{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_30711/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_30711","id":"gutenberg_30711","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/30711","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, Anne Storer and the Online\nDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net\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 ALEXANDER LEIGHTON,\n _One of the Original Editors and Contributors._\n\n VOL. II.\n\n LONDON:\n WALTER SCOTT, 14 PATERNOSTER SQUARE,\n AND NEWCASTLE-UPON-TYNE.\n 1884.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS.\n\n\n A WIFE OR THE WUDDY,             (_John Mackay Wilson_),    1\n LORD DURIE AND CHRISTIE'S WILL,  (_Alexander Leighton_),   33\n RECOLLECTIONS OF BURNS,          (_Hugh Miller_),          65\n THE PROFESSOR'S TALES            (_Professor Thomas Gillespie_)--\n     THE CONVIVIALISTS,                                    122\n     PHILIPS GREY,                                       144\n DONALD GORM,                     (_Alexander Campbell_),  155\n THE SURGEON'S TALES,             (_Alexander Leighton_)--\n     THE CURED INGRATE,  188\n THE ADOPTED SON,                 (_John Mackay Wilson_),  220\n THE FORTUNES OF WILLIAM WIGHTON, (_John Howell_),         247\n MY BLACK COAT; OR, THE BREAKING\n     OF THE BRIDE'S CHINA,        (_John Mackay Wilson_),  276\n\n\n\n\n WILSON'S\n TALES OF THE BORDERS\n AND OF SCOTLAND.\n\nTHE WIFE OR THE WUDDY.\n\n    \"There was a criminal in a cart\n       Agoing to be hanged--\n     Reprieve to him was granted;\n       The crowd and cart did stand,\n     To see if he would marry a wife,\n       Or, otherwise, choose to die!\n     'Oh, why should I torment my life?'\n       The victim did reply;\n     'The bargain's bad in every part--\n       But a wife's the worst!--drive on the cart.'\"\n\n\nHonest Sir John Falstaff talketh of \"minions of the moon;\" and, truth\nto tell, two or three hundred years ago, nowhere was such an order of\nknighthood more prevalent than upon the Borders. Not only did the\nScottish and English Borderers make their forays across the Tweed\nand the ideal line, but rival chieftains, though of the same nation,\nconsidered themselves at liberty to make inroads upon the property\nof each other. The laws of _meum_ and _tuum_ they were unable to\ncomprehend. Theirs was the strong man's world, and with them _might_ was\n_right_. But to proceed with our story. About the beginning of the\nseventeenth century, one of the boldest knights upon the Borders was\nWilliam Scott, the young laird of Harden. His favourite residence was\nOakwood Tower, a place of great strength, situated on the banks of the\nEttrick. The motto of his family was \"_Reparabit cornua Phoebe_,\" which\nbeing interpreted by his countrymen, in their vernacular idiom, ran\nthus--\"We'll hae moonlight again.\" Now, the young laird was one who\nconsidered it his chief honour to give effect to both the spirit and\nthe letter of his family motto. Permitting us again to refer to honest\nFalstaff, it implied that they were \"gentlemen of the night;\" and he was\nnot one who would loll upon his pillow when his \"avocation\" called him\nto the foray.\n\nIt was drawing towards midnight, in the month of October, when the\nleaves in the forest had become brown and yellow, and with a hard sound\nrustled upon each other, that young Scott called together his retainers,\nand addressing them, said--\"Look ye, friends, is it not a crying sin and\na national shame to see things going aglee as they are doing? There\nseems hardly such a thing as manhood left upon the Borders. A bit\nscratch with a pen upon parchment is becoming of more effect than a\nstroke with the sword. A bairn now stands as good a chance to hold and\nto have, as an armed man that has a hand to take and to defend. Such a\nstate o' things was only made for those who are ower lazy to ride by\nnight, and ower cowardly to fight. Never shall it be said that I,\nWilliam Scott of Harden, was one who either submitted or conformed to\nit. Give me the good, old, manly law, that 'they shall keep who can,'\nand wi' my honest sword will I maintain my right against every enemy.\nNow, there is our natural and lawful adversary, auld Sir Gideon Murray\no' Elibank, carries his head as high as though he were first cousin to a\nking, or the sole lord o' Ettrick Forest. More than once has he slighted\nme in a way which it wasna for a Scott to bear; and weel do I ken that\nhe has the will, and wants but the power, to harry us o' house and ha'.\nBut, by my troth, he shall pay a dear reckoning for a' the insults he\nhas offered to the Scotts o' Harden. Now, every Murray among them has a\nweel-stocked mailing, and their kine are weel-favoured; to-night the\nmoon is laughing cannily through the clouds:--therefore, what say ye,\nneighbours--will ye ride wi' me to Elibank? and, before morning, every\nman o' them shall have a toom byre.\"\n\n\"Hurra!\" shouted they, \"for the young laird! He is a true Scott from\nhead to heel! Ride on, and we will follow ye! Hurra!--the moon glents\nower the hills to guide us to the spoils o' Elibank! To-night we shall\nbring langsyne back again.\"\n\nThere were twenty of them, stout and bold men, mounted upon light\nand active horses--some armed with firelocks, and others with Jeddart\nstaves; while, in addition to such weapons, every man had a good sword\nby his side. At their head was the fearless young laird; and, at a brisk\npace, they set off towards Elibank. Mothers and maidens ran to their\ncottage doors, and looked after them with foreboding hearts when they\nrode along; for it was a saying amongst them, that \"when young Willie\nScott o' Harden set his foot in the stirrup at night, there were to be\nswords drawn before morning.\" They knew, also, the feud between him and\nthe house of Elibank, and as well did they know that the Murrays were a\nresolute and a sturdy race.\n\nMorn had not dawned when they arrived at the scene where their booty\nlay. Not a Murray was abroad; and to the extreme they carried the threat\nof the young laird into execution, of making \"toom byres.\" By scores and\nby hundreds, they collected together, into one immense herd, horned\ncattle and sheep, and they drove them before them through the forest\ntowards Oakwood Tower. The laird, in order to repel any rescue that\nmight be attempted, brought up the rear, and, in the joy of his heart,\nhe sang, and, at times, cried aloud, \"There will be dry breakfasts in\nElibank before the sun gets oot, but a merry meal at Oakwood afore he\ngangs doun. An entire bullock shall be roasted, and wives and bairns\nshall eat o' it.\"\n\n\"I humbly beg your pardon, Maister William,\" said an old retainer, named\nSimon Scott, and who traced a distant relationship to the family; \"I\nrespectfully ask your pardon; but I have been in your faither's family\nfor forty years, and never was backward in the hoor o' danger, or in a\nploy like this; but ye will just alloo me to observe, sir, that wilfu'\nwaste maks wofu' want, and I see nae occasion whatever for roasting a\nbullock. It would be as bad as oor neebors on the ither side o' the\nTweed, wha are roast, roastin', or bakin' in the oven, every day o' the\nweek, and makin' a stane weight o' meat no gang sae far as twa or three\npounds wad hae dune. Therefore, sir, if ye will tak my advice, if we are\nto hae a feast, there will be nae roastin' in the way. There was a fine\nsharp frost the other nicht, and I observed the rime lying upon the\nkail; so that baith greens and savoys will be as tender as a weel-boiled\nthree-month-auld chicken; and I say, therefore, let the beef be boiled,\nand let them hae ladlefu's o' kail, and ye will find, sir, that instead\no' a hail bullock, even if ye intend to feast auld and young, male and\nfemale, upon the lands o' Oakwood, a quarter o' a bullock will be amply\nsufficient, and the rest can be sauted doun for winter's provisions. Ye\nken, sir, that the Murrays winna let us lichtly slip for this nicht's\nwark; and it is aye safest, as the saying is, to lay by for a sair fit.\"\n\n\"Well argued, good Simon,\" said the young laird; \"but your economy\nis ill-timed. After a night's work such as this there is surely\nsome licence for gilravishing. I say it--and who dare contradict\nme?--to-night there is not one belonging to the house of Harden, be\nthey old or young, who shall not eat of roast meat, and drink of\nthe best.\"\n\n\"Weel, sir,\" replied Simon, \"wi' reverence be it spoken, but I would beg\nto say that ye are wrang. Folk that ance get a liking for dainties tak\nill wi' plainer fare again; and, moreover, sir, in a' my experience, I\nnever kenned dainty bits and hardihood to go hand in hand; but, on the\ncontrary, luxuries mak men effeminate, and discontented into the\nbargain.\"\n\nThe altercation between the old retainer and his young master ran\nfarther; but it was suddenly interrupted by the deep-mouthed baying of a\nsleuth-hound; and its threatening howls were followed by a loud cry, as\nif from fifty voices, of--\"To-night for Sir Gideon and the house of\nElibank!\"\n\nBut here we pause to say that Sir Gideon Murray of Elibank was a man\nwhose name was a sound of terror to all who were his enemies. As a foe,\nhe was fierce, resolute, unforgiving. He had never been known to turn\nhis back upon a foe, or forgive an injury. He knew the meaning of\njustice in its severest sense, but not of compassion; he was a stranger\nto the attribute of mercy, and the life of the man who had injured him,\nhe regarded as little as the life of the worm which he might tread\nbeneath his heel upon his path. He was a man of middle age; and had\nthree daughters, none of whom were what the world calls beautiful; but,\non the contrary, they were what even the dependents upon his estates\ndescribed as \"very ordinary-looking young women.\"\n\nSuch was Sir Gideon Murray of Elibank; and, although the young laird\nof Harden conceived that he had come upon him as \"a thief in the\nnight\"--and some of my readers, from the transaction recorded, may be\nsomewhat apt to take the scriptural quotation in a literal sense--yet I\nwould say, as old Satchel sings of the Borderers of those days, they\nwere men--\n\n    \"Somewhat unruly, and very ill to tame.\n     I would have none think that I call them thieves;\n     For, if I did, it would be arrant lies.\"\n\nBut, stealthily as the young master of Harden had made his preparations\nfor the foray, old Sir Gideon had got timely notice of it; and hence it\nwas, that not a Murray seemed astir when they took the cattle from the\nbyres, and drove them towards Oakwood. But, through the moonlight, there\nwere eyes beheld every step they took--their every movement was watched\nand traced; and amongst those who watched was the stern old knight, with\nfifty followers at his back.\n\n\"Quiet! quiet!\" he again and again, in deep murmurs, uttered to his\ndependents, throwing back his hand, and speaking in a deep and earnest\nwhisper, that awed even the slow but ferocious sleuth-hound that\naccompanied them, and caused it to crouch back to his feet. In a yet\ndeeper whisper, he added, encouragingly--\"Patience, my merry men!--bide\nyour time!--ye shall hae work before long go by.\"\n\nWhen, therefore, the young laird and his followers began to disperse in\nthe thickest of the forest, as they drove the cattle before them, Sir\nGideon suddenly exclaimed--\"Now for the onset!\" And, at the sound of his\nvoice, the sleuth-hound howled loud and savagely.\n\n\"We are followed!--Halt! halt!--to arms! to arms!\" cried the heir of\nHarden.\n\nThree or four were left in charge of the now somewhat scattered herd of\ncattle, and to drive them to a distance; while the rest of the party\nspurred back their horses as rapidly as the tangled pass in the forest\nwould permit, to the spot from whence the voice of their young leader\nproceeded. They arrived speedily, but they arrived too late. In a\nmoment, and with no signal save the baying of the hound, old Sir Gideon\nand his armed company had burst upon young Scott and Old Simon, and ere\nthe former could cry for assistance, they had surrounded them.\n\n\"Willie Scott! ye rash laddie!\" cried Sir Gideon--\"yield quietly, or\na thief's death shall ye die; and in the very forest through which\nye have this night driven my cattle, the corbies and you shall become\nacquaint--or, at least, if ye see not them, they shall see you and feel\nyou too.\"\n\n\"Brag on, ye auld greybeard,\" exclaimed the youth; \"but while a Scott o'\nHarden has a finger to wag, no power on earth shall make his tongue say\n'I am conquered!' So come on!--do your best--do your worst--here is the\nhand and the sword to meet ye!--and were ye ten to one, ye shall find\nthat Willie Scott isna the lad to turn his back, though ten full-grown\nMurrays stand before his face.\"\n\n\"By my sooth, then, callant,\" cried the old knight, \"and it was small\nmercy, after what ye hae done, that I intended to show ye; and after\nwhat ye hae said, it shall be less that I will grant ye. Sae come on\nlads, and now to humble the Hardens.\"\n\n\"Arm! every Scott to arms!\" again shouted the young laird; \"and now,\nSir Gideon, if ye will measure weapons, and leave your _weel-faured_\ndaughters as a legacy to the world, be it sae. But there are lads among\nyour clan o' whom they would hae been glad, and who, belike in _pity_,\nmight hae offered them their hands, but who will this night mak a bride\no' the green sward! Sae come on, Sir Gideon, and on you and yours be the\nconsequence!\"\n\n\"Before sunrise,\" returned Sir Gideon, \"and the winsome laird o' Harden\nshall boast less vauntingly, and rue that he had broke his jeers upon an\nauld man. Touch me, sir, but not my bairns.\"\n\nThe conflict began, and on each side the strife was bloody and\ndesperate. Bold men grasped each other by the throat, and they held\ntheir swords to each other's breasts, scowling one upon another with\nthe ferocity of contending tigers, ere each gave the deadly plunge\nwhich was to hurl both into eternity. The report of fire-arms, the\nclash of swords, the clang of shields, with the neighing of maddened\nhorses, the lowing of affrighted cattle, the howl of the sleuth-hounds,\nand the angry voices of fierce men, mingled wildly together, and, in\none fearful and discordant echo, rang through the forest. This wild\nsound was followed by the low melancholy groans of the dying. But, as\nI have already stated, the Scotts, and the cattle which they drove before\nthem, were scattered, and ere those who were in advance could arrive to\nthe rescue of their friends in the rear, the latter were slain, wounded,\nor overpowered. They also fought against fearful odds. The young laird\nhimself had his sword broken in his grasp, and his horse was struck\ndead beneath him. He was instantly surrounded and made prisoner by the\nMurrays; and, at the same time, old Simon fell into their hands.\n\nThe few remaining retainers of the house of Harden gave way when they\nfound their leader a captive, and they fled, leaving the cattle behind\nthem. Sir Gideon Murray, therefore, recovered all that had been taken\nfrom him; and though he had captured but two prisoners, the one was the\nchief, and the other his principal adviser and second in command. The\nold knight, therefore, commanded that they should be bound with cords\ntogether, and in such rueful plight led to his castle at Elibank. It was\nnoon before they reached it, and Lady Murray came forth to welcome her\nhusband, and congratulate him upon his success. But when she beheld the\nheir of Harden a captive, and thought of how little mercy was to be\nexpected from Sir Gideon when once aroused, she remembered that she was\na mother, and that one of her children might one day be situated as\ntheir prisoner then was.\n\nThe young laird, with his aged kinsman and dependent, were thrust into\na dark room; and he who locked them up informed them that the next day\ntheir bodies would be hung up on the nearest tree.\n\n\"My life and lang fasting!\" exclaimed Simon, \"ye surely wouldna be\nspeaking o' sic a thing as hanging to an auld man like me. If we were\nto be shot or beheaded--though I would like neither the ane nor the\nither--it wouldna be a thing in particular to be complained o'; but to\nbe hanged like a dog is so disgracefu' and unchristian-like, that I\nwould rather die ten times in a day, than feel a hempen cravat about my\nneck ance. And, moreover, I must say that hanging is not treating my\ndear young maister and kinsman as he ocht to be treated. His birth, his\nrank, and the memory o' his ancestors and mine, demand mair respect; and\ntherefore, I say, gae tell your maister, that, if he is determined that\nwe are to die--though I have no ambition to cut my breath before my\ntime--that I think, as a gentleman, it is his duty to see that we die\nthe death o' gentlemen.\n\n\"Silence, Simon,\" cried the young laird; \"let Murray hang us in his\nbedchamber if he will. No matter what manner o' death we die, provided\nonly that we die like men. Let him hang us if he dare, and the disgrace\nbe his that is coward enough so to make an end of his enemy.\n\n\"O sir,\" said Simon, \"but that is poor comfort to a man that has to\nleave a small family behind him.\n\n\"Simon! are you afraid to die?\" cried the captive laird, in a tone of\nrebuke.\n\n\"No, your honour,\" said Simon--\"that is, I am no more afraid to die than\nother men are, or ought to be--but only ye'll observe, sir, that I have\nno ambition--not, as I may say, to draw my last breath upon a wuddy, but\nto have it very unnaturally stopped. Begging your pardon, but you are a\nyoung man, while I have a wife and family that would be left to mourn\nfor me!--and O sir! the wife and the bits o' bairns press unco sairly\nupon a man's heart, when death tries to come in the way between him and\nthem. In exploits like that in which we were last night engaged, and\nalso in battles abroad, I have faced danger in every shape a hundred\ntimes--yet, sir, to be shot in a moment, as it were, or to be run\nthrough the body, and to die honourably on the field, is a very\ndifferent thing from deliberately walking up a ladder to the branch o'\na tree, from which we are never to come doun in life again. And mair\nthan that, if we had been o' Johnny Faa's gang, they couldna hae treated\nus mair disrespectfully than to condemn us to the death that they have\ndecreed for us.\"\n\n\"Providing ye die bravely, Simon,\" said the young laird, \"it is little\nmatter what manner o' death ye die; and as for your wife and weans, fear\nnot; my faither's house will provide for them. For, though I fall now,\nthere will be other heirs left to the estate o' Harden.\"\n\nWhile the prisoners thus conversed in the place of their confinement,\nLady Murray spoke unto her husband, saying--\"And what, Sir Gideon, if\nit be a fair question, may ye intend to do wi' the braw young laird o'\nHarden, now that he is in your power?\"\n\nHe drew her gently by the arm towards the window, and pointing towards\na tree which grew at the distance of a few yards, he said--\"Do ye see\nyonder branch o' the elm tree that is waving in the wind? To-morrow,\nyoung Scott and his kinsman shall swing there together, or hereafter say\nthat I am no Murray.\"\n\n\"O guidman!\" said she, \"it is because I was terrified that ye would be\ndoing the like o' that, that caused me to ask the question. Now, I must\nsay, Sir Gideon, whatever ye may think, that ye are not only acting\ncruelly, but foolishly.\"\n\n\"I care naething about the cruelty,\" cried he; \"what mercy did ever a\nScott among them show to me or to mine? Lady Murray, the ball is at my\nfoot, and I will kick it, though I deprive Scott o' Harden o' a head.\nAnd what mean ye, dame, by saying I act foolishly?\"\n\n\"Only this, guidman,\" said she--\"that ye hae three daughters to marry,\nwhom the world doesna consider to be ower weel-faured, and it isna every\nday that ye hae a husband for ane o' them in your hand.\"\n\n\"Sooth!\" cried he, \"and for once in your life ye are right,\nguidwife--there is mair wisdom in that remark than I would hae\ngien ye credit for. To-morrow, the birkie o' Harden shall have his\nchoice--either upon the instant to marry our daughter, Meikle-mouthed\nMeg, or strap for it.\"\n\n\"Weel, Sir Gideon,\" added she, \"to make him marry Meg will be mair\npurpose-like than to cut off the head and the hope of an auld house, in\nthe very flower o' his youth; and there is nae doubt as to the choice he\nwill mak, for there is an unco difference between them.\"\n\n\"Dinna be ower sure,\" continued the knight; \"there is nae saying what\nhis choice may be. There is both pluck and a spirit o' contradiction in\nthe callant, and I wouldna be in the least surprised if he preferred the\nwuddy. I ken, had I been in his place, what my choice would hae been.\"\n\n\"I daresay, Sir Gideon,\" replied the old lady, who was jocose at the\nidea of seeing one of her daughters wed, \"I daresay I could guess what\nthat choice would hae been.\"\n\n\"And what, in your wisdom,\" said he sharply, \"do ye think it would hae\nbeen--the wife or the wuddy?\"\n\n\"O Gideon! Gideon!\" said she, good-humouredly, and shaking her head,\n\"weel do ye ken that your choice would hae been a wife.\"\n\n\"There ye are wrang,\" cried he; \"I would rather die a death that was\nbefore me, than marry a wife I had never seen. But go ye and prepare Meg\nfor becoming a bride the morn, and I shall see what the intended\nbridegroom says to the proposal.\"\n\nIn obedience to his commands, she went to an apartment in which their\neldest daughter Agnes, but commonly called \"Meikle-mouthed Meg,\" then\nsat, twirling a distaff. The old dame sat down by her daughter's side,\nand, after a few observations respecting the weather, and the quality of\nthe lint she was then torturing into threads, she said--\"Weel, I'm just\nthinking, Meggie, that ye mak me an auld woman. Ye would be\nsix-and-twenty past at last Lammas.\"\n\n\"So I believe, mother!\" said Meggie; and a sigh, or a very deep and\nlong-drawn breath, followed her words.\n\n\"Dear me!\" continued the old lady, \"young men maun be growing very\nscarce. I wanted four months and five days o' being nineteen when I\nmarried your faither, and I had refused at least six offers before I\ntook him!\"\n\n\"Ay, mother,\" replied the maiden; \"but ye had a weel-faured face--there\nlay the difference! Heigho!\"\n\n\"Heigho!\" responded her mother, as in pleasant raillery--\"what is the\nlassie heighoing at? Certes, if ye get a guidman before ye be six and\ntwenty, ye may think yoursel' a very fortunate woman.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" added the maiden; \"but I see sma' prospect o' that. I doubt ye\nwill see the Ettrick running through the 'dowie dells o' Yarrow,' before\nye hear tell o' an offer being made to me.\"\n\n\"Hoot, hoot!--dinna say sae, bairn,\" added her mother; \"there is nae\nsaying what may betide ye yet. Ye think ye winna be married before ye\nare six and twenty; but, truly, my dear, there has mony a mair unlikely\nship come to land. Now, what wad ye think o' the young laird o' Harden?\"\n\n\"Mother! mother!\" said Agnes, \"wherefore do ye mock me? I never saw ye\ndo that before. My faither has ta'en William Scott a prisoner; and, from\nwhat I hae heard, he will hang him in the morning. Ye ken what a man my\nfaither is--when he says a thing he will do it; and how can you jest\nabout the young man, when his very existence is reduced to a matter o'\nminutes and moments. Though, rather than my faither should tak his life,\nif I could save him, he should take mine.\"\n\n\"Weel said, my bairn,\" replied the old woman; \"but dinna ye be put about\nconcerning what will never come to pass. I doubtna that, before morning,\nye will find young Scott o' Harden at your feet, and begging o' you to\nsave his life, by giving him your hand and troth, and becoming his wife:\nand then, ye ken, your faither couldna, for shame, hang or do ony harm\nto his ain son-in-law.\"\n\n\"O mother! mother!\" replied Agnes, \"it will never be in my power to save\nhim; for what ye hae said he will never think o'; and even if I were his\nwife, I question if my faither would pardon him, though I should beg it\nupon my knees.\"\n\n\"Oh, your faither's no sae ill as that, Meggie, my doo,\" said the old\nlady. \"Mark my words--if Willie Scott consent to marry you, ye will\nhenceforth find him and your faither hand and glove.\"\n\nWhile this conversation between Lady Murray and her daughter took place,\nSir Gideon entered the room where his prisoners were confined, and,\naddressing the young laird, said--\"Now, ye rank marauder, though death\nis the very least that ye deserve or can expect from my hands, yet I\nwill gie ye a chance for your life, and ye shall choose between a wife\nand the wuddy. To-morrow morning, ye shall either marry my daughter Meg,\nor swing from the branch o' the nearest tree, and the bauldest Scott\nupon the Borders shanna tak ye down, until ye drop away, bone by bone,\na fleshless skeleton.\"\n\n\"Good save us! most honourable and good Sir Gideon!\" suddenly\ninterrupted Simon, in a tone which bespoke his horror; \"but ye certainly\ndinna intend to make an anatomy o' me too; or surely, when my honoured\nmaister marries Miss Murray (as I hope and trust he will), ye will\nalloo me to dance at their wedding, instead o' dancing in the air, and\nkeeping time to the music o' the soughing wind. And, O maister! for\nmy sake, for your ain sake, and especially out o' regard to my sma'\nand helpless family, consent to marry the lassie, though she isna\nextraordinar' weel-faured; for I am sure that, rather than die a dog's\ndeath, swinging from a tree, I would marry twenty wives, though they\nwere a' as auld as the hills, as ugly as a starless midnicht, and had\ntongues like trumpets.\"\n\n\"Peace, Simon!\" cried the young laird, impatiently; \"if ye hae turned\ncoward, keep the sound o' yer fears within yer ain teeth. And ye, Sir\nGideon,\" added he, turning towards the old knight, \"in your amazing\nmercy and generosity, would spare my life, upon condition that I should\nmarry your _bonny_ daughter Meg! Look ye, sir--I am Scott o' Harden, and\nye are Murray o' Elibank; there is no love lost between us; chance has\nplaced my life in your hands--take it, for I wouldna marry your daughter\nthough ye should gie me life, and a' the lands o' Elibank into the\nbargain. I fear as little to meet death as I do to tell you to your\nteeth that, had ye fallen into my hands, I would have hung ye wi' as\nlittle ceremony as I would bring a whip across the back o' a disobedient\nhound. Therefore, ye are welcome to do the same by me. Ye have taken\nwhat ye thought to be a sure mode o' getting a husband for ane o' your\n_winsome_ daughters; but, in the present instance, it has proved a wrong\none, auld man. Do your worst, and there will be Scotts enow left to\nrevenge the death o' the laird o' Harden.\"\n\n\"There, then, is my thumb, young braggart,\" exclaimed Sir Gideon, \"that\nI winna hinder ye in your choice; for to-morrow ye shall be exalted as\nHaman was; and let those revenge your death who dare.\"\n\n\"Maister!--dear maister!\" cried Simon, wringing his hands, \"will ye\nsacrifice me also, and break the hearts o' my puir wife and family!\nO sir, accept o' Sir Gideon's proposal, and marry his dochter.\"\n\n\"Silence! ye milk-livered slave!\" cried the young laird. \"Do ye pretend\nto bear the name o' Scott, and yet tremble like an ash leaf at the\nthought o' death!\"\n\n\"Ye will excuse me, sir,\" retorted Simon, \"but I tremble at no such\nthing; only, as I have already remarked, I have no particular ambition\nfor being honoured wi' the exaltation o' the halter; and, moreover, I\nsee no cause why a man should die unnecessarily, or where death can be\navoided. Sir Gideon,\" added he, \"humble prisoner as I at this moment\nam, and in your power, I leave it to you if ever ye saw ony thing in my\nconduct in the field o' battle (and ye have seen me there) that could\njustify ony ane in calling me either milk-livered or a coward? But, sir,\nI consider it would be altogether unjustifiable to deprive ane o' life,\nwhich is always precious, merely because my maister is stubborn, and\nwinna marry your daughter. But, oh, sir, I am not a very auld man yet,\nand if ye will set me at liberty, though I am now a married man, in the\nevent o' my ever becoming a widower, I gie ye my solemn promise that I\nwill marry ony o' your dochters that ye please!\"\n\n\"Audacious idiot!\" exclaimed the old knight, raising his hand and\nstriking poor Simon to the ground.\n\n\"Sir Gideon Murray!\" cried the young laird fiercely, \"are ye such a base\nknave as to strike a fettered prisoner! Shame fa' ye, man! where is the\npride o' the Murrays now?\"\n\nSir Gideon evidently felt the rebuke, and, withdrawing from the\napartment, said, as he departed--\"Remember that when the sun-dial shall\nto-morrow note the hour of twelve, so surely shall ye be brought\nforth--and a wife shall be your lot, or the wuddy your doom.\"\n\n\"Leave me!\" cried the youth impatiently, \"and the gallows be it--my\nchoice is made. Till my last hour trouble me not again.\"\n\n\"Sir! sir!\" cried Simon, \"I beg, I pray that ye will alter your\ndetermination. There is surely naething so awful in the idea o'\nmarriage, even though your wife should have a face not particularly\nweel-favoured. Ye dinna ken, sir, but that the young woman's looks are\nher worst fault; and, indeed, I hae heard her spoken o' as a lassie o'\ngreat sense and discretion, and as having an excellent temper; and, oh,\nsir, if ye kenned as weel what it is to be married as I do, ye would\nthink that a good temper was a recommendation far before beauty.\"\n\n\"Hold thy fool's tongue, Simon,\" cried the laird; \"would ye disgrace the\nfamily wi' which ye make it your boast to be connected, when in the\npower and presence o' its enemies? Do as ye see me do--die and defy\nthem.\"\n\nIt was drawing towards midnight, when the prison-door was opened, and\nthe sentinel who stood watch over it admitted a female dressed as a\ndomestic.\n\n\"What want ye, or whom seek ye, maiden?\" inquired the laird.\n\n\"I come,\" answered she mildly, \"to speak wi' the laird o' Harden, and to\nask if he has any dying commands that a poor lassie could fulfil for\nhim.\"\n\n\"Dying commands!\" responded Simon; \"oh, are those no awful words!--and\ncan ye still be foolhardy enough to say ye winna marry?\"\n\n\"Who sent ye, maiden?--or who are ye?\" continued the laird.\n\n\"A despised lassie, sir,\" answered she, \"and an attendant upon Sir\nGideon's lady, in whom ye hae a true and steadfast friend; though I\ndoubt that, as ye hae refused poor Meg, her intercession will avail ye\nlittle.\"\n\n\"And wherefore has Lady Murray sent you here?\" he continued.\n\n\"Just, sir, because she is a mother, and has a mother's heart; and, as\nye hae a mother and sisters who will now be mourning for ye at Oakwood,\nshe thought that, belike, ye would hae something to say that ye would\nwish to hae communicated to them; and, if it be sae, I am come to offer\nto be your messenger.\"\n\n\"Maiden!\" said he, with emotion, \"speak not of my poor mother, or you\nwill unman me, and I would wish to die as becomes my father's son.\"\n\n\"That's right, hinny,\" whispered Simon; \"speak to him about his mother\nagain--talk about her sorrow, poor lady, and her tears, and distraction,\nand mourning--and I hae little doubt but that we shall get him to marry\nMeg, or do onything else, and I shall get back to my family after a'.\"\n\n\"What is it that ye whisper, Simon, in the maiden's ear?\" inquired the\nlaird, sternly.\n\n\"Oh, naething, sir--naething, I assure ye,\" answered Simon, falteringly;\n\"I was only saying that, if ye sent her ower to Oakwood wi' a message to\nyour poor, honoured, wretched mother, that she would inquire for my poor\nwidow, Janet, and my bits o' bairns, and that she would tell them that\nnothing troubled me upon my death-bed--no, no, not my death-bed, but--I\ndeclare I am ashamed to think o't!--I was saying that I was simply\ntelling her to inform my wife and bairns, that nothing distracted me in\nthe hour o' death but the thought o' being parted from them.\"\n\nWithout noticing the evasive reply of his dependent and fellow-prisoner,\nthe laird, addressing the intruder, said--\"Ye speak as a kind and\nconsiderate lassie. I would like to send a scrape o' a pen to my poor\nmother, and, if ye will be its bearer, she will reward ye.\"\n\n\"And, belike,\" she replied, \"ye would like to hear if the good lady has\nan answer back, or to learn how she bore the tidings o' your unhappy\nfate.\"\n\n\"Before you could return,\" said he, \"the time appointed by my adversary\nfor my execution will be past, and I shall feel for my mother's sorrows\nwith the sympathy of a disembodied spirit.\"\n\n\"But,\" added she, \"if you would like to hear from your poor mother, or,\nbelike, to see her--for there may be family matters that ye would wish\nto have arranged--I think, through the influence of my lady, Sir Gideon\ncould be prevailed upon to grant ye a respite for three or four days;\nand, as he isna a man that keeps his passion long, perhaps by that time\nhe may be disposed to save your life upon terms that would be more\nacceptable.\"\n\n\"No, maiden,\" he replied; \"he is my enemy; and from him I wish no\nterms--no clemency. Let him fulfil his purpose--I will die; but my death\nshall be revenged; and tell my mother that it was my latest injunction\nthat she should command every follower of our house to avenge her son's\ndeath, while there is a Murray left in all Scotland to repent the deed\no' the knight o' Elibank.\"\n\n\"Oh, sweet young ma'am, or mistress!\" cried Simon; \"bear the lady no\nsuch message; but rather, as ye hae said, try if it be possible to get\nyour own good lady to persuade Sir Gideon to spare our lives for a few\ndays; and, as ye say, the edge o' the auld knight's revenge may be\nblunted by that time, or, perhaps, my worthy young maister may be\nbrought to see things in a clearer light, and, perhaps, to marry Miss\nMargaret, by which means our lives may be spared. For it is certainly\nthe height o' madness in him to sacrifice my life and his own, rather\nthan marry her before he has seen her.\"\n\n\"Simon,\" interrupted the laird, \"the maiden has spoken kindly; let her\nendeavour to procure a respite--a reprieve for you. In your death my\nenemy can have no gratification; but for me--leave me to myself.\"\n\n\"O sir,\" replied Simon, \"ye wrong me--ye mistake my meaning a'thegither.\nIf you are to die, I will die also; but do ye no think it would be as\nvalorous, and mair rational, at least to see and hear the young leddy\nbefore ye determine to die rather than to marry her?\"\n\n\"And hae ye,\" said the maiden, addressing the laird, \"preferred the\ngallows to poor Meg without even seeing her?\"\n\n\"If I haena seen her I hae heard o' her,\" said he; \"and by all accounts\nher countenance isna ane that ony man would desire to see accompanying\nhim through the world like a shadow at his oxter.\"\n\n\"Belike,\" said the maiden, \"she has been represented to you worse than\nshe looks like--if ye saw her, ye might change your opinion; and,\nperhaps, after a', that she isna bonny is a' that any one can say\nagainst her.\"\n\n\"Wheesht, lassie!\" said he; \"I winna be forced to onything. A Scott may\nbe led, but he winna drive. I have nae wish to see the face o' your\nyoung mistress, for I winna hae her. But you speak as one that has a\nfeeling heart, and before I trust ye wi' my last letter to my poor\nmother, I should like to have a glance at your face, and by your\ncountenance I shall judge whether or not it will be safe to trust ye.\"\n\n\"I doubt, sir,\" replied she, throwing back the hood that covered her\nhead, \"ye will see as little in my features as ye expect to find in my\nyoung mistress's to recommend me; but, sir, you ought to remember that\njewels are often encrusted in coarser metals, and ye will often find a\ndelicious kernel within an unsightly shell.\"\n\n\"Ye speak sweetly, and as sensibly as sweet,\" said he, raising the\nflickering lamp, which burned before them upon a small table, and gazing\nupon her countenance; \"and I will now tell ye, lassie, that if your\nfeatures be not beautiful, there is honesty and kindliness written upon\nevery line o' them; and though ye are a dependent in the house o' my\nenemy, I will trust ye. Try if I can obtain writing materials to address\na few lines to my mother, and I will confide in you to deliver them.\"\n\n\"Ye may confide in me,\" rejoined she, \"and the writing materials which\nye desire I hae brought wi' me. Write, and not only shall your letter be\nfaithfully delivered, but, as ye hae confided in me, I will venture to\nsay that your life shall be spared until ye receive her answer; for I\nmay say that what I request, Lady Murray will try to see performed. And\nif I can find any means in my power by which ye can escape, it shall not\nbe lang that ye will remain a prisoner.\"\n\n\"Thank ye!--doubly thank ye!\" cried Simon; \"ye are a good and a kind\ncreature; and though my maister refuses to marry your mistress, yet, had\nI been single, I would hae married you. But, oh, when ye go wi' the\nletter to his mother, my honoured lady, will ye just go away down to a\nbit white house which lies by the river side, about a mile and a half\naboon Selkirk, and there ye will find my poor wife and bairns--or\nrather, I should say, my unhappy widow and my orphans--and tell\nthem--oh, tell my wife--that I never kenned how dear she was to me till\nnow; but that, if she marries again, my ghost will haunt her night and\nday; and tell also the bairns that, above everything, I charge them to\nbe good to their mother.\"\n\nThe young laird sat down, and, writing a letter to his mother, intrusted\nit to the hands of the stranger girl. He raised her hand to his lips as\nshe withdrew, and a tear trickled down his cheeks as he thanked her.\n\nIt was early on the following morning that Meikle-mouthed Meg, as\nshe was called, requested an interview with her father, which being\ngranted, after respectfully rendering obeisance before him, she\nsaid--\"So, faither, I understand that it is your pleasure that I shall\nthis day become the wife o' young Scott o' Harden. I think, sir, that\nit is due to the daughter o' a Murray o' Elibank, that she should be\ncourted before she gies her hand. The young man has never seen me; he\nkens naething concerning me; an' never will yer dochter disgrace ye by\ngieing her hand to a man who only accepted it to save his neck from a\nhempen cord. Faither, if it be your command that I am to marry him, I\nwill an' must marry him; but, before I just make a venture upon him for\nbetter for worse, an' for life, I wad like to hae some sma' acquaintance\nwi' him, to see what sort o' a lad he is, and what kind o' temper he\nhas; and therefore, faither, I humbly crave that ye will put off the\ndeath or the marriage for a week at least, that I may hae an opportunity\no' judging for mysel' how far it would be prudent or becoming in me to\nconsent to be his wife.\"\n\n\"Gie me your hand, Meg,\" cried the old knight; \"I didna think ye had as\nmuckle spirit and gumption in ye as to say what ye hae said. But your\nrequest is useless; for he has already, point blank, refused to hae ye;\nan' there is naething left for him, but, before sunset, to strike his\nheels against the bark o' the auld elm tree.\"\n\n\"Say not that, faither,\" said she--\"let me at least hae four days to\nbecome acquainted wi' him; and if in that time he doesna mak a request\nto you to marry me without ony dowry, then will I say that I look even\nwaur than I get the name o' doing.\"\n\n\"He shall have four days, Meg,\" cried the old knight; \"for your sake he\nwill have them; but if, at the end o' four days, he shall refuse to take\nye, he shall hang before this window, and his poor half-crazed companion\nshall bear him company.\"\n\nWith this assurance Agnes, or, as she was called, Meg left her father,\nand bethought her of how she might save the prisoners and secure a\nhusband.\n\nThe mother of the laird sat in the midst of her daughters, mourning for\nhim, and looking from the window of the tower, as though, in every form\nthat appeared in the distance, she expected to see him, or at least to\ngather tidings regarding him, when information was brought to her that\nhe was the prisoner of Murray of Elibank.\n\n\"Then,\" cried she, and wept, \"the days o' my winsome Willie are\nnumbered, and his death is determined on; for often has Sir Gideon\ndeclared he would gie a' the lands o' Elibank for his head. My Willie is\nmy only son, my first-born, and my heart's hope and treasure; and, oh,\nif I lose him now, if I shall never again hear his kindly voice say\n'_mother_!' nor stroke down his yellow hair--wi' him that has made me\nsonless I shall hae a day o' lang and fearfu' reckoning; cauld shall be\nthe hearth-stane in the house o' many a Murray, and loud their\nlamentation.\"\n\nHer daughters wept with her for their brother's fate; but they wist not\nhow to comfort her; and, while they sat mingling their tears together,\nit was announced to them that a humble maiden, bearing a message from\nthe captive laird, desired to speak with her.\n\n\"Show her in!--take me to her!\" cried the mother, impatiently. \"Where is\nshe?--what does she say?--or what does my Willie say?\" And the maiden\nwho has been mentioned as having visited the laird in his prison, was\nushered into her presence.\n\n\"Come to me, lassie--come and tell me a',\" cried the old lady; \"what\nmessage does Willie Scott send to his heart-broken mother?\"\n\n\"He has sent you this bit packet, ma'am,\" replied the bearer; \"and I\nshall be right glad to take back to him whatever answer ye may hae to\nsend.\"\n\n\"And wha are ye, young woman?\" inquired the lady, \"that speaks sae\nkindly to a mother, an' takes an interest in the fate o' my Willie?\"\n\n\"A despised lassie,\" was the reply; \"but ane that would risk her ain\nlife to save either yours or his.\"\n\n\"Bless you for the words!\" replied Lady Scott, as she broke the seal of\nher son's letter, and read:--\n\n\"My mother, my honoured mother,--Fate has delivered me into the power of\nMurray of Elibank, the enemy of our house. He has doomed me to death,\nand I die to-morrow; but sit not down to mourn for me, and uselessly\nto wring the hands and tear the hair; but rouse every Scott upon the\nBorders to rise up and be my avenger. If ye bewail the loss o' a son,\nlet them spare o' the Murrays neither son nor daughter. Rouse ye, and\nlet a mother's vengeance nerve your arm! Poor Simon o' Yarrow-foot is\nto be my companion in death, and he whines to meet his fate with the\nweakness of a woman, and yearns a perpetual yearning for his wife and\nbairns. On that account I forgie him the want o' heart and determination\nwhich he manifests; but see ye to them, and take care that they be\nprovided for. As for me, I shall meet my doom wi' disdain for my enemy\nin my eyes and on my tongue. Even in death he shall feel that I despise\nhim; and a proof o' this I have given him already; for he has offered to\nsave my life, providing I would marry his daughter, Meikle-mouthed Meg.\nBut I have scorned his proposal.\"----\n\n\"Ye were right, Willie! ye were right, lad!\" exclaimed his mother, while\nthe letter shook in her hand; but, suddenly bursting into tears, she\ncontinued--\"No, no! my bairn was wrong--very wrong. Life is precious,\nand at all times desirable; and, for his poor mother's sake, he ought to\nhave married the lassie, whate'er she may be like.\" And, turning to the\nbearer of the letter, she inquired--\"And what like may the leddy be, the\nmarrying o' whom would save my Willie's life?\"\n\n\"Ye have nae doubt heard, my leddy,\" replied the stranger, \"that she\nisna what the world considers to be a likely lass--though, take her as\nshe is, and ye might find a hantle worse wives than poor Meg would make;\nand, as to her features, I may say that she looks much the same as I do;\nand if she doesna appear better, she at least doesna look ony waur.\"\n\n\"Then, if she be as ye say, and look as ye say,\" continued the lady, \"my\npoor headstrong Willie ought to marry her. But, oh! weel do I ken that\nin everything he is just his father ower again, and ye might as weel\nthink o' moving the Eildon hills as force him to onything.\"\n\nShe perused the concluding part o' her son's letter, in which he spoke\nenthusiastically of the kindness shown him by the fair messenger, and of\nthe promise she had made to liberate him if possible. \"And if she does,\"\nhe added, \"whatever be her parentage, on the day that I should be free,\nshe should be my wife, though I have preferred death to the hand o' Sir\nGideon's _comely_ daughter.\"\n\n\"Lassie,\" said the lady, weeping as she spoke, \"my poor Willie talks a\ndeal o' the kindness ye have shown him in the hour o' his distress, and\nfor that kindness his mother's heart thanks ye. But do you not think\nthat it is possible that I could accompany ye to Elibank? and, if ye can\ndevise no means for him to escape, perhaps, if ye could get me admitted\ninto his presence, when he saw his poor distressed mother upon her knees\nbefore him, his heart would saften, and he would marry Sir Gideon's\ndaughter, ill-featured though she may be.\"\n\n\"My leddy,\" answered the stranger maiden, \"it is little that I can\npromise, and less that I can do; but if ye desire to see yer son, I\nthink I could answer for accomplishing yer request; an' though nae guid\nmicht come oot o't, I could also say that I wad see ye safe back again.\"\n\nWithin an hour, Lady Scott, disguised as a peasant, and carrying a\nbasket on her arm, set out for Elibank, accompanied by the fair\nstranger.\n\nLeaving them upon their melancholy journey, we shall return to the\nyoung laird. From the windows of his prison-house, he beheld the sun\nrise which was to be the last on which he was to look. He heard the\nsentinels, who kept watch over him, relieve each other; he heard them\npacing to and fro before the grated door, and as the sun rose towards\nthe south, proclaiming the approach of noon, the agitation of Simon\nincreased. He sat in a corner of the prison, and strove to pray; and, as\nthe footsteps of the sentinels quickened, he groaned in the bitterness\nof his spirit. At length the loud booming of the gong announced that the\ndial-plate upon the turret marked the hour of twelve. Simon clasped his\nhands together. \"Maister! maister!\" he cried, \"our hour is come, an' one\nword from yer lips could save us baith, an' ye winna speak it. The very\nholding oot o' yer hand could do it, but ye are stubborn even unto\ndeath.\"\n\n\"Simon,\" said the laird, \"I hae left it as an injunction upon my mother,\nthat yer wife an' weans be provided for--she will fulfil my request.\nTherefore, be ye content. Die like a man, an' dinna disgrace both\nyourself an' me.\"\n\n\"O sir! I winna disgrace, or in any manner dishonour ye,\" said\nSimon--\"only I do not see the smallest necessity for us to die, and\nespecially when both our lives could be saved by yer doing yerself a\ngood turn.\"\n\nWhile he spoke, the sound of the sentinels' footsteps, pacing to and\nfro, ceased. The prison-door was opened; Simon fell upon his knees--the\nlaird looked towards the intruder proudly.\n\n\"Your lives are spared for another day,\" said a voice, \"that the laird\no' Harden may have time to reflect upon the proposal that has been made\nto him. But let him not hope that he will find mercy upon other terms;\nor that, refusing them for another day, his life will be prolonged.\"\n\nThe door was again closed, and the bolts were drawn. The spirit of Sir\nGideon was too proud and impatient to spare the lives of his prisoners\nfor four days, as he had promised to his daughter to do, and he now\nresolved that they should die upon the following day.\n\nThe sun had again set, and the dim lamp shed around its fitful and\nshadowy lights from the table of the prison-room, when the maiden, who\nhad carried the letter to the laird's mother, again entered.\n\n\"This is kind, very kind, gentle maiden,\" said he; \"would that I could\nreward ye! An' hoo fares it with my puir mother?--what answer does she\nsend?\"\n\n\"An' oh, ma'am, or mistress!\" cried Simon, \"hoo fares it wi' my dear\nwife an' bairns? I hope ye told them all that I desired ye to say. Hoo\ndid she bear the news o' being made a widow? An' what did she say to my\ninjunction that she was never to marry again?\"\n\n\"Ye talk wildly, man,\" said the maiden, addressing Simon; \"it wasna in\nmy power to carry yer commands to yer wife; but, I trust, it will be\nlonger than ye expect before she will be a widow, or hae it in her power\nto marry again.\"\n\n\"O ye angel! ye perfect picture!\" cried Simon, \"what is that which I\nhear ye say? Do ye really mean to tell me that I stand a chance o' being\nsaved, an' that I shall see my wife an' bairns again?\"\n\n\"Even so,\" said she; \"but whether ye do or do not, rests with yer\nmaster.\"\n\n\"Speak not o' that, sweet maiden,\" said the laird; \"but tell me, what\nsays my mother? How does she bear the fate o' her son; an' hoo does she\npromise to avenge my death?\"\n\n\"She is as one whose heart-strings are torn asunder,\" was the reply,\n\"and who refuses to be comforted; but she wad rather hae another dochter\nthan lose an only son; an' her prayer is, that ye will live and mak her\nhappy, by marrying the maiden ye despise.\"\n\n\"What!\" he cried, \"has even my mother so far forgot herself as to desire\nme to marry the dochter o' oor enemy, whom no other man could be found\nto take! It shall never be. I wad obey her in onything but that.\"\n\n\"But,\" said the maiden, \"I still think ye are wrong to reject and\ndespise puir Meg before that ye hae seen her. She may baith be better\nan' look better than ye are aware o'. There are as guid as Scott o'\nHarden who hae said, that were it in their power they wad mak her their\nwife; an' ye should remember, sir, that it will be as pleasant for you\nto hear the blithe laverock singing ower yer head, as for another person\nto hear the wind soughing and the long grass rustling ower yer grave. Ye\nhae another day to live, an' see her, an' speak to her, before ye decide\nrashly. Yours is a cruel doom, but Sir Gideon is a wrathfu' man; an'\neven for his ain flesh an' bluid he has but sma' compassion when his\nanger is provoked. Death, too, is an awfu' thing to think aboot; an',\ntherefore, for yer ain sake, an' for the sake o' yer puir distressed\nmother an' sisters, dinna come to a rash determination.\"\n\n\"Sweet lass,\" replied he, \"I respect the sympathy which ye evince; but\nnever shall Sir Gideon Murray say that, in order to save my life, he\nterrified me into a marriage wi' his daughter. An' when my puir mother's\ngrief has subsided, she will think differently o' my decision.\"\n\n\"Weel, sir,\" said the maiden, \"since ye will not listen to my\nadvice--an' I own that I hae nae richt to offer it--I will send ane to\nye whose persuasion will hae mair avail.\"\n\n\"Whom will ye send?\" inquired the laird; \"it isna possible that ye can\nhae been playing me false?\"\n\n\"No,\" she replied, \"that isna possible; an' from her that I will send to\nyou, you will see whether or not I hae kept my word, guid and truly, to\nfulfil yer message.\"\n\nSo saying, she withdrew, leaving him much wondering at her words, and\nyet more at the interest which she took in his fate. But she had not\nlong withdrawn when the prison-door was again opened, and Lady Scott\nrushed into the arms of her son.\n\n\"My mother!\" cried he, starting back in astonishment--\"my mother!--hoo\nis this?\"\n\n\"Oh, joy an' gladness, an' every blessing be upon my honoured lady!\nfor noo I may stand some chance o' walkin' back upon my ain feet to\nsee my family. Oh! yer leddyship,\" Simon added, \"join yer prayers to my\nprayers, an' try if ye can persuade my maister to marry Sir Gideon's\ndochter, an' thereby save baith his life an' mine.\"\n\nBut she fell upon the neck of her son, and seemed not to hear the words\nwhich Simon addressed to her.\n\n\"O my son! my son!\" she cried; \"since there is no other way by which yer\nlife can be ransomed, yield to the demand o' the fierce Murray. Marry\nhis daughter an' live--save yer wretched mother's life; for yer death,\nWillie, wad be mine also.\"\n\n\"Mother!\" answered he, vehemently, \"I will never accept life upon such\nterms. I am in Murray's hands, but the day may come--yea, see ye that it\ndoes come--when he shall fall into the hands o' the Scotts o' Harden;\nan' see ye that ye do to him as he shall have done to me. But, tell\nme, mother, hoo are ye here? Wherefore did ye venture, or hoo got ye\npermission to see me? Ken ye not that if he found ye in his power, upon\nyour life also he wad fix a ransom?\"\n\n\"The kind lassie,\" she replied, \"that brought the letter from ye, at my\nrequest conducted me here, and contrived to get me permission to see\nye; an' she says that my visit shall not come to the knowledge o' Sir\nGideon. But, O Willie! as ye love an' respect the mother that bore ye,\nan' that nursed ye nicht an' day at her bosom, dinna throw awa yer life\nwhen it is in yer power to save it, but marry Miss Murray, an' ye may\nlive, an' so may I, to see many happy days; for, from a' that I hae\nheard, though not weel-favoured, she is a young lady o' an excellent\ndisposition!\"\n\n\"Oh! that's richt, my leddy,\" interrupted Simon; \"urge him to marry her,\nfor it would be a dreadfu' thing for him an' I to be gibbeted, as a pair\no' perpetual spectacles for the Murrays to mak a jest o'. Ye ken if he\ndoes marry, an' if he finds he doesna like her, he can leave her; or\nhe needna live wi' her; or, perhaps, she may soon die; an' ye will\ncertainly agree that marriage, ony way ye tak it, is to be desired, a\nthousand times ower, before a violent death. Therefore, urge him again,\nyer leddyship, for he may listen to what ye say, though he despises my\nwords, an' will not hearken to my advice.\"\n\n\"Simon,\" said the laird, \"never shall a Murray hae it in his power to\nboast that he struck terror into the breast o' a Scott o' Harden. My\ndetermination is fixed as fate. I shall welcome my doom, an' meet it as\na man. Come, dear mother,\" he added, \"weep not, nor cause me to appear\nin the presence o' my enemies with a blanched cheek. Hasten to avenge my\ndeath, an' think that in yer revenge yer son lives again. Come, though I\ndie, there will be moonlight again.\"\n\nShe hung upon his breast and wept, but he turned away his head and\nrefused to listen to her entreaties. The young maiden again entered the\nprison, and said--\n\n\"Ye must part noo, for in a few minutes Sir Gideon will be astir, an'\nshould he find yer leddyship here, or discover that I hae brought ye, I\nwad hae sma' power to gie ye protection.\"\n\n\"Fareweel, dear mother!--fareweel!\" exclaimed the youth, grasping her\nhand.\n\n\"O Willie! Willie!\" she cried, \"did I bear ye to see ye come to an end\nlike this! Bairn! bairn! live--for yer mother's sake, live!\"\n\n\"Fareweel, mother!--fareweel!\" he again cried, and the sentinel\nconducted her from the apartment.\n\nIt again drew towards noon. The loud gong again sounded, and Simon\nsank upon his knees in despair, as the voice of the warder was heard\ncrying--\"It is the hour! prepare the prisoners for execution!\"\n\nAgain the prison-door was opened, and Sir Gideon, with wrath upon his\nbrow, stood before them.\n\n\"Weel, youngster,\" said he, addressing the laird, \"yer hour is come.\nWhat is yer choice--a wife or the wuddy?\"\n\n\"Lead me to execution, ye auld knave,\" answered the laird, scornfully;\n\"an' ken, that wi' the hemp around my neck, in contempt o' you an'\nyours, I will spit upon the ground where ye tread.\"\n\n\"Here, guards!\" cried Sir Gideon; \"lead forth William Scott o' Harden to\nexecution. Strap him upon the nearest tree, an' there let him hang until\nthe bauldest Scott upon the Borders dare to cut him down. As for you,\"\nadded he, addressing Simon, \"I seek not your life; depart, ye are free;\nbut beware hoo ye again fall into the hands o' Gideon Murray.\"\n\n\"No, sir!\" exclaimed Simon, \"though I am free to acknowledge that I hae\nnae ambition to die before it is the wise will an' purpose o' nature,\nyet I winna, I canna leave my dear young maister; an' if he be to\nsuffer, I will share his fate. Only, Sir Gideon, there is ae thing I hae\nto say, an' that is, that he is young, an' he is proud an' stubborn,\nlike yersel', an' though he will not, o' his ain free will an' accord,\nnor in obedience to yer commandments, marry yer dochter--is it not\npossible to compel him, whether he be willing or no, an' so save his\nlife, as it were, in spite o' him?\"\n\n\"Away with both!\" cried the knight, striking his ironed heel upon the\nground, and leaving the apartment.\n\n\"Then, if it is to be, it must be,\" said Simon, folding his arms in\nresignation, \"an' there is no help for it! But, oh, maister! maister!\nye hae acted foolishly.\"\n\nThey were led from the prison-house, and through the court-yard, towards\na tall elm-tree, round which all the retainers of Sir Gideon were\nassembled to witness the execution; and the old knight took his place\nupon an elevated seat in the midst of them.\n\nThe executioners were preparing to perform their office, when Agnes, or\nMuckle-mouthed Meg, as she was called, came forth, with a deep veil\nthrown over her face, and sinking on her knee before the old knight,\nsaid, imploringly--\"A boon, dear faither--yer dochter begs a simple\nboon.\"\n\n\"Ye tak an ill season to ask it, Meg,\" said the knight, angrily; \"but\nwhat may it be?\"\n\nShe whispered to him earnestly for a few minutes, during which his\ncountenance exhibited indignation and surprise; and when she had\nfinished speaking, she again knelt before him and embraced his knees.\n\n\"Rise, Meg, rise!\" said he, impatiently, \"for yer sake, an' at yer\nrequest, he shall hae another chance to live.\" And, approaching the\nprisoner, he added--\"William Scott, ye hae chosen death in preference to\nthe hand o' my dochter. Will ye noo prefer to die rather than marry the\nlassie that ran wi' the letter to yer mother, an' without my consent\nbrought her to see ye?\"\n\n\"Had another asked me the question,\" said the laird, \"though I ken not\nwho she is, yet she has a kind heart, and I should hae said 'No,' an'\noffered her my hand, heart, an' fortune; but to you, Sir Gideon, I only\nsay--do yer worst.\"\n\n\"Then, Willie, my ain Willie!\" cried his mother, who at that moment\nrushed forward, \"another does request ye to marry her, an' that is yer\nain mother!\"\n\n\"An',\" said Agnes, stepping forward, and throwing aside the veil that\ncovered her face, \"puir Meg, ower whom ye gied a preference to the\ngallows, also requests ye!\"\n\n\"What!\" exclaimed the young laird, grasping her hand, \"is the kind\nlassie that has striven, night and day, to save me--the very Meg that I\nhae been treating wi' disdain?\"\n\n\"In troth am I,\" she replied, \"an' do ye prefer the wuddy still?\"\n\n\"No,\" answered he; and, turning to Sir Gideon, he added--\"Sir, I am now\nwilling that the ceremony end in matrimony.\"\n\n\"Be it so,\" said the old knight, and the spectators burst into a shout.\n\nThe day that began with preparations for death ended in a joyful bridal.\nThe honour of knighthood was afterwards conferred upon the laird; and\nMeg bore unto him many sons and daughters, and was, as the reader will\nbe ready to believe, one of the best wives in Scotland; while Simon\ndeclared that he never saw a better-looking woman in Ettrick Forest,\nhis own wife and daughters not excepted.\n\n\n\n\nLORD DURIE AND CHRISTIE'S WILL.\n\n\nWho can journey, now-a-days, along the high parts of Selkirkshire, and\nhear the mire-snipe whistle in the morass, proclaiming itself, in the\nsilence around, the unmolested occupant of the waste, or descend into\nthe green valley, and see the lazy shepherd lying folded up in his\nplaid, while his flocks graze in peace around him and in the distance,\nand not think of the bold spirits that, in the times of Border warfare,\nsounded the war-horn till it rang in reverberating echoes from hill to\nhill? The land of the Armstrongs knows no longer their kindred. The\nhills, ravines, mosses, and muirs, that, only a few centuries ago,\nwere animated by the boldest spirits that ever sounded a war-cry, and\ndefended to the death by men whose swords were their only charters of\nright, have passed into other hands, and the names of the warlike\nholders serve now only to give a grim charm to a Border ballad. An\nextraordinary lesson may be read on the banks of the Liddel and the\nEsk--there is a strange eloquence in the silence of these quiet dales.\nStand for a while among the graves of the chief of Gilnockie and his\nfifty followers, in the lonely churchyard of Carlenrig--cast a\ncontemplative eye on the roofless tower of that brave riever, then\nglance at the gorgeous policies of Bowhill, and resist, if you can, the\ndeep sigh that rises as a tribute to the memories of men who, having,\nby their sleepless spirits, kept a kingdom in commotion, died on the\ngallows, and left no generation to claim their lands from those who,\nwith less bravery and no better sense of right, had the subtle policy\nto rise on their ruins. Poorly, indeed, now sound the names of Johnny\nArmstrong, Sim of Whittram, Sim of the Cathill, Kinmont Willie, or\nChristie's Will, besides those of Dukes of Buccleuch and Roxburgh,\nScott of Harden, and Elliot of Stobbs and Wells; and yet, without\nwishing to take away the _merit_ or the _extent_ of their ancestors'\nown \"reif and felonie,\" how much do they owe to their succession to the\nill-got gear of those hardy Borderers whose names and scarcely credible\nachievements are all that have escaped the rapacity that, not satisfied\nwith their lands, took also their lives! For smaller depredations, the\nold laws of the Border--and it would not be fair to exclude those of the\npresent day, not confined to that locality--awarded a halter; for thefts\nof a larger kind, they gave a title. Old Wat of Buccleuch deserved the\nhonour of \"the neck garter\" just as much as poor Johnny Armstrong; yet\nall he got was a reproof and a dukedom.\n\n    \"Then up and spake the noble king--\n       And an angry man, I trow, was he--\n    'It ill becomes ye, bauld Bucclew,\n       To talk o' reif or felonie;\n     For, if every man had his ain cow,\n       A right puir clan yer name would be.'\"\n\nThere is a change now. The bones of the bold Armstrongs lie in\nCarlenrig, and the descendants of their brother-rievers who got their\nlands sit in high places, and speak words of legislative command. But\nthese things will be as they have ever been. We cannot change the world,\nfar less remake it; but we can resuscitate a part of its moral wonders;\nand, while the property of Christie's Will, the last of the bold\nArmstrongs, is now possessed by another family, under a written title,\nwe will do well to commit to record a part of his fame.\n\nIt is well known that the chief of the family of Armstrongs had his\nresidence[A] at Mangerton in Liddesdale. There is scarcely now any\ntrace of his tower, though time has not exerted so cruel a hand against\nhis brother Johnny Armstrong's residence, which lies in the Hollows near\nLangholme. We know no tumult of the emotions of what may be called\nantiquarian sentiment, so engrossing and curious as that produced by\nthe headless skeleton of \"auld Gilnockie's Tower,\" as it is seen in the\ngrey gloaming, with a breeze brattling through its dry ribs, and a stray\nowl sitting on the top, and sending his eldritch screigh through the\ndeserted hollows. The mind becomes busy on the instant with the former\nscenes of festivity, when \"their stolen gear,\" \"baith nolt and sheep,\"\nand \"flesh, and bread, and ale,\" as Maitland says, were eaten and drunk\nwith the _kitchen_ of a Cheviot hunger, and the sweetness of stolen\nthings; and when the wild spirit of the daring outlaws, with Johnny\nat their head, made the old tower of the Armstrongs ring with their\nwassail shouts. This Border turret came--after the execution of Johnny\nArmstrong, and when the clan had become what was called a broken\nclan--into the possession of William Armstrong, who figured in the times\nof Charles I. He was called Christie's Will, though from what reason\ndoes not now seem very clear; neither is it at all evident why, after\nthe execution of his forbear, Johnny, and his fifty followers, at\nCarlenrig, the Tower of Gilnockie was not forfeited to the crown, and\ntaken from the rebellious clan altogether; but, to be sure it was in\nthose days more easy to take a man's life than his property, insomuch as\nthe former needed no guard, while the other would have required a small\nstanding army to keep it and the new proprietor together. Certain,\nhowever, it is, that Christie's Will did get possession of the Tower of\nGilnockie, where, according to the practice of the family, he lived \"on\nScottish ground and English kye;\" and, when the latter could not easily\nbe had, on the poorer land of his neighbours of Scotland.\n\n [A] In a MS. we have seen, as old as the end of the 15th\n century, \"the Laird of Mangerton\" is placed at the head of the\n Liddesdale chiefs--Harden, Buccleuch, and others coming after him\n in respectful order.\n\nThis descendant of the Armstrongs was not unlike Johnny; and, indeed, it\nhas been observed that throughout the whole branches of the family there\nwas an extraordinary union of boldness and humour--two qualities which\nhave more connection than may, at first view, be apparent. Law-breakers,\namong themselves, are seldom serious; a lightness of heart and a turn\nfor wit being necessary for the sustenance of their outlawed spirits, as\nwell as for a quaint justification--resorted to by all the tribe--of\ntheir calling, against the laws of the land. In the possession of these\nqualities, Will was not behind the most illustrious of his race; but he,\nperhaps, excelled them all in the art of \"_conveying_\"--a polite term\nthen used for that change of ownership which the affected laws of the\ntime denominated _theft_. This art was not confined to cattle or\nplenishing, though\n\n    \"They left not spindell, spoone, nor speit,\n       Bed, boster, blanket, sark, nor sheet:\n     John of the Park ryps kist and ark--\n       To all sic wark he is sae meet.\"[B]\n\n [B] See Maitland's curious satire on the Border robberies.--ED.\n\nIt extended to abduction, and this was far seldomer exercised on damsels\nthan on men, who would be well ransomed, especially of those classes,\nduke, earl, or baron, any of whom Johnny offered (for his life) to\nbring, \"within a certain day, to his Majesty James V., either quick\nor dead.\" This latter part of their art was the highest to which the\nBorderers aspired; and there never was a riever among them all that\nexcelled in it so much as Christie's Will. \"To steal a stirk, or wear a\nscore o' sheep _hamewards_,\" he used to say, \"was naething; but to steal\na _lord_ was the highest flicht o' a man's genius, and ought never to be\nlippened to a hand less than an Armstrong's;\" and, certainly, if the\nsuccess with which he executed one scheme of that high kind will\nguarantee Will's boasted abilities, he did not transcend the truth in\nlimiting lord-stealing to the Armstrongs.\n\nWill married a distant relation of the true Border breed, named Margaret\nElliot--a lass whose ideas of hussyskep were so peculiar, that she\nthought Gilnockie and its laird were going to ruin when she saw in the\nkail-pot a \"heugh bane\" of their _own_ cattle, a symptom of waste,\nextravagance, and laziness, on the part of her husband, that boded less\ngood than the offer made by \"the Laird's Jock,\" (Johnny Armstrong's\nhenchman,) to give \"Dick o' the Cow\" a piece of his own ox, which he\ncame to ask reparation for, and, not having got it, tied with St. Mary's\nknot (hamstringed) thirty good horses. To this good housewife, in fact,\nmight be traced, if antiquaries would renounce for it less important\ninvestigations, the old saying, that stolen joys (qu. queys?) are\nsweetest, undoubtedly a Border aphorism, and now received into the\nsociety of legitimate moral sayings. When lazy and not inclined for\n\"felonie,\" Will would not subscribe to the truth of the dictum, and\noften got for grace to the dinner he had not taken from the English, and\nyet relished, the wish of the good dame, that, for his want of spirit,\nit might choke him. That effect, however, was more likely to be produced\nby the beef got in the regular Border way; for the laws were beginning\nnow to be more vigorously executed, and many a riever was astonished and\noffended by the proceedings of the Justice-Ayr at Jedburgh, where they\nwere actually going the length of _hanging_ for the crime of _conveying_\ncattle from one property to another.\n\nIt was in vain that Will told his wife these proceedings of the Jedburgh\ncourt; she knew very well that many of the Armstrongs, and the famous\nJohnny among the rest, had been strung up, by the command of their king,\nfor rebellion against his authority; but it was out of all question,\nbeyond the reach of common sense, and, indeed, utterly barbarous and\nunjust to hang a man, as Gilderoy's lover said, \"for gear,\" a thing that\nnever yet was known to be stationary, but, even from the times of the\nOld Testament, given to taking to itself wings and flying away. It was,\nbesides, against the oldest constitution of things, the old possessors\nbeing the _Tories_, who acted upon the comely principle already alluded\nto, that right was might--the new lairds, again, being the Whigs, who\nwished to take from the Tories (the freebooters) the good old law of\nnature and possession, and regulate property by the mere conceits of\nmen's brains. To some such purpose did Margaret argue against Will's\nallusions to the doings at Jedburgh; but, secretly, Will cared no more\nfor the threat of a rope, than he did for the empty bravado of a\nneighbour whom he had eased of a score of cattle. He merely brought\nin the doings of the Justice-Ayr at Jedburgh, to screen his fits of\nlaziness; those states of the mind common to rievers, thieves, writers,\nand poets, and generally all people who live upon their wits, which\nat times incapacitate them for using sword or pen for their honest\nlivelihood. But all Margaret's arguments and Will's courage were on one\noccasion overturned, by the riever's apprehension for stealing a cow,\nbelonging to a farmer at Stobbs, of the name of Grant. He was carried\nto Jedburgh jail, and indicted to stand his trial before the Lord\nJustice-General at the next circuit. There was a determination, on the\npart of the crown authorities, to make an example of the most inveterate\nriever of the time, and Will stood a very fair chance of being hanged.\n\nThe apprehension of Will Armstrong made a great noise throughout all\nLiddesdale, producing, to the class of victims, joy, and to the class\nof spoilers, great dismay; but none wondered more at the impertinence\nand presumption of the government authorities in attempting thus to\ndislocate the old Tory principle of \"might makes right,\" than Margaret\nElliot; who, as she sat in her turret of Gilnockie, alternately wept and\ncursed for the fate of her \"winsome Will,\" and, no doubt, there was in\nthe projected condemnation and execution of a man six feet five inches\nhigh, with a face like an Adonis, shoulders like a Milo, the speed of\nMercury, the boldness of a lion, and more than the generosity of that\nnoble animal, for the crime of stealing a stirk, something that was very\napt to rouse, even in those who loved him not so well as did Margaret,\nfeelings of sympathy for his fate, and indignation against his\noppressors. There was no keeping, as the artists say, in the picture, no\nproper causality in a stolen cow, for the production of such an effect\nas a hanged Phaon or strangled Hercules; and though we have used some\nclassic names to grace our idea, the very same thought, at least as good\na one, though perhaps not so gaudily clothed, occupied the mind of\nMargaret Elliot. She sobbed and cried bitterly, till the Gilnockie\nravens and owls, kindred spirits, were terrified from the riever's\ntower.\n\n\"What is this o't?\" she exclaimed, in the midst of her tears. \"Shall\nChristie's Will, the bravest man o' the Borders, be hanged because a\ncow, that kenned nae better, followed him frae Stobbs to the Hollows;\nand shall it be said that Margaret Elliot was the death o' her braw\nriever? I had meat enough in Gilnockie larder that day I scorned him wi'\nhis laziness, and forced him to do the deed that has brought him to\nJedburgh jail. But I'll awa to the warden, James Stewart o' Traquair,\nand see if it be the king's high will that a man's life should be ta'en\nfor a cow's.\"\n\nMaking good her resolution, Margaret threw her plaid about her\nshoulders, and hied her away to Traquair House, the same that still\nstands on the margin of the Tweed, and raises its high white walls,\nperforated by numerous Flemish-shaped windows, among the dark woods of\nTraquair. When she came to the front of the house, and saw the two stone\nfigures stationed at the old gate, she paused and wondered at the\nweakness and effeminacy of the Lord High Steward in endeavouring to\ndefend his castle by fearful representations of animals.\n\n\"My faith,\" muttered she to herself, as she approached to request\nentrance, \"the warden was right in no makin' choice o' the figure o' a\n_quey_ to defend his castle.\" And she could scarcely resist a chuckle in\nthe midst of her tears, at her reference to the cause of her visit.\n\n\"Is my Lord Steward at hame?\" said she to the servant who answered her\ncall.\n\n\"Yes,\" answered the man; \"who is it that wishes to see him?\"\n\n\"The mistress o' Gilnockie,\" rejoined Margaret, \"has come to seek a guid\nword for Christie's Will, who now lies in Jedburgh jail for stealing a\ntether, and I fear may hang for't.\"\n\nThe servant heard this extraordinary message as servants who presume to\njudge of the sense of their messages ever do, with critical attention,\nand, after serious consideration, declared that he could not deliver\nsuch a message to his lord.\n\n\"I dinna want ye to deliver my message, man,\" said Margaret. \"I merely\nwished to be polite to ye, and show ye a little attention. God be\nthankit, the mistress o' Gilnockie can deliver her ain errand.\"\n\nAnd, pushing the waiting man aside by a sudden jerk of her brawnie arm,\nshe proceeded calmly forward to a door, which she intended to open; but\nthe servant was at her heels, and, laying hold of her plaid, was in the\nact of hauling her back, when the Warden himself came out, and asked the\ncause of the affray.\n\n\"Is the house yours, my Lord, or this man's?\" said Margaret. \"Take\nmy advice, my Lord,\" (whispering in his ear,) \"turn him aff--he's a\ntraitor; would you believe it, my Lord, that, though placed there for\nthe purpose o' lettin' folk into yer Lordship, he actually--ay, as sure\nas death--tried to keep me oot! Can ye deny it, sir? Look i' my face,\nand deny it if ye daur!\"\n\nThe man smiled, and his Lordship laughed; and Margaret wondered at the\neasy good-nature of a Lord in forgiving such a heinous offence on the\npart of a servitor.\n\n\"If ye're as kind to me as ye are to that rebel,\" continued Margaret, as\nshe followed his Lordship into his sitting chamber, \"Christie's Will\nwinna hang yet.\"\n\n\"What mean you, good woman?\" said the Warden. \"What is it that you\nwant?\"\n\n\"As if your Lordship didna ken,\" answered Margaret, with a knowing look.\n\"Is it likely that a Liddesdale woman frae the Hollows, should ca' upon\nthe great Warden for aught short o' the life and safety o' the man wha's\nin Jedburgh jail?\" (Another Scotch wink.)\n\n\"I am still at a loss, good woman,\" said the Warden.\n\n\"At a loss!\" rejoined Margaret. \"What! doesna a' the Forest,[C] and\nTeviotdale and Tweeddale to boot, ken that Christie's Will is in\nJedburgh jail?\"\n\n [C] Selkirkshire.\n\n\"I know, I know, good dame,\" replied the Warden, \"that that brave riever\nis in prison; but I thought his crime was the stealing of a cow, and not\na tether, as I heard you say to my servant.\"\n\n\"Weel, weel--the cow may have been at the end o' the tether,\" replied\nMargaret.\n\n\"She is a wise woman who concealeth the _extremity_ of her husband's\ncrime,\" replied Lord Traquair, with a smile, \"But what wouldst thou have\nme to do?\"\n\n\"Just to save Christie's Will frae the gallows, my Lord,\" answered\nMargaret. And, going up close to his Lordship, and whispering in his\near--\"And sometimes a Lord needs a lift as weel as ither folk. If\nthere's nae buck on Traquair when your Lordship has company at the\ncastle, you hae only to gie Christie's Will a nod, and there will be\nnae want o' venison here for a month. There's no a stouthriever in a'\nLiddesdale, be he baron or bondsman, knight or knave, but Christie's\nWill will bring to you at your Lordship's bidding, and a week's biding;\nand if there's ony want o' a braw leddie,\" (speaking low,) \"to keep the\nbonny house o' Traquair in order, an' she canna be got for a carlin\nkeeper, a wink to Christie's Will will bring her here, unscathed by sun\nor wind, in suner time than a priest could tie the knot, or a lawyer\nloose it. Is sic a man a meet burden for a fir wuddy, my Lord?\"\n\n\"By my faith, your husband hath good properties about him,\" replied\nTraquair. \"There is not one in these parts that knoweth not Christie's\nWill; but I fear it is to that fame he oweth his danger. He is the last\nof the old Armstrongs; and there is a saying hereaway, that\n\n    'Comes Liddesdale's peace\n     When Armstrongs cease;'\n\nand since, good dame, it would ill become the King's Warden to let slip\nthe noose that is to catch peace and order for our march territories,\nyet Will is too noble a fellow for hanging. Go thy ways. I'll see\nhim--I'll see him.\"\n\n\"Hech na, my Lord,\" answered Margaret; \"I'll no budge frae this house\ntill ye say ye'll save him this ance. I'll be caution and surety for\nhim mysel', that he'll never again dine in Gilnockie on another man's\nsurloins. His clan has been lang a broken ane; but I am now the head\no't, and it has aye been the practice in our country to make the head\nanswer for the rest o' the body.\"\n\n\"Well, that is the practice of the hangman at Jedburgh,\" replied\nTraquair, laughing. \"But go thy ways. Will shall not hang yet. He hath\na job to do for me. There's a 'lurdon'[D] of the north he must steal for\nme. I'll take thy bond.\"\n\n [D] It has been attempted to derive this word from \"Lord,\"\n (paper lord); but we have no faith in the etymology; it was, however,\n often applied to the wigged and gowned judges, as being, in their\n appearance, more like women than men--for \"lurdon,\" though applied\n to a male, is generally used for a lazy woman.--ED.\n\n\"Gie me your hand then, my Lord,\" said the determined dame; \"and the\nrichest lurdon o' the land he'll bring to your Lordship, as surely as\nhe ever took a Cumberland cow--whilk, as your Lordship kens, is nae\nrieving.\"\n\nTraquair gave the good dame his hand, and she departed, wondering, as\nshe went, what the Lord Warden was to do with a stolen lurdon. A young\ndamsel might have been a fair prize for the handsome baron; but an \"auld\nwife,\" as she muttered to herself, was the most extraordinary object of\nrieving she had ever heard of, amidst all the varieties of a Borderer's\nprey. Next day Traquair mounted his horse, and--\n\n    \"Traquair has riden up Chaplehope,\n       An' sae has he doun by the Grey-Mare's-Tail;\n     He never stinted the light gallop,\n       Until he speered for Christie's Will.\"\n\nHaving arrived at Jedburgh, he repaired direct to the jail, where\nMargaret had been before him, to inform her husband that the great Lord\nWarden was to visit him, and get him released; but upon the condition of\nstealing away a lurdon in the north--a performance, the singularity of\nwhich was much greater than the apparent difficulty, unless, indeed, as\nWill said, she was a bedridden lurdon, in which case, it would be no\neasy matter to get her conveyed, as horses were the only carriers of\nstolen goods in those days. But the wonder why Traquair should wish to\nsteal away an old woman had perplexed the wits of Will and his wife to\nsuch an extent, that they had recourse to the most extraordinary\nhypotheses; supposing at one time that she was some coy heiress of\nseventy summers, who had determined to be carried off after the form of\nyoung damsels in the times of chivalry; at another, that she was the\nparent of some lord, who could only be brought to concede something to\nthe Warden by the force of the impledgment of his mother; and, again,\nthat she was the duenna of an heiress, who could only be got through the\nconfinement of the old hag. Be who she might, however, Christie's Will\ndeclared, upon the faith of the long shablas of Johnny Armstrong, that\nhe would carry her off through fire and water, as sure as ever Kinmont\nWillie was carried away by old Wat of Buccleuch from the Castle of\nCarlisle.\n\n    \"Oh, was it war-wolf in the wood,\n       Or was it mermaid in the sea,\n     Or was it maid or lurdon auld,\n       He'd carry an' bring her bodilie.\"\n\nSuch was the heroic determination to which Christie's Will had come,\nwhen the jailor came and whispered in his ear, that the Lord Warden was\nin the passage on the way to see him. Starting to his feet, the riever\nwas prepared to meet the baron, of whom he generally stood in so much\nawe in his old tower of Gilnockie, but who came to him now on a visit\nof peace.\n\n\"Thou'lt hang, Will, this time,\" said the Warden, with an affectation of\ngruffness, as he stepped forward. \"It is not in the power of man to save\nye!\"\n\n\"Begging yer Lordship's pardon,\" replied Will, \"I believe it, however,\nto be in the power o' a woman. The auld lurdon will be in Gilnockie\ntower at yer Lordship's ain time.\"\n\n\"And who is the 'auld lurdon?'\" replied the Warden, trying to repress a\nlaugh, which forced its way in spite of his efforts.\n\n\"Margaret couldna tell me that,\" said Will; \"but many a speculation we\nhad on the question yer Lordship has now put to me. 'Wha can she be?'\nsaid Peggy; and 'Wha can she be?' replied I; but it's for yer Lordship\nto say wha she _is_, and for me to steal the auld limmer awa, as sure as\never I _conveyed_ an auld milker frae the land o' the Nevills. I'm nae\nsooner free than she's a prisoner.\"\n\nThe familiarity with which Will spoke of the female personage thus\ndestined to durance vile, produced another laugh on the part of the\nWarden, not altogether consistent, as Will thought, with the serious\nnature of the subject in hand.\n\n\"Where is she, my Lord?\" continued Will; \"in what fortress?--wha is her\nkeeper?--whar will I tak her, and how long retain her a prisoner?\"\n\n\"I fear, Will, she is beyond the power o' mortal,\" said his Lordship, in\na serious voice; \"but on condition of thy making a fair trial, I will\nmake intercession for thy life, and take the chance of thy success. Much\nhangeth by the enterprise--ay, even all my barony of Coberston dependeth\nupon that 'lurdon' being retained three months in a quiet corner of\nGraeme's Tower. Thou knowest the place?\"\n\n\"Ay, weel, weel,\" replied Will, who began to see the great importance of\nthe enterprise, while his curiosity to know who the object was had\nconsiderably increased. \"That tower has its 'redcap sly.' E'en Lord\nSoulis' Hermitage is no better guarded. Ance there, and awa wi' care,\nas we say o' Gilnockie as a rendezvous for _strayed_ steers. But who is\nshe, my Lord?\"\n\n\"Thou hast thyself said she is a woman,\" replied the Warden, smiling,\n\"and I correct thee not. Hast thou ever heard, Will, of fifteen old\nwomen--'lurdons,' as the good people call them--that reside in a large\nhouse in the Parliament close of Edinburgh?\"\n\n\"Brawly, brawly,\" answered Will, with a particular leer of fun and\nintelligence; \"and weel may I ken the limmers--real lurdons, wi' lang\ngowns and curches. Ken them! Wha that has a character to lose, or a\nproperty to keep against the claims o' auld parchment, doesna ken thae\nfifteen auld runts? They keep the hail country side in a steer wi' their\nscandal. Nae man's character is safe in their keeping; and they're sae\nfu' o' mischief that they hae even blawn into the king's lug that my\ntower o' Gilnockie was escheat to the king by the death o' my ancestor,\nwho was hanged at Carlenrig. They say a' the mischief that has come on\nthe Borders sin' the guid auld times, has its beginning in that coterie\no' weazened gimmers. Dootless, they're at the root o' the danger o' yer\nbonny barony o' Coberston. By the rood! I wish I had a dash at their big\ncurches.\"\n\n\"Ay, Will,\" responded Traquair; \"but they're securely lodged in their\nstrong Parliament House, and the difficulty is how to get at them.\"\n\n\"But I fancy ane o' the lurdons will satisfy yer Lordship,\" said Will,\n\"or do ye want them a' lodged in Graeme's Tower? They would mak a bonny\nnest o' screighing hoolets, if we had them safely under the care o'\nthe sly redcap o' that auld keep: they wad hatch something else than\nscandal, and leasin-makin, and reports o' the instability o' Border\nrights, the auld jauds.\"\n\n\"I will be content with one of them,\" rejoined the Warden.\n\n\"Ha! ha! I see, I see,\" replied Will. \"Ane o' the limmers has been\nsapping and undermining Coberston wi' her hellish scandal. What's the\nlurdon's name, my Lord?\"\n\n\"Gibson of Durie,\" rejoined Traquair.\n\n\"Ah! a weel-kenned scandalous runt that,\" replied Will. \"She's the\nauldest o' the hail fifteen, if I'm no cheated--Leddie President o' the\ncoterie. She spak sair against me when the King's advocate claimed for\nhis Majesty my auld turret o' Gilnockie. I owe that quean an auld score.\nHow lang do you want her lodged in Graeme's Tower?\"\n\n\"Three months would maybe change her tongue,\" replied the Warden;\n\"but the enterprise seems desperate, Will.\"\n\n\"Desperate! my Lord,\" replied the other--\"that word's no kenned on the\nBorders. Is it the doing o't, or the dool for the doing o't, that has\nthe desperation in't?\"\n\n\"The consequences to you would be great, Will,\" said Traquair. \"You are\nconfined here for stealing a cow, and would be hanged for it if I did\nnot save ye. Our laws are equal and humane. For stealing a cow one may\nbe hanged; but there's no such law against stealing a paper-lord.\"\n\n\"That shows the guid sense o' our lawgivers,\" replied Will, with a leer\non his face. \"The legislator has wisely weighed the merits o' the twa\ncraturs; yet, were it no for your case, my Lord, I could wish the law\nreversed. I wad be in nae hurry stealing ane o' thae cummers, at least\nfor my ain use; and, as for Peggy, she would rather see a cow at\nGilnockie ony day.\"\n\n\"Weel, Will,\" said his Lordship, \"I do not ask thee to steal for me old\nLeddie Gibson. I dare not. You understand me; but I am to save your\nlife; and I tell thee that, if that big-wigged personage be not, within\nten days, safely lodged in Graeme's Tower, my lands of Coberston will\nfind a new proprietor, and your benefactor will be made a lordly\nbeggar.\"\n\n\"Fear not, my Lord,\" replied Will. \"I'm nae suner out than she's in.\nShe'll no say a word against Coberston for the next three months, I\nwarrant ye. But, by my faith, it's as teuch a job as boilin' auld Soulis\nin the cauldron at the Skelfhill; and I hae nae black spae-book like\nThomas to help my spell. Yet, after a', my Lord, what spell is like the\nwit o' man, when he has courage to act up to 't!\"\n\nThe Warden acknowledged the truth of Will's heroic sentiment; and,\nhaving satisfied himself that the bold riever would perform his promise,\nhe departed, and in two days afterwards the prisoner was liberated, and\non his way to his residence at the Hollows. It was apparent, from Will's\npart of the dialogue, that he had some knowledge of the object the Lord\nWarden had in view in carrying off a Lord of Session from the middle of\nthe capital; yet it is doubtful if he troubled himself with more than\nthe fact of its being the wish of his benefactor that the learned judge\nshould be for a time confined in Graeme's Tower; and, conforming to a\nprivate hint of his Lordship before he departed from the jail, he kept\nup in his wife Margaret's mind the delusion that it was truly \"an auld\nlurdon\" whom he was to steal, as a condition for getting out of prison.\nOn the morning after his arrival at Gilnockie, Will held a consultation\nwith two tried friends, whose assistance he required in this most\nextraordinary of all the rieving expeditions he had ever yet been\nengaged in; and the result of their long sederunt was, that, within two\nhours after, the three were mounted on as many prancing Galloways, and\nwith a fourth led by a bridle, and carrying their provisions, a large\ncloak, and some other articles. They took the least frequented road to\nthe metropolis of Scotland. Having arrived there, they put up their\nhorses at a small hostelry in the Grassmarket; and, next day, Will,\nleaving his friends at the inn, repaired to that seat of the law and\nlearning of Scotland, where the \"hail fifteen\" sat in grim array,\nmunching, with their toothless jaws, the thousand scraps of Latin\nlaw-maxims (borrowed from the Roman and feudal systems) which then\nruled the principles of judicial proceedings in Scotland.\n\nPlanting himself in one of the litigants' benches--a line of seats in\nfront of the semicircle where the fifteen Lords sat--the Liddesdale\nriever took a careful survey of all the wonders of that old laboratory\nof law. The first objects that attracted his attention, were, of course,\nthe imposing semicircular line of judges, no fewer than fifteen (almost\nsufficient for a small standing army for puny Scotland in those days),\nwho, wigged and robed, sat and nodded and grinned, and munched their\nchops in each other's faces, with a most extraordinary regularity of\nmummery, which yielded great amusement to the stalworth riever of the\nBorders. Their appearance in the long gowns, with sleeves down to the\nhands, wigs whose lappets fell on their breasts, displaying many a line\nof crucified curl, and white cambric cravats falling from below their\ngaucy double-chins on their bosoms, suggested at once the appellation of\nlurdons, often applied to them in those days, and now vivid in the fancy\nof the staring Borderer, whose wild and lawless life was so strangely\ncontrasted with that of the drowsy, effeminate-looking individuals who\nsat before him. He understood very little of their movements, which had\nall the regularity and ceremony of a raree-show. One individual (the\nmacer) cried out, at intervals, with a cracked voice, some words he\ncould not understand; but the moment the sound had rung through the\nraftered hall, another species of wigged and robed individuals\n(advocates) came forward, and spoke a strange mixture of English and\nLatin, which Will could not follow; and, when they had finished, the\nwhole fifteen looked at each other, and then began, one after another,\nbut often two or three at a time, to speak, and nod, and shake their\nwigs, as if they had been set agoing by some winding-up process on the\npart of the advocates. Not one word of all this did Will understand;\nand, indeed, he cared nothing for such mummery, but ever and anon fixed\nhis keen eye on the face of the middle senator, with an expression that\ncertainly never could have conveyed the intelligence that that rough\ncountry-looking individual meditated such a thing as an abduction of the\nhuge incorporation of law that sat there in so much state and solidity.\n\n\"Ha! ha! my old lass,\" said Will to himself; \"ye little ken that the\nLaird o' Gilnockie, whom ye tried to deprive of his birthright, sits\nafore ye; and will a' the lear 'neath that big wig tell ye that that\nsame Laird o' Gilnockie sits here contriving a plan to run awa wi' ye?\nFaith, an' it's a bauld project; but the baulder the bonnier, as we say\nin Liddesdale. I only wish I could tak her wig and gown wi' her--for, if\nthe lurdon were seen looking out o' Graeme's Tower, wi' that lang lappet\nhead-gear, there would be nae need o' watch or ward to keep her there.\"\n\nWill had scarcely finished his monologue, when he heard the macer cry\nout, \"Maxwell against Lord Traquair;\" then came forward the advocates,\nand shook their wigs over the bar, and at length old Durie, the\nPresident, said, in words that did not escape Will's vigilant ear--\n\n\"This case, I believe, involves the right to the large barony of\nCoberston. Seven of my brethren, you are aware, have given their\nopinions in favour of the defendant, Lord Traquair, and seven have\ndeclared for the pursuer, Maxwell. My casting vote must, therefore,\ndecide the case, and I have been very anxious to bring my mind to a\nconclusion on the subject, with as little delay as possible; but there\nare difficulties which I have not yet been able to surmount.\"\n\n\"Ay, and there's a new ane here, sittin' afore ye,\" muttered Will,\n\"maybe the warst o' them a'.\"\n\n\"I still require some new lights,\" continued the judge. \"I have already,\nas the case proceeded, partially announced an opinion against Lord\nTraquair; but I wish confirmation before I pronounce a judgment that is\nto have the effect of turning one out of possession of a large barony.\nI am sorry that my learned friends at the bar have not been able to\nrelieve me of my scruples.\"\n\n\"Stupid fules,\" muttered Will; \"but I'll relieve ye, my Lord Durie.\nIt'll ne'er be said that a Lord o' Session stood in need o' relief, and\na Border riever in the court, wha has a hundred times made the doubtin'\nstirk tak ae road (maybe Gilnockie-ways) in preference to anither.\"\n\nThe Traquair case being the last called that day, the court broke up,\nand the judges, followed still by the eye of Christie's Will, retired\ninto the robing-room to take off their wigs and gowns. The Borderer now\ninquired, in a very simple manner, at a macer, at what door the judges\ncame out of the court, as he was a countryman, and was curious to see\ntheir Lordships dressed in their usual every-day clothes. The request\nwas complied with; and Will, as a stupid gazing man from the Highlands,\nwho wished to get an inane curiosity gratified by what had nothing\ncurious in it, was placed in a convenient place to see the Solomons pass\nforth on their way to their respective dwellings. They soon came; and\nWill's lynx eye caught, in a moment, the face of the President, whom,\nto his great satisfaction, he now found to be a thin, spare, portable\nindividual, and very far from the unwieldy personage which his judge's\ndress made him appear to be when sitting on the bench--a reversing of\nthe riever's thoughts, in reference to the spareness and fatness of his\nobject of seizure, that brought a twinkle to his eye in spite of the\nserious task in which he was engaged. Forth went the President with\ngreat dignity, and Christie's Will behind him, dogging him with the\nkeen scent of a sleuth-hound. To his house in the Canongate he slowly\nbent his steps, ruminating as he went, in all likelihood, upon the\ndifficulties of the Traquair case, from which his followers were so\nanxious to relieve him. Will saw him ascend the steps and enter, and\nhis next object was to ascertain at what time he took his walk, and to\nwhat quarter of the suburbs he generally resorted; but on this point he\ncould not get much satisfaction, the good judge being in his motions\nsomewhat irregular, though (as Will learned) seldom a day passed without\nhis having recourse to the country in some direction or other. Will,\ntherefore, set a watch upon the house. Another of his friends held the\nhorses at the foot of Leith Wynd, while he himself paced between the\nwatchman and the top of the passage, so that he might have both ends of\nthe line always in his eye. A concerted whistle was to regulate their\nmovements.\n\nThe first day passed without a single glimpse being had of the grave\nsenator, who was probably occupied in the consultation of legal\nauthorities, little conscious of the care that was taken about his\nprecious person by so important an individual as the far-famed\nChristie's Will of Gilnockie. On the second day, about three of the\nafternoon, and two hours after he had left the Parliament House, a\nwhistle from Will's friend indicated that the grave judge was on the\nsteps of his stair. Will recognised him in an instant, and, despatching\nhis friend to him who held the horses at the foot of the Wynd, with\ninstructions to keep behind him at a distance, he began to follow his\nvictim slowly, and soon saw with delight that he was wending his\nsenatorial steps down towards Leith. The unconscious judge seemed\ndrowned in study: his eyes were fixed on the ground; his hands placed\nbehind his back; and, ever and anon, he twirled a gold-headed cane that\nhung suspended by a silken string from one of his fingers. Will was\ncertain that he was meditating the fall of Coberston, and the ruin of\nhis benefactor, Traquair; and, as the thought rose in his mind, the fire\nof his eye burned brighter, and his resolution mounted higher and\nhigher, till he could even have seized his prey in Leith lane, and\ncarried him off amidst the cries of the populace. But his opportunity\nwas coming quicker than he supposed. To enable him to get deeper and\ndeeper into his brown study, Durie was clearly bent upon avoiding the\ncommon road where passengers put to flight his ideas; and, turning to\nthe right, went up a narrow lane, and continued to saunter on till he\ncame to that place commonly known by the name of the Figgate Whins. In\nthat sequestered place, where scarcely an individual was seen to pass in\nan hour, the deep thinking of the cogitative senator might trench the\nsoil of the law of prescription, turn up the principle which regulated\ntailzies under the second part of the act 1617, and bury Traquair's\nright to Coberston. No sound but the flutter of a bird, or the moan of\nthe breaking waves of the Frith of Forth, could there interfere with his\ntrain of thought. Away he sauntered, ever turning his gold-headed cane,\nand driving his head farther and farther into the deep hole where, like\nthe ancient philosopher, he expected to find truth. Sometimes he struck\nhis foot against a stone, and started and looked up, as if awakened from\na dream; but he was too intent on his study to take the pains to make a\ncomplete turn of his wise head, to see if there was any one behind him.\nDuring all this time, a regular course of signals was in progress among\nWill and his friends who were coming up behind him, the horses being\nkept far back, in case the sound of their hoofs might reach the ear of\nthe day-dreamer. He had now reached the most retired and lonely part of\nthe common, where, at that time, there stood a small clump of trees at\na little distance from the whin-road that gave the place its singular\nname. His study still continued, for his head was still bent, and he\nlooked neither to the right nor to the left. In a single instant, he was\nmuffled up in a large cloak, a hood thrown over his face, and his hands\nfirmly bound by a cord. The operation was that of a moment--finished\nbefore the prisoner's astonishment had left him power to open his mouth.\nA whistle brought up the horses; he was placed on one of them with the\nsame rapidity; a cord was passed round his loins and bound to the\nsaddle; and, in a few minutes, the party was in rapid motion to get to\nthe back part of the city.[E]\n\n [E] This famous abduction was reported by Lord Fountainhall.\n Every circumstance is literally true.--ED.\n\nDuring all this extraordinary operation, not a single word passed\nbetween the three rievers, to whom the proceeding was, in a great\ndegree, perfectly familiar. Through the folds of the hood of the\ncloak in which the President's head was much more snugly lodged than\nit ever was in his senatorial wig, he contrived to send forth some\nmuffled sounds, indicating, not unnaturally, a wish to know what was\nthe meaning and object of so extraordinary a manoeuvre. At that time,\nbe it understood, the belief in the power of witches was general, and\nDurie himself had been accessary to the condemnation of many a wise\nwoman who was committed to the flames; but though he had, to a great\nextent, emancipated his strong mind from the thraldom of the prevailing\nprejudice, the mode in which he was now seized--in broad day, in the\nmidst of a legal study, without seeing a single individual (his head\nbeing covered first), and without hearing the sound of man's\nvoice--would have been sufficient to bring him back to the general\nbelief, and force the conviction that he was now in the hands of the\nagents of the Devil. It is, indeed, a fact (afterwards ascertained),\nthat the learned judge did actually conceive that he was now in the\npower of those he had helped to persecute; and his fears--bringing up\nbefore him the burning tar-barrels, the paid prickers, the roaring\ncrowds, and the expiring victim--completed the delusion, and bound\nup his energies, till he was speechless and motionless. There was,\ntherefore, no cause of apprehension from the terror-struck prisoner\nhimself; and, as the party scoured along, they told every inquiring\npassenger on the way (for they were obliged, in some places, to ask the\nroad) that they were carrying an auld lurdon to Dumfries, to be burnt\nfor exercising the power of her art on the innocent inhabitants of that\ndistrict. It was, therefore, no uncommon thing for Durie to hear himself\nsaluted by all the appellations generally applied to the poor persecuted\nclass to which he was supposed to belong.\n\n\"Ay, awa wi' the auld limmer,\" cried one, \"and see that the barrels are\nfresh frae Norraway, and weel-lined wi' the bleezing tar.\"\n\n\"Be sure and prick her weel,\" cried another; \"the foul witch may be\nfireproof. If she winna burn, boil her like Meg Davy at Smithfield, or\nShirra Melville on the hill o' Garvock.\"\n\nThese cries coming on the ear of the astonished judge, did not\naltogether agree with his preconceived notions of being committed to the\npower of the Evil One; but they tended still farther to confuse him, and\nhe even fancied at times that the vengeance of the populace, which thus\nrung in his ears, was in the act of being realized, and that he was\nactually to suffer the punishment he had so often awarded to others.\nSome expressions wrung from him by his fear, and overheard by the quick\near of Will, gave the latter a clue to the workings of his mind, and he\ndid not fail to see how he might take advantage of it. As night began to\nfall, they had got far on their way towards Moffat, and, consequently,\nfar out of danger of a pursuit and a rescue. Durie's horse was pricked\nforward at a speed not inconsistent with his power of keeping the\nsaddle. They stopped at no baiting place, but kept pushing forward,\nwhile the silence was still maintained, or, if it ever was broken, it\nwas to introduce, by interlocutory snatches of conversation, some\nreference to the doom which awaited the unhappy judge. The darkness in\nwhich he was muffled, the speed of his journey, the sounds and menaces\nthat had met his ear, all co-operating with the original sensations\nproduced by his mysterious seizure, continued to keep alive the terrors\nhe at first felt, to over-turn all the ordinary ideas and feelings of\nthe living world, and to sink him deeper and deeper in the confusion\nthat had overtaken his mind in the midst of his legal reverie at the\nFiggate Whins.\n\nThe cavalcade kept its course all next day, and, towards the evening,\nthey approached Graeme's Tower, a dark, melancholy-looking erection,\nsituated on Dryfe Water, not very distant from the village of Moffat. In\na deep cell of this old castle the President of the Court of Session was\nsafely lodged, with no more light than was supplied by a small grating,\nand with a small supply of meat, only sufficient to allay at first the\npangs of hunger. Will having thus executed his commission, sat down and\nwrote on a scrap of paper these expressive words--\"The brock's in the\npock!\" and sent it with one of his friends to Traquair House. The moment\nthe Earl read the scrawl, he knew that Will had performed his promise,\nand took a hearty laugh at the extraordinary scheme he had resorted to\nfor gaining his plea. It was not yet, however, his time to commence\nhis proceedings; but, in a short while after the imprisonment of the\nPresident, he set off for Edinburgh, which town he found in a state of\nwonder and ferment at the mysterious disappearance of the illustrious\nDurie. Every individual he met had something to say on the subject; but\nthe prevailing opinion was, that the unhappy President had ventured\nupon that part of the sands near Leith where the incoming tide usually\nencloses, with great rapidity, large sand-banks, and often overwhelms\nhelpless strangers who are unacquainted with the manner in which the\ntide there flows. Numbers of people had exerted themselves in searching\nall the surrounding parts, and some had traversed the whole coast from\nMusselburgh to Cramond, in the expectation of finding the body upon the\nsea-shore. But all was in vain: no President was found; and a month of\nvain search and expectation having passed, the original opinion settled\ndown into a conviction that he had been drowned. His wife, Lady Durie,\nafter the first emotions of intense grief, went, with her whole family,\ninto mourning; and young and old lamented the fate of one of the most\nlearned judges and best men that ever sat on the judgment-seat of\nScotland.\n\nThere was nothing now to prevent Traquair from reaping the fruits of his\nenterprise. He pressed hard for a judgment in his case; and pled that\nthe fourteen judges having been equally divided, he was entitled to a\ndecision in his favour as _defender_. This plea was not at that time\nsustained; but a new president having been appointed, who was favourable\nto his side of the question, the case was again to be brought before the\ncourt, and the Earl expected to carry his point, and reap all the\nbenefit of Will's courage and ingenuity.\n\nMeantime, the dead-alive President was closely confined in the old tower\nof Graeme, and had never recovered from the feelings of superstition\nwhich held the sovereign power of his mind at the time of his\nconfinement. He never saw the face of man, his food being handed into\nhim by an unseen hand, through a small hole at the foot of the door. The\nsmall grating was not situated so as to yield him any prospect; and the\nonly sounds that greeted his ears were the calls of the shepherds who\ntended their sheep in the neighbouring moor. Sometimes he heard men's\nvoices calling out \"Batty!\" and anon a female crying \"Maudge!\" The\nformer was the name of a shepherd's dog, and the latter was the name\nof the cat belonging to an old woman who occupied a small cottage\nadjoining to the tower. Both the names sounded strangely and ominously\nin the ears of the President, and sorely did he tax his wits as to what\nthey implied. Every day he heard them, and every time he heard them he\nmeditated more and more as to the species of beings they denominated.\nStill remaining in the belief that he was in the hands of evil powers,\nhe imagined that these strange names, Batty and Maudge, were the earthly\ntitles of the two demons that held the important authority of watching\nand tormenting the President of the Court of Session. He had heard these\noften, and suffered so much from their cruel tyranny, that he became\nnervous when the ominous sounds struck on his ear, and often (as he\nhimself subsequently admitted) he adjured heaven, in his prayers, to\ntake away Maudge and Batty, and torment him no longer by their infernal\nagency. \"Relieve me, relieve me, from these conjunct and confident\nspirits, cruel Maudge and inexorable Batty,\" (he prayed,) \"and any\nother punishment due to my crimes I will willingly bear.\" Exorcisms\nin abundance he applied to them, and used many fanciful tricks of\ndemon-expelling agency to free him from their tyranny; but all to no\npurpose. The names still struck his ear in the silence of his cell,\nand kept alive the superstitious terror with which he was enslaved.\n\nTraquair, meanwhile, pushed hard for a decision, and, at last, after a\nperiod of about three months, the famous cause was brought before the\ncourt, and the successor of the dead-alive President having given his\nvote for the defender, the wily Warden carried his point, and secured to\nhim and his heirs, in time coming, the fine barony in dispute, which,\nfor aught we know to the contrary, is in the family to this day.\n\nIt now remained for the actors in this strange drama to let free the\nunhappy Durie, and relieve him from the power of his enemies. The\nWarden accordingly despatched a messenger to Christie's Will, with the\nlaconic and emphatic demand--\"Let the brock out o' the pock\"--a return\nof Will's own humorous message, which he well understood. Will and his\nassociates accordingly went about the important deliverance in a manner\nworthy of the dexterity by which the imprisonment had been effected.\nHaving opened the door of his cell, they muffled him up in the same\nblack cloak in which he was enveloped at the Figgate Whins, and leading\nhim to the door, placed him on the back of a swift steed, while they\nmounted others, with a view to accompany him. Setting off at a swift\npace, they made a circuit of the tower in which he had been confined,\nand continuing the same circuitous route round and round the castle for\na period of two or three hours, they stopped at the very door of his\ncell from which they had started. They then set him down upon the\nground, and again mounting their horses, took to their heels, and never\nhalted till they arrived at Gilnockie.\n\nOn being left alone, Durie proceeded to undo the cords by which the\ncloak was fastened about his head; and, for the first time after three\nmonths, breathed the fresh air and saw the light of heaven. He had\nridden, according to his own calculation, about twenty miles; and,\nlooking round him, he saw alongside of him the tower of Graeme, an old\ncastle he had seen many years before, and recollected as being famous\nin antiquarian reminiscence. The place he had been confined in must\nhave been some castle twenty miles distant from Graeme's Tower--a\ncircumstance that would lead him, he thought, to discover the place\nof his confinement, though he was free to confess that he was utterly\nignorant of the direction in which he had travelled. Thankful for his\ndeliverance, he fell on his knees, and poured out a long prayer of\ngratitude for being thus freed from his enemies, Batty and Maudge. The\ndistance he had travelled must have taken him far away from the regions\nof their influence--the most grateful of all the thoughts that now rose\nin his wondering mind. No more would these hated names strike his ear\nwith terror and dismay, and no more would he feel the tyranny of their\ndemoniac sway. As these thoughts were passing through his mind a sound\nstruck his ear.\n\n\"Hey, Batty, lad!--far yaud, far yaud!\" cried a voice by his side.\n\n\"God have mercy on me! here again,\" ejaculated the president.\n\n\"Maudge, ye jaud!\" cried another voice, from the door of a poor woman's\ncottage.\n\nThe terrified president lifted his eyes, and saw a goodly shepherd, with\na long staff in his hand, crying to his dog, Batty, to drive his sheep\nto a distance; and, a little beyond, a poor woman sat at her door,\nlooking for her black cat, that sat on the roof of the cottage, and\nwould not come down for all the energies of her squeaking voice.\n\n\"What could all this mean?\" now ejaculated Durie. \"Have I not been for\nthree months tortured with these sounds, which I attributed to evil\nspirits? I have ridden from them twenty miles, and here they are again,\nin the form of fair honest denominations of living animals. I am in\ngreater perplexity than ever. While I thought them evil spirits, I\nfeared them as such; but now, God help me, they have taken on the forms\nof a dog and cat, and this shepherd and this old woman are kindred\ndevils, under whose command they are. What shall I do, whither run to\navoid them, since twenty miles have been to them as a flight in the\nair?\"\n\n\"It's a braw morning, sir,\" said the shepherd. \"How far hae ye come this\npast night?--for I ken nae habitation near whar ye may hae rested.\"\n\n\"It's seldom we see strangers hereawa,\" said the old woman, \"at this\nearly hour--will ye come in, sir, and rest ye?\"\n\nDurie looked first at the one and then at the other, bewildered and\nspeechless. The fair face of nature before him, with the forms of God's\ncreatures, and the sounds of human voices in his ears, were as nothing\nto recollections and sensations which he could not shake from his mind.\nHe had, for certain, heard these dreadful sounds for three months; he\nhad ridden twenty miles, and now he heard them again, mixed up with the\ndelusive accompaniments of the enticing speeches of a man and a woman.\nHe would fly, but felt himself unable; and, standing under the influence\nof the charm of his own terrors, he continued to look, first at the\nshepherd and then at the old woman, in wonder and dismay. The people\nknew as little what to think of him as he did in regard to them. He\nlooked wild and haggard, his eyes rolled about in his head, his voice\nwas mute; and the cloak, which he had partially unloosed from his head,\nhung in strange guise down his back, and flapped in the wind. The old\ncastle had its \"red cap,\" a fact known to both the shepherd and the old\nwoman, who had latterly heard strange sounds coming from it. Might not\nDurie be the spirit in another form? The question was reasonable, and\nwas well answered by the wildly-staring president, who was still under\nthe spell of his terrors.\n\n\"Avaunt ye!--avaunt! in the name o' the haly rude o' St. Andrews!\" cried\nthe woman, now roused to a state of terror.\n\nThe same words were repeated by the simple-minded shepherd, and poor\nDurie's fears were, if possible, increased; for it seemed that they\nwere now performing some new incantation, whereby he would be again\nreduced to their power; but he was now in the open air, and why not\ntake advantage of the opportunity of escaping from their thraldom? The\nmoment the idea started in his mind, he threw from him the accursed cloak,\nand flew away over the moor as fast as his decayed limbs, inspired by\nterror, would carry him. As he ran, he heard the old woman clapping her\nhands, and crying \"Shoo, shoo!\" as if she had been exorcising a winged\ndemon. After running till he was fairly out of the sights and sounds\nthat had produced in him so much terror, he sat down, and took a\nretrospect of what had occurred to him during the preceding three\nmonths; but he could come to no conclusion that could reconcile all the\nstrange things he had experienced with any supposition based on natural\npowers. It was certain, however, that he was still upon the earth, and\nit was probable he was now beyond the power of his evil genius. His best\nplan, therefore, under all the circumstances, was to seek home, and\nLady Durie and his loving family, who would doubtless be in a terrible\ncondition on account of his long absence; and even this idea, pleasant\nas it was, was qualified by the fear that he might, for aught he knew,\nhave been away, like the laird of Comrie, for many, perhaps a hundred\nyears, and neither Lady Durie, nor friend or acquaintance, would be\nalive to greet him on his return. Of all this, however, he must now\ntake his chance; and, rising and journeying forward, he came to a\nhouse, where he asked for some refreshment by way of charity; for he\nhad nothing in the world to pay for what he required. He was fortunate\nin getting some relief from the kind woman to whom he had applied, and\nproceeded to speak to her on various topics with great sense and\npropriety, as became the ex-President of the Court of Session; but when,\nto satisfy his scruples, he asked her the day of the month, then the\nmonth of the year, and then the year of the Lord, the good woman was\nsatisfied he was mad; and, with a look of pity, recommended him to\nproceed on his way, and get home as fast as he could.\n\nSo on the president went, begging his way from hamlet to hamlet, getting\nalms from one and news from another, but never gratified with the year\nof the Lord in which he lived; for, when he put that question, he was\nuniformly pitied, and allowed to proceed on his way for a madman. He\nheard, however, several times that President Durie had been drowned in\nthe Frith of Forth, and that a new President of the Court of Session had\nbeen appointed in his place. Whether his wife was married again or not,\nhe could not learn, and was obliged to wrestle with this and other fears\nas he still continued his way to the metropolis. At last Edinburgh came\nin view, and glad was he to see again the cat's head of old St.\nArthur's, and the diadem of St. Giles rearing their heights in the\ndistance. Nearer and nearer he approached the place of his home,\nhappiness, and dignity; but, as he came nearer still, he began to feel\nall the effects of his supposed demise. Several of his old acquaintances\nstared wildly at him as they passed, and, though he beckoned to them to\nstand and speak, they hurried on, and seemed either not to recognise\nhim, or to be terrified at him. At last he met Lord F----, the judge who\nhad sat for many years next to him on the bench; and, running up to him,\nhe held out his hand in kindly salutation, grinning, with his long thin\njaws and pallid cheeks, a greeting which he scarcely understood himself.\nBy this time it was about the gloaming, and such was the extraordinary\neffect produced by his sudden appearance and changed cadaverous look,\nthat his old brother of the bench got alarmed, and fairly took to his\nheels, as if he had seen a spectre. Undaunted, however, he pushed on,\nand by the time he reached the Canongate it was almost dark. He went\ndirect to his own house, and peeping through the window, saw Lady Durie\nsitting by the fire dressed in weeds, and several of his children\naround, arrayed in the same style. The sight brought the tears of joy\nto his eyes, and, forgetting entirely the effect his appearance would\nproduce, he threw open the door, and rushed into the room. A loud scream\nfrom the throats of the lady and the children rang through the whole\nhouse, and brought up the servants, who screamed in their turn, and some\nof them fainted, while others ran away; and no one had any idea that the\nemaciated haggard being before them was other than the grim ghost of\nLord President Durie, come from the other world to terrify the good\npeople of this. The confusion, however, soon ceased; for Durie began to\nspeak softly to them, and, taking his dear lady in his arms, pressed her\nto his bosom in a way that satisfied her that he was no ghost, but her\nown lord, who, by some mischance, had been spirited away by some bad\nangels. The children gradually recovered their confidence, and in a\nshort time joy took the place of fear, and all the neighbourhood was\nfilled with the news that Lord Durie had come alive again, and was in\nthe living body in his own house. Shortly after the good lord sat down\nby the fire and got his supper, and, by the quantity he ate, satisfied\nhis lady and family still more that he carried a good body, with as\nfair a capability of reception as he ever exhibited after a walk at the\nFiggate Whins. He told them all he had undergone since first he was\ncarried away, not forgetting the two spirits, Batty and Maudge, that had\ntormented him so cruelly during the period of his enchantment. The lady\nand family stared with open mouths as they heard the dreadful recital;\nbut a goodly potation of warm spiced wine drove off the vapours produced\nby the dismal story, and, by-and-by, Lord Durie and his wife retired to\nbed--the one weary and exhausted with his trials, and the other with her\nterrors and her joys.\n\n\n\n\nRECOLLECTIONS OF BURNS.[F]\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\n    \"Wear we not graven on our hearts\n        The name of Robert Burns!\"--_American Poet._\n\n\nThe degrees shorten as we proceed from the higher to the lower\nlatitudes--the years seem to shorten in a much greater ratio as we pass\nonward through life. We are almost disposed to question whether the\nbrief period of storms and foul weather that floats over us with such\ndream-like rapidity, and the transient season of flowers and sunshine\nthat seems almost too short for enjoyment, be at all identical with the\nlong summers and still longer winters of our boyhood, when day after day\nand week after week stretched away in dim perspective, till lost in the\nobscurity of an almost inconceivable distance. Young as I was, I had\nalready passed the period of life when we wonder how it is that the\nyears should be described as short and fleeting; and it seemed as if\nI had stood but yesterday beside the death-bed of the unfortunate\nFerguson, though the flowers of four summers and the snows of four\nwinters had now been shed over his grave.\n\n [F] Our author, Hugh Miller, never communicated to the Editor\n his authority for these \"Recollections.\" Probably it was of the same\n kind as that possessed by Lucian, Lord Lyttleton, and Walter Savage\n Lander; but whether so or not, we must at least be well satisfied that\n the parts of the conversation sustained by the principal interlocutor\n are true to the genius and character of Burns, and that, however\n searching the thoughts or beautiful the sentiments, they do not\n transcend what might have been expected from the Bard himself.--ED.\n\nMy prospects in life had begun to brighten. I served in the capacity of\nmate in a large West India trader, the master of which, an elderly man\nof considerable wealth, was on the eve of quitting the sea; and the\nowners had already determined that I should succeed him in the charge.\nBut fate had ordered it otherwise. Our seas were infested at this\nperiod by American privateers--prime sailors, and strongly armed; and,\nwhen homeward bound from Jamaica with a valuable cargo, we were attacked\nand captured when within a day's sailing of Ireland, by one of the most\nformidable of the class. Vain as resistance might have been deemed--for\nthe force of the American was altogether overpowering--and though our\nmaster, poor old man! and three of the crew, had fallen by the first\nbroadside, we had yet stood stiffly by our guns, and were only\novermastered when, after falling foul of the enemy, we were boarded by\na party of thrice our strength and number. The Americans, irritated by\nour resistance, proved on this occasion no generous enemies; we were\nstripped and heavily ironed, and, two days after, were set ashore on the\nwild coast of Connaught, without a single change of dress, or a sixpence\nto bear us by the way.\n\nI was sitting, on the following night, beside the turf fire of a\nhospitable Irish peasant, when a seafaring man, whom I had sailed\nwith about two years before, entered the cabin. The meeting was equally\nunexpected on either side. My acquaintance was the master of a smuggling\nlugger then on the coast; and on acquainting him with the details of my\ndisaster, and the state of destitution to which it had reduced me, he\nkindly proposed that I should accompany him on his voyage to the west\ncoast of Scotland, for which he was then on the eve of sailing. \"You\nwill run some little risk,\" he said, \"as the companion of a man who has\nnow been thrice outlawed for firing on his Majesty's flag; but I know\nyour proud heart will prefer the danger of bad company at its worst, to\nthe alternative of begging your way home.\" He judged rightly. Before\ndaybreak we had lost sight of land, and in four days more we could\ndiscern the precipitous shores of Carrick stretching in a dark line\nalong the horizon, and the hills of the interior rising thin and blue\nbehind, like a volume of clouds. A considerable part of our cargo,\nwhich consisted mostly of tea and spirits, was consigned to an Ayr\ntrader, who had several agents in the remote parish of Kirkoswald, which\nat this period afforded more facilities for carrying on the contraband\ntrade than any other on the western coast of Scotland; and, in a rocky\nbay of the parish, we proposed unlading on the following night. It was\nnecessary, however, that the several agents, who were yet ignorant of\nour arrival, should be prepared to meet with us; and, on volunteering my\nservice for the purpose, I was landed near the ruins of the ancient\ncastle of Turnberry, once the seat of Robert the Bruce.\n\nI had accomplished my object; it was evening, and a party of\ncountrymen were sauntering among the cliffs, waiting for nightfall and\nthe appearance of the lugger. There are splendid caverns on the coast of\nKirkoswald; and, to while away the time, I had descended to the shore by\na broken and precipitous path, with a view of exploring what are termed\nthe Caves of Colzean, by far the finest in this part of Scotland. The\nevening was of great beauty; the sea spread out from the cliffs to the\nfar horizon, like the sea of gold and crystal described by the prophet;\nand its warm orange hues so harmonized with those of the sky, that,\npassing over the dimly-defined line of demarcation, the whole upper and\nnether expanse seemed but one glorious firmament, with the dark Ailsa,\nlike a thunder-cloud, sleeping in the midst. The sun was hastening to\nhis setting, and threw his strong red light on the wall of rock which,\nloftier and more imposing than the walls of even the mighty Babylon,\nstretched onward along the beach, headland after headland, till the last\nsank abruptly in the far distance, and only the wide ocean stretched\nbeyond. I passed along the insulated piles of cliff that rise thick\nalong the basis of the precipices--now in sunshine, now in shadow--till\nI reached the opening of one of the largest caves. The roof rose more\nthan fifty feet over my head--a broad stream of light, that seemed\nredder and more fiery from the surrounding gloom, slanted inwards, and,\nas I paused in the opening, my shadow, lengthened and dark, fell athwart\nthe floor--a slim and narrow bar of black--till lost in the gloom of the\ninner recess. There was a wild and uncommon beauty in the scene that\npowerfully affected the imagination; and I stood admiring it in that\ndelicious dreamy mood in which one can forget all but the present\nenjoyment, when I was roused to a recollection of the business of the\nevening by the sound of a footfall echoing from within. It seemed\napproaching by a sort of cross passage in the rock, and, in a moment\nafter, a young man, one of the country people whom I had left among the\ncliffs above, stood before me. He wore a broad Lowland bonnet, and his\nplain homely suit of coarse russet seemed to bespeak him a peasant of\nperhaps the poorest class; but, as he emerged from the gloom, and the\nred light fell full on his countenance, I saw an indescribable something\nin the expression that in an instant awakened my curiosity. He was\nrather above the middle size, of a frame the most muscular and compact I\nhave almost ever seen, and there was a blended mixture of elasticity and\nfirmness in his tread, that to one accustomed, as I had been, to\nestimate the physical capabilities of men, gave evidence of a union of\nimmense personal strength with great activity. My first idea regarding\nthe stranger--and I know not how it should have struck me--was that of a\nvery powerful frame, animated by a double portion of vitality. The red\nlight shone full on his face, and gave a ruddy tinge to the complexion,\nwhich I afterwards found it wanted--for he was naturally of a darker hue\nthan common; but there was no mistaking the expression of the large\nflashing eyes, the features that seemed so thoroughly cast in the mould\nof thought, and of the broad, full, perpendicular forehead. Such, at\nleast, was the impression on my mind, that I addressed him with more of\nthe courtesy which my earlier pursuits had rendered familiar to me, than\nof the bluntness of my adopted profession. \"This sweet evening,\" I said,\n\"is by far too fine for our lugger; I question whether, in these calms,\nwe need expect her before midnight; but, 'tis well, since wait we must,\nthat 'tis in a place where the hours may pass so agreeably.\" The\nstranger, good-humouredly, acquiesced in the remark, and we sat down\ntogether on the dry, water-worn pebbles, mixed with fragments of broken\nshells and minute pieces of wreck, that strewed the opening of the cave.\n\n\"Was there ever a lovelier evening!\" he exclaimed; \"the waters above the\nfirmament seem all of a piece with the waters below. And never surely\nwas there a scene of wilder beauty. Only look inwards, and see how the\nstream of red light seems bounded by the extreme darkness, like a river\nby its banks, and how the reflection of the ripple goes waving in golden\ncurls along the roof!\"\n\n\"I have been admiring the scene for the last half hour,\" I said;\n\"Shakspeare speaks of a music that cannot be heard, and I have not yet\nseen a place where one might better learn to comment on the passage.\"\n\nBoth the thought and the phrase seemed new to him.\n\n\"A music that cannot be heard!\" he repeated; and then, after a momentary\npause, \"you allude to the fact,\" he continued, \"that sweet music, and\nforms such as these, of silent beauty and grandeur, awaken in the mind\nemotions of nearly the same class. There is something truly exquisite in\nthe concert of to-night.\"\n\nI muttered a simple assent.\n\n\"See,\" he continued, \"how finely these insulated piles of rock,\nthat rise in so many combinations of form along the beach, break and\ndiversify the red light, and how the glossy leaves of the ivy glisten\nin the hollows of the precipices above! And then, how the sea spreads\naway to the far horizon, a glorious pavement of crimson and gold!--and\nhow the dark Ailsa rises in the midst, like the little cloud seen by\nthe prophet! The mind seems to enlarge, the heart to expand, in the\ncontemplation of so much of beauty and grandeur. The soul asserts its\ndue supremacy. And, oh! 'tis surely well that we can escape from those\nlittle cares of life which fetter down our thoughts, our hopes, our\nwishes, to the wants and the enjoyments of our animal existence; and\nthat, amid the grand and the sublime of nature, we may learn from the\nspirit within us that we are better than the beasts that perish!\"\n\nI looked up to the animated countenance and flashing eyes of my\ncompanion, and wondered what sort of a peasant it was I had met with.\n\"Wild and beautiful as the scene is,\" I said, \"you will find, even among\nthose who arrogate to themselves the praise of wisdom and learning, men\nwho regard such scenes as mere errors of nature. Burnet would have told\nyou that a Dutch landscape, without hill, rock, or valley, must be the\nperfection of beauty, seeing that Paradise itself could have furnished\nnothing better.\"\n\n\"I hold Milton as higher authority on the subject,\" said my companion,\n\"than all the philosophers who ever wrote. Beauty, in a tame unvaried\nflat, where a man would know his country only by the milestones! A very\nDutch Paradise, truly!\"\n\n\"But would not some of your companions above,\" I asked, \"deem the scene\nas much an error of nature as Burnet himself? They could pass over these\nstubborn rocks neither plough nor harrow.\"\n\n\"True,\" he replied; \"there is a species of small wisdom in the world\nthat often constitutes the extremest of its folly; a wisdom that would\nchange the entire nature of _good_, had it but the power, by vainly\nendeavouring to render that good universal. It would convert the entire\nearth into one vast corn field, and then find that it had ruined the\nspecies by its improvement.\"\n\n\"We of Scotland can hardly be ruined in that way for an age to come,\" I\nsaid. \"But I am not sure that I understand you. Alter the very nature of\ngood in the attempt to render it universal! How?\"\n\n\"I daresay you have seen a graduated scale,\" said my companion,\n\"exhibiting the various powers of the different musical instruments, and\nobserved how some of limited scope cross only a few of the divisions,\nand how others stretch nearly from side to side. 'Tis but a poor truism,\nperhaps, to say that similar differences in scope and power obtain\namong men--that there are minds who could not join in the concert of\nto-night--who could see neither beauty nor grandeur amid these wild\ncliffs and caverns, or in that glorious expanse of sea and sky; and\nthat, on the other hand, there are minds so finely modulated--minds that\nsweep so broadly across the scale of nature, that there is no object,\nhowever minute, no breath of feeling, however faint, but that it awakens\ntheir sweet vibrations--the snow-flake falling in the stream, the daisy\nof the field, the conies of the rock, the hysop of the wall. Now, the\nvast and various frame of nature is adapted not to the lesser, but to\nthe larger mind. It spreads on and around us in all its rich and\nmagnificent variety, and finds the full portraiture of its Proteus-like\nbeauty in the mirror of genius alone. Evident, however, as this may\nseem, we find a sort of levelling principle in the inferior order\nof minds, and which, in fact, constitutes one of their grand\ncharacteristics--a principle that would fain abridge the scale to their\nown narrow capabilities--that would cut down the vastness of nature to\nsuit the littleness of their own conceptions and desires, and convert it\ninto one tame, uniform, _mediocre good_, which would be _good_ but to\nthemselves alone, and ultimately not even that.\"\n\n\"I think I can now understand you,\" I said; \"you describe a sort of\nswinish wisdom that would convert the world into one vast sty. For my\nown part, I have travelled far enough to know the value of a blue hill,\nand would not willingly lose so much as one of these landmarks of our\nmother land, by which kindly hearts in distant countries love to\nremember it.\"\n\n\"I daresay we are getting fanciful,\" rejoined my companion; \"but\ncertainly, in man's schemes of improvement, both physical and moral,\nthere is commonly a littleness and want of adaptation to the general\ngood that almost always defeats his aims. He sees and understands but a\nminute portion--it is always some partial good he would introduce; and\nthus he but destroys the just proportions of a nicely-regulated system\nof things by exaggerating one of the parts. I passed of late through\na richly-cultivated district of country, in which the agricultural\nimprover had done his utmost. Never were there finer fields, more\nconvenient steadings, crops of richer promise, a better regulated system\nof production. Corn and cattle had mightily improved; but what had man,\nthe lord of the soil, become? Is not the body better than food, and life\nthan raiment? If that decline for which all other things exist, it\nsurely matters little that all these other things prosper. And here,\nthough the corn, the cattle, the fields, the steadings had improved, man\nhad sunk. There were but two classes in the district: a few cold-hearted\nspeculators, who united what is worst in the character of the landed\nproprietor and the merchant--these were your gentleman farmers; and\na class of degraded helots, little superior to the cattle they\ntended--these were your farm servants. And for two such extreme\nclasses--necessary result of such a state of things--had this\nunfortunate, though highly-eulogized district, parted with a moral,\nintelligent, high-minded peasantry--the true boast and true riches of\ntheir country.\"\n\n\"I have, I think, observed something like what you describe,\" I said.\n\n\"I give,\" he replied, \"but one instance of a thousand. But mark how the\nsun's lower disk has just reached the line of the horizon, and how the\nlong level rule of light stretches to the very innermost recess of the\ncave! It darkens as the orb sinks. And see how the gauze-like shadows\ncreep on from the sea, film after film!--and now they have reached the\nivy that mantles round the castle of The Bruce. Are you acquainted with\nBarbour?\"\n\n\"Well,\" I said; \"a spirited, fine old fellow, who loved his country and\ndid much for it. I could once repeat all his chosen passages. Do you\nremember how he describes King Robert's rencounter with the English\nknight?\"\n\nMy companion sat up erect, and, clenching his fist, began repeating the\npassage, with a power and animation that seemed to double its inherent\nenergy and force.\n\n\"Glorious old Barbour!\" ejaculated he, when he had finished the\ndescription; \"many a heart has beat all the higher when the bale-fires\nwere blazing, through the tutorage of thy noble verses! Blind Harry,\ntoo--what has not his country owed to him!\"\n\n\"Ah, they have long since been banished from our popular literature,\" I\nsaid; \"and yet Blind Harry's 'Wallace,' as Hailes tells us, was at one\ntime the very Bible of the Scotch. But love of country seems to be\ngetting old-fashioned among us, and we have become philosophic enough to\nset up for citizens of the world.\"\n\n\"All cold pretence,\" rejoined my companion; \"an effect of that small\nwisdom we have just been decrying. Cosmopolitism, as we are accustomed\nto define it, can be no virtue of the present age, nor yet of the next,\nnor perhaps for centuries to come. Even when it shall have attained to\nits best, and when it may be most safely indulged in, it is according\nto the nature of man, that, instead of running counter to the love of\ncountry, it should exist as but a wider diffusion of the feeling, and\nform, as it were, a wider circle round it. It is absurdity itself to\noppose the love of our country to that of our race.\"\n\n\"Do I rightly understand you?\" I said. \"You look forward to a time when\nthe patriot may safely expand into the citizen of the world; but, in the\npresent age, he would do well, you think, to confine his energies within\nthe inner circle of country.\"\n\n\"Decidedly,\" he rejoined; \"man should love his species at all times,\nbut it is ill with him if, in times like the present, he loves not his\ncountry more. The spirit of war and aggression is yet abroad--there are\nlaws to be established, rights to be defended, invaders to be repulsed,\ntyrants to be deposed. And who but the patriot is equal to these things?\nWe are not yet done with the Bruces, the Wallaces, the Tells, the\nWashingtons--yes, the Washingtons, whether they fight for or against\nus--we are not yet done with them. The cosmopolite is but a puny\nabortion--a birth ere the natural time, that at once endangers the life\nand betrays the weakness of the country that bears him. Would that he\nwere sleeping in his elements till his proper time! But we are getting\nashamed of our country, of our language, our manners, our music, our\nliterature; nor shall we have enough of the old spirit left us to assert\nour liberties or fight our battles. Oh, for some Barbour or Blind Harry\nof the present day, to make us, once more, proud of our country!\"\n\nI quoted the famous saying of Fletcher of Salton--\"Allow me to make the\nsongs of a country, and I will allow you to make its laws.\"\n\n\"But here,\" I said, \"is our lugger stealing round Turnberry Head. We\nshall soon part, perhaps for ever, and I would fain know with whom I\nhave spent an hour so agreeably, and have some name to remember him by.\nMy own name is Matthew Lindsay; I am a native of Irvine.\"\n\n\"And I,\" said the young man, rising and cordially grasping the proffered\nhand, \"am a native of Ayr; my name is Robert Burns.\"\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\n    If friendless, low, we meet together,\n    Then, sir, your hand--my friend and brother!\n                              _Dedication to G. Hamilton._\n\n\nA light breeze had risen as the sun sunk, and our lugger, with all her\nsails set, came sweeping along the shore. She had nearly gained the\nlittle bay in front of the cave, and the countrymen from above, to the\nnumber of perhaps twenty, had descended to the beach, when, all of a\nsudden, after a shrill whistle, and a brief half minute of commotion\namong the crew, she wore round and stood out to sea. I turned to the\nsouth, and saw a square-rigged vessel shooting out from behind one\nof the rocky headlands, and then bearing down in a long tack on\nthe smuggler. \"The sharks are upon us,\" said one of the countrymen,\nwhose eyes had turned in the same direction--\"we shall have no sport\nto-night.\" We stood lining the beach in anxious curiosity; the breeze\nfreshened as the evening fell; and the lugger, as she lessened to our\nsight, went leaning against the foam in a long bright furrow, that,\ncatching the last light of evening, shone like the milky way amid the\nblue. Occasionally we could see the flash, and hear the booming of a gun\nfrom the other vessel; but the night fell thick and dark; the waves too\nbegan to lash against the rocks, drowning every feebler sound in a\ncontinuous roaring; and every trace of both the chase and the chaser\ndisappeared. The party broke up, and I was left standing alone on the\nbeach, a little nearer home, but in every other respect in quite the\nsame circumstances as when landed by my American friends on the wild\ncoast of Connaught. \"Another of Fortune's freaks!\" I ejaculated; \"but\n'tis well she can no longer surprise me.\"\n\nA man stepped out in the darkness as I spoke, from beside one of the\nrocks; it was the peasant Burns, my acquaintance of the earlier part of\nthe evening.\n\n\"I have waited, Mr. Lindsay,\" he said, \"to see whether some of the\ncountry folks here, who have homes of their own to invite you to, might\nnot have brought you along with them. But I am afraid you must just be\ncontent to pass the night with me. I can give you a share of my bed\nand my supper, though both, I am aware, need many apologies.\" I made a\nsuitable acknowledgment, and we ascended the cliff together. \"I live,\nwhen at home with my parents,\" said my companion, \"in the inland parish\nof Tarbolton; but, for the last two months, I have attended school here,\nand lodge with an old widow woman in the village. To-morrow, as harvest\nis fast approaching, I return to my father.\"\n\n\"And I,\" I replied, \"shall have the pleasure of accompanying you in at\nleast the early part of your journey, on my way to Irvine, where my\nmother still lives.\"\n\nWe reached the village, and entered a little cottage, that presented its\ngable to the street, and its side to one of the narrower lanes.\n\n\"I must introduce you to my landlady,\" said my companion, \"an excellent,\nkind-hearted old woman, with a fund of honest Scotch pride and shrewd\ngood sense in her composition, and with the mother as strong in her\nheart as ever, though she lost the last of her children more than\ntwenty years ago.\"\n\nWe found the good woman sitting beside a small but very cheerful fire.\nThe hearth was newly swept, and the floor newly sanded; and, directly\nfronting her, there was an empty chair, which seemed to have been drawn\nto its place in the expectation of some one to fill it.\n\n\"You are going to leave me, Robert, my bairn,\" said the woman, \"an' I\nkenna how I sall ever get on without you; I have almost forgotten, sin\nyou came to live with me, that I have neither children nor husband.\" On\nseeing me, she stopped short.\n\n\"An acquaintance,\" said my companion, \"whom I have made bold to bring\nwith me for the night; but you must not put yourself to any trouble,\nmother; he is, I daresay, as much accustomed to plain fare as myself.\nOnly, however, we must get an additional pint of _yill_ from the\n_clachan;_ you know this is my last evening with you, and was to be\na merry one at any rate.\" The woman looked me full in the face.\n\n\"Matthew Lindsay!\" she exclaimed--\"can you have forgotten your poor old\naunt Margaret!\" I grasped her hand.\n\n\"Dearest aunt, this is surely most unexpected! How could I have so much\nas dreamed you were within a hundred miles of me?\" Mutual congratulation\nensued.\n\n\"This,\" she said, turning to my companion, \"is the nephew I have so\noften told you about, and so often wished to bring you acquainted with.\nHe is, like yourself, a great reader and a great thinker, and there is\nno need that your proud, kindly heart should be jealous of him; for he\nhas been ever quite as poor, and maybe the poorer of the two.\" After\nstill more of greeting and congratulation, the young man rose.\n\n\"The night is dark, mother,\" he said, \"and the road to the clachan a\nrough one; besides you and your kinsman will have much to say to one\nanother. I shall just slip out to the clachan for you; and you shall\nboth tell me on my return whether I am not a prime judge of ale.\"\n\n\"The kindest heart, Matthew, that ever lived,\" said my relative, as he\nleft the house; \"ever since he came to Kirkoswald, he has been both son\nand daughter to me, and I shall feel twice a widow when he goes away.\"\n\n\"I am mistaken, aunt,\" I said, \"if he be not the strongest minded man I\never saw. Be assured he stands high among the aristocracy of nature,\nwhatever may be thought of him in Kirkoswald. There is a robustness of\nintellect, joined to an overmastering force of character, about him,\nwhich I have never yet seen equalled, though I have been intimate with\nat least one very superior mind, and with hundreds of the class who pass\nfor men of talent. I have been thinking ever since I met with him, of\nthe William Tells and William Wallaces of history--men who, in those\ntimes of trouble which unfix the foundations of society, step out from\ntheir obscurity to rule the destiny of nations.\"\n\n\"I was ill about a month ago,\" said my relative--\"so very ill that I\nthought I was to have done with the world altogether; and Robert was\nboth nurse and physician to me--he kindled my fire, too, every morning,\nand sat up beside me sometimes for the greater part of the night. What\nwonder I should love him as my own child? Had your cousin Henry been\nspared to me, he would now have been much about Robert's age.\"\n\nThe conversation passed to other matters, and in about half an hour, my\nnew friend entered the room; when we sat down to a homely, but cheerful\nrepast.\n\n\"I have been engaged in argument, for the last twenty minutes, with\nour parish schoolmaster,\" he said--\"a shrewd, sensible man, and a\nprime scholar, but one of the most determined Calvinists I ever knew.\nNow, there is something, Mr. Lindsay, in abstract Calvinism, that\ndissatisfies and distresses me; and yet, I must confess, there is so\nmuch of good in the working of the system, that I would ill like to see\nit supplanted by any other. I am convinced, for instance, there is\nnothing so efficient in teaching the bulk of a people to think as a\nCalvinistic church.\"\n\n\"Ah, Robert,\" said my aunt, \"it does meikle mair nor that. Look round\nye, my bairn, an' see if there be a kirk in which puir sinful creatures\nhave mair comfort in their sufferings or mair hope in their deaths.\"\n\n\"Dear mother,\" said my companion, \"I like well enough to dispute with\nthe schoolmaster, but I must have no dispute with you. I know the heart\nis everything in these matters, and yours is much wiser than mine.\"\n\n\"There is something in abstract Calvinism,\" he continued, \"that\ndistresses me. In almost all our researches we arrive at an ultimate\nbarrier, which interposes its wall of darkness between us and the last\ngrand truth, in the series which we had trusted was to prove a\nmaster-key to the whole. We dwell in a sort of Goshen--there is light\nin our immediate neighbourhood, and a more than Egyptian darkness all\naround; and as every Hebrew must have known that the hedge of cloud\nwhich he saw resting on the landscape, was a boundary not to things\nthemselves, but merely to his view of things--for beyond there were\ncities, and plains, and oceans, and continents--so we in like manner\nmust know that the barriers of which I speak exist only in relation to\nthe faculties which we employ, not to the objects on which we employ\nthem. And yet, notwithstanding this consciousness that we are\nnecessarily and irremediably the bound prisoners of ignorance, and that\nall the great truths lie outside our prison, we can almost be content\nthat, in most cases, it should be so--not, however, with regard to\nthose great unattainable truths which lie in the track of Calvinism.\nThey seem too important to be wanted, and yet want them we must--and we\nbeat our very heads against the cruel barrier which separates us from\nthem.\"\n\n\"I am afraid I hardly understand you,\" I said;--\"do assist me by some\ninstance of illustration.\"\n\n\"You are acquainted,\" he replied, \"with the Scripture doctrine of\nPredestination, and, in thinking over it, in connection with the\ndestinies of man, it must have struck you that, however much it may\ninterfere with our fixed notions of the goodness of Deity, it is\nthoroughly in accordance with the actual condition of our race. As far\nas we can know of ourselves and the things around us, there seems,\nthrough the will of Deity--for to what else can we refer it?--a fixed,\ninvariable connection between what we term cause and effect. Nor do we\ndemand of any class of mere effects, in the inanimate or irrational\nworld, that they should regulate themselves otherwise than the causes\nwhich produce them have determined. The roe and the tiger pursue,\nunquestioned, the instincts of their several natures; the cork rises,\nand the stone sinks; and no one thinks of calling either to account for\nmovements so opposite. But it is not so with the family of man; and yet\nour minds, our bodies, our circumstances, are but combinations of\neffects, over the causes of which we have no control. We did not\nchoose a country for ourselves, nor yet a condition in life--nor did we\ndetermine our modicum of intellect, or our amount of passion--we did\nnot impart its gravity to the weightier part of our nature, or give\nexpansion to the lighter--nor are our instincts of our own planting.\nHow, then, being thus as much the creatures of necessity as the denizens\nof the wild and forest--as thoroughly under the agency of fixed,\nunalterable causes, as the dead matter around us--why are we yet the\nsubjects of a retributive system, and accountable for all our actions?\"\n\n\"You quarrel with Calvinism,\" I said; \"and seem one of the most\nthorough-going necessitarians I ever knew.\"\n\n\"Not so,\" he replied; \"though my judgment cannot disprove these\nconclusions, my heart cannot acquiesce in them--though I see that I am\nas certainly the subject of laws that exist and operate independent of\nmy will, as the dead matter around me, I feel, with a certainty quite as\ngreat, that I am a free, accountable creature. It is according to the\nscope of my entire reason that I should deem myself bound--it is\naccording to the constitution of my whole nature that I should feel\nmyself free. And in this consists the great, the fearful problem--a\nproblem which both reason and revelation propound; but the truths which\ncan alone solve it, seem to lie beyond the horizon of darkness--and we\nvex ourselves in vain. 'Tis a sort of moral asymptotes; but its lines,\ninstead of approaching through all space without meeting, seem receding\nthrough all space, and yet meet.\"\n\n\"Robert, my bairn,\" said my aunt, \"I fear you are wasting your strength\non these mysteries to your ain hurt. Did ye no see, in the last storm,\nwhen ye staid out among the caves till cock-crow, that the bigger and\nstronger the wave, the mair was it broken against the rocks?--it's just\nthus wi' the pride o' man's understanding, when he measures it against\nthe dark things o' God. An' yet it's sae ordered, that the same\nwonderful truths which perplex and cast down the proud reason, should\ndelight and comfort the humble heart. I am a lone, puir woman, Robert.\nBairns an' husband have gone down to the grave, one by one; an' now, for\ntwenty weary years, I have been childless an' a widow. But trow ye that\nthe puir lone woman wanted a guard, an' a comforter, an' a provider,\nthrough a' the lang mirk nichts, an' a' the cauld scarce winters o'\nthese twenty years? No, my bairn--I kent that Himsel' was wi' me. I kent\nit by the provision He made, an' the care He took, an' the joy He gave.\nAn' how, think you, did He comfort me maist? Just by the blessed\nassurance that a' my trials an' a' my sorrows were nae hasty chance\nmatters, but dispensations for my guid, an' the guid o' those He took to\nHimsel', that, in the perfect love and wisdom o' His nature, He had\nordained frae the beginning.\"\n\n\"Ah, mother,\" said my friend, after a pause, \"you understand the\ndoctrine far better than I do! There are, I find, no contradictions in\nthe Calvinism of the heart.\"\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\n    \"Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore,\n       O'erhung with wild woods thick'ning green;\n     The fragrant birch and hawthorn hoar\n       Twined, amorous, round the raptured scene;\n\n     The flowers sprang wanton to be prest,\n       The birds sang love on every spray--\n     Till, too, too soon, the glowing west\n      Proclaimed the speed of winged day.\"\n                               _To Mary in Heaven_.\n\n\nWe were early on the road together; the day, though somewhat gloomy, was\nmild and pleasant, and we walked slowly onward, neither of us in the\nleast disposed to hasten our parting by hastening our journey. We had\ndiscussed fifty different topics, and were prepared to enter on fifty\nmore, when we reached the ancient burgh of Ayr, where our roads\nseparated.\n\n\"I have taken an immense liking to you, Mr. Lindsay,\" said my\ncompanion, as he seated himself on the parapet of the old bridge,\n\"and have just bethought me of a scheme through which I may enjoy your\ncompany for at least one night more. The Ayr is a lovely river, and you\ntell me you have never explored it. We shall explore it together this\nevening for about ten miles, when we shall find ourselves at the\nfarm-house of Lochlea. You may depend on a hearty welcome from my\nfather, whom, by the way, I wish much to introduce to you, as a man\nworth your knowing; and, as I have set my heart on the scheme, you\nare surely too good-natured to disappoint me.\" Little risk of that, I\nthought; I had, in fact, become thoroughly enamoured of the warm-hearted\nbenevolence and fascinating conversation of my companion, and acquiesced\nwith the best good-will in the world.\n\nWe had threaded the course of the river for several miles. It runs\nthrough a wild pastoral valley, roughened by thickets of copse-wood, and\nbounded on either hand by a line of swelling, moory hills, with here and\nthere a few irregular patches of corn, and here and there some little\nnest-like cottage peeping out from among the wood. The clouds, which\nduring the morning had obscured the entire face of the heavens, were\nbreaking up their array, and the sun was looking down, in twenty\ndifferent places, through the openings, checkering the landscape with a\nfantastic, though lovely carpeting of light and shadow. Before us there\nrose a thick wood, on a jutting promontory, that looked blue and dark in\nthe shade, as if it wore mourning; while the sunlit stream beyond shone\nthrough the trunks and branches, like a river of fire. At length the\nclouds seemed to have melted in the blue--for there was not a breath of\nwind to speed them away--and the sun, now hastening to the west, shone\nin unbroken effulgence over the wide extent of the dell, lighting up\nstream and wood, and field and cottage, in one continuous blaze of\nglory. We had walked on in silence for the last half hour; but I could\nsometimes hear my companion muttering as he went; and when, in passing\nthrough a thicket of hawthorn and honeysuckle, we started from its perch\na linnet that had been filling the air with its melody, I could hear him\nexclaim, in a subdued tone of voice, \"Bonny, bonny birdie! why hasten\nfrae me?--I wadna skaith a feather o' yer wing.\" He turned round to me,\nand I could see that his eyes were swimming in moisture.\n\n\"Can he be other,\" he said, \"than a good and benevolent God, who gives\nus moments like these to enjoy? Oh, my friend, without these sabbaths of\nthe soul, that come to refresh and invigorate it, it would dry up within\nus! How exquisite,\" he continued, \"how entire the sympathy which exists\nbetween all that is good and fair in external nature, and all of good\nand fair that dwells in our own! And, oh, how the heart expands and\nlightens! The world is as a grave to it--a closely-covered grave--and\nit shrinks, and deadens, and contracts all its holier and more joyous\nfeelings under the cold, earth-like pressure. But, amid the grand and\nlovely of nature--amid these forms and colours of richest beauty--there\nis a disinterment, a resurrection of sentiment; the pressure of our\nearthly part seems removed, and those _senses of the mind_, if I may\nso speak, which serve to connect our spirits with the invisible world\naround us, recover their proper tone, and perform their proper office.\"\n\n\"_Senses of the mind_,\" I said, repeating the phrase; \"the idea is new\nto me; but I think I catch your meaning.\"\n\n\"Yes; there are--there must be such,\" he continued, with growing\nenthusiasm; \"man is essentially a religious creature--a looker beyond\nthe grave, from the very constitution of his mind; and the sceptic who\ndenies it is untrue not merely to the Being who has made and who\npreserves him, but to the entire scope and bent of his own nature\nbesides. Wherever man is--whether he be a wanderer of the wild forest\nor still wilder desert, a dweller in some lone isle of the sea, or\nthe tutored and full-minded denizen of some blessed land like our\nown--wherever man is, there is religion--hopes that look forward and\nupward--the belief in an unending existence, and a land of separate\nsouls.\"\n\nI was carried away by the enthusiasm of my companion, and felt, for the\ntime, as if my mind had become the mirror of his. There seems to obtain\namong men a species of moral gravitation, analogous, in its principles,\nto that which regulates and controls the movements of the planetary\nsystem. The larger and more ponderous any body, the greater its\nattractive force, and the more overpowering its influence over the\nlesser bodies which surround it. The earth we inhabit carries the moon\nalong with it in its course, and is itself subject to the immensely more\npowerful influence of the sun. And it is thus with character. It is a\nlaw of our nature, as certainly as of the system we inhabit, that the\ninferior should yield to the superior, and the lesser owe its guidance\nto the greater. I had hitherto wandered on through life almost\nunconscious of the existence of this law, or, if occasionally rendered\nhalf aware of it, it was only through a feeling that some secret\ninfluence was operating favourably in my behalf on the common minds\naround me. I now felt, however, for the first time, that I had come in\ncontact with a mind immeasurably more powerful than my own; my thoughts\nseemed to cast themselves into the very mould--my sentiments to modulate\nthemselves by the very tone of his. And yet he was but a russet-clad\npeasant--my junior by at least eight years--who was returning from\nschool to assist his father, an humble tacksman, in the labours of\nthe approaching harvest. But the law of circumstance, so arbitrary in\nruling the destinies of common men, exerts but a feeble control over\nthe children of genius. The prophet went forth commissioned by Heaven to\nanoint a king over Israel, and the choice fell on a shepherd boy who was\ntending his father's flocks in the field.\n\nWe had reached a lovely bend of the stream. There was a semicircular\ninflection in the steep bank, which waved over us, from base to summit,\nwith hawthorn and hazle; and while one half looked blue and dark in the\nshade, the other was lighted up with gorgeous and fiery splendour by the\nsun, now fast sinking in the west. The effect seemed magical. A little\ngrassy platform that stretched between the hanging wood and the stream,\nwas whitened over with clothes, that looked like snow-wreathes in the\nhollow; and a young and beautiful girl watched beside them.\n\n\"Mary Campbell!\" exclaimed my companion, and in a moment he was at her\nside, and had grasped both her hands in his. \"How fortunate, how very\nfortunate I am!\" he said; \"I could not have so much as hoped to have\nseen you to-night, and yet here you are! This, Mr. Lindsay, is a loved\nfriend of mine, whom I have known and valued for years; ever, indeed,\nsince we herded our sheep together under the cover of one plaid. Dearest\nMary, I have had sad forebodings regarding you for the whole last month\nI was in Kirkoswald, and yet, after all my foolish fears, here you are,\nruddier and bonnier than ever.\"\n\nShe was, in truth, a beautiful, sylph-like young woman--one whom I would\nhave looked at with complacency in any circumstances; for who that\nadmires the fair and the lovely in nature--whether it be the wide-spread\nbeauty of sky and earth, or beauty in its minuter modifications, as we\nsee it in the flowers that spring up at our feet, or the butterfly that\nflutters over them--who, I say, that admires the fair and lovely in\nnature, can be indifferent to the fairest and loveliest of all her\nproductions? As the mistress, however, of by far the strongest-minded\nman I ever knew, there was more of scrutiny in my glance than usual, and\nI felt a deeper interest in her than mere beauty could have awakened.\nShe was, perhaps, rather below than above the middle size; but formed in\nsuch admirable proportion, that it seemed out of place to think of size\nin reference to her at all. Who, in looking at the _Venus de Medicis_,\nasks whether she be tall or short? The bust and neck were so exquisitely\nmoulded, that they reminded me of Burke's fanciful remark, viz., that\nour ideas of beauty originate in our love of the sex, and that we\ndeem every object beautiful which is described by soft-waving lines,\nresembling those of the female neck and bosom. Her feet and arms, which\nwere both bare, had a statue-like symmetry and marble-like whiteness;\nbut it was on her expressive and lovely countenance, now lighted up by\nthe glow of joyous feeling, that nature seemed to have exhausted her\nutmost skill. There was a fascinating mixture in the expression of\nsuperior intelligence and child-like simplicity; a soft, modest light\ndwelt in the blue eye; and in the entire contour and general form of the\nfeatures, there was a nearer approach to that union of the straight and\nthe rounded, which is found in its perfection in only the Grecian face,\nthan is at all common in our northern latitudes, among the descendants\nof either the Celt or the Saxon. I felt, however, as I gazed, that when\nlovers meet, the presence of a third person, however much the friend of\neither, must always be less than agreeable.\n\n\"Mr. Burns,\" I said, \"there is a beautiful eminence a few hundred yards\nto the right, from which I am desirous to overlook the windings of the\nstream. Do permit me to leave you for a short half hour, when I shall\nreturn; or, lest I weary you by my stay, 'twere better, perhaps, you\nshould join me there.\" My companion greeted the proposal with a\ngood-humoured smile of intelligence; and, plunging into the wood, I\nleft him with his Mary. The sun had just set as he joined me.\n\n\"Have you ever been in love, Mr. Lindsay?\" he said.\n\n\"No, never seriously,\" I replied. \"I am, perhaps, not naturally of the\ncoolest temperament imaginable; but the same fortune that has improved\nmy mind in some little degree, and given me high notions of the sex, has\nhitherto thrown me among only its less superior specimens. I am now in\nmy eight-and-twentieth year, and I have not yet met with a woman whom I\ncould love.\"\n\n\"Then you are yet a stranger,\" he rejoined, \"to the greatest happiness\nof which our nature is capable. I have enjoyed more heartfelt pleasure\nin the company of the young woman I have just left, than from every\nother source that has been opened to me from my childhood till now.\nLove, my friend, is the fulfilling of the whole law.\"\n\n\"Mary Campbell, did you not call her?\" I said. \"She is, I think, the\nloveliest creature I have ever seen; and I am much mistaken in the\nexpression of her beauty, if her mind be not as lovely as her person.\"\n\n\"It is, it is,\" he exclaimed--\"the intelligence of an angel with the\nsimplicity of a child. Oh, the delight of being thoroughly trusted,\nthoroughly beloved by one of the loveliest, best, purest-minded of all\nGod's good creatures! To feel that heart beating against my own, and to\nknow that it beats for me only! Never have I passed an evening with my\nMary without returning to the world a better, gentler, wiser man. Love,\nmy friend, is the fulfilling of the whole law. What are we without\nit?--poor, vile, selfish animals; our very virtues themselves, so\nexclusively virtues on our own behalf as to be well nigh as hateful as\nour vices. Nothing so opens and improves the heart, nothing so widens\nthe grasp of the affections, nothing half so effectually brings us out\nof our crust of self, as a happy, well-regulated love for a pure-minded,\naffectionate-hearted woman!\"\n\n\"There is another kind of love, of which we sailors see somewhat,\" I\nsaid, \"which is not so easily associated with good.\"\n\n\"Love!\" he replied--\"no, Mr. Lindsay, that is not the name. Kind\nassociates with kind in all nature; and love--humanizing,\nheart-softening love--cannot be the companion of whatever is low, mean,\nworthless, degrading--the associate of ruthless dishonour, cunning,\ntreachery, and violent death. Even independent of its amount of evil\nas a crime, or the evils still greater than itself which necessarily\naccompany it, there is nothing that so petrifies the feeling as illicit\nconnection.\"\n\n\"Do you seriously think so?\" I asked.\n\n\"Yes, and I see clearly how it should be so. Neither sex is complete of\nitself--each was made for the other, that, like the two halves of a\nhinge, they may become an entire whole when united. Only think of the\nscriptural phrase, _one flesh_--it is of itself a system of philosophy.\nRefinement and tenderness are of the woman, strength and dignity of\nthe man. Only observe the effects of a thorough separation, whether\noriginating in accident or caprice. You will find the stronger sex lost\nin the rudenesses of partial barbarism; the gentler wrapt up in some\npitiful round of trivial and unmeaning occupation--dry-nursing puppies,\nor making pincushions for posterity. But how much more pitiful are the\neffects when they meet amiss--when the humanizing friend and companion\nof the man is converted into the light degraded toy of an idle hour;\nthe object of a sordid appetite that lives but for a moment, and then\nexpires in loathing and disgust! The better feelings are iced over at\ntheir source, chilled by the freezing and deadening contact--where\nthere is nothing to inspire confidence or solicit esteem; and, if these\npass not through the first, the inner circle--that circle within which\nthe social affections are formed, and from whence they emanate--how can\nthey possibly flow through the circles which lie beyond? But here, Mr.\nLindsay, is the farm of Lochlea, and yonder brown cottage, beside the\nthree elms, is the dwelling of my parents.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\n    \"From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs,\n     That makes her lov'd at home, revered abroad.\"\n                                     _Cotter's Saturday Night._\n\n\nThere was a wide and cheerful circle this evening round the hospitable\nhearth of Lochlea. The father of my friend, a patriarchal-looking old\nman, with a countenance the most expressive I have almost ever seen,\nsat beside the wall on a large oaken settle, which also served to\naccommodate a young man, an occasional visitor of the family, dressed\nin rather shabby black, whom I at once set down as a probationer of\ndivinity. I had my own seat beside him. The brother of my friend (a lad\ncast in nearly the same mould of form and feature, except, perhaps, that\nhis frame, though muscular and strongly set, seemed in the main less\nformidably robust, and his countenance, though expressive, less\ndecidedly intellectual) sat at my side. My friend had drawn in his\nseat beside his mother, a well-formed, comely brunette, of about\nthirty-eight, whom I might almost have mistaken for his elder sister;\nand two or three younger members of the family were grouped behind\nher. The fire blazed cheerily within the wide and open chimney; and,\nthrowing its strong light on the faces and limbs of the circle, sent\nour shadows flickering across the rafters and the wall behind. The\nconversation was animated and rational, and every one contributed his\nshare. But I was chiefly interested in the remarks of the old man,\nfor whom I already felt a growing veneration, and in those of his\nwonderfully-gifted son.\n\n\"Unquestionably, Mr. Burns,\" said the man in black, addressing the\nfarmer, \"politeness is but a very shadow, as the poet hath it, if the\nheart be wanting. I saw, to-night, in a strictly polite family, so\nmarked a presumption of the lack of that natural affection of which\npoliteness is but the portraiture and semblance, that truly I have been\ngrieved in my heart ever since.\"\n\n\"Ah, Mr. Murdoch,\" said the farmer, \"there is ever more hypocrisy in\nthe world than in the church, and that, too, among the class of fine\ngentlemen and fine ladies who deny it most. But the instance\"--\n\n\"You know the family, my worthy friend,\" continued Mr. Murdoch--\"it is a\nvery pretty one, as we say vernacularly, being numerous, and the sons\nhighly genteel young men; the daughters not less so. A neighbour of the\nsame very polite character, coming on a visit when I was among them,\nasked the father, in the course of a conversation to which I was privy,\nhow he meant to dispose of his sons; when the father replied that he had\nnot yet determined. The visitor said, that were he in his place, seeing\nthey were all well-educated young men, he would send them abroad; to\nwhich the father objected the indubitable fact, that many young men lost\ntheir health in foreign countries, and very many their lives. 'True,'\ndid the visitor rejoin; 'but, as you have a number of sons, it will be\nstrange if some one of them does not live and make a fortune.' Now,\nMr. Burns, what will you, who know the feelings of paternity, and the\nincalculable, and assuredly I may say, invaluable value of human souls,\nthink when I add, that the father commended the hint, as showing the\nwisdom of a shrewd man of the world!\"\n\n\"Even the chief priests,\" said the old man, \"pronounced it unlawful to\ncast into the treasury the thirty pieces of silver, seeing it was the\nprice of blood; but the gentility of the present day is less scrupulous.\nThere is a laxity of principle among us, Mr. Murdoch, that, if God\nrestore us not, must end in the ruin of our country. I say laxity of\nprinciple; for there have ever been evil manners among us, and waifs\nin no inconsiderable number, broken loose from the decencies of\nsociety--more, perhaps, in my early days than there are now. But\nour principles at least were sound; and not only was there thus a\nrestorative and conservative spirit among us, but, what was of not less\nimportance, there was a broad gulf, like that in the parable, between\nthe two grand classes, the good and the evil--a gulf which, when it\nsecured the better class from contamination, interposed no barrier\nto the reformation and return of even the most vile and profligate,\nif repentant. But this gulf has disappeared, and we are standing\nunconcernedly over it, on a hollow and dangerous marsh of neutral\nground, which, in the end, if God open not our eyes, must assuredly\ngive way under our feet.\"\n\n\"To what, father,\" inquired my friend, who sat listening with the\ndeepest and most respectful attention, \"do you attribute the change?\"\n\n\"Undoubtedly,\" replied the old man, \"there have been many causes at\nwork; and, though not impossible, it would certainly be no easy task to\ntrace them all to their several effects, and give to each its due place\nand importance. But there is a deadly evil among us, though you will\nhear of it from neither press nor pulpit, which I am disposed to rank\nfirst in the number--the affectation of gentility. It has a threefold\ninfluence among us: it confounds the grand eternal distinctions of\nright and wrong, by erecting into a standard of conduct and opinion that\nheterogeneous and artificial whole which constitutes the manners and\nmorals of the upper classes; it severs those ties of affection and\ngood-will which should bind the middle to the lower orders, by disposing\nthe one to regard whatever is below them with a true contemptuous\nindifference, and by provoking a bitter and indignant, though natural\njealousy in the other for being so regarded; and, finally, by leading\nthose who most entertain it into habits of expense, torturing their\nmeans, if I may so speak, on the rack of false opinion--disposing\nthem to think, in their blindness, that to be genteel is a first\nconsideration, and to be honest merely a secondary one--it has the\neffect of so hardening their hearts, that, like those Carthaginians of\nwhom we have been lately reading in the volume Mr. Murdoch lent us,\nthey offer up their very children, souls and bodies, to the unreal,\nphantom-like necessities of their circumstances.\"\n\n\"Have I not heard you remark, father,\" said Gilbert \"that the change you\ndescribe has been very marked among the ministers of our church?\"\n\n\"Too marked and too striking,\" replied the old man; \"and in affecting\nthe respectability and usefulness of so important a class, it has educed\na cause of deterioration, distinctly from itself, and hardly less\nformidable. There is an old proverb of our country--'Better the head of\nthe commonality than the tail of the gentry.' I have heard you quote it,\nRobert, oftener than once, and admire its homely wisdom. Now, it bears\ndirectly on what I have to remark--the ministers of our church have\nmoved but one step during the last sixty years; but that step has been\nan all-important one--it has been from the best place in relation to the\npeople, to the worst in relation to the aristocracy.\"\n\n\"Undoubtedly, worthy Mr. Burns,\" said Mr. Murdoch, \"there is great\ntruth, according to mine own experience, in that which you affirm. I\nmay state, I trust, without over-boasting or conceit, my respected\nfriend, that my learning is not inferior to that of our neighbour the\nclergyman--it is not inferior in Latin, nor in Greek, nor yet in French\nliterature, Mr. Burns, and probable it is he would not much court a\ncompetition, and yet, when I last waited at the manse regarding a\nnecessary and essential certificate, Mr. Burns, he did not so much as\nask me to sit down.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" said Gilbert, who seemed the wit of the family, \"he is a highly\nrespectable man, Mr. Murdoch--he has a fine house, fine furniture, fine\ncarpets--all that constitutes respectability, you know; and his family\nis on visiting terms with that of the laird. But his credit is not so\nrespectable, I hear.\"\n\n\"Gilbert,\" said the old man, with much seriousness, \"it is ill with a\npeople when they can speak lightly of their clergymen. There is still\nmuch of sterling worth and serious piety in the Church of Scotland; and\nif the influence of its ministers be unfortunately less than it was\nonce, we must not cast the blame too exclusively on themselves. Other\ncauses have been in operation. The church, eighty years ago, was the\nsole guide of opinion, and the only source of thought among us. There\nwas, indeed, but one way in which a man could learn to think. His mind\nbecame the subject of some serious impression:--he applied to his Bible,\nand, in the contemplation of the most important of all concerns, his\nnewly awakened faculties received their first exercise. All of\nintelligence, all of moral good in him, all that rendered him worthy of\nthe name of man, he owed to the ennobling influence of his church; and\nis it wonder that that influence should be all-powerful from this\ncircumstance alone? But a thorough change has taken place;--new sources\nof intelligence have been opened up; we have our newspapers, and our\nmagazines, and our volumes of miscellaneous reading; and it is now\npossible enough for the most cultivated mind in a parish to be the\nleast moral and the least religious; and hence necessarily a diminished\ninfluence in the church, independent of the character of its ministers.\"\n\nI have dwelt too long, perhaps, on the conversation of the elder\nBurns; but I feel much pleasure in thus developing, as it were, my\nrecollections of one whom his powerful-minded son has described--and\nthis after an acquaintance with our Henry Mackenzies, Adam Smiths, and\nDugald Stewarts--as the man most thoroughly acquainted with the world he\never knew. Never, at least, have I met with any one who exerted a more\nwholesome influence, through the force of moral character, on those\naround him. We sat down to a plain and homely supper. The slave question\nhad, about this time, begun to draw the attention of a few of the more\nexcellent and intelligent among the people, and the elder Burns seemed\ndeeply interested in it.\n\n\"This is but homely fare, Mr. Lindsay,\" he said, pointing to the simple\nviands before us, \"and the apologists of slavery among us would tell you\nhow inferior we are to the poor negroes, who fare so much better. But\nsurely 'man liveth not by bread alone!' Our fathers who died for Christ\non the hillside and the scaffold were noble men, and never, never shall\nslavery produce such, and yet they toiled as hard, and fared as meanly\nas we their children.\"\n\nI could feel, in the cottage of such a peasant, and seated beside such\nmen as his two sons, the full force of the remark. And yet I have heard\nthe miserable sophism of unprincipled power against which it was\ndirected--a sophism so insulting to the dignity of honest poverty--a\nthousand times repeated.\n\nSupper over, the family circle widened round the hearth; and the old\nman, taking down a large clasped Bible, seated himself beside the iron\nlamp which now lighted the apartment. There was deep silence among us as\nhe turned over the leaves. Never shall I forget his appearance. He was\ntall and thin, and though his frame was still vigorous, considerably\nbent. His features were high and massy--the complexion still retained\nmuch of the freshness of youth, and the eye all its intelligence; but\nthe locks were waxing thin and grey round his high, thoughtful forehead,\nand the upper part of the head, which was elevated to an unusual height,\nwas bald. There was an expression of the deepest seriousness on the\ncountenance, which the strong umbery shadows of the apartment served to\nheighten; and when, laying his hand on the page, he half turned his face\nto the circle, and said, \"_Let us worship God_,\" I was impressed by a\nfeeling of awe and reverence to which I had, alas! been a stranger for\nyears. I was affected too, almost to tears, as I joined in the psalm;\nfor a thousand half-forgotten associations came rushing upon me; and my\nheart seemed to swell and expand as, kneeling beside him when he prayed,\nI listened to his solemn and fervent petition, that God might make\nmanifest his great power and goodness in the salvation of man. Nor was\nthe poor solitary wanderer of the deep forgotten.\n\nOn rising from our devotions, the old man grasped me by the hand. \"I\nam happy,\" he said, \"that we should have met, Mr. Lindsay. I feel an\ninterest in you, and must take the friend and the old man's privilege\nof giving you an advice. The sailor, of all men, stands most in need\nof religion. His life is one of continued vicissitude--of unexpected\nsuccess, or unlooked-for misfortune; he is ever passing from danger to\nsafety, and from safety to danger; his dependence is on the ever-varying\nwinds, his abode on the unstable waters. And the mind takes a peculiar\ntone from what is peculiar in the circumstances. With nothing stable in\nthe real world around it on which it may rest, it forms a resting-place\nfor itself in some wild code of belief. It peoples the elements with\nstrange occult powers of good and evil, and does them homage--addressing\nits prayers to the genius of the winds, and the spirits of the waters.\nAnd thus it begets a religion for itself;--for what else is the\nprofessional superstition of the sailor? Substitute, my friend, for\nthis--(shall I call it unavoidable superstition?)--this natural religion\nof the sea, the religion of the Bible. Since you must be a believer in\nthe supernatural, let your belief be true; let your trust be on Him who\nfaileth not--your anchor within the vail; and all shall be well, be your\ndestiny for this world what it may.\"\n\nWe parted for the night, and I saw him no more.\n\nNext morning, Robert accompanied me for several miles on my way. I saw,\nfor the last half hour, that he had something to communicate, and yet\nknew not how to set about it; and so I made a full stop.\n\n\"You have something to tell me, Mr. Burns,\" I said: \"need I assure you I\nam one you are in no danger from trusting.\" He blushed deeply, and I saw\nhim, for the first time, hesitate and falter in his address.\n\n\"Forgive me,\" he at length said--\"believe me, Mr. Lindsay, I would be\nthe last in the world to hurt the feelings of a friend--a--a--but you\nhave been left among us penniless, and I have a very little money which\nI have no use for--none in the least;--will you not favour me by\naccepting it as a loan?\"\n\nI felt the full and generous delicacy of the proposal, and, with\nmoistened eyes and a swelling heart, availed myself of his kindness. The\nsum he tendered did not much exceed a guinea; but the yearly earnings of\nthe peasant Burns fell, at this period of his life, rather below eight\npounds.\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\n    \"Corbies an' clergy are a shot right kittle.\"--_Brigs of Ayr_.\n\n\nThe years passed, and I was again a dweller on the sea; but the\nill-fortune which had hitherto tracked me like a bloodhound, seemed at\nlength as if tired in the pursuit, and I was now the master of a West\nIndia trader, and had begun to lay the foundation of that competency\nwhich has secured to my declining years the quiet and comfort which, for\nthe latter part of my life, it has been my happiness to enjoy. My vessel\nhad arrived at Liverpool in the latter part of the year 1784, and I had\ntaken coach for Irvine, to visit my mother, whom I had not seen for\nseveral years. There was a change of passengers at every stage; but I\nsaw little in any of them to interest me, till within about a score of\nmiles of my destination, when I met with an old respectable townsman, a\nfriend of my father's. There was but another passenger in the coach, a\nnorth country gentleman from the West Indies. I had many questions to\nask my townsman, and many to answer--and the time passed lightly away.\n\n\"Can you tell me aught of the Burnses of Lochlea?\" I inquired, after\nlearning that my mother and other relatives were well. \"I met with the\nyoung man Robert about five years ago, and have often since asked myself\nwhat special end providence could have in view in making such a man.\"\n\n\"I was acquainted with old William Burns,\" said my companion, \"when he\nwas gardener at Denholm, an' got intimate wi' his son Robert when he\nlived wi' us at Irvine, a twalmonth syne. The faither died shortly ago,\nsairly straitened in his means, I'm feared, and no very square wi' the\nlaird--an' ill wad he hae liked that, for an honester man never\nbreathed. Robert, puir chield, is no very easy either.\"\n\n\"In his circumstances?\" I said.\n\n\"Ay, an' waur:--he got entangled wi' the kirk on an unlucky sculduddery\nbusiness, an' has been writing bitter, wicked ballads on a' the guid\nministers in the country ever syne. I'm vexed it's on them he suld hae\nfallen; an' yet they hae been to blame too.\"\n\n\"Robert Burns so entangled, so occupied!\" I exclaimed; \"you grieve and\nastonish me.\"\n\n\"We are puir creatures, Matthew,\" said the old man; \"strength an'\nweakness are often next door neighbours in the best o' us; nay, what is\nour vera strength taen on the ae side, may be our vera weakness taen on\nthe ither. Never was there a stancher, firmer fallow than Robert Burns;\nan' now that he has taen a wrang step, puir chield, that vera stanchness\nseems just a weak want o' ability to yield. He has planted his foot\nwhere it lighted by mishanter, and a' the guid an' ill in Scotland wadna\nbudge him frae the spot.\"\n\n\"Dear me! that so powerful a mind should be so frivolously engaged!\nMaking ballads, you say?--with what success?\"\n\n\"Ah, Matthew lad, when the strong man puts out his strength,\" said my\ncompanion, \"there's naething frivolous in the matter, be his object what\nit may. Robert's ballads are far, far aboon the best things ever seen in\nScotland afore; we auld folk dinna ken whether maist to blame or praise\nthem, but they keep the young people laughing frae the ae nuik o' the\nshire till the ither.\"\n\n\"But how,\" I inquired, \"have the better clergy rendered themselves\nobnoxious to Burns? The laws he has violated, if I rightly understand\nyou, are indeed severe, and somewhat questionable in their tendencies;\nand even good men often press them too far.\"\n\n\"And in the case of Robert,\" said the old man, \"our clergy have been\nstrict to the very letter. They're guid men an' faithfu' ministers; but\nane o' them, at least, an' he a leader, has a harsh, ill temper, an'\nmistakes sometimes the corruption o' the auld man in him for the proper\nzeal o' the new ane. Nor is there ony o' the ithers wha kent what they\nhad to deal wi' when Robert cam afore them. They saw but a proud,\nthrawart ploughman, that stood uncow'ring under the glunsh o' a hail\nsession; and so they opened on him the artillery o' the kirk, to bear\ndown his pride. Wha could hae told them that they were but frushing\ntheir straw an' rotten wood against the iron scales o' Leviathan? An'\nnow that they hae dune their maist, the record o' Robert's mishanter is\nlying in whity-brown ink yonder in a page o' the session-buik, while the\nballads hae sunk deep deep intil the very mind o' the country, and may\nlive there for hunders and hunders o' years.\"\n\n\"You seem to contrast, in this business,\" I said, \"our better with what\nyou must deem our inferior clergy. You mean, do you not, the higher and\nlower parties in our church? How are they getting on now?\"\n\n\"Never worse,\" replied the old man; \"an', oh, it's surely ill when the\nministers o' peace become the very leaders o' contention! But let the\nblame rest in the right place. Peace is surely a blessing frae\nHeaven--no a guid wark demanded frae man; an' when it grows our duty\nto be in war, it's an ill thing to be in peace. Our Evangelicals are\nstan'in', puir folk, whar their faithers stood; an' if they maun either\nfight or be beaten frae their post, why, it's just their duty to fight.\nBut the Moderates are rinnin' mad a'thegither amang us: signing our auld\nConfession, just that they may get intil the kirk to preach against it;\nparing the New Testament doun to the vera standard o' heathen Plawto;\nand sinking ae doctrine after anither, till they leave ahint naething\nbut deism that might scunner an infidel. Deed, Matthew, if there comena\na change among them, an' that sune, they'll swamp the puir kirk a'\nthegither. The cauld morality that never made ony ane mair moral, taks\nnae hand o' the people; an' patronage, as meikle's they roose it, winna\nkeep up either kirk or manse o' itsel. Sorry I am, sin' Robert has\nentered on the quarrel at a', it suld hae been on the wrang side.\"\n\n\"One of my chief objections,\" I said, \"to the religion of the Moderate\nparty is, that it is of no use.\"\n\n\"A gey serious ane,\" rejoined the old man; \"but maybe there's a waur\nstill. I'm unco vexed for Robert, baith on his worthy faither's account\nand his ain. He's a fearsome fellow when ance angered, but an honest,\nwarm-hearted chield for a' that; an' there's mair sense in yon big head\no' his, than in ony ither twa in the country.\"\n\n\"Can you tell me aught,\" said the north country gentleman, addressing my\ncompanion, \"of Mr. R----, the chapel minister in K----? I was once one\nof his pupils in the far north; but I have heard nothing of him since he\nleft Cromarty.\"\n\n\"Why,\" rejoined the old man, \"he's just the man that, mair nor a' the\nrest, has borne the brunt o' Robert's fearsome waggery. Did ye ken him\nin Cromarty, say ye?\"\n\n\"He was parish schoolmaster there,\" said the gentleman, \"for twelve\nyears; and for six of these I attended his school. I cannot help\nrespecting him; but no one ever loved him. Never surely was there a man\nat once so unequivocally honest and so thoroughly unamiable.\"\n\n\"You must have found him a rigid disciplinarian,\" I said.\n\n\"He was the most so,\" he replied, \"from the days of Dionysius, at least,\nthat ever taught a school. I remember there was a poor fisher boy among\nus named Skinner, who, as is customary in Scottish schools, as you must\nknow, blew the horn for gathering the scholars, and kept the catalogue\nand the key; and who, in return, was educated by the master, and\nreceived some little gratuity from the scholars besides. On one\noccasion, the key dropped out of his pocket; and, when school-time came,\nthe irascible dominie had to burst open the door with his foot. He raged\nat the boy with a fury so insane, and beat him so unmercifully, that the\nother boys, gathering heart in the extremity of the case, had to rise\n_en masse_ and tear him out of his hands. But the curious part of the\nstory is yet to come: Skinner has been a fisherman for the last twelve\nyears; but never has he been seen disengaged, for a moment, from that\ntime to this, without mechanically thrusting his hand into the key\npocket.\"\n\nOur companion furnished us with two or three other anecdotes of Mr.\nR----. He told us of a lady who was so overcome by sudden terror on\nunexpectedly seeing him, many years after she had quitted his school, in\none of the pulpits of the south, that she fainted away; and of another\nof his scholars, named M'Glashan, a robust, daring fellow of six feet,\nwho, when returning to Cromarty from some of the colonies, solaced\nhimself by the way with thoughts of the hearty drubbing with which he\nwas to clear off all his old scores with the dominie.\n\n\"Ere his return, however,\" continued the gentleman, \"Mr. R----\nhad quitted the parish; and, had it chanced otherwise, it is\nquestionable whether M'Glashan, with all his strength and courage, would\nhave gained anything in an encounter with one of the boldest and most\npowerful men in the country.\"\n\nSuch were some of the chance glimpses which I gained, at this time, of\nby far the most powerful of the opponents of Burns. He was a good,\nconscientious man; but unfortunate in a harsh, violent temper, and in\nsometimes mistaking, as my old townsman remarked, the dictates of that\ntemper for those of duty.\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\n    \"It's hardly in a body's pow'r\n     To keep at times frae being sour,\n         To see how things are shar'd--\n     How best o' chiels are whiles in want,\n     While coofs on countless thousands rant,\n         And kenna how to wair't.\"--_Epistle to Davie._\n\n\nI visited my friend, a few days after my arrival in Irvine, at the\nfarm-house of Mossgiel, to which, on the death of his father, he had\nremoved, with his brother Gilbert and his mother. I could not help\nobserving that his manners were considerably changed: my welcome seemed\nless kind and hearty than I could have anticipated from the warm-hearted\npeasant of five years ago, and there was a stern and almost supercilious\nelevation in his bearing, which at first pained and offended me. I had\nmet with him as he was returning from the fields after the labours of\nthe day; the dusk of twilight had fallen; and, though I had calculated\non passing the evening with him at the farm-house of Mossgiel, so\ndispleased was I, that, after our first greeting, I had more than half\nchanged my mind. The recollection of his former kindness to me, however,\nsuspended the feeling, and I resolved on throwing myself on his\nhospitality for the night, however cold the welcome.\n\n\"I have come all the way from Irvine to see you, Mr. Burns,\" I said.\n\"For the last five years, I have thought more of my mother and you than\nof any other two persons in the country. May I not calculate, as of old,\non my supper and a bed?\"\n\nThere was an instantaneous change in his expression.\n\n\"Pardon me, my friend,\" he said, grasping my hand; \"I have, unwittingly,\nbeen doing you wrong; one may surely be the master of an Indiaman and\nin possession of a heart too honest to be spoiled by prosperity!\"\n\nThe remark served to explain the haughty coldness of his manner which\nhad so displeased me, and which was but the unwillingly assumed armour\nof a defensive pride.\n\n\"There, brother,\" he said, throwing down some plough irons which he\ncarried, \"send _wee Davoc_ with these to the smithy, and bid him tell\nRankin I won't be there to-night. The moon is rising, Mr. Lindsay--shall\nwe not have a stroll together through the coppice?\"\n\n\"That of all things,\" I replied; and, parting from Gilbert, we struck\ninto the wood.\n\nThe evening, considering the lateness of the season, for winter had set\nin, was mild and pleasant. The moon at full was rising over the Cumnock\nhills, and casting its faint light on the trees that rose around us, in\ntheir winding-sheets of brown and yellow, like so many spectres, or\nthat, in the more exposed glares and openings of the wood, stretched\ntheir long naked arms to the sky. A light breeze went rustling through\nthe withered grass; and I could see the faint twinkling of the falling\nleaves, as they came showering down on every side of us.\n\n\"We meet in the midst of death and desolation,\" said my companion--\"we\nparted when all around us was fresh and beautiful. My father was with me\nthen, and--and Mary Campbell--and now\"----\n\n\"Mary! your Mary!\" I exclaimed--\"the young--the beautiful--alas! is she\nalso gone?\"\n\n\"She has left me,\" he said--\"left me. Mary is in her grave!\"\n\nI felt my heart swell, as the image of that loveliest of creatures came\nrising to my view in all her beauty, as I had seen her by the river\nside; and I knew not what to reply.\n\n\"Yes,\" continued my friend, \"she's in her grave;--we parted for a few\ndays, to re-unite, as we hoped, for ever; and, ere these few days had\npassed, she was in her grave. But I was unworthy of her--unworthy even\nthen; and now---- But she is in her grave!\"\n\nI grasped his hand. \"It is difficult,\" I said, \"to _bid_ the heart\nsubmit to these dispensations, and, oh, how utterly impossible to bring\nit to _listen_! But life--_your_ life, my friend--must not be passed in\nuseless sorrow. I am convinced, and often have I thought of it since our\nlast meeting, that yours is no vulgar destiny--though I know not to what\nit tends.\"\n\n\"Downwards!\" he exclaimed--\"it tends downwards;--I see, I feel it;--the\nanchor of my affection is gone, and I drift shoreward on the rocks.\"\n\n\"'Twere ruin,\" I exclaimed, \"to think so!\"\n\n\"Not half an hour ere my father died,\" he continued, \"he expressed a\nwish to rise and sit once more in his chair; and we indulged him. But,\nalas! the same feeling of uneasiness which had prompted the wish,\nremained with him still, and he sought to return again to his bed. 'It\nis not by quitting the bed or the chair,' he said, 'that I need seek for\nease: it is by quitting the body.' I am oppressed, Mr. Lindsay, by a\nsomewhat similar feeling of uneasiness, and, at times, would fain cast\nthe blame on the circumstances in which I am placed. But I may be as\nfar mistaken as my poor father. I would fain live at peace with all\nmankind--nay, more, I would fain love and do good to them all; but the\nvillain and the oppressor come to set their feet on my very neck, and\ncrush me into the mire--and must I not resist? And when, in some\nluckless hour, I yield to my passions--to those fearful passions that\nmust one day overwhelm me--when I yield, and my whole mind is darkened\nby remorse, and I groan under the discipline of conscience, then comes\nthe odious, abominable hypocrite--the devourer of widows' houses and\nthe substance of the orphan--and demands that my repentance be as\npublic as his own hollow, detestable prayers. And can I do other than\nresist and expose him? My heart tells me it was formed to bestow--why\nelse does every misery that I cannot relieve render me wretched? It\ntells me, too, it was formed not to receive--why else does the proffered\nassistance of even a friend fill my whole soul with indignation? But ill\ndo my circumstances agree with my feelings. I feel as if I were totally\nmisplaced in some frolic of nature, and wander onwards in gloom and\nunhappiness, seeking for my proper sphere. But, alas! these efforts of\nuneasy misery are but the blind gropings of Homer's Cyclops round the\nwalls of his cave.\"\n\nI again began to experience, as on a former occasion, the o'ermastering\npower of a mind larger beyond comparison than my own; but I felt it my\nduty to resist the influence. \"Yes, you are misplaced, my friend,\" I\nsaid--\"perhaps more decidedly so than any other man I ever knew; but is\nnot this characteristic, in some measure, of the whole species? We are\nall misplaced; and it seems a part of the scheme of deity, that we\nshould work ourselves up to our proper sphere. In what other respect\ndoes man so differ from the inferior animals as in those aspirations\nwhich lead him through all the progressions of improvement, from the\nlowest to the highest level of his nature?\"\n\n\"That may be philosophy, my friend,\" he replied, \"but a heart ill at\nease finds little of comfort in it. You knew my father: need I say he\nwas one of the excellent of the earth--a man who held directly from\nGod Almighty the patent of his honours? I saw that father sink\nbroken-hearted into the grave, the victim of legalized oppression--yes,\nsaw him overborne in the long contest which his high spirit and his\nindomitable love of the right had incited him to maintain--overborne by\na mean, despicable scoundrel, one of the creeping things of the earth.\nHeaven knows I did my utmost to assist in the struggle. In my fifteenth\nyear, Mr. Lindsay, when a thin, loose-jointed boy, I did the work of a\nman, and strained my unknit and overtoiled sinews as if life and death\ndepended on the issue, till oft, in the middle of the night, I have had\nto fling myself from my bed to avoid instant suffocation--an effect of\nexertion so prolonged and so premature. Nor has the man exerted himself\nless heartily than the boy--in the roughest, severest labours of the\nfield, I have never yet met a competitor. But my labours have been all\nin vain--I have seen the evil bewailed by Solomon--the righteous man\nfalling down before the wicked.\" I could answer only with a sigh. \"You\nare in the right,\" he continued, after a pause, and in a more subdued\ntone: \"man is certainly misplaced--the present scene of things is below\nthe dignity of both his moral and intellectual nature. Look round\nyou--(we had reached the summit of a grassy eminence which rose over\nthe wood, and commanded a pretty extensive view of the surrounding\ncountry)--see yonder scattered cottages, that, in the faint light, rise\ndim and black amid the stubble fields--my heart warms as I look on them,\nfor I know how much of honest worth, and sound, generous feeling\nshelters under these roof-trees. But why so much of moral excellence\nunited to a mere machinery for ministering to the ease and luxury of a\nfew of, perhaps, the least worthy of our species--creatures so spoiled\nby prosperity that the claim of a common nature has no force to move\nthem, and who seem as miserably misplaced as the myriads whom they\noppress?\"\n\n    \"If I'm designed yon lordling's slave--\n       By nature's law designed--\n     Why was an independent wish\n       E'er planted in my mind?\n\n     If not, why am I subject to\n       His cruelty and scorn?\n     Or why has man the will and power\n       To make his fellow mourn?\"\n\n\"I would hardly know what to say in return, my friend,\" I rejoined, \"did\nnot you, yourself, furnish me with the reply. You are groping on in\ndarkness, and it may be unhappiness, for your proper sphere; but it\nis in obedience to a great though occult law of our nature--a law,\ngeneral as it affects the species, in its course of onward\nprogression--particular, and infinitely more irresistible, as it\noperates on every truly superior intellect. There are men born to wield\nthe destinies of nations--nay, more, to stamp the impression of their\nthoughts and feelings on the mind of the whole civilized world. And by\nwhat means do we often find them roused to accomplish their appointed\nwork? At times hounded on by sorrow and suffering, and thus in the\ndesign of providence, that there may be less of sorrow and suffering in\nthe world ever after--at times roused by cruel and maddening oppression,\nthat the oppressor may perish in his guilt, and a whole country enjoy\nthe blessings of freedom. If Wallace had not suffered from tyranny,\nScotland would not have been free.\"\n\n\"But how apply the remark?\" said my companion.\n\n\"Robert Burns,\" I replied, again grasping his hand, \"yours, I am\nconvinced, is no vulgar destiny. Your griefs, your sufferings, your\nerrors even, the oppressions you have seen and felt, the thoughts which\nhave arisen in your mind, the feelings and sentiments of which it has\nbeen the subject, are, I am convinced, of infinitely more importance in\ntheir relation to your country than to yourself. You are, wisely and\nbenevolently, placed far below your level, that thousands and ten\nthousands of your countrymen may be the better enabled to attain to\ntheirs. Assert the dignity of manhood and of genius, and there will be\nless of wrong and oppression in the world ever after.\"\n\nI spent the remainder of the evening in the farm-house of Mossgiel, and\ntook the coach next morning for Liverpool.\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\n\n    \"His is that language of the heart\n       In which the answering heart would speak--\n     Thought, word, that bids the warm tear start,\n       Or the smile light up the cheek;\n     And his that music to whose tone\n       The common pulse of man keeps time,\n     In cot or castle's mirth or moan,\n       In cold or sunny clime.\"--_American poet._\n\n\nThe love of literature, when once thoroughly awakened in a reflective\nmind, can never after cease to influence it. It first assimilates our\nintellectual part to those fine intellects which live in the world of\nbooks, and then renders our connection with them indispensable, by\nlaying hold of that social principle of our nature which ever leads us\nto the society of our fellows as our proper sphere of enjoyment. My\nearly habits, by heightening my tone of thought and feeling, had tended\nconsiderably to narrow my circle of companionship. My profession, too,\nhad led me to be much alone; and now that I had been several years the\nmaster of an Indiaman, I was quite as fond of reading, and felt as deep\nan interest in whatever took place in the literary world, as when a\nstudent at St. Andrew's. There was much in the literature of the period\nto gratify my pride as a Scotchman. The despotism, both political and\nreligious, which had overlaid the energies of our country for more than\na century, had long been removed, and the national mind had swelled and\nexpanded under a better system of things, till its influence had become\nco-extensive with civilized man. Hume had produced his inimitable\nhistory, and Adam Smith his wonderful work, which was to revolutionise\nand new-model the economy of all the governments of the earth. And\nthere, in my little library, were the histories of Henry and Robertson,\nthe philosophy of Kaimes and Reid, the novels of Smollett and Mackenzie,\nand the poetry of Beattie and Home. But, if there was no lack of\nScottish intellect in the literature of the time, there was a decided\nlack of Scottish manners; and I knew too much of my humble countrymen\nnot to regret it. True, I had before me the writings of Ramsay and my\nunfortunate friend Ferguson; but there was a radical meanness in the\nfirst that lowered the tone of his colouring far beneath the freshness\nof truth, and the second, whom I had seen perish--too soon, alas! for\nliterature and his country--had given us but a few specimens of his\npower when his hand was arrested for ever.\n\nMy vessel, after a profitable, though somewhat tedious voyage, had again\narrived in Liverpool. It was late in December, 1786, and I was passing\nthe long evening in my cabin, engaged with a whole sheaf of pamphlets\nand magazines which had been sent me from the shore. _The Lounger_ was,\nat this time, in course of publication. I had ever been an admirer of\nthe quiet elegance and exquisite tenderness of Mackenzie; and, though I\nmight not be quite disposed to think, with Johnson, that \"the chief\nglory of every people arises from its authors,\" I certainly felt all\nthe prouder of my country, from the circumstance that so accomplished\na writer was one of my countrymen. I had read this evening some of the\nmore recent numbers, half disposed to regret, however, amid all the\npleasure they afforded me, that the Addison of Scotland had not done for\nthe manners of his country what his illustrious prototype had done for\nthose of England, when my eye fell on the ninety-seventh number. I read\nthe introductory sentences, and admired their truth and elegance. I had\nfelt, in the contemplation of supereminent genius, the pleasure which\nthe writer describes, and my thoughts reverted to my two friends--the\ndead and the living. \"In the view of highly superior talents, as in\nthat of great and stupendous objects,\" says the essayist, \"there is a\nsublimity which fills the soul with wonder and delight--which expands\nit, as it were, beyond its usual bounds, and which, investing our nature\nwith extraordinary powers and extraordinary honours, interests our\ncuriosity and flatters our pride.\"\n\nI read on with increasing interest. It was evident, from the tone of the\nintroduction, that some new luminary had arisen in the literary horizon,\nand I felt somewhat like a schoolboy when, at his first play, he waits\nfor the drawing up of the curtain. And the curtain at length rose. \"The\nperson,\" continues the essayist, \"to whom I allude\"--and he alludes to\nhim as a genius of no ordinary class--\"is Robert Burns, an Ayrshire\nploughman.\" The effect on my nerves seemed electrical; I clapped my\nhands, and sprung from my seat: \"Was I not certain of it! Did I not\nforesee it!\" I exclaimed. \"My noble-minded friend, Robert Burns!\" I ran\nhastily over the warm-hearted and generous critique, so unlike the cold,\ntimid, equivocal notices with which the professional critic has greeted,\non their first appearance, so many works destined to immortality. It was\nMackenzie, the discriminating, the classical, the elegant, who assured\nme that the productions of this \"heaven-taught ploughman were fraught\nwith the high-toned feeling and the power and energy of expression\ncharacteristic of the mind and voice of the poet\"--with the solemn, the\ntender, the sublime; that they contained images of pastoral beauty which\nno other writer had ever surpassed, and strains of wild humour which\nonly the higher masters of the lyre had ever equalled; and that the\ngenius displayed in them seemed not less admirable in tracing the\nmanners than in painting the passions, or in drawing the scenery of\nnature. I flung down the essay, ascended to the deck in three huge\nstrides, leaped ashore, and reached my bookseller's as he was shutting\nup for the night.\n\n\"Can you furnish me with a copy of Burns' Poems,\" I said, \"either for\nlove or money?\"\n\n\"I have but one copy left,\" replied the man, \"and here it is.\"\n\nI flung down a guinea. \"The change,\" I said, \"I shall get when I am less\nin a hurry.\"\n\n'Twas late that evening ere I remembered that 'tis customary to spend at\nleast part of the night in bed. I read on and on with a still increasing\nastonishment and delight, laughing and crying by turns. I was quite in a\nnew world; all was fresh and unsoiled--the thoughts, the descriptions,\nthe images--as if the volume I read was the first that had ever been\nwritten; and yet all was easy and natural, and appealed, with a truth\nand force irresistible, to the recollections I cherished most fondly.\nNature and Scotland met me at every turn. I had admired the polished\ncompositions of Pope, and Gray, and Collins, though I could not\nsometimes help feeling that, with all the exquisite art they displayed,\nthere was a little additional art wanting still. In most cases the\nscaffolding seemed incorporated with the structure which it had served\nto rear; and, though certainly no scaffolding could be raised on surer\nprinciples, I could have wished that the ingenuity which had been tasked\nto erect it, had been exerted a little further in taking it down. But\nthe work before me was evidently the production of a greater artist; not\na fragment of the scaffolding remained--not so much as a mark to show\nhow it had been constructed. The whole seemed to have risen like an\nexhalation, and, in this respect, reminded me of the structures of\nShakspeare alone. I read the inimitable \"Twa Dogs.\" Here, I said, is the\nfull and perfect realization of what Swift and Dryden were hardy enough\nto attempt, but lacked genius to accomplish. Here are dogs--_bona fide_\ndogs--endowed indeed with more than human sense and observation, but\ntrue to character, as the most honest and attached of quadrupeds, in\nevery line. And then those exquisite touches which the poor man, inured\nto a life of toil and poverty, can alone rightly understand! and those\ndeeply-based remarks on character, which only the philosopher can justly\nappreciate! This is the true catholic poetry, which addresses itself not\nto any little circle, walled in from the rest of the species by some\npeculiarity of thought, prejudice, or condition, but to the whole human\nfamily. I read on:--\"The Holy Fair,\" \"Hallow E'en,\" \"The Vision,\" the\n\"Address to the Deil,\" engaged me by turns; and then the strange,\nuproarious, unequalled \"Death and Dr. Hornbook.\" This, I said, is\nsomething new in the literature of the world. Shakspeare possessed above\nall men the power of instant and yet natural transition, from the\nlightly gay to the deeply pathetic--from the wild to the humorous; but\nthe opposite states of feeling which he induces, however close the\nneighbourhood, are ever distinct and separate; the oil and the water,\nthough contained in the same vessel, remain apart. Here, however, for\nthe first time, they mix and incorporate, and yet each retains its whole\nnature and full effect. I need hardly remind the reader that the feat\nhas been repeated, and even with more completeness, in the wonderful,\n\"Tam o' Shanter.\" I read on. \"The Cotter's Saturday Night\" filled my\nwhole soul--my heart throbbed and my eyes moistened; and never before\ndid I feel half so proud of my country, or know half so well on what\nscore it was I did best in feeling proud. I had perused the entire\nvolume from beginning to end, ere I remembered I had not taken supper,\nand that it was more than time to go to bed.\n\nBut it is no part of my plan to furnish a critique on the poems of my\nfriend. I merely strive to recall the thoughts and feelings which my\nfirst perusal of them awakened, and thus only as a piece of mental\nhistory. Several months elapsed from this evening ere I could hold them\nout from me sufficiently at arms' length, as it were, to judge of their\nmore striking characteristics. At times the amazing amount of thought,\nfeeling, and imagery which they contained--their wonderful continuity of\nidea, without gap or interstice--seemed to me most to distinguish them.\nAt times they reminded me, compared with the writings of smoother poets,\nof a collection of medals which, unlike the thin polished coin of the\nkingdom, retained all the significant and pictorial roughness of the\noriginal die. But when, after the lapse of weeks, months, years, I found\nthem rising up in my heart on every occasion, as naturally as if they\nhad been the original language of all my feelings and emotions--when I\nfelt that, instead of remaining outside my mind, as it were, like the\nwritings of other poets, they had so amalgamated themselves with my\npassions, my sentiments, my ideas, that they seemed to have become\nportions of my very self--I was led to a final conclusion regarding\nthem. Their grand distinguishing characteristic is their unswerving and\nperfect truth. The poetry of Shakspeare is the mirror of life--that of\nBurns the expressive and richly modulated voice of human nature.\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\n\n     \"Burns was a poor man from his birth, and an exciseman from\n     necessity; but--I _will say_ it!--the sterling of his honest\n     worth, poverty could not debase; and his independent British\n     spirit oppression might bend, but could not subdue.\"--_Letter\n     to Mr. Graham_.\n\n\nI have been listening for the last half hour to the wild music of an\nEolian harp. How exquisitely the tones rise and fall!--now sad, now\nsolemn--now near, now distant. The nerves thrill, the heart softens, the\nimagination awakes as we listen. What if that delightful instrument be\nanimated by a living soul, and these finely-modulated tones be but the\nexpression of its feelings! What if these dying, melancholy cadences,\nwhich so melt and sink into the heart, be--what we may so naturally\ninterpret them--the melodious sinkings of a deep-seated and hopeless\nunhappiness! Nay, the fancy is too wild for even a dream. But are there\nnone of those fine analogies, which run through the whole of nature and\nthe whole of art, to sublime it into truth? Yes, _there have_ been such\nliving harps among us; beings, the tones of whose sentiments, the melody\nof whose emotions, the cadences of whose sorrows, remain to thrill, and\ndelight, and humanize our souls. They seem born for others, not for\nthemselves. Alas, for the hapless companion of my early youth! Alas, for\nhim, the pride of his country, the friend of my maturer manhood!--But my\nnarrative lags in its progress.\n\nMy vessel lay in the Clyde for several weeks during the summer of 1794,\nand I found time to indulge myself in a brief tour along the western\ncoasts of the kingdom, from Glasgow to the Borders. I entered Dumfries\nin a calm, lovely evening, and passed along one of the principal\nstreets. The shadows of the houses on the western side were stretched\nhalf-way across the pavement, while, on the side opposite, the bright\nsunshine seemed sleeping on the jutting irregular fronts, and high\nantique gables. There seemed a world of well-dressed company this\nevening in town; and I learned, on inquiry, that all the aristocracy of\nthe adjacent country, for twenty miles round, had come in to attend a\ncounty ball. They went fluttering along the sunny side of the street,\ngay as butterflies--group succeeding group. On the opposite side, in the\nshade, a solitary individual was passing slowly along the pavement. I\nknew him at a glance. It was the first poet, perhaps the greatest man,\nof his age and country. But why so solitary? It had been told me that he\nranked among his friends and associates many of the highest names in the\nkingdom, and yet to-night not one of the hundreds who fluttered past\nappeared inclined to recognise him. He seemed too--but perhaps fancy\nmisled me--as if care-worn and dejected; pained, perhaps, that not one\namong so many of the _great_ should have humility enough to notice a\npoor exciseman. I stole up to him unobserved, and tapped him on the\nshoulder; there was a decided fierceness in his manner as he turned\nabruptly round, but, as he recognised me, his expressive countenance\nlighted up in a moment, and I shall never forget the heartiness with\nwhich he grasped my hand.\n\nWe quitted the streets together for the neighbouring fields, and, after\nthe natural interchange of mutual congratulations--\"How is it,\" I\ninquired, \"that you do not seem to have a single acquaintance among all\nthe gay and great of the country?\"\n\n\"I lie under quarantine,\" he replied; \"tainted by the plague of\nliberalism. There is not one of the hundreds we passed to-night whom I\ncould not once reckon among my intimates.\"\n\nThe intelligence stunned and irritated me. \"How infinitely absurd!\" I\nsaid. \"Do they dream of sinking you into a common man?\"\n\n\"Even so,\" he rejoined. \"Do they not all know I have been a gauger for\nthe last five years!\"\n\nThe fact had both grieved and incensed me long before. I knew, too, that\nPye enjoyed his salary as poet laureate of the time, and Dibdin, the\nsong writer, his pension of two hundred a-year, and I blushed for my\ncountry.\n\n\"Yes,\" he continued--the ill-assumed coolness of his manner giving way\nbefore his highly excited feelings--\"they have assigned me my place\namong the mean and the degraded, as their best patronage; and only\nyesterday, after an official threat of instant dismission, I was told\nit was my business to act, not to think. God help me! what have I done\nto provoke such bitter insult? I have ever discharged my miserable\nduty--discharged it, Mr. Lindsay, however repugnant to my feelings,\nas an honest man; and though there awaited me no promotion, I was\nsilent. The wives or sisters of those whom they advanced over me had\nbastards to some of the ---- family, and so their influence was\nnecessarily greater than mine. But now they crush me into the very dust.\nI take an interest in the struggles of the slave for his freedom; I\nexpress my opinions as if I myself were a free man; and they threaten\nto starve me and my children if I dare so much as speak or think.\"\n\nI expressed my indignant sympathy in a few broken sentences; and he went\non with kindling animation:--\n\n\"Yes, they would fain crush me into the very dust! They cannot forgive\nme, that, being born a man, I should walk erect according to my nature.\nMean-spirited and despicable themselves, they can tolerate only the\nmean-spirited and the despicable; and were I not so entirely in their\npower, Mr. Lindsay, I could regard them with the proper contempt. But\nthe wretches can starve me and my children--and they _know_ it; nor does\nit mend the matter that I _know_ in turn, what pitiful, miserable,\nlittle creatures they are. What care I for the butterflies of\nto-night?--they passed me without the honour of their notice; and I, in\nturn, suffered them to pass without the honour of mine; and I am more\nthan quits. Do I not know that they and I are going on to the fulfilment\nof our several destinies?--they to sleep, in the obscurity of their\nnative insignificance, with the pismires and grasshoppers of all the\npast, and I to be whatever the millions of my unborn countrymen shall\nyet decide. Pitiful little insects of an hour! what is their notice to\nme! But I bear a heart, Mr. Lindsay, that can feel the pain of treatment\nso unworthy; and I must confess it moves me. One cannot always live upon\nthe future, divorced from the sympathies of the present. One cannot\nalways solace one's self under the grinding despotism that would\nfetter one's very thoughts, with the conviction, however assured, that\nposterity will do justice both to the oppressor and the oppressed. I am\nsick at heart; and were it not for the poor little things that depend so\nentirely on my exertions, I could as cheerfully lay me down in the grave\nas I ever did in bed after the fatigues of a long day's labour. Heaven\nhelp me! I am miserably unfitted to struggle with even the natural evils\nof existence--how much more so when these are multiplied and exaggerated\nby the proud, capricious inhumanity of man!\"\n\n\"There is a miserable lack of right principle and right feeling,\" I\nsaid, \"among our upper classes in the present day; but, alas for poor\nhuman nature! it has ever been so, and, I am afraid, ever will. And\nthere is quite as much of it in savage as in civilized life. I have seen\nthe exclusive aristocratic spirit, with its one-sided injustice, as\nrampant in a wild isle of the Pacific as I ever saw it among ourselves.\"\n\n\"'Tis slight comfort,\" said my friend, with a melancholy smile, \"to be\nassured, when one's heart bleeds from the cruelty or injustice of our\nfellows, that man is naturally cruel and unjust, and not less so as a\nsavage than when better taught. I knew you, Mr. Lindsay, when you were\nyounger and less fortunate; but you have now reached that middle term of\nlife when man naturally takes up the Tory and lays down the Whig; nor\nhas there been aught in your improving circumstances to retard the\nchange; and so you rest in the conclusion that, if the weak among us\nsuffer from the tyranny of the strong, 'tis because human nature is so\nconstituted, and the case therefore cannot be helped.\"\n\n\"Pardon me, Mr. Burns,\" I said, \"I am not quite so finished a Tory as\nthat amounts to.\"\n\n\"I am not one of those fanciful declaimers,\" he continued, \"who set out\non the assumption that man is free-born. I am too well assured of the\ncontrary. Man is not free-born. The earlier period of his existence,\nwhether as a puny child or the miserable denizen of an uninformed and\nbarbarous state, is one of vassalage and subserviency. He is not born\nfree, he is not born rational, he is not born virtuous; he is born to\n_become_ all these. And woe to the sophist who, with arguments drawn\nfrom the unconfirmed constitution of his childhood, would strive to\nrender his imperfect, because immature, state of pupilage a permanent\none! We are yet far below the level of which our nature is capable, and\npossess in consequence but a small portion of the liberty which it is\nthe destiny of our species to enjoy. And 'tis time our masters should be\ntaught so. You will deem me a wild Jacobin, Mr. Lindsay; but persecution\nhas the effect of making a man extreme in these matters. Do help me to\ncurse the scoundrels!--my business to act, not to think!\"\n\nWe were silent for several minutes.\n\n\"I have not yet thanked you, Mr. Burns,\" I at length said, \"for the most\nexquisite pleasure I ever enjoyed. You have been my companion for the\nlast eight years.\"\n\nHis countenance brightened.\n\n\"Ah, here I am boring you with my miseries and my ill-nature,\" he\nreplied; \"but you must come along with me and see the bairns and Jean;\nand some of the best songs I ever wrote. It will go hard if we hold not\ncare at the staff's end for at least one evening. You have not yet seen\nmy stone punch-bowl, nor my Tam o'Shanter, nor a hundred other fine\nthings beside. And yet, vile wretch that I am, I am sometimes so\nunconscionable as to be unhappy with them all. But come along.\"\n\nWe spent this evening together with as much of happiness as it has ever\nbeen my lot to enjoy. Never was there a fonder father than Burns, a more\nattached husband, or a warmer friend. There was an exuberance of love\nin his large heart, that encircled in its flow, relatives, friends,\nassociates, his country, the world; and, in his kinder moods, the\nsympathetic influence which he exerted over the hearts of others seemed\nmagical. I laughed and cried this evening by turns; I was conscious of\na wider and warmer expansion of feeling than I had ever experienced\nbefore; my very imagination seemed invigorated by breathing, as it were,\nin the same atmosphere with his. We parted early next morning--and when\nI again visited Dumfries, I went and wept over his grave. Forty years\nhave now passed since his death, and in that time many poets have arisen\nto achieve a rapid and brilliant celebrity; but they seem the meteors of\na lower sky; the flush passes hastily from the expanse, and we see but\none great light looking steadily upon us from above. It is Burns who is\nexclusively the poet of his country. Other writers inscribe their names\non the plaster which covers for the time the outside structure of\nsociety; his is engraved, like that of the Egyptian architect, on the\never-during granite within. The fame of the others rises and falls with\nthe uncertain undulations of the mode on which they have reared it;\nhis remains fixed and permanent, as the human nature on which it is\nbased. Or, to borrow the figures Johnson employs in illustrating the\nunfluctuating celebrity of a scarcely greater poet--\"The sand heaped by\none flood is scattered by another, but the rock always continues in its\nplace. The stream of time, which is continually washing the dissoluble\nfabrics of other poets, passes, without injury, by the adamant of\nShakspeare.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE PROFESSOR'S TALES.\n\nTHE CONVIVIALISTS.\n\n\nWe must introduce our readers, with an apology for our abruptness, into\na party of about half-a-dozen young gallants, who had evidently been\nmaking deep and frequent libations at the shrine of Bacchus. The loud\nbursts of hearty laughter which rang round the room like so many triple\nbobmajors, the leering eyes, the familiar diminutives with which the\nvarious parties addressed each other, and the frequent locking of hands\ntogether in a grasp the force of which was meant to express an ardour of\nsocial friendship which words were too weak to convey--all showed that\nthe symposiasts had cleared the fences which prudence or selfishness set\nup in the sober intercourse of life, and were now, with loosened reins,\nspurring away over the free wild fields of fancy and fun. An immense\nquantity of walnut-shells--which the mercurial compotators had been\namusing themselves by throwing at each other--lay scattered about the\ntable and on the floor; two or three shivered wine glasses had been\nshoved into the centre of the table, the fragments glittering upon a\npile of glorious Woodvilles, all speckled over, like Jacob's sheep; each\nman had one of the weeds stuck rakishly in the corner of his mouth, and\nwas knocking off the ashes upon his deviled biscuits; and, to the right\nof the president's chair, a long straggling regiment of empty bottles\ngave dumb but eloquent proof of the bibulous capabilities of the\ncompany. Each man was talking vehemently to his neighbour, and every one\nfor himself; in order, as a wag among them said, to get through the\nwork quickly, and jump at once to a conclusion. They were, as Sheridan\nhas it, \"arguing in platoons.\" There was one exception, however, to the\nboisterous mirth of the convivialists, in the person of Frank Elliot, in\ncelebration of whose obtaining his medical degree the feast had been\ngiven. He was leaning back in his chair, gazing, with a slight curl\nof contempt on his lip, at the rude glee of his associates. He had\ndistinguished himself so highly among his fellow-students, that one of\nthe professors had, in the ceremony of the morning, singled him out,\nbefore all his contemporaries, with the highest eulogiums, and had\npredicted, in the most flattering manner, his certain celebrity in his\nprofession. Perhaps the natural vanity which these public honours had\ncreated, the bright prospect which lay before him, and his being less\nexcited than his companions--caused him to turn, with disgust, from the\nsilly ribaldry and weak witticisms which circled round his table. Amid\nthe uproar his silence was for some time unheeded; but at length Harry\nWhitaker, his old college chum, now lieutenant in his Majesty's navy,\nand with a considerable portion of broad sailor's humour and slang,\nobserved it, and slapping him roundly on the back, cried, \"Hilloa,\nFrank! what are you dodging about?--quizzing the rig of your convoy,\nbecause they have too much light duck set to walk steadily through the\nwater?\"\n\n\"Frank! why, isn't he asleep all this time? I haven't heard his voice\nthis half hour,\" exclaimed another.\n\n    \"'Parce meum, quisquis tanges cava marmora somnum\n      Rumpere; sive bibas, sive lavere, tace,'\"\n\nsaid Elliot beseechingly.\n\n\"Come, come,\" said Harry, \"none of your heathenish lingo over the\nmahogany. Boys! I move that Frank be made to swallow a tumbler of port\nfor using bad language, and to make him fit company for the rest of us\nhonest fellows.\"\n\n\"_Fiat experimentum in corpore vili_,\" squeaked a first year medical\nstudent, shoving the lighted end of his cigar, by mistake, into his\nmouth when he had delivered his sentence, and then springing up and\nsputtering out a mighty oath and a quantity of hot tobacco ashes.\n\n\"Ashes to ashes,\" cried Harry, filling up a tumbler to the brim; \"we'll\nlet you off this time, as you're a fire-eater; but rally round, lads,\nand see this land shark swallow his grog.\"\n\n\"Nay, but, my friends\"----began Frank, seeing, with horror,\nthat the party had gathered round him, and that Harry held the glass\ninexorably in his mouth.\n\n\"Get a gag rigged,\" shouted the young sailor; \"we'll find a way into his\ngrog shop.\"\n\n\"Upon my word, Whitaker,\" said Frank, with a ludicrous intonation of\nvoice, between real anger and distress, \"this is too hard on one who has\nfilled fairly from the first--to punish him without an inquiry into the\njustice of the case.\"\n\n\"Jeddart justice--hang first, and judge after!\" roared a student from\nthe sylvan banks of the Jed.\n\n\"No freeman can, under any pretence,\" hiccupped a young advocate, who\nwas unable to rise from his chair, \"be condemned, except by the legal\ndecision of his peers, or by the law of the land. So sayeth the Magna\nCharta--King John--(_hic_)--right of all free-born Englishmen--including\nthereby all inhabitants of Great Britain, incorporated at the\nUnion--_hic_--and Ireland.\"\n\nWhitaker set the tumbler down in despair, finding that his companions,\nlike the generality of raw students, were so completely wedded to their\npedantry, that the fine, if insisted on, would have to go all round.\n\n\"Let's have a song, Rhimeson,\" cried Frank, very glad to escape from\nhis threatened bumper, and still fearful that it might be insisted upon,\n\"a song extempore, as becomes a poet in his cups, and in thine own vein;\nfor what says Spenser?--\n\n    'For Bacchus' fruit is friend to Phoebus wise;\n     And when, with wine, the brain begins to sweat,\n     The numbers flow as fast as spring doth rise.'\"\n\n\"By Jove, boys! you shall have it,\" cried Rhimeson, filling his glass\nwith unsteady hand, and muttering, from the same prince of poets--\n\n    \"'Who can counsell a thirstie soule,\n      With patience to forbeare the offred bowle?'\"\n\n\"That is the pure well of English undefiled, old fellows, and so here\ngoes--'The Lass we Love!'\n\n      TUNE--'_Duncan Davison._'\n\n    \"Come, fill your glass, my trusty friend,\n     And fill it sparkling to the brim--\n     A flowing bumper, bright and strong--\n     And push the bottle back again;\n     For what is man without his drink?\n     An oyster prison'd in his shell;\n     A rushlight in the vaults of death;\n     A rattlesnake without his tail.\n\n                CHORUS.\n\n        This world, we know, is full of cares,\n        And sorrow darkens every day;\n        But wine and love shall be the stars\n        To light us on our weary way.\n\n     Beyond yon hills there lives a lass,\n     Her name I dare not even speak;\n     The wine that sparkles in my glass\n     Was ne'er so rosy as her cheek.\n     Her neck is clearer than the spring\n     That streams the water lilies on;\n     So, here's to her I long have loved--\n     The fairest flower in Albion.\n\n     Let knaves and fools this world divide,\n     As they have done since Adam's time;\n     Let misers by their hoards abide,\n     And poets weave their rotten rhyme;\n     But ye, who, in an hour like this,\n     Feel every pulse to rapture move,\n     Fill high! each lip the goblet kiss--\n     The pledge shall be--'The Lass we Love!'\"\n\nAfter a good deal of roaritorious applause, the young gentlemen began to\nact upon the hint contained in the song, and each to give, as a toast,\nthe lady of his heart. When it came to Elliot's turn, he declared he was\nunable to fulfil the conditions of the toast, as there was not a woman\nin the world for whom he had the slightest predilection.\n\n\"Why, thou personified snowball! thou human icicle!\" cried Whitaker.\n\n\"Say an avalanche,\" interrupted Frank; \"for, when once my heart is\nshaken, it will be as irresistible in its course as one of these\n'thunderbolts of snow.'\"\n\n\"Still, it's nothing but cold snow, for all that,\" cried Harry.\n\n\"Who talks of Frank Elliot and love in the same breath?\" cried Rhimeson;\n\"why, his heart is like a rock, and love, like a torpid serpent,\nenclosed in it.\"\n\n\"True,\" replied Frank; \"but, you know, these same serpents sting as hard\nas ever when once they get into the open air; besides, love, as the\nshepherd in Virgil discovered, is an inhabitant of the rocks.\"\n\n\"Confound the fellow! he's a walking apothegm--as consequential as a\nsyllogism!\" muttered Harry; \"but come now, Frank, let us have the\ninexpressive she, without backing and filling any longer.\"\n\n\"Upon my word, Harry, it is out of my power; but, in a few weeks, I hope\nto\"----said Elliot.\n\n\"Hope, Frank, hope, my good fellow, is a courtier very pleasant and\nagreeable in his conversation, but very much given to forget his\npromises. But I'll tell you, Frank, since you won't give a toast, I\nwill, because I know it will punish you--so, gentlemen\"----\n\nThe toast was only suited for the meridian of the place in which it\nwas given, and we will, therefore, be excused from repeating it. But\nWhitaker had judged rightly that he had punished his friend, who,\nfrom the strictness of his education, and a certain delicacy in his\nopinions respecting women, could never tolerate the desecration of these\nopinions by the libertine ribaldry which forms so great a part of the\nconversation of many men after the first bottle. Frank's brow darkened,\nhis keen eye turned with a glance of indignation to Harry; and he was\nprevented only by the circumstance of being in his own house, from\ninstantly kicking him out of the room.\n\n\"Look at Frank now, gentles,\" continued the young sailor, when the mirth\nhad subsided; \"his face is as long as a ropewalk, while every one of\nyours is as broad as the main hatchway. He has a reverence for women as\ngreat as I have for my own tight, clean, sprightly craft; but because a\nfellow kicks one of my loose spars, or puts it to a base use, I'm not to\nquarrel with him, as if he had called my vessel a collier, eh? Frank, my\ngood fellow, you're too sober; you're thinking too much of yourself;\nyou're looking at the world with convex glasses; and thus the world\nseems little--you yourself only great; but, recollect, everybody looks\nthrough a convex glass; and that's vanity, Frank:--there, now! the\nmurder's out.\"\n\n\"Nay, Harry,\" cried Rhimeson, good-naturedly; for he saw Elliot's nether\nlip grow white with suppressed passion; \"don't push Frank too hard, for\ncharity's sake.\"\n\n\"Charity, to be sure!\" interrupted Harry; \"but consider what I must have\nsuffered if I had not got that dead weight pitched overboard. I was\nlabouring in the trough, man, and would have foundered with that spite\nin my hold. Charity begins at home.\"\n\n\"'Tis a pity that the charity of many persons ends there too,\" said\nFrank drily.\n\n\"Frank's wit is like the King of Prussia's regiment of death,\" said the\nyoung seaman--\"it gives no quarter. But come now, my lads, rig me out a\nfemale craft fit for that snow-blooded youngster to go captain of in the\nvoyage of matrimony; do it shipshape, and bear a hand. I would try it\nmyself; but the room looks, to my eyes, as it were filled with dancing\nlogarithms; and then he's so cold, slow, misty-hearted\"----\n\n\"That if,\" cried Rhimeson, interrupting him, \"he addresses a lady as\ncold, slow, and misty-hearted as himself, they may go on courting the\nwhole course of their natural lives, like the assymptotes of a\nhyperbola, which approach nearer and nearer, _ad infinitum_, without\nthe possibility of ever meeting.\"\n\n\"Ha, ha, ha!--ay,\" shouted Harry; \"and if he addresses one of a sanguine\ntemperament, there will be a pretty considerable traffic of quarrels\ncarried on between them, typified and illustrated very well by the\nconstant commerce of heat which is maintained between the poles and the\nequator, by the agency of opposite currents in the atmosphere. By Jove!\nFrank, matrimony presents the fire of two batteries at you; one rakes\nyou fore and aft, and the other strikes between wind and water.\"\n\n\"And pray, Harry, what sort of a consort will you sail with yourself?\"\ninquired Rhimeson. This was, perhaps, a question, of all others, that\nthe young sailor would have wished to avoid answering at that time. He\nwas the accepted lover of the sister of his friend Elliot--and, at the\nmoment he was running Frank down, to be, as he himself might have said,\nbrought up standing, was sufficiently disagreeable.\n\n\"Come, come, Harry,\" cried the young poet, seeing the sailor hesitate;\n\"let's have her from skysail-mast fid to keel--from starboard to\nlarboard stunsails--from the tip of the flying, jib-boom to the\ntaffrail.\"\n\n\"They're all fireships, Rhimeson!\" replied Harry, with forced\ngaiety--for he was indignant at Elliot's keen and suspicious\nglance--\"and, if I do come near them, it shall always be to windward,\nfor the Christian purpose of blowing them out of the water.\"\n\n\"A libertine,\" said Frank, significantly, \"reviles women just in the\nsame way that licentious priests lay the blame of the disrespect with\nwhich parsons are treated on the irreligion of the laity.\"\n\n\"I don't understand either your wit or your manner, Frank,\" replied\nHarry, giving a lurch in his chair; \"but this I know, that I don't care\na handful of shakings for either of them; and I say still, that women\nare all fireships--keep to windward of them--pretty things to try your\nyoung gunners at; but, if you close with them, you're gone, that's all.\"\n\n\"I'll tell you what you're very like, just now, Harry,\" said Frank--who\nhad been pouring down glass after glass of wine, as if to quench his\nanger--\"you're just like a turkey cock after his head has been cut off,\nwhich will keep stalking on in the same gait for several yards before he\ndrops.\"\n\n\"Elliot! do you mean to insult me?\" cried Whitaker, springing furiously\nfrom his seat.\n\n\"I leave that to the decision of your own incomparable judgment, sir,\"\nreplied Elliot, bowing, with a sneer just visible on his features.\n\n\"If I thought so, Frank, I would----but it's impossible; you\nare my oldest friend.\" And the young sailor sat down with a moody brow.\n\n\"What would you, sir?\" said Elliot, in a tone of calm contempt; \"bear\nit meekly, I presume? Nay, do not look big, and clench your hands, sir,\nunless, like Bob Acres, you feel your valour oozing out at your palms,\nand are striving to retain it!\"\n\n\"I'll tell you what, Elliot,\" cried the young sailor, again springing to\nhis feet, and seizing a decanter of wine by the neck, \"I don't know what\nprevents me from driving this at your head.\"\n\n\"It would be quite in keeping with the rest of your gentlemanly conduct,\nsir,\" replied Frank, still keeping his seat, and looking at Harry with\nthe most cool and provoking derision; \"but I'll tell you why you\ndon't--you dare not!\"\n\n\"But that you are Harriet Elliot's brother\"----began Harry,\nfuriously.\n\n\"Scoundrel!\" thundered Elliot, rising suddenly, and making a stride\ntowards the young sailor, while the veins of his brow protruded like\nlines of cordage; \"utter that name again, before me, with these\nblasphemous lips\"----\n\nElliot had scarce, however, let fall the opprobrious epithet, ere the\ndecanter flew, with furious force, from Whitaker's hand, and, narrowly\nmissing Frank's head, was shivered on the wall beyond.\n\nIn a moment the young sailor was in the nervous grasp of Frank, who,\napparently without the slightest exertion of his vast strength, lifted\nup the comparatively slight form of Whitaker, and laid him on his back\non the floor.\n\n\"Be grateful, sir,\" said he, pressing the prostrate youth firmly down\nwith one hand; \"be grateful to the laws of hospitality, which, though\nyou may think it a slight matter to violate, prevent me from striking\nyou in my own house, or pitching you out of the window. Rise, sir, and\nbegone.\"\n\nHarry rose slowly; and it was almost fearful to see the change which\npassion had wrought in a few moments on his features. The red flush of\ndrunken rage was entirely gone, and the livid cheek, the pale quivering\nlip, and collected eye, which had usurped its place, showed that the\ndegradation he had just undergone had completely sobered him, and given\nhis passion a new but more malignant character. He stood for a brief\nperiod in moody silence, whilst the rest of the young men closed round\nhim and Frank, with the intention of reconciling them. At length he\nmoved away towards the door, pushing his friends rudely aside; but\nturning, before he left the room, he said, in a voice trembling with\nsuppressed emotion--\n\n\"I hope to meet Mr. Elliot where his mere brute strength will be laid\naside for more honourable and equitable weapons.\"\n\n\"I shall be happy, at any place or time, to show my sense of Mr.\nWhitaker's late courtesy,\" replied Frank, bowing slightly, and then\ndrawing up his magnificent figure to its utmost height.\n\n\"Let it be _now_, then, sir,\" said the young sailor, stepping back into\nthe centre of the room, and pointing to a brace of sharps, which, among\nfoils and masks, hung on one of the walls.\n\n\"Oh, no, no!--for God's sake, not now!\" burst from every one except\nFrank.\n\n\"It can neither be now nor here, sir,\" replied he, firmly, motioning\nWhitaker haughtily to the door.\n\n\"Gentlemen,\" said Harry, turning round to his friends with a loud laugh\nof derision, \"you see that vanity is stronger than valour. Pompey's\ntroops were beaten at the battle of Pharsalia, only because they were\nafraid of their pretty faces. Upon my soul, I believe Mr. Elliot's\nhandsome features stand in the way of his gallantry.\"\n\n\"Begone, trifler!\" cried Frank, relapsing into fury.\n\n\"Coward!\" shouted the young sailor at the top of his voice.\n\n\"Ha!\" exclaimed Elliot, starting, as if an adder had stung him; then,\nwith a convulsive effort controlling his rage, he took down the swords,\nthrew one of them upon the table, and putting his arm into Rhimeson's,\nbeckoned the young sailor to follow him, and left the apartment. As it\nwas in vain that the remainder of the young men attempted to restrain\nWhitaker, they agreed to accompany him in a body, in order, if possible,\nto prevent mischief; all but the young advocate whom we have before\nmentioned, who, having too great a respect for the law to patronise\nother methods of redressing grievances, ran off to secure the assistance\nof the city authorities.\n\nThe moon, which had been wading among thick masses of clouds, emerged\ninto the clear blue sky, and scattered her silver showers of light on\nthe rocks and green sides of Arthur's Seat, as the young men reached a\nsecluded part in the valley at its foot.\n\n\"Gracious Heaven!\" exclaimed the young poet to Frank, as they turned to\nwait for Whitaker and his companions, \"how horrible it is to desecrate\na scene and hour like this by violence--perhaps, Elliot, by _murder_!\"\nFrank did not reply; his thoughts were at that time with his aged mother\nand his now unprotected sister; and he bitterly reflected that to\nwhoever of them, in the approaching contest, wounds or death might fall,\npoor Harriet would have equally to suffer. But the young sailor, still\nboiling with rage, at that moment approached, and throwing his cloak on\na rock, cried, \"Now, sir!\" and placed himself in attitude.\n\nTheir swords crossed, and, for a brief space, nothing was heard but the\nhard breathing of the spectators and the clashing of the steel, as the\nwell-practised combatants parried each other's thrusts. Elliot was,\nincomparably, the cooler of the two, and he threw away many chances in\nwhich his adversary placed himself open to a palpable hit, his aim being\nto disarm his antagonist without wounding him. An unforeseen accident\nprevented this. Whitaker, pressing furiously forward, struck his foot\nagainst a stone, and falling, received Elliot's sword in his body, the\nhilt, striking with a deep, quick, sullen sound against his breast. The\nyoung sailor fell with a sharp aspiration of anguish; and his victorious\nadversary, horrified by the sight, and rendered silent by the sudden\nrevulsion of his feelings, stood, for some time, gazing at his sword,\nfrom the point of which the blood drops trickled slowly, and fell on the\ndewy sward. \"'Tis the blood of my dearest, oldest friend--of my brother;\nand shed by my hand!\" he muttered at length, flinging away the guilty\nblade. His only answer was the groans of his victim, and the shrill\nwhistle of the weapon as it flew through the air.\n\n\"Harry, my friend, my brother!\" cried the young man, in a tone of\nunutterable anguish, kneeling down on the grass, and pressing the\nalready cold clammy hand of his late foe.\n\n\"Your voice is pleasant to me, Frank, even in death,\" muttered the young\nsailor, in a thick obstructed voice. \"I have done you wrong--forgive me\nwhile I can hear you; and tell Harriet--oh!\"\n\n\"I do, I do forgive you; but, oh! how shall I forgive myself? Speak to\nme, Harry!\" And Elliot, frantic at the sight of the bloody motionless\nheap before him, repeated the name of his friend till his voice rose\ninto a scream of agony that curdled the very blood of his friends, and\nre-echoed among the rocks above, like the voices of tortured demons.\nAffairs were in this situation when the young advocate came running\nbreathless up to them, and saw, at a glance, that he was too late. \"Fly,\nfor Heaven's sake! fly, Elliot; here is money; you may need it,\" he\ncried; \"the officers will be here instantly, and your existence may be\nthe forfeit of this unhappy chance. Fly! every moment lost is a stab at\nyour life!\"\n\n\"Be it so,\" replied the wretched young man, rising and gazing with\nfolded arms down upon his victim; \"what have I to do with life?--_he_\nhas ceased to live. I will not leave him.\"\n\nHis friends joined in urging Elliot to instant flight; but he only\npointed to the body, and said, in the low tones of calm despair: \"Do you\nthink I can leave him now, and thus? Let those fly who are in love with\nlife; I shall remain and meet my fate.\"\n\n\"Frank Elliot!\" muttered the wounded man, reviving from the fainting fit\ninto which he had fallen; \"come near to me, for I am very weak, and\nswear to grant the request I have to make, as you would have my last\nmoments free from the bitterest agony.\"\n\nElliot flung himself on the ground by the side of his friend, and, in a\nvoice broken by anguish, swore to attend to his words. \"Then leave this\nspot immediately,\" said the young sailor, speaking slowly and with\nextreme difficulty; \"and should this be my last request--as I feel it\nmust be--get out of the country till the present unhappy affair is\nforgotten; and moreover, mark, Frank--and, my friends, attend to my\nwords:--I entreat, I _command_ you to lay the entire blame of this\nquarrel and its consequences on me. One of you will write to my poor\nfather, and say it was my last request that he should consider Elliot\ninnocent, and that I give my dying curse to any one who shall attempt to\nrevenge my death. Ah! that was a pang! How dim your faces look in the\nmoonlight! Your hand, dearest Frank, once more; and now away! Keep this,\nI charge you, from my Harriet--_my_ Harriet! O God!\" And, with a\nshudder, that shook visibly his whole frame, the unfortunate youth\nrelapsed into insensibility. There was a brief pause, during which\nthe feelings of the spectators may be better imagined than described,\nthough, assuredly, admiration of the generous anxiety of the young\nsailor to do justice to his friend was the prevailing sentiment of\ntheir minds. At length the stifled sound of voices, and the dimly seen\nforms of two or three men stealing towards them, within the shadow of\nthe mountain, roused them from their reverie; and Rhimeson, who had\nnot till now spoken, entreated Elliot to obey the dying request of his\nfriend, and fly before the police reached them. \"I have not before urged\nyou to this,\" he said, \"lest you should think it was from a selfish\nmotive; for, as your second, I am equally implicated with you in this\nunhappy affair; but _now_,\" continued he, with melancholy emphasis,\n\"there is nothing to be gained and everything to be hazarded by\nremaining.\"\n\nThe generous argument of the poet at length overcame Elliot's\nresolution; he bent down quickly and kissed the cold lips of his friend,\nthen waving a silent adieu to the others, he quitted the melancholy\nscene. The police--for it proved to be they--were within a hundred\nyards of the spot when the young men left the rest of the group, and,\ninstantly emerging from the shadow which had till now partially\nconcealed them, the leader of the party directed one of his attendants\nto remain with the body, and set off, with two or three others, in\npursuit of the fugitives.\n\n\"Follow me,\" cried Rhimeson, when he saw this movement of the pursuers;\nand springing as he spoke towards the entrance of a narrow defile which\nlay entirely in the shadow of the mountain. A deep convulsive sob burst\nfrom the pent-up bosom of Elliot ere he replied: \"Leave me to my fate,\nmy friend; I cannot fly; the weight of his blood crushes me!\"\n\n\"This is childish, unjust,\" said Rhimeson, with strong emotion; \"but\nonce more, Frank, will you control this weakness and follow me, or will\nyou slight the last wish of one friend, and sacrifice another, by\nremaining? for without you I will not stir. Now, choose.\"\n\n\"Lead on,\" said Elliot, rousing himself with a convulsive effort; and,\nstriking into the gloom, the two young men sped forward with a step as\nfleet as that of the hunted deer.\n\nTheir pursuers having seen them stand, had slackened their pace, or it\nis probable the fugitives would have been captured before Rhimeson had\nprevailed on his friend to fly; but now, separating so as to intercept\nthem if they deviated from the direct path, the policemen raised a loud\nshout and instantly gave chase. But the young poet, in his solitary\nrambles amid the noble scenery of Arthur's Seat and the adjoining\nvalleys, had become intimately acquainted with every path which led\nthrough their romantic recesses; and he now sped along the broken\nfootway which skirted the mountain-side with as much confidence as if\nhe had trod on a level sward in the light of noonday. Elliot, having\nhis mind diverted by the necessity of looking to his immediate\npreservation--for the path, strewed with fragments of rock, led along\nwhat might well be termed a precipice, of two or three hundred feet in\nheight--roused up all his energies, and followed his friend with a speed\nwhich speedily left their pursuers far behind. Thus they held on for\nabout a quarter of an hour, gradually and obliquely ascending the\nmountain side, until the voices of the policemen, calling to each other\nfar down in the valley, proved that they had escaped the immediate\ndanger which had threatened them. Still, however, Rhimeson kept on,\nthough he relaxed his pace in order to hold some communication with his\ncompanion.\n\n\"We have distanced the bloodhounds for the nonce, Frank,\" he said;\n\"these ale-swilling rascals cannot set a stout heart to a stey brae; but\nwhither shall we go now? Edinburgh, perhaps Scotland, is too hot to hold\nus, and the point is how to get out of it. What do you advise?\"\n\n\"I am utterly careless about it, Rhimeson; do as you think best,\"\nreplied Elliot, in a tone of deep despondency.\n\n\"Cheer up, cheer up! my dear Frank,\" said the young poet, feigning a\nconfidence of hope which his heart belied. \"Whitaker may still recover;\nhe is too gallant a fellow to be lost to us in a drunken brawl; and even\nif the worst should happen, it must still keep you from despair to\nreflect that you were forced into this rencontre, and that it was\nan unhappy accident, resulting from his own violence and not your\nintention, which deprived him of his life.\" Elliot stopped suddenly, and\ngazing down from the height which they had now reached into the valley,\nseemed to be searching for the spot where the fatal accident had taken\nplace, as if to assist him in the train of thought which his friend's\nwords had aroused. The dark group of human beings were seen dimly in the\nmoonlight, moving with a slow pace along the hollow of the gorge towards\nthe city, bearing along with them the body of the young sailor.\n\n\"Dear, dear Frank,\" said Rhimeson, deeply commiserating the anguish\nwhich developed itself in the clasped uplifted hands and shuddering\nframe of his unhappy friend, \"bear up against this cruel accident like\na man--he may still recover.\" Elliot moved away from the ridge which\noverlooked the valley, muttering, as if unconsciously--\n\n                  \"'Action is momentary--\n    The motion of a muscle this way or that;\n    Suffering is long, obscure, and infinite!'[G]\n\nHow profound and awful is that sentiment!\"\n\n [G] Wordsworth.\n\nThe sound of a piece of rock dislodged from the mountain side, and\nthundering and crashing down the steep, awakened Rhimeson from his\ncontemplation of Elliot's grief; and, springing again to the brink of\nthe almost precipitous descent, he saw that one of their pursuers had\ncrept up by the inequalities of the rock, and was within a few yards of\nthe summit.\n\n\"Dog!\" cried the young man, heaving off a fragment of rock, and in the\nact of dashing it down upon the unprotected head of the policeman,\n\"offer to stir, and I will scatter your brains upon the cliffs!\"\n\nA shrill cry of terror burst from the poor fellow's lips as he gazed\nupwards at the frightful attitude of his enemy, and expected every\nmoment to see the dreadful engine hurled at his head. The cry was\nanswered by the shouts of his companions, who, by different paths, had\narrived within a short distance of the fugitives.\n\n\"Retire miscreant! or I will send your mangled carcass down to the foot\nwithout your help,\" shouted Rhimeson, swinging the huge stone up to the\nextent of his arms. His answer was a pistol shot, which, whistling past\nhis cheek, struck the uplifted fragment of rock with such force as to\nsend a stunning feeling up to his very shoulders. The stone fell from\nhis benumbed grasp, and, striking the edge of the cliff, bounded\ninnocuous over the head of the policeman, who, springing upwards, was\nwithin a few feet of Rhimeson before he had fully recovered himself.\n\"Away!\" he cried, taking again the path up the mountain, and closely\nfollowed by Elliot, who, during the few moments in which the foregoing\nscene was being enacted, had remained almost motionless--\"Away! give\nthem a flying shot at least,\" continued he, feeling all the romance of\nhis nature aroused by the circumstances in which he was placed. The\npoliceman, however, who had only fired in self-defence, refrained from\nusing his other pistol, now that the danger was past; but grasping it\nfirmly in his hand, he followed the steps of the young men with a\nspeed stimulated by the desire of revenge, and a kind of professional\neagerness to capture so daring an offender. But, in spite of his\nexertions, the superior agility of the fugitives gradually widened the\ndistance between them; and at length, as they emerged from the rocky\nground upon the smooth short grass, where a footfall could not be\nheard, the moon became again obscured by dark clouds, and Rhimeson,\nwhispering his companion to observe his motions, turned short off the\npath they had been following, and struck eastward among the green hills\ntowards the sea. They could hear the curse of the policeman, and the\nclick of his pistol lock, as if he had intended to send a leaden\nmessenger into the darkness in search of them. But the expected report\ndid not follow; and, favoured by the continued obscurity of the night,\nthey were, in a short time, descending the hill behind Duddingstone,\nwhich lies at the opposite extremity of the King's Park. Still\ncontinuing their route eastward, they walked forward at a rapid pace,\nconsulting on their future movements. The sound of wheels rapidly\napproaching, interrupted their conversation. It was the south mail.\n\nIn a short time they were flying through the country towards Newcastle,\nat the rate of ten miles an hour, including stoppages. Elliot was at the\nriver side, searching for a vessel to convey them to some part of the\ncontinent, and Rhimeson was dozing over a newspaper in the Turk's Head\nin that town, when a policeman entered, and, mistaking him for Elliot,\ntook him into custody. How their route had been discovered, Rhimeson\nknew not; but he was possessed of sufficient presence of mind to\npersonate his friend, and offer to accompany the police officer\ninstantly back to Edinburgh, leaving a letter and a considerable sum of\nmoney for Elliot. In a few minutes, the generous fellow leaped into the\npost-chaise, with a heart as light as many a bridegroom when flying on\nthe wings of love and behind the tails of four broken-winded hacks to\nsome wilderness, where \"transport and security entwine\"--the anticipated\nscene of a delicious honeymoon. Elliot, while in search of a vessel, had\nfallen in with a young man whom he had known as a medical student at\nEdinburgh, and who was now about to go as surgeon of a Greenland vessel,\nin order to earn, during the summer, the necessary sum for defraying his\ncollege expenses. He accompanied Elliot to his inn, and heard, during\nthe way, the story of his misfortunes. It is unnecessary to describe\nFrank's surprise and grief at the capture of his friend, Rhimeson. At\nfirst, he determined instantly to return and relieve him from durance.\nBut, influenced by the entreaties contained in Rhimeson's note, and by\nthe arguments of the young Northumbrian, he at length changed this\nresolution, and determined on accepting the situation of surgeon in the\nwhaling vessel for which his present companion had been about to depart.\nFrank presented the Northumbrian with a sum more than equal to the\nexpected profits of the voyage, and received his thanks in tones wherein\nthe natural roughness of his accent was increased to a fearful degree by\nthe strength of his emotion. All things being arranged, Frank shook his\nacquaintance by the hand, and remarked that it would be well for him to\nkeep out of the way for a while. So bidding the man of harsh aspirations\nadieu, he made his way to the coach, and, in twenty-four hours, was\nembarked in the _Labrador_, with a stiff westerly breeze ready to carry\nhim away from all that he loved and dreaded.\n\nLet the reader imagine that six months have passed over--and let him\nimagine, also, if he can, the anguish which the mother and sister of\nElliot suffered on account of his mysterious disappearance. It was now\nSeptember. The broad harvest moon was shining full upon the bosom of\nTeviot, and glittering upon the rustling leaves of the woods that\noverhang her banks, and pouring a flood of more golden light upon the\nalready golden grain that waved--ripe for the sickle--along the margin\nof the lovely stream, the stars, few in number, but most brilliant, had\ntaken their places in the sky; the owl was whooping from the ivied\ntower; the corn-craik was calling drowsily; now and then the distant\nbaying of a watch-dog startled the silence, otherwise undisturbed, save\nby the plaintive murmuring of the stream, which, as it flowed past,\nuttered such querulous sounds, that, as some one has happily expressed\nit, \"one was almost tempted to ask what ailed it.\" A traveller was\nmoving slowly up the side of the river, and ever and anon stopping, as\nif to muse over some particular object. It was Elliot. He had returned\nfrom Greenland, and, in disguise, had come to the place of his birth--to\nthe dwelling of his mother and his sister; he had heard that his mother\nwas ill--that anxiety, on his account, had reduced her almost to the\ngrave--and that she was now but slowly recovering. He had been able to\nacquire no information respecting Whitaker; and the weight of his\nfriend's blood lay yet heavy on his soul, for he considered himself as\nhis murderer. It was with feelings of the most miserable anxiety that he\napproached the place of his birth. The stately beeches that lined the\navenue which led to his mother's door were in sight; they stooped and\nraised their stately branches, with all the gorgeous drapery of leaves,\nas if they welcomed him back; the very river seemed to utter, in accents\nfamiliar to him, that he was now near the hall of his fathers. Oh! how\nis the home of our youth enshrined in our most sacred affections! by\nwhat multitudinous fibres is it entwined with our heart-strings!--it is\npart of our being--its influences remain with us for ever, though years\nspent in foreign lands divide us from \"our early home that cradled life\nand love.\" Elliot was framed to feel keenly these sacred influences--and\noften, even after brief absences from home, he had experienced them in\ndeep intensity; but now the throb of exultation was kept down by the\ncrushing weight of remorse, and the gush of tenderness checked by bitter\nfears. He entered the avenue which led up to the house. Yonder were the\nwindows of his mother's chamber--there was a light in it. He would have\ngiven worlds to have seen before him the interior. As he quickened his\npace, he heard the sound of voices in the avenue. He turned aside out of\nthe principal walk; and, standing under the branches of a venerable\nbeech, which swept down almost to the ground, and fully concealed him,\nhe waited the approach of the speakers, in hopes of hearing some\nintelligence respecting his family. Through the screen of the leaves he\npresently saw that it was a pair of lovers, for their arms were locked\naround each other, and their cheeks were pressed together as they came\ndown the avenue--treading as slowly as though they were attempting to\nshow how much of rest there might be in motion.\n\n\"To-morrow, then, my sweet Harriet,\" said the young man, \"I leave you;\nand though it is torture to me to be away from your side, yet I have\nresolved never again to see you until I have made the most perfect\nsearch for your brother; until I can win a dearer embrace than any I\nhave yet received, by placing him before you.\"\n\n\"Would to heaven it may be so!\" replied the young lady; \"but my\nmother--how will I be able to support her when you are gone, dearest\nHenry? She is kept up only by the happy strains of hope which your\nvery voice creates. How shall I, myself unsupported, ever keep her from\ndespondency? Oh! she will sink--she will die! Remain with us, Henry; and\nlet us trust to providence to restore my brother to us--if he be yet\nalive!\"\n\n\"Ask it not, my beloved Harriet, I beseech you,\" said the young man,\n\"lest I be unable to deny you. If your brother, as is likely, has sought\nsome foreign land, and remains in ignorance of my recovery from the\nwounds I received from him, how shall I answer to myself--how shall I\neven dare to ask for this fair hand--how shall I ever hope to rest upon\nyour bosom in peace--if I do not use every possible means to discover\nhim? O my dear Elliot--friend of my youth--if thou couldest translate\nthe language of my heart, as it beats at this moment--if thou couldest\nhear my sacred resolve!\"--\n\n\"Whitaker, my friend! Harriet, my beloved sister!\" cried Elliot,\nbursting out from beneath the overspreading beech, and snatching his\nsister in his arms--\"I am here--I see all--I understand the whole of the\nevents--how much too graciously brought about for me, Father of mercies!\nI acknowledge. Let us now go to my mother.\"\n\nIt is in scenes such as this that we find how weak words are to describe\nthe feelings of the actors--the rapid transition of events--the passions\nthat chase one another over the minds and hearts of those concerned,\nlike waves in a tempest. Nor is it necessary. The reader who can feel\nand comprehend such situations as those in which the actors in our\nlittle tale are placed, are able to draw, from their own hearts and\nimaginations, much fitter and more rapidly sketched portraitures of the\npassions which are awakened, the feelings that develop themselves in\nsuch situations and with such persons, than can be painted in words.\n\nThe harvest moon was gone, and another young moon was in the skies, when\nWhitaker, and the same young lady of whom we before spoke, trode down\nthe avenue, locked in each other's arms, and with cheek pressed to\ncheek. They talked of a thousand things most interesting to persons\nin their situation--for they were to be married on the morrow--but,\nperhaps, not so interesting to our readers, many of whom may have\nperformed in the same scenes.\n\nElliot's mother was recovered; and he himself was happy, or, at least,\nhe put on all the trappings of happiness; for, in a huge deer-skin\nEsquimaux dress, which he had brought from Greenland, he danced at his\nsister's wedding until the great bear had set in the sea, and the autumn\nsun began to peer through the shutters of the drawing-room of his\nancient hall.\n\n\n\n\nPHILIPS GREY.\n\n            \"Death takes a thousand shapes:\n    Borne on the wings of sullen slow disease,\n    Or hovering o'er the field of bloody fight,\n    In calm, in tempest, in the dead of night,\n    Or in the lightning of the summer moon;\n    In all how terrible!\"\n\n\nAmong the many scenes of savage sublimity which the lowlands of Scotland\ndisplay, there is none more impressive in its solitary grandeur, than\nthat in the neighbourhood of Loch Skene, on the borders of Moffatdale.\nAt a considerable elevation above the sea, and surrounded by the\nloftiest mountains in the south of Scotland, the loch has collected\nits dark mass of waters, astonishing the lovers of nature by its great\nheight above the valley which he has just ascended, and, by its still\nand terrible beauty, overpowering his mind with sentiments of melancholy\nand awe. Down the cliffs which girdle in the shores of the loch, and\nseem to support the lofty piles of mountains above them, a hundred\nmountain torrents leap from rock to rock, flashing and roaring, until\nthey reach the dark reservoir beneath. A canopy of grey mist almost\ncontinually shrouds from the sight the summits of the hills, leaving the\nimagination to guess at those immense heights which seem to pierce the\nvery clouds of heaven. Occasionally, however, this veil is withdrawn,\nand then you may see the sovereign brow of Palmoodie encircled with his\ndiadem of snow, and the green summits of many less lofty hills arranged\nround him, like courtiers uncovered before their monarch. Amid this\nscene, consecrated to solitude and the most sombre melancholy, no sound\ncomes upon the mountain breeze, save the wail of the plover, or the\nwhir of the heathcock's wing, or, haply, the sullen plunge of a trout\nleaping up in the loch.\n\nAt times, indeed, the solitary wanderer may be startled by the scream of\nthe grey eagle, as dropping with the rapidity of light from his solitary\ncliff, he shoots past, enraged that his retreat is polluted by the\npresence of man, and then darts aloft into the loftiest chambers of\nthe sky; or, dallying with the piercing sunbeams, is lost amid their\nglory.[H] At the eastern extremity of the loch, the superfluous waters\nare discharged by a stream of no great size, but which, after heavy\nshowers, pours along its deep and turbid torrent with frightful\nimpetuosity.\n\n [H] Round about the shores of Loch Skene the Ettrick Shepherd\n herded the flocks of his master, and fed his boyish fancies with the\n romance and beauty which breathes from every feature of the scene. One\n day, when we were at Loch Skene on a fishing excursion with him, he\n pointed up to the black crag overhanging the water, and said--\"You see\n the edge o' that cliff; I ance as near dropped frae it intil eternity as\n I dinna care to think o'. I was herdin' aboot here, and lang and lang I\n thocht o' speelin' up to the eyry, frae which I could hear the young\n eagles screamin' as plain as my ain bonny Mary Gray (his youngest\n daughter) when she's no pleased wi' the colley; but the fear o' the auld\n anes aye keepit me frae the attempt. At last, ae day, when I was at the\n head o' the cliff, and the auld eagle away frae the nest, I took heart\n o' grace, and clambered down (for there was nae gettin' up). Weel, sir,\n I was at the maist kittle bit o' the craig, wi' my foot on a bit ledge\n just wide enough to bear me, and sair bothered wi' my plaid and stick,\n when, guid saf's! I heard the boom o' the auld eagle's wings come whaff,\n whaffing through the air, and in a moment o' time she brought me sic a\n whang wi' her wing, as she rushed enraged by, and then turning short\n again and fetching me anither, I thought I was gane for ever; but\n providence gave me presence o' mind to regain my former resting-place,\n and there flinging off my plaid, I keepit aye nobbing the bird wi' my\n stick till I was out o' danger. It was a fearsome time!\" It would have\n been dreadful had the pleasure which \"Kilmeny,\" \"Queen Hynde,\" and the\n hundred other beautiful creations which the glorious old bard has given\n us, been all thus destroyed \"at one fell swoop.\"\n\nAfter running along the mountain for about half a mile, it suddenly\nprecipitates itself over the edge of a rocky ridge which traverses its\ncourse, and, falling sheer down a height of three hundred feet, leaps\nand bounds over some smaller precipices, until, at length, far down in\nMoffatdale, it entirely changes its character, and pursues a calm and\npeaceful course through a fine pastoral country. Standing on the brow\nof a mountain which overlooks the fall, the eye takes in at once the\nwhole of the course which we have described; and, to a poetical mind,\nwhich recognises in mountain scenery the cradle of liberty and the\nfavourite dwelling-place of imagination, the character of the stream\nseems a type of the human mind: stormy, bounding, and impetuous, when\nwrapped up in the glorious feelings which belong to romantic countries;\npeaceful, dull, and monotonous, amid the less interesting lowlands. Yet,\nafter indulging in such a fancy for a time, another reflection arises,\nwhich, if it be less pleasing and poetical, is, perhaps, more\nuseful--that the impetuous course of the mountain torrent, though\ngratifying to the lover of nature, is unaccompanied with any other\nbenefit to man, while the stream that pursues its unpretending path\nthrough the plains, bestows fertility on a thousand fields. Such\nthoughts as these, however, only arise in the mind when it has become\nsomewhat familiar with the surrounding scenes. The roar of the cataract,\nthe savage appearance of the dark rocks that border the falling waters,\nand that painful feeling which the sweeping and inevitable course of the\nstream produces, at first paralyze the mind, and, for some time after it\nhas recovered its tone, occupy it to the exclusion of every other\nsentiment.\n\nAnd now, gentle reader, let us walk toward the simple stone seat, which\nsome shepherd boy has erected under yon silvery-stemmed birch tree,\nwhere the sound of the waterfall comes only in a pleasant monotone, and\nwhere the most romantic part of old Scotland is spread beneath our feet.\nThere you see the eternal foam of the torrent, without being distracted\nwith its roar; and you can trace the course of the stream till it\nterminates in yon clear and pellucid pool at the foot of the hill,\nwhich seems too pure for aught but--\n\n    \"A mirror and a bath for beauty's youngest daughters;\"\n\nyet, beautiful in its purity as it seems, it is indeed the scene of the\nfollowing true and terrible tale:--\n\nPhilips Grey was one of the most active young shepherds in the parish of\nTraquair. For two or three years he had carried off the medal given at\nthe St. Ronan's border games to him who made the best high leap; and,\nat the last meeting of the games, he had been first at the running\nhop-step-and-jump; had beat all competitors in running; and, though but\nslightly formed, had gained the second prize for throwing the hammer--a\nfavourite old Scottish exercise, but almost unknown in England. Athletic\nsports were, indeed, his favourite pursuit, and he cultivated them with\nan ardour which very few of our readers will be able to imagine. But\namong the shepherds, and, indeed, all inhabitants of pastoral districts,\nhe who excels in these sports possesses a superiority over his\ncontemporaries, which cannot but be gratifying in the highest degree to\nits possessor. His name is known far and wide; his friendship is courted\nby the men; and his hand, either as a partner in a country dance, or in\na longer \"minuet of the heart,\" marriage, is coquetted for by the\nmaidens: he, in fact, possesses all the power which superiority of\nintellect bestows in more populous and polished societies. But it is by\nno means the case, as is often said, that ardour in the pursuit of\nviolent sports is connected with ignorance or mediocrity of intellect.\nOn the contrary, by far the greater number of victors at games of\nagility and strength, will be found to possess a degree of mental\nenergy, which is, in fact, the power that impels them to corporeal\nexcitement, and is often the secret of their success over more muscular\nantagonists. Philips Grey, in particular, was a striking instance of\nthis fact. Notwithstanding his passion for athletic sports, he had found\ntime, while on the hillside tending his flock, or in the long winter\nnights, to make himself well acquainted with the Latin classics. This\nis by no means uncommon among the Scottish peasantry. Smith, and Black,\nand Murray, are not singular instances of self-taught scholars; for\nthere is scarce a valley in Scotland in which you will not hear of one\nor more young men of this stamp. Philips also played exquisitely on the\nviolin, and had that true taste for the simple Scottish melody which\ncan, perhaps, be nowhere cultivated so well as among the mountains and\nstreams which have frequently inspired them. Many a time, when you ask\nthe name of the author of some sweet ballad which the country girl is\nbreathing amongst these hills, the tear will start into her eye as she\nanswers--\"Poor Philips Grey, that met a dreadful death at the Grey\nMare's Tail.\" With these admirable qualities, Philips unfortunately\npossessed a mood of mind which is often an attendant on genius--he was\nsubject to attacks of the deepest melancholy. Gay, cheerful, humorous,\nactive, and violent in his sports as he was, there were periods when the\ndarkest gloom overshadowed his mind, and when his friends even trembled\nfor his reason. It is said that he frequently stated his belief that he\nshould die a dreadful death. Alas! that this strange presentiment should\nhave indeed been prophetic! It is not surprising that Philips Grey, with\nhis accomplishments, should have won the heart of a maiden somewhat\nabove his own degree, and even gained the consent of her father to his\nearly marriage. The old man dwelt in Moffatdale; and the night before\nPhilips' wedding-day, he and his younger brother walked over to his\nintended father-in-law's house, in order to be nearer the church. That\nnight the young shepherd was in his gayest humour; his bonny bride was\nby his side, and looking more beautiful than ever; he sang his finest\nsongs, played his favourite tunes, and completely bewitched his\ncompanions. All on a sudden, while he was relating some extraordinary\nfeat of strength which had been performed by one of his acquaintances,\nhe stopped in the middle of the story, and exchanged the animation with\nwhich he was speaking for silence and a look of the deepest despair. His\nfriends were horror-struck; but as he insisted that nothing was the\nmatter with him, and as his younger brother said that he had not been in\nbed for two nights, the old man dismissed the family, saying--\"Gang awa\nto bed, Philips, my man, and get a sound sleep; or if you do lie wauken\na wee bittie, it's nae great matter: odd! it's the last nicht my bonny\nMarion 'll keep ye lying wauken for her sake. Will't no, my bonnie doo?\"\n\n\"Deed, faither, I dinna ken,\" quoth Marion, simply, yet archly; and the\nparty separated.\n\nPhilips, however, walked down the burn side, in order to try if the cool\nair would dissipate his unaccountable anxiety. But, in spite of his\nefforts, a presentiment of some fatal event gathered strength in his\nmind, and he involuntarily found himself revolving the occurrences of\nhis past life. Here he found little to condemn, for he had never\nreceived an unkind word from his father, who was now in the grave; and\nhis mother was wearing out a green and comfortable old age beneath his\nown roof. He had brought up his younger brothers, and they were now in\na fair way to succeed in life. He could not help feeling satisfied at\nthis, yet why peculiarly at this time he knew not. Then came the thought\nof his lovely Marion, and the very agony which at once rushed on his\nheart had well nigh choked him. Immediately, however, the fear which had\nhung about him seemed to vanish; for, strange and mysterious as it was,\nit was not sufficiently powerful to withstand the force of that other\nhorrible imagination. So he returned to the house, and was surprised to\nfind himself considering how his little property should be distributed\nafter his death. When he reached the door, he stopped for a moment,\novercome with this pertinacity in the supernatural influence which\nseemed exercised over him; and at length, with gloomy resolution,\nentered the house. His brother was asleep, and a candle was burning on\nthe table. He sank down into a chair, and went on with his little\ncalculations respecting his will. At length, having decided upon all\nthese things, and having fixed upon the churchyard of St. Mary's for his\nburial place, he arose from his chair, took up the candle and crossed\nthe room towards his brother, intending to convey his wishes to him.\n\nThe boy lay on the front side of one of those beds with sliding doors,\nso common in Scotland; and beyond him there was room for Philips to lie\ndown. Something bright seemed gleaming in the dark recess of the bed. He\nadvanced the candle, and beheld--oh, sight of horror!--a plate upon what\nbore the shape of a coffin, bearing the words--\"Philips Grey, aged 23.\"\nFor a moment he gazed steadily upon it, and was about to stretch out his\nhand towards it, when the lid slowly rose, and he beheld a mutilated and\nbloody corpse, the features of which were utterly undistinguishable, but\nwhich, by some unearthly impulse, he instantly knew to be his own. Still\nhe kept a calm and unmoved gaze at it, though the big drops of sweat\nstood on his brow with the agony of his feelings; and, while he was thus\ncontemplating the dreadful revelation, it gradually faded away, and at\nlength totally vanished. The power which had upheld him seemed to depart\nalong with the phantom; his sight failed him, and he fell on the floor.\n\nPresently he recovered, and found himself in bed, with his brother by\nhis side chafing his temples. He explained everything that had occurred,\nseemed calm and collected, shook his head when his brother attempted to\nexplain away the vision, and finally sank into a tranquil sleep.\n\nWhether the horrible resemblance of his own coffin and mutilated corpse\nwas in reality revealed to him by the agency of some supernatural power,\nor whether it was (as sceptics will say) the natural effect of his\nhypochondriac state of mind, producing an optical deception, we will not\ntake upon us to determine; certain, however, it is, that with a calm\nvoice and collected manner he described to his brother James, a scene\nthe dreadful reality of which was soon to be displayed.\n\nIn the morning Philips awoke, cheerful and calm, the memory of last\nnight's occurrences seeming but a dreadful dream. On the grass before\nthe door he met his beloved Marion, who, on that blessed Sabbath, was to\nbecome his wife. The sight of her perfect loveliness, arrayed in a white\ndress, emblem of purity and innocence, filled his heart with rapture;\nand as he clasped her in his arms, every sombre feeling vanished away.\nIt is not our intention to describe the simplicity of the marriage\nceremony, or the happiness which filled Philips Grey's heart during that\nSabbath morning, while sitting in the church by the side of his lovely\nbride.\n\nThey returned home, and, in the afternoon, the young couple, together\nwith James Grey and the bride's-maid, walked out among the glades of\nCraigieburn wood, a spot rendered classic by the immortal Burns.\nPhilips had gathered some of the wild flowers that sprang among their\nfeet--the pale primrose, the fair anemone, and the drooping blue bells\nof Scotland--and wove them into a garland. As he was placing them on\nMarion's brow, and shading back the long flaxen tresses that hung across\nher cheek, he said, gaily--\"There wants but a broad water lily to place\nin the centre of thy forehead, my sweet Marion; for where should the\nfairest flower of the valley be, but on the brow of its queen? Come with\nme, Jamie, and in half an hour we will bring the fairest that floats on\nLoch Skene.\" So, kissing the cheek of his bride, Philips and his\nbrother set off up the hill with the speed of the mountain deer. They\narrived at the foot of the waterfall, panting, and excited with their\nexertions. By climbing up the rocks close to the stream, the distance to\nthe loch is considerably shortened; and Philips, who had often clambered\nto the top of the Bitch Craig, a high cliff on the Manor Water, proposed\nto his brother that they should \"speel the height.\" The other, a supple\nagile lad, instantly consented. \"Gie me your plaid then, Jamie, my\nman--it will maybe fash ye,\" said Philips; \"and gang ye first, and keep\nweel to the hill side.\" Accordingly the boy gave his brother the plaid\nand began the ascent. While Philips was knotting his brother's plaid\nround his body above his own, a fox peeped out of his hole half way up\nthe cliff, and thinking flight advisable, dropped down the precipice.\nLaughing till the very echoes rang, Philips followed his brother.\nConfident in his agility, he ascended with a firm step till he was\nwithin a few yards of the summit. James was now on the top of the\nprecipice, and looking down on his brother, and not knowing the cause of\nhis mirth, exclaimed--\"Daursay, callant, ye're fey.\"[I] In a moment the\nmemory of his last night's vision rushed on Philips Grey's mind, his\neyes became dim, his limbs powerless, he dropped off the very edge of\nthe giddy precipice, and his form was lost in the black gulf below. For\na few minutes, James felt a sickness of heart which rendered him almost\ninsensible, and sank down on the grass lest he should fall over the\ncliff. At length, gathering strength from very terror, he advanced to\nthe edge of the cataract and gazed downwards. There, about two-thirds\ndown the fall, he could perceive the remains of his brother, mangled and\nmutilated; the body being firmly wedged between two projecting points of\nrock, whereon the descending water streamed, while the bleeding head\nhung dangling, and almost separated from the body--and, turned upwards,\ndiscovered to the horrified boy the starting eye-balls of his brother,\nalready fixed in death, and the teeth clenched in the bitter agony which\nhad tortured his passing spirit.\n\n [I] \"Fey,\" a Scottish word, expressive of that unaccountable\n and violent mirth which is supposed frequently to portend sudden\n death.--ED.\n\nIt is scarcely necessary to detail the consequences of this cruel\naccident. Assistance was procured, and the mangled body conveyed to\nthe house of Marion's father, whence, a few short hours ago, the young\nshepherd had issued in vigour and happiness. When the widowed bride saw\nJames Grey return to them with horror painted on his features, she\nseemed instantly to divine the full extent of her misfortune; she sank\ndown on the grass, with the unfinished garland of her dead lover in her\nhand, and in this state was carried home. For two days she passed from\none fit to another; but on the night of the second day she sank into a\ndeep sleep. That night, James Grey was watching the corpse of his\nbrother; the coffin was placed on the very bed where they had slept\ntwo nights ago. The plate gleamed from the shadowy recess, and the\nwords--\"Philips Grey, aged 23,\" were distinctly visible. While James was\nreflecting on the prophetic vision of his brother, a figure, arrayed in\nwhite garments, entered the room and moved towards the dead body. It was\npoor Marion.\n\nShe slowly lifted the lid of the coffin, and gazed long and intently on\nthe features of her dead husband. Then, turning round to James, she\nuttered a short shrill shriek, and fell backwards on the corpse. She\nhovered between life and death for a few days, and at length expired.\nShe now lies by the side of her lover, in the solitary burial ground of\nSt. Mary's.\n\nSuch is the event which combines, with others not less dark and\nterrible, to throw a wild interest around those gloomy rocks. Many a\ntime you will hear the story from the inhabitants of those hills; and,\nuntil fretted away by the wind and rain, the plaid and the bonnet of the\nunfortunate Philips Grey hung upon the splintered precipice to attest\nthe truth of the tale.\n\n\n\n\nDONALD GORM.\n\n\nIn a remote corner of Assynt, one of the most remote and savage\ndistricts in the Highlands of Scotland, there is a certain wild and\nromantic glen, called Eddernahulish. In the picturesqueness of this\nglen, however, neither wood nor rock has any share; and, although it may\nbe difficult to conceive of any place possessing that character without\nthese ordinary adjuncts, it is, nevertheless, true, that Eddernahulish,\nwith neither tree nor precipice, is yet strikingly picturesque. The wide\nsweep of the heath-clad hills whose gradual descents form the spacious\nglen, and the broad and brawling stream careering through its centre,\ngive the place an air of solitude and of quiet repose that,\nnotwithstanding its monotony, is exceedingly impressive.\n\nOn gaining any of the many points of elevation that command a view of\nthis desolate strath, you may descry, towards its western extremity, a\nsmall, rude, but massive stone bridge, grey with age; for it was erected\nin the time of that laird of Assynt who rendered himself for ever\ninfamous by betraying the Duke of Montrose, who had sought and obtained\nthe promise of his protection, to his enemies.\n\nClose by this bridge stands a little highland cottage, of, however, a\nconsiderably better order than the common run of such domiciles in this\nquarter of the world; and bespeaking a condition, as to circumstances,\non the part of its occupants, which is by no means general in the\nHighlands.\n\n\"Well what of this cottage?\" says the impatient reader.\n\n\"What of it?\" say we, with the proud consciousness of having something\nworth hearing to tell of it. \"Why, was it not the birthplace of Donald\nGorm?\"\n\n\"And, pray, who or what was Donald Gorm?\"\n\n\"We were just going to tell you when you interrupted us; and we will now\nproceed to the fulfilment of that intention.\"\n\nDonald Gorm was a rough, rattling, outspoken, hot-headed, and\nwarm-hearted highlander, of about two-and-thirty years of age. Bold as a\nlion, and strong as a rhinoceros, with great bodily activity, he feared\nnobody; and having all the irascibility of his race, would fight with\nanybody at a moment's notice. Possessing naturally a great flow of\nanimal spirits and much ready wit, Donald was the life and soul of every\nmerry-making in which he bore a part. In the dance, his joyous whoop and\nhaloo might be heard a mile off; and the hilarious crack of his finger\nand thumb, nearly a third of that distance. Donald, in short, was one of\nthose choice spirits that are always ready for anything, and who, by the\nforce of their individual energies, can keep a whole country-side in a\nstir. As to his occupations, Donald's were various--sometimes farming,\n(assisting his father, with whom he lived,) sometimes herring fishing,\nand sometimes taking a turn at harvest work in the Lowlands--by which\nindustry he had scraped a few pounds together; and, being unmarried,\nwith no one to care for but himself, he was thus comparatively\nindependent--a circumstance which kept Donald's head at its highest\nelevation, and his voice, when he spoke, at the top of its bent.\n\nThe tenor of our story requires that we should now advert to another\nmember of Donald's family. This is a brother of the latter's, who bore\nthe euphonious and high-flavoured patronymic of Duncan Dhu M'Tavish\nGorm, or, simply, Duncan Gorm, as he was, for shortness, called,\nalthough certainly baptized by the formidable list of names just given.\n\nThis Duncan Gorm was a man of totally different character from his\nbrother Donald. He was of a quiet and peaceable disposition and\ndemeanour--steady, sober, and conscientious; qualities which were\nthought to adapt him well for the line of life in which he was\nplaced. This was as a domestic servant in the family of an extensive\nhighland proprietor, of the name of Grant. In this capacity Duncan\nhad, about a year or so previous to the precise period when our story\ncommences--which, by the way, we beg the reader to observe, is now some\nninety years past--gone to the continent, as a personal attendant on the\nelder son of his master, whose physicians had recommended his going\nabroad for the benefit of his health.\n\nIt was, then, about a year after the departure of Duncan and his master,\nthat Donald's father received a letter from his son, intimating the\ndeath of his young master, which had taken place at Madrid, and, what\nwas much more surprising intelligence, that the writer had determined on\nsettling in the city just named, as keeper of a tavern or wine-house, in\nwhich calling he said he had no doubt he would do well. And he was not\nmistaken; in about six months after, his family received another letter\nfrom him, informing them that he was succeeding beyond his most sanguine\nexpectations--and hereby hangs our tale.\n\nOn Donald these letters of his brother's made a very strong impression;\nand, finally, had the effect of inducing him to adopt a very strange and\nvery bold resolution. This was neither more nor less than to join his\nbrother in Madrid--a resolution from which it was found impossible to\ndissuade him, especially after the receipt of Duncan's second letter,\ngiving intimation of his success.\n\nWith most confused and utterly inadequate notions, therefore, of either\nthe nature, or distance, or position of the country to which he was\ngoing, Donald made preparations for his journey. But they were merely\nsuch preparations as he would have made for a descent on the Lowlands,\nat harvest time. He put up some night-caps, stockings, and shirts in a\nbundle, with a quantity of bread and cheese, and a small flask of his\nnative mountain dew. This bundle he proposed to suspend, in the usual\nway, over his shoulder on the end of a huge oak stick, which he had\ncarefully selected for the purpose. And it was thus prepared--with,\nhowever, an extra supply of his earnings in his pocket, of which he\nhad a vague notion he would stand in need--that Donald contemplated\ncommencing his journey to Madrid from the heart of the Highlands of\nScotland. In one important particular, however, did Donald's outfit on\nthis occasion, differ from that adopted on ordinary occasions. On the\npresent, he equipped himself in the full costume of his country--kilt,\nplaid, bonnet and feather, sword, dirk, and pistols; and thus arrayed,\nhis appearance was altogether very striking, as he was both a stout and\nexceedingly handsome man.\n\nBefore starting on his extraordinary expedition, Donald had learned\nwhich was the fittest seaport whereat to embark on his progress to\nSpain; and it was nearly all he had learned, or indeed cared to inquire\nabout, as to the place of his destination. For this port, then, he\nfinally set out; but over his proceedings, for somewhere about three\nweeks after this, there is a veil which our want of knowledge of facts\nand circumstances will not enable us to withdraw. Of all subsequent to\nthis, however, we are amply informed; and shall now proceed to give the\nreader the full benefit of that information.\n\nHeaven knows how Donald had fought his way to Madrid, or what particular\nroute he had taken to attain this consummation; but certain it is, that,\nabout the end of the three weeks mentioned, the identical Donald Gorm\nof whom we speak, kilted and hosed as he left Eddernahulish, with a huge\nstick over his shoulder bearing a bundle suspended on its farthest\nextremity, was seen, early in the afternoon, approaching the gate of\nAlcala, one of the principal and most splendid entrances into the\nSpanish capital. Donald was staring about him, and at everything he saw,\nwith a look of the greatest wonder and amazement; and strange were the\nimpressions that the peculiar dresses of those he met, and the odd\nappearance of the buildings within his view, made upon his\nunsophisticated mind and bewildered sensorium.\n\nHe, in truth, felt very much as if he had by some accident got into the\nmoon, or some other planet than that of which he was a born inhabitant,\nand as if the beings around him were human only in form and feature. The\nperplexity and confusion of his ideas were, indeed, great--so great that\nhe found it impossible to reduce them to such order as to give them one\nsingle distinct impression. There were, however, two points in Donald's\ncharacter, which remained wholly unaffected by the novelty of his\nposition. These were his courage and bold bearing. Not all Spain, nor\nall that was in Spain, could have deprived Donald of these for a moment.\nHe was amazed, but not in the least awed. He was, in truth, looking\nrather fiercer than usual, at this particular juncture, in consequence\nof a certain feeling of irritation, caused by what he deemed the\nimpertinent curiosity of the passers-by, who, no less struck with his\nstrange appearance than he with theirs, were gazing and tittering at him\nfrom all sides--treatment this, at which Donald thought fit to take\nmortal offence. Having arrived, however, at the gate of Alcala, Donald\nthought it full time to make some inquiries as to where his relative\nresided. Feeling impressed with the propriety of this step, he made\nup to a group of idle, equivocal-looking fellows, who, wrapped up in\nlong buttoned dilapidated cloaks, were lounging about the gate; and,\nplunging boldly into the middle of them, he delivered himself thus, in\nhis best English:--\n\n\"I say, freens, did you'll know, any of you, where my broder stops?\"\n\nThe men, as might be expected, first stared at the speaker, and then\nburst out a-laughing in his face. They, of course, could not comprehend\na word of what he said; a circumstance on the possibility of which\nit had never struck Donald to calculate, and to which he did not\nnow advert. Great, therefore, was his wrath, at this, apparently,\ncontemptuous treatment by the Spaniards. His highland blood mounted to\nhis face, and with the same rapidity rose his highland choler. Donald,\nin truth, already contemplated doing battle in defence of his insulted\nconsequence, and at once hung out his flag of defiance.\n\n\"You tam scarecrow-lookin rascals!\" he sputtered out, in great fury,\nat the same time shaking his huge clenched brown fist in the faces\nof the whole group, their numbers not in the least checking his\nimpetuosity--\"You cowartly, starvation-like togs! I've a goot mind to\nmake smashed potatoes o' the whole boilin o' ye. Tam your Spanish noses\nand whiskers!\"\n\nThe fierce and determined air of Donald had the effect of instantly\nrestoring the gravity of the Spaniards, who, totally at a loss to\ncomprehend what class of the human species he represented, looked at him\nwith a mingled expression of astonishment and respect. At length, one of\ntheir number discharged a volley of his native language at Donald; but\nit was, apparently, of civil and good-natured import, for it was\ndelivered in a mild tone, and accompanied by a conciliatory smile. On\nDonald, the language was, of course, utterly lost--he did not comprehend\na word of it; but not so the indications of a friendly disposition to\nwhich we have alluded; these he at once appreciated, and they had the\neffect of allaying his wrath a little, and inducing him to make another\nattempt at a little civil colloquy.\n\n\"Well,\" said Donald, now somewhat more calmly, \"I was shust ask you a\nceevil question, an' you laugh in my face, which is not ceevil. In my\ncountry we don't do that to anybody, far less a stranger. Noo, may pe,\nyou'll not know my broder, and there's no harm in that--none at all; but\nyou should shust have say so at once, an' there would be no more apout\nit. Can none of you speak Gaelic?\"\n\nTo this inquiry, which was understood to be such, there was a general\nshaking of heads amongst the Spaniards.\n\n\"Oich, oich, it must be a tam strange country where there's no Gaelic.\nBut, never mind--you cannot help your misfortunes. I say, lads, will ye\nteuk a tram. Hooch, hurra! prof, prof! Let's get a dram.\" And Donald\nflung up one of his legs hilariously, while he gave utterance to these\nuncouth expletives, which he did in short joyous shouts. \"Where will we\ngo, lads? Did you'll know any decen' public-house, where we'll can\ndepend on a goot tram?\"\n\nTo this invitation, and to the string of queries by which it was\naccompanied, Donald got in reply only a repetition of that shake of the\nhead which intimated non-comprehension. But it was an instance of the\nlatter that surprised him more than all the others.\n\n\"Well, to be surely,\" he said, \"if a man'll not understand the offer of\na tram, he'll understand nothing, and it's no use saying more. Put maybe\nyou'll understand the sign, if not the word.\" And, saying this, he\nraised his closed hand to his lips and threw back his head, as if taking\noff a _caulker_ of his own mountain dew; pointing, at the same time, to\na house which seemed to him to have the appearance of one of public\nentertainment. To Donald's great satisfaction, he found that he had now\nmade himself perfectly intelligible; a fact which he recognised in the\nsmiles and nods of his auditory, and, still more unequivocally, in the\ngeneral movement which they made after him to the \"public-house,\" to\nwhich he immediately directed his steps.\n\nAt the head, then, of this troop of tatterdemallions, and walking with\nas stately a step as a drum-major, Donald may be said to have made his\nentrance into Madrid; and rather an odd first appearance of that worthy\nthere, it certainly was. On entering the tavern or inn which he had\ndestined for the scene of his hospitalities, he strode in much in\nthe same style that he would have entered a public-house in\nLochaber--namely, slapping the first person he met on the shoulder, and\nshouting some merry greeting or other appropriate to the occasion. This\nprecisely Donald did in the present instance, to the great amazement and\nalarm of a very pretty Spanish girl, who was performing the duty of\nushering in customers, inclusive of that of subsequently supplying\ntheir wants. On feeling the enormous paw of Donald on her shoulder,\nand looking at the strange attire in which he was arrayed, the girl\nuttered a scream of terror, and fled into the interior of the house.\nUnaccustomed to have his rude but hearty greetings received in this way,\nor to find them producing an effect so contrary to that which, in his\nhonest warm-heartedness, he intended them to produce, Donald was rather\ntaken aback by the alarm expressed by the girl; but soon recovering his\npresence of mind--\n\n\"Oich, oich!\" he said, laughing, and turning to his ragged crew behind\nhim, \"ta lassie's frightened for Shon Heelanman. Puir thing! It's weel\nseen she's no peen procht up in Lochaber, or maype's no been lang in the\nway o' keepin a public. It's--\n\n    \"'Haut awa, bite awa,\n       Haut awa frae me, Tonal;\n     What care I for a' your wealth,\n       An' a' that ye can gie, Tonal?'\"\n\nAnd, chanting this stanza of a well-known Scottish ditty, at the top of\nhis voice, Donald bounced into the first open door he could find, still\nfollowed by his tail. These having taken their seats around a table\nwhich stood in the centre of the apartment, he next commenced a series\nof thundering raps on the board with the hilt of his dirk, accompanied\nby stentorian shouts of, \"Hoy, lassie! House, here! Hoy, hoy, hoy!\" a\nsummons which was eventually answered by the landlord in person, the\ngirl's report of Donald's appearance and salutation to herself having\ndeterred any other of the household from obeying the call of so wild and\nnoisy a customer.\n\n\"Well, honest man,\" said Donald, on the entrance of his host, \"will you\npe bringing us two half mutchkins of your pest whisky. Here's some\nhonest lads I want to treat to a tram.\"\n\nThe landlord, as might be expected, stared at this strange guest, in\nutter unconsciousness of the purport of his demand. Recollecting\nhimself, however, after a moment, his professional politeness returned,\nand he began bowing and simpering his inability to comprehend what had\nbeen addressed to him.\n\n\"What for you'll boo, boo, and scrape, scrape there, you tam ass!\"\nexclaimed Donald, furiously. \"Co and pring us the whisky. Two half\nmutchkins, I say.\"\n\nAgain the polite landlord of the Golden Eagle, which was the name of the\ninn, bowed his non-comprehension of what was said to him.\n\n\"Cot's mercy! can you'll not spoke English, either?\" shouted Donald,\ndespairingly, on his second rebuff, and at the same time striking the\ntable impatiently with his clenched fist. \"Can you'll spoke Gaelic,\nthen?\" he added; and, without waiting for a reply, he repeated his\ndemand in that language. The experiment was unsuccessful. Mine host of\nthe Golden Eagle understood neither Gaelic nor English. Finding this,\nDonald had once more recourse to the dumb show of raising his hand to\nhis mouth, as if in the act of drinking; and once more he found the sign\nperfectly intelligible. On its being made, the landlord instantly\nretired, and in a minute after returned with a couple of bottles in\nhand, and two very large-sized glasses, which he placed on the table.\nEyeing the bottles contemptuously:--\"It's no porter; it's whisky I'll\norder,\" exclaimed Donald, angrily, conceiving that it was the former\nbeverage that had been brought him. \"Porter's drink for hocs, and not\nfor human podies.\" Finding it wholly impossible, however, to make this\nsentiment understood, Donald was compelled to content himself with the\nliquor which had been brought him. Under this conviction, he seized one\nof the bottles, filled up a glass to the brim, muttering the while \"that\nit was tam white, strange-looking porter,\" started to his feet, and,\nholding the glass extended in his hand, shouted the health of his ragged\ncompany, in Gaelic, and bolted the contents. But the effect of this\nproceeding was curious. The moment the liquor, which was some of the\ncommon wine of Spain, was over Donald's throat, he stared wildly, as\nif he had just done some desperate deed--swallowed an adder by mistake,\nor committed some such awkward oversight. This expression of horror\nwas followed by the most violent sputterings and hideous grimaces,\naccompanied by a prodigious assemblage of curses of all sorts, in Gaelic\nand English, and sometimes of an equal proportion of both.\n\n\"Oich, oich! poisoned, by Cot!--vinekar, horrid vinekar! Lanlort, I\nsay, what cursed stuffs is this you kive us?\" And again Donald sputtered\nwith an energy and perseverance that nothing but a sense of the utmost\ndisgust and loathing could have inspired. Both the landlord and Donald's\nown guests, at once comprehending his feelings regarding the wine,\nhastened, by every act and sign they could think of, to assure him that\nhe was wrong in entertaining so unfavourable an opinion of its character\nand qualities. Mine host, filling up a glass, raised it to his mouth,\nand, sipping a little of the liquor, smacked his lips, in token of high\nrelish of its excellences. He then handed the glass round the company,\nall of whom tasted and approved, after the same expressive fashion; and\nthus, without a word being said, a collective opinion, hollow against\nDonald, was obtained.\n\n\"Well, well, trink the apominations, and be curst to you!\" said Donald,\nwho perfectly understood that judgment had gone against him, \"and much\ngoot may't do you! but mysel would sooner trink the dirty bog water of\nSleevrechkin. Oich, oich! the dirts! But I say, lanlort, maype you'll\nhave got some prandies in the house? I can make shift wi' that when\nthere's no whisky to be cot.\"\n\nFortunately for Donald, mine host of the Golden Eagle at once understood\nthe word brandy, and, understanding it, lost no time in placing a\nmeasure of that liquor before him; and as little time did Donald lose\nin swallowing an immense bumper of the inspiring alcohol.\n\n\"Ay,\" said Donald, with a look of great satisfaction, on performing\nthis feat, \"that's something like a human Christian's trink. No your\ntam vinekar, as would colic a horse.\" Saying this, he filled up and\ndiscussed another modicum of the brandy; his followers, in the meantime,\nhaving done the same duty by the two bottles of wine, which were\nsubsequently replaced by another two, by the order of their hospitable\nentertainer. On Donald, however, his libations were now beginning to\nproduce, in a very marked manner, their usual effects. He was first\ngetting into a state of high excitation; thumping the table violently\nwith his fist, and sputtering out furious discharges of Gaelic and\nEnglish, mingled in one strange and unintelligible mess of words, and\nseemingly oblivious of the fact that not a syllable of what he said\ncould be comprehended by his auditory. This, then, was a circumstance\nwhich did not hinder him from entertaining his friends with a graphic\ndescription of Eddernahulish, and a very animated account of a\nparticular deer-chase in which he had once been engaged. In short, in\nthe inspiration of the hour, Donald seemed to have entirely forgotten\nevery circumstance connected with his present position. He appeared to\nhave forgotten that he was in a foreign land; forgotten the purpose that\nbrought him there; forgotten his brother; forgotten those associated\nwith him were Spaniards, not Atholemen; in truth, forgotten everything\nhe should have recollected. In this happy state of obfuscation, Donald\ncontinued to roar, to drink, and to talk away precisely as he was wont\nto do in Rory M'Fadyen's \"public\" in Kilnichrochokan. From being\noratorical, Donald became musical, and insisted on having a song from\nsome of his friends; but failing to make his request intelligible, he\nvolunteered one himself, and immediately struck up, in a strong nasal\ntwang, and with a voice that made the whole house ring:--\n\n    \"Ta Heelan hills are high, high, high,\n     An' ta Heelan miles are long;\n     But, then, my freens, rememper you,\n     Ta Heelan whisky's strong, strong, strong!\n            Ta Heelan whisky's strong,\n\n    \"And who shall care for ta length o' ta mile,\n     Or who shall care for ta hill,\n     If he shall have, 'fore he teukit ta way,\n     In him's cheek one Heelan shill?\n            In him's cheek one Heelan shill?\n\n    \"An' maype he'll pe teukit twa;\n     I'll no say is no pe tree;\n     And what although it should pe four?\n     Is no pussiness you or me, me, me--\n              Is no pussiness you or me.\"\n\nSuiting the action to, at least, the spirit of the song, Donald tossed\noff another bumper of the alcohol, which had the rather odd effect of\nrecalling him to some sense of his situation, instead of destroying, as\nmight have been expected, any little glimmering of light on that subject\nwhich he might have previously possessed. On discussing the last glass\nof brandy--\n\n\"Now, lads,\" said Donald, \"I must pe going. It's gettin late, and I must\nfind oot my brother Tuncan Gorm, as decen' a lad as between this and\nEddernahulish.\" Having said this, and paid his reckoning, Donald began\nshaking hands with his friends, one after the other, previous to leaving\nthem; but his friends had no intention whatever of parting with him in\nthis way. Donald had incautiously exposed his wealth when settling with\nthe landlord; and of his wealth, as well as his wine, they determined on\nhaving a share. The ruffians, in short, having communicated with each\nother, by nods and winks, resolved to dog him; and, when fitting place\nand opportunity should present themselves, to rob and murder him.\nFortunately for Donald, however, they had not exchanged intelligence so\ncautiously as to escape his notice altogether. He had seen and taken\nnote of two or three equivocal acts and motions of his friends; but had\nhad sufficient prudence, not only to avoid all remark on them, but to\nseem as if he had not observed them. Donald, indeed, could not well\nconceive what these secret signals meant; but he felt convinced that\nthey meant \"no goot;\" and he therefore determined on keeping a sharp\nlook-out, not only while he was in the presence of his boon companions,\nbut after he should have left them; for he had a vague notion that they\nmight possibly follow him for some evil purpose.\n\nUnder this latter impression--which had occurred to him only at the\nclose of their orgie, no suspicion unfavourable to the characters of his\nguests having before struck him--Donald, on parting from the latter at\nthe door of the inn in which they had been regaling, might have been\nheard muttering to himself, after he had got to some little distance:--\n\n\"Tam rogues, after all, I pelieve.\"\n\nHaving thus distinctly expressed his sentiments regarding his late\ncompanions, Donald pursued his way, although he was very far from\nknowing what that way should be. Street after street he traversed,\nmaking frequent vain inquiries for his \"broder, Tuncan Gorm,\" until\nmidnight, when he suddenly found himself in a large, open space,\nintersected by alleys formed by magnificent trees, and adorned by\nplaying fountains of great beauty and elegance. Donald had got into the\nPrado, or public promenade of Madrid; but of the Prado Donald knew\nnothing; and much, therefore, did he marvel at what sort of a place he\nhad got into. The fountains, in particular, perplexed and amazed him;\nand it was while contemplating one of these, with a sort of bewildered\ncuriosity, that he saw a human figure glide from one side to the other\nof the avenue in which the object of his contemplation was situated,\nand at the distance of about twenty yards. Donald was startled by the\napparition; and, recollecting his former associates, clapped his right\nhand instinctively on the hilt of his broadsword, and his left on the\nbutt of a pistol--one of those stuck in his belt--and in this attitude\nawaited the re-appearance of the skulker; but he did not make himself\nagain visible. Donald, however, felt convinced that there was danger at\nhand, and he determined to keep himself prepared to encounter it.\n\n\"Some o' ta vinekar-drinking rascals,\" muttered Donald. \"It was no\nhonest man's drink; nor no goot can come o' a country where they swallow\nsuch apominable liquors.\"\n\nThus reasoned Donald with himself, as he stood vigilantly scanning\nthe localities around him, to prevent a sudden surprise. While thus\nengaged, four different persons, all at once, and as if they had acted\nby concert, started each from behind a tree, and approached Donald from\nfour different points, with the purpose, evidently, of distracting his\nattention. At once perceiving their intention, and not doubting that\ntheir purposes were hostile, the intrepid Celt, to prevent himself\nbeing surrounded, hastily retreated to a wall which formed part of the\nstructure of the fountain on which he had been gazing, and, placing his\nback against it, awaited, with his drawn sword in one hand and a pistol\nin the other, the approach of his enemies, as he had no doubt they were.\n\n\"Well, my friends,\" said Donald, as they drew near him, and discovered\nto him four tall fellows, swathed up to the eyes in their cloaks, and\neach with a drawn sword in his hand, \"what you'll want with me?\" No\nanswer having been returned to this query, and the fellows continuing to\npress on, although now more cautiously, as they had perceived that their\nintended victim was armed, and stood on the defensive: \"Py Shoseph!\"\nsaid Donald, \"you had petter keep your distance, lads, or my name's no\nTonal Gorm if I don't gif some of you a dish of crowdy.\"\n\nAnd, as good as his word, he almost instantly after fired at the\nforemost of his assailants, and brought him down. This feat performed,\ninstead of waiting for the attack of the other three, he instantly\nrushed on them sword in hand, and, by the impetuosity of his attack, and\nfury of his blows, rendered all their skill of fence useless. With his\nhuge weapon and powerful arm, both of which he plied with a rapidity and\nforce which there was no resisting, he broke through their guards as\neasily as he would have beat down so many osier wands, and wounded\nseverely at every blow. It was in vain that Donald's assailants kept\nretiring before him, in the hope of getting him at a disadvantage--of\nfinding an opportunity of having a cut or a thrust at him. No time\nwas allowed them for any such exploit. Donald kept pressing on, and\nshowering his tremendous blows on them so thickly, that not an instant\nwas left them for aggression in turn. They were, besides, rapidly losing\nrelish for the contest, from the ugly blows they were getting, without a\npossibility of returning them. Finding, at length, that the contest was\na perfectly hopeless one, Donald's assailants fairly took to their\nheels, and ran for it; but there was one of their number who did not\nrun far--a few yards, when he fell down and expired. His hurts had been\nmortal.\n\n\"Oich, oich, lad!\" said Donald, peering into the face of the dead man,\n\"you'll no pe shust that very weel, I'm thinkin. The heelan claymore 'll\nnot acree with your Spanish stomach. But it's goot medicine for rogues,\nfor all that.\" Having thus apostrophized the slain man, Donald sheathed\nhis weapon, muttering as he did so: \"Ta cowartly togs can fight no\nmore's a turkey hens.\"\n\nAnd, cocking his bonnet proudly, he commenced the task of finding his\nway back to the city; a task which, after a good many unnecessary, but,\nfrom his ignorance of the localities, unavoidable deviations, he at\nlength accomplished.\n\nDonald's most anxious desire now was to find a \"public\" in which to\nquarter for the night; but, the hour being late, this was no easy\nmatter. Every door was shut, and the streets lonely and deserted. At\nlength, however, our hero stumbled on what appeared to him to be\nsomething of the kind he wanted, although he could have wished it to\nhave been on a fully smaller and humbler scale. This was a large hotel,\nin which every window was blazing with light, and the rooms were filled\nwith mirthful music. Donald's first impression was that it was a penny\nwedding upon a great scale. It was, in truth, a masquerade; and as the\nbrandy which he had drunk in the earlier part of the evening was still\nin his head, he proposed to himself taking a very active part in the\nproceedings. On entering the hotel, however, which he did boldly, he was\nrather surprised at the splendours of various kinds which greeted his\neyes--marble stairs, gorgeous lamps, gilt cornices, &c., &c., and sundry\nother indications of grandeur which he had never seen equalled even in\nTain or Dingwall, to say nothing of his native parish of Macharuarich,\nand he had been in his time in every public-house of any repute in all\nof them. These circumstances did not disabuse Donald of his original\nidea of its being a penny-wedding. He only thought that they conducted\nthese things in greater style in Spain than in Scotland, and with this\nsolution of the difficulty, suggested by the said splendours, Donald\nmounted the broad marble staircase, and stalked into the midst of a\nlarge apartment filled with dancers. The variety and elegance of the\ndresses of these last again staggered Donald's belief in the nature of\nthe merry-making, and made him doubt whether he had conjectured aright.\nThese doubts, however, did not for an instant shake his determination to\nhave a share in the fun. It was a joyous dancing party, and that was\nquite enough for him. In the meantime he contented himself with staring\nat the strange but splendid figures by whom he was surrounded, and who\nwere, in various corners of the apartment, gliding through the \"mazy\ndance.\" But if Donald's surprise was great at the costumes which he was\nnow so intently marking, those who displayed them were no less surprised\nat that which he exhibited. Donald's strange, but striking attire, in\ntruth, had attracted all eyes; and much did those who beheld it wonder\nin all the earth to what country it belonged. But simple wonder and\nadmiration were not the only sensations which Donald's garb produced\non the masquers. His kilt had other effects. It drove half the ladies\nscreaming out of the apartment, to its wearer's great surprise and no\nsmall displeasure. The guise which Donald wore, however, and which all\nbelieved to have been donned for the occasion, was, on the whole, much\napproved of, and the wearer, in more than one instance, complimented for\nhis taste in having selected so novel and striking a garb. But even his\nwarmest applauders objected to the scantiness of the kilt, and hinted\nthat, for decorum's sake, this part of his dress should have been\ncarried down to his heels. This improvement on his kilt was suggested,\nin the most polite terms, to Donald himself, by a Spanish gentleman, who\nspoke a little English, and who had ascertained that our hero was a\nnative of Great Britain, and whom he believed to be a man of note. To\nthis suggestion Donald made no other reply than by a look of the utmost\nindignation and contempt. The Spanish gentleman, whose name was Don\nSebastanio, seeing that his remark had given offence, hastened to\napologise for the liberty he had taken--assuring Donald that he meant\nnothing disrespectful or insulting. This apology was just made in time,\nas the irritable Celt had begun to entertain the idea of challenging\nthe Spaniard to mortal combat. As it was, however, his good nature\nat once gave way to the pacific overture that was made him. Seizing\nthe apologist by the hand, with a gripe that produced some dismal\ncontortions of countenance on the part of him on whom it was inflicted--\n\n\"Is no harm done at all, my friend. You'll not know no petter, having\nnever peen, I dare say, in our country, or seen a heelanman pefore.\"\n\nThe Spaniard declared he never had had either of these happinesses, and\nconcluded by inviting Donald to an adjoining apartment to have some\nrefreshment--an invitation which Donald at once obeyed.\n\n\"Now, my good sir,\" said his companion, on their entering a sort of\nrefectory where were a variety of tables spread with abundance of the\ngood things of this life and of Madrid, \"what shall you prefer?\"\n\n\"Herself's not fery hungry, but a little thirsty,\" said Donald, flinging\nhimself down on a seat in a free-and-easy way, with his legs astride, so\nas to allow free suspension to his huge goat-skin purse, and doffing his\nbonnet, and wiping the perspiration from his forehead--\"Herself's no\nfery hungry, but a little thirsty; and she'll teukit, if you please, a\nfery small drop of whisky and water.\"\n\nThe Spaniard was nonplussed. He had never even heard of whisky in his\nlife, and was therefore greatly at a loss to understand what sort of\nliquor his friend meant. Donald, perceiving his difficulty, and guessing\nthat it was of the same nature with the one which he had already\nexperienced, hastily transmuted his demand for whisky into one for\nbrandy, which was immediately supplied him, when Donald, pouring into\na rummer a quantity equal to at least six glasses, filled up with\nwater, and drank the whole off, to the inexpressible amazement of his\ncompanion, who, however, although he looked unutterable things at the\nenormous draught, was much too polite to say anything.\n\nThus primed a second time, Donald, seeing his new friend engaged with\nsome ladies who had unexpectedly joined him, returned alone to the\ndancing apartment, which he entered with a whoop of encouragement to the\nperformers that startled every one present, and for an instant arrested\nthe motions of the dancers, who could not comprehend the meaning of his\nuncouth cries. Regardless of this effect of his interference in the\nproceedings of the evening, Donald, with a countenance beaming with\nhilarity, and eyes sparkling with wild and reckless glee, took up a\nconspicuous position in the room, and from thence commenced edifying the\ndancers by a series of short abrupt shouts or yells, accompanied by a\nvigorous clapping of his hands, at once to intimate his satisfaction\nwith the performances, and to encourage the performers themselves to\nfurther exertions. Getting gradually, however, too much into the spirit\nof the thing to be content with being merely an onlooker, Donald all at\nonce capered into the middle of the floor, snapping his fingers and\nthumbs, and calling out to the musicians to strike up \"Caber Feigh;\"\nand, without waiting to hear whether his call was obeyed, he commenced a\nvigorous exhibition of the highland fling, to the great amazement of the\nbystanders, who, instantly abandoning their own pursuits, crowded around\nhim to witness this to them most extraordinary performance. Thus\noccupied, and thus situated--the centre of a \"glittering ring\"--Donald\ncontinued to execute with unabated energy the various strongly-marked\nmovements of his national dance, amidst the loud applauses of the\nsurrounding spectators. On concluding--\n\n\"Oich, oich!\" exclaimed Donald, out of breath with his exertion, and\nlooking laughingly round on the circle of bystanders. \"Did ever I think\nto dance ta heelan fling in Madrid! Och, no, no! Never, by Shoseph! But,\nI dare say, it'll pe the first time that it was ever danced here.\"\n\nFrom this moment Donald became a universal favourite in the room, and\nthe established lion of the night. Where-ever he went he was surrounded\nwith an admiring group, and was overloaded with civilities of all kinds,\nincluding frequent offers of refreshment; so that he speedily found\nhimself in most excellent quarters. There was, however, one drawback in\nhis happiness. He could get no share in the dancing excepting what he\nchose to perform solus, as there was nothing in that way to be seen in\nthe room in the shape of a reel, nor was there a single tune played of\nwhich he could make either head or tail--nothing but \"your foreign\ntrash, with neither spunk nor music in them.\" Determined, however,\nsince his highland fling had been so much approved of, to give a\nspecimen of the highland reel, if he could possibly make it out, Donald,\nas a first step, looked around him for a partner; and seeing a very\nhandsome girl seated in one of the corners of the apartment, and\napparently disengaged, he made up to her, and, making one of his best bows,\nsolicited the honour of her joining him in a reel. Without understanding\nthe language in which she was addressed, but guessing that it conveyed\nan invitation to the floor, the young lady at once arose and curtsied an\nacquiescence, when Donald, taking her gallantly by the hand, led her up\nto the front of the orchestra, in order that he might bespeak the\nappropriate music for the particular species of dance he contemplated.\nOn approaching sufficiently near to the musicians--\n\n\"Fittlers,\" he shouted, at the top of his voice, \"I say, can you'll kive\nus 'Rothiemurchus' Rant,' or the 'Trucken Wives of Fochabers?'\"\n\nThen turning to his partner, and flinging his arms about her neck in an\necstasy of Highland excitation, capering at the same time hilariously in\nanticipation of the coming strain--\n\n\"Them's the tunes, my lass, for putting mettle in your heels.\"\n\nA scream from the lady with whom Donald was using these unwarrantable\npersonal liberties, and a violent attempt on her part to escape\nfrom them, suddenly arrested Donald's hilarity, and excited his\nutmost surprise. In the next instant he was surrounded by at least\nhalf-a-dozen angry cavaliers, amongst whom there was a brandishing of\nswords and much violent denunciation, all directed against Donald, and\nexcited by his unmannerly rudeness to a lady. It was some seconds before\nDonald could comprehend the meaning of all this wrath, or believe that\nhe was at once the cause and the object of it. But on this becoming\nplain--\n\n\"Well, shentlemen,\" he said, \"I did not mean anything wrong. No offence\nat all to the girl. It was just the fashion of my country; and I'm sorry\nfor it.\"\n\nTo this apology of Donald's, of which, of course, not a word was\nunderstood, the only reply was a more fierce flourishing of brands, and\na greater volubility and vehemence of abuse; the effect of which was at\nonce to arouse Donald's choler, and to urge him headlong on extremities.\n\n\"Well, well,\" he said, \"if you'll not have satisfaction any other way\nthan py the sword, py the sword you shall have it.\"\n\nAnd instantly drawing, he stood ready to encounter at once the whole\nhost of his enemies. What might have been the result of so unequal a\ncontest, had it taken place, we cannot tell--and this simply because\nno encounter did take place. At the moment that Donald was awaiting\nthe onset of the foe--a proceeding, by the way, which they were now\nmarvellously slow in adopting, notwithstanding the fury with which\nthey had opened the assault, a party of the king's guard, with fixed\nbayonets, rushed into the apartment, and bore Donald forcibly out into\nthe street, where they left him, with angry signs that if he attempted\nto return, he would meet with still worse treatment. Donald had prudence\nenough to perceive that any attempt to resent the insult that had been\noffered him--seeing that it was perpetrated by a dozen men armed with\nmusket and bayonet--would be madness, and therefore contented himself\nwith muttering in Gaelic some expressions of high indignation and\ncontempt. Having delivered himself to this effect, he proudly adjusted\nhis plaid, and stalked majestically away.\n\nIt was now so far advanced in the morning that Donald abandoned all idea\nof seeking for a bed, and resolved on prosecuting an assiduous search\nfor his brother. This he accordingly commenced, and numerous were the\ncalls at shops, and frequent the inquiries he made for Tuncan Gorm; but\nunavailing were they all. No one understood a word of what he addressed\nto them; and thus, of course, no one could give him the information he\ndesired. It was in vain, too, that Donald carefully scanned every sign\nthat he passed, to see that it did not bear the anxiously looked for\nname. On none of them did it appear. They were all, as Donald himself\nsaid, Fouros, and Beuros, and Lebranos, and Dranos, and other outlandish\nand unchristian-like names. Not a heeland or lowland shopkeeper amongst\nthem. No such a decent and civilized name to be met with as Gorm, or\nBrolachan, or M'Fadyen, or Macharuarich, or M'Cuallisky.\n\nTired and disappointed, Donald, after wandering up and down the streets\nfor several hours, bethought him of adjourning to a tavern to have\nsomething to eat, and probably something to drink also. Seeing such a\nhouse as he wanted, he entered, and desired the landlord to furnish him\nwith some dinner. In a few seconds two dishes were placed before him;\nbut what these dishes were, Donald could not at all make out. They\nresembled nothing in the edible way he had ever seen before, and the\nflavour was most alarming. Nevertheless, being pretty sharp-set, he\nresolved to try them, and for this purpose drew one of the dishes\ntowards him, when, having peered as curiously and cautiously into it for\na few seconds as if he feared it would leap up in his face and bite him,\nand curling his nose the while into strong disapprobation of its odour,\nhe lifted several spoonfuls of the black greasy mess on his plate. At\nthis point Donald found his courage failing him; but, as his host stood\nbehind his chair and was witness to all his proceedings, he did not like\neither to express the excessive disgust he was beginning to feel, nor to\nrefuse tasting of what was set before him. Mustering all his remaining\ncourage, therefore, he plunged his spoon with desperate violence into\nthe nauseous mess, which seemed to Donald to be some villanous compound\nof garlic, rancid oil, and dough; and raising it to his lips, shut his\neyes, and boldly thrust it into his mouth. Donald's resolution, however,\ncould carry him no farther. To swallow it he found utterly impossible,\nnow that the horrors of both taste and smell were full upon him. In this\npredicament, Donald had no other way for it but to give back what he had\ntaken; and this course he instantly followed, adding a large interest,\nand exclaiming--\n\n\"My Cot! what sort of a country is this? Your drinks is poison, and your\nmeats is poison, and everything is apominations apout you. Oich, oich! I\nwish to Cot I was back to Eddernahulish again; for I'll pe either\npoisoned or murdered amongst you if I remain much longer here. That's\npeyond all doubt.\"\n\nAnd having thus expressed himself, Donald started to his feet, and was\nabout to leave the house without any farther ceremony, when the landlord\nadroitly planted himself between him and the door, and demanded the\nreckoning. Donald did not know precisely what was asked of him, but\nhe guessed that it was a demand for payment, and this demand he was\ndetermined to resist, on the ground that what he could not eat he ought\nnot to be called on to pay for. Full of this resolution, and having no\ndoubt that he was right in his conjecture as to the landlord's purpose\nin preventing his exit--\n\n\"Pay for ta apominations!\" said Donald, wrathfully. \"Pay for ta poison!\nIt's myself will see you at Jericho first. Not a farthing, not one tam\nfarthing, will I pay you for ta trash. So stand out of the way, my\nfriend, pefore worse comes of it.\"\n\nSaying this, Donald advanced to the door, and seizing its guardian by\nthe breast, laid him gently on his back on the floor, and stepping over\nhis prostrate body, walked deliberately out of the house, without\nfurther interruption, mine host not thinking it advisable to excite\nfurther the choler of so dangerous a customer, and one who had just\ngiven him so satisfactory a specimen of his personal prowess. Another\nday had now nearly passed away, and Donald was still as far, to all\nappearance, from finding the object of his search as ever he had\nbeen. He was, moreover, now both hungry and thirsty; but these were\nevils which he soon after succeeded in obviating for the time, by\na more successful foray than the last. Going into another house of\nentertainment, he contrived to make a demand for bread and cheese\nintelligible--articles which he had specially condescended on, that\nthere might be \"no mistake;\" and with these and a pretty capacious\nmeasure of brandy, he managed to effect a very tolerable passover.\nBefore leaving this house, Donald made once more the already oft\nbut vainly-repeated inquiry, whether he knew (he was addressing his\nlandlord) where one Duncan Gorm stopped. It did not now surprise Donald\nto find that his inquiry was not understood; but it did both surprise\nand delight him when his host, who had abruptly left the room for an\ninstant, returned with a person who spoke very tolerable English. This\nman was a muleteer, and had resided for some years in London, in the\nservice of the Spanish ambassador. His name--a most convenient one for\nDonald to pronounce--was Mendoza Ambrosius. On being introduced to this\npersonage, Donald expressed the utmost delight at finding in him one\nwho spoke a Christian language, as he called it; and, in the joy of\nhis heart with his good fortune, ordered in a jorum of brandy for the\nentertainment of himself and Mr. Ambrosius. The liquor being brought,\nand several horns of it discussed, Donald and his new friend got as\nthick as \"ben' leather.\" And on this happy understanding being\nestablished, the former began to detail, at all the length it would\nadmit of, the purpose of his visit to Madrid, and the occurrences that\nhad befallen him since his arrival; prefacing these particulars with a\nsketch of his history, and some account of the place of his nativity;\nand concluding the whole by asking his companion if he could in any way\nassist him to find his brother, Duncan Gorm.\n\nThe muleteer replied, in the best English he could command, that he did\nnot know the particular person inquired after, but that he knew the\nresidences of two or three natives of Britain, some of whom, he thought\nit probable, might be acquainted with his brother; and that he would\nhave much pleasure in conducting him to these persons, for the purpose\nof ascertaining this. Donald thanked his friend for his civility; and,\nin a short time thereafter, the brandy having been finished in the\ninterim, the two set out together on their expedition of inquiry. It was\na clear, moonlight night; but, although it was so, and the hour what\nwould be considered in this country early, the streets were nearly\ndeserted, and as lonely and quiet as if Madrid were a city of the dead.\nThis stillness had the effect of making the smallest sound audible even\nat a great distance, and to this stillness it was owing that Donald and\nhis friend suddenly heard, soon after they had set out, the clashing of\nswords, intermingled with occasional shouts, at a remote part of the\nstreet they were traversing.\n\n\"What's tat?\" exclaimed Donald, stopping abruptly, and cocking his ears\nat the well-known sound of clashing steel. His companion, accustomed to\nsuch occurrences, replied, with an air of indifference, that it was\nmerely some street brawl.\n\n\"It'll pe these tam vinekar drinkers again,\" said Donald, with a lively\nrecollection of the assault that had been made upon himself; \"maybe some\npoor shentleman's in distress. Let us go and see, my tear sir.\" To this\nproposal, the muleteer, with a proper sense of the folly of throwing\nhimself in the way of mischief unnecessarily, would at first by no means\naccede; but, on being urged by Donald, agreed to move on a little with\nhim towards the scene of conflict. This proceeding soon brought them\nnear enough to the combatants to perceive that Donald's random\nconjecture had not been far wrong, by discovering to them one person,\nwho, with his back to the wall, was bravely defending himself against\nno fewer than four assailants, all being armed with swords.\n\n\"Did not I tell you so!\" exclaimed Donald, in great excitation, on\nseeing how matters stood. \"Noo, Maister Tozy Brozy, shoulder to\nshoulder, my tear, and we'll assist this poor shentleman.\" Saying this,\nDonald drew his claymore, and rushed headlong on to the rescue, calling\non Tozy Brozy to follow him; but Tozy Brozy's feelings and impulses\ncarried him in a totally different direction. Fearing that his friend's\ninterference in the squabble might have the effect of directing some of\nthe blows his way, he fairly took to his heels, leaving Donald to do by\nhimself what to himself seemed needful in the case. In the meantime, too\nmuch engrossed by the duty before him to mind much whether his friend\nfollowed him or not, Donald struck boldly in, in aid of the \"shentleman\nin distress,\" exclaiming, as he did so--\n\n\"Fair play, my tears! Fair play's a shewel everywhere, and I suppose\nhere too.\" And, saying this, with one thundering blow that fairly split\nthe skull of the unfortunate wight on whom it fell in twain, Donald\nlessened the number of the combatants by one. The person to whose aid he\nhad thus so unexpectedly and opportunely come, seeing what an effectual\nally he had got, gave a shout of triumphant joy, and, although much\nexhausted by the violence and length of his exertions in defending\nhimself, instantly became the assailant in his turn. Inspired with new\nlife and vigour, he pressed on his enemies with a fury that compelled\nthem to give way; and, being splendidly seconded by Donald, whose\ntremendous blows were falling with powerful effect on those against whom\nthey were directed, the result was, in a few seconds, the flight of the\nenemy; who, in rapid succession, one after the other, took to their\nheels, although not without carrying along with them several authentic\ncertificates of the efficiency of Donald's claymore.\n\nOn the retreat of the bravos--for such they were--the person whom Donald\nhad so efficiently served in his hour of need, flew towards him, and,\ntaking him in his arms, poured out a torrent of thanks for the prompt\nand gallant aid he had afforded him. But, as these thanks were expressed\nin Spanish, they were lost on him to whom they were addressed. Not so,\nhowever, the indications of gratitude evinced in the acts by which they\nwere accompanied. These Donald perfectly understood, and replied to them\nas if their sense had been conveyed to him in a language which he\ncomprehended.\n\n\"No thanks at all, my tear sir. A Heelantman will always assist a freend\nwhere a few plows will do him goot. You would shust do the same to me,\nI'm sure. But,\" added Donald, as he sheathed his most serviceable\nweapon, \"this is the tam place for fechtin' I have ever seen. I thocht\nour own Heelants pad enough, but this is ten times worse, py Shoseph! I\nhave no peen more than four-and-twenty hours in Ma-a-treed, and I'll\nhave peen in tree fecht already.\"\n\nMore of this speech was understood by the person to whom it was\naddressed, than might have been expected under all these circumstances.\nThis person was a Spanish gentleman of rank and great wealth, of the\nname of Don Antonio Nunnez, whose acquirements included a very competent\nknowledge of the English language, which, although he spoke it but\nindifferently, he understood very well. Yet it certainly did require\nall his knowledge of it, to recognise it in the shape in which Donald\npresented it to him. This, however, to a certain extent, he did, and, in\nEnglish, now repeated his sense of the important obligation Donald had\nconferred on him. But it was not to words alone that the grateful and\ngenerous Spaniard meant to confine his acknowledgments of the service\nthat had been rendered him. Having ascertained that Donald was a perfect\nstranger in the city, he insisted on his going home with him, and\nremaining with him during his stay in Madrid, and further requesting\nthat he would seek at his hands, and no other's, any service or\nobligation, of whatever nature it might be, of which he should stand\nin need during his stay.\n\nTo these generous proffers, Donald replied, that the greatest service\nthat could be done him was to inform him where he could find his\nbrother, Duncan Gorm. Don Antonio first expressed surprise to learn that\nDonald had a brother in Madrid, and then his sorrow that he did not\nknow, nor had ever heard of such a person.\n\n\"He'll keep a public,\" said Donald.\n\n\"What is that, my friend?\" inquired Don Antonio.\n\n\"Sell a shill, to be sure--I'll thocht everybody know that,\" said\nDonald, a good deal surprised at the other's ignorance.\n\n\"Shill? shill?\" repeated the Spaniard--\"and pray, my friend, what is a\nshill?\"\n\n\"Cot pless me! don't you'll know what a shill is?\" rejoined Donald, with\nincreased amazement. \"If you'll come with me to Eddernahulish, I'll show\nyou what a shill is, and help you to drink it too.\"\n\n\"Well, well, my friend,\" said Don Antonio. \"I'll get an explanation of\nwhat a 'shill' is from you afterwards; but, in the meantime, you'll come\nwith me, if you please, as I am anxious to introduce you to some friends\nat home!\"\n\nSaying this, he took Donald's arm, in order to act as his conductor,\nand, after leading him through two or three streets, brought him to the\ndoor of a very large and handsome house. Don Antonio having knocked at\nthis door, it was immediately opened by a servant in splendid livery,\nwho, on recognising his master--for such was Donald's friend--instantly\nstepped aside, and respectfully admitted the pair. In the vestibule, or\npassage, which was exceedingly magnificent, were a number of other\nserving men in rich liveries, who drew themselves up on either side, in\norder to allow their master and his friend to pass; and much did they\nmarvel at the strange garb in which that friend appeared. Don Antonio\nnow conducted Donald up the broad marbled staircase, splendidly\nilluminated with a variety of elegant lamps, in which the vestibule\nterminated; and, on reaching the top of the first flight, ushered him\ninto a large and gorgeously-furnished apartment, in which were two\nladies dressed in deep mourning. To these ladies, one of whom was the\nmother, the other the sister of Don Antonio, the latter introduced his\namazed and awe-stricken companion, as a person to whom he was indebted\nfor his life. He then explained to his relations what had occurred, and\ndid not fail to give Donald's promptitude and courage a due share of his\nlaudations. With a gratitude not less earnest than his own had been, the\nmother and sister of Don Antonio took Donald by the hand; the one\ntaking the right, and the other the left, and, looking in his face,\nwith an expression of the utmost kindness, thanked him for the great\nobligation he had conferred on them. These thanks were expressed in\nSpanish; but, on Don Antonio's mentioning that Donald was a native of\nBritain, and that he did not, as he rather thought, understand the\nSpanish language, his sister, a beautiful girl of one or two-and-twenty,\nrepeated them, in somewhat minced, but perfectly intelligible English.\nGreat as Donald's perturbation was at finding himself so suddenly and\nunexpectedly placed in a situation so much at variance with anything\nhe had been accustomed to, it did not prevent him marking, in a very\nspecial manner, the dark sparkling eyes and rich sable tresses of Donna\nNunnez, the name of Don Antonio's sister. Nor, we must add, did the\nformer look with utter indifference on the manly form, so advantageously\nset off as it was by his native dress, of Donald Gorm. But of this anon.\nIn a short time after, a supper, corresponding in elegance and splendour\nto all the other elegances and splendours of this lordly mansion, was\nserved up; and, on its conclusion, Donald was conducted, by Don Antonio\nhimself, to a sleeping apartment, furnished with the same magnificence\nthat prevailed throughout the whole house. Having ushered him into his\napartment, Donald's host bade him a kind good-night, and left him to his\nrepose.\n\nWhat Donald's feelings were on finding himself thus so superbly\nquartered, now that he had time to think on the subject, and could do so\nunrestrained by the presence of any one, we do not precisely know; but,\nif one might have judged by the under-breath exclamations in which he\nindulged, and by the looks of amazement and inquiry which he cast around\nhim, from time to time, on the splendours by which he was surrounded,\nespecially on the gorgeous bed, with its gilt canopy and curtains of\ncrimson silk, which was destined for his night's resting-place, these\nfeelings would appear to have been, after all, fully more perplexing\nthan pleasing. It was, in truth, just too much of a good thing; and\nDonald felt it to be so. But still the whole had a smack of good fortune\nabout it that was very far from being disagreeable, and that certainly\nhad the effect of reconciling Donald to the little discordance between\nformer habits and present circumstances, which his position for the time\nexcited.\n\nWhile at breakfast on the following morning with Don Antonio and his\nmother and sister, the first asked Donald if he had any particular ties\nin his own country that would imperatively demand his return home; and\non Donald's replying that there were none, Don Antonio immediately\ninquired whether he would accept a commission in the King of Spain's\nbody-guards:--\"Because,\" said he, \"if you will, I have, I believe,\ninfluence enough to procure it for you.\"\n\nDonald said he had no objection in the world to try it for a year or\ntwo, at any rate--only he would like to consult his \"broder Tuncan\"\nfirst.\n\n\"True, true,\" said Don Antonio; \"I promised to assist you in finding out\nyour relative--and I shall do so.\"\n\nAs good as his word in this particular, and a great deal better in many\nothers in which Donald was interested, Don Antonio instantly set an\ninquiry on foot, which, in less than two hours, brought the brothers\ntogether. The sequel of our story, although containing the very essence\nof Donald's good fortune, is soon told. His brother, highly approving of\nhis accepting the commission offered to him, Don Antonio lost no time in\nprocuring him that appointment; and in less than three weeks from his\narrival in Madrid, Donald Gorm figured as a captain in the King of\nSpain's body-guards, in which service he ultimately attained the rank\nof colonel, together with a title of honour, which enabled him to ask,\nwithout fear of giving offence, and to obtain, the hand of Donna Nunnez,\nwith a dowry second to that of no fair damsel in Spain. Donald never\nagain returned to Eddernahulish, but continued in the country of his\nadoption till his death; and in that country some of his descendants\nto this hour bear amongst the proudest names of which it can boast.\n\n\n\n\nTHE SURGEON'S TALES.\n\nTHE CURED INGRATE.\n\n\nEvery person who has studied, even in the most cursory manner, the\ncheckered page of human life, must have observed that there are in\ncontinual operation through mankind some great secret moral agents,\nthe powers of which are exerted within the heart, and beyond the reach\nof the consciousness or observation of the individual himself who is\nsubject to their influence. There is a steadfastness of virtue in some\nhigh-minded men, which enables them to resist the insidious temptations\nof the bad demon; there is also a stern stability of vice often found\nin the unfortunate outlaw, which disregards, for a time, the voice of\nconscience, and spurns the whispered wooing of the good principle,\n\"charm it never so wisely;\" yet the real confessions of the hearts of\nthose individuals would show traces enough of the agency of the unseen\npower to prove their want of title to an exception from the general rule\nwhich includes all the sons of Adam. We find, also, that extraordinary\nmoral effects are often produced, in a dark and mysterious manner, from\nphysical causes: every medical man has the power of recording, if he has\nhad the faculty of observing, changes in the minds, principles, and\nfeelings of patients who have come through the fiery ordeal of a\nterrible disease, altogether unaccountable on any rules of philosophy\nyet discovered.\n\nNot many years ago, a well-dressed young woman called one evening\nupon me, and stated that her lady, whose name, she said, would be\ncommunicated by herself, had been ill for some days, and wished me to\nvisit her privately. I asked her when she required my attendance; and\ngot for answer, that she, the messenger, would conduct me to the\nresidence of the patient, if it was convenient for me to go at that\ntime. I was disengaged, and agreed to accompany the young woman as soon\nas I had given directions to my assistant regarding the preparation of\nsome medicines which required the application of chemical rules. To be\ningenuous, I was a little curious to know the secret of this private\ncall; for that there was a secret about it was plain, from the words,\nand especially the manner, of the young woman, who spoke mysteriously,\nand did not seem to wish any questions put to her on the subject of her\nmission. The night was dark, but the considerate messenger had provided\na lantern; and, to anticipate my scruples, she said that the distance we\nhad to go would not render it necessary for me to take my carriage--a\nfive-minutes' walk being sufficient to take us to our destination.\n\nResigning myself to the guidance of my conductress, I requested her\nto lead the way, and we proceeded along two neighbouring streets\nof considerable length, and then turned up to ---- Square--a\nplace where the rich and fashionable part of the inhabitants of the town\nhave their residences. At the mouth of a coach entry, which ran along\nthe gable of a large house, and apparently led to the back offices\nconnected with the residence, the young woman stopped, and whispered to\nme to take care of my feet, as she was to use the liberty of leading me\nalong a meuse lane to a back entrance, through which I was to be\nconducted into the chamber of the sick lady. I obeyed her directions;\nand, keeping close behind her, was led along the lane, and through\nseveral turns and windings which I feared I might not again be able to\ntrace without a guide, until we came to a back door, when the young\nwoman--begging my pardon for her forwardness--took hold of my hand,\nand led me along a dark passage, then up a stair, then along another\npassage, which was lighted by some wax tapers placed in recesses in the\nwall; at the end of which, she softly opened a door, and ushered me into\na very large bedroom, the magnificence of which was only partly revealed\nto me by a small lamp filled with aromatic oil, whose fragrance filled\nthe apartment. The young woman walked quickly forward to a bed, hung\nwith light green silk damask curtains fringed with yellow, and\nluxuriously ornamented with a superfluity of gilding; and, drawing aside\nthe curtains, she whispered a few words into the ear of some one lying\nthere, apparently in distress; then hurried out of the room, leaving me\nstanding on the floor, without introduction or explanation.\n\nThe novelty of my position deprived me for a moment of my\nself-possession, and I stood stationary in the middle of the room,\ndeliberating upon whether I should call back my conductress, and ask\nfrom her some explanation, or proceed forward to the couch, where,\nno doubt, my services were required; but my hesitation was soon\nresolved, by the extraordinary appearance of an Indian-coloured female\ncountenance, much emaciated, and lighted up with two bright orbs,\noccupying the interstice between the curtains, and beckoning on me,\napparently with a painful effort, forward. I obeyed, and, throwing open\nthe large folds of damask, had as full a view of my extraordinary\npatient as the light that emanated from the perfumed lamp, and shone\nfeebly on her dark countenance, would permit. She beckoned to me to take\na chair, which stood by the side of the bed; and, having complied with\nher mute request, I begged to know what was the complaint under which\nshe laboured, that I might endeavour to yield her such relief as was in\nthe power of our professional art. I thus limited my question to the\nnature of her disease, in the expectation that she herself would clear\nup the mystery which hung around the manner in which I was called, and\nintroduced to so extraordinary a scene as that which was now before me.\nHer great weakness seemed to require some composure, and a collecting of\nher scattered and reduced energies, before she could answer my simple\nquestion. I now observed more perfectly than I had yet done the\ncharacter and style of the room into which I had been introduced--its\nfurniture, ornaments, and luxuries; and, above all, the extraordinary,\nforeign-looking invalid who seemed to be the mistress of so much\ngrandeur. Though a bedroom, the apartment seemed to have had lavished\nupon its fitting-up as much money as is often expended on a lord's\ndrawing-room--the bed itself, the wardrobes, pier-glasses, toilets,\nand dressing-cases, being of the most elaborate workmanship and costly\ncharacter--the pictures numerous, and magnificently framed; while on all\nsides were to be seen foreign ornaments, chiefly Chinese and Indian, of\nbrilliant appearance, and devoted to purposes and uses of refined luxury\nof which I could form no adequate conception. On a small table, near the\nbed, there was a multiplicity of boxes, vials, trinkets, and bijouterie\nof all kinds; and fragrant mixtures, intended to perfume the apartment,\nwere exposed in various quarters, and even scattered exuberantly on\nspread covers of satin, with a view to their yielding their sweets\nmore freely, and filling all the corners of the room. In full contrast\nwith all this array of grandeur and luxury, lay the strange-looking\nindividual already mentioned, on the gorgeous bed. She was apparently\nan East Indian; and, though possessed of comely features, she was even\ndarker than the fair Hindoos we often see in this country. The sickness\nunder which she laboured, and which appeared to be very severe, had\nrendered her thin and cadaverous-looking--making the balls of her\nbrilliant eyes assume the appearance of being protruded, and imparting\nto all her features a sharp, prominent aspect, the very reverse of the\nnatural Indian type; yet, true to her sex and the manners of her\ncountry, she was splendidly decorated, even in this state of dishabille\nand distress; the coverlet being of rich Indian manufacture, and\nresplendent with the dyes of the East--her gown and cap decorated with\ncostly needlework--her fingers covered with a profusion of rings, while\na cambric handkerchief, richly embroidered, in her right hand, had\npartly enveloped in its folds a large golden vinegarette, set profusely\nwith glittering gems.\n\nThe rapid survey which enabled me to gather this general estimate of\nwhat was presented to me, was nearly completed before the invalid had\ncollected strength enough to answer my question; and she was just\nbeginning to speak--having as yet pronounced only a few inarticulate\nsyllables--when she was interrupted by the entrance of the same young\nwoman who had acted as my conductress, and who now exhibited a manner\nthe very opposite of the soft, quiet, slipping nature of her former\ncarriage. The suddenness, and even impetuosity of her entry, was\ninconsistent with the character of nurse to a lady in so distressed a\ncondition as that of her apparent mistress; but her subsequent conduct\nwas much more incomprehensible and extraordinary; for, without speaking\nand without stopping, she rushed forward, and, taking me by the arm,\nhurried me away through the door by which I had entered, along the\nlighted passage, down the stair, and never stopped until she landed me\non the threshold of the back-door by which I entered the house. At this\ntime I heard the bell of, as I thought, the fore or street door of the\nhouse ringing violently; and my conductress, without saying a word, ran\naway as fast as the darkness would permit, leaving me, perplexed and\nconfounded at what I had seen and heard, to find my way home in the best\nway I could.\n\nIn my professional capacity I had not been accustomed to any mysterious\nor secret practice of our art, which, being exercised ostensibly and in\nreality for the benefit of mankind, requires no cloak to cover its\noperations; and, though I was curious to know the secret of such\nincomprehensible proceedings, I felt no admiration of, or relish\nfor adventures so unsuited to the life and manners of a sober,\npractical man. One thing, however, was clear, and seemed sufficient\nto reconcile my practical, every-day notions of life with this mysterious\nnegotiation, and even to solve the doubt I entertained whether I should\nagain trust myself as a party to the devices of secrecy--and that was,\nthat the individual I had been thus called to see professionally was in\nsuch a condition of body as required urgently the administrations of a\nmedical practitioner. On the following day, I resolved upon making some\ninquiries, with a view to ascertain who and what the individual was that\noccupied the house to which I had been introduced, and which, upon a\nsurvey in daylight, I could have no difficulty in tracing; but I\nhappened to be too much occupied to be able to put my purpose into\nexecution; and was thus obliged to remain, during the day, in a state\nof suspense and ignorance of the secret involved in my previous night's\nprofessional adventure. In the evening, however, and about the same hour\nat which the messenger called for me on the previous occasion, the\nsame individual waited on me, with an apology for the apparently\nunceremonious treatment I had received, and which, she said, would be\nexplained to my satisfaction; and a renewed request that I would again\naccompany her to the same house, and on the same errand. I told the\nmessenger that I bore no great love to these secret adventures, but that\nI would consent, on this occasion, to make a sacrifice of my principles\nand feelings to the hope of being able to be of some use, in a\nprofessional way, to the distressed lady I had seen on the previous\noccasion, whose situation, so far as I could judge from appearances, was\nnot far removed from the extremity of danger. I again, accordingly,\ncommitted myself to the guidance of the young woman; and, after a\nrepetition of the windings and evolutions of the previous visit, soon\nfound myself again seated in the chair that stood by the gorgeous bed of\nthe strange invalid. Everything seemed to be in the same situation as\nbefore: the lamp gave out its weak light, the perfumes exhaled their\nsweets, and the distressed lady exhibited the same strange contrast\nbetween her reduced sickly condition and the superb finery of her\ndishabille.\n\nI had not been long seated, when she struggled to inform me, in a very\nweak voice, that she was much beholden to me for my attention, and\ngrieved for the unceremonious treatment I had received on my last\nvisit. I replied, that I laid my account with much greater personal\ninconvenience, in the pursuit of my profession, than any to which she\nhad subjected or could subject me--all such considerations being, in my\napprehension, of small importance in comparison with the good we had\noften the power of administering to individuals in distress; and begged\nto know the nature of the complaint under which she too evidently\nlaboured, that I might endeavour to ameliorate her sufferings, and\nrestore her to that health without which the riches she apparently was\nmistress of, could be of small avail in rendering her happy. She\nappeared grateful for the sentiments I expressed; and proceeded to tell\nme, still with the same struggling difficulty of utterance, arising from\nher extreme weakness, that she was the wife of Colonel P----, the\nproprietor of the mansion into which I had been thus secretly\nintroduced, for reasons she would explain in the course of her\nnarrative. She had been married to her husband, she proceeded, in the\nEast Indies, of which country she was a native; and, having succeeded\nto a large fortune on the death of her father, had given it all freely\nwithout bond, contract, or settlement, to her husband, whom she loved,\nhonoured, and worshipped, beyond all earthly beings, and with an ardour\nwhich had never abated from the first moment she had become his wife.\nNor was the affection limited to one side of the house; for she was\nmore than satisfied that her lord and master--grateful, no doubt, for\nthe rank, honour, riches, and independence to which she had raised\nhim--loved her with an affection at least equal to her own. But all\nthese advantages (and she sighed deeply as she proceeded) were of little\nconsequence to the production of happiness, if the greatest of all\nblessings, health, were denied to the possessor; and that too she had\nenjoyed, uninterruptedly, until about a month previously, when she was\nseized with an illness, the nature of which she could not comprehend;\nand which, notwithstanding all the anxious efforts of her husband, had\ncontinued unabated to that hour.\n\nShe paused, and seemed much exhausted by the struggle she made to let\nme thus far into her history. The concluding part of her statement,\ncombined with the still unexplained secrecy of my call, surprised me,\nand defied my powers of penetration. This lady had been dangerously ill\nfor a month, during all which time no medical man had been called to\nher aid; and even now, when her body was attenuated, and her strength\nexhausted to the uttermost, professional assistance had been introduced\ninto the house by stealth, as if it were against the laws to ameliorate\nhuman sufferings by curing diseases. This apparent anomaly in human\nconduct struck me so forcibly that I could not refrain from asking the\npatient, even before she recovered strength enough to answer me, what\nwas her or her husband's reason for not calling assistance; and why that\nassistance was at last requested under the cloud of secrecy and\napprehension.\n\n\"That I intended to explain to you,\" she said, after a pause. \"When I\nfelt myself ill (and my complaint commenced by excruciating pains in my\nstomach, accompanied with vomiting), I told my husband that I feared it\nwould be necessary to call a doctor; but, ah, sir! the very thought\nof the necessity of medical aid to the object of so much love and\ntenderness, put him almost frantic. He confessed that it was a weakness;\nbut declared his inability to conquer it. Yet, alas! his unremitting\nkindness has not diminished my disease. Though I have taken everything\nhis solicitude has suggested and offered to me, my pains still continue,\nmy appetite is entirely gone, and the weakness of my body has approached\nthat of the helpless infant. Three days ago I thought I would have\nbreathed my last; and parting thoughts of my native country, and the\ndear friends I left there to follow the fortunes of a dearer stranger,\npassed through my mind with the feeling of a long and everlasting\nfarewell. My husband wept over me, and prayed for my recovery; but he\ncould not think me so ill as to make the call of the doctor imperative;\nand I did not press a subject which I saw was painful to him. No, sir,\nI would rather have died than have produced in him the slightest\nuneasiness; and my object in calling you in the secret manner you have\nwitnessed, was simply to avoid causing to him the pain of thinking that\nmy illness was so great as to render your services absolutely\nnecessary.\"\n\nThe communication I now heard, which was spoken in broken sentences\nand after considerable pauses, in place of clearing up my difficulty,\nincreased it, and added to my surprise. Some light was, no doubt, thrown\non the cause which produced the secret manner of my visitation; but\nevery other circumstance attending the unfortunate lady's case was\nmerged in deeper gloom and mystery. The circumstance of a husband who\nloved his wife refusing to call professional assistance, appeared to be\nnot less extraordinary than the reason assigned for it--even with all\nthe allowances, justified by a very prevailing prejudice, in some weak\nminds, against the extremity of calling a doctor. I had heard something\nof Colonel P----; that he was considered to be immensely rich, and known\nto be a deep gambler, but I never understood that he was a victim of\nweak or imaginary fears, and I was therefore inclined to doubt the truth\nof the reason assigned by the unsuspecting invalid, for the scrupulous\ndelicacy of her husband's affection and solicitude. I pondered for a\nmoment, and soon perceived that the nature of her complaint, and the\nkind of restoratives or medicines she might have been receiving, would,\nin all likelihood, yield me more information on the subject of my\ndifficulty than I could procure from her broken sentences, which, at the\nbest, only expressed the sentiments of a mind clouded with the prejudice\nof a devoted love and unbounded credulity. I proceeded, therefore, to\nascertain the nature of her complaint; and soon discovered that the seat\nof it was, as she had said, in the region of the stomach, which not only\nproduced to her great pain internally, but felt sore on the application\nof external pressure on the _praecordia_. Other symptoms of a disease in\nthis principal organ were present: such as fits of painful vomiting\nafter attempting to eat, her great emaciation, anxiety of countenance,\nthirst, restlessness, and debility; and, in ordinary circumstances, I\nwould have been inclined to conclude that she laboured under some\nspecies of what we denominate _gastritis_, or inflammation of the\nstomach, though I could not account for such a disease not having been\nresolved and ended in much shorter time than the period which embraced\nher sufferings.\n\nI next proceeded to ascertain what she had been taking in the form of\nmedicaments; and discovered that her husband, proceeding on the idea\nthat her stomach laboured under weakness and required some tonic\nmedicine, had administered to her, on several occasions, what we term\n_limatura ferri_ (iron filings)--a remedy for cases of dyspepsia and bad\nstomachs, but not suited to the inflammatory disorders of the kind under\nwhich she was suffering. I asked her if she had any of the medicine\nlying by her, and she replied, with simplicity, that her husband\ngenerally took charge of it himself; but that he had that evening laid\na small paper, containing a portion of it, on the top of a side-table,\nuntil he administered to her the dose she was in the habit of receiving,\nand had gone away without laying it past, according to his custom. I\ntook up the paper, examined it, and found, according to the rapid\ninvestigation I bestowed on it, without the aid of any tests, that it\npossessed all the appearances of the genuine medicine. I, however, took\nthe precaution of emptying a small portion of it into another paper, and\nslipping it into my pocket unobserved by the patient. I then told her\nthat I thought she should discontinue the use of the powder, which was\nentirely unsuited to her ailment.\n\n\"That is a cruel advice, sir,\" she cried, in a tone of great excitement.\n\"How can I discontinue a medicine offered to me by the hands of a\nhusband, without being able to give any reason for rejecting his\nkindness? I tremble to think of repaying all the attentions of that dear\nman with ingratitude, and wounding his sensibility by rejecting this\ntestimony of his solicitude and affection. I cannot--I feel I cannot.\nThe grief I would thereby produce to him would be reflected, by\nsympathy, on this weak frame, which is unable to struggle much longer\nwith the pains of flesh alone, far less with the additional anguish of a\nwounded mind, grieved to death at causing sorrow to the man I so dearly\nlove. Do not, oh! do not, sir, make me an ingrate.\"\n\nI was struck with the devotion of this gentle being, who actually\ntrembled at the idea of producing uneasiness to the man whom she had\nraised to affluence, and who yet would not allow her the benefit of a\ndoctor in her distress; but, while I was pleased with this exhibition of\na feature in the female character I had never before seen so strongly\ndeveloped, though I had read and heard much of the fidelity and\naffection of the women of the east, I was much chagrined at the idea\nthat so fair and beautiful a virtue would probably prevent me from doing\nanything effectual for a creature who, independently of her distance\nfrom her country, had so many other claims on my sympathy. I told her\nthat I feared I could be of little service to her if she could not\nresolve upon discontinuing her husband's medicine; and tried to impress\nupon her the necessity of conforming to my advice, if she wished to make\nherself well--the best mode, assuredly, of making her husband happy;\nbut she replied that she expected I would have been able to give her\nsomething to restore her to health independently of what she got from\nher husband--a result she wished above all things, as she sighed for the\nopportunity of delighting him, by attributing to his medicines and care\nher restoration and happiness. I replied that that was impossible--a\nstatement that stung her with disappointment and pain.\n\n\"Then I will take my beloved's medicines, and die!\" she cried, with a\nlow struggling voice--resigning herself to the power of her weakness.\n\nThis extraordinary resolution of a female devotee put me in mind of the\nimmolating custom of her countrywomen, called the _suttee_. It was a\ncomplete _ultima ratio_, and put all my remedial plans at fault in an\ninstant. Her extreme weakness, or her devoted resolution, prevented her\nfrom speaking, and I sat by her bedside totally at a loss what to do,\nwhether to persevere in my attempt to get her to renounce her husband's\nmedicine and to conform to my prescriptions, or to leave her to the fate\nshe seemed to court. I put several more questions to her, but received\nno other answer than a wave of the hand--a plain token of her wish that\nI should leave her to the tender mercies of her husband. I had now no\nalternative; and, rising, I bowed to her, and took my leave. I had some\ndifficulty in finding my way out of the house; but, after several\nineffectual turns through wrong passages, I reached the door through\nwhich I had entered, and returned home.\n\nThe extraordinary scene I had witnessed engaged my attention during the\nevening, but all my efforts at clearing up the mystery that enveloped\nthe proceedings of these individuals were met by difficulties which for\na time seemed insuperable. I sat cogitating and recogitating various\ntheories and probabilities, and had several times examined the iron\npowder, which, for better observation, I had scattered on a sheet of\nwhite paper that lay on my table. My intention was to test it, and I\nwaited the incoming of my assistant to aid me in my experiment. As I\nlooked at it at intervals between my trains of thought, I was struck\nwith a kind of glittering appearance it exhibited, and which was more\nobservable when it caught my eye obliquely and collaterally, during the\npartial suspension of my perception by my cogitations. Roused by this\ncircumstance, I proceeded instantly to a more minute investigation; and\nhaving, by means of a magnet, removed all the particles of iron, what\nwas my surprise to find a residuum of triturated glass--one of the most\nsearching and insidious poisons known in toxicology. Good God! what were\nmy thoughts and feelings when the first flash of this discovery flared\nupon my mind--solving, in an instant, by the intensity of its painful\nlight, all my doubts, and realizing all my suspicions. Every\ncircumstance of this mysterious affair stood now revealed in clear\nrelief--a dark scheme of murder, more revolting in its features than\nany recorded in the malefactor's journal, was illumined and exposed by a\nlight which exhibited not only the workings of the design itself, but\nthe reason which led to its perpetration. This man had married the\nconfiding and devoted foreigner for the sake of her immense wealth,\nwhich raised him in an instant from mediocrity to magnificence; and,\nhaving attained the object of his ambition, he had resolved--with a view\nto the concealment of the means whereby he effected his purpose, and\nregardless of the sacred obligation of gratitude he owed to her who had\nleft her country, her relations, and friends, to trust herself to his\nprotection and love--to immolate the faithful, kind-hearted, and\naffectionate creature, by a cruel and protracted murder. In her own\ncountry the cowardly wretch could not have braved the vengeance of her\ncountrymen; but, in a distant land, where few might be expected to stand\nup for the rights of the injured foreigner, he had thought he might\nexecute his scheme with secrecy and success. But now it was discovered!\nBy one of those extraordinary detached traces of the finger of the\nAlmighty, exposed to the convicting power of divine intellect, it was\ndiscovered!\n\nThe great excitement produced in my mind by this miraculous discovery\nprevented me for some time from calmly deliberating on the steps I ought\nto pursue, with the view of saving the poor foreigner from the designs\nof her murderer. The picture of the devoted being lying, like a queen,\nin the midst of the wealth she had brought to her husband, and trembling\nat the very thought of rejecting his poison, for fear of giving him the\nslightest pain--yet on the very point of being sacrificed; her wealth,\nlove, confidence, and gentleness, repaid by death, and her body\nconsigned, unlamented by friends--who might never hear of her fate--to\nforeign dust, rose continually on my imagination, and interested my\nfeelings to a degree incompatible with the exercise of a calm judgment.\nIn proportion as my emotion subsided, the difficulty of my situation\nappeared to increase. I was, apparently, the only person who knew\nanything of this extraordinary purpose, and I saw the imprudence of\ntaking upon myself the total responsibility of a report to the public\nauthorities in a case where the chances of conviction would be\ndiminished to nothing by the determination of the victim to save her\ndestroyer, whom she never would believe guilty, and by the want of\nevidence of a direct nature that the powder I had tested was truly\ndestined for her reception; while, in the event of an impeachment and\nacquittal of the culprit, I would be exposed to his vengeance, and his\npoor wife would be for ever subjected to his tyranny and oppression. On\nthe other hand, I was at a loss to know how I could again get access to\nthe sick victim, whom I had left without being requested to repeat my\nvisit; and, even if that could be accomplished, I had many doubts\nwhether she would pay the slightest attention or regard to my statement,\nthat her husband, whom she seemed to prefer to her own divine Brama,\ndesigned to poison her. Yet it was clear that the poor victim behoved to\nbe saved, in some way, from the dreadful fate which impended over her;\nand the necessity of some steps being taken with rapidity and efficacy,\nbehoved to resolve scruples and doubts which otherwise might have been\nconsidered worthy of longer time and consideration.\n\nNext day I found I had made little progress in coming to a resolution\nwhat step to pursue, yet every hour and minute that passed reproached me\nwith cruelty, and my imagination brought continually before my eyes the\npoor victim swallowing the stated periodical quota of her death-drug. I\ncould have no rest or peace of mind till something was done, at least to\nthe extent of putting her on her guard against the schemes of her cruel\ndestroyer; and, after all my cogitations, resolutions, and schemes, I\nfound myself compelled to rest satisfied with seeing her, laying before\nher the true nature of her danger, and leaving to the operation of the\ninstinctive principle of self-preservation the working out of her\nultimate safety. At the same hour of the evening at which my former\nvisit was made, I repaired to the back entrance of the large mansion,\nand, upon rapping at the door, was fortunate enough to be answered by\nthe young woman who acted formerly as my guide. She led me, at my\nrequest, instantly to the sickroom of her lady, who, having immediately\nbefore been seized with an attack of vomiting, was lying in a state of\nexhaustion approaching to the inanity of death. I spoke to her, and she\nlanguidly opened her eyes. I saw no prospect of being able to impress\nupon her comatose mind the awful truth I had come to communicate; yet I\nhad no alternative but to make the attempt; and I accordingly proceeded,\nwith as few words as possible, and in a tone of voice suited to the\nlethargic state of her mind and senses, to inform her that the medicines\nshe was getting from the hands of her husband were fraught with deadly\npoison, which was alone the cause of all her sufferings and agonies, and\nwould soon be the means of a painful death. These words I spoke slowly\nand impressively, and watched the effect of them with anxiety and\nsolicitude. A convulsive shudder passed over her, and shook her\nviolently. She opened her eyes, which I saw fill with tears, and fixed\na steady look on my countenance.\n\n\"_It is impossible_,\" she said, with a low, guttural tone, but with much\nemphasis; \"and if it _were_ possible, I would still take his medicine,\nand die, rather than outlive the consciousness of love and fidelity.\"\n\nThese words she accompanied with a wave of her hand, as if she wished\nme to depart. I could not get her to utter another syllable. I had\ndischarged a painful duty; and, casting a look upon her, which I verily\nbelieved would be the last I would have it in my power to bestow on this\npersonification of fidelity and gentleness, I took my departure.\n\nI felt myself placed in a very painful position for two or three days\nafter this interview, arising from a conviction that I had not done\nenough for the salvation of this poor victim, and yet without being able\nto fix upon any other means of rendering her any assistance, unless I\nput into execution a resolution that floated in my mind, to admonish her\nhusband, by an anonymous communication, and threaten to divulge the\nsecret of his guilt, unless he instantly desisted from his nefarious\npurpose--a plan that did not receive the entire sanction of my honour,\nhowever much it enlisted the approbation of my feelings. Some further\ntime passed, and added, with its passing minutes, to my mental\ndisquietude. One evening, when I was sitting meditating painfully on\nthis sombre subject, a lackey, superbly dressed, was introduced to me by\nmy servant, and stated that he had been commanded by his master Colonel\nP----, to request my attendance at his house without delay. I started\nat the mention of the name, and the nature of the message; and the\nman stared at me, as I exhibited the irresolution of doubt and the\nperturbation of surprise, in place of returning him a direct answer.\nRecovering myself, I replied, that I would attend upon the instant;\nand, indeed, I felt a greater anxiety to fly to that house on which my\nthoughts were painfully fixed, than I ever did to visit the most valued\nfriend I ever attended in distress. As I hurried along, I took little\ntime to think of the object of my call; but I suspected, either that\nColonel P---- had got some notice of my having secretly visited,\nin my professional capacity, his wife, and being therefore privy to\nhis design--a state of opposing circumstances, which he was now to\nendeavour in some way to counteract--or that, finding, from the\nextremity to which his wife was reduced, that he was necessitated to\ncall a doctor, as a kind of cloak or cover to his cruel act, he had thus\nmade a virtue of necessity, when, alas! it would be too late for my\nrendering the unfortunate creature any service. \"He shall not, however,\nescape,\" muttered I, vehemently, through my teeth, as I proceeded. \"He\nlittle knows that he is now calling to his assistance the man that shall\nhang him.\"\n\nI soon arrived at the house, and rung the front door bell. The same\npowdered lackey who had preceded me, opened the door. I was led up two\npair of stairs, and found myself in the same lobby with which I had\nalready become somewhat familiar. I proceeded forward, thinking I was\ndestined for the sick chamber of the lady; but the servant opened a door\nimmediately next to that of her room, and ushered me into an apartment\nfurnished in an elegant style, but much inferior to that occupied by his\nwife. In a bed lay a man of a genteel, yet sinister cast of countenance,\nwith a large aquiline nose, and piercing black eyes. He appeared very\npale and feverish, and threw upon me that anxious eye which we often\nfind in patients who are under the first access of a serious disease;\nas if nature, while she kept her secret from the understanding,\ncommunicated it to the feelings, whose eloquence, expressed through the\nsenses, we can often read with great facility. I knew, in an instant,\nthat he was committed, by a relentless hand, to suffering, in all\nlikelihood, in the form of a fever. He told me he was Colonel P----, and\nthat, having been very suddenly taken ill, he had become alarmed for\nhimself, and sent for me to administer to him my professional services.\nI looked at him intently; but he construed my stare into the eagerness\nof professional investigation. At that instant, a piercing scream rang\nthrough the house, and made my ears tingle. I asked him who had uttered\nthat scream, which must have come from some creature in the very\nextremity of agony, and made an indication as if I would hasten to\nadminister relief to the victim. In an instant, I was close and firm in\nthe trembling clutch of the sick man, who, with a wild and confused\nlook, begged me not to sacrifice him to any attention to the cause\nof this disturbance, which was produced by a servant in the house\nhabitually given, through fits of hysterics, to the utterance of these\nscreams. I put on an appearance of being satisfied with this statement;\nbut I fixed my eye relentlessly on him, as he still shook, from the\ncombined effects of his incipient disease, and his fear of my\ninvestigating the cause of the scream. I proceeded to examine into the\nnature of his complaint. The symptoms described by him, and detected by\nmy observation, satisfied me that he had been seized with an attack\nof virulent typhus; and from the intensity of some of the\nindications--particularly his languor and small pulse, his loss of\nmuscular strength, violent pains in the head, the inflammation of his\neyes, the strong throbbing of his temporal arteries, his laborious\nrespiration, parched tongue, and hot breath--I was convinced he had\nbefore him the long sands of a rough and rapid race with death. At the\nclose of my investigation he looked anxiously and wistfully in my face,\nand asked me what I conceived to be the nature of his complaint. I told\nhim at once, and with greater openness and readiness than I usually\npractise, that I was very much afraid he was committed for a severe\ncourse of virulent typhus. He felt the full force of an announcement\nwhich, to those who have had any experience of this king of fevers,\ncannot fail to carry terror in every syllable; and falling back on his\npillow, turned up his eye to heaven. At this moment, a succession of\nscreams, or rather yells, sounded through the house; but as I now saw\nthat I had a chance of saving the innocent sufferer, I pretended not to\nregard the dreadful sounds, and purposely averted my eyes to escape the\ninquiring, nervous look of the sick man. I gave him some directions,\npromised to send some medicines, and took my leave.\n\nAs I shut the door, the waiting-maid, whom I had seen before, was\nstanding in the door of her mistress's apartment, and beckoned me in,\nwith a look of terror and secrecy. I was as anxious to visit her gentle\nmistress as she was to call me. On entering, which I did slowly and\nsilently, to escape the ear of her husband, I found the unfortunate\ncreature in the most intense state of agony. The ground glass she had\nswallowed, and a great part of which, doubtless, adhered to the stomach,\nwas too clearly the cause of her screams; but, to my surprise, I\ndiscovered, from her broken ejaculations, that the grief of her\nhusband's illness had been able, in its strength, to fight its way to\nher heart, through all her bodily agonies produced by his poison. My\nquestions regarding her own condition were answered by hysterical\nsobs, mixed with ejaculations of pity, and requests to know how he\nwas, and what was the nature of the complaint by which he had been\nattacked--hinting, in dubious terms, that she had been the cause of his\nillness, by entailing upon him the necessity of attending her, and\nwounding his sensitive heart by her distress. My former communications\nto her concerning the poison, and my caution against her acceptance of\nit from the hands of her intended murderer, had produced no effect upon\na mind predetermined to believe nothing against the man she loved and\ntrusted beyond all mortals. She had received it again from him after my\ncommunication; the effects of it were now exhibited in her tortured,\nburning viscera; and yet, in the very midst of her agonies, her faith,\nconfidence, and love stood unshaken; a noble yet melancholy emblem of\nthe most elevated, yet often least valued and most abused virtues of her\nsex. I endeavoured to answer her fevered inquiries about her husband, by\ntelling her that he stood in great _need of her attendance_; and that,\nif she would agree to follow my precepts, and put herself entirely under\nmy advice and direction, she might, in a very short time, be enabled to\nperform her duty of a faithful wife and a kind nurse to her distressed\npartner. The first perception she caught of the meaning of my\ncommunication, lighted up her eye, even in the midst of her wringing\npains; and, starting up, she cried, that she would be the most abject\nslave to my will, and obey me in all things, if I could assure her of\nthe blessing of being able to act as nurse and comforter to her husband.\nNow I saw my opportunity. On the instant I called up and despatched the\nwaiting-maid to my home, with directions to my assistant, to send me\ninstantly an oleaginous mixture, and some powerful emetics, which\nI described in a _recipe_. I waited the return of the messenger,\nadministered the medicines, and watched for a time their operation and\neffects. Notwithstanding the continued attacks that had been made on her\nsystem by the doses of an active poison, I was satisfied that, if my\nenergies were not, in some unforeseen way, thwarted and opposed, I would\nbe able to bring this deserving wife and pattern of her sex from the\nbrink of the grave that had been dug for her by the hand of her husband.\nAfter leaving with the waiting-maid some directions, I proceeded home,\nfor the purpose of preparing the necessary medicines for my other\npatient.\n\nI now commenced a series of regular visits to my two patients--the\nillness of the husband affording me the most ample scope for saving his\nwife. As he gradually descended into the unavoidable depths of his\ninexorable disease, she, by the elastic force of youth and a good\nconstitution, operating in unison with my medicines, which were\nadministered with the greatest regularity, gradually threw off the\nlurking poison, and advanced to a state of comparative safety and\nstrength. I was much pleased to observe the salutary effects of my\nprofessional interference in behalf of my interesting patient; but could\nscarcely credit my own perceptions, as I had exhibited to me the most\nundoubted proofs, that the desire to minister to the wants and comforts\nof her sick husband, engrossed so completely every other feeling that\nmight have been supposed consequent upon a restoration to health, that\nshe seemed to disregard all other considerations. Her questions about\nthe period when she might be able to attend him were unremitting; and\nevery hour she was essaying to walk, though her efforts often ended in\nweak falls, or sinkings on the ground, when some one was required to\nassist her in getting up and returning to bed. She entreated me to allow\nher to be _carried_ to his bedside; where, she said, they might mix\ntheir tears and console each other; and all my arguments against the\nimpropriety of such an obvious mode of increasing her husband's illness,\nand augmenting those sufferings she was so solicitous to ameliorate,\nwere scarcely sufficient to prevent her from putting her design into\nexecution.\n\nThe husband's disease, which often runs a course of two months,\nthough the crisis occurs generally between the third and fourth week,\nprogressed steadily and relentlessly, mocking, as the fevers of that\ntype generally do, all the boasted art of our profession. His pulse rose\nto the alarming height of 120; he exhibited the oppression at the chest,\nincreased thirst, blackfurred tongue, and inarticulate, muttering\nspeech, which are considered to be unfavourable indications; and there\nwas, besides, a clear tendency to delirium--a common, yet critical\nsymptom--leaving, even after the patient has recovered, and often for\nyears, its marks in the weakened intellect. One evening I was standing\nby his bedside, studying his symptoms; witnessing the excess of his\nsufferings, and listening to the bursts of incoherent speech which, from\ntime to time, came from him, as if expelled from his sick spirit by some\ninternal power. He spoke often of his wife, whom he called by the name\nof Espras; and, in the midst of his broken ejaculations, gushes of\nintense feeling came on him, filling his yellow sunken eyes with rheumy\ntears, and producing heavy sobs, which, repressed by his loaded chest,\nassumed sounds unlike anything I ever heard, and beyond my power of\ndescription. I could not well understand these indications of the\nworking of his spirit; but I fancied that, when he felt his own agonies,\nbecame conscious of what it is to suffer a certain extremity of pain,\nand learned, for the first time in his life, the sad experience of an\ninexorable disease, which presented to him the prospect of a lingering\ndeath, his mind recurred to the situation of his wife, who, as he\nthought, was, or might be, enduring tortures produced by his hand,\ntranscending even his sufferings. There seemed to be less of conscience\nin his mental operations, than a new-born sorrow or sympathy, wrung out\nof a heart naturally obdurate, by the anguish of a personal experience\nof the pain he himself had produced in another, who had the strongest\nclaims on his protection and love. His mind, though volatile and\nwandering, and not far from verging on delirium, was not yet deranged;\nand I was about to put a question to him concerning his wife, whom he\nhad not directly mentioned to me, when the door opened, and the still\npale and emaciated figure of Mrs. P----, dressed in a white morning\ngown, entered the apartment, struggling with her weakness to get\nforward, and clutching, in her breathless efforts, at whatever presented\nitself to her nerveless arms, to support her, and aid her in her\nprogress to the sick-bed of her husband. The bed being in the middle of\na large room, she was necessitated to trust partly to the weak powers of\nher limbs, which having failed her, she, in an attempt to spring forward\nand reach it before sinking, came short of her aim, and fell with a\ncrash on the floor, uttering, as she stumbled, a scream of sorrow,\nwrung from her by the sight of her husband lying extended on a bed of\nsickness. The noise started the invalid, who turned his eyes wildly in\nthe direction of the disturbance; and I rushed forwards to raise in\nmy arms the exhausted victim. I had scarcely got her placed on her\nfeet, when she again struggled to reach the bed; and having, by my\nassistance, got far enough forward, she threw herself on the body of\nthe fever-ridden patient, ejaculating, as she seized him in her arms,\nand bedewed his pale face with tears--\n\n\"Frederick! my honoured husband, whom I am bound to cherish and nurse\nas becomes the fondest of wives, why is it that I have been deprived\nof this luxury of the grief-stricken heart--to watch your looks, and\nanticipate your wants? Thanks to the blessed powers of your faith and of\nmine, I have you now in my arms, and no mortal shall come between me and\nmy love! Night and day I will watch and tend you, till the assiduities\nof my affection weary out the effects of your cruel disease brought on\nyou--O God!--by your grief for me, your worthless Espras.\"\n\nAnd she buried her head in the bosom of the sick man, and sobbed\nintensely. This scene, from the antithesis of its circumstances,\nappeared to me the most striking I had ever beheld; and, though it was\nmy duty to prevent so exciting a cause of disturbance to the patient, I\nfelt I had no power to stop this burst of true affection. I watched\nnarrowly the eye of the patient; but it was too much clouded by the\neffects of the fever, and too nervous and fugacious, to enable me to\ndistinguish between the effects of disease and the working of the\nnatural affections. But that his mind and feelings were working, and\nwere responding to this powerful moral impulse, was proved fearfully by\nhis rapid indistinct muttering and jabbering, mixed with deep sighs, and\nthe peculiar sound of the repressed sobs which I have already mentioned,\nbut cannot assimilate to any sound I ever heard. All my efforts to\nremove the devoted wife by entreaty were vain; she still clung to him,\nas if he had been on the eve of being taken from her by death. Her\nsobbing continued unabated, and her tears fell on his cheek. These\nintense expressions of love and sorrow awoke the sympathy which I\nthought had previously been partially excited, for I now observed that\nhe turned away his head, while a stream of tears flowed down his face.\nIt was now, I found, necessary, for the sake of the patient, to remove\nthe excited lady; and I was obliged to apply a gentle force before I\ncould accomplish my purpose. She insisted, however, upon remaining in\nthe room, and beseeched me so piteously for this privilege, that I\nconsented to a couch being made up for her at a little distance from the\nbed of her husband, whom it was her determination to tend and nurse, to\nthe exclusion of all others. I was not, indeed, ill pleased at this\nresolution, for I anticipated, from her unexampled love and devotedness,\nan effect on the heart of her husband which might cure its vices and\nregenerate its affections.\n\nOn the next occasion of my stated visit, I found my patient had at last\nfallen into a state of absolute delirium. On a soft arm-chair, situated\nby his bedside, sat his wife, the picture of despair, wringing her\nhands, and indulging in the most extravagant demonstrations of grief\nand affection. The wretched man exhibited the ordinary symptoms of that\nunnatural excitement of the brain under which he laboured--relapsing\nat times into silence, then uttering a multiplicity of confused\nwords--jabbering wildly--looking about him with that extraordinary\nexpression of the eye, as if every individual present was viewed as a\nmurderer--then starting up, and, with an overstrained and choking voice,\nvociferating his frenzied thoughts, and then again relapsing into\nsilence. It is but little we can do for patients in this extreme\ncondition; but the faith his wife reposed in professional powers that\nhad already saved her, suggested supplications and entreaties which I\ntold her she had better direct to a higher Dispensator of hope and\nrelief. The tumultuous thoughts of the raving victim were still at\nintervals rolling forth; and, all of a sudden, I was startled by a great\nincrease of the intensity and connectedness of his speech. He had struck\nthe chord that sounded most fearfully in his own ears. His attempt to\nmurder the creature who now sat and heard his wild confession, was\ndescribed by himself in intelligible, though broken sentences:--\n\n\"The fortune brought me by Espras,\" he vociferated, \"is loaded by the\nburden of herself--that glass is not well ground--you are not so ill, my\ndear Espras, as to require a doctor--I cannot bear the thought of you\nlabouring under that necessity--who can cure you so well as your devoted\nhusband? Take this--fear not--why should love have suspicions? When she\nis gone, I shall have a wife of whom I may not be ashamed--yet, is she\nnot a stranger in a foreign land? Has she not left her country, her\nrelations, her friends, her gods, for me, whom she has raised to\nopulence? Cease, cease--I cannot stand these thoughts--there is a strife\nin this heart between the powers of hell and heaven--when will it\nterminate, and who shall rule my destiny?\"\n\nThese words, which he accompanied with wild gestures, were followed by\nhis usual indistinct muttering and jabbering. I directed my gaze upon\nhis wife. She sat in the chair, motionless, with her eyes fixed on the\nground as if she had been struck with death in that position, and been\nstiffened into a rigidity which retained her in her place. The issues\nof her tenderness and affection seemed to have been sent back upon the\nheart, whose pulses they stopped. The killing pain of an ingratitude,\ningeniously heightened to the highest grade of that hell-king of all\nhuman crimes, operating upon a mind rendered so sensitively susceptible\nof its influences, paralyzed the whole moral constitution of the devoted\ncreature, and realized the poetical creation of despair. I felt inclined\nto soften the sternness of her grief, by quickening her disbelief of the\nraving thoughts of a fever-maniac; but I paused as I thought of the\nprobable necessity of her suspicion for her future safety from the\nschemes of a murderer, whose evil desires might be resuscitated by the\nreturn of health. I could do nothing more at that time for the dreadful\ncondition of the wretched husband, and less for the more dreadful state\nof the miserable wife; and the personal pain I experienced in witnessing\nthis high-wrought scene of terror, forced me to depart, leaving the one\nstill raving in his madness, and the other bound in the stern grasp of\nthe most awful of all moral visitations.\n\nI expected that on my next visit I would find such a change on my\npatient as would enable me to decide whether he would live or die; but\nhe was still delirious, with the crowded thoughts of the events of his\npast life careering through his fevered brain, as if their restlessness\nand agitation were produced by the burning fires that chased them from\ntheir legitimate territory of the mind. There was, however, a change\nin one quarter. His wife's confidence and affection had withstood and\ntriumphed over the attack of the previous day, and she was again\noccupied in hanging over her raving husband, shedding on his unconscious\nface the tear of pity, and supplying, by anticipation, every want that\ncould be supposed incident to his miserable condition. This new and\nadditional proof of the strength of this woman's steadfastness, in her\nunparalleled fidelity and love, struck me even more forcibly than the\nprevious indications she had given of this extraordinary feature in her\ncharacter. But I was uncertain yet whether to construe her conduct as\nsalutary or dangerous to her own personal interests--a circumstance\ndepending on the further development of the sentiments of her husband.\nOn that same evening the change suspected took place: the delirium\nabated, and consciousness, that had been driven forcibly from her\nthrone, hastened to assume the sceptre of her authority. The crisis was\npast, and the patient began to be sensible of those attentions on the\npart of his devoted wife, which had not only the merit of being\nunremitting, but that of being sweetened by the tears of solicitude and\nthe blandness of love. I marked attentively the first impressions made\nby her devotedness on the returning sense. I saw his look following her\neye, which was continually inflamed and bedewed by the effects of her\ngrief; and, after he had for a period of time fixed his half-conscious,\nhalf-wondering gaze on her, he turned it suddenly away, but not before\nhe gave sufficient indications of sympathy and sorrow in a gush of\ntears. These manifestations were afterwards often repeated; but I\nthought I sometimes could perceive an abruptness in his manner, and a\npainful impatience of the minute, refined, and ingenious attentions of a\nhighly-impassioned affection, which left me in doubt whether, after his\ndisease was removed, sufficient reliance could be placed on the\nstability of his regeneration.\n\nIn my subsequent visits I kept up my study of the operations of his mind\nas well as the changes of his disease. His wife's attentions seemed\nrather to increase with the improvement of his health and her increased\nability to discharge the duties of affection. He had improved so far as\nto be in a condition to receive medicines for the recovery of the tone\nof his stomach. I seized the opportunity of his wife leaving for a short\ntime his sick room, and, as I seated myself on her chair by the bedside,\nI took from my pocket the powder of iron-filings and triturated glass he\nhad prepared for the poisoning of her who had latterly been contributing\nall the energies of love to the saving of his life.\n\n\"A chalybeate mixture,\" said I, while I fixed my eyes on his\ncountenance, \"has been recommended for patients in your condition, for\nimproving the power of the stomach weakened by the continued nausea of\na protracted fever. Here is a powder composed of iron-filings, a good\nchalybeate, which I found lying in your wife's apartment. I have none\nbetter in my laboratory, and would recommend to you a full dose of it\nbefore I depart.\"\n\nThe electric effect of this statement was instantaneous and remarkable.\nHe seemed like one who had felt the sharp sting of a musket bullet sent\ninto his body by a hand unseen--uncertain of the nature of the wound, or\nof the aim by which it is produced. A sudden suspicion relieved his\nstill fevered eye, which threw upon me the full blaze of staring wonder\nand terror, while an accompanying uncertainty of my intention sealed his\nmouth and added curiosity to his look. But I followed up my intention\nresolutely and determinedly.\n\n\"Here is on the table,\" continued I, \"a mucilaginous vehicle for its\nconveyance into the stomach. I shall prepare it instantly. To seize\nquickly the handle of an auspicious occasion is the soul of our\nart.\"--(Approaching the bed with the medicine in my hand.)\n\n\"I cannot, I cannot take that medicine,\" he cried, wildly. \"What means\nthis? Help me, Heaven, in this emergency! I cannot, I dare not take that\nmedicine.\"\n\n\"Why?\" said I, still eyeing him intently. \"Is it because there is\nground glass in it? That cannot be; because I understand it was intended\nfor Espras, your loving, faithful wife; and who would administer so\ndreadful a poison to a creature so gentle and interesting? She is,\nbesides, a foreigner in our land; and who would treat the poor\nunprotected stranger with the dainty that has concealed in it a lurking\ndeath? Is this the hospitality of Britain?\"\n\nEvery word was a thunderstroke to his heart. All uncertainty fled before\nthese flaming sarcasms, which carried, on the bolt of truth, the\nkeenness of his own poison. His pain became intense, and exhibited the\npeculiarity of a mixture of extreme terror, directed towards me as one\nthat had the power of hanging him, and of intense sorrow for the injury\nhe had produced to the wife of his bosom, whose emaciated figure,\nhanging over him in his distress, must have been deeply imprinted on\nhis soul. Yet it was plain that his sorrow overcame his fear; for I\nsaw his bosom heaving with an accumulation of hysterical emotions, which\nconvulsed his frame in the intense manner of the aerial ball that chokes\nthe female victim of excited nerves. The struggle lasted for several\nminutes, and at last a burst of dissolving tenderness, removing all the\nobstructions of prudence or terror, and stunning my ear with its loud\nsound, afforded him a temporary relief. Tears gushed down his cheeks,\nand groans of sorrow filled the room, and might have been heard in the\napartment of his wife, whose entry, I feared, might have interrupted the\nextraordinary scene. Looking at me wistfully, he held out his hands, and\nsobbed out, in a tone of despair--\n\n\"Are you my friend, or are you my enemy?\"\n\nI answered him that I was the friend of his wife--one of the brightest\npatterns of female fidelity I had ever seen; and if by declaring myself\nhis friend I would save her from the designs of the poisoner, and him\nfrom the pains of the law and the fire of hell, I would instantly sign\nthe bond of amity.\n\n\"You have knocked from my soul the bonds of terror,\" he cried out, still\nsobbing; \"and if I knew and were satisfied of one thing more, I would\nresign myself to God and my own breaking heart. Did Espras--yet why\nshould I suspect one who rejects suspicion as others do the poison she\nwould swallow from my hand, though labelled by the apothecary?--did\nEspras tell you what you have so darkly and fearfully hinted to me?\"\n\nI replied to him that, in place of telling me, the faithful unsuspecting\ncreature had to that hour rejected and spurned the suspicion, as\nunworthy of her pure, confiding spirit.\n\n\"It is over!--it is over!\" cried the changed man. \"O God! How powerful\nis virtue! How strong is the force of those qualities of the heart which\nwe men often treat as weak baubles to toy with, and throw away in our\nfits of proud spleen--the softness, the gentleness, the fidelity and\ndevotedness of woman! How strangely, how wonderfully formed is the heart\nof man, which, disdaining the terrors of the rope of the executioner,\nbreaks and succumbs at the touch of the thistle-down of a woman's love!\nThis creature, sir, gave me my fortune, made me what I am, left for me\nher country and her friends, adhered to me through good and evil\nreport--and I prepared for her a cruel death! Dreadful contrast! Who\nshall describe the shame, the sorrow, the humiliation, of the ingrate\nwhose crime has risen to the fearful altitude of this enormity; and who,\nby the tenderness and love of his devoted victim, is forced to turn his\neye on the grim reward of death for love, riches, and life? Gentle,\nbeloved, injured Espras! that emaciated form, these trembling limbs,\nthese sunken eyes, and these weak and whispering sounds of pity and\naffection have touched my heart with a power that never was vouchsafed\nto the tongue of eloquence. Transcending the rod of Moses, they have\nbrought from the rock streams of blood; and every pulse is filled with\ntenderness and pity. Wretched fool! I was ashamed of your nativity,\nand of the colour you inherited from nature, and never estimated the\nqualities of your heart; but when shall the red-and-white beauty of\nEngland transcend my Espras in her fidelity and love, as she does in the\nskin-deep tints of a beguiling, treacherous face? God! what a change has\ncome over this heart! Thanks, and prayers, and tears of blood, never can\nexpress the gratitude it owes to the great Author of our being for this\nmiraculous return to virtue, effected by the simple means of a woman's\nconfidence and love.\"\n\nAs he finished this impassioned speech, which I have repeated as\ncorrectly as my memory enabled me to commit to my note-book, he turned\nhis eyes upwards, and remained for at least five minutes in silent\nprayer. As he was about finishing his wife entered. Her appearance\ncalled forth from his excited mind a burst of affection, and seizing her\nin his arms, he wept over her like a child. He was met as fervently by\nthe gentle and affectionate creature, who, grateful to God for this\nrenewed expression of her husband's love, turned up her eyes to heaven,\nand wept aloud. I never witnessed a scene like this. I left them to\ntheir enjoyment, and returned home.\n\nI was subsequently a constant visitor at the house of Colonel P----;\nand, about eighteen months after his recovery, I officiated as\naccoucheur to his wife on the occasion of the birth of a son. Other\nchildren followed afterwards, and bound closer the bonds of that\nconjugal love which I had some hand in producing, and which I saw\nincrease daily through a long course of years.\n\n\n\n\nTHE ADOPTED SON.\n\nA TALE OF THE TIMES OF THE COVENANTERS.\n\n\n\"Oh, for the sword of Gideon, to rid the land of tyrants, to bring down\nthe pride of apostates, and to smite the ungodly with confusion!\"\nmuttered John Brydone to himself, as he went into the fields in the\nSeptember of 1645, and beheld that the greater part of a crop of oats,\nwhich had been cut down a few days before, was carried off. John was the\nproprietor of about sixty acres on the south bank of the Ettrick, a\nlittle above its junction with the Tweed. At the period we speak of,\nthe talented and ambitious Marquis of Montrose, who had long been an\napostate to the cause of the Covenant--and not only an apostate, but\nits most powerful enemy--having, as he thought, completely crushed its\nadherents in Scotland, in the pride of his heart led his followers\ntowards England, to support the tottering cause of Charles in the south,\nand was now with his cavalry quartered at Selkirk, while his infantry\nwere encamped at Philiphaugh, on the opposite side of the river.\n\nEvery reader has heard of Melrose Abbey--which is still venerated\nin its decay, majestic in its ruins--and they have read, too, of the\nabode of the northern wizard, who shed the halo of his genius over\nthe surrounding scenery. But many have heard of Melrose, of Scott,\nand of Abbotsford, to whom the existence of Philiphaugh is unknown.\nIt, however, is one of those places where our forefathers laid the\nfoundation of our freedom with the bones of its enemies, and cemented it\nwith their own blood. If the stranger who visits Melrose and Abbotsford\npursue his journey a few miles farther, he may imagine that he is still\nfollowing the source of the Tweed, until he arrive at Selkirk, when he\nfinds that for some miles he has been upon the banks of the Ettrick, and\nthat the Tweed is lost among the wooded hills to the north. Immediately\nbelow Selkirk, and where the forked river forms a sort of island, on the\nopposite side of the stream, he will see a spacious haugh, surrounded by\nwooded hills, and forming, if we may so speak, an amphitheatre bounded\nby the Ettrick, between the Yarrow and the Tweed. Such is Philiphaugh;\nwhere the arms of the Covenant triumphed, and where the sword of\nMontrose was blunted for ever.\n\nNow, the sun had not yet risen, and a thick, dark mist covered the face\nof the earth, when, as we have said, John Brydone went out into his\nfields, and found that a quantity of his oats had been carried away. He\ndoubted not but they had been taken for the use of Montrose's cavalry;\nand it was not for the loss of his substance that he grieved, and that\nhis spirit was wroth, but because it was taken to assist the enemies of\nhis country, and the persecutors of the truth; for than John Brydone,\nhumble as he was, there was not a more dauntless or a more determined\nsupporter of the Covenant in all Scotland. While he yet stood by the\nside of his field, and, from the thickness of the morning, was unable to\ndiscern objects at a few yards' distance, a party of horsemen rode up to\nwhere he stood. \"Countryman,\" said one who appeared to be their leader,\n\"can you inform us where the army of Montrose is encamped?\"\n\nJohn, taking them to be a party of the Royalists, sullenly\nreplied--\"There's mony ane asks the road they ken,\" and was proceeding\ninto the field.\n\n\"Answer me!\" demanded the horseman angrily, and raising a pistol in his\nhand--\"Sir David Lesly commands you.\"\n\n\"Sir David Lesly!\" cried John--\"the champion of the truth!--the defender\nof the good cause! If ye be Sir David Lesly, as I trow ye be, get yer\ntroops in readiness, and, before the mist vanish on the river, I will\ndeliver the host o' the Philistines into your hand.\"\n\n\"See that ye play not the traitor,\" said Lesly, \"or the nearest tree\nshall be unto thee as the gallows was to Haman which he prepared for\nMordecai.\"\n\n\"Do even so to me, and more also,\" replied John, \"if ye find me false.\nBut think ye that I look as though I bore the mark of the beast upon my\nforehead?\" he continued, taking off his Lowland bonnet, and gazing\nGeneral Lesly full in the face.\n\n\"I will trust you,\" said the General; and, as he spoke, the van of his\narmy appeared in sight.\n\nJohn having described the situation of the enemy to Sir David, acted as\ntheir guide until they came to the Shaw Burn, when the General called a\nhalt. Each man having partaken of a hurried repast, by order of Sir\nDavid, the word was given along the line that they should return thanks\nfor being conducted to the place where the enemy of the Kirk and his\narmy slept in imaginary security. The preachers at the head of the\ndifferent divisions of the army gave out a psalm, and the entire host of\nthe Covenanters, uncovering their heads, joined at the same moment in\nthanksgiving and praise. John Brydone was not a man of tears, but, as he\njoined in the psalm, they rolled down his cheeks, for his heart felt,\nwhile his tongue uttered praise, that a day of deliverance for the\npeople of Scotland was at hand. The psalm being concluded, each preacher\noffered up a short but earnest prayer; and each man, grasping his\nweapon, was ready to lay down his life for his religion and his liberty.\n\nJohn Brydone, with his bonnet in hand, approaching Sir David,\nsaid--\"Now, sir, I that ken the ground, and the situation o' the enemy,\nwould advise ye, as a man who has seen some service mysel', to halve\nyour men; let the one party proceed by the river to attack them on the\none side, and the other go round the hills to cut off their retreat.\"[J]\n\n [J]\n    \"But halve your men in equal parts,\n       Your purpose to fulfil;\n     Let ae half keep the water-side,\n       The rest gae round the hill.\"\n                _Battle of Philiphaugh--Border Ballad._\n\n\"Ye speak skilfully,\" said Sir David, and he gave orders as John Brydone\nhad advised.\n\nThe Marquis of Montrose had been disappointed in reinforcements from his\nsovereign. Of two parties which had been sent to assist him in his raid\ninto England, one had been routed in Yorkshire, and the other defeated\non Carlisle sands, and only a few individuals from both parties joined\nhim at Selkirk. A great part of his Highlanders had returned home to\nenjoy their plunder; but his army was still formidable, and he imagined\nthat he had Scotland at his feet, and that he had nothing to fear from\nanything the Covenanters could bring against him. He had been writing\ndespatches throughout the night; and he was sitting in the best house\nin Selkirk, penning a letter to his sovereign, when he was startled\nby the sounds of cannon and of musketry. He rushed to the street. The\ninhabitants were hurrying from their houses--many of his cavalry were\nmingling, half-dressed, with the crowd. \"To horse!--to horse!\" shouted\nMontrose. His command was promptly obeyed; and, in a few minutes, at\nthe head of his cavalry, he rushed down the street leading to the river\ntowards Philiphaugh. The mist was breaking away, and he beheld his army\nfleeing in every direction. The Covenanters had burst upon them as a\nthunderbolt. A thousand of his best troops lay dead upon the field.[K]\nHe endeavoured to rally them, but in vain; and, cutting his way through\nthe Covenanters, he fled at his utmost speed, and halted not until he\nhad arrived within a short distance of where the delightful watering\ntown of Innerleithen now stands, when he sought a temporary\nresting-place in the house of Lord Traquair.\n\n [K] Sir Walter Scott says that \"the number of slain in the field did\n not exceed three or four hundred.\" All the authorities I have seen state\n the number at a thousand. He also accuses Lesly of abusing his victory\n by slaughtering many of his prisoners in cold blood. Now, it is true that\n a hundred of the Irish adventurers were shot; but this was in pursuance\n of an act of both Parliaments, and not from any private revenge on the\n part of General Lesly.\n\nJohn Brydone, having been furnished with a sword, had not been idle\nduring the engagement; but, as he had fought upon foot, and the greater\npart of Lesly's army were cavalry, he had not joined in the pursuit;\nand, when the battle was over, he conceived it to be as much his duty\nto act the part of the Samaritan, as it had been to perform that of a\nsoldier. He was busied, therefore, on the field in administering, as he\ncould, to the wounded; and whether they were Cavalier or Covenanter, it\nwas all one to John; for he was not one who could trample on a fallen\nfoe, and in their hour of need he considered all men as brothers. He was\npassing within about twenty yards of a tent upon the Haugh, which had a\nsuperior appearance to the others--it was larger, and the cloth which\ncovered it was of a finer quality; when his attention was arrested by a\nsound unlike all that belonged to a battle-field--the wailing and the\ncries of an infant! He looked around, and near him lay the dead body of\na lady, and on her breast, locked in her cold arms, a child of a few\nmonths old was struggling. He ran towards them--he perceived that\nthe lady was dead--he took the child in his arms--he held it to his\nbosom--he kissed its cheek--\"Puir thing!--puir thing!\" said John; \"the\ninnocent hae been left to perish amang the unrighteous.\" He was bearing\naway the child, patting its cheek, and caressing it as he went, and\nforgetting the soldier in the nurse, when he said unto himself--\"Puir\ninnocent!--an' belike yer wrang-headed faither is fleeing for his life,\nan' thinking aboot ye an' yer mother as he flees! Weel, ye may be\nclaimed some day, an' I maun do a' in my power to gie an account o' ye.\"\nSo John turned back towards the lifeless body of the child's mother; and\nhe perceived that she wore a costly ring upon her finger, and bracelets\non her arms; she also held a small parcel, resembling a book, in her\nhands, as though she had fled with it, without being able to conceal it,\nand almost at the door of her tent she had fallen with her child in her\narms, and her treasure in her hand. John stooped upon the ground, and\ntook the ring from her finger, and the bracelets from her arms; he took\nalso the packet from her hands, and in it he found other jewels, and a\npurse of gold pieces. \"These may find thee a faither, puir thing,\" said\nhe; \"or if they do not, they may befriend thee when John Brydone\ncannot.\"\n\nHe carried home the child to his own house, and his wife having at that\ntime an infant daughter at her breast, she took the foundling from her\nhusband's arms, and became unto it as a mother, nursing it with her own\nchild. But John told not his wife of the purse, nor the ring, nor the\nrich jewels.\n\nThe child had been in their keeping for several weeks, but no one\nappeared to claim him. \"The bairn may hae been baptized,\" said John;\n\"but it wud be after the fashion o' the sons o' Belial; but he is a\nbrand plucked from the burning--he is my bairn noo, and I shall be unto\nhim as a faither--I'll tak upon me the vows--and, as though he were\nflesh o' my ain flesh, I will fulfil them.\" So the child was baptized.\nIn consequence of his having been found on Philiphaugh, and of the\nvictory there gained, he was called Philip; and as John had adopted him\nas his son, he bore also the name of Brydone. It is unnecessary for\nus to follow the foundling through his years of boyhood. John had two\nchildren--a son named Daniel, and Mary, who was nursed at his mother's\nbreast with the orphan Philip. As the boy grew up, he called his\nprotectors by the name of father and mother; but he knew they were not\nsuch, for John had shown him the spot upon the Haugh where he had found\nhim wailing on the bosom of his dead mother. Frequently, too, when he\nquarrelled with his playfellows, they would call him the \"Philiphaugh\nfoundling,\" and \"the Cavalier's brat;\" and on such occasions Mary was\nwont to take his part, and, weeping, say \"he was her brother.\" As he\ngrew up, however, it grieved his protector to observe that he manifested\nbut little of the piety, and less of the sedateness of his own children.\n\"What is born i' the bane, isna easily rooted oot o' the flesh,\" said\nJohn; and in secret he prayed and wept that his adopted son might be\nbrought to a knowledge of the truth. The days of the Commonwealth had\ncome, and John and his son Daniel rejoiced in the triumphs of the\nParliamentary armies, and the success of its fleets; but, while they\nspoke, Philip would mutter between his teeth--\"It is the triumph of\nmurderers!\" He believed that but for the ascendancy of the Commonwealth,\nhe might have obtained some tidings of his family; and this led him to\nhate a cause which the activity of his spirit might have tempted him to\nembrace.\n\nMary Brydone had always been dear to him; and, as he grew towards\nmanhood, he gazed on her beautiful features with delight; but it was not\nthe calm delight of a brother contemplating the fair face of a sister;\nfor Philip's heart glowed as he gazed, and the blush gathered on his\ncheek. One summer evening they were returning from the fields together,\nthe sun was sinking in the west, the Ettrick murmured along by their\nside, and the voice of the wood-dove was heard from the copse-wood which\ncovered the hills.\n\n\"Why are you so sad, brother Philip?\" said Mary; \"would you hide\nanything from your own sister?\"\n\n\"Do not call me _brother_, Mary,\" said he earnestly--\"do not call me\n_brother_!\"\n\n\"Who would call you brother, Philip, if I did not?\" returned she\naffectionately.\n\n\"Let Daniel call me brother,\" said he, eagerly; \"but not you--not you!\"\n\nShe burst into tears. \"When did I offend you, Philip,\" she added, \"that\nI may not call you brother?\"\n\n\"Never, Mary!--never!\" he exclaimed; \"call me Philip--_your_\nPhilip!--anything but brother!\" He took her hand within his--he pressed\nit to his bosom. \"Mary,\" he added, \"I have neither father, mother,\nbrother, nor kindred--I am alone in the world--let there be something\nthat I can call _mine_--something that will love me in return! Do you\nunderstand me, Mary?\"\n\n\"You are cruel, Philip,\" said she, sobbing as she spoke; \"you know I\nlove you--I have always loved you!\"\n\n\"Yes! as you love Daniel--as you love your father; but not as\"----\n\n\"You love Mr. Duncan,\" he would have said; but his heart upbraided him\nfor the suspicion, and he was silent. It is here necessary to inform the\nreader that Mr. Duncan was a preacher of the Covenant, and John Brydone\nrevered him much. He was much older than Mary, but his heart cleaved to\nher, and he had asked her father's consent to become his son-in-law.\nJohn, though a stern man, was not one who would force the inclination\nof his daughter; but Mr. Duncan was, as he expressed it, \"one of the\nfaithful in Israel,\" and his proposal was pleasing to him. Mary,\nhowever, regarded the preacher with awe, but not with affection.\n\nMary felt that she understood Philip--that she loved him, and not as a\nbrother. She hid her face upon his shoulder, and her hand returned the\npressure of his. They entered the house together, and her father\nperceived that his daughter's face was troubled. The manner of both was\nchanged. He was a shrewd man as well as a stern man, and he also\nsuspected the cause.\n\n\"Philip,\" said he calmly, \"for twenty years hae I protected ye, an'\nwatched ower ye wi' a faither's care, an' I fear that, in return\nfor my care, ye hae brought sorrow into the bosom o' my family, an'\ninstilled disobedience into the flesh o' my ain flesh. But though\nye hae cleaved--as it maun hae been inherent in your bluid--into the\nprinciples o' the sons o' this warld, yet, as I ne'er found ye guilty\no' a falsehood, an' as I believe ye incapable o' are, tell me truly,\nwhy is your countenance an' that o' Mary changed--and why are ye baith\ntroubled to look me straight in the face? Answer me--hae ye taught her\nto forget that she is your sister?\"\n\n\"Yes!\" answered Philip; \"and can it offend the man who saved me, who has\nwatched over me, and sheltered me from infancy till now, that I should\nwish to be his son in more than in name?\"\n\n\"It does offend me, Philip,\" said the Covenanter; \"even unto death it\noffends me! I hae consented that my dochter shall gie her hand to a\nguid an' a godly man, who will look after her weelfare baith here and\nhereafter. And ye kenned this--she kenned it, and she didna refuse; but\nye hae come like the son o' darkness, an' sawn tares amang the wheat.\"\n\n\"Father,\" said Philip, \"if you will still allow me to call you by that\nname--foundling though I am--unknown as I am--in what am I worse than\nhim to whom you would sacrifice your daughter's happiness?\"\n\n\"Sacrifice her happiness!\" interrupted the old man; \"hoo daur ye speak\no' happiness, wha kens nae meanin' for the word but the vain pleasures\no' this sinfu' warld! Think ye that, as a faither, an' as ane that has\nmy offspring to answer for, that I daur sacrifice the eternal happiness\no' my bairn, for the gratification o' a temporary feelin' which ye\nencourage the day and may extinguish the morn? Na, sir; they wha wad ken\nwhat true happiness is, maun first learn to crucify human passions.\nMary,\" added he, sternly, turning to his daughter, \"repeat the fifth\ncommandment.\"\n\nShe had been weeping before, and she now wept aloud.\n\n\"Repeat it!\" replied her father yet more sternly.\n\n\"Honour thy father and thy mother,\" added she, sobbing as she spoke.\n\n\"See, then, bairn,\" replied her father, \"that ye remember that\ncommandment in yer heart, as weel as on yer tongue. Remember, too, that\no' a' the commands, it's the only ane to which a promise is attached;\nand, noo, mark what I say, an', as ye wadna disobey me, see, at yer\nperil, that ye ne'er permit this young man to speak to ye again, save\nonly as a brither.\"\n\n\"Sir,\" said Philip, \"we have grown up together like twin tendrils on the\nsame vine, and can ye wonder that our hearts have become entwined round\neach other, or that they can tear asunder because ye command it! Or,\ncould I look on the face of an angel\"----\n\n\"Out on ye, blasphemer!\" interrupted the Covenanter--\"wad ye apply\nsiccan epithets to a bairn o' mine? Once for all, hear me, Philip; there\nare but twa ways o't, and ye can tak yer choice. It's the first time I\nhae spoken to ye roughly, but it isna the first time my spirit has\nmourned ower ye. I hae tried to lead ye in the right path; ye hae had\nbaith precept and example afore ye; but the leaven o' this warld--the\nleaven o' the persecutors o' the Kirk and the Covenant--was in yer very\nbluid; an' I believe, if opportunity had offered, ye wad hae drawn yer\nsword in the unholy cause. A' that I could say, an' a' that I could do,\nreligion has ne'er had ony place in yer heart; but ye hae yearned aboot\nyer faither, and ye hae mourned aboot yer mother--an' that was natural\naneugh--but oh! ye hae also desired to cling to the cauld formality o'\nEpiscopacy, as they nae doot did: an' should ye e'er discover that yer\nparents hae been Papists, I believe that ye wad become ane too! An'\naften, when the conversation turned upon the apostate Montrose, or the\ngallant Lesly, I hae seen ye manifest the spirit an' the very look o' a\npersecutor. Were I to gie up my dochter to such a man, I should be worse\nthan the heathen wha sacrifice their offspring to the abomination o'\nidols. Noo, Philip, as I hae tauld ye, there are but twa ways o't.\nEither this very hour gie me your solemn promise that ye will think o'\nMary as to be yer wife nae mair, or, wi' the risin' o' to-morrow's sun,\nleave this house for ever!\"\n\n\"Sir,\" said Philip bitterly, \"your last command I can obey, though it\nwould be with a sad heart--though it would be in despair--your first I\ncannot--I will not!\"\n\n\"You must--you _shall_!\" replied the Covenanter.\n\n\"Never,\" answered Philip.\n\n\"Then,\" replied the old man, \"leave the roof that has sheltered ye frae\nyer cradle!\"\n\n\"I will!\" said Philip, and the tears ran down his cheeks. He walked\ntowards Mary, and, with a faltering voice, said--\"Farewell,\nMary!--Farewell! I did not expect this; but do not forget me--do\nnot give your hand to another--and we shall meet again!\"\n\n\"You shall not!\" interrupted the inexorable old man.\n\nMary implored her father, for her sake, and for the sake of her departed\nmother, who had loved Philip as her own son, that he would not drive him\nfrom the house, and Daniel, too, entreated; but their supplications were\nvain.\n\n\"Farewell, then!\" said Philip; \"and, though I depart in misery, let it\nnot be with thy curse, but let the blessing of him who has been to me a\nfather until now, go with me.\"\n\n\"The blessin' o' Heaven be wi' ye and around ye, Philip!\" groaned the\nCovenanter, struggling to conceal a tear: \"but, if ye will follow the\ndictates o' yer rebellious heart and leave us, tak wi' ye yer property.\"\n\n\"My property!\" replied Philip.\n\n\"Yer property,\" returned the old man. \"Twenty years has it lain in that\ndrawer, an' during that time eyes hae not seen it, nor fingers touched\nit. It will assist ye noo; an' when ye enter the warld, may throw some\nlight upon yer parentage.\"\n\nHe went to a small drawer, and, unlocking it, took out the jewels, the\nbracelet, the ring, and the purse of gold, and, placing them in Philip's\nhands, exclaimed--\"Fareweel!--fareweel!--but it maun be!\" and he turned\naway his head.\n\n\"O Mary!\" cried Philip, \"keep--keep this in remembrance of me,\" as he\nattempted to place the ring in her hand.\n\n\"Awa, sir!\" exclaimed the old man, vehemently, \"wad ye bribe my bairn\ninto disobedience, by the ornaments o' folly an' iniquity! Awa, ye son\no' Belial, an' provoke me not to wrath!\"\n\nPhilip groaned, he dashed his hand upon his brow, and rushed from the\nhouse. Mary wept long and bitterly, and Daniel walked to and fro across\nthe room, mourning for one whom he loved as a brother. The old man went\nout into the fields to conceal the agony of his spirit; and, when he had\nwandered for a while, he communed with himself, saying, \"I hae dune\nfoolishly, an' an ungodly action hae I performed this nicht; I hae\ndriven oot a young man upon a wicked warld, wi' a' his sins an' his\nfollies on his head; an', if evil come upon him, or he plunge into the\npaths o' wickedness, his bluid an' his guilt will be laid at my hands!\nPuir Philip!\" he added; \"after a', he had a kind heart!\" And the stern\nold man drew the sleeve of his coat across his eyes. In this frame of\nmind he returned to the house. \"Has Philip not come back?\" said he, as\nhe entered. His son shook his head sorrowfully, and Mary sobbed more\nbitterly.\n\n\"Rin ye awa doun to Melrose, Daniel,\" said he, \"an' I'll awa up to\nSelkirk, an' inquire for him, an' bring him back. Yer faither has\nallowed passion to get the better o' him, an' to owercome baith the man\nan' the Christian.\"\n\n\"Run, Daniel, run!\" cried Mary eagerly. And the old man and his son went\nout in search of him.\n\nTheir inquiries were fruitless. Days, weeks, and months rolled on, but\nnothing more was heard of poor Philip. Mary refused to be comforted; and\nthe exhortations, the kindness, and the tenderness shown towards her by\nthe Rev. Mr. Duncan, if not hateful, were disagreeable. Dark thoughts,\ntoo, had taken possession of her father's mind, and he frequently sank\ninto melancholy; for the thought haunted him that his adopted son, on\nbeing driven from his house, had laid violent hands upon his own life;\nand this idea embittered every day of his existence.\n\nMore than ten years had passed since Philip had left the house of John\nBrydone. The Commonwealth was at an end, and the second Charles had been\nrecalled; but exile had not taught him wisdom, nor the fate of his\nfather discretion. He madly attempted to be the lord and ruler of the\npeople's conscience, as well as King of Britain. He was a libertine with\nsome virtues--a bigot without religion. In the pride, or rather folly of\nhis heart, he attempted to force Prelacy upon the people of Scotland;\nand he let his bloodhounds loose, to hunt the followers of the Covenant\nfrom hill to hill, to murder them on their own hearths, and, with the\nblood of his victims, to blot out the word _conscience_ from the\nvocabulary of Scotchmen. The Covenanters sought their God in the desert\nand on the mountains which He had reared; they worshipped him in the\ntemples which His own hands had framed; and there the persecutor sought\nthem, the destroyer found them, and the sword of the tyrant was bathed\nin the blood of the worshipper! Even the family altar was profaned; and\nto raise the voice of prayer and praise in the cottage to the King of\nkings, was held to be as treason against him who professed to represent\nHim on earth. At this period, too, Graham of Claverhouse--whom some have\npainted as an angel, but whose actions were worthy of a fiend--at the\nhead of his troopers, who were called by the profane, _the ruling elders\nof the kirk_, was carrying death and cold-blooded cruelty throughout the\nland.\n\nNow, it was on a winter night in the year 1677, a party of troopers were\npassing near the house of old John Brydone, and he was known to them not\nonly as being one who was a defender of the Covenant, but also as one\nwho harboured the preachers, and whose house was regarded as a\nconventicle.\n\n\"Let us rouse the old psalm-singing heretic who lives here from his\nknees,\" said one of the troopers.\n\n\"Ay, let us stir him up,\" said the sergeant who had the command of the\nparty; \"he is an old offender, and I don't see we can make a better\nnight's work than drag him along, bag and baggage, to the captain. I\nhave heard as how it was he that betrayed our commander's kinsman, the\ngallant Montrose.\"\n\n\"Hark! hark!--softly! softly!\" said another, \"let us dismount--hear how\nthe nasal drawl of the conventicle moans through the air! My horse\npricks his ears at the sound already. We shall catch them in the act.\"\n\nEight of the party dismounted, and, having given their horses in charge\nto four of their comrades, who remained behind, walked on tiptoe to the\ndoor of the cottage. They heard the words given and sung--\n\n    \"When cruel men against us rose\n     To make of us their prey!\"\n\n\"Why, they are singing treason,\" said one of the troopers. \"What more do\nwe need?\"\n\nThe sergeant placed his forefinger on his lips, and for about ten\nminutes they continued to listen. The song of praise ceased, and a\nperson commenced to read a chapter. They heard him also expound to his\nhearers as he read.\n\n\"It is enough,\" said the sergeant; and, placing their shoulders against\nthe door, it was burst open. \"You are our prisoners!\" exclaimed the\ntroopers, each man grasping a sword in his right hand, and a pistol in\nthe left.\n\n\"It is the will of Heaven!\" said the Rev. Mr. Duncan; for it was he\nwho had been reading and expounding the Scriptures; \"but, if ye stretch\nforth your hands against a hair o' our heads, HE, without whom a sparrow\ncannot fall to the ground, shall remember it against ye at the great day\no' reckoning, when the trooper will be stripped of his armour, and his\nright hand shall be a witness against him!\"\n\nThe soldiers burst into a laugh of derision. \"No more of your homily,\nreverend oracle,\" said the sergeant; \"I have an excellent recipe for\nshort sermons here; utter another word and you shall have it!\" The\ntroopers laughed again, and the sergeant, as he spoke, held his pistol\nin the face of the preacher.\n\nBesides the clergyman, there were in the room old John Brydone, his son\nDaniel, and Mary.\n\n\"Well, old greybeard,\" said the sergeant, addressing John, \"you have\nbeen reported as a dangerous and disaffected Presbyterian knave, as\nwe find you to be; you are also accused of being a harbourer and an\naccomplice of the preachers of sedition; and, lo! we have found also\nthat your house is used as a conventicle. We have caught you in the act,\nand we shall take every soul of you as evidence against yourselves. So\ncome along, old boy--I should only be doing my duty by blowing your\nbrains against the wall; but that is a ceremony which our commander may\nwish to see performed in his own presence!\"\n\n\"Sir,\" said John, \"I neither fear ye nor your armed men. Tak me to the\nbloody Claverhouse, if you will, and at the day o' judgment it shall be\nsaid--'_Let the murderers o' John Brydone stand forth!_'\"\n\n\"Let us despatch them at once,\" said one of the troopers.\n\n\"Nay,\" said the sergeant; \"bind them together, and drive them before us\nto the captain: I don't know but he may wish to _do justice_ to them\nwith his own hand.\"\n\n\"The tender mercies of the wicked are cruel,\" groaned Mr. Duncan.\n\nMary wrung her hands--\"Oh, spare my father!\" she cried.\n\n\"Wheesht, Mary!\" said the old man; \"as soon wad a camel pass through the\neye o' a needle, as ye wad find compassion in the hands o' these men!\"\n\n\"Bind the girl and the preacher together,\" said the sergeant.\n\n\"Nay, by your leave, sergeant,\" interrupted one of the troopers, \"I\nwouldn't be the man to lift a hand against a pretty girl like that, if\nyou would give me a regiment for it.\"\n\n\"Ay, ay, Macdonald,\" replied the sergeant--\"this comes of your serving\nunder that canting fellow, Lieutenant Mowbray--he has no love for the\nservice; and confound me if I don't believe he is half a Roundhead in\nhis heart. Tie the hands of the girl, I command you.\"\n\n\"I will not!\" returned Macdonald; \"and hang me if any one else shall!\"\nAnd, with his sword in his hand, he placed himself between Mary and his\ncomrades.\n\n\"If you do not bind her hands, I shall cause others to bind yours,\" said\nthe sergeant.\n\n\"They may try that who dare!\" returned the soldier, who was the most\npowerful man of the party; \"but what I've said I'll stand to.\"\n\n\"You shall answer for this to-morrow,\" said the sergeant, sullenly, who\nfeared to provoke a quarrel with the trooper.\n\n\"I will answer it,\" replied the other.\n\nJohn Brydone, his son Daniel, and the Rev. Mr. Duncan, were bound\ntogether with strong cords, and driven from the house. They were\nfastened, also, to the horses of the troopers. As they were dragged\nalong, the cries and the lamentations of Mary followed them; and the\ntroopers laughed at her wailing, or answered her cries with mockery,\ntill the sound of her grief became inaudible in the distance, when again\nthey imitated her cries, to harrow up the feelings of her father.\n\nClaverhouse, and a party of his troops, were then in the neighbourhood\nof Traquair; and before that man, who knew not what mercy was, John\nBrydone, and his son, and the preacher were brought. It was on the\nafternoon of the day following that on which they had been made\nprisoners, that Claverhouse ordered them to be brought forth. He was\nsitting, with wine before him, in the midst of his officers; and amongst\nthem was Lieutenant Mowbray, whose name was alluded to by the sergeant.\n\n\"Well, knaves!\" began Claverhouse, \"ye have been singing, praying,\npreaching, and holding conventicles.--Do ye know how Grahame of\nClaverhouse rewards such rebels?\"\n\nAs the prisoners entered, Lieutenant Mowbray turned away his head, and\nplaced his hand upon his brow.\n\n\"Sir,\" said John, addressing Claverhouse, \"I'm neither knave nor\nrebel--I hae lifted up my voice to the God o' my faithers, according to\nmy conscience; and, unworthy as I am o' the least o' His benefits, for\nthreescore years and ten he has been my shepherd and deliverer, and, if\nit be good in His sight, He will deliver me now. My trust is in Him, and\nI fear neither the frown nor the sword o' the persecutor.\"\n\n\"Have done, grey-headed babbler!\" cried Claverhouse.\n\nLieutenant Mowbray, who still sat with his face from the prisoners,\nraised his handkerchief to his eyes.\n\n\"Captain,\" said Mr. Duncan, \"there's a day coming when ye shall stand\nbefore the great Judge, as we now stand before you; and when the\nremembrance o' this day, and the blood o' the righteous which ye hae\nshed, shall be written with letters o' fire on yer ain conscience, and\nrecorded against ye; and ye shall call upon the rocks and mountains to\ncover ye\"----\n\n\"Silence!\" exclaimed Claverhouse. \"Away with them!\" he added, waving his\nhand to his troopers--\"shoot them before sunrise!\"\n\nShortly after the prisoners had been conveyed from the presence of\nClaverhouse, Lieutenant Mowbray withdrew; and having sent for the\nsoldier who had interfered on behalf of Mary--\"Macdonald,\" he began,\n\"you were present yesterday when the prisoners, who are to die\nto-morrow, were taken. Where did you find them?\"\n\n\"In the old man's house,\" replied the soldier; and he related all that\nhe had seen, and how he had interfered to save the daughter. The heart\nof the officer was touched, and he walked across his room, as one whose\nspirit was troubled. \"You did well, Macdonald!\" said he, at length--\"you\ndid well!\" He was again silent, and again he added--\"And you found the\npreacher in the old man's house--_you found_ HIM _there_!\" There was an\nanxious wildness in the tone of the lieutenant.\n\n\"We found him there,\" replied the soldier.\n\nThe officer was again silent--again he thoughtfully paced across the\nfloor of his apartment. At length, turning to the soldier, he added--\"I\ncan trust you, Macdonald. When night has set in, take your horse and\nride to the house of the elder prisoner, and tell his daughter--the\nmaiden whom you saved--to have horses in readiness for her father,\nher brother, and--and her--her _husband!_\" said the lieutenant,\nfaltering as he spoke; and when he had pronounced the word _husband_,\nhe again paused, as though his heart were full. The soldier was\nretiring--\"Stay,\" added the officer, \"tell her, her father, her brother,\nand--the preacher, shall not die; before daybreak she shall see them\nagain; and give her this ring as a token that ye speak truly.\"\n\nHe took a ring from his finger, and gave it into the hands of the\nsoldier.\n\nIt was drawing towards midnight. The troops of Claverhouse were\nquartered around the country, and his three prisoners, still bound\nto each other, were confined in a small farm-house, from which the\ninhabitants had been expelled. They could hear the heavy and measured\ntread of the sentinel pacing backward and forward in front of the house;\nthe sound of his footsteps seemed to measure out the moments between\nthem and eternity. After they had sung a psalm and prayed together--\"I\nam auld,\" said John Brydone, \"and I fear not to die, but rather glory to\nlay down my life for the great cause; but, oh, Daniel! my heart yearns\nthat yer bluid also should be shed--had they only spared ye, to hae been\na protector to our puir Mary!--or had I no driven Philip frae the\nhouse\"----\n\n\"Mention not the name of the cast-away,\" said the minister.\n\n\"Dinna mourn, faither,\" answered Daniel, \"an arm mair powerful than that\nof man will be her supporter and protector.\"\n\n\"Amen!\" responded Mr. Duncan. \"She has aye been cauld to me, and has\nturned the ear o' the deaf adder to the voice o' my affection; but even\nnoo, when my thochts should be elsewhere, the thocht o' her burns in my\nheart like a coal.\"\n\nWhile they yet spoke, a soldier, wrapt up in a cloak, approached the\nsentinel, and said--\n\n\"It is a cold night, brother.\"\n\n\"Piercing,\" replied the other, striking his feet upon the ground.\n\n\"You are welcome to a mouthful of my spirit-warmer,\" added the first,\ntaking a bottle from beneath his cloak.\n\n\"Thank ye!\" rejoined the sentinel; \"but I don't know your voice. You\ndon't belong to our corps, I think.\"\n\n\"No,\" answered the other; \"but it matters not for that--brother soldiers\nshould give and take.\"\n\nThe sentinel took the bottle and raised it to his lips; he drank, and\nswore the liquor was excellent.\n\n\"Drink again,\" said the other; \"you are welcome; it is as good as a\ndouble cloak around you.\" And the sentinel drank again.\n\n\"Good night, comrade,\" said the trooper. \"Good night,\" replied the\nsentinel; and the stranger passed on.\n\nWithin half an hour, the same soldier, still muffled up in his cloak,\nreturned. The sentinel had fallen against the door of the house, and was\nfast asleep. The stranger proceeded to the window--he raised it--he\nentered. \"Fear nothing,\" he whispered to the prisoners, who were bound\nto staples that had been driven into the opposite wall of the room. He\ncut the cords with which their hands and their feet were fastened.\n\n\"Heaven reward ye for the mercy o' yer heart, and the courage o' this\ndeed,\" said John.\n\n\"Say nothing,\" whispered their deliverer, \"but follow me.\"\n\nEach man crept from the window, and the stranger again closed it behind\nthem. \"Follow me, and speak not,\" whispered he again; and, walking at\nhis utmost speed, he conducted them for several miles across the hills;\nbut still he spoke not. Old John marvelled at the manner of their\ndeliverer; and he marvelled yet more when he led them to Philiphaugh,\nand to the very spot where, more than thirty years before, he had found\nthe child on the bosom of its dead mother; and there the stranger stood\nstill, and, turning round to those he had delivered--\"Here we part,\"\nsaid he; \"hasten to your own house, but tarry not. You will find horses\nin readiness, and flee into Westmoreland; inquire there for the person\nto whom this letter is addressed; he will protect you.\" And he put a\nsealed letter into the hands of the old man, and, at the same time,\nplaced a purse in the hands of Daniel, saying, \"This will bear your\nexpenses by the way--Farewell!--farewell!\" They would have detained him,\nbut he burst away, again exclaiming, as he ran--\"Farewell!\"\n\n\"This is a marvellous deliverance,\" said John; \"it is a mystery, an'\nfor him to leave us on this spot--on _this very spot_--where puir\nPhilip\"---- And here the heart of the old man failed him.\n\nWe need not describe the rage of Claverhouse, when he found, on the\nfollowing day, that the prisoners had escaped; and how he examined and\nthreatened the sentinels with death, and cast suspicious glances upon\nLieutenant Mowbray; but he feared to accuse him, or quarrel with him\nopenly.\n\nAs John, with the preacher and his son, approached the house, Mary heard\ntheir footsteps, rushed out to meet them, and fell weeping upon her\nfather's neck. \"My bairn!\" cried the old man; \"we are restored to ye as\nfrom the dead! Providence has dealt wi' us in mercy an' in mystery.\"\n\nHis four farm-horses were in readiness for their flight; and Mary told\nhim how the same soldier who had saved her from sharing their fate, had\ncome to their house at midnight, and assured her that they should not\ndie, and to prepare for their flight; \"and,\" added she, \"in token that\nhe who had sent him would keep his promise towards you, he gave me this\nring, requesting me to wear it for your deliverer's sake.\"\n\n\"It is Philip's ring!\" cried the old man, striking his hand before his\neyes--\"it is Philip's ring!\"\n\n\"_My_ Philip's!\" exclaimed Mary; \"oh, then, he lives!--he lives!\"\n\nThe preacher leaned his brow against the walls of the cottage and\ngroaned.\n\n\"It is still a mystery,\" said the old man, yet pressing his hands before\nhis eyes in agony; \"but it is--it maun be him. It was Philip that saved\nus--that conducted us to the very spot where I found him! But, oh,\" he\nadded, \"I wad rather I had died, than lived to ken that he has drawn his\nsword in the ranks o' the oppressor, and to murder the followers after\nthe truth.\"\n\n\"Oh, dinna think that o' him, father!\" exclaimed Mary; \"Philip wadna--he\ncouldna draw his sword but to defend the helpless!\"\n\nKnowing that they had been pursued and sought after, they hastened their\nflight to England, to seek the refuge to which their deliverer had\ndirected them. But as they drew near to the Borders, the Rev. Mr. Duncan\nsuddenly exclaimed--\"Now, here we must part--part for ever! It is not\nmeet that I should follow ye farther. When the sheep are pursued by\nthe wolves, the shepherd should not flee from them. Farewell, dear\nfriends--and, oh! farewell to you, Mary! Had it been sinful to hae loved\nyou, I would hae been a guilty man this day--for, oh! beyond a' that is\nunder the sun, ye hae been dear to my heart, and your remembrance has\nmingled wi' my very devotions. But I maun root it up, though, in so\ndoing, I tear my very heart-strings. Fareweel!--fareweel! Peace be wi'\nyou--and may ye be a' happier than will ever be the earthly lot o'\nAndrew Duncan!\"\n\nThe tears fell upon Mary's cheeks; for, though she could not love, she\nrespected the preacher, and she esteemed him for his worth. Her father\nand brother entreated him to accompany them. \"No! no!\" he answered; \"I\nsee how this flight will end. Go--there is happiness in store for you;\nbut my portion is with the dispersed and the persecuted.\" And he turned\nand left them.\n\nLieutenant Mowbray was disgusted with the cold-blooded butchery of the\nservice in which he was engaged; and, a few days after the escape of\nJohn Brydone and his son, he threw up his commission, and proceeded to\nDumfriesshire. It was a Sabbath evening, and near nightfall; he had\nwandered into the fields alone, for his spirit was heavy. Sounds of rude\nlaughter broke upon his ear; and, mingled with the sound of mirth, was a\nvoice as if in earnest prayer. He hurried to a small wood from whence\nthe sounds proceeded, and there he beheld four troopers, with their\npistols in their hands, and before them was a man, who appeared to be\na preacher, bound to a tree.\n\n\"Come, old Psalmody!\" cried one of the troopers, raising his pistol, and\naddressing their intended victim, who was engaged in prayer; \"make\nready--we have other jobs on hand--and we gave you time to speak a\nprayer, but not to preach.\"\n\nMowbray rushed forward. He sprang between the troopers and their victim.\n\"Hold! ye murderers, hold!\" he exclaimed. \"Is it thus that ye disgrace\nthe name of soldiers by washing your hands in the blood of the\ninnocent?\"\n\nThey knew Mowbray, and they muttered, \"You are no officer of ours now;\nhe is our prisoner, and our orders ere to shoot every conventicle knave\nwho falls into our hands.\"\n\n\"Shame on him who would give such orders!\" said Mowbray; \"and shame on\nthose who would execute them! There,\" added he, \"there is money! I will\nransom him.\"\n\nWith an imprecation, they took the money that was offered them, and left\ntheir prisoner to Mowbray. He approached the tree where they had bound\nhim--he started back--it was the Rev. Andrew Duncan!\n\n\"Rash man!\" exclaimed Mowbray, as he again stepped forward to unloose\nthe cords that bound him. \"Why have ye again cast yourself into the\nhands of the men who seek your blood? Do you hold your life so cheap,\nthat, in one week, ye would risk to sell it twice? Why did not ye, with\nyour father, your brother, and your _wife_, flee into England, where\nprotection was promised!\"\n\n\"My father!--my brother!--my wife!--mine!--mine!\" repeated the preacher\nwildly. \"There are no such names for my tongue to utter!--none!--none to\ndrop their love as morning dew upon the solitary soul o' Andrew Duncan!\"\n\n\"Are they murdered?\" exclaimed Mowbray, suddenly, in a voice of agony.\n\n\"Murdered!\" said the preacher, with increased bewilderment. \"What do you\nmean?--or wha' do you mean?\"\n\n\"Tell me,\" cried Mowbray, eagerly; \"are not you the husband of Mary\nBrydone?\"\n\n\"Me!--me!\" cried the preacher. \"No!--no!--I loved her as the laverock\nloves the blue lift in spring, and her shadow cam between me and my ain\nsoul--but she wadna hearken unto my voice--she is nae wife o' mine!\"\n\n\"Thank Heaven!\" exclaimed Mowbray; and he clasped his hands together.\n\nIt is necessary, however, that we now accompany John Brydone and his\nfamily in their flight into Westmoreland. The letter which their\ndeliverer had put into their hands was addressed to a Sir Frederic\nMowbray; and, when they arrived at the house of the old knight, the\nheart of the aged Covenanter almost failed him for a moment; for it was\na proud-looking mansion, and those whom he saw around wore the dress of\nthe Cavaliers.\n\n\"Who are ye?\" inquired the servant who admitted them to the house.\n\n\"Deliver this letter into the hands of your master,\" said the\nCovenanter; \"our business is with him.\"\n\n\"It is the handwriting of Master Edward,\" said the servant, as he took\nthe letter into his hand; and, having conducted them to a room, he\ndelivered it to Sir Frederic.\n\nIn a few minutes the old knight hurried into the room, where the\nCovenanter, and his son and his daughter, stood. \"Welcome, thrice\nwelcome!\" he cried, grasping the hand of the old man; \"here you shall\nfind a resting-place and a home, with no one to make you afraid.\"\n\nHe ordered wine and food to be placed before them, and he sat down with\nthem.\n\nNow John marvelled at the kindness of his host, and his heart burned\nwithin him; and, in the midst of all, he thought of the long-lost\nPhilip, and how he had driven him from his house--and his cheek glowed\nand his heart throbbed with anxiety. His son marvelled also, and Mary's\nbosom swelled with strange thoughts--tears gathered in her eyes, and she\nraised the ring that had been the token of her father's deliverance to\nher lips.\n\n\"Oh, sir,\" said the Covenanter, \"pardon the freedom o' a plain blunt\nman, and o' ane whose bosom is burning wi' anxiety; but there is a\nmystery, there is _something_ attending my deliverance, an' the\nletter, and your kindness, that I canna see through--and I hope, and\nI fear--and I canna--I _daurna_ comprehend how it is!--but, as it were,\nthe past--the lang bygane past, and the present, appear to hae met\nthegither! It is makin' my head dizzy wi' wonder, for there seems in a'\nthis a something that concerns you, and that concerns me, and _one_ that\nI mayna name.\"\n\n\"Your perplexity,\" said Sir Frederic, \"may be best relieved, by stating\nto you, in a few words, one or two circumstances of my history. Having,\nfrom family affliction, left this country, until within these four\nyears, I held a commission in the army of the Prince of Orange. I was\npresent at the battle of Seneff; it was my last engagement; and in the\nregiment which I commanded, there was a young Scottish volunteer, to\nwhose bravery, during the battle, I owed my life. In admiration and\ngratitude for his conduct, I sent for him after the victory, to present\nhim to the prince. He came. I questioned him respecting his birth and\nhis family. He was silent--he burst into tears. I urged him to speak.\nHe said, of his real name he knew nothing--of his family he knew\nnothing--all that he knew was, that he had been the adopted son of a\ngood and a Christian man, who had found him on Philiphaugh, on the\nlifeless bosom of his mother!\"\n\n\"Merciful Heaven! my puir, injured Philip!\" exclaimed the aged\nCovenanter, wringing his hands.\n\n\"My brother!\" cried Daniel eagerly. Mary wept.\n\n\"Oh, sir!\" continued Sir Frederic, \"words cannot paint my feelings as he\nspoke! I had been at the battle of Philiphaugh! and, not dreaming that a\nconflict was at hand, my beloved wife, with our infant boy, my little\nEdward, had joined me but the day before. At the first noise of Lesly's\nonset, I rushed from our tent--I left my loved ones there! Our army was\nstricken with confusion--I never beheld them again! I grasped the hand\nof the youth--I gazed in his face as though my soul would have leaped\nfrom my eyelids. 'Do not deceive me!' I cried; and he drew from his\nbosom the ring and the bracelets of my Elizabeth!\"\n\nHere the old knight paused and wept, and tears ran down the cheeks of\nJohn Brydone, and the cheeks of his children.\n\nThey had not been many days in Westmoreland, and they were seated around\nthe hospitable hearth of the good knight in peace, when two horsemen\narrived at the door.\n\n\"It is our friend, Mr. Duncan, and a stranger!\" said the Covenanter, as\nhe beheld them from the window.\n\n\"They are welcome--for your sake, they are welcome,\" said Sir Frederic;\nand while he yet spoke, the strangers entered. \"My son, my son!\" he\ncontinued, and hurried forward to meet him.\n\n\"Say also your _daughter_!\" said Edward Mowbray, as he approached\ntowards Mary, and pressed her to his breast.\n\n\"Philip!--my own Philip!\" exclaimed Mary, and speech failed her.\n\n\"My brother!\" said Daniel.\n\n\"He was dead, and is alive again--he was lost, and is found,\" exclaimed\nJohn. \"O, Philip, man! do ye forgi'e me?\"\n\nThe adopted son pressed the hand of his foster-father.\n\n\"It is enough,\" replied the Covenanter.\n\n\"Yes, he forgives you!\" exclaimed Mr. Duncan; \"and he has forgiven me.\nWhen we were in prison and in bonds waiting for death, he risked his\nlife to deliver us, and he did deliver us; and a second time he has\nrescued me from the sword of the destroyer, and from the power of the\nmen who thirsted for my blood. He is no enemy o' the Covenant--he is the\ndefender o' the persecuted; and the blessing o' Andrew Duncan is all he\ncan bequeath, for a life twice saved, upon his deliverer, and Mary\nBrydone.\"\n\nNeed we say that Mary bestowed her hand upon Edward Mowbray? but, in the\nfondness of her heart, she still called him \"her Philip!\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE FORTUNES OF WILLIAM WIGHTON.\n\n\nMy departure from Edinburgh was sudden and mysterious; and it was high\ntime that I was away, for I was but a reckless boy at the best. My uncle\nwas both sore vexed and weary of me, for I was never out of one mishap\nuntil I was into another; but one illumination night in the city put\nthem all into the rear--I had, by it, got far ahead of all my former\nexploits. Very early next morning, I got notice from a friend that the\nbailies were very desirous of an interview with me; and, to do me more\nhonour, I was to be escorted into their presence. I had no inclination\nfor such honour, particularly at this time. I saw that our discourse\ncould not be equally agreeable to both parties; besides they, I\nknew, would put questions to me I could not well answer to their\nsatisfaction--though, after all, there was more of devilry than\nroguery in anything I had been engaged in.\n\nI was not long in making up my mind; for I saw Archibald Campbell and\ntwo of the town-guard at the head of the close as I stepped out at the\nstair-foot. I had no doubt that I was the person they wished to honour\nwith their accompaniment to the civic authorities. I was out at the\nbottom of the close like thought. I believe they never got sight of me.\nI kept in hiding all day--neither my uncle nor any of my friends knew\nwhere I was to be found. After it was dark, I ventured into town; but no\nfarther than the Low Calton, where dwelt an old servant of my father's,\nwho had been my nurse after the death of my mother. She was a widow, and\nlived in one of the ground flats, where she kept a small retail shop.\nPoor creature! she loved me as if I had been her own child, and wept\nwhen I told her the dilemma I was in. She promised to conceal me until\nthe storm blew over, and to make my peace once more with my uncle, if I\nwould promise to be a good boy in future. She made ready for me a\ncomfortable supper, and a bed in her small back room. Weary sitting\nalone, I went to rest, and soon fell into a sound sleep. I had lain\nthus, I know not how long, when I was roused by a loud noise, as if some\nperson or persons had fallen on the floor above; and voices in angry\naltercation struck my ear.\n\nThe weather being cold, my nurse had put on a fire in the grate, which\nstill burned bright, and gave the room a cheerful appearance. I looked\nup--the angry voices continued, and there was a continued beating upon\nthe floor at intervals, and, apparently, a great struggling, as if two\npeople were engaged in wrestling. I attempted to fall asleep again, but\nin vain. For half an hour there had been little intermission of the\nnoise. The ceiling of the room was composed only of the flooring of the\nstory above; so that the thumping and scuffling were most annoying,\nreminding one of the sound of a drum overhead. I rose in anger from my\nbed, and, seizing the poker, beat up upon the ceiling pretty smartly.\nThe sound ceased for a short space, and I crept into bed again. I was\njust on the point of falling asleep when the beating and struggling were\nrenewed, and with them my anger. I rose from bed in great fury, resolved\nat least to make those who annoyed me rise from the floor. I looked\nround for something sharp, to prick them through the joinings of the\nflooring-deals. By bad luck, I found upon the mantel-piece an old worn\nknife, with a thin and sharp point. I mounted upon the table, and thus\nreached the ceiling with my hand. The irritating noise seemed to\nincrease. I placed the point in one of the joints, and gave a push\nup--it would not enter. I exerted my strength, when--I shall never\nforget that moment--it ran up to the hilt!--a heavy groan followed; I\ndrew it back covered with blood! I stood upon the table stupified with\nhorror, gazing upon the ensanguined blade; two or three heavy drops of\nblood fell upon my face and went into my eyes. I leaped from the table,\nand placed the knife where I had found it. The noise ceased; but heavy\ndrops of blood continued to fall and coagulate upon the floor at my\nfeet. I felt stupified with fear and anguish--my eyes were riveted upon\nthe blood which--drop, drop, drop--fell upon the floor. I had stood thus\nfor some time before the danger I was in occurred to me. I started,\nhastily put on my clothes, and, opening the window, leapt out, fled by\nthe back of the houses, past the Methodist chapel, up the back stairs\ninto Shakspeare square, and along Princes' street; nor did I slacken my\npace until I was a considerable way out of town.\n\nI was now miserable. The night was dark as a dungeon; but not half so\ndark as my own thoughts. I had deprived a fellow-creature of life! In\nvain did I say to myself that it was done with no evil intention on my\npart. I had been too rash in using the knife; and my conscience was\nagainst me. I was at this very time, also, in hiding for my rashness\nand folly in other respects. I trembled at the first appearance of\nday, lest I should be apprehended as a murderer. Dawn found me in the\nneighbourhood of Bathgate. Cold and weary as I was, I dared not approach\na house or the public road, but lay concealed in a wood all day, under\nsensations of the utmost horror. Towards evening, I cautiously emerged\nfrom my hiding-place. Compelled by hunger, I entered a lonely house\nat a distance from the public road, and, for payment, obtained some\nrefreshment, and got my benumbed limbs warmed. During my stay, I avoided\nall unnecessary conversation. I trembled lest they would speak of the\nmurder in Edinburgh; for, had they done so, my agitation must have\nbetrayed me. After being refreshed, I left the hospitable people, and\npursued, under cover of the night, my route to Glasgow, which I reached\na short time after daybreak. Avoiding the public streets, I entered the\nfirst change-house I found open at this early hour, where I obtained a\nwarm breakfast and a bed, of both which I stood greatly in need. I soon\nfell asleep, in spite of the agitation of my mind; but my dreams were\nfar more horrifying than my waking thoughts, dreadful as they were. I\nawoke early in the afternoon, feverish and unrefreshed.\n\nAfter some time spent in summoning up resolution, I requested my\nlandlady to procure for me a sight of any of the Edinburgh newspapers\nof the day before. She brought one to me. My agitation was so great\nthat I dared not trust myself to take it out of her hand, lest she had\nperceived the tremor I was in; but requested her to lay it down, while\nI appeared to be busy adjusting my dress--carefully, all the time,\nkeeping my back to her. I had two objects in view: I wished to see the\nshipping-list, as it was my aim to leave the country for America by the\nfirst opportunity; and, secondly, to see what account the public had got\nof my untoward adventure. I felt conscious that all the city was in\ncommotion about it, and the authorities despatched for my apprehension;\nfor I had no doubt that my nurse would at once declare her innocence,\nand tell who had done the deed. With an anxiety I want words to express,\nI grasped the paper as soon as the landlady retired, and hurried over\nits columns until I reached the last. During the interval, I believe I\nscarcely breathed; I looked it over once more with care; I felt as if a\nload had been lifted from my breast--there was not in the whole paper a\nsingle word of a death by violence or accident. I thought it strange,\nbut rejoiced. I felt that I was not in such imminent danger of being\napprehended; but my mind was still racked almost to distraction.\n\nI remained in my lodging for several days, very ill, both from a severe\ncold I had caught and distress of mind. I had seen every paper during\nthe time. Still there was nothing in them applicable to my case. I was\nbewildered, and knew not what to think. Had the occurrences of that\nfearful night, I thought, been only a delusion--some horrid dream or\nnightmare? Alas! the large drops of blood that still stained my shirt,\nwhich, in my confusion, I had not changed, drove from my mind the\nconsoling hope; they were damning evidence of a terrible reality. My\nmind reverted back to its former agony, which became so aggravated by\nthe silence of the public prints that I was rendered desperate. The\nsilence gave a mystery to the whole occurrence, more unendurable than if\nI had found it narrated in the most aggravated language, and my person\ndescribed, with a reward for my apprehension.\n\nAs soon as my sickness had a little abated, and I was able to go out, I\nwent in the evening, a little before ten o'clock, to the neighbourhood\nof where the coach from Edinburgh stopped. I walked about until its\narrival, shunning observation as much as possible. At length it came. No\none descended from it whom I recollected ever to have seen. Rendered\ndesperate, I followed two travellers into a public-house which they\nentered, along with the guard. For some time, I sat an attentive\nlistener to their conversation. It was on indifferent subjects; and I\nwatched an opportunity to join in their talk. Speaking with an air of\nindifference, I turned the conversation to the subject I had so much at\nheart--the local news of the city. They gave me what little they had;\nbut not one word of it concerned my situation. I inquired at the guard\nif he would, next morning, be so kind as take a letter to Edinburgh, for\nWidow Neil, in the Low Calton.\n\n\"With pleasure,\" he said--\"I know her well, as I live close by her shop;\nbut, poor woman, she has been very unwell for these two or three days\npast. There has been some strange talk of a young lad who vanished from\nher house, no one can tell how; she is likely to get into trouble from\nthe circumstance, for it is surmised he has been murdered in her house,\nand his body carried off, as there was a quantity of blood upon the\nfloor. No one suspects her of it; but still it is considered strange\nthat she should have heard no noise, and can give no account of the\naffair.\"\n\nThis statement of the guard surprised me exceedingly. Why was the affair\nmentioned in so partial and unsatisfactory a manner? Why was I, a\nmurderer, suspected of being myself murdered? Why did not this lead to\nan investigation, which must have exposed the whole horrid mystery of\nthe death of the individual up stairs? I could not understand it. My\nmind became the more perplexed, the more I thought of it. Yet, so\nfar, I had no reason to complain. Nothing had been said in any respect\nimplicating me. Perhaps I had killed nobody; perhaps I had only wounded\nsome one who did not know whence the stab came; or perhaps the person\nkilled or wounded was an outlaw, and no discovery could be made of his\nsituation. All these thoughts rushed through my mind as I sat beside the\nmen. I at last left them, being afraid to put further questions.\n\nI went to my lodgings and considered what I should do. I conceived it\nsafest to write no letters to my friends, or say anything further on the\nsubject. I meditated upon the propriety of going to America, and had\nnearly made up my mind to that step. Every day, the mysterious affair\nbecame more and more disagreeable and painful to me. I gave up making\nfurther inquiries, and even carefully avoided, for a time, associating\nwith any person or reading any newspaper. I gradually became easier, as\ntime, which brought no explanation to me, passed over; but the thought\nstill lay at the bottom of my heart, that I was a murderer.\n\nI went one day to a merchant's counting-house, to take my passage for\nAmerica. The man looked at me attentively. I shook with fear, but he\nsoon relieved me by asking--\"Why I intended to leave so good a country\nfor so bad a one?\" I replied, that I could get no employment here. My\nappearance had pleased him. He offered me a situation in his office. I\naccepted it. I continued in Glasgow, happy and respected, for several\nyears, and, to all likelihood, was to have settled there for life. I was\non the point of marriage with a young woman, as I thought, every way\nworthy of the love I had for her. Her parents were satisfied; the day of\nour nuptials was fixed--the house was taken and furnished wherein we\nwere to reside, and everything prepared. In the delirium of love, I\nthought myself the happiest of men, and even forgot the affair of the\nmurder.\n\nIt was on the Monday preceding our union--which was to take place\nin her father's house on the Friday evening--that business of the utmost\nimportance called me to the town of Ayr. I took a hasty farewell of my\nbride, and set off, resolved to be back upon the Thursday at farthest.\nEarly in the forenoon of Tuesday, I got everything arranged to my\nsatisfaction; but was too late for the first coach. To amuse myself\nin the best manner I could, until the coach should set off again, I\nwandered down to the harbour; and, while there, it was my misfortune to\nmeet an old acquaintance, Alexander Cameron, the son of a barber in the\nLuckenbooths. Glad to see each other, we shook hands most cordially;\nand, after chatting about \"auld langsyne\" until we were weary wandering\nupon the pier, I proposed to adjourn to my inn. To this proposal he at\nonce acceded, on condition that I should go on board of his vessel\nafterwards, when he would return the visit in the evening. To this I had\nno objection to make. The time passed on until the dusk. We left the\ninn; but, instead of proceeding to the harbour, we struck off into the\ncountry for some time, and then made the coast at a small bay, where I\ncould just discern, through the twilight, a small lugger-rigged vessel\nat anchor. I felt rather uneasy, and began to hesitate; when my friend,\nturning round, said--\n\n\"That is my vessel, and as fine a crew mans her as ever walked a\ndeck;--we will be on board in a minute.\"\n\nI wished, yet knew not how, to refuse. He made a loud call; a boat with\ntwo men pushed from under a point, and we were rowing towards the vessel\nere I could summon resolution to refuse. I remained on board not above\nan hour. I was treated in the most kindly manner. When I was coming\naway, Cameron said--\n\n\"I have requested this visit from the confidence I feel in your honour.\nI ask you not, to promise not to deceive me--I am sure you will not. My\ntime is very uncertain upon this coast, and I have papers of the utmost\nimportance, which I wish to leave in safe hands. We are too late to\narrange them to-night; but be so kind as promise to be at the same spot\nwhere we embarked to-morrow morning, at what hour you please, and I will\ndeliver them to you. Should it ever be in my power to serve you, I will\nnot flinch from the duty of gratitude, cost what it may.\"\n\nThere was a something so sincere and earnest in his manner, that I could\nnot refuse. I said, that as I left Ayr on the morrow, I would make it an\nearly hour--say, six o'clock; which pleased him. We shook hands and\nparted, when I was put on shore, and returned to my inn, where I\nruminated upon what the charge could be I was going to receive from my\nold friend in so unexpected a manner.\n\nI was up betimes, and at the spot by the appointed hour. The boat was in\nwaiting; but Cameron was not with her. I was disappointed, and told one\nof the men so; he replied that the captain expected me on board to\nbreakfast. With a reluctance much stronger than I had felt the preceding\nnight, I consented to go on board. I found him in the cabin, and the\nbreakfast ready for me. We sat down, and began to converse about the\npapers. Scarce was the second cup filled out, when a voice called down\nthe companion, \"Captain, the cutter!\" Cameron leaped from the table, and\nran on deck. I heard a loud noise of cordage and bustle; but could not\nconceive what it was, until the motion of the vessel too plainly told\nthat she was under way. I rose in haste to get upon deck; but the cover\nwas secured. I knocked and called; but no one paid any attention to my\nefforts. I stood thus knocking, and calling at the stretch of my voice,\nfor half an hour, in vain. I returned to my seat, and sat down, overcome\nwith anger and chagrin. Here was I again placed in a disagreeable\ndilemma--evidently going far out to sea, when I ought to be on my way to\nGlasgow to my wedding. In the middle of my ravings, I heard first one\nshot, then another; but still the ripple of the water and the noise\noverhead continued. I was now convinced that I was on board of a\nsmuggling lugger, and that Cameron was either sole proprietor or\ncaptain. I wished with all my heart that the cutter might overtake and\ncapture us, that I might be set ashore; but all my wishes were vain--we\nstill held on our way at a furious rate. As I heard no more shots, I\nknew that we had left the cutter at a greater distance. Again,\ntherefore, I strove to gain a hearing, but in vain: I then strove to\nforce the hatch, but it resisted all my efforts. I yielded myself at\nlength to my fate; for the way of the vessel was not in the least\nabated.\n\nTowards night, I could find, by the pitching of the vessel and the\nincreased noise above, that the wind had increased fearfully, and that\nit blew a storm. It was with difficulty that I could keep my seat, so\nmuch did she pitch. During the whole night and following day, I was so\nsick that I thought I would have died. I had no light; there was no\nhuman creature to give me a mouthful of water; and I could not help\nmyself even to rise from the floor of the cabin, on which I had sunk.\nThe agony of my mind was extreme: the day following was to have been\nthat of my marriage; I was at sea, and knew not where I was. I blamed\nmyself for my easy, complying temper; my misery increased; and, could I\nhave stood on my feet, I know not what I might have done in my desperate\nsituation. Thus I spent a second night; and the day which I had thought\nwas to shine on my happiness, dawned on my misery.\n\nTowards the afternoon, the motion of the vessel ceased, and I heard the\nanchor drop. Immediately the hatch was opened, and Cameron came to me. I\nrose in anger, so great that I could not give it utterance. Had I not\nbeen so weak from sickness, I would have flown and strangled him. He\nmade a thousand apologies for what had happened. I saw that his concern\nwas real; my anger subsided into melancholy, and my first utterance was\nemployed to inquire where we were.\n\n\"I am sorry to say,\" replied he, \"that I cannot but feel really grieved\nto inform you that we are at present a few leagues off Flushing.\"\n\n\"Good God!\" I exclaimed, as I buried my face in my hands, while I\nactually wept for shame--\"I am utterly undone! What will my beloved\nEliza say? How shall I ever appear again before her and her friends?\nEven now, perhaps, she is dressing to be my wife, or weeping in the arms\nof her bridesmaid. The thought will drive me mad. For Godsake, Cameron,\nget under way, and land me again either at Greenock or where you first\ntook me up, or I am utterly undone. Do this, and I will forget all I\nhave suffered and am suffering.\"\n\n\"I would, upon my soul,\" he said, \"were it in my power, though I should\ndie in a jail; but, while this gale lasts, it were folly to attempt it.\nBesides, I am not sole proprietor of the lugger--I am only captain. My\ncrew are sharers in the cargo. I would not get their consent. The\nthought of the evil I was unintentionally doing you, gave me more\nconcern than the fear of capture. Had the storm not come on, I would\nhave risked all to have landed you somewhere in Scotland; but it was so\nsevere, and blowing from the land, that there was no use to attempt it.\nI hope, however, the weather will now moderate, and the wind shift, when\nI will run you back, or procure you a passage in the first craft that\nleaves for Scotland.\"\n\nI made no answer to him, I was so absorbed in my own reflections. I\nwalked the deck like one distracted, praying for a change in the\nweather. For another three days it blew, with less or more violence,\nfrom the same point--during which time I scarcely ever ate or drank, and\nnever went to bed. On the forenoon of Monday, the wind shifted. I went\nimmediately ashore in the boat, and found a brig getting under way for\nLeith. I stepped on board, and took farewell of Captain Cameron, whom I\nnever saw again, and wish I had never seen him in my life.\n\nAfter a tedious passage of nine days, during which we had baffling winds\nand calms, we reached Leith Roads about seven in the evening. It was low\nwater, and the brig could not enter the harbour for several hours. I was\nput ashore in the boat, and hastened up to the Black Bull Inn, in order\nto secure a seat in the mail for Glasgow, which was to start in a few\nminutes. As I came up Leith Walk, my feelings became of a mixed nature.\nI thought of Widow Niel and the murder, as I looked over at the Calton;\nthen my mind reverted to my bride. I got into the coach, and was soon\non the way to Glasgow. I laid myself back in a corner, and kept a\nstubborn silence. I could not endure to enter into conversation with my\nfellow-travellers: I scarce heard them speak--my mind was so distracted\nby what had befallen me, and what might be the result.\n\nPale, weary, and exhausted, I reached my lodgings between three and four\no'clock of the morning of the seventeenth day from that in which I had\nleft it in joy and hope. After I had knocked, and was answered, my\nlandlady almost fainted at the sight of me. She had believed me dead;\nand my appearance was not calculated to do away the impression, I looked\nso ghastly from anxiety and the want of sleep. Her joy was extreme when\nshe found her mistake. I undressed and threw myself on my bed, where I\nsoon fell into a sound sleep, the first I had enjoyed since my\ninvoluntary voyage.\n\nI did not awake until about eight o'clock, when I arose and dressed. I\ndid not haste to Eliza, as my heart urged me, lest my sudden appearance\nshould have been fatal to her. I wrote her a note, informing her I was\nin health, and would call and explain all after breakfast. I sent off my\ncard, and immediately waited upon my employers. They were more surprised\nthan pleased at my return. Another had been placed in my situation, and\nthey did not choose to pay him off when I might think proper to return\nafter my unaccountable absence. My soul fired at the base insinuation;\nmy voice rose, as I demanded to know if they doubted my veracity. With\nan expression of countenance that spoke daggers, one of them said--\"We\ndoubt, at least, your prudence in going on board an unknown vessel; but\nlet us proceed to business--we have found all your books correct to a\nfarthing, and here is an order for your salary up to your leaving. Good\nmorning!\"\n\nI received it indignantly; and, bowing stiffly, left them. I was not\nmuch cast down at this turn my affairs had taken so unexpectedly. I had\nno doubt of finding a warm reception from Eliza, hurried to her parent's\nhouse, and rung the bell for admittance. Judge my astonishment when her\nbrother opened the door, with a look as if we had never met, and\ninquired what I wanted. The blood mounted to my face--I essayed to\nspeak; but my tongue refused its office; I felt bewildered, and stood\nmore like a statue than a man. In the most insulting manner, he\nsaid--\"There is no one here who wishes any intercourse with you.\" And he\nshut the door upon me.\n\nOf everything that befell me for a length of time, from this moment, I\nam utterly unconscious; when I again awoke to consciousness, I was in\nbed at my lodgings, with my kind landlady seated at my bedside. I was so\nweak and reduced I could scarce turn myself; the agitation I had\nundergone, and the cruel receptions I had met on my return, had been too\nmuch for my mind to bear; a brain fever had been the consequence, and my\nlife had been despaired of for several days. I would have questioned\nmy landlady; but she urged silence upon me, and refused to answer my\ninquiries. I soon after learned all. I had been utterly neglected by\nthose to whom I might have looked for aid or consolation; but the\nbitterest thought of all was, that Eliza should cast me off without\ninquiry or explanation. I could not bring my mind to believe she did\nso of her own accord. She must, I thought, be either cruelly deceived\nor under restraint; for she and her friends could not but know the\nsituation I was in. I vainly strove to call my wounded pride to my aid,\nand drive her from my thoughts; but the more I strove, the firmer hold\nshe took of me. As soon as I could hold my pen, I wrote to her in the\nmost moving terms; and, after stating the whole truth and what I had\nsuffered, begged an interview, were it to be our last--for my life or\ndeath, I said, appeared to depend upon her answer. In the afternoon I\nreceived one: it was my own letter, which had been opened, and enclosed\nin an envelope. The writing was in her own hand. Cruel woman! all it\ncontained was, that she had read, and now returned my letter as of her\nown accord, and by the approbation of her friends; for she was firmly\nresolved to have no communication with one who had used her so cruelly,\nand exposed her to the ridicule of her friends and acquaintances. This\nunjust answer had quite an opposite effect from what I could have\nconceived a few hours before; pity and contempt for the fickle creature\ntook the place of love; my mind became once more tranquil; I recovered\nrapidly, and soon began to walk about and enjoy the sweets of summer. I\nmet my fickle fair by accident more than once in my walks, and found I\ncould pass her as if we had never met. Her brother I had often a mind\nto have horsewhipped; but the thought that I would only give greater\npublicity to my unfortunate adventure, and be looked upon as the guilty\naggressor, prevented me from gratifying my wish.\n\nGlasgow had now become hateful to me, otherwise I would have commenced\nmanufacturer upon my own account, as was my intention had I married\nEliza. In as short a period as convenient, I sold off the furniture of\nthe house I had taken, at little or no loss, and found that I still was\nmaster of a considerable sum. Having made a present to my landlady for\nher care of me, I bade a long adieu to Glasgow, and proceeded by the\ncoach to Leeds, where I procured a situation in a house with which our\nGlasgow house had had many transactions.\n\nAs I fear I am getting prolix, I shall hurry over the next few years I\nremained in Leeds. I became a partner of the house; our transactions\nwere very extensive, more particularly in the United States of America,\nwhere we were deeply engaged in the cotton trade. It was judged\nnecessary that one of the firm should be on the spot, to extend the\nbusiness as much as possible. The others being married men, I at once\nvolunteered to take this department upon myself, and made arrangements\naccordingly. I proceeded towards Liverpool by easy stages on horseback,\nas the coaches at that period were not so regular as they are at\npresent.\n\nOn the second day after my leaving Leeds, the afternoon became extremely\nwet towards evening; so that I resolved to remain all night in the first\nrespectable inn I came to. I dismounted, and found it completely filled\nwith travellers, who had arrived a short time before. It was with\nconsiderable difficulty I prevailed upon the hostess to allow me to\nremain. She had not a spare bed; all had been already engaged; the\nweather continued still wet and boisterous, and I resolved to proceed no\nfarther that night, whether I could obtain a bed or not. I, at length,\narranged with her that I should pass the night by the fireside, seated\nin an arm-chair. Matters were thus all set to rights, and supper over,\nwhen a loud knocking was heard at the door. An additional stranger\nentered the kitchen where I sat, drenched with rain and benumbed with\ncold; and, after many difficulties upon the side of the hostess, the\nsame arrangements were made for him.\n\nAs our situations were so similar, we soon became very intimate. I felt\nmuch interest in him. He was of a frank and lively turn in conversation,\nand exceedingly well informed on every subject we started. A shrewd\neccentricity in the style and matter of his remarks, forced the\nconviction upon his hearers, that he was a man of no mean capacity;\nthere was also a restless inquietude in his manner, which gave him the\nappearance of having a slight shade of insanity. At one time his bright\nblack eye was lighted up with joy and hilarity, as he chanted a few\nlines of some convivial song. In a few minutes, a change came over him,\nand furtive, timid glances stole from under his long dark eyelashes.\nThen would follow a glance so fierce, that it required a firm mind to\nendure it unmoved. These looks became more frequent as his libations\ncontinued; for he had consumed a great quantity of liquor, and seemed to\nme to be in that frame of mind when one strives in vain to forget his\nidentity.\n\nThe other inmates of the house had long retired, and all was hushed save\nthe voice of my companion. I felt no inclination to sleep; the various\nscenes of my life were floating over my mind, as I gazed into the bright\nfire that glowed before me, while the storm raged without. My companion\nhad at length sunk into a troubled slumber; his head resting upon his\nhand, which was supported by the table, and his intelligent face half\nturned from me. While I sat thus, my attention was roused by a low,\nindistinct murmuring from the sleeper: he was evidently dreaming--for,\nalthough there were a few disjointed words here and there pronounced, he\nstill slept soundly.\n\nGradually his articulation became more distinct and his countenance\nanimated; but his eyes were closed. I became much interested; for this\nwas the first instance of a dreamer talking in his sleep I had ever\nwitnessed. I watched him. A gleam of joy and pleasure played around\nhis well-formed mouth, while the few inarticulate sounds he uttered\nresembled distant shouts of youthful glee. Gradually the tones became\nconnected sentences; care and anxiety, at times, came over his\ncountenance; in heart-touching language, he bade farewell to his parent\nand the beloved scenes of his youth; large drops of moisture stole from\nunder his closed eyelids. The transitions of his mind were so quick,\nthat it required my utmost attention to follow them; but I never heard\nsuch true eloquence as came from this dreamer. I had seen most of the\nperformers of our modern stage, and appreciated their talents; but what\nI at this time witnessed, in the actings of genuine nature, surpassed\nall their efforts.\n\nGradually the shades of innocence departed from his countenance; his\nlanguage became adulterated by slang phrases, and his features assumed\na fiendish cast that made me shudder. He showed that he was familiar\nwith the worst of company; care and anxiety gradually crept over his\ncountenance; he had, it seemed, commenced a system of fraud upon his\nemployers and been detected; grief and despair threw over him their\nfrightful shadows; pale and dejected, he pleaded for mercy, for the sake\nof his father, in the most abject terms. He now spoke with energy and\nconnection--it was to his companions in jail; but hope had fled, and a\nshameful death seemed to him inevitable.\n\nHis trial came on. He proceeded to court--his lips appeared pale and\nparched--a convulsive quiver agitated the lower muscles of his face and\nneck--he seemed to breathe with difficulty--his head sank lower upon\nthe hand that supported it--he had been condemned--he was now in his\nsolitary cell--his murmurs breathed repentance and devotion--his\nsufferings appeared to be so intense that large drops of perspiration\nstood upon his forehead--he was engaged with the clergyman, preparing\nfor death. Remembering what I had suffered in my own dreams, I resolved\nto awake him, and, to do so, gave the arm that lay upon the table a\ngentle shake. A shudder passed over his frame, and he sank upon the\nfloor.\n\nAll that I have narrated had occurred in a space of time remarkably\nshort. I rose to lift him to his seat, and make an apology for the\nsurprise I had given him; but he was quite unconscious. The noise of his\nfall had alarmed the landlady, who, with several of the guests, entered\nas I was stooping with him in my arms, attempting to raise him. I was so\nmuch shocked when I found the state he was in, that I let him drop, and\nrecoiled back in horror, exclaiming, \"Good God! have I killed him! Send\nfor a surgeon.\" The idea that I had endeavoured to awake him in an\nimproper time came with strong conviction upon me, and forced the words\nout of my mouth.\n\nThey raised him up and placed him on his seat. I could not offer the\nsmallest assistance. Every effort was used to restore him in vain, and a\nsurgeon sent for, but life had fled. During all this time I had remained\nin a stupor of mind; suspicion fell upon me that I had murdered him; I\nhad been alone with him, and seen stooping over the body when they\nentered; and my exclamation at the time, and my confusion, were all\nconstrued as sure tokens of my guilt. I was strictly guarded until a\ncoroner's inquest could be held upon the body.\n\nI told the whole circumstances as they had occurred; but my narrative\nmade not the smallest impression. I was not believed--an incredulous\nsmile, or a dubious shake of the head, was all that I obtained from my\nauditors. I then kept silence, and refused to enter into any further\nexplanation, conscious that my innocence would be made manifest at the\ninquest, which must meet as soon as the necessary steps could be taken.\nI was already tried and condemned by those around me--every circumstance\nwas turned against me, and the most prominent was that I was Scotch.\nMany remarks were made, all to the prejudice of my country, but aimed\nat me. My heart burned to retort their unjust abuse; but I was too\nindignant to trust myself to utter the thoughts that swelled my heart\nalmost to bursting.\n\nThe surgeon had come, and was busy examining the body of the unfortunate\nindividual, when a new traveller arrived. He appeared to be about sixty\nyears of age, of a pleasing countenance, which was, however, shaded by\nanxiety and grief. Sick and weary of those around me, I had ceased to\nregard them, but I raised my eyes as the new comer entered; and was\nat once struck by a strong resemblance, as I thought, between him\nand the deceased. The stranger appeared to take no interest in what\nwas going on, but urged the landlady to make haste and procure him\nsome refreshment, while his horse was being fed. He was in the utmost\nhurry to depart, as important business required his immediate attendance\nin London. The loquacious landlady forced him to listen to a most\nexaggerated account of the horrid murder which the Scotchman had\ncommitted in her house. The story was so much distorted by her\ninventions, that I could not have recognised the event, if the time and\nplace, and her often pointing to me and the bed on which the body was\nlaid, had not identified it. I could perceive a faint shudder come over\nhis frame, as she finished her romance. The surgeon came from his\nexamination of the body. He was a man well advanced in years, of an\nintelligent and benevolent cast of countenance. She inquired with what\ninstrument the murder had been perpetrated.\n\n\"My good lady,\" said the surgeon, \"I can find no marks of violence upon\nthe body, and I cannot say whether the individual met his death by\nviolence or the visitation of God.\"\n\n\"Oh, sir,\" cried the hostess, \"I am certain he was murdered; for I saw\nthem struggling on the floor as I entered the room; and he said himself\nthat he had murdered him.\"\n\n\"Peace, good woman,\" said the surgeon, who turned to me, and requested\nto know the particulars from myself; \"for I am persuaded,\" he continued,\n\"that no outward violence has been sustained by the deceased.\"\n\nI once more began to narrate to him the whole circumstance. As I\nproceeded with the dream, the stranger suddenly became riveted in his\nattention; his eyes were fixed upon me; the muscles of his face were\nstrangely agitated, as if he was restraining some strong emotion; wonder\nand anxiety were strongly expressed by turns, until I mentioned one of\nthe names I had heard in the dream. Uttering a heart-rending groan, or\nrather scream, he rose from his seat and staggered to the bed, where he\nfell upon the inanimate body, and sobbed audibly as he kissed the cold\nforehead, and parted the long brown hair that covered it.\n\n\"Oh, Charles,\" he cried, \"my son, my dear lost son! have I found you\nthus, who was once the stay and hope of my heart!\"\n\nThere was not a dry eye in the room after this burst of agonized nature.\nHe rose from the bed and approached me. Looking mildly in my face, he\nsaid--\n\n\"Stranger, be so good as to continue your account of this sad accident;\nfor both our sakes, I hope you are innocent of any violence upon my\nson.\"\n\nOvercome by his manner, in kindness to him I suggested that it would be\nbetter were only the surgeon and himself present at the recital. Several\nof those present protested loudly against my proposal, saying I would\nmake my escape if I was not guarded. My anger now rose--I could restrain\nmyself no longer--I cast an indignant glance around, and, in a voice at\nits utmost pitch, dared any one present to say I had used violence\nagainst the unfortunate young man. All remained silent. In a calmer\nmanner, I declared I had no wish to depart, urgent as my business was,\nuntil the inquest was over; and, if they doubted my word, they were\nwelcome to keep strict watch at the door and windows.\n\nThe old man perceived the kindness of my motive for withdrawing with\nhim, and his looks spoke his gratitude as we retired.\n\nI once more stated every circumstance as it had occurred, from the time\nof his son's arrival until he fell from the chair. As I repeated the\nwords I could make out in the early part of the dream, his father wept\nlike a child, and said--\"Would to God he had never left me!\" When I came\nto the London part, he groaned aloud and wrung his hands. I was inclined\nmore than once to stop; but he motioned me to proceed, while tears\nchoked his utterance. When I had made an end, he clasped his hands, and,\nraising his face to heaven, said--\"I thank Thee, Father of mercies! Thy\nwill be done. He was the last of five of Thy gifts. I am now childless,\nand have nothing more worth living for but to obey Thy will. I thank\nThee that in his last moments it can be said of him as it was of thy\napostle--'Behold, he prayeth!'\"\n\nFor some time we remained silent, reverencing the old man's grief. The\nsurgeon first broke silence:--\"Stranger,\" he said, \"I have not a doubt\nof your innocence of any intention to injure the person of the deceased,\nbut your humane intention to awaken him was certainly the immediate\ncause of his death; for, had you tried to rouse him from sleep, either\nsooner or later in his dream, all might have been well. The gentle shake\nyou gave his arm, in all likelihood, was felt as the fatal fall of the\nplatform or push of the executioner, which caused, from fright, a sudden\ncollapse of the heart, that put a final stop to the circulation and\ncaused immediate death. We regret it; but cannot say there was any bad\nintention on your part.\"\n\nI thanked the surgeon for the justice he had done me in his remarks; and\nthen addressing the bereaved father, I begged his forgiveness for my\nunfortunate interference with his son; I only did so to put a period to\nhis dream, as his sufferings appeared to me to be of the most acute\ndescription.\n\nHe stretched out his hand, and grasping mine, which he held for some\ntime, while he strove to overcome his emotions, he at length said--\n\n\"Young man, from my heart I acquit you of every evil intention, and\nbelieve you from evidence that cannot be called in question. What you\nhave told coincides with facts I already possess. For some time back the\nconduct of Charles gave me serious cause of uneasiness; but I knew not\nhalf the extent of his excesses, although his requests for money were\nincessant. I supplied them as far as was in my power; for he accompanied\nthem with dutiful acknowledgments and plausible reasons. Until of late\nI had fulfilled his every wish; but I found I could no longer comply\nwith prudence. Alas! you have let me at length understand that the\ngaming-table was the gulf that swallowed up all. I had for some time\nresolved to go personally and reason with him upon the folly of his\nextravagances; but, unfortunately, delayed it from day to day and week\nto week. I felt it to be my duty as a parent; but my heart shrunk from\nit. Fatal delay! Oh, that I had done as my duty urged me!\" (Here his\nfeelings overpowered him for a few minutes.) \"Had I only gone even a few\ndays before I received that fatal letter that at once roused me from my\nguilty supineness,\" (here he drew a letter from his pocket and gave it\nme,) \"he might have been saved! Read it.\"\n\nI complied. It was as follows:--\n\n     \"WORTHY FRIEND,--I scarce know how to communicate the\n     information; but, I fear, no one here will do so in so gentle\n     a manner. Your son Charles, I am grieved to say, has not been\n     acting as I could have wished for this some time back. One of\n     the partners called here this morning to inquire after him,\n     as he had absconded from their service on account of some\n     irregularity that had been discovered in his cash entries, and\n     made me afraid, by his manner, that there might be something\n     worse. Do, for your own and his sake, come to town as quickly\n     as possible. In the meantime, I shall do all in my power to\n     avert any evil that may threaten.--Adieu!\n\n                                       \"JOHN WALKER.\"\n\n\n\n\"I was on my way,\" he proceeded, \"to save my poor Charles from shame,\nhad even the workhouse been my only refuge at the close of my days.\nAlas! as he told in his dream, I fear he had forfeited his life by that\nfatal act, forgery, for which there is no pardon with man. If so, the\npresent dispensation is one of mercy, for which I bless His name, who in\nall things doeth right.\"\n\nMy heart ached for the pious old man. We left the room, he leaning upon\nmy arm. The surgeon and parent both pronounced me innocent of the young\nman's death. Those who still remained in the house, more particularly\nthe hostess, appeared disappointed, and did not scruple to hint their\ndoubts. Until the coroner's inquest sat, which was in the afternoon,\nthe father of the stranger never left my side, but seemed to take a\nmelancholy pleasure in conversing about his son. The jury, after a\npatient investigation, returned their verdict, \"Died by the visitation\nof God.\"\n\nI immediately bade farewell to the surgeon and the parent of the young\nman, and proceeded for Liverpool, musing upon my strange destiny. It\nappeared to me that I was haunted by some fatality, which plunged me\nconstantly into misfortune. I rejoiced that I was on the point of\nleaving Britain, and hoped that in America I should be freed from my\nbad fortune.\n\nWhen I arrived in Liverpool I found the packet on the eve of sailing;\nand, with all expedition, I made everything ready and went on board. We\nwere to sail with the morning tide. There were a good many passengers;\nbut all of them appeared to be every-day personages--all less or more\nstudious about their own comforts. After an agreeable voyage of five\nweeks, we arrived safe, and all in good health, in Charleston. In a few\nmonths I completed our arrangement satisfactorily, and began to make\npreparations for my return to England again. A circumstance, however,\noccurred, which overturned all my plans for a time, and gave a new turn\nto my thoughts. Was it possible that, after the way in which I had been\ncast off before by one of the bewitching sex, I could ever do more than\nlook upon them again with indifference? I did not hate or shun their\ncompany, but a feeling pretty much akin to contempt, often stole over me\nas I recollected my old injury. I could feel the sensation at times give\nway for a few hours in the company of some females, and again return\nwith redoubled force upon the slightest occasion, such as a single word\nor look. I was prejudiced, and resolved not again to submit to the power\nof the sex. But vain are the resolves of man. This continued struggle, I\nreally believe, was the reason of my again falling more violently in\nlove than ever, and that, too, against my own will. When I strove to\ndiscover faults, I only found perfections.\n\nI had boarded in the house of a widow lady who had three daughters, none\nof them exceeding twelve years of age. A governess, one of the sweetest\ncreatures that I had ever seen, or shall ever see again, had the charge\nof them. On the second evening after my arrival, I retired to my\napartment, overcome by heat and fatigue. I lay listlessly thinking of\nAuld Reekie, the mysterious murder, and all the strange occurrences of\nmy past life. My attention was awakened by a voice the sweetest I had\never heard. I listened in rapture. It was only a few notes, as the\nsinger was trying the pitch of her voice, and soon ceased. I was\nwondering which of the family it could be who sang so well, when I heard\none of the daughters say, \"Do, governess, sing me one song, and I will\nbe a good girl all to-morrow. Pray do!\" I became all attention--again\nthe voice fell upon my ear. It was low and plaintive--the air was\nfamiliar to me--my whole soul became entranced--the tear-drop swam in\nmy eyes--it was one of Scotland's sweetest ditties--\"The Broom o' the\nCowdenknowes.\" No one who has not heard, unexpected, in a foreign land\nthe songs he loved in his youth, can appreciate the thrill of pleasing\necstasy that carries the mind, as it were, out of the body, when the\nears catch the well-known sounds.\n\nNext day I was all anxiety to see the individual who had so fascinated\nme the evening before. I found her all that my imagination had pictured\nher. A new feeling possessed me. In vain I called pride to my aid--I\ncould not drive her from my thoughts. Sleeping or waking, her voice and\nform were ever present. I left the town for a time to free myself from\nthese unwelcome feelings, pleasing as they were. I felt angry at myself\nfor harbouring them; but all my endeavours were vain--go where I would,\nI was with my Mary on the Cowdenknowes.\n\nI know not how it was. I had loved with more ardour in my first passion,\nand been more the victim of impulse; a dreamy sensation occupied my\nmind, and my whole existence seemed concentrated in her alone; now, my\nmind felt cool and collected--I weighed every fault and excellence;\nstill I was hurried on, and felt like one placed in a boat in the\ncurrent of a river, pulling hard to get out of the stream in vain. I at\nlength laid down my oars, and yielded to the impulse. In short, I made\nup my mind to win the esteem and love of Mary; nor did I strive in vain.\nMy humble attentions were kindly received, and dear to my heart is the\nremembrance of the timid glances I first detected in her full black\neyes. For some weeks I sought an opportunity to declare my love. She\nevidently shunned being alone with me; and I often could discern, when I\ncame upon her by surprise, that she had been weeping. Some secret sorrow\nevidently oppressed her mind, and, at times, I have seen her beautiful\nface suffused with scarlet and her eyes become wet with tears, when\nmy pompous landlady spoke of the ladies of Europe and \"the _true_\nwhite-blooded females of America.\" I dreamed not at this time of the\ncause; but the truth dawned upon me afterwards.\n\nIt was on a delightful evening, after one of the most sultry days in\nthis climate, I had wandered into the garden to enjoy the evening\nbreeze, with which nothing in these northern climes will bear\ncomparison; the fire-flies sported in myriads around, and gave animation\nto the scene; the fragrance of plants and the melody of birds filled the\nsenses to repletion. I wanted only the presence of Mary to be completely\nhappy. I heard a low warbling at a short distance, from a bower covered\nwith clustering vines. It was Mary's voice! I stood overpowered with\npleasure--she sung again one of our Scottish tunes.\n\nAs the last faint cadence died away, I entered the arbour; the noise\nof my approach made her start from her seat; she was hurrying away in\nconfusion, when I gently seized her hand, and requested her to remain,\nif it were only for a few moments, as I had something to impart of the\nutmost importance to us both. She stood; her face was averted from my\ngaze; I felt her hand tremble in mine. Now that the opportunity I so\nmuch desired had been obtained, my resolution began to fail me. We had\nstood thus for sometime.\n\n\"Sir, I must not stay here longer,\" she said. \"Good evening!\"\n\n\"Mary,\" said I, \"I love you. May I hope to gain your regard by any\nlength of service? Allow me to hope, and I shall be content.\"\n\n\"I must not listen to this language,\" she replied. \"Do not hope. There\nis a barrier between us that cannot be removed. I cannot be yours. I am\nunworthy of your regard. Alas! I am a child of misfortune.\"\n\n\"Then,\" said I, \"my hopes of happiness are fled for ever. So young, so\nbeautiful, with a soul so elevated as I know yours to be, you can have\ndone nothing to render you unworthy of me. For heaven's sake, tell me\nwhat that fatal barrier is. Is it love?\"\n\n\"I thank you,\" she replied. \"You do me but justice. A thought has never\ndwelt upon my mind for which I have cause to blush; but Nature has\nplaced a gulf between you and me, you will not pass.\" She paused, and\nthe tears swam in her eyes.\n\n\"For mercy's sake, proceed!\" I said.\n\n\"_There is black blood in these veins_,\" she cried, in agony.\n\nA load was at once removed from my mind. I raised her hand to my\nlips:--\"Mary, my love, this is no bar. I come from a country where the\naristocracy of blood is unknown, where nothing degrades man in the eyes\nof his fellow-man but vice.\"\n\nWhy more? Mary consented to be mine, and we were shortly after wed. I\nwas blessed in the possession of one of the most gentle of beings.\n\nWe had been married about six or seven weeks, when business called me\nfrom Charleston to one of the northern States. I resolved to take Mary\nwith me, as I was to go by sea; and our arrangements were completed. The\nvessel was to sail on the following day. I was seated with her, enjoying\nthe cool of the evening, when a stranger called and requested to see me\non business of importance. I immediately went to him, and was struck\nwith the coarseness of his manners, and his vulgar importance. I bowed,\nand asked his business.\n\n\"You have a woman in this house,\" said he, \"called Mary De Lyle, I\nguess.\"\n\n\"I do not understand the purport of your question,\" said I. \"What do you\nmean?\"\n\n\"My meaning is pretty clear,\" said he. \"Mary De Lyle is in this house,\nand she is my property. If you offer to carry her out of the State, I\nwill have her sent to jail, and you fined. That is right ahead, I\nguess.\"\n\n\"Wretch,\" said I, in a voice hoarse with rage, \"get out of my house, or\nI will crush you to death. Begone!\"\n\nI believe I would have done him some fearful injury, had he not\nprecipitately made his escape. In a frame of mind I want words to\nexpress, I hurried to Mary, and sank upon a seat, with my face buried in\nmy hands. She, poor thing, came trembling to my side, and implored me to\ntell her what was the matter. I could only answer by my groans. At\nlength, I looked imploringly in her face:--\n\n\"Mary, is it possible that you are a slave?\" said I.\n\nShe uttered a piercing shriek, and sank inanimate at my feet. I lifted\nher upon the sofa; but it was long before she gave symptoms of returning\nlife.\n\nAs soon as I could leave her, I went to a friend to ask his advice and\nassistance. Through him, I learned that what I feared was but too true.\nBy the usages and laws of the State, she was still a slave, and liable\nto be hurried from me and sold to the highest bidder, or doomed to any\ndrudgery her master might put her to, and even flogged at will. There\nwas only one remedy that could be applied; and the specific was dollars.\nMy friend was so kind as to negotiate with the ruffian. One thousand was\ndemanded, and cheerfully paid. I carried the manumission home to my\nsorrowing Mary. From her I learned, as she lay in bed--her beautiful\nface buried in the clothes, and her voice choked by sobs--that the\nwretch who had called on me was her own father, whose avarice could not\nlet slip this opportunity of extorting money. With an inconsistency\noften found in man, he had given Mary one of the best of educations,\nand for long treated her as a favoured child, during the life of her\nmother, who was one of his slaves, a woman of colour, and with some\naccomplishments, which she had acquired in a genteel family. At her\ndeath, Mary had gone as governess to my landlady; but, until the day of\nher father's claim, she had never dreamed of being a slave. I allowed\nthe vessel to sail without me, wound up my affairs, and bade adieu for\never to the slave States. 'Tis now twenty years since I purchased a\nwife, after I had won her love, and I bless the day she was made mine;\nfor I have had uninterrupted happiness in her and her offspring. The\nslave is now the happy wife and mother of five lovely children, who\nrejoice in their mother. After remaining some years in Leeds, I returned\nto Edinburgh. Widow Neil was dead; but one day I discovered, by mere\nchance, that the murder I committed in her house was on a _sheep_.\n\n\n\n\nMY BLACK COAT;\n\nOR,\n\nTHE BREAKING OF THE BRIDE'S CHINA.\n\n\nGentle reader, the simple circumstances I am about to relate to you,\nhang upon what is termed--a bad omen. There are few amongst the\nuneducated who have not a degree of faith in omens; and even amongst the\nbetter educated and well informed there are many who, while they profess\nto disbelieve them, and, indeed, do disbelieve them, yet feel them in\ntheir hours of solitude. I have known individuals who, in the hour of\ndanger, would have braved the cannon's mouth, or defied death to his\nteeth, who, nevertheless, would have buried their heads in the\nbedclothes at the howling of a dog at midnight, or spent a sleepless\nnight from hearing the tick, tick, of the spider, or the untiring song\nof the kitchen-fire musician--the jolly little cricket. The age of\nomens, however, is drawing to a close; for truth in its progress is\ntrampling delusion of every kind under its feet; yet, after all, though\na belief in omens is a superstition, it is one that carries with it a\nportion of the poetry of our nature. But to proceed with our story.\n\nSeveral years ago I was on my way from B---- to Edinburgh; and\nbeing as familiar with every cottage, tree, shrub, and whin-bush on the\nDunbar and Lauder roads as with the face of an acquaintance, I made\nchoice of the less-frequented path by Longformacus. I always took a\nsecret pleasure in contemplating the dreariness of wild spreading\ndesolation; and, next to looking on the sea when its waves dance to the\nmusic of a hurricane, I loved to gaze on the heath-covered wilderness,\nwhere the blue horizon only girded its purple bosom. It was no season\nto look upon the heath in the beauty of barrenness, yet I purposely\ndiverged from the main road. About an hour, therefore, after I had\ndescended from the region on the Lammermoors, and entered the Lothians,\nI became sensible I was pursuing a path which was not forwarding my\nfootsteps to Edinburgh. It was December; the sun had just gone down; I\nwas not very partial to travelling in darkness, neither did I wish to\ntrust to chance for finding a comfortable resting-place for the night.\nPerceiving a farm-steading and water-mill about a quarter of a mile from\nthe road, I resolved to turn towards them, and make inquiry respecting\nthe right path, or, at least, to request to be directed to the nearest\ninn.\n\nThe \"town,\" as the three or four houses and mill were called, was\nall bustle and confusion. The female inhabitants were cleaning and\nscouring, and running to and fro. I quickly learned that all this note\nof preparation arose from the \"maister\" being to be married within three\ndays. Seeing me a stranger, he came from his house towards me. He was a\ntall, stout, good-looking, jolly-faced farmer and miller. His manner of\naccosting me partook more of kindness than civility; and his inquiries\nwere not free from the familiar, prying curiosity which prevails in\nevery corner of our island, and, I must say, in the north in particular.\n\n\"Where do you come fra, na--if it be a fair question?\" inquired he.\n\n\"From B----,\" was the brief and merely civil reply.\n\n\"An' hae ye come frae there the day?\" he continued.\n\n\"Yes,\" was the answer.\n\n\"Ay, man, an' ye come frae B----, do ye?\" added he; \"then, nae doot,\nye'll ken a person they ca' Mr. ----?\"\n\n\"Did he come originally from Dunse?\" returned I, mentioning also the\noccupation of the person referred to.\n\n\"The vera same,\" rejoined the miller; \"are ye acquainted wi' him, sir?\"\n\n\"I ought to be,\" replied I; \"the person you speak of is merely my\nfather.\"\n\n\"Your faither!\" exclaimed he, opening his mouth and eyes to their\nfull width, and standing for a moment the picture of surprise--\"Gude\ngracious! ye dinna say sae!--is he really your faither? Losh, man, do\nyou no ken, then, that I'm your cousin! Ye've heard o' your cousin,\nWillie Stewart.\"\n\n\"Fifty times,\" replied I.\n\n\"Weel, I'm the vera man,\" said he--\"Gie's your hand; for, 'odsake, man,\nI'm as glad as glad can be. This is real extraordinar'. I've often heard\no' you--it will be you that writes the buiks--faith ye'll be able to mak\nsomething o' this. But come awa' into the house--ye dinna stir a mile\nfar'er for a week, at ony rate.\"\n\nSo saying, and still grasping my hand, he led me to the farm-house. On\ncrossing the threshold--\n\n\"Here, lassie,\" he cried, in a voice that made roof and rafters ring,\n\"bring ben the speerits, and get on the kettle--here's a cousin that I\nne'er saw in my life afore.\"\n\nA few minutes served mutually to confirm and explain our\nnewly-discovered relationship.\n\n\"Man,\" said he, as we were filling a second glass, \"ye've just come in\nthe very nick o' time; an' I'll tell ye how. Ye see I'm gaun to be\nmarried the day after the morn; an' no haein' a friend o' ony kin-kind\nin this quarter, I had to ask an acquaintance to be the best man. Now,\nthis was vexin' me mair than ye can think, particularly, ye see, because\nthe sweetheart has aye been hinting to me that it wadna be lucky for me\nno to hae a bluid relation for a best man. For that matter, indeed,\nluck here, luck there, I no care the toss up o' a ha'penny about omens\nmysel'; but now that ye've fortunately come, I'm a great deal easier,\nan' it will be ae craik out o' the way, for it will please her; an' ye\nmay guess, between you an' me, that she's worth the pleasin', or I wadna\nhad her; so I'll just step ower an' tell the ither lad that I hae a\ncousin come to be my best man, an' he'll think naething o't.\"\n\nOn the morning of the third day, the bride and her friends arrived. She\nwas the only child of a Lammermoor farmer, and was in truth a real\nmountain flower--a heath blossom; for the rude health that laughed upon\nher cheeks approached nearer the hue of the heather-bell, than the rose\nand vermillion of which poets speak. She was comely withal, possessing\nan appearance of considerable strength, and was rather above the middle\nsize--in short, she was the very belle ideal of a miller's wife!\n\nBut to go on. Twelve couples accompanied the happy miller and his bride\nto the manse, independent of the married, middle-aged, and grey-haired\nvisitors, who followed behind and by our side. We were thus proceeding\nonward to the house of the minister, whose blessing was to make a couple\nhappy, and the arm of the blooming bride was through mine, when I heard\na voice, or rather let me say a sound, like the croak of a raven,\nexclaim--\n\n\"Mercy on us! saw ye e'er the like o' that!--the best man, I'll declare,\nhas a black coat on!\"\n\n\"An' that's no lucky!\" replied another.\n\n\"Lucky!\" responded the raven voice--\"just perfectly awfu'! I wadna it\nhad happened at the weddin' o' a bairn o' mine for the king's\ndominions.\"\n\nI observed the bride steal a glance at my shoulder; I felt, or thought I\nfelt, as if she shrunk from my arm; and when I spoke to her, her speech\nfaltered. I found that my cousin, in avoiding one omen, had stumbled\nupon another, in my black coat. I was wroth with the rural prophetess,\nand turned round to behold her. Her little grey eyes, twinkling through\nspectacles, were wink, winking upon my ill-fated coat. She was a crooked\n(forgive me for saying an ugly), little, old woman; she was \"bearded\nlike a pard,\" and walked with a crooked stick mounted with silver. (On\nthe very spot[L] where she then was, the last witch in Scotland was\nburned.) I turned from the grinning sibyl with disgust.\n\n [L] The last person burned for witchcraft in Scotland was at\n Spot--the scene of our present story.\n\nOn the previous day, and during part of the night, the rain had fallen\nheavily, and the Broxburn was swollen to the magnitude of a little\nriver. The manse lay on the opposite side of the burn, which was\ngenerally crossed by the aid of stepping-stones, but on the day in\nquestion the tops of the stones were barely visible. On crossing the\nburn the foot of the bride slipped, and the bridegroom, in his eagerness\nto assist her, slipped also--knee-deep in the water. The raven voice was\nagain heard--it was another omen.\n\nThe kitchen was the only room in the manse large enough to contain the\nspectators assembled to witness the ceremony, which passed over smoothly\nenough, save that, when the clergyman was about to join the hands of the\nparties, I drew off the glove of the bride a second or two before the\nbridesmaid performed a similar operation on the hand of the bridegroom.\nI heard the whisper of the crooked old woman, and saw that the eyes of\nthe other women were upon me. I felt that I had committed another omen,\nand almost resolved to renounce wearing \"blacks\" for the future. The\nceremony, however, was concluded; we returned from the manse, and\neverything was forgotten, save mirth and music, till the hour arrived\nfor tea.\n\nThe bride's mother had boasted of her \"daughter's double set o' real\nchina\" during the afternoon; and the female part of the company\nevidently felt anxious to examine the costly crockery. A young woman was\nentering with a tray and the tea equipage--another, similarly laden,\nfollowed behind her. The \"sneck\" of the door caught the handle of the\ntray, and down went china, waiting-maid, and all! The fall startled her\ncompanion--their feet became entangled--both embraced the floor, and the\nchina from both trays lay scattered around them in a thousand shapes and\nsizes! This was an omen with a vengeance! I could not avoid stealing a\nlook at the sleeve of my black coat. The bearded old woman seemed\ninspired. She declared the luck of the house was broken! Of the double\nset of real china not a cup was left--not an odd saucer. The bridegroom\nbore the misfortune as a man; and, gently drawing the head of his young\npartner towards him, said--\n\n\"Never mind them, hinny--let them gang--we'll get mair.\"\n\nThe bride, poor thing, shed a tear; but the miller threw his arm round\nher neck, stole a kiss, and she blushed and smiled.\n\nIt was evident, however, that every one of the company regarded this as\na real omen. The mill-loft was prepared for the joyous dance; but scarce\nhad the fantastic toes (some of them were not light ones) begun to move\nthrough the mazy rounds, when the loft-floor broke down beneath the\nbounding feet of the happy-hearted miller; for, unfortunately, he\nconsidered not that his goodly body was heavier than his spirits. It was\nomen upon omen--the work of breaking had begun--the \"luck\" of the young\ncouple was departed.\n\nThree days after the wedding, one of the miller's carts was got in\nreadiness to carry home the bride's mother. On crossing the unlucky\nburn, to which we have already alluded, the horse stumbled, fell, and\nbroke its knee, and had to be taken back, and another put in its place.\n\n\"Mair breakings!\" exclaimed the now almost heart-broken old woman. \"Oh,\ndear sake! how will a' this end for my puir bairn!\"\n\nI remained with my new-found relatives about a week; and while there\nthe miller sent his boy for payment of an account of thirty pounds, he\nhaving to make up money to pay a corn-factor at the Haddington market on\nthe following day. In the evening the boy returned.\n\n\"Weel, callant,\" inquired the miller, \"hae ye gotten the siller?\"\n\n\"No,\" replied the youth.\n\n\"Mercy me!\" exclaimed my cousin, hastily, \"hae ye no gotten the siller?\nWha did ye see, or what did they say?\"\n\n\"I saw the wife,\" returned the boy; \"an' she said--'Siller! laddie,\nwhat's brought ye here for siller?--I daresay your maister's daft! Do ye\nno ken we're broken! I'm sure a'body kens that we broke yesterday!'\"\n\n\"The mischief break them!\" exclaimed the miller, rising and walking\nhurriedly across the room--\"this is breaking in earnest.\"\n\nI may not here particularize the breakings that followed. One misfortune\nsucceeded another, till the miller broke also. All that he had was put\nunder the hammer, and he wandered forth with his young wife a broken\nman.\n\nSome years afterwards, I met with him in a different part of the\ncountry. He had the management of extensive flour mills. He was again\ndoing well, and had money in his master's hands. At last there seemed to\nbe an end of the breakings. We were sitting together when a third person\nentered, with a rueful countenance.\n\n\"Willie,\" said he, with the tone of a speaking sepulchre, \"hae ye heard\nthe news?\"\n\n\"What news, now?\" inquired the miller, seriously.\n\n\"The maister's broken!\" rejoined the other.\n\n\"An' my fifty pounds?\" responded my cousin, in a voice of horror.\n\n\"Are broken wi' him,\" returned the stranger. \"Oh, gude gracious!\" cried\nthe young wife, wringing her hands, \"I'm sure I wish I were out o' this\nworld!--will ever thir breakings be done!--what tempted my mother to buy\nme the cheena?\"\n\n\"Or me to wear a black coat at your wedding,\" thought I.\n\nA few weeks afterwards a letter arrived, announcing that death had\nsuddenly broken the thread of life of her aged father, and her mother\nrequested them to come and take charge of the farm which was now theirs.\nThey went. The old man had made money on the hills. They got the better\nof the broken china and of my black coat. Fortune broke in upon them. My\ncousin declared that omens were nonsense, and his wife added that she\n\"really thought there was naething in them. But it was lang an' mony a\nday,\" she added, \"or I could get your black coat and my mother's cheena\nout o' my mind.\"\n\nThey began to prosper and they prosper still.\n\n\nEND OF VOLUME II.\n\n\n_Tubbs, Brook, & Chrystal, Printers, Manchester._","title":"Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland, Volume 02","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":92342}