{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_31593/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_31593","id":"gutenberg_31593","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/31593","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Short Stories","Scottish Borders (Scotland) -- Fiction"],"text":"E-text prepared by David Clarke, Joseph R. Hauser, and the Project\nGutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net)\n\n\n\nWILSON'S TALES OF THE BORDERS AND OF SCOTLAND.\n\nHistorical, Traditionary, & Imaginative.\n\nWith a Glossary.\n\nRevised by\n\nALEXANDER LEIGHTON,\n\nOne of the Original Editors and Contributors.\n\nVOL. III.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nLondon:\nWalter Scott, 14 Paternoster Square\nAnd Newcastle-Upon-Tyne.\n1885.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS.\n\n   WIDOW OF DUNSKAITH,            (_Hugh Miller_),                   1\n\n   THE WHITSOME TRAGEDY,          (_John Mackay Wilson_),           20\n\n   THE SURGEON'S TALES,           (_Alexander Leighton_)--\n      THE DIVER AND THE BELL,                                       53\n\n   AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF WILLIE SMITH, (_Alexander Campbell_),           85\n\n   THE PROFESSOR'S TALES,         (_Professor Thomas Gillespie_)--\n      PHEBE FORTUNE,                                               117\n\n   THE ROYAL BRIDAL,              (_John Mackay Wilson_),          134\n\n   THE ROYAL RAID,                (_Alexander Leighton_),          166\n\n   THE EXPERIMENTER,              (_John Howell_),                 198\n\n   THE YOUNG LAIRD,               (_Alexander Bethune_),           230\n\n   THE RIVAL NIGHTCAPS,            (_Alexander Campbell_),         263\n\n\n\n\nWILSON'S\n\nTALES OF THE BORDERS\n\nAND OF SCOTLAND.\n\n\n\n\nTHE WIDOW OF DUNSKAITH.\n\n    \"Oh, mony a shriek, that waefu' night,\n      Rose frae the stormy main;\n    An' mony a bootless vow was made,\n      An' mony a prayer vain;\n    An' mithers wept, an' widows mourned\n      For mony a weary day;\n    An' maidens, ance o' blithest mood,\n      Grew sad, and pined away.\"\n\n\nThe northern Sutor of Cromarty is of a bolder character than even the\nsouthern one--abrupt, and stern, and precipitous as that is. It presents\na loftier and more unbroken wall of rock; and, where it bounds on the\nMoray Frith, there is a savage magnificence in its cliffs and caves, and\nin the wild solitude of its beach, which we find nowhere equalled on the\nshores of the other. It is more exposed, too, in the time of tempest:\nthe waves often rise, during the storms of winter, more than a hundred\nfeet against its precipices, festooning them, even at that height, with\nwreaths of kelp and tangle; and, for miles within the bay, we may hear,\nat such seasons, the savage uproar that maddens amid its cliffs and\ncaverns, coming booming over the lashings of the nearer waves, like the\nroar of artillery. There is a sublimity of desolation on its shores, the\neffects of a conflict maintained for ages, and on a scale so gigantic.\nThe isolated, spire-like crags that rise along its base, are so drilled\nand bored by the incessant lashings of the surf, and are ground down\ninto shapes so fantastic, that they seem but the wasted skeletons of\ntheir former selves; and we find almost every natural fissure in the\nsolid rock hollowed into an immense cavern, whose very ceiling, though\nthe head turns as we look up to it, owes evidently its comparative\nsmoothness to the action of the waves. One of the most remarkable of\nthese recesses occupies what we may term the apex of a lofty promontory.\nThe entrance, unlike that of most of the others, is narrow and rugged,\nthough of great height; but it widens within into a shadowy chamber,\nperplexed, like the nave of a cathedral, by uncertain cross lights, that\ncome glimmering into it through two lesser openings, which perforate the\nopposite sides of the promontory. It is a strange, ghostly-looking\nplace; there is a sort of moonlight greenness in the twilight which\nforms its noon, and the denser shadows which rest along its sides; a\nblackness, so profound that it mocks the eye, hangs over a lofty passage\nwhich leads from it, like a corridor, still deeper into the bowels of\nthe hill; the light falls on a sprinkling of half-buried bones, the\nremains of animals that, in the depth of winter, have creeped into it\nfor shelter, and to die; and, when the winds are up, and the hoarse roar\nof the waves comes reverberated from its inner recesses, or creeps\nhowling along its roof, it needs no over-active fancy to people its\navenues with the shapes of beings long since departed from every gayer\nand softer scene, but which still rise uncalled to the imagination in\nthose by-corners of nature which seem dedicated, like this cavern, to\nthe wild, the desolate, and the solitary.\n\nThere is a little rocky bay a few hundred yards to the west, which has\nbeen known for ages, to all the seafaring men of the place, as the Cova\nGreen. It is such a place as we are sometimes made acquainted with in\nthe narratives of disastrous shipwrecks. First, there is a broad\nsemicircular strip of beach, with a wilderness of insulated piles of\nrock in front; and so steep and continuous is the wall of precipices\nwhich rises behind, that, though we may see directly over head the\ngrassy slopes of the hill, with here and there a few straggling firs, no\nhuman foot ever gained the nearer edge. The bay of the Cova Green is a\nprison to which the sea presents the only outlet; and the numerous caves\nwhich open along its sides, like the arches of an amphitheatre, seem but\nits darker cells. It is, in truth, a wild impressive place, full of\nbeauty and terror, and with none of the squalidness of the mere dungeon\nabout it. There is a puny littleness in our brick and lime receptacles\nof misery and languor which speaks as audibly of the feebleness of man,\nas of his crimes or his inhumanity; but here all is great and\nmagnificent--and there is much, too, that is pleasing. Many of the\nhigher cliffs, which rise beyond the influence of the spray, are\ntapestried with ivy; we may see the heron watching on the ledges beside\nher bundle of withered twigs, or the blue hawk darting from her cell;\nthere is life on every side of us--life in even the wild tumbling of the\nwaves, and in the stream of pure water which, rushing from the higher\nedge of the precipice in a long white cord, gradually untwists itself by\nthe way, and spatters ceaselessly among the stones over the entrance of\none of the caves. Nor does the scene want its old story to strengthen\nits hold on the imagination.\n\nI am wretchedly uncertain in my dates, but it must have been some time\nlate in the reign of Queen Anne, that a fishing yawl, after vainly\nlabouring for hours to enter the bay of Cromarty, during a strong gale\nfrom the west, was forced, at nightfall, to relinquish the attempt, and\ntake shelter in the Cova Green. The crew consisted of but two\npersons--an old fisherman and his son. Both had been thoroughly drenched\nby the spray, and chilled by the piercing wind, which, accompanied by\nthick snow showers, had blown all day through the opening, from off the\nsnowy top of Ben Wyvis; and it was with no ordinary satisfaction that,\nas they opened the little bay on their last tack, they saw the red gleam\nof a fire flickering from one of the caves, and a boat drawn upon the\nbeach.\n\n\"It must be some of the Tarbet fishermen,\" said the old man, \"wind-bound\nlike ourselves; but wiser than us, in having made provision for it. I\nshall feel willing enough to share their fire with them for the night.\"\n\n\"But see,\" remarked the younger, \"that there be no unwillingness on the\nother side. I am much mistaken if that be not the boat of my cousins the\nMacinlas, who would so fain have broken my head last Rhorichie Tryst.\nBut, hap what may, father, the night is getting worse, and we have no\nchoice of quarters. Hard up your helm, or we shall barely clear the\nSkerries; there now, every nail an anchor.\" He leaped ashore, carrying\nwith him the small hawser attached to the stern, which he wound securely\nround a jutting crag, and then stood for a few seconds until the old\nman, who moved but heavily along the thwarts, had come up to him. All\nwas comparatively calm under the lee of the precipices; but the wind was\nroaring fearfully in the woods above, and whistling amid the furze and\nivy of the higher cliff; and the two boatmen, as they entered the cave,\ncould see the flakes of a thick snow shower, that had just begun to\ndescend, circling round and round in the eddy.\n\nThe place was occupied by three men, who were sitting beside the fire,\non blocks of stone which had been rolled from the beach. Two of them\nwere young, and comparatively commonplace-looking persons; the third was\na grey-headed old man, apparently of great muscular strength though long\npast his prime, and of a peculiarly sinister cast of countenance. A keg\nof spirits, which was placed end up in front of them, served as a table;\nthere were little drinking measures of tin on it, and the mask-like,\nstolid expressions of the two younger men showed that they had been\nindulging freely. The elder was apparently sober. They all started to\ntheir feet on the entrance of the fishermen, and one of the younger,\nlaying hold of the little cask, pitched it hurriedly into a dark corner\nof the cave.\n\n\"HIS peace be here!\" was the simple greeting of the elder fisherman, as\nhe came forward. \"Eachen Macinla,\" he continued, addressing the old man,\n\"we have not met for years before--not, I believe, since the death o' my\npuir sister, when we parted such ill friends; but we are short-lived\ncreatures ourselves, Eachen--surely our anger should be short-lived too;\nand I have come to crave from you a seat by your fire.\"\n\n\"William Beth,\" replied Eachen, \"it was no wish of mine we should ever\nmeet; but to a seat by the fire you are welcome.\"\n\nOld Macinla and his sons resumed their seats, the two fishermen took\ntheir places fronting them, and for some time neither party exchanged a\nword.\n\nA fire, composed mostly of fragments of wreck and driftwood, threw up\nits broad cheerful flame towards the roof; but so spacious was the\ncavern that, except where here and there a whiter mass of stalactites,\nor bolder projection of cliff stood out from the darkness, the light\nseemed lost in it. A dense body of smoke, which stretched its blue level\nsurface from side to side, and concealed the roof, went rolling outwards\nlike an inverted river.\n\n\"This is but a gousty lodging-place,\" remarked the old fisherman, as he\nlooked round him; \"but I have seen a worse. I wish the folk at home kent\nwe were half sae snug; and then the fire, too--I have always felt\nsomething companionable in a fire, something consolable, as it were; it\nappears, somehow, as if it were a creature like ourselves, and had life\nin it.\" The remark seemed directed to no one in particular, and there\nwas no reply. In a second attempt at conversation, the fisherman\naddressed himself to the old man.\n\n\"It has vexed me,\" he said, \"that our young folk shouldna, for my\nsister's sake, be on more friendly terms, Eachen. They hae been\nquarrelling, an' I wish to see the quarrel made up.\" The old man,\nwithout deigning a reply, knit his grey shaggy brows, and looked\ndoggedly at the fire.\n\n\"Nay, now,\" continued the fisherman, \"we are getting auld men, Eachen,\nan' wauld better bury our hard thoughts o' ane anither afore we come to\nbe buried ourselves. What if we were sent to the Cova Green the night,\njust that we might part friends!\"\n\nEachen fixed his keen scrutinizing glance on the speaker--it was but for\na moment; there was a tremulous motion of the under lip as he withdrew\nit, and a setting of the teeth--the expression of mingled hatred and\nanger; but the tone of his reply savoured more of sullen indifference\nthan of passion.\n\n\"William Beth,\" he said, \"ye hae tricked my boys out o' the bit property\nthat suld hae come to them by their mother; it's no lang since they\nbarely escaped being murdered by your son. What more want you? But ye\nperhaps think it better that the time should be passed in making hollow\nlip professions o' good will, than that it suld be employed in clearing\noff an old score.\"\n\n\"Ay,\" hiccuped out the elder of the two sons, \"the houses might come my\nway, then; an', besides, gin Helen Henry were to lose her ae joe, the\nither might hae a better chance. Rise, brither--rise, man, an' fight for\nme an' your sweetheart.\" The younger lad, who seemed verging towards the\nlast stage of intoxication, struck his clenched fist against his palm,\nand attempted to rise.\n\n\"Look ye, uncle,\" exclaimed the younger fisherman, a powerful-looking\nand very handsome stripling, as he sprang to his feet, \"your threat\nmight be spared. Our little property was my grandfather's, and naturally\ndescended to his only son; and, as for the affair at Rhorichie, I dare\neither of my cousins to say the quarrel was of my seeking. I have no\nwish to raise my hand against the sons or the husband of my aunt; but,\nif forced to it, you will find that neither my father nor myself are\nwholly at your mercy.\"\n\n\"Whisht, Earnest,\" said the old fisherman, laying his hand on the hand\nof the young man; \"sit down--your uncle maun hae ither thoughts. It is\nnow fifteen years, Eachen,\" he continued, \"since I was called to my\nsister's deathbed. You yourself canna forget what passed there. There\nhad been grief, an' cauld, an' hunger, beside that bed. I'll no say you\nwere willingly unkind--few folk are that but when they hae some purpose\nto serve by it, an' you could have none; but you laid no restraint on a\nharsh temper, and none on a craving habit that forgets everything but\nitsel; and so my puir sister perished in the middle o' her days--a\nwasted, heart-broken thing. It's no that I wish to hurt you. I mind how\nwe passed our youth thegither, among the wild Buccaneers; it was a bad\nschool, Eachen; an' I owre often feel I havena unlearned a' my ain\nlessons, to wonder that you shouldna hae unlearned a' yours. But we're\ngetting old men, Eachen, an' we have now what we hadna in our young\ndays, the advantage o' the light. Dinna let us die fools in the sight o'\nHim who is so willing to give us wisdom--dinna let us die enemies. We\nhave been early friends, though maybe no for good; we have fought afore\nnow at the same gun; we have been united by the luve o' her that's now\nin the dust; an' there are our boys--the nearest o' kin to ane anither\nthat death has spared. But, what I feel as strongly as a' the rest,\nEachen--we hae done meikle ill thegither. I can hardly think o' a past\nsin without thinking o' you, an' thinking too, that, if a creature like\nme may hope he has found pardon, you shouldna despair. Eachen, we maun\nbe friends.\"\n\nThe features of the stern old man relaxed. \"You are perhaps right,\nWilliam,\" he at length replied; \"but ye were aye a luckier man than\nme--luckier for this world, I'm sure, an' maybe for the next. I had aye\nto seek, an' aften without finding, the good that came in your gate o'\nitsel. Now that age is coming upon us, ye get a snug rental frae the\nlittle houses, an' I hae naething; an' ye hae character an' credit, but\nwha would trust me, or cares for me? Ye hae been made an elder o' the\nkirk, too, I hear, an' I am still a reprobate; but we were a' born to be\njust what we are, an' sae maun submit. An' your son, too, shares in your\nluck; he has heart an' hand, an' my whelps hae neither; an' the girl\nHenry, that scouts that sot there, likes him--but what wonder o' that?\nBut you are right, William--we maun be friends. Pledge me.\" The little\ncask was produced; and, filling the measures, he nodded to Earnest and\nhis father. They pledged him; when, as if seized by a sudden frenzy, he\nfilled his measure thrice in hasty succession, draining it each time to\nthe bottom, and then flung it down with a short hoarse laugh. His sons,\nwho would fain have joined with him, he repulsed with a firmness of\nmanner which he had not before exhibited. \"No, whelps,\" he said--\"get\nsober as fast as ye can.\"\n\n\"We had better,\" whispered Earnest to his father, \"not sleep in the cave\nto-night.\"\n\n\"Let me hear now o' your quarrel, Earnest,\" said Eachen--\"your father\nwas a more prudent man than you; and, however much he wronged me, did it\nwithout quarrelling.\"\n\n\"The quarrel was none of my seeking,\" replied Earnest. \"I was insulted\nby your sons, and would have borne it for the sake of what they seemed\nto forget; but there was another whom they also insulted, and that I\ncould not bear.\"\n\n\"The girl Henry--and what then?\"\n\n\"Why, my cousins may tell the rest. They were mean enough to take odds\nagainst me; and I just beat the two spiritless fellows that did so.\"\n\nBut why record the quarrels of this unfortunate evening? An hour or two\npassed away in disagreeable bickerings, during which the patience of\neven the old fisherman was worn out, and that of Earnest had failed him\naltogether. They both quitted the cave, boisterous as the night was, and\nit was now stormier than ever; and, heaving off their boat, till she\nrode at the full length of her swing from the shore, sheltered\nthemselves under the sail. The Macinlas returned next evening to Tarbet;\nbut, though the wind moderated during the day, the yawl of William Beth\ndid not enter the bay of Cromarty. Weeks passed away, during which the\nclergyman of the place corresponded, regarding the missing fishermen,\nwith all the lower parts of the Frith; but they had disappeared, as it\nseemed, for ever.\n\nWhere the northern Sutor sinks into the low sandy tract that nearly\nfronts the town of Cromarty, there is a narrow grassy terrace raised but\na few yards over the level of the beach. It is sheltered behind by a\nsteep undulating bank; for, though the rock here and there juts out, it\nis too rich in vegetation to be termed a precipice. To the east, the\ncoast retires into a semicircular rocky recess, terminating seawards in\na lofty, dark-browed precipice, and bristling, throughout all its\nextent, with a countless multitude of crags, that, at every heave of the\nwave, break the surface into a thousand eddies. Towards the west, there\nis a broken and somewhat dreary waste of sand. The terrace itself,\nhowever, is a sweet little spot, with its grassy slopes, that recline\ntowards the sun, partially covered with thickets of wild-rose and\nhoneysuckle, and studded, in their season, with violets, and daisies,\nand the delicate rock geranium. Towards its eastern extremity, with the\nbank rising immediately behind, and an open space in front, which seemed\nto have been cultivated at one time as a garden, there stood a\npicturesque little cottage. It was that of the widow of William Beth.\nFive years had now elapsed since the disappearance of her son and\nhusband, and the cottage bore the marks of neglect and decay. The door\nand window, bleached white by the sea winds, shook loosely to every\nbreeze; clusters of chickweed luxuriated in the hollows of the thatch,\nor mantled over the eaves; and a honeysuckle that had twisted itself\nround the chimney, lay withering in a tangled mass at the foot of the\nwall. But the progress of decay was more marked in the widow herself\nthan in her dwelling. She had had to contend with grief and penury: a\ngrief not the less undermining in its effects, from the circumstance of\nits being sometimes suspended by hope--a penury so extreme that every\nsucceeding day seemed as if won by some providential interference from\nabsolute want. And she was now, to all appearance, fast sinking in the\nstruggle. The autumn was well nigh over: she had been weak and ailing\nfor months before, and had now become so feeble as to be confined for\ndays together to her bed. But, happily, the poor solitary woman had, at\nleast, one attached friend in the daughter of a farmer of the parish, a\nyoung and beautiful girl, who, though naturally of no melancholy\ntemperament, seemed to derive almost all she enjoyed of pleasure from\nthe society of the widow. Helen Henry was in her twenty-third year; but\nshe seemed older in spirit than in years. She was thin and pale, though\nexquisitely formed; there was a drooping heaviness in her fine eyes, and\na cast of pensive thought on her forehead, that spoke of a longer\nexperience of grief than so brief a portion of life might be supposed to\nhave furnished. She had once lovers; but they had gradually dropped away\nin the despair of moving her, and awed by a deep and settled pensiveness\nwhich, in the gayest season of youth, her character had suddenly but\npermanently assumed. Besides, they all knew her affections were already\nengaged, and had come to learn, though late and unwillingly, that there\nare cases in which no rival can be more formidable than a dead one.\n\nAutumn, I have said, was near its close. The weather had given\nindications of an early and severe winter; and the widow, whose worn-out\nand delicate frame was affected by every change of atmosphere, had for a\nfew days been more than usually indisposed. It was now long past noon,\nand she had but just risen. The apartment, however, bore witness that\nher young friend had paid her the accustomed morning visit; the fire was\nblazing on a clean comfortable-looking hearth, and every little piece of\nfurniture it contained was arranged with the most scrupulous care. Her\ndevotions were hardly over, when the well-known tap was again heard at\nthe door.\n\n\"Come in, my lassie,\" said the widow, and then lowering her voice, as\nthe light foot of her friend was heard on the threshold--\"God,\" she\nsaid, \"has been ever kind to me--far, very far aboon my best deservings;\nand, oh, may He bless and reward her who has done so meikle, meikle for\nme!\" The young girl entered and took her seat beside her.\n\n\"You told me, mother,\" she said, \"that to-morrow is Earnest's birthday.\nI have been thinking of it all last night, and feel as if my heart were\nturning into stone. But when I am alone, it is always so. There is a\ncold death-like weight at my breast that makes me unhappy, though, when\nI come to you, and we speak together, the feeling passes away, and I\nbecome cheerful.\"\n\n\"Ah, my bairn,\" replied the old woman; \"I fear I'm no your friend,\nmeikle as I love you. We speak owre, owre often o' the lost; for our\nfoolish hearts find mair pleasure in that than in anything else; but ill\ndoes it fit us for being alone. Weel do I ken your feeling--a stone\ndeadness o' the heart, a feeling there are no words to express, but that\nseems as it were insensibility itself turning into pain; an' I ken, too,\nmy lassie, that it is nursed by the very means ye take to flee from it.\nYe maun learn to think mair o' the living and less o' the dead. Little,\nlittle does it matter, how a puir worn-out creature like me passes the\nfew broken days o' life that remains to her; but ye are young, my Helen,\nan' the world is a' before you; an' ye maun just try an' live for it.\"\n\n\"To-morrow,\" rejoined Helen, \"is Earnest's birthday. Is it no strange\nthat, when our minds make pictures o' the dead, it is always as they\nlooked best, an' kindest, an' maist life-like. I have been seeing\nEarnest all night long, as when I saw him on his _last_ birthday; an',\noh, the sharpness o' the pang, when, every now an' then, the back o' the\npicture is turned to me, an' I see him as he is--dust!\"\n\nThe widow grasped her young friend by the hand. \"Helen,\" she said, \"you\nwill get better when I am taken from you; but, so long as we continue to\nmeet, our thoughts will aye be running the one way. I had a strange\ndream last night, an' must tell it you. You see yon rock to the east, in\nthe middle o' the little bay, that now rises through the back draught o'\nthe sea, like the hull o' a ship, an' is now buried in a mountain o'\nfoam. I dreamed I was sitting on that rock, in what seemed a bonny\nsummer's morning; the sun was glancin' on the water; an' I could see the\nwhite sand far down at the bottom, wi' the reflection o' the little\nwavies running o'er it in long curls o' gowd. But there was no way o'\nleaving the rock, for the deep waters were round an' round me; an' I saw\nthe tide covering one wee bittie after another, till at last the whole\nwas covered. An' yet I had but little fear; for I remembered that baith\nEarnest an' William were in the sea afore me; an' I had the feeling that\nI could hae rest nowhere but wi' them. The water at last closed o'er me,\nan' I sank frae aff the rock to the sand at the bottom. But death seemed\nto have no power given him to hurt me; an' I walked as light as ever I\nhae done on a gowany brae, through the green depths o' the sea. I saw\nthe silvery glitter o' the trout an' the salmon, shining to the sun, far\nfar aboon me, like white pigeons in the lift; an' around me there were\ncrimson starfish, an' sea-flowers, an' long trailing plants that waved\nin the tide like streamers; an' at length I came to a steep rock wi' a\nlittle cave like a tomb in it. 'Here,' I said, 'is the end o' my\njourney--William is here, an' Earnest.' An', as I looked into the cave,\nI saw there were bones in it, an' I prepared to take my place beside\nthem. But, as I stooped to enter, some one called me, an' on looking up,\nthere was William. 'Lillias,' he said, 'it is not night yet, nor is that\nyour bed; you are to sleep, not with me, but with Earnest--haste you\nhome, for he is waiting you.' 'Oh, take me to him! I said; an' then all\nat once I found myself on the shore, dizzied an' blinded wi' the bright\nsunshine; for, at the cave, there was a darkness like that o' a simmer's\ngloamin; an', when I looked up for William, it was Earnest that stood\nbefore me, life-like an' handsome as ever; an' you were beside him.'\"\n\nThe day had been gloomy and lowering, and, though there was little wind,\na tremendous sea, that, as the evening advanced, rose higher and higher\nagainst the neighbouring precipice, had been rolling ashore since\nmorning. The wind now began to blow in long hollow gusts among the\ncliffs, and the rain to patter against the widow's casement.\n\n\"It will be a storm from the sea,\" she said; \"the scarts an' gulls hae\nbeen flying landward sin' daybreak, an' I hae never seen the ground\nswell come home heavier against the rocks. Wae's me for the puir\nsailors!\"\n\n\"In the lang stormy nights,\" said Helen, \"I canna sleep for thinking o'\nthem, though I have no one to bind me to them now. Only look how the sea\nrages among the rocks, as if it were a thing o' life an' passion!--that\nlast wave rose to the crane's nest. An', look, yonder is a boat rounding\nthe rock wi' only one man in it. It dances on the surf as if it were a\ncork, an' the wee bittie o' sail, sae black an' weet, seems scarcely\nbigger than a napkin. Is it no bearing in for the boat haven below?\"\n\n\"My poor old eyes,\" replied the widow, \"are growing dim, an' surely no\nwonder; but yet I think I should ken that boatman. Is it no Eachen\nMacinla o' Tarbet?\"\n\n\"Hard-hearted, cruel old man,\" exclaimed the maiden, \"what can be taking\nhim here? Look how his skiff shoots in like an arrow on the long roll o'\nthe surf!--an' now she is high on the beach. How unfeeling it was o' him\nto rob you o' your little property in the very first o' your grief! But,\nsee, he is so worn out that he can hardly walk over the rough stones.\nAh, me, he is down! wretched old man. I must run to his assistance--but\nno, he has risen again. See he is coming straight to the house; an' now\nhe is at the door.\" In a moment after, Eachen entered the cottage.\n\n\"I am perishing, Lillias,\" he said, \"with cold an' hunger, an' can gang\nnae farther; surely ye'll no shut your door on me in a night like this.\"\n\nThe poor widow had been taught in a far different school. She\nrelinquished to the worn-out fisherman her seat by the fire, now\nhurriedly heaped with fresh fuel, and hastened to set before him the\nsimple viands which her cottage afforded.\n\nAs the night darkened, the storm increased. The wind roared among the\nrocks like the rattling of a thousand carriages over a paved street; and\nthere were times when, after a sudden pause, the blast struck the\ncottage, as if it were a huge missile flung against it, and pressed on\nits roof and walls till the very floor rocked, and the rafters strained\nand shivered like the beams of a stranded vessel. There was a ceaseless\npatter of mingled rain and snow--now lower, now louder; and the fearful\nthunderings of the waves, as they raged among the pointed crags, was\nmingled with the hoarse roll of the storm along the beach. The old man\nsat beside the fire, fronting the widow and her companion, with his head\nreclined nearly as low as his knee, and his hands covering his face.\nThere was no attempt at conversation. He seemed to shudder every time\nthe blast yelled along the roof; and, as a fiercer gust burst open the\ndoor, there was a half-muttered ejaculation.\n\n\"Heaven itsel hae mercy on them! for what can man do in a night like\nthis?\"\n\n\"It is black as pitch,\" exclaimed Helen, who had risen to draw the bolt;\n\"an' the drift flies sae thick that it feels to the hand like a solid\nsnaw wreath. An', oh, how it lightens?\"\n\n\"Heaven itsel hae mercy on them!\" again ejaculated the old man. \"My two\nboys,\" said he, addressing the widow, \"are at the far Frith; an' how can\nan open boat live in a night like this?\"\n\nThere seemed something magical in the communication--something that\nawakened all the sympathies of the poor bereaved woman; and she felt she\ncould forgive him every unkindness.\n\n\"Wae's me!\" she exclaimed, \"it was in such a night as this, an' scarcely\nsae wild, that my Earnest perished.\" The old man groaned and wrung his\nhands.\n\nIn one of the pauses of the hurricane, there was a gun heard from the\nsea, and shortly after a second. \"Some puir vessel in distress,\" said\nthe widow; \"but, alas! where can succour come frae in sae terrible a\nnight? There is help only in Ane. Wae's me! would we no better light up\na blaze on the floor, an', dearest Helen, draw off the cover frae the\nwindow. My puir Earnest has told me that my light has aften shewed him\nhis bearing frae the deadly bed o' Dunskaith. That last gun\"--for a\nthird was now heard booming over the mingled roar of the sea and the\nwind--\"that last gun came frae the very rock edge. Wae's me, wae's me!\nmaun they perish, an' sae near!\" Helen hastily lighted a bundle of more\nfir, that threw up its red, sputtering blaze half-way to the roof, and,\ndropping the covering, continued to wave it opposite the window. Guns\nwere still heard at measured intervals, but apparently from a safer\noffing; and the last, as it sounded faintly against the wind, came\nevidently from the interior of the bay.\n\n\"She has escaped,\" said the old man; \"it's a feeble hand that canna do\ngood when the heart is willing--but what has mine been doing a' life\nlong?\" He looked at the widow and shuddered.\n\nTowards morning, the wind fell, and the moon, in her last quarter, rose\nred and glaring out of the Frith, lighting the melancholy roll of the\nwaves, that still came like mountains, and the broad white belt of surf\nthat skirted the shores. The old fisherman left the cottage, and\nsauntered along the beach. It was heaped with huge wreaths of kelp and\ntangle uprooted by the storm, and in the hollow of the rocky bay lay the\nscattered fragments of a boat. Eachen stooped to pick up a piece of the\nwreck, in the fearful expectation of finding some known mark by which to\nrecognise it, when the light fell full on the swollen face of a corpse\nthat seemed staring at him from out a wreath of weed. It was that of his\neldest son. The body of the younger, fearfully gashed and mangled by the\nrocks, lay a few yards farther to the east.\n\nThe morning was as pleasant as the night had been boisterous; and,\nexcept that the distant hills were covered with snow, and that a heavy\nswell still continued to roll in from the sea, there remained scarce any\ntrace of the recent tempest. Every hollow of the neighbouring hill had\nits little runnel, formed by the rains of the previous night, that now\nsplashed and glistened to the sun. The bushes round the cottage were\nwell nigh divested of their leaves; but their red berries--hips and\nhaws, and the juicy fruit of the honeysuckle--gleamed cheerfully to the\nlight; and a warm steam of vapour, like that of a May morning, rose from\nthe roof and the little mossy platform in front. But the scene seemed to\nhave something more than merely its beauty to recommend it to a young\nman, drawn apparently to the spot, with many others, by the fate of the\ntwo unfortunate fishermen, and who now stood gazing on the rocks, and\nthe hills, and the cottage, as a lover on the features of his mistress.\nThe bodies had been carried to an old storehouse, which may still be\nseen a short mile to the west, and the crowds that, during the early\npart of the morning, had been perambulating the beach, gazing at the\nwreck, and discussing the various probabilities of the accident, had\ngradually dispersed. But this solitary individual, whom no one knew,\nremained behind. He was a tall and swarthy, though very handsome man, of\nabout five-and-twenty, with a slight scar on his left cheek; his dress,\nwhich was plain and neat, was distinguished from that of the common\nseaman by three narrow stripes of gold lace on the upper part of one of\nthe sleeves. He had twice stepped towards the cottage door, and twice\ndrawn back, as if influenced by some unaccountable feeling--timidity,\nperhaps, or bashfulness; and yet the bearing of the man gave little\nindication of either. But, at length, as if he had gathered heart, he\nraised the latch and went in.\n\nThe widow, who had had many visitors that morning, seemed to be\nscarcely aware of his entrance; she was sitting on a low seat beside the\nfire, her face covered with her hands, while the tremulous rocking\nmotion of her body showed that she was still brooding over the\ndistresses of the previous night. Her companion, who had thrown herself\nacross the bed, was fast asleep. The stranger seated himself beside the\nfire, which seemed dying amid its ashes, and, turning sedulously from\nthe light of the window, laid his hand gently on the widow's shoulder.\nShe started, and looked up.\n\n\"I have strange news for you,\" he said. \"You have long mourned for your\nhusband and your son; but, though the old man has been dead for years,\nyour son, Earnest, is still alive, and is now in the harbour of\nCromarty. He is lieutenant of the vessel whose guns you must have heard\nduring the night.\"\n\nThe poor woman seemed to have lost all power of reply.\n\n\"I am a friend of Earnest's,\" continued the stranger; \"and have come to\nprepare you for meeting with him. It is now five years since his father\nand he were blown off to sea by a strong gale from the land. They drove\nbefore it for four days, when they were picked up by an armed vessel\nthen cruising in the North Sea, and which soon after sailed for the\ncoast of Spanish America. The poor old man sank under the fatigues he\nhad undergone; though Earnest, better able from his youth to endure\nhardship, was little affected by them. He accompanied us on our Spanish\nexpedition--indeed, he had no choice, for we touched at no British port\nafter meeting with him; and, through good fortune, and what his\ncompanions call merit, he has risen to be the second man aboard; and has\nnow brought home with him gold enough, from the Spaniards, to make his\nold mother comfortable. He saw your light yesterevening, and steered by\nit to the roadstead, blessing you all the way. Tell me, for he anxiously\nwished me to inquire of you, whether Helen Henry is yet unmarried.\"\n\n\"It is Earnest--it is Earnest himself!\" exclaimed the maiden, as she\nstarted from the widow's bed. In a moment after she was locked in his\narms. But why dwell on a scene which I feel myself unfitted to describe?\n\nIt was ill, before evening, with old Eachen Macinla. The fatigues of the\nprevious day, the grief and horror of the following night, had\nprostrated his energies, bodily and mental, and he now lay tossing, in a\nwaste apartment of the storehouse, in the delirium of a fever. The\nbodies of his two sons occupied the floor below. He muttered,\nunceasingly, in his ravings, of William and Earnest Beth. They were\nstanding beside him, he said, and every time he attempted to pray for\nhis poor boys and himself, the stern old man laid his cold swollen hand\non his lips.\n\n\"Why trouble me?\" he exclaimed. \"Why stare with your white dead eyes on\nme? Away, old man! the little black shells are sticking in your gray\nhairs; away to your place! Was it I who raised the wind on the sea?--was\nit I?--was it I? Uh, u!--no--no, you were asleep--you were fast asleep,\nand could not see me cut the swing; and, besides, it was only a piece of\nrope. Keep away--touch me not; I am a free man, and will plead for my\nlife. Please your honour, I did not murder these two men; I only cut the\nrope that fastened their boat to the land. Ha! ha! ha! he has ordered\nthem away, and they have both left me unskaithed.\" At this moment\nEarnest Beth entered the apartment, and approached the bed. The\nmiserable old man raised himself on his elbow, and, regarding him with a\nhorrid stare, shrieked out--\"Here is Earnest Beth come for me a second\ntime!\" and, sinking back on the pillow, instantly expired.\n\n\n\n\nTHE WHITSOME TRAGEDY.\n\n\nWhen our forefathers were compelled to give up the ancient practice of\ncrossing the Borders, and of seizing and driving home whatever cattle\nthey could lay their hands upon, without caring or inquiring who might\nbe their owner--in order to supply their necessities, both as regarded\nproviding themselves with cattle and with articles of wearing apparel,\nthey were forced to become buyers or sellers at the annual and other\nfairs on both sides of the Border. Hence they had, as we still have, the\nfairs of Stagshawbank, Whitsunbank, St. Ninian's, St. James's, and St.\nBoswell's; with the fairs of Wooler, Dunse, Chirnside, Swinton, and of\nmany other towns and villages. Of the latter, several fell into disuse;\nand that of Whitsome was discontinued. Whitsome, or White's home, is the\nname of a village and small agricultural parish in the Merse, which is\nbounded by the parishes of Swinton, Ladykirk, Edrom, and Hutton. Now, as\nhas been stated, Whitsome, in common with many other villages, enjoyed\nthe privilege of having held at it an annual fair. But, though the old\npractice of lifting cattle, and of every man taking what he could, had\nbeen suppressed, the laws were not able to extinguish the ancient Border\nspirit which produced such doings; and, at the annual fairs, it often\nbroke forth in riot, and terminated in blood. It was in consequence of\none of those scenes, and in order to suppress them, that the people of\nWhitsome were deprived of a fair being held there; the particulars\nwhereof, in the following story, will be unfolded.\n\nAbout the middle of the seventeenth century, there resided on the banks\nof the Till, and a few miles above its junction with the Tweed, a widow\nof the name of Barbara Moor. She had had seven sons; but they and her\nhusband had all fallen in the troubles of the period, and she was left\nbereaved, desolate, and without a comforter. Many said that affliction\nhad turned her brain; but even before she was acquainted with days of\nsorrow or with nights of lamentation, there was often a burning wildness\nin her words, and her manners were not as those of other women. There\nwas a tinge of extravagance, and a character of vehemence, in all her\nactions. Some of her neighbours sympathised with her, because of the\naffliction that rendered her hearth desolate; but the greater part\nbeheld her with reverential respect, or looked upon her with fear and\ntrembling, believing her to be leagued with the inhabitants of the\ninvisible world, and familiar with the moon and stars, reading in their\ncourses the destinies of nations and of individuals as in a book. The\ncharacter of a being who could read the decrees of fate, and even in\nsome instances control the purposes of men, was certainly that which she\nseemed most pleased to assume; and its wildness soothed her troubled\nthoughts, or directed them into other channels.\n\nIn her youth, and before her father had been compelled to bow his head\nto the authority of the wardens of the marches, she had resided in a\ncastellated building, of greater strength than magnitude, one of the\nminor strongholds on the Border, and which might have been termed towers\nfor the protection of stolen cattle. But, when the two nations came\nbeneath the sovereignty of one monarch, and the spear of war was\ntransformed into a pruning-hook, there went forth a decree that the\nstrongholds, great and small, along the Borders should be destroyed; and\namongst those that were rendered defenceless and uninhabitable was the\nturret which, for many generations, had been occupied by the ancestors\nof Barbara Moor. During the life-time of her husband, she had resided in\na comfortable-looking farm-house, the appearance of which indicated that\nits inhabitants were of a more peaceful character than were those who, a\nfew years before, had occupied the prison-like houses of strength. She\nnow resided in a small mud-built and turf-covered hovel, which in winter\nafforded but a sorry shelter from the \"pelting of the pitiless storm.\"\n\nBut Barbara was used to bear the scorching sun of summer and the cold\nand storms of winter. She walked in the midst of the tempest, and bowed\nnot her head; and she held converse with the wild lightning and the\nfierce hail, speaking of them as the ministers of her will. For nearly\nnine months every year she was absent from her clay-built hovel, and\nnone knew whither she wandered.\n\nIt is necessary, however, for the development of our story, that we\nhere make further mention of her husband and her sons. The elder Moor\nhad been a daring freebooter in his youth; and often in the morning, and\neven at dead of night, the \"fray of support,\" the cry for help, and the\nsudden summons for neighbours and kinsmen to rise and ride, were raised\nwheresoever he trode; and the sleuth-hounds were let loose upon his\ntrack. It was his boast that he dared to ride farther to humble an enemy\nthan any other reiver on either side of the Border. If he saw, or if he\nheard, of a herd of cattle or a flock of sheep to his liking, he\nimmediately \"marked it for his own,\" and seldom failed in securing it;\nand though the property so obtained was not purchased with money, it was\noften procured with a part of his own blood--and with the blood, and not\nunfrequently the lives, of his friends, followers, and relatives. And\nwhen law and justice became stronger than the reiver's right, they by no\nmeans tamed his spirit. Though necessity, then, compelled him to be a\nbuyer and seller of cattle, he looked upon the occupation and the\nnecessity as a disgrace, and he sighed for the honoured and happier days\nof his youth, when the freebooter's might was the freebooter's right.\nHis sons were young men deeply imbued with his spirit; and it was their\nchiefest pleasure, during the long winter evenings, to sit and listen to\nhim, while he recorded the exploits and the hairbreadth escapes of his\nearly days. He frequently related to them strange adventures and\ncontests which he had in his youth with one Walter Cunningham, who\nresided near Simprin, in Berwickshire, and who was not only regarded as\na wealthy man, but as one of the boldest on the Borders. He had often\nboasted of the number of his herds, and defied the stoutest heart in\nNorthumberland to lay hand upon their horns. The elder Moor had heard\nthis defiance, and being resolved to prove that he had both a hand and a\nheart to put the defiance to the test, the following is one of the\nadventures which he related to his sons in connection therewith:--\n\n\"It was about the Martinmas,\" he said, \"when the leaves were becoming\nfew and blighted on the trees; I was courting your mother at the time,\nand her faither had consented to our marriage; but, at the same time, he\nhalf cast up to me, that I had but an ill-plenished house to take home a\nwife to--that I had neither meal in the press, kye in the byre, nor oxen\nin the court-yard. His own mailing was but poorly provided at the time;\nand had he looked at hame, he hardly would have ventured to throw a\nreflection at me.\n\n\"'Weel, sir, said I to him, 'I dinna deny but what you say is true; but\nI have supple heels, a ready hand, a good sword, and a stout heart, and\nI ken a canny byre where there are threescore o' sleak beasties, weel\nworth the harrying.'\n\n\"'Now ye speak like a lad of sense and mettle,' said the old man; 'and\non the first night that ye bring them hame, the plumpest and the fattest\no' them shall be slaughtered for the marriage-feast of you and Barbara.'\n\n\"Then up spoke your mother's brother, and a winsome young man he was as\nye would have found between Tweed and Tyne; and 'Jonathan,' says he to\nme, 'when ye gang to drive hame the herd, I shall go wi' thee, for the\nsake of a bout with the bold, bragging Cunningham, of Simprin--for I\nwill lay thee my sword 'gainst a tailor's bodkin, it is him ye mean.'\n\n\"'It is him, Duncan,' said I--for your uncle's name was Duncan--'though\nweel do I ken that he keeps them strongly guarded, and blood will flow,\nand weapons be broken, before we get them into our possession. But gie\nme your hand, my lad--we two shall be a match for him and a' his\nbacking. What ye take shall be your own, and what I take, your sister's;\nand your faither shanna cast up my toom bink and my ill-stocked\nmailing.'\n\n\"'Weel spoken, bairns!' cried your grandfaither, who had been a first\nhand at such ploys in his young days; 'weel spoken! I'm glad to see that\nthe spirits of the young generation arena gaun backward; though, since\nKing Jamie gaed to be King in London, as weel as at Edinburgh, our laws\nare only fit for a few women, and everything is done that can be done to\nbanish manhood, and make it a crime.'\n\n\"'Go upon no such an errand,' said your mother to both of us; 'for there\nis blood upon baith your brows, and there is death in your path.'\n\n\"'Havers, lassie!' cried her faither angrily; 'are ye at your randering\nagain?--what blood do ye see on their brows mair than I do, or what\ndeath can ye perceive in their path? All your mother's Highland kinsfolk\nwere never able to throw their second-sighted glamour into my een, and\nmy own bairn shanna.\n\n\"'Call it randers, or what ye will,' answered she; 'but I see it plain\nas I see the grey hairs upon your head, that death and lamentation are\ngathering round my father's hearth, and are hovering and screaming owre\nit, like vultures round a desolate place.'\n\n\"Her words made my flesh to creep upon my bones; for, both before that,\nand a hundred times since, I have heard her say dark and strange things,\nwhich sooner or later have owre truly come to pass. However, the foray\nacross to Simprin was delayed till after our marriage; and your mother\nalmost persuaded me to give up all thoughts of it, and instead of my\nformer habits of life, to cultivate the bit ground which my forefaithers\nhad held for two hundred years, for the consideration of an armed man's\nservice. But her brother taunted me, and said I was no better than\nSamson lying wi' his head on the lap of Dalilah, and that I had not only\ngiven his sister my heart to keep, but my courage also. A taunt was a\nthing that I never could endure, and that I never would put up wi' from\nany man that ever was born--and I hope none of ye ever will, or, as I am\nyour faither! ye should be no longer my sons!\n\n\"'Weel, this night be it,' said I to your uncle, 'The Tweed will be\nfordable at Norham--I will have my shelty and weapons ready precisely at\neleven, and get two friends to accompany us that I can trust. Do ye the\nlike, and we shall see whose courage will stand firmest before morning.'\n\n\"We gave each other our hands upon it, and said it was a bargain, and\nimmediately set about making preparations for the excursion. Before the\nappointed hour, he rode up to my door, accompanied by two of his\nfaither's servants; and I with my two friends were in readiness waiting\nfor him. Your mother was very bitter against our purpose, and her words\nand her warnings made my very heart to shake within my breast. Her eyes\nflashed, as if they had been balls of fire, and her very bosom heaved up\nand down wi' agitation.\n\n\"'Husband!--brother!' she cried, 'listen to me, and give up the mad\nerrand on which ye are bent; for the bloodhound is snuffing the air and\ngnashing its teeth, and the hooded crow clapping its wings for a feast,\nand the owl has looked east, west, north, and south, from the auld\nturret--it has screamed wi' joy, and its eyes are fixed on Simprin! Be\nwise--be warned--or the moon will set and the sun rise upon unburied\nbones. Cunningham of Simprin is strong and powerful; he is strong wi'\nmen, he is strong wi' money; and his herds and his hirsels are strongly\nguarded. Again I say to ye, be wise--be warned--desist!--or auld men\nwill tear their grey hairs, and wives mourn; and those only that live by\nthe gibbet, rejoice wi' the bloodhound and bird of prey!'\n\n\"Her words made us both uncomfortable; but we had often been engaged in\nsuch exploits before the expedition was determined on; and we couldna,\nin the presence of the four men that we had engaged to accompany us,\nabandon it. They were fearless and experienced hands at the trade; but\nthe new laws on the Borders had reduced them to great privations, and\ntheir teeth were watering for the flesh-pots of bygone days, no matter\nat what risk they were to be obtained.\n\n\"It was a delightful moonlight night--almost as bright as day; the\nmoon's brightness put out the stars, and not aboon a dozen were visible,\nthough there wasna half that number of clouds in the whole heavens, and\nthey were just like white sheets, that spirits might be sleeping on in\nthe air! We proceeded by way of Twisel to Norham, where we crossed the\nTweed to Ladykirk; and as at midnight we passed by the auld kirkyard, I\nbelieve I actually put my hands to my ears, lest I should hear the\nhowlets flapping their wings and screaming in the belfry, and turned my\nface away from it in a sort of apprehension of seeing a spirit, or\nsomething waur, upon every grave; for your mother's prophecies were\nuppermost in my mind, in spite of all that I could say or strive to\nthink. And I believe that your uncle's mind was troubled wi' the same\nsort of fears or fancies; for we were both silent the greater part of\nthe road, and spoke very little to each other.\n\n\"However, just about one o'clock, and when the moon was beginning to\nedge down upon the Lammermuirs, we arrived at an enclosure, in which\nCunningham had sixty head of cattle penned. The six of us had but little\ndifficulty in breaking down the gate that opened to the enclosure; and\njust as we were beginning to drive out the cattle, a man started up on a\nsort of tower place that was built upon the wall that surrounded them,\nand hurled a kind of instrument round his head, that made a noise like a\nthousand corn-craiks crying together in concert, and trying which would\ncraik loudest and fastest. At the unearthly sound, the cattle also\ncommenced a louting that might easily have been heard at two or three\nmiles off.\n\n\"It at once struck me, as the best and wisest step for us to take, that\nwe should put spurs into our horses, and gallop back to Tweedside; for I\nkenned it would be impossible for us to secure a single cow, surrounded,\nas we were sure to be in a few minutes, by sixty or a hundred men; and\nthough I was no coward, I was aware that there could be but little\nbravery in six men attempting to give battle to sixty. But, before I had\ntime to come to a determination, or even to speak, I saw your uncle's\npistol flash; and even, I may say, before I heard the report, I\nperceived the man tumble down headlong from the turret on the wall,\namong the horns of the cattle.\n\n\"'Ye have done wrong in shooting the lad,' said I; 'ye have raised the\nwhole country side; and presently Cunningham and all his host will be at\nour heels.'\n\n\"'No fear,' said he; 'there is small danger of that--a dead tongue tells\nno tales. And Cunningham and his host, as you term them, may be at our\nface, but never shall they be at our heels, unless it be marching or\nfighting against a common enemy.'\n\n\"We began, therefore, to drive out the cattle; but scarce had we driven\nthem from the enclosure, and turned their heads towards the Tweed, when\nwe heard the baying of Cunningham's blood-hounds, and the shouts of his\npeople.\n\n\"The sounds of their horses' feet became audible, and every moment they\ngained ground upon us. It was apparent that, if we persisted in keeping\npossession of the cattle, and attempting to drive them before us, within\ntwo minutes, and we would be within swords' length of each other.\n\n\"'Brother,' said I to your uncle, as I turned and perceived that the\nnumber of our pursuers could not be under thirty, and was conscious that\nthat number would soon be doubled--'Brother,' said I, 'let us spur on\nour horses, and leave the cattle to cover our retreat. It is no disgrace\nfor six men to flee before sixty.'\n\n\"'Be it so,' he said; but it was too late. The cattle, scared by the\nshouting of our pursuers, the howling of their blood-hounds, and the\nflashing of their torches (for they had lighted fir branches to pursue\nus, as the moon was setting), tossed their horns in the air, and ran\nwildly to and fro; so that the horses, in their turn, were scared to\npass through them, and we were so hemmed in between thick woods, that\nthere was no riding round them.\n\n\"The followers of Cunningham surrounded us with a wild shout, and a cry\nfor revenge. But we drew close together--we formed ourselves into a\nlittle circle--and waiting the attack of our antagonists, we contended\nwith them hand to hand. Ten of them lay writhing on the earth, or had\nretired, wounded, from the contest; while our little band remained\nunwounded, unbroken. For more than a quarter of an hour, we maintained\nthe unequal fight. But victory, on our side, was impossible, and escape\nall but hopeless. Your uncle was the first of our number that fell. The\nsword of an enemy had pierced his bosom, and I heard him shout to me, in\na voice rendered dismal with agony, never to yield!--to fight to the\nlast! as he lay bleeding on the ground.\n\n\"I was then contending, hand to hand, with Cunningham. In our rage, we\nhad closed by the side of each other, and each grasped the other by the\nthroat. He shortened his sword, and, with a triumphant laugh, was\nlunging it at my side, when, with a sudden and violent effort, I hurled\nhim from the saddle. As he rose, he thrust his sword into the breast of\nthe horse on which I rode, which reared, sprang forward, and fell, and I\nwas thrown upon the ground, in the midst of enemies.\n\n\"Two of the four who accompanied us were also wounded, and disabled\nfrom continuing the fight; and the other two, upon seeing your uncle and\nmyself upon the ground, surrendered. In my fall, my hand quitted not my\nsword. I sprang to my feet, and smote around me to the right and to the\nleft, with the fury of a wild beast. My object was to cut my way through\nmy adversaries to the woods. I at length succeeded; but not until I had\nbeen thrice wounded. I rushed forward among the trees, until the sound\nof my pursuers died away; but the moon had gone down, and I knew not in\nwhat direction I ran, but pressed onward and onward, until exhausted,\nthrough loss of blood, I fell upon the ground. A sleep that was nae\nsleep came owre me, and a dream that was nae dream stealed owre my\nsenses; while the blood continued oozing from my wounds, and my soul was\ncreeping away. Something was growing owre my faculties, just like the\nopening of a starry night, as the gloaming dies away, and star after\nstar peeps out. I at first felt happy; just steeped, as it were, in a\nsensation of pleasantness; and there were sounds like sweet music in my\nears. But the feeling of happiness was changed, I kenned not how, for\none of pain--the feeling of pleasantness for one of horror--and the\nsweet sounds into dismal howls. I started up--I grasped my sword firmer\nin my hand; but the howls departed not wi' the disturbed sleep from\nwhich I had been startled; but they broke upon my ear, louder and\nnearer--the howls of the savage sleuth-hound, that had been sent to\ntrack me. I heard the horrid beast snuff the air, and break into short,\nhurried, and savage howls of delight, within a few yards of me. I had\nnot strength to fly; and if I had had strength, flight would have been\nimpossible. My pursuers seemed to have lost trace of the animal; for I\ncould neither hear their footsteps nor the sound of their voices. I made\nno attempt at flight, but stood waiting its approach, with my sword\nuplifted to smite it. Loss of blood had brought a dimness over my eyes,\nwhich, added to the darkness of the wood, made me that I had rather to\ngrope and listen for the animal, than perceive it, as it might attempt\nto spring upon me. I would rather have met ten enemies than, in\ndarkness, and in my then fainting state, have waited the attack of that\nsavage beast. It sprang upon me--I struck towards it with my sword, and\nwounded it; but the weapon came in contact with the tangled branches of\nthe underwood, and the force of the blow was broken. In another moment\nand I felt the paws of the monster upon my breast. I grasped it by the\nthroat, and we fell upon the ground together--my enemy uppermost. Its\nteeth were in my shoulder. After several vain attempts, I drove my sword\nthrough its body. The howls of the fierce beast were terrible. It\nwithdrew its teeth from my shoulder, and struggled to escape; but I\nstill held it by the throat--with the grip of death I held it--and\nstill, still strove to pierce it again and again. I held it till it was\nstiff, cold, and dead!\n\n\"Wounded, faint, and weary as I was, I ventured from the woods before\nmorning broke, and crossed the Tweed at Kersfield. The sun rose at the\nvery moment that I turned the corner of the hill which conceals our\nhouse from the public road, and revealed to me your mother, sitting on\nthe blue stone at the door, as cold and frozen-like to appearance as if\nshe had sat there the livelong night (as I afterwards understood she\nhad.) Her hands were clasped together, her eyes were raised upward, and\nher lips were moving, as if she were repeating a prayer, or muttering a\ncharm. When she saw me approaching the door, she rose from the stone,\nand, striking her hand upon her brow, cried--'Jonathan Moor! ye cruel\nman! ye disregarder of the warnings of her whose life is as the shadow\nof your life! said I not that the hound was howling, and the raven was\nflapping its wings for a feast?--yet ye would not listen to my voice!\nAnd my brother!--where is my brother?--the son of my mother--more\nheadstrong and foolish than yoursel'! Ye daurna answer, and ye needna\nanswer. He is dead! The horse of Cunningham have trampled on his body,\nand he lies unburied.'\n\n\"I didna ken how to find words to speak to her, and, indeed, I was\nhardly able to speak; for the pain and stiffness of my wounds were\nterrible to endure, and there was a sickness about my heart that made me\nthat I could have been willing to have lain down and died; and even\nwelcomed death, as a weary man would welcome sleep.\n\n\"I was almost recovered from my wounds before we were exactly certain\nas to your uncle's fate; and that was when three out of the four that\nhad accompanied us were permitted by Cunningham to return home, the\nother having died of his wounds a few days after the unlucky foray. From\ntheir account, it appeared that the person shot by your uncle, while\nwatching the cattle against the inroads of an enemy, was none other than\nthe only brother of Cunningham. He was not aware of his brother's death\nuntil after the affray, when he was found lying in the enclosure, into\nwhich the cattle were again driven. He was offering a free pardon to all\nhis prisoners, save him by whose hand his brother fell, upon condition\nthat they would betray him, when your uncle, starting up from the\nuncouth litter of branches, rudely torn from the trees, and upon which\nhe was carried, cried out--'I did it!--my hand brought him down from his\nwatch-box, like a crow from its roost!'\n\n\"'To the turret wi' him!' exclaimed Cunningham wildly; 'and fling him\nfrom its pinnacle to the yard below.'\n\n\"The fierce command was fiercely and willingly obeyed. Your uncle was\nborne to the top of the tower over the wall, and hurled headlong to the\nground; and he lay there, with the cattle trampling upon him, and the\ndogs licking his sores, until he was dead.\n\n\"Your mother heard the tidings in silence; but, from that day until\nthis, she has never been as she used to be. Her anger is awful in a\nwoman; and she vows and says the day will come when she will have\nrevenge upon the name of Cunningham. She has spoken little of her gift\nof second-sight since ye were born; but she is often subject to long and\ngloomy fits of silent melancholy, as ye have all been witnesses; and I\nattribute it all to our foray to Simprin. But\" (the old man would add in\nconclusion), \"would that the good old times were come back again, when I\ncould meet Cunningham in the field; and he should find the hand that\nunhorsed him five and twenty years syne has lost but little of its\nstrength.\"\n\nNow, the eldest sons of Jonathan and Barbara Moor were twins, and the\nyoungest were also twins, and they had no daughters living. The two\neldest were seven and twenty, and the two youngest seventeen, when the\ncivil war between the King and the Parliament took place. Walter\nCunningham and three sons, with several of his dependants, joined the\nroyal army, and he had but another son, who was then but an infant of a\nfew months old, and whose mother had died ere his infant lips drew from\nher breast the nourishment of life. That infant he regarded as the\nBenjamin of his age, and loved him with a double love for his mother's\nsake. But, deeming that his duty to his King called him to arms, he,\nwith his three eldest sons and followers, took the field, leaving the\ninfant in the charge of a tried nurse.\n\nNow, when Jonathan Moor heard that his old enemy had joined the King's\nstandard, although he was too much of an ancient Borderer to care aught\nfor either one party or another, or for any cause save his own hand;\nyet, to know that Cunningham had joined the King's party, was enough to\ninduce him to join the army of the Parliament. He knew nothing about the\nquarrel--and he cared nothing; neither did he understand anything of the\nreligious disputes of the period; for, generally speaking, religion upon\nthe Borders in those days was at a very low ebb. In Berwick, and other\nplaces, John Knox, the dauntless apostle of the north, with others of\nhis followers, had laboured some years before; but their success was not\ngreat; the Borderers could not be made to understand why they should not\n\"take who had the power,\" even though kings and wardens issued laws, and\nclergymen denounced judgments against the practice. It was of no use to\ntell them \"Thou shalt not steal;\" the difficulty was to convince them\nwhat was theft. It was, therefore, merely because his former adversary\nand his sons were in the King's army, that Jonathan Moor, with his sons,\njoined the army of the Parliament.\n\nBarbara protested bitterly against the departure of her husband and her\nsons to take part in the wars. \"Wherefore, Jonathan,\" she cried,\n\"wherefore will ye sacrifice yourself, and why will ye gie up my winsome\nsons to the jaws of death? Is there not enough provided for the eagles'\nand the ravens' banquet, without their bonny blue een to peck at? Bide\nat hame, and, with my bairns, plough up the green fields, that the earth\nmay provide us with food, as a fond mother, from its bosom. But go ye to\nthe wars, and your destiny is written--your doom is sealed. The\nblackness of lonely midnight hangs owre me as my widow's hood, and, like\nRachel, I shall be left to weep for my children, for they will not be!\nTurn again, my husband, and my sons lay down your weapons of war.\nHearken unto my voice, and remember that ye never knew one of my words\nfall to the ground. If ye go now, ye rush upon the swords that are\nsharpened for your destruction, and ye hasten to fatten the raven and\nthe worm; for the winds shall sing your dirge, as your bonny yellow hair\nwaves to the blast, and the gloaming and the night fling a shroud owre\nyour uncoffined limbs. Ye go, but ye winna return. Ye will see the sun\nrise, but not set--and these are hard words for a mother to say.\"\n\nBut her husband and her sons were men of war. They loved its tumult and\nits strife, as a hound loveth the sound that calls it to the chase, or a\nwar-horse the echoes of the bugle; and, though they at times trembled at\nher wild words, they regarded them not. Taking their route by way of\nColdstream, Greenlaw, and Soutra Hill, in order to avoid the army of\nGeneral Leslie, which then occupied the eastern part of Lammermuir, they\ndescended towards Dunbar, where they enrolled themselves as volunteers\nin the army of Cromwell. A few days after their arrival, they joined a\nskirmishing party, and, in a wild glen, near to Spot, they encountered a\nsimilar company that had been sent out by General Leslie. In the latter\nparty, were Walter Cunningham and his three sons, and he, indeed, was\ntheir commander.\n\nIt was with a look of ruthless delight that Jonathan Moor descried his\nold enemy at the head of the opposite party; and he said unto his\nsons--\"Yonder is the murderer of your uncle--Cunningham of Simprin, with\nhis three young birkies brawly mounted, and riding sprucely at his back.\nBut, before night, the braw plumes in their beavers shall be trampled on\nthe earth, and the horse will be lame that carries one of them back.\nStick ye by my side, and ride ye where I ride; for it will be music to\nyour mother's soul to ken that her brother's death is avenged, and by\nthe hands of her own flesh and blood.\"\n\nThe two parties rode forward and met each other. The Cunninghams and the\nMoors were face to face. The two fathers sat as if fixed upon their\nsaddles for a few seconds, eyeing each other with looks of deadly hatred\nand ferocity, and recalling the days and the strife of other years.\n\nThough neither party mustered fifty, the onset was fierce and\nfurious--the struggle long and desperate; and, on each side, more than\nhalf their original number lay dead or wounded on the ground. Amongst\nthe former were the seven sons of Jonathan Moor, and the three sons of\nWalter Cunningham. The old men maintained a desperate combat with each\nother, apart from the rest, until breathless and exhausted, both for a\nfew minutes paused, each holding the point of his sword towards the\nother's breast; and they now looked once more in each other's face, and\nagain upon the ground, where they beheld the dead bodies of their sons.\nGrief seemed to seek expression in redoubled rage--again their swords\nclashed against each other, and gleamed in the sunbeams, rapid as the\nfitful lightning. After a long and sore contention, in which both had\ngiven and received wounds, they fell upon the ground together; but Moor\nreceived his death-wound on the ground, and he fell to rise no more.\n\n\"I die!\" he gasped, still grasping his antagonist by the breast--\"I die,\nCunningham--with my children, whom I have led to death, I die! But,\nremember, there is one left to avenge our deaths, and she will avenge\nthem seven-fold!\"\n\nThus saying, his head fell back upon the ground, and he spoke not again.\nCunningham, disengaging himself from the dead man's grasp, went towards\nthe bodies of his children, and throwing himself upon the earth by their\nside, he kissed their lifeless eyeballs, and mourned over them. His\ngrief was too intense, and his wounds too severe, to permit him\ncontinuing with the army, and he returned to his estate near Simprin, to\nwatch over and protect his infant and only surviving son.\n\nWhen the tidings were brought to Barbara Moor, that she, in one day, had\nbeen bereaved of her husband and seven sons, and that the former had\nfallen by the hand of Cunningham, the destroyer of her brother, she sat\nand listened to the bearer of the evil tidings as one deprived of the\npower of speech and motion. Her cheeks, her eyes, manifested no change;\nbut she sat calm, fixed, and entranced in the apathy of death. Her hands\nremained folded upon her bosom, and her head moved not. The messenger\nstood wondering and horror-struck, and twice he repeated his melancholy\ntale; but the listener took no outward note either of his words or his\npresence, and he departed, marvelling at the silent sorrow of the widow.\n\n\"I knew it, man,\" she exclaimed, starting from her death-like trance\nafter the messenger had departed--\"I knew they would not return to me. I\ntold them, but they believed me not--they would not hearken to my words.\nMiserable, deserted being that I am! wherefore should I live to mourn\nwith the winter winds, or make a companion of the fearsome echoes that\nhowl in the dark glens? Has not my husband, and have not my seven\nwinsome sons, than whom there were not in Northumberland seven comelier\nlads--not to say brothers--oh, have not they, in one day, been snatched\naway, and swallowed up from me, as a jewel that is flung into the deep\nsea! But I will live to be avenged of their deaths, and my brother's\ndeath; and their destroyer shall not dandle a bairn upon his knee, or\nkiss its cheek, while mine are _all, all_ dead, and in a strange grave,\nand even wi' no one near to pull up the noxious nettle that may be\nwaving ower their once bonny and snow-white bosoms!\"\n\nThus raved the wretched and childless mother; and from that day she was\nas one who had no fixed abode or resting-place; but, throughout the\ngreater part of the year, wandered to and fro, no one could tell\nwhither; and when she was found near the scenes of happier years, it was\nas a lonely dweller in the clay-built hovel of which mention has been\nmade. She was a woman of a strong, perhaps it might be said a strange\nmind; but her imagination was stronger--it was fevered, and early\ntinctured with gloomy superstitions, until they became like a portion of\nher creed and her existence; and her afflictions tended to increase its\nmorbidness.\n\nThe life of Walter Cunningham now became wrapt up in that of his only\nson--the child was ever before his eyes, and he watched over his growth\nas over a tender plant. His sole \"care was to increase his store,\" and\nlay up treasure for the child of his age, the youngest and the only\nsurvivor of his flock. The number of his flocks and of his herds\nincreased greatly, and he was in the habit of attending the fairs upon\nthe Borders, to dispose of them. It was Whitsome fair; and he sent there\nmany of his cattle and his sheep for sale. He also attended it, and he\ntook with him his son, who was then a boy of from three to four years of\nage.\n\nIt was drawing towards evening, and Mr. Cunningham, in concluding a\nbargain with a person who had bought a number of his cattle, was\nseparated from his child. He had not been absent from the spot where he\nhad left him for ten minutes; but the child had disappeared; and search\nwas made for him throughout the fair, but he was nowhere to be found,\nneither could any one give tidings of him. The anxious father sought his\nlost child from booth to booth; and, with his friends, he also searched\nthe adjoining woods. He called his son by name, till, from far amidst\nthe trees, it was echoed back; but that cheerless echo, or the scream of\na startled bird, was the only reply. The disappearance of the child was\na mystery which no one could unriddle. His father, during the few\nminutes that he was to be absent, had left him in charge of a servant,\nwho confessed having entered a drinking booth, and as the liquor went\nround, he perceived not that the child had left his side. For many days\nhis father sought him sorrowing; but all search proved vain.\n\nMr. Cunningham returned to his house, a heart-broken and miserable man.\nThe last, the only being that he loved on earth, had disappeared from\nhis fond gaze, even as a beautiful vapour of strange shapes and gorgeous\ncolours, which we gaze upon in the heavens, and turning from it but for\na moment, we look for it again--but it is not. He refused to listen to\nwords of consolation, or even of hope; and for several years he left not\nhis house, but sat in loneliness, making a companion of his sorrow.\n\nNow, it was on a dark and dismal winter night, seven years after the\ndisappearance of his son, when the hail rattled fiercely against the\nnarrow casements of his habitation, and the wind howled wildly over the\nearth, tearing the branches from the naked trees, and causing the cattle\nto crowd together for shelter--that a wild voice was heard singing a\nwilder dirge, as if to the measure and music of the storm. The sound\ncame from an open shed adjoining the house, where the cattle had been\nplaced for shelter.\n\nThe servants informed their master that a strange woman, whose wits\nseemed disordered, had crept into the shed, where, before morning, from\nthe fury of the storm, she would doubtless perish. They took a light,\nand he accompanied them to the shed.\n\nBefore them a wretched being sat upon the straw, and the hail dashed\nbitterly against her unshrinking, but time-worn and storm-beaten\nfeatures. Her grey hairs waved loose and wildly in the wind. Her hands\nwere clasped together upon her breast; and, as she sat, she sang the\nwild and melancholy dirge that has been mentioned. The burden of the\nstrain was \"Childless!--childless!--childless!\" And again it waxed\nlouder, and a prayer for vengeance was wildly sung. She sat and\ncontinued her dirge, regardless of their presence, and appeared as\nthough she saw them not. The tears gathered in the eyes of Mr.\nCunningham, as he listened to her dark words, and his limbs shook with a\ntrembling motion.\n\n\"Take her into the house,\" said he, \"and give her food and shelter for\nthe night. If my poor boy yet live, he may be now perishing, with none\nto shelter him.\"\n\nAt his mention of his lost son, her wild strain suddenly ceased. She\nstarted to her feet; and, as she fixed upon him her haggard features,\nwhile her grey hairs and the many-coloured rags that covered her waved\nin the stormy wind, she seemed as though she were not an inhabitant of\nthe earth, but rather the demon of the storm.\n\n\"Ha! ha! ha!\" she cried, with a hideous laugh, that made the beholders\nand the hearers shudder; \"shelter from you!--the murderer of my\nbrother!--of my husband!--of my children!--of my seven fair sons!--you\nthat have made me childless! Back to thy dwelling, dog; and, if it will\nadd another drop of torturing anxiety to your soul, to know that your\nson lives, and that you shall see him, but never know him--learn that he\ndoes live! He lives!\"\n\n\"Where, woman?--where?\" exclaimed the wretched father.\n\nShe hastily dashed a sort of lantern from the hand of the servant who\nheld it, and, rushing from the shed towards the open fields, again\nlaughed more dismally than before, and cried, \"Where? She whom you have\nmade childless, leaves that _where_ to torture you for ever!\"\n\nThe wretched father rushed after her; but, in the darkness, the noise,\nand tempest of the night, it was impossible to trace in what direction\nshe had fled. As every reader must be already aware, the strange and\nfearful-looking woman was Barbara Moor, the widowed and childless\nmother. The words which she had spoken, regarding his son being yet\nalive, increased the anxious misery of Walter Cunningham. It caused his\nwounds, the anguish of which time had in some degree abated, to bleed\nafresh. At one time he doubted, and at another he believed, the words\nwhich the seeming maniac had uttered; and he made journeys to many\nplaces, in the hope of again meeting her, and of extorting from her a\nconfession where he should find his son, or of obtaining some\ninformation that might throw light upon his fate. But his journeys then\nwere as fruitless as his former inquiries.\n\nWe must here introduce another character to our readers, in the person\nof Sandy Reed. At the period at which we introduce him, he was a\nwidower, between forty and fifty years of age, with an only daughter,\nnamed Anne, a child of five years old; and his house was kept by a\nmaiden aunt, who was on the aged side of sixty. Sandy was a farmer near\nthe Reed water, in Northumberland, and as fine a specimen of the ancient\nNorthumbrian farmer as could be met with--a distinct race, a few samples\nof whom were here and there to be found within the last thirty\nyears--free, careless, hospitable, happy, boisterous, unlettered, and\nhalf-civilized. Sandy was one of these in their primitive state. He was\nin truth--\n\n    \"A fine old English farmer,\n    One of the olden time.\"\n\nHe was as hardy as the hills on which his sheep fed. He was ready at all\ntimes either to shake hands or to break a head--to give or to take. No\none ever entered his house and went out hungry. He had a bed, a bite,\nand a bottle for every one; and he was wont to say that he would rather\ntreat a beggar than lose good company. He was no respecter of rank, nor\ndid he understand much concerning it. He judged of the respect due to\nevery one by what he called the \"rule of good fellows.\" Burns makes the\nwife of Tam o' Shanter say--\n\n    \"Ilka horse ye ca'ed a shoe on,\n    The smith and you gat roarin' fu' on.\"\n\nBut Tam had been but the degenerated shadow of Sandy Reed; for every\ntime he had to pay a visit to the smith with his nag, they would have\n\n    \"Been fu' for weeks thegither!\"\n\nWhen he had business at Morpeth market, his journey home never occupied\nless than a fortnight, though the distance was not quite thirty miles;\nfor the worthy farmer had to stop three or four days at every hostelry\nby the way, for the sake of company, as he affirmed, and the good of the\nroad; but he cared not much for going half-a-dozen miles out of his way\nto add another house of entertainment to the number; and it mattered not\nto him whether the company he met with were Roundheads or Cavaliers,\nprovided they could show the heel-taps of their bottle, and in the\nintervals of bringing in a new one, wrestle, run, leap, or put, or\nquarrel in a friendly way, if they preferred it.\n\nBut we shall record a portion of Sandy's adventures, so far as they are\nconnected with our story, in his own words. The following was one of his\nfavourite anecdotes of himself:--\n\n\"It was about three years after my wife's death, poor body,\" (he began)\n\"that I had been owre at Morpeth market, wi' four score o' ewes and six\nscore o' hogs. I was at least comfortable when I left Morpeth, but\nnoughts aboon comfortable; for I had only had twenty queghs[1] o'\nEnglish gin (which, thou must understand, in our part o' the country,\nmeans Cheviot-made whisky), and seven o' them were public-house ones,\nwhich wouldna count aboon three or four guid ones--so thou seest that I\nhad had noughts in the world to make me onything but sober. Hoos'ever, I\njust thought to mysel', thinks I--drat! I'll away round by Elsdon, and\nsee what a' my cronies there are about. So, 'To the right, Dobbin, my\ncanny fellow,' said I to my nag--and it was as wise an animal as ever\nman had to speak to; it knawed every word I said, and understud me\nwhether I was drunk or sober, mony a time, when ne'er a one else could\nmake out what I said. But the poor beast had had sae meikle experience\nwi' me, that it knawed what I meant by a wink as weel as a nod. So I\nsaid to it--'To the right, Dobbin, my canny fellow; thou shalt be\nfoddered at awd Betty Bell's t'night, and if a' be as it shud be, thou\nshalt hae a rest t'morrow tee, into the bargain.' So Dobbin took away\nacross the moor to Elsdon, just as natural as a Christian could hae\ndone. Weel, when I reached Elsdon, and went into Betty Bell's, there\nwere five o' my cronies sitting. They were a' trumps, and they gied me\nthree cheers when I went in, for they knawed that I was out and out a\ngud 'un.\n\n\"'Ha! Sandy!' said they, 'thou'rt welcome, my canny lad--we just wanted\nyou to make the half dozen. Hast thou been at Morpeth?'\n\n\"'Yea,' said I, 'and hae just come round by Elsdon to hae a boot wi'\nthee.'\n\n\"'So be it,' said they; and we sat down in gud earnest, and three\nglorious days we had, and would have had mair, but that we drank Betty\nBell's cupboards dry. The stars were just beginning to wink out as I got\nmy feet in the stirrups, and to confess the truth, I was winking far\nworse than the stars. However, Dobbin took across the moors, and I was\nin the high road for my home. How it was I dinna knaw; but I rather\nthink that I had fallen asleep, and that something or other had scared\nthe nag, and I had slipped out o' the saddle. I mind o' lying very cauld\nand uncomfortable, half-dreaming, half-waking, and I daresay, more than\nthree parts the worse o' drink. I mind, tee, o' calling to my aunt as I\nthought, 'Auntie!--do thou hear?--bring another blanket to throw owre\nme, and put out that light--I canna get a wink o' sleep for it.' Then I\nthought I found something upon my breast, that was like my little Anne's\nhead, and I put my hand out, and I said, 'Is that thee, Anne love?' But\nthere was no answer; and I gied the head a shake, when, my conscience!\nthere was such a frightened squall got up, that I sprang right upon my\nfeet, and, to my astonishment, there had I been lying upon the moor, wi'\nDobbin at my side, and the light which I wished to have put out was\nneither more nor less than the moon! But what surprised me most of all,\nand put me about what to dow, was, that what I had taken for my little\nAnne that had creeped to my side, as she often did when I came home, was\nnowther more nor less than a wee, ragged infant laddie, that had been\nlying fast asleep, wi' his head upon my bosom! There wasna a living\ncreature in human shape upon the moor but our two sells; and how he came\nthere was a miracle to me! 'Laddie,' says I, where dost thou come frae?\nWhat be thy faither, eh?--or thy mother? Be they alive?--or who brought\nthee here? Come, tell me, and I will gie thee a penny.'\n\n\"But the poor bairn seemed more bewildered to find itsel' where it was\nthan I did, and the more I offered to speak to it, it cried the louder.\n\n\"'Why, thou needna cry,' said I, 'I winna eat thee; but how came thou\nhere?--and where be thy faither and mother?'\n\n\"However, I could get nought but screams and cries o' terror out o' the\nlittle innocent; so I cried all round the moor at the very pitch o' my\nvoice,--'Holloa!--be there any one within hearing that has lost a\nbairn?' But I am thinking that I might have cried till now, and nobody\nwould have answered, for it is my belief the bairn came there by magic!\nI canna say that I have seen the fairy folk mysel', though I have heard\nthem often enough, but I am inclined to believe that they had a hand in\nstealing away the infant laddie frae his parents, and laying his head\nupon my breast on the moor. I declare to thee, though I couldna stand\nsteady, I was at a stand still what to do. I couldna leave the infant to\nperish upon the moor, or I shud never hae been able to sleep in my bed\nagain wi' the thoughts on't; and whenever I had to go to Morpeth, why, I\nshould hae been afeared that its little ghost would hae haunted me in\nthe home-coming; and, if I would hae been afeard o' it, it is mair than\nI would hae been o' meeting the biggest man in a' Northumberland. But if\nI took it hame, why I thought again there would be sic talking and\nlaughing amang a' wur neighbours, who would be saying that the bairn was\na son o' my awn, and my awd aunt would lecture me dead about it.\nHowever, finding I could mak naething out o' the infant, I lifted him up\non saddle before me, and took him home wi' me.\n\n\"'Why, what be that thou hast brought, Sandy lad?' asked my awd aunt,\nas she came to the door to meet me.\n\n\"'Why, it be a bairn, aunt, that I found on the moor, poor thing,' said\nI.\n\n\"'A bairn!' quoth she--'I hope thou be na the faither o't, Sandy?'\n\n\"'I'll gie thee my hand and word on't, aunt,' said I, 'that I knaw\nnowther the faither nor mother o't; and from the way in which I found it\nupon the moor, I doubt whether ever it had owther the one or the other.'\n\n\"My aunt was easier satisfied than I expected, and, by degrees, I let\nout the whole secret o' the story o' finding him, both to her and to my\nneighbours. Nobody ever came to own him, and he soon grew to be a credit\nto the manner in which I had brought him up. Before he could be more\nthan seventeen, he was a match for ony man on Reed water or Coquet side,\nat ony thing they dared to take him up at. I was proud o' the laddie,\nfor he did honour to the education I had gien him; and, before he was\neighteen, he was as tall as mysel'. He isna nineteen yet; and my\ndaughter Anne and him are bonnier than ony twa pictures that ever were\nhung up in the Duke o' Northumberland's castle. Ay, and they be as fond\no' each other as two wood pigeons. It wud do thy heart gud to see them\nwalking by Reed water side together, wi' such looks o' happiness in\ntheir eyes that ye wud say sorrow could never dim them wi' a tear. Anne\nwill be a year, or maybe two, awder than him; but, as soon as I think he\nwill be one-and-twenty, they shall be a wedded pair. Ay, and at my\ndeath, the farm shall be his tee--for a better lad ye winna meet in a'\nNorthumberland, nor yet in a' the counties round about it. He has a kind\nheart and a ready hand; and his marrow, where strength, courage, or a\ndetermined spirit are wanted, I haena met wi'. There is, to be sure, a\nhalf-dementit, wild awd wife, they ca' Babby Moor, that gangs fleeing\nabout wur hills, for a' the world like an evil speerit, and she puts\nstrange notions into his head, and makes a cloud o' uneasiness, as it\nwere, sit upon his brow. When I saw that I would have to keep him, I\ndidna ken what name to gie him; but after consulting wi' my friends and\nthe clergyman o' the parish, it was agreed that he should bear the\nsurname o' wur family, and my faither's Christian name; so we called him\nPatrick Reed. But the daft awd wife came upon him one day amang the\nhills, and she pretended to look on his brow, and read the lines on his\nhand, and tald him, frae them, that Patrick Reed wasna his real name,\nbut he would find it out some day--that he was born to be rich, though\nhe might never be rich--and that he had an awd grey-haired faither that\nwas mourning for him night and day, and that he had adopted the son of a\nrelation to be his heir. When he came home he was greatly troubled, but\nhe was too open-hearted to conceal from me, or from Anne, the cause of\nhis uneasiness; and when he had tould us a' that the mad awd wife had\nsaid, I tried to laugh him out o' thinking about it, and bade him bring\nthe bottle and take a glass like a man, and never mind it. But Patrick\nwas nae drinker; and he gravely said to me, that the face o' the\nhalf-daft woman came owre his brain like a confused dream--that he had\nsomething like a remembrance of what she had said; and he also thought\nthat he remembered having seen her. I wish the witch had been in the\nbottom o' the sea ere she met wi' him; for ever syne then--though Anne\nand he are as kind and as loving as ever--he isna half the lad that he\nused to be; and there is nae getting him now to take a game at\nonything--though he could beat everybody--for either love or money.\"\n\nSuch was one of the stories which rough, honest, fear-nothing Sandy\nReed told, in relating his adventures. Now, it came to pass, when\nPatrick, the foundling of whom he has spoken, had been sheltered beneath\nhis roof for the space of seventeen years, that Sandy, having introduced\nthe cultivation of turnips upon the lowlands of his farm, proposed to go\nto Whitsome fair, to purchase cattle to fatten with them, and also sheep\nfrom the Lammermuirs to eat them on the ground. He was now more than\nthreescore, and he was less capable of long journeys than he had been;\nand he requested that his adopted son Patrick, who was also to be his\nson-in-law, should accompany him; and it was agreed that they should set\nout for Whitsome together.\n\nBut, on the evening before their departure, as the maiden Anne was\nreturning from a visit to the wife of a neighbouring farmer, she was\nintercepted within a mile of her father's house. The sibyl-like figure of\nBarbara Moor stood before her, and exclaimed--\"Stand, maiden! Ye love the\nyoung man whom ye call Patrick--whom your father has so called--and who\nresides beneath his roof. He loves you; and ye shall be wed, if I, who\nhave his destiny in my hand, have strength to direct it! And yet there\nmust be more blood!--more!--for I am childless!--childless!--childless!\nWe are not even yet!\" She paused, and pressed her hand upon her brow;\nwhile the maiden, startled at her manner, trembled before her. But she\nagain added--\"Yes! yes!--ye shall be wed--the bauble wealth shall be\nyours, and ye deserve happiness. But hearken, ye maiden, for on the\nobeying of my words depends your fate. When your faither and Patrick set\nout for Whitsome fair, request ye to accompany them--insist that ye do,\nand ye shall return here a wealthy and a wedded wife; for she says it\nwhose words were never wasted on the wind. Swear, maiden, that ye will\nperform what I have commanded ye.\"\n\n\"Woman!\" said Anne, quaking as she spoke, \"I never swore, and I winna\nswear; but I give thee my hand that I will obey thee. I will go to\nWhitsome fair wi' my faither and Patrick.\"\n\n\"Go! go!\" cried the sibyl, \"lest the dark spirit come upon me; and he\nwhom ye call Patrick shall die by his father's hand, or his father by\nhis. But speak not of whom ye have seen, nor of what ye have heard--but\ngo and do as ye have been commanded. Be silent till we meet again.\"\n\nAnne bent her head in terror, and promised to obey; and the weird woman,\nagain exclaiming--\"Go!--be silent!--obey!\" hastened from her sight.\n\nWhen Anne entered the house, her father, and her adopted brother, or\nlover, were making ready for their journey. She sat down silently and\nthoughtfully in a corner of the apartment, and her half-suppressed sighs\nreached their ears.\n\n\"Why, what in the globe, daughter Anne,\" said her father, \"can make thee\nsigh? Art thou sad because Patrick is to leave thee to go to a fair for\na day or two? I suppose thou wouldn't hae troubled thy head, had thy\nfather been to be absent as many months. But I don't blame thee; I mind\nI was tender-hearted at thy age, too--but Patrick knaws better what to\nsay to thee than I do.\"\n\n\"Dear Anne,\" whispered the youth, taking her hand, \"what ails thee?\"\n\n\"Ask my father,\" she rejoined, hesitatingly, \"that I may accompany you\nto Whitsome fair to-morrow.\"\n\n\"Nay, thou canst not go, dear,\" returned Patrick; \"it is a long ride and\na rough one; and the society thou wilt meet with will afford thee no\npleasure, and but small amusement.\"\n\n\"I must go,\" she replied--\"a strange being has laid a terrible command\non me!\"\n\n\"A grey-haired, wild-looking woman?\" ejaculated Patrick, and his voice\ntrembled as he spoke.\n\n\"Ask me no more,\" was her reply, \"I must--I will accompany you.\"\n\n\"A dead dream,\" said the youth, \"seems bursting into life within my\nbrain. There are once familiar words ready to leap to my tongue that I\ncannot utter; and long forgotten memories haunting my mind, and flinging\ntheir shadows over it as though the substance again were approaching.\nBut the woman that ye speak of!--yes! yes!--there is something more than\na dream, dear Anne, that links my fate with her! I remember--I am sure\nit is no fancy--I do remember having been at a fair when I was a\nchild--a mere child--and the woman ye allude to was there! Yes!\nyes!--you must accompany us! I feel, I am certain, that woman hath,\nindeed, my destiny in her hands!\"\n\n\"Gudeness me!\" exclaimed Sandy, \"what is it that ye twasome are saying\nbetween ye? Is there ony light thrown upon the awd story; or, is it only\nthe half-crazed randy--(forgie me for ca'ing the poor afflicted creature\nby ony sic name)--but, I say, is it only some o' the same nonsense that\nBabby Moor has been cramming into Anne's ear wi' which she has filled\nthine, lad? Upon my word, if I had my will o' the awd witch, I would\ndouk her in the Reed till she confessed that every story she has tould\nto thee was a lie from end to end.\"\n\n\"Well, father,\" said Patrick--for he always called Sandy father--\"let\nAnne accompany us to the fair--she requests it, and I will also request\nit for her.\"\n\n\"Ou, ye knaw,\" said Sandy, \"if ye hae made up yer minds between\nyourselves that ye are determined to gang, I suppose it would be o' no\nuse for me to offer opposition to owther o' the two o' ye. So, if thou\nwilt go, get thee ready, Anne, my dear, for it will take us to be off\nfrae here by twelve o'clock t'night, for it is a lang ride, and a rugged\nride, as thou wilt find it to thy cost, ere ye be back again. I was\nnever there for my own part; but I hear that the sale o' feeding cattle\nis expected to be gud--and there I maun be. So, get thee ready,\ndaughter, if ye will go, and hap thysel' weel up.\"\n\nAt midnight, Sandy Reed, his daughter, and his adopted son, with three\nor four farm-servants, all mounted on light, but strong and active\nhorses, accustomed to the character of the country, set out for Whitsome\nfair.\n\nThey arrived at Whitsome before noon on the following day, having\ncrossed the Tweed at Coldstream. There was one individual in the fair\nwho had some hundred head of cattle exhibited for sale, and that was old\nCunningham of Simprin. He himself was present; but he took but small\ninterest in the transactions, for he was becoming old, and was in\ngeneral melancholy; and a nephew, whom he intended to make his heir,\naccompanied him, and in most matters made bargains for him and in his\nname.\n\nNow, Sandy Reed, after walking through the market, said the only lot\nthat would suit him was that of Cunningham of Simprin. We may here\nobserve that, throughout the day, young Patrick became thoughtful and\nmore thoughtful. Even the presence of Anne, who leaned upon his arm,\ncould hardly summon up a passing smile into his features.\n\nAfter much disputing and sore bargain-making, Sandy Reed, at a good\nround sum, became the purchaser of all the stock that old Walter\nCunningham exhibited in the fair. And when the bargain had been\ncompleted, the seller, the buyer, and their servants, retired to a booth\ntogether; the former to treat his customer with a bottle, and the latter\nto spend the \"luck-penny,\" which, on such occasions, he was wont to say,\nwould burn a hole in his pocket before he got home.\n\nBoth were men who were accustomed to drink deep--for old Cunningham had\nsought to drown his sorrows in the bottle; and what would have been\ndeath to another man took no effect upon him. Sandy saw him swallow\nglass after glass, without his countenance betraying any symptom of\nchange, with vexation; for he had never before met with a superior,\neither at the bacchanalian board, or at aught else. But, as the liquor\nwent round, the old men began to forget their age (and for a time, for\nthe first time, Walter Cunningham forgot his sorrows), and they boasted\nof what they had done; and forgetful that each was above threescore,\nthey were ever and anon about to profess what they could still do; but\non such occasions, Anne Reed, who sat by her father's elbow, gently and\nunobserved, admonished him.\n\nNow, when Sandy found that he might not speak of what he could do, he\nthought there could be no harm in saying what his adopted son Patrick\ncould do. He offered to match him at anything against any man in\nBerwickshire, yea in all Scotland. The blood of old Cunningham boiled at\nthe bravado. He said he had had three sons--yea, he hoped to have said\nfour--any of whom would have stopped the boasting, and taken up the\nchallenge of his Northumbrian friend. But he said he had still a nephew,\nand he would risk him against Sandy's champion.\n\n\"A bargain be it,\" cried Sandy, and the young men proceeded to various\ntrials of strength; but the nephew of Cunningham, though apparently a\nstrong man, was as a weaned child in the hands of young Patrick. Their\ncountrymen, on both sides, became enraged, and it soon became a national\nquarrel. Scores were engaged on either side--knives were drawn and blood\nspilt: and headmost in the fray, but unarmed, was Sandy Reed, striking\nto the ground every one on whom his hand fell. But at length he fell,\npierced by a knife, by the edge of a pool of water; and his last words\nwere--\"Revenge me, Patrick--protect my Anne--mine is yours!\"\n\nWhen weapons were exhibited, young Patrick drew one also, and he dealt\na wound at every blow. Just as he heard the voice of his foster-father,\nhe held the aged Cunningham by the throat, and his hand was uplifted to\navenge his protector's death by the sacrifice of the old man's--when a\nloud, a hurried, and a wild voice cried aloud--\"Hold, parricide!\nhold!--he against whom your hand is raised is your father!\"\n\nIt was the voice of Barbara Moor. The young man's arms fell by his side\nas if a palsy had smitten them. He remembered the voice of the sibyl.\n\n\"What say ye!\" cried the agonised old man--\"who is my son?--how shall I\nknow him?\" For he, too, remembered her and well.\n\n\"He whose hand has been raised against your life,\" she cried, \"and on\nwhose bosom ye will remember and find the mark of a berry!\nFarewell!--farewell!\" she added--\"I am childless--ye are not.\" She had\nbeen wounded in the conflict as she rushed forward, and she sank down\nand died. We might lengthen our story with details; but it would be\nfruitless. In young Patrick old Cunningham found his long lost son; with\nher last breath Barbara Moor acknowledged how she had decoyed him from\nthe tent, at the fair, where his father had left him; and how, when she\nsaw Sandy Reed asleep upon the moor, she had administered to the child a\nsleeping draught, and laid him upon his breast. Vain would it be to\ndescribe the joy of the old man, and as vain would it be to speak of the\ndouble chagrin of the nephew, who lost not only his laurels during the\nday, but also his hope of riches. Anne sorrowed many days for her\nfather; but gave her hand to him who, in compliance with her request,\nhis father continued to call Patrick; the fountain by the side of which\nher father fell is still known in the village of Whitsome by the name of\n_Reed's Well_; and, on account of the life lost, and the blood shed on\nthat occasion, Whitsome fair has been prohibited unto this day.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[1] The wooden quegh, used as a drinking vessel in those days,\ncontained rather more than would fill a wine glass.\n\n\n\n\nTHE SURGEON'S TALES.\n\nTHE DIVER AND THE BELL.\n\n\nI have witnessed various states of the mind and body of the wonderfully\nconstructed creature, man; and have written down those cases where the\ntwo mutually operate upon each other, in such a manner as to bring out\nstartling characteristics, which, by many, are scarcely believed to\nbelong to our nature. I am now to exhibit a case, where an extreme love\nof mental excitement produced by extraordinary sights and positions,\ngave rise to a species of disease, which we have no name for in our\nnosology. The individual was a Mr. Y----, a gentleman of fortune, who\ncame to reside in the town where I practise. When I first visited him, I\nfound him a poor emaciated creature, sick of the world, dying of\n_ennui_, thirsting after morbid excitements, yet shuddering at the\nrecollection of what he had witnessed. I saw at once that he was a\nvictim of some engrossing master passion, that had fed upon the natural\nfeelings and sentiments, till his whole soul was under the power and\noperation of the presiding demon; and got him to give me an account of\nthe manner in which he became enthralled.\n\nEven now, he began--and he trembled as the thoughts he was to evolve\nrecurred to him, even now, though it is fully two years since I was\nplaced in one of the most extraordinary situations in which man was ever\ndoomed to be, I cannot call up again the ideas and sensations which then\noccupied my mind, without trembling, and endeavouring to fly, as it\nwere, from myself, and, by seeking for natural thoughts among natural\nappearances and converse, rear up again the belief that I am a regularly\norganized being, capable of again becoming happy among the sons of men.\nBut the thought still haunts me as a spectre, that I may be once more,\nby some other cause not less fortuitous than that which then took me out\nof the region of experience, precipitated, in spite of all my care, into\nsome new position, where the feelings which we are led to consider as a\npart of our nature, may be so entirely changed that no new world we are\ncapable of conceiving any notion of, could possibly produce a more\nextraordinary disruption of all the old workings of the brain. Oh! it is\na fearful thought, but one seldom entertained by the slaves of\nexperience. Changes occur daily to all men; but, in the general case,\neach mere worldly position of ever-changing circumstances, possesses so\nmuch of the form and character of some prior one, that we are very soon\nreconciled to the idea of a variety composed of a mere mutation of the\nmixture of old elements. The mind, looked upon as a microcosm peopled by\nthe representations of things that be--of the past and possible, of the\nfuture and probable--is held to be our own little world, with which, and\nall its inhabitants, we are or may be familiar; we forget that there are\nrecesses in it, or capabilities within it, that may contain or produce\nthings as new as striking, as horrible as if they were the creations of\nan unknown power, out of elements we never saw or heard of. A sane\nperson, living and acting in the world, may be for a time mad, but with\nthe difference, that, while ordinary maniacs know not their condition,\nhe may be conscious of a thinking identity, while all his thoughts seem\nto be imposed upon him by other powers than those that regulate this\nsphere, and he is himself, what he was, but placed in a new world, and\nacted on by new impulses at which he shudders, but which he is sternly\nbound to receive and feel. What a view does this open up to the state of\nman in this lower world!--how much is there in it of a cause of\nhumiliation and trembling. I am myself, from what I suffered, altogether\na changed being; having no faith in the stability of things; conceiving\nmyself placed among dangerous rocks and precipices, from which, in the\nnext moment, I may fall, I know not where; and eyeing with doubt and\ndismay even the most composed and settled of all the circumstances of\nlife. He is a happy man who is doomed to pass from the cradle to the\ngrave, without having cause to _experience_ the faithlessness of\nexperience, who has only read of those dreadful disruptions of the mind\nand feelings, that scatter the old elements, in order that some new\nconsolidating power may throw them into forms and combinations a\nthousand times more horrible than all the creation of dark brooding\nincubus.\n\nLike most other men of an ardent and imaginative temperament, I was\ndissatisfied with the dull routine of ordinary things. I used to feed my\nfancy with creatures of the possible, and, without the aid of artificial\nstimulants of the brain, often conjured up imaginary beings and\npredicaments which had a charm for me, I cannot very well explain or\naccount for. I cared little for dreams, or the artificial combinations\nproduced by narcotics; they had too little of reality for me: I never\nwas satisfied with a mere effort of the fancy, where the judgment was\nentirely in abeyance, or at least mocked by what it had no control over.\nIn the world around me, I found food for my appetite; whatever I saw or\nheard of the _real_, I wrought upon in my solitary moments, till I\nproduced creations, that, being actually within the limits of the\npossible, I could survey with the satisfaction that I was contemplating\nwhat might or would be actually experienced in some future stage of the\nworld. Yet it is a fact--and no one who knows anything of morbid\nindulgences of this kind can doubt it--that it is questionable, even to\nmyself, whether, upon the whole, I ever derived any real pleasure from\nthese moods of the mind. The imaginary positions I loved most, were\ngenerally of the painful kind: the greater the sufferings of the\npersonages concerned in my various plots of combined circumstances, the\nmore was my propensity gratified. From this morbid state of excitement,\nI was, of course, often precipitated, by the mere decay of the cerebral\nenergy that fed it; and when I was forced again to contemplate and mix\nwith the common affairs of life, I felt the contrast operate to the\ndisadvantage of even the most stirring incidents that are daily\nbefalling mankind. I was, indeed, much in the position of those who\nstimulate the fancy by extraneous applications; all the boasted efforts\nof judgment I tried to mix up with and control the workings of my fancy,\nI found were but a species of delusive energies, to take myself out of a\nclass of dreamers I heartily despised. I was, in fact, just as complete\na visionary as they--with this difference,--I thought I required to\nsatisfy the condition of a waking judgment, which, after all, had very\nlittle to do in the matter.\n\nThere was, however, one peculiarity of my character not found among my\nclass of visionaries. I was always anxious to throw myself into\nsituations that, being new and wonderful, might supply my mind with a\nspecies of experience, from which, in my after moods, I might draw, as\nfrom a real source, all the _substrata_ of my creations. I visited\nasylums, executions, and dissecting-rooms; accompanied Mr ----, the\naeronaut, in his ascent from Manchester; when on the Continent, I stood\nbelow the falls of Terne, and descended into that hell upon earth, the\nmines of Presburg; yet I must avow that I was a coward; the very\nexperiences I courted, I often trembled at, not only at the time when\nthe objects were busy with my senses, and sending their influences\nthrough my nerves to my brain, but afterwards, when I called up the\nimages to my mind, and threw them into the forms that obeyed the\ncreative power of my fancy. I was also, in some degree, peculiar in\ncaring little for the works of fictioneers; if I were to try to account\nfor this, I would trace the cause to the same disposition of mind that\nled me to despise all artificial modes of stimulus. The fancies of other\nmen roused my scepticism; my own, founded always on experience, and\nnever going beyond the province of the possible, seemed to me to possess\na reality sufficient to satisfy the conditions of my deluded judgment.\nIt had been fortunate for me had I been less exclusive in my resources\nof gratification; and oh, how dearly I paid for these my imaginative\nflights, may too soon be made apparent to those who follow me in my\nnarrative, to be benefited, I trust, from my errors.\n\nI had nearly exhausted all my stock of real perceptions, and was\nbeginning to be forced to recombine my old thoughts, so as to produce\nnew associations of the strange and wonderful, when I accidentally met\nwith Mr W----, a gentleman well known in the world of experimental\nscience by the improvements he made on the diving-bell, in addition to\nthe contributions of Rennie and Spalding. I was then living at E----,\nand he was on his way to Portsmouth, to superintend the workings of a\nbell that had been sent thither for the purpose of recovering the specie\ncontained in the ship A----, which had been sunk on her return from\nSouth America. He described to me the construction of the bell, the\nmanner in which it was worked, and the many extraordinary sights that\nthe divers saw in the course of their submarine operations. I told him\nthat I had accompanied Mr ----, the aeronaut, in his ascent from\nManchester, and had often felt a strong desire to reverse my former\nflight, and descend into the great deep, to see its wonders, and compare\nmy sensations with those I had already experienced in the air. He told\nme that my wish might easily be gratified; adding that, although he had\nnever been beyond the top of a steeple, he could take it upon him to\nassure me, that the feeling of vastness and sublimity induced by an\naerial ascent, was almost in direct contrast to the sensations of the\ndiver--the one being comparable to the effects produced by the enlarged\nviews of generalization, indulged in by speculative ontologists--the\nother, to those that result from the inductive process of searching into\nthe physical arcana of nature. He was not aware of the bent of my mind,\nor his comparison might have been made more suitable to the feelings of\none who cared far less for science than the monstrous things of\nthaumatology; but he had said enough, or rather the mere mention of the\nsubject was sufficient to fire my fancy; and, after he left me, I\nbrooded continually on the subject of the bed of the great deep--that\nworld unexplored by man, where strange creatures obey laws unknown to\nus, and feed on the dead bodies of those who relentlessly pursue them;\nwhere the bones of the men of distant nations meet and cross each\nother--those of the sons of science and those of the unlettered negro,\nbound together by tangled sea-weed--orbless skulls, the receptacles of\nunclassified reptiles, lying on the treasures that the living man sighed\nto bring home, as the reward of his toils in foreign lands; and where\nthe very mystery of the unexplored recesses throws a green shadow over\nthe strange inhabitants and things of the earth, buried there for\ncountless ages, that makes the whole watery world like a vision of\nenchantment. I had found a new source of unthought of reveries, that\nwould supply my enraptured hours with aliment according to my wishes.\nThe objects to be seen within the short space circumscribed by the bell,\nor comprehended within the range of its lights, could not be many; but\nthere was the new mode, as it were, of existence--the breathing under\nwater, the living in the element of the creatures of the deep, all the\nmultifarious sensations that would spring up in the mind and body, as if\nsome new power of life and feeling penetrated to the very well-springs\nof existence.\n\nA letter from Mr W---- soon afterwards invited me to Portsmouth, from\nwhich I was then not far distant. The divers had been for some time\nbusy; a great part of the wreck had been laid open, and some curious\ndiscoveries been made, and treasures recovered, which inspired the\nworkmen with ardour. On the following day, I was at the scene of\noperation. When I went on board of the lighter, from which the bell was\nsuspended, I examined the apparatus. The bell was then down, the men\nstood holding the crane, and listening attentively to hear the signals\nthat were, every now and then, coming from the divers. At a little\ndistance was the apparatus of the air-pump, which several other workmen\nwere busily engaged working. The whole scene was calculated to produce\nan extraordinary impression on a beholder. The sky was hazy; the air\nthick and oppressive, from the heat of the sun acting upon the dense\nmedium of a mist that hung on the water; there was not a breath of wind\nto ruffle the surface of the calm deep; the only sound heard was the\nwhizzing of the air-pump, and the clang of the apparatus by which it was\nworked. There was nothing seen of the bell; it was far down in the bosom\nof the deep. The chain, by which it was suspended, dipped into the sea\nand disappeared, carrying the mind with it down to the grim recesses\nwhere living, breathing men were buried. Clear as the waters were, the\neye could not reach the depth to which the huge living cemetery had\ndescended; a recoiling feeling, which made the heart leap, followed the\neffort to trace the chain down, down through the translucent sea. The\nred sun, struggling through the mist, was reflected in a lurid glow from\nthe surface of the deep. As the air-pump ceased for short intervals, and\nabsolute silence reigned around, a clang, unlike any sounds of earth,\ncame upon the ear--\n\n    \"As if the ocean's heart were stirred\n    With inward life, a sound is heard.\"\n\nIt was a signal from those in the bell; it seemed as if the sea\ntrembled, and old Ocean spoke from the deeper recesses of his soul. The\nsound struck the ear as something unnatural, or what might be conceived\nto issue from a sepulchre when the spirits of the dead hold converse in\nthe still night. The signal was answered; and, in a short time\nafterwards, there were heard three successive strokes quickly\nrepeated--clang, clang, clang. The quickness of the strokes, and the\nstrangeness of the sound, coming whence such sounds are never heard,\nseemed the doom-peal of these men.\n\n    \"The sea around me, in that sickly light,\n    Shewed like the upturning of a mighty grave.\"\n\nBut the sound told other things to the workmen: the wheel began to\nrevolve; after many revolutions, the waters began to boil as if moved by\na ground swell, and the large black engine appeared rising up like a\nmighty monster of the deep.\n\nWhen the bell was fairly suspended above the water, the crane was\npulled round, and the heavy appendage was wheeled over the deck of the\nlighter. There were three individuals in it, seated high and dry upon\nthe _vis-a-vis_ seats. There were instruments of various kinds hung\nround the inside, the uses of which were explained to me. The men told\nme that a storm, a few days before, had so broken up and removed the\nwreck, that it would be necessary to pull the lighter a little farther\nto the eastward. It came out, too, with some indications of terror which\nthey attempted to conceal, that the dead bodies of those who had\nperished in the cabin were beginning to make their appearance, now that\nthe hull was broken. Mr W---- looked at me askance, as if to ascertain\nwhether that circumstance would have any effect in making me forego my\npurpose in descending; and, doubtless, he observed me shudder. But he\nknew me not: the expedition possessed greater, perhaps grimmer charms to\nme on that account: the horror that passed over me, as I heard the\nstatement of the men, was only an indication that my zeal was stirred by\nthe expectation of food for my depraved appetite.\n\n\"Dead men are not the most dangerous enemies of divers,\" said Mr W----,\nwith a grim smile. \"We have sometimes greater reason to be alarmed from\ninroads of the living inhabitants of the waters. It is not a week yet\nsince the fearful _tenth_ signal rung from the deep; and, upon the\nmachine being raised in great alarm by the workers of the crane, it was\nascertained that a shoal of finners (some of them fourteen feet long)\nhad passed close by the mouth of the bell, with a noise like the rushing\nof a mighty army. But the alarm was greater on the side of the creatures\nthemselves: on observing the bell with the men in it, they lashed their\ntails with fearful fury, till the waters seemed to boil in the midst of\nthem, and the whole host were enshrined in a thick muddy medium that\nprevented the divers from seeing an inch before them. The sound,\nmeanwhile, was like that of thunder--snorting, lashing, and shrill\ncries, produced by some action of their breathing organs, were mixed\ntogether; and the confusion into which they were thrown precipitated\nmany of them on the sides of the bell, which being at the time suspended\nfrom within five feet of the ground, swung from side to side in such a\nmanner as to rouse the fears of the workmen above before the signal\nreached their ears. In a short time afterwards, when the bell was\nraised, we saw the shoal making with great speed to the westward,\nblowing, as they careered onwards, with a loud noise. I never knew of a\ncircumstance of the same kind before; and to-day you will not, I trust,\nbe alarmed by such visitors.\"\n\nThis statement roused my fears, already excited by what I had heard of\nthe dead bodies that lay on the wreck; but I adhered to my purpose. The\nlighter was moved about twenty feet eastward, and the bell was again\nswung round to be let down, it being resolved that I should accompany\nthe divers in their next descent. I watched the operations with an\ninterest derived from my expected position in the same circumstances\nwith these fearless men. The huge mass hung in the air, dangling over\nthe smooth surface of the sea; and the signal being given, was plunged\ndown. In a moment it had disappeared, and a heavy mass of waters rushed\non, swelling and boiling in the abyss, that seemed to have entombed the\ndaring adventurers. The rolling off of the chain in a long succession of\ncoils, and the disappearance of link after link, filled the mind with a\nshuddering impression of the depth to which they were attaining. The\nsignal was again given; the air-pump began to play and whiz, and my\nthoughts, burdened with the superstitious fear produced by the\nnarratives I had heard, took a new direction, picturing the men among\nthe floating bodies of the dead mariners, which, among the green lights\nof the sea, would appear invested with additional horrors--the monsters\nof the deep playing round them, or feasting upon the decayed\nlimbs--numberless crabs, sea urchins, and centipedes, crawling on\nmembers once consecrated to beauty. The silence on board the lighter\naided my fancy in its gloomy revels; and when the clang of the hammer on\nthe bell announced the wish of the divers to rise again, I started from\na seat on a coil of ropes which I had in my musings taken possession\nof--having been oblivious of the intervening half hour, during which I\nhad been shadowing forth the secrets of the green charnel-house, with\nits surface lying smiling before me in the lurid glare of the still\nenshrouded sun.\n\nAt last, I was called to take my seat in the bell. One of the men came\nout to make room for me; but, before I entered, the crane was swung\nround to the west side of the lighter, as the men reported that a more\nlikely field of investigation lay in that direction, where they had\nobserved a bright body which they took for a mass of glittering specie,\nprobably rolled out of the packages, and lying there from its greater\nspecific gravity. On mounting up into the bell, where the two remaining\nworkmen were refreshing themselves with brandy to recover the play of\nthe lungs, which, in the last descent, had suffered from a deficiency of\noxygen, I felt a creeping sensation pass over me, in spite of my efforts\nto be calm and firm. This I attributed to the already excited state of\nmy fancy, from the long train of musings I had indulged in over the\ngreen deep. In my ascent with the aeronaut, I experienced a sensation in\nsome degree similar to that feeling of lofty awe which accompanies the\nexpectation of the grand impulse of sublimity--[Greek: ton sphodron kai\nenthousiastikon pathos]; but now the action of the heart seemed tending\ntowards a collapse rather than a swell: I felt already the chilling\neffect of the cold element before I had descended into its womb. I\nlooked round me with a nervous eye, and threw the colours of my fancy on\neven common objects. The dull yolks of glass placed round the sides to\ngive light, pale and lustreless--the iron tools, wet and brown with\nrust--the black leather flasks of spirits--the big hammer used for\nsignals of distress--were all strange and invested with new characters;\nand the two men, Jenkins, an Englishman, and Vanderhoek, a German, with\nsallow countenances, rendered paler than usual by the effects of the\nconfined air, seemed rather to belong to the watery element from which\nthey had emerged, than to the fair and smiling earth. I attempted to\nlook unconcernedly; but the German, as he was lifting his flask to his\nhead, scanned me with a ludicrous gaze, and, whether it was that the\nbrandy had, in some degree, inclined him to a merriment that in my eyes\nseemed like the grin of a demon, or that he wished to let me hear the\n_ringing_ sound of the bell when the human voice echoed within it, I\nknow not; but he accompanied his potations with a stanza of Burger's\nfamous Zechlied:--\n\n    \"Ich will einst, bei ja und nein\n    Vor dem Zapfen sterben\n    Alles, meinen Wein nur nicht\n    Lass' Ich frohen erben.\"\n\nAnd, finishing the verse, he looked again at me, to notice the effect\nproduced on me by the reverberation of the tones, which, reflected from\nall sides, mixed as it were in the middle, and loaded the ear with a\nconfused ringing noise, similar to what I once heard when nearly drowned\nin the Thames. If the man had had any intention to increase my alarm, he\ncould not have taken a more effectual way of compassing his intention;\nfor his language--the true and natural diction of spirits--responded to\nby the confused ringing echoes of the bell, and acting upon a mind\nalready enervated by the weight of the genius of superstition, appeared\nto be all that was necessary to complete the alarm which I in vain\nattempted to conceal.\n\n\"All ready, Vanderhoek?\" cried Mr W----.\n\n\"Ja, ja, herr,\" responded Vanderhoek. \"Pull away, Crane-meistern.\"\n\nAnd as the men began to work, he dashed carelessly into another stanza\nof his favourite ballad. I know not if you are acquainted with German;\nbut I cannot resist the desire of gratifying my own ears with a\nrepetition of the sounds of the thrilling consonants which produced so\ngreat an effect on me on that occasion. His voice was rough and\nguttural:--\n\n    \"Wann der Wein in Himmelsclang,\n      Wandelt mein Geklimper,\n    Sind Homer, and Ossian,\n      Gegen mich nur Stumper.\"\n\nI would have called out to the man to cease his singing, had I not been\nafraid of being set down for a coward. The continued sound within\nprevented me from observing the motion of the bell, as it gradually\nswung off the deck; but the increasing novelty of my situation, as I saw\nmyself suspended over the calm sea into which I was immediately to be\nplunged, fixed my attention, while it increased my nervousness. I would\nnow have retreated, had it been in my power. The calculated knowledge of\nthe process of submersion, and of my absolute safety under the laws of\nhydraulics, lost so much of its power under the reigning influence of\nthe natural instinctive horror of being plunged into the womb of the\nocean, that I thought myself on the eve of being drowned; and the same\nfeeling I had experienced when struggling half-dead with the waters of\nthe Thames took hold of me by anticipation. Meanwhile, the German\nstarted broken snatches of his song; the bell was gradually descending;\nthe space of pure light between the rim and the green surface of the sea\nwas growing every minute less and less. It was upon that decreasing\ncircle of air that my eye was most intensely fixed; it grew brighter as\nthe inside of the bell grew darker, till in a moment it appeared like a\nbright line of gold-coloured light.\n\n\"There,\" said Jenkins to me, in a loud tone. \"That is the last glimpse.\nThis is the most trying moment for inexperienced divers, when the last\nbeam of day is extinguished.\"\n\nI could not reply to him. The circle had disappeared; the water was\nbelow our feet; we were partially submerged. I looked up to the yolks of\nglass, but the light that struggled through them was so pale and sickly\nthat I turned my eyes to the sea below me as a relief to my confined\nvision. We were now fast descending--one by one the gas lights were\nchanged from their dim paleness to a green hue, the same as that of the\nsea below us, and, in an instant after, I heard a loud whizzing, which\nwas produced by the displaced body of waters rushing impetuously into\nthe void made by the descending bell. The sound made me instinctively\nturn my head upwards, as if I had been in the attitude of addressing the\nKing of the heavens, whom I had left in the regions of upper air. I grew\ndizzy, and thought I would have fallen from the bench, down into the\nbottom of the sea. My nervousness made me grasp firmly the plank, as my\nonly means of safety from what I conceived to be impending destruction.\nWhether that sound then ceased, or my hearing became more obtuse, I know\nnot; but the first thing, after a few minutes, that I was conscious of\nwas the grasp of the hand of Jenkins, who held me firm by the arm, and\nthe guttural sounds of the German, as he still carelessly sung detached\nlines of his ballad. On looking up, the green lights swam in my eyes;\nbut the whizzing sound had greatly ceased; and I directed again my gaze\nto the apparently bottomless element below, which was as calm as glass,\nand through which I saw, flying past the mouth of the bell, innumerable\nfishes, reflecting, as they darted off, a thousand varied hues, in the\nmidst of the green medium through which they hurried.\n\nThe continued descent was made apparent to the eye by the progress of\nthe rim of the bell through the water, and indicated, in another form,\nby the creaking sound of the crane on the lighter, which, rendered\nindistinct by the medium of the water, seemed to come from miles\ndistant. Though partially recovered from the first effects of the\nsubmersion, I had no proper idea of time, and there was no mode of\nmeasuring the depth. It seemed to me as if we had descended many\nfurlongs, though we had not got beyond ten fathoms: I could not get quit\nof the idea, though I arranged my thoughts in the process of\ncalculation. Jenkins had now let go my arm, as he saw that I was able to\nsit without danger of falling; and the German was busy peering through\nhis bushy eyebrows down into the deep, as if he expected soon \"to see\nthe land.\" I almost instinctively gazed down for the same object, and it\nwas not without an effort at discrimination by the power of my judgment\nthat I discovered myself seeking a vision of the bottom of the sea, as\nif it had been a haven for a shipwrecked mariner in distress. While my\neyes were thus fixed on the waters--in which I could see nothing but the\nswarms of fishes flying past, or reeling in the confusion of terror--I\nwas startled, almost to falling off the bench, by a loud reverberating\nclang on the side of the bell. My first impression was, that the bell\nhad struck on a rock; and I turned fearfully to seek the eye of Jenkins.\nHe held the large hammer in his hand with which he had given the stroke.\nHe told me that he wanted more air, and that this was the signal to the\nworkers of the air-pump. His eye was fixed on the air holes, with which\nthe pipes communicated. I thought he appeared alarmed; he exchanged a\nlook with Vanderhoek, and the eye of the latter was soon also fixed on\nthe same spot. We were yet still descending, and the German, turning\nround, pointed down. I followed his finger, and saw a thick, hazy-like\nappearance, as if the waters were troubled, and masses of long sea-weed\nbrushed against the rim of the bell. Vanderhoek immediately seized the\nhammer, rang two loud peals, and the motion downwards ceased. We hung\nsuspended in the sea, I know not how many fathoms down. A loud hissing\nsound came from the air-valves; but it was every moment interrupted, as\nif some part of the apparatus failed in its continuous working. The eyes\nof both Jenkins and Vanderhoek were again intensely fixed upon the\nholes; it was too manifest to me that they both saw something wrong in\nthe working of the air pumps, though they said nothing to me; and,\nindeed, I was so much affected by their ominous looks that I could put\nno question to them.\n\n\"Is there not an under current here, Karl?\" said Jenkins, attempting to\nappear composed.\n\n\"Ja,\" replied Vanderhoek; \"see, there is von gut sign. The meer-weeds\nare drifting to the east; and see, there is von piece of the wreck\nmoving from the west.\"\n\nI looked down, and saw the edge of a piece of black timber making its\nappearance within the verge of the rim of the bell; but, in consequence\nof the small angle afforded by our pent-up position, we could not\nobserve more than two inches of it. Large bushes of confusedly entangled\nsea-weed were brushing past, and, as they stuck about the rim, darkened\nthe interior so much that we could scarcely see each other. These seemed\nof but small importance to Jenkins, who was evidently still unsatisfied\nwith the working of the pumps, and got upon his feet to examine into the\ncause of their irregular and interrupted action. It struck me, at this\ntime, that Jenkins' question about the current had more meaning in it\nthan was made apparent to me: I suspected that he entertained fears that\nthe air tubes had got entangled in some way with the bell chain. His\nefforts did not seem to produce any greater regularity of action in the\ntubes; the whizzing noise continued every now and then to be\ninterrupted; at one time, it stopped altogether for about a minute. The\nmachinery was working reluctantly, and with a struggling difficulty that\nwas apparent to the eye and ear; but other proofs of a more decided and\nfearful kind were awaiting us. I felt a painful load at my breast, as if\nI wanted air; my respiration became quick and unsatisfactory; a swimming\nof the head came over me; I could scarcely see my companions without\ngreat effort to fix my wavering vision. The darkness at the mouth of the\nbell continued to increase; the piece of the wreck was moving slowly\nunder us; the weeds were increasing. I could perceive that Vanderhoek\nwas also labouring for breath; Jenkins, relinquishing his efforts at the\nair tube mouths, turned, looked wildly at his neighbour, and, staggering\ndown upon the bench, struggled to get hold of the hammer, which, when he\ngrasped it tremblingly, fell out of his hands down into the bottom of\nthe sea.\n\n\"In the name of God! what is the meaning of all this, Jenkins?\" I cried,\nin a voice that was choked for want of air.\n\nHe lay upon the bench, and gasped, apparently unable to speak; he looked\nto Vanderhoek, and pointed to an instrument in the shape of a\nmattock--shaking his hand, and muttering indistinctly, \"Haste! haste!\"\n\nThe sign and words were perfectly understood by Vanderhoek as well as\nby myself. I looked on, with the intense agony of fear and impeded\nlungs, and added some irregular and confused signs (for my voice died in\nmy choking throat) to the German to obey the request of his\nneighbour--but these were unnecessary: the man himself saw the fearful\nposition in which we were placed, with as keen a perception of the\ndanger, and as anxious a wish to remove it, as either of us. He was,\nhowever, struggling for want of air to a greater extent than either\nJenkins or myself. His face was swollen and blue, his mouth open, his\neyes protruding from his head, his breast heaving like one under the\nweight of the angel of death. Yet he tried to combat the antagonist\npowers of cruel fate; and, raising his body from the bench, he bent\nforward to clutch the mattock, with which to give the clangs that formed\nthe signal to raise us from our water-bound prison. He had to reach over\nthe body of Jenkins, who lay coiled up, almost lifeless from\nsuffocation; then, in his efforts to get at the instrument, he fell down\nthrough the mouth of the bell, and stuck fast among the tangled weed. At\nthis very instant, I heard again the sound of the air-pump whizzing in\nmy ears: it came like the music of angels; and, while Vanderhoek hung\nfast by a rope that was attached to the bench, I felt the inspiring\npower of the oxygen coming through the air tubes: my breast rose--my\nlungs inhaled the sweet aliment--I felt strength infused into my blood\nand nerves--and, raising myself, laid hold of Vanderhoek; but my energy\nfailed in the effort that exceeded my powers; he fell from my grasp, and\nplunged overhead among the waters and loose weeds by the side of the\ndark piece of the wreck, that still seemed to move, though almost\nimperceptibly, to the east. It was a little time before he came to the\nsurface again, which satisfied me that we were still a considerable way\nfrom the bottom, notwithstanding of the accumulation of algae that had\ndeceived us into a contrary opinion. When his head again appeared within\nthe bell, I was struck fearfully by the horrid expression of his face,\nwhich, pale before, now looked green and hideous through the wreaths of\nweed that hung round his hair. The influx of atmospheric air partially\nrevived his energies for self-preservation; then laying hold of the\nrope, he got a clutch of the bench, and clambered up. He seemed shocked\nby some cause of terror, even greater than the danger to which we were\nyet exposed.\n\n\"Shrecken! shrecken!\" he muttered, with difficulty. \"There is von corpse\nof a woman there--there--down in the wreck!\"\n\nAnd he pointed to the black fragment of the broken ship that lay below\nus.\n\n\"That is nothing, man,\" said I. \"Give the signal, if you can. See, the\nair-pump has stopped again. The men in the lighter know not our peril.\"\n\nHe attempted again to seize the mattock, and succeeded in grasping it;\nbut the small supply of air that had been sent us by the temporary\nopening of the impeded tube, had been only sufficient to revive us\nslightly; and the suddenness with which his powers were again\nprostrated, by the recurring weakness that succeeded the cessation of\nthe supply of the natural aliment of the lungs, prevented him from\nimparting strength to the signal. He gave one weak blow on the side of\nthe bell, and the instrument fell out of his nerveless hands upon the\nbench. In a few moments more he was stretched beside Jenkins. I myself\nnow tried to lift my arms to seize the instrument. I succeeded only in\nplacing my hands upon it--I was unable to grasp it, and fell, with my\nback on the side of the bell, powerless, and struggling, with open mouth\nand heaving sternum, for what came not--a breath of living air.\n\nWe must, at this time, have been fully twenty minutes under water; and,\nas it was our intention to have been an hour, there seemed to be no\nchance of our being drawn up until we had all expired. I saw plainly, by\nthe noises that came from the tubes, that the men conceived they were\nworking regularly; and, so long as no signal was heard, they would work\non, ignorant of the dreadful situation in which we lay. I cast my eyes\non my companions. They lay like dead men; my only wonder, now that I can\ncalmly think of the subject, is, that they still kept upon the seats,\nand did not tumble into the deep. I had scarcely any power of thinking.\nI sat, writhing under the spasmodic action of suffocation, my eyes fixed\nin the sockets, my brain swimming, and a burning sensation, like that\nwhich attends a paroxysm of brain fever, shooting through the recesses\nof thought. The recollection of that moment is even yet madness. The\nbell was almost dark, and the green light that came through the yolks of\nglass, fell faintly on the blue swollen faces of my companions, who I\nthought were dead. I had still power to observe that there was a new\nfeature rising in that unprecedented situation of man's sufferings. Was\nit possible, it may fairly be asked, that fate had it in store to add to\nthese agonies?\n\nWhile thus I sat fixed immovably by weakness and despair, I observed\nthat the waters were rising visibly upon us, probably from the\nabsorption of the small quantity of oxygen that remained in the tainted\nair around us. It had risen up half way between the rim and the seats,\nand was gradually gaining upon me. A foot more would bring it to the\nlevel of where I sat. My feet were already immersed, and the coldness\nproduced by the water operated in combination with the spasms in my\nlabouring chest to destroy vitality. The black fragment of the wreck\nrose with the waters, and raised obliquely the side of the bell, which\nmay have been an additional cause for the rising of the sea within.\nThrough my glazed eye I saw, lying in a hollow of the broken raft, a\nwhite figure--probably that seen by Vanderhoek when he fell into the\nsea. By and by, it became more visible as the waters rose, and I saw\nthat it was the body of a female who had perished in the vessel. The\nimage of the apparition has haunted me to this hour, and shall do till I\ndie. A part of the dress which she had worn when she perished, still\nclung to her--about the half of the skirt of a silk gown that had been\nof some light colour, but had changed to a greenish hue. It was bound to\nthe waist by a sash or belt of a darker shade. Her bosom was bare, and\nbore the same sickly hue of pale green; her face was placid; the eyes\nwere open; but one of the balls had been extracted by some reptile of\nthe deep; her long hair flowed among the weeds; and, hanging from the\nlobe of the left ear, I saw a clear gem that shone with the brightness\nof the stone called _aqua marina_. One of the arms had been taken off a\nlittle above the elbow; the flesh at the end of the stump appeared\nbloodless, and bleached to the colour of the skin; and limpets and other\nkinds of small shell-fish lay on or adhered to the cuticle. My feelings\nrecoil from the recollections of the horrors of that apparition; and I\nfear I may incur the charge of endeavouring to produce an effect by the\nvulgar mode of harassing the mind with a minute description, too easily\neffected, of what, for the sake of humanity, should be concealed.\n\nThere the body lay in all its green horror. It was rising gradually to\nmy side, within the bell, through the gloom of which the pale skin and\nlight robes sent a sickly gleam. I had no power to move myself away from\nit. My body was bent so that my face was within a few inches of it; and\na slight undulation of the waters that were rising into the bell inch by\ninch, imparted to the corpse a motion that made it dodge upwards and\ndownwards, as if it made efforts to touch my countenance. All was as\nsilent as death; for the slight agitation of the sea produced no noise.\nI was gasping for breath; a short period would have put an end to my\nsufferings, had not the air tubes again begun to send forth slight\nhissing sounds, and a small portion of the food of the lungs came to\nafford me sufficient power to contemplate, with greater distinctness and\nincreased agony, all the circumstances of my situation. I felt the small\nboon instinctively as a relief: my breast again opened; I was able to\nraise my head so as to be more beyond the touch of the floating corpse;\nand as I lifted it, my eye fell on the flask of spirits that hung within\nreach on the side of the bell. I now struggled to seize it, and\nsucceeded; but it was with many painful efforts that I got a portion of\nthe liquor poured into my mouth. The half-dead physical powers of my\nsystem were, by this application, stimulated into something like\nvitality, and I listened attentively, while my eye was still riveted on\nthe corpse that lay at my side, to the sound of the tubes. A motion of\nthe right limb of Vanderhoek attracted my attention, and raised a hope\nthat, if the air still continued to be supplied, he would recover; I\nknew, too, that as the bell filled again with the atmospheric supply,\nthe waters would recede. But all my hopes were again prostrated; the\nvalve ceased; the entrance of the air was again stopped; I applied the\nflask hastily again to my lips before the spasms of suffocation came\nagain upon me, but the power of the spirits seemed to have fled, having\nno more influence over my system than a draught of water.\n\nThus was I again precipitated into my former condition of weakness and\nhelplessness--the choking symptoms of suffocation increased again in\nintensity, and I was under the necessity to lie down on the seat, with\nmy head again on a level with the corpse of the female, that still kept\nmoving and dodging by my side. I was now as powerless to push it away as\nI was before to remove myself from it. I felt it touch my skin. Its face\nwas close to mine--the pale cold cheek rubbed upon my chin and lips. The\nglazed eye seemed fixed upon me, and the stump of the torn arm struck\nupon me as the body moved. A higher undulation sometimes threw her\nflowing hair over my eyes, where it lay till another movement of the\ncorpse took it off. I would have shut the lids of the protruding orbs\nthat stood fixed in my head, if I had had any power; but I could not--my\nwhole face being swollen, and the muscles as rigid as if in death. I was\nthus compelled to receive the vision into my mind; and the touch seemed\nto cling to the decaying sensibilities, as if it formed a part of them.\nIt is impossible that my sufferings could have lasted many minutes\nlonger if the air tubes had been entirely closed; but, as if it had been\ndetermined by the stern fates that I should be suspended for a length of\ntime between life and death, there were kept up, at almost regular\nintervals, two or three whizzing sounds of the entangled and obstructed\napparatus--an indication that small supplies of air were at these\nmoments thrown in upon me. It was only these sounds, the dodging of the\npale-green corpse, the touches of its cold skin, the light of its glazed\neye, the dark figures of my two companions, and the general gloom of the\nbell, relieved slightly by the greenish-hued yolks of glass, that I was\nsensible of perceiving. The internal workings of my mind seemed to have\nceased. I had scarcely any consciousness of a conception--the whole\ncerebral functions concerned in thought and feeling being limited to\nundefined sensation, that had only some connection with the power of\nexternal perception.\n\nEven this partial state of consciousness had died gradually away, for,\nduring a short period, I was totally beyond the reach of the power of\nany external object. There is a blank in my recollection of these\ntouches and visions, which, though scarcely at the time coming within\nthe province of mind, have since been the most vivid perceptions ever\ntreasured up in my memory. Yet that period of all but total death was no\nrelief to me. The dim hazy vision of all around me dawned again, like\nthe shadowy renovations of a fearful dream that has sunk in sleep, and\nrisen again as the troubled fancy regained a portion of its activity.\nThese indistinct shadows of consciousness, as they came in the wake of\nthe physical power that felt the quickening influence of another draft\nof air, carried more insufferable sensations in their dark forms than\nhad accompanied my more distinct perceptions. They were mere filmy\ntraces, broken and unconnected--exhibiting to me sometimes only the\ndarkness of the bell, sometimes the mere face; occasionally limited to\nthe eye alone, the stump of the arm alone, the ear-ring alone; sometimes\nmerely the two stretched-out forms of the men; sometimes the green deep\nand the tangled sea-weed. Then the array of all the things around me\nwould suddenly flash upon me with a unity and a vividness that produced\none gleam of almost entire consciousness--in another moment\nextinguished--and succeeded by another period of all but death--to be\nagain followed by a succession of the broken fragments of vision, when\nthe living powers were in a slight degree revived. I leave it to\nphysiologists and psychologists to account for these sudden exertions of\nthe reluming powers of the mind in the very lowest state of the dying\nfaculties. We see something of the same kind in the physical\neconomy--moments of strength in the most exhausted weakness--bright\nglows of the taper of life in the socket of death--a collected unity of\npower in moments of dissolution, as if the spirit made a last struggle\nto assert its lost authority over the great archangel. I can speak at\nleast to their effects--a wretched boon of nature to miserable man,\nwhere he can say no more than that he feels--that the boasted energies\nof the soul seem to be all rolled up in one sensation of undescribable\npain.\n\nI was awakened from this state of stupor by a loud clanking of chains\nupon the top of the bell; and I heard the sound at the very moment when\nI felt myself drawing a long breath. I had been unconscious of the\nworking of the air-pump, which must have been going on for some time,\nthough I cannot tell how long. The bell was replenished. I breathed\nagain freely, and became sensible. I looked round me, and saw all\nthings in the same position as formerly. The corpse was still by my\nside, and my newly awakened horror made me struggle to rise. I\nsucceeded so far as to lean upon my arm, whereby I removed myself some\nspace from the dead body. The rattling of the chains still continued,\nand I had the power of thinking so far, as to conjecture that efforts\nwere being made to draw up the bell. But new incidents were now in\nprogress. The air had revived Vanderhoek. I saw him stretching out his\narms, as if to relieve his chest, which was heaving violently. He drew\nlong inspirations, and struggled to turn himself on the seat. He\nsucceeded, and I saw his face, which was dreadfully swollen, and of a\ndark livid colour. His eyes were wide open, and the light of life and\nreturning vision seemed to be illumining them. The first perception he\nwas conscious of was the vision of the corpse. His eye-balls turned,\nfixed upon it, and recoiled from it; and strange guttural sounds, with\nhalf-articulated words--\"Shrecklich--shrecken!\"--were wrung from him.\nHe looked wildly around him, shuddered, and grasped convulsively the\nbench. Meanwhile, the rattling of the chains on the bell continued, and\na sudden jerk almost precipitated me into the sea. The bell had clearly\nmoved; the next moment it shook violently, from another effort to raise\nit; it appeared to me to revolve; another sudden jerk followed; it rose\nperceptibly; the water rushed in to fill up the void; the corpse of the\nwoman whirled round in the eddy; and I saw Jenkins' body fall from the\nbench into the sea, and disappear.\n\nVanderhoek, who had now recovered his consciousness, uttered a loud cry\nas he saw his companion sink. The continued fresh air seemed to\nstrengthen him far more rapidly than it did me, and I perceived that he\nnow made violent struggles to lay hold of the mattock. He succeeded\nbeyond my expectation; despair nerved his arm; he clutched the\ninstrument, and rung three successive clangs on the side of the bell.\nThese were probably unnecessary, as it was manifest now that those on\nthe lighter were doing everything in their power to rescue us from our\nperilous situation. The chains still clanked, and we had ascended\nperceptibly, though how far I had no means of ascertaining. There was\nanother stoppage, the German sat with the instrument still in his hand,\nand his eye fixed on the body of the woman, which, from the continued\nwhirling of the water, span round and round, as if it had been placed\nupon a pivot. After looking thus for a few moments, he started suddenly,\nthen reaching up his hand, seized wildly another flask that hung near\nhim, drained it to the bottom, and flung away the empty vessel. Some\ntime passed before I felt any further motion upwards; and the large\nquantity of strong liquor that Vanderhoek had thrown into his still weak\nbody, operated upon him with a quickness that surprised me. He began to\nget furious, talked incoherently, swung the iron mattock backwards and\nforwards, and sung stanzas of the \"Zechlied.\" This was a new source of\nterror to me. He looked wildly at me as if he did not know who I was;\nswore the oaths of his country, in which the words \"teufel, donner,\nblitzen,\" rang pre-eminently; used threats against me, as the cause of\nall that had occurred to him and his companion. Then he looked at the\ncorpse, and, in a paroxysm of madness, struck the mattock into its white\nbosom, accompanying his action with wild oaths. I expected every moment\nthat the next stroke would be on my own head, and sat in readiness to\nseize the weapon, and, if possible, debilitated as I was, to wrench it\nfrom his hands. My efforts to calm and pacify him were unavailing. I\npointed to the side of the bell, and, in broken accents, for I could yet\nscarcely speak, told him to ring again; but he did not seem to\nunderstand; giving me wild looks, showering broken oaths upon me, and\nholding up the mattock in a threatening attitude, as if he would cleave\nmy head in twain.\n\nDuring all this painful period the air was regularly supplied; but the\nefforts of those on the lighter had not been able to raise us further.\nIn the midst of Vanderhoek's ravings, I thought I heard a sound above,\nunlike that of the apparatus by which the bell was wrought. It was a\ncreaking, crashing sound, as if the bell were forcing up some heavy\npiece of wood with which it was encumbered. The thought struck me\ninstantly that the cause of all our misfortunes lay in the drifting of\nsome large piece of the wreck over the top of the bell, which had got\nentangled with the air-tubes and chain, and defied all the efforts of\nthe workmen to raise us. The creaking sound continued, and, mixing with\nthe whizzing of the air-tubes, the grating of the chain, and the\nroarings and yells of Vanderhoek, made the scene more dismal than it had\nyet been. I was in danger of my life--but momentarily redeemed, as it\nwere, from the precincts of eternity--every minute, from the fierceness\nof the raving being beside me; and I could scarcely hope that all those\nprotracted efforts of the workmen would ever raise us from the immense\ndepth at which we were thus fixed by some great cause. I looked in the\nplacid face of the corpse, and wished that I were as far removed as her\nspirit was from these complicated evils of the lower deep, and the\nscarcely less remediable ills of the upper world. But I was soon roused\nfrom my dark reverie: a louder crash than I had yet heard sounded over\nthe bell, and produced such an effect upon the excited mind of\nVanderhoek, that he roused his body suddenly, and struck a fierce blow\nat me with the iron instrument he still held in his hand. He had\nover-calculated his partially-recovered strength, and tumbled into the\nsea alongside of the corpse. I hesitated whether I should aid him in\ngetting up. I saw him struggling and clinging by the garments of the\nbody, which he tore--so tender was the material--into shreds. As his\nhold gave way, he clutched the body itself, which, sinking with his\nweight, disappeared, leaving him to clamber for support round the lower\npart of the benches. I could not see him drown, though I shuddered at\nthe danger which awaited me when he might recover his position. At that\nvery moment I distinctly felt the bell ascending; and a fierce whirling\nand boiling of the waters rushing into the void, would in an instant\nhave sucked him down to rise no more, if I had not seized him by the\nbushy hair of the head. In that position I held him as firmly as my\nimpaired strength would permit. The bell still ascended, and the buoying\npower of the water kept him swimming, and made him obey my slightest\nimpulse. The submersion and the contact into which he had come with the\ncorpse had manifestly removed the effects of the liquor, and his\nimploring eye was eloquent in its appeal to me to continue my grasp.\nThis I did while the bell continued to ascend; the light began to\nincrease in the yolks of glass; and the voices of the men in the lighter\ngreeted my ear. In a moment afterwards, I saw the light of the sun\nshining red through the windows; in another moment the circle of bright\neffulgence between the bell and the sea met my enraptured eye. A loud\ncry of terror came from the workmen as they saw the body of Vanderhoek\nswimming in the sea. They ceased their process of raising; and swinging\nthe bell to a side, some one got hold of the German, and I let go the\ngrasp of his hair. Two or three more turns of the crane brought the bell\non a level with the lighter. I sprung down upon the deck, and fell back\nin a swoon.\n\nWhen I recovered, I saw several people standing round me, among whom\nthere was an individual who claimed, for a time, my undivided gaze. He\nwas a tall, handsome individual, dressed in deep mournings. He had a\nwhite pocket handkerchief in his hands, which he applied frequently to\nhis eyes; and he looked at me anxiously as he saw me recovering from the\neffects of the syncope into which I had fallen. He was proceeding to put\nsome questions to me, when Mr. W---- interfered, and stated that I ought\nto be allowed time to collect my energies before my mind was led again\ninto the subject of what I had suffered during the time we were in the\ndeep. I was, accordingly, assisted on shore; and, having been put to\nbed, slept for several hours so soundly that I do not think a single\nimage of what I had seen and heard during that dismal scene occurred to\nmy fancy; but, when in the act of wakening, a confused influx of ideas,\nall derived from the source of my sufferings, rushed into my mind, and\nfor a few minutes I conceived that I was still in the bell, that I heard\nthe sound of the air tubes, saw Jenkins fall, the corpse lying beside\nme, Vanderhoek hanging by my grasp of his hair, and all the minutiae of\nhorrors that then encompassed me; a commotion which comes over me often\nyet, like a species of monomania, when I will start up, and cling to the\nbedposts, and scream for terror. It being known that I was awake, Mr.\nW---- and the stranger came to me. It was their object to get an account\nof all that had occurred during my descent. I gave it as nearly as I\ncould recollect, and, when I came to describe the appearance and figure\nof the corpse of the female, I saw the stranger change colour, his frame\ntrembled, his lips turned pale, and he rose and walked through the room\nas if afraid to listen to my narrative.\n\n\"What means this?\" said I to Mr. W----, in a low tone.\n\n\"The female whose body you saw in the bell,\" he replied, \"was the wife\nof Mr. G----. He stands before you. He was saved from the wreck, and she\nperished.\"\n\n\"Good God! and I have already given a part of the shocking detail,\" I\nresponded.\n\nThe stranger heard me, as he paced the room, returned, and sat down by\nmy bedside.\n\n\"I am not satisfied that it was my Agnes,\" he exclaimed, in broken\naccents, while the tears flowed over his cheeks. \"There was a\nwaiting-maid along with us--describe her more particularly. _I can\nlisten._\"\n\nAs he uttered these words, I could perceive that he contracted his\nnerves, his hands were clenched, and over his frame there passed a\nshiver that seemed to mock the resolution to confirm the mind by a mere\nphysical action. I proceeded to give a fuller account of her dress and\near-ring, the character of her face and figure, so far as I could\ndiscover them. Every word seemed to enter his very soul. He turned round\nagain. There was something he wished to say, but he hesitated, trembled,\nand stammered.\n\n\"Was that fair form mutilated?\" he asked, at length, \"O God! I picture\nmy Agnes torn by monsters of the deep, and hideous urchins resting on\nher bosom. Yet, why do I ask knowledge that must sit for ever on my\nheart, and engender visions that in the hours of night must torture my\nsoul, to the end of my pilgrimage in this dark world?\"\n\nI hesitated to say more; the orbless socket--the torn stump of the\narm--the limpets that clung to her skin--the bosom pierced by\nVanderhoek's mattock, were all before me, and shook my soul. But why\nshould I have added an artificial misery to wretchedness like his? I\nwould not dwell on the subject. The stranger imputed my disinclination\nto satisfy his morbid desire for information to its true cause. A\nparoxysm of sorrow seized him. He rose suddenly, took his hat, and,\ncovering his pallid face with his handkerchief, rushed out of the room.\nHow often have I thought of that individual! I never saw him again; but\nhis image is for ever associated with the vision of that corpse, shining\nin the sickly green hue of the medium in which it lay. The body was\nnever found; he never saw it. And was it not well for him? What would\nhave been his agony, to have seen the beloved of his bosom as I saw her,\nto have treasured up in his mind the lineaments of that face, the\nharrowing minutiae of her mutilated form?\n\nI got an account from Mr. W---- of what took place on board of the\nlighter while the bell was down. It was a long time, he said, before\nanything was suspected to be wrong, as the men often remain down for an\nhour without a single signal coming from them. The difficulty of working\nthe air-pumps first roused their suspicions; and when they found that\nthe bell would not respond to the action of the crane, they knew at once\nthat it had got fixed among some part of the wreck. I need not detail\ntheir efforts to relieve us; they are possessed of no interest; the\nresult is known; but who shall know, as I experienced, the horrors of\nthat period?\n\nMy patient, when he had finished his narrative, put his hand over his\neyes, and shuddered. I could do little for an individual thus situated;\nbut I visited him often, more with a view to the benefit of science,\nthan from any hope of rescuing him from the dominion of the power he\nhad, like Frankenstein, created, to satisfy a diseased craving of the\nmind, and trembled at after it was formed, as he found himself helpless\nand weak in his energies to exorcise it. The continued brooding of his\nsick fancy over all the strange forms he had seen, produced, in a still\ngreater degree, a weakness of the mind itself, that is, a weakness as\nregards the sane condition of the mind; for his imagination, drawing a\nmorbid _pabulum_ from his disease, grew stronger and stronger in its\ncapacity to invest the images he gloated over with more fearful\ncharacteristics, till often, as I was informed, he started up in the\nmiddle of the night and screamed out that he was in the present act of\nsuffering again all he had already experienced. But what struck me as\nstill more remarkable in this victim, was, that any change that took\nplace upon him for the better, in respect of his physical economy, was,\nwhile accompanied by a partial release from the domination of his old\nfancies, generally attended by a kind of new-born desire for another and\na new supply of his stimulant visions. This discovery I made one day,\nwhen, as I felicitated myself on having effected a confirmation of his\nnerves, by the application of a course of tonics, I told him that I\nmyself was on the eve of encountering all the unpleasant feelings\nattendant upon the performance of a painful operation on a very\nbeautiful patient, whose life might too likely fall a sacrifice to her\ndesire to get quit of a mortal disease. His eye brightened, he held out\nhis hands, and supplicated me to allow him to be present, under the\nassumed character of a surgeon. My refusal produced disappointment and\nchagrin; and he often afterwards harped on the cruelty of my resolution\nto discomfit him. He afterwards went to another part of the country to\nreside with his relations; and the last notice I had of him was, that he\nwas seen bending his skeleton body over the blackened corpses of several\nindividuals who had been burnt to death in the conflagration of a large\ndwelling-house in the town where he resided.\n\n\n\n\nAUTOBIOGRAPHY OF WILLIE SMITH.\n\n\nIf I thocht the world would tak the least interest in the matter, I wad\ntell it the where an' the when o' my birth, in conformity wi' auld use\nan' wont in the case o' biographical sketches; but, takin it for granted\nthat the world cares as little about me as I care about it--an', Gude\nkens, that's little aneuch, thanks to the industry o' my faither, that\nmade me independent o't!--I shall merely say, wi' regard to the\nparticulars above alluded to, that I was born in a certain thrivin,\npopulous bit touny in the south, an' that I am, at this present writin,\nsomewhat aulder than I was yesterday. I dinna choose to be mair\nparticular on the point, because I dinna see that my age has onything\nmair to do wi' my story, than the ages o' witnesses hae wi' their\nevidence. Bein born in the usual way, in the usual way was I\nchristened--(_Anglice_, baptised); but hereon hangs a tale, or rather a\ndizzen o' them. My faither's name was Willie Smith, my paternal\ngrandfather's name was Willie Smith, I had an uncle whase name was\nWillie Smith, an' twa cousins whase names were Willie Smith; an' it was\ndetermined that I should be a Willie Smith too, in order, I suppose, to\nmak sure o' perpetuatin that very rare an' euphonious family name. But,\noh, that they had ca'ed me Nebuchadnezzar, or Fynmackowl, or\nChrononhotonthologos, or ony name in the sma'est degree distinctive, an'\nno that confounded ane, that seems to me to belang to every third man I\nmeet. It wad hae saved me a world o' misery, an' disappointment, an'\nsuffering o' a' sorts. It's just incredible the mischief that simple\ncircumstance has wrought me--I mean, the ca'in me Willie Smith. It may\nappear, I dare say, a harmless aneuch thing to you, guid reader, but, my\nfeth, ca' ye yersel Willie Smith just for ae twelvemonth, an' ye'll find\nit's nae such joke as ye may think, especially if there be half-a-dizzen\no' Willie Smiths leevin in the same street wi' ye; whilk is a' but\ncertain to be the case, gang to where ye like. I ken I could never get\noot o' their neighbourhood, an' mony a shift an' change I hae made for\nthat express purpose. I maun confess, however, that the name's no\na'thegither without its advantages. Mony a scrape I hae got skaithless\noot o', when I was a boy, in consequence o' its frequency. In the first\nschule I was at, there war three Willie Smiths, besides me, an' it was\nthus almost impossible, in many cases, to ascertain which was the real\ndelinquent when mischief had been perpetrated; an' the result was, that\nthe wrang Willie Smith was as often punished as the right ane; but as I,\nof course, was frequently in the former predicament, I am no sure that,\nif the account were fairly balanced, I wad be found to hae been a great\ngainer after a'. Latterly, however, I certainly was not; for the\nmaister, finding the difficulty o' distinguishing between the Smiths,\nan' that the course o' justice was thus interrupted, at last adopted the\nsure plan o' whippin a' the Willie Smiths thegither, whenever any one o'\nthe unfortunate name was charged wi' ony transgression. We were thus\nincorporated, as it were, rolled into one, and dealt wi' accordingly, in\na' cases o' punishment.\n\nMy schule days owre, I began the world in the capacity o' shopman to\nmy faither, wha was a hosier to business, and carried on a sma', but\ncanny trade in that line. He wasna to ca' wealthy, but he was in easy\naneuch circumstances, an' had laid by a trifle, which was intended for\nme, his only son an' heir. I was now in my twentieth year, the heyday of\nyouth; an', why should I hesitate to say it, a sensible, judicious,\nwell-meanin, an' good-lookin lad, but (I hesitate to say this, though)\nwi' a great deal mair sentiment in my nature than was at a' necessary\nfor a hosier. How I had come by it, Heaven knows; but so it was. I was\nfu' o' romance, an' fine feelin, an' a' that sort o' thing, an' wi' a\nheart most annoyingly susceptible o' the tender passion. It was just\nlike tinder, as somebody has said--I think it was Burns--catched fire in\nan instant. For some time, however, as is the case with most youths, I\ndare say, my love was general, and was pretty equally divided amongst\n_all_ the young and good-lookin o' the other sex whom I happened to see\nor meet wi'; but it at length concentrated, an' dwelt on one object\nalone--(this was a case o' love at first sicht)--a beautiful an' amiable\ngirl, wha attended the same kirk in which I sat. I hadna the slightest\npersonal acquaintance wi' her, nor ony access to her society; but this\ndidna hinder me adorin her in my secret heart, nor prevent me puttin\ndoon stockins to customers when they asked for nightcaps. In short,\nbefore I kent whar I was, I was plump owre head an' ears in love,\ndistractin love, wi' my fair enslaver, an' rendered useless baith to\nmysel an' every ither body. Never did the tender passion so engross, so\nabsorb the feelins an' faculties o' a human bein, as it did those o' me,\nWillie Smith the hosier, on this occasion. I was absolutely beside\nmysel, an' felt as if livin and breathin in a world o' my ain. This\ncontinued for several months; an' yet, durin all that time, I had\nremained content wi' worshippin the object o' my adoration at a\ndistance, an' that only on Sundays, for I rarely saw her through the\nweek. Whan I said, however, that I was content wi' this state o'\nmatters, I am no sure that I hae said precisely what was true. Had I\nsaid that I lacked courage to mak ony nearer advances, I wad, perhaps,\nhae expressed mysel fully mair correctly. This was, in fact, the case; I\ncouldna muster fortitude aneuch to break the ice, an' yet I didna want\nencouragement either. My fair captivator soon discovered the state o' my\nfeelins regardin her, as she couldna but do, for my een war never aff\nher, an' my looks war charged wi' an expression that was easily aneuch\ninterpreted. She therefore--at least I thocht sae--kent perfectly weel\nhow the laun lay; an' if I didna mak a guid use o' the impression I had\nmade in my turn--for this I thocht I saw too in sundry little nameless\nthings--the faut was my ain, as I didna want such encouragement as a\nmodest and virtuous girl could, under the circumstances, haud oot to a\nlover. She looked wi' an interest on me, which she couldna conceal\nwhanever we met, an' I frequently detected the corner o' her bright blue\neye turned towards me in the kirk. Often, also, have I seen her sittin\nin melancholy abstraction when she should hae been listenin to the\nminister; but could _I_ blame her, whan she was thinkin o' me? Of\n_that_, from all I could see an' mark, I was satisfied.\n\nAt length, unable to endure the distraction o' my feelins langer, and\nencouraged by the wee symptoms o' reciprocal affection which I had\nmarked in my enslaver, assurin me o' my bein on pretty safe ground, I\ncam to the desperate resolution o' makin a decisive move in the\nbusiness. I resolved to _write_ my beloved; to confess my passion, and\nto beg that she would allow me to introduce myself to her. This\nresolution, however, I fand it much easier to adopt than to execute.\nThere was a faint-heartedness aboot me that I couldna get the better o';\nand a score o' sheets o' paper perished in the attempts I made to\nconcoct something suitable to the occasion. At length, I succeeded; that\nis, I accomplished such a letter as I felt convinced I couldna surpass,\nalthough I wrought at it for a twelvemonth.\n\nHavin faulded this letter, which I did wi' a tremblin hand and\npalpitatin heart, I clapt it into my pocket-book, whar it lay for three\ndays, for want o' courage to dispatch it, and, in some sort, for want o'\nopportunity too; for if I sent it by the post, there was a danger o't\nfa'in into the hands o' Lizzy's faither--Lizzy Barton bein the name o'\nmy enthraller; and there was naebody else that I could think o' employin\nin the business. At length, however, I determined to dispatch it at a'\nhazards. There was a wee bit ragged, smart, intelligent laddie, that\nused to be constantly playing at bools aboot oor shop-door, and whom we\nsometimes sent on bits o' sma' messages through the toun; and on him I\ndetermined to devolve the important mission of deliverin my letter.\nAccordingly, ae day when my faither was oot, and naebody in the shop but\nmysel--\n\n\"Jock,\" cried I, waggin the boy in, \"come here a minnit.\" Jock instantly\nleaped to his feet--for he was on his knees, most earnestly engaged in\nplunkin, at the moment--and, crammin a handfu o' bools into his pocket,\nwas, in a twinklin, before me; when, wipin his nose wi' the sleeve o'\nhis jacket, and looking up in my face as he spoke--\n\n\"What's yer wull, sir?\" said Jock.\n\n\"Do ye ken Mr. Barton's, Jock?\" said I.\n\n\"Brawly, sir,\" replied Jock.\n\n\"Weel, Jock, my man,\" continued I, but wi' a degree o' trepidation that\nI had great difficulty in concealin frae the boy, \"tak this letter, and\ngo to Mr. Barton's wi't, and rap canny at the door, and ask if Miss\nBarton's in. If she's in, ask a word o' her; and, when she comes, slip\nthis letter into her haun. If she's no in, bring back the letter to me,\nand let naebody see't. Mind it's for _Miss Barton_, Jock, and nae ane\nelse. Sae ye maunna be paveein't aboot, but keep it carefully hidden\nunder yer jacket, till ye see Miss Barton hersel; then whup it oot, and\nslip it into her hand that way;\"--and here I fugled the proper motion to\nJock. \"Noo, Jock,\" I continued, \"if ye go through this job correctly and\ncleverly, I'll gie ye a saxpence.\" Jock's eyes glistened wi' delight at\nthe magnificence o' the promised reward, so far transcendin what he had\nbeen accustomed to receive. He wad hae thocht himsel handsomely paid wi'\na ha'penny, and wad hae run sax miles ony day for a penny.\n\nHaving dispatched Jock, after seein the letter carefully buttoned up\ninside his jacket, I waited his return wi' a painfulness o' suspense,\nand intensity o' feelin, that I wad rather leave to the reader's\nimagination, than attempt to describe. It was most distressin--most\nagitatin. At length, Jock appeared--I mean in the distance. My heart\nbegan to beat violently. He bounced into the shop; my trepidation became\nexcessive; my knees trembled; my lips grew as white as paper; I could\nhardly speak. At last--\n\n\"Jock,\" said I, wi' a great effort, \"did ye see her?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Jock, \"and I gied her the letter.\"\n\n\"And what did she say?\"\n\n\"She asked wha it was frae.\"\n\n\"And ye tell't her?\"\n\n\"Ay.\"\n\n\"And what did she say then?\"\n\n\"She just leugh, pleased-like; and her face grew red, and she stappit it\nin her bosom, and said, 'Vera weel, my man:' and syne shut the door.\"\n\nOh, what pen could describe the feelins o' joy, o' transport, that were\nmine at this ecstatic moment! She had smiled wi' delight on hearin my\nname; she had blushed when my letter was put into her hands; and she had\nput that letter--oh, delicious thought!--into her bosom. The proof o'\nher love was conclusive. There was nae mistakin what were her feelins\ntowards me. Jock's artless tale had put that beyond a' doot. I was noo\nput nearly distracted wi' joy. But, if the merely gracious reception of\nmy letter was capable o' inspirin me wi' this feelin, what degree o'\nhappiness could be imparted by a reply to it, and that o' the most\nfavourable kind? (It could be ascertained by the Rule o' Three.) That\ndegree o' happiness, whatever it is, was bestowed on me. In the course\nof the ensuing day, I received the following sweet billet by the\npostman, written by Lizzy's own dear hand:--\n\n\"Miss Barton presents her compliments to Mr. Smith, and will be happy of\nhis company to tea, to-morrow evening, at six o'clock.\"\n\nOh, hoo I noo langed for the \"to-morrow evenin at six o'clock!\" And yet\nI trembled at its approach, wi' an undefined, but overwhelmin feelin o'\nmingled love and shame, and hope and fear. It was just what I may ca' a\ndelightfully painfu' predicament. Regardless, however, o' my feelins,\nthe appointed hour cam round, and whan it did, it saw me dressed in my\nbest, and, wi' a flutterin heart, stan'in at Lizzy's faither's door, wi'\nthe knocker in my hand. I knocked. I heard a movement o' the sneck\nbehind. The door opened, and my angel stood before me. I smiled and\nblushed intensely, without sayin a word. Miss Barton stared at me wi' a\nlook o' cauld composed surprise. At length--\n\n\"Miss Barton,\" I stammered oot, \"I am come, according to your\ninvitation, to\"----\n\n\"My invitation, sir!\" said Miss Barton, noo a little confused, an'\nblushin in her turn. \"What invitation? I haena the pleasure o' ony\nacquaintance wi' ye, sir. Ye're a perfect stranger to me.\"\n\n\"I houp no a'thegither, Miss Barton,\" replied I, makin an abortive\nattempt at a captivatin smile. \"I took the liberty o' addressin a letter\nto ye yesterday; an' here's yer invitation on the back o't,\" continued\nI, an' noo puttin her ain card into her hands. The puir lassie looked\nconfounded, an', in great agitation, said--\n\n\"Oh, sir, it's a mistak! I'm so sorry. It's an entire mistak on my\npart. Yer'e no the person at a' I meant. I thocht the letter was frae\nanither gentleman--a different person a'thegither. It's the name has\nmisled me. I am really so sorry.\" An' she curtsied politely to me, an'\nshut the door.\n\nAy, here, then, was a pretty dooncome to a' my air-built castles o' luve\nan' happiness! It was a mistak, was it?--a mistak? I wasna the person at\na'! She thocht the letter was frae anither gentleman a'thegither! An',\npray, wha was this gentleman? A' that, an' a deal mair, I subsequently\nfand oot. The gentleman was a certain Willie Smith--a young, guid-lookin\nfallow, who sat in the same kirk wi' us, an' between whom an' Lizzy\nthere had lang existed the telegraphic correspondence o' looks an'\nsmiles, an' sighs, an' blushes--in fact, just such a correspondence as I\nhad carried on mysel, wi' this important difference, however, that it\nwasna a' on ae side, as it noo appeared it had been in my case. The\nother Willie Smith's returns were real, while mine were only imaginary.\nI needna enlarge on the subject o' my feelins under this grievous an'\nheart-rendin disappointment. It will be aneuch to say that it pat me\nnearly beside mysel, an' that it was amaist a hale week before I tasted\na morsel o' food o' ony kind. I was in a sad state; but time, that cures\na' ills, at length cured mine, too, although it didna remove my regret\nthat a name so unhappily frequent as Willie Smith had ever been bestowed\non me.\n\nHavin already described mysel as bein o' a susceptible nature, and bein\nat this time in the prime o' youth, it winna surprise the reader to\nlearn that I soon after this fell in love a second time. The object o'\nmy affections, on this occasion, was a pretty girl, whom I met wi' at\nthe house o' a mutual freen. She was a stranger in oor toun, an' had\ncome frae Glasgow--o' which city she was a native--on a short visit to a\nrelation. The acquaintance which I formed wi' this amiable creature soon\nripened into the most ardent affection, an' I had every reason, very\nearly, to believe that my love was returned. The subsequent progress of\nour intimacy established the delightful fact. We eventually stood on the\nfootin o' avowed, an' all but absolutely betrothed lovers. Soon after\nthis, Lucy Craig, which was the name of my beloved, returned to Glasgow,\nbut not before we had settled to maintain a close and regular\ncorrespondence.\n\nThe correspondence wi' Lucy, to which I hae alluded, subsequently took\nplace; an', for several months--durin which I had made, besides, twa or\nthree runs to Glasgow, to see her--mony a sweet epistle passed between\nus--epistles fu' o' lowin love, an' sparklin hopes, an' joy. I may as\nweel here remark, too, that, on the occasions o' my visits to Lucy, I\nwas maist cordially an' kindly received by her mother--a fine, decent,\nmotherly body, an' a widow--Lucy's father havin died several years\nbefore. Aweel, as I said, our correspondence went on closely an'\nuninterruptedly; but I maun noo add, wi' a restriction as to time, an'\nsay for aboot five months, at the end o' which time it suddenly ceased,\non the pairt o' Lucy, a'thegither. She was due me a letter at the time;\nfor I had written three close on the back o' each other, which were yet\nunanswered. In the greatest impatience an' uneasiness, I first waited ae\nweek, an' then anither, an' anither, an' anither, till they ran up to\naboot six, whan, unable langer to thole the misery which her seemin\nnegligence, or it micht be something waur, had created, I determined on\nputtin my fit in the coach, an' gaun slap richt through mysel, to\nascertain the cause o' her extraordinary silence. To this\nproceedin--that is, my gaun to Glasgow--I was further induced by anither\ncircumstance. There was a mercantile hoose there, wi' which my faither\nhad dealt for twenty years, an' which had gotten, frae first to last,\nmony a thoosan pounds o' his money--a' weel an' punctually paid. Noo, it\nhappened that, twa or three days before this, my faither had dispatched\nan order to this house for a fresh supply o' guids, whan, to oor\ninexpressible amazement, we received, instead o' the guids, a letter\nplumply refusin ony further credit, an' demandin, under a threat o'\nimmediate prosecution, payment o' oor current account--amountin to aboot\nL150. To us this was a most extraordinary affair, an' wholly\ninexplicable, an' we resolved to know what it meant, by personal\napplication to the firm. This, then, was anither purpose I had to serve\nin gaun to Glasgow, to which I accordingly set out, wi' the folks\nhunner-an'-fifty pounds in my pocket.\n\nOn arrivin in the city just named, my first ca', of course, was on Lucy.\nBut this wasna accomplished withoot a great deal o' previous painfu\nfeelin. It was twa or three minutes before I could rap. At length I\nraised the knocker, an' struck. Lucy opened the door. She stared wildly\nat me, for a second, an' then, utterin a scream, ran into the house,\nexclaimin, distractedly--\"O James, James! mother, mother! here's Mr.\nSmith's ghost!\" And she screamed again more loudly than ever, an' flung\nherself on the sofa, in a violent fit o' hysterics.\n\nHere, then, was a pretty reception. I was confounded, but stepped\nleisurely into the hoose, after Lucy, whom I found extended on the sofa,\nan' her mother an' a strange gentleman beside her--a stranger to me at\nleast--endeavouring to soothe her, and calm her violence. On the mother,\nmy presence seemed to hae nearly as extraordinary an effect as on the\ndochter. Whan I entered the room, she, too, set up a skirl, and fled as\nfar back frae me as the apartment wad admit, exclaimin--\n\n\"Lord be aboot us, Mr. Smith! is that you? Can it be possible? Are ye in\nthe body, or are ye but a wanderin spirit? Lord hae a care o' us, are ye\nreally an' truly leevin, Mr. Smith?\"\n\n\"Guid folks,\" said I, as calmly as I could, in reply to this strange\nrhapsody, \"will ye be sae kind as tell me what a' this means?\" An' first\nI looked at the dochter, wha was still lyin on the sofa, wi' her face\nburied wi' fricht in the cushions, and then at the mother, wha was\nsittin in a chair, starin at me, an' gaspin for breath, but noo\nevidently satisfied that I was at least nae ghaist.\n\n\"Means, Mr. Smith!\" said she, at intervals, as she could get breath to\nspeak; \"oh, man, didna we hear that ye were dead! Haena we thocht that\nye were in yer grave for this month past! Dear me, but this is\nextraordinar! But will ye just step this way wi' me a minnit.\" An' she\nled the way into another room, whither I followed her, in the hope o'\ngetting an explanation o' the singular scene which had just taken place;\nan' this explanation I did get. On our entering the apartment, my\nconductress shut the door, an', desirin me to tak a seat, thus\nbegan--\"Dear me, Mr. Smith, but this is a most extraordinar, an' I maun\nsay, a most unlucky affair. Werena we tell't, a month ago, that ye were\ndead an' buried, an' that by mair than ane--ay an' by the carrier frae\nyer ain place, too, at whom Lucy made inquiry the moment we heard it?\nAn', mair than a' that,\" continued Mrs. Craig, \"here's yer death\nmentioned in ane o' the newspapers o' yer ain place.\" Saying this, she\ntook an auld newspaper frae a shelf, an', after lookin for the place to\nwhich she wanted to direct my attention, put it into my hands, wi' her\nthoom on the following piece o' intelligence:--\"Died, on the 16th\ncurrent, at his father's house, ----, Mr. William Smith, in the 23d year\nof his age.\"\n\n\"Noo, Mr. Smith,\" said Mrs. Craig, triumphantly, \"what were we to think\no' a' this, but that ye were really an' truly buried? The place, yer\nname, yer age, a' richt to a tittle. What else could we think?\"\n\n\"Indeed, Mrs. Craig,\" said I, smilin, \"it is an odd business, an' I\ndinna wunnur at yer bein deceived; but it's a' easily aneuch explained.\nIt's this confounded name o' mine that's at the bottom o' a' the\nmischief. The Willie Smith here mentioned, I need hardly say, I suppose,\nis no me; but I kent him weel aneuch, an' a decent lad he was--he just\nlived twa or three doors frae us; an', as to the carrier misleadin ye, I\ndinna wunnur at that either--for he wad naturally think ye were inquirin\nafter the deceased. But there's nae harm dune, Mrs. Craig,\" continued I.\n\n\"I'm no sure o' that,\" interrupted my hostess, wi' a look an' expression\no' voice that rather took me aback, as indeed, had also the _triumphant_\nmanner in which she had appealed to me if they could be blamed for havin\nbelieved me dead. This she was aye pressin on me, an' I was rather\nsurprised at it; but it was to be fully accounted for.\n\n\"No!\" said I, whan Mrs. Craig expressed her uncertainty as to there bein\nony mischief dune; \"isna there Lucy to the fore, lookin as weel an' as\nhealthy as ever I saw her, an'\"----\n\n\"Lucy's married!\" interposed Mrs. Craig, firmly and solemnly.\n\n\"Married!\" exclaimed I, starting frae my seat, in horror an'\namazement--\"Lucy married!\"\n\n\"'Deed is she, Mr. Smith, an' yon was her husband ye saw; an' ye canna\nblame her, puir thing! I'm sure mony a sair heart she had after ye. I\nthocht she wad hae gratten her een oot; but, bein sure ye were dead, an'\na guid offer comin in the way, ye ken, she couldna refuse't. It wad hae\nbeen the heicht o' imprudence. Sae she juist dried her een, puir thing,\nan' buckled to.\"\n\n\"Exactly, Mrs. Craig--exactly,\" said I, here interruptin her; \"I\nunderstan ye--ye need sae nae mair.\" An' I rushed oot o' the door like a\nmadman, an' through the streets, withoot kennin either what I was doin\nor whar I was gaun. On recovering my composure a little, I fand mysel in\nthe Green o' Glasgow, an' close by the river side. The clear, calm, deep\nwater tempted me, in the desperation o' my thochts. Ae plunge, an' a'\nthis distractin turmoil that was rackin my soul, an' tearin my bosom\nasunder, wad be stilled. In this frame o' mind, I gazed gloomily on the\nglidin stream; but, as I gazed, better thochts gradually presented\nthemsels, an' finally, resentment took the place o' despondency, whan I\nreflected on the heartless haste o' Lucy to wed anither, thereby\nconvincin me that, in losin her, my loss was by nae means great. So\nthen, to mak a lang story short, in place o' jumpin into the Clyde, I\nhied me to a tavern, ate as hearty a supper as ever I ate in my life,\ndrank a guid, steeve tumbler o' toddy, tumbled into bed, sleepit as\nsound as a caterpillar in winter, an' awoke next mornin as fresh as a\ndaisy an' as licht as a lark, free frae a' concern aboot Lucy, an'\nperfectly satisfied that I had acted quite richt in no droonin mysel on\nthe previous nicht.\n\nHavin noo got quit o' my love affairs, my first business, next day, was\nto ca' on the mercantile firm alluded to in another part o' the\nnarrative; and to their countin-hoose I accordingly directed my\nsteps--and thae steps, when I entered their premises, were a wee\nhaughty, for I felt at once the strength o' the money in my pouch, and a\nsense o' havin been ill-used by them. On enterin the countin-hoose, I\nfand the principal there alane, seated at a desk.\n\nThis gentleman I knew personally, and he kent me too; for I had\nfrequently ca'ed at his office in the way o' business, and on these\noccasions he had aye come forrit to me wi' extended hand and a smilin\ncountenance. On the present, however, he did naething o' the kind. He\nsat still, and, lookin sternly at me as I approached him--\n\n\"Well, Mr. Smith,\" he said, \"are ye come to settle that account? Short\naccounts make long friends, you know,\" he added, but wi' a sort o'\nferocious smile, if there be such a thing.\n\n\"I wad like first to ken, sir,\" I replied, \"what was the meanin o' yer\nwritin us sic a letter as we had frae ye the ither day?\"\n\n\"Why, Mr. Smith,\" said Mr. Drysdale, which was the gentleman's name,\n\"under the peculiar circumstances of the case, I don't see there was\nanything in that letter that ought to have surprised you. It was a\nperfectly natural and reasonable effort on our part to recover our own.\"\n\n\"A reasonable effort, sir, to recover your own!\" said I indignantly.\n\"What do you mean? My faither has dealt wi' ye these twenty years, and I\ndon't suppose ye ever fand it necessary to mak ony effort to recover\nyour money oot o' his hands. I rather think ye were aye paid withoot\naskin.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, yes,\" replied Mr. Drysdale, doggedly; \"but I repeat that\nrecent circumstances have altered the case materially.\"\n\n\"What circumstances do ye allude to, sir?\" said I, wi' increasin\npassion.\n\n\"What circumstances, sir, do I allude to?\" replied Mr. Drysdale,\nfiercely. \"I don't suppose you required to come here for that\ninformation; but you shall have it nevertheless, since you ask it.\" And,\nproceeding to a file of newspapers, he detached one, and, throwing it on\nthe desk before me, placed his finger, as Mrs. Craig had done on another\noccasion, on the bankrupt list, and desired me to look at _that_. I did\nso, and read, in this catalogue of unfortunates, the name of \"William\nSmith, merchant, ----. Creditors to meet,\" &c. &c.\n\n\"Now, sir,\" said Mr. Drysdale, with a triumphant sneer, \"are you\nsatisfied?\"\n\n\"Perfectly, sir,\" I replied; \"but you will please to observe that that\nWilliam Smith is not my father. He's a totally different person.\"\n\n\"What!\" exclaimed Mr. Drysdale, \"not your father! Who is he, then? I\ndidn't know there was any other William Smith, of any note in trade, in\nyour town. I did not, indeed, look particularly at the designation; but\ntook it for granted it was your father, as, to my certain knowledge,\nmany others have also done.\"\n\n\"Indeed!\" replied I; \"why, that is mair serious. Some steps maun be taen\nto remedy that mischief.\"\n\n\"Without a moment's delay,\" said Mr. Drysdale, who was already a changed\nman. \"Your father must advertise directly, saying he's not the William\nSmith whose name appears in the bankrupt list of such a date. Lose not a\nmoment in doing this, or your credit'll be cracked throughout the three\nkingdoms. It has already suffered seriously here, I can assure you.\"\n\nHaving paid Mr. Drysdale his account, which he wasna noo for\nacceptin--sayin that, if we had the sma'est occasion for the money, to\nuse it freely, without regardin them--and havin thanked him for his\nadvice as to counteracting the evil report that had gane abroad\nrespectin us, I hurried awa to put it in execution; and thinkin it very\nhard to be subjected to a' this trouble sae innocently, and to hae, at\nane and the same time, a pair o' such calamities sae oddly thrust upon\nme, as my ain death, and the bankruptcy o' my faither. However, sae it\nwas. But my business noo was to remedy, as far as possible, the mischief\nthat had been done by the unfounded rumour o' oor insolvency. Wi' this\nview I hastened awa to a newspaper office, to begin the cure by an\nadvertisement; and, in doin this, I had occasion to pass the\ncoach-office whar I had landed the day before. Observin the place, I\nthocht I micht as weel step in and secure my ticket for the following\nday, when it was my intention to return hame. Accordingly, into the\noffice I gaed; and, whan I did sae, I fand the clerk in earnest\nconversation wi' twa men, ane o' whom was busily employed in lookin owre\nthe way-book or register o' passengers' names. They didna at first\nobserve me enter; but, whan they did, there was an instant pause in\ntheir conversation; and I observed the clerk, after he had glanced at\nme, tippin a significant wink to ane, and gently punchin the other wi'\nhis elbow. Then a' three glanced at me. I couldna understand it.\nHowever, I said nothing; thinkin they were settlin some private business\nthegither, and, oot o' guid nature, wad rather wait a minute or twa than\ninterrupt them. But my waiting wasna lang. Before I had been an instant\nin the office, ane o' the men cam roun to whar I was stan'in, and,\nlookin me fiercely in the face, said--\n\n\"What's your name, sir, if you please?\"\n\n\"My name, sir!\" replied I, as angrily--for I thocht the fellow put the\nquestion in a very impertinent sort o' way--\"what business hae ye wi' my\nname?\"\n\n\"Oh, mair than ye're aware o', p'raps,\" says he. \"An' it's a bad sign o'\na man whan he'll no tell his name,\" says he. This touched me to the\nquick, an' I dare say the vagabond kent it wad, an' did it on purpose.\nIt was a wipe at my character which I could by nae means submit to. So\nsays I to him, says I--\n\n\"Freen, ye'll observe that I'm no denyin my name--I'm only disputin yer\nricht to demand it. I'm no ashamed o' my name, sir, although it\ncertainly has cost me some trouble in my day. My name, sir, is William\nSmith--sae mak o't what ye like.\"\n\n\"I should mak a couple o' guineas o't, at the very least,\" said the\nfellow, wi' a smile; and at the same time catchin me by the breast o' my\ncoat, and sayin that I was his prisoner.\n\n\"Prisoner!\" exclaimed I, in amazement, \"prisoner! what do you mean?\"\n\n\"I mean just exactly what I say,\" said the fellow, quite coolly; and,\nthinkin he saw in me some show o' a spirit o' resistance, whilk there\nreally was, he touched me wi' a bit thing like a wean's whistle, and\nwinked to his neebor to come to his assistance, which the latter\nimmediately did, and catched me by the ither breast o' my coat.\n\n\"Come along,\" said baith, now beginnin to drag me wi' them.\n\n\"No a fit,\" said I, resistin, \"till I ken what for I'm used this way.\"\n\n\"Oh! ye don't know, Mr. Innocence!\" said the fellow wha first took hand\no' me; \"not you--you're amazed, an't you? You can't suppose there's such\na thing as fugae warrants out against you! And you can't believe I should\nhave such a thing in my pocket,\" added the scoonril, takin' a piece o'\npaper oot o' his pouch, and haudin't up before my een, but oot o' my\nreach. \"There, my lad, are you satisfied now? That's the thing I walks\nby.\"\n\nThen, havin replaced the paper in his pouch, he went on, but now,\napparently, more for the information of the bystanders (of whom there\nwas, by this time, a considerable number gathered together), than for\nmine.\n\n\"You're apprehended, Mr. Smith, by virtue of a fugae warrant, obtained at\nthe instance of Messrs. Hodgson, Brothers, & Co., on the evidence of two\ncredible witnesses--namely, Robert Smart and Henry Allan--who have\ndeponed that you were going beyond seas; you being indebted to the said\nHodgson, Brothers, & Co., in the sum of L74. 15s. 9d. sterling money.\nThere's cause and ground for yer apprehension, Mr. Smith,\" continued the\nfellow; \"so, no more about it, but come along quietly, and at once, or it\nmay be worse for you.\"\n\n\"I'll see you shot first,\" said I. \"I ken naething aboot your Hodgson,\nBrothers--never heard o' them before. I owe them nae money, nor onybody\nelse, but what I can pay; and I haena, nor ever had, ony intention\nwhatever o' leavin my ain country.\"\n\n\"A' quite natural statement'; these, Mr. Smith,\" said the man wha first\ntook haud o' me; \"but ye'll observe we're no bound to believe them. All\nthat we have to do, is to execute our duty. If you are wronged, you may\nhave your redress by legal process. In the meantime, ye go with us.\" And\nagain the two commenced draggin me oot o' the office.\n\n\"May I be hanged if I do, then!\" said I, passionately; for my blood was\nnoo gettin up. It wad hae been far better for me, in the end, if I had\ntaen things calmly--for I could easily hae proven my identity, and, of\ncourse, the messengers' error in apprehendin me; but my prudence and\npatience baith gave way before the strong feelin o' resentment, which a\nsense o' the injustice I was sufferin had excited.\n\n\"May I be hanged if I do, then!\" said I; and wi' that I hit ane o' the\nfellows a wap on the face that sent him staggerin to the other side o'\nthe office. Havin done this, I turned roun', quick as thocht, and\ncollared the ane that still held by me, a proceedin which was\nimmediately followed by a wrestle o' the most ferocious and determined\ncharacter. I was the stouter man o' the twa, however, and wad sune hae\nlaid my antagonist on the breadth o' his back, but for his neebor, who,\nnow rendered furious by the blow which I had gien him, sprang on me like\na tiger; and, between them I was borne to the groun', the twa fa'in on\nthe tap o' me. Here, again, however, the battle was renewed. I continued\nto kick and box richt and left, wi' a vigour that made me still\nformidable to my enemies; while they, to do them justice, lent me kicks\nand blows in return, that nearly ca'ed the life out o' me. There, then,\nwere we a' three rowin on the floor, sometimes ane uppermost an'\nsometimes anither, wi' oor faces streamin o' blude, and oor coats a'\ntorn in the most ruinous manner. It was an awfu' scene, and such a ane\nas hadna been seen often in that office before, I dare say. As micht be\nexpected, we had a numerous audience, too The office was filled wi'\nfolk, the door was choked up wi' them, and there was an immense crowd in\nthe street, and clusters at the window, a' tryin to get a sicht or a\nknowledge o' what was proceedin within. Baith the commotion and the\nconcourse, in fact, was tremendous--just appallin to look at. But this\nwas a state o' matters that couldna last lang. My assailants havin ca'ed\nin the assistance o' a couple o' great, big, stout fallows o' porters, I\nwas finally pinned to the floor, whan my hauns bein secured by a pair o'\nhandcuffs, I was raised to my feet, again collared by the twa officers,\nand a cry havin been made to clear the road, I was led oot o' the office\nin procession; a messenger on each side o' me, the twa porters ahint,\nand ane before, openin a passage through the crowd, whose remarks, as I\ngaed alang, were highly flatterin to me:--\n\n\"What an awfu'-like ruffian!\" said ane. \"What a murderous-lookin\nscoonril!\" said anither.\n\n\"What's he been doin?\" inquired a third.\n\n\"Robbin the mail-coach,\" answered a fourth; \"and they say he has\nmurdered the guard an' twa passengers.\"\n\n\"Oh! the monster!\" exclaimed an auld wife, whom this piece of accurate\ninformation had reached; \"the savage, bloody monster! Was ever the like\nheard tell o'! The gallows is owre guid for him.\"\n\nIn short, I heard mysel, as I was led alang, charged wi' every crime\nthat human wickedness is capable o', although I perceived that the\nrobbery o' the mail, and the murders o' the guard and passengers, was\nthe favourite and prevailing notion; a notion which, I presumed, had\narisen frae the circumstance o' the row's havin had its origin in a\ncoach office. Some reports hae been waur founded. As to the reflections\non my appearance, I couldna reasonably quarrel wi' them: for, really, it\nwas far frae bein prepossessin; and o' this I was quite sensible. My\ncoat was hingin in tatters aboot me; my hat was crushed oot o' a' shape;\nand my face was hideously disfigured wi' blude, and wi' unnatural\nswellins frae the blows I had gotten.\n\nWi' the reflections on my appearance, then, as I hae said, greatly\nimproved as it was by the display o' my handcuffs, I couldna justly fin'\nfaut. By-and-by, however, we reached the jail; and into ane o' its\nstrongest and best secured apartments was I immediately conducted. Havin\nseen me fairly lodged here, my captors took their leave o' me; ane o'\nthem sayin, as he quitted the cell, and shakin his head as he spoke--\n\n\"If ye don't rue this job, friend, my name's not what it is--that's\nall.\"\n\nThe door bein noo closed on me, an' a fine opportunity bein thus\npresented me for indulgin in a little reflection on my present\ncircumstances an' situation, I accordingly began to do so; but I fand it\nby nae means a very agreeable employment. Amang ither things, it struck\nme that I had exposed mysel' sadly, and very unnecessarily, since I\ncould easily, as I believe I hae before remarked, hae shown that they\nhad put the saddle on the wrong horse; but I had allowed my passion to\nget the better o' me, an' instead o' takin the richt and prudent course\no' establishin this by a quiet procedure, had resisted, an' foucht like\na thief taen in the fact. However, the business was noo hoo to mend the\nmatter, an' it was some time before I could discover precisely hoo this\nwas to be done--at least wi' a' that expedition I wad hae liked. At last\nit struck me that I couldna do better than intimate my situation to Mr.\nDrysdale, an' request o' him to come an' see me. This, then, I\nimmediately did--the jailor furnishin me wi' paper, pen, an' ink, an'\nundertakin to have my letter delivered as directed, which was faithfully\nexecuted; for, in less than half-an-hour, Mr. Drysdale, laughin' like to\nsplit his sides, entered my cell.\n\n\"What's this, Mr. Smith?--what's this has happened ye, man?\" said he,\nwhen the laughing would let him speak. \"Ye see what it is to hae a bad\nname. I tell't ye there was mair than me mistaen aboot this affair. It's\na most unlucky name yours.\"\n\n\"Confound the name, sir!\" said I. \"It's like to be baith the ruin an'\nthe death o' me. But what can I do? I canna get quit o't, an' maun just\nfecht oot wi't the best way I can.\"\n\nI wasna at first a'thegither in such a laughin humour as my visitor, yet\nI couldna help joinin him in the lang run, whan we took twa or three\nguid roun's o't, an' then proceeded to business. Mr. Drysdale said he\nwad bail me to ony amount, if that were necessary to my immediate\nliberation; but proposed that he should, in the first place, call on\nHodgson, Brothers, whom he knew intimately, an' state the case to them.\nThis he accordingly did; an', in aboot a quarter o' an hour, returned to\nme in the jail, wi' ane o' thae gentlemen alang wi' him. Mr. Hodgson\nexpressed the utmost concern for what had happened, an' offered me ony\nreasonable recompense I might name for the injury an' detention to which\nI had been subjected. This, however, I declined, but expressed a wish\nthat the messengers wha had apprehended me micht be keel-hauled a bit\nfor the rashness o' their proceedins.\n\n\"As to that, Mr. Smith,\" said Mr. Hodgson, smilin, \"I think you had as\nwell 'let a-be for let a-be' there. They have been sadly mauled by you,\nI understand, and it strikes me to be a drawn battle between you.\"\n\n\"Weel, weel,\" said I, laughin, \"e'en let it be sae, then; but the\nscoonrils ocht to be mair carefu' wha they lay their hands on.\"\n\n\"They ought, no doubt,\" said Mr. Hodgson; \"but, in this case there was\nreally some excuse for them. Our debtor, whom I dare say you know very\nwell, is a young man of the name of William Smith--a grocer in your own\ntown, who began business there some months ago. Now, he has failed, as I\ndare say you know, also--has shut shop--swindled his creditors--and fled\nthe country. This was the fellow we wanted to catch; and, you being from\nthe same place, of the same name, and of, as I take it, about the same\nage, it is really no great wonder that the men were deceived.\"\n\nI allowed that it was not; but said it was rather hard that the sins o'\na' the Willie Smiths in the country should be visited on my shouthers.\n\"There's no a piece o' villany done by, nor a misfortune happens to a\nWillie Smith,\" said I, \"but it's fastened on me. It's really hard.\"\n\nMy twa visitors laughingly admitted the hardship o' the case, but\nadvised me to be as patient under't as I could--a wishy-washy aneuch\nsort o' advice; but it was a', I dare say, they had to offer.\n\nI need hardly say that the jail doors were noo instantly thrown open to\nme, nor that I lost nae time in availin mysel' o' the liberty to which\nthey invited. The first thing I did on gettin oot was to provide mysel\nwi' a new coat and hat; for, until this was done, I wasna in a fit state\nto be seen, an' couldna think o' walkin the streets in the torn-down and\nblackguard lookin condition in which my captors had left me. Havin,\nhowever, improved my outward man a little, and brushed up my face a\nbit--but on which, notwithstandin a' I could do, there continued to\nremain some ugly traces o' my late adventure--I thocht I couldna do\nbetter, as I had noo a lang idle evenin before me, than ca' on twa or\nthree auld and intimate acquaintances o' our family that resided in\nGlasgow. In pursuance o' this resolution, I began wi' some decent folks\no' the name o' Robertson, distant relations o' our ain, and from whom I\nhad, on the occasion o' former visits, o' which I had made twa or three,\nmet wi' the most kind an' cordial welcome; and o' this I naturally\nexpected a repetition in the present instance. What was my surprise and\nmortification, then, whan I fand it quite the reverse--most markedly\nsae!\n\n\"Oh, William, is that you!\" said Mrs. Robertson, drily, and wi' a degree\no' stiffness and cauldness in her manner which I couldna understan'.\n\"_Will_ ye stap in a bit?\" she added, hesitatingly and evidently wi'\nreluctance. Weel, she used to fling her arms aboot me, and pu' me in.\nBut it was noo, \"_Will_ ye step in?\" I did, but sune saw there was\nsomething wrang; but what it was I couldna conjecture. I overheard her\nhusband and dochters _refusin_ Mrs. Robertson's request to them to come\nben and see me. They used to a' rush aboot me, like a torrent. In short,\nI perceived that I was a very unwelcome visitor, and that a speedy\nretreat on my part wad be highly approved of. Amongst other hints o'\nthis, was Mrs. Robertson's scarcely speakin three words to me a' the\ntime I sat wi' her, and no makin ony offer o' the sma'est refreshment.\nHer behaviour to me was a'thegither exceedinly strange and mysterious;\nbut what struck me as maist singular, was her aye speakin o' my faither\nwi' a compassionatin air. \"Puir, puir man!\" she wad say; \"Gude help us!\nit's a weary warl' this! Ane canna tell what their weans are to come to.\nMuckle grief and sorrow, I'm sure, do they bring to parents' hearts.\"\nThese truths bein obvious and general, I couldna deny them, although I\nwas greatly at a loss to see ony particular occasion for advertin to\nthem at the time. Wearied oot at length wi' Mrs. Robertson's truisms,\nand disgusted wi' her incivility and uncourteous manner to me, I took up\nmy hat, and decamped, wi' as little ceremony as I had been received. I\nwas, in truth, baith provoked and perplexed by her extraordinary\ntreatment o' me, and couldna at a' conjecture to what it could be owin.\n\nBut let the reader fancy, if he can, what was my surprise when I fand\nmysel' treated in almost precisely the same way in every ither hoose at\nwhich I ca'ed subsequently to this. There was, in every instance, the\nsame astonishment expressed at seein me, the same cauldness exhibited,\nand the same mysterious silence maintained durin my visit. I was\nperfectly confounded at it; but couldna, of course, ask ony explanation,\nas there was naething sae palpably oot o' joint as to admit o't. Havin\nmade my roun' o' ca's wi' the success and comfort I hae mentioned, I\nreturned to my quarters, and, orderin a tumbler o' toddy, sat down\namongst a heap o' newspapers, to amuse mysel' the best way I could till\nbedtime. The first paper I took up was a Glasgow one, published that\nday. I skimmed it ower till I cam to a paragraph wi' the followin takin\ntitle--\"Desperate Ruffian.\" This catched my e'e at ance; for I was aye\nfond o' readin aboot desperate ruffians, and horrible accidents, and\natrocious murders, &c. &c. \"So,\" says I to mysel', \"here's a feast.\" And\nI threw up my legs on the firm on which I was seated, drew the candle\nnearer me, took a mouthfu' oot o' my tumbler, and made every\npreparation, in short, for a quiet, deliberate, comfortable read; and\nthis I got, to my heart's content. The paragraph, which began wi'\n\"Desperate Ruffian,\" went on thus:--\n\n\"This morning, a scene, at once one of the most disgraceful and\nludicrous which we have witnessed for some time, took place in one of\nthe coach-offices of this city. A fellow of the name of William Smith, a\nyoung man of about twenty-three or twenty-four years of age, from ----,\nwho is charged with various acts of swindling, and is well known as a\nperson of infamous character, was apprehended on a fugae warrant, by our\ntwo active criminal officers, Messrs. Rob and Ramage, in the ----\ncoach-office, just as he was about to take out a ticket for Greenock,\nwhither he intended to proceed for the purpose of embarking for America\nwith his ill-got gains. The ruffian, on being first apprehended, denied\nhis name; but, finding this not avail him, he violently assaulted the\nofficers in the execution of their duty, and, being a powerful man, it\nwas not until those very deserving men had suffered severely in their\npersons, and obtained the aid of the bystanders, that he was finally\nsecured. This, however, was ultimately accomplished, when the fellow\nbeing securely handcuffed, was conducted to jail, and lodged in one of\nthe strongest cells, where he will, of course, remain until brought to\ntrial. There is a rumour that Smith has been concerned in some late\ncoach robbery; but we have heard no particulars, and cannot vouch for\nits truth, although, from his appearance, we should suppose him to be\nperfectly capable of anything.\"\n\nWeel, guid reader, what do ye think o' that? Wasna that a pretty morsel\nfor me to swallow? It is true that I needna hae felt very uneasy aboot\nthe description o' a character that didna belang to me; but it maun be\nobserved that there was here that mixture o' fact and fiction which, in\ncases o' rumour, it is sae difficult to separate. Moreover, I was\ncertainly the person spoken o', however erroneously represented; there\nwas nae denyin that. I was mingled up wi' the business, and the very\nprocess o' establishin my innocence was certain to gie me a most\nunpleasant notoriety; and was likely, besides, no to be in every case\nsuccessful. In short, I fand, tak it ony way I liked, that it couldna be\nreckoned otherwise than as a most unlucky affair. It was noo, too, that\nI began to smell a rat regardin the treatment I had met wi' frae the\ndifferent acquaintances I had ca'ed upon. They had either seen the\nparagraph which I hae just quoted, or had heard o't. The same belief\nexplained to me the cause o' Mrs. Robertson's reflections on the risin\ngeneration o' mankind, and her extraordinary sympathy for my father.\nThere could be nae doot o't--and thus was the mystery solved. Of this I\nwas still further satisfied, when, on takin up anither Glasgow paper o'\nthe same day, I fand that it also contained an account o' the mornin's\naffair. The twa paragraphs were, on the whole, pretty much alike in\nsubstance; but, in the second ane, there were twa or three incidental\ncircumstances mentioned that added to the interest o' the story\nconsiderably.\n\nSuch, then, was the readin wi' which I beguiled the time on the evenin\no' which I am speakin; an' I leave it to the reader o' thae pages to\njudge hoo far it was calculated to soothe my previously harassed\nfeelins, an' to afford me the relaxation an' amusement I sought, an' o'\nwhich I had sae much need. At first, I resolved on takin every possible\npublic an' private measure that could be commanded to counteract the\nevil reports, o' ae kind an' anither, under which baith mysel personally\nan' my family were labourin. I thocht on gaun roun to a' the\nacquaintances on whom I had just been ca'in, an' explainin to them the\nreal state o' the case; an' then followin up this proceedin wi' ca'in on\nthe editors o' the twa papers in which the injurious statements had\nappeared, an' requestin, nay, insistin, on their puttin in a true\nversion o' the story, at the same time carefully markin my identity, an'\nseparatin me frae a' discreditable transactions, of every kind, degree,\nan' character whatsoever. A' this I thocht o' doin, I say; but, on\nreflection, I changed my mind, an' determined no to gie mysel ony such\ntrouble, but just to let things tak their course, an' trust to my ain\nconduct, an' the weel-kent respectability o' my faither, for the guid\nopinion o' the warld. Anent the rumour o' oor bankruptcy, however, I\nthocht there could be nae harm in puttin in an advertisement or twa,\ncontradictory o't; an' this was accordingly done, in the following brief\nterms:--\n\n\"William Smith, hosier, ----, begs to inform his friends and the\npublic, that he is not the same person whose name appears in the\nbankrupt list published in the ---- newspaper of the 15th inst. All\nclaims on the advertiser will be paid, on demand, at his shop.\"\n\nThis advertisement I handed into the offices o' twa Glasgow papers that\nsame nicht, an' next mornin saw me safely perched on the tap o' the\ncoach for oor ain place, glad that a' my misadventures were owre, an'\nthat I was soon to be at hame again; for I was sick o' Glasgow--an' the\nreader will allow no withoot some reason. The coach on which I was\nmounted was just aboot to start, the driver had taen the reins in his\nhand, an' the guard was strugglin to get up the last trunk, whan the\nwaiter o' the inn in which I had been stoppin, an' which was at the head\no' a prodigiously lang close, just at the startin-place, cam rinnin up,\nan' cried, lookin at the same time at the passengers--\n\n\"Is there a Mr. Smith here?\"\n\nI expected that half-a-dozen at least wad hae owned the name; but, to my\nsurprise, there was no Mr. Smith amang them, but mysel.\n\n\"They ca' me Smith, my man--what is it?\" said I, wi' a suspicious look;\nfor I noo stood greatly in awe o' my ain name--no bein sure what\nmischief it micht lead me into.\n\n\"There's a gentleman up in the hoose wants to see you directly,\" said\nthe lad.\n\n\"But I canna go till him, man--ye see the coach is just gaun to start,\"\nsaid I.\n\n\"Ay, but he says that's o' nae consequence. Ye maun come till him. He\nhas something o' importance to say to ye.\"\n\nThinkin it wasna advisable to slight a message o' sae pressin a nature,\nan' curious to ken wha it was that could be wantin me, an' what he could\nbe wantin me for, I leaped down, resolvin to mak my legs, which were gay\nan' lang an' souple anes, save my distance, an' havin nae doubt they\nwad, critical as the case was. I up the close like a shot, an' into the\nhoose; but, though _I_ was in a hurry, the waiter wha had come for me\nwas in nane. He didna appear for five minutes after; an', as he was the\nonly person wha kent onything aboot a message bein sent after me, I had\nto wait his return, before I could find oot the person wha wanted me.\nThis, however, he noo effected for me; but not before a good deal mair\ntime was lost. The gentleman who wished to see me was dressin; so I was\nshewn into a room, while the waiter went to inform him o' my arrival. In\na minute or twa after--durin which I was dancin aboot in a fever of\nimpatience, for fear o' losin the coach--the door o' the apartment flew\nopen, an' a laughin, joyous-lookin fellow, with a loud \"Aha, Bob!\" an'\nextended hand, rushed in; but he didna rush far. The instant he got his\nee fairly on me, he stopped short, an', lookin as grave's a rat, bowed\npolitely, an' said he was exceedingly sorry to perceive that he had\ncommitted a gross mistake.\n\n\"The fact is, my dear sir,\" he said, becomin again affable, to\nreconcile me, I suppose, to the unfortunate blunder, an' speakin wi'\ngreat volubility, \"my name is Smith, which, I suppose, is yours too,\nsir. I'm from London. Now, you see, my dear sir, my brother Bob, who\nlives in Ireland, and whom I haven't seen for some years, was to have\nmet me here last night, agreeably to arrangements made by letter, and we\nwere to have gone this morning, as it were, by the same coach in which\nyou were going, to visit some friends in that part of the country to\nwhich it runs. Well, you see, I arrived here only this morning early;\nbut the first thing I did was to inquire if there was a Mr. Smith in the\nhouse, and I was distinctly told by the rascal of a waiter that there\nwas no person of that name. Well, what does the fellow do, but come\nrunning to my bedside, a little ago, and tells me that there _had been_\na Mr. Smith in the house over night, and that he was at that moment on\nthe top of the ---- coach. Well, my dear sir, did not I immediately and\nvery naturally conclude that this Mr. Smith must be my brother! And thus\nhas this unlucky mistake happened. 'Pon my honour, I am most sorry for\nit--exceedingly sorry, indeed.\"\n\nBein naturally o' a very placable disposition, I didna say much in reply\nto this harangue; but, mutterin something aboot there bein nae help\nfor't, rushed oot o' the hoose, an' down the confounded lang close, as\nfast as my legs could carry me, and that was pretty fast; but no fast\naneuch to catch the coach. It was aff an' awa, mony a lang minute afore.\n\n\"Aweel,\" said I, on discoverin this, \"but this does beat cock-fechtin!\nWhat, in heaven's name, am I to do wi' this unfortunate patronymic o'\nmine? It's crossin me wi' mischief o' ae kind or anither at every step.\nI suppose I'll be hanged in a mistake next. That'll be the end o't. I'll\nchange't, if I leeve to get hame--I'll change't, let what like be the\nconsequence, or I'll hae an _alias_ added till't, before waur comes o't;\nfor this'll never do.\"\n\nIn such reflections as thae did I expend the impatient feelin that the\nloss o' the coach, an' the recollection o' certain ither sma' incidents,\nwith which the reader is acquainted, had gien rise to. But little guid\nthey did me; an' this I at length fand oot. Sae I just gied a bit smile\nto mysel, an' made up my mind to wait patiently for the next coach,\nwhich started the same nicht, though at a pretty late hour. Late as that\nhour was, however, it cam roun, an', whan it did, it fand me, withoot\nhavin met wi' ony ither misfortune in the interim, mounted again on the\ntap o' a coach. This time I was allowed to keep my seat in peace. The\ncoach drove awa, an' me alang wi't; an', in twal hours thereafter, I\nfand mysel in my faither's hoose, safe and soun', after a' that had\nhappened me.\n\nShortly after the occurrences which I have just related, my puir faither\ndeparted this life, and I, as his only son and heir, succeeded to a' his\npossessions--stock, lock, and barrel; and I now only wanted a wife to\ncomplete my establishment, and fix my position in society. This,\nhowever, didna remain lang a desideratum wi' me. A wife I got, and as\nguid a ane as ever man was blessed wi'; but it was rather a curious sort\no' way that I got her. Ae nicht, pretty late, in the summer o' the year\n1796, a rather smart rap comes to our door. We were a' in bed--mother,\nservant lass, and a'; but, on hearin't, I bangs up, on wi' my claes,\nlichts a cannle, and opens the door. On doing this, then, I sees a\nporter loaded wi' trunks and bandboxes, and behint him a very pretty,\ngenteel-lookin young woman.\n\n\"Here's a frien o' yours come to see you, frae Edinburgh,\" says the\nporter, whom I kent weel aneuch; and wi' this the young leddy comes\nforward, wi' a licht step, and ane o' the prettiest smiles I ever saw;\nand, says she, haudin oot her haun to me--\n\n\"Ye'll no ken me, Mr. Smith, I dare say?\"\n\n\"No, indeed, mem,\" says I--\"I do not.\"\n\n\"I'm a cousin o' yours,\" said she--\"Margaret Smith, and a dochter o'\nyour uncle William's.\"\n\n\"Frae Edinburgh,\" said I, takin her cordially by the haun, and leadin\nher into the parlour.\n\n\"The same,\" said she smilin again; \"and I'm just come doun to spend a\nday or twa wi' ye, if ye hae room for me, and winna think me owre\ntroublesome.\"\n\n\"Room!\" said I--\"plenty o' room; and, as for trouble, dinna mention\nthat.\" And I assisted my fair cousin to remove her shawl and other haps.\nThis cousin, I may mention by the way, I had never seen before; and\nneither had she ever seen ony o' us, although we knew perfectly weel o'\neach other's existence. But this within parentheses.\n\nHavin seen my pretty cousin--for she was really a bonny-lookin and\nmodest creature--made so far comfortable, I ran joyfully to my mother,\nto inform her o' oor acquisition. My mother, who had never seen her\neither, was delighted wi' the intelligence, and instantly rose to\nwelcome her. The servant was roused oot o' her bed, a little supper\nprepared, and some delightful hours we spent together. I was charmed wi'\nmy fair cousin; so intelligent, so lively, so sensible, so\naccomplished--so much o' everything, in short, that was captivatin in a\nyoung and beautifu' woman. Nor was my mother less delighted wi' her than\nI was. There were, indeed, some things spoken o' in the course o'\nconversation between my mother, and oor guest, and I, relatin to family\naffairs, in which we couldna somehow or other come to a distinct\nunderstandin. There was something like cross-purposes between us; and I\nobserved that my fair cousin was extraordinary ignorant o' a' matters\nconcerning us, and o' the circumstances o' a number o' oor mutual\nrelations. But this neither my mother nor I thought much o', either. It\nwas just sae like a bit lively thochtless lassie, wha couldna be\nexpected to hae either the genealogy of a' her friends, or their\nparticular callins or residences, at her finger ends. However, as I said\nbefore, we spent a pleasant evening thegither; and this followed by\neight as pleasant days, durin which time our fair guest continued to\nmake rapid progress in the affections o' baith my mother and me;\nalthough, of course, the regard she excited was somewhat different in\nits nature in the twa cases. In mine it was love--in my mother's esteem.\nBut a' this was to hae a sudden and curious termination. At the end o'\nthe eight days above alluded to, happenin to tak up a newspaper, I was\nattracted by an advertisement bearing the following highly interesting\ntitle--\"Young Lady Missing.\" I read on, and found, to my amazement, that\nthe young lady was no other than my fair cousin. The notice stated, that\nshe had gone down to ----, to visit some relations; had left Edinburgh,\nby the ---- coach, on the mornin of the 10th, and had been safely set\ndown at ----; but that her relations there had seen nothing of her, and\nthat no trace of her could since be found. The advertisement concluded\nby offering a handsome reward to any one who could give any such\ninformation as might lead to a discovery of the young lady, either to\nMr. William Smith, haberdasher, ----, or to Mr. William Smith, No. 19,\nLavender Street, Edinburgh.\n\nHere, then, was a queer business. But, bein now somewhat accustomed to\nthae things, I was at nae loss to discover the meanin o't. The young\nlady wasna my cousin at a'--she had come to the wrang shop. She was a\nniece o' Willie Smith the haberdasher's--and there was the mystery\nsolved at ance. It turned oot precisely sae. There was an awfu kick-up,\nand an awfu rejoicin, and shakin o' hands, and writin o' letters, and\nsae forth, after I had announced to the different parties how the matter\nstood, and brocht them thegither. But I wasna gaun to lose my fair\ncousin this way. I followed her to Willie Smith's, whar I was a welcome\naneuch guest, and availed mysel to the full o' the advantages which a\ncurious chance had thrown in my way, by eventually makin her my wife;\nand, as I said before, a most admirable one she made, and still maks, as\nshe is sittin by my elbow at this present writin.\n\nNoo, guid reader, sae far hae I brocht the story o' my life, or\nperhaps, rather o' my unfortunate name, (no a'thegither so unfortunate\neither, since it helped me to sic a wife,) and I maun stop; but it's for\nwant o' room, and, I assure you, no for want o' matter. What I hae\ntell't ye is no a tithe o' the sufferings I hae endured through this\nunhappy patronymic o' mine. In truth, it was but the beginnin o' them.\nThe rest I may relate to ye on some future day. In the meantime, guid\nreader, I bid ye fareweel, wi' a sincere houp that yer name's no Willie\nSmith.\n\n\n\n\nTHE PROFESSOR'S TALES.\n\nPHEBE FORTUNE.\n\n\nI have now been upwards of forty years minister of the parish of C----.\nSoon after I became minister, I stumbled one morning upon a small parcel\nlying in a turnip field adjoining the manse. It appeared to me at first\nto be a large hedgehog; but, upon further investigation, I found that it\nwas a seemingly new-born infant, wrapt carefully up in warm flannel, and\ndressed in clothes which indicated anything but extreme poverty. There\nwas a kirk-road through the turnip field--my wonted passage to my glebe\nland every morning; and the infant had manifestly been deposited with a\nreference to my habits. I could not possibly miss seeing it--it lay\ncompletely across my path--a road almost untrod by anybody save myself.\n\nAs I happened to have a young, and a pretty large--or, in other phrase,\nsmall--family of my own, I hesitated at first how to proceed; but a\nmoment's reflection taught me the necessity of acting rather than of\nthinking; and I gathered up the little innocent in my arms, and hastened\nback, with all possible speed, to the manse. The little hands of the\nhelpless existence were moving backwards and forwards, up and down; and\nits lips plainly indicated a desire for its natural beverage.\n\n\"Bless me!\" said my dear wife, as I entered; \"bless me, my dear, what's\nthat you are bringing us?\"\n\n\"It's a child,\" said I; \"an infant--beautiful as day--only look at it.\"\n\n\"None of your nonsense,\" said spousie, looking somewhat archly in my\nface. \"I'm sure, ye ken, we hae mae weans than we hae meat for already.\nBut where in all the world did you pick up this sweet little\ndarling?\"--for, by this time, my wife had opened the flannel coverings,\nand examined the features of the young stranger carefully.\n\nMy second youngest girl, about four years of age, had joined us, and,\nfalling down on her knees, kissed the foundling's cheeks all over. In\nfact, the news spread all over the manse in less than no time; and I had\nmy two eldest boys--then preparing for school--my eldest daughter, and\nthe two maid-servants, all tumbling into the parlour in a world of\namazement. My wife, however, having recovered from her first surprise\nand burst of natural affection, began, very naturally, to speculate\nabout the parentage of the uninvited visitant. She examined its dress;\nand, amongst other discoveries, found a piece of paper attached to the\nbody of the frock, inscribed with these words, in a plain printed\nhand--\"I am not what I seem. My name is Phebe.\" On searching a little\nmore particularly, a hundred-pound note was found stitched into a small\npurse or bag, suspended from the infant's neck. We were all amazement.\nMy wife was all at once persuaded that the infant must be the offspring\nof some lady of high quality, and that, by keeping her in our family, we\nshould be absolutely enriched by presents of hundred-pound notes every\nother morning. She seemed to look upon poor Phebe as the philosopher's\nstone, and thought that gold would, in future, be as plentiful in our\nhouse as brass coinage had hitherto been. But who could be the mother of\nthis pretty, sweet, dear, darling, lovely child? Could it be--and she\nwhispered me knowingly in the ear; but I shook my head, and looked\nequally knowing. Could it be Lady M----? I looked incredulity, and my\nwife pushed her speculations no further. By this time my oldest daughter\nhad arranged Phebe's dress, and made all snug; and the poor little\ninfant gave audible intimation of a desire for food. What was to be\ndone? This question occupied us for about a quarter of an hour, when we\nat last recollected that Lord C----'s gardener's wife had yesterday\nburied her infant. She was immediately sent for, and, having no children\nof her own, agreed, after some persuasion and the promise of a handsome\nreward, to suckle poor Phebe. It was, indeed, beautifully interesting to\nobserve how Phebe's little hands wandered over the source of her\nsustenance, and seemed to say, as plainly as hands could speak it, \"I\nhave you now, and will not part with you again.\" Phebe grew--opened her\nsweet blue eyes--smiled--and won all hearts in the course of a month.\nBut she was still a heathen, or, in other words, unbaptised; and, after\nconsulting the session, whom I advertised of all the circumstances, it\nwas agreed that the gardener's wife should take the vows, and name the\nchild. We all wept at the christening; there was something so unusual\nand overpowering, so mysterious and exciting, in the whole transaction.\nMy wife suggested that she should be called \"Phebe Monday,\" that being\nthe day on which she was found; but, somehow or other, I disliked the\ncombination of sounds exceedingly; and at last, at the suggestion of the\nnurse-mother, we affixed Fortune to her Christian designation; and,\nafter the ceremony, which was performed in the gardener's house, we\ndrank a glass of ginger wine to the health and long life of little Phebe\nFortune, the foundling. Through the kindness of Lord C----, I had the\nprivilege of walking when I chose in his extensive gardens and\npleasure-grounds, which were in my parish, and adjoining to the manse;\nand it was on one of the smooth-rolled grass walks of this garden that I\nconducted little Phebe's first steps, when she put down her little foot\nfor the first time, and stood almost erect on the grass. Oh, how the\nlittle doll screamed and chuckled as she tumbled over and rolled about;\never and anon stretching out her little hand, and asking, as it were, my\nassistance in aiding her inexperience and weakness. However, \"_Tentando\nfimus fabri_,\" by effort, frequently repeated, success is at last\nsecured; and Phebe at last flew off from me like an arrow, and, like an\narrow, too, alighted head foremost on the soft sward. Phebe won all\nhearts when she began to syllable people's names. Me she called\n\"minny-man;\" my wife, \"minny-man-minny;\" and her own nurse, \"mother, ma,\nma, bonny ma! guid ma!\" Year rolled on after year, and little Phebe was\nthe talk of all the country round. People passing on the highroad\nstopped and spoke to her. Phebe used often to visit the manse, and to\nplay with my youngest daughter, only a few months younger than herself,\nwhilst I have often sat in my elbow chair, called in the family \"Snug,\"\nand said to myself, \"I am sure I cannot tell which of these children I\nam most attached to.\" All the features and properties of little Phebe\nwere aristocratic: beautiful feet and anckles; small, little plump\nhands, and finely-tapered fingers; an eye of the purest water and the\nmost noble expression, beaming through a curtain of deep blue, under a\ncanopy of the finest auburn; a brow, nose, lips, and chin, all\nexquisitely formed and proportioned. No child in the neighbourhood could\nbe compared with Phebe. Even my wife, prejudiced as she naturally was in\nfavour of her own offspring, used sometimes to say--\"Our Jessie looks\nwell enough; but that child Phebe is a pear of another tree.\" To this I\nreadily assented, as I had no inclination to hint either the identity of\nthe tree or the affinity of the fruit.\n\nOne day I was walking with little Phebe (who had now attained her\nseventh year, and exhausted the last penny of the hundred pounds) in my\nown little garden--we were quite alone, when the girl all at once\nstopped her playfulness (for she was now a very lark), and, taking a\nhold of my hand, pulled me gently, nothing loath, into an adjoining\nlittle arbour: after I was seated, and Phebe had taken her wonted\nstation betwixt my knees, reserving either knee for future convenience,\nthe little angel looked up in my face so innocently and so sweetly,\nsaying--\n\n\"You are Jessie's pa, are not you?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I replied, \"my dear child, I am.\"\n\n\"But where is my pa? have I no pa? Gardener says you know all about it.\"\n\nI regretted exceedingly that anything should have passed betwixt the\nfoster-parents and their charge upon the subject; but, since it was so,\nI judged it best at once to tell the child the truth, the whole truth,\nand nothing but the truth. Phebe looked me most intently in the face as\nI proceeded; and when I had finished by kissing her, and assuring her\nthat whilst I lived she should never want a pa, the poor dear burst into\ntears, exclaiming, in an accent of complete misery--\n\n\"No pa! no ma! Everybody has pa's and ma's but Phebe. Dear, dear\nminny\"--a term by which she still addressed me--\"can you not tell me\nanything about my own ma?\"\n\nI assured her that I could not, having not the least information on the\nsubject.\n\n\"Maybe she's dead\"--and here again her feelings overcame her, and she\nlaid her head on my knee, with all its luxuriant tresses; and I felt the\ntears warm on my person.\n\nFrom this day Phebe Fortune became a different child. Even at an\nearly age she had learned to think; but had been hitherto very averse to\nlearning, or school education. She was henceforth diligent and\nattentive, making rapid progress in reading, writing, and accounts. Her\nfoster-mother taught her sewing; and little Phebe, by the time she was\neleven years old, was quite accomplished in all the necessary and useful\nparts of a female education. But, alas! the instability of human\naffairs!--poor Phebe caught a fever, which she communicated to her\nfoster-mother, and which occasioned _her_ death in a few weeks, whilst\nPhebe slowly recovered. The gardener's heart was broken--he had long\nbeen subject to occasional fits of low spirits. Whether from accident or\nnot was never fully ascertained, nor even closely investigated; but he\nwas found one morning drowned, in a pond of water which ornamented the\neast corner of the garden ground. As my own family was numerous, and my\nstipend limited, I behoved to endeavour to place Phebe in some way of\ndoing for herself--still hoping, however, that time ere long would\nwithdraw the veil, and discover the sunny side of Phebe Fortune's\nhistory. Seldom did a carriage pass the manse by the king's highway,\nthat my wife did not conjecture that it might perhaps stop at the bottom\nof the avenue, and emit a fine lady, with fine manners and a genteel\ntongue, to claim our now highly interesting ward. But the perverse\ncarriages persevered in rolling rapidly along, till at last, one fine\nsunny afternoon, one did actually stop, and out stepped the lady,\nmiddle-aged, splendidly attired, and advanced towards our habitation. My\nwife's heart was at her mouth--she ran through the house in a few\nseconds, from bottom to top, had Phebe put into her best attire, and all\ndiligence served upon the dusting and cleaning of carpets and chairs.\nThe lady appeared; but, to my wife's great disappointment, proved to be\nno other than an old pupil of my own, who, in passing, had heard of my\nresidence, and wished kindly to renew an acquaintance interrupted by,\nperhaps, not less than thirty years. Still my wife would not give up the\nnotion that Phebe resembled Lady D---- exceedingly, and that Lady D----\nseemed to eye her with more complacency than any of the rest of the\nchildren. In the course of conversation, I had occasion to acknowledge\nthat the beautiful being whom Lady D---- admired above all the rest of\nmy fine family was a foundling. This led to a detail of the whole\nmatter; and Lady D----, having conversed for a little with Phebe, took\nsuch a liking to the girl that she proposed having her continually about\nher person, as a kind of superior waiting-maid, half menial and half\ncompanion, and to remove her from under our roof on the instant.\nAlthough this was an offer too good and too opportune to be negatived,\nyet we could not think of parting with our darling Phebe on so short a\nwarning; and, after some remonstrances on both sides, it was agreed that\nthe carriage should be sent for Phebe and me on a future day, which was\nnamed, and that I should spend a few days with my old pupil, in her\nrecently acquired and lately inhabited mansion-house of Rosehall, little\nmore than thirty miles distant. The interval which took place betwixt\nthis proposal and its accomplishment was spent in needlework and other\nlittle feminine preparations; and, as the day approached, we all felt as\nif we could have wished that we had rejected the proposal with disdain.\nPhebe was often seen in tears--but she was all resignation, and rejoiced\nthat I was to accompany her, and see her fairly entered. At last the\ndreadful carriage, with its four horses, came into view at the foot of\nour avenue (which, though possessed of a sufficiently imposing\nappellation, was nothing more nor less than a very bad and nearly\nimpassable cart road), and we all began our march to meet the vehicle.\nPromises of future visits were spoken of, and made, and solemnly sworn\nto--a home, house, or manse was declared to Phebe at all times; but,\nparticularly, should she find herself unhappy in her new position; and\nit was with difficulty that I got the now truly lovely, and all but\nwoman, Phebe, torn from the grasp and cling of my daughters, and handed\ninto the splendid and richly-lined chariot.\n\nIn the family of Lady D----, Phebe's duties were at once easy and\nagreeable. She waited upon her mistress's bell in the morning, and was\nsoon taught how to assist at the toilet. During the day, she either read\naloud, whilst her Ladyship reposed after her forenoon's walk or drive,\nor looked after the health and comfort of two favourite lap-dogs. At\nnight, again, she renewed her closet assistance, reading aloud some\nparagraph which she had marked in a newspaper, and detailing such little\ndomestic incidents as came within the range of her somewhat limited\nsphere of observation. Lord D---- was much engaged in public business\n(being lord-lieutenant of the county), and in carrying on some\nagricultural speculations by which he was much engrossed. There were two\nyoung Honourables of the fair sex, and an only son--then attending his\nstudies at Oxford--children of the family. Phebe Fortune was now\nfifteen, and seemed to increase in loveliness, and the most kindly,\nintelligent expression of countenance, daily. Her eyes were heaven's own\n_blue_--\n\n    \"The little halcyon's azure plume\n    Was never half so blue.\"\n\nAnd then, when she spoke or smiled, her countenance was altogether\noverpowering; as well might you have attempted to look steadfastly upon\nthe sun in his midday radiance. Of _her_ far more truly and forcibly\nmight it have been said or sung, than of the \"Lassie wi' the Lint-white\nLocks\"--\n\n    \"She talked, she smiled, my heart she wiled,\n      She charmed my soul, I wat na hoo;\n    But aye the stound, the deadly wound,\n      Cam frae her een sae bonny blue.\"\n\nPhebe, by my own arrangement with Lady D----, was not exposed to any\nintimacy with the servants, male or female. She had her own apartment\nand table; and all the menial duties were performed to her as regularly\nas to any branch of the family. It was soon after my return from a three\nweeks' visit at Rosehall, that I received the following letter from\nPhebe. I got it at the post-office, unknown to any of my family; and I\nkept it, as was my custom when I had anything agreeable to communicate,\ntill after dinner. The board having been cleared, and a tumbler of warm\ntoddy made, my wife's single glass having been filled out, and my\ndaughters having turned them all ear, I proceeded to read the following\nmaiden epistle of Phebe Fortune:--\n\n     \"Dear, dear Papa, and ever dear Mamma, and all my own Sisters\n     dear--I am happy here; Lady D---- is so kind to me; and Lord D----\n     looks very kind too, though he has not spoken to me yet--but then\n     you see he is always engaged; and the honourable young ladies--but\n     I do not think they are quite so kind; and they are so pretty too,\n     and so happy looking! Oh, I wish they would like me! If they would\n     only speak to me now and then as they pass me on the stair; but\n     they only stop and laugh to one another, and then they toss their\n     heads; and I can hear them say something about 'upsetting,' and\n     'mamma's whim, and papa's absurdity.' I'm sure--I'm sure, my dear\n     parents--(for, alas! I have none other, though I dream sometimes\n     that I have, and I feel so happy and delighted, that I always awake\n     crying)--but what was I going to say?--you know I never wrote any\n     letters before, and you will excuse this I know--I could not, I am\n     sure, speak of whim or absurdity in regard to you, my dear\n     benefactors. But I will try never to mind it. Lady D---- is so very\n     kind. I sometimes go out with the little dogs, Poodle and Clara;\n     they are such dear pets, I could take them, and do often take them\n     to my bosom. And then, the other day, when I was sitting playing\n     with Clara and Poodle, beneath the elm tree, the gardener's son\n     passed me, and--no he did not pass, that is to say not all at\n     once--but he stopped, and asked me to take a flower, which he had\n     pulled for me, which I did, and then he offered to show me through\n     the hot houses, but I did not go. My dear mamma, do you think I\n     should have gone? And then he left me; but yesterday a little boy\n     gave me the following letter. And all that the letter contains is\n     this--\n\n         \"If you love me as I love thee,\n         What a loving couple we shall be!\"\n\n     Love him!--oh, no--no--no--I will never, never walk that way\n     again--I will never, never speak to him more. I love you, my own\n     dear papa, and mamma, and my sisters, and Lady D----, and the two\n     little dear doggies; but I never could love Donald M'Naughton; not\n     but that he is good-looking, too, and young, and respected in the\n     family; but he never can be a father or mother to me you know, as\n     you have been. Oh! do write me soon, soon--and tell me all about\n     the garden, and the ash-tree, and the arbour, and the flowers, and\n     old Neptune, your favourite, and everything. I remain, most\n     affectionately, yours,\n                                                  PHEBE FORTUNE.\n\n     \"P.S.--But Fortune is not my name. Oh, that I had a name worth\n     writing!--such a name as Lindsay, Crawford, Hamilton, Douglas. Oh!\n     how beautifully Phebe Douglas would look on paper, and sound in\n     one's ear!\"\n\nSuch was the state of Phebe's mind and feelings at that interesting\nperiod of life when the female is in the transition from the mere girl\nto the real woman; and it was about this very period, when all the\nfeelings are peculiarly alive to each fine impulse, that it fell to\nPhebe's lot to be severely tried. Day after day, and week after week,\nLady D---- missed some valuable article of dress, some Flanders lace,\nsome costly trinket, a ring it might be, or a bracelet. At last Lady\nD---- thought it proper to inform her lord of the fact, who, upon\nobtaining a search warrant unknown to any one save his lady, had the\ntrunks of the whole household establishment strictly searched. Poor\nPhebe's little chest, \"wi' her a' int,\" discovered, to the amazement of\nall, the whole lot of the missing articles. Lady D----looked as if she\nhad been suddenly struck with lightning; whilst poor Phebe regarded the\nwhole as a jest, a method adopted by her lady, or his lordship, to try\nher character and firmness. She absolutely laughed at the denouement,\nand seemed altogether unconcerned about the matter. This, to his\nlordship in particular, appeared to be a confirmation of guilt; and he\nimmediately ordered her person to be secured, evidence of her guilt to\nbe made out, and a criminal trial to be instituted. When the full truth\ndawned upon poor Phebe, she sat as one would do who is vainly\nendeavouring to recollect something which has escaped his memory. Her\ncolour left her; she was pale as Parian marble; her eyes became dim, and\nher ears sang; she fainted; and it was not till after great and repeated\nexertion that she was recovered, through the usual painful steps, to a\nperception of the outward world. She looked wildly around her. Lady\nD---- was standing with her handkerchief at her eyes--she had wept\naloud.\n\n\"O Phebe,\" said her ladyship, \"are you guilty of this?\"\n\nPhebe repeated the word \"guilty\" twice, looked wildly on Lady D----'s\neyes, and then, in an unsettled and alarmed manner, all round the room.\n\n\"Guilty!\" she repeated--\"Guilty of what? Who is guilty? It is not he. I\nam sure he could not be guilty. Oh, no--no--no--he is my father, my\nfriend, my protector, my minny, my dear, dear minny--he could not do it!\nhe never did it! You are all wrong!--and my poor, poor, head, is\nodd--odd--odd.\" Thus saying, she clasped her forehead in a frenzied\nmanner, and nature again came to her relief in a second pause of\ninsensibility, from which she only recovered to indicate that her\nremaining faculties had seemingly left her. Time, however, gradually\nawakened her to a perception of the sad reality; and it was from a\nchamber in the castle, to which she was confined, that she wrote the\nfollowing letter to her original and kind protector:--\n\n     \"OH, MY EVER DEAR FRIEND--Your Phebe is accused of--I cannot write\n     it, I cannot bear to look at the horrid word--of stealing. Oh, that\n     you had let me lie where the wickedness of an unknown parent\n     exposed my helplessness to the random tread of the passenger! Oh,\n     come and see me; I grow positively confused; your Phebe is\n     imprisoned in her own chamber; but my poor head is swimming\n     again--there--there--I see everybody whirling about on the chimney\n     tops--there they go--there they go! I can only see to write\n                                                         PHEBE.\"\n\nThere was no date to this sad scrawl; but it needed none; for in\ntwenty-four hours after it had arrived at the manse, I had set out on my\nway to Rosehall. The meeting betwixt the foster-father and the child\nwas, of course, exceedingly affecting. Investigations into the whole\nmatter were renewed, but no other way could be thought of for accounting\nfor the presence of the missing property in Phebe's locked trunk, than\nthe supposition which implied her guilt.\n\n\"I could stake my life, my salvation,\" said I, \"on Phebe's innocence.\"\nBut Lord D---- doubted; his Lady could not have believed it possible;\nbut still there were, she said, similar cases on record--one, quite in\npoint, had just occurred in her neighbourhood, where the guilty party\nhad, up to the dishonest act, borne a very high character. The circuit\ntrial came on in about ten days, and Phebe, accompanied by the minister,\nand the best legal advice, was seated at the bar on her trial. Witnesses\nwere examined, who swore that they saw the trunk opened, and Lady\nD----'s property discovered; others, particularly the lady's maid, swore\nthat she all along suspected Phebe, from seeing her always shutting, and\noften locking her door inside. She once looked through the key-hole, and\nsaw Phebe busied with her trunk; she saw something in her hand that\nsparkled. Phebe had no exculpatory evidence but her simple averment that\nshe knew not how the articles came there--she never brought them. The\nking's advocate having restricted the sentence, and the jury having\nbrought in unanimously a verdict of guilty, the judge was on the point\nof pronouncing a sentence of banishment, when the poor pannel fainted.\nIt was a most affecting scene to hear the sentence of banishment\npronounced over a piece of insensate clay. All wept--even the judge; and\nPhebe was carried out of court, apparently quite dead.\n\nNext morning I was found sitting with a cheerful countenance by Phebe's\ncouch, in the prison-house. I had good news I said to impart to her:--\n\n\"The girl who has been the principal witness against you, has been\nsuddenly seized, during the night, with an excruciating and evidently\nfatal disease; in the agonies of death she has confessed to me, and in\nthe presence of Lady D---- too, that she had sworn to a lie; that she\nherself with her own hand, and by means of a false key, placed the\narticles--which she had originally stolen with the view of retaining\nthem--in your chest. This she had done from jealousy, having observed\nthat her lover, the gardener's son, had fixed his affections upon you.\"\n\nAll this was solemnly attested in the presence of witnesses, and all\nthis was conveyed in a suitable manner to the judge; in consequence of\nwhich, and through the usual preliminary steps, Phebe was set free, and\nagain admitted into the full confidence and the friendship of the\nfamily.\n\nIt so happened, that a young nobleman had witnessed the whole trial\nfrom the bench, and had taken an exceeding interest in Phebe, whose\nbeautiful and modest demeanour and countenance not even despair could\nentirely disfigure. Having made some inquiries respecting her history,\nhe was led to make more, and discovered considerable emotion when I\nunfolded the whole truth to him. Still he said nothing, but took his\ndeparture, with many thanks for the information given. In a few days,\nthis same young nobleman, of remarkably fine features, and pleasing\nexpression, returned to the Manse of C----, having an elderly gentleman\nin the carriage along with him. He requested a private interview with\nme; and, in the presence of his friend, I travelled over again the whole\nparticulars of the foundling's story, comparing dates, and investigating\nseeming inconsistencies. At last, he declared, at once, and in tears of\namazement and joy--\"Phebe Fortune is my own--my only _sister_!\" I looked\nincredulous, and almost hinted at insanity; but the young nobleman still\npersevered in his averment. His father, a nobleman of high rank, far\nsouth of the Tweed, in order to gratify a passion which had driven him\nalmost mad, had consented to _pretend_ to marry privately (his own\nfather being still alive, and set upon his son's marrying his cousin the\nHonourable Miss D----), a most beautiful girl, the daughter of a Chester\nyeoman of high respectability. The lady was removed from her native\nhome, and lodged in a remote quarter of the town of Liverpool. A report\nwas fabricated, and spread abroad by means of the newspapers, that a\nlady, who was minutely described, had jumped one evening into a boat,\nand, being rowed, at her request, to some distance, had plunged into the\nsea, and perished. Phebe's parents investigated the matter, as far as\nthe boatman's evidence was concerned, and were satisfied from his\ndescription of her person, that their dear Phebe, who, for some time\npast, had appeared troubled and even dispirited, had adopted suicide as\na refuge from all her earthly cares. Phebe and the Honourable Mr. L----\nmet frequently in secret, and a daughter was the fruit of their\ninterviews. This daughter the young nobleman proposed to put out to\nnurse; but, in reality, to put beyond the reach of being ever recognised\nas his. A confidential person was obtained, herself a Scotchwoman, to\ncarry the child into Fife, and there to expose it, under the\ncircumstances and with the provision already mentioned. This person\nchanced to be a parishioner of mine, and the consequences were as\nalready described. Having executed her task, she married a soldier, with\nwhom she soon after sailed for our West India settlements. Phebe's\nsecond birth proved to be a male; and the boy was about to be removed in\na similar manner from the mother, when she absconded from her now\ntyrannical husband, and her concealed home, refusing to be again\nseparated from her own offspring. Her parents, who had regarded her as\ndead, were sufficiently surprised, but by no means gratified, when Phebe\nappeared again with the child in her arms. In the meantime, Lord\nL----died, and the Honourable youth became Baron L---- of Houston-hope.\nPoor Phebe's averment respecting her previous marriage was regarded,\neven by her parents, as somewhat suspicious; and not being able to\ncommand the testimony of the person who married them, she was compelled\nto remain silent. The effort, however, soon cost her her life; and the\nboy, by his acknowledged father's interest, was placed in the army, and\nsent out to the West Indies. There he accidentally met with the woman\nhis mother had often mentioned to him, who had carried off his sister.\nShe confessed the whole truth to him; and, after a year or two, they\nboth returned in the same ship to England. By this time, the noble\nhusband being free to dispose of his hand in matrimony, proposed, not\nfor his cousin, as his father had contemplated, but for the daughter of\nan exceedingly wealthy Liverpool merchant. This person happened to be\nthe near relative of him who had called what was deemed only a pretended\npriest to perform the marriage ceremony; and, seeing the danger which\nhis relative would run, should he give away his daughter, in hopes of\nher offspring heiring the title and property, when a legitimate heir\nprobably existed, he divulged the secret to his relations. This\nnaturally led to a denouement; and Lord L---- being thus frustrated in\nhis object, and being at the same time a person governed more by passion\nthan reason, shot the person who had deceived him through the arm; and\nthen, thinking that he had committed murder, he blew out his own brains.\n\nThe brother of Phebe, after a long and complicated legal investigation,\nwas declared and served heir to the title and vast property. Taking the\nclergyman who had married his mother along with him, he had gone into\nScotland, partly to visit his uncle, Lord D----, and partly, by the\nassistance of the priest and the Scotchwoman, to discover what had\nbecome of his sister. Her likeness to himself and his mother had struck\nhim forcibly in court, and the investigation and discovery followed.\n\nTo describe the interview betwixt the brother and sister is far beyond\nmy power. Every heart will appreciate it more than ink and paper can\npossibly express. It was a pure--a long--a terrible embrace; but it\nspoke volumes, heart met heart, and lips were glued to lips, till\nbreathing became inconvenient. All parties rejoiced. Phebe, on her way\nsouth along with her brother, spent a whole day at the Manse. I was\nabsolutely insane with joy; and my wife told me privately--\"My dear, our\nfortune is made; we'll get all our boys out to India now.\" My daughters,\ntoo, kissed and fondled their sister, \"and all went merry as a marriage\nbell.\"\n\n    \"How sweet is pleasure after pain!\"\n\nThe contrast of Phebe's fortune greatly enhanced the enjoyment; and, in\nthe space of a few short months, Phebe Fortune was married to her own\ncousin, the son of Lord and Lady D----, her kind protectors. The old\ncouple are still alive; but their children, with a numerous offspring,\nlive upon one of their estates in Ayrshire, and exhibit to all around\nthem the blessings which a humane and generous aristocracy may\ndisseminate amidst neighbours and dependents. The brother of Phebe, Lord\nL----, still remains a bachelor; but has proved to his mother's\nrelatives, as well as to the parties who befriended her by deceiving his\ndishonourable parent, that he feels the obligation, and rewards it, by\nmaking them one way or another entirely independent.\n\nI go my weekly rounds amongst those now happy families, and have\nexperienced the truth of my wife's prophecy; for both my boys are\nadvantageously disposed of, and, on the marriage of my eldest daughter,\nPhebe Fortune made her a present of one thousand pounds.\n\n\n\n\nTHE ROYAL BRIDAL;\n\nOR,\n\nTHE KING MAY COME IN THE CADGER'S WAY.\n\n\nEarly in July, in the year of grace 1503, Lamberton Moor presented a\nproud and right noble spectacle. Upon it was outspread a city of\npavilions, some of them covered with cloth of the gorgeous purple and\nglowing crimson, and decorated with ornaments of gold and silver. To and\nfro, upon brave steeds, richly caparisoned, rode a hundred lords and\ntheir followers, with many a score of gay and gallant knights and their\nattendant gentlemen. Fair ladies, too, the loveliest and the noblest in\nthe land, were there. The sounds of music from many instruments rolled\nover the heath. The lance gleamed, and the claymore flashed, and\nwar-steeds neighed, as the notes of the bugle rang loud for the\ntournament. It seemed as if the genius of chivalry had fixed its court\nupon the heath.\n\nIt may be meet, however, that we say a word or two concerning\nLamberton, for though, now-a-days, it may lack the notoriety of Gretna\nin the annals of matrimony, and though its \"_run of business_\" may be of\na humbler character, there was a time when it could boast of prouder\nvisitors than ever graced the Gretna blacksmith's temple. To the reader,\ntherefore, who is unacquainted with our eastern Borders, it may be\nnecessary to say, that, at the northern boundary of the lands\nappertaining to the town of Berwick-upon-Tweed, and about three miles, a\nfurlong, and few odd yards from that oft-recorded good town, a dry stone\nwall, some thirty inches in height, runs from the lofty and\nperpendicular sea-banks, over a portion of what may be termed the\nfag-end of Lammermoor, and now forming a separation between the laws of\nScotland and the jurisdiction of the said good town; and on crossing to\nthe northern side of this humble but important stone wall, you stand on\nthe lands of Lamberton. Rather more than a stone-throw from the sea, the\ngreat north road between London and Edinburgh forms a gap in the wall\naforesaid, or rather \"dyke;\" and there, on either side of the road,\nstands a low house, in which Hymen's high priests are ever ready to make\none flesh of their worshippers. About a quarter of a mile north of\nthese, may still be traced something of the ruins of the kirk, where the\nprincess of England became the bride of the Scottish king, and the first\nlink of the golden chain of UNION, which eventually clasped the two\nnations in one, may be said to have been formed.\n\nThe gay and gallant company were assembled on Lamberton, for within the\nwalls of its kirk, the young, ardent, and chivalrous James IV. of\nScotland was to receive the hand of his fair bride, Margaret of England,\nwhom Dunbar describes as a\n\n    \"Fresche rose, of cullor reid and white.\"\n\nThe wild heath presented all the splendour of a court, and the\namusements of a crowded city. Upon it were thousands of spectators, who\nhad come to witness the royal exhibitions, and the first durable bond of\namity between two rival nations. Some crowded to behold the tourneyings\nof the knights with sword, spear, and battle-axe; others to witness the\nrepresentation of plays, written \"expressly for the occasion;\" while a\nthird party were delighted with the grotesque figures and positions of\nthe morris-dancers; and a fourth joined in, or were spectators of, the\nhumbler athletic exercises of wrestling, leaping, putting the stone, and\nthrowing the hammer.\n\nAll, too, were anxious to see the young king, whose courage and\ngenerosity were the theme of minstrels, and of whom one sayeth--\n\n    \"And ye Christian princes, whosoever ye be,\n      If ye be destitute of a noble captayne,\n    Take James of Scotland for his audacitie\n      And proved manhood, if ye will laud attayne.\"\n\nBut the young monarch was as remarkable for his gallantry and\neccentricity, as for his generosity and courage; and no one seemed able\nto tell whether or not he lodged in the magnificent pavilion over which\nthe royal standard of Scotland waved, or whether he intended to welcome\nhis royal bride by proxy.\n\nBut our story requires that, for a time, we leave princes, knights, and\ntournaments, and notice humbler personages, and more homely amusements.\nAt a distance from the pavilion, the tourneyings, the music, the plays,\nand other exhibitions, was a crowd composed of some seven or eight\nhundred peasantry engaged in and witnessing the athletic games of the\nBorders. Near these were a number of humbler booths, in which the\nspectators and competitors might regale themselves with the spirits and\ntippeny then in use.\n\nAmongst the competitors was one called Meikle Robin, or Robin Meikle. He\nwas strength personified. His stature exceeded six feet; his shoulders\nwere broad, his chest round, his limbs well and strongly put together.\nHe was a man of prodigious bone and sinews. At throwing the hammer, at\nputting the stone, no man could stand before him. He distanced all who\ncame against him, and, while he did so, he seemed to put forth not half\nhis strength, while his skill appeared equal to the power of his arm.\n\nNow, amongst the spectators of the sports, there stood one who was\nknown for many miles around by the appellation of _Strong Andrew_. He\nwas not so tall, by three inches, as the conqueror of the day; nor could\nhe measure with him either across the shoulders or around the chest;\nand, in fact, he was rather a thin man than otherwise, nor did he appear\na powerful one--but his bones were well set. His sinews were all\nstrength--they were not encumbered with flesh. He was as much a model of\nactivity and suppleness, as Meikle Robin was of bodily power. Now,\nAndrew was a native of Eyemouth; he was about three and thirty years of\nage, and he united in his person the callings of a fisherman and cadger;\nor, in other words, Andrew, being without mother, sister, wife, or\nservant, sold himself the fish which he had caught. His domestic\nestablishment consisted of a very large and a very wise water-dog, and a\nsmall pony; and with the last-mentioned animal he carried his fish\naround the country. For several days, and on the day in question, he had\nbrought his store for sale to the camps or pavilions at Lamberton, where\nhe had found a ready and an excellent market. There, as Andrew stood and\nwitnessed the championship of Meikle Robin, his blood boiled within him;\nand, \"Oh,\" thought he, \"but if I had onybody that I could trust to take\ncare o' the Galloway and my jacket, _and the siller_, but I wad take the\nconceit oot o' ye, big as ye are.\"\n\nAndrew possessed his country's courage and its caution in equal\nproportions; and, like a wise man, he did not choose to trust his money\nby risking it to strangers. In such a motley company it would not be\nsafe to do so now a-days; but it would have been much less so then. For,\nat that time, and especially on the Borders, the law of _mine_ and\n_thine_ was still imperfectly understood. But Andrew's determination to\nhumble the champion was well-nigh overcoming his caution, when the\nformer again stepped into the ring, and cast off his jacket for a\nwrestling bout. He stood looking round him for a minute; and it was\nevident that every one was afraid to enter the lists against him. Andrew\ncould endure it no longer; and he was saying--\"Will ony person tak\ncharge o' my Gallow-way?\"----\n\nWhen a young man of middle stature, and whose dress bespoke him to be a\ndomestic of one of the noblemen who had come to witness the royal\nfestival, and grace it with their presence, entered the lists. Without\neven throwing off his bonnet, he stretched out his arms to encounter the\nchampion, who met him--somewhat after the fashion that Goliath met\nDavid--with contempt. But the first grasp of the stranger, as he seized\nhis arms above the elbows, instead of throwing them round his waist (as\nwas, and is the unscientific practice of the Borders), informed Robin\nthat he had no common customer to deal with. Robin, as a wrestler, in a\ngreat measure trusted to mere strength and tripping. He knew nothing of\nturning an antagonist from his centre of gravity by a well-timed and\nwell-directed touch. He therefore threw his arms around the back of his\nopponent (so far as the grasp which the other had got of them would\npermit), with the intention of giving him a \"Hawick hug,\" but he found\nhe could not join his hands together so as to effect his purpose, and\nhis strength could not accomplish it. Ignorant of his antagonist's mode\nof attack, he had allowed him an advantage over him; and when he\nendeavoured to gain it by tripping his heels, the other suddenly changed\nhis feet, favoured Robin with a \"Devonian kick,\" and suddenly dashing\nhis bended knee against his person, Robin lost his footing, and fell\nupon his back, with the stranger above him.\n\nThe spectators shouted; and Andrew, mounting his pony, exclaimed aloud--\n\n\"Weel dune, stranger--I'm as glad as though I had gotten a gowden coin.\"\n\nNow, it is but justice to Andrew to say that he had repeatedly defeated\nMeikle Robin, both at wresting, cudgel-playing, and every athletic\nexercise; but I shall give the reader an account of his having done so\non one occasion in his own words, as it is necessary for the forwarding\nof our narrative.\n\nAndrew went to Lamberton with his fish on the following day, and again\nhe found a profitable market; and some words had again passed between\nhim and Meikle Robin; but, as he was returning home, he overtook the\nstranger by whom Robin had been defeated.\n\n\"Losh, man!\" said Andrew, pulling up his pony, \"is this ye? I canna tell\nye hoo glad I am to see ye, for I've dune naething but thocht o' ye ever\nsince yesterday, when I saw ye tak the brag oot o' Meikle Robin, just as\neasily as I would bend a willy-wand. Now, I hope, sir, although ye are a\nstranger, ye no think ill o' my familiarity?\"\n\n\"Think ill, comrade,\" said the other, \"why should I do so?\"\n\n\"Why, I watna,\" said Andrew, \"but there seems to be sae mony kind o'\nbutterflies getting about the court now, wi' their frills and their\ngold-laced jackets, from what I can judge o' their appearance for some\ndays past on the Moor, that I wasna sure but it might be like-master\nlike-man wi' ye, and I was uncertain how to speak to ye. I didna ken but\nthat, in some things, ye might imitate your superiors, and treat a\ncadger body as though they hadna been o' the same flesh an blood wi'\nyoursel.\"\n\nThe stranger laughed, and repeated the adage--\n\n\"Why--the king may come in the cadger's way.\"\n\n\"Very true, sir,\" said Andrew, \"and may find him a man mair like\nhimsel than he imagines. But, sir, what I was gaun to say to you--and it\nis connected wi' your defeating o' Meikle Robin yesterday--(at least I\nwish to make it connected wi' it). Weel, just five days syne, I was at\nLamberton--it was the very day after the royal party arrived--and Robin\nwas there. Perhaps you was there yoursel; but the tents were there, and\nthe games, and the shows, and everything was going on just the same as\nye saw them yesterday. But, as I was telling ye, Meikle Robin was there.\nNow, he gets the brag o' being the best cudgel-player, putter, and\nwrestler, in a' Berwickshire--and, between you and I, that is a\ncharacter that I didna like to hear gaun past mysel. However, as I was\nsaying, on the day after the royal party had come to the Moor, and the\ngames were begun, he had the ball fairly at his foot, and fient a ane\ndurst tak him up ava. He was terribly insulting in the pride o' his\nvictoriousness, and, in order to humble him, some were running frae tent\nto tent to look for Strong Andrew--(that is me, ye observe; for they ca'\nme that as a sort o' nickname--though for what reason I know not). At\nlast they got me. I had had a quegh or twa, and I was gay weel on--(for\nI never in my born days had had such a market for my fish; indeed, I got\nwhatever I asked, and I was wishing in my heart that the king's marriage\nparty would stop at Lammerton Moor for a twelvemonth)--but, though I had\na drappie ower the score, Robin was as sober as a judge; for, plague tak\nhim! he kenned what he was doing--he was ower cunnin to drink, and laid\nhimsel out for a quarrel. It was his aim to carry the 'gree' ower a'\nupon the Moor at everything, that the king, who is said to be as fond o'\nthae sort o' sports as onybody, might tak notice o' him, and do\nsomething for him. There was a cowardliness in the very idea o' such\nconduct--it showed a fox's heart in the carcase o' a bullock. Weel,\nthose that were seeking me got me, and clean off hand I awa to the tent\nwhere he was making a' his great braggadocio, and, says I to him,\n'Robin,' says I, 'I'm your man at onything ye like, and for whatever ye\nlike. I'll run ye--or, I'll jump ye--I'll putt the stone wi' ye--or,\n_I'll fight ye_--and, if ye like it better, I'll wrestle ye--or try ye\nat the cudgels--and dinna be cutting your capers there ower a wheen\ncallants.' Weel, up he got, and a ring was made aback o' the tent. He\nhad an oak stick as thick as your wrist, and I had naething but the bit\nhalf switch that I hae in my hand the now, for driving up the Galloway.\nMine was a mere bog-reed to his, independent o' its being fully six\ninches shorter--and, if ye ken onything about cudgelling, that was a\nmaterial point. 'Od, sir, I found I couldna cope wi' him. My stick, or\nrather switch, was nae better than half a dozen o' rashes plaited\ntogether. 'Will ony o' ye lend me a stick, gentlemen?' cried I to the\nbystanders, while I keepit guarding him off the best way I could. Aboon\na dozen were offered in an instant. I gript at the nearest. Now 'Heaven\nhae mercy on ye!' said I, and gied him a whissel beneath the elbow, and,\nbefore ye could say Jock Robison! cam clink across his knee. I declare\nto ye, sir, he cam spinning down like a totum. He talked nae mair o'\nwrestling, or cudgelling, or onything else that day. I settled him for\nfour-and-twenty hours at ony rate. Weel, sir, I was perfectly delighted\nwhen I saw you lay him on the broad o' his back yesterday; and I had nae\nmair words wi' him, frae the day that I humbled him, until about four\nhours syne, when I met in wi' him on the Moor, amang three or four o'\nhis cronies, at his auld trade o' boasting again. I had nae patience wi'\nhim. But he had a drop ower meikle, and, at ony rate, I thought there\ncould be nae honour in beating the same man twice. But, says I to him\n'Ye needna craw sae loud, for, independent o' me bringing ye to the\nground at cudgelling, and making ye no worth a doit, I saw a youngster\nthat wrestled wi' ye yesterday, twist ye like a barley-strae.' And, to\ndo him justice, sir, he didna attempt to deny it, but said that ye wud\ndo the same by me, if I would try ye, and offered to back ye against ony\nman in the twa kingdoms. Now, sir, I looked about all the day in the\ncrowd, just to see if I could clap my een on ye, and to ask ye, in a\nfriendly way, if ye would let me try what sort o' stuff ye are made o',\nbut I couldna fall in wi' ye; and now I'm really glad that I hae met wi'\nye--and as this is a gay level place here, and the ground is not very\nhard, what do ye say if we try a thraw, in a neighbourly way; and after\nthat, we can cut a bit branch frae ane o' the allers, for a cudgelling\nbout. Ye will really very particularly oblige me, sir, if ye will.\"\n\nThe stranger readily replied, \"With all my heart, friend--be it so.\"\n\nAndrew cast off his jacket and bonnet, and, throwing them on the ground,\nhis large water-dog, which was called Caesar, placed himself beside them.\n\n\"Dinna thraw till I get a grip,\" cried Andrew, as the stranger had him\nalready lifted from his feet--\"that's no fair--it's no our country way\no' thrawing.\"\n\nThe request was granted, and only granted, when Andrew measured his\nlength upon the ground, and his dog sprang forward to attack the victor.\n\n\"Get back, Caesar!\" shouted its master--\"It was a fair fa', I canna deny\nit! Sorrow tak me if I thought there was a man in ten parishes could hae\ndone the like! Gie's yer hand,\" said he, as he rose to his feet; \"I'll\nthraw nor cudgel nae mair wi' you; but, as sure as my name's Andrew, I\nwould bite my last coin through the middle, to gie ye the half o't,\nshould ye want it. I like to meet wi' a good man, even though he should\nbe better than mysel--and, in the particular o' wrestling, I allow that\nye do bang me--though I dinna say how we might stand in other respects,\nfor they've no been tried. But it was a fair fa'. 'Od, ye gied me a jirk\nas though I had been touched by lightning.\"\n\nBefore reaching Eyemouth, they came to a change-house by the wayside,\nwhich was kept by a widow, called Nancy Hewitt; and who was not only\nnoted on account of the excellence of the liquor with which she supplied\nher customers, but who also had a daughter, named Janet, whose beauty\nrendered her the toast of the countryside.\n\n\"I am always in the habit,\" said Andrew, \"o' stopping here for\nrefreshment, and, if ye hae nae objections, we'll toom a stoup\ntogether.\"\n\n\"Cheerily, cheerily,\" answered his companion.\n\nThe fair daughter of the hostess was from home when they entered, and\nAndrew inquired after her with a solicitude that bespoke something more\nbetween them than mere acquaintanceship. The stranger slightly intimated\nthat he had heard of her, and, after a few seemingly indifferent\nquestions respecting her, for a few minutes became silent and\nthoughtful.\n\n\"Hoot, man,\" said Andrew, \"I am vexed to see ye sae dowie--gie cauld\ncare a kick like a foot-ba'. This is nae time to be sad when the king is\nmerry, and the country's merry, an' we're a' happy thegither. Cheer up,\nI say, man--what's the matter wi' ye?--care has a strange look on a\nbody's shouthers at seven or eight and twenty; and I dinna think ye can\nbe mair. I am on the wrang side o' three and thirty, and I would snap my\nfingers at it, were it blawing its breath in my face as snell as a drift\non an open moor! Losh man! what ails ye? Ye would say I had met wi' a\nfriar in orders grey, lamenting owre the sins o' the world, and the\npoverty o' his pocket, instead o' a young bang fellow like you, that's a\nmatch for onybody. Come, here's to the health o' bonny Jenny Hewitt.\"\n\n\"With all my heart,\" said the stranger; and, pronouncing the name of the\nfair maiden, quaffed off his liquor.\n\n\"Now, that's wiselike; there's some spirit in that,\" said Andrew,\nfollowing his example; \"let's be merry while we can; that's aye my\ncreed. The ne'er a grain o' guid, as I used to say to my mother, comes\nout o' melancholy. Let's hae a sang--I see you hae a singing face--or\nI'll gie ye ane mysel, to mak a beginning.\"\n\nSo saying, with a voice like thunder broken into music, he sang as\nfollows:--\n\n            In our young, young days,\n            When the gowany braes\n    Were our temple o' joy and glee,\n      Some dour auld body would shake his head,\n    And tell us our gladness away would flee,\n      And our hearts beat as heavy as lead.\n        Stupid auld body--silly auld body--\n          His mother spained him wi' a canker-worm.\n        In our auld, auld days, the gowany braes\n          Are memory's rainbows owre time and storm.\n\n            In our proud young days,\n            When the gowany braes\n    Kenn'd the feet o' my love and me,\n      Some ill-matched carle would girn and say--\n    \"Puir things! wi' a twalmonth's marriage, and ye\n      Will find love like a snaw-ba' decay.\"\n        Stupid auld carle--leein' auld carle--\n          His mother spained him wi' a canker-worm.\n        In our auld, auld days, like gowany braes,\n          Our love unchang'd, has its youthfu' form.\n\n            In our grey-haired days,\n            When the gowany braes\n    Are owre steep for our feet to climb--\n      When her back is bowed, and her lovely e'e,\n    Once bricht as a beam frae the sun, is dim--\n      She'll be still my bit lassie to me.\n        Stupid auld body--wicked auld body--\n          Love, like the gowan's a winter liver.\n        The smile o' a wife is the sun o' its life,\n          An' her bosom a brae where it blooms for ever.\n\nA few minutes after Andrew had concluded his song, the fair daughter of\ntheir hostess entered the house. Andrew's first glance bespoke the\nlover, and the smile with which she returned it showed that the young\nfisherman and cadger was not an unaccepted wooer.\n\n\"By my sooth, fair maiden,\" said the stranger, \"and thy sweet face\ndoesna belie its fame; admiration fails in painting the loveliness of\nthy glowing cheeks, and thine een might make a moonbeam blush!\"\n\nHe seemed practised in the art of gallantry, and poured into her ear\nother compliments in a similar strain. She hung her head, and turned it\naside from him, as a woman will when flattered, or when she wishes to be\nflattered, but she did not rise to depart; and he felt that the incense\nwhich he offered to her beauty was not unacceptable. But the words and\nthe attentions of the stranger were as daggers in the ears, and as\nwormwood in the heart of Andrew.\n\n\"The mischief rive his smooth tongue out o' his head!\" thought Andrew;\n\"but though I hae nae chance in speaking balderdash wi' him, and though\nhe did thraw me (and it was maybe by an unmanly quirk after a'), I'll\nlet her see, if he has the glibest tongue, wha has the manliest arm!\"\n\nNeither love nor liquor, however, can allay the cravings of a hungry\nstomach, and the stranger (who evidently beguiled Andrew to drink more\nthan the portion that ought to have fallen to him) called for something\nto eat, by way of a relish.\n\n\"O sir,\" said Nancy Hewitt, their hostess, \"I'm verra sorry an' vexed\nthat I hae naething in the house that I could gie ye--naething o'\nkitchen kind but the haddocks which Andrew left this forenoon; an' I hae\nbeen sae thrang wi' folk gaun back an' forret to Lamberton, that they're\nno gutted yet. But if ye could tak them, ye are welcome to them.\"\n\n\"Gut two, then, good dame, and prepare them,\" said the stranger.\n\n\"I doubt, sir, twa winna do,\" said she, \"for they're but sma'--I had\nbetter gut thrie.\"\n\n\"Certainly, _gut thrie_,\" said Andrew; \"I brought the stranger in--and\nwhat is a haddie, or what are they worth?\" for Andrew was anxious that\nthe attention of his companion should be turned to anything, were it\nonly withdrawn from Janet's face.\n\n\"You are a generous-hearted fellow,\" said the stranger, \"and _gut thrie_\nshall I call you, if we meet again.\"\n\nHaving therefore partaken of his repast, he proposed that they should\nagain fill the stoup to friendship's growth; and although Andrew was\nwroth and jealous because of the words which he had spoken, and the\nattention he had shewn to fair Janet, he was not made of materials to\nresist the proposition to have another cup. But while they were yet\ndrinking it, Andrew's pony, which had repeatedly raised its fore foot\nand struck it heavily on the ground, as if calling on its master to\n\"come,\" being either scared, or its patience being utterly exhausted,\nset off at a canter from the door. He had rushed out without his bonnet,\nbut, before he reached the road, it was fully forty yards a-head of him,\nand the louder he called on it, the nearer did the pony increase its\npace to a gallop.\n\nAndrew had scarce reached the door, when the stranger drew out a\nwell-lined purse, and, after jerking it in his hand, he again replaced\nit in his pocket, and more boldly than before renewed his gallantries to\nfair Janet. Emboldened, however, by what he conceived to have been his\nrecent success, he now overshot the mark; and, as Andrew again reached\nthe house, he was aroused by the cries of--\n\n\"Mother! Mother!--O Andrew! Andrew!\"\n\nOld Nancy's voice, too, broke upon his ears at its highest scolding\npitch; but he could only distinguish the word \"Scoundrel!\"\n\nHe rushed into the room, and there he beheld his own Janet struggling in\nthe embrace of the stranger.\n\n\"Villain!\" cried Andrew, and the other started round--but with our\nfisherman at all times it was but a word and a blow--and his blood,\nwhich before had been heated and fermenting, now boiled--he raised his\nhand and dealt a blow at his companion, which, before he could parry it,\nlaid him prostrate on the floor.\n\n\"Base loon!\" cried the stranger, starting to his feet, \"ye shall rue\nthat blow.\" And he flung off his bonnet as if to return it.\n\n\"Hooly, billy,\" said Andrew, \"there is as little manliness in fighting\nafore women as there was in your conduct to my bit Janet. But naething\nwill gie me mair satisfaction than a round wi' ye--so wi' a' my\nheart--come to the door, and the best man for it.\"\n\nBlood was issuing from the lips of the stranger, but he seemed nothing\nloath to accompany his quondam friend to the door. Janet, however, flung\nher arms around Andrew, and the old woman stood between them, and\nimplored them, for her sake, to keep the peace towards each other.\n\n\"O sir!\" cried she, \"let there be nae such carryings on in my house. My\ndochter and me are twa lone women, and the disgrace o' such an\non-carrying, and at such a time, too, when the king an a' the gentry are\nin the neighbourhood, might be attended by there's nae saying what\nconsequences to me and mine. Andrew, man, I wonder that ye haena mair\nsense.\"\n\n\"Sense!\" returned Andrew, \"I hae baith sense and feeling; and had it\nbeen the king himsel that I saw layin a hand upon my Janet, I would hae\nserved him in the same way that I did that man.\"\n\n\"Ye brag largely and freely, neighbour,\" said the stranger; throwing\ndown a noble upon the table to pay for his entertainment; \"but we shall\nmeet again, where there are no women to interfere.\"\n\n\"Tak up your gowd, sir,\" replied Andrew, \"for though I can boast o' nae\nsic siller, coppers will pay for a' that we have had. I brought you in\nhere to treat ye, and our quarrel shall make nae difference as to that.\nSae put up your gowd again; and as to meeting ye--I will meet ye the\nnight, the morn, at ony place, or at ony time.\"\n\n\"I shall ask ye to meet me before ye dare,\" said the stranger; and\nleaving the coin upon the table as he left the house, \"the gowd,\" added\nhe, \"will buy a gown and a bodice for the bosom of bonny Janet.\"\n\n\"I insist, sir, that you tak back the siller,\" cried Andrew.\n\n\"Dearsake, Andrew,\" said old Nancy, \"he's no offering it to you! It's no\nyou that has ony richt to refuse it.\" And taking up the piece, she\nexamined it with a look of satisfaction, turning it round and round in\nher fingers--wrapped it in a small piece of linen rag, which lay in a\ncorner of the room, and mechanically slipped it into her pocket. But it\nwas neither every day, every week, nor every year, that Nancy Hewitt saw\na coin of gold.\n\nOn the third day after the encounter between Strong Andrew and the\nstranger, the last and great day of the festivities on Lamberton took\nplace; for on that day the royal bride was to arrive. The summer sun\nushered in a glorious morning--its beams fell as a sheet of gold on the\nbroad ocean, melting down and chaining its waves in repose. To the south\nlay Lindisferne, where St. Cuthbert had wrought miracles, with the Ferne\nIsles where he lived, prayed, and died, and the proud rock on which King\nIda reigned.[2] They seemed to sleep in the morning sunbeams--smiling in\nsleep. To the north was gigantic St. Abb's, stretching out into the sea,\nas if reposing on its breast; amidst their feet and behind them,\nstretched the Moor and its purple heather; while, from the distance, the\nCheviots looked down on them; and Hallidon, manured by the bones of\nslaughtered thousands, lay at their hand.\n\nYet, before sunrise, thousands were crowding to the gay scene, from\nevery corner of Berwickshire, and from Roxburgh and the Eastern Lothian.\nThe pavilions exhibited more costly decorations. Fair ladies, in their\ngayest attire, hung upon the arms of brave knights. An immense\namphitheatre, where the great tourneyings and combats of the day were to\ntake place, was seated round; and at one part of it was a richly\ncanopied dais, where the young king, with his blooming queen, and the\nchief peers and ladies of both countries, were to sit, and witness the\nspectacle. Merry music reverbed in every direction, and the rocks and\nthe glens re-echoed it; and ever and anon, as it pealed around, the\nassembled thousands shouted--\"Long live our guid king James, and his\nbonny bride.\" Around the pavilions, too, strutted the courtiers with the\nhuge ruffles of their shirts reaching over their shoulders--their\nscented gloves--flat bonnets, set on the one side of their heads like\nthe cap of a modern dandy--spangled slippers, and a bunch of ribbons at\ntheir knees.\n\nAmongst the more humble followers of the court, the immortal Dunbar,\nwho was neglected in his own day, and who has been scarce less neglected\nand overlooked by posterity, was conspicuous. The poet-priest appeared\nto be a director of the intellectual amusements of the day. But although\nthey delighted the multitude, and he afterwards immortalised the\nmarriage of his royal master, by his exquisite poem of \"The Thistle and\nthe Rose,\" he was doomed to experience that genius could neither procure\nthe patronage of kings nor church preferment; and, in truth, it was\nsmall preferment with which Dunbar would have been satisfied, for, after\ndancing the courtier in vain (and they were then a race of beings of\nnew-birth in Scotland), we find him saying--\n\n    \"Greit abbais graith I nill to gather\n    But _ane kirk scant coverit with hadder,\n    For I of lytil wald be fane_.\"\n\nBut, in the days of poor Dunbar, church patronage seems to have been\nconferred somewhat after the fashion of our own times, if not worse, for\nhe again says--\n\n    \"I knaw nocht how the kirk is gydit,\n    But benefices are nocht leil divydit;\n    Sum men hes sevin, and I nocht ane!\"\n\nAll around wore a glad and a sunny look, and, while the morning was yet\nyoung, the sound of the salute from the cannon on the ramparts of\nBerwick, announced that the royal bride was approaching. The pavilions\noccupied a commanding situation on the heath, and the noble retinue of\nthe princes could be observed moving along, their gay colours flashing\nin the sun, a few minutes after they issued from the walls of the town.\nA loud, a long, and a glad shout burst from the Scottish host, as they\nobserved them approach, and hundreds of knights and nobles, dashing\ntheir glittering spurs into the sides of their proudly caparisoned\nsteeds, rode forth to meet them, and to give their welcome, and offer\ntheir first homage to their future queen. There was a movement and a\nbuzz of joy throughout the multitude; and they moved towards the ancient\nkirk.\n\nThe procession that accompanied the young princess of England into\nScotland drew near; at its head rode the proud Earl of Surrey, the Earl\nof Northumberland, warden of the eastern marches, with many hundreds\nmore, the flower of England's nobility and gentry, in their costliest\narray. In the procession, also, were thousands of the inhabitants of\nNorthumberland; and the good citizens of Berwick-upon-Tweed, headed by\ntheir captain, Lord Thomas Darcy, and the porter of their gates, Mr.\nChristopher Clapham, who was appointed one of the trustees on the part\nof the king of England, to see that the terms of his daughter's jointure\nwere duly fulfilled.\n\nThere, however, was less eagerness on the part of the young monarch to\nbehold his bride than on that of his subjects. We will not say that he\nhad exactly imbibed the principles of a libertine, but it is well known\nthat he was a _gallant_ in the most _liberal_ signification of the term,\nand that his amours extended to all ranks. He had, therefore, until he\nhad well nigh reached his thirtieth year, evaded the curb of matrimony;\nand it was not until the necessity of his marriage, for the welfare of\nhis country, was urged upon him by his nobles, that he agreed to take\nthe hand of young Margaret of England. And of her it might have been\ntruly said, that his\n\n    \"Peggy was a young thing,\n    Just entering in her teens,\"\n\nfor she had hardly completed her fourteenth year. But she was a\nwell-grown girl, one on whom was opening the dawn of loveliest\nwomanhood--she was beautiful, and the gentleness of her temper exceeded\nher beauty. Young James was the most chivalrous prince of his age: he\nworshipped beauty, and he could not appear coldly before one of the sex.\nAnd having come to the determination (though unwillingly) to give up his\nbachelorism, or, as he called it, liberty, he at length resolved to meet\nhis bride as became one whose name was chronicled on the page of\nchivalry. He accordingly arrayed himself in a jacket of black velvet,\nedged with crimson, and the edgings bordered with a white fur. His\ndoublet was of the finest satin, and of a violet colour; his spurs were\nof gold, his hose crimson, and precious stones bespangled his\nshirt-collar. The reiterated shouts of the multitude announced the\napproach of the queen, and, thus arrayed, the young king rode forth to\ngreet her.\n\nHe entered the kirk, at the further end of which stood his fair bride\nbetween the Earls of Surrey and Northumberland. He started, he seemed to\npause as his eyes fell upon her, but in a moment they were again lighted\nup with more than their wonted lustre. He had heard of her loveliness,\nbut report had failed in doing justice to the picture. He approached to\nwhere she stood--he sank upon his knee--he raised her hand to his lips.\nThe English nobility were struck with admiration at the delicate\ngallantry of the Scottish king.\n\nI need not enter into the particulars of the ceremony. The youthful\nmonarch conducted his yet more youthful bride and her attendants to his\npavilion, while the heralds summoned the knights to the tournament, and\nprepared the other sports of the day. He took his lute and performed\nbefore her, and he sang words of his own composition, which related to\nher--for, like others of his family that had gone before, and that came\nafter him, James had a spark of poetry in his soul.\n\n\"And dost thou understand this instrument, my own love?\" said he,\nhanding her the lute.\n\nShe blushed, and, taking it in her hand, began to \"discourse most\neloquent music,\" and James, filled with admiration, again sinking on his\nknee, and clasping his hands together, remained in this attitude before\nher, until the trumpets of the heralds announced that the knights were\nin readiness for the tournament.\n\nThousands were crowded around the circle in which the knights were to\nexhibit their skill and prowess. The royal party took their seats on the\ndais prepared for them. Several trials of skill, with sword, spear, and\nbattle-axe, had taken place, and the spectators had awarded to the\nsuccessful competitors their shouts of approbation, when the young king,\nwho sat beside his queen, surrounded by the Lords Surrey and\nNorthumberland, and the nobles of his kindred, together with the ladies\nof high degree, said--\n\n\"Troth, my lords, and whatever ye may think, they play it but coldly.\nExcuse me, your Majesty, for a few minutes,\" continued he, addressing\nhis young bride; \"I must put spirit into the spectacle.\"\n\nThus saying, the young monarch left the side of his bride, and, for a\ntime, the same breaking of swords, spears, and battle-axes continued,\nwhen the chief herald of the tournament announced the SAVAGE KNIGHT. He\nentered the lists on foot, a visor concealing his face, arrayed as an\nIndian chief. He was clothed in a skin fitting tightly to his body,\nwhich gave half of it the appearance of nudity. In his left hand he held\na javelin, in his right hand he brandished a spear.\n\n\"Who is he?\" was the murmur that rang through the crowd; but no one\ncould tell, and the knights in the area knew not. He walked towards the\ncentre of the circle--he raised his spear--he shook it in defiance\ntowards every knight that stood around--and they were there from England\nas well as from Scotland. But they seemed to demur amongst themselves\nwho should first measure their strength with him. Not that they either\nfeared his strength or skill, but that, knowing the eccentricity of the\nking, they apprehended that the individual whom he had sent against\nthem, in such an uncouth garb, and who was to hold combat with them at\nsuch extravagant odds, they being on horseback, while he was on foot,\nmight be no true knight, but some base-born man whom the monarch had\nsent against them for a jest's sake. But, while they communed together,\nthe _Savage Knight_ approached near where they stood, and, crying to\nthem, said--\n\n\"What is it ye fear, Sir Knights, that ye hold consultation together.\nIs it my mailed body, or panoplied steed?--or fear ye that my blood is\nbase enough to rust your swords? Come on, ye are welcome to a trial of\nits colour.\"\n\nProvoked by his taunt, several sprang from their horses, and appeared\nemulous who should encounter him. But, at the very onset, the Savage\nKnight wrested the sword of the first who opposed him from his hand. In\na few minutes the second was in like manner discomfited, and, after a\nlong and desperate encounter, the third was hurled to the ground, and\nthe weapon of the wild knight was pointed to his throat. The spectators\nrent the air with acclamations. Again the unknown stood in the midst of\nthe circle, and brandished his spear in defiance. But enough had been\nseen of his strength and his skill, and no man dared to encounter him.\nAgain the multitude shouted more loudly, and he walked around the\namphitheatre, bowing lowly towards the spectators, and receiving their\ncongratulations.\n\nNow, in the midst of the motley congregation, and almost at the point\nfarthest removed from the dais of royalty, stood none other than Strong\nAndrew, with bonny Janet under his arm; and it so happened, that when\nthe Savage Knight was within view of where Andrew stood, his visor fell,\nand, though it was instantly replaced, it enabled our sturdy fisherman\nto obtain a glance of his countenance, and he exclaimed--\n\n\"'Od save us, Janet, woman, look, look look!--do ye see wha it is!\nConfound me, if it isna the very chield that I gied the clout in the lug\nto in your mother's the other night for his good behaviour. Weel, as\nsure as death, I gie him credit for what he has done--he's ta'en the\nmeasure o' their feet, onyway! A knight!--he's nae mair a knight than\nI'm ane--but it shows that knights are nae better than other folk.\"\n\nThere was a pause for a short space--again the monarch sat upon the\ndais by the side of his blooming bride. The great spectacle of the day\nwas about to be exhibited. This spectacle was a battle in earnest\nbetween an equal number of Borderers and Highlanders. The heralds and\nthe marshals of the combat rode round the amphitheatre, and proclaimed\nthat rewards would be bestowed on all who signalized themselves by their\ncourage, and to the most distinguished a purse of gold would be given by\nthe hands of the king himself. Numbers of armed clansmen and Borderers\nentered the area. Andrew's fingers began to move, and his fists were\nsuddenly clenched, relaxed, and clenched again. He began to move his\nshoulders also. His whole body became restless, and his soul manifested\nthe same symptoms, and he half involuntarily exclaimed--\n\n\"Now, here's a chance!\"\n\n\"Chance for what, Andrew dear?\" inquired Janet, tremulously--for she\nknew his nature.\n\n\"To mak a fortune in a moment,\" returned he, eagerly--\"to be married the\nmorn! The king is to gie a purse o' gold!\"\n\nNow, the only obstacle that stood between the immediate union of Andrew\nand Janet was his poverty.\n\n\"Oh, come awa, Andrew, love,\" said she, imploringly, and pulling his arm\nas she spoke; \"I see your drift!--come awa--come awa--we have seen\nenough. Dinna be after ony sic nonsense, or thrawing awa your life on\nsic an errand.\"\n\n\"Wheesht, Janet, hinny--wheesht,\" said he; \"dinna be talking havers.\nJust stand you here--there's not the smallest danger--I'll be back to ye\nin ten minutes or a quarter of an hour at the utmost--ye may tak my word\nupon that.\"\n\n\"Andrew!\" cried she, \"are ye out o' yer mind a'thegither--or do ye want\nto put me out o' mine! I really think it looks like it! O man, would ye\nbe guilty o' murdering yoursel, I may say!--come awa--come awa,\ndear--for I'll no stand to see it.\"\n\n\"Hoot, Janet, hinny,\" returned he, \"come, dear, dinna be silly.\"\n\nNow, the number of the Highland party was completed, and they stood, a\nband of hardy, determined, and desperate-looking men; but the party of\nthe Borderers was one deficient.\n\n\"Is there not another,\" cried the herald, \"to stand forth, and maintain\nwith his sword the honour and courage of the Borders?\"\n\n\"Yes! here am I!\" shouted Andrew, and drawing Janet's arm from his;\n\"now, dearest,\" added he, hastily, \"just hae patience--just stand here\nfor ten minutes--and I'll let ye see what I can do.\"\n\nShe would have detained him; but in a moment he sprang into the\namphitheatre, and exclaimed--\n\n\"Now, Sir Knights, ye that hae been trying yer hands at the tourneyings,\nwill ony o' ye hae the guidness to obleege me wi' the loan o' yer sword\nfor a wee while, and I'll be bond for ye I'll no disgrace it--I'll try\nthe temper o' it in earnest.\"\n\nAndrew instantly had a dozen to choose upon; and he took his place\namongst the Borderers.\n\nWhen he joined them, those who knew him, said--\"The day is ours--Andrew\nis a host in himsel.\"\n\nThe marshals gave the signal for the onset; and a deadly, a savage\nonset it was. Swords were shivered to the hilt. Men, who had done each\nother no wrong, who had never met before, grasped each other by the\nthroat--the Highland dirk and the Border knife were drawn. Men plunged\nthem into each other--they fell together--they rolled, the one over the\nother, in the struggles and the agonies of death. The wounded strewed\nthe ground--they strove to crawl from the strife of their comrades. The\ndead lay upon the dying, and the dying on the dead. Death had reaped a\nharvest from both parties; and no man could tell on which side would lie\nthe victory. Yet no man could stand before the sword-arm of\nAndrew--antagonist after antagonist fell before him. He rushed to every\npart of the combat; and wheresoever he went, the advantage was in favour\nof the Borderers. He was the champion of the field--the hero of the\nfight. The king gave a signal (perhaps because his young queen was\nhorrified with the game of butchery), and at the command of the marshals\nthe combatants on both sides laid down their arms. Reiterated shouts\nagain rang from the spectators. Some clapped their hands and\ncried--\"Eyemouth yet!\"--\"Wha's like Andrew!\"--\"We'll carry him hame\nshouther high!\" cried some of his townsmen.\n\nDuring the combat, poor Janet had been blind with anxiety, and was\nsupported in the arms of the spectators who saw him rush from her side.\nBut as the shouts of his name burst on her ear, consciousness returned;\nand she beheld him, with the sword in his hand, hastening towards her.\nYet ere he had reached where she stood, he was summoned, by the\nmen-at-arms, who had kept the multitude from pressing into the\namphitheatre, to appear before the king, to receive from his hands the\npromised reward.\n\nAnxious as he had been to obtain the prize, poor Andrew, notwithstanding\nhis heroism, trembled at the thought of appearing in the presence of a\nmonarch. His idea of the king was composed of imaginings of power, and\ngreatness, and wisdom, and splendour--he knew him to be a man, but he\ndid not think of him as such. And he said to those who summoned him to\nthe royal presence--\n\n\"Oh, save us a', sirs! what shall I say to him? or what will he say to\nme? How shall I behave? I would rather want the siller than gang wi'\nye!\"\n\nIn this state of tremor and anxiety, Andrew was conducted towards the\ncanopied dais before the Majesty of Scotland. He was led to the foot of\nthe steps which ascended to the seat where the monarch and his bride\nsat. His eyes were riveted to the ground, and he needed not to doff his\nbonnet, for he had lost it in the conflict.\n\n\"Look up, brave cock o' the Borders,\" said the monarch; \"certes, man, ye\nwould hae an ill-faured face if ye needed to hide it, after exhibiting\nsic a heart and arm.\"\n\nAndrew raised his head in confusion; but scarce had his eyes fallen on\nthe countenance of the king, when he started back, as though he beheld\nthe face of a spirit.\n\n\"Ha! traitor!\" exclaimed the monarch, and a frown gathered on his brow.\n\nIn a moment, Andrew perceived that his victor-wrestler--his crony in\nLucky Hewitt's--the tempter of his Janet--the man whom he had felled\nwith a blow, and whose blood he had drawn--and the King of Scotland, was\none and the same person.\n\n\"Guid gracious!\" exclaimed Andrew, \"I'm a done man!\"\n\n\"Seize him!\" said the king.\n\nBut ere he had said it, Andrew recollected that if he had a good right\nhand, he had a pair of as good heels; and if he had trusted to the one a\nfew minutes before, he would trust to the latter now, and away he\nbounded like a startled deer, carrying his sword in his hand.\n\nA few seconds elapsed before the astonished servants of the king\nrecovered presence of mind to pursue him. As he fled, the dense crowd\nthat encircled the amphitheatre surrounded him; but many of them knew\nhim--none had forgotten his terrible courage--and, although they heard\nthe cry re-echoed by the attendants of the monarch to seize him, they\nopened an avenue when he approached, and permitted him to rush through\nthem. Though, perhaps, the fear of the sword which he brandished in his\nhand, and the terrible effects of which they had all witnessed,\ncontributed not less than admiration of his courage, to procure him his\nready egress from amongst them.\n\nHe rushed towards the sea-banks, and suddenly disappeared where they\nseemed precipitous, and was lost to his pursuers; and after an hour's\nsearch, they returned to the king, stating that they had lost trace of\nhim, and could not find him.\n\n\"Go back, ye bull-dogs!\" exclaimed our monarch, angrily; \"seek him--find\nhim--nor again enter our presence until ye again bring him bound before\nus at Holyrood.\"\n\nThey therefore again proceeded in quest of the unfortunate fugitive; and\nthe monarch having conducted his royal bride to the pavilion, cast off\nhis jacket of black velvet, and arrayed himself in one of cloth of gold,\nwith edgings of purple and of sable fur. His favourite steed,\ncaparisoned to carry two, and with its panoply embroidered with jewels,\nwas brought before his pavilion. The monarch approached the door,\nleading his queen in his hand. He lightly vaulted into the saddle--he\nagain took the hand of his bride, and placed her behind him; and in this\nmanner, a hundred peers and nobles following in his train, the King of\nScotland conducted his young queen through the land, and to the palace\nof his fathers. The people shouted as the royal cavalcade departed, and\nScotch and English voices joined in the cry of--\"Long live Scotland's\nking and queen.\" Yet there were some who were silent, and who thought\nthat poor Andrew the fisherman, the champion of the day, had been\ncruelly treated, though they knew not his offence. Those who knew him,\nsaid--\n\n\"It bangs a'! we're sure Andrew never saw the king in his life before.\nHe never was ten miles out o' Eyemouth in his days. We ha'e kenned him\nsince a callant, and never heard a word laid against his character. The\nking must hae taken him for somebody else--and he was foolish to run for\nit.\"\n\nBut, while the multitude shouted, and joined in the festivities of the\nday, there was one that hurried through the midst of them, wringing her\nhands, and weeping as she went--even poor Janet. At the moment when she\nwas roused from the stupefaction of feeling produced by the horrors of\nthe conflict, and when her arms were outstretched to welcome her hero,\nas he was flying to them in triumph, she had seen him led before his\nprince, to receive his praise and his royal gifts; but, instead of\nthese, she heard him denounced as a _traitor_, as the king's words were\nechoed round. She beheld him fly for safety, and armed men pursuing him.\nShe was bewildered--wildly bewildered. But every motion gave place to\nanguish; and she returned to her mother's house alone, and sank upon her\nbed, and wept.\n\nShe could scarce relate to her parent the cause of her grief; but\nothers, who had been witnesses of the regal festival, called at Widow\nHewitt's for refreshment, as they returned home, and from them she\ngathered that her intended son-in-law had been the champion of the day;\nbut that, when he had been led forward to receive the purse from the\nhands of the king, the monarch, instead of bestowing it, denounced him\nas a traitor; \"and when he fled,\" added they, \"his majesty ordered him\nto be brought to him dead or alive!\"--for, in the days of our fathers,\nmen used the _license_ that is exemplified in the fable of the Black\nCrows, quite as much as it is used now. The king certainly had commanded\nthat Andrew should be brought to him; but he had said nothing of his\nbeing brought _dead_.\n\nNancy lifted her hands in astonishment as high as her ceiling (and it\nwas not a high one, and was formed of rushes)--\"Preserve us, sirs!\" said\nshe, \"ye perfectly astonish me athegither! Poor chield! I'm sure Andrew\nwadna harm a dog! A _traitor!_ say ye, the king ca'ed him? That's\nsomething very bad, isn't it? An' surely--na, na, Andrew couldna be\nguilty o't--the king maun be a strange sort o' man.\"\n\nBut, about midnight, a gentle knocking was heard at the window, and a\nwell-known voice said, in an undertone--\n\n\"Janet! Janet! it is me!\"\n\n\"It is _him_ mother! it is Andrew! they haena gotten him yet!\" And she\nran to the door and admitted him; and, when he had entered, she\ncontinued, \"O Andrew! what, in the name o' wonder, is the meaning o' the\nking's being in a passion at ye? What did ye say or do to him?--or what\ncan be the meaning o't?\"\n\n\"It is really very singular, Andrew,\" interrupted the old woman; \"what\n_hae_ ye done?--what _is really the meaning o't_?\"\n\n\"Meaning!\" said Andrew, \"ye may weel ask that! I maun get awa' into\nEngland this very night, or my life's no worth a straw; and it's ten\nchances to ane that it may be safe there. Wha is the king, think\nye?--now, just think wha?\"\n\n\"Wha _is_ the king!\" said Nancy, with a look, and in a tone of\nastonishment--\"I dinna comprehend ye, Andrew--what do ye mean? Wha can\nthe king be, but just the king.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" said Andrew, \"ye mind the chield that cam here wi' me the other\nnight, that left the gowd noble for the three haddies that him and I had\natween us, and that I gied a clout in the haffets to, and brought the\nblood ower his lips, for his behaviour to Jenny!--_yon was the king!_\"\n\n\"Yon the king!\" cried Janet.\n\n\"Yon the king?\" exclaimed her mother; \"and hae I really had the king o'\nScotland in my house, sitting at my fireside, and cooked a supper for\nhim! Weel, I think, yon the king! Aha! he's a bonny man!\"\n\n\"O mother!\" exclaimed Janet; \"bonny here, bonny there, dinna talk\nsae--he is threatening the life o' poor Andrew, who has got into trouble\nand sorrow on my account. Oh, dear me! what shall I do,\nAndrew!--Andrew!\" she continued, and wrung her hands.\n\n\"There's just ae thing, hinny,\" said he; \"I must endeavour to get to the\nother side o' the Tweed, before folk are astir in the morning; so I maun\nleave ye directly, but I just ventured to come and bid ye fareweel. And\nthere's just ae thing that I hae to say and to request, and that is,\nthat, if I darena come back to Scotland to marry ye, that ye will come\nowre to England to me, as soon as I can get into some way o' providing\nfor ye. Will ye promise, Jenny?\"\n\n\"Oh yes! yes, Andrew!\" she cried, \"I'll come to ye--for it is entirely\non my account that ye've to flee. But I'll do mair than that; for this\nvery week I will go to Edinburgh, and I will watch in the way o' the\nking and the queen, and on my knees I'll implore him to pardon ye; and\nif he refuses, I ken what I ken.\"\n\n\"Na, na, Jenny dear,\" said he, \"dinna think o' that--I wad rather suffer\nbanishment, and live in jeopardy for ever, than that ye should place\nyoursel in his power or in his presence. But what do ye ken, dear?\"\n\n\"Ken!\" replied she; \"if he refuses to pardon ye, I'll threaten to tell\nthe queen what he said to me, and what offers he made to me when ye was\nrunning out after the powny.\"\n\nAndrew was about to answer her, when he started at a heavy sound of\nfootsteps approaching the cottage.\n\n\"They are in search o' me!\" he exclaimed.\n\nInstantly a dozen of armed men entered the cottage.\n\n\"We have found him,\" cried they to their companions without; \"the\ntraitor is here.\"\n\nAndrew, finding that resistance would be hopeless, gave up the sword\nwhich he still carried, and suffered them to bind his arms. Jenny clung\nround his neck and wept. Her mother sat speechless with terror.\n\n\"Fareweel, Jenny, dear!\" said Andrew--\"fareweel!--Dinna distress yoursel\nsae--things mayna turn out sae ill as we apprehend. I can hardly think\nthat the king will be sae cruel and sae unjust as to tak my life. Is\nthat no your opinion, sirs?\" added he, addressing the armed men.\n\n\"We are not to be your judges,\" said he who appeared to be their leader;\n\"ye are our prisoner, by his Majesty's command, and that is a' we ken\nabout the matter. But ye are denounced as a traitor, and the king spares\nnane such.\"\n\nPoor Janet shrieked as she heard the hopeless and cruel words, and again\ncried--\n\n\"But the queen shall ken a'!\"\n\nJenny's arms were rudely torn from around his neck, and he was dragged\nfrom the house; and his arms, as I have stated, being bound, he was\nplaced behind a horseman, and his body was fastened to that of the\ntrooper. In this manner he was conducted to Edinburgh, where he was cast\ninto prison to await his doom.\n\nWithin two days, Janet and her mother were seized also, at the very\nmoment when the former was preparing to set out to implore his\npardon--and accused of harbouring and concealing in their house one whom\nthe king had denounced as guilty of treason.\n\nJanet submitted to her fate without a murmur, and only said--\"Weel, if\nAndrew be to suffer upon my account, I am willing to do the same for\nhis. But surely neither you nor the king can be sae cruel as to harm my\npoor auld mother!\"\n\n\"Oh, dear! dear!\" cried the old woman to those who came to apprehend\nher--\"Was there ever the like o' this seen or heard tell o'! Before I\nkenned wha the king was, I took him to be a kind lad and a canny lad,\nand he canna say but I showed him every attention, and even prevented\nAndrew from striking him again; and what gratification can it be to him\nto tak awa the life o' a lone widow, and a bit helpless lassie?\"\n\nBut, notwithstanding her remonstrances, Nancy Hewitt and her beautiful\ndaughter were conducted as prisoners to the metropolis.\n\nOn the fourth day of his confinement, Andrew was summoned before King\nJames and his nobles, to receive his sentence and undergo its\npunishment. The monarch, in the midst of his lords, sat in a large\napartment in the castle; armed men, with naked swords in their hands,\nstood around, and the frown gathered on his face as the prisoner was led\ninto his presence.\n\nAndrew bowed before the monarch, then raised his head and looked around,\nwith an expression on his countenance which showed that, although he\nexpected death, he feared it not.\n\n\"How now, ye traitor knave!\" said the king, sternly; \"do ye deny that ye\nraised your hand against our royal person?\"\n\n\"No!\" was the brief and bold reply of the dauntless fisherman.\n\n\"Ye have heard, kinsmen,\" continued the monarch, \"his confession of his\nguiltiness from his own lips--what punishment do ye award him?\"\n\n\"Death! the traitor's doom!\" replied the nobles.\n\n\"Nay, troth,\" said James, \"we shall be less just than merciful; and\nbecause of his brave bearing at Lamberton, his life shall be\nspared--but, certes, the hand that was raised against our person shall\nbe struck off.--Prepare the block!\"\n\nNow, the block was brought into the midst of the floor, and Andrew was\nmade to kneel, and his arm was bared and placed upon it--and the\nexecutioner stood by with his drawn sword, waiting the signal from the\nking to strike off the hand, when the fair young queen, with her\nattendants, entered the apartment. The king rose to meet her, saying--\n\n\"What would my fair queen?\"\n\n\"A boon! a boon! my liege,\" playfully replied the blooming princess;\n\"that ye strike not off the hand of this audacious man, but that ye\nchain it for his life.\"\n\n\"Be it so, my fair one,\" said the king; and, taking the sword of the\nexecutioner in his hand, he touched the kneeling culprit on the shoulder\nwith it, saying--\"Rise up SIR ANDREW GUT-THRIE, and thus do we chain\nyour offending hand!\"--the young queen at the same moment raised a veil\nwith which she had concealed the features of bonny Janet, and the king\ntaking her hand, placed it in Andrew's.\n\n\"My conscience!\" exclaimed Andrew, \"am I in existence!--do I dream, or\nwhat?--O Jenny, woman!--O your Majesty!--what shall I say?\"\n\n\"Nothing,\" replied the monarch, \"but the king cam' in the cadger's\nway--and Sir Andrew Gut-thrie and his bonny bride shall be provided\nfor.\"\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[2] Bamborough.\n\n\n\n\nTHE ROYAL RAID.\n\n\nAmong the promoters of the wars and disturbances which so long\nravaged the Border counties, authors have been anxious to class\nprominently the tender sex; not, however, in the way in which it was\nimputed to these fair assuagers of man's misfortunes, that they shed the\nblood of knights, in the times of Froissart. A whole book has been\npenned--and another might follow it--on the wars and dissensions\nproduced by beautiful women; and, without mounting upwards to Eve, it\nhas been thought very well to begin with the maiden of Troy, who\nproduced the most spirited piece of knight-errantry that ever was acted\non the stage of the world. But, in almost every case on record, it was\nthe beauty of the fair disturbers, that, inflaming the spirit of\nrivalship, set men a-fighting with so much zeal; and true it seems to\nbe, that, when beauty went into disrepute, and gunpowder came into\nfashion--both much about the same time--we have never had what may be\ncalled a _bona fide_ heroic battle. But the part which the Border fair\nones had in the bloody scenes of that distracted section of the country,\nis represented to have been very different. The housewife, in those\ntimes, served up to her hungry lord, under an imposing dish, a pair of\nspurs; and this is represented as having been the gentle mode by which\nthe dame intimated that it was necessary for her lord to supply the\nlarder. The Flower of Yarrow herself did not disdain to stimulate, in\nthis way, the foraying spirit of old Harden. But we have good authority\nthat there were beautiful exceptions from this barbarous practice; and,\namong these, we may safely place the unfortunate lady of Cockburn of\nHenderland, the fair subject of the pathetic ballad of \"The Border\nWidow\"--a strain which, so long as poetry shall hold any influence over\nthe heart of man, will continue to draw \"soft pity's tear.\" If every\nBorder chieftain's wife had been like this lady, we would have heard and\nread less of raids and robberies: the dish of spurs, that sent their\nlords to the foray, would have been exchanged for the soft embracing\narms of affection, applied to keep them at home; and the blessings of\ndomestic peace would have harmonized with and softened the spirits which\na love of riot and rapine inflamed into excesses so often ending in\ndeath. We have wept over her grave; and who that has seen the old stone\nin Henderland churchyard--now broken in three pieces, but bearing still\nthat epitaph which Longinus would have pronounced sublime, \"Here lies\nParys of Cockburn, and his wife Marjory\"--and looked on the old ruins of\ntheir castle, now scarcely sufficient for a resting place for the grey\nowl--could resist the rising emotion, or quell the heaving breast of\npity? There lie Parys of Cockburn, and his wife Marjory! How little does\nthat simple chronicle tell! and yet how much. The eloquence of that\npregnant negative of ultra-simplicity, is felt by those who know their\nfate; but how many have trod on the three parts of the broken tombstone,\ndeciphered the divided syllables, and walked on, and never inquired who\nwas Parys of Cockburn, or Marjory his wife! Their bones have long\nmouldered into the dust that now feeds a few wild alpine plants; their\ntombstone is a broken ruin, and will soon pass away; their castle, at a\nfew paces' distance, is also a ruin of a few black weathered stones; and\nthe land they were proud to call their own, dignifies another name. The\nsculptor has failed, but the poet has succeeded; and time may flap his\ndark pinion in vain over the deserted churchyard of Henderland.\n\nThe Cockburns of Henderland were an old family of Selkirkshire. Long before\nthe estate passed into the hands of strangers, we find the name and\ntitle holding a respectable place among the lists of chieftains that\nheld a divided rule on the Borders. Those who have gratified themselves,\nas we have done, by a view of St. Mary's Loch, and the classic streams\nof the Ettrick and Yarrow, cannot fail to have seen the old property of\nHenderland, situated on the Megget, a small stream that runs into the\nloch. That was once the seat of the Cockburns; but there is a sad change\nthere now. In the time of Lesly the historian, the whole of the country\nround Henderland, and the property itself, were covered with wood, that\nafforded shelter to the largest stags in Scotland; and now, there is\nscarcely a single tree that rears its head for miles around. Not distant\nfrom the mansion-house of the present proprietor, the ruins of the old\ncastellated residence of the Cockburns may be seen; and, in the deserted\nburying-ground that surrounded the chapel, there is the broken\ntombstone, recording the deaths of the last members of the family, in\nthe simple terms we have already mentioned. These are the appearances\npresented now; but, in the beginning of the sixteenth century,\nHenderland was a close retreat, surrounded by wood and water. The family\ncastle stood in the midst of a dense wood of firs, mixed, in those parts\nwhere the soil supported the king of the forest, with large oaks. The\nMegget, rolling along its brattling stream, to St. Mary's, was, when in\nits calm moods, made available for the ends of picturesque beauty; and,\nwhen swollen by the mountain rills, served as a defence to the grounds\nand residence. In building their strengths, all the Border chiefs had\nparticular reference to the natural advantages of the situation: the\nmiddle of a morass, the edge of a precipice rising from a mountain\ntorrent, or a small island in the midst of a lake or river, were held to\nbe favoured localities; and Selkirkshire, in curious accordance with the\nhabits of the people, had and has no want of these natural strongholds.\nHenderland had, perhaps, less to boast of, in point of natural strength,\nthan Tushielaw, Mangerton, and some other of the Border residences; but,\nin the beauty of its wooded scenery, and the picturesque effect of\nsleeping lochs and roaring torrents, it might not be excelled in all the\nBorders.\n\nIn the minority of James V., Henderland Tower was occupied by Parys\n(supposed to be a corrupted orthography of Paris) Cockburn. He was then\ncomparatively a young man, and inherited, with the property of a Border\nchief, all the usual characteristics of that class of lairds--a natural,\ninborn valour being looked upon as the principal of all the qualities of\nthe heart; and yet, unfortunately, applied, by a habit that had assumed\nthe strength of an instinct, to the strife of contending families, the\nenterprises of pillage, and the contentions of a circumscribed ambition.\nThere was no peculiarity of the Borderers more remarkable than the union\nof a high valour that would have immortalized many a knight within the\npalisades, and the habit of overturning the rights of property--descending\neven to the grade of petty larceny. Now-a-days, theft and cowardice are\ngenerally supposed to be nearly allied; but, in those days, the chief of\na large clan, inhabiting a stately castle, and famous for a noble\ncourage throughout the land, could pause, in the progress homewards,\nwith half-a-dozen of his neighbour's kine; look, with a furacious eye,\non a bundle of hay, and regret, in his heart, that it had not four legs\nlike a cow, by which he could make it steal itself home to his\nsemi-baronial residence.[3] These apparently inconsistent and opposite\nqualities were possessed by the laird of Henderland. There was not in\nall Liddesdale a nobler champion of the rights of war; and few there\nwere that entered more keenly into the spirit of enterprise, to take\nfrom his neighbour a fat steer, and then fight, as nobly as ever did\nKing Robert for a lost kingdom, in defence of his horned prey. The\nriever in Cockburn was, however, a character of mere habit; for he\npossessed qualities of heart and mind which raised him far above the\nBorder chiefs with whom he was usually ranked. He could fight to the\neffusion of blood that came from within an inch of the coronary veins of\nhis heart, for the property of a cow, that, next day, he would divide\namong the poor; and he was often heard to say, that, if Henderland had\nbeen among \"the Lowdens,\" he would have been a gay courtier, a supporter\nof the throne, and a friend of the poor, if not the king's almoner\nhimself. In addition to these qualities, he carried a noble figure, and\nan open, intelligent countenance, that expressed the feelings of a heart\nas susceptible of the social affections as it was of the emotions that\nproduced his lawless enterprises.\n\nThe interior of Henderland Castle, at this time, was graced by the\npresence of one of the fairest of women, and the most dutiful and\naffectionate of wives. The lot of Marjory Scott, the wife of Cockburn,\nwas, indeed, in all respects, save in the possession of a husband she\nloved devotedly, unfortunately cast; because, in person, mind, and\nheart, she was formed for gracing the polished drawing-room of refined\nand civilized life, and imparting to the nursery the charm of a soft,\nkind, and doting mother, whose love of strict moral discipline was only\none phase of her maternal affection. Become the wife of a Border chief\nfrom the force of an irresistible early passion, she was as much the\ndomesticated lover of in-door enjoyments, the cultivator of the social\naffections, and the admirer of love and tranquillity, as if she had\noccupied a retreat in Arcadia. She had brought her husband three\nchildren, all as fair as herself, one girl and two boys, whom she, in\nplayful kindness, declared she would rear in the fear of God, the love\nof man, and the hearty hatred of Border rieving in all its gradations,\nfrom the laird's enforcing of blackmail, to the prowess of the laird's\nJock, whose depredations extended to the minutiae of Laverna's\nsacrifices:--\n\n    \"Baith hen and cock,\n    And reel and rock,\n    The laird's Jock\n    All with him takes.\"\n\nShe had early entertained the expectation that she would cure her\nhusband of his Border practices; and, though she had not as yet\nsucceeded in that hope, she had placed before him such a picture of\ndomestic bliss, in the working influences of all the finer and higher\nsentiments, seen and heard in the acts and speech of every member of his\nlittle family, that he became daily more reconciled to her views of the\nhappiness of life, at the same time that he could not resist the\nheart-stirring stimulus of a raid, to give him, as he said with a smile,\na higher relish for his domestic enjoyments.\n\nA fine family picture, preserved as a legend of the house of Henderland,\nrepresents Cockburn and Marjory sitting beneath an immense elm, the only\ntree of that kind near the castle, and rendered curious on another\naccount, with their three children beside them, engaged in swinging from\nits branches, and other gambols of innocent childhood. The anxious wife\nhad, for a time, succeeded in her endeavours to keep her husband at\nhome; but, latterly, some indications, on the part of the chief's\nretainers, having been caught by her vigilant eye, she dreaded another\noutbreak of that daring spirit which she had not yet been able\neffectually to quell.\n\n\"It will not conceal, Parys,\" said she, \"that there are yet in this\nbosom, where your Marjory's head has sought the refuge of love,\nfrightened by war, some embers of your old spirit ready to flame again.\nIs it not so? Love hath sharp eyes. It is not for stag hunting that your\nfollowers are stringing their bows. The love of your old pastime, like\nthat of an old concealed passion, will act in such a manner as defieth\nall the art of concealment. I noticed, last night, as you spoke to\nScott's John, who was booming his bow to show the power of the cord,\nthat the sound went to your heart. Tushielaw oweth you a debt of\nvengeance. Is it not so? Come, now, confess that it is not for nothing\nthat the old sword points have been risped on the sharping-stone on the\nballium?\"\n\n\"Tush, Marjory!\" replied Cockburn, \"you alarm the ear of the watchful\nHelen, who suspendeth her play to listen to her mother's fears. Such is\nthy training, that our young Hector will lose Henderland before the sods\nhave grown together over his father's grave, in that small burying\nground around our chapel. And you have unmanned me too, Maudge. You have\nmuch to answer for to the manes of the old Cockburns, who lie sleeping\nin their quiet beds there, after a jolly life of sturdy stouthrieving\nfrom Yarrow to the Esk. What would the laird of Gilnockie say if he\nheard that Cockburn's bairns were taught to read--ay, and to play on\nharpsichords, and teylins, and dulcimers. By my faith, Maudge, but he\nwould laugh a good laugh.\"\n\n\"And yet,\" answered she, \"I have seen the clear drop shining in her\nfather's eye as Helen touched the strings to the soft melodies of Auld\nScotland. Come, now, Parys, was not that sweet dream dearer to ye than\nthe fever of the strife of Border foray?\"\n\n\"Ay, Maudge,\" responded he, \"I confess that you have taught me that\nthere is more in man's heart than he himself dreams of. I once thought\nthat the highest of human enjoyments was a victory lost and won, with a\nhundred head of cattle driven before the returning host, in triumph, to\nHenderland; but, in yon withdrawing-room in the west wing, in which your\ncunning hands have placed the seductive couch, where one may lie and see\nroses blooming so near that he may smell their odours, and hear witching\nstrains stealing from these musical things of wood and wire, the charm\nof the foray is broken, and the riever's spirit overcome. I wish I saw\nold Mangerton twisting his leathern cheeks under these arts of domestic\npeace. Every tear would have its avenging oath. He would trow old\nHenderland turret bewitched.\"\n\n\"But you have cunningly led me away from my subject, Parys. Is it not\ntrue that you are to cut through my silken bands with the restless\nsword? Are you not again to turn the fearless eye of the eagle on the\ncliff where Tushielaw hangs like a beetling crag? Is Helen's song to be\nchanged for the raven war-cry; and the blessings of our peaceful\nhousehold, for the curses of revengeful war?\"\n\n\"How high mounteth Hector on my grandfather's elm!\" responded Cockburn,\nplayfully, evading her question. \"The fearless rogue will hang himself,\nand realize the prophecy of Merlin the wild, regarding our house--\n\n    'On Cockburn's elm, on Henderland lee,\n    A Cockburn laird shall hangit be.'\"\n\n\"God forfend!\" ejaculated Marjory. \"Hector, undo that cord, and descend.\nMy ears ring with old Lailoken's prophetic rhyme, when I look on that\nswing. I shall have it removed.\"\n\n\"Ha ha!\" cried Cockburn, laughing, and glad to get rid of the original\ntopic. \"Don't you know, Maudge, that my grandsire was a dabbler in\nprophetic visions; and, think ye, he would have been fool enough to\nplant and water, as he is said to have done, his descendant's wuddy? But\nI have a good mind to cut down the tree, and make Lailoken's prophecy a\nphysical impossibility.\"\n\nAs Cockburn spoke, he cast his eye wistfully to the sky, as if he felt\nan anxiety as to the state of the weather, an act which did not escape\nthe observation of his wife, on whom the allusion to Merlin's prophecy,\ngenerally current at that time, had produced an effect not remarkable at\na period when this species of soothsaying still retained the credit it\nhad acquired by the success of the poet of Ercildoun. At another time,\nher strong mind would not have acknowledged the power of the rhythmic\nravings of a wandering maniac; but she had got some obscure hints of the\nwrath of the young King James V. against the Border chiefs; and the\ntender solicitude of a doting wife traced, by a process perhaps unknown\nto herself, some connection between Merlin's saying and the proof she\nnow had of a concealed intention, on the part of Cockburn, to disregard\nall her efforts to reclaim him, by imbuing his mind with a perception of\nthe pleasures of domestic happiness, from his old habits of rieving and\nfighting with his neighbours.\n\n\"It is--it is, Parys,\" she exclaimed, with a trembling voice--\"It is too\ntrue that you are bent on the execution of your old threat against\nTushielaw. I have an accumulation of proofs against you, and can read it\neven in your countenance. Do you love me, Parys?--say if you have any\nlove for your Marjory--say if your affection is changed towards those\ndear pledges of our happiness, who, enjoying the sports of their age,\nare unconscious that their father is meditating that which may, ere the\nmorn's sun gild those woods, render them fatherless, and bring sorrow\no'er the house of Henderland? There are two dangers awaiting you:\nTushielaw's arm, that has incarnadined the waters of Ettrick with the\nblood of many a proud foe; and the vengeance of King James, whose\nyouthful fire his nobles, they say, cannot quell.\"\n\n\"This is not the cry of 'houghs in the pot,' Marjory,\" replied he,\nstill laughing--\"the hint of the Border chieftains' wives, when they\nwant more beef for the larder. But calm ye, love. Young James will not\ntravel hither to fulfil old Lailoken's rhyme, and Tushielaw's arm hath\nno power over Cockburn. Truly, I do intend to weed thy pretty arbours,\nMaudge; and, peradventure, I may even essay to sing a bass to thy sweet\nballad of \"Lustye May, with Flora Queen;\" and such a domesticated\ncreature shall I be that, like Hercules, you may see me, ere long, ply\nthe distaff--a pretty sight for Adam Scott's warlike eye.\"\n\nCockburn's merriment fell with a lurid glare over the heart of his\nwife, who, seeing him determined to cover his designs by light raillery,\nreplied nothing; but, calling to her her three children, kissed them,\nand bade them set aside their sports, and return with her to the Castle.\nAs they passed along, Cockburn still cast a wistful eye to the skies,\nwhich wore a threatening aspect--the sun having been surrounded in his\nsetting with large folds of clouds, whose bellying forms came dipping\nnear the mountains; while the pale form of the moon, scarcely\ndistinguishable in the falling gloaming, seemed to be sailing through\nbroken masses of vapour, like a labouring bark in a stormy sea; and, now\nand then, a deep hollow moan among the woods came on the ear, like the\nfar echo of dying thunder. About the Castle, the followers of Cockburn\nwere observed, by the anxious eye of Marjory, to be all secretly\nemployed in repairing their arms or habiliments--an occupation they\nthrew aside, stealthily, when they saw their mistress; but not until she\nhad observed what they had thus endeavoured to conceal. Their\ncountenances exhibited that mixture of repressed joy and affected\nseriousness which the expectation of being gratified by a luxury from\nwhich the heart has long been debarred by some external power, produces\nin the presence of one hostile to the gratification. So strong was the\ndesire of marauding and spoliation in that distracted part of the\ncountry, that an expedition was then looked upon in nearly the light in\nwhich a fair, or maiden-feast, or penny-wedding, would be contemplated\nby more civilized revellers. These indications Marjory noticed; and,\nturning up her eyes in the face of her husband, she sighed heavily, and\nsought her apartment. Soon afterwards she proceeded to put her children\nto rest, making them offer up to heaven a prayer to avert from the head\nof their father a danger they did not understand, but enough to them, if\nthey saw it in the face of their mother, whose looks were their laws,\nand whose smiles were the sunlight of their young hearts.\n\n\"This is a prettier sight,\" muttered she, in soft accents, as she looked\nupon the faces of the beautiful and innocent supplicants--\"this is\nsurely a fairer sight, and better calculated to fill and delight the\nheart of mortal, than what my Parys is now, I fear, preparing to behold.\nHow different is the expression of the faces of these innocents,\nupturned to heaven in supplication and thankfulness, from the\ntorch-flared countenances of blood and revenge which these retainers\nwill turn on the heights of Tushielaw, in the presence of their master!\nNor is my Parys insensible to this difference; but, wo for the force of\neducation and habit over good hearts! Ask, my little Hector, of your\nFather in heaven that, if you live to be a Border chief, you may be\nloyal to your king, and a promoter of peace in the castle, and\ncontentedness and happiness in the cottage.\"\n\nThe little embryo chieftain obeyed the words of his mother; and all\nlooked up in her face anxiously, as they saw the tears stealing down her\ncheeks. Each asked the cause of her grief, and volunteered an\nassuagement, as if their little swelling hearts contained the power of\nthe instant amelioration of her sorrow. She looked upon them in silence;\nand in a little time they were consigned to rest and sleep, and utter\noblivion of all the cares of this world.\n\nAfter these maternal cares, Marjory sat and listened to the proceedings\nin the ballium of the Castle. Cockburn did not come up, being either\noccupied in preparations for his expedition against Adam Scott, or\nunwilling to expose his designs again to the danger of defeat, by the\nexpostulations or entreaties of his anxious wife. Meanwhile, as she\nlistened, every whisper or accidental sound of sword or spear went to\nher heart, and stirred up, in confused array, the fears of love. One\nhope remained to her, that the moon would hide her head, and leave the\nworld to the empire of darkness--so unfavourable to the designs of the\nriever, that the moon's minions would not fight under another power.\nThere were clear indications in the heavens of a coming storm; for the\nmoon still toiled on through the clouds, and the booming of the low,\nsullen wind in the woods was getting higher and higher. These sounds she\nhailed with hope; but, the next moment, the clang of a falling spear\nconsigned her to her fears. At a late hour, Cockburn came up to his\nsleeping-room, and silently retired to pretended rest; while she, with\nher solicitude increased, retired also to her couch, but with no\ndisposition to become oblivious of the fatal operations of her husband,\nthough her tender nature forbade further efforts in a cause that seemed\nhopeless. Resigning herself to the powers of fear, and the other\ndisquieting influences of the solemn hour of midnight, she lay quiet,\nand submitted to the current of inauspicious thoughts that flowed\nthrough her mind. A disturbed slumber fell over her, sufficient only to\nmake a slight division between the world of dreams and that of reality,\nand to allow her waking thoughts to pass in new and changing forms\nbefore the eye of the dreaming fancy, which again, in its turn, invested\nthem with attributes suitable to the complexion of her waking sorrows.\nDuring this interval, Cockburn rose; and, dressing himself, went quietly\nout of the chamber--his movements having only tended to give some new\nimpulse to her half-dreamy sensations, ineffectual as they were to\nrecall her to the cares of a night vigil. A loud crash was the first\nsound that awoke her; and opening her eyes, and becoming collected, she\nrecognised, in the sharp sound, the grating fall of the portcullis. A\nshrill horn now winded among the woods, though its sound was scarcely\ndistinguishable among the repressed bellowings of the night winds that\nseemed to have risen considerably since she had been overcome by her\nslumber. She was satisfied that the whole retinue, with her husband at\ntheir head, were off to the beetling Castle of Tushielaw, from whose\nheights so many a riever had been precipitated into the Ettrick.\n\nThis conviction, coming, as it did, on the back of a disturbed slumber,\nin which her dreams had partaken of the dire nature of a nightmare,\nincreased her fears. She could rest no longer, and rising and dressing\nherself, she sat down at the casement, and listened to ascertain if any\nof the sounds of the cavalcade could be distinguished. She could satisfy\nherself of enough to indicate the route they had taken--away over the\nhills that separate the vales of Ettrick and Yarrow, and by the path\nthat has since got the name of the King's Road, leading directly to the\nTower of Tushielaw. But a quick and threatening change in the weather\nsoon attracted her attention. The booming of the wind seemed to cease,\nand, shortly after, the clouds, through the openings of which the moon\nhad been seen labouring during the previous part of the night, appeared\nto run rapidly together, so as to conceal the face of the night queen,\nand to present a homogenous mass of dark vapour over all the heavens. A\nflash of vivid lightning now flared in her eyes, and left her for a\nmoment in suspense whether she had not been blinded by the bright fluid;\nthen on came the peal of thunder, which reverberating among the\nmountains like discharges of artillery, filled her with that peculiar\nawe which the speaking clouds throw over the hearts of mortals. The rain\ncame down in torrents, and had scarcely begun to pour, when the\nspeat-rills of the high lands were heard dashing down like angry spirits\nto swell the Henderland Burn and the Megget, and raise the fury of these\nmountain streams. The sound of the thunder had awoke the children, who,\nleaving in terror their beds, came running to their mother, to seek that\nprotection which could alone allay their fears. Circling round her\nknees, they hid their heads among the folds of her clothes, or clambered\nto her bosom, and twined their arms round her neck. It was in vain she\nasked them to return to bed; they conceived themselves safer on the\nbreast of their mother, though she still sat at the casement, and the\nlightning glanced in their eyes, than they could be in their beds,\nmuffled up in the bedclothes, and listening to the successive peals of\nthunder. As she sat in this attitude, with the children cowering into\nher bosom, like little chickens under the wing of their mother, she\nobserved that the thunder approached nearer and nearer, as the period\nbetween the flash and the peal diminished gradually to a second; and a\nsudden flash among the trees, accompanied with a crackling noise,\nconnected with some destructive operation of the bolt, indicated that\nmischief had been done in that quarter of the wood. It was where the elm\nstood, the subject of Merlin's rhyme; and this circumstance sent the\ncurrent of her thoughts in that direction, where there was so much\naliment for her excited fancy. She silently prayed that the tree might\nbe destroyed; and its towering top, above all others of the wood, held\nout some hope that her strange wish might be realized.\n\nThe sound of a man's voice--that of Dick of the Muir, as he was\nstyled--the individual who kept the gate of the Tower--was heard\nshouting to some one without, in reply to some request made by the\nlatter. It was now about two in the morning, and Marjory could not\nconceive what could be the purpose of the stranger's visit at that\ndreary hour.\n\n\"What want ye wi' my Leddie at this time, man?\" said Dick. \"My master's\nfrae hame, and my commission doesna extend to opening the gate to\nstrangers on night visits.\"\n\n\"But I'm nae stranger, Dick,\" replied the other. \"I served the Cockburns\nbefore ye was born, and hae wandered many a weary step, in the midst o'\nthis storm, to speak a word to the ear o' my Leddie. The time o' my\nvisit is a good sign o' the importance o' my counsel. For God's sake,\nopen, man! or ye may rue this hour to that o' your deein struggle, when\nLaird and Leddie may be in the moil there, ahint the auld chapel, and a'\nthrough the laziness o' their warder.\"\n\n\"Raff i' the mire!\" cried the warder--saluting him after the custom of\nthe times, when every man had a distinctive appellation, in the absence\nof sirnames. \"I took ye, man, for ane o' Tushielaw's scouts.\"\n\nThe creaking of the hinges of the gate was now heard.\n\n\"What brings ye frae Peebles, man?\" continued the warder, \"in sic a\nnight as this, when a witch wouldna venture on the Skelf Hill, far less\nowre North Berwick Law.\"\n\n\"It's no to tell ye that Merlin's elm has fa'en,\" rejoined Ralph; \"but\nthree oaks on three sides o't are lying on the earth, and that stately\ntree may be a gallows still. You say, Henderland's frae hame. I'm glad\no' the news. It's his leddie I want to see: an' she maun be roused frae\nher couch to speak to her auld servitor. Time bides nae man; neither\ndoes King James.\"\n\nAnother peal of thunder drowned the conversation of the man: and\nMarjory, rousing her little refugees, urged them to return to their\nbeds, that she might be left to hear the intelligence of this midnight\nmessenger, whose words already, so far as she had heard them, carried\ntokens of evil. His reference to the king struck a chord that prior\nsolitude had made sensitive; and even the remark as to the tree that had\nescaped the bolt, had in it a peculiar power over her shattered nerves.\nHer fears operated upon the children, who, even to the youngest, put\nstrange questions to her.\n\n\"Why are you here, mother, in the lightning?\" cried Hector.--\"And where\nis my father?\" inquired Helen.--\"See that flash again!\" said Margaret,\nas she buried her head in her mother's bosom.\n\n\"Poor, helpless, little ones!\" ejaculated she. \"How little know ye that\nthat which fears ye most, is to me the smallest of my terrors! If man's\nwrath were quenched, heaven's would be easily averted. This messenger's\nintelligence may seal your fates, and be felt in its consequences to the\nlast term of your lives. Come, loves, to bed. Hear ye that foot in the\nstair?\"\n\nThe allusion to a mysterious visitor accomplished what the lightning of\nheaven could not effect--such is the secret power of mystery over the\nyoung heart. Rising from her lap, they hurried away to their beds, and\nleft the not less terrified mother to hear the intelligence of the night\nmessenger. The door opened, and Ralph stood before her.\n\n\"God be thanked, my Leddie Cockburn,\" said he, in a repressed voice,\nand with fearful looks--\"God be thanked, for Henderland's absence! The\nking, wi' his nobles, are at Peebles, on their way to Liddesdale, to tak\nvengeance on the chiefs o' the Borders, wha hae been foremost in the\nforay and the rieving raid. They whisper yonder that there's a hangman\nin the train, wi' ropes, to hang the ring-leaders on their castle\nbuttresses; and Henderland is to be their first victim. O my Leddie!\ndispatch, quick as thae flashes o' levin, a messenger to the master, and\ntell him to flee to England, till the king's wrath has blawn owre. I hae\nbraved this awful storm, auld as I am, to save my master; and, if I but\nsaw him safe frae the king's ire, I could lay my banes at the foot o'\nthe grave o' the Cockburns.\"\n\n\"I have been looking for this Ralph,\" answered Marjory, as she lifted\nher hands to seize her hair, in her distress. \"Even now, God be\nmerciful! my husband is in the very act of rieving and rebellion. But\nwhat said ye of Merlin's Elm, man? Is it not skaithed? Speak, no secrets\nnow; are the trees beside it blasted, and does it stand?\"\n\n\"I hae heard yer Leddieship laugh at that auld rhyme,\" replied the\nservitor. \"Fear naething for a madman's freak. But it's true that three\noaks by its side are blasted, riven and laid on the earth, and yet it\nstands.\"\n\n\"Strange, strange are the ways of heaven,\" cried she, wringing her\nhands. \"Ralph, you must be the messenger to my husband. Haste and saddle\nmy grey jennet, and flee by the Riever's Road, to Tushielaw. Tell\nHenderland and Adam Scott, that King James comes, with a halter, to\navenge the rights of royalty and peace. Cry it forth in the midst of\ntheir battle. If he will not flee, take his horse's head, and lead him\nto England. Away, away, for mercy and Henderland's sake, good Ralph, and\nwhisper in his ear--hark ye, man, 'tis no woman's dream--whisper the\nfate of Lailoken's tree. The thunder may drown his laugh.\"\n\nThe faithful servant obeyed the command of his former mistress; and,\nhastening as fast as his old limbs would enable him, mounted Marjory's\ngrey jennet, and was soon out in the midst of the storm. The only\nremaining servant left in the tower, besides the warder, was, at the\nsame time, despatched, by his half-frantic mistress, to proceed on the\nroad to Peebles, and reconnoitre the king's company, and convey to her\nwhat intelligence he could learn in regard to its movements. By this\ntime it was now about three o'clock; but the morning was still dark, the\nstorm had not abated, the rain still poured, the lightning flashed, and\nthe neighbouring streams rolled over their rugged channels with a noise\nthat equalled the thunder which yet shook the heavens. Marjory again\ntook her seat on the casement; and her fancy, stimulated by her fears,\nbecame again busy in the conjuration of images which, however fearful,\nunhappily stood too great a chance of being realized. The substratum of\nindisputable facts was itself a good foundation of fear:--The king,\nangry, and breathing revenge against his rebellious subjects of the\nBorder, was at hand--even within a few miles of her husband's residence;\nand the ensign of his authority and punishment was borne by the common\nexecutioner; then he would detect her husband in the very commission of\nthat rebellious act against which the royal vengeance was to be\ndirected; and, above all, she feared--nay, she was certain, from her\nknowledge of Henderland's free, bold spirit, that he would disdain to\nfly, and would at once commit himself into the hands of a young incensed\nmonarch, who had travelled forty miles for his blood. These were\nfearful, incontrovertible facts, and they were contemplated by a\nsolitary female in the dark hour of night, in the midst of one of the\nfiercest storms that had ever visited that part of the country, and\nunder the blue lights of a fancy that, in spite of the appeals of\njudgment, reverted to an old prophecy of a wonderful being, which seemed\nto have been respected even by the lightning of heaven: the elm still\nstood; its brethren of the forest had fallen; and the rope to be\nattached to it was on its way to Henderland. Fearful forebodings took\npossession of her mind; and, as her fears rose higher and higher, she\nlooked out in the dark, while the gleams of lightning played round her\ncouch, and every sound that differed from the roaring of the storm\narrested her ear, and kept her on the rack of painful anxiety. Her\nlittle children, meanwhile, who had caught sympathetically her fears,\nand could not divine the cause of their mother's vigil by the window in\na thunder storm, had renounced sleep; and, disregarding her efforts to\nrestrain them, must see her at intervals, and question her again and\nagain; and even from their sleeping apartment they sent their\nexclamations of fear, and aggravated, by their sorrows and terror, the\nmisery of their mother.\n\nIn this condition Marjory remained for another hour. There was no stir\nin the tower, where a female domestic or two lay, or slipped about,\nunder the weight of a fear, the cause of which had not been explained to\nthem. The silence internally, broken at times by the cries of the\nrestless children, formed a strange and awe-inspiring contrast to the\nturmoil without, where darkness and the storm still held sway over the\nearth. Oppressed by the sight of the black heavens, she yet trembled to\nlook for the first glimpse of dawn, which might be soon expected to be\nseen struggling through the vapours of the storm. Light would bring the\nking and the executioner; and she prayed that she might have an\nopportunity of seeing her husband before the arrival of the royal\ncavalcade, that she might fall on her knees, and implore his instant\nflight into England; but her ears caught no sounds in the direction of\nTushielaw, save the thunder and the rain, and, at intervals, the scream\nof the drenched owl or frightened hawk, or the wheep of the restless\nlapwing, driven from the morass by the overwhelming torrent. Then came\nthe cry again, of \"Mother, mother!\" from her sleepless children,\nresponded to by her own, \"Hush, hush, my darlings! your father cometh!\"\nwhen her pained ear sought again the direction of Peebles, and she\ntrembled as her fancy suggested the sound of hoof or horn.\n\nThus another hour passed, and her racked feelings were still uncheered\nby a glimpse of hope. The strength of her soul seemed to have passed\ninto the physical organs of the eye and ear; and every change, from\ndarkness or silence, produced exacerbations of her fear, and painful\napprehension. The faint shade of light in the eastern heavens, which\ngave tokens of the approaching dawn, might be a precursor of the king\nand his retinue; and as her eye fell upon it, she listened again for the\ncoming tread. A very faint sound was now heard, and it was too evident\nthat it came not from Tushielaw; it was from the direction of Peebles,\nand it sounded as if it were the tread of a horse. It must be, she\ninstantly thought, the scout of the king's cavalcade; for, in her\npainful anxiety, she had forgotten her own messenger. The step\napproached nearer and nearer; and more intense, in the same degree, grew\nher apprehension, till the sound of her messenger's voice, calling the\nwarder, struck her ear--and she imagined she never heard a voice so\nhollow and ominous of death. The man was admitted, and his heavy step up\nthe spiral stair, flustering in the toil of a vain precipitude in the\ndark entrance, declared the impatience of his intelligence.\n\n\"Ah! my Leddie,\" said he, as he ran forward, breathlessly and fearfully,\n\"Ralph spoke truth. The king's party will be at the castle in less time\nthan an eagle may flee frae Dunyon to Ruberslaw. I hae seen them. They\ncarry torches to shew them the hill-paths, and keep them oot o' the saft\nbogs. The light shone fearfully on the hill-sides, and the clatter o'\ntheir horses' hoofs rang in my ears. I had seen enough, and made the\ngreatest speed to bring the ill news.\"\n\n\"Cockburn, Cockburn,\" ejaculated the disconsolate wife, \"what power may\nnow save ye from thy fate? His proud spirit will disdain flight--ay, and\nprompt a meeting with his executioner. What has become of Ralph?\nEverything conspires toward the ruin of my hopes. You must to Tushielaw,\nThomas, and give a second warning to your master. Tell him of this\ntorch-light progress of the royal executioner, and warn him again to fly\nfor his life, and the life of one who lives through him. Yet,\nstay--shall I not go myself? One messenger hath failed already--shall a\nwife fail in the cause of her husband's life?\"\n\n\"The mountain torrents are swelled, my Leddie,\" replied Thomas of the\nWoodburn, \"an' will be noo sweepin owre the Riever's Road, carryin baith\nman an' horse to the howes; an' nane but an auld hill-roadster may ken\nthe richt tract frae that to ruin in the midst o' the darkness. Ye micht\nas weel try to pass the Brig o' Dread, my Leddie. Yer bonnie body wad be\nfund a corpse wi' the mornin's licht, an' Cockburn, pardoned by the king\nmaybe, micht greet owre't. Besides, ye should be here. A woman's voice\nturns awa meikle wrath.\"\n\n\"Away, then, yourself, good Thomas!--I believe your counsel is good.\nHeaven speed the message! Cockburn's delay gives me a glimmer of hope,\nthat Ralph hath already turned his head to England. If so be it, you\nwill report to me privately, and away from the ear of the king's\nfollowers. If not, and if he cometh to meet the king, heaven look down\nin mercy on these poor children, who still cry for their mother, and\nwill not rest!\"\n\nThomas obeyed; and, as she turned to comfort her children, before she\nagain betook herself to her weary station, she heard the clatter of the\nhorse's heels over the gateway. The restlessness of her little ones\npained her: she imagined she saw, in their instinctive anxiety and fear,\nsome presage of coming evil, whereby, before another night, they might\nbe orphans; and all her efforts to remove the impression only tended to\nconfirm it--thus strangely and fantastically prophetic, is the\napprehensive heart. After again assuring them that their father was\ncoming, she sought her seat at the casement; and saw, now, the grey\ndawn, throwing a stronger light over the bleak hills, and exhibiting the\nwhite, foaming cataracts, dashing from brae to brae! Any hope of seeing\nCockburn, now, before the coming of the king, had gradually dwindled\naway, and was extinct; and she as much feared to hear a sound from the\ndirection of Tushielaw, as she, an hour before, was anxious for that\nindication of her husband's approach. Every instant she might expect to\nhear the tramp of the king's horses; nothing could avert that sound from\nher ear, or prevent it beating upon her heart. It came at last; she\nheard it audibly, mixed with the discordant jingle of armour, and\nstriking her ear at the same time that a horrid glare of torch-light\npierced the deep wood, and arrested her eye. In a few minutes more, a\ntrumpet sounded a shrill blast; the feet of many restless horses raised\na confused noise, that was mixed with broken, under-toned ejaculations,\nand clanking of swords and bucklers, and, after a minute or two of\ncomparative silence, came the high tones of a herald's voice, demanding\nadmittance in the name of King James. The warder repaired to his\nmistress, and got his answer. The gate was opened, and Marjory saw the\ncavalcade enter the base court surrounding the castle; while two large\nbodies of soldiers, coming up about the same time, took their stations\non each side of the entrance. A circle was now formed by those who were\nwithin the court; and the grim faces of the nobles, as they reflected\nthe glare of the torches, were revealed clearly to her gaze. In the\nmiddle stood the young king, in close and secret counsel with his\nconfidential advisers, and, at last, the warder was called before his\nMajesty, to account for the absence of his master, tell where he had\ngone, and record his proceedings. The man reluctantly obeyed the call.\n\n\"Where is thy master, sirrah?\" inquired the king.\n\nThe warder was silent, and the question was repeated in sterner tones.\n\n\"I keep only this castle, your Highness,\" replied the warder; \"my master\nis his ain keeper--an' a better there's no between the twa Tynes.\"\n\n\"Thou art a good keeper of thine own tongue, at least,\" said James,\nangrily; \"but we come not from court unprepared with remedies for\nopening the mouths of close-hearted seneschals. Let Lithcraig attend.\"\n\nAn opening was now made in the circle of nobles, and a man, dressed in a\nlong black doublet, came forward, holding in his hands a rope, ready to\nbe suspended, and to suspend, in its turn, the disobedient warder.\n\n\"Throw thy cord over the buttress, there,\" cried one of the nobles;\n\"give the noose mouth enough to tell its own tale, and I will answer for\nit bringing out his.\"\n\nThe man proceeded forward to a buttress of the castle completely\nexposed to the eyes of Marjory, by the gleams that flared from the\ntorches; and she saw him deliberately go through the operation of making\nthe projection available for the purpose of a gallows, by binding the\ncord to it, and suspending a running noose, which seemed to gape in grim\ngesture for its victim. The moment the rope was suspended, James pointed\nto it, and asked the warder to proceed and answer his questions. The\nterrified man cast a wild eye on the relentless crowd around him, and\nthen on the engine of death that dangled before him, and, with faltering\ntongue, told the king that Cockburn had gone on a midnight raid against\nAdam Scott of Tushielaw, who, some time before, had made an assault on\nHenderland, and carried off twenty head of cattle, besides wounding\nseveral of Cockburn's men; he stated, farther, that there had been many\nraids of late in Liddesdale; but that his master had had, until\nTushielaw roused him, scarcely any share in these struggles, preferring\nthe society of his lady, the fairest and the kindest woman of the\nBorders, to the pleasures of rieving. This statement was received as\nevidence against Cockburn.\n\nAll these transactions had been narrowly watched by Marjory, who was\nnow more and more satisfied that the doom of her husband was sealed, if\nhe made his appearance before the king in the humour he now exhibited.\nShe saw them bind the warder with ropes until their trial was over, that\nhe might remain in pledge for the truth of his statements; and the heads\nagain held counsel on the next step they should take in the unexpected\nevent of the \"traitor,\" as they called him, not being found at home,\nnotwithstanding of their attempted surprise by a night visit. These\ndoings had occupied as much time as allowed the glimmer of early dawn to\npass into a grey light, that, while it did not render the torches\nunnecessary, exhibited in strange and grotesque shades the group of dark\nfigures, their changing faces, moving heads, and inauspicious gestures,\non which the gleams of the torches flickered faintly, in struggles with\nthe rising morn. Above them, the dangling noose claimed her averted eye,\nand sent through her nerves shivers that seemed to make the blood run\nback in the veins, and stagnate about the heart. In any other position\nbut that in which she was placed, she would have made the castle ring\nwith involuntary screams; and it was only the intense anxiety with which\nshe watched every sound in the distance, in the struggling hope that\nCockburn would not make his appearance, that bound her down in the\nsilent, breathless mood which she now exhibited. Neither could she have\nborne the extraordinary spectacle below her casement, had it not been\nthat her wish to watch every indication in the direction of Tushielaw,\novercame the feelings inspired by the moving tumult of fierce men that\nwaited there for the blood of her husband. Sometimes the thought found\nits way through her anxiety--why did they not call for or visit her? But\nthe solution was not difficult; for she knew that men bent on purposes\nof cruelty, do not court the mediation of women. And then again she\nmeditated, for a moment, a descent to them, and an attempt, by throwing\nherself at the feet of the king, to secure, by anticipation, mercy to\nher husband, when he might, if ever he should, be found. This last\nthought was passing through her mind, and she had intuitively drawn her\nclothes around her bosom, as a preparation for her rising resolution,\nwhen her husband's horn, in all its well-known windings, struck her ear.\nThat sound had hitherto inspired the pulses of a living heart, and sent\nthrough her veins the delightful tumult of a gratified hope; it had been\nthe prelude to the close embrace of affection; the flourish of joy on\nthe meeting again of separated hearts. It was now the death-knell of\nboth. She would have sunk to the ground as the sound fell on her ear,\nbut that the recess of the casement sustained her powerless frame. After\na few moments of insensibility, she again opened her eyes; and the first\nvision that presented itself to her, was her husband marching into the\ncastle between two rows of the king's troops. He came nobly forward,\nwith a free, erect carriage, and a look undaunted by the scowls that\nfell on him from every side. On coming up to the king, who stood in a\nhaughty, indignant attitude, he was prepared to throw himself at his\nfeet, when his eye caught the rope, with the noose at the end of it,\nhanging from the buttress. He started, and threw a hurried look up to\nthe casement, where Marjory sat watching his every movement; but his\nfortitude returned again, and making a step forward, he threw himself at\nthe feet of the king.\n\n\"Here doth an humble subject,\" he said, \"deposit the loyalty he oweth to\nhis lawful king.\"\n\n\"On the eve, or in the midst of rebellion,\" cried James, in ironical\nanger. \"Seize the rebel! One caught in the act, maketh a good beginning.\nFour reigns of Jameses have been merely borne or suffered, by beggarly\ntolerance, by these Border sovereigns, and the best part of a kingdom\nmade an arena for the strife of the contention of petty kings, who rob,\nand steal, and kill on all hands, heedless whether the victim be king or\nknave. This shall be ended--by the faith of Scotland's king it shall!\n'Habit and repute,' is good evidence by our old law against common\nthieves; and I ask my nobles, too good a jury for such caitiffs, what a\ncommon thief deserves?\"\n\n\"To be strung up to the buttress,\" replied several voices, in deep\nhollow sounds, that rung fearfully round the recesses of the ballium,\nand reached the ear of Marjory.\n\n\"Parys Cockburn of Henderland,\" cried James, \"hath, by a jury of our\nnobles, been deemed worthy to die the death of a thief, and a rebel\nagainst our authority. Let him be forthwith hanged till he be dead, on\nthe buttress of his own tower, as an example to evil doers in time to\ncome.\"\n\nA quick movement of simultaneous, and, in many cases, intuitive\nagitation, followed this order. Two men seized the unfortunate\ngentleman, and proceeded to bind his hands behind his back, while the\nexecutioner proceeded to let go the end of the rope, so as to bring\nwithin his reach the noose, which had previously been purposely\nelevated, so as to be more exposed to the eyes of the beholders. Every\nstep of these proceedings was observed by Marjory from her seat at the\nwindow; and it was not till she saw the men lay hold of her husband, and\nthe executioner proceed to adjust the rope, that she ceased to be able\nto watch the details of this extraordinary mock trial and real\ncondemnation. At that moment she uttered a loud scream, and fell on the\nfloor in a state of insensibility, from which she was roused by her\nlittle daughter, Helen, who had come from her bed to ascertain her\nmother's illness. Rising in a state of frenzy, she sought the door of\nthe apartment, with a view to throw herself between the king and her\nhusband; but the door was locked in the outside--a precaution,\ndoubtless, taken by the king's orders, to prevent a scene of a woman's\nunavailing grief. The prospect, now, of being forced to remain in a\nchamber a few feet above the gallows on which her husband, and the\nobject of her strongest and softest affections, was to be suspended, and\nhanged like a common malefactor, rose on her bewildered view. Though she\nmight place her hands over her eyes, the _sound_ of his death would\nreach her ear--the jerk of the fatal cord, the struggle of the choking\nbreath, the last sigh of her beloved Parys, would come to her, and\nreason might remain to bear it. If she could close up both eyes and\nears, her fancy would exaggerate the acts performing around her, and\nfill her mind with shapes and forms, if possible more hideous than the\ndread spectres of the waking sense. Breaking loose from Helen, and also\nfrom Hector--who had joined his sister, and had from the window got some\nglimpse of the dire operations in progress in the court, and thus\nascertained the cause of his mother's scream--she ran round the\napartment, in the way of unfortunate maniacs, till her brain became\ndizzy with the quick circumgyrations, and then stood ready to fall,\nstaring wildly at her children, who had followed her in her progress\nwith loud screams. Meanwhile, the buzz of the preparations for the\nexecution fell on her ear, and, running to the window, she held forth\nher extended arms, and implored the king, in wildly pathetic words and\nmoans, to spare her husband. The king never moved his head; but many of\nthe men turned up their grim, embrowned faces, fixed their eyes on her\nbeautiful countenance, and saw her white arms wildly sawing the air,\nwithout showing any indications of being moved. Cockburn himself, who\nstood with his arms bound behind his back, his armour off, and the neck\nof his doublet rolled down on his shoulders, could not trust his eye in\nthe direction of his wife and children, but stood with a look fixed on\nthe grey walls of his tower. The voice of the king was now heard,\ncrying, \"Is everything prepared?\" and, \"Yes, my liege,\" rolled forth\nfrom the mouth of the rough-toned executioner. The unfortunate Marjory,\nin this extremity, turned from the window, and rushed into a\nneighbouring room, from which a few steps of descent led to a window not\nso far removed from a broken part of the wall as to prevent her getting\nto the ground. In this, by a mighty effort, she succeeded, hearing, as\nshe hastened away, the shrill cries of her children following her, and\nimploring her to return. Her brain was fired beyond the capability of\nsane thought. The soldiers, who saw her fall on the ground, lifted her\nup, and then pushed her rudely away from the ground they were ordered to\nguard, confronting her otherwise impossible efforts to get forward by\ntheir swords, and threatening to do her bodily injury if she dared to\nresist their authority.\n\nAt this moment she heard a voice commanding some one to seize and\nconfine the wife of the culprit; and, getting more confused by the\noccurrence of new and more harrowing incidents--the cries of her\nchildren sounding from the window--the noise of those forwarding the\nexecution, if not at that very time, binding her husband to the gallows,\nfilling all the air with a confused buzz--and the coming of the men to\nseize and secure her--she sprang forward out of a postern, and, with the\nrapid step of flying despair, endeavoured to get beyond the dreadful\nsounds which haunted her ear. In her flight--the consequence of the spur\nof frenzy, as much as of a wish to lessen pain which was\ninsufferable--she came to the Henderland Linn, a mountain stream, that\nfalls rolling down the heights with a loud noise. It was much swelled,\nand the waters were gushing and roaring over a ledge of rock that\ncrosses its course, and forms in that quarter a cascade--beautiful in\ncertain states of the river, but frightful when the spirit of the storms\nhas sent down the red stream to dash over the height. The noise was\nwelcome to her; and, exhausted, she threw herself down on a seat by the\nside of the linn;[4] yet, so quick is the ear to catch, through other\nsounds, that of the cause of a pregnant grief, that she heard the\nincreased noise of the crowd at the Castle, consequent on the execution\nof the sentence of condemnation of her husband--a swelling shout, as of\na completed triumph, came on the wind; and, unable to bear this\nconsummation of all her woes, she ran forward, and threw herself down\nwith her head in the line of the cascade, that the roar of the waters\nmight drown the dreadful sound.\n\nHow long she lay in that extraordinary predicament, she was never able\nto tell; but the sound of the roaring waters rang in her ear for many an\nafter day. When she ventured to raise her head, everything seemed quiet\nat Henderland Tower; and the silence now appeared to her more dreadful\nthan the former excitement. The storm, which had been gradually ceasing,\nwas lulled, and the morn had now attained to a grey daylight. She knew\nnot what step to pursue. She would remain, and she would not remain; she\nwould return to the Tower, and she trembled at the thought. Starting up,\nshe began to retrace her steps slowly back through the wood, stopping at\nevery interval of a few moments, to listen if she could hear any sound.\nLooking around, she saw, disappearing from an old road that led away to\nTushielaw, the last of the king's troops; and she omened sadly that they\nhad completed their work. She hesitated again, whether she should\nproceed to a place where she would inevitably behold a sight that might\nunsettle her reason. But whether could she fly? What could she do? Her\nlittle children were there; it was still her home, and the dead body of\nher beloved husband was also there. But judgment might vacillate\naccording to its laws; her feet had an impulse forward, which philosophy\nmight not explain. She was hastening towards the Castle, and she\nscarcely knew that she was occupied in that act, in the absence of\ndistinct volition. Looking up, she saw an old domestic running towards\nher; who, on coming up, wished her to relinquish her determination to go\ntowards the Castle, and requested her to sojourn for a time in the\nwoods, or wait till she sent for a jennet, to carry her to some house.\nShe would give no explanation of her reasons for this advice; but looked\nterrified and confused when Marjory put to her some broken words of\ninterrogation. Marjory could abide no parley, and, gently pushing the\nold attendant aside, hurried forward to the Castle, and entered the\npostern. The ballium was empty; the retainers of her husband had been\nmarched off before the forces of the king; and any domestics that were\nleft had fled to the woods in terror. She lifted her eye to the\nbuttress, and saw suspended there the dead body of her husband. At the\nwindow of her apartment were her children, looking on the dreadful\nspectacle. The two elder had cried till their throats were dried and\nparalysed; and the youngest, who understood nothing of these\nproceedings, laughed when it saw its mother, and clapped its little\nhands for joy.\n\nA knife, that lay alongside the place of execution, was seized by the\nunhappy wife; and, through a loophole that was opposite to the rope, she\nstretched her hand, and severed the fatal cord. The body fell with a\ncrash upon the ground. Life was extinct; but who would convince the\nfrantic wife that her beloved Parys was gone for ever? She hung upon the\ndead body till, as the day advanced, the terrified domestics came in,\nand took her away from the harrowing spectacle. Force had to be applied\nto effect the humane purpose; and, for many a night, the screams that\ncame from the west wing of Henderland spoke eloquently the misery of\nthis child of misfortune. Cockburn was buried in the chapel ground near\nthe Tower. Some time afterwards, when her grief could bear the recital,\nshe wished to know what took place between her husband and the two\nmessengers on that dreadful night--and she was gratified by the\nintelligence. Scott of Tushielaw had got intelligence of Cockburn's\nintentions, and was upon the watch to defend his property. A severe\nconflict ensued, in which several men on both sides were severely\nwounded. In the very midst of the fray, Ralph rode up to Cockburn, and\ndelivered his message; but the proud chief replied, that he would face\nKing James if he were the Prince of Evil himself; but that he could not\npay his respects to his king till he first humbled the proud Tushielaw.\nA like effort was made by Thomas, and with a similar result. In fact, it\nappeared that Cockburn entertained no fear of danger from the visit of\nthe king, and treated the story of the gallows' rope as a mere vision of\nsome terrified mind; at least, if he had any doubts on that subject--and\nreports of the fiery temper of the king might have roused his\nsuspicions--he conceived that a bold bearing would do him more good than\na pusillanimous demeanour; and, as for flight, he despised it, as well\nas disapproved of it, on grounds of fancied prudence, seeing that he\nwould thereby admit his guilt, and prove his pusillanimity, while it\nmight ultimately turn out that the king's intentions were not hostile,\nwhereby he would be exposed to the ridicule and scorn of both king and\nsubjects. Having beat off Scott's retainers, and secured in this way, as\nhe thought, a fancied victory, he marched direct on to his own Tower;\nand, as he approached, sounded his horn in his usual way, to tell his\nwife that he entertained no fear, and to impress upon the mind of the\nking the boldness of the innocence of a man who had only been performing\nan act of self defence, in teaching an old enemy that he would not\ncommit an assault upon him again with impunity.\n\nIn the course of time, Marjory Cockburn recovered slightly from the\neffects of these terrible visitations, and often she expressed her\nsurprise that Lailoken's prophecy about the elm tree had not been proved\nby the events of that night; but some people thought that King James,\nwho knew the prophecy well, wished to reduce the credit of soothsaying,\nand therefore hanged Cockburn on the buttress of the Tower, instead of\nthe tree. Her little children played, as usual, round her; and, if a\nrelenting fate had had in reserve any means for alleviating her grief,\nsurely they might have been found in the prattle of innocence, and the\nhopes of a mother; but it was not ordained that she should be thus\nrelieved. Every day saw a change on her; she gradually declined, till\nshe took on the appearance of a skeleton. About three years after the\ndeath of Cockburn, Marjory died, doubtless, of that disease which\n(though discredited by many altogether) kills more mortals than typhus\nitself--a broken heart. The property had previously been escheated to\nthe king, and the name of the Cockburns of Henderland never flourished\nagain. She was buried in the grave of her beloved Parys; and some\nrelation, who knew the loves and misfortunes of the pair, caused the\nforesaid stone to be erected, with the inscription we have copied, and\nshall copy again--\"Here lie Parys of Cockburn and his wife Marjory.\"\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[3] The old story of Scott of Harden and the hay sow, is well\nknown.\n\n[4] Few travellers on the Borders have passed unnoticed the\n\"lady's seat.\"--ED.\n\n\n\n\nTHE EXPERIMENTER.\n\n\nNo one who has escaped an imminent danger can resist the impulse that\ncompels him to look back upon it, although the recollection harrows up\nhis soul. It is now nearly thirty years since the events of which I\nwrite occurred; still they are as indelibly impressed upon my memory as\nthe felon's brand upon his brow. It has rarely been the fortune of those\nmiserable beings to whose number I had a narrow escape from adding one,\nto retain so lively a recollection of a long train of mental anguish.\nEven at this lengthened period from the occurrence of the events\nreferred to, in my solitary walks, or when sleep forsakes my pillow,\nthey will embody themselves, and pass in vivid succession over my mind;\ntears unbidden fill my eyes, and my heart melts in gratitude for my\ndeliverance from so sad a fate--carried out under the cloud of night,\nburied like a dog, within sea-mark, or in the boundary of two\nproprietors' lands--entailing disgrace upon my family, and a horror of\nmy memory, even scaring the simple husbandman from the neighbourhood of\nthe spot where my ashes lay.\n\nI was the only child of an aged father, the last of a family who had,\nin former days, been of no small consequence in that part of the country\nwhere he resided; but before his day, the numerous acres of land his\nforefathers had possessed owned other lords. All he inherited was the\nrespect of the old people, and the tradition of former grandeur. His\nelder brother, of a more enterprising turn of mind, at their father's\ndeath had sold off the wrecks of a long train of mismanaged property,\ndivided the proceeds between himself and my father, and, after an\naffectionate adieu, set off for the West Indies. My father, less\nenterprising, remained where all his affections were fixed, and farmed a\nfew acres from one of the new proprietors--void of ambition, content to\nglide down the stream of life unknowing and unknown by the busy world,\nall his cares concentrated on me, whom he intended for the church, and\neducated accordingly. For several years, and until misfortunes pressed\nso heavily upon him, he maintained me at college. When his means failed,\nI returned to my disconsolate parents, to consult how I should now\nproceed--whether to go out to Jamaica to my uncle, or commence teacher.\nMy father had applied to his brother for aid in his difficulties, and\nbeen refused. The fears of my mother, and the wounded pride of my father\ndetermined my fate--I commenced teacher, and succeeded equal to my\nambition.\n\nMy income was small; but my habits were simple and temperate, and my\nmeans supplied my wants abundantly. From the first dawnings of reason,\nmy mind was of a studious, inquisitive turn; I thirsted after knowledge\nof every kind; and, while ardent in all my pursuits, I was of a joyous\nand hoping disposition. All was sunshine to me; even the blighting of my\nprospects at college affected not a mind which felt a consciousness of\nbeing able to soar to any height; a thousand projects floated through\nit, each of which, for a season, seemed sufficient to rear me to the\npinnacle of fortune and fame. Thus had I dreamed on for three years. One\nof my many objects of study engrossed the greater portion of my\nthoughts--the mysterious tie that united soul and body. Could I untie\nthis Gordian knot--and I was vain enough to hope I might--then would I\nrank amongst earth's brightest ornaments, and fill a niche with Newton\nand Bacon. This extraordinary subject had even when at school, engaged\nthe greater part of my thoughts. Often have I left my fellows at play,\nand stolen to some distant part of the churchyard, to muse and commune\nwith myself, not without a boyish hope that some kind tenant of the tomb\nwould reveal to me his mighty secret. Void of fear, I have implored the\npresence of spirits under the cloud of night. The feeling that filled my\nmind was an enthusiasm, which, though years and changes have rolled over\nmy head, is still remembered with a sensation of pleasure.\n\nI had kept my school for three years, to the satisfaction of the\nparents of my pupils and my own. My cup of enjoyment was full to\noverflowing. I had proceeded so far with several works of science; every\none of which, ere I began, was to establish my fame, but each was\nquickly abandoned for some new idea. I had resumed again the first\nobject of my inquiry, and was busily arranging materials for effecting\nthe glorious discovery, when I was seized by an epidemic fever that was\ncommitting fearful ravages in the parish. All after this, for several\nweeks, is a blank in my memory, a hiatus in my consciousness. Contrary\nto the expectations of all that attended, I became convalescent. My\nstrength slowly returned; but my mind had undergone a complete change:\nits buoyancy had fled, and no longer, like a butterfly, fluttering from\none flower of fancy to another, it was fixed on the one engrossing\nobject; yet I was conscious that the faculties of which I had once felt\nso proud, were now weak as those of an infant; and, dreamy and listless,\nI began to wander into the fields. My school had broken up. The greater\npart of my pupils were with a successful competitor who now supplied my\nplace. This deepened my gloom; and I often returned with a feeling that\nmy task on earth was accomplished--that all that remained for me was to\ndie--that I was a cumberer of the earth. I never complained, but bore\nall in silence. I cared not for myself; but when I looked to my parents,\nI resolved to struggle on, and did struggle manfully. I felt as a\ndrowning man, who sees an object almost within his reach, that, were he\nenabled to grasp it, would secure his safety. He struggles and plunges\ntowards it in vain, every succeeding effort only serving to diminish his\nhopes of escape, while, by allowing himself to sink in the stream, he\nwould cease to suffer in a moment. To the eye of a casual observer, I\nhad regained my wonted health, neither was there any strong indication\nof the change that had come over my feelings; yet to speak or act was\npainful to me, and I could not endure to be looked at with more than a\npassing glance--shrinking like a criminal, and fearing lest the thoughts\nthat were passing in my mind might be discovered.\n\nA strange sensation had, for some time, taken possession of me. I felt\nas if in a false position, by some means or other, to me\ninscrutable--that I had, at some former period of existence, either on\nthis earth or some other planet, lived, acted, and witnessed, as I was\nnow doing. Nothing appeared new to me: every incident of unwonted\noccurrence produced a dreamy effect of memory, as if I had experienced\nit before. This frame of mind was more annoying than painful, for I even\nat times felt a faint pleasure in it, and strove to anticipate events\nthat were lodged in the womb of futurity: but my efforts were vain; I\ncould not penetrate the mist; I could only recognise the objects as it\ncleared away.\n\nAt this time I was so fortunate as to procure the situation of\namanuensis to a literary gentleman, who was employed upon a work of\ngreat extent, but of little interest. My labour was entirely mechanical.\nThe confinement and the sedentary nature of my employment wrought still\ngreater change on me; for hours I have sat, like an automaton, copying\npassages I felt no interest in, held only to my task by the\nconsciousness of being no longer burthensome to my parents. An entire\nnew train of ideas began to pass through my mind in rapid succession;\nsome of them so fearful and horrid that I trembled for myself. I felt as\nif impelled to crime by some power almost irresistible, and a strange\npleasure in meditating upon deeds of blood took possession of me. My\nfavourite subject, the mysterious connection between soul and body, was\nagain strong upon me, and I longed to witness the last agonies of a\nperson dying by violence. It was necessary to elucidate my theory, and\nthe desire to obtain the knowledge, increased. The crime and all its\nhorrors never occurred to me as any thing but a great, a magnanimous\naction, a sacrifice of my own feelings for the benefit of mankind.\n\nOne evening my employer detained me much later than he was wont. We sat\nas usual--he at one side of the table, I at the other. I had, all the\nafternoon, been much stronger than I had for some time before, and felt\nmore confidence in myself than I had done for several weeks. No\nsensation gave indication of the misery that was to fill my heart. All\nat once my mind was hurled, as if by a whirlwind, from its calm. My\nemployer stooped over a book, in which he was deeply engaged--his head\nwas towards me. I was mending my pen with a stout, ivory-handled\ndesk-knife. The temptation came upon me, with hideous force, to plunge\nthe knife into his head, and obtain the great object I so long had\ndesired. In this fearful moment I even reasoned--if I dare use the\noften-abused term--that the wound would be small, and hidden by the\nhair, so that no man could ever know, far less blame me for the act. I\ngrasped the knife firmly in my hand, changing it to the best position to\nstrike with effect. My mind felt pleased and happy. I actually exulted\nin the opportunity. My arm was raised to strike the unconscious victim\nof my madness, when he raised his head, and looked me in the face. I\nsank into my seat, with a faint scream, and wept like a babe. The\nimpulse had passed away, like a hideous nightmare. I shook in every\nlimb, and raised my eyes to heaven, imploring pardon, and sighed forth a\nmental prayer of thanks; while the intended victim of my madness,\nunconscious of the danger he had escaped, did his utmost to soothe the\nagitation and distress which I could not conceal. I could no longer look\nupon his benign and placid countenance without a shudder of horror, such\nas the wretch must feel who is dragged to the spot where the body of his\nmurdered victim lies witnessing against him. I felt that he was a victim\nsnatched from me by a merciful God--a victim I had murdered in my heart.\nThat same night I gave up my situation, much against the desire of my\nkind employer, and returned to my parents' roof, the most to be pitied\nof living men.\n\nFor several days I never left my bed, and scarcely took any food. My\nmind felt, at times, quite confused; at other times, strange ideas shot\ntransitorily through it, with the vividness of lightning; but they were\nonly coruscations, and left no impressions. I forgot them as quickly as\nthey arose, and sank again into gloom. My malady began gradually to\nassume a new turn. Phantoms began to visit me; the sages of antiquity\nwere my guests. I hailed them, at first, with pleasure, and enjoyed\ntheir presence, but soon grew weary of the voiceless, fleeting\ncommunion. In vain I spoke to them, or put questions in the most\nimpassioned tones. No sound ever met my ear save my own. Yet there was a\nstrange community of sentiment--an intercourse of soul between us; for\nthey would shoot their ideas in through my eyes--smile, or look\ngrave--and nod, assent, or shake the head, as various thoughts passed\nthrough my mind. After the first visits, I ceased to use articulated\nlanguage; it was a joyless communion, a languid inanity, and I felt as\nif my own soul was no longer a dweller in its earthly tabernacle, but\nheld a mysterious middle state between life and death. In vain I\nendeavoured to exert my energies. I left my bed, and began to move\nabout; still this new torment clung to me. I possessed a strange power.\nI had only to think of any event in history, and the whole was present\nbefore me, even the scenes around becoming changed to the places where\nthe circumstances happened. I wished my memory annihilated; I strove not\nto think. My very endeavours called up more vividly new and strange\nideas; wherever I was, the place seemed peopled by phantoms. Wherever I\nturned my eyes, a moving pageant of gorgeous or hideous figures,\nstrangely real, were before me.\n\nOh, how I loathed my situation! Yet I complained to no one--not even to\nmy parents; enduring all in secret, and hearing the bitter taunts of\nfriends and acquaintances, who passed their heart-cutting remarks upon\nmy indolence, and strange way of passing my time. To the eye of a casual\nobserver, I was in good health, and shrunk from making known my painful\nand unheard-of state, lest I should be considered insane, and treated as\nsuch, by being placed in confinement--an idea that made me shudder. I\noften doubted my own sanity; yet I felt not like ordinary madmen. I had\na consciousness that I was under some strong delusion, and what I saw\ncould not be real; still, my visions were not the less annoying and\npainful. The only intervals of rest I enjoyed, was when the desire to\nwitness the last expiring throb of a person dying by violence haunted\nme, which it did at times, if possible, with more overwhelming force\nthan ever. This was the more unaccountable to me, for I am naturally of\na humane and benevolent disposition; and, when not overpowered by a gust\nof passion, timid and averse to acts of strife and violence of any\nkind--shuddering and becoming faint at the sight of blood. My mental\nsufferings, from these conflicts between my natural turn of mind and its\nmorbid state, became so great, that life grew a burden more than I could\nlong endure. Still, I shrunk from self-destruction; or, more properly\nspeaking, the thought never occurred to me; for, had it come with half\nthe force of the others by which I was enslaved, I would have, in a\nmoment, obeyed the impulse. I had no idea of any crime, or a wish to\nwitness the sufferings of the individual. I felt as a patriot might feel\nwho sacrifices all for the good of his country--immolating my own\nfeelings at the altar of science, and deeming the realization of my\ndreams of vital importance to mankind, who had hitherto been unable to\ndiscover the mysterious link that bound soul and body together.\n\nAt length, the thought came into my distracted mind that I might be\nable to try the great experiment upon myself; and a sensation near akin\nto joy came over me, as I turned over the various ways in which this\nmight be accomplished. My whole invention was at work, contriving the\nsafest mode in which I could approach nearest, without crossing \"that\nbourne from whence there is no return;\" and I felt, for days, all the\npleasures and disappointments of a projector, adapting or rejecting the\nvarious schemes by turns. Bred at a short distance from the beach, I\nswam well. To fasten a weight to my body, sufficient to sink me, with a\nknife in my hand, to cut the cord as the last pang came upon me, and\nthen rise to the surface, often presented itself, and was as often\nrejected. I might be so weak, as not to rise, or, in my confusion, I\nmight stab myself in my effort to cut the cord, and the secret would be\nlost. At length, I fixed upon the following mode. Unknown to my parents\nor any one, I prepared the little room I had occupied from childhood,\nand, with a feeling of pride, called my study, by carefully securing\nfrom it all access of air, as far as was in my power; then, attaching a\ncord to the door and window, so contrived that the slightest pull would\nthrow them wide open, I placed a chair in the centre of the room, and a\nchaffer of burning charcoal by its side. With a feeling of exultation, I\nsat down to complete my experiment. The cords were fixed to my arms, so\nthat, when I fell from my seat unconscious, the door and window would\nopen, and restore animation by the access of vital air. I would thus\nattain my object, without exposing myself, or becoming the subject of\npublic remark, which at all times was most hateful to me. I watched\nevery mutation of feeling. For the first few minutes, I felt no change,\nexcept that the room became warmer and more agreeable. Gradually my\nbreathing became more quick; but not in the least laboured. A gentle\nperspiration came upon me, accompanied by a luxurious languor, such as\nif I had ate a plentiful dinner, and stretched myself upon a sunny bank;\nan irresistible desire to sleep was stealing over me. My feelings were\nhighly pleasing; but a stupor gradually came over me, and banished\nthought. My next sensation was a thrill of agony, which no words can\nexpress. It was more intense than if thousands of pointed instruments\nhad been thrust into every muscle of my body--plucked out, and again\nthrust in, with the rapidity of lightning. Thrilling coruscations of\nvivid light flashed across my eyes. I attempted to shriek--only a faint\ngroan escaped; my organs of voice refused to obey their office. Human\nnature could not continue to suffer as I suffered. Again I sank into\nunconsciousness, and again my agony came on me, though not so intense as\nbefore. Faint glimmerings of thought began to visit me. The first was\nthat the agonies of death were upon me; that I was in danger of sitting\ntoo long; and, with a convulsive effort I attempted to throw myself from\nthe chair, but felt I was restrained. Opening my eyes, I found them dim\nand visionless; a dull and benumbing sensation made me feel as if my\nbrain was bursting my head; whether it was day or night I could not\ndistinguish; my ears were filled with confused sounds, mixed with a\nhissing and booming that distracted me; I felt faint and sick, so as I\nnever felt before or since. That I was dying, I firmly believed; and\nagain I attempted to sink from off the chair. As consciousness returned,\nI found myself stretched upon my bed. Still, all was darkness and\nconfusion, I fell into a lethargy or sleep, which lasted for hours.\n\nWhen I awoke, my mother sat weeping by the side of my bed; her\nsuppressed sob was the first sound that fell upon my ear. Never can I\nforget that moment!--her melting woe, as she sat stooping towards me;\nthe anguish expressed in my father's countenance, as he stood supporting\nhimself upon the back of her chair, his eyes bent on my face. I turned\nmyself upon my pillow, and gave vent to a flood of tears.\n\nBefore a word had been exchanged, the surgeon, to whose exertions I was\nindebted for my restoration to life, entered. To his inquiries after me,\nmy mother answered, that, for the last few hours, I had been in a quiet\nsleep, and had just moved and turned as if I had awakened; but that,\nagreeable to his desire, she had not spoken to me. Without answering\nher, he stooped over the bed to feel my pulse. I turned to him, and\ninquired what had happened. A mutual explanation took place. That I had\nattempted suicide, both he and my parents believed, until, to vindicate\nmyself, I gave them a minute account of the object I had in view in what\nI had done. He listened with intense interest, not unmixed with\nastonishment, as he gradually drew from me an account of my long train\nof mental anguish. I could at once perceive that he did not ridicule me,\nbut rather sympathised with me, and blamed me much for not making my\ncase known long before, as it was not, he hoped, beyond the reach of\nmedicine. He told me of several cases in which he had been successful,\nnearly similar to my own, although not to the extent of duration and\nvariety of change. The following, which had nearly been as fatal, and\nwould have been as inexplicable, made the greatest impression on me.\n\nThe subject of his narrative was the wife of a near neighbour of ours,\nwho had been dead for some years. At the time both were well stricken in\nage, and remarkable both for their piety and walk in life. Their family,\nthe greater part of whom were alive, had all reached manhood, and were\nengaged in active duties in different parts of the country. The old\ncouple themselves were living on the fruits of their early industry and\neconomy, in a small solitary cottage, calmly closing the evening of a\nwell-spent life. The first attack of the malady was sudden and severe,\nits approach being unperceived by any one, even by the sufferer. Both\nhad spent the day at church, and returned, conversing with their\nneighbours, until they reached their own cottage, where they sat reading\ntheir Bible, or conversing on subjects derived from it, until the\nherd-boy brought home the cow from the common pasture. On looking up,\nthe woman saw the cow standing and lowing at the byre door. She rose\nfrom her seat, and went to admit and attend to the welcome guest. She\ndid not return to the house after an unusually protracted stay; and her\nhusband, beginning to be uneasy, and fearful lest the cow might have\nkicked or hurt her, went to ascertain the cause of her tarrying. Struck\nwith horror, he found her talking in a fearful strain to an imaginary\nsecond person, the cow still uncared for, and the milking-pail upside\ndown, she standing upon the bottom, busy adjusting a halter to one of\nthe beams, and imploring the ideal person not to go until she could get\nall ready to accompany him to that happy land of which he spoke, and to\nwhich he showed her the way. Her distressed husband, rushing forward,\nclasped her in his arms as she was putting the noose over her head. She\nscreamed and resisted with all her energies, calling upon the phantom to\nrescue her from her cruel husband. For several weeks she remained in\nthis state, confined and strictly watched. The surgeon succeeded in\nsubduing the disease; and when reason returned, she had no consciousness\nof anything that had happened during the interval; but, with a grateful\nheart, returned thanks to God for preservation and recovery.\n\nMy pride was wounded to observe that the surgeon thought I was insane,\nfor he quoted the above case as a parallel to mine. This I remonstrated\nagainst; and, although I could perceive a credulous smile upon his\nfeatures, I at once cheerfully agreed to put myself under his care. When\nhe retired for the evening, I found that I was indebted for my escape\nfrom death to a strange circumstance--the death of my uncle, my father's\nbrother, who had returned from the West Indies some years before with\nconsiderable wealth and a broken constitution. We had never seen him\nsince his return. Prosperity had brought to him no pleasure, riches no\nenjoyment. From being one of the most joyous and liberal of lads before\nhe left home, he had returned to his country sullen and avaricious; with\nall his wealth, a poorer man, in mind, than when he left it--suffering\nfrom a continued dread of poverty, and the victim of hypochondria.\n\n\"Poor John!\" my father would say, \"how I pity you! Your money is not\nyour own; you are only the gatherer for some other person. You dare not\nenjoy a shilling; neither can you take it with you when you die.\" My\nfather had just received an intimation from a lawyer, requesting his\nimmediate attendance in Edinburgh, where his brother had died suddenly\nthe evening before, to make arrangements for his funeral, and look after\nhis effects, as he believed he had died intestate. My mother had\nhastened up stairs with the intelligence, and to request me to come\ndown, when she found me seated upon the chair, with my head sunk upon my\nbreast, as if I had been in a profound sleep. Overcome by the vapour,\nshe sank upon the floor; the noise of her fall brought up my father,\nwhose first task was to rush to me, give me a gentle shake, and then\nlook in agony at me and at his wife. When he took his hand from me, I\nfell to the floor by the side of my mother, and the window opened as I\nhad contrived. Uttering a cry of anguish, he seized the wife of his\nbosom in his arms, hurried out of the fatal room, sent the servant girl\nfor the surgeon, and returned for me, who was lying as if dead, my eyes\nopen and fixed, dull and void of expression. My mother soon recovered; a\nfew neighbours came to her aid; and the surgeon was, fortunately, soon\nfound. Their utmost efforts were for long, to all appearance, of little\navail. The surgeon had almost despaired of success; at length his\npatience and skill were rewarded by my returning animation. The rest is\nalready known.\n\nSo violent was the shock my constitution had sustained, from the action\nof the noxious gas, that it was several weeks before I was enabled to\nleave my room. The skill of my surgeon was evidently operating a\nbeneficial change upon my mind. The languor and heaviness, mixed with\nrestless anxiety, which had so long oppressed me, began to yield to the\npowers of his prescriptions; my hallucinations became less annoying and\nmore distant in their attacks, until they entirely ceased, and I was\nrestored to the full enjoyment of existence. Change of scene was his\nfinal medicine; and this I most cheerfully agreed to take, for my\ncircumstances were now affluent, and enabled me to live or wander where\nI might choose. My restless mind would at times dwell with peculiar\npleasure upon some one favoured project or other; and, fearful lest I\nshould fall again into some new philosophical dream, I resolved to\ntravel. With a stout horse and a heavy purse, I bade adieu to my parents\nfor a short time, and rode out of my native valley, accompanied by\nMalcolm Dow, a stout lad who had been reared in the family, as my\nservant.\n\nI would have gone to the Continent, and visited the banks of the Rhine,\nSwitzerland, and Italy; but I bethought me of the delightful and\nromantic scenery of our own dear land, with its infinitely varied\nbeauties; the endless pleasure I would have in viewing them, in all\ntheir bearings, from the dark frowning passes in the Highlands, where\nrock rises piled upon rock, and the impetuous cataract makes the\nstoutest eye reel in looking on it, to the wimpling stream that glides\nthrough some bosky dell, where wild flowers spangle the banks, driving\nsome village mill, whose distant clack, mingling with the murmur of the\nstream and the song of birds from the woods, forms a concert so sweet to\nthe lover of nature. Without an object further than amusement, Malcolm\nand I jogged on for the Falls of the Clyde. Early in the afternoon, we\narrived in Lanark, where I resolved to stop for a few days; and leaving\nMalcolm at the inn, looking after the horses, I walked out by the West\nPort, to visit the Falls of Stonebyres. I descended the steep brae to\nthe old bridge, where I sat for some time, enjoying the sweep of the\nriver, which was considerably swollen at the time, and the falls were in\ngreat magnificence. I could hear the roar of the waters as they dashed\nover from fall to fall, and perceive the grey mist that rose from the\nabyss. As I sat absorbed in the scene, a venerable personage, evidently\nof the class of farmers in the neighbourhood, came to me, and, after the\nsalutation of strangers, he seated himself upon the parapet by my side,\nand joined in conversation and anecdote of the scenes around. He agreed\nwith me that Clyde was a lovely stream; but added, it was a bloody one.\nI felt shocked at such an epithet being applied to the object of my\npresent admiration, and requested his reason for it.\n\n\"O sir,\" he said, \"my reason is too good for giving it that name; it\nhas been the grave of thousands, and will yet swallow more in its greedy\nbosom. My only son, the hope of my declining years, perished in its\nwaves; and even here where we sit, before this bridge was built, a scene\nof heroic fortitude and resignation was exhibited to sorrowing numbers,\nwho could render no aid--a scene indeed not surpassed in ancient or\nmodern history.\"\n\nStruck by his manner, I requested him to give me the account as he had\nheard it.\n\n\"You shall hear it,\" said he, \"as I had it when a boy, from my\ngrandfather, who was one of the sorrowing witnesses of the event. There\nlived, in a cottage on the banks, some distance up the stream from where\nwe are at present, a pious and industrious man, who had a very small\nfarm attached to the ferry, which he rented; the boat that plied across\nthe river for the accommodation of passengers was his principal support.\nHe was very poor, and had a numerous family--very young--to provide for\nby his exertions. The river was much swollen by heavy rains which had\nfallen for some days. It was the day of the fair at Lanark, and he\nrejoiced in the gains he should acquire. He was resolute and athletic,\nand, from long practice, knew the ferry well. The labours of the day had\npassed off with cheerfulness; the river had continued to rise rapidly,\nthe evening was coming on, and the last boat-load, among whom was my\ngrandfather, were embarked. He pushed out into the stream, and,\nskilfully as he manoeuvred his boat, the river carried them down\nconsiderably below the usual landing place. The steady boatman, of all\nthat were in danger, was alone collected, and free from alarm. His wife,\nwho stood on the side with an infant in her arms, mingled cries and\nprayers with the roaring of the swollen river. At length he neared the\nside at an eddy, and the passengers waded to the green banks. His wife\nand all called to him to step out also, and haul the boat out of the\nstream; but they implored him in vain, for he relied too much upon his\nown skill and strength, and heeded them not. Two or three passengers\nstood on the opposite bank, wishing to cross also; and the temptation of\na few more pence induced him to push again into the angry stream, after\na kind assurance to his wife, and those with her, that there was no\ndanger. Scarce had he spoke, when it was evident that he and the boat\nwere as much the sport of the swollen Clyde, as a withered leaf. The\nskiff shot along like an arrow towards the fall. A wild scream arose\nfrom both sides of the river; all aid was out of human power, yet no cry\nfor help escaped him; he sat down with calm resignation, pulled his\nbonnet over his eyes, and, muffling his face in his plaid, cried--'Jesus\nhave mercy!' and, ere the sounds died away, he was swept over the\ntremendous fall, and perished.\"\n\nThe scene seemed to pass before me, as I listened to him, and gazed\nupon the stream. We parted, and I proceeded to view the fearfully\nmajestic spot, where the river on my right, increasing its angry\nroarings, gushed over the awful rock. Descending the footpath on my\nright, the whole scene of terror and grandeur burst upon me. The evening\nwas approaching apace, and slowly and reluctantly I began to ascend,\nafter having scrambled to almost every accessible spot on the side where\nI was. So much did the noise and sublimity affect me, that I felt one of\nmy unsettled fits stealing over my mind. Strange thoughts began to\narise. I quickened my pace until I reached the top of the height; and\nthe glorious view--the beautiful sloping braes of Nemplar, and the\nvillage gilded by the beams of the setting sun--burst upon me. I again\nlonged for a view of the magnificent fan-looking cascade from a new\npoint; and so imperative was my desire that I never thought of the\ndanger. Stepping to the brink of the chasm, where the fearful tumult\nraged many feet below, I could only catch an angular glance; and, to\nextend it, I caught a bush, and leaned forward upon one hand and my\nknees. Dreadful moment! horrid recollection!--I felt the bank giving\nway. A convulsive effort to regain my equilibrium, and a stifled cry for\nmercy, are all I recollect--my heart collapsed, and all consciousness\nceased.\n\nHow long I continued in this state I have no means of ascertaining; my\nfirst sensation was a sickness that almost made me again relapse into\ninsensibility, accompanied by a feeling of pain in all my limbs.\nLanguidly I opened my eyes; all was dark as midnight. The roar of the\nwaters stupified every sense. The horrors of my situation chilled my\nsoul, and annihilated all my courage. How I retained, by the energies of\ndespair, unaided by reason, my half pendulous position, I cannot\nexplain. I was, for a time after consciousness returned, incapable of\nreflection; my mind, a chaos of fear and horror. I felt wet to the skin,\nfrom the thin spray, which fell upon and enveloped me like a cloud; a\nprofuse sweat stood upon my forehead, and rolling down in large drops,\nmade my eyes smart. I grasped something that sustained me, yet I\nscarcely knew how. Gradually the sickness left me, and cool thoughts of\nmy perilous situation began to occupy my mind; my energies and native\ndesire of preservation began to strengthen. My first care was to\nascertain if any of my bones were broken. My legs hung over a ledge of\nthe rock, upon which the rest of my body lay supported by my hands,\nwhich still clung to the small object I had grasped; cautiously I moved\nmy legs, the one after the other: no bone was broken; but I found them\npainful in many places. Still clinging to my hold, on which I felt my\nwhole chance of escape from being plunged into the gulf below depended,\nI, for some time, and by many useless efforts, attempted to get my knees\nupon the ledge of rock; my position was becoming every minute more\npainful, and I less able to retain it; my arms were benumbed, and my\nhands powerless, from being so long above my head. I dared not pull\nmyself up, for the falling of stones and earth, when I first made the\nattempt, gave fearful note of the feeble tenure by which I was\nsustained. My left hand began to cramp; the fear of instant annihilation\nseized me; I could hold by it no longer. I grasped still more firmly by\nmy right, and, stretching my left, found relief, by moving it gently\nabout, to restore the circulation. I dared not bring it down, lest the\nother had failed; and, stretching farther than I had yet done, it\ntouched something hard and erect; it was the stem of a stoutish bush,\nthat grew out of a crevice in the rock. A ray of hope darted through my\nmind. I grasped it, still keeping my first hold, and got my knees on the\nledge. To stand on my feet was now an easy effort. The joy of that\nmovement, in the midst of my sufferings and despair, I shall never\nforget. I felt as if snatched from the roaring abyss. My nearly\nexhausted strength began to be renewed; I felt comparative comfort; yet\nI would have given all I possessed for my deliverance; my escape was not\nyet more certain, or my situation much less perilous. I found that I\nstill held clutched in my right hand the bush that had given way, and\nbeen the cause of my disaster; but how far I had fallen, or at what part\nof the hideous chasm I had been mercifully arrested, I had no means to\nascertain; for I stood, like a Russian peasant ready to receive the\nknout, with my face to the wall of rocks. I looked to the right side and\nto the left; all was the most impenetrable darkness. My arms, now that\nthe weight of my body was taken from them, felt if possible more\nbenumbed. I groped with my feet as far as I could, and found my standing\nvery narrow, but inclining rather into than from the rock. I loosened\none hand, and with an effort, that I thought would have dislocated my\nshoulder, brought it to my side. The tingling sensation I felt from the\nreturning circulation, almost made me cry aloud. As I found that I still\nstood firm, I undid the grasp of my left hand, but not before I had\nturned my face from the rock. I now stood facing the raging flood; but\nits roaring was all I could distinguish. I now looked towards the\nHeavens, and thought I could perceive the stars dimly, through the thick\ncloud of spray in which I was involved. I leaned against the rocks, but\nmy legs began to fail me, and trembled under the weight of my body. I\nwas imperatively compelled, while strength remained, again to change my\nposture, and at length succeeded, and seated myself upon the ledge, my\nlegs dangling over the edge.\n\nNow, for the first time, I felt as if I were at ease, and began to\ncalculate on the chances of my escape--feeling that my situation was so\nmuch improved that there was every reason to hope I should be able to\nsit out the fearful night, be once more snatched from death, and witness\nthe dawn usher in the glorious orb of day, when I felt assured every\neffort would be made for my rescue. I gazed intensely down the roaring\nvoid, in hopes to see some indication that I was sought after. Malcolm I\nknew would strain every nerve, nay, peril his own life, to save mine. I\nthought I now could perceive first one dark red ball or light upon the\nedge of the stream, quickly moving, followed by others. The blood-red\nglare, as they approached, gradually became more bright, surrounded by a\nlighter halo; but they threw no ray where I sat, anxiously watching\nthem. Their bearers were invisible from where I was. At length they came\nnearer the whirling pool, and cast a red shade on the water, where it\nshot over the last shelf. I could look no longer--my brain whirled, I\nclosed my eyes, I felt as if I would have fallen, even after they were\nshut with all my force. I shouted with all my might, in hopes they might\nhear my voice. Vain effort!--no sound less loud than the thunders of\nHeaven could be distinguished amid the turmoil of waters.\n\nAgain I ventured to open my eyes. The lights had disappeared. I felt,\nif possible, more forlorn than I had yet done; my heart began to sink; I\nlaid myself along upon the hard rock, and, commending myself to God,\nbecame more calm and resigned to my fate. If ever there was a prayer in\nwhich true sorrow for sin, and humble confidence in the goodness and\nmercy of God, were poured from the human breast, it was from that\nfearful place. After my devotions, a calm feeling stole over my mind. I\nlaid my head down, and, strange as it may appear, fell sound asleep as a\ncradled babe, and awoke refreshed. The horrors of the earlier part of\nthe night came upon me like a fearful dream. The waters thundered in my\nears. I opened my eyes, and looked up. The first rays of the sun,\nglancing upon the mists raised by the falls, formed numerous rainbows. I\ndared not to look down to the abyss, or forward to the rushing stream.\nWith a feeling of utter helplessness, I turned my face again to the\nrock, and looked up. A cry of hope and thanksgiving escaped my lips--the\ntop of the bank was only a few feet from where I lay! Rising to my\nknees, and holding by the bushes, I poured forth my morning prayers of\nthanksgiving and supplication for deliverance. I rose to my feet; the\nedge was only a little above my reach--my situation was still fearfully\ncritical. Whether to risk all, and, by my own efforts, free myself, or\nwait until aid came, I turned over in my mind for a few minutes, as I\nexamined the space above me. The noise of the waters, and agitation of\nmy mind, were again beginning to render my situation more and more\nperilous, and I felt there was no time to lose. It was far more\nappalling in the glare of day than the cloud of night, and, with a\ndesperate energy, I made the attempt, clinging to what I could grasp. I\nknow not how I succeeded, until I lay stretched upon the verge of the\ngulf, secure from danger. I dared not rise to my feet--I crept upon my\nhands and knees for several yards, then sprang up, nor looked behind.\nUnheeding the path I took, I ran until I sank exhausted, the roar of the\nwaters no longer sounding in my ears. The sight of the place was now\nhateful to me. I resolved not to visit it again, or see the other\nfalls--indeed, I was very ill, from the night's exposure to damp, and\nthe sufferings of my mind.\n\nWithout hat or shoes, I entered the inn of the village. On raising the\npeople from their beds, my appearance was so suspicious, that it was\nwith difficulty they allowed me to enter; but a seven-shilling piece,\nwhich I tendered to the landlady, acted as a charm in raising her good\nopinion of me. I obtained a warm bed, and a cordial, while she prepared\nbreakfast, and dried my clothes, which were soiled and wet. I evaded all\nher artful inquiries to learn how I had come into my present situation.\nIt looked so improbable, even to myself, that I thought no one would\ngive credit to my relation; and the rumours upon my former escape made\nme resolve to keep it secret from every one, even Malcolm, to whom I\nwrote to come over to me with the horses.\n\nI remained in my room until his arrival, which was not until late in\nthe forenoon. When he arrived, I thought he would have gone distracted\nwith joy--he wept and laughed by turns--gazing at times with a vacant\nstare, then touching me to prove my identity. After he became more\ncomposed, I learned that it was currently reported and believed in\nLanark, that I had perished in the river. Malcolm had waited for me with\nextreme impatience, after nightfall, until about ten o'clock, when he\ncould be induced by the landlord of the inn to remain no longer, and\neven the landlord had become uneasy. After some delay, several men were\nengaged to accompany Malcolm in his search for me, and, having procured\ntorches and a lantern, they proceeded to the side of the river, beneath\nthe fall, and, after searching every spot they could reach in the\ndarkness of the night, for more than a mile on each side, they again, on\nMalcolm's importunities, and his offer of a handsome reward, renewed\ntheir search the second time. In an eddy not far below the fall, one of\nthem discovered my hat, sunk near the margin, and filled with water and\nmud. That I had been drowned none of the party had the smallest doubt.\nThe search had continued for upwards of three hours, their torches were\nburned out, and the men refused to remain longer; but no persuasion\ncould induce Malcolm to leave the side of the swollen river, where he\nhad remained during the short interval till day; the landlord promising\nto return early, with drags, and men, to search for my body. In this\nmanner they had been employed, until all hope had fled, and they,\naccompanied by Malcolm, had returned to the inn, where he found my\nletter. Confused by hope and doubt, he had hurried on foot, and run to\nme. Moved by his affection, I gave him a sum of money, to reward the\nlandlord and his assistants, telling him I was extremely sorry for the\nalarm and trouble I had put them all to; but that my hat having fallen\nin, and my not returning, were caused by a circumstance I did not choose\nto explain.\n\nAs I felt no serious inconvenience from my adventure, I rose and\ndressed, and left the village for Glasgow, after dinner. As we passed\nthe Cartland Bridge, I shut my eyes, to prevent my seeing the river, and\nput spurs to my horse, to quit the scene where I had suffered so much in\nso short a time.\n\nAfter wandering over the greater part of Scotland for several weeks, I\nbecame weary of enjoyment, and turned our horses' heads homewards by the\ncoast of Ayrshire, with a view to visit the Island of Arran, and then\ncross the country to Stirling, by Loch Lomond. We had reached Largs, on\nthe coast of Ayrshire, and saw the Isle of Bute, the Cumbraes, and the\nlofty summits of Arran, rise out of the Firth of Clyde, in beautiful\nsuccession. At this time steamboats were unknown. I agreed with the\nlandlord of the inn to have our horses carefully sent round by Glasgow,\nto wait us at Dumbarton, and set out for the beach, to enjoy the scene,\nand agree for a boat to carry us on our aquatic excursion; but the time\npassed on, and evening approached when we were at a considerable\ndistance from the town. We had been sometimes upon the beach, at others\namong the rocks, as fancy led. I said to Malcolm that I would now return\nto our inn, and cause our landlord to make arrangements for a boat. As\nwe hurried away from the shore towards the town, four men, in seamen's\napparel, rushed from behind a rock, and pinioned our arms before we were\naware. Two of them held pistols in their hands, threatening to fire if\nwe uttered a sound, and pushed us before them to the spot whence they\nhad issued. Here we found two other similar characters; the whole were\nstout, athletic men, of different ages, bronzed by the weather.\n\nThe place where we were was close by the beach, under a rock which\nbeetled out for a few feet--the sea, at full, coming almost up to the\nbase--but protruding sufficiently to conceal, except in front, a number\nof people. Still pointing the pistols to our breasts, and almost\ntouching our vests, they bound our hands together behind our backs, and,\ntaking our handkerchiefs from our pockets, covered our faces. We were\nsilent and passive in their hands; yet in agony of fear. They placed us\nupon the hard rock, and we dared not ask one question, to ascertain the\ncause of our detention. From the few words that we could pick up out of\ntheir conversation, which was carried on in whispers, I could learn that\nthe disposal of our persons engaged them. Malcolm could contain his\nfears no longer, and began to plead for mercy for his master and\nhimself. One of the fellows snapped his pistol; I could hear the click\nand smell the powder.\n\n\"You are in luck this bout,\" said a voice; \"but don't make me try it\nagain; she never flashed in the pan before. We don't threaten for\nnaught; so bless your luck, and take warning.\"\n\nA long period of fearful suspense ensued, in which my imagination\nconjured up a thousand objects of horror and suffering. The sea-breeze\ngently sighed among the rocks, and we heard the soft cadence of the\ngentle waves that fell near our feet, as the tide advanced. That we had\nbecome objects of alarm to a band of lawless men, whose lives were spent\nin violating the laws of their country, I was fully aware, but in what\nmanner I knew not, unless that, by our sauntering about the rocks, they\nhad suspected us to belong to the excise. In such cases I had heard that\nthey were apt to do deeds of violence; but Malcolm's escape prevented me\nfrom speaking a word, or requesting an explanation. At length the sound\nof oars pulled steadily and with caution, fell upon my ears; and a\nconfused suppressed sound of many voices soon followed; then there was\nthe trampling of feet through the water and upon the rock, with the\nnoise as if numerous articles were placed close to where we sat.\nShivering from cold, we sat in anxious suspense. That I had been right\nin my conjecture, I felt now assured; and, at this moment, I thought\nthey were delivering their cargo. Soon the movements ceased; we were\ngrasped by powerful hands, again threatened with death if we uttered a\nword, and placed in a boat, which, by the motion, seemed to glide\nthrough the water for a considerable time. No word was spoken by those\nin the boat, except in whispers. Again I found it touch the beach. We\nwere lifted out, and placed upon the edge of the water, the cords cut\nfrom our wrists, and, in one moment after, the sound of the departing\nboat fell upon our gratified ears. We were alone, and the first use we\nmade of our regained liberty, was to take the mufflings from our faces.\nAll was dark around, nor could we discern any object except the faint\nphosphoric light that marked the margin of the waves here and there,\nlike golden threads, as they broke at our feet.\n\nWe now breathed more freely; our situation, though far from comfortable,\nwas free from the dread of immediate violence; for we stood alone and\nsolitary upon an unknown beach--but whether in Ayrshire, Bute, or\nArgyle, we had no means to ascertain. From our painful position while in\nthe boat, the time had hung so heavy on us that it appeared we had\nsailed a great distance. Not so much as to the value of a farthing had\nbeen taken from our persons, nor any violence used, more than was\nnecessary to keep us silent and prevent our escape. I now, indeed,\nthink, that the pistol which was snapped at Malcolm, had only powder in\nthe pan, to intimidate. After consulting for some time on the best means\nof extricating ourselves from the necessity of passing the night on the\nexposed beach, we agreed to proceed inland, at any risk, whether of\nfalls or a ducking, in quest of a roof to cover us. Before we left, I\ngroped the face of my watch--to see it was impossible, the night was so\ndark. I found the hands to indicate half-past ten; so we had thus been\nfour hours in the hands of our captors.\n\nStumbling or falling at every few steps, we now proceeded slowly on.\nMalcolm, who preceded me, once or twice plunged into quagmires, through\nwhich I followed, until I was almost spent. At length a faint light, at\nsome distance, caught our eyes. Onwards we urged, until we could\ndistinguish a cottage, from whose small window the light proceeded.\nAfter scrambling over a low, loose stone wall, we found ourselves in the\ncottage garden. I looked in at the window, and could perceive a man and\ntwo women--one old, the other young--seated by the fire. There was no\nother light of any kind burning; and the dull ray of the fire gave to\nthe interior a gloomy appearance, save where it fell on the three\nindividuals who sat crouching before it. There being no door on the side\nwe were on, we walked to the front, and knocked for admittance. This\nside of the cottage gave no indication of any light being within--the\nwindow being carefully closed. For some time we knocked in vain--no\nanswer was made. At length, our knockings were answered by a female\nvoice--\n\n\"What want ye here at this time o' nicht, disturbing a lone woman?\"\n\n\"My good woman,\" I replied, \"we are strangers, who know not where we\nare. Be so kind as open the door to us.\"\n\n\"Gae 'wa--gae 'wa; I will do nae sic thing; I hae nae uppitting for ye.\"\n\n\"My good woman,\" said I, in the most soothing manner I could, \"do, for\ncharity, open the door. We are like to perish from fatigue, and can\nproceed no further. You shall be paid whatever you ask for any\naccommodation you can afford, were it only to sit by your fire until\ndaybreak.\"\n\nAfter some time spent in entreaties, the door was cautiously opened by\na female, who held a small lamp in her hand, and we were ushered into a\nsmall apartment--not the same we had seen, but a dark and uncomfortable\nplace. She appeared to be greatly alarmed, and requested us not to make\nany noise, or to speak loud, whatever we heard, or we might bring her\ninto danger for her humanity, and ourselves into greater hazard. We\nwould, she added, have ourselves alone to blame for any evil that might\nfollow. Taking the lamp with her, she retired, saying she would bring us\nrefreshments in a few minutes. We now regretted being admitted into this\nmysterious shelter; yet the looks of the woman--the younger of the two\nwe had seen from the back of the house--were soft and sweet, rather\ninclining to melancholy. We had no time to communicate our suspicions\nbefore her return. She set before us a bottle containing some brandy, a\njug of water, and a sufficient quantity of bread and cheese; and urged\nus to make haste and retire to bed. Having filled a glass of the liquor,\nshe gave it to Malcolm. He drank it off at once, with great pleasure. My\neyes were upon her. I saw a shade of anxiety on her countenance,\nsucceeded by a look of satisfaction, when he returned the empty glass. I\ncannot account for it, but a suspicion came upon me that there was more\nin the giving of the liquor than courtesy; and I resolved not to taste\nit. She filled out the same quantity for me; but I declined it. Her look\nchanged--she became embarrassed--and she requested me to take it, as it\nwas to do me good. There was a something in the tone of her voice, and a\nbenignity in her manner, that almost did away with my suspicions. I took\nthe glass in my hand, and, requesting her to fill a cup of water for me,\nlifted the glass to my head. While she poured the water, I emptied the\nliquor into the bosom of my vest, placed, by the same movement, the\nglass to my mouth, and, returning it to her, drank off the water. She\nimmediately retired; saying, with a smile, in which there was much of\ngood nature--\n\n\"I am sorry for your poor accommodation. Good night!\"\n\nI now began to reflect upon my situation. Fear predominated. I had been\nled into it I scarce knew how. I blamed myself for entering; yet I was\nnot aware of what was to take place in it. We were, unarmed and\nfatigued, on a part of the coast I knew not where. I looked to my watch;\nit wanted a few minutes of twelve; we had not been one quarter of an\nhour under the roof. I looked at Malcolm, by the feeble light of the\nlamp, wondering why he neither moved nor spoke. He was in a dead sleep,\nleaning upon his high-backed wooden chair. I attempted to rouse him, in\nvain, by shaking him. That the brandy had been drugged, I was now\nconvinced. My heart sank within me. I glanced round, for means to\nescape, and procure help to rescue my faithful servant; but there was\nneither window nor fireplace in the small room in which we were. I\nplaced my hand upon the door, to rush into the other apartment; but the\nrecollection of the man I had seen, the suspicion that there might be\nmore in the house, and the girl's warning, detained me. As I stood,\nsweating with agony, I heard voices in conversation in the other\napartment.\n\n\"Mary,\" said the old woman, \"ye are owre softhearted for the trade we\nare engaged in. Ye will, some time or ither, rue yer failing.\"\n\n\"Mither,\" was the reply, \"I may rue it, but ne'er repent it. I couldna,\nfor the life o' me, keep twa human creatures pleading for shelter, wha\nkendna whar to gang in a mirk nicht like this. Did I do wrang, Jamie?\"\n\n\"I fear you have, Mary,\" said the man. \"If Captain Bately finds them\nhere when he arrives--he is such a devil!--I know not what he may do to\nthem; he is so jealous and fearful of informers; and, this trip, he has\na rich cargo for the Glasgow merchants.\"\n\n\"I'm no feared, if ye dinna inform yersel,\" said the daughter; \"for I\nhae given them baith a dram o' the Dutchman's bottle, that will keep\nthem quiet aneugh, or I'm sair cheated; for it's nae weaker for me.\"\n\nAt this period of the conversation, I heard the tramp of horses' feet\nand the voices of several men approaching the house. The door was opened\nwithout knocking, and several men entered. One of them demanded if all\nwas right.\n\n\"Sae far as I hae heard, captain,\" said the old woman.\n\n\"So far good, old mother,\" replied he. \"James, have you seen our agent\nfrom Glasgow?--how goes it there?\"\n\n\"All right, captain,\" said James.\n\n\"I will then make a good run of it,\" rejoined the other. \"But I was\nnearly making a bad one. Two of these land-sharks were watching our\nmotions under the rocks; fortunately, they were observed, and put out of\nthe way in time. All had been up with me this trip, had they got back to\nLargs before we were cleared. Come, lads, bait your horses quickly; we\nhave a long way through the muirs ere dawn.\"\n\nHe was interrupted by the scraping and furious barking of a dog at the\ndoor where I stood listening. My heart leaped as if it would burst, my\ntemples throbbed, and my ears rung; yet my presence of mind did not\nforsake me. Imitating Malcolm, I placed myself in my chair, and feigned\nmyself dead asleep.\n\nSo many voices spoke at once that I could not make out a word that was\nsaid, except imprecations and entreaties. The lamp still burned upon the\ntable before me. The door opened, and the captain entered, accompanied\nby several others.\n\n\"Dear captain,\" said Mary, \"they are not informers--they are strangers,\nand fast asleep. Harm them not, for mercy's sake!\"\n\n\"Silly wench!\" replied the captain. \"Peace!--I say, peace! These are\nthe same rascals who were watching us this whole afternoon. How the\ndevil came they here, if they have not some knowledge of our\nproceedings? Look to your arms, my lads! We will shew them they have\ncaught a Tartar.\" I heard one pistol cocked, then another. How I\nrestrained myself from shewing my agitation I know not; I was nearly\nfainting.\n\n\"Captain,\" cried Mary, \"you shall not harm them, or you must do to me as\nyou do to them. You are as safe as ye were before I let them in. Do ye\nno see they are dead asleep?--try them, and believe me for aince, like a\ngood fellow.\"\n\n\"I don't wish to do more than is necessary for my own safety,\" said he;\n\"perhaps they are not what I take them for; but fellows will talk of\nwhat they see.\" Taking Malcolm by the shoulder, he gave him a shake, as\nI saw through between my eyelids, nearly closed. \"Fellow,\" he cried,\n\"who are you?\" Malcolm neither heard nor felt him; so powerful had the\nopiate been. He passed the lamp before his eyes, and made a blow at his\nhead with the but-end of his pistol. Malcolm moved not a muscle of his\nface. He was satisfied. After passing the lamp so close before my eyes\nthat one of my eyebrows was nearly singed by the flame, he set it slowly\nupon the table, and I felt the muzzle of the pistol touch my temple. I\nmoved not a muscle of my face. It was withdrawn, and I heard him pace\nthe room for a moment, muttering curses at the young woman, who\nendeavoured to soothe his rage. No other person spoke. He paused at\nlength, and, lifting the lamp, held it again to my face.\n\n\"I am satisfied--all is right,\" said he; \"but, if you dare again, Mary,\nto do the same, you and your mother may go hang for me--that's all.\nCome, boys, be moving--we lose time.\" In a few minutes afterwards, I\nheard the sound of their horses' feet leaving the house. My lungs\nrecovered their elasticity; I breathed more freely. Mary entered, and,\nlifting the lamp to remove it, looked upon us in tears. I would have\nspoken, but refrained, lest I had given farther alarm and uneasiness to\none so kind and humane. She looked upon us, smiling through her tears.\n\n\"Poor men!\" she said, \"yer hearts were at ease when mine, for your sake\nand my ain, was like to break; yet, I dinna think he wad killed ye,\ndevil as he is, if ye didna fight wi' him; but he wad carried ye awa to\nHolland, or France; and then what wad yer puir wives, if ye hae them,\nhae suffered, no kenning what had come owre ye? Oh, that I could but get\nfree o' them, and Jamie gie up this way o' life!\" (A heavy sigh\nfollowed.) \"But ye are sleeping sound and sweet, when I am sleepless. O\nJamie, will ye no leave thae night adventures, and be content wi what ye\ncan earn through the day?\" She gently shut the door as she retired, and\nall became still as death. With a feeling of security I laid myself upon\nthe bed, and soon fell into a profound sleep. It was late in the morning\nere I awoke. Malcolm was awake; his movements had roused me. He was\nstill confused from the effects of the opiate, and was gazing wildly\naround the apartment. After taking a heavy draught of the water, he\nbecame quite collected. I rose, and we entered the larger part of the\ncottage, where the mother and daughter were busy preparing breakfast.\nAfter the usual salutations, and an apology for the badness of our\nlodging, I inquired how far we were from Largs, and was informed it was\nabout three miles from where we were. Feeling myself much indisposed,\nand threatened with a severe cold, I resolved to return home as direct\nas I could, not choosing to run the risk of any more such adventures. I\ndespatched Malcolm to the inn, to prevent the horses being sent off to\nDumbarton, and to bring them as quick as possible to where I now was.\nDuring his stay, I became more and more interested in the gentle Mary.\nShe was not in the least embarrassed, as she thought that I was\nunconscious of what had passed through the night. I felt it would be a\ncruel return for her kindness to mention it, and alarm her fears for her\nlover, for such I supposed him to be. I could have gained no object by\ndoing so. I already knew, from what I had heard, that she was connected\nwith a band of smugglers, whose calling she loathed.\n\nThere was a firmness of purpose, mixed with her gentleness, displayed\nduring the time the band and their captain were in the house, which\nshewed I could gain no information as to them, from her; neither did I\nfeel any anxiety to know more than I did, or ever to be in their company\nagain. Had I had the wish to give information of the lawless band, I\ncould only inform as to the females; the others had managed so well I\ncould not have identified one of them.\n\nAt length my horses arrived, and I prepared to depart. As I took my\nleave, I put five guineas into the hand of Mary. She looked at the sum,\nthen at me, and refused to accept any remuneration for our shelter.\n\n\"Keep it,\" said I, \"to enable you to induce James to quit his dangerous\ntrade.\" She blushed, trembled, and then became pale as death. My heart\nsmote me for what I had said. She gave me such an anxious, imploring\nlook, as her trembling lips murmured--\n\n\"Oh, what shall I do?\"\n\n\"Fear nothing, Mary, from me; I owe you much more for your goodness of\nheart. If you and James will come to reside near Allan Gow, he shall do\nall in his power to assist you.\" Amidst blessings from the mother, and\nthe silent gratitude of the daughter, I rode off, on my way to Glasgow,\nand on the following day was under my parents' roof.\n\nIt is now many years since then. James and Mary are settled in the\nneighbourhood, and prosperous. Malcolm is still with me; but whether\nservant or companion, I can scarce tell at times. When my strange\nimaginations come upon me--for I have never been, for any length of time\nfree from them--he is almost master of my small establishment.\n\n\n\n\nTHE YOUNG LAIRD.[5]\n\n\nIn one of the midland counties of Scotland lies the estate of Sir\nPatrick Felspar. On this estate, and on the southern declivity of a\nmoderately-high hill, stood, about thirty years ago, two old-fashioned\nfarmsteads, called Nettlebank and Sunnybraes, of which, as we have a\nlong story to tell, we can only say that the former--being the\nlargest--was tenanted by Mr. Black, and the latter by William Chrighton;\nthat the family of the one consisted of a boy and a girl called\n_Gilbert_ and _Nancy_; and that the other was the father of an only son,\nnamed _George_.\n\nThe harvest had been concluded, and preparations were making for\nlifting the potato crop, when Mrs. Black was taken ill of a fever; and\nher husband, on discovering that she was seriously indisposed, after\nsending the servant girl to \"tell Elspeth Roger that her mistress wished\nto speak with her,\" left the house, to which he did not return for\nseveral days. Elspeth, who was the wife of one of the farm servants,\nbeing thus sent for, hastened to her mistress's presence. On entering\nthe room, and seeing the state of the sufferer, she saw at once that a\nsick nurse was indispensable; and, though she had herself a husband and\ntwo children to attend to, and, consequently, could be but ill spared\nfrom her own house, she readily offered her services, and was accepted.\n\nBy her advice, medical assistance was immediately procured; and the\nkind-hearted matron continued to attend the sick-bed of her mistress,\nnight and day, for three weeks, during which period Mr. Black was seldom\nat home. Hitherto, the doctor had entertained hopes of his patient's\nrecovery; but, on the eighteenth day, to Elspeth's anxious inquiries, he\nonly shook his head, and bade her \"not be surprised whatever should\nhappen.\" His words were deemed ominous: a messenger was despatched to\nbring Mr. Black home; and, on the following day, his wife died. Upon\nthis sad occasion, Nancy seemed to be the only real mourner; for, though\nher father and brother hung their heads, and looked demure for a day or\ntwo, even the semblance of sorrow vanished before the exciting potations\nwhich they swallowed at the _dregy_.[6] Nancy, however, did feel the\nloss of her mother, and mourned it as deeply as her young heart could.\nAnd, as she had been oftener than once rebuked with great severity by\nher remaining parent, for what he called her _blubbering_, when grief\novercame her she frequently sought a hiding place for her tears in the\nhouse of Elspeth, who, with the heart and the feelings of her sex,\nshared the sorrows of the poor girl while she strove to alleviate them.\nBut she was soon deprived of this refuge; for, in a few days after the\nfuneral, Elspeth, who had probably caught the infection while attending\nthe deathbed of her mistress, found herself in the grasp of the same\nterrible disease which had carried her mistress off; and Nancy, to avoid\nthe same fate, was debarred from entering the door of her humble friend\nand only comforter.\n\nOn such occasions, to have one who will listen patiently to a recital\nof our sorrows, and respond to them with a sigh, a look of sympathy, a\ntear, or a word, in which the tone of the voice bespeaks a reciprocity\nof feeling, is comfort, and almost the only comfort of which the case\nadmits; for the lengthened speech and the studied harangue, containing,\nas they are supposed to do, \"the words of consolation,\" often fall upon\nthe ear without reaching the heart. Such a comforter Nancy Black found\nin George Chrighton, or, as he was universally termed, _the laddie\nGeordie_. This boy, who was one of her schoolfellows, and nearly of her\nown age, attracted by her sorrowful looks and the tears which sometimes\nstole down her cheeks, left the boisterous sports of the other boys, and\ndevoted his hours of play to walking with her, or sitting in some\nretired corner, and listening to her little \"tale of wo.\" Hitherto, the\nroads by which they came and went had been different; but now he\ndiscovered a new one, by following which he could accompany her till\nwithin a short distance of Nettlebank; and, at the place where they had\nseparated in the evening, he always waited for her appearance on the\nnext morning. Youthful friendships are soon formed. Ere disappointment\nhas done its work, and experience taught its salutary, though painful\nlesson, there is little room for suspicion on either side, and the\nhearts of the parties amalgamate, like meeting waters. Thus, the two\nbecame _friends_, almost before they could understand the meaning of the\nword.\n\nWhile Nancy Black and her boyish companion were thus forming an\naffection for each other, as pure, and certainly as deep, as any which\never subsisted between persons of their years, Elspeth Roger was lying\ndangerously ill. But her sickness was not \"unto death:\" and, after being\nconfined for twenty-four days, during which her life had been several\ntimes despaired of by all who saw her, she began to recover. Scarcely,\nhowever, was she able to move about, and bestow some attention on their\nhousehold concerns, when her husband began to complain; and, in a few\nhours, he was laid upon that bed from which she had arisen, with all the\nsymptoms of a most malignant case of the same disease. Elspeth, who, in\nthe midst of many struggles, and without the outward show of more than\nordinary affection, was attached to her husband, now became fixed to his\nbedside. Forgetting the weakness consequent on her own imperfect\nrecovery, and fearful of allowing hands less careful than her own to\napproach him, she attended him, night and day, with a solicitude which\nnone save those who have all they value in the world at stake, can\ncomprehend. Medical advice was promptly procured. But, in spite of\nmedical skill, tender nursing, and tears shed apart, David Roger died.\nOf Elspeth's grief upon this occasion, it were superfluous to speak.\nSuffice it that, after many years had passed by, the general expression\nof her countenance, and the tear which occasionally stole down her cheek\nat the mention of his name, showed that she had not forgotten the\nhusband of her youth.\n\nThough this event must have been distressing to the widow, her distress\nwas aggravated when, on the second day from that on which her husband\nhad been interred, Mr. Black told her that, \"as he had engaged another\nservant, and required his house, she must remove at the term.\" The first\nweek of November was now past; the term was on the 22d of that month;\nevery house in the neighbourhood was either occupied, or already let for\nthe coming year; and this information came to the heart of Elspeth like\na thunder-shock. It was what she had never dreamed of, and never thought\nof providing for. For herself, she might have been careless; but when\nshe reflected on her children, the feelings of the mother awoke in her\nbosom, and made her, for the time, superior to despair. Day after day,\nshe went in quest of a hovel to shelter them from the rigour of the\ncoming winter, and night after night she returned without having found\none. It seemed as if Heaven had determined to make her a houseless\nwanderer; for not a single untenanted habitation could she hear of. But\nwe must leave her to pursue her fruitless search, and attend, for a\nlittle, to what was going on elsewhere.\n\nOne evening, after George Chrighton had returned from school, without\ntaking time to snatch his accustomed morsel of bread from the _aumry_,\nhe inquired for his father, and hurried off in quest of him. Having\ndiscovered the object of his search in the stack-yard--\"Father,\" cried\nthe boy, as soon as he was within ear-shot, \"hae ye heard that Mr. Black\nintends to make Elspeth Roger flit at the term; an' she canna get a\nhouse for hersel an' her bairns in a' the country?\"\n\n\"I did hear she was gaun to flit,\" said the old man, composedly; \"but\nwhatfor canna she get a house?\"\n\n\"I dinna ken,\" was the boy's eager reply; \"but she's been seekin ane\nthis aught days, an mair; an' Nan Black says, if somebody doesna help\nher, she maun tak her twa bairns, an' gang an' beg.--Noo, faither, could\nwe no do something? There's our auld barn: I would mak the clay-cats,[7]\nan' we might pit up a lum; an' I would help Jock to howk a hole i' the\nwa', an' it wouldna tak muckle to get a _windock_; an'--an'--I've\nforgotten what I was gaun to say; but I'm sure we can pit up the lum;\nan' the woman canna lie out by.\"\n\n\"I daresay ye're richt, laddie,\" said his father, after raising his\nhat, and scratching the hinder part of his head for a few seconds. \"The\nauld barn micht do. There's some bits o' sticks lyin at the end o' the\nbyre, an' some auld nails i' the stable--as mony o' baith as would be\nrequired, I believe. Jock could bring a cartfu o' clay the nicht yet--he\ncould mak the cats the morn; ye micht bide at hame a day frae the\nschool, an' carry them in; an' I could pit up the lum mysel.\"\n\n\"But it would need a hallan too, faither,\" rejoined George.\n\n\"Hoot ay,\" said his father, \"it would need a hallan, an' a hantle things\nforby; an', after a' has been done that we can do, the place will be but\nlittle, an' unco inconvenient; but it'll aye be a hole to shelter her\nan' her bairnies frae the drift, afore they can get a better. An', e'en\nthough the scheme had been less feasible than it is, it maks my heart\nglad to see that--laddie as ye are--ye hae a thought for ither folk's\ndistress.\"\n\n\"Na,\" interrupted George, \"na, faither; it wasna me--it was Nan Black\nspoke about it first, an' I only promised to tell ye.\"\n\n\"Weel, weel, laddie,\" rejoined the other, \"I'm glad to hear that Nan\nBlack, as ye ca' her, is likely to turn out a better _woman_, if she be\nspared, than ever her faither was a _man_--but, as he has a' his actions\nto account for, of him I would say naething.\" With these words, the\nworthy farmer was about to resume his labours, when his son, flushed\nwith the success of his plan, exclaimed--\n\n\"But will we no tell her, faither? Her mind canna be at ease afore she\nken about some place.\"\n\n\"That's weel minded too,\" said the father--\"she's maybe gotten a house\nalready; but, in case she hasna, gang ye owre to your mither, an' tell\nher I bade ye get a piece; an', when ye've gotten it, ye can rin yont,\nsome time afore it be dark, an' see a' about it. An' ye can tell her\nthat, if she likes, she's welcome to our auld barn, for a year; an', if\nshe taks it, we's no fa' oot about the rent.\"\n\nThough George obeyed his father so far as to go the length of the house\ndoor, he could not find time to go in for his promised _piece_; and,\nwithout opening it, he turned, and set off at the top of his speed in\nthe direction of Nettlebank.\n\nReturn we now to the widow's cottage. The poor woman was far from\nhaving recovered, when she was called upon to attend the deathbed of her\nhusband. The fatigue, terror, anxiety, and want of rest, from which she\nhad suffered during that period, might have been sufficient to break\ndown even the strongest constitution. When to these are added weeks of\nwandering in quest of a habitation, the reader will hardly be surprised\nwhen he is told that her animal strength was gone--her spirits sunk, and\ndespair seemed to be closing around her. With a frame completely worn\nout, a head which ached, blistered feet, and, we might almost add, a\n\"bleeding heart,\" she sat by her fire one evening--her head resting on\nher hand, and her eyes fixed upon her children, while sighs convulsed\nher bosom. She wished to commit her little ones to the care of their\nMaker; but such was the state of her mind, that she fancied she could\nnot perform even this duty, and the thought called forth another and a\ndeeper sigh. While she was thus employed, Nancy Black opened the door\nunperceived, and, standing at her side, awoke her from her dream of\ndespondency by saying, in a half whispering, half faltering\nvoice--\"Elspeth, dinna break your heart. I think I ken where you'll get\na house, noo. I was speaking about you, the day, to Geordie Chrighton,\nat the school, an' he says they could soon mak a house o' their auld\nbarn; and that his faither will never hesitate\"----\n\nTo this the mother was listening, and almost thinking the news too good\nfor being true, when the speaker was interrupted by some one coming\nagainst the inner door of the apartment with such force as nearly to\nbreak it. On hearing the noise, the widow rose to give the stranger\nadmittance; but he waited not for her services. Putting one hand to his\nnose--the part which had produced the noise--and the other to the latch,\nbefore another second had elapsed, George Chrighton stood in the middle\nof the floor, panting from the rapidity of his march; and, without\ntaking time to recover breath, he began to deliver his message by\nsaying--\"Elspeth, my father sent me owre to tell ye that, if ye want a\nhouse, ye may get our auld barn. Jock's to bring a cartful o' clay--he's\nto mak the cats the morn; I'm to bide at hame frae the school, an' carry\nthem in; an' my faither's to put up the lum. An'--what is't I was gaun\nto say?--ou ay--tak it--tak it, Elspeth; an', if he'll no gie ye it for\nnaething, I'll keep a' the bawbees I get, to help ye to pay for't.\" Here\nhe paused, fairly out of breath. The substance of his message, however,\nwas delivered, and he now stood silent, and almost fearful of hearing\nthat she had already got a house.\n\nThe widow, bewildered by her own feelings, the excited manner of the\nboy, and the intelligence which he brought, was also silent. Nor was it\ntill Nancy Black had whispered, \"It's true enough--Geordie never tells\nlies,\" that she recollected it was her part to make a reply.\n\nHitherto the boy had not been aware of the presence of his schoolfellow;\nbut no sooner had he heard her voice, than his eye brightened, and he\nturned as if to seek the reward of his labours from her; and--girl as\nshe was--he found it in her approving smile. But that smile was of short\nduration; for as soon as she had a full view of his face, it passed\naway, and, hurrying toward him, she exclaimed, in an anxious tone--\"What\nails you, Geordie? What's that on your upper lip, an' your chin?\"\n\n\"What is't?\" repeated the youngster, drawing the back of his hand\nacross the place alluded to, as if to ascertain if anything was wrong in\nthat quarter; and then, examining the hand so employed, he\ncontinued--\"What is't? It's bluid; but where it comes frae I canna\ntell.\" After a short pause, during which he recollected the opposition\nhe had met from the door--\"It's my nose--it's just my nose,\" he added,\nlaughing as he spoke, to free the heart of Nancy from those\napprehensions, the shade of which he saw gathering on her countenance.\n\"I didna ken the door was steekit afore my nose played crack on the\nsneck--and noo it's bluidin.\"\n\nSure enough, his nose was bleeding, and had been so ever since he came\nin, though unobserved. The attention of the widow and Nancy was\ninstantly directed to staunch the bleeding: the latter brought the key\nfrom the outer door, and the former placed it between his shoulders,\nbathing his temples at the same time with cold water. In a few minutes\nthe blood ceased to flow, and, after his face had been washed, Nancy's\nsmile returned.\n\nWhen they were about to depart, the widow, taking one in each hand, and\ndrawing them close together, said--\"May God bless ye baith, my bonny\nbairns! An', in his ain way an' time, He _will_ bless ye; for, when men\nand women had forsaken me, an' my heart was sinking in despair, ye have\nprovided a hame for the widow and the faitherless. May His blessing rest\non ye, an' may He be your friend when ither friends forsake you!\"\n\nThe _clay-cats_ were made, and carried in, in the manner proposed; the\nlum was constructed, and the old barn made as commodious as possible;\nand, in a few days after, Elspeth and her two children came to inhabit\nit. But though it was only intended for a temporary residence, when a\ntwelvemonth had passed, she did not leave it. She had made herself\nuseful in many ways to the farmer, by assisting him with his farm-work;\nand, as both felt loath to part, she became a sort of fixture on the\nfarm of Sunnybraes.\n\nThere is still one circumstance connected with her removal, which must\nbe noticed. Mr. Black, in general, did little to deserve commendation;\nbut he could not endure the idea of any one becoming more popular than\nhimself; and, as William Chrighton was warmly praised for his conduct in\nthis affair, he soon began to regard him with a feeling which was more\nakin to deep-rooted hatred than ill-will.\n\nWe now pass over a period of six years, during which nothing of\nimportance occurred--save that those who, at the commencement of this\nperiod, had been mere infants, were now boys and girls; those who had\nbeen boys and girls, were now men and women; and of those who had then\nbeen men and women, many were now in their graves. Nor of those who\nremained had a single individual escaped, without having undergone some\nchange. In some, the gaiety of youth had been exchanged for the\nthoughtful expression of maturer years; upon the foreheads of others,\ngrey hairs were seen where glossy ringlets were wont to wave; the rosy\nhue which had once adorned the cheek, was now broken into streaks; and\non brows formerly smooth, the handwriting of care was now visible.\n\nAbout this time, Sir Patrick Felspar, after being absent for a number of\nyears, paid a short visit to his tenants. On coming to Sunnybraes, and\nexpressing himself highly satisfied with William Chrighton's manner of\nfarming and general management, that individual thought it a favourable\nopportunity for introducing Elspeth and her two children to his notice.\nThe story seemed to affect him, and he immediately proposed taking the\nboy into his own service. This proposal was agreed to; and, at his\ndeparture, Sandy Roger accompanied him to London, where we must leave\nhim.\n\nGeorge Chrighton, though only a schoolboy when we last noticed him, was\nnow a stout-looking, well-built young man, rather above the middle size,\nand, for some time past, he had been his father's only assistant at\nSunnybraes. Nor was the change which had been produced on Nancy Black\nless conspicuous. From being a mere girl, in the course of six years she\nhad become a beautiful maiden, in the last of her teens, and with a\nnatural modesty, which, though it added greatly to her other charms,\nalmost unfitted her for the situation she occupied in her father's\nhousehold. Of this youthful pair, it was generally surmised in the\nneighbourhood, that the attachment which had begun in their school days,\nhad \"grown with their growth, and strengthened with their strength,\"\ntill it had ripened into love.\n\nSuch surmises have often been made before, upon occasions where there\nwas not even the shadow of a foundation for them. But, in the present\ninstance, the gossips and tattlers were not so far wrong; for the two\nwere really lovers, though, from the implacable temper of Mr. Black,\nthey found it necessary to conceal their affection; and, for two years\nmore, in as far as an open confession is concerned, they did conceal it.\nThey were not, however, wholly without their \"stolen interviews,\" which,\nthough \"few and far between,\" with the additional disadvantage of being\n_short_, were, in this case, sufficient to keep the flame alive. They\nalso found means of occasionally exchanging notices of each other upon\n_paper_--that _dernier resort_ of all unfortunate lovers.\n\nCatherine Roger, who had hitherto been thought and spoken of as the\n_lassie Kate_, was now beginning to expand into the young woman,\nand--smitten with her charms, as wise people began to suppose--Andrew\nSharp, one of Mr. Black's farm-servants, had, of late, become rather a\nregular visitor at her mother's. At first, he came with a quantity of\nworsted, \"to see if she would knit a pair of stockings for him;\" next,\nhe \"came to see if she would darn the heels of a pair of stockings;\"\nand, by and by, he sometimes ventured to \"come owre, just to speer for\nher.\" While his business was thus, to all appearance, exclusively with\nthe mother, he frequently found an opportunity of stealing a look at the\ndaughter, or, more fortunate still, of exchanging a word with her, as if\nby the by. It is probable, however, that the former--\n\n    \"Wi' a woman's wyles, could spy\n    What made the youth sae bashfu an' sae grave;\"\n\nand, whatever her fears might be, there is no reason to doubt that she\nwas\n\n    \"Weel pleased to see her bairn respected like the lave.\"\n\nAndrew, though young, was by no means deficient in shrewdness; he was\nnaturally of an obliging turn--a quiet conscientious lad--a great\nfavourite with his young mistress, and he was sometimes made the bearer\nof those paper messengers which went between the lovers.\n\nThe leases of both farms were now within a year of being out, and both\nthe farmers had begun to use what interest they could to have them\nrenewed. As to the success of William Chrighton, those who pretended to\nsee farther than their neighbours, shook their heads, and seemed\nuncertain; but of Mr. Black being successful, no one seemed to entertain\nthe smallest doubt. Sir Patrick, of late, had left the management of\nthose matters wholly to his factor, Mr. Goosequill; and, in the esteem\nof this individual, Mr. Black now stood deservedly high. Scarcely a\nmonth had been allowed to pass, for the last two years, without a\npresent of poultry, eggs, butter, or cheese being sent from Nettlebank\nto the factor. Upon these occasions, Gilbert was commonly the bearer,\nand he always stayed over night, and either drank toddy with the\nrepresentative of the laird, or poured flatteries into the ear of Miss\nGrizzy, his daughter. At these doings, far-sighted people shook their\nheads again, and said that Mr. Black's hens were never sold in a rainy\nday, except to serve some purpose, and darkly hinted at the possibility\nof his taking both farms.\n\nShortly after these matters began to be agitated, the old knight died,\nand was succeeded by his son, who had always been spoken of on the\nestate as the _young laird_. It was further understood that the young\nSir Patrick had been abroad for the last nine months; and, according to\nthe accounts which were circulated, he was not expected home for several\nmonths to come. This circumstance afforded an excuse to Mr. Goosequill\nfor declining to renew the lease of Sunnybraes, as he alleged that he\ncould not do so till he had positive instructions from the young laird\nto that effect. At the end of four months, a letter from Sandy Roger\ninformed his mother that Sir Patrick had returned to London shortly\nafter his father's death; and, since his return, that he had treated him\nwith a degree of kindness such as he had never expected to experience\nfrom a master. The game was now up; and the factor, finding that it was\nso, despatched the following letter to the laird:--\n\n     \"SIR,--As you have been graciously pleased to continue that trust\n     which your much-lamented father was pleased to repose in me--a\n     trust which, from my knowledge of local affairs, I hope I shall be\n     able to discharge with honour to myself and advantage to you--and\n     as the leases of your farms of Nettlebank and Sunnybraes expire at\n     Martinmas ensuing, I should hold myself wanting in that interest\n     which I have ever felt for the prosperity of the family, if I did\n     not acquaint you of the following particulars. William Chrighton,\n     the present tenant of Sunnybraes, has now made application to have\n     the lease of that farm renewed; but, as he is a man of no\n     substance, belongs to the old school, is incapable of conducting\n     improvements upon an extensive scale, and merely struggles on from\n     year to year, I have declined to give him any answer till I should\n     know what was your pleasure thereanent. I have also received an\n     offer for the said farm from Mr. Black, bearing an advance of rent.\n     This gentleman is in a thriving way; he has a turn for business,\n     and everything prospers with him; he has extensive connections,\n     and, what is of more importance to the present purpose, he has a\n     son of age to take the management of a farm, who is an excellent\n     agriculturist. Mr. Black proposes to take both farms--Nettlebank at\n     the old rent, and the other at an advance; and, if his offers are\n     accepted, I have no hesitation in saying that he will soon improve\n     this portion of your estate to a great extent. I would therefore\n     recommend him to your notice. Hoping that _that_ knowledge of local\n     affairs which I have acquired from long experience, may still be of\n     some service to you, I am, Sir, your very humble servant,\n\n                                             \"GAVIN GOOSEQUILL.\"\n\nTo this communication, the factor, in due time, received the following\nlaconic reply:--\n\n     \"Sir,--I thank you for your friendly advice, and the attention to\n     my concerns which you manifest; but, as it is my wish that the old\n     tenants should remain, you may let Messrs. Chrighton and Henderson\n     have their farms at the old rent, if they choose.--Yours,\n\n                                                   \"P. FELSPAR.\"\n\nThis entirely disconcerted the schemes of these friends. Mr. Henderson\nwas the tenant who had been in Nettlebank before Mr. Black; and the\nyoung laird, who had not been in Scotland since he was four years of\nage, as yet knew nothing of his having left it. Gavin Goosequill felt\nrather at a loss how to proceed; but, recollecting that \"in the\nmultitude of counsellers there is safety,\" he determined to consult Mr.\nBlack, and, for this purpose, paid a visit to Nettlebank. What was the\nresult of this consultation is not exactly known; but, as Mr. Black\nshook hands with the factor, and was about to bid him \"good night,\"\nAndrew Sharp, who stood waiting with the horse, heard the latter\nsay--\"Well, I think we have it after all. I shall delay matters as long\nas I can, and then write, recommending farther delay; this will give us\ntime to do something, and, if I am not deceived, both will be yours in\nthe end.\"\n\nThe oracular words \"do something,\" and \"both will be yours,\" made an\nimpression on Andrew's mind. When he reflected on the expiration of the\nleases, the character of his master, and the surmises which he had\nheard, he felt convinced that the first part of the factor's speech had\na reference to the farms, while the last part of it implied some plot,\nwhich was hatching, to forward their schemes. This conviction suggested\nthe probability that William Chrighton would not be allowed to remain in\nSunnybraes; and, as his removal must be attended with the removal of\nCatherine Roger, to he knew not how great a distance, he felt somewhat\nspiritless and disconcerted. Time seemed to stand still; and, after\nruminating for a season on the means of averting such a misfortune, he\ntook a pair of stockings, and, having placed them on the hearthstone of\nhis bothie--no one being present--he proceeded to pound that part of\nthem called the _heels_ with the head of the poker. By this means, he\nsoon produced something very like a worn hole in each; and then, taking\nthem under his arm, and putting a quantity of worsted into his pocket,\nhe set off to Sunnybraes to get them darned. When there, as his\n\"dulness\" did not leave him so quickly as he had anticipated, and as he\nwas, moreover, loath to sit silent in the presence of one whose good\nopinion he was so anxious to procure, while Elspeth was darning the\nstockings, he told Catherine the whole story--what he had heard the\nfactor say, and the conclusions and inferences which he had drawn\ntherefrom--taking care, however, neither to mention his \"dulness,\" nor\nthe manner in which he had produced the holes in the heels of his\nstockings.\n\n\"Weel, lassie,\" said Elspeth when he was gone, \"frae what we ken aboot\nMr. Black, the thing's clear enough. He's lookin after Sunnybraes for\nhis muckle gomeril o' a son; an', if Gavin Goosequill can get it for\nhim, by hook or by crook, by lies or by true tales, he'll no want it\nlang. The hens, an' the jucks, an' the geese, an' the turkeys, that gaed\nfrae Nettlebank, hae done their _errand_ weel enough, I warrant them;\nan' noo we maun try to do oors--at least, we maun _try_--to help them\nthat hae been helpers to baith you an' me.\"\n\n\"But hoo can we help them, mither?\" inquired Catherine, with a look of\nsurprise--\"what can we do?\"\n\n\"I'll tell ye what we can do, lassie,\" rejoined her mother; \"the young\nlaird will never hear a word o' truth aboot either his farmers or his\nfarms. It's easy for Gavin Goosequill to stap his head as fu' o' lies as\nit can haud; an', when this is done, it's but saying that the laird\nwants Mr. Black to get baith the farms; an' syne, Mr. Chrighton, an' you\nan' me too, maun flit. Noo, as your brither, Sandy, is the young laird's\nservant, ye maun e'en try if ye can write a letter to him, an' tell him\no' a' this ongaun. Though it's no very weel written, he'll maybe mak oot\nto read it; an', if he's no sair changed since he left his mother an'\nhis hame, _he'll_ tell the laird the truth.\"\n\nCatherine was ready to comply with her mother's proposal. A letter was\naccordingly written; and, after being closed with a piece of shoemakers'\nrosin, instead of wax, and supplied with an address by George Chrighton,\nit was, on the following day, put in the post-office. In about three\nweeks from the date of this letter, though no answer was returned to it,\nMr. Goosequill received the following note from the laird, which appears\nto have been an answer to another communication of his.\n\n     \"DEAR SIR,--I have received yours of the 1st August; and I am now\n     convinced that the affair requires delay and serious consideration.\n     I shall endeavour to turn your advice to some account; and, in the\n     meantime, you need give yourself no farther trouble about the\n     letting of the farms.--Yours,                    P. FELSPAR.\n\n     \"P.S.--You may assure the tenants that neither of them will suffer\n     injustice at my hands.\"\n\nThings now appeared favourable; but, as Mr. Goosequill seldom trusted\nmore to appearances than was necessary, he took an early opportunity of\ncalling upon William Chrighton, to say that \"he believed any farther\napplication on his part for the farm would be useless, and must only\ntend to irritate the laird.\" He hinted, farther, that, if Sir Patrick\nshould raise an action against him, he might get heavy damages for the\nbad repair in which the steading then was. After having expended a good\ndeal of learning and law-Latin in illustrating this subject, Mr.\nGoosequill concluded, by saying, that, so far as he could judge from his\nlast communication, and as Sir Patrick was a proud man, and could not\nendure to be thwarted in his plans, the best course he could adopt was,\nsimply, to pay his rent, and quit the farm at Martinmas.\n\nTo these proposals the old farmer demurred. \"I have always paid my rent\non rent-day,\" said he; \"I have made many improvements upon the farm to\nenable me to pay that rent; and for the steading, though I am not bound\nto keep it in repair, by building a new barn and cart-sheds, at my own\nexpense, I have made it worth at least sixty pounds more than it was at\nthe beginning of the tack. Now,\" continued he, \"I can see no reason the\nlaird can have for being _irritated_ at me for endeavouring to keep\npossession of the farm on which I was born, and on which I have lived\ntill I am growing an old man.\"\n\n\"You may do as you please,\" said Mr. Goosequill, gravely--\"only I have\nwarned you; and, if you are determined to persist, you may save yourself\nthe trouble of writing; for I have Sir Patrick's authority for saying\nthat he is coming down to Scotland to settle these matters himself.\"\n\nHaving thus counselled, he adjourned to Nettlebank, where he no doubt\ncounselled more; but through this labyrinth we shall not follow him.\nOnly Andrew Sharp, who again brought out his horse, heard him say, as he\nwas about to depart, \"Well, I think I have the old scrub for the new\nbarn, and, in the meantime, Mr. Gilbert, who is really a smart lad, must\ntry to do a little.\"\n\n\"Fear not for him,\" rejoined the other; \"he knows what he is working\nfor--Miss Grizzy's fair face is worth wanting an hour's sleep for ony\ntime.\"\n\nMany of our readers will still recollect the disastrous harvest of 1817:\nOctober was begun before harvest-work commenced at all; and, after it\ndid commence, day after day the rain poured down as if the sky had been\nan ocean supported by a sieve. It was after an evening of storm and\ndarkness had succeeded to one of these distressing days, that a stranger\narrived at Nettlebank, and requested lodgings for the night. The servant\ngirl, who opened the door, said, \"She wouldna let him in, but she would\ntell her master.\" Her master accordingly came, and, without ceremony,\ntold him to begone, for he harboured no wandering vagabonds about his\n_town_.\n\nThe stranger attempted to plead his ignorance of the country and the\ndarkness of the night, as excuses for being allowed to remain; but Mr.\nBlack cut him short, by telling him, in a tone which was distinctly\nheard at the farthest corner of the house, to march off, or he would\ninstantly unchain the house-dog and set loose the terriers, and let them\nmake a supper of him. Oaths and abusive language followed; but the\nstranger did not wait to hear more. He had proceeded as far as the\ncorner of the garden wall, where a wicket gate communicated with the\nfront door, and was muttering vengeance to himself, when he was accosted\nby Nancy.\n\n\"I am sorry,\" said she, \"we cannot give you lodgings for the night--my\nfather is so passionate; but here is something to help you on your\njourney.\" The stranger seemed unwilling to take the shilling, which she\nwas attempting to put into his hand. \"It is hardly worth your\nacceptance,\" said she; \"but it is all I have at present. I cannot tell\nhow much I feel on your account--exposed as you have been to the rain.\nBut, as this is no night for a stranger to be abroad in, only come with\nme a few steps, till I can procure a guide to conduct you to the next\nfarm, where you will find shelter.\"\n\n\"The farmer of the next farm may perhaps treat me like the farmer of\nthis--and what then?\" inquired the stranger, whose wrath had not yet\naltogether subsided.\n\n\"God forbid!\" was Nancy's reply; \"but he will not--I know he will not.\"\nShe then led the way to a low door, through the seams of which light was\nvisible, and, tapping gently, pronounced the word \"Andrew.\" As soon as\nthe door was opened--\"Here is a stranger,\" said she, addressing the\nyoung man who acted as porter; \"and when I grow richer I will endeavour\nto reward you, if you would get your greatcoat and shew him the road; or\nrather go with him to Sunnybraes, and tell them he wants lodgings for\nthe night\"--then, lowering her voice almost to a whisper, and drawing\ncloser as she spoke, she added--\"and, if they seem to hesitate, draw\nGeorge aside, and tell him I sent you.\" The lad was hastening to obey\nhis mistress's orders, when she called after him, \"Stay--I had\nforgot--bring a greatcoat for him also.\"\n\nThe stranger, who had now caught a full view of her in the light which\nissued from the open door, thought he had seldom seen a fairer face or a\nfiner form, and, wet as he was, he felt a wish to cultivate her\nacquaintance by farther conversation; but she gave him no time; for,\nalmost before the last word was spoken, she disappeared.--\"Tell George!\"\nmuttered he, as he listened to her retiring footsteps--\"this is\nsomething, however.\"\n\nAt Sunnybraes, Andrew found his young mistress's provisionary clause\naltogether unnecessary; for, no sooner had he announced his errand, than\nthe old farmer rose to make way for the stranger: \"Get up, George,\" said\nhe to his son; \"an' you, Meg,\" turning to his wife, \"lift out owre your\nwheel, an' let the poor lad in by to the fire. An' d'ye hear?--if ever\nwhisky did mortal creature guid, it maun be on a night like this; sae,\nthough I drink nane mysel, gang ye and gie him a glass.\"\n\nThe stranger was accordingly placed by the fire, and a glass was\nbrought; but still it was considered that, as he must be drenched to the\nskin, a shift of clothes would be necessary. On this proposal being\nmade, Mrs. Chrighton cast a significant look, first at her son, and then\nat her husband:--\n\n\"Hoot, woman,\" cried the latter, interpreting her look, \"bring the duds,\nan', if ye hae ony fear about them, the lassie Kate can gie ye a help to\nwash them, some weety day. An' weety days are like to be owre rife noo,\nfor ony guid they're doin.--Our guidewife,\" he continued, addressing\ntheir guest, \"has aye been fear'd for infectious diseases since a\nbeggar-wife brought the fever to the town mair than fourteen years back.\nBut, though ye had five-and-twenty fevers--ay, fifty o' them--that's no\nenough to let you get your death o' cauld wi thae weet claes on; sae ye\nmaun e'en consent to shift yoursel.\"\n\nThe stranger's language was a strange mixture of the best English and\nthe broadest Scotch; and this circumstance, after exciting a degree of\nsurprise in the minds of all, induced the guidwife to make some indirect\ninquiries concerning his profession and station in society.\n\n\"I've been thinkin ye're no just a here-a-wa man, by your tongue,\" said\nshe; \"an', if I'm no mista'en, ye've seen better days; for, when I was\nbringin butt your wet claes to get them dried, though your bit jacket\nan' your breeks were just corduroy, I couldna help noticin that there is\nno a bit bonnier linen inowre our door than the sark ye had on.\"\n\nTo these observations it seemed as if the stranger scarce knew how to\nreply--he passed his hand across his brow, and was silent for some\nseconds. But, on recovering himself, he told them that his name was\nDuncan Cowpet--that he had been born in Scotland, but his parents had\nremoved to England when he was very young--that he had lately been a\ntraveller for a house in London, but his master being now dead, and\nhimself out of employment, he had thought of visiting his native\ncountry; he added that, though his dress was rather plain, he was not\ndestitute of money, and concluded by offering to pay them for the\ntrouble they had already been at on his account, and also for his\nnight's lodging.\n\n\"Na, na,\" said the old farmer, his eyes brightening as he spoke, \"we\nnever took payment for sheltering the head of a houseless stranger, nor\nwill we noo. But ye were sayin that ye're out o' employment; as this is\na backward season, an' we have a hantle to do, an' mair than a', as I'm\nturned frail and feckless mysel, an' unco sair fashed wi' rheumatisms,\nI've been thinkin if ye could consent to stay an' help us for a owk or\ntwa, maybe ye would be nae waur, an' we could gie you as guid wages as\nony ither body.\"\n\nTo this proposal Duncan offered no objection, only he wished to\nstipulate for a bed in the house, as, he said, he had never been\naccustomed to lie in barns; and, as a guarantee that he would neither\ninjure their property, nor run off without giving them notice, he\noffered to place five guineas in the hands of the guidman--remarking,\nthat it was all the ready money he had about him. \"And as to wages,\" he\ncontinued, \"I _wull_ ask no more than what you _wull_ think I work for.\"\nThe five guineas were accepted, not as a guarantee for his good\nbehaviour, but that they might be in safe keeping. He was given to\nunderstand that he might have them at any time; and, when the family\nretired to rest, he was accommodated with a bed in the house.\n\nOn the following morning, which happened to be fair, he was employed in\nthe labours of the season; and, though he manifested an uncommon degree\nof awkwardness, George Chrighton, who was his fellow _bandster_, did\neverything in his power to instruct and assist him in his new\nprofession; so that he succeeded in performing his part of the labour\ntill breakfast time. After this meal had been despatched, as each\nyoungster drew closer to his favourite lass, Duncan, following the\nexample thus set before him, began to attach himself to Catherine Roger,\nwho, though the youngest, and perhaps the fairest, seemed to have no\nsweetheart present. But Catherine, though thus left alone, was far from\nencouraging his attentions; and, with great dexterity, she contrived,\nduring what remained of the breakfast hour, always to keep her mother's\nperson between her and him--thus defeating his strong inclination to\nimitate the conduct of some of his fellow-labourers, by placing his arm\naround her neck.\n\nOn rising to recommence the labours of the day, Duncan found that his\nhands were blistered, and that it would be extremely difficult for him\nto resume his work; but George again assisted him, by inquiring if any\nof the lasses would be so kind as come and dress the injured parts.\nCatherine, notwithstanding her former coyness, was the first to obey.\nBounding, with a light step, to her small repository of bandages and\nthread, she was back in a moment; and, spreading a small quantity of a\nvery healing ointment, which her mother had previously prepared, upon a\npiece of linen cloth, she applied it to the part where the skin was\nbeginning to peel off, with the dexterity of an experienced surgeon,\nand, having fastened it with a bandage drawn sufficiently tight, she was\nat her work again before Duncan could move his lips to thank her. He was\nnow offered a pair of gloves, and with them, and the soothing nature of\nthe ointment, his labour was less painful than he had anticipated, till\ntheir operations were interrupted by the rain.\n\nFrosty mornings and rainy days, with short intervals of fair weather,\nsucceeded each other. When in the field, Duncan had always an\nopportunity of seeing Catherine; but, though he really did endeavour to\ningratiate himself in her favour, she still dexterously contrived to\neschew all his attentions. He was not in love with her; but he felt\nattached to her by the same sort of feeling with which one regards a\nbeautiful picture, or any other object which delights the senses. The\nsymmetry of her form, the brilliancy of her complexion, and the lustre\nof her eyes, excited his admiration; and, in the absence of other\nobjects, drew his attention. In this state of mind, he frequently\npuzzled his brains to account for the strangeness of her manners; and,\none evening, shortly after his arrival, he resolved to introduce himself\nto her mother; if, peradventure, his so doing might throw some light\nupon the subject. With this intention, he had passed the little window,\nand was approaching the door, when he heard a chair overturned and a\nnoise within, as if some one had fled to the farther end of the house in\ngreat confusion. This induced him to listen for a moment; and, while\nthus listening, he heard Elspeth exclaim--\n\n\"What i' the warld's come owre the lassie noo!--whaur hae ye run till,\nKate? Na, I never saw the like o' that! The sark ye was mendin at, lyin\ni' the aise-hole, an' a red cinder aboon't!--if I hadna grippit it, it\nmight hae been a' in a lowe lang afore ye cam to look for't; an' Andrew\nwould only gotten a pouchfu o' aise to tak hame wi' him on Saturday\nnicht, instead of a sark.\" Duncan was no eavesdropper; but his curiosity\nwas strongly excited by what he had heard, and he could neither go in\nnor drag himself with sufficient speed from the door.\n\nAs Elspeth was concluding her ejaculations, the frightened damsel\nreturned, and was heard to say, in a suppressed tone--\"O mither, dinna\nbe angry--I thought I saw Duncan Cowpet come past the window, an' I ran\nto be out o' his gait. I canna bide him; his een's never off me the hail\nday, an' mony a time I dinna ken whar to look.\"\n\n\"Hoot, lassie,\" rejoined her mother; \"ye aye mak bogles o' windlestraes.\nDuncan is an honest lad, I'll warrant him, an' willin to work, too,\nthough he's no very guid o't. But, for a' that, dinna think that I want\nye to draw up wi' him; for I wouldna hae ye to gie ony encouragement to\nanither man on earth, as lang as Andrew Sharp pays mair respect to you\nthan the lave. But only tak my advice--neither rin awa when ye see\nDuncan coming, nor seem to notice his attentions when he comes, and\nhe'll soon bestow them on some ither body.\"\n\n\"I'll rather cut my finger for an excuse to bide at hame, though, afore\nI gang to the field when he's there,\" was Catherine's half-pettish\nreply.\n\n\"Confound ye if ye do ony sic thing!\" cried her mother: \"though Sandy\npays the house-rent, noo, recollect the guidman can ill spare ony o' his\nshearers when the weather is fair.\"\n\nDuncan stood to hear no more; if he had formerly admired Catherine for\nher beauty, he now respected her for the principles upon which she\nacted, and he wished for an opportunity to convince her that he too\ncould act a disinterested part. On the following day, his conduct was\nsuch as to free her mind from most of those disagreeable feelings which\nhitherto she had entertained; and, when he repeated his visit in the\nevening, though she again saw him pass the window, she did not run away.\nAfter he was seated, he spoke of Andrew Sharp, and gratefully adverted\nto his kindness in conducting him to Sunnybraes on an evening when few\nwould have cared for venturing abroad. Catherine's fears were now gone;\nshe felt as if she could have died to serve the man who spoke favourably\nof her lover; and the conversation was kept up with the greatest\ncordiality upon all sides. Local affairs came to be discussed; and, as\nDuncan seemed curious to gain information concerning the farms, and the\ncharacter of the farmers in the neighbourhood, Elspeth, in her\nendeavours to satisfy his curiosity, told him all she knew of Mr. Black\nand Mr. Goosequill, with their supposed schemes for the ejectment of\nWilliam Chrighton.\n\nIt was now the latter end of October, and still the harvest was far\nfrom being completed. The watch-dog had died, and the horses began to\nexhibit symptoms of lameness, which were the more distressing, that the\nsecuring of the crop depended entirely upon their ability to labour. Two\nof the cattle were brought home, by the boy who herded them, in a\ndiseased state, and the same evening one of them died. On the following\nmorning, one of the horses was found unable to rise; and, before noon,\nhe was dead also. It seemed as if the fates had conspired to ruin the\nold farmer and his family; day after day, horses, cattle, and other live\nstock, sickened and died; and, in a short time, he found himself without\nthe means of prosecuting the labours of so precarious a season, with any\nprospect of success. To add to his distress, a summons was now served\nagainst him for fifty pounds, \"which,\" as that document affirmed, \"he\nstill owed, and had refused to pay to the creditors of Mr. Rickledyke,\nfor the building of his barn, &c.\" Mr. Rickledyke was the contractor who\nhad been employed on this occasion; the whole of the money had not been\npaid when he became bankrupt; and, though the old farmer was perfectly\ncertain that he had paid it, when he recollected that the bankrupt was a\nfriend of Mr. Goosequill's, and that the money had been paid in his\noffice, he felt convinced that the whole was a trick, intended to\nembarrass if not to ruin him. He recollected farther, that, as a _stamp_\ncould not, at the time, be obtained, for giving him a discharge, he had\nleft the place without any voucher for the payment of the debt, beyond\nthe testimony of two witnesses who were now dead; and thus he had no\nalternative but to pay it again.\n\nThe appearance of the law officers, at Sunnybraes, gave rise to a\nreport, which was industriously spread, that William Chrighton was\neither a bankrupt or about to become one; and every individual who had\nthe slightest claim upon him, came hurrying in with distraints and\nsummonses; and, to complete the catastrophe, on Saturday, about noon,\nMr. Goosequill made his appearance, with the proper assistants, and\nplaced the whole of the crop, stocking, &c., on the farm of Sunnybraes,\nunder sequestration for the rent.\n\nAll hope of continuing in the farm was now at an end, and it only\nremained to make the most of the wreck which was still left. On Sabbath\nmorning, the sky had cleared; the wind shifted about to the north, and,\non the afternoon of the same day, a strong frost set in. The frost,\naccompanied by a sharp breeze, continued throughout the evening, and,\nas soon as midnight was past, the old man and his son prepared to\nembrace so favourable an opportunity for securing a portion of the\nvictual which was still exposed. While they were engaged in these\npreparations, Duncan was left to the care of Mrs. Chrighton, who had\nbeen instructed to furnish him with some _warm meat_, and a greatcoat.\nAfter these injunctions had been obeyed, as he sat by the fire, while\nshe stood over him with anxiety and distress depicted in her\ncountenance--\"O Duncan,\" said she, \"it's a terrible thing for honest\nfolk to be sae sair harassed. If lairds would only look after their\naffairs themselves, instead of trusting them to factors, I'm sure it\nwould be better for a' parties. But it's a' owre with us, and there's\nnaething noo but to tak some cothouse, and the guidman maun e'en work\nin a ditch, and I maun spin for the morsel that supports our lives.\nGeorge, too, is so disgusted with the usage we have received, that he\nspeaks of going off to America. And Nancy Black--poor lassie! my heart\nis aye sair when I think about her--they've had a likin for ane anither\nsince they were bairns at the school, and, if things had gane richt,\nthey might been happy, and we might been comfortable; but that, like\nthe rest of our prospects, is at an end.\" Mrs. Chrighton's disjointed\nobservations--particularly what related to Nancy Black, were a mystery\nto Duncan; and, though he wished to have an explanation, as the cart\nwas now ready and he was called, he was obliged to console himself with\nthe expectation that time might enable him to discover their meaning.\n\nWhen they reached the field, the moon was shining clear, the wind was\nblowing a stiff gale from the north, and the sheaves of corn, where any\nmoisture had attached to them, were frozen as hard as iron. There was\nonly one of the working horses now serviceable: to supply the place of\nanother, a colt had been that morning pressed into the service; but,\nowing to the awkwardness of this animal, the cart was overturned and\nbroken in such a manner as to render the assistance of the smith\nnecessary before it could be again used. Duncan Cowpet, who,\nnotwithstanding his unlucky name, had escaped unhurt, volunteered his\nservices for this expedition, and went off, with the cart and one of the\nhorses, to the smithy. When he reached Nettlebank, on his return from\nthe smithy, he had nearly driven his cart over Nancy Black, who,\nwhitened by the falling snow, was leaning against the garden wall, and\nappeared to have been shedding tears. On discovering him, she\nendeavoured to assume an air of cheerfulness, and asked if he would stop\nfor a short time, as she would have a message for him. Being answered in\nthe affirmative, she hurried into the house, and in a few minutes\nreturned with a piece of folded paper, which she requested him to give\nto his master's son. \"But stay,\" said she, as he was putting it into his\npocket--\"it is not closed--I had forgot;\" and then, after a short pause,\nshe added--\"but perhaps you do not read _write_?\"\n\n\"Na,\" said Duncan, speaking in an accent much broader than the\nprovincial dialect--\"na, my faither was owre puir for giein me ony buke\nlear.\" This seemed to satisfy the damsel, and she intrusted him with the\nletter in its unclosed state, only enjoining him to show it to nobody,\nand give it into the hands of George Chrighton.\n\nAfter nightfall, George said that \"he must go to the smithy for some\nthings which had been forgotten in the forenoon,\" and wished to see\nDuncan, to give him some orders about foddering the remaining horses.\nBut Duncan was nowhere to be found; and, after performing the task\nhimself--the evening being now well advanced--he took the road for the\nsmithy. It seemed, however, that he had business elsewhere; for, on\nreaching Nettlebank, he climbed over the garden wall, and, tapping\ngently at a low window, he was answered by a sigh from within. The door\nwas immediately opened without noise, and a female form stood by his\nside. He placed her arm in his, and they passed silently to the barn,\nwhere they both stood without speaking for some time, and both sighed\ndeeply. At last--\n\n\"George,\" said Nancy Black--for it was she--\"I have done wrong in\nrequesting you to meet me to-night; but I have been so much agitated\nwith what I have heard of late that I could not do otherwise.\"\n\n\"What have you heard, my love?\" inquired the other, in a tone of the\ndeepest tenderness--\"only tell me, and, whatever your feelings may be,\nthere is at least one heart ready to share them.\"\n\n\"I thought I could tell you all,\" said Nancy, \"before you were here; but\nnow, when you are beside me, I cannot, and yet I must; for, though my\nfather and brother are from home, they may soon be back, and I may be\nmissed from the house. Did you ever hear,\" she continued, evidently\nplacing her feelings under a strong restraint as she spoke--\"did you\never hear that your dog was poisoned?\"\n\n\"I was never told so,\" said George; \"but, perhaps, I have suspected that\nthe dog, and the horses and the cattle likewise, were poisoned; and,\nperhaps, I have suspected who did it. But, if that were the worst, we\nmight get over it still; and you must not distress yourself, my love,\nfor dogs and horses.\"\n\n\"But I have other causes of distress,\" said she, still keeping her\nfeelings under the same control. \"We had Mr. Goosequill here last night\nand this forenoon; and, from parts of the conversation which passed when\nthey were more than half drunk, I learned that Gilbert and Miss\nGoosequill are to be married, and Sunnybraes is to be their residence,\nwhich the factor says he is certain he can now get at my father's offer.\nOh, how my heart burns to think a daughter must thus reveal a parent's\ndisgrace!\"\n\n\"Nay, my dearest, do not distress yourself for this,\" rejoined the\nother. \"Though my father cannot resign Sunnybraes to you and me, as he\nhad intended, to mourn over it will not mend the matter. Let Gilbert and\nGrizzy enjoy the farm; but, before they can establish themselves on it,\nI will be on my passage to America; and, in a few years, with the\nblessing of God, I may be able to return--a better man than the farmer\nof Sunnybraes; and then, Nancy--but, first, promise that you will love\nme till\"--\n\nHere he was interrupted by the sobs of her whom he addressed. It was\nlong before she could speak; and, when she could speak, long and\nearnestly did she try to dissuade him from his purpose. But the youth,\nperceiving no prospect of their union, except by the plan which he\nproposed to adopt, was inflexible. Finding all her entreaties were\nvain--\n\n\"Then it is as my heart foreboded,\" said she. \"To-day I heard from\nAndrew Sharp of your intention of going to America. I walked out to\nconceal my feelings; and, while leaning on the garden wall, forgetful of\neverything else, your servant passed, and then the wish rose in my heart\nto see you once more. After I had made my foolish request, I had still\nanother wish ungratified, and that was, in case my arguments should\nfail, as they have done, that you would carry along with you some\nremembrance of her whom you once professed to love. This is woman's\nweakness, but perhaps you will pardon it; and perhaps you will keep the\ngift, though no better than a child's bauble, for the sake of the\ngiver.\"\n\n\"I will--I will!\" interrupted George, eagerly, whilst he took her hand.\n\n\"I am half ashamed of it,\" she continued; \"it is only a small sampler,\non which, shortly after leaving school, I sewed your father and mother's\nnames at full length, and yours, and--and mine--I may tell you this now,\nwhen we are about to part, perhaps for ever. No one ever saw me put a\nstitch in it. Will you keep it for my sake?\"\n\n\"While life remains,\" said the lover; \"run, my love, and bring it, that\nI may place it in my bosom.\"\n\n\"It is here already,\" said she, \"and that is the reason why I wished our\nmeeting to be in this place. Fearing lest my father should come home,\nand prevent me getting it from the house, I brought it out and concealed\nit here.\"\n\nWith these words, she made a few steps aside; and, as she stooped down\nto bring her little keepsake from under the empty sacks which covered\nit, instead of returning with it, she started and screamed. George flew\nto her assistance. Something seemed stirring among the sacks, as if an\nanimal had been attempting to rise; he laid hold of it, and dragged a\nheavy body after him to the door. The moon, which was now up, showed his\nburden to be a man; and, grasping him by the collar--\"Scoundrel!\" he\nsaid, \"what business had you there?\" then, turning him round to have a\nbetter view of his face--\"Duncan!\" he added--his anger in some measure\nyielding to surprise--\"I had nearly given you a thrashing; but you have\nbeen our guest, and assisted us in our difficulties, and I must hear\nfrom your own lips that you are guilty, before I pass sentence upon\nyou.\" With these words he quitted his grasp.\n\nThe blood flushed Duncan's cheek, and for some seconds he seemed\nuncertain whether to offer resistance or sue for peace. At last he\nsaid--holding out his hand, which the other as frankly took--\"If you had\n_thrashed_ me, it would have been no more than I deserved. But perhaps\nyou shall have no reason afterwards to repent of having spared yourself\nthis labour; for, though I had my own reasons for doing as I have\ndone\"--\n\nThese words were spoken in good English, with an accent and a dignity\naltogether different from the speaker's former mode of speaking; but,\nbefore he could proceed, he was saluted, by a rough voice from behind,\nwith the words--\"I shall _thrash you_, you skulking vagabond!\" And, at\nthe same moment, he was grasped roughly by the collar by Mr. Black, who\nraised a heavy oaken cudgel to strike him on the head. Had that blow\ndescended, the probability is that Duncan Cowpet would have slept with\nhis fathers; but George Chrighton wrenched the stick from the hand of\nthe infuriated man.\n\n\"Unchain the dog!\" bawled Mr. Black, in a voice of thunder.\n\n\"I'll s-et loose Cae-sar,\" hickuped his son. But, instead of doing as he\nsaid, he lay down beside the animal, and began, in good earnest, to that\noperation which the \"dog\" must perform before he can \"turn to his\nvomit.\"\n\nMr. Black still continued to keep a hold of Duncan with one hand, and to\nstrike him with the other, till George, stepping behind him, threw him\nquietly down upon a quantity of straw; and he, too, began to discharge\nthe contents of his over-loaded stomach. Nancy, who, up to this moment\nhad stood in speechless terror, now stepped from the barn.\n\n\"Fly, fly,\" she whispered. \"My father is drunk. I know it. He has never\nseen me; and you may escape. I will find some means of sending it. Fly,\nI conjure you!\" And she pushed him gently from her.\n\nOn the following morning, Duncan was amissing; and, like a fool, he\nhad run off and left his five guineas behind him. But the mystery was\nabout to be cleared up. A little after daybreak, letters were delivered\nto the whole of the parties concerned, summoning them to meet the\n_laird_ at an inn in the neighbourhood; and the surprise of all may be\neasily imagined when they discovered that Sir Patrick Felspar was no\nother than Duncan Cowpet in a different dress. The result was such as\nmight have been expected from a laird who had learned the truth from\nobservation and experience. We have only room to add, that shortly\nthereafter two marriages were celebrated--two individuals who had been\naccustomed to hold their heads high were effectually humbled; and, to\nthis day, whenever any farmer, or other individual, is supposed to be\ndealing unfairly with his neighbours, it is a common saying in the\ndistrict--\"Send Duncan Cowpet, to see what he is about.\"\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[5] We may claim for this tale the peculiarity of its having\nbeen the first essay of its author, Alexander Bethune, the self-educated\n\"Fifeshire labourer.\" This excellent and ingenious man became\nsubsequently well known by his volume of \"Tales and Sketches of the\nScottish Peasantry,\" published by Mr. Adam Black, and designated at the\ntime a literary phenomenon. It was truly said of him by the Spectator:\n\"Alexander Bethune, if he had written anonymously, might have passed for\na regular litterateur.\" Along with his brother John \"the Fifeshire\nforester,\" he published, in 1889, \"Practical Economy\"--a work which\ndeserves to be reprinted and spread among the people, as containing the\ntrue secret of domestic happiness, so well exemplified in the contented\nand virtuous lives of its humble authors.--ED.\n\n[6] Repast, so called, to which, in some parts of the country,\nthe friends of the deceased are invited after the funeral.\n\n[7] The materials of which a mud-wall is constructed in many\nparts of Scotland.\n\n\n\n\nTHE RIVAL NIGHTCAPS.\n\n\nOne little sentence gave rise to all the disputes of the old\nphilosophers, from Parmenides down to Aristotle, and that was composed\nof three words, _ex nihilo nihil_--nothing can come out of nothing--upon\nwhich were raised the doctrines of the atomists, incorporealists,\nepicureans, theists, and atheists, and all the other races of dreamers\nthat have disturbed the common sense, lethargy, or comfort of the world\nfor thousands of years; so that nothing could have better proved the\nabsolute nothingness of their favourite maxim, that nothing could come\nfrom nothing, than the effects of that very dogma itself, for nothing\never made such a stir in the moral world, since it deserved to be called\nsomething. But a more extraordinary circumstance is, that, though we\nevery day see the most gigantic consequences result from what may be\ntermed, paradoxically, _less than nothing_, there are certain\nmetaphysical wiseacres who still stick to the old maxim, in spite of\ntheir own senses, even that of feeling, and declare it to be true\ngospel. Let them read the tale of real every-day life we are now to lay\nbefore them, and then say, if they dare, that it is impossible that\nanything can come out of inanity. But, to proceed:--\n\nIn the neighbourhood of the suburban village of Bridgeton, near\nGlasgow, there lived, a good many years ago, a worthy man, and an\nexcellent weaver, of the name of Thomas Callender, and his wife, a\nbustling, active woman, but, if anything, a little of what is called the\nrandy. We have said that Thomas's occupation was the loom. It was so;\nbut, be it known, that he was not a mere journeyman weaver--one who is\nobliged to toil for the subsistence of the day that is passing over him,\nand whose sole dependence is on the labour of his hands. By no means.\nThomas had been all his days a careful, thrifty man, and had made his\nhay while the sun shone;--when wages were good, he had saved money--as\nmuch as could keep him in a small way, independent of labour, should\nsickness, or any other casualty, render it necessary for him to fall\nback on his secret resources. Being, at the time we speak of, however,\nsuffering under no bodily affliction of any kind, but, on the contrary,\nbeing hale and hearty, and not much past the meridian of life, he\ncontinued at his loom, although, perhaps, not altogether with the\nperseverance and assiduity which had distinguished the earlier part of\nhis brilliant career. The consciousness of independence, and, probably,\nsome slight preliminary touches from approaching eild, had rather abated\nthe energy of his exertions; yet Thomas still made a fair week's wage of\nit, as matters went. Now, with a portion of the honest wealth which he\nhad acquired, Mr. Callender had built himself a good substantial\ntenement--the first floor of which was occupied by looms, which were let\non hire; the second was his own place of residence; and the third was\ndivided into small domiciles, and let to various tenants. To the house\nwas attached a small garden, a kail-yard, in which he was wont,\noccasionally, to recreate himself with certain botanical and\nhorticultural pursuits, the latter being specially directed to the\ncultivation of greens, cabbages, leeks, and other savoury and useful pot\nherbs. Of his house and garden altogether, Mr. Callender was, and\nreasonably enough, not a little proud; for it was, certainly, a snug\nlittle property; and, moreover, it was entirely the creation of his own\nindustry.\n\nBut Thomas's mansion stood not alone in its glory. A rival stood near.\nThis was the dwelling of Mr. John Anderson, in almost every respect the\nperfect counterpart of that of Mr. Thomas Callender--a similarity which\nis in part accounted for by the facts, that John was also a weaver, that\nhe too had made a little money by a life of industry and economy, and\nthat the house was built by himself. By what we have just said, then, we\nhave shown, we presume, that Thomas and John were near neighbours; and,\nhaving done so, it follows, of course, that their wives were near\nneighbours also; but we beg to remark, regarding the latter, that it by\nno means follows that they were friends, or that they had any liking for\neach other. The fact, indeed, was quite otherwise. They hated each other\nwith great cordiality--a hatred in which a feeling of jealousy of each\nother's manifestations of wealth, whether in matters relating to their\nrespective houses or persons, or those of their husbands, was the\nprincipal feature. Any new article of dress which the one was seen to\ndisplay, was sure to be immediately repeated, or, if possible, surpassed\nby the other; and the same spirit of retaliation was carried throughout\nevery department of their domestic economy.\n\nBetween the husbands, too, there was no great good-will; for, besides\nbeing influenced, to a certain extent, in their feelings towards each\nother by their wives, they had had a serious difference on their own\naccount. John Anderson, on evil purpose intent, had once stoned some\nducks of Thomas Callender's out of a dub, situated in the rear of, and\nmidway between the two houses; claiming said dub for the especial use of\n_his_ ducks alone; and, on that occasion, had maimed and otherwise\nseverely injured a very fine drake, the property of his neighbour,\nThomas Callender. Now, Thomas very naturally resented this unneighbourly\nproceeding on the part of John; and, further, insisted that his ducks\nhad as good a right to the dub as Anderson's. Anderson denied the\njustice of this claim; Callender maintained it; and the consequence was\na series of law proceedings, which mulcted each of them of somewhere\nabout fifty pounds sterling money, and finally ended in the decision,\nthat they should divide the dub between them in equal portions, which\nwas accordingly done.\n\nThe good-will, then, towards each other, between the husbands, was thus\nnot much greater than between their wives; but, in their case, of\ncourse, it was not marked by any of those outbreaks and overt acts which\ndistinguished the enmity of their better halves. The dislike of the\nformer was passive, that of the latter active--most indefatigably\nactive; for Mrs. Anderson was every bit as spirited a woman as her\nneighbour, Mrs. Callender, and was a dead match for her in any way she\nmight try.\n\nThus stood matters between these two rival houses of York and\nLancaster, when Mrs. Callender, on looking from one of her windows one\nday, observed that the head of her rival's husband, who was at the\nmoment recreating himself in his garden, was comfortably set off with a\nsplendid new striped Kilmarnock nightcap. Now, when Mrs. Callender saw\nthis, and recollected the very shabby, faded article of the same\ndenomination--\"mair like a dish-cloot,\" as she muttered to herself,\n\"than onything else\"--which her Thomas wore, she determined on instantly\nproviding him with a new one; resolved, as she also remarked to herself,\nnot to let the Anderson's beat her, even in the matter of a nightcap.\nBut Mrs. Callender not only resolved on rivalling her neighbour, in the\nmatter of having a new nightcap for her husband, but in surpassing her\nin the quality of the said nightcap. She determined that her \"man's\"\nshould be a red one; \"a far mair genteeler thing,\" as she said to\nherself, \"than John Anderson's vulgar striped Kilmarnock.\" Having\nsettled this matter to her own satisfaction, and having dexterously\nprepared her husband for the vision of a new nightcap--which she did by\nurging sundry reasons, totally different from those under whose\ninfluence she really acted, as she knew that he would never give into\nsuch an absurdity as a rivalship with his neighbour in the matter of a\nnightcap--this matter settled then, we say, the following day saw Mrs.\nCallender sailing into Glasgow, to purchase a red nightcap for her\nhusband--a mission which, we need not say, she very easily accomplished.\nHer choice was one of the brightest hue she could find--a flaming\narticle, that absolutely dazzled Thomas with the intensity of its glare,\nwhen it was triumphantly unrolled before him.\n\n\"Jenny,\" said the latter, in perfect simplicity of heart, and utter\nignorance of the true cause of his wife's care of his comfort in the\npresent instance--\"Jenny, but that _is_ a bonny thing,\" he said, looking\nadmiringly at the gaudy commodity, into which he had now thrust his hand\nand part of his arm, in order to give it all possible extension, and\nthus holding it up before him as he spoke.\n\n\"Really it _is_ a bonny thing,\" he repeated, \"and, I warrant, a\ncomfortable.\"\n\n\"Isna't?\" replied his wife, triumphantly. And she would have added, \"How\nfar prettier and mair genteeler a thing than John Anderson's!\" But, as\nthis would have betrayed secrets, she refrained, and merely added, \"Now,\nmy man, Tammas, ye'll just wear't when ye gang about the doors and the\nyard. It'll mak ye look decent and respectable--what ye wasna in that\ncreeshy cloot ye're wearin, that made ye look mair like a tauty bogle\nthan a Christian man.\"\n\nThomas merely smiled at these remarks, and made no reply in words.\n\nThus far, then, Mrs. Callender's plot had gone on swimmingly. There\nonly wanted now her husband's appearance in the garden in his new red\nnightcap; where the latter could not but be seen by her rival, to\ncomplete her triumph--and this satisfaction she was not long denied.\nThomas, at her suggestion, warily and cautiously urged however,\ninstantly took the field in his new nightcap; and the result was as\ncomplete and decisive as the heart of a woman, in Mrs. Callender's\ncircumstances, could desire. Mrs. Anderson saw the nightcap, guessed the\ncause of its appearance, and resolved to be avenged. In that moment,\nwhen her sight was blasted, her pride humbled, and her spirits roused,\nwhich they were all at one and the same time by the vision of Thomas\nCallender's new red nightcap, she resolved on getting her husband to\nstrike the striped cap, and mount one of precisely the same\ndescription--better if possible, but she was not sure if this could be\nhad.\n\nNow, on prevailing on _her_ husband to submit to the acquisition of\nanother new nightcap, Mrs. Anderson had a much more difficult task to\nperform than her rival; for the cap that John was already provided with,\nunlike Thomas's, was not a week out of the shop, and no earthly good\nreason, one would think, could therefore be urged, why he should so soon\nget another. But what will not woman's wit accomplish? Anything! As\nproof of this, if proof were wanted, we need only mention that Mrs.\nAnderson _did_ succeed in this delicate and difficult negotiation, and\nprevailed upon John, first, to allow her to go into Glasgow to buy him a\nnew red nightcap, and to promise to wear it when it should be bought.\nHow she accomplished this--what sort of reasoning she employed--we know\nnot; but certain it is that it was done. Thus fully warranted, eagerly\nand cleverly did Mrs. Anderson, on the instant, prepare to execute the\nmission to which this warrant referred. In ten minutes she was dressed,\nand, in one more was on her way to Glasgow to make the desiderated\npurchase. Experiencing, of course, as little difficulty in effecting\nthis matter as her rival had done, Mrs. Anderson soon found herself in\npossession of a red nightcap, as bright, every bit, as Mr. Callender's;\nand this cap she had the happiness of drawing on the head of her\nunconscious husband, who, we need scarcely add, knew as little of the\nreal cause of his being fitted out with this new piece of head-gear as\nhis neighbour, Callender.\n\nThus far, then, with Mrs. Anderson too, went the plot of the nightcaps\nsmoothly; and all that she also now wanted to attain the end she aimed\nat, was her husband's appearance in _his_ garden, with his new\nacquisition on.\n\nThis consummation she also quickly brought round. John sallied out with\nhis red nightcap; and, oh, joy of joys! Mrs. Callender saw it. Ay, Mrs.\nCallender saw it--at once recognised in it the spirit which had dictated\nits display; and deep and deadly was the revenge that she vowed.\n\n\"Becky, Becky,\" she exclaimed, in a tone of lofty indignation--and thus\nsummoning to her presence, from an adjoining apartment, her daughter, a\nlittle girl of about ten years of age--\"rin owre dereckly to Lucky\nAnderson's and tell her to give me my jeely can immediately.\" And Mrs.\nCallender stamped her foot, grew red in the face, and exhibited sundry\nother symptoms of towering passion. Becky instantly obeyed the order so\nperemptorily given; and, while she is doing so, we may throw in a\ndigressive word or two, by the way of more fully enlightening the reader\nregarding the turn which matters seemed now about to take. Be it known\nto him, then, that the demand for the jelly pot, which was now about to\nbe made on Mrs. Anderson, was not a _bona fide_ proceeding. It was not\nmade in good faith; for Mrs. Callender knew well, and had been told so\nfifty times, that the said jelly pot was no longer in existence as a\njelly pot; and moreover, she had been, as often as she was told this,\noffered full compensation, which might be about three farthings sterling\nmoney of this realm, for the demolished commodity. Moreover, again, it\nwas three years since it had been borrowed. From all this, the reader\nwill at once perceive, what was the fact, that the sending for the said\njelly pot, on the present occasion, and in the way described, was a mere\nbreaking of ground previous to the performance of some other\ncontemplated operations. It was, in truth, entirely a tactical\nproceeding--a dexterously and ingeniously laid pretext for a certain\nintended measure which could not decently have stood on its own simple\nmerits. In proof of this, we need only state, that it is beyond all\nquestion that nothing could have disappointed Mrs. Callender more than\nthe return of the desiderated jelly pot. But this, she knew, she had not\nto fear, and the result showed that she was right. The girl shortly came\nback with the usual reply--that the pot was broken; but that Mrs.\nAnderson would cheerfully pay the value of it, if Mrs. Callender would\nsay what that was. To the inexpressible satisfaction of the latter,\nhowever, the message, on this occasion, was accompanied by some\nimpertinences which no woman of spirit could tamely submit to. She was\ntold, for instance, that \"she made mair noise aboot her paltry, dirty\njelly mug, a thousand times, than it was a' worth,\" and was ironically,\nand, we may add, insultingly entreated, \"for ony sake to mak nae mair\nwark aboot it, and a dizzen wad be sent her for't.\"\n\n\"My troth, and there's a stock o' impidence for ye!\" said Mrs.\nCallender, on her little daughter having delivered herself of all the\nsmall provocatives with which she had been charged. \"There's impidence\nfor ye!\" she said, planting her hands in her sides, and looking the very\npersonification of injured innocence. \"Was the like o't ever heard?\nFirst to borrow, and then to break my jeely mug, and noo to tell me,\nwhan I'm seekin my ain, that I'm makin mair noise aboot it than it's a'\nworth! My certy, but she _has_ a brazen face. The auld wizzened,\nupsettin limmer that she is. Set _them_ up, indeed wi' red nicht-caps.\"\nNow, this was the last member of Mrs. Callender's philippic, but it was\nby no means the least. In fact, it was the whole gist of the matter--the\nsum and substance, and, we need not add, the real and true cause of her\npresent amiable feeling towards her worthy neighbours, John Anderson and\nhis wife. Adjusting her _mutch_ now on her head, and spreading her apron\ndecorously before her, Mrs. Callender intimated her intention of\nproceeding instantly to Mrs. Anderson's to demand her jelly pot in\nperson, and to seek, at the same time, satisfaction for the insulting\nmessage that had been sent her. Acting on this resolution, she forthwith\ncommenced her march towards the domicile of John Anderson, nursing, the\nwhile, her wrath to keep it warm. On reaching the door, she announced\nher presence by a series of sharp, open-the-door-instantly knocks, which\nwere promptly attended to, and the visitor courteously admitted.\n\n\"Mrs. Anderson,\" said Mrs. Callender, on entering, and assuming a\ncalmness and composure of demeanour that was sadly belied by the\nsuppressed agitation, or rather fury, which she could not conceal, \"I'm\njust come to ask ye if ye'll be sae guid, _Mem_, as gie me my jeely\nmug.\"\n\n\"Yer jeely mug, Mrs. Callender!\" exclaimed Mrs. Anderson, raising\nherself to her utmost height, and already beginning to exhibit symptoms\nof incipient indignation. \"Yer jeely mug, Mrs. Callender!\" she repeated,\nwith a provokingly ironical emphasis. \"Dear help me, woman, but ye _do_\nmak an awfu wark about that jeely mug o' yours. I'm sure it wasna sae\nmuckle worth; and ye hae been often tell't that it was broken, but that\nwe wad willingly pay ye for't.\"\n\n\"It's no payment I want, Mrs. Anderson,\" replied Mrs. Callender, with a\nhigh-spirited toss of the head. \"I want my mug, and my mug I'll hae. Do\nye hear that?\" And here Mrs. Callender struck her clenched fist on the\nopen side of her left hand, in the impressive way peculiar to some\nladies when under the influence of passion. \"And, since ye come to that\no't, let me tell ye ye're a very insultin, ill-bred woman, to tell me\nthat it wasna muckle worth, after ye hae broken't.\"\n\n\"My word, lass,\" replied Mrs. Anderson, bridling up, with flushed\ncountenance, and head erect, to the calumniator, \"but ye're no blate to\nca' me thae names i' my ain house.\"\n\n\"Ay, I'll ca' ye thae names, and waur too, in yer ain house, or onywhar\nelse,\" replied the other belligerent, clenching her teeth fiercely\ntogether, and thrusting her face with most intense ferocity into the\ncountenance of her antagonist. \"Ay, here or onywhar else,\" she replied,\n\"I'll ca' ye a mean-spirited, impident woman--an upsettin impident\nwoman! Set your man up, indeed, wi' a red nichtkep!\"\n\n\"An' what for no?\" replied Mrs. Anderson with a look of triumphant\ninquiry. \"He's as weel able to pay for't as you, and maybe, if a' was\nkent, a hantle better. A red nichtkep, indeed, ye impertinent hizzy!\"\n\n\"'Od, an' ye hizzy me, I'll te-e-e-eer the liver out o' ye!\" exclaimed\nthe now infuriated Mrs. Callender, at the same instant seizing her\nantagonist by the hair of the head and _mutch_ together, and, in a\ntwinkling, tearing the latter into a thousand shreds. Active hostilities\nbeing now fairly commenced, a series of brilliant operations, both\noffensive and defensive, immediately ensued. The first act of aggression\non the part of Mrs. Callender--namely, demolishing her opponent's\nhead-gear--was returned by the latter by a precisely similar proceeding;\nthat is, by tearing _her_ mutch into fragments.\n\nThis preliminary operation performed, the combatants resorted to\ncertain various other demonstrative acts of love and friendship; but now\nwith such accompaniments of screams and exclamations as quickly filled\nthe apartment which was the scene of strife, with neighbours, who\ninstantly began to attempt to effect a separation of the combatants.\nWhile they were thus employed, in came John Anderson, who had been out\nof the way when the tug of war began, and close upon his heels came Mr.\nCallender, whose ears an alarming report of the contest in which his\ngallant spouse was engaged, had reached. Both gentlemen were, at the\nmoment, in their red nightcaps, and might thus be considerd as the\nstandard bearers of the combatants.\n\n\"Whats' a' this o't?\" exclaimed Mr. Anderson, pushing into the centre of\nthe crowd by which the two women were surrounded.\n\n\"O, the hizzy!\" exclaimed his wife, who had, at the instant, about a\nyard of her antagonist's hair rolled about her hand. \"It's a' aboot your\nnichtkep, John, and her curst jeely mug. A' aboot your nichtkep, and the\njeely mug.\"\n\nNow, this allusion to the jelly pot, John perfectly understood, but that\nto the nightcap he did not, nor did he attend to it; but, as became a\ndutiful and loving husband to do in such circumstances, immediately took\nthe part of his wife, and was in the act of thrusting her antagonist\naside, which operation he was performing somewhat rudely, when he was\ncollared from behind by his neighbour, Thomas Callender, who naturally\nenough enrolled himself at once on the side of his better half.\n\n\"Hauns aff, John!\" exclaimed Mr. Callender--their old grudge fanning\nthe flame of that hostility which was at this moment rapidly increasing\nin the bosoms of both the gentlemen, as he gave Mr. Anderson sundry\nenergetic tugs and twists, with a view of putting him _hors de combat_.\n\"Hauns aff, neebor!\" he said. \"Hauns aff, if ye please, till we ken wha\nhas the richt o' this bisness, and what it's a' about.\"\n\n\"Pu' doon their pride, Tam!--pu' doon their pride!\" exclaimed Mrs.\nCallender, who, although intently engaged at the moment in tearing out a\nhandful of her opponent's hair, was yet aware of the reinforcement that\nhad come to her aid. \"Pu' doon their pride, Tam. Tack a claut o' John's\nnichtkep. The limmer says they're better able to afford ane than we\nare.\"\n\nWhile Mrs. Callender was thus expressing the particular sentiments\nwhich occupied her mind at the moment, John Anderson had turned round to\nresent the liberty which the former had taken of collaring him; and this\nresentment he expressed by collaring his assailant in turn. The\nconsequence of this proceeding was a violent struggle, which finally\nended in a close stand-up fight between the male combatants, who shewed\ngreat spirit, although, perhaps, not a great deal of science. John\nAnderson, in particular, struck out manfully, and, in a twinkling,\ntapped the claret of his antagonist, Tom Callender. Tom, in return, made\nsome fair attempts at closing up the day-lights of John Anderson, but,\ntruth compels us to say, without success. The fight now became\ngeneral--the wives having quitted their holds of each other, and flown\nto the rescue of their respective husbands. They were thus all bundled\ntogether in one indiscriminate and unintelligible melee. One leading\nobject or purpose, however, was discernible on the part of the female\ncombatants. This was to get hold of the red nightcaps--each that of her\nhusband's antagonist; and, after a good deal of scrambling, and\nclutching, and punching, they both succeeded in tearing off the\nobnoxious head-dress, with each a handful of the unfortunate wearer's\nhair along with it. While this was going on, the conflicting, but firmly\nunited mass of combatants, who were all bundled, or rather locked\ntogether in close and deadly strife, was rolling heavily, sometimes one\nway, and sometimes another, sometimes ending with a thud against a\npartition, that made the whole house shake, sometimes with a ponderous\nlodgment against a door, which, unable to resist the shock, flew open,\nand landed the belligerents at their full length on the floor, where\nthey rolled over one another in a very edifying and picturesque manner.\n\nBut this could not continue very long, and neither did it. A\nconsummation or catastrophe occurred, which suddenly, and at once, put\nan end to the affray. In one of those heavy lee-lurches which the\nclosely united combatants made, they came thundering against the frail\nlegs of a dresser, which was ingeniously contrived to support two or\nthree tiers of shelves, which, again, were laden with stoneware, the\npride of Mrs. Anderson's heart, built up with nice and dexterous\ncontrivance, so as to shew to the greatest advantage. Need we say what\nwas the consequence of this rude assault on the legs of the\naforementioned dresser, supporting, as it did, this huge superstructure\nof shelves and crockery? Scarcely. But we will. Down, then, came the\ndresser; and down, as a necessary corollary, came also the shelves,\ndepositing their contents with an astounding crash upon the floor, not a\njug out of some eight or ten, of various shapes and sizes, not a plate\nout of some scores, not a bowl out of a dozen, not a cup or saucer out\nof an entire set, escaping total demolition. The destruction was\nfrightful--unprecedented in the annals of domestic mishaps. On the\ncombatants the effect of the thundering crash of the crockery, or\nsmashables, as they have been sometimes characteristically designated,\nwas somewhat like that which has been known to be produced in a\nsea-fight by the blowing up of a ship. Hostilities were instantly\nsuspended; all looking with silent horror on the dreadful scene of ruin\naround them. Nor did any disposition to renew the contest return. On the\ncontrary, there was an evident inclination, on the part of two of the\ncombatants--namely, Mr. Callender and his wife--to evacuate the\npremises. Appalled at the extent of the mischief done, and visited with\nan awkward feeling of probable responsibility, they gradually edged\ntowards the door, and, finally, sneaked out of the house without saying\na word.\n\n\"If there's law or justice in the land,\" exclaimed Mrs. Anderson, in\nhigh excitation, as she swept together the fragments of her demolished\ncrockery, \"I'll hae't on Tam Callender and his wife. May I niver see the\nmorn, if I haena them afore the Shirra before a week gangs owre my head!\nI hae a set aff, noo, against her jeely mug, I think.\"\n\n\"It's been a bonny business,\" replied her husband; \"but what on earth\nwas't a' aboot?\"\n\n\"What was't a' aboot!\" repeated his wife, with some asperity of manner,\nbut now possessed of presence of mind enough to shift the ground of\nquarrel, which she felt would comprise her with her husband. \"Didna I\ntell ye that already? What should it be a' aboot, but her confounded\njeely mug! But I'll mak her pay for this day's wark, or I'm sair\ncheated. It'll be as bad a job this for them as the duck-dub, I'm\nthinkin.\"\n\n\"We hadna muckle to brag o' there oursels, guidwife,\" interposed her\nhusband, calmly.\n\n\"See, there,\" said Mrs. Anderson, either not heeding, or not hearing\nJohn's remark. \"See, there,\" she said, holding up a fragment of one of\nthe broken vessels, \"there's the end o' my bonny cheeny jug, that I was\nsae vogie o', and that hadna its neebor in braid Scotland.\" And a tear\nglistened in the eye of the susceptible mourner, as she contemplated the\nmelancholy remains, and recalled to memory the departed splendours of\nthe ill-fated tankard. Quietly dashing, however, the tear of sorrow\naside, both her person and spirit assumed the lofty attitude of\ndetermined vengeance; and, \"_she'll_ rue this,\" she now went on, \"if\nthere be ony law or justice in the kingdom. It'll be a dear jug to\n_her_, or my name's no what it is.\"\n\nEqually indignant with his wife at the assault and battery committed by\nthe Callenders, but less talkative, John sat quietly ruminating on the\nevents of the evening, and, anon, still continuing to raise his hand, at\nintervals, to his mangled countenance. With the same taciturnity, he\nsubsequently assisted Mrs. Anderson to throw the collected fragments of\nthe broken dishes into a hamper, and to carry and deposit said hamper in\nan adjoining closet, where, it was determined, they should be carefully\nkept as evidence of the extent of the damage which had been sustained.\n\nIn the meantime, neither Mrs. Thomas Callender nor Mr. Thomas Callender\nfelt by any means at ease respecting the crockery catastrophe. Although\nfeeling that it was a mere casualty of war, and an unforeseen and\nunpremeditated result of a fair and equal contest, they yet could not\nhelp entertaining some vague apprehension for the consequences. They\nfelt, in short, that it might be made a question whether they were not\nliable for the damage done, seeing that they had intruded themselves\ninto their neighbour's house, where they had no right to go. It was\nunder some such awkward fear as this that Mr. Callender, who had also\nobtained an evasive account of the cause of quarrel, said, with an\nunusually long and grave face, to his wife, on their gaining their own\nhouse, and holding, at the same time, a handkerchief to his still\nbleeding and now greatly swollen proboscis--\n\n\"Yon was a deevil o' a stramash, Mirran. I never heard the like o't. It\nwas awfu'. I think I hear the noise o' the crashing plates and bowls in\nmy lugs yet.\"\n\n\"Deil may care! Let them tak it!\" replied Mrs. Callender, endeavouring\nto assume a disregard of consequences, which she was evidently very far\nfrom feeling. \"She was aye owre vain o' her crockery; so that better\ncouldna happen her.\"\n\n\"Ay,\" replied her husband; \"but yon smashing o't was rather a serious\nbusiness.\"\n\n\"It was just music to my lugs, then,\" said Mrs. Callender, boldly.\n\n\"Maybe,\" rejoined her husband, \"but I doot we'll hae to pay the piper.\nThey'll try't ony way, I'm jalousin.\"\n\n\"Let them. There'll be nae law or justice in the country if they mak\nthat oot,\" responded Mrs. Callender, and exhibiting, in this sentiment,\nthe very striking difference of opinion between the two ladies, of the\nlaw and justice of the land.\n\nThe fears, however, which Mr. Callender openly expressed, as above\nrecorded, and which his wife felt but concealed, were not groundless. On\nthe evening of the very next day after the battle of the nightcaps, as\nThomas Callender was sitting in his elbow-chair by the fire, luxuriously\nenjoying its grateful warmth, and the ease and comfort of his slippers\nand red nightcap, which he had drawn well down over his ears, he was\nsuddenly startled by a sharp, loud rap at the door. Mrs. Callender\nhastened to open it, when two papers were thrust into her hands by an\nequivocal-looking personage, who, without saying a word, wheeled round\non his heel the instant he had placed the mysterious documents in her\npossession, and hastened away.\n\nWith some misgivings as to the contents of these papers, Mrs. Callender\nplaced them before her husband.\n\n\"What's this?\" said the latter, with a look of great alarm, and placing\nhis spectacles on his nose, preparatory to a deliberate perusal of the\nsuspicious documents. His glasses wiped and adjusted, Thomas unfolded\nthe papers, held them up close to the candle, and found them to be a\ncouple of summonses, one for himself and one for his wife. These\nsummonses, we need hardly say, were at the instance of their neighbour,\nJohn Anderson, and exhibited a charge of assault and battery, and claim\nfor damages, to the extent of two pounds fourteen shillings sterling,\nfor demolition of certain articles of stoneware, &c. &c. &c.\n\n\"Ay,\" said Thomas, laying down the fatal papers. \"Faith, here it is,\nthen! We're gaun to get it ruch an roun', noo, Mirran. I was dootin\nthis. But we'll defen', we'll defen',\" added Thomas, who was, or, we\nrather suspect, imagined himself to be, a bit of a lawyer, ever since\nthe affair of the duck-dub, during which he had picked up some law\nterms, but without any accompanying knowledge whatever of their import\nor applicability. \"We'll defen', we'll defen',\" he said, with great\nconfidence of manner, \"and gie them a revised condescendence for't that\nthey'll fin gayan teuch to chow. But we maun obey the ceetation, in the\nfirst place, to prevent decreet in absence, whilk wad gie the pursuer,\nin this case, everything his ain way.\"\n\n\"Defen'!\" exclaimed Mrs. Callender, with high indignation; \"my faith,\nthat we wull, I warrant them, and maybe a hantle mair. We'll maybe no be\ncontent wi' defendin, but strike oot, and gar _them_ staun aboot.\"\n\n\"Noo, there ye show yer ignorance o' the law, Mirran,\" said her husband,\nwith judicial gravity; \"for ye see\"----\n\n\"Tuts, law or no law,\" replied Mrs. Callender, impatiently--\"I ken\nwhat's justice and common sense; an' that's aneuch for me. An' justice\nI'll hae, Tam,\" she continued, with such an increase of excitement as\nbrought on the usual climax in such cases, of striking one of her\nclenched hands on her open palm--\"An' justice I will hae, Tam, on thae\nAndersons, if it's to be had for love or money.\"\n\n\"We'll try't, ony way,\" said her husband, folding up the summonses, and\nputting them carefully into his breeches pocket. \"Since it has come to\nthis, we'll gie them law for't.\"\n\nIn the spirit and temper of bold defiance expressed in the preceding\ncolloquy, Mr. Callender and his wife awaited the day and hour appointed\nfor their appearance in the Sheriff Court at Glasgow. This day and hour\nin due time came, and, when it did, it found both parties, pursuers and\ndefenders, in the awful presence of the judge. Both the ladies were\ndecked out in their best and grandest attire, while each of their\nhusbands rejoiced in his Sunday's suit. It was a great occasion for both\nparties. On first recognising each other, the ladies exchanged looks\nwhich were truly edifying to behold. Mrs. Anderson's was that of calm,\ndignified triumph; and which, if translated into her own vernacular,\nwould have said, \"My word, lass, but ye'll fin whar ye are noo.\" Mrs.\nCallender's, again, was that of bold defiance, and told of a spirit that\nwas unconquerable--game to the last being the most strongly marked and\nleading expression, at this interesting moment, of her majestic\ncountenance. Close beside where Mrs. Anderson sat, and evidently under\nher charge, there stood an object which, from the oddness of its\nappearing in its present situation, attracted a good deal of notice, and\nexcited some speculation amongst those present in the court, and which\nparticularly interested Mrs. Callender and her worthy spouse. This was a\nhamper--a very large one. People wondered what could be in it, and for\nwhat purpose it was there. They could solve neither of these problems;\nbut the reader can, we dare say. He will at once conjecture--and, if he\ndoes so, he will conjecture rightly--that the hamper in question\ncontained the remains of the smashables spoken of formerly at some\nlength, and that it was to be produced in court by the pursuers, as\nevidence of the nature and extent of the damage done.\n\nThe original idea of bringing forward this article, for the purpose\nmentioned, was Mrs. Anderson's; and, having been approved of by her\nhusband, it had been that morning carted to the court-house, and\nthereafter carried to and deposited in its present situation by the\nunited exertions of the pursuers, who relied greatly on the effect it\nwould produce when its lid should be thrown open, and the melancholy\nspectacle of demolished crockery it concealed exhibited.\n\nThe case of Mr. and Mrs. Anderson _versus_ Mr. and Mrs. Callender being\npretty far down in the roll, it was nearly two hours before it was\ncalled. This event, however, at length took place. The names of the\npursuers and defenders resounded through the court room, in the slow,\ndrawling, nasal-toned voice of the crier. Mrs. Anderson, escorted by her\nloving spouse, sailed up the middle of the apartment, and placed herself\nbefore the judge. With no less dignity of manner, and with, at least, an\nequal stateliness of step, Mrs. Callender, accompanied by her lord and\nmaster, sailed up after her, and took her place a little to one side.\nThe parties being thus arranged, proceedings commenced. Mrs. Anderson\nwas asked to state her case; Mrs. Anderson was not slow to accept the\ninvitation. She at once began:--\n\n\"Ye see, my lord, sir, the matter was just this--and I daur _her_ there\"\n(a look of intense defiance at Mrs. Callender) \"to deny a word, my lord,\nsir, o' what I'm gaun to say; although I daur say she wad do't if she\ncould.\"\n\n\"My good woman,\" here interposed the judge, who had a nervous\napprehension of the forensic eloquence of such female pleaders as the\none now before him, \"will you have the goodness to confine yourself\nstrictly to a simple statement of your case?\"\n\n\"Weel, my lord, sir, I will. Ye see, then, the matter is just this.\"\n\nAnd Mrs. Anderson forthwith proceeded to detail the particulars of the\nquarrel and subsequent encounter, with a minuteness and\ncircumstantiality which, we fear, the reader would think rather tedious\nwere we here to repeat. In this statement of her case, Mrs. Anderson,\nhaving the fear of her husband's presence before her eyes, made no\nallusion whatever to the nightcaps, but rested the whole quarrel on the\njelly pot. Now, this was a circumstance which Mrs. Callender noted, and\nof which she, on the instant, determined to take a desperate advantage.\nRegardless of all consequences, and, amongst the rest, of discovering to\nher husband the underhand part she had been playing in regard to the\naffair of the nightcap, she resolved on publicly exposing, as she\nimagined, the falsehood and pride of her hated rival, by stating the\nfacts of the case as to the celebrated nightcaps. To this revenge she\ndetermined on sacrificing every other consideration. To return, however,\nin the meantime, to the proceedings in court.\n\nThe statements of the pursuers being now exhausted, the defenders were\ncalled upon to give their version of the story. On this summons, both\nMrs. Callender and her husband pressed themselves into a central\nposition, with the apparent intention of both entering on the defences\nat the same time. And this proved to be the fact. On being specially and\ndirectly invited by the judge to open the case--\n\n\"Ye see, my lord,\" began Mr. Thomas Callender; and--\n\n\"My lord, sir, ye see,\" began, at the same instant, _Mrs._ Thomas\nCallender.\n\n\"Now, now,\" here interposed the judge, waving his hand impatiently, \"one\nat a time, if you please. One at a time.\"\n\n\"Surely,\" replied Mr. Callender. \"Staun aside, guidwife, staun aside,\"\nhe said; at the same time gently pushing his wife back with his left\nhand as he spoke. _\"I'll_ lay doon the case to his lordship.\"\n\n\"Ye'll do nae sic a thing, Thomas; _I'll_ do't,\" exclaimed Mrs.\nCallender, not only resisting her husband's attempt to thrust her into\nthe rear, but forcibly placing _him_ in that relative position; while\nshe herself advanced a pace or two nearer to the bench. On gaining this\nvantage ground, Mrs. Callender at once began, and with great emphasis\nand circumstantiality detailed the whole story of the nightcaps;\ncarefully modelling it so, however, as to show that her own part in the\ntransaction was a _bona fide_ proceeding; on the part of her rival, the\nreverse; and that the whole quarrel, with its consequent demolition of\ncrockery, was entirely the result of Mrs. Anderson's \"upsettin' pride,\nand vanity, and jealousy.\" During the delivery of these details, the\ncourt was convulsed with laughter, in which the sheriff himself had much\ndifficulty to refrain from joining.\n\nOn the husbands of the two women, however, they had a very different\neffect. Amazed, confounded, and grievously affronted at this unexpected\ndisclosure of the ridiculous part they had been made to perform by their\nrespective wives, they both sneaked out of court, amidst renewed peals\nof laughter, leaving the latter to finish the case the best way they\ncould. How this was effected we know not, as at this point ends our\nstory of the rival nightcaps.\n\n\n\nEND OF VOL III\n\n\n\n\n +-----------------------------------------------+\n | Transcriber's note:                           |\n |                                               |\n | Inconsistent spelling and punctuation were    |\n | not changed.                                  |\n |                                               |\n | TOC: Changed Pheebe to Phebe                  |\n | Page 3 Changed throroughly to thoroughly      |\n | Page 34 Changed gripe to grip                 |\n | Page 42 Changed Engglish to English           |\n | Page 90 Changes transsport to transport       |\n | Page 161 Changed Nanny to Nancy               |\n | Page 173 Changed Mause to Maudge              |\n | Page 173 Changed phrophetic to prophetic      |\n | Page 174 Changed rythmic to rhythmic          |\n | Page 206 Changed unconcious to unconscious    |\n +-----------------------------------------------+","title":"Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland, Volume 03","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":94944}