{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_32862/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_32862","id":"gutenberg_32862","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/32862","summary":null,"tags":["Category: British Literature","Category: Historical Novels","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Short Stories","Scottish Borders (Scotland) -- Fiction"],"text":"Produced by David Clarke, David J. Cole and the Online\nDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n                         Wilson's\n\n                   Tales of the Borders\n\n                     AND OF SCOTLAND.\n\n\n          HISTORICAL, TRADITIONARY, & IMAGINATIVE.\n\n\n                      WITH A GLOSSARY.\n\n\n                       REVISED BY\n                    ALEXANDER LEIGHTON,\n       ONE OF THE ORIGINAL EDITORS AND CONTRIBUTORS\n\n\n\n\n                         LONDON:\n             WALTER SCOTT, 24 WARWICK LANE,\n                AND NEWCASTLE-UPON-TYNE.\n                          1887.\n\n\n\n\n                         CONTENTS.\n\n\n                                                        PAGE\n\nTHE VACANT CHAIR               (_John Mackay Wilson_)      1\n\nTHE FAA'S REVENGE              (_John Mackay Wilson_)     18\n\nKATE KENNEDY                   (_Alexander Leighton_)     50\n\nRECOLLECTIONS OF FERGUSON             (_Hugh Miller_)     83\n\nTHE DISASTERS\n       OF JOHNNY ARMSTRONG     (_Alexander Campbell_)    128\n\nTHE PROFESSOR'S TALES--(_Professor Thomas Gillespie_):--\n\n     THE MOUNTAIN STORM                                  160\n\n     THE FAIR MAID OF CELLARDYKES                        172\n\nPRESCRIPTION;\n      OR, THE 29TH OF SEPTEMBER     (_Alex. Leighton_)   193\n\nTHE COUNTESS OF WISTONBURY      (_Alexander Campbell_)   225\n\nMIDSIDE MAGGIE; OR, THE BANNOCK O' TOLLISHILL--\n                                (_John Mackay Wilson_)   257\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE.\n\n\nThis series of Tales, now so well known in this country and also in\nAmerica, was begun by JOHN MACKAY WILSON, originally a printer, and who\nsubsequently betook himself to literature. In the beginning of the\nundertaking he was inspired by a success probably greater than he had\never anticipated, and a sudden and wide-spread reputation induced him to\novertask his energies, in a manner inconsistent with the care due to a\ndelicate constitution. After having carried on the work, almost\nsingle-handed, for a period of more than a year--furnishing a tale every\nweek--he took ill, and died. Subsequently, the charge of conducting the\nwork devolved upon the present Editor, who was fortunate enough to\nsecure the assistance of certain writers well qualified to sustain the\nreputation which the first part of the series had acquired. Among these\nwere the late Hugh Miller, the late Professor Thomas Gillespie of St.\nAndrew's, Alexander Campbell, Alexander and John Bethune, and John\nHowell, all of whom possessed those natural gifts, enabling them to\nsucceed in a species of literature which, while in one sense it may be\ncalled the most easy, is, in another, perhaps among the most difficult\nof any.\n\nThe only condition by which the natural promptings of their genius might\nhave been restrained was, that the contributions should be genuine\nstories, not the ordinary mixture of narrative, didactic essay, and\nfanciful prolusion, but tales in the proper every-day sense, with such\nan objectiveness as would portray, graphically and naturally, the men\nand women of the times, acting on the stage where they were destined to\nperform their strange parts, and would exclude all false colourings of a\nsentimental fiction, belonging to mere subjective moods of the writer's\nfancy or feeling. The greatest care was also taken with the moral aspect\nof the Tales, with the view that parents and guardians might feel a\nconfidence that, in committing them into the hands of their children and\nwards, they would be imparting the means of instruction, and at the same\ntime securing a guarantee for the growth of moral convictions. By such\nmeans, the Tales were kept true to history, legend, morality, and man's\nnature, and, at the same time, made acceptable to the great class of\nreaders who had declared their predilection in favour of the manner of\nthe early examples.\n\nThe Tales in this series have been carefully selected and revised; and\nthe reader will be pleased to be informed that, in the course of the\npublication, there will, for the purpose of imparting to it a fresh\ninterest, be inserted New Tales, written by authors deemed capable of\nattaining the mark of the Original Series.\n\nYORK LODGE, TRINITY,\n    _March_, 1857.\n\n\n\n\n                               WILSON'S\n\n                         TALES OF THE BORDERS,\n\n                           AND OF SCOTLAND.\n\n\n\n\nTHE VACANT CHAIR.[1]\n\n[1] Our commencement with \"The Vacant Chair\"--the first written of the\nTales of the Borders--is not inconsistent with our principle of\nselection in this edition, which is to distribute the contributions of\nthe authors, so as to secure variety without any view to an early\nexhaustion of the best of the Tales.--_Ed._\n\n\nYou have all heard of the Cheviot mountains. They are a rough, rugged,\nmajestic chain of hills, which a poet might term the Roman wall of\nnature; crowned with snow, belted with storms, surrounded by pastures\nand fruitful fields, and still dividing the northern portion of Great\nBritain from the southern. With their proud summits piercing the clouds,\nand their dark rocky declivities frowning upon the glens below, they\nappear symbolical of the wild and untamable spirits of the Borderers who\nonce inhabited their sides. We say, you have all heard of the Cheviots,\nand know them to be very high hills, like a huge clasp riveting England\nand Scotland together; but we are not aware that you may have heard of\nMarchlaw, an old, gray-looking farm-house, substantial as a modern\nfortress, recently, and, for aught we know to the contrary, still\ninhabited by Peter Elliot, the proprietor of some five hundred\nsurrounding acres. The boundaries of Peter's farm, indeed, were defined\nneither by fields, hedges, nor stone walls. A wooden stake here, and a\nstone there, at considerable distances from each other, were the general\nlandmarks; but neither Peter nor his neighbours considered a few acres\nworth quarrelling about; and their sheep frequently visited each other's\npastures in a friendly way, harmoniously sharing a family dinner, in the\nsame spirit as their masters made themselves free at each other's\ntables.\n\nPeter was placed in very unpleasant circumstances, owing to the\nsituation of Marchlaw House, which, unfortunately, was built immediately\nacross the \"ideal line,\" dividing the two kingdoms; and his misfortune\nwas, that, being born within it, he knew not whether he was an\nEnglishman or a Scotchman. He could trace his ancestral line no farther\nback than his great-grandfather, who, it appeared from the family Bible,\nhad, together with his grandfather and father, claimed Marchlaw as their\nbirth-place. They, however, were not involved in the same perplexities\nas their descendant. The parlour was distinctly acknowledged to be in\nScotland, and two-thirds of the kitchen were as certainly allowed to be\nin England: his three ancestors were born in the room over the parlour,\nand, therefore, were Scotchmen beyond question; but Peter, unluckily,\nbeing brought into the world before the death of his grandfather, his\nparents occupied a room immediately over the debatable boundary line\nwhich crossed the kitchen. The room, though scarcely eight feet square,\nwas evidently situated between the two countries; but, no one being able\nto ascertain what portion belonged to each, Peter, after many arguments\nand altercations upon the subject, was driven to the disagreeable\nalternative of confessing he knew not what countryman he was. What\nrendered the confession the more painful was, that it was Peter's\nhighest ambition to be thought a Scotchman. All his arable land lay on\nthe Scotch side; his mother was collaterally related to the Stuarts; and\nfew families were more ancient or respectable than the Elliots. Peter's\nspeech, indeed, betrayed him to be a walking partition between the two\nkingdoms, a living representation of the Union; for in one word he\npronounced the letter _r_ with the broad, masculine sound of the North\nBriton, and in the next with the liquid _burr_ of the Northumbrians.\n\nPeter, or, if you prefer it, Peter Elliot, Esquire of Marchlaw, in the\ncounties of Northumberland and Roxburgh, was, for many years, the best\nrunner, leaper, and wrestler between Wooler and Jedburgh. Whirled from\nhis hand, the ponderous bullet whizzed through the air like a pigeon on\nthe wing; and the best putter on the Borders quailed from competition.\nAs a feather in his grasp, he seized the unwieldy hammer, swept it round\nand round his head, accompanying with agile limb its evolutions, swiftly\nas swallows play around a circle, and hurled it from his hands like a\nshot from a rifle, till antagonists shrunk back, and the spectators\nburst into a shout. \"Well done, Squire! the Squire for ever!\" once\nexclaimed a servile observer of titles. \"Squire! wha are ye squiring\nat?\" returned Peter. \"Confound ye! where was ye when I was christened\nSquire? My name's Peter Elliot--your man, or onybody's man, at whatever\nthey like!\"\n\nPeter's soul was free, bounding, and buoyant, as the wind that carolled\nin a zephyr, or shouted in a hurricane, upon his native hills; and his\nbody was thirteen stone of healthy substantial flesh, steeped in the\nspirits of life. He had been long married, but marriage had wrought no\nchange upon him. They who suppose that wedlock transforms the lark into\nan owl, offer an insult to the lovely beings who, brightening our\ndarkest hours with the smiles of affection, teach us that that only is\nunbecoming in the husband which is disgraceful in the man. Nearly twenty\nyears had passed over them; but Janet was still as kind, and, in his\neyes, as beautiful as when, bestowing on him her hand, she blushed her\nvows at the altar; and he was still as happy, as generous, and as free.\nNine fair children sat around their domestic hearth, and one, the\nyoungling of the flock, smiled upon its mother's knee. Peter had never\nknown sorrow; he was blest in his wife, in his children, in his flocks.\nHe had become richer than his fathers. He was beloved by his neighbours,\nthe tillers of his ground, and his herdsmen; yea, no man envied his\nprosperity. But a blight passed over the harvest of his joys, and gall\nwas rained into the cup of his felicity.\n\nIt was Christmas-day, and a more melancholy-looking sun never rose on\nthe 25th of December. One vast, sable cloud, like a universal pall,\noverspread the heavens. For weeks, the ground had been covered with\nclear, dazzling snow; and as, throughout the day, the rain continued its\nunwearied and monotonous drizzle, the earth assumed a character and\nappearance melancholy and troubled as the heavens. Like a mastiff that\nhas lost its owner, the wind howled dolefully down the glens, and was\nre-echoed from the caves of the mountains, as the lamentations of a\nlegion of invisible spirits. The frowning, snow-clad precipices were\ninstinct with motion, as avalanche upon avalanche, the larger burying\nthe less, crowded downward in their tremendous journey to the plain. The\nsimple mountain rills had assumed the majesty of rivers; the broader\nstreams were swollen into the wild torrent, and, gushing forth as\ncataracts, in fury and in foam, enveloped the valleys in an angry flood.\nBut, at Marchlaw, the fire blazed blithely; the kitchen groaned beneath\nthe load of preparations for a joyful feast; and glad faces glided from\nroom to room.\n\nPeter Elliot kept Christmas, not so much because it was Christmas, as in\nhonour of its being the birthday of Thomas, his first-born, who, that\nday, entered his nineteenth year. With a father's love, his heart\nyearned for all his children; but Thomas was the pride of his eyes.\nCards of apology had not then found their way among our Border hills;\nand as all knew that, although Peter admitted no spirits within his\nthreshold, nor a drunkard at his table, he was, nevertheless, no\nniggard in his hospitality, his invitations were accepted without\nceremony. The guests were assembled; and the kitchen being the only\napartment in the building large enough to contain them, the cloth was\nspread upon a long, clear, oaken table, stretching from England into\nScotland. On the English end of the board were placed a ponderous\nplum-pudding, studded with temptation, and a smoking sirloin; on\nScotland, a savoury and well-seasoned haggis, with a sheep's-head and\ntrotters; while the intermediate space was filled with the good things\nof this life, common to both kingdoms and to the season.\n\nThe guests from the north and from the south were arranged\npromiscuously. Every seat was filled--save one. The chair by Peter's\nright hand remained unoccupied. He had raised his hands before his eyes,\nand besought a blessing on what was placed before them, and was\npreparing to carve for his visitors, when his eyes fell upon the vacant\nchair. The knife dropped upon the table. Anxiety flashed across his\ncountenance, like an arrow from an unseen hand.\n\n\"Janet, where is Thomas?\" he inquired; \"hae nane o' ye seen him?\" and,\nwithout waiting an answer, he continued--\"How is it possible he can be\nabsent at a time like this? And on such a day, too? Excuse me a minute,\nfriends, till I just step out and see if I can find him. Since ever I\nkept this day, as mony o' ye ken, he has always been at my right hand,\nin that very chair; and I canna think o' beginning our dinner while I\nsee it empty.\"\n\n\"If the filling of the chair be all,\" said a pert young sheep-farmer,\nnamed Johnson, \"I will step into it till Master Thomas arrive.\"\n\n\"Ye're not a faither, young man,\" said Peter, and walked out of the\nroom.\n\nMinute succeeded minute, but Peter returned not. The guests became\nhungry, peevish, and gloomy, while an excellent dinner continued\nspoiling before them. Mrs. Elliot, whose good-nature was the most\nprominent feature in her character, strove, by every possible effort, to\nbeguile the unpleasant impressions she perceived gathering upon their\ncountenances.\n\n\"Peter is just as bad as him,\" she remarked, \"to hae gane to seek him\nwhen he kenned the dinner wouldna keep. And I'm sure Thomas kenned it\nwould be ready at one o'clock to a minute. It's sae unthinking and\nunfriendly like to keep folk waiting.\" And, endeavouring to smile upon a\nbeautiful black-haired girl of seventeen, who sat by her elbow, she\ncontinued in an anxious whisper--\"Did ye see naething o' him, Elizabeth,\nhinny?\"\n\nThe maiden blushed deeply; the question evidently gave freedom to a\ntear, which had, for some time, been an unwilling prisoner in the\nbrightest eyes in the room; and the monosyllable, \"No,\" that trembled\nfrom her lips, was audible only to the ear of the inquirer. In vain Mrs.\nElliot despatched one of her children after another, in quest of their\nfather and brother; they came and went, but brought no tidings more\ncheering than the moaning of the hollow wind. Minutes rolled into hours,\nyet neither came. She perceived the prouder of her guests preparing to\nwithdraw, and, observing that \"Thomas's absence was so singular and\nunaccountable, and so unlike either him or his father, she didna ken\nwhat apology to make to her friends for such treatment; but it was\nneedless waiting, and begged they would use no ceremony, but just\nbegin.\"\n\nNo second invitation was necessary. Good humour appeared to be restored,\nand sirloins, pies, pasties, and moor-fowl began to disappear like the\nlost son. For a moment, Mrs. Elliot apparently partook in the\nrestoration of cheerfulness; but a low sigh at her elbow again drove the\ncolour from her rosy cheeks. Her eye wandered to the farther end of the\ntable, and rested on the unoccupied seat of her husband, and the vacant\nchair of her first-born. Her heart fell heavily within her; all the\nmother gushed into her bosom; and, rising from the table, \"What in the\nworld can be the meaning o' this?\" said she, as she hurried, with a\ntroubled countenance, towards the door. Her husband met her on the\nthreshold.\n\n\"Where hae ye been, Peter?\" said she, eagerly; \"hae ye seen naething o'\nhim?\"\n\n\"Naething! naething!\" replied he; \"is he no cast up yet?\" And, with a\nmelancholy glance, his eyes sought an answer in the deserted chair. His\nlips quivered, his tongue faltered.\n\n\"Gude forgie me!\" said he; \"and such a day for even an enemy to be out\nin! I've been up and doun every way that I can think on, but not a\nliving creature has seen or heard tell o' him. Ye'll excuse me,\nneebors,\" he added, leaving the house; \"I must awa again, for I canna\nrest.\"\n\n\"I ken by mysel', friends,\" said Adam Bell, a decent-looking\nNorthumbrian, \"that a faither's heart is as sensitive as the apple o'\nhis e'e; and I think we would show a want o' natural sympathy and\nrespect for our worthy neighbour, if we didna every one get his foot\ninto the stirrup without loss o' time, and assist him in his search.\nFor, in my rough, country way o' thinking, it must be something\nparticularly out o' the common that would tempt Thomas to be amissing.\nIndeed, I needna say _tempt_, for there could be no inclination in the\nway. And our hills,\" he concluded, in a lower tone, \"are not ower chancy\nin other respects, besides the breaking up o' the storm.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" said Mrs. Elliot, wringing her hands, \"I have had the coming o'\nthis about me for days and days. My head was growing dizzy with\nhappiness, but thoughts came stealing upon me like ghosts, and I felt a\nlonely soughing about my heart, without being able to tell the cause;\nbut the cause is come at last! And my dear Thomas--the very pride and\nstaff o' my life--is lost!--lost to me for ever!\"\n\n\"I ken, Mrs. Elliot,\" replied the Northumbrian, \"it is an easy matter to\nsay compose yourself, for them that dinna ken what it is to feel. But,\nat the same time, in our plain, country way o' thinking, we are always\nready to believe the worst. I've often heard my father say, and I've as\noften remarked it myself, that, before anything happens to a body, there\nis _a something_ comes ower them, like a cloud before the face o' the\nsun; a sort o' dumb whispering about the breast from the other world.\nAnd though I trust there is naething o' the kind in your case, yet, as\nyou observe, when I find myself growing dizzy, as it were, with\nhappiness, it makes good a saying o' my mother's, poor body! 'Bairns,\nbairns,' she used to say, 'there is ower muckle singing in your heads\nto-night; we will have a shower before bedtime.' And I never, in my born\ndays, saw it fail.\"\n\nAt any other period, Mr. Bell's dissertation on presentiments would have\nbeen found a fitting text on which to hang all the dreams, wraiths,\nwarnings, and marvellous circumstances, that had been handed down to the\ncompany from the days of their grandfathers; but, in the present\ninstance, they were too much occupied in consultation regarding the\ndifferent routes to be taken in their search.\n\nTwelve horsemen, and some half-dozen pedestrians, were seen hurrying in\ndivers directions from Marchlaw, as the last faint lights of a\nmelancholy day were yielding to the heavy darkness which appeared\npressing in solid masses down the sides of the mountains. The wives and\ndaughters of the party were alone left with the disconsolate mother, who\nalternately pressed her weeping children to her heart, and told them to\nweep not, for their brother would soon return; while the tears stole\ndown her own cheeks, and the infant in her arms wept because its mother\nwept. Her friends strove with each other to inspire hope, and poured\nupon her ear their mingled and loquacious consolation. But one remained\nsilent. The daughter of Adam Bell, who sat by Mrs. Elliot's elbow at\ntable, had shrunk into an obscure corner of the room. Before her face\nshe held a handkerchief wet with tears. Her bosom throbbed convulsively;\nand, as occasionally her broken sighs burst from their prison-house, a\nsignificant whisper passed among the younger part of the company.\n\nMrs. Elliot approached her, and taking her hand tenderly within both of\nhers--\"O hinny! hinny!\" said she, \"yer sighs gae through my heart like a\nknife! An' what can I do to comfort ye? Come, Elizabeth, my bonny love,\nlet us hope for the best. Ye see before ye a sorrowin' mother!--a mother\nthat fondly hoped to see you an'--I canna say it!--an' am ill qualified\nto gie comfort, when my own heart is like a furnace! But, oh! let us try\nand remember the blessed portion, 'Whom the LORD loveth HE chasteneth,'\nan' inwardly pray for strength to say, 'His will be done!'\"\n\nTime stole on towards midnight, and one by one the unsuccessful party\nreturned. As foot after foot approached, every breath was held to\nlisten. \"No, no, no!\" cried the mother again and again, with increasing\nanguish, \"it's no the foot o' my ain bairn;\" while her keen gaze still\nremained riveted upon the door, and was not withdrawn, nor the hope of\ndespair relinquished, till the individual entered, and, with a silent\nand ominous shake of his head, betokened his fruitless efforts. The\nclock had struck twelve; all were returned save the father. The wind\nhowled more wildly; the rain poured upon the windows in ceaseless\ntorrents; and the roaring of the mountain rivers gave a character of\ndeeper ghostliness to their sepulchral silence; for they sat, each wrapt\nin forebodings, listening to the storm; and no sounds were heard, save\nthe groans of the mother, the weeping of her children, and the bitter\nand broken sobs of the bereaved maiden, who leaned her head upon her\nfather's bosom, refusing to be comforted.\n\nAt length the barking of the farm-dog announced footsteps at a distance.\nEvery ear was raised to listen, every eye turned to the door; but,\nbefore the tread was yet audible to the listeners--\"Oh! it is only\nPeter's foot!\" said the miserable mother, and, weeping, rose to meet\nhim.\n\n\"Janet, Janet!\" he exclaimed, as he entered, and threw his arms around\nher neck, \"what's this come upon us at last?\"\n\nHe cast an inquisitive glance around his dwelling, and a convulsive\nshiver passed over his manly frame, as his eye again fell on the vacant\nchair, which no one had ventured to occupy. Hour succeeded hour, but the\ncompany separated not; and low, sorrowful whispers mingled with the\nlamentations of the parents.\n\n\"Neighbours,\" said Adam Bell, \"the morn is a new day, and we will wait\nto see what it may bring forth; but, in the meantime, let us read a\nportion o' the Divine word, an' kneel together in prayer, that, whether\nor not the day-dawn cause light to shine upon this singular bereavement,\nthe Sun o' Righteousness may arise wi' healing on his wings, upon the\nhearts o' this afflicted family, an' upon the hearts o' all present.\"\n\n\"Amen!\" responded Peter, wringing his hands; and his friend, taking down\nthe Ha' Bible, read the chapter wherein it is written--\"It is better to\nbe in the house of mourning than in the house of feasting;\" and again\nthe portion which sayeth--\"It is well for me that I have been afflicted,\nfor before I was afflicted I went astray.\"\n\nThe morning came, but brought no tidings of the lost son. After a solemn\nfarewell, all the visitants, save Adam Bell and his daughter, returned\nevery one to their own house; and the disconsolate father, with his\nservants, again renewed their search among the hills and surrounding\nvillages.\n\nDays, weeks, months, and years rolled on. Time had subdued the anguish\nof the parents into a holy calm; but their lost first-born was not\nforgotten, although no trace of his fate had been discovered. The\ngeneral belief was, that he had perished on the breaking up of the snow;\nand the few in whose remembrance he still lived, merely spoke of his\ndeath as a \"very extraordinary circumstance,\" remarking that \"he was a\nwild, venturesome sort o' lad.\"\n\nChristmas had succeeded Christmas, and Peter Elliot still kept it in\ncommemoration of the birthday of him who was not. For the first few\nyears after the loss of their son, sadness and silence characterized the\nparty who sat down to dinner at Marchlaw, and still at Peter's right\nhand was placed the vacant chair. But, as the younger branches of the\nfamily advanced in years, the remembrance of their brother became less\npoignant. Christmas was, with all around them, a day of rejoicing, and\nthey began to make merry with their friends; while their parents partook\nin their enjoyment, with a smile, half of approval and half of sorrow.\n\nTwelve years had passed away; Christmas had again come. It was the\ncounterpart of its fatal predecessor. The hills had not yet cast off\ntheir summer verdure; the sun, although shorn of its heat, had lost none\nof its brightness or glory, and looked down upon the earth as though\nparticipating in its gladness; and the clear blue sky was tranquil as\nthe sea sleeping beneath the moon. Many visitors had again assembled at\nMarchlaw. The sons of Mr. Elliot, and the young men of the party, were\nassembled upon a level green near the house, amusing themselves with\nthrowing the hammer, and other Border games, while himself and the elder\nguests stood by as spectators, recounting the deeds of their youth.\nJohnson, the sheep-farmer, whom we have already mentioned, now a brawny\nand gigantic fellow of two-and-thirty, bore away in every game the palm\nfrom all competitors. More than once, as Peter beheld his sons defeated,\nhe felt the spirit of youth glowing in his veins, and, \"Oh!\" muttered\nhe, in bitterness, \"had my Thomas been spared to me, he would hae thrown\nhis heart's bluid after the hammer, before he would hae been beat by\ne'er a Johnson in the country!\"\n\nWhile he thus soliloquized, and with difficulty restrained an impulse to\ncompete with the victor himself, a dark, foreign-looking, strong-built\nseaman, unceremoniously approached, and, with his arms folded, cast a\nlook of contempt upon the boasting conqueror. Every eye was turned with\na scrutinizing glance upon the stranger. In height he could not exceed\nfive feet nine, but his whole frame was the model of muscular strength;\nhis features open and manly, but deeply sunburnt and weather-beaten; his\nlong, glossy, black hair, curled into ringlets by the breeze and the\nbillow, fell thickly over his temples and forehead; and whiskers of a\nsimilar hue, more conspicuous for size than elegance, gave a character\nof fierceness to a countenance otherwise possessing a striking impress\nof manly beauty. Without asking permission, he stepped forward, lifted\nthe hammer, and, swinging it around his head, hurled it upwards of five\nyards beyond Johnson's most successful throw. \"Well done!\" shouted the\nastonished spectators. The heart of Peter Elliot warmed within him, and\nhe was hurrying forward to grasp the stranger by the hand, when the\nwords groaned in his throat, \"It was just such a throw as my Thomas\nwould have made!--my own lost Thomas!\" The tears burst into his eyes,\nand, without speaking, he turned back, and hurried towards the house to\nconceal his emotion.\n\nSuccessively, at every game, the stranger had defeated all who ventured\nto oppose him, when a messenger announced that dinner waited their\narrival. Some of the guests were already seated, others entering; and,\nas heretofore, placed beside Mrs. Elliot was Elizabeth Bell, still in\nthe noontide of her beauty; but sorrow had passed over her features,\nlike a veil before the countenance of an angel. Johnson, crest-fallen\nand out of humour at his defeat, seated himself by her side. In early\nlife he had regarded Thomas Elliot as a rival for her affections; and,\nstimulated by the knowledge that Adam Bell would be able to bestow\nseveral thousands upon his daughter for a dowry, he yet prosecuted his\nattentions with unabated assiduity, in despite of the daughter's\naversion and the coldness of her father. Peter had taken his place at\nthe table; and still by his side, unoccupied and sacred, appeared the\nvacant chair, the chair of his first-born, whereon none had sat since\nhis mysterious death or disappearance.\n\n\"Bairns,\" said he, \"did nane o' ye ask the sailor to come up and tak a\nbit o' dinner wi' us?\"\n\n\"We were afraid it might lead to a quarrel with Mr. Johnson,\" whispered\none of the sons.\n\n\"He is come without asking,\" replied the stranger, entering; \"and the\nwind shall blow from a new point if I destroy the mirth or happiness of\nthe company.\"\n\n\"Ye're a stranger, young man,\" said Peter, \"or ye would ken this is no a\nmeeting o' mirth-makers. But, I assure ye, ye are welcome, heartily\nwelcome. Haste ye, lasses,\" he added to the servants; \"some o' ye get a\nchair for the gentleman.\"\n\n\"Gentleman, indeed!\" muttered Johnson between his teeth.\n\n\"Never mind about a chair, my hearties,\" said the seaman; \"this will\ndo!\" And, before Peter could speak to withhold him, he had thrown\nhimself carelessly into the hallowed, the venerated, the\ntwelve-years-unoccupied chair! The spirit of sacrilege uttering\nblasphemies from a pulpit could not have smitten a congregation of pious\nworshippers with deeper horror and consternation, than did this filling\nof the vacant chair the inhabitants of Marchlaw.\n\n\"Excuse me, sir! excuse me, sir!\" said Peter, the words trembling upon\nhis tongue; \"but ye cannot--ye cannot sit there!\"\n\n\"O man! man!\" cried Mrs. Elliot, \"get out o' that! get out o'\nthat!--take my chair!--take ony chair i' the house!--but dinna, dinna\nsit there! It has never been sat in by mortal being since the death o'\nmy dear bairn!--and to see it filled by another is a thing I canna\nendure!\"\n\n\"Sir! sir!\" continued the father, \"ye have done it through ignorance,\nand we excuse ye. But that was my Thomas's seat! Twelve years this very\nday--his birthday--he perished, Heaven kens how! He went out from our\nsight, like the cloud that passes over the hills--never--never to\nreturn. And, O sir, spare a father's feelings! for to see it filled\nwrings the blood from my heart!\"\n\n\"Give me your hand, my worthy soul!\" exclaimed the seaman; \"I\nrevere--nay, hang it! I would die for your feelings! But Tom Elliot was\nmy friend, and I cast anchor in this chair by special commission. I know\nthat a sudden broadside of joy is a bad thing; but, as I don't know how\nto preach a sermon before telling you, all I have to say is--that Tom\nan't dead.\"\n\n\"Not dead!\" said Peter, grasping the hand of the stranger, and speaking\nwith an eagerness that almost choked his utterance: \"O sir! sir! tell me\nhow!--how!--Did ye say, living?--Is my ain Thomas living?\"\n\n\"Not dead, do ye say?\" cried Mrs. Elliot, hurrying towards him and\ngrasping his other hand--\"not dead! And shall I see my bairn again? Oh!\nmay the blessing o' Heaven, and the blessing o' a broken-hearted mother\nbe upon the bearer o' the gracious tidings! But tell me--tell me, how is\nit possible! As ye would expect happiness here or hereafter, dinna,\ndinna deceive me!\"\n\n\"Deceive you!\" returned the stranger, grasping, with impassioned\nearnestness, their hands in his--\"Never!--never! and all I can say\nis--Tom Elliot is alive and hearty.\"\n\n\"No, no!\" said Elizabeth, rising from her seat, \"he does not deceive us;\nthere is that in his countenance which bespeaks a falsehood impossible.\"\nAnd she also endeavoured to move towards him, when Johnson threw his arm\naround her to withhold her.\n\n\"Hands off, you land-lubber!\" exclaimed the seaman, springing towards\nthem, \"or, shiver me! I'll show daylight through your timbers in the\nturning of a hand-spike!\" And, clasping the lovely girl in his arms,\n\"Betty! Betty, my love!\" he cried, \"don't you know your own Tom? Father,\nmother, don't you know me? Have you really forgot your own son? If\ntwelve years have made some change on his face, his heart is sound as\never.\"\n\nHis father, his mother, and his brothers, clung around him, weeping,\nsmiling, and mingling a hundred questions together. He threw his arms\naround the neck of each, and in answer to their inquiries,\nreplied--\"Well! well! there is time enough to answer questions, but not\nto-day--not to-day!\"\n\n\"No, my bairn,\" said his mother, \"we'll ask you no questions--nobody\nshall ask you any! But how--how were ye torn away from us, my love? And,\nO hinny! where--where hae you been?\"\n\n\"It's a long story, mother,\" said he, \"and would take a week to tell it.\nBut, howsoever, to make a long story short, you remember when the\nsmugglers were pursued, and wished to conceal their brandy in our house,\nmy father prevented them; they left muttering revenge--and they have\nbeen revenged. This day twelve years, I went out with the intention of\nmeeting Elizabeth and her father, when I came upon a party of the gang\nconcealed in Hell's Hole. In a moment half a dozen pistols were held to\nmy breast, and, tying my hands to my sides, they dragged me into the\ncavern. Here I had not been long their prisoner, when the snow, rolling\ndown the mountains, almost totally blocked up its mouth. On the second\nnight they cut through the snow, and, hurrying me along with them, I was\nbound to a horse between two, and, before daylight, found myself stowed,\nlike a piece of old junk, in the hold of a smuggling lugger. Within a\nweek I was shipped on board a Dutch man-of-war, and for six years was\nkept dodging about on different stations, till our old yawning hulk\nreceived orders to join the fleet, which was to fight against the\ngallant Duncan at Camperdown. To think of fighting against my own\ncountrymen, my own flesh and blood, was worse than to be cut to pieces\nby a cat-o'-nine tails; and, under cover of the smoke of the first\nbroadside, I sprang upon the gunwale, plunged into the sea, and swam for\nthe English fleet. Never, never shall I forget the moment that my feet\nfirst trode upon the deck of a British frigate! My nerves felt as firm\nas her oak, and my heart, free as the pennant that waved defiance from\nher masthead! I was as active as any one during the battle; and when it\nwas over, and I found myself again among my own countrymen, and all\nspeaking my own language, I fancied--nay, hang it! I almost believed--I\nshould meet my father, my mother, or my dear Bess, on board of the\nBritish frigate. I expected to see you all again in a few weeks at\nfarthest; but, instead of returning to Old England, before I was aware,\nI found it was helm about with us. As to writing, I never had an\nopportunity but once. We were anchored before a French fort; a packet\nwas lying alongside ready to sail; I had half a side written, and was\nscratching my head to think how I should come over writing about you,\nBess, my love, when, as bad luck would have it, our lieutenant comes to\nme, and says he, 'Elliot,' says he,' I know you like a little smart\nservice; come, my lad, take the head oar, while we board some of those\nFrench bumb-boats under the batteries!' I couldn't say no. We pulled\nashore, made a bonfire of one of their craft, and were setting fire to a\nsecond, when a deadly shower of small shot from the garrison scuttled\nour boat, killed our commanding officer with half of the crew, and the\nfew who were left of us were made prisoners. It is of no use bothering\nyou by telling how we escaped from French prison. We did escape; and Tom\nwill once more fill his vacant chair.\"\n\nShould any of our readers wish farther acquaintance with our friends,\nall we can say is, the new year was still young when Adam Bell bestowed\nhis daughter's hand upon the heir of Marchlaw, and Peter beheld the once\nvacant chair again occupied, and a namesake of the third generation\nprattling on his knee!\n\n\n\n\nTHE FAA'S REVENGE.\n\nA TALE OF THE BORDER GIPSIES.\n\n\nBrown October was drawing to a close--the breeze had acquired a degree\nof sharpness too strong to be merely termed bracing--and the fire, as\nthe saying is, was becoming the best flower in the garden--for the\nhardiest and the latest plants had either shed their leaves, or their\nflowers had shrivelled at the breath of approaching winter--when a\nstranger drew his seat towards the parlour fire of the Three-Half-Moons\ninn, in Rothbury. He had sat for the space of half an hour when a party\nentered, who, like himself (as appeared from their conversation), were\nstrangers, or rather visitors of the scenery, curiosities, and\nantiquities in the vicinity. One of them having ordered the waiter to\nbring each of them a glass of brandy and warm water, without appearing\nto notice the presence of the first mentioned stranger, after a few\nremarks on the objects of interest in the neighbourhood, the following\nconversation took place amongst them:--\n\n\"Why,\" said one, \"but even Rothbury here, secluded as it is from the\nworld, and shut out from the daily intercourse of men, is a noted place.\nIt was here that the ancient and famous northern bard and unrivalled\nballad writer, Bernard Rumney, was born, bred, and died. Here, too, was\nborn Dr. Brown, who, like Young and Home, united the characters of\ndivine and dramatist, and was the author of '_Barbarossa_,' '_The Cure\nof Saul_,' and other works, of which posterity and his country are\nproud. The immediate neighbourhood, also, was the birth-place of the\ninspired boy, the heaven-taught mathematician, George Coughran, who\nknew no rival, and who bade fair to eclipse the glory of Newton, but\nwhom death struck down ere he had reached the years of manhood.\"\n\n\"Why, I can't tell,\" said another; \"I don't know much about what you've\nbeen talking of; but I know, for one thing, that Rothbury was a famous\nplace for every sort of games; and, at Fastren's E'en times, the rule\nwas, every male inhabitant above eight years of age to pay a shilling,\nor out to the foot-ball. It was noted for its game-cocks, too--they were\nthe best breed on the Borders.\"\n\n\"May be so,\" said the first speaker; \"but though I should be loath to\nsee the foot-ball, or any other innocent game which keeps up a manly\nspirit, put down, yet I do trust that the brutal practice of\ncock-fighting will be abolished, not only on the Borders, but throughout\nevery country which professes the name of Christian; and I rejoice that\nthe practice is falling into disrepute. But, although my hairs are not\nyet honoured with the silver tints of age, I am old enough to remember,\nthat, when a boy at school on the Scottish side of the Border, at every\nFastren's E'en which you have spoken of, every schoolboy was expected to\nprovide a cock for the battle, or main, and the teacher or his deputy\npresided as umpire. The same practice prevailed on the southern Border.\nIt is a very old, savage amusement, even in this country; and perhaps\nthe preceptors of youth, in former days, considered it _classical_, and\nthat it would instil into their pupils sentiments of emulation; inasmuch\nas the practice is said to have taken rise from Themistocles perceiving\ntwo cocks tearing at and fighting with each other, while marching his\narmy against the Persians, when he called upon his soldiers to observe\nthem, and remarked that they neither fought for territory, defence of\ncountry, nor for glory, but they fought because the one would not yield\nto, or be defeated by the other; and he desired his soldiers to take a\n_moral_ lesson from the barn-door fowls. Cock-fighting thus became among\nthe heathen Greeks a political precept and a religious observance--and\nthe _Christian_ inhabitants of Britain, disregarding the _religious and\npolitical moral_, kept up the practice, adding to it more disgusting\nbarbarity, for _their amusement_.\"\n\n\"Coom,\" said a third, who, from his tongue, appeared to be a thorough\nNorthumbrian, \"we wur talking about Rothbury, but you are goin' to give\nus a regular sarmin on cock-fighting. Let's hae none o' that. You was\nsaying what clever chaps had been born here--but none o' ye mentioned\nJamie Allan, the gipsy and Northumberland piper, who was born here as\nweel as the best o' them. But I hae heard that Rothbury, as weel as\nYetholm and Tweedmouth Moor, was a great resort for the Faa or gipsy\ngangs in former times. Now, I understand that thae folk were a sort o'\nbastard Egyptians; and though I am nae scholar, it strikes me forcibly\nthat the meaning o' the word _gipsies_, is just _Egypts_, or\n_Gypties_--a contraction and corruption o' _Gyptian_!\"\n\n\"Gipsies,\" said he who spoke of Rumney and Brown, and abused the\npractice of cock-fighting, \"still do in some degree, and formerly did in\ngreat numbers, infest this county; and I will tell you a story\nconcerning them.\"\n\n\"Do so,\" said the thorough Northumbrian; \"I like a story when it's weel\nput thegither. The gipsies were queer folk. I've heard my faither tell\nmany a funny thing about them, when he used to whistle 'Felton Loanin,'\nwhich was made by awd piper Allan--Jamie's faither.\" And here the\nspeaker struck up a lively air, which, to the stranger by the fire,\nseemed a sort of parody on the well-known tune of \"Johnny Cope.\"\n\nThe other then proceeded with his tale, thus:--\n\nYou have all heard of the celebrated Johnny Faa, the Lord and Earl of\nLittle Egypt, who penetrated into Scotland in the reign of James IV.,\nand with whom that gallant monarch was glad to conclude a treaty. Johnny\nwas not only the king, but the first of the Faa gang of whom we have\nmention. I am not aware that gipsies get the name of Faas anywhere but\nupon the Borders; and though it is difficult to account for the name\nsatisfactorily, it is said to have had its origin from a family of the\nname of _Fall_ or _Fa'_, who resided here (in Rothbury), and that their\nsuperiority in their cunning and desperate profession, gave the same\ncognomen to all and sundry who followed the same mode of life upon the\nBorders. One thing is certain, that the name _Faa_ not only was given to\nindividuals whose surname might be _Fall_, but to the _Winters_ and\n_Clarkes_--_id genus omne_--gipsy families well known on the Borders.\nSince waste lands, which were their hiding-places and resorts, began to\nbe cultivated, and especially since the sun of knowledge snuffed out the\ntaper of superstition and credulity, most of them are beginning to form\na part of society, to learn trades of industry, and live with men. Those\nwho still prefer their fathers' vagabond mode of life--finding that, in\nthe northern counties, their old trade of fortune-telling is at a\ndiscount, and that thieving has thinned their tribe and is\ndangerous--now follow the more useful and respectable callings of\nmuggers, besom-makers, and tinkers. I do not know whether, in etiquette,\nI ought to give precedence to the besom-maker or tinker; though, as\ncompared with them, I should certainly suppose that the \"muggers\" of the\npresent day belong to the Faa aristocracy; if it be not that they, like\nothers, derive their nobility from descent of blood rather than weight\nof pocket--and that, after all, the mugger with his encampment, his\ncaravans, horses, crystal, and crockery, is but a mere wealthy plebeian\nor _bourgeois_ in the vagrant community.--But to my tale.\n\nOn a dark and tempestuous night in the December of 1628, a Faa gang\nrequested shelter in the out-houses of the laird of Clennel. The laird\nhimself had retired to rest; and his domestics being fewer in number\nthan the Faas, feared to refuse them their request.\n\n\"Ye shall have up-putting for the night, good neighbours,\" said Andrew\nSmith, who was a sort of major-domo in the laird's household, and he\nspoke in a tone of mingled authority and terror. \"But, sir,\" added he,\naddressing the chief of the tribe--\"I will trust to your honour that ye\nwill allow none o' your folk to be making free with the kye, or the\nsheep, or the poultry--that is, that ye will not allow them to mistake\nony o' them for your own, lest it bring me into trouble. For the laird\nhas been in a fearful rage at some o' your people lately; and if\nonything were to be amissing in the morning, or he kenned that ye had\nbeen here, it might be as meikle as my life is worth.\"\n\n\"Tush, man!\" said Willie Faa, the king of the tribe, \"ye dree the death\nye'll never die. Willie Faa and his folk maun live as weel as the laird\no' Clennel. But, there's my thumb, not a four-footed thing, nor the\nfeather o' a bird, shall be touched by me or mine. But I see the light\nis out in the laird's chamber window--he is asleep and high up amang the\nturrets--and wherefore should ye set human bodies in byres and stables\nin a night like this, when your Ha' fire is bleezing bonnily, and there\nis room eneugh around it for us a'? Gie us a seat by the cheek o' your\nhearth, and ye shall be nae loser; and I promise ye that we shall be\noff, bag and baggage, before the skreigh o' day, or the laird kens where\nhis head lies.\"\n\nAndrew would fain have refused this request, but he knew that it\namounted to a command; and, moreover, while he had been speaking with\nthe chief of the tribe, the maid-servants of the household, who had\nfollowed him and the other men-servants to the door, had divers of them\nbeen solicited by the females of the gang to have futurity revealed to\nthem. And whether it indeed be that curiosity is more powerful in woman\nthan in man (as it is generally said to be), I do not profess to\ndetermine; but certain it is, that the laird of Clennel's maid-servants,\nimmediately on the hint being given by the gipsies, felt a very ardent\ndesire to have a page or two from the sybilline leaves read to them--at\nleast that part of them which related to their future husbands, and the\ntime when they should obtain them. Therefore, they backed the petition\nor command of King Willie, and said to Andrew--\n\n\"Really, Mr. Smith, it would be very unchristian-like to put poor\nwandering folk into cauld out-houses on a night like this; and, as\nWillie says, there is room enough in the Ha'.\"\n\n\"That may be a' very true, lasses,\" returned Andrew, \"but only ye think\nwhat a dirdum there would be if the laird were to waken or get wit o't!\"\n\n\"Fearna the laird,\" said Elspeth, the wife of King Willie--\"I will lay a\nspell on him that he canna be roused frae sleep, till I, at sunrise,\nwash my hands in Darden Lough.\"\n\nThe sybil then raised her arms and waved them fantastically in the air,\nuttering, as she waved them, the following uncouth rhymes by way of\nincantation--\n\n    \"Bonny Queen Mab, bonny Queen Mab,\n      Wave ye your wee bits o' poppy wings\n    Ower Clennel's laird, that he may sleep\n      Till I hae washed where Darden springs.\"\n\nThus assured, Andrew yielded to his fears and the wishes of his\nfellow-servants, and ushered the Faas into his master's hall for the\nnight. But scarce had they taken their seats upon the oaken forms around\nthe fire, when--\n\n\"Come,\" said the Faa king, \"the night is cold, pinching cold, Mr. Smith:\nand, while the fire warms without, is there naething in the cellar that\nwill warm within? See to it, Andrew, man--thou art no churl, or they\nface is fause.\"\n\n\"Really, sir,\" replied Andrew--and, in spite of all his efforts to\nappear at ease, his tongue faultered as he spoke--\"I'm not altogether\ncertain what to say upon that subject; for ye observe that our laird is\nreally a very singular man; ye might as weel put your head in the fire\nthere as displease him in the smallest; and though Heaven kens that I\nwould gie to you just as freely as I would tak to mysel, yet ye'll\nobserve that the liquor in the cellars is not mine, but his--and they\nare never sae weel plenished but I believe he would miss a thimblefu'.\nBut there is some excellent cold beef in the pantry, if ye could put up\nwi' the like o' it, and the home-brewed which we servants use.\"\n\n\"Andrew,\" returned the Faa king, proudly--\"castle have I none, flocks\nand herds have I none, neither have I haughs where the wheat, and the\noats, and the barley grow--but, like Ishmael, my great forefather, every\nman's hand is against me, and mine against them--yet, when I am hungry,\nI never lack the flesh-pots o' my native land, where the moorfowl and\nthe venison make brown broo together. Cauld meat agrees nae wi' my\nstomach, and servants' drink was never brewed for the lord o' Little\nEgypt. Ye comprehend me, Andrew?\"\n\n\"Oh, I daresay I do, sir,\" said the chief domestic of the house of\nClennel; \"but only, as I have said, ye will recollect that the drink is\nnot mine to give; and if I venture upon a jug, I hope ye winna think o'\nasking for another.\"\n\n\"We shall try it,\" said the royal vagrant.\n\nAndrew, with trembling and reluctance, proceeded to the cellar, and\nreturned with a large earthen vessel filled with the choicest\nhome-brewed, which he placed upon a table in the midst of them.\n\n      \"Then each took a smack\n       Of the old black jack,\n    While the fire burned in the hall.\"\n\nThe Faa king pronounced the liquor to be palatable, and drank to his\nbetter acquaintance with the cellars of the laird of Clennel; and his\ngang followed his example.\n\nNow, I should remark that Willie Faa, the chief of his tribe, was a man\nof gigantic stature; the colour of his skin was the dingy brown peculiar\nto his race; his arms were of remarkable length, and his limbs a union\nof strength and lightness; his raven hair was mingled with grey; while,\nin his dark eyes, the impetuosity of youth and the cunning of age seemed\nblended together. It is in vain to speak of his dress, for it was\nchanged daily as his circumstances or avocations directed. He was ever\nready to assume all characters, from the courtier down to the mendicant.\nLike his wife, he was skilled in the reading of no book but the book of\nfate. Now, Elspeth was a less agreeable personage to look upon than even\nher husband. The hue of her skin was as dark as his. She was also of his\nage--a woman of full fifty. She was the tallest female in her tribe; but\nher stoutness took away from her stature. Her eyes were small and\npiercing, her nose aquiline, and her upper lip was \"bearded like the\npard.\"\n\nWhile her husband sat at his carousals, and handing the beverage to his\nfollowers and the domestics of the house, Elspeth sat examining the\nlines upon the palms of the hands of the maid-servants--pursuing her\ncalling as a spaewife. And ever as she traced the lines of matrimony,\nthe sybil would pause and exclaim--\n\n\"Ha!--money!--money!--cross my loof again, hinny. There is fortune\nbefore ye! Let me see! A spur!--a sword!--a shield!--a gowden purse!\nHeaven bless ye! They are there!--there, as plain as a pikestaff; they\nare a' in your path. But cross my loof again, hinny, for until siller\nagain cross it, I canna see whether they are to be yours or no.\"\n\nThus did Elspeth go on until her \"loof had been crossed\" by the last\ncoin amongst the domestics of the house of Clennel; and when these were\nexhausted, their trinkets were demanded and given to assist the spell of\nthe prophetess. Good fortune was prognosticated to the most of them, and\nespecially to those who crossed the loof of the reader of futurity most\nfreely; but to others, perils, and sudden deaths, and disappointments in\nlove, and grief in wedlock, were hinted, though to all and each of these\nforebodings, a something like hope--an undefined way of escape--was\npended.\n\nNow, as the voice of Elspeth rose in solemn tones, and as the mystery of\nher manner increased, not only were the maid-servants stricken with awe\nand reverence for the wondrous woman, but the men-servants also began to\ninquire into their fate. And as they extended their hands, and Elspeth\ntraced the lines of the past upon them, ever and anon she spoke strange\nwords, which intimated secret facts; and she spoke also of love-makings\nand likings; and ever, as she spoke, she would raise her head and grin a\nghastly smile, now at the individual whose hand she was examining, and\nagain at a maid-servant whose fortune she had read; while the former\nwould smile and the latter blush, and their fellow domestics exclaim--\n\n\"That's wonderfu'!--that dings a'!--ye are queer folk! hoo in the world\ndo ye ken?\"\n\nEven the curiosity of Mr. Andrew Smith was raised, and his wonder\nexcited; and, after he had quaffed his third cup with the gipsy king,\nhe, too, reverentially approached the bearded princess, extending his\nhand, and begging to know what futurity had in store for him.\n\nShe raised it before her eyes, she rubbed hers over it.\n\n\"It is a dark and a difficult hand,\" muttered she: \"here are ships and\nthe sea, and crossing the sea, and great danger, and a way to avoid\nit--but the gowd!--the gowd that's there! And yet ye may lose it a'!\nCross my loof, sir--yours is an ill hand to spae--for it's set wi'\nfortune, and danger and adventure.\"\n\nAndrew gave her all the money in his possession. Now it was understood\nthat she was to return the money and the trinkets with which her loof\nhad been crossed; and Andrew's curiosity overcoming his fears, he\nventured to intrust his property in her keeping; for, as he thought, it\nwas not every day that people could have everything that was to happen\nunto them revealed. But when she had again looked upon his hand--\n\n\"It winna do,\" said she--\"I canna see ower the danger ye hae to\nencounter, the seas ye hae to cross, and the mountains o' gowd that lie\nbefore ye yet--ye maun cross my loof again.\" And when, with a woful\ncountenance, he stated that he had crossed it with his last coin--\n\n\"Ye hae a chronometer, man,\" said she--\"it tells you the minutes now, it\nmay enable me to show ye those that are to come!\"\n\nAndrew hesitated, and, with doubt and unwillingness, placed the\nchronometer in her hand.\n\nElspeth wore a short cloak of faded crimson; and in a sort of pouch in\nit, every coin, trinket, and other article of value which was put into\nher hands were deposited, in order, as she stated, to forward her mystic\noperations. Now, the chronometer had just disappeared in the general\nreceptacle of offerings to the oracle, when heavy footsteps were heard\ndescending the staircase leading to the hall. Poor Andrew, the ruler of\nthe household, gasped--the blood forsook his cheeks, his knees\ninvoluntarily knocked one against another, and he stammered out--\n\n\"For Heaven's sake, gie me my chronometer!--Oh, gie me it!--we are a'\nruined!\"\n\n\"It canna be returned till the spell's completed,\" rejoined Elspeth, in\na solemn and determined tone--and her countenance betrayed nothing of\nher dupe's uneasiness; while her husband deliberately placed his right\nhand upon a sort of dagger which he wore beneath a large coarse jacket\nthat was loosely flung over his shoulders. The males in his retinue,\nwho were eight in number, followed his example.\n\nIn another moment, the laird, with wrath upon his countenance, burst\ninto the hall.\n\n\"Andrew Smith,\" cried he, sternly, and stamping his foot fiercely on the\nfloor, \"what scene is this I see? Answer me, ye robber, answer me;--ye\nshall hang for it!\"\n\n\"O sir! sir!\" groaned Andrew, \"mercy!--mercy!--O sir!\" and he wrung his\nhands together and shook exceedingly.\n\n\"Ye fause knave!\" continued the laird, grasping him by the neck--and\ndashing him from him, Andrew fell flat upon the floor, and his terror\nhad almost shook him from his feet before--\"Speak, ye fause knave!\"\nresumed the laird; \"what means your carousin' wi' sic a gang? Ye robber,\nspeak!\" And he kicked him with his foot as he lay upon the ground.\n\n\"O sir!--mercy, sir!\" vociferated Andrew, in the stupor and wildness of\nterror; \"I canna speak!--ye hae killed me outright! I am dead--stone\ndead! But it wasna my blame--they'll a' say that, if they speak the\ntruth.\"\n\n\"Out! out, ye thieves!--ye gang o' plunderers, born to the gallows!--out\no' my house!\" added the laird, addressing Willie Faa and his followers.\n\n\"Thieves! ye acred loon!\" exclaimed the Faa king, starting to his feet,\nand drawing himself up to his full height--\"wha does the worm that\nburrows in the lands o' Clennel ca' thieves? Thieves, say ye!--speak\nsuch words to your equals, but no to me. Your forebears came ower wi'\nthe Norman, invaded the nation, and seized upon land--mine invaded it\nalso, and only laid a tax upon the flocks, the cattle, and the\npoultry--and wha ca' ye thieves?--or wi' what grace do ye speak the\nword?\"\n\n\"Away, ye audacious vagrant!\" continued the laird; \"ken ye not that the\nking's authority is in my hands?--and for your former plunderings, if I\nagain find you setting foot upon ground o' mine, on the nearest tree ye\nshall find a gibbet.\"\n\n\"Boast awa--boast awa, man,\" said Willie; \"ye are safe here, for me and\nmine winna harm ye; and it is a fougie cock indeed that darena craw in\nits ain barn-yard. But wait until the day when we may meet upon the wide\nmoor, wi' only twa bits o' steel between us, and see wha shall brag\nthen.\"\n\n\"Away!--instantly away!\" exclaimed Clennel, drawing his sword, and\nwaving it threateningly over the head of the gipsy.\n\n\"Proud, cauld-hearted, and unfeeling mortal,\" said Elspeth, \"will ye\nturn fellow-beings from beneath your roof in a night like this, when the\nfox darena creep frae its hole, and the raven trembles on the tree?\"\n\n\"Out! out! ye witch!\" rejoined the laird.\n\n\"Farewell, Clennel,\" said the Faa king; \"we will leave your roof, and\nseek the shelter o' the hill-side. But ye shall rue! As I speak, man, ye\nshall rue it!\"\n\n\"Rue it!\" screamed Elspeth, rising--and her small dark eyes flashed with\nindignation--\"he shall rue it--the bairn unborn shall rue it--and the\nbann o' Elspeth Faa shall be on Clennel and his kin, until his hearth be\ndesolate and his spirit howl within him like the tempest which this\nnight rages in the heavens!\"\n\nThe servants shrank together into a corner of the hall, to avoid the\nrage of their master; and they shook the more at the threatening words\nof the weird woman, lest she should involve them in his doom; but he\nlaughed with scorn at her words.\n\n\"Proud, pitiless fool,\" resumed Elspeth, more bitterly than before,\n\"repress your scorn. Whom, think ye, ye treat wi' contempt? Ken ye not\nthat the humble adder which ye tread upon can destroy ye--that the very\nwasp can sting ye, and there is poison in its sting? Ye laugh, but for\nyour want of humanity this night, sorrow shall turn your head grey, lang\nbefore age sit down upon your brow.\"\n\n\"Off! off! ye wretches!\" added the laird; \"vent your threats on the\nwind, if it will hear ye, for I regard them as little as it will. But\nkeep out o' my way for the future, as ye would escape the honours o' a\nhempen cravat, and the hereditary exaltation o' your race.\"\n\nWillie Faa made a sign to his followers, and without speaking they\ninstantly rose and departed; but, as he himself reached the door, he\nturned round, and significantly striking the hilt of his dagger,\nexclaimed--\n\n\"Clennel! ye shall rue it!\"\n\nAnd the hoarse voice of Elspeth without, as the sound was borne away on\nthe storm, was heard crying--\"He shall rue it!\" and repeating her\nimprecations.\n\nUntil now, poor Andrew Smith had lain groaning upon the floor more dead\nthan alive, though not exactly \"stone dead\" as he expressed it; and\never, as he heard his master's angry voice, he groaned the more, until\nin his agony he doubted his existence. When, therefore, on the departure\nof the Faas, the laird dragged him to his feet, and feeling some pity\nfor his terror, spoke to him more mildly, Andrew gazed vacantly around\nhim, his teeth chattering together, and he first placed his hands upon\nhis sides, to feel whether he was still indeed the identical flesh,\nblood, and bones of Andrew Smith, or his disembodied spirit; and being\nassured that he was still a man, he put down his hand to feel for his\nchronometer, and again he groaned bitterly--and although he now knew he\nwas not dead, he almost wished he were so. The other servants thought\nalso of their money and their trinkets, which, as well as poor Andrew's\nchronometer, Elspeth, in the hurry in which she was rudely driven from\nthe house, had, by a slip of memory, neglected to return to their lawful\nowners.\n\nIt is unnecessary to dwell upon the laird's anger at his domestics, or\nfarther to describe Andrew's agitation; but I may say that the laird was\nnot wroth against the Faa gang without reason. They had committed\nravages on his flocks--they had carried off the choicest of his\noxen--they destroyed his deer--they plundered him of his poultry--and\nthey even made free with the grain that he reared, and which he could\nspare least of all. But Willie Faa considered every landed proprietor as\nhis enemy, and thought it his duty to quarter on them. Moreover, it was\nhis boisterous laugh, as he pushed round the tankard, which aroused the\nlaird from his slumbers, and broke Elspeth's spell. And the destruction\nof the charm, by the appearance of their master, before she had washed\nher hands in Darden Lough, caused those who had parted with their money\nand trinkets to grieve for them the more, and to doubt the promises of\nthe prophetess, or to\n\n             \"Take all for gospel that the spaefolk say.\"\n\nMany weeks, however, had not passed until the laird of Clennel found\nthat Elspeth the gipsy's threat, that he should \"_rue it_,\" meant more\nthan idle words. His cattle sickened and died in their stalls, or the\nchoicest of them disappeared; his favourite horses were found maimed in\nthe mornings, wounded and bleeding in the fields; and, notwithstanding\nthe vigilance of his shepherds, the depredations on his flocks augmented\ntenfold. He doubted not but that Willie Faa and his tribe were the\nauthors of all the evils which were besetting him: but he knew also\ntheir power and their matchless craft, which rendered it almost\nimpossible either to detect or punish them. He had a favourite steed,\nwhich had borne him in boyhood, and in battle when he served in foreign\nwars, and one morning when he went into his park, he found it lying\nbleeding upon the ground. Grief and indignation strove together in\narousing revenge within his bosom. He ordered his sluthhound to be\nbrought, and his dependants to be summoned together, and to bring arms\nwith them. He had previously observed foot-prints on the ground, and he\nexclaimed--\n\n\"Now the fiend take the Faas, they shall find whose turn it is to rue\nbefore the sun gae down.\"\n\nThe gong was pealed on the turrets of Clennel Hall, and the kempers with\ntheir poles bounded in every direction, with the fleetness of mountain\nstags, to summon all capable of bearing arms to the presence of the\nlaird. The mandate was readily obeyed; and within two hours thirty armed\nmen appeared in the park. The sluthhound was led to the footprint; and\nafter following it for many a weary mile over moss, moor, and mountain,\nit stood and howled, and lashed its lips with its tongue, and again ran\nas though its prey were at hand, as it approached what might be called a\ngap in the wilderness between Keyheugh and Clovencrag.\n\nNow, in the space between these desolate crags stood some score of\npeels, or rather half hovels, half encampments--and this primitive city\nin the wilderness was the capital of the Faa king's people.\n\n\"Now for vengeance!\" exclaimed Clennel; and his desire of revenge was\nexcited the more from perceiving several of the choicest of his cattle,\nwhich had disappeared, grazing before the doors or holes of the gipsy\nvillage.\n\n\"Bring whins and heather,\" he continued--\"pile them around it, and burn\nthe den of thieves to the ground.\"\n\nHis order was speedily obeyed, and when he commanded the trumpet to be\nsounded, that the inmates might defend themselves if they dared, only\ntwo or three men and women of extreme age, and some half-dozen children,\ncrawled upon their hands and knees from the huts--for it was impossible\nto stand upright in them.\n\nThe aged men and women howled when they beheld the work of destruction\nthat was in preparation, and the children screamed when they heard them\nhowl. But the laird of Clennel had been injured, and he turned a deaf\near to their misery. A light was struck, and a dozen torches applied at\nonce. The whins crackled, the heather blazed, and the flames overtopped\nthe hovels which they surrounded, and which within an hour became a heap\nof smouldering ashes.\n\nClennel and his dependants returned home, driving the cattle which had\nbeen stolen from him before them, and rejoicing in what they had done.\nOn the following day, Willie Faa and a part of his tribe returned to the\nplace of rendezvous--their city and home in the mountains--and they\nfound it a heap of smoking ruins, and the old men and the old women of\nthe tribe--their fathers and their mothers--sitting wailing upon the\nruins, and warming over them their shivering limbs, while the children\nwept around them for food.\n\n\"Whose work is this?\" inquired Willie, while anxiety and anger flashed\nin his eyes.\n\n\"The Laird o' Clennel!--the Laird o' Clennel!\" answered every voice at\nthe same instant.\n\n\"By this I swear!\" exclaimed the king of the Faas, drawing his dagger\nfrom beneath his coat, \"from this night henceforth he is laird nor man\nnae langer.\" And he turned hastily from the ruins, as if to put his\nthreat in execution.\n\n\"Stay, ye madcap!\" cried Elspeth, following him, \"would ye fling away\nrevenge for half a minute's satisfaction?\"\n\n\"No, wife,\" cried he, \"nae mair than I would sacrifice living a free and\na fu' life for half an hour's hangin'.\"\n\n\"Stop, then,\" returned she, \"and let our vengeance fa' upon him, so that\nit may wring his life away, drap by drap, until his heart be dry; and\ngrief, shame, and sorrow burn him up, as he has here burned house and\nhome o' Elspeth Faa and her kindred.\"\n\n\"What mean ye, woman?\" said Willie, hastily; \"if I thought ye would come\nbetween me and my revenge, I would drive this bit steel through you wi'\nas goodwill as I shall drive it through him.\"\n\n\"And ye shall be welcome,\" said Elspeth. She drew him aside, and\nwhispered a few minutes in his ear. He listened attentively. At times he\nseemed to start, and at length, sheathing his dagger and grasping her\nhand, he exclaimed--\"Excellent, Elspeth!--ye have it!--ye have it!\"\n\nAt this period, the laird of Clennel was about thirty years of age, and\ntwo years before he had been married to Eleanor de Vere, a lady alike\ndistinguished for her beauty and accomplishments. They had an infant\nson, who was the delight of his mother, and his father's pride. Now, for\ntwo years after the conflagration of their little town, Clennel heard\nnothing of his old enemies the Faas, neither did they molest him, nor\nhad they been seen in the neighbourhood, and he rejoiced in having\ncleared his estate of such dangerous visitors. But the Faa king,\nlistening to the advice of his wife, only \"nursed his wrath to keep it\nwarm,\" and retired from the neighbourhood, that he might accomplish, in\nits proper season, his design of vengeance more effectually, and with\ngreater cruelty.\n\nThe infant heir of the house of Clennel had been named Henry, and he was\nabout completing his third year--an age at which children are, perhaps,\nmost interesting, and when their fondling and their prattling sink\ndeepest into a parent's heart--for all is then beheld on childhood's\nsunny side, and all is innocence and love. Now, it was in a lovely day\nin April, when every bird had begun its annual song, and flowers were\nbursting into beauty, buds into leaves, and the earth resuming its green\nmantle, when Lady Clennel and her infant son, who then, as I have said,\nwas about three years of age, went forth to enjoy the loveliness and the\nluxuries of nature, in the woods which surrounded their mansion, and\nAndrew Smith accompanied them as their guide and protector. They had\nproceeded somewhat more than a mile from the house, and the child, at\nintervals breaking away from them, sometimes ran before his mother, and\nat others sauntered behind her, pulling the wild flowers that strewed\ntheir path, when a man, springing from a dark thicket, seized the child\nin his arms, and again darted into the wood. Lady Clennel screamed\naloud, and rushed after him. Andrew, who was coming dreaming behind, got\nbut a glance of the ruffian stranger--but that glance was enough to\nreveal to him the tall, terrible figure of Willie Faa, the Gipsy king.\n\nThere are moments when, and circumstances under which even cowards\nbecome courageous, and this was one of those moments and circumstances\nwhich suddenly inspired Andrew (who was naturally no hero) with courage.\nHe, indeed, loved the child as though he had been his own; and following\nthe example of Lady Clennel, he drew his sword and rushed into the wood.\nHe possessed considerable speed of foot, and he soon passed the wretched\nmother, and came in sight of the pursued. The unhappy lady, who ran\npanting and screaming as she rushed along, unable to keep pace with\nthem, lost all trace of where the robber of her child had fled, and her\ncries of agony and bereavement rang through the woods.\n\nAndrew, however, though he did not gain ground upon the gipsy, still\nkept within sight of him, and shouted to him as he ran, saying that all\nthe dependants of Clennel would soon be on horseback at his heels, and\ntrusting that every moment he would drop the child upon the ground.\nStill Faa flew forward, bearing the boy in his arm, and disregarding the\ncries and threats of his pursuer. He knew that Andrew's was not what\ncould be called a heart of steel, but he was aware that he had a\npowerful arm, and could use a sword as well as a better man; and he knew\nalso that cowards will fight as desperately, when their life is at\nstake, as the brave.\n\nThe desperate chase continued for four hours, and till after the sun had\nset, and the gloaming was falling thick on the hills. Andrew, being\nyounger and unencumbered, had at length gained ground upon the gipsy,\nand was within ten yards of him when he reached the Coquet side, about a\nmile below this town, at the hideous Thrumb, where the deep river, for\nmany yards, rushes through a mere chasm in the rock. The Faa, with the\nchild beneath his arm, leaped across the fearful gulf, and the dark\nflood gushed between him and his pursuer. He turned round, and, with a\nhorrid laugh, looked towards Andrew and unsheathed his dagger. But even\nat this moment the unwonted courage of the chief servant of Clennel did\nnot fail him, and as he rushed up and down upon one side of the gulf,\nthat he might spring across and avoid the dagger of the gipsy, the other\nran in like manner on the other side; and when Andrew stood as if ready\nto leap, the Faa king, pointing with his dagger to the dark flood that\nrolled between them, cried--\n\n\"See, fool! eternity divides us!\"\n\n\"And for that bairn's sake, ye wretch, I'll brave it!\" exclaimed Andrew,\nwhile his teeth gnashed together; and he stepped back, in order that he\nmight spring across with the greater force and safety.\n\n\"Hold man!\" cried the Faa; \"attempt to cross to me, and I will plunge\nthis bonny heir o' Clennel into the flood below.\"\n\n\"Oh, gracious! gracious!\" cried Andrew, and his resolution and courage\nforsook him; \"ye monster!--ye barbarian!--oh, what shall I do now!\"\n\n\"Go back whence you came,\" said the gipsy, \"or follow me another step\nand the child dies.\"\n\n\"Oh, ye butcher!--ye murderer!\" continued the other--and he tore his\nhair in agony--\"hae ye nae mercy?\"\n\n\"Sic mercy as your maister had,\" returned the Faa, \"when he burned our\ndwellings about the ears o' the aged and infirm, and o' my helpless\nbairns! Ye shall find in me the mercy o' the fasting wolf, o' the tiger\nwhen it laps blood!\"\n\nAndrew perceived that to rescue the child was now impossible, and with a\nheavy heart he returned to his master's house, in which there was no\nsound save that of lamentation.\n\nFor many weeks, yea months, the laird of Clennel, his friends and his\nservants, sought anxiously throughout every part of the country to\nobtain tidings of his child, but their search was vain. It was long ere\nhis lady was expected to recover the shock, and the affliction sat heavy\non his soul, while in his misery he vowed revenge upon all of the gipsy\nrace. But neither Willie Faa nor any of his tribe were again seen upon\nhis estates, or heard of in their neighbourhood.\n\nFour years were passed from the time that their son was stolen from\nthem, and an infant daughter smiled upon the knee of Lady Clennel; and\noft as it smiled in her face, and stretched its little hands towards\nher, she would burst into tears, as the smile and the infantine fondness\nof her little daughter reminded her of her lost Henry. They had had\nother children, but they had died while but a few weeks old.\n\nFor two years there had been a maiden in the household named Susan, and\nto her care, when the child was not in her own arms, Lady Clennel\nintrusted her infant daughter; for every one loved Susan, because of her\naffectionate nature and docile manners--she was, moreover, an orphan,\nand they pitied while they loved her. But one evening, when Lady Clennel\ndesired that her daughter might be brought her in order that she might\npresent her to a company who had come to visit them (an excusable,\nthough not always a pleasant vanity in mothers), neither Susan nor the\nchild were to be found. Wild fears seized the bosom of the already\nbereaved mother, and her husband felt his heart throb within him. They\nsought the woods, the hills, the cottages around; they wandered by the\nsides of the rivers and the mountain burns, but no one had seen, no\ntrace could be discovered of either the girl or the child.\n\nI will not, because I cannot, describe the overwhelming misery of the\nafflicted parents. Lady Clennel spent her days in tears and her nights\nin dreams of her children, and her husband sank into a settled\nmelancholy, while his hatred of the Faa race became more implacable, and\nhe burst into frequent exclamations of vengeance against them.\n\nMore than fifteen years had passed, and though the poignancy of their\ngrief had abated, yet their sadness was not removed, for they had been\nable to hear nothing that could throw light upon the fate of their\nchildren. About this period, sheep were again missed from the flocks,\nand, in one night, the hen-roosts were emptied. There needed no other\nproof that a Faa gang was again in the neighbourhood. Now,\nNorthumberland at that period was still thickly covered with wood, and\nabounded with places where thieves might conceal themselves in security.\nPartly from a desire of vengeance, and partly from the hope of being\nable to extort from some of the tribe information respecting his\nchildren, Clennel armed his servants, and taking his hounds with him,\nset out in quest of the plunderers.\n\nFor two days their search was unsuccessful, but on the third the dogs\nraised their savage cry, and rushed into a thicket in a deep glen\namongst the mountains. Clennel and his followers hurried forward, and in\na few minutes perceived the fires of the Faa encampment. The hounds had\nalready alarmed the vagrant colony, they had sprung upon many of them\nand torn their flesh with their tusks; but the Faas defended themselves\nagainst them with their poniards, and, before Clennel's approach, more\nthan half his hounds lay dead upon the ground, and his enemies fled.\nYet there was one poor girl amongst them, who had been attacked by a\nfierce hound, and whom no one attempted to rescue, as she strove to\ndefend herself against it with her bare hands. Her screams for\nassistance rose louder and more loud; and as Clennel and his followers\ndrew near, and her companions fled, they turned round, and, with a\nfiendish laugh, cried--\n\n\"Rue it now!\"\n\nMaddened more keenly by the words, he was following on in pursuit,\nwithout rescuing the screaming girl from the teeth of the hound, or\nseeming to perceive her, when a woman, suddenly turning round from\namongst the flying gypsies, exclaimed--\n\n\"For your sake!--for Heaven's sake! Laird Clennel! save my bairn!\"\n\nHe turned hastily aside, and, seizing the hound by the throat, tore it\nfrom the lacerated girl, who sank, bleeding, terrified, and exhausted,\nupon the ground. Her features were beautiful, and her yellow hair\ncontrasted ill with the tawny hue of her countenance and the snowy\nwhiteness of her bosom, which in the struggle had been revealed. The\nelder gipsy woman approached. She knelt by the side of the wounded girl.\n\n\"O my bairn!\" she exclaimed, \"what has this day brought upon me!--they\nhave murdered you! This is rueing, indeed; and I rue too!\"\n\n\"Susan!\" exclaimed Clennel, as he listened to her words, and his eyes\nhad been for several seconds fixed upon her countenance.\n\n\"Yes!--Susan!--guilty Susan!\" cried the gipsy.\n\n\"Wretch!\" he exclaimed, \"my child!--where is my child?--is\n_this_\"----and he gazed on the poor girl, his voice failed him, and he\nburst into tears.\n\n\"Yes!--yes!\" replied she bitterly, \"it is her--there lies your\ndaughter--look upon her face.\"\n\nHe needed, indeed, but to look upon her countenance--disfigured as it\nwas, and dyed with weeds to give it a sallow hue--to behold in it every\nlineament of her mother's, lovely as when they first met his eye and\nentered his heart. He flung himself on the ground by her side, he raised\nher head, he kissed her cheek, he exclaimed, \"My child!--my child!--my\nlost one! I have destroyed thee!\"\n\nHe bound up her lacerated arms, and applied a flask of wine, which he\ncarried with him, to her lips, and he supported her on his knee, and\nagain kissing her cheek, sobbed, \"My child!--my own!\"\n\nAndrew Smith also bent over her and said, \"Oh, it is her! there isna the\nsmallest doubt o' that. I could swear to her among a thousand. She's her\nmother's very picture.\" And, turning to Susan, he added, \"O Susan,\nwoman, but ye hae been a terrible hypocrite!\"\n\nClennel having placed his daughter on horseback before him, supporting\nher with his arm, Susan was set between two of his followers, and\nconducted to the Hall.\n\nBefore the tidings were made known to Lady Clennel, the wounds of her\ndaughter were carefully dressed, the dye that changed the colour of her\ncountenance was removed, and her gipsy garb was exchanged for more\nseemly apparel.\n\nClennel anxiously entered the apartment of his lady, to reveal to her\nthe tale of joy; but when he entered, he wist not how to introduce it.\nHe knew that excess of sudden joy was not less dangerous than excess of\ngrief, and his countenance was troubled, though its expression was less\nsad than it had been for many years.\n\n\"Eleanor,\" he at length began, \"cheer up.\"\n\n\"Why, I am not sadder than usual, dear,\" replied she, in her wonted\ngentle manner; \"and to be more cheerful would ill become one who has\nendured my sorrows.\"\n\n\"True, true,\" said he, \"but our affliction may not be so severe as we\nhave thought--there may be hope--there may be joy for us yet.\"\n\n\"What mean ye, husband?\" inquired she, eagerly; \"have ye heard\naught--aught of my children?--you have!--you have!--your countenance\nspeaks it.\"\n\n\"Yes, dear Eleanor,\" returned he, \"I have heard of our daughter.\"\n\n\"And she lives?--she lives?--tell me that she lives!\"\n\n\"Yes, she lives.\"\n\n\"And I shall see her--I shall embrace my child again?\"\n\n\"Yes, love, yes,\" replied he, and burst into tears.\n\n\"When--oh, when?\" she exclaimed, \"can you take me to her now?\"\n\n\"Be calm, my sweet one. You shall see our child--our long-lost child.\nYou shall see her now--she is here.\"\n\n\"Here!--my child!\" she exclaimed, and sank back upon her seat.\n\nWords would fail to paint the tender interview--the mother's joy--the\ndaughter's wonder--the long, the passionate embrace--the tears of\nall--the looks--the words--the moments of unutterable feeling.\n\nI shall next notice the confession of Susan. Clennel promised her\nforgiveness if she would confess the whole truth; and he doubted not,\nthat from her he would also obtain tidings of his son, and learn where\nhe might find him, if he yet lived. I shall give her story in her own\nwords.\n\n\"When I came amongst you,\" she began, \"I said that I was an orphan, and\nI told ye truly, so far as I knew myself. I have been reared amongst the\npeople ye call gipsies from infancy. They fed me before I could provide\nfor myself. I have wandered with them through many lands. They taught me\nmany things; and, while young, sent me as a servant into families, that\nI might gather information to assist them in upholding their mysteries\nof fortune-telling, I dared not to disobey them--they kept me as their\nslave--and I knew that they would destroy my life for an act of\ndisobedience. I was in London when ye cruelly burned down the bit town\nbetween the Keyheugh and Clovencrag. That night would have been your\nlast, but Elspeth Faa vowed more cruel vengeance than death on you and\nyours. After our king had carried away your son, I was ordered from\nLondon to assist in the plot o' revenge. I at length succeeded in\ngetting into your family, and the rest ye know. When ye were a' busy wi'\nyour company, I slipped into the woods wi' the bairn in my arms, where\nothers were ready to meet us; and long before ye missed us, we were\nmiles across the hills, and frae that day to this your daughter has\npassed as mine.\"\n\n\"But tell me all, woman,\" cried Clennel, \"as you hope for either pardon\nor protection--where is my son, my little Harry? Does he live?--where\nshall I find him?\"\n\n\"As I live,\" replied Susan, \"I cannot tell. There are but two know\nconcerning him--and that is the king and his wife Elspeth; and there is\nbut one way of discovering anything respecting him, which is by crossing\nElspeth's loof, that she may betray her husband: and she would do it for\nrevenge's sake, for an ill husband has he been to her, and in her old\ndays he has discarded her for another.\"\n\n\"And where may she be found?\" inquired Clennel, earnestly.\n\n\"That,\" added Susan, \"is a question I cannot answer. She was with the\npeople in the glen to-day, and was first to raise the laugh when your\ndog fastened its teeth in the flesh of your ain bairn. But she may be\nfar to seek and ill to find now--for she is wi' those that travel fast\nand far, and that will not see her hindmost.\"\n\nDeep was the disappointment of the laird when he found he could obtain\nno tidings of his son. But, at the intercession of his daughter (whose\nuntutored mind her fond mother had begun to instruct), Susan was freely\npardoned, promised protection from her tribe, and again admitted as one\nof the household.\n\nI might describe the anxious care of the fond mother, as, day by day,\nshe sat by her new-found and lovely daughter's side, teaching her, and\ntelling her of a hundred things of which she had never heard before,\nwhile her father sat gazing and listening near them, rejoicing over\nboth.\n\nBut the ray of sunshine which had penetrated the house of Clennel was\nnot destined to be of long duration. At that period a fearful cloud\noverhung the whole land, and the fury of civil war seemed about to burst\nforth.\n\nThe threatening storm did explode; a bigoted king overstepped his\nprerogative, set at nought the rights and the liberties of the subject,\nand an indignant people stained their hands with blood. A political\nconvulsion shook the empire to its centre. Families and individuals\nbecame involved in the general catastrophe; and the house of Clennel did\nnot escape. In common with the majority of the English gentry of that\nperiod, Clennel was a stanch loyalist, and if not exactly a lover of the\nking, or an ardent admirer of his acts, yet one who would fight for the\ncrown though it should (as it was expressed about the time) \"hang by a\nbush.\" When, therefore, the parliament declared war against the king,\nand the name of Cromwell spread awe throughout the country, and when\nsome said that a prophet and deliverer had risen amongst them, and\nothers an ambitious hypocrite and a tyrant, Clennel armed a body of his\ndependants, and hastened to the assistance of his sovereign, leaving his\nwife and his newly-found daughter with the promise of a speedy return.\n\nIt is unnecessary to describe all that he did or encountered during the\ncivil wars. He had been a zealous partizan of the first Charles, and he\nfought for the fortunes of his son to the last. He was present at the\nbattle of Worcester, which Cromwell calls his \"crowning mercy,\" in the\nSeptember of 1651, where the already dispirited royalists were finally\nrouted; and he fought by the side of the king until the streets were\nheaped with dead; and when Charles fled, he, with others, accompanied\nhim to the borders of Staffordshire.\n\nHaving bid the young prince an affectionate farewell, Clennel turned\nback, with the intention of proceeding on his journey, on the following\nday, to Northumberland, though he was aware, that, from the part which\nhe had taken in the royal cause, even his person was in danger. Yet the\ndesire again to behold his wife and daughter overcame his fears, and the\nthought of meeting them in some degree consoled him for the fate of his\nprince, and the result of the struggle in which he had been engaged.\n\nBut he had not proceeded far when he was met by two men dressed as\nsoldiers of the Parliamentary army--the one a veteran with grey hairs,\nand the other a youth. The shades of night had set in; but the latter he\ninstantly recognized as a young soldier whom he had that day wounded in\nthe streets of Worcester.\n\n\"Stand!\" said the old man, as they met him; and the younger drew his\nsword.\n\n\"If I stand!\" exclaimed Clennel, \"it shall not be when an old man and a\nboy command me.\" And, following their example, he unsheathed his sword.\n\n\"Boy!\" exclaimed the youth; \"whom call ye boy?--think ye, because ye\nwounded me this morn, that fortune shall aye sit on your arm?--yield or\ntry.\"\n\nThey made several thrusts at each other, and the old man, as an\nindifferent spectator, stood looking on. But the youth, by a dexterous\nblow, shivered the sword in Clennel's hand, and left him at his mercy.\n\n\"Now yield ye,\" he exclaimed; \"the chance is mine now--in the morning it\nwas thine.\"\n\n\"Ye seem a fair foe,\" replied Clennel, \"and loath am I to yield, but\nthat I am weaponless.\"\n\n\"Despatch him at once!\" growled the old man. \"If he spilled your blood\nin the morning, there can be no harm in spilling his the night--and\nespecially after giein' him a fair chance.\"\n\n\"Father,\" returned the youth, \"would ye have me to kill a man in cold\nblood?\"\n\n\"Let him submit to be bound then, hands and eyes, or I will,\" cried the\nsenior.\n\nThe younger obeyed, and Clennel, finding himself disarmed, submitted to\nhis fate; and his hands were bound, and his eyes tied up, so that he\nknew not where they led him.\n\nAfter wandering many miles, and having lain upon what appeared the cold\nearth for a lodging, he was aroused from a comfortless and troubled\nsleep, by a person tearing the bandage from his eyes, and ordering him\nto prepare for his trial. He started to his feet. He looked around, and\nbeheld that he stood in the midst of a gipsy encampment. He was not a\nman given to fear, but a sickness came over his heart when he thought of\nhis wife and daughter, and that, knowing the character of the people in\nwhose power he was, he should never behold them again.\n\nThe males of the Faa tribe began to assemble in a sort of half circle in\nthe area of the encampment, and in the midst of them, towering over the\nheads of all, he immediately distinguished the tall figure of Willie\nFaa, in whom he also discovered the grey-haired Parliamentary soldier of\nthe previous night. But the youth with whom he had twice contended and\nonce wounded, and by whom he had been made prisoner, he was unable to\nsingle out amongst them.\n\nHe was rudely dragged before them, and Willie Faa cried--\"Ken ye the\nculprit?\"\n\n\"Clennel o' Northumberland!--our enemy!\" exclaimed twenty voices.\n\n\"Yes,\" continued Willie, \"Clennel our enemy--the burner o' our humble\nhabitations--that left the auld, the sick, the infirm, and the helpless,\nand the infants o' our kindred, to perish in the flaming ruins. Had we\nburned his house, the punishment would have been death; and shall we do\nless to him than he would do to us?\"\n\n\"No! no!\" they exclaimed with one voice.\n\n\"But,\" added Willie, \"though he would have disgraced us wi' a gallows,\nas he has been a soldier, I propose that he hae the honour o' a\nsoldier's death, and that Harry Faa be appointed to shoot him.\"\n\n\"All! all! all!\" was the cry.\n\n\"He shall die with the setting sun,\" said Willie, and again they cried,\n\"Agreed!\"\n\nSuch was the form of trial which Clennel underwent, when he was again\nrudely dragged away, and placed in a tent round which four strong Faas\nkept guard. He had not been alone an hour, when his judge, the Faa king,\nentered, and addressed him--\n\n\"Now, Laird Clennel, say ye that I haena lived to see day about wi' ye?\nWhen ye turned me frae beneath your roof, when the drift was fierce and\nthe wind howled in the moors, was it not tauld to ye that _ye would rue\nit_!--but ye mocked the admonition and the threat, and, after that,\ncruelly burned us out o' house and ha'. When I came hame, I saw my auld\nmother, that was within three years o' a hunder, couring ower the\nreeking ruins, without a wa' to shelter her, and crooning curses on the\ndoer o' the black deed. There were my youngest bairns, too, crouching by\ntheir granny's side, starving wi' hunger as weel as wi' cauld, for ye\nhad burned a', and haudin' their bits o' hands before the burnin' ruins\no' the house that they were born in, to warm them! That night I vowed\nvengeance on you; and even on that night I would have executed it, but I\nwas prevented; and glad am I now that I was prevented, for my vengeance\nhas been complete--or a' but complete. Wi' my ain hand I snatched your\nson and heir from his mother's side, and a terrible chase I had for it;\nbut revenge lent me baith strength and speed. And when ye had anither\nbairn that was like to live, I forced a lassie, that some o' our folk\nhad stolen when an infant, to bring it to us. Ye have got your daughter\nback again, but no before she has cost ye mony a sad heart and mony a\nsaut tear; and that was some revenge. But the substance o' my\nsatisfaction and revenge lies in what I hae to tell ye. Ye die this\nnight as the sun gaes down; and, hearken to me now--the young soldier\nwhom ye wounded on the streets o' Worcester, and who last night made you\nprisoner, was your son--your heir--your lost son! Ha! ha!--Clennel, am I\nrevenged?\"\n\n\"My son!\" screamed the prisoner--\"monster, what is it that ye say?\nStrike me dead, now I am in your power--but torment me not!\"\n\n\"Ha! ha! ha!\" again laughed the grey-haired savage--\"man, ye are about\nto die, and ye know not ye are born. Ye have not heard half I have to\ntell. I heard that ye had joined the standard o' King Charles. I, a king\nin my ain right, care for neither your king nor parliament; but I\nresolved to wear, for a time, the cloth o' old Noll, and to make your\nson do the same, that I might hae an opportunity o' meeting you as an\nenemy, and seeing _him_ strike you to the heart. That satisfaction I had\nnot; but I had its equivalent. Yesterday, I saw you shed his blood on\nthe streets o' Worcester, and in the evening he gave you a prisoner into\nmy hands that desired you.\"\n\n\"Grey-haired monster!\" exclaimed Clennel. \"Have ye no feeling--no heart?\nSpeak ye to torment me, or tell me truly, have I seen my son?\"\n\n\"Patience, man!\" said the Faa, with a smile of sardonic triumph--\"my\nstory is but half finished. It was the blood o' your son ye shed\nyesterday at Worcester--it was your son who disarmed ye, and gave ye\ninto my power; and, best o' a'!--now, hear me! hear me! lose not a\nword!--it is the hand o' your son that this night, at sunset, shall send\nyou to eternity! Now, tell me, Clennel, am I no revenged? Do ye no rue\nit?\"\n\n\"Wretch! wretch!\" cried the miserable parent, \"in mercy strike me dead.\nIf I have raised my sword against my son, let that suffice ye!--but\nspare, oh, spare my child from being an involuntary parricide!\"\n\n\"Hush, fool!\" said the Faa; \"I have waited for this consummation o' my\nrevenge for twenty years, and think ye that I will be deprived o' it now\nby a few whining words? Remember, sunset!\" he added, and left the tent.\n\nEvening came, and the disk of the sun began to disappear behind the\nwestern hills. Men and women, the old and the young, amongst the Faas,\ncame out from their encampment to behold the death of their enemy.\nClennel was brought forth between two, his hands fastened to his sides,\nand a bandage round his mouth, to prevent him making himself known to\nhis executioner. A rope was also brought round his body, and he was tied\nto the trunk of an old ash tree. The women of the tribe began a sort of\nyell or coronach; and their king, stepping forward, and smiling savagely\nin the face of his victim, cried aloud--\n\n\"Harry Faa! stand forth and perform the duty your tribe have imposed on\nyou.\"\n\nA young man, reluctantly, and with a slow and trembling step, issued\nfrom one of the tents. He carried a musket in his hand, and placed\nhimself in front of the prisoner, at about twenty yards from him.\n\n\"Make ready!\" cried Willie Faa, in a voice like thunder. And the youth,\nthough his hands shook, levelled the musket at his victim.\n\nBut, at that moment, one who, to appearance, seemed a maniac, sprang\nfrom a clump of whins behind the ash tree where the prisoner was bound,\nand, throwing herself before him, she cried--\"Hold!--would you murder\nyour own father? Harry Clennel!--would you murder your father? Mind ye\nnot when ye was stolen frae your mother's side, as ye gathered wild\nflowers in the wood?\"\n\nIt was Elspeth Faa.\n\nThe musket dropped from the hands of the intended executioner--a\nthousand recollections, that he had often fancied dreams, rushed across\nhis memory. He again seized the musket, he rushed forward to his father,\nbut, ere he reached, Elspeth had cut the cords that bound the laird, and\nplaced a dagger in his hand for his defence, and, with extended arms, he\nflew to meet the youth, crying--\"My son!--my son!\"\n\nThe old Faa king shook with rage and disappointment, and his first\nimpulse was to poniard his wife--but he feared to do so; for although he\nhad injured her, and had not seen her for years, her influence was\ngreater with the tribe than his.\n\n\"Now, Willie,\" cried she, addressing him, \"wha rues it now? Fareweel for\nance and a'--and the bairn I brought up will find a shelter for my auld\nhead.\"\n\nIt were vain to tell how Clennel and his son wept on each other's neck,\nand how they exchanged forgiveness. But such was the influence of\nElspeth, that they departed from the midst of the Faas unmolested, and\nshe accompanied them.\n\nImagination must picture the scene when the long-lost son flung himself\nupon the bosom of his mother, and pressed his sister's hand in his.\nClennel Hall rang with the sounds of joy for many days; and, ere they\nwere ended, Andrew Smith placed a ring upon the finger of Susan, and\nthey became one flesh--she a respectable woman. And old Elspeth lived to\nthe age of ninety and seven years beneath its roof.\n\n\n\n\nKATE KENNEDY;\n\nOR, THE MAID OF INNERKEPPLE.\n\n\nInnerkepple was, some three hundred years ago, as complete a\nfortification as could be seen along the Borders--presenting its\nbastions, its turrets and donjon, and all the appurtenances of a\nmilitary strength, in the face of a Border riever, with that solemn air\nof defiance that belongs to the style of the old castles. Many a blow of\na mangonel it had received; and Scotch and English engines of war had,\nwith equal force and address, poured into its old grey ribs their\ndestructive bolts; every wound was an acquisition of glory; and, unless\nwhere a breach demanded a repair for the sake of security, the scars on\nthe old warrior were allowed to remain as a proof of his prowess.\nIndeed, these very wounds appearing on the walls had their names--being\nchristened after the leaders of the sieges that had been in vain\ndirected against it; and, among the number, the kings of England might\nhave been seen indicated by the futile instruments of vengeance they had\nflung into the rough ribs of old Innerkepple. But let us proceed. The\nproprietor, good Walter Kennedy, better known by the appellative of\nInnerkepple, was not unlike the old strength which he inhabited; being\nan old, rough, burly baron, on whose face Time had succeeded in making\nmany impressions, notwithstanding of all the opposing energies of a soul\nthat gloried, in all manner of ways, of cheating the old greybeard of\nhis rights and clearing off _his scores_. As a good spirit is said to be\nlike good old wine, getting softer and more balmy as it increases in\nage, old Innerkepple proved, by his good humour and jovial manners, the\nsterling qualities of his heart, which seemed, as he progressed in\nyears, to swell in proportion as that organ in others shrivelled and\ndecreased. He saw nothing in age but the necessity it imposes of having\nmore frequent recourse to its great enemy, the grape; and that power he\ndelighted to bow to, as he bent his head to empty the flagon which his\nforebear, Kenneth, got from the first King James, as a reward for his\nservices against the house of Albany. Yet the good humour of the old\nbaron was not that of the toper, which, produced by the bowl, would not\nexist but for its inspiring draught; the feeling of happiness and\nuniversal good-will lay at the bottom of the heart itself, and was only\nswelled into a state of glorious ebullition by the charm of the magic of\nthe vine branch--the true Mercurial _caduceus_, the only true magic wand\nupon earth.\n\nThough the spirit of antiquarianism is seldom associated with the\nswelling affections of the heart that is dedicated to Momus, old\nInnerkepple had, notwithstanding, been able to combine the two qualities\nor powers. Sitting in his old wainscotted hall, over a goblet of spiced\nTokay, there were three old subjects he loved to speculate upon; and\nthese were--his old castle, with its chronicled wounds, where the Genius\nof War sat alongside of the \"auld carle\" Time, in grim companionship;\nsecondly, the family tree of the Innerkepples--with himself, a good old\nbranch, kept green by good humour and Tokay, at the further verge; and a\nsmall green twig, as slender as a lily stalk, issuing from the old\nbranch--no other than the daughter of Innerkepple, the fair Kate\nKennedy, a buxom damsel, of goodly proportions, and as merry, with the\naid of health and young sparkling blood, as the old baron was with the\nspiced wine of Tokay; and, in the third place, there was the true\nlegitimate study of the antiquary, the ancient wine itself, the mortal\nyears of which he counted with an eye as bright as Cocker's over a\ntriumphant solution. As this last subject grew upon him, he became\ninspired, like the old poet of Teos, and the rafters of Innerkepple rang\nto the sound of his voice, tuned to the air of \"The Guidwife o'\nTullybody,\" and fraught with the deeds, active and passive, of the\nbarons of Innerkepple and their castle.\n\nThe fair Katherine Kennedy inherited her father's good humour, and,\nmaugre all the polishing and freezing influences of high birth, retained\nher inborn freedom of thought and action, heedless whether the\ncontortion of the _bucc\u00e6_ in a broad laugh were consistent with the\nplacidity of beauty, or the scream of the heart-excited risibility were\nin accordance with the formula of high breeding. Buxom in her person,\nand gay in her manners, she formed the most enchanting baggage of all\nthe care-killing damsels of her day--the most exquisite ronion that ever\nchased Melancholy from her yellow throne on the face of Hypochondria, or\nthrew the cracker of her persiflage into the midst of the crew of blue\ndevils that bind down care-worn mortals by the bonds of _ennui_. She was\nno antiquary, even in the limited sense of her father's study of the\nscience of cobwebs; being rather given to _neoterics_, or the science\nwhich teaches the qualities of things of to-day or yesterday. Age in all\nthings she hated with a very good feminine spirit of detestation; and,\nfollowing up her principles, she arrived at the conclusion that youth\nand beauty were two of the very best qualities that could be possessed\nby a lover. Her father's impassioned praises of the old branches of the\ntree of the Innerkepples--comprehending the brave Ludovick, who fell at\nHomildon, and the memorable Walter, who sold his life at the price of a\nscore of fat Englishmen at the red Flodden--produced only her best and\nloudest laugh, as she figured to herself the folly of preferring the\nrugged trunk to the green branches that suspend at their points the\nred-cheeked apple full of sweetness and juice. Neither cared the\nhilarious damsel much for the reverend turrets of Innerkepple. Her\nfather's description, full of good humour as it was, of the various\nperils they had passed, and the service they had done their country,\nseemed to her, as she stood on the old walls, listening to the\nnarrative, like the croak of the old corbies that sat on the pinnacles;\nand her laugh came again full of glee through the loopholes, or echoed\nfrom the battered curtain or recesses of the ballium.\n\nThat such a person as merry old Innerkepple should have a bitter and\nrelentless foe in the proprietor of the old strength called Otterstone,\nin the neighbourhood, is one of the most instructive facts connected\nwith the system of war and pillage that prevailed on the Borders,\nprincipally during the reign of Henry VIII. of England and James V. of\nScotland, when the spirit of religion furnished a cause of aggression\nthat could not have been afforded by the pugnacious temperaments of the\nvictims of attack. Magnus Fotheringham of Otterstone had had a deadly\nfeud with Kenneth Kennedy, the father of the good old Innerkepple, and\never since had nourished against his neighbour a deadly spite, which he\nhad taken many means of gratifying. His opponent had acted merely on the\ndefensive; but his plea had been so well vindicated by his retainers,\nwho loved him with the affection of children, that the splenetic\naggressor had been twice repulsed with great slaughter. Most readily\nwould the jovial baron, who had never given any cause of offence, have\nseized upon the demon of Enmity, and, _obtorto collo_, forced the fiend\ninto the smoking flagon of spiced wine, while he held out the hand of\nfriendship to his hereditary foe; but such was Otterstone's inveteracy,\nthat he would not meet him but with arms in his hands, so that all the\nendeavours of the warm-hearted and jolly Innerkepple to overcome the\nhostility of his neighbour, were looked upon as secret modes of wishing\nto entrap him, and take vengeance on him for his repeated attacks upon\nthe old castle.\n\nSome short time previous to the period about which we shall become more\ninterested, Innerkepple, with twenty rangers, was riding the marches of\nhis property, when he was set upon by his enemy, who had nearly twice\nthat number of retainers. Taking up with great spirit the plea of their\nlord, the men who were attacked rallied round the old chief, and fought\nfor him like lions, drowning (perhaps purposely) in the noise of the\nbattle the cries of Innerkepple, who roared, at the top of his voice--\n\n\"Otterstone, man--hear me!--A pint o' my auld Canary will do baith you\nand me mair guid than a' that bluid o' your men and mine. Stop the\nfecht, man. I hae nae feud against you, an' I'm no answerable for the\nwrangs o' thy father Kenneth.\"\n\nThese peaceful words were lost amidst the sounds of the battle, and\nOtterstone construed the contortions of the peacemaker into indications\nof revenge, and his bawling was set down as his mode of inspiriting his\nfollowers. The fight accordingly progressed, old Innerkepple at\nintervals holding up a white handkerchief as a sign of peace; but which,\nhaving been used by him in stopping the wounds of one of his men, was\nreceived with its blood-marks as a signal of revenge, both by his men\nand those of the aggressor. The strife accordingly increased, and all\nwas soon mixed up in the confusion of the mel\u00e9e.\n\n\"Has feud ran awa wi' yer senses, Otterstone?\" again roared the good old\nbaron. \"I'll gie yer son, wha's at St. Omers, the hand o' my dochter\nKate. Do you hear me, man? If you will mix the bluids o' oor twa houses,\nlet it be dune by Haly Kirk.\"\n\nHis words never reached Otterstone; but his own men who adored and\nidolized their beautiful young mistress, whose unvaried cheerfulness and\nkindness had won their hearts, heard the proposition of their master\nwith astonishment and dissatisfaction. They were still sorely pressed by\ntheir enemy, who, seeing the stained handkerchief in the hands of\nInnerkepple, were roused to stronger efforts. At this moment an\nextraordinary vision met their eyes. A detachment of retainers from the\ncastle came forward in the most regular warlike array, having at their\nhead their young mistress, armed with a helmet and a light jerkin, and\nbearing in her hand a sword of suitable proportions. A loud shout from\nthe worsted combatants expressed their satisfaction and surprise, and in\na moment the assistant corps joined their friends, and commenced to\nfight. The unusual vision relaxed for a moment the energies of\nOtterstone's men; but a cry from their chief, that they would that day\nbe ten times vanquished if they were defeated by a female leader, again\ninspired them, and instigated them to the fight.\n\n\"Press forward, brave vassals of Innerkepple!\" cried Katherine. \"Your\nfoes have no fair damsel to inspire them; and who shall resist those\nwhose arms are nerved in defence of an old chief and a young mistress?\nHe who kills the greatest number of Otterstone's men shall have the\nprivilege of demanding a woman's guerdon from Katherine Kennedy. If this\nbe not enough to make ye fight like lions, ye deserve to be hung in\nchains on the towers of Otterstone.\"\n\nSmiling as she uttered her strange speech, she hurried to her father,\nwho was still making all the efforts in his power to bring about a\nparley. He had got within a few yards of Otterstone, and it required all\nthe energies of Katherine to keep him back and defend him from insidious\nblows--an office she executed with great agility, by keeping her light\nsword whirling round her head, and inflicting wounds--not perhaps of\ngreat depth--on those who were ungallant and temerarious enough to\napproach her parent.\n\n\"See, Otterstone, man,\" cried the laird, still intent on peace, and\nsorry for the deadly work that was going on around him. \"Is she no fit\nto mak heirs to Otterstone? Up wi' yer helm, Kate, and show him yer fair\nface. Ha! man, stop this bluidy work, and let us mend a' by a carousal.\nDeil's in the heart and stamack o' the man that prefers warring to\nwassailing!\"\n\n\"He does not hear you, father,\" cried Kate. \"We must defend ourselves.\nOn, brave followers! Ye know your guerdon. Gallant knights have kneeled\nfor it and been refused it. You are to fight for it, and to receive it.\nHurrah for Innerkepple!\" And she swung her light falchion round her\nhead, while the war-cry of the family, \"_Festina lente!_\" arose in\nanswer to her inspiriting appeal, and the men rushed forward with new\nardour on their foes.\n\n\"You are as bluid-thirsty as he is, Kate,\" cried the baron. \"What mean\nye, woman? Haste ye up to Otterstone, and fling yer arms round his neck,\nand greet a guid greet, according to the fashion o' womankind. Awa!\nhaste ye, and say, mairower, that ye'll be the wife o' his son, and join\nthe twa baronies that are gaping for ane anither. Quick, woman; tears\nare mere water--thin aneuch, Gude kens!--but thae men's bluid is thicker\nthan my vintage o' the year '90.\"\n\n\"Katherine Kennedy never yet wept either to friend or foe, unless in the\nwild glee of her frolics,\" replied the maiden. \"By the bones of Camilla!\nI thought I was only fit for sewing battle scenes on satin, and laughing\nas I killed a knight with my needle; but I find I have the Innerkepple\nblood in my veins, and my cheek is glowing like a blood-red rose. Take\ncare of yourself, good father, and leave the affair to me. A single\nglance of my eye has more power in it than the command of the proudest\nbaron of the Borders. On, good hearts!\" And she again rode among the\nmen, and inspired them with her voice and looks.\n\nThe effect of the silvery tones of the voice of Katherine on the hearts\nof her father's retainers was electric; they fought like lions, and it\nsoon became apparent to Otterstone that a woman is a more dangerous\nenemy than a man. The cry, \"For the fair maid of Innerkepple!\" resounded\namong the combatants, and soon exhibited greater virtue than the war-cry\nof the house. Against men actuated by the chivalrous feelings that\nnaturally arose out of the defence of a beautiful woman, all resistance\nwas vain; the ranks of Otterstone's men were broken, and this advantage\nhaving been seized by their opponents, whose energies were rising every\nmoment, as the sound of Katherine's voice saluted their ears, a route\nensued, and the usual consequences of that last resource of the\nvanquished--flight--were soon apparent in the wounded victims, who fell\ningloriously with wounds on their backs. The pursuers were inclined to\ncontinue the pursuit even to the walls of Otterstone, but Katherine\ncalled them back.\n\n\"To slay the flying,\" said she, with a laugh, as the usual hilarity of\nher spirits returned upon her, \"is what I call effeminate warfare. When\nmen flee, women pursue; and what get they for their pains more than the\nwench got from Theseus, whom she hunted for his heart, and got, as our\nhunters do, the kick of his heel? Away, and carry in our disabled, that\nI may, with woman's art, cure the wounds that have been received in\ndefence of a woman.\"\n\nThe men obeyed with alacrity, and Innerkepple himself stared in\namazement at his daughter, who had always before appeared to him as a\nwild romp, fit only for killing men with her beauty, or tormenting them\nwith the elfin tricks or bewitching waggeries of her restless salient\nspirit.\n\n\"I'll hae ye in the wainscotted ha', Kate,\" said the father, as he\nentered his private chamber, leaning on the arm of his daughter,\n\"painted wi' helm, habergeon, and halberd, and placed alongside o' Lewie\no' Homildon and Watt o' Flodden.\"\n\n\"I care not, father,\" replied Katherine, \"if you give the painter\ninstructions to paint me laughing at those famous progenitors of our\nhouse, who were foolish enough to give their lives for that glory I can\npurchase for nothing, and get the lives of my enemies to boot; but I\nmust go and minister to the gallant men who have been wounded.\"\n\n\"Minister first to your father, Kate,\" replied Innerkepple, with a\nknowing look.\n\n\"And to your father's daughter, you would add,\" replied she, with a\nsmile. \"A bridal and a battle lack wine.\" And, hastening to a cupboard,\nshe took out and placed on the table a flagon and two cups, the latter\nof which she filled.\n\n\"Rest to the souls of the men I have slain!\" said she, laughing, as she\nlifted the wine cup to her head, while her father was performing the\nsame act.\n\n\"What! did ye kill ony o' Otterstone's men?\" said Innerkepple.\n\n\"Every time I lifted up my visor,\" replied she, \"I scattered death\naround me. Ha! ha! what fools men are! Their bodies are tenantless; we\nwomen are the souls that live outside of them, and take up our residence\nwithin their clayey precincts only when we have an object to serve. The\ntourney has taught me the power of our sex; and there I have thrown my\nspirit into the man I hated, to gratify my humour by seeing him, poor\ncaitiff! as he caught my hazel eye, writhe and wring, and contort\nhimself into all the attitudes of Proteus.\"\n\n\"Wicked imp!\" said Innerkepple, laughing.\n\n\"And when he had sufficiently twisted himself,\" continued she, \"I have,\nwith a grave face given the same hazel eye to his opponent, and set his\nbody in motion in the same way. The serpent-charmer is nothing to a\nwoman. By this art, I to-day gained the victory; and I'll stake my\nauburn toup\u00e9e against thy grey wig, that I beat, in the same way, the\nboldest baron of the Borders.\"\n\n\"By the faith o' Innerkepple, ye're no blate, Kate!\" said the old baron,\nstill laughing; \"but come, let us see our wounded men\"--taking his\ndaughter's arm.\n\n\"Leave their wounds to me, father,\" said she. \"The sting of the\ntarantula is cured by an old song. We women are the true leeches;\ndoctors are quacks and medicasters to us. We kill and cure like the\nDelphic sword, which makes wounds and heals them by alternate strokes.\"\n\n\"Ever at your quips, roisterer,\" said Innerkepple, as they arrived at\nthe court.\n\nThe wounded men had been brought in, and were consigned to the care of\none of the retainers, skilled in medicine, Katherine's medicaments--her\nlooks and tones--being reserved for a balsamic application, after the\nwounds were cicatrized. The other retainers were, meanwhile, busy in\nconsultation, as might have been seen by their congregating into\nparties, talking low, and throwing looks at Innerkepple and his fair\ndaughter, as they stood on the steps of the inner door of the castle.\n\n\"The guerdon! the guerdon!\" at last said one of the vassals, advancing\nand throwing himself at the feet of Kate.\n\n\"Ha! ha! I forgot,\" replied she laughing; \"but turn up thy face--art\nthou the man?\"\n\n\"So say my companions, fair leddy,\" replied he. \"I brocht doon wi' this\narm five o' Otterstone's men.\"\n\n\"With that arm!\" replied she, \"and what spirit nerved the dead lumber,\nthinkest thou?\"\n\n\"Dootless yours, fair leddy,\" answered he, smiling knowingly; \"but,\nthough the spirit was borrowed, I'm no the less entitled to my reward.\"\n\n\"A good stickler for the rights of your sex,\" answered she, keeping up\nthe humour; \"but what guerdon demandest thou?\"\n\n\"That whilk knights hae sued in vain for at your fair feet,\" answered\nthe man, smiling, as he uttered nearly the words she had used at the\nbattle.\n\n\"Caught in my own snare,\" replied she, laughing loudly.\n\n\"Ah, Kate, Kate!\" said the baron, joining in the humour, \"hoo mony\ngallant barons, and knights, and gentlemen hae ye tormented by thae fair\nlips o' yours, which carry in their cunnin' words a defence o' themsels\nsae weel contrived that nane daur approach them! Ye're caught at last.\nStand to yer richts, man. A kiss was promised ye, and by the honour o'\nInnerkepple, a kiss ye'll hae, if I should haud her head by a grip o'\nher bonny auburn locks.\"\n\n\"Hold! hold!\" cried Katherine; \"this matter dependeth on the answer to a\nquestion. Art thou married, sirrah?\"\n\nThe man hesitated, fearful of being caught by his clever adversary.\n\n\"Have a care o' yoursel, Gregory,\" said Innerkepple, \"ye're on dangerous\nground.\"\n\n\"What if I am or am not?\" said the man, cautiously, turning up his eye\ninto the face of the wicked querist.\n\n\"If thou art not,\" said she, \"then would a kiss of so fair a damsel be\nto thee beyond the value of a croft of the best land o' the barony o'\nInnerkepple; but if thou art, then would the guerdon be as nothing to\nthe kiss of thy wife, and as the weight of a feather in the scale\nagainst an oxengate of good land.\"\n\n\"I'm no married,\" replied the man; \"but, an't please yer leddyship, I'll\ntake the oxengate.\"\n\n\"Audacious varlet!\" cried Kate, rejoicing in the adroitness she\nexhibited; \"wouldst thou prefer a piece of earth to a kiss of Kate\nKennedy--a boon which the gayest knights of the Borders have sued for in\nvain! But 'tis well--thou hast refused the guerdon. Ha! ha! Men of\nInnerkepple, ye are witnesses to the fact. This man hath spurned my\nguerdon, and sought dull earth for my rosy lips.\"\n\n\"We are witnesses,\" cried the retainers; and the court-yard rang with the\nlaugh which the cleverness of their fair mistress had elicited from\nthose who envied Gregory of his privilege.\n\n\"Kate, Kate!\" said the old baron, joining in the laugh, \"will ever\nmortal be able to seize what are sae weel guarded? I believe ye will be\nable to argue yer husband oot o' his richts o' proving whether thae\nlittle traitors be made of mortal flesh or ripe cherries. But wine is\nbetter than women's lips; and since Kate has sae cleverly got quit o'\nher obligation, I'll mak amends by gieing ye a _surrogatum_.\"\n\nSeveral measures of good old wine were served out to the men by the\nhands of Katherine, who rejoiced in the contradiction of refusing one\nthing to give a better. Her health, and that of Innerkepple, were drunk\nwith loud shouts of approbation; and the wassail was kept up till a late\nhour of the night.\n\nMeanwhile, Otterstone was struggling with his disappointment, and\nnourishing a deep spirit of revenge. The shame of his defeat,\naccomplished by a girl, was insufferable; and the gnawing pain of the\nloss of honour and men, in a cause where he had calculated securely on\ncrushing his supposed enemy, affected him so severely, that he sent, it\nwas reported, for his son, who had lived from his infancy at St. Omers,\nto come over to administer to him consolation. When Innerkepple heard of\nthese things, he marvelled greatly at the stubbornness of his neighbour,\nwhom he wished, above all things, to drag, _nolente volente_, into a\ndeep wassail in the old wainscotted hall of his castle, whereby he\nmight drown, with reason itself, all their hereditary grudges, and\ntransform a foe into a friend. These feelings were also participated in\nby the warlike Kate, who acknowledged that she did not, on that\nmemorable day, fight for anything on earth that she knew of, but the\nsafety of her father, and the sheer glory of victory. She entertained\nthe best possible feelings towards Otterstone, though she admitted, with\na laugh, that if his men had not that day run for their lives, she would\nhave fought till they and their lord lay all dead upon the field, and\nthe glory of Otterstone was extinguished for ever.\n\nA considerable period that passed in quietness, seemed to indicate that\nthe anger of the vanquished baron had escaped by the valves appointed by\nnature for freeing the liver of its redundant bile. Meanwhile,\nInnerkepple's universal love of mankind increased, as his friendship for\nthe juice of the grape grew stronger and stronger, and his potations\nwaxed deeper and deeper; so that he was represented, all over the\nBorders, as being the most jovial baron of his time. The fame of Kate\nalso went abroad like fire-flaughts; but no one knew what to make of\nher--whether to set her down as a beautiful virago, or as a merry imp of\nsportive devilry, who fought her father's enemy with the same good-will\nshe felt towards the lovers whom she delighted with her beauty and\ngaiety, and tormented by her cruel waggeries and wiles.\n\nThis apparent quietness, and the consequent freedom from all danger,\ninduced the old baron to comply with a request made to him by King\nJames, to lend him forty of his followers, to aid in suppressing some\ndisturbances caused by a number of outlawed reivers at that time\nravaging the Borders. Katherine gave her consent to the measure; but she\nwisely exacted the condition that the men should not be removed to a\ngreater distance from the castle than ten miles. When James' emissary\nasked her why she adjected this condition to her father's agreement, she\nanswered, with that waggish mystery in which she often loved to indulge,\nthat she had such a universal love for his--the emissary's--sex, that\nshe could not suffer the idea of her gallant men being further removed\nfrom her than the distance on which she had condescended. A question for\nexplanation only produced another wicked _quodlibet_; so that the royal\nmessenger was obliged to be contented with a reason that sounded in his\nears very like a contempt of royal authority--a circumstance for which\nshe cared no more than she did for the mute expression of admiration of\nher beauty, that her quick eye detected on the face of the deputy.\n\nThe men having been detached from the castle for the service of the\nking, there remained only a small number, not more than sufficient for\noccupying the more important stations on the walls of the strength.\nThere was, however, no cause for alarm; and old Innerkepple continued to\nspeculate over his spiced Tokay, on his three grand subjects of\nantiquarian research; while Katherine followed her various occupations\nof listening to and laughing at his reveries, sewing battle scenes on\nsatin, and killing her knights with her needle, in as many grotesque\nways as her inventive fancy could devise. One day the sound of a horn\ncut right through the middle a long pull of Canary in the act of being\nperfected by the old baron's powers of swallow; and, in a short time,\nthe warder came in and said that a wine merchant, with sumpter mules and\npanniers, was at the end of the drawbridge, and had expressed a strong\ndesire to submit his commodity to the test of such a famous judge of the\nspirit of the grape as the baron of Innerkepple, whose name had gone\nforth as transcending that of all modern wine-drinkers.\n\n\"A wine merchant!\" ejaculated Innerkepple, smacking his lips after his\ninterrupted draught of vintage '90. \"What species o' sma' potation does\nhe deal in? Ha! ha! It suits my humour to see the quack's een reel, as\nhe finds his tongue and palate glued thegither wi' what I ca' wine, and\ngets them loosed again by his ain coloured water. Show him in, George.\"\n\n\"Whar is my leddy, yer Honour?\" said the seneschal, looking bluntly.\n\"Will she consent to the drawbridge bein' raised at a time when the\ncastle's nearly empty?\"\n\n\"She has just gane into the green parlour in the west tower,\" said the\nbaron. \"But I'll tak Kate in my ain hands. She likes fun as weel as her\nauld father, and will laugh to see this quack beaten wi' his ain bowls.\"\n\nThe seneschal withdrew, though reluctantly, and casting his eyes about\nfor the indispensable Katherine; but she was not within his reach, and\nhe felt himself compelled, by the impatience of the old baron, to admit\nthe merchant. The creaking hinges of the bridge resounded through the\ncastle and the merchant and his mules were seen by Katherine, looking\nthrough a loophole, slowly making their way into the castle. It was too\nlate for her now to consider of the propriety of the permission to\nenter; so she leant her chin on her hand, and quietly scanned the\nstranger, as he crossed the bridge, driving his mules before him with a\nlarge stick, which he brought down with a loud thwack on their\nbacks--accompanying his act with a loud \"Whoop, ho!\" and occasionally\nthrowing his eyes over the walls as he proceeded.\n\n\"Whom have we here?\" said she, as she communed with herself, and nodded\nher head, still apparent through the loophole. \"By'r Lady! neither\nGascon nor Fleming, or my eyes are no better than my father's, when he\nlooks at _antiques_ through the red medium of his vintage of '90.\nPerchance, a lover come to run away with Kate Kennedy. Hey! the thought\ntickles my wild wits, and sends me on the wings of fancy into the\nregions of romance. Yet I have not read that the catching and carrying\noff of _Tartars_ hath anything to do with the themes of romantic\nlove-errantry. I'm witty at the expense of this poor packman; but,\nseriously, Katherine Kennedy must carry off her lover. True to the\ndifference that opposes me to the rest of my sex, I could not love a man\nwhom I did not vanquish and abduct, as a riever does the chattels of the\nfarmer.\"\n\nContinuing her gaze, as she laughed at her own strange thoughts, she saw\nthe merchant bind his mules to a ring fixed in the inside of the wall,\nand take out of his panniers a vessel, with which he proceeded in the\ndirection of the door that led to the hall. When the merchant had\ndisappeared, she saw one of the retainers of the castle examining\nintently the mules and their panniers. He looked up and caught her eye;\nand placing his finger on his forehead, made a sign for her to come\ndown. She obeyed with her usual alacrity, and in a moment was at the\nside of the retainer, who, slipping gently under the shade of the\ncastle, so as to be out of the view of those within the hall,\ncommunicated to the ear of Katherine some intelligence of an important\nnature. The man looked grave; Kate snapped her fingers; the fire of her\neyes glanced from the balls like the sparks of struck flint, and the\nexpression of her countenance indicated that she had formed a purpose\nwhich she gloried in executing.\n\n\"Hark ye, Gregory,\" said she; \"I am still your debtor, but I require\nagain your services.\" And, looking carefully around her, she whispered\nsome words into the ear of the man; and, upon receiving his nod of\nintelligence and assent, sprung up the steps that led to the hall.\n\nThe wine merchant was, as she entered, sitting at the oaken table,\nopposite to the old baron, who was holding up in his hand a species of\nglass jug, and looking through it with that peculiar expression which is\nonly to be found in the face of a luxurious wine-toper in the act of\npassing sentence.\n\n\"Wha, in God's name, are ye, man?\" cried the baron, under the cover of\nwhose speech Kate slipped cleverly up to the window, and sat down, with\nher cheek resting on her hand, in apparent listlessness, but eyeing\nintently the stranger. \"I could have wad the picture o' my ancestor,\nWatt o' Flodden, or King Henry's turret, in the east wing o'\nInnerkepple, wi' its twenty wounds, mair precious than goold, that there\nwasna a cup o' vintage '90 in Scotland except what I had mysel. Whar got\nye't, man? Are ye the Devil? Hae ye brocht it frae my ain cellars?\nSpeak, Satan!\"\n\n\"Vy, _mon cher_ Innerkepple,\" replied the merchant, \"did I not know that\nyou were one grand biberon--I mean drinker of vin? It is known all over\nthe marches--I mean the Bordures. Aha! no one Frenchman could cheat the\nfamous Innerkepple; so I brought the best that was in all my celliers.\nIs it not grand and magnifique?\"\n\n\"Grand an' magnifique, man!\" replied Innerkepple, as he sipped the wine\nwith the gravity of a judge. \"It's mair than a' that, man, if my tongue\ncould coin a word to express its ain sense o' what it is at this moment\nenjoying. But the organ's stupified wi' sheer delight, and forgets its\nvery mither's tongue; an' nae wonder, for my very een, that didna taste\nit, reel and get drunk wi' the sight.\" And the delighted baron took\nanother pull of the goblet.\n\n\"Aha! Innerkepple, you are von of the grandest biberons I have ever seen\nin all this contr\u00e9e,\" said the merchant. \"It is one great pleasir to\ntrafique vit von so learned in the science of _bon gout_. That grand\nsmack of your lips would tempt me to ruin myself, and drink mine own\ncommodity.\"\n\n\"Hae ye a stock o' the treasure?\" said the baron; \"I canna suppose it.\"\n\n\"Just five barrils in my celliers at Berwick,\" answered the merchant,\n\"containing quatre hundred pints de Paris in each one of them.\"\n\n\"I could walk on my bare feet to Berwick to see it and taste it,\" said\nthe baron; \"but what clatter o' a horse's feet is that in the court,\nKate?\"\n\n\"Ha! sure it is my mules,\" said the Frenchman, starting to his feet in\nalarm.\n\n\"Oh! keep your seat, Monsieur Merchant,\" cried Kate, laughing and\nlooking out of the window. \"Can a lady not despatch her servitor to\nSelkirk for a pair of sandals, that should this day have been on my feet\nin place of in Gilbert Skinner's hands, without raising folks from their\nwine?\"\n\nThe Frenchman was satisfied, and retook his seat; but the baron looked\nat Kate, as if at a loss to know what freak had now come into her\ninventive head. The letting down of the drawbridge, and the sound of the\nhorse's feet passing along the sounding wood, verified her statement,\nbut carried no conviction to the mind of Innerkepple. He had long\nceased, however, the vain effort to understand the workings of his\ndaughter's mind, and on the present occasion he was occupied about too\nimportant a subject to be interested in the vagaries of a madcap wench.\n\n\"By the Virgin!\" she said again, \"my jennet will lose her own sandals in\ngoing for mine, if Gregory thus strikes the rowels into her sides.\"\n\nCovering, by these words, the rapid departure of the messenger, she\nturned her eyes to continue the study of the merchant, whom she watched\nwith feline assiduity. The conversation was again resumed.\n\n\"Five barrels, said ye, Monsieur?\" resumed Innerkepple. \"Let me\nsee--that, wi' what I hae mysel, may see me out; but it will be a guid\nheir-loom to Kate's husband. What is the price?\"\n\n\"One merk the gallon of four pints de Paris,\" answered the merchant.\n\n(\"Yet I see no marks of Otterstone about him,\" muttered Kate to herself.\n\"How beautiful he is, maugre his disguise! Had he come on a message of\nlove, in place of war, I would have taken him prisoner, and bound him\nwith the rays of light that come from my languishing eyes.\")\n\n\"That's dear, man,\" said Innerkepple. \"But ye're a cunning rogue; if I\nkeep drinking at this rate, the price will sink as the flavour rises,\nand ye'll catch me, as men do gudgeons, by the tongue.\"\n\n\"Aha! _mon cher_ Innerkepple,\" said the merchant, \"you have von\nexcellent humour of fun about ye. If I vere not _un pauvre merchand_, I\nwould have one grand plaisir in getting _mouill\u00e9_--I mean drunk--vit\nyou.\"\n\n(\"Ha! my treacherous Adonis, art on that tack, with a foul wind in thy\nfair face?\" was Kate's mental ejaculation. \"If thou nearest thy haven, I\nam a worse pilot than Palinurus.\")\n\n\"Wi' wine like that before ane,\" responded the baron, \"the topers\nalongside o' ye may be Frenchmen or Dutchmen, warriors or warlocks,\nwraiths or wassailers, merchants or mahouns--a's alike. It will put a\nsoul into a ghaist, a yearning heart into a gowl, and a spirit o'\nnobility in the breast o' ane wha never quartered arms but wi' the fair\nanes o' flesh an' bluid that belang to his wife. I'll be oblivious o' a'\nwarldly things before Kate's sandals come frae Selkirk; but yer price,\nman, I fear, will stick to me to the end.\"\n\n\"I cannot make one deduction,\" said the merchant, \"but I vill give to\nthe men in the base-court one jolly debauch of very good vin, vich is in\nmy hampers.\"\n\n(\"The kaim of chanticleer is in the wind's eye,\" muttered Katherine.\n\"Thou pointest nobly for the direction of treachery; but my sandals\nwill be back from Selkirk long before I am obliged to march with thee to\nthe prison of Otterstone.\")\n\n\"Weel, mak it a merk,\" said Innerkepple, \"for five pints, an' a bouse to\nmy retainers, wha are as muckle beloved by me as if they were my bairns;\nan' I will close wi' ye.\"\n\n\"Vell, that is one covenant _inter nous_,\" said the merchant; \"but I\ncannot return to Berwick until _demain_--I mean the morrow; and we vill\nhave the long night for one jolly carousal. I vill go _sans delai_, and\ngive the poor fellows, in the meantime, one leetle tasting of the grand\ncheer.\"\n\n(\"Then I am too long here,\" muttered Kate. \"Alexander told his men that\nthe Persian stream was poisonous, to prevent them from stopping to\ndrink, whereby they would have fallen into the hands of the enemy. One\nnot less than he--ha! ha!--will save her men, by telling them there is\ntreachery in the cup.\")\n\nShe descended instantly to the base-court, and, passing from one guard\nto another, she whispered in their ears certain instructions, which, by\nthe nodding of their heads, they seemed to understand, while those she\nhad not time to visit received from their neighbours the communication\nat second-hand, and thus, in a short space of time, she prepared the\nwhole retainers for the part they were destined to play. She had\nscarcely finished this part of her operations, and got out of the court,\nwhen the wine merchant made his appearance on the steps leading to the\nhall. He nodded pleasantly to the men, and, proceeding to his mules,\ntook out of one of the panniers a large vessel filled with wine. This he\nlaid on the flagstones of the base-court, and alongside of it he placed\na large cup. He then called out to the retainers to approach, and seemed\npleased with the readiness with which they complied with his request.\n\n\"Mine very good fellows,\" said he, \"I have sold your master,\nInnerkepple, one grand quantity of vine; and he says I am under one\nobligation to treat you vit a hamper, for the sake of the grand\naffection he bears to you. You may drink as much as ever you vill\nplease; and ven this is brought to one termination, I will supply you\nvit more.\"\n\n\"We're a' under a suitable obligation to ye, sir,\" replied the oldest of\nthe retainers, a sly, pawky Scotchman--\"and winna fail to do credit to\nthe present ye've sae nobly presented to us; but do ye no hear\nInnerkepple callin' for ye frae the ha'? Awa, sir, to the guid baron,\nand leave us to our carouse.\"\n\n\"Ay,\" said another; \"we'll inform ye when this is finished.\"\n\n\"Finished!\" said a third; \"we'll be a' on oor backs before we see the\nend o't.\"\n\n\"Aha! excellent jolly troup!\" cried the merchant, delighted with this\ncompany.\n\nThe voice of Katherine, who appeared on the steps leading to the hall,\nnow arrested their attention.\n\n\"My father is impatient for thee, good merchant,\" said she.\n\n\"_Ma chere_ leddy,\" replied he, \"I will be there _a present_.\" And,\nlooking up to see that she had again disappeared--\"Drink, my jolly\nmates,\" he continued. \"It is the grand matiere, the _bon_ stuff, the\nexcellent good liqueur. Aha! you will be so merry, and you know you have\nthe consent of Innerkepple.\"\n\n\"We'll be a' as drunk as bats,\" said he who spoke first, with a sly\nleer.\n\n\"The Deil tak him wha has the beddin' o' us!\" said another.\n\n\"So say I,\" added half-a-dozen of voices.\n\n\"Then I am the Deil's property,\" said the warder, \"unless I am saved by\nthe power o' the wine; and, by my faith, I'll no spare't.\"\n\n\"Aha! very good! excellent joke!\" cried the delighted merchant. \"Drink,\nand shame the Diable, as we say in France. Wine comes from the gods, and\nis the grand poison of Beelzebub.\"\n\nAnd, after enjoying deep potations, the merchant returned to the hall,\namidst the laughter and pretended applause of the men. The moment he had\ndisappeared, Katherine got carried to the spot a measure filled with\nwine and water; and, having emptied in another vessel the contents of\nthe merchant's hamper, the thin and innocuous potation was poured in to\nsupply its place. The men assisted in the operation; and, all being\nfinished, they began to carouse with great glee and jollity.\n\n\"I said, my leddy, to the merchant, that we would be a' as drunk as\nbats,\" said one of the humorists; \"and sure this is a fair beginning;\nfor wha could stand drink o' this fearfu' strength?\"\n\n\"The Deil tak him wha has the beddin' o' us!\" said the other, laughing,\nas he drank off a glass of the thin mixture.\n\n\"Then I am the Deil's property,\" said the warder, \"unless I am saved by\nthe power o' this strong drink.\"\n\nAnd thus the men, encouraged by the smiles of Kate, who was, with great\nactivity, conducting the ceremonies, seemed to be getting boisterous on\nthe strength of the merchant's wine. Their jokes raised real laughter;\nand the noise of their mirth went up and entered into the hall, falling\nlike incense on the heart of the merchant. Katherine, meanwhile, again\nbetook herself to her station at the hall window, using assiduously both\nher eyes and ears; the former being directed to a dark fir plantation\nthat stood to the left of the castle, and the latter occupied by the\nconversations of her father and the merchant.\n\n\"My men,\" said Innerkepple, \"seem to be following the example o' their\nmaster. They are gettin' noisy. I hope, Monsieur, ye were moderate in\nyer present. A castle-fu' o' drunk men is as bad as a headfu' o'\nintoxicated notions.\"\n\n(\"Hurrah for the French merchant! Long life to him! May he continue as\nstrong as his liquor!\")\n\n\"Aha! the jolly good fellows are feeling the sting of the spirit,\" said\nthe merchant, with sparkling eyes.\n\n\"Ungratefu' dogs!\" rejoined Innerkepple; \"I treat them as if they were\nmy sons, and hear hoo they praise a stranger for a bellyfu' o' wine! My\nbeer never produced sae muckle froth o' flattery. But this wine o'\nyours, Monsieur, drowns a' my indignation.\"\n\n(\"Long life to Innerkepple and the fair Katherine!\")\n\n\"Now you are getting the grand adulation,\" said the Frenchman. \"Ha! they\nare a jovial troup of good chaps, and deserve one grand potation; but I\ngave them only one leetle hamper, for fear they should get _mouill\u00e9_.\"\n\n\"Very considerate, Monsieur, very prudent and kind,\" said the baron;\n\"for twa-thirds o' my men are fechtin fer Jamie, and we hae a kittle\nneebor in Otterstone, whase son I hear has come hame frae St. Omers.\nBy-the-by, saw ye the callant in France? They say he's sair ashamed o'\nthe defeat o' his father by the generalship o' my dochter Kate.\"\n\n\"Ha! did _ma chere_ leddy combattre Otterstone?\" ejaculated the\nFrenchman, laughing. \"Very good! ha! ha! ha! I did not know that, ven I\nsold him one quantity of vin yesterday; but I assure you, _mon cher_\nInnerkepple, he is not at all your enemy, and his son did praise _ma\nchere_ leddy as the most magnificent vench in all the contr\u00e9e.\"\n\n(\"Excellently sustained,\" muttered Katherine to herself. \"How I do love\nthe roll of that dark eye, and the curl of that lip covered with the\nblack moustache! Can so much beauty conceal a deadly purpose? But the\n'magnificent vench' shall earn yet a better title to the soubriquet out\nof thy discomfiture, fair, deceitful, sweet devil.\")\n\n\"I only wish I had Otterstone whar you are, man,\" said Innerkepple, \"wi'\nthe liquor as sweet an' my bile nae bitterer. I would conquer him in\nbetter style than did my dochter, though, I confess, she man[oe]uvred\nhim beautifully.\"\n\n(\"Perdition to the faes o' Innerkepple! and, chief o' them, the fause\nOtterstone, the leddy-licked loon!\")\n\n\"Helas! The master and the men have the very different creeds,\" said the\nFrenchman, shrugging his shoulders; \"but my vin is making the _bon_\ncompanions choleric. Ha! ha!\"\n\n(\"It is--it is!\" muttered Katherine, as she strained her eyes to catch\nthe signal of a white handkerchief, that floated on the top of one of\nthe trees in the fir-wood.)\n\nShe now abruptly left the hall, and proceeded to the place in the court\noccupied by those who were wassailing on the coloured water she had\nbrewed for them with her fair hands. They were busily occupied by the\nmanifestations of their mirth, which was not altogether simulated. A\ncessation of the noise evinced the effect of her presence among those\nwho deified her.\n\n\"Up with the merry strain, my jolly revellers!\" said she, smiling, and\nimmediately \"Bertram the Archer,\" in loud notes, rung in the ballium:--\n\n    \"And Bertram held aloft the horn,\n      Filled wi' the bluid-red wyne,\n    And three times has he loudly sworn\n      His luve he winna tyne.\n\n    \"My Anne sits on yon eastern tower,\n      An' greets baith day and night,\n    An' sorrows for her luver lost,\n      An' right turned into might.\n\n    \"'Then hie ye all, my merry men,\n      To yonder lordly ha'!\n    An if they winna ope the gate,\n      We'll scale the burly wa'.\n\n    \"'Hurra!' then shouted Bertram's men,\n      And loudly they hae sworn,\n    That they will right their gallant knigh\n      Before the opening morn.\"[2]\n\n[2] Pinkerton gives only one verse of \"Bertram the Archer,\" but\nInnerkepple's men did not require to be antiquaries.\n\nUnder the cover of the noise of the song, which was sung with\nbacchanalian glee, Katherine communicated her farther instructions to\nthe man who had assumed the principal direction; and, retreating\nquickly, lest the wine merchant should come out and surprise her, she\nleft the revellers to continue their work. She was soon again at her\npost at the window. The boon companions within the hall were still busy\nwith their conversation and their wine; and by this time the shades of\nevening had begun to darken the view from the castle, and envelop the\ntowers in gloom; the rooks had retired to rest, the owls had taken up\nthe screech note which pains the sensitive ear of night, and the bats\nwere beginning to flap their leathern wings on the rough sides of the\nold walls.\n\nThe sounds of the revellers in the court-yard began gradually to die\naway, and the strains of \"Bertram the Archer\" were limited to a weak\nrepetition of the last lines, somewhat curtailed of their legitimate\nsyllables:--\n\n    \"And we will right our gallant knight\n      Before the opening morn.\"\n\nThese indications of the effect of the wine increased, till, by-and-by,\nall seemed to be muffled up in silence. The circumstance seemed to be\nnoticed at once by the wine merchant; but he took no notice of it to\nInnerkepple whom he still continued to ply with the rich vintage. Kate's\nsenses were all on the alert, and she watched every scene of the acting\ndrama, set agoing by her own master mind. A noise was now heard at the\ndoor of the hall, as if some one wished to get in, but could not effect\nan opening.\n\n\"Who's there?\" cried Kate, as she proceeded to open the door.\n\n\"It's me, your Leddyship's Honour,\" answered George, the seneschal, as\nhe staggered, apparently in the last stage of drunkenness, into the\nhall.\n\n\"What means this?\" cried Innerkepple, rising up, and not very well able\nto stand himself. \"The warder o' my castle in that condition, an' a' our\nlives dependin' on his prudence!\"\n\n\"Your Honour's maist forgiving pardon,\" said the warder. \"I am come\nhere, maist lordly Innerkepple\"--hiccup--\"to inform your Highness that\na' the men o' the castle are lying in the base-court like swine. I am\nthe only sober man in the hale menyie\"--hic--hic. \"But whar's the ferly?\nThe strength o' the Frenchman's wine would have floored the strongest\nhensure o' the Borders\"--hiccup--\"an' I would hae been like the rest, if\nI hadna been the keeper o' the keys o' Innerkepple.\"\n\n(\"As well as Roscius, George,\" muttered Kate, as she, with a smile,\ncontemplated the actor.)\n\n\"George, George, man,\" said the baron, \"ye're just as bad as the rest.\nYou've been ower guid to them, Monsieur; but this _mooliness_, as ye ca'\nit, has a' its dangers in thae times, when castles are surprised an'\ntaen like sleepin' mawkins in bushes o' broom. Awa to yer bed ahint the\ngratin', man, an' sleep aff the wine, as fast as it is possible for a\ndrunk man to do.\"\n\nGeorge bowed, and staggered out of the hall, to betake himself to his\ncouch.\n\n\"Aha! this is one sad misadventure,\" said the merchant. \"I did not know\nthere vas half so much strength in this vin. Let us see the jolly\ntopers, mon noble Innerkepple. It is one grand vision to a vendeur of\ngood vin to see the biberons lying on the ground, all _mouill\u00e9_. Helas!\nI was very wrong; but mon noble baron will forgive the grand fault of\nliberality.\"\n\nThe merchant rose, and, giving his arm to Innerkepple, who had some\ndifficulty in steadying himself, proceeded towards the court, where they\nsaw verified the report of the warder. The men were lying about the\nyard, apparently in a state of perfect insensibility. The wine measure\nwas empty and overturned; several drinking horns lay scattered around;\nand everything betokened a deep debauch.\n\n\"This maun hae been potent liquor,\" said the baron, taking up one of the\ncups, in which a few drops remained, and drinking it. \"Ha! man, puir\ngear after a'. A man micht drink three gallons o't, and dance to the\ntune o' Gilquhisker after he has finished. What's the meaning o' this?\"\n\n\"Aha! your tongue is _mouill\u00e9_, mon noble Innerkepple,\" said the\nmerchant.\n\n\"It may be sae,\" replied the baron; \"but it wasna made mooly, as ye\ndenominate it, by drink like that. I canna understand it, Monsieur.\"\n\nAs he stood musing on the strange circumstance, he caught, by the light\nof a torch, the eye of Kate at the window, and felt his bewilderment\nincreased by a leer in that dark bewitching orb, whose language appeared\nto him often--and never more so than at present--like Greek. His\nattention was next claimed by the merchant, who proposed that the men\nshould be allowed to sleep out their inebriety where they lay. This\nproposition was reasonable; and it would, besides, operate as a proper\npunishment for their exceeding the limits of that prudence which their\nduty to their master required them to observe. The baron agreed to it,\nand, seeking again the support of the Frenchman's arm, he returned to\nthe hall.\n\nThe night was now fast closing in. An old female domestic had placed\nlamps in the hall, and some supper was served up to the baron and the\nmerchant. Kate retired, as she said, to her couch; but it may be\nsurmised that an antechamber received her fair person, where she had\nsomething else to do than to sleep. The loud snoring of the men in the\ncourt-yard was heard distinctly, mixing with the screams of the owls\nthat perched on the turrets. The two biberons sat down to partake of the\nsupper, and prepare their stomachs, as Innerkepple said, for another\nbouse of the grand liquor. The conduct of the two carousers now assumed\naspects very different from each other. The baron was gradually getting\nmore easy and comfortable, while the merchant displayed an extreme\nrestlessness and anxiety. The praises of his wine fell dead upon his\near, and the jokes of the good Innerkepple seemed to have become vapid\nand tiresome to him.\n\n\"That's a grand chorus in the court-yard, Monsieur,\" said the baron.\n\"Singing, snoring, groaning, are the three successive acts o' the\nwassailers. They would have been better engaged eating their supper.\nYah! I'm gettin' sleepy, Monsieur.\"\n\n\"Helas! helas!\" ejaculated the merchant. \"You prick my memory, mon noble\nInnerkepple. My poor mules! They have got no souper. Ah! cruel master\nthat I am to forget the _pauvre_ animals that have got no language to\ntell their wants.\"\n\n(\"So, so--the time approaches,\" ejaculated Kate, mentally, as she\nwatched behind the door.)\n\n\"Pardon me, _mon cher_ baron,\" he continued, \"I vill go and give them\none leetle feed, and return to you _a present_. I have got beans in my\nhampers.\"\n\n\"Humanity needs nae pardon, man,\" replied the baron, nodding with sleep.\n\"Awa and feed the puir creatures; but tak care an' no tramp on an' kill\nony o' my brave men in yer effort to save the lives o' yer mules.\"\n\n\"Never fear,\" said the other, taking from his pocket a small lantern,\nwhich he lighted. \"Travellers stand in grand need of this machine,\" he\ncontinued. \"I will return on the instant.\"\n\nHe now left the baron to his sleep, and crept stealthily along the\npassage to the door leading to the court. He was followed, unseen, by\nKatherine, who watched every motion. He felt some difficulty in avoiding\nthe men, who still lay on the ground; but with careful steps he reached\nthe wall, and suddenly sprung on the parapet.\n\n\"Prepare!\" whispered Katherine into the ears of the prostrate retainers;\n\"the time approaches.\"\n\nWhile thus engaged, she kept her eye upon the dark shadow of the\nmerchant, and saw with surprise a blue light flash up from the top of\nthe wall, and throw its ominous glare on the surrounding objects. A\nscream of the birds on the castle walls announced their wonder at the\nstrange vision, and Katherine concluded that the merchant had thus\nproduced his signal from some phosphorescent mixture, which he had\nignited by the aid of the lantern. The light was followed instantly by a\nshrill blast of a horn. With a bound he reached the floor of the court,\nand, hastening to the warder's post, threw off the guard of the wheel,\nand, with all the art and rapidity of a seneschal, prepared for letting\ndown the bridge. All was still as death; there seemed to be no\ninterruption to his proceedings; but he started as he saw the rays of a\nlamp thrown from a loophole over his head, upon that part of the moat\nwhich the bridge covered. He had gone too far to recede, the creaking of\nthe hinges grated, and down came the bridge with a hollow sound. A rush\nwas now heard as of a body of men pressing forward to take possession\nof the passage; and tramp, tramp came the sounds of the marching\ninvaders over the hollow-sounding wood. All was still silent within the\ncastle, and the sound of the procession continued. In an instant, a\ndense, dark body issued from the fir-wood, and rushed with heavy\nimpetuous force on the rear of the corps that were passing into the\ncastle; and, simultaneously with that movement, the whole body of the\nmen within the castle pressed forward to the end of the bridge, and met\nthe front of the intruders, who were thus hedged in by two forces that\nhad taken them by surprise, in both front and rear.\n\n\"Caught in our own snare!\" cried the voice of old Otterstone.\n\n\"Disarm them,\" sounded shrilly from the lips of Katherine Kennedy.\n\nAnd a scuffle of wrestling men sent its fearful, deathlike sound through\nthe dark ballium. The strife was short and comparatively silent. The men\nwho had rushed from the wood, and who were no other than the absent\nretainers of Innerkepple, coming from behind, and those within the\nstrength meeting them in front, produced such an alarm in the enclosed\ntroops, that the arms were taken from their hands as if they had been\nstruck with palsy. Every two men seized their prisoner, while some\nholding burning torches came running forward, to show the revengeful\nbaron the full extent of his shame. Ranged along the court, the\nspectacle presented by the prisoners was striking and grotesque. Their\neyes sought in surprise the form of a female, who, with a sword in one\nhand and a torch in the other, stood in front of them, as the genius of\ntheir misfortune.\n\nThe hall door was now opened, where the old baron still sat sound asleep\nin his chair, unconscious of all these proceedings. The prisoners were\nled into the spacious apartment, and ranged along the sides in long\nranks. Innerkepple rubbed his eyes, stared, rubbed them again, and\nseemed lost in perfect bewilderment. All was conducted in dumb show. The\nproud and revengeful Otterstone was placed alongside of the good baron,\nhis enemy; and Kate smiled as she contemplated the strange looks which\nthe two rivals threw upon each other.\n\n\"Right happy am I,\" said Katherine, coming forward in the midst of the\nassembly, \"to meet my good friends, the noble Otterstone and his men, in\nmy father's hall, under the auspices of a healing friendship. Father, I\noffer thee the hand of Otterstone. Otterstone, I offer thee the hand of\nInnerkepple. Ye have long been separated by strife and war, though, on\nthe one side, there was always a good feeling of generous kindliness,\nopposed to a bitterness that had no cause, and a revenge that knew no\nexcuse. Born nobles and neighbours, educated civilized men, and baptized\nChristians, why should ye be foes? but, above all, why should the one\nstrike with the sword of war the hand that has held out to him the\nwine-cup? My father has ever been thy friend, noble Otterstone, and thou\nhast ever been his foe. How is this? Ah! I know it. Thou wert ignorant,\nnoble guest, of my good father's generous and friendly feelings, and I\nhave taken this opportunity of introducing you to each other, that ye\nmay mutually come to the knowledge of each other's better qualities and\nintentions.\"\n\n\"What, in the name o' heaven, means a' this, Kate?\" ejaculated\nInnerkepple, in still unsubdued amazement. \"Am I dreamin', or am I\nbetrayed? Whar is the wine merchant? Hoo cam ye here, Otterstone? Am I a\nprisoner in my ain castle, and my ain men and dochter laughing at my\nmisfortune? But ye spoke o' friendship, Kate. Is it possible,\nOtterstone, ye hae repented o' yer ill will, and come to mak amends for\npast grievances?\"\n\n\"Thou hast heard him, Otterstone,\" said Kate. \"Wilt thou still refuse\nthe hand?\"\n\nThe chief hesitated; but the good-humoured looks of Innerkepple melted\nhim, and he held out the right hand of good-fellowship to the old baron,\nwho seized it cordially, and shook it heartily.\n\n\"Now,\" said Kate, \"we must seal this friendship with a cup of wine.\nBring in the wine merchant.\"\n\nThe Frenchman was produced by the warder, along with the remaining\nhampers of the wine that had been left in the court-yard. As may have\nbeen already surmised, he was no other than the son of old Otterstone.\nSurprised and confounded by all these proceedings, he stood in the midst\nof the company, looking first at his father, and then at Innerkepple,\nwithout forgetting Kate, who stood like a majestic queen, enjoying the\ntriumph of her spirit and ingenuity. Above all things, he wondered at\nthe smile of good humour in the face of his father; and his surprise\nknew no bounds when he saw every one around as well pleased as if they\nhad been convened for the ends of friendship.\n\n\"Hector,\" said old Otterstone, looking at his son, \"the game is up. This\nmaiden has outwitted us, and we are caught in our own snare. Off with\nthy disguise, and show this noble damsel that thou art worthy of her\nbest smiles.\"\n\nHector obeyed, and took off his wig, and the clumsy habiliments that\ncovered his armour, and stood in the midst of the assembly, a young man\nof exquisite beauty.\n\n\"The wine merchant, Hector Fotheringham!\" cried Innerkepple. \"Ah, Kate,\nKate! is this the way ye bring yer lovers to Innerkepple ha'?--in the\nshape o' a wine merchant--the only form o' the Deevil I wad like to see\non this earth? Ha! ye baggage, weel do ye ken hoo to get at the heart o'\nyour faither. But whar was the use o' secresy, woman? And you, Hector,\nman, I needed nae bribe o' Tokay to be friendly to the lover o' my\ndochter. A fine youth--a fine youth. Surely, surely, this man was made\nfor my dochter Kate.\"\n\n\"And thy daughter Kate was made for him,\" cried Otterstone.\n\nThe retainers of both houses shouted applause, and the hall rang with\nthe noise. The wine, which was intended for deception and treachery, was\ncirculated freely, and opened the hearts of the company. Innerkepple was\nready again for his Tokay, and, lifting a large goblet to his head--\n\n\"To the union o' the twa hooses!\" cried he. \"And I wish I had twenty\ndochters, and Otterstone as mony sons, that they micht a' be married\nthegither; but, on this condition, that the bridegrooms should a' come\nin the shape o' wine merchants.\"\n\n\"Hurra, hurra!\" shouted the retainers. The night was spent in good\nhumour and revelry. All was restored; and, in a short time, the two\nhouses were united by the marriage of Hector Fotheringham and Katherine\nKennedy.\n\n\n\n\nRECOLLECTIONS OF FERGUSON.[3]\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\n    \"Of Ferguson, the bauld and slee.\"--BURNS.\n\n[3] The perusal of this paper, written at an early period by the\nlamented Hugh Miller, cannot fail to suggest some reflections on the\nfate of the author himself and that of the poet he describes. It would\nbe simply fanciful to draw from his choice of subject, and the sympathy\nhe manifests for the victim of insanity, any conclusion of a felt\naffinity of mental type on his part. We would presently get into the\nobscure subject of presentiments. It is true that Hugh Miller wrote\npoetry, and was thus subject to the Nemesis; but we insist for no more\nthan a case of coincidence, leaving to psychologists to settle the\nquestion of the alleged connection between certain poetical types of\nmind and eventual madness--cases of which are so plentifully recorded in\nGermany.--_Ed._\n\n\nI have, I believe, as little of the egotist in my composition as most\nmen; nor would I deem the story of my life, though by no means unvaried\nby incident, of interest enough to repay the trouble of either writing\nor perusing it, were it the story of my own life only; but, though an\nobscure man myself, I have been singularly fortunate in my friends. The\nparty-coloured tissue of my recollections is strangely interwoven, if I\nmay so speak, with pieces of the domestic history of men whose names\nhave become as familiar to our ears as that of our country itself; and I\nhave been induced to struggle with the delicacy which renders one\nunwilling to speak much of one's self, and to overcome the dread of\nexertion natural to a period of life greatly advanced, through a desire\nof preserving to my countrymen a few notices, which would otherwise be\nlost to them, of two of their greatest favourites. I could once reckon\namong my dearest and most familiar friends, Robert Burns and Robert\nFerguson.\n\nIt is now rather more than sixty years since I studied for a few weeks\nat the University of St. Andrew's. I was the son of very poor parents,\nwho resided in a seaport town on the western coast of Scotland. My\nfather was a house-carpenter, a quiet, serious man, of industrious\nhabits and great simplicity of character, but miserably depressed in his\ncircumstances, through a sickly habit of body: my mother was a\nwarm-hearted, excellent woman, endowed with no ordinary share of shrewd\ngood sense and sound feeling, and indefatigable in her exertions for my\nfather and the family. I was taught to read at a very early age, by an\nold woman in the neighbourhood--such a person as Shenstone describes in\nhis \"Schoolmistress;\" and, being naturally of a reflective turn, I had\nbegun, long ere I had attained my tenth year, to derive almost my sole\namusement from books. I read incessantly; and after exhausting the\nshelves of all the neighbours, and reading every variety of work that\nfell in my way--from \"The Pilgrim's Progress\" of Bunyan, and the Gospel\nSonnets of Erskine, to a treatise on fortification by Vauban, and the\n\"History of the Heavens\" by the Abb\u00e9 Pluche--I would have pined away for\nlack of my accustomed exercise, had not a benevolent baronet in the\nneighbourhood, for whom my father occasionally wrought, taken a fancy to\nme, and thrown open to my perusal a large and well-selected library. Nor\ndid his kindness terminate until, after having secured to me all of\nlearning that the parish school afforded, he had settled me, now in my\nseventeenth year, at the University.\n\nYouth is the season of warm friendships and romantic wishes and hopes.\nWe say of the child, in its first attempts to totter along the wall, or\nwhen it has first learned to rise beside its mother's knee, that it is\nyet too weak to stand alone; and we may employ the same language in\ndescribing a young and ardent mind. It is, like the child, too weak to\nstand alone, and anxiously seeks out some kindred mind on which to lean.\nI had had my intimates at school, who, though of no very superior cast,\nhad served me, if I may so speak, as resting-places, when wearied with\nmy studies, or when I had exhausted my lighter reading; and now, at St.\nAndrew's, where I knew no one, I began to experience the unhappiness of\nan unsatisfied sociality. My schoolfellows were mostly stiff, illiterate\nlads, who, with a little bad Latin and worse Greek, plumed themselves\nmightily on their scholarship; and I had little inducement to form any\nintimacies among them; for, of all men, the ignorant scholar is the\nleast amusing. Among the students of the upper classes, however, there\nwas at least one individual with whom I longed to be acquainted. He was\napparently much about my own age, rather below than above the middle\nsize, and rather delicately than robustly formed; but I have rarely seen\na more elegant figure or more interesting face. His features were small,\nand there was what might perhaps be deemed a too feminine delicacy in\nthe whole contour; but there was a broad and very high expansion of\nforehead, which, even in those days, when we were acquainted with only\nthe phrenology taught by Plato, might be regarded as the index of a\ncapacious and powerful mind; and the brilliant light of his large black\neyes, seemed to give earnest of its activity.\n\n\"Who, in the name of wonder, is that?\" I inquired of a class-fellow, as\nthis interesting-looking young man passed me for the first time.\n\n\"A clever, but very unsettled fellow from Edinburgh,\" replied the lad;\n\"a capital linguist, for he gained our first bursary three years ago;\nbut our Professor says he is certain he will never do any good. He cares\nnothing for the company of scholars like himself; and employs\nhimself--though he excels, I believe, in English composition--in writing\nvulgar Scotch rhymes, like Allan Ramsay. His name is Robert Ferguson.\"\n\nI felt, from this moment, a strong desire to rank among the friends of\none who cared nothing for the company of such men as my class-fellow,\nand who, though acquainted with the literature of England and Rome,\ncould dwell with interest on the simple poetry of his native country.\n\nThere is no place in the neighbourhood of St. Andrew's where a leisure\nhour may be spent more agreeably than among the ruins of the Cathedral.\nI was not slow in discovering the eligibilities of the spot; and it soon\nbecame one of my favourite haunts. One evening, a few weeks after I had\nentered on my course at college, I had seated myself among the ruins in\na little ivied nook fronting the setting sun, and was deeply engaged\nwith the melancholy Jaques in the forest of Ardennes, when, on hearing a\nlight footstep, I looked up, and saw the Edinburgh student whose\nappearance had so interested me, not four yards away. He was busied with\nhis pencil and his tablets, and muttering, as he went, in a half audible\nvoice, what, from the inflection of the tones, seemed to be verse. On\nseeing me, he started, and apologizing, in a few hurried but courteous\nwords, for what he termed the involuntary intrusion, would have passed;\nbut, on my rising and stepping up to him, he stood.\n\n\"I am afraid, Mr. Ferguson,\" I said, \"'tis I who owe _you_ an apology;\nthe ruins have long been yours, and I am but an intruder. But you must\npardon me; I have often heard of them in the west, where they are\nhallowed, even more than they are here, from their connection with the\nhistory of some of our noblest Reformers; and, besides, I see no place\nin the neighbourhood where Shakspeare can be read to more advantage.\"\n\n\"Ah,\" said he, taking the volume out of my hand, \"a reader of Shakspeare\nand an admirer of Knox. I question whether the heresiarch and the poet\nhad much in common.\"\n\n\"Nay, now, Mr. Ferguson,\" I replied, \"you are too true a Scot to\nquestion that. They had much, very much in common. Knox was no rude\nJack Cade, but a great and powerful-minded man; decidedly as much so as\nany of the nobler conceptions of the dramatist--his C\u00e6sars, Brutuses, or\nOthellos. Buchanan could have told you that he had even much of the\nspirit of the poet in him, and wanted only the art; and just remember\nhow Milton speaks of him in his \"Areopagitica.\" Had the poet of\n\"Paradise Lost\" thought regarding him as it has become fashionable to\nthink and speak now, he would hardly have apostrophized him as--_Knox,\nthe reformer of a nation--a great man animated by the spirit of God_.\"\n\n\"Pardon me,\" said the young man, \"I am little acquainted with the prose\nwritings of Milton; and have, indeed, picked up most of my opinions of\nKnox at second-hand. But I have read his _merry_ account of the murder\nof Beaton, and found nothing to alter my preconceived notions of him,\nfrom either the matter or manner of the narrative. Now that I think of\nit, however, my opinion of Bacon would be no very adequate one, were it\nformed solely from the extract of his history of Henry VII., given by\nKaimes in his late publication.--Will you not extend your walk?\"\n\nWe quitted the ruins together, and went sauntering along the shore.\nThere was a rich sunset glow on the water, and the hills that rise on\nthe opposite side of the Frith stretched their undulating line of azure\nunder a gorgeous canopy of crimson and gold. My companion pointed to the\nscene:--\"These glorious clouds,\" he said, \"are but wreaths of vapour;\nand these lovely hills, accumulations of earth and stone. And it is thus\nwith all the past--with the past of our own little histories, that\nborrows so much of its golden beauty from the medium through which we\nsurvey it--with the past, too, of all history. There is poetry in the\nremote--the bleak hill seems a darker firmament, and the chill wreath of\nvapour a river of fire. And you, sir, seem to have contemplated the\nhistory of our stern Reformers through this poetical medium, till you\nforget that the poetry was not in them, but in that through which you\nsurveyed them.\"\n\n\"Ah, Mr. Ferguson,\" I replied, \"you must permit me to make a\ndistinction. I acquiesce fully in the justice of your remark; the\nanalogy, too, is nice and striking, but I would fain carry it a little\nfurther. Every eye can see the beauty of the remote; but there is a\nbeauty in the near--an interest, at least--which every eye cannot see.\nEach of the thousand little plants that spring up at our feet, has an\ninterest and beauty to the botanist; the mineralogist would find\nsomething to engage him in every little stone. And it is thus with the\npoetry of life--all have a sense of it in the remote and the distant;\nbut it is only the men who stand high in the art--its men of profound\nscience--that can discover it in the near. The _mediocre_ poet shares\nbut the commoner gift, and so he seeks his themes in ages or countries\nfar removed from his own; while the man of nobler powers, knowing that\nall nature is instinct with poetry, seeks and finds it in the men and\nscenes in his immediate neighbourhood. As to our Reformers\"----\n\n\"Pardon me,\" said the young poet; \"the remark strikes me, and, ere we\nlose it in something else, I must furnish you with an illustration.\nThere is an acquaintance of mine, a lad much about my own age, greatly\naddicted to the study of poetry. He has been making verses all his\nlife-long; he began ere he had learned to write them even; and his\njudgment has been gradually overgrowing his earlier compositions, as you\nsee the advancing tide rising on the beach and obliterating the prints\non the sand. Now, I have observed, that, in all his earlier\ncompositions, he went far from home; he could not attempt a pastoral\nwithout first transporting himself to the vales of Arcady; or an ode to\nPity or Hope, without losing the warm living sentiment in the dead,\ncold, personifications of the Greek. The Hope and Pity he addressed\nwere, not the undying attendants of human nature, but the shadowy\nspectres of a remote age. Now, however, I feel that a change has come\nover me. I seek for poetry among the fields and cottages of my own land.\nI--a--a--the friend of whom I speak----But I interrupted your remark on\nthe Reformers.\"\n\n\"Nay,\" I replied, \"if you go on so, I would much rather listen than\nspeak. I only meant to say that the Knoxes and Melvilles of our country\nhave been robbed of the admiration and sympathy of many a kindred\nspirit, by the strangely erroneous notions that have been abroad\nregarding them for at least the last two ages. Knox, I am convinced,\nwould have been as great as Jeremy Taylor, had he not been greater.\"\n\nWe sauntered along the shore till the evening had darkened into night,\nlost in an agreeable interchange of thought, \"Ah!\" at length exclaimed\nmy companion, \"I had almost forgotten my engagement, Mr. Lindsay; but it\nmust not part us. You are a stranger here, and I must introduce you to\nsome of my acquaintance. There are a few of us--choice spirits, of\ncourse--who meet every Saturday evening at John Hogg's; and I must just\nbring you to see them. There may be much less wit than mirth among us;\nbut you will find us all sober when at the gayest; and old John will be\nquite a study for you.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\n    \"Say, ye red gowns that aften here,\n    Hae toasted cakes to Katie's beer,\n    Gin e'er thir days hae had their peer,\n                      Sae blythe, sae daft!\n    Ye'll ne'er again in life's career,\n                      Sit half sae saft.\"\n                                    _Elegy on John Hogg._\n\nWe returned to town; and, after threading a few of the narrower lanes,\nentered by a low door into a long dark room, dimly lighted by a fire. A\ntall thin woman was employed in skinning a bundle of dried fish at a\ntable in a corner.\n\n\"Where's the guidman, Kate?\" said my companion, changing the sweet pure\nEnglish in which he had hitherto spoken for his mother tongue.\n\n\"John's ben in the spence,\" replied the woman. \"Little Andrew, the\nwratch, has been makin' a totum wi' his faither's ae razor, an' the puir\nman's trying to shave himsel yonder, an' girnan like a sheep's head on\nthe tangs.\"\n\n\"Oh, the wratch! the ill-deedie wratch!\" said John, stalking into the\nroom in a towering passion, his face covered with suds and scratches--\"I\nmight as weel shave mysel wi' a mussel shillet. Rob Ferguson, man, is\nthat you!\"\n\n\"Wearie warld, John,\" said the poet, \"for a' oor philosophy.\"\n\n\"Philosophy!--it's but a snare, Rob--just vanity an' vexation o'\nspeerit, as Solomon says. An' isna it clear heterodox besides? Ye study\nan' study till your brains gang about like a whirligig; an' then, like\nbairns in a boat that see the land sailin', ye think it's the solid\nyearth that's turnin' roun'. An' this ye ca' philosophy; as if David\nhadna tauld us that the warld sits coshly on the waters, an' canna be\nmoved.\"\n\n\"Hoot, John,\" rejoined my companion, \"it's no me, but Jamie Brown, that\ndiffers wi' you on these matters. I'm a Hoggonian, ye ken. The auld Jews\nwere, doubtless, gran' Christians, an' wherefore no guid philosophers\ntoo? But it was cruel o' you to unkennel me this mornin' afore six, an'\nI up sae lang at my studies the nicht afore.\"\n\n\"Ah, Rob, Rob!\" said John--\"studying in _Tam Dun's_ kirk. Ye'll be a\nminister, like a' the lave.\"\n\n\"Mendin' fast, John,\" rejoined the poet. \"I was in your kirk on Sabbath\nlast, hearing worthy Mr. Corkindale; whatever else he may hae to fear,\nhe's in nae danger o' '_thinking his ain thoughts_,' honest man.\"\n\n\"In oor kirk!\" said John; \"ye're dune, then, wi' precentin' in yer\nain--an' troth nae wonder. What could hae possessed ye to gie up the\npuir chield's name i' the prayer, an' him sittin' at yer lug?\"\n\nI was unacquainted with the circumstance to which he alluded, and\nrequested an explanation. \"Oh, ye see,\" said John, \"Rob, amang a' the\nither gifts that he misguides, has the gift o' a sweet voice; an'\nnaething else would ser' some o' oor Professors than to hae him for\ntheir precentor. They micht as weel hae thocht o' an organ--it wad be\njust as devout; but the soun's everything now, laddie, ye ken, an' the\nheart naething. Weel, Rob, as ye may think, was less than pleased wi'\nthe job, an' tauld them he could whistle better than sing; but it wasna\nthat they wanted, and sae it behoved him to tak his seat in the box. An'\nlest the folk should no be pleased wi' ae key to ae tune, he gied them,\nfor the first twa or three days, a hale bunch to each; an' there was\nnever sic singing in St. Andrew's afore. Weel, but for a' that it\nbehoved him still to precent, though he has got rid o' it at last--for\nwhat did he do twa Sabbaths agone, but put up drucken Tarn Moffat's name\nin the prayer--the very chield that was sittin' at his elbow, though\nthe minister couldna see him. An' when the puir stibbler was prayin' for\nthe reprobate as weel's he could, ae half o' the kirk was needcessitated\nto come oot, that they micht keep decent, an' the ither half to swallow\ntheir pocket napkins. But what think ye\"----\n\n\"Hoot, John, now, leave oot the moral,\" said the poet. \"Here's a' the\nlads.\"\n\nHalf a dozen young students entered as he spoke; and, after a hearty\ngreeting, and when he had introduced me to them one by one, as a choice\nfellow of immense reading, the door was barred, and we sat down to half\na dozen of home brewed, and a huge platter of dried fish. There was much\nmirth and no little humour. Ferguson sat at the head of the table, and\nold John Hogg at the foot. I thought of Eastcheap, and the revels of\nPrince Henry; but our Falstaff was an old Scotch Seceder, and our Prince\na gifted young fellow, who owed all his influence over his fellows to\nthe force of his genius alone.\n\n\"Prithee, Hal,\" I said, \"let us drink to Sir John.\"\n\n\"Why, yes,\" said the poet, \"with all my heart. Not quite so fine a\nfellow, though, 'bating his Scotch honesty. Half Sir John's genius would\nhave served for an epic poet--half his courage for a hero.\"\n\n\"His courage!\" exclaimed one of the lads.\n\n\"Yes, Willie, his courage, man. Do you think a coward could have run\naway with half the coolness? With a tithe of the courage necessary for\nsuch a retreat, a man would have stood and fought till he died. Sir John\nmust have been a fine fellow in his youth.\"\n\n\"In mony a droll way may a man fa' on the drap drink,\" remarked John;\n\"an' meikle ill, dootless, does it do in takin' aff the edge o' the\nspeerit--the mair if the edge be a fine razor edge, an' no the edge o' a\nwhittle. I mind about fifty years ago, when I was a slip o' a\ncallant,\"----\n\n\"Losh, John!\" exclaimed one of the lads, \"hae ye been fechtin wi' the\ncats? sic a scrapit face!\"\n\n\"Wheesht,\" said Ferguson; \"we owe the illustration to that, but dinna\ninterrupt the story.\"\n\n\"Fifty years ago, when I was a slip o' a callant,\" continued John, \"unco\ncurious, an' fond o' kennin everything, as callants will be,\"----\n\n\"Hoot, John,\" said one of the students, interrupting him, \"can ye no cut\nshort, man? Rob promised last Saturday to gie us, 'Fie, let us a' to the\nbridal,' an' ye see the ale an' the nicht's baith wearin' dune.\"\n\n\"The song, Rob, the song!\" exclaimed half a dozen voices at once; and\nJohn's story was lost in the clamour.\n\n\"Nay, now,\" said the good-natured poet, \"that's less than kind; the auld\nman's stories are aye worth the hearing, an' he can relish the\nauld-warld fisher-sang wi' the best o' ye. But we maun hae the story\nyet.\"\n\nHe struck up the old Scotch ditty, \"Fie let us a' to the bridal,\" which\nhe sung with great power and brilliancy; for his voice was a richly\nmodulated one, and there was a fulness of meaning imparted to the words\nwhich wonderfully heightened the effect. \"How strange it is,\" he\nremarked to me when he had finished, \"that our English neighbours deny\nus humour! The songs of no country equal our Scotch ones in that\nquality. Are you acquainted with 'The Guidwife of Auchtermuchty?'\"\n\n\"Well,\" I replied; \"but so are not the English. It strikes me that, with\nthe exception of Smollet's novels, all our Scotch humour is locked up in\nour native tongue. No man can employ in works of humour any language of\nwhich he is not a thorough master; and few of our Scotch writers, with\nall their elegance, have attained the necessary command of that\ncolloquial English which Addison and Swift employed when they were\nmerry.\"\n\n\"A braw redd delivery,\" said John, addressing me. \"Are ye gaun to be a\nminister tae?\"\n\n\"Not quite sure yet,\" I replied.\n\n\"Ah,\" rejoined the old man, \"'twas better for the Kirk when the minister\njust made himsel ready for it, an' then waited till he kent whether it\nwanted him. There's young Rob Ferguson beside you,\"--\n\n\"Setting oot for the Kirk,\" said the young poet, interrupting him, \"an'\nyet drinkin' ale on Saturday at e'en wi' old John Hogg.\"\n\n\"Weel, weel, laddie, it's easier for the best o' us to find fault wi'\nithers than to mend oorsels. Ye have the head, onyhow; but Jamie Brown\ntells me it's a doctor ye're gaun to be, after a'.\"\n\n\"Nonsense, John Hogg--I wonder how a man o' your standing\"----\n\n\"Nonsense, I grant you,\" said one of the students; \"but true enough for\na' that, Bob. Ye see, John, Bob an' I were at the King's Muirs last\nSaturday, an ca'ed at the _pendicle_, in the passing, for a cup o' whey;\nwhen the guidwife tellt us there was ane o' the callants, who had broken\ninto the milk-house twa nichts afore, lyin' ill o' a surfeit. 'Dangerous\ncase,' said Bob; 'but let me see him; I have studied to small purpose if\nI know nothing o' medicine, my good woman.' Weel, the woman was just\nglad enough to bring him to the bedside; an' no wonder--ye never saw a\nwiser phiz in your lives--Dr. Dumpie's was naething till't; an', after\nhe had sucked the head o' his stick for ten minutes, an' fand the loon's\npulse, an' asked mair questions than the guidwife liked to answer, he\nprescribed. But, losh! sic a prescription! A day's fasting an' twa\nladles o' nettle kail was the gist o't; but then there went mair Latin\nto the tail o' that, than oor neebor the Doctor ever had to lose.\"\n\nBut I dwell too long on the conversation of this evening. I feel,\nhowever, a deep interest in recalling it to memory. The education of\nFerguson was of a twofold character--he studied in the schools and among\nthe people; but it was in the latter tract alone that he acquired the\nmaterials of all his better poetry; and I feel as if, for at least one\nbrief evening, I was admitted to the privileges of a class-fellow, and\nsat with him on the same form. The company broke up a little after ten;\nand I did not again hear of John Hogg till I read his elegy, about four\nyears after, among the poems of my friend. It is by no means one of the\nhappiest pieces in the volume, nor, it strikes me, highly\ncharacteristic; but I have often perused it with an interest very\nindependent of its merits.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\n    \"But he is weak--both man and boy\n     Has been an idler in the land.\"--WORDSWORTH.\n\n\nI was attempting to listen, on the evening of the following Sunday, to a\ndull, listless discourse--one of the discourses so common at this\nperiod, in which there was fine writing without genius, and fine\nreligion without Christianity--when a person who had just taken his\nplace beside me, tapped me on the shoulder, and thrust a letter into my\nhand. It was my newly-acquired friend of the previous evening; and we\nshook hands heartily under the pew.\n\n\"That letter has just been handed me by an acquaintance from your part\nof the country,\" he whispered; \"I trust it contains nothing unpleasant.\"\n\nI raised it to the light, and on ascertaining that it was sealed and\nedged with black, rose and quitted the church, followed by my friend. It\nintimated, in two brief lines that my patron, the baronet, had been\nkilled by a fall from his horse a few evenings before; and that, dying\nintestate the allowance which had hitherto enabled me to prosecute my\nstudies necessarily dropped. I crumpled up the paper in my hand.\n\n\"You have learned something very unpleasant,\" said Ferguson. \"Pardon\nme--I have no wish to intrude; but, if at all agreeable, I would fain\nspend the evening with you.\"\n\nMy heart filled, and grasping his hand, I briefly intimated the purport\nof the communication, and we walked out together in the direction of the\nruins.\n\n\"It is, perhaps, as hard, Mr. Ferguson,\" I said, \"to fall from one's\nhopes as from the place to which they pointed. I was ambitious--too\nambitious, it may be--to rise from that level on which man acts the part\nof a machine, and tasks merely his body, to that higher level on which\nhe performs the proper part of a rational creature, and employs only his\nmind. But that ambition need influence me no longer. My poor mother,\ntoo--I had trusted to be of use to her.\"\n\n\"Ah, my friend,\" said Ferguson, \"I can tell you of a case quite as\nhopeless as your own--perhaps more so. But it will make you deem my\nsympathy the result of mere selfishness. In scarce any respect do our\ncircumstances differ.\"\n\nWe had reached the ruins: the evening was calm and mild as when I had\nwalked out on the preceding one; but the hour was earlier, and the sun\nhung higher over the hill. A newly-formed grave occupied the level spot\nin front of the little ivied corner.\n\n\"Let us seat ourselves here,\" said my companion, \"and I will tell you a\nstory--I am afraid a rather tame one; for there is nothing of adventure\nin it, and nothing of incident; but it may at least show you that I am\nnot unfitted to be your friend. It is now nearly two years since I lost\nmy father. He was no common man--common neither in intellect nor in\nsentiment; but though he once fondly hoped it should be otherwise--for\nin early youth he indulged in all the dreams of the poet--he now fills a\ngrave as nameless as the one before us. He was a native of\nAberdeenshire; but held, latterly, an inferior situation in the office\nof the British Linen Company in Edinburgh, where I was born. Ever since\nI remember him, he had awakened too fully to the realities of life, and\nthey pressed too hard on his spirits, to leave him space for the\nindulgence of his earlier fancies; but he could dream for his children,\nthough not for himself; or, as I should perhaps rather say, his children\nfell heir to all his more juvenile hopes of fortune, and influence, and\nspace in the world's eye;--and, for himself, he indulged in hopes of a\nlater growth and firmer texture, which pointed from the present scene of\nthings to the future. I have an only brother, my senior by several\nyears, a lad of much energy, both physical and mental; in brief, one of\nthose mixtures of reflection and activity which seem best formed for\nrising in the world. My father deemed him most fitted for commerce, and\nhad influence enough to get him introduced into the counting-house of a\nrespectable Edinburgh merchant. I was always of a graver turn--in part,\nperhaps, the effect of less robust health--and me he intended for the\nChurch. I have been a dreamer, Mr. Lindsay, from my earliest\nyears--prone to melancholy, and fond of books and of solitude; and the\npeculiarities of this temperament the sanguine old man, though no mean\njudge of character, had mistaken for a serious and reflective\ndisposition. You are acquainted with literature, and know something,\nfrom books at least, of the lives of literary men. Judge, then, of his\nprospect of usefulness in any profession, who has lived, ever since he\nknew himself, among the poets. My hopes, from my earliest years, have\nbeen hopes of celebrity as a writer--not of wealth, or of influence, or\nof accomplishing any of the thousand aims which furnish the great bulk\nof mankind with motives. You will laugh at me. There is something so\nemphatically shadowy and unreal in the object of this ambition, that\neven the full attainment of it provokes a smile. For who does not know\n\n    'How vain that second life in others' breath,\n     The estate which wits inherit after death!'\n\nAnd what can be more fraught with the ludicrous than a union of this\nshadowy ambition with _mediocre_ parts and attainments! But I digress.\n\n\"It is now rather more than three years since I entered the classes\nhere. I competed for a bursary, and was fortunate enough to secure one.\nBelieve me, Mr. Lindsay, I am little ambitious of the fame of mere\nscholarship, and yet I cannot express to you the triumph of that day. I\nhad seen my poor father labouring, far, far beyond his strength, for my\nbrother and myself--closely engaged during the day with his duties in\nthe bank, and copying at night in a lawyer's office. I had seen, with a\nthrobbing heart, his tall wasted frame becoming tremulous and bent, and\nthe grey hair thinning on his temples; and I now felt that I could ease\nhim of at least part of the burden. In the excitement of the moment, I\ncould hope that I was destined to rise in the world--to gain a name in\nit, and something more. You know how a slight success grows in\nimportance when we can deem it the earnest of future good fortune. I\nmet, too, with a kind and influential friend in one of the professors,\nthe late Dr. Wilkie. Alas! good, benevolent man! you may see his tomb\nyonder beside the wall; and, on my return from St. Andrew's, at the\nclose of the session, I found my father on his deathbed. My brother\nHenry--who had been unfortunate, and, I am afraid, something worse--had\nquitted the counting-house and entered aboard of a man-of-war as a\ncommon sailor; and the poor old man, whose heart had been bound up in\nhim, never held up his head after.\n\n\"On the evening of my father's funeral, I could have lain down and died.\nI never before felt how thoroughly I am unfitted for the world--how\ntotally I want strength. My father, I have said, had intended me for the\nChurch; and, in my progress onward from class to class, and from school\nto college, I had thought but little of each particular step, as it\nengaged me for the time, and nothing of the ultimate objects to which it\nled. All my more vigorous aspirations were directed to a remote future\nand an unsubstantial shadow. But I had witnessed, beside my father's\nbed, what had led me seriously to reflect on the ostensible aim for\nwhich I lived and studied; and the more carefully I weighed myself in\nthe balance, the more did I find myself awanting. You have heard of Mr.\nBrown of the Secession, the author of the \"Dictionary of the Bible.\" He\nwas an old acquaintance of my father's; and, on hearing of his illness,\nhad come all the way from Haddington to see him. I felt, for the first\ntime, as kneeling beside his bed, I heard my father's breathings\nbecoming every moment shorter and more difficult, and listened to the\nprayers of the clergyman, that I had no business in the Church. And thus\nI still continue to feel. 'Twere an easy matter to produce such things\nas pass for sermons among us, and to go respectably enough through the\nmere routine of the profession; but I cannot help feeling that, though I\nmight do all this and more, my duty, as a clergyman, would be still left\nundone. I want singleness of aim--I want earnestness of heart. I cannot\nteach men effectually how to live well; I cannot show them, with aught\nof confidence, how they may die safe. I cannot enter the Church without\nacting the part of a hypocrite; and the miserable part of the hypocrite\nit shall never be mine to act. Heaven help me! I am too little a\npractical moralist myself to attempt teaching morals to others.\n\n\"But I must conclude my story, if story it may be called:--I saw my\npoor mother and my little sister deprived, by my father's death, of\ntheir sole stay, and strove to exert myself in their behalf. In the\ndaytime I copied in a lawyer's office; my nights were spent among the\npoets. You will deem it the very madness of vanity, Mr. Lindsay; but I\ncould not live without my dreams of literary eminence. I felt that life\nwould be a blank waste without them; and I feel so still. Do not laugh\nat my weakness, when I say I would rather live in the memory of my\ncountry than enjoy her fairest lands--that I dread a nameless grave many\ntimes more than the grave itself. But, I am afraid, the life of the\nliterary aspirant is rarely a happy one; and I, alas! am one of the\nweakest of the class. It is of importance that the means of living be\nnot disjoined from the end for which we live; and I feel that, in my\ncase, the disunion is complete. The wants and evils of life are around\nme; but the energies through which those should be provided for, and\nthese warded off, are otherwise employed. I am like a man pressing\nonward through a hot and bloody fight, his breast open to every blow,\nand tremblingly alive to the sense of injury and the feeling of pain,\nbut totally unprepared either to attack or defend. And then those\nmiserable depressions of spirits to which all men who draw largely on\ntheir imagination are so subject; and that wavering irregularity of\neffort which seems so unavoidably the effect of pursuing a distant and\ndoubtful aim, and which proves so hostile to the formation of every\nbetter habit--alas! to a steady morality itself. But I weary you, Mr.\nLindsay; besides, my story is told. I am groping onward, I know not\nwhither; and, in a few months hence, when my last session shall have\nclosed, I shall be exactly where you are at present.\"\n\nHe ceased speaking, and there was a pause of several minutes. I felt\nsoothed and gratified. There was a sweet melancholy music in the tones\nof his voice, that sunk to my very heart; and the confidence he reposed\nin me flattered my pride. \"How was it,\" I at length said, \"that you were\nthe gayest in the party of last night?\"\n\n\"I do not know that I can better answer you,\" he replied, \"than by\ntelling you a singular dream which I had about the time of my father's\ndeath. I dreamed that I had suddenly quitted the world, and was\njourneying, by a long and dreary passage, to the place of final\npunishment. A blue, dismal light glimmered along the lower wall of the\nvault; and, from the darkness above, where there flickered a thousand\nundefined shapes--things without form or outline--I could hear\ndeeply-drawn sighs, and long hollow groans and convulsive sobbings, and\nthe prolonged moanings of an unceasing anguish. I was aware, however,\nthough I knew not how, that these were but the expressions of a lesser\nmisery, and that the seats of severer torment were still before me. I\nwent on and on, and the vault widened, and the light increased, and the\nsounds changed. There were loud laughters and low mutterings, in the\ntone of ridicule; and shouts of triumph and exultation; and, in brief,\nall the thousand mingled tones of a gay and joyous revel. Can these, I\nexclaimed, be the sounds of misery when at the deepest? 'Bethink thee,'\nsaid a shadowy form beside me--'bethink thee if it be not so on earth.'\nAnd as I remembered that it was so, and bethought me of the mad revels\nof shipwrecked seamen and of plague-stricken cities, I awoke. But on\nthis subject you must spare me.\"\n\n\"Forgive me,\" I said; \"to-morrow I leave college, and not with the less\nreluctance that I must part from you. But I shall yet find you occupying\na place among the _literati_ of our country, and shall remember, with\npride, that you were my friend.\"\n\nHe sighed deeply. \"My hopes rise and fall with my spirits,\" he said;\n\"and to-night I am melancholy. Do you ever go to buffets with yourself,\nMr. Lindsay? Do you ever mock, in your sadder moods, the hopes which\nrender you happiest when you are gay? Ah! 'tis bitter warfare when a man\ncontends with Hope!--when he sees her, with little aid from the\npersonifying influence, as a thing distinct from himself--a lying spirit\nthat comes to flatter and deceive him. It is thus I see her to-night.\n\n   \"See'st thou that grave?--does mortal know\n    Aught of the dust that lies below?\n    'Tis foul, 'tis damp, 'tis void of form--\n    A bed where winds the loathsome worm;\n    A little heap, mouldering and brown,\n    Like that on flowerless meadow thrown\n    By mossy stream, when winter reigns\n    O'er leafless woods and wasted plains:\n    And yet that brown, damp, formless heap\n    Once glowed with feelings keen and deep;\n    Once eyed the light, once heard each sound\n    Of earth, air, wave, that murmurs round.\n    But now, ah! now, the name it bore,\n    Sex, age, or form, is known no more.\n    This, this alone, O Hope! I know,\n    That once the dust that lies below,\n    Was, like myself, of human race,\n    And made this world its dwelling-place.\n    Ah! this, when death has swept away\n    The myriads of life's present day,\n    Though bright the visions raised by thee,\n    Will all my fame, my history be!\"\n\nWe quitted the ruins and returned to town.\n\n\"Have you yet formed,\" inquired my companion, \"any plan for the future?\"\n\n\"I quit St. Andrew's,\" I replied, \"to-morrow morning. I have an uncle,\nthe master of a West Indiaman, now in the Clyde. Some years ago I had a\nfancy for the life of a sailor, which has evaporated, however, with many\nof my other boyish fancies and predilections; but I am strong and\nactive, and it strikes me there is less competition on sea at present\nthan on land. A man of tolerable steadiness and intelligence has a\nbetter chance of rising as a sailor than as a mechanic. I shall set out,\ntherefore, with my uncle on his first voyage.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\n   \"At first, I thought the swankie didna ill--\n    Again I glowr'd, to hear him better still;\n    Bauld, slee, an' sweet, his lines mair glorious grew,\n    Glow'd round the heart, an' glanc'd the soul out through.\"\n                                            ALEXANDER WILSON.\n\n\nI had seen both the Indies and traversed the wide Pacific, ere I again\nset foot on the Eastern coast of Scotland. My uncle, the shipmaster, was\ndead, and I was still a common sailor; but I was light-hearted and\nskilful in my profession, and as much inclined to hope as ever. Besides,\nI had begun to doubt, and there cannot be a more consoling doubt when\none is unfortunate, whether a man may not enjoy as much happiness in the\nlower walks of life as in the upper. In one of my later voyages, the\nvessel in which I sailed had lain for several weeks at Boston in North\nAmerica--then a scene of those fierce and angry contentions which\neventually separated the colonies from the mother country; and when in\nthis place, I had become acquainted, by the merest accident in the\nworld, with the brother of my friend the poet. I was passing through one\nof the meaner lanes, when I saw my old college friend, as I thought,\nlooking out at me from the window of a crazy wooden building--a sort of\nfencing academy, much frequented, I was told, by the Federalists of\nBoston. I crossed the lane in two huge strides.\n\n\"Mr. Ferguson,\" I said--\"Mr. Ferguson,\" for he was withdrawing his head,\n\"do you not remember me?\"\n\n\"Not quite sure,\" he replied; \"I have met with many sailors in my time;\nbut I must just see.\"\n\nHe had stepped down to the door ere I had discovered my mistake. He was\na taller and stronger-looking man than my friend, and his senior\napparently by six or eight years; but nothing could be more striking\nthan the resemblance which he bore to him, both in face and figure. I\napologized.\n\n\"But have you not a brother, a native of Edinburgh,\" I inquired, \"who\nstudied at St. Andrew's about four years ago?--never before, certainly,\ndid I see so remarkable a likeness.\"\n\n--\"As that which I bear to Robert?\" he said. \"Happy to hear it. Robert\nis a brother of whom a man may well be proud, and I am glad to resemble\nhim in any way. But you must go in with me, and tell me all you know\nregarding him. He was a thin pale slip of a boy when I left Scotland--a\nmighty reader, and fond of sauntering into by-holes and corners; I\nscarcely knew what to make of him; but he has made much of himself. His\nname has been blown far and wide within the last two years.\"\n\nHe showed me through a large waste apartment, furnished with a few deal\nseats, and with here and there a fencing foil leaning against the wall,\ninto a sort of closet at the upper end, separated from the main room by\na partition of undressed slabs. There was a charcoal stove in the one\ncorner, and a truckle bed in the other; a few shelves laden with books\nran along the wall; there was a small chest raised on a stool\nimmediately below the window, to serve as a writing desk, and another\nstool standing beside it. A few cooking utensils scattered round the\nroom, and a corner cupboard, completed the entire furniture of the\nplace.\n\n\"There is a certain limited number born to be rich, Jack,\" said my new\ncompanion, \"and I just don't happen to be among them; but I have one\nstool for myself, you see, and, now that I have unshipped my desk,\nanother for a visitor, and so get on well enough.\"\n\nI related briefly the story of my intimacy with his brother; and we were\nsoon on such terms as to be in a fair way of emptying a bottle of rum\ntogether.\n\n\"You remind me of old times,\" said my new acquaintance. \"I am weary of\nthese illiterate, boisterous, longsided Americans, who talk only of\npolitics and dollars. And yet there are first-rate men among them too. I\nmet, some years since, with a Philadelphia printer, whom I cannot help\nregarding as one of the ablest, best-informed men I ever conversed with.\nBut there is nothing like general knowledge among the average class; a\nmighty privilege of conceit, however.\"\n\n\"They are just in that stage,\" I remarked, \"in which it needs all the\nvigour of an able man to bring his mind into anything like cultivation.\nThere must be many more facilities of improvement ere the mediocritist\ncan develop himself. He is in the egg still in America, and must sleep\nthere till the next age.--But when last heard you of your brother?\"\n\n\"Why,\" he replied, \"when all the world heard of him--with the last\nnumber of _Ruddiman's Magazine_. Where can you have been bottled up from\nliterature of late? Why, man, Robert stands first among our Scotch\npoets.\"\n\n\"Ah! 'tis long since I have anticipated something like that for him,\" I\nsaid; \"but, for the last two years, I have seen only two books,\nShakspeare and 'The Spectator.' Pray, do show me some of the magazines.\"\n\nThe magazines were produced; and I heard, for the first time, in a\nforeign land and from the recitation of the poet's brother, some of the\nmost national and most highly-finished of his productions. My eyes\nfilled and my heart wandered to Scotland and her cottage homes, as,\nshutting the book, he repeated to me, in a voice faltering with emotion,\nstanza after stanza of the \"Farmer's Ingle.\"\n\n\"Do you not see it?--do you not see it all?\" exclaimed my companion;\n\"the wide smoky room, with the bright turf fire, the blackened rafters\nshining above, the straw-wrought settle below, the farmer and the\nfarmer's wife, and auld grannie and the bairns. Never was there truer\npainting; and, oh, how it works on a Scotch heart! But hear this other\npiece.\"\n\nHe read \"Sandy and Willie.\"\n\n\"Far, far ahead of Ramsay,\" I exclaimed. \"More imagination, more spirit,\nmore intellect, and as much truth and nature. Robert has gained his end\nalready. Hurra for poor old Scotland!--these pieces must live for ever.\nBut do repeat to me the 'Farmer's Ingle' once more.\"\n\nWe read, one by one, all the poems in the magazine, dwelling on each\nstanza, and expatiating on every recollection of home which the images\nawakened. My companion was, like his brother, a kind, open-hearted man,\nof superior intellect; much less prone to despondency, however, and of a\nmore equal temperament. Ere we parted, which was not until next morning,\nhe had communicated to me all his plans for the future, and all his\nfondly cherished hopes of returning to Scotland with wealth enough to be\nof use to his friends. He seemed to be one of those universal geniuses\nwho do a thousand things well, but want steadiness enough to turn any of\nthem to good account. He showed me a treatise on the use of the sword,\nwhich he had just prepared for the press; and a series of letters on the\nstamp act, which had appeared, from time to time, in one of the Boston\nnewspapers, and in which he had taken part with the Americans.\n\n\"I make a good many dollars in these stirring times,\" he said. \"All the\nYankees seem to be of opinion that they will be best heard across the\nwater when they have got arms in their hands, and have learned how to\nuse them; and I know a little of both the sword and the musket. But the\nwarlike spirit is frightfully thirsty, somehow, and consumes a world of\nrum; and so I have not yet begun to make rich.\"\n\nHe shared with me his supper and bed for the night; and, after rising in\nthe morning ere I awoke, and writing a long letter for Robert, which he\ngave me in the hope I might soon meet with him, he accompanied me to the\nvessel, then on the eve of sailing, and we parted, as it proved, for\never. I know nothing of his after life, or how or where it terminated;\nbut I have learned that, shortly before the death of his gifted brother,\nhis circumstances enabled him to send his mother a small remittance for\nthe use of the family. He was evidently one of the kind-hearted,\nimprovident few, who can share a very little, and whose destiny it is to\nhave only a very little to share.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\n   \"O Ferguson! thy glorious parts\n    Ill suited law's dry, musty arts!\n    My curse upon your whunstane hearts,\n      Ye Embrugh gentry!\n    The tithe o' what ye waste at cartes\n      Wad stow'd his pantry!\"\n                                     BURNS.\n\n\nI visited Edinburgh, for the first time, in the latter part of the\nautumn of 1773, about two months after I had sailed from Boston. It was\non a fine calm morning--one of those clear sunshiny mornings of October,\nwhen the gossamer goes sailing about in long cottony threads, so light\nand fleecy that they seem the skeleton remains of extinct cloudlets; and\nwhen the distant hills, with their covering of grey frost rime, seem,\nthrough the clear cold atmosphere, as if chiselled in marble. The sun\nwas rising over the town through a deep blood-coloured haze--the smoke\nof a thousand fires; and the huge fantastic piles of masonry that\nstretched along the ridge, looked dim and spectral through the cloud,\nlike the ghosts of an army of giants. I felt half a foot taller as I\nstrode on towards the town. It was Edinburgh I was approaching--the\nscene of so many proud associations to a lover of Scotland; and I was\ngoing to meet as an early friend one of the first of Scottish poets. I\nentered the town. There was a book stall in a corner of the street; and\nI turned aside for half a minute to glance my eye over the books.\n\n\"Ferguson's Poems!\" I exclaimed, taking up a little volume. \"I was not\naware they had appeared in a separate form. How do you sell this?\"\n\n\"Just like a' the ither booksellers,\" said the man who kept the\nstall--\"that's nane o' the buiks that come doun in a hurry--just for the\nmarked selling price.\" I threw down the money.\n\n\"Could you tell me anything of the writer?\" I said. \"I have a letter for\nhim from America.\"\n\n\"Oh, that'll be frae his brither Henry, I'll wad; a clever cheild too,\nbut ower fond o' the drap drink, maybe, like Rob himsel'. Baith o' them\nfine humane chields, though, without a grain o' pride. Rob takes a stan'\nwi' me sometimes o' half an hour at a time, an' we clatter ower the\nbuiks; an', if I'm no mista'en, yon's him just yonder--the thin, pale\nslip o' a lad wi' the broad brow. Ay, an' he's just comin' this way.\"\n\n\"Anything new to-day, Thomas?\" said the young man, coming up to the\nstall. \"I want a cheap second-hand copy of Ramsay's 'Evergreen;' and,\nlike a good man as you are, you must just try and find it for me.\"\n\nThough considerably altered--for he was taller and thinner than when at\ncollege, and his complexion had assumed a deep sallow hue--I recognised\nhim at once, and presented him with the letter.\n\n\"Ah! from brother Henry,\" said he, breaking it open, and glancing his\neye over the contents. \"What--_old college chum, Mr. Lindsay_!\" he\nexclaimed, turning to me. \"Yes, sure enough; how happy I am we should\nhave met! Come this way--let us get out of the streets.\"\n\nWe passed hurriedly through the Canongate and along the front of\nHolyrood-house, and were soon in the King's Park, which seemed this\nmorning as if left to ourselves.\n\n\"Dear me, and this is you yourself!--and we have again met, Mr.\nLindsay!\" said Ferguson; \"I thought we were never to meet more. Nothing,\nfor a long time, has made me half so glad. And so you have been a sailor\nfor the last four years. Do let us sit down here in the warm sunshine,\nbeside St. Anthony's Well, and tell me all your story, and how you\nhappened to meet with brother Henry.\"\n\nWe sat down, and I briefly related, at his bidding, all that had\nbefallen me since we had parted at St. Andrew's, and how I was still a\ncommon sailor, but, in the main, perhaps, not less happy than many who\ncommanded a fleet.\n\n\"Ah, you have been a fortunate fellow,\" he said; \"you have seen much and\nenjoyed much; and I have been rusting in unhappiness at home. Would that\nI had gone to sea along with you!\"\n\n\"Nay, now, that won't do,\" I replied. \"But you are merely taking Bacon's\nmethod of blunting the edge of envy. You have scarcely yet attained the\nyears of mature manhood, and yet your name has gone abroad over the\nwhole length and breadth of the land, and over many other lands besides.\nI have cried over your poems three thousand miles away, and felt all the\nprouder of my country for the sake of my friend. And yet you would fain\npersuade me that you wish the charm reversed, and that you were just\nsuch an obscure salt-water man as myself!\"\n\n\"You remember,\" said my companion, \"the story of the half-man,\nhalf-marble prince of the Arabian tale. One part was a living creature,\none part a stone; but the parts were incorporated, and the mixture was\nmisery. I am just such a poor unhappy creature as the enchanted prince\nof the story.\"\n\n\"You surprise and distress me,\" I rejoined. \"Have you not accomplished\nall you so fondly purposed--realized even your warmest wishes? And this,\ntoo, in early life. Your most sanguine hopes pointed but to a name,\nwhich you yourself perhaps was never to hear, but which was to dwell on\nmen's tongues when the grave had closed over you. And now the name is\ngained, and you live to enjoy it. I see the _living_ part of your lot,\nand it seems instinct with happiness; but in what does the _dead_, the\nstony part, consist?\"\n\nHe shook his head, and looked up mournfully in my face; there was a\npause of a few seconds. \"You, Mr. Lindsay,\" he at length replied, \"you\nwho are of an equable steady temperament, can know little, from\nexperience, of the unhappiness of the man who lives only in extremes,\nwho is either madly gay or miserably depressed. Try and realize the\nfeelings of one whose mind is like a broken harp--all the medium tones\ngone, and only the higher and lower left; of one, too, whose\ncircumstances seem of a piece with his mind, who can enjoy the exercise\nof his better powers, and yet can only live by the monotonous drudgery\nof copying page after page in a clerk's office; of one who is\ncontinually either groping his way amid a chill melancholy fog of\nnervous depression, or carried headlong, by a wild gaiety, to all which\nhis better judgment would instruct him to avoid; of one who, when he\nindulges most in the pride of superior intellect, cannot away with the\nthought that that intellect is on the eve of breaking up, and that he\nmust yet rate infinitely lower in the scale of rationality than any of\nthe nameless thousands who carry on the ordinary concerns of life around\nhim.\"\n\nI was grieved and astonished, and knew not what to answer. \"You are in a\ngloomy mood to-day,\" I at length said; \"you are immersed in one of the\nfogs you describe; and all the surrounding objects take a tinge of\ndarkness from the medium through which you survey them. Come, now, you\nmust make an exertion, and shake off your melancholy. I have told you\nall my story, as I best could, and you must tell me all yours in\nreturn.\"\n\n\"Well,\" he replied, \"I shall, though it mayn't be the best way in the\nworld of dissipating my melancholy. I think I must have told you, when\nat college, that I had a maternal uncle of considerable wealth, and, as\nthe world goes, respectability, who resided in Aberdeenshire. He was\nplaced on what one may term the table-land of society; and my poor\nmother, whose recollections of him were limited to a period when there\nis warmth in the feelings of the most ordinary minds, had hoped that he\nwould willingly exert his influence in my behalf. Much, doubtless,\ndepends on one's setting out in life; and it would have been something\nto have been enabled to step into it from a level like that occupied by\nmy relative. I paid him a visit shortly after leaving college, and met\nwith apparent kindness. But I can see beyond the surface, Mr. Lindsay,\nand I soon saw that my uncle was entirely a different man from the\nbrother whom my mother remembered. He had risen, by a course of slow\nindustry, from comparative poverty, and his feelings had worn out in the\nprocess. The character was case-hardened all over; and the polish it\nbore--for I have rarely met a smoother man--seemed no improvement. He\nwas, in brief, one of the class content to dwell for ever in mere\ndecencies, with consciences made up of the conventional moralities, who\nthink by precedent, bow to public opinion as their god, and estimate\nmerit by its weight in guineas.\"\n\n\"And so your visit,\" I said, \"was a very brief one?\"\n\n\"You distress me,\" he replied. \"It should have been so; but it was not.\nBut what could I do? Ever since my father's death I had been taught to\nconsider this man as my natural guardian, and I was now unwilling to\npart with my last hope. But this is not all. Under much apparent\nactivity, my friend, there is a substratum of apathetical indolence in\nmy disposition: I move rapidly when in motion, but when at rest there is\na dull inertness in the character, which the will, when unassisted by\npassion, is too feeble to overcome. Poor, weak creature that I am! I had\nsitten down by my uncle's fireside, and felt unwilling to rise. Pity me,\nmy friend--I deserve your pity--but, oh, do not despise me!\"\n\n\"Forgive me, Mr. Ferguson,\" I said; \"I have given you pain--but surely\nmost unwittingly.\"\n\n\"I am ever a fool,\" he continued; \"but my story lags; and, surely, there\nis little in it on which it were pleasure to dwell. I sat at this man's\ntable for six months, and saw, day after day, his manner towards me\nbecoming more constrained and his politeness more cold; and yet I staid\non, till at last my clothes were worn threadbare, and he began to feel\nthat the shabbiness of the nephew affected the respectability of the\nuncle. His friend the soap-boiler, and his friend the oil-merchant, and\nhis friend the manager of the hemp manufactory, with their wives and\ndaughters--all people of high standing in the world--occasionally\nhonoured his table with their presence, and how could he be other than\nashamed of mine? It vexes me that I cannot even yet be cool on the\nsubject--it vexes me that a creature so sordid should have so much the\npower to move me--but I cannot, I cannot master my feelings. He--he told\nme--and with whom should the blame rest, but with the weak, spiritless\nthing who lingered on in mean, bitter dependence, to hear what he had to\ntell?--he told me that all his friends were respectable, and that my\nappearance was no longer that of a person whom he could wish to see at\nhis table, or introduce to any one as his nephew. And I had staid to\nhear all this!\n\n\"I can hardly tell you how I got home. I travelled, stage after stage,\nalong the rough dusty roads, with a weak and feverish body, and almost\ndespairing mind. On meeting with my mother, I could have laid my head on\nher bosom and cried like a child. I took to my bed in a high fever, and\ntrusted that all my troubles were soon to terminate; but, when the die\nwas cast, it turned up life. I resumed my old miserable employments--for\nwhat could I else?--and, that I might be less unhappy in the prosecution\nof them, my old amusements too. I copied during the day in a clerk's\noffice that I might live, and wrote during the night that I might be\nknown. And I have in part, perhaps, attained my object. I have pursued\nand caught hold of the shadow on which my heart had been so long set;\nand if it prove empty, and untangible, and unsatisfactory, like every\nother shadow, the blame surely must rest with the pursuer, not with the\nthing pursued. I weary you, Mr. Lindsay; but one word more. There are\nhours when the mind, weakened by exertion, or by the teazing monotony of\nan employment which tasks without exercising it, can no longer exert its\npowers, and when, feeling that sociality is a law of our nature, we seek\nthe society of our fellow-men. With a creature so much the sport of\nimpulse as I am, it is of these hours of weakness that conscience takes\nmost note. God help me! I have been told that life is short; but it\nstretches on, and on, and on before me; and I know not how it is to be\npassed through.\"\n\nMy spirits had so sunk during this singular conversation, that I had no\nheart to reply.\n\n\"You are silent, Mr. Lindsay,\" said the poet; \"I have made you as\nmelancholy as myself; but look around you, and say if ever you have seen\na lovelier spot. See how richly the yellow sunshine slants along the\ngreen sides of Arthur's Seat, and how the thin blue smoke, that has come\nfloating from the town, fills the bottom of yonder grassy dell, as if it\nwere a little lake. Mark, too, how boldly the cliffs stand out along its\nsides, each with its little patch of shadow. And here, beside us, is St.\nAnthony's Well, so famous in song, coming gushing out to the sunshine,\nand then gliding away through the grass like a snake. Had the Deity\npurposed that man should be miserable, he would surely never have placed\nhim in so fair a world. Perhaps much of our unhappiness originates in\nour mistaking our proper scope, and thus setting out from the first with\na false aim.\"\n\n\"Unquestionably,\" I replied, \"there is no man who has not some part to\nperform; and, if it be a great and uncommon part, and the powers which\nfit him for it proportionably great and uncommon, nature would be in\nerror could he slight it with impunity. See, there is a wild bee bending\nthe flower beside you. Even that little creature has a capacity of\nhappiness and misery; it derives its sense of pleasure from whatever\nruns in the line of its instincts, its experience of unhappiness from\nwhatever thwarts and opposes them; and can it be supposed that so wise a\nlaw should regulate the instincts of only inferior creatures? No, my\nfriend, it is surely a law of our nature also.\"\n\n\"And have you not something else to infer?\" said the poet.\n\n\"Yes,\" I replied, \"that you are occupied differently from what the scope\nand constitution of your mind demand; differently both in your hours of\nemployment and of relaxation. But do take heart, you will yet find your\nproper place, and all shall be well.\"\n\n\"Alas! no, my friend,\" said he, rising from the sward. \"I could once\nentertain such a hope; but I cannot now. My mind is no longer what it\nwas to me in my happier days, a sort of _terra incognita_, without\nbounds or limits. I can see over and beyond it, and have fallen from all\nmy hopes regarding it. It is not so much the gloom of present\ncircumstances that disheartens me, as a depressing knowledge of myself,\nan abiding conviction that I am a weak dreamer, unfitted for every\noccupation of life, and not less so for the greater employments of\nliterature than for any of the others. I feel that I am a little man and\na little poet, with barely vigour enough to make one half effort at a\ntime, but wholly devoid of the sustaining will, that highest faculty of\nthe highest order of minds, which can direct a thousand vigorous efforts\nto the accomplishment of one important object. Would that I could\nexchange my half celebrity--and it can never be other than a half\ncelebrity--for a temper as equable and a fortitude as unshrinking as\nyours! But I weary you with my complaints; I am a very coward; and you\nwill deem me as selfish as I am weak.\"\n\nWe parted. The poet, sadly and unwillingly, went to copy deeds in the\noffice of the commissary clerk, and I, almost reconciled to obscurity\nand hard labour, to assist in unloading a Baltic trader in the harbour\nof Leith.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\n         \"Speech without aim and without end employ.\"--CRABBE.\n\n\nAfter the lapse of nine months, I again returned to Edinburgh. During\nthat period, I had been so shut out from literature and the world, that\nI had heard nothing of my friend the poet; and it was with a beating\nheart I left the vessel, on my first leisure evening, to pay him a\nvisit. It was about the middle of July; the day had been close and\nsultry, and the heavens overcharged with grey ponderous clouds; and, as\nI passed hurriedly along the walk which leads from Leith to Edinburgh, I\ncould hear the newly awakened thunder, bellowing far in the south, peal\nafter peal, like the artillery of two hostile armies. I reached the door\nof the poet's humble domicile, and had raised my hand to the knocker,\nwhen I heard some one singing from within, in a voice by far the most\ntouchingly mournful I had ever listened to. The tones struck on my\nheart; and a frightful suspicion crossed my mind, as I set down the\nknocker, that the singer was no other than my friend. But in what\nwretched circumstances! what fearful state of mind! I shuddered as I\nlistened, and heard the strain waxing louder and yet more mournful, and\ncould distinguish that the words were those of a simple old ballad:--\n\n   \"O Marti'mas wind, when wilt thou blaw,\n      An' shake the green leaves aff the tree?\n    O gentle death, when wilt thou come,\n      An' tak a life that wearies me?\"\n\nI could listen no longer, but raised the latch and went in. The evening\nwas gloomy, and the apartment ill lighted; but I could see the singer, a\nspectral-looking figure, sitting on a bed in the corner, with the\nbedclothes wrapped round his shoulders, and a napkin deeply stained\nwith blood on his head. An elderly female, who stood beside him, was\nstriving to soothe him, and busied from time to time in adjusting the\nclothes, which were ever and anon falling off, as he nodded his head in\ntime to the music. A young girl of great beauty sat weeping at the\nbedfoot.\n\n\"O dearest Robert,\" said the woman, \"you will destroy your poor head;\nand Margaret your sister, whom you used to love so much, will break her\nheart. Do lie down, dearest, and take a little rest. Your head is\nfearfully gashed, and if the bandages loose a second time, you will\nbleed to death. Do, dearest Robert, for your poor old mother, to whom\nyou were always so kind and dutiful a son till now--for your poor old\nmother's sake, do lie down.\"\n\nThe song ceased for a moment, and the tears came bursting from my eyes\nas the tune changed, and he again sang:--\n\n   \"O mither dear, make ye my bed,\n      For my heart it's flichterin' sair;\n    An' oh, gin I've vexed ye, mither dear,\n      I'll never vex ye mair.\n    I've staid ar'out the lang dark nicht,\n      I' the sleet an' the plashy rain;\n    But, mither dear, make ye my bed,\n      An' I'll ne'er gang out again.\"\n\n\"Dearest, dearest Robert,\" continued the poor, heart-broken woman, \"do\nlie down; for your poor old mother's sake, do lie down.\"\n\n\"No, no,\" he exclaimed, in a hurried voice, \"not just now, mother, not\njust now. Here is my friend, Mr. Lindsay, come to see me--my true\nfriend, Mr. Lindsay, the sailor, who has sailed all round and round the\nworld; and I have much, much to ask him. A chair, Margaret, for Mr.\nLindsay. I must be a preacher like John Knox, you know--like the great\nJohn Knox, the reformer of a nation--and Mr. Lindsay knows all about\nhim. A chair, Margaret, for Mr. Lindsay.\"\n\nI am not ashamed to say it was with tears, and in a voice faltering with\nemotion, that I apologized to the poor woman for my intrusion at such a\ntime. Were it otherwise, I might well conclude my heart had grown hard\nas a piece of the nether millstone.\n\n\"I had known Robert at College,\" I said--\"had loved and respected him;\nand had now come to pay him a visit, after an absence of several months,\nwholly unprepared for finding him in his present condition.\" And it\nwould seem that my tears pled for me, and proved to the poor afflicted\nwoman and her daughter, by far the most efficient part of my apology.\n\n\"All my friends have left me now, Mr. Lindsay,\" said the unfortunate\npoet--\"they have all left me now; they love this present world. We were\nall going down, down, down; there was the roll of a river behind us; it\ncame bursting over the high rocks, roaring, rolling, foaming down upon\nus; and though the fog was thick and dark below--far below, in the place\nto which we were going--I could see the red fire shining through--the\nred, hot, unquenchable fire; and we were all going down, down, down.\nMother, mother, tell Mr. Lindsay I am going to be put on my trials\nto-morrow. Careless creature that I am--life is short, and I have lost\nmuch time; but I am going to be put on my trials to-morrow, and shall\ncome forth a preacher of the word.\"\n\nThe thunder which had hitherto been muttering at a distance--each peal,\nhowever, nearer and louder than the preceding one--now began to roll\noverhead, and the lightning, as it passed the window, to illumine every\nobject within. The hapless poet stretched out his thin wasted arm, as if\naddressing a congregation from the pulpit:--\n\n\"There were the flashings of lightning,\" he said, \"and the roll of\nthunder; and the trumpet waxed louder and louder. And around the summit\nof the mountain were the foldings of thick clouds, and the shadow fell\nbrown and dark over the wide expanse of the desert. And the wild beasts\nlay trembling in their dens. But, lo! where the sun breaks through the\nopening of the cloud, there is the glitter of tents--the glitter of ten\nthousand tents that rise over the sandy waste, thick as waves of the\nsea. And there, there is the voice of the dance and of the revel, and\nthe winding of horns and the clash of cymbals. Oh, sit nearer me,\ndearest mother, for the room is growing dark, dark; and, oh, my poor\nhead!\n\n   'The lady sat on the castle wa',\n      Look'd ower baith dale and down,\n    And then she spied Gil-Morice head\n      Come steering through the town.'\n\nDo, dearest mother, put your cool hand on my brow, and do hold it fast\nere it part. How fearfully--oh, how fearfully it aches!--and oh, how it\nthunders!\" He sunk backward on the pillow, apparently exhausted. \"Gone,\ngone, gone,\" he muttered; \"my mind gone for ever. But God's will be\ndone.\"\n\nI rose to leave the room; for I could restrain my feelings no longer.\n\n\"Stay, Mr. Lindsay,\" said the poet, in a feeble voice; \"I hear the rain\ndashing on the pavement; you must not go till it abates. Would that you\ncould pray beside me!--but, no--you are not like the dissolute\ncompanions who have now all left me, but you are not yet fitted for\nthat; and, alas! I cannot pray for myself. Mother, mother, see that\nthere be prayers at my lykewake; for--\n\n   'Her lykewake, it was piously spent\n      In social prayer and praise,\n    Performed by judicious men,\n      Who stricken were in days.\n   'And many a heavy, heavy heart\n      Was in that mournful place;\n    And many a weary, weary thought\n      On her who slept in peace.'\n\nThey will come all to my lykewake, mother, won't they?--yes, all, though\nthey have left me now. Yes, and they will come far to see my grave. I\nwas poor, very poor, you know, and they looked down upon me; and I was\nno son or cousin of theirs, and so they could do nothing for me. Oh, but\nthey might have looked less coldly! But they will all come to my grave,\nmother; they will come all to my grave; and they will say--'Would he\nwere living now to know how kind we are!' But they will look as coldly\nas ever on the living poet beside them--yes, till they have broken his\nheart; and then they will go to his grave too. O dearest mother, do lay\nyour cool hand on my brow.\"\n\nHe lay silent and exhausted, and, in a few minutes, I could hope, from\nthe hardness of his breathing, that he had fallen asleep.\n\n\"How long,\" I inquired of his sister, in a low whisper, \"has Mr.\nFerguson been so unwell, and what has injured his head?\"\n\n\"Alas!\" said the girl, \"my brother has been unsettled in mind for nearly\nthe last six months. We first knew it one evening on his coming home\nfrom the country, where he had been for a few days with a friend. He\nburnt a large heap of papers that he had been employed on for weeks\nbefore--songs and poems that his friends say were the finest things he\never wrote; but he burnt them all, for he was going to be a preacher of\nthe word, he said, and it did not become a preacher of the word to be a\nwriter of light rhymes. And, O sir! his mind has been carried ever\nsince; but he has been always gentle and affectionate, and his sole\ndelight has lain in reading the Bible. Good Dr. Erskine, of the\nGreyfriars, often comes to our house, and sits with him for hours\ntogether; for there are times when his mind seems stronger than ever,\nand he says wonderful things, that seem to hover, the minister says,\nbetween the extravagance natural to his present sad condition, and the\nhigher flights of a philosophic genius. And we had hoped that he was\ngetting better; but, O sir, our hopes have had a sad ending. He went\nout, a few evenings ago, to call on an old acquaintance; and, in\ndescending a stair, missed footing, and fell to the bottom; and his head\nhas been fearfully injured by the stones. He has been just as you have\nseen him ever since; and, oh! I much fear he cannot now recover. Alas!\nmy poor brother!--never, never was there a more affectionate heart.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\n\n                        \"A lowly muse!\n    She sings of reptiles yet in song unknown.\"\n\n\nI returned to the vessel with a heavy heart; and it was nearly three\nmonths from this time ere I again set foot in Edinburgh. Alas! for my\nunfortunate friend! He was now an inmate of the asylum, and on the verge\nof dissolution. I was thrown, by accident, shortly after my arrival at\nthis time, into the company of one of his boon companions. I had gone\ninto a tavern with a brother sailor--a shrewd, honest skipper, from the\nnorth country; and, finding the place occupied by half a dozen young\nfellows, who were growing noisy over their liquor, I would have\nimmediately gone out again, had I not caught, in the passing, a few\nwords regarding my friend. And so, drawing to a side-table, I sat down.\n\n\"Believe me,\" said one of the topers, a dissolute-looking young man,\n\"it's all over with Bob Ferguson--all over; and I knew it from the\nmoment he grew religious. Had old Brown tried to convert me, I would\nhave broken his face.\"\n\n\"What Brown?\" inquired one of his companions.\n\n\"Is that all you know?\" rejoined the other. \"Why, John Brown of\nHaddington, the Seceder. Bob was at Haddington last year, at the\nelection; and, one morning, when in the horrors, after holding a rum\nnight of it, who should he meet in the churchyard but old John\nBrown?--he writes, you know, a big book on the Bible. Well, he lectured\nBob at a pretty rate, about election and the call, I suppose; and the\npoor fellow has been mad ever since. Your health, Jamie. For my own\npart, I'm a freewill man, and detest all cant and humbug.\"\n\n\"And what has come of Ferguson now?\" asked one of the others.\n\n\"Oh, mad, sir, mad,\" rejoined the toper--\"reading the Bible all day, and\ncooped up in the asylum yonder. 'Twas I who brought him to it.--But,\nlads, the glass has been standing for the last half-hour.--'Twas I and\nJack Robinson who brought him to it, as I say. He was getting wild; and\nso we got a sedan for him, and trumped up a story of an invitation for\ntea from a lady, and he came with us as quietly as a lamb. But, if you\ncould have heard the shriek he gave when the chair stopped, and he saw\nwhere we had brought him! I never heard anything half so horrible--it\nrang in my ears for a week after; and then, how the mad people in the\nupper rooms howled and gibbered in reply, till the very roof echoed!\nPeople say he is getting better; but, when I last saw him, he was as\nreligious as ever, and spoke so much about heaven, that it was\nuncomfortable to hear him. Great loss to his friends, after all the\nexpense they have been at with his education.\"\n\n\"You seem to have been intimate with Mr. Ferguson,\" I said.\n\n\"Oh, intimate with Bob!\" he rejoined; \"we were hand and glove, man. I\nhave sat with him in Lucky Middlemass's, almost every evening, for two\nyears; and I have given him hints for some of the best things in his\nbook. 'Twas I who tumbled down the cage in the Meadows, and began\nbreaking the lamps.\n\n   'Ye who oft finish care in Lethe's cup,\n    Who love to swear and roar, and _keep it up_,\n    List to a brother's voice, whose sole delight\n    Is sleep all day, and riot all the night.'\n\nThere's spirit for you! But Bob was never sound at bottom; and I have\ntold him so. 'Bob,' I have said, 'Bob, you're but a hypocrite after all,\nman--without half the spunk you pretend to. Why don't you take a pattern\nby me, who fear nothing, and believe only the agreeable? But, poor\nfellow, he had weak nerves, and a church-going propensity that did him\nno good; and you see the effects. 'Twas all nonsense, Tom, of his\nthrowing the squib into the Glassite meeting-house. Between you and I,\nthat was a cut far beyond him in his best days, poet as he was. 'Twas I\nwho did it, man, and never was there a cleaner row in auld Reekie.\"\n\n\"Heartless, contemptible puppy!\" said my comrade, the sailor, as we left\nthe room. \"Your poor friend must be ill, indeed, if he be but half as\ninsane as his quondam companion. But he cannot: there is no madness like\nthat of the heart. What could have induced a man of genius to associate\nwith a thing so thoroughly despicable?\"\n\n\"The same misery, Miller,\" I said, \"that brings a man _acquainted with\nstrange bedfellows_.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\n\n   \"O thou, my elder brother in misfortune,\n    By far my elder brother in the muses,\n    With tears I pity thy unhappy fate!\"--BURNS.\n\n\nThe asylum in which my unfortunate friend was confined, at this time the\nonly one in Edinburgh, was situated in an angle of the city wall. It was\na dismal-looking mansion, shut in on every side, by the neighbouring\nhouses, from the view of the surrounding country; and so effectually\ncovered up from the nearer street, by a large building in front, that it\nseemed possible enough to pass a lifetime in Edinburgh without coming to\nthe knowledge of its existence. I shuddered as I looked up to its\nblackened walls, thinly sprinkled with miserable-looking windows, barred\nwith iron, and thought of it as a sort of burial-place of dead minds.\nBut it was a Golgotha, which, with more than the horrors of the grave,\nhad neither its rest nor its silence. I was startled, as I entered the\ncell of the hapless poet, by a shout of laughter from a neighbouring\nroom, which was answered from a dark recess behind me, by a fearfully\nprolonged shriek, and the clanking of chains. The mother and sister of\nFerguson were sitting beside his pallet, on a sort of stone settle which\nstood out from the wall; and the poet himself, weak and exhausted, and\nworn to a shadow, but apparently in his right mind, lay extended on the\nstraw. He made an attempt to rise as I entered; but the effort was above\nhis strength, and, again lying down, he extended his hand.\n\n\"This is kind, Mr. Lindsay,\" he said; \"it is ill for me to be alone in\nthese days; and yet I have few visitors, save my poor old mother and\nMargaret. But who cares for the unhappy?\"\n\nI sat down on the settle beside him, still retaining his hand. \"I have\nbeen at sea, and in foreign countries,\" I said, \"since I last saw you,\nMr. Ferguson, and it was only this morning I returned; but believe me\nthere are many, many of your countrymen who sympathize sincerely in your\naffliction, and take a warm interest in your recovery.\"\n\nHe sighed deeply. \"Ah,\" he replied, \"I know too well the nature of that\nsympathy. You never find it at the bedside of the sufferer--it\nevaporates in a few barren expressions of idle pity; and yet, after all,\nit is but a paying the poet in kind. He calls so often on the world to\nsympathize over fictitious misfortune, that the feeling wears out, and\nbecomes a mere mood of the imagination; and, with this light, attenuated\npity of his own weaving, it regards his own real sorrows. Dearest\nmother, the evening is damp and chill--do gather the bedclothes round\nme, and sit on my feet; they are so very cold and so dead, that they\ncannot be colder a week hence.\"\n\n\"O Robert, why do you speak so?\" said the poor woman, as she gathered\nthe clothes round him, and sat on his feet. \"You know you are coming\nhome to-morrow.\"\n\n\"To-morrow!\" he said--\"if I see to-morrow, I shall have completed my\ntwenty-fourth year--a small part, surely, of the threescore and ten; but\nwhat matters it when 'tis past?\"\n\n\"You were ever, my friend, of a melancholy temperament,\" I said, \"and\ntoo little disposed to hope. Indulge in brighter views of the future,\nand all shall yet be well.\"\n\n\"I can now hope that it shall,\" he said. \"Yes, all shall be well with\nme--and that very soon. But, oh, how this nature of ours shrinks from\ndissolution!--yes, and all the lower natures too. You remember, mother,\nthe poor starling that was killed in the room beside us? Oh, how it\nstruggled with its ruthless enemy, and filled the whole place with its\nshrieks of terror and agony. And yet, poor little thing! it had been\ntrue, all life long, to the laws of its nature, and had no sins to\naccount for, and no judge to meet. There is a shrinking of heart as I\nlook before me, and yet I can hope that all shall yet be well with\nme--and that very soon. Would that I had been wise in time! Would that I\nhad thought more and earlier of the things which pertain to my eternal\npeace! more of a living soul, and less of a dying name! But, oh, 'tis a\nglorious provision, through which a way of return is opened up even at\nthe eleventh hour!\"\n\nWe sat round him in silence; an indescribable feeling of awe pervaded my\nwhole mind, and his sister was affected to tears.\n\n\"Margaret,\" he said, in a feeble voice--\"Margaret, you will find my\nBible in yonder little recess; 'tis all I have to leave you; but keep\nit, dearest sister, and use it, and, in times of sorrow and suffering\nthat come to all, you will know how to prize the legacy of your poor\nbrother. Many, many books do well enough for life; but there is only one\nof any value when we come to die.\n\n\"You have been a voyager of late, Mr. Lindsay,\" he continued, \"and I\nhave been a voyager too. I have been journeying in darkness and\ndiscomfort, amid strange unearthly shapes of dread and horror, with no\nreason to direct and no will to govern. Oh, the unspeakable unhappiness\nof these wanderings!--these dreams of suspicion, and fear, and hatred,\nin which shadow and substance, the true and the false, were so wrought\nup and mingled together, that they formed but one fantastic and\nmiserable whole. And, oh! the unutterable horror of every momentary\nreturn to a recollection of what I had been once, and a sense of what I\nhad become! Oh, when I awoke amid the terrors of the night--when I\nturned me on the rustling straw, and heard the wild wail and yet wilder\nlaugh--when I heard and shuddered, and then felt the demon in all his\nmight coming over me, till I laughed and wailed with the others--oh the\nmisery! the utter misery!--But 'tis over, my friend--'tis all over; a\nfew, few tedious days, a few, few weary nights, and all my sufferings\nshall be over.\"\n\nI had covered my face with my hands, but the tears came bursting through\nmy fingers; the mother and sister of the poet sobbed aloud.\n\n\"Why sorrow for me, sirs?\" he said; \"why grieve for me? I am well, quite\nwell, and want for nothing. But 'tis cold; oh, 'tis very cold, and the\nblood seems freezing at my heart. Ah, but there is neither pain nor cold\nwhere I am going, and I trust it shall be well with my soul. Dearest,\ndearest mother, I always told you it would come to this at last.\"\n\nThe keeper had entered to intimate to us that the hour for locking up\nthe cells was already past, and we now rose to leave the place. I\nstretched out my hand to my unfortunate friend; he took it in silence,\nand his thin attenuated fingers felt cold within my grasp, like those of\na corpse. His mother stooped down to embrace him.\n\n\"Oh, do not go yet, mother,\" he said--\"do not go yet--do not leave me;\nbut it must be so, and I only distress you. Pray for me, dearest mother,\nand, oh, forgive me; I have been a grief and a burden to you all\nlife-long; but I ever loved you, mother; and, oh, you have been kind,\nkind and forgiving--and now your task is over. May God bless and reward\nyou! Margaret, dearest Margaret, farewell!\"\n\nWe parted, and, as it proved, for ever. Robert Ferguson expired during\nthe night; and when the keeper entered the cell next morning, to prepare\nhim for quitting the asylum, all that remained of this most hapless of\nthe children of genius, was a pallid and wasted corpse, that lay\nstiffening on the straw. I am now a very old man, and the feelings wear\nout; but I find that my heart is even yet susceptible of emotion, and\nthat the source of tears is not yet dried up.\n\n\n\n\nTHE DISASTERS\nOF JOHNNY ARMSTRONG.\n\n\nJohnny Armstrong, the hero of our tale, was, and, for aught we know to\nthe contrary, still is, an inhabitant of the town of Carlisle. He was a\nstout, thickset, little man, with a round, good-humoured, ruddy\ncountenance, and somewhere about fifty years of age at the period to\nwhich our story refers. Although possessed of a good deal of natural\nshrewdness, Johnny was, on the whole, rather a simple sort of person.\nHis character, in short, was that of an honest, well-meaning,\ninoffensive man, but with parts that certainly did not shine with a very\ndazzling lustre. Johnny was, to business, an ironmonger, and had, by\npatient industry and upright dealing, acquired a small independency. He\nhad stuck to the counter of his little dingy shop for upwards of twenty\nyears, and used to boast that, during all that time, he had opened and\nshut his shop with his own hands every day, not even excepting one. The\nresult of this steadiness and attention to business was, as has been\nalready said, a competency.\n\nFortunately for Johnny, this propensity to stick fast--which he did like\na limpet--was natural to him. It was a part of his constitution. He had\nno desire whatever to travel, or, rather, he had a positive dislike to\nit--a dislike, indeed, which was so great that, for an entire quarter of\na century, he had never been three miles out of Carlisle. But when\nJohnny had waxed pretty rich, somewhat corpulent, and rather oldish, he\nwas suddenly struck, one fine summer afternoon, as he stood at the door\nof his shop with his hands in his breeches pockets, (a favourite\nattitude,) with an amiable and ardent desire to see certain of his\nrelations who lived at Brechin, in the north of Scotland; and--there is\nno accounting for these things--on that afternoon Johnny came to the\nextraordinary resolution of paying them a visit--of performing a journey\nof upwards of a hundred miles, even as the crow flies. It was a strange\nand a desperate resolution for a man of Johnny's peculiar temperament\nand habits; but so it was. Travel he would, and travel he did. On the\nthird day after the doughty determination just alluded to had been\nformed, Johnny, swathed in an ample brown greatcoat, with a red\ncomforter about his neck, appeared in the stable yard of the inn where\nmost of the stage coaches that passed through Carlisle put up. Of these\nthere were three: one for Dumfries, one for Glasgow, and one for\nEdinburgh--the latter being Johnny's coach; for his route was by the\nmetropolis. We had almost forgotten to say that Johnny, who was a\nwidower, was accompanied on this occasion by his son, Johnny junior, an\nonly child, whom it was his intention to take along with him. The boy\nwas about fourteen years of age, and though, upon the whole, a shrewd\nenough lad for his time of life, did not promise to be a much brighter\ngenius than his father. In fact he was rather lumpish.\n\nOn arriving at the inn yard--it was about eight o'clock at night, and\npretty dark, being the latter end of September--Johnny Armstrong found\nthe coach apparently about to start, the horses being all yoked; but the\nvehicle happened, at the moment he entered the yard, to be in charge of\nan ostler--not of either the guard or driver, who had both gone out of\nthe way for an instant. Desirous of securing a good seat for his son,\nJohnny Armstrong opened the coach door, thrust the lad in, and was about\nto follow himself, when he discovered that he had forgotten his watch.\nOn making this discovery, he banged too the coach door without saying a\nword, and hurried home as fast as his little, thick, short legs would\nallow him, to recover his time-piece. On his return, which was in less\nthan five minutes, Johnny himself stepped into the vehicle, which was\nnow crowded with passengers, and, in a few seconds, was rattling away at\na rapid rate towards Edinburgh. The night was pitch dark, not a star\ntwinkled; and it was not until Johnny arrived at his journey's end--that\nis, at Edinburgh--that he discovered his son was not in the coach, and\nhad never been there at all. We will not attempt to describe Johnny's\namazement and distress of mind on making this most extraordinary and\nmost alarming discovery. They were dreadful. In great agitation, he\ninquired at every one of the passengers if they had not seen his son,\nand one and all denied they ever had. The thing was mysterious and\nperfectly inexplicable.\n\n\"I put the boy into the coach with my own hands,\" said Johnny Armstrong,\nin great perturbation, to the guard and half crying as he spoke.\n\n\"Very odd,\" said the guard.\n\n\"Very odd, indeed,\" said Johnny.\n\n\"Are you sure it was _our_ coach, Mr. Armstrong?\" inquired the guard.\n\nThe emphasis on the word _our_ was startling. It evidently meant more\nthan met the ear; and Johnny felt that it did so, and he was startled\naccordingly.\n\n\"_Your_ coach?\" he replied, but now with some hesitation of manner. \"It\nsurely was. What other coach could it be?\"\n\n\"Why, it may have been the Glasgow coach,\" said the guard; \"and I rather\nthink it _must_ have been. You have made a mistake, sir, be assured, and\nput the boy into the wrong coach. We start from the same place, and at\nthe same hour, five minutes or so in or over.\"\n\nThe mention of this possibility, nay certainty--for Johnny had actually\ndispatched the boy to Glasgow--instantly struck him dumb. It relieved\nhim, indeed, from the misery arising from a dread of some terrible\naccident having happened the lad, but threw him into great tribulation\nas to his fate in Glasgow, without money or friends. But this being,\nafter all, comparatively but a small affair, Johnny was now, what he had\nnot been before, able to pay attention to minor things.\n\n\"Be sae guid,\" said Johnny to the guard, who was on the top of the\ncoach, busy unloosing packages, \"as haun me doun my trunk.\"\n\n\"No trunk of yours here, sir,\" said the guard. \"You'll have sent it away\nto Glasgow with the boy.\"\n\n\"No, no,\" replied Johnny, sadly perplexed by this new misfortune. \"I\nsent it wi' the lass to the inn half an hour before I gaed mysel.\"\n\n\"Oh, then, in that case,\" said the guard, \"ten to one it's away to\nDumfries, and not to Glasgow.\"\n\nAnd truly such was the fact. The girl, a fresh-caught country lass, had\nthrown it on the first coach she found, saying her master would\nimmediately follow--and that happened to be the Dumfries one. Here,\nthen, was Johnny safely arrived himself, indeed, at Edinburgh; but his\nson was gone to Glasgow, and his trunk to Dumfries--all with the\ngreatest precision imaginable. Next day, Johnny Armstrong, being\nextremely uneasy about his boy, started for Glasgow on board of one of\nthe canal passage boats; while the lad, being equally uneasy about his\nfather, and, moreover, ill at ease on sundry other accounts, did\nprecisely the same thing with the difference of direction--that is, he\nstarted for Edinburgh by a similar conveyance; and so well timed had\neach of their respective departures been, that, without knowing it, they\npassed each other exactly halfway between the two cities. On arriving at\nGlasgow, Johnny Armstrong could not, for a long while, discover any\ntrace of his son; but at length succeeded in tracking him to the canal\nboat--which led him rightly to conclude that he had proceeded to\nEdinburgh. On coming to this conclusion, Johnny again started for the\nmetropolis, where he safely arrived about two hours after his son had\nleft it for home, whither, finding no trace of his father in Edinburgh,\nhe had wisely directed his steps. Johnny Armstrong, now greatly\ndistressed about the object of his paternal solicitude, whom he vainly\nsought up and down the city, at last also bent his way homewards,\nthinking, what was true, that the boy might have gone home; and there\nindeed he found him. Thus nearly a week had been spent, and that in\nalmost constant travel, and Johnny found himself precisely at the point\nfrom which he had set out. However, in three days, after having, in the\nmeantime, recovered his trunk, he again set out on his travels to\nBrechin; for his courage was not in the least abated by what had\nhappened; but on this occasion unaccompanied by his son, as he would not\nagain run the risk of losing him, or of exposing himself to that\ndistress of mind on his account, of which he had been before a victim.\nIn the case of Johnny's second progress, there was \"no mistake\"\nwhatever, of any kind--at least at starting. Both himself and his trunk\narrived in perfect safety, and in due time, at Edinburgh.\n\nJohnny's next route was to steam it to Kirkaldy from Newhaven. The boat\nstarted at six a.m.; and, having informed himself of this particular, he\ndetermined to be at the point of embarkation in good time. But he was\nrather late, and, on finding this, he ran every foot of the way from\nEdinburgh to the steam-boat, and was in a dreadful state of exhaustion\nwhen he reached it; but, by his exertions, he saved his distance,\nthereby exhibiting another proof that all is not lost that's in danger.\nAn instant longer, however, and he would have been too late, for the\nvessel was just on the eve of starting. Johnny leapt on board, or rather\nwas bundled on board; for Johnny, as already hinted, was in what is\ncalled good bodily condition--rather extra, indeed--and was, moreover,\nwaxing a little stiff about the joints; so that he could not get over\nthe side of the boat so cleverly as he would have done some twenty years\nbefore. Over and above all this, he was quite exhausted with the race\nagainst time which he had just run. Seeing his distressed condition, and\nthat the boat was on the point of sailing, two of the hands leapt on the\npier, when the one seizing him by the waistband of the breeches, and the\nother by the breast, they fairly pitched him into the vessel, throwing\nhis trunk after him. As it was pouring rain, Johnny, on recovering his\nperpendicular, immediately descended into the cabin, and, in the next\ninstant, the boat was ploughing her way through the deep. For two hours\nafter he had embarked, it continued to rain without intermission; and\nfor these two hours he remained snug below without stirring. At the end\nof this period, however, it cleared up a little, and, in a short while\nthereafter, became perfectly fair. Having discovered this he ascended to\nthe deck, to see what was going on. The captain of the vessel was\nhimself at the helm; he, therefore, sidled towards him, and, after\nmaking some remarks on the weather and the scenery, asked the captain,\nin the blandest and civilest tones imaginable, when he expected they\nwould be at Kirkaldy. The man stared at Johnny with a look of\nastonishment, not unmingled with displeasure; but at length said--\n\n\"Kirkaldy, sir! What do you mean by asking me that question? I don't\nknow when _you_ expect to be at Kirkaldy, but _I_ don't expect to be\nthere for a twelvemonth at least.\"\n\n\"No!--od, that's queer!\" quoth Johnny, amazed in his turn; but thinking,\nafter a moment, that the captain meant to be facetious, he merely\nadded--\"I wad think, captain, that we wad be there much about the same\ntime.\"\n\n\"Ay, ay, may be; but, I say, none of your gammon, friend,\" said the\nlatter, gruffly, and now getting really angry at what he conceived to be\nsome attempt to play upon him, though he could not see the drift of the\njoke. \"Mind your own business, friend, and I'll mind mine.\"\n\nThis he said with an air that conveyed very plainly a hint that Johnny\nshould take himself off, which, without saying any more, he accordingly\ndid. Much perplexed by the captain's conduct, he now sauntered towards\nthe fore part of the vessel, where he caught the engineer just as he was\nabout to descend into the engine-room. Johnny tapped him gently on the\nshoulder, and the man, wiping his dripping face with a handful of tow,\nlooked up to him, while Johnny, afraid to put the question, but anxious\nto know when he really would be at Kirkaldy, lowered himself down, by\nplacing his hands on his knees, so as to bring his face on a level with\nthe person he was addressing, and, in the mildest accents, and with a\ncountenance beaming with gentleness, he popped the question in a low,\nsoft whisper, as if to deprecate the man's wrath. On the fatal inquiry\nbeing made at him, the engineer, as the captain had done before him,\nstared at Johnny Armstrong, in amazement, for a second or two, then\nburst into a hoarse laugh, and, without vouchsafing any other reply,\nplunged down into his den.\n\n\"What in a' the earth can be the meanin' o' this?\" quoth Johnny to\nhimself, now ten times more perplexed than ever. \"What can there be in\nmy simple, natural, and reasonable question, to astonish folk sae\nmuckle?\"\n\nThis was an inquiry which Johnny might put to himself, but it was one\nwhich he could by no means answer. Being, however, an easy, good-natured\nman, and seeing how much offence in one instance, and subject for mirth\nin another, he had unwittingly given, by putting it, he resolved to make\nno further inquiries into the matter, but to await in patience the\narrival of the boat at her destination--an event which he had the sense\nto perceive would be neither forwarded nor retarded by his obtaining or\nbeing refused the information he had desired to be possessed of. The\nboat arrived in due time at the wished-for haven, and Johnny landed with\nthe other passengers; the captain giving him a wipe, as he stepped on\nthe plank that was to convey him ashore, about his Kirkaldy inquiries,\nby asking him, though now in perfect good humour, if he knew the precise\nlength of that celebrated town; but Johnny merely smiled and passed on.\n\nOn landing, Johnny Armstrong proceeded to what had the appearance of,\nand really was, a respectable inn. Here, as it was now pretty far in the\nday, he had some dinner, and afterwards treated himself to a tumbler of\ntoddy and a peep at the papers. While thus comfortably enjoying himself,\nthe waiter having chanced to pop into the room, Johnny raised his eye\nfrom the paper he was reading, and, looking the lad in the face--\n\n\"Can ye tell me, friend,\" he said, \"when the coach for Dundee starts?\"\n\n\"There's no coach at all from this to Dundee, sir,\" replied the waiter.\n\n\"No!\" said Johnny, a little nonplused by this information. \"That's odd.\"\nThe waiter saw nothing odd in it.\n\n\"I was told,\" continued Johnny, \"that there were twa or three coaches\ndaily from this to Dundee.\"\n\n\"Oh, no, sir,\" said the lad, coolly, \"you have been misinformed; but if\nyou wish to go to Dundee, sir,\" he added--desirous of being as obliging\nas possible--\"your best way is to go by steam from this to Newhaven, and\nfrom that cross over to Kirkaldy!!!\"\n\nAt this fatal word, which seemed doomed to work Johnny much wo, the\nglass which he was about to raise to his lips fell on the floor, and\nwent into a thousand pieces.\n\n\"Kirkaldy, laddie!\" exclaimed Johnny Armstrong, with an expression of\nconsternation in his face which it would require Cruikshank's art and\nskill to do justice to--\"Gude hae a care o' me, is _this_ no Kirkaldy?\"\n\n\"Kirkaldy, sir!\" replied the waiter, no less amazed than Johnny, though\nin his case it was at the absurdity of the inquiry--\"oh, no, sir,\" with\na smile--\"this is Alloa!!!\"\n\nAlloa it was, to be sure; for Johnny had taken the wrong boat, and that\nwas all. On embarking, he had made no inquiries at those belonging to\nthe vessel, and, of course, those in the vessel had put none to him--and\nthis was the result. He was comfortably planted at Alloa, instead of\nKirkaldy, which all our readers know lies in a very different direction;\nand this denouement also explains the captain's displeasure with his\npassenger, and the engineer's mirth. At the moment this extraordinary\n_eclaircissement_ took place between Johnny Armstrong and the waiter of\nthe King's Arms, there happened to be a ship captain in the room--for it\nwas the public one; and this person, who was a good-natured fellow, at\nonce amused by, and pitying Johnny's dilemma, turned towards him, and\ninquired if it was his intention to go any further than Dundee.\n\nJohnny said that it was--he intended going to Brechin.\n\n\"Oh, in that case,\" said the captain, \"you had better just go with me.\nIn an hour after this I sail for Montrose, which is within eight miles\nof Brechin, and I'll be very glad to give you a cast so far, and we\nshan't differ about the terms. Fine, smart little vessel mine, and, with\na spanking breeze from the west or sou'-west, which we'll very likely\ncatch about Queensferry, I'll land you in a jiffey within a trifle of\nyour journey's end--a devilish sight cleverer, I warrant you, than your\nround-about way of steaming and coaching it, and at half the money too.\"\n\nJohnny Armstrong was all gratitude for this very opportune piece of\nkindness, and gladly closed with the offer--the captain and he taking a\ncouple of additional tumblers each, on the head of it, to begin with. We\nsay to begin with; for it by no means ended with the quantity named. The\ncaptain was a jolly dog, and loved his liquor, and was, withal, so\nfacetious a companion, that he prevailed on his new friend to swallow a\ngreat deal more than did him any good. To tell a truth, which, however,\nwe would not have known at Carlisle, Johnny Armstrong, who had the\ncharacter of a sober man, got, on this occasion, into a rather\ndiscreditable condition, and, in this state, he was escorted by the\ncaptain--who stood liquor like a water-cask--to the vessel, and was once\nmore embarked; but it was now on board the _Fifteen Sisters_ of\nSkatehaven. On getting him on board, the captain, seeing the state he\nwas in, prudently bundled him down into the cabin, and thrust him into\nhis own bed, where he immediately fell into a profound sleep that\nextended over twelve mortal hours. At the end of this period, however,\nJohnny awoke; but it was not by any means of his own accord, for he was\nawakened by a variety of stimulants, or _rousers_, if we may be allowed\nto coin a word for the occasion, all operating at once. These were, a\ntremendous uproar on the deck, a fearful rolling of the vessel, the\nroaring of wind, and the splashing, dashing, and gurling of waves; and,\nto crown all, a feeling of deadly sickness. When he first opened his\neyes, he could not conceive where he was, or what was the meaning of the\nfurious motion that he felt, and of the tremendous sounds that he heard.\nA few minutes' cogitation with himself, however, solved the mystery, and\nexposed to him his true position. In great alarm--for he thought the\nvessel was on the eve of going down--Johnny Armstrong rolled himself out\nof his bed, and crawled in his shirt up the cabin ladder. On gaining the\nsummit, he found himself confronted by the captain, who, with a very\nserious face, was standing by the helm.\n\n\"Are--are--are--we--near--Mon--trose, captain?\" inquired Johnny, in a\nvoice rendered so feeble by sickness and terror, that it was impossible\nto hear him a yard off, amidst the roaring of the winds and waves; for\nwe suppose we need not more explicitly state, that he was in the midst\nof a storm, and as pretty a one it was as the most devoted admirer of\nthe picturesque could desire to see.\n\n\"What?\" roared the captain, in a voice of thunder, at the same time\nstooping down to catch his feeble interrogatory. Johnny repeated it;\nbut, ere he could obtain an answer, a raking wave, which came in at the\nstern, took him full on the breast as he stood on the companion ladder,\nwith his bust just above the level of the deck, sent him down, heels\nover head, into the cabin, and, in a twinkling, buried him in a foot and\na half of water on the floor, where he lay for some time at full length,\nsprawling and floundering amidst the wreck which the sudden and violent\ninflux of water had occasioned. On recovering from the stunning effects\nof his descent--for he had, amongst other small matters, received a\nviolent contusion on the head--Johnny for an instant imagined that he\nhad somehow or other got to the bottom of the sea. Finding, however, at\nlength, that this was not precisely the case, he arose, though dripping\nwith wet, yet not very like a sea god, and having denuded himself of his\nonly garment, his shirt, crawled into his bed, where he now determined\nto await quietly and patiently the fate that might be intended for him;\nand this fate, he had no doubt, was suffocation by drowning.\n\n\"Very extraordinar this,\" said Johnny Armstrong to himself, as he lay\nmusing in bed on the perilous situation into which he had so simply and\ninnocently got--\"very extraordinar, that I couldna get the length o'\nBrechin without a' this uproar, and confusion, and difficulty, and\ndanger; this knocking about frae place to place, half drooned and half\nmurdered. Here have I been now for mair than a week at it, and it's my\nopinion I'm no twenty mile nearer't yet than I was, for a' this kick up.\nDear me,\" he went on soliloquizing, \"I'm sure Brechin's no sic an out o'\nthe way place. The road's straught, and the distance no great. Then,\nhow, in the name o' wonder, is it that I canna mak' it out like ither\nfolk, let me do as I like?\"\n\nThus cogitated Johnny Armstrong as he lay on his bed of sickness,\nsorrow, and danger. But his cogitations could in no way mend the matter,\nnor, though they could, was he long permitted to indulge in them; for\nthat mortal sickness under which he had been before suffering, but which\nthe little incident of the visit from the wave, with its consequences,\nhad temporarily banished, again returned with tenfold vigour, making him\nregardless of all sublunary things--even of life itself. In this state\nof supineness and suffering did Johnny lie for three entire days and\nnights--for so long did the storm continue with unabated fury--the\nvessel having, for some four-and-twenty hours previously, been quite\nunmanageable, and driving at the mercy of the winds and waves. A\ndreadful crash, however, at length announced that some horrible crisis\nwas at hand. The vessel had struck, and, in a few seconds more, she was\nin a thousand pieces, and her unfortunate crew, including Johnny\nArmstrong, were struggling in the waves. From this instant he lost all\nconsciousness; and, when he again awoke to life, he found himself lying\non the sea-beach; but how he had come there he never could tell, nor\ncould he at all conjecture by what accident his life had been saved,\nwhen all the rest in the ill-fated vessel had perished; for Johnny was\nindeed the only person that had escaped. On coming to himself he started\nto his feet, and gazed around him, with a bewildered look, to see if any\nobject would present itself that might help him to guess where he was.\nBut his survey affording him no such aid to recognition, he began to\nmove inland, in the hope of meeting with somebody who could give him\nthe information desired; and in this he was not disappointed, that is,\nhe did meet somebody; but the appearance of that somebody surprised\nJohnny \"pretty considerably.\" He had a high-crowned hat on, such as\nJohnny had never seen in his life before; an enormous pair of breeches;\nand a pipe a yard long in his mouth. His _tout ensemble_, in short, was\nexceeding strange in Johnny Armstrong's eyes. Nevertheless, he accosted\nhim.\n\n\"Can ye tell me, freen, how far I may be frae Brechin?\" he inquired.\n\nThe stranger shook his head, but made no reply.\n\n\"I'm sayin', freen,\" repeated Johnny, in a louder tone, thinking that\nhis friend, as he called him, might possibly be dull of hearing, \"can ye\ntell me if I'm onything near Brechin?\"\n\nThe stranger again shook his head, but still said nothing. Johnny was\nconfounded. At length, however, after puffing away for some seconds with\na suddenly-increased energy, he slowly withdrew his pipe from his mouth,\nand delivered himself of what sounded to Johnny's ears very much like\nthis, spoken with great rapidity.\n\n\"Futra butara rap a ruara dutera muttera purra murra footra den,\nPreekin, humph.\"\n\nOf this Johnny of course could make nothing, no more than the reader\ncan, further than recognising in the word \"Preekin\" a resemblance to the\nname of the town he so anxiously inquired after; and he was sorely\nperplexed thereat. Neither could he at all comprehend what sort of a\nbeing he had fallen in with.\n\n\"I dinna understan' a word o' what ye say, freen,\" at length said\nJohnny, staring hard at the stranger with open mouth.\n\n\"Umph!\" said the latter; and he again withdrew his pipe from his mouth,\nand again sent a volley of his \"dutera mutteras\" about Johnny's ears,\nto precisely the same purpose as before.\n\nFinding that it was of no use making any further attempt at\nconversation, Johnny passed on, not doubting that he had met either with\na _dummy_ or a madman. But what was Johnny's amazement when, shortly\nafterwards, meeting a woman, whose dress, in its own way, was equally\nodd and strange with that of the person he had just left, he was\nanswered (that is, to his queries again about Brechin), in the same\ngibberish in which the former had responded to him.\n\n\"What can be the meanin' o' this?\" said Johnny to himself, in great\nperplexity of mind, as he jogged on, after leaving the lady in the same\nunsatisfactory way as he had left the gentleman. \"Whar in a' the earth\ncan I hae gotten to, that naebody I meet wi' can understan' a word o'\nplain English, or can speak themsels onything like an intelligible\nlanguage?\"\n\nHe now began to think that he had probably got into the Highlands; but,\nalthough this supposition might account for the strangeness of the\nlanguage he had heard, it would not, he perceived, tally very well with\nthe enormous breeches which the gentleman he had met with wore, and\nwhich he had seen from a distance others wearing, knowing, as he did\nvery well, that the national dress of the Highlanders was the kilt, of\nwhich the trousers in question were the very antipodes. There was\nanother circumstance, too, that appeared to Johnny at variance with his\nfirst conjecture, namely, that he might have got into the Highlands.\nWhere he was there were no high lands, not an eminence the height of a\nmole-hill. On the contrary, the whole country, as far as his eye could\nreach, seemed one vast plain. Though greatly puzzled by these\nreflections, Johnny jogged on, and his progress at length brought him to\na respectable-looking farm-house.\n\n\"'Od,\" said Johnny, \"I'll surely get a mouthfu' o' sense frae somebody\nhere, an' fin' out whar I am.\"\n\nIn this Johnny certainly did succeed; but not much to his comfort, as\nthe sequel will show. The first person he addressed, on approaching the\nhouse, was a little girl, who, when he spoke, stared at him in the\ngreatest amazement, then rushed screaming into the house. This\nproceeding brought out several young men and women, to whom Johnny now\naddressed himself; but the only answer he obtained was a stare of\nastonishment similar to the child's, and then a general burst of\nlaughter. At length one of the girls went into the house and brought out\na jolly-looking elderly man, who, from certain parts of his dress,\nseemed to be in the seafaring way.\n\n\"Vell, mine freend, vat you vant?\" said this person, who spoke broken\nEnglish--\"vere you come from?\"\n\n\"I cam last frae Alloa,\" said Johnny, \"and I want to ken, sir, if I'm\nonything near to Brechin?\"\n\n\"Preekin! Vere dat?\"\n\n\"'Od, I thocht everbody in Scotland kent that,\" said Johnny, smiling.\n\n\"Ah! maybe Scotlan', mine freend, but no Hollands,\" replied he of the\nbroken English.\n\n\"I dinna ken whether they ken't it in Holland or no,\" said Johnny,\n\"that's a country I'm no in the least acquaint wi'; but I'm sure it's\nweel aneuch kent in Scotland.\"\n\n\"Ah! maybe Scotlan', but no Hollands, my freend,\" repeated the man,\nsmiling in his turn; \"but you vas in Hollands.\"\n\n\"Never in my life,\" said Johnny, earnestly.\n\n\"No, no,\" replied the man, impatiently, \"you vas no in Hollands--but you\nvas in Hollands.\"\n\nJohnny could make nothing of this; but it was soon cleared up by the\nperson adding, \"You vas in Hollands _now_--dis moment.\"\n\nWe will not even attempt to describe Johnny's amazement, horror, and\nconsternation, on this announcement being made to him, for we feel how\nvain it would be, and how far short any idea we could convey would be of\nthe reality.\n\n\"Holland!\" said Johnny. \"Heaven hae a care o' me! Ye surely dinna mean\nto say that I'm in Holland the noo?\"\n\n\"To be sure I vas,\" said the Dutchman, smiling at Johnny's ludicrous\nperturbation. \"Mine Got, did you not know you vas in Hollands? Vere you\ncome from, in all de vorlds, you not know dat?\"\n\n\"I tell't ye already,\" replied Johnny, with a most rueful countenance,\n\"that I cam last frae Alloa. But ye're surely no in earnest, freen,\" he\nadded, in a desperate hope that it might, after all, be but a joke,\n\"when ye say that I'm in Holland?\"\n\n\"Ah! sure earneest--no doubt--true,\" said the Dutchman, now laughing\noutright at Johnny's perplexity.\n\nAs in the former case, we presume we need not be more explicit in saying\nthat Johnny had actually been wrecked on the coast of Holland.\n\n\"Weel, weel,\" said the Brechin voyager, with an air expressive of more\ncalmness and resignation than might have been expected, \"this does cowe\nthe gowan! How, in Heaven's name, am I ever to fin' my way hame again?\nLittle did I think I was ever to be landed this way amang savages.\"\n\nJohnny Armstrong, it will be here observed, could have been no great\nreader--otherwise, he never would have applied the term savages to so\ndecent, industrious, and civilized a people as the Dutch. The Dutchman,\nwho was a kind, good-natured fellow--taking no offence whatever at\nJohnny's unbecoming expression, because probably he did not understand\nit, and compassionating his situation--now invited him into the house,\nwhere Johnny, having succeeded in conveying to the whole household,\nthrough the medium of the speaker of broken English, the story of his\nmisfortunes, was treated with much hospitality. With these kind people\nJohnny Armstrong remained for about a week--for they would not allow him\nto go sooner--when, having entirely recovered from the effects of his\nsea voyage and shipwreck, he proceeded to Rotterdam; being accompanied\nand assisted in all his movements by his benevolent host, Dunder Vander\nDunder, of Slootzsloykin. On arriving at Rotterdam, a passage was\nengaged for Johnny on board one of the Leith packets, or regular\ntraders, in which he was next day snugly deposited; and, in an hour\nafter, he was again braving the dangers of the ocean. For some time all\nwent on well on this occasion with him, and he was beginning to feel\ncomfortable, and even happy, from the prospect of being soon again in\nhis native land, and from the superior accommodations of the vessel in\nwhich he was embarked--far surpassing, as they did, those of the\nunfortunate _Sisters_ of Skatehaven. His present ship was, in truth, a\nremarkably fine one, and altogether seemed well adapted for encountering\nthe elements. The weather, too, was moderate, and the wind fair; so that\na quick and pleasant passage was confidently anticipated by all on\nboard, including Johnny Armstrong. All these agreeable circumstances\ncombined, made him feel extremely comfortable and happy; and, in the\nexuberance of his feelings, and from the exciting sense of having at\nlength triumphed over his misfortunes--it might almost be said his\nfate--Johnny even began to joke and laugh with those whom he found\nwilling to joke and laugh with him. It was while in this happy frame of\nmind, and as he stood luxuriously leaning over the bulwark of the\nvessel, that the captain suddenly espied a little, smart, cutter-looking\ncraft, sailing exactly in the same course with themselves, and\nevidently endeavouring to make up with them.\n\n\"What can the folk be wantin'?\" quoth Johnny Armstrong, taking an\ninterest in the approaching barge. His question was one which nobody\ncould answer. In the meantime, the little vessel, moving with great\nvelocity, was fast nearing them, when the captain, now convinced that\nthose in her desired to have some communication with him, arrested his\nown vessel's way, and awaited their coming. In a very few minutes, the\nlittle cutter was alongside, and two men leapt from her to the deck of\nthe packet, when one of them, approaching the captain, told him that\nthey were messengers, that they had a warrant against John Jones, a\nnative of Britain, for debt, and that they had reason to believe he was\nin the vessel. The captain said he did not believe he had any such\npassenger on board, but informed them that they were perfectly at\nliberty to search the ship. During this conversation, the other officer\nkept his eye fixed on Johnny Armstrong, and when rejoined by his\ncomrade, seemed to inform him--for their language was not\nunderstood--that there was something about that person well worthy of\nhis attention. They now both looked at Johnny, and appeared both\nconvinced that he was a fit subject for further inquiry. Accordingly one\nof them addressed him:--\n\n\"Your name vas John Jones, mynheer?\"\n\n\"No, sir,\" said Johnny; \"my name's John Armstrong.\"\n\n\"Ah, a small shange--dat is all. You vas John, and he vas John, and you\nbe both John togidder; so, you must come to de shore wid us.\"\n\n\"Catch me there, lads,\" quoth Johnny. \"The deil a shore I'll gang to,\nplease Providence, but Leith shore. Na, na; I've had aneuch o' this\nwark, and I'm determined to bring't till an' end noo.\"\n\n\"Donner and blitzen!\" shouted out one of the men, passionately, \"but\nyou must go!\"--at the same time seizing Johnny by the collar, and\ndrawing a pistol from his bosom.\n\nIn utter amazement at this extraordinary treatment, Johnny Armstrong\nimploringly called on the captain and the other passengers for\nprotection; but, as none of them were in the least acquainted with him,\nand therefore did not know whether he was John Jones or not, they all\ndeclined interfering--the captain saying that it would be more than his\nship and situation were worth to aid any one in resisting the laws of\nthe country--that he could not, dare not do it. His appeals, therefore,\nto those around him being vain, he was eventually bundled into the\ncutter and conveyed on shore, placed in a temporary place of confinement\nfor the night, and next day carried before a magistrate to be\nidentified. To effect this, several witnesses were called, when one and\nall of them, after examining Johnny pretty narrowly, pronounced, to the\ngreat disappointment of the officers who had apprehended him, that he\nwas _not_ the man! They, however, asserted that the resemblance between\nthe real and supposed John Jones was very remarkable. On the discovery\nbeing made that the prisoner was not Jones, the magistrate apologized to\nJohnny in the most polite terms for the trouble he had been put to, and\nexpressed great regret for the mistake of the officers; but said that,\nas the witnesses had stated there was a strong resemblance--an\nunfortunate one, he must call it--between him and the real defaulter,\nand seeing, moreover, that they were both natives of Britain, the\nofficers were perfectly justified in doing what they had done, however\nmuch the hardship of the case might be matter of regret. The magistrate\nhaving thus delivered himself, Johnny Armstrong was dismissed with great\ncivility, and wished, by all present, safe home to his own country--a\nwish in which he most heartily concurred, but which seemed to him more\neasily entertained than gratified. On regaining his liberty, the first\nthing he did was to endeavour to find out when the next ship sailed for\nScotland; he having, of course, lost that in which he had first\nembarked, and, to his great consternation and dismay, learned that there\nwould be no vessel for a fortnight. This was sad intelligence to Johnny;\nfor, to add to his other distresses, his funds were now waxing low, and\nhe felt that it would require the utmost economy to enable him to spin\nout the time and leave sufficient to pay his passage to his native land.\nThis economy he could very easily have practised at home, for he had a\nnatural tendency that way; but he did not know how to set about it in a\nforeign country. His unhappiness and anxiety, therefore, on this point\nwere very great. In this dilemma, he bethought him of again seeking out\nand quartering on his friend Vander Dunder, of Slootzsloykin, till the\nvessel should sail; but not having, of course, a word of Dutch, he could\nmake no inquiries on the subject of his route, or indeed of anything\nregarding his friend at all. This idea, therefore, he ultimately\nabandoned, principally through a fear that he should, by some mistake,\nbe despatched upon a wrong scent, a species of disaster to which he was\nnow so sensitively alive, that he would neither turn to the right nor to\nthe left without having made himself perfectly sure that he was about to\ntake the right course; and, as to conveyances of all kinds, of which he\nnow entertained an especial suspicion, he had prudently determined that\nhe would know every particular about them and their destinations before\nhe would put a foot in one of them, for he had found, from dear-bought\nexperience, that if he did not take this precaution, the chance was that\nhe would never reach the place he desired to get at, and might be\nwhisked away to some unknown country, where he would never more be heard\nof.\n\nUnder this wholesome terror, Johnny made no attempt to find out his\nfriend Vander Dunder; but chance effected, in part at least, what his\nlimited knowledge of Dutch put it out of his power, with set purpose, to\naccomplish. On turning the corner of a street, who should he have the\ngood fortune to meet with but Vander Dunder. The astonishment of the\ngood Dutchman on seeing Johnny was great, so great, indeed, as to\novercome the natural phlegm of his constitution. Holding up his hands in\namazement--\n\n\"Mine Got, my freend! are you shipwrack agen?\" he exclaimed.\n\n\"No, no,\" quoth Johnny--\"bad aneuch, but no just sae bad as that.\" And\nhe proceeded to inform his friend of the real state of the case.\n\nThe good-natured Dutchman was shocked at the recital, and felt ten times\nmore than ever for Johnny's unhappy situation and complicated\nmisfortunes. When he had concluded his affecting story--\n\n\"I tell you what you do, mine goot freend,\" said Vander Dunder--\"you go\nvith me to Slootzsloykin, and you remain vith me dere till your ship\nsail. You do dat, mine goot freend.\"\n\n\"Wi' a' my heart,\" said Johnny, \"and muckle obleeged to ye for yer\nkindness.\"\n\n\"No, no--no obleege at all,\" replied the kind-hearted Dutchman,\nimpatiently. \"Yo do the same to me in your coontry if I was shipwrack\nand in misfortune, and put to trooble for an innocent thief.\"\n\n\"Aweel, maybe I wad; but, nevertheless, its kind o' you to offer me the\nshelter o' yer roof,\" replied Johnny.\n\nDunder Vander Dunder now took his friend into a tavern, and treated him\nto a glass of schnaps. Shortly thereafter the two embarked in a canal\nboat for Slootzsloykin, where they finally arrived in safety. Here\nJohnny met with the same kind treatment as before; and of that kindness\nthere was no abatement during the whole fortnight of his sojourn. At the\nend of this period, Johnny Armstrong once more set out for Rotterdam, on\nthe day previous to the sailing of the vessel in which he now hoped to\nreach his native land, without further molestation or interruption. And,\ncertainly, everything had the appearance of going right on this\noccasion. The vessel, with Johnny on board, sailed at the appointed\ntime, and, before embarking, he had read distinctly on the ticket--a\nlarge black board, with yellow letters, which was fastened to the\nshrouds--that she was bound for Leith, and was the identical vessel he\nhad had in his eye. So far as this went, there could be no mistake\nwhatever. There was, indeed, one little circumstance that startled\nJohnny, but which he had not discovered till the vessel had been some\ntime at sea. This was, that all the crew were Dutchmen, there not being\na Scotchman amongst them. The circumstance did not, indeed, greatly\nalarm Johnny, but he certainly did think it a little odd; for he\nnaturally expected that, as she was a Leith vessel, her crew would be,\nfor the most part, at any rate, natives of Britain. However, he made no\nremarks on the subject, thinking it, as it really was, a matter of\nperfect indifference whether they were Scotchmen or Dutchmen. There were\ntwo or three passengers in the vessel besides himself; but they were all\nforeigners too, so that he could hold no converse with any of them; and\nthus debarred from intercourse with his fellow voyagers, he sat by\nhimself, gazing from the deck of the vessel on the waste of waters with\nwhich he was surrounded, and musing on the strange series of mishaps of\nwhich he had so simply and innocently become the victim. It was while\nthus employed--the vessel having been now a good many hours at sea, and\nat the moment scudding away before a fine fresh breeze--that the captain\napproached Johnny, and in very polite and civil terms, demanded his\npassage money. As he spoke in Dutch, however, the latter did not\nunderstand him. The captain observing this, and now guessing what\ncountryman he was, addressed him in very good English, and in that\nlanguage repeated his demand. With this demand, Johnny instantly\ncomplied; and, finding that he was a civil, good-natured fellow, began\nto open up a little conversation with him. His first remark was, that he\nhoped they would have good weather. The captain hoped so too. His second\nremark was, that they had a fine breeze. The captain agreed with\nhim--said it was a delightful breeze--and added that, if it continued to\nblow as it then blew for four-and-twenty hours, he expected they would\nbe all safe at _Rouen_!\n\n\"At whar?\" shouted out Johnny, looking aghast at the speaker.\n\n\"At Rouen, to be sure,\" repeated the captain, wondering at Johnny's\namazement.\n\n\"Gude's mercy!\" exclaimed Johnny, with dreadful energy, \"are ye no gaun\nto Leith?--is this no a Leith boat?\"\n\n\"Oh, no,\" said the captain smiling; \"this is the Rouen packet. Were ye\nnot aware of that, sir? You have got into a sad scrape, my friend, if\nyou were not,\" he added, and now laughing outright at the dismal\nexpression of Johnny's countenance.\n\n\"Heaven hae a care o' me!\" said Johnny despairingly. \"Did I no read\ndistinctly on the ticket that was fastened to yer shroods, that ye were\nbound for Leith?\"\n\n\"Yes, yes,\" replied the captain, \"you may have seen such a ticket as you\nspeak of, and there was certainly such a ticket on our shrouds as you\nsay, but it did not refer to this ship, but to the vessel outside of us.\nWe allowed the board to be exhibited on our shrouds merely to\naccommodate our neighbour, as it could not be read from his--he being on\nthe outside, and we next the quay. That, my friend, is a piece of\ncivility very commonly practised at seaports by one vessel to another,\nwhen similarly situated as we and they were. You will see it at all\nquays and wharfs.\"\n\nJohnny Armstrong groaned, but said nothing. At length, however, he\nmuttered, in a tone of Christian-like resignation--\n\n\"The Lord's will be dune! I see it's settled that I am never to get hame\nagain; but to be keepit gaun frae place to place ower the face o' the\nearth, like anither wanderin' Jew. Gude hae a care o' me, but this is\nawfu'! Its judgment like.\"\n\nIt certainly was very remarkable, but not in the least mysterious. This\nnew mistake of Johnny, like all the rest, was a perfectly simple\noccurrence; and, like them, too, arose as plainly and naturally out of\ncircumstances as it was possible for any effect to do from a cause. But,\nhowever, this may be, the captain--although he could not help laughing\nat the awkward predicament of his passenger--really felt for him, seeing\nthe distress he was in, and was so much influenced by this feeling as to\noffer to convey him back to Rotterdam, to which, he said, he would\nreturn in two days, free of any charge; adding, with a smile, and with\nthe kind intention of reconciling Johnny to what could not now be\nhelped, that it was nothing, after all--that it would make a difference\nof only a few days--and that it would be always showing him a little\nmore of the world.\n\n\"Mony thanks to ye,\" said Johnny, perceiving and appreciating the\nfriendly purpose of the captain; \"and I'll e'en tak advantage o' yer\nkind offer; but as to seein' the world, by my faith, I've seen now about\njust as muckle o't as I want to see, and maybe a trifle mair--a hantle\nmair, at ony rate, than I ever expected to see.\" Then, in a\nsoliloquizing tone and manner--\"God keep me, whar's Brechin noo! A' that\nI wanted, and a' that I intended, was to get to that bit paltry place;\nand, instead o' that, here am I within a stane-cast o' the north pole,\nfor aught I ken to the contrar, and, to a' appearances, no half dune\nwi't yet. Heaven kens whar I'll be sent niest!--maybe be landed on\nOwhyhee, or on some desert island, like another Robinson Crusoe. Na,\nit's certain, if things gang on muckle langer this way.\"\n\nOf the drift or scope of these remarks, or, at any rate, of the feelings\nthat dictated them, the captain could make nothing, not knowing Johnny's\nprecise circumstances; nor did he seek to have them explained, but\ncontented himself with repeating his offer of conveying Johnny back to\nRotterdam, and renewing his well-meant efforts to reconcile him to his\nfate, in so far as his present voyage was concerned. In the meantime,\nthe wind continued to blow in a manner perfectly satisfactory in every\nrespect to all on board the _Jungfrau_ of Rotterdam and Rouen; and, in\nabout the space of time mentioned by the captain, the vessel reached her\ndestination in safety. Johnny Armstrong, whose whole mind was absorbed\nby anxiety to reach that home which he yet seemed destined never again\nto see, took no interest whatever in the scenes presented to him in the\npart of the world he was now in. Indeed, he never left the vessel at\nall, for fear she would slip through his fingers; for, if he was afraid\nof accidents of this kind before, he was ten times more so now; and,\nwith this fear upon him, that the packet might, by some chance or other,\nescape him, he determined to stick by her--never to lose sight of her\nfor a moment, till she had conveyed him back to Rotterdam; and his\nvigilance ultimately secured the end he had in view. The _Jungfrau_\nsailed from Rouen with Johnny on board, and, in due time, deposited him\nonce more at Rotterdam. But what was Johnny's surprise, what Dunder\nVander Dunder's amazement, when they again encountered one another, and\nthat within ten minutes of the former's landing! The amazement of the\nlatter, however, was, on this occasion, evidently mingled with a degree\nof suspicion of the perfect uprightness of Johnny's character. He began\nnow to think, in short, that there had been more in the circumstance of\nJohnny's apprehension than he had been informed of. He did not like\nthese frequent reappearances; he thought them very odd--and he did not\nhesitate to say so.\n\n\"Mine Got! vat you here again for, man? Vat is de meaning of all dis,\nmine goot freend?\" he exclaimed, with a somewhat dry and doubtful\nmanner, quite at variance with the cordial tone of his former greetings.\n\nJohnny Armstrong explained to him, but seemingly without obtaining\nimplicit credence for all he said. When he had done--\n\n\"'Tis veree odd,\" said Vander Dunder, coldly; \"veree straunge. But, you\nreally vant to go to Scotlan, dere is vessel going to sail for Leet now,\nand I vill see you on board mineself.\"\n\nIt was very questionable whether Vander's civility, in this case,\nproceeded from a desire really to serve Johnny, or from a wish to get\nfairly rid of him. However this might be, Johnny readily accepted his\noffer, and at once accompanied him to the vessel he alluded to, which\nwas, indeed, on the point of sailing. Vander, taking care that there\nshould be no mistake in this case, conducted him down into the cabin,\nand waited on the quay till he saw the vessel fairly under weigh.\n\nHaving brought the disasters of Johnny Armstrong to this point, we\nproceed now to finish what we assure our readers, is an \"ower true\ntale.\"\n\nAs we were strolling down the pier of Leith, with a friend, one\nafternoon in the year 18--, we saw a vessel making for the harbour. It\nwas high water, and the scene altogether was a very pleasing and a very\nstirring one. But, amongst the various objects of interest that\npresented themselves, there was none that attracted so much of our\nattention as the stately vessel that, with outspread canvas, was rapidly\nnearing the pier. We asked a seaman who stood beside us, where she was\nfrom. He replied--\"Rotterdam.\"\n\nOn approaching the pier, the vessel shortened sail, and, by this\nprocess, enabled us deliberately to scan her decks from our elevated\nposition, as she glided gently along with us. During this scrutiny, we\nobserved amongst the passengers a stout little man in a brown greatcoat,\nwith a large red comforter about his neck, and his hat secured on his\nhead--for it was blowing pretty hard--by a blue pocket-handkerchief,\nwhich was passed beneath his chin, and gave him, in a very particular\nmanner, the peculiar air of a traveller or _v\u00f3yageur_. There was nothing\nwhatever in the appearance of the little man in the brown greatcoat\nwhich would have led any one to suppose, _\u00e0 priori_, that there possibly\ncould be anything remarkable or extraordinary in his history; but I was\ninduced suddenly to change my opinion, or at least to take some interest\nin him, by my friend's exclaiming, in the utmost amazement, and, at the\nsame time, pointing to him with the red comforter--\n\n\"Gracious Heaven, if there is not Johnny Armstrong! Or it is his ghost!\"\n\n\"No ghost at all, we warrant you,\" said we; \"ghosts do not generally\nwear greatcoats and red comforters. But who in all the world is Johnny\nArmstrong?\"\n\n\"Johnny Armstrong,\" replied our friend, greatly excited, \"is a person, a\nparticular acquaintance of mine, who has been missing these six weeks;\nand who was supposed, by everybody who knew him, to have perished by\nsome accident or other, but of what nature could never be ascertained,\non his way to Brechin, where he had gone to visit some relations.\"\n\nWe felt interested in Johnny, by this brief sketch of his mysterious\nstory; and, not a little curious to know where on earth he could\npossibly have been all the time, we readily closed with our friend's\nproposal to run round to the berth for which we saw the vessel was\nmaking, and to await his coming on shore.\n\n\"But how, in all the world,\" said our friend, communing with himself\nduring this interval, \"has he got into a vessel from Rotterdam? He could\nnot have been there, surely? It's impossible.\"\n\nAs to this we could say nothing, not knowing at the time anything at all\nof Johnny's adventures; but of these we were not now long kept in\nignorance. On his stepping on shore, our friend seized him joyously by\nthe hand, and expressed great satisfaction at seeing him again. This\nsatisfaction appeared to be mutual; for Johnny returned his friend's\ngrasp with great cordiality and warmth. The first salutations over--\n\n\"But where on all the earth, Mr. Armstrong,\" said our friend, \"have you\nbeen for these three months back?\"\n\nJohnny smiled, and said it was \"ower lang a tale\" to tell where we then\nwere; but, as he meant to stop either in Leith or Edinburgh for the\nnight, it being now pretty far in the evening, if my friend and I would\nadjourn with him to some respectable house, where he could get a night's\nquarters, he would give us the whole story of his adventures. With this\nproposal we readily closed; and on Johnny asking if we could point out\nsuch a house as he alluded to, we at once named the New Ship Tavern.\nThither we accordingly repaired; and, in less than two hours thereafter,\nwe were put, good reader, in possession, by Johnny himself, of that part\nof his story to which the preceding pages have been devoted. What\nfollows--for Johnny's misfortunes had not yet terminated--we learned\nafterwards from another quarter.\n\nOn the next day--we mean the day succeeding the evening we spent with\nJohnny--the latter proceeded to Edinburgh, with the view of taking\ncoach there for Carlisle. But, in making his way up Catherine Street,\nand when precisely opposite No. 12, Calton Street--we like to be\nparticular--Johnny found himself suddenly accosted by one of his oldest\nand most intimate friends. This was a Mr. James Stevenson, a\nfellow-townsman and fellow-shopkeeper of his own.\n\nThe astonishment of the latter, on meeting with Johnny, and, indeed, of\nfinding him at all in the land of the living, was very great; and he\nsufficiently expressed this feeling by the lively and highly excited\nmanner in which he addressed him.\n\nHaving put the usual queries, with that air of intense interest which\nthey naturally excited, as to where Johnny had been, what he had been\nabout, &c. &c., and having obtained a brief sketch of his adventures,\nwith the promise of a fuller one afterwards, Mr. Stevenson, in reply,\nasked Johnny what course he was now steering.\n\n\"Hame, to be sure,\" said Johnny, with a smile. \"It's time noo, I\nthink--I'm just sae far on my way to tak' oot a ticket for the coach.\"\n\n\"Ye needna do that unless ye like,\" replied Johnny's friend. \"Ye may\nsave your siller, and no be abune an hour langer tarried, by takin' a\nseat wi' me in the gig I hae in wi' me. I'm sure ye're welcome, and I'll\nbe blythe o' your company.\"\n\n\"Hae ye a gig in wi' ye?\" said Johnny, looking pleased by the\nintelligence.\n\n\"'Deed hae I, Mr. Armstrong, and ye'll just clink down beside me in't.\"\n\n\"I'll do that wi' great thankfu'ness,\" replied Johnny, \"and muckle\nobleeged by the offer.\"\n\nThe friends now walked away, arm in arm together; and in about two hours\nafterwards--Mr. Stevenson having, in the meantime, despatched what\nbusiness he had to do in the city--they were both, seated in the gig,\nand birring it on merrily towards Carlisle.\n\nNeither Mr. Stevenson nor Johnny, however, were great whips--a\ndeficiency which was by no means compensated for by the circumstance of\ntheir having a rather spirited horse, although blind of an eye. He was,\nin truth, a very troublesome animal; boggling and shying at everything\nthat presented itself to his solitary optic. Notwithstanding this, the\ntravellers got on very well for a time, and were whirling over the\nground at a rapid rate, when an unlucky cart of hay came in their way at\na narrow turn of the road. How this simple occurrence should have\noperated so unfavourably as it did for them, we shall explain.\n\nA cart of hay is not a very alarming object to rational creatures like\nourselves, but to the one-eyed horse of the travellers it appeared a\nvery serious affair; for it had no sooner presented itself to his\nsolitary organ of vision than he pricked up his ears, snorted furiously,\nand began to exhibit sundry other symptoms of disquietude. By dint,\nhowever, of some well-directed punishment from Jamie Stevenson's whip,\nwhich Johnny increased by an energetic application of his stick, the\nrestive animal was brought _up_ to the waggon of hay; but, for some\ntime, the inducements just mentioned failed to prevail on him to _pass_\nit.\n\nAt length, however, Johnny having added greatly to the vigour of his\nblows with his stick, and his neighbour to that of his strokes with the\nwhip, the horse _did_ pass the waggon, and that with a vengeance. Taking\nheart, or rather becoming desperate, he bolted past it with the rapidity\nof a cannon shot; and not only this, but when he had cleared it,\ncontinued the velocity of his movements with unabated energy, to the\ngreat discomfort and no small terror of both Johnny and his companion,\nwho now found themselves going at a rate which they had neither\nanticipated nor desired. Indeed, this was so very great that both\ndirectly saw that something was wrong. Both saw, in short, what was,\nindeed, too true, that the horse had fairly run away with them; for he\nwas now going like the wind, with fury and distraction in his looks. It\nwas a shocking and most dreadfully alarming affair; and so Johnny and\nhis friend felt it to be, as might be distinctly seen by their\nhorror-stricken faces.\n\nOn discovering the predicament they were in, both the travellers--the\none dropping his whip, and the other his stick--seized on the reins, and\nbegan pulling with all their might, in the desperate hope of checking\nthe animal's speed by main force; Johnny, in his terror, exclaiming the\nwhile, distractedly--\n\n\"Mair o't yet, mair o't yet! Lord have a care o' me, but this is awfu'!\nThis is waur than onything I hae met wi' yet. Waur than the _Fifteen\nSisters_, Dutchmen, and a'. God be wi' us! are my misfortunes never to\nhae an end, till they hae finished me outricht? Am I never to get safe\nto either ae place or anither?--either to hame or to Brechin? Surely ane\no' them might be permitted to me. O, Jamie, see hoo he's gaun! He doesna\nseem to fin' us at his hurdies, nae mair than if we war a pair o'\npreencushions.\"\n\nThis was true enough. The horse in his fury did not indeed seem to feel\neither them or the vehicle they were seated in, but pushed madly\nonwards, till he came to where the road divided itself into two distinct\nroads--the one being the right one, and the other, of course, the\nwrong--when, as if inspired by Johnny's evil genius, he at once took the\nlatter, and in little more than twenty minutes, had him and his friend\nfully half as many miles out of their way. Now, however, the catastrophe\nwas to be wound up. A milestone caught one of the wheels of the gig,\ncanted it over, and threw Johnny sprawling on the road with a broken\nleg; his friend, although also thrown, escaping wholly unhurt.\n\n\"Aweel, here it's at last,\" said Johnny, sitting up in the mud amongst\nwhich he had been planted, and fully believing that his injuries were\nfatal. \"Here it's at last. I'm clean dune for noo, after a' my escapes.\nIt may be noo plainly seen, I think,\" he went on, \"that some evil spirit\nhas had me in its power, for these six weeks past at ony rate, and has\nbeen gowfin' me about the world like a fitba', to kill me wi' a gig at\nlast.\"\n\nLuckily, Johnny's injuries did not prove so serious as he had feared\nthey would do; and no less fortunate was it that the accident to which\nthey were owing happened not far from a small country town in which\nthere was a resident surgeon. To the latter place Johnny was immediately\nremoved on a temporary bier, hastily constructed for the purpose by some\nlabouring men who chanced to be near the spot where the accident\nhappened, and there he lay for six entire weeks, when the surgeon above\nalluded to, and who had attended him all that time, intimated to him\nthat he might now venture to return home. Delighted with the\nintelligence, Johnny instantly acted on it, and next day entered\nCarlisle triumphantly in a post-chaise--not looking, nor really being,\nafter all, much the worse for his unprecedented adventures, save and\nexcept a lameness in the injured limb, which ever after imparted to his\nmovements the graceful up-and-down motion produced by that peculiar\nlongitudinal proportion of the nether limbs, designated by the\ndescriptive definition of \"a short leg and a shorter.\" Having, with this\nlast occurrence, concluded the story of Johnny's disasters, we have only\nto add that Johnny has never, to this good hour, got the length of\nBrechin--nor will, he says, ever again make the attempt.\n\n\n\n\nTHE PROFESSOR'S TALES.[4]\nTHE MOUNTAIN STORM.\n\n[4] The author of these stories (to be continued), the well-known\nProfessor Thomas Gillespie, was one of the principal writers in\n_Blackwood_ during the \"storm and stress\" period of that magazine. As an\nauthor, his peculiarity consisted in vivid descriptions of scenery and\nincidents coming within the range of a very eccentric experience, all\ngiven with a versatility and _abandon_ which he could not restrain, and\nwhich, being the reflex of a poetical enthusiasm, formed the charm of\nhis writings.--_Ed._\n\n\nPackman _loquitur_.--For several days the wind had been easterly, with\nan intense frost. At last, however, the weather subsided into a calm and\ndense fog, under which, at mid-day, it was difficult to find one's way\namidst those mountain tracks along which, in general, my route lay. The\ngrass and heath were absolutely loaded with hoar-frost. My cheeks became\nencompassed by a powdered covering; my breath was intensely visible, and\nfloated and lingered about my face with an oppressive and almost\nsuffocating density. No sun, moon, or star had appeared for upwards of\nforty-eight hours; when, according to my preconcerted plan, I reached\nthe farm town of Burnfoot. I was now in the centre of Queensberry Hills,\nthe most notable sheep-pasturage in the south of Scotland. It was about\nthree o'clock of the fifteenth day of January, when, under a cheerful\nwelcome from the guidwife, I rested my pack (for, be it known, I belong\nto this class of peripatetic merchants) upon the meal ark, disengaged my\narms from the leather straps by which the pack was suspended from my\nshoulders, and proceeded to light my pipe at the blazing peat-fire.\nRefreshments, such as are best suited to the _packman's drouth_, were\nsoon and amply supplied, and I had the happiness of seeing my old\nacquaintances (for I visited Burnfoot twice a year, on my going and\ncoming from Glasgow to Manchester) drop _in_ from their several\navocations, one after another, and all truly rejoiced to behold my face,\nand still more delighted to inspect the treasure and the wonders of \"the\npack.\" At last the guidman himself suspended his plaid from the mid-door\nhead, put off his shoes and leggings, assumed his slippers, along with\nhis prescriptive seat at the head or upper end of the lang-settle. The\nguidwife, returning _butt_ from bedding the youngest of some half-score\nof children, welcomed her husband with a look of the most genuine\naffection. She put a little creepie stool under his feet, felt that his\nclothes were not wet, scolded the dogs to a respectful distance, and\ninspired the peats into a double blaze. The oldest daughter, now \"woman\ngrown,\" sat combing the hoar-frost from her raven locks, and looking out\nfrom beneath beautifully arched and bushy eyebrows upon the interesting\naddition which had been made to the meal-ark. Some half-a-score of\nhealthy lads and lasses occupied the bench ayont the fire, o'er-canopied\nby sheep-skins, aprons, stockings, and footless hose. The dogs, after\nvarious and somewhat noisy differences had been adjusted, fell into\norder and position around the hearth, enjoying the warmth, and licking,\npeacefully and carefully, the wet from their sides. The cat, by this\ntime, had made a returning motion from the cupboard head, from which she\nhad been watching the arrangements and movements beneath. As this\nappeared to \"Help\" to be an infringement of the terms of armistice and\nof the frontier laws, he sprang with eagerness over the hearth. Pussy,\nfinding it dangerous, under this sudden and somewhat unexpected\nmovement, \"_dare terga_,\" instantly drew up her whole body into an\nattitude not only of defence, but defiance; curving herself into a\nbristling crescent, with the head of a dragon attached to it, and, with\none horrid hiss and sputter, compelled Help first to hesitate and then\nto retreat.\n\n   \"Three paces back the youth retired,\n      And saved himself from harm.\"\n\nThe guidwife, however,--who seemed not unaccustomed to such\ndemonstrations, and who manifestly acted on the humane principle of\nassisting the weaker by assailing the stronger combatant--gave Help such\ndemonstrations of her intentions, as at once reduced matters to the\n_status quo ante bellum_. (I have as good a right to scholarship as my\nbrother packman, Plato, who carried oil to Egypt.) Thus peace and good\norder being restored, the treasures of my burden became an immediate and\na universal subject of inquiry. I was compelled, nothing loath, to\nunstrap my various packages, and disclose to view all the varied\ntreasures of the spindle and loom. Shawls were spread out into enormous\ndisplay, with central, and corner, and border ornaments, the most\namazing and the most fashionable; waistcoat pieces of every stripe and\nfigure, from the straight line to the circle, of every hue and colouring\nwhich the rainbow exhibits, were unfolded in the presence and under the\nscrutinizing thumb of many purchasers. The guidwife herself half coaxed\nand half scolded a fine remnant of Flanders lace, of most tempting\naspect, out of the guidman's reluctant pocket. The very dogs seemed\nanxious to be accommodated, and applied their noses to some unopened\nbales, with a knowing look of inquiry. Things were proceeding in this\nmanner, when the door opened, and there entered a young man of the most\nprepossessing appearance; in fact, what Burns terms a \"strapping youth.\"\nI could observe that, at his entrance, the daughter's eye (of whom I\nhave formerly made mention) immediately kindled into an expression of\nthe most universal kindness and benevolence. Hitherto she had taken but\na limited interest in what was going on; but now she became the most\nprominent figure in the group--whilst the mother dusted a chair for the\nwelcome stranger with her apron, and the guidman welcomed him with a--\n\n\"Come awa, Willie Wilson, an' tak a seat. The nicht's gay dark an'\ndreary. I wonder how ye cleared the Whitstane Cleugh and the Side Scaur,\nman, on sic an eerie nicht.\"\n\n\"Indeed,\" responded the stranger, casting a look, in the meantime,\ntowards the guidman's buxom, and, indeed, lovely daughter--\"indeed, it's\nan unco fearfu' nicht--sic a mist and sic a cauld I hae seldom if ever\nencountered; but I dinna ken hoo it was--I coulda rest at hame till I\nhad tellt ye a' the news o' the last Langhom market.\"\n\n\"Ay, ay,\" interrupted the guidwife; \"the last Langhom market, man, is an\nauld tale noo, I trow. Na, na, yer mither's son camna here on sic a\nnicht, and at sic an hour, on sic an unmeaning errand\"--finishing her\nsentence, however, by a whisper into Willie's ear, which brought a\ndeeper red into his cheek, and seemed to operate in a similar manner on\nthe apparently deeply engaged daughter.\n\n\"But, Watty,\" continued my fair purchaser, \"you _must_ give me this\nBible a little cheaper--it's ower dear, man--heard ever onybody o' five\nwhite shillings gien for a Bible, and it only a New Testament, after\na'?--it's baith a sin an' a shame, Watty.\"\n\nAfter some suitable reluctance, I was on the point of reducing the price\nby a single sixpence, when Willie Wilson advanced towards the pack, and\nat once taking up the book and the conversation--\n\n\"Ower dear, Jessie, my dear!--it's the word o' God, ye ken--his ain\nprecious word; and I'll e'en mak ye a present o' the book at Watty's ain\nprice. Ye ken he maun live, as we a' do, by his trade.\"\n\nThe money was instantly paid down from a purse pretty will filled; for\nWilliam Wilson was the son of a wealthy and much respected sheep-farmer\nin the neighbourhood, and had had his name _once_ called in the kirk,\nalong with that of \"Janet Harkness of Burnfoot, both in this parish.\"\n\n\"Hoot noo, bairns,\" rejoined the mother; \"ye're baith wrang--that Bible\nwinna do ava. Ye maun hae a big ha' Bible to take the buik wi', and\nworship the God o' yer fathers nicht and morning, as they hae dune afore\nye; and Watty will bring ye ane frae Glasgow the next time he comes\nroun'; and it will, maybe, be usefu', ye ken, in _anither way_.\"\n\n\"Tout, mither, wi' yer nonsense,\" interrupted the conscious bride; \"I\nnever liked to see my name and age marked and pointed out to onybody on\noor muckle Bible; sae just haud yer tongue, mither, and tak a present\nfrae William and _me_,\" added she, blushing deeply, \"o' that big printed\nTestament. The minister, ye ken, seldom meddles wi' the auld Bible,\nunless it be a bit o' the Psalms; and yer een noo are no sae gleg as\nthey were whan ye were married to my father there.\"\n\nThe father, overcome by this well-timed and well-directed evidence of\ngoodness, piety, and filial affection, rose from his seat on the\nlong-settle, and, with tears in his eyes, pronounced a most fervent\nbenediction over the shoulders of his child.\n\n\"O God in heaven, bless and preserve my dear Jessie!\" said he--his\nchild's tears now falling fast and faster. \"Oh, may the God of thy\nfathers make thee happy--thee and thine--him there and his!--and when\nthy mother's grey hairs and mine are laid and hid in the dust, mayest\nthou have children, such as thy fond and dutiful self, to bless and\ncomfort, to rejoice and support thy heart!\"\n\nThere was not, by this time, a dry eye in the family; and, as a painful\nsilence was on the point of succeeding to this outbreaking of nature,\nthe venerable parent slowly and deliberately took down the big ha' Bible\nfrom its bole in the wall, and, placing it on the lang-settle table, he\nproceeded to family worship with the usual solemn prefatory\nannunciation--\"Let us worship God.\"\n\nLove, filial affection, and piety--what a noble, what a beautiful\ntriumvirate! By means of these, Scotland has rendered herself\ncomparatively great, independent, and happy. These are the graces which,\nin beautiful union, have protected her liberties, sweetened her\nenjoyments, and exalted her head amongst the nations, and which, over\nall, have cast an expression and a feature irresistibly winning and\nnationally characteristic. It is over such scenes as the kitchen\nfireside of Burnfoot now presented, that the soul hovers with\never-awakening and ever-intenser delight; that even amidst the coldness,\nand unconcern, and irreligion of an iron age, the mind, at least at\nintervals, is redeemed into ecstasy, and feels, in spite of habit, and\nexample, and deadened apprehensions, that there is a beauty in pure and\nvirgin love, a depth in genuine and spontaneous filial regard, and an\nimpulse in communion with Him that is most high, which, even when taken\nseparately, are hallowing, sacred, and elevating; but which, when\nblended and softened down into one great and leading feature, prove\nincontestably that man is, in his origin and unalloyed nature, but a\nlittle lower than the angels.\n\nSuch was the aspect of matters in this sequestered and sanctified\ndwelling, when the house seemed, all at once, to be smitten, like Job's,\nat the four corners. The soot fell in showers into the grate; the\nrafters creaked; the dust descended; every door in the house rattled on\nits sneck and hinges; and the very dogs sprung at once from their\nslumbers and barked. There was something so awful in the suddenness and\nviolence of the commotion, that the prayer was abruptly and suddenly\nbrought to a conclusion.\n\n\"Ay, fearfu', sirs!\" were John Harkness' first words when springing to\nhis feet; \"but there's an awfu' nicht. Open the outer door, Jamie, and\nlet us see what it is like.\" The outer door was opened; but the drift\nburst in with such a suffocating swirl, that a strong lad who\nencountered it, reeled and gasped for breath.\n\n\"The hogs!\" exclaimed the guidman, \"and the gimmers!--where did ye leave\nthem, Jamie?\"\n\n\"In Capleslacks,\" was the answer, \"by east the Dod. The wind has set in\nfrae the nor'-east, and fifty score o' sheep, if this continue, will\nnever see the mornin'.\"\n\nBut what was to be done?\n\n    \"The wind blew as 'twould blawn its last,\"\n\nand the whole atmosphere was one almost solid wreath of penetrating\nsnow; when you thrust forth your hand into the open air, it was as if\nyou had perforated an iceberg. Burnfoot stands at the convergence of two\nmountain glens, adown one of which the tempest came as from a\nfunnel--collected, compressed, irresistible. There was a momentary look\nof suspense--every one eying the rest with an expression of indecision\nand utter helplessness. The young couple, by some law of affinity, stood\ntogether in a corner. The shepherd lads, with Jamie Hogg at their head,\nwere employed in adjusting plaids to their persons. The guidman had\nalready resumed his leggings, and the dogs were all exceedingly\nexcited--amazed at this unexpected movement, but perfectly resolved to\ndo their duty.\n\n\"Jamie,\" said the guidman, \"you and I will try to mak oor way by the\nHead Scaur to Capleyetts, where the main hirsel was left; and Will, Tam,\nand Geordie will see after the hogs and gimmers ayont the Dod.\"\n\n\"I, too,\" exclaimed a voice from the corner, over which, however, a fair\nhand was pressed, and which was therefore but indistinctly heard--\"I\nwill--(canna ye let me speak, Jessie!)--I will not, I shall not be left\nbehind--I will accompany the guidman, and do what I can to seek and to\nsave.\"\n\n\"Indeed and indeed, my dear William, ye can do nae guid--ye dinna ken\nthe grun' like my faither; and there's mony a kittle step forbye the\nHead Scaur; and, the Lord be wi' us! on sic a nicht too.\" So saying, she\nclasped her betrothed firmly around the neck, and absolutely compelled\nhim to relinquish his purpose. Having gained this one object, the fair\nand affectionate bride rushed across the room to her father, and falling\ndown on her knees, grasped him by the legs, and exclaimed--\n\n\"O mither, mither! come and help me--come and help me! faither, my dear\nfaither, let Jamie Hogg gang, and the rest; they are young, ye ken, and\nas weel acquant as yersel' wi' the ly o' the glens! but this is no a\nnicht for the faither o' a family to risk his life to save his\nsubstance. O faither, faither! I am soon, ye ken, to leave you and bonny\nBurnfoot--grant me, oh, grant me this one, this last request!\"\n\nThe mother sat all this while wringing her hands and exclaiming--\n\n\"Ay, ay, Jenny, get him to stay, get him to stay!\"\n\nThe father answered not a word, but, making a sign to Hogg, and\nwhistling on Help, and at the same time kissing his _now_ all but\nfainting child, he rushed out of the door (as Mrs. Harkness said) \"like\na fey man,\" and he and his companion, with a suitable accompaniment of\ndogs, were almost instantly invisible. The three other lads, suitably\narmed and accompanied, followed the example set to them, and the\nguidwife, the two lovers, five or six younger branches, and the female\nservants of the family, with myself, remained at home in a state of\nanxiety and suspense which can be better conceived than expressed.\n\n    \"The varnished clock that clicked behind the door,\"\n\nwith a force and a stroke loud and painful in the extreme, struck first\nten, then eleven, then twelve; but there was no return. Again and again\nwere voices heard commingling with the tempest's rush; again and again\ndid the outer door seem to move backwards on its hinges; but nothing\nentered save the shrill pipe of the blast, accompanied by the comminuted\ndrift, which penetrated through every seam and cranny. This state of\nuncertainty was awful; even the ascertained reality of death, partial or\nuniversal, had perhaps less of soul-benumbing cold in it than this\ninconceivable suspense. It required Willie Wilson's utmost efforts and\nmine to keep the frantic woman from madly rushing into the drift; and\nthe voice of lamentation was sad and loud amongst the children and the\nservant lasses--each of the latter class lamented, indeed, the fate of\nall, but there was always an under prayer offered up for the safety of\nGeordie, or Will, or Jamie, in particular. At last the three lads who\nhad encompassed the Dod arrived--alive, indeed, but almost breathless\nand frozen to death. They had, however, surmounted incredible\ndifficulties, and had succeeded in placing their hirsel in a position of\ncomparative security; but where were Jamie Hogg and the guidman? The\nviolence of the storm had nothing abated, the snow was every moment\naccumulating, and the danger and difficulty increasing tenfold. Spirits,\nheat, and friction gradually restored the three lads to their senses,\nand to the kind attentions of their several favourites of the female\norder; but _there_ sat the mother and the daughter, whilst the father\nwas either, in all probability, dead or dying. The very thought was\ndistracting; and, accordingly, the young bride, now turning to her lover\nwith a look of inexpressible anguish, exclaimed--\n\n\"O Willie! my ain dear Willie, ye maun gang, after a', ye maun gang this\ninstant,\" (Willie was on his feet and plaided whilst yet the sentence\nwas unfinished,) \"and try to rescue my dear, dear faither from this\nawfu' and untimely end; but tak care, oh tak care o' the big Scaur, and\nkeep far west by Caplecleuch, and maybe ye'll meet them coming back that\nway.\" These last words were lost in the drift, whilst Willie Wilson,\nwith his faithful follower, Rover, were penetrating, and flouncing, and\nfloundering their way towards the place pointed out.\n\nIn about half an hour after this, the howl and scratch of a dog were\nheard at the door-back, and Help immediately rushed in, the welcome\nforerunner of his master and Hogg. They had, indeed, had a fearful\nstruggle, and fearful wanderings; but, in endeavouring to avoid the\ndangerous, because precipitous, Head Scaur, they had wandered from the\ntrack, and from the object of their travel; and, after having been\ninclined once or twice to lie down and take a rest (the deceitful\nmessenger of death), they had at last got upon the track of Caple Water;\nand, by keeping to its windings--which they had often traced at the risk\nof being drowned--they had at last weathered the old cham'er, the byre,\nand peat-stack, and were now, thank God! within \"bigget wa's.\"\n\nBut where, alas! was Willie Wilson? Him, in consequence of their\ndeviations, they had missed; and over him, thus exposed, the tempest was\nstill renewing at intervals its hurricane gusts. There was one scream\nheard, such as would have penetrated the heart of a tiger, and all was\nstill. There she lay, the beauteous, but now marble bride; her head\nreposing on her mother's lap, her lips pale as the snowdrop, her eyes\nfixed and soulless, her cheek without a tint, and her mouth half-open\nand breathless. Long, long was the withdrawment--again and again was the\ndram-glass applied to the mouth, to catch the first expiration of\nreturning breath--ere the frame began to quiver, the hands to move, the\nlips and cheeks to colour, and the eyes to indicate the approaching\nreturn to reason and perception.\n\n\"I have killed him! I have killed him!\" were the first frantic accents.\n\"I have murdered, murdered my dear Willie! It was me that sent\nhim--forced him--compelled him out--out into the drift--the cold, cold\ndrift. Away!\" added the maniac--\"away! I'll go after him--I'll perish\nwith him--where he lies, there will I lie, and there will I be buried.\nWhat! is there none of ye that will make an effort to save a\nperishing--a choking--oh, my God! a suffocating man?\"\n\nHereupon she again sank backwards, and was prevented from falling by the\narms of a father.\n\n\"O my child!\" said parental love and affection--\"O my dear wean!--oh, be\npatient!--God is guid--He has preserved _us_ all--He will not desert\n_him_ in the hour of his need--He neither slumbers nor sleeps--His hand\nis not shortened that He cannot save--and what He can, He will--He never\ndeserted any that trusted in Him. O my child! my bairn!--my\nfirst-born!--be patient--be patient. There--there--there is a scratch at\nthe door-back--it is Rover.\"\n\nAnd to be sure Rover it was--but Rover in despair. His faithful\ncompanion and friend only entered the house to solicit immediate aid--he\nran round and round, looking up into the face of every one with an\nexpression of the most imploring anxiety. The poor frantic girl sprung\nfrom her father's embrace, and clung to the neck of the well-known\ncur--she absolutely kissed him--(oh, to what will not love, omnipotent,\nvirtuous love, descend!)--then rising, in renewed recollection, she sat\nherself down on the long-settle beside her father, and burst into loud\nand passionate grief.\n\nIt was now manifest to all that something must be attempted, else the\nyoung farmer must perish. Hogg, though awfully exhausted, was the first\nto volunteer a new excursion. The whole band were at once on their\nfeet; but Jessie now clung to her father, as she had formerly done to\nher lover, and would not let him go--indeed, the guidman was in no\ndanger of putting his purpose into effect, for he could scarcely stand\non his feet. He sat, or rather fell down, consequently, beside his\ndaughter, and continued in constant prayer and supplication at the\nthrone of grace. The daughter listened, and said she was comforted--the\nvoyagers were again on their way--the tempest had somewhat abated--the\nmoon had once or twice shone out--and there was now a greater chance of\nsuccess in their undertaking.\n\nHow we all contrived to exist during an interval of about two hours, I\ncannot say; but this I know, that the endurance of this second trial was\nworse than the first, to all but the sweet bride herself. Her mind had\nnow taken a more calm and religious view of the case. She repeated, at\nintervals and pauses in her father's ejaculatory prayer--\n\n\"Yes--oh, yes--_His_ will--His holy will be done! The Lord giveth and\nthe Lord taketh away--blessed be the name of the Lord for ever! We shall\nmeet again--oh, yes--where the weary are at rest.\n\n   'A few short years of evil past,\n      We reach the happy shore\n    Where death-divided friends at last\n      Shall meet, to part no more.'\n\nO father, is not that a gracious saying, and worthy of all acceptation!\"\n\nAt length the door opened, and in walked William Wilson.\n\nThe reader need scarcely to be told that the sagacious dog had left his\nmaster floundered, and unable to extricate himself in a snow wreath;\nthat the same faithful guide had taken the searchers to the spot, where\nthey found Wilson just in the act of falling into a sleep--from which,\nindeed, but for the providential sagacity of his dog, he had never\nwakened; and that, by means of some spirits which they had taken in a\nbottle, they completely restored and conducted him home.\n\n    \"Lives there one with soul so dead\"\n\nas not now to image the happy meeting betwixt bride and bridegroom, and,\nabove all, the influence which this trial had upon the happiness and\nreligious character of their future married and prosperous lot?\n\nIt is, indeed, long since I have laid aside the pack--to which, after a\ngood education, I had taken, from a wandering propensity--and taken up\nmy residence in the flourishing village of Thornhill, Dumfriesshire;\nliving, at first, on the profits of my shop, and now retired on my\nlittle, but, to me, ample competency; but I still have great pleasure in\npaying a yearly visit to my friends of Mitchelslacks, and in recalling\nwith them, over a comfortable meal, the interesting incidents of the\nsnow storm 1794.\n\n\n\n\nTHE FAIR MAID OF CELLARDYKES.\n\n\nI did not like the idea of having all the specimens of the fine arts in\nEurope collected into one \"bonne bouche\" at the Louvre. It was like\ncollecting, while a boy, a handful of strawberries, and devouring them\nat one indiscriminating gulp. I do not like floral exhibitions, for the\nsame reason. I had rather a thousand times meet my old and my new\nfriends in my solitary walks, or in my country rambles. All museums in\nthis way confound and bewilder me; and had the Turk not been master of\nGreece, I should have preferred a view of the Elgin marbles in the land\nof their nativity. And it is for a similar reason that my mind still\nreverts, with a kind of dreamy delight, to the time when I viewed\nmankind in detail, and in all their individual and natural\npeculiarities, rather than _en masse_, and in one regimental uniform.\nEducate up! Educate up! Invent machinery--discover agencies--saddle\nnature with the panniers of labour--and, at last, stand alongside of\nher, clothed, from the peasant to the prince, in the wonders of her\nmanufacture, and merrily whistling, in idle unconcern, to the tune of\nher unerring despatch! But what have we gained? One mass of\nsimilarities: the housemaid, the housekeeper, the lady, and the\nprincess, speaking the same language, clothed in the same habiliments,\nand enjoying the same immunities from corporeal labour--the colours of\nthe rainbow whirled and blended into one glare of white! Towards this\n_ultimatum_ we are now fast hastening. Where is the shepherd\nstocking-weaver, with his wires and his fingers moving invisibly? Where\nthe \"wee and the muckle wheel,\" with the aged dames, in pletted toys,\nsinging \"Tarry woo?\" Where the hodden-grey clad patriarch, sitting in\nthe midst of his family, and mixing familiarly, and in perfect equality\nwith all the household--servant and child? My heart constantly warms to\nthese recollections; and I feel as if wandering over a landscape\nvariegated by pleasant and contrasting colouring, and overshadowed with\nassociations which have long been a part of myself. One exception to the\ngeneral progression and assimilation still happily remains to gratify, I\nmust confess, my liking for things as they were. The fisher population\nof Newhaven, Buckhaven, and Cellardykes--(my observation extends no\nfarther, and I limit my remarks accordingly)--are, in fact, the Scottish\nhighlanders, the Irish, the Welsh, and the Manks of Fisherdom. Differing\neach somewhat from the other, they are united by one common bond of\ncharacter--they are varieties of the same animal--the different species\nunder one genus. I like this. I am always in high spirits when I pass\nthrough a fishing village or a fisher street. No accumulation of filth\nin every hue--of shell, and gill, and fish-tail--can disgust me. I even\nsmell a sweet savour from their empty baskets, as they exhale themselves\ndry in the sunbeam. And then there is a hue of robust health over all.\nNo mincing of matters. Female arms and legs of the true Tuscan\norder--cheeks and chins where neither the rose nor the bone has been\nstinted. Children of the dub and the mire--all agog in demi-nudity, and\nfollowing nature most vociferously. Snug, comfortable cabins, where\ngarish day makes no unhandsome inquiries, and where rousing fires and\nplentiful meals abide from June to January. They have a language, too,\nof their own--the true Mucklebacket dialect; and freely and firmly do\nthey throw from them censure, praise, or ribaldry. The men are here but\nmen; mere human machines--useful, but not ornamental--necessary\nincumbrances rather than valuable protectors. \"Poor creature!\" says Meg\nof the Mucklebacket, \"she canna maintain a man.\" Sir Walter saw through\nthe character I am labouring to describe; and, in one sentence, put life\nand identity into it. I know he was exceedingly fond of conversing with\nfisherwomen in particular. But, whilst such are the general features,\neach locality I have mentioned has its distinctive lineaments. The\nNewhaven fisherwoman (for the man is unknown) is a bundle of snug\ncomfort. Her body, her dress, her countenance, her basket, her voice,\nall partake of the same character of _enbonpointness_. Yet there is\nnothing at all untidy about her. She may ensconce her large limbs in\nmore plaiden coverings than the gravedigger in \"Hamlet\" had waistcoats,\nbut still she moves without constraint; and under a burden which would\npress my lady's waiting-maid to the carpet, she moves free, firm,\nelastic. Her tongue is not labour-logged, her feet are not\ncreel-retarded; but, altogether unconscious of the presence of hundreds,\nshe holds on her way and her discourse as if she were a caravan in the\ndesert. She is to be found in every street and alley of Auld Reekie,\ntill her work is accomplished. Her voice of call is exceedingly musical,\nand sounds sweetly in the ears of the infirm and bedrid. All night long\nshe holds her stand close by the theatre, with her broad knife and her\nopened oyster. In vain does the young spark endeavour to engage her in\nlicentious talk. He soon discovers that, wherever her feelings or\naffections tend, they do not point in his favour. Thus, loaded with\npence, and primed with gin, she returns by midnight to her home--there\nto share a supper-pint with her man and her neighbours, and to prepare,\nby deep repose, for the duties of a new day. Far happier and far more\nuseful she, in her day and generation, than that thing of fashion which\nmen call a beau or a belle--in whose labours no one rejoices, and in\nwhose bosom no sentiment but self finds a place. In Buckhaven, again,\nthe Salique law prevails. There men are men, and women mere appendages.\nThe sea department is here all in all. The women, indeed, crawl a little\nway, and through a few deserted fields, into the surrounding country;\nbut the man drives the cart, and the cart carries the fish; and the fish\nare found in all the larger inland towns eastward. Cellardykes is a\nmixture of the two--a kind of William and Mary government, where, side\nby side, at the same cart, and not unfrequently in the same boat, are to\nbe found man and woman, lad and lass. Oh, it is a pretty sight to see\nthe Cellardyke fishers leaving the coast for the herring-fishing in the\nnorth! I witnessed it some years ago, as I passed to Edinburgh; and this\nyear I witnessed it again.\n\nMeeting and conversing with my old friend the minister of the parish of\nKilrenny, we laid us down on the sunny slope of the brae facing the east\nand the Isle of May, whilst he gave me the following narrative:--\n\nThomas Laing and Sarah Black were born and brought up under the same\nroof--namely, that double-storied tenement which stands somewhat by\nitself, overlooking the harbour. They entered by the same outer door,\nbut occupied each a separate story. Thomas Laing was always a stout,\nhardy, fearless boy, better acquainted with every boat on the station\nthan with his single questions, and far fonder of little Sarah's company\nthan of the schoolmaster's. Sarah was likewise a healthy, stirring\nchild, extremely sensitive and easily offended, but capable, at the same\ntime, of the deepest feelings of gratitude and attachment. Thomas Laing\nwas, in fact, her champion, her Don Quixote, from the time when he could\nsquare his arms and manage his fists; and much mischief and obloquy did\nhe suffer among his companions on account of his chivalrous defence of\nlittle Sally. One day whilst the fisher boys and girls were playing on\nthe pier, whilst the tide was at the full, a mischievous boy, wishing to\nannoy Thomas, pushed little Sall into the harbour, where, but for\nThomas's timely and skilful aid (for he was an excellent swimmer,) she\nwould probably have been drowned. Having placed his favourite in a\ncondition and place of safety, Tom felled the offender, with a terrible\nfister, to the earth. The blow had taken place on the pit of the\nstomach, and was mortal. Tom was taken up, imprisoned, and tried for\nmanslaughter; but, on account of his youth--being then only thirteen--he\nwas merely imprisoned for a certain number of months. Poor Sally, on\nwhose account Tom had incurred the punishment of the law, visited him,\nas did many good-natured fishermen, whilst in prison, where he always\nexpressed extreme contrition for his rashness. After the expiry of his\nimprisonment, Tom returned to Cellardykes, only to take farewell of his\nparents, and his now more than ever dear Sally. He could not bear, he\nsaid, to face the parents of the boy whose death he had occasioned. The\nparting was momentary. He promised to spend one night at home; but he\nhad no such intention--and, for several years, nobody knew what had\nbecome of Thomas Laing. The subject was at first a speculation, then a\nwonder, next an occasional recollection; and, in a few months, the place\nwhich once knew bold Tom Laing, knew him no more. Even his parents,\nengaged as they were in the active pursuits of fishing, and surrounded\nas they were by a large and dependent family, soon learned to forget\nhim. One bosom alone retained the image of Tom, more faithfully and\nindelibly than ever did coin the impression of royalty. Meanwhile, Sarah\ngrew--for she was a year older than Tom--into womanhood, and fairly took\nher share in all the more laborious parts of a fisher's life. She could\nrow a boat, carry a creel, or drive a cart with the best of them; and,\nwhilst her frame was thus hardened, her limbs acquired a consistency and\nproportion which bespoke the buxom woman rather than the bonny lass. Her\neye, however, was large and brown, and her lips had that variety of\nexpression which lips only can exhibit. Many a jolly fisher wished and\nattempted to press these lips to his; but was always repulsed. She\nneither spoke of her Thomas, nor did she grieve for him much in secret;\nbut her heart revolted from a union with any other person whilst Thomas\nmight still be alive. Upon a person differently situated, the passion\n(for passion assuredly it was) which she entertained for her absent\nlover, might and would have produced very different effects. Had Sarah\nbeen a young boarding-school miss, she would assuredly either have\neloped with another, or have died in a madhouse; had she been a\nsentimental sprig of gentility, consumption must have followed: but\nSarah was neither of these. She had a heart to feel, and deeply too; but\nshe knew that labour was her destiny, and that when \"want came in at the\ndoor, love escapes by the window.\" So she just laboured, laughed, ate,\ndrank, and slept, very much like other people. Yet few sailors came to\nthe place whom she did not question about Thomas; and many a time and\noft did she retire to the rocks of a Sabbath eve, to think of and pray\nfor Thomas Laing. People imagine, from the free and open mariner, and\ntalk of the fisherwomen, that they are all or generally people of\ndoubtful morality. Never was there a greater mistake. To the public in\ngeneral they are inaccessible; they almost universally intermarry with\none another; and there are fewer cases (said my reverend informant) of\npublic or sessional reproof in Cellardykes, than in any other district\nof my parish. But, from the precarious and somewhat solitary nature of\ntheir employment, they are exceedingly superstitious; and I had access\nto know, that many a sly sixpence passed from Sally's pocket into old\nEffie the wise woman's, with the view of having the cards cut and cups\nread for poor Thomas.\n\nTime, however, passed on--with time came, but did not pass misfortune.\nSally's father, who had long been addicted, at intervals, to hard\ndrinking, was found one morning dead at the bottom of a cliff, over\nwhich, in returning home inebriated, he had tumbled. There were now\nthree sisters, all below twelve, to provide for, and Sally's mother had\nlong been almost bedrid with severe and chronic rheumatism;\nconsequently, the burden of supporting this helpless family devolved\nupon Sarah, who was now in the bloom and in the strength of her\nwomanhood. Instead of sitting down, however, to lament what could not be\nhelped, Sarah immediately redoubled her diligence. She even learned to\nrow a boat as well as a man, and contrived, by the help of the men her\nfather used to employ, to keep his boat still going. Things prospered\nwith her for a while; but, in a sudden storm, wherein five boats\nperished with all on board, she lost her whole resources. They are a\nhigh-minded people those Cellardyke fishers. The Blacks scorned to come\nupon the session. The young girls salted herrings, and cried haddocks in\nsmall baskets through the village and the adjoining burghs, and Sarah\ncontrived still to keep up a cart for country service. Meanwhile, Sarah\nbecame the object of attention through the whole neighbourhood. Though\nsomewhat larger in feature and limb than the Venus de Medicis, she was,\nnotwithstanding, tight, clean, and sunny--her skin white as snow, and\nher frame a well-proportioned Doric--just such a help-mate as a husband\nwho has to rough it through life might be disposed to select. Captain\nWilliam M'Guffock, or, as he was commonly called, Big Bill, was the\ncommander of a coasting craft, and a man of considerable substance.\nTrue, he was considerably older than Sally, and a widower, but he had no\nfamily, and a \"bien house to bide in.\" You see that manse-looking\ntenement there, on the broad head towards the east--that was Captain\nM'Guffock's residence when his seafaring avocations did not demand his\npresence elsewhere. Well, Bill came acourting to Sally; but Sally\n\"looked asclent and unco skeich.\" Someway or other, whenever she thought\nof matrimony--which she did occasionally--she at the same time thought\nof Thomas Laing, and, as she expressed it, her heart _scunnered_ at the\nthought. Consequently, Bill made little progress in his courtship; which\nwas likewise liable to be interrupted, for weeks at a time, by his\nprofessional voyages. At last a letter arrived from on board a king's\nvessel, then lying in Leith Roads, apprising Thomas Laing's relatives\nthat he had died of fever on the West India station. This news affected\nSally more than anything which had hitherto happened to her. She shut\nherself up for two hours in her mother's bedroom, weeping aloud and\nbitterly, exclaiming, from time to time--\"Oh! my Thomas!--my own dearest\nThomas! I shall never love man again. I am thine in life and in\ndeath--in time and in eternity!\" In vain did the poor bedrid woman try\nto comfort her daughter. Nature had her way; and, in less than three\nhours, Sarah Black was again in the streets, following, with a confused\nbut a cheerful look, her ordinary occupation. This grief of Sarah's, had\nit been well nursed, might well have lasted a twelvemonth; but, luckily\nfor Sarah, and for the labouring classes in general, she had not time to\nnurse her grief to keep it warm. \"Give us this day our daily bread,\"\nsaid a poor helpless mother and three somewhat dependent sisters--and\nSarah's exertions were redoubled.\n\n\"Oh, what a feelingless woman!\" said Mrs. Paterson to me, as Sarah\npassed her door one day in my presence, absolutely singing--\"Oh, what a\nfeelingless woman!--and her father dead, and her mother bedrid, and poor\nThomas Laing, whom she made such a fuss about, gone too--and there is\nshe, absolutely singing after all!\"\n\nMrs. Paterson is now Mrs. Robson, having married her second husband just\nsix weeks after the death of the first, whom her improper conduct and\nunhappy temper contributed first to render miserable here, and at last\nto convey to the churchyard! Verily (added the worthy clergyman), the\nheart is deceitful above all things. But what, after all, could poor\nSarah do, but marry Will M'Guffock, and thus amply provide, not only for\nherself, but for her mother and sister? Had Thomas (and her heart heaved\nat the thought) still been alive, she thought, she never would have\nbrought herself to think of it in earnest; but now that Thomas had long\nceased to think of her or of anything earthly, why should she not make a\nman happy who seemed distractedly in love with her, and at the same time\nhonourably provide for her poor and dependent relatives? In the\nmeantime, the sacramental occasion came round, and I had a private\nmeeting previous to the first communion with Sarah Black. To me, in\nsecret, she laid open her whole heart as if in the presence of her God;\nand I found her, though not a well-informed Christian by any means on\ndoctrinal points, yet well disposed and exceedingly humble; in short, I\nhad great pleasure in putting a token into her hand, at which she\ncontinued to look for an instant, and then returned it to me. I\nexpressed surprise, at least by my looks. \"I fear,\" said she, \"that I am\n_unworthy_; for I have not told you that I am thinking of marrying a man\nwhom I cannot love, merely to provide for our family. Is not this a\nsin?--and can I, with an intention of doing what I know to be wrong,\nsafely communicate?\" I assured her that, instead of thinking it a sin, I\nthought her resolution commendable, particularly as the object of her\nreal affection was beyond its reach; and I mention the circumstance to\nshow that there is often much honour, and even delicacy of feeling,\nnatural as well as religious, under very uncongenial circumstances and\nappearances. Having satisfied her mind on this subject, I had the\npleasure to see her at the communion table, conducting herself with much\nseeming seriousness of spirit. I could see her shed tears, and formed\nthe very best opinion of her from her conduct throughout.\n\nIn a few days or weeks after this, the proclamation lines were put into\nmy hands, and I had the pleasure of uniting her to Captain M'Guffock in\ndue course. They had, however, only been married a few weeks, when an\noccurrence of a very awkward character threw her and her husband, who\nwas, in fact, an ill-tempered, passionate man, into much perplexity. The\ncaptain was absent on a coasting voyage, as usual; and his wife was\nsuperintending the washing of some clothes, whilst the sun was setting.\nIt was a lovely evening in the month of July, and the fishing boats were\nspread out all over the mouth of the Firth, from the East Neuk to the\nIsle of May, in the same manner in which you see them at present. Mrs.\nM'Guffock's mind assumed, notwithstanding the glorious scenery around\nher, a serious cast, for she could not help recalling many such evenings\nin which she had rejoiced in company and in unison with her beloved\nThomas. She felt and knew that it was wrong to indulge such emotions;\nbut she could not help it. At last, altogether overcome, she threw\nherself forward on the green turf, and prayed audibly--\"O my God, give\nme strength and grace to forget my own truly beloved Thomas! Alas! he\nknows not the struggles which I have to exclude him from my sinful\nmeditations. Even suppose he were again to arise from the dead, and\nappear in all the reality of his youthful being, I must, and would fly\nfrom him as from my most dangerous foe.\" She lifted up her eyes in the\ntwilight, and in the next instant felt herself in the arms of a powerful\nperson, who pressed her in silence to his breast. Amazed and bewildered,\nshe neither screamed nor fainted, but, putting his eager kisses aside,\ncalmly inquired who he was who dared thus to insult her. She had no\nsooner pronounced the inquiry, than she heard the words, \"Thomas--your\nown Thomas!\" pronounced in tones which could not be mistaken. This,\nindeed, overpowered her; and, with a scream of agony, she sank down dead\non the earth. This brought immediate assistance; but she was found lying\nby herself, and talking wildly about her Thomas Laing. Everybody who\nheard her concluded that she had either actually seen her lover's ghost,\nor that her mind had given way under the pressure of regret for her\nmarriage, and that she was now actually a lunatic. For twelve hours she\ncontinued to evince the most manifest marks of insanity; but sleep at\nlast soothed and restored her, and she immediately sent for me. I\nendeavoured to persuade her that it must be all a delusion, and that the\nimagination oftentimes created such fancies. I gave instances from books\nwhich I had read, as well as from a particular friend of my own who had\nlong been subject to such delusive impressions, and at last she became\nactually persuaded that there had been no reality in what she had so\nvividly perceived, and still most distinctly and fearfully recollected.\nI took occasion then to urge upon her the exceeding sinfulness of\nallowing any image to come betwixt her and her lawful married husband;\nand left her restored, if not to her usual serenity, at least to a\nconviction that she had only been disturbed by a vision.\n\nWhen her husband returned, I took him aside, and explained my views of\nthe case, and stated my most decided apprehension that some similar\nimpression might return upon her nerves, and that her sisters (her\nmother being now removed by death) should dwell in the same house with\nher. To this, however, the captain objected, on the score that, though\nhe was willing to pay a person to take care of them in their own house,\nhe did not deem them proper company, in short, for a _captain's wife_. I\ndisliked the reasoning, and told him so; but he became passionate, and I\nsaw it was useless to contend further. From that day, however, Bill\nM'Guffock seemed to have become an altered man. Jealousy, or something\nnearly resembling it, took possession of his heart; and he even ventured\nto affirm that his wife had a paramour somewhere concealed, with whom,\nin his long and necessary absences, she associated. He alleged, too,\nthat in her sleep she would repeat the name of her favourite, and in\nterms of present love and fondness. I now saw that I had not known the\ndepth of \"a first love,\" otherwise I should not have advised this\nunhappy marriage, all advantageous as it was in a worldly point of view.\nA sailor's life, however, is one of manifest risk, and in less than a\ntwelvemonth Sarah M'Guffock was a young widow, without incumbrance, and\nwith her rights to her just share of the captain's effects. Her sorrow\nfor the death of her husband was, I believe, sincere; but I observed\nthat she took an early opportunity of joining her sisters in her old\nhabitation, immediately beneath that still tenanted by the friends of\nLaing.\n\nMatters were in this situation, when I was surprised one evening, whilst\nsitting meditating in the manse of Kilrenny, about dusk, with a visit\nfrom a tall and well-dressed stranger. He asked me at once if I could\ngive him a private interview for a few minutes, as he had something of\nimportance to communicate. Having taken him into my study, and shut the\ndoor, I reached him a chair, and desired him to proceed.\n\n\"I had left the parish,\" said the stranger, \"before you were minister of\nKilrenny, in the time of worthy Mr. Brown, and therefore you will\nprobably not know even my name. I am Thomas Laing!\"\n\n\"I did not indeed,\" said I, \"know you, but I have heard much about you;\nand I know one who has taken but too deep an interest in your fate. But\nhow comes it,\" added I, beginning to think that I was conversing either\nwith a vision or an impostor--\"how comes it that you are here, seemingly\nalive and well, whilst we have all been assured of your death some years\nago?\"\n\nThe stranger started, and immediately exclaimed--\"Dead!--dead!--who said\nI was dead?\"\n\n\"Why,\" said I, \"there was a letter came, I think, to your own father,\nmentioning your death by fever in the West Indies.\"\n\n\"Do I look like a dead man?\" said the stranger; but, immediately\nbecoming absent and embarrassed, he sat for a while silent, and then\nresumed:--\"Some one,\" said he, \"has imposed upon my dear Sarah, and for\nthe basest of purposes. I now see it all. My dear girl has been sadly\nused.\"\n\n\"This is, indeed, strange,\" said I; \"but let me hear how it is that I\nhave the honour of a visit from you at this time and in this place?\"\n\n\"Oh,\" replied Thomas Laing (for it was he in verity), \"I will soon give\nyou the whole story:--\n\n\"When I left this, fourteen years ago come the time, I embarked at\nGreenock, working my way out to New York. As I was an excellent hand at\na rope and an oar, I early attracted the captain's notice, who made some\ninquiries respecting my place of birth and my views in life. I told him\nthat I was literally \"at sea,\" having nothing particularly in view--that\nI had been bred a fisher, and understood sailing and rowing as well as\nany one on board. The captain seemed to have something in his head, for\nhe nodded to me, saying, 'Very well, we will see what can be done for\nyou when we arrive at New York.' When we were off Newfoundland, we were\novertaken by a terrible storm, which drove us completely out of our\nlatitude, till, at last, we struck on a sandbank--the sea making for\nseveral hours a complete breach over the deck. Many were swept away into\nthe devouring flood; whilst some of us--amongst several others the\ncaptain and myself--clung to what remained of the ship's masts till the\nstorm somewhat abated. We then got the boat launched, and made for land,\nwhich we could see looming at some distance ahead. We got, however,\nentangled amongst currents and breakers; and, within sight of a boat\nwhich was making towards us from the shore, we fairly upset--and I\nremember nothing more till I awoke, in dreadful torment, in some\nfishermen's boat. Beside me lay the captain, the rest had perished. When\nwe arrived at the land, we were placed in one of the fishermen's huts,\nwhere we were most kindly treated--assisting, as we did occasionally, in\nthe daily labours of the cod fishery. I displayed so much alertness and\nskill in this employment, that the factor on the station made me an\nadvantageous offer, if I would remain with them and assist in their\nlabours. With this offer, having no other object distinctly in view, I\ncomplied. But my kind and good-hearted captain, possessing less\ndexterity in this employment, was early shipped at his own request for\nEngland. The most of the hands, about two hundred in all, on the station\nwhere I remained, were Scotch and Irish, and a merry, jovial set we\nwere. The men had wives and families; and the governor or factor lived\nin a large slated house, very like your manse, upon a gentle eminence, a\nlittle inland. Towards the coast the land is sandy and flat; but in the\ninterior there is much wood, a very rich soil, and excellent fresh\nwater. Where we remained the water was brackish, and constituted the\nchief inconvenience of our station. The factor or agent, commonly called\nby the men the governor, used to visit us almost every day, and remained\nmuch on board when ships were loading for Europe. One fine summer's day\nwe were all enjoying the luxury of bathing, when, all on a sudden, the\nshout was raised--'A shark! a shark!' I had just taken my place in the\nboat, and was still undressed, when I observed one man disappear, being\ndragged under the water by the sea monster. The factor, who was swimming\nabout in the neighbourhood, seemed to be paralyzed by terror, for he\nmade for the boat, plashing like a dog, with his hands and arms\nfrequently stretched out of the water. I saw his danger, and immediately\nplunged in to his rescue, which, with some difficulty, I at last\neffected.\n\n\"Poor Pat Moonie was seen no more; nor did the devouring monster\nreappear. The factor immediately acknowledged his obligations to me, by\ncarrying me home with him, and introducing me to his lady and an only\ndaughter--I think I never beheld a more beautiful creature; but I looked\nupon her as a being of a different order from myself, and I still\nthought of my own dear Sally and sweet home at Cellardykes. Through the\nfactor's kindness, I got the management of a boat's crew, with\nconsiderable emolument which belonged to the situation. I then behoved\nto dress better, at least while on land, than I used to do, and I was an\nalmost daily visitor at Codfield House, the name of the captain's\nresidence. My affairs prospered; I made, and had no way of spending\nmoney. The factor was my banker, and his fair daughter wrote out the\nacknowledgments for her father to sign. One beautiful Sabbath-day, after\nthe factor--who officiated at our small station as clergyman--had read\nus prayers and a sermon, I took a walk into the interior of the country,\nwhere, with a book in her hand, and an accompaniment of Newfoundland\ndogs, I chanced to meet with Miss Woodburn, the factor's beautiful\nchild. She was only fourteen, but quite grown, and as blooming a piece\nof womanhood as ever wore kid gloves or black leather. She seemed\nsomewhat embarrassed at my presence, and blushed scarlet, entreating me\nto prevent one of her dogs from running away with her glove, which he\nwas playfully tossing about in his mouth. The dog would not surrender\nhis charge to any one but to his mistress; and, in the struggle, he bit\nmy hand somewhat severely. You may see the marks of his teeth there\nstill\" (holding out his hand while he spoke). \"Poor Miss Woodburn knew\nnot what to do first; she immediately dropped the book which she was\nreading--scolded the offending dog to a distance--took up the glove,\nwhich the dog at her bidding had dropped, and wrapped it close and\nfirmly around my bleeding hand; a band of long grass served for thread\nto make all secure, and in a few days my hand was in a fair way of\nrecovery--but not so my heart; I felt as if I had been all at once\ntransformed into a gentleman--the soft touch of Miss Eliza's fair\nfingers seemed to have transformed me, skin, flesh, and bones, into\nanother species of being. I shook like an aspen leaf whenever I thought\nof our interesting interview; and I could observe that Eliza changed\ncolour, and looked out of the window whenever I entered the room. But,\nsir, I am too particular, and I will now hasten to a close.\" I entreated\nhim (said the parson) to go on in his own way, and without any reference\nto my leisure. He then proceeded:--\"Well, sir, from year to year I\nprospered, and from year to year got more deeply in love with the angel\nwhich moved about in my presence. At last our attachment became manifest\nto the young lady's parent; and, to my great surprise, it was proposed\nthat we should make a voyage to New York, and there be united in\nmatrimony. All this while, sir, I thought of my own dear Sally, and the\nthought not unfrequently made me miserable; but what was Sally to me\nnow?--perhaps she was dead--perhaps she was married--perhaps--but I\ncould scarcely think it--she had forgot me; and then the blooming\nrosebud was ever in my presence, and hallowed me, by its superior purity\nand beauty, into a complete gentleman. Well, married we were at New\nYork, and for several months I was the happiest of men, and my dear wife\n(I know it) the happiest of women; but the time of her labour\napproached--and child and mother lie buried in the cemetery at New York,\nwhere we had now fixed our residence.\" (Here poor Thomas wept\nplentifully, and, after a pause proceeded.)--\"I could not reside longer\nin a place which was so dismally associated in my mind; so, having wound\nup my worldly affairs, and placed my little fortune--about one thousand\npounds--in the bank, I embarked for Europe, along with my father and\nmother-in-law, who were going home to end their days in the place of\ntheir nativity, Belfast, in Ireland. I determined upon landing at the\nCove of Cork, to visit once more my native village, and to have at least\none interview with Sally. I learned, on my arrival at Largo, that Sally\nwas married to the old captain. I resolved, however, ere I went finally\nto settle in Belfast, to have one stolen peep at my first love--my own\ndear Sally. I came upon her whilst repeating my name in her prayers--I\nembraced her convulsively--repeated her name twice in her hearing--heard\nher scream--saw her faint--kissed her fondly again and again--and,\nstrangers appearing, I immediately absconded.\"\n\n\"This,\" said the minister, \"explains all;--but go on--I am anxious to\nhear the conclusion of your somewhat eventful history.\"\n\n\"Why, I was off immediately for Belfast, where I at present reside with\nmy father-in-law, whose temper, since the loss of his child, has been\nmuch altered for the worse. But I am here on a particular errand, in\nwhich your kind offices, sir--for I have heard of your goodness of\nheart--may be of service to me. I observed the death of the old captain\nin the newspaper, and I am here once more to enjoy an interview with his\nwidow. I wish you, sir, to break the business to her; meanwhile, I will\nlodge at the Old Inn, Mrs. Laing's, at Anstruther, and await your\nreturn.\"\n\nI agreed (continued the parson of Kilrenny) to wait upon the widow; and\nto see, in fact, how the wind set, in regard to \"first love.\" I found\nher, as I expected, neatly clad in her habiliments of widowhood, and\nemployed in making some dresses for a sister's marriage. I asked and\nobtained a private interview, when I detailed, as cautiously as I could,\nthe particulars of Thomas Laing's history. I could observe that her\nwhole frame shook occasionally, and that tears came, again and again,\ninto her eyes. I was present, but a fortnight ago, at their first\ninterview at the inn; and I never saw two human beings evince more real\nattachment for each other. On their bended knees, and with faces turned\ntowards heaven, did they unite in thanking God that he had permitted\nthem, to have another interview with each other in this world of\nuncertainty and death. It has been since discovered that the letter\nannouncing Laing's death was a forgery of the old captain, which has\nreconciled his widow very much to the idea of shortening her days of\nmourning. In a word, this evening, and in a few hours, I am going to\nunite the widower and the widowed, together with a younger sister and a\nfine young sailor, in the holy bonds of matrimony; and, as a punishment\nfor your giving me all this trouble in narrating this story, I shall\ninsist upon your eating fresh herring, with the fresh-herring Presbytery\nof St. Andrew's, which meets here at Mrs. Laing's to-day, and afterwards\nwitnessing the double ceremony.\n\nTo this I assented, and certainly never spent an evening more agreeably\nthan that which I divided betwixt the merry lads of St. Andrew's\nPresbytery, and the fair dames and maidens of Cellardykes, who graced\nthe marriage ceremony. Such dancing as there was, and such screaming,\nand such music, and such laughing; yet, amidst it all, Mr. and Mrs.\nLaing preserved that decent decorum, which plainly said, \"We will not\nmar the happiness of the young; but we feel the goodness and providence\nof our God too deeply, to permit us to join in the noisy part of the\nfestivity.\"\n\n\"The fair maid of Cellardykes,\" with her kind-hearted husband--I may\nmention, for the satisfaction of my fair readers in particular--may now\nbe seen daily at their own door, and in their own garden, on the face of\nthe steep which overlooks the village. They have already lived three\nyears in complete happiness, and have been blessed with two as fine\nhealthy children as a Cellardykes sun ever rose upon. Mr. Laing has\nbecome an elder in the church, and both husband and wife are most\nexemplary in the discharge of their religious, as well as relative\nduties. God has blessed them with an ample competence; and sure is the\nwriter of this narrative, that no poor fisherman or woman ever applied\nto this worthy couple without obtaining relief.\n\nOne circumstance more, and my narrative closes. As Mr. Laing was one\nevening taking a walk along the seashore, viewing the boats as they\nmustered for the herring fishing, he was shot at from behind one of the\nrocks, and severely wounded in the shoulder--the ball or slug-shot\nhaving lodged in the clavicle, and refusing, for some days, to be\nextracted. The hue-and-cry was immediately raised; but the guilty person\nwas nowhere to be seen. He had escaped in a boat, or had hid himself in\na crevice of the rock, or in some private and friendly house in the\nvillage. Poor Thomas Laing was carried home to his distracted wife more\ndead than alive; and Dr. Goodsir being called, disclosed that, in his\npresent state, the lead could not be extracted. Poor Sarah was never a\nmoment from her husband's side, who fevered, and became occasionally\ndelirious--talking incoherently of murder and shipwreck, and Woodburn,\nand love, and marriage, and Sarah Black. All within his brain was one\nmad wheel of mixed and confused colours, such as children make when they\nwheel a stick, dyed white, black, and red, rapidly around. Suspicion,\nfrom the first, fell upon the brother of the boy Rob Paterson, whom\nLaing had killed many years before. Revenge is the most enduring,\nperhaps, of all the passions, and rather feeds upon itself than decays.\nLike fame, \"it acquires strength by time;\" and it was suspected that Dan\nPaterson, a reckless and a dissipated man, had done the deed. In\nconfirmation of this supposition, Dan was nowhere to be found, and it\nwas strongly suspected that his wife and his son, who returned at\nmidnight with the boat, had set Dan on shore somewhere on the coast, and\nthat he had effected his escape. Death, for some time, seemed every day\nand hour nearer at hand; but at last the symptoms softened, the fever\nmitigated, the swelling subsided, and, after much careful and skilful\nsurgery, most admirably conducted by Dr. Goodsir's son, the ball was\nextracted. The wound closed without mortification; and, in a week or\ntwo, Mr. Laing was not only out of danger, but out of bed, and walking\nabout, as he does to this hour, with his arm in a sling. It was about\nthe period of his recovery, that Dan Paterson was taken as he was\nskulking about in the west country, apparently looking out for a ship in\nwhich to sail to America. He was immediately brought back to\nCellardykes, and lodged in Anstruther prison. Mr. Laing would willingly\nhave forborne the prosecution; but the law behoved to have its course.\nDan was tried for \"maiming with the intention of murder,\" and was\ncondemned to fourteen years' transportation. This happened in the year\n1822, the year of the King's visit to Scotland. Mr. and Mrs. Laing\nactually waited upon his Majesty King George the Fourth, at the palace\nof Dalkeith, and, backed by the learned judge and counsel, obtained a\ncommutation of the punishment, from banishment to imprisonment for a\nlimited period. The great argument in his favour was the provocation he\nhad received. Dan Paterson now inhabits a neat cottage in the village,\nand Mr. Laing has quite set him up with a boat of his own, ready rigged\nand fitted for use. He has entirely reformed, has become a member of a\ntemperance society, and his wife and family are as happy as the day is\nlong. Mr. and Mrs. Laing are supplied with the very best of fish, and\nstockings and mittens are manufactured by the Patersons for the little\nLaings, particularly during boisterous weather, when fishing is out of\nthe question. Thus has a wise Providence made even the wrath of man to\npraise him. The truth of the above narrative may be tested any day, by\nwaiting upon the Rev. Mr. Dickson, or upon the parties themselves at\nBraehead of Cellardykes.\n\n\n\n\nPRESCRIPTION;\n\nOR, THE 29TH OF SEPTEMBER.\n\n\nThe serene calmness and holy inspiration of some of our cottage retreats\nin Scotland are often the envy of the town-poet or philosopher, who\nlooks upon the sequestered spots as possessing all the beauty and repose\nof the beatific Beulah, where the feet of the pilgrim found repose, and\nhis spirit rest. The desire arises out of that discontent which, less or\nmore, is the inheritance of man in this sphere; it is the residuum of\nthe worldly feelings which, like the clay that, in inspired hands, gave\nthe power of sight to the blind, opens the eyes to immortality. The wish\nfor retirement belongs to good, if it is not a part of the great\nprinciple that inclines us to look far away to purer regions for the\nrest which is never disturbed, and the joy that knows no abatement. Yet\nhow vain are often our thoughts as we survey the white-washed hut in the\nvalley, covered with honeysuckle and white roses; the plot before the\ndoor; the croonin dame on her tripod; the lass with the lint-white\nlocks, singing, in snatches of Nature's own language, her purest\nfeelings, like the swelling of a mountain spring! The heart is not still\nthere, any more than in the crowded mart. The birds whistle, but they\ndie too; the rose blooms, but it is eaten in the heart by the palmer\nworm; the sun shines, but there is a shade at his back. Alas for mortal\naspirations--there is nothing here of one side. Like the two parties who\nfought for the truth of the two pleas--that the statue was white, or\nthat it was black--we find, after all our labour lost, that one side is\nof the one colour, and the other of the opposite. These thoughts arise\nin us at this moment, as we recollect the little cottage of Homestead,\nsituated in a collateral valley on the Borders. We were born at a\nstone-cast from it; and, even in the dream of age, see issuing from it,\nor entering it, a creature who might have stood for Wordsworth's\nHighland Girl--a slender, gracile thing, retiring and modest; as\ndelicate in her feelings as in the hue of her complexion; her thoughts\nof her glen and waterfall only natural to her--all others, fearful even\nto herself, glenting forth through a flushed medium, which equally\nbetrayed the workings of the blood in the transparent veins--a being of\nyoung life, elasticity, and sensitiveness, such as, like some modest\nflower, we find only in certain recesses of the valleys in\nmountain-lands. Such were you, Alice Scott, when you first darted across\nour path on the hills. We have said that we see you now through the\ndream of age; and, holding to the parallel, there is a change o'er the\nmood of our vision, for we see you again in a form like that of \"The\nLadye Geraldine\"--your mountain russets off; the bandeau that bound the\nflying locks laid aside; the irritability and flush of the young spirit\nabated; and, instead of these, the gown of silk, the coif of satin, and\nthe slow and dignified step of conscious worth and superiority. And\nwhence this change?\n\nThe young female we have thus apostrophised, was the daughter of Adam\nScott, a cottar, who occupied the small cottage of Homestead, under the\nproprietor of Whitecraigs--a fine property, lying to the south of the\ncottage; and the mansion of which is yet to be seen by the traveller who\nseeks the Tweed by the windings of the river Lyne. Old Adam died, and\nleft his widow and daughter to the protection of his superior, Mr.\nHayston, who, recollecting the services and stanch qualities of his\ntenant, did not despise the charge. The small bield was allowed to the\nmother and daughter, rent free; and some assistance, in addition to the\nproduce of their hands, enabled them to live as thousands in this\ncountry live, whose capability of supporting life might be deemed a\nproblem difficult of solution by those whose only care is how to destroy\nGod's gifts. Nature is as curious in her disposal of qualities as the\ngreat genius of chance or convention is of the distribution of means.\nLiterature has worn out the characteristic and gloomy lines of the\ndescription of the fair and the good; and the impatience of the mind of\nthe nineteenth century--a mind greedy of caricature, and regardless of\nwritten sentiment--may warn us from the portrayment of what people now\nlike better to see than to read or hear of. Away, then, with the usual\nterms, and let old Dame Scott and her daughter be deemed as of those\nbeings who have interested you in the quiet recesses of humble poverty,\nwhere Nature, as if in sport or satire, loves to play fantastic tricks.\nIf you have no living models to go by, call up some of the pages of the\nthousand volumes that have been multiplied on a subject which has been\nmore spoiled by poetical imagery, than benefited by sober observation.\n\nWithin about five years of the death of the husband and father, old\nHayston died, and left Whitecraigs to his only son, Hector, who was kind\nenough to continue the gift of the father to the inmates of Homestead;\nbut he loaded them with a condition, unspoken, yet implied. The young\nlaird and the pretty cottage maiden had foregathered often amidst the\nromantic scenes on the Lyne; and that which Nature probably intended as\na guard and a mean of segregation--the shrinking timidity of her own\nmountain child, when looked upon by the eye of, to her,\naristocracy--only tended to an opposite effect. A poet has compared love\nto an Eastern bird, which loses all its beauty when it flies, and it is\nas true as it is a pretty conceit; but if there was any feathered\ncreature whose wings, reflecting, from its monaul tints, the sun in\ngreater splendour, when on the wing, it would supply as applicable and\nnot less poetical an emblem of the object of the little god's\nheart-stirrings; and so it seemed to the young laird of Whitecraigs,\nthat, as Alice Scott bounded away over the green hills, or down by the\nLyne banks, at his approach, her flight added to the interest which she\nhad already inspired when she had no means of escape. But, as the\nwildest doe may be caught and tamed, so was she, who was as a white one\nremoved from the herd. The young man possessed attractions beside those\nof imputed wealth and station; and probably, though we mean not to be\nsevere upon the sex, the process by which his affection had been\nincreased was reversed in its effects upon her, to whom assiduous\nseeking was as the assiduous retreating had been to him.\n\nYet all was, we believe, honourable in the intentions of young Hayston;\nand, as for Alice, she was in the primeval condition of a total\nunconsciousness of evil. The \"one blossom on earth's tree,\" as the poet\nhas it, was by her yet unplucked, nor knew she how many thousands have\nhad cause to sing--\n\n   \"I have plucked the one blossom that hangs on earth's tree;\n    I have lived--I have loved, and die.\"\n\nHer former timidity was the _\u00e0 priori_ proof of the strength of the\nfeeling that followed, when the sensitiveness of fear gave way to\nconfidence. Town loves are a thing of sorry account: the best of them\nare a mere preference of the one to the many; and he who is fortunate\nenough to outshine his rivals, may pride himself in the possession of\nsome superior recommendations which have achieved a triumph. Were he to\nlook better to it, he might detect something, too, in the force of\nresources. At best, a few hundred pounds will turn the scale; for he is\nby all that a better man; and the trained eye of town beauties has a\nstrange responsive twinkle in the glare of the one thing needful. In the\nremote and beautiful parts of a romantic country, things are otherwise\nordered: affection there, is as the mountain flower to the gallipot\nrose; and it is a mockery to tell us that the difference is only\nperceptible to those who are weak enough to be romantic. A doughty\nwarrior would recognise and acknowledge the difference, and fight a\ngreat deal better too, after he had blubbered over a mountain or glen\nborn love for a creature who would look upon him as the soul of the\nretreat, and hang on his breast in the outpourings of Nature's feelings.\nThat young Whitecraigs appreciated the triumph he had secured, there can\nbe no reason to doubt. He had been within the drying atmosphere of\ntowns, and had sung and waltzed, probably, with a round hundred of\ncreatures who understood the passion, much as Audrey understood\npoetry--deeming it honest enough, but yet a composition made up of the\nelements of side glances, arias, smorzando-sighs, and quadrilles. With\nAlice Scott on his bosom, the quiet glen as their retreat, the green\numbrageous woods their defence, its birds as their musicians, and the\nwimpling Lyne as the speaking Naiad, he forgot, if he did not despise,\nthe scenes he had left. She flew from him now no longer. The fowler had\nsucceeded to captivate, not intentionally to kill.\n\nTwo years passed over in this intercourse. There was no secret about it.\nThe dame was well apprised of their proceeding; and the open frankness\nof the youth dispelled all the fears of wrong which the innocence of the\ndaughter, undefended by experience, might have scarcely guaranteed to\none who, at least, had heard something of the ways of the world. The\nincome from Whitecraigs, somewhere about seven hundred a-year, was more\nthan sufficient for the expenditure of the older Haystons; and Hector,\nat this time, did not seem inclined to alter the line of life followed\nby his fathers. He had not spoken of marriage to the mother; but he had\nnot hesitated to breathe into the ear of Alice all that was necessary to\nlead her to the conclusion, to which her heart jumped, that she was to\nbe the lady of the stately white mansion that, at one time, had appeared\nto her as a great temple where humble worshippers of the glen and the\nwood might not lay their sandals at the doorway. She had entered the\nvestibule only as an alms-seeker, and trembled to think she might have\nbeen observed throwing a side glance into the interior, where\npier-glasses might have reflected the form of the russet-clad child of\nthe valley and hill. The tale has been told a thousand times, and the\nworld is not mended by it. The young master pressed her to his bosom,\nimprinted a kiss, and was away into the mazes of life in the metropolis,\nwhither some affairs, left unsettled by his father, carried him. Six\nmonths passed away, and the rents of the succeeding term were collected\nby Mr. Pringle, the agent of the family, in Peebles. There was no word\nfor poor Alice, though the small allowance was handed in by the agent,\nwho, ignorant of the state of matters between the young couple, informed\nthe mother that the master of Whitecraigs was on the eve of being\nmarried to a young lady of some wealth in the metropolis. The statement\nwas heard by the daughter; and what henceforth but that of Thekla's\nsong:--\n\n   \"The clouds are flying, the woods are sighing--\n    The maiden is walking the grassy shore;\n    And as the wave breaks with might, with might,\n    She singeth aloud through the darksome night;\n    But a tear is in her troubled eye.\"\n\nAlice Scott was changed; yet, who shall tell what that change was? If\nthe slow and even progress of the spirit may defy the eye of the\nmetaphysician, who may describe its moods of disturbance? Poetry is\nfamiliar with these things, and we have fair rhymes to tell us of the\nwanderings, and the lonely musings by mountain streams, and the eye that\nlooks and sees not, and the wasting form, and the words that come like\nthe sounds from deep caves; yet, after all, they tell us but little,\nand that little is but to tickle us with the resonance of spoken\nsentiment, leaving the sad truth as little understood as before. True it\nwas, that Alice Scott did all these things, and more too: the charm of\nthe hills and the water banks was gone: the light spirit that carried\nher along, as if borne on the winds, was quenched; the songs by which\nshe gladdened the ears of her mother, as she plied her portable handwork\non the green, was no more heard mingling its notes with the music of the\nLyne; and the face that shone transparently, like painted alabaster, as\nif part of the light came from within, was as the poet says--\n\n   \"Like an April morn\n    Clad in a wintry cloud.\"\n\nNor did additional time seem to possess any power save that of\nincreasing the pain of the heart-stroke. Most of the griefs of mortals\nhave their appointed modes of alleviation--some are complaining griefs,\nsome are talkative, and some sorrows are sociable for selfishness. But\nthe heart-wound of her who has only those scenes of nature which were\nassociated with the image of the unkind one, to wear off the impressions\nof which, under other hues, they form a part, is a silent mourner. There\nis enough of a painful eloquence around her, and her voice would be only\nthe small whisper that is lost in the wailings of the storm in the glen.\nYet painful as the language is, she courts it in silence, even while it\nmixes and blends with the poison which consumes her. It was in vain that\nher mother, who saw with a parental eye the malady which is the best\nunderstood by those of her class and age, urged her with kindness to\nbetake herself to her household duties. She was seldom to be prevailed\nupon to remain within doors; the hill-side, or the bosom of the glen, or\nthe back of the willows by the water-side, were her choice. Ordinary\nmeal times were forgotten or unheeded, where Nature had renounced her\ncravings, or given all her energies to the heart.\n\nThe next intelligence received at Homestead was that of the marriage of\nHector Hayston, and his departure for France. The servants at\nWhitecraigs were discharged, as if there had been no expectation, for a\nlong period, of the return of the young laird. The supply to the two\nfemales was increased, and paid by Mr. Pringle, who, now probably aware\nof the situation of Alice, delicately avoided any allusion to his\nemployer. Report, however, was busy with her tales; and the absence of\nthe youth was attributed to the workings of conscience or of shame.\nThere was little truth in the report. The object of his first affections\nmight easily have been banished from Whitecraigs, and he who had been\nguilty of leaving her maybe supposed capable of removing her from scenes\nwhich could only add to her sorrow. A true solution of his conduct might\nhave been found in the fact, that Hayston was now following his\npleasures in the society of his wife's friends--a gay and lavish\ncircle--and did not wish to detract from his enjoyment by adding\nbanishment and destitution to a wrong now irremediable. Little more was\nheard of him for some time, with the exception of a floating report,\nthat he had borrowed, through his agent, the sum of ten thousand pounds\nfrom a Mr. Colville, a neighbouring proprietor, and pledged to him\nWhitecraigs in security. The circumstance interested greatly the\nneighbouring proprietors, who shook their heads in significant augury of\nthe probable fate of their young neighbour in the whirlpool of\ncontinental life. Yet the allowance to Dame Scott at the next term was\nregularly paid; and if there was a tear in her eye, as she looked, first\nat the money, and then at the thin, pallid creature who sat silent at\nthe window, it was not that she dreaded its discontinuance from the\nresult of the extravagance of the giver. The effect of the act of\npayment of the money had, on a former occasion, been noticed by Pringle\non the conduct of Alice: it was on this occasion repeated. She rose from\nher seat, looked steadfastly for a moment at the gift as it lay on the\ntable, placed her hand on her forehead, and flitted out of the room. The\neye of the agent followed her from the window: her step was hurried,\nwithout an object of impulse. She might go--but whither? probably she\nknew not herself; yet on she sped till she was lost among the trees on\nthe edge of the glen.\n\nThus longer time passed, but there seemed no change to Alice, save in\nthe continual decrease of the frame, under the pressure of a mind that\ncommuned with the past, and only looked to the future as containing some\nday that would witness the termination of her sorrows. The anglers on\nthe Lyne became familiar with her figure, for they had seen it on the\nheights, with her garments floating in the breeze, and had come up to\nher as she sat by the waterside, but they passed on. At the worst she\ncould be but one whose spirit was not settled enough to admit of her\naccording with the ways of honest maidens; and they might regret that\nthe beauty that still lurked amidst the ravages of the disease of the\nheart, had not been turned to better account. It is thus that one part\nof mankind surveys another: they form their theory of a condition whose\nsecret nature is only known to its possessor; draw their moral from\nfalse premises, formed as a compliment to their own conduct and\nsituation, and pass on to their pleasure.\n\nYet there occurred an important exception to these remarks:--One day\nAlice had taken up her seat on the banks of a small pond in front of the\nhouse of Whitecraigs. She sat opposite to the front of the dwelling, and\nseemed to survey its closed windows and deserted appearance, with the\nlong grass growing up through the gravel of the walks--the broken\npailings and decayed out-houses; a scene that might be supposed to\nharmonize with the feelings of a mind broken and desolate. There might\nseem even a consanguinity in the causes of the condition of both. The\nscene might have suited the genius of a Danby. There was no living\ncreature to disturb the silence. The house of faded white, among the\ndark trees, cheerless and forsaken; the face of Alice Scott emaciated\nand pale, with the lustre of the loch, shining in the sun, reflected on\nit, directed towards the habitation of which she should have been\nmistress; her eyes, which had forgotten the relief of tears, fixed on\nthe scene so pregnant with unavailing reminiscences--with these we would\naid the artist.\n\nBut the charm was gone, as a voice sounded behind her. She started, and,\naccording to her custom, would have fled as the hare that remembers the\nsnare; but she was detained. A man, advanced in years, poorly clad, with\nhair well smitten with snow tints, and a staff in his hand, stood beside\nher, holding her by the skirt of the gown.\n\n\"I am weary,\" said he; \"I have walked from Moffat, and would sit here\nfor a time, if you would speak to me of the scenes and people of these\nparts.\" And the application of his hand again to her gown secured a\ncompliance, dictated more by fear than inclination. She sat, while she\ntrembled. \"You are fair,\" continued he; \"but my experience of sorrow\ntells me that grief has been busier with your young heart than years. I\nwill not pry into your secrets. To whom does Whitecraigs now belong?\"\n\nThe name had not been breathed by her to mortal since that day she had\nheard of the intended marriage. She made an effort to pronounce it,\nfailed, and fixed her eyes on the pond. The stranger gazed on her,\nwaiting for her reply.\n\n\"Hector Hayston,\" she at length muttered.\n\n\"And why has he left so fair a retreat to the desolation that has\novertaken it?\" rejoined he again. The question was still more\nunfortunate. She had no power to reply. Her face was turned from him,\nand repressed breathings heaved her bosom. \"You may tell me, then, if\none Dame Scott lives in these parts?\" he said again, as he marked her\nstrange manner, and probably augured that his prior question was fraught\nwith pain.\n\n\"Yes--yes,\" she replied, with a sudden start, as if relieved from pain,\nwhile she regained her feet; \"yonder lives my mother.\"\n\nThe stranger stood with his eyes fixed upon her, as if in deep scrutiny\nof the inexplicable features of her character and appearance; but he\nadded not a word, till he saw her move as if she wished to be gone.\n\n\"You will go with me?\" he said.\n\nBut the words were scarcely uttered, when she was away through the\nwoods, leaving him to seek his way to the house of her mother, whither,\naccordingly, he directed his steps, from some prior knowledge he\npossessed of the locality about which he had been making inquiries. As\nhe went along, he seemed wrapt in meditation--again and again looking\nback, to endeavour to get another sight of the girl, who was now seated\non the edge of the stream, and again seized by some engrossing thought\nthat claimed all the energies of his spirit. On coming up to the door of\nthe cottage, he tapped gently with his long staff; and, upon being\nrequired by the dame to enter, he passed into the middle of the floor,\nand stood and surveyed the house and its inmate.\n\n\"I have nothing for you,\" said the latter; \"so you must pass on to those\nwhom God has ordained as the distributors of what the needy require.\nAlas! I am myself but a beggar.\"\n\nThe words seemed to have been wrung out of her by the meditative mood in\nwhich the stranger had found her, and, whether it was that the interest\nwhich had been excited in him by the appearance of the daughter had\nbeen increased by the confession of the mother, or that there was some\nsecret cause working in his mind, he passed his hand over his eyes, and\nfor a moment turned away his head.\n\n\"I have been both a beggar and a giver in my day,\" he replied, as he\nlaid down his hat and staff, and took a chair opposite to the dame; \"and\nI am weary of the one character and of the other. I have got with a\ncurse; and I have given for ingratitude. But I may here give, and you\nmay receive, without either. There is an unoccupied bed; I am weary of\nwandering, and have enough to pay for rest.\"\n\n\"That is better than charity,\" rejoined the dame--\"ay, even the charity\nof the stranger.\"\n\n\"And why of the _stranger_, dame?\" added he. \"I have hitherto thought\nthat the charity of _friends_ was that which might be most easily borne.\nAnd who may be your benefactor?\"\n\n\"Hector Hayston of Whitecraigs,\" replied she, hanging her head, and\ndrawing a deep breath.\n\nThe stranger detected the same symptoms of pain in the mother as those\nhe had observed in the daughter.\n\n\"Then forgets he not his cottars in his absence,\" he added. \"But why has\nhe left a retreat fairer than any I have yet seen throughout a long\npilgrimage over many lands?\"\n\n\"We will not speak of that,\" she replied, rising slowly, and going to\nthe window, where she stood for a time in silence.\n\n\"You have a daughter, dame,\" resumed the man, as he watched the\nindications of movement in the heart of the mother. \"I saw her sitting\nlooking at the mansion of Whitecraigs. I fear she can lend you small\naid; yet, if her powers of mind and body were equal to the beauty that\nhas too clearly faded from her cheeks, methinks you would have had\nsmall need to have taken the charity of either friends or strangers.\"\n\n\"Ay, poor Alice! poor Alice!\" rejoined the mother, turning suddenly, and\napplying her hand to something which required not her care at that\ntime--\"Ay, poor Alice!\" she added.\n\n\"Is it a bargain, then,\" said he, wishing to retreat from a subject that\nso evidently pained her, \"that I may remain here for a time, on your own\nterms of remuneration?\"\n\n\"It may be as you say,\" replied she, again taking her seat; \"but only on\na condition.\"\n\n\"What is it?\" inquired he.\n\n\"That you never mention the name of Hector Hayston, or of Whitecraigs,\nwhile Alice is by. She harms no one; and I would not see her harmed.\"\n\n\"I perceive,\" said he, muttering to himself, \"that I am not the only one\nin the world who carries in his bosom a secret. But,\" he continued, in a\nlouder tone, \"your condition, dame, shall be fulfilled; and now I may\nhold myself to be your lodger.\" And he proceeded to take from the\nstuffed pockets of his coat some night-clothes of a homely character,\nand handed them to the dame. \"And now,\" he said, \"you may be, now or\nafter, wondering who he may be who has thus come, like a weary bird from\nthe waste that seeks refuge among the sere leaves, to live in the\nhabitation of sorrow. But you must question me not; and farther than my\nname, which is Wallace, you may know nothing of me till after the 29th\nday of September--ay, ay,\" he continued, as if calculating, \"the 29th\nday of September.\"\n\nThe dame started as she heard the mention of the day, looked steadfastly\nat him, and was silent.\n\n\"Yes,\" he continued, \"that day past, and I will once more draw my breath\nfreely in the land of my fathers; and my foot, which has only bowed the\nhead of the heather-bell in the valley, may yet collect energy enough\nfrom my unstrung nerves to press fearlessly the sod of the mountain. How\nlong is it since your husband died?\"\n\n\"Seven years,\" replied she.\n\n\"Well, short as our acquaintance has yet been,\" said he, \"our words have\nbeen only of unpleasant things. Now, I require refreshment; and here is\nsome small pay in advance, to remove the ordinary prejudice against\nstrangers. We shall be better acquainted by times. I will take, now,\nwhat is readiest in the house; for you may guess, from my attire, that I\nhave been accustomed to that fare by which the poor contrive to spin out\nthe weary term of their pilgrimage.\"\n\nSo much being arranged, the dame set about preparing a meal; and Mr.\nWallace, as he had called himself, proceeded to transform his staff into\na fishing-rod, and arrange his other small matters connected with his\nfuture residence. When the humble dish was prepared, the dame went out,\nand, taking her position on a green tumulus that rose between the\ncottage and the Lyne, stood, and, placing her hands over her eyes,\nlooked down the water. Her eye, accustomed to the search, detected the\nform of her daughter far down the stream, and, waving her hand to her,\nshe beckoned her home. But she came not; and the two inmates sat down to\ntheir repast.\n\n\"This shall be for my poor Alice,\" said the mother, as she laid aside a\nportion of the frugal fare; \"but she will take it at her own time, or\nperhaps not at all.\"\n\n\"And yet how much she needs it,\" added the stranger, \"her wasted form\nand pale face too plainly show.\"\n\n\"There is a sad change there, sir,\" rejoined she. \"There was not a\nfairer or more gentle creature from Tweedscross to Tweedmouth than Alice\nScott; nor did ever the foot of light-hearted innocence pass swifter\nover the hill or down the glen. You have seen her to-day where she is\noften to be seen--by the pond opposite the closed-up house of\nWhitecraigs--and may wonder to hear how one so wasted may still reach\nthe hill-heads; yet there, too, she is sometimes seen. I have struggled\nsore to make her what she once was; but in vain. She will wander and\nwander, and return and wander again; nor will this cease till I some day\nfind her dead body among the seggs of the Lyne, or in the lirk of the\nhill. When I know you better, I may tell you more. At present, I am\neating the bread of one who is more connected with this sad subject than\nI may now confess; and I have never been accounted ungrateful.\"\n\nThe stranger was moved, and ate his meal in meditative silence. In an\nhour afterwards, Alice returned to the house, and, as she entered,\nstarted as her eye met that of him who had, by his questions, stirred to\ngreater activity the feelings that were already too busy with her heart;\nbut her fears were removed, by his avoidance of the subject which had\npained her; and a few hours seemed to have rendered him as indifferent\nto her as seemed the other objects around her. Some days passed, and the\nwidow would have been as well satisfied with her lodger as he was with\nher, had it not been that he enjoined secrecy as to his residence in the\nhouse--retiring to the spence when any one entered; and if at any time\nhe went along the Lyne in the morning, he avoided those whom he met; and\nbetook himself to private acts in the inner apartment during the day. At\ntimes he left the cottage in the evening, and did not return for two\ndays; but whither he went, the inmates knew not. The dame conjectured he\nhad been as far as Peebles; but her reason was merely that he brought\nnewspapers with him, and intelligence of matters transacting there. The\nsecrecy was not suited to the open and simple manners to which she had\nbeen accustomed; but she recollected his words, that on the 29th of\nSeptember, she would know all concerning him. Now these words were\nconnected by a chain of associations that startled her. The 29th of\nSeptember had been set apart by her deceased husband as a day of prayer.\nHe had never allowed it to pass without an offering of the contrite\nheart to God; this practice he had continued till his death, and she had\nwitnessed the act repeated for fifteen years. She was no more\nsuperstitious than the rest of her class; she was, indeed, probably less\nso; and her theories, formed for an adequate explanation of the\nstartling coincidence, were probably as philosophical as if they had\nbeen formed by reason acting under the astute direction of scepticism.\nYet where is the mind, untutored or learned, that can throw away at all\ntimes, at all hours--when the heart is in the sunshine of the cheerful\nday of worldly intercourse, or in the deep shadow of the wing of\neternity--all thoughts of all powers save those of natural causes, which\nare themselves a mystery? We may sport with the subject; but it comes\nagain back on the heart, and we sigh in whispering words of fear, that\nin the hands of God we are nothing.\n\nOne day Mr. Wallace was seated at breakfast; he had been away for two\nnights; Alice was sitting by the side of the fire, looking into the\nheart of the red embers, and the mother was superintending the\nbreakfast; he took out a newspaper from his pocket, and, without a word\nof premonition, read a paragraph in a deep, solemn voice.\n\n\"Died at ---- Street, London, Maria Knight, wife of Hector Hayston,\nEsq., of Whitecraigs, in the county of Peebles, in Scotland.\"\n\nA peculiar sound struggled in the throat of Alice; but it passed, and\nshe was silent. The mother sat and looked Wallace in the face, to\nascertain what construction to put upon the occurrence which he had thus\nread with an emphasis betokening a greater interest than it might\ndemand from one, as yet, all but ignorant, as she thought, of the true\ncircumstances of the condition of her daughter. He made no commentary on\nwhat he had read; but looking again at the paper, and turning it over,\nas if searching for some other news, he fixed his eyes on an\nadvertisement in the fourth page. He then read--\n\n\"On the 1st day of October next, there will be exposed to public roup\nand sale, within the Town-Hall of Peebles, by virtue of the powers of\nsale contained in a mortgage granted by Hector Hayston, Esq., of\nWhitecraigs, in favour of George Colville of Haughton, all and hail the\nlands and estate of Whitecraigs, situated in the parish of ----, and\nshire of Peebles, with the mansion-house, offices, &c.\"\n\nHe then laid down the paper, and, looking the widow full in the face--\n\n\"The day of sale of Whitecraigs,\" said he, \"is the _second_ day after\nthe 29th of September. It would have been too much had it been on that\nday itself.\"\n\nNo reply was made to his remark. The announcement called up in the mind\nof the dame more than she could express; but that which concerned more\nclosely herself, was too apparently veiled with no mystery. The sale of\nWhitecraigs was the ejection of herself and daughter from Homestead; and\nshe knew not whither she and her daughter were now to be driven, to seek\nrefuge and sustenance from a world from which she had been so long\nestranged.\n\n\"All things come to a termination,\" she said. \"For many years I have\nlived here, wife and widow; and if I have felt sorrow, I have also\nenjoyed. The world is wide; and if I may be obliged to ask and to\nreceive charity, the God who moves the hand to give it, may not\nagain--now that His purpose may be served by my contrition--select that\nof the destroyer of my child. But there is another that must be taken\nfrom these haunts;\" and, turning to Alice, whose face was still\ndirected to the fire, she gazed on her hapless daughter, while the tear\nstole down her cheeks.\n\nWallace's eye was fixed on the couple. He seemed to understand the\nallusion of the mother, which indicated plainly enough, that though the\nhills and glens of Whitecraigs had been the scene of the ruin of her\ndaughter's peace, she anticipated still more fatal consequences from\ntaking her away from them. Meanwhile, Alice, who had listened to and\nunderstood all, arose from her seat.\n\n\"I will never leave Whitecraigs, mother,\" she said; and bent her steps\ntowards the door.\n\n\"Let her follow her fancy,\" said Wallace. Then relapsing into a fit of\nmusing, he added--\"the 29th of September of this year will soon be of\nthe time that is. For twenty years I have looked forward to that\nday--under a burning sun, far from my native land, I have sighed for\nit--in the midnight hour I have counted the years and days that were\nbetween. Every anniversary was devoted to the God who has chastened the\nheart of the sinner; and there was need, when that heart was full of the\nthoughts inspired by that day, and penitence came on the wings of\nterror. Now it approaches; and I have not miscalculated the benefits it\nmay pour on other heads than mine.\"\n\n\"Alas!\" said the widow, as she cast her eye through the window after her\ndaughter, \"there is no appointed day for the termination of the sorrows\nof that poor creature. To the broken-hearted, one day as another,\nsunshine or shower, is the same. But what hand shall bear Alice Scott\nfrom Whitecraigs?\"\n\n\"Perhaps none,\" replied Wallace, as, taking up the newspaper, he retired\nto an inner apartment, where he usually spent the day. Some hours\npassed; and, in the afternoon, Mr. Pringle, while passing, took occasion\nto call at Homestead, and informed the widow that it would be her duty\nto look out for another habitation, as Whitecraigs was to be sold by the\ncreditor, Mr. Colville, whose object in granting the loan was, if\npossible, to take advantage of the difficulties into which extravagance\nhad plunged the young proprietor, and to bring the property into the\nmarket, that he might purchase it as an appanage of the old estate of\nHaughton, from which it had been disjoined. He represented it as a cruel\nproceeding, and that its cruelty was enhanced by the circumstance of the\nsale being advertised in the same paper which contained the intelligence\nof the death of Hector's young wife. Another listener might have replied\nthat God's ways are just; but Dame Scott, if she thought at the time of\nher daughter, considered also that Hayston had supported her for many\nyears.\n\n\"Good dame,\" added the agent, \"it might have been well for my young\nfriend if he had remained at Whitecraigs. I never saw the wife he\nmarried, and has just lost in the bloom of youth; but she must have been\nfair indeed, if she was fairer than she whom he left. Yet Hector's\nbetter principles did not, I am satisfied, entirely forsake him. The\ndisinclination he has shown to visit his paternal property, was the\nresult of a clinging remembrance of her he left mourning in the midst of\nits glens; nor do I wonder at it, for even I have turned aside to avoid\nthe sight of Alice Scott. Misfortunes, however, are sometimes mercies;\nand the change of residence you will be now driven to, may aid in the\ncure of a disease that is only fed by these scenes of Whitecraigs.\"\n\nHe here paused, and, putting his hand in his pocket, took out some\nmoney.\n\n\"This may be the last gift,\" he said, as he presented it to her, \"that\nHector Hayston may ever send you. These are his words. His fortunes are\nruined, his wife is dead, and, worse than all, his peace of mind is\nfled.\"\n\n\"Heaven have mercy on him!\" replied the widow. \"One word of reproach has\nnever escaped the lips of me or my daughter. I have suffered in this\ncottage without murmuring, and the glens and hollows of Whitecraigs have\nalone heard the complainings of Alice Scott. She will cling to these\nplaces to the last; but were the windows of the deserted house again\nopened, with strange faces there, and maybe the lights of the\nentertainments of the happy shining through them, she might feel less\npleasure in sitting by the pond from which she now so often surveys the\ndeserted mansion. This last gift, sir, moves my tears--yea, for all I\nand mine have suffered from Hector Hayston.\"\n\nThe agent had performed his duty, and departed with the promise that he\nwould, of his own accord, endeavour to prevail upon some of his\nemployers to grant her a cottage, if the purchaser of Whitecraigs should\nresist an appeal for her to remain. He had no sooner gone, than the\nstranger Wallace, who had heard the conversation, entered. He asked her\nhow much money Hector had sent as his last gift; and, on being\ninformed--\n\n\"That young man,\" he said, \"has fallen a victim to the allurements of a\ntown life. The story of your daughter has been known to me; but I have\navoided the mention of the name of Hayston, which could only have\nyielded pain without an amelioration of its cause. That gift speaks to\nme volumes. Even fashion has not sterilized the heart of that young man.\nHe has erred--he may have transgressed--but for all, all, there is a\n29th of September!\"\n\nThe allusion he thus made was as inscrutable as ever. Again she\nreflected upon her husband's conduct upon that day of the year; and\nagain, as she had done a hundred times, searched the face of the\nspeaker. But she abstained from question; and the day passed, and others\ncame, till the eventful morning was ushered in by sunshine. Wallace was\nup by times; and his prayers were heard directed to the Throne of Mercy,\nin thanks and heart-expressed contrition. In the forenoon he went forth\nwith freedom, climbed the hills, and conversed with the anglers he met\non the Lyne. He seemed as if relieved from some weighty burden; and the\ndame, who had carefully watched his motions, waited anxiously for the\nsecret. He had not, however, pledged himself to reveal it on that day.\nHe had only said that all would be made known some time after the day\nhad passed; and, accordingly, he made no declaration. Yet, at bedtime,\nhe was again engaged in prayers, and even during the night he was heard\nmuttering expressions of thanksgiving to the Author of the day, and what\nthe day bringeth.\n\nOn the following morning, he announced his intention of going to\nPeebles, whither he was supposed to have gone before; but now his manner\nof going was changed. He purposed taking the coach, which, as it passed\nwithin some miles of Whitecraigs, he intended to wait for, and on\ndeparting--\n\n\"You will not hear of me till to-morrow night,\" he said. \"I can now face\nman; would that I could with the same confidence hold up my countenance\nto God. Alice Scott,\" he continued, as he looked to the girl, \"I will\nnot forget you in my absence. Your day of sorrow has been long; but\nthere may yet be a 29th of September even to you.\"\n\nAnd, taking the maiden kindly in his arms, he whispered some words in\nher ear, in which the magic syllables of a name she trembled to hear\nwere mixed. Her eyes exhibited a momentary brightness, a deep sigh\nheaved her bosom, and again her head declined, with a whisper on her\nlips--\"Never, O never!\" In a moment after, he was gone; and the widow\nwas left to ascertain from Alice what he had said, to bring again, even\nfor a moment, the blood to her cheek.\n\nOn the day after, there was a crowd of people in the Town-Hall of\nPeebles, and the auctioneer was reading aloud the articles of roup of\nthe lands of Whitecraigs. Mr. Colville was there in high hopes; but\nthere were others too, who seemed inclined to disappoint them. The\nproperty was set up at the price of fifteen thousand pounds, and that\nsum was soon offered by the holder of the mortgage. Other bodes quickly\nfollowed, and a competition commenced, which soon raised the price to\neighteen thousand, at which it seemed to be destined to be given to\nHaughton. The other competitors appeared timid; and several declared\nthemselves done, one by one, until no one was expected to advance a\npound higher. All was silence, save for the voice of the auctioneer; and\nhe had already begun his ominous once, twice, when a voice which had not\nyet been heard, cried--\"Eighteen thousand two hundred.\" The hammer was\nsuspended, and all eyes turned to view the doughty assailant, who would,\nat the end of the day, vanquish the champion who had as yet retained the\nfield. Those eyes recognised in the bidder a man poorly clothed, and\nmore like an alms-seeker than the purchaser of an estate--no other was\nthat man than Mr. Wallace. The auctioneer looked at him; others looked\nand wondered; and Haughton gloomed, as he advanced another hundred; and\nthat was soon followed by a hundred more, which led to a competition\nthat seemed to be embittered on the one part by pride and contempt, and\non the other by determination. Hundred upon hundred followed in rapid\nsuccession, till Haughton gave up in despair, and a shout rung through\nthe hall as the hammer fell, and the estate was declared the property of\nthe humble stranger, whom no one knew, and whom no one would have\nconsidered worth more than the clothes he carried on his back. A\ncertificate of a banker at Peebles--that he held in his hands funds,\nbelonging to the purchaser, of greater amount than the price--satisfied\nthe judge of the roup; and the party were divided in circles, conversing\non the strange turn which had been given to the sale of Whitecraigs.\n\nOn the same night, Wallace returned to Homestead, and sat down\ncomposedly to the humble meal that had been prepared for him by the\nwidow. Alice was in her usual seat; and the placidity of manner which\ndistinguished them from ordinary sufferers, spoke their usual obedience\nto the Divine will.\n\n\"This day the property of Whitecraigs has changed masters!\" said he.\n\n\"And who has purchased it?\" inquired the mother.\n\n\"He who is now sitting before you!\" replied he.\n\nAlice turned her head to look at him; the mother sat mute with surprise;\nwhile he rose and fastened the door.\n\n\"It is even so,\" he continued, as he again sat down; \"David Scott, the\nbrother of your husband, and the uncle of Alice, has this day purchased\nWhitecraigs.\"\n\nA faint scream from the mother followed this announcement, and,\nrecovering herself, she again fixed her eyes on the stranger.\n\n\"It is true,\" continued he; \"I am the brother of your deceased husband.\nFor two years after you were married to Adam, you would, doubtless, hear\nhim speak of me, as then engaged in a calling of which I may now be\nashamed, for I was one of the most daring smugglers on the Solway. The\n29th of September, 17--, dawned upon me, yet with hands unsullied in the\nblood of man; but the sun of that day set upon me as proscribed by God\nand my country. My name was read on the house walls, and execration\nfollowed my steps, as I flew from cave to cave. Yet who could have told\nthat that day in which my evil spirit wrought its greatest triumph over\ngood, was that whose evening shades closed upon a repentant soul!\"\n\nHe paused, and placed his hand on his brow.\n\n\"These things are to me as an old dream,\" replied the widow, looking\nround her, as if in search of memorials of stationary space. \"My husband\nnever afterwards mentioned your name, save to inform me that you had\ndied in the West Indies; yet now I see the import of his devotion, in\nthe coming round of the day that shamed the honest family to whom he\nbelonged.\"\n\n\"And it was to save that shame, and to secure my safety under my assumed\nname, that, after I flew to the islands of the west, I got intelligence\nof my death sent to Scotland. What other than the issue of this day must\nhave been in the view of the great Disposer of events, when, in addition\nto the grace He poured on the heart of the sinner, He invested the arm\nthat had been lifted against His creatures with the prosperity that\nfilled my coffers! But, alas! though I may have reason to trust to the\nforgiveness of Heaven, that of man I may never expect.\"\n\n\"And punishment still awaits you?\" rejoined she.\n\n\"No, no!\" he cried, as he rose and placed his foot firmly on the floor.\n\"I am free--the heart may hate me, the tongue may scorn me, the hand may\npoint at me, but it dare not strike. On the 29th of September I was no\nlonger amenable to the laws for the crime which drove me to foreign\nlands: twenty years free the culprit from the vengeance of man; the last\nday of that period was the 29th of September--it is past; and now God is\nmy only judge.\" He again paused. \"But I must live still as David\nWallace. The name of Scott shall not be sullied by me. As David Wallace\nI have made my fortune, and as David Wallace made my supplications to\nHeaven. By the same name I have bought Whitecraigs, and by that name I\nshall make it over to one who may yet retrieve the honour of our humble\nhouse--to Alice, who should, through other means, have been mistress.\nCome to your natural protector, Alice, and tell him if you will consent\nto be the lady of Whitecraigs.\"\n\nThe girl, on whom the ordinary occurrences of life now seldom made any\nimpression, had listened attentively to the extraordinary facts and\nintentions thus evolved; and, at his bidding, rose and stood by his\nside. He took her hand, and looked into her face.\n\n\"I knew,\" said he, \"that I was pledged not to mention a certain name\nwhile you were by; and I kept my word, with the exception of the whisper\nI stole into your ear on the day I set out for Peebles. But things are\nnow changed. The rights of Whitecraigs are now in the act of being made\nout in your name. Within a month you will be mistress of that mansion,\nand of those green dells and hills you have loved to wander among in joy\nand in sorrow. Now, will you answer me a question?\"\n\n\"I will!\" she replied.\n\n\"What would be your answer to Hector Hayston--who is now no longer a\nhusband, and no longer rich--were he to come to Whitecraigs and make\namends for all that is by and gone? Would you receive him kindly, or\nturn him from the door of the house of his fathers?\"\n\nThe question was too sudden, or too touchingly devised. She looked for a\nmoment in his face, burst into tears, and hid her face in his breast.\n\n\"Try her poor heart not thus!\" cried the mother. \"Time, that as yet has\ndone nothing but made ravages, may now, when things are so changed, work\nmiracles. Do not press the question. A woman and a mother knows better\nthan you can do what are now her feelings. The answer is not\nasked--Alice, your uncle has taken back his question!\"\n\n\"I have--I have!\" replied he, as he pressed her to his breast. \"Look up,\nmy dear Alice. I have, in my pride and power, been hasty, and thought I\ncould rule the heart of woman as I have done my own, even in its\nrebellion against God. I have yet all to learn of those secret workings\nof the spirit, in all save repentance. I never myself knew what it was\nto love, far less what it is to love and be forsaken. No more--no more.\nI will not again touch those strings.\"\n\nAnd, rising hurriedly, he consigned the maid to her mother, and went\nout, to afford her time to collect again her thoughts. During the\nfollowing week the furniture of Whitecraigs was disposed of by Mr.\nPringle, for behoof of the other creditors of Hayston, and purchased by\nthe uncle, who took another journey to Peebles, for the purpose of\nnegotiating the sale, and making further preparations for obtaining\nentry. In a fortnight after, the keys were sent to Homestead by a\nmessenger, while the making up of the titles was in the course of\nprogress. It was no part of the intention of Wallace to reside in the\nmansion-house: his object was still secrecy; and, though the form and\ncharacter of the transaction might lead ultimately to a discovery, he\ncared not. By the prescription of the crime he had committed, he was\nfree from punishment; while, by retaining his name, and living\nostensibly in a humble condition, he had a chance of escaping a\ndetection of his true character, at the same time that he might, by\nhumility and good services, render himself more acceptable to that Great\nPower whose servant he now considered himself to be.\n\nOn the twenty-first day of October, the house of Whitecraigs was again\nopen. Servants had been procured from Peebles; the fires were again\nburning; the wreaths of smoke again ascended from among the trees; and\nlife and living action were taking the place of desertedness. On the\nforenoon of that day, Wallace took the two females from Homestead, and\nconducted them, hanging on his arms, to their new place of residence. To\nspeak of feelings, where a change comprehended an entire revolution of\na life of habit, thought, and sentiment, would be as vain as\nunintelligible. From that day, when the uncle had put the trying\nquestion to his niece, a change might have been detected working a\ngradual influence on her appearance and conduct. Might we say that hope\nhad again lighted her taper within the recesses where all had been so\nlong dreary darkness! The change would not authorize an affirmative--it\nwould have startled the ear that might have feared and yet loved the\nsounds. One not less versed in human nature might be safer in the\nconstruction derived from the new objects, new duties, new desires, new\nthoughts, from all the thousand things that act on the mind in this\nwonderful scene of man's existence; but would he be truer to the nature\nof the heart that has once loved? We may be contented with a mean, where\nextremes shoot into the darkness of our mysterious nature. Alice Scott\ntook in gradually the interests of her new sphere; did not despise the\napparel suited to it; did not reject the manners that adorned it; did\nnot turn a deaf ear or a dead eye to the eloquent ministers that lay\naround amidst the beauties of Whitecraigs and hailed her as mistress,\nwhere she was once a servant, if not a beggar.\n\nMeanwhile the house of Homestead was enlarged, to fit it as a residence\nfor the uncle. Mr. Pringle was continued agent for the proprietress of\nWhitecraigs; and, while many, doubtless, speculated on a thousand\ntheories as to these strange occurrences, we may not deny to Hector\nHayston, wherever he was, or in whatever circumstances, some interest in\nwhat concerned him so nearly as the disposal of his estate, and the\nfortune of her by whom his first affections had been awakened. Neither\nshall we say that Wallace and Pringle had not, too, their secret views\nand understandings, and that the latter was not silent where the\ninterests of his old employer called for confidence. In all which we\nmay be justified by the fact that, one day, the agent of Whitecraigs\nintroduced to the bachelor of Homestead a young man: it was the former\nproprietor of Whitecraigs.\n\n\"It is natural, Mr. Wallace,\" said Mr. Pringle, \"that one should wish to\nrevisit the scenes of his youth--especially,\" he added, with a smile,\n\"when these have been one's own property, come from prior generations,\nand lost by the thoughtlessness of youth.\"\n\n\"It is,\" replied Wallace, renouncing his usual gravity, \"even though\nthere should be no one there who might claim the hand of old friendship.\nBut this young man has only, as yet, seen the hill-tops of his father's\nlands; and these claim no seclusion from the eye of the traveller. He\nmight wish, with greater ardency, to see the bed where his mother lay\nwhen she bore him, or the cradle (which may still be in the house) where\nshe rocked him to sleep.\"\n\n\"God be merciful to me!\" replied the youth, as he turned away his head.\n\"This man touches strings whose vibrations harrow me. Sir,\" he added,\n\"were you ever yourself in the situation of him whose feelings you have\nthus, from good motives, quickened so painfully?\"\n\n\"What Whitecraigs and she who lives now in the house yonder were or are\nto you, Scotland and my kindred were to me; but the house where I was\nborn knows me not, and the bed and the cradle do not own me. But Alice\nScott recognised me as a fellow-creature, whatever more I say not; and\neven that, from one so good, and, even yet, so beautiful--is something\nto live for. No more. I know all. Will you risk a meeting?\"\n\n\"Mr. Pringle will answer for me,\" replied he, as he turned, with a full\nheart, to the window.\n\n\"And I will answer for Mr. Pringle,\" said Wallace.\n\n\"But who will answer for _her_?\" rejoined the other.\n\n\"Stay there,\" said Wallace. \"I will return in a few minutes.\"\n\nAnd, bending his steps to Whitecraigs House, he was, for a time, engaged\nwith Alice and her mother. He again returned to Homestead; and, in a few\nminutes after, the three were walking towards the mansion. The eye of\nthe young man glanced furtively from side to side, as if to catch\nglimpses of old features which had become strange to him; but in the\ndirection of the house he seemed to have no power to look--lagging\nbehind, and displaying an anxiety to be concealed, by the bodies of the\nothers, from the view of the windows. On arriving at the house, Wallace\nand Pringle went into an apartment where the mother was seated. Hector\nstood in the passage: he feared that Alice was there, and would not\nenter.\n\n\"Think you,\" whispered Wallace, quickly returning to him, \"that I, whom\nyou accused of touching tender chords, am so little acquainted with\nhuman nature as to admit of witnesses to your meeting with Alice Scott?\nThere, the green parlour in the west wing,\" he continued, pointing up\nthe inside stair to a room well known to the youth. \"If you cannot\neffect it, who may try? Go--go!\"\n\n\"I cannot--I cannot!\" he replied, in deep tones. \"My feet will not carry\nme. That room was my mother's favourite parlour. A thousand associations\nare busy with me. And now, who sits there?\"\n\n\"Come, come!\" said Pringle, as he came forth, in consequence of hearing\nHayston's irresolution. \"What did you expect on coming here? Alice to\ncome and fly to you with open arms?\"\n\n\"No, sir; to reject me with a wave of disdain!\" replied the youth. \"I am\nsmitten from within, and confidence has left me. Let me see her mother\nfirst. My cruelty to her has been mixed with kindness, and she may give\nme some heart.\"\n\nAnd he turned to the apartment where the mother sat.\n\n\"Your confidence will not be restored by anything the mother can say!\"\nrejoined Pringle, who was getting alarmed for the success of his\nefforts. \"Alice is now mistress here, and must be won by contrition, and\na prayer for forgiveness.\"\n\n\"Ho!\" interjected Wallace. \"To what tends this mummery? Must I take you\nby the hand, and lead you to one who, for years, has seen you in every\nflitting shade of the hills, and heard you in every note of the sighing\nwinds of the valley?\"\n\n\"To hate me as I deserve to be hated!\" replied Hayston, still\nirresolute. \"None of you can give me any ground for hope, and seem to\npush me on to experience a rejection which may seal my misery for ever!\"\n\nWallace smiled in silence, beckoned Pringle into the room beside the\nmother, and taking Hayston by the arm, with a show of humour that\naccorded but indifferently with the real anguish of doubt and dismay by\nwhich the young man's mind was occupied, forced him on to the first step\nof the inside stair.\n\n\"You are now fairly committed!\" said he, smiling; \"to retreat, is ruin;\nto advance, happiness, and love, and peace.\"\n\nAnd he retreated to the room where Pringle was, leaving the youth to the\nstrength or weakness of his own resolution. His tread was now heard,\nslow and hesitating, on the stair. Some time elapsed before the sound of\nthe opening door was heard; and that it remained for a time open, held\nby the doubtful hand, might also have been observed. At last it was\nshut; and quick steps on the floor indicated that the first look had not\nbeen fraught with rejection.\n\nThe party below were, meanwhile, speculating on the result of the\nmeeting. Even the mother was not certain that it would, at first, be\nattended with success. Alice had yielded no consent; and it was only\nfrom the mother's construction of her looks, that she had given her\nauthority for the interview.\n\n\"All is now decided, for good or evil,\" said Wallace. \"Go up stairs, and\nbring us a report of the state of affairs.\"\n\nThe mother obeyed; and, after a considerable time, returned, with her\neyes swimming in tears.\n\n\"Is it so?\" said her friend. \"Is it really so? Has all my labour been\nfruitless?\"\n\n\"No,\" replied she; \"but I could not stand the sight. I found her lying\non the breast of Hector, sobbing out the sorrows of years. Her eyes have\nbeen long dry. The heart is at last opened.\"\n\n\"Too good a sight for me to lose,\" replied her friend. \"For twenty years\nI have only known the tears of penitence: I will now experience those\nthat flow from the happiness of others.\"\n\nAnd, with these words, he hurried up stairs. We would follow, but that\nwe are aware of the danger of treading ground almost forbidden to\ninspiration. Within two hours afterwards, Hector Hayston and Alice Scott\nwere again among the glens of Whitecraigs, seeking out those places\nwhere, before, they used to breathe the accents of a first affection.\nThe one had been true to the end; and the other had been false only to\nlearn the beauty of truth. We have given these details from a true\nrecord, and have derived pleasure from the recollections they have\nawakened; but we fairly admit, that we would yield one half of what we\nhave experienced of the good, to have marked that day the workings of\nthe retrieved spirit in the eyes, and speech, and manners of Alice\nScott. These are nature's true magic. The drooping flower that is all\nbut dead in the dry, parched soil, raises its head, takes on fresh\ncolours, and gives forth fresh odours, as the spring showers fall on its\nwithered leaves. Oh! there is a magic there that escapes not even the\neye of dull labour, retiring home sick of all but the repose he needs.\nBut the process in the frame that is the temple of beauty, worth,\nintelligence, sensibility, rearing all in loveliness afresh, out of what\nwas deemed the ruins only of what is the greatest and best of God's\nworks--to see this, and to feel it, is to rejoice that we are placed in\na world that, with all its elements of vice and sorrow, is yet a place\nwhere the good and the virtuous may find something analogous to that for\nwhich the spirit pants in other worlds.\n\nYet, though we saw it not, we have enough of the conception, through\nfancy, to be thankful for the gift even of the _ideal_ of the good; and\nhere we are satisfied that we have more. Hector Hayston and Alice Scott\nwere married. David Wallace's history was long concealed, but curiosity\nfinally triumphed; yet with no effect calculated to impair the\nequanimity of a mind which repentance, and a reliance on God's grace,\nhad long rendered independent of the opinions of men. He had wrought for\nevil, and good came of it; and he lived long to see, in the house of\nWhitecraigs, its master, mistress, and children, the benefits of the\nprescription which the 29th of September effected--a principle of the\nlaw of Scotland that was long deemed inconsistent with the good of the\nland, but now more properly considered as being no less in unison with\nthe feelings of man than it is with divine mercy.\n\n\n\n\nTHE COUNTESS OF WISTONBURY.\n\n\nIn the summer of 1836 I had occasion to make a journey into Wiltshire,\nin England. As the business that called me there, although of sufficient\nimportance to me, would have no interest whatever for the reader, I will\nreadily be excused, I dare say, from saying of what nature that business\nwas. It will more concern him, from its connection with the sequel, to\nknow that my residence, while in England, was in a certain beautiful\nlittle village at the southern extremity of the shire above named, and\nthat mine host, during my stay there, was the worthy landlord of the\nWhite Hart Inn, as intelligent and well-informed a man as it has often\nbeen my good fortune to meet with. The nature of the business which made\nme a guest of Michael Jones, left me a great deal more spare time than I\nknew well what to do with. It hung heavy upon my hands; and my good\nhost, perceiving this, suggested a little excursion, which, he said, he\nthought would dispose of one day, at any rate, agreeably enough.\n\n\"I would recommend you, sir,\" he said, \"to pay a visit to Oxton Hall,\nthe seat of the Earl of Wistonbury.[5] It is one of the finest\nresidences in England; and, as the family are not there just now, you\nmay see the whole house, both inside and outside. If you think of it, I\nwill give you a line to the butler, a very old friend of mine, and he\nwill be glad to show you all that's worth seeing about the place.\"\n\n[5] Under this name we choose, for obvious reasons, to conceal the real\none.--_Ed._\n\n\"How far distant is it?\" I inquired.\n\n\"Oh, not more than three miles and a half--little more than an hour's\neasy walk,\" replied mine host.\n\n\"Excellent!\" said I; \"thank you for the hint, landlord. Let me have the\nintroduction to the butler you spoke about, and I'll set off directly.\"\n\nIn less than five minutes, a card, addressed to Mr. John Grafton,\nbutler, Oxton Hall, was put into my hands, and in two minutes more I was\non my way to the ancient seat of the Earls of Wistonbury. The directions\ngiven me as to my route, carefully noted on my part, brought me, in\nlittle more than an hour, to a spacious and noble gateway, secured by a\nmagnificent gate of cast-iron. This I at once recognised, from the\ndescription given me by Mr. Jones, to be the principal entrance to Oxton\nHall. Satisfied that it was so, I unhesitatingly entered--and the house\nof one of the proudest of England's aristocracy stood before me, in all\nits lordly magnificence. A spacious lawn, of the brightest and most\nbeautiful verdure, dotted over with noble oaks, and tenanted by some\nscores of fallow-deer, stretched far and wide on every side. In the\ncentre of this splendid park--such a park as England alone can\nexhibit--arose the mansion-house, an ancient and stately pile, of great\nextent and lofty structure.\n\nHaving found the person to whose civilities I was recommended by mine\nhost of the White Hart--a mild and pleasant-looking old man, of about\nseventy years of age--I put my credentials into his hands. On reading\nit, the old man looked at me smilingly, and said that he would have much\npleasure in obliging his good friend Mr. Jones, by showing me all that\nwas worth seeing both in and about the house; and many things both\ncurious and rare, and, I may add, both costly and splendid, did I see\nere another hour had passed away; but fearing the reader's patience\nwould scarcely stand the trial of a description of them, I refrain from\nthe experiment, and proceed to say, that, just as our survey of the\nhouse was concluded, my cicerone, as if suddenly recollecting himself,\nsaid--\n\n\"By-the-by, sir, perhaps you would like to see the picture gallery,\nalthough it is hardly worth seeing just now--most of the pictures having\nbeen removed to our house in Grosvenor Square last winter; and, being in\nthis denuded state, I never think of showing it to visitors. There are,\nhowever, a few portraits of different members of the family still left,\nand these you may see if you have any curiosity regarding them.\"\n\nSuch curiosity I avowed I felt, and was immediately conducted into the\npresence of a number of the pictorial ancestry of the illustrious house\nof Wistonbury. The greater part of the pictures had been removed, as my\nconductor had informed me; but a few still remained scattered along the\nlofty walls of the gallery.\n\n\"That,\" said my cicerone, pointing to a grim warrior, clad from head to\nheel in a panoply of steel,--\"that is Henry, first Earl of Wistonbury,\nwho fell in Palestine during the holy wars; and this,\" directing my\nattention to another picture, \"is the grandfather of the present Earl.\"\n\n\"A very handsome and pleasant-looking young man,\" said I, struck with\nthe forcible representation of these qualities which the painting\nexhibited.\n\n\"Ay,\" replied the old man, \"and as good as he was handsome. He is the\npride of the house; and the country around yet rings with his name,\nassociated with all that is kind and charitable.\"\n\n\"And who is this lovely creature?\" said I, now pointing in my turn to\nthe portrait of a young female of the most exquisite beauty--the face\nstrikingly resembling some of the best executed likenesses of the\nunfortunate Queen Mary--which hung beside that of the Good Earl of\nWistonbury, as the nobleman of whom my cicerone had just spoken was\ncalled throughout the country.\n\n\"That lady, sir,\" replied the latter, \"was his wife--the Countess of\nWistonbury. She was one of the most beautiful women of her time; and,\nlike her husband, was beloved by all around her, for the gentleness of\nher manners and benevolence of her disposition.\"\n\n\"But what's this?\" said I, advancing a little nearer the picture, to\nexamine something in her attire that puzzled me. \"A Scotch plaid!\" I\nexclaimed in considerable surprise, on ascertaining that this was the\narticle of dress which had perplexed me. \"Pray, what has the Scotch\nplaid to do here? How happens it that we find a Countess of Wistonbury\narrayed in the costume of Caledonia?\"\n\n\"Why, sir, the reason is good--perfectly satisfactory,\" replied Mr.\nGrafton, smilingly. \"She was a native of that country.\"\n\n\"Indeed!\" said I. \"A countrywoman of mine! Of what family?\" added I.\n\nMy conductor smiled.\n\n\"Truly,\" said he, after a pause, \"that is a question easier put than\nanswered.\"\n\n\"What!\" said I, \"was she not of some distinguished house?\"\n\n\"By no means, sir,\" replied Mr. Grafton. \"She was a person of the\nhumblest birth and station; but this did not hinder her from becoming\nCountess of Wistonbury, nor from being one of the best as well as most\nbeautiful that ever bore the title.\"\n\n\"Ah, ha!\" said I to myself, \"here's a story for the 'Tales of the\nBorders.'\" I did not say this to Mr. Grafton, however; but to him I did\nsay--\"There must be some interesting story connected with this lady. The\nhistory of her singular good fortune must be curious, and well worth\nhearing.\"\n\n\"Why, it certainly is,\" replied my conductor, with the air of one who,\nwhile he cannot but acknowledge that there is interest in a certain\npiece of information which he possesses, is yet so familiar with it\nhimself, has owned it so long, and communicated it so often, that his\nfeelings seem to belie his words--the former remaining unmoved by the\ntale which the latter unfolds. \"There is certainly something curious in\nthe Countess's story,\" said Mr. Grafton; \"and, now that we have seen\neverything that is worth seeing, if you will come with me to my little\nrefectory, I will tell you all about it over a tankard of fine old ale\nand a slice of cold round.\"\n\nNeed I say, good reader, that I at once and gladly accepted an\ninvitation that so happily combined the intellectual and the sensual?\nYou will give me credit for more sense; and the following story will\nprove at once that your good opinion is not misplaced, that I must have\nbeen an attentive listener, and, lastly, that I must be blessed with a\npretty retentive memory. I relate the story in my own way, but without\ntaking the slightest liberty with any single one of the details given me\nby my informant, who, from having been upwards of forty-five years in\nthe service of the Earls of Wistonbury, and, during the greater part of\nthat time their principal and most confidential domestic, was minutely\nand accurately informed regarding every remarkable event that had\noccurred in the family for several generations back.\n\n\"But, before we leave this part of the house,\" resumed Mr. Grafton, \"be\nso good as step with me a moment into this small room here, till I show\nyou a certain little article that cuts some figure in the story which I\nshall shortly tell you.\"\n\nSaying this, he led the way into the small apartment he alluded to, and,\nconducting me towards a handsome ebony or blackwood cabinet that\noccupied one end of the room, he threw open its little folding doors,\nand exhibited to me, not some rich or rare curiosity, as I had expected,\nbut a small, plain, very plain--or I should, perhaps, rather say very\ncoarse--country-looking, blue-painted chest.\n\n\"Do you see that little chest, sir?\" said Mr. Grafton, smilingly.\n\n\"I do,\" said I; \"and it seems a very homely article to be so splendidly\nentombed, and so carefully kept.\"\n\n\"Yet,\" replied Mr. Grafton, \"homely as it is, and small as is its\nintrinsic value, that is one of the heir-looms of the family, and one of\nthe most fondly-cherished of them all.\"\n\n\"Indeed!\" said I, in some surprise. \"Then I am very sure it cannot be\nfor its marketable worth. It wouldn't bring sixpence.\"\n\n\"I verily believe it would not,\" replied Mr. Grafton. \"Yet the Earl of\nWistonbury would not part with that little chest for a good round sum, I\nwarrant ye.\"\n\n\"Pray, explain, my good sir.\"\n\n\"I will. That little, blue-painted chest contained all the worldly\nwealth--a few articles of female dress--of the lady whose portrait you\nwere just now so much admiring, when she became Countess of Wistonbury.\"\n\n\"Why, then,\" said I, \"that is proof that riches, at any rate, had\nnothing to do with her promotion to that high rank.\"\n\n\"They certainly had not,\" replied my aged friend. \"But all this you will\nlearn more particularly in the story which I shall tell you presently.\nYou will then learn, also, how the little, blue-painted chest comes to\nfigure in the history of a countess.\"\n\nSaying this, Mr. Grafton shut the doors of the cabinet, when we left the\napartment, and, in a few minutes after, I found myself in what my worthy\nold host called his refectory. This was a snug little room, most\ncomfortably furnished, and in which I observed a very large quantity of\nsilver plate,--being, I presumed, the depository of that portion of the\nfamily's wealth. My good old friend now rung his bell, when a female\nservant appeared.\n\n\"Let's have summut to eat, Betsy,\" said the old man; and never was order\nmore promptly or more effectively obeyed.\n\nIn an instant the table, which occupied the centre of the floor,\nabsolutely creaked under the load of good things with which it was\nencumbered. The \"slice of cold round,\" I found, was but a _nomme de\nguerre_ with the old man, and meant everything in the edible way that\nwas choice and savoury. To this conclusion I came from seeing the table\nbefore me covered with a great variety of good things, amongst which\nrose, conspicuous in the centre, a huge venison pasty. When the\n_loading_ of the table was completed, and the servant had retired--\n\n\"Now,\" said the old man, looking at me with a significant smile, and at\nthe same time drawing a bunch of small keys from his pocket, from which\nhe carefully singled out one, \"since Betsy has done her part so well,\nlet me see if I can't do mine as creditably.\"\n\nSaying this, he opened what I thought a sly-looking little cupboard, and\nbrought forth from its mysterious recess an aristocratic-looking bottle,\nsealed with black wax, and whose shoulders were still thickly coated\nwith sawdust. Handling this venerable bottle with a lightness and\ndelicacy of touch which a long practice only could have given, and with\na degree of reverence which an _\u00e0 priori_ knowledge of its contents only\ncould have inspired, my worthy host tenderly brushed off its coating of\nsawdust, gently inserted the screw, drew the cork, with a calm,\ncautious, steady pull, and, in the next moment, had filled up two\nbrimmers of the finest old port that the cellars of Oxton Hall could\nproduce. Having done ample justice to the good things before us--\n\n\"Now, my good sir, the story, the story, if you please,\" said I.\n\n\"Oh, to be sure,\" replied my kind host, smiling. \"The story you shall\nhave. But first let us take another glass of wine, to inspire me with\nfortitude to begin so long a story, and you with patience to listen to\nit.\"\n\nThe procedure thus recommended having been complied with, the good old\nman immediately began:--\n\n\"About a hundred and thirteen years since,\" he said, \"there lived in the\nneighbourhood of one of the principal cities in Scotland, a farmer of\nthe name of Flowerdew. He was a man of respectable character, and of\nsober and industrious habits. His family consisted only of himself, his\nwife, and an only child--a daughter, named Jessy. Gentle and\naffectionate, of the most winning manners, and surpassingly beautiful in\nform and feature, Jessy was not only the darling of her father, but the\nfavourite character of the neighbourhood in which she lived. All yielded\nthe homage of admiration to her supreme loveliness, and of the tenderest\nesteem to her worth.\n\nFor many years, Jessy's father contrived, notwithstanding of an enormous\nrent, to keep pace with the world, and eventually to raise himself a\nlittle above it; but, in despite of all his industry and all his\nprudence, reverses came. A succession of bad crops was followed by a\nseries of losses of various kinds, and James Flowerdew found himself a\nruined man.\n\n'It's not for myself I care,' said the honest man, when speaking one day\nwith his wife of the misfortunes which had overwhelmed them--'it's for\nour puir bit lassie, guidwife. God help her! I thought to have left her\nindependent; but it's been ordained otherwise, and we must submit. But\nwhat's to become of her I know not. Being brocht up a little abune the\ncommon, she cannot be asked to enter into the service of ony o' our\nneebors; yet, I see nae other way o't. It must come to that in the lang\nrun.'\n\n'I suppose it must, guidman--I suppose it must,' replied his wife,\nraising the corner of her apron to her eye, and then bursting into\ntears. 'My puir, dear, gentle lassie,' she exclaimed, 'it's a sad change\nto her; but I ken she'll meet it cheerfully, and without repining. But,\nguidman, if to service she must go, and I fancy there's little doot o'\nthat, wouldna it be better if we could get her into the service of some\nrespectable family in the toon, than to put her wi' ony o' our neebors,\nwhere she might be reminded o' her fall, as they will call it?'\n\n'It's a good thought, Lizzy,' replied her husband, musingly, as he gazed\nin sadness on the fire that burned before him. 'It's a good thought,' he\nsaid. 'She will be there unknown, and her feelings saved from the taunts\nof callous impertinence. I will think of it,' added Flowerdew. 'In the\nmeantime, guidwife, prepare Jessy, the best way you can, for the change\nof situation in life which she is about to meet with. I canna do it. It\nwould break my heart a'thegither.'\n\nThis painful task Mrs. Flowerdew undertook; and, as she expected, found\nher daughter not only reconciled to the step which was proposed for her,\nbut eager and anxious to be put in a way of doing for herself, and, as\nshe fondly hoped and affectionately said, of aiding her parents.\n\nShortly after this, the ruin which had overtaken James Flowerdew began\nto present itself in its most instant and most distressing shapes.\nArrestments were laid on his funds in all quarters. Visits of messengers\nwere frequent, almost daily; and his whole stock and crop were\nsequestrated by the landlord, and a day for the sale fixed. This last\nwas a sight from which Flowerdew anxiously wished to save his daughter,\nand he meant to do so, if he could, by finding her 'a place' previous to\nthe day of sale.\n\nThe duty of looking out for a situation for Jessy in town Flowerdew\ntook upon himself, from the circumstance of his having been in the habit\nfor many years of supplying a number of respectable families with the\nproduce of his farm, which he generally delivered himself, his simple\ncharacter and industrious habits not permitting him to see any\ndegradation in driving his own cart on these occasions. Flowerdew had\nthus formed a personal acquaintance with many families of the better\nclass, which he thought might be useful to him in his present views.\n\nAmongst the oldest and most respected of his customers was a learned\nprofessor, whom, to avoid what might be an inconvenient identification\nof circumstances, we shall call Lockerby. With this gentleman Flowerdew\nresolved to begin his inquiries respecting a situation for his daughter.\nHe did so, and on being introduced to him, explained the purpose of his\nvisit.\n\n'Dear me, Mr. Flowerdew!' said the worthy professor, in surprise at the\napplication, 'I thought--I all along thought, that your circumstances\nwould entitle your daughter, whose modesty of demeanour and great beauty\nof person I have had frequent opportunities of admiring--she having\ncalled here frequently, as you know, on various occasions connected with\nour little traffic--I say, I thought your circumstances would entitle\nyour daughter to look for something higher than the situation of a\ndomestic servant.'\n\n'I once thought so myself, professor,' replied Mr. Flowerdew, with a\ntear standing in his eye; 'but it has turned out otherwise. The truth\nis, that I have lately met with such reverses as have entirely ruined\nme. I am about to be ejected from my farm, and must betake myself to\ndaily labour for a subsistence. In this explanation you will see the\nreason why I apply to you for a situation in your family for my\ndaughter.'\n\n'Too clearly--too clearly,' replied the worthy professor sincerely\ngrieving for the misfortunes of a man whom he had long known, and whose\nuprightness of conduct and character he had long appreciated. 'I am\nseriously distressed, Mr. Flowerdew,' he added, 'to learn all\nthis--seriously distressed, indeed; but, in the meantime, let us consult\nMrs. Lockerby on the subject of your present visit.' And he rang the\nbell, and desired the servant who answered it, to request his wife to\ncome to him. She came, and on being informed of Mr. Flowerdew's\napplication in behalf of his daughter, at once agreed to receive her\ninto her service; adding, that she might, if she chose, enter on her\nduties immediately. It was finally arranged that Jessy should take\npossession of her situation on the following day.\n\nHighly gratified at having got admission for his daughter into so worthy\nand respectable a family, Flowerdew returned home with a lighter heart\nthan he had possessed for some time before. He felt that his Jessy was\nnow, in a manner, provided for; and that, although the situation was a\nhumble one, and far short of what he had once expected for her, it was\nyet a creditable one, and one presenting no mean field for the exercise\nof some of the best qualities which a woman can possess.\n\nEqually pleased with her father at the opening that had been found for\nher, the gentle girl lost no time in making such preparations as the\nimpending change in her position in life rendered necessary. Part of\nthese preparations, all cheerfully performed, consisted in packing a\nsmall trunk with her clothes, and in other procedures of a similar kind.\nIn this employment her mother endeavoured to assist her, but was too\nmuch affected by the sadness of the task to afford any very efficient\naid, although her daughter did all she could, by assuming a\nlight-heartedness which she could not altogether feel, to assuage the\ngrief to which her mother was every moment giving way.\n\n'Why grieve yourself in that way, mother?' she would say, pausing in her\noperations, and flinging her arms around her parent's neck. 'I assure\nyou I am happy at the prospect of being put in a way of doing for\nmyself; I consider it no hardship--not in the least. I will take a pride\nin discharging my new duties faithfully and diligently; and I hope that,\neven in the humble sphere in which I am about to move, I shall contrive\nto make myself both esteemed and respected.'\n\n'_That_ I dinna doubt--that I dinna doubt, my dear lassie,' replied her\nmother; 'but, oh, it goes to my heart to see you gaun into the service\no' ithers. I never expected to see the day. Oh, this is a sad change\nthat's come over us a'!' And again the poor woman burst into a paroxysm\nof grief.\n\n'Mother,' said the girl, 'you will dishearten me if you go on in this\nway.' Then smiling through the tears of affection that glistened on her\neye, and assuming a tone of affected cheerfulness, 'Come now, dear\nmother, do drop this desponding tone. There's better days in store for\nus yet. We'll get above all this by-and-by. In the meantime it is our\nduty, as Christians, to submit to the destiny that has been decreed us\nwith patience and resignation. Come, mother, I'll sing you the song you\nused always to like so well to hear me sing.' And, without waiting for\nany remark in reply, or pausing in her employment, the girl immediately\nbegan, in a voice whose richness of tone and deep pathos possessed the\nmost thrilling power:--\n\n   'A cheerfu' heart's been always mine,\n      Whatever might betide me, O!\n    In foul or fair, in shade or shine,\n      I've aye had that to guide me, O!\n\n    When luck cam chappin' at my door,\n      Wi' right goodwill I cheered him, O!\n    And whan misfortune cam, I swore\n      The ne'er a bit I feared him, O!'\n\n'O lassie, lassie!' exclaimed Jessy's mother, here interrupting her, and\nnow smiling as she spoke--'how can ye think o' singing at such a time?\nBut God lang vouchsafe ye sae light and cheerfu' a heart! It's a great\nblessing, Jessy, and canna be prized too highly.'\n\n'I'm aware of it, mother,' replied her daughter, 'and am, I trust,\nthankful for it. I dinna see, after a', that anything should seriously\ndistress us--but guilt. If we keep free o' _that_, what hae we to fear?\nA' ither mischances will mend, or if they dinna, they'll at least smooth\ndoon wi' time.'\n\n'But why are ye no puttin' up your silk goun, Jessy?' here interposed\nher mother, abruptly; seeing her daughter laying aside the article of\ndress she referred to, as if she did not intend it should have a place\nin the little chest she was packing.\n\n'The silk gown, mother, I'll no tak wi' me,' replied Jessy, smiling;\n'I'll leave't at hame till better times come roun'. It would hardly\nbecome my station now, mother, to be gaun flaunting about in silks.'\n\n'Too true, Jessy,' said her mother with a sigh. 'It may be as weel, as\nye say, to leave't at hame for a wee, till times mend wi' us at ony\nrate, although God only knows when that may be, if ever.'\n\n'I'll keep it for my wedding gown, mother,' said Jessy, laughingly, and\nwith an intention of counteracting the depressing tendency of her\ninadvertent remarks on the propriety of her leaving her silk gown\nbehind. 'I'll keep it for my wedding dress, mother,' she said, 'although\nit's mair than likely that a plainer attire will be mair suitable for\nthat occasion too.'\n\n'Nae sayin', Jessy,' replied her mother. 'Ye'll maybe get a canny laird\nyet, that can ride to market wi' siller spurs on his boots and gowd lace\non his hat.'\n\n'Far less will please me, mither,' replied Jessy, blushing and laughing\nat the same time. 'I never, even in our best days, looked so high, and\nit would ill become me to do so now.'\n\nWith such conversation as this did mother and daughter endeavour to\ndivert their minds from dwelling on the painful reflection which the\nlatter's occupation was so well calculated to excite.\n\nAn early hour of the following morning saw Jessy Flowerdew seated in a\nlittle cart, well lined with straw by her doting father, who proposed\ndriving her himself into the city. A _small, blue-painted chest_, a\nbandbox, and one or two small bundles, formed the whole of her\ntravelling accompaniments. She herself was wrapped in a scarlet mantle,\nand wore on her head a light straw bonnet, of tasteful shape, and\nadmirably adapted to the complexion and contour of the fine countenance\nwhich it gracefully enclosed.\n\nAfter a delay of a few minutes--for the cart in which Jessy was seated\nwas still standing at the door--her father, dressed in his Sunday's\nsuit, came out of the house, stepped up to the horse's head, took the\nreins in his hand, and gently put in motion the little humble conveyance\nwhich was to bear his daughter away from the home of her childhood, and\nto place her in the house of the stranger. Unable to sustain the agony\nof a last parting, Jessy's mother had not come out of the house to see\nher daughter start on her journey; but she was seen, when the cart had\nproceeded a little way, standing at the door, with her apron at her\neyes, looking after it with an expression of the most heartfelt sorrow.\n\n'There's my mother, father,' said Jessy, in a choking voice, on getting\na sight of the former in the affecting attitude above described--but she\ncould add no more. In the next instant her face was buried in her\nhandkerchief. Her father turned round on her calling his attention to\nher mother, but instantly, and without saying a word, resumed the\nsilent, plodding pace which the circumstance had for a moment\ninterrupted.\n\nIn little more than an hour the humble equipage, whose progress we have\nbeen tracing, entered the city. Humble, however, as that equipage was,\nit did not prevent the passers-by from marking the singular beauty of\nher by whom it was occupied. Many were they who looked round, and stood\nand gazed in admiration after the little cart and its occupant, as they\nrattled along the 'stony street.' Their further progress, however, was\nnow a short one. In a few minutes Flowerdew and his daughter found\nthemselves at the professor's door. The former now tenderly lifted out\nJessy from the cart--for her sylph-like form, so light and slender, was\nnothing in the arms of the robust farmer--and placed her in safety on\nthe flag-stones. Her little trunk and bandbox were next taken out by the\nsame friendly hand, and deposited beside her. This done, Flowerdew\nrapped at the professor's door. It was opened. The father and daughter\nentered; and, in an hour after--long before which her father had left\nher--the latter was engaged in the duties of her new situation.\n\nDays, weeks, and months, as they will always do, now passed away, but\nthey still found Jessy in the service of her first employers, whose\nesteem she had gained by the gentleness of her nature, the modesty of\nher demeanour, and the extreme propriety of her conduct.\n\nAt the time of her first entering into the service of Professor\nLockerby, Jessy Flowerdew had just completed her sixteenth year. The\ncharms of her person had not then attained their full perfection. But\nnow that two years more had passed over her head--for this interval must\nbe understood to have elapsed before we resume our tale--her face and\nfigure had attained the zenith of their beauty, a beauty that struck\nevery beholder, and in every beholder excited feelings of unqualified\nadmiration.\n\nIt was about the end of two years after Jessy's advent into the family\nof the professor, that the latter one morning, raising his head from a\nletter which he had just been reading, and, turning to the former, who\nwas in the act of removing the breakfast equipage, said--\n\n'Jessy, my girl, will you be so good as put the little parlour and\nbedroom up stairs in the best order you can, as I expect a young\ngentleman to-morrow, who is to become a boarder with us.'\n\nJessy courtseyed her acquiescence in the order just given her, and\nretired from the apartment to fulfil it.\n\nOn the following day a travelling carriage, whose panels were adorned\nwith a coronet, drove up to the door of Professor Lockerby. From this\ncarriage descended a young man, apparently between nineteen and twenty\nyears of age, of the most prepossessing appearance. His countenance was\npale, but bore an expression of extreme mildness and benevolence. His\nfigure was tall and slender, but handsomely formed; while his whole\nmanner and bearing bespoke the man of high birth and breeding.\n\nOn descending from his carriage, the young man was received by the\nprofessor with the most respectful deference--too respectful it seemed\nto be for the taste of him to whom it was addressed, for he instantly\nbroke through the cold formality of the meeting, by grasping the\nprofessor's hand, and shaking it with the heartiest and most cordial\ngoodwill, saying while he did so--\n\n'I hope I see you well, professor.'\n\n'In perfect health, I thank you, my lord,' replied the professor. 'I\nhope you left your good lady mother, the countess, well.'\n\n'Quite well--I'm obliged to you, professor--as lively and stirring, and\nactive as ever. Hot and hasty, and a little queenly in her style now and\nthen, as you know, but still the open heart and the open hand of the\nWistonburys.'\n\n'I have the honour of knowing the countess well, my lord,' replied the\nprofessor, 'and can bear testimony to the nobleness of her nature and\ndisposition. I have known many, many instances of it.'\n\nWith such conversation as this, the professor and his noble boarder--for\nsuch was the young man whom we have just introduced to the\nreader--entered the house. Who this young man was, and what was his\nobject in taking up his abode with Professor Lockerby, we will explain\nin a few words, although such explanation is rendered in part nearly\nunnecessary by the conversation just recorded between him and the\nprofessor. It may not be amiss, however, to say, in more distinct terms,\nthat he was the Earl of Wistonbury, a rank which he had attained just a\nyear before, by the sudden and premature death of his father, who died\nin the forty-fifth year of his age. Since his accession to the title of\nhis ancestors, the young earl had continued to live in retirement with\nhis mother, a woman of a noble, elevated, and generous soul, well\nbecoming her high lineage--for she, too, was descended of one of the\nnoblest families in England--but in whose temper there was occasionally\nmade visible a dash of the leaven of aristocracy.\n\nOn her son, the young earl, her only surviving child, she doted with all\nthe affection of the fondest and tenderest of mothers; and well worthy\nwas that son of all the love she could bestow. His was one of those\nnatures which no earthly elevation can corrupt, no factitious system\ndeprive of its innate simplicity.\n\nThe promotion of the young earl to the head of his illustrious house,\nwas, however, a premature one in more respects than one. One of these\nwas to be found in the circumstance of the young man's being found\nunprepared--at least so he judged himself--in the matter of education,\nto fill with credit the high station to which he was so unexpectedly\ncalled. His education, in truth, had been rather neglected; and it was\nto make up for this neglect, to recover his lost ground with all the\nspeed possible, that he was now come to reside for a few months with\nProfessor Lockerby, who had once acted as tutor in his father's family\nto a brother who had died young.\n\nSuch, then, was the professor's boarder, and such was the purpose for\nwhich he became so.\n\nThe favourable impression which the youthful earl's first appearance had\nmade, suffered no diminution by length of acquaintance. Mild and\nunpresuming, he won the love of all who came in contact with him. The\nlittle personal services he required, he always solicited, never\ncommanded; and what he could with any propriety do himself, he always\ndid, without seeking other assistance.\n\nA quiet and unostentatious inmate of the professor's, time rolled\nrapidly, but gently and imperceptibly, over the head of the young earl,\nuntil a single week only intervened between the moment referred to, and\nthe period fixed on for his return to Oxton Hall.\n\nThus, nearly six months had elapsed, not a very long period, but one in\nwhich much may be accomplished, and in which many a change may take\nplace. And by such features were the six months marked, which the young\nEarl of Wistonbury had spent in the house of Professor Lockerby. In that\ntime, by dint of unrelaxing assiduity and intense application, he had\nacquired a respectable knowledge of both Latin and Greek, and in that\ntime, too, he had taken a step which was to affect the whole tenor of\nhis after life, and to make him either happy or miserable, as it had\nbeen fortunately or unfortunately made. What that step was we shall\ndivulge, through precisely the same singular process by which it\nactually came to the knowledge of the other parties interested.\n\nOne evening, at the period to which we a short while since\nalluded--namely, about a week previous to the expiry of the proposed\nterm of the earl's residence with Professor Lockerby--as Jessy Flowerdew\nwas about to remove the tea equipage from the table of the little\nparlour in which the professor and his noble pupil usually conducted\ntheir studies, the latter suddenly rose from his seat, and, looking at\ntheir fair handmaiden with a serious countenance, said--\n\n'Jessy, my love, you must not perform this service again, nor any other\nof a similar kind. You are now my wife--you are now Countess of\nWistonbury.'\n\nWe leave it to the reader to imagine, after his own surprise has a\nlittle subsided, what was that of the worthy professor, on hearing his\nnoble pupil make so extraordinary, so astounding a declaration--a\ndeclaration not less remarkable for its import, than for the occasion on\nwhich, and the manner in which it was made.\n\nOn recovering from his astonishment, 'My lord,' said the good professor,\nwith a grave and stern countenance, 'be good enough to inform me what\nthis extraordinary conduct means? What can have been your motive, my\nlord, for using the highly improper and most unguarded language which I\nhave just now heard you utter?'\n\nThe young earl, with the greatest calmness and deference of manner,\napproached the professor, laid his hand upon his heart, and, with a\ngraceful inclination, said, slowly and emphatically--\n\n'Upon my honour, sir, she _is_ my wife!'\n\n'What, my lord!' exclaimed the still more and more amazed professor--and\nnow starting from his chair in his excitation--'do you repeat your most\nunbecoming and incredible assertion?'\n\n'I do, sir,' replied the earl, in the same calm and respectful manner.\n'I do repeat it, and say, before God, that Jessy Flowerdew is the\nlawfully married wife of the Earl of Wistonbury.'\n\n'Well, my lord, well,' said the professor, in angry agitation, 'I know\nwhat is my duty in this most extraordinary case. It is to give instant\nnotice to the countess, your mother, of what I must call, my lord, the\nextremely rash and unadvised step you have taken.'\n\nTo this threat and rebuke, the earl replied, with the utmost composure\nand politeness of manner--'I was not unprepared, sir, for your\nresentment on this occasion. Neither do I take it in the least amiss.\nYou merely do your duty when you tell me I have forgotten mine. But the\nstep I have taken, sir, allow me to say, although it may appear\nunadvised, has not been so in reality. I have weighed well the\nconsequences, and am quite prepared to abide them.'\n\n'Be it so, my lord, be it so,' replied the professor. 'I have only now\nto remark that, as you say you were prepared for _my_ resentment, I hope\nyou are also prepared for your mother's, my lord--a matter of much more\nserious moment.'\n\n'My mother, sir, I will take in my own hands,' replied the earl; 'she\ncan resent, but she can also forgive.'\n\n'I have no more to say, my lord, no more,' rejoined Mr. Lockerby; 'the\nmatter must now be put into the hands of those who have a better right\nto judge of its propriety than I have. I shall presume on no further\nremark on the subject.'\n\n'Come, sir,' said the earl, smiling and extending his hand to the\nprofessor, 'let this, if you please, be no cause for difference between\nus. I propose that we allow the matter to lie in abeyance until my\nmother has been appealed to; she being the only person, you know, who\nhas a right to be displeased with my proceeding, or whose wishes I was\ncalled upon to consult in this matter.'\n\n'Excuse me, my lord,' replied the worthy professor; 'but I must\npositively decline all interchange of courtesies which may, by any\npossibility, be construed into an overlooking of this very extraordinary\naffair.'\n\n'Well, well, my good sir,' said the earl, smiling, and still maintaining\nthe equanimity of his temper, 'judge of me as charitably as you can. In\nthe morning, we shall meet, I trust, better friends.' Saying this, he\ntook up one of the candles which were on the table before him, bade the\nprofessor a polite and respectful good night, and retired to his own\napartment.\n\nThe earl had no sooner withdrawn than Mr. Lockerby, after collecting\nhimself a little, commenced inditing a letter to the Countess Dowager of\nWistonbury, apprising her of what had just occurred. In speaking,\nhowever, of the 'degrading' connection which her son had made, the\nhonest man's sense of justice compelled him to add a qualifying\nexplanation of the term which he had employed--'degrading, I mean,' he\nsaid, '_in point of wealth, rank, and accomplishments_; for, in all\nother respects, in conduct and character, in temper and disposition,\nand, above all, in personal appearance--for she is certainly eminently\nbeautiful--I must admit that her superior may not easily be found.'\n\nThe letter that contained these remarks, with the other information\nconnected with it, the professor despatched on the same night on which\nit was written; and, having done this, awaited with what composure and\nfortitude he could command, the dreadful explosion of aristocratic wrath\nand indignation, which, he had no doubt, would speedily follow.\n\nLeaving matters in this extraordinary position in the house of Professor\nLockerby we shall shift the scene, for a moment, to the Countess\nDowager of Wistonbury's sitting apartment in Oxton Hall; and we shall\nchoose the moment when her favourite footman, Jacob Asterley, has\nentered her presence, after his return from a call at the post-office in\nthe neighbouring village; the time being the second day after the\noccurrence just previously related--namely, the despatch to Oxton Hall\nof Professor Lockerby's letter.\n\n'Well, Jacob, any letters for me to-day?' said the countess, on the\nentrance of that worthy official.\n\n'One, my lady, from Scotland,' replied the servant, deferentially, and,\nat the same time, opening the bag in which the letters were usually\ncarried to and from the post-house.\n\n'Ah! from the earl,' said the countess.\n\n'No, my lady, I rather think not. The address is not in his lordship's\nhandwriting.'\n\n'Oh! the good Professor Lockerby,' said the countess, contemplating for\na moment the address of the letter in question, which was now in her\nladyship's hands. 'I hope nothing unpleasant has occurred to my son.'\nAnd while she spoke, she hurriedly broke the seal, and, in the next\ninstant, was intently engaged in perusing the intelligence which it had\nsecured from the prying curiosity of parties whom it did not concern.\n\nIt would take a much abler pen than that now employed in tracing these\nlines, to convey anything like an adequate idea of the mingled\nexpression of amazement, indignation, and grief exhibited on the\ncountenance, and in every act and attitude of the proud Countess of\nWistonbury, on reading the story of her son's degradation. The flush of\nhaughty resentment was succeeded by the sudden paleness of despair; and\nin frequent alternation did these strong expressions of varied feeling\nflit across the fine countenance--still fine, although it had looked on\nfifty summers--of the heart-stricken mother, as she proceeded in her\nperusal of the fatal document. On completing the perusal, the countess\nthrew herself in silent distraction on a sofa, and, still holding the\nopen letter in her hand, sank into a maze of wild and wandering\nthoughts. These, however, seemed at length to concentrate in one\ndecisive and sudden resolution. Starting from the reclining posture into\nwhich she had thrown herself, she advanced towards the bell-pull, rung\nfuriously, and, when the servant entered to know what were her\ncommands--\n\n'Order the travelling carriage instantly, Jacob,' she said--'instantly,\ninstantly; and let four of my best horses be put in the harness. What do\nyou stare at, fool?' she added, irritated at the look of astonishment\nwhich the inexplicable violence of her manner had called into the\ncountenance of her trusty domestic. 'Do as you are ordered, directly.'\nThe man bowed and withdrew; and in pursuance of the commands he had\nreceived, proceeded to the stables.\n\n'Here's a start, Thomas!' he said, addressing a jolly-looking fellow,\nwho was busily employed in brushing up some harness; 'the travelling\ncarriage directly, and four of your best horses for my lady.'\n\n'Why, what the devil's the matter now?' replied Thomas, pausing in his\noperations; 'where's the old girl a-going to?'\n\n'Not knowing, can't say,' replied Jacob; 'but she's in a woundy fuss, I\nwarrant you. Never seed her in such a quandary in my life. Something's\nwrong somewhere, I guess.'\n\n'Well, well, all's one to me,' said Thomas, with philosophical\nindifference; 'but it looks like a long start, where-ever it may be to;\nso I'll get my traps in order.' And this duty was so expeditiously\nperformed, that, in less than fifteen minutes, the very handsome\ntravelling carriage of the Earl of Wistonbury, drawn by four spanking\nbays, flashed up to the door of Oxton Hall. In an instant after, it was\noccupied by the dowager countess, and in another, was rattling away for\nScotland, at the utmost speed of the noble animals by which it was\ndrawn.\n\nChanging here, once more, the scene of our story, we return to the house\nof Professor Lockerby. There matters continued in that ominous state of\nquiescence, that significant and portentous calm, that precedes the\nbursting of the storm. Between the professor and the young earl, not a\nword more had passed on the subject of the latter's extraordinary\ndeclaration. Neither had made the slightest subsequent allusion to it,\nbut continued their studies precisely as they had done before; although,\nperhaps, a degree of restraint--a consciousness of some point of\ndifference between them--might now be discerned in their correspondence.\nBoth, in short, seemed to have tacitly agreed to abide the result of the\nprofessor's letter to the countess, before taking any other step, or\nexpressing any other feeling, on the subject to which that letter\nrelated. The anticipated crisis which the professor and his noble pupil\nwere thus composedly awaiting, soon arrived. On the third day after that\nremarkable one on which the young Earl of Wistonbury had avowed the\nhumble daughter of an humble Scotch farmer to be his wife, a carriage\nand four, which, we need scarcely say, was the same we saw start from\nOxton Hall, drove furiously up to the door of Professor Lockerby. The\nhorses' flanks sent forth clouds of smoke; their mouths and\nfore-shoulders were covered with foam; and the carriage itself was\nalmost encased in mud. Everything, in short, told of a long and rapid\njourney. And it was so. Night and day, without one hour's intermission,\nhad that carriage prosecuted its journey. In an instant after, the\ncarriage stopped; its steps were down, and, bridling with high and lofty\nindignation, the Dowager Countess of Wistonbury descended, and, ere any\none of the professor's family were aware of her arrival, she had entered\nthe house, the door being accidentally open, and was calling loudly for\n'her boy.'\n\n'Where is my son?' she exclaimed, as she made her way into the interior\nof the house: 'where is the Earl of Wistonbury?'\n\nIn a moment after the Earl of Wistonbury, who had heard and instantly\nrecognized his mother's voice, was before her, and was about to rush\ninto her arms, when she haughtily thrust him back, saying--\n\n'Degraded, spiritless boy, dare not too approach me! You have blotted\nthe noblest, the proudest scutcheon of England. Where is Professor\nLockerby?'\n\nThe professor was by her side before she had completed the sentence,\nwhen, seeing her agitation--\n\n'My good lady,' he said, in his most persuasive tone, 'do allow me to\nentreat of you to be composed, and to have the honour of conducting you\nup stairs.'\n\n'Anywhere!--anywhere, professor!' exclaimed the countess; 'but, alas! go\nwhere I will, I cannot escape the misery of my own thoughts, nor the\ndisgrace which my unworthy son has brought upon my head.'\n\nWithout making any reply to this outburst of passionate feeling, the\nprofessor took the countess respectfully by the hand, and silently\nconducted her to his drawing-room. With stately step the countess\nentered, and walked slowly to the further end of the apartment; this\ngained, she turned round, and, when she had done so, a sight awaited her\nfor which she was but little prepared. This was her son and Jessy\nFlowerdew, kneeling side by side, and, by their attitude, eloquently\nimploring her forgiveness. It was just one of those sights best\ncalculated to work on the nobler nature of the Countess of Wistonbury,\nand to call up the finer feelings of her generous heart. For some\nseconds she looked at the kneeling pair in silent astonishment; her eye,\nhowever, chiefly fixed on the beauteous countenance of Jessy Flowerdew,\npale with terror and emotion, and wet with tears. Having gazed for some\ntime on this extraordinary sight, without betraying the slightest\nsymptom of the feelings beyond that of surprise, with which it had\ninspired her, the countess slowly advanced towards the kneeling couple.\nShe still, however, uttered no word, and discovered no emotion; but a\nsudden change had come over her proud spirit. That spirit was now laid,\nand its place occupied by all the generous impulses of her nature.\nKeeping her eye steadily fixed on the kneeling fair one before her, she\napproached her, paused a moment, extended her hand, placed it on the\nivory forehead of Jessy Flowerdew, gently laid back her rich auburn\nhair, and, as she did so, said, in a tremulous, but emphatic voice--\n\n'You _are_, indeed, a lovely girl! God bless you! Alfred, my son, rise,'\nshe added, in a low, but calm and solemn tone; 'I forgive you.' And she\nextended her hand towards him. The earl seized it, kissed it\naffectionately, and bathed it with his tears.\n\n'Rise, my lady--rise, my fair Countess of Wistonbury,' she now said, and\nherself aiding in the act she commanded, 'I acknowledge you as my\ndaughter, and we must now see to fitting you to the high station to\nwhich my son's favour has promoted you, and of which, I trust, you will\nprove as worthy in point of conduct as you assuredly already are in that\nof personal beauty. God bless you both! And may every happiness that the\nconjugal state affords, be yours! Professor,' she added, and now turning\nround to that gentleman, 'you will think this weakness--a mother's\nweakness--and perhaps it is so--but I would myself fain attribute it to\na more worthy feeling, and, if I know my own heart, it is so. But let\nthat pass. I _am_ reconciled to the step my son has taken, and\nreverently leave it to God, and fearlessly to man, to judge of the\nmotives by which I have been influenced. I trust they are such as to\nmerit the approbation of both.'\n\nSurprised, and greatly affected by the unexpected turn which matters had\ntaken, so contrary to what he had anticipated, the worthy professor had\nlistened to these expressions of the countess with averted head, and\nmaking the most ingenious use of the handkerchief which he held to his\nface that he could, to conceal the real purpose for which he employed\nit. When she had done--\n\n'Madam,' he said, with great agitation and confusion of manner, and\nstill busily plying the handkerchief in its pretended vocation--'Madam,\nI--I--I am surprised--much affected, I assure you--much affected, my\nlady--with this striking instance of what a noble and generous nature is\ncapable. I was by no means prepared for it. It does you infinite honour,\nmy lady--infinite honour; and will, I trust, in its result, be\nproductive of all that happiness to you which your magnanimous conduct\nso eminently deserves.'\n\n'I trust I have acted rightly, professor,' was the brief reply of the\ncountess, as she again turned to the young couple, who were now standing\non the floor beside her, 'I hope I have; and, if my heart does not\ndeceive me, I am sure I have.'\n\n'You are warranted, my lady, in the confidence you express in the\nuprightness, the generosity of your conduct on this very remarkable\noccasion--perfectly warranted,' replied the professor. 'It is an\nunexampled instance of greatness, of liberality of mind, and as such I\nmust always look on it.'\n\nThus, then, terminated this extraordinary scene. It was subsequently\narranged that the marriage of the earl should, in the meantime, be kept\nas secret as possible, and that the young countess should, in the\ninterim, be sent for a year or two to one of the most celebrated\nseminaries of female education in England, under an assumed name, and\nthat, when she should have acquired the attainments and the polish\nbefitting her high station, she should be produced to the world as the\nCountess of Wistonbury.\n\nActing upon this plan of proceedings, the same carriage that brought\ndown the earl's mother, bore away, on the following day, together with\nthat lady, the young earl and his bride; the latter, to commence her\neducational noviciate in England; the former, to while away the time as\nhe best could until that noviciate should expire, a period which he\nproposed to render less irksome by a tour on the continent.\n\nAbout two years after the occurrence of the events just related--it\nmight be more, perhaps nearly three--Oxton Hall presented a scene of\nprodigious confusion and bustle. Little carts of provender were daily\nseen making frequent visits to the house. Huge old grates, in deserted\nkitchens, that had not been in use for a century before, were cleared of\ntheir rubbish, and glowing with blazing fires, at which enormous roasts\nwere solemnly revolving. Menials were running to and fro in all\ndirections, and a crowd of powdered and richly-liveried lackeys bustled\nbackwards and forwards through the gorgeous apartments, loaded with\nsilver plate, and bearing huge baskets of wine. Everything at Oxton\nHall, in short, betokened preparations for a splendid f\u00eate--and such, in\ntruth, was the case. To this f\u00eate all the nobility and gentry, within a\ncircuit of ten to fifteen miles were invited; and such an affair it\npromised to be, altogether, as had not been seen at Oxton Hall since the\nmarriage of the last earl--a period of nearly thirty years. None of\nthose invited knew, or could guess, what was the particular reason for\nso extensive a merry-making. Its scale, they learned, was most\nmagnificent, and the invitations unprecedentedly numerous.\n\nThe whole affair was thus somewhat of a puzzle to the good people who\nwere to figure as guests at the impending f\u00eate; but they comforted\nthemselves with the reflection that they would know all about it by and\nby. In the meantime, the day appointed for the celebration of the\nproposed festival at Oxton Hall arrived; and, amongst the other\npreparations which more markedly characterized it, was the appearance of\nseveral long tables extended on the lawn in front of the house, and\nwhich were intended for the accommodation of the earl's tenantry, who\nwere also invited to share in the coming festivities. Towards the\nafternoon of the day alluded to, carriages and vehicles of all\ndescriptions, and of various degrees of elegance, were seen, in\nseemingly endless numbers, streaming along the spacious and\nwell-gravelled walks that led, by many a graceful curve, through the\nsurrounding lawn, to the noble portals of Oxton Hall. These, by turns,\ndrew up in front of the principal entrance to the house, and delivered\ntheir several cargoes of lords and ladies, knights and squires, all\nhonourable personages, and of high degree. An inferior description of\nequipages, again, and occupied by persons of a different class, sturdy\nyeomen and their wives and daughters, found ther way, or rather were\nguided as they came, to a different destination, but with no difference\nin the hospitality of their reception. All were alike welcome to Oxton\nHall on this auspicious day. By and by the hour of dinner came, and,\nwhen it did, it exhibited a splendid scene in the magnificent\ndining-room of the Earl of Wistonbury. In this dining-room were\nassembled a party of at least a hundred-and-fifty ladies and gentlemen,\nall in their best attire. Down the middle of the spacious apartment ran\na table of ample length and breadth, and capable of accommodating with\nease even the formidable array by which it was shortly to be\nsurrounded. On this spacious board glittered as much wealth, in the\nshape of silver plate, as would have bought a barony, while everything\naround showed that it was still but a small portion of the riches of its\nnoble owner. At the further end of the lordly hall, in an elevated\nrecess or interior balcony, were stationed a band of musicians, to\ncontribute the choicest specimens of the art to the hilarity of the\nevening. Altogether the scene was one of the most imposing that can well\nbe conceived, an effect which was not a little heightened by the antique\ncharacter of the noble apartment in which it was exhibited, one of whose\nmost striking features was a large oriel window, filled with the most\nbeautifully stained glass, which threw its subdued and sombre light on\nthe magnificent scene beneath. Hitherto the young earl had not been seen\nby any of the company; his mother, the countess-dowager, having\ndischarged the duties of hospitality in receiving the guests. Many were\nthe inquiries made for the absent lord of the mansion; but these were\nall answered evasively, although always concluded with the assurance\nthat he would appear in good time.\n\nSatisfied with this assurance, the subject was no further pressed at the\nmoment; but, as the dinner hour approached, and the earl had not yet\npresented himself, considerable curiosity and impatience began to be\nmanifested amongst the assembled guests. These feelings increased every\nmoment, and had attained their height, when the party found themselves\ncalled on to take their seats at table, and yet no earl had appeared.\nThe general surprise was further excited on its being observed that the\ncountess-dowager did not, as usual, take the chair at the head of the\ntable, as was expected, but placed herself on its right. The chair at\nthe foot of the table remained also yet unoccupied; and great was the\nwonder what all this could mean. It was now soon to be explained. Just\nas the party had taken their seats, a folding-door, at the further end\nof the hall, flew open, and the young Earl of Wistonbury entered,\nleading by the hand a young female of exceeding beauty, attired in a\ndress of the most dazzling splendour, over which was gracefully thrown a\nScottish plaid. Bowing slightly, but with a graceful and cordial\nexpression, and smiling affably as he advanced, the earl conducted his\nfair charge to the head of the table, where, after a pause of a few\nseconds, which he purposely made in order to afford his guests an\nopportunity of marking the extreme loveliness of the lady whom he had\nthus so unexpectedly introduced to them--an opportunity which was not\nthrown away, as was evident from the murmur of admiration that ran round\nthe brilliant assembly--the earl thus shortly addressed his wondering\nguests--\n\n'Permit me, my friends,' he said, 'to introduce to you the Countess of\nWistonbury!'\n\nA shout of applause from the gentlemen, and a waving of handkerchiefs\nby the ladies, hailed the pleasing and unexpected intelligence--an\nhomage whose duration and intensity was increased by the singularly\ngraceful manner with which it was received and acknowledged by her to\nwhom it was paid. Nothing could be more captivating than the modest,\nwinning sweetness of her smile, nothing more pleasing to behold than the\ngentle grace of her every motion. On all present the impression was that\nshe was a woman of birth, education, and high breeding, and nothing in\nthe part she subsequently acted tended in the slightest degree to affect\nthis idea. The young and lovely countess conducted herself throughout\nthe whole of this eventful evening, as she did throughout the remainder\nof her life, with the most perfect propriety; and thus evinced that the\npains taken to fit Jessy Flowerdew for the high station to which a\nsingular good fortune had called her, was very far from having been\ntaken in vain.\n\nAt the conclusion of the banquet, the earl entreated the indulgence of\nthe company for an absence for himself and the countess of a quarter of\nan hour. This being of course readily acquiesced in, the earl and his\nbeauteous young wife were seen, arm and arm, on the lawn, going towards\nthe tables at which his tenantry were enjoying his hospitality. Here he\nwent through precisely the same ceremony of introduction with that which\nwe have described as having taken place in the banquet-hall; and here it\nwas greeted with the same enthusiasm, and acknowledged by the countess\nwith the same grace and propriety. This proceeding over, the earl and\nhis young bride returned to their party, when one of the most joyous\nevenings followed that the banqueting-room of Oxton Hall had ever\nwitnessed. There is only now to add, that Jessy Flowerdew's subsequent\nconduct as Countess of Wistonbury proved her in every respect worthy of\nthe high place to which she had been elevated. A mildness and gentleness\nof disposition, and a winning modesty of demeanour, which all the wealth\nand state with which she was surrounded could not in the slightest\ndegree impair, distinguished her through life; and no less distinguished\nwas she by the generosity and benevolence of her nature, a nature which\nher change of destiny was wholly unable to pervert.\"\n\nSuch, then, good reader, is the history of the lady whose portrait, in\nwhich she appears habited in a Scottish plaid, adorns, with others, the\nwalls of the picture gallery of Oxton Hall, in Wiltshire.\n\n\n\n\nMIDSIDE MAGGY;\n\nOR,\n\nTHE BANNOCK O' TOLLISHILL.\n\n    \"Every bannock had its maik, but the bannock o' Tollishill.\"\n                                                _Scottish Proverb._\n\n\nBelike, gentle reader, thou hast often heard the proverb quoted above,\nthat \"Every bannock had its maik, but the bannock o' Tollishill.\" The\nsaying hath its origin in a romantic tradition of the Lammermoors, which\nI shall relate to thee. Tollishill is the name of a sheep-farm in\nBerwickshire, situated in the parish of Lauder. Formerly, it was divided\ninto three farms, which were occupied by different tenants; and, by way\nof distinguishing it from the others, that in which dwelt the subjects\nof our present story was generally called Midside, and our heroine\nobtained the appellation of Midside Maggy. Tollishill was the property\nof John, second Earl, and afterwards Duke of Lauderdale--a personage\nwhom I shall more than once, in these tales, have occasion to bring\nbefore mine readers, and whose character posterity hath small cause to\nhold in veneration. Yet it is a black character, indeed, in which there\nis not to be found one streak of sunshine; and the story of the \"Bannock\nof Tollishill\" referreth to such a streak in the history of John, the\nLord of Thirlestane.\n\nTime hath numbered somewhat more than a hundred and ninety years since\nThomas Hardie became tenant of the principal farm of Tollishill. Now,\nthat the reader may picture Thomas Hardie as he was, and as tradition\nhath described him, he or she must imagine a tall, strong, and\nfresh-coloured man of fifty; a few hairs of grey mingling with his brown\nlocks; a countenance expressive of much good nature and some\nintelligence; while a Lowland bonnet was drawn over his brow. The other\nparts of his dress were of coarse, grey, homespun cloth, manufactured in\nEarlston; and across his shoulders, in summer as well as in winter, he\nwore the mountain plaid. His principles assimilated to those held by the\nmen of the covenant; but Thomas, though a native of the hills, was not\nwithout the worldly prudence which is considered as being more\nimmediately the characteristic of the buying and selling children of\nsociety. His landlord was no favourer of the Covenant; and, though\nThomas wished well to the cause, he did not see the necessity for making\nhis laird, the Lord of Lauderdale, his enemy for its sake. He,\ntherefore, judged it wise to remain a neutral spectator of the religious\nand political struggles of the period.\n\nBut Thomas was a bachelor. Half a century had he been in the world, and\nthe eyes of no woman had had power to throw a spark into his heart. In\nhis single, solitary state, he was happy, or he thought himself happy;\nand that is much the same thing. But an accident occurred which led him\nfirst to believe, and eventually to feel, that he was but a solitary and\ncomfortless moorland farmer, toiling for he knew not what, and laying up\ntreasure he knew not for whom. Yea, and while others had their wives\nspinning, carding, knitting, and smiling before them, and their bairns\nrunning laughing and sporting round about them, he was but a poor\ndeserted creature, with nobody to care for, or to care for him. Every\nperson had some object to strive for and to make them strive but Thomas\nHardie; or, to use his own words, he was \"just in the situation o' a\ntewhit that has lost its mate--_te-wheet! te-wheet!_ it cried, flapping\nits wings impatiently and forlornly--and _te-wheet! te-wheet!_ answered\nvacant echo frae the dreary glens.\"\n\nThomas had been to Morpeth disposing of a part of his hirsels, and he\nhad found a much better market for them than he anticipated. He\nreturned, therefore, with a heavy purse, which generally hath a tendency\nto create a light and merry heart; and he arrived at Westruther, and\nwent into a hostel, where, three or four times in the year, he was in\nthe habit of spending a cheerful evening with his friends. He had called\nfor a quegh of the landlady's best, and he sat down at his ease with the\nliquor before him, for he had but a short way to travel. He also pulled\nout his tobacco-box and his pipe, and began to inhale the fumes of what,\nup to that period, was almost a forbidden weed. But we question much if\nthe royal book of James the Sixth of Scotland and First of England,\nwhich he published against the use of tobacco, ever found its way into\nthe Lammermoors, though the Indian weed did; therefore, Thomas Hardie\nsat enjoying his glass and his pipe, unconscious or regardless of the\nfulminations which he who was king in his boyhood, had published against\nthe latter. But he had not sat long, when a fair maiden, an acquaintance\nof \"mine hostess,\" entered the hostelry, and began to assist her in the\ncutting out or fashioning of a crimson kirtle. Her voice fell upon the\nears of Thomas like the \"music of sweet sounds.\" He had never heard a\nvoice before that not only fell softly on his ear, but left a lingering\nmurmur in his heart. She, too, was a young thing of not more than\neighteen. If ever hair might be called \"gowden,\" it was hers. It was a\nlight and shining bronze, where the prevalence of the golden hue gave a\ncolour to the whole. Her face was a thing of beauty, over which health\nspread its roseate hue, yet softly, as though the westling winds had\ncaused the leaves of the blushing rose to kiss her cheeks, and leave\ntheir delicate hues and impression behind them. She was of a middle\nstature, and her figure was such, although arrayed in homely garments,\nas would have commanded the worship of a connoisseur of grace and\nsymmetry. But beyond all that kindled a flame within the hitherto\nobdurate heart of Thomas, was the witching influence of her smile. For a\nfull hour he sat with his eyes fixed upon her; save at intervals, when\nhe withdrew them to look into the unwonted agitation of his own breast,\nand examine the cause.\n\n\"Amongst the daughters of women,\" thought he unto himself--for he had a\nsprinkling of the language of the age about him--\"none have I seen so\nbeautiful. Her cheeks bloom bonnier than the heather on Tollishill, and\nher bosom seems saft as the new-shorn fleece. Her smile is like a blink\no' sunshine, and would mak summer to those on whom it fell a' the year\nround.\"\n\nHe also discovered, for the first time, that \"Tollishill was a dull\nplace, especially in the winter season.\" When, therefore, the fair\ndamsel had arrayed the fashion of the kirtle and departed, without once\nhaving seemed to observe Thomas, he said unto the goodwife of the\nhostelry--\"And wha, noo, if it be a fair question, may that bonnie\nlassie be?\"\n\n\"She is indeed a bonnie lassie,\" answered the landlady, \"and a guid\nlassie, too; and I hae nae doot but, as ye are a single man, Maister\nHardie, yer question is fair enough. Her name is Margaret Lylestone, and\nshe is the only bairn o' a puir infirm widow that cam to live here some\ntwa or three years syne. They cam frae south owre some way, and I am\nsure they hae seen better days. We thocht at first that the auld woman\nhad been a Catholic; but I suppose that isna the case, though they\ncertainly are baith o' them strong Episcopawlians, and in nae way\nfavourable to the preachers or the word o' the Covenant; but I maun say\nfor Maggie, that she is a bonny, sweet-tempered, and obleegin\nlassie--though, puir thing, her mother has brocht her up in a wrang\nway.\"\n\nMany days had not passed ere Thomas Hardie, arrayed in his Sunday\nhabiliments, paid another visit to Westruther; and he cautiously asked\nof the goodwife of the hostel many questions concerning Margaret; and\nalthough she jeered him, and said that \"Maggy would ne'er think o' a\ngrey-haired carle like him,\" he brooded over the fond fancy; and\nalthough on this visit he saw her not, he returned to Tollishill,\nthinking of her as his bride. It was a difficult thing for a man of\nfifty, who had been the companion of solitude from his youth upwards,\nand who had lived in single blessedness amidst the silence of the hills,\nwithout feeling the workings of the heart, or being subjected to the\ninfluence of its passions--I say, it was indeed difficult for such a one\nto declare, in the ear of a blooming maiden of eighteen, the tale of his\nfirst affections. But an opportunity arrived which enabled him to\ndisembosom the burden that pressed upon his heart.\n\nIt has been mentioned that Margaret Lylestone and her mother were poor;\nand the latter, who had long been bowed down with infirmities, was\nsupported by the industry of her daughter. They had also a cow, which\nwas permitted to graze upon the hills without fee or reward; and, with\nthe milk which it produced, and the cheese they manufactured, together\nwith the poor earnings of Margaret, positive want was long kept from\nthem. But the old woman became more and more infirm--the hand of death\nseemed stretching over her. She required nourishment which Margaret\ncould not procure for her; and, that it might be procured--that her\nmother might live and not die--the fair maiden sent the cow to Kelso to\nbe sold, from whence the seller was to bring with him the restoratives\nthat her parent required.\n\nNow, it so was that Thomas Hardie, the tenant of Tollishill, was in\nKelso market when the cow of Widow Lylestone was offered for sale; and,\nas it possessed the characteristic marks of a good milcher, he inquired\nto whom it belonged. On being answered, he turned round for a few\nmoments, and stood thoughtful; but again turning to the individual who\nhad been intrusted to dispose of it, he inquired--\n\n\"And wherefore is she selling it?\"\n\n\"Really, Maister Hardie,\" replied the other, \"I could not positively\nsay, but I hae little doot it is for want--absolute necessity. The auld\nwoman's very frail and very ill--I hae to tak a' sort o' things oot to\nher the nicht frae the doctor's, after selling the cow, and it's no in\nthe power o' things that her dochter, industrious as she is, should be\nable to get them for her otherwise.\"\n\nThomas again turned aside, and drew his sleeve across his eyes. Having\ninquired the price sought for the cow, he handed the money to the\nseller, and gave the animal in charge to one of his herdsmen. He left\nthe market earlier than usual, and directed his servant that the cow\nshould be taken to Westruther.\n\nIt was drawing towards gloaming before Thomas approached the habitation\nof the widow; and, before he could summon courage to enter it for the\nfirst time, he sauntered for several minutes, backward and forward on\nthe moor, by the side of the Blackadder, which there silently wends its\nway, as a dull and simple burn, through the moss. He felt all the\nawkwardness of an old man struggling beneath the influence of a young\nfeeling. He thought of what he should say, how he should act, and how he\nwould be received. At length he had composed a short introductory and\nexplanatory speech which pleased him. He thought it contained both\nfeeling and delicacy (according to his notions of the latter) in their\nproper proportions, and after repeating it three or four times over by\nthe side of the Blackadder, he proceeded towards the cottage, still\nrepeating it to himself as he went. But, when he raised his hand and\nknocked at the door, his heart gave a similar knock upon his bosom, as\nthough it mimicked him; and every idea, every word of the introductory\nspeech which he had studied and repeated again and again, short though\nit was, was knocked from his memory. The door was opened by Margaret,\nwho invited him to enter. She was beautiful as when he first beheld\nher--he thought more beautiful--for she now spoke to him. Her mother sat\nin an arm-chair, by the side of the peat fire, and was supported by\npillows. He took off his bonnet, and performed an awkward but his best\nsalutation.\n\n\"I beg your pardon,\" said he, hesitatingly, \"for the liberty I have\ntaken in calling upon you. But--I was in Kelso the day--and\"----He\npaused, and turned his bonnet once or twice in his hands. \"And,\" he\nresumed, \"I observed, or rather, I should say, I learned that ye\nintended to sell your cow; but I also heard that ye was very ill,\nand\"----Here he made another pause. \"I say I heard that ye was very ill,\nand I thocht it would be a hardship for ye to part wi' crummie, and\nespecially at a time when ye are sure to stand maist in need o' every\nhelp. So I bought the cow--but, as I say, it would be a very great\nhardship for ye to be without the milk, and what the cheese may bring,\nat a time like this; and, therefore, I hae ordered her to be brocht back\nto ye, and ane o' my men will bring her hame presently. Never consider\nthe cow as mine, for a bachelor farmer like me can better afford to want\nthe siller, than ye can to want yer cow; and I micht hae spent it far\nmair foolishly, and wi' less satisfaction. Indeed, if ye only but think\nthat good I've dune, I'm mair than paid.\"\n\n\"Maister Hardie,\" said the widow, \"what have I, a stranger widow woman,\ndone to deserve this kindness at your hands? Or how is it in the power\no' words for me to thank ye? HE who provideth for the widow and the\nfatherless will not permit you to go unrewarded, though I cannot. O\nMargaret, hinny,\" added she, \"thank our benefactor as we ought to thank\nhim, for I cannot.\"\n\nFair Margaret's thanks were a flood of tears.\n\n\"Oh, dinna greet!\" said Thomas; \"I would ten times ower rather no hae\nbocht the cow, but hae lost the siller, than I would hae been the cause\no' a single tear rowin' doun yer bonny cheeks.\"\n\n\"O sir,\" answered the widow, \"but they are tears o' gratitude that\ndistress my bairn, and nae tears are mair precious.\"\n\nI might tell how Thomas sat down by the peat fire between the widow and\nher daughter, and how he took the hand of the latter, and entreated her\nto dry up her tears, saying that his chief happiness would be to be\nthought their friend, and to deserve their esteem. The cow was brought\nback to the widow's, and Thomas returned to Tollishill with his\nherdsman. But, from that night, he became almost a daily visitor at the\nhouse of Mrs. Lylestone. He provided whatever she required--all that was\nordered for her. He spoke not of love to Margaret, but he wooed her\nthrough his kindness to her mother. It was, perhaps, the most direct\navenue to her affections. Yet it was not because Thomas thought so that\nhe pursued this course, but because he wanted confidence to make his\nappeal in a manner more formal or direct.\n\nThe widow lingered many months; and all that lay within the power of\nhuman means he caused to be done for her, to restore her to health and\nstrength, or at least to smooth her dying pillow. But the last was all\nthat could be done. Where death spreadeth the shadow of his wing, there\nis no escape from sinking beneath the baneful influence of its shade.\nMrs. Lylestone, finding that the hour of her departure drew near, took\nthe hand of her benefactor, and when she had thanked him for all the\nkindness which he had shown towards her, she added--\n\n\"But, O sir, there is one thing that makes the hand of death heavy. When\nthe sod is cauld upon my breast, who will look after my puir orphan--my\nbonny faitherless and motherless Margaret? Where will she find a hame?\"\n\n\"O mem,\" said Thomas, \"if the like o' me durst say it, she needna hae\nfar to gang, to find a hame and a heart too. Would she only be mine, I\nwould be her protector--a' that I have should be hers.\"\n\nA gleam of joy brightened in the eye of the dying widow.\n\n\"Margaret!\" she exclaimed, faintly; and Margaret laid her face upon the\nbed, and wept. \"O my bairn! my puir bairn!\" continued her mother, \"shall\nI see ye protected and provided for before I am 'where the wicked cease\nfrom troubling and the weary are at rest,' which canna be lang noo?\"\n\nThomas groaned--tears glistened in his eyes--he held his breath in\nsuspense. The moment of trial, of condemnation or acquittal, of\nhappiness or misery, had arrived. With an eager impatience he waited to\nhear her answer. But Margaret's heart was prepared for his proposal. He\nhad first touched it with gratitude--he had obtained her esteem; and\nwhere these sentiments prevail in the bosom of a woman whose affections\nhave not been bestowed upon another, love is not far distant--if it be\nnot between them, and a part of both.\n\n\"Did ever I disobey you, mother?\" sobbed Margaret, raising her parent's\nhand to her lips.\n\n\"No, my bairn, no!\" answered the widow. And raising herself in the bed,\nshe took her daughter's hand and placed it in the hand of Thomas Hardie.\n\n\"Oh!\" said he, \"is this possible? Does my bonny Margaret really consent\nto make me the happiest man on earth? Shall I hae a gem at Tollishill\nthat I wadna exchange for a monarch's diadem?\"\n\nIt is sufficient to say that the young and lovely Margaret Lylestone\nbecame Mrs. Hardie of Tollishill; or, as she was generally called,\n\"_Midside Maggie_.\" Her mother died within three months after their\nmarriage, but died in peace, having, as she said, \"seen her dear bairn\nblessed wi' a leal and a kind guidman, and ane that was weel to do.\"\n\nFor two years after their marriage, and not a happier couple than Thomas\nand Midside Maggie was to be found on all the long Lammermoors, in the\nMerse, nor yet in the broad Lothians. They saw the broom and the heather\nbloom in their season, and they heard the mavis sing before their\ndwelling; yea, they beheld the snow falling on the mountains, and the\ndrift sweeping down the glens; but while the former delighted, the\nlatter harmed them not, and from all they drew mutual joy and happiness.\nThomas said that \"Maggy was a matchless wife;\" and she that \"he was a\nkind, kind husband.\"\n\nBut the third winter was one of terror among the hills. It was near the\nnew year; the snow began to fall on a Saturday, and when the following\nFriday came, the storm had not ceased. It was accompanied by frost and a\nfierce wind, and the drift swept and whirled like awful pillars of\nalabaster, down the hills, and along the glens--\n\n                \"Sweeping the flocks and herds.\"\n\nFearful was the wrath of the tempest on the Lammermoors. Many farmers\nsuffered severely, but none more severely than Thomas Hardie of\nTollishill. Hundreds of his sheep had perished in a single night. He was\nbrought from prosperity to the brink of adversity.\n\nBut another winter came round. It commenced with a severity scarce\ninferior to that which had preceded it, and again scores of his sheep\nwere buried in the snow. But February had not passed, and scarce had the\nsun entered what is represented as the astronomical sign of the _two\nfish_, in the heavens, when the genial influence of spring fell with\nalmost summer warmth upon the earth. During the night the dews came\nheavily on the ground, and the sun sucked it up in a vapour. But the\nherbage grew rapidly, and the flocks ate of it greedily, and licked the\ndew ere the sun rose to dry it up. It brought the murrain amongst them;\nthey died by hundreds; and those that even fattened, but did not die, no\nman would purchase; or, if purchased, it was only upon the understanding\nthat the money should be returned if the animals were found unsound.\nThese misfortunes were too much for Thomas Hardie. Within two years he\nfound himself a ruined man. But he grieved not for the loss of his\nflocks, nor yet for his own sake, but for that of his fair young wife,\nwhom he loved as the apple of his eye. Many, when they heard of his\nmisfortunes, said that they were sorry for bonny Midside Maggy.\n\nBut, worst of all, the rent-day of Thomas Hardie drew near; and for the\nfirst time since he had held a farm, he was unable to meet his landlord\nwith his money in his hand. Margaret beheld the agony of his spirit, and\nshe knew its cause. She put on her Sunday hood and kirtle; and\nprofessing to her husband that she wished to go to Lauder, she took her\nway to Thirlestane Castle, the residence of their proud landlord, before\nwhom every tenant in arrear trembled. With a shaking hand she knocked at\nthe hall door, and after much perseverance and entreaty, was admitted\ninto the presence of the haughty earl. She curtsied low before him.\n\n\"Well, what want ye, my bonny lass?\" said Lauderdale, eyeing her\nsignificantly.\n\n\"May it please yer lordship,\" replied Margaret, \"I am the wife o' yer\ntenant, Thomas Hardie o' Tollishill; an' a guid tenant he has been to\nyer lordship for twenty years and mair, as yer lordship maun weel ken.\"\n\n\"He has been my tenant for more than twenty years, say ye?\" interrupted\nLauderdale; \"and ye say ye are his wife: why, looking on thy bonny face,\nI should say that the heather hasna bloomed twenty times on the knowes\no' Tollishill since thy mother bore thee. Yet ye say ye are his wife!\nBeshrew me, but Thomas Hardie is a man o' taste. Arena ye his daughter?\"\n\n\"No, my lord; his first, his only, an' his lawfu' wife--an' I would only\nsay, that to ye an' yer faither before ye, for mair than twenty years,\nhe has paid his rent regularly an' faithfully; but the seasons hae\nvisited us sairly, very sairly, for twa years successively, my lord, an'\nthe drift has destroyed, an' the rot rooted oot oor flocks, sae that we\nare hardly able to haud up oor heads amang oor neebors, and to meet yer\nlordship at yer rent-day is oot o' oor power; therefore hae I come to ye\nto implore ye, that we may hae time to gather oor feet, an' to gie yer\nlordship an' every man his due, when it is in oor power.\"\n\n\"Hear me, guidwife,\" rejoined the earl; \"were I to listen to such\nstories as yours, I might have every farmer's wife on my estates coming\nwhimpering and whinging, till I was left to shake a purse with naething\nin't, and allowing others the benefit o' my lands. But it is not every\nday that a face like yours comes in the shape o' sorrow before me; and,\nfor ae kiss o' your cherry mou', (and ye may take my compliments to your\nauld man for his taste,) ye shall have a discharge for your half-year's\nrent, and see if that may set your husband on his feet again.\"\n\n\"Na, yer lordship, na!\" replied Margaret; \"it would ill become ony woman\nin my situation in life, an' especially a married ane, to be daffin with\nsic as yer lordship. I am the wife o' Thomas Hardie, wha is a guid\nguidman to me, an' I cam here this day to entreat ye to deal kindly wi'\nhim in the day o' his misfortune.\"\n\n\"Troth,\" replied Lauderdale--who could feel the force of virtue in\nothers, though he did not always practise it in his own person--\"I hae\nheard o' the blossom o' Tollishill before, an' a bonny flower ye are to\nblossom in an auld man's bower; but I find ye modest as ye are bonny,\nan' upon one condition will I grant yer request. Ye hae tauld me o' yer\nhirsels being buried wi' the drift, an' that the snaw has covered the\nMay primrose on Leader braes; now it is Martinmas, an' if in June ye\nbring me a snowball, not only shall ye be quit o' yer back rent, but ye\nshall sit free in Tollishill till Martinmas next. But see that in June\nye bring me the snowball or the rent.\"\n\nMargaret made her obeisance before the earl, and, thanking him,\nwithdrew. But she feared the coming of June; for to raise the rent even\nthen she well knew would be a thing impossible, and she thought also it\nwould be equally so to preserve a snow-ball beneath the melting sun of\nJune. Though young, she had too much prudence and honesty to keep a\nsecret from her husband; it was her maxim, and it was a good one, that\n\"there ought to be no secrets between a man and his wife, which the one\nwould conceal from the other.\" She therefore told him of her journey to\nThirlestane, and of all that had passed between her and the earl. Thomas\nkissed her cheek, and called her his \"bonny, artless Maggy;\" but he had\nno more hope of seeing a snowball in June than she had, and he said,\n\"the bargain was like the bargain o' a crafty Lauderdale.\"\n\nAgain the winter storms howled upon the Lammermoors, and the snow lay\ndeep upon the hills. Thomas and his herdsmen were busied in exertions to\npreserve the remainder of his flocks; but, one day, when the westling\nwinds breathed with a thawing influence upon the snow-clad hills,\nMargaret went forth to where there was a small, deep, and shadowed\nravine by the side of the Leader. In it the rivulet formed a pool, and\nseemed to sleep, and there the grey trout loved to lie at ease; for a\nhigh dark rock, over which the brushwood grew, overhung it, and the\nrays of the sun fell not upon it. In the rock, and near the side of the\nstream, was a deep cavity, and Margaret formed a snowball on the brae\ntop, and she rolled it slowly down into the shadowed glen, till it\nattained the magnitude of an avalanche in miniature. She trode upon it,\nand pressed it firmly together, till it obtained almost the hardness and\nconsistency of ice. She rolled it far into the cavity, and blocked up\nthe mouth of the aperture, so that neither light nor air might penetrate\nthe strange coffer in which she had deposited the equally strange rent\nof Tollishill. Verily, common as ice-houses are in our day, let not\nMidside Maggy be deprived of the merit of their invention.\n\nI have said that it was her maxim to keep no secret from her husband;\nbut, as it is said there is no rule without an exception, even so it was\nin the case of Margaret, and there was one secret which she communicated\nnot to Thomas, and that was--the secret of the hidden snowball.\n\nBut June came, and Thomas Hardie was a sorrowful man. He had in no\nmeasure overcome the calamities of former seasons, and he was still\nunprepared with his rent. Margaret shared not his sorrow, but strove to\ncheer him, and said--\n\n\"We shall hae a snawba' in June, though I climb to the top o' Cheviot\nfor it.\"\n\n\"O my bonny lassie,\" replied he--and he could see the summit of Cheviot\nfrom his farm--\"dinna deceive yersel' wi' what could only be words\nspoken in jest; but, at ony rate, I perceive there has been nae snaw on\nCheviot for a month past.\"\n\nNow, not a week had passed, but Margaret had visited the aperture in the\nravine, where the snowball was concealed, not through idle curiosity, to\nperceive whether it had melted away, but more effectually to stop up\nevery crevice that might have been made in the materials with which she\nhad blocked up the mouth of the cavity.\n\nBut the third day of the dreadful month had not passed, when a messenger\narrived at Tollishill from Thirlestane with the abrupt mandate--\"_June\nhas come!_\"\n\n\"And we shall be at Thirlestane the morn,\" answered Margaret.\n\n\"O my doo,\" said Thomas, \"what nonsense are ye talking!--that isna like\nye, Margaret; I'll be in Greenlaw Jail the morn; and oor bits o' things\nin the hoose, and oor flocks, will be seized by the harpies o' the\nlaw--and the only thing that distresses me is, what is to come o' you\nhinny.\"\n\n\"Dinna dree the death ye'll never dee,\" said Margaret affectionately;\n\"we shall see, if we be spared, what the morn will bring.\"\n\n\"The fortitude o' yer mind, Margaret,\" said Thomas, taking her hand; and\nhe intended to have said more, to have finished a sentence in admiration\nof her worth, but his heart filled, and he was silent.\n\nOn the following morning, Margaret said unto him--\n\n\"Now, Thomas, if ye are ready, we'll gang to Thirlestane. It is aye waur\nto expect or think o' an evil than to face it.\"\n\n\"Margaret, dear,\" said he, \"I canna comprehend ye--wherefore should I\nthrust my head into the lion's den? It will soon enough seek me in my\npath.\"\n\nNevertheless, she said unto him, \"Come,\" and bade him be of good heart;\nand he rose and accompanied her. But she conducted him to the deep\nravine, where the waters seem to sleep and no sunbeam ever falls; and,\nas she removed the earth and the stones, with which she had blocked up\nthe mouth of the cavity in the rock, he stood wondering. She entered the\naperture, and rolled forth the firm mass of snow, which was yet too\nlarge to be lifted by hands. When Thomas saw this, he smiled and wept\nat the same instant, and he pressed his wife's cheek to his bosom, and\nsaid--\n\n\"Great has been the care o' my poor Margaret; but it is o' no avail;\nfor, though ye hae proved mair than a match for the seasons, the\nproposal was but a jest o' Lauderdale.\"\n\n\"What is a man but his word?\" replied Margaret; \"and him a nobleman\ntoo.\"\n\n\"Nobility are but men,\" answered Thomas, \"and seldom better men than\nither folk. Believe me, if we were to gang afore him wi' a snawba' in\noor hands, we should only get lauched at for our pains.\"\n\n\"It was his ain agreement,\" added she; \"and, at ony rate, we can be\nnaething the waur for seeing if he will abide by it.\"\n\nBreaking the snowy mass, she rolled up a portion of it in a napkin, and\nthey went towards Thirlestane together; though often did Thomas stop by\nthe way and say--\n\n\"Margaret, dear, I'm perfectly ashamed to gang upon this business; as\nsure as I am standing here, as I have tauld ye, we will only get\noorselves lauched at.\"\n\n\"I would rather be lauched at,\" added she, \"than despised for breaking\nmy word; and, if oor laird break his noo, wha wadna despise him?\"\n\nHarmonious as their wedded life had hitherto been, there was what might\nwell nigh be called bickerings between them on the road; for Thomas felt\nor believed that she was leading him on a fool's errand. But they\narrived at the castle of Thirlestane, and were ushered into the mansion\nof its proud lord.\n\n\"Ha!\" said the earl, as they entered, \"bonny Midside Maggy and her auld\nguidman! Well, what bring ye?--the rents o' Tollishill, or their\nequivalent?\" Thomas looked at his young wife, for he saw nothing to give\nhim hope on the countenance of Lauderdale, and he thought that he\npronounced the word \"_equivalent_\" with a sneer.\n\n\"I bring ye snaw in June, my lord,\" replied Margaret, \"agreeably to the\nterms o' yer bargain; and I'm sorry, for your sake and oors, that it\nhasna yet been in oor power to bring gowd instead o't.\"\n\nLoud laughed the earl as Margaret unrolled the huge snowball before him;\nand Thomas thought unto himself, \"I said how it would be.\" But\nLauderdale, calling for his writing materials, sat down and wrote, and\nhe placed in the hands of Thomas a discharge, not only for his back\nrent, but for all that should otherwise be due at the ensuing Martinmas.\n\nThomas Hardie bowed and bowed again before the earl, low and yet lower,\nawkwardly and still more awkwardly, and he endeavoured to thank him, but\nhis tongue faltered in the performance of its office. He could have\ntaken his hand in his and wrung it fervently, leaving his fingers to\nexpress what his tongue could not; but his laird was an earl, and there\nwas a necessary distance to be observed between an earl and a Lammermoor\nfarmer.\n\n\"Thank not me, goodman,\" said Lauderdale, \"but thank the modesty and\ndiscretion o' yer winsome wife.\"\n\nMargaret was silent; but gratitude for the kindness which the earl had\nshown unto her husband and herself took deep root in her heart.\nGratitude, indeed, formed the predominating principle in her character,\nand fitted her even for acts of heroism.\n\nThe unexpected and unwonted generosity of the earl had enabled Thomas\nHardie to overcome the losses with which the fury of the seasons had\noverwhelmed him, and he prospered beyond any farmer on the hills. But,\nwhile he prospered, the Earl of Lauderdale, in his turn, was overtaken\nby adversity. The stormy times of the civil wars raged, and it is well\nknown with what devotedness Lauderdale followed the fortunes of the\nking. When the Commonwealth began, he was made prisoner, conveyed to\nLondon, and confined in the Tower. There, nine years of captivity crept\nslowly and gloomily over him; but they neither taught him mercy to\nothers nor to moderate his ambition, as was manifested when power and\nprosperity again cast their beams upon him. But he now lingered in the\nTower, without prospect or hope of release, living upon the bare\nsustenance of a prisoner, while his tenants dwelt on his estates, and\ndid as they pleased with his rents, as though they should not again\nbehold the face of a landlord.\n\nBut Midside Maggy grieved for the fate of him whose generosity had\nbrought prosperity, such as they had never known before, to herself and\nto her husband; and, in the fulness of her gratitude, she was ever\nplanning schemes for his deliverance; and she urged upon her husband\nthat it was their duty to attempt to deliver their benefactor from\ncaptivity, as he had delivered them from the iron grasp of ruin, when\nmisfortune lay heavily on them. Now, as duly as the rent-day came, from\nthe Martinmas to which the snowball had been his discharge, Thomas\nHardie faithfully and punctually locked away his rent to the last\nfarthing, that he might deliver it into the hands of his laird, should\nhe again be permitted to claim his own; but he saw not in what way they\ncould attempt his deliverance, as his wife proposed.\n\n\"Thomas,\" said she, \"there are ten lang years o' rent due, and we hae\nthe siller locked away. It is o' nae use to us, for it isna oors; but it\nmay be o' use to him. It would enable him to fare better in his prison,\nand maybe to put a handfu' o' gowd into the hands o' his keepers, and\nthereby to escape abroad, and it wad furnish him wi' the means o' living\nwhen he was abroad. Remember his kindness to us, and think that there is\nnae sin equal to the sin o' ingratitude.\"\n\n\"But,\" added Thomas, \"in what way could we get the money to him? for, if\nwe were to send it, it would never reach him, and, as a prisoner, he\nwouldna be allooed to receive it.\"\n\n\"Let us tak it to him oorsels, then,\" said Margaret.\n\n\"Tak it oorsels!\" exclaimed Thomas, in amazement, \"a' the way to London!\nIt is oot o' the question a'thegither, Margaret. We wad be robbed o'\nevery plack before we got half-way; or, if we were even there, hoo, in\na' the world, do ye think we could get it to him, or that we would be\nallooed to see him?\"\n\n\"Leave that to me,\" was her reply; \"only say ye will gang, and a' that\nshall be accomplished. There is nae obstacle in the way but the want o'\nyer consent. But the debt, and the ingratitude o' it thegither, hang\nheavy upon my heart.\"\n\nThomas at length yielded to the importunities of his wife, and agreed\nthat they should make a pilgrimage to London, to pay his rent to his\ncaptive laird; though how they were to carry the gold in safety, through\nan unsettled country, a distance of more than three hundred miles, was a\ndifficulty he could not overcome. But Margaret removed his fears; she\ndesired him to count out the gold, and place it before her; and when he\nhad done so, she went to the meal-tub and took out a quantity of pease\nand of barley meal mixed, sufficient to knead a goodly fadge or bannock;\nand, when she had kneaded it, and rolled it out, she took the golden\npieces and pressed them into the paste of the embryo bannock, and again\nshe doubled it together, and again rolled it out, and kneaded into it\nthe remainder of the gold. She then fashioned it into a thick bannock,\nand placing it on the hearth, covered it with the red ashes of the\npeats.\n\nThomas sat marvelling, as the formation of the singular purse proceeded,\nand when he beheld the operation completed, and the bannock placed upon\nthe hearth to bake, he only exclaimed--\"Weel, woman's ingenuity dings\na'! I wadna hae thocht o' the like o' that, had I lived a thoosand\nyears! O Margaret, hinny, but ye are a strange ane.\"\n\n\"Hoots,\" replied she, \"I'm sure ye micht easily hae imagined that it was\nthe safest plan we could hae thocht upon to carry the siller in safety;\nfor I am sure there isna a thief between the Tweed and Lon'on toun, that\nwould covet or carry awa a bear bannock.\"\n\n\"Troth, my doo, and I believe ye're richt,\" replied Thomas; \"but wha\ncould hae thocht o' sic an expedient? Sure there never was a bannock\nbaked like the bannock o' Tollishill.\"\n\nOn the third day after this, an old man and a fair lad, before the sun\nhad yet risen, were observed crossing the English Border. They\nalternately carried a wallet across their shoulders, which contained a\nfew articles of apparel and a bannock. They were dressed as shepherds,\nand passengers turned and gazed on them as they passed along; for the\nbeauty of the youth's countenance excited their admiration. Never had\nLowland bonnet covered so fair a brow. The elder stranger was Thomas\nHardie, and the youth none other than his Midside Maggy.\n\nI will not follow them through the stages of their long and weary\njourney, nor dwell upon the perils and adventures they encountered by\nthe way. But, on the third week after they had left Tollishill, and when\nthey were beyond the town called Stevenage, and almost within sight of\nthe metropolis, they were met by an elderly military-looking man, who,\nstruck with the lovely countenance of the seeming youth, their dress,\nand way-worn appearance, accosted them, saying--\"Good morrow, strangers;\nye seem to have travelled far. Is this fair youth your son, old man?\"\n\n\"He is a gay sib freend,\" answered Thomas.\n\n\"And whence come ye?\" continued the stranger.\n\n\"Frae Leader Haughs, on the bonny Borders o' the north countrie,\"\nreplied Margaret.\n\n\"And whence go ye?\" resumed the other.\n\n\"First tell me wha ye may be that are sae inquisitive,\" interrupted\nThomas, in a tone which betrayed something like impatience.\n\n\"Some call me George Monk,\" replied the stranger mildly, \"others, Honest\nGeorge. I am a general in the Parliamentary army.\" Thomas reverentially\nraised his hand to his bonnet, and bowed his head.\n\n\"Then pardon me, sir,\" added Margaret, \"and if ye indeed be the guid and\ngallant general, sma' offence will ye tak at onything that may be said\namiss by a country laddie. We are tenants o' the Lord o' Lauderdale,\nwhom ye now keep in captivity; and, though we mayna think as he thinks,\nyet we never faund him but a guid landlord; and little guid, in my\nopinion, it can do ony body to keep him, as he has been noo for nine\nyears, caged up like a bird. Therefore, though oor ain business that has\nbrocht us up to London should fail, I winna regret the journey, since it\nhas afforded me an opportunity o' seein yer Excellency, and soliciting\nyer interest, which maun be pooerfu' in behalf o' oor laird, and that ye\nwould release him frae his prison, and, if he michtna remain in this\ncountrie, obtain permission for him to gang abroad.\"\n\n\"Ye plead fairly and honestly for yer laird, fair youth,\" returned the\ngeneral; \"yet, though he is no man to be trusted, I needs say he hath\nhad his portion of captivity measured out abundantly; and, since ye have\nminded me of him, ere a week go round I will think of what may be done\nfor Lauderdale.\" Other questions were asked and answered--some truly,\nand some evasively; and Thomas and Margaret blessing Honest George in\ntheir hearts, went on their way rejoicing at having met him.\n\nOn arriving in London, she laid aside the shepherd's garb in which she\nhad journeyed, and resumed her wonted apparel. On the second day after\ntheir arrival, she went out upon Tower-hill, dressed as a Scottish\npeasant girl, with a basket on her arm; and in the basket were a few\nballads, and the bannock of Tollishill. She affected silliness, and,\nacting the part of a wandering minstrel, went singing her ballads\ntowards the gate of the Tower. Thomas followed her at a distance. Her\nappearance interested the guard; and as she stood singing before the\ngate--\"What want ye, pretty face?\" inquired the officer of the guard.\n\"Your alms, if you please,\" said she, smiling innocently, \"and to sing a\nbonny Scotch sang to the Laird o' Lauderdale.\"\n\nThe officer and the sentinels laughed; and, after she had sang them\nanother song or two, she was permitted to enter the gate, and a soldier\npointed out to her the room in which Lauderdale was confined. On\narriving before the grated windows of his prison, she raised her eyes\ntowards them, and began to sing \"_Leader Haughs_.\" The wild, sweet\nmelody of his native land, drew Lauderdale to the windows of his\nprison-house, and in the countenance of the minstrel he remembered the\nlovely features of Midside Maggy. He requested permission of the keeper\nthat she should be admitted to his presence; and his request was\ncomplied with.\n\n\"Bless thee, sweet face!\" said the earl, as she was admitted into his\nprison; \"and you have not forgotten the snowball in June?\" And he took\nher hand to raise it to his lips.\n\n\"Hooly, hooly, my guid lord,\" said she, withdrawing her hand; \"my\nfingers were made for nae sic purpose--Thomas Hardie is here\"--and she\nlaid her hand upon her fair bosom--\"though now standing withoot the yett\no' the Tower.\" Lauderdale again wondered, and, with a look of mingled\ncuriosity and confusion, inquired--\"Wherefore do ye come--and why do ye\nseek me?\" \"I brocht ye a snaw-ba' before,\" said she, \"for yer rent--I\nbring ye a bannock noo.\" And she took the bannock from the basket and\nplaced it before him.\n\n\"Woman,\" added he, \"are ye really as demented as I thocht ye but feigned\nto be, when ye sang before the window.\"\n\n\"The proof o' the bannock,\" replied Margaret, \"will be in the breakin'\no't.\"\n\n\"Then, goodwife, it will not be easily proved,\" said he--and he took the\nbannock, and, with some difficulty, broke it over his knee; but, when he\nbeheld the golden coins that were kneaded through it, for the first,\nperhaps the last and only time in his existence, the Earl of Lauderdale\nburst into tears and exclaimed--\"Well, every bannock has its maik, but\nthe bannock o' Tollishill! Yet, kind as ye hae been, the gold is useless\nto ane that groans in hopeless captivity.\"\n\n\"Yours has been a long captivity,\" said Margaret; \"but it is not\nhopeless; and, if honest General Monk is to be trusted, from what he\ntauld me not three days by-gane, before a week gae roond, ye will be at\nliberty to go abroad, and there the bannock o' Tollishill may be o'\nuse.\"\n\nThe wonder of Lauderdale increased, and he replied--\"Monk will keep his\nword--but what mean ye of him?\"\n\nAnd she related to him the interview they had had with the general by\nthe way. Lauderdale took her hand, a ray of hope and joy spread over his\nface, and he added--\n\n\"Never shall ye rue the bakin' o' the bannock, if auld times come back\nagain.\"\n\nMargaret left the tower, singing as she had entered it, and joined her\nhusband, whom she found leaning over the railing around the moat, and\nanxiously waiting her return. They spent a few days more in London, to\nrest and to gaze upon its wonders, and again set out upon their journey\nto Tollishill. General Monk remembered his promise; within a week, the\nEarl of Lauderdale was liberated, with permission to go abroad, and\nthere, as Margaret had intimated, he found the bannock of Tollishill of\nservice.\n\nA few more years passed round, during which old Thomas Hardie still\nprospered; but, during those years, the Commonwealth came to an end, the\nking was recalled, and with him, as one of his chief favourites,\nreturned the Earl of Lauderdale. And, when he arrived in Scotland,\nclothed with power, whatever else he forgot, he remembered the bannock\nof Tollishill. Arrayed in what might have passed as royal state, and\nattended by fifty of his followers, he rode to the dwelling of Thomas\nHardie and Midside Maggy; and when they came forth to meet him, he\ndismounted and drew forth a costly silver girdle of strange workmanship,\nand fastened it round her jimp waist, saying--\"Wear this, for now it is\nmy turn to be grateful, and for your husband's life, and your life, and\nthe life of the generation after ye\" (for they had children), \"ye shall\nsit rent free on the lands ye now farm. For, truly, every bannock had\nits maik but the bannock o' Tollishill.\"\n\nThomas and Margaret felt their hearts too full to express their thanks;\nand ere they could speak, the earl, mounting his horse, rode towards\nThirlestane; and his followers, waving their bonnets, shouted--\"Long\nlive Midside Maggy, queen of Tollishill.\"\n\nSuch is the story of \"The Bannock o' Tollishill;\" and it is only\nnecessary to add, for the information of the curious, that I believe the\nsilver girdle may be seen until this day, in the neighbourhood of\nTollishill, and in the possession of a descendant of Midside Maggy, to\nwhom it was given.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n[TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:\n\n1. On page 28, last line, page 74, footnote, and page 155, last line,\nmissing text has been restored from scans atThe Internet Archive.\n\nA few missing letters or words at the ends of lines have been restored\nfrom the same source.\n\n2. The French word \"mouill\u00e9\" appears, apparently randomly, both with\nand without the acute accent. Since the accent is clearly required,\nit has been restored where necessary.\n\n3. On page 2, antepenultimate line, \"bewrayed\" has been corrected to\n\"betrayed\".\n\n4. In this Latin-1 version, the only substitution effected is that the\noe-diphthong is indicated by [oe].]","title":"Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland, Volume 01","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":91571}