{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_26962/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_26962","id":"gutenberg_26962","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/26962","summary":null,"tags":["Category: British Literature","Category: Historical Novels","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Short Stories","Scottish Borders (Scotland) -- Fiction"],"text":"Produced by David Clarke, Mark H Van Tuyl and the Online\nDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n  Wilson's\n  Tales of the Borders\n  AND OF SCOTLAND.\n\n  HISTORICAL, TRADITIONARY, & IMAGINATIVE,\n\n  WITH A GLOSSARY.\n\n  REVISED BY\n\n  ALEXANDER LEIGHTON,\n\n  _One of the Original Editors and Contributors_.\n\n  VOL. XVII.\n\n  LONDON\n\n  WALTER SCOTT, 14 PATERNOSTER SQUARE,\n  AND NEWCASTLE-UPON-TYNE.\n\n  1884.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS.\n\n                                                                  Page\n  ROGER GOLDIE'S NARRATIVE, (_John Mackay Wilson_),                  1\n\n  HOGMANAY; OR, THE LADY OF BALOOCHGRAY, (_Alexander Leighton_),    33\n\n  GLEANINGS OF THE COVENANT, (_Professor Thomas Gillespie_)--\n\n      X. SERGEANT WILSON,                                           65\n\n      XI. HELEN PALMER,                                             72\n\n      XII. THE CAIRNY CAVE OF GAVIN MUIR,                           80\n\n      XIII. PORTER'S HOLE,                                          92\n\n  THE RECLUSE, (_Alexander Campbell_),                              95\n\n  A HIGHLAND TRADITION, (_Alexander Campbell_),                    125\n\n  THE SURGEON'S TALES, (_Alexander Leighton_)--\n\n      THE BEREAVED,                                                129\n\n      THE CONDEMNED,                                               145\n\n  THE UNBIDDEN GUEST, (_John Mackay Wilson_),                      161\n\n  THE SIMPLE MAN IS THE BEGGAR'S BROTHER, (_John M. Wilson_),      170\n\n  TALES OF THE EAST NEUK OF FIFE, (_Matthew Forster Conolly_)--\n\n      THE ROBBERY AT PITTENWEEM AND THE PORTEOUS MOB,              194\n\n      STORY OF CHARLES GORDON AND CHRISTINA CUNNINGHAM,            220\n\n  A LEGEND OF CALDER MOOR, (_John Howell_),                        237\n\n  HUME AND THE GOVERNOR OF BERWICK, (_Alexander Leighton_),        269\n\n\n\n\nWILSON'S\n\nTALES OF THE BORDERS,\n\nAND OF SCOTLAND.\n\n\n\n\nROGER GOLDIE'S NARRATIVE.\n\nA TALE OF THE FALSE ALARM.\n\n\nYe have heard of the false alarm, (said Roger Goldie,) which, for the space\nof wellnigh four and twenty hours, filled the counties upon the Border with\nexceeding great consternation, and at the same time called forth an example\nof general and devoted heroism, and love of country, such as is nowhere\nrecorded in the annals of any nation upon the face of the globe. Good cause\nhave I to remember it; and were I to live a thousand years, it never would\nbe effaced from my recollection. What first gave rise to the alarm, I have\nnot been able clearly to ascertain unto this day. There was a house-heating\nup beside Preston, with feasting and dancing; and a great light, like that\nof a flambeau, proceeded from the onstead. Now, some say that the man that\nkept the beacon on Hownamlaw, mistook the light for the signal on Dunselaw;\nand the man at Dunselaw, in his turn, seeing Hownam flare up, lighted his\nfires also, and speedily the red burning alphabet of war blazed on every\nhill top--a spirit seemed to fly from mountain to mountain, touching their\nsummits with fire, and writing in the flame the word--_invasion!_ Others\nsay that it arose from the individual who kept watch at Hume Castle being\ndeceived by an accidental fire over in Northumberland; and a very general\nsupposition is, that it arose from a feint on the part of a great\nsea-admiral, which he made in order to try the courage and loyalty of the\nnation. To the last report, however, I attach no credit. The fable informs\nus, that the shepherd laddie lost his sheep, because he cried, \"The wolf!\"\nwhen there was no wolf at hand; and it would have been policy similar to\nhis, to have cried, \"_An invasion!_\" when there was no invasion. Neither\nnations nor individuals like such practical jokes. It is also certain that\nthe alarm was not first given by the beacons on the sea-coast; and there\ncan be no doubt that the mistake originated either at Hownamlaw or Hume\nCastle.\n\nI recollect it was in the beginning of February 1804. I occupied a house\nthen about half a mile out of Dunse, and lived comfortably, and I will say\ncontentedly, on the interest of sixteen hundred pounds which I had invested\nin the funds; and it required but little discrimination to foresee, that,\nif the French fairly got a footing in our country, funded property would\nnot be worth an old song. I could at all times have risked my life in\ndefence of my native land, for the love I bore it; though you will perceive\nthat I had a double motive to do so; and the more particularly, as, out of\nthe interest of my funded capital, I maintained in competence an\naffectionate wife and a dutiful son--our only child. The name of my wife\nwas Agnes, and the name of my son--who, at the time of the alarm, was\nsixteen--was Robert. Upon their account it often caused me great\nuneasiness, when I read and heard of the victories and the threatenings of\nthe terrible Corsican. I sometimes dreamed that he had marched a mighty\narmy on a bridge of boats across the straits of Dover, and that he had not\nonly seized my sixteen hundred pounds, but drawn my son, my only son,\nRobie, as a conscript, to fight against his own natural and lawful country,\nand, perhaps, to shoot his father! I therefore, as in duty bound, as a true\nand loyal subject, had enrolled myself in the Dunse volunteers. Some joined\nthe volunteers to escape being drawn for the militia, but I could give my\nsolemn affidavit, that I had no motive but the defence of my country--and\nmy property, which, as I have said, was a double inducement.\n\nI did not make a distinguished figure in the corps, for my stature did not\nexceed five feet two inches. But although my body was small, no man was\nmore punctual on the parade; and I will affirm, without vanity, none more\nactive, or had a bolder heart. It always appeared to me to be the height of\nfolly to refuse to admit a man into a regiment, because nature had not\nformed him a giant. The little man is not so apt to shoot over the head of\nan enemy, and he runs less risk of being shot himself--two things very\nnecessary to be considered in a battle; and were I a general, I would have\na regiment where five feet two should be the maximum height even for the\ngrenadier company.\n\nBut, as I was saying, it was early in the February of 1804, on the second\nnight, if I recollect aright--I had been an hour abed, and was lying about\nthree parts asleep, when I was started with a sort of bum, bumming, like\nthe beating of a drum. I thought also that I heard people running along the\nroad, past the door. I listened, and, to my horror, I distinctly heard the\nalarm drum beating to arms. It was a dreadful sound to arouse a man from\nhis sleep in our peaceful land.\n\n\"Robie!\" cried I to my son, \"rise, my man, rise, and run down to the town,\nand see what is the matter, that they are beating the alarm drum at this\ntime of night. I fear that\"--\n\n\"Oh, dearsake, Roger!\" cried Agnes, grasping my arm, \"what do ye fear?\"\n\n\"That--that there's a fire in the town,\" said I.\n\n\"Weel,\" quoth she, \"it canna reach us. But on dear me! ye have made my\nheart beat as if it would start from my breast--for I thought ye was gaun\nto say that ye was feared the French were landed!\"\n\n\"I hope not,\" said I. But, in truth, it was that which I did fear.\n\nRobie was a bold, spirited laddie; and he rushed out of the house, cold as\nit was, half-dressed, and without his jacket; but he had not been absent a\nminute, when he hurried back again, and cried breathlessly as he\nentered--\"Faither! faither! the Law is a' in a lowe!--the French are\nlanded!\"\n\nI was then standing in the middle of the floor, putting on my clothes; and,\nstarting as though I had seen an apparition, I exclaimed--\"The French\nlanded!--rise, Agnes! rise, and get me my accoutrements. For this day I\nwill arm and do battle in defence of my native land.\"\n\n\"Roger! Roger!\" cried my wife, \"wherefore will ye act foolishly. Stop at\nhome, as a man ought to do, to preserve and protect his ain family and his\nain property. Wherefore would ye risk life or limb withouten cause. There\nwill be enough to fight the French without you--unmarried men, or men that\nhave naebody to leave behint them and to mourn for them.\"\n\n\"Agnes,\" said I, in a tone which manifested my authority, and at the same\ntime shewed the courageousness of my spirit--\"get me my accoutrements. I\nhave always been the first upon the parade, and I will not be the last to\nshew my face upon the field of battle. I am but a little man--the least\nbattalion man in the whole corps--but I have a heart as big as the biggest\nof them. Bonaparte himself is no Goliath, and a shot from my musket might\nreach his breast, when a taller man would be touching the cockade on his\ncocked hat. Therefore, quick! quick!--get me my accoutrements.\"\n\n\"Oh, guidman!\" cried she, \"your poor, heart-broken wife will fall on her\nknees before ye--and I implore ye, for my sake, and for the sake o' our\ndear bairn, that ye winna fling away life, and rush upon destruction. What\nin the name of fortune, has a peaceable man like you to do wi' war or wi'\nBonaparte either? Dinna think of leaving the house this night, and I myself\nwill go down to the town and procure a substitute in your stead. I have\nfifteen pounds in the kist, that I have been scraping thegither for these\ntwelve years past, and I will gie them to ony man that will take your place\nin the volunteers, and go forth to fight the French in your stead.\"\n\n\"Guidwife,\" said I, angrily, \"ye forget what ye are talking about. The\nFrench are landed, and every man, auld and young, must take up arms. Ye\nwould have me to become the laughing-stock of both town and country.\nTherefore get me my accoutrements, and let me down to the cross.\"\n\n\"O Robie, my bairn!--my only bairn!\" cried she, weeping, and addressing our\nson, \"try ye to prevail upon your faither to gie up his mad resolution. If\nhe leave us, he will mak you faitherless and me a widow.\"\n\n\"Mother,\" said the laddie, gallantly, \"the French are landed, and my\nfaither maun help to drive them into the sea. I will tak my pistol and gang\nwi' him, and if ony thing happens, I will be at hand to assist him.\"\n\n\"Haud, haud your tongue, ye silly callant!\" she exclaimed, in great\ntribulation, \"ye are as great a fool as your faither is. He sees what he\nhas made o' you. But as the auld cock craws the young ane learns.\"\n\nI felt a sort of glow of satisfaction warming my heart at the manifestation\nof my son's spirit; but I knew that in one of his age, and especially at\nsuch a time, and with such a prospect before us, it was not right to\nencourage it, and it was impossible for a fond parent to incite his only\nson to the performance of an act that would endanger his life. I therefore\nspoke to him kindly, but, at the same time, with the firmness necessary to\nenforce the commands of a father, and said--\"Ye are too young, Robin, to\nbecome a participator in scenes of war and horror. Your young bosom, that\nis yet a stranger to sorrow, must not be exposed to the destroying bullet;\nnor your bonny cheek, where the rose-bud blooms, disfigured with the sabre\nor the horse's hoof. Ye must not break your mother's heart, but stay at\nhome to comfort and defend her, when your father is absent fighting for ye\nboth.\"\n\nThe boy listened to me in silence, but I thought that sullenness mingled\nwith his obedience, and I had never seen him sullen before. Agnes went\naround the house weeping, and finding that I was not to be gainsayed, she\nbrought me my military apparel and my weapons of war. When, therefore, I\nwas arrayed and ready for the field, and while the roll of the drum was\nstill summoning us to muster, I took her hand to bid her farewell--but, in\nthe fulness of my heart, I pressed my lips to hers, and my tears mingled\nwith her own upon her cheek.\n\n\"Farewell, Agnes,\" said I, \"but I trust--I hope--I doubt not, but we shall\nsoon return safe, sound, and victorious. But if I should not--if it be so\nordered that it is to be my lot to fall gloriously in defence of our\ncountry, our son Robert will comfort ye and protect ye; and ye will find\nall the papers relating to the sixteen hundred pounds of funded property in\nmy private drawer; although, if the French gain a footing in the country, I\ndoubt it will be but of small benefit to ye. And, in that case, Robin, my\nman,\" added I, addressing my son, \"ye will have to labour with your hands\nto protect your mother! Bless you, doubly bless you both.\"\n\nI saw my son fall upon his mother's neck, and it afforded me a consolation.\nWith great difficulty I got out of the house, and I heard Agnes sobbing\nwhen I was a hundred yards distant. I still also heard the roll of the drum\nrolling and rattling through the stillness of midnight, and, on arriving at\nthe cross, I found a number of the volunteers and a multitude of the\ntownspeople assembled. No one could tell _where_ the French had landed, but\nall knew that they _had_ landed.\n\nThat, I assure ye, was a never-to-be-forgotten night. Every person\nnaturally looked anxious, but I believe I may safely say, that there was\nnot one face in a hundred that was pale with fear, or that exhibited a\ntrace of cowardice or terror upon it. One thought was uppermost in every\nbosom, and that was--to drive back the invaders, yea to drive them into,\nand drown them in the German ocean, even as Pharaoh and his host were\nencompassed by the Red Sea and drowned in it. Generally speaking, a spirit\nof genuine, of universal heroism was manifested. The alacrity with which\nthe volunteers assembled under arms, was astonishing; not but that there\nwere a few who fell into the ranks rather slowly and with apparent\nreluctance; but some of those, like me, had perhaps wives to cling round\ntheir necks, and to beseech them not to venture forth into the war. One of\nthe last who appeared upon the ground, was my right-hand comrade, Jonathan\nBarlowman. I had to step to the left to make room for Jonathan, and, as he\ntook his place by my side, I heard the teeth chattering in his head. Our\ncommanding officer spoke to him rather sharply, about being so slow in\nturning out in an hour of such imminent peril. But I believe Jonathan was\ninsensible to the reprimand.\n\nThe drums began to beat and the fifes to play--the word \"March!\" was\ngiven--the townspeople gave us three cheers as we began to move--and my\ncomrade Jonathan, in his agitation, put his wrong foot foremost, and could\nnot keep the step. So we marched onward, armed and full of patriotism,\ntowards Haddington, which in case of the invasion, was appointed our\nhead-quarters or place of rendezvous.\n\nI will not pretend to say that I felt altogether comfortable during the\nmarch; indeed, to have done so was impossible, for the night was bitterly\ncold, and at all times there is but little shelter on the bleak and wild\nLammermoors; yet the cold gave me but small concern, in comparison of the\nthoughts of my Agnes and my son Robin. I felt that I loved them even better\nthan ever I had imagined I loved them before, and it caused me much silent\nagony of spirit when I thought that I had parted with them--perhaps for\never. Yet, even in the midst of such thoughts, I was cheered by the\nglorious idea of fighting in defence of one's own native country; and I\nthought of Wallace and of Bruce, and of all the heroes I had read about\nwhen a laddie, and my blood fired again. I found that I hated our invaders\nwith a perfect hatred--that I feared not to meet death--and I grasped my\nfirelock more firmly, and a thousand times fancied that I had it levelled\nat the breast of the Corsican.\n\nI indulged in this train of thoughts until we had reached Longformacus, and\nduring that period not a word had my right-hand neighbour, Jonathan\nBarlowman, spoken, either good, bad, or indifferent; but I had frequently\nheard him groan audibly, as though his spirit were troubled. At length,\nwhen we had passed Longformacus, and were in the most desolate part of the\nhills--\"O Mr Goldie! Mr Goldie!\" said he, \"is this no dismal?\"\n\n\"I always consider it,\" answered I, \"one of the dreariest spots on the\nLammermoors.\"\n\n\"O sir!\" said he, \"it isna the dreariness o' the road that I am referring\nto. I would rather be sent across the hills from Cowdingham to Lander,\nblindfold, than I would be sent upon an errand like this. But is it not a\ndismal and a dreadfu' thought that Christian men should be roused out of\ntheir beds at the dead of night, to march owre moor and mountain, to be\nshot, or to cut each other's throats? It is terrible, Mr Goldie!\"\n\nNow, he was a man seven inches taller than I was, and I was glad of the\nopportunity of proving to him that, though I had the lesser body, I had the\ntaller spirit of the two--and the spirit makes the man. Therefore I said to\nhim--\"Why, Mr Barlowman, you surprise me to hear you talk; when our country\ndemands our arms in its defence, we should be ready to lay down our lives,\nif necessary, by night or by day, on mountain or in glen, on moor or in\nmeadow--and I cannot respond your sentiments.\"\n\n\"Weel,\" said he, \"that may be your opinion, and it may be a good opinion,\nbut, for my own part, I do confess that I have no ambition for the honours\nof either heroism or martyrdom. Had a person been allowed a day to make a\nsort of decent arrangement of their worldly affairs, it wadna have been sae\nbad; but to be summoned out of your warm bed at midnight, and to take up an\ninstrument of death in the dark, and go forth to be shot at!--there is, in\nmy opinion, but a small share of either honour or glory in the transaction.\nThis, certainly, is permanent duty now, and peremptory duty also, with a\nwitness! But it is a duty the moral obligation of which I cannot perceive;\nand I think that a man's first duty is to look after himself--and family.\"\n\nHe mentioned the word \"family\" with a peculiarity of emphasis which plainly\nindicated that he wished it to work an effect upon me, and to bring me over\nto his way of thinking. But, instead of its producing that effect, my\nspirit waxed bolder and bolder as I remained an ear-witness of his\ncowardice.\n\n\"Comrade Jonathan--I beg your pardon, Mr Barlowman I mean to say,\" said\nI--\"the first duty of every man, when his country is in danger, is to take\nup arms in its defence, and to be ready to lay down his life, if his body\nwill form a barrier to the approach of an enemy.\"\n\n\"It may be sae,\" said he; \"but I would just as soon think of my body being\neaten by cannibals, as applied to any such purpose. It will take a long\ntime to convince me that there is any bravery in a man volunteering to 'be\nshot at for sixpence a-day;' and it will be as long before fighting the\nFrench prepare my land for the spring seed. If I can get a substitute when\nwe reach Haddington, they may fight that likes for me.\"\n\nAs we marched along, his body became the victim of one calamity after\nanother. Now his shoes pinched his feet and crippled him, and in a while he\nwas seized with cramp pains in his breast, which bent him together twofold.\nBut, as it was generally suspected by the corps that Jonathan was, at best,\nhen-hearted, he met with little, indeed I may say no sympathy on account of\nhis complaints, but rather with contempt; for there was not a man in our\nwhole regiment, save himself, that did not hate cowardice with his whole\nheart, and despise it with his whole soul. Whether he actually was\nsuffering from bodily pain, in addition to the pain of his spirit, or not,\nit is not for me to judge. The doctor came to the rear to see him, and he\nsaid that Mr Barlowman certainly was in a state of high fever, that would\nrender him incapable of being of much service. But I thought that he made\nthe declaration in an ironical sort of tone; and whether it was a fever of\nfear, of spiritual torment, or of bodily torment, he did not tell. One\nthing is certain, the one frequently begets the other.\n\nThe words of the doctor gave a sort of license to bold Jonathan Barlowman,\nand his moaning and his groaning, his writhing and complaining, increased.\nHe began to fall behind, and now stood fumbling with his pinching shoes, or\nbent himself double with his hands across his breast, sighing piteously,\nand shedding tears in abundance. At length we lost sight and hearing of\nhim, and we imagined that he had turned back, or peradventure, lain down by\nthe way; but there was no time for us to return to seek him, nor yet to\nlook after one man, when, belike a hundred thousand French had landed.\n\nWell, it was about an hour after the final disappearance of Jonathan, that\na stranger joined our ranks in his stead. He took his place close by my\nside. He carried a firelock over his shoulder, and was dressed in a\ngreatcoat; but so far as I could judge from his appearance in the dark, I\nsuspected him to be a very young man. I could not get a word out of him,\nsave that in answer to a question--\"Are ye Mr Barlowman's substitute?\"\n\nAnd he answered--\"Yes.\"\n\nBeyond that one word, I could not get him to open his mouth. However, I\nafterwards ascertained that the youth overtook Jonathan, while he was\nwrithing in agony upon the road, and declaring aloud that he would give any\nmoney, from ten to a hundred guineas, for a substitute, besides his arms\nand accoutrements. The young man leaped at the proposal, or rather at a\npart of it, for he said he would take no money, but that the other should\ngive him his arms, ammunition, and such like, and he would be his\nsubstitute. Jonathan joyfully accepted the conditions; but whether or not\nhis pains and groanings left him, when relieved from the weight of his\nknapsack, I cannot tell. Our corps voted him to be no man who could find\ntime to be ill, even in earnest, during an invasion.\n\nMy attention, however, was now wholly taken up with the stranger, who, it\nappeared, had been dropped, as if from the clouds, in the very middle of a\nwaste, howling wilderness, to volunteer to serve in the place of my craven\ncomrade, Jonathan Barlowman. The youth excited my curiosity the more,\nbecause, as I have already informed ye, he was as silent as a milestone,\nand not half so satisfactory; for beyond the little word \"Yes,\" which I\nonce got out of him, not another syllable would he breathe--but he kept his\nhead half turned away from me. I felt the consciousness and the assurance\ngrowing in me more and more that he was a French spy; therefore I kept my\nmusket so that I could level it at him, and discharge it at half a moment's\nwarning; and I was rejoicing to think that it would be a glorious thing if\nI got an opportunity of signalizing myself on the very first day of the\ninvasion. I really began to dream of titles and rewards, the thanks of\nparliament, and the command of a regiment. It is a miracle that, in the\ndelirium of my waking dream, I did not place the muzzle of my musket to my\nstrange comrade's head.\n\nBut daylight began to break just as we were about Danskin, and my curiosity\nto see the stranger's face--to make out who he was or what he was, or\nwhether he was a Frenchman, or one of our own countrymen--was becoming\naltogether insupportable. But, just with the first peep of day, I got a\nglimpse of his countenance. I started back for full five yards--the musket\ndropped out of my hands!\n\n\"Robie! Robie, ye rascal!\" I exclaimed, in a voice that was heard from the\none end of the line to the other, and that made the whole regiment\nhalt--\"what in the wide world has brought you here? What do ye mean to be\nafter?\"\n\n\"To fight the French, faither!\" said my brave laddie; \"and ye ken ye always\nsaid, that in the event of an invasion, it wad be the duty of every one\ncapable of firing a musket, or lifting a knife, to take up arms. I can do\nbaith; and what mair me than another?\"\n\nThis was torturing me on the shrine of my own loyalty, and turning my own\nweapons upon myself, in a way that I never had expected.\n\n\"Robie! ye daft, disobedient, heart-breaker ye!\" continued I, \"did I not\ncommand ye to remain at home with your mother, to comfort her, and, if it\nwere necessary, and in your power, to defend her; and how, sirrah, have ye\ndared to desert her, and leave her sorrowing for you?\"\n\n\"I thought, faither,\" answered he, \"that the best way to defend her, would\nbe to prevent the enemy approaching near to our dwellings.\"\n\nMy comrades round about that heard this answer, could not refrain from\ngiving three cheers in admiration of the bravery of the laddie's spirit;\nand the cheering attracting the attention of the officers, one of them came\nforward to us, to inquire into its cause; and, on its being explained to\nhim, he took Robin by the hand, and congratulated me upon having such a\nson. I confess that I did feel an emotion of pride and gratification\nglowing in my breast at the time; nevertheless, the fears and the anxiety\nof a parent predominated, and I thought what a dreadful thing it would be\nfor me, his father, to see him shot or pierced through the body with a\nbayonet, at my very side; and what account, thought I, could I give of such\na transaction to his bereaved and sorrowing mother? For I felt a something\nwithin my breast, which whispered, that, if evil befell him in the warfare\nin which we were about to engage, I would not be able to look her in the\nface again. I fancied that I heard her upbraiding me with having instilled\ninto his mind a love of war, and I fancied that I heard her voice requiring\nhis life at my hands, and crying--\"Where is my son?\"\n\nAt length we arrived at Haddington; and there, in the course of the day, it\nwas discovered, to the gratification of some and the disappointment of\nmany, that our march had originated in a _false alarm_. I do confess that I\nwas amongst those who felt gratified that the peace of the land was not to\nbe endangered, but that we were to return every man to his own fireside,\nand to sit down beneath our vine and our fig tree, with the olive branches\ntwining between them. But amongst those who were disappointed, and who\nshewed their chagrin by the gnashing of their teeth, was my silly laddie,\nmy only son Robert. When he saw the people laughing in the marketplace, and\nheard that the whole Borders had been aroused by an accidental light upon a\nhill, his young brow lowered as black as midnight--his whole body trembled\nwith a sort of smothered rage--and his eyebrows drew together until the\nshape of a horse-shoe was engraven between them.\n\n\"Robie, my captain,\" said I, \"wherefore are ye looking sae dour? Man, ye\nought to rejoice that no invader as yet has dared to set his foot upon our\ncoast, and that you and I will return to your mother, who, no doubt, will\nbe distracted upon your account beyond measure. But, oh, when she meets you\nagain, I think that I see her now springing up from the chair, where she is\nsitting rocking and mourning, and flinging her arms round your neck,\ncrying--'Robie!--Robie, my son! where have ye been?--how could ye leave\nyour mother?' Then she will sob upon your breast, and wet your cheek with\nher tears; and I will lift her arms from your neck, and say--'Look ye,\nAgnes, woman, your husband is restored to ye safe and sound, as well as\nyour son?' And then I will tell her all about your bravery, and your\nfollowing us over the moors, and the cowardice of Jonathan Barlowman, and\nof your coming up to him, where he groaned behind us on the road--of your\nbecoming his substitute, and of your getting his greatcoat, his knapsack,\nand his gun--and of your marching an hour by your father's side without him\nfinding out who you were. I will tell her all about my discovering you, and\nabout your answers, and the cheering of the volunteers; and the officers\ncoming up and taking your hand, and congratulating me upon having such a\nson. O Robie, man! I will tell her everything! It will be such a meeting as\nthere has not been in the memory of man. Therefore, as the French are\nneither landed nor like to land, I will speak to the superior officer, and\nyou and I Will set off for Dunse immediately.\"\n\nWe went into a public-house, to have a bottle of ale and baps; and I think\nI never in my life partook of anything more refreshing or more delicious.\nEven Robie, notwithstanding the horse-shoe of angry disappointment on his\nbrow, made a hearty repast; but that was natural to a growing laddie, and\nespecially after such a tramp as we had had in the death and darkness of\nnight, over moor and heather.\n\n\"Eat well, Robie, lad,\" said I; \"it's a long road over again between here\nand Dunse, and there is but little to be got on it. Take another glass of\nale; ye never tasted anything from Clockmill to match that. It is as\ndelicious as honey, and as refreshing as fountain water.\"\n\nThat really was the case; though whether the peculiar excellence of the ale\narose from anything extraordinarily grateful in its flavour, or from my\nlong march, my thirst, and sharp appetite--added to the joy I felt in the\nunexpected prospect of returning home in peace and happiness with my son,\ninstead of slaughtering at enemies, or being slaughtered by them--I cannot\naffirm. There might be something in both. Robin, however, drank an entire\nbottle to his own head--that was three parts of a choppin, and a great deal\ntoo much for a laddie of his years. But in the temper he was in, and\nknowing by myself that he must be both thirsty and hungry, I did not think\nit prudent to restrain him. It was apparent that the liquor was getting\nuppermost in his brain, and he began to speak and to argue in company, and\nto strike his hand upon the table like an angry man; in short, he seemed\nforgetful of my presence, and those were exhibitions which I had never\nobserved in him before.\n\nI was exceedingly anxious to get home, upon his mother's account; for she\nwas a woman of a tender heart and a nervous temperament; and I knew that\nshe would be in a state bordering on distraction on account of his absence.\nI therefore said to him--\"Robin, I am going to speak to the commanding\nofficer; ye will sit here until I come back, but do not drink any more.\"\n\n\"Very weel, faither,\" said he.\n\nSo I went out and spoke to the officer, and told him my reasons for wishing\nto return home immediately; urging the state of anxiety and distress that\nAgnes would be in on account of the absence of our son.\n\n\"Very well, Mr Goldie,\" said he; \"it is all very right and proper; I have a\nregard to the feelings of a husband and a parent; and as this has proved\nbut a false alarm, there is no obstacle to your returning home\nimmediately.\"\n\nI thanked him very gratefully for his civility, and stepped away up to the\nGeorge Inn, where I took two outside places on the heavy coach to Dunbar,\nintending to walk from there to Broxmouth, and to strike up there by the\nwest to Innerwick, and away over the hills, down by Preston, and home.\n\nI am certain I was not twenty minutes or half an hour absent at the\nfarthest. When I entered the public-house again, I looked for my son, but\nhe was not there.\n\n\"What have ye made of Robie?\" said I to my comrades.\n\n\"Has he no been wi' ye?\" answered they; \"he left the house just after ye.\"\n\nMortal man cannot describe the fear, agony, and consternation that fell\nupon me. The sweat burst upon my brow as though it had been the warmest day\nin summer. A thousand apprehensions laid their hands upon me in a moment.\n\n\"With me!\" said I; \"he's not been with me: have none of you an idea where\nhe can have gone?\"\n\n\"Not the smallest,\" said they; \"but he canna be far off--he will soon cast\nup. He will only be out looking at the town.\"\n\n\"Or showing off gallant Jonathan Barlowman's gun, big-coat, and knapsack,\"\nsaid one.\n\n\"Keep yoursel at ease, Mr Goldie,\" said another, laughing; \"there is no\ndanger of his passing the advanced posts, and falling into the hands of the\nFrench.\"\n\nIt was easy for those to jest who were ignorant of a father's fears and a\nfather's feelings. I sat down for the space of five minutes, and to me they\nseemed five hours; but I drank nothing, and I said nothing, but I kept my\neyes fixed upon the door. Robin did not return. I thought the ale might\nhave overcome the laddie, and that he had gone out and lain down in a state\nof sickness; and \"That,\" thought I, \"will be a _becoming_ state for me to\ntake him home in to his distressed mother. Or it will cause us to stop a\nnight upon the road.\"\n\nMy anxiety became insupportable, and I again left my comrades, and went out\nto seek him. I sought him in every street, in every public-house in the\ntown, amongst the soldiers, and amongst the townspeople; but all were too\nmuch occupied in discussing the cause of the alarm, to notice him who was\nto me as the apple of my eye. For three hours I wandered in search of him,\neast, west, north, and south, making inquiries at every one I met; but no\none had seen or heard tell of him. I saw the coach drive off for Dunbar. I\nbeheld also my comrades muster on the following morning, and prepare to\nreturn home, but I wandered up and down disconsolate, seeking my son, but\nfinding him not.\n\nThe most probable, and the fondest conjecture that I could indulge in, was,\nthat he had returned home. I, therefore, shouldered my musket, and followed\nmy companions to Dunse, whom I overtook upon the moors. It would be\nimpossible for me to describe my feelings by the way--they were torture\nstrained to its utmost extremity, and far more gloomy and dreary than the\ngloomiest and dreariest parts of the moors over which we had to pass. Every\nfootstep increased my anxiety, every mile the perturbation and agony of my\nspirit. Never, I believe, did a poor parent endure such misery before, and\nI wished that I had never been one. I kept looking for him to the right and\nto the left every minute; and though it was but few travellers that we met\nupon the road, every one that we did meet I described him to them, and\nasked them if they had seen him. But, \"No!\" \"No!\" was their unvaried\nanswer, and my wretchedness increased.\n\nAt length we arrived at Dunse, and a great crowd was there to meet\nus--wives to welcome their husbands, parents to greet their children, and\nchildren their parents. The first that my eyes singled out, was a sister of\nmy Agnes. She ran up to me.\n\n\"Roger,\" she cried, \"hae ye seen onything o' Robie?\"\n\nThe words went through my breast as if it had received the fire of a whole\nFrench battalion. I stood stock-still, petrified with despair. My looks\ntold my answer to her question.\n\n\"Oh, dear me! dear me!\" I heard her cry; \"what will his puir mother do\nnoo--for she already is like ane clean out o' her judgment about him.\"\n\nI did not stop for the word \"halt,\" or for the breaking of the lines; and I\nwent home, I may say by instinct, for neither bird, bush, house nor tree,\nman nor bairn, was I capable of discerning by the road. Grief and\nheart-bursting anxiety were as scales upon my eyes. I remember of rushing\ninto the house, throwing down my gun, and crying--\"O Agnes! Agnes!\" And as\nwell do I remember her impatient and piteous inquiry--\"Where is my\nRobie?--Oh, where is my son?--hae ye no seen him?\"\n\nIt was long before I could compose myself, so as to tell her all that I\nknew concerning him; and it was even longer before she was sufficiently\ncalm to comprehend me. Never did unhappy parents before experience greater\nbitterness of soul. I strove to comfort her, but she would not listen to my\nwords; for oh, they were as the blind leading the blind; we both were\nstruggling in the slough of despair--both were in the pit of dark,\nbewildering misery. We sometimes sat looking at each other, like criminals\nwhose last hour is come; and even when our grief wore itself into a \"calm\nsough,\" there was something in our silence as dismal and more hopeless than\nthe silence of the grave itself. But, every now and then, she would burst\ninto long, loud lamentations, mourning and crying for \"her son!--her son!\"\nOften, too, did we sit, suppressing our very breath, listening to every\nfoot that approached, and as one disappointment followed another, her\ndespair became deeper and deeper, louder and louder, and its crushing\nweight sank heavier and heavier upon my spirit.\n\nSome of his young companions informed us, that Robin had long expressed a\ndetermination to be a soldier; and, on the following day, I set out for\nEdinburgh to seek for him there, and to buy him off at any price, if he had\nenlisted.\n\nThere, however, I could gather no tidings concerning him; and all that I\ncould learn was, that a regiment had left the Castle that morning at two\no'clock, and embarked at Leith for Chatham, from whence they were to\nproceed direct abroad; and that several recruits were attached to it, some\nof them only sworn in an hour before they embarked; but whether my poor\nRobie was among them or not, no one could tell.\n\nI left Edinburgh no wiser, no happier, and in no way more comforted than I\nentered it, and returned to his mother a sad and sorrowing-hearted man. She\nwrung her hands the instant she beheld me, and, in a tone that might have\ntouched the heart of a stone, cried aloud--\"Oh, my lost! lost bairn! Ye hae\nmade a living grave o' yer mother's breast.\"\n\nI would have set off immediately for London, and from thence down to\nChatham, to inquire for him there; but the wind was favourable when the\nvessel sailed, and it was therefore certain, that, by the time I got back\nto Dunse, she was at the place of her destination; and moreover, I had no\ncertainty or assurance that he was on board. Therefore, we spent another\nday in fruitless lamentations and tears, and in vain inquiries around our\nown neighbourhood, and amongst his acquaintances.\n\nBut my own heart yearned continually, and his mother's moaning was\nunceasing in my ear, as the ticking of a spider, or the beating of a\nstop-watch to a person that is doomed to die. I could find no rest. I\nblamed myself for not proceeding direct from Edinburgh to Chatham; and,\nnext day, I went down to Berwick, to take my place in the mail to London.\n\nBy the way I met several of the yeomanry, who were only returning from\nDunbar, where they had been summoned by the alarm; and I found that Berwick\nalso had been in arms. But taking my place on the mail, I proceeded,\nwithout sleep or rest, to London, and from thence hastened to Chatham.\nThere again I found that the regiment which I sought was already half way\ndown the Channel; but I ascertained also that my poor thoughtless boy was\none of the recruits, and even that was some consolation, although but a\npoor one.\n\nAgain I returned to his mother, and told her of the tidings. They brought\nher no comfort, and, night and day, she brooded on the thought of her fair\nson lying dead and mangled on the field of slaughter, or of his returning\nhelpless and wounded to his native land. And often it was wormwood to my\nspirit, and an augmentation of my own sorrows, to find that, in secret, she\nmurmured against me as the author of her bereavement, and as having\ninstilled into my son a liking for a soldier's life. She said it was all\nowing to my getting him, from the time that he was able to read, to take\nthe newspaper in his hand and read it aloud to my cronies, and in which\nthere were accounts of nothing but wars and battles, of generals and\ncaptains, and Bonaparte, of whom enough was foretold and enough could be\nread in the Revelations. These murmurings grieved me the more, inasmuch as\nmy mind was in no way satisfied that they were without foundation. No man\nknew better than I did, how easily the twig is bent; a passing breeze, the\nlighting of a bird upon it, may do it; and as it is bent, so the branch or\nthe tree will be inclined. I, therefore, almost resolved not to permit\nanother newspaper to be brought within my door. But, somehow or other, it\nbecame more necessary than ever. Every time it came it was like a letter\nfrom Robie; and we read it from beginning to end, expecting always to hear\nsomething of him or of his regiment. Even Agnes grew fond of it, and was\nuneasy on the Saturdays if the postman was half-an-hour behind the time in\nbringing it.\n\nFull twelvemonths passed before we received a letter from him; and never\nwill I forget the delightful sensations that gushed into my bosom at the\nsight of that letter. I trembled from head to foot with joy. I knew his\nhandwriting at the first glance, and so did his mother--just as well as if\nhe had begun \"_dear parents_\" on the back of it. It was only to be a penny,\nand his mother could hardly get her hand into her pocket to give the copper\nto the postman, she shook so excessively with joy and with agitation, and\nkept saying to me--\"Read, Roger! read! Oh, let me hear what my bairn says.\"\n\nI could hardly keep my hand steady to open it; and, when I did break the\nseal, I burst into tears at the same moment, and my eyes became as though I\nwere blind; and still his mother continued saying to me--\"Oh, read! read!\"\n\nTwice, thrice, did I draw my sleeve across my eyes, and at last I read as\nfollows:--\n\n\"MY DEAR PARENTS,--I fear that my conduct has caused you many a miserable\nday, and many a sleepless night. But, even for my offence, cruel as it has\nbeen, I trust there is forgiveness in a parent's breast. I do not think\nthat I ever spoke of it to you, but, from the very earliest period that I\ncould think, the wish was formed in my mind to be a soldier. When I used to\nbe spelling over the History of Sir William Wallace, or the lives of the\nSeven Champions of Christendom, I used to fancy myself Wallace or Saint\nGeorge; and I resolved, that when I lived to be a man, that I would be a\nsoldier and a hero like them; and I used to think what a grand thing it\nwould be for you and my mother, and all my acquaintances, to be reading\nabout me and my exploits! The continual talking about the war and the\nFrench, and of their intention to invade Britain, all strengthened my early\ndesires. Often when I was reading the newspapers to you and your friends,\nand about the gallant deeds of any particular individual, though I used to\nread _his name_ aloud to you, I always read it in to myself as though it\nwere my own. I had resolved to enlist before the false alarm took place;\nand, when you and the other volunteers marched out of Dunse to Haddington,\nI could not resist the temptation which it offered of seeing and being\npresent at a battle. About half-an-hour after you left the town, I followed\nye, and, as ye are already aware, overtook poor Jonathan Barlowman, who had\nfallen behind the corps, in great distress, apparently both of body and\nmind. He seemed to be in a swither whether to return home, to follow ye, or\nto lie down and die by the road. I knew him by the sound of the lamentation\nhe was making, and, accosting him, I inquired--'What is the matter wi' ye,\nJonathan! Has ony o' the French, concealed aboot the moors, shot ye\nalready?' 'Oh,' he replied, 'I am ill--I am dying!--I am dying!--I will\ngive any money for a substitute!' 'Gie me yer gun,' said I, 'and I will be\nyer substitute without money.' 'A thousand blessings upon yer head, Robie,\nlad!' said he; 'ye shall hae my gun, and ye may tak also my greatcoat and\nknapsack, for they only encumber me. Ye hae rescued a dying man.' I was\nnearly as tall as he; and, though his coat was loose about me, when I got\nit on, and his musket over my shoulder, and felt that I was marching like\nan armed knight of old against the invaders of my country, I felt as proud\nas an emperor; I would not have changed situations with a king. I overtook\nyou, and you know the rest. At Haddington, the strong ale was too strong\nfor me. I was also sorely mortified to find all my prospects of becoming a\nhero blasted. When, therefore, you went out to take our places in the\ncoach to Dunbar, I slipped out of the room, and hiding Mr Barlowman's coat\nand gun in a closet, in the house, I took the road for Edinburgh; which\ncity I reached within less than three hours; and before I had been in it\ntwenty minutes I was a soldier. I was afraid to write home, lest ye would\ntake steps to buy me off. On the fourth day after my enlisting I was landed\nat Chatham, where I was subjected to a perpetual drill; and within thirty\nhours after landing, I again embarked with my regiment; and when I wished\nto have written, I had not an opportunity. Since then, I have been in two\ngeneral engagements and several skirmishes, in all of which I have escaped\nunwounded. I have found that to read of a battle, and to be engaged in a\nbattle, are two very different things. The description is grand, but the\nsight dismal. I trust that my behaviour as a soldier has been\nunimpeachable. It has obtained for me the notice of our colonel, who has\npromoted me to the rank of corporal, with the promise of shortly making me\na sergeant; and I am not without hopes, before the war is over, (of which\nthere at present is no prospect), of obtaining a commission; though it\ncertainly is not one in a thousand that has such fortune. Hoping,\ntherefore, my dear parents, that, under the blessing of Providence, this\nwill find you well, as it leaves me, and that I will live to return to ask\nyour forgiveness, I remain your affectionate and dutiful son,\n\n      \"ROBERT GOLDIE.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nSuch was Robin's letter. \"Read it again,\" said mother--and I read it again;\nand when I had done so, she took it in her hand and pressed it to her lips\nand to her breast, and wept for \"her poor bairn.\" At last, in a tone of\ndespondency, she said--\"But, oh, he doesna once particularly mention his\nmother's name in't.\"\n\n\"He surely does,\" said I; \"I think he mentions us both.\"\n\nSo I took the letter again into my hand, and, at the foot corner of the\nthird page, I saw what I had not observed before, the letters and\nwords--\"_P.S. Turn over_.\"\n\n\"P.S.\" said his mother; \"who does that mean?\"\n\n\"Oh!\" said I, \"it means nobody. It means that we have not read all the\nletter.\"\n\n\"Read it a', then--read it a'!\" she cried.\n\nAnd I turned to the last page, on the fold above the direction, and read--\n\n\"P.S.--But how am I to ask the forgiveness of my dear mother, for all the\ndistress and anxiety that my folly and disobedience must have occasioned\nher. I start in my very sleep, and think that I hear her yearning and\nupbraiding. If she knew how deep my repentance is, and how keen my misery\nfor the grief which I have caused her, I would not have to ask her\nforgiveness twice. Dear father! dear mother!--both, both of you forgive\nyour thoughtless son.\"\n\nThese last lines of his letter drowned us both in tears, and, for the space\nof several minutes, neither of us were able to speak. I was the first to\nbreak silence, and I said--\"Agnes, our dear Robin is now a soldier, and he\nseems to like that way of life. But I dislike the thought of his being only\na corporal, and I would wish to see him an officer. We have nobody in the\nworld but him to care for. He is our only son and heir, and I trust that\nall that we have will one day be his. Now, I believe that the matter of\nfour or five hundred pounds will buy him a commission, and make him an\nofficer, with a sword by his side, a sash round his waist, and a gold\nepaulette on his shoulder, with genteel pay and provision for life; besides\nsetting him on the high road to be a general. Therefore, if ye approve of\nit, I will sell out stock to the amount that will buy him commission.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" replied she, \"ye needna ask me if I approve, for weel do ye ken that\nI will approve o' onything that will be for my bairn's benefit.\"\n\nI accordingly lifted five hundred pounds, and through the influence of a\nParliament man, succeeded in procuring him a commission as an ensign. I\nthought the money well spent, as it tended to promote the respectability\nand prospects of my son.\n\nFour years afterwards, his mother and I had the satisfaction of reading in\nthe public papers, that he had been promoted to the rank of lieutenant upon\nthe field, for his bravery. On the following day we received a letter from\nhimself, confirming the tidings, which gave us great joy. Nevertheless, our\njoy was mingled with fears; for we were always apprehensive that some day\nor other we would find his name among the list of killed and wounded. And\nalways the first thing that his mother said to me, when I took up the\npapers, was--\"Read the list of the killed and wounded.\" And I always did\nso, with a slow, hesitating, and faltering voice, fearful that the next I\nshould mention would be that of my son, Lieutenant Goldie.\n\nThere was very severe fighting at the time; and every post was bringing\nnews concerning the war. One day, (I remember it was a King's fast-day,)\nseveral neighbours and myself were leaning upon the dike, upon the footpath\nopposite to my house, and waiting for the postman coming from Ayton, to\nhear what was the news of the day. As he approached us, I thought he looked\nvery demure-like, which was not his usual; for he was as cheerful,\nactive-looking a little man as you could possibly see.\n\n\"Well, Hughie,\" said I to him, holding out my hand for the papers, \"ye look\ndull like to-day; I hope ye have no bad news?\"\n\n\"I would hope not, Mr Goldie,\" said he; and, giving me the paper, walked\non.\n\nThe moment that Agnes saw that I had got it, she came running out of the\nhouse, across the road, to hear as usual, the list of the killed and\nwounded read, and my neighbours gathered round about me. There had been, I\nought to tell ye, a severe battle, and both the French and our army claimed\nthe victory; from which we may infer, that there was no great triumph on\neither side. But, agreeably to my wife's request, I first read over the\nlist of the killed, wounded, and _missing_. I got over the two first\nmentioned; but, oh! at the very sight of the first name upon the missing\nlist, I clasped my hands together, and the paper dropped upon the ground.\n\n\"O Robie! my son! my son!\" I cried aloud.\n\nAgnes uttered a piercing scream, and cried, \"O my bairn--what has happened\nmy bairn? Is he dead! Tell me, is my Robie dead?\"\n\nOur neighbours gathered about her, and tried to comfort her; but she was\ninsensible to all that they could say. The first name on the missing list\nwas that of my gallant son. When the first shock was over, and I had\ncomposed myself a little, I also strove to console Agnes; but it was with\ngreat difficulty that we could convince her that Robin was not dead, and\nthat the papers did not say he was wounded.\n\n\"Oh, then!\" she cried, \"what do they say about him. Tell me at once. Roger\nGoldie! how can ye, as the faither o' my bairn, keep me in suspense.\"\n\n\"O, dear Agnes,\" said I, \"endeavour, if it be possible, to moderate your\ngrief; I am sure ye know that I would not keep ye in suspense if I could\navoid it. The papers only say that Robin is _amissing_.\"\n\n\"And what mean they by that?\" she cried.\n\n\"Why,\" said I to her, \"they mean that he, perhaps, pursued the enemy too\nfar--or possibly that he may have fallen into their hands, and be a\nprisoner--but that he had not cast up when the accounts came away.\"\n\n\"Yes! yes!\" she exclaimed with great bitterness, \"and it perhaps means that\nhis body is lying dead upon the field, but hasna been found.\"\n\nAnd she burst out into louder lamentations, and all our endeavours to\ncomfort her were in vain; though, in fact, my sufferings were almost as\ngreat as hers.\n\nWe waited in the deepest anxiety for several days, always hoping that we\nwould hear some tidings concerning him, but none came. I therefore wrote to\nthe War-Office, and I wrote also to his Colonel. From the War-Office I\nreceived a letter from a clerk, saying that he was commanded to inform me,\nthat they could give me no information relative to Lieutenant Goldie,\nbeyond what was contained in the public prints. The whole letter did not\nexceed three lines. You would have said that the writer had been employed\nto write a certain number of letters in a day, at so much a day, and the\nsooner he got through his work the better. I set it down in my mind that he\nhad never had a son amissing on the field of battle, or he never would have\nwritten an anxious and sorrowing father such a cold scrawl. He did not even\nsay that, if they got any tidings concerning my son, they would make me\nacquainted with them. He was only commanded to tell me that they did not\nknow what I was, beyond every thing on earth, desirous to ascertain. Though\nperhaps, I ought to admit that, in a time of war, the clerks in the\nWar-Office had something else to do than enter particularly into the\nfeelings of every father that had a son in the army, and to answer all his\nqueries.\n\nFrom the Colonel, however, I received a long, and a very kind letter. He\nsaid many flattering things in praise of my gallant laddie, and assured me\nthat the whole regiment deplored his being separated from them. He,\nhowever, had no doubt but that he had fallen into the hands of the enemy,\nand that, in some exchange of prisoners, or in the event of a peace, he\nwould be restored to his parents and country again.\n\nThis letter gave us some consolation. It encouraged us to cherish the hope\nof pressing our beloved son again to our breasts, and of looking on his\nfeatures, weeping and wondering at the alterations which time, war, and\nimprisonment had wrought upon them. But more than three years passed away,\nand not a syllable did we hear concerning him, that could throw the least\nlight upon where he was, or whether he was dead or living. Anxiety preyed\nsadly upon his mother's health as well as upon her spirits, and I could not\ndrive away a settled melancholy.\n\nAbout that time a brother of mine, who was a bachelor, died in the East\nIndies, and left me four thousand pounds. This was a great addition to our\nfortune, and we hardly knew what to do with it. I may say that it made us\nmore unhappy, for we thought that we had nobody to leave it to; and he who\nought to have inherited it, and whom it would have made independent, we\nknew not whether he was in the land of the living, or a strange corpse in a\nforeign grave. Yet I resolved that, for his sake, I would not spend one\nfarthing of it, but let it lie at interest; and I even provided in a will\nwhich I made, that unless he cast up, and claimed it, no one should derive\nany benefit from either principal or interest until fifty years after my\ndeath.\n\nI have said, that the health of Agnes had broken down beneath her weight of\nsadness, and as she had a relation, who was a gentleman of much\nrespectability, that then resided in the neighbourhood of Kelso, it was\nagreed that we should spend a few weeks in the summer at his house. I\nentertained the hope that society, and the beautiful scenery around Kelso,\nwith the white chalky braes[A] overhung with trees, and the bonny islands\nin the Tweed, with mansions, palaces, and ruins, all embosomed in a\nparadise as fair and fertile as ever land could boast of, would have a\ntendency to cheer her spirits, and ease, if not remove, the one heavy and\ncontinuing sorrow, which lay like an everlasting nightmare upon her heart,\nweighing her to the grave.\n\nHer relation was a well-educated man, and he had been an officer in the\narmy in his youth, and had seen foreign parts. He was also quite\nindependent in his worldly circumstances, and as hospitable as he was\nindependent. There were at that period a number of French officers,\nprisoners, at Kelso, and several of them, who were upon their parole, were\nvisiters at the house of my wife's relation.\n\nThere was one amongst them, a fine, though stern-looking man of middle age,\nand who was addressed by the appellation of Count Berthe. He spoke our\nlanguage almost as well as if he had been a native. He appeared to be\ninterested when he heard that my name was Goldie, and one day after dinner,\nwhen the cloth was withdrawn, and my wife's relation had ordered the punch\nupon the table--\"Ha! Goldie! Goldie!\" said the Count, repeating my name--\"I\ncan tell one story--which concerns me much--concerning, one Monsieur\nGoldie. When I was governor of the castle La----, (he called it by some\nforeign name, which I cannot repeat to you), there was brought to me, (he\nadded), to be placed under my charge, a young British officer, whose name\nwas Goldie. I do not recollect the number of his regiment, for he was not\nin uniform when brought to me. He was a handsome man, but represented as a\nterrible one, who had made a violent attempt to escape after being taken\nprisoner, and his desperate bravery in the field was also recorded. I was\nrequested to treat him with the respect due to a brave man, but, at the\nsame time, to keep a strict watch over him, and to allow him even less\nliberty than I might do to an ordinary prisoner. His being a captive did\nnot humble him; he treated his keepers and his guards with as much contempt\nas though he had been their conqueror on the field. We had confined his\nbody, but there was no humbling of his spirit. I heard so much of him, that\nI took an interest in the haughty Briton. But he treated me with the same\nsullen disdain that he showed towards my inferiors. I had a daughter, who\nwas as dear to me as life itself, for she had had five brothers, and they\nhad all fallen in the cause of the great emperor, with the tricolor on\ntheir brow, and the wing of the eagle over them. She was\nbeautiful--beautiful as her sainted mother, than whom Italy boasted not a\nfairer daughter, (for she was a native of Rome.) Hers was not a beauty that\nyou may see every day amongst a thousand in the regions of the north--hers\nwas the rare beauty amongst ten thousand of the daughters of the sunny\nsouth, with a face beaming with as bright a loveliness, and I would say\ndivinity, as the Medici. Of all the children which that fair being bore\nunto me, I had but one, a daughter, left--beautiful as I have\nsaid--beautiful as her mother. I had a garden beneath the castle, and over\nit was a terrace, in which the British prisoner, Goldie, was allowed to\nwalk. They saw each other. They became acquainted with each other. He had\ndespised all who approached; he had even treated me, who had his life in my\nhand, as a dog. But he did not so treat my daughter. I afterwards learned,\nwhen it was too late, that they had been seen exchanging looks, words, and\nsigns with each other. He had been eighteen months my prisoner; and one\nmorning when I awoke, I was told that my daughter was not to be found, and\nthat the English prisoner, Lieutenant Goldie, also had escaped. I cursed\nboth in my heart; for they had robbed me of my happiness--he had robbed me\nof my child; though she only could have accomplished it. Shortly after\nthis, (and perhaps because of it,) I was again called into active service,\nwhere, in my first engagement, it was my lot to be made a prisoner, and\nsent here; and since then I have heard nothing of my daughter--my one, dear\nchild--the image of her mother; and nothing of him--the villain who seduced\nher from me.\"\n\n\"Oh, sir,\" exclaimed I, \"do not call him a villain, for if it be he that I\nhope it was, who escaped through the intrumentality of your daughter, and\ntook her with him, he has not a drop of villain's blood in his whole body.\nSir! sir! I have a son--a Lieutenant Goldie; and he has (as I hope) been a\nFrench prisoner from the time ye speak of. Therefore, tell me, I implore\nye, what was he like. Was he six inches taller than his father, with light\ncomplexion, yellowish hair, an aqualine nose; full blue eyes, a mole upon\nhis right cheek, and, at the time ye saw him, apparently, perhaps, from\ntwo-and-twenty to three-and-twenty years of age? Oh, sir--Count, or\nwhatever they call ye--if it be my son that your daughter has liberated and\ngone away with, she has fallen upon her feet; she has married a good, a\nkind, and a brave lad; and, though I should be the last to say it, the son\nof an honest man, who will leave him from five to six thousand pounds,\nbeside his commission.\"\n\nBy the description which he gave me, I had no doubt but that my poor Robie,\nand the laddie who had run away with his daughter, (or, I might say, the\nladdie with whom his daughter had run away,) were one and the same person.\n\nI ran into the next room, crying, \"Agnes! Agnes! hear, woman! I have got\nnews of Robie!\"\n\n\"News o' my bairn!\" she cried, before she saw me. \"Speak, Roger! speak!\"\n\nI could hardly tell her all that the French Count had told me, and I could\nhardly get her to believe what she heard. But I took her into the room to\nhim, and he told her everything over again. A hundred questions were asked\nbackward and forward upon both sides, and there was not the smallest doubt,\non either of our parts, but that it was my Robie that his daughter had\nliberated from the prison, and run off with.\n\n\"But oh, sir,\" said Agnes, \"where are they now--baith o my bairns--as you\nsay I have twa? Where shall I find them?\"\n\nHe said that he had but little doubt that they were safe, for his daughter\nhad powerful friends in France, and that as soon as a peace took place,\n(which he hoped would not be long,) we should all see them again.\n\nWell, the long-wished-for peace came at last--and in both countries the\ncaptives were released from the places of their imprisonment. I have\nalready twice mentioned the infirm state of my wife's health; and we were\nresiding at Spittal, for the benefit of the sea air and bathing, and the\nSpa Well, (though it had not then gained its present fashionable\npopularity,) when a post-chaise drove to the door of our lodgings. An\nelderly gentleman stepped off from the dicky beside the driver, and out of\nthe chaise came a young lady, a gentleman, and two bonny bairns. In a\nmoment I discovered the elderly gentleman to be my old friend the French\nCount. But, oh! how--how shall I tell you the rest! I had hardly looked\nupon the face of the younger stranger, when I saw my own features in the\ncountenance of my long lost Robie! The lady was his wife--the Count's bonny\ndaughter; and the bairns were their bairns. It is in vain for me to\ndescribe to you the feelings of Agnes; she was at first speechless and\nsenseless, and then she threw her arms round Robie, and she threw them\nround his wife, and she took his bairns on her knee--and, oh! but she was\nproud at seeing herself a grandmother! We have all lived together in\nhappiness from that day to this; and the more I see of Robie's wife, the\nmore I think she is like an angel; and so thinks his mother. I have only to\ninform you that bold Jonathan Barlowman was forced to leave the\ncountry-side shortly after his valiant display of courage, and since then\nnobody in Dunse has heard whether he be dead or living and nobody cares.\nThis is all I have to tell ye respecting the _false alarm_, and I hope ye\nare satisfied.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[A] It is evidently from the beautiful chalk cliff near Ednam House (though\nnow not a very prominent object) that Kelso derives its name--as is proved\nby the ancient spelling.\n\n\n\n\nHOGMANAY;\n\nOR, THE LADY OF BALLOCHGRAY.\n\n\nThe last fifty years of mortal regeneration and improvement have effected\nmore changes in the old fasts, and feasts, and merrymakings of Scotland,\nthan twice and twice over that time of any other period since it became a\nnation. Every year we see the good old customs dying out, or strangled by\nthe Protaean imp Fashion, who, in the grand march of improvement of which we\nare so proud, in the perking conceit of heirs-apparent of the millennium,\nseems to be the only creature that derives benefit from the eternal changes\nthat, by-and-by, we fear, will turn our heads, and make us look _back_ for\nthe true period of happiness and wisdom. But what enrageth us the more is,\nthat, while all our fun of Beltane, Halloween, Hogmanay, Hanselmonday, and\nall our old merrymakings, are gone with our absentee lords and thanes--\n\n    \"Wha will their tenants pyke and squeize,\n      And purse up all their rent;\n    Syne wallop it to far courts, and bleize\n      Till riggs and schaws are spent\"--\n\nand to whose contempt of our old customs we attribute a great part of their\ndecay--we, in the very midst of the glorious improvement that has\nsucceeded, are still cheated, belied, robbed, and plundered on all hands by\npolitical adventurers, private jobbers, and saintly hypocrites, in an\nartful, clean-fingered, and beautiful style of the trade, a thousand times\nmore provoking than the clumsy, old-fashioned, _honest_ kind of roguery\nthat used to be in fashion, when folk were not too large for innocent\nmirth, and not too wise for enjoying what was liked by their ancestors. The\npeople cry improvement--so do we; but we cherish a theory that has no\ncharm, in these days of absolute faith in politics and parliament for the\nregeneration of man, that the true good of society--that is, the\nimprovement of the heart and morals of a great country--lies in a sphere\nfar humbler than the gorgeous recesses of Westminster--the fireside; a\nplace that in former days, was revered, and honoured, and cherished, not\nonly as the cradle of morals, but the abode of soul-stirring joys, and the\nscene of the celebration of many old and sacred amusements which humanized\nthe young heart, and moulded and prepared it for the reception of those\nfeelings which are interwoven with the very principle of social good. A\npolitical wrangle is a poor substitute for the old moral tales of the\nwinter evenings of old Scotland. Even our legends of superstitious fear\ncarried in them the boon of heartfelt obligation, which, when the subject\nwas changed for the duties of life, still retained its strength, and\nwrought for good. These things are all gone; and, dissatisfied as we are\nwith the bold substitutes of modern wisdom, let us use that which they\ncannot take from us, our books of \"auld lear,\" and refresh ourselves with a\npeep at Leslie, in the Hogmanay of 16--. Who has not heard of \"Christ's\nKirk\" in the kingdom of Fife, that place so celebrated by King James, in\nhis incomparable \"Christ's Kirk on the Green,\" for the frolics of wooers\nand \"kittys washen clean,\" and \"damsels bright,\" and \"maidens mild?\" That\ncelebrated town was no other than our modern Leslie; and, though we cannot\nsay that that once favoured haunt of the satyrs of merrymaking has escaped\nthe dull blight that comes from the sleepy eye of the owl of modern wisdom,\nwe have good authority for asserting that long after James celebrated the\nplace for its unrivalled festivities, the character of the inhabitants was\nkept for many an after-day; and Hogmanay was a choice outlet for the\nexuberant spirits of the votaries of Momus.\n\nThe day we find chronicled as remarkable for an exhibition of the true\nspirit of the Leslieans, went off as all days that precede a glorious\njubilee at night generally do. The ordinary work of the \"yape\" expectants\nwas, no doubt, apparently going on; but the looking of \"twa ways\" for\ngloaming was, necessarily, exclusive of much interest in the work of the\nday. The sober matrons, as they sat at the door on the \"stane settle,\"\nlittle inclined to work, considered themselves entitled to a _feast_ of\ngossip; and even the guidman did not feel himself entitled to curb the glib\ntongue of his dame, or close up her ears with prudential maxims against the\nbad effects of darling, heart-stirring, soul-inspiring scandal. On that day\nthere was no excise of the commodities of character. They might be bought\nor sold at a wanworth, or handed or banded about in any way that suited the\ntempers of the people. The bottle and the bicker had already, even in the\nforenoon, been, to a certain extent, employed as a kind of outscouts of the\narray that was to appear at night, and the gossipers were in that blessed\nstate, between partial possession and full expectation, that makes every\npart of the body languid and lazy except the tongue. Around them the\nyounkers, \"hasty hensures\" and \"wanton winklots,\" were busy preparing the\nhabiliments of the guysers--whose modes of masking and disguising were\noften regulated by the characters they were to assume, or the songs they\nhad learned to chant for the occasion. Nor were these mimes limited to the\nurchin caste; for, in these days, wisdom had not got so conceited as to be\nashamed of innocent mirth; and gaucy queens and stalwarth chiels exhibited\ntheir superiority only in acting a higher mask, and singing a loftier\nstrain. The gossips did not hesitate to suspend the honeyed topic, to give\nsage counsel on the subject of the masking \"bulziements;\" and anon they\nturned a side look at the minor actors, the imps of devilry, who passed\nalong with their smoking horns often made of the stem or \"runt\" of a winter\ncabbage, wherewith that night they would inevitably smoke out of \"house and\nhauld\" every devil's lamb of every gossip that did not open her hand and\n\"deal her bread\" to the guysers. Both parties, gossips and urchins,\nunderstood each other--like two belligerent powers asserting mutual rights,\nand contemplating each other with that look of half-concealed contention\nand defiance, which only tended to make the attack more inevitable.\n\nThe evening set in, and the witching hour--the keystone of night's black\narch, twelve o'clock--was approaching. To go to bed on such an occasion,\nwould have been held no better than for a jolly toper to shirk his bicker,\na lover to eschew the trysting thorn, or a warrior to fly the scene of his\ncountry's glory; neither would it have been safe, for no good guyser of the\nold school would take the excuse of being in bed in lieu of the buttered\npease-bannock--the true hogmanay cake, to which he was entitled, by \"the\nauld use and wont\" of Scotland; and far better breathe the smoke of the\n\"smeikin horn\" on foot, and with the means of self-defence at command, than\nlie choked in bed, and \"deaved\" by the stock and horn, the squalling\nbagpipe, and the eternal--\n\n    \"Hery, Hary, Hubblischow,\n    See ye not quha is come now!\"\n\nringing in one's ears during the whole night. The young were out; the old\nwere in; but all were equally up and doing the honours of the occasion. At\nauld Wat Wabster's door, one minstrel company were singing--\"Great is my\nsorrow;\" and Marion, his daughter, with\n\n    \"Her glitterand hair, that was sae gowden,\"\n\ndealt out, with leal hand, the guyser's bannock. At the very next door, Meg\nJohnston was in the act of being \"smecked oot\" by a covey of twelve devils,\nwho had inserted into every cranny a horn, and were blowing, with puffed\ncheeks, a choking death in every blast. One kept watch, to give the\nconcerted signal when Meg should appear with her stick. On which occasion\nthey were off in an instant; but only to return when Meg had let out the\nsmoke, and satisfied herself that she would be no more tormented that\nnight, to blow her up and out again, with greater vigour and a denser smoke\nthan before. Farther on, Gib Dempster's dame, Kate, is at her door, with\nthe bottle in her hand, to give another menyie of maskers their \"hogmanay,\"\nin the form of a dram; and Gib is at her back, eyeing her with a squint, to\ncount how many interlusive applications of the cordial she will make to her\nown throat before she renounce her _opportunity_. In the middle of the\nstreet, Gossip Simson is hurrying along, with the necessaries in her lap,\nto treat her \"cusin,\" Christy Lowrie, with a bit and a drop; and ever and\nanon she says, \"a guid e'en\" to this one, and \"a guid e'en\" to that; and,\nbetween the parties, her head is ever thrown back, as if she were counting\nthe stars; and, every time the act is repeated, the bottle undergoes a\nperceptible diminution of its contents, till, by the time she reaches her\n\"luving cusin's\" door, it is empty; and honest John Simson, at her return,\ngreets her with--\"My feth, Jenny, ye've been at mony a hoose in Christ's\nKirk this nicht, if ane may judge by yer bottle.\" At the same instant,\n\n    \"Oh, leddy, help yer prisoneer\n    This last nicht o' the passing year,\"\n\nis struck up at the door; the stock and horn sounds lustily in the ears of\nher whose bottle is empty; and, obliged to send them away without either\ncake or sup, she hears sounding in her confused ears--\n\n    \"The day will come when ye'll be dead.\n    An' ye'll neither care for meal nor bread;\"\n\nand, in a short time after, \"Jamie the wight,\" an impling, with a tail of\nhalf-a-dozen minor and subordinate angels, begin blowing their smoking\nhorns in at both door and window, till honest John is fairly smoked out,\ncrying, as he hastens to the door--\"This comes, Jenny, o' yer lavish\nkindness to yer cusins, that we hae naethin left in oor bottle, either to\nkeep oot thae deevils' breath or wash't oot o' oor choking craigs.\" He is\nno sooner at the door than Geordie Jamieson accosts him in the usual style,\nand says he has come for his \"hogmanay;\" but John, knowing the state of the\nbottle, begins a loud cough, in the midst of the smoke, and cries, as he\nruns away from his house and visitor, (whom he pretends not to see for the\nsmoke.) \"It's a deevil o' a hardship to be smeeked oot o' ane's ain hoose.\"\n\n\"Now,\" mutters Jenny, as she hears him run away, \"I'll no see his face till\nmornin; an' he'll come in as blind's a bat.\" And out she flies to catch\nhim; but, in her hurry, she overturns Geordie, just as his lips are\nmanufacturing the ordinary \"Guid e'en to ye, Jenny!\"\n\n\"The same to ye, Geordie,\" says she; and, with that boon, leaves him on her\nflight.\n\nThe truth was, that John had the same instinctive antipathy against a house\nwhere there was an empty bottle as rats have against deserted granaries.\nBut, if honest John Simson's house was deserted because Jenny had made too\nfree with the bottle, Wat Webster's was full, from a reason precisely the\nvery opposite; for the fair Marion--who had\n\n    \"Brankit fast and made her bonny\"--\n\nwas, in the midst of a company, distributing the cakes and bannocks with\nmaidenly grace; and many a swain that night was glad, while\n\n    \"He quhissilit and he pypit baith,\n      To mak her blyth that meeting--\n    My hony heart, how says the sang,\n      There sall be mirth at oor greeting.\"\n\nAnd among the rest might now be seen John Simson and his helpmate, and also\nMeg Johnston, who had been--either in reality, or, at least, with semblance\nsufficient to form their apology for calling where there was plenty of\ndrink--smoked out of their own houses, amidst the cheers of the fire-imps.\nAbout this time, twelve o'clock was chimed from a rough-voiced bell of the\nFranciscan Monastery; and, some time after, in came Christy Lowrie, puffing\nand blowing, as if she too had experienced the effects of the thick breath\nof the fire-imps; and it might have been a fair presumption that her\nthroat, like that of some of her predecessors, had been dried from\npre-perceived gusts of Wat Webster's whisky rather than the smoke of the\nfire-angels, had it not been made quickly apparent, from other symptoms,\nthat a horripilant terror had seized her heart and limbs, and inspired her\ntongue with the dry rattle of fearful intelligence. Never stopping till she\ngot forward into the very heart of the company, seated round a blazing\ningle, she sank upon a chair, and held up her hands to heaven, as if\ncalling down from that quarter some supernatural agency to help in her\ndifficulty. Every one turned and looked at her with wonder, mixed with\nsympathetic fear.\n\n\"What, in God's name, is this, Christy? Is he come?\" cried Wat Webster.\n\n\"Oh! he's come again--he's come again!\" she replied, in the midst of an\neffort to catch a spittle to wet her parched throat. \"He's been at Will\nPearson's, and Widow Lindsay's, and Rob Paterson's--he's gaun his auld\nrounds--and dootless he'll be here too. O Marion! Marion! gie me a spark to\nweet my throat.\"\n\nThe door was again opened, and in came Widow Lindsay in great haste and\nterror,\n\n\"I've seen him again!\" cried she fearfully, and threw herself down in a\ncorner of the lang settle.\n\n\"Are ye sure it's him, dame?\" inquired Meg Johnston, who seemed perfectly\nto understand these extraordinary proceedings.\n\n\"Sure!\" ejaculated the widow. \"Hae I no tasted his _red whisky_; and has it\nno burned my throat till I maun ask Marion there to quench the fire wi' a\nspark o' human-liquor?\"\n\nThe fire in the two terror-struck women's throats was soon extinguished by\nthe \"spark\" they demanded; and a conversation, composed of twenty voices at\nonce, commenced, the essence of which was, that, on the occasion of the\nlast Hogmanay, a man dressed in a peculiar manner, with a green doublet,\nand hose of the same colour, a cravat, and a blue bonnet, had, just as\ntwelve o'clock pealed from the monastery clock, made his appearance in the\ntown, and conducted himself in such a manner as to excite much wonder among\nthe inhabitants. Everything about him was mysterious; no person in that\nquarter had ever seen him before; there was nobody along with him; he came\nexactly at twelve; his face was so much shaded by a peculiar manner of\nwearing his bonnet and cravat that no one could say he had ever got a\nproper view of his features; he carried with him a bottle of liquor, which\nthe people, from ignorance of its character, denominated _red whisky_, and\nwhich he distributed freely to all and sundry, without his stock ever\nrunning out, or being exhausted: his manners were free, boisterous, and\nhilarious; and he possessed the extraordinary power of making people love\nhim _ad libitum_. He came as he went, without any one knowing more of him\nthan that he was the very prince of good fellows; so exquisite a tosspot,\nthat he seemed equal to the task (perhaps no difficult one) of making the\nwhole town of Christ's Kirk drunk by the extraordinary spirit of his\nexample; and so spirit-stirring a conjurer of odd thoughts and unrivalled\nhumour, that melancholy itself laughed a gaunt laugh at his jokes; and\ngizzened gammers and giddy hizzies were equally delighted with his devilry\nand his drink. Arriving in the midst of frolic as high as ordinary mortal\nspirits might be supposed able to sublime human exultation, he effected\nsuch an increase of the corrybantic power of the laughing and singing\ngenius of Hogmanay, that\n\n    \"Never in Scotland had been seen\n      Sic dancing nor deray;\n    Nowther at Falkland on the green,\n      Nor Peebles at the play.\"\n\nBut, coming like a fire-flaught, like a fire-flaught he and his red whisky\nhad departed; and it was not until he had gone, and one tosspot met another\ntosspot, and gossip another gossip, and compared notes, and exchanged\nshrewd guesses, eloquent winks, and pregnant vibrations of wondering\nnoddles, that the mysterious stranger was invested with all the attributes\nto which he was, by virtue of his super-human powers, so clearly entitled.\nHe was immediately elevated to the place which, in those days, was reserved\nin every cranium for the throne of the genius of superstition; yea he of\nthe red cravat and red liquor was the never-ending subject of conversation,\ninvestigation, speculation, and consternation of the good folks of the town\nof Christ's Kirk. While the terror he had inspired was still fresh on the\nminds of the people, he returned at the exact hour of twelve on the\nsubsequent Halloween. He brought again his bottle of red liquor, was\ndressed in the same style, wore the same red cravat, and was invested with\nthe same sublimating powers of extravagant merriment. He went his old\nrounds; cracked nuts with the kittys; ducked for the apple, which never\nescaped his mouth; threw the weight in the barn; spaed fortunes with the\nMauses; drank with the tosspots--\n\n    \"If you can be blest the day,\n      Ne'er defer it till the morn--\n    Peril still attends delay;\n      As the fools will find, when they\n    Have their happy hour forborne;\"\n\nand, by means of his wild humour and exhilarating drink, set all the scene\nof his former exploits in an uproar of mixed terror, jollity, superstition,\nand amazement. Every one, not possessed of fear, scrutinized him; those\n(and they were many) who were stricken with terror, avoided him as if he\nhad in reality been the gentleman in black, as indeed many at that time\nalleged he was; some who had heard of him, watched to catch a passing\nglimpse of him; but, wonderful as it may seem, the jolly stranger again\ndisappeared, and no one, even those who had got royally drunk with him,\ncould say aught more of him than was said on the prior occasion; viz., that\nhe was the very prince of good fellows, if he should be the \"very\nbig-horned Deil himsel.\" On his second disappearance, the point was no\nlonger a moot one, \"Who the devil he could be?\" for the very question, as\nput, decided the question before it was answered. The point was just as\nlucid as ever was the spring of St Anthony, and no one could be gravelled,\nwhere there was not a grain of sand to interrupt the vision. There was not\nin the limits of the guid toun a dame or damsel, greybeard, or no-beard,\nthat possessed within the boundaries of their cerebral dominions a single\npeg on which they could hang a veritable or plausible doubt of the true\ncharacter, origin, and destination of this twelve-o'clock visiter of the\ngood old town of \"Christ's Kirk on the Green.\"\n\nSuch was the state and condition of public opinion in the town of Leslie on\nthis most important and engrossing subject, on the breaking of the day with\nwhich our history begins--this eventful Hogmanay. As the evening\napproached, every one trembled; but the inspiration of incipient drams had\nhad the effect of so far throwing off the incubus as to enable some of the\ninhabitants, and, in particular, those we have mentioned, to go about the\nforms of the festival with decent freedom; while the guysers and \"reekers,\"\nafter the manner of buoyant youth, had been flirting with their terrors,\nand singing and blowing to \"keep their spirits up,\" in the execution of\nwhat they conceived to be a national duty, as well as very good individual\nfun. But there was little real sport in the case; and we would give it as a\nstanch, and an unflinching opinion, were it put to us, that the terror of\nthe stranger, and not a love of the liquor she carried, was the true cause\nof Jenny Simson's having emptied the bottle before she arrived at the\nresidence of Christy Lowrie. Nay, more, we might safely allege--and there\nis no affidavit in the case--that there might have been more than smoke in\nthe cause of the rapid flight of John Simson and Meg Johnston from their\nown houses to that of Wat Webster; and more than the roses in the cheeks of\nthe fair Marion, or Wat Webster's pith of anecdote, that produced the\ncongregation of individuals round his \"blazing ingle,\" at the approach of\nthe eerie hour of twelve, when it was probable the mysterious stranger\nwould again appear. Be all this as it may--and we have no wish to overstate\na case in which it is scarcely possible to carry language too far--there\ncannot be a doubt that the bells of the Franciscan monastery, as they\ntolled, in reverberating sounds, the termination of the old year and the\nbeginning of the new, on that eventful night, struck a panic into the\nboldest Heich Hutcheon that ever figured in \"Christ's Kirk on the Green.\"\n\nThe statement of Christy Lowrie was perfectly true. Just as the bell\ntolled, the identical personage, with the red cravat, was seen hurrying\nforward with his ordinary agility--taking immense strides, and, at times,\nlaughing with the exuberance of his buoyant spirits, on the eve of being\ngratified by his darling fun--by the east end of the town. The moon threw a\nfaint beam on him as he passed, and exhibited him first to a company of\nguysers who were chanting at the door of Will Pearson--\n\n    \"O lusty Maye, with Flora queen.\"\n\nThe song was cut by a severed breath, and, uttering a loud scream, the\nwhole party darted off at full speed, and, as they flew, spread the\ndreadful intelligence, that he of the red cravat was hurrying into the town\nfrom the east. The news was just what was expected; hundreds were waiting\n_aperto ore_ to receive it; and the moment they did receive it, they fled\nto communicate the intelligence to others. Guysers, reekers, gossips, and\ntosspots, laid down their songs, their horns, their scandal, and their\nstoups, and acknowledged their Hogmanay occupation gone. The startling\nwords--\"He's come, he's come!\" passed from mouth to mouth. Some shut up\ntheir houses, to prevent him from coming into them; and many who were\nsolitary, sought refuge in the houses of their neighbours. Some went out of\nthe town entirely, and sought protection from the abbot of the monastery;\nand many stood about the corners of the passages and the ends of houses,\nconsulting what should be done in this emergency they had so long looked\nfor, and were so poorly provided against. In every quarter, fear reigned\nwith absolute sway; and if, in any instances, there was exhibited any\nportion of courage, it was either derived from the protecting power of a\ncrucifix, or assumed in spite of the collapsing heart of real terror.\n\nBut all this did not prevent the stranger from going through his wonted\nroutine. His long strides, and extreme eagerness to get again into the\nheart of his former extravagant jollity, brought him very soon to the\nthreshold of his old tosspot, Will Pearson, who, with his wife Betty, was\nsitting at the fire, engaged in a low-toned conversation, on the very\nsubject of him of the red cravat. The door was burst open--the stranger\nentered with a loud laugh and boisterous salutation.\n\n\"A good new year to thee,\" said he, \"Will Pearson!\" And he took, at the\nsame time, out of a side-pocket, the identical bottle, with a long neck,\nand a thin waist, and containing the same red whisky he had been so lavish\nof on former occasions, and set it upon the table with a loud knock that\nrang throughout the small cottage.\n\nWill Pearson and his wife Betty were riveted to the langsettle on which\nthey sat. Neither of them could move, otherwise they would have either gone\nout at the back window, or endeavoured to get past the stranger, and\nhurried out of the door. The quietness of the street told them eloquently\nthat there was no one near to give them assistance; and such was the\nenchantment (they said) thrown over them by the extraordinary personage,\nthat they were fixed to their seats as firmly as if they had been tied by\ncords.\n\n\"A good new year to thee!\" said the stranger again; and he reached forth\nhis hand, and seized two flasks that lay on a side table, and which they\nhad been using in the convivialities of the day. These he placed upon the\ntable with a loud clank; and, laying hold of a three-footed creepy, he sat\ndown right opposite the trembling pair, and proceeded to empty out the red\nliquor into the flasks, which he did in the most flourishing and noble\nstyle of valiant topers.\n\n\"Here, my good old tosspot, Will Pearson!\" said he, as he handed to him one\nof the flasks. \"I love thee, man, and have called on thee the first of all\nthe inhabitants of Christ's Kirk. Ha! by the holy rude, what a jolly cruise\nI shall have!--I have looked forward for it since the last time thou and I\nreduced the consistency of our corporations to the texture of souls,\nthrough which the moon might have shone, by the power of this inimitable\nliquor. Ho, man, had not we a jolly time of it last time we met? Drink,\nman!\"\n\nAnd he emptied his flask, and flung it down upon the table, with a bold and\nreckless air, as if he did not care whether its continuity might be\nmaintained against the force of the bang with which he disposed of it.\n\nWill Pearson was unable to speak a single syllable; and the flask that had\nbeen filled for him stood upon the table untouched. He sat with his eyes\nfixed upon the stranger, and his skin as pale as a corpse. Betty was in the\nsame state of immovable terror. Every word that fell from his lips was a\ndeath-knell--every drop of his red drink was as much liquid fire--and every\nlook was a flame.\n\n\"Why won't drink, Will Pearson, mine good old crony?\" said he again, with\nthe same boisterous manner. \"What grieves thee, man? and Betty too?--what\nloss hast thou sustained? Cuffed by fortune? Broken on her wheel? Ha! ha! I\ndespise the old gammer, and will laugh out my furlough, though my lungs\nshould crack in throwing off the burden.\n\n    \"'This warld does ever flight and wary,\n    Fortune sae fast her wheel does cary,\n      Na time but turn can ever rest;\n      For nae false charge suld ane be sary,\n      And to be merry, I think it best.'\n\nPull up thy jaws, Will Pearson, and pull into them this flask, and thou\nshalt be again my merry tosspot.\"\n\nWill and his wife were still under the influence of their fear, and stared\nat him in amazement.\n\n\"Well, and thou wilt not,\" he cried, rising hastily, \"may the Devil take on\nfor't! My time is counted, and I must stuff as much fun into the compass of\nan hour as may serve me for the coming year. Will Pearson, thou and I might\nhave had a right jolly time of it. I warrant the gallant Rob Paterson will\nwelcome me in a different manner. The sight of this is enough for Rob,\"\n(taking up the bottle;) \"and as for this--ha! ha! what goodness getteth not\nthe fire claims.\"\n\nAnd throwing the liquor into the ingle, which blazed up a large and fearful\nflame by the strength of the spirit, he sallied out, and at the same moment\na loud scream--coming from some bolder investigators, who had ventured near\nthe house, and seen the sudden conflagration, followed by the exit of the\nstranger--rung in echoes all around. But the stranger heeded not these\ntrifling indications of the effect of his visit. Resuming his long strides\nand pushing-on activity of manner, he soon arrived at the house of Rob\nPaterson, who was at the very moment addressing a figure of the Virgin.\n\n\"A good new year to thee, Rob Paterson!\" cried the stranger, as he sat down\nupon a kind of chair by the side of the table, and, taking out his\nstrange-fashioned bottle of red spirits, banged it down with a noise that\nmade Rob start and shake all over.\n\n\"Here again, thou seest, Rob Paterson,\" continued he. \"We must have another\njolly bout. Thou knowest my time is short. Let us begin, for my body feels\nthe weight of its own clay. Before the Virgin, Rob? Ha! ha! man, art going\nto die? Come, man--\n\n    \"When grim Death is looking for us,\n      We are toping at our bowls;\n    Bacchus joins us in the chorus--\n      Death, begone!--here's none but souls.\"\n\nDrink, Rob Paterson, and thou'lt pray the better to the Virgin.\"\n\nAnd he held out the bottle to Rob, after having put it bodily to his mouth,\nand taking a long draught as an example to the latter, who was known to\ndespise flasks. Rob turned up his eyes to the Virgin, and got from her some\nconfidence, if not courage. He looked at the tempting bottle, beautiful in\nits fulness and total freedom from the contaminating society of flasks or\ntankards; then he turned a fearful eye on its laughing, rioting possessor,\nand anon sought again the face of the saint.\n\n\"Hast lost thine ancient spirit, Rob Paterson?\" said the stranger. What\nhath that spare figure, made of dry wood, to do with the mellow fuddling of\nour noses? Come, man--Time flies; let us wet his wings, and keep him\nfluttering a while over our heads.\n\n    \"'With an O and an I,\n      Now are we furder found,\n    Drink thou to me, and I to thee,\n      And let the cup go round.'\"\n\n\"But wha, in the Devil's name, are ye?\" now said Rob Paterson, after many\nan ineffectual effort to put the question.\n\n\"Ha! ha!\" answered the stranger, \"does Rob Paterson ask a man who is\nintroduced by this friend of noble red-blood, who he is? Why, man, I am Rob\nPaterson's tosspot. Isn't that enough?\"\n\n\"No quite,\" answered Rob, drawing nearer the Virgin. \"Satan himself might\nuse the same words; and I crave the liberty to say in your presence, that I\nhae nae wish to be on drinking terms wi' his Majesty.\"\n\nAnd Rob eyed him fearfully as he thus alluded to the subject of the town's\nfears, and again sought the face of the saint.\n\n\"Ah, Rob Paterson, my once cherished toper,\" replied the stranger, \"I\nsorrow for thy change. Thine ancient spirit has left thee, and thou hast\ntaken up with wooden idols, in place of the well-filled jolly bottle of thy\nand my former love. Well, may the Devil take on for't!--I care not. Thou\nmayst repent of thy folly when I am gone.\n\n    \"'Robene thou has hard soung and say,\n      In gesties and stories auld--\n    The man that will not quhen he may,\n      Sall haif nocht quhen he wald.'\"\n\nNever mair, Rob Paterson, shalt thou have offer of spirit of wine. It shall\ngo there first!\"\n\nAnd, taking a mouthful of the red liquor, the stranger squirted it in the\nfire, and raised a mighty flame that flared out into the very middle of the\nstreet, and produced another echoing cry or scream from the terrified\ninhabitants. He departed in an instant, and left Rob in a state of\nagitation he had never felt before at the departure of a guest with a\nwell-filled bottle of good liquor.\n\nThe stranger passed out at the door with his usual bold precipitude, and\nagain plied his long limbs in making huge strides along the street, for the\nhouse of another crony. He took no notice of the extraordinary demeanour of\nthe inhabitants, who were seen flying away from corners and angles where\nthey had nestled, for the purpose of seeing him come out in a flame of fire\nfrom Rob Paterson's, as he had done from Will Pearson's. He strode on,\nneither looking to the right nor to the left, till he came to Widow\nLindsay's.\n\n\"A good new year to thee, Dame Lindsay!\" said he, as he entered the house\nby opening the door, which the widow thought she had barred when she shoved\nthe bolt beyond the staple, and found her sitting by the fire counting her\nrosary, and muttering prayers, with eyes upturned to heaven.\n\n\"Holy Mary, save me!\" she muttered, as she heard him enter by the supposed\nlocked door. \"He's come at last.\" And she retreated to a corner of the\nroom, and prayed fervently for deliverance.\n\n\"Thy throat has doubtless good memory of me and mine,\" continued the\nstranger, as he placed on the table the same extraordinary bottle, the\nshape and dimensions of which were as vivid in the mind of Dame Lindsay as\nwas the colour of the red cravat. \"My male tosspots have forgot the taste\nof my red liquor,\" he continued; \"but what wet gossip's throat ever forgot\nwhat nipped it. Come, dame, and let us have a right hearty jorum of this\ninimitable drink.\" And, for want of better measure, he seized lustily a\nbicker that lay near him, and dashed a quantity of the liquor into it. \"Ha!\nI forgot. Get thee for Meg Johnston thy gossip, dame, and let us be merry\ntogether. Meg is a woman of a thousand. What a lusty hold she takes of a\nbrimming bicker, and how her eye lightens and brightens as she surveys the\nswimming heaven under her nose! Come, dame--what ails?\"\n\nThe only reply he got was a groan, and the rustle of Dame Lindsay's\nquivering habiliments.\n\n\"By my own saint, this town of Christ's Kirk has a change upon it!\" he\ncontinued. \"Last time I was here, it was as merry as King James when he\nsang of it. The young and the old hailed me as the prince of good fellows,\nand the wenches and wives--ha! ha!\n\n    \"'To dans thir damysells them dight,\n      Thir lasses light of laits;\n    They were sae skych when I them nicht,\n      They squeild like ony gaits.'\"\n\nDame Lindsay, I perceive what thou wantest, to melt thee into thy former\njollity. Thou'rt coquetting in the corner there for a kiss; and, by the\nholy rude, thou shalt not want it for the space of the twinkling of thine\neye.\"\n\nHe rose for the purpose of applying the emollient he had threatened; but a\nloud scream evinced that a woman, however much she may worship his Satanic\nMajesty, cares not for his familiarities. The widow fainted; and what may\nbe supposed her feelings, when she found, on coming to herself, that that\nidentical and terrific red liquor had had a share in her recovery! Again\nshe screamed; but no kindly neighbour came to rescue her from her perilous\nsituation. Those who heard her cries, had many strange thoughts as to what\nspecies of punishment she was undergoing, for her sins. The conjectures\nwere endless. \"What could he be doing to Widow Lindsay?\" was the universal\nquestion. Some supposed that she was in the act of being carried off, and\nwas struggling to get out of his talons; some looked for the passing flame,\nin the midst of which, the poor widow, clasped in his arms, would be seen\non her luminous journey to the lower world; and there were not few who\npretended to find, in the past life of the wretched victim, a very good\nlegitimate cause for the visit of the stranger, and the severity he was\nclearly exercising towards her.\n\n\"Thou'lt be the better for thy faint, Widow Lindsay,\" said the stranger, as\nshe recovered, \"seeing that what blood it has sent from thy heart, will be\nreturned with the addition of that liquor which is truly the water of life.\nDost forget, good widow, that, when I was last here, thou and Meg Johnston\nwould have fought for a can of it, if I had not made the can two? Come now,\nand let us fuddle our noses till they be as red as the liquor itself, and\nthy spectacles shew thee two noses, before they melt with the heat of their\nruby supporter.\n\n    \"'However this world do change and vary,\n    Oh, let us in heart never more be sary.'\"\n\n\"Avaunt ye! in the name o' the five holy wounds!\" muttered the widow, as\nshe held up the Sathanifuge crow in his face.\n\n\"Well, and if thou wilt not, here goes!\" replied he, as he threw the\ncontents of the bicker in the fire, which blazed up till the house seemed,\nto those waiting fearfully in the distance, to be in flames.\n\nMany an eye was now directed to the door and windows, to see Widow Lindsay\ntake her pyromantic flight through the flaming fields of ether; and they\ncontinued their gaze till they saw him of the red cravat sally forth, when\nfear closed up the vision, and they saw no more. Meanwhile he strode on,\nsinging all the way--\n\n    \"Full oft I muse, and be's in thocht;\n    How this false world is aye on flocht,\"\n\ntill he came to the door of Meg Johnston's cottage. He found it deserted;\nand then stalked on to honest John Simson's, which was in like manner\nempty.\n\n\"What can this mean?\" he said to himself, as he bent his long steps to Wat\nWebster's, where fearful messengers, as we have seen, had already preceded\nhim. \"My person has lost its charm, my converse its interest, and my drink\nits spirit-stirring power. But we shall see what Wat Webster and his Dame\nKitty, and the fair Marion, say to the residue of my authority. Ah, Marion,\nas I think of thee--\n\n    \"'How heises and bleizes\n      My heart wi' sic a fyre,\n    As raises these praises\n      That do to heaven aspire.'\"\n\n\"Ha! ha! I will there outdevil all my devilries. My fire-chariots have as\nyet flown off without a passenger; but this night I shall not go home\nalone.\"\n\nAnd he continued striding onwards in the deserted and silent passage, till\nhe came to Wat Webster's, where the collected inmates were all huddled\ntogether round the fire, in that state of alarm produced by the\nintelligence of Christy Lowry and Widow Lindsay, and already partly set\nforth by us heretofore. Bang up went the door.\n\n\"A good new year to ye all!\" said he, as he stalked into the middle of the\napartment.\n\nThere was a dead silence throughout the company. Marion was the only\nindividual that dared to look him in the face; and there was an expression\nin her eye that seemed to have the effect of increasing the boisterous glee\nof his mysterious manner.\n\n\"Here we are once more, again,\" he continued, as he took out the eternal\nimp-shaped bottle, and clanged it on the table.\n\nEvery eye was fixed upon him as if watching his motions and evolutions. Meg\nJohnston was busy in a corner, defending herself, by drawing a circle round\nher; Widow Lindsay was clinging close to the figure of the Virgin that was\nplaced against the wall by her side; Jenny Wilson sought refuge in the arms\nof honest John; Wat Webster himself got his hand placed upon an old Latin\nBible, not one word of which he could read; and some followed one mode of\nself-defence, and some another, against the expected efforts of the\nstranger, whose proceedings at his other places of call had been all\nrelated at Wat Webster's, with an exaggeration they perhaps stood little in\nneed of. The stranger cared nothing for these indications, not a cinder;\nand took no notice of them.\n\n\"I'll e'en begin our potations myself,\" said he, filling out a flaskful of\nhis liquor, and drinking it off. \"By him that brewed it, it tastes well\nafter my long walk! Wat Webster, wilt thou pledge me, man--\n\n    \"'And let us all, my friends, be merry,\n    And set nocht by this world a cherry;\n      Now while there is good wyne to sell,\n    He that does on dry bread worry,\n      I gif him to the devil of hell.'\"\n\nAnd he trowled the flask upon the table while he sung, as a kind of bass\nchorus to his song.\n\n\"There's for thee, Wat!\" continued he, filling out a flask.\n\nWat kept his hand upon the holy book.\n\n\"Wilt thou, honest John Wilson, pledge thy old friend in this red liquor,\nwhich formerly claimed so strong an acquaintanceship with the secret power\nof the topers' hearts of merry Christ's Kirk?\"\n\n\"For the luve o' heaven,\" whispered Jenny, as she clung closer to him,\n\"touch it not!--it will scald yer liver like brimstone, and may, besides,\nbe the price o' yer soul's purchase.\"\n\nJohn looked at the liquor, and would have spoken; but his heart failed him.\n\n\"Wilt thou, Meg Johnston, empty this flask to the health of thy old\nfriend?\"\n\n\"Guid faith, I, lad,\" muttered Meg, safe as she thought within the walls of\nher necromantic circumvallation--\"I ken ye owre weel. Ye needna think to\ncheat me. I'm no a spunk to be dipped in brimstone, and then set lowe to.\nBut [aside] how can he stand the look o' the haly rude! and the haly book?\nThe deevil o' sic a deevil I ever heard, saw, or read o'. Avaunt ye, avaunt\nye, in the name o the seven churches! The deil a bane ye'll get here--yere\nowre weel kenned. Set aff in a flash o' yer ain fire to Falkland.\"\n\n\"Wilt thou, Christy Lowry, pledge thine old friend?\" continued the\nstranger, without noticing Meg's recommendation.\n\n\"In guid troth na,\" replied Christy, to whom the cross afforded some\nconfidence. \"It's a' out, man--it's owre the hail town. There's nae use in\nconcealin't langer. Just put a spunk to the neck o't and set aff. Wae! wae!\n[aside] but it's an awfu thing to look the enemy i' the very face, and\nhauld converse wi' lips that mak nae gobs at cinders! Ave Maria! help\nChristy Lowry in this her trial and temptation?\"\n\n\"Come from thy langsettle, jolly Kate Webster,\" continued he of the red\ncravat, \"and let us, as thou wert wont to say, have a little laughing and\ndrinking deray in this last night of the old year. I see, by the very\nmouths thou makest, thy throat is as dry as a dander, and, by and by, may\nset fire to my red liquor. Ha! I love a jolly gossip for a tosspot; for she\ngives more speech, and takes more liquor, than your 'breeked' steers that\ndrink down the words, and drown them in the throat. Nothing drowns a\nwoman's speech. It strengthens and improves in ale or whisky as if it were\nits natural element. Come open thy word-mill, Kate, and pour in the red\ngrist, lass.\"\n\n\"The soopleness o' his tongue has been long kent,\" whispered Kitty to Meg\nJohnston.\n\n\"Ay, an' lang felt,\" replied Meg, in a suppressed tone. \"Our sins are\nnaething but a coil o't. When, in God's name, will he tak flight? I canna\nstand this muckle langer.\"\n\n\"Three times have I warded off a swarf,\" said Kitty. \"The gouch o' his\nbreath comes owre me like the reek o' a snuffed-out candle. Will the men no\ninterfere?\"\n\n\"Marion Webster,\" said the stranger, as if unconscious of the fear he was\nproducing, \"did I not, sweet queen, dance a jolly fandango with thee, last\nHalloween, to the rondeau of love--\n\n    \"'Return the hamewart airt agane,\n      And byde quhair thou wast wont to be--\n    Thou art ane fule to suffer paine,\n      For love of her that loves not thee.'\n\nAnd wilt thou not pledge thy old friend in a half flask--the maiden's\nbumper?\"\n\n\"I hae nae objections,\" replied the sprightly Marion, and took up the\nflask.\n\nThe company looked on in amazement and terror. The flame would rise on the\napplication of the liquor to her lips, and doubtless little more of Marion\nWebster would be seen on the face of this lower world. While Marion still\nheld the flask in her hand, the sound of carriage wheels was heard. The\nvehicle seemed to halt at Wat Webster's door. The door opened with a bang.\nMarion had not time to drink off her \"spark,\" and, still holding the flask,\nwent to the door to see who had so unceremoniously opened it; he of the red\ncravat, taking up his bottle, followed with a long stride. A sudden\nexclamation was heard from Marion; the sound of the shutting of the door of\na carriage followed; then came Jehu's \"hap-away,\" with three loud cracks of\na whip, and all was ended by the rolling of rapid wheels, lost in a moment\nin the distance.\n\nWat Webster, who had hitherto been chained to his seat, now started up;\nand, clasping his hands in his agony, ejaculated, that \"Marion was off in a\nflame o' fire.\" The fact scarcely required mention--alas! too evident to\nall the company--that the greatest beauty of Christ's Kirk was away in the\ntalons of the great Enemy of all good; and the evidence within the walls of\nthe house was not greater than what was afforded by the watching crowd\nwithout. The carriage, which was entirely black, and not unlike a hearse,\nwas seen to come in by the east end of the town, driving with a furious\ncareer, the driver (dressed also in black) impelling, with a long whip, the\nblack horses, from whose hoofs sparks of fire were seen to fly; and neither\nhouse nor man seeming to claim his attention, until he arrived at the house\nof Wat Webster, where he of the red cravat was known to be. Many followed\nthe carriage, and many remained at a distance to see who the victim was\nthat was destined to be carried off in the strangers' vehicle; for, that\nthe coach was brought there for no other purpose than to carry off one who\ncould command in an instant a chariot of fire, seemed reasonably to be\nentirely out of the question. Marion Webster, the beloved of the village,\nwas seen to enter, followed by the stranger; and, as the coach flew off, a\nloud wail burst from the stricken hearts of the villagers, expressive at\nonce of their fear and of the intense pity they felt for the fate of one so\nmuch beloved, and whose crimes, much less than theirs, merited so dreadful\na punishment as that she should be carried off to the regions of sorrow.\nThe evidence, within and without the house, met, and, by the force of\nsympathetic similarity, mixed in an instant, carrying away in their course,\nlike floating straws, the strongest doubts that remained in the mind of the\nmost sceptical man in Christ's Kirk, of the hapless daughter of Wat Webster\nhaving been carried off by the Devil. The town was in the greatest\ncommotion; terror and pity were painted on every face; but the feelings of\nthe public held small proportion, indeed, to the agony which overtook Wat\nWebster and his wife, whose only child she was, as well as their pride, and\nthat of every one in the whole town. Wat, who saw no use in flying after\nSathan--an individual of known locomotive powers--lay extended on the floor\nof his cottage, cursing his fate, and bewailing the condition of his lovely\ndaughter, whose entry into Pandemonium, and first scream produced by the\nburning lake, were as distinct in his eye and ear as ever was his morning\nporridge, when they boiled and bubbled by the heat of the fire. But Kitty\nwas up and out, with a mighty crowd or tail in attendance, flying up and\ndown in every direction, to see if any burning trace could be had of her\nbeloved Marion; for she declared that, if she only got \"the dander o' her\nbody to bury in Christ's Kirk,\" she would be thankful to heaven for the\ngift, and try to moderate her grief. But no \"dander\" was to be seen. It was\nby much too evident that Marion Webster would never more be seen on earth;\nand, what might naturally add to the grief of her friends, they had no\nchance of seeing her again in the world to come, unless at the expense of a\n_condemnation_--a dear passport to see an old friend. Such a night was\nnever seen in Christ's Kirk as that on which Marion Webster was carried off\nby his Sathanic Majesty.\n\nWe have said quite enough to make it to be understood that Marion Webster\ndid in reality go off in a coach with the stranger who has occupied so much\nof our attention; but we have (being of Scottish origin) prudently\nabstained from giving any opinion of our own upon the question of the true\ncharacter of him of the red cravat. The two drove off together, apparently\nwith much affection, and, after they had got entirely beyond the reach of\nany supposed followers, they became comparatively easy, and very soon\ncommenced a conversation--an amusement never awanting when there is a woman\nwithin reach of a person's articulated breath.\n\n\"What is the meaning o' a' this, Geordie, man?\" said Marion, looking\nlovingly into the face of the stranger. \"Could I no have met ye this night\nat the Three Sisters--the trees in the wood o' Ballochgray--without your\ncoming to Christ's Kirk, and spreading the fear o' the deil frae town's-end\nto town's-end? But whar are we journeying to? and what means the carriage?\"\n\nThe stranger thus accosted by the familiar name by which he was known to\nthe young woman, smiled, and told her to hold her tongue, and resign\nherself to the pleasure of being carried through the air at the rate of ten\nmiles an hour. The moon was now shining beautifully \"owre tower and tree;\"\nand ever and anon the maiden glanced her blue eye on the \"siller-smolt\"\nscenes through which she passed, and then turned to the face of her\ncompanion, who seemed to enjoy silently the wonder expressed by her fair\nface. After rolling on for some time, they came to a road or avenue of tall\nbeech trees, at the end of which appeared an old castle, on which the\nmoonbeams were glancing, and exhibiting in strange forms the turrets with\nwhich it was fancifully decorated. The grey owl's scream was borne along on\nthe breeze that met them, and struck on Marion's ear in wild and fitful\nsounds--inspiring a dread which the presence of her mute lover did little\nto remove or assuage.\n\n\"Is not that Ballochgray Castle?\" said Marion, at last--\"that fearfu place\nwhar the Baron of Ballochgray haulds his court with the Evil One, on every\nHalloween night, when the bleak muirs are rife with the bad spirits o' the\nearth and air. Whar drives the man, Geordie? Oh, tell him to turn awa frae\nthae auld turrets and skreeching owls. I canna bear the sight o' the ane,\nor the eerie sound o' the ither.\"\n\nA smile was again the answer of her companion, and the carriage still drove\non to the well-known residence of the young Baron of Ballochgray--a man\nwho, knowing the weakness of his King, James the Third of Scotland, in his\nlove of astrology and divination, and their sister black arts, had, with\nmuch address, endeavoured to recommend himself to his sovereign, by a\ncharacter pre-established in his own castle, for a successful cultivation\nof the occult sciences. He had long withdrawn himself from the eyes of the\nworld, and even of his own tenants, and shut himself up in his castle, with\na due assortment of death's heads, charts, owls, globes, bones, astrolobes,\nand vellum chronicles, with a view to the perfection of his hidden\nknowledge; or, as some thought, with a view to produce such a fame of his\ncharacter and pursuits as might reach the ears of James, and acquire for\nhim that sway at court for which he sighed more than for real knowledge.\nSome alleged that he was a cunning diplomatist, who cared no more for the\nnostrums of astrology than he did for the dry bones that, while they\nterrified his servants, had no more virtue in them than sap, and were, with\nthe other furniture of his dark study, collected for the mere purpose of\nforwarding his ambitious designs upon the weak prince. His true character\nwas supposed to be--what he possessed before he took to his new\ncalling--that of a wild, eccentric, devil-daring man, who loved adventures\nfor their own sake, and worshipped the fair face of the \"theekit and\ntenanted skull\" of a bouncing damsel, with far greater enthusiasm and\nsincerity than he ever did his mortal osteological relics that lay in so\nmuch profusion in the recesses of his old castle. But he had, doubtless, so\nfar succeeded in his plans; for he possessed a most unenviable fame for all\nsort of cantrips and sorceries; and the wandering beggar would rather have\nsolicited a bit of bread from the iron hand of misery itself, than ventured\nnear Ballochgray to ask his awmous.\n\n\"I winna gang near that fearfu place, Geordie!\" again cried Marion. \"What\nhae ye, a puir hind, to do wi' the Baron o' Ballochgray? Turn, for the sake\no' heaven!--turn frae that living grave o' dry banes, an' the weary goul\nthat sits jabbering owre them, by their ain light!\"\n\nHer companion again smiled; and the man dashed up the avenue, and never\nstopped till he came to the gate of the castle--over which there were\nplaced two human shank-bones of great length, that were said to have\nsustained the body of the Baron of Balwearie--that prince of the black art,\nand the most cunning necromancer that ever drew a circle. The carriage\nstopped; and two servants, dressed in red doublets, (like garments of\nfire,) slashed with black, waited at the carriage door, with flambeaux in\ntheir hands, to shew the couple into the hall. Out sprang the male first,\nand then Marion Webster was handed, with great state, and led into the\ninterior of the old castle. She was led direct into the hall, which was\nlighted up in a very fanciful manner, by means of many skulls arranged\nround the room, and through the eyes and jaws of which lurid lights\nstreamed all around. Marion was filled with terror as she cast her eyes on\nthese shining monuments of mortality; and had, in her fear, scarcely\nnoticed a man in black, sitting at the end of the room, poring over a\nblack-lettered manuscript.\n\n\"Marion Webster,\" now said her travelling companion, \"behold in your old\nlover of the Ballochgray Wood the Baron of Ballochgray!\"\n\nA scream burst from the choking throat of the terrified damsel, and rung\nthrough the old hall.\n\n\"Come, love,\" he continued, \"abate thy terrors. My fame is worse than my\nreal character. I have wooed thee for reasons known to myself, and to be\nknown soon to thee. Thou didst love Geordie Dempster; and thy love was weak\nindeed, if it is to be scared by brainless tongues or tongueless skulls.\nWilt thou consent to be the lady of the Baron of Ballochgray?\"\n\n\"Geordie! Geordie!\" cried the wondering, and yet loving maiden, \"if I would\nwillingly wed thee in the grave, wi' death himsel for oor priest, shall I\nrefuse to be yours in a castle o' the livin, filled though it be wi' thae\nsigns o' mortality?\"\n\n\"Come forth, Father Anthony!\" cried the Baron, \"and join us by the rules\nand bands of holy kirk!\"\n\nThe man in black lifted up his head from the black-letter page; and, having\ncalled his witnesses, went through the requisite ceremonies; and Marion\nWebster became, within a short space, the lady of Ballochgray.\n\nNext day the Baron took her forth to the green woods, where, as they\nsauntered among elms many centuries old, and as high as castles, he told\nher that he had more reasons than other men for having a wife _who could\nkeep a secret_. When he first met her, he was struck with her beauty, but\nhad no more intention than ordinary love adventurers for making her his\nwife; frequent intercourse had revealed to him a jewel he had never seen in\nsuch brightness in the _head gear_ of the nobles of the land--a stern and\nunflinching regard to the sanction of her word. He quickly resolved to test\nthis in such a manner as would leave no doubt in his mind that a\nsecret-keeping wife he might find in his humble maiden of Ballochgray\nwoods. He had three times visited Christ's Kirk in such a manner as would\nraise an intense curiosity in the inhabitants as to who he was. Marion had\nthe secret only of his being plain Geordie Dempster; but so firmly and\ndeterminedly had she kept it, that, in the very midst of a general belief\nthat he was the Prince of Darkness, she had never even let it be known that\nshe had once seen his face before. So far Marion was enlightened; and it is\nnot improbable that, afterwards, she knew _why_ a secret-keeping wife was\nso much prized by the Baron of Ballochgray, and why he could serve two\npurposes--that of love, and fame of supernatural powers--in personating, as\nhe had done, the Prince of Darkness in his visits to Christ's Kirk on the\nGreen. So far, at least, it is certain that Marion never revealed the\nsecret of his pretended astrological acquirements.\n\nFor weeks after the marriage, inquiries were made in every quarter for the\nlost damsel; but, at last, all search and inquiry was given up, and the\nbelief that she was in the place appointed for the wicked had settled down\non the minds of the people. One evening a number of cronies were assembled\nat the house of the disconsolate parents, and among these were Meg\nJohnston, Christy Lowrie, Widow Lindsay, and others of the Leslians.\n\n\"The will o' the Lord maun be done,\" said Meg; \"but wae's me! there was\nmony an auld gimmer in Leslie, whose horns are weel marked wi' the lines o'\nher evil days, that Clootie might hae taen, afore he cam to the bonnie ewe\nthat had only tasted the first leaves o' her simmer girse. What did Marion\nWebster ever do in this warld to bring upon her this warst and last o' the\nevils o' mortals?\"\n\n\"It's just the like o' her the auld villain likes best,\" rejoined Christy.\n\"He doesna gie a doit for a gizzened sinner, wha will fa' into his hands at\nthe lang run without trouble. But the young, the blooming, and the bonny\nare aye sair beset by temptations; and, heard ye never, Mrs Webster, o'\nMarion's meetings at the Three Sisters, sometimes, they say, at the dead\nhour, wi' some lover that naebody ever kenned.\"\n\n\"Ay, ay, dame,\" said Widow Lindsay; \"that's just _his_ way. He comes in the\nshape o' a young lover, and beguiles the hearts o' young maidens. Ye mind\no' bonny Peggy Lorimer o' the town's end, wha never did mair guid after she\nmet a stranger in the woods o' Ballochgray. Ae glance o' his ee, she said,\ntook awa her heart; and, every day after, she pined and pined, and wandered\namang the woods till she grew like a wraith, but nae mair o' him did she\never see. I stricked her wi' my ain hands, and sic a corpse I never\nhandled. There wasna a pound o' flesh on her bones; and the carriers at the\nburial aye said, that there wasna a corpse ava in the coffin. But puir\nMarion has dreed a waur weird.\"\n\n\"My puir bairn! my puir bairn!\" cried the mother. \"The folk o' Leslie aye\nsaid she wad ride in her carriage, for she was the bonniest lass that ever\nwas seen in Christ's Kirk. But, wear-awins! little kenned they what kind o'\na carriage she wad ride awa in on her marriage night.\"\n\n\"Some folks say, the monks will pray her back again,\" rejoined Meg; \"but,\nmy faith, they'll hae hard work o't. He'll no let her awa without a fearfu\ntuilzie, Christy.\"\n\n\"She'll never mair be seen on earth, woman,\" answered Christy. \"And, even\nif she were to be prayed back again, she wad never be the creature she was\nagain. A coal black lire, and singit ee-brees, wadna set her auld lovers in\nChrist's Kirk in a bleeze again.\"\n\n\"They should watch the smoking field o' Dysart,\" cried Widow Lindsay. \"If\nshe come again ava, it will be through that deil's porch. But what noise is\nthat, Kitty? Didna ye hear the sound o' carriage wheels?\"\n\nThe party listened attentively; and, to be sure, there was a carriage\ncoming rattling along the street.\n\n\"Get out the Latin Bible, Wat!\" cried Kitty. \"He's maybe coming to tak us\nawa next.\"\n\nThe listening continued; and when the sounds ceased, as the carriage\nstopped at the door, and the postilion's whip cracked over the restless\nhorses, a cry of terror rang through the room. Every one shrank into a\ncorner, and muttered prayers mixed with the cries of fear. The door opened.\nEvery eye was fixed upon it, for no one doubted that their old friend had\nreturned. The Baron of Ballochgray and his lady, dressed in the most\ngorgeous style, entered the house of the old couple. The sight of the gay\nvisiters made Wat and Kitty's eyes reel; and they screamed again from the\nfear that the Prince had come back, only in a new doublet, to exhibit to\nthem their _sold_ daughter.\n\n\"I beg to introduce thee,\" said the Baron, \"to the lady of Ballochgray--my\nwedded wife.\"\n\nMarion, without waiting for an answer, fell upon the neck of her father;\nand then, in the same manner, she embraced her mother; but it was a long\ntime before the fears of Wat and Kitty were removed. At last, they were\npersuaded to accompany them on a visit to Ballochgray Castle; and, when\nthey rode off in the chariot, they left behind them the belief that they\ntoo were carried off by the \"Old One.\" We cannot pretend to describe the\nfeelings of Wat and his wife when they were introduced into the old castle;\nbut they soon came to see that the Baron of Ballochgray was just \"as guid a\nchiel in his ain castle as ever he was when he acted the Deevil in Christ's\nKirk on the Green.\"\n\n\n\n\nGLEANINGS OF THE COVENANT.\n\n\nX.--SERGEANT WILSON.\n\nIt was early on Monday morning, in the cold month of March, Anno Domini\n1683, that the farm-house of Barjarg, in the parish of Keir and county of\nDumfries, was surrounded by dragoons. They were in quest of a sergeant of\nthe name of Wilson--a Sergeant Wilson--who had all unexpectedly (for he was\na steady man and a good soldier) deserted his colours, and was nowhere to\nbe found. The reason why they had come to Barjarg, was the report which one\nof Sergeant Wilson's companions in arms had made, that he knew the deserter\nwas in love with Catherine Chalmers, the farmer's fair and only child.\nCatherine Chalmers was indeed forthcoming in all her innocence and\nbloom--but William was nowhere to be found, though they searched most\nminutely into every hole and corner. Being compelled, at last, to retire\nwithout their object--though not without threatening Catherine with the\nthumbikins, if she persevered in refusing to discover her lover's\nretreat--the family of Barjarg was once more left to enjoy its wonted\nquietude and peace. Adjoining to the farm-house of Barjarg, and occupying\nthe ground where the mansion-house now stands, there stood an old tower,\ncontaining one habitable apartment; but only occupied as a sleeping room by\none of the ploughmen, and the herd boy. There were one or two\nlumber-garrets besides; but these were seldom entered, as they were\nunderstood to contain nothing of any value, besides being dark, and\nswarming with vermin. Reports of odd noises and fearful apparitions had\nbegun to prevail about the place, and both ploughman and herd were\nunwilling to continue any longer in a lodgment into which it was their firm\npersuasion that something \"no canny\" had entered. Holding this exceedingly\ncheap, Adam Chalmers, the veteran guidman of Barjarg, agreed to take a\nnight of the old tower, and to set the devil and all his imps at defiance;\nbut it was observed, that he came home next morning thoughtful and out of\nspirits, agreeing, at once, that nobody should, in future, be compelled to\nsleep in the old tower. He said little of what he had seen or heard, but he\nshook his head, and seemed to intimate that he knew more than he was at\nliberty to divulge. Things went on in this manner for some time--reports of\nnoises at unseasonable hours still prevailing, and every one shunning the\nplace after dark--till, one morning before daylight, the whole building was\nobserved to be on fire, surrounded at the same time, as the flames were, by\na troop of Grierson's men, with their leader at their head. The scream\nwhich Catherine Chalmers uttered when she beheld the flames, but too\nplainly intimated the state of her mind; nor was her father less composed,\nbut went about, wringing his hands and exclaiming--\"Oh! poor Sergeant\nWilson! poor Sergeant Wilson!\" At this instant, the fire had made its way\nto the upper apartment, and had thrown light upon a human head and\nshoulders, which leaned over the decayed battlement. Every one was\nhorror-struck except the inhuman soldiery, who collected around the burning\npile, and shouted up their profane and insulting jests, in the face of the\npoor perishing being, who, from his footing immediately giving way, was\nprecipitated into the flames, and disappeared.\n\n\"There, let him go,\" said Grierson, \"dog and traitor as he is, let him sink\nto the lowest pit, there to wait the arrival of his canting and Covenanting\nspouse, whom we shall now take the liberty of carrying to head-quarters,\nthere to await her sentence, for decoying a king's sworn servant and a\nsergeant, from his duty and allegiance.\"\n\nNo sooner said than done, was the order of these dreadful times. Catherine\nChalmers was placed in one of her father's carts; and, notwithstanding\nevery remonstrance, and an assurance that poor Catherine was now a widow,\nshe was placed betwixt two soldiers, who rode alongside the cart on\nhorseback, and conveyed her to Dumfries, there to stand her trial before\nthe Sheriff, Clavers, and the inhuman Laird of Lag. When arrived at her\ndestination, she was put under lock and key, but allowed more personal\nliberty than many others who were accused of crimes more heinous in the\neyes of the persecutors, than those of which she was merely suspected to be\nguilty. It so happened, that the quarterly meeting of the court was held in\na few days, and the chief witness produced against Catherine Wilson, was a\nservant maid of her father, who was compelled, very much against her will,\nto bear evidence to her having seen Sergeant Wilson and her mistress (for\nCatherine kept her father's house) several times together in the old tower,\nas well as under a particular tree at the end of the old avenue, and that\nher mistress had told her that Sergeant Wilson was heartily tired of the\nservice in which he was engaged. Her own father, too, was compelled to\nconfess, that he had had an interview with the sergeant, in the tower, who\nhad confessed to him the marriage, had asked and with difficulty obtained\nhis forgiveness, and that he meditated a departure along with his wife, to\nsome distant place, beyond the reach of his enemies. There was no direct\nevidence, however, that Catherine had persuaded him to desert, or to vilify\nthe service which he had left; and the court were about to dismiss her\n_simpliciter_ from the bar, when, to the amazement of all, Catherine rose\nin her place, and addressed the court to the following purpose:--\"And now\nye have done your utmost, and I am innocent, in as far as your evidence has\ngone; but I am NOT INNOCENT--I am deeply guilty, if guilt ye deem it, in\nthis matter. 'Twas I that first awakened poor William's conscience to a\nsense of his danger, in serving an emissary of Satan; 'twas I that spoke to\nhim of the blood that cries day and night under the Altar; 'twas I that\nmade him tremble--ay, as an aspen leaf, and as some here will yet shake\nbefore the Judge of all--when I brought to his recollection the brutal\nscenes which he had witnessed, and in which he had taken a part; 'twas I\nthat agreed to marry him privately, without my dear father's consent,\n(whose pardon I have sought on my knees, and whose blessing I have already\nobtained,) [hereupon her father nodded assent] provided he would desert,\nand retire with me, at least for a time, beyond the reach of ye all--ye\nmessengers of evil, sent to scourge a guilty and backsliding race; 'twas I\nthat visited him night after night in that old tower, which you inhumanly\nset on fire, and in which--O my God!\"----Hereupon she laid hold of the desk\nbefore her, and would have dropped to the earth, had not an officer in\nattendance supported her, and borne her, under the authority of the court,\ninto the open air. She was now, notwithstanding her self-accusation,\ndeclared to be at liberty: and immediately, so soon as strength was given\nher, retired into the house of an acquaintance and relative, where suitable\nrestoratives and refreshments were administered. The house where her friend\nlived was close upon what is called the Sands of Dumfries, adjoining to the\nriver, which up to this point is navigable, and where boats are generally\nto be seen. During the night, she disappeared, and, though all search was\nmade at home and everywhere else, she was not heard of. Her father at first\ntook her disappearance sadly to heart; but time seemed to have a remedial\neffect upon his spirits, and he at length rallied, even into cheerfulness.\nThings went on for years and years, very much in the old way at Barjarg.\nThe old man's hairs gradually whitened and became more scanty, whilst this\nloss was made up for by an increase of wrinkles. The only change in his\nhabits were not unfrequent visits which he payed to an old friend, he said,\nin Whitehaven, and from which he always returned in high spirits. It might\nhave been stated formerly that, when the ashes of the old tower were\nsearched, after they had cooled, for the body of poor Wilson, no such body\nwas found--but the inference was made by the neighbours, that the remains\nhad been early removed by his wife's orders, who would naturally wish to\npossess herself of so valued a deposit. In fact, the whole transaction\nmelted away in the stream of time, like the snow-flake on the surface of\nthe water; and things went on very much us usual. Six long years revolved,\nand still no word of Catherine Wilson. Many conjectured that she had missed\nher foot in the dark, and fallen into the river, and been carried out to\nsea by the reflux of the tide. Others again hinted at suicide, from extreme\ngrief; and some very charitable females nodded and winked something meant\nto be significant, about some people's not being easily known--and that\nsome people, provided that they got a _grip_ of a man, would not be very\nnice about the object or the manner!\n\nOh, what a blessed thing it was when King William came in!--and with him\ncame amnesty, and peace, and restoration! It was upon a fine summer\nevening, in the year 1689, just six years after the mysterious\ndisappearance of Catherine Wilson, that the old guidman of Barjarg was\nsitting enjoying the setting sun at his own door, on the root of an old\ntree, which had been converted into a _dais_, or out-of-doors seat. It was\nabout the latter end of July, that most exuberantly lovely of all months,\nwhen Adam Chalmers, with Rutherford's Letters on his knee, sat gazing upon\none of the most beautiful landscapes which our own romantic country can\nboast of. Before him flowed the Nith, over its blue pebbles, and through a\nthousand windings; beyond it were the woods and hills of Closeburn, all\nblooming and blushing in the setting beams of the sun, and rising up, tier\nabove tier, till they terminated in the blue sky of the east. To the left\nwere the Louther Hills, with their smooth-green magnificence, bearing away\ninto the distance, and placed, as it were, to shelter this happy valley\nfrom the stormy north and its wintry blasts. At present, however, all idea\nof storm and blast was incongruous, for they seemed to sleep in the sun's\neffulgence, as if cradled into repose by the hand of God. To the south, and\nhard at hand, were the woods and the fields of Collestown, with the echoing\nLinn, and the rush of many waters. O land of our nativity!--how deeply art\nthou impressed upon this poor brain!--go where we will--see what we\nmay--thou art still unique to us--thou art still superior to all other\nlands.\n\nIt was eight o'clock of the evening above referred to, when a chaise\nentered the old avenue, passed the ruins of the Tower and the old\nmansion-house, and drew up immediately opposite old Adam Chalmers. The\nsteps were immediately let down, and out sprung, with a bound, the long\nlost child, the blooming and matronly looking Mrs Wilson. Behind her\nfollowed one whom the reader, I trust, has long ago considered as dead, and\nperhaps buried, her manly and rejoicing husband William Wilson, handing out\na fine girl of five years of age, a boy about three, and an infant still at\nthe breast! It was indeed a joyous meeting; and the old man bustled about,\nembracing and pressing his child, and then surveying, with silent and\nintense interest, his grandchildren; taking the oldest on his knee, and\npermitting him all manner of intercourse with his wrinkles and his grey\nhairs.\n\nOne of Lag's troop, the intimate and attached friend of the sergeant, had\nconveyed to him, by means of a letter, the fact, that his haunt was\ndiscovered; and that Lag had sworn he would search him out like a fox,--in\nshort, that he would burn the old tower about his ears. A thought struck\nWilson, that even though he should now escape, the pursuit would still be\ncontinued; but that, if he could by any means persuade his enemies that he\nhad perished in the flames, the search of course would cease. As he was\noccupied with these thoughts, it occurred to him, that, by placing a couple\nof pillows, dressed in some old clothes, which were lying about, and which\nbelonged to the former tenant, in the topmost turret of the tower, he might\nimpose the belief upon Lag and his party, that he had actually perished in\nthe flames. Having communicated this plan to his friend in the troop by a\nsecret messenger, he immediately, and without waiting even to advertise his\nwife of the deception, departed, and hastened on to a brother's house in\nthe neighbourhood of Dumfries, where he lay concealed. By the management of\nhis friend, the deception was accomplished; for he even swore to the\ncaptain, that he heard Wilson scream, and jump upwards, and then sink down\ninto the devouring flames. The trial was not unknown to Wilson, and he had\nprevailed upon his brother, with a few friends sworn to secrecy, to assist\nhim in possessing himself of the person of his wife, in going to or coming\nfrom the court-house. Matters, however, succeeded beyond his utmost hopes.\nHis spouse was liberated, and, by means of a boat well manned, he reached\nDouglas in the Isle of Man in safety, in the course of eight-and-forty\nhours. There, at last, he was safe, being beyond immediate pursuit, and\nindeed being supposed to be dead; and there, by a successful speculation or\ntwo, with money which had been left him by an uncle, after whom he was\nnamed, and who had prospered in the Virginia trade, he soon became\nprosperous, and even wealthy. His wife having a natural desire to see her\nfather, took means to have him apprised of the secret of their retreat. His\nvisits, nominally to England, were in fact made to Douglas; and the\nRevolution now put it in the power of Sergeant Wilson to return with his\nyoung and interesting family to the farm of Barjarg, and to purchase the\nproperty on which the old house stood, it being now in the market; to refit\nthe old burnt tower; to rebuild the old castle, and to live there along\nwith old Adam for several years, not only in comfort, but in splendour.\nWhen engaged over a bottle, of which he became ultimately rather more fond\nthan was good for his health, he used to amuse his friends with the above\nnarrative, adding always at the end--\"The burning o' me has been the making\no' me.\" The property has long passed into other hands, and is now in the\nfamily of Hunter; but such was its destination for at least fifty years,\nduring the life of the sergeant, and the greater part of the life of the\nson, who, being a spendthrift, spent and sold it.\n\n\nXI.--HELEN PALMER.\n\nHelen Palmer was originally from Cumberland; her parents were English, but\nher father had removed with Helen, an only daughter, whilst yet a child, to\nthe neighbourhood of Closeburn Castle, to a small village which still goes\nby the name of Croalchapel. There the husband and father had been employed\noriginally as forester on the estate of Closeburn, belonging to Sir Roger\nKirkpatrick, and had afterwards become chamberlain or factor on the same\nproperty. Peter Palmer was a superior man. He had been well educated for\nthe time in which he lived, and had been employed in Cumberland in keeping\naccounts for a mining establishment. The death, however, in child-birth, of\nhis beloved and well-born wife, (she had married below her station,) had,\nfor some time, disgusted him with life, and his intellects had nearly given\nway. Having committed several acts of insanity, so as to make himself\nspoken of in the neighbourhood, he took a moonlight flitting, with his\nchild and a faithful nurse, and, wandering north and north, at last fixed\nhis residence in the locality already mentioned, where he was soon noticed\nas a superior person by the Laird of Closeburn, and advanced as has been\nstated.\n\nHelen Palmer was the apple of her father's eye; he would permit no one but\nthe nurse to approach her person, and he himself was her only instructor;\nhe taught her to read, to write, and to calculate accounts; in short, every\nspare hour he had was spent with little Helen. There you might see him,\nafter dinner, with Helen on his knee, his forest dog sleeping before him,\nand a tumbler of negus on a small table by his side, conversing with his\nchild, as he would have done with her mother; holding her out at arm's\nlength, to mark her opening features; and then again straining her to his\nbosom in a paroxysm of tears.\n\n\"Just my Helen--my own dear Helen anew!\" he would say; \"oh, my child--my\nchild!--dear, dear art thou to thy poor heart-broken father! but I will\nlive for thee!--I will live with thee!--and when thou diest, child, thou\nshalt sleep on this breast--thou shalt be buried, child, in thy father's\ndust; and thy mother and we shall meet, and I will tell her of her babe; of\nthat babe which cost her so much, and we will rejoin in divine love for\never and ever!\"\n\nOh, how beautiful is paternal affection!--the love of an only surviving\nparent for an only child--and she a female. It is beautiful as the smile of\nProvidence on benevolence--it is strong as the bond which binds the world\nto a common centre--it is enduring as the affections which, being cherished\non earth, are matured above!\n\nAs Helen grew up, her eye kindled, her brow expanded, her cheeks freshened\ninto the most delicious bloom, and she walked on fairy footsteps of the\nmost delicate impression. Her feet, her hands, her arms, her bust, her\nwhole person, spoke her at once the lady of a thousand descents--ages had\nmodelled her into aristocratic symmetry. But with all this, there was a\nrustic simplicity about her, an open, frank, unaffected manner, which\nseemed to say, as plain as any manner could, \"I am not ashamed of being my\nfather's daughter.\" When Helen Palmer had attained her sixteenth year, she\nwas quite a woman--not one of your thread-paper bulrushes, which shoot\nupwards merely into unfleshed gentility; but a round, firm, well-spread,\nand formed woman--a bonny lass, invested with all the delicacy and softness\nof a complete lady. Her bodily accomplishments, however, were not her only\nrecommendation; her mind was unusually acute, and her memory was stored\nwith much and varied information. She knew, for example, that the age in\nwhich she lived was one of cruelty and bloodshed; that the second Charles,\nwho, at that time, filled the throne, was a sensual tyrant; that Lag,\nClavers, Douglas, Johnstone, and others, were bloody persecutors; and that\neven Sir Roger Kirkpatrick himself, the humane and amiable in many\nrespects, was \"a friend of the castle\"--of the court--and would not permit\nany of the poor persecuted remnant to take refuge in the linns of Creehope,\nor in any of the fastnesses on his estate of Closeburn. All this grieved\nHelen's heart; but her father had taught her that it was _her_ duty, as\nwell as his own, to be silent on such subjects, and not to give offence to\none whose bread he was eating, and whose patronage he had enjoyed to so\ngreat an extent.\n\nThere were frequent visiters, in those days, at Closeburn Castle. In fact,\nwith all the chivalric hospitality of ancient times and of an ancient\nfamily, Sir Roger kept, in a manner, open house. During dinner, the\ndrawbridge was regularly elevated, and, for a couple of hours at least,\nnone might enter. This state ceremony had cost the family of Kirkpatrick\nmany broad acres; for, when the old and heirless proprietor of the fine\nestate of Carlaverock called at the castle of Closeburn, with the view of\nbequeathing his whole property to the then laird, the drawbridge was up--he\nwas refused immediate entrance, because Sir Thomas was at dinner. \"Tell Sir\nThomas,\" said the enraged visitor, \"tell your master to take his dinner,\nand with zest; but tell him, at the same time, that I will put a better\ndinner _by_ his table this day than ever was on it.\" So he went on to\nDrumlanrig, and left the whole property to Douglas of Queensberry. Such,\nhowever, was not the reception of some young gentlemen who arrived about\nthis time at the castle of Closeburn, on a sporting expedition, with dogs\nand guns, and a suitable accompaniment of gamekeepers and other servants.\nThese strangers were manifestly Englishmen, but from what quarter of\nEngland nobody knew, and, indeed, nobody inquired. They were only birds of\npassage, and would, in a month or so, give place to another arrival, about\nto disappear, in its turn, from a similar cause. As Helen Palmer was one\nday walking, according to her wont, amongst the Barmoor-woods, in her\nimmediate neighbourhood, a hare crossed her path, followed closely by a\ngreyhound, by which it was immediately killed. Poor Helen started,\nscreamed, and dropped her book in an agony of pity. She had not been\naccustomed to such barbarities; and the poor dying animal cried like a\nchild, too, as it expired! At this instant, a horseman brought up his steed\nin her presence, and, immediately alighting, proceeded, in the most polite\nand delicate manner imaginable, to administer such relief as was in his\npower. He begged her to be composed, for the animal was now dead, and its\nsuffering over; and her feelings should never be lascerated again in this\nmanner, as they would pursue their sport somewhere else, at a greater\ndistance from her abode. Upon recovering herself, Helen felt ashamed at her\nposition, and even at her weakness in betraying her feelings, and, begging\nthe stranger's pardon for the interruption to his sport which she had\noccasioned, with a most graceful courtesy she withdrew from his sight. The\nstranger was exceedingly struck with her appearance. It was not that she\nwas beautiful, for with beautiful women he had long been familiar; but\nthere was something in the expression of her countenance which made him\ntremble all over--she was the very picture of his father; nay, his own\nfeatures and hers bore a close resemblance. The same indefinite terror\nwhich had seized this young and exceedingly handsome sportsman had\npenetrated the breast of Helen. The resemblance of the stranger to herself,\nwas what struck her with amazement. There was the same arched eyebrow--the\nsame hazel eye--and the same dimple in the chin. Besides, there was an\nall-over sameness in the air, manner, and even step, which she could not,\nwith all her efforts, drive from her recollection. She did not, however,\nthink proper to inform her father of this little foolish incident; but, ere\nshe went to bed that night, she surveyed herself in the glass with more\nthan wonted attention. Still, still, she was left in surprise, by comparing\nwhat she saw with what she recollected--the image in her bosom with that in\nthe glass.\n\nNext day, as might have been anticipated, the stranger called to see if she\nhad recovered from her fright, and spent a considerable time in very\npleasing conversation. Her father happened to be in the writing office at\nthe time, and did not see him. These calls were repeated from time to time,\ntill at last it became evident to all about the castle, that the young heir\nof Middlefield, in Cumberland, was deeply in love. He had almost entirely\ngiven up his former amusements, and even railed against the cruelty of such\nsports. Mr Graham, a near connection of him of Netherby, was a young person\nof an excellent heart, and of a large property, to which, from his father's\ndeath, by an accident, he had just succeeded. He was besides, one of the\nhandsomest men in Cumberland; and it was reported that Sir James Graham's\noldest daughter had expressed herself very favourably respecting her\nkinsman's pretensions to her hand, should he _presume so high_! However,\nhis heart was not in the match, and he had made this visit to his father's\nintimate friend, in order to avoid all importunity on a subject which was\nirksome to him. It is useless to mince the matter. Helen, in spite of her\nfather's remonstrances and representations, was deeply and irrecoverably in\nlove with the gallant Graham, and he, in his turn, was at least equally\nenamoured of the face, person, manners, mind, and soul, of the lovely and\nfascinating Miss Palmer.\n\nThere was only one subject on which there was any division of opinion\nbetwixt the lovers--Helen was every inch a Covenanter; whilst Mr William\nwas rather, if anything, inclined to view their opposition to government as\nfactious and inexcusable. He did not, indeed, approve of the atrocities\nwhich were practising every day around him, and in the parish of Closeburn\nin particular; but he ventured to hope that a few instances of severity\nwould put an end to the delusion of the people, and that they would again\nreturn to their allegiance and their parish churches. Helen was mighty and\nmagnificent in the cause of non-conformity and humanity. She talked of\nfreedom, conscience, religion, on the one hand--of tyranny, treachery,\noppression, and cruelty, on the other--till Mr William, either convinced,\nor appearing to be so, fairly gave in, promising most willingly, and in\nperfect good faith, that he would never assist the Laird of Closeburn, or\nof Lag, in any of their unhallowed proceedings.\n\nOne day when Helen and her lover (for it was now no secret) were on a walk\ninto the Barmoor-wood, they were naturally attracted to the spot where\ntheir intercourse had begun; and, sitting down opposite to each other on\nthe trunks of some felled trees, they gradually began a somewhat\nconfidential conversation respecting their birth and parentage. Helen\ndisguised nothing; she was born in Cumberland, and brought here whilst a\nchild; her mother, whose name was Helen Graham, had died at her birth. At\nthe mention of this name, the stranger and lover started convulsively to\nhis feet, and running up to and embracing Helen, he exclaimed--\"O God! O\nGod! you are my own cousin!\" Helen fainted, and was with difficulty\nrecovered, by an application of water from the adjoining brook. It was\nindeed so. Out of delicacy, Mr William had made no particular inquiries at\nHelen respecting her mother; and Helen, on the other hand, knew that Graham\nis an almost universal name, in Cumberland in particular. This, therefore,\nexcited no suspicion; but true it is, and of verity, these two similar and\naffianced beings were cousins-german. Helen Graham, the sister of the Lord\nof Middlefield having married beneath her rank, was abandoned by her\nbrother and family, and her name was never mentioned in Middlefield House.\nAn old servant, however, of the family had made the young heir master of\nthe fact of the marriage, and of the death of his old aunt; but he could\nnot tell what had become of the father or the child; he supposed that they\nhad either died or gone to the plantations abroad; and there the matter\nrested till this sudden and unexpected discovery. Peter Palmer, the father\nof Helen, was altogether unacquainted with William Graham, as he was a mere\nchild when Peter left Cumberland; and his father had used him so cruelly as\nto make him avoid his residence and presence as carefully as possible.\n\nWould to heaven we could stop here, and gratify the reader with a wedding,\nand as much matrimonial happiness as poor mortality can possibly\ninherit!--But it may not be. As Lockhart says beautifully of Sir Walter, we\nhear \"the sound of the muffled drum.\"\n\nSir Roger and all the friends of Mr William Graham were opposed to his\nunion with Miss Palmer, as Graham always called her. Her own father, too,\nwas opposed to her forming a connection with the son of one who had treated\nhim so cruelly, and, as he thought, unjustly--and it became manifest to\nWilliam, as he was in every sense of the word his own master, that had he\nhis fair betrothed in the leas of Middlefield, he might set them all at\ndefiance, and effect their union peaceably, according to the rules of the\nchurch. In an evil hour, Helen consented to leave her father's house by\nnight, along with her William, and on horseback, to take their way across\nthe Border for Cumberland. They had reached the parish of Kirkconnel about\ntwo o'clock in the morning, and were giving their horses a mouthful of\nwater in the little stream called Kirtle, when a shot was heard in the\nimmediate neighbourhood--it was heard, alas! by two only, for the third was\ndying, and in the act of falling from her seat in the saddle. She was\ncaught by a servant, and by her lover; but she could only say--\"I am\ngone--I am gone!\" before breathing her last. Oh, curse upon the hand that\nfired the shot? It was, indeed, an accursed hand, but a fatal mistake. It\nwas one of the bloody persecutors of Lag's troop, who, having been\nappointed to watch at this spot for some Covenanters who were expected to\nbe passing on horseback into England, in order to escape from the savage\ncruelty of their persecutors, had immediately, and in drunken blindness,\nfired upon this inoffensive group. The ball, alas! took too fatal effect in\nthe heart of Helen Palmer; and it was on her, and not as Allan Cunningham\nrepresents it, \"on Helen Irving, the daughter of the laird of Kirkconnel,\"\nthat the following most pathetic verses were written--\n\n    \"I wish I were where Helen lies;\n    Night and day on me she cries:\n    Oh, that I were where Helen lies,\n          On fair Kirkconnel lea!\n\n    \"Oh, Helen fair beyond compare,\n    I'll make a garland of thy hair;\n    Shall bind my heart for ever mair,\n          Until the day I dee.\n\n    \"Curst be the heart that thought the thought,\n    And curst the hand that fired the shot,\n    When in my arms burd Helen dropped\n          On fair Kirkconnel lea!\"\n\n\nXII.--THE CAIRNY CAVE OF GAVIN MUIR.\n\nThere is a wild, uninhabited district, which separates Nithsdale from\nAnnandale, in Dumfriesshire. It is called Gavin Muir; and, though lonely,\nand covered with spret and heather, exhibits some objects which merit the\nattention of the traveller in the wilderness. There is the King's Loch, the\nKing's Burn, and the King's Chair, all records of King James V.'s\ncelebrated raid to subdue the thieves of Annandale. Tradition says, what\nseems extremely likely, that he spent a night in the midst of this muir;\nand hence the appellations of royalty which adhere to the objects which\nwitnessed his bivouac. But, although the localities referred to possess an\ninterest, they are exceeded, in this respect, by a number of \"cairns,\" by\nwhich the summits of several hills, or rising grounds, are topped. These\ncairns, which amount to five or six, are all within sight of each other,\nall on eminences, and all composed of an immense mass of loose, water-worn\nstones. And yet the neighbourhood is free from stones, being bare, and fit\nfor sheep-pasturage only. Tradition says nothing of these cairns in\nparticular; or, indeed, very little of any similar collections, frequent as\nthey are in Scotland and throughout all Scandinavia. Stone coffins, no\ndoubt, have been discovered in them, and human bones; but, beyond this, all\nis surmise and uncertainty. Often, when yet a boy, and engaged in fishing\nin the King's Burn, have we mounted these pyramids, and felt that we were\nstanding on holy ground. \"Oh,\" thought we, \"that some courteous cairn would\nblab it out what 'tis they are!\" But the cairns were silent; and hence the\nnecessity we are under of professing our ignorance of what they refused to\ndivulge. But there is a large opening in the side of one of these cairns,\nrespecting which tradition has preserved a pretty distinct narrative, which\nwe shall now venture, for the first time, to put under types, for the\ninstruction of our readers.\n\nThe whole hill country, in Dumfriesshire and Galloway in particular, is\nriddled, as it were, with caves and hiding-places. These, no doubt,\nafforded refuge, during the eight-and-twenty years of inhuman persecution,\nto the poor Covenanter; but they were not, in general, constructed for or\nby him. They existed from time immemorial, and were the work of that son of\nnight and darkness--the smuggler, who, in passing from the Brow at the\nmouth of the Nith, from Bombay, near Kirkcudbright, or from the estuary of\nthe Cree, with untaxed goods from the Isle of Man--then a separate and\nindependent kingdom--found it convenient to conceal both his goods and\nhimself from the observation of the officers of excise. So frequent are\nthese concealed caves in the locality to which we refer, that, in passing\nthrough the long, rank heather, we have more than once disappeared in an\ninstant, and found ourselves several feet below the level of the upper\nworld, and in the midst of a damp, but roomy subterraneous apartment of\nconsiderable extent. We believe that they are now, in these piping times of\npeace and preventive service, generally filled up and closed by the\nshepherds, as they were dangerous pitfalls in the way of their flocks. In\nthe time, however, to which we refer--namely, in the year 1683--they were\nnot only open, but kept, as it were, in a state of repair, being tenanted\nby the poor, persecuted remnant (as they expressed it) of God's people.\nThat the reader may fully understand the incidents of this narrative, it\nwill be necessary that he and we travel back some hundred and fifty years,\nand some miles from the farm-house of Auchincairn, that we may have ocular\ndemonstration of the curious contrivances to which the love of life, of\nliberty, and of a good conscience, had compelled our forefathers to have\nrecourse. That cairn which appears so entire and complete, of which the\nstones seem to have been huddled together without any reference to\narrangement whatever, is, nevertheless, hollow underneath, and on occasions\nyou may see--but only if you examine it narrowly--the blue smoke seeking\nits way in tiny jets through a thousand apertures. There is, in fact, room\nfor four or five individuals. Beneath, there are a few plaids and\nbed-covers, with an old chair, a stool, and seats of stone. There is\nlikewise a fire-place and some peats, extracted from the adjoining moss.\nBut there is, in fact, no entrance in this direction. You must bend your\ncourse round by the brow of that hollow, over which the heather hangs\nprofusely; and there, by dividing and gently lifting up the heathy cover,\nyou will be able to insert your person into a small orifice, from which you\nwill escape into a dark but a roomy dungeon, which will, in its turn,\nconduct you through a narrow passage, into the very heart or centre of this\nseemingly solid accumulation of stones. When there, you will have light\nsuch as Milton gives to Pandemonium--just as much as to make darkness\nvisible, through the small, and, on the outside, invisible crevices betwixt\nthe stones. Should you be surprised in your lighted and fire\napartment--should any accident or search bring a considerable weight above\nyou, so as to break through your slightly supported roofing--you can\nretreat to your ante-room or dungeon, and from thence, if necessary, make\nyour way into the adjoining linn, along the bottom of which, you may\nultimately find skulking-shelter, or a pathway into a more inhabited\ndistrict. Now that you have surveyed this arrangement, as it existed a\nhundred and fifty years ago, we may proceed to give you the narrative which\nis connected with it.\n\nIn the year above referred to, the persecution of the saints was at its\nheight--Clavers, in particular, went about the country with his dragoons,\nwhom he designated (like the infamous Kirk) his _Lambs_, literally seeking\nto hurt and destroy in all the hill country, in particular of Dumfriesshire\nand Galloway. Auchincairn was a marked spot; it had often been a city of\nrefuge to the shelterless and the famishing; but it had so frequently been\nsearched, that every hole and corner was as well known to Clavers and his\ntroop as to the inhabitants themselves. There was now, therefore, no longer\nany refuge to the faithful at Auchincairn; in fact, to come there was to\nmeet the enemy half-way--to rush as it were into the jaws of the lion. In\nthese circumstances, old Walter Gibson, a man upwards of seventy years of\nage, who, by his prayers and his attending conventicles, had rendered\nhimself particularly obnoxious, was obliged to prolong a green old age by\ntaking up his abode in the cave and under the cairn which has already been\ndescribed. With him were associated, in his cold and comfortless retreat,\nthe Rev. Robert Lawson, formerly minister of the parish of Closeburn; but\nwho, rather than conform to the English prayer-book and formula, had taken\nto the mountain, to preach, to baptize, and even to dispense the Sacrament\nof the Supper, in glens, and linns, and coverts, far from the residence of\nman. Their retreat was known to the shepherds of the district, and indeed\nto the whole family of Auchincairn; but no one ever was suspected of\nimitating the conduct of the infamous Baxter, who had proved false, and\ndiscovered a cave in Glencairn, where four Covenanters were immediately\nshot, and two left hanging upon a tree. On one occasion, a little innocent\ngirl, a grand-daughter of old Walter, was surprised whilst carrying some\nprovisions towards the hill-retreat, by a party of Clavers' dragoons, who\ndevoured the provisions, and used every brutal method to make the girl\ndisclose the secret of the retreat; but she was neither to be intimidated\nnor cajoled, and told them plainly that she would rather die, as her\ngranduncle had done before her, than betray her trust. They threw her into\na peat-hag filled with water, and left her to sink or swim. She did _not_\nswim, however, but sank never to rise again. Her spirit had been broken,\nand life had been rendered a burden to her. She expressed to her murderers,\nagain and again, a wish that they would send her to meet her uncle (as she\ntermed it) William. Her body was only discovered some time after, when the\nprocess of decomposition had deformed one of the most pleasing countenances\nwhich ever beamed with innocence and piety.\n\n\"The old hound will not be far off, when the young whelp was so near,\"\nexclaimed Clavers, upon a recital of the inhuman murder. \"We must watch the\nmuirs by night; for it is then that these creatures congregate and fatten.\nWe must continue to spoil their feasting, and leave them to feed on\ncranberries and moss-water.\" In consequence of this resolution, a strict\nwatch was set all along Gavin Muir; and it became almost impossible to\nconvey any sustenance to the famishing pair; yet the thing was done, and\nwonderfully managed, not in the night-time, but in the open day. One\nshepherd would call to another, in the note of the curlew or the miresnipe,\nand without exciting suspicion, convey from the corner of his plaid the\nnecessary refreshments, even down to a bottle of Nantz. The cave was never\nentered on such occasions; but the provisions were dropped amidst the rank\nheather; and a particular whistle immediately secured their disappearance.\nNight after night, therefore, were these prowlers disappointed of their\nobject, till at last, despairing of success, or thinking, probably, that\nthe birds had escaped, they betook themselves, for the time, elsewhere, and\nthe cairn was relieved from siege. Clavers, in fact, had retired to\nGalloway, along with Grierson and Johnstone, and the coast was clear, at\nleast for the present.\n\nIt was about the latter end of October, when Mr Lawson was preaching and\ndispensing the Sacrament to upwards of a hundred followers, in the hollow\nwhere stood the King's Chair. This locality was wonderfully well suited for\nthe purpose--it was, in fact, a kind of amphitheatre, surrounded on all\nsides by rising ground, and in the centre of which three large stones\nconstituted a chair, and several seats of the same material were ranged in\na circular form around. The stones remain to this hour, and the truth of\nthis description can be verified by any one who crosses Gavin Muir. It was\na moonlight night--a harvest moon--and Mr Lawson, having handed the\nSacramental cup around, was in the act of concluding with prayer, when the\nnote of a bird, seemingly a plover, was heard at a great distance. It was\nresponded to by a similar call, somewhat nearer; and, in an instant, a\nmessenger rushed in upon their retreat, out of breath, and exclaiming, \"You\nare lost!--you are all dead men!--Clavers is within sight, and at full\ngallop, with all his troop at his back.\"\n\nOne advantage which the poor persecuted had over their persecutors, was a\nsuperior knowledge of localities. In an instant the hollow was tenantless;\nfor the inmates had fled in all directions, and to various coverts and\noutlets into the vale of Annan. The minister alone remained at his post\ncontinuing in ejaculatory prayer, and resisting all persuasion even to take\nadvantage of the adjoining cairny cave. In vain did Walter Gibson delay\ntill the last moment, and talk of his farther usefulness. Mr Lawson's only\nanswer was--\"I am in the hands of a merciful Master, and, if he has more\nservice for me, he himself will provide a way for my escape. I have neither\nwife nor child, nor, I may say, relation, alive. I am, as it were, a\nstranger in the land of duty. If the Lord so will it that the man of blood\nshall prevail over me, he will raise up others in my stead, fitter to serve\nhim effectually than ever I have been; but, Walter, _you_ have a bonny\nfamily of grandchildren around you, and your ain daughter the mother of\nthem a', to bless you, and hear you speak the words of counselling and\nwisdom; so, make you for the cave and the cairn out by yonder--I will e'en\nremain where I am, and the Lord's will be done!\" Seeing that all persuasion\nwas unavailable, and that, by delaying his flight, he would only sacrifice\nhis own life, without saving that of his friend, Walter appeared to take\nhis departure for his place of refuge. It was neither Clavers, however, nor\nLag, nor Johnstone, nor Winram, who was upon them; but only Captain\nDouglas, from Drumlanrig, to which place secret information of the night's\n_wark_, as it was termed, had been conveyed. Captain Douglas' hands were\nred with blood; he had shot poor Daniel M'Michan in Dalveen Glen, and had\ngiven word of command to blow out his brother's brains, as has been already\nrecorded in the notices of these times. One of his troop had been wounded\nin the affair at Dalveen, and he was literally furious with rage and the\nthirst of blood. Down, therefore, Douglas came with about half-a-dozen men,\n(the rest being on duty in Galloway,) determined to kill or be killed--to\nput an end to these nightly conventicles, or perish in the attempt.\n\nMr Lawson had taken his position in the King's Chair, which, as was\nformerly described, consisted of three large stones set on end, around one\nin the centre, which served as a seat; and when Douglas came in sight,\nnothing appeared visible in the moonshine but these solitary stones.\n\n\"They are off, by G----d!\" exclaimed Douglas; \"the fox has broken cover--we\nmust continue the chase; and Rob,\" added he, to one who rode near him,\n\"blaw that bugle till it crack again. When you start the old fox, I should\nlike mightily to be at the death. But--so ho!--what have we here?--why,\nhere are bottles and a cup, by Jove! These friends of the Covenant are no\nenemies, I perceive, to good cheer\"--putting the bottle to his mouth, and\nmaking a long pull--\"by the living Jingo! most excellent wine. Here, Rob,\"\nemptying what remained into the silver goblet or cup, \"here, line your\nweasan with a drop of the red, and then for the red heart's blood of these\npsalm-singing, cup-kissing gentry. So ho--so ho!--hilloa--one and all--the\nfox is under cover still,\" (advancing towards the stone chair,) \"and we\nthought him afield, too. Stand forth, old Canticles, 5 and 8th, and let us\nsee whether you have got one or five bottles under your belt. What! you\nwon't, or you can't stand! Grunt again!--you are made of stone, are\nyou?--why, then, we will try your qualities with a little burnt powder and\nlead. Gentlemen of the horse-brigade, do you alight, and be d----d to you,\nand, just by way of experiment, rattle me half-a-dozen bullets in the face\nof that there image of stone, which looks so mighty like the parson of\nCloseburn that one might easily mistake the one for the other.\"\n\nThe men had alighted with their holster pistols, and had arranged\nthemselves, as directed, in the front of the stone chair, and with a full\nview of the figure which occupied the seat, when, at this very critical\njuncture, a band of upwards of fifty horses, with panniers on their backs,\ncame up at a smart trot.\n\n\"Stop your hellish speed!\" said a voice from the front of the band; \"or, by\nthis broadsword, and these long six-footers, you are all dead men, ere you\ncan say, Present, fire!\" Instantly, Douglas saw and comprehended his\nposition--\"To horse!\" was his short exhortation, and, in an instant, his\nfive followers and himself had cleared the brow of the glen, and were out\nof sight at full speed. \"Shed not their blood!--shed not their blood!\"\ncontinued to exclaim a well-known voice amongst the band of smugglers--for\nsuch the reader may have guessed they were. It was the voice of Walter\nGibson, well known to many of the smugglers; for again and again they had\nsupplied Auchincairn with Hollands and Nantz. \"Shed not one drop of blood,\nI say; but leave them to Him who has said, 'Vengeance is mine, and I will\nrepay it;'--He will find His own time of revenging the death of my poor\nmurdered bairn, whom they drowned in the King's Moss, owre by there. But,\ndear me, Mr Lawson, are ye dead or living, that ye tak nae tent o' what's\ngoing on?\" In fact, Mr Lawson, having given himself up as lost, had\ncommitted himself, with shut eyes, so intently to prayer, that he had but a\nvery confused notion of what had happened.\n\n\"The Lord's will be done!\" he exclaimed at last; \"and is this you, Walter\nGibson?--fearful! fearful!--are these the Philistines around you?--and are\nyou and I to travel, hand in hand, into Immanuel's land?--or, but do my\npoor eyes deceive me, and are these only our good friends, the fair\ntraders, come to the rescue, under God and his mercy, in the time of our\nneed?\"\n\n\"Indeed,\" responded a known voice--that, namely, at whose bidding the work\nof death had been staid--\"indeed, Mr Lawson, we are friends and not foes;\nand, whilst our cattle, which are a little blawn, with the haste into which\nthey were hurried by old Walter here--until the beasts bite, I say, and eat\ntheir corn, we will e'en thank God, and take a little whet of the creature.\nYou know, such comforts are not forbidden in the laws of Moses, or, indeed,\nin any laws but those of this persecuted and oppressed land.\"\n\nSo saying, he disengaged from a hamper a flagon of Nantz, and was about to\nmake use of the Sacramental cup, which Douglas had dropped, to convey it\naround, when his arm was arrested by the still strong hand of Walter.\n\n\"For the sake of God and his church--of Him who shed his blood for poor\nsinners--profane not, I beseech you, the consecrated, the hallowed vessel\nwhich I have so lately held in these vile hands as the emblem of my\npurification through the blood of sprinkling--profane not, I say, that\nvessel which, when all worldly goods were forfeited and relinquished as\nthings of no value, our worthy pastor has borne along with him--being the\ngift of his parishioners--to the mountain and the glen--to the desert and\nthe wilderness!\"\n\nThere needed no further admonition; the cup was deposited in the hands of\nits owner, and the whole _posse comitatus_ spread themselves out on the\ngrass--for, though all around was heath, this little spot was green and\nlovely--and, by applying the vessel directly to their lips, each one took a\ndraught so long and hearty that the captain or leader had again and again\nto replenish the measure. Nor were Lawson and old Walter Gibson behind in\nthis work of refreshment. Many a day they had laid themselves down to rest\nin the damp and cold cave, with little of food and with nothing to cheer\nand support them but a mouthful, from time to time, of the _Solway\nwaters_--viz., _smuggled brandy_. We are all the children, to a great\namount, of circumstances; and the very men who, but a little ago, were\nengaged in the most solemn act of religion, and counted themselves as at\nthe point of death--these very men were now so much cheered, and even\nexhilarated, by the reviving cordial, that they forgot, for the time, their\ndangers and their privations, and were not displeased to hear the smugglers\nsing the old song, \"We are merry men all,\" when a figure approached, out of\nbreath, exclaiming--\n\n\"The gaugers! the gaugers!--the excisemen from Dumfries!\"\n\nIn an instant the whole troop stood to arms. They had been\nwell-disciplined; and the horses, along with the parson and Walter, were\nstowed away, as they called it, behind. They spoke not; but there was the\nclick of gunlocks, and a powerful _recover_, on the ground, of heavy\nmuskets, with barrels fully six feet long, which had been used by their\nforefathers in the times of the first Charles and the civil commotion. The\nenemy came up at the gallop; but they had plainly miscalculated the forces\nof their opponents--_they_ were only about fifteen strong; so, wheeling\nsuddenly round, they took their departure with as much dispatch as they had\nadvanced.\n\n\"We must off instantly!\" exclaimed the leader of this trading band. \"We\nmust gain the pass of Enterkin ere day-dawn; for these good neighbours will\nmake common cause with the King's troops, whenever they meet them, and\nthere will be bloody work, I trow, ere these kegs and good steeds change\nmasters.\"\n\nSo saying, the march immediately proceeded up Gavin Muir, and the minister\nand Walter took possession of their usual retreat--the Cairny Cave I have\nso often referred to.\n\nDouglas was not thus, by accident, to be foiled in his object; for having,\nin the course of a few days, obtained additional forces from Galloway, he\nreturned to the search in Gavin Muir, where he had, again and again, been\ntold meetings still continued to be held, and some caves of concealment\nexisted. Old Lauderdale in council had one day said--\"Why, run down the\ndevils, like the natives of Jamaica, with blood-hounds.\" And the hint was\nnot lost on bloody Clavers--he had actually a pair of hounds of this\ndescription with him in Galloway at this time; and, at his earnest request,\nDouglas was favoured with one of them. Down, therefore, this monster came\nupon Gavin Muir, not to shoot blackcocks or muirfowl, in which it abounded,\nbut to track, and start and pistol, if necessary, poor, shivering,\nhalf-starved human beings, who had dared to think the laws of their God\nmore binding than the empire and despotism of sinful men. The game was a\nmerry one, and it was played by \"merry men all:\" forward went the hound\nthrough muirs and mosses; onward came the troop, hallooing and encouraging\nthe animal in pursuit of its horrid instincts. As they passed the moss-hole\nin which the poor grand-daughter of Walter had been suffocated, the jest,\nand the oath, and the merriment were at their utmost.\n\n\"Had we but a slice of the young pup,\" said one, \"to flesh our hound with,\nhe would soon scent out the old one--they are kindred blood, you know. But\nwhat do I see?--old Bloody, is it, on the top of the cairn yonder?--and\nscooping, nosing, and giving tongue most determinedly. By the holy\npoker!--and that's a sanctified oath--I will on and see what's agoing\nhere.\" Thus saying, he put spurs to his horse, and, waving his sword round\nhis head, \"Here goes for old Watty!--and may the devil burn me if I do not\nunearth the fox at last!\" Onwards they all advanced at the gallop; but Jack\nJohnston was greatly in front, and had dashed his horse half-way up the\nsteep cairn, when, in an instant, horse and man rushed down, and\nimmediately disappeared.\n\n\"Why,\" said Douglas, \"what has become of Jack?--has old Sooty smelt him,\nand sent for him, on a short warning, to help in roasting Covenanters?--or\nhave the fairies, those fair dames of the green knowe and the grey cairn,\nseen and admired his proportions, and made a young 'Tam Lean' of poor Jack\nJohnston? Let us on and see.\"\n\nAnd see to be sure they did; for there was Jack, lying in the last agonies\nof death, under his horse, which itself was lamed and lying with feet\nuppermost. The horrid hound was lapping, with a growl, the blood which\noozed from the nose and lips of the dying man, and with a dreadful curse,\nthe terrible being expired, just as the party came within view. He had\ntumbled headlong, owing to the pressure from the horse's feet, through the\nslight rafter-work beneath, and had pitched head-foremost against a stone\nseat, in consequence of which his skull was fractured, and his immediate\ndeath ensued. Douglas looked like one bewildered, he would scarcely credit\nhis eyes; but his companion in arms did the needful; and Jack Johnston's\nbody was removed, his horse shot through the brain, and the whole band\nreturned, drooping and crestfallen, to Drumlanrig. Throwing his sword down\non the hall table when he arrived, he was heard to say, looking wildly and\nfearfully all the while, \"The hand of God is in this thing, and I knew it\nnot.\" It is a curious fact, but one of which my informant had no doubt,\nthat this very Douglas became, after this, quite an altered man. Mr Lawson,\nwho lived some years after his death, attended upon him in his last\nillness. \"God only knows the heart,\" would he say; \"but, to all _outward_\nappearance, William Douglas was a cleansed and a sanctified vessel: the\nmercy of God is infinite--it even extended to the thief on the cross.\"\n\n\nXIII.--PORTER'S HOLE.\n\nIn the west corner of the churchyard of Dalgarno--now a section of the\nparish of Closeburn--there is a small, but neat headstone, with two figures\njoining hands, as if in the attitude of marrying. Beneath is written, and\nstill legible--\"John Porter and Augnas Milligan. They were lovely in their\nlives, and in their deaths they were not divided.\" There is neither date\nnor narrative; but, as this part of the churchyard has not been used as a\nburial-ground since the union of the parishes, in the reign of Charles the\nSecond, the date must have been some time betwixt 1660 and 1684. This\nbeautiful and sequestered churchyard, all silent and cheerless as it is,\nlies upon the banks of the Nith, immediately upon its union with the ocean;\nand near to the most famous salmon-fishing pool in the whole river, called\nPorter's Hole. Whilst yet a boy, and attending Closeburn school, our\nattention was, one sunny afternoon, (when the trouts were unwilling to\nvisit the dry land,) drawn to the little stone in the corner, of which we\nhave just made mention, and recollecting, at the same time, that Porter was\nthe name of the pool, as well as of the person buried, we began to\nspeculate upon the possibility of there being some connection betwixt the\ntwo circumstances--the name of the individual, and the well-known\ndesignation of the blackest and deepest pool in the Closeburn part of the\nriver. Near to this solitary restingplace of the ashes of our\nforefathers--the Harknesses, the Gibsons, and the Watsons of Closeburn from\ntime immemorial--there stood, at that time, an old cottage, straw or rather\n_grass_-thatched, (for it was covered with green chicken-weed,) where\ndwelt, in single solitude, Janet M'Guffoch--whether any relation of the\ncelebrated individual of that name mentioned by Sir Walter Scott, we know\nnot--but there dwelt Janet, a discontented, old waspish body of one hundred\nyears of age, according to general belief; and, being accompanied by a\nblack cat and a broom besom, was marked by us _boys_ as a decided witch. We\nnever had any doubt about it, and the thing was confirmed by the Laird of\nCloseburn's gamekeeper, who swore that he had often hunted hares to Janet's\ndoor; but never could start them again. Under all these circumstances, it\nrequired no common impulse to induce us to enter the den of this emissary\nof Satan; but our curiosity was excited by the similarity of the names\n\"Porter's Grave\" and \"Porter's Hole,\" (as the pool was familiarly named,)\nand we at length mustered faith, and strength, and courage to thrust\nourselves past a bundle of withered twigs, which served Janet as a door in\nsummer, and as a door-protector in the blasts of winter. Janet was as usual\nat her wheel, and crooning some old Covenanting ditty, about--\n\n    \"Oh, gin Lag were dead and streekit,\n    An' that his ha' wi' mools was theekit!\"\n\nwhen, by means of a six-inch-square skylight, our physiognomy became\nvisible to Janet.\n\n\"And what art thou, that's creeping into an old body's dark den, and\nleaving ahint thee the guid sunshine?\"\n\nWe responded by mentioning our name.\n\n\"Ay, ay,\" said Janet, \"come away and sit thee down on the creepy there,\nbeside the heidstane[B]--thou art freely welcome, for thou art o' the seed\no' the faithful, the precious salt of the earth: and the blessing of the\nGod of the Covenant will rest upon its children, even to the third and the\nfourth generation!\" Thus welcomed, we took our position as requested,\neyeing all the while the large black cat with a somewhat suspicious regard.\n\n\"The beast winna stir thee,\" said Janet, \"it has, like its auld mistress,\nmair regard for the martyr's seed.\"\n\nHaving hereupon taken advantage of a pause in Janet's discourse, we at once\nstated the subject of our inquiry.\n\n\"Ay, ay,\" said Janet; \"and atweel there is a connection betwixt that bonny\nangel stane, and the pool ca'ed Porter's Hole. Ay, is there; an an awfu'\nconnection it is. But what comes thou here for to torment an auld body like\nme, wi' greeting and groaning at my time o' life? Gae awa, gae awa--I canna\nthole the very thochts o' the story whilk thou ettles to ken.\"\n\nThis only increased our curiosity, and, after some flattering language\nabout Janet's good nature, retentive memory, and Covenanting lineage, the\nold crone proceeded to the following purpose; and, as nearly as we can\nmind, (for it is a tale o' fifty years,) repeated it in the following\nwords:--\n\n\"Thou ken's the auld ruin, bairn, the auld wa's out by there. That's the\nauld farm-house o' Dalgarno, ere the new one at the path-head was biggit;\nand there, within the wa's, was ance a warm hearth, and twa as leal hearts\nas ever beat against pin or button. John Porter was young, handsome, and\nthe tenant of the best farm in the parish o' Dalgarno; but he was nae frien\nto the vile curate, and a marked bird, as they ca' it, by Grierson o' Lag,\nin particular, who had been heard to say, that he would decant his porter\nfor him some day yet, in the shape and colour of heart's bluid. Agnes\nMilligan was an orphan, brought up at Dalgarno--a sister's son o' the auld\nDalgarno, and a fu' cousin, ye ken, o' the young farmer. They had baith fed\nfrae the same plate; sleeped under the same roof; played at the same\nsports; and dabbled in the same river--the bloody, bloody Nith!--from\ninfancy to youth. Oh! sirs! but I canna get on ava\"---- Here Janet sorted\nher wheel, and apparently shed a tear, for she moved her apron corner to\nher eye. \"Aweel, this was the nicht o' the wedding, bairn--no _this_ nicht,\nlike; but I think I just see it present, for I was there mysel, a wee bit\nwhilking lassie. Lawson, guid godly Lawson, had tied the knot, an' we war\na' merry like; but it was a fearfu' spate, and the Nith went frae bank to\nbrae. 'They are comin!' was the cry. I kenna wha cried it, but a voice said\nit, an' twenty voices repeated it. Lag an' his troop's coming; they're\ngallopin owre the Cunning-holm at this moment. John Porter flew to his\nbonnet, an', in an instant, was raised six or seven feet high on his long\nstilts, with which he had often crossed the Nith when nae mortal could tak\nit on horseback. Agnes Milligan was out and after; the moon shone clear\nthrough a cloud, and she saw the brave man tak the water at the broadest.\nOn he went--for we a' witnessed what he did--on he went, steady, firm, an'\nunwaverin; but, alas! it was hin' harvest, an' some sheaves o' corn had\nbeen carried off the holms by the spate. Ane o' them crossed his upper\nstilt, an', in a moment, his feet went frae him, an' doon he cam into the\nroarin flood. He was still near the Closeburn bank, an' we a' ran down the\nside to see if we could help him out. Again an' again he rose to his feet;\nbut the water was mighty, it was terrible, it just whumbled him owre, an'\nwe saw nae mair o' him. Agnes ran for Porter's Hole, (then only kent as the\nsalmon pool,) an' stood watching the eddy, as it whirled straw an' corn,\nan' sic like rubbish, aboot. Her husband's head appeared floating in the\nwhirl--she screamed, leaped into the deep, deep pool, an' next day they\nwere found clasped in each other's arms. Oh, my bairn, my bairn!--what\nbrocht ye here the day?\"\n\nJanet was found, next morning, dead in her bed--the exertion and excitement\nhad killed her.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[B] _Vide_ Jameson.\n\n\n\n\nTHE RECLUSE.\n\n\nThe situations of farm-houses, or steadings, as we call them in Scotland,\nare very rarely selected so much for their beauty, with reference to the\nsurrounding scenery, as for conveniency; and hence it is that we find but\nfew of them in positions which a view-hunter would term strikingly\nfelicitous. When they are so, we rather presume the circumstance arises\nfrom its happening that eligibility and choice have agreed in determining\nthe point. Yet, seriously, though the generality of farm-steadings have\nlittle to boast of as regards situation, there are many pleasing\nexceptions. Nay, there are some to be found occupying the most choice\npositions--surrounded with or overlooking all that is beautiful in nature.\nOne of these, most certainly, is the farm-house of West Mains, in the\nparish of Longorton, Lanarkshire. It stands on the summit of a gentle,\nisolated eminence that rises in the very centre of a deep and romantic\nvalley, formed of steep green hills, thickly wooded towards the bottom, but\nrising in naked verdancy from about the centre upwards. The view from the\nhouse is thus, indeed, limited; but this limitation is amply compensated by\nits singular beauty.\n\nAbout fifty years ago, this beautifully-situated farm-house was occupied by\none Robert Adair, who rented also the entire valley in which it is\nsituated. Adair's family, at this time, consisted of himself, his wife, a\nson, and two daughters, Martha and Rosina, or Rosy, as she was familiarly\ncalled. The former was, at the period of our story, in her twentieth year,\nthe latter in her eighteenth. Martha was a good-looking and good-tempered\ngirl; but, in both respects, and in several others, she was much surpassed\nby her younger sister, Rosy, as we, too, prefer to call her. The latter,\nwith, personal attractions of no common order, was one of the liveliest and\nmost cheerful creatures imaginable. Nothing could damp her buoyant spirit;\nnothing, be it what it might, could make her sad for longer than ten\nminutes together. From morning to night she continued pouring out, in a\nvoice of the richest and most touching melody, the overflowings of a light\nand innocent heart. And scarcely less melodious was the joyous and gleeful\nlaugh, in which she ever and anon gave way to the promptings of a lively\nand playful imagination. Let it not, however, be thought that all this\napparent levity of manner was the result of an unthinking or uncalculating\nmind, or that it was in her case, as it frequently is in others, associated\nwith qualities which exclude the finer and better feelings of female\nnature. It was by no means so. With all her gaiety and sportiveness, she\nhad a heart filled with all the tenderest sensibilities of a woman. Her\nattachments were warm and ardent. In character, simple and sincere, Rosy\ncould have died for those she loved; and so finely strung were the\nsympathies of her nature, that they were wrought on at will by either mirth\nor pathos, and with each were found equally to accord.\n\nRosy's father, Mr Adair, although holding a considerable extent of land,\nand paying a very handsome rental, was yet by no means in affluent\ncircumstances. Both his name and his credit in the country were on a fair\nfooting, and he was not encumbered with more debt than he could very easily\npay. But this was all; there was no surplus--nothing to spare; and the\nless, that he had been liberal in his expenditure on the education of his\ndaughters. On this he had grudged no cost; they had both passed several\nwinters in Glasgow, and had there possessed themselves of some of the more\nelegant accomplishments in female education.\n\nIn character, Robert Adair was something of an original. In speech, blunt,\nplain, and humorous; but in disposition, kind, sincere, and generous. He\nwas, in short, in all respects an excellent and worthy man. On the score of\neducation, he had not much to boast of; but this deficiency was, in part at\nany rate, compensated by great natural shrewdness and vigour of mind.\n\nSuch, then, were the inmates of the farm-house of West Mains, at the period\nto which our story refers, and which is somewhere about the year 1788.\n\nIt was at the close of a day of incessant rain, in the month of September\nof that year, or it may, perhaps, have been of the year following, that a\nyoung man, of somewhere about five-and-twenty years of age, respectably\ndressed, with a stick in his hand, and a small leathern bundle under his\narm, presented himself at the door of Robert Adair's house, and knocked for\nadmittance. The door was opened by Robert himself; and when it was so, the\nperson whom we have described stood before him. He was drenched with wet.\nIt was streaming from his hat, and had soaked him all over to the skin. He\nwas thus, altogether, in most uncomfortable plight; for, besides being wet,\nthe night was intensely cold.\n\n\"Can you, my good friend,\" said the stranger, in a tone and manner that\nbespoke a person of education at least, if it might not be ventured to call\nhim a gentleman--\"Can you give me quarters for a night?\" he said, on being\nconfronted by Mr Adair. \"I am an entire stranger in this part of the\ncountry, and do not know of any inn at hand, otherwise I would not have\ntroubled you. I will, very readily, pay for my accommodation.\"\n\n\"A nicht's quarters, frien,\" replied Adair. \"Oh, surely, ye'll get that,\nan' welcome. Walk in. Save us, man, but ye hae gotten a soakin! Ye're like\na half-drooned rat. But stap in, stap in. There's a guid fire there in the\nkitchen and I'm sure ye're no out the need o' a blink o't.\"\n\nIn a minute after, the stranger was comfortably seated before a roaring\nfire. But his host's hospitality did not end with this kindness; he\ninsisted on his guest shifting himself; and, to enable him to do so,\nbrought him a whole armfull of his own clothes; shirt, coat, waistcoat,\ntrousers, and stockings. Nor with this kindness did his benevolence yet\nterminate; he invited the stranger to accept of some refreshment; an\ninvitation which he followed up by desiring his daughter Rosy to cover a\nsmall table close by the fire, and to place thereon such edibles as she had\nat hand. Delighting as much as her father in acts of kindness, Rosy\nhastened to obey an order so agreeable to her. In a trice, she had the\ntable covered with various good things, conspicuous amongst which was a\njolly round of salt beef. In compliance with the request of his host, the\nstranger drew into the table thus kindly prepared for him; but, to the\ngreat disappointment of his entertainer, ate very sparingly.\n\n\"Dear help me, man!--eat, eat, canna ye!\" exclaimed Adair, every now and\nthen, as he marked the listless manner in which the stranger pecked at the\nfood on his plate. \"Eat, man, canna ye!\" he said, getting absolutely angry\nat his guest's want of appetite, which he construed into diffidence. \"Lord,\nman, take a richt whang on your plate at once, and dinna be nibblin at it\nthat way, like a mouse at a Du'lap cheese.\" Saying this, he seized a knife\nand fork, cut a slice from the cold round, an inch in thickness, and at\nleast six in diameter, and threw it on the stranger's plate with much about\nthe same grace which he exhibited in tossing a truss of hay with a\npitchfork. \"There, man, tak half-a-dizzen o' cuts like that, and then ye\nmay say ye hae made a bit supper o't.\"\n\nRobert Adair was, in truth, but a rough table attendant, but he was a kind\none, and in all he said and did meant well, however uncouthly it might be\nexpressed.\n\nOf this the stranger seemed perfectly aware; and, although he could not\neat, he appeared fully to appreciate the sincerity of his host's\ninvitations to him to do so.\n\nAfter persevering, therefore, a little longer, as if to please his\nentertainer, he at length laid down his knife and fork, and declared that\nhe was now satisfied, and could take no more. On his making this decided\nmovement--\n\n\"My faith,\" said his hospitable landlord, \"an' ye be na waur to water than\nto corn, I think I could board ye, an' no be a loser, for a very sma'\nmatter. Rosy, bring butt the bottle.\"\n\nObedient to the command, Rosy tripped out of the kitchen, and in an instant\nreturned with the desiderated commodity--a dumpy, bluff, opaque bottle, of\nabout a gallon contents--which she placed on the table. Adair seized it by\nits long neck, and, filling up a brimming bumper, tossed it off to the\nhealth of his guest. This done, he filled up another topping glass, and\npresented it to the stranger, with a strong recommendation on the score of\nexcellence. \"Ra-a-l guid stuff, sir,\" he said, \"tak my word for't. Juist a\ncordial. Noo, dinna trifle wi' your drink as ye did wi' your meat, or I'll\nno ken what to think o' ye at a'.\"\n\nThe stranger, with renewed acknowledgments for the kindness shewn him, took\nthe proffered beverage; but, instead of taking it off as his worthy host\nhad expected, he merely put it to his lips, and replaced it on the table.\n\n\"Weel, that cowes the gowan!\" said Adair. \"Ye'll neither hap nor\nwyn--neither dance nor haud the candle. Try't again, man, try't again.\nSteek your een hard, gie ae gulp, an' ower wi't.\"\n\nThe worthy man, however, pressed in vain. The stranger would not drink; but\nonce more acknowledged the kindness and well-meant hospitality of his\nentertainer.\n\nDuring all this time, the stranger had neither said nor done any single\nthing which was capable of imparting the slightest idea of who or what he\nwas--where he was from, or whence he was going. Indeed, he hardly spoke at\nall; and the little he did speak was almost all confined to brief\nexpressions of thanks for the kindness shewn him. When seen as he was now,\nunder more favourable circumstances than those in which he had first\npresented himself, shivering with cold and drenched with wet, he exhibited\na handsome exterior. His countenance was full of expression and\nintelligence, but was overspread with an apparently deep-seated and settled\nmelancholy. He appeared, in short, to be a person who was suffering\nseverely either in body or mind; but his affliction exhibited all the\nsymptoms of being of the latter rather than the former. Yet was not the\nprofound gravity of his manner of an unpleasing or repulsive character; it\npartook of a gentleness and benevolence that rendered it rather graceful\nthan otherwise. The tones of his voice, too, corresponded with these\nqualities; they were mild and impressive, and singularly agreeable.\nAltogether, the stranger appeared a mysterious sort of person; and greatly\ndid it puzzle Mr Adair and all his household to conjecture who or what he\ncould possibly be; a task to which they set themselves after he had retired\nto bed, which he did--pleading fatigue as an excuse--at an early hour. The\nfirst ostensible circumstance connected with their guest of the night,\nwhich the family divan, with the father of it at their head, took into\nconsideration when discussing the knotty points of the stranger's character\nand calling, was his apparel. But of this they could make nothing. His\nhabiliments were in no ways remarkable for anything; they being neither\ngood, bad, nor indifferent, but of that indefinite description called\nrespectable. So far as these were concerned, therefore, he might be either\na peer of the realm or an English bagman.\n\nFinding they could make nothing of the clothes, the family cabinet council\nnext proceeded to the looks and manners of the stranger; and, with regard\nto these, all agreed that they seemed to bespeak the gentleman; and on this\nconclusion from the premises, none insisted more stoutly than Rosy, who,\nlet us observe, although she thought nobody saw her, had taken several\nstolen glances at the subject of discussion while he was seated at the\nkitchen fire; and at each glance, let us farther observe, more and more\napproved of his finely arched eyebrows, his well-formed mouth, dark\nexpressive eyes, and rich black locks that clustered around his white and\nopen forehead. But all this is a secret, good reader, and should not have\nbeen told.\n\nSo far, then, had the united opinions of the family determined regarding\ntheir guest. But what should have brought him the way of West Mains, such\nan out-of-the-way place, seeing that he had neither gun, dog, nor\nfishing-rod, and could not therefore have been in pursuit of sport? It was\nodd, unaccountable. Where could he be from? Where could he be going to?\nThese were questions more easily put than answered; and by all were they\nput, but by none were they replied to. At length, Mr Adair took speech in\nhand himself on the subject.\n\n\"I kenna, nor, indeed, neither do I muckle care, wha the lad is; but he\nseems to me to be a ceevil, discreet, young man; and I rather like him\na'thegither, although he's a dooms bad haun at baith cap and trencher. A',\nhowever, that we hae to do wi' him, is to treat him ceevily while he's\nunder our roof. He's gotten a guid bed to lie in, and in the mornin we'll\ngie him a guid breakfast to tak the road wi', and there'll be an end o't.\nIt's no likely we'll ever hear or see mair o' him.\" Having said this,\nRobert broke up the conclave; gave the long-drawn sonorous yawn that his\nfamily knew to be the signal of preparation for bed. In the next moment,\nAdair's left hand was busily employed in undoing the knee buttons of his\nsmall clothes. Another powerful yawn, and he proceeded to perform the same\noperation on his right leg. In two minutes after, he was snugly buried\nbeneath the blankets; his \"honest, sonsy, bawsint face,\" and red Kilmarnock\nnight-cap, being all that was left visible of him; and, in five minutes\nmore, a magnificent snore intimated to all whom it might concern, that\nworthy Robin Adair was fairly in the land of Nod, and oblivious of all\nearthly concerns.\n\nOn the following morning, Mr Adair and his guest met at breakfast, when\nthat liking for each other which had begun to manifest itself on the\npreceding night--although neither, perhaps, could say precisely whence it\narose--gradually waxed into a somewhat stronger feeling. Adair was pleased\nwith the gentle and unaffected manners of his guest, while the latter was\nequally pleased with the sincerity of character and generosity of heart of\nhis entertainer. It appeared, however, as if their acquaintance was to be\nbut of short duration, and as if they were now soon to part, in all\nprobability for ever. Circumstances seemed to point to this result; yet it\nwas by no means the one that followed--an odd incident at once threw out\nall such calculation.\n\nWhen breakfast was concluded, and the party who had sat around the\ntable--Adair, his family, and the stranger--had risen to their feet, the\nlatter, smiling through his natural gravity, asked his host if he would be\nso good as give him a private interview with him. To this Mr Adair,\nalthough not a little surprised at the request, consented, and led the way\ninto a small back-parlour that opened from the room in which they had\nbreakfasted.\n\n\"Mr Adair,\" said the stranger, on their entering this apartment, and having\npreviously secured the door, \"I am greatly indebted to you for the kindness\nand hospitality you have shewn me.\"\n\n\"No the least, sir--no the least,\" replied the farmer, with a decree of\nrespect in his manner with which his guest's air and bearing had\nunconsciously inspired him, he did not know how or wherefore--\"No the\nleast. I am aye glad to shew civility to them that seek the shelter o' my\nrufe; it's just a pleasure to me. Ye're not only heartily welcome, sir, to\na' ye hae gotten, but to a week o't, an' ye like. I dinna think that I wad\nbe the first to weary o't.\"\n\n\"Have you any objection to try?\" said the stranger, with a gentle smile.\n\n\"None whatever,\" replied the hospitable yeoman.\n\n\"Well, Mr Adair,\" said the stranger, with more gravity of manner, \"to\nconvert jest into earnest, I have a proposal to make to you. I have been\nfor some time looking out for such a quiet retirement as this is, and a\nfamily as respectable and agreeable as yours seems to me to be. Now, having\nfound both of these things to my mind here, I will, if you have no\nobjection, become a boarder with you, Mr Adair, paying you a hundred\nguineas a-year; and here,\" he said, drawing out a well-filled purse, and\nemptying its contents on the table--\"here are fifty guineas in advance.\"\nAnd he told off from the heap that lay on the table, the sum he named, and\nthrust it towards his astonished host. \"And let me add,\" went on the\nmysterious stranger, \"that, if you agree to my proposal, and continue to\nput up as well together as I expect we shall, I will not limit my payment\nto the sum I have mentioned. What say you to this, Mr Adair?\"\n\nTo _this_ Mr Adair could say nothing for some time. Not a word. He was lost\nin perplexity and amazement--a state of mental difficulty and\nembarrassment, which he made manifest by scratching his head, and looking,\nwith a bewildered sort of smile, alternately at the gold and its late\nowner--first at the one, then at the other. At length--\n\n\"Well,\" he said, still scratching his head, \"this is a queer sort o'\nbusiness, an' a turn o' matters I didna look for ava; but I hae seen waur\nthings come o' better beginnins. To tell ye a truth, sir,\" continued the\nperplexed yeoman, \"I'm no oot o' the need o' the siller. But, if ye'll just\nstop a minute, if ye please, till I speak to the guidwife on the subject.\"\n\nAnd, with this, Adair hurried out of the room; and, having done this, he\nhurried his wife into another, and told her of what had just taken place,\nconcluding with a--\"An', noo, guidwife, what do ye think we should do?\"\n\n\"Tak the siller, to be sure,\" replied the latter. \"He seems to me to be a\ndecent, canny lad; and, at ony rate, we canna be far wrang wi' ae six\nmonths o' him, ony way, seein that he's payin the siller afore haun. That's\nthe grand point, Rab.\"\n\n\"Feth, it's that, guidwife--nae doot o't,\" replied her husband. \"Juist the\npint o' pints. But whar'll ye put the lad?\"\n\n\"Ou, tak ye nae fash about that, guidman. I'll manage that. Isna there the\nwee room up the stair, wi' a bed in't that micht sair the king\nhimself--sheets as white as the driven snaw, and guid stripped druggit\ncurtains just oot o' the mangle?\"\n\n\"Weel, weel, guidwife, ony way ye like as to thae matters,\" replied Adair;\n\"and I'll awa, in the meantime, and get haud o' the siller. There's gowd\nyonner for the liftin. Deil o' the like o't ever I saw.\" Saying this, he\nflung out of the apartment, and in the next minute was again in the\npresence of the mysterious stranger.\n\nOn his entering--\"Well, Mr Adair,\" said the latter, \"what does your good\nlady say to my becoming a boarder with her?\"\n\n\"Feth, sir, she's very willin, and says ye may depend on her and her\ndochter doin everything in their power to make ye comfortable.\"\n\n\"Of that I have no doubt,\" said the stranger; \"and now, then, that this\nmatter is so far settled, take up your money, Mr Adair, and reckon on\npunctual payments for the future.\"\n\n\"No misdoubtin that, sir, at a',\" said the latter, picking up the guineas,\none after another, and chucking them into a small leathern purse which he\nhad brought for the purpose. \"No misdoubtin' at a', sir,\" he said. \"I tak\nthis to be guid earnest o' that.\"\n\nThe stranger, then, whoever he was, was now fairly domiciled in the house\nof Mr Adair. The name he gave himself was Mowbray; and by this name he was\nhenceforth known.\n\nFor two years succeeding the period of which we have just been speaking,\ndid Mr Mowbray continue an inmate of West Mains, without any single\ncircumstance occurring to throw the smallest light on his history. At the\nend of this period, as little was known regarding him as on the day of his\nfirst arrival. On this subject he never communicated anything himself; and,\nas he was always punctual in his payments, and most exemplary in his\ngeneral conduct, those with whom he resided did not feel themselves called\nupon, nor would it have been decorous, to make any further inquiry on the\nsubject. Indeed although they had desired to do so, there was no way open\nto them by which to obtain such information.\n\nDuring the period alluded to, Mr Mowbray spent the greater part of his time\nin reading; having, since his settlement at West Mains, opened a\ncommunication with a bookseller in the neighbouring country town of ----;\nand in walking about the country, visiting the more remarkable scenery, and\nother interesting objects in the neighbourhood.\n\nDuring all this time, too, his habits were extremely retired; shunning, as\nmuch as he possibly could, all intercourse with those whom he accidentally\nmet; and, even at home, mingling but little with the family with which he\nresided. Privacy and quietness, in short, seemed to be the great objects of\nhis desire; and the members of Mr Adair's household, becoming aware of\nthis, not only never needlessly intruded themselves on him, but studiously\navoided involving him in conversation, which they observed was always\nannoying to him. He was thus allowed to go abroad and to return, and even\nto pass, when accidentally met by any members of the family, without any\nnotice being taken of him, further, perhaps, than a slight nod of civility,\nwhich he usually returned without uttering a syllable.\n\nFrom all this--his retired habits, deep-seated melancholy, and immoveable\ntaciturnity--it was evident to Mr Adair and his family that their boarder\nwas labouring under some grievous depression of mind; and in this opinion\nthey were confirmed by various expressions of grief, not unaccompanied by\nothers of contrition, which they had frequently overheard, accidentally, as\nthey passed the door of his apartment on occasions--and these were\nfrequent--when Mr Mowbray seemed more than usually depressed by the sorrow\nto which he was a prey.\n\nWith all this reserve and seclusion, however, there was nothing repulsive\nin Mr Mowbray's manners or habits. He was grave without being morose,\ntaciturn without being churlish, and sought quietness and retirement\nhimself, without any expression of impatience with, or sign of peevishness\nat, the stir and bustle around him.\n\nAs a matter of course, the history and character of Mr Mowbray excited, at\nleast for a time, much speculation in the neighbourhood; and these\nspeculations, as a matter of course, also, as we may venture to say, were\nnot in general of the most charitable description. One of these held forth\nthat he was a retired highwayman, who had sought a quiet corner in which to\nenjoy the fruits of his industry, and to avoid the impertinences of the\nlaw; another held that he was a murderer, who had fled from justice;\nanother that he was a bankrupt, who had swindled his creditors; a fourth,\nthat he was a forger, who had done business in that way to a vast extent.\n\nAs to the nature of the crime which Mr Mowbray had committed, it will be\nseen that there were various opinions; but that he had committed some\nenormous crimes of some sort or other, was a universal opinion--in this\ngeneral sentiment all agreed.\n\nAmongst other mysteries, was that involved in the query--where did he get\nhis money? Where did it come from? He did not, indeed, seem to have the\ncommand of very extensive resources; but always to have enough to pay\npunctually and promptly everything he desired, and to settle all pecuniary\nclaims upon him.\n\nHis remittances, it was also ascertained, came to him, from whatever\nquarter it might be, regularly twice a-year, per the English mail, which\npassed within a mile and a half of West Mains. The exact amount of these\nremittances, which were always in gold, and put up in a small, neat, tight\nparcel, was never exactly known; but was supposed, on pretty good grounds,\nto be, each, somewhere about a hundred and fifty guineas, one of which went\nto Mr Adair; for Mr Mowbray had, of his own accord, added fifty guineas per\nannum to the hundred which he had first promised. The other hundred and\nfifty was disposed of in various ways, or left to accumulate with their\nowner. Such, then, was the amount of information acquired regarding Mr\nMowbray's pecuniary resources; and more, on this point, or any other\nregarding him, could not, by any means, be arrived at.\n\nBy the end of the period, however, which we have above named--namely, two\nyears--public opinion had, we must observe, undergone a considerable\nmodification in Mr Mowbray's favour. He had been gradually acquitted of his\nvarious crimes; and the worst that was now believed of him was, that he was\na gentleman whom troubles, of some kind or other, had driven from the\nworld.\n\nThis favourable change in public opinion regarding him was, in a great\nmeasure, if not, indeed, wholly owing to the regularity of his conduct, the\ngentleness of his manners, his generosity--for he was a liberal contributor\nto the relief of the necessitous poor in his vicinity--and to the rigid\npunctuality he observed in all his pecuniary transactions.\n\nIn the family in which he resided, where there were, of course, better\nopportunities for judging of his character, and estimating his good\nqualities, he came to be much beloved. Adair, as he often said himself,\nwould \"gae through fire and water to serve him;\" for a more honourable, or\n\"discreet\" young gentleman, as he also frequently said, \"didna breathe the\nbreath o' existence.\"\n\nOn every other member of the family, the impression he made was equally\nfavourable; and, on one of them, in particular, we might speak of it in yet\nstronger language. But of this anon.\n\nThe general conviction into which the family with which Mr Mowbray resided\nfell, regarding the personal history of that person, was, that he was a\ngentleman who possessed a moderate annuity from some fixed sum, and that\nsome disgust with the world had driven him into his present retirement; and\nin this conviction they had now been so long and so completely settled,\nthat they firmly believed in its truth, and never after dreamed of again\nagitating the question, even in the most distant manner.\n\nThus, then, stood matters at West Mains at the end of two years from the\nperiod at which our story opens. Hitherto, however, we have only exhibited\nwhat was passing above board. We will now give the reader a peep of certain\nlittle matters that were going on behind the scenes.\n\nA short while previous to the time of which we now speak, Rosy's sister,\nMartha, had gone to Edinburgh to spend the winter with a near relative of\nher father; partly as a friendly visit, and partly for the purpose of\nperfecting herself in certain branches of female education. This separation\nwas a painful one to the two sisters, for they were much attached to each\nother; but they determined to compensate it by maintaining a close and\nregular correspondence; and huge was the budget that each soon accumulated\nof the other's epistolary performances. Out of these budgets we will select\na couple, which will give the reader a hint of some things of which, we\ndaresay, he little dreamed. The first is from Martha to her sister, and is\ndated from Edinburgh.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"MY DEAR ROSY,\" (runs this document,) \"I received your kind letter by Mr\nMeiklewham, likewise the little jar of butter for Aunt, who says it is\ndelicious, and that she would know it to be West Mains butter wherever she\nshould have met with it.\n\n\"I am delighted to hear that you are all well, and that Mr Mowbray has got\nbetter of his slight indisposition. By the by, Rosy, I have observed that\nyou are particularly guarded in all your communications about Mr M. When\nyou speak of him you don't do so with your usual sprightliness of manner.\nAh! Rosy, Rosy, I doubt--I doubt--I have long doubted, or rather, I have\nbeen long convinced--of _what_, say you blushing! _N'importe_--nothing at\nall. Do you believe me, Rosy?--No, you don't. Does Mr M. fix his fine\nexpressive eyes on you as often and as intensely as he used to do? Eh,\nRosy!--Now, there's something you can't deny.\n\n\"To be serious, Rosy, my dear sister, I have long been satisfied that you\nare loved by Mr Mowbray--deeply, sincerely, ardently loved. And, more, my\ndear Rosy, I am equally satisfied that Mr Mowbray is loved by _you_. I am\ncertain of it. I have marked many symptoms of it, although I have never\nmentioned it to you before; and I do it now in order to induce you to\nunburden yourself of such feelings, as it may relieve you to discover to a\nsister who loves you tenderly and sincerely,\" &c, &c.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nOur next quotation is from Martha's budget; and we shall select the letter\nshe received in reply to the one above given. It is dated West Mains, and\nproceeds thus:--\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"MY DEAR MARTHA,--It is not in my nature to play a double part. I freely\nconfess, my dear Martha, in reply to your lecture on a certain subject,\nthat Mr Mowbray is not indifferent to me. I have long, I avow it, admired\nthe many good qualities which we have all acknowledged him to possess--his\ngentlemanly bearing; his accomplishments; the elegance of his manners, and\nthe noble generosity of his nature. These I have indeed, Martha, long\nadmired. But what reason have you for supposing that your sister, with\nnothing to recommend her but some very homely advantage of person, can have\nmade any impression on the heart of such a man as Mr Mowbray? Here, Martha,\nyou are decidedly at fault, and have jumped to a conclusion which you have\nrather wished than believed. But, enough of this foolish matter.\"--And here\nthe fair writer leaps off to another subject, which, as it has no reference\nto our story, nor any particular interest of its own, we beg to leave in\nthe oblivion in which it reposes. And having quoted enough of the sisters'\ncorrespondence for our purpose, we will here, again, throw our narrative\ninto its more direct and legitimate channel.\n\nBy the letters above given, we have shewn pretty plainly that, on the part\nof the one sister, a secret attachment to the unknown lodger was in rapid\nprogress, if it had not indeed already attained a height fatal to the peace\nof mind of her by whom it was entertained; and that, on the part of the\nother, a strong suspicion existed, not only that such love had been\ngenerated, but that this love was mutual. And was it so? It was. Mr Mowbray\nhad not, indeed, made any very palpable advances, nor displayed any\nsymptoms of the state of his feelings, which any one but such a close and\nshrewd observer as Martha could have detected. To no other eyes did this\nsecret stand revealed. But there was now, in his general manner towards\nRosy, much that such an observer could not fail to be struck with, or to\nattribute to its real and proper cause. Nor was this change confined to his\nintercourse with Rosy Adair--to the slight confusion that appeared in his\ncountenance whenever they accidentally met each other, unseen of any one\nbesides, and to the evident pleasure which he took in her society--to the\ncircumstance of his seeking that pleasure as often as he could without\nmaking it subject of remark. No, the change that had now come over Mr\nMowbray was not confined to what such incidents as these may be presumed to\nindicate; his spirit also, the whole tenor of his thoughts, the whole\nconstitution of his mind, seemed equally under the influence of his\nnew-born passion. His manner became more cheerful; his eye became lighted\nup with an unwonted fire; and he no longer indulged in the seclusion which\nhe had so sedulously sought when he first came to West Mains. Mr Mowbray\nwas now, in fact, a changed man, and changed for the better. He was now no\nlonger the weeping, melancholy recluse, but a character evidently much more\nsuitable to his natural temper and dispositions--a gay and cheerful man of\nthe world. It was, indeed, a marvellous change; but so it was.\n\nThis, however--referring to the attachment which had thus grown up between\nRosy Adair and Mr Mowbray--was a state of matters which could not long\nremain in the position in which we have represented them; some result or\nconclusion was inevitable--and it arrived. Mr Mowbray gradually became more\nand more open in his communications with Miss Adair; gradually disclosed\nthe state of his feelings with regard to her, and finally avowed his love.\nMiss Adair heard the delightful confession with an emotion she could not\nconceal; and, ingenuous in everything, in all she said and did, avowed that\nshe loved in return.\n\n\"Then, my Rosina, my beloved Rosina,\" exclaimed Mr Mowbray, in a wild\ntransport of joy--and throwing himself, in the excitation of the moment, at\nthe feet of her whom he addressed--\"allow me to mention this matter to your\nfather, and to seek his consent to your making me the happiest of living\nmen.\"\n\nThe liberty he thus sought with such grace and earnestness, was blushingly\ngranted; not indeed, in express words, but with a silence equally\nintelligible and more eloquent than words.\n\nIn five minutes after, Mr Mowbray was closeted, and in earnest conversation\nwith Mr Adair. He had already announced his attachment to his daughter, and\nhad sought his consent to their union. Mr Adair had yet made no reply. The\nrequest was one of too serious a nature to be hastily or unreflectingly\nacquiesced in. At length--\n\n\"Weel, Mr Mowbray,\" said Mr Adair, \"I'll tell ye what it is: although I\ncertainly haena a' the knowledge o' ye--that is, regarding yoursel and your\naffairs--that I maybe hae a richt to insist on haein before giein ye the\nhaun o' my dochter--and this for a' the time that ye hae been under my\nroof--yet, as in that time--noo, I think, something owre twa year gane\nby--yer conduct has aye been that o' a gentleman, in a' respects--sober,\ndiscreet, and reglar; most exemplary, I maun say;--and, as I am satisfied\nthat ye hae the means o' supportin a wife, in a decent way, no to say that\nthere may be muckle owre either, I really think I can hae nae reasonable\nobjections to gie ye Rosy after a'.\"\n\nDuring this speech of the worthy yeoman's, there was on Mr Mowbray's\ncountenance a smile of peculiar meaning; evidently one under which lay\nsomething amusing, mingled with the expression of satisfaction which Mr\nAdair's sanction to his marriage with Rosina had elicited.\n\nDelighted with the success of his mission, Mr Mowbray now flew to the\napartment in which he had left Miss Adair, and, enfolding her in his arms,\nin a transport of joy, informed her that he had obtained her father's\nconsent to their union, and concluded by asking her to name the day which\nshould make her his for ever. This, however, being rather too summary a\nproceeding, Rosina declined; and Mr Mowbray was obliged to be content with\na promise of the matter being taken into consideration on an early day.\n\nLeaving the lovers in discussion on these very agreeable points, and others\nconnected therewith, we will follow Mr Adair on the errand on which he\nwent, after Mr Mowbray had left him. This was to communicate to his wife\nthe unexpected and important proposal which had just been made to him, and\nto which he had just acceded.\n\n\"Weel, guidwife, here's a queer business,\" said Mr Adair, on joining his\nthrifty helpmate, who was busy at the moment in scouring a set of milk\ndishes. \"What do ye think? Mr Mowbray has just noo asked my consent to his\nmarrying Rosy. Now, isna that a queer affair! My feth, but they maun hae\nmanaged matters unco cannily and cunningly; for deil a bit o' me ever could\nsee the least inklin o' anything past ordinar between them.\"\n\n\"You see onything o' that kind!\" replied Mrs Adair, with an expression of\nthe greatest contempt for her husband's penetration in _affaires de\ncoeur_. \"You see't, Robin! No--I dare say no. Although they were sitting\nunder your very nose, wi' their arms aboot ithers' necks, I dinna believe\nye wad see that there was onything in't. But, though ye didna see't, Robin,\nI saw't--and plainly enough, too--although I said naething about it. I saw,\nmony a day sin', that Mr Mowbray had a notion o' Rosy; and, if truth be\ntell't, I saw as weel that she had a notion o' him, and hae lang expected\nthat it wad come to this.\"\n\n\"Weel, weel, guidwife, ye hae a glegger ee for thae things than I hae,\"\nreplied Mr Adair. \"But here's the end o' the matter noo.\"\n\n\"And hae ye gien your consent, Robin?\"\n\n\"'Deed hae I; for I think he's an honest, decent lad; and, no to say he's\nrich maybe, fair aneuch aff, I think, as to worldly matters.\"\n\n\"As to that, I daresay, there's naething far amiss,\" replied Mrs Adair,\n\"nor as regards his character either, maybe; but I'm no sure. I dinna ken,\nRobert, considerin a' things, if ye haena been a wee owre rash in giein\nyour consent to this business. It's a serious affair. And, after a', we ken\nbut little about the lad; although, I canna but say he seems to be a\ndecent, honourable chiel, and I houp'll mak Rosy happy.\" Here the good\nwoman raised the corner of her apron to her eyes, and gave way, for a\nsecond or two, to those maternal feelings which the occasion was so well\ncalculated to excite.\n\n\"Tuts, woman; what's the use o' that?\" said Mr Adair, with a sort of\ngood-natured impatience. \"The thing's a' richt aneuch, and sae'll be seen\nin the end, nae doot.\"\n\n\"God grant it!\" replied his wife, with solemn earnestness; and here the\nconversation dropped for the time.\n\nWe now revert to the proceedings of Mr Mowbray at this eventful crisis of\nhis life; but in these we find only one circumstance occurring between the\nday on which he solicited, and that on which he obtained, the hand of Rosy\nAdair. This circumstance, however, was one of rather curious import. It was\na letter which Mr Mowbray addressed to a friend, and ran thus:--\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"DEAR NARESBY,--The appearance of this well-known hand--well known to you,\nmy friend--will, I daresay, startle you not a little. My letter will seem\nto you as a communication from the dead; for it is now upwards of two long\nyears since you either heard from me or of me. On this subject I have much\nto say to you, and on some others besides, but defer it until I shall have\nthe pleasure of seeing you at Wansted--a pleasure which I hope to have in\nabout three weeks hence--when we shall talk over old affairs, and, mayhap,\nsome new ones. Would you believe me, Naresby, if I was to say, that the sea\nhad ceased to ebb and flow, that the hills had become valleys, and the\nvalleys had risen into hills; that the moon had become constant, and that\nthe sun had forgotten to sink in the west when his daily course was run?\nWould you believe any or all of these things, if I were to assert them to\nbe true? No, you wouldn't. Yet will you as readily believe them, I daresay,\nas that I am to be--how can I come out with the word!--to be--to be\nmarried, Naresby! Married! Yes, married. I am to be married--I repeat it\nslowly and solemnly--and to one of the sweetest and fairest creatures that\never the sun of heaven shone upon. 'Oh! of course,' say you. But it's true,\nNaresby; and, ere another month has passed away, you will yourself confess\nit; for ere that period has come and gone, you will have seen her with your\nown eyes.\n\n\"So much then for resolution, for the weakness of human nature. I\nthought--nay, I swore, Naresby, as you know--that I would, that I could\nnever love again. I thought that the treachery, the heartlessness of one,\none smiling deceiver, had seared my heart, and rendered it callous to all\nthe charms and blandishments of her sex. But I have been again deceived.\n\n\"I have not, however, this time, chosen the object of my affections from\nthe class to which--I cannot pronounce her name--that fatal name--belonged;\nbut from one which, however inferior in point of adventitious acquirement,\nfar surpasses it--of this experience has convinced me--in all the better\nqualities of the heart.\n\n\"The woman to whom I am to be married--my Rosina Adair!--is the daughter of\na humble yeoman, and has thus neither birth nor fortune to boast of. But\nwhat in a wife are birth or fortune to me? Nothing, verily nothing, when\ntheir place is supplied--as in the case of my betrothed--by a heart that\nknows no guile; by a temper cheerful and complying; and by personal charms\nthat would add lustre to a crown. Birth, Naresby, I do not value; and\nfortune I do not want.\n\n\"Well, then, Naresby, my period of seclusion is now about over, and I\nreturn again to the world. Who would have said this two years ago? If any\nhad, I would have told them they spoke untruly--that I had abjured the\nworld, and all its joys, for ever; and that, henceforth, William Mowbray\nwould not be as other men. But so it is. I state the fact, and leave others\nto account for and moralize on it.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nSuch, then, was the letter which Mr Mowbray wrote to his friend, Naresby,\nduring the interval to which we formerly alluded. Several other letters he\nalso wrote and despatched about the same time; but the purpose of these,\nand to whom written, we must leave the sequel of our story to explain.\n\nHaving no further details of any interest wherewith to fill up the\nintervening period between the occurrence of the circumstances just related\nand the marriage of Rosina Adair and William Mowbray, we at once carry\nforward our narrative to the third day after the celebration of that event.\nOn that day--\n\n\"Rosy, my love,\" said Mr Mowbray, smiling, \"I have a proposal to make to\nyou.\"\n\n\"Indeed!--what is it, William?\"\n\n\"Why, I'll tell you what it is,\" said the latter; \"I wish to go on a visit\nto a particular friend, and I wish you to go with me.\"\n\n\"Oh, surely,\" replied Mrs Mowbray. \"Is it far?\"\n\n\"Why, a pretty long way; a two days' journey. Will you still venture on\nit?\"\n\n\"Surely--surely, William. Anywhere with you!\"\n\n\"Thank you, my love,\" said Mr Mowbray, embracing his young wife.\n\n\"Now, I have another proposal to make, Rosy,\" continued the former; \"I wish\nyour father and mother to accompany us.\"\n\n\"What! my father and mother too!\" exclaimed Mrs Mowbray, in great surprise.\n\"Dear me, wouldn't that be odd, William. What would your friend say to such\na cavalcade of visiters?\"\n\n\"Delighted to see them, I assure you, my love. It's my friend's own express\nwish; and, however odd it may seem, it is a point which must be conceded\nme.\"\n\n\"Well, well, William, any way you please. I am content. But have you\nthought of the expense? That will be rather serious.\"\n\n\"Oh, not in the least, my love,\" replied Mr Mowbray, laughing. \"Not in the\nleast serious, I assure you. I will manage that part of the matter.\"\n\n\"Well, well; but my father's consent, William. There's the difficulty. To\nget him to leave his farm for so long a time; I doubt you will scarcely\nprevail upon him to do that. He would not live a week from home, I verily\nbelieve, although it were to make a lord of him.\"\n\n\"I'll try, Rosy; I'll try this minute,\" said Mr Mowbray, hurrying out of\nthe apartment, and proceeding in quest of Mr Adair, whom he soon found.\n\n\"Leave hame for a week!\" exclaimed the latter, on Mr Mowbray's making known\nto him his wishes on this subject. \"Impossible! my dear sir; impossible!\nWholly out o' the question. I hae a stack o' oats to thrash oot; a bit o' a\nfauld dyke to build; twa acres o' the holme to ploo; the new barn to theek;\nthe lea-field to saw wi' wheat; the turnips to bring in; the taties to\nbing; forbye a hunner ither things that can on nae account stan owre.\nImpossible, my dear sir--impossible. Juist wholly oot the question. But ye\nmay get the guidwife wi' ye an' ye like, Mr Mowbray,\" said Mr Adair,\nlaughing jocosely; \"and may keep her too, if ye like.\"\n\n\"Yes--yes. All very well, Mr Adair; but I must have you too, in spite of\nthe manifold pieces of work you have on hand. I have a particular reason\nfor pressing this point, and really will not be denied.\"\n\nFor a full half-hour did this sort of sparring continue between Mr Mowbray\nand his father-in-law; both being resolute--the one to carry his point, the\nother to keep his ground; but, what could hardly be expected, the former\nfinally prevailed. His urgency carried the day; and Mr Adair was\nultimately, although we need scarcely say it, reluctantly, prevailed on to\npromise that he would be one of the intended party. Having obtained this\npromise, Mr Mowbray farther secured its performance by naming the following\nday as that on which they should set out.\n\nOn the following day, accordingly--Mrs Adair's consent having, in the\nmeantime, been obtained, and with much less difficulty than her\nhusband's--two chaises--unwonted sight--appeared at the door of West Mains\nHouse; they had been ordered by Mr Mowbray from the neighbouring country\ntown; and, in a little after, out came the party by which they were to be\noccupied.\n\n\"I wad far rather hae ridden the black mare than go into ane o' thae\nthings,\" said Mr Adair, looking contemptuously at the couple of chaises\nthat stood at the door. \"I never was fond o' ridin in cotches a' my life.\nNasty, rattlin, jinglin things. Ane micht as weel be shut up in a corn kist\nas in ane o' them.\"\n\nHaving expressed this opinion of the conveyance he was about to enter, Mr\nAdair, notwithstanding of that opinion, proceeded, with the assistance of\nMr Mowbray, to help his wife into one of them. This done, he followed\nhimself. Mrs and Mr Mowbray stepped into the other chaise. The doors were\nshut by the coachman with a bang; and, in the next minute, both the\nvehicles were in rapid motion.\n\nOn the forenoon of the second day after their departure--nothing, in the\ninterval, having occurred worth relating--the party arrived at a certain\nnoble mansion not far from the borders of England. The two chaises having\ndrawn up before the door of this splendid residence, three or four servants\nin rich livery hastened to release the travellers by throwing open the\ndoors of their carriages, and unfolding the steps, which they did with very\nmarked deference and respect, and with smiles on their faces, (particularly\nin the case of one not in livery, who seemed the principal of them,) of\nvery puzzling meaning.\n\nOn the party having got out of their chaises--\"Is this your freen's house,\nMr Mowbray?\" said Mr Adair, standing fast, and looking up with great\nastonishment and admiration at the splendid building before him.\n\n\"It is, sir,\" replied Mr Mowbray.\n\n\"My feth! an' he maun be nae sma' drink then--that's clear. He has a rare\nsittin-down here. It's a house for a lord.\"\n\n\"The house is very respectable, certainly,\" said Mr Mowbray; \"and, I think,\nyou'll find the inside every way worthy of the out.\"\n\n\"I dinna doot it--I dinna doot it,\" replied Mr Adair. \"But whar's your\nfreen, himsel?\"\n\n\"Oh! we'll see him presently. In the meantime let us walk in.\" And, taking\nhis wife's arm within his, Mr Mowbray led the way into the house, conducted\nby the principal domestic, and followed by Mr and Mrs Adair; the latter no\nless overwhelmed than her husband by the grandeur with which she was\nsurrounded.\n\nHaving entered the house, the party were led up a magnificent staircase,\nand ushered into a room of noble dimensions, and gorgeously furnished. All\nbut Mr Mowbray himself, and the servant who attended, were awe-stricken\nwith the splendours around them. Even Mrs Mowbray was oppressed with this\nfeeling; so much so as not to be able to speak a word; and on her father\nand mother it had a similar effect. Not one opened a mouth, but continued\ngazing around them in silent amazement and admiration.\n\nWhen the party had seated themselves--\"Shall I serve up some refreshment,\nsir?\" said the servant to Mr Mowbray, with great respect of manner, but\nwith that perplexing smile on his face.\n\n\"Yes, John, do,\" said Mr Mowbray; \"and as quick's you like; for we are all,\nI fancy, pretty sharp-set; and some of us--I speak for myself at any\nrate--not a little thirsty.\"\n\nThe servant bowed and retired. When he had done so--\"'Od, sir, ye seem to\nbe greatly at your ease here,\" said Mr Adair, who was not a little\nsurprised, with the others, as well he might, at the free and easy manner\nof his son-in-law in his friend's house, \"You and your freen maun surely be\nunco intimate.\"\n\n\"Oh! we certainly are so,\" replied Mr Mowbray, laughing. \"I can use any\nfreedom here--the same as if I were in my own house.\"\n\n\"Weel, that's pleasant and friendly like,\" said Mr Adair. \"But isna your\nfreen himsel lang o' makin his appearance?\"\n\n\"Rather, I confess; but he'll be here shortly, I daresay--something of a\nparticular nature detaining him, I have no doubt; but, in the meantime,\nwe'll make ourselves at home. I know it will please him if we do so.\" And\nMr Mowbray proceeded to the bell-pull, and rung it violently.\n\nA servant instantly appeared, and received an order, fearlessly given, from\nMr Mowbray, to hasten the refreshment in preparation.\n\nMr Adair's countenance expressed increased amazement at this very\nunceremonious proceeding; and he felt as if he would have said that he\nthought it the most impertinent thing ever he had seen done in his life;\nbut he refrained. In this feeling Mrs Adair also partook; and in this\nfeeling Mr Mowbray's own wife shared, although not, perhaps, to the same\nextent. Not the least curious part, let us observe too, of this odd scene,\nwas that Mr Mowbray seemed to delight in the perplexity of feeling which\nhis proceedings excited in his friends, and appeared studiously to do\neverything he could think of to increase them.\n\nBy and by, the promised repast was served up; and an exceedingly handsome\none it was. The party took their seats, no host or hostess having yet\nappeared--Mr Mowbray placing his wife at the head of the table, and himself\ntaking the foot--and proceeded to do justice to the good things before\nthem. The repast over, wine was introduced. This done, Mr Mowbray--who, to\nthe now utterly inexpressible amazement, and even confusion, of both Mr and\nMrs Adair, had all this while been ordering away, right and left, as if he\nhad been in a common inn--desired all the attendants to retire. When they\nhad done so, he filled up a bumper of wine, lifted it, rose to his feet\nand, advancing with smiling countenance and extended hand towards his wife,\nbade her welcome to _her own house_!\n\n\"What!\" shouted Mr Adair, leaping from his chair.\n\n\"Eh!\" exclaimed his wife, doing precisely the same thing by hers.\n\n\"William,\" said Mrs Mowbray, in a voice faint with agitation, and\nendeavouring to rise from her chair, into which, however, she was obliged\nagain to sink.\n\n\"True, my friends,\" said Mr Mowbray; \"all true. This, Mr Adair, is your\ndaughter's house; all that is within it and around it. Welcome again, my\nlove, to your own fireside!\" said Mr Mowbray, embracing his wife, \"and\nlong may you live to enjoy all the comfort and happiness which Malton\nHouse, and ten thousand a-year, are capable of affording!\"\n\nHere, then, ends our story, good reader; and as we do not think you would\nchoose to be much longer detained, especially with dry details of\nexplanation which are all that now remains to add, we shall be brief.\n\nMr Mowbray was a young man of large fortune, who, having been crossed in\nlove, had imagined that he had been thereby weaned from the world and all\nits joys; and, under this impression, had sought to retire from the busy\nscenes of life, with a determination never to return to them again. How he\nkept to this resolution our story tells.\n\n\n\n\nA HIGHLAND TRADITION.\n\n\nOn the summit of a bluff headland that projects into the Sound of Sky,\nthere stand the grey ruins of an ancient castle, which was once the\nresidence of a Highland chieftain of the name of M'Morrough--a man of\nfierce nature and desperate courage, but not without some traits of a\ngenerous disposition. When about middle age, M'Morrough married the\ndaughter of a neighbouring chief--a lady of much sweetness of manner and\ngentleness of nature. On the part of the former, however, this connection\nwas one in which love had little share: its chief purpose would have been\nattained by the birth of a male heir to the name and property of the feudal\nchieftain; and this was an event to which he looked anxiously forward.\n\nWhen the accouchement of his lady arrived, M'Morrough retired to an upper\napartment of the castle to await the result--having desired a trusty\ndomestic to bring him instant intelligence when the child was born, whether\nit was a male or a female. The interval he employed in walking up and down\nthe chamber in a fever of impatience. At length the door of the apartment\nopened, and Innes M'Phail entered. The chieftain turned quickly and\nfiercely round, glanced at the countenance of his messenger, and there read\nthe disappointment of his hopes without a word being uttered.\n\n\"It is even so, then,\" roared out the infuriated chieftain. \"It is a girl,\nInnes; a girl. My curses on her!\"\n\n\"Say _girls_, M'Morrough,\" said Innes, despondingly. \"There are twins.\"\n\n\"And both girls--both!\" exclaimed the former, stamping the floor in the\nviolence of his passion. \"To the battlements with them, Innes!--to the\nbattlements with them instantly, and toss them over into the deep sea! Let\nthe waves of Loch Sonoran rock them to sleep, and the winds that rush\nagainst Inch Caillach sing their lullaby. Let it be done--done instantly,\nInnes, as you value your own life; and I will witness the fidelity with\nwhich you serve me from this window. I will, with my own eyes, see the deed\ndone. Go--go--quick--quick!\"\n\nInnes, who had been previously aware that such would be the fate of a\nfemale child, if such should unfortunately be born to his ruthless chief,\nand who had promised to be the instrument of that fate, now left the\napartment to execute the atrocious deed. In less than ten minutes after,\nInnes M'Phail appeared on the battlements, carrying a large wicker basket.\nFrom this depository he took out a child, swaddled in its first apparel,\nand raising it aloft, tossed it over to perish in the raging sea below. The\nlittle arms of the infant extended as it fell; but the sight was momentary.\nIt glanced white through the air like an ocean bird, and, in an instant\nafter, disappeared in the dark waters of Loch Sonoran. The murderer\nfollowed with his eye the descent of his little victim, till the sea closed\nover it, when, returning to the basket, he took from it another child, and\ndisposed of it as he had done the first.\n\nDuring the whole of this dreadful exhibition, M'Morrough was standing at a\nwindow several yards lower down than the battlements, but so situated in an\nangle of the building that he could distinctly see what passed on the\nformer. Satisfied that his atrocious decree had been fully executed, he\nwithdrew from the window; and, avoiding an interview with his wife,\nwhom--stern and ruthless as he was--he dreaded to meet with the murder of\nher infants on his head, he left the castle on a hunting expedition, from\nwhich he did not return for three days. On his return, M'Morrough would\nhave waited on his lady, whom he hoped now to find in some measure\nreconciled to her bereavement, but was told that she would see no one; that\nshe had caused a small apartment at the top of the castle to be hung with\nblack; and that, immuring herself in this dismal chamber, she spent both\nher nights and days in weeping and lamentation. On learning this,\nM'Morrough did not press his visit, but left it to time to heal, or, at\nleast, to soothe the grief of his unhappy wife. In the expectation which he\nhad formed from the silent but powerful operation of this infallible\nanodyne, M'Morrough was not mistaken. In about a month after the murder of\nher babes, the lady of M'Morrough, deeply veiled, and betraying every\nsymptom of a profound but subdued grief, presented herself at the morning\nmeal which was spread for her husband. It was the first time they had met\nsince the occurrence of the tragical event recorded above. To that event,\nhowever, neither made even the slightest allusion; and, whether it was that\ntime had weakened the impression of her late misfortune, or that she\ndreaded rousing the enmity of her husband towards herself by a longer\nestrangement, the lady of M'Morrough showed no violent disinclination to\naccept of the courtesies which, well-pleased with her having made her\nappearance of her own accord, he seemed anxious to press upon her. A\nfooting of companionship having thus been restored between the chieftain\nand his lady, matters, from this day, went on at Castle Tulim much as they\nhad done before, only that the latter long continued to wear a countenance\nexpressive of a deeply wounded, but resigned spirit. Even this, however,\ngradually gave way beneath the influence of time; and, when seventeen years\nhad passed away, as they now did, unmarked by the occurrence, at Castle\nTulim, of any event of the smallest importance, the lady of M'Morrough had\nlong been in the possession of her wonted cheerfulness.\n\nIt was about the end of this period, that the haughty chieftain, now\nsomewhat subdued by age, and no longer under the evil influence of those\nungovernable passions that had run riot with him in his more vigorous\nyears, was invited, along with his lady, to a great entertainment which was\nabout to be given by his father-in-law. M'Morrough and his lady proceeded\nto the castle of their relative. The banquet hall was lighted up; it was\nhung with banners, crowded with gay assemblage, and filled with music.\nThere were many fair faces in that assemblage; but the fairest of all, were\nthose of two sisters, who sat apart by themselves. The beauty of\ncountenance and elegance of form of these two girls, who seemed to be both\nabout the same age--seventeen--were surpassing. M'Morrough marked them; he\nwatched them during the dance; he could not keep his eyes off them. At\nlength, turning to his lady, he asked who they were.\n\n\"They are _your_ daughters, M'Morrough,\" replied the former.\n\nA deadly paleness overspread the countenance of the chief. He shook in\nevery limb, and would have sunk on the floor had he not been supported. On\nrecovering a little, he covered his face with his hands, burst into a flood\nof tears, and rushed out of the apartment. On gaining a retired and\nunoccupied chamber, M'Morrough sent for his daughters. When they came, they\nfound him on his knees, fervently thanking God for this signal instance of\nhis mercy and beneficence. He took his daughters in his arms, blessed them\na thousand times over, buried his head between them, and wept like a child.\n\n\n\n\nTHE SURGEON'S TALES.\n\n\nTHE BEREAVED.\n\nBy looking over the memorial of my professional life; and writing out the\nextended details of my experience, I am, in effect, living my life over\nagain. Most of the scenes I witnessed left such an impression upon my mind,\nthat it requires only the touch of the _caduceus_ of the witching power of\nmemory, to call them all up again with a vividness scarcely less than that\nby which they were formerly presented to me. There is only this difference,\nthat my remembered experiences, now invested with a species of borrowed\nlight, seem like scenery which one has seen in the glance of a mid-day sun,\npresented again to the dreamy \"evening sense\" under the soft blue\neffulgence of the waning harvest-moon; the trees with the sere leaf\nrustling under the fluttering wing of the night bird; and the dead silence,\nwhich is not broken by the internal voice speaking the words that have been\nspoken by those who lie under the yew tree. In an early leaf of my journal,\nI find some broken details of a visit I paid to Mr B----, a rich\nmanufacturer in the town where I began my practice; but which I left when I\nhad more confidence in those humble powers of ministering to the afflicted,\nwhich have raised me to an honourable station, and supplied me with the\nmeans of passing my old age in affluence. This individual had lost his\nwife--a very amiable woman, with whom he had lived a period of twenty-five\nyears--and took on grief so heavily, that he was unfit to attend the\nfuneral. He lay in bed, and would not be comforted. Having attended his\nwife, I continued my attentions to the husband. Three days had passed since\nhis wife had been buried, and during all that time, he had eaten nothing;\nand, what augured gloomily for his fate, he had never been heard to speak,\nor sigh, or even to give vent to his sufferings in a single groan. There\nseemed to have fallen over him a heavy load, which, pressing with deadly\nforce upon the issues of life, defied those reacting energies of nature,\nwhich usually struggle, by sighs and groans, to throw off the incubus of\nextraordinary griefs.\n\nI have met with many wiseacre-sceptics who laugh at the idea of what is\nvulgarly called a \"broken heart,\" as a direct consequence either of\nunrequited love or extraordinary grief--admitting, however, in their\nliberality, that death may ensue from great griefs operating merely as an\ninductive original cause, which destroying gradually the foundations of\nhealth, bring on a train of other ailments, that may, in the end, prove\nmortal. The admission cares for nothing, as a matter of every-day\nexperience; and the original proposition to which it is objected as a\nqualification, remains as a truth which may humble the pride of man, and\nspeak to the sceptic through the crushed heart of a fatal experience. I\nhave seen many instances of the fatal effects of grief as a direct mortal\nagent, killing, by its own unaided energies, as certainly, though not in so\nshort a time, as a blow or a wound in the vital organs of the human body.\nThe common nosologies contain no name for the disease, because, in truth,\nit cannot properly be called a disease, any more than a stab with a sword\ncan deserve that name; and this, combined with the fact that it is only in\na very few instances that the _coup_ works by itself, without the aid of\nsome ailment generated by it, that young practitioners often homologate the\nvulgar notions that prevail upon this important subject.\n\nAmong all the many causes of grief to which mankind are daily exposed, I\nknow not that there is one that strikes so deeply into the secret recesses\nof the vital principle as the loss of a dearly-beloved wife, who has lived\nwith a man for a lengthened period, through early adversity and late\nprosperity--borne him a family which have bound closer the tie that was\nknitted by early affection, and who has left him to tread the last weary\nstages of existence alone, and without that support which almost all men\nderive from woman. The effects are often supposed to be proportioned to the\naffection; yet I doubt if this solves the curious problem of the diversity\nof consequences resulting from this great privation. There are many men of\nstrong powers of mind, who are so constituted that they _cannot_ but press\nheavily on the support of another. They seem almost to live through the\nthoughts and feelings of their helpmates; and the energies they take credit\nfor in the busy affairs of the world, have their source--unknown often to\nthemselves--in the bosom of wedded affection. It is in proportion to the\nstrength of the habit of this _leaning_, combined, doubtless, with the\ncoexistent affection, that the effects of the loss of a helpmate, in the\nlater period of life, work with such varied influence on the survivor. It\nmay also seem a curious fact, and I have no doubt of the truth of it, that\na man when advanced in years is much more apt to break suddenly down under\nthis visitation than a woman; while, again, the consequence would seem to\nbe reversed if the calamity has overtaken them in the more early stages of\nthe connection. These are grounds for speculation. At present I have only\nto do with facts.\n\nThe individual whose case has suggested these observations, presented, when\nI saw him first after the funeral of his wife, the symptom--present in all\ncases of an utterly crushed spirit--of a wish to die. I was the first to\nwhom he had uttered a syllable since the day on which she had been carried\nout of the house which she had so long filled with the spirit of\ncheerfulness and comfort. His only daughter, Martha, a fine young woman,\nhad contributed but little to his relief--if she had not, indeed, increased\nhis depression by her own emotions, which she had no power to conceal; and\nhis only son had gone off to Edinburgh, to attend his classes in the\ncollege, where he intended to graduate as a physician. He was thus, in a\nmanner, left in a great degree alone; for his daughter sought her apartment\nat every opportunity, to weep over her sorrows unobserved; and she had\nnaturally thought that her father's grief, attended by no exacerbations of\ngroaning or weeping like her own, presented less appearance of intensity\nthan that which convulsed her own heart, and got relief by nature's\nappointed modes of alleviation. When the heart is stricken with a certain\nforce, all forms of presenting less gloomy views of the condition of the\nindividual, will generally be found to be totally unavailing in affording\nrelief. Nay, I am satisfied that there was genuine philosophy in the custom\nof the Greeks and the ancient Germans, in _forcing_ victims of great\nsorrows to _weep_ out the rankling barbed shaft. These had a species of\nlicensed mourners, whose duty it was to soften the heart by melting strains\nof mournful melody, whereby, as by the application of a bland liniment, the\nrigid issues of the feelings were softened and opened, and the oppressed\norgan, the heart, was relieved of the load which defies the force of\nargument, and even the condolence of friendship. The curing of cold-nips by\nthe appliance of snow, and of burns by the application of heat, could not\nhave appeared more fraught with ridicule to the old women of former days,\nthan would the custom I have here cited to the comforters of modern times.\nIf I cannot say that, amongst some bold remedies, I have recommended it, I\nhave, at least, avoided, on all occasions, officious endeavours to\ncounteract the oppressing burden, by wrenching the mind from the engrossing\nthought--a process generally attended with no other result than making it\nadhere with increased force.\n\nThe greatest triumph that can be effected with the truly heart-stricken\nvictim, to whom is denied the usual bursts that indicate a bearable\nmisfortune, or, at least, one whose intensity is partly abated, is the\nbringing about of that more natural condition of the heart, which, indeed,\nis generally most feared by the ordinary paraclete. In the case of the\nbereaved husband, there is no charm so powerful in its effects as the vivid\nportrayment of the virtues of her who has gone down to the grave; and it\nmay well be said, that the heart that will not give out its feelings to the\nimpassioned description of the amiable properties of the departed helpmate,\nis all but incurable. The sister of Mr B----, who saw the necessity of\nadministering relief, tried to awaken him to a sense of religious\nconsolation; but he was as yet unfit even for that sacred ministration; and\nall her efforts having failed to rouse him, even from the deathlike stupor\nin which he lay, she had recourse, by my advice, to probing the wound, to\ntake off the stricture by which the natural humours were pent up. She\ndiscoursed pathetically on the qualities of the departed, which, she said,\nwould be the passport of her spirit to a sphere where he would again\ncontemplate them unclouded by the dingy vapours of earthly feelings. She\nkept in the same strain for a lengthened period; but declared to me, when I\nvisited him again, that he exhibited no signs of being moved by her\ndiscourse. He, once or twice, turned his eyes on her for a moment, drew\noccasionally a heavy sigh, that told, by the difficulty of the operation,\nthe load with which he was oppressed; but his eyes were dry, no groan\nescaped from him, or any other sign of the heart being aided in an effort\nto restore the current of natural feeling. The _coup de peine_ had too\nclearly taken the very core of the heart; the lamp of hope had been dashed\nout violently, and, under the cloud of his great evil, all things that\nremained to him upon earth were tinged with its dark hues. He presented all\nthe appearances--except the dilation of the pupil of the eye--of one whose\nbrain had been concussed by a deep fall, or laboured under a fracture of\nthe bones of the _cranium_. The few words he spoke to me came slowly, with\na heavy oppressive sound, as if spoken through a hollow tube; and what may,\nto some, be remarkable, though certainly not to me, they embraced not the\nslightest allusion to his bereavement--a symptom almost invariably\nattendant upon those deeper strokes of grief, which, being but seldom\nwitnessed, are much less understood in their effects than the more ordinary\noppressions, whose intense demonstrations and allusions to the cause of the\nevil, mark the victims as objects for the portrayments of poets.\n\nTwo or three days passed off in this way, without the slightest\namelioration of his condition. The efforts of Miss B---- had been repeated\noften without effect. As she expressed herself to me, he would neither eat\nnor speak, sleep nor weep. \"He has not,\" she added, \"even muttered her\nname. His heart seems utterly broken; and time and the power of Heaven\nalone will effect a change.\" Such is the common philosophy of sorrow: time\nis held forth as all-powerful, all-saving; and while I admit its force, I\nonly insist for the certainty of the existence of exceptions. The eighth\nday had passed without any support having been taken to sustain the system.\nA course of maceration, that had been going on during his wife's illness,\nwas thus continued; yet, in the few words I occasionally drew from him,\nthere was no indication of anything like the sullen determination of the\nsuicide; the cause lay in the total cessation of the powers of the\nstomach--a consequence of the cerebral pressure, whose action is felt not\nwhere it operates primarily, but in the heart and other organs, where it\nworks merely by sympathy.\n\nIt was on the evening of the eighth day after the funeral, as I have it\nnoted, that I called to see if any change for the better had been effected\nby the ministrations of his sister. She sat by his bedside, with the Bible\nplaced before her, from which she had been reading passages to him. His\nface was turned to the front of the bed, but he did not seem to be in any\nway moved by my entrance. All the efforts his sister had made to get him to\nenter into the spirit of the passages she had been reading had been\nfruitless; nor had he as yet made the slightest allusion to the cause of\nhis illness, or mentioned the name of his deceased partner. A few words of\nno importance, and not related to the circumstances of his grief, were\nwrung from him painfully by my questions; but it seemed as if the language\nthat represents the things of the world had lost all power of charming the\near; the deadness that had overtaken the heart like a palsy, was felt from\nthe fountain of feelings, to the minute endings of the nerves; and the\nexternal senses, which are the ministers of the soul, had renounced their\nordinary ministrations to the spirit that heeded them not. Only once his\nsister had observed a slight moisture rise for a moment in his eye, as she\ntouched some tender traits of the character of the departed; but it passed\naway rather as an evidence of the utter powerlessness of nature, in a faint\nheave of the reactive energy, telling at once how little she could perform,\nyet how much was necessary to overcome the weight by which she was\noppressed. I sat for some moments silent by the side of the bed, and\nmeditated a recourse to some more strenuous effort directed to his sense of\nduty as a parent; though I was aware, that until the heart is in some\ndegree relieved, all such appeals are too often vain, if not rather\nattended with unfavourable effects, but, in extreme cases, we are not\nentitled to rest upon the generality of theories where so various and\nmutable an essence as the human mind is the object to which they are to be\napplied. I was on the point of making a trial, by recurring to the position\nof his son and daughter, when I heard the sound of a horse's feet\napproaching, with great rapidity, the door. The sister started; and I could\nhear Martha open the window above, to ascertain who might be the visiter.\nIn another moment the outer door opened with a loud clang. Some one\napproached along the passage, in breathless haste. He entered. It was\nGeorge B----, under the excitement of some strong internal emotion; his\neyes gleaming with a fearful light, and his limbs shaking violently. He\nstood for a moment as if he were gathering his energies to speak; but the\nwords stuck in his throat, the sounds died away amidst the noise of an\nindistinct jabbering. I noticed the eye of his father fixed upon him,\nbetraying only a very slight increase of animation; but even this\nextraordinary demeanour of his son did not draw from him a question; so\nutterly dead to all external impulses had his grief made him, that the\nharrowing cause of so much excitement in his son, remained unquestioned by\nthe feelings of the parent. In another moment the youth was stretched\nacross the bed, locking the father in his embrace, and sobbing out\ninarticulate words, none of which I could understand. The aunt was as much\nat a loss to solve the mystery of the violent paroxysm as myself; for some\ntime neither of us could put a question; the sobbings of the youth seemed\nto chain up our tongues by the charm of the eloquence of nature's\nimpassioned language. Meanwhile, Martha entered, ran forward to the\nbedside, lifted her brother from the position which he occupied, and seated\nhim, by the application of some force, on the empty chair that stood by the\nside of the bed.\n\n\"What is the matter, George?\" she cried; the question was repeated by the\naunt, and the eyes of the parent sought languidly the face of the youth,\nwhich was, however, now covered by his hands. The question was more than\nonce repeated by both the aunt and myself; the father never spoke, nor\ncould I perceive a single ray of curiosity in his eye. He seemed to await\nthe issue of the son's explanation, heedless what it might be--whether the\nannouncement of a great or a lesser evil--its magnitude, though\ntranscending the bounds of ordinary bearing, comprehending every other\nmisfortune that fate could have in store for him, being, whatever its\nproportions, as nothing to the death-stricken heart of one whose hope was\nburied.\n\n\"This is scarcely a time or an occasion, George,\" said I, \"for the\nmanifestation of these emotions. If the cause lies in the grief, come back\nwith increased force, for the death of your mother, you should have known\nthat there is one lying there whose load is still greater, and who is,\nunfortunately, as yet, beyond the relief which, as your agitation\nindicates, nature in the young heart is working for you.\"\n\n\"The death!--the death!\" he muttered in a choking voice; \"but there is\nsomething after the death that is worse than the death itself.\"\n\n\"Are you distracted, George?\" said the aunt. \"This Bible was the hand-book\nand the rule of your mother's conduct in this world. A better woman never\noffered up her prayers at the fountain of the waters of immortal life; no\none that ever lived had a better right to draw from the blessing, or better\nqualified for enjoying it as she now enjoys it. She is in heaven; and will\nyou say that that is worse than death?\"\n\n\"You speak of her spirit, aunt,\" replied he, as he still covered his face\nwith his hands. \"Her spirit is there!\"--and he took away one of his hands\nfrom his face and pointed to heaven--\"There, where the saints rest, does my\nmother's soul rest; but, O God, where--where is the body?\"\n\nA thought struck me on the instant. I was afraid to utter it. I looked at\nthe father, and suspected, from the sudden light of animation that started\nto his eye, that the gloom of his mind had at last been penetrated by the\nthought which had suggested itself to me.\n\n\"Where is the body!\" responded the aunt. \"Why, George, where should it be\nbut in C---- churchyard, beneath the stone that has told the virtues of her\nancestors, and will, in a short time, declare her own, greater than those\nof her kindred that have gone before?\"\n\n\"It is on Dr M----'s table!\" cried the youth, starting to his feet, and\nagain throwing himself violently on the chair. \"I purchased it; paid the\nprice for it; and recognised it only when the dissecting-knife was in my\nhand!\" Every one started aghast; terror froze up the issues of speech; a\ndeep groan issued from the bed-ridden patient; he beckoned me to his ear.\n\"Tell the women to go out,\" he whispered, as he twisted his body\nconvulsively among the bedclothes.\n\nI complied with his request; and the aunt, seizing Martha, who stood as if\nshe had been transfixed to the floor, dragged her out of the room. In the\npassage, I heard a loud scream; and, in a moment, all was again silence. Mr\nB----, without uttering a word, raised his feeble body from the bed, and\ncame forth, the spectre of what he was only a few weeks before. His limbs,\nwhich were reduced to bony shanks, covered with shrivelled skin, seemed\ntotally unable to support even the decayed, emaciated frame. He staggered\nas he reached the floor; but, recovering himself, stood firm, and then\nproceeded to his wardrobe, from which he drew his vestments, and proceeded\nto attire himself.\n\n\"An hour since,\" he said, in a slow, solemn voice, \"I thought these clothes\nwould never again be on my body. My only hope was the winding-sheet, and\nthat grave which has been robbed.\"\n\n\"George may have been deceived,\" said I, as he was proceeding to dress\nhimself. \"I have often thought that I saw resemblances to deceased friends\nin the features of subjects in the dissecting-room.\"\n\n\"The grave will test it,\" answered he, with a deep groan, as he proceeded\nslowly, but resolutely, to put one garment after another on his skeleton\nbody.\n\nHe was at length dressed; and, proceeding to the kitchen, he appeared\nagain, in a short time, with a lighted lantern in his hand, the light of\nwhich, as it threw its beam on his sallow face--for the candle had,\nmeanwhile, burned down into the socket--exhibited, in its lurid glare, the\ndeep-sunken eyes and protruding bones of his emaciated countenance.\n\n\"Come, we shall proceed to the grave of my Isabella,\" said he.\n\n\"You are unable,\" said I. \"Your limbs will not carry you that length; and\nyou are, besides, unfitted by the state of your mind and feelings, for an\ninvestigation of this kind. Stay here with your son, and I will go to the\nchurchyard and satisfy myself of the deception under which George,\ndoubtless, labours.\"\n\n\"I feel now more than my former strength,\" he replied. \"I am awakened from\na death-stupor of the soul; and I feel that within me which will enable me\nto go through this trial. I will look into my Isabella's grave; will meet\nwith those eyes again--that countenance through which I have read the\nworkings of love in a spirit that is now far from the precincts of the\nclay. Deny me not; I will be satisfied of this, if I should come back from\nher grave to complete that which is begun, and is already visible in these\nshrunken members, that now obey a supernatural power.\"\n\nThere seemed to be no gainsaying him; his manner was inspired and resolute;\nand I proceeded to accompany him to C---- churchyard. George, who, in the\nmeantime, had been tossing himself in the chair, rose to make one of the\nparty. The agitation under which he still laboured was in direct contrast\nto the cold stillness of his father; yet the one was a more living\nexpression than the other; and, while my eye shrunk not from the ordinary\nindications of suffering, I--maugre all the experience of misery I had\nhad--could scarcely look on the animated corpse thus preparing to visit the\ngrave where the object of all his hopes and affections in this world had\nbeen buried, and might now be found to have been desecrated by the knife of\nthe anatomist. We went forth together. George's horse still stood at the\ndoor, reeking and bloody. I requested Mr B---- to mount, as we had a full\nmile to go to the burying-ground, and I deemed it utterly impossible that\nhe could accomplish the distance. He did not answer me, but proceeded\nonwards with a firm step, in the face of a cold, bleak, east wind, that\nmoaned mournfully among a clump of trees that skirted the road. Some flakes\nof snow were winging through the air--driven now by the breeze, or\nlingering over our heads as if afraid to be soiled by the earth, which we\nwere bent to open where the dead then lay--or some time before lay--a mass\nof putrefaction; yet dear to the feelings of the bereaved, and sought now\nwith greater avidity than when the body was arrayed in the smiles of\nbeauty, and filled with living, breathing love. The husband spoke nothing;\nand George was silent, save for the deep sobs that burst from him as he\nlooked upon the woe-worn form of his father, who stalked away before us\nlike a creature hurrying to the grave to seek the home there from which a\ntroubled spirit had removed him in the dark hour of night. In this way we\nwandered on. I was not in a mood to speak. The occasion and the scene\ndepressed me more than ever did the prospect of a deathbed, or the sight of\na patient about to submit to a painful and dangerous operation. My habits\nof thought are little conversant with the poetry of nature, or of man's\ncondition in this stage of suffering--the duties of an arduous profession\nare exclusive of those dreamy moods of the mind, which have little in\ncommon with the doings of every-day life; yet, on this occasion, I felt all\nthe inspiration of the sad muse; and, were I to endeavour to account for\nit, I could only seek for the cause in the aspect of the night, and the\nunusual nature of the vocation, operating, at the moment, on a mind\nloosened from the cares of my profession.\n\nIn a much less time than I could have anticipated, from the weak condition\nof Mr B----, we arrived at the churchyard--a solitary spot, surrounded with\nan old grey dyke, at the back of which rose in deep shade a wood of firs.\nThe snow lay on the top of the walls, and on the higher branches of the\nfirs, reminding one of streaks of white clouds in the sky, as the darkness\nof the night, enveloping the lower portions, kept them almost from our\nview. From a small house at the ridge of the fir-belt, a slight ray of\nlight beamed forth, and, striking upon the top of a monument placed against\nthe wall, exhibited the left all around in deeper gloom. Without uttering a\nword, Mr B---- made up to the house, and, knocking at the door, a young\nfemale appeared. She uttered a scream, and ran back, doubtless from the\npale and death-like appearance presented by the face of the visiter. Her\nplace was momentarily supplied by the sexton, who, the moment he saw Mr\nB----, shrunk back in what I conceived to be conscious fear. I was standing\nbehind, and noticing, what I thought, the guilty expression of the man's\nface, concluded unfavourably for the sad hope of my friend.\n\n\"I have reason to believe that there have been resurrectionists in your\nchurchyard, James,\" said Mr B---- mournfully.\n\n\"Impossible!\" replied the sexton; \"we have been guarding the ground for\nsome time past. It is a dream, Mr B----; many relations are troubled by the\nsame fears. It was only yesterday that I opened a grave to satisfy the\nwishes of Mrs G----, whose husband was buried a week ago. The body was as\nsafe as if it had been in her own keeping. Take my advice; be satisfied\nthere is no cause of apprehension; you forget the sacred nature of my\ntrust.\"\n\n\"I can only be satisfied by an examination of the grave,\" replied Mr B----.\n\"I insist upon having this satisfaction. The cemetery is my property, and I\nhave a right to examine it.\"\n\nThe man hesitated, and said that his assistant was from home. But the\nbereaved husband was not to be thus diverted from his purpose. He stood\nresolutely with the lantern in his hand, and demanded admittance into the\nchurchyard. The man at length reluctantly took down the key from a nail in\nthe passage, and bringing another lantern with him, led us to the door,\nwhich, in the midst of many grumblings, he opened. He then led the way over\nthe snowy hillocks to nearly the middle of the burying-ground, where the\ngrave of Mrs B----, headed by an ornamented stone, was exhibited to us. Mr\nB---- bent down, and, moving the lantern backwards and forwards, examined\nit slowly and carefully, casting his eye over the snow, which presented an\nunbroken appearance, and examining every chink, as if he there found an\nevidence of the truth of George's statement.\n\n\"That grave has not been touched,\" said the man. \"The head of it is the\npart to judge by. You will find the turf lies whole and unbroken under the\nwreath.\"\n\n\"It may be as you say,\" replied Mr B----, as he bent down in his\nexamination; \"but the late snow may have removed the traces of the opening.\nI cannot return home till I am satisfied. My own bones must mix with those\nof my Isabella. Proceed to open the grave; I myself will assist you.\"\n\nAt that moment a figure was seen gliding alone amidst the tombstones. It\nhad all the legitimate whiteness like the ideal spirit. I stood and gazed\nat it, and George's eyes were also fixed upon it; Mr B---- paid no\nattention; he was too intent upon the investigation he was engaged in; and\nthe grave-digger, whose head was down, did not notice it. I said nothing;\nbut George, pointing to it as it approached, cried--\n\n\"See, see! what is that?\"\n\nThe sexton looked up, and cried--\"It is David. He has been out, and is\ncovered with snow. He comes in good time.\"\n\nIt was even so. The man approached, and the implements having been\nprocured, they set about opening the grave. Mr. B---- stood motionless, his\nhead hanging down, and deep sighs occasionally coming from his breast,\nmixed with the quick breathing of the men, as they plied their shovels. He\nstill held the lantern in his hand, by the light of which the group before\nme is brought out in faint relief. The silence around was signally that of\na churchyard; for the fir belt shrouded the scene from the night breeze,\nand there was only occasionally heard a low, mournful gust, as it died\namong the branches of the trees. On that spot only there was quick\nbreathing action. The men had got down pretty far into the grave; and, as\nthey brought their heads within the ray of the lantern, in their acts of\nthrowing up the earth, their flushed faces contrasted strongly with the\ncadaverous countenance of the husband, who leant over them, watching every\nmotion, and intent upon the expected stroke of the shovel upon the coffin\nlid. The recollection of the attributes of the German ghoul came over me;\nnor did the difference between the beings, the motives, and the actions,\nprevent me from conjuring up the similitude, so unlike a human being did he\nappear in his complexion, his fixed, dead-like stare into the grave, and\nthe perfect stillness of his body, as he crouched down to be nearer to the\nobject of his search. At length, the sound was heard, the rattle on the\ncoffin lid. The victim's ear seemed chained to the sound, as if he could\nhave augured from it whether or not the chest was empty. In a short time,\n\n    \"The heavy moil that shrouds the dead\"\n\nwas entirely removed. The sexton now took his own lamp down into the grave.\nThe screw-nails were undone, the lid was raised, and the body of Mrs B----,\narrayed in her winding-sheet and scalloped sere-clothes, was seen, by the\nsickly, yellow gleam of the lantern, lying in the stillness and placidity\nof death--\n\n    \"For still, still she lay,\n    With a wreath on her bosom.\"\n\nOne of the men now came out, and Mr B---- descended into the grave. He\nlifted off the face-cloth, gazed on the clay-cold face, touched it, and now\nwas opened the\n\n    \"Sacred source of sympathetic tears.\"\n\nHe burst into a loud paroxysm; and, as if nature had been to take her\nrevenge for her sufferings, under the freezing influence of his sorrow, he\nwept as if there had been to be no end of his weeping. It was latterly\nfound necessary to force him out of the grave; though, as I was informed by\nGeorge, he had shrunk from the view of the dead body of his wife, while it\nlay in the house, and before it was interred. The lid was again placed on\nthe coffin, the screws fixed, and the grave filled up. Mr B---- slipped a\nguinea into the hand of the sexton, and we took our way back to the town.\nGeorge informed us, as we went, that he had been for several nights haunted\nby the image of his mother; and could only thus account for the conviction\nthat had seized him, that the body of the female he had seen in the\ndissecting-room was that of his parent. It is a remarkable fact, and the\none which chiefly induced me to give this narrative, that the scene I have\nnow described wrought so powerfully on the feelings of Mr B----, that the\nform of his grief was entirely changed. During the whole of the subsequent\nnight, he wept intensely--nature was relieved--his sorrow was mollified\ninto one of those\n\n    \"Moods that speak their softened woes;\"\n\nand time soon wrought its accustomed amelioration. I never saw one who\nseemed more certainly doomed to the fate of the heart-stricken; and,\nhowever fanciful it may seem, I attribute to the mistake of his son the\nrestoration of the father.\n\n\nTHE CONDEMNED.\n\nI believe it was Fontenelle who said that, if he were to have been\npermitted to pass his life over again, he would have done everything he did\nin the world, and, of course, consented to suffer what he had suffered, in\nconsideration of what he had enjoyed. I have heard the same statement from\nothers. A very learned and ingenious professor in the north, whose\nlucubrations have often cast the effulgence of his rare genius over the\npages of the Border Tales, has no hesitation in declaring that he would\ngladly consent to receive another tack of existence in this strange world,\nwith all its pains and penalties, were it for nothing but to be allowed to\nwitness the curious scenes, the startling occurrences, the humorous\nbizarrerie of cross-purposes, the conceits, the foibles, the triumphs of\nthe creature man. Moore the poet has somewhere said, that he would not\nconsent to live his life over again, except upon the condition that he were\nto be gifted with less love and more judgment--probably forgetting that in\nthat case he would not have been the author of \"Lallah Rookh;\" though,\nmayhap, of a still drier life of Sheridan than that which came from his\npen. I have often put the question to patients, and have found the answer\nto be regulated by the state of their disease. Upon the whole, it requires\na very sharp, bitter pang, indeed, to extort the confession, that they\nwould not accept another lease of life. If men were not Christians, they\nwould choose, I think, to be Pythagoreans, were it for nothing but the\nslight chance they would enjoy of passing into some state of existence not\nin a remote degree different from that which they have declared themselves\nsick of a thousand times before they died. Sick of it as many, however, say\nthey are, they would all live \"a little and a little longer still,\" when\nthe dread hour comes that calls them home. These remarks have been\nsuggested by the following passage in my note-book:--\"17th August, ----,\ncase of Eugene D----, in the jail of ----. Extraordinary example of the\n_amor vitae_.\" I find I had jotted a number of the details; but such was the\nimpression the scene of that tragedy of life produced in me, that even now,\nthough many years have passed, I recollect the minutiae of the drama as\ndistinctly as if I had witnessed it yesterday. I was indeed interested in\nthe case more than professionally; for the subject of it was an early\ncompanion of my own, and was, besides, calculated, from his acquirements,\nand a free, open generosity of spirit, to produce a deep interest in the\nfate which, in an unhappy hour, he brought upon himself. It was on the\nforenoon of the day I have mentioned, that the under turnkey of the prison\nof ---- came in breathless haste, and called me to a prisoner. It was\nEugene D----. I was at the moment occupied in thinking of the youth. He had\nforged a bill upon his father, Mr. D----, a wealthy merchant; and it was\nvery clearly brought out, in evidence that he applied the money to\nextricate a friend from pecuniary embarrassments. The father had paid the\nbill; but the legal authorities had prosecuted the case; and he, at that\nmoment, lay in jail a criminal, condemned to die. The gallows was standing\nready to exact its victim within two hours; the post from London would\narrive in an hour with or without a reprieve. His father and mother, what\nwere they then doing, thinking, suffering? On them and him I was meditating\nwhen the words of the turnkey fell upon my ear.\n\n\"What has occurred?\" was my question to the messenger.\n\n\"Eugene D----, the condemned criminal, has taken some poisonous drug,\" said\nhe, \"and the provost has sent me for you to come to his relief.\"\n\nI meditated a moment. It might have been as well, I thought, for all\nparties, that I had not been called, and that the drug, whatever it was,\nmight be allowed to anticipate the law, but I had no alternative; I was\ncalled in my official capacity; and then a messenger might still arrive\nfrom London. I provided myself with the necessary counteracting agents, and\nfollowed the man. I passed the house of his father. The blinds were drawn,\nand all seemed wrapped in dead silence, as if there had been a corpse in\nthe house. Several people were passing the door, and cast, as they went, a\nmelancholy look at the windows. They had, in all likelihood, seen the\ngallows; at least, they knew the precise posture of affairs within the\nhouse. I was inclined to have entered; but I could see no benefit to be\nderived from my visit, and hurried forwards to the jail, from the window of\nwhich the black apparatus projected in ghastly array. The post-office in\n---- Street was in the neighbourhood, and an assembly of people was\nbeginning to collect, to wait for the incoming of the mail. There was\nsympathy in every face; for the fate of the youth, who had been well\nesteemed over the town, for a handsome, generous-minded young man, and the\nsituation of his parents--wealthy and respectable citizens--had called\nforth an extraordinary feeling in his favour. Indeed, thousands had signed\nthe petition to the King, but forgery was, at that time, a crime of\nfrequent occurrence, and the doubts that were entertained as to the success\nof the application were apparently justified by the arrival of the eleventh\nhour. On passing through the jail, I saw the various preparations in\nprogress for the execution; the chaplain was in attendance; and, in a small\ncell, at the end of the apartment from which the fatal erection projected,\nthere sat, guarded by an officer, from a fear that he would escape, the\nexecutioner himself--\n\n    \"Grim as the mighty Polypheme.\"\n\nMy guide led me forward, and, in a few minutes, I stood beside Eugene, who,\ndressed in a suit of black, lay twisting his body in a chair, making the\nchains by which he was bound clank in a fearful manner. A small phial was\non the floor. I took it up, and ascertained, in an instant, that he had\nbetaken himself to the drug most commonly resorted to by suicides.\n\n\"Laudanum!\" I exclaimed.\n\n\"Yes, yes--as much as would kill two men!\" he cried wildly.\n\nThe poison had not had time to operate; or rather, its narcotic power had\nbeen suspended by the terrors of an awakened love and hope of life, that\nhad followed close upon the prospect of death caused by his own act.\n\n\"You had a chance for life, Eugene,\" said I, hurriedly. \"A courier may yet\narrive, independently of the mail, which has not yet come.\"\n\n\"Chance or no chance,\" he cried, as I proceeded with my assistant, who now\nentered, to apply the remedies; \"I would yet live the two hours! I had no\nsooner swallowed the drug, than I thought I had intercepted the mercy of\nheaven; life seemed--and, oh, it even now seems--sweeter than ever, and\ndeath still more dreadful! Quick--quick--quick! The poison is busy with my\nheart. I would give a world for even these two hours of life and\nhope--small, small as that is!\"\n\nI proceeded with the application of the usual remedies. A portion, but only\na portion of the laudanum, had been taken off; and the next efficient\nremedy was motion, to keep off the sleepy lethargy that drinks up the\nfountain of life. Two men were got to drag him as violently as possible\nalong the floor, leaving him enough of his own weight to force him to use\nhis limbs. I noticed that he struggled with terrible energy against the\nonset of the subtle agent; exhibiting the most signal instance I ever\nbeheld of the power of that hope which seems to be consistent with life\nitself. Already an eighth part of the apparent period of his sojourn upon\nearth had passed. Seven quarters more would, in all likelihood, bring him\nto the scaffold, and, by resisting my energies to counteract the effects of\nthe poison, he might have eluded the grim arm of the law, by a death a\nthousand times less dreadful. Every now and then, as the men dragged him\nalong, he turned his eyes to me, and asked the hour. Sometimes he repeated\nthe question within two minutes of my answer. As often was his ear directed\nto the street, to try to catch the sounds of a coach, or the feet of a\nhorse; and then he redoubled his energies to keep off the onset of the\nlethargy, which I told him was most to be feared. The operation was\npersevered in; but the men informed me they thought he was gradually\ngetting heavier on their hands, and I noticed his eye, at times, get so\ndull that he seemed to be on the eve of falling asleep and sinking. Another\nquarter of an hour soon passed; and in a little further time, the bailies\nand chaplain would find it their duty to come and prepare him for his\nfate--alas! now indeed so certain, that no reasonable thought could suggest\neven the shadow of a hope; a reprieve, so near the time of execution, would\nnot have been trusted to the mail, and a messenger would have arrived, by\nquick stages, long before; unless there had, indeed, been any fault in the\ngovernment authorities, in tampering with a man's life within an hour of\nhis execution. If I had not been under the strict law of professional\ndiscipline, I would certainly have allowed him to lie down and pass into\ndeath or oblivion. I had, however, my duty to perform; and, strange as it\nmay appear, that duty quadrated with the wishes of the young man himself;\nwho, as he struggled with the demon that threatened to overpower him,\nseemed to rise in hope as every minute diminished the chance of his\nsalvation. By the increased energies of the men, he was again roused into a\nless dull perception of sounds, and I could perceive him start as the\nrattle of the wheels of a carriage was heard at the jail door. He fixed his\nhalf-dead, staring eye in my face, and muttered, with a difficult effort of\nhis sinking jaws--\n\n\"Is that it--is that it?--I hear a carriage wheels, and they have stopped\nat the door.\"\n\nAs he uttered the words, it appeared as if he again exerted himself to keep\nthe enemy, who still threatened him, at bay. I replied nothing; for I\nsuspected that the carriage brought only some official, or, probably, some\nmourner, to see him, previous to the fatal scene--that scene which, in all\nlikelihood, I was endeavouring to render more heart-rending to his friends\nand spectators, by keeping alive the vital spark, that might only serve to\nmake him conscious of pain. It appeared to be too evident that he had\nincreased tenfold the misery of his situation; for the stern law would\nadmit of no excuse, and if he was not able to walk to the scaffold he would\nbe carried; yet, if I remitted my endeavours to keep in life, I might, in\nthe event of the looked-for reprieve still arriving, be liable to be\naccused, by my own conscience, of having been as cruel as the law itself.\nThe door of the jail now opened, and a turnkey told me that the usual time\nhad arrived when the officials began their preparatory duties. I replied\nthat it was in vain to attempt, at present, the performance of these sacred\nrites; the prisoner was wrestling with death; and, if the exertions of the\nmen, who kept still dragging him backwards and forwards, were remitted, he\nwould sink, in a few minutes, into insensibility. I noticed the eye of poor\nEugene turned imploringly upon me, as if he wished to know who it was that\nhad arrived in the carriage. I merely shook my head; and the sign was no\nsooner made than his chin fell down on his breast; his limbs became weaker,\nhis knees bent, and if the supporters had not exerted themselves still\nfarther, he would have sunk. But the men still performed their duty, and\ndragged him hurriedly along, scarcely now with any aid from his feet,\nwhich, obeying no impulse of the loose and flaccid muscles, were thrown\nabout in every direction, with, a shuffling, lumbering noise, and a\nclanking of the chain, that must have produced an extraordinary effect on\nthose who waited in the adjoining cells. The noise thus produced was indeed\nall that was heard; for the effect of the poison was such as to take away\nall power of groaning. I was now doubtful if all the working of the men\nwould be able to keep off much longer the sleepy incubus, for he seemed to\nhave lost almost all power of seconding their efforts; but the door of the\njail again opened, and the sound of the grating hinges made him again lift\nhis head. His eye seemed to indicate that he had lost all sense of the\npassing of the moments, and I could not discover whether he looked for the\nentry of one bearing his letter of salvation, or of the jailor with his\nhammer, to knock the chain from his feet, and lead him forth to the\nscaffold. He again muttered some words as the turnkey was proceeding\nforward to where I was. I could not make them out, so faint had his voice\nnow become; but one of the men said he wished to know the hour. I told him\nit was one o'clock--that was just one hour from the appointed termination\nof his life. The turnkey, meanwhile, whispered in my ear that his father,\nmother, and sister had arrived. It was the sound of their carriage wheels\nthat we had heard. I enjoined upon the men the necessity of continuing\ntheir labours, and went out to prevent the entry of his parents to the\nwitnessing of a scene transcending all their powers of bearing. I found the\nthree standing in the recess where the executioner was sitting in gloomy\nsilence. I took the father and mother by the arms, and hurried them away to\nthe empty cell, where the chaplain and several officials were collected.\nThe turnkey saw his error, and excused himself, on the ground that he was\nconfused by the extraordinary state of affairs within the prison. I\nascertained that no notice had been made to his parents of his having taken\nthe drug. They had come to take farewell of him. The mail had arrived, but\nhad brought no intelligence--not even of the petition having been disposed\nof; and, having given up all hope, their intention was that the mother and\ndaughter should, after the last act of parting, fly to the country, to be\nas far as possible from the scene of the impending tragedy. I was the first\nwho communicated the tidings of the condition of their son; and the noise\nin the prisoner's cell, as the men still continued their operations, was a\nsad commentary on my words. The sister, who was veiled, uttered a shrill\nscream, and fell back on the floor. The father stood like\n\n    \"Wo's bleak, voiceless petrifaction,\"\n\nmoving neither limb nor countenance; his eye was fixed steadfastly on the\nground, and a deadly paleness was over his face. The mother, who was also\nveiled, staggered to a bench--recovering herself suddenly, as some thought,\nrising wildly, stung her to a broken utterance of some words. I approached\nher, while Mr H----, the chaplain, was assisting in getting Miss D---- to a\nchair.\n\n\"Let him die!--let him die!\" she exclaimed. \"Is not his doom inevitable?\nYou will torture my Eugene by keeping in his life till the law demands its\nvictim, and he may be carried--carried! O God!--to a second death, ten\ntimes more cruel than that which he is now suffering.\"\n\n\"No rejection of the petition has been intimated,\" I replied; \"and there is\nhope to the last grain in life's ebbing glass. It is not yet two years\nsince a reprieve came to a prisoner, in this very jail, within three hours\nof the appointed term of his life. You have spoken from the impulse of an\nagony which has overcome the truer feelings of a mother and the better\ndictates of prudence.\"\n\n\"Small, small, indeed, is that hope which a mother may not see through the\ngloom of a despair such as mine,\" she replied. \"But what means that\ndreadful noise in Eugene's cell?\"\n\n\"Only the efforts of the men to keep him awake,\" replied I. \"My duty\nrequires my efforts in behalf of a fellow-creature to the last moment.\nReflect for an instant, and the proper feeling will again vindicate its\nplace in the heart of a parent.\"\n\n\"Dreadful alternative!\" she replied. \"But, sir, hear me. I am his mother,\nand I tell you, from the divination of a mother's heart, that there will\nnow be no respite. I say it again; it would be a relief to me if I heard,\nat this moment, that he had escaped by death that tragedy which will now be\nrendered a thousand times more painful to him and dreadful to me.\"\n\nThe father moved his eyes, and fixed them on the face of the mother of his\nboy, who, in her agony, thus called for his death in a form which bore even\na shade of relief from the horror of what awaited the victim. It was,\nindeed, an extraordinary request; and told, as no words spoken by mortal\nhad ever told, the pregnancy of an anguish that could seek for alleviation\n(if I may use so inadequate a phrase) from so fearful an alternative. All\nwere, for a time, now silent, and there was no sound to be heard but the\ndeep sobs of the daughter, as she recovered from her swoon; the struggle in\nthe throat of the mother; and the shuffling and tramping in the cell of the\nprisoner.\n\n\"There is still hope,\" I whispered in the ear of the mother.\n\n\"None--none!\" she ejaculated again. \"My Eugene! my Eugene!\"\n\nShe reclined back, with her hands over her face, still sobbing out the name\nof her son. I pointed to the father to assist her, while I should go again\nto ascertain the state of the son; but he did not seem to understand\nme--retaining still his rigid position, and looking with the calmness of\ndespair on the scene around him. Her silence continued but a few moments;\nand when she opened her eyes again, it was to fix them on me.\n\n\"What are you doing?\" she exclaimed again. \"What, in the name of heaven,\nare you doing to my Eugene?--Saving him for second, and still more cruel\ndeath. It might have been all over. Let me see him--let me see him!\"\n\nAnd she rose to proceed to the cell where her son was confined; but her\nstrength failed her, and she again reclined helplessly back in her seat.\nThe clergyman's ministrations were called for by these uttered sentiments,\nwhich seemed so little in accordance with the precepts of Holy Writ,\nhowever natural to the bursting heart of the mother, to whom the reported\ndeath of her son, in his unparalleled situation might almost have been\ntermed a boon. Retreating from a scene so fraught with misery, I hastened\nback to Eugene, who was still in the arms of the men. One of them whispered\nto me that he had spoken when he heard the shrill cry of his sister; but,\nimmediately after, he relapsed again into stupor. The men complained of\nbeing exhausted by their efforts to keep him moving. His weight was now\nalmost that of a dead body; and it was only at intervals that he made any\nstruggles to move himself by the aid of his paralysed limbs. Two other\nindividuals were got to relieve them; and the compulsory motions were\ncontinued. The lethargy had not altogether mastered the sentient powers;\nand, the operation having been stopped that I might examine his condition,\nhe lifted his head slowly, looked round him with a vacant stare, and, after\na few moments, muttered again the word \"hour.\" I pulled out my watch, and\ntold him that it was twenty minutes past one, he understood me, as I\nthought; and pronouncing indistinctly \"mother,\" he again sank into apparent\nlistlessness. The men again resumed their work.\n\nMeanwhile, a buzz from without intimated too distinctly that the mob was\ncollecting to witness the fate of their townsman. There was no distinct\nsound, save that which a mass of people, under the depressing feelings of\nsorrow, seem to send forth involuntarily--making the air, as it were,\nthick, and yet with no articulation or distinct noise which can be caught\nby the ear of one at a distance, or within the walls of a house. Eugene, I\nam satisfied, was unable to recognise the faint indication. It was well for\nhim. I learned, from the turnkey, that the sound of the hammer in the\nerection of the gallows had put him almost distracted, and precipitated the\nexecution of the purpose, which he had wished to delay till after the\narrival of the mail. I had little doubt that he might now be kept from the\ngrasp of the death-stupor for the remaining three quarters of an hour; but,\nalas! what would be my triumph? Every minute added to the certainty that I\nwas only preparing for him and his relations greater pain; for, in any\nview, he could not walk to the fatal spot without as much aid as might have\nsufficed to carry him; and it was even more than probable that he would be\nso overcome that that latter operation would require to be resorted to,\nunder the stern sanction of a law that behoved to be put in force within a\ngiven time, or not at all. The case I am now describing might suggest some\nconsideration worthy of the attention of our legislators, who, arrogating\nto themselves a license as wide as the limits of the human mind, deny all\nmanner of discretion to the superintendents of the last execution of the\nlaw. We profess to be abhorrent from scenes of torture, as well as, on\ngrounds of policy, hostile to a species of punishment which, indeed,\ndefeats its own ends; and yet I could give more than one case where the\nsubstance has been retained in all its atrocity, while the form was veiled\nby flimsy excuses of a false necessity. My situation was now a very painful\none indeed. I was training and supporting the victim for the altar;\nrescuing from death only to sacrifice him with more bloody rites and a\ncrueller spirit of immolation. The words of his mother, wrung from the\nagony of a parent's love, rang in my ears; the look of the father--that of\nimbecile despair--was imprinted on my mind; the hour was fast on the wing;\nall hope had perished; and before me was the unfortunate youth, handsome,\nelegant, and interesting, even in the writhings of the master-fiend,\nsuffering a death which was to be, in effect, repeated in another and a\ncrueller form. I had seen him under circumstances of friendship, and the\nebullitions of his generous spirit; and I was become, as I pictured to\nmyself, his enemy, who would not allow him to die, to escape from shame and\nan increased agony of dissolving nature. Will I admit it? For a moment or\ntwo I hesitated; and, indeed, had half-resolved to tell the men to\nstop--the time might yet have sufficed for finishing what he had begun. If\nhe was not dead before two, he would, at least be beyond feeling; and, if\nthe officials chose to take the last step of getting him carried to the\ngallows, they would in effect be immolating a corpse.\n\nMy better and calmer thoughts of duty, however, prevailed; and, in the\nmeantime, I saw the prudence of preventing any meeting between Eugene and\nhis parents, which could tend to nothing but an increase of pain on the\nside of those who were still able to feel--for, as regarded the young man\nhimself, he was beyond the impulse of the feelings that might otherwise\nhave been called up, even by such a scene. I was not even ill pleased to\nhear from the under turnkey, that the magistrates had given orders for the\ndeparture of the friends; though, for my own satisfaction, I wished that\nthe father, who had still some command of himself, might visit his son for\na few minutes, and sanction my proceedings with his approbation. I was\ninformed also by the turnkey, that the father was resisting to the utmost\nof his power the efforts of the mother to get into the cell. He probably\nsaw too clearly that in the excited condition in which she still remained,\nthe scene might prove disastrous, as affecting either life or reason; and,\nif I could judge from what I myself felt in spite of the blunting effects\nof a long acquaintanceship with misery in its various phases, there was\ngood reason for his fears. The scene presented features\n\n    \"Direr than incubus's haggard train.\"\n\nI had just looked my watch--it wanted now only twenty minutes of the last\nhour. The order for the friends to quit the jail was about to be obeyed.\nThe father sent a messenger for me. I repaired to the cell; but to avoid\nthe appeals of the mother and daughter, I beckoned him forth to the lobby.\nHe asked me whether he should see his son now that he was all but\ninsensible, and could not probably recognise him. He feared that he could\nnot stand the scene, for that the calmness he assumed was false! I replied\nthat it certainly required no ordinary firmness; and yet the pain might in\nsome degree be even lessened by the state of stupor and insensibility in\nwhich the youth still continued. He fixed his eyes on my face with an\nexpression of forced and unnatural calmness, that pained me more than the\ndeath-like inanity of the still beautiful countenance of his son, or the\nhysterical excitement of the mother. He at last seized my hand and\nproceeded along to the cell hurriedly, as the turnkey was crying loudly for\nthe friends to depart. We entered and stood for a moment. He stood and\ngazed at his son, as the latter was still kept moving by the men; but\nEugene was apparently unconscious of the presence of his parents. A loud\ncry from the dense crowd who had assembled to witness the execution, struck\nmy ear. I ran to the window, and saw a man in the act of coming off a\nhorse, whose sides were covered with foam and blood. The cries of the crowd\ncontinued, and I could distinctly hear the word \"_reprieve_\" mixed with the\nshouts. Mr. D---- was at my back, and I felt his hands press me like a\nvice. The two men who were supporting Eugene, had also heard the sound,\nand, paralysed by the extraordinary announcement, they actually let the\nprisoner sink on the floor. The sound of his fall made me turn; the father\nhad vanished, doubtless to meet the messenger, and communicate the tidings\nto his wife and daughter. A great bustle in the neighbouring cells\nsucceeded. The two men stood and looked at me in silence. Eugene still lay\non the floor, to all appearance insensible. By my orders he was immediately\nagain lifted up, and dragged more violently than ever, backwards and\nforwards. In a few seconds, the turnkey came in, and struck off the irons,\nby which his ancle had been so severely torn that the blood flowed from it\non the floor. He informed me that he was indeed reprieved, and that the\nfault of the delay was attributable to the authorities in London. I shouted\nin the ear of the young man the electric word; he lifted his head, looked\nwildly around him for a few seconds, and uttered a strange gurgling sound\nunlike any expression of the human voice I ever heard. I was indeed\nuncertain whether he understood me or not. In a few minutes more, the cell\nwas crowded--the father, mother, and daughter, the chaplain, the messenger,\nand several of the officials, all bursting in, to see the condition of the\ncriminal. To this I was not averse; because the more excitement that could\nbe produced in the mind of the youth, the greater chance remained of our\nbeing able to keep off the deadly effects of the drug. A thousand times did\nthe parent and mother sound into his dull ear the vocable pregnant with so\nmuch relief to him and his friends; but it was not until two hours\nafterwards that he was so far recovered as to understand perfectly the\nnarrow escape he had made from death. In the evening he was conveyed home\nin a carriage; and, as they were leaving the jail, he looked out at the\ngrim apparatus which had been erected for him, and which the workmen were\nremoving in the midst of a dense crowd of citizens.\n\nSome days afterwards, Eugene D---- had almost entirely recovered from the\neffects of the poison. One day when I called, I found him lying on a sofa,\nwith his mother sitting by his side. She took her eyes off her son, and\nbent them on me till tears filled them.\n\n\"Before you entered,\" she said, \"I was talking to Eugene about the request\nI made to you in the jail on that dreadful day, to let my son die.\nRepeatedly since, have I thought of my wild words; but they know little of\nhuman nature, at least little of the feelings of a mother in my situation,\nwho could brand them as unnatural, or doubt the sanity that recognised\nfully their effect.\"\n\n\"I am too well apprised, madam,\" I replied, \"of the workings of that organ,\nwhose changes often startle ourselves, to be surprised at the words you\nthen made use of. I knew not, after all, if you did not exhibit as much\nheroism as Brutus, who condemned his son to death; certainly more than\nZaleucus, who condemned his to the loss of an eye, having first submitted\nto the loss of his own, to make the love of a father quadrate with the\njustice of the law-giver.\"\n\n\"And what say you to yourself, to whom I owe the safety of my Eugene?\" she\nadded.\n\n\"An Acesias might have accomplished all that I accomplished, madam--for all\nI did was to keep off sleep; but, if the secret must needs be told, I had\nsome doubts at least of the humanity of my proceedings, whatever I might\nhave thought of my duty.\"\n\nEugene afterwards went to the East Indies, where he made a fortune. Some\npecuniary embarrassments afterwards overtook the family, on which occasion\nhe sent them home the one half of the money he had made, whereby they were\nagain placed in a condition of affluence. A present was also sent to me. It\nis not yet very many years ago since I saw Eugene. He had assumed another\nname in India, where he had married a very beautiful woman, and to whom he\nagain returned.\n\n\n\n\nTHE UNBIDDEN GUEST,\n\nOR, JEDBURGH'S REGAL FESTIVAL.\n\n    \"In the mid revels, the first ominous night\n    Of their espousals, when the room shone bright\n    With lighted tapers--the king and the queen leading\n    The curious measures, lords and ladies treading\n    The self-same strains--the king looks back by chance,\n    And spies a strange intruder fill the dance;\n    Namely, a mere anatomy, quite bare,\n    His naked limbs both without flesh and hair,\n    (As we decipher Death,) who stalks about\n    Keeping true measure till the dance be out.\"\n\n    _Heywood's Hierarchie of the Blessed Angels._\n\n\nThere is no river in this country which presents in its course, scenes more\nbeautifully romantic than the little Jed. Though it exhibits not the dizzy\ncliffs where the eagles build their nests, the mass of waters, the\nmagnitude and the boldness, which give the character of sublimity to a\nscene; yet, as it winds its course through undulating hills where the\nforest trees entwine their broad branches, or steals along by the foot of\nthe red, rocky precipices, where the wild flowers and the broom blossom\nfrom every crevice of their perpendicular sides, and from whose summits the\nwoods bend down, beautiful as rainbows, it presenteth pictures of\nsurpassing loveliness, which the eye delights to dwell upon. It is a fair\nsight to look down from the tree-clad hills upon the ancient burgh, with\nthe river half circling it, and gardens, orchards, woods, in the beauty of\nsummer blossoming, or the magnificence of their autumnal hues, encompassing\nit, while the venerable Abbey riseth stately in the midst of all, as a\ntemple in paradise. Such is the character of the scenery around Jedburgh\nnow; and, in former ages, its beauty rendered it a favourite resort of the\nScottish Kings.\n\nAbout the year 1270, an orphan boy, named Patrick Douglas, herded a few\nsheep upon the hills, which were the property of the monks of Melrose. Some\nof the brotherhood, discovering him to be a boy of excellent parts,\ninstructed him to read and to write; and perceiving the readiness with\nwhich he acquired these arts, they sought also to initiate him into all the\nlearning of the age, and to bring him up for their order. To facilitate and\ncomplete his instructions, they had him admitted amongst them, as a\n_convert_ or lay-brother. But, though the talents of the shepherd boy\ncaused him to be regarded as a prodigy by all within the monastery, from\nthe Lord Abbot down to the kitchener and his assistants; yet, with Patrick,\nas with many others even now, gifts were not graces. He had no desire to\nwear the white cassock, narrow scapulary, and plain linen hood of the\nCistertian brethren; neither did he possess the devoutness necessary for\nperforming his devotions seven times a-day; and when the bell roused him at\ntwo in the morning, to what was called the _nocturnal_ service, Patrick\narose reluctantly; for, though compelled to wedge himself into a narrow bed\nat eight o'clock in the evening, it was his wont to lie awake, musing on\nwhat he had read or learned, until past midnight; and, when the _nocturnal_\nwas over, he again retired to sleep, until he was aroused at six for\n_matins_; but, after these came other devotions, called _tierce_, the\n_sexte_, the _none_, _vespers_, and the _compline_, at nine in the morning,\nat noon, at three in the afternoon, at six in the evening and before eight.\nThese services broke in on his favourite studies; and, possessing more\ntalent than devotion, while engaged in them he thought more of his studies\nthan of them. Patrick, therefore, refused to take the monastic vow. He\n\n                      \"had heard of war,\n    And longed to follow to the field some warlike lord.\"\n\nHe, however, was beloved by all; and when he left the monastery, the Abbot\nand the brethren gave him their benediction, and bestowed gifts upon him.\nHe also carried with him letters from the Lord Abbot and Prior, to men who\nwere mighty in power at the court of King Philip of France.\n\nFrom the testimonials which he brought with him, Patrick Douglas, the\nScottish orphan, speedily obtained favour in the eyes of King Philip and\nhis nobles, and became as distinguished on the field for his prowess and\nthe feats of his arms, as he had been in the Abbey of Melrose for his\nattainments in learning. But a period of peace came; and he who was but a\nfew years before a shepherd boy by Tweedside, now bearing honours conferred\non him by a foreign monarch, was invited as a guest to the palace of the\nillustrious Count of Dreux. A hundred nobles were there, each exhibiting\nall the pageantry of the age; and there, too, were a hundred ladies, vying\nwith each other in beauty, and in the splendour of their array. But chief\nof all was Jolande, the daughter of their host, the Count of Dreux, and the\nfame of whose charms had spread throughout Christendom. Troubadours sang of\nher beauty, and princes bent the knee before her. Patrick Douglas beheld\nher charms. He gazed on them with a mixed feeling of awe, of regret, and of\nadmiration. His eyes followed her, and his soul followed them. He beheld\nthe devoirs which the great and the noble paid to her, and his heart was\nheavy; for she was the fairest and the proudest flower among the French\nnobility --he an exotic weed of desert birth. And, while princes strove for\nher hand, he remembered, he felt, that he was an orphan of foreign and of\nobscure parentage--a scholar by accident, (but to be a scholar was no\nrecommendation in those days, and it is but seldom that it is one even\nnow.) and a soldier of fortune, to whose name royal honours were not\nattached, while his purse was light, and who, because his feet covered more\nground than he could call his own, his heels were denied the insignia of\nknighthood. Yet, while he ventured not to breathe his thoughts or wishes\nbefore her, he imagined that she looked on him more kindly, and that she\nsmiled on him more frequently than on his lordly rivals; and his heart\ndeceived itself, and rejoiced in secret.\n\nNow, it was early in the year 1283, the evening was balmy for the season,\nthe first spring flowers were budding forth, and the moon, as a silver\ncrescent, was seen among the stars. The young scholar and soldier of\nunknown birth walked in the gardens of the Count of Dreux, and the lovely\nJolande leaned upon his arm. His heart throbbed as he listened to the\nsilver tones of her sweet voice, and felt the gentle pressure of her soft\nhand in his. He forgot that she was the daughter of a prince--he the son of\na dead peasant. In the delirium of a moment, he had thrown himself on his\nknee before her, he had pressed her hand on his bosom, and gazed eagerly in\nher face.\n\nShe was startled by his manner, and had only said--\"Sir! what\nmeans?\"--though in a tone neither of reproach nor of pride, when what she\nwould have said was cut short by the sudden approach of a page, who, bowing\nbefore her, stated that four commissioners having arrived from the King of\nScotland, the presence of the Princess Jolande was required at the palace.\nPatrick Douglas started to his feet as he heard the page approach, and as\nhe listened to his words he trembled.\n\nThe princess blushed, and turning from Patrick, proceeded in confusion\ntowards the palace; while he followed at a distance, repenting of what he\nhad said, and of what he had done, or, rather, wishing that he had said\nmore, or said less.\n\n\"Yet,\" thought he, \"she did not look on me as if I had spoken\npresumptuously! I will hope, though it be against hope--even though it be\nbut the shadow of despair.\"\n\nBut an hour had not passed, although he sought to hide himself with his\nthoughts in his chamber, when he heard that the commissioners who had\narrived from his native land, were Thomas Charteris, the High Chancellor;\nPatrick de Graham, William de St Clair, and John de Soulis; and that their\nerrand was to demand the beautiful Jolande as the bride and queen of their\nliege sovereign, Alexander the Third, yet called good.\n\nNow, the praise of Alexander was echoed in every land. He was as a father\nto his people, and as a husband to his kingdom. He was wise, just,\nresolute, merciful. Scotland loved him--all nations honoured him. But\nDeath, that spareth not the prince more than the peasant, and which, to\nshort-sighted mortals, seemeth to strike alike at the righteous and the\nwicked, had made desolate the hearths of his palaces, and rendered their\nchambers solitary. Tribulation had fallen heavily on the head of a virtuous\nKing. A granddaughter, the infant child of a foreign prince, was all that\nwas left of his race; and his people desired that he should leave behind\nhim, as inheritor of the crown, one who might inherit also his name and\nvirtues. He was still in the full vigour of his manhood, and the autumn of\nyears was invisible on his brow. No \"single silverings\" yet marked the\nraven ringlets which waved down his temples; and, though his years were\nforty and three, his appearance did not betoken him to be above thirty.\n\nHis people, therefore, wished, and his courtiers urged, that he should\nmarry again; and fame pointed out the lovely Jolande, the daughter of the\nCount of Dreux, as his bride.\n\nWhen Patrick Douglas, the learned and honoured, but fortuneless soldier,\nfound that his new competitor for the hand of the gentle Jolande was none\nother than his sovereign, he was dumb with despair, and the last, the\nmiserable _hope_ which it imparts, and which maketh wretched, began to\nleave him. He now accused himself for having been made the sacrifice of a\nwild and presumptuous dream, and again he thought of the kindly smile and\nthe look of sorrow which met together on her countenance, when, in a rash,\nimpassioned moment, he fell on his knee before her, and made known what his\nheart felt.\n\nBut, before another sun rose, Patrick Douglas, the honoured military\nadventurer of King Philip, was not to be found in the palace of the Count\nde Dreux. Many were the conjectures concerning his sudden departure; and,\namongst those conjectures, as regarding the cause, many were right. But\nJolande stole to her chamber, and in secret wept for the brave stranger.\n\nMore than two years passed away, and the negotiations between the Courts of\nScotland and of France, respecting the marriage of King Alexander and Fair\nJolande, were continued; but, during that period, even the name of Patrick\nDouglas, the Scottish soldier, began to be forgotten--his learning became a\ndead letter, and his feats of arms continued no longer the theme of\ntongues. It is seldom that kings are such tardy wooers; but between the\nunion of the good Alexander and the beautiful Jolande many obstacles were\nthrown. When, however, their nuptials were finally agreed to, it was\nresolved that they should be celebrated on a scale of magnificence such as\nthe world had not seen. Now, the loveliest spot in broad Scotland, where\nthe Scottish King could celebrate the gay festivities, was the good town of\nJedworth, or, as it is now called, Jedburgh. For it was situated, like an\nEden, in the depth of an impenetrable forest; gardens circled it; wooded\nhills surrounded it; precipices threw their shadows over flowery glens;\nwooded hills embraced it, as the union of many arms; waters murmured amidst\nit; and it was a scene on which man could not gaze without forgetting, or\nregretting his fallen nature. Yea, the beholder might have said--\"If the\nearth be yet so lovely, how glorious must it have been ere it was cursed\nbecause of man's transgression!\"\n\nThither, then, did the Scottish monarch, attended by all the well-affected\nnobles of his realm, repair to meet his bride. He took up his residence in\nthe castle of his ancestors, which was situated near the Abbey, and his\nnobles occupied their own, or other houses, in other parts of the town; for\nJedburgh was then a great and populous place, and, from the loveliness of\nits situation, the chosen residence of royalty. (It is a pity but that our\nprinces and princesses saw it now, and they would hardly be again charmed\nwith the cold, dead, and bare beach of Brighton.) An old writer (I forget\nwhom) has stated, in describing the magnitude of Jedburgh in those days,\nthat it was six times larger than Berwick. This, however, is a mistake, for\nBerwick, at that period, was the greatest maritime town in the kingdom, and\nsurpassed London, which strove to rival it.\n\nOn the same day that King Alexander and his splendid retinue reached\nJedburgh, his bride, escorted by the nobles of France and their attendants,\nalso arrived. The dresses of the congregated thousands were gorgeous as\nsummer flowers, and variegated as gorgeous. The people looked with wonder\non the glittering throng. The trees had lost the hues of their fresh and\nliving green--for brown October threw its deep shadows o'er the\nlandscape--but the leaves yet trembled on the boughs from which they were\nloath to part; and, as a rainbow that had died upon the trees, and left its\nhues and impression there, the embrowning forest appeared.\n\nThe marriage ceremony was performed in the Abbey, before Morel, the Lord\nAbbot, and glad assembled thousands. The town and the surrounding hills\nbecame a scene of joy. The bale-fires blazed from every hill; music echoed\nin the streets; and from every house, while the light of tapers gleamed,\nwas heard the sounds of dance and song. The Scottish maiden and the French\ncourtier danced by the side of the Jed together. But chief of all the\nfestive scene was the assembly in the hall of the royal castle. At the\nfarther end of the apartment, elevated on a purpled covered dais, sat King\nAlexander, with the hand of his bridal queen locked in his. On each side\nwere ranged, promiscuously, the Scottish and the French nobility, with\ntheir wives, daughters, and sisters. Music lent its influence to the scene,\nand the strains of a hundred instruments blended in a swell of melody.\n\nThrice a hundred tapers burned suspended from the roof, and on each side of\nthe hall stood twenty men with branches of blazing pine. Now came the\nmorris dance, with the antique dress and strange attitudes of the\nperformers, which was succeeded by a dance of warriors in their coats of\nmail, and with their swords drawn. After these a masque, prepared by Thomas\nthe Rymer, who sat on the right hand of the King, followed; and the company\nlaughed, wept, and wondered, as the actors performed their parts before\nthem.\n\nBut now came the royal dance; the music burst into a bolder strain, and\nlord and lady rose, treading the strange measure down the hall, after the\nKing and his fair Queen. Louder, and yet more loud the music pealed; and,\nthough it was midnight, the multitude without shouted at its enlivening\nstrains. Blithely the dance went on, and the King well nigh forgot the\nmeasure as he looked enraptured in the fair face of his beauteous bride.\n\nHe turned to take her hand in the dance, and in its stead the bony fingers\nof a skeleton were extended to him. He shrank back aghast; for royalty\nshuddereth at the sight of Death as doth a beggar, and, in its presence,\nfeeleth his power to be as the power of him who vainly commanded the waves\nof the sea to go back. Still the skeleton kept true measure before\nhim--still it extended to him its bony hand. He fell back, in horror,\nagainst a pillar where a torch-bearer stood. The lovely Queen shrieked\naloud, and fell as dead upon the ground. The music ceased--silence fell on\nthe multitude--they stood still--they gazed on each other. Dismay caused\nthe cold damp of terror to burst from every brow, and timid maidens sought\nrefuge and hid their faces on the bosom of strangers. But still, visible to\nall, the spectre stood before the king, its bare ribs rattling as it moved,\nand its finger pointed towards him. The music, the dancers, became\nnoiseless, as if Death had whispered--\"_Hush_!--_be still_!\" For the figure\nof death stood in the midst of them, as though it mocked them, and no sound\nwas heard save the rattling of the bones, the moving of its teeth, and the\nmotion of its fingers before the king.\n\nThe lord abbot gathered courage, he raised his crucifix from his breast, he\nwas about to exorcise the strange spectre, when it bent its grim head\nbefore him, and vanished as it came--no man knew whither.\n\n\"Let the revels cease!\" gasped the terror-stricken king; and they did\ncease. The day had begun in joy, it was ended in terror. Fear spread over\nthe land, and while the strange tale of the marriage spectre was yet in the\nmouths of all men, yea before six months had passed, the tidings spread\nthat the good King Alexander, at whom the figure of Death had pointed its\nfinger, was with the dead, and his young queen a widow in a strange land.\n\nThe appearance of the spectre became a tale of wonder amongst all men,\ndescending from generation to generation, and unto this day it remains a\nmystery. But, on the day after the royal festival at Jedburgh, Patrick\nDouglas, the learned soldier, took the vows, and became a monastic brother\nat Melrose; and, though he spoke of Jolande in his dreams, he smiled, as if\nin secret triumph, when the spectre that had appeared to King Alexander was\nmentioned in his hearing.\n\n\n\n\nTHE SIMPLE MAN IS THE BEGGAR'S BROTHER.\n\n\n\"Many a time,\" said Nicholas Middlemiss, as he turned round the skirts and\nthe sleeve of his threadbare coat to examine them, \"many a time have I\nheard my mother say to my faither--'Roger, Roger (for that was my faither's\nname,) _the simple man is the beggar's brother_.' But, notwithstanding my\nmother's admonitions, my faither certainly was a very simple man. He\nallowed people to take him in, even while they were laughing in his face at\nhis simplicity. I dinna think that ever there was a week but that somebody\nor other owrereached him, in some transaction or other; for every knave,\nkennin' him to be a simpleton, (a nosey-wax, as my mother said,) always\nlaid their snares to entrap Roger Middlemiss--and his family were the\nsufferers. He had been a manufacturer in Langholm for many a long year, and\nat his death he left four brothers, a sister and mysel', four hundred\npounds each. Be it remembered, however, that his faither before him left\nhim near to three thousand, and that was an uncommon fortune in those days,\na fortune I may say that my faither might have made his bairns dukes by.\nHad he no been a simple man, his family might have said that they wouldna\nca' the Duke o' Buccleuch their cousin. But he was simple--simplicity's\nsel'--(as my mother told him weel about it)--and he didna leave his bairns\nsae meikle to divide among them, as he had inherited from their\ngrandfaither. Yet, if, notwithstanding his opportunities to make a fortune,\nhe did not even leave us even what he had got, he at least left us his\nsimpleness unimpaired. My brothers were honest men--owre honest, I am sorry\nto say, for the every-day transactions of this world--but they always\nfollowed the _obliging_ path, and kept their face in a direction, which, if\nthey had had foresight enough to see it, was sure to land them _in_, or\n_on_,(just as ye like to take the expression,) their _native parish_. Now,\nthis is a longing after the place o' one's birth for which I have no\nambition; but on the parish it did land my brothers. My sister, too, was a\npoor simple thing, that married a man who had a wife living when he married\nher; and, after he had got every shilling that she had into his possession,\nhe decamped and left her.\n\n\"But it is not the history of my brothers and sisters that I would tell you\nabout, but my own. With the four hundred pounds which my faither left me, I\nbegan business as a linen manufacturer--that is, as a maister weaver, on\nwhat might be called a respectable scale. The year after I had commenced\nbusiness upon my own account, and before I was two and twenty, I was taking\na walk one Sunday afternoon on the Hawick road, along by Sorbie, and there\nI met the bonniest lassie, I think, that I had ever seen. I was so struck\nwi' her appearance, that I actually turned round and followed her. She was\ndressed in a duffel coat or pelisse, which I think country folk call a\n_Joseph_; but I followed her at a distance, through fields and owre stiles,\ntill I saw her enter a sma' farm-house. There were some bits o' bairns,\napparently hinds' bairns, sitting round a sort o' duck-dub near the\nstackyard.\n\n\"'Wha lives there, dearies?' says I to them, pointing wi' my finger to the\nfarm-house.\n\n\"'Ned Thomson,' says they.\n\n\"'And wha was that bonny lassie,' asked I, 'that gaed in just the now?'\n\n\"'He! he! he!' the bairns laughed, and gaed me nae answer. So I put my\nquestion to them again, and ane o' the auldest o' them, a lassie about\nthirteen, said--'It was the maister's daughter, sir, the laird's bonny\nJenny--if ye like, I'll gang in and tell her that a gentleman wishes to\nspeak to her.'\n\n\"I certainly was very proud o' the bairn taking me to be a gentleman; but I\ncouldna think o' meeting Miss Thompson, even if she should come out to see\nme, wi' such an introduction, for I was sure I would make a fool o' mysel';\nand I said to the bit lassie--'No I thank ye, hinny; I'm obliged to ye'\"\nand a' her little companions 'he! he! he'd!' and laughed the louder at my\nexpense; which, had I not been a simple man, I never would have placed it\nin their power to do.\n\n\"So I went away, thinking on her face as if I had been looking at it in a\nglass a' the time; and to make a long story short, within three months,\nMiss Jenny Thompson and me became particularly weel acquaint. But my\nmother, who had none o' the simpleness that came by my faither's side o'\nthe house, was then living; and when Jenny and I were on the eve o' being\npublicly cried in the kirk, she clapped her affidavit against it.\n\n\"'Nicol,' said she, 'son as ye are o' mine, ye're a poor simple goniel.\nThere isna a bairn that I have among ye to mend another. Ye are your\nfaither owre again, every one o' ye--each one more simple than another.\nWill ye marry a taupie that has nae recommendation but a doll's face, and\nbring shame and sorrow to your door?'\n\n\"I flew into a rampaging passion wi' my mother, for levelling Jenny to\neither shame or sorrow: but she maintained that married we should not be,\nif she could prevent it; and she certainly said and did everything that lay\nin her power to render me jealous. She might as weel have lectured to a\nwhinstane rock. I believed Jenny to be as pure as the dew that falleth upon\na lily before sunrise in May. But on the very night before we were to be\nmarried, and when I went to fit on the gloves and the ring--to my horror\nand inexpressible surprise, who should I see in the farm-yard, (for it was\na fine star-light night,) but my Jenny--my thrice cried bride--wi' her hand\nupon the shouther o' the auldest son o' her faither's laird, and his arm\nround her waist. My first impulse was to run into the stackyard where they\nwere, and to knock him down; but he was a strong lad, and, thinks I,\n'second thoughts are best.' I was resolved, however, that my mother should\nfind I wasna such a simpleton as she gied me out to be--so I turned round\nupon my heel and went home saying to mysel, as the song says--\n\n    'If this be the way of courting a wife,\n      I'll never look after another;\n    But I'll away hame and live single my lane,\n      And I'll away hame to my mother.'\n\nWhen I went hame, and informed her o' what I had seen, and o' what I had\ndune, the auld woman clapped me upon the shouther, and says she--'Nicholas,\nmy man, I am glad that yer ain een have been made a witness in the matter\nof which your mother forewarned ye. Ye was about to bring disgrace upon\nyour family; but I trust ye have seen enough to be a warning to ye. O\nNicholas! they that marry a wife merely for the sake o' a bonny face, or\nfor being a smart dancer, or onything o' that kind, never repent it but\nonce, and that is for ever. Marriage lad, lifts the veil from the face o'\nbeauty, and causes it to be looked upon as an every-day thing; and even if\nye were short-sighted before, marriage will make ye see through spectacles\nthat will suit your sight, whither ye will or no. Dinna think that I am\nagainst ye taking a wife; for I ken it is the best thing that a young man\ncan do. Had your faither not married me when he did, he would hae died a\nbeggar, instead o' leaving ye what he did. And especially a simple creature\nlike you, Nicholas, needs one to take care o' him. But you must not expect\nto meet wi' such a one in every bonny face, handsome waist, or smart ancle\nthat ye meet wi'. Na, na, lad; ye maun look to the heart, and the\ndisposition or temper, and the affection for you. They are the grand points\nthat ye are to study; and not the beauty o' the face, the shape o' the\nwaist, (which a mantua-maker has a principal hand in making,) the colour o'\nthe een, or the texture o' the hair. Thae are things that are forgotten\nbefore ye hae been married a twalmonth; but the feelings o' the heart, and\nthe sentiments o' the soul, aye rin pure, Nicholas, and grow stronger and\nstronger, just like a bit burn oozing frae a hill, and wimpling down its\nside, waxing larger and larger, and gathering strength on strength as it\nruns, until it meets the sea, like a great river; and even so it is wi' the\naffections o' the heart between man and wife, where they really love and\nunderstand each other; for they begin wi' the bit spring o' courtship,\nfollowing the same course, gathering strength, and flowing side by side,\nuntil they fall into the ocean o' eternity, as a united river that cannot\nbe divided! Na, son, if ye will take a wife, I hope ye hae seen enough to\nconvince ye that she ought never to be the bonny Miss Thompson. But if I\nmight advise ye in the matter, there is our own servant, Nancy Bowmaker, a\nyoung lass, a weel-faured lass, and as weel behaved as she is good-looking.\nShe has lived wi' us, now, for four years, and from term to term I never\nhave had to quarrel her. I never saw her encouraging lads about the\nhouse--I never missed the value o' a prin since she came to it--I never\neven saw her light a candle at the fire, or keep the cruisy burning when\nshe had naething to do but to spin, or to knit. Now, Nicholas, if ye will\nbe looking after a wife, I say that ye canna do better than just draw up\nwi' Nancy Bowmaker.'\n\n\"So my mother ended her long-winded harangue; which I had hardly patience\nto listen to. In the course o' the week, the faither and brothers o' Miss\nJenny Thompson called upon me, to see why I had not fulfilled my\nengagement, by taking her before the minister, and declaring her to be my\nwife. I stood before them like a man touched wi' a flash o' lightning--pale\nas death and trembling like a leaf. But, when they began to talk big owre\nme, and to threaten me wi' bringing the terrors o' the law upon my\nhead--(and be it remembered I have an exceeding horror o' the law, and\nwould rather lose a pound ony day, than spend six and eightpence, which is\nthe least ye can spend on it)--as good luck would have it, while they were\nstamping their feet, and shaking their nieves in my face, my mother came\nforward to where we were standing, and says she to me--'Nicholas, what is\na' this about? What does Mr Thompson and his sons want?'\n\n\"The very sound o' her voice inspired me; I regained my strength and my\ncourage, as the eagle renews its age. And, simple man as I was--'Sir,' said\nI, 'what is it that ye mean? Gae ask your daughter wha it was that had his\narm round her waist on Thursday night last, and her hand upon his shouther!\nGo to _him_ to marry her!--but dinna hae the audacity to look me in the\nface.'\n\n\"'Weel said, Nicol,' whispered my mother, coming behint me, and clapping me\non the back; 'aye act in that manner, my man.'\n\n\"And both her faithers and her brothers stood looking one to another for an\nanswer, and slunk away without saying another word either about the law or\nour marriage. I found I had gotten the whip hand o' them most completely.\nSo, there never was another word between me and bonny Jenny Thompson, who,\nwithin a month, ran away wi' the son o' her faither's laird--and, poor\nhizzy, I am sorry to say, her end wasna a good one.\n\n\"My mother, however, always kept teasing me about Nancy Bowmaker, and\nsaying what a notable wife she would make. Now, some folk are foolish\nenough to say that they couldna like onybody that was in a manner forced\nupon them. And, nae doubt, if either a faither or a mother, or onybody else\nthat has power owre ye, says--'_Like_ such a one,' it is not in your power\nto comply, and actually love the person in obedience to a command. Yet this\nI will say, that my mother's sermons to me about Nancy Bowmaker, and my\nbeing always _evened_ to her upon that account, caused me to think more\nabout her than I did concerning ony other woman under the sun. And ye canna\nthink lang about ony lass in particular, without beginning to have a sort\no' regard for her, as it were. In short, I began to find that I liked Nancy\njust as weel as I had done Jenny; we, therefore, were married, and a most\nexcellent and affectionate wife she has been to me, even to this day.\n\n\"It was now that I began the world in good earnest. But though my wife was\nan active woman, I was still the same simple, easy-imposed-upon sort o'\nbeing that I had always been. Every rogue in the country-side very soon\nbecame acquainted wi' my disposition. I had no reason to complain of my\nbusiness; for orders poured in upon me faster than I was able to supply\nthem. Only, somehow or other--and I thought it very strange--money didna\ncome in so fast as the orders. My wife said to me--'This trade will never\ndo, Nicholas--ye will gang on trust, trusting, until ye trust yoursel' to\nthe door. Therefore, do as I advise ye, and look after the siller.'\n\n\"'O my dear,' said I, 'they are good customers, and I canna offend them for\nthe sake o' a few pounds. I have no doubt but they are safe enough.\n\n\"'Safe or no safe,' quoth she, 'get ye your accounts settled. Their siller\nwill do as meikle for ye as their custom. Take a woman's advice for once,\nand remember, that, 'short accounts make long friends.' Look ye after your\nmoney.'\n\n\"I couldna but confess that there was a great deal o' truth in what Mrs\nMiddlemiss (that is my wife) said to me. But I had not her turn for doing\nthings. I could not be so sharp wi' folk, had it been to save my life. I\nnever could affront onybody in my days. Yet I often wished that I could\ntake her advice; for I saw people getting deeper and deeper into my books,\nwithout the prospect o' payment being made more manifest. Under such\ncircumstances I began to think wi' her, that their siller would be as good\nas their custom--the one was not much worth without the other.\n\n\"But, just to give ye a few instances o' my simplicity:--I was walking, on\na summer evening, as my custom was, about a mile out o' the town, when I\novertook a Mr Swanston, a very respectable sort o' man, a neighbour, and an\nauld acquaintance, who appeared to be in very great tribulation. I think,\nindeed, that I never saw a fellow-creature in such visible distress. His\ncountenance was perfectly wofu', and he was wringing his hands like a body\ndementit.\n\n\"'Preserve us, Mr Swanston!' says I, 'what's the matter wi' ye?--has\nonything happened?'\n\n\"'Oh! happened!' said he; 'I'm a ruined man!--I wish that I had never been\nborn!--that I had never drawn breath in this world o' villany! I believe\nI'll do some ill to mysel'.'\n\n\"'Dear me, Mr Swanston!' quoth I, 'I'm sorry to hear ye talk so. It is very\nunchristian-like to hear a body talking o' doing harm to theirsels. There\nis a poet, (Dr Young, if I mistake not,) that says--\n\n    'Self-murder! name it not, our island's shame!'\n\nNow, I dinna like to hear ye talking in such a way; and though I have no\nwish to be inquisitive, I would just beg to ask what it is upon your mind\nthat is making ye unhappy?'\n\n\"'Oh, Mr Middlemiss,' said he, 'it is o' no use telling ye o't, for I\nbelieve that sympathy has left this world, as weel as honesty.'\n\n\"'Ye're no very sure o' that, neighbour,' says I; 'and I dinna think that\nye do mysel' and other people justice.'\n\n\"'Maybe not, sir,' said he; 'but is it not a hard case, that, after I have\ncarried on business for more than twenty years, honestly and in credit wi'\nall the world, that I should have to stop my business to-morrow, for the\nwant o' three hundred pounds?'\n\n\"'It certainly is,' said I, 'a very hard case; but, dear me, Mr Swanston, I\nalways thought that ye would be worth twenty shillings in the pound.'\n\n\"'So I am,' said he; 'I am worth twice twenty, if my things should be put\nup at their real value; but at present I canna command the ready money--and\nthere is where the rock lies that I am to be wrecked upon.'\n\n\"'Assuredly,' returned I, 'three hundred pounds are no bauble. It requires\na person to turn owre a number o' shillings to make them up. But I would\nthink that, you having been so long in business, and always having borne an\nirreproachable character, it would be quite a possible thing for you to\nraise the money amongst your friends.'\n\n\"'Sir,' said he, 'I wouldna require them to raise the money, nor ever to\nadvance or pay a farthing upon my account; all that I require is, that some\nsponsible person, such as yourself, would put their name to a bill for six\nmonths. There would be nothing but the signing o' the name required o'\nthem; and if you, sir, would so far oblige me, ye will save a neighbour\nfrom ruin.'\n\n\"I thought there was something very reasonable in what he said, and that it\nwould be a grand thing if by the mere signing o' my name, I could save a\nfellow-creature and auld acquaintance from ruin, or from raising his hand\nagainst his own life. Indeed, I always felt a particular pleasure in doing\na good turn to onybody. I therefore said to him--\n\n'Weel, Mr Swanston, I have no objections to sign my name, if, as you say,\nthat be all that is in it, and if my doing so will be of service to you.'\n\n\"He grasped hold o' my hand wi' both o' his, and he squeezed it until I\nthought he would have caused the blood to start from my finger ends.\n\n\"'Mr Middlemiss,' said he, 'I shall never be able to repay you for this act\no' kindness. I will feel it in my heart the longest day I have to live.'\n\n\"I was struck with his agitation; in fact, I was very much put about. For\neven a tear upon the face o' a woman distresses me beyond the power o'\nwords to describe; but to see the salt water on the cheeks of a man\nindicates that there is something dreadfully ill at ease about the heart.\nAnd really the tears ran down his face as if he had been a truant\nschool-laddie that had been chastised by his master.\n\n\"'There is no occasion for thanks, Mr Swanston,' said I--'none in the\nworld; for the man would be worse than a heathen, that wouldna be ready to\ndo ten times more.'\n\n\"Weel, he grasped my hand the harder, and he shook it more fervently,\nsaying--'O, sir! sir!--a friend in need is a friend indeed; and such ye\nhave proved to be--and I shall remember it.'\n\n\"That very night we went to a public-house, and we had two half-mutchkins\ntogether; in the course of drinking which, he got out a stamped paper, and\nafter writing something on it, which I was hardly in a condition to read,\n(for my head can stand very little,) he handed it to me, and pointed with\nhis finger where I was to put my name upon the back o't. So I took the pen\nand wrote my name--after which, we had a parting gill, and were both very\ncomfortable.\n\n\"When I went home, Nancy perceiving me to be rather sprung, and my een no\nas they ought to be, said to me--'Where have you been, Nicholas, until this\ntime o' nicht?'\n\n\"'Touts!' said, I, 'what need ye mind? It is a hard maiter that a body\ncanna stir out owre the door but ye maun ask--'where hae ye been?' I'm my\nown maister, I suppose--at least after business hours.'\n\n\"'No doubt o' that, Nicholas,' said she; 'but while ye are your own\nmaister, ye are also my husband, and the faither o' my family, and it\nbehoves me to look after ye.'\n\n\"'Look after yoursel'!' said I, quite pettedly--'for I am always very high\nand independent when I take a glass extra--ye wouldna tak me to be a simple\nman then.'\n\n\"'There is no use in throwing yoursel' into a rage, added she; 'for ye ken\nas weel as me, Nicholas, that ye never take a glass more than ye ought to\ndo, but ye invariably make a fool o' yoursel' by what ye say or do, and\nsomebody or ither imposes on ye. And ye are so vexed with yoursel' the next\nday, that there is nae living in the house wi' ye. Ye wreak a' the shame\nand ill-nature that ye feel on account o' your conduct upon us.'\n\n\"'Nancy!' cried I, striking my hand upon the table, as though I had been an\nemperor, 'what in the name o' wonder do ye mean? Who imposes upon me?--who\ndare?--tell me that!--I say tell me that?' And I struck my hand upon the\ntable again.\n\n\"'Owre mony impose upon ye, my man,' quoth she; 'and I hope naebody has\nbeen doing it the night, for I never saw ye come hame in this key, but that\nsomebody had got ye to do something that ye was to repent afterwards.'\n\n\"'Confound ye, Nancy!' cried I, very importantly whipping up the tails o'\nmy coat in a passion, and turning my back to the fire, while I gied a sort\no' stagger, and my head knocked against the chimley piece--'confound ye,\nNancy, I say, what do ye mean? Simple man as ye ca' me, and as ye tak me to\nbe, do ye think that I am to come home to get naething but a dish o'\ntongues from you! Bring me my supper.'\n\n\"'Oh, certainly, ye shall have your supper,' said she, 'if ye can eat\nit--only I think that your bed is the fittest place for ye. O man,' added\nshe in a lower tone, half speaking to hersel, 'but ye'll be sorry for this\nthe morn.'\n\n\"'What the mischief are ye muttering at?' cried I--'get me my supper.'\n\n\"'Oh, ye shall have that,' said she very calmly, for she was, and is, a\nquiet woman, and one that would put up with a great deal, rather than allow\nher voice to be heard by her neighbours.\n\n\"My head was in a queer state the next day; for ye see I had as good as\nfive glasses, and I never could properly stand above two. I was quite\nashamed to look my wife in the face, and I was so certain that I had been\nguilty o' some absurdity or other, that my cheeks burned just under the\ndread o' its being mentioned to me. Neither could I drive the idea of\nhaving put my name upon the back of the bill from my mind. I was conscious\nthat I had done wrong. Yet, thought I, Mr Swanston is a very decent man; he\nis a very respectable man; he has always borne an excellent character; and\nis considered a good man, both amongst men o' business and in\nsociety--therefore, I have nothing to apprehend. I, according to his own\nconfession, did him a good turn, and I could in no way implicate myself in\nhis transactions by merely putting my name upon the back o' a bit o' paper,\nto oblige him. So I thought within myself, and I became perfectly satisfied\nthat I had done a good action, without in the slightest degree injuring my\nfamily.\n\n\"But just exactly six months and three days afterwards, a clerk belonging\nto a branch o' the Commercial Bank called upon me, and, after making his\nbow, said he--'Mr Middlemiss, I have a bill to present to you.'\n\n\"'A bill!' said I, 'what sort o' a bill, sir? Is it an auctioneer's, for a\nroup o' furniture or a sale o' stock?'\n\n\"He laughed quite good-natured like in my face, and pulling out the bit\nstamped paper that I had been madman enough to sign my name upon the back\no'--'It is that, sir,' said he.\n\n\"'That!' cried I; 'what in the earthly globe have I to do wi' that? It is\nMr Swanston's business--not mine. I only put my name upon the back o't to\n_oblige_ him. Why do ye bring it to me?'\n\n\"'You are responsible, sir,' said the clerk.\n\n\"'Responsible! the meikle mischief!' I exclaimed; 'what am I responsible\nfor, sir?--I only put my name doun to oblige him, I tell ye! For what am I\nresponsible?'\n\n\"'For three hundred pounds, and legal interest for six months,' said my\nunwelcome visiter, wi' a face that shewed as little concern for the\ncalamity in which, through mere simplicity and goodness of heart, I was\ninvolved, as if he had ordered me to take a pipe, and blow three hundred\nsoap-bubbles!\n\n\"'Oh! lack-o'-me!' cried I, 'is that possible? Is Mr Swanston sic a\nvillain? I am ruined--I am clean ruined. Who in all the world will tell\nNancy?'\n\n\"But that I found was a question that I did not need to ask; for she kenned\nalmost as soon as I did mysel'.\n\n\"I need not say that I had the three hundred pounds, ineerest and all,\nplack and farthing, to pay; though, by my folly and simplicity, I had\nbrought my wife and family to the verge o' ruin, she never was the woman to\nfling my silly conduct in my teeth; and all that she ever did say to me\nupon the subject, was--'Weel, Nicholas, this is the first o' your bill\ntransactions, or o' your being caution for onybody, and I trust it has\nproved such a lesson as I hope ye will never need another.'\n\n\"'O Nancy, woman!' cried I, 'dinna speak to me! for I could knock my brains\noot! I am the greatest simpleton upon the face o' the earth.'\n\n\"Now, that was one instance o' my simple conduct and its consequences, and\nI will just relate to you another or two. I had bought some ninety pounds\nworth o' flax from a merchant in Glasgow, for which I was to receive six\nmonths' credit. Weel, he came round for his money at the appointed time,\nand I paid him accordingly, and got a line off his hand in acknowledgment.\nOn that very day, and just about an hour after he had left, Nancy says to\nme--'Nicholas, I dinna owre and aboon like that man that ye hae been\ndealing wi' the day. He has owre muckle gab, and scraping, and bowing for\nme. I wish he may be honest. Have ye got a receipt from him?'\n\n\"'Certainly,' says I; 'do ye think I would pay onybody money without one?'\n\n\"'And I hope it is on a stamp,' said she.\n\n\"'A stamp!' quoth I--'a stamp!--hoots, woman! I wonder to see ye so\nsuspicious. Ye dinna tak a' the world to be rogues?'\n\n\"'No,' said she, 'I do not, and I should be sorry if I did; but if ye hae\ntaken a receipt from him without a stamp, ye are a simple man--that is all\nthat I say.'\n\n'A simple man!' cried I; 'gracious! what does the woman mean? Ye are for\never saying that I am simple this, and simple that! I wish that ye would\nexplain yoursel, and say what ye wish to be after! Where, or how am I\nsimple?'\n\n\"'It's not been one lesson that you've had, Nicholas,' said she, 'nor ten,\nnor twenty either, but it is every week, I may say every day, wi' ye. There\nis perpetually some person or another showing ye that the 'simple man is\nthe beggar's brother,' and ye canna see it, or ye winna regard it. But ye\nwill, perhaps, be brought to think on't, when neither your bairns nor me\nhave a stool to sit upon.'\n\n\"'Woman!' exclaimed I, 'flesh and blood cannot stand your tongue! Ye would\nexasperate the patience o' Job! What is it that ye wish to be after?--what\nwould ye have me to do?'\n\n\"'Oh, it is o' nae use getting into a passion about it,' said she, 'for\nthat winna mend the matter. But there is only this in it, Nicholas: I would\nhave ye to be as sharp in your dealings in the world, as ye are wi' me when\nI happen to speak a word to ye for your good.'\n\n\"There was so much truth in what she said, and she always spoke in such a\ncalm, good-natured manner that it was impossible to continue to be in a\npassion wi' her. So I said no more about the subject; but I thought to\nmysel', that, as I knew very little about the man I had dealt with, it\nwould hae been quite as safe to have had the receipt upon a stamp.\n\n\"A few months afterwards, I saw his name amongst the list o' bankrupts; and\nto my very great astonishment, I received a letter from a writer, demanding\npayment from me o' the ninety pounds for the flax which I had already paid.\n\n\"'The thing is unreasonable a'thegither,' said I; 'here is a man that hasna\npaid once himself, and he would come upon me to pay twice! But I'll see him\nfar enough first!'\n\n\"I paid no attention to the letter, and I was summoned to appear before the\nwriter, and three men that were called the trustees to the bankrupt's\nestate. (Dear kens where the estate lay.)\n\n\"'Sir,' said they to me, as haughtily as if I had been a criminal before\nthem; 'wherefore do ye refuse to pay the ninety pounds?'\n\n\"'For the best o' a' reasons, gentlemen,' said I, very civilly; 'and that\nsimply is, because I have paid it already.'\n\n\"'What proof can you show for that!' asked the writer.\n\n\"'Proof, sir,' said I--'here is a line off the man's own hand,\nacknowledging the payment o' every farthing o' the money.'\n\n\"'Let me look at it,' says he.\n\n\"So, as honesty never needs to be feared for what it does, I handed him the\nbit paper. But after looking at it for a moment, he held it up between his\nfinger and thumb, and wi' a kind o' sarcastic laugh, inquired--'Where is\nthe stamp?'\n\n\"The sweat broke ower me from head to foot. 'Sir, my wife, Nancy! Is that\ndocument, in the handwriting o' the man himsel', not proof positive that I\nhave paid the money?'\n\n\"The writer shook his head; and a gentleman that was standing near me, and\nwho was very probably in a similar predicament to myself, said--'Unstamped\nreceipts, sir, may do very well, where ye find a world o' purely honest\nmen--but they winna do where ye arena sure but ye may be dealing wi' a\nrogue.'\n\n\"'Gentlemen!' cried I, 'have ye really the cruelty and injustice to say\nthat I am to pay that money owre again?'\n\n\"'Owre again or not owre again,' said the writer, 'ye must pay it,\notherwise summary proceedings will be entered against ye. If ye have\nalready paid it in the way ye say, it is only making good the proverb, that\nthe 'simple man is the beggar's brother.'\"\n\n\"'Oh, confound ye!' cried I, 'for a parcel o' unprincipled knaves--that is\nexactly what my wife says; and had I followed her advice, I would ne'er hae\nseen ane o' yer faces.'\n\n\"However, the ninety pounds I had to pay again, doun upon the nail; and\nthat was another o' the beautiful effects o' my simplicity. I didna ken\nhow, in the universal globe, I was to muster courage to look my wife in the\nface again. Yet all that she said was--'O Nicholas! Nicholas!--would ye\nonly be less simple!'\n\n\"'Heigho!' said I, 'dinna talk about it, Nancy--I'm owre grieved as it\nis--I can stand no more!'\n\n\"The loss o' the three hundred pounds, wi' the bill business, and the\nninety just mentioned, made me to stagger, and those that knew about the\ncircumstances wondered how I stood them. But I had just begun a new\nconcern, which was the manufacture o' table-cloths upon a new principle,\nand with exceedingly splendid patterns. I got an extraordinary sale for\nthem, and orders came pouring in upon me. But I had to employ more men to\nfulfil them, and their wages were to pay every Saturday, while the\nremittances did not come in by half so regular as the orders, and I found\nit was not easy to pay men without receiving money for their work. Had I\nbeen a man o' a great capital, the case might have been different. There\nwas one day, however, that a gentleman that had dealt wi' me very\nextensively called upon me, and he gied me a very excellent order. But,\nalthough he had seen a great deal o' my goods, I never had seen the shadow\no' his cash. I canna say that I exactly liked his manner o' doing business;\nyet I couldna, for the breath that was in my body, have the face to say an\nimpertinent thing to ony one, and I was just telling him that his order\nshould be attended to, when my wife, who was sitting in a room off the\nparlour, gave a tap upon the door, and, asking the gentleman to excuse me\nfor a minute, I stepped ben, and I half whispered to her--'What is it,\ndear?'\n\n\"'Has that man spoken about paying ye?' said she.\n\n\"'No,' said I.\n\n\"'But I think it is time he was,' quoth she, 'before ye trust him ony\nfarther. Remember that ye have men's wages to pay, and accounts to pay, and\na wife and family to support, and those things canna be done upon nothing.'\n\n\"'Very true, dearie,' said I; 'but ye wouldna have me to speak abruptly to\nthe gentleman, or to affront him?'\n\n\"'It will affront no gentleman,' replied she--'at least, no honest man--to\nask him for what is your own. Therefore, ask him for your money. Remember,\nNicholas, that the simple man is the beggar's brother.'\n\n\"'O dear, woman!' says I, 'ye ken I dinna like to hear thae words. I'll ask\nthe gentleman to pay me--to be sure I will; and what is the use o' your\nkeeping tease, teasing at a body, just as if I were a simpleton.'\n\n\"So I slipped back to the customer, and, after a few words about his order,\nI said to him--'Sir, ye understand I have men's wages to pay, and accounts\nto pay, and a wife and family to support, and it's no little that does it;\ntherefore, if ye could just oblige me wi' the settlement o' your account,\nit would be a favour.'\n\n\"'My dear Mr Middlemiss,' said he, 'I am extremely sorry that you did not\ninform me that you were in want of cash sooner, as I have just, before I\nsaw you, parted with all I can spare. But, if you be very much in want of\nit, I can give you a note, that is, a bill for the money, at three or six\nmonths. You can get it cashed, you know, and it is only minus the discount,\nand that is not much upon your profits, eh?'\n\n\"'Begging your pardon, sir,' says I, 'but I take I would have my name to\nwrite on the back o't.'\n\n\"'Certainly, sir,' said he, 'you know that follows as a matter of course.'\n\n\"'Yes, sir,' continued I, 'and I have found that it sometimes follows also\nas a matter o' _coercion!_ I never had to do wi' what ye call a bill in my\nlife but once, which was merely writing my name upon the back o't, and that\ncost me three hundred pounds--exactly sixteen pounds, two shillings and\nthreepence, and a fraction, for every letter in the name of Nicholas\nMiddlemiss, as my wife has often told me. Therefore, sir, I would never\nwish to see the _face_ o' a bill again; or, I should say, the _back_ o'\none.'\n\n\"'But, my good sir,' said the gentleman, 'I have told you that it is not\nconvenient for me to give you the cash just now; and, if you won't take my\nbill, why, what do you wish me to do? Do you intend to affront me? Do you\nsuppose I have nothing to attend to but your account?'\n\n\"'Oh, by no means, sir,' said I; 'and it would be the last thing in my\nthoughts either to offend you or ony man. If ye have not the money at\ncommand, I suppose I must take the bill; for I know that cash down is a\nsort o' curiosity, as I sometimes say, and is very difficult to be met\nwi'.'\n\n\"While we were conversing thegither, I heard my wife gie a tap, tap, tap,\ntwice or thrice upon the parlour door, and I was convinced that she\nowreheard us; but I didna take the least notice o' it, for I felt conscious\nthat it would only be to ring the auld sang in my ears, about the simple\nman. So I took the gentleman's bill at six months; and immediately after he\nleft me, Nancy came into the parlour.\n\n\"'Weel,' said she, 'ye've gotten your money.' But she said it wi' a\nscornful air, such as I had never seen her use before, and which caused me\nto feel excessively uncomfortable.\n\n\"'Yes, I've got my money,' says I, 'but, dear me, Nancy, what business is\nit o' yours whether I have got my money or no?'\n\n\"'If it isna my business, Nicholas,' said she, 'I would like to ken whase\nbusiness it is? I am the wife o' your bosom--the mother o' your family--am\nI not? Guidman, ye may take ill what I say to ye, but it is meant for your\ngood. Now, ye hae ta'en the bill o' the man that has just left ye, for four\nhundred and odd pounds! What do ye ken aboot him? Naething!--naething in\nthe blessed world! Ye are a simple man, Nicholas!'\n\n\"'Dinna say that,' said I; 'I am not simple. I told him to his face that I\ndidna like his bills. But ye are like a' women--ye would do wonders if ye\nwere men! But his bill prevents a' disputes about his account--do ye not\nsee that--and I can cash it if I wish.'\n\n\"'Very true,' said she, 'ye can cash it, Nicholas, but upon your own\ncredit, and at your own risk.'\n\n\"'Risk!' said I, 'the woman's a fool to talk in such a manner about an\nevery-day transaction.'\n\n\"'Weel,' answered she, 'not to say that there is the slightest risk in the\nmatter, have ye considered, that, if ye do cash this bill, there will be a\nheavy discount to pay, and if ye pay it, what is to become o' your profits?\nDid ye tell him, that if ye took his bill ye would carry the discount to\nhis next account?'\n\n\"'O Nancy! Nancy!' cried I, 'ye would skin the wind! Just take yoursel'\naway, if ye please; for really ye're tormenting me--making a perfect gowk\no' me, for neither end nor purpose.'\n\n\"'Oh, if that be the way,' said she, 'I can leave ye--but I have seen the\nday when ye thought otherwise o' my company. Yet, the more I see o' your\ntransactions, Nicholas, the more I am convinced in the truth o' the saying,\nthat the simple man is the beggar's brother.'\n\n\"'Sorrow take ye, wife!' cried I, 'will ye really come owre thae words\nagain. Are ye not aware that I detest and abhor them? Have I not said that\nto ye again and again?--and yet ye will repeat them in my hearing? Do ye\nwish to drive me mad?'\n\n\"'I would wish to see ye act,' answered she, 'so that I would ne'er need to\nuse them again.' And, on saying that, she went out o' the room, which to me\nwas a great deliverance.\n\n\"I got the bill cashed, and, to tell ye the plain truth, I also had it to\npay. This was a dreadfu' loss to me; and I found there was naething left\nfor me but so _sit down_,(if ye understand what that means,) as mony a guid\nman has been compelled to do. Hooever, I paid every body seventeen\nshillings and sixpence half-penny in the pound. Some of my creditors said\nit was owre meikle--that I had been simple and wronged mysel'.\n\n\"'I would wish to the utmost o' my power to be honest,' said I; 'and if I\nhae wronged mysel', I hae saved my conscience. If there be naething else\nleft for me noo, as Burns says--\n\n    'Heaven be thankit! I can beg.'\n\n\"My business, hooever, had been entirely at a stand for the space o' sax\nweeks. I had neither journeyman nor apprentice left. My looms, and the hale\napparatus connected wi' the concern, had been sold off, and I had naething\nin the world but a few articles o' furniture, which a freend bought back\nfor me at the sale. I got the loan o' a loom, and in order to support my\nwife and family, I had to sit down to drive the shuttle again. I had\nwrought nane to speak o' for ten years before, and my hands were quite oot\no' use. I made but a puir job o' it. The first week I didna mak aboon\nhalf-a-crown; and that was but a sma' sum for the support o' a wife and\nhalf-a-dozen hungry bairns. Hooever, I was still as simple as ever; and\nthere wasna a wife in the countryside that was a bad payer, but brought her\nweb to Nicholas Middlemiss. I wrought late and early; but though I did my\nutmost, I couldna keep my bairns' teeth gaun. Many a time it has wrung my\nheart, when I hae heard them crying to their mother, clinging round her,\nand pulling at her apron, saying--'Mother, gie's a piece!--Oh just a wee\nbite, mother!'\n\n\"'O my darlings,' she used to say to them, 'dinna ask me for bread the noo.\nI haena a morsel in the house, and hae na siller to buy meal. But yer\nfaither is aboot finished wi' the web, and ye shall hae plenty the nicht.'\n\n\"Then the bits o' dear creatures would hae come runnin' ben to me, and\nasked--'Faither, when will the web be ready?'\n\n\"'Soon, soon, hinnies!' said I, half choked wi' grief and blind wi' tears;\n'haud awa' oot and play yoursels!'\n\n\"For I couldna stand to see them yearning afore me, and to behold want,\nlike a gnawing worm, eating the flesh from their lovely cheeks. Then, when\nI had went out wi' the web, Nancy would say to me--'Noo, Nicholas, remember\nthe situation we're in. There's neither food o' ae description nor anither\nin the house, and ye see the last o' oor coals upon the fire. Therefore,\nafore ye leave the web, see that ye get the money for the working o't.'\n\n\"Yet, scores o' times, even after such admonitions, hae I come hame without\na penny in my pocket. Ane put me aff with ae excuse, and anither wi'\nanither. Some were to ca' and pay me on the Saturday, and others when they\nkilled their pig. But those Saturdays seldom came; and, in my belief, the\npigs are living yet. It used to put me in terror to meet my poor starving\nfamily. The consequence generally was, that Nancy had to go to where I had\ncome frae and request payment hersel'; and, at last, she wadna trust me wi'\nthe taking hame o' the webs.\n\n\"We suffered more than I'm willing to tell aboot, at the period I mention,\nand a' arose oot o' my simpleness. But I was confined to my bed for ten\nweeks, wi' a dreadfu' attack o' rheumatism--it was what was ca'ed a\nrheumatic fever--it reduced me to a perfect anatomy. I was as feckless as a\nhalf-burned thread. Through fatigue, anxiety, and want o' support\nthegither, Nancy also took very ill; and there did we lie to a' appearance\nhastening to the grave. What we suffered, and what our family suffered upon\nthis occasion, no person in a Christian country could believe. But for the\nkindness o' the minister, and some o' oor neebors, we must a' hae perished.\nAs a matter of course we fell sadly back; and when the house rent became\ndue, we had not wherewith to pay it. The landlord distrained us for it. A\nsecond time the few things I had left were put under the hammer o' the\nauctioneer. 'Oh!' said I, 'surely misery and I were born thegither!' For we\nhad twa dochters, the auldest only gaun six, baith lying ill o' the scarlet\nfever in the same bed, and I had to suffer the agony o' beholding the bed\nsold out from under them. It was more than human nature could endure. The\npoor, dear lammies cried--'Faither! mither! dinna let them touch us!' I\ntook the auldest up in my arms, and begged that I micht be allowed a\nblanket to row her in. Nancy took up the youngest one, and while the sale\nwent on, with our dying bairns in our arms, we sat down in the street\nbefore the door, as twa beggars--but we were not begging.\n\n\"Our case excited universal commiseration. A number o' respectable people\nbegan to take an interest in our weelfare; and business came so thick upon\nme that I had to get twa other looms, and found constant employment, not\nonly for my auldest laddie, whom I was bringing up to the business, but\nalso for a journeyman.\n\n\"Just as I was beginning to prosper, hooever, and to get my head aboon the\nwater, there was ane o' my auld creditors to whom I had paid the\ncomposition of seventeen and sixpence halfpenny in the pound, wha was a\nhard-hearted, avaricious sort o' man, and to whom I had promised, and not\nonly promised, but given a written pledge, to pay him the remaining two and\nfivepence halfpenny in the pound, together with interest, in the course of\nsix years. The time was just expiring, when he came to me, and presenting\nthe bit paper, which was in my own handwriting, demanded payment.\n\n\"'Really, sir,' said I, 'I acknowledge that I must pay ye, though everybody\nsaid at the time that I was a very simple man for entering into ony such\nagreement wi' ye; but it is not in my power to pay ye just now. In the\ncourse o' a twalmonth I hope to be able to do it.'\n\n\"'Mr Middlemiss,' said he, as slowly as if he were spelling my name, 'my\nmoney I want, and my money I will have; and have it immediately, too.'\n\n\"'Sir,' said I, 'the thing is impossible; I canna gie ye what I haena got.'\n\n\"'I dinna care for that,' said he; 'if I dinna get it, I shall _get you_.'\n\n\"He had the cruelty to throw me into jail, just as I was beginning to\ngather my feet. It knocked all my prospects in the head again. I began to\nsay it was o' nae use for me to strive, for the stream o' fate was against\nme.'\n\n\"'Dinna say so, Nicholas,' said Nancy, who came on foot twice every week,\na' the way from Langholm, to see me--'dinna say sae. Yer ain simplicity is\nagainst ye--naething else.'\n\n\"Weel, the debt was paid, and I got my liberty. But, come weel, come woe, I\nwas still simple Nicol Middlemiss. Ne'er hae I been able to get the better\no' my easy disposition. It has made me acquainted wi' misery--it has kept\nme constantly in the company o' poverty; and, when I'm dead, if onybody\nerect a gravestane for me, they may inscribe owre it--\n\n    \"THE SIMPLE MAN IS THE BEGGAR'S BROTHER.\"\n\n\n\n\nTALES OF THE EAST NEUK OF FIFE.\n\n\nTHE ROBBERY AT PITTENWEEM AND THE PORTEOUS MOB.\n\nOn the 2nd of March 1736, Andrew Wilson in Pathhead, William Hall in\nEdinburgh, and George Robertson, stabler at Bristo Port there, were\nindicted and accused, at the instance of Duncan Forbes of Culloden, then\nLord Advocate, before the high court of justiciary at Edinburgh, of the\ncrimes of stouthrief housebreaking and robbery, in so far as James Stark,\ncollector of excise in Kirkcaldy, being upon his circuit in collecting that\nrevenue, and having along with him a considerable sum of money collected by\nhim by virtue of his office, upon Friday the 9th day of January then last,\nwas at the house of Margaret Ramsay, relict of Andrew Fowler, excise-office\nkeeper at Pittenweem; and Andrew Wilson having formed a design to rob\nCollector Stark of the money and other effects he had along with him, and\nhaving taken William Hall and George Robertson as associates, they came\ntogether from Edinburgh that morning, and towards evening put up their\nhorses in Anstruther-Easter, in the inn kept by James Wilson, brewer\nthere;[C] and after having had some deliberations upon their intended\nrobbery, leaving their horses there, they went privately on foot to\nPittenweem, and about eleven o'clock that night called at the house of\nWidow Fowler, and under the pretence of drinking, remained there until\nthey were informed, or might reasonably presume Collector Stark was gone to\nbed; and about twelve that night, or one next morning, Andrew Wilson and\nWilliam Hall, or one or other of them, did impudently and in defiance of\nlaw forcibly and with violence break the door of the room where Collector\nStark was lying in bed, and having knocked out the under pannel, Collector\nStark suspecting an attack upon his life, for his safety jumped out at a\nwindow in his shirt; whereupon Andrew Wilson and William Hall, or one or\nother of them, entered the room, and did feloniously carry off bank-notes\nin a pocket-book belonging to Collector Stark, and gold and money in his\npossession to the value of L.200, less or more, and did rob and take away a\npair of pistols, a seal, a penknife, a cloak bag, a pair of silver\nbuckles, a bible, several suits of linens and other goods belonging to\nCollector Stark and in his possession; and when they went out of that room,\ndid divide, disperse of, and distribute the gold, money, and other goods so\nrobbed and taken away at their pleasure. And while the said Andrew Wilson\nand William Hall were committing the foresaid crimes, the said George\nRobertson was standing, sometimes at the door and sometimes at the foot of\nthe stair of said house, as a sentinel and guard, with a drawn cutlass in\nhis hand, to prevent any person from interfering and stopping the said\nviolence and robbery, and did threaten to kill or otherwise intimidate the\nservants of the house when going towards the door of the collector's room;\nand when several of the inhabitants, alarmed by the noise, gathered\ntogether upon the street, and coming towards the door, inquired what was\ngoing on there; he, George Robertson, did treacherously endeavour to\npersuade them not to attempt to enter the house, falsely affirming that he\nhad tried to go up stairs, but being in danger of being shot, he was by\nfear obliged to leave the house. And in order to keep them still amused\nwith his false suggestion of danger by entering the house, having gone\nalong with them into the house of John Hyslop in Pittenweem, he detained\nthem there for some time, until he judged that his associates might have\nmade their escape with their spoil; and soon afterwards William Hall was\nseized in the street of Anstruther-Easter, between twelve and one next\nmorning, being Saturday the 10th January, having several of the goods and a\npurse of gold so robbed in his possession, which he dropped and endeavoured\nto conceal. And they, Andrew Wilson, and George Robertson, having met some\nshort time afterwards in the house of said James Wilson in\nAnstruther-Easter, where they were informed that the house was beset,\nconscious of their own guilt, they, one or other of them, did deliver to\nsaid James Wilson the seal, the penknife, the pair of buckles, some money,\nand other things robbed, telling that if they were found in their\npossession they would be hanged or undone, or words to that purpose,\nexpressing an apprehension of the utmost danger; and immediately thereafter\ngot into bed, as if they had lain all night asleep, where both were\napprehended, and upon the top of which bed were found the bank notes robbed\nfrom Collector Stark, and his pocket-book above another bed in another room\nof the house, &c. Wherefore, on these crimes being confessed or proven, the\nparties ought to be most severely and exemplarily punished with the pains\nof law, in terror of others committing the like in time coming.\n\nThe indictment to the foregoing effect was read--the case debated, and the\nLords ordered both parties to give in informations.\n\nOn the 19th March 1736, the Lords found the libel relevant--but allowed\nGeorge Robertson a proof, with respect to his behaviour at the time stated,\nfor taking off the circumstances tending to infer his being accessory, or\nart and part of the crimes libelled.\n\nA jury was empannelled, and the trial proceeded. To give even notes of the\ndepositions on both sides would exceed our limits. We shall therefore\nmerely select the evidence of two or three witnesses, whose statements will\nserve to form a continuation of our narrative, and pass over the remainder\nas unnecessary for our purpose.\n\nThe first we shall adduce is the collector, the individual robbed.\n\nJames Stark, collector of excise, Kirkcaldy, aged forty-nine years or\nthereby, married, solemnly sworn, purged of malice partial, counsel\nexamined and interrogated, depones time and place libelled--the deponent\nbeing then upon his collection as collector of excise. He went to bed about\nten o'clock, and about an hour and a-half thereafter, he was waked out of\nsleep by a noise and some chapping at the door of the room where he\nlay--which door he had secured before he went to bed by screwing down the\nsneck of the door--which noise the deponent at first imagined was\noccasioned by some drunken people in the house; but afterwards, upon the\nstrokes on the door being repeated with violence, the deponent jumped out\nof his bed, and heard the under part of the door of the bed-room giving\nway, upon which the deponent laid hold upon two bags of money, which, with\nthe deponent's breeches, in which were about L.100 in gold, and bank notes\nand silver, the deponent had put below his head when he went to bed; and\nthe deponent did then, in the confusion in which he was, put the table and\nsome chairs to the back of the door to stap the gap, and thereafter opened\nthe window, and returning to find the bags of money and his breeches, he\ncould only find one of the bags of money, and being in fear of his life, he\njumped out at the window with one of the bags of money, and fell at the\nfoot of the stair, the said window being just above the entry to the house,\nand recovering himself a little, he went towards the corn-yard, and hearing\na person call out \"Hold him,\" the deponent apprehending the voice to be\nbefore him, he returned a few paces, and then perceiving a man standing or\nwalking at the foot of the stair, the deponent returned again to the yard,\nwhere he hid the bag of money, and thereafter coming back towards the house\nto hear what was a-doing, the deponent heard a knocking in the room where\nhe had been lodged, and thereupon retired to the yard again--lay covered\nwith some straw till about four in the morning--and then returning to the\nhouse saw the panel, William Hall, in custody of some soldiers; and the\ndeponent having said to him that he had given him a cold bath that night,\nWilliam Hall answered that he was not to blame, being only hired, and had\nno hand in it, but that Andrew Wilson and George Robertson had come there\nof a design to rob the deponent that night, and that this design had been\nformed several months before by Andrew Wilson, and particularly at the\npreceding collection at Elie; and further depones that soon after the\ndeponent got out of the window as aforesaid, he heard the clock strike\ntwelve; that when the deponent was first awakened out of his sleep as\naforesaid, he heard Mrs Fowler, the landlady, call to the persons who were\nbreaking open the deponent's bed-room, \"What are ye doing?\" or \"Why do ye\nthis?\" and the deponent heard them at the same time cursing and swearing\nand making a great noise; and the deponent having only carried one bag of\nmoney along with him as aforesaid, he left in said bed-room the money and\ngoods following, viz., the deponent's breeches, in which was a purse with\nfifty-two and a-half guineas, betwixt six and seven pounds in silver, and a\npocket-book with one and forty pounds in bank notes, which purse and\npocket-book the deponent exhibits in court; that besides the bank notes,\nthere were several bills and other papers in the pocket-book, and that\nthere was likewise in the deponent's breeches, a seal, a pair of silver\nshoe-buckles, and a penknife, which the deponent likewise exhibits; the\ndeponent likewise left in his room a cloak-bag with some linens in it,\nwhich cloak-bag the deponent likewise exhibits in court; as also a bible, a\npair of pistols, which the deponent likewise exhibits; that upon the\ndeponent returning to his room as aforesaid, he found the door of the room\nbroken up, and saw a press in the room which had been broken up, and found\nhis breeches empty and all the several particulars above enumerated\namissing; and thereafter, about seven o'clock in the morning, the deponent\nhaving gone to Anstruther-Easter, he soon thereafter saw the three panels\nin custody; and the deponent did then see in the hands of the magistrates\nof Anstruther, the seal, the buckles, and penknife above mentioned; depones\nthat upon Monday following, being the 12th of January last, William Hall,\npanel, told the deponent that he had informed Alexander Clerk, supervisor\nof excise, where the purse of gold was to be found, whereupon the deponent\ndesired the supervisor to go in quest of it, which he did, and having found\nit, he restored it to the deponent with the whole gold in it; and that the\nbible was returned to the deponent by one of the soldiers who apprehended\nHall; that on Saturday night the 10th of January, the deponent got back his\npocket-book and bank notes, with the other papers in the said pocket-book,\nfrom Bailie Robert Brown in Anstruther-Easter. _Causa scientiae patet. _And\nthis is truth, as he shall answer to God. (Signed) James Stark; Andrew\nFletcher.\n\nAlexander Clerk, supervisor of excise at Cupar-Fife, being solemnly sworn,\nand depones time and place libelled, the deponent was lodged in the room\nnext to Collector Stark, and went to bed about ten, and was wakened about\ntwelve by persons rapping either at his door or that of the collector's;\nand heard a cry of \"Murder the dogs and burn the house!\" upon which the\ndeponent swore that the first man that came in he would put a pair of balls\nin him. The deponent then put on some of his clothes and got out at a\nwindow at the backside of the house,[D] and walked to Anstruther, about a\nmile, and awakened the serjeant who commanded a small party of soldiers\nthere, and with the serjeant and two of the soldiers set out for\nPittenweem, and left orders for the rest of the party to follow as soon as\npossible. As they passed the entry to Sir John Anstruther's house in\nEaster-Anstruther,[E] they met with some men who having challenged the\ndeponent, \"Who comes there?\" the deponent desired them to give an account\nof themselves, and upon their running off, the deponent ordered the\nsoldiers to seize them, upon which the serjeant with his halbert hooked one\nof them, the rest escaping, which afterwards proved to be William Hall, one\nof the panels, and whom the deponent carried along with him to the excise\noffice at Pittenweem, and having brought him into the house of Mrs Fowler,\nJean Finlay, servant to Mrs Fowler, upon seeing the said Hall, said, \"This\nis the villain that broke my head a little while ago;\" and Thomas Durkie,\nanother servant in the house, said, \"This is one of the persons who robbed\nthe collector the night;\" and the soldiers who brought Hall produced a bag\nof linen and a bible which they said they had taken up as Hall had dropped\nthem by the way; and William Geddes, clerk to the collector, did then say,\n\"This is the collector's bible, and there are his linens,\" whereupon Hall\nconfessed that he had been guilty of robbing the collector; and the\ndeponent thereupon telling Hall that he was now _in for it_, and that the\nbest way for him was to discover the rest, which, if he would do, the\ndeponent would do his endeavours to get him made an evidence, and having\nthen asked if he promised to get him a pardon? depones that he understood\nit so, but does not remember that he used the word _pardon_; upon which\nHall told deponent he would get these other persons whom he named;\nremembers particularly that he named Andrew Wilson, panel, to have been one\nof them. That they had come upon four horses that morning from Kinghorn,\nand that he would find them all in the house of James Wilson in\nAnstruther-Easter, or in a house twenty yards on this side of it, which the\ndeponent understood to be Bailie Andrew Johnston's.[F] By this time the\nrest of the party having come up from Anstruther, the deponent made some\nsearch for the collector, but could not find him, and thereafter the\ndeponent carried up Hall to the room where the collector had lodged, the\ndoor of which he saw broken in the under part, and left Hall prisoner there\nin custody of some of the soldiers and the rest of the party, and Thomas\nDurkie and William Geddes. The deponent then went east to Anstruther in\nsearch of the rest of the robbers, and having surrounded the house of James\nWilson there, he found three men in a room there, viz., Andrew Wilson and\nGeorge Robertson, panels, and one John Friar, and having shown them to the\nabove Thomas Durkie, he declared that they were two of the persons who had\nrobbed the collector; upon which the deponent having applied to Bailies\nRobert Brown and Philip Millar, both in Anstruther-Easter, he got the\naccused committed to prison; and further depones that as the panels were\nbeing carried prisoners to Edinburgh, and while they were halting at\nKirkcaldy, the deponent asked George Robertson, panel, what was become of\nthe collector's purse of gold, George answered that Andrew Wilson, the\nother panel, told him that William Hall got the purse; upon which the\ndeponent inquired at Hall about it, and added that unless he confessed and\ndiscovered where the purse was, he could not expect that the promises made\nwould be kept to him; when after some entreaty Hall told deponent that he\nhad dropped it upon being seized in a wet furr near a dung-hill, and\naccordingly the deponent went back to Pittenweem, and upon application to\nBailie Andrew Fowler, of Pittenweem, and in his presence the purse was\nfound near to a dung-hill between Anstruther-Wester and Pittenweem, in the\nspot described by Hall, with fifty-two guineas and a-half in it, which\npurse and gold was given to the deponent, and the purse exhibited in court\nbeing shown to him, he thinks it is the very same purse. And all this is\ntruth, as he shall answer to God. (Signed) Alexander Clerk; Andrew\nFletcher.\n\nJohn Galloway, servant to Patrick Galloway, horse-hirer in Kinghorn, aged\ntwenty-six, depones that at the time libelled, William Hall came to the\ndeponent's master's house in Kinghorn, and desired him to get two horses,\none for himself and one for the deponent, telling him that they were going\nto Anstruther to get some brandy; and that George Robertson and Andrew\nWilson were to be their masters and pay their expenses; and desired him to\ngo to the houses where they then were. The deponent having gone\naccordingly, and spoken to the said persons, George Robertson desired to\nget their horses ready, and Hall and the deponent to go before and they\nwould overtake them; that about six o'clock at night they came to\nAnstruther-Easter, and set up their horses in James Wilson's house, where\nhe found Andrew Wilson before him; and after they put up their horses they\nwent to Andrew Johnston's there, where they found Robertson and Wilson\ndrinking punch. Depones that the three panels and the deponent went from\nAnstruther to Pittenweem on foot, between ten and eleven o'clock at night.\nDepones that when they came to Pittenweem, he (the deponent), Hall, and\nWilson went into a house, but does not know the name of the landlord, where\nthey drank a bottle of ale, and it was agreed while they were there that\nRobertson and the other panel should walk on the street; that when they\ncame out of that house, the three panels and the deponent went to Widow\nFowler's house, where they drank some ale and brandy. Andrew Wilson having\nasked the landlady if she could lodge any casks of brandy for him, she\ndesired him to speak low, because the collector was in the house; upon\nwhich Wilson said, Is he here? She answered, he was. Robertson, the panel,\ncalled for a reckoning, and all four went down stairs, at least went to the\nstair-head. Robertson, Hall, and the deponent went out to the street, and\nas the maid was going to shut the outer door, Andrew Wilson pushed it open\nand went in, upon which the deponent and William Hall went in also; and\nGeorge Robertson drew his cutlass and stood at the outer door, saying that\nno person should go out or in of that house but upon the point of that\nweapon. Depones when they went in to the house they saw Andrew Wilson\nstanding at the door of the room where the collector was lodged, and the\nlower part of the door broken; that upon seeing the door broken, he, the\ndeponent, asked Wilson what it meant? or what he would be at? to which\nWilson answered, that he had lost a great deal of money, and understood\nthat there was some of it there, and was resolved to have it back again;\nupon which the deponent said to him, that he would have nothing to do in\nthe matter. Depones that after the door of the collector's room was broken\nopen as aforesaid, Andrew Wilson went into the room, and brought out a pair\nof breeches, and shewing them to the deponent, said, \"Here is a good deal\nof money;\" the deponent telling him that he would have nothing to do with\nit, the said Andrew took out several handfuls of money, and put it into the\ndeponent's pocket; which money, except a few shillings, the deponent\ndelivered back to the said Andrew Wilson in the house of James Wilson in\nAnstruther. Depones that Andrew Wilson went again into the room, and\nbrought out a cloak-bag, which he desired the deponent to carry, which he\nrefused to do. The said Andrew then carried the cloak-bag himself, till\nthey came to the end of the town, together with a pair of pistols, which he\nthen delivered to William Hall, who carried it half way to Anstruther, and\nthen Andrew Wilson desired Hall to set it down, that they might see if\nthere was any bank-notes in it; and Hall, having opened the cloak-bag, took\nout some linens and a bible, which he stowed about himself. That at the\nsame time he saw Andrew Wilson take out of his pocket the pocket-book, out\nof which he took several bank-notes and put in his pocket, and then threw\nthe pocket-book on the floor. Depones that Andrew Wilson and the deponent\nwent out of Wilson's house, and threw one of the pistols and some linens\nwhich they had brought from Pittenweem in among some straw in a barn-yard;\nthereafter the deponent, Bailie Thomas Brown, Anstruther-Easter, and some\nsoldiers, went to the place where the cloak-bag was left, and to the\nbarn-yard where the pistols and linen were thrown, where they were all\nfound. Being further examined, depones that as Wilson and Hall and the\ndeponent were on the road from Pittenweem to Anstruther, a little to the\nwest of Sir John Anstruther's house, they met Mr Clerk, the supervisor, and\nsome soldiers, who, having challenged him who they were, one of the\nsoldiers seized Hall with his halbert, upon which Andrew Wilson and the\ndeponent made their escape. Depones that the cutlass now produced is the\nsame that George Robertson had in his hand at Widow Fowler's house. _Causa\nscienticae patet._ And this is truth, as he shall answer to God, and depones\nhe cannot write. (Signed) James Mackenzie.\n\nUpon the indictment against the panels being read in court, they all pled\n\"Not guilty,\" and certain defences were offered for them.\n\nAnd first, in opposition to what the indictment alleged with regard to\nAndrew Wilson having formed a design to rob Collector Stark, and having\ntaken Hall and Robertson, his associates, from Edinburgh that morning, it\nwas stated that they did not set out from Edinburgh in company, but met\nupon the water in the passage between Leith and Kinghorn, where two of\nthem, Wilson and Hall, were passing in a yawl, and Robertson was crossing\nin a passage boat; that instead of leaving Edinburgh and going to the East\nNeuk on the criminal design libelled, they had each of them lawful business\nin that part of the country, viz., for buying goods in which they\nordinarily dealt, and which it was neither criminal nor capital to buy and\nsell; and particularly George Robertson, who kept an inn near Bristo Port\nin Edinburgh, where the Newcastle carriers commonly put up; that having\noccasion to buy liquors in the east of Fife, he agreed to take share of a\ncargo with Andrew Wilson, and with that view got a letter of credit from\nFrancis Russell, druggist addressed to Bailie Andrew Waddell, Cellardyke,\nfor the value of L50 sterling; and further, he carried with him an accepted\nbill of John Fullerton in Causeyside, to the like extent, as a fund of\ncredit for the goods he might buy; and William Hall, the third panel, was a\npoor workman in Edinburgh, commonly attending the weigh-house, who was\ncarried along to take care of and fetch home the goods; that accordingly,\nas soon as they came to Anstruther, and put up their horses at James\nWilson's, they went to a respectable man, Bailie Johnston, and bought goods\nto the value of L46 10s., and whilst making the bargain they drank some\nquantity of liquor; that after this, not finding at Anstruther all the\nsorts of liquor they wanted to purchase, they went on foot to Pittenweem,\nwhen they first went to the house of ---- Drummond, another respectable\nmerchant, and drank some time with him, desiring to buy some brandy of him,\nbut he told them he could not furnish them at that time; that after this\nthe panels went into the house of Widow Fowler, where, calling for a room,\nthey were shown into the kitchen, and inquired at the landlady if she could\nfurnish them any place for lodging the goods they had bought, and there\nthey drank both ale and punch, till, with what they had got before at\ndifferent places, they became all very drunk; that at this place it was\ntold by the landlady or servants, in conversation, that there was money to\na considerable value in the next room, and if any part of the facts\nlibelled were committed by the panels, Wilson and Hall, it must have been\ndone upon occasion of this purely accidental information, when they were\ninsane from strong drink: it was more like a drunken frolic than a\npreconcerted robbery. As a further evidence of this fact, it appeared by\nthe libel itself that they acted like persons in such a condition; for\nthey, as well as the other panel Robertson, were all seized in an hour or\ntwo thereafter, before the effects of the liquor had worn off, and before\nthey had time to come to themselves, and without any of them taking the\nmost rational and obvious measures to make their escape.\n\nAs to the case of George Robertson, it is not said that the inhabitants\ngathered together upon the streets, came there to save or rescue what was\ncontained in the room; on the contrary, it was admitted on debate that the\ninhabitants of small coast towns are not very ready on these occasions to\nlend their assistance to the officers of justice; and if George Robertson\nhad truly said to the persons whom he met on the street that he was by fear\nobliged to leave the house, it might very possibly have been true, and an\nargument of his innocence, and therefore ought not to be turned into a\ncircumstance of his guilt.\n\nOur space will not admit of further argument. Suffice it to say that the\njury unanimously found Andrew Wilson and William Hall guilty, and George\nRobertson art and part on the crimes libelled; and the Lords of Justiciary\npassed sentence of death on all three, which sentence they appointed to be\nexecuted on Wednesday the 14th of April 1736.\n\nLeaving the criminals in the condemned cells, where they are to remain five\nweeks before being executed, let us, in the meanwhile, in order to the\nbetter understanding the case, and forming a clearer opinion in reference\nto the nature and origin of the Porteous mob--one of the most extraordinary\nevents recorded in history, and which arose out of the trial and sentence\nagainst Andrew Wilson and the others before narrated--let us endeavour to\ngive a brief sketch of Mr Porteous' history, from his birth till the time\nof which we write, namely, the recording of the sentence of death against\nWilson and his associates.\n\nJohn Porteous, one of the captains of the Edinburgh City Guard, was son of\nStephen Porteous, a tailor in Canongate. The father held a fair character,\nand was esteemed a good honest man in the whole conduct of his life, his\ngreatest misfortune was his having such a son as John.\n\nThe father early discovered in his son a perverseness of nature, and a\nproneness to commit mischievous and more than childish tricks. The mother,\nout of a blind affection for her child, took them all for growing proofs of\nspirit and manliness, and as marks of an extraordinary and sprightly\ngenius.\n\nThus the family were divided upon the education of the son, and from being\noften thwarted in his measures about him, the father lost his authority,\nand for the peace of his family winked at the faults which the good man saw\nit his duty to correct. The loss of parental authority begot want of filial\nregard, so that the boy, shooting up with these vicious habits and\ndisregard of the father, advanced from reproaches and curses to blows,\nwhenever the unfortunate old man ventured to remonstrate against the folly\nand madness of his son's conduct.\n\nThe mother saw, when it was too late, what her misguided affection had\nproduced, and how to her fond love in childhood the man made the base\nreturn of threatening language and the utmost disregard; for he proved too\nhard for both father and mother at last.\n\nThe father having a good business, wanted John to learn his trade of a\ntailor, both because it was easiest and cheapest for the old man, and a\nsure source of good living for the son, whether he began business for\nhimself or waited to succeed the father after his death; but as he grew up\nhis evil habits increased, and at last when checked by his father in his\nmad career, he almost put the good old man to death by maltreatment.\n\nAt last, provoked beyond all endurance, the father resolved to rid himself\nof him by sending him out of the country, and managed to get him engaged to\nserve in the army under the command of Brigadier Newton.\n\nWhile in Flanders, he saw, in passing along with one of his brother\nsoldiers, a hen at a little distance covering her chickens under her wings,\nand out of pure wanton and malicious mischief he fired his musket and shot\nthe hen. The poor woman to whom it belonged, startled by the shot, went out\nand saw her hen dead; and following the young soldier, asked him to pay the\nprice of the hen and chickens, for both were lost to her, and they formed a\ngreat part of her means of subsistence; but the unfeeling youth would not\ngive her a farthing--threatening if she annoyed him he would send her after\nher hen; upon which the injured old woman predicted, \"that as many people\nwould one day gaze in wonder on his lifeless body as that hen had feathers\non hers.\"\n\nYoung Porteous afterwards left the army and returned to London, where he\nwrought for some time as a journeyman tailor; but his evil habits brought\nhim to poverty, and he was found in rags by a friend of his father's, who\nwrote to the old man to remit L10 to clothe him and defray his travelling\ncharges to Edinburgh, which, moved by the compassion of a father, he did,\nand when John appeared, the kind-hearted old man received him with tears of\njoy, and embraced him with all the warmth of paternal affection. Vainly\nhoping that his son was a reformed man, he gave up his business to him, and\nagreed that he should only have a room in the house and his maintenance and\nclothes.\n\nYoung Porteous, thus possessed of the house and trade of his father, and of\nall his other goods and effects, began by degrees to neglect and maltreat\nthe old man, first, by refusing him a fire in his room in the middle of\nwinter, and even grudging him the benefit of the fire in the kitchen. In\naddition to this, he disallowed him a sufficiency of victuals, so that he\nwas in danger of being starved to death with cold and hunger. In this\nunhappy condition he applied for admission into the Trinity Hospital.\n\nJohn Porteous having been for some time in the army, and being known to be\npossessed of no small courage and daring, was selected by John Campbell,\nlord provost of Edinburgh, in the memorable year 1715, to be drill-sergeant\nof the city-guard, as it became necessary to have the guard well\ndisciplined and made as effective as possible in that eventful period, for\nthe support of the government and the protection of Edinburgh. In this\noffice he discharged his duty remarkably well, and was often sent for by\nthe lord provost to report what progress his men made in military\ndiscipline. This gave him an opportunity of meeting sometimes with a\ngentlewoman who had the charge of the lord provost's house and family, with\nwhom he fell deeply in love; after paying his addresses for some time, and\nproposing to her, he was accepted, and they were married. From a grateful\nsense of her services, as well as from a conviction of Porteous's ability\nfor the office, the lord provost proposed that John Porteous should be\nelected one of the captains of the city-guard, and it was agreed to.\n\nThis was a situation of trust and respectability, and would have enabled\nthe young couple to live in comfort and ease if the husband had conducted\nhimself properly. The gentlewoman was a person of virtue and merit, but was\nunlucky in her choice of a husband--Porteous was no better a husband than\nhe had been a son. They were not long married when he began to ill-use her.\nHe dragged her out of bed by the hair of the head, and beat her to the\neffusion of blood. The whole neighbourhood were alarmed sometimes at\nmidnight by her shrieks and cries; so much so, indeed, that a lady living\nabove them was obliged, between terms, to take a lodging elsewhere for her\nown quiet. Mrs Porteous was obliged to separate from her husband, and this\nwas her requital for having been the occasion of his advancement.\n\nHis command of the city-guard gave him great opportunities of displaying\nhis evil temper, and manifesting his ungovernable passions. Seldom a day\npassed but some of his men experienced his severity. The mob on all public\noccasions excited his naturally bad temper; and on all days of rejoicing,\nwhen there was a multitude from the country as well as from the town, the\npeople were sure to experience offensive and tyrannical treatment from him.\nThe hatred and terror of him increased every year, and his character as an\nimmoral man was known to everybody, so that he was universally hated and\nfeared by the lower orders both in town and country.\n\nThis was the position in which Captain Porteous stood with the people when\nhe was called upon to take charge of the execution of the law in reference\nto Andrew Wilson, whose case it has been thought proper to detail before\nproceeding to narrate the extraordinary events that followed, and which,\nindeed, partly serves to explain the cause of these events.\n\nWe have stated that Andrew Wilson, George Robertson, and William Hall, were\ncondemned by the High Court of Justiciary to die on Wednesday the 14th of\nApril 1736. Hall was reprieved, but Wilson and Robertson were left to\nsuffer the extreme penalty of the law. A plan was concocted to enable them\nto escape out of the Tolbooth, by sawing the iron bars of the window; but\nWilson, who is described as a \"round, squat man,\" stuck fast, and before he\ncould be disentangled the guard were alarmed. It is said that Robertson\nwished to attempt first the escape, and there is little doubt he would have\nsucceeded, but he was prevented by Wilson, who obstinately resolved that he\nhimself should hazard the experiment. This circumstance seems to have\noperated powerfully on the mind of the criminal, who now accused himself as\nthe more immediate cause of his companion's fate. The Tolbooth stood near\nto St Giles' Church; it was customary at that time for criminals to be\nconducted on the last Sunday they had to live to church to hear their last\nsermon preached, and, in accordance with this practice, Wilson and\nRobertson were, upon Sunday the 11th of April, carried from prison to the\nplace of worship. They were not well settled there, when Wilson boldly\nattempted to break out, by wrenching himself out of the hands of the four\narmed soldiers. Finding himself disappointed in this, his next care was to\nemploy the soldiers till Robertson should escape; this he effected by\nsecuring two of them in his arms, and after calling out, \"_Run, Geordie,\nrun for your life_!\" snatched hold of a third with his teeth. Thereupon\nRobertson, after tripping up the heels of the fourth soldier, jumped out of\nthe pew, and ran over the tops of the seats with incredible agility, the\naudience opening a way for him sufficient to receive them both; in hurrying\nout at the south gate of the church, he stumbled over the collection money.\nThence he reeled and staggered through the Parliament Close, and got down\nthe back stairs, which have now disappeared, often stumbling by the way,\nand thus got into the Cowgate, some of the town-guard being close after\nhim. He crossed the Cowgate, ran up the Horse Wynd, and proceeded along the\nPotterrow, the crowd all the way covering his retreat, and by this time\nbecome so numerous, that it was dangerous for the guard to look after him.\nIn the Horse Wynd there was a horse saddled, which he would have mounted,\nbut was prevented by the owner. Passing the Crosscauseway, he got into the\nKing's Park, and took the Duddingstone road, but seeing two soldiers\nwalking that way, he jumped the dyke and made for Clear Burn. On coming\nthere, hearing a noise about the house, he stopt short, and, repassing the\ndyke, he retook the route for Duddingstone, under the rocks. When he\ncrossed the dyke at Duddingstone, he fainted away; but, after receiving\nsome refreshment, the first he had tasted for three days, he passed out of\ntown, and, soon after getting a horse, he rode off, and was not afterwards\nheard of, notwithstanding a diligent search.\n\nUpon Robertson's getting out of the church door, Wilson was immediately\ncarried out without hearing sermon, and put in close confinement to prevent\nhis escape, which the audience seemed much inclined to favour.\n\nNotwithstanding his surprising escape, Robertson came back about a\nfortnight afterwards, and called at a certain house in the neighbourhood of\nEdinburgh. Being talked to by the landlord touching the risk he ran by his\nimprudence, and told that, if caught, he would suffer unpitied as a madman,\nhe answered, that as he thought himself indispensably bound to pay the last\nduties to his beloved friend, Andrew Wilson, he had been hitherto detained\nin the country, but that he was determined to steer another course soon. He\nwas resolved, however, not to be hanged, pointing to some weapons he had\nabout him.\n\nIt was strongly surmised that plots were laid for favouring Wilson's\nescape. It was well known that no blood had been shed at the robbery; that\nall the money and effects had been recovered, except a mere trifle; that\nWilson had suffered severely in the seizure of his goods on several\noccasions by the revenue officers; and that, however erroneous the idea, he\nthought himself justified in making reprisals. Besides, Wilson's conduct\nhad excited a very great sympathy in his favour; and the crime for which he\nwas condemned was considered very venial at that time by the populace, who\nhated the malt-tax, and saw no more harm in smuggling, or in robbing a\ncollector of excise, than in any matter of trifling importance. The\nmagistrates of Edinburgh, in order to defeat all attempts at a rescue,\nlodged the executioner the day previous in the Tolbooth, to prevent his\nbeing carried off; the sentinels were doubled outside the prison; the\nofficers of the trained bands were ordered to attend the execution,\nlikewise the city constables with their batons; the whole city-guard,\nhaving ammunition distributed to them, were marched to the place of\nexecution with screwed bayonets, and, to make all sure, at desire of the\nlord provost, a battalion of the Welch Fusiliers, commanded by commissioned\nofficers, marched up the streets of the city, and took up a position on\neach side of the Lawnmarket; whilst another body of that corps was placed\nunder arms at the Canongate guard. A little before two o'clock, Porteous\ncame to receive Wilson, the prisoner, from the captain of the city prison.\nHe was in a terrible rage, first against Wilson, who had affronted his\nsoldiers, and next against the mob, who were charmed with Wilson's generous\naction in the church, and had favoured Robertson's escape. They are always\non the side of humanity and mercy, unless they are engaged themselves.\nPorteous was also infuriated because the Welch Fusiliers had been brought\nto the Canongate, as if he and his guard had not been sufficient to keep\ndown any riot within the city. The manacles were too little for Wilson's\nwrists, who was a strong, powerful man; when the hangman could not make\nthem meet, Porteous flew furiously to them, and squeezed the poor man, who\ncried piteously during the operation, till he got them to meet, to the\nexquisite torture of the miserable prisoner, who told him he could not\nentertain one serious thought, so necessary to one in his condition, under\nsuch intolerable pain. \"No matter,\" said Porteous, \"your torment will soon\nbe at an end.\" \"Well,\" said Wilson, \"you know not how soon you may be\nplaced in my condition; God Almighty forgive you as I do.\"\n\nThis cruel conduct of Porteous' still more embittered the minds of the\npopulace, who were sufficiently exasperated against him before, and the\nreport of it was soon spread over town and country.\n\nPorteous conducted Wilson to the gallows, where he died very penitent, but\nexpressing more sorrow on account of the common frailties of life, than the\ncrime for which he suffered. His body was given to his friends, who carried\nit over to Pathhead in Fife, where it was interred; George Robertson\nhaving, as we have seen, rashly attended the funeral before going abroad.\n\nDuring the melancholy procession of the criminal and his guard, accompanied\nby the magistrates, ministers, and others from the Old Tolbooth, which\nstood in the Lawnmarket, to the scaffold, which was placed in the\nGrassmarket, there was not the slightest appearance of a riot, nor after\nWilson had been suspended, until life was extinct, did the least\nmanifestation of disturbance occur on the part of a vast crowd of people\ncollected from town and country to witness the execution. The magistrates\nof Edinburgh had retired from the scaffold to a house close by--concluding,\nwith reason, that as all was over with poor Wilson, no disturbance could\nthen happen, and the executioner was actually on the top of the ladder,\ncutting Wilson down, when a few idle men and boys began to throw pebbles,\nstones, or garbage at him (a common practice at that time,) thinking he was\ntreating the affair rather ludicrously; whereupon Captain Porteous, who was\nin very bad humour, became highly incensed, and instantly resented, by\ncommanding the city-guard, without the slightest authority from the\nmagistrates, and without reading the riot act or proclamation according to\nlaw, to fire their muskets, loaded with ball, and by firing his own fuzee\namong the crowd, by which four persons were killed on the spot, and eleven\nwounded, many of them dangerously, who afterwards died. The magistrates,\nministers, and constables, who had retired to the first storey of a house\nfronting the street, were themselves in danger of being killed, a ball, as\nwas discovered afterwards, having grazed the side of the window where they\nstood. The lord provost and magistrates immediately convened, and ordered\nCaptain Porteous to be apprehended and brought before them for examination;\nafter taking a precognition, his lordship committed Porteous to close\nimprisonment for trial for the crime of murder; and, next day, fifteen\nsentinels of the guard were also committed to prison, it clearly appearing,\nafter a careful examination of the firelocks of the party, that they were\nthe persons who had discharged their pieces among the crowd.\n\nOn the 25th of March 1736, Captain Porteous was put on trial, at the\ninstance of the lord-advocate of Scotland, before the High Court of\nJusticiary, for the murder of Charles Husband, and twelve other persons, on\nthe 14th of April preceding, being the day of the execution of Andrew\nWilson; and after sundry steps of procedure, having been found, by the\nunanimous voice of the jury, guilty, he was, on the 20th of July following,\nsentenced to suffer death in the Grassmarket of Edinburgh, on Wednesday the\n8th of September in the same year--that was, about five months after\nWilson's execution.\n\nOn the 26th of August, the Duke of Newcastle, one of the secretaries of\nstate, wrote a letter to the right honourable the lord justice-general,\njustice-clerk, and other lords of justiciary, of which the following is a\ncopy:--\"My lords, application having been made to her Majesty[G] in the\nbehalf of John Porteous, late captain-lieutenant of the city-guard of\nEdinburgh, a prisoner under sentence of death in the gaol of that city, I\nam commanded to signify to your lordships her Majesty's pleasure, that the\nexecution of the sentence pronounced against the said John Porteous be\nrespited for six weeks from the time appointed for his execution. I am, my\nlords, your lordships' most obedient, humble servant, (Signed) Holles,\nNewcastle.\"\n\nOn receipt of this letter, the lords of justiciary granted warrant to the\nmagistrates of Edinburgh for stopping the execution of Porteous till the\n20th day of October following.\n\nThe effect of this respite on the minds of the people of Scotland was to\ninduce the belief that the government did not intend to carry out the\nsentence of death against Porteous at all--that it was merely a\npreliminary step to his pardon and liberation--and that, so far from\ncondemning him, the government had rather taken up a prejudice against the\ntown of Edinburgh, on account of the proceedings, and in some measure\nagainst all Scotland. A number of persons, therefore, who were never\ndiscovered, resolved to take the matter into their own hands, and on the\n7th of September 1736, a body of strangers, supposed to be from the\ncounties of Fife, Stirling, Perth, and Dumfries, many of them landed\ngentlemen, entered the West Port of Edinburgh between nine and ten o'clock\nat night, and having seized the Portsburgh drummer by the way, brought\nalong his drum with them, and his son. Some of them advancing up into the\nGrassmarket, commanded the drummer's son to beat to arms. They then called\nout, \"Here! all those who dare to avenge innocent blood!\" This probably\nwas a signal for their associates to fall in. It was followed by instantly\nshutting up the gates of the city, posting guards at each, and flying\nsentinels at all places where a surprise might be expected, while a\nseparate detachment threw themselves upon and disarmed the city-guard; and\nseizing the drum, beat about the High Street to notify their success so\nfar at least. At that instant, a body of them proceeded to the Tolbooth,\ncalled for the keeper, and finding he was gone, fell a-breaking the door\nwith fore-hammers; but making no great progress in that way, they got\ntogether a parcel of dried broom, whins, with other combustibles, and\nheaps of timber, and a barrel of pitch, all previously provided for the\npurpose, and taking the flambeaux or torches from the city officers, they\nset fire to the pile. When the magistrates appeared, they repulsed them\nwith showers of stones, and threatened, if they continued in the streets\nand offered resistance, they would discharge platoons of fire-arms among\nthem; and it is even reported they placed sentinels on the magistrates to\nwatch their motions.\n\nUpon the prison door taking fire, two gentlemen made up to the rioters, and\nremonstrated with them on the imminent danger of setting the whole\nneighbourhood on fire, insinuating that this outrage was likely to be\ndeeply resented, and might bring them to trouble; to which it was answered\nthat they should take care no damage should be done to the city, and that\nas to the rest, they knew their business, and that they (the gentlemen)\nmight go about theirs.\n\nBefore the prison door was burnt down, several persons rushed through the\nflames, ran up stairs, demanded the keys from the keepers; and though they\ncould scarcely see one another for the smoke, got into Captain Porteous'\napartment, calling, \"Where is the murdering villain?\" He is said to have\nanswered, \"Gentlemen, I am here; but what are you going to do with me?\"\nWhen they answered, \"We are to carry you to the place where you shed so\nmuch innocent blood, and hang you.\" He begged for mercy, but they instantly\nseized and pulled him to the door in his bed-gown and cap; and as he\nstruggled, they caught him by the legs and dragged him to the foot of the\nstair, while others set all the rest of the prisoners in the Tolbooth at\nliberty. As soon as Porteous was brought to the street, he was set on his\nfeet, and some seized him by the breast, while others pushed behind. He was\nthus conducted to the Bow-head, where they stopped a moment, at the\npressing solicitation of some of the citizens, on the pretence that he\nmight die peaceably, but really that time might be gained, as they expected\nthe Welch Fusiliers every moment from the Canongate, or that the garrison\nof the Castle would come to Porteous' relief. By this time some who\nappeared to be the leaders in the enterprise ordered him to march, and he\nwas hurried down the Bow and to the gallows stone, where he was to\nkneel,--to confess his manifold sins and wickedness, particularly the\ndestruction of human life he had committed in that place, and to offer up\nhis petitions to Almighty God for mercy on his soul. After which, in a very\nfew minutes, he was led to the fatal tree. A halter being wanting, they\nbroke open a shop in the Grassmarket, and took out a coil of ropes, for\nwhich they left a guinea on the counter,[H] and threw the one end over a\ndyer's cross-trees close by the place of execution. On seeing the rope,\nPorteous made remonstrances, and caught hold of the tree, but being\ndisengaged they set him down, and as the noose was about to be put over his\nhead, he appeared to gather fresh spirit, struggling and wrenching his head\nand body. Here again some citizens appeared for him, telling that the\ntroops being now in full march, they must all expect to be sacrificed, and\nthat the artillery of the Castle would doubtless be discharged among them.\nThey answered, \"No man will die till his time come.\"\n\nAbout a quarter of an hour before twelve they put the rope about his neck,\nand ordered him to be pulled up; which being done, observing his hands\nloose, he was let down again; after tying his hands he was hauled up a\nsecond time, but after a short space, having wrought one of his arms loose,\nhe was let down once more, in order to tie it up and cover his face.\nStripping him of one of the shirts he had on, they wrapped it about his\nhead, and got him up a third time with loud huzzas and a ruff of the drum.\nAfter he had hung a long time, they nailed the rope to the tree; then\nformally saluting one another, grounding their arms, and another ruff of\nthe drum, they separated, retired out of town, and numbers of them were\nseen riding off in bodies well mounted to different quarters, leaving the\nbody hanging till near five next morning.\n\nNeither the two gentlemen who conversed with the rioters at the Tolbooth,\nnor those who were sent out by the magistrates to see if they knew any of\nthem, could say they had ever seen any one of them before, though the\nflames of the fire at the Tolbooth door rendered it as light as noonday;\nso that it was generally believed no citizen acted any principal part in\nthe tragedy; though, indeed, it is certain that many of the burgesses and\ninhabitants of Edinburgh, led by curiosity, went to the streets to behold\nthe surprising boldness and incredible extravagance of the scene.\n\nUpon the whole, it would seem that the rioters were a body of gentlemen and\nothers in disguise, some having masons' aprons, others joiners', fleshers',\nshoemakers', dyers', and those of other trades, who had concerted their\nplot with judgment, conducted it with secresy, executed it with resolution\nand manly daring, and completed the whole in the short space of two hours\nwith unparalleled success.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[C] The inn or house here referred to is now demolished. It was a back\nhouse which stood behind Mr Thomas Foggo's shop, through which there was a\npassage or entry to it; and from its concealed and backlying situation, it\nwould seem to have been a very likely place for smugglers to resort to with\ntheir contraband goods. And here it may be remarked, that less than 100\nyears ago, smuggling was very prevalent in the east of Fife; almost every\nmerchant and trader in the east coast burghs, and farmers from St Andrews\nall along the southeast coast, were less or more concerned in the\nimportation of brandy, gin, teas, silks, and tobacco, &c. The penalties at\none time were only the forfeiture of the goods seized, and if one vessel's\ncargo escaped out of two or three, it was a profitable trade. The measures\nof Government were then thought to be so stringent and despotic, that men\nof principle, of probity, and integrity in all other respects, manifested\ngreat obliquity of vision in viewing the traffic in smuggled goods, and\nfelt no compunctious visitings in embarking in that trade. In the better\nclass of houses in the district, hiding holes and places of concealment\nwere always to be found, and some of these places are only now being\ndiscovered. It is not many years since, that an honest man in Pittenweem,\nwhile employed in his cellar, fell down into a large concealment capable of\nholding a great many ankers of spirits and boxes of tea, of which he\npreviously knew nothing.\n\n[D] The window referred to is still pointed out. It is that at the back of\nthe house on the second storey, and is near the north-east corner of the\ntenement.\n\n[E] Anstruther House, which stood a little west, on the opposite side of\nthe road, to Mr Russell's printing office, was demolished in 1811.\nAccording to Miss Strickland, Queen Mary passed a night in it; and it is a\nwell established fact that King Charles II. lodged a night there in 1651.\n\n[F] Bailie Johnston's house was that now occupied by Mr William Russell,\nwith the brewery behind the same. It was formerly a house of one storey,\nand was rebuilt and heightened on the walls by the late Mr James Rodger, or\nMr David Rodger his son.\n\n[G] This was Queen Caroline, who was regent of the kingdom during the\nabsence of her husband, George the First, at Hanover.\n\n[H] The person who did this was a man of the name of Bruce, belonging to\nAnstruther, who returned some time after to the town, and was well known to\nthe late Mrs Black, the mother of the late Admiral Black.\n\n\nTHE STORY OF CHARLES GORDON AND CHRISTINA CUNNINGHAM.\n\nOn the 21st of March, 1743, Captain Richard Dundas, commander of the\nfrigate _Arethusa_, carrying forty-four guns and 250 men, sailed from\nDeptford with that vessel in perfect order and condition, and bound for\nLeith. The ship was one of the finest in the service, and the commander a\nman of great energy and intelligence. Mr Charles Gordon, superintendent of\nhis Majesty's dockyard at Deptford, a young officer of distinguished\nability and exemplary character, was one of the passengers. No incident\nworthy of notice occurred until they reached St Abb's Head, when they were\novertaken with a strong adverse gale of wind and heavy snow storm, which\nunfortunately drove them from their course, and prevented sight of land for\na considerable time. The wind continued to increase in violence, but the\nsnow ceased falling for a little, when it was discovered that they had been\ndriven past the mouth of the Firth of Forth and were now in St Andrews Bay.\n\nThey then close-reefed their sails, and made all snug; and Captain Dundas,\ndeclaring that they should have to encounter a strong south-easter, all\ntheir efforts were directed to double the headland of Fifeness and the\ndreaded Carr Rock, and get into the Forth; but their utmost endeavours were\nunavailing, so that the best part of a day was spent in tacking and veering\nto, close in with the land, to no purpose.\n\nThe sun set angrily, and the wind veering more adversely, to their utter\ndismay, brought them on a lee shore. The storm increased with the night.\nThe snow began again to fall, and neither the stars nor the lights of Tay\nor of the Firth could be seen. The sea was lashed into tremendous fury.\nThere was a fearful sullen sound of rushing waves and broken surges--\"Deep\ncalled unto deep.\" At times the black volume of clouds overhead seemed rent\nasunder by flashes of lightning that quivered along the foaming billows,\nand made the succeeding darkness doubly terrible. The thunders bellowed\nover the wild waste of waters, and were echoed and prolonged by the\nmountain-like waves. As the ship was seen staggering and plunging among\nthese roaring caverns, it seemed miraculous that she regained her balance,\nor preserved her buoyancy. Her yards dipped into the water--her bow was\nburied almost beneath the waves. Sometimes an impending surge appeared\nready to overwhelm her, and nothing but a dexterous movement of the helm\npreserved her from the shock.\n\n\"The impervious horrors of a leeward shore\" they were doomed to experience\nduring a moonless and starless night. They reduced their sails to a few\nyards of canvass, and lowered their yards on deck. The waves, that rolled\nthe vessel with irresistible force, threatened to swallow them up; a\ntremendous sea carried away the boat which was hoisted up at the stern, and\nbroke in all the bulkheads of the quarters. For safety of lives and\nproperty, all hands, after being revived with a glass of rum, began to\nthrow overboard the guns. The long-boat was then released from her\nlashings; and, as they wished, the waves soon swept her from the deck. The\ntwo large anchors were cut from the bows, and the vessel, thus eased of a\nheavy top-load, danced more lightly over the tremendous billows, and\ninspired them with fresh hopes. The crew were all ordered to the after part\nof the deck, and again refreshed with another glass of rum and water.\n\nA little before daylight, the captain, who had been anxiously looking out,\nacquainted the officers, so as not to be heard by the crew, that he saw\nbreakers nearly ahead, and had no thought of being able to weather them. Mr\nGordon coincided in this opinion, to which some one said, \"Well, we are all\nborn to die; I shall go with regret, but certainly not with fear.\"\n\nThe breakers were soon visible to all the crew, being not more than a\nquarter of a mile distant on the lee bow, when Captain Dundas remarked,\n\"Our only chance is to put away a point before the wind, or we are sure to\ngo broadside into the surf and perish at once.\"\n\nA heavy sea now struck the vessel, swept the deck fore and aft, and carried\noverboard five of the crew, who instantly sank to rise no more.\n\nThe captain seeing a mighty billow approaching, and viewing nothing but\ndeath before them, exclaimed, \"Lord have mercy upon us,\" and at that moment\nthe vessel rose upon a mountain wave to a tremendous height, from whose\nsummit she descended with the velocity of lightning, as if she were going\nto bury herself in the remorseless deep. By this rapid movement she was\nprecipitated beyond the reach of the breakers, which now rolled behind her\nstern, and burst in impotence, as if incensed at the loss of their destined\nprey. \"We are safe!\" exclaimed Captain Dundas; \"jump, men, from the yards,\nand make sail.\" This they did with tumultuous joy, which Mr Gordon checked,\nand said to them, \"Whilst you are working silently, thank God for your\nmiraculous preservation.\" The sea upon which the vessel rose was the means\nof her preservation and that of her crew. Probably there was not, if the\nsea had been calm, a depth of two feet water on the Carr Rock, for it was\nthat dangerous reef she had passed; but the mighty wave carried her safe\nover at a moment when every hope but that of immortality was gone from the\nminds of the ship's company.[I]\n\nThe tempest having somewhat abated, and the wind veered round to a more\nfavourable quarter, the vessel rode more smoothly, and the hour of eight\nbeing arrived, all hands were enabled to sit up and take coffee for\nbreakfast.\n\nFor about three hours the ship had been working up the Firth, and had come\noff Anstruther, into which port she entered shortly afterwards, in order\nto undergo a survey, and get all necessary repairs completed in hull and\nrigging; and as the vessel had been seen from the _Windmill Tower_ and the\n_Brae_ all the morning to be in great distress, the eastern pier (for the\nwest pier had not then been built) was crowded with spectators to witness\nher arrival.\n\nAmongst others who had gone down the pier was Captain John Cunningham, the\nprovost or chief magistrate of the burgh, who, being a sea captain himself,\ndeeply sympathised both as a sailor and a man with the officers and crew of\nthe _Arethusa_, on seeing them in such a miserable plight, and proffered to\nafford them all the aid and assistance in his power. He got into\nconversation with Mr Gordon, and found him so intelligent and gentlemanly\nin his manners, that he invited him to his house (which stood in the Shore\nStreet, and on the east side of the Pend Wynd, and was that which formerly\nbelonged to the late Mr Willis, collector of customs, and is presently\npossessed by Mrs Rodger, Mr Imrie, and others), until the vessel was\nrepaired and made ready for sea. Mr Gordon thanked him for his kindness,\nand cordially accepted his hospitable invitation.\n\nAnstruther is a small country town, pleasantly situated on the banks of the\nForth. It is a favourable specimen of a good old Scottish town. There is an\nold town-hall, and an old burgh school, (lately rebuilt,) an old jail, and\nan old bridge, besides an old church, now completely renewed and repaired,\nand forming, with the steeple, a handsome edifice, situated on the ridge or\nhigh ground above the town. The manse, a fine old building, placed on the\nsummit of the same ridge near the church, was built by James Melville,\nminister of the place in the reign of James VI. It afterwards became the\nproperty of the Anstruther family, who, it is supposed, presented it to the\ntown, or exchanged it for a house in the _Pend Wynd_, now belonging to Mr\nJohn Darsie, which was occupied for some time as the manse. At the time of\nwhich we write, there was a fine old baronial mansion, called \"Anstruther\nPlace,\" which stood near the present junction of the Crail and St Andrews\nroads. It belonged to the above-mentioned ancient family, the Anstruthers\nof Anstruther, whose progenitor was a Norman warrior that came to Britain\nwith William the Conqueror. It was a mansion as large as Balcaskie,\nsurmounted by a tower, and surrounded by fine old ancestral trees. A\nmagnificent hall graced its interior, large enough to contain a company of\nvolunteers, or local militiamen at drill, within its four corners. In\naddition to these old buildings, which gave a peculiar character to the\nplace, there were a good many handsome new houses in the town of\nAnstruther, for it was far from being in a state of decay. Many wealthy and\nintelligent families chose it for their residence. It was the seat of a\ncustom-house and excise-office. There was a branch of the Paisley Bank\nestablished in the town, under the management of a Mr Henry Russell, of the\ncustoms, and the bank office was kept in that shop now belonging to Mr\nJames Reddie, ironmonger.[J] There was also a Greenland Whale Fishing\nCompany connected with the town, of which a Bailie Johnston was manager.\nThe company's place of business was situated in the East Green, and is now\nthe property of Mr Robert Todd, and it is still known to old people by the\nname of the Greenland Close. There is, or was lately, an old stone placed\nover the door at the southern entrance into the yard, indicating the\nnature of the manufacture formerly carried on therein.[K] And before the\nReform Bill was passed, Anstruther-Easter joined with the other four\nburghs of the district in sending a member to Parliament. Many thriving\nand respectable trades-people, whose forefathers had resided there for\ngenerations, and who looked upon the old buildings of their native town\nwith something of the same sort of feeling as the landowner surveys the\noaks which encircle his paternal hall, regarded it with pride and\nveneration. Perhaps no town of its size in Scotland could be named where\nso much good feeling prevailed among all classes. An eminent physician,\nwho came to settle in the place, expressed his astonishment at the amount\nof private charity distributed. If a poor man met with any accident, every\nkind assistance was given him by his wealthier neighbours. If a small\ntradesman suffered a loss, or a carter his horse, or a widow's cow died, a\nsubscription was set on foot, and the accident often turned out a gain,\nrather than a loss.\n\nThe old Castle of Dreel, another ancient seat of the Anstruther family,\nstood on the east side of the Dreel Burn, at its entrance into the sea.\nSeveral curious traditions are in circulation respecting this old baronial\nresidence and its proprietors. The castle has entirely disappeared, and its\nsite is now partly occupied by fish-curing premises, and partly by a large\nantiquated tenement called Wightman's house. Some eminent men have been\nborn in Anstruther, among whom may be mentioned Drs Chalmers and Tennant,\nand Professor Goodsir.\n\nSuch is a brief description of Anstruther at the time of which we write.\nIt is unnecessary to give a particular account of it at the present day,\nbecause its trade and commerce, its fishing, farming, and shipping\ninterests--its new buildings and projected undertakings--its Sunday\nschools and provident societies, and savings' banks and subscription\nlibraries, are familiar to the most of my readers.\n\nCaptain Cunningham, the chief magistrate of Anstruther, was a wealthy and\nrespectable shipowner, and his family consisted of a son about twenty, and\na daughter about seventeen years of age, besides some younger children. Mr\nGordon, their guest, then in his twenty-fifth year, was a light-hearted and\nrising young officer. He was, at first, a little impatient of the delay\noccasioned by the repairs of the vessel, the superintendence of which fell\nto be his duty; but circumstances soon occurred which checked this\nimpatience, and more than reconciled him to his present quarters.\n\nAs Christina Cunningham is destined to occupy no unimportant position in\nthis narrative, some description of her will therefore be necessary.\n\nLet us endeavour to draw her portrait.\n\nShe was not only beautiful, but full of life and animation, her smiling\nface being the true index of a cheerful, happy disposition. Gentle,\namiable, affectionate, good-natured, she was beloved by all who knew her;\nalthough, from a maidenly modesty and a natural reserve, she was really\nknown by few. With the figure of a sylph, and the face of a Hebe, she had\nluxuriant hair of the darkest possible chestnut, wreathed generally in\nthick cable plaits round her beautifully-shaped head, which, owing to the\nfashion of that day, as well as of the present, of wearing the bonnets on\nthe shoulders, enabled her well-formed head to be seen to the greatest\nadvantage. In the delicate outline of her faultless features, there was a\nharmony that made of her whole face a concerted loveliness of form, colour,\nand expression, that was irresistible. Hackneyed as the simile is, her skin\nwas literally like snow, upon which blush rose-leaves seemed to have\nfallen. Her long-cut oriental-looking eyes, were \"deeply, darkly,\nbeautifully blue,\" while their heavy, snowy lids were fringed with long\nblack silken lashes, that seemed to be continually trying to salute her\ncheeks, for which no one could possibly blame them. Her nose was, to say\nthe least, irreproachable. Then came the rich red pouting under, and the\nshort chisselled upper lip; the beautiful pearly arched teeth within them;\nthe little round velvety chin, and the perfectly oval peach-like cheeks. In\nshort, so pretty a creature was seldom to be seen.\n\nBut Miss Cunningham was something _more_ than beautiful, she was amiable,\nand gentle, and affectionate; and besides, she was a Christian in the full\nand true sense of the word; and, young as she was, she had learned to look\nupon herself as a sinner, however innocent and pure she might appear in the\neyes of men. While enjoying the blessings of health, peace, and competence,\nthat providence had poured upon her, she looked upon them all as undeserved\nmercies, marks and tokens of her heavenly Father's love--a love manifested\nin man's redemption, in a way surpassing all understanding. Where on earth\ncan there be found a more lovely character than that in which are blended\ntrue religion and natural amiability, rectitude of conduct, and tenderness\nof disposition?\n\nResiding under the same roof with Miss Cunningham, who can wonder that,\nbefore many weeks had elapsed, Mr Gordon was as devoted to Captain\nCunningham's daughter as any young and ardent lover could be. Miss\nCunningham was not conscious of any deeper feeling than that of\naffectionate friendship, nor was it till some time after that her heart\ntold her, that Charles Gordon occupied a place in her affections, which\ncould be held by one, and by one only.\n\nSeveral weeks had passed away, the repairs of the _Arethusa_ had been\nnearly completed, and the time was fast approaching when Charles Gordon\nwould be obliged to depart from Anstruther. It happened, however, that a\nday or two previously to his leaving, a party of pleasure was planned for\nvisiting Kellie Law, near Carnbee, and Macduff's Cave, near Earlsferry. The\nparty consisted of Mr John Cunningham, junior, and his sister, and Mr\nGordon and Miss Anderson, the daughter of an opulent merchant in the town.\nA vehicle having been hired for the occasion, a drive of about an hour\nbrought the excursionists to Kellie Law. Having put up the horse and\nequipage at Gillingshill, and partaken of the hospitality of the occupants,\nthey ascended this beautiful conical eminence, which is 800 feet above the\nlevel of the sea, and about four miles distant from it, and rises from the\nridge running eastward from Largo Law. From the summit of Kellie Law, on\nwhich there is a large cairn of stones, one of the most magnificent views\nin Scotland is obtained. Immediately below, to the south, is a rich and\nbeautiful stretch of country, all enclosed and highly cultivated; an\nextensive range of sea-coast, studded with numerous little towns and\nvillages; the ample bosom of the Firth of Forth, enlivened with shipping\nand fishing-boats; and in the extreme distance, the coast of the Lothians,\nfrom St Abb's Head to Edinburgh. Near the south base of this hill stands\nKellie Castle, a fine baronial seat of the Earls of Kellie, surrounded by\nold trees, and containing some princely apartments. Sir Thomas Erskine of\nGogar was one of those who rescued James VI. from the attempt of the Earl\nof Gowrie to assassinate him at Perth in 1600, and killed the earl's\nbrother with his own hand. He was created Viscount Fenton in 1606, and Earl\nof Kellie in 1619. The earldom merged into that of Marr on the death of\nMethven, tenth Earl of Kellie, who was great-grand-uncle to Sir Thomas\nErskine of Cambo, the present baronet. It is said these earldoms may, and\nprobably will, be again disjoined, and the titles and honours of Marr and\nKellie inherited by two distinct noblemen.\n\nAfter enjoying the splendid prospect from Kellie Law, the party set off for\nElie, on their way to view the caves in Kincraig Hill. The drive between\nGillingshill and Elie is delightful. The turnpike road passes in some\nplaces through a long line of tall trees, arching high overhead, and\nshowing, at the termination, picturesque vistas. It skirts Kilconquhar\nLoch, and affords not very distant views of Charlton and Balcarres,\nColinsburgh and Cairnie House; and passing through Kilconquhar, the\nbeautiful church of the parish and manse (which do credit to the heritors)\nare close by. The noble mansions of Elie and Kilconquhar, in the immediate\nneighbourhood, are also seen, surrounded with fine old trees, and standing\nin a rich and fertile district.\n\nOn arriving at Elie, the party gave the horse and vehicle in charge of the\nhostler, and set out on foot for Kincraig. Immediately from the beach, at\nthe south-west end of the parish, Kincraig Hill rises to the height of\nabout two hundred feet above the level of the sea. Its southern front\npresents a nearly perpendicular rugged wall of trap rock, of the most\npicturesque appearance, and in these rocks are several caves, called\nMacduff's Cave, the Hall Cave, and the Devil's Cave. There is a tradition\nthat Macduff, the Maormar or Earl of Fife, in his flight from the vengeance\nof Macbeth, was concealed in the cave which still bears his name, and was\nafterwards ferried across the Firth to Dunbar by the fishermen of the\nplace, from which circumstance it was called \"Earlsferry;\" and, besides\nbeing constituted a royal burgh by Malcolm III, about 1057, it obtained the\nprivilege, that the persons of all, in flight, who should cross the Firth\nfrom thence, should be for a time inviolable--no boat being allowed to\nleave the shore in pursuit, till those who were pursued were half-seas\nover.\n\nThe party now resolved that they should partake of luncheon on the\ngreensward, to fortify themselves for their proposed expedition among the\ncliffs. While the viands were being produced, Mr Gordon set forth of\nhimself in quest of a very rare plant, which he was informed grew in this\nlocality.\n\nOn observing a group of persons gazing anxiously upwards at the overhanging\ncliffs, he joined them, inquiring on what their attention was so earnestly\nfixed. The persons addressed spoke not, but pointed to a spot about\nhalf-way up the face of the rock. Mr Gordon looked in the direction\nindicated, when, to his horror, he beheld a boy, apparently of about\nfifteen years of age, climbing along a stony ledge, which was so narrow as\nto be hardly visible from the spot where the group of terrified beholders\nwas stationed. Scarcely had there been time for Mr Gordon to fix his eye on\nthe human form that had reached so perilous a position, when a portion of\nthe ledge of rock on which the unhappy boy was standing gave way--a loud\nscream rent the air, echoing through the cliffs--and in another instant all\nthat remained of him was a lifeless, mangled corpse. The poor fellow's\nstory is soon told. He was an idiot, and having wandered from his mother's\nside, had reached the fatal spot, no one knew how, and thus met a fearful\ndeath.\n\nHis poor mother witnessed the dreadful catastrophe, and agonizing was her\ngrief as she followed the body of her child, which was borne on the\nshoulders of the awe-struck villagers to her home. Mr Gordon also followed\nthe body to the house, and, feeling that at such a time any attempt at\ncomforting the childless widow would be of no avail, he merely placed a sum\nof money in the hands of a respectable-looking person, a bystander, for her\nuse, and slowly and sick at heart he was in the act of returning to his\nfriends, when he met Christina Cunningham, who was in search of him, for\nthe purpose of bringing him back to luncheon. She saw that he was deadly\npale, and hurriedly asked if he felt ill. He told her all that had\nhappened.\n\n\"Oh!\" she exclaimed, \"if it had been _you_!\"\n\n\"Well, Miss Cunningham,\" he replied, carelessly, \"and if it had, few would\nhave missed me. I should probably have had fewer mourners than that poor\nidiot boy.\"\n\n\"Oh, how can you say so?\" she returned, and bending down her head, became\nvisibly agitated. And yet poor Christina knew not, even now, that she loved\nCharles Gordon: she understood not the true cause of the beatings of her\ndisturbed heart. He looked at her. As he looked, a momentary smile passed\nover his features, which was soon exchanged for an expression of deep\nsorrow, as he thought of the lonely widow, bending over the lifeless form\nof her lost son. The sad story was related to the rest of the party, and\nall cheerfulness for the time was at an end.\n\nThis was destined to be an eventful day. Another calamity--and one that,\nalthough it was not attended with fatal results, affected Charles more than\nthat which had occurred--was yet to take place. We have said that there\nwere some remarkable caves at this place, which had long been objects of\ninterest to the traveller and excursionist. One there is in particular,\ncalled the Devil's Cave, which penetrates far into the heart of the rock,\non the face of which lies its entrance. From the steepness of the path\nwhich leads into this cavern, it is rarely visited by tourists. The party,\nhowever, with perhaps more curiosity than prudence, determined to explore\nand visit this cave. A female guide was procured, and a candle supplied to\neach person. All being ready, in single file they entered the mouth of the\ncavern, carefully groping their way, not without difficulty. Miss Anderson\nsoon lost courage, and turned back, stating that she and Mr Cunningham\nwould return to the inn at Elie, and prepare tea; the other two resolved to\nproceed along with the guide. The aperture through which they had to pass\nbecame at length so low, and so narrow, that a consultation was held, and\nit was agreed that it would be prudent to return. Charles now led the way\nas they retraced their steps. He had not proceeded far when he heard a\nheavy fall, and turning quickly round, beheld, to his horror, Christina\nstretched upon the humid soil of the cavern; her eyes were closed, and her\ncandle had fallen from her hand. Whether bad air had struck her down or\nnot, he could not tell. For an instant he believed her to be dead, but,\nbending over her, he perceived that she breathed. What was now to be done?\nOnly one plan lay before him which he could adopt. Giving his candle to the\nguide, and directing her to keep in front of him, holding the light so as\nhe could see, he raised Miss Cunningham in his arms, and with all the\nstrength he was master of, bore her along in the direction of the entrance.\nThe roof of the cave was so low, that it was impossible to maintain an\nupright position, and his strength so entirely failed him that he was\nobliged to stop and take a rest before he could proceed with his precious\nburden. On reaching the mouth or entrance of the now detested cave, signs\nof returning consciousness began to appear in the poor sufferer. On\nbreathing the fresh air of heaven, she opened her eyes for a moment, then\nclosed them again, drawing several long and apparently painful\nrespirations. Charles placed her on a grassy bank, and seating himself\nbeside her, supported her by placing his arm round her waist. The guide was\ndespatched for water. By and by, Christina, looking round, said with her\nown sweet smile, \"I am better now.\" Charles pressed the form of her whom he\nalready loved so well, to himself, and then assisting her to rise, with\nslow and measured steps they returned to Elie.\n\n\"You are very tired, I fear, and I am the cause,\" said Christina, as she\nleaned on Charles's arm, turning her face to his.\n\nFor a moment their eyes met, those of Christina fell, while a shade of\ncolour tinged her still pallid face. She had met a look in Charles's face\nthat she had never seen there before. She again relapsed into silence.\n\nCharles, in reply to her remark, uttered something that was inaudible; the\nname of \"Christina,\" however, was substituted for that of \"Miss\nCunningham.\"\n\nAny endeavour to conceal what had occurred would have been useless. The\npale face of the sufferer plainly told that she had been ill, and general\nwas the consternation of all on hearing what had happened. Charles resigned\nher to the care of Miss Anderson and the hostess, and, passing to the\nlittle parlour of the village inn, flung himself on the sofa in a state of\ncomplete exhaustion.\n\nLong he remained buried in thought. At length his good nature and\ncompassion prompted him to visit once more the poor, childless widow, while\npreparations were being made for their return to Anstruther. She was alone\nwith the body of her idiot son. Carefully had she cleansed away the blood\nand dust from his face, which now appeared to exhibit more intelligence in\ndeath than it had done in life.\n\nAs Charles entered, the poor Irish widow exclaimed,--\"May the blessing of\nthe Great God, who is above us this day, be about ye, and wid ye for ever\nand ever, my jewel young gentleman!\" She held in her hand the money that he\nhad left for her, and added, \"Sure isn't there enough here for the poor\nlone widow, to buy her darlint son a dacent coffin for to lay him in the\ncould earth, in the land of the stranger, before she goes far, far away, to\na land beyant the rowling say (referring to America). You've given me money\nwhen I wanted it sore, an' the blessin' of the lone widow woman will be wid\nyou wherever ye go; but none can give me back my boy! Oh, Patrick, jewel!\nwhy did ye die? Och, my poor boy! my poor boy! my poor boy!\"\n\nThe tears came into Charles's eyes as he listened to this pathetic\nlamentation, but longer he could not remain. He succeeded, however, in\nlearning that she had resolved to accede to a proposal of her sister's, to\njoin her in America, which his gift had provided her with the means of\naccomplishing.\n\nThe drive to Anstruther was speedily made out, and in few days Miss\nCunningham was quite restored to her usual state of health and enjoyment.\n\nTime rolled on. The _Arethusa_ has sailed. Mr Gordon has returned to\nDeptford, and resumed his ordinary duties. Has all intercourse ceased\nbetween him and Miss Cunningham? Assuredly not. Many a kind letter has\npassed between them. She has been to England visiting his sister, at that\nsister's kind invitation, and is come back to Anstruther. Charles has\nproposed to her, and been accepted, and has obtained a special licence for\ntheir marriage. He comes back to Anstruther to claim his bride.\n\nIf you, my reader, were at this moment greedily perusing a modern novel,\nyou would here be gratified by a very romantic and touching account, three\nor four pages long at least, of the meeting of the two ardent lovers after\na long separation; smiles and tears, sighs and sobs, broken accents,\nprotestations of eternal love and fidelity, and all that sort of thing.\nHere you will find nothing of the kind. I very much doubt myself as to\nwhether anything of the kind took place in this instance at all; I rather\nimagine the meeting was a calm and quietly happy one, without anything\nstrikingly romantic or stage-like about it. But even suppose there had\nbeen, and that I had been present to see, (which, by the by, would have\nbeen an awkward enough situation for me, or any other third party, to have\nfound himself in) ought we to have disclosed it? Certainly not; such a\nscene, every one knows, ought to be strictly private and confidential\nSuffice it then to say, that doubtless both, parties found themselves\nextremely comfortable and happy.\n\nLet me now convey you, in thought, backwards one hundred and fourteen\nyears, and place you in the street of Pittenweem, opposite the Scottish\nEpiscopal Chapel. We see a crowd; let us inquire what is the occasion of\nit.\n\n\"What is this crowd collecting for, so early this morning?\"\n\n\"There's going to be a wedding, ma'am.\"\n\n\"Do you know whose wedding it is?\"\n\n\"No ma'am, I don't; I'm only here to keep order--nothing else to do with\nit.\"\n\nIt is some time since we have seen a wedding, suppose we go into church.\nHere we are. We shall have a nice view of them from that front pew in the\ngallery. How tastefully the chapel is decorated with foliage and flowers!\nMake haste! I hear the carriages coming, that will do. Wait! here they\ncome, only fancy, it's Christina Cunningham, and--Who? Charles Gordon, I\ndeclare. How nicely he looks in his naval uniform. Then the reports were\nall true. Poor Christina! she's very much agitated. I suppose being married\nmust be rather nervous work. The clergyman who is marrying them is a\nrelation of the bridegroom's--he's rector of a large parish near\nDeptford--how beautifully he reads. And there is our dear old clergyman, Mr\nSpence, assisting him, how happy he looks. They say he has known the bride\nsince she was an infant, and the bridegroom for some time. There!--she's no\nlonger Christina Cunningham! I wonder where they are going to after\nbreakfast? Blessings on them both!\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[I] On account of the many accidents which happen almost yearly at the Carr\nRock, some plan for marking its dangerous locality has long been an object\nof deep solicitude. The writer recollects of a round tower of some height\nhaving been built on the rock, on the same principle as that on the Bell\nRock, but it was soon overthrown by the first winter's storm, because there\nwas not a sufficient surface of rock at the base to admit of a strong\nenough building being placed upon it. But might not an erection be made of\nstrong bars of iron, and a large bell placed on its summit, with an iron\ncylinder in the centre, perforated with holes to admit the sea water?\nWithin the cylinder let a powerful floater be placed, which by the\nperpetual action of the tides' ebb and flow, would cause the bell to ring,\nand so give timeous warning of danger near. Or, another method might be\nadopted, viz., Let a steady officer be stationed at Fifeness, whose duty it\nshould be to fire a gun, say a six or eight-pounder, at short intervals in\nsnow storms, or in thick and foggy weather, when neither the land during\nthe day, nor the stars or lights at night, can be seen. In either way the\nexpense would be trifling, and the benefit might be great. Captains of\nsteamers and of other vessels enveloped in the fog would then, on hearing\nthe sound of the bell or gun, know where they were, and would take their\nbearings from Fifeness accordingly.\n\n[J] The principles of banking seem to have been imperfectly understood in\nour fathers' days, for it appears that, at the Anstruther branch, there was\na certain fixed sum _per month_ allotted for bills to be discounted. When\nthat sum was exhausted, it mattered not what further sum was wanted, there\nwere no more discounts allowed that month. It followed, that the most\n_needy_ were always, at the beginning of the month, the _earliest_\ncustomers, and, consequently, post-due bills became the rule, retired bills\nthe exception. Under these circumstances, it is not difficult to foresee\nwhat would be the result. The bank was closed at no distant period, and the\nagent, it is said, lost L1500 of his own money. No other banking company\nattempted to establish a bank in Anstruther till May 1832, when the\nNational Bank of Scotland opened a branch under the management of Mr F.\nConolly, town-clerk, which he conducted successfully for twenty-five years.\nA handsome new building has lately been erected for the use of this bank.\nTwo other branch banks have been opened in the town.\n\n[K] There were two vessels belonging to the company, one named the _Hawk_,\nand the other the _Rising Sun_. The _Hawk_ was lost on her first voyage,\nand Bailie Meldrum--some time chief magistrate of Anstruther-Wester--one of\nthe crew, lost the toes of both his feet by frost-bite. The undertaking did\nnot prove a successful one; the company was dissolved; and the premises,\nwhich were sold to the late John Miller, senior, shipowner in Anstruther,\nafterwards became, as I said, the property of Mr Todd.\n\n\n\n\nA LEGEND OF CALDER MOOR.\n\n\nIt was a beautiful evening in the month of September--the air still and\nserene, forming a delightful change from the sultry heat of the day, which\nhad been oppressive in the extreme. Nature seemed to have redoubled her\nenergies; the swallows twittered cheerfully over the small pond; the bees\nreturned laden with the rich fruits of their industry, humming their\nsatisfaction; the heath sent its fragrance around; and the few sheep that\nSimon Wallace attended were nibbling earnestly the stunted grass, having\nspent the greater part of the day in the shade of a small knoll, listless\nfrom the heat which oppressed them. In the midst stood Simon, enjoying the\nscene around him, which, barren and desolate as it might be in the eyes of\na stranger, was to him the loveliest spot in the universe; nor would he\nhave bade it farewell to dwell in the most fertile vale in the Lothians.\nHere he had been born sixty summers before, and here he had enjoyed as much\nof happiness as falls to the lot of man. Humble and content, his wishes\nwere bounded by the few acres of moss land that his fathers had reclaimed\nfrom the waste, and his knowledge of the busy world that lay beyond the\nhills that bounded the horizon around his humble cottage, was derived from\na few books. Farther than the next market-town, Mid-Calder, he had never\nbeen, save upon one occasion--an important epoch in his life--when, upon\nsome business of importance, concerning his lease, he had visited the\ncapital, the wonders of which had been a never-failing subject of discourse\nat his humble hearth; yet, Simon was not ignorant, for he made good profit\nof the few books he could procure; and there was one--the fountain of all\nknowledge--he knew so well, that even Esdras, the holy scribe, could\nscarcely have found him at fault, in pointing out all the most beautiful of\nthe inspired passages. His constant companion, he had been reading it on\nthe hill for the last hour, and now, before retiring to his home for the\nnight, he stood there in mental prayer, his face turned to the setting sun,\nwhich sunk beyond a sea of clouds, tinged with the most gorgeous colours,\nand his mind away among the bright realms of eternal felicity. A faint\nbreeze had arisen, and the heavy clouds began to sail along, denoting rain,\nwhen he gave his orders to his faithful dog, to gather his sheep for the\nnight, and urged him to be active, to enable him to proceed home before the\nshower came on. Looking along in the direction of the road that led through\nthe moor, he thought he could perceive, at a considerable distance, three\nobjects, urging their way forward; and, through the gloom, he with\ndifficulty made them out to be a man and two females upon horseback. A\nfeeling of surprise crossed his mind, as he saw travellers journeying over\nthe moor, at a period when it was not usual, except upon urgent business,\nto leave Mid-Calder at a late hour, and proceed along roads almost\nimpassable, with no other prospect than a night journey, in dangerous and\ntroubled times. Musing on the circumstance, he had just reached the road on\nhis way to his cottage, when the travellers came up and accosted him with\nan inquiry if they could find shelter for the night, as they had been\novertaken by the storm, and one of the females had been taken suddenly ill\nsince they had left the last town. With an apology for the poorness of his\naccommodation, Simon made them welcome to his home, and led the way\nhomewards. Neither of the females spoke; but he thought he heard one of\nthem utter, at intervals, a stifled groan, while the other supported her on\nher saddle, and the male led her horse over the rough path to prevent its\nstumbling. A few minutes brought them to the house, and they were soon\nseated by the blazing hearth, while Helen Wallace was busy preparing for\nthem some humble refreshments; but the lady continued to become worse--she\nhad been taken in labour, prematurely, as the female said, from the fatigue\nof travelling. She appeared to be of a rank far above her companions, who\ntreated her with lowly attentions; but there was something harsh and\nforbidding in the manner and appearance of the man, which made Helen quail,\nand feel uneasy in his presence; and the female, who was above the middle\nage, and of a masculine appearance, had a harshness of voice and manner,\nthat was disagreeable, even to the rustic wife of the moorland farmer. The\nyoung and beautiful female they attended--apparently not above eighteen,\npale and dejected, her eyes red and swollen with weeping--had not, as yet,\nuttered a single word; but, apparently fearful of her attendants,\nespecially the female, who sat close by her at the fire, had cast several\nstolen and imploring glances at Helen, and seemed anxious to speak, but\nafraid to give utterance to her thoughts.\n\nThe lady rapidly grew worse, and was put into their only spare bed, while\nHelen requested her husband to take one of the horses and ride to the town\nfor assistance. This the man promptly forbade--saying, that the other\nattendant, a skilful woman, was capable of doing all that was required at\nsuch a time, with the assistance of the farmer's wife; that they were on\ntheir way to the residence of his master when the present unfortunate\nillness had occurred much sooner than was expected; that he had in the\n_valise_ with him everything requisite; and that for any trouble the farmer\nor his wife might be put to, they should be amply rewarded. The cottage\nconsisted of only one apartment, divided by a hallen or thin partition,\nwhich did not extend beyond the centre of the floor, to protect the\nfire-place from the blasts of winter; and Simon and the stranger retired to\na small distance from the door, where they stood and saw the full moon\nrising in grandeur in the east. In vain the farmer endeavoured to gain any\ninformation from his companion of who the strangers were, and whither they\nwere going. He got only an evasive answer. His position was extraordinary\nand uncomfortable. Three hours had passed: no person appeared from the\nhouse; his unsocial acquaintance scarcely spoke; a scowl in his eye, and a\nshade of ferocity in his countenance, alarmed him; his whole soul,\nsometimes intent upon some signal from the cottage, at other periods became\nabsent; and he clutched at the sword that hung by his side, as if he meant\nto draw it and attack the farmer, endeavouring again, in a husky voice, to\nmake an apology for the inconvenience they had put him to. At length Helen\ncame to the door, and requested them to come into the house, for the lady\nwas now better.\n\n\"What has she got?\" inquired Simon.\n\n\"Two beautiful boys as ever I saw,\" answered the wife; \"--but one of them\nis dead, and the mother is very weak.\"\n\nWhile this and some other conversation passed between the farmer and his\nwife, the man and the woman were busy whispering at the other end of the\nhouse; but they at length approached the hearth and partook of some\nrefreshment which had been prepared for them. The farmer offered the\nfemale, for the remainder of the night, the use of their only other bed;\nbut both the man and the woman objected to this proposition--saying, that\nthey preferred to sit by the hearth and attend to their mistress, and\nrequesting that their hosts should retire to it themselves. This they did,\nand soon both fell into a sound sleep. Helen awoke about two hours\nafterwards, and, to her astonishment, found that neither of the two\nattendants was in the cottage. She arose and went to the bed of the sick\nlady, who lay apparently in a deep and troubled sleep, with the babe in her\nbosom. She looked for the body of its brother; but it was gone. She felt\nalarmed, and gently awaking Simon, in a whisper told him to arise. He was\nsoon dressed, and, on going out, found that the strangers were gone, the\nhorses were away, and with them everything that had been brought, even to\nthe dress the lady had worn upon her arrival. In great anxiety they\napproached the bed: the lady still appeared in a deep sleep; her breathing\nwas heavy and laborious, every attempt to awaken her was in vain; her eyes\nwere opened and closed unconsciously, and without a word of utterance.\n\n\"Surely,\" said Helen, with clasped hands, \"that woman hasna poisoned the\npuir young creature wi' that mixture she requested me to gie her just\nbefore I ca'ed you into the house. She said it was to compose her to sleep.\nShe had offered it to the lady hersel, who, being afraid o' her, wadna\ntaste it. Then she gave me the cup, and I offered it. O Simon! what a\npiteous look she threw upon me, as she said, 'From you I will take\nanything; you, I know, will not do me harm'--and she drank it from my\nhands. Surely, surely, I am not guilty of her blood, if death was in that\ncup!\"\n\nHere the poor woman sank upon the side of the bed in a passion of tears,\nwhile Simon stood the image of horror, gazing alternately upon his wife and\nthe unconscious lady in the bed. Sinking upon his knees, he prayed for\ncounsel in this hour of distress, and his mind became more calm and\ncollected.\n\n\"Helen,\" said he, \"you will not be afraid to stay by the poor young\ncreature, while I go and catch Mally, and ride as fast as she can carry me\nto the manse, and bring the minister, who is a skilful man, and who,\nperhaps, may be able to do something for the sufferer; at least, he will\nadvise us what is best for us to do in this hour of need.\"\n\n\"I will, indeed, be eerie,\" answered Helen--\"very eerie; but do mak all the\nhaste ye can, and I will tent baith mother and bairn until ye return.\"\n\nIn a very short time, the farmer was on his way to the manse, and soon,\nalong with the minister, on his return to his cottage; but, before they\narrived, the victim had breathed her last sigh.\n\nHelen was at the door, weeping and wringing her hands. She blamed herself\nas being the cause of the young mother's death; nor was it until after the\nminister had prayed, and assured her that no guilt could attach to her,\nthat she became composed. On his way to the cottage, the farmer had\ninformed him of every circumstance, as far as it had happened under his own\neye:--That the young lady had been very ill; that the female appeared\nexpert at her duty, and kept Helen as much at a distance from her patient\nas she could; that the young creature wished her much to be near her, as if\nshe had something to communicate; but the attendant always told her, in a\nharsh manner, that it was improper for her to speak, and found always some\nexcuse to send her from the bedside; that the lady appeared to be in great\nawe of her; and that the first boy, the one that was alive, Helen kept at\nthe hearth until the other came; that she heard it cry once, and inquired\nwhat it was, when the assistant said it was also a boy, but dead, and she\nthrew it from her upon the bed; that, after a time, she took a vial from\nher pocket, and poured it into a cup, requesting the lady to drink it, as\nit was a composing draught, but she put it away from her; and that the poor\nmurdered creature was persuaded by Helen to accept it at her hands.\n\nThe minister having drawn up a circumstantial detail of all the\ncircumstances narrated, bade the sorrowing couple adieu, and departed, to\nsend one of his maids to assist Helen, and to stay with her through the\nday. He vowed to make the horrid transaction as public as possible, in\nhopes of discovering the two wretches and their employer, and promised to\ncall in the evening, and direct what was further to be done. He rode direct\nto Mid-Calder; and, on inquiry at the hostelry, if any such travellers had\nbeen there the day before, found that they had passed through the town,\nonly stopping to bait their horses, and no particular attention had been\npaid to them by the landlord of the house. Here his inquiries necessarily\nterminated. In the meantime, Helen and her assistant had been employed\nlaying out the corpse of the murdered woman, and tending the orphan boy.\nTied by a silken cord, a curious gold ring, of massive workmanship, was\nsuspended from her neck, and lay resting upon her bosom.\n\n\"A true love-gift,\" ejaculated Helen, \"an exchange o' plighted faiths.\nDearly had you loved the giver, for, even in sore distress and death it lay\nupon thy bosom. Cruelly has your love been requited; but rest in\npeace--your sorrows are past. I will keep this for your babe, and, as soon\nas he can speak, I will tell him where I found it. I fear it will be a' I\nwill ever be able to inform him of either father or mother.\" She then\nplaced the ring in her own bosom, until she could shew it to her husband;\nrenewed her offices to the dead; took the babe in her lap, and, weeping\nover it, resolved, as she thought of its desolate state, without a relation\nin the world, that, so long as she had life, she would be a parent to\nit--for death had been a spoiler in her own family of three sons, all of\nwhom it had been her misfortune to bury.\n\nThe minister arrived again in the evening. They shewed him the ring, and\ntold where it had been found. He examined it closely; but there were\nneither armorial bearings nor cypher upon it, to lead even to a guess of\nthe person to whom it had belonged--yet the make and chasing were peculiar,\nand might lead a person who had once examined it to remember it. The mother\nwas interred; the babe baptized by the name of William, put out to nurse;\nand the usual routine of the cottage once more restored. The boy grew up\nunder the roof of his kind protectors. To his education the minister paid\nparticular attention, and was proud of his pupil--for William Wallace, as\nhe was called, did honour to the labour bestowed upon him. He was quick to\nlearn, yet his mind was not given to literary pursuits--for he delighted in\nfeats of strife, and dwelt with rapture on the feats of the warrior. Sir\nWilliam Wallace was the hero of his youthful imagination--and he longed to\nbe of man's stature, only that he might be a soldier. Thus years rolled on.\nWilliam was now eighteen years of age; the labour of the farm, in which he\nengaged, was irksome to him; yet he restrained his inclinations, and toiled\non for his benefactors, who had both become so frail that they required his\naid. By the time he arrived at his twentieth year, his foster parents died\nwithin a few months of each other, and left him possessor of their little\nwealth. When spring returned, he made known to his benefactor, the\nminister, his resolution of leaving the moor and going into the busy world.\nThe stock was turned into cash, and William, bidding a long adieu to the\nscenes of his youth, set off for the capital, accompanied by the prayers of\nthe good man for his success. Since the death of his protectors he had worn\nhis mother's ring, and he had a vague hope that it might, by some way or\nother, lead to a discovery of his parents, and enable him to avenge her\nmurder. All the mild lessons of his teacher upon this point had been vain.\nHis mind dwelt with a gloomy satisfaction upon a just retribution. At times\nhis feelings rose to agony--the idea that the guilty individual might be\nhis own parent, often flashed across his mind and made him love his\nignorance; but, nature prevailing, his wonted desire recurred again, and,\nmusing thus, he rode on towards Edinburgh, now with the reins resting upon\nhis horse's neck; and then, when urged by his troubled mind, urging forward\nhis steed. He stopped at the borders of the moor, and turned towards the\nscenes so dear to him, where he had passed what of his life had gone by in\ninnocence and peace. For the first time, he felt alone in the world; and a\nfew involuntary tears fell from his eyes--a token of regret due to the\nmemory of departed worth, and a pleasing recollection of scenes endeared to\nhim by many tender associations. Thus in pensive meditation he rode on,\nundetermined as to his future mode of life. Prior to his setting out,\neverything had appeared to his imagination of easy execution; but now he\nbegan to encounter difficulties he had never dreamed of before; and the\nsight of Edinburgh, which he reached before nightfall, did not diminish\nthem. The vastness of the city overpowered him; the stateliness of the\nbuildings appeared to him the work of giants; and he almost shrank from\nentering it, through a feeling of his own littleness. In his approach, his\neyes had been constantly fixed upon the buildings of the Castle, perched\nhigh above the town, and crowning the almost circular, bold, and craggy\nrocks on which it stands. Along the line of houses to the east, that\nstretched farther than his eye could trace, the setting sun threw his\ndeparting rays, and innumerable windows glanced like burnished gold; while\nthe diadem-shaped spire of St Giles', towering above all, in the centre,\nseemed to proclaim her the queen of cities. With all the impatience of\nyouth, he urged on his horse, expecting to see all the inhabitants of so\nfair a place themselves fair. But scarce had he entered the West-Port gate,\nwhen his feelings were shocked to witness, on every side, squalid misery\nand wretchedness, and every token of poverty and vice. He put up for the\nnight at one of the many inns of the Grassmarket; and, revolving in his\nmind what he had already seen, retired to bed.\n\nEarly next morning, he arose, dressed, and sallied forth to gratify his\ncuriosity; but, with no one to whom he could communicate the feelings that\nevery new object awakened, he felt solitary among the surrounding crowds.\nOn the second day after his arrival, as he walked in the Meadows, he\nobserved among the crowd of well-dressed pedestrians that thronged the\nwalks, an elderly gentleman, who eyed him with marked attention. William's\ncuriosity was excited, and he threw himself again in his way. The old\ngentleman bowed.\n\n\"I beg pardon,\" said he--\"may I be so bold as to request your name?--for I\nfeel as if you and I had not now met for the first time. Yet it cannot be;\nfor it is now above twenty years since that time, and you do not appear to\nbe more than that time old.\"\n\n\"My name is William Wallace,\" answered William, with a beating heart. \"I\nnever had the honour to see you until to-day.\"\n\n\"Wallace? Wallace?\" said the old gentleman, musing. \"No---my friend's name\nwas not Wallace; we were both of Monro's regiment--his name was Seaton; but\nthe likeness was so strong that you must excuse me for addressing you.\"\n\nWilliam's heart sank--he remained silent for a few minutes--his face was\nalternately flushed and pale--a new train of ideas crowded upon his\nmind--he wished to speak, but he could not find utterance--wiped his\nforehead with his handkerchief, and went through the other forms of\nconfusion and bashfulness. His new acquaintance looked upon him, much\nsurprised at his emotion; and, with an energy bordering on violence, seized\nhis hand.\n\n\"Young man,\" said he, \"that ring was once the property of my friend: how\ncame you by it? He valued it above all things, nor would he have parted\nwith it but with life. At this moment, I almost think the last long twenty\nyears of my life a dream, and that I am still a captain in Monro's\nregiment. You must come and dine with me, and explain how this came into\nyour possession.\"\n\n\"With pleasure,\" replied William. \"It is a sad account, I have to give, and\nI am most impatient to learn something of its possessor. Alas! I fear I\nmust feel too great an interest in him.\"\n\n\"The early friend I allude to,\" replied the old man, \"was an honour to his\ncountry. A braver or more generous heart, no officer in the army possessed.\nThis you will acknowledge when I have told you all. Alas! poor Seaton!\nshall I ever see you again?\"\n\nThus conversing, they reached the house of Colonel Gordon, one of the\nprincipal flats of a house in the High Street. After they had dined,\nWilliam gave a distinct account of his birth and the death of his mother,\nand a modest outline of himself. His hearer listened to him with the\ngreatest interest, only interrupting him at the account of his mother's\ndeath by an exclamation of horror.\n\n\"Henry Seaton,\" he cried, \"had no hand in this, I could pledge my head for\nhim. I am strongly impressed, young man, with the idea, that my friend has\nbeen cruelly injured, and his generous heart wounded past recovery by this\ndeed of darkness. Savage monsters! worse than demons! would to God I had\nyou in my power!\" And he walked about the room in a state of violent\nexcitement. \"William,\" said he again, \"I have no doubt you are the son of\nHenry Seaton, my more than brother; and, so far as is in my power, I shall\nassist you in the discovery of your parents, and avenge the murder of your\nmother. I shall now give you my story:--I was an ensign in Munro's regiment\nof Scots, serving in Flanders, when your father (for I have no doubt that\nhe was such) joined us, early in the spring of the year 1706, a short time\nbefore the battle of Ramilies. We were both of the same company, and of\ncongenial minds; so that we soon became bosom friends, and were ever as\nmuch as possible in each other's society. In battle we fought side by side,\nwithout being jealous of each other's fame. In our first battle, that of\nRamilies, the Scots had more than their share of the loss, and I had the\nmisfortune to be shot in the leg early in the action. When I fell, your\nfather saved me from the sword of the enemy, and bore me out of the line at\nthe hazard of his own life; for we were at the time, pressed by a strong\ndivision of the French. I soon recovered, and joined the ranks, when our\nfriendship, if possible, was stronger than ever. At the battle of Oudenard,\nwhere we drove the French from their trenches, your father led on his men,\nover the works, with too much eagerness, and was not supported for a time,\nas the enemy sprung a mine and made the ditch impassable, killing and\nwounding a great many of the advancing column. Bravely did he and his\nhandful of Scots stand their ground, surrounded and overwhelmed by numbers;\nbut they were dropping fast, for they fought hand to hand, and they were so\npressed by the enemy, and hemmed in, that they could not fire, for fear of\nkilling their own men. I saw the perilous situation of my friend; with the\ngreatest efforts, I and a few noble countrymen got clambered up to their\nrescue. At our arrival, there were not more than six of them upon their\nfeet--all were covered with wounds and spent with fatigue. Your father\nstill raged like a lion in the toils--all swords were aimed at him--he\nseemed invulnerable. I had reached his side, when a severe wound laid him\ninsensible at my feet; but I stood over him, and backed by my brave\nfollowers, we fought till the French gave way before the numbers of our\ntroops that had forced the works and poured in on every side. I raised him\nup--the blood streamed from his side--he appeared to be dead--his eyes were\nclosed--I placed my hand upon his breast--all appeared still--then\nmournfully I supported his head on my knee, and saw his eyelids move, and\nthen a faint heaving of the breast. I snatched the canteen of a dead\nsoldier that lay by my side; there was some wine in it; I applied it to his\nlips--he opened his eyes.\"\n\n\"'Edward,' said he, 'I thank you. I fear my career of glory is run. I hope\nwe have beat the enemy. I die content. Farewell!' And he sank again into\ninsensibility.\"\n\n\"All this had passed in the course of a couple of minutes The enemy had\nmade a fresh stand, and were forcing our troops back upon the\nintrenchments. I gently laid him down, and, rallying the men who were\nretreating, again forced them back. The enemy began to give way in all\ndirections, and we followed up our advantage until the order for ceasing\nthe pursuit was given. For a time I had forgot everything, in the\nimpetuosity of battle; but, after rallying my company, and marching back to\nour camp, I took a file of men, and proceeded to the spot where I had left\nmy friend. I looked for some time in vain. So active had been the work of\nthe pillagers that followed the camp, that the dead and the dying had been\nstripped; and by the countenance alone could one discover a friend from a\nfoe, I examined every face amidst a heap of dead bodies, and discovered my\nfriend. Life was not yet extinct. I had him removed to my tent, and went\nfor a surgeon, who examined and dressed his wound, but gave me no hopes of\nhis recovery. He was carefully removed into Oudenard, where our hospitals\nwere established, and for some days his life was despaired of; but youth\nand a good constitution prevailed, and he again bade fair for life and\nhappiness. As soon as he was enabled to converse, I was at my usual place\nby his bedside, when, after thanking me for his preservation, he expressed\nthe deepest sorrow for the loss of his ring, which had been torn from his\nfinger by the pillagers.\n\n\"I had, until now, scarcely paid any attention to this bauble; but\nremembered, when he spoke of it, of having seen at all times a ring upon\nhis finger. I expressed my concern at his loss, but said, that it ought not\nto give him so much concern, at a time when a miraculously spared life\ncalled for his gratitude to God.\n\n\"'I value it next to life itself,' was his reply, 'for it was the gift of\nmy mother, and had been in our family for ages. Publish among the sutlers,\nmy good friend, that fifty dollars will be given for the ring, upon its\ndelivery to me; and twenty dollars to any one who will give information\nthat will lead to its recovery.'\n\n\"I promised, and left him, consoled with the hopes of again getting the\njewel; yet I could not help thinking my friend too profuse in his offer. I\nimmediately published in the camp, a reward of ten dollars for the ring, or\nfive for any information to lead to its recovery, and next morning the ring\nwas delivered, and the ten dollars paid to one of the fiends in human\nshape, that, like vultures, follow in the track of war. My fingers itched\nto cut the ruffian down, but I restrained myself. I paid him the promised\nreward with a hearty curse--the word of a soldier is sacred; and it was at\nthis time that I examined the bauble so minutely, that I never can forget\nit. I never saw joy more vividly expressed than when he placed it upon his\nemaciated finger, and said I had given him a medicine that would quickly\nrecover him.\n\n\"'Shade of my sainted mother,' he ejaculated, 'I have still thy latest\ngift, and it shall be parted with only with my latest breath.' And he\nkissed it fervently as he spoke.\"\n\n\"In the course of a few weeks, he was convalescent, and again joined the\nregiment. Each officer had received one step of promotion, and our duties\nwent on in the usual routine, though we were principally occupied in\nforaging parties. It was the depth of winter, and provisions were scarce.\nHenry had the command of a strong foraging party; and, on one occasion, he\ncame in his route to a large farm-house, where he hoped to obtain supplies.\nApproaching the house, he heard cries of distress and supplication in\nfemale voices. He put his men into rapid motion, and rushed forward alone.\nPassing a thick fence, he saw a party of Dutch soldiers, who had\nanticipated him, and some of whom were at the door, guarding it; but the\ngreater part were within the house. The cries became more piteous and\npiercing. He drew his sword and rushed past the sentinels at the door, who\nattempted to prevent him; but the view of his men coming up unnerved them.\nA scene of horror met his eyes: the male inmates of the house were bound,\nand soldiers were standing over them, ready to plunge their bayonets into\ntheir bosoms at the least movement, while others were proceeding to acts of\nviolence towards the females. With a voice of thunder, he commanded them to\ndesist, and, seizing the officer, hurled him from the terrified and\nfainting daughter of the farmer. The Dutchman, in rage, drew and made a\nfurious lounge at him, which he parried; and his men entering at the same\ntime, they drove the others out of the house. My friend, in French,\nrequested the Dutchman to follow his men; but he refused, and challenged\nhim to single combat, for the insult he said he had received at his\nhands--adding some opprobrious epithets, which roused the choler of the\nbrave Englishman. In an instant, they were engaged hand to hand; but short\nwas the strife--the Dutchman fell dead on the scene of his violence, and\nhis men returned to the camp, and made a complaint against Monro's\nregiment, which was like to have led to some serious consequences; but,\nafter your father stating the circumstances to the colonel, the latter\nwaited upon the Duke of Marlborough, and we heard no more of the affair.\n\n\"The last action we were in together, we both escaped unhurt; yet it was\nthe bloodiest one we had ever been in. Of all the honours of Malplaquet,\nthe Monroes had their full share; for, although the Duke did not like the\nScots, and used at times to throw a sarcasm at their country, he always\ngave them a situation of danger, either from dislike or a reliance on their\ncourage. About twelve months after Malplaquet, your father left the service\nand retired into France. Peace was now evidently at hand, and an armistice\nhad been agreed upon and signed by several of the allies of the English;\nand our gallant leader was now in disgrace. Much as Henry Seaton and I\nesteemed each other in all other points, we had no fellowship in politics.\nI was and am a Whig; he, a Tory of the first water--a devoted adherent of\nthe exiled family; yet, high as parties ran at this time in cities, we had\nno differences in the camp, where each respected his neighbour's opinion,\nnor overvalued his own. The last letter I received from him was about\ntwelve months after we parted. It was dated St Germain's. He said, and in a\nmysterious sort of way, half-earnest, half-jest, that, in a short time, we\nmight meet, to try the force of our different opinions. I, at the time,\nonly laughed at it, and returned, for answer, that I had no doubt we would\nboth do our best, and leave the issue to the Disposer of events. Soon\nafter, Mar's ill-concerted rebellion took place, in which I have no doubt\nyour father was an active agent; but I have, since this last letter, lost\nall trace of him. Your being born in the year '16 would lead me to suppose\nthat he must have married your mother about the time of the Rebellion,\neither in Scotland or France.\"\n\nThat Henry Seaton was his father, William earnestly prayed; but how was he\nto ascertain this fact? He knew not; neither could his kind host assist\nhim. The lapse of time was so great, that, in all probability, he was dead;\nand, with a mind worse at ease than it had ever been, he took leave of the\nColonel, promising to call again in the forenoon of the following day, to\nconsult what steps he should take to follow out the information he had so\nunexpectedly acquired. He reached the inn, and retired to rest; but sleep\nhad fled his pillow. A thousand ideas crowded his mind; method after method\nwas canvassed, each for a time offering assured success, but, upon more\nmature consideration, being rejected. Day dawned, and found him as\nunresolved as when he left Colonel Gordon. As soon as it was consistent\nwith propriety, he waited upon the Colonel, by whom he was greeted\nheartily.\n\n\"Well, tell me,\" said he, \"the fruit of your invention for tracing out your\nfather, and I will tell you what has occurred to me as the best mode of\nprocedure.\"\n\nWilliam, without hesitation, told the state of his mind, and his utter\ninability to think of any feasible plan, from his ignorance of the world\nand its ways.\n\n\"Poor fellow! I do not wonder at what you tell me,\" replied the Colonel.\n\"Before many years go over your head, you and the world will be better\nacquainted. My own opinion is, that you must forthwith proceed to France,\nwhere you will find many of the adherents of the Stuarts. The young Charles\nEdward is easy of access to Scotchmen, for he is anxious to make adherents;\nand I have no doubt that he, or others of his followers, will be able to\ngive you every information about Henry Seaton. But you must beware how you\nacquit yourself, lest they cajole you into their party; for, if your father\nbe alive and acknowledge you, the trial will be greater than you are aware,\nto resist him.\"\n\n\"I will at once follow your wise counsel,\" replied William. \"I trust--nay,\nmy heart tells me I shall be successful. Of my ever being an adherent of\nthe Stuart family, I have no fears. Before that can happen, I must first\nforget all I have ever learned, from my first dawn of reason up to this\npresent moment. The first tears of sorrow I ever shed were for the woes of\nothers, drawn forth by the tale of the sufferings of my foster parent's\nfather, who suffered for the cause of truth, near the very spot where I now\nlodge. The worthy minister, to whom I am indebted for all the learning I\npossess, had also some share in my politics. Nay, do not smile, when I say\nhe had political opinions. He spiritualized everything. Nebuchadnezzar was\na type of the Stuart family. The Babylonish king, driven out from men, was\nonly an emblem of their expulsion, during the time of the Commonwealth, and\nhis being restored was only the fortune of Charles II.; but, as he\ncontinued in idolatry after his restoration, so did Charles, after his\nsubscribing the Covenant at Scone; and, as Nebuchadnezzar's family were\ndestroyed, so are the Stuarts cut off from the throne for ever. To the\nwhole of this I do not subscribe; but my aversion to the family of the\nStuarts, I can never overcome.\"\n\n\"My young friend,\" replied the Colonel, \"I am not one to quarrel with any\none for his opinion; but I rejoice to find we are of one mind. I will\naccompany you to Leith, and we will make inquiries if there is any vessel\nthere likely soon to sail for France.\"\n\nThey accordingly proceeded to Leith, where they found there was a brig to\nsail in the course of a week or two for Bourdeaux, to bring home a cargo of\nwine. There were also several vessels to sail in a few days, for different\nports in Holland; but the Colonel advised William to agree with the captain\nof the vessel for Bourdeaux--which, he did; and, having never seen the sea\nbut at a distance, nor a vessel in his life, his friend, to oblige him,\nlingered on the shore, and examined them with him. In this manner the time\npassed. They dined in Leith, and again walked about the shore, enjoying the\ndelightful scene. The shades of evening were beginning to approach, when\nthey resumed their way back to the city. They had reached about half-way to\nthe Abbey-Hill, when two men rushed from behind the fence, and, presenting\npistols to their breasts, demanded their money or their lives.\n\n\"Ho, my good fellows, not so fast!\" exclaimed the Colonel, and drew his\nsword. William did the same. One of the villains fired, and wounded the\nColonel in the right shoulder. William, at the same moment, plunged his\nsword into his side, and he fell. The other ruffian fled, pursued by\nWilliam; but he escaped. He then hastened to his friend, who stood leaning\nagainst the wall, with the wounded robber beside him. William inquired if\nhe was much injured.\n\n\"No, Seaton,\" he said. \"I believe it is only a flesh wound, for I can wield\nmy sword yet.\" And he raised it up, and pointing it at the breast of the\nfallen wretch, who lay groaning at his feet--\"We must secure him,\" said the\nColonel; \"and, at the same time, be on our guard against his cowardly\nassociate. If he could walk, I would know how to act with him; but I am not\ngoing to carry the base carrion. Indeed, my arm bleeds, and is getting\nstiff; otherwise I would dispatch him where he lies, and save the hangman\nhis labour.\"\n\n\"For the love of God, do not despatch me!\" cried the man. \"I will try to\nwalk; I would not be cut off so suddenly. In mercy, spare me, even for a\nfew hours. I am unfit to die; yet I feel life ebbing fast.\"\n\nHe rose to his feet, but was sinking again, when William's pity overcoming\nhis anger, he supported him. The wretch looked in his face, uttered a\nscream of horror, and sank senseless in his arms. He looked to the Colonel\nin astonishment. The latter looked narrowly into the face of the robber,\npassed his hand across his forehead, and mused, as if recalling something\nto his memory, but spake not.\n\nTwo men now came up to them, and assisted them to carry the body to the\nnearest house, where a surgeon was sent for, and intimation given to the\nauthorities, who were all in a state of the greatest alacrity--stimulated,\ndoubtless, by the Porteous mob, which had taken place only a few months\nbefore. Until the surgeon arrived, William, by the directions of the\nColonel, bound up his shoulder. What the Colonel called a scratch, appeared\nto him a serious wound; for the ball had passed through the muscle of his\narm. They proceeded to stanch the blood which flowed from the side of their\nprisoner, when the surgeon arrived; who, after having examined it, at once\ndeclared it mortal, and that the man had not many hours to live. After some\ntime, he succeeded in restoring sensibility to the sufferer. He opened his\neyes--fixed them on William, who was assisting the surgeon in his\nefforts--a fearful change came over him--he groaned, and, clasping his\nhands, shrieked, and closed them again. A sudden recollection had come over\nthe Colonel.\n\n\"I cannot be mistaken,\" said he; \"I have seen him before; but when or where\nI cannot say, unless he was one of my company in Monro's regiment.\"\n\nAt the mention of Monro's regiment, the wretched man shuddered--his eye\nfell upon the ring upon William's hand, as he held up the candle by the\nbedside--the sweat stood in large drops upon his forehead--he would have\nstarted up, but was restrained.\n\n\"Nay, then, since I am discovered,\" he cried, \"I will confess all to you,\nmy injured and betrayed master. I see the Colonel recollects me; but I am\nsurprised you do not remember your old servant, Alick Brown.\"\n\n\"Who was your master?\" exclaimed William, in surprise.\n\n\"Captain Henry Seaton--yourself,\" said the man. \"I cannot be mistaken. That\nring--your height and countenance. You are, I am happy to see, much\nimproved since I last saw you--time appears to have made no change.\"\n\n\"Know you aught of Henry Seaton?\" demanded the Colonel; while William stood\nmute in astonishment and surprise.\n\n\"If this is not my old master whom I see,\" said the man, \"who can he be? My\nmind is filled with guilt and remorse. Die I must, either of this wound, or\nby the law--for me there is no hope here or hereafter.\" And he groaned and\nground his teeth in despair, while the surgeon bade him prepare for death,\nas he had but a few hours to live. The officers entered, and claimed him as\ntheir prisoner. The villain once more arose in his mind. \"Ha!\" he\nexclaimed, \"I have bilked you yet. I have a sufficient bail in my side to\nrescue me out of your hands.\" The effort to speak now became more\ndifficult; his voice sank into whispers; he appeared to be dying. Remorse\nagain roused him; and, turning his head, he inquired who William was? The\nColonel told him. He became more dreadfully agitated, and groaned in\nanguish, till the officers of justice looked upon him in horror.\n\n\"I can doubt no longer,\" he cried. \"It is too true. There is a God that\ngoverns all! Mercy, mercy! How shall I appear before Him, covered with the\nblood of his creatures? Let me perform the only act now in my power--to\natone for the past. Young man, you are the son of my noble and injured\nmaster. After he left the army in Flanders, I accompanied him to France,\nwhere he lived on terms of great intimacy with the royal exiles and their\nfollowers for several months; at the end of which time, he and two other\ngentlemen, accompanied by me, set out for Scotland on a secret mission to\nthe disaffected, preparatory to the preconcerted rising. We remained\nconcealed for several months, in the houses of those whom we knew to be\nadherents to the cause we were embarked in. At the house of Lord Somerville\nwe remained for a long time, where my master won the affections of his\ndaughter, and proposed for her; but his Lordship objected to their union at\nthat time, on account of the unsettled state of affairs. With the consent\nof Helen, they were, however, privately married; and soon after we set out\nfor Aboyne, and joined in the unfortunate affair. He was slightly wounded\nat Sheriff-muir, but escaped by my assistance, and got safe to our camp.\nThe Prince and the Earl of Mar embarked when all hopes of success were cut\noff, and I was sent back to the house of his wife's father, to bring her to\nher husband, who had remained concealed in the Highlands, during the\nseverity of the winter. It was arranged, through me, that, as soon as he\nhad received remittances from France, I was to conduct her to the coast of\nArgyle, by Glasgow and the Clyde. It was far on in the summer before he\ncould get all the arrangements made. His wife, who expected in a few weeks\nto be confined, and concealed her situation with difficulty, became most\nurgent. Early in the month of September, she escaped unseen from her\nfather's house, and joined me at the appointed place, accompanied by a\nfiend in woman's shape, the agent whom I had employed to carry on our\nintercourse. She had been a follower of the camp, and, by the little\nservice for which I paid her well, had won the confidence of the simple\nHelen. We rode as fast as the lady's circumstances would admit, only\nhalting twice for a short time, in secret places. It was then that the\ndevil first assailed me in the person of this woman. She told me what a\nquantity of money and jewels the lady had in her valise, and how easy it\nwould be to get all into our possession. I shuddered at the very idea, and\nthreatened to shoot her upon the spot. She laughed, and said it was all a\njest; but it took hold of my mind during the course of our journey, and she\njudged by my looks, I suppose, that I was now more fit for her purpose. We\nconversed about it; the idea became familiar; but I shuddered at blood. She\nsaid there would be none shed. Still I could not consent--neither was I\nsufficiently averse. The poor lady was taken ill as we passed through the\nmoor. You know the rest. As we stood at the cottage door, the pious\ndiscourse of the farmer tortured me past endurance. I was several times on\nthe point of rushing into the cottage, and guarding my lady from the fiend;\nbut my evil genius prevailed. When we entered and got the unsuspecting\ncouple to their bed, my tempter smiled, and whispered 'All is safe.' I\nshuddered, and inquired what she meant.\n\n\"'Oh, nothing,' she replied. 'The lady cannot recover; the woman of the\nhouse has given her a composing draught. She will never awake. The money\nand jewels are our own.'\n\n\"And cautiously she displayed before me more gold than I had ever seen. I\ncould not think of parting with it. We carried off all that had belonged to\nmy mistress, even her body-clothes and the body of the dead babe, resolved\nto shew it to my master, and impose upon him by saying that his wife had\ndied in childbed, and that we had left her to be buried by the clergyman.\nOur object in this was to do away all suspicion of unfair play. Our excuse\nfor not seeing the body interred was haste to inform him, and prevent\ninquiries that might lead to his discovery. On the day after we left the\ncabin, I found my master at the appointed place, in the utmost anxiety for\nthe arrival of his wife. Every hour of delay was attended by the utmost\ndanger. A government cruiser had been seen on the coast; and there were\nfears that the small vessel might be discovered. Oh, moment that has ever\nsince embittered my life! The agony he endured no human tongue can\ndescribe. He was in a state of distraction. I, with a guilty officiousness,\ndisplayed her wardrobe. He turned from it in an agony. The dead body of the\nbabe he kissed and pressed to his bosom. Low groans had as yet only escaped\nhim; but suddenly, to my alarm, he resolved to go with me and die on her\ngrave. I trembled and felt a faintness come over me--for I was then young\nin guilt. My associate, hardened and inventive, began to urge the folly of\nthe attempt. He pushed her from him with violence, and would have set out;\nbut at that moment word was given that the cruiser was in sight, as if\nbearing for the land. Two friends and some of the crew seized him, and by\nforce hurried him on board the vessel, and set sail. I felt as if reprieved\nfrom death, and did not go on board; for I dreaded the presence of my\ninjured master. We returned to Glasgow, where we remained for a few weeks,\nrioting on the fruits of our guilt. One morning when I awoke after a\ndebauch, I found my companion fled, and all the gold and valuables gone. I\narose in a state of distraction, ran to the port in quest of her; but in\nvain--no vessel had sailed. I proceeded to Greenock; on the way I got\ntraces of her, and dogged her at every turn. My mind took a new direction\nas I followed her. I looked upon her now as a fiend that had led me to\nruin, and left me, loaded with guilt, to die under the pangs of poverty and\nan awakened conscience. My mind was distracted. Holding up my hands to\nheaven, I vowed vengeance, and cursed and swore in such a manner that\npeople on the road turned and looked at me, and thought me mad. I was mad;\nbut it was the madness of passion that burned in my brain, and the stings\nof conscience that pierced my heart. I paused several times in my pursuit.\nI was told by one traveller that the woman I sought was not a mile from me,\nthat she was sitting by the road-side drinking ardent spirits alone, and\nmuttering strange words to herself. Ha! thought I, conscience is busy with\nher too, and she drinks to drown its dreadful voice. 'Shall I kill her?' I\nsaid to myself. My heart yearned for her blood. Why should I deny it? I\nfelt that I required that satisfaction to enable me to live a little longer\nupon earth. So much was my frenzy roused, that I pictured to myself a total\nimpossibility to live and breathe if I did not feel the satisfaction of\nhaving visited on that woman's head the evil she brought on that sweet lady\nwho died by her hands. Then did her beautiful face beam before me in full\ncontrast with that of the hag who had led me to ruin, to misery, to hell.\nEvery thought inflamed me more and more, and on I flew to the relief of my\nburning brain. Wretch! How little did I think that, even in meditating her\ndeath, who deserved that punishment, I was only adding more and more power\nto my burning conscience? But all calculation of future accidents died\namidst my thirst of vengeance. Breathless I hurried on. I had a dagger in\nmy hand ready for the work of death. At a turn of a beech wood, I saw her\nsitting by the road-side. She was drinking spirits; and, as I approached, I\nheard her muttering strange words--yet she was not intoxicated. She was\nonly under the power of the demons that ruled her. Her back was to me, and\nshe knew not of my approach. I saw her take out the money and jewels she\nhad stolen from me, and for which, by her advice, I had sold my soul to\nSatan. The sight again brought before me the horrid crime I had committed.\nI saw the sweet lady before me, extended in the grasp of death; and\nconscience, with a thousand fangs, tore at my heart. I grasped the dagger\nfirmer and firmer as she counted the money, and wrought myself up to the\npitch of a demon's fury. I advanced quietly. She burst into a loud laugh as\nshe finished the counting of the gold. 'Ha, ha, ha!' she cried--'I\nhave'--she would have said 'outwitted him,' but my dagger fixed the word in\nher death-closed jaws. I struck her to the heart through her back, and the\nword 'outwitted' died in her throat. She lay at my feet a corpse. I threw\nthe body in a ditch, and took up the money and jewels for which I had sold\nmy soul. I would have cast them away; but the devil again danced in the\nfaces of the gold coins. I put them in my pocket. The gold again corrupted\nme. I drowned my conscience in drink at the next inn. I fled into England,\nwhere I have lived by rapine ever since, until the other day, when I\nreturned to Scotland to meet the fate I so well deserve, from the hands of\nthe son of those I had injured. Of my old master I have never heard\nanything. If he is alive, he is still in France.\"\n\nLife seemed only to have been prolonged until he had made the horrid\ndisclosure; for he fell into convulsions and expired, soon after the\nColonel, whose wound had become stiff and painful, had left the house. Next\nmorning, William visited his friend, and was grieved to find that he was\nrather feverish. His wound was still painful. The occurrence of the\npreceding evening occupied both their minds. William had no doubt of his\nbeing the lawful son of Henry Seaton by Miss Somerville; but was as much in\ndoubt as to whether his father was alive as ever. In a few days, the\nColonel was enabled to leave his bed-room, and became convalescent. He\nurged the propriety of William's proceeding to France in quest of his\nfather; and, as the vessel was not yet to sail for a few days, he resolved\nto pay a visit to his friend, the minister, to inform him of his\nintentions, and relate the history of his mother's murderers. The Colonel\nwould have accompanied him; but he could not ride. He rode along to the\nmanse, with feelings very different from those with which he had left it.\nThe worthy minister rejoiced to see him, and held up his pious hands at\nthe horrid recital. He approved of William's determination of going in\nquest of his father, and, after paying a visit to his mother's and foster\nparents' graves, he once more mounted to return to Edinburgh. As he rode\nslowly along, musing upon the wayward fate of his parents unconscious of\nall around, he was roused by the tread of horses' feet behind him. He\nlooked back, and saw a gentleman, attended by a servant in livery,\napproaching. He roused himself, and put his horse off the slow pace at\nwhich he had been going. The stranger and he saluted each other, and\nentered into conversation upon indifferent subjects. At length they became\ninterested in each other, and found that they were both on the eve of\nsailing for France in the same vessel. The stranger requested to have the\npleasure of knowing the name of his fellow-traveller.\n\n\"Seaton,\" said William, \"is my name.\"\n\n\"Seaton, Seaton,\" said the other--\"I am surprised I did not recognise you\nbefore. I thought we had met before; but your youth made me always doubt\nthe truth of my surmises. Colonel Henry Seaton was an intimate acquaintance\nof mine--have I the pleasure of seeing his son?\"\n\n\"I hope you have,\" replied William. \"Pray, sir, when saw you him last? Was\nhe in good health?\"\n\n\"It is some time since I left France,\" said the other. \"At that time he was\nin his ordinary health; but not more cheerful than usual--always grave and\nsad as ever.\"\n\n\"Thank God!\" cried William; \"he is, I trust, then, still alive.\" And he\npressed the stranger's hand with a warmth that surprised him. \"Where do you\nmean to stay,\" resumed William, \"until the vessel sails?\"\n\n\"I have no relations,\" replied he, \"in Edinburgh. I meant to stay at an inn\nin the Canongate, where I have lived before; but it is all one to me--I may\nas well tarry in the White Hart with you.\"\n\nWhen they arrived, William sent a cadie to give notice to Colonel Gordon\nthat he was arrived in town; but was detained upon business with a\nstranger, to whom he would be happy to introduce him, as he was an\nacquaintance of his father's, and had seen him within the last few years.\nSoon after dinner, they were all seated at their wine, and deep in\nconversation. The stranger had been, from what he said, well acquainted\nwith the exiled party in France, and, more particularly, with Colonel\nSeaton; but he knew nothing of his history, further than that he had lost a\nbeloved wife and child at the time of his expatriation, and had, both by\nfriends here and every other means, endeavoured in vain to get any\ninformation of where she was buried, or what had become of a faithful\nservant who had not embarked with him in the confusion of his flight--that\non this account he was often oppressed by a lowness of spirits, and had\nmany suspicions that all had not been as it ought to have been. This\nsubject discussed, they would have had recourse to politics; but each\nseemed cautious of betraying his opinions, and the stranger, who did not\nseem to relish much some of the sentiments that occasionally escaped the\nColonel, appeared to be a Tory. After the Colonel departed, the\nconversation of William and Mr Graham--for this was the gentleman's\nname--became more pointed, and it appeared that he was on business\nconnected with the exiles. He had assumed that William was of his own way\nof thinking in politics, and was evidently much disappointed when he\ndiscovered that he was not. He became much more reserved, but not less\nattached to him; for William gave him a general outline of his misfortunes\nand early education, and they parted for the night with the best opinion of\neach other. Next morning both proceeded to Leith, where Graham expected to\nfind a messenger from the north with a packet of letters for him. When they\nreached Leith, they found that the messenger had arrived on the previous\nday, and was waiting for Mr Graham, who, having several persons to visit in\nthe neighbourhood, William and he parted, agreeing to meet in the Colonel's\nto supper. They met in the evening.\n\n\"I have been making some inquiries,\" said Mr Graham, \"about Colonel Henry\nSeaton, on your account, and am happy to say that he is well. I fear I\nshall not have the pleasure of your company to France. I have every reason\nto believe that he is now in Scotland, or will be very soon. Excuse me if I\nam not more particular. I shall, I hope, to-morrow, or at least before the\nvessel sails, be able to give you more particular information. I can rely,\nI think, upon your honour, that no harm shall come from my confidence.\"\n\nBoth thanked him for the interest he took, and the good news he had\ncommunicated. They parted for the night, all in the best spirits--William\nanticipating the joy he should feel at the sight of his parent, and the\nColonel anxious to see his old friend. Afterwards Mr Graham and William\noccasionally met. Their evenings were spent with the Colonel, and all party\ndiscussion carefully avoided. On the evening of the fourth day after Mr\nGraham's last information, William had begun to fear that the vessel might\nsail before any certainty could be obtained; and he was in doubt whether to\nproceed with her or remain. Upon Mr Graham's arrival, which was later than\nusual, he went directly up to William--\n\n\"I have good news for you,\" said he. \"Colonel Seaton is at present in\nScotland--somewhere in Inverness-shire. He is the bearer of intelligence\nthat will render it unnecessary for me to proceed at present to France. I\nam, I confess, much disappointed; but you, I perceive, are not.\"\n\n\"From my soul I thank you,\" said William. \"Where shall I find my father?\"\n\n\"That is more than I can tell you,\" answered the other--\"I cannot even tell\nthe name he has at present assumed; all I know is, that he is the bearer of\nintelligence from the Prince that crushes for a time our sanguine hopes.\nThe fickle and promise-breaking Louis has again deceived us. The Prince,\nand the lukewarm, timid part of his adherents, the worshippers of the\nascendant, refuse to act without his powerful aid. His concurrence we have,\nand a prospect of future aid at a more convenient season; but, bah! for a\nFrenchman's promise! I am off from ever taking a leading part again. I will\nwait the convenient season. I may be led, but shall never lead again. He\ndoes not deserve a crown that will not dare for it; nor does he deserve the\nhearts of a generous people that would not dare everything to free them\nfrom the yoke of a foreign tyrant. Excuse me, gentlemen,--I go too far, and\nam giving you offence; but I assure you it is not meant. My heart is full\nof bitterness, and I forget what I say.\"\n\nThe Colonel, whose blood had begun to inflame when Graham checked himself,\ncooled and felt rather gratified at the intelligence thus so unexpectedly\ncommunicated. He felt for a generous mind crossed in its favourite object,\nhowever much he thought that mind misled, from education and early\nprejudice, and assured him he had already forgot his expressions. A\ndifferent turn was given to the conversation, by William's continued\ninquiries after his father. Graham meant to set off for the north in a few\ndays, for a secret meeting of the heads of the disaffected, at which\nColonel Seaton was to communicate the message he had to them from France.\nHe offered to be William's guide. The Colonel, whose shoulder was now quite\nwell, requested to accompany them; and on the Monday morning after, they\ncrossed at Kinghorn, and proceeded by the most direct route, passing\nthrough Perthshire to the Highlands. They arrived at Glengarry, and found\nthat Colonel Seaton was at the time on a visit, with the chief, to Glenelg,\nbut would be back on the following day. There were a number of visiters at\nthe castle, with all whom Graham was on the most intimate terms. Gordon and\nWilliam were introduced, and the latter was most cordially received, from\nthe strong resemblance he bore to his father. They got a guide to conduct\nthem to see the beautiful scenery around the house, and they were amusing\nthemselves admiring the grandeur of the mountain scenes, when the guide\nsaid, pointing to a bend in the road--\n\n\"Gentlemen, there is Glengarry.\"\n\nThey looked towards the spot, and could perceive two persons on horseback,\napproaching in earnest conversation. William's heart beat quick--the reins\nalmost dropped from his hand--he felt giddy, and his temples throbbed as if\nthey would have burst. They approached--they bowed to each other--William's\neyes were fixed upon the countenance of his father, who returned his gaze,\nbut neither spoke a word. The Colonel said, in answer to the polite\nsalutation, that he and his young friend had had the honour to accompany Mr\nGraham on a visit.\n\n\"Has Graham come back so soon?\" he said, with surprise, \"I feared as much;\nbut, gentlemen, you are kindly welcome.\" And he shook hands with them.\n\n\"Macdonald, what is this?\" he said, turning to Seaton, who was absorbed in\nthought. \"Here is a youthful counterpart of yourself!\"\n\n\"My father!\" exclaimed William, as he leaped from his horse, and clasped\nhis leg, leaning his face upon it, and bedewing it with his tears.\n\n\"Young man,\" said Seaton, coldly, \"you are mistaken; I have no son.\"\nWilliam lifted his hands in an imploring manner, and the ring met his\nfather's eye. \"Good heavens! what do I see!\" he exclaimed, and sank\nforward, overpowered by his feelings, upon his horse's neck. The chief and\nthe Colonel raised him up--the tears were streaming from his eyes. \"A\nthousand painful remembrances,\" said he, \"have quite unmanned me. Young\nman, you just now called me father--where, for mercy's sake tell me, did\nyou get that ring?\"\n\n\"It was found on the bosom of my dead mother,\" faltered William.\n\n\"Then you are my son!\"\n\nAnd the next moment they were locked in each other's embrace. The chief and\nGordon were moved. They passed their hands hastily across their eyes.\n\n\"Dear father,\" said William, \"have you forgot your old friend and associate\nin arms--my best of friends?\"\n\nSeaton for the first time looked to him, and, extending his disengaged\nhand, grasped the Colonel's, saying--\n\n\"Excuse me, Gordon--I am now too happy. I have found a son and a brother.\"\n\nThey walked to the castle, and William detailed to his father his mournful\nstory. Often had he to stop, to allow his father to give vent to his\nanguish.\n\n\"Ah, I often feared,\" said he, \"that my Helen had been hardly dealt with;\nbut this I never did suspect. Cursed villain! and, oh! my poor murdered\nHelen!\"\n\nThey returned to the castle. It was agreed that Seaton should still retain\nthe name of Macdonald, until the Colonel should obtain, through the\ninfluence of his friends, a pardon for him. He also had lost all hopes of\nsuccess for the Prince, and wished to enjoy the company of his son, visit\nthe grave of his beloved wife, and, at death, be buried by her side. All\nwas obtained; and Henry Seaton lived for many years, blessed in the society\nof his son, who studied the law, at the suggestion of the Colonel, and\nbecame distinguished in his profession.\n\n\n\n\nHUME AND THE GOVERNOR OF BERWICK.\n\n\nIt has been asserted by at least one historian, that it has been observed,\nthat the inhabitants of towns which have undergone a cruel siege, and\nexperienced all the horrors of storm and pillage, have retained for ages\nthe traces of the effects of their sufferings, in a detestation of war,\nindications of pusillanimity, and decline of trade. If there be any truth\nin this observation, what caitiffs must the inhabitants of Berwick be! No\ntown in the world has been so often exposed to the \"ills that wait on the\nred chariot of war;\" for Picts, Romans, Danes, Saxons, English, and Scotch\nhave, in their turn, wasted their rage and their strength upon her broken\nribs. Her boasted \"barre,\" (barrier,) from which her name, Barrewick, is\nderived, has never been able to save her effectually, either from her\nenemies of land or water. From the reign of Osbert, the king of\nNorthumberland, down to the time when Lord Sidmouth saw treason in her big\nguns, she has been devoted to the harpies of foreign and intestine war and\ndiscord. Yet who shall say, that the hearts or spirits of the inhabitants\nof this extraordinary town lost either blood or buoyancy from their\nmisfortunes? No sooner were her bulwarks raised than they appeared\nrenascent; the inhabitants defended the new fortifications with a spirit\nthat received a salient power from the depression produced by the\ndemolition of the old; and her ships, that one day were shattered by\nengines of war, sailed in a state of repair with the next fair wind, to\nfetch from distant ports articles of merchandise, not seldom for those who\nwere fighting or had fought against her liberties. Such was Berwick; and\nher sons of to-day inherit too much of the nobility and generosity of her\nold children, to find fault with us for telling them a tale which, while it\nexhibits some shades of the warlike spirit of their ancestors, shews also\nthat war and citizen warriors have their foibles, and are not always exempt\nfrom the harmless laugh that does the heart more good than the touch of an\nold spear.\n\nThe Lord Hume of the latter period of the seventeenth century, had a\nnatural son, Patrick, an arch rogue, inheriting the fire of the blood of\nthe Humes, along with that which burnt in the black eyes of the gipsies of\nYetholm. He was brought up by his father; and, true to the principles of\nhis education, would acknowledge no patrons of the heart, save the three\nruling powers of love, laughter, and war--Cupid, Momus, and Mars--a trio\nchosen from all the gods, (the remainder being sent to Hades,) as being\nalone worthy of the worship of a gentleman. How Patrick got acquainted,\nand, far less, how he got in love with the Mayor of Berwick's daughter,\nIsabella, we cannot say, nor need antiquarians try to discover; for where\nthere was a Southron to be slain or a lady to be won, Patrick Hume cared no\nmore for bar, buttress, battlement, fire, or water, than did Jove for his\nown thunder-cloud, under the shade of which he courted the daughter of\nInachus. Letting alone the recondite subject of \"love's beginning,\" we\nshall tread safer ground in stating, that the affection had been very\nmaterially increased on both sides by the walls of Berwick; for, although\nPatrick was a great despiser of fortifications, he had felt, in the affair\nof his love for Isabella, the fair daughter of the Mayor of Berwick, that\nthere is no getting a damsel through a _loop-hole_, though there might be\npoured as much sentimental and pathetic speech and sigh-breath through the\ninvidious opening, as ever passed through the free air that fills the\nbreeze under the trysting thorn.\n\nWhat we have now said requires the explanation, that at the period of our\nstory, the town of Berwick belonged to the English; and the Mayor, being\nhimself either an Englishman, or connected by strong ties of relationship\nwith the English, had a strong antipathy towards the Scottish Border\nraiders, whom he denominated as gentlemen-robbers, headed by the noble\nrobber Hume. But, above all, he hated young Patrick--into whose veins, he\nsaid, there had been poured the distilled raid-venom and love-poison of all\nthe gentlemen-scaumers that ever infested the Borders. The origin of this\nhatred had some connection with an affair of the Newmilne, belonging to\nBerwick; the dam-dike of which, Patrick alleged, prevented the salmon from\ngetting up the river, and hence destroyed all his angling sport, as well as\nthat of all the noblemen and gentlemen that resorted to the river for the\npurpose of practising the \"gentle art.\" He had therefore threatened to pull\nit down, to let up the fish; and sounded his threat in the ears of the\nindignant Mayor, in terms that were, peradventure, made stronger and\nbitterer by the thought that dikes and walls were his greatest bane upon\nearth: by the walls of Berwick the Mayor kept from his arms the fair\nIsabella, and by the dam-dike of Newmilne the same Mayor deprived him of\nthe pleasure of angling. Was such power on the part of a Mayor to be borne\nby the high-spirited youth who had been trained to look upon mason-work as\na mere stimulant to love or war--a thing that raised the value of what it\nenclosed by the opposition it offered to the young blood that raged for\nentrance? The youth thought not. He vowed that he would neither lose his\nIsabella nor his salmon; and, as fate would have it, the old Mayor had\nheard the vow, and vowed also that young Patrick should lose both.\n\nHaving fished one day to no purpose, in consequence of the obstruction of\n\"that most accursed of all dam-dikes, the Newmilne dike,\" as Patrick styled\nit, he threw down his rod, and lay down upon the bank of the river, to wait\nthe hour when the moon should summon and lighten him to the loop-hole in\nthe other of his hated obstructions, the walls of Berwick--where that\nevening he expected to meet his beloved Isabella, and commune with her in\nthe eloquent language of their mutual passion. The bright luminary burst in\nthe midst of his reveries from behind an autumn cloud, and flashed a long\nsilver beam upon the rolling waters. He started to his feet.\n\n\"It is beyond my time,\" he said, self-accusingly. \"My Isabella is on\nBerwick Wall, and I am still lingering here by the banks of the river,\nthree miles from where my love and honour require me to be. The loiterer in\nlove is a laggard in war; and shame on the Hume who is either!\"\n\nIn a short time the young Hume was standing beneath a buttress of the old\nwalls of the town, looking earnestly through a small opening, in which he\nexpected to see the face of the fair daughter of the Mayor.\n\n\"Art there at last, love?\" said he, in a soft voice, as he saw, with\npalpitating heart, the pretty but arch face of the bewitching heiress of\nall the wealth of the old burgher lord peering through the aperture. \"What,\nin the name of him who got his wings in the lap of Venus, and useth them to\nthis hour as cleverly as doth our pretty messenger of Spring, hath kept\nthee, wench?\"\n\n\"Ha! ha! hush! hush, man!\" responded she, whose spirit equalled that of the\nboldest Hume that ever headed a raid. \"Thou'rt the laggard. I've waited for\nthee an hour, until I've sighed this little love-hole into an oven-heat,\nwaiting thee, thou lover of broken troth! Some gipsy queen in Haugh of the\nTweed hath wooed thee out of thy affection for thy Isabel; and now thou\naskest what hath kept me. Ha! ha! Good--for a Hume.\"\n\n\"The moon cheated me, and went skulking under a cloud,\" responded Hume.\n\n\"And the cloud threw thy love in the shade,\" added quickly the gay girl.\n\"Methought love kept his own dial, and was independent of sun or moon. What\nif a rebel vapour cometh over the queen of heaven that night thou art to\nmake me free? My hope of liberty, I fancy, would be clouded; and I would be\nremitted again to the care of Captain Wallace, who keepeth the town and the\nMayor's daughter from the spoiling arms of the robber Humes.\"\n\n\"Ha! ha!\" replied he--\"thy father wanteth not a Mayor's wits, Isabella, in\noffering thee as a prize to the Governor of the town. Excellent device,\ni'faith! The old burgher lord knew he could not keep thee, mad-cap wench as\nthou art, from a hated Hume's arms, unless he gave the Captain an interest\nas a _lover_ in guarding thee, like a piece of the old wall of Berwick.\"\n\n\"And therein thou'rt well complimented,\" replied she; \"for my father could\nnot get, in all Berwick, a man that could keep me from thee, but he who\nguardeth town, and Mayor, and maiden together. Since the Governor, as a\nlover, got charge of me, I am more firmly caged than ever was the old\ncountess, who was so long confined in the grated wing-cage of the old\ncastle. When art thou to free me from the Governor's love and surveillance,\ngood Patrick? If what I have now to tell thee hath no power to quicken thy\nwits and nerve thine arm, thou art indeed thyself no better than one of\nthose stones, to which, in thy wit, thou hast likened me. Knowest that a\nday is fixed for Captain Wallace being my _legal_ governor?\"\n\n\"Ha!\" cried Hume, in agitation. \"This soundeth differently from the playful\nhammer of thy wit, Bell. What day is fixed? Thou hast fired me with high\npurposes.\"\n\n\"How high tower they?\" cried the maiden, laughing. \"Do they reach thy\nformer threat, to pull down the Newmilne dam-dike, and let _up_ the salmon,\nin revenge for the letting _down_ of the Mayor's daughter?\"\n\n\"Another time for thy wit, Bell,\" replied Patrick, in a more serious tone.\n\"Thou hast put to flight my spirits. The grey owl Meditation is flapping\nhis dingy wing over my heart. The time--the time--when is the day?\"\n\n\"This day se'ennight,\" answered Isabel. \"Hush! hush! here cometh the\nGovernor, blowing like a Tweedmouth grampus, fresh from the German Sea, in\nfull run after a lady-fish of the queen of rivers.\"\n\nAnd now Hume heard the hoarse voice of the redoubted Governor, Captain\nWallace--that fat overgrown _bellygerent_ son of Mars, so famous, in his\nday, for vaunting of feats of arms, at Bothwell, (where he never was,) over\nthe Mayor's wine, and in presence of his fair daughter, whom he thus\ncourted after the manner of the noble Moor, with a slight difference as to\nthe truth of his feats scarce worth mentioning. It appeared to Hume, as he\nlistened, that Wallace, and the Mayor, who was with him, had sallied out,\nafter the fourth bottle, in search of Isabel--a suspicion verified by the\nspeech of the warlike Captain.\n\n\"Did I not tell thee, Mr Mayor,\" said the Governor, in a voice that\nreverberated among the walls, and fell distinctly on Hume's ear, \"that she\nwould be about the fortifications? Ha!--anything appertaining to war\ndelighteth the fair creature as much as it did that rare author, Will\nShakspeare's Desdemona. If I had been as black as the Moor--ay, or as the\ndevil himself--my prowess at Bothwell would have given this person of mine,\nalbeit somewhat enlarged, the properties of beauty in the eyes of\nnoble-spirited women--so much do our bodies borrow from the qualities of\nour souls.\"\n\n\"Where is she?\" rejoined the Mayor. \"I like not that love of the\nfortifications. It is the outside of the walls she loves. See, she flies,\nconscience-smitten. I like not this, my noble Captain--see, there is\nPatrick Hume beyond the wall, if thou hast courage, drive thy pike through\nthat loop, and, peradventure, ye may blind a Hume for life.\"\n\n\"I like to strike a man fair--body to body--as we did on the Bridge of\nBothwell,\" responded the Captain. \"Ha! ha! Give me the loop-hole of a good\nbilbo-thrust, out of which the soul wings its flight in a comfortable\nmanner. Nevertheless, to please my noble friend the mayor, and to get quit\nof a rival, I may\" (lowering his voice to a whisper) \"as well kill him in\nthe way thou hast propounded; but I assure thee, upon my honour, I would\nmuch rather have the fellow before me, without the intervention of these\nplaguey walls, that come thus in the way and march of one's valour. There\ngoes!\"\n\nOn looking-up, Hume saw the Captain's bilbo thrusting manfully through the\nnight air, as if it would pierce the night gnomes and spirits that love to\nhang over old battlements. Taking out his handkerchief, he wrapped it round\nhis hand, and seizing the point of the sword, gave it a jerk, which (and\nthe consequent terror) disengaged it from the hand of the pot-valiant hero\nof Bothwell. A shout of fear was heard from within.\n\n\"Stop! stop! mine good Mr Mayor!\" cried the Captain to the Mayor, who had\nbegun to fly; \"I do not see, as yet, any very great, that is, serious cause\nof apprehension; but, I forget, thou wert not at Bothwell. By my honour,\nI've done for him! He hath carried off my sword in his body. Was it Patrick\nHume, saidst thou? Then is he dead as my grandmother, and no more shall he\nfollow after my betrothed, or threaten thee with the downfall of the\nNewmilne dam-dike. All I sorrow for is my good sword, which, but for that\naccursed loop, I might have redrawn from his vile carcass, and thus saved\nmy property at the same time that I gave the carrion crows of old Berwick a\ndinner.\"\n\n\"Ah! but he's a devil that Hume,\" responded the Mayor. \"Long has he hounded\nafter my daughter Bell; and though it is now likely near an end with him, I\nshould not like to come in the way of the dying tiger. Let us home.\"\n\nThe sound of the retreating warriors brought back Hume to the loop-hole, to\nsee if Isabel was still there, to whom he was anxious to propose a plan,\nwhereby he might (with the gay romp's most cheerful good-will and hearty\nco-operation) carry her off from the contaminating embrace of the\npot-valiant Governor, with whom she was to be wed on that day se'ennight.\nHe waited a long time, but no Isabel came. He suspected that the Mayor,\nafter having caught her speaking to him, (Hume,) his most inveterate foe,\nwould, as he had often done before, lock her up, and set the noble Captain\nas a guard upon his lady-love. Cursing his unlucky fate, that brought them\nout to interrupt his converse with the mistress of his heart, and prevent\nthe arrangement of an elopement, he bent the Captain's bilbo hilt to point\ntill it rebounded with a loud twang, and stepping away up the Tweed, fell\ninto a deep meditation as to the manner by which he should secure Isabel.\nAs he went along, his eye fell upon that source of so much contention\nbetween the men of Berwick and the border barons, the dam-dike of the\nNewmilne, and against which the Lord Hume, as well as himself and many of\nthe neighbouring knights and lairds, had vowed destruction. A thought\nflashed across his mind, and his eye sparkled in the moonbeam, as brightly\nas did the Captain's sword, which he still held in his hand.\n\n\"I have hit it!\" he cried, as he clapped his hand on his limb, and the\nsound echoed back from the mill-walls. \"For spearing a salmon or a\nSouthron, dissolving that old foolish tenure between a proprietor and his\ncattle, or cutting the tie of forced duty between a rich old Mayor and his\ndaughter, where shall the bastard of Hume be equalled on the Borders? My\nfair Bell, thou wouldst spring with the elasticity of this bent blade, and\ndance like these moonbeams in the Tweed, if thou wert in the knowledge of\nthis thought that now tickles the wild fancy of thy lover, whom thou\nequallest in all that belongest to the gay heart and the bounding spirit.\"\n\nOccupied with these thoughts, Patrick went home to the castle of the Humes;\nand, next morning, he bent his way to Foulden, where he sought Lord Ross's\nbaillie, James Sinclair, a man who had a very hearty spite against the\nobstruction to the passage of the Tweed salmon. With him he communed for a\nconsiderable time, and thereafter he proceeded to Paxton and to others of\nthe gentlemen in the vicinity. The subject of these interviews will perhaps\nbest be explained by the following placard, which appeared in various parts\nof Berwick in two days thereafter:--\n\n\"On Friday last, the tenant of Newmilne, belonging to the toun of Baricke,\ngave information to our honourable Mayor, who has communicated the same to\nour gallant Governor, Captain Wallace, that the Lord Hume and other the\nScotch gentlemen, our neighbours, do, on Monday next, intend to be at the\nNewmilne aforesaid, by tenn of the clock of the morninge; and that they had\nsummoned their tenants to be then and there present, alsoe, to assist in\nthe breaking downe and demolishing the dam of the said Newmilne; and that\nthe Lord Ross his bailiffe of Foulden had given out in speeches, that he\nwas desired to summon the said Lord Ross, his tenants, and inhabitants of\nFoulden barronry, to be then and there aiding and assisting them, alsoe,\nfor better effecting the same: Whereupon, it is necessary, that, at a\nringing of a belle, our tounsmen, headed by our Mayor, and directed by the\nwarlike genius of Captain Wallace, should proceed to the said Newmilne, and\ngive battle in defence of the said dike, which is indispensable to the\nexistence of the toun's property. God save the Mayor!\"\n\nThe effect produced by this proclamation was rapid and stirring. The\nEnglish, at that period, had contrived to raise a strong prejudice in the\nminds of the Berwick burghers against the Border Scots; and the\nintelligence that the daring robbers intended to demolish their property,\ninflamed them to the high point of resolution to fight under their valorous\nCaptain, while one stone of the dike remained on another, and one drop of\nblood was left in their bodies. Hume, who had a greater part in the\noccasion of these preparations than had been made apparent, got secret\nintelligence, on all that was going on within the town; but none of his\nvigils at the loop-hole were rewarded with a sight of his spirited Isabel,\nwho, he understood, had been confined in her father's house since the night\non which she had been discovered upon the wall. Meanwhile, the preparations\nfor the defence of the town's property proceeded; and, on the Monday\nmorning, a bell, whose loud tongue spoke \"war's alarums,\" sounded over town\nand walls, spreading fear among the timid, and rousing in the noble breasts\nof the valorous proud and swelling resolutions to give battle to the Border\nrobbers, in the style of their ancestors. Ever since the first\nannouncement, they had been drilled by the Captain, whose loud command of\nvoice, proud bearing, bent back (bent in self-defence against the\ncounterpoise of his stomach), and martial strut, filled them with great awe\nof his power, and great confidence in his abilities. Many hundred people,\n\"on horse and foote,\" (we use the language of our old chronicle), \"were\ngathered together, considerably armed with swordes, pistolles, firelocks,\nblunderbushes, foalingpieces, bowes and arrowes of the tyme of the first\nEdward, and uther powerful ammunition, fit to resist the ryot of the\nScotch; and away they marched to the newe miln, with Mr Mayor and the\nGovernor (a verrie terrible man of war--to be married the morn to the\nMayor's dochter Isabel, if he come back with lyffe), and the sergeants with\ntheir halberts, and constables with their staves, going before them.\" In\nfront, there was beat some thundering engines of warlike music, which was\ncut occasionally by sharp screams of small fifes, blown into by the burgher\namateurs of that lively musical machine. Altogether, the cavalcade\npresented many appearances of a stern and warlike nature, which might well\nhave prevented the Scotch raiders from proceeding with their felonious\nintention of driving down the obstruction to the salmon, and forced them to\nremain content with the angling of trout and parr. The \"verrie sight\" of\nthe brave Wallace was deemed sufficient by those who followed him, \"to put\nan end to the fraye before it was begunne.\"\n\nThis extraordinary cavalcade was seen passing along the road by Patrick\nHume, who had, with his companions, retired behind some brushwood, the\nbetter to enjoy the sight. The warriors passed on, and every now and then\nthe loud voice of the captain was heard commanding and exhorting his troops\nto keep up their courage for the coming strife. When the last file was\ndisappearing, Hume and his companions made the woods resound with a loud\nlaugh, and, starting up, and crying, \"For Berwick, ho!\" they hurried away\nin the direction of the town, which the Governor, in his anxiety to form a\nlarge assemblage, had left without a guard. Meanwhile the burgher army\npushed on for Newmilne; \"and, when they came there,\" (says the chronicle),\n\"they pitched their camp; and nae doubt butt they were well disciplined,\nseeing theye had the advantage of the Captain's training, with the great\nblessing attour of weapons suitable--viz., rusty ould swords and pistolles;\nand they continued about three or foure houres on the bankes and about the\nmilne: still there was nae appearance of the Scotch coming to fecht with\nthem.\" For a long time the Captain was solemn and quiet; but when it\nappeared that the Scots \"were not to come to show fecht,\" he got as wordy\nas a blank-verse poet, and stood up in the face of a neighbouring wood,\nfrom which it was expected the enemy would emanate, and called upon the\ncowards (as he styled them) to come out \"and dare to touche one stone of\nthe milne dam-dike.\"\n\n\"Did I not tell thee, Mr Mayor,\" he cried, \"that I killed Patrick Hume? If\nnot, where is he now, and he the Lord Ross of Foulden, and he of Paxton,\nand all the rest of the Border heroes? Come forth from thy wood recesses,\nif there be as much pluck in thee as will enable thee to meet the fire of\nthe eye of the Governor of Berwick! Ha! ha! The rascals must have been at\nBothwell, where, doubtless, they felt the pith of this arm. There goeth the\ndisadvantage of bravery! The devil a man will encounter one whose name is\nterrible, and I fear I may never have the luxury of a good fight again.\nThis day I expected to have fleshed my good sword. To-morrow is my\nwedding-day. How glorious would it have been to have made it also a day of\nvictory! I could almost hack these unconscious trees for very spite, and to\ngive my sword the exercise it lacketh.\"\n\nAnd he swung his falchion from side to side, cutting off the tops of the\nyoung firs, just as if they had been men's heads; but no Scotchman made his\nappearance. The whole bells of Berwick now began to swing and ring as if\nthe town had been invaded; and messengers, breathless and panting, arrived\nat the camp, and communicated the intelligence that the Bastard of Hume\nhad, with a body of men, got entrance to the Mayor's house, by shewing the\nguard the Governor's sword, and carried off Isabel, the Mayor's daughter,\nwho was more willing to go than to stay. The route of the fugitives was\ndistinctly laid down, and it was represented by the messengers that, by\ncrossing over a couple of miles, they had every chance of overtaking them\nand reclaiming the disobedient maid. The recommendation was instantly\nseized by the distracted Mayor, and a shout of the burgher forces, and an\naccompanying peal from the drums and fifes, shewed the desire of the men to\nfulfil the wish of their master. The captain's spirit was changed. He\nburned to reclaim his bride; but he feared the Bastard of Hume, whose\nprowess was acknowledged far and wide from the Borders. Shame did what\ncould not have been accomplished by love; and, putting himself, with a mock\nwarlike air, at the head of the troops, away he posted as fast as sixteen\nstone of beef, penetrated by alternate currents of fear, shame, and valour,\nwould permit. The musical instruments of war were hushed; and as the forces\nhurried on, panting and breathing, not a voice was heard but the occasional\nvaunts of the captain, who found it necessary to conceal his fear by these\nrunning shots of assumed valour. As fate would have it, the Berwickers came\nup with the Bastard's party, who, with the gay and laughing Isabel in the\nmidst of them, were seated, as they thought securely, in the old Berwick\nwood, enjoying some wine, which she, with wise providence, had handed to\none of the men as a refreshment when they should be beyond danger. The\nsounds of merriment struck on the ear of the invaders; they stopped, and\nthought it safer, in the first instance, to reconnoitre--a step highly\neulogized by the Captain, who seemed to want breath as well from the toil\nof the chase as from some misgivings of his valour, which had come, like\nqualms of sickness, over his stout heart.\n\n\"Ha! traitor!\" cried the Mayor, \"the device of sending us to Newmilne will\nnot avail thee. Give me my daughter, traitor!\" addressing himself to the\nBastard, who stood now in the front of the party, all prepared for a tough\ndefence.\n\n\"In either of two events thou shalt have her,\" cried Hume--\"if thou canst\ntake her, or if she is willing to go with thee.\"\n\n\"No, no!\" cried the sprightly maid herself, coming boldly forward. \"I love\nmy father and the good citizens of Berwick, and none of them shall lose a\ndrop of their blood for Isabel. If we are to have battle, let it be between\nthe two lovers who claim my hand. By the honour of a Mayor's daughter, I\nshall be his who gaineth the day! Stand forward, Patrick Hume and Governor\nWallace.\"\n\n\"Bravo!\" shouted the burghers, delighted with a scheme that smacked so\nsweetly of justice and safety.\n\nAll eyes were now turned on the Captain; and Isabel, delighted with her\nscheme, was seen concealing her face with the corner of her cloak, to\nsuppress her laughter. The Captain saw, however, neither justice nor safety\nin the scheme, and, edging near the Mayor, whispered into his ear his\nintention not to fight. Palpable indications of fear were escaping from his\ntrembling limbs, and the hero of Bothwell was on the eve of being\ndiscovered. Hume was prepared--he stood, sword in hand, ready for the\ncombat.\n\n\"Come forward, Captain!\" cried the Bastard.\n\n\"Come forward!\" resounded from Isabel, and a hundred voices of the\nburghers.\n\n\"I am the Governor of Berwick,\" answered the hero, in a trembling voice,\nkeeping the body of the Mayor between him and Hume. \"As the servant of the\nKing, I dare not\" (panting) \"run the risk of reducing my\nauthority--by--by--engaging, I say, by committing myself in single combat,\nlike a knight errant, for a runaway damsel. It comporteth not with my\ndignity--hegh--hegh--I say, I cannot come down from the height of my glory\nat Bothwell, by committing myself in a love brawl. But ye are my\nmen--hegh--hegh--ye are bound to fight when I command. Do your duty--on,\non, I say, to the rescue.\"\n\n\"We want not the wench,\" responded many voices. \"He that will not fight for\nhis love, deserves to lose her for his cowardice.\" \"Resign her, good\nMayor,\" cried others. \"Give the damsel her choice,\" added others. \"Bravo,\ngood fellows!\" cried Bell, in the midst of her laughter; and a shout from\nHume's men rewarded her spirit. The enthusiasm was caught by the\nBerwickers, some of whom, observing certain indications thrown out by\nIsabel, ran forward and got from her a flagon of good wine. The vessel was\nhanded from one to another. \"Hurra for Hume!\" shouted the Berwickers. The\ntables were turned. All, to a man, were with Isabel and her partner. The\nMayor had sense enough to see his position. In any way he was to lose his\ndaughter, and he heartily despised the coward that would not fight for his\nlove.\n\n\"Hume,\" he cried, standing forward, \"come hither; and, Isabel, approach the\nside of thy father.\"\n\nThe laughing damsel ran forward, and, perceiving her absolute safety, flung\nherself on her father's neck, and hung there, amidst the continued shouts\nof the men.\n\n\"Forgive me, forgive me, father!\" cried she. \"My choice is justified by my\nlove, and the characters of my lovers. The one is a coward, the other a\nbrave youth. Hume's intentions are honourable, and I may be the respected\nwife of one of noble blood.\"\n\n\"I forgive thee, Bell,\" answered the father. And he took her hand and\nplaced it in Hume's. \"Come, Captain, forgive her too, and let us all be\nfriends.\"\n\nHe looked round for the Captain, and all the party looked also; but the\nhero was gone. He had mounted a white Rosinante, as thin as he was fat, and\nwas busy striking her protruding bones with his sword, to propel her on to\nBerwick, where he thought he would be more safe than where he was. The\nfigure he made in his retreat--his large swelled body on the lean jade,\nlike a tun of wine on a gantress--his anxiety to get off--his receding\nposition--his flight after such a day of vaunting--all conspired to render\nthe sight ludicrous in the extreme. One general burst of laughter filled\nthe air; but the Captain held on his course, and never stopped till he\narrived at Berwick. That day Hume and Isabel were wed--and a happy day it\nwas for the Berwickers; who, in place of fighting, were occupied in\ndrinking the healths of the couple. The device of Hume, in sending them to\nthe Newmilne, was admired for its ingenuity; and all Berwick rung with the\npraises of Hume and his fair spouse. Regular entries were made in the\ncouncil books, of the expedition to the Newmilne, \"where they braived the\nScottes to come and fecht them, butte the cowardes never appeared.\" But it\nwas deemed prudent to say nothing therein of Hume's trick, which,\ndoubtless, might have reduced the amount of bravery which it was necessary\nshould appear, for the honour of the town.\n\n\nEND OF VOL. XVII.\n\n_Tubbs & Brook, Printers, Manchester._\n\n\n    +----------------------------------------------------------+\n    |                                                          |\n    | Transcriber's Note:                                      |\n    |                                                          |\n    | Inconsistencies and unexpected spelling, punctuation and |\n    | hyphenation have been retained as they appear in the     |\n    | original book except:                                    |\n    |                                                          |\n    | Page 31 through the intrumentality has been changed to   |\n    | through the instrumentality                              |\n    |                                                          |\n    | Page 43 and and unflinching opinion has been changed to  |\n    | and an unflinching opinion                               |\n    |                                                          |\n    +----------------------------------------------------------+","title":"Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland, Volume 17","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":96100}