hour appointed, I stepped\nawa ower to Hanover Street, in the New Town, where he lived, and was\nshown into a fine carpeted room, wi' a great looking-glass, in a gilt\nframe, ower the chimley-piece--ye could see yoursel' at full length in't\nthe moment you entered the door. I was confounded at the carpets and the\nglass, and a sofa, nae less; and, thinks I, 'This shows what kind o'\nbargains ye get frae me.' There were three or four leddies sitting in\nthe room; and 'Mr. Stuart, leddies,' said the flesher; 'Mr. Stuart, Mrs.\nSo-and-so,' said he again--'Miss Murray, Mr. Stuart.' I was like to drap\nat the impudence o' the creatur--he handed me about as if I had been a\nbairn at a dancin' school. 'Your servant, leddies,' said I; and didna\nken where to look, when I got a glimpse o' my face in the glass, and saw\nit was as red as crimson. But I was mair than ever put about when the\ntea was brought in, and the creatur says to me, 'Mr. Stuart, will you\nassist the leddies?' 'Confound him,' thought I, 'has he brought me here\nto mak' a fule o'me!' I did attempt to hand round the tea and toast,\nwhen, wi' downright confusion, I let a cup fall on Miss Murray's gown. I\ncould have died wi' shame. 'Never mind--never mind, sir!' said she;\n'there is no harm done;' and she spoke sae proper and sae kindly, I was\nin love wi' her very voice. But when I got time to observe her face, it\nwas a perfect picture; and through the hale night after, I could do\nnaething but look at and think o' Miss Murray.\n\n\"'Man,' says I to the flesher the next time I saw him, 'wha was yon Miss\nMurray?' 'No match for a Grassmarket dealer, Davy,' says he. 'I was\nthinkin' that,' says I; 'but I wad like to be acquainted wi' her.' 'Ye\nshall be that,' says he; and, after that, there was seldom a month\npassed that I was in Edinburgh but I saw Miss Murray. But as to\ncourtin', that was out o' the question.\n\n\"A short time after this, a relation o' my mither's, wha had been a\nmerchant in London, dee'd, and it was said we were his nearest heirs;\nand that as he had left nae will, if we applied, we would get the\nproperty, which was worth about five thousand pounds. Weel, three or\nfour years passed awa, and we heard something about the lawsuit, but\nnaething about the money. I was vexed for having onything to say to it.\nI thought it was only wasting a candle to chase a will-o'-the-wisp.\nAbout the time I speak o', my mither had turned very frail. I saw there\nwas a wastin' awa o' nature, and she wadna be lang beside me. The day\nbefore her death, she took my hand, and 'Davy,' says she to me--'Davy,'\npoor body, she repeated (I think I hear her yet)--'it wad been a great\ncomfort to me if I had seen ye settled wi' a decent partner before I\ndee'd; but it's no to be.'\n\n\"Weel, as I was saying, my mither dee'd, and I found the house very\ndowie without her. It wad be about three months after her death--I had\nbeen at Whitsunbank; and when I cam' hame, the servant lassie put a\nletter into my hands; and 'Maister,' says she, 'there's a letter--can it\nbe for you, think ye?' It was directed, 'David Stuart, _Esquire_ (nae\nless), for----, by Coldstream.' So I opened the seal, and, to my\nsurprise and astonishment, I found it was frae the man o' business I had\nemployed in London, stating that I had won the law-plea, and that I\nmight get the money whene'er I wanted it. I sent for the siller the very\nnext post. Now, ye see, I was sick and tired o' being a bachelor. I had\nlang wished to be settled in a comfortable matrimonial way--that is,\nfrae e'er I had seen Miss Murray. But, ye see, while I was a drover, I\nwas very little at hame--indeed I was waur than an Arawbian--and had\nvery little peace or comfort either, and I thought it was nae use takin'\na wife until something better might cast up. But this wasna the only\nreason. There wasna a woman on earth that I thought I could live happy\nwi' but Miss Murray, and she belanged to a genteel family: whether she\nhad ony siller or no, I declare, as I'm to be judged hereafter, I never\ndid inquire. But I saw plainly it wadna do for a rough country drover,\njauped up to the very elbows, and sportin' a handfu' o' pound-notes the\nday, and no' worth a penny the morn--I say, I saw plainly it wadna do\nfor the like o' me to draw up by her elbow, and say 'Here's a fine day,\nma'am,' or, 'Hae ye ony objections to a walk?' or something o' that\nsort. But it was weel on for five years since I had singled her out; and\nthough I never said a word anent the subject o' matrimony, yet I had\nreason to think she had a shrewd guess that my heart louped quicker when\nshe opened her lips than if a regiment o' infantry had stealed behint me\nunobserved, and fired their muskets ower my shouther; and I sometimes\nthought that her een looked as if she wished to say, 'Are ye no gaun to\nask me, David?'\n\n\"But still, when I thought she had been brought up a leddy in a kind o'\nmanner, I durstna venture to mint the matter; but I was fully resolved\nand determined, should I succeed in getting the money I was trying for,\nto break the business clean aff hand. So, ye see, as soon as I got the\nsiller, what does I do but sits down and writes her a letter--and sic a\nletter! I tauld her a' my mind as freely as though I had been speakin'\nto you. Weel, ye see, I gaed bang through to Edinburgh at ance, no three\ndays after my letter; and up I goes to the Lawnmarket, where she was\nliving wi' her mother, and raps at the door without ony ceremony. But\nwhen I had rapped, I was in a swither whether to staun till they came\nout or no, for my heart began to imitate the knocker, or rather to tell\nme how I ought to have knocked; for it wasna a loud, solid drover's\nknock like mine, but it kept rit-tit-tat-ting on my breast like the\nknock of a hairdresser's 'prentice bringing a bandbox fu' o' curls and\nither knick-knackeries, for a leddy to pick and choose on for a fancy\nball; and my face lowed as though ye were haudin' a candle to it; when\nout comes the servant, and I stammers out, 'Is your mistress in?' says\nI. 'Yes, sir,' says she; 'walk in.' And in I walked; but I declare I\ndidna ken whether the floor carried me, or I carried the floor; and wha\nshould I see but an auld leddy wi' spectacles--the maiden's mistress,\nsure enough, though no mine, but my mother-in-law that was to be. So she\nlooked at me, and I looked at her. She made a low curtsey, and I tried\nto mak' a bow; while all the time ye might hae heard my heart beatin' at\nthe opposite side o' the room. 'Sir,' says she. 'Ma'am,' says I. I wad\nhae jumped out o' the window had it no been four stories high; but since\nI've gane this far, I maun say something, thinks I. 'I've ta'en the\nliberty o' callin', ma'am,' says I. 'Very happy to see ye, sir,' says\nshe. Weel, thinks I, I'm glad to hear that, however; but had it been to\nsave my life, I didna ken what to say next. So I sat down; and at length\nI ventured to ask, 'Is your daughter, Miss Jean, at hame, ma'am?' says\nI. 'I wate she is,' quo' she. 'Jean!' she cried wi' a voice that made\nthe house a' dirl again. 'Comin', mother,' cried my flower o' the\nforest; and in she cam', skippin' like a perfect fairy. But when she saw\nme, she started as if she had seen an apparition, and coloured up to the\nvery e'ebrows. As for me, I trembled like an ash leaf, and stepped\nforward to meet her. I dinna think she was sensible o' me takin' her by\nthe hand; and I was just beginning to say again, 'I've taken the\nliberty,' when the auld wife had the sense and discretion to leave us by\nour-sel's. I'm sure and certain I never experienced such a relief since\nI was born. My head was absolutely ringing wi' dizziness and love. I\nmade twa or three attempts to say something grand, but I never got\nhalf-a-dozen words out; and finding it a' nonsense, I threw my arms\naround her waist, and pressed her beatin' breast to mine, and stealing a\nhearty kiss, the whole story that I had made such a wark about was ower\nin a moment. She made a wee bit fuss, and cried 'Oh fie!' and 'Sir!' or\nsomething o' that kind; but I held her to my breast, declaring my\nintentions manfully--that I had been dying for her for five years, and\nnow that I was a gentleman, I thought I might venture to speak. In fact,\nI held her in my arms until she next door to said 'Yes!'\n\n\"Within a week we had a'thing settled. I found out she had nae fortune.\nHer mother belanged to a kind o' auld family, that, like mony ithers,\ncam' down the brae wi' Prince Charles, poor fallow; and they were baith\nrank Episcopawlians. I found the mither had just sae muckle a year frae\nsome o' her far-awa relations; and had it no been that they happened to\nca' me Stuart, and I tauld her a rigmarole about my grandfaither and\nCulloden, so that she soon made me out a pedigree, about which I kenned\nnae mair than the man o' the moon, but keept saying 'yes' and\n'certainly' to a' she said--I say, but for that, and confound me, if she\nwadna hae curled up her nose at me and my five thousand pounds into the\nbargain, though her lassie should hae starved. But Jeannie was a perfect\nangel. She was about two or three and thirty, wi' light brown hair,\nhazel e'en, and a waist as jimp and sma' as ye ever saw upon a human\ncreature. She dressed maist as plain as a Quakeress, but was a pattern\no' neatness. Indeed, a blind man might seen she was a leddy born and\nbred; and then for sense, haud at ye there, I wad matched her against\nthe minister and the kirk elders put thegither. But she took that o' her\nmither; o' whom mair by-and-by.\n\n\"As I was saying, she was an Episcopawlian,--a downright, open-day\ndefender o' Archbishop Laud and the bloody Claverhouse; and she wished\nto prove down through me the priority and supremacy o' bishops ower\npresbyteries,--just downright nonsense, ye ken; but there's nae\naccounting for sooperstition. A great deal depends on how a body's\nbrought up. But what vexed me maist was to think that she wad be gaun to\nae place o' public worship on the Sabbath, and me to anither, just like\ntwa strangers; and maybe if her minister preached half an hour langer\nthan mine, or mine half an hour langer than hers, or when we had nae\nintermission, then there was the denner spoiled, and the servant no\nkenned what time to hae it ready; for the mistress said ane o'clock, and\nthe maister said twa o'clock. Now, I wadna gie tippence for a cauld\ndenner.\n\n\"But, as I was telling ye about the auld wife, she thocht fit to read\nbaith us a bit o' a lecture.\n\n\"'Now, bairns,' said she, 'I beseech ye, think weel what ye are about;\nfor it were better to rue at the very foot o' the altar, than to rue it\nbut ance afterwards, and that ance be for ever. I dinna say this to cast\na damp upon your joy, nor that I doubt your affection for are another;\nbut I say it as ane who has been a wife, and seen a good deal o' the\nworld; an,' oh bairns! I say it as a _mother_! Marriage without love is\nlike the sun in January--often clouded, often trembling through storms,\nbut aye without heat; and its pillow is comfortless as a snow-wreath.\nBut although love be the principal thing, remember it is not the only\nthing necessary. Are ye sure that ye are perfectly acquainted wi' each\nother's characters and tempers? Aboon a', are ye sure that ye esteem and\nrespect ane anither? Without this, and ye may think that ye like each\nother, but it's no real love. It's no that kind o' liking that's to\nlast through married years, and be like a singing bird in your breasts\nto the end o' your days. No, Jeannie, unless your very souls be, as it\nwere, cemented thegither, unless ye see something in him that ye see in\nnaebody else, and unless he sees something in you that he sees in\nnaebody else, dinna marry still. Passionate lovers dinna aye mak'\naffectionate husbands. Powder will bleeze fiercely awa in a moment; but\nthe smotherin' peat retains fire and heat among its very ashes. Remember\nthat, in baith man and woman, what is passion to-day may be disgust the\nmorn. Therefore, think now; for it will be ower late to think o' my\nadvice hereafter.'\n\n\"'Troth, ma'am,' said I, 'and I'm sure I'll be very proud to ca' sic a\nsensible auld body _mither_!'\n\n\"'Rather may ye be proud to call my bairn your _wife_,' said she; 'for,\nwhere a man ceases to be proud o' his wife, upon all occasions, and at\nall times, or where a wife has to blush for her husband, ye may say\nfareweel to their happiness. However, David,' continued she, 'I dinna\ndoubt but ye will mak' a gude husband; for ye're a sensible, and I\nreally think a deservin' lad; and were it nae mair than your name, the\nname o' Stuart wad be a passport to my heart. There's but ae thing that\nI'm feared on--just ae fault that I see in ye; indeed I may say it's the\nbeginning o' a' ithers, and I wad fain hae ye promise to mend it; for it\nhas brought mair misery upon the marriage state than a' the sufferings\no' poverty and the afflictions o' death put thegither.'\n\n\"'Mercy me, ma'am!' exclaimed I, 'what de ye mean? Ye've surely been\nmisinformed.'\n\n\"'I've observed it mysel', David,' said she seriously.\n\n\"'Goodness, ma'am! ye confound me!' says I; 'if it's onything that's\nbad, I'll deny it point blank.'\n\n\"'Ye mayna think it bad,' says she again, 'but I fear ye like a _dram_,\nand my bairn's happiness demands that I should speak o' it.'\n\n\"'A dram!' says I; 'preserve us! is there ony ill in a _dram?_--that's\nthe last thing that I wad hae thought about.'\n\n\"'Ask the broken-hearted wife,' says she, 'if there be ony ill in a\ndram--ask the starving family--ask the jailer and the gravedigger--ask\nthe doctor and the minister o' religion--ask where ye see roups o'\nfurniture at the cross, or the auctioneer's flag wavin' frae the\nwindow--ask a deathbed--ask eternity, David Stuart, and they will tell\nye if there be ony ill in a dram.'\n\n\"'I hope, ma'am,' says I,--and I was a guid deal nettled,--'I hope,\nma'am, ye dinna tak' me to be a drunkard. I can declare freely, that\nunless maybe at a time by chance (and the best o' us will mak' a slip\nnow and then), I never tak' aboon twa or three glasses at a time.\nIndeed, three's just my set. I aye say to my cronies, there is nae luck\ntill the second tumbler, and nae peace after the fourth. So ye perceive,\nthere's not the smallest danger o' me.'\n\n\"'Ah, but, David,' replied she, 'there _is_ danger. Habits grow\nstronger, nature weaker, and resolution offers less and less resistance;\nand ye may come to make four, five, or six glasses your set; and frae\nthat to a bottle--your grave--and my bairn a broken-hearted widow.'\n\n\"'Really, ma'am,' says I, ye talked very sensibly before, but ye are awa\nwi' the harrows now--quite unreasonable a'thegither. However, to satisfy\nye upon that score, I'll mak' a vow this very moment, that, except'----\n\n\"'Mak' nae rash vows,' says she; 'for a breath mak's them, and less than\na breath unmak's them. But mind that, while ye wad be comfortable wi'\nyour cronies, my bairn wad be frettin' her lane; and though she might\nsay naething when ye cam hame, that wadna be the way to wear her love\nround your neck like a chain of gold; but, night after night, it wad\nbreak away link by link, till the whole was lost; and if ye didna hate,\nye wad soon find ye were disagreeable to each other. Nae true woman will\ncondescend to love ony man lang, wha can find society he prefers to hers\nin an alehouse. I dinna mean to say that ye should never enter a\ncompany; but dinna mak' a practice o't.'\n\n\"Weel, the wedding morning cam, and I really thocht it was a great\nblessin' folk hadna to be married every day. My neckcloth wadna tie as\nit used to tie, and but that I wadna swear at onybody on the day o' my\nmarriage, I'm sure I wad hae wished some ill wish on the fingers o' the\nlaundress. She had starched the muslins!--a circumstance, I am perfectly\ncertain, unheard of in the memory o' man, and a thing which my mother\nne'er did. It was stiff, crumpled, and clumsy. I vowed it was\ninsupportable. It was within half an hour o' the time o' gaun to the\nchapel. I had tried a 'rose-knot,' a 'witch-knot,' a 'chaise-driver's\nknot,' and a 'running-knot,' wi' every kind o' knot that fingers could\ntwist the neckcloth into, but the confounded starch made every ane look\nwaur than anither. Three neckcloths I had rendered unwearable, and the\nfourth I tied in a 'beau-knot' in despair. The frill o' my sark-breast\nwadna lie in the position in which I wanted it! For the first time my\nvery hair rose in rebellion--it wadna lie right; and I cried, 'The\nmischief tak' the barber!' The only part o' my dress wi' which I was\nsatisfied, was a spotless pair o' nankeen pantaloons. I had a dog they\nca'ed Mettle--it was a son o' poor Rover, that I mentioned to ye\nbefore, Weel, it had been raining through the night, and Mettle had been\nout in the street. The instinct o' the poor dumb brute was puzzled to\ncomprehend the change that had recently taken place in my appearance and\nhabits, and its curiosity was excited. I was sitting before the\nlooking-glass, and had just finished tying my cravat, when Mettle cam\nbouncing into the room; he looked up in my face inquisitively, and, to\nunriddle mair o' the matter, placed his unwashed paws upon my unsoiled\nnankeens. Every particular claw left its ugly impression. It was\nprovoking beyond endurance. I raised my hand to strike him, but the poor\nbrute wagged his tail, and I only pushed him down, saying, 'Sorrow tak'\nye, Mettle, do ye see what ye've dune?' So I had to gang to the kitchen\nfire and stand before it to dry the damp, dirty footprints o' the\noffender. I then found that the waistcoat wadna sit without wrinkles,\nsuch as I had ne'er seen before upon a waistcoat o' mine. The coat, too,\nwas insupportably tight below the arms; and, as I turned half round\nbefore the glass, I saw that it hung loose between the shouthers! 'As\nsure as a gun,' says I, 'the stupid soul o' a tailor has sent me hame\nthe coat o' a humph-back in a mistak'!' My hat was fitted on in every\npossible manner, ower the brow and aff the brow, now straight, now\ncocked to the right side and again to the left, but to no purpose; I\ncouldna place it to look like mysel', or as I wished. But half-past\neight chimed frae St. Giles'. I had ne'er before spent ten minutes to\ndress, shaving included, and that morning I had begun at seven! There\nwas not another moment to spare; I let my hat fit as it would, seized my\ngloves, and rushed down stairs, and up to the Lawnmarket, where I\nknocked joyfully at the door o' my bonny bride.\n\n\"When we were about to depart for the chapel, the auld leddy rose to\ngie us her blessing, and placed Jeannie's hand within mine. She shed a\nfew quiet tears (a common circumstance wi' mithers on similar\noccasions); and 'Now, Jeannie,' said she, 'before ye go, I have just\nanither word or twa to say to ye'--\n\n\"'Dearsake, ma'am!' said I, for I was out o' a' patience, 'we'll do very\nweel wi' what we've heard just now, and ye can say onything ye like when\nwe come back.'\n\n\"There was only an elderly gentleman and a young leddy accompanied us to\nthe chapel; for Jeannie and her mother said that that was mair genteel\nthan to have a gilravish o' folk at our heels. For my part, I thought,\nas we were to be married, we micht as weel mak' a wedding o't. I,\nhowever, thought it prudent to agree to their wish, which I did the mair\nreadily, as I had nae particular acquaintance in Edinburgh. The only\npoint that I wad not concede was being conveyed to the chapel in a\ncoach. That my plebeian blood, notwithstanding my royal name o' Stuart,\ncould not overcome. 'Save us a'!' said I, 'if I wadna _walk_ to be\nmarried, what in the three kingdoms wad tempt me to walk?'\n\n\"'Weel,' said the auld leddy, 'my daughter will be the first o' our\nfamily that ever gaed on foot to the altar.'\n\n\"'An' I assure ye, ma'am,' said I, 'that I would be the first o' my\nfamily that ever gaed in ony ither way; and, in my opinion, to gang on\nfoot shows a demonstration o' affection and free-will, whereas gaun in a\ncarriage looks as if there were unwillingness or compulsion in the\nmatter.' So she gied up the controversy. Weel, the four o' us walked awa\ndoun the Lawnmarket and High Street, and turned into a close by the tap\no' the Canon gate, where the Episcopawlian chapel was situated. For\nseveral days I had read ower the marriage service in the prayer-book, in\norder to master the time to say 'I will,' and other matters.\nNevertheless, no sooner did I see the white gown of the clergyman, and\nfeel Jeannie's hand trembling in mine, than he micht as weel hae spoken\nin Gaelic. I mind something about the ring, and, when the minister was\ndone, I whispered to the best man, 'It's a' ower now?' 'Yes,' said he.\n'Heeven be thankit!' thought I.\n\n\"Weel, ye see, after being married, and as I had been used to an active\nlife a' my days, I had nae skill in gaun about like a gentleman wi' my\nhands in my pockets, and I was anxious to tak' a farm. But Jeannie did\nnot like the proposal, and my mother-in-law wadna hear tell o't; so, by\nher advice, I put out the money, and we lived upon the interest. For six\nyears everything gaed straight, and we were just as happy and as\ncomfortable as a family could be. We had three bairns: the eldest was a\ndaughter, and we ca'ed her Margaret, after her grandmother, who lived\nwi' us; the second was a son, and I named him Andrew, after my faither;\nand our third, and youngest, we ca'ed Jeannie, after her mother. They\nwere as clever, bonnie, and obedient bairns as ye could see, and\neverybody admired them. There was ane Luckie Macnaughton kept a tavern\nin Edinburgh at the time. A' sort o' respectable folk used to frequent\nthe house, and I was in the habit o' gaun at night to smoke my pipe and\nhear the news about Bonaparte and the rest o' them; but it was very\nseldom that I exceeded three tumblers. Weel, among the customers there\nwas ane that I had got very intimate wi'--as genteel and decent a\nlooking man as ye could see; indeed I took him to be a particular\nserious and honest man. So there was ae night that I was rather mair\nthan ordinary hearty, and says he to me: 'Mr Stuart,' says he, 'will\nyou lend your name to a bit paper for me?' 'No, I thank ye, sir,' says\nI; 'I never wish to be caution for onybody.' 'It's of no consequence,'\nsaid he, and there was no more passed. But as I was rising to gang hame,\n'Come, tak' anither, Mr. Stuart,' said he; 'I'm next the wa' wi'\nye--I'll stand treat.' Wi' sair pressing I was prevailed upon to sit\ndoun again, and we had anither and anither, till I was perfectly\ninsensible. What took place, or how I got hame, I couldna tell, and the\nonly thing I remember was a head fit to split the next day, and Jeannie\nvery ill pleased and powty-ways. However, I thought nae mair about it,\nand I was extremely glad I had refused to be bond for the person who\nasked me; for within three months I learned that he had broken and\nabsconded wi' a vast o' siller. It was just a day or twa after I had\nheard the intelligence, I was telling Jeannie and her mother o' the\ncircumstance, and what an escape I had had, when the servant lassie\nshowed a bank clerk into the room. 'Tak' a seat, sir,' said I, for I had\ndealings wi' the bank. 'This is a bad business, Mr. Stuart,' said he.\n'What business?' said I, quite astonished. 'Your being security for Mr.\nSo-and-so,' said he. 'Me!' cried I, starting up in the middle o' the\nfloor--'Me!--the scoundrel--I denied him point blank!' 'There is your\nown signature for a thousand pounds,' said the clerk. 'A thousand\nfuries!' exclaimed I, stamping my foot; 'it's a forgery--an infernal\nforgery!' 'Mr. Such-a-one is witness to your handwriting,' said the\nclerk. I was petrified; I could hae drawn down the roof o' the house\nupon my head to bury me! In a moment a confused recollection o' the\nproceedings at Luckie Macnaughton's flashed across my memory, like a\nflame from the bottomless pit! There was a look o' witherin' reproach in\nmy mother-in-law's een, and I heard her mutterin' between her teeth, 'I\naye said what his three tumblers wad come to.' But my dear Jeannie bore\nit like a Christian, as she is. She cam forward to me, an', poor thing,\nshe kissed my cheek, and says she, 'Dinna distress yoursel', David,\ndear--it cannot be helped now--let us pray that this may be a lesson for\nthe future.' I flung my arm round her neck--I couldna speak; but at last\nI said, 'Oh Jeannie, it will be a lesson, and your affection will be a\nlesson!' Some o' your book-learned folk wad ca' this conduct philosophy\nin Jeannie; but I, wha kenned every thought in her heart, was aware that\nit proceeded from her resignation as a true Christian, and her affection\nas a dutiful wife. Weel, the upshot was, I had robbed mysel' out o' a\nthousand pounds as simply as ye wad snuff out a candle. You have heard\nthe saying, that sorrow ne'er comes singly; and I am sure, in a' my\nexperience, I have found its truth. At that period I had two thousand\npounds, bearing six per cent., lying in the hands o' a gentleman o'\nimmense property. Everybody believed him to be as sure as the bank.\nScores o' folk had money in his hands. The interest was paid punctually,\nand I hadna the least suspicion. Weel, I was looking ower the papers one\nmorning at breakfast, and I happened to glance at the list o' bankrupts\n(a thing I'm no in the habit o' doing), when, mercy me! whose name\nshould I see but the very gentleman's that had my twa thousand pounds! I\nhad the paper in one hand and a saucer in the other. The saucer and the\ncoffee gaed smash upon the hearth! I trembled frae head to foot. 'Oh\nDavid! what's the matter?' cried Jeannie. 'Matter!' cried I; 'matter!\nI'm ruined!--we're a' ruined!' But it's o' nae use dwelling on this. The\nfallow didna pay eighteenpence to the pound; and there was three\nthousand gaen out o' my five! It was nae use, wi' a young family, to\ntalk o' living on the interest o' our money now. 'We maun tak' a farm,'\nsays I; and baith Jeannie and her mother saw there was naething else for\nit. So I took a farm which lay partly in the Lammermoors and partly in\nthe Merse. It took the thick end o' eight hundred pounds to stock it.\nHowever, we were very comfortable in it; I found mysel' far mair at hame\nthan I had been in Edinburgh; for I had employment for baith mind and\nhands, and Jeannie very soon made an excellent farmer's wife. Auld\ngrannie, too, said she never had been sae happy; and the bairns were as\nhealthy as the day was lang. We couldna exactly say that we were making\nwhat ye may ca' siller, yet we were losing nothing, and every year\nlaying by a little. There was a deepish burn ran near the onstead. We\nhad been about three years in the farm, and our youngest lassie was\nabout nine years auld. It was the summer time, and she had been paidling\nin the burn, and sooming feathers and bits o' sticks; I was looking\nafter something that had gaen wrang about the threshin' machine, when I\nheard an unco noise get up, and bairns screamin'. I looked out, and I\nsaw them runnin' and shoutin'--'Miss Jeannie! Miss Jeannie!' I rushed\nout to the barnyard. 'What is't, bairns?' cried I. 'Miss Jeannie! Miss\nJeannie!' said they, pointing to the burn. I flew as fast as my feet\ncould carry me. The burn, after a spate on the hills, often cam awa in a\nmoment wi' a fury that naething could resist. The flood had come awa\nupon my bairn; and there, as I ran, did I see her bonnie yellow hair\nwhirled round and round, sinking out o' my sight, and carried awa doun\nwi' the stream. There was a linn about thirty yards frae where I saw\nher, and oh! how I rushed to snatch a grip o' her before she was carried\nower the rocks! But it was in vain--a moment sooner, and I might hae\nsaved her; but she was hurled ower the precipice when I was within an\narm's length, and making a grasp at her bit frock! My poor little\nJeannie was baith felled and drowned. I plunged into the wheel below the\nlinn, and got her out in my arms. I ran wi' her to the house, and I laid\nmy drowned bairn on her mother's knee. Everything that could be done was\ndone, and a doctor was brought frae Dunse; but the spark o' life was out\no' my bit Jeannie. I felt the bereavement very bitterly; and for many a\nday, when Margaret and Andrew sat down at the table by our sides, my\nheart filled; for as I was helpin' their plates, I wad put out my hand\nagain to help anither, but there was nae ither left to help. But Jeannie\ntook our bairn's death far sairer to heart than even I did. For several\nyears she never was hersel' again, and just seemed dwinin' awa.\nSea-bathing was strongly recommended; and as she had a friend in\nPortobello, I got her to gang there for a week or twa during summer. Our\ndaughter Margaret was now about eighteen, and her brother Andrew about\nfifteen; and as I thought it would do them good, I allowed them to gang\nwi' their mither to the bathing. They were awa for about a month, and I\nfirmly believe that Jeannie was a great deal the better o't. But it was\na dear bathing to me on mony accounts for a' that. Margaret was an\naltered lassie a'thegither. She used to be as blithe as a lark in May,\nand now there was nae gettin' her to do onything; but she sat couring\nand unhappy, and seighin' every handel-a-while, as though she were\nmiserable. It was past my comprehension, and her mother could assign nae\nparticular reason for it. As for Andrew, he did naething but yammer,\nyammer, frae morn till night, about the sea; or sail boats, rigged wi'\nthread and paper sails, in the burn. When he was at the bathing he had\nbeen doun aboot Leith, and had seen the ships, and naething wad serve\nhim but he would be a sailor. Night and day did he torment my life out\nto set him to sea. But I wadna hear tell o't--his mother was perfectly\nwild against it, and poor auld grannie was neither to hand nor to bind.\nWe had suffered enough frae the burn at our door, without trusting our\nonly son upon the wide ocean. However, all we could say had nae\neffect--the craik was never out o' his head; and it was still, 'I will\nbe a sailor.' Ae night he didna come in as usual for his four-hours, and\nsupper time cam, and we sent a' round about to seek him, but naebody had\nheard o' him. We were in unco distress, and it struck me at ance that he\nhad run to sea. I saddled my horse that very night and set out for\nLeith, but could get nae trace o' him. This was a terrible trial to us,\nand ye may think what it was when I tell ye it was mair than a\ntwelvemonth before we heard tell o' him; and the first accounts we had\nwas a letter by his ain hand, written frae Bengal. We had had a cart\ndown at Dunse for some bits o' things, and the lad brought the letter in\nhis pocket; and weel do I mind how Jeannie cam' fleein' wi' it open in\nher hand across the fields to where I was looking after some workers\nthinnin' turnips, crying, 'David! David! here's a letter frae Andrew!'\n'Read it! read it!' cried I, for my een were blind wi' joy. But Andrew's\nrinnin' awa wasna the only trial that we had to bear up against at this\ntime. As I was tellin' ye, there was an unco change ower Margaret since\nshe had come frae the bathin'; and a while after, a young lad that her\nmother said they had met wi' at Portobello began to come about the\nhouse. He was the son o' a merchant in Edinburgh, and pretended that he\nhad come to learn to be a farmer wi' a neighbour o' ours. He was a wild,\nthoughtless, foppish-looking lad, and I didna like him; but Margaret,\nsilly thing, was clean daft about him. Late and early I found him about\nthe house, and I tauld him I couldna allow him nor ony person to be\nwithin my doors at any such hours. Weel, this kind o' wark was carried\non for mair than a year; and a' that I could say or do, Margaret and him\nwere never separate; till at last he drapped off comin' to the house,\nand our daughter did naething but seigh and greet. I found that, after\nbringing her to the point o' marriage, he either wadna or durstna fulfil\nhis promise unless I wad pay into his loof a thousand pounds as her\nportion. I could afford my daughter nae sic sum, and especially no to be\nthrown awa on the like o' him. But Jeannie cam to me wi' the tears on\nher cheeks, and 'O David!' says she, 'there's naething for it but\npartin' wi' a thousand pounds on the ae hand or our bairn's death--and\nher--shame on the ither!' Oh! if a knife had been driven through my\nheart, it couldna pierced it like the word _shame_! As a faither, what\ncould I do? I paid him the money, and they were married.\n\n\"It's o' nae use tellin' ye how I gaed back in the farm. In the year\nsixteen my crops warna worth takin' aff the ground, and I had twa score\no' sheep smothered the same winter. I fell behint wi' my rent; and\nhousehold furniture, farm-stock, and everything I had, were to be sold\noff. The day before the sale, wi' naething but a bit bundle carrying in\nmy hand, I took Jeannie on my ae arm and her puir auld mither on the\nother, and wi' a sad and sorrowfu' heart we gaed out o' the door o' the\nhame where our bairns had been brought up, and a sheriff's officer\nsteeked it behint us. Weel, we gaed to Coldstream, and we took a bit\nroom there, and furnished it wi' a few things that a friend bought back\nfor us at our sale. We were very sair pinched. Margaret's gudeman ne'er\nlooked near us, nor rendered us the least assistance, and she hadna it\nin her power. There was nae ither alternative that I could see; and I\nwas just gaun to apply for labouring wark when we got a letter frae\nAndrew, enclosing a fifty-pound bank-note. Mony a tear did Jeannie and\nme shed ower that letter. He informed us that he had been appointed mate\no' an East Indiaman, and begged that we would keep ourselves easy; for\nwhile he had a sixpence, his faither and mither should hae the half o't.\nMargaret's husband very soon squandered away the money he had got frae\nme, as weel as the property he had got frae his faither; and, to escape\nthe jail, he ran off, and left his wife and family. They cam to stop wi'\nme; and for five years we heard naething o' him. We had begun a shop in\nthe spirit and grocery line, and really we were remarkably fortunate. It\nwas about six years after I had begun business, ae night just after the\nshop was shut, Jeannie and her mother, wha was then about ninety, and\nMargaret and her bairns, and mysel', were a' sittin' round the fire,\nwhen a rap cam to the door; ane o' the bairns ran and opened it, and twa\ngentlemen cam in. Margaret gied a shriek, and ane o' them flung himsel'\nat her feet. 'Mother! faither!' said the other, 'do ye no ken me?' It\nwas our son Andrew, and Margaret's gudeman! I jamp up, and Jeannie jamp\nup; auld grannie raise totterin' to her feet, and the bairns screamed,\npuir things. I got haud o' Andrew, and his mother got haud o' him, and\nwe a' grat wi' joy. It was such a night o' happiness as I had never\nkenned before. Andrew had been made a ship captain. Margaret's husband\nhad repented o' a' his follies, and was in a good way o' doing in India;\nand everything has gane right and prospered wi' our whole family frae\nthat day to this.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE BURGHER'S TALES.\n\n\nTHE ANCIENT BUREAU.\n\nThe sources of legends are not often found in old sermons; and yet it\nwill be admitted that there are few remarkable events in man's history,\nwhich, if inquired into, will not be found to embrace the elements of\nvery impressive pulpit discourses. Even in cases which seem to disprove\na special, if not a general Providence, there will always be found in\nthe account between earth and heaven some \"desperate debt,\" mayhap an\n\"accommodation bill,\" which justifies the ways of God to man. It may\neven be said that the fact of our being generally able to find that item\nis a proof of the wonderful adaptability of Christianity to the fortunes\nand hopes of our race. That ministers avoid the special topics of\npeculiar destinies, may easily be accounted for otherwise than by\nsupposing that they cannot explain them so as to vindicate God's\njustice; but if ever there was a case where that difficulty would seem\nto the eye of mere reason to culminate in impossibility, it is that\nwhich I have gleaned from a veritable pulpit lecture. I have the sermon\nin my possession, but from the want of the title-page, I am unable to\nascertain the author. The date at the end is 1793, and the text is,\n\"Inscrutable are _his_ judgments.\"\n\nInscrutable indeed in the case to which the words were applied--no other\nthan an instance of death by starvation, which occurred in Edinburgh in\nthe year we have just mentioned. In that retreat of poverty called\nMiddleton's Entry, which joins the dark street called the Potterrow, and\nBristo Street, the inhabitants were roused into surprise, if not a\nfeeling approaching to horror, by the discovery that a woman, who had\nlived for a period of fifteen years in a solitary room at the top of one\nof the tenements, had been found in bed dead. A doctor was called, but\nbefore he came it was concluded by those who had assembled in the small\nroom that she had died from want of food; and such was the fact. The\nbody--that of one not yet much past the middle of life, and with fair\ncomplexion and comely features--was so emaciated, that you might have\ncounted the ribs merely by the eye; and all those parts where the bones\nare naturally near the surface exhibited a sharpness which suggested the\nfancy, that as you may see a phosphorescent skeleton through the glow,\nyou beheld in the candle-light the figure of death under the thin\ncovering of the bones. She realized, in short, the description which\ndoctors give of the appearance of those unfortunate beings who die of\nwhat is technically called _atrophia familicorum_--that Nemesis of\ncivilisation which points scornfully to the victim of want, and then\nlooks round on God's bountiful table, set for the meanest of his\ncreatures. So we may indite; but rhetoric, which is useless where the\nimages cannot rise to the dignity or descend to the humiliation of the\nvisible fact, must always come short of the effect of the plain words\nthat a human creature--perhaps good and amiable and delicate to that\nshyness which cannot complain--has died in the very midst of a\nproclaimed philanthropy, and within the limits of a space comprehending\nsmoking tables covered with luxuries, and surrounded by Christian men\nand women filled with meat and drink to repletion and satiety.\n\nSome such thoughts might have been passing through the minds of the\nassembled neighbours; and they could not be said to be the less true\nthat a shrunk and partially-withered right arm showed that the doom of\nthe woman had been so far precipitated by the still remaining effects of\nan old stroke of palsy. And the gossip confirmed this, going also into\nparticulars of observation,--how she had kept herself so to herself as\nif she wished to avoid the neighbours,--a fact which to an extent\njustified their imputed want of attention; how almost the only\nindividual who had visited her was a peculiar being, in the shape of a\nvery little man, with a slight limp and thin pleasant features,\nilluminated by a pair of dark, penetrating eyes. For years and years had\nhe been seen, always about the same hour of the day, ascending her\nstair, and carrying a flagon, supposed to contain articles of food. Then\nthe gossiping embraced the furniture and other articles in the room,\nwhich, however they might have been unnoticed before, had now assumed\nthe usual interest when seen in the blue light of the acted tragedy: the\nsmall mahogany table and the two chairs--how strange that they should be\nof mahogany!--and some of the few marrowless plates in the rack over the\nfireplace, why, they were absolute china! but above all, the exquisite\nlittle bureau of French manufacture, with its drawers, its desk, and\npigeon-holes, and cunning slides--what on earth was it doing in that\nroom, when its value even to a broker would have kept the woman alive\nfor months? Questions these put by a roused curiosity, and perhaps not\nworth answer. Was not she a woman, and was not that enough?\n\nNot enough; for legendary details cluster round startling events, and\noften carry a moral which may prevent a repetition of these; and so, had\nit not been for this apparently inexplicable death by starvation, our\nwonderful story might never have gathered listeners round the evening\nfire. We must go back some twenty years before the date of the said\nsermon to find a certain merchant-burgess of the city of Edinburgh,\nDavid Grierson, occupying a portion of a front land situated in the\nCanongate, a little to the east of Leith Wynd. It would be sheer\naffectation in us to pretend that this merchant-burgess had any mental\nor physical characteristic about him to justify his appearance in a\nromance, if we except the power he had shown of amassing wealth, of\nwhich he had so much that he could boast the possession of more than\ntwenty goodly tenements, some of wood and some of stone, besides shares\nof ships and bank stock. And no doubt this exception might stand for the\nthing excepted from, for money, though commonly said to be extraneous,\nis often so far in its influences intraneous, that it changes the\nfeelings and motives, and enables them to work. And then don't we know\nthat it is by extraneous things we are mostly led? But however all that\nmay be, certain it is that our merchant-burgess was a great man in his\nown house in the Canongate, where his family consisted of Rachel\nGrierson, his natural daughter, by a woman who had been long dead, and\nWalter Grierson, his legitimate nephew, who had been left an orphan in\nhis early years, and who was his nearest lawful heir. Two servants\ncompleted the household; and surely in this rather curious combination\nthere might be, if only circumstances were favourable to their\ndevelopment, elements which might impart interest to a story.\n\nSo long as the shadow of the dark angel was, as Time counted, far away\nfrom him, Burgess David was comparatively happy; but as he got old and\nolder, he began to realize the condition of the poet--\n\n  \"Now pleasure will no longer please,\n    And all the joys of life are gone;\n  I ask no more on earth but ease,\n    To be at peace, and be alone:\n  I ask in vain the winged powers\n    That weave man's destiny on high;\n  In vain I ask the golden hours\n    That o'er my head for ever fly.\"\n\nThen he waxed more and more anxious as to what he was to do with his\nmoney. He tried to put away the thought; but the terrible _magistra\nnecessitas_ went round and round him with ever-diminishing circles,\nclearly indicating a conflict in which he must succumb. He must make a\nwill; an act which it is said no man is ever in a hearty condition to\nperform, unless mayhap he is angry, and wishes to cut off an ungrateful\ndog with a shilling; and besides the general disinclination to sign the\ndisposal of so much wealth, of which he was more than ordinarily fond,\nand to give away, as it were, _omnia praeter animam_, in the very view\nof giving away the soul too, he was in a great perplexity as to how to\ndivide his means. Nor could he reconcile himself to a division at all,\npreferring, as the greatly lesser evil, the alternative of destinating\nhis fortune all of a lump, with some hope of its being kept together. As\nfor Walter, though he had some affection for him, he had not much\nconfidence in him, for he had seen that he was hare-brained as regarded\nthings which suited his fancy, and pig-brained as respected those which\nsolicited and required sound judgment; while Rachel, again, was\neverything which, among the lower angels, could be comprehended under\nthe delightful title of \"dear soul,\" an amiable and devoted creature, as\nstedfast in her affections as she was wise in the selection of their\nobjects. So by revolving in his mind all the beauties of the character\nof her who, however disqualified by law, was still of his flesh and\nblood, yea, of his very nature, as he complacently thought in compliment\nto himself, he became more and more reconciled to his intention, if the\nvery thought of making a will, which had been horrible to him, did not\nbecome even a pleasing kind of meditation. So is it--when Nature imposes\nan inevitable duty, she gives man the power of inventing a pleasing\nreason for his obedience; nay, so much of a self-dissembler is he, that\nhe even cheats himself into the belief that his obedience is an act of\nhis own will. In all which he at least proved the value of one of the\narguments in favour of marriage; for trite it is to say, a bachelor\nbears to no one a love which reconciles him to will-making, while a\nfather, in leaving his means to his children, feels as if he were giving\nto himself. But this plan of our merchant-burgess had in addition a\nspice of ingenuity in it which still more pleased him--he would so\ncontrive matters that the daughter and the nephew would become, after\nhis death, man and wife. He had only some doubts how far their tastes\nagreed,--probably an absurd condition, in so much as we all know that\nlove is often struck out by opposition, and that there is a pleasant\nsuitability in a husband preferring the head of a herring, and the wife\nthe tail.\n\nHaving thus arrived at a sense of his duty by the pleasant path of his\naffection, Mr. David Grierson seized the first opportunity which\npresented itself of sounding the heart of Rachel, in order to know in\nwhat direction her affections ran. Sitting in his big chair, all so\ncomfortably cushioned by the hands of the said Rachel herself, and with\na good fire alongside, due also to her unremitting care, he called her\nto him, and placing his arm round her waist, as he was often in the\nhabit of doing, said to her--\n\n\"Rachel, dear, I feel day by day my strength leaving me, and it may be,\nnay, will be, that I will not be very much longer with you.\"\n\nRachel looked at him for a little, but said nothing, for, as the saying\ngoes, her heart came to her mouth, and she could not have spoken even if\nshe would; but the father understood all this, and preferred the mute\nexpression of a real grief to a hysterical burst--of which, indeed, her\ncalm genial nature was incapable.\n\n\"Forgive me, dear,\" continued he, \"for I would not willingly cause you\nsorrow, but I have a reason for speaking in this grave way. Who is to\nfill the old arm-chair when I cannot occupy it?\"\n\nAnd he smiled somewhat grimly as he sought her eye, in which he could\nobserve the most real of all nature's evidences of emotion.\n\n\"What mean you, father?\" she replied, with something like an effort to\nrespond to his humour.\n\n\"Why, then, Rachel,\" he said, \"to be out with it, I want to know whether\nyou have fixed your heart on any one.\"\n\n\"Only upon you, dear father,\" she replied, with a smile which struggled\nagainst her seriousness.\n\n\"Nay, Rachel,\" continued he. \"It is no light matter, and I must have an\nanswer. I intend to leave you my whole fortune, but upon one condition,\nwhich is, that if Walter Grierson shall sue for your hand, you will\nconsent to marry him.\"\n\nTo this there was a reply given with an alacrity which showed how her\nheart pointed--\"Yes;\" then, adding that wonderful little word \"but,\"\nwhich makes such havoc among our resolutions, she paused, while her eyes\nsought the ground.\n\n\"What 'but' can be here?\" interjected the old man. \"Surely you do not\nmean to doubt whether _he_ would consent?\"\n\n\"And yet that is just my doubt,\" she replied, as if she felt humiliated\nby the admission.\n\n\"Doubt!\" cried the father, in rising wrath; \"doubt, doubt if a beggar\nwould consent to be made rich by marrying _you_! Why, Rachel, dear, if\nthe fellow were to breathe a sigh of hesitation, he would deserve to be\na beggar with more holes than wholes in his gabardine, and too poor even\nto possess a wallet to carry his bones and crumbs. Have you any reason\nfor your strange statement?\"\n\n\"No,\" replied the girl, with a sigh. \"It is only my heart that speaks.\"\n\n\"And the heart never lies,\" said he sharply. \"But I shall see,\" he\nmuttered to himself, \"whether a certain tongue in a certain head shall\nspeak in the same way.\"\n\n\"But would it not bring me down,\" said she, \"were he to think that he\nwas forced by a promise?\"\n\n\"A promise!\" rejoined he; \"why, so it would, my dear. I see you are\nright.\" But then he thought he could sound him without putting any\nobligation upon him. \"And a pretty obligation it would be,\" he\ncontinued, \"for a young fellow cut off with a shilling to bind himself\nto consent to be the acceptor of two such gifts as a fine girl and a\nfortune.\"\n\nAnd Burgess David tried to laugh; but the effort was still that of a\nheavy heart, and, reclining his head upon the back of the chair, he\nrelapsed into those thoughts which, as Age advances to the term where\nHope throws down her lamp, press in and in upon the spirit. Rachel\nglided away quietly, perhaps to think; and certainly she had something\nto think about.\n\nSo, too, doubtless had Mr. David Grierson, who, after indulging in his\nreverie, wherein the subject of will-making suggested a match between\nhimself and a certain bridegroom who never says nay, awoke to the\ninterest of his scheme of match-making in this world. So far he had\naccomplished his object, for he could rely upon his faithful Rachel's\nperformance of her promise; and if the two should be married, he knew\nhow to take care to give her the power of the money, and keep a youth,\nin whose prudence he had no great faith, in proper check. Next he had to\nsound the nephew. Nor was it long before he had an opportunity--even\nthat same afternoon.\n\n\"Walter,\" he began with an abruptness for which probably the young man\nwas scarcely prepared, \"I am getting old, and must now think of\narranging my affairs so as to endeavour to make my fortune serve the\npurpose of rendering those happy in whom I have a natural interest. So I\nhave some interest also as well as, I suspect, some right to put the\nquestion to you, whether you ever thought of Rachel Grierson for your\nwife?\"\n\n\"Upon my word,\" replied the nephew, with just as little _mauvais honte_\nas suited his nature, \"I never thought of aspiring to the _honour_.\"\n\nA word this last which grated on the ear of the rich merchant-burgess,\ninasmuch as it suggested a suspicion of the figure of speech called\nirony, seeing that Rachel Grierson was a bastard, and the youth carried\nthe legitimate blood of the Griersons in his veins.\n\n\"Honour or no honour,\" replied he sharply, and perhaps contrary to his\noriginal intention, \"Rachel Grierson is to inherit my fortune, ay, every\npenny thereof.\"\n\n\"Every penny thereof,\" echoed the youth, as if his mind had flown away\nwith the words, and dropt them in despair as it flew.\n\n\"Yes,\" rejoined the angry uncle, \"lands, tenements, hereditaments,\nshares, dividends, stock, furniture, bed and table linen.\"\n\n\"And table linen,\" echoed the entranced nephew.\n\n\"Yes; everything,\" continued the uncle; and calming down as he saw the\nwhite lips and blank despair of the youth, he added--\"And to you I will\nleave and bequeath my natural-born daughter, Rachel Grierson.\"\n\nAnd as he uttered these significant words, he watched carefully the face\nof the youth, where, however, all indications defied his perspicacity,\ninasmuch as blank astonishment was still the prevailing expression. But\nafter some minutes the young man stuttered out--\n\n\"A legacy worthy of a nobleman!\"\n\nWords that sounded beautifully, because they were true as regarded\nRachel, whatever they might be as respected his secret intention; yet as\nthe children vaticinate from the examination of each other's tongues, if\nthe uncle had examined the organ, he might have discovered some of those\nblue lines which produce an exclamation from the young augurs.\n\n\"_Words_ worthy, too, of a nobleman,\" cried the old man in a trembling\nvoice; and holding out his hand, which shook under his emotion of\ndelight at hearing his beloved Rachel so praised, he seized that of his\nnephew--\n\n\"Yes, Walter,\" he added, \"you have by these words redeemed yourself, and\nI will take them as an offering of your willingness to accept my legacy;\nbut, remember, I extort no promise, which might reduce the value of a\nyoung woman's affection,--a gift to be accepted for its own sake.\"\n\n\"I am content,\" said Walter.\n\n\"And I am satisfied,\" added the uncle. \"But here is wine on the table,\"\nhe continued, as he turned his eye in the direction of a decanter of\ngood claret, just as if Rachel had, by her art of love, anticipated\nwhat he wished at this moment. \"Ah, Walter, if she shall watch your\nwants as she has done mine, you will live to feel that you cannot want\n_her_, and live; so fill up a glass for me, and one for yourself, that\nwe may drink to the happiness of the dear girl when, after I am dead,\nshe shall become your wedded wife.\"\n\n\"With all and sundry lands, tenements, hereditaments, and so forth,\"\ncried Walter, with a laugh which might pass as genuine, and which was\nresponded to by a chuckle from the dry throat of the uncle, which\ncertainly was so.\n\nSo the pledge was taken; and Walter Grierson went away, leaving the old\nmerchant-burgess as happy as any poor mortal creature can be when so\nnear the term of his departure. Such is our way of speaking; and yet we\nare forced to admit, that at no period of life, however near the\nultimate, abating the advent of the great illumination which breaks like\na new dawn upon the internal sense of a favoured few, can you say that\nthe hold of this world upon the spirit is ever renounced. Whether the\nyoung man was as happy, we may not venture to say; but this we might\nsurmise, even at this stage of our story, and in reference to the\nclassical proverb, that the bastard might be the beautiful Nisa, and the\nlawful heir the ill-favoured Mopsus.\n\nThese things we may leave to development; and with a caution to the\nreader not to be over-suspicious, we will follow our Nisa, Rachel\nGrierson, as she proceeds from the house of the merchant-burgess up the\nHigh Street, at a period of the evening of the same day when the shadows\nof the tall lands wrapped the crowds of loiterers and passengers almost\nin utter darkness; not that she chose this time for any purpose of\nsecrecy,--for she had no secret, except that solitary one which every\nyoung woman has, and holds, up to the minute of conviction, that she is\nengaged, after which it becomes a flame blown by her own breath,--but\nsimply because it suited the routine of her duties. Her night-cloak kept\nher from the cold, and the panoply of her virtue secured her from\ninsult; so, threading her way amidst the throng, she arrived at the head\nof the old winding street called the West Bow, where, at a projection a\nlittle to the north of Major Weir's Entry, she mounted a narrow stair.\nOn arriving at a door on the third landing-place, she tapped gently, and\nin obedience to a shrill voice, which cried \"Come in,\" she lifted the\nlatch, and entered a small room, where, at a bench, sat a very peculiar\npersonage. This was no other than the famous Paul Bennett, an artist in\njewellery, who at that time excelled all his compeers for beauty of\ndesign and exquisite refinement of minute elaboration. And this,\nperhaps, a good judge of mankind might have augured of him; for while\nhis body was far below the middle size, his long thin fingers, tapering\nto a point, seemed to be suitable instruments intended to serve a pair\nof dark eyes so lustrous and sharp, that nothing within the point of the\nbeginning of infinitesimals might seem to escape them. Nor was his pale\nface less suggestive of his peculiar faculties; for it was made up of\nfine delicate features, harmonized into regularity, and so expressive,\nthat it seemed to change with every feeling of the moment, even as the\nflitting moonbeams play on the face of a statue. In addition to these\npeculiarities, his appearance was rendered the more striking, that,\nworking as he did under a strong reflected light, cast down immediately\nbefore his face by a dark shade, the upper part of his person and a\ncircle on the bench were in bright relief, while the other parts of the\nroom were comparatively dark.\n\n\"Still at work, Paul,\" said Rachel, as she entered; \"how long do you\nintend to work to-night?\"\n\n\"Till the idea becomes dim, and the sense waxes thick,\" replied he, as\nhe turned his eyes upon her.\n\n\"I have something to tell you,\" she continued, as she sat down on a\nchair between him and the fire, if that could be called such which\nconsisted of some red cinders.\n\n\"Some other wonder,\" replied he; \"another cropping out of the workings\nof fate.\"\n\nWords these, as coming from our little artist, which require some\nexplanation, to the effect that Paul was a philosopher, too, in his own\nway. Early misfortunes, which mocked the resolutions of a will never\nvery strong, had played into a habit of thinking, and brought him to the\nconviction that every movement or change in the moral world, not less\nthan in the physical, is the result of a cause which runs back through\nendless generations to the first man, and even beyond him. Paul was, in\nshort, a fatalist; not of that kind which romance writers feign in order\nto make the character work through a gloomy presentiment of his own\ndestiny, but merely a believer in a universal original decree, the\nworkings of which we never know until the effects are seen. A fatalist\nof this kind almost every man is, less or more, in some mood or another;\nonly, to save himself from being a puppet, moved by springs or drawn by\nstrings, he generally contrives to except his _will_ from the scheme of\nthe iron-bound necessity. But Paul would permit of no such exception.\nThe will, with him, was merely the _motive in action_; and as he\ncompelled you to admit that no thought is, in man's experience, ever\ncalled into being, only developed from prior conditions, and that, even\nas to an idea, the doctrine _Nihil nisi ex ovo_ is true, and therefore\nthat no man can manufacture a motive, so he took a short way with the\nmaintainers of a moral liberty. This doctrine, so gloomy, so grand, yet\nso terrible, was, to Paul, a conviction, which he almost made practical;\nnay, he seemed to realize a kind of poetic pleasure from reveries, which\nrepresented to him the universe, with the sun and the stars, and all\nliving creatures--walking, flying, swimming, or crawling--going through\ntheir parts in the great melodrama of destiny, no one knowing how, or\nwhy, or wherefore, yet every human being believing that he is master of\nhis actions, at the very moment that he might be conscious that his\nbelief is only a part of the great law of necessity. Then it seemed as\nif this delusion in which men indulge, and are forced to indulge, was an\nelement of the farce introduced into the play, so as to relieve the mind\nfrom the heavy burden of contemplating so terrible a theory.\n\n\"Something to tell me, Rachel!\" continued he; \"and what may that be?\"\n\n\"My father has told me to-day,\" replied she, \"that he is to leave me all\nhis fortune; and however grieved I may be at the thought of losing him,\nI am glad to think that it may be in my power to be of service to you,\nPaul, as my only relative on my mother's side.\"\n\n\"Service,\" muttered Paul to himself, while he looked into her face as\nwistfully as a lover, which indeed he was, though in secret. \"And what\nis to become of Walter Grierson?\" he asked.\n\n\"When he finds that the entire fortune is mine,\" replied she, \"he will\npropose to marry me; and this is what my father wishes to bring about by\nputting the fortune in my power.\"\n\n\"So the events crop out from the long chain of causes,\" thought Paul;\n\"but who shall tell the final issue? Look here, Rachel,\" he continued,\nas he laid his hand on a golden locket which lay before him in the shape\nof a heart, \"I have made this to order;\" and as he spoke he touched a\nspring, whereupon a lid opened, and up flew a pair of tiny doves, which,\nwith fluttering wings of gold and azure, immediately saluted each other\nwith their long bills, and piped a few notes in imitation of the cushat.\nThe touch of another spring immediately consigned them again to the\ncavity of the heart,--a conceit altogether of such refined manufacture\nand ingenuity of design, as to remind us of the saying of Cicero, that\nthere is an exquisiteness in art which never can be known till it is\nseen fresh from the hand of genius.\n\n\"And who ordered that beautiful thing?\" inquired Rachel.\n\n\"Walter Grierson,\" replied Paul, fixing his eyes upon her sorrowfully,\nas if he felt oppressed by that gloomy theory of his.\n\nNor did he fail to perceive the effect his few words had produced upon\nthe heart of his cousin, where there was a fluttering very different\nfrom that of cooing turtles; for the fate of her happiness seemed to her\nto be suspended on the answer to a question, and that question she was\nafraid to put.\n\n\"Be patient, and learn to hear,\" continued the little philosopher. \"Ere\nyet Cheops built the Pyramids, or Joshua commanded the sun to stand\nstill, yea, before the first sensation tingled in the first nerve made\nout of the dust, the beginnings were laid of these events of this day\nand hour, and, in particular, of that one which may well astonish you\nand grieve you--viz., that the locket is intended for and inscribed to\nAgnes Ainslie.\"\n\n\"Agnes Ainslie!\" repeated Rachel, with parched lips and trembling\nvoice, \"the daughter of Mr. John Ainslie, my father's agent, to whom I\nam even now going, by Mr. Grierson's command, to request him to call to\nmorrow for the purpose of preparing the settlement!\"\n\n\"A strange perplexity of events,\" said Paul. \"But what is this mingling\nof threads to the great web of the universe, which is eternally being\nwoven and unwoven, unaffected by the will of man? And then these small\nissues, the loss of a fortune by a man, and that of a lover by a woman,\nhow mighty they are to the individual hearts and affections!\"\n\n\"Mighty indeed,\" sobbed Rachel, who had loved Walter so long, and\nrejoiced to have it in her power to bestow a fortune upon him, and now\nfound all her hopes dissolved into the ashes of grief and\ndisappointment. \"Mighty indeed; and these thoughts of yours are so\ndreary, how can one believe in them and live!\"\n\n\"We are compelled to live,\" replied he, \"even by that same decree which\nbinds us to the infinite chain. Were it not so, man would imitate the\nday-flies, and die at sundown, that he might escape the dark night which\nreveals to him the mystery of his being, whereat he trembles and sobs;\nand all this is also in the decree.\"\n\n\"But if all these things are so,\" said Rachel, \"what do you say of\nhappiness? Is there no joy in the world? Are not the birds happy, when\nin the morning the woods resound with their song, and so, too, every\nanimal after its kind? Are not children joyful when the house rings with\ntheir mirth? and have not men and women their pleasures of a thousand\nkinds? nay, might not I myself have been one of the happiest of beings,\nif, with the fortune which is to be left to me, that locket had been\nengraved with the name of Rachel Grierson in place of Agnes Ainslie?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" replied he, \"happiness is in the decree as well; and,\" he added\nwith a smile, \"it is always cropping out around us, but no one can\nmanufacture the article. If you wait for it, you may feel it; if you run\nafter it, you will probably not find it, because it is not ready by\nthose eternal laws which, at their beginning, involved its coming up at\na certain moment of long after-years. Then, at the best, pleasure and\npain are mere oscillations; but the first movement is downwards, for we\ncry when we come into the world; and the last is also downwards, for we\ngroan when we go out of it. It is the old rhyme--\n\n  'We scream when we're born,\n    We groan when we're dying;\n  And all that's between\n    Is but laughing and crying.'\"\n\nA parade of philosophy all this which at another time might have had but\na small effect upon a youthful mind, but Rachel was in the meantime\noccupied by looking at the inscription on the fatal toy; and we all know\nthat the feeling of the dominant idea of the moment assimilates to its\nown hue the light or shade of all other ideas of a cognate kind; and\nthere is in this process also a selection and rejection whereby all\nmelancholy ideas cluster in the gloomy atmosphere, if we may so term it,\nof the prevailing depression, and all joyful ones come together by the\nattraction of a joyful thought; and so Rachel was impressed by views\nwhich, if they had been modified by the comforting doctrines of\nChristianity, might have enabled her at once to bear and to hope. Even\nwhen Paul had finished, she was still gazing on the locket. A moment or\ntwo more, and she laid it down with a deep sigh, saying, almost\ninvoluntarily, \"If my name had been there, I would not have repined at\nthe loss of all my expected fortune.\" Then, shaking hands with this\npeculiar being, whom she could not but respect for his ingenuity, as\nwell as for a kindliness and sympathy which lay at the bottom of all his\nabstract theories, she left him to his work, at which he would continue\ntill drowsiness made, as he said, the idea dim and the nerve thick.\n\nRetracing her steps down the long dark stair, not a very efficient\nmedium for the removal of impressions so unlike the results of our\nnatural consciousness, Rachel Grierson found herself again among the\nbustling crowds of the High Street. Nor could she view these busy people\nin the light by which she saw them before entering the little dark room\nof the philosopher. Though she did not know the classical word, she\nlooked upon them as so many _automata_; and the long chain of causes\ncame into her mind so vividly, that she found herself repeating the very\nwords of Paul. Then there was the reference to her own individual fate;\nand was it not through the self-medium she saw all these people in so\nstrange a light?--with Hope's lamp dashed down at her feet, and\nextinguished at the very moment when, by the communication of her\nfather, she thought she had the means of recruiting it with a store of\noil never to be exhausted till possession was accomplished. Still under\nthese impressions, she came to the door of Mr. Ainslie's house. There\nwere sounds of mirth and music coming from within; and so plastic is the\nmind when under a deep and engrossing feeling, that she found no\ndifficulty in concentrating and modifying these sounds into joyful\narticulations from the very mouths of Walter Grierson and Agnes Ainslie\nthemselves. Such are the moral echoes which respond to, because they are\nformed by the suspicions of, disappointed love. No longer for the moment\nwere Paul's thoughts true. These happy beings inside were happy because\nthey had the hearts and the wills to enjoy; but she could draw no\nconclusion that she herself could dispose her mind for the acceptance of\nthe world's pleasures also when her gloom should be away among the\nshadows, and nature's innumerable enjoyments placed within her power.\nYet, withal, she could execute her commission, and upon the door being\nopened, she could enter in the very face of that mirth of which she\nfancied herself the victim.\n\nOn being shown into a parlour, she was presently waited upon by Mr.\nAinslie, who seemed to her to have come from the scene of enjoyment in\nthe drawing-room. She could even fancy that he eyed her as in some way\nstanding in the path of his daughter's expectations through Walter--a\nfancy which of course would gain strength from the somewhat excited\nmanner in which he received the words of her commission, to the effect\nthat he would repair the next forenoon to the house of the\nmerchant-burgess, for the purpose of preparing his last will and\ntestament. The notary agreed to attend, and thus, still construing\nappearances according to the assimilating bent of her mind, she departed\nfor home. After going through the routine of her domestic duties, and\ncaring for her invalid father, she retired to bed--that place of\nso-called rest, where mortals chew the cud of the thoughts of the day or\nof years. And how unlike the two processes, the physical and the\nmental!--in the one is brought up for a second enjoyment the green grass\nof nature, still fresh and palatable and nutritious; in the other, the\nseared leaves of memory, feeding unavailing regrets, and filling the\nmicrocosm with phantoms and dire shapes of evil, the types whereof never\nhad an existence in the outer world. Walter Grierson was lost to her for\never, and the dire energies of fate, as described by the\nartist-philosopher, seemed to hang over her, claiming, in harsh tones,\nher will as a mere instrument in the working out of her own destiny.\n\nNext day Mr. Ainslie called, and was for a long time closeted with Mr.\nGrierson; but so careless was she now of the fortune about being left to\nher, and which she was satisfied would not now be a means of showing her\naffection for Walter, that she felt little interest in an affair which\notherwise might have appeared of so much importance to her. Her\nattention was, notwithstanding, claimed by an incident. After the\ninterview, the notary visited Walter Grierson in his room, where the\nyoung man seemed to have been waiting for him. In ordinary circumstances\nit might have appeared strange that a man of business, bound to secrecy,\nwould divulge the terms of a will to any one, but far more that he\nshould take means for apprising a nephew that he was deprived of any\nshare of his uncle's means. Nor could she account for this interview on\nany other supposition than that Mr. Ainslie knew of the intentions of\nWalter towards his daughter, and that he took this early opportunity of\nintimating that a disinherited young man, of the grade of a merchant's\nclerk, would not, as a son-in-law, suit the expectations of an ambitious\nwriter. Yet out of this interview there came to, if not drawn by, her\nfancy a glimmer of hope, inasmuch as, if the young man were rejected by\nthe notary in consequence of the ban of disinheritance, he would be left\nto the attractions of her wealth; but this supposition involved the\nassumption that her triumph would be over a mind that was mercenary, and\nnot over a heart predisposed to love; nay, her generosity revolted at\nthe thought of gratifying her long-concealed passion at the expense of\nthe sacrificed love of another. That other, too, had a better right to\nthe object than she herself, in so far that Agnes Ainslie's love had\nbeen returned, while hers had not. But these speculations were to be\nbrought to the test by words and actions.\n\nNo sooner had Mr. Ainslie left than Rachel was visited in her private\nparlour by Walter Grierson himself. He had seldom taken that liberty\nbefore, for her secret passion had been ruled by a stern virtue. A\nnatural shyness, remote from coyness, demanded the conciliation of\nrespect, though ready at a moment to pass into the generosity of\nconfidence where she was certain of a return; but his presence before\nher might have been accounted for by his appearance, which was that of\none whose excitement was only attempted to be overborne by an effort--a\nresult more mechanical than spiritual. His manner, not less than his\ncountenance, composed to gravity, was belied by the tremulous light of\nhis eye; and as he seized her hand and pressed it fervently, she could\nfeel that his trembled more than her own. Her manner was also\nembarrassed, as it well might be, where so many conflicting feelings,\nsome revived from old memories, and some produced by the singular events\nof the day and hour, agitated her frame.\n\n\"I am going to surprise you, cousin,\" he said, while he fixed his eye\nupon her, as if to watch the effect of his words.\n\nRachel forgot for a moment the philosophy of Paul--why should one be\nsurprised when the thing that is to be is a result of a change in\nsomething else as old as Aldebaran, let alone \"the sun and the seven\nstars?\" She was indeed prepared for a surprise.\n\n\"It is just the old story of the heart,\" he resumed. \"Our intercourse\nbegan so early, and partook so much of that of mere relations, that I\nnever could tell when the mere social feeling gave place to another\nwhich I need not mention. You know, Rachel, what I mean.\"\n\nShe was silent because she was distrustful, yet her heart beat bravely\nin spite of her efforts; for was not this man the object of her love,\nand is not love moved with an eloquence which makes reason ashamed of\nher poor figures and modes?\n\n\"Yes,\" he went on, \"I take it for granted that you know I am only\nlabouring towards a confession. Yes, dear heart, for years I have\nconsidered you as the one sole object in all this world of fair visions\nformed to make me happy. You see I cannot get out of the ordinary mode\nof speech. The lover is fated to adjure, to praise, and to petition\nalways in the same set form of words; yet is not the confession enough?\"\n\n\"So far,\" said she; \"but I have never seen any evidence of all this;\" as\nif she wanted more in the same strain--sweet to the ear, though\ndistrusted by the reason.\n\n\"No more you have,\" he continued, \"yet you know that love is often\nsuspicious of itself. I have watched with my eye your movements and\nattitudes when you thought I was not observing you. My ear has followed\nyour voice through adjoining rooms when you thought I was listening to\nother sounds. I have admired your words, without venturing the response\nof admiration. Often I have wished to fold you in my arms when you\ndreamt nothing of my inward thoughts. In short, Rachel, I have loved you\nfor years! Yes, I have enjoyed, or suffered, this gloating, yea,\ndelightful misery of the heart when it feeds upon its own secret\ntreasures, and trembles at the test which might dissolve the dream.\"\n\n\"And why this suppression and secrecy, Walter?\" she asked. \"How could\nyou know,\" she continued, as she held down her head, \"that I would be\nadverse to your wishes; nay, that I was not even in the same condition\nas yourself?\"\n\n\"Surely you do not mean to say that?\" he cried, with something like the\nrapture of one relieved by pleasure from pain. \"I am not worthy even of\nthe suspicion that you speak according to the bidding of your heart.\nHave I not watched your looks, and penetrated into your eyes, to\nascertain whether I might venture to know my fate, and yet never could\ndiscover even the symptom of a return; and then was I not under a\nconviction that your affections were engaged elsewhere?\"\n\n\"Where?\" asked Rachel, with a look of surprise.\n\n\"We are apparently drifting into confessions,\" responded he. \"I may say\nthat I never could construe your visits to Paul, the ingenious artist,\nmerely as dictated by admiration of his wonderful genius.\"\n\n\"You do not know that Paul is the son of my mother's sister,\" replied\nshe. \"Your uncle knows; but there may be reasons why you don't.\"\n\n\"Then I am relieved,\" was the lover's ejaculation, in a tone as if he\nhad got quit of a great burden.\n\n\"Yes, that is the truth,\" continued she; \"but I also confess that I have\nbeen attracted to his small dark workshop by the exquisite curiosities\nof art on which he is so often engaged, and which, by occupying so much\nof his time, keep him poor. It was only yesterday I saw on his bench a\nlocket which seems to transcend all his prior efforts.\"\n\nThe young man smiled and nodded. What could he mean? Why was he not\ndumbfoundered?\n\n\"It is in the shape of a heart,\" she continued; \"and upon touching a\nspring there fly up two tiny figures, which, with fluttering wings, seem\nto devour each other with kisses.\"\n\nWords which forced themselves out of her in spite of her shyness, but\nwhich she could not follow up by more than a side-look at her admirer.\n\n\"And upon which,\" said he, still smiling, \"there is engraven the\ninscription, 'From Walter Grierson to Agnes Ainslie.'\"\n\n\"Yes,\" sighed Rachel, \"the very words. I read them again and again, and\ncould scarcely believe my eyes.\"\n\n\"And well you might not,\" said he; \"but your simple heart has never yet\ninformed you that love finds out strange inventions. I have been guilty\nof a _ruse d'amour_, for which I beg your pardon. Knowing that you were\nin the habit of visiting Paul's workroom, and seeing all the work of his\ncunning fingers, I got him to make the locket out of a piece of gold I\ngot from my uncle, and the inscription was,\"--and here he paused as if\nto watch her expression,--\"yes, designed, to quicken your affection for\nme by awakening jealousy. I confess it. Agnes Ainslie was and is nothing\nto me; and I used her name merely because I thought that you would view\nher as a likely rival.\"\n\n\"Can all this be true?\" muttered Rachel to herself, as the wish to\nbelieve was pursued by the doubt which revolted against a departure from\nall natural and rational actions.\n\nPerhaps she was not versed in the ways of the world; but whether so or\nnot, the difference in effect would have been small; for what man,\nbeloved by a woman, ever yet pled his cause before his mistress without\nother than a wise man for his client?\n\n\"And if it is your wish, my dear Rachel,\" he continued, \"the inscription\nshall be erased, and replaced by the name of Rachel Grierson. What say\nyou?\"\n\nHis hand was held out for that acceptance which betokened consent. It\nwas accepted; yes, and more, His arms were next moment around her waist;\nthe heart of the yielding girl beat rarely, the wistful face was turned\nup as even courting his eyes, the kiss was impressed;--why, more, Rachel\nGrierson was surely Walter Grierson's, and he was hers, and surely to be\nfor ever in this world.\n\nRachel was now in that state of mind when the pleasantness of a\ncontemplated object excludes any inquiry whether it is true or false,\ngood or evil; and, in spite of Paul's fatalism, she was satisfied that\nit was with Walter's own free will that he had done what he had done,\nand said what he had said. The changed inscription on the locket, and\nthe delivery of that pledge to her, would complete the vowing of the\ntroth whereby she was to become his wife. Entirely ignorant of what had\ntaken place between the nephew and the uncle, by means of which she\nmight have been able to analyze his conduct, she had only the closeting\nof Mr. Ainslie and Walter to suggest to her that the young man's sudden\ndeclaration was the result of his knowledge that she was to be sole\nheiress. The heart that is under the influence of love, as we have\nhinted, is too credulous to the tongue of the lover to doubt the\nsincerity of his professions. So all appeared well. The motives in\naction were adequate to the will of the parties who used them; and as\nshe felt that her love was in the power of herself, so she could not\ndoubt that Walter's affection was the result of his approval of her good\nqualities. Paul was now no longer an oracle. She would be pleased to\nhave an opportunity of showing him that his genius lay more in his\nfingers than in his head. She had now, however, something else to do.\nShe went to her father's room. He was in one of those reveries to which,\nas we have said, all the thinking of the extremely aged is reduced, when\nthe world and its figures of men and women, its strange oscillations and\nchanges, its passions, pleasures, and pains, seem as made remote by the\nintervention of a long space--dim, shadowy, and ghost-like. It is one of\nthe stages through which the long-living must pass, and, like all the\nother experiences of life, it is true only to one's self--it cannot be\ncommunicated by words. \"Old memories are spectres that do seem to chase\nthe soul out of the world,\"--an old quotation which may be admitted\nwithout embracing the metaphysical paradox, that \"subjective thought is\nthe poison of life,\" or conceding the sharp sneer of the cynic--\n\n  \"Know, ye who for your pleasures gape,\n  Man's life at best is but a scrape.\"\n\nBut the entry of his daughter brought the old man back to the margin of\nreal living existences. He held out his hand to her, and smiled in the\nface that was dear to him, as if for a moment he rejoiced in the\nexperience of a feeling which connected him with breathing flesh and\nblood. The object of her visit was soon explained. Whispering in his\near, as if she were afraid of the sound of her own words, she told him\nthat Walter had promised her a love-token, and that she wished to give\nhim one in return, for which purpose she desired that she might be\npermitted to use one or two old \"Spanish ounces\" that lay in the old\nbureau.\n\n\"Yes, yes, dear child,\" said he. \"Get a golden heart made of them. It\nwill be an emblem of the true heart you have to give him, and a pledge\nto boot.\" Then, falling into one of his reveries, in which his mind\nseemed occupied by some strong feeling--\"I am thus reminded,\" he\ncontinued, \"of the old song you used to sing. There is a verse which I\nhope will never be applicable to you as it was to me. I wish to hear it\nfor the last time,\" he added, with a languid smile, \"in consideration of\nthe ounces.\"\n\nRachel knew the verse, because she had formerly noticed that it moved\nsome chord in his memory connected with an old love affair in which his\nheart had been scathed; but she hesitated, for the meaning it conveyed\nwas dowie and ominous.\n\n\"Come, come,\" said he, \"the fate will never be yours.\"\n\nShe complied, yet it was with a trembling voice. The tune is at best but\na sweet wail, and there was a misgiving of the heart which imparted the\nthrilling effect of a gipsy's farewell--\n\n       \"If I had wist ere I had kisst,\n       That true love was so ill to win,\n  I'd have lock'd my heart in some secret part,\n       And bound it with a silver pin.\"\n\n\"Now you may take the ounces,\" said he with a sigh. \"The verse has more\nmeaning to me than you wot off, and surely, I hope, less to you.\"\n\nAnd having thus gratified his whim--if that could be called a whim which\nwas a desire to have repeated to him a sentiment once to him, as he\nhinted, a reality connected with the young heart when it was lusty, and\nhis pulse strong and thick with the blood of young life--- she went to\nthe bureau, and, taking three of the ounces, she left the room. In the\ngloaming, she was again on her way to Paul's workshop, where she found\nthe artist, as usual, with his head bent over the bright desk on the\nbench, engaged in some of his fanciful creations. Having seated herself\nin the chair where she had so often sat, she commenced her story of the\ncircumstances of the day,--how Walter Grierson had acted and spoken to\nher; how he had accounted for the locket and inscription; how he\nintended to change the latter, and substitute her name for that of Agnes\nAinslie; how he had sought her love, and succeeded in his seeking; how\nshe was satisfied that he was sincere in his professions; and how she\nhad got the ounces from her father to make a love-token, to give in\nexchange for Walter's. All which Paul listened to with deep attention,\nnow and then a faint smile passing over his delicate face, and followed\nby the old pensive expression which was peculiar to one so deeply imbued\nwith the conviction that he was an organism in nature's plan, acted upon\nto fulfil a fate of which he could know nothing.\n\n\"And so the powers work,\" said he, as he looked in the hopeful face of\nhis friend. \"You are now happy, Rachel, because you believe what Walter\nhas said to you, and you have no power over your belief. But,\" he\ncontinued, after a moment or two's silence, \"I _may_ have power over\nyou, but not over myself. Walter Grierson has told you a falsehood, and\nhis motive for it is adequate to his nature. Since he gave me the order\nfor the locket, he has learnt that you are to inherit the whole fortune\nof your father, on the condition that you are to marry him; and his love\nfor Agnes has been overborne by another feeling--the desire to possess\nyour wealth. Neither the one nor the other of these feelings could he\nmanufacture, or even modify, any more than he could charm the winds into\nsilence, or send Jove's bolt back to its thunder-cloud; and now, look\nyou, his game is this: if you succeed to the money, he will marry\nwithout loving you; if not, he will marry the woman he loves--Agnes\nAinslie.\"\n\n\"You alarm me, Paul,\" said she, involuntarily holding forth her arms, as\nif she would have stopped his speech.\n\n\"And you cannot help your alarm,\" said he calmly; \"neither can I help\n_not_ being alarmed by your alarm.\"\n\n\"Oh, you trifle with my feelings,\" she cried, with a kind of wail.\n\"What have all these strange thoughts to do with this situation in which\nI am placed? Even though all things are pre-ordained, neither of us can\nbe absolved from doing our duty to God and ourselves.\"\n\n\"Absolved!\" echoed Paul. \"Why, Rachel, look you, we are forced to do it,\nor not to do it, precisely as the motive culminates into action, but we\nare not sensible of the compulsion; and so am I under the necessity to\ntell you that Walter Grierson is playing false with you, according to\nthe inexorable law of his nature. It is not an hour yet since Agnes\nAinslie called here with some old trinkets, and requested me to make a\nring out of them; nor was I left without the means of understanding that\nit was to be given in exchange for the locket.\"\n\n\"Is it possible?\" cried she. \"And can it be that I am deceived, and that\nsecret powers are working my ruin?\"\n\n\"Not necessarily your ruin,\" said he; \"no mortal knows the birth of the\nnext moment. The womb of fate is never empty; but no man shall dare to\nsay what is in it till the issue of every moment proves itself. Nor does\nall this take away hope, for hope is in the ancient decree, like all the\nother evolutions of time, including that hope's being deferred till the\nheart grows sick; and,\" he added, as he looked sorrowfully into her\nface, \"that is the fate of mine, for, know you, Rachel Grierson, I have\nlong loved you, and have now seen that the riches you are to inherit put\nyou beyond the sphere of my ambition. I have often wished--pardon me\nRachel--yes, I have often wished you might be left a beggar, that I\nmight have the privilege of using the invention with which I am gifted\nto astonish the world by my handiwork, and bring wealth to her I loved.\"\n\n\"I am surrounded on all sides by difficulties,\" sighed the young woman,\nas she seemed to find herself in the mazes of an unseen destiny. As she\nlooked at her cousin, she thought that one of her evils was that the\ncapture of her affections so early by Walter had prevented her from\nviewing Paul in any other light than that of an ingenious artist, and a\nman of kindly sympathies, however much he was separated from mankind by\na theory of the world too esoteric for ordinary thought, and which yet,\nat some time of man's life, forces its way amidst palpitations of fear\nto every heart.\n\nOn reaching home she met there the notary, Mr. Ainslie, who informed\nher, probably at the request of her father (for information of that kind\nis seldom given gratuitously), that the will had been signed, and left\nin the possession of the old man. Even this communication, so calculated\nto shake from the heart so many of the sorrows of life, had no greater\neffect upon her generous nature than to increase the responsibility of\nfulfilling the condition upon which the inheritance was to be received\nand held. If she had not been under the effect of an early prepossession\nin favour of Walter, she might have doubted the sincerity of his\nstatement, as it came from his own mouth. Suspicion attached to every\nword of it; but after the communication made by Paul, it was scarcely\npossible for her to resist the conclusion that he had told her a\nfalsehood, and that he was aiming at the fortune, without the power or\nthe inclination to give her in return his love; nay, that he was\nheartlessly sacrificing to his passion for gold two parties--the object\nof his real love, and that of his feigned. Yet she did not resist that\nconclusion; and so good an analyst was she of her own mind, that even\nwhen in the very act of throwing away these suspicions of his honesty,\nshe knew in her soul that her love was in successful conflict with an\narray of evidence establishing the fact which she disregarded. Then the\nconsciousness of this inability to cease loving the man whom she could\nhardly doubt to be a liar, as well as heartless and mercenary, brought\nup to her the strange theory of Paul. The motive which no man or woman\ncould make or even modify, was the prime spring as well as ruler of the\nwill, cropping out, to use his own words, from moral, if not also\nphysical causes, laid when God said, \"Let there be light, and there was\nlight.\" A deeper thinker than most of her sex, she felt \"the sublimity\nin terror\" of this view of God's ways with man. If she could not resist\nthe resolution to love Walter, how could he resist the love he bore to\nanother? The thought shook her to the heart; nor was she less pained\nwhen she reflected on the hapless Paul, with his long-concealed\naffection, so pure from the sordidness of a desire for money, that he\nwould have toiled for her under the flame of the midnight lamp,\ncontinued into the light of the rising sun.\n\nDuring the night the persistency of her resolution to remain by her past\naffection was maintained; yet as it was still merely a persistency\nimplying the continuance of a foe ready to assert the old rights, she\nwas so far unhappy that she wanted that composure of mind which consists\nin the absence of conflict among one's own thoughts.\n\nIn the morning she found the locket lying on her parlour table, with the\ninscription changed from Agnes Ainslie to Rachel Grierson. She took it\nup and fixed her eyes upon it. At one time she would have given the\nworld for it; now it attracted her and repelled her. It came from the\nonly man she loved; but another name had been on it, which ought, for\naught she could be sure of, to have been on it still. It might be the\npledge of affection, but it might also be the evidence of falsehood to\nher and unfaithfulness to another. And then, as she traced the lines of\nher name, she thought she could discover the signs of a tremulousness in\nthe hand that traced them. Amidst all these thoughts and conflicting\nfeelings, she could not help recurring to the circumstance that he had\nnot presented the locket with his own hands. She was unwilling to\nindulge in an unfavourable construction; and perhaps the more so that it\nso far pleased her as relieving her from the dilemma of accepting it\nwith more coldness than her love warranted, or more warmth than her\nreason allowed. Nay, though she gloated over his image when she was\nalone, she felt an undefined fear of meeting him. Might he not be\nprecipitated into some further defence or confession, which might\nfortify suspicions still battling against her prepossessions, and\ndiminish her love? Nor was this disinclination towards personal\ninterviews confined to this day--it continued; and it seemed as if he\nalso wished his connection with her to stand in the meantime upon the\npledges and confessions already made. This she could also notice; but as\nfor rendering a true reason for it, she couldn't, even with the great\nability she possessed in construing conduct and character.\n\nBut meanwhile time was accumulating antagonistic forces which would\nexplode in a consummation. Her thoughts were to be occupied by another,\nwho claimed her affections and care by an appeal as powerful as it was\nwithout guile. Her father was seized with paralysis. He was laid\nspeechless on the bed where she sat, a watchful and affectionate nurse,\nready to sacrifice sleep and peace and rest to the wants of him who, all\nthrough her life, had been her friend and benefactor, and who had\nprovided for her future days at the expense of hopes entertained by his\nlegitimate heirs. For three days he had lain without speaking a word,\nand Rachel could only guess his wants by mute signs. During all this\ntime her thoughts had scarcely glanced at Walter. He seemed anxious\nabout the condition of his uncle, calling repeatedly at the bedroom\ndoor, and going away without entering. But his manner indicated no\naffection, if it did not rather seem that he considered the old man had\ndone his worst against him, and that sorrow was not due from one he had\ndisinherited. Her affections were too much engrossed by her patient to\npermit her thinking of what was being transacted in the outside world.\nYet, when she looked upon the face of the invalid, so pale and\nmotionless, where so long the shades of grief and the lights of joy had\nchased each other, by the old decree of human destiny, the words of Paul\nwould occur to her. Was the death that was there impending the result of\na more necessary law than that which had ruled every other condition of\nbody or mind which had ever been experienced by the patient sufferer?\nThen there came the question, Could Walter Grierson so regulate his\nheart as to force it to love her in preference to Agnes Ainslie? Could\nshe, Rachel herself, so rule her feelings as to cease loving the man she\nstill suspected of falsehood and treachery? It was even while she was\nthus ruminating over thoughts that made her tremble, that she observed,\non the third night, a change in her patient. He seemed to start by the\nadvent of some recollection. His body became restless, and he waved his\nhand wildly, as if he wanted her to bend over him, to hear what he might\nstruggle to say. She immediately obeyed the sign. He fixed his eyes upon\nher, made efforts to articulate, which resulted only in a thick, broken\ngibberish. She could only catch one or two indistinct words, from which\nit seemed that he wished to tell her _where she would find the will_;\nbut the precise phrase whereby he wished to indicate the deposit was\npronounced in such an imperfect manner that she could not make it out.\nStrangely enough, yet still consistently with the generosity of her\ncharacter, she did not like to pain him by indicating that she did not\nunderstand him. Nay, she nodded pleasantly, as if she wanted him to be\neasy, under the satisfaction that he had succeeded in his efforts to\narticulate. Yet so far was she from thinking of the importance of the\ncommunication to herself, that she flattered him into the belief that,\nas he could now speak so as to be understood, he was in the way of\nimproving. Alas for the goodness which is evil to the heart that\nproduces it!\n\n              \"There are of plants\n  That die of too much generosity--\n  Exhaling their sweet life in essences.\"\n\nPaul would have said that this too was a cropping out of the old causal\nstrata. In two hours more, David Grierson was dead, and Rachel was left\nto mourn for her parent and benefactor.\n\nNow the issues were accumulating. A very short time only was allowed to\nelapse before Mr. Ainslie, accompanied by Walter, came to seal up the\nrepositories; an operation which was gone through in a manner which\nindicated that both of them thought they were locking up and making\nsecure that which would destroy their hopes. They seemed under the\nconviction that the will was in the bureau; and if they had been men\notherwise than merely what, as the world goes, are called honest, they\nmight have abstracted the document; for the generous Rachel never even\nlooked at their proceedings, grieved as she was at the death of her\nfather. They were, at least, above that.\n\nIn a few days David Grierson was consigned to the earth, and, after the\nfuneral, Mr. Ainslie, accompanied by Walter, again attended to open the\nrepositories and read the testament. Rachel agreed to be present. When\nthe seals were removed, she was asked by the notary if she knew where\nthe document was deposited. She now felt the consequence of the easy\nmanner in which she had let slip the opportunity so dearly offered by\nher father, of knowing the _locale_ of a writ in all respects so\nimportant; for it cannot be doubted that, if she had persevered, she\nmight have succeeded in drawing out of him the word, articulated so as\nthat she might have comprehended it. She accordingly, yet without any\nanticipation of danger, answered in the negative, whereupon the notary\nand nephew, who seemed to be on the most friendly terms, set about a\nsearch. Rachel remained. A whole hour was passed in the search; the will\nwas not yet found. Every drawer of the bureau was examined,--the\npresses, the cabinets, the table-drawers, the trunks. And so another\nhour passed--no will. Rachel began to get alarmed, and perhaps the more\nthat she saw upon the faces of the searchers an expression which she\ncould not comprehend. Their spirits seemed to have become elated as hers\nbecame depressed; yet why should that have been, if Walter Grierson was\nto be \"true to his troth?\"\n\n\"We need search no more,\" said Mr. Ainslie. \"The will is not in the\nhouse. I should say it is not in existence, and that Mr. Grierson,\nhaving changed his mind, had destroyed it.\"\n\n\"Not so,\" replied Rachel, \"for a few minutes before his death he tried\nto tell me where it was, but the name of the place died away upon his\ntongue, and I could not catch it.\"\n\n\"Neither can we catch the deed,\" said Walter, with a laugh which had a\nspice of irony in it.\n\nAnd so the search was given up. The two searchers left the house,\napparently in close conversation. Rachel sought her room and threw\nherself on a sofa, oppressed by doubts and fears which she could not\nvery well explain. The manner of Walter appeared to her not to be that\nof one who was pledged to marry her. Her mind ran rapidly back over\ndoubtful reminiscences which yielded no comfort to the heart; nay, she\nfelt that he had never been as a lover to her; and far less that day\nwhen, as it appeared, he was to be master of his uncle's wealth. Yet\nagain comes the thought, Was he pledged to her? Ay, that was certain\nenough; and then she was so little versed in the subtle ways of the\nworld, that she could not doubt of his being \"true to his troth.\"\n\nAs soon as she recovered from her meditation, she sought again the\nworkroom of the artist, to whom she told the issue of the search for the\nwill. Paul looked at first greatly struck, but under his strange\nphilosophy he recovered that calmness which belongs to those of his way\nof thinking.\n\n\"Have I not often preached to you, Rachel,\" said he, as he lay back on\nhis chair, \"that all these things were fixed ere Sirius was born? Yea,\"\nhe added, as a smile played amid the seriousness of his face, \"ere yet\nthere was a space for the dog-star to wag his tail. The croppings out\nwill now come thick, and you will know whether you are to be a lady or a\nbeggar.\"\n\nRachel might have known that the consolation offered by fatalists is\nonly the recommendation of a resignation which, as fated itself, is\ngloomy, if not awful, for it amounts to an annihilation of self, with\nall hopes, energies, and resolutions. She heard his words, and forgave\nhim, if she did not believe him; for she knew that he was true in his\nfriendship, and benevolent in his feelings--parts these, too, as he\nwould have said, of the decree. She left him in a condition of sadness\nfor which she could not yet account, and the hues of her mind seemed to\nbe projected on all objects around her. She retired to rest; but she\ncould not banish from her mind that the realities of her condition\nrequired to be read by the blue light of Paul's philosophy. It was far\nin the morning before she fell asleep; and when nine came she felt\nunrested. The servant came in to her and told her the hour. The\nbreakfast was ready; but Walter, who had not returned on the prior\nnight, was not as usual waiting for her. The announcement was ominously\nin harmony with the thoughts she had tried to banish. She scarcely\ntouched the breakfast, and the day passed in expectation of Walter.\nNight came, but it did not bring him. The next day passed in the same\nway. People called to condole without knowing how much she stood in need\nof condolence; but still no Walter came to redeem the pledge of his\nlove. Yet still she hoped; nor till an entire month had gone over her\nhead did she renounce her confidence that he would be \"true to his\ntroth.\"\n\nAt the end of this period Paul advised her to take counsel. He told her\nthat the law had remedies for losses of deeds; and she accordingly\nconsulted a legal gentleman of the name of Cleghorn. The result was not\nfavourable. It appeared that Mr. Ainslie denied that there was any copy\nor scroll of the will, through the means of which it might have been\n\"set up,\" by what is called a proving of the tenor. There was no hope\nhere, and by-and-by she saw advertised in the _Caledonian Mercury_ that\nthe furniture of the house was to be sold within a week. She was there\non mere tolerance; and now she had got a clear intimation to flit. As\nfor money or effects, she had none, except her wardrobe, for she never\nthought of providing for an exigency which she was satisfied never would\noccur. Again she applied to Paul, who, with her consent, went and took\nfor her a solitary room in the close we have already mentioned. It was\nher intention to acquire a livelihood by means of her needle, at that\ntime almost the only resource for genteel poverty. Some articles of\nfurniture were got, principally by Paul; and there, two days before the\nsale, she took up her residence. Nor did the kindness of Paul stop here.\nHe attended the sale, and, considerately judging that some articles\nbelonging to her father would be acceptable to her, he purchased, for a\nsmall sum, the old bureau of which we have already spoken. The article\nwas removed to Rachel's room.\n\nFor a period of fifteen years did Rachel Grierson live in that room\nplying her needle to obtain for her a subsistence. Her story, which came\nto be known, procured her plenty of work; and the ten fingers, which\nwere sufficiently employed, sufficed for the wants of the\nstomach,--small these wants, probably, in her who had heard of the\nmarriage of Walter with Agnes Ainslie; yea, she who could bear to hear\nthat intelligence might claim a right to be a pupil of Paul's school of\nphilosophy. Paul she indeed loved as a friend, but she never could bring\nherself to the resolution of marrying the little artist. There was a\ntrain of evils: the \"croppings out\" of her fate, as Paul called it, were\nthick enough and to spare; for she fell into bad health, which was the\nprecursor of a fit of palsy, depriving her for ever of the power of\nworking for herself. Then it was that Paul's affection was shown more\nclearly than ever. Day by day he brought her all the food she required;\nbut at length he himself was taken ill, and his absence was fatal. Pride\nprevented her from making her necessity known to the neighbours, with\nwhom she had but little intercourse. We have told how she was found\ndead; and when we say that Paul recovered to be present at her funeral,\nwe have only one fact more to state. It is this: Paul took the old\nbureau home to his own little room, to keep as a memorial of the only\nwoman he ever loved. One day, when repairing the internal drawers, he\nfound in a hollow perpendicular slip, which looked like a broad beading,\na document which was thus entitled on the back:\n\nLAST WILL AND TESTAMENT\n\nBY\n\nDAVID GRIERSON,\n\nIN FAVOUR OF\n\nRACHEL GRIERSON,\n\n1776\n\n\n\n\nLADY RAE.\n\n\nDuring the time that Oliver Cromwell was in Edinburgh, a lady called one\nday at his lodgings and solicited an interview. She was closely wrapped\nup in a large and loose mantle, and deeply veiled. The former, however,\ndid not conceal a shape of singular elegance, nor mar the light and\ngraceful carriage of the wearer. Both were exceedingly striking; and if\nthe veil performed its duty more effectually than the mantle, by\ncompletely hiding the countenance of the future Protector's fair\nvisitor, it was only to incite the imagination to invest that\ncountenance with the utmost beauty of which the \"human face divine\" is\nsusceptible. Nor would such creation of the fancy have surpassed the\ntruth, for the veiled one was indeed \"fair to look upon.\"\n\nOn its being announced to Cromwell that a lady desired an interview with\nhim, he, in some surprise, demanded who and what she was. The servant\ncould not tell. She had declined to give her name, or to say what was\nthe purpose of her visit.\n\nThe Protector thought for a moment, and as he did so, kept gazing, with\na look of abstraction, in the face of his valet. At length--\n\n\"Admit her, Porson, admit her,\" he said. \"The Lord sends his own\nmessengers in his own way; and if we deny them, He will deny us.\"\n\nPorson, who was one of Cromwell's most pious soldiers--for he served in\nthe double capacity of warrior and valet--stroked his sleek hair down\nover his solemn brow, and uttered a sonorous \"amen\" to the unconnected\nand unintelligible observation of his master, who, it is well known,\ndealt much in this extraordinary sort of jargon.\n\nHaving uttered his lugubrious amen, Porson withdrew, and in a few\nminutes returned, conducting the lady, of whom we have spoken, into the\npresence of Cromwell.\n\nOn entering the apartment, the former threw aside her veil, and\ndiscovered a countenance of such cunning charms as moved the future\nProtector to throw into his manner an air of unwonted gallantry.\n\nAt the lady's first entrance he was busy writing, and had merely thrown\ndown his pen when she appeared, without intending to carry his courtesy\nany further; but he had no sooner caught a sight of the fair face of his\nvisitor, than, excited by an involuntary impulse, he rose from his chair\nand advanced towards her, smiling and bowing most graciously; the\nlatter, however, being by no means remarkable either for its ease or its\nelegance.\n\n\"Pray, madam,\" now said Cromwell, still looking the agreeable--so far as\nhis saturnine features would admit of such expression--\"to what happy\ncircumstance am I indebted for the honour of this visit?\"\n\n\"The circumstance, sir, that brings me here is by no means a happy one,\"\nreplied the lady, in tones that thrilled even the iron nerves of Oliver\nCromwell. \"I am Lady Rae, General; the wife of John Lord Rae, at present\na prisoner in the Tolbooth of Edinburgh for his adherence to the cause\nof the late king.\"\n\n\"Ah, my Lady Rae, I am sorry for you--sorry for you indeed; but\ndoubtless you have found consolation in the same source whence your\nafflictions have sprung. Truly may I reckon--indeed may I,\ndoubtless--that the Lord, who has seen fit to chastise you, has also\ncomforted you under this dispensation.\"\n\n\"None, Sir General, who seek the aid of the Almighty in a true spirit\never seek that aid in vain,\" replied Lady Rae; \"and I have been a\nseeker, and have found; nor have I, I trust, been wanting on this\noccasion in a due submission to his will.\"\n\n\"Truly, I hope not; indeed do I,\" replied Cromwell. \"Then, what would ye\nwith me, fair lady? What would ye with one so feeble and humble as I am,\nwho am but as a tool, a mean instrument in the hand of the artificer?\"\nAnd the speaker assumed a look of the deepest humility.\n\n\"I dare not utter it! I dare not utter it, General!\" exclaimed Lady Rae,\nnow giving way, for the first time, to that emotion which was agitating\nher whole frame, although she had hitherto endeavoured, and not\nunsuccessfully, to conceal it. \"I dare not utter it,\" she said, \"lest it\nshould bring death to my hopes; yet came I hither for no other purpose.\"\n\n\"Speak, lady, speak,\" said Cromwell. \"What would'st thou with me?\"\n\nLady Kae flung herself on her knees, and exclaimed, with upraised\ncountenance and streaming eyes--\n\n\"Save my husband, General! Restore him to liberty and to me; and thus,\non my knees, shall I daily offer up prayers to heaven for thy safety and\nprosperity. Oh refuse me not!--refuse me not, General, as thou thyself\nhopest for mercy from thy God in the hour of retribution!\" And she\nwildly grasped the knees of the republican commander.\n\nWithout saying a word, Cromwell gently disengaged himself from the fair\nsuppliant, and, turning his back upon her, stalked to the further end of\nthe apartment, seemingly much agitated.\n\nOn gaining the extremity of the room, Cromwell stood for two or three\nminutes, still keeping his back to Lady Rae, with arms folded, and\ndrooping his head, as if musing deeply. At the expiry of this period, he\nsuddenly turned round, and advancing towards his fair visitor with quick\nand hurried step, said--\n\n\"My Lady Rae, may the Lord direct me in this matter and in all others. I\nhave been communing with myself anent your petition; truly have I, but\nsee not that I can serve thee; I cannot indeed. If we would all walk in\nthe straight path, we had need to walk warily; for in this matter I\ncannot help thee, seeing my Lord Rae is a State prisoner, and I have no\npower over him; none, truly, none whatever. The law is strong, and may\nnot be trifled with. But I will consider, fair lady, indeed will I; I\nwill seek direction and counsel in the matter from on high. I will do so\nthis night; I will have this night to think of the matter, and thou wilt\ncall upon me at this hour to-morrow, and I will then see if the Lord\nwill vouchsafe me any light as to how I may assist thee and thy poor\nhusband; for on thy account I would do so if I could.\"\n\nConfused, and all but wholly unintelligible, as was this address of\nCromwell's, Lady Rae perceived that it contained a gleam of comfort,\nthat a ray of hope-inspiring light, however feeble, played through its\nobscurity; and, satisfied with this, she urged her suit no further, but,\nwith a thankful acceptance of the Parliamentary general's invitation to\nher to wait upon him on the following day, she withdrew.\n\nOn Lady Rae issuing from Cromwell's lodgings, she stood in the street,\ngazing around her for an instant, as if looking for some one whom she\nhad expected to find waiting her, but who was not at the moment in\nsight. This was the case; but it was only for a moment that she was so\ndetained. She had glanced but two or three times around her, when she\nwas joined by a personage of very striking appearance. This was a huge\nHighlander, considerably above six feet in stature, proportionably stout\nand well made, and apparently of enormous strength. He was dressed in\nthe full costume of his country, and armed to the teeth. By his side\ndepended a tremendous claymore; in his belt were stuck a dagger and a\nbrace of pistols; and on his shoulder rested that formidable weapon\ncalled a Lochaber axe.\n\nThe countenance of this tremendous personage was in keeping with his\nother charms: it was manly, and decidedly handsome, but withal was\nmarked with an expression of fierceness that was appalling to look upon;\nand was thus calculated, when associated with his gigantic figure, to\ninspire at once admiration and fear.\n\nAs this formidable personage approached Lady Rae, he touched his bonnet\nwith an air of the most profound respect, and assumed a look and\nattitude of devoted attention to her commands.\n\n\"I have seen him, John,\" said Lady Rae, addressing her Goliath of an\nattendant, who was neither more nor less than a retainer of Lord Rae's,\nbut one who stood high in the estimation of both the former and the\nlatter for his fidelity, and, fierce as he looked, for the gentleness of\nhis nature. John M'Kay--for such was his name--was, in short, an\nespecial favourite of both Lord and Lady Rae, and was admitted to a\ndegree of confidence and familiarity that elevated him much above his\nreal condition. They were proud, too, of his superb figure, and\ndelighted to exhibit him in the full dress of his country, as a specimen\nof the men which it produced. \"I have seen him, John,\" said Lady Rae,\nwhose protector and attendant John always was when she went forth on\noccasions of business of importance like the present.\n\n\"And what he'll say, my letty?\" inquired John in a low and gentle tone,\nand stopping to catch Lady Rae's communication.\n\n\"Not much that is quite satisfactory, John. He speaks in a strange\nstyle, but I think there is ground of hope. He did not altogether refuse\nthe prayer of my petition, but bade me call upon him again to-morrow.\"\n\nJohn looked grave, but made no reply. His lady walked on, and he\nfollowed at a respectful distance.\n\nThe former now directed her steps to a locality in the city with which\nshe was but too familiar, and which she had had occasion of late but too\noften to frequent. This was the Tolbooth--the place of her husband's\nconfinement.\n\nOn reaching the outer entrance to the jail, the low half-door, thickly\nstudded with huge-headed nails, by which it was temporarily secured\nduring the day, was immediately thrown open for her admission by the\nturnkey--a little crusty-looking personage in a fur cap--who had been\nleaning over it, listlessly looking around him, on her ladyship's\napproach. As the latter entered the prison door, the former stood to one\nside, doffed his little fur cap, and respectfully wished her ladyship a\ngood morning.\n\n\"How are you to-day, James?\" said Lady Rae in kindly tones; \"and how is\nmy lord?\"\n\n\"Quite well, my lady, quite well,\" replied the little turnkey, extremely\nproud, seemingly, of the condescension of her ladyship. The latter\npassed on, and commenced threading her way through the tortuous but\nwell-known passages which led to her husband's prison-room. John M'Kay\nfollowed his mistress into the jail, previously leaving his arms at the\ndoor--a condition to which he had always to submit before gaining\nadmission. Having denuded himself of his weapons, John also passed on,\nbut not before he had shaken his fist ominously in the face of the\nlittle jailer. This was John's constant practice every time he entered\nthe prison; and, simple as the act was, it had a good deal of meaning.\nIt meant, in the first place, that John associated the misfortune of his\nmaster's confinement with the little turnkey's employment; that he\nconsidered him as aiding and abetting in the same. It further meant,\nthat if it were not for one thing more than another, or, as John himself\nwould have expressed it, \"for todder things more nor ones,\" he would\nhave brought his Lochaber axe and the turnkey's head into more intimate\ncontact.\n\nIn the meantime, Lady Rae having ascended several flights of dark and\nnarrow stairs, and traversed several passages of a similar description,\nhad arrived at a particular door, on either side of which stood a\ngrenadier, with shouldered musket and bayonet fixed. They were the\nguards placed upon her husband, who occupied the apartment which they\nsentinelled.\n\nThe soldiers, who had orders to admit her ladyship and attendant to the\nprisoner at any time between the hours of nine in the morning and seven\nat night, offered no hindrance to her approaching the door and rapping\nfor admittance. This she now did; and the \"Who's there?\" of the captive\nwas replied to in a powerfully Celtic accent by John M'Kay, with--\"My\nLetty Rae, my lort.\" The door instantly flew open, and its inmate came\nforth, with a smiling and delighted countenance, to receive his\nbeautiful and faithful wife.\n\nIn the meantime, John M'Kay took his station on the outside of the\ndoor--a more friendly guard over the inmates of the apartment to which\nit conducted than those who stood on either side of him. Here the same\nfeeling which had dictated John's significant hint to the turnkey below,\nsuggested his general bearing and particular manner to the two soldiers\nnow beside him.\n\nMaintaining a profound and contemptuous silence, he strutted up and down\nthe passage--without going, however, more than two or three yards either\nway--in front of the door of his lordship's apartment, keeping his huge\nform proudly erect, as he thus paced the short walk to which he had\nlimited himself, and casting, every now and then, a look of fierce\ndefiance on the appalled soldiers, who looked with fear and dread on the\nchafed lion with whom they found themselves thus unpleasantly caged, and\nwho seemed every moment as if he would spring upon and tear them to\npieces; and, in truth, little provocation would it have taken to have\nbrought John M'Kay's huge fists into play about their heads. There can\nbe no doubt that there was nothing at that moment which would have given\nJohn more satisfaction than their affording him an excuse for attacking\nthem. This, however, the soldiers carefully avoided; and, not content\nwith refraining from giving the slightest offence, either in word, look,\nor deed, endeavoured to conciliate John by an attempt to lead him into\nfriendly conversation. But the attempt was in vain. Their advances were\nall repelled, either with silent contempt or with a gruff uncourteous\nresponse. A specimen of the conversation which did take place between\nM'Kay and the guards may be given:--\n\n\"Delightful day, friend!\" said one of the soldiers.\n\n\"S'pose it is!\" replied John sternly, and continuing his walk.\n\nA pause.\n\n\"Anything new in the town to-day?\" at length said the other soldier.\n\n\"S'pose something new every tay!\" replied John gruffly.\n\n\"Ay, ay, I dare say; but have _you_ anything new to tell us?\"\n\n\"Maype I have,\" said John, with a grim smile.\n\n\"What is it?\"\n\n\"Tat I'll knock your tam thick head against tat wall if you'll pe botter\nme wi' any more o' your tam nonsense. Tat's news for you!\" and John gave\none of those peculiar Celtic grunts which no combination of letters can\nexpress. \"And you, you scarecrow-looking rascal,\" he continued,\naddressing the other sentinel, \"if you'll spoke anoder word, I'll cram\nmy sporran doon your dam troat.\"\n\nHaving delivered himself of these friendly addresses, John resumed his\nmarch, with additional pride of step and bearing. In a minute after, he\nwas summoned into Lord Rae's apartment, where he remained until Lady Rae\nleft the prison, which she did in a short time afterwards.\n\nIt was with a beating heart and anxious mind that Lady Rae wended her\nway, on the following day--attended, as usual, by her gigantic\nserving-man--to the lodgings of Oliver Cromwell. On reaching the house,\nM'Kay took his station, as on a former occasion, on the outside, while\nher ladyship advanced towards the door, within which she speedily\ndisappeared, her admittance having been more prompt on the present visit\nthan the former.\n\nIn an instant after, Lady Rae was again in the presence of Oliver\nCromwell. As on the former occasion, he was employed in writing when she\nentered, and as on that occasion, so also he threw down his pen, and\nrose to receive her.\n\n\"Anent this matter of yours, my lady,\" began Cromwell abruptly, and\nwithout any previous salutation, although he looked all civility and\nkindness, \"I really hardly know what to say; truly do I not; but the\nLord directs all, and He will guide us in this thing also.\"\n\n\"I trust so!\" interrupted Lady Rae, meekly.\n\n\"Yes,\" resumed the future Protector of England; \"for we are but weak\ncreatures, short-sighted and erring. But indeed, as I told you before,\nmy lady, your husband is a State prisoner; truly is he, and therefore\nmay I not interfere with him. I cannot; I have not the power. Yet would\nI serve thee if I could; truly would I with great pleasure. But these,\nyou see, are strange times, in which all men must walk warily; for we\nare beset with enemies, with traitors--deceivers on all sides, men who\nfear not the Lord. Yet, for this matter of yours, my Lady Rae, I will\ntell you: I cannot take your husband from prison; it would be unseemly\nin the sight of all God-fearing men; but truly, if you could in any ways\nmanage to get his lordship once without the prison walls, I would take\nupon me to prevent his being further troubled. He should have a\nprotection under my hand; truly he should, although it might bring me to\nsome odium with my friends. But he should have it, nevertheless, out of\nmy respect for you, my lady. Now go, go, my lady; I may say no more on\nthe subject. Go, try and fall on some means of getting thy husband\nwithout the walls of his prison; this done, come instantly to me, and\nthou shalt have a protection for him under my hand; indeed thou shalt.\"\n\nTo Lady Rae, this proposal was a grievous disappointment. It contained\nan arrangement which she had never contemplated, and which seemed as\nimpracticable as it was strange; yet she saw it was all she had to\nexpect, and that whatever might be the result, she must be content with\nthe extent of interference on her husband's behalf, which was included\nin the singular measures suggested by Cromwell.\n\nImpressed with this conviction, Lady Rae thanked him for his kindness,\nsaid she would endeavour to get her husband without the prison gates by\nsome means or other, and would then again wait upon him for the\nprotection he was so generous as to offer.\n\n\"Do so, my lady, do so,\" said Cromwell, escorting her ladyship to the\ndoor with an air of great gallantry; \"and may the Lord have thee in his\nholy keeping.\"\n\nLady Rae turned round, again thanked the general, curtseyed, and\nwithdrew.\n\nOn reaching the street, her ladyship was instantly joined by her\nfaithful attendant M'Kay, who had been waiting with the greatest anxiety\nand impatience for her return; for to him his master's life and liberty\nwere dearer far than his own, and he well knew that both were much in\nthe power of the extraordinary man on whom his lady was now waiting.\n\nOn the first glance which he obtained of his mistress's countenance,\nJohn saw, with a feeling of disappointment that lengthened his own\nseveral inches, that the interview had not been a satisfactory one. His\nnative sense of politeness, however, and of the deference due to his\nmistress, prevented him making any inquiries as to what had passed until\nshe should herself choose to communicate with him on the subject. For\nsuch communication, however, he had longer to wait than usual; for, lost\nin thought and depressed with disappointment, Lady Rae walked on a good\nway without taking any notice whatever of her attendant, who was\nfollowing at a distance of several yards. At length she suddenly\nstopped, but without turning round. This John knew to be the signal for\nhim to advance. He accordingly did so, and, touching his bonnet, waited\nfor the communication which it promised.\n\n\"I am afraid, John,\" now said Lady Rae--\"I am afraid we shall be\ndisappointed, after all. The general has made the strangest proposal you\never heard. He says that he cannot, without compromising himself, or to\nthat effect, liberate his lordship from jail; but that if he were once\nout--that is, if he could be got out by any means--he would save him\nfrom being further troubled, and would grant him a protection under his\nown hand. But how on earth are we to get him out? It is impossible.\nThese two guards at the door, besides other difficulties, render it\naltogether impracticable. I know not what is to be done.\"\n\nIt was some seconds before M'Kay made any reply. At length--\n\n\"I'll no think ta difficulty fery crate, after all, my letty,\" replied\nJohn. \"There's shust ta bodachan at ta dore, I could put in my sporran,\nand ta twa soger.\"\n\n\"Yes, John; the first you might perhaps manage,\" said Lady Rae, smiling,\nand glancing unconsciously at the huge figure of her attendant, which\npresented so striking a contrast to that of the little, slim, crusty\nturnkey; \"but the two soldiers--\"\n\n\"Whoich,\" exclaimed John contemptuously; \"if's no far prettier men than\nwas there yesterday, it'll no trouble me much to manage them too, my\nletty. A wee bit clamsheuchar wi' my Lochaper axe, or a brog wi' my\nskean-dhu, will make them quate aneuch, my letty. Tat's but a small\nshob.\"\n\n\"John, John, no violence, no violence!\" exclaimed Lady Rae, in great\nalarm at the sanguinary view of the process for her husband's liberation\nwhich John had taken. \"No violence. If his lordship's liberation be\nattempted at all, there must be no violence; at least none to the\nshedding of blood, or to the inflicting the smallest injury on any one.\nThe idea is horrible; and, if acted on, would only make matters worse.\nYour own life, John, would be the forfeit of such an atrocious\nproceeding.\"\n\n\"Foich, a figs for tat, my letty, beggin' your lettyship's pardon,\"\nreplied John, a good deal disappointed at the peaceful tone of his\nmistress, and at the loss of an opportunity, such as he had long\ndesired, of taking vengeance on his master's guards and jailers. \"Foich,\na figs for tat, my letty, beggin' your lettyship's pardon,\" he said. \"I\ncould teuk to the hills in a moment's notice, and see who'll catch John\nM'Kay then.\"\n\n\"Well, well, perhaps, John, you might, but you must speak no more of\nviolence; I charge you, speak no more of it. We will, in the meantime,\ngo to his lordship and submit the matter to him, and be guided\nthereafter by his advice.\"\n\nHaving said this, Lady Rae directed her steps to the jail, and, closely\nfollowed by M'Kay, was soon after in the apartment of the prisoner.\n\nLord Rae having been apprised by his lady of the result of her interview\nwith Cromwell, a secret consultation between the two, which lasted\nnearly an hour, ensued.\n\nDuring this consultation, many different plans for effecting the\nliberation of the prisoner were suggested, and, after being duly\nweighed, abandoned as impracticable. One at length, however, was\nadopted, and this one was proposed by M'Kay; it was characteristic of\nthe man, and came as close in its nature to his original one as he\ndurst presume upon.\n\nThis plan, which was a simple enough one, was to seize the two guards at\nthe outside of the door, and to hold them fast until Lord Rae should\nhave rushed past them and got out of the prison. The turnkey at the\nouter door, who, as has been already said, was a little slender man, his\nlordship was to seize and throw down, and then get over the little\nhalf-door, which was under his guardianship, the best way he could. A\nrow of short, sharp pikes, however, with which it was fenced on its\nupper edge, rendered this a formidable difficulty; but it was thought\nthat it might, to speak literally, be got over by the aid of a long form\nwhich stood on one side of the passage of the jail, for the\naccommodation of visitors.\n\nAll this trouble a touch of the key would have saved; but this the\nlittle man always carried in his pocket, never allowing it to remain in\nthe lock an instant, however frequent or numerous his visitors might be.\n\nThe securing of the two guards at the prisoner's door, by far the most\nserious part of the business, M'Kay took upon himself, and with a degree\nof confidence that sufficiently showed how well he was aware of his own\nsurpassing strength.\n\nThis plan of proceedings arranged, it was resolved that it should be put\nin execution that very afternoon. On that afternoon, accordingly, John\nM'Kay again appeared at the jail door, demanding admittance to his\nmaster. The door was immediately thrown open to him by the little\nturnkey, whom he now for the first time addressed in a friendly tone.\n\nThe same change of manner marked his salutation to the guards at the\ndoor of his master's apartment. To these he spoke in the most civil and\nobliging terms possible. The men, who had often winced under his savage\ngrowls and fierce looks, wondered at the change, but were glad enough to\nmeet with it in place of his former ferocity.\n\nJohn, after talking for a few minutes with the sentinels, went into his\nlordship's room. The latter was dressed, and ready for the bold\nproceeding about to be adopted. \"Think you you can manage them, John?\"\nsaid his lordship in a whisper, after the door had been secured in the\ninside.\n\n\"Pooch, a dizzen o' them, my lort!\" replied M'Kay in the same\nunder-tone. \"It's twa bits o' shachlin' podies no wors speakin' aboot.\"\n\n\"But they are armed, John--they have guns and bayonets; and the former\nare loaded.\"\n\n\"Pooch, their guns! what'll sicknify their guns, my lort, when I'll have\ncot a hold o' the craturs themsels in my hants?\" and he held out his\nenormous brown paws as if to certify their power. \"I'll crush the podies\nlike a mussel shells.\"\n\n\"No violence, John, remember,\" said Lord Rae energetically, but smiling\nas he spoke,--\"that is, to the extent of doing the men any, the smallest\npersonal injury. Remember now, John; do otherwise,\" continued his\nlordship in a more severe tone, \"and you forfeit my favour and esteem\nfor ever. Mark, John, besides,\" added his lordship, who seemed most\nanxious on the point which he was now pressing on M'Kay's consideration,\n\"your doing any injury to these men would be destruction to me; for,\nunder such circumstances, the general would not grant me a protection\nafter I was out, and my case would otherwise be rendered infinitely\nworse and more hopeless than it is. Now, remember all this, John, and do\nthe men no personal injury, I charge you.\"\n\nJohn's face reddened a little at the earnestness with which these\ninjunctions were delivered, and probably he thought they indicated\nsomething like degeneracy in his chief; but he promised compliance with\nhis commands; and, to render his obedience more certain, by lessening\nthe temptation to infringe them, he denuded himself of a concealed dirk,\nwhich he always carried about him, over and above the arms he openly\nwore. Of this proceeding, which was voluntary on M'Kay's part, his\nmaster highly approved, but, smiling, said--\n\n\"You have still your fists, John, nearly as dangerous weapons as that\nyou have just laid aside; but I hope you will use them sparingly.\"\n\nJohn smiled, and promised he would.\n\nIn a few minutes afterwards M'Kay came forth from Lord Rae's apartment\nto perform the daring feat of securing two armed men by the mere force\nof physical strength; for he was now without weapon of any kind. When he\ncame out, however, it was with an appearance of the most friendly\nfeeling towards the soldiers. He came out smiling graciously, and\nentered into familiar chat with the men, alleging that he came to put\noff the time till his master had written a letter which he was to\ndeliver to a person in town.\n\nThrown off their guard by M'Kay's jocular and cordial manner, the\nsoldiers grounded their muskets, and began to enter in earnest into the\nconversation which he was promoting. M'Kay, in the meantime, was\nwatching his opportunity to seize them; but this, as it was necessary he\nshould be placed, with regard to them, so as to have one on either side\nof him, that he might grasp both at the same instant, he did not obtain\nfor some time.\n\nBy dint, however, of some exceedingly cautious and wary manoeuvring,\nM'Kay at length found himself in a position favourable to his meditated\nproceedings. On doing so, he, with the speed and force of lightning,\ndarted an arm out on either side of him, seized a soldier by the breast\nwith each hand, and with as much ease as a powerful dog could turn over\na kitten, laid them both gently on their backs on the floor of the\npassage, where he held them extended at full length, and immovable in\nhis tremendous grasp, till he felt assured that Lord Rae had cleared the\nprison. This the latter effected with the most perfect success. The\nmoment M'Kay seized the soldiers--an act of which Lord Rae was apprised\nby the former's calling out, \"Noo, noo, my lort\"--he rushed out, ran\nalong the passage, descended the stair in three or four leaps, came upon\nthe little turnkey unawares, as he was looking over the half-door of the\nprison entrance--his sole occupation during three-fourths of the\nday--seized him by the neck of the coat behind, laid him down, as M'Kay\nhad done by the soldiers, at his full length--no great length after\nall--on the floor; drew the form to the door, placed it over the little\nturnkey in such a way as to prevent his rising, jumped on it, leapt into\nthe street at one bound, and instantly disappeared. All this was done in\nthe tenth part of the time that has been taken to relate it. It was, in\ntruth, the work of but a moment.\n\nOn being satisfied that Lord Rae had made his escape--\n\n\"Noo, lads, ye may got up,\" said M'Kay, loosening his hold of the men,\nand starting himself to his feet. \"Ta burd's flown; but ye may look\nafter ta cage, and see tat no more o' your canaries got away.\"\n\nFreed from the powerful grasp which had hitherto pinned them to the\nfloor, the soldiers sprang to their feet, and endeavoured to get hold of\ntheir muskets. Seeing this, M'Kay again seized them, and again threw\nthem to the floor; but on this occasion it was merely to show the power\nhe had over them, if they should still have any doubt of it.\n\n\"Noo, lads, I'll tell you what it is,\" said M'Kay, addressing the\nprostrate soldiers--\"if you'll behave yoursels desenly, and no be\nbotherin' me wi' ony more o' your tarn nonsense, I'll aloo you to make\nme your prisoner; for I'm no intending to run away; I'll kive myself up\nto save your hides, and take my shance of ta law for what I'll do. Tat's\nmy mind of it, lads. If you like to acree to it, goot and well; if not,\nI will knock your two heads togidder, till your prains go into smash.\"\n\nBut too happy to accept of such terms, the soldiers at once assented to\nthem; and on their doing so, were permitted once more to resume their\nlegs, when M'Kay peaceably yielded himself their prisoner. The gigantic\nHighlander could easily have effected his own escape; but he could not\nhave done so without having recourse to that violence which had been so\nanxiously deprecated by both his master and mistress. Without inflicting\nsome mortal injury on the soldiers, he could not have prevented them\nfrom pursuing him when he had fled, and probably firing on him as he did\nso. All this, therefore, had been provided for by the arrangements\npreviously agreed upon by Lord Rae and his retainer. By these it was\nsettled, that he should, on the former's making his escape, peaceably\nyield himself up to \"underlie the law,\" in a reliance on the friendly\ndisposition of Cromwell towards the fugitive, which, it was not doubted,\nwould be exerted in behalf of his servant. Such proceeding, it was\nthought too, would bring Lord Rae's case sooner to issue; and be, with\nregard to the law, as it were, throwing a bone in the dog's way to\narrest his attention, and interrupt his pursuit of the original and more\nimportant object of his vengeance.\n\nOn delivering himself up, M'Kay was immediately placed in confinement,\nand shortly after brought to trial, for aiding and abetting in the\nescape of a State prisoner. The trial was a very brief one; for the\nfacts were easily established, and sentence was about to be passed on\nthe prisoner, when a stir suddenly arose at the court door. The\npresiding judge paused; the stir increased. In the next instant it was\nhushed; and in that instant Cromwell entered the court. On advancing a\npace or two within the apartment, he took off his hat, bowed\nrespectfully to the judges, and proceeding onwards, finally ascended the\nbench and took his seat beside them.\n\nWhen a man feels himself master, he need be under no great ceremony;\nneither need he trouble himself much about forms or rules which regulate\nthe conduct of inferiors. Cromwell, on this occasion, got up in a few\nminutes after he had taken his place, and delivered to the court a long,\nand, after his usual fashion, obscure and unconnected oration in favour\nof the prisoner at the bar. The chief ground, however, on which he\nrested his defence and exculpation of M'Kay, was the fidelity to his\nmaster, which the crime with which he was charge implied, and the worse\neffect to the cause of morality than good to the political interests of\nthe State, which the infliction of any punishment in such case would\nproduce. \"If,\" concluded Cromwell, \"fidelity to a master is to be\npunished as a crime, where shall we look for honest servants?\"\n\nThe reasoning of Cromwell, even had it been less cogent than it was,\ncould not be but convincin to those who knew of and dreaded his power.\nHe was listened to with the most profound attention, and the justness\nof his arguments and force of his eloquence acknowledged by the\nacquittal of the prisoner.\n\nAs M'Kay rose from his seat at the bar to leave the court, Cromwell eyed\nhim attentively for some seconds, and, struck with his prodigious size\nand fierce aspect, whispered to one of the judges near him, \"May the\nLord keep me from the devil's and _that_ man's grasp.\"\n\nWe have now only to add, that the protection promised by Cromwell to\nLady Rae for her husband was duly made out, and delivered to her. We\nneed not say that it was found to be a perfectly efficient document.\n\n\n\n\nTHE DIAMOND EYES.\n\n\nWhen I entered Edinburgh College the students were tolerably free from\nany of those clubs or parties into which some factitious subject--often\na whim--divides them. In the prior year the spirit of wager had seized a\ngreat number of them with the harpy talons of the demon of gambling,\ngiving rise to consequences prejudicial to their morals, as well as to\ntheir studies. A great deal of money among the richer of them changed\nhands upon the result of bets, often the most frivolous, if not\naltogether ridiculous. Now, we are not to say that, abstracted from the\nlove of money, the act of betting is unqualifiedly bad, if rather we may\nnot be able to say something for it, insomuch as it sometimes brings\nout, and stamps ingenuity or sagacity, while it represses and chastises\narrogance. But the practice at the College at that time was actually\nwild. They sought out subjects; the aye and the no of ordinary converse\nwas followed by the gauntlet, which was taken up on the instant; and\nthey even had an umpire in the club, a respectable young man of the name\nof Hawley, who was too wise to bet himself, but who was pleased with the\nhonour of being privileged to decide the bets of the others.\n\nIn the heat of this wild enthusiasm, it happened that two of these\nyouths, one called Henry Dewhurst, and the other Frank Hamilton, were\nwalking on the jetty which runs out from the harbour of Leith a full\nmile into the Forth. Dewhurst was the son of a West India planter, who\nallowed him \u00a3300 a year, every penny of which was spent in paying only a\npart of his bills long before the year was done; one of which bills I\nhad an opportunity of seeing, to my wonder--how any one could eat \u00a315\nworth of tarts and sweetmeats in the course of not many months! Hamilton\nwas the son of a west country proprietor, and enjoyed the privilege of\nusing, to his ruin, a yearly allowance of \u00a3250. In the midst of their\nsauntering they hailed two of their friends,--one Campbell, a sworn\ncompanion of the young West Indian; and the other Cameron, as closely\nallied to Hamilton;--all the four being, as the saying goes, \"birds of a\nfeather,\" tossing their wings in the gale of sprees, and not always\nsleeping in their own nests at night.\n\nAs they approached the end of the jetty, they met a lad who had wounded\none of these large gulls called Tom Norries,--a beautiful creature, with\nits fine lead-coloured wings and charming snow-white breast, and eye\nlike a diamond.\n\n\"I will give you a shilling for the bird,\" said Dewhurst.\n\n\"But what are you to do with it?\" replied the lad. \"I would not like it\nto be killed. It is only hurt in the wing; and I will get half-a-crown\nfor it from one who has a garden to keep it in.\"\n\n\"No, no,\" said Dewhurst, \"I'll not kill it. Here's your half-crown.\"\n\nAnd the bargain was struck. Dewhurst, with the struggling bird in his\nhand, went down, followed by his friends, one of the side stairs to the\nstone rampart, by which the jetty is defended on the east. There they\nsat down. The sun was throwing a blaze of glory over a sea which repaid\nthe gift with a liquid splendour scarcely inferior to his of fire; and\nthe companions of the bird, swirling in the clear air, seemed to be\nattracted by the sharp cries of the prisoner; but all its efforts were\nvain to gratify its love of liberty and their yearning. It was in the\nhands of those who had neither pity for its sufferings, consideration\nfor the lessons it carried in its structure, nor taste for estimating\nits beauties. One of another kind of students might have detected\nadaptations in the structure of that creature sufficient to have raised\nhis thoughts to the great Author of design and the source of all\nbeauty,--that small and light body, capable of being suspended for a\ngreat length of time in the air by those broad wings, so that, as a bird\nof prey, it should watch for its food without the aid of a perch; the\nfeathers, supplied by an unctuous substance, to enable them to throw off\nthe water and keep the body dry; the web-feet for swimming; and the long\nlegs, which it uses as a kind of stay, by turning them towards the head\nwhen it bends the neck, to apply the beak--that beak, too, so admirably\nformed--for taking up entire, or perforating the backs of the silly\nfishes that gambol too near the surface. Ay, even in these fishes,\nwhich, venturing too far from their natural depths, and becoming amorous\nof the sun, and playful in their escapades, he might see the symbol of\nman himself, who, when he leaves the paths of prudence, and gets\ntop-light with pleasure, is ready, in every culmination of his delirium,\nto be caught by a waiting retribution. Ah! but our student, who held the\nbird, was not incurious--only cold and cruel in his curiosity.\n\n\"Hamilton,\" said he, \"that bird could still swim on the surface of that\nsea, though deprived of every feather on its body.\"\n\n\"I deny it,\" replied Hamilton. \"It will not swim five minutes,\"\n\n\"What do you bet?\"--- The old watchword.\n\n\"Five pounds.\"\n\n\"Done.\"\n\nAnd getting Campbell to hold the beak, which the bird was using with all\nits vigour, he grasped its legs and wings together by his left hand, and\nbegan to tear from the tender living skin the feathers. Every handful\nshowed the quivering flesh, and was followed by spouts of blood; nor did\nhe seem to care--although the more carefully the flaying operation was\nperformed, the better chance he had of carrying his wager--whether he\nbrought away with the torn tips portions of the skin. The writhing of\nthe tortured creature was rather an appeal to his deliberate cruelty,\nand the shrill scream only quickened the process. The back finished and\nbloody, the belly, snow-white and beautiful, was turned up, the feathers\ntorn away, the breast laid bare, and one wing after the other stript of\nevery pinion. Nothing in the shape of feathers, in short, was left,\nexcept the covering of the head, which resisted his fingers.\n\n\"There now is Plato's definition of a man personified,\" said he as he\nlaughed.\n\nDuring all this time a lady looked over the parapet. Dewhurst caught her\neye red with anger, but he only laughed the louder.\n\n\"Now, Hamilton,\" said he, \"you take the bird, and we mount to the\nplatform. When I give the sign, fling him in, and we shall see how the\nbet goes.\"\n\nThey accordingly mounted, and the lady turning her back, as if she had\nbeen unable to bear longer the sight of so much cold cruelty, directed\nher vision towards the west; but a little boy, who was along with her,\nseemed to watch the operation.\n\n\"Now,\" cried Dewhurst.\n\nAnd Hamilton thiew the bird into the sea. The creature, still\nvivacious, true to its old instinct, spread out its bare wings in an\nattempt to fly, but it was in vain; down it came sinking below the\nsurface, but rising quickly again to lash, with the bleeding wings, the\nwater on which it used to swim so lightly and elegantly. The struggle\nbetween the effort to fly and the tendency to sink was continued for\nseveral minutes, its screams bringing closer around it many of its\ncompeers, who looked as if with pity and amazement on the suffering\nvictim, known to them now only by the well-known cry of distress.\n\nMeanwhile these curious students of natural history stood looking over\nthe rail, watch in hand; and the little boy, an important personage in\nour story, also intent upon the experiment, cried out two solitary\nwords, very simple ones too, and yet fraught with a strange import, as\nregards consequences, that could not be gathered from them.\n\n\"See, ma'.\"\n\nBut the lady to whom they were addressed had still her head turned away.\n\n\"Six minutes,\" cried Dewhurst. \"The time is up, and the bird is only\nthis instant down. I win.\"\n\n\"I admit it,\" responded Hamilton, evidently disconcerted. \"I shall pay\nyou to-night at Stewart's, at seven o'clock. I got my remittance\nyesterday.\"\n\n\"Content,\" said Dewhurst, \"That's the third bet I have gained off you\nwithin a fortnight,\"\n\nHamilton bit his lip and scowled--- an act which only roused against him\nthe raillery of his comrades, who were now collected in a circle, and\nsymptoms of anger of a more expressive kind showed themselves.\n\n\"You have been at this trade of flaying before,\" said he, looking\nsternly at Dewhurst. \"Your father, like the other West Indians, is well\nacquainted with the flaying of negroes, and you have been following his\nexample with the Jamaica lungies. But, by G--d,\" he added, getting\nenraged, \"next time we cross the rapiers of a bet, it shall be for ten\ntimes five.\"\n\n\"This instant,\" answered Dewhurst, on whom the imputations about his\nfather acted as a fiery stimulant.\n\n\"Seek your subject,\" responded Hamilton.\n\n\"You see that lady there?\" continued the West Indian. \"She has a boy\nwith her.\"\n\n\"I do.\"\n\n\"The mother of the boy, or not?\" continued Dewhurst. \"I say she is; and,\nin place of fifty, I'll make it a hundred.\"\n\n\"Have you ever seen them before?\" asked Hamilton, trying to be calm.\n\n\"Never. I know no more of them than you do; and, besides, I give you\nyour choice of mother, or not mother.\"\n\n\"Ha! ha!\" laughed Campbell, as he looked intently at Dewhurst. \"Are you\nmad, Dewhurst? Has your last triumph blinded you? The woman is too old\nby ten years.\"\n\nHamilton turned round without saying a word, and drew cautiously near\nthe lady, whose eyes, as she stood looking at a foreign ship coming in,\nwere still scornful, and it seemed as if she waited until some gentleman\ncame up to inform him of the cruel act she had so recently witnessed.\nResisting her fiery glances, he surveyed her calmly, looking by turns at\nher and the boy. A slight smile played on his lip in the midst of the\nindications of his wrath. One might have read in that expression--\n\n\"Not a feature in these two faces in the least similar, and the age is\nbeyond all mortal doubt. I have the gull-flayer on the hip at last.\"\n\nAnd returning to the companions with the same simulated coolness--\n\n\"Done for a hundred,\" he said. \"That lady is not the mother of that\nboy.\"\n\n\"Agreed,\" answered Dewhurst, with a look of inward triumph. \"How to be\ndecided?\"\n\n\"By the lips of the lady herself.\"\n\n\"Agreed.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" joined Campbell, \"if you can get these lips to move. She looks\nangry, and now she is moving along probably for home, bequeathing to us\nthe last look of her scorn. We shall give her time to cool down, and\nCameron and I will then pay our respects to her. We shall get it out of\nthe boy if she refuse to answer.\"\n\nIt was as Campbell said. The lady with the boy, who held her by the\nhand, had begun her return along the jetty. The companions kept walking\nbehind; and of these, Campbell and Dewhurst fell back a little from the\nother two.\n\n\"Hark, Campbell,\" said Dewhurst. \"Back me against Cameron for any sum\nyou can get out of him. I'm sure of my quarry; and,\" laughing within the\nteeth, he added, \"I'll gull him again.\"\n\n\"You're ruined, man,\" whispered his companion. \"The woman is evidently\ntoo old, and I am satisfied you will catch some of her wrinkles.\"\n\nA deeper whisper from Dewhurst conveyed to the ear of his friend--\n\n\"I heard the boy call her mother.\"\n\n\"The devil!\" exclaimed Campbell in surprise; but, catching himself, \"it\nmight have been grandmother he meant.\"\n\n\"No, no. Children in Scotland use grandma', never ma', to grandmother.\nI'm satisfied; and if you are not a fool, take advantage of my \"--\n\n\"Dishonesty,\" added Campbell.\n\n\"No; all fair with that fellow Hamilton. Besides, all bets assume a\nretention of reasons, otherwise there could be no bets. In addition, I\ndid not assert that I did not hear them address each other.\"\n\n\"That's something,\" said Campbell. \"I do not say it is impossible, or\neven very improbable, that she may be the mother; and if you will assure\nme, on your honour, of what you heard, I will have a little speculative\npeculation on Cameron.\"\n\n\"I can swear; and if I couldn't, do you think I would have bet so high,\nas in the event of losing I should be ruined?\"\n\n\"I'm content,\" said Campbell. \"Ho, there, Cameron! I will back Dewhurst\non the maternity for ten.\"\n\n\"That will just pay Nightingale,\" replied Cameron. \"I accept. Now for\nthe grand _denouement_. Let us accost the arbitress of our fortunes.\"\n\n\"Not yet,\" said Hamilton. \"Wait till she gets to the lighthouse, where\nthere are people. It is clear she has not a good opinion of us, and in\nthis solitary place she might get alarmed.\"\n\nHanging back to wait their opportunity, now upon the verge of a decision\nwhich might be attended with disastrous results to some of them, the\nwhole four appeared absorbed in anxiety. Not a word was spoken; and it\nseemed possible that, during these trying minutes, a hint would have\nbroken up the imprudent and dangerous compact. The terror of the club\nwas before them, and the false honour which ruled them, in place of\nobedience to their fathers, and humanity to dumb creatures, retained the\nascendency. So has it ever been with the worship of false gods: their\nexactions have always been in proportion to the folly and credulity of\ntheir votaries. The moment was approaching. The die was to carry\nformidable issues. Dark shadows broke in through the resolution to be\nbrave, as might have been observed in the features of both the\nprincipals. At length Campbell took the lead. They approached the lady,\nwho at first seemed to shrink from them as monsters.\n\n\"We beg pardon,\" he said. \"Be assured, madam, we have not the most\ndistant intention to offend you. The truth is, that we have a bet among\nus as to whether you are the mother of this fine boy. We assure you,\nmoreover, that it was the sport of betting that sought out the subject,\nand the nature of that subject cannot, we presume, be prejudicial either\nto your honour or your feelings. While I ask your pardon, allow me to\nadd that the wager, foolish or not, is to be decided by your answer--yes\nor no.\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\nAfter pronouncing, with a severe sternness, this monosyllable, she\npaused a little; and looking round upon the youths with a seriousness\nand dignity that sat upon her so well that they shrunk from her glance,\nshe added, with a corresponding solemnity--\n\n\"Would to God, who sees all things--ay, and punishes all those who are\ncruel to the creatures He has formed with feelings suitable to their\nnatures, and dear to them as ours are to us--that he who bet upon my\nbeing the mother of this boy may be he who tortured the unoffending\nbird!\"\n\nAnd, with these words, she departed, leaving the bewildered students\nlooking at each other, with various emotions. It was, perhaps, fortunate\nfor Dewhurst that the little sermon, contrary to the practice of the\ncourts, came after, in place of preceding the condemnation, for he had\nbeen rendered all but insensible by the formidable monosyllable. He saw\nthere was some mystery overhanging his present position. He doubted,\nand he did not doubt the lady; but he heard the boy use the word, and\nhe took up the impression that he was, by some mistake on his part, to\nbe punished for the flaying of the bird. The lady's eye, red and angry,\nhad been fixed upon him, and now, when she was gone, he still saw it.\nBut there were more lurid lights, playing round certain stern facts\nconnected with his fortunes. He must pay this \u00a3100 on the decision of\nher who had burned him with her scorn. There was no relief for him. The\nclub at the College had no mercy, and he had enraged Hamilton, whose\nspirit was relentless. He had been under rebuke from his father, who had\nthreatened to cut him off; and, worse still, the remnant of the last\nyearly remittance was \u00a3110 in the Royal Bank, while debts stood against\nhim in the books of tailors, confectioners, tavern-keepers,\nshoemakers--some already in the form of decrees, and one at least in the\nadvanced stage of a warrant. To sum up all, he was betrothed to Miss\nM------- sh, the sister of a writer to the signet, who had already\nhinted doubts as the propriety of the marriage. He saw himself, in\nshort, wrecked on the razor-backed shelving rocks of misery. In his\nextremity, he clutched at a floating weed: the woman, the lady, did not\nspeak the truth. He had ears, and could hear, and he would trust to\nthem. The boy could not be wrong.\n\n\"Campbell,\" he cried, \"dog her home--she lies!\" Hamilton and Campbell\nburst out into a laugh, but Campbell had been taken aback by the lady's\nanswer: he had not \u00a310 to pay Cameron, and the fear of the club was\nbefore him, with its stern decree of the brand of caste and rejection by\nhis associates. Since the moment of the lady's answer, he had been\nconscious of obscure doubts as to her truthfulness, clustering round the\nsuspicion that she might have known, by hearing something, that\nDewhurst, the gull-flayer, was on the side of the maternity, and that\nshe wanted to punish him--a notion which seemed to be favoured by the\nsomewhat affected manner of her expressing her little sermon. These\ndoubts, fluid and wavering, became, as it were, crystallized by\nDewhurst's cry that she was a liar; and, the moment he felt the sharp\nangles of the idea, he set off after the lady.\n\nThis hope, which was nothing more than despair in hysterics, enabled\nDewhurst to withstand, for a little, the looks of triumph in Hamilton\nand Cameron, in spite of their laugh, which still rung in his ears. The\nsermon had touched him but little, and if he could have got quit of this\nwildly contracted debt, he would likely be the same man again. He did\nnot, as yet, feel even the dishonour of having taken advantage of the\nboy's statement--an act which he had subtlety enough to defend. Give him\nonly relief from this debt, the fire of the club, the stabbing glances\nof Hamilton's eye. At least he was not bound to suffer the personal\nexpression of his companions' triumph any longer than he could away.\n\n\"We will wait the issue of Campbell's inquiry,\" he said with affected\ncalmness. \"I have a call to make in the Links.\"\n\nAnd he was retreating, even as he uttered these words.\n\n\"I owe you \u00a35,\" cried Hamilton, \"which, _as a man of honour_, I pay you\nto-night at seven o'clock, upon the instant, at Stewart's. I have no\nwish to be dragged before the club.\"\n\nWith this barb, touched with wararra poison, or ten times distilled\nkakodyle, and a layer of honey over all, Dewhurst hurried away, to make\nno call. He was hard to subdue, and a puppy, whose passion it was to\nstrut, in the perfection of a refined toilette, among fashionable\nstreet-walkers. While he was abroad, his cares rankling within were\noverborne by the consciousness of being \"in position.\" The dog's nose is\ncold even when his tongue is reeking; and as he walked slowly along, his\nexterior showed the proper thermo-metric nonchalance--it was not the\ntime for a pyrometric measurement within the heart. On his way, he\ntalked to a Leith merchant, who hailed him; yet he exhibited the\nrequired _retenu_, so expressive of confidence and ease within, and\nwithal so fashionable. You might have said that he had the heart to wing\na partridge,--to \"wing it,\" a pretty phrase in the mouth of a polite\nsportsman, who, if a poacher were to break the bones of his leg, would,\nin his own case, think it a little different. Yes, Dewhurst might have\nbeen supposed to be able to \"wing a partridge,\"--not to \"flay a gull.\"\n\nIt was while thus \"in position\"--not its master, but its slave--that\ncurvation of the spine of society, which produces so much paralysis and\ndeath--that, when he came to Princes Street, he felt himself constrained\nand able to walk up South St. Andrew Street, direct to the door of the\nRoyal Bank. He even entered; he even drew a draft; he even made that\ndraft \u00a3110, all the money he had there in keeping for so many coming\nwants and exigencies; he even presented it to the teller, who knew his\ncircumstances and his dangers--ay, and his father's anxieties while he\nsent the yearly remittance.\n\n\"All, Mr. Dewhurst?\" said the teller, looking blank at the draft.\n\n\"All, sir; I require it all,\" answered the student, with such a mouthful\nof the vowel, that we might write the word _requoire_, and not be far\nfrom the pronunciation.\n\nThe teller gave his head a significant shake. If he had had a tail to\nshake, and had shaken that tail, it would have been much the same.\n\nHaving got the money, he was more than ever under the law of that\nproclivity, on the broad line to ruin, on which so many young men take\nstations; and still retaining his, he went at the hour of the hot\njoints, to dine at the Rainbow, where he met many others, in that\nrefreshment house, of the same class, who, like himself,\nconsidered--that is, while the money was there--that guineas in the\npurse supersede the necessity of having ideas in the head. He took to\nsuch liquid accompaniments of the dinner, as would confirm the\nresolution he had formed, of paying at once his debt of honour. And why\nnot? Was not he of that world whose code of laws draws the legitimate\nline of distinction between debts contracted to industrious tradesmen\nfor the necessaries of life, and those which are the result of whim,\npride, or vindictiveness? All recollections of the flaying of the bird,\nand of the lady's adjuration to heaven, had given way to the enthusiasm\nof the noble feeling to obey the dictates of that eternal and immutable\ncode of honour. And by seven o'clock he was at Stewart's, where he found\nHamilton and Cameron waiting for their respective \"pounds of flesh.\"\n\n\"Here is the \u00a35,\" cried Hamilton, as he entered; and, throwing the note\nupon the table, \"it is for the gull trick.\"\n\n\"And here,\" responded the West Indian, \"is your \u00a3100 for the woman\ntrick.\"\n\nAnd he cast from him the bundle of notes, with a grandeur of both honour\nand defiance. \"But I have a reservation to make. Campbell has not\nreported to me the issue of his commission; and if it shall turn out\nthat the woman retracts, I will reclaim the money.\"\n\n\"And get it too,\" said the other, laughing sneeringly, as he counted\nthe notes. \"But here comes Campbell.\"\n\n\"Campbell,\" cried Cameron, as his debtor entered, \"I want my \u00a310 to pay\nNightingale.\"\n\n\"Ask Dewhurst,\" said Campbell. \"I have been cheated by him. He told me a\nlie. The woman speaks true, and I shall be revenged.\"\n\n\"I have nothing to do with Dewhurst,\" answered Cameron. \"You are my\ndebtor; and if I don't get the money to-night--you know my lodgings--the\nclub will decide upon it to-morrow.\"\n\nAnd, throwing a withering look upon his old friend--a word now changed\nfor, and lost in that expressive vocable, debtor--he hurried out,\nfollowed by Hamilton, who had both his money and his revenge, and wished\nto be beyond the reach of a recall.\n\nLeft to themselves, the two remaining friends of the hour before, but\nnow no longer friends, looked sternly at each other. The one considered\nhimself duped; the other was burning under the imputation of being a\ncheat and a liar.\n\n\"Oh I don't retract,\" said Campbell, with increased fierceness. \"It was\nupon the faith of your word that I ventured the bet against my own\nconvictions. I have traced the lady to Great King Street, where she\nresides, as the aunt of the boy; and I am satisfied that, in a case\nwhere the boy's mother is alive, and now in her own house, he, of the\nage he is, never could have used the word mother or mamma, or any word\nof that import, to his father's sister. All power and energies are\ncomparative. This \u00a310 cracks the spine of my fortune as effectually as\nten times the amount. I have not the money, and know no more where to\nfind it than I do to get hold of the philosopher's stone. I repeat I\nhave been cheated, and I demand of you the money.\"\n\n\"Which you shall never get,\" replied Dewhurst. \"I can swear that I\nheard the words. They thrill on my ears now; and the best proof of my\nconviction is, that I am myself ruined. Yes,\" and he began to roll his\neyes about, as the terrors of his situation came rushing upon him, on\nthe wake of the now departing effects of the Rainbow wine--\"Yes, the\nswell, the fop, the leader of the college _ton_, whose coat came from\nthe artistic study of Willis, whose necktie could raise a _furore_,\nwhose glove, without a wrinkle, would condescend only to be touched by\nfriendship on the tip of the finger, is now at the mercy of any one of\ntwenty sleasy dogs, who can tell the sheriff I owe them money. Money!\nwhy, I have only fifteen pounds in the wide world, and I must pay that\nto my landlady.\"\n\nAs he uttered these last words, the door opened, and there stood before\nhim a man with a blue coat, surmounted by a red collar. He held a paper\nin his hand; his demeanour was deferential and exuberantly polite.\n\n\"That sum you have mentioned, sir,\" he said, looking to the student,\n\"with \u00a310 added, will save you and me much trouble. The debt to Mr. Reid\nis \u00a325; and here is a certain paper which gives me the power to do an\nunpolite thing. You comprehend? I am an advocate for painless\noperations.\"\n\n\"Will you accept the \u00a315?\" said Dewhurst, now scarcely able to\narticulate.\n\n\"Yes, if this gentleman here, who is, I presume, your friend, will\nkindly add the \u00a310. The expenses may stand.\"\n\nCampbell could only grin at this strange conversation.\n\n\"Unwilling?\" continued the messenger. \"Ah, I see. It is strange that\nwhen I devote myself to a gentleman, his friends fly away. This is my\nmisfortune. Well, there is no help for it. We must take a walk to the\nprison,\" addressing himself to his debtor. \"You are a gentleman, and I\nshall be your servant in livery.\"\n\nDewhurst braced himself with a violent effort, like a spasm, and took\nhis hat.\n\n\"Give me the \u00a310,\" said Campbell. \"It will make no difference now. There\nare no degrees in despair.\"\n\n\"I must take care of my master's money,\" said the officer, with an\nattempt at a smile; and without going the full length of imitating that\nmost philanthropic of all executors of the law, Simpson, who patted his\nvictims on the back while he adjusted the rope, he added, \"And now, sir,\nI am at your humble service.\"\n\nIn a very short time after, the strange events of that day were\nterminated by the young man being placed in the debtor's prison of the\nCalton. Like other jail birds, he at first shunned his brethren in\nmisfortune, fleeing to his room, and shrouding himself in solitude and\npartial darkness. The change from a life of gaiety, if not dissipation,\nto the experiences of prison squalor, had come upon him without\npreparation, if indeed preparation for evil ever diminishes or much\nameliorates the inevitable effects of the visitation. Unfortunates\nexhibit wonderful diversities in their manifestations. Dewhurst became\ndejected, broken in spirits, sad, and remorseful. He scarcely stirred\nfrom the bed on which he had thrown himself when he entered; and his\nmind became a theatre where strange plays were acted, and strange\npersonages performed strange parts, under the direction of stage\nmanagers over whom he had no control. Though some unhappy predecessor in\nthe same cell had scribbled on the wall,\n\n  \"A prison is a cannie place,\n    Though viewed with reprobation,\n  Where cheats and thieves, and scants o' grace,\n    Find time for cogitation,\"\n\nhe did not find that he could properly cogitate or meditate, even if he\nhad been, which he never was, a thinker. All his thoughts were reduced\nto a continued wild succession of burning images,--the mild face of his\nmother, so far away, as it smiled upon him when he ran about among the\ncane groves of the west; the negroes, with their \"young massa\" on their\ntongues, jabbering their affection; his father scowling upon him as\nundutiful; another, not so far away, in whose eyes--beautiful to\nhim--love dwelt as his worshipper, looking all endearment, only the next\nmoment to cast upon him the withering glance of her contempt, if not\nhatred; admirers, toadies, satellites, and sycophants, all there in\ngroups and in succession, beslabbering him with praises, then exploding\nin peals of laughter. Nor was another awanting in these saturnalia--the\nform and face of her whose one word of sentence had been to him as a\ndoom, and who fixed that doom in his soul by her red glance of reproof.\nSeemingly very indifferent objects assumed in the new lights of his\nspirit gigantic and affraying features,--the sea-gull, with its torn\nback, bleeding and quivering, and those diamond eyes so bright even in\nits looks of agony--an object low indeed in the scale of nature, but\nhere elevated by some overruling power into the very heart of man's\nactions and destinies, as if to show out of what humble things the\nlightnings of retribution may come. Nay, these diamond eyes haunted him;\nthey were everywhere in these saturnalian reveries, following every\nrecurring image as an inevitable concomitant which he had no power to\ndrive away, entering into the orbits of the personages, gleaming out of\nthe heads of negroes, that of his father, that of his mother, even that\nof his mistress, imparting to the looks and glances of the latter a\nbrilliancy which enhanced beauty, while it sharpened them into\npoignancy. But most of all were they in some way associated with the\nform of the unknown lady. She never appeared to him as the being on whom\nhis destiny was suspended; but, sooner or later, her own comparatively\nlustreless orbs changed into those diamonds, which could fulminate scorn\nnot less than they could beam out supplication.\n\nFor several days and nights he had scarcely any intervals of peace from\nthese soul-penetrating fancies, and these moments were due to visits.\nBut who came to visit? Not the writer to the signet, the brother of his\naffianced, whom he had expected to see first of all as a friend, if not\nas a relation, ready to extend the hand that would save him; not any of\nthose with whom he had shared the folly of extravagance, if not\ndissipation, on whom he had lavished favours in the wildness of his\ngenerosity. The first was felicitating himself on his sister's escape;\nthe latter received the lesson that teaches prudence _a la distance_.\nHis only visitors were one or two heads of families where he had been\nreceived as a fashionable friend, and these came only to look and\ninquire. Their curiosity was satisfied when they got out of him the\namount of his debt, and pleased when they considered that their\ndaughters were at home, and under no chance of becoming allied to a\nprisoner. One or two old associates, too, paid their respects to him,\nbut they were of those who had resisted his fascinations and found their\npleasures in their studies. We seek for the virtues, but we do not\nalways find them in the high places, where masks, copied from them and\nbearing their beautiful lineaments and their effulgence, are worn in\ntheir stead only to cover the vices which are their very antipodes. No:\nmore often in lowlier regions, lying _perdu_ behind vices, not\nvoluntary, but often, as it were, inflicted and peering out, ashamed to\nbe seen, because arrayed in the rags of poverty. A solitary female\nstole in to him. Who was she? One with whom he had formed a connection\nof not an honourable kind, only now interrupted by the walls of the\nprison? No. One whom he had long before cast off, only because the vice\nhe had inoculated her with had cast off the beauty that had inflamed\nhim. Nor did he know the meaning of that stealthy visit, which lasted\nonly for a few minutes--so unexpected, for he had not seen her during\nmany months, so singular, so unnatural, so unlike the world, returning\ngratitude for injury, benediction for infamy, until, after she had\nsuddenly slipped away, he found by the side of the wall a small bottle\nof wine. That form and face, once more beautiful in his estimation than\nwere those even now of his honourable affianced, entered among the\nimagery of his reveries; but the diamond eyes never displaced those of\nher gentle nature. He had wronged her, but they never filled with the\nfire of denunciation. She had looked her grief at him only through the\ntears he had raised in them, and had never attempted to dry. Yes, the\ndiamond eyes entered everywhere, and into every form but that one where\nthe red heat of revenge might have been expected to shrivel up and\nharden the issues of tears.\n\nFurther on in the same evening, the jailer, a good-natured sort of\nfellow, came in to him while he was absorbed in these thoughts. He was\nat the time sitting on his bed.\n\n\"A lady called in the dusk,\" he said, \"and inquired if it was true you\nwere here. I told her it was.\"\n\n\"And what more?\" asked the youth, as he started out of his day-dream.\n\"But, stay--what like was she?\"\n\n\"I could scarcely see her,\" replied the man; \"middling tail, rather\nyoung, as I thought--with a veil, through which I could see a pair of\npretty, bright eyes.\"\n\n\"Were they like diamonds?\" cried the student, absolutely forgetting that\nhe was speaking to an ordinary mortal about very ordinary things.\n\n\"Ha, ha! I never saw diamond eyes,\" answered the jailer; \"but I've seen\nglass ones in a doll's head looking very bright. Why, you 'aven't got\nmad, like some of the chicken-hearted birds in our cage?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" cried the youth, \"I'm frantic-mad; but stay, have patience. Did\nshe want to see me?\"\n\n\"Yes, she asked if she could; but when I told her she might, she seemed\nto get afeared to come into a jail, and said she would call again\nto-morrow night at the same hour.\"\n\n\"Can you tell me nothing more of what she was like?--not she who was\nhere this evening?\"\n\n\"Why, no; don't you think I know her kind? Oh, we see many o' them. They\nstick closest to the unfortunate, but 'tis because they are unfortunate\nthemselves. Common thing, sir. Never feel for others till we have\nsomething to feel for ourselves. The visitor is a lady, sir.\"\n\n\"Can you tell me nothing more?\" said the student eagerly. \"How was she\ndressed?\"\n\n\"A large, elegant cloak, sir; can scarcely say more.\"\n\n\"Was it trimmed with fur?\"\n\n\"Not sure; but now, when I think, there was some lightish trimming--I\nmean lighter than the cloak.\"\n\n\"And the bonnet?\"\n\n\"Why, I think velvet; but you'll maybe see her yourself to-morrow. The\nlike o' her may do you good. The unfortunates who stick so close to the\nunfortunate do no good--they're a plaster that don't cure.\"\n\n\"It is Maria!\" ejaculated Dewhurst, as the jailer shut the door. \"She\nfeels for me, and has come in spite of her hard-hearted brother. Her\ndiamond eyes are of another kind. They speak wealth, and love to bestow\nit. Her fortune is her own, and with that I may yet turn that wayward\ndestiny, and laugh at my persecutors.\"\n\nThat ray of hope, illuminating his soul, changed almost in an instant\nthe whole tenor of his mind. It might be compared to a stream of nervous\nenergy, emanating from the brain, and shooting down through the network\nof chords, confirming convulsed muscles, and; imparting to trembling\nmembers consistency of action and graces of motion. His reveries were\nscared by it, as owls under the influence of a sunbeam, and retreated\ninto the dark recesses from which they had been charmed by the\nenchantment of despair. The personages of these visions were no longer\navengers, casting upon him the burning beams of the diamond eyes. They\nwere hopeful, pitiful; the flatterers and fawners were at their old work\nagain, and Pleasure, with her siren face, smiled blandishments on him.\nThen he would justify the favours of the heaven he made for himself. He\nwould be a logician, for once, in that kind of dialectics called the\n\"wish-born.\"\n\n\"What was I afraid of?\" he said to himself. \"There is no turpitude, no\nshame in a fair bet. I was worsted in an honourable contest. What crazy\npower mocked me into the belief that all this that has befallen me was\nconnected with the flaying of a bird? Don't we break the necks of\ninnocent, yea, gentle fowls, not depredators like gulls, every day for\nour dinners? And don't ladies, as delicate as the unknown censor who\ndared to chastise me with her eyes, eat of the same, with a relish\ndelightful to the tongues that pronounce the fine words of pity and\nphilanthropy? But, even admitting there was cruelty in the act, where is\nthe link that binds it with the consequences which have brought me\nhere? The bet upon the maternity was not an effect of the flaying of the\nbird. If it followed the prior bet, it would have followed another, in\nwhich I was gainer, equally the same. The mad energy which weaves in my\nhead these day-dreams, and pursues me with these diamond eyes of wrath,\nis a lying power, and I shall master it by the strength of my reason,\nwhich at least is God's gift. Come, my Maria, as my good angel, and\nenable me to free my mind from illusions. I will sit and look into your\neyes, as I have done so often. Yes, I will satisfy myself that they\nshine still with the lustre of love, hope, and happiness; and oh, let\nthese, and these only, enter into my dreams.\"\n\nAnd thus he satisfied himself, as all do, whose hope weaves the\nsyllogisms of their wishes, and sits to see pleasure caught on the wing.\nThe day passed apace to usher in the evening with its messenger of\npeace. Where, in that squalid place, would he seat her, whose peculiar\nprovince was the drawing-room? How would he receive her first look of\nsympathy? how repay it? with what words express his emotions? with what\nfervour kiss those lips redolent of forgiveness? with what ecstasy look\ninto those eyes refulgent with love? He would control himself, and be\ncalm. He would rehearse, that he might not fail in the forms of an\ninterview on which hung his destiny, almost his life. The hour of seven\narrived. He heard the heavy foot of the jailer come tramp, tramp along\nthe lobby. There was a softer step behind, as if the echo of the heavier\ntread. A stern voice and a softer one mingled their notes. The door\nopened.\n\n\"My Mar--! O God! these scornful eyes again.\"\n\n\"Not scornful now,\" replied the soft voice of a woman, as she came\nforward, and stood before him in the dusk.\n\n\"Were there light enough,\" she continued, \"I would lift my veil and\nshow you that they are capable of a kindlier light than even that they\nnow carry, for the offering I made to heaven has been more than\nanswered.\"\n\n\"Ah, you come to retract,\" he said, \"to speak the truth at last. It is\nnot too late to say you _are_ the mother--the mother of the boy. Nor\nneed you be ashamed: there may be reasons; but many a woman lives to\nrepent--\"\n\n\"Hold, sir,\" she cried with indignation, as she fixed upon him a look\neven more penetrating than that he so well remembered. \"I have nothing\nto retract--nothing to be ashamed of. I came here out of pure sympathy,\nto make amends to one who has fallen for a prayer which burst from me in\nmy anger. Your friend, who called for me, told me that you were a\nprisoner, and that your imprisonment was the consequence of the wager\nwhich it fell to me to decide. I did not come to repeat to you what I\nsaid before, that I am not the mother of the boy, but to make an\nexplanation.\"\n\n\"And I have one to ask,\" said he.\n\n\"I am ready to answer.\"\n\n\"How could I be deceived?\" said he. \"I heard the boy address you as his\nmother.\"\n\n\"And that is what I came to explain. I have taxed my memory since Mr.\nCampbell insisted, in my presence, that Frederick did address me in the\nmanner you have stated. Shall I tell you the precise words he used?\"\n\n\"I wait for them.\"\n\n\"Well, they were, 'See ma.'\"\n\n\"The very words; and were they not enough for proof and belief?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir; but there are words which have two significations. Ma' is\nthe contraction, as you know, for mamma, but it is pronounced the same\nas _maw_, which is a word which we use to designate those birds\notherwise called gulls. I recollect that while I was unable to bear the\nsight of the tortured bird, and had turned my head in another direction,\nmy nephew kept looking over the rails, and that, as he saw the\nstruggling creature, he cried out to me the words you misconstrued. And\nthus the mystery is cleared up.\"\n\n\"Miserable and fatal error,\" he gasped out, as he staggered back. \"And\nthe connection!--the connection! There _was_ retribution in those\ndiamond eyes.\"\n\n\"What mean you, sir?\"\n\n\"The bird's eyes that haunt me in my reveries, and enter into the\nsockets of my dream-beings!\"\n\n\"Are you mad?\"\n\n\"No; or the heavens are mad, with their swirling orbs and blazing\ncomets, that rush sighing through space before some terrible power that\nwill give them no respite, except with the condition that when they rest\nthey die.\"\n\n\"Poor youth! so early doomed; I pity you.\"\n\n\"Ay, pity those who have no pity--those are the truly wretched; for\npity, in the world's life, is the soul of reason's action. Ah, madam, it\nis those who have pity who do not need the pity of others, for they are\ngenerally free from the faults that produce the unhappiness that needs\npity.\"\n\n\"But you have been punished, I admit, in a very strange and mysterious\nway; for the word used by the boy was the joining link of the two\ntransactions, and you were led to misconstrue it--ay, and to take\nadvantage of your misconstruction to get the better of your friend.\"\n\n\"I see it all.\"\n\n\"But I say you have been punished,\" continued she, consolingly; \"and I\nperceive you are penitent--perhaps justice is satisfied; and when you\nare liberated, you may be the better for the lesson. I shall now reverse\nmy prayer, and say to one I shall perhaps never see again, May God deal\nmercifully by you.\"\n\nAnd with these words, she retreated. But her prayer was never answered,\nso far as man can judge of heaven's mysterious ways. The conviction\nsettled down and down into his heart, that that apparently simple affair\nof killing a bird--which, even with the aggravation of all the cruelty\nexhibited by the thoughtless, yet certainly pitiless youth, is so apt to\nbe viewed carelessly, or only with an avowal of disapprobation--which,\nif too much insisted on as an act to be taken up by superior\nretribution, is more apt still to be laughed at--was the cause of all\nthe ills that had befallen him. The diamond eyes proved to him no fancy.\nBut for all this, we are afforded, by what subsequently occurred, some\nmeans of explanation, which will be greedily laid hold of by minute\nphilosophers. Even then it was to have been feared that the seeds of\nconsumption had been deposited in favourable soil. In our difficulties\nabout explanations of mental phenomena, we readily flee to diseases of\nthe body, which, after all, only removes the mystery a step or two back\nin the dark.\n\nIt remains for me to add some words of personal experience. A\nconsiderable period after these occurrences, I had occasion--by a\nconnection with a medium through which Dewhurst received from his\nfather, whose fortunes had in the meantime failed, a petty allowance--to\nbe the bearer to him, now liberated, of a quarter's payment. I forget\nthe part of the town where I found him, but I have a distinct\nremembrance of the room. It was a garret, almost entirely empty. He was\nlying on a kind of bed spread upon the floor. There was a small grate,\nwith a handful of red cinders in it; only one chair, and a pot or pan or\ntwo. There was a woman moving between him and the fireplace, as if she\nhad been preparing some warm drink or medicine of some kind for him. I\ndid not know then, but I knew afterwards, that that woman was she who\ncalled upon him in prison, and deposited the small bottle of wine. Her\nlove for him had always overcome any of those feelings of enmity, or\nsomething stronger, generally deemed so natural in one who has been\nrobbed of her dearest treasure, and ruined. She alone had indeed not\nassumed the diamond eyes. The diamonds were elsewhere,--yea, in her\nheart, where she nourished pity for him who had so cruelly deserted her,\nand left her to a fate so common, and requiring only a hint to be\nunderstood by those who know the nature of women. After he had got out\nof prison, she sought him out, got the room for him, collected the\npaltry articles, procured food for him, and continued to nurse him till\nhis death, with all the tenderness of a lover who had not only not been\ncast off, but cherished. He betrayed the ordinary symptoms of\nconsumption, and the few words he muttered were those of thanks. I think\nhe was buried in the Canongate Churchyard.\n\n\n\n\nDAVID LORIMER.\n\n\n  \"There is a history in all men's lives.\"--SHAKSPEARE.\n\nIt has been often said, and, I believe, with truth, that there are few\npersons, however humble in station, whose life, if it has been of any\nduration, does not present some incidents of an interesting, if not\ninstructive, nature.\n\nInduced by a belief in this assertion as a general truth, and yet\nfurther by an opinion that, in my own particular case, there are\noccurrences which will be considered somewhat extraordinary, I venture\nto lay the following sketch of my life before the reader, in the hope\nthat it will not be found altogether devoid of interest.\n\nWith the earlier part of my history, which had nothing whatever\nremarkable in it, I need not detain the reader further than to say that\nmy father was, though not a wealthy, a respectable farmer in\nLanarkshire; that he lived at----, within fourteen miles of Glasgow;\nthat I was well educated; and that, at the period when I take up my own\nhistory, I was in the eighteenth year of my age.\n\nHaving given these two or three particulars, I proceed:\n\nIt was in the year 18--, and during the week of the Glasgow Fair, which\noccurs in July, that my father, who had a very favourable opinion of my\nintelligence and sagacity, resolved to entrust me with a certain\nimportant mission. This was to send me to the fair of Glasgow to\npurchase a good draught horse for him.\n\nI am not sure, however, that, with all the good opinion my father\nentertained of my shrewdness, he would have deputed me on the present\noccasion had he been able to go himself; but he was not able, being\nconfined to bed by a severe attack of rheumatism. Be this as it may,\nhowever, the important business was put into my hands; and great was the\njoy it occasioned me, for it secured me in an opportunity of seeing\nGlasgow Fair--a scene which I had long desired to witness, and which I\nhad seen only once when but a very young boy.\n\nFrom the moment I was informed by my father of his intention of sending\nme to the fair, and which was only on the day preceding that on which\nthe horse-market is held, my imagination became so excited that I could\nattend to nothing. I indeed maintained some appearance of working--for\nthough the son of a farmer, I wrought hard--but accomplished little of\nthe reality.\n\nThe joys and the splendours of Glasgow Fair, of which I had a dim but\ncaptivating recollection, rose before my mind's eye in brilliant\nconfusion, putting to rout all other thoughts, and utterly paralyzing\nall my physical energies. Nor was the succeeding night less blessed with\nhappy imaginings. My dreams were filled with visions of shows, Punch's\nopera, rope-dancers, tumblers, etc. etc., and my ears rang with the\nmusic of fiddles, bugles, tambourines, and bass drums. It was a\ndelicious night with me; but the morning which brought an approach to\nthe reality was still more so.\n\nGetting up betimes, I arrayed myself in my best attire; which attire, as\nI well recollect, consisted of a white corduroy jacket, knee-breeches of\nthe same colour and material, and a bright-red waistcoat. A \"neat\nBarcelona,\" tied carelessly round my neck, and a pair of flaming-red\ngarters, at least two inches broad, wound round my legs just below the\nknee, and ending in a knot with two dependent ends hanging down, that\nwaved jauntily as I walked, completed my equipment.\n\nThus arrayed, and with thirty pounds in my pocket to purchase a horse\nfor my father, I took the road, stick in hand, for Glasgow.\n\nIt was a fine summer morning. I was in high spirits; and, in my red\nwaistcoat and red garters, looked, I believe, as tight and comely a lad\nas might be seen.\n\nPushing on with a light heart and light step, I quickly reached the\nsuburbs of the city, and in a few minutes more was within view and\nearshot of the sights and sounds of the fair. I saw the crowd; I got a\nglimpse of the canvas roofs of the shows at the end of the old\nbridge--the locality on which the fair was then held; and heard the\nscreaming and braying of the cracked trumpets, the clanging of the\ncymbals, and the thunders of the bass drums.\n\nMy heart beat high on hearing these joyous sounds. I quickened my pace,\nand in a few seconds was in the thick of the throng that crowded the\nspace in front of the long line of shows extending from the bridge to\nthe Bridgegate. As it was yet several hours to the height of the\nhorse-market, I resolved on devoting that interval to seeing some of the\ninteresting sights which stood in such tempting array before me.\n\nThe first that fixed my regard was \"The Great Lancashire Giant,\" whose\nportrait at full length--that is, at the length of some fifteen or\ntwenty feet--flapped on a sheet of canvas nearly as large as the\nmainsail of a Leith smack.\n\nThis extraordinary personage was represented, in the picture, as a youth\nof sixteen, dressed in a ruffled shirt, a red jacket, and white\ntrousers; and his exhibitor assured the spectators that, though but a\nboy, he already measured nine feet in height and seven feet round the\nbody; that each of his shoes would make a coffin for a child of five\nyears old, and every stocking hold a sack of flour. Six full-grown\npersons, he added, could be easily buttoned within his waistcoat; and\nhis tailor, he asserted, was obliged to mount a ladder when he measured\nhim for a jacket.\n\nDeeply interested by the astounding picture of this extraordinary youth,\nand the still more astounding description given of him by his exhibitor,\nI ascended the little ladder that conducted to the platform in front of\nthe show, paid my twopence--the price of admission--and in the next\nminute was in the presence of \"The Great Lancashire Giant;\" a position\nwhich enabled me to make discoveries regarding that personage that were\nnot a little mortifying.\n\nIn the first place, I found that, instead of being a youth of sixteen,\nhe was a man of at least six-and-thirty; in the next, that if it had not\nbeen for the raised dais on which he stood, the enormous thickness of\nthe soles of his shoes, and the other palpably fictitious contrivances\nand expedients by which his dimensions were enlarged, he would not\ngreatly have exceeded the size of my own father. I found, in short, that\nthe tremendous \"Lancashire Giant\" was merely a pretty tall man, and\nnothing more.\n\nQuitting this exhibition, and not a little displeased at being so\negregiously bitten, I passed on to the next, which was \"Mr.\nHiggenbotham's Royal Menagerie. The Noblest Collection of Wild Beasts\never seen in the Civilised World.\"\n\nThis was a splendid affair. On a narrow stage in front were seated four\nfat red-faced musicians, in beef-eater coats, puffing and blowing on\nbugles and trombones. Close by these, stood a thin, sharp-eyed,\nsallow-complexioned man in plain clothes, beating a huge drum, and\nadding the music of a set of Pandean pipes, which were stuck into his\nbosom, to the general harmony. This was Mr. Higgenbotham himself.\n\nBut it was the paintings on the immense field of canvas above that\nparticularly attracted my attention. On this field were exhibited an\nappalling collection of the most terrific monsters: lions, as large as\ncows, gambolling amongst rocks; ourang-outangs, of eight feet in height,\nwalking with sticks in their hands, as grave and stately as drum-majors;\nand a serpent, as thick as a hogshead, and of interminable length--in\ntruth, without any beginning, middle, or end--twining round an\nunfortunate black, and crushing him to death in its enormous folds.\n\nAll this was irresistible. So up the stair I sprang, paid my sixpence,\nand in a moment after found myself in the centre of the well-saw dusted\narea in the interior, gazing on the various birds and beasts in the\ncages around me. It was by no means a perplexing task; for, as in the\ncase of \"The Great Lancashire Giant,\" the fulfilment of the inside but\nlittle corresponded with the promise of the out. The principal part of\nthe collection I found to consist of half-a-dozen starved monkeys, as\nmany parrots--grey and green, an indescribable monster, in a dark\ncorner, strongly suspected by some of the spectators of being a boy in a\npolar bear's skin, a bird of paradise, and a hedgehog, which they\ndignified with the name of a porcupine.\n\n\"Whaur's the lions, and the teegers, and the elephants, and the boy\ninstructor, and the black man?\" said a disappointed countryman,\naddressing a fellow in a short canvas frock or overall, who was crossing\nthe area with a bucket of water.\n\n\"Ah! them's all in the other caravan,\" replied the man, \"vich should\n'ave been here on Monday night, but hasn't coom yet, and we suppose has\nbroken down by the way; but there's a hanimal worth 'em all,\" he added,\npointing to the indescribable monster in the dark corner. \"The most\ncuriousest ever was seen. Take a look on him; and if you don't own he\nis, I'll heat him, skin and all. They calls him the great Guampa from\nSouth America.\"\n\nHaving said this, the fellow, desirous, for reasons best known to\nhimself, to avoid further questioning, hurried away, and disappeared at\na side door.\n\nIt was just as this man left us, and as the small crowd of spectators,\nof whom I was one, who had surrounded him, were dispersing, that a\ngentleman--or a person, at least, who had the air and manner of one,\nalthough somewhat broken down in his apparel--came close up to me, and\nwhispered in my ear, in a perfectly calm and composed tone--\n\n\"My lad, you are robbed.\"\n\nWith a start of horror, and a face as pale as death, I clapped my hand\non the outside of my buttoned jacket, to feel for my pocket-book, which\nI carefully deposited in an inside pocket. It was gone.\n\n\"Be calm--be composed, my lad,\" said the gentleman, marking my excessive\nagitation, and seeing that I was about to make some outcry. \"The fellows\nwill bolt on the least alarm; and as there are three or four of them,\nmay force their way out, if driven to extremity. Leave the matter to me,\nand I'll manage it for you.\"\n\nDuring all this time, the stranger, who had spoken in a very low tone,\ncarefully abstained from looking towards those of whom he was speaking,\nand wore such an air of composure and indifference, that no one could\npossibly have suspected for a moment what was the subject of his\ncommunication to me.\n\nHaving made this communication, and desired me to remain where I was,\nand to exhibit no symptom of anything particular having happened, my\nfriend, as I could not but reckon him, went out for an instant.\n\nWhen he returned, he kept hovering about the entrance into the show, as\nif to prevent the egress of any one, but without making any sign to me,\nor even looking at me. My agitation during this interval was excessive;\nand although I strictly obeyed my friend's injunctions, notwithstanding\nthat I knew not to what they were to lead, I could not suppress the\ndreadful feelings by which I was distracted. I, however, did all I could\nto refrain from exhibiting any outward sign of consciousness of my loss.\n\nTo return to my friend. He had not stood, I think, more than a minute at\nthe entrance to the menagerie, when I observed three fellows, after\nhaving winked to each other, edging towards it. My friend, on seeing\nthem approach, planted himself in the doorway, and, addressing the\nfirst, at the same time extending his arms to keep him back, said--\n\n\"Stop a moment, my lad, I have something to say to you.\"\n\nThe fellow seemed taken aback for a moment by this salutation; but,\nquickly regaining his natural effrontery, he, with a tremendous oath,\nmade an attempt to push past, when four policemen suddenly presented\nthemselves at the entrance.\n\n\"Come away, my lads,\" said my friend, addressing them. \"Just in time; a\nminute later, and the birds would have been flown. Guard the door there\na moment.\" Then, turning to the astonished spectators who were assembled\nin the area--\"Ladies and gentlemen,\" he said, \"there has been a robbery\ncommitted here within these fifteen minutes. I saw it done, and know the\nperson who did it; but as he has several colleagues here, all of whom I\nmay not have discovered, I have no doubt that the pocket-book--the\narticle stolen--has been long since transferred to other hands than\nthose that first took it. It is therefore necessary that we should all,\nwithout any exception, submit to a search of our persons by the officers\nhere.\"\n\nNo objection to this proceeding having been offered by any of the\npersons present, the search began; my friend submitting himself the\nfirst.\n\nThe operation was a tedious one; for it was unsuccessful. One after\nanother, including the three suspicious characters already alluded to,\nwas searched, but no pocket-book was found. At length, the last person\nwas taken in hand; and he, too, proved innocent--at least of the\npossession of my lost treasure.\n\nI was in despair at this result, thinking that my friend must have been\nmistaken as to the robbery--that is, as to his having witnessed it--and\nthat my money was irretrievably gone. No such despair of the issue,\nhowever, came over my friend--he did not appear in the least\ndisconcerted; but, on the completion of the fruitless search, merely\nnodded his head, uttering an expressive humph.\n\n\"It's gone,\" said I to him in bitter anguish.\n\n\"Patience a bit, my lad,\" he replied, with a smile. \"The pocket-book is\nwithin these four walls, and we'll find it too.\"\n\nTurning now to one of the men belonging to the establishment, he desired\nhim to bring one of the rakes with which they levelled the sawdust in\nthe area.\n\nIt was brought; when he set the man to work with it--to rake up, slowly\nand deliberately, the surface of the sawdust, himself vigilantly\nsuperintending the operation, and directing the man to proceed\nregularly, and to leave no spot untouched. I need not say with what\nintense interest I watched this proceeding. I felt as if life or death\nwere in the issue; for the loss of such a sum as \u00a330, although it could\nnot, perhaps, be considered a very great one, was sufficiently large to\ndistress my father seriously; and already some idea of never facing him\nagain, should the money not be recovered, began to cross my mind.\n\nAll thoughts, however, of this or any other kind were absorbed, for the\nmoment, by the deep interest which I took in the operations of the man\nwith the rake; an interest this in which all present, less or more,\nparticipated.\n\nFor a long while this search also was fruitless. More than half the area\nhad been gone over, and there was yet no appearance of my lost treasure.\n\nAt length, however--oh! how shall I describe the joy I felt?--a sweep of\nthe rake threw the well-known pocket-book on the surface of the sawdust.\nI darted on it, clutched it, tore it open, and saw the bank-notes\napparently untouched. I counted them. They were all there.\n\n\"I thought so; I thought we should find it,\" said, with a calm smile,\nthe gentleman who had been so instrumental in its recovery.\n\nThe whole proceedings of the thief or thieves, so promptly and correctly\nconjectured by my friend, were now obvious. Finding that passing it from\nhand to hand would not avail them, he who was last in possession of it\nhad, on the search commencing, dropt it on the ground, and shuffled it\nunder the sawdust with his foot.\n\nThe police now requested my friend to point out the person who had\ncommitted the robbery, that they might apprehend him; but this he\ndeclined, saying that he was not quite sure of the man, and that he\nwould not like to run the risk of blaming an innocent person; adding,\nwith the quiet smile that seemed to be natural to him, that as the money\nwas recovered, it might be as well to let the matter drop. The police\nfor some time insisted on my friend pointing out the man; but as he\ncontinued firmly to decline interfering further in the matter, they gave\nit up and left the place.\n\nEvery one saw that it was benevolence, however impoperly exerted, that\ninduced my friend to refuse giving up the culprit; and as I had now\nrecovered my money, I felt pretty much in the same disposition--that\nwas, to allow him to fall into other hands.\n\nI now presented the man who had been employed to rake the area with five\nshillings, for his trouble. But how or in what way was I to reward the\nfriendly person to whom I was wholly indebted for the recovery of my\npocket-book? This puzzled me sadly. Money, at least any such sum as I\ncould spare, I could not offer one who, notwithstanding the little\ndeficiencies in his apparel formerly noticed, had so much the appearance\nand manner of a gentleman. I was greatly at a loss. In the meantime, my\nfriend and I left the exhibition together; he lecturing me the while,\nalthough in the most kindly manner, on the danger of going into crowded\nplaces with large sums of money about one's person.\n\nHe said he had seen a good deal of the world, had resided long in\nLondon, and knew all the tricks of the swell mob.\n\n\"It was my knowledge and experience of these gentry,\" he added, \"that\nenabled me to manage your little matter so successfully.\" We were at\nthis time passing along Stockwell Street, when, observing a\nrespectable-looking tavern, it struck me that I might, without offence,\nask my friend to take a little refreshment,--a glass of wine or so.\n\nWith some hesitation, I proposed it.\n\nHe smiled; and as if rather complying with my humour, or as if unwilling\nto offend me by a refusal, said, \"Well, my young friend, I have no\nobjection, although I am not greatly in the habit of going to taverns.\nNot there, however,\" he added, seeing me moving towards the house on\nwhich I had fixed my eye. \"There is a house in the Saltmarket, which, on\nthe rare occasions I do go to a tavern, and that is chiefly for a sight\nof the papers, I always frequent. They are decent, respectable people.\nSo we'll go there, if you please; that is, if it be quite the same to\nyou.\"\n\nI said it was, and that I would cheerfully accompany him wherever he\nchose.\n\nThis point settled, we proceeded to the Saltmarket; when my friend, who,\nby the way, had now told me that his name was Lancaster, conducted me up\na dark, dirty-looking close, and finally into a house of anything but\nrespectable appearance. The furniture was scanty, and what was of it\nmuch dilapidated: half the backs of half the chairs were broken off, the\ntables were dirty and covered with stains and the circular marks of\ndrinking measures. A tattered sofa stood at one end of the apartment,\nthe walls were hung with paltry prints, and the small, old-fashioned,\ndirty windows hung with dirtier curtains.\n\nTo crown all, we met, as we entered, a huge, blowzy, tawdrily dressed\nwoman, of most forbidding appearance, who, I was led to understand, was\nthe mistress of the house. Between this person and Mr. Lancaster I\nthought I perceived a rapid secret signal pass as we came in, but was\nnot sure.\n\nAll this--namely, the appearance of the house and its mistress, the\nshabbiness of the entrance to the former, the secret signal, etc.\netc.--surprised me a little; but I suspected nothing wrong--never dreamt\nof it.\n\nOn our taking our seats in the apartment into which we had been shown, I\nasked my good genius, Mr. Lancaster, what he would choose to drink.\n\nHe at once replied that he drank nothing but wine; spirits and malt\nliquors, he said, always did him great injury.\n\nBut too happy to be able to contribute in any way to the gratification\nof one who had rendered me so essential a service, I immediately ordered\na bottle of the best port, he having expressed a preference for that\ndescription of wine.\n\nIt was brought; when Mr. Lancaster, kindly assuming the character of\nhost, quickly filled our glasses, when we pledged each other and drank.\n\nWine, at that time, was no favourite liquor of mine, so that I soon\nbegan to show some reluctance to swallowing it.\n\nMr. Lancaster, perceiving this, began to banter me on my abstemiousness,\nand to urge me to do more justice to the wine, which he said was\nexcellent.\n\nPrevailed on partly by his urgency, and partly by a fear of displeasing\nhim by further resistance, I now took out my glass as often as he filled\nit.\n\nThe consequence was, that I soon felt greatly excited; and eventually so\nmuch so, that I not only readily swallowed bumper after bumper, but,\nwhen our bottle was done, insisted on another being brought in;\nforgetting everything but my debt of gratitude to Mr. Lancaster, and\nlosing sight, for the moment at any rate, of all my obligations, in the\ndelight with which I listened to his entertaining conversation. For\nanother half hour we went on merrily, and the second bottle of wine was\nnearly finished, when I suddenly felt a strange sinking sensation come\nover me. The countenance of Mr. Lancaster, who sat opposite me, seemed\nto disappear, as did also all the objects with which I was surrounded.\n\nFrom that moment I became unconscious of all that passed. I sank down on\nthe floor in the heavy sleep, or rather in the utter insensibility, of\nexcessive intoxication.\n\nOn awaking, which was not until a late hour of the night, I found the\nscene changed. The room was dark, the bottles and glasses removed, and\nmy friend Mr. Lancaster gone.\n\nIt was some seconds before I felt myself struck by this contrast; that\nis, before I fully recollected the circumstances which had preceded my\nunconsciousness. These, however, gradually unfolded themselves, until\nthe whole stood distinctly before me. After having sat up for a second\nor two--for I found myself still on the floor when I awoke, having been\nleft to lie where I fell--and having recalled all the circumstances of\nthe day's occurrences, I instinctively clapped my hand to the breast of\nmy jacket to feel for my pocket-book. It was again gone. Thinking at\nfirst that it might have dropt out while I slept, I began groping about\nthe floor; but there was no pocket-book there. In great alarm I now\nstarted to my feet, and began calling on the house. My calls were\nanswered by the landlady herself, who, with a candle in her hand, and a\nfierce expression of face, flushed apparently with drink, entered the\napartment, and sternly demanded what I wanted, and what I meant by\nmaking such a noise in her house.\n\nTaking no notice of the uncourteous manner in which she had addressed\nme, I civilly asked her what had become of Mr. Lancaster.\n\n\"Who's Mr. Lancaster?\" she said fiercely. \"I know no Mr. Lancaster.\"\n\n\"The gentleman,\" I replied, \"who came in here with me, and who drank\nwine with me.\"\n\n\"I know nothing about him,\" said the virago; \"I never saw him before.\"\n\n\"That's strange,\" said I; \"he told me that he was in the habit of\nfrequenting this house.\"\n\n\"If he did so, he told you a lie,\" replied the lady; \"and I tell you\nagain, that I know nothing about him, and that I never saw him before,\nnor ever expect to see him again.\"\n\nI now informed her that I missed a pocket-book containing a considerable\nsum of money, and, simply enough, asked her if she had it, or knew\nanything about it.\n\nAt this, her rage, which before she seemed to have great difficulty in\ncontrolling, burst out in the wildest fury.\n\n\"I know nothing about your pocket-book,\" she exclaimed, stamping\npassionately on the floor; \"nor do I believe you had one. It's all a\nfetch to bilk me out of my reckoning; but I'll take care of you, you\nswindler! I'm not to be done that way. Come, down with the price of the\ntwo bottles of wine you and your pal drank--fifteen shillings--or I'll\nhave the worth of them out of your skin.\" And she flourished the\ncandlestick in such a way as led me to expect every instant that it\nwould descend on my skull.\n\nTerrified by the ferocious manner and threatening attitude of the\ntermagant, and beginning to feel that the getting safe out of the house\nought to be considered as a most desirable object, I told her, in the\nmost conciliatory manner I could assume, that I had not a farthing\nbeyond two or three shillings, which she was welcome to; all my money\nhaving been in the pocket-book which I had lost--I dared not say of\nwhich I had been robbed.\n\n\"Let's see what you have, then,\" she said, extending her hand to receive\nthe loose silver I had spoken of. I gave it to her.\n\n\"Now,\" she said, \"troop, troop with you; walk off, walk off,\" motioning\nme towards the outer door, \"and be thankful you have got off so cheaply,\nafter swindling me out of my reckoning, and trying to injure the\ncharacter of my house.\"\n\nBut too happy at the escape permitted me, I hurried out of the house,\nnext down the stair--a pretty long one--at a couple of steps, and rushed\ninto the street.\n\nI will not here detain the reader with any attempt at describing my\nfeelings on this occasion: he will readily conceive them, on taking into\naccount all the circumstances connected with my unhappy position. My\nmoney gone now, there was no doubt, irretrievably; the market over, no\nhorse bought, the hour late, and I an entire stranger in the city,\nwithout a penny in my pocket; my senses confused, and a mortal sickness\noppressing me, from the quantity of wine I had drunk, and which, I began\nto suspect, had been drugged.\n\nLittle as I was then conversant with the ways of the town, I knew there\nwas but one quarter where I could apply or hope for any assistance in\nthe recovery of my property. This was the police office.\n\nThither I accordingly ran, inquiring my way as I went--for I knew not\nwhere it was--with wild distraction in my every look and movement.\n\nOn reaching the office, I rushed breathlessly into it, and began\ntelling my story as promptly and connectedly as my exhaustion and\nagitation would permit. My tale was patiently listened to by the two or\nthree men whom I found on duty in the office. When I had done, they\nsmiled and shook their heads; expressions which I considered as no good\naugury of the recovery of my pocket-book.\n\nOne of the men--a sergeant apparently--now put some minute queries to me\nregarding the personal appearance of my friend Mr. Lancaster. I gave him\nthe best description of that gentleman I could; but neither the sergeant\nnor any of the others seemed to recognise him. They had no doubt,\nhowever, they said, that he was a professed swindler, and in all\nprobability one of late importation into the city; that there was little\nquestion that he was the person who had robbed me; adding, what was\nindeed obvious enough, that he had assisted in the recovery of my\npocket-book from the first set of thieves who assailed me, that he might\nsecure it for himself.\n\nThe house in the Saltmarket, which I also described as well as I could,\nthey knew at once, saying it was one of the most infamous dens in the\ncity. The men now promised that they would use every exertion in their\npower to recover my money, but gave me to understand that there was\nlittle or no hope of success. The event justified their anticipations.\nThey could discover no trace of Lancaster; and as to the house in the\nSaltmarket, there was not the slightest evidence of any connection\nwhatever between its mistress, or any other of its inmates, and either\nthe robber or the robbery. The police indeed searched the house; but of\ncourse to no purpose.\n\nBeing, as I have already said, penniless, and thus without the means of\ngoing anywhere else, I remained in the police office all night; and, in\nthe hope every hour of hearing something of my pocket-book, hung about\nit all next day till towards the evening, when the sergeant, of whom I\nhave before spoken, came up to me as I was sauntering about the gate,\nand told me that it was useless my hanging on any longer about the\noffice; that all would be done in my case that could be done; but that,\nin the meantime, I had better go home, leaving my address; and that if\nanything occurred, I would instantly be informed of it. \"But I think it\nbut right to tell you, young man,\" he added, \"that there is scarcely any\nchance whatever of your ever recovering a sixpence of your money. I\nmention this to prevent you indulging in any false hopes. It is best you\nshould know the worst at once.\"\n\nSatisfied that the man spoke truly, and that it was indeed useless my\nhanging on any longer, I gave him my name and address, and went away,\nalthough it was with a heavy heart, and without knowing whither I should\ngo; for to my father's house I could not think of returning, after what\nhad happened. I would not have faced him for the world. In this matter,\nindeed, I did my father a great injustice; for although a little severe\nin temper, he was a just and reasonable man, and would most certainly\nhave made all allowances for what had occurred to me.\n\nThe determination--for it now amounted to that--to which I had come, not\nto return home, was one, therefore, not warranted by any good reason; it\nwas wholly the result of one of those mad impulses which so frequently\nlead youthful inexperience into error.\n\nOn leaving the vicinity of the police office, I sauntered towards the\nHigh Street without knowing or caring whither I went. Having reached the\nstreet just named, I proceeded downwards, still heedless of my way,\nuntil I found myself in the Saltmarket, the scene of my late disaster.\n\nCuriosity, or perhaps some vague, absurd idea of seeing something or\nother, I could not tell what, that might lead to the recovery of my\npocket-book, induced me to look about me to see if I could discover the\ntavern in which I had been robbed. I was thus employed--that is, gaping\nand staring at the windows of the lower flats of the houses on either\nside of the street, for I did not recollect on which was the house I\nwanted--when a smart little man, dressed in a blue surtout, with a black\nstock about his neck, and carrying a cane in his hand, made up to me\nwith a--\n\n\"Looking for any particular place, my lad?\"\n\nTaken unawares, and not choosing to enter into any explanations with a\nstranger, I simply answered, \"No, no.\"\n\n\"Because if you were,\" continued my new acquaintance, \"I should have\nbeen glad to have helped you. But I say, my lad--excuse me,\" he went on,\nnow looking earnestly in my face, and perceiving by my eyes that I had\nbeen weeping, which was indeed the case--\"you seem to be distressed.\nWhat has happened you? I don't ask from any impertinent curiosity, but\nfrom sympathy, seeing you are a stranger.\"\n\nWords of kindness in the hour of distress, by whomsoever offered, at\nonce find their way to the heart, and open up the sluices of its pent-up\nfeelings. The friendly address of the stranger had this effect on me in\nthe present instance. I told him at once what had occurred to me.\n\n\"Bad business, my lad; bad business indeed,\" he said. \"But don't be cast\ndown. Fair weather comes after foul. You'll soon make all up again.\"\n\nThis was commonplace enough comfort; but without minding the words, the\nintention was good, and with that I was gratified.\n\nMy new friend, who had learnt from what I told him that I was penniless,\nnow proposed that I should take share of a bottle of ale with him.\nCertain recollections of another friend, namely, Mr. Lancaster, made me\nhesitate, indeed positively decline, this invitation at first; but on my\nnew acquaintance pressing his kindness, and the melancholy truth\noccurring to me that I had now no pocket-book to lose, I yielded, and\naccompanied him to a tavern at the foot of the High Street. I may add\nthat I was the more easily induced to this, that I was in a dreadful\nstate of exhaustion, having tasted nothing in the shape of either food\nor drink for nearly thirty hours.\n\nHaving entered the tavern, a bottle of ale and a plate of biscuit\nquickly stood before us. My entertainer filled up the glasses; when,\nhaving presented me with one, he raised his own to his lips, wished me\n\"better luck,\" and tossed it off. I quickly followed his example, and\nnever before or since drank anything with so keen a relish. After we had\ndrunk a second glass each--\n\n\"Well, my lad,\" said my new acquaintance, \"what do you propose doing? Do\nyou intend returning to the plough-tail, eh? I should hardly think\nyou'll venture home again after such a cursed mishap.\"\n\nI at once acknowledged that I did not intend returning home again; but\nas to what I should do, I did not know.\n\n\"Why, now,\" replied my entertainer, \"I think a stout, good-looking,\nlikely young fellow as you are need be at no loss. There's the army. Did\nyou ever think of that, eh? The only thing for a lad of spirit. Smart\nclothes, good living, and free quarters, with a chance of promotion.\nThe chance, said I? Why, I might say the certainty. Bounty too, you\nyoung dog! A handful of golden guineas, and pretty girls to court in\nevery town. List, man, list,\" he shouted, clapping me on the shoulder,\n\"and your fortune's made!\"\n\nList! It had never occurred to me before. I had never thought, never\ndreamt of it. But now that the idea was presented to me, I by no means\ndisliked it. It was not, however, the flummery of my new acquaintance,\nwho, I need hardly say, was neither more nor less than a sergeant in\ncoloured clothes, assumed, I suppose, for the purpose of taking young\nfellows like myself unawares,--I say it was not his balderdash, which,\nyoung and raw as I was, I fully perceived, that reconciled me to the\nnotion of listing. It was because I saw in it a prompt and ready means\nof escaping the immediate destitution with which I was threatened, my\nfoolish determination not to return home having rather gained strength\nthan weakened, notwithstanding a painful sense of the misery which my\nprotracted absence must have been occasioning at home. To the sergeant's\nproposal of listing, therefore, I at once assented; when the former\ncalling in the landlord, tendered me in his presence the expressive\nshilling.\n\nThe corps into which I had listed was the----, then lying in the Tower,\nLondon, there being only the sergeant and two or three men of the\nregiment in Glasgow recruiting. The matter of listing settled, the\nsergeant bespoke me a bed for the night in the tavern in which we were,\nthat being his own quarters.\n\nOn the following day I was informed, much to my surprise, although by no\nmeans to my regret, that a detachment of recruits for the---- were to be\nsent off that evening at nine o'clock by the track boat for Edinburgh,\nand from thence by sea to the headquarters of the regiment at London,\nand that I was to be of the number. At nine o'clock of the evening,\naccordingly, we were shipped at Port-Dundas.\n\nBefore leaving Glasgow, however, I made one last call at the police\noffice to inquire whether any discoveries had been made regarding my\npocket-book, but found that nothing whatever had been heard of it.\n\nOn the following day we reached Edinburgh; on the next we were embarked\non board a Leith smack for London, where we arrived in safety on the\nfourth day thereafter, and were marched to the Tower, which was at the\ntime the headquarters of the regiment. Amongst the young men who were of\nthe party who came up with me from Scotland, there was one with whom I\nbecame particularly intimate, and who was subsequently my comrade. His\nname was John Lindsay, a native of Glasgow. He was about my own age, or\nperhaps a year older--a lively, active, warm-hearted lad, but of a\nrestless, roving disposition.\n\nIt was, I think, about a fortnight after our arrival in London, that\nLindsay one day, while rummaging a small trunk in the barrack-room,\nwhich had formed the entire of his travelling equipage from Scotland,\nstumbled on a letter, with whose delivery he had been entrusted by some\none in Glasgow, but which he had entirely forgotten. It was addressed in\na scrawling hand--\"To Susan Blaikie, servant with Henry Wallscourt,\nEsq., 19, Grosvenor Square, London.\"\n\n\"Here's a job, Davy,\" said Lindsay, holding up the letter. \"I promised\nfaithfully to deliver this within an hour after my arrival in London,\nand here it is still. But better late than never. Will you go with me\nand see the fair maiden to whom this is addressed? It contains, I\nbelieve, a kind of introduction to her, and may perhaps lead to some\nsport.\"\n\nI readily closed with Lindsay's proposal, and in ten minutes after we\nset out for Grosvenor Square, which we had no difficulty in finding.\nNeither were we long in discovering No. 19, the residence of Henry\nWallscourt, Esq. It was a magnificent house, everything about it\nbespeaking a wealthy occupant.\n\nLeaving me on the flagstones, Lindsay now descended into the area; but\nin two or three minutes returned, and motioned me with his finger to\ncome to him.\n\nI did so, when he told me that he had seen Susan Blaikie, and that she\nhad invited us to come in. Into the house we accordingly went, and were\nconducted by Susan, a lively, pretty girl, who welcomed us with great\ncordiality, into what appeared to be a housekeeper's room.\n\nMy comrade, Lindsay, having given Susan all the Scotch, particularly\nGlasgow, news in his budget, the latter left the room for a few minutes,\nwhen she returned with a tray of cold provisions--ham, fowl, and roast\nbeef.\n\nPlacing these before us, and adding a bottle of excellent porter, she\ninvited us to fall-to. We did so, and executed summary justice on the\ngood things placed before us.\n\nAfter this we sat for about half an hour, when we rose to depart. This,\nhowever, she would not permit till we had promised that we would come,\non the following night, and take tea with her and one or two of her\nfellow-servants. This promise we readily gave, and as willingly kept.\nOne of the party, on the night of the tea-drinking, was the footman of\nthe establishment, Richard Digby--a rakish, dissipated-looking fellow,\nwith an affected air, and an excessively refined and genteel manner,\nthat is, as he himself thought it. To others, at least to me, he\nappeared an egregious puppy; the obvious spuriousness of his assumed\ngentility inspiring a disgust which I found it difficult to suppress.\nNeither could I suppress it so effectually as to prevent the fellow\ndiscovering it. He did so; and the consequence was the rise of a hearty\nand mutual dislike, which, however, neither of us evinced by any overt\nact.\n\nHaving found the society of our fair countrywoman and her friends very\nagreeable, we--that is, Lindsay and myself--became frequent visitors;\ndrinking tea with her and her fellow-servants at least two or three\ntimes a week. While this was going on, a detachment of the new recruits,\nof whom Lindsay was one, was suddenly ordered to Chatham. I missed my\ncomrade much after his departure; but as I had by this time established\nan intimacy with Susan and her fellow-servants on my own account, I\nstill continued visiting there, and drinking tea occasionally as\nformerly.\n\nIt was on one of these occasions, and about ten days after Lindsay had\nleft London, that as I was leaving Mr. Wallscourt's house at a pretty\nlate hour--I think about eleven at night--I was suddenly collared by two\nmen, just as I had ascended the area stair, and was about to step out on\nthe pavement.\n\n\"What's this for?\" said I, turning first to the one and then to the\nother of my captors.\n\n\"We'll tell you that presently,\" replied one of the men, who had by this\ntime begun to grope about my person, as if searching for something. In a\nmoment after--\"Ah! let's see what's this,\" he said, plunging his hand\ninto one of my coat-pockets, and pulling out a silver table-spoon. \"All\nright,\" he added. \"Come away, my lad;\" and the two forthwith began\ndragging me along.\n\nThe whole affair was such a mystery to me, and of such sudden\noccurrence, that it was some seconds before I could collect myself\nsufficiently to put any such calm and rational queries to my captors as\nmight elicit an explanation of it. All that I could say was merely to\nrepeat my inquiry as to the meaning of the treatment I was\nundergoing--resisting instinctively, the while, the efforts of the men\nto urge me forward. This last, however, was vain; for they were two\npowerful fellows, and seemed scarcely to feel the resistance I made. To\nmy reiterated demand of explanation they merely replied that I should\nhave it presently, but that they rather thought I did not stand greatly\nin need of it.\n\nObliged to rest satisfied, in the meantime, with such evasive answers,\nand finding resistance useless, indeed uncalled for, as I was\nunconscious of any crime, I now went peaceably along with the men.\nWhither they were conducting me the reader will readily guess; it was to\nBow Street.\n\nOn being brought into the office, the men conducted me up to a person\nwho, seated at a desk, was busily employed making entries in a large\nbook. One of my captors having whispered something into this person's\near, he turned sharply round and demanded my name. I gave it him.\n\n\"The others?\" he said.\n\n\"What others?\" I replied. \"I have only one name, and I have given it.\"\n\n\"Pho, pho!\" exclaimed he. \"Gentlemen of your profession have always a\ndozen. However, we'll take what you have given in the meantime.\" And he\nproceeded to make some entries in his book. They related to me, but I\nwas not permitted to see what they were. The table-spoon which had been\nfound in my pocket, and which had been placed on the desk before the\nofficial already spoken of, was now labelled and put past, and I was\nordered to be removed.\n\nDuring all this time I had been loudly protesting my innocence of any\ncrime; but no attention whatever was paid to me. So little effect,\nindeed, had my protestations, that one would have thought, judging by\nthe unmoved countenances around me, that they did not hear me at all,\nfor they went on speaking to each other, quite in the same way as if I\nhad not been present. The only indication I could perceive of a\nconsciousness of my being there, and of their hearing what I said, was\nan occasional faint smile of incredulity. At one time, provoked by my\nimportunity and my obstinate iteration of my innocence, the official who\nwas seated at the desk turned fiercely round, exclaiming--\n\n\"The spoon, the spoon, friend; what do you say to that--found in your\npocket, eh?\"\n\nI solemnly protested that I knew not how it came there; that I had never\nput it there, nor had the least idea of its being in my possession till\nit was produced by those that searched me.\n\n\"A very likely story,\" said the official, turning quietly round to his\nbook; \"but we'll see all about that by-and-by. Remove him, men.\"\n\nAnd I was hurried away, and locked up in a cell for the night.\n\nI cannot say that, when left to myself, I felt much uneasiness regarding\nthe result of the extraordinary matter that had occurred. I felt\nperfectly satisfied that, however awkward and unpleasant my situation\nwas in the meantime, the following day would clear all up, and set me at\nliberty with an unblemished character. From all that had taken place, I\ncollected that I was apprehended on a charge of robbery; that is, of\nabstracting property from Mr. Wallscourt's house, of which the silver\nspoon found in my possession was considered a proof. There was much,\nhowever, in the matter of painful and inexplicable mystery. How came\nthe constables to be so opportunely in the way when I left the house?\nand, more extraordinary still, how came the silver spoon into my\npossession? Regarding neither of these circumstances could I form the\nslightest plausible conjecture; but had no doubt that, whether they\nshould ever be explained or not, my entire innocence of all such guilt\nas the latter of them pointed at, would clearly appear. But, as the\nsaying has it, \"I reckoned without my host.\" On the following morning I\nwas brought before the sitting magistrate, and, to my inexpressible\nsurprise, on turning round a little, saw Richard Digby in the\nwitness-box. Thinking at first that he was there to give some such\nevidence as would relieve me from the imputation under which I lay, I\nnodded to him; but he took no further notice of the recognition than by\nlooking more stern than before.\n\nPresently my case was entered on. Digby was called on to state what he\nhad to say to the matter. Judge of my consternation, gentle reader, when\nI heard him commence the following statement:--\n\nHaving premised that he was servant with Mr. Wallscourt, of No. 19,\nGrosvenor Square, he proceeded to say that during the space of the three\nprevious weeks he had from time to time missed several valuable pieces\nof plate belonging to his master; that this had happened repeatedly\nbefore he could form the slightest conjecture as to who the thief could\npossibly be. At last it occurred to him that the abstraction of the\nplate corresponded, in point of time, with the prisoner's (my)\nintroduction to the house--in other words, that it was from that date\nthe robberies commenced, nothing of the kind having ever happened\nbefore; that this circumstance led him to suspect me; that in\nconsequence he had on the previous night placed a silver table-spoon in\nsuch a situation in the servants' hall as should render it likely to be\nseen by the prisoner when he came to tea, Susan Blaikie having\npreviously informed him that he was coming; that, shortly after the\nprisoner's arrival, he contrived, by getting Susan and some of the other\nservants out of the room, on various pretexts, to have the prisoner left\nalone for several minutes; that, on his return, finding the spoon gone,\nhe had no longer any doubt of the prisoner's guilt; that, on feeling\nsatisfied of this, he immediately proceeded to the nearest\nstation-house, and procuring two constables, or policemen, stationed\nthem at the area gate, with instructions to seize the prisoner the\nmoment he came out; and that if the spoon was found on him--of which he\nhad no doubt--to carry him away to Bow Street.\n\nSuch, then, was Mr. Digby's statement of the affair; and a very\nplausible and connected one, it must be allowed, it was. It carried\nconviction to all present, and elicited from the presiding magistrate a\nhigh encomium on that person's fidelity, ability, and promptitude.\n\nThe silver spoon, labelled as I had seen it, was now produced, when Mr.\nWallscourt, who was also present, was called on to identify it. This he\nat once did, after glancing at the crest and initials which were\nengraven on the handle. The charge against me thus laid and\nsubstantiated, I was asked if I had anything to say in my own defence.\n\nDefence! what defence could I make against an accusation so strongly\nput, and so amply supported by circumstances? None. I could meet it only\nby denial, and by assertions of innocence. This, however, I did, and\nwith such energy and earnestness--for horror and despair inspired me\nwith both courage and eloquence--that a favourable impression was\nperceptible in the court. The circumstantial statement of Digby,\nhowever, with all its strong probabilities, was not to be overturned by\nmy bare assertions; and the result was, that I was remanded to prison to\nstand trial at the ensuing assizes, Mr. Wallscourt being bound over to\nprosecute.\n\nWretched, however, as my situation was, I had not been many hours in\nprison when I regained my composure; soothed by the reflection that,\nhowever disgraceful or unhappy my position might be, it was one in which\nI had not deserved being placed. I was further supported by the\nconviction, which even the result of my late examination before the\nmagistrate had not in the least weakened, that my innocence would yet\nappear, and that in sufficient time to save me from further legal\nprosecution. Buoyed up by these reflections, I became, if not cheerful,\nat least comparatively easy in my mind. I thought several times during\nmy imprisonment of writing to my father,--to whom, by the way, as I\nshould have mentioned before, I wrote from Edinburgh, when on my way to\nLondon, in order to relieve the minds of my mother and himself from any\napprehensions of anything more serious having happened me, telling them\nof my loss, and the way it had occurred, but without telling them that I\nhad listed, or where I was going,--I say I thought several times during\nmy confinement of writing to my father, and informing him of the unhappy\ncircumstances in which I was placed; but, on reflection, it occurred to\nme that such a proceeding would only give him and the rest of the family\nneedless pain, seeing that he could be of no service to me whatever. I\ntherefore dropped the idea, thinking it better that they should know\nnothing about the matter--nothing, at least, until my trial was over,\nand my innocence established; concomitant events, as I had no doubt they\nwould prove. In the meantime the day of trial approached. It came, and\nI stood naked and defenceless; for I had no money to employ counsel, no\nfriends to assist me with advice. I stood at the bar of the Old Bailey\nshielded only by my innocence; a poor protection against evidence so\nstrong and circumstantial as that which pointed to my guilt.\n\nMy trial came on. It was of short duration. Its result, what every one\nwho knew anything of the matter foresaw but myself. I was found guilty,\nand sentenced to fourteen years' transportation.\n\nAs on a former occasion, I will leave it to the reader himself to form a\nconception of what my feelings were when this dreadful sentence rung in\nmy ears--so horrible, so unexpected. A sudden deafness struck me that,\ncommingling all sounds, rendered them unintelligible; a film came over\nmy eyes; my heart fluttered strangely, and my limbs trembled so that I\nthought I should have sunk on the floor; but, making a violent effort, I\nsupported myself; and in a few seconds these agitating sensations so far\nsubsided as to allow of my retiring from the bar with tolerable\nsteadiness and composure.\n\nIt was several days, however, before I regained entire possession of\nmyself, and before I could contemplate my position in all its bearings\nwith anything like fortitude or resignation. On attaining this state, a\nthousand wild schemes for obtaining such a reconsideration of my case as\nmight lead to the discovery of my innocence presented themselves to my\nmind. I thought of addressing a letter to the judge who had tried me; to\nthe foreman of the jury who had found me guilty; to the prosecutor, Mr.\nWallscourt; to the Secretary of State; to the King. A little subsequent\nreflection, however, showed me the utter hopelessness of any such\nproceeding, as I had still only my simple, unsupported assertions to\noppose to the strong array of positive and circumstantial evidence\nagainst me; that, therefore, no such applications as I contemplated\ncould be listened to for a moment. Eventually satisfied of this, I came\nto the resolution of submitting quietly to my fate in the meantime,\ntrusting that some circumstance or other would, sooner or later, occur\nthat would lead to a discovery of the injustice that had been done me.\n\nWriting to my father I considered now out of the question. The same\nreasons that induced me to abstain from writing him before my trial,\npresented themselves in additional force to prevent me writing him\nafter. I resolved that he should never know of the misfortune, however\nundeserved, that had befallen me. I had all along--that is, since my\nconfinement--looked for some letter or other communication from Lindsay.\nSometimes I even hoped for a visit from him. But I was disappointed. I\nneither saw nor heard anything of him; and from this circumstance\nconcluded that he, too, thought me guilty, and that this was the cause\nof his desertion of me. Friendless and despised, I at once abandoned\nmyself to fate.\n\nOf poor Susan Blaikie, however, I did hear something; and that was, that\nshe was discharged from her situation. This intelligence distressed me\nmuch, although I had foreseen that it must necessarily happen.\n\nIn the apartment or cell into which I was placed after having received\nsentence, there were five or six young men in similar circumstances with\nmyself--not as regarded innocence of crime, but punishment. They were\nall under sentence of banishment for various terms.\n\nFrom these persons I kept as much aloof as possible. My soul sickened at\nthe contamination to which I was exposed by the society of such\nruffians, for they were all of the very worst description of London\ncharacters, and I did all I could to maintain the distinction between\nmyself and them, which my innocence of all crime gave me a right to\nobserve.\n\nUnder this feeling, it was my habit to sit in a remote part of the cell,\nand to take no share whatever either in the conversation or in the\ncoarse practical jokes with which they were in the habit of beguiling\nthe tedium of their confinement.\n\nThere was one occasion, however, on which I felt myself suddenly caught\nby an interest in their proceedings.\n\nSeeing them one day all huddled together, listening with great delight\nto one of their number who was reading a letter aloud, I gradually\napproached nearer, curious to know what could be in this letter to\nafford them so much amusement.\n\nConceive my astonishment and surprise when, after listening for a few\nminutes, I discovered that the subject which tickled my fellow-prisoners\nso highly was a description of my own robbery; that is, of the robbery\nin Glasgow of which I had been the victim.\n\nIt was written with considerable humour, and contained such a minute and\nfaithful account of the affair, that I had no doubt it had been written\nby Lancaster. Indeed it could have been written by no one else.\n\nThe letter in question, then, was evidently one from that person to a\ncompanion in crime who was amongst those with whom I was associated--no\ndoubt he who was reading it. The writer, however, seemed also well known\nto all the other parties.\n\nIn the letter itself, as well as in the remarks of the audience on it,\nthere was a great deal of slang, and a great many cant phrases which I\ncould not make out. But, on the whole, I obtained a pretty correct\nknowledge of the import of both.\n\nThe writer's description of me and of my worldly wisdom was not very\nflattering. He spoke of me as a regular flat, and the fleecing me as one\nof the easiest and pleasantest operations he had ever performed. He\nconcluded by saying that as he found there was nothing worth while to be\ndone in Scotland, he intended returning to London in a few days.\n\n\"More fool he,\" said one of the party, on this passage being read. \"That\naffair at Blackwall, in which Bob was concerned, has not yet blown over,\nand he'll be lagged, as sure as he lives, before he's a week in London.\"\n\n\"Well, so much the better,\" said another. \"In that case we'll have him\nacross the water with us, and be all the merrier for his company.\"\n\nIt was, I think, somewhat less than a month after this--for we were\ndetained in prison altogether about two-months after sentence till a\nsufficient number had accumulated for transportation--that we, meaning\nmyself and those in the ward in which I was confined, were favoured with\na new companion.\n\nThrowing open the door of our ward one afternoon, the turnkey ushered in\namongst us a person dressed out in the first style of fashion, and\nimmediately again secured the door. At first I could not believe that so\nfine a gentleman could possibly be a convict; I thought rather that he\nmust be a friend of some one of my fellow-prisoners. But I was quickly\nundeceived in this particular, and found that he was indeed one of _us_.\n\nOn the entrance of this convict dandy, the whole of my fellow-prisoners\nrushed towards him, and gave him a cordial greeting.\n\n\"Glad to see you, Nick,\" said the fellow who had foretold the speedy\napprehension of the letter-writer, as already related. \"Cursed fool to\ncome to London so soon. Knew you would be nabbed. What have you got?\"\n\n\"Fourteen,\" replied the new-comer, with a shrug of his shoulders.\n\nDuring all this time I had kept my eyes fixed on the stranger, whom I\nthought I should know. For a while, however, I was greatly puzzled to\nfix on any individual as identical with him; but at length it struck me\nthat he bore a wonderful resemblance to my Glasgow friend Lancaster.\n\nHis appearance was now, indeed, greatly changed. He was, for one thing,\nsplendidly attired, as I have already said, while at the time I had the\npleasure of knowing him first he was very indifferently dressed. His\nface, too, had undergone some alterations. He had removed a bushy pair\nof whiskers which he sported in Glasgow, and had added to his\nadventitious characteristics a pair of green spectacles. It was these\nlast that perplexed me most, in endeavouring to make out his identity.\nBut he soon laid them aside, as being now of no further use--an\noperation which he accompanied by sundry jokes on their utility, and the\nservice they had done him in the way of preventing inconvenient\nrecognitions. Notwithstanding all these changes, however, in the\nnew-comer's appearance, I soon became quite convinced that he was no\nother than Lancaster; and, under this impression, I took an opportunity\nof edging towards him, and putting the question plumply to him, although\nunder breath, for I did not care that the rest should hear it.\n\n\"Your name, sir, is Lancaster, I think?\" said I.\n\nHe stared in my face for a second or two without making any reply, or\nseeming to recognise me. At length--\n\n\"No, youngster, it isn't,\" he said with the most perfect assurance.\n\n\"But you have taken that name on an occasion?\" said I.\n\n\"Oh, perhaps I may,\" he replied coolly. \"I have taken a great many names\nin my day. I'll give you a hundred of them at a penny a dozen. But,\nLancaster, let me see,\" and he kept looking hard at me as he spoke.\n\"Why, it can't be,\" he added, with a sudden start. \"Impossible! eh?\" and\nhe looked still more earnestly at me. \"Are you from Glasgow, young un?\"\n\nI said I was.\n\n\"Did you ever see me there?\"\n\nI shook my head, and said, to my cost I had.\n\nHow my friend Mr. Lancaster received this intimation of our former\nacquaintance I must reserve for another number, as I must also do the\nsequel of my adventures; for I have yet brought the reader but half\nthrough the history of my chequered life.\n\n\n\n\nTHE CONVICT;\n\n\nBEING THE SEQUEL TO \"DAVID LORIMER.\"\n\nThe reader will recollect that when he and I parted, at the conclusion\nof the last number, I had just intimated to Mr. Lancaster my conviction\nof our having had a previous acquaintance. Does the reader imagine that\nthat gentleman was in any way discomposed at this recognition on my\npart, or at the way in which it was signified? that he felt ashamed or\nabashed? The sequel will show whether he did or not.\n\nOn my replying to his inquiry whether I had ever seen him in Glasgow, by\nshaking my head, and saying that I had to my cost, he burst into a loud\nlaugh, and, striking his thigh with as much exultation as if he had just\nmade one of the most amusing discoveries imaginable, exclaimed--\n\n\"All right. Here, my pals,\" turning to the other prisoners. \"Here's a\nqueer concern. Isn't this the very flat, Dick,\" addressing one of their\nnumber, \"that I did so clean in Glasgow, and about whom I wrote you! The\nfellow whom I met in the show.\"\n\n\"No! Possible!\" exclaimed several voices, whose owners now crowded about\nme with a delighted curiosity, and began bantering me in those slang\nterms in which they could best express their witticisms.\n\nI made no reply to either their insolences or their jokes; but,\nmaintaining an obstinate silence, took an early opportunity of\nwithdrawing to a remote part of the apartment. Nor did I--seeing how\nidle it would be to say a word more on the subject of the robbery which\nhad been committed on me in Glasgow, as it would only subject me to\nridicule and abuse--ever afterwards open my lips to Lancaster on the\nmatter: neither did he to me, and there the affair ended; for, in a few\ndays after, he was removed, for what reason I know not, to another cell,\nand I never saw him again.\n\nLet me here retrograde for a moment. In alluding, in the preceding\nnumber, to the various wild ideas that occurred to me after my\ncondemnation, on the subject of obtaining a reconsideration of my case,\nI forgot to mention that of applying to the colonel of my regiment; but,\non reflection, this seemed as absurd as the others, seeing that I had\nbeen little more than three weeks in the corps, and could therefore lay\nclaim to no character at the hands of any one belonging to it. I was\nstill a stranger amongst them. Besides, I found, from no interference\nwhatever having been made in my behalf, that I had been left entirely in\nthe hands of the civil law. Inquiries had no doubt been made into my\ncase by the commanding officer of my regiment, but with myself no direct\ncommunication had taken place. My connection with the corps, therefore,\nI took it for granted, was understood to be completely severed, and that\nI was left to undergo the punishment the sentence of the civil law had\nawarded.\n\nTo resume. In about a week after the occurrence of the incident with\nLancaster above described, I was removed to the hulks, where I remained\nfor somewhat more than a month, when I was put on board a convict ship,\nabout to sail for New South Wales, along with a number of other\nconvicts, male and female; none of them, I hope, so undeserving their\nfate as I was.\n\nAll this time I had submitted patiently to my destiny, seeing it was\nnow inevitable, and said nothing to any one of my innocence; for, in the\nfirst place, I found that every one of my companions in misfortune were,\naccording to their own accounts, equally innocent, and, in the next,\nthat nobody believed them.\n\nIt was in the evening we were embarked on board the convict ship; with\nthe next tide we dropped down the river; and, ere the sun of the\nfollowing day had many hours risen, found ourselves fairly at sea.\n\nFor upwards of three weeks we pursued our course prosperously, nothing\nin that time occurring of the smallest consequence; and as the wind had\nbeen all along favourable, our progress was so great, that many of us\nbegan thinking of the termination of our voyage. These, however, were\nrather premature reflections, as we had yet as many months to be at sea\nas we had been weeks.\n\nIt was about the end of the period just alluded to, that as I was one\nnight restlessly tossing on my hard straw mattress, unable to sleep,\nfrom having fallen into one of those painful and exciting trains of\nthought that so frequently visit and so greatly add to the miseries of\nthe unfortunate, my ear suddenly caught the sounds of whispering.\nDiverted from my reflections by the circumstance, I drew towards the\nedge of my sleeping berth, and thrusting my head a little way out--the\nplace being quite dark--endeavoured, by listening attentively, to make\nout who the speakers were, and what was the subject of their\nconversation. The former, after a little time, I discovered to be three\nof my fellow-convicts--one of them a desperate fellow, of the name of\nNorcot, a native of Middlesex, who had been transported for a highway\nrobbery, and who had been eminently distinguished for superior dexterity\nand daring in his infamous profession. The latter, however--namely, the\nsubject of their conversation--I could not make out; not so much from a\ndifficulty of overhearing what they said, as from the number of slang\nwords they employed. Their language was to me all but wholly\nunintelligible; for although my undesired association with them had\nenabled me to pick up a few of their words, I could make nothing of\ntheir jargon when spoken colloquially.\n\nUnable, therefore--although suspecting something wrong--to arrive at any\nconclusion regarding the purpose or object of this midnight\nconversation, I took no notice of it to any one, but determined on\nwatching narrowly the future proceedings of Norcot and his council.\n\nOn the following night the whispering was again repeated. I again\nlistened, but with nearly as little success as before. From what I did\nmake out, however, I was led to imagine that some attempt on the ship\nwas contemplated; and in this idea I was confirmed, when Norcot, on the\nfollowing day, taking advantage of a time when none of the seamen or\nsoldiers, who formed our guard, were near, slapped me on the shoulder\nwith a--\n\n\"Well, my pal, how goes it?\"\n\nSurprised at this sudden familiarity on the part of a man from whom I\nhad always most especially kept aloof, and who, I was aware, had marked\nmy shyness, as he had never before sought to exchange words with me, it\nwas some seconds before I could make him any answer. At length--\n\n\"If you mean as to my health,\" said I, \"I am very well.\"\n\n\"Ay, ay; but I don't mean that,\" replied Norcot. \"How do you like your\nquarters, my man? How do you like this sort of life, eh?\"\n\n\"Considering all circumstances, it's well enough; as well as ought\nreasonably to be expected,\" said I, in a tone meant to discourage\nfarther conversation on the subject. But he was not to be so put off.\n\n\"Ay, in the meantime,\" said he; \"but wait you till we get to New South\nWales; you'll see a difference then, my man, I'm thinking. You'll be\nkept working, from sunrise till sunset, up to the middle in mud and\nwater, with a chain about your neck. You'll be locked up in a dungeon at\nnight, fed upon mouldy biscuit, and, on the slightest fault, or without\nany fault at all, be flogged within an inch of your life with a\ncat-o'-nine-tails. How will ye like that, eh?\"\n\n\"_That_ I certainly should not like,\" I replied. \"But I hope you're\nexaggerating a little.\" I knew he was.\n\n\"Not a bit of it,\" said Norcot. \"Come here, Knuckler;\" and he motioned\nto a fellow-convict to come towards him. \"I've been telling this young\ncove here what he may expect when we reach our journey's end, but he\nwon't believe me.\" Having repeated the description of convict life which\nhe had just given me--\n\n\"Now, Knuckler, isn't that the truth?\" he said.\n\n\"True as gospel,\" exclaimed Knuckler, with a hideous oath; adding--\"Ay,\nand in some places they are still worse used.\"\n\n\"You hear that?\" said Norcot. \"I wasn't going to bamboozle you with any\nnonsense, my lad. We're all in the same lag, you know, and must stick by\none another.\"\n\nMy soul revolted at this horrible association, but I took care to\nconceal my feelings.\n\nNorcot went on:--\"Now, seeing what we have to expect when we get to\nt'other side of the water, wouldn't he be a fool who wouldn't try to\nescape it if he could, eh? Ay, although at the risk of his life?\"\n\nAt this moment we were interrupted by a summons to the deck, it being\nmy turn, with that of several others, to enjoy the luxury of inhaling\nthe fresh sea breeze above. Norcot had thus only time to add, as I left\nhim--\n\n\"I'll speak to you another time, my cove.\"\n\nHaving now no doubt that some mischief was hatching amongst the\nconvicts, and that the conversation that had just passed was intended at\nonce to sound my disposition and to incline me towards their projects, I\nfelt greatly at a loss what to do. That I should not join in their\nenterprise, of whatsoever nature it might be, I at once determined. But\nI felt that this was not enough, and that I was bound to give notice of\nwhat I had seen and heard to those in command of the vessel, and that\nwithout loss of time, as there was no saying how wild or atrocious might\nbe the scheme of these desperadoes, or how soon they might put it in\nexecution.\n\nBecoming every moment more impressed with the conviction that this was\nmy duty, I separated myself as far as I could from my companions, and,\nwatching an opportunity, said, in a low tone, to the mate of the vessel,\nwhom a chance movement brought close to where I stood--\n\n\"Mischief going on. Could I have a moment's private speech of the\ncaptain?\"\n\nThe man stared at me for an instant with a look of non-comprehension, as\nI thought; and, without saying a word, he then resumed the little piece\nof duty he had been engaged in when I interrupted him, and immediately\nafter went away, still without speaking, and indeed without taking any\nfurther notice of me.\n\nI now thought he had either not understood me, or was not disposed to\npay any attention to what I said. I was mistaken in my conjectures, and\nin one of them did injustice to his intelligence.\n\nA moment after he left me I saw the captain come out of the cabin, and\nlook hard at me for a second or two. I observed him then despatch the\nsteward towards me. On that person's approach--\n\n\"I say, my lad,\" he exclaimed, so as to be heard by the rest of the\nconvicts on deck, \"can you wipe glasses and clean knives, eh? or brush\nshoes, or anything of that kind?\"\n\nNot knowing his real purpose in thus addressing me, I said I had no\nexperience in that sort of employment, but would do the best I could.\n\n\"Oh, if you be willing,\" he said, \"we'll soon make you able. I want a\nhand just now; so come aft with me, and I'll find you work, and show you\nhow to do it too.\"\n\nI followed him to the cabin; but I had not been there a minute when the\ncaptain came down, and, taking me into a state room, said--\n\n\"Well, my lad, what's all this? You wanted a private word of me, and\nhinted to the mate that you knew of some mischief going on amongst the\nconvicts. What is it?\"\n\nI told him of the secret whisperings at night I had overheard, and of\nthe discourse Norcot had held with me; mentioning, besides, several\nexpressions which I thought pointed to a secret conspiracy of some kind\nor other.\n\nThe captain was of the same opinion, and after thanking me for my\ninformation, and telling me that he would take care that the part I had\nacted should operate to my advantage on our arrival in the colony, he\ndesired me to take no notice of what had passed, but to mingle with my\nassociates as formerly, and to leave the whole matter to him.\n\nTo cover appearances, I was subsequently detained in the steward's room\nfor about a couple of hours, when I was sent back to my former quarters;\nnot, however, without having been well entertained by the steward, by\nthe captain's orders.\n\nWhat intermediate steps the captain took I do not know, but on that\nnight Norcot and other ten of the most desperate of the convicts were\nthrown into irons.\n\nSubsequent inquiry discovered a deep-laid plot to surprise the guard,\nseize their arms, murder the captain and crew and all who resisted, and\ntake possession of the ship.\n\nWhether such a desperate attempt would have been successful or not, is\ndoubtful; but there is no question that a frightful scene of bloodshed\nwould have taken place; nor that, if the ruffians had managed well, and\njudiciously timed their attack, they had some chance, and probably not a\nsmall one, of prevailing.\n\nAs it was, however, the matter was knocked on the head; for not only\nwere the leaders of the conspiracy heavily ironed, but they were placed\nin different parts of the ship, wholly apart, and thus could neither act\nnor hold the slightest communication with each other.\n\nAlthough the part I had acted in this affair did not operate in my\nfavour with the greater part of my fellow-convicts,--for,\nnotwithstanding all our caution, a strong suspicion prevailed amongst\nthem that I was the informer,--it secured me the marked favour of all\nothers on board the ship, and procured me many little indulgences which\nwould not otherwise have been permitted, and, generally, much milder\ntreatment than was extended to the others; and I confess I was not\nwithout an idea that I deserved it.\n\nOn our arrival at Sydney, whither I now hurry the reader, nothing\nsubsequent to the incident just recorded having occurred in the\ninterval with which I need detain him, I was immediately assigned, with\nseveral others, to a farmer, a recently arrived emigrant, who occupied a\ngrant of land of about a thousand acres in the neighbourhood of the town\nof Maitland.\n\nBefore leaving the ship, the captain added to his other kindnesses an\nassurance that he would not fail to represent my case--meaning with\nreference to the service I had done him in giving information of the\nconspiracy amongst the convicts--to the governor, and that he had no\ndoubt of its having a favourable effect on my future fortunes, provided\nI seconded it by my own good conduct.\n\nThe person to whom we had been assigned, an Englishman, being on the\nspot waiting us, we were forthwith clapped into a covered waggon, and\ndriven off to our destination, our new master following us on horseback.\n\nThe work to which we were put on the farm was very laborious,\nconsisting, for several weeks, in clearing the land of trees; felling,\nburning, and grubbing up the roots. But we were well fed, and, on the\nwhole, kindly treated in other respects; so that, although our toil was\nsevere, we had not much to complain of.\n\nIn this situation I remained for a year and a half, and had the\ngratification of enjoying, during the greater part of that time, the\nfullest confidence of my employer, whose good opinion I early won by my\norderly conduct, and--an unusual thing amongst convicts--by my attention\nto his interests.\n\nOn leaving him, he gave me, unasked, a testimonial of character, written\nin the strongest terms.\n\nI was now again returned on the hands of Government, to await the demand\nof some other settler for my services.\n\nIn the meantime I had heard nothing of the result of the captain's\nrepresentation in my behalf to the governor, but had no doubt I would\nreap the benefit of it on the first occasion that I should have a favour\nto ask. The first thing in this way that I had to look for was what is\ncalled a ticket of leave; that is, a document conferring exemption for a\ncertain period from Government labour, and allowing the party possessing\nit to employ himself in any lawful way he pleases, and for his own\nadvantage, during the time specified by the ticket. My sentence,\nhowever, having been for fourteen years, I could not, in the ordinary\ncase, look for this indulgence till the expiration of six years, such\nbeing the colonial regulations.\n\nBut imagining the good service I had done in the convict ship would\ncount for something, and probably induce the governor to shorten my term\nof probation, I began now to think of applying for the indulgence. This\nidea I shortly after acted upon, and drew up a memorial to the personage\njust alluded to; saying nothing, however, of my innocence of the crime\nfor which I had been transported, knowing that, as such an assertion\nwould not be believed, it would do much more harm than good. In this\nmemorial, however, I enclosed the letter of recommendation given me by\nmy last master.\n\nIt was eight or ten days before I heard anything of my application. At\nthe end of that time, however, I received a very gracious answer. It\nsaid that my \"praiseworthy conduct\" on board the ship in which I came to\nthe colony had been duly reported by the captain, and that it would be\nremembered to my advantage; that, at the, expiry of my second year in\nthe colony, of which there were six months yet to run, a ticket of leave\nwould be granted me--thus abridging the period by four years; and that,\nif I continued to behave as well as I had done, I might expect the\nutmost indulgence that Government could extend to one in my situation.\n\nWith this communication, although it did not immediately grant the\nprayer of my petition, I was much gratified, and prepared to submit\ncheerfully to the six months' compulsory labour which were yet before\nme.\n\nShortly after this I was assigned to another settler, in the\nneighbourhood of Paramatta. This was a different sort of person from the\nlast I had served, and, I am sorry to say, a countryman. His name I need\nnot give; for although the doing so could no longer affect him, he being\nlong dead, it might give pain to his relatives, several of whom are\nalive both here and in New South Wales. This man was a tyrant, if ever\nthere was one, and possessed of all the passion and caprice of the worst\ndescription of those who delight in lording it over their\nfellow-creatures. There was not a week that he had not some of my\nunhappy fellow-servants before a magistrate, often for the most trivial\nfaults--a word, a look--and had them flogged by sentence of the court,\nby the scourger of the district, till the blood streamed from their\nbacks. Knowing how little consideration there is for the unhappy convict\nin all cases of difference with his taskmaster, and that however unjust\nor unreasonable the latter's complaints may be, they are always readily\nentertained by the subordinate authorities, and carefully recorded\nagainst the former to his prejudice, I took care to give him no offence.\nTo say nothing of his positive orders, I obeyed his every slightest wish\nwith a promptitude and alacrity that left him no shadow of ground to\ncomplain of me. It was a difficult task; but it being for my interest\nthat no complaint of me, just or unjust, should be put on record\nagainst me, I bore all with what I must call exemplary patience and\nfortitude.\n\nI have already said that my new master was a man of the most tyrannical\ndisposition--cruel, passionate, and vindictive. He was all this; and his\nmiserable fate--a fate which overtook him while I was in his\nemployment--was, in a great measure, the result of his ungovernable and\nmerciless temper.\n\nSome of the wretched natives of the country--perhaps the most miserable\nbeings on the face of the earth, as they are certainly the lowest in the\nscale of intellect of all the savage tribes that wander on its\nsurface--used to come occasionally about our farm, in quest of a morsel\nof food. Amongst these were frequently women with infants on their\nbacks. If my master was out of the way when any of these poor creatures\ncame about the house, his wife, who was a good sort of woman, used to\nrelieve them; and so did we, also, when we had anything in our power.\nTheir treatment, however, was very different when our master happened to\nbe at home. The moment he saw any of these poor blacks approaching, he\nused to run into the house for his rifle, and on several occasions fired\nat and wounded the unoffending wretches. At other times he hounded his\ndogs after them, himself pursuing and hallooing with as much excitement\nas if he had been engaged in the chase of some wild beasts instead of\nhuman beings--beings as distinctly impressed as himself with the image\nof his God.\n\nIt is true that these poor creatures were mischievous sometimes, and\nthat they would readily steal any article to which they took a fancy.\nBut in beings so utterly ignorant, and so destitute of all moral\nperceptions, such offences could hardly be considered as criminal; not\none, at any rate, deserving of wounds and death at the caprice of a\nfellow-creature acting on his own impulses, unchecked by any legal or\njudicial control. Besides, it were easy to prevent the depredations of\nthese poor creatures--easy to drive them off without having recourse to\nviolence.\n\nThe humanity and forbearance, however, which such a mode of proceeding\nwith the aborigines would require was not to be found in my master.\nFierce repulsion and retaliation were the only means he would have\nrecourse to in his mode of treating them; and the consequence was, his\ninspiring the natives with a hatred of him, and a desire of vengeance\nfor his manifold cruelties towards them, which was sure, sooner or\nlater, to end in his destruction. It did so. One deed of surpassing\ncruelty which he perpetrated accomplished his fate.\n\nOne day, seeing two or three natives, amongst whom was a woman with a\nyoung infant on her back, passing within a short distance of the house,\nnot approaching it--for he was now so much dreaded by these poor\ncreatures that few came to the door--my master, as usual, ran in for his\nrifle, and calling his dogs around him, gave chase to the party.\n\nThe men being unencumbered, fled on seeing him, and being remarkably\nswift of foot, were soon out of his reach. Not so the poor woman with\nthe child on her back: she could not escape; and at her the savage\nruffian fired, killing both her and the infant with the same murderous\nshot.\n\nThis double murder was of so unprovoked, so cold-blooded, and atrocious\na nature, that it is probable, little as the life of a native was\naccounted in those days, that my master would have been called upon to\nanswer for his crime before the tribunals of the colony; but retribution\novertook him by another and a speedier course.\n\nOn the following day my master came out of the house, about ten o'clock\nin the forenoon, with an axe in one hand, and the fatal rifle, his\nconstant companion, with which he had perpetrated the atrocious deed on\nthe preceding day, in the other, and coming up to me, told me that he\nwas going to a certain spot in an adjoining wood to cut some timber for\npaling, and that he desired I should come to him two hours after with\none of the cars or sledges in use on the farm, to carry home the cut\nwood. Having said this, he went off, little dreaming of the fate that\nawaited him.\n\nAt the time appointed I went with a horse and sledge to the wood, but\nwas much surprised to find that my master was not at the spot where he\nsaid he would be;--a surprise which was not a little increased by\nperceiving, from two or three felled sticks that lay around, that he had\nbeen there, but had done little--so little, that he could not have been\noccupied, as I calculated, for more than a quarter of an hour. Thinking,\nhowever, that wherever he had gone he would speedily return, I sat down\nto await him; but he came not. An entire hour elapsed, and still he did\nnot make his appearance. Beginning now to suspect that some accident had\nhappened him, I hurried home to inquire if they had seen or heard\nanything of him there. They had not. His family became much alarmed for\nhis safety--a feeling in which my conscience forbids me to say that I\nparticipated.\n\nTwo of my fellow-servants now accompanied me back to the wood, which it\nwas proposed we should search. This, so soon as we had reached the spot\nwhere my master had appointed to meet me, and where, as already\nmentioned, he had evidently been, we began to do, whooping and hallooing\nat the same time to attract his attention should he be anywhere within\nhearing.\n\nFor a long while our searching and shouting were vain. At length one of\nmy companions, who had entered a tangled patch of underwood which we had\nnot before thought of looking, suddenly uttered a cry of horror. We ran\nup to him, and found him gazing on the dead body of our master, who lay\non his face, transfixed by a native spear, which still stood upright in\nhis back. It was one of those spears which the aborigines of New South\nWales use, on occasion, as missiles, and which they throw with an\nastonishing force and precision.\n\nSuch, then, was the end of this cruel man; and that it exceeded his\ndeserts can hardly be maintained.\n\nLuckily for me, my period of service with my late master was at this\ntime about out. A few days more, and I became entitled to my ticket of\nleave. For this indulgence I applied when the time came, and it was\nimmediately granted me for one year. On obtaining my ticket I proceeded\nto Sydney, as the most likely place to fall in with some employment. On\nthis subject, however, I felt much at a loss; for not having been bred\nto any mechanical trade, I could do nothing in that way. Farming was the\nonly business of which I knew anything; and in this, my father having\nbeen an excellent farmer, I was pretty well skilled. My hope, therefore,\nwas, that I would find some situation as a farm overseer, and thought\nSydney, although a town, the likeliest place to fall in with or hear of\nan employer. On arriving in Sydney, I proceeded to the house of a\ncountryman of the name of Lawson, who kept a tavern, and to whom I\nbrought a letter of introduction from a relative of his own who had been\nbanished for sedition, and who was one of my fellow-labourers in the\nlast place where I had served. On reading the letter, Lawson, who was a\nkind-hearted man, exclaimed--\n\n\"Puir Jamie, puir fallow; and hoo is he standin't oot?\"\n\nI assured him that he was bearing his fate manfully, but that he had\nbeen in the service of a remorseless master.\n\n\"Ay, I ken him,\" said Lawson. \"A man that's no gude to his ain canna be\ngude to ithers.\"\n\n\"You must speak of him now, however, in the past tense,\" said I.\n\"Mr.----- is dead.\"\n\n\"Dead!\" exclaimed Lawson, with much surprise. \"When did he die?\"\n\nI told him, and also of the manner of his death.\n\n\"Weel, that is shockin',\" he remarked; \"but, upon my word, better\ncouldna hae happened him, for he was a cruel-hearted man.\" Then,\nreverting to his relative, \"Puir Jamie,\" he said; \"but I think we'll\nmanage to get Jamie oot o' his scrape by-and-by. I hae gude interest wi'\nthe governor, through a certain acquaintance, and houpe to be able to\nget him a free pardon in a whily. But he maun just submit a wee in the\nmeantime.\"\n\n\"But anent yoursel, my man,\" continued Lawson, \"what can I do for ye?\nJamie, here, speaks in the highest terms o' ye, and begs me to do what I\ncan for ye; and that I'll willingly do on his account. What war' ye bred\nto?\"\n\nI told him that I had been bred to the farming business, and that I\nshould like to get employment as a farm overseer or upper servant, to\nengage for a year.\n\n\"Ay, just noo, just noo,\" said honest Lawson. \"Weel, I'll tell you what\nit is, and it's sae far lucky: there was a decent, respectable-looking\nman here the day, a countryman o' our ain--and I believe he'll sleep\nhere the nicht--wha was inquirin' if I kent o' ony decent, steady lad\nwho had been brocht up in the farmin' line. I kenna hoo they ca' the\nman, but he has been in my house, noo, twa or three times. He's only twa\nor three months arrived in the colony, and is settled somewhere in the\nneighbourhood o' Liverpool--our Liverpool, ye ken, no the English\nLiverpool. He seems to be in respectable circumstances. Noo, if he comes\nto sleep here the nicht, as I hae nae doot he will, seein' there's nae\ncoach for Liverpool till the morn's mornin'--I'll mention you till him,\nand maybe ye may mak a bargain.\"\n\nI thanked Lawson for his kindness, and was about leaving the house, with\na promise to call back in the evening, when he stopped me, and insisted\non my taking some refreshment. This, which consisted of some cold roast\nfowl and a glass of brandy and water, I readily accepted. When I had\npartaken of his hospitality I left the house, repeating my promise to\ncall again in the evening. The interval, knowing nobody in Sydney, I\nspent in sauntering about the town.\n\nOn the approach of evening, I again returned to Lawson's. He was\nstanding in the doorway when I came forward.\n\n\"Come awa, lad,\" he said, with a glad face, on seeing me. \"Your frien's\nhere, and I hae been speakin' to him aboot ye, and he seems inclined to\ntreat wi' you. But he's takin' a bit chack o' dinner 'enoo, sae we'll\nlet him alane for twa or three minutes. Stap ye awa in there to the bar,\nin the meanwhile, and I'll let him ken in a wee that ye're here.\"\n\nI did so. In about ten minutes after, Lawson came to me, and said the\ngentleman up stairs would be glad to see me. I rose and followed him.\nWe entered the room, the worthy landlord leading the way. The stranger,\nwith his elbow resting on the table, was leaning his head thoughtfully\non his hand when we entered. He gazed at me for an instant wildly; he\nsprang from his chair; he clasped me in his arms. I returned the\nembrace. Reader, it was my own father!\n\n\"Davie, my son,\" he exclaimed, so soon as his surprise and emotion would\npermit him to speak, \"how, in the name of all that's wonderful, has this\ncome about? Where are you from? how came you here? and where on earth\nhave you been all this weary time, since you left us?\"\n\nIt was several minutes before I could make any reply. At length--\n\n\"I have much to tell you, father,\" I said, glancing at the same time\ntowards Lawson, who stood with open mouth and staring eyes, lost in\nwonder at the extraordinary scene, which he yet could not fully\ncomprehend.\n\nUnderstanding, however, the hint conveyed in that look, the worthy man\ninstantly quitted the apartment, leaving us to ourselves. On his doing\nso, I sat down at table with my father, and related to him the whole\nhistory of my misfortunes, without reserve or extenuation.\n\nThe narrative grieved and distressed him beyond measure; for, until I\ntold him, he had no idea I stood before him a convicted felon; his first\nimpression naturally being that I had come to the colony of my own free\nwill.\n\nUnlike all others, however, he, my poor father, believed implicitly my\nassertions of entire innocence of the crime for which I had been\ntransported. But he felt bitterly for the degrading situation in which I\nstood, and from which neither my own conscious innocence nor his\nconvictions, he was but too sensible, could rescue me in so far as\nregarded the opinion of the world.\n\nHaving told my father my story, he told me his. It was simply this--the\nstory of hundreds, thousands. Tempted by the favourable accounts he had\nheard and read of Australia, he had come to the resolution of\nemigrating; had, with this view, sold off at home; and here he was. He\nadded that he had obtained a grant of land, of about 500 acres, in the\nneighbourhood of Liverpool, on very favourable terms; that although he\nhad not found everything quite so suitable or so well-ordered as he had\nexpected, he had no doubt of being able to do very well when once he\nshould have got matters put in proper train. He said he had already got\na very good house erected on the farm, and that although their situation\nfor the first two or three months was bad enough, they were now pretty\ncomfortable; and he hoped that, with my assistance--seeing, as he\ninterpolated with a faint smile, I had just cast up in the nick of\ntime--they would soon make things still better.\n\n\"Your poor mother, Davie,\" continued my father, recurring to a subject\nwhich we had already discussed--for my first inquiries had been after\nthat dear parent, who, I was delighted to learn, was in perfect good\nhealth, although sunk in spirits in consequence of long mental suffering\non my account,--\"Your poor mother, Davie,\" he said, \"will go distracted\nwith joy at the sight of you. Her thoughts by day, her dreams by night,\nhave been of you, Davie. But,\" he added, seeing the tears streaming down\nmy cheeks, \"I will not distress you by dwelling on the misery you have\noccasioned her. It's all over now, I trust, and you will compensate for\nthe past. Neither will I say a word as to the folly of your conduct in\nflying your father's house as you did. You have paid dearly for that\nfalse step; and God forbid, my son, that I, your father, should add to\nthe punishment. You are, I perceive, too sensible of the folly to render\nit necessary. So, of that no more.\"\n\nOf that folly I was indeed sensible--bitterly sensible; and could not\nlisten to the calm, rational, and kind language of my father, without\nlooking back with amazement at the stupidity of my conduct. It now\nseemed to me to have been the result of utter insanity--madness. I could\nneither recall nor comprehend the motives and impulses under which I had\nacted; and could only see the act itself standing forth in naked,\ninexplicable absurdity. Recurring again to the circumstances which had\nled to my present unhappy position, and which were always floating\nuppermost in my father's mind--\n\n\"That scoundrel, Digby,\" he said, \"must have been at the bottom of the\nmischief, Davie. It must have been he who put the spoon into your\npocket. What a fiendish contrivance!\"\n\n\"I have always thought so, father,\" I replied; \"and on my trial ventured\nto hint it, as I also did to the turnkeys and jailers; but although none\nsaid so directly, I saw very clearly that all considered it as a\nridiculous invention--a clumsy way of accounting for a very plain fact.\"\n\nMy father now proposed that I should start with him on the following\nmorning, per coach, for Liverpool, from which his farm was distant an\neasy walk of some six or seven miles. On the following morning,\naccordingly, after having duly acknowledged our worthy host's kindness,\nwe took our seats on the outside of the coach, and were soon whirling it\naway merrily toward our destination.\n\nDuring our journey, it gave both my father and I much painful thought\nhow we should break the matter of my unhappy position to my mother. It\nwould be death to her to learn it. At first we thought of concealing the\ncircumstances altogether; but the chances of her hearing it from others,\nor making the discovery herself when she was unprepared for it, through\na hundred different means, finally determined us on communicating the\nunpleasant intelligence ourselves; that is, my father undertook the\ndisagreeable task, meaning, however, to choose time and circumstance,\nand to allow a day or two to elapse before he alluded to it.\n\nHaving arrived at Liverpool, we started on foot for my father's farm.\nShould I attempt it, I would not find it easy to describe what were my\nfeelings at this moment, arising from the prospect of so soon beholding\nthat dear parent, whose image had ever been present to my mind, whose\nkind tones were ever sounding in my ears like some heart-stirring and\nwell-remembered melody. They were overpowering. But when my father,\nafter we had walked for about an hour, raised his stick, and, pointing\nto a neat farm-steading on the slope of a hill, and on the skirt of a\ndense mountain forest that rose high behind it, said, \"There's the\nhouse, Davie,\" I thought I should have sunk on the ground. I had never\nfelt so agitated, excepting in that unhappy hour when I stood at the bar\nof the Old Bailey, and heard sentence of transportation awarded against\nme. But I compare the feelings on these two occasions only as regards\ntheir intensity: in nature they were very different indeed. On the\nformer, they were those of excruciating agony; on the latter, those of\nexcessive joy. As we approached the house, I descried one at the door.\nIt was a female figure. It was my mother. I gasped for breath. I flew\nover the ground. I felt it not beneath my feet. I would not be\nrestrained by my father, who kept calling to me. My mother fixed her\ngaze on me, wondering at my excited manner--wondering who I could be;\nall unconscious, as I could perceive by her vacant though earnest look,\nthat I was her son--- the darling of her heart. But a mother's eye is\nquick. Another moment, and a shriek of wild joy and surprise announced\nthat I was recognised; in the next, we were in each other's arms, wrapt\nin a speechless agony of bliss!\n\nMy father, whom I had left a long way behind, came up to us while we\nwere locked together in this silent embrace, and stood by us for a few\nseconds without speaking a word, then passed quietly into the house,\nleaving us to ourselves.\n\n\"My son, my son!\" exclaimed my mother, so soon as the fulness of her\nfeelings would allow of utterance, \"you have been cruel, cruel to your\nmother. But I will not upbraid you. In seeing you again--in clasping you\nonce more to my bosom--I am repaid a thousandfold for all you have made\nme suffer.\"\n\nWith what further passed between us, I need not detain the reader.\n\nThe tender expressions of a mother and son meeting under such\ncircumstances as we met, being the language of nature, the embodiment of\nfeelings which all ran conceive, there is no occasion for dilating on\nthem in my particular case. I pass on to other things of more general,\nor at least more uncommon interest.\n\nThe first day of my arrival at my father's farm was passed entirely\nwithin doors in social communion, and in bringing up that arrear of\ninterchange in thought and feeling which our separation for so long a\nperiod had created.\n\nOn the following day I commenced work with my father; and although I\nhad done my duty faithfully by both the masters I had served since I\ncame to New South Wales, I soon found the difference between compulsory\nand voluntary labour.\n\nIn the former case I certainly wrought diligently, but as certainly not\ncheerfully. There was an absence of spirit that quickly gave rise to\nlistlessness and fatigue, and that left the physical energies weak and\nlanguid, in the latter case, it was far otherwise. Toil as I might, I\nfelt no diminution of strength. I went from task to task, some of them\nfar harder than any I had yet encountered, with unabated vigour, and\naccomplished with ease double the work I ever could get through with\nwhen in bondage.\n\nThe joint labours of my father and myself, assisted occasionally by\nhired service--for he could not endure the idea of having convicts about\nhim--soon put a new and promising face on the farm.\n\nWe cleared, we drained, we enclosed, and we sowed and planted, until we\nleft ourselves comparatively little to do--I mean in the way of hard\nlabour--but to await the returns of our industry.\n\nIt was some time after we had got things into this state--that is, I\nthink about three months after I had joined my father--that the latter\nreceived intelligence of a band of bushmen or bushrangers having been\nseen in the neighbourhood. He was assured that they were skulking in the\nadjoining forest, and that we might every night expect our house to be\nattacked, robbed, and ourselves, in all probability, murdered.\n\nThis information threw us into a most dreadful state of alarm; these\nbushrangers, as the reader probably knows, being runaway convicts, men\nof the most desperate characters, who take to the woods, and subsist by\nplundering the settlers--a crime to which they do not hesitate to add\nmurder--many instances of fearful atrocities of this kind having\noccurred.\n\nFor some time we were quite at a loss what to do; for although we had\nfirearms and ammunition in the house, there were only four men of us--my\nfather, myself, and two servant lads--while the bushrangers, as we had\nbeen told, were at least ten or twelve in number. To have thought then\nof repelling them by force, was out of the question; it could only have\nended in the murder of us all.\n\nUnder these circumstances, my father determined on applying to the\nauthorities for constabulary or military protection; and with this view\nwent to Liverpool, where the district magistrate resided.\n\nOn stating the case to the latter, he at once gave my father a note to\nthe commanding officer of the garrison, enjoining him to send a small\nparty of military along with him,--these to remain with us for our\nprotection as long as circumstances should render it necessary, and, in\nthe meanwhile, to employ themselves in scouring the adjoining woods,\nwith a view to the apprehension of the bushrangers, and to fire on them\nwithout hesitation in all cases where they could not be captured.\n\nThe result was, that a party of twelve men, commanded by a sergeant,\nwere immediately turned out, and marched off with my father.\n\nI was sitting on an eminence close by the house, and which commanded a\nview of the road leading to and from Liverpool, looking out for my\nfather's return, when the party came in sight.\n\nAs they neared, I recognised the men, from certain particulars in their\nuniform, a party of the--th, the regiment into which I had enlisted.\n\nThe circumstance excited some curious feelings, and awakened a train of\nnot very pleasing reflections.\n\nI had never dreamt of meeting any of the corps in so distant a part of\nthe world; yet there was nothing more likely or more natural, a large\nmilitary force being always kept in New South Wales, and frequently\nchanged.\n\nI felt, however, no uneasiness on the subject, thinking that it was not\nat all probable, seeing the very short time I had been in the regiment,\nand the constant accession of new men it was receiving, I should be\nrecognised by any of the party.\n\nIn the meantime, the party were rapidly approaching me, and were now so\nnear, that I could perceive the sergeant to be a tall and handsome young\nman of about two or three and twenty. Little did I yet dream who this\nsergeant was. I descended to meet them. We came up to each other. The\nsergeant started on seeing me, and looked at me with a grave surprise\nand fixed gaze. I did precisely the same by him. We advanced towards\neach other with smiling faces and extended arms. \"Lorimer!\" exclaimed\nthe sergeant. \"Lindsay!\" I replied. It was indeed Lindsay, my old\ncomrade, promoted to a sergeantcy.\n\nOur mutual astonishment and satisfaction at this extraordinary and\nunexpected meeting was, I need not say, very great, although I certainly\nthought I perceived a certain dryness and want of cordiality in\nLindsay's manner towards me. But for this I made every allowance,\nbelieving it to proceed from a doubt of my innocence, if not a\nconviction of my guilt, in the matter for which I had been transported.\nHe in short, it seemed to me, could not forget that, in speaking to me,\nalthough an old comrade, he was speaking to a convicted felon. However,\nnotwithstanding this feeling on his part, we talked freely of old\nstories; and as we were apart from the men, I did not hesitate, amongst\nother things, to allude to my misfortune, nor to charge the blame of it\non Digby.\n\n\"Well,\" said the sergeant, in reply to my remarks on this subject,\n\"since you have mentioned the matter yourself, Lorimer, I am glad to\nhear you say so--that is, to hear you say that you are innocent of that\nrascally business; for, putting your assertions, so solemnly made, to\nwhat my wife says--for she has some queer stories of that fellow\nDigby--I have no doubt now of your innocence.\"\n\n\"Your wife!\" exclaimed I in some amazement. \"In the first place, then,\nyou are married; in the next, how on earth, if I may ask, should she\nknow anything of Digby?\"\n\n\"Why, man, Susan Blaikie is my wife,\" replied the sergeant, laughing;\n\"and she's not, I take it, half a dozen miles from us at this moment. I\nleft her safe and sound in my quarters in Liverpool not two hours ago;\nand right glad will she be to see you, when you can make it convenient\nto give us a call. But of that we will speak more hereafter.\"\n\nLike two or three other things recorded in this little history, this\ninformation gave me much surprise, but, like few of them, much\ngratification also; as I had feared the worst for poor Susan, seeing\nthat she had been discharged from her situation, as I had no doubt\nwithout a character, probably under a suspicion of being concerned with\nme in the alleged robbery.\n\nBy the time I had expressed the surprise and satisfaction which Sergeant\nLindsay's communication had given me, we had reached the house, when all\nconversation between us of a private nature ceased for the time.\n\nThe first business now was to set some refreshment before the men. This\nwas quickly done; the sergeant, my father, and I taking care of\nourselves in a similar way in another apartment. The next was to take\nthe immediate matter in hand into consideration. Accordingly, we three\nformed ourselves into a council of war, and, after some deliberation,\ncame to the following resolutions:--That we should, soldiers and all,\nkeep closely within doors during the remainder of the afternoon; and\nthat as it was more than probable the bushmen would make their attack\nthat very night, and as it was likely they would know nothing of the\nmilitary being in the house, seeing that they always kept at a distance\nduring the day, or lay concealed in hidden places, we should take them\nby surprise; that, for this purpose, we should remain up all night, and\nplace ourselves, with loaded arms, by the windows, and in such other\nsituations as would enable us to see them approaching, without being\nseen by them.\n\nHaving determined on this plan of operations, we resumed our\nconversation on indifferent matters, and thus spent the time till it was\npretty far on in the night, when Lindsay suggested that it was full time\nthe men were distributed in the positions we intended them to occupy.\nTwo were accordingly placed at each window of both the back and front of\nthe house, the sergeant and I occupying one,--he with one of our\nmuskets, and I with a rifle. It was a bright moonlight night; so that,\nas the vicinity of the house was completely cleared around, to the\ndistance of at least 200 yards on every side, no one could approach it\nwithout being seen; although they could remain long enough invisible,\nand in safety, in the dense wood beyond, and by which the house was\nsurrounded on all sides but one.\n\nThe sergeant and I had thus sat for, I think, about an hour and a half,\nlooking intently towards the dark forest beyond the cleared ground,\nwhen we thought we saw several small, dark objects flitting about the\nskirts of the wood; but whether they were kangaroos or men, we could not\ntell.\n\nKeeping our eyes fixed steadily on them, however, we by-and-by saw them\nunite, and could distinctly make out that they were approaching the\nhouse in a body. Soon they came sufficiently near to enable us to\ndiscern that it was a party of men, to the number of about eight or ten.\nThere might be more, but certainly no fewer. We could now also see that\nthey were armed--at least a part of them--with muskets.\n\nSatisfied that they were the much dreaded bushrangers, of whose vicinity\nwe had been apprised, the sergeant hastily left the window at which he\nand I had been seated, and, stealing with soft and cautious steps\nthrough the house, visited each of his posts to see that the men were on\nthe alert. To each he whispered instructions to put their pieces on\ncock, to go down on their knees at the window, and to rest the muzzles\nof their muskets on the sill, but not project them out more than two or\nthree inches. He concluded by telling them not to fire a shot until they\nheard the report of his musket; that then they were to pepper away as\nhard as they could pelt, taking, however, a sure and steady aim at every\nshot.\n\nIn the meantime the bushmen, whose advance had been, and still was, very\nslow and cautious, as if they dreaded an ambuscade, had approached to\nwithin seventy yards of the house. Thinking them yet too distant to make\nsure of them, we allowed them to come nearer. They did so; but they had\nnow assumed a stealthy step, walking lightly, as if they feared that\ntheir footfalls should be heard. They were led on by one of their\nnumber; at least there was one man considerably in advance of his\nfellows. He was armed with a sword, as we saw it flashing in the\nmoonlight.\n\nThe party, handling their guns in readiness to fire, on the slightest\nalarm, at any living object that might present itself, were now within\nthirty or forty yards of the house, and had halted to reconnoitre; when\nthe sergeant, who had been on his knees for several minutes before, with\nhis piece at his eye, said softly, \"Now,\" and fired. Whether he had\naimed at the foremost man of the gang, I do not know; but if so, he had\nmissed him, for he still stood firm. At this person, however, I now\nlevelled, fired, and down he came. In the next instant the shots were\nrapping thick and fast from the different windows of the house.\n\nThe bushrangers, taken by surprise, paused for an instant, returned two\nor three straggling shots, and then fled in the utmost consternation and\ndisorder. We kept pelting after them for a few minutes, and then,\nquitting the house, gave them chase, with a whooping and hallooing that\nmust have added in no small degree to their terror. In this chase we\novertook two that had been severely wounded, and came upon a third near\nthe skirt of the wood, who, after running so far, had dropped down dead.\nThe others, who had fled, some of whom, we had no doubt, were also\nwounded, escaped by getting into the forest, where it was no use looking\nfor them. The two wounded men we made prisoners, and carried back to the\nhouse. As we were returning, we came upon the man whom I had brought\ndown. Being extended motionless on the ground at full length, we thought\nhim dead, and were about to pass on, intending to leave him where he lay\ntill the morning, when I thought I heard him breathing. I knelt down\nbeside him, looked narrowly into his face, and found that he was still\nliving. On discovering this, we had the unfortunate man carried to the\nhouse; and having placed him on a mattress, staunched the bleeding of\nhis wound, which was on the right breast, and administered a little\nbrandy and water, which almost immediately revived him. He opened his\neyes, began to breathe more freely, and in a short time was so far\nrecovered as to be able to speak, although with difficulty.\n\nThe excitement of the fray over, if the late affair could be so called,\nmy heart bled within me for the unhappy wretch who had been reduced by\nmy hand to the deplorable condition in which he now lay before me. My\nconscience rose up against me, and would not be laid by any suggestions\nof the necessity that prompted the deed. In my anxiety to make what\nreparation I could for what now seemed to me my cruelty, I sat by the\nmiserable sufferer, ready and eager to supply any want he might express,\nand to administer what comfort I could do him in his dying moments; for\nthat he was dying, notwithstanding the temporary revival alluded to, was\nbut too evident from his ghastly look and rapidly glazing eye.\n\nIt was while I thus sat by the unhappy man, and while silently\ncontemplating his pallid countenance, by the faint light of a lamp that\nhung against the wall of the apartment, that I suddenly thought I\nperceived in that countenance some traces of features that I had seen\nbefore. Whose they were, or where I had seen them, I did not at first\nrecollect. But the idea having once presented itself, I kept hunting it\nthrough all the recesses of my memory. At length Digby occurred to me.\nBut no, Digby it could not be. Impossible.\n\nI looked on the countenance of the sufferer again. It was slightly\ndistorted with pain, and all trace of the resemblance I had fancied was\ngone. An interval of ease succeeded. The real or imagined resemblance\nreturned. Again I lost sight of it, and again I caught it; for it was\nonly in some points of view I could detect it at all. At length, after\nmarking for some time longer, with intense interest, the features of the\nsufferer, my conviction becoming every moment stronger and stronger, and\nmy agitation in consequence extreme, I bent my head close to the dying\nman, and, taking his cold and clammy hand in mine, asked him, in a\nwhisper, if his name was not Digby. His eyes were closed at the moment,\nbut I saw he was not sleeping. On my putting the question, he opened\nthem wide, and stared wildly upon me, but without saying a word. He\nseemed to be endeavouring to recognise me, but apparently in vain. I\nrepeated the question. This time he answered. Still gazing earnestly at\nme, he said, and it was all he did say, \"It is.\"\n\n\"Don't you know me?\" I inquired.\n\nHe shook his head.\n\n\"My name is Lorimer,\" said I.\n\n\"Thank God,\" he exclaimed solemnly. \"For one, at least, of my crimes it\nis permitted me to make some reparation. Haste, haste, get witnesses and\nhear my dying declaration. There's no time to lose, for I feel I am fast\ngoing!\"\n\nWithout a moment's delay--- for I felt the importance of obtaining the\ndeclaration, which I had no doubt would establish my innocence--I ran\nfor my father and Sergeant Lindsay, and, to make assurance doubly sure,\nbrought two of the privates also along with me. It was a striking scene\nof retributive justice,\n\nOn our entering the apartment where Digby lay, the wretched man raised\nhimself upon his elbow. I ran and placed two pillows beneath him to\nsupport him. He thanked me. Then raising his hand impressively, and\ndirecting it towards me--\n\n\"That young man there,\" he said, \"David Lorimer, is, as I declare on\nthe word of a dying man, innocent of the crime for which he was banished\nto this country. I, and no other, am the guilty person. It was I who\nrobbed my master, Mr. Wallscourt, of the silver plate for which this\nyoung man was blamed; and it was I who put the silver spoon in his\npocket, in order to substantiate the charge I subsequently brought\nagainst him, and in which I was but too successful.\"\n\nHe then added, that in case his declaration should not be deemed\nsufficient to clear me of the guilt imputed to me, we should endeavour\nto find out a person of the name of Nareby--Thomas Nareby--who, he said,\nwas in the colony under sentence of transportation for life for\nhousebreaking; and that this person, who had been, at the time of the\nrobbery for which I suffered, a receiver of stolen goods, and with whom\nhe, Digby, had deposited Mr. Wallscourt's plate, would acknowledge--at\nleast he hoped so--this transaction, and thus add to the weight of his\ndying testimony to my innocence.\n\nDigby having concluded, I immediately committed what he had just said to\nwriting, and having read it over to him, obtained his approval of it. He\nthen, of his own accord, offered to subscribe the declaration, and with\nsome difficulty accomplished the task. The signature was hardly legible,\nbut it was quite sufficient when attested, as it was, by the signatures\nof all present excepting myself. Exhausted with the effort he had made,\nDigby now sank back on his pillow, and in less than three minutes after\nexpired.\n\nWe now learned from the unhappy man's two wounded companions, who, the\nreader will recollect, were our prisoners, that, soon after my trial and\ncondemnation, he, Digby, had left Mr. Wallscourt's service, not under\nany suspicion of the robbery of the plate, but with no very good\ngeneral character; that he had the betaken himself entirely to live with\nthe abandoned characters whose acquaintance he had formed, and to\nsubsist by swindling and robbery; that he had proceeded from crime to\ncrime, until he at length fell into the hands of justice; and his\nbanishment to the colony where he had arrived about six months before,\nwas the result; that he had not been more than a month in the country\nwhen he and several other convicts ran away from the master to whom they\nhad been assigned, and took to the bush. Such was the brief but dismal\nhistory of this wretched man.\n\nOn the following day we buried his remains in a lonely spot in the\nforest, at the distance of about half a mile from the house, and\nthereafter proceeded with our prisoners to Liverpool. On arriving there,\nI accompanied my father to the magistrate on whom he had waited on a\nformer occasion, and having stated to this gentleman the extraordinary\ncircumstance which had taken place--meaning Digby's declaration--he\nadvised an immediate application to the governor, setting forth the\ncircumstances of the case. This I lost no time in doing, enclosing\nwithin my memorial Digby's attested declaration, and pointing out Nareby\nas a person likely to confirm its tenor. The singularity and apparent\nhardship of the case, combined with the favourable knowledge of me\npreviously existing, attracted the attention of the governor in a\nspecial manner, and excited in him so lively an interest, that he\ninstantly had Nareby subjected to a judicial examination, the result of\nwhich was a full admission on the part of that person of the transaction\nto which Digby alluded.\n\nSatisfied now of my innocence, and of the injustice which had been\nunwittingly done me, the governor not only immediately transmitted me a\nfull and free pardon but offered me, by way of compensation, a\nlucrative government appointment. This appointment I accepted, and held\nfor thirty years, I trust with credit to myself, and satisfaction to my\nsuperiors. At the end of this period, feeling my health giving way, my\nfather and mother having both, in the meantime, died, and having all\nthat time scraped together a competency, I returned to my native land,\nand have written these little memoirs in one of the pleasantest little\nretirements on the banks of the Tweed.\n\nI have only now to add, that I had frequent opportunities of seeing both\nLindsay and his wife after the establishment of my innocence, and that\nno persons would more sincerely rejoice in that event than they did. My\npoor mother, whom my father had made aware of my situation soon after my\narrival, and who had borne the intelligence much better than we\nexpected, it put nearly distracted with joy.\n\n\"My puir laddie,\" she exclaimed, \"I aye kent to be innocent. But noo the\nworld 'll ken it too, and I can die happy.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE AMATEUR ROBBERY.\n\n\nIf there is anything more than another of which civilisation has reason\nto be proud, it is the amelioration that has been effected in punishment\nfor crimes. Nor is it yet very long since we began to get quit of the\nshame of our folly and inhumanity, if we have not traces of these yet,\ncoming out like sympathetic ink dried by the choler of self-perfection\nand a false philosophy, as in such writings as the latter-day pamphlets.\nHow a man who loves his species, and has a heart, will hang his head\nabashed as he turns his vision back no further than the sixteenth\ncentury, and sees the writhing creatures--often aged unhappy\nwomen--under the pilniewinkies, caschielaws, turkases, thumbikens, and\nother instruments of torture, frantically bursting out with the demanded\nconfession that was to fit them for the stake or the rope! And even\nafter these things in the curiosity shop of Nemesis were got rid of, the\nabettors of the law rushed with full swing into the operation of\nhanging, scarcely allowing a crime to escape, from cold-blooded murder\ndown to the act of the famished wretch who snatched a roll from a\nbaker's basket. However insensible these strange lawgivers may have been\nto so much cruelty, however blind to the perversity, prejudices, and\nweaknesses incident to human testimony, however ignorant of the total\ninefficacy of their remedy to deter from crime, one might have imagined\nthat they could not but have known, if they ever looked inwardly into\ntheir own hearts, how obscure are human motives, and especially those\nthat instigate to breaches of the law; and yet their consistent rule\nwas, to make the _corpus delicti_ prove the intention. These\nconsiderations have been suggested to me by the recollection of a wild\nadventure of some young men in Edinburgh, the circumstances of which,\nnot belonging to fiction, will show better than a learned dissertation\nhow easy it was for these Dracos to catch the fact and miss the motive.\n\nThe skeleton names--now, alas! the only representatives of skeleton\nbodies--Andrew W----pe, Henry S----k, and Charles S----th, may recall to\nthe memory of some people in Edinburgh still, three young men, who, with\ngood education, fair talents, and graces from nature, might have played\na respectable _r\u00f4le_ in the drama of life, had it not been for a\ntendency to \"fastness,\" a disease which seems to increase with\ncivilisation. In their instance the old adage of Aristotle, _simile\ngaudet simili_, was exemplified to the letter; and the union confirmed\nin each a mind which, originally impatient of authority, fretted itself\nagainst the frame of society, simply because that frame was the result\nof order. They were never happy except when they went up to the\npalisades, struck upon them with their lath-blades, and when some\norderly indweller looked over atop, ran away laughing. No doubt they had\nstrong passions to gratify too; but, as is usual with this peculiar race\nof beings, the gratification was the keener the more it owed to a\nrebellion against decorum. If they ever differed, it was only in their\nrivalry of success; or when they did not go a spree-hunting together,\nthey recounted their exploits at their nightly meetings, and then the\nresult was an increase of moral inflammation.\n\nSometimes, for a change, they would take strolls into the country, where\nthey could extract as tribute the admiration or wrath of clodhoppers\nwithout being troubled with any fears of the police; not that on any of\nthese occasions they perpetrated any great infringements on the law,\nfor, like the rest of their kind, if they could make themselves objects\nof observation, they were regardless whether their bizarreries were paid\nwith admiration or only anger or fear, though, if they could produce by\nany means a causeless panic, the very height of their ambition was\nattained. In regard to this last effect of their escapades, they were,\nin the instance I am about to record, more than satisfied. They had\ngone, on a fine, clear, winter day, along the coast of the Firth of\nForth towards Cramond; and, to diversify their amusements, they took\nwith them a gun, which was carried by S----th, with the intention of\nhaving a shot at any wild bird or barn-door fowl that might come\nconveniently within his range. Of this kind of game they had fewer\nchances, and the stroll would doubtless have appeared a very monotonous\naffair to a person fond of rational conversation. Nor was there much\neven to themselves of diversification till they got into a small\nchange-house at Davidson's Mains, where, with a rampant authority, they\ncontrived to get served up to them a kind of dinner, intending to make\nup for the want of better edibles by potations of whisky toddy.\n\nIf facts, as Quinctilian says, are the bones of conversation, opinions\nare certainly its sinews; and we might add, that whisky toddy is its\nnervous fluid. These youths, though unwilling to acquire solid\ninformation, could wrangle even to quarrelling; but such were their\naffinities, that they adhered again in a short time, and were as firm\nfriends as ever. They had raised a subject--no other than the question\nwhether highwaymen are necessarily or generally possessed of true\ncourage. Very absurd, no doubt, but as good for a wrangle as any other\nthat can be divided into affirmative and negative by the refracting\nmedium of feeling or prejudice. S----th declared them all to be cowards.\n\n\"What say you to Cartouche?\" said S----k; \"was he a coward?\"\n\n\"Not sure but he was,\" said S----th; \"he kept a band of blackguards and\nreceived their pay, but he was seldom seen in the wild _m\u00e9lee_ himself.\nHe was fond of the name of terror he bore; but then, as he listened to\nthe wonderful things the Parisian _blanchisseuses_ and _chiffonniers_\nand _gamins_ said of him, he knew he was not recognisable, for the very\nreason that he kept out of sight.\"\n\n\"Oh yes,\" said W----pe, who joined S----k; \"and so he was like Wallace,\nwho kept out of the sight of the English, and yet delighted in Dundee to\nhear himself spoken of by the crowds who collected in these troublesome\ntimes to discuss public affairs. S----th, you know Wallace was a coward,\ndon't you?\"\n\n\"A thorough poltroon,\" cried S----th, laughing; \"ay, and all the people\nin Scotland are wrong about him. Didn't he run off, after stabbing the\ngovernor's son? and he was always skulking about the Cartland Crags.\nThen, didn't he flee at the battle of Falkirk; and was he not a robber\nwhen Scotland belonged to Longshanks? No doubt the fellow had a big\nbody, strong bones, and good thews; but that he had the real pluck that\nnerved the little bodies of such men as Nelson, or Suwarrow, ay, or of\nNapoleon, I deny.\" Then he began a ludicrous singing, see-saw recitation\nof the English doggrel--\n\n  \"The noble wight,\n  The Wallace dight,\n  Who slew the knight\n  On Beltane night,\n  And ran for fright\n  Of English might,\n  And English fight,\n  And English right;\"\n\nand so on in drunken ribaldry.\n\n\"All very well for you who are a Shamite, Shmite, Shmith, Smith,\" said\nW----pe. \"We happen to be Japhetites. Then what say you to Rob Roy?\"\n\n\"That, in the first place,\" replied S----th, \"he was a Shemite; for\nGathelus, the first Scottish monarch, was a grandson of Nimrod, and,\nwhat is worse, he married Scota, the daughter of an Egyptian queen, so\nthere was a spice of Ham in Rob; and as all the Hamites were robbers,\nRob was a robber too;--as to whose cowardice there is no doubt whatever;\nfor a man who steals another man's cattle in the dark must be a coward.\nDid you ever hear one single example of Rob attacking when in good\ndaylight, and fighting for them in the sun?\"\n\n\"Ingenious, S----th, at any rate,\" roared S----k; \"but I don't agree\nwith you. A robber on the highway, must, in the general case, have\ncourage. He braves public opinion, he laughs at the gallows, and he\nthrows himself right against a man in bold competition, without knowing\noften whether he is a giant or a dwarf.\"\n\n\"All the elements of a batter pudding,\" cried S----th, \"without the\nbattering principle. Ay, you forget the head-battering bludgeon, the\ninstantaneous pistol, or the cunning knife; none of all which would a\nman with a spark of courage in him use against an unarmed, defenceless\ntraveller. Another thing you forget, the robber acts upon surprises. He\nproduces confusion by his very presentation, fear by his demand of life\nor money; and when the poor devil's head is running round, he runs away\nwith his watch or his purse, perhaps both. 'Tis all selfishness, pure\nunadulterated selfishness; and will you tell me that a man without a\nparticle of honesty or generosity can have courage?\"\n\n\"Not moral courage, perhaps; but he may have physical.\"\n\n\"All the same, no difference,\" continued the doughty S----th. \"Who ever\nheard of a bodily feeling except as something coming through the body?\nThere are only two physical feelings: pain in being wounded or starved,\nand pleasure in being relieved from pain, or fed when hungry or thirsty.\nI know none other; all the others are moral feelings.\"\n\n\"You may be bold through drink acting on the stomach and head.\"\n\n\"Ay, but the boldness, though the effect of a physical cause, is itself\na moral entity.\"\n\n\"Whoever thought that S----th was such a metaphysician!\" said W----pe, a\nlittle agoggled in his drunken eyes.\n\n\"But the same may be said of every feeling,\" rejoined S----k, somewhat\nroused to ambition by W----pe's remark.\n\n\"And so it may, my little Aristotle,\" continued the clever asserter of\nhis original proposition. \"Why, man, look ye, what takes you into Miss\nF----'s shop in Princes Street for snuff, when you never produce a\nphysical titillation in your nose by a single pinch? Why, it's something\nyou call love, a terribly moral thing, though personified by a little\nfellow with pinions. Yes, wondrously moral; and sometimes, as in your\ncase, immoral. Well, what is it produced by? The face of the said Miss\nF---- painted as a sun picture in the camera at the back of your eye,\nwhere there is a membrane without a particle of nitrate of silver in its\ncomposition, and which yet receives the image. Well, what is love but\njust the titillation produced by this image imprinted on your flesh,\njust as the pleasure of a pinch is the effect of a titillation of the\nnerves in the nose? Yet we don't say that snuff pleasure is a moral\nthing, but merely nasal or bodily. What makes the difference?\"\n\n\"How S----th is coming it!\" said W----pe, still more amazed. \"Where the\ndevil has he got all this?\"\n\n\"Why, the difference lies here. You know, by manipulation and blowing\nit, that you have a nose; but you don't wipe the retina at the back of\nyour eye when you are weeping for love--only the outside, where the\npuling tears are. In short, you know you have a nose, but you don't know\nyou have a retina. D'ye catch me, my small Stagyrite, my petit\nPeripatetic, my comical Academician, eh? Take your toddy, and let's have\na touch of moral drunkenness.\"\n\n\"You ray-ther have me on the hip, S----th.\"\n\n\"Ay, just so; and if I should kick you there, you would not say the pain\nwas a moral thing. All through the same. It's just where and when we\ndon't know the medium we say things are moral and spiritual, and\npoetical and rational, and all the rest of the humbug.\"\n\n\"But though you say all highwaymen are cowards, you won't try that trick\nwith your foot,\" said S----k, boiling up a little under the fire of the\ntoddy.\n\n\"Don't intend; though, if you were to produce moral courage in me by\npinching my nose, I think I could, after making up my mind and putting\nyou upon your guard with a stick in your hand if you chose. Eh! my\nPeripatetic.\" And S----th was clearly getting drunk too.\n\n\"D----n the fellow, his metaphysics are making him [Transcriber's Note:\nmissing part of this word] dent,\" cried W----pe.\n\n\"Why, you don't see where they hit,\" said S----th drawlingly.\n\"Somewhere about the pineal; and therefore we say impudence is moral,\nsometimes immoral, as just now when you damned me. No more of your old\njunk, I say, sitting here in my cathedra, which by the way is\nspring-bottomed, which may account for my moral elasticity that a\nhighwayman is a coward.\"\n\n\"Well,\" cried S----k, starting up. \"I'll deposit a pound with W----pe,\non a bet that you'll not take sixpence from the first bumpkin we meet on\nthe road, by the old watchword, 'Stand and deliver;' and you'll have the\ngun to boot.\"\n\n\"Ay, that's a physical bribe,\" cried W----pe; and, after pausing a\nlittle, \"The fellow flinches.\"\n\n\"And surely the reverse must hold,\" added S----k, \"that, being a coward,\nhe must be a highwayman.\"\n\n\"Why, you see, gents,\" said S----th coolly, \"I don't mind a very great\ndeal, you know, though I do take said sixpence from said bumpkin; but I\nwon't do it, you know, on compulsion.\"\n\n\"If there's no compulsion, there's no robbery,\" said S----k.\n\n\"Oh, I mean _your_ compulsion. As for mine, exercised on said bumpkin,\nlet me alone for that part of the small affair; but none of your\ncompulsion, if you love me. I can do anything, but not upon compulsion,\nyou know.\"\n\n\"Done then!\"\n\n\"Why, ye-e-s,\" drawled S----th, \"done; I may say, gents, done; but I say\nwith Sir John, don't misunderstand me, not upon compulsion, you know.\"\n\n\"Your own free will,\" shouted both the others, now pretty well to do in\nthe world of dithyrambics. \"Here's your instrument for extorting the\nsixpence by force or fear.\"\n\nAnd this young man, half inebriated--with, we may here say\nparenthetically, a mother living in a garret in James' Square, with one\nson and an only daughter of a respectable though poor man, and who\ntrusted to her son for being the means of her support--qualified, as we\nhave seen, by high parts to extort from society respect, and we may add,\nthough that has not appeared, to conciliate love and admiration--took\nwillingly into his hand the old rusty \"Innes,\" to perpetrate upon the\nhighway a robbery. And would he do it? You had only to look upon his\nface for an instant to be certain that he would; for he had all the\nlineaments of a young man of indomitable courage and resolution--the\nsteady eye, the firm lip, all under the high brows of intellect, nor\nunmixed with the beauty that belongs to these moral expressions which in\nthe playfulness of the social hour he had been reducing to materialism,\nwell knowing all the while that he was arguing for effect and applause\nfrom those who only gave him the return of stultified petulance. What if\nthat mother and sister, who loved him, and wept day and night over the\nwild follies that consumed his energies and demoralized his heart, had\nseen him now!\n\nThe bill was paid by S----k, who happened to have money, and who gave it\non the implied condition of a similar one for all on another occasion.\nThey went, or, as the phrase is often, sallied forth. The night had now\ncome down with her black shadows. There was no moon. She was dispensing\nher favours among savages in another hemisphere, who, savages though\nthey were, might have their devotions to their strange gods, resident\nwith her up yonder, where no robbery is, save that of light from the\npure fountain of heat and life. Yes, the darkness was auspicious to\nfolly, as it often is to vice; and there was quietness too--no winds\nabroad to speak voices through rustling leaves, to terrify the criminal\nfrom his wild rebellion against the peace of nature. No night could have\nsuited them better. Yes, all was favourable but God; and Him these wild\nyouths had offended, as disobedient sons of poor parents, who had\neducated them well--as rebellious citizens among a society which would\nhave hailed them as ornaments--as despisers of God's temple, where grace\nwas held out to them and spurned.\n\nThey were now upon the low road leading parallel to the beach, and\ntowards the end of Inverleith Row. Nor had the devil left them with the\ndeserted toddy-bowl. There was still pride for S----th, and for the\nothers the rankling sense of inferiority in talent and of injury from\nscorching irony. Nor had they proceeded two miles, till the fatal\nopportunity loomed in the dark, in the form of a figure coming up from\nLeith or Edinburgh.\n\n  Now, S----th;\n  Now, the cowardly Cartouche;\n  Now, the poltroon Rob Roy;\n  Now, the braggart Wallace!\n\nBut S----th did not need the taunts, nor, though many a patriotic cause\nwanted such a youth, was he left for other work, that night of\ndevil-worship. The figure approached. Alas! the work so easy. S----th\nwas right; how easy and cowardly, where the stranger was, in the\nconfidence of his own heart, unprepared, unweaponed! Yet those who urged\nhim on leapt a dyke.\n\n\"Stand and deliver!\" said S----th, with a handkerchief over his face.\n\n\"God help me!\" cried the man, in a fit of newborn fear. \"I'm a father,\nhave wife and bairns; but I canna spare my life to a highwayman. Here,\nhere, here.\"\n\nAnd fumbling nervously in his pocket, and shaking all over, not at all\nlike the old object of similitude, but rather like a branch of a tree\ndriven by the wind, he thrust something into S----th's hand, and rushing\npast him, was off on the road homewards. Nor was it a quick walk under\nfear, but a run, as if he thought he was or would be pursued for his\nlife, or brought down by the long range of the gun he had seen in the\nhands of the robber.\n\nYes, it was easily done, and it was done; but how to be undone at a time\nwhen the craving maw of the noose dangled from the post, in obedience to\nthe Procrustes of the time!\n\nAnd S----th felt it was done. His hand still held what the man had\npushed into it, but by-and-by it was as fire. His brain reeled; he\nstaggered, and would have fallen, but for S----k, who, leaping the dyke,\ncame behind him.\n\n\"What luck?\"\n\n\"This,\" said S----th,--\"the price of my life,\" throwing on the ground\nthe paper roll.\n\n\"Pound-notes,\" cried S----k, taking them up. \"One, two, three, four,\nfive; more than sixpence.\"\n\n\"Where is the man?\" cried S----th, as, seizing the notes from the hands\nof S----k, he turned round. Then, throwing down the gun, he set off\nafter his victim; but the latter was now ahead, though his pursuer heard\nthe clatter of his heavy shoes on the metal road.\n\n\"Ho, there! stop! 'twas a joke--a bet.\"\n\nNo answer, and couldn't be. The man naturally thought the halloo was for\nfurther compulsion, under the idea that he had more to give, and on he\nsped with increased celerity and terror; nor is it supposed that he\nstopt till he got to his own house, a mile beyond Davidson's Mains.\n\nSmith gave up the pursuit, and with the notes in his hand, ready to be\ncast away at every exacerbation of his fear, returned to his cowardly\ncompanions with hanging head and, if they had seen, with eyes rolling,\nas if he did not know where to look or what to do.\n\n\"What is to be done?\" he cried; and his fears shook the others.\n\n\"Yes, what is to be done? You urged me on. Try to help me out. Let us go\nback and seek out this man. To-morrow it may be too late, when the\npolice have had this robbery in their hands as a thing intended.\"\n\n\"We could not find the man though we went back,\" said S----k. And his\ncompanions agreed.\n\nBut W----pe, who had some acquaintanceship with the police Captain\nStewart, proposed that they should proceed homewards, go to him, give\nhim the money, and tell the story out.\n\n\"That, I fear, would be putting one's hand in the mouth of the hyaena at\nthe moment he is laughing with hunger, as they say he does.\"\n\nAn opinion which S----th feared was too well founded. Nearly at their\nwits' end, they stood all three for a little quite silent, till the\nsound of a horse's clattering feet sounded as if coming from Davidson's\nMains. All under the conviction of crime, they became alarmed; and as\nthe rider approached, they concealed themselves behind the dyke, which\nran by the side of the road. At that moment a man came as if from\nEdinburgh, and they could hear the rider, who did not, from his voice,\nappear to be the man who had been robbed, inquiring if he had met a\nyoung man with a gun in his hand. The man answered no, and off set the\nrider towards town at the rate of a hard trot. The few hopeful moments\nwhen anything could have been done effectually as a palinode and\nexpiation were past; and S----th, releaping the dyke, was again upon\nthe road in the depth of despair, and his companions scarcely less so.\nAll his and their escapades had hitherto been at least within the bounds\nof the law; and though his heart had often misgiven him, when called\nupon for the nourishment of his wild humours, as he thought of his\nwidowed mother at home, without the comfort of the son she loved in\nspite of his errors, he had not ever yet felt the pangs of deep regret\nas they came preluding amendment. A terrible influx of feelings, which\nhad been accumulating almost unknown to him during months and\nmonths--for his father had been dead only for a year and a half--pushed\nup against all the strainings of a wild natural temperament, and seemed\nready to choke him, depriving him of utterance, and making him appear\nthe very coward he had been depicting so sharply an hour before. A deep\ngloom fell over him; nor was this rendered less inspissated by the\nrecollection that came quick as lightning, that he was the only one\nknown to the mistress of the inn. And now, worse and worse--for the same\npower that sent him that conviction threw a suspicion over his mind\nwhich made him strike his forehead with an energy alarming to his\ncompanions--no other--\"O, merciful God!\" he muttered--than that the man\nhe had robbed was his maternal uncle; the only man among the friends of\neither his father or his mother who had shown any sympathy to the\nbereaved family, who had fed them and kept them from starvation, and by\nwhom he had been himself nourished. He had no power to speak this: it\nwas one of those thoughts that scathe the nerves that serve the tongue,\nand which flit and burn, and will not ameliorate their fierceness by the\ncommon means given to man in mercy. It now appeared to him as something\nmiraculous why he did not recognise him; but the occasion was one of\nhurry and confusion, and so completely oblivious had he been in the\nagony which came on him in an instant, that he even thought that at the\nvery moment he knew him, looking darkly, as he did, through the\nhandkerchief over his eyes. In his despair, he meditated hurrying to\nLeith, and with the five pounds getting a passage over the sea\nsomewhere, it signified nothing where, if away from the scene of his\ncrime and ingratitude; and this resolution was confirmed by the\nadditional thought that Mr. Henderson, however good and generous, was a\nstern man--so stern, that he had ten years before given up a beloved son\ninto the hands of justice for stealing; yea, stern _ex corde_ as Cato,\nif generous _ex crumena_ as Codrus.\n\nThis resolution for a time brought back his love of freedom and\nadventure. He would go to Hudson's Bay, and shoot bears or set traps for\nwild silver-foxes, that would bring him gold; or to Buenos Ayres, and\ncatch the wild horse with the lasso; or to Lima, and become a soldier of\nfortune, and slay men with the sword. The gleam of wild hope was\nshortlived--his triumph over his present ill a temporary hallucination.\nThe laurel is the only tree which burns and crackles when green. The\nintention fled, as once more the thought of his mother came, with that\nvigour which was only of half an hour's birth, and begotten by young\nconscience on old neglect. They had been trailing their legs along till\nthey came to Inverleith Row, where he behoved to have left his\ncompanions, if his resolution lasted; for the road there goes straight\non to Leith Harbour. He hesitated, and made an effort; but S----k, who\nknew him, and fancied from the wild look of his eye that he meditated\nthrowing himself into the deep harbour of Leith, took him by an arm,\nmotioning to W----pe to take the other, and thus by a very small\neffort--for really his resolution had departed, and his mind, so far as\nhis intention went, was gone--they half forced him up the long row. When\nthey arrived at Canonmills, here is the rider again, hurrying on: he had\nexecuted his commission, whatever it was, and was galloping home. But\nthe moment he came forward, he pulled up. He had, by a glance under the\nlight of a lamp, caught a sight of the gun in the hands of S----k, who\nhad carried it when he took S----th's arm. The man shouted to a\npoliceman,\n\n\"Seize that robber!\"\n\n\"Which of them?\"\n\n\"Him with the gun.\"\n\nAnd in an instant the cowardly dog who had done the whole business was\nlaid hold of.\n\n\"The gun is mine,\" cried S----th. \"It is I who am answerable for\nwhatever was done by him who carried that weapon. Take me, and let the\ninnocent off. I say this young man is innocent.\"\n\n\"Very gallant and noble,\" said the man; \"but when we go to the hills, we\nlike the deer that bears the horns.\"\n\n\"We are up to them tricks,\" said the policeman. And S----k is borne\nalong, with courage, if he ever had any, gone, and his eye looking\nterror.\n\nS----th wanted to go along with him; but W----pe seized him by the arm\nagain and dragged him up by the east side of Huntly Street, whereby they\ncould get easily to James' Square.\n\nIn a few minutes more S----th was at his mother's door with the burning\nfive pounds in his pocket. He had meditated throwing it away, but the\nhurrying concourse of thoughts had prevented the insufficient remedy\nfrom being carried into effect. When he opened the door he found his\nmother alone. The sister had not yet come from the warehouse where she\nearned five shillings a week, almost the only source of her and the\nmother's living; for the money which S----th earned as a mere copying\nclerk in a writer's office, went mostly in some other direction. The\nmother soon observed, as she cast her eye over him, that there was\nsomething more than ordinary out of even his irregular way. He was pale,\nwoe-worn, haggard; nor did he seem able to stand, but hurried to a chair\nand flung himself down, uttering confusedly, \"Something to drink,\nmother----whisky.\"\n\n\"I hae nane, Charlie, lad,\" said she. \"Never hae I passed a day like\nthis since your father died. I have na e'en got the bit meat that a' get\nthat are under God's protection. But what ails ye, dear Charlie?\"\n\n\"Never mind me,\" replied the youth in choking accents. \"I am better.\nStarving, starving! O God! and my doing. Yes, I am better--a bitter\ncure--starving,\" he again muttered; and searching his pockets, and\nthrowing the five pounds on the table--\"There, there, there,\" he added.\n\nThe mother took up the notes, and counted them slowly; for she had been\ninured to grief, and was always calm, even when her heart beat fast with\nthe throbs of anguish.\n\n\"And whaur fae, laddie?\" she said, as she turned her grey eye and\nscanned deeply the pale face of her son.\n\nSilent, even dogged! Where now his metaphysics, his gibes on the\nphysicalities, the moralities, the spiritualities?--all bundled up in a\nvibrating chord.\n\n\"Whaur fae, Charlie,\" had she repeated, still looking at him.\n\n\"The devil!\" cried he, stung by her searching look, which brought back a\ngleam of the old rebellion.\n\n\"A gude paymaster to his servants,\" she said; \"but I'm no ane o' them\nyet; and may the Lord, wham I serve, even while his chastening hand is\nheavy upon me, preserve me frae his bribes!\" And laying down the notes,\nshe added, not lightly, as it might seem, but seriously, yet quietly,\n\n\"Nae wonder they're warm.\"\n\nThe notes had carried the heat of his burning hand.\n\n\"The auld story--billiards,\" said she again; \"for they are the devil's\ncue and balls.\"\n\nNo answer; and the mother seating herself again, looked stedfastly and\nsuspiciously at him; but she could not catch the eye of her son, who sat\ndoggedly determined not to reveal his secret, and as determined also to\nelude her looks, searching as they were, and sufficient to enter his\nvery soul. Yet she loved him too well to objurgate where she was only as\nyet suspicious; and in the quietness of the hour, she fell for a moment\ninto her widowed habit of speaking as if none were present but herself.\n\n\"Wharfor bore I him--wharfor toiled and wrought for him for sae mony\nyears, since the time he sat on my knee smiling in my face, as if he\nsaid, I will comfort you when you are old, and will be your stay and\nsupport? Was that smile then a lee, put there by the devil, wha has\ngi'en him the money to deceive me again?\"\n\nThen she paused.\n\n\"And how could that be? Love is not a cheat; and did ever bairn love a\nmither as he loved me? or did ever mither love her bairn as I hae loved\nhim? Lord, deliver him frae his enemies, and mak him what he was in thae\nbygone days--sae innocent, sae cheerful, sae obedient; and I will meekly\nsuffer a' Thou canst lay upon me.\"\n\nThe words reached the ears of the son, and the audible sobs seemed to\nstartle the solemn spirit of the hour and the place. \"What would she\nsay,\" he thought, \"if she heard me declare I had robbed my uncle?\"\n\nAt that moment the door opened, and in rushed little Jeanie\nS----th,--her face pale, and her blue eyes lighted with fear, and the\nthin delicate nostril distended, and hissing with her quick\nbreathings,--\n\n\"Oh mither, there's twa officers on the stair seeking Charlie!\"\n\nAnd the quick creature, darting her eye on the table where the notes\nlay, snatched them up, and secreted them in her bosom; and, what was\nmore extraordinary, just as if she had divined something more from her\nbrother's looks, which told her that that money would be sought for by\nthese officers, she darted off like a bird with a crumb in its bill,\nwhich it has picked up from beneath your eyes; but not before\ndepositing, as she passed, a paper on a chair near the door.\n\n\"That creature is a spirit,\" said the mother. \"She sees the evil in the\ndark before it comes, and wards it off like a guardian angel; but oh!\nshe has little in her power to be an angel.\"\n\nAnd rising, she took up the paper. It was only some bread and cheese,\nwhich the girl, knowing the privations of her mother, had bought with a\npart of her five shillings a week.\n\nThereafter, just as little Jeannie had intimated, came in two officers,\nwith the usual looks of duty appearing through their professional\nsorrow.\n\n\"We want your son, good woman.\"\n\n\"He is there,\" said she; \"but what want ye him for?\"\n\n\"Not for going to church,\" said the man, forgetting said professional\nsorrow in his love of a joke, \"but for robbery on the highway; and we\nmust search the house for five pounds in British Linen Company notes.\"\n\nAnd the men proceeded to search, even putting their hands in the\nmother's pockets, besides rifling those of the son. They of course found\nnothing except the powder and shot, which had still remained there, and\na handkerchief.\n\n\"That is something, anyhow,\" said one of the men, \"and a great deal too.\nThe one who is up in the office says true; he was not the man.\"\n\n\"No more he was,\" said Charles. \"I am the man you ought to take; and\ntake me.\"\n\n\"Sae, sae; just as I suspected,\" muttered the mother. \"Lord, Lord! the\ncup runs over. It was e'en lipping when John died; but I will bear yet.\"\nAnd she seemed to grasp firmly the back of a chair, and compressed her\nlips--an attitude she maintained like a statue all the time occupied by\nthe departure of her son. The door closed--he was gone; and she still\nstood, the _vivum cadaver_--the image of a petrified creature of misery.\n\nYet, overcome as her very calmness was, and enchanted for the moment\ninto voicelessness and utter inaction, she was not that kind of women\nwho sit and bear the stripes without an effort to ward them off. If\nJeannie was as quick as lightning, she was sure as that which follows\nthe flash. She thought for a moment, \"God does not absolutely and for\never leave his servants.\" Some thought had struck her. She put on her\nbonnet and cloak deliberately, even looking into the glass to see if she\nwas tidy enough for where she intended going, and for whom she intended\nto see.\n\nAnd now this quiet woman is on her way down Broughton Street at twelve\no'clock of a cold winter night, which, like her own mind, had only that\ncalmness which results from the exhaustion of sudden biting gusts from\nthe north, and therefore right in her face. She drew her cloak round\nher. She had a long way to go, but her son was in danger of the gallows;\nand thoughtless, and as it now seemed, wicked as he was, he was yet her\n_son_. The very word is a volume of heart language--not the fitful\nexpression of passion, but that quiet eloquence which bedews the eye and\nbrings deep sighs with holy recollections of the child-time, and\ngerminating hopes of future happiness up to the period when he would\nhang over her departing spirit. Much of all that had gone, and been\nreplaced by dark forebodings of the future; and now there was before her\nthe vision of an ignominious death as the termination of all these holy\ninspirations. But her faithful saying was always, \"Wait, hope, and\npersevere;\" and the saying was muttered a hundred times as she trudged\nweariedly, oh! how weariedly, for one who had scarcely tasted food for\nthat day, and who had left untouched the gift brought by her loving\ndaughter that night--for which, plain as it was, her heart yearned even\namidst its grief, yea, though grief is said, untruly no doubt, to have\nno appetite. Perhaps not to those who are well fed; but nature is\nstronger than even grief, and she now felt the consequence of her\ndisobedience to her behests in her shaking limbs and fainting heart. Yet\nshe trudged and trudged on, shutting her mouth against her empty stomach\nto keep out the cold north wind. She is at the foot of Inverleith Row,\nand her face is to the west; she will now escape the desultory blasts by\nkeeping close by the long running dyke. She passes the scene of the\nrobbery without knowing it; else, doubtless, she would have stood and\nexamined it by those instincts that force the spirit to such modes of\nsatisfaction, as if the inanimate thing could calm the spiritual. She\nwas now drawing to Davidson's Mains: a little longer, and much past\nmidnight, she was rapping, still in her quiet way, at the door of her\nbrother.\n\nThe family had had something else to do than to sleep. There were the\nsounds of tongues and high words. Mrs. S----th was surprised, as well\nshe might; for though sometimes Mr. Henderson partook freely of the\nbottle when he met old friends in town, he and the whole household were\npeaceable, orderly, and early goers to bed. The door was opened almost\nupon the instant; and Mrs. S----th was presently before Mr. Henderson\nand two others, one of whom held in his hand a whip.\n\n\"What has brought you here, Margaret, at this hour?\"\n\n\"I want to speak privately to you.\"\n\n\"Just here; out with it,\" said he. \"These are my friends; and if it is\nmore money you want, you have come at an unlucky time, for I have been\nrobbed by a villain of five pounds, which I could ill spare.\"\n\nMrs. S----th's heart died away within her. She clenched her hands to\nkeep her from shaking; for she recollected the old story about his own\nson--a story which had got him the character of being harsh and\nunnatural. She could not mention her errand, which was nothing else than\nto induce her brother to use his influence in some way to get Charles\nout of the hands of the law. She could not utter even the word Charles,\nand all she could say was--\n\n\"Robbed!\"\n\n\"Ay, robbed by a villain, whom I shall hang three cubits higher than\nHaman.\"\n\nAnd the stern man even laughed at the thought of retribution. Yet,\nwithal, no man could deny his generosity and general kindliness, if,\neven immediately after, he did not show it by slipping a pound into the\nhands of his needy sister.\n\n\"There,\" said he; \"no more at present. I will call up and see you\nto-morrow morning, as I go to the police office to identify the villain.\nMeantime, take a dram, dear Peggy, and get home to bed. The night is\ncold, and see that you wrap yourself well up to keep _out_ the wind and\n_in_ the spirit; it's good whisky.\"\n\nShortly afterwards she was on her way home, with more than blasted hopes\nof what she had travelled for.\n\nHis uncle the man he had robbed! Even with all her forced composedness,\nthis seemed too much--ay, so much too much, that she was totally\noverpowered. She paused to recover strength; and, looking forward, saw a\nthin flying shadow coming up to her, with a shriek of delight; and\nimmediately she was hugged rapturously and kissed all over by little\nJeannie, whose movements, as they ever were--so agile, so quick, so\nProtean--appeared to her, now that she was stolid with despair, as the\npostures and gestures of a creature appearing in a dream.\n\n\"Oh, I know all,\" she cried; \"don't speak--nay, wait now till I return.\"\n\nAnd the creature was off like a September meteor disappearing in the\nwest, as if to make up again to the sun, far down away behind the hills\nfrom whence it had been struck off in the height of the day.\n\nWhat can the strange creature mean? But she had had experience of her,\nand knew the instinctive divination that got at objects and results\nwhere reason in full-grown man would syllogize into the darkness of\ndespair.\n\nNor was it long before she is running back, leaping with all the\n_abandon_ of a romp, crying--\n\n\"I will save dear Charlie yet; for I love him as much as I hate that old\ncurmudgeon.\"\n\n\"What does the girl mean? Whaur was you, bairn?\" said her mother.\n\n\"Oh mother, how cold it is for you! Wrap the cloak about you.\"\n\n\"But what _is_ it that you mean, Jeannie?\"\n\n\"We shall be home by-and-by; come.\"\n\nAnd, putting an arm round her mother's waist, she impelled her forward\nwith the strength of her wythe of an arm.\n\n\"Come, come, there are ghosts about these woods;\" and then she cowered,\nbut still impelled.\n\nNor did the mother press the question she had already put twice; for, as\nwe have said, she knew the nature of the girl, who ever took her own\nway, and had the art to make that way either filial obedience or loving\nconciliation.\n\n\"Oh, I'm so frightened for these ghosts!\" she continued. \"You know there\nwas a murder here once upon a time. They're so like myself--wicked, and\nwon't answer when they're spoken to, as I would not answer you, dear\nmother, just now; but wait till to-morrow, and you shall see that I am\nyour own loving Jeannie.\"\n\n\"Weel, weel, bairn, we _will_ see. But, oh, I'm muckle afraid; d'ye\nknow, Jeannie, Charlie has been robbing! And wha, think ye, was the\nman--wha but--\"\n\n\"Hush, hush, mother, I know it all already; but let me beneath your\ncloak, I'm so frightened.\"\n\nAnd the little sprite got in, keeping her head and the little cup of a\nbonnet protruding every moment to look round; yet if it could have been\nseen in the dark, with such a sly, half-humorous eye, as betokened one\nof those curiously-made creatures who seem to be formed for studies to\nthe thoroughgoing decent pacers of the world's stage.\n\n\"Ah! now we're all safe, as poor Charlie will be to-morrow,\" she cried,\nas they got to the foot of the long row, and she emerged in the light of\none of the lamps, so like a flash from a cloud, running before her\nmother to get her to walk faster and faster, as if some scheme she had\nin her head was loitering under the impediment of her mother's wearied,\noh, wearied step.\n\nHaving at length reached home, Jeannie ran and got the fire as bright as\nher own eye, crying out occasionally, as she glanced about,\n\n\"Poor Charlie in a dungeon!\" and again, a few minutes after, when\npuffing at the fire with the bellows,\n\n\"No fire for dear Charlie; all dark and dismal!\"\n\nAnd then, running for the little paper packet with the cheese and bread,\nand setting it down,\n\n\"But he'll see the sun to-morrow, and will sleep in his own bed\nto-morrow night too; that he shall. Now eat, mother, for you will be\nhungry; and see you this!\" as she took from her pocket a very tiny\nbottle, which would hold somewhere about a glass.\n\n\"Take that,\" filling out a little whisky.\n\n\"Oh dear, dear bairn, where learnt ye a' that witchery?\" said the\nmother, looking at her.\n\nBut the sly look, sometimes without a trace of laughter in her face, was\nthe only answer.\n\nAnd now they are stretched in bed in each other's arms; but it was a\nrestless night for both. And how different the manifestations of the\nrestlessness! The groans of the elder for the fate of her only boy, now\nsuspended on the scales of justice--one branch of the balance to be lopt\noff by Nemesis, and the other left with a noose in the string whereon to\nhang that erring, yet still beloved son; hysterical laughs from Jeannie\nin her dreams, as she saw herself undo the kench, and Charlie let out,\nclapping his hands, and praying too, and kissing Jeannie, and other\nfantastic tricks of fancy in her own domain, unburdened with heavy clay\nwhich soils and presses upon her wings and binds her to earth, and to\nthese monstrous likenesses of things, which she says are all a lying\nnature under the bonds of a blind fate, from where she cannot get free,\neven though she screams of murder and oppression and cruelty, and all\nthe ills that earth-born flesh inherits from the first man.\n\nYet, for all these deductions from the sleep they needed, Jeannie was up\nin the morning early, infusing tea for herself and mother, muttering, as\nshe whisked about,\n\n\"No breakfast for him made by me, who love him so dearly; but in this\nvery house, ay, this night, he will have supper; and such a supper!\"\n\nIn the midst of these scenes in the little room, a knock came to the\ndoor. It was a policeman, to say that she and her mother must be up to\nthe office by ten.\n\n\"And shall we not?\" said Jeannie, laughing; \"wouldn't I have been there\nat any rate?\"\n\nThen, a little after, came the stern Henderson, still ignorant of who\nrobbed him. Mrs. S--th got up trembling, and looking at him with terror,\nso dark he appeared.\n\n\"Where is Charles?\" he said.\n\n\"We don't know,\" said Jeannie, turning a side-glance at her mother. It\nwas true she hated her uncle mortally, for the reason that, though he\nwas to an extent generous to them, he was harsh too, and left them often\npoorly off, when from his wealth, which he concealed, he might have made\nthem happy; and then how could they help the conduct of the son whose\nearnings ought to have relieved the uncle of even his small advances?\n\nBut though Jeannie hated the curmudgeon, who was, if he could, to hang\nher brother--worth to her all the world and a bit of heaven--the mother\nsaw some change in the girl's conduct towards her uncle. Though pure as\nsnow, she flew to him and hugged him with the art of one of the denizens\nof rougedom, and kissed him, and all the time was acting some by-play\nwith her nimble fingers.\n\n\"Where is your box, you naughty uncle? Doesn't my mother like her eyes\nopened in the morning? Ah, here it is.\"\n\nAnd getting the box, she carried it to her mother, who was still more\nsurprised; for she never had got a pinch from Mr. Henderson nor any one,\nthough she sometimes, for her breathing, took a draught of a pipe at\nnight.\n\n\"It is empty, you witch,\" cried Henderson.\n\n\"Ah! then, my mother will not get her eyes opened.\" And she returned it\ninto his pocket with these said subtle fingers.\n\nThe mother got dressed, and took a cup of Jeannie's tea, and in a few\nminutes they were all on their way to the police office. They found\nCaptain Stewart in his room, and along with him the procurator-fiscal.\n\n\"Come away, Mr. Henderson; this is a bad business,\" said Stewart.\n\n\"The villain!\" cried Henderson; \"I hope he will hang for it.\"\n\n\"Ay, if guilty though, only,\" replied the captain.\n\n\"Would you know the man?\" said the fiscal.\n\n\"No, he had a napkin over his face; but I could guess something from his\nsize and voice.\"\n\n\"He admits the robbery,\" said Stewart; \"but he has an absurd\nqualification about a frolic, which yet, I am bound to say, is supported\nby his accomplices.\"\n\n\"Then the money, five pounds, has not been got,\" said the fiscal. \"This\nis a great want; for without it, I don't see what we can make of the\ncase.\"\n\n\"Money here or money there, I've lost it anyhow; and if he isn't hanged,\nI'll not be pleased.\"\n\n\"Was there any but one man engaged in the affair?\"\n\n\"Just one, and plenty.\"\n\n\"He had a gun?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Would you know it?\"\n\n\"No. I was, to say the truth, too frightened to examine the instrument\nthat was to shoot me.\"\n\n\"Then we have nothing but the admission and the testimony of the\naccomplices, who say it was a frolic,\" said Stewart.\n\n\"No frolic to me,\" cried Henderson. \"Why then didn't they return the\nmoney?\"\n\n\"They say they called and ran after you, and that you would not wait to\nget it back.\"\n\n\"Then why didn't they produce it to you?\" said Henderson. \"The money is\nappropriated.\"\n\n\"A circumstance,\" said the fiscal, \"in itself sufficient to rebut the\nfrolic. Yes, the strength of the case is there.\"\n\n\"So I thought,\" growled the man.\n\n\"You wasn't in liquor?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Are you ever?\"\n\n\"I don't deny that in town I take a glass, but seldom so much as to\naffect my walking; never so much as make me dream I was robbed of money,\nand that too money gone from my pocket.\"\n\n\"Where do you carry your money?\"\n\n\"In my waistcoat pocket. Sometimes I have carried a valuable bill home\nin my snuff-mull, when it was empty by chance.\"\n\n\"Where had you the five pounds?\"\n\n\"I am not sure, but I think in my left waistcoat pocket.\"\n\n\"And you gave it on demand? It was not rifled from you?\"\n\n\"I thrust it into the villain's hand, and ran.\"\n\n\"Well, we must confront you with the supposed robber,\" said the captain.\n\"But you seem to be in choler, and I caution you against a precipitate\njudgment. You may naturally think the admission of the young men enough,\nand that may make you see what perhaps may not be to be seen. I confess\nthe admission of _three_ to be more than the law wants or wishes; yet\nthere are peculiarities in this case that take it out of the general\nrules.\" Stewart then nodded to an officer, who went out and returned.\n\n\"There stands the prisoner.\"\n\n\"Charles S----th!\" ejaculated the uncle: \"my own nephew! execrable\nvillain!\"\n\nAnd he looked at the youth with bated breath and fiery eyes.\n\nThere was silence for a few minutes. The officials looked pitiful. The\nmother hung down her head; and little Jeannie leered significantly,\nwhile she took the strings of her bonnet, tied them, undid them again,\nand flung away the ends till they went round her neck; nay, the playful\nminx was utterly dead to the condition of her brother who stood there,\nashamed to look any one in the face, if he was not rather like an\nexhumed corpse; and we would not be far out if we said that she even\nlaughed as she saw the curmudgeon staring like an angry mastiff at the\nbrother she loved so well. But then, was she not an eccentric thing,\ndriven hither and thither by vagrant impulses, and with thoughts in her\nhead which nobody could understand?\n\n\"Was this the man who robbed you, Mr. Henderson?\"\n\n\"Yes, the very man; now when I recollect. Stay, was there any\nhandkerchief found on him?\"\n\n\"Yes; that,\" said an officer, producing a red silk handkerchief.\n\n\"Why, I gave him that,\" said Mr. Henderson. \"It cost me 4s. 6d.; and it\nwas that he had over his face when he robbed me of my hard-earned\nmoney!\"\n\n\"It is true,\" said Charles; \"and sorry am I for the frolic, which my\ncompanions forced me into.\"\n\n\"A frolic with five pounds at its credit,\" said Mr. Henderson. \"Where is\nthe money, sir?\"\n\n\"Ah! I know, dear uncle,\" cried the watchful Jeannie, in a piercing\ntreble of the clearest silver.\n\nAll eyes were turned on Jeannie.\n\n\"Then where is it, girl?\"\n\n\"I saw him put it in his snuff-mull last night when he was at mother's.\"\n\n\"Examine your box, Mr. Henderson.\"\n\nThe man growled, took out the box, and there was the five pounds. He\nlooked at Jeannie as if he would have devoured her with his nose at a\nsingle pinch.\n\n\"Was Mr. Henderson sober, Miss S----th?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Was he drunk?\"\n\n\"No. Only he couldn't stand scarcely, though he could walk; and he\ncalled mother Jeannie, and me Peggy, and he said 'twas a shame in us to\nburn two candles at his expense, when one was enough.\"\n\n\"_Saved by a pinch_,\" cried Captain Stewart.\n\n\"Mr. Henderson,\" said the fiscal, \"the case is done, and would never\nhave come here if your nose had happened last night to be as itchy as\nyour hand. The prisoner is discharged.\"\n\nAnd no sooner had the words been uttered than Jeannie flew to her\nbrother, hung round his neck, kissed him, blubbered and played such\nantics that the fiscal could not refrain searching for his handkerchief.\nHe found it too; but just as if this article were no part of his\nofficial property, he returned it to his pocket; and then, as he saw\nCharles leaning on his mother's breast, and making more noise with his\nheart and lungs than he could have done if he had been hanged, he\nresolved, after due deliberation, to let the \"hanging drop\" have its own\nway in sticking on the top of his cheek, and determined not to fall for\nall his jerking.\n\n\"BARBADOES, _15th July_ 18--.\n\n\"MY DEAREST LITTLE JEANNIE,--I am at length settled the manager of a\ngreat sugar factory, with \u00a3400 a year. Tell your mother I will write her\nby next post; and all I can say meantime is, that Messrs. Coutts and Co.\nwill pay her \u00a3100 a year, half-yearly, till I return to keep you, for\nsaving me from the gallows. Accept the offer of the old man. He is worth\n\u00a3500 a year; and you're just the little winged spirit that will keep up\na fire of life in a good heart only a little out of use.\n\n\"_P.S._--Tell uncle that I will send him five pounds of snuff, by next\nship, in return for the five pounds I took out of his box on that\neventful night, which was the beginning of my reformation.\n\n\"Tell Mrs. S----k and Mrs. W----pe that their sons arrived at Jamaica;\nbut, poor fellows, they are both dead.\n\n\"The same vessel that carries the snuff will convey to mother a hogshead\nof sugar and a puncheon of rum. So that at night, in place of the tiny\nphial which held a glass, and which you used to draw out of your pocket\nso slily when mother was weakly, you may now mix for her a tumbler of\nrum-punch; and if you don't take some too, I'll send you no more. But,\nhark ye, Jeannie, don't give uncle a _drop_, though he tried to give me\none that, I fear, would have made my head, like yours, a little giddy.\nAdieu, dear little Ariel.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE PROCRASTINATOR.\n\n\nBeing overtaken by a shower in Kensington Gardens, I sought shelter in\none of the alcoves near the palace. I was scarce seated, when the storm\nburst with all its fury; and I observed an old fellow, who had stood\nloitering till the hurricane whistled round his ears, making towards me,\nas rapidly as his apparently palsied limbs would permit. Upon his nearer\napproach, he appeared rather to have suffered from infirmity than years.\nHe wore a brownish-black coat, or rather shell, which, from its\ndimensions, had never been intended for the wearer; and his\ninexpressibles were truly inexpressible. \"So,\" said I, as he seated\nhimself on the bench, and shook the rain from his old broad-brimmed hat,\n\"you see, old boy, '_Procrastination is the thief of time_;' the clouds\ngave you a hint of what was coming, but you seemed not to take it.\" \"It\nis,\" replied he, eagerly. \"Doctor Young is in the right. Procrastination\nhas been my curse since I was in leading-strings. It has grown with my\ngrowth, and strengthened with my strength. It has ever been my besetting\nsin--my companion in prosperity and adversity; and I have slept upon it,\nlike Samson on the lap of Delilah, till it has shorn my locks and\ndeprived me of my strength. It has been to me a witch, a manslayer, and\na murderer; and when I would have shaken it off in wrath and in disgust,\nI found I was no longer master of my own actions and my own house. It\nhad brought around me a host of its blood relations--its sisters and its\ncousins-german--to fatten on my weakness, and haunt me to the grave; so\nthat when I tore myself from the embrace of one, it was only to be\nintercepted by another. You are young, sir, and a stranger to me; but\nits effects upon me and my history--the history of a poor paralytic\nshoemaker--if you have patience to hear, may serve as a beacon to you in\nyour voyage through life.\"\n\nUpon expressing my assent to his proposal--for the fluency and fervency\nof his manner had at once riveted my attention and excited curiosity--he\ncontinued:--\n\n\"I was born without a fortune, as many people are. When about five years\nof age, I was sent to a parish school in Roxburghshire, and\nprocrastination went with me. Being possessed of a tolerable memory, I\nwas not more deficient than my schoolfellows; but the task which they\nhad studied the previous evening was by me seldom looked at till the\nfollowing morning, and my seat was the last to be occupied of any other\non the form. My lessons were committed to memory by a few hurried\nglances, and repeated with a faltering rapidity, which not unfrequently\npuzzled the ear of the teacher to follow me. But what was thus hastily\nlearned, was as suddenly forgotten. They were mere surface impressions,\neach obliterated by the succeeding. And though I had run over a\ntolerable general education, I left school but little wiser than when I\nentered it.\n\n\"My parents--peace to their memory!\"--here the old fellow looked most\nfeelingly, and a tear of filial recollection glistened in his eyes: it\nadded a dignity to the recital of his weakness, and I almost reverenced\nhim--\"My parents,\" continued he, \"had no ambition to see me rise higher\nin society than an honest tradesman; and at thirteen I was bound\napprentice to a shoemaker. Yes, sir, I was--I am a shoemaker; and but\nfor my curse--my malady--had been an ornament to my profession. I have\nmeasured the foot of a princess, sir; I have made slippers to his\nMajesty!\" Here his tongue acquired new vigour from the idea of his own\nimportance. \"Yes, sir, I have made slippers to his Majesty; yet I am an\nunlucky--I am a bewitched--I am a ruined man. But to proceed with my\nhistory. During the first year of my apprenticeship, I acted in the\ncapacity of errand boy; and, as such, had to run upon many an unpleasant\nmessage--sometimes to ask money, frequently to borrow it. Now, sir, I am\nalso a _bashful_ man, and, as I was saying, _bashfulness_ is one of the\nblood relations which procrastination has fastened upon me. While acting\nin my last-mentioned capacity, I have gone to the house, gazed at every\nwindow, passed it and repassed it, placed my hand upon the rapper,\nwithdrawn it, passed it and repassed it again, stood hesitating and\nconsulting with myself, then resolved to defer it till the next day, and\nfinally returned to my master, not with a direct lie, but a broad\n_equivocation_; and this was another of the cousins-german which\nprocrastination introduced to my acquaintance.\n\n\"In the third year of my servitude, I became fond of reading; was\nesteemed a quick workman; and, having no desire for money beyond what\nwas necessary to supply my wants, I gave unrestricted indulgence to my\nnew passion. We had each an allotted quantity of work to perform weekly.\nConscious of being able to complete it in half the time, and having\nyielded myself solely to my ruinous propensity to delay, I seldom did\nanything before the Thursday; and the remaining days were spent in\nhurry, bustle, and confusion. Occasionally I overrated my abilities--my\ntask was unfinished, and I was compelled to count a _dead horse_. Week\nafter week this grew upon me, till I was so firmly saddled, that, until\nthe expiration of my apprenticeship, I was never completely freed from\nit. This was another of my curse's handmaidens.\"\n\nHere he turned to me with a look of seriousness, and said, \"Beware,\nyoung man, how you trust to your own strength and your own talents; for\nhowever noble it may be to do so, let it be in the open field, before\nyou are driven into a corner, where your arms may come in contact with\nthe thorns and the angles of the hedges.\n\n\"About this time, too, I fell in love--yes, _fell_ in love; for I just\nbeheld the fair object, and I was a dead man, or a new man, or anything\nyou will. Frequently as I have looked and acted like a fool, I believe I\nnever did so so strikingly as at that moment. She was a beautiful\ngirl--a very angel of light--about five feet three inches high, and my\nown age. Heaven knows how I ever had courage to declare my passion; for\nI put it off day after day, and week after week, always preparing a new\nspeech against the next time of meeting her, until three or four rivals\nstepped forward before me. At length I did speak, and never was love\nmore clumsily declared. I told her in three words; then looked to the\nground, and again in her face most pitifully. She received my addresses\njust as saucily as a pretty girl could do. But it were useless to go\nover our courtship; it was the only happy period of my existence, and\nevery succeeding day has been misery. Matters were eventually brought to\na bearing, and the fatal day of final felicity appointed. I was yet\nyoung, and my love possessed all the madness of a first passion. She not\nonly occupied my heart, but my whole thoughts; I could think of nothing\nelse, speak of nothing else, and, what was worse, do nothing else: it\nburned up the very capabilities of action, and rendered my native\nindolence yet more indolent. However, the day came (and a bitter stormy\nday it was), the ceremony was concluded, and the honeymoon seemed to\npass away in a fortnight.\n\n\"About twelve months after our marriage, Heaven (as authors say) blest\nour loves with a son and, I had almost said, heir. Deplorable\npatrimony!--heir of his mother's features--the sacrifice of his father's\nweakness.\" Kean could not have touched this last burst. The father, the\nmiserable man, parental affection, agony, remorse, repentance, were\nexpressed in a moment.\n\nA tear was hurrying down his withered cheek as he dashed it away with\nhis dripping sleeve. \"I am a weak old fool,\" said he, endeavouring to\nsmile; for there was a volatile gaiety in his disposition, which his\nsorrows had subdued, but not extinguished. \"Yet, my boy! my poor dear\nWillie!--I shall never--no, I shall never see him again!\" Here he again\nwept; and had nature not denied me that luxury, I should have wept too,\nfor the sake of company. After a pause, he again proceeded:--\n\n\"After the birth of my child, came the baptism. I had no conscientious\nobjection to the tenets of the Established Church of my country; but I\nbelonged to no religious community. I had never thought of it as an\nobligation beyond that of custom, and deferred it from year to year,\ntill I felt ashamed to 'go forward' on account of my age. My wife was a\nCameronian; and to them, though I knew nothing of their principles, I\nhad an aversion. But for her to hold up the child while I was in the\nplace, was worse than heathenism--was unheard-of in the parish. The\nnearest Episcopal chapel was at Kelso, a distance of ten miles. The\nchild still remained unbaptized. 'It hasna a name yet,' said the\nignorant meddlers, who had no higher idea of the ordinance. It was a\nsource of much uneasiness to my wife, and gave rise to some family\nquarrelling. Months succeeded weeks, and eventually the child was\ncarried to the Episcopal church. This choked up all the slander of the\ntown, and directed it into one channel upon my devoted head. Some said I\n'wasna sound,' and all agreed I 'was nae better than I should be,' while\nthe zealous clergyman came to my father, expressing his fears that 'his\nson was in a bad way.' For this, too, am I indebted to procrastination.\nI thus became a martyr to supposed opinions, of which I was ignorant;\nand such was the unchristian bigotry of my neighbours, that, deeming it\nsinful to employ one whom they considered little other than a pagan,\nabout five years after my marriage I was compelled to remove with my\nfamily to London.\n\n\"We were at this period what tradesmen term _miserably hard up_. Having\nsold off our little stock of furniture, after discharging a few debts\nwhich were unavoidably contracted, a balance of rather less than two\npounds remained; and upon this, my wife, my child, and myself were to\ntravel a distance of three hundred and fifty miles. I will not go over\nthe journey: we performed it on foot in twenty days; and, including\nlodging, our daily expense amounted to one shilling and eightpence; so\nthat, on entering the metropolis, all we possessed was five shillings\nand a few pence. It was the dead of winter, and nearly dark, when we\nwere passing down St. John Street, Clerkenwell. I was benumbed, my wife\nwas fainting, and our poor child was blue and speechless. We entered a\npublic-house near Smithfield, where two pints of warm porter and ginger,\nwith a crust of bread and cheese, operated as partial restoratives. The\nnoisy scene of butchers, drovers, and coal-heavers was new to me. My\nchild was afraid, my wife uncomfortable, and I, a gaping observer,\nforgetful of my own situation. My boy pulled my coat, and said, 'Come,\nfather;' my wife jogged my elbow, and reminded me of a lodging; but my\nold reply, '_Stop a little_,' was my ninety and nine times repeated\nanswer. Frequently the landlord made a long neck over the table, gauging\nthe contents of our tardily emptied pint; and, as the watchman was\ncalling 'Past eleven,' finally took it away, and bade us 'bundle off.'\nNow I arose, feeling at once the pride of my spirit and the poorness of\nmy purse, vowing never to darken his door again, should I remain in\nLondon a hundred years.\n\n\"On reaching the street, I inquired at a half-grown boy where we might\nobtain a lodging; and after causing me to inquire twice or thrice--'I no\nken, Sawney--haud awa' north,' said the brat, sarcastically imitating my\naccent. I next inquired of a watchman, who said there was no place upon\nhis beat; but _beat_ was Gaelic to me; and I repeated my inquiry to\nanother, who directed me towards the hells of Saffron Hill. At a third,\nI requested to be informed the way, who, after abusing me for seeking\nlodgings at such an hour, said he had seen me in the town six hours\nbefore, and bade us go to the devil. A fourth inquired if we had any\nmoney, took us to the bar of a public-house, called for a quartern of\ngin, drank our healths, asked if we could obtain a bed, which being\nanswered in the negative, he hurried to the door, bawling 'Half-past\neleven,' and left me to pay for the liquor. On reaching Saffron Hill, it\nwas in an Irish uproar: policemen, thieves, prostitutes, and Israelites\nwere brawling in a satanic mass of iniquity; blood and murder was the\norder of the night. My child screamed, my wife clung to my arm; she\nwould not, she durst not, sleep in such a place. To be brief: we had to\nwander in the streets till the morning; and I believe that night, aided\nby a broken heart, was the forerunner of her death. It was the first\ntime I had been compelled to walk trembling for a night without shelter,\nor to sit frozen on a threshold; and this, too, I owe to\nprocrastination.\n\n\"For a time we rented a miserable garret, without furniture or fixture,\nat a shilling weekly, which was paid in advance. I had delayed making\napplication for employment till our last sixpence was spent. We had\npassed a day without food; my child appeared dying; my wife said\nnothing, but she gazed upon her dear boy, and shook her head with an\nexpression that wrung me to the soul. I rushed out almost in madness,\nand, in a state of unconsciousness, hurried from shop to shop in\nagitation and in misery. It was vain; appearances were against me. I was\nbroken down and dejected, and my state of mind and manner appeared a\ncompound of the maniac and the blackguard. At night I was compelled to\nreturn to the suffering victims of my propensity, penniless and\nunsuccessful. It was a dreadful and a sleepless night with us all; or if\nI did slumber upon the hard floor for a moment (for we had neither seat\nnor covering), it was to startle at the cries of my child wailing for\nhunger, or the smothered sighs of my unhappy partner. Again and again I\nalmost thought them the voice of the Judge, saying, 'Depart from me, ye\ncursed.'\n\n\"I again hurried out with daybreak, for I was wretched, and resumed my\ninquiries; but night came, and I again returned equally successful. The\nyearnings of my child were now terrible, and the streaming eyes of his\nfond mother, as she pressed his head with her cold hand upon her lap,\nalone distinguished her from death. The pains of hunger in myself were\nbecoming insupportable; my teeth gnashed against each other, and worms\nseemed gnawing my heartstrings. At this moment, my dear wife looked me\nin the face, and, stretching her hand to me, said, 'Farewell, my love,\nin a few hours I and our dear child shall be at rest! Oh! hunger,\nhunger!' I could stand no more. Reason forsook me. I could have died for\nthem; but I could not beg. We had nothing to pledge. Our united wearing\napparel would not have brought a shilling. My wife had a pair of pocket\nBibles (I had once given them in a present): my eyes fell upon them--I\nsnatched them up unobserved--rushed from the house, and--Oh heaven! let\nthe cause forgive the act--pawned them for eighteenpence. It saved our\nlives, it obtained employment, and for a few weeks appeared to overcome\nmy curse.\n\n\"I am afraid I grow tedious with particulars, sir; it is an old man's\nfault--though I am not old either; I am scarce fifty-five. After being\nthree years in London, I was appointed foreman of an extensive\nestablishment in the Strand. I remained in this situation about four\nyears. It was one of respectability and trust, demanding, hourly, a\nvigilant and undivided attention. To another, it might have been\nattended with honour and profit; but to me it terminated in disgrace.\nAmongst other duties, I had the payment of the journeymen, and the\ngiving out of the work. They being numerous, and their demands frequent,\nit would have required a clerk for the proper discharge of that duty\nalone. I delayed entering at the moment in my books the materials and\ncash given to each, until they, multiplying upon my hands, and begetting\na consequent confusion, it became impossible for me to make their entry\nwith certainty or correctness. The workmen were not slow in discovering\nthis, and not a few of the more profligate improved upon it to their\nadvantage. Thus I frequently found it impossible to make both ends of my\naccount meet; and in repeated instances, where the week's expenditure\nexceeded the general average, though satisfied in my own mind of its\naccuracy, from my inability to state the particulars, in order to\nconceal my infirmity, I have accounted for the overplus from my own\npocket. Matters went on in this way for a considerable time. You will\nadmit I was rendered feelingly sensible of my error, and I resolved to\ncorrect it. But my resolutions were always made of paper; they were like\na complaisant debtor--full of promises, praying for grace, and\ndexterously evading performance. Thus, day after day, I deferred the\nadoption of my new system to a future period. For, sir, you must be\naware there is a pleasure in procrastination, of a nature the most\nalluring and destructive; but it is a pleasure purchased by the\nsacrifice of judgment: in its nature and results it resembles the\nhappiness of the drunkard; for, in exact ratio as our spirits are raised\nabove their proper level, in the same proportion, when the ardent\neffects have evaporated, they sink beneath that level.\n\n\"I was now too proud to work as a mere journeyman, and I commenced\nbusiness for myself; but I began without capital, and a gourd of sorrow\nhung over me, while I stood upon sand. I had some credit; but, as my\nbills became payable, I ever found I had put off, till the very day they\nbecame due, the means of liquidating them; then had I to run and borrow\nfive pounds from one, and five shillings from another, urged by despair,\nfrom a hundred quarters. My creditors grew clamorous; my wife upbraided\nme; I flew to the bottle--to the bottle!\" he repeated; \"and my ruin was\ncomplete--my family, business, everything, was neglected. Bills of\nMiddlesex were served on me, declarations filed; I surrendered myself,\nand was locked up in Whitecross Street. It is a horrid place; the Fleet\nis a palace to it; the Bench, paradise! But, sir, I will draw my painful\nstory to a close. During my imprisonment my wife died--died, not by my\nhands, but from the work of them! She was laid in a strange grave, and\nstrangers laid her head in the dust, while I lay a prisoner in the city\nwhere she was buried. My boy--my poor Willie--who had been always\nneglected, was left without father and without mother! Sir! sir! my boy\nwas left without food! He forsook visiting me in the prison; I heard he\nhad turned the associate of thieves; and from that period five years\nhave passed, and I have obtained no trace of him. But it is my doing--my\npoor Willie!\"\n\nHere the victim of procrastination finished his narrative. The storm had\npassed away, and the sun again shone out. The man had interested me, and\nwe left the gardens together. I mentioned that I had to go into the\ncity; he said he had business there also, and asked to accompany me. I\ncould not refuse him. From the door by which we left the gardens, our\nroute lay by way of Oxford Street. As we proceeded down Holborn, the\nchurch bell of St. Sepulchre's began to toll; and the crowd, collected\nround the top of Newgate Street, indicated an execution. As we\napproached the place, the criminal was brought forth. He was a young man\nabout nineteen years of age, and had been found guilty of an aggravated\ncase of housebreaking. As the unhappy being turned round to look upon\nthe spectators, my companion gave a convulsive shriek, and, springing\nfrom my side, exclaimed, \"Righteous Heaven! my Willie! my murdered\nWillie!\" He had proceeded but a few paces, when he fell with his face\nupon the ground. In the wretched criminal he discovered his lost, his\nonly son. The miserable old man was conveyed, in a state of\ninsensibility, to St. Bartholomew's Hospital, where I visited him the\nnext day: he seemed to suffer much, and in a few hours he died with a\nshudder, and the word _procrastination_ on his tongue.\n\n\n\n\nTHE TEN OF DIAMONDS.\n\n\nAt length I reached the Moated Grange, on a visit to my friend Graeme.\nBut since I am to speak a good deal of this place, I may as well explain\nthat it was misnamed. There was no moat, nor had there been for a\nhundred years; but round the old pile--hoary, and shrivelled, and\npalsied enough, in all conscience, for delighting the mole-eye of any\nantiquarian hunks--- there was a visible trace of the old ditch in a\nhollow covered with green sward going all round the house, which hollow\nwas the only place clear of trees. And these trees! They stood for a\nmile round, like an army of giants seventy feet high, all intent, it\nwould seem, upon choking the poor old pile, throwing their big arms over\nthe hollow, swinging them to and fro, and dashing their points against\nthe panes as the wind listed. It would come by-and-by to be a hard task\nfor the stone and lime victim to hold its place, with its sinews of run\nmortar, against these tyrants of the wood. And then they were as full of\nnoises as Babel itself--noises a thousand times more\nheterogeneous--croaking, chirping, screeching, cawing, whistling,\nbilling, cooing, cuckooing. \"What a place to live in!\" I thought, fresh\nas I was from town, \"where, if there are noises, one knows something of\ntheir meaning--maledictory, yea, devilish as it often is, expressive of\nthe passions of men which will never sleep. But these! what could one\nmake of such a _tintamarre_? Nothing but the reflection--that is, if you\nhappen to be a philosopher, which, thank God, I am not--that not one\nnote of all this rural oratorio is without its intention; and thus we\nalways satisfy ourselves. But when we run the matter up a little\nfurther, we find it a very small affair: two responses, one to each of\ntwo chords vibrating for ever and ever throughout all nature--pleasure\nand pain, pain and pleasure, turn by turn--the last pain being death!\"\n\n\"How can you live here, Graeme?\" I said, as we stood under the old\nporch, looking out, or rather having our look blocked up by the\nthickness, and our ears deaved by the eternal screeching and cawing of\nfive thousand crows overhead.\n\n\"There's gloom everywhere where man is,\" he replied, \"and screeching\nowls in every brain. You can't get quit.\" Then, lowering his voice, \"I\nam haunted, and yet live here in this Moated Grange! The difference is\nthis: in the town the gaslight and eternal clatter distract a man like\nme who is plagued from within; here I find some concord between the\ninside and the out, only the owls in the inside are more grotesque and\nhorrible.\"\n\n\"Well, Graeme,\" said I, \"it is needless to disguise what brought me\nhere. The secret is out. The choke-damp has got wind. If the idiot had\nnot blown his brains out, it would have been nothing. You could have\npaid him back, and he might now have had both his money and his brains.\"\n\n\"Got wind!\" cried he, clutching me by the breast of the coat with the\nfury of a highwayman or a spasmodic actor. \"Did the villain Ruggieri\ntell you?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"So far well,\" he added, taking a long pull with his lungs, as if he had\ngot quit of an attack of asthma; \"but though I may satisfy the widow,\nhow am I to appease Heaven? Come,\" he added, again seizing me with a\nforce in which there was a tremble, \"I want to ease my mind. You are my\noldest friend, and a load divided is more easily carried.\"\n\nAnd leading the way into the parlour, where the fire had got into a fine\nred heat, and was sending a glare through the ruby and golden contents\nof several strangely-shaped bottles on the table, he threw himself on a\nchair on the one side, I taking one on the other. A few minutes of\nsilence intervened.\n\n\"If it be as painful for you,\" he continued, \"to hear a confession as it\nis for me to make it, you may help yourself to bear the infliction by\npouring into your stomach some of that Burgundy. I will take none. I\nhave fire enough in my brain already;\" and he pushed the bottle to me.\n\n\"You were a bit of a blackleg yourself,\" he continued, as he threw\nhimself back in the arm-chair, and compressed his chest with his folded\narms till the blood seemed to mount to his face. \"You were present at\nthat game where I took the five thousand by a trick from Gourlay. You\nknow, as a gambler yourself, that all the tribe are by constitution\ncheats. It is folly to speak of an honest gambler. The passion is a ten\nthousand times distilled selfishness, with no qualm of obligation to God\nor religion to keep it in check--only a little fear of that bugbear,\nsociety. Our club at the 'Red Lion' all knew this in our souls; but\nevery one of us knew also that the moment he would be discovered\ncheating, he would be scorched with our hatred and contempt. He must\nleave our pure society on the instant--not of course that he was any\nworse than the rest of us, but only that he was unfortunate in being\ndiscovered. That night Gourlay and I were demons. We had baffled each\nother, and drank till our brains seethed, though our countenances and\nspeech betrayed nothing but the extreme of coolness. He had won a\nthousand of me, and hounded me from post to pillar, offering to be\ncleared out by my _skill_, as he called it sneeringly. The fellow, in\nshort, hated me, because the year before, at Baden-Baden, I had taken\ntwo thousand out of him, and would not give him his revenge.\"\n\n\"He must have thought you honest,\" said I; \"otherwise he would not have\nthus badgered you to play.\"\n\n\"No; he had not the generosity to think me honest. I repeat, no gambler\never thinks another gambler honest, and he lies when he says so. He knew\nhimself to be a rogue, and thought it diamond in the teeth of diamond;\"\nand, pausing and meditating, he repeated the word,\n\"diamond--diamond--diamond.\"\n\nI looked at him in surprise. He continued to keep up the cuckoo sound,\ntrying to laugh, and yet totally unable to accomplish even a cackle, as\nif some internal force clutched the diaphragm and mocked him, so that\nhis efforts were reduced to a gurgling as in cynanche--like a dog\nchoking with a rope round his craig, the sounds coming jerking out in\nbarks, and dying away again in yelps and whines.\n\n\"You will know presently why that word produces these strange effects\nupon me,\" he at length contrived to be able to say. \"Nor less the form\nof the figure as painted in these hell-books. It is blazoned everywhere.\nThe devil wears it in fiery lines on his face as he hounds me a-nights\nthrough these thick woods. Yet I am not afraid of it--rather court it,\nas if I yearned for the burning pain of its red signature in, and in,\nand in to my brain, as far as thought goes.\"\n\n\"Have you got mad, Graeme?\" I ejaculated. \"What has the figure of a\ndiamond, or of ten diamonds----\"\n\n\"_Ten_, you would say?\" he immediately cried, as he started up, and\nimmediately threw himself down; \"_the_ ten, if you dared. You are\ncommissioned by the powers yonder--you, you, too, along with the others,\nincluding the devil.\"\n\n\"I have no wish to be in the same commission with that great personage,\"\nsaid I, with a very poor attempt to laugh, for I felt anxious about my\nfriend. \"I gave him up when I threw his books into the fire, and swore\nnever more to touch the unhallowed thing.\"\n\nI perceived that my attempt at humour increased his excitement. \"Repeat\nthe words,\" he cried. \"Say 'the ten of diamonds' right out with open\nmouth, and repeat them a thousand times, so as to give me ear-proof that\nthe powers yonder,\" pointing to the roof, \"are against me.\"\n\nAt this moment the door of the parlour was opened by some timid hand.\n\n\"Come hither, my pretty Edith,\" he said, in a calmer voice, as a little\ncherub-looking child, with a head so like as if, after the fashion of\nDan\u00e4e's, it had been powdered by Jupiter with gold dust, and a pair of\nblue eyes, as if the said god, in making them, had tried to emulate the\nwing of the Halcyon in a human orb, and intended, moreover, the light\nthereof to calm the storm in those of her father.\n\nAnd so it did, to a certain extent; for Edith got upon his knee, and,\nputting her arms round his neck, kept peering with those eyes into the\nvery pupils of her father's, till the light of innocence, softening the\nrigid nerve, enabled them to regain somewhat of their natural lustre.\n\n\"What did Trott, the crazy girl who spaes fortunes, give you, Edith?\"\nand coruscations began again to mix with the softer light.\n\n\"A card,\" replied the girl, as she undid her embrace, and, casting her\nhead to a side, viewed him timidly.\n\n\"She has been frightened,\" thought I, \"by some consequences resulting\nfrom the same question put at some former time.\"\n\n\"And what was the name of the card?\" he continued.\n\nBut the girl was now on her guard. She hesitated, and struggled to get\naway.\n\n\"Tell this gentleman, then.\"\n\n\"The ten of diamonds,\" cried she; and no sooner were the words out than\nshe fled, like a beam of light chased by the shadow of a tombstone.\n\n\"You see how it is,\" continued Graeme, getting into his former\nexpression: \"through this channel, this innocent medium, this creature\nthe fruit of my loins, the idol of my heart, is the lightning of reproof\nhurled. A wandering idiot is prompted by the very inspiration of her\nimbecility to put into the hands of my child the emblem of my\nwickedness, that she in her love might place it before my eyes, there to\ndevelop the sin-print in the dark camera of my mind. No wonder she is\nalarmed at the mention of the words, for she read the horror produced in\nme when she held up what she called the pretty picture in my face. But,\nthank God! thank God!\"----\n\nAnd he fell for a moment into meditation.\n\n\"For what?\" said I, as my wonder increased.\n\n\"That her mother, who is within a week of her confinement, knows nothing\nof this mystery.\"\n\nI was silent. I might have said, \"What mystery?\" but I would only have\nirritated him.\n\n\"Rymer!\"\n\nI started. I was looking into the fire, with my ear altogether his, yet\nthe strange mention of my name startled me.\n\n\"What could infamy--infamy, with just a beam of consciousness to tell\nit was infamy, and no more but that beam--think and feel to be\nworshipped by purity and love? I have shrunk from the embrace of that\nwoman with a recoil equal to that produced by the enfolding of a snake.\"\n\n\"Though she knows not, and may never know, anything of this affair which\nhas taken such a hold of you?\" said I, rather as a speaking automaton,\nforced to vocabulate.\n\n\"The very reason why I recoil and shudder.\"\n\nI had made a mistake--I would not risk another. \"The man has got into\nthe enfolding arms of mania,\" I thought, \"and I must be chary.\"\n\n\"Will you keep in your remembrance,\" he continued, \"the words uttered by\nEdith, and how she came by them? Will you?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Then take another glass; you will need it, and another too.\"\n\nI obeyed not quite so mechanically. The Burgundy was better than the\nconversation, and I made the pleasure of the palate compensate for the\npain of the ear.\n\nHe now drew out his watch, and, going to the window, withdrew the\ncurtains. The shades of night had fallen. It looked black as Tartarus,\ncontrasted with the light within.\n\n\"Come here!\" he cried; and when I had somewhat reluctantly obeyed what I\nconsidered the request of one whose internal sense had got a jerk from\nsome mad molecule out of its orbit in the brain--\"Do you see anything?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said I--\"a big black negative; but as for anything positive, you\nmight as well look into a coal-pit and find what philosophers do in the\nwells of truth. There's nothing to be seen.\"\n\n\"No? Look there--there! See,\" pointing with his finger, and clutching me\ntremulously, \"once more--the traces as vivid as ever! See!\"\n\nI verily did think I saw something luminous, but it quickly disappeared.\n\"Oh, probably the reflection of a lantern,\" I said.\n\n\"Yes, a magic one,\" he replied sneeringly.\n\n\"I know of no more magical lantern than a man's head,\" I replied, a\nlittle disconcerted by his sneer. \"Chemists say there's more phosphorus\nin the brain than anywhere else; and so I sometimes think.\"\n\nHe made no reply, but, seizing me by the coat, dragged me after him as\nhe hurried out of the room, and making for a back door, led me out,\nbareheaded as I was, into the wood. The darkness had waxed to\npitchiness, and the noises were hushed. The crows had gone to roost; and\nhad it not been for some too-hoos of the jolly owl, sounding his horn as\nhe rejoiced that the hated sun had gone to annoy other owls in the west,\nthe silence would have been complete. But, in truth, I hate silence as\nwell as darkness, and have no more sympathy with the followers of\nPythagoras than I have with the triumph of the blind Roman who silenced\nthe covey of pretty women, in the heat of their condolences for his\nblindness, by reminding them that they forgot he could feel in the dark.\nI thought more of the fire inside, and the bottle of Burgundy, on which\nI had made as yet only a small impression.\n\n\"If I want darkness, I can as well shut my eyes,\" said I peevishly, \"and\nI would even have the advantage of some phosphorescent touches of the\nfancy.\"\n\n\"Will you see that with your eyes shut?\" he exclaimed triumphantly, as\nhe bent his body forward to an angle of forty-five, and pointed with\nhis finger to an object clearly illumined, and exhibiting distinctly a\nlarge card, with ten red diamonds sharply traced upon it. The advantage\nhe had got over me was lost in the rapture of his gaze; and he seemed to\nbe charmed by the apparition, for he began to move slowly forward, still\npointing his finger, and without apparently drawing a breath. Though a\nlittle taken by surprise for the instant, it was not easy for me to give\nup my practical wisdom, which, as a matter of course, pointed to a\ntrick.\n\n\"You do see it, then?\" said he.\n\n\"Surely,\" said I. \"There is no mistake it is the figure of the ten of\ndiamonds, probably stuck upon a turnip lantern.\"\n\n\"I did not ask you for a banter,\" he replied angrily. \"I can draw my own\nconclusions. All I wanted was to satisfy myself that I was free from a\nmonomaniacal illusion. We cannot both be mad; besides, you're a sceptic,\nand the testimony of a sceptic's eyes is better than the sneer of his\ntongue.\"\n\nStill he proceeded, I following, and the apparition retreating. \"I told\nyou to remember what Edith said,\" he continued, as he still pointed his\nfinger; \"and I fancy you can never forget that before you. The two\nthings are wide apart.\"\n\n\"And so are the two ends of a rope with which a man hangs himself,\" said\nI.\n\n\"It is gone!\" cried my friend, without noticing my remark. \"It has\nreceded into that infinite from whence it was commissioned to earth to\nstrike its lightning upon the eye of a falling, erring, miserable\nmortal.\"\n\n\"It is gone,\" said I; \"and I am gone also--to finish my bottle of\nBurgundy, which I have as little doubt was commissioned from finitude\nto strike a little fire into the heart of another erring mortal, not at\nthis moment perfectly happy.\"\n\nAnd I made my way as quick as possible into the parlour, glad to get\nquit of the chill of the night air. Meanwhile, there appeared signs of\nsome extraordinary movement in the other parts of the house, the nature\nof which Graeme probably ascertained as he came along the lobby, for I\nheard bustling and earnest conversation; and presently little Edith came\nstepping in beside me, with something very mysterious in her blue eyes,\nfar too mysterious for being confided to loud words, and so a whisper\ntold me that her mother was taken ill, and that Dr. Rogers had been sent\nfor. This little bit of information carried more to my mind than it\nbrought away from Edith's. I knew before that Mrs. Graeme was on the eve\nof confinement, and it now appeared she had been taken in labour. I saw,\ntoo, that my visit had not been very well timed, and the worse that\nGraeme himself was in the extraordinary frame of mind in which I found\nhim--unfit for facing the dangers, repaying the affections, performing\nthe duties, and receiving the honours or enjoying the hopes of his\nsituation. A rap at the door was the signal for Edith's departure, with\nthe words on her tongue that she knew the doctor's knock. I was now, I\nthought, to be left to myself; nor was I displeased, for I wanted a\nlounge and a meditation; though of the latter I could not see that I\ncould make much, if any, more than confirming myself against all\npreternaturals as agents on earth, however certain their existence may\nbe beyond the mystic veil that divides the two worlds. I had known\nGraeme's crime and Gourlay's self-murder; but the crime was a trick\namong blacklegs, and the suicide was the madness of a gambler, who had\nrisked his money and was ruined at the moment he wanted to ruin another.\nSurely Heaven had something else to do with its retributive lightnings\nthan employ them, in subversion of all natural laws, in a cause so\ninferior in turpitude to others that every hour pass into oblivion, with\nmore of a mark of natural, and less or none of supernatural\nchastisement. I thought I might be contented with such a view of these\nprodigies as might quickly consign them to the limbo of men's\nmachinations; yet somehow or other--perhaps the Burgundy bottle, if it\ncould have spoken, like that of Asmodeus, might have helped the\nsolution--I got dreamy, and of course foolish, raising objections\nagainst my own conclusions, and instituting an _alter ego_ to argue\nagainst myself for Graeme's theory. It has always seemed strange to me,\nthat though mankind hate metaphysics, they are all natural\nmetaphysicians, especially when a little _wined_. Perhaps the true\nreason may be, that as wine came from the gods, it is endued with the\npower of raising us to its source. At least, our aspirations, from being\n_devine_, become wonderfully _divine_, so that supernatural agencies wax\nless difficult to our imaginations; and while we are ten times more\nready to meet a ghost, we are as many times more ready to admit their\npossibility. But the end of these grand and elevated conditions is\ngenerally sleep and an ugly nightmare; and though my case was an\nexception as regards the latter, I awoke in not a very happy mood, just\nas Graeme entered the room and told me it was twelve o'clock. As I\nrubbed my eyes, he sat down in his chair, and seemed inclined to court\nsilence; but it was clear he could not achieve repose.\n\nI felt no inclination to add to his apparent disturbance by any remarks\non what I had seen; but it struck me as remarkable, that, while he got\ninto contortions and general restlessness, putting his hand to his brow,\nthrowing one leg over another, closing his hands, and heaving long\nsighs, he never so much as thought it worth his pains to ask my opinion\nof the scene in the wood. It seemed as if he was so thoroughly convinced\nof a divine manifestation against him, that he despised any exceptional\nscepticism as utterly beneath his notice or attention--thoroughly\nengrossed, as he appeared to be, with the terrible sanction of a portent\nof some coming retribution. His silence in some degree distressed me, as\nI thought he resented my levity in commenting upon his convictions; so\nit was with some relief that Dr. Rogers came in and sat down at the\ntable, apparently to wait for a call to the bedroom. A man this of\nostentatious gloom,--too grave to deign to be witty, too sanctified to\nstoop to be cheerful, and therefore not the man I could have wished to\nsee as the medical adviser, and perhaps the religious confidant, of my\nfriend and his wife. A temperate man, too, by his own confession,\npronounced over the top of a bottle; and he drank as if for health,\nwhile his manner of beslabbering the glass with his thick lips indicated\na contempt for its confined capacity; a tumbler would have suited him\nbetter; and he waxed apparently graver when the delightful aroma of the\nBordeaux grape fondled his nostrils. We got into supernaturals\nimmediately, though how the subject was introduced I cannot remember;\nbut Dr. Rogers was a grave and heavy advocate for divine manifestation,\nand Graeme's ear, circumcised to delicacy, hung upon his thick lips. I\nasked for instances beyond the domain of the addled brains of old women,\nor the excited fancies of young; and Graeme looked at me intently,\nwithout saying a word.\n\n\"I have seen hundreds die,\" said the doctor, \"ay, strong men, the\ntissues of whose brain were, in comparison of those of your old women\nand young enthusiasts, as iron wires to pellicles of flesh. And how do\nthey die if they are Christians, as all men ought to be? What is there\nin death, think you, to subvert the known laws of physiology? We might\nsuppose, that as the spirit is about to leave the mortal frame, it will\nbe fitful, and flit from tissue to tissue, and gleam and die away, to\nflare up again in some worldly image, perhaps, of the past; as where I\nhave known it show the face of an early beloved one, long since gone, in\nall its first glory, to the eyes of a lover. Such are mere exceptions,\nfrom which no rule can be drawn; but they occur, and we admit them as\nconsonant enough to natural causes. So far we all agree; but where is\nthat consonance in all those numerous cases which have come under my own\nobservation, where the man--a strong man even in death--is rapt into a\nvision set in a halo of light, and showing forth, as an assurance of\ndivine favour, the very form and features of Him who died on the cross\nof Calvary? Is there anything in physiology to account for this? And\nthen it occurs so often as almost to amount to a rule.\"\n\n\"I have too much respect for religion,\" replied I, \"to throw a doubt on\ncertain workings of the spirit in that mysterious condition when it\nhovers between the two worlds, and when it can hardly be said to belong\nto earth; but the case is entirely different where the common agencies\nare all working through their fitted and natural means. We can never say\nthat any of those means are superseded--only others are substituted; and\nwe do not understand the substitution.\"\n\n\"You are unfortunate,\" said the doctor, with a triumphant gravity. \"If\nyou admit that supernatural agencies ever have--in any stage of the\nworld, in any place, way, or manner, or by any means--had to do with\nearthly things, or have to do in those days, or will have to do in any\nfuture time or place on the earth's surface, your admission closes up\nyour mouth for ever.\"\n\n\"To do, in those days, on this night, not many hours agone!\" cried\nGraeme, with rolling eyes. \"Who cares for admissions of those who see,\nwhen one's own eyes are nearer the brain than are the eyes or lips of\nhim who admits, or of him who denies?\"\n\n\"Not hours ago!\" said the doctor, fixing his big eyes on the face of\nGraeme; \"and so near a birth?\"\n\n\"Oh, she knows nothing,\" said Graeme.\n\n\"And I am supremely ignorant,\" said I.\n\n\"Of what?\" inquired Rogers, turning his face again to Graeme, as if he\nwould take him into his mouth.\n\nBut just as he expected an answer, a slight rap sounded from the door.\nRogers himself opened it, and found that the call was for him. Graeme\nand I were left again together, but not to resume the former silence.\n\n\"I did not ask you,\" said he, \"what you thought of the figure in the\nwood, for I expected nothing but a sceptical sneer. You have heard\nRogers. He is a shrewd fellow, belonging to a profession not remarkable\nfor credulity.\"\n\n\"Answer me this,\" said I: \"Did no one know the duplicate card you used\nin the cheat?\"\n\n\"You were present and Ruggieri, no others; did you know it?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Then do you know that Ruggieri is dead in Italy? and even if he had\nmore penetration than you, the secret died with him. But, I tell you, he\ncould not have known. Nothing transpired at the play to show that a\nduplicate card was used at all, far less to show that it was a\nparticular card.\"\n\n\"You may stagger me,\" said I, \"but never can convince me that you are\nnot having a nice game played off upon you, something similar to your\nown; only in place of duplicates, I fear there are triplicates. Why\nmight not Gourlay have been aware of the fact you think only known to\nyourself?\"\n\n\"And yet have shot himself as a ruined gambler?\"\n\n\"Certainly it is more probable,\" said I, somewhat caught, \"that he would\nhave insisted upon your repaying him, under the threat of exposure. Yet\none does not know what a man may do or not do, even if we knew the\ncircumstances. Two doves will not pick up for their nests a straw each\nof the same shape. But I believe it is now settled, that no case of\nmystery has ever happened, or can be supposed by the most ingenious\nimagination, where the chances are more for supernatural agency than for\nhuman ingenuity or chance. The latter I put away out of your case,\nthough the marvels of coincidence are stranger than fiction. Every one\nof us has a little record within his heart of such experiences. I have\nbeen startled by a coincidence into a five minutes' belief in\nsupernatural agency. One opens a book of six hundred pages, and catches,\non the instant, the passage for which he looked the whole day before. An\nactor dies in ranting 'there is another and a better world.' A soldier\nis saved from the punishment of death for sleeping on his post, by the\nfact of having been able to say that St. Paul's on a certain night\nstruck thirteen, which it never did before. Andrew Gordon, the miser,\ndrew a prize of twenty thousand pounds for the number 2001, which he\ndreamed of the night previous he bought the ticket. A shepherd was the\ndiscoverer of the Australian diggings, by having taken up a piece of\nwhat he considered quartz to throw at his dog called Goldy. Human\nhistory is full of such things; but, marvellous as they are, they are\nnot more so than the ways by which man manufactures mysteries, and gets\nthem believed as the work of Heaven. As to that illuminated figure I saw\nin the wood\"----\n\nMy speech was interrupted by a strange sound from the other end of the\nhouse. Graeme started to his feet. It was not one of pain coming from a\nsick-room, but rather one of surprise, and there seemed a bustle among\nthe servants. The door opened, and a woman's face, with two wild staring\neyes, looked in. \"Come here, sir,\" she cried, and disappeared upon the\ninstant.\n\n\"Something more,\" ejaculated Graeme, as he hurried away. I was allowed\nno time for an absurd monologue. Graeme was not absent many minutes,\nwhen he hurried in as he had hurried out, but his face was not that\nwhich he took with him, braced up into surprise and fear, as that was.\nHe was now as pale as death's pale horse, and nearly as furious. His eye\nbeamed an unnatural light--his breathing was quick and snatchy, as if\nevery inspiration and expiration pained the lungs. He seemed to wish\nsome one to bind him with ropes, that he might escape the vibrations of\nhis muscles, and be steadied to be able to speak.\n\n\"Be calm,\" said I, taking him by the shoulders; \"what new discovery is\nthis? Nothing wrong with Mrs. Graeme, I hope?\"\n\n\"The child,\" he cried; but he could get no further.\n\n\"The child is\"--\n\n\"Is what?\" said I.\n\n\"Is marked on the back with the figure of the ten of diamonds.\"\n\n\"Pity it was not marked where it will wear its pockets,\" said I; \"but\nit will assuredly be a very fortunate child, nevertheless, and shall\nbear a load of diamonds on his back like the Arabian Alcansar.\"\n\n\"Are you mad?\" he cried.\n\n\"Yes, with reason,\" I replied. \"You know, nothing appears so\noutrageously insane to a madman, as that same God's gift called reason.\nThey say, those who are bitten by the tarantula, and get dancing mad,\nthink the wondering crowd about them raving maniacs. And there was the\nweeping philanthropist in the asylum of Montrose, in Scotland, who wept\nall day, and could not be consoled, because of all the people outside\nthe asylum being mad.\"\n\n\"But,\" he gasped, \"the thing is there.\"\n\n\"No doubt on't,\" said I, \"and you ought to be grateful. I have read\nsomewhere of one John Zopyrus, who went mad when he heard of a son being\nborn to him; and here you are not mad, though you have a son (I hope)\nborn to you, with ten diamonds besides.\"\n\n\"But the thing is there,\" he again cried.\n\n\"Ay, there's the rub, my dear fellow; the rub is there--let the rub _be_\nthere; that is, go and rub, and the thing rubbed will not be there after\nthe rubbing.\"\n\n\"Madness, man! It is a true mother's mark.\"\n\n\"Verily, a real _noevus maternus_\" said I, \"impressed by an avenging\nangel on the mother's brain, and transferred by nature's daguerreotype\nto the back of the child.\"\n\n\"You have said it.\"\n\n\"Nay, it is you who have said it,\" I continued; \"and I will even suppose\nit is a mother's mark, to please you for a little, though it has no more\nthat character than this sword-prick in my left cheek. But taking it in\nyour own way, I have a theory I could propound to you about these marks.\nWe say that the soul is in the body. It is just as true that the body\nis in the soul. Every member of the entire physical person is\nrepresented in the brain, though we cannot discern the form in these\nwhite viscera. Now, see you, if a man loses his finger, his son will not\nbe awanting in that member. But there are cases where the want of a\nmember is hereditary. Why? Because the member was not represented in the\ncerebral microcosm of the first deficient person. From this small\nepitome in the brain, the child is an extended copy--_extended_ from a\nmathematical point, where all the members and lineaments are _intended_.\nSo, when the fancy of the mother is working in the brain--say, in\nrealizing some external image--it will impress it in the cerebral person\n(woman) there epitomized; and if she is in a certain way, the image will\ngo to a corresponding part of the foetal point, which is the epitome of\nthe child. A most ingenious, and satisfactory, and simple theory, which\nwill explain the ten-of-diamond naevus, for\"----\n\n\"Dreadful imbecility!\" he exclaimed, as he threw himself on his chair;\n\"most unaccountable and cruel trifling with a notable visitation of\nretributive justice, indicated by visible signs of terrible import to\nhim who must bear the cross, and be reconciled to an angry Deity.\"\n\n\"Against all that may tend to penitence for a past crime,\" said I,\ngetting grave, where gravity might avail for good, \"I have nothing to\nsay. But Heaven does not work through the mean of man's deceit and\nstratagem, and the good that comes of fear goes with returning courage.\"\n\nConscious of getting into a puling humour, I had no objection to an\ninterruption by the entrance of Rogers, who, having finished his work,\nwas probably intent upon the gratification which generally follows.\n\n\"I wish you joy of the boy and the diamonds,\" he said, as he seized\nGraeme by the half-palsied hand. \"The nurse is reconciled to the omen of\na fortune; and surely never was omen more auspicious, for no sooner had\nthe strange indication shown its mute vaticination than it disappeared,\nthat there might be no deduction of beauty from the favourite of the\ngods.\" And drawing, with his lumbering hand, the tumbler near him, he\nfilled it two-thirds up of pure wine, and presently his lips grappled\nwith it like a camel at the bucket in the desert, with such effect that\nthe contents changed vessels in a twinkling.\n\n\"Disappeared!\" said I musingly.\n\n\"Yea, temperance hath her demands on occasions,\" said he, thinking I\nalluded to the exit of the wine, and not the ominous mark; \"for there be\ntwo kinds of this noble virtue, the jejune and the hearty, whereof the\nformer observes no plethoric gratifications, and the other is not averse\nto an extreme of cordial indulgence.\"\n\n\"Disappeared!\" said I in a harping way, once again, \"and left the skin\ndiscoloured.\"\n\n\"But it was there, and I saw it with these eyes,\" cried Graeme, \"and the\ndoctor saw it, and Betha, but, thank God, not the mother.\"\n\n\"The vouchsafing of the eyes is an easy task,\" drawled Rogers. \"The\ntruth of present fact is of the moment of experience as regards the\nseer; but, as a moral entity, it never dies. The great Author of nature\nhas his intention in these mysterious signs. We know only that there are\ntwo kinds of these God's finger-touches--the enduring and the\nevanescent. That we have now witnessed was of the latter kind, which we\nalso call superficial in opposition to the other, which is painted on\nthe _rete mucosum_, and never goes off. The difference of indications\nwe know not, further than that a mysterious purpose is served by both.\nBut might I ask if ever there was any occasion on which the figure of\nthis card might, as connected with some thrilling incident, have been\nimpressed upon the imagination of the mother?\"\n\n\"Never,\" cried Graeme, as he shook violently.\n\n\"Then it betokens fortune to the heir of the Moated Grange,\" said\nRogers.\n\n\"It betokens vengeance!\" roared Graeme, no longer able to contain\nhimself; and he began to pace rapidly the room. Then stopping before\nme--\n\n\"How long will you torment me with your scepticism? Here, Betha,\" he\ncried to the woman, who at the instant again called Rogers, \"what did\nyou see on the back of the boy?\"\n\n\"The ten of diamonds, sir,\" replied she, evidently frightened by the\nwild eyes of her master. \"But you are not to be feared. Do I not know\nGod's signs when I see them fresh from his very finger? I have seen them\naforetime; and no man or woman on earth, no, even our minister, will\nconvince me they are meant for nothing. This bairn will be a rich man,\nbut it will not be by the devil's books; for he who made the mark does\nnot tempt to evil by promises printed on the bodies of them he loves.\"\n\n\"I want not this drivelling,\" said her master, on whom her reading of\nthe sign had an effect the very opposite of that intended. \"You're a\nfool, but you have eyes. Say, once for all, you saw it, and will swear.\nTake her words, Rymer.\"\n\n\"As clear as I see the mark on your cheek, sir,\" she said, addressing\nme. \"It was not from one who loved you so well as your mother did when\nshe bore you, you got that mark.\"\n\n\"I got it from a villain called Ruggieri,\" I replied, caring nothing\nfor the start I produced in Graeme, but keeping my eye on the face of\nRogers.\n\nI will say nothing of what I observed on that long, sombre, saturnine\nindex. It was an experiment on my part, and I might have found\nsomething, merely because I expected it; nor do I think Graeme knew my\nobject, though he felt the words as a surprise.\n\n\"And who is Ruggieri?\" said the doctor, by way of putting a simple\nquestion.\n\n\"_Perhaps_ an Italian,\" said I. \"Rogers is, they say, the Scotch\nrepresentative of that name.\"\n\n\"It is a lie, sir!\" cried the grave son of Aesculapius; but finding he\nhad committed a mistake, he beat up an apology close upon the heels of\nhis insult. \"I beg your pardon; I simply meant that the two names are\ndifferent, and that you were out in your etymology.\"\n\n\"I am satisfied,\" I replied.\n\n\"And so am I,\" growled the doctor, as he shuffled out, followed by\nBetha.\n\n\"What the devil do you mean?\" said the colonel, coming up, and looking\nme sternly in the face. \"Is not this business serious enough for me and\nthis house already, without the mention to that man, who knows nothing\nof me or of my history, of a name hateful to both you and me?\"\n\n\"At present I have no intention of telling you what I meant by\nintroducing that name in the presence of Rogers.\"\n\n\"More mystery!\" said he.\n\n\"No mystery--all as plain as little Edith's card she got from Trott, or\nthe blazon in the wood, or the mark on the child's back. But I do not\nwish to dwell longer on a subject which gives you so much pain. I am to\nbe off in the morning, and I should wish, before I go, to know what is\nto be the issue of all this wonderful working.\"\n\nGraeme had now seated himself; and I resumed my chair also, to wait an\nanswer, which his manner seemed to indicate might be slow and delicate.\nWe looked, in the dim light of the room, at two in the morning, like two\nwizards trying our skill in working out some scheme of _diablerie_; yet,\nin reality, how unlike! For though we had both been gamblers, and\nconsequently bad men, we had for years renounced the wild ways of an\nill-regulated youth, and settled down to tread, with pleasure to\nourselves and profit to others, the decent paths of virtue.\n\n\"I am resolved,\" said Graeme at length----\n\n\"On what?\" I inquired.\n\n\"On making amends. That money, which by means of the substituted card I\ntook from Gourlay, sticks like a bone-splint in the red throat of my\npenitence. I cannot pray myself, nor join Annabel, nor listen to Edith,\nwhen they send up their supplications to that place where mercy is, and\nwhere, too, vengeance is--vengeance which, in the very form of my\npictured crime, dogs me everywhere, as you have seen, though a\nphilosophical pride prevents you from giving faith to what you have\nseen--vengeance which, though using no earthly instruments, is yet the\nstronger, and more terrible to me, for that very circumstance that it\nbrings up my conscience, and parades its pictured whisperings before my\nvision, scorching my brain, and making me mad--vengeance, breaking no\nbones, nor lacerating flesh, nor spilling blood, yet going to the heart\nof the human organism, among the fine tissues where begin the rudiments\nof being, and whence issue the springs of feeling, sympathy, hope, love,\nand justice, all of which it poisons, and turns into agonies. Yes, sir,\nvengeance which, claiming the assistance of the fairest virtues,\nconjugal love and angelic purity, makes them smite with shame, so that\nit were even a relief to me that the wife of my bosom were wicked, and\nthe child of my affections a creature of sin. What are these signs that\nhaunt me but instigators to redemption? and can I hesitate when Heaven\nasks obedience?\"\n\n\"A useless harangue,\" said I, \"when you have the means of saving\nyourself. Pay the money, read your Bible, and the signs will cease.\"\n\n\"You have said it. I will pay the money; but I do not know where the\nwoman Gourlay lives.\"\n\n\"That is not a difficult matter. Where money is to be paid, the\nrecipient will start out of the bosom of the earth. I am about sick of\nthis chamber of mysteries--though no mysteries to me; and I go to bed. I\ndoubt if you may expect to see me at the breakfast table in the\nmorning.\"\n\n\"Will you leave me in this condition?\" he said, with an imploring eye.\n\n\"You will hear from me. Good night.\"\n\nIn the midst of all these supernaturals, I remained myself pretty\nnatural--got naturally among the comfortable bed-clothes, fell naturally\nasleep, and, in consequence of late hours, slept naturally longer than I\nintended. I started at seven, got my bag, and, without seeing Graeme,\nset out for C---- town, got breakfast, and then took the stage for a\nseaport not very far distant. Having arrived at my destination, I sought\nout the Eastergate, a dirty street inhabited by poor people, mounted\nthree pair of stairs till I saw through a slate-pane, knocked at a door,\nand was met by a woman, with an umbrageously bearded face peering out\nfrom the side of her head-gear--that is, there was a head there in\naddition to her own.\n\n\"The devil!\" said the man. \"How did you find me out?\"\n\n\"By the trail of evil,\" I said, as I walked in, and shut the door\nbehind me.\n\n\"Did you not know I was dead?\" he continued, by way of desperate\nraillery.\n\n\"Yes, the devil was once reported to be dead and buried in a certain\nlong town, but it was only a feint, whereby to catch the unwary Whigs.\nLet us have seats. I want a little quiet conversation with you both.\"\n\nWe seemed rather a comfortable party round the fire.\n\n\"Ruggieri,\" said I, \"do you know that scar?\"\n\n\"I have certainly seen it before,\" replied he, with the utmost\ncomposure.\n\n\"Well, you know the attack you made upon me at Brussels, for the\nconvenient purpose of getting buried along with your victim a certain\nlittle piece of dirty paper I have in my pocket, whereby you became\nbound to pay to me a thousand florins which I lent you, on the faith of\none I took for a gentleman.\"\n\n\"The scar I deny,\" he replied, unblushingly; \"and as for the bit of\npaper, if you can find any one in these parts who can prove that the\nsignature thereto was written by this hand belonging to this person now\nsitting before you, you will accomplish something more wonderful than\nfinding me out here.\" And he laughed in his old boisterous way.\n\n\"The more difficult, I daresay,\" replied I, as I fixed a pretty\ninquisitive gaze on him, \"that you have a duplicate to your real name of\nCharles Rogers.\"\n\n\"'Tis a lie!\" he exclaimed. \"My father was--was--yes--an artist in\nBologna--the cleverest magician in Italy.\"\n\n\"And that is the reason,\" said I calmly, \"that your brother the doctor\nworks his tricks so cleverly at the Moated Grange.\"\n\nSubtle officers accomplish much by attacks of surprise--going home with\na fact known to the criminal to be true, but supposed by him to be\nunknown to all the world besides. I had acted on this principle, and the\neffect was singular. His tongue, which had laid in a stock of nervous\nfluid for roaring like a steam-boiler a little opened, was palsied. He\nturned on me a blank look; then, directing his eye to the woman, \"You\ninfernal hag,\" he exclaimed, \"all this comes from you!\"\n\n\"I deny it,\" said the woman, as she left his side and came round to\nmine. \"But I now know, what I always suspected, that you are a villain.\nSir,\" she continued, \"this man, and his brother Dr. Rogers, prevailed\nupon me to give them a paper, to enable them to get out of Colonel\nGraeme the money he won from my husband. I believe they have got it, and\nthat they are keeping it from me.\"\n\n\"They have not got it,\" said I, \"and never will. The money is yours, and\nwill be paid to you, if to any.\"\n\n\"Thank God!\" she exclaimed. \"No good could come out of the designs of\nthis man and his brother. They made it up to terrify the colonel\"----\n\nA look from the man stopped her; but the broken sentence was to me a\nvolume. They sat and looked lightnings at each other; and I contented\nmyself with thinking, that when a rotten tree splits, bears catch honey.\n\n\"Oh, I'm not to be frightened,\" she continued, as she gathered up\ncourage to dare the villain. \"I will tell all about the ten of diamonds\nwhich I heard made up between them.\"\n\n\"You most haggard of all haggard hags!\" cried the man, as his fury rose,\n\"do you know, that while I could have got you this money, I can cut you\nout of it? Was it the loss of the money, think ye, that made the\nwretched coward, your husband, shoot himself? No, it was conscience.\nThey were a pair of villains. I know that Gourlay had a secreted card,\nwhereby he was to blackleg Graeme, and that it was disappointment,\nshame, and conscience, working all together, that made him draw the\ntrigger to end a villanous life. But the game is up,\" he continued, as\nhe rose and got hold of his hat; then standing erect and fearless, he\nheld out his finger, pointing to me--\"Rymer!\" he said impressively, but\nwith devilish calmness, \"let your ears tingle as you think of me; it\nwill keep you in remembrance of a friend, who, when next he meets you,\nwill embrace you _cordially_--about the heart, you know. Good night!\"\n\n\"And well gone,\" said the woman, as she heard the door slammed with a\nnoise that shook the crazy tenement. \"Oh! I am so happy you have come to\nrelieve me of an engagement which I was ashamed of, and which would have\nyielded me nothing; for their object was to force money out of your\nfriend, and then divide it between them.\"\n\n\"How did Rogers or Ruggieri find you out?\" inquired I.\n\n\"I cannot tell; the nose of a bloodhound has a finer sense than a\nsheep-dog's.\"\n\n\"And how did you come to know of the compact between the brothers?\"\n\n\"They got unwary under wine drunk at that fir table. The doctor was the\nmedical attendant of Colonel Graeme, and this gave him means of working\nupon his conscience; and I know they have been at this work for a time.\"\n\n\"But how did Ruggieri come to know about the ten of diamonds?\"\n\n\"Oh, the card was found crumpled up under the table by Ruggieri\nhimself, who, with you, was present at the play. He has the card at this\nmoment. I have seen it. But this is the first time I ever heard of\nGourlay's intention to cheat. I will never believe that; but then I am\nhis widow, and may be too favourable to him, while Ruggieri was his\nenemy, and may be too vindictive.\"\n\n\"And how was the colonel to be applied to, after his conscience was\nwrought up to pay?\"\n\n\"The doctor was to open the subject, and undertake to negotiate with me,\nto whom he was to hand over the money--one penny of which I never would\nhave received.\"\n\n\"The matter is now in better hands,\" said I. \"Will you be staunch and\nfirm in detailing all you know of the scheme?\"\n\n\"Yes, though I should not receive a farthing.\"\n\n\"And you will be willing to go to the Moated Grange, and, if necessary,\nswear to those things?\"\n\n\"I will; and, sir, serious though the whole affair has been to me--for I\nam poor, and have children--I sometimes wondered, if I did not laugh, at\nthe queer, far-brought, devilish designs of the doctor. Oh, he is a very\ndragon that for cunning! I heard him say he would impress a painted\npiece of paper on the child's back, so as to leave a mark, and swear it\nwas a mother's mark, graven by the hands of the Almighty. Oh the\nblasphemy and wickedness of man!\"\n\n\"Go, dress yourself,\" said I, \"and come with me to the Grange.\"\n\n\"I will, if you can give me some minutes to get a neighbour to take\ncharge of George and Anne.\" And away she went to get this family\narrangement completed, while I sat panting with desire to free my friend\nfrom the agony of his condition.\n\nIt was about seven o'clock of that same evening that Mrs. Gourlay and I\nreached the Moated Grange. I got her shown into an ante-room, to wait\nthe issue of my interview with Graeme. It happened that the doctor and\nhe were together, and it even seemed as if they were converging towards\na medium state of confidence. I could observe from the looks of the\nvictim that he had been so far at least drawn into a recital of facts\n(the nature of which it was not difficult for me to conjecture), for I\nheard the word Gourlay fall from his lips, as the last of a sentence\nwhich my entry had cut short. Indeed, I may as well state here that\nGraeme afterwards admitted to me that when I entered he was in the midst\nof a confession of the whole secret of the false play, to which\nconfession he had been first driven by his internal monitor; and\nsecondly, led or rather pulled on by the arch-ambidexter, whose game it\nwas to cheat the cheater, and get the money from him upon some pretence\nof seeking out Mrs. Gourlay and paying the money to her. I was, in\nshort, in the very nick of time, and could hardly help smiling at the\nstrange part I was playing in what was, as I thought, one of those\nserious melodramatic farces of which (in the Frenchman's sense) this\nstrange world of laughter and groans is made up.\n\n\"Dr. Rogers,\" said I, after the customary greetings, \"it is well I have\nfound you. I picked up a poor woman by the way who lay under the seizure\nof premature labour, and knowing the generosity of my friend, I brought\nher here for succour and relief. She is in the green parlour, and, I\nfear, in exigency. Come.\"\n\n\"May I see her?\" said Graeme.\n\n\"Certainly, for a moment,\" said Rogers. \"Ah! I rejoice at these\nopportunities of employing the beneficence of our profession. Who knows\nbut I may bring into the world one who will change the aspect of a\nhemisphere, and work out some great blessings to the human race!\"\n\nAnd following me, they arrived at the door of the green parlour. I\nopened it. Rogers walked forward, Graeme followed, and I stood in the\nmidst of the three.\n\n\"Dr. Rogers--Mrs. Gourlay, an intimate friend of your brother, Signor\nRuggieri.\"\n\n\"Colonel Graeme--Mrs. Gourlay, the widow of that unfortunate man,\nEbenezer Gourlay.\"\n\nTo which Mrs. Gourlay responded by a curtsey, deep and respectful.\n\n\"I am master for the nonce. The door is locked, and Mrs. Gourlay must be\ndelivered of her child with the naevus of the ten of diamonds on its\nback.\"\n\nAnd she was delivered, but not with the assistance of the doctor. She\nperformed her part well. By a little drawing out, on my part, I got her\nto tell her story; how she had got acquainted with the two brothers; how\nthey had laid their plans; how she came to know of the crumpled card,\nand the use they were to make of it; the trick of the impression on the\nchild's back; the forcing of the money from the colonel on the pretence\nof paying it to her, with her conviction that she would never handle a\npenny of it.\n\nDuring the period of this extraordinary recital, it was my part to watch\nthe countenances of the two listeners. Graeme sat as if bound to his\nchair; every word of the woman seemed to work as a charm upon him,\nrelieving him of the conviction he had been impressed with, that he was\nspecially under the judgment of Heaven, without depriving him of the\nconsolation of a late penitence. Sometimes I caught his eye, and, I\nfairly admit, I was wicked enough to indulge in a little mute\nrisibility to give him confidence in the conclusions he was fast drawing\nfrom the somewhat garrulous narrative of the poor widow.\n\nAs for the doctor, he held out like a Milo. From the first moment he saw\nthe woman he knew that the game was up with him, but he knew also, what\nall hardened sinners know, that they owe it to the cacodaimon they obey,\nto deny everything to the last, as if they were afraid to show any\nindication of what they consider the weakness of being good. We allowed\nhim to get quit upon the condition of silence on his part, for a prudent\nforbearance on ours.\n\nMrs. Gourlay remained at the Grange for some time, whereby we had an\nopportunity of further ascertaining all the details of the machination.\nA sum of money was given to her, and Graeme's conscience was relieved,\nas well by this retribution as by a conviction to which we both came,\nthat the game between him and Gourlay was rendered at least equal by the\nfact which we had both reason to believe, as stated by Ruggieri, that\nGourlay himself intended to cheat, and that his death could be more\neasily accounted for on that theory than on any other.\n\nSo far as peace could be brought to one truly penitent, that peace was\nbrought; and many a time since I have admired, in the happiness of the\nfamily at the Grange, that exemplification of the promise of our blessed\nfaith, that there is no degree of guilt which may not be atoned for by\nthe heart that is contrite, and trusts to the mercy of Heaven through\nthe eternally-ordained source.\n\nI may gratify a whim by informing the readers of the Border Tales that\nthe secret of the mark on the child's back was never communicated to\nMrs. Graeme. The nurse had told her of the fact of the strange\nphenomenon, and she always clung to the belief that it was an omen of\ngood fortune to the boy. But under what mysterious conditions is the\nchain of cause and effect kept up! The frequent allusion made by the\nmother to the fact of the mark, drew her son's attention to the cards.\nHe early became fond of playing with them, as boys do. The early feeling\ngerminated, and became a kind of passion, and I have reason to believe\nhe became a gambler like his father, squandering away a great part of\nhis patrimony.\n\n\nEND OF VOL. XXII.","title":"Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland, Volume 22","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":77004}