{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_32956/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_32956","id":"gutenberg_32956","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/32956","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Short Stories","Scottish Borders (Scotland) -- Fiction"],"text":"Produced by David Clarke, Sunflower and the Online\nDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nWilson's\n\nTales of the Borders\n\nAND OF SCOTLAND.\n\nHISTORICAL, TRADITIONARY, & IMAGINATIVE.\n\nWITH A GLOSSARY.\n\nREVISED BY\nALEXANDER LEIGHTON,\nONE OF THE ORIGINAL EDITORS AND CONTRIBUTORS.\n\nVOL. IX.\n\nLONDON:\nWALTER SCOTT, 14 PATERNOSTER SQUARE.\nAND NEWCASTLE-UPON-TYNE.\n1885.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS.\n\n\n                                                     Page.\n\n  THE CRIPPLE; OR, EBENEZER THE DISOWNED\n  (_John Mackay Wilson_)                                1\n\n  THE LEGEND OF FAIR HELEN OF KIRCONNEL\n  (_Alexander Leighton_)                               23\n\n  TOM DUNCAN'S YARN (_Oliver Richardson_)              55\n\n  THE PROFESSOR'S TALES (_Professor Thomas Gillespie_)\n\n    THE THREE BRETHREN                                 87\n\n    THE MISTAKE RECTIFIED                              97\n\n    DURA DEN; OR, SECOND THOUGHTS ARE BEST            106\n\n  THE LAIRD OF LUCKY'S HOW (_Alexander Campbell_)     119\n\n  THE ABDUCTION (_Alexander Leighton_)                151\n\n  SIR PATRICK HUME: A TALE OF THE HOUSE OF MARCHMONT\n  (_John Mackay Wilson_)                              167\n\n  THE SERJEANT'S TALES (_John Howell_)\n\n    THE PACKMAN'S JOURNEY TO LONDON                   178\n\n  CHARLES LAWSON (_John Mackay Wilson_)               210\n\n  BON GAULTIER'S TALES (_Theodore Martin_)\n\n    MRS. HUMPHREY GREENWOOD'S TEA-PARTY               217\n\n  THE RECLUSE OF THE HEBRIDES (_Walter Logan_)        230\n\n  ELLEN ARUNDEL (_Walter Logan_)                      238\n\n  CHATELARD (_Alexander Campbell_)                    243\n\n  CHRISTIE OF THE CLEEK (_Alexander Leighton_)        275\n\n\n\n\nWILSON'S\n\nTALES OF THE BORDERS,\n\nAND OF SCOTLAND.\n\n\n\n\nTHE CRIPPLE; OR, EBENEZER THE DISOWNED.\n\n\nIt is proverbial to say, with reference to particular constitutions or\nhabits of body, that May is a _trying_ month, and we have known what it\nis to experience its trials in the sense signified. With our\ngrandmothers too, yea, and with our grandfathers also, May was held to\nbe an unlucky month. Nevertheless, it is a lovely, it is a beautiful\nmonth, and the forerunner of the most healthy of the twelve. It is like\na timid maiden blushing into womanhood, wooing and yet shrinking from\nthe admiration which her beauty compels. The buds, the blossoms, the\nyoung leaves, the tender flowers, the glittering dew-drops, and the song\nof birds, burst from the grasp of winter as if the God of nature\nwhispered in the sunbeams--\"Let there be life!\" But it is in the morning\nonly, and before the business of the world summons us to its mechanical\nand artificial realities, that the beauties of May can be felt in all\ntheir freshness. We read of the glories of Eden, and that the earth was\ncursed because of man's transgression; yet, when we look abroad upon the\nglowing landscape, above us, and around us, and behold the pure heavens\nlike a sea of music floating over us, and hear the earth answer it back\nin varied melody, while mountain, wood, and dale, seem dreaming in the\nsound, and stealing into loveliness, we almost wonder that a bad man\nshould exist in the midst of a world that is still so beautiful, and\nwhere every object around him is a representative of the wisdom, the\ngoodness, the mercy, the purity, and the omnipotence of his Creator.\nThere is a language in the very wild-flowers among our feet that\nbreathes a lesson of virtue. We can appreciate the feeling with which\nthe poet beheld\n\n  \"The _last_ rose of summer left blooming alone;\"\n\nbut in the firstlings of the spring, the primrose, the lily, and their\nearly train, there is an appeal that passes beyond our senses. They are\nlike the lispings and the smiles of infancy--lowly preachers, emblems of\nour own immortality, and we love them like living things. They speak to\nus of childhood and the scenes of youth, and _memory_ dwells in their\nvery fragrance. Yes, May is a beautiful month--it is a month of fair\nsights and of sweet sounds. To it belongs the lowly primrose blushing by\nthe brae-side in congregated beauty, with here and there a cowslip\nbending over them like a lover among the flowers; the lily hanging its\nhead by the brook that reflects its image, like a bride at the altar, as\nif conscious of its own loveliness; the hardy daisy on the green sward,\nlike a proud man struggling in penury with the storms of fate. Now, too,\nthe blossoms on a thousand trees unfold their rainbow hues; the tender\nleaves seem instinct with life, and expand to the sunbeams; and the\nbright fields, like an emerald sea, wave their first undulations to the\nbreeze. The lark pours down a flood of melody on the nest of its mate,\nand the linnet trills a lay of love to its partner from the yellow\nfurze. The chaffinch chants in the hedge its sweet but unvaried _line of\nmusic_; the thrush hymns his bold roundelay; and the blackbird swells\nthe chorus; while the bird of spring sends its voice from the glens,\nlike a wandering echo lost between love and sadness; and the swallow,\nnewly returned from warmer climes or its winter sleep,\n\n  \"Twitters from the straw-built shed.\"\n\nThe insect tribe leap into being, countless in numbers and matchless in\nlivery, and their low hum swims like the embodiment of a dream in the\nair. The May-fly invites the angler to the river, while the minnow\ngambols in the brook; the young salmon sports and sparkles in the\nstream, and the grey trout glides slowly beneath the shadow of a rock in\nthe deep pool. To enjoy for a single hour in a May morning the luxuries\nwhich nature spreads around--to wander in its fields and in its\nwoods--to feel ourselves a part of God's glad creation--to _feel_ the\ngowan under our feet, and health circulating through our veins with the\nrefreshing breeze, is a recipe worth all in the Materia Medica.\n\nNow, it was before sunrise on such a morning in May as I have described,\nthat a traveller left the Black Bull in Wooler, and proceeded to the\nCheviots. He took his route by way of Earle and Langleeford; and, at the\nlatter place, leaving the long and beautiful glen, began to ascend the\nmountain. On the cairn, which is perhaps about five hundred yards from\nwhat is called the extreme summit of the mountain, he met an old and\nintelligent shepherd, from whom he heard many tales, the legends of the\nmountains--and amongst others, the following story:--\n\nNear the banks of one of the romantic streams which take their rise\namong the Cheviots, stood a small and pleasant, and what might be termed\nrespectable or genteel-looking building. It stood like the home of\nsolitude, excluded by mountains from the world. Beneath it, the rivulet\nwandered over its rugged bed; to the east rose Cheviot, the giant of the\nhills; to the west, lesser mountains reared their fantastic forms,\nthinly studded here and there with dwarf alders, which the birds of\nheaven had planted, and their progeny had nestled in their branches; to\nthe north and the south stretched a long and secluded glen, where beauty\nblushed in the arms of wildness--and thick woods, where the young fir\nand the oak of the ancient forest grew together, flourished beneath the\nshelter of the hills. Fertility also smiled by the sides of the rivulet,\nthough the rising and setting sun threw the shadows of barrenness over\nit. Around the cottage stood a clump of solitary firs, and behind it an\nenclosure of alders, twisted together, sheltered a garden from the\nstorms that swept down the hills.\n\nNow, many years ago, a stranger woman, who brought with her a female\ndomestic and a male infant, became the occupant of this house among the\nhills. She lived more luxuriously than the sheep-farmers in the\nneighbourhood, and her accent was not that of the Borders. She was\nbetween forty and fifty years of age, and her stature and strength were\nbeyond the ordinary stature and strength of women. Her manners were\nrepulsive, and her bearing haughty; but it seemed the haughtiness of a\nweak and uneducated mind. Her few neighbours, simple though they were,\nand little as they saw or knew of the world, its inhabitants and its\nmanners, perceived that the stranger who had come amongst them had not\nbeen habituated to the affluence or easy circumstances with which she\nwas then surrounded. The child also was hard-favoured, and of a\ndisagreeable countenance; his back was strangely deformed; his feet were\ndistorted, and his limbs of unequal length. No one could look upon the\nchild without a feeling of compassion, save the woman who was his\nmother, his nurse, or his keeper (for none knew in what relation she\nstood to him), and she treated him as a persecutor, who hated his sight,\nand was weary of his existence.\n\nShe gave her name as Mrs Baird; and, as the child grew up, she generally\nin derision called him \"_AEsop_,\" or, in hatred, \"the little monster!\"\nbut the woman-servant called him Ebenezer, though she treated him with a\ndegree of harshness only less brutal than she whom he began to call\nmother. We shall, therefore, in his history mention him by the name of\nEbenezer Baird. As he grew in years, the disagreeable expression of his\ncountenance became stronger, his deformity and lameness increased, and\nthe treatment he had experienced added to both.\n\nWhen nine years of age, he was sent to a boarding-school about twelve\nmiles distant. Here a new series of persecutions awaited him. Until the\nday of his entering the school, he was almost ignorant that there was an\nalphabet. He knew not a letter. He had seen one or two books, but he\nknew not their use: he had never seen any one look upon them; he\nregarded them merely as he did a picture--a piece of useless furniture,\nor a plaything. Lame as he was, he had climbed the steep and the\ndripping precipice for the eggs of the water-ouzel, sought among the\ncrags for the young of the gorgeous kingfisher, or climbed the tallest\ntrees in quest of the crested wrens, which chirped and fluttered in\ninvisible swarms among the branches.[A] The birds were to him\ncompanions; he wished to rear their young, that they might love him, for\nthere was a lack of something in his heart--he knew not what it was--but\nit was the void of being beloved, of being regarded. It is said that\nnature abhors a vacuum, and so did the heart of Ebenezer. He knew not\nwhat name to give it, but he longed for something that would show a\nliking for him, and to which he could show a liking in return. The heart\nis wicked, but it is not unsocial--its affections wither in\nsolitariness. When he strolled forth on these rambles about the glen,\nhaving asked the permission of his mother or keeper (call her what you\nwill) before he went, \"Go, imp! AEsop!\" she was wont to exclaim, \"and I\nshall pray that you may break your neck before you return.\" There were\nno farmers' or shepherds' children within several miles: he had seen\nsome of them, and when they had seen him, they had laughed at his\ndeformity--they had imitated his lameness, and contorted their\ncountenances into a caricatured resemblance of his. Such were poor\nEbenezer's acquirements, and such his acquaintance with human nature,\nwhen he entered the boarding-school. A primer was put into his hands.\n\"What must I do with it?\" thought Ebenezer. He beheld the rod of\ncorrection in the hands of the teacher, and he trembled--for his\nmisshapen shoulders were familiar with such an instrument. He heard\nothers read, he saw them write; and he feared, wondered, and trembled\nthe more. He thought that he would be called upon to do the same, and he\nknew he could not. He had no idea of _learning_--he had never heard of\nsuch a thing. He thought that he must do as he saw others doing at once,\nand he cast many troubled looks at the lord of a hundred boys. When the\nname of \"Ebenezer Baird\" was called out, he burst into tears, he sobbed,\nterror overwhelmed him. But when the teacher approached him kindly, took\nhim from his seat, placed him between his knees, patted his head, and\ndesired him to speak after him, the heart of the little cripple was\nassured, and more than assured; it was the first time he had experienced\nkindness, and he could have fallen on the ground and hugged the knees of\nhis master. The teacher, indeed, found Ebenezer the most ignorant\nscholar he had ever met with, but he was no tyrant of the birch, though\nto his pupils\n\n  \"A man severe he was, and stern to view;\"\n\nand though he had all the manners and austerity of the old school about\nhim, he did not lay his head upon the pillow with his arm tired by the\nincessant use of the ferule. He was touched with the simplicity and the\nextreme ignorance of his new boarder, and he felt also for his lameness\nand deformity. Thrice he went over the alphabet with his pupil,\ncommencing, \"_Big Aw_--_Little Aw_,\" and having got over _b_, he told\nhim to remember that _c_ was like a half-moon. \"Ye'll aye mind _c_\nagain,\" added he; \"think ye _see_ the moon.\" Thus they went on to _g_,\nand he asked him what the carters said to their horses when they wished\nthem to go faster; but this Ebenezer could not tell--carts and horses\nwere sights that he had seen as objects of wonder. They are but seldom\nseen amongst the hills now, and in those days they were almost unknown.\nGetting over _h_, he strove to impress _i_ upon the memory of his pupil,\nby touching the solitary grey orbit in his countenance (for Ebenezer had\nbut one), and asking him what he called it. \"My _e'e_,\" answered\nEbenezer.\n\n\"No, sir, you must not say your _e'e_, but your _eye_--mind that; and\nthat letter is _I_.\"\n\nThe teacher went on, showing him that he could not forget round O, and\ncrooked S; and in truth, after his first lesson, Ebenezer was master of\nthese two letters. And, afterwards, when the teacher, in trying him\npromiscuously through the alphabet, would inquire, \"What letter is\nthis?\"--\"I no ken,\" the cripple would reply; \"but I'm sure it's no O,\nand it's no S.\" Within a week he was master of the six-and-twenty\nmystical symbols, with the exception of four--and those four were _b_\nand _d_, _p_ and _q_. Ebenezer could not for three months be brought to\ndistinguish the _b_ from the _d_, nor the _p_ from the _q_; but he had\nnever even heard that he had a right hand and a left until he came to\nthe school--and how could it be expected?\n\nScarce, however, had he mastered the alphabet, until the faculties of\nthe deformed began to expand. He now both understood and felt what it\nwas to learn. He passed from class to class with a rapidity that\nastonished his teacher. He could not join in the boisterous sports of\nhis schoolfellows, and while they were engaged in their pastime, he\nsought solitude, and his task accompanied him. He possessed strong\nnatural talents, and his infirmities gave them the assistance of\nindustry. His teacher noted these things in the cripple, and he was\ngratified with them; but he hesitated to express his feelings openly,\nlest the charge of partiality should be brought against him. Ebenezer,\nhowever, had entered the academy as the butt of his schoolfellows--they\nmocked, they mimicked, they tormented, they despised, or affected to\ndespise him; and his talents and progress, instead of abating their\npersecutions, augmented them. His teacher was afraid to show him more\nkindness than he showed to others; and his schoolfellows gloried in\nannoying the cripple--they persecuted, they shunned, they hated him more\nthan even his mother did. He began to hate the world, for he had found\nnone that would love him. His teacher was the only human being that had\never whispered to him words of praise or of kindness, and that had\nalways been in cold, guarded, and measured terms.\n\nBefore he was eighteen, he had acquired all the knowledge that his\nteacher could impart, and he returned to the cottage among the\nmountains. There, however, he was again subjected to a persecution more\nbarbarous than that which he had met with from his schoolfellows. Mrs\nBaird mocked, insulted, and drove him from her presence; and her\ndomestic showed him neither kindness nor respect. In stature, he\nscarcely exceeded five feet; and his body was feeble as well as\ndeformed. The cruelty with which he had been treated had given an\nasperity to his temper, and made him almost a hater of the human race;\nand these feelings had lent their character to his countenance, marking\nits naturally harsh expression with suspicion and melancholy.\n\nHe was about five-and-twenty when the pangs and the terrors of death\nfell upon her whom he regarded as his parent. She died--as a sinner\ndies--with insulted eternity frowning to receive her. A few minutes\nbefore her death, she desired the cripple to approach her bedside. She\nfixed her closing eyes, which affection had never lighted, upon his. She\ninformed him that he was not her son.\n\n\"Oh, tell me, then, whose son I am! Who are my parents?\" he exclaimed,\neagerly. \"Speak! speak!\"\n\n\"Your parents!\" she muttered; and remorse and ignorance held her\ndeparting soul in their grasp. She struggled; she again continued: \"Your\nparents! no, Ebenezer, no! I dare not name them! I have sworn--I have\nsworn! and a death-bed is no time to break an oath!\"\n\n\"Speak! speak! Tell me, as you hope for heaven!\" cried the cripple, with\nhis thin, bony fingers grasping the wrists of the dying woman.\n\n\"Monster! monster!\" she screamed, wildly, and in terror, \"leave\nme--leave me! You are provided for--open that chest--the chest--the\nchest!\"\n\nEbenezer loosed his grasp; he sprang towards a strong chest which stood\nin the room. \"The keys! the keys!\" he exclaimed, wildly; and again\nhurrying to the bed, he violently pulled a bunch of keys from beneath\nher pillow. But while he applied them to the chest, the herald of death\nrattled in the throat of its victim; and, with one agonising throe and a\ndeep groan, her spirit escaped, and her body lay a corpse upon the bed.\n\nHe opened the chest, and in it he found securities, which settled upon\nhim, under the name of Ebenezer Baird, five thousand pounds. But there\nwas nothing which threw light on his parentage--nothing to inform who he\nwas, or why he was there.\n\nThe body of her who had never shed a tear over him he accompanied to the\ngrave. But now a deeper gloom fell upon him. He met but few men, and the\nfew he met shunned him, for there was a wildness and a bitterness in his\nwords--a railing against the world--which they wished not to hear. He\nfancied, too, that they despised him--that their eyes were ever\nexamining the form of his deformities; and he returned their glance with\na scowl, and their words with the accents of hatred. Even as he passed\nthe solitary farmhouse, the younger children fled in terror, and the\nelder laughed, or pointed towards him the finger of curiosity. All these\nthings fell upon the heart of the cripple, and turned the human kindness\nof his bosom into gall. His companions became the solitude of the\nmountains, and the silence of the woods. They heard his bitter\nsoliloquies without reviling him, or echo answered him in tones of\nsympathy more mournful than his own. He sought a thing that he might\nlove, that might unlock his prisoned heart, or give life to its blighted\nfeelings. He loved the very primrose, because it was a thing of beauty,\nand shrank not from his deformity as man did. To him it gave forth its\nsweetness, and its leaves withered not at his touch; and he bent and\nkissed the flower that smiled upon him whom his kind avoided. He courted\nthe very storms of winter, for they shunned him not, but spent their\nfury on his person, unconscious of its form. The only living thing that\nregarded him, or that had ever evinced affection towards him, was a dog,\nof the mastiff kind, which ever followed at his side, licked his hand,\nand received its food from it. And on this living thing all the\naffections that his heart ever felt were expended. He loved it as a\ncompanion, a friend, and protector; and he knew it was not\nungrateful--it never avoided him; but, when mockery or insult was\noffered to its master, it growled, and looked in his face, as if asking\npermission to punish the offender.\n\nSuch was the life that he had passed until he was between thirty and\nforty years of age. Still he continued his solitary rambles, having a\nfeeling for everything around him but man. Man only was his\npersecutor--man only despised him. His own kind and his own kindred had\nshut him out from them and disowned him--his sight had been hateful to\nthem, and his form loathsome. He avoided the very sun, for it revealed\nhis shadow; but he wandered in rapture, gazing on the midnight heavens,\ncalling the stars by name, while his soul was lifted up with their\nglory, and his deformity lost and overshadowed in the depth of their\nmagnificence. He loved the flowers of day, the song of morning birds,\nand the wildness or beauty of the landscape; but these dwindled, and\ndrew not forth his soul as did the awful gorgeousness of night, with its\nten thousand worlds lighted up, burning, sparkling, glimmering in\nimmensity--the gems that studded the throne of the Eternal. While others\nslept, the deformed wandered on the mountains, holding communion with\nthe heavens.\n\nAbout the period we refer to, a gay party came upon a visit to a\ngentleman whose mansion was situated about three miles from the cottage\nof the cripple. As they rode out, they frequently passed him in his\nwanderings. And when they did so, some turned to gaze on him with a look\nof prying curiosity, others laughed and called to their companions--and\nthe indignation of Ebenezer was excited, and the frown grew black upon\nhis face.\n\nHe was wandering in a wood in the glen, visiting his favourite\nwild-flowers (for he had many that he visited daily, and each was\nfamiliar to him as the face of man to man--he rejoiced when they budded,\nblossomed, and laughed in their summer joy, and he grieved when they\nwithered and died away), when a scream of distress burst upon his ear.\nHis faithful mastiff started, and answered to the sound. He hurried from\nthe wood to whence the sound proceeded as rapidly as his lameness would\nadmit. The mastiff followed by his side, and, by its signs of\nimpatience, seemed eager to increase its speed, though it would not\nforsake him. The cries of distress continued, and became louder. On\nemerging from the wood, he perceived a young lady rushing wildly towards\nit, and behind her, within ten yards, followed an infuriated bull. A few\nmoments more, and she must have fallen its victim. With an eager howl,\nthe dog sprang from the side of its master, and stood between the lady\nand her pursuer. Ebenezer forgot his lameness and the feebleness of his\nframe, and he hastened at his utmost speed to the rescue of a human\nbeing. Even at that moment a glow of delight passed through his heart,\nthat the despised cripple would save the life of a fellow-mortal--of one\nof the race that shunned him. Ere he approached, the lady had fallen,\nexhausted and in terror, on the ground. The mastiff kept the enraged\nanimal at bay, and, with a strength such as he had never before\nexhibited, Ebenezer raised the lady in his arms, and bore her to the\nwood. He placed her against a tree: the stream passed by within a few\nyards, and he brought water in the palms of his hands, and knelt over\nher, to bathe her temples and her fair brow. Her brow was indeed fair,\nand her face beautiful beyond all that he had looked upon. Her golden\nhair in wavy ringlets fell upon her shoulders--but her deep blue eyes\nwere closed. Her years did not appear to be more than twenty.\n\n\"Beautiful!--beautiful!\" exclaimed the cripple, as he dropped the water\non her face, and gazed on it as he spoke--\"it is wondrous beautiful! But\nshe will open her eyes--she will turn from me as doth her race!--as from\nthe animal that pursued her!--yet, sure she is beautiful!\" and again, as\nhe spoke, Ebenezer sighed.\n\nThe fair being recovered--she raised her eyes--she gazed on his face,\nand turned not away from it. She expressed no false horror on beholding\nhis countenance--no affected revulsion at the sight of his deformity;\nbut she looked upon him with gratitude--she thanked him with tears. The\ncripple started--his heart burned. To be gazed on with kindness, to be\nthanked, and with tears, and by one so fair, so young, so beautiful, was\nto him so strange, so new, he half doubted the reality of the scene\nbefore him. Before the kindness and gratitude that beamed from her eyes,\nthe misanthropy that had frozen up his bosom began to dissolve, and the\ngloom on his features died away, as a vapour before the face of the\nmorning sun. New thoughts fired his imagination--new feelings transfixed\nhis heart. Her smile fell like a sunbeam on his soul, where light had\nnever before dawned; her accents of gratitude, from the moment they were\ndelivered, became the music of his memory. He found an object on the\nearth that he could love--or shall we say that he _did_ love; for he\nfelt as though already her existence were mysteriously linked to his. We\nare no believers in what is termed _love at first sight_. Some\nromance-writers hold it up as an established doctrine, and love-sick\nboys and moping girls will make oath to the creed. But there never was\nlove at first sight that a week's perseverance could not wear away. It\nholds no intercourse with the heart, but is a mere _fancy_ of the eye;\nas a man would fancy a horse, a house, or a picture, which he desires to\npurchase. Love is not the offspring of an hour or a day, nor is it the\n_ignis fatuus_ which plays about the brain, and disturbs the sleep of\nthe youth and the maiden in their teens. It slowly steals and dawns upon\nthe heart, as day imperceptibly creeps over the earth, first with the\ntinged cloud--the grey and the clearer dawn--the approaching, the\nrising, and the risen sun--blending into each other a brighter and a\nbrighter shade; but each indistinguishable in their progress and\nblending, as the motion of the pointers on a watch, which move\nunobserved as time flies, and we mark not the silent progress of light\ntill it envelop us in its majesty. Such is the progress of pure, holy,\nand enduring love. It springs not from mere sight, but its radiance\ngrows with esteem; it is the whisper of sympathy, unity of feeling, and\nmutual reverence, which increases with a knowledge of each other, until\nbut one pulse seems to throb in two bosoms. The feelings which now\nswelled in the bosom of Ebenezer Baird were not the true and only love\nwhich springs from esteem, but they were akin to it. For though the\nbeauty of the fair being he had rescued had struck his eye, it was not\nher beauty that melted the misanthropy of his heart, but the tear of\ngratitude, the voice of thanks, the glance that turned not away from\nhim, the smile--the first that woman had bestowed on him--that entered\nhis soul. They came from the heart, and they spoke to the heart.\n\nShe informed him that her name was Maria Bradbury, and that she was one\nof the party then on a visit to the gentleman in his neighbourhood. He\noffered to accompany her to the house, and she accepted his offer. But\nit was necessary to pass near the spot where he had rescued her from the\nfury of the enraged bull. As they drew towards the side of the wood,\nthey perceived that the bull was gone, but the noble mastiff, the\nfriend, companion, and defender of the cripple, lay dead before them.\nEbenezer wrung his hands, he mourned over his faithful guardian.\n\n\"Friend! poor Friend!\" he cried (the name of the mastiff was Friend),\n\"hast thou, too, left me? Thou, of all the things that lived, alone\ndidst love thy master! Pardon me, lady, pardon an outcast; but until\nthis hour I have never experienced friendship from man nor kindness from\nwoman. The human race have treated me as a thing that belonged not to\nthe same family with themselves; they have persecuted or mocked me, and\nI have hated them. Start not--hatred is an alien to my soul--it was not\nborn there, it was forced upon it--but I hate not you--no! no! You have\nspoken kindly to me, you have smiled on me!--the despised, the disowned\nEbenezer will remember you. That poor dog alone, of all living things,\nshowed affection for me. But he died in a good cause! Poor Friend! poor\nFriend!--where shall I find a companion now?\" and the tears of the\ncripple ran down his cheeks as he spoke.\n\nMaria wept also, partly for the fate of the noble animal that had died\nin her deliverance, and partly from the sorrow of her companion; for\nthere is a sympathy in tears.\n\n\"Ha! you weep!\" cried the cripple; \"you weep for poor Friend and for me.\nBless thee--bless thee, fair one! they are the first that were ever shed\nfor my sake! I thought there was not a tear on earth for me.\"\n\nHe accompanied her to the lodge of the mansion where she was then\nresiding, and there he left her, though she invited him to accompany\nher, that he might also receive the congratulations of her friends.\n\nShe related to them her deliverance. \"Ha! little Ebenezer turned a\nhero!\" cried one; \"Ebenezer the cripple become a knight-errant!\" said\nanother. But they resolved to visit him in a body, and return him their\nthanks.\n\nBut the soul of the deformed was now changed, and his countenance,\nthough still melancholy, had lost its asperity. His days became a dream,\nhis existence a wish. For the first time he entertained the hope of\nhappiness; it was vain, romantic, perhaps we might say absurd, but he\ncherished it.\n\nMaria spoke much of the courage, the humanity, the seeming loneliness,\nand the knowledge of the deformed, to her friends; and their\nentertainer, with his entire party of visiters, with but one exception,\na few days afterwards, proceeded to the cottage of Ebenezer, to thank\nhim for his intrepidity. The exception we have alluded to was a Lady\nHelen Dorrington, a woman of a proud and haughty temper, and whose\npersonal attractions, if she ever possessed any, were now disfigured by\nthe attacks of a violent temper, and the _crow-feet_ and the _wrinkles_\nwhich threescore years imprint on the fairest countenance. She excused\nherself by saying, that the sight of deformed people affected her.\nAmongst the party who visited the cripple was her son, Francis\nDorrington, a youth of two-and-twenty, who was haughty, fiery, and\nimpetuous as his mother. He sought the hand of Maria Bradbury, and he\nnow walked by her side.\n\nEbenezer received them coldly; amongst them were some who were wont to\nmock him as they passed, and he now believed that they had come to\ngratify curiosity, by gazing on his person as on a wild animal. But,\nwhen he saw the smile upon Maria's lips, the benign expression of her\nglance, and her hand held forth to greet him, his coldness vanished, and\njoy, like a flash of sunshine, lighted up his features. Yet he liked not\nthe impatient scowl with which Francis Dorrington regarded her attention\ntowards him, nor the contempt which moved visibly on his lip, when she\nlistened delighted to the words of the despised cripple. He seemed to\nact as though her eyes should be fixed on him alone--her words addressed\nonly to him. Jealousy entered the soul of the deformed; and shall we say\nthat the same feeling was entertained by the gay and the haughty\nDorrington? It was. He felt that, insignificant as the outward\nappearance of the cripple was, his soul was that of an intellectual\ngiant, before the exuberance of whose power the party were awed, and\nMaria lost in admiration. His tones were musical as his figure was\nunsightly, and his knowledge universal as his person was diminutive. He\ndiscoursed with a poet's tongue on the beauty of the surrounding\nscenery; he defined the botany and geology of the mountains. He traced\neffect to cause, and both to their Creator. The party marvelled while\nthe deformed spoke; and he repelled the scowl and contempt of his rival\nwith sarcasm that scathed like passing lightning. These things produced\nfeelings of jealousy also in the breast of Francis Dorrington; though\nfrom Maria Bradbury he had never received one smile of encouragement. On\ntheir taking leave, the entertainer of the party invited Ebenezer to his\nhouse, but the latter refused; he feared to mingle with society, for oft\nas he had associated with man, he had been rendered their sport--the\nthing they persecuted--the butt of their irony.\n\nFor many days the cripple met, or rather sought, Maria in his solitary\nrambles; for she, too, loved the solitude of the mountains or the\nsilence of the woods, which is broken only by the plaintive note of the\nwood-pigeon, the _chirm_ of the linnet, the song of the thrush, the\ntwitter of the chaffinch, or the distant stroke of the woodman, lending\nsilence a charm. She had become familiar with his deformity, and as it\ngrew less singular to her eyes, his voice became sweeter to her ears.\nTheir conversation turned on many things--there was wisdom in his words,\nand she listened to him as a pupil to a preceptor. His feelings deepened\nwith their interviews, his hopes brightened, and felicity seemed dawning\nbefore him. As hope kindled, he acquired confidence. They were walking\ntogether, he had pointed out the beauties and explained the properties\nof the wild-flowers on their path, he had dwelt on the virtues of the\nhumblest weed, when he stopped short, and gazing in her face--\"Maria!\"\nhe added, \"I have loved these flowers--I have cherished those simple\nweeds, because they shunned me not--they shrank not from me, as did the\ncreatures of the human race--they spread their beauties before me--they\ndenied me not their sweetness. You only have I met with among the\nchildren of Adam, who persecuted me not with ridicule, or who insulted\nnot my deformity with the vulgar gaze of curiosity. Who I am I know\nnot--from whence I was brought amongst these hills I cannot tell; I am a\nthing which the world has laughed at, and of which my parents were\nashamed. But my wants have been few. I have gold to purchase flattery,\nif I desired it--to buy tongues to tell me I am not deformed; but I\ndespise them. My soul partakes not of my body's infirmities--it has\nsought a spirit to love, that would love it in return. Maria, has it\nfound one?\"\n\nMaria was startled--she endeavoured to speak, but her tongue\nfaltered--tears gathered in her eyes, and her looks bespoke pity and\nastonishment.\n\n\"Fool! fool!\" exclaimed the cripple, \"I have been deceived! Maria\n_pities_ me!--_only pities me_! Hate me, Maria--despise me as does the\nworld. I can bear hatred--I can endure scorn--I can repel them!--but\n_pity_ consumes me!--and _pity_ from you! Fool! fool!\" he added,\n\"wherefore dreamed I there was one that would look with love on deformed\nEbenezer? Farewell, Maria! farewell!--remember, but do not pity me!\" and\nhe hurried from her side.\n\nShe would have detained him--she would have told him that she reverenced\nhim--that she esteemed him; but he hastened away, and she felt also that\nshe _pitied_ him--and _love_ and _pity_ can never dwell in the same\nbreast for the same object. Maria stood and wept.\n\nEbenezer returned to his cottage; but the hope which he had cherished,\nthe dream which he had fed, died reluctantly. He accused himself for\nacting precipitately--he believed he had taken the tear of affection for\npity. His heart was at war with itself. Day after day he revisited the\nmountainside, and the path in the wood where they had met; but Maria\nwandered there no longer. His feelings, his impatience, his incertitude,\nrose superior to the ridicule of man; he resolved to visit the mansion\nof his neighbour, where Maria and her friends were residing. The\ndinner-bell was ringing as he approached the house; but he knew little\nof the etiquette of the world, and respected not its forms. The owner of\nthe mansion welcomed him with the right hand of cordiality, for his\ndiscourse in the cottage had charmed him; others expressed welcome, for\nsome who before had mocked now respected him; and Maria took his hand\nwith a look of joy and her wonted sweetness. The heart of Ebenezer felt\nassured. Francis Dorrington alone frowned, and rose not to welcome him.\n\nThe dinner-bell again rang; the Lady Helen had not arrived, and dinner\nwas delayed for her, but she came not. They proceeded to the\ndining-room. Ebenezer offered his arm to Maria, and she accepted it.\nFrancis Dorrington muttered angry words between his teeth. The dinner\npassed--the dessert was placed upon the table--Lady Helen entered the\nroom--she prayed to be excused for her delay--her host rose to introduce\nher to Ebenezer.\n\n\"Ebenezer!--the deformed!\" she exclaimed, in a tone of terror, and,\ndashing her hands before her eyes, as he rose before her, she fell back\nin hysterics.\n\n\"Turn the monster from the house!\" cried Francis Dorrington, springing\nforward; \"my mother cannot endure the sight of such.\"\n\n\"Whom call ye monster, young man?\" said Ebenezer, angrily.\n\n\"You, wretch!\" replied Dorrington, raising his hand, and striking the\ncripple to the floor.\n\n\"Shame! shame!\" exclaimed the company.\n\n\"Coward!\" cried Maria, starting from her seat.\n\nThe cripple, with a rapidity that seemed impossible, sprang to his\nfeet--he gasped, he trembled, every joint shook, rage boiled in his\nveins--he glanced at his insulter, who attempted to repeat the blow--he\nuttered a yell of vengeance, he clutched a dessert-knife from the table,\nand within a moment it was plunged in the body of the man who had\ninjured him.\n\nA scream of horror burst from the company. Ebenezer, with the reeking\nknife in his grasp, stood trembling from rage, not from remorse. But he\noffered not to repeat the blow. A half-consciousness of what he had done\nseemed to stay his hand. The sudden scream of the party aroused the Lady\nHelen from her real or affected fit. She beheld her son bleeding on the\nfloor--she saw the vengeful knife in the hands of the cripple. She\nscreamed more wildly than before--she wrung her hands!\n\n\"Monster!--murderer!\" she exclaimed, \"he has slain--_he has slain his\nbrother_!\"\n\n\"_My brother!_\" shouted Ebenezer, still grasping the knife in his hand.\n\"Woman--woman! mother--mother!--who am I? Answer me--who are you?\" and\nhe sprang forward, and held her by the arm. \"Tell me,\" he continued,\n\"what mean ye--what mean ye? My _brother_--do ye say my _brother_? Art\nthou my _mother_? Have I a _mother_? Speak--speak!\" and he grasped her\narm more fiercely.\n\n\"Monster!\" she repeated, \"offspring of my shame!--away--away! _He is thy\nbrother!_ I have shunned thee, wretch, I have disowned thee; but thou\nhast carried murder to my bosom!\" and, tearing her arm from his grasp,\nshe threw it round the neck of her wounded son.\n\nThe company gazed upon each other. Ebenezer stood for a moment, his eyes\nrolling, his teeth rattling together, the knife shaking in his hand. He\nuttered a wild cry of agony--he tore the garments from his breast, as\nthough it were ready to burst, and, with the look and the howl of a\nmaniac, he sprang to the door, and disappeared. Some from an interest in\nhis fate, others from a desire to secure him, followed after him. But he\nfled to the woods, and they traced him not.\n\nIt was found that the wound of Francis Dorrington was not mortal; and\nthe fears of the company were directed from him to Ebenezer, who they\nfeared had laid violent hands upon his own life.\n\nOn the following day, without again meeting the company, Lady Helen left\nthe house, having acknowledged the deformed Ebenezer to be her son--a\nchild of shame--whose birth had been concealed from the world.\n\nOn the third day, the poor cripple was found by a shepherd wandering on\nthe hills. His head was uncovered; his garments and his body were torn\nby the brambles through which he had rushed; his eyes rolled wildly,\nand, when accosted, he fled, exclaiming, \"I am Cain! I am Cain! I have\nslain my brother! Touch me not--the mark is on my forehead!\" He was\nsecured, and taken to a place of safety.\n\nThe circumstances twined round Maria's heart; she heard no more of\nEbenezer the cripple, but she forgot him not. Several years passed, and\nshe, together with a friend, visited a lunatic asylum in a distant part\nof the country, in which a female acquaintance, once the admired of\nsociety, had become an inmate. They were shown round the different\nwards; some of the inmates seemed happy, others melancholy, but all were\nmild--all shrank from the eye of their keeper. The sound of the clanking\nchains around their ankles filled Maria's soul with horror, and she\nlonged to depart; but the keeper invited them to visit the garden of his\nasylum. They entered, and beheld several quiet-looking people engaged in\ndigging; others were pruning trees; and some sat upon benches on the\npaths, playing with their fingers, striking their heels upon the ground,\nor reading stray leaves of an old book or a newspaper. Each seemed\nengaged with himself, none conversed with his neighbour. Upon a bench\nnear the entrance to a small arbour or summer-house sat a female,\nconning an old ballad; and, as she perused it, she laughed, wept, and\nsang by turns. Maria stopped to converse with her, and her friend\nentered the arbour. In it sat a grey-headed and deformed man; he held a\nvolume of Savage in his hand, which had then been but a short time\npublished.\n\n\"I am reading the 'Bastard,' by Savage,\" said he, as the stranger\nentered; \"he is my favourite author. His fate was mine--he describes my\nfeelings. He had an unnatural mother--so had I. He was disowned--so was\nI. He slew a man, and so did I; but I my brother.\"\n\nThe voice, the words, fell upon Maria's ear. She became pale, she\nglanced towards the arbour, she cast an inquiring look upon the keeper.\n\n\"Fear not, ma'am,\" he replied; \"he is an innocent creature. He does not\nrave now; and but that there is an occasional wildness in his language,\nhe is as well as you are. Enter and converse with him, ma'am; he is a\ngreat speaker, and to much purpose, too, as visiters tell me.\"\n\nShe entered the arbour. The cripple's eyes met hers--he threw down the\nbook.\n\n\"Maria--Maria!\" he exclaimed, \"this is kind! this is kind, indeed! But\ndo not _pity_ me--do not _pity me again_! Hate me, Maria! you saw me\nslay my brother!\"\n\nShe informed him that his brother was not dead--that he had recovered\nwithin a few weeks.\n\n\"Not dead!\" replied the cripple. \"Thank Heaven! Ebenezer is not a\nmurderer! But I am well now--the fever of my brain is passed. Go, Maria,\ndo this for me--it is all I now ask--inquire why I am here immured, and\nby whose authority. Suffer not my reason to be buried in reason's tomb,\nand crushed among its wrecks. Your smile, your words of kindness, your\ntears of gratitude, caused me to dream once, and its remembrance is\nstill as a speck of light amidst the darkness of my bosom; but these\ngrey hairs have broken the dream.\" And Ebenezer bent his head upon his\nbreast, and sighed.\n\nMaria and her friend left the asylum, but in a few weeks they returned,\nand when they again departed, Ebenezer Baird went with them. He now\nsought not Maria's love, but he was gratified with her esteem, and that\nof her friends. He outlived the persecution of his kindred and the\nderision of the world; and in the forty-sixth year of his age he died in\npeace, and bequeathed his property to Maria Bradbury--the first of the\nhuman race that had looked on him with kindness, or cheered him with a\nsmile.\n\n\n[Footnote A: The water-ouzel, the kingfisher, and the crested wren,\nabound in the vicinity of the Cheviots, though the latter beautiful\nlittle creature is generally considered as quite a _rara avis_; and last\nyear one being shot about Cumberland, the circumstance went the round of\nthe newspapers! But the bird is not rare, it is only difficult to be\nseen, and generally flutters among the leaves and near the top\nbranches.]\n\n\n\n\nTHE LEGEND OF FAIR HELEN OF KIRCONNEL.\n\n\nThe seat of a branch of the Dumfries-shire Maxwells--Kirconnel--a\nproperty lying not far distant from Dumfries, and surrounded by the\nlittle pastoral stream, Kirtle--is one of the most beautiful that ever\ngratified the taste or inspired the pride of a high family. It was not\nuntil about the beginning of the seventeenth century that it came into\nthe possession of the Maxwells; for, during a long period, it belonged\nto the old, though never illustrious, family of the Bells, who, amidst\nall the turmoil and strife of the March territories, had the good sense\nto prefer the quiet pleasures of the retreats of their own pure Kirtle,\nto the tumultuous and cruel scenes which boasted no streamlet but the\nheart's blood of contending foes. The power of Lord Maxwell, or the\nthreat of Douglas, were equally unavailing to force the old proprietor\nof Kirconnel--though he ranked as a lesser baron, and might command\nretainers to fight for his plea--to sacrifice the pleasures of domestic\npeace on the altars of Laverna or Bellona: these conjunct goddesses who,\nhand in hand, swayed the destinies of Border men, and regulated the\nBorder rights of mine and thine. He held his fine property directly of\nthe crown; and, so long as he fulfilled the conditions of his right, he\nconceived himself entitled to the enjoyment of what had been fairly got\nand honourably retained. One strong element in Kirconnel's determination\nto live at home, in the enjoyment of what home may produce to a mind\ncapable of appreciating its sweets, was the fear of interrupting the\nhappiness of his lady--one of the family of Irvings in that quarter, who\nlatterly came to possess his property--and of one child, a daughter, the\nMaid of Kirconnel, concerning whom, as all our readers know, more has\nbeen said and sung by antiquarian minstrel than ever fell to the hapless\nfame or treasured memory of fair woman. Ah, we need scarcely say, that\nthis young heiress of Kirconnel's name was Helen; for who that has read\nthe touching lines of Pinkerton can ever forget the appellation of one\nwhose fate has drawn more tears than ever did that of the heroine Lady\nMargaret, in the old ballad of \"Douglas' Tragedy?\" The disasters of\nordinary women, though hallowed by the sanctifying power of love, have\nseldom in this country inspired the harp of the minstrel; so far we are\nforced to admit the power of beauty, abstracted from the qualities of\nthe mind and heart, that it has been a talisman to bardic genius in\nevery age; yet it is honourable to the character of our nation, that the\nsoul which illumines the \"face divine\" has called forth strains as\nmelting and triumphant as ever resulted from the effects of physical\nbeauty. It is, however, when the two qualities have been found combined\nin a favoured daughter of Scotland, that an unhappy fate has called\nforth a sympathy which has left no harp to sound fitfully in the\nwillow-tree, no heart in our true land untouched, no eye destitute of\nsympathetic tears. Such has truly been the effect produced by the\nfortune of Helen of Kirconnel--a fortune which came up on the revolving\nwheel of the mutable goddess, notwithstanding all the efforts of her\nfather to make the course of her life happy, and its termination\nblessed. Abstracted as the thoughts were of the three inhabitants of\nKirconnel--the lady, the laird, and the daughter--from the scenes that\nwere ever changing in the warlike world around them, so much greater was\nthe necessity for cultivating the opportunities of enjoyment that nature\nand fortune had awarded to them; and so much greater also was the relish\nfor that enjoyment which has ever been found in minds and hearts\nproperly constituted and tuned to the harp of goodness, to increase with\npossession as much as the false taste for stimulating avocations cloys\nwith the easy surfeit. It is not often, even in our virtuous land, and\neven in these days when the blessings of a high civilisation have\ninclined mankind to the cultivation of the social affections, that a\nfamily is found with its different members so predisposed for the\nharmony of exclusively domestic joys, that some chord does not\noccasionally give forth a discordant sound when touched by an external\nimpulse; but, in the times of which we speak, and in the district where\nthe individuals resided, \"the happy family\" was a group that was more\noften found in the lyrics of the poet or the creations of hope deferred\nthan in the real existences of the troubled and vexed world.\n\nThe house of Kirconnel stood on \"fair Kirconnel Lee;\" a term implying\nthat the wood, which in those days encompassed every baronial residence,\nhad been, to a certain extent, cleared away, to allow the daisy-covered\nlawn to rejoice in the beams of the generally excluded sun. But, at a\nlittle distance, the empire of the forest was again resumed, on the\ncondition exacted by nature, of allowing the winding Kirtle to enjoy her\ngrassy bank, covered with the wild rose and the eglantine; and to roll\nplayfully along her pebbly bed, unimpeded by the neighbouring trees,\nwhich, as if in amatory dalliance, sent down their straggling lips to\nkiss her as she went. The wood bower--in early times a species of rural\nretreat in much greater fashion than now-a-days--was, in repetition of\nitself, seen rearing its ornamented walls, round which the native\nparasite plants were entwined in close embrace in various parts of the\nshady retreat. Some of these had been carefully looked to by the lady of\nKirconnel herself, who, anxious to confirm her husband's resolution\nagainst engaging in the wars of the times, left no energy unemployed to\nrender their residence, not only within the walls of the house, but in\nthe bowers and gardens, as pleasant to the eye as the fruits of her\nheart and mind were delightful to the rational and loving soul of her\nappreciating and grateful lord. As Sir Owain says:--\n\n  \"Fair were her erbers with flowers--\n    Rose and lili divers colours,\n  Primrol and parvink;\n    Mint, feverfoy, and eglantine,\n  Colimbin, and mo there were,\n    Than ani man mocht think.\"\n\nTrue; the Graces had, as yet, but small influence in Scotland; but the\nGenius of Chivalry, a cognate spirit, was busy in effecting a great\nrevolution in the minds of the inhabitants; and though there was little\nto humanise, there was much to elevate and beautify. Traces of this\npower might already be seen about the bowers and shades of Kirconnel,\nwhere some rude figures of knights in various positions--one rescuing a\ndamsel from her enemies--one in the combat at outrance--one striking the\npalisades of an armed city--placed, as they were, in the retreats of\npeace and domestic happiness by a former warlike possessor of the\nproperty, served the purpose of ornamenting the sequestered walks, and\nsupplying to the peaceful and happy inhabitants a contrast between the\npursuits of war and the pleasures of home, and home's blessed\nenjoyments.\n\nAt a little distance from the mansion or castle--for every house, in\nthose days, had a castellated character--was, and still is, the\nburying-ground of Kirconnel; a spot which, from the peculiarity of its\nsituation, as well as from its own mournful associations, impressed the\nmind of the visiter with feelings which startled him, as much from their\nnovelty as from their intensity. There is a small stone there, that\nwould, if deciphered and communicated to our readers, anticipate our\nstory, and claim the ready tear before our own sympathies are relieved\nby our recital. We pass it by at present, to give some idea of the\nextraordinary spot where it lies. This ground of the dead, or \"Death's\nMailing,\" as it has sometimes been called, is invested with all the\n_charms_ of a sublimed melancholy, which contemplates nature as a whole,\nand looks to those high purposes of her great author in visiting poor\nmortals with their heart-chastening woes. At the time of which we speak,\nthis place of the dead was entirely surrounded with high oaks and\nspreading elms, except where the silvery Kirtle embraced the hallowed\nspot, as she rolled slowly along--more slowly, it might almost appear,\nat this spot than elsewhere--and murmured a soft threnody in the ears of\nthe guardian spirits, that there tended the clay forms which they once\nanimated. A few very rude stones, whose rudeness was their greatest\nrecommendation to the sentimental mind, told, in the quaint \"old Inglis\"\nof that day, their simple tale. \"Here lyethe the race of ye sons of\nKirconnelle,\" might have been seen on a rude freestone that has long\nsince disappeared. \"Terraughtie did choose to lie her,\" appeared upon\nanother old relic; and some exhibited more simple tokens--still pointing\nout nothing more than name and surname, yet more eloquent in that\nbrevity than the most \"storied urn.\" \"Jon Kirkpatrycke,\" \"Andrew\nWelles,\" \"Heln Johnston,\" \"Mary of the Le',\" without one word more to\nsay what they were, where they lived, when they visited this scene of\nsorrow, and when they departed from it, possessed an eloquence in their\nsimple brevity that moved the heart of the visiter with a power now\nlittle felt and less appreciated. The swelling green tumuli, with these\nsimple-speaking, grey-headed stones, standing, yet leaning to a side, as\nif themselves bent by the hands of time, how humbly might they appear,\nencircled as they were, with the proud monarch of the wood, the primeval\noak, that had seen the sires and grandsires of the lowly inhabitants of\n\"Death's Mailing\" rise and fall, and become dust, as man contemplates\nthe day-fly wing forth in the morning, live out its day, and die. Such\nwas the romantic burying-place of Kirconnel at the time of which we\nspeak; and even now, when the oak has fallen before the axe of\ncivilisation, and Fame's trump has sounded even over the tomb, the place\nhas a hallowed and romantic character (the Kirtle is still there) not\nexhibited by other burying-grounds in Scotland.\n\nIn those retreats, the members of the family of Kirconnel passed the\ngreater part of their time. Helen, though a lover of home, was fond of\ngratifying a fancy pregnant of beautiful images, and a taste for what is\nlovely in nature, by sitting by the banks of the Kirtle, and supplying\nher mind with the pabulum of the old Scottish romances. \"Raf Coilyear\nand his Cross-bow,\" and \"Gilbert with the White Hand,\" though soon\nsuperseded by the continental romances, were then the legitimate\nfountains of amusement to the fair maids of Scotland; and those who\naimed at sublimer flights, might have had recourse to \"Fyn Maccowl,\" or\n\"Gret Gow Macmorne;\" but there was in none of the works as yet\ncirculated in Scotland, what might gratify the intense yearnings of the\nfemale heart for those poetical images which subsequently sprang up with\nthe more mature growth of chivalry. The loves of warriors are not the\nloves of everyday life, far less the loves of the inspired poet; and\nHelen, as she read these old legendary romances, might find in them the\namusement that afforded a relaxing alternative to her own poetical\ncommunings with the oldest bard of all--Nature; but for the inspiration\nof love itself she required the talisman--man--in that high aspect she\nhad prefigured of the noblest of God's creatures, to rouse her heart\nfrom nature to the lover's dream.\n\nAs yet the Maid of Kirconnel had not seen any one that realised the idea\nshe had formed, by the banks of the Kirtle, of the individual who could\ncall up in her young bosom those extraordinary emotions which constitute\n\"love's young dream.\" The secluded mode of life adopted by her parents\nwas unfavourable to a choice of the talismanic objects; and it even\nappeared to be her father and mother's wish that such choice should be\nexcluded, that her heart might, in the absence of many forms, learn to\nbe pleased with the man whom their love or policy might point out to her\nadoption. A second cousin of her own, Walter Bell of Blacket House, had\na free passport to the hall of Kirconnel, as well as to the bowers that\nwere enshrined in Kirconnel woods. The laird saw in the young man his\nnearest heir, in the event of his Helen being taken from him by fate;\nand the lady could detect, as she thought, in Bell's quiet and sombre\nmanner, some assimilation to her own love of retirement and ease, and a\nconsequent disrelish of the warlike and sanguinary customs of the times.\nYet it was known that the young laird of Blacket House had been engaged\nin secret frays between the Johnstones and Crightons; while, for some\npurpose not generally known, though, from what we have said, not\ndifficult to be surmised, he had fought in disguise, and disclaimed the\nglory of having hewn off the heads of many Johnstones, whose deaths\nmight have brought him renown, if not wealth. He had fought from a\nspirit of animosity and a thirst of blood that lay deep buried in his\nheart, but which, along with its noisome fruits, he had striven to\nconceal, from the knowledge he possessed of the pacific disposition of\nhis friends the Kirconnels, whose good-will he had a motive to cultivate\nmore powerful than that of wealth or glory. He wished to recommend\nhimself to the fair Helen, by acquiring the love and esteem of her\nfather and mother; and he doubted not that, by his own personal\naccomplishments--neither few nor unimportant--aided by the advice or\npower of parental love and authority, he would succeed in changing in\nher the old habitual feelings of ordinary friendship into the higher and\npurer sentiments of affection.\n\nAnd sure it was that no one who ever aimed to acquire a \"ladye's love,\"\nmade his attempt with more advantages on his side than Walter Bell of\nBlacket House. The gay lover in the old romance, who cried that, with\nthe advantage of making love in a wood, and by the side of a silver\nstream, he would gain the heart of the fairest woman of Christendom,\nthough his face were as black as the coal slave's, and his lineage no\nbetter than the knave-child's, spoke more of human nature than he\nhimself perhaps knew. But he spoke of women in the aggregate; and it is\nnot unlikely that such a woman as fair Helen of Kirconnel had never come\nunder the trial of his skill. The truth of the statement fell to be\ntested by one who, besides the advantages stated by the gay knight,\ncould boast the consent of a father, old friendship, and a face and a\nlineage against which no exception could be taken by the admirers of\ngraces and genealogy. Bell was aware of the advantages he possessed; but\nhe could calculate the strength of these better than he could fathom the\nmysteries of woman's heart. Although the greater part of his time was\npassed at Kirconnel, where he took every opportunity of threading the\nmazes of the oak woods, or sitting by the side of the Kirtle, with the\nobject of his affections, it is doubtful if he ever ascertained, by the\npassing indications she exhibited, that her thoughts and feelings were\npitched much beyond the grade of those which nature had awarded to\nhimself. She saw and felt beauties in the scenery of Kirconnel, which to\nher lover were but as the \"sear leaf.\" Every object in nature--from the\nplanet to the plant, from the shining levin of heaven to the phosphoric\nbeam on the margin of the Kirtle--had some intelligence for her\ninquiring eye. Every power in operation around her--from the general\nsympathy of nature's highest elements, to the loves of the little forest\nbirds that sung their love-song in her bower--had some charm to elevate\nher thoughts and sublime her sentiments. She, therefore, who could\nsearch for intelligence where others saw nothing but inert matter, or,\nat least, the uninteresting indications of everyday nature, might\nprobably have been an unfortunate object on whom our said romantic\nknight might try the effect of his extraneous charms of wood and water.\nNor was she at all fitted for being acted upon by the love intrigues of\nher cousin of Blacket House, who, coming far short of a knowledge of the\nelevated sentiments by which she was inspired, could neither yield her\nthat sympathy which she required as a _sine qua non_ of affection, nor\nstand the investigation of the shrewd wisdom or the high philosophy of\nthe heart of an elevated woman. While he simply sued and used the\nordinary words of love, she analysed, and found that, where she never\ncould be understood, she never could dispose of her affections.\n\nThe mind of Helen had long been made up on the question of her cousin's\nsuit. It had begun early; and the innumerable walks he had enjoyed with\nher along the banks of the Kirtle had afforded him a thousand\nopportunities of declaring his feelings. By the natural tact of women,\nshe had always contrived to evade the question, and contented herself,\neven in the midst of extravagant declarations, with negative indications\nof her inability to return his passion. These he understood not; and,\nunfortunately, he acted upon the principle that has driven many a fond\nlover to despair--that the mistress who appears to listen without\ndispleasure is presumed to give a tacit consent. They know little of the\nheart of woman who trust their happiness or their lives to the frail\nbark of such a fond and dangerous delusion. A woman will seldom put an\nend to the adulation that supports her pride; but the Maid of Kirconnel,\nwho had no pride to gratify, acted as many a single-hearted female has\ndone and will do, who receives without a frown that her nature detests,\nbut without a satisfaction that her honesty will not allow her to\nassume, the fond speeches of an old friend, couched in terms of an\nadmiration which is only her due. The native sensibility of her soul\nshrank at the thought of first construing harshly her relative's\nprofessions of affection, and then telling him that he was not the\nindividual who was qualified to win her heart. Yet, in justice to her,\nit requires to be stated, that she often communed with herself, in her\nsolitary walks, on the necessity of checking her cousin's fond and\nunfortunate delusion, lest evil might come out of gentleness so nearly\nallied to good.\n\nThis unfortunate connection between Blacket House and his fair cousin,\nfated as it was to continue, assumed daily a more critical aspect. The\nyoung man, overwhelmed by a passion that was daily and hourly fed by the\ncontemplation of a beauty and qualities seldom before witnessed in a\nScottish maiden, was not only intoxicated by the violence of his love,\nbut satisfied that his cousin, in return loved him with an affection\nonly more chastely expressed, though, of course, not less powerful than\nhis own. Her parents, too, who had lent a fond and willing ear to his\nstatements of their daughter's love for him, had made up their minds\nupon a point which presented all the appearances of being sealed and\nsettled by her who had the greatest interest in its truth. She was\nalways to be found by him in her solitary walks among Kirconnel woods.\nTheir meetings were favoured by their parents; their walks were\nuninterrupted; the current of his passion flowed without check, and his\nexpressions only varied in becoming more animated. The absence of a\n_harsh denial_ filled the measure of a deluding, blending hope; and\nwhile the courses of their two minds were in directions entirely\nopposite--his along the rose-strewed valley of a requited affection;\nhers in a channel that led to objects too brilliant for his dull eye to\nscan, and too sublime for his unfledged fancy to reach--he conceived\nthat a mutual sympathy of congenial feeling animated both their hearts.\n\nIt was at this extraordinary state of the domestic affairs of Kirconnel\nthat an extraneous cause gave a new current to the feelings of the young\nmaiden, without having the effect of changing that of her lover, or of\nopening the eyes of her father and mother to the true fact, that she\ncould not love the man they intended as her husband. A gallant,\nhigh-spirited youth, one of the Flemings of Kirkpatrick, had followed a\ndoe up to within a very short space of Kirconnel House. The timid\ncreature had taken to the water, and, springing on the opposite bank,\nfled past a bower in which Helen was at the time sitting reading \"Sir\nTristam,\" then in the hands of every young lady in Scotland and England.\nShe started as the creature shot past her, and, putting her head timidly\nforward, to get a better view of the fleet inhabitant of the forest, saw\nbefore her, with cap in hand, bowing, in knightly guise, Adam Fleming of\nKirkpatrick. Neither of the two had before seen the other; but the fame\nof the one's noble mien, high mind, and martial virtues, and of the\nother's incomparable beauty and elevation of sentiment, had reached\nreciprocally their willing ears.\n\n\"That a Fleming of Kirkpatrick,\" said the youth, still bowing humbly,\nand smiling, \"should have had the boldness to interpose the image of his\nworthless person between the fancy and the heaven of the meditations of\nfair Helen of Kirconnel, doth, by my sword, require an apology. Shall I\nbe still bolder in asking a pardon?\"\n\nThe effect produced on Helen's mind by the noble figure of the youth,\nand the romantic and playful turn he had given to his intrusion, was\nquick and heartfelt. It was, besides, simultaneous with the memory of\nhis spread fame; and in an instant her face was in a glow of mixed shame\nand confusion, the causes of which, perhaps, lay deeper than the\ninfluence of a mere feeling of surprise or interruption.\n\n\"You have my full forgiveness, sir,\" she replied, while her face glowed\ndeeper, in spite of her efforts to appear unaffected.\n\nHer soft musical voice fell on the ear of the youth; but his keen, dark\neye was busy with the examination of charms with which his ear had been\nlong familiar. The blush of a woman is a man's triumph; whatever may be\nits secret cause, the man will construe it favourably to himself, in the\nface of a denial of his power; and so far at least he has the right,\nthat nature herself evidences in his favour, by an acknowledgment that\nhe has touched the fountains of the heart. Fleming was not different\nfrom other men; and, though he might have been wrong in his construction\nof the secret moving impulse which called up the mantling adornment of\nbeauty that was almost beyond the power of increase, he felt the full\ninfluence of the effect he thought he had produced, and, conceiving\nhimself favourably received, laid in his heart the germs of an affection\nthat was to govern his destiny. The forms of breeding, more punctilious\nin those days of chivalry than even now, forbade farther communication\nat that time, and, bowing gracefully as he drank up the rays of her\nblushing beauty, he bounded away after his dogs, that had kept their\ncourse in pursuit of the flying doe.\n\nThis was the first time that ever Helen had seen a stranger huntsman\ncross Kirconnel Lee in pursuit of his game; but it was soon to appear\nthat roes and does, when pursued by the gallant Fleming, seemed to think\nthat in the recesses of Kirconnel they might find that safety which was\ndenied them in other coverts; at least it became certain that more of\nthat kind of game fled before the hunter over Kirconnel Lee, after the\nmeeting we have described, than ever were seen before by man or maiden.\nMeanwhile the image of the noble youth, with his clear, intelligent eye,\nhis rising and expanded forehead, from which his black hair was shaded\nto a side, and mixed with the long flowing locks that reached down to\nhis shoulders; his intellectual expression of countenance, where beauty\nsat enshrined among the virtues, his breeding, his modesty, his voice\nand general bearing--were all busy with the fancy of the Maid of\nKirconnel. Nature's talisman had been applied, and the charm had wrought\nin its highest and most mysterious power. Nor less had been the effect\nof that first meeting on the mind of the youthful heir of Kirkpatrick.\nThey loved; and the does which afterwards brushed over Kirconnel Lee\nwere only the scouts of the hunting lover, who, while he could not help\nthe choice of the flying wilding in taking that direction, could not, of\na consequence, avoid a repeated _intrusion_ on the wood-bower privacy of\nher who longed to see him with a heart that palpitated at his coming as\nstrongly as did that of the flying deer. The rules of breeding direct\nall their force against a first interview; against a second, though\nbrought about in the same way as the first, they have no efficacy; and\nlove, which defies the whole code, soon reconciled differences which he\ndespised. A few meetings revealed to each other the fact--which, somehow\nor other, is discovered by nobody but lovers--that one person has been\nintended from the beginning of the world to be formed for another. The\nheir of Kirkpatrick and the Maid of Kirconnel exhibited to each other\nsuch a similarity of thought, feeling, and sentiment, that love seemed\nto have nothing more to do than to tie those threads which nature had\nnot only spun, but hung forth with a predisposed reciprocity of\ncommunication. The discovery that their thoughts had taken the same\nrange, and reached an equal altitude of elevation, carried with it that\npleasant surprise that is always favourable to the progress of the\ntender passion; and the delight of a new-born sympathy in sentiments\nthat had long gratified only the heart in which they were conceived, but\nwhich now were seen glowing in the eyes of another, was only another\nform of that passion itself.\n\nThough Helen had seen many indications that might have satisfied her (if\nher mind had been directed to the subject) that her father and mother\nwere bent upon a match between her cousin of Blacket House and her, she\nhad never, either from a want of courage or steady serious thought on\nthe subject, put it to herself what was her precise predicament or\ncondition, on the supposition of such circumstance being in itself true\nand irremediable. She had hitherto had no great need for secresy,\nbecause she did not love another; and her father, mother, and lover,\nhaving taken it for granted that she was favourable to her cousin's\nsuit, nothing of a definite nature had ever transpired to call for a\ndemonstration on her part, as an alternative of dishonesty and\ndouble-dealing. Her situation was now changed. She now loved, and loved\nardently, another; and the necessity she felt of meeting the heir of\nKirkpatrick in secret, brought out in full relief her inmost sense of\nwhat were the views and purposes of her father and mother, and all the\nresponsibility of her negative conduct, as regarded the suit of him she\ncould never love. But, strange as it may seem, if she felt a difficulty\nin correcting her cousin and disobeying her parents before the accession\nof her love, she felt that difficulty rise to an impossibility after\nthat important event of her life. She trembled at the thought of her\nlove being crossed: one word of her rejection of the suit of her cousin\nwould reach the ears of her parents; dissension would be thrown into the\ntemple of peace; her love would be discovered; her lover, a man famous\nin arms, and an aider of the Johnstones, the opponents of Blacket House,\ntraced, rejected, and banished: and her heart finally torn and broken by\nthe antagonist powers of love and duty. She felt her own weakness, and\ntrembled at it, without coming to a resolution to make a disclosure;\nwhile her overwhelming love carried her, on the moonlight nights, over\nKirconnel Lee, to meet her faithful Heir of Kirkpatrick in the romantic\nburying-ground already described. This extraordinary place was that\nfixed upon by the lovers for their night meetings; for in any other part\nof the domains of Kirconnel they could not have escaped the eye of\nBlacket House; who, though he had no suspicion of a rival, was so often\nin search of the object of his engrossing passion, that she seldom went\nout without being observed by the ever-waking and vigilant surveillance\nof love.\n\nMany times already had Helen waited till her unconscious parents retired\nto the rest of the aged, and the moon threw her sheet of silver over\nKirconnel Lee, and, wrapped up in a night-cloak, slipped out at the\nwicker-gate of the west enclosure, to seek, under the shades of the\noaks, Death's Mailing, the appointed trysting-place of the ardent\nlovers. Again she was to see her beloved Heir of Kirkpatrick, and at\nlast she had resolved to break to him the painful position in which she\nwas placed by the still existing belief of her parents and Blacket\nHouse, that she was to be his wedded wife. On this occasion, she sat\nwistfully looking out at her chamber window. Her father and mother had\nretired to their couch. Everything was quiet, the wind stilled, and the\nmighty oaks whispered not the faintest sigh to disturb the sensitive ear\nof night. The moon was already up, and she was on the eve of wrapping\nher cloak round her, and creeping forth into the forest shade, when she\nobserved the long shadow of a man extending many yards upon the shining\ngrass of the green lee. The figure of the individual she could not see;\nfor a projection of the building, sufficient to conceal him, but not to\nprevent his shadow from being revealed, interrupted her vision. She\nhesitated and trembled. If the shadow had moved and disappeared, she\ncould have accounted for it, by supposing that some of the domestics had\nnot yet retired to bed; but why should a man stand alone and stationary\nat that hour, in that place, in that position? Her fears ran all upon\nBlacket House, who was never happy but when in her presence or near her\nperson; and who had been, on a former occasion, reported by the servants\nto have lain and slept under her window for an entire night, and never\nleft his position till the morning sun exposed the doting lover to the\nwondering eyes of the domestics, who had never yet felt a love that kept\nthem awake for more than a dreamy hour at cockcrow. As she gazed and\nhesitated, her hour was passing, and her lover would be among the\ngrave-stones, waiting for her. Her anxiety grew intense; she feared to\ngo, but shook at the thoughts of disappointing _him_; never dreaming (so\nwhispered love) of herself. The figure still stood as stationary as a\ngrave-stone, while her soul was agitated like the restless spirit that\nhovers over it, sighing for the hour of departure to the regions of\nether. She could bear no longer; the projection which concealed him\nwould conceal her; she plied the furtive steps of love; and crossing,\nlike a fairy on the moonlit green knowe, the rising lawn, was forth\namong the towering oaks in as little time as the shadow of a passing\ncloud would have taken to trail its dingy traces over the shining lee.\n\nIn a short time she arrived at the churchyard, and saw, through the\ninterstices of the surrounding trees, the Heir of Kirkpatrick sitting on\na green tumulus, the grave of one who had perhaps loved as they now\nloved, waiting for her who was beyond the trysting-hour. In a moment\nlonger she was in his arms, and the stillness of the dead was invaded by\nthe stifled sighs, the burning whispers, the rustling pressure of\nardent, impatient lovers. The rising graves, and the mossy tomb-stones,\nand the white scattered bones that had escaped the sexton's eye, and\nglittered in the moonbeams, were equally neglected and overlooked; and\nno fear of fairy, ghost, or gnome, or gowl, entered where Love left no\nroom but for his own engrossing sacrifices. The simple monument of love\nof \"Mary of the Le',\" that rose by their side, had often brought the\ntears to Helen's eyes; but Mary of the Lee was now forgotten. \"There is\na time and a place for all things\" but love, whose rule is general over\nthe flowery lee and the green grave, the mid-day hour and the dreary\nkey-stone of night's black arch.\n\n\"What kept ye, sweet Helen, love?\" whispered Kirkpatrick in her ear, as\nshe lay entranced in love's dream on his bosom.\n\n\"By that question, good Adam,\" answered she, according to the mode of\nfamiliar address of her day, \"there hangs a secret that oppresses your\nHelen, and drinks up all the joys of our affection.\"\n\n\"Speak it forth, my gentle Helen,\" said Fleming. \"What is it? The\nsecresy of our meeting? I have been meditating a resolution to address\nyour father, and this will confirm me. He can have no objections to my\nsuit, save that I am a friend of the Johnstones, and an open warrior;\nwhile your cousin, whom you rejected before you saw me, is a concealed\nmosstrooper, and a secret manslayer.\"\n\n\"There, there,\" muttered Helen, with trembling emotion--\"there, Adam,\nyou have hit the bleeding part of my heart. I did not say to you that I\nhad rejected Blacket House before I saw you; but you were entitled to\nmake that supposition, because I told you that I never received his\nlove; but, alas! Adam, there is a distinction there; and, small as it\nmay seem, its effects may be great upon the fortunes and happiness of\nyour Helen. It is true I have never received his love; but it is equally\ntrue that his love, having overgrown the thought of a possibility of\nrejection, has overlooked my negative indications, and put down my\nsilence for consent. Yes, Adam, yes--even now Blacket House thinks I\nlove him; and, oh! the full responsibility of my apathy rises before me\nlike a threatening giant; my father and my mother have, I fear, taken\nfor granted that I am to become the wedded wife of my cousin.\"\n\n\"Helen, this does indeed surprise me,\" replied Kirkpatrick, thoughtfully\nand sorrowfully. \"I thought I had a sufficient objection to overcome on\nthe part of your father, when I had to conquer the prejudices of\nclanship, and soothe his fears of my ardent spirit for the foray. But\nthis changes all, and my difficulties are increased from the height of\nKirconnel Lee to the towering Criffel.\" And he sat silent for a time,\nand mused thoughtfully. \"But why, my love,\" he continued, \"have you\nallowed this dangerous delusion to rest so long undisturbed, till it has\nbecome a conviction that may only be removed with danger to us all?\"\n\n\"Ask me not, Adam,\" replied she, with a full heart, \"what I cannot\nexplain. While the tongue of Blacket House's friendship was changing to\nlove, I, whose thoughts were otherwise directed, perceived not the\nchange; and when the truth appeared to me, my love for my father and\nmother, against the placid stream of whose life I have ever trembled to\nthrow the smallest pebble of a daughter's disobedience, prevented me,\nday by day, from making the avowal that I could not love their choice.\nThe difficulty increased with the hour; and, ah! my love for you crowned\nit at last with impossibility.\"\n\n\"That should rather have removed the difficulty,\" answered he. \"Explain,\nsweet Helen. You are dealing in shadowy parables.\"\n\n\"Think you so, Adam?\" said she, sighing. \"Ah, then, is man's love\ndifferent from woman's? The one can look an obstacle in the face; the\nother turns from it with terror, and flees. See you not that, by telling\nmy parents I could not love my cousin, I would have been conjuring up a\nbad angel to cross, with his black wing, the secret but sweet path of\nour affection. The very possibility of being separated from you--too\ndear, Adam, as you are to this beating heart--made me tremble at the\narticulation of that charmed word which contains all my happiness on\nearth. You have stolen my heart from my father and mother, my sweet\nwoods and bowers, my bright moon and Kirtle; and think you what it would\nbe for me to lose him in whom all is centred!\"\n\n\"Ah! Helen, Helen, this is unlike the majesty of that mind that roved\nthe blue fields of the heavens, and searched the hidden springs of the\nlove that reigns through all created things. That such thoughts should\nbe allied to that weakness which increases inevitable danger by flying\nfrom it, I could not have supposed to be exemplified by my Maid of\nKirconnel. Yet is that trembling fear not a greater proof of my Helen's\nlove than an outspoken rejection of twenty rival suitors? It is--I feel\nit is; and who will chide a fault of earth that hangs by a virtue of\nheaven? Dear, devoted, cherished object of my first passion, what has\nthe simple heir of Kirkpatrick to give in exchange for the devotion of\nsuch a being?\"\n\nAnd the impassioned youth pressed her closer and closer to his breast,\nwhile he spread over her shoulders the falling cloak, to shield her from\nthe autumn dews.\n\nThey sat for some time silent--the difficulty of their situation being\nfor a brief period forgotten and lost in the tumult of the rising\nfeelings of a strong mutual passion.\n\n\"But this must not be allowed to continue,\" again said Kirkpatrick. \"It\nis _necessary_, Helen, that you do this duty to yourself, to your\ncousin, your parents, and to me. Call up the necessary fortitude, my\nlove. Tell your mother that you cannot love Blacket House. I know the\npain it will produce to you and to them; but, alas! there are many\npositions in this world where we can only get to the object of our\ndesires through painful means. Pain is, indeed, the price of most of our\npleasures; and, when we do not pay that price, we become bankrupt in our\nbest feelings, and die wretched. When the path is free, I shall come\nforward and claim my Helen in the face of the world. Will you, will you,\nlove?\"\n\nAnd he bent his head, and repeated the question in soft tones beneath\nthe cloak that covered her head; while she, in muffled accents,\nreplied--\n\n\"I will, I will, Adam, though I should die with the last word of the\ndeclaration.\"\n\nA heavy groan at this moment fell upon their ear. Adam started hastily\nup; and Helen, roused from her love's dream, stood petrified with fear.\nThey looked around them in every direction; but the proximity of the\nplace where they had been sitting to the edge of the wood, rendered it\neasy for an intruder to overhear their discourse, and to escape among\nthe trees in an instant. Helen's fears again fell on Blacket House, and\nshe whimpered to Adam what she had observed previous to her leaving the\nhouse. He conceived them to be well founded; and, as the thought of the\nman who could kill his enemies in disguise, and deny the deed, flashed\nupon his mind, he felt for his sword, and then smiled at the precipitude\nof his defensive precaution. It was necessary, however, that Helen\nshould now hurry home; and, surmounting the turf-dyke of the\nburying-ground, they, with rapid steps, made for Kirconnel House, at a\nlittle distance from which they parted, with a close embrace. Helen\nstood for a moment, and looked after her lover; then, wrapping her cloak\nabout her head, she moved quickly round the edge of the enclosed lawn,\nand was on the eve of running forward to the wicket, when Blacket House\nstood before her. He looked for a moment sternly at her, spoke not a\nword, and then dashed away into the wood. Terrified still more, Helen\nhurried away, and got into the house and her own chamber before the full\nextent of her danger opened, with all its probable consequences, upon\nher mind. Having undressed herself, she retired to her couch, and\nmeditated on the extraordinary position in which she was now placed. She\nhad now been discovered by her cousin, who, no doubt, knew well that she\nhad that night had a secret meeting with Kirkpatrick--a partisan of his\nantagonists, the Johnstones. The discovery of a rival had come on him\nwith the discovery of a delusion under which he had sighed, and dreamed,\nand hoped for years. It was probable, nay, certain, then, that the\ncommunication she intended to make to her father and mother, that she\ncould not love Blacket House, would be received along with the\nelucidating commentary, that the lover now despised had discovered her\nlove intercourse with the heir of Kirkpatrick. She would, therefore, get\nno credit for her statement that she never loved her cousin; but would\nbe set down as a breaker of pledges, and one who traitorously amused\nherself with the broken hopes of her unfortunate lovers. Whether she\nmade the communication or not, it would be made by Blacket House, whose\nfear of losing the object of his affections, or his revenge--whichever\nof the two moved him--would force him to the immediate disclosure. The\nserenity of the domestic peace and happiness of Kirconnel House would be\nclouded for the first time, and that by the disobedience of one who had\nheretofore been held to contribute, in no small degree, to that which\nshe was to be the means of destroying, perhaps for ever. The contrast\nbetween the confidence, the hope, and the affection with which she had\nbeen, by her parents, contemplated, and fondly cherished, during all the\nbygone part of her life, and the new-discovered treachery into which her\nsecret love for a stranger would be construed, was a thought she could\nscarcely bear. These and a thousand other things passed through her\nthoughts with a rapidity which did not lessen the burning pain of their\nimpress upon her mind; and the repetition of a thousand reflections,\nfears, and hopes, produced in the end a confusion that terrified sleep\nfrom her pillow, and consigned her to the powers of anguish for the\nremainder of the night and morning.\n\nShe rose with a burning cheek and a high-fluttering pulse, produced by\nthe fever of mind under which she still laboured. She opened the\ncasement to let in the cool breeze of morning to brace her nerves, and\nenable her to stand an interview with her father and mother, who might\nalready (for Blacket House was at Kirconnel at all hours) be in\npossession of the secret of what they conceived to be their once-loved\nHelen's disobedience and treachery. Her own communication, which she had\npledged herself to Kirkpatrick to make, was now invested with treble\nterrors; and though she knew that her safety and happiness depended upon\nan open declaration, she felt herself totally unable to make it.\nTrembling and irresolute, she approached the parlour where her father\nand mother, along with herself, were in the habit of taking their\nmorning meal. They were there; and there was another there--it was her\ncousin. He looked at her as she entered, with a calm, but mysterious\neye, which fluttered her nerves again, and forced her to stand for a\nmoment in the middle of the apartment, irresolute whether to go forward\nor retreat. She fearfully threw her eye over the faces of her parents.\nThere was no change there; the ordinary placidity of their wonted\nmanner, and the kindly love-greeting borne in their mellow voices,\nstartled her--so strong had been her conviction that all was disclosed.\nHer parents were destitute of guile; and an instant's thought satisfied\nher that they were still in their ignorance of the secret. But Blacket\nHouse continued his dark gaze in silence; and even this--a decided\nalteration in his manner--was unnoticed by the unsuspecting couple, who\nthrew their fond eyes on their loving daughter as their only remaining\npride and solace. What meant this? The new turn taken by the stream of\nher difficulty and danger surprised and confused her; but, calming by\nthe influence of her parents' kindness, she sat down and went through\nthe forms of the morning meal, without exhibiting a discomposure that\nmight attract the notice of these loving beings, who searched her face\nonly for the indications of health and the beams of her pleasure. Her\ncomparative composure enabled her to collect her ideas; and she thought\nshe now discovered a reason for this seeming forbearance or discretion\nof Blacket House--a man little formed for these, or any other virtues:\nhe intended to _sell_ his knowledge at the price of a hand that never\ncould be his, but by this or some other means of compulsion. The moment\nthis thought--and, under all the circumstances, it was a reasonable\none--entered her mind, she trembled at the power of the dark-eyed,\nsilent being who sat there, and gazed upon her in revengeful triumph.\nFor relief, she turned her eyes to her parents; yet she saw there the\nsmile that approved his suit, and the confidence that would believe his\ndeclaration. Her own Kirkpatrick was absent; and she dared not meet him\nto receive the assistance of his advice, to enable her to support\nherself under her trial, or devise a plan suited to the changed\ncircumstances for her relief. She hurried over her meal, and hastened\nagain to her apartment, to confirm herself in the opinion she had formed\nof Blacket House's intentions. Every thought tended to add to her\nconviction that she was correct, and told her that he never would\nsucceed in his scheme. He would now, for certain, endeavour to see her\nalone, and lay before her the danger into which she had plunged herself,\nand the bargain by which she would be relieved from it. But she would\ndefeat him; she would renounce her walks in the woods, desert, for a\ntime, her bowers, and bid adieu to her silver Kirtle. She would keep her\napartment under a pretence of slight indisposition--far from an\nuntruth--and, in the meantime, try to devise some mode of relief from\nher painful situation.\n\nBut the solicitude of her parents interfered, in some degree, with these\nplans. They discovered that she was not so ill as to be unable to seek\nwhat might do her service--her former walks and amusements around\nKirconnel Lee; and thus was she obliged to yield to kindness; yet she\ncontrived to have her parents near her, so as to deprive Blacket House\nof an opportunity of communicating to her his imputed plan of enforcing\nhis suit. As yet, his silence had been continued: her parents were still\nin ignorance; and it was only (so she argued) because he had not\nhitherto found her alone, that his dreaded communication had not as yet\nbeen made. On the occasion of her first walk, however, she, by some\nuntoward chance, was left in one of the arbours alone, and the\nopportunity (the first that had occurred) was seized by him--Blacket\nHouse was again before her, and all her fears were in a moment roused.\nTheir eyes met with an intelligence they had never before possessed.\nEvery passing thought seemed to be mutually read, while a few words of\nordinary import seemed to be only as a preparation to his expected\nstatement. Helen did not dare to leave him; she feared to rouse his\nanger, and yet she wanted courage to reply with ordinary pertinence to\nhis remarks. His eye was constantly fixed on her, and the few words he\nuttered came with difficulty and pain; yet was there not the slightest\nallusion to the secret he undoubtedly held locked up in his breast. Was\nhe not to bring forward his threat of exposing her, as a wrenching\ninstrument, to force from her a consent that he was satisfied would\nnever be given voluntarily? There was no indication of any such issue.\nWhat could be the true meaning of this dark-minded man's conduct? Again\nhe had disappointed her fearful anticipations. He had not told her\nparents; he was not to tell herself. What then was he to do? She could\nnot answer her self-put question; and her surprise when he parted from\nher, after a short conversation, conducted with difficulty, with his\nsecret unapproached, and the mysterious stare of his illegible eye, was\nnot less than her terror of the anticipated issue when she first\nencountered him.\n\nThis new extraordinary element in the subject of her meditations and\nfears disarranged all her ideas, and sent her thoughts in new channels\nfor a discovery of what might be the secret plans of her cousin. She\nsighed for an interview with her lover; but that, she was satisfied,\nwould be attended with great danger; and thus reduced to her own\nresources, she passed the night following her meeting with Blacket House\nin still increasing pain and difficulty. In the morning she was visited\nin her own chamber by her mother, who appeared, from the serious aspect\nof her countenance, to have something of great importance to\ncommunicate.\n\n\"Helen,\" began the good matron, \"though your father and I have seldom\nbroached the subject of love and marriage in your presence, we have,\nwith heartfelt satisfaction, observed and understood that the man who\nalone has our consent to win your virgin heart is your own choice. Your\nwooing has lasted so long, that the very birds in the woods are familiar\nwith your persons and converse; and surely this is not to last always.\nYou are twenty years old, my dear Helen, at the next Beltane, the first\nof May; and I know that it is Blacket House's wish that your happiness\nmay be crowned by a union within as short a period as we will agree to\nfix. I have broken the matter to you, my love; and as I am well\nacquainted with the fluttering of Love's wings when Hymen enters the\nbower, I will not urge you to fix a day at present, but leave you to the\npleasant meditations my communication cannot but call forth. I shall\nsend your breakfast to your bedroom this morning, my love; but I hope we\nmay walk in the afternoon. Say nothing, Helen. Adieu! adieu!\"\n\nAnd the mother left the room rapidly, as if to avoid noticing the\nblushes of the supposed happy damsel. Helen heard the words uttered, as\none may be supposed to feel the syllables of a condemnation falling upon\nthe heart. It was well that her mother departed so rapidly, for the\nagitation the kind parent attributed to joy, was but the prelude to a\nfaint, which retained her cold and struggling in its relentless arms for\na considerable period. The first indications of consciousness were, if\npossible, more terrible than the last thoughts that frightened it away.\nFor a long period she sat upon the couch where she had heard the\ndreadful intelligence, and, passing her hand over her brow, tried to\ncollect her energies, so as to be able to contemplate the full extent of\nher evil. She thought she could now see some connection between the\nannouncement made by her mother and the extraordinary and mysterious\nconduct of Blacket House, though she was satisfied that neither of her\nparents possessed any knowledge of her intercourse with Kirkpatrick. The\nscheme of the early marriage might originate in the fears of her cousin,\nwhile his secresy was only still maintained till he found that she would\nnot yield to her parents' authority; when would be the time for using\nhis threat of disclosure to Helen, to compel her consent. All this\nreasoning seemed founded in existing circumstances and appearances; but\nso confused were her thoughts, and so painful every effort of her mind\nto acquire clearer views, that she felt inclined to renounce reasoning\non a subject that seemed at every turn to defeat all her efforts to come\nto the real truth. Her misery was at least certain; for now, while the\nabsolute necessity of a disclosure of her secret love became more\nperemptory and inevitable, the circumstances under which it would be\nmade were such as would add to the unhappiness of her parents, and to\nthe apparent deceit and treachery of her own nature, which was,\nnotwithstanding, incapable of guile.\n\nMeanwhile, the effects of so much mental anguish, acting upon a tender\nframe, became soon apparent in her pale countenance and swollen eyes.\nShe would not leave her apartment; and when her mother again visited\nher, she saw a change on her daughter very different from that which\naccompanies the character of a bride in prospective. The circumstance\nsurprised the old lady; but still so satisfied was she that there could\nexist no objection to a lover whom she had (as was thought) cherished\nfor years, that it never occurred to her that the change in her daughter\nwas attributable to the announcement she had made to her; while Helen\nherself, oppressed with the secret which she struggled (as yet in vain)\nto divulge, shunned a subject which she found herself unable to treat in\nsuch a way as would insure to her relief from her sorrow. Every effort\nwas made to get her out into the woods, where her former scenes might\nenliven her mind, and bring back her wonted spirits, which, chiming the\nmusical bells of youth's happy glee, used to charm the age-stricken\nhearts of her parents. But these scenes had lost their power over her.\nThe secrets Blacket House had to divulge still lay like an unholy spirit\nupon her heart, killed its energies, and rendered her miserable. She\nexpected the additional sorrow of his society in these forced walks, and\nher grief was mixed with surprise at his absence. He was often at the\nhouse, but he avoided her. She even saw him turn into a by-path, to get\nout of the way in which she walked--a circumstance as inexplicable as\nany of the prior difficulties with which the whole affair was beset on\nevery side. She continued her meditations, called up repeated energies\nto nerve her for her disclosure, and, with many a sigh, felt them die\naway, and the tongue cleave to her mouth, as the unavailing effort shook\nher frame.\n\nShe had been in the habit of meeting Kirkpatrick at regular intervals;\nbut two of the stated periods had passed without an interview. The third\nwas approaching; and she trembled as the necessity of throwing herself\non his bosom, and seeking counsel in her difficulty, appeared to her in\nsuch a form as to shake her resolution not to encounter another\nnight-meeting with her cousin. On the morning of that evening when she\nmust repair to the burying-ground, or lose the chance of meeting\nKirkpatrick for a considerable time, it was announced to her parents, in\nher presence, at the table of the morning meal, that Blacket House had,\non the previous day, gone on a visit to a relation in a very distant\npart of the country, and that he would not return for eight days. She\nheard it, and her eyes were involuntarily turned up to heaven, in\nthanksgiving for the opportunity she now enjoyed of sobbing out her\nsorrows on the bosom of her Kirkpatrick, and getting good counsel in her\ndistress. She said nothing when the announcement was made, and heard,\nwithout heeding, the remarks of her parents. Her thoughts were in\nDeath's Mailing, and the pallid hue of her cheek gave place for a moment\nto the flush that followed the fancied touch of his lips, and the\npressure that brought her nearer to the bosom where lay all the relief\nshe now had in this world. She sought more freely than she had done for\nsome time her old retreats, and again the song of the merle had some\nmusic for her ear--so ready is the oppressed soul to seek its accustomed\npleasures, that it will clutch them in the interval of a suspended\ngrief, though sure to return. Her cousin was gone for a time; he could\nnot cross in these paths of the wood; and, oh happy thought! she would\nlie on the bosom of her Kirkpatrick, and breathe forth, uninterrupted,\nlove's sweet tale, rendered sweeter and dearer by the grief with which\nit was shaded.\n\nThe evening fell that night beautiful and serene. No vapour clouded the\n\"silver sheen,\" and no breath of wind rustled a leaf on the trees.\n\n\"Hail to ye, bright queen!\" ejaculated Helen, as she folded her mantle\nround her, and was on the eve of seeking the wood; \"once more light me\nto my lover, if, after this meeting, you should for ever hide your face\namong the curtains of heaven.\"\n\nAnd, breathing quick with the rising expectation of being enclosed in\nhis arms, she issued from the house, and sought the well-known loaning\nthat led to the burying-ground. Her grief had sunk for a time amidst the\nswelling impulses of her passion; and it was not till she had been\npressed to his bosom, her brow kissed by his burning lips, and\ndeep-drawn sighs exhausted the ardour of a first embrace after so long a\nseparation, that one single thought of the cruelty of her situation\narose in her mind. They sat on the tumulus where they had sat often\nbefore. The gravestones around them lay serene in a flood of moonlight;\nthe soft \"buller\" of the wimpling Kirtle was all that disturbed the\nsilence of the night; calmly there reposed the dead of many generations;\nif their lives were ended, their griefs, too, were past; and Mary of the\nLe', whose grey monument reflected clearly the moon's light, was free\nfrom the anguish which, in struggling sighs, came from the bosom of her\nwho was _yet_ above the green mound. Helen told her lover all the\nextraordinary circumstances of her situation. She wept at every turn of\na new difficulty, and Adam's eyes were also suffused with tears; he\npressed her again to his breast, and bade her be of better heart, for\nthat better days were coming on the wings of time.\n\n\"I confess,\" he said, \"my dear love, that I am unable to understand the\nconduct of that dark-minded man; but what can he do, if my Helen should\nyet redeem her error, and make this necessary disclosure? That is alone\nthe cure of our pain. Oh, Helen! what a load of evil might have been\naverted from our heads by the exercise of a little self-command!\"\n\n\"I see it, I feel it,\" replied she; \"but there are powers higher than\nthe resolves of mortals. I have struggled with myself till the blood was\nsent back in my veins, and frightened nature saved the powerless victim\nof grief by the mantle of unconsciousness. What, Adam, shall I do? I\nfeel I am unequal to the task of speaking a daughter's rebellion and a\ntraitor's resolution.\"\n\n\"When everything is explained, Helen,\" replied the other, \"the treachery\ndisappears, and a father and mother's love will not die under the\npassing cloud of a little anger. Think of our bliss, love! Did hope\nnever bring courage to your tongue, Helen? Ah, what would that bright\ngoddess make Adam Fleming dare!\"\n\n\"And what,\" said she, \"would Helen Bell not dare for the love she bears\nto her Adam, if that sacred feeling of a daughter's duty were overcome?\nBut it must be. I shall fall upon my mother's neck, and weep out with\nburning tears of repentance a daughter's contrition. I will appeal to\nthe heart of a mother and a woman. I will conjure up her own first love,\nmove again the spring of her earliest affection, and feign to her my\nfather lost, and her heart wrecked. Ay, Adam, hope--the hope of the\npossession of you--will accomplish all this. Helen has said it, and the\nissue will prove.\"\n\nThis burst of generous resolution produced a flood of tears. She crept\ncloser to him, and the throbs of her heart were heard in the silence\nwhich reigned among the graves. A rustling sound among the trees roused\nher; she lifted her head, and fixed her eyes on a part of the wood on\nthe other side of the Kirtle. For a moment she watched some movements\nnot noticed by her lover. They rose, and Adam stood aside to get a\nbetter view of the interruption. In an instant she clung to his bosom; a\nloud shot reverberated through the wood; Helen fell dead--the ball\ndestined for Kirkpatrick having been received by the devoted maiden, who\nsaw the hand uplifted that was to do the deed of blood. Neither scream\nnor audible sigh came from her; one spring when the ball entered the\nheart--and death!\n\nKirkpatrick saw at once death and the cause of it, and in an instant he\ngave pursuit. Springing with a bound over the Kirtle, he seized Blacket\nHouse in the act of flight. The murderer turned, sword in hand, and a\nbattle was fought in the wood, such as never was witnessed in the heat\nof the contest of armies. Had his opponent had twenty lives, the fury of\nKirkpatrick would have been unsatiated by them all. His spirit was\nroused to that of a demon; a supernatural strength nerved his arm; he\ndespised life and all its blessings; the world had in an instant lost\nfor him any charms, but as the place where lived that one man whose\nblood was to glut his vengeance. His sword found the heart of Blacket\nHouse, and twenty wounds verified the ballad:--\n\n  \"I lighted down my sword to draw--\n  I hacked him in pieces sma'--\n  I hacked him in pieces sma',\n  For her sake that died for me.\"\n\nHe returned to the burying-ground. His Helen's body was as cold as that\nof those who lay beneath.\n\n  \"O Helen fair beyond compare,\n  I'll mak a garland of thy hair,\n  Shall bind my heart for evermair\n  Until the day I dee.\"\n\nSuch is the story of Helen Bell, a subject that has employed the pen of\nmany a poet, and brought tears to the eyes of millions. We sometimes,\naccording to our privilege, amuse our readers with pure unadulterated\nfiction. Would that our task had been such on this occasion!--for we\nprefer the sorrow which fancy, imitating truth, rouses in the heart, to\nthe depressing power of \"owre true a tale.\" We may add, that the Maid of\nKirconnel is more frequently called Helen Irving than Helen Bell, in\nconsequence of some doubt as to whether her mother was not really one of\nthe Bells, and her father an Irving. After giving the matter all due\nconsideration, and searching several authorities, we are satisfied that\nthe truth is as we have related it. Our very ingenious friend, Professor\nGillespie, in a section of the \"Gleanings of the Covenant,\" says that\nthe beautiful ballad, some of the lines of which we have quoted, was\nwritten on \"Helen Palmer.\" We must have his authority.\n\n\n\n\nTOM DUNCAN'S YARN.\n\n\nWilliam Duncan had lived nearly thirty years in the service of a landed\nproprietor in Dumfries-shire; where his honest, upright, trustworthy\ncharacter had gained him the esteem and respect of his employer; and he\nwas looked upon more in the light of a humble friend, than of a hired\nmenial. Nearly five-and-twenty years had elapsed since his marriage to\nJanet, who had long before been his \"neebor\" servant. Their family\nconsisted of two children, a son and daughter; the latter of whom had\nbeen, at the time our story commences, for some time married to a\nfarm-servant, and was living in a cottage closely adjoining her\nfather's. The son had been sent, when about seventeen years of age, with\ncattle to Annan, and had there made acquaintance with some seafaring\nmen, whose stories of the wonders of other lands had excited his\ncuriosity, and awakened an irrepressible longing to witness the strange\nsights he had heard of. It was in vain that his father and mother strove\nto divert his thoughts into another channel--\"he _would_ be a sailor;\"\nand they at last wisely consented to what they could not prevent. About\ntwo years after his departure, Willie's good old master died; having\nleft his faithful servant a small annuity, sufficient to make his old\nage comfortable--for he was now almost superannuated. The old gentleman\nhad died childless, leaving his estate to a distant relative; and his\nsuccessor, knowing the estimation in which Willie had been held by his\nlate master, allowed him to live rent-free in one of the cottages on the\nestate, and treated him, on all occasions, with great consideration and\nkindness. There was but one thing wanting to make the old couple happy:\ntheir simple appetites were easily satisfied; they had enough and to\nspare, without the toil of labour; but their son, their only son, was a\nwanderer, and years had passed since they had received any intelligence\nof him, and then they had only been informed that he had gone to some\nforeign station. \"Oh, could we but see him ance mair afore we dee!\" was\noften their exclamation.\n\nOne stormy night in October, the old couple were startled by a loud rap\nat the door.\n\n\"Preserve us!\" said Janet, in great alarm, \"what's that? Wha can that be\nchappin at the door on sic a nicht as this? Maybe it's some puir seekin\nbody, wantin shelter frae the blast. Up, Willie, man, an' ask wha it\nis.\"\n\n\"It's me, faither--it's Betty,\" replied the voice of the daughter, in\nanswer to her father's queries; \"let me in.\"\n\n\"What's brocht ye oot, woman,\" said Willie, \"in sic a clash o' rain as\nthis?\"\n\n\"There's a puir sailor lad come to oor hoose,\" replied she, \"an' he\nwants something to eat an' drink, an' we haena a bite o' cake left: hae\nye ony to spare? An', what think ye, faither? he kens oor Tam weel, an'\nsays he saw him no tha' lang syne.\"\n\n\"Kens oor Tam!\" said the old man; \"what for did ye no bring him wi' ye?\nGie's doon my plaid; I'll gang an' speak to him mysel.\"\n\n\"Na, na, faither; ye maunna cross the door while it's pourin this gate.\nI'll fetch him when he's had his supper. I'd hae brocht him afore, but I\nthocht maybe he micht be makin ye believe oor Tam was comin hame, or\nsome sic clavers, an' ye wad be wearyin to see him, an' maybe no see him\nafter a'.\"\n\n\"An' what for micht he no be comin hame?\" said Willie. \"It's time he\nwar, I think, if he wishes to find the auld folk to the fore.\"\n\n\"Well, but, faither, suppose he war to tell ye that he had seen oor Tam\ntwa or three days syne, an' that ye micht expeck to see him hame sune?\"\n\n\"Mercy, lass! what's the matter wi' ye, wi' yer maybes an' yer supposes?\nWhat gars ye gang swaggerin up an' doon that gait, lookin as ye were\ndemented? There's something pleasin ye by common. If 'twar Tam himsel,\nye couldna be mair uplifted.\"\n\n\"An' guid richt hae I to be uplifted, mither, if ye kent a'.\"\n\n\"Eh, it's Tam himsel!\" almost screamed the old woman; \"where is he? Let\nme see my bairn.\"\n\n\"Here's all that's left of him, mother,\" said a fine, stout-looking\nsailor; who, unable any longer to restrain his impatience, stumped in on\na wooden leg just as Janet was speaking.\n\n\"My bairn! my bairn!\" sobbed the old woman, throwing her arms round him;\n\"mony a lang day hae I prayed to see ye ance mair; an' noo that I hae\nye, oh, do I see ye a puir cripple!\"\n\n\"Oh, that's nothing, mother; nothing but the fortune of war. If I'd lost\nmy head instead of my leg, mother, I wouldn't have been here to tell my\nown story.\"\n\n\"That's Gude's truth; an' great reason hae we to be thankfu it's nae\nwaur. But, oh! it's a sair dispensation.\"\n\n\"Ah, old boy! how are you?\" said Tom, shaking his father heartily by the\nhand; \"all alive and hearty--eh?\"\n\n\"Weel aneugh, weel aneugh, Tam; just choppin on; but richt glad am I to\nsee ye again, my son. But, Tam, that wasna the gate ye wad hae spoken to\nyer auld faither afore ye gaed frae hame.\"\n\n\"My manner of speaking may be changed, father,\" replied the young man,\nrespectfully; \"but there's no change in my heart--that's true-blue\nstill; and it'll be long before I can clear off my reckoning with you\nfor all your kindness to me. No, no, father, my _heart's_ in the right\nplace still.\"\n\n\"Weel, my man, I hope sae. Sit doon an' tell us a' that's happened ye\nsin' we last heard frae ye. But wait a wee. Janet, seek oot the best\nthat's in the hoose for the puir fallow; an', whan he's had a guid\nsupper, he'll be in better fettle for giein us his cracks.\"\n\n\"Tak aff yer jacket, my bonny man,\" said his mother; \"an' hing it up\nafore the fire, an' draw in till't yersel. Willie, I'm thinkin there's\nsomething in the bottle. I'll put on the kettle, an' we'll gie the lad\nsomething he'll be nane the waur o'.\"\n\nAfter the sailor had done his devoirs at the supper-table, the whole\nparty drew round the fire, and the old man, lighting his \"cutty,\" said--\n\n\"Noo, Tam, tell us a' aboot what ye've been doin, an' hoo ye cam to lose\nyer leg.\"\n\n\"It's a terrible long yarn, father, and I'm afeared ye'll be glad to\nsing out Avast! before I've spun it out; besides, you'll not understand\nmy sea lingo.\"\n\n\"Nae fear o' that,\" replied he; \"ye ken I was ance a bit o' a sailor\nmysel. We could see the Solway frae the hoose I hired at when I was a\ncallan.\"\n\n\"But, eh, Tam, my man,\" said old Janet, \"ye talk English as weel's the\ngrand folk doon by.\"\n\n\"Ay, ay, mother; leave me alone for that. My messmates used to say as\nhow I ought to have been a Methodist preacher, seein I knowed so well\nhow to tip them the dictionary.\"\n\n\"Hear till him!\" said the delighted mother, holding up her hands in\nadmiration.\n\n\"But, howsomdever, they haven't made me proud on't, you see, with all\ntheir blarney. But I must carry on, or my yarn'll reach from this to the\nend of next week. It's now six years since I got a berth on board one o'\nthem Newcastle colliers, and a jolly time we had on't; for, though we'd\nlashing to do, and no want of wet jackets, there was always a full\nbread-bag, and swipes and grub at no allowance. They're the craft to\nteach a man his duty! Well, I'd been in that trade about a year, when I\ngoes ashore one day with the mate at Wapping; and, while we were sitting\ncomfortably swigging our grog, the landlord comes rushing in, and, says\nhe, 'My lads, you must brush; there's the pressgang a-coming.' Hearing\nthat, the mate and I bolted out of the door, and ran for it; but they\ntwigged us, and gave chase. They nabbed the mate in less nor no time;\nbut I cracked on a press o' sail, and was dropping them astern fast,\nwhen, as I was looking back at them over my shoulder, I ran stem on to\nan old fishwife. My eyes, what a crash! I sends her and her sprats\na-swimming in the gutter, and I falls as flat as a flounder on the\npavement, spouting out blood from my nose, like a whale. Well, to cut a\nlong yarn short, we were taken on board the tender, and afterwards\ndrafted into the Fire-eater frigate, which was stationed on the north\ncoast of Ireland. I was very well off on board the frigate. 'Sharp' was\nthe word, to be sure, and the cat often wagged her tail; but then, as\nlong as a man was smart and willing, he'd never no 'casion to be\nafeared: there was never no favour nor affection there. Well, as I said\nafore, we were cruising off the coast of Ireland, when, one day, it came\non to blow great guns from the westward. For three blessed days, there\nwas the little Fire-eater tossing and tumbling, and kicking up her\nstarn, and going through as many manoeuvres as a dancing-master, till\nat last we were driven so far west that we made the coast of Argyle;\nthen 'bout ship we went, and stood away again to the eastward. Well, we\ncarried on for a matter of four-and-twenty hours, with a little more\nnorthing in the wind, when we made land again, and hauled up two or\nthree points to clear it. The weather was so thick ye might a'most have\ncut it with a knife, and there wasn't such a thing as a dirty face on\nboard, the sea made a clean wash of everything, and it blowed--my eyes,\nhow it did blow! Mayhap, you call this a gale, but you wouldn't have\nheard it beside that. It was bad enough to be on deck, but ten times\nworse below; a devil of a sea smashed in some of the ports, and the\nleeside of the main-deck was three feet deep in water. And then, while\nwe were hard at work, stuffing up the holes where the water was pouring\nin, and pumping, there was an awful stramash on deck; for there was the\nland again, close aboard of us ahead. 'Wear ship!' was now the cry, and\naway went the little hooker again on the other tack, and bravely did she\nbehave--a better sea-boat never swam; for, battered and knocked about as\nshe was, she showed true pluck; no sooner was she knocked over by a sea,\nthan she rose again like a duck, though she was forced to shake her\nfeathers now and then. Well, at eight-bells in the first watch\n(midnight), we thought it was all up with us again, for there was the\nsurf breaking on the rocks little more than half-a-mile on the\nlee-bow--and touch-and-go it was; but our tight little barky--though she\nwas anything but tight by that time--though she lay over till she was\nhalf buried alive, looked boldly up in the wind, and shot past like a\nsea-bird. If there hadn't been such a devil of a noise, you might have\nheard a pin drop just then. There was not a man on deck who did not hold\nhis breath, and gasp, when the danger was past, like one that's just\nescaped drowning.\n\n\"'By the powers!' says I to Bill Jones, 'that was a close shave.'\n\n\"'You may say that,' says he.\n\n\"Just as he was a-speaking, the moon shone out, and there, not six\nhundred yards to leeward, were breakers again. The sea was running as\nhigh as our tops at the time; but beyond and above it we saw the\nbreakers curling their white tops, foaming, and dashing, and roaring, as\nif they were raging to get at us, as you may have seen wild beasts\ntearing and leaping, and striving to break their chain to get out of the\nmenagerie at their prey. Now, indeed, it seemed there was no chance of\nescape--there was no room to wear, and the ship was already half-buried\nunder her canvas; our only hoped seemed to be in our ground tackle, and\norders were given to clear away the anchors, and to have all ready for\ncutting away the masts. That was an awful moment; we thought it was all\nup with us, and there was many a pale cheek, and many a muttered prayer\nfor mercy and deliverance; for the worst amongst us are glad to look\naloft when death is staring us in the face below. Our captain was as\nbrave a fellow, and as good a seaman, as ever stepped a plank. What his\nfeelings may have been, it's impossible for the likes o' me to say; but\nI never seed him more cool in a calm than at that moment, when the\nbravest might have flinched, and no man could have cast it in his teeth.\nHis voice never shook when he gave his orders, loud, clear, and\ndistinct; and his gallant bearing cheered the down-hearted, and gave\nfresh pluck to the daring. He was a trump, that fellow! He ordered the\nforetopsail and foresail to be set. It seemed to be a rash and dangerous\nexperiment, but it succeeded. Nothing venture, nothing win; we might\nhave lost our masts, but we saved the ship. The little frigate lay over\nfor a minute, as if she was never going to rise no more; all hands\nthought the masts must go, for everything aloft grinned again, and the\nrigging was as taut as bars of iron; but it held on, and the frigate\nrighted again, and sprung ahead, as you have seen a hare make a fresh\nstretch from the hounds--and we were all saved. We shaved the reef so\nclose, that I'm blessed if I couldn't a'most have chucked a biscuit on\nshore.\"\n\n\"Mercy!\" said the old woman; \"what an escape!\"\n\n\"Ay, mother, we sailors have many a narrow squeak for it, that you\nlong-shore folks never dream of; but you know, as the song says,\n'There's a sweet little cherub sits perched up aloft, to take care of\nthe life of poor Jack;' and we're as safe, for the matter o' that, on\nthe stormy sea, as you are on the terry firmy, as our doctor used to\ncall the land.\"\n\n\"Weel, but what was the upshot o' the business?\" said Willie.\n\n\"Why, ye see, though we had escaped so mirac'lously like, we were still\ntoo near a lee-shore to be quite comfortable; for we'd another headland\nto weather afore we could say we was clear o' danger. There was never an\neye closed on board that night, and a long and weary night it was.\nBlessed if ever I seed a craft stand up under her canvas as our little\nbarky did, carrying on at the rate of seven knots an hour, while the sea\nmade a fair breach over her every now and then, and made her stagger\nfrom stem to starn. At last, 'old roarer,' as I've heard our doctor call\nthe daybreak, made its appearance, and we saw the land we was afeared\no', some distance astarn. After that, the gale began to moderate, and a\nfair wind soon took us under our anchorage.\"\n\nHere old Janet interrupted her son, with, \"Weel, but Tam, ye haena tauld\nus yet hoo ye cam to lose yer leg.\"\n\n\"Never hurry no man's cattle, mother,\" replied the sailor; \"leave me to\nspin my own yarn my own way, and I'll come to the end on't at last; I\ntold you you'd cry out Avast! afore I'd done.\"\n\n\"Hoot, Janet,\" said Willie, \"let the lad tak his ain gate. It just\nastonishes me to hear him rinnin the words oot sae glib, an' him sic a\nsolid callant as he used to be.\"\n\n\"Weel, weel, gang on, my man; I'll no meddle wi' ye ony mair.\"\n\n\"Then here goes! Carry on again, says I,\" replied Tom. \"The frigate I\nbelonged to afterwards went on the Jamaica station, and cruised about,\nto protect the merchantmen from the pirates as infested them seas. Well,\nwe were dodging about one night, under topgallantsails, off Cape St\nAntonio, with just wind enough to make the barky crawl through the\nwater. It was my look-out on deck, and I sees something like a large\nbird, as it seemed to me, hovering about in a patch of clear sky; so I\nstared at it, and stared at it, but I couldn't make out what it could\nbe, for it kept moving backwards and forwards, but always in the same\npart of the sky. So I calls the midshipman of the watch, and says to\nhim--\n\n\"'D'ye see that large bird a-flying about there, sir? It's the biggest I\never seed, and it keeps always about the same place; I can't make out\nwhat it can be after.' Well, he looks and wonders like myself, and then\nhe goes to fetch the night-glass; and, after he'd squinted through it\nfor a minute or two, he just mutters to himself, 'The devil!' and away\nhe runs aft to the luftenant of the watch, and brings him a-running back\nwith him.\n\n\"'Whereabouts?' said the luftenant.\n\n\"'There, sir; just under that cloud that's hiding the moon.'\n\n\"'Ay, so it is!' said he; 'I see her spars plain enough; nothing but a\nroyal loose--and there's her hull!' he continued, as the moon broke out,\nand showed us a long, low, rakish-looking square brig, lying as snug as\na duck in the water, about two miles on our lee-bow. 'I don't like the\nlook of her at all,' says the luff, and away he goes to make his report.\nShe seemed to have twigged us at the same time, and didn't like the look\nof us neither; for, almost before the smoke had cleared away from our\nbows, after we had spoken to her with one of the forecastle guns, we\ncould hear the pipe on board of her, the night was so still; and, in a\ncrack, she was one cloud of canvas, from the truck to the lower boom.\nBlowed if ever I seed a man-of-war do the thing smarter. 'All hands make\nsail in chase!' was the cry on board of us, and, in a very short time,\nthe water was talking Spanish under our bows. Every stitch of sail was\npacked on the ship: but the stranger stood right away before the light\nbreeze, and crawled away from us fast, for that was our worst sailing\npoint. We kept a-blazing away with our bow guns, to bring her to; but\nthe more we fired, the more she wouldn't stop; and we might just as well\nhave fired at the moon, for all the mischief we could do her. At\ndaylight, she was hull down ahead; but the breeze freshened with the\nrising sun, and we began to fetch up our starnway, and, before noon, we\nbegan to drop our shot into her. She wasn't slow in answering at first\nfrom her stern guns, which were uncommon well sarved, and every now and\nthen walked a ball through our sails, but luckily did not strike our\nmasts. We were overhauling her in great style, peppering away as fast as\nwe could, when all at once she began to yaw about, and, giving a broad\nsheer away to port, she shortened sail, and then came to the wind again\non the starboard tack, with her maintopsail to the mast, and doused a\nred rag she had a-flying at the main. We gave over firing, and soon\nbowled up alongside of her, rolled up the small sail, hauled up the\nforesail, and backed the main-yard. Our captain hailed her in a devil of\na rage, and was answered in some lingo I couldn't understand; but the\nfellow pointed to his boat, as had a plank knocked out of her side; and\norders were given to man our boats, and send them on board, to take\npossession of her. Well, just as we were a-lowering the boats, and all\nhands pleased at the thoughts of a good prize, blowed if she didn't\nquietly steal her fore-yard forward a little, to gather way, and before\nyou could say Jack Robinson, she was braced sharp up, with all her small\nkites set, and, as she stood across our bows, she pitched it into us in\nstyle. It was a blind look-out, sartinly, to let the sneaking scoundrel\nslip through our fingers that way; but there was no help for it now. The\nboats were secured again; and in a few minutes we were after her. As\nlong as the breeze held strong and steady, we had rather the best on't;\nbut it soon began to die away, and then we thought we would lose her for\nsartin, when a lucky shot crippled her gaff, which soon snapped like a\ncarrot. Now that so much after-sail was off her, she couldn't keep her\nwind, and we neared her fast. 'Don't spare her, my lads!' shouted the\ncaptain; and we _did_ pour the grape and canister into her in fine\nstyle, till she was a regular wreck; but she showed pluck to the last,\nand kept blazing away at us as long as she was able. At last she got\ntired, and gave over firing, and struck her colours. The boats were well\nmanned and armed, and were again sent to take possession of her; the\nfrigate running almost alongside, and threatening to blow her out of the\nwater, if she attempted any further resistance. When we were coming up\nunder her quarter in the boats, we heard the sound of loud quarrelling\non board, and when we got fairly on the quarterdeck, we found the\ncaptain of the pirate swearing like a trooper, and saying as how his\ncrew had betrayed him, like cowardly dogs, as they were. He kept\nstamping up and down the deck like mad, looking as if he could eat the\nluftenant, when he took his sword from him. Ten or twelve\ndesperate-looking rough'uns as ever I seed gathered round him, muttering\nthat it was better to die on the quarterdeck like men, than hang like\ndogs at the yardarm, and all at once they snatched up some tommyhawks as\nwas lying on the deck, and made a desperate rush upon us. We had an\nawful tussle for it; and, just as we were in the thick on't, hand to\nhand, up runs a young man from below, and sings out to us, 'Save\nme--save me!' As soon as the pirate captain seed him, he ran at him like\na tiger, and, seizing him by the throat, shouted out, 'Dead men tell no\ntales!' and raised his tommyhawk to cleave him to the skull. Poor lad!\nhe thought his signal for sailing was made, that it was all up with him.\nHe muttered, 'Mercy! mercy!' But poor mercy would he have met with, if I\nhadn't run up just in time, and fetched the fellow a slash with my\ncutlass, which made him drop the tommyhawk like a hot potato. He left\nthe lad, and turned round upon me, gnashing his teeth like nothing at\nall with very rage, and, before I had time to wink my eye, he snatches a\nloaded pistol out of my belt, and smashes my leg to shivers. Down I\ndropped; but before he could finish what he had begun so cleverly, a\npistol flashed close to his head, and he staggered, and fell, never to\nrise no more. When I came to my senses again, I found myself in the\nsick-bay, on board my own ship. The surgeon was forced to cut off my leg\nto save my life; and when we arrived at Port Royal, I was sent ashore to\nthe hospital, and afterwards got my discharge.\"\n\n\"An' what o' the--what d'ye ca' them--rats?\" said old Janet.\n\n\"Oh, they were taken into Port Royal, and tried for piracy; there was\nlots of evidence against them, the bloodthirsty rascals, and they were\nall hanged, except three or four. And so there's an end of my yarn,\nfather; and a precious long one, I daresay, you think it is; and here am\nI come home a poor useless cripple, to moor myself for life, if so be\nyou'll let me come to an anchor under your lee.\"\n\n\"Ay, my boy,\" replied the old man, clapping him kindly on the shoulder,\n\"as long's there's a plack to the fore in the purse, or a gowpenfu' o'\nmeal in the kist, ye'se aye be welcome to a share.\"\n\n\"True-blue for ever!\" shouted Tom; \"but, father, it's not come to that\nyet; I'm not going to anchor without paying the harbour dues. Here,\"\ncontinued he, tossing a well-filled purse to the old man; \"I haven't\nbeen so long afloat for nothing; there's a good whack of prize-money\nthere, and I'll come in for a pension by and by, if I've luck.\"\n\n\"Keep it yersel, Tam,\" replied Willie; \"I'm no gaun to touch a bawbee\no't. Gude be thankit! I hae aneugh an' to spare.\"\n\nFinding his father firm in his refusal, Tom at last said--\n\n\"Well, well, keep it for me, if you won't keep it for yourself. It won't\nkeep company with me long; for, somehow, whenever I cast off the\nstanding part of a guinea, it devilish soon unreeves itself in quarter\nless no time. Stow it away in your own lockers, and serve it out to me\nnow and then, when I wants baccy.\"\n\nAs this seemed a very rational kind of arrangement, the old man\nconsented to become his son's banker.\n\n\"And now that I've run all my line off the reel, father, you must give\nme a spell, and let's hear all that's been put down in your log since I\nleft you.\"\n\n\"Oh, it's no muckle I hae to tell, Tam,\" replied he; \"ae day has been as\nlike the ane that gaed afore't, as ae pear to anither; I was born here,\nand here I'll maist likely dee.\"\n\n\"But what's become o' bonny Jean Cameron, father? I remember well how\nfond I was of her, when I was a boy at school; I've oft thought on her,\nwhen we've been keeping up Saturday night, at sea. Many's the _tot_ I've\nemptied to her health.\"\n\n\"She's still to the fore, Tam, and 'maist as bonny as ever; she was\nmarried four years syne, but she's a widow noo.\" He then went on to tell\nhis son the other changes that had taken place since his departure, the\nprincipal of which was the death of his late master and kind friend,\nMurray of Greenha'. \"He was a guid freend to me,\" said Willie, drawing\nthe back of his hand over his eyes; \"but he's gane noo. I've nae cause\nto compleen o' my present maister, for a kinder couldna be; but he'll\nnever be to me like him that's gane.\"\n\nJames Hamilton, old Willie Duncan's present master, had made a large\nfortune in the West India trade, and was proprietor of a valuable estate\nin Jamaica. For a series of years, so rapidly had he amassed wealth,\nthat he seemed to be a peculiar favourite of Fortune; but Fortune has\never been a capricious dame, and those who are apparently highest in her\ngood graces, are often made to feel how uncertain is the tenure by which\nthey hold them. She seems, like some of the savages of the western\nworld, to pamper her victims with the good things of this life, only to\nmake them feel more keenly the reverses she is preparing for them. James\nHamilton was one of those men, unfortunately too rare, who do not allow\nthemselves to be dazzled by the flattering appearances of present\nprosperity, but who, aware of the changeable and fleeting nature of all\nearthly possessions, hold on the even tenor of their course, with minds\nprepared for every vicissitude. He always acted upon high and pure\nprinciple, and never, in the height of prosperity, forgot that the same\nSupreme Benefactor, who in his bounty had blessed him with abundance,\nmight, in his wisdom, think fit to try him with adversity. He was a\nkind-hearted and liberal man, but withal cool, quiet, and methodical in\nhis manners and actions. Heedless of the opinion of the world, he acted\nup to the dictates of his own conscientious feelings of right and wrong;\nand his strict notions of evenhanded justice often led him to enter into\nengagements, and to perform actions, which, though perfectly just and\nrigidly honest, bore, in the eyes of a misjudging world, the impress of\ncalculating selfishness and niggardly illiberality. But,\nnotwithstanding, there was such straightforward honesty, such\nchild-like, confiding simplicity, and such pure and unpretending\nChristianity, evident in his character, that it was impossible for those\nwho knew him well not to esteem and love him. His principal failing was\none which \"leaned to virtue's side.\" Upright, and honourable, and\ncandid, he thought all others like himself, and was often the dupe of\ndesigning and crafty men; who, with more worldly wisdom, were far his\ninferiors in judgment, and sound, practical sense; but who practised\nupon his confiding nature by the semblance of qualities which they did\nnot possess. He had long been blessed with the companionship of an\namiable and excellent wife; and, when she was snatched from him by a\nsudden and virulent disorder, he could ill have borne his bereavement,\nhad he not been supported by the conviction that she was only removed to\na purer and happier state of existence; and he bowed with submission to\nthe decrees of that Being who \"doeth all things wisely.\" His only son,\nJohn, who had been an object of most tender solicitude to both his\nparents, had been educated with the greatest care; and, though\napparently born the heir to great wealth, had undergone a regular\nprobation in a mercantile house in the city, of which he hoped soon to\nbecome a partner. Many of the elder Hamilton's friends had expressed\ntheir surprise at his choice of a profession for his son, and wondered\nthat, rolling in wealth, as he was supposed to be, he should condemn his\nheir to the drudgery of a counting-house: but events proved that he had\nacted wisely and well. The sudden and totally unexpected failure of a\nlarge West India house with which he was connected, and to support which\nhe had advanced considerable sums, gave the first shock to his credit;\nand, as is often the case, reverse followed reverse afterwards, until\nutter ruin seemed to be inevitable. Undazzled by prosperity, Hamilton\nproved himself to be equally unshaken by adversity. His character as a\nmercantile man stood so high for unimpeachable integrity and\nindefatigable industry, that he might have made head for some years\nlonger against the stream of adverse circumstances, and might, perhaps,\neventually have overcome them; but the plain path of duty was the one he\nhad followed through life, and he did not desert it now. He immediately\nwound up his affairs, and, having settled with his creditors to the\nuttermost farthing, he found himself almost destitute, with the\nexception of his personal property, and the West India estate; which,\nhowever, had for some years barely paid its own expenses. It was now\nthat Hamilton had reason to rejoice that his beloved son had, by his\nwise foresight, been rendered independent of circumstances, and had been\nbred up in habits which would enable him soon to acquire a comfortable\nestablishment for himself. He immediately sold his house and furniture,\nand retired to a humble lodging in the city, where, with patient and\nlaudable energy, he exerted himself to recover the ground he had lost.\nSudden and unexpected as his reverses had been, he never murmured at the\nhardship of his lot, convinced that all the dispensations of Providence\nare wisely and mercifully ordered, and happy in the consciousness that\nhe had nothing to reproach himself with, as far as concerned his dealing\nwith his fellow-men. About this time, his son John was sent out to\nJamaica, on some mercantile speculation, by the house with which he was\nconnected, and obtained permission to remain some time on the island, to\ninquire into the management of his father's plantation; and, if\nnecessary and possible, to effect its sale. He was about twenty-four\nyears of age; tall, and handsome in his appearance, and a youth of\nexcellent dispositions and steady principles. By his persevering and\nconscientious attention to his duties, he had gained the confidence and\nesteem of his employers, and had acquired the character of an active and\nclever man of business. He had long been a secret admirer of Ellen\nWinterton, the orphan child of an officer in the army, and who was\nliving under the guardianship of the head of his firm. Accustomed,\nhowever, always to keep his feelings under control, and to regulate his\ndesires by the rules of honour and of prudence, young Hamilton did not\nthink himself justified in making his proposals in form, until fortune\nshould have enabled him to do so as an independent man. The change in\nhis father's circumstances, while it called for fresh exertions on his\npart, seemed to separate him still more widely from the object of his\nwishes; but he bore his prolonged probation with cheerfulness, and his\ngrief at parting with Ellen was almost neutralised by the animating\nprospect of serving his beloved father. After an absence of some months,\nduring which he had written home several times, a letter was received\nfrom him, announcing his having left Kingston harbour, in the\nfast-sailing, well-armed merchant-ship, the Delight, and expressing his\nhope soon to join his father again. Fortune, in the meanwhile, had\nsmiled again upon the elder Hamilton, in a way he little expected. He\nwas surprised one evening by the receipt of a note from a gentleman,\nwhose signature was unknown to him, and who requested a personal\ninterview with him next morning, at a neighbouring coffee-house. Thither\nhe repaired accordingly, wondering what could be the nature of the\ncommunication the stranger wished to make to him.\n\n\"Mr Hamilton, I believe?\" said a gentleman, dressed in deep mourning, to\nwhom the waiter pointed him out, as he entered the room. \"I know you\nwell by name and character, Mr Hamilton, though I have not the happiness\nof your personal acquaintance, and I am happy to be the bearer of\npleasing intelligence to you. I am one of the executors of Mr Murray of\nGreenha', who died childless, and, in consequence of the demise of his\nnear relations, has made you his heir; and I have to congratulate you\nupon your accession to a valuable landed property and a handsome\nfortune.\"\n\nMr Hamilton was not a little surprised at this announcement. Murray of\nGreenha' was a distant relation of his late father; but the families had\nhad no communication for several years, and he had almost forgotten that\nsuch a person was in existence. This unexpected revolution, by which he\nwas again restored from poverty to wealth and comfort, excited his\nwarmest feelings of gratitude and thankfulness towards that Being in\nwhom he had always trusted with unwavering confidence. He immediately\nset off to the north, to visit his newly-acquired property, and to carry\ninto effect the provisions of his benefactor's will. Among other duties\ndevolved upon him, was that of providing for our friend Willie Duncan,\nwhose upright, manly character, and grateful attachment to his late\nmaster, gave him strong claims upon the good-will and respect of his\nsuccessor. He had been some time in the north when he heard of his son's\nhaving left Jamaica; but months instead of weeks had elapsed, and still\nno further accounts had been received of him, and he began to be\nseriously alarmed on his account. His agent in town, in reply to his\nanxious inquiries, informed him that the Delight was known to have left\nKingston harbour at the time specified, but that she had not since been\nheard of; and, as she was so very much beyond her expected time, and\nseveral ships had arrived in England, which had only just reached the\nharbour when she left it, there was now little doubt of her loss. This\nwas sad news to the elder Hamilton, and it required the exercise of all\nhis Christian fortitude to enable him to bear up under the heavy\ndispensation. He had gained unexpected wealth; but he for whom he prized\nit had been snatched from him. One afternoon, shortly after the return\nof the sailor, Tom Duncan, Mr Hamilton was sauntering, in a melancholy\nmood, along the high road near Greenha', and was scarcely aroused from\nhis abstraction by the rattling of a post-chariot, which was almost upon\nhim before he was aware of its approach.--\"Stop!--stop!\" said a voice\nfrom the inside. The door was dashed open, and in a moment the\nbewildered father was in the arms of his long-lost son. It was some time\nbefore either of them could speak. At last, the father sobbed out--\n\n\"My dear, dear son! I thought you were torn from me for ever! Heaven be\npraised for all its mercies! I shall now die happy. But how have I been\nso cruelly deceived? They told me you were lost, and my heart was almost\nbroken. But come, come away to the house, and, after you have refreshed\nyourself, you can gratify my curiosity.\" On entering the house, John\ncongratulated his father most affectionately on the change that had\ntaken place in his affairs. \"I am glad of it on your account, John; for\nmyself, I care not. I was as happy with my crust and cheese, and with my\nconsciousness that I was doing my duty, as I am now--rich beyond my\nfondest hopes. Yes, John, I thank Heaven, for myself, that I am blessed\nwith a contented spirit; and, for _you_, that, when I die, you will be\namply provided for.\" As soon as John had done ample justice to the\nsubstantial lunch placed before him, his father said to him, \"If you are\nnot much fatigued, we will take a stroll, and, while I am showing you\nthe lions, you can be telling me your adventures.\"\n\n\"With all my heart,\" replied he.\n\n\"When we left Kingston harbour in the Delight, we were all in high glee,\nin the anticipation of a speedy and pleasant voyage. Our ship was one of\nthe fastest of her class, well armed, and manned with an active and\nspirited crew; so that, to all human appearance, we had little to dread,\neither from man or the elements. We had scarcely lost sight of the land,\nwhen the wind died away to a dead calm, and the sea became as smooth and\nclear as a mirror, glancing back the reflection of a bright and\ncloudless moon. The sails flapped heavily against the masts, as the ship\nrolled helpless and unmanageable in the long swell, and the water\ndripped from her channels, as she rose again, after dipping them deep\ninto the sea. All at once a small, dark cloud appeared on the larboard\nbeam.\n\n\"'Oh, it's nothing,' said the mate.\n\n\"Not so thought the captain, who fortunately came upon deck at the time.\n\n\"'All hands shorten sail!' shouted he. 'Bear a hand! Up foresail!--in\nroyals and topgallantsails! Brace the yards round to port! Stand by\ntopsail--haulyards and sheets!'\n\n\"These orders were barely carried into effect, when a sudden and\ntremendous squall struck the ship. The small sails were clued up, and\nthe topsailyards on the caps; but the gallant little bark staggered\nunder the shock, lay over till her gunwale almost touched the water,\nstruggled for a moment, and then rose again. The squall had overtaken\nthem with lightning-like rapidity, and was gone again almost as quickly.\nA few moments before, and a neater and snugger ship never swam the\nwater--now, she was almost a wreck aloft. The foretopmast was hanging\nover the side, the jib-boom gone, the maintop-gallant-mast snapped short\nabove the step, and the maintopsail in tatters. All this desolation had\nbeen the work of a moment; the demon of the storm had passed, and all\nwas again calm.\n\n\"'Thank Heaven it's no worse!' said the captain. 'Two minutes sooner,\nand we should all have been lost! Better lose a few sticks than the ship\nherself. But this will be a warning to you, Mr Rogers,' said he to the\nmate, 'not to be foolhardy for the future.'\n\n\"All hands were immediately set to work to clear away the wreck of the\nspars, and were busily employed all night. It was late in the forenoon\nbefore the wreck of the foretopmast was launched clear of the ship, and\na new maintopsail bent. During this interval, a light breeze had sprung\nup, and a strange sail hove in sight to windward. The captain mounted\nthe rigging, and got his glass to bear upon her, and, after a long and\nanxious look, paced the quarterdeck with hurried and irregular steps,\nglancing uneasily aloft, and hailing the men to bear a hand with their\nmast-ropes.\n\n\"'Rogers,' said he to the mate, at the same time handing him the glass,\n'take a look at that craft, and tell me what you think of her.'\n\n\"The mate looked long and carefully at her, and, returning the glass to\nhis superior, looked doubtingly and inquiringly in his face, and shook\nhis head--\n\n\"'I don't like the look of her at all, sir.'\n\n\"'Nor I, Rogers; however, we'll say nothing about her just now. If the\nair continues so light, it will take her some time to reach us, and we\nmust make good use of the opportunity. Hurry the men with the topmast.\nHeaven send us a cloudy night! As soon as it is dark, we'll alter our\ncourse.'\n\n\"By dint of hard work, and a suspicion among the crew that the stranger\nwas an unpleasant neighbour, we were all ataunto, as the sailors call\nit, before midnight, and were standing away before the light breeze. At\ndaylight, the captain's glass swept the horizon, and soon rested upon\nthe object of his search. A long and steady gaze seemed to confirm both\nhim and the mate in their first suspicion. The vessel, now considerably\nnearer us, had been evidently watching our motions, and was as evidently\nin pursuit of us. She was a long, low, rakish-looking brig, creeping\nalong before the faint breeze, and aiding its efforts with her sweeps.\n\n\"'It's the Dare-Devil, sir!' said the mate, his cheek paling as he\nspoke; 'I know her now by the black fiddlehead, and her mast-heads\nblack. A bloodier pirate never swam. The Lord have mercy upon us, for\n_he_ won't!'\n\n\"'Call the hands aft!' said the captain.\n\n\"The men assembled on the quarterdeck in stern silence. They seemed to\nanticipate what was to follow; but it was evident theirs was not the\nquietness of fear, but of determination.\n\n\"'My lads,' said the captain, 'that stranger, we have every reason to\nbelieve, is a pirate. If there had been anything of a breeze, we might\nhave escaped; but now, our only chance is to show her what mettle we're\nmade of. You will have to fight for your lives; for so soon as they set\nfoot on this deck, they will murder every soul on board. What say you,\nmy lads? Will you die like dogs, or fighting like brave men?'\n\n\"A simultaneous cheer from the crew was the only reply, and they were\nimmediately dismissed to prepare for the impending conflict.\n\n\"'Ah, there she shows her teeth at last,' said the captain, as a puff of\nsmoke burst from the brig, followed by the flash and report of a gun,\nthe ball from which struck the water some distance from us.\n\n\"'It is of no use our attempting to escape, Rogers!' said the captain;\n'he is gaining upon us fast. We will not fire a gun till he is close\naboard of us, and till every shot will tell.'\n\n\"The guns were all loaded with grape, the fire-arms placed in readiness\non deck, and the men ordered to lie down at their quarters, and not to\nfire a shot till the order was given. Meantime, the pirate rapidly\napproached, and her shot began to tell upon our rigging and sails. The\nDelight kept steadily on her course; but her yards, which had been\nnearly square, were drawn quietly forward, one by one, to port. The\npirate was sweeping up at some little distance on our quarter, and had\nhailed us to heave to directly, or she would sink us. 'Now, my lads,'\nsaid our captain, 'be cool and steady. I'm going to cross his hawse: as\nsoon as the guns bear upon him, blaze away.'\n\n\"The helm was put a-starboard, and, as we crossed the bows, we poured\nour grape into him. The fire was not such a _raking_ one as we expected;\nfor he was too quick for us, and sheered to port almost as soon as\nourselves; but it was evident that we had almost sickened him, for he\nwidened his distance, and before night was almost hull-down to windward\nof us.\n\n\"'I hope we have got rid of our troublesome customer, sir,' said Rogers\nto the captain.\n\n\"'Don't halloo till you're through the wood,' replied he; 'we haven't\ndone with him yet, I'm afraid. I'm much mistaken if he is not trying to\nplay a game at humbug with us; as soon as it is dark, he will edge down\nupon us, and endeavour to take us by surprise. We will keep the men at\nquarters all night, and haul close to the wind, on the starboard tack,\nwhen darkness comes on.'\n\n\"At nightfall strict orders were given that all the lights should be put\nout, except that in the binnacle; and the ship's course was altered. We\nwere in great hopes that by these means we should elude the pursuit of\nthe pirate; for, though the breeze was still light, the night was dark\nand cloudy, and the mate, after sweeping the horizon with his\nnight-glass, said, in a joyous tone, to the captain--\n\n\"'I think we have outwitted him, sir; I see no signs of him now.'\n\n\"'Let _me_ look,' said the captain. 'Holloa! What is that dark body to\nthe northward? That infernal brig, I'll be bound. How could he have seen\nus?'\n\n\"As he spoke, his eye glanced aloft, and there, to his great surprise,\nwas a light shining at the mizentop-gallantmasthead!\n\n\"'What light is that?' shouted he; 'who has dared to disobey the orders?\nJump up there, one of you boys, and douse it. Rogers, there's a traitor\non board.'\n\n\"'Then Jose is the man, sir!'\n\n\"The Delight had lost a few hands in harbour, by fever; and, a few days\nbefore she sailed, a Portuguese seaman had been shipped to supply the\nplace of one of them. He was an active, able-bodied fellow, and produced\nexcellent certificates from former ships; but there was something\nextremely forbidding and repulsive in his countenance, and the mate was\nvery unwilling to obey Captain Forbes's order to receive him on board.\nHe was a man of few words; but his eyes were constantly wandering, with\na furtive glance, round the ship; and, when he did speak, it was\ngenerally to express his fear of pirates, and to inquire into the means\nof defence of the Delight. On the evening before the ship sailed, he\nwent on shore as one of the boat's crew, but did not make his appearance\nagain till next morning. For this breach of duty he made some plausible\nexcuse, which was unfortunately accepted. It was afterwards proved that\nhe was one of the crew of the pirate, and had been employed to gain all\nthe information in his power, as to our guns, time of sailing, &c., and\nto make private signals, if necessary.\n\n\"The brig kept hovering about till daylight, and then bore down upon us,\nand, when within range, fired a shot across our bows, to make us heave\nto. To this salutation no answer was returned, but we stood steadily on,\nas before, reserving our fire for closer quarters. Shot after shot was\ndropped into us, but still not a hand was moved on board. At last the\npirate came within hail, and swore with the most horrid oaths that he\nwould sink us, if we did not immediately heave to.\n\n\"'Now, my lads, stand by!' The men were on their feet in a moment.\n'Starboard a little! Fire!' Again our grape rattled into her, and we\ncould judge, by the bustle on her decks, and by the loud cries and\nexecrations that reached our ears, that our fire had been a destructive\none. Two of our men were killed by his discharge, and our boat amidships\nsmashed to pieces; but he again sheered off, and, shaking his sails in\nthe wind, dropped slowly astern. Again our hopes revived, but only to be\nmiserably disappointed. When he was beyond the range of our short\ncarronades, he kept dropping shot after shot into us, with deadly\nprecision from his long gun.\n\n\"'Rogers,' said the captain, 'if this game lasts long, it is all up with\nus; unless the breeze freshens, we shall all be murdered like so many\nsheep.'\n\n\"In vain did we endeavour to come to closer quarters with him; as we\nshortened sail, so did he. Our guns were useless,\nwhile--crash--crash--crash--followed each remorseless shot from his long\ntwelve. The breeze, instead of freshening, gradually died away to a\ncalm, and we lay entirely at his mercy, for he kept sweeping round us,\nand, unhurt himself, inflicted deadly injuries upon us. At last, we lay\na complete wreck upon the water; our gallant captain was killed, and\nfifteen of the men either dead or desperately wounded, and the gallant,\nbut exhausted remnant of the crew were persuaded by the mate to consent\nto surrender. Our colours were accordingly hauled down; yet the pirate\nfor some time paid no attention to this mark of submission on our part,\nbut seemed determined to gratify his thirst for slaughter, by putting\nhis threat of sinking us into execution. At last he ceased firing, and,\nsweeping up on our quarter, hailed to order the captain of the Delight\non board.\n\n\"'Our captain is killed, and we have not a boat left that can swim.'\n\n\"'Oh, then, if you can't come to me, I must go and fetch you!' A boat,\nwell manned, soon pushed off from the pirates, and in a few minutes\ndashed alongside of us. The first man who boarded us was the captain, as\nferocious-looking a monster as I ever beheld; and his followers, who\nswarmed up the side after him, were, in appearance, worthy of their\nleader. They rushed on board with cries of exultation and rage,\nbrandishing their cutlasses, and shouting, 'Down with them!' 'Cut them\ndown, and make an end of them at once!' And they were proceeding to put\ntheir threats into execution, when they were checked in a moment by the\nloud and commanding tones of the captain. 'Stand back, all of you! I'll\nshoot the first man that lays a hand upon them! No, no, my lads; it\nwould be letting the rascals off too cheap to kill them at once; we'll\ndespatch them in pairs at a time; there are twelve of them, so we shall\nhave six days' sport instead of one.' This proposal was received with\nshouts of savage joy by the crew. 'We'll keep these two till the last,'\ncontinued he, pointing to the mate and myself, 'that they may have the\npleasure of seeing all their comrades walk the plank before them. But,\ncome my lads, be smart; we have no time to lose; put all these fellows\non board our little hooker; and then we'll see what's to be done below.'\nWe were all immediately forced into the boat, and rowed on board the\nbrig, where some of us were put in irons, and others lashed to ringbolts\non the deck. The boat then returned, and the work of plunder commenced;\nand for some hours the pirate crew were busily employed in transferring\nto the brig all the valuables they could lay their hands upon on board\nthe Delight. When they had taken everything available, they scuttled the\nship, and left her, and obliged us, with many taunts and blows, to watch\nfor the catastrophe. It was a heartrending sight to us all to see our\ngallant little ship gradually settling in the water, rolling deep and\nuneasily, till at last, after a heavy lurch, she dipped her bulwarks low\ninto the water, and, struggling in vain to recover herself, sank to rise\nno more. A groan of horror burst from us all; we felt as if our last\nconnecting link with humanity was broken; we were left powerless in the\nhands of monsters in human form, but with the spirit of demons. Alas!\nour fears were but too well verified: that very evening two of our poor\nshipmates, after having been tormented in the most savage manner, were\nblindfolded, and compelled to walk out upon a plank launched from the\ngangway, from the end of which they fell into the sea, shrieking with\nhorror as they fell. As their bodies plunged heavily into the smooth\nwater, the captain turned to us with a savage sneer, and said--\n\n\"'They were too well fed by half; when it comes to your turn, you won't\nmake such a disturbance amongst the fishes.'\n\n\"But why need I dwell longer upon these horrors? For five succeeding\ndays, the same murderous scene was enacted; we were fed on bread and\nwater, and tormented in every way that cruelty could suggest, and then\nhad the horror of witnessing the death of our companions, and of\nanticipating the same cruel fate for ourselves. At last the mate and I\nwere the only survivors, and we were brought to the gangway, to mount\nthe same fatal plank which had been the instrument of death to our\nunfortunate shipmates. Our eyes were blindfolded, and, weak and\nexhausted as we were, we looked forward to death as an easy and happy\nrelease from our miseries. We bade each other farewell.\n\n\"'Our murderers allow us one blessing, Rogers,' said I--'to die\ntogether.'\n\n\"That remark saved my life.\n\n\"'A blessing is it?' exclaimed the captain; 'then it's one that I'll be\nhanged if you enjoy. You shall go to the devil by yourself. Take the\nhandkerchief off that sentimental gentleman's eyes, and let him see his\ndear friend take a leap in the dark. He can moralise about it till\nto-morrow evening.'\n\n\"Poor Rogers! I did indeed feel deserted, when the sullen plunge\nannounced that the sea had closed over its prey! To this refinement in\ncruelty on the part of the pirate, however, I eventually owed my\ndeliverance. Slowly and painfully did the first hours of that night pass\nover my head. My thoughts constantly recurred to the horrors I had\nwitnessed, and to the dreadful doom that awaited me on the morrow. The\ntears filled my eyes as I prayed for forgiveness of my past sins, and\nfor strength to support me through the coming trial. The brig was\ntumbling about on the almost calm sea, with all sails furled, except the\ntopgallantsail, which by some chance had broken adrift, and the crew,\nnot excepting the look-out man, were all asleep, when all at once the\nreport of a gun came booming over the water. The sound acted like magic\nupon the slumbering crew--they were on the alert in a moment--the sails\nwere set with wonderful quickness--the sweeps were manned, and the\nlittle schooner rippling through the water. Next morning we had\ndistanced the stranger considerably, and the pirate was in great hopes\nof escaping; but the breeze freshened, and before noon the frigate, for\nsuch she proved to be, had gained so much upon us, that her shot began\nto tell upon us. I was now hurried below, and a sentry was placed over\nme; the captain ordering him to blow my brains out if I attempted to\nescape, and adding, 'I'll settle his account by and by.' It was with\nimpatience almost amounting to agony that I listened to the strange\nmedley of sounds which reached my ear--the creaking of the sweeps, the\ncurses and shouts of our crew cheering each other at their work, the\nloud report of our guns, and the more faint and distant sound of those\nof the frigate; and I prayed for deliverance--prayed that some lucky\nball might find its way into the cabin, and put an end to my suspense\nand to my miseries at once. At last the sound of the sweeps ceased. I\nheard the rattling of blocks and the sound of running feet. I felt, by\nthe motion of the vessel, that some alteration was made in her course,\nand then--I burst into tears--I heard a voice hailing the brig! I felt\nthat the hour of my deliverance was at hand, and I breathed a prayer of\nsilent thankfulness to Heaven. Again there was a movement on deck, the\nbrig laid over to the breeze, and a loud shout burst from her crew, as\nthey discharged the guns. Merciful powers! she had escaped; and my\nspirit sank within me. But the avenger of blood was behind us, and his\nvoice spoke in the thunder of his guns. I heard a crash upon deck, then\nthe noise of something coming down from aloft, followed by the muttered\ncurses of my sentry, as he exclaimed, 'The gaff is gone!' The report of\nthe frigate's guns now became louder and louder, and the little brig\nabsolutely staggered, when the grape-shot rattled against her sides. Her\ncrew, however, seemed to be fighting with the desperation of madmen, for\nthey maintained a warm fire. At last all was silent on board; the firing\nceased, and not even a voice could be heard. Presently I heard the dash\nof oars; then the grating of a boat against the vessel's side; then loud\nand angry voices, and afterwards all the sounds of a desperate conflict.\nI looked up the companion--my sentinel had deserted his post, to join in\nthe fray. I saw the boat's crew of the frigate engaged in a deadly\nstruggle with the pirates. I rushed over to them, and had just joined\nthem, calling for help, when the pirate captain seized me by the\nshoulder, and raised his tomahawk to cleave me to the deck. Weak as I\nwas, I must have fallen a victim to his fury, had not a gallant sailor\nrushed between us, and inflicted a severe wound upon his upraised arm. I\nsaw my brave deliverer fall immediately afterwards by a pistol-shot; but\nhe was well avenged; for the next moment the pirate fell lifeless on his\nbody. I saw no more. I was carried, in a state of insensibility, on\nboard the frigate, and it was long before I recovered from the effects\nof my severe discipline on board the pirate. As soon as I was\nsufficiently recovered, I wished to hasten homewards immediately; but I\nwas obliged to remain, to give evidence against the crew of the\npiratical brig, all of whom, with the exception of three or four,\nsuffered the extreme penalties of the law. And now, my dear father, my\ntale is at an end, and grateful am I to the merciful Providence which\nhas restored me to your arms.\"\n\n\"My dear, dear son!--doubly endeared to me by the dangers you have\nundergone on my account--I am thankful that my altered fortunes now\nenable me to gratify what I know to be the dearest wish of your heart.\nGo to her, John--go to Miss Winterton--she is worthy of you: no longer\nrestrained by the clog of poverty, you may freely indulge the feelings\nof your heart.\"\n\nAs the father and son were walking along the road, they saw two men\napproaching them at some distance.\n\n\"Whom have we here?\" said John Hamilton.\n\n\"One of them is old Willie Duncan, a cottar of mine; and who the lame\nman is that is with him I know not. By the by, I heard that his son was\nreturned from sea; perhaps that's the man.\"\n\nWillie Duncan respectfully saluted his master, when he approached, and\nsaid--\n\n\"I was just bringing my son to----\"\n\n\"Good heavens!\" exclaimed John Hamilton, gazing earnestly at the\ndisabled man; \"it cannot be--yes, it is--my brave deliverer! My gallant\nfellow,\" continued he, shaking him heartily by the hand, \"how rejoiced I\nam to see you, and to have an opportunity to prove my gratitude to you!\nI heard you were dead--how did you escape?\"\n\n\"Why, blow me, your honour, if you didn't take me quite aback. I\ncouldn't make you out at first--you're twice the man you were when I\nsee'd you on the pirate's deck; and I'd never no thoughts of falling in\nwith you so near home. I'm right glad, however, to see your honour once\nmore.\"\n\n\"Duncan,\" said Hamilton, senior, with a trembling voice, \"I owe you a\ndebt I can never repay. You lost your limb in saving the life of my\nson--it shall be my endeavour to make the loss to you as light as\npossible.\"\n\n\"And is the gentleman the son of my father's good master? Then a fig for\nthe leg!--it couldn't have been lost in a better cause. And, as for\ngratitude, sir, you owe me none; his honour, here, would have done the\nsame for me, if the case had been reversed, like--if he'd been the\nsailor, and I'd been the gemman.\"\n\n\"Well, well, my good fellow--no doubt--we won't argue on that point;\nonly tell me how I can serve you, and I will do so, to the best of my\nability.\"\n\n\"Why, your honour, I wants for nothing just now. I've got a lot of\nprize-money, and my father's snug roadstead to anchor in; but, if your\nhonour likes to give me a few ounces of baccy, I won't say but what I'll\nbe obligated to you.\"\n\n\"A modest request, certainly,\" said Mr Hamilton, laughing; \"but we must\ngive you something better than tobacco, and as much of that as you like\ninto the bargain. Come, William, as your son won't speak, you must do so\nfor him. Tell me how I can best serve him.\"\n\nA whispering consultation here took place between father and son, which\nwas put a stop to by the latter addressing Mr Hamilton in a sheepish,\nconfused manner, twirling his hat in his hands at the same time, and\nfeeling the rim all around, as if to ascertain that it was all there.\n\n\"Why, your honour, as your honour's so kind----Blow'd if I can speak\nabout it, father! You see, your honour, I'm a first-rate hand at a yarn\non a Saturday night; but, somehow, my jawing-tacks gets all bedevilled\nwhen I begins to speak about _she_.\"\n\n\"And who's she?\" said Mr Hamilton, laughing--\"some old sweetheart that\nhas been waiting for you?\"\n\n\"Why, it's bonny Jean Cameron that was when I went away. She's a widow\nnow, your honour, and, as I wants to be spliced, and she's no objection,\nwhy, if it's not making too bold, if your honour would let us have one\nof your empty cottages, we'd join company at once, and sail together for\nthe rest of our cruise.\"\n\nWe need hardly say that the sailor's request was cheerfully granted; and\nin a few weeks he and his wife were happily settled in a neat cottage,\ncomfortably and substantially furnished by Mr Hamilton, who likewise\nsettled upon him an annuity, sufficient to keep him from want, but not\nso large as to encourage habits of idleness or dissapation. John\nHamilton was equally successful in his suit; and his union with Ellen\nWinterton proved that those who have been tried by adversity are best\nqualified to enjoy prosperity.\n\n\n\n\nTHE PROFESSOR'S TALES.\n\nTHE THREE BRETHREN.\n\n  \"Together such as brethren are,\n  In unity to dwell.\"\n\n\nThe unity of the three brethren about whom I am going to speak is\ncomplete: some are united in heart and soul, but these are united in\nbody and frame: closer than the Siamese twins did their union abide,\ntill, in an evil hour, the winds smote them, and they were no\nmore--\"_Sed stat nominis umbra._\" They have left behind them a name and\na record which will not soon perish. They might have said--had speaking\nbeen at all their forte--with Horace, \"_Non omnis moriar.\"_ They shall\nlive in the recollection of the present, and in the records of future\ntimes--at least it will not be from want of will, if the pages of the\n\"Tales of the Borders\" do not transmit their memorial to late posterity.\nThe three brethren! you exclaim, quite naturally enough. What! were they\nbrothers by blood or by marriage--brothers in profession--or, like\nSimeon and Levi, in iniquity? We should like to see the mist cleared\naway, and the subject made tangible. Well, listen!\n\nThe three brethren were three trees, or rather divisions of one tree--as\nlike each other as one pea is to another--which once stood in the middle\nof the high road from Glasgow to Dumfries, upon the banks of the Nith.\nPeople had it that their similarity was so great that it reached the\ndetails of their branches, and even leaves, and that they were in\nevery--even in the minutest--respect copies or fac-similes of each\nother. Nobody living--and far less any one dead--can tell their age.\nThey saw Oliver Cromwell and his saintly crew march into Scotland; and\nbeheld, in later times, the Highland host, in the year '45, pass along.\nThey might have given an old chronicle of ancient times and manners, had\nit not been that they probably did not outlive the age of Methuselah.\nBut\n\n  \"Improvisa vis lethi rapuit\n  Rapietque gentes.\"\n\nDestruction came in the shape of a nor'wester, and they are now in the\nact of being converted into snuff-boxes, writing-desks, and\ndressing-cases, for their old and attached acquaintances and friends;\nevery one seems more anxious than another to obtain a relic of the\nimmortal triumvirate--and they are more likely to be remembered with\npleasurable feelings than even were the Triumvirates of ancient Rome.\nBut now that they have bowed their heads, and given up their roots, it\nis proper that some effort should be made to perpetuate their memory;\nand who so fit as an old Closeburn man to execute this bold but\npraiseworthy task?\n\nThe explanation, however, requires a glance at the race of gipsies, one\nof whom thus characterises the race:--\n\n  \"My bonny lass, I work in brass--\n     A tinkler is my station--\n  I've travell'd round all Christian ground\n     In this my occupation.\n\n  I've ta'en the gold--I've been enroll'd\n     In many a noble squadron--\n  In vain they search'd, when off I march'd,\n     To go and clout the caldron.\"\n\nThe gipsies have now disappeared entirely from the north of Scotland;\neven in Fife, the former residence of the gipsy clan Jamphrey, no such\nvariety of the species is to be found. Their chief residence, as we have\nhad occasion to say before, is now on the Borders, where, in the village\nof Yetholm, and in Langtown, they still maintain a separate clanship.\nThey still are, and have always been, extremely jealous of the marriage\nof any of their daughters, in particular, out of the tribe. Hence the\nfact, that almost every third person amongst them labours under some\nmental peculiarity or defect. Their male youths enjoy greater latitude;\nyet, on their alliance with the Philistine fair, they are usually looked\ndown upon, and regarded as a kind of amphibious race, who, like the\n\"Proselytes of the Gate\" amongst the Jews, were not admitted into equal\ncommunion. Their children are brought up (at least were so, till of\nlate) in the most religious contempt of the alphabet. Nor are any moral\nprinciples inculcated, beyond successful thieving--that is, downright\nknavery--and dexterity of execution as workmen, whether it be in forming\na ram's horn into a cutty spoon, or in appropriating the fattest hens\nfrom the farmer's bauks. Their women, too, are expert fortunetellers,\nand have husbands ready-made for sixpence. They are a fearful, fearless\nrace, wandering about, in former times, almost during the whole year,\nand pitching their tents--in other words, setting their asses to graze,\nand themselves to forage--wherever solitude or the tolerance of the\nlaird or farmer will permit their presence. When Scotland, in general,\nand Dumfries-shire in particular, from Criffell to Corsincon, were\ndensely covered with natural wood, these people divided the woodland\nwith the fox, the boar, and the wolf, and were extremely expert in\nnoosing hares, rabbits, and polecats. Theirs was the bow, and ultimately\nthe long-barrelled gun, for securing the fowls of heaven; and the set\nline, liester, and fishing-rod for the tenants of the water.\n\nAs was the case with the Roman of old--\"_Patres ad insignem deformitatem\npuerum cito necaverunt;_\" in other words, and in a different tongue,\nthey put their diseased and deformed offspring to death; and more than\none-half of those which were permitted to survive were killed in a year\nor two by harsh usage, cold, and imperfect clothing. Thus their youth\nwhich did survive these manifold trials and risks rose up into man and\nwomanhood, proud, hardy, strong, well-seasoned plants, exhibiting much\nmuscular power and symmetry in the male, and occasionally uncommon\nbeauty and figure in the female form.\n\nThe \"wild gazelle exulting\" and bounding on the hills of Judah was not\nmore elastic in its motion, nor penetrating and fascinating in its\nglance, than were many of the fairer wives and daughters of these hordes\nof part mendicant, part predatory, and part artist wanderers. Their\nchief resorts, in ancient times, were to the banks of the Hermitage and\nSlitterick, near Hawick; to the banks of the Dee, near Kirkcudbright;\nand, above and beyond all, to the woods of Colliston, and the linns of\nBalachun, on the Nith, in Dumfries-shire; and it is to this last\nlocality that the following narrative particularly refers.\n\nIt was about the middle of the month of October that a packman, or\npedlar, with an enormous chest laid transverse on his shoulders, was\nseen wending his way up the banks of the Nith, from Manchester to\nGlasgow. He had hoped to have reached Thornhill, then an exceedingly\nsmall village, before dusk; but this being his first migration in this\ndirection, he found himself so surrounded and obstructed by the river\nNith on the one hand, the linns of Balachun on the other, and an almost\nimpenetrable wood in front, that night came upon him, dark and moonless,\nwhilst still pushing his way through brambles, thorns, and every species\nof tangling and perplexing underwood. At last, despairing of extricating\nhimself, and terrified, at the same time, by the roaring of waters,\nhowling of wild beasts, and hooting of owls, he extricated his shoulders\nfrom the pack-bands, and, selecting as dry and soft an apartment as\ncircumstances permitted, he set himself down on the grassy turf, with a\nbirch branch for his canopy, and the old stump of a tree for his lean.\nIn a little time he was alarmed by the cries of what appeared to be a\nchild in the act of being cruelly murdered. Mungo Clark (for such was\nthe packman's name) rose, and, advancing a few steps in the direction of\nthe now faintly-emitted sounds, found a hare in the act of expiring of\nstrangulation by means of a noose, or girn, formed of strong wire, and\nplaced so as to intercept a little footpath made by the feet of the wild\nanimals of the forest. Mungo was in the act of disengaging the dead\ncreature from its executioner, the noose, when he heard the rustling as\nif of a lion on the spring, very near him, and all at once he found\nhimself in the iron grip of a customer with whom he had no wish, on\nthis occasion at least, to deal.\n\n\"And wha are ye,\" were the sounds which, in a hollow and harsh tone,\nfirst greeted his ears--\"and wha are ye, man, wha hae made yer bed this\ndark night wi' the howlets and the wull-cats--ye wha meddle wi' what\nnaething concerns ye, and burn yer fingers in ither folk's kail-pats?\nSpeak, man, and dinna keep me blethering here, for I hae got ither fish\nto fry, I trow, than standing here palavering wi' sic as you--come,\nspeak, body, or I'll send ye, pack an' a', sixty yards lower into the\nbumbling pool o' Balachun Linn.\"\n\nMungo Clark was neither soldier nor belted knight, nor was he armed for\nany deadly conflict; but he was not accustomed to submit without\nresentment to such rough usage.\n\n\"Unhand me, rascal!\" was the packman's reply; and making, at the same\ntime, a lateral jerk, he twisted himself fairly out of the assailant's\ngrasp.\n\nA whistle was immediately set up, and in an instant our traveller was\nsurrounded by four strong, ablebodied men, who immediately flashed the\nlight side of a dark lantern full in his face.\n\n\"Oh ho!\" said one of the newly-assembled assailants; \"this is neither\nthe deil, nor the factor, nor the wood-keeper, nor the old boy,\nColliston himsel, but just plain Mungo Clark, Widow Clark o' Penpont's\nson, who has been at Manchester feathering his pack, for the first time,\nwi' all manner o' varieties; such as Bibles, psalm-books, ribands,\nshawls, and waistcoat-pieces. Why, by the flesh-pots o' Yetholm--and\nthat's a terrible oath--we'll adopt Brother Clark into our number, and\nteach him how to snare game, and spear salmon, instead of drivelling\naway his time and strength under the pressure of a load\" (trying to\nraise the pack) \"which would break the back-bone of an elephant.\"\n\nThe matter appeared to Mungo to be settled without any consent of his,\nasked or obtained; so, knowing somewhat of the character and habits of\nthis wandering and peculiar race, he was compelled to make a virtue of\nnecessity, and, raising his pack again on his shoulders, to descend with\nthem into the very lowest depths of the linns of Balachun. Even at\nnoonday, on the 23d of June, the Pass, as it is called, is dreary, dark,\nand dreadful; but now, under the cover of night, and with no other\nguidance than a small lantern, which scarcely made darkness visible,\nMungo hesitated ere he would commit himself to the crossing of a fearful\ngully, and the walking along the face of a rock, or scaur, scarcely\neight inches wide, and overhanging a fearful pool, well known by the\nterrible appellation of \"Hell's Caldron.\" The party at last arrived at a\nsmall grassy plot, encircled on the one side by the roaring stream\ncalled Clauchry Burn, and on the other by an amphitheatre of steep,\nhigh, and overhanging rocks, fringed and darkened in with brushwood and\nfurze, and guarded, at the upper and lower extremities, by the rocks,\nwhich, after receding a little to make room for this grassy retreat,\nclosed in again upon the current, and prevented all _easy_ entrance or\nescape. Soon after Mungo's arrival, he discovered a large kettle,\nboiling and bubbling, in a crevice of the cliff, suspended from a\ntransverse beam; and beheld around it, now that a parcel of sticks and\ndry leaves were kindled, a most picturesque and motley group--women,\nchildren, men, boys, and lasses, of all hues, aspects, and sizes, were\nscattered about in profusion; and, as the flame flashed back from the\nred sandstone of the linn, their faces glared on Mungo with a demoniac\nexpression. It seemed the very picture of Pandemonium; and yet the\nhearty laugh, the bold oath, and the occasional inquiry, bespoke the\ninhabitants to be at least one remove from devils. Mungo was desired to\nrest him and his load on the apron of the rock, and compelled, without a\nnay-say, to unstrap his pack, and expose his goods, not (seemingly) for\nsale, but for plunder. This was not the way, assuredly, to turn the\npenny to advantage, but what can one say, \"_durum telum\nnecessitas?_\"--there was no avoiding the spoliation. To be sure, the\nking, or leader of the gipsy tribe--amounting probably to not less than\nforty or fifty persons--hinted in his ear that he should not be a loser\nat last; but, in the meantime, to his no small mortification, he saw his\nshawls, napkins, stockings, and waistcoat-pieces, making the round of\nthe company without ceremony, and forgetting, like the dove from the\nark, to return whence they had fled. The pack having been thus\nransacked, and the pot having given audible intimation for some time of\nits preparatory doings, the king--for such he was--the notorious Donald\nFaa, with his three sons, Duncan, Cuthbert, and _Donnert_ Davie,\ntogether with the king's fair daughter, Helen Yetholm Faa, squatted down\non the grass, and without the help of forks, made a hearty meal on\nhares, chickens, turkeys, geese, and half-a-dozen brace of partridges,\nwhich might have rejoiced the heart even of a Dominie Sampson. The other\nmembers of the community seemed to acknowledge the deputed authority of\na young man of good features, and an athletic and genteel appearance,\nwho went by the name of the Squire. After _eating_ had had its fair\nshare of devoted and unremitted attention, a barrel, of considerable\ndimensions, began to make its way downward from amidst the recesses of\nthis water-worn and excavated rock; and a tub being hurled sideways into\nthe service, boiling water was procured, and sugar in no ordinary\nquantity commingled; and, by the help of a ladle and several chopin\ndecanters, the whole mass of Egyptian humanity was stirred up into song,\nlaugh, scream, inebriety, quarrel, battle, stupor, and insensibility.\nOur friend Mungo had no objections whatever to the feast, or to the\nmeans by which it was prolonged. He was afterwards notorious for his\ndrinking habits, insomuch that his observation on this occasion is still\nrepeated in the neighbourhood of the place of his nativity. When\nquestioned by the king respecting the size of his native village,\nPenpont, his reply was--\"It is an exceeding great city.\" This being\nquestioned, his proof was equally ingenious, and descriptive of his\nhabits--\"Why, Nineveh took Jonah three days to travel through it,\nwhereas Penpont generally takes me _seven_.\" He referred manifestly to\nhis habit of stopping and drinking at every petty inn and public-house\nin the village! The jest told exceedingly in his favour. Mungo, however,\nin spite of his losses and crosses, had a noble night of it, as he\nafterwards said, with the gipsies, and awakened next morning from his\ngrassy couch to cool his aching temples in the stream, and restore his\nstomach by a hair of the dog that had bit him. He then observed that the\ntwo sons, Duncan and Cuthbert, but not Davie (yclept Donnert, from his\npeculiarity of mental constitution), were absent, and that their father\nnot only exhibited no surprise respecting his sons' absence, but refused\nto give any account to his guest of the cause of it. Meanwhile, Mungo\nhad an opportunity of marking the appearances of the various objects\naround him somewhat more distinctly than he had been able to do on the\npreceding evening. Blankets, supported by forked poles, old clothes and\nrags of every description, formed a kind of nightly shelter for the\ncommon herd; whilst the royal head reposed in the midst of his male\nprogeny, on the lap of a projecting rock, with a few hare-skins for his\npillow, and a corn-sack for his coverlet. His fair daughter's bedchamber\nwas somewhat more removed beyond a projecting corner of the winding\nlinn, and she was protected from observation by the branches of the\noverhanging trees being drawn closely down over her, and by what had\nonce, in all probability, been a soldier's tent, but which was now\nmiserably rent, and unweather-worthy. It was manifest that this child\nwas the darling and care of a fond father; for she was not only provided\nin a superior manner, but, by the position of his own sleeping\napartment, she was protected from all intercourse with the other members\nof the tribe. Honest nature! thou art too many, even for a gipsy life;\nand even here parental affection hallowed and refined what was unseemly\nand revolting. I say revolting; for, in an obscure corner, and under the\nshelter of a hazel-bush, lay a figure, emaciated with disease, and\nprobably with dissipation and crime, groaning in agony, and regarded\nwith no more sympathy by the great mass of the tribe than if he had been\na strangled hare or a mangled horse. There was something indeed terrible\nin this sight. True, Helen Faa did all that she was permitted, but that\nwas but little, to alleviate his sufferings; but death was in his eye\nand in his throat--he made one great effort to rise, grasped a branch\nconvulsively, and ceased to live. Mungo would willingly have retired,\neven with the losses he had sustained, but he was not\npermitted--probably because old Donald conjectured that information\nwould be immediately lodged against him, and he would be compelled to\nrelinquish one of his strongest holds in the south of Scotland.\nMeantime, Mungo had an opportunity of beholding more closely the female\nportion of this society; and was exceedingly struck--for he was yet a\nyoung man and unmarried--with the really handsome faces and well-formed\npersons which characterised the whole; but far and away above all the\nrest shone Miss Helen Yetholm Faa--for thus was she designated by the\nclan--in the pride of health, youth, and black, or rather brown,\neyes--those weapons of female onset which are sharper than a two-edged\nsword, as Mungo used to sing or say afterwards, in a song which he\ncomposed on the occasion:--\n\n  \"They were jet, jet black, and like a hawk,\n  And wadna let a body be.\"\n\nAll this seemed to be fully appreciated by the Squire, who evidently\npaid the young princess particular attention, and seemed, at the same\ntime, sufficiently jealous of any foreign interference with the object\nof his attention. Donnert Davie was a stout, ill-made, squint-eyed\nbeing, who stammered in his speech, and seemed particularly useful in\ncarrying on the culinary operations, under the direction of Helen, in\nthe retreat. He felled wood for the fire, carried water to the kettle,\nheated cow and sheep horns in the flame; brought round about and close\nto the operator old pots, pans, and trenchers, which had been obtained\nto be clouted, clasped, and mended. He was, in short, a kind of gipsy\nfactotum; and when \"the house affairs did not call him thence,\" he would\nassociate with the stranger, stammering out such incoherent inquiries\nas--\"Whare been?--What do?--What do?--Mother dead?--Mother dead?--\nYes--yes--yes--true--true--true\"--muttering to himself, and repeating\nthe same monosyllable half-a-dozen times. His sister Helen was\nmanifestly kind to him, and would not permit any of the company to\ninsult or ill-use him.\n\nNight arrived, but with it not Duncan or Cuthbert; and it was not till\nlate on the following evening that they made their appearance, and with\nthem came silver and gold in abundance: consequently Mungo Clark's\nclaims were satisfied; and he was informed that, next morning, as they\nwere all about to decamp, he might pursue his journey homewards; but\nabout the following dawn, an authoritative voice from the top of the\nprecipice summoned the whole party to a surrender. One figure stood\nprominently forward, looking over the rock; and Donnert Davie, whose\nblunderbuss always lay charged beside him, immediately fired, and the\nfigure came tumbling down headlong, and sunk in the yawning abyss of\nboiling water. In a word, the whole party, after a most determined\nresistance, were taken prisoners by a military party obtained from\nDumfries; and it being proved against Duncan and Donald Faa that they\nhad stolen some cattle from Dalswinton Mains, and sold them on the sands\nof Dumfries--as also against Donnert Davie, that he had shot the\nserjeant who commanded on the occasion--the whole three brothers were\ntried, condemned, and sentenced to be executed, _in terrorem_, near the\nspot where their depredations had been committed. As there were three\npersons to execute, and the famous tree already referred to had three\nbranches, they appeared to the sheriff to be destined for each other;\nand accordingly all the three were hung at the same time on the same\ntree, which has ever since retained the appellation of \"The Three\nBrethren.\"\n\nOld Donald, his fair daughter, Mungo Clark, Squire Cockburn, and the\nrest, were set at liberty; but the gipsies were conveyed by a military\nescort across the Borders; and I have been given to understand that the\nSquire, who was the young laird of Glenae, after considerable opposition\nfrom the old father, was married to fair Helen Yetholm Faa; and that he\nwas the happy husband of the fair dame who used afterwards to go about\nthe country in disguise, attending in gipsy garb at weddings, kirns, and\nmerry-meetings, and giving origin to the well-known reel--\"Auld Glenae.\"\n\n\nTHE MISTAKE RECTIFIED.\n\n\"Now,\" said the traveller, as he wandered up one of those retired\nHighland glens, which characterise and beautify the Grampian range, \"I\nshall once more visit my dear father and mother; and my sister, now\nwoman grown; and, what is more, my sweet Helen M'Donald, who used to\ngather the mountain berries along with me, and pursue the little kids\nand lambs. Ah, Helen was only about thirteen years old when I left; she\nwill now be eighteen; a full-grown beautiful woman, I have no doubt. I\nwonder if old Andrew, her grandfather, be still living; he used to tell\nme such tales of Prince Charlie, and Prestonpans, and Culloden, that my\nhair yet almost stands erect at the recollection of them. And then there\nwas Euphemia M'Gregor, his son's wife, the mother of my dear Helen; and\nOscar and Fingal, my father's faithful attendants and servants: and we\nhad such fun during the long winter nights, when the sheep were in a\nplace of safety, and the door was barred, and the peat-fire was burning\nclear, and the very cat and kitten enjoyed the cheery fireside--such\nquestions and commands, such guessing and forfeiting, and riding round\nthe fire on a besom, and holding one's mouth full of water to discharge\non the person's face who should first laugh at our grotesque gestures\nand looks: but night is approaching whilst I linger by the way--my whole\nheart heaves to behold once more the sweet home of my youth and\ninnocence.\"\n\nThus said, or thought aloud, a young man, seemingly about twenty-two\nyears of age, as he ascended Glen----and approached the thatched\nshieling which stood on the margin of a small mountain stream, which\nwended its mazes along the tortuous glen. He had been five years, come\nthe time, absent from his mountain home, and had, during that period,\nendured and encountered a variety of fortune. He sung as he went along--\n\n  \"A light heart and thin pair of breeches,\n  Goes through the world, brave boys!\"\n\nswitching the bent and heather-bells with his cane, and treading with a\nstep as elastic as was his bosom. At last, just as the sun was tinging\nwith his departing ray the top of the highest mountain in the\nneighbourhood, he turned the corner of a projecting rock, and came at\nonce into full and distinct view of his home. It was then grey twilight,\nand objects began to assume an indistinct appearance. Walking by the\nside of the stream, as if meditating, there appeared a figure wrapped up\nin a Highland plaid. It immediately struck the young sailor that this\nwas his sister; and in order to give her what is called an agreeable\nsurprise, he stepped aside unperceived by her, and stood concealed\nbehind a projecting cliff, which the stream had stripped bare of soil in\nits passing current. The figure came nearer and nearer, and then,\nsighing deeply, uttered some sound, which his ear could not catch. At\nlast, tears and sobs followed, and he heard the words most distinctly\npronounced--\"Alas, I can never truly love him! I shall be the most\nwretched of women! But he whom I loved as angels love--oh, he, my own\ndear William M'Pherson, is dead and gone, and I can never see him more.\"\n\n\"But you can though, my own dear Helen;\" and in an instant he held her\nlifeless and motionless in his arms. She had uttered just one awful\nscream, which was re-echoed by the surrounding cliffs, and had ceased to\nfeel or know anything connected with the living world. Alas! she was\ndead, and he was distracted. He ran to the house, calling aloud for\nhelp; but every one of its inmates, even the mother who bore him, fled\nfrom his presence, uttering ejaculations, intimating the greatest terror\nat his presence. In vain did he protest with tears--I am your son and no\nother--I am Willie M'Pherson, your lost boy! His words bore no\nconviction along with him. Avaunt, foul fiend! Avaunt, in the name of\nGod and the Holy Trinity--trouble me not--trouble me not; my dear child\nis in heaven; and thou, foul spirit, art permitted for a time to assume\nhis shape. His sister, too, was equally incredulous, and his father had\nnot yet returned from the hill. What was to be done? Helen M'Donald was\nin all probability dead, or dying, helpless and alone, and yet no one\nwould come to her assistance. At last, Oscar and Fingal made their\nappearance in advance of his father; and though they barked at first\nupon his naming them, they immediately ran up to him, and jumped upon\nhis back, his neck, his head, his whole person. They seemed in as much\ndanger of expressing joy as poor Helen had been of dying of fearful\nsurprise.\n\n\"Stand back,\" said the delighted and believing father to his wife, who\nabsolutely clung to his knees to prevent his advance--\"stand back,\nwoman; d'ye think Fingal and Oscar would caress the foul fiend in that\nmanner? Na--na--na. Ha! ha! ha!\" And he fell upon his son's shoulders,\nweeping and crying convulsively.\n\n\"My father--my dear, dear father.\"\n\n\"My son--my lost, my only, my restored son,\" was the response.\n\nBut Helen, in an instant, brought the whole party, consisting of father,\nmother, sister, and son, to her aid: a light was procured and held over\nher face; her bosom was bared, and rubbed; her forehead had water\nplentifully poured upon it from the stream; and, at last, symptoms of\nreturning life appeared. Oscar and Fingal, in the meantime, had licked\nHelen's face, and neck, and shoulders, all over; and whether from any\nvirtue in the peculiar touch of their tongues, or from the natural\nexpiry of the trance, Helen breathed heavily--her bosom heaved; William\nlooked on her cheeks, and they were flushed with red. In a moment he had\nher in his arms. Helen, for some time, suffered exquisite bodily\ntorture; but was at last capable of having the truth made gradually\nknown to her. She said surely she had been dreaming, as she had often\ndone, and that she was still surely asleep, and that she would waken at\nlast, as she had done before, to a dreadful perception of the reality.\nWilliam M'Pherson still continued to clasp and assure Helen of his\npersonal identity. But, even when convinced of the reality of William's\npresence, Helen did not evince that degree of happiness which might have\nbeen expected; she sat stupified and passive, and seemingly insensible\nto everything around her; her mind was evidently wandering to a\ndisagreeable subject. However, she was prevailed upon to return with the\nfamily into the house, and, worn out and fatigued, she was soon after\nput to rest in an adjoining apartment.\n\nIn the meantime, the young sailor was questioned minutely respecting the\nreason of his reappearance, after he had been so long reported, and\nbelieved by everybody, to be dead.\n\nWithout repeating his answer in his own words, which were interlarded\nwith sea phrases, we may state, in general, that it was to the following\npurpose:--He had gone to Dundee, with the view of making some small\npurchases for the household, when he accidentally fell in with a\nrecruiting party, who were beating up for marines for the fleet, then\njust returned from the capture of the Danish fleet at Copenhagen.\nInexperienced as he was, he was enticed into a public-house on the\nshore, and awakened, after a stupor of some hours, on board a British\nman-of-war. In a few hours, he was conveyed out to sea, along with\nseveral others, and was conveyed immediately to Spithead. Having it\nultimately put to his choice whether he would stand by a gun, or handle\na musket and a sabre, he chose the former, and was regularly entered as\nan ablebodied seaman on board His Majesty's ship the Victory. In her,\nalong with Admiral Nelson, he sailed for the West Indies, and then\ncrossed the Atlantic, back to the shores of France. The enemy still\neluding the eagle-eye of Lord Nelson, he sailed for the Mediterranean,\nand, after various landings and inquiries, came upon the French fleet,\nmoored closely inland on the coast of Egypt, at the mouth of the Nile.\nHe was in the dreadful battle of the Nile, and assisted in rescuing\nseveral who were blown up, but not killed, in the L'Orient. After the\nbattle, he had promotion, and ultimately prize-money, on account of his\nbrave and humane conduct, and sailed again for Naples, and latterly in\nquest of the Spanish fleet on the coast of Spain. He was close by Nelson\nwhen he was shot by a rifleman from the mast of the ship with which he\nhad grappled, and saw the fellow who did the deed drop on the deck,\nbeing shot through the heart by a marine on board of Lord Nelson's ship.\nAfter the battle, he was returned to Plymouth, having been wounded in\nthe leg--a musket-ball had passed through the flesh, and somewhat, but\nnot greatly, injured the bone. He spent some months in the hospital, and\nwas then despatched to the coast of France on board the Spitfire. There\nhe had distinguished himself in cutting out and burning several of the\nenemy's craft at Havre; and being again wounded, though slightly, in the\narm, he was put upon the pension list, and allowed to dispose of himself\ntill his country should again require his services. In these\ncircumstances, he began to think of his home; and, with some hundreds of\npounds in the bank, and a pension order of about two shillings and\nsixpence a-day in his pocket, he arrived at Dundee in a sailing vessel,\nand was on his way to his _native glen_ when the reader first became\nacquainted with him. When this narrative was finished, his father\nretired for an instant, and then appeared with some papers, which he had\nextracted from his private depositories. He first read a letter which\npurported to come from a king's officer, who signed himself William\nWilson, and who informed his afflicted father that his son had been\ninduced to go on board a king's ship, to see the arrangements which it\nexhibited; but that, in passing from the small boat to the deck, he had\nmissed a foot, and been drowned. The letter was dated on board the\nSpitfire; and mentioned, likewise, that the ship was under sailing\norders for the general rendezvous at Spithead. The poor distracted\nparent had come to Dundee, but could obtain no information of his\nson--only, about three months after, he heard that a dead body, severely\nmutilated, had been thrown out upon the sands of St Andrews; and, on\naccount of the state of its decomposition, had immediately been interred\nin Christian burial-ground. A second pilgrimage to St Andrews was\nundertaken by the father and daughter; but nothing satisfactory was\ndiscovered, except that the corpse exhibited marks of having been\ndressed in a blue-and-white striped waistcoat, which answered to that in\nwhich he had left Denhead, his home in the Highlands. After this last\ndiscovery, all further inquiry ceased, and the afflicted family\nfulfilled the period of their sincere mourning, and things returned\nnearly to their usual bearing. But, when father, and mother, and sister\nhad seemingly got over the worst of their grief, Helen M'Donald still\npined in silence over the recollections of her early companion; and as\nshe expanded into womanhood, her grief seemed to grow \"with her growth;\"\nand her father became extremely anxious to have Helen properly and\ncreditably disposed of in marriage.\n\nThe son of a small proprietor in the neighbourhood had lately become\nlaird himself; and, though far exceeding Helen in years, having had\nfrequent opportunities of seeing her, particularly at church on Sabbath,\nhe had become enamoured of so much beauty and innocence. Proposals had\nbeen made to the father, which were immediately accepted; and the young\nlady had been dealt with, as young ladies in such situations generally\nare, by arguments of interest, and worldly comfort, and even grandeur.\nFirst impressions are deep (oh, how deep!); and Helen could not yet\nentirely exclude the image of her beloved William from her recollection.\nLaird M'Wharry was urgent in his suit--her father, whom she\naffectionately loved, was troubled and anxious--her mother, too, pressed\nhome upon her attention prudential considerations--so, after long delays\nand many internal struggles, Helen at last consented to become, but not\ntill some months afterwards, Mrs or Lady M'Wharry, as the peasantry\nstyled the laird's wife. It was during her visit (previous to her\nmarriage) to M'Wharry that the incident took place which thus connects\nour narrative, and brings us up to the point of time when William\nM'Pherson arrived at Denhead.\n\nWilliam, learning from Helen, as well as from his father and mother, how\nmatters were situated, suddenly disappeared, and left no means of\ntracing the place of his retreat. Days, and even weeks, passed, but no\nletter arrived, and no message came. In the meantime, the day appointed\nfor the marriage approached, and Helen seemed to have made up her mind\nto submit to necessity; at least she tried to look cheerful, and put as\ngood a face upon it as many tears, shed in private, would permit.\n\nLaird M'Wharry was a true Highlander--he had much of that clannish\nfeeling which is peculiar to the Celt. He was, besides, exceedingly\npassionate, and had more than once got into trouble from having used\nhasty and unguarded expressions. Nay, he had once been prosecuted in the\nCourt of Session, and damages had been obtained to a considerable\namount, by one of his servants, or rather slaves, whom he had beat most\nunmercifully. In attending a Perth market, he had occasion to ride\nhomewards, after dark, with a brother proprietor, who had lately bought\nan estate in his neighbourhood. This proprietor could not boast a Celtic\nname or origin. He was plain Mr Monnipenny, from the town of Kirkcaldy,\nin Fife. They had both been drinking during the course of the day, and\nwere, therefore, more liable to get into some dispute or quarrel.\nM'Wharry began by deprecating Mr Monnipenny's horse, whose character the\nmaster supported with some warmth; so, to settle the matter, they both\nset off at the gallop, and the fire flashed from the horses' heels as\nthey passed through Dunkeld. Unfortunately for Laird M'Wharry, however,\nabout a mile beyond the above town, the saddle-girth gave way, and he\ncame to the ground head foremost. He was dead when Mr Monnipenny came up\nwith him. He had suffered a concussion of the brain; and,\nnotwithstanding that medical aid was immediately obtained from Dunkeld,\nnothing could be done.\n\nPoor Helen M'Pherson really mourned his fate; for, though she had no\nlove for him, she had brought herself to think that it was her duty to\nfulfil her promise. But where was he whom her young heart held in its\ncore? No one knew--no one could tell. Helen had inwardly resolved to\nlive single on his account, even if no further accounts were received of\nWilliam M'Pherson. But her father in the meantime died of a fever; and\nher mother was compelled to remove from the farm to the village of\nDunkeld, where, in order to support herself and her lovely daughter, she\nset up a little shop with a small sum which her husband and she had\nsaved, and was highly respected by all who knew her. In the meantime,\nthe parish schoolmaster, an excise officer, and a wealthy sheep-farmer,\nall solicited Helen's hand; but she lent a deaf ear to all these offers,\nstill thinking, and speaking, and dreaming about her William.\n\nOne day, when she was standing at the shop-door, she observed a crowd\ngathered about a horse and gig, out of which a person had just been\nthrown, and was taken up as was feared lifeless. Helen, from motives of\nhumanity, rushed into the crowd to make inquiries, and saw the person\ncarried into an adjoining apothecary's shop; there he was immediately\nbled, and, to the infinite satisfaction of all, had begun to recover.\nThe fact turned out to be, that he had been stunned by the fall on his\nhead, but no concussion or fracture had taken place. The gentleman, she\nlearned, had been put to bed, but was mighty unruly, as he insisted upon\npursuing his journey that very evening into the Highlands; and a\npost-chaise, with two horses and a steady driver, had been brought to\nthe apothecary's door, and the traveller was passing into it, with his\nhead and arm tied up, when all at once Helen uttered a scream, and stood\ntrembling betwixt him and the conveyance. It was her own William,\nreturned from sea--to which he had again fled--and making all despatch\nto reach Denhead, as he had learned, on his way towards the Highlands,\nthe fate that had overtaken the bridegroom, Laird M'Wharry. Now, reader,\nyou and I part--I can do no more for you; for, if you cannot far better\nconceive than I can describe what followed, you can be no reader of\nmine--you will never have perused the story at all. William was now\ncomfortably circumstanced, pensioned, and dismissed the service; and the\nlast time I had a week's fishing at Amalrie, I spent my evenings and\nnights under his roof. He is now, like myself, a grandfather; and Helen,\nthough not quite so young as she was some thirty or forty years ago, is\nstill in my mind a perfect beauty, and has blessed her husband, during a\npretty long life, with all that kind husbands can expect or obtain by\nmarriage. She has made him a happy father, and a fond, foolish,\nindulgent grandpapa.\n\n\nDURA DEN; OR, SECOND THOUGHTS ARE BEST.\n\nI took my way, a few days ago, fishing-rod in hand, from Cupar in Fife,\nby Dura Den, up towards the healthy and sequestered village of Ceres.\nDura Den was once romantic and secluded. Its brawling stream, which\nempties the waters of the upper basin into the Eden, leaped and tumbled\nover igneous, and penetrated its way through aqueous, formations, till\nit mingled into rejoicing union with the lovely Eden immediately under\nthe old towers of Spottiswood, and the fine Gothic church of Dairsie.\nThis deep and beautifully-winding ravine was covered from rock to rock,\non each successively sunny side, by trees of various name and leaf, from\nthe scented sloe and hawthorn, up to the hazel, the birch, and the oak.\nIt was a perfect aviary during the spring months. A few wild deer\nbrowsed amidst recesses, and various love-smitten maids and men repaired\nto this retreat, to talk of many things which were only interesting to\nthemselves. The soft projecting sandstone rocks had been water-run into\ncaves and recesses; and in some of these report had fixed the residence,\nfor a night at least, of the famous Balfour of Burley, after the affair\nof Magus Muir.[A] It is not, however, to this, but to a more recent\noccurrence, that I am now about to solicit your attention, after,\nhowever, premising the change which has now been wrought upon this once\nrural, secluded, romantic, lovely spot. At the very entrance, there\nstands a bone-mill, grinding, with grating activity and horrible crunch,\ninto powder the mingled bones of man and beast. You have scarcely\nescaped from the horrible jarring sound of the modern ogre, than you\ncome full plump upon a spinning-mill, with as many windows as there are\ndays in the year. There it stands bestriding the valley like a colossus,\nand commanding all the collected energies of the once pure and solitary\nstream. Bless me! how it thunders: the very rocks seem to shake under\nthe whirl of the tremendous machinery; whilst at every open window out\nflies in clouds the imprisoned dust and stour. A single door opens, and\nthe sound maddens on your ear into a screwing torture. It shuts again.\nYou are greatly relieved by the compressed and imprisoned horror. A\nlittle further up this once delightful den, a pillar of smoke shoots out\non the eye, like an eruption of Mount Vesuvius. This is an evidence that\n(as in the formation of this globe) fire has been called upon to assist\nwater. Again and again, another and another hulking dirty erection fixes\nits hideous trail in the lovely localities, till the landscape still\nonwards opens upon green fields, all covered and whitened over, _not_\nwith daisies, but with _yarn_, which has just been removed from the\nvitriolic vat. I had essayed here and there to fish, but had not even a\nnibble. A little factory urchin, who saw my mistake, immediately\naccosted me with--\n\n\"Ye needna fish here about, sir, for the fish are a' dead.\"\n\n\"What has _deaded_ them?\" said I.\n\n\"Oh! I dinna ken, except maybe it's the vitriol--they dinna tak wi' the\nvitriol ava.\"\n\n\"No wonder,\" thought I. \"I suspect neither you nor I would tak weel with\nsuch a beverage.\" So I at once rolled in my line, put up my rod, and was\non the eve of returning, somewhat disappointed, from my forenoon's\nramble, when my attention was attracted by an old, though fresh-looking\nman _in his \"cruda viridisque senectus_,\" who was sitting on a bench in\nthe sunshine, betwixt the door and the window of one of those very neat\nand cleanly cottages, which have been erected for the convenience and\naccommodation of the mill-spinners, and which, from the name of the\nspirited proprietor, has been called \"Yoolfield.\"\n\n\"James,\" said the old man--\"come here, James, and tell me what's that ye\nwaur saying to the gentleman.\"\n\n\"Ou, I was only telling him there waur nae trouts, except _stane\nanes_,[B] here.\"\n\nIn the meantime, I had approached the old man's seat, and thinking that\nhe motioned me to be seated, I at once took my place, as if I had been\nan old acquaintance, by his side. It turned out that he was the\ngrandfather of this urchin, who in a few minutes reappeared with a face\nof great comfort and vigorous health; \"_causa erat in aperto_\"--he had\ndined.\n\n\"Ye'll be a stranger hereaboots, I mak nae doubt?\" said the old man.\n\nI replied that I had been so for some time past; that I had stopped, on\nmy way north, a day in Cupar, in order to revisit this romantic retreat;\nbut that it was now sadly changed, and I had not the heart to pursue my\nwalk any further. I miss, added I, everything which I expected to see:\nthe solitude, the green banks, the trees, the pure waters, the yellow\ntrouts, the all of innocence and nature by which this den was marked,\nere these vile spinning-jennies had entered, with noise, confusion, and\ndefilement in their train.\n\n\"And so,\" said the aged Nestor, \"ye are up in arms against the late\nerections, because ye canna get an hour or twa's fishing, nor pursue\nyour own fancies about solitude, and innocence, and that! I will tell\nye, my good sir--for ye're but a bairn in comparison wi' me--that had ye\nexperienced what I hae experienced, ye wad hae blessed the day which\nconverted this solitary and useless den into a source of comfortable\nliving to hundreds of families, who might otherwise be starving at home,\nor banished from all that they hold dear into a foreign land.\"\n\n\"Grandfather,\" hereupon said a fine rosy girl about fourteen, \"dinner's\nready: will ye come in, or will I bring it out to you?\"\n\n\"I think,\" said the ancient patriarch, \"I'll just rest whar I am; it's a\nbonny sunny day, and the den is a' loun and sheltered. Just bring out\nthe broth and the wee bit Irish stew here, and maybe this gentleman, now\ntired wi' nae fishing, will no scorn to tak a spoonfu' and a bit\nalangside o' a puir auld body.\"\n\nI immediately assured my kind host that I had provisions in my basket,\nwhich I soon disengaged, together with a flask containing a sufficiency\nof old Nantz. To it, therefore, we set, exchanging viands: I partaking\nof the excellent and savoury stew, and he of a wee drap, only a very wee\ndrap, of the brandy. Like Sir Walter Scott's minstrel, the soul of the\nold yet vigorous Trojan waxed strong within him; and, after having duly\nreturned thanks to the Giver of all good, he drew me close to his elbow,\nand proceeded thus:--\n\n\"Indeed, sir, I'm now considerably upwards of eighty years--the period\nat which the psalmist says the strength of man is but grief and labour;\nbut I haena found it sae, for a' my griefs and labours were confined to\nthe earlier pairt o' my life, and no to the latter day--His name be\npraised for the same.\"\n\nI instinctively answered \"Amen;\" and, partly encouraged by this, and\npartly by an additional pull at the brandy-flask, the old man pursued\nhis egotism.\n\n\"Well, ye see, ye are against spinning-jennies and large manufactures,\nye say; but they are the freends o' the puir, sir--the blessed\nsupporters o' thousands and millions in these lands.[C] You shall hear;\nfor, as you seem to have time on your hands, I will, for your father's\nsake\" (I had made him acquainted with my descent from a worthy clergyman\nin the north), \"unfold to you my whole history, and that of my children,\nup to this hour:--\n\n\"My name, sir, is Donald Sutherland. I belong originally to the county\nof that name; and I was bred a farmer on the estates of the Duchess of\nSutherland. But there was neither duke nor duchess then, oh dear!\"\n(Hereupon the old man absolutely cried; having, however, checked himself\nby observing that he was an old fool, he again proceeded):--\"I had, as I\nsaid, a small sheep-farm, of about one thousand acres, in the western\ndistrict of that county. I see, sir, you are surprised at my saying\n_small_; but, sir, when land is let at a shilling an acre, as it was in\nmy day, such a farm is but small--a thousand shillings, ye ken, is just\nfifty pounds o' yearly rent: and that was my rent at _Edderachills_,\nnear by Loch Assynt. I am now, as ye see, an auld man, and a grey; but I\nwas ance young, and stout, and foolish too, nae doobt. I thought\nnaething wad war me, sae I just married whan I was a young,\ninexperienced callan, about nineteen; and, having got a brother of my\npuir father's to be security (ye see my puir father was only a hind on\nthe estate o' Sutherland, and had neither money nor credit), I took my\ndear Helen M'Roy home to no that ill a bigging--wi' a hantle o'\nblankets, a peat-fire, a herd callan, and twa as canny and sensible dogs\nas ever followed a herd, or turned a hirsel. Aweel, ye ken, Helen and me\nwar very happy, for we loved each other dearly; we had been acquainted\nfrae the time we could climb a brae or eat a cranberry; and things went\non no that ill ava. We had twa bairns in the course o' twal years, a\nlassie, and a fine lad, wha was drowned, as ye shall hear; but oh my\nheart is sair whan I think o't. It was one awful night in the month of\nJanuary. A vessel had stranded in Loch Assynt. The men were seen,\nthrough a stormy moonshine, hanging to the topmast, which, however, went\nfrom side to side, with a fearful swing. At every turn or jerk, another\nand another human being was plunged into the roaring foam. My son\nArchibald, my shepherd, and I, pushed from the shore in a fishing-boat,\nwhich was lying high and dry--we heard the fearful screams of perishing\nmen--we rowed off at all hazards, but had not neared the vessel, when\nour boat fairly swamped. We were still, however, within wading depth,\nand with difficulty regained our feet and the boat. We again pushed hard\nfrom land, and at last came under the lee of the wreck. My son was\nyoung, active, and daring; and, in order to ascertain how matters were,\nor what remained of the deck, he caught a rope, and leaped on board. In\nan instant, a young man, a passenger, with his wife and child, were\nslung, as it were, miraculously on board our little boat. The waves went\nup in spouting foam betwixt the wreck and the boat, and then subsiding,\nheaved us with a tremendous crash against the side of the vessel; and I\nremember no more till I awoke to misery, in a kelp hut by the sea-shore.\nI found that my son, with the woman and child, had perished; but that\nthe husband, my shepherd, and myself, had been cast ashore, and with\ndifficulty resuscitated. My grief and his mother's grief were loud and\nsevere. But 'what cannot be cured must be endured.' The stranger was a\nnative of Fife, who had been to America on a mercantile speculation, and\nhaving married at New York, and become a father, was on his way towards\nKirkcaldy, his native place, when this dreadful accident occurred. He\nhad lost all his effects, and some money in the wreck, and was content\nto take part of my humble dwelling for a season. In the meantime, my\nlease expired, and another proprietor had arisen, who knew not Donald\nSutherland. The rent offered by my next and more wealthy neighbour was\nfar above what I would think of promising, so I behoved to leave sweet\nEdderachills, with all its heath, and moss, and muir, for a sea-shore\nappointment in the manufacturing of kelp from sea-weed--at that time a\nvery flourishing employment in the West Highlands in particular. The\nstranger about this time took his departure, but not without many\npromises of returning again to visit the grave of his wife and child,\nand to renew his acquaintance with my wife, my daughter, and myself. For\na time the kelp concern did pretty well; we had good and regular payment\nfor the article, and an increasing demand; and we contrived to live at\nleast as comfortably as we had done as sheep-farmers. But man is always\nfinding out inventions; a method was devised of dispensing, by means of\na chemical discovery, with our kelp entirely; and we were suddenly and\nentirely ruined. It was at this period that I, in a manner, _cursed_,\nlike you, the spirit of discovery and invention. I was disgusted by the\nchange which the progress of science had made, and I did not know how to\nturn myself for a bare subsistence. In this situation of affairs, my\ndaughter Nelly within there (pointing to the door) was courted by a\nneighbouring sheep-farmer's son, of a somewhat disreputable character,\nbut of considerable reputed wealth. This was a sad trial to us all; for,\nthough the marriage might have benefited us somewhat, in a worldly point\nof view, we did not like to see our blooming and virtuous child\nsacrificed, it might be, to the momentary feelings of a known deceiver.\nNelly could not bear the thoughts of such a union; and one night she\ntold her lover as much. In consequence of this unfortunate affair, we\nwere very soon after turned out of house and hold--the old farmer having\ncontracted with the proprietor for the huts and steadings which had once\nbeen peopled with busy and prosperous hands, but which now were nearly\nempty. Baser proposals than before were made by the degraded and\nvindictive young man; and we set off, one moonlight night, across the\nhills, for the town of Dornoch. We were three wanderers in the\nwilderness--my wife Helen, my daughter Nelly, and myself. I was still\ncomparatively strong, and was determined to work, but could find no\nemployment. For days we slept (for the weather was fine) on the heath,\nand lived on what little of our means yet remained. I was resolved, come\nwhat might, that I would not beg. My wife and daughter bore up\namazingly; for we trusted that our God--the God of the hills, as well as\nof the valleys; of the poor and the outcast, as well as of the rich and\nprovided--would not forget us. I found temporary work, at last, in a\nstone quarry, and occupied a hut close upon the sea-shore. This, to us\nall, was luxury; for it was independence. Contentment _kitchened_\nlabour, and we slept soundly in our poverty and innocence. But this, I\nsaw, could not long continue; my strength was not equal to this severe\nlabour, to which I was unaccustomed; so I persuaded, not without\ndifficulty, my wife and daughter to accompany me to Canada, to which the\nCountess of Sutherland was then offering a free passage from Cromarty\nFrith, in the good ship Aurora. I should, however, have mentioned that,\nwhilst residing at Dornoch, I had observed the son of a neighbouring\nproprietor--a somewhat smart-looking gentleman--frequently passing our\ndoor, and sometimes conversing with my wife and daughter; but I took no\nnotice of the affair, as I felt secure in the virtue and prudence of\nboth parties. No proposals, honourable or otherwise, were made to my\ndaughter, and I conceived the matter to be at an end. On the day of the\nship's sailing, we were all on the quay, and ready to embark. My wife\nand I had entered the boat, and were waiting for my daughter, who had\nbeen sent by us on a message to a shop. She did not return in time for\nthe boat in which we were conveyed to the Aurora; but we were told by\nthe sailors that she would probably arrive in the next. One boat,\nhowever, arrived, but our dear Nelly was not in it; another came, but\nwith it no daughter. Meantime the ship was under sail, and the captain\nsaid he would not lose the favourable breeze for all the girls in\nScotland. My dear wife was inconsolable, and I petitioned hard to be let\nout, even on one of the Western Isles; but the weather was exceeding\nstormy, and we kept as far as possible from land. 'God,' said I to my\ngrieving partner, 'will protect Nelly; for she is good and virtuous. God\ncan be father and mother, and more than all that, to those who fear and\nobey him.' We landed at Quebec, and maintained ourselves for some\ntime--I acting as a kind of shore-porter, and my wife assisting in\nassorting furs in a great warehouse. But our means were but small; so we\nbethought us of removing more inland. So we arrived ultimately at\nMontreal, where I had the good fortune to meet with a distant relative\nin pretty good circumstances. He had long been engaged in a mercantile\nhouse, and had now obtained a considerable and a profitable share in it.\nHe immediately found employment for me as a warehouse servant, whilst my\nwife washed and dressed for himself and a few friends. Year after year\npassed by, and many a letter did we write to Edderachills and Dornoch;\nbut we received no answer. At last it pleased God to remove my dear\nHelen by death; and my friend having resolved to remove to Kirkcaldy,\nhis native place, I took shipping with him in the ship St John, and we\narrived off the Land's End in safety. But it came on to blow dreadfully\nfrom the north and the east, as we rounded the island; and one dark\nnight in the month of November we struck upon a rock in the\nneighbourhood of Ely. The ship fired signals of distress, and a boat\ncame out, which saved the passengers and crew; but the ship and cargo\nwere lost. What was my surprise, upon arriving at the inn, to find, in\nthe person of one of the boatmen, the shipwrecked stranger, Sam Rogers,\nwho had lodged so long with us at Edderachills. He insisted upon my\nimmediately repairing to his cabin, as he termed it, on the shore, with\nthe view of introducing me to his wife and a large family of children.\n\n\"'Have you ever heard,' continued he, after we were seated, 'anything of\nyour daughter Nelly?'\n\n\"'Not a word,' said I, eagerly. 'Have you?'\n\n\"'Would you know her,' continued he, 'if you were again to see her?'\n\n\"'Know her,' said I; 'to be sure I would--her image is ever before me. I\nsee her, at this moment, as plainly as if she were still alive. Oh!\nwhat--horrible!--stand off!--stand off! Do these old eyes deceive me, or\nart thou indeed my own darling, lost child?' said I; whilst Nelly--the\nreal flesh-and-blood Nelly--clasped me to her arms, and burst into a\nflood of tears.\n\n\"'My father!--my father!' she exclaimed, whilst the young ones gathered\naround us in stupid amazement; and my son-in-law, Sam Rogers, rubbed his\nhands and flapped his arms in perfect delight. It was indeed my dear\nNelly, in the person of Helen Rogers, the still handsome mother of seven\nchildren.\n\n\"But, Helen, I say--Helen, set down the bairn a wee bit, and tell this\nhonest gentleman the Dornoch story, ye ken.\"\n\n\"Hout,\" said Helen, \"I hae nae time, father, to enter into a' the outs\nand ins o' thae langsyne tales; besides, I see Sam waving me up to the\nmill--I'm wanted, father, an' ye maun look after the bairn till I come\nback again.\"\n\nBeing foiled in his wish to set his daughter's tongue agoing to the tune\nof her own adventures, the old man placed the child on the greensward in\nfront of the cottage, and, after once more paying his respects to my\nbrandy-flask, proceeded as follows:--\n\n\"Weel, the lassie disna like to hear me tell the story; I ken she aye\nblushes at bits o't; but now that she's awa, I may just as weel finish,\nby letting ye know that the scamp wha had seen, and fallen in love, as\nhe called it, with her at Dornoch, had watched her down to the beach,\nand having hired some accomplice in the person of one of the sailors,\nhad her misdirected in the first place, and lifted off her feet in the\nsecond, and placed beside the well-known gentleman in a post-chaise,\nwhich drove off immediately in an inland direction. In vain were all her\nstruggles and entreaties. The young blackguard immediately proceeded to\ninform her that her struggles and her shouts were of no avail; that he\ncould not promise her marriage, as he was already engaged, to please his\nmother; but he would give her love in abundance, and a cottage\nresidence, which he had provided for her on his father's property, at no\ngreat distance. It was in vain for her to resist; but she had resolved\nrather to die than to yield to his wishes; so, when they had arrived at\nthe centre of an extensive plantation, he caused her to alight, and\ndismissing, as it was now nearly dark, the chaise and driver, proceeded\nto conduct her, as he said, on foot to the cottage which he had\nprovided. He half dragged her a few paces from the road, or rather track\nthrough the wood, and, unveiling all at once the fiend within him,\nproceeded to open and undisguised violence. But, sir,\" said the old man,\nwith emphasis, \"he thought himself alone, but he was not alone--God saw\nhim, and had marked his proceedings; and God sent a deliverer, in the\nperson of him owre by yonder\" (pointing to the mills). \"God sent Sam\nRogers, with a guid oak plank, to free the captive, and make the captor\nflee for his life: in short, sir--for I fear I have tired ye wi' my\nlang-winded story--Sam, by the mercy of God, had just landed at Dornoch\nas we sailed from it; and being on his way to Edderachills, for the very\npurpose of asking my Nelly in marriage, he had pushed on, meaning to\ntravel all night across the country, when the providential occurrence\ntook place. Weel, we went now to Ely, where we remained for a time--old\ngrandy, that is, myself, my son, and his family; but times became tight\nthere, and the family kept still increasing; so at last we got\nacquainted with the worthy gentleman, Mr Yool, to whom all these great\nworks and these neat cottages belong, and he brought us up here, and set\nus down comfortably, where not only my son-in-law, but every wean, male\nand female, above seven years of age, can earn its own clothes and\nsubsistence. We are now, sir, in comparative affluence; and all this,\nsir, is owing to these improvements in machinery and in chemistry, which\nat one time drove me from my native land. 'SECOND THOUGHTS, THEY SAY,\nARE BEST;' at least so it has been with me, as I sit here in my old age,\nin comparative ease and comfort, and see my grandchildren growing up in\ndomestic affection and public usefulness around me. Here is no\nscattering of the young family--one going east, and one west, never to\nmeet again; but here, every night, all congregate around _one hearth_,\nwhilst a psalm is sung, a chapter is read, and a prayer said by grandy\nhimself!\"\n\nI shall never regret the loss of my old and favourite amusement, whilst\nI can recollect this old man's narrative, and the many happy and\ncomfortable homes which now occupy the once solitary holms of _Dura\nDen_.\n\n\n[Footnote A: A sword has lately been discovered in one of the caves,\nrusted and broken--probably once the sword of Burley!--19th Oct., 1839.]\n\n[Footnote B: _Vide_ recent discoveries of extinct species of fish found\nin this den. \"Fife Illustrated.\" Glasgow: James Swan.]\n\n[Footnote C: Very different this deliverance from that of Mrs Trollope\nin her \"Factory Boy.\"]\n\n\n\n\nTHE LAIRD OF LUCKY'S HOW\n\n\nHave any of our readers ever been at the Hague? It doesn't much signify\nwhether they have or not. They know that it is one of the most beautiful\ntowns in the Netherlands, and that it is not a little famous in ancient\nstory; and their knowing this is quite enough for our present purpose.\nIf, however, they knew the town a little more intimately, they would\nknow that one of its principal and most ancient streets is called the\nHoogstraat; and that here, once on a time, stood the principal inn or\nhostelry of the town. It was an oldfashioned house, with a great variety\nof projecting and excrescent structures, of all sorts and sizes, stuck\nto it, to increase its internal accommodation, and to puzzle the curious\ninquirer--at least this seemed a part of the design--who, while taking\nan outside view, wondered what they could all be intended for.\n\nNotwithstanding, however, the somewhat uncouth and perplexing appearance\nof the exterior of the Drouthsloken--which was the name of the ancient\nhostel in question--it was a sufficiently handsome and comfortable house\nwithin. Its kitchen, in particular, was a sight; it was so clean, so\nbright, and so cheerful: shining all round with pewter trenchers and\nbrass utensils of various descriptions, all as lustrous as whiting and\nhard rubbing could make them. The place was a treat to look at; and no\nless a treat to look at was its jolly landlord, Thonder Vander Tromp.\nFrom stem to stern, Thonder was of the regular Dutch build; which,\nwithout descending to particulars, we may say consists, as our readers\nknow, in exhibiting an amplitude of material at all points of the\nperson. In this respect, our good friend Thonder might be considered a\n_chef d'oeuvre_; for he was of the most magnificent dimensions,\nespecially latitudinally. In longitude, indeed, he might be considered\nas a little deficient. He was of no great height; but his girth was\nsuperb, and told a tale of good living, with an unction which no\nlanguage could approach. In this tale the ruddy, jovial countenance of\nmine host of the Drouthsloken cordially joined; and supported by its\nhilarious testimony the facts therein set forth.\n\nHaving thus shortly described both mine host and his hostel, we proceed\nto say that, on a certain evening in the middle of the winter of 1651, a\nstranger, carrying a small bundle under his arm, walked, or rather\nstalked--for there was something uncouth in his gait--into the passage\nof the Drouthsloken. He was wrapped up in a Scottish plaid, and wore on\nhis head the well-known flat blue bonnet of the Scottish Lowlands. In\nperson, he was tall and spare, with the grave and serious cast of\ncountenance so characteristic of that people whose national dress he\nwore. Unpolished, however, as the exterior of this person bespoke him to\nbe, there was yet, in his light grey eye, a mingled expression of\ndetermination and intelligence, that never failed to secure the respect\nwhich his manner and first appearance might well have forfeited. His age\nseemed about forty or forty-five.\n\nFinding no one to whom he might address himself in the passage of the\ninn, the stranger held on his way to its further extremity--no trifling\ndistance; towards which he was attracted by sounds of laughter and\nmerriment, issuing from the kitchen of the Drouthsloken, which was\nsituated at the farther end of the passage by which the house was\nintersected, and the same with that which he was now traversing.\n\nThe sounds of merriment by which the stranger had been attracted\nproceeded from a group of young men, who, standing in the form of a\nsemicircle in front of the jolly landlord of the house--who, again,\nstood with his back to the fire, wielding a huge black bottle in his\nhand--were indulging in uproarious laughter at the witty sayings which\nhe, the latter, seemed throwing amongst them like so many squibs and\ncrackers.\n\nAt the moment that our friend of the plaid and bonnet entered the\nkitchen of the Drouthsloken, our jovial host was standing, as we have\nsaid, with his back to the fire--a roaring one, by the way--and looking\nthe very personification of all that's joyous, and comfortable, and\ncare-dispelling. A bright and broad red waistcoat covered his portly\nfront; but buttoned so short a way up as to expose a dazzling display of\nsnow-white linen beneath. Across this brilliant garment there lay also\nthe folds of a pure white apron, tucked up with business-like smartness.\nDark velveteen small-clothes, with well-polished shoes, on which shone a\npair of massive silver buckles, completed the outer man of Thonder\nVander Tromp.\n\nAmongst the merry group of which Tromp was one, something like a\nsensation was created by the entrance of the stranger. The career of\nbadinage was instantly arrested, and the eyes of the whole party turned\ntowards him. Undismayed by the general attention he had excited, the\nstranger coolly deposited his bundle on a side-table, and, approaching\nat once the fire, and the group by which it was surrounded, delivered\nhimself, as he did so, of the very simple and homely remark--\n\n\"There's a wat nicht, gentlemen.\"\n\nNow, the stranger, although he had thus expressed himself, had not\nventured to hope that his language would be understood. He had spoken\nmechanically as it were, and delivered himself in his usual way, simply\nbecause he could do no otherwise, and because he thought it necessary to\nsay something. Great, therefore, was his surprise, and, we may add, his\njoy also, when one of the young men of the party, of singularly graceful\nmanners and bearing, acknowledged his greeting in excellent English, and\nwith great politeness and civility of speech.\n\nDelighted at having met with a native of Great Britain, which he could\nnot doubt the young man who had addressed him was--\n\n\"Feth, but I am richt glad, sir,\" said the stranger--\"excuse my\nfreedom--at having met wi' a countryman, as I tak ye to be, sir--in this\noutlandish place. It's mair than I expeckit, I'm sure. I had nae thochts\no' meetin wi' ony but ane.\"\n\n\"And pray who was that one, my good friend?\" said the young man,\nthrowing, at the same time, a rapid look of intelligence around on his\ncompanions, who seemed at once to comprehend its meaning. \"Who was that\none, my good friend,\" he said, \"if I may ask, without subjecting myself\nto a charge of impertinence?\"\n\n\"Ou, nae impertinence at a', sir; only ye'll excuse me keepin my thoom\non the mater ye inquire aboot till I ken better wha's speerin. Excuse\nme, sir, excuse me, for this plainness,\" continued the stranger,\nsmiling; \"but I hae come frae a country whar a slip o' the tongue, in\nthae times, micht cost a man his head; and that maks folks wary, ye\nken.\"\n\n\"Faith, and good reason it should, friend,\" replied the young man,\nlaughingly. \"Thou hast well accounted for thy caution. But recollect\nthou art now in a different country, mine honest friend, and hast no\nneed to be so guarded in thy speech.\"\n\n\"Feth, sir, I dinna ken. That may be; but, if ye had fan the ticklin o'\na tow aboot yer craig, as I hae dune, ye wadna forget it in a hurry, nor\nthe lesson it taught ye to keep yer tongue atween yer teeth.\"\n\n\"Well, no doubt; that certainly is rough schooling,\" said the young\ncavalier; \"but I repeat again, that thou art now in a different country,\nfriend; and one where thou hast nothing to fear from a reasonable use of\nthy tongue.\"\n\n\"Aweel, it may be sae, sir,\" replied the imperturbable stranger; \"but I\nken o' nae country whar a calm sough's no guid counsel.\"\n\n\"Ha! ha! ha! right, friend, right,\" roared mine jolly host of the\nDrouthsloken, with open mouth and noisy laugh. \"It is not goot to say\ntoo moosh anywhere; no more in the Hague as any oder place. But here is\nall honourable gentlemen,\" he added, casting a furtive glance of\ngood-humoured meaning at the young man who had first addressed the\nScotch visiter, \"who will not make bad use of what you shall say.\"\n\n\"Ou, I hae nae doot o' that at a', sir,\" replied the latter; \"but, to be\nplain wi' ye, it's no my intention to say onything that onybody can mak\nony use o', either guid, bad, or indifferent.\" And, having said this,\nthe speaker showed a very palpable desire to put an end to the\nconference, which he evidently began to think was studiously directed by\nthe other party towards an elucidation of his purposes in visiting the\nHague. In this disposition, however, he was by no means joined by the\nparty in whose presence he was, particularly by the young man by whom he\nhad been first addressed, who evinced a gratification in the peculiar\nhumour of the stranger, and an interest in him altogether that would not\npermit of his being shaken off. So far indeed, was he from permitting\nthis, that he insisted on the latter's joining him in a bottle of wine,\nwhich he instantly ordered mine jolly host of the Drouthsloken to\nproduce.\n\nOn the return of the latter, bearing a bottle of wine in one hand and a\nscrew in the other--\n\n\"Will your--your----\" he said, but was here interrupted by a wink from\nthe person he addressed, which had the evident effect of making him\nsubstitute a different word for that which he had intended to use, and\nhe added \"your honour.\" \"Will your honour not go up-stairs to your own\nfavourite apartment, de leetle blue parlour?\"\n\n\"No, no, Mynheer Tromp,\" replied the young cavalier, \"we'll just stay\nwhere we are. The night is cold, and I have always thought your kitchen\nthe most comfortable and cheerful apartment in your house. So place us a\ntable here, close by the fire, if you please.\"\n\nMynheer Vander Tromp bowed a humble assent; and, in an instant after, a\nsmall round table of walnut-tree, shining like a mirror, was placed in\nthe desired situation. Bottles and glasses covered it in a twinkling,\nand in a twinkling also was the party seated around it, including our\nfriend of the bonnet and plaid. This worthy person at first shied the\ngood fellowship thus thrust upon him; but, gradually warming with the\nwine he drank--for bottle succeeded bottle with marvellous celerity--he\nbecame by degrees less and less reserved in his manner, until at length\nhis natural caution giving way altogether before the increasing pressure\nof the vinous influence, he became as communicative as he had before\nbeen the reverse.\n\nAvailing himself of the altered disposition of the stranger, the young\ncavalier, whom we have represented as having more especially attached\nhimself to the former, again endeavoured to extract from him the purpose\nof his visit to the Hague; and his attempt was now successful.\n\n\"Aweel, I'll just tell ye Gude's truth, gentlemen,\" he said, in answer\nto a question, or rather hint, on the subject of explanation which had\njust been addressed to him by his young friend; and for the reply to\nwhich all waited--\"I'll just tell ye Gude's truth, as I think ye're a'\nhonourable men, and wadna willingly bring a man into trouble, wha has\ngien ye nae cause o' offence. Ye see, then freends, I hae just arrived\nfrae Scotland, and hae come here to see our unfortunate young king,\nCharles the Second that should be, whase unhappy story ye dootless a'\nken. I hae been ruined oot o' hoose and ha' for the part I took in his\npuir faither's behalf, and hae been obliged to flee my ain country,\nbesides, for the same reason; and hae noo come here, to see if His\nMajesty, God bless him, could afford me ony sort o' protection till the\nstorm that's noo tearin a' up by the roots in Scotland blaws by; and\nthat's just the hail affair, gentlemen.\"\n\nLong ere the stranger had concluded this account of the purpose of his\nvisit to the Hague, a look of intelligence, which originated with his\nyoung friend, had passed amongst his auditors, and, in the case of the\nformer, was associated with a peculiar expression of sympathy. Both,\nhowever, the look alluded to, and the latter symptom of a yet deeper\nfeeling, was unobserved by the person whose communication had given rise\nto them. Becoming now querist in turn, he asked, \"if ony o' the\ngentlemen could tell him whar the king leeved, and if they could put him\non a way o' gettin introduced to him?\"\n\n\"Thou couldst not have lighted more luckily for that, my friend,\" said\nthe young man to whom we have already so often alluded, \"than thou hast\ndone in coming amongst us; for it happens that I hold a confidential\nplace near the person of Charles, and will have much pleasure in\nexerting my influence in procuring you the introduction you desire.\"\n\n\"Mony thanks to ye, freend,\" replied the martyr to royalty--\"mony thanks\nto ye, if ye mean, by Charles, His Majesty the King o' England--God\nbless him!\"\n\n\"I certainly do, my friend. I mean him and no other.\"\n\n\"Weel, sir--excuse my freedom--if ye do, I think ye micht ca' him sae.\nWha can dispute his title, although his back be at the wa'?\"\n\n\"Oh! no one--no one, my good friend, I believe--that is, lawfully,\"\nreplied the young cavalier, laughingly; \"but, seeing his present\ncircumstances--a wandering exile in a foreign land, crownless and\ncoinless--we, somehow or other, cannot get our tongues about those\nsounding titles that are his birthright. We prefer calling him simply\nCharles, or English Charles; and I rather think he prefers it himself.\nHis titles he thinks best left in abeyance in the meantime.\"\n\n\"Aweel, if it be his ain pleasure, I hae nae mair to say. Perhaps it's\nas prudent and becomin; for, as ye say, sir, a king that has neither a\ncroon on his head nor in his pouch is in but a sair condition for his\ndignity. That maun be allowed.\"\n\nThere was not much in this remark itself to excite merriment; but there\nwas certainly something in the naive manner in which it was delivered\nthat was calculated to produce this effect; and it did. A shout of\nlaughter, in which the speaker's young friend was the loudest and\nheartiest performer, acknowledged the peculiarity to which we have\nalluded. On the laugh subsiding, the latter again addressed the former,\nsaying--\n\n\"But, friend, you have not yet told us by what name we should address\nyou.\"\n\n\"As to that,\" replied the stranger, smilingly, \"I believe the maist\nappropriate name or title ye could gie me at the present moment wad be\nthat o' the Launless Laird. But it wasna aye sae. I had a bit guid\nproperty in the Loudans, ca'ed Lucky's How, every clod o't my ain, wi' a\nyearly rental o' forty merks, guid siller, forby the thirlage o' the\nMill o' Meldrum, that was worth a guid twa or three merks mair. But a's\ngane awa like a handfu o' ingan peelins on a windy day; that cursed\nbattle o' Worcester settled a', and left me withoot a groat, and withoot\nas much grund as wad mak the hillock o' a moudiwart. But it's a' gane in\na guid cause; I dinna begrudge't; and, besides, things 'll maybe come\nroond again; and, if they dinna, there's nae help for't.\"\n\n\"So you were at the battle of Worcester, laird?\" said the speaker's\nyoung friend.\n\n\"Feth! that I was, sir; and there,\" he added, holding out his right\nhand, which was minus the forefinger and thumb--\"there's a certificate\no' the truth o' my statement, gien under the hand o' ane o' Crum'll's\npraying dragoons. It was an ugly lick; but there were a hantle o' uglier\nanes than it gaun whar it was gotten. It was a coorse business\nathegither.\"\n\n\"It was no less, my good friend,\" said the young cavalier. \"I was there,\ntoo.\"\n\n\"Was ye, feth?\" replied the laird. \"Then, if ye was, sir, ye saw a bonny\nstramash--mair than ye'll forget in a hurry, I daursay. It was an awfu\nscene yon, when the dragoons cam in upon us in the streets o' Worcester.\n'Od! they sliced and slapped aboot them as if they had gotten into a\nplantation o' lang kale, and no amang Christian men like themsels.\"\n\n\"It was indeed a sad business,\" replied the young man, with a melancholy\nsmile. \"Saw ye the king on that day?\"\n\n\"I did,\" replied the laird.\n\n\"Wouldst know him again?\"\n\n\"No; I canna think I wad. I just got a glisk o' him, for the first and\nlast time, in the middle o' the dirdum at Worcester. When I saw him, the\npuir lad was fechtin like a Turk; but it was a' to nae purpose. He was\nobleeged to rin for't at last, and to perk himsel up in a tree, like a\nhoolet, to keep oot o' the way o' Crum'll's sodgers. If they had gotten\nthe puir lad--as it was a God's mercy they didna--they wad hae taen aff\nhis head, nae doot, as they did his unfortunate faither's; and then, as,\nindeed, it's said they proposed to do, made a buttonmaker o' his sister,\nand maybe a Spitalfields weaver o' his brither, the Duke o' Gloucester.\"\n\n\"I _have_ heard,\" replied the young cavalier, with a contemptuous smile,\nwhile a blush of deep feeling, it might be indignation, overspread his\nintelligent countenance--\"I have heard that some such idea was actually\nentertained by the Parliament as that thou hast alluded to.\"\n\n\"There's nae doot that such a report was current, sir; but whether true\nor no, I winna tak upon me to say. They may hae been belied in't.\"\n\n\"I hope they may,\" replied the young cavalier, musingly. Then, suddenly\nrecovering himself, and assuming his usual cheerfulness of manner--\"And\nwhat are the king's friends about in Scotland?\" he said, slapping the\nlaird good-humouredly on the knee.\n\n\"Dooms little, sir,\" replied the laird. \"They daurna cheep. Monk has\ngotten his heel fairly on their necks; so that deil a ane o' them can\nwag either tongue or finger. There's a wheen o' them taen to the hills\nwi' Glencairn and Balcarras; but what can they do? Naething. It's a puir\nthing to be in that way, sir. I had a trial o' that mysel. Tak my word\nfor't, that sleepin in a moss hag, or in the lee o' a whin-bush, and\nleevin upon lavrocks, or raw turnips and bog-water, is nae better than\nit's ca'ed.\"\n\n\"Well, well, laird, I hope times will mend with our poor friends in\nScotland,\" replied the young cavalier, to whom this picture of the\nsufferings of the royalists, notwithstanding the strong tincture it\nexhibited of the speaker's natural humour, seemed to give much pain. \"I\nhope times will mend with them yet, and that feasting and feather-beds\nwill make them forget the raw turnips and whin-bushes ye speak of. In\nthe meantime, my good friend, push round the bottle, and let us talk of\nother matters; for these make me sad.\"\n\nNothing loth, the Laird of Lucky's How filled up a brimming bumper, and,\ndrinking \"better times,\" sent it down after some two or three dozen that\nhad preceded it.\n\nThe party were now getting into high glee. The laugh, the joke, and the\nbottle went merrily round, and the merriest, and apparently the most\njovial of the company, was the young gentleman whom we have hitherto\nrepresented as expressly attaching himself to the laird, and whose name,\nas the latter learned from himself, was Jones. This roysterer was the\nlife and soul of the company, when roystering became the order of the\nevening; but his mirth was tempered with a gentleness of demeanour, and\nan air of polished hilarity, if such a phrase may be permitted, as\ninspired the idea of the presence of a perfect gentleman. His whole\nmanner, in short, was exceedingly captivating. His fancy was ready and\nplayful; his wit brilliant and appropriate; and the affability and\nwinning character of his smile irresistible. Altogether, he was a most\ndelightful companion, and admirably calculated to figure in such\ncircumstances as those in which he was now placed. How he might acquit\nhimself in a scene of a more grave and serious character, it would not\nperhaps have been easy to guess.\n\nThe mirth of the party in the kitchen of the Drouthsloken had just\nattained its height, when a circumstance occurred which did not affect\nits humour, but somewhat changed its character. This was the entrance of\ntwo of the landlord's daughters. Dressed in the neat and simple,\nalthough somewhat peculiar, costume of their country, with their hair\ntightly braided up, and bound with a broad silver frontlet, so as to\nexhibit in bold relief the contour of their full and fair countenances,\ntwo prettier girls than Juliana and Joan Vander Tromp were not within\nthe walls of the Hague.\n\nAs they entered the kitchen, to which they had come merely, or, perhaps,\nwe should have said ostensibly, to look after some household affairs,\nthe girls curtsied slightly but gracefully to the company by which it\nwas occupied, and, smiling pleasantly and good-naturedly the while,\npassed on to the upper end of the apartment, and began to occupy\nthemselves in some little domestic duties. They had not, however, been\npermitted to enter unnoticed. On their appearance, the whole party got\nup from their seats, and acknowledged their presence by a gallant\ngreeting; and in this courtesy, Mr Jones again shone pre-eminent by the\ngreater grace and deeper devotion he displayed in his chivalrous welcome\nto the fair visitors.\n\nIt might have been observed, too, that to him, in turn, were the\ncurtsies and the looks also of the young ladies most especially\ndirected; but in this case these were associated with a degree of\nrespect for which it would not have been easy to account.\n\n\"What think ye of our fair Netherlanders, laird?\" said Mr Jones to the\nlatter, in a half whisper, when the ladies' attention was, or seemed to\nbe, engrossed by their occupation. \"Will they not match your Scotch\nlasses, think you?\"\n\n\"That's a pair o' braw queans, I maun allow,\" replied the laird. \"Just\ntwa as bonny bits o' lassocks as ane wad wish to see; but I think they\nwant the complexion--they haena the blume o' our kilted heather\ntrampers. They want the caller red that the norland breeze puts on the\ncheeks o' our Scottish gilpies. That's my humble opinion, sir. But\nthey're twa bonny lassocks, for a' that. Nae doot o't.\"\n\n\"On the score of complexion I grant ye, laird, they are, perhaps,\ndeficient a little, but I think this amply compensated by the\nintellectual expression, the fine contour, and the softer and more\nintense lustre of the eye. I have seen your Scottish maidens, laird, and\nadmired them in my time.\"\n\n\"Feth, sir, I maun say your taste wad hae been very questionable if ye\nhadna,\" interposed the laird. \"When and whar saw ye them, if ye please,\nsir? What pairt o' Scotland was ye in?\" he added.\n\nThe question appeared to place Jones in a difficulty for a moment; but\nhe at length answered--\n\n\"Why, laird, I have been in many parts of Scotland in my day. I was with\nthe king at Scone.\"\n\n\"Was that at the time o' his coronation?\" inquired the laird.\n\n\"It was,\" said Jones.\n\n\"And it wad be there, like, and aboot the quarter o' Perth, that ye saw\nour bonny Scotch lasses, I warrant,\" said the laird, laughingly. \"Ay, if\na' tales be true, the king admired them when he saw them, as muckle as\nye could do, sir,\" continued the laird.\n\n\"Why, they do report something of that kind,\" replied Jones, with some\nconfusion of manner, and slightly colouring as he spoke--indications of\na feeling, whatever it was, which seemed highly edifying to his\ncompanions, who marked it with repeated bursts of laughter; \"they do\nreport something of the kind,\" said Jones; \"but we mustn't credit all we\nhear, laird.\"\n\n\"The tae half's aboot the usual thing I believe,\" replied the latter;\n\"and, if we tak that in the present case--that is, regarding the king's\ngallantries----\"\n\n\"Ay, ay, go on, laird, go on--that's it--give us all you know about the\nking's gallantries in Scotland,\" shouted, almost simultaneously, the\nother members of the party. \"Go on, go on, like a good fellow.\"\n\n\"Nay, nay, now,\" exclaimed Jones, earnestly, but good-humouredly, \"as\none of the king's confidential servants, I must protest, laird, against\nyour divulging anything of that kind in my presence.\"\n\n\"Never mind the protest--never mind the protest, laird. Go on, and we'll\nstand between you and the consequences,\" again shouted several members\nof the party. \"What know ye about the king's gallantries at Scone?\"\n\n\"Ou, it was nae great things after a', to mak a wark aboot; but, ye see,\nthere war a wheen unco godly ministers there at the time, an' they made\nan awfu ado aboot it. The hale affair was just this. The king happenin\nto go into the room that he usually occupied in the Palace o' Scone ae\nmornin earlier than ordinar, wha does he fin sortin't oot but a bit\nbonny lassie o' a chaumermaid. Aweel, whan she saw the king enter, wham\nshe hadna expeckit for at least an hour after, what does she do but mak\na rin oot, as it war, and what does the king do but kep her, throw his\narms aboot her neck, and gie her a hearty kiss--a reglar royal salute?\nAnd awa gaed the lassie, skirlin like a curlew, half-mad wi' the fricht\nan' the honour. But what wad ye hae o't but that ane o' the Covenantin\nministers, wha war then as thick as craws aboot Scone--it bein just like\na rookery wi' the black coats for the time--suld be just at the moment\nstanin at a window, in anither apartment that lookit richt into the ane\nwhar the king had kissed the bit lassie, and saw the hale affair; and\nwhat does he do but report the scandal to his brethren, wha, shocked at\nthe indecency, appointed a committee o' ministers to reprove the royal\noffender! This committee accordingly waited on the king, whan their\nspokesman, ane Douglas--an awfu stern man--after rebookin His Majesty,\nadded, that it wad be prudent o' him, whan he desired to amuse himsel in\nfuture, to be mair carefu in shuttin the windows.\"\n\n\"Capital, laird; capital!\" shouted several of the party, in convulsions\nof laughter. \"Any more--any more?\"\n\n\"Nay, nay, now, laird,\" said Jones, laughing, and clapping his hand on\nthe mouth of the tell-tale; \"on your allegiance to your lawful\nsovereign, I command ye to silence. He must not, in my presence, be made\na subject of mirth to these idle jesters.\"\n\n\"Tuts, it's but a joke, man; but if ye think it wad offend His Majesty,\nI'll say nae mair. I wad suner lose something considerable than do that.\nBut what the waur can the king be o' it's bein kent that he likes the\nlasses? I trow it's rather a feather in his kep than a discredit till\nhim.\"\n\n\"Well done, laird!\" exclaimed Jones, clapping the former jocosely on the\nshoulder. \"Thou'rt a good old soul; and I shall take care that Charles\nknows of thy lenity towards his failings. It will do thee no harm with\nhim.\"\n\nHaving said this, Jones rose from the table, and went towards the\nlandlord's daughters, who were still busily occupied, or apparently so,\nat any rate, at the further end of the apartment. His approach to these\nfair damsels was made in the most gallant fashion imaginable, and with\nall the air and manner of a thoroughbred courtier and cavalier. What\nconversation passed between him and the girls was not overheard by the\nother members of the party; but the frequent bursts of laughter which\nwere from time to time elicited, sufficiently showed that it was of a\nmirthful character, and that the badinage of Jones fully supported, in\npoint and brilliancy, the credit of his other kindred qualifications.\nAfter some time, he returned to his party, and again took his seat\nbeside the laird; who, on his doing so, remarked--\n\n\"Feth, sir, ye seem as guid a hand at botherin the lasses as your\nmaster. It's in the family, I think.\"\n\nA roar of laughter succeeded this sally, to which Jones himself was one\nof the largest contributors, although it was certainly mingled with some\nembarrassment of manner. From this embarrassment, however, he was\nunexpectedly relieved by the strains of a wandering minstrel, which\nsuddenly rose from the street, just underneath the window of the kitchen\nof the Drouthsloken. As these strains were of no ordinary excellence,\nthey instantly attracted the attention of all in the apartment,\ninclusive of the landlord's two fair daughters, one of whom in especial\n(Juliana) evinced, by her flurried and agitated manner, a greater\ninterest in the presence of the minstrel than would have been warranted\non the supposition that it was merely accidental. Her confusion,\nhowever, and the consciousness which it implied of a knowledge exceeding\nthat of those around her, passed undiscovered by all except Jones, whose\nmore vigilant eye detected these symptoms of secret and mysterious\nunderstanding. He made no remark, however, on the subject; and carefully\nconcealed his discovery, not only from the rest of the party, but from\nher who was the object of his mental speculations. Having concluded his\nserenade, or at least its first department, which consisted, first, of a\npreliminary flourish on a violin, executed with great spirit and\nfelicity, and then of a song, accompanied by the instrument, sung in a\npeculiarly deep-toned, but exceedingly melodious, voice, the minstrel\nceased for a few seconds, when Jones proposed that he should be invited\nin; and that, if he proved merely a gallant, he should be asked to a\nglass of wine; and if he turned out a professional performer, who came\nin the exercise of his vocation, he should be requested to entertain\nthem with his music within-doors. To this proposal a general assent was\nat once given; and this assent was immediately followed by the\nproceeding proper to its fulfilment. Three or four of the party, headed\nby Jones, instantly rushed out, and surrounded the astonished minstrel\nbefore he was aware. At first he discovered symptoms of a desire to\nescape from the party; but, seeing this impossible, he stood his ground\nmanfully, and awaited the pleasure of the gentlemen, whose notice, he\nsaid, he had the honour, it seemed, of so specially attracting. A\nmomentary glance at the speaker satisfied Jones and his party of his\nquality. It was that of a professed street performer; or at least of a\nperson of the humblest class, as was indicated by his apparel, which\nconsisted of a short cloak, with a sort of coarse jerkin underneath, a\npair of wide and ill-made knee-breeches, coarse blue woollen stockings,\nand a pair of enormous wooden shoes. On his head was a brown felt hat,\nof a conical shape, adorned with a cock's feather, and altogether\nresembling those seen in paintings of Dutch boors. These outward\nindications, then, settled the question of the minstrel's rank, and\nrendered no ceremony necessary in inviting him in.\n\n\"You play well, friend,\" said Jones. \"We have been listening to you, and\nwill be glad if you will come and amuse us for half-an-hour or so. I\nwill see to your being suitably recompensed.\"\n\n\"Thank you, honourable sirs,\" replied the minstrel. \"I doubt not of my\nrecompense, were it once earned; but the hour is late, and I may not\ntarry abroad longer. Moreover, I make it a rule never to enter any\nhouse, or to perform to any private party within-doors. I bid you a\ngood-night, gentlemen.\"\n\n\"Nay, by my troth, and you do no such thing, friend,\" said Jones,\nseizing the minstrel, who was at this moment about making off, by the\nskirt of his jerkin. \"We don't part with good company in this way.\nFriends,\" he said, addressing his companions, \"lend a hand here, to\nsecure the fiddler. We must compel him to his own interest, which he\nwould thus wilfully neglect.\"\n\nNo sooner said than done. In a twinkling the reluctant minstrel was\ngrasped on all sides, and in an instant after found himself in the\ncentre of the kitchen of the Drouthsloken, to which he had been carried\nalmost bodily, in despite of a certain quantum of vain resistance and\nremonstrance, by which he had at first endeavoured to thwart the purpose\nof his captors. On being brought into the light of the kitchen, it was\ndiscovered that the captured fiddler and songster was deficient of an\neye, at least of the use of it, as it was covered by a large green\nshade, apparently unnecessarily large, as it concealed the half of his\nface. Another peculiarity was now also observable, and this was, that\nthe neck of his cloak was clasped at a most extraordinary height up on\nhis face, and that he would by no means listen to any entreaties, either\nto lay aside the said cloak, or even to unloosen the clasp by which it\nwas secured in so strange a position. We need scarcely add, that the\neffect of these various dispositions of his externals was to conceal\nalmost entirely his countenance, of which only a small portion of the\nleft side was visible; and even this it was attempted to circumscribe as\nmuch as possible, by the disposition of the hair of the head, which was\ncarefully combed down over the exposed space.\n\n\"Come now, friend,\" said Jones, addressing the musician, and handing\nhim, at the same time, a huge brimmer of wine, \"gulp this with a\ncelerity that shall be creditable to thy craft, man, and let us have\nthereafter a taste of thy calling--some of thy merriest strains; for I\nmean to see if we cannot make a dance of it, by the help of these fair\ndames there\"--inclining his head towards the landlord's daughters, who\nstill kept their ground in the kitchen; although, if the matter had been\ninquired into, we rather fear they would have found some difficulty in\nnaming the particular duty that detained them.\n\nFinding it of no use to resist the spirit which he saw prevailed amongst\nthe party, the minstrel quietly despatched the contents of the goblet\nthat had been presented to him, and commenced the duty that had been\nimposed upon him. On the first sound of the preliminary flourish of his\nbow becoming audible, Jones went up to the buxom daughters of Mynheer\nTromp, and in his most gallant manner asked them if they would have any\nobjection to take the floor with him and his friends, seeing that they\nhad unexpectedly made the acquisition of an admirable musician,\nalthough, he must confess, rather an odd-looking man; and Jones, as he\nmade the latter remark, looked slyly at Juliana, to mark its effect, and\nfound it acknowledged by a deep but transient blush, which she\nendeavoured to conceal.\n\nThe proposal, however, of a dance was accepted on the part of the\nyounger sister, Joan, with eager alacrity; and on the part of Juliana\nwith an appearance of the same willingness, but with a confusion and\nhesitation of manner that gave token of a counteracting feeling. Having\nobtained the consent of the fair sisters to \"tread a measure,\" the gay\ncourtier took a hand of each, and gallantly led them to the middle of\nthe floor; intimating, at the same time, by signal, to his friends to\nclear the space for the impending performances--a signal which they lost\nno time in obeying; two or three seizing chairs apiece; and other two or\nthree--one of whom was the laird, who seemed to enter with great\ngoodwill into the spirit of the thing--lifting the table, with all it\ncarried, to a distant corner of the apartment.\n\nJust as these preparations were completed, and while Jones stood in the\nmiddle of the floor, doing the polite to his two ladies--but directing\nhis attentions most especially to the elder--their father, the jolly\nVander Tromp, who had been absent for a considerable time, entered the\napartment, when, perceiving what was going on--\n\n\"Ah, very goot, very goot!\" he said, in his most hilarious manner--his\njolly, broad red face beaming with delight. \"A daunce, a daunce--ah,\nvery goot thing a daunce\"--and he cracked his finger and thumb, and\nthrew up one of his huge legs in the air, with an expression of\nhighly-excited feeling. Then, calming down a moment--\"You vill have no\nobjection, Mynheer Jones, to my frow have share in the daunce?\"\n\n\"Objection, Tromp!\" ejaculated Jones, with well-feigned horror at the\nsupposition. \"By no means. I shall be but too proud of the honour.\"\n\n\"An tank you, Mynheer Jones--you are too goot.\" And saying this, Vander\nTromp disappeared, with another joyous flourish of finger and thumb and\nleft leg, in search of Mrs Tromp, to conduct her into the presence of\nthe dancers, and to a share of their amusement.\n\nIn the meantime, the parties were set, and the dance commenced with\ngreat vigour; Jones displaying in this exercise a degree of skill and\ngrace in entire keeping with the refinement of his general manner. His\nspirits, too, were exuberant, and infused a life into all around him,\nthat all the other circumstances combined could not have inspired.\n\nAlthough by no means wanting in attention to the younger lady, it might\nbe observed, however, that Jones was much more assiduous in his\ncivilities to Juliana; and, what was a yet more remarkable circumstance,\nit might also have been observed, that the musician evinced a strange\nsensation of uneasiness whenever he saw Jones paying any particular\nattention to this lady. He fidgeted in his seat, bungled the tune he was\nplaying, and shot fiercer glances from his solitary optic on the\nrevellers on the floor, but most especially on Jones and his fair\nfavourite. What was odd, too, Jones seemed to be aware of the feeling he\nwas exciting in the sensitive fiddler, and to delight in the uneasiness\nhe was occasioning; for the more markedly it was evinced, the more\nassiduous and persevering was he in his gallantries. Although, however,\nall this might have been sufficiently evident to a close and vigilant\nobserver, it escaped the notice of those present; for Jones managed his\nsecret tactics, whatever these were, with great caution, and exhibited\nno other symptoms of consciousness than a slight, scarcely perceptible,\nsmile of sly intelligence.\n\nWe have said that none present were cognisant of this mysterious\nunderstanding, or rather misunderstanding, between Jones and the\nmusician; but we are not sure that this is quite correct. There was an\nair of embarrassment about the manner of the fair Juliana, that seemed\nto indicate that she was also in possession of some share of the secret\nknowledge that was working so much underhand mischief; and of this Jones\nappeared likewise to be aware.\n\nThus stood matters, then, with this trio, when Vander Tromp and his\nwife--the former leading the latter on his arm--came tripping into the\nkitchen, with the grace and agility of a couple of elephants; for the\nworthy spouse of the worthy landlord of the Drouthsloken was, like\nhimself, of the regular Dutch build, and had very much the shape and\nappearance of a featherbed upon legs, if such an object can be\nconceived. Her breadth, which was naturally of the most formidable\ndimensions, was greatly increased by a stiff silk gown, which projected\nin rigid amplitude on all sides, and gave to her whole person an\nappearance of illimitable expanse. Notwithstanding these vast\ndimensions, there was yet a comeliness about her bulk, and an expression\nof benevolence and good-nature in her rosy countenance, that rendered\nher altogether by no means an unpleasing object.\n\nOn the entrance of mine host and his larger as well as better half,\nJones, with that gallant devotion which seemed natural to him, instantly\nadvanced towards the latter, and, with a preliminary flourish of some of\nhis most graceful obeisances, in which, perhaps, a very shrewd observer\nmight have discovered a slight tincture of mock gallantry, invited her\nto join him in the next dance. The large lady, with a good-humoured\nsmile, curtsied a ready acquiescence to the polite invitation; and, in\nthe next instant, might be seen sailing majestically through the mazes\nof the dance, closely attended by her respectful and devoted partner.\n\nIn the meantime, the unwilling musician seemed heartily tired of his\nemployment, and looked as if he would have given a trifle not only to\nhave got quit of that employment, but to have got out of the house\naltogether. Jones, however, was inexorable; and the more marked the\nfiddler's impatience became, the more unmercifully did he deal out his\norders to \"play up;\" and much did he seem to delight, although he kept\nthe satisfaction to himself, in the grin of irritation which his\ncommands never failed to produce on the countenance of the hapless\nmusician. Leaving, then, the general position of matters in the kitchen\nof the Drouthsloken in this state, we shall resume the particular\nhistory of the laird's proceedings, which we fear the reader may think\nwe have already too long neglected.\n\nOf the ongoings of the evening the laird, who was now pretty well in the\nwind, was an attentive, but by no means a silent, spectator. In the\nenthusiasm which the proceedings passing before him had excited, he had\nmounted a chair, and from that elevated position was whooping, and\nyelling, and shouting, and clapping his hands--at once to express his\nown delight in the performances, and to encourage the performers.\n\n\"That's it, my bonny lassie!\" he screamed out, addressing the younger\nTromp, whose agility particularly pleased him. \"'Od ye're just doin\namazinly! That's it! Kilt yer coats, ye cutty, and skelp at it withouten\nfear or dread! That's the true way to mak a figure on a flure!\"\n\n\"Feth, no amiss, guidwife, no amiss ava,\" he said, and now addressing\nhimself to the better half of mine host of the Drouthsloken, who was\nheaving like a seventy-four in a ground-swell--\"no amiss ava, considerin\nthe wecht ye carry. Ye're just doin wonderfu, too, to be sae broad in\nthe beam. My word, but ye are a sonsy lass,\" he continued, his attention\ngradually directing itself to a contemplation of her personal\ndimensions. \"If ye're an unce, ye're twenty stane, quarry wecht; and\neverybody kens that's no scrimpit.\"\n\n\"Weel dune, Jones! weel dune, lad! Hoo, hurrah! up wi't! Ye've a pair o'\nguid souple shanks o' your ain. That's it, lad--that's it! Up wi't! Hoo,\nhurrah, hurrah!\"\n\nAnd the laird clapped his hands with a vigour and energy that emitted a\nsound more like the contact of a pair of boards than human palms; and\naccompanying this expression of heartiness of feeling with whoops and\nshouts, that drowned the noise of both feet and fiddle.\n\nImpartial in the distribution of his praises, the laird now directed his\ncompliments to the various other members of the dancing party,\nseverally, and finished with mine host himself.\n\n\"Unco weel, laird, unco weel,\" he exclaimed, addressing that worthy\nperformer. \"Really, unco weel! ye've a wonderfu licht foot to hae sic a\nheavy stern. That's it, laird! Up wi' the left leg!--capital, capital!\"\nAnd again the laird clapped his hands, and again raised his tremendous\nwar-whoop.\n\nHitherto the dancers had paid no particular attention to the laird's\nnoisy expressions of interest in their proceedings; but they so highly\ntickled Mr Jones, that, on the conclusion of the dance, he came laughing\nup to the laird, and asked him if he would not take a turn on the floor\non the next occasion.\n\n\"No, thank ye, Mr Jones,\" replied the latter; \"my dancin days are weel\naboot owre now; but, though the flesh is weak, the spirit's willin, and,\nto mak mysel as guid company as possible, I'll tak a screed o' the\nfiddle an ye like; for I'm mair souple aboot the elbows than the ankles\nnow-a-days, and, besides, I dinna think that fallow puts the richt\nsmeddum in his tunes. They're awfu draicky, and no like our Scotch\nmeasures, that mak ye fling your legs aboot like flails, till ye dinna\nken whether your heels or your head's uppermost.\"\n\n\"Ah ha, very fair, laird,\" replied Jones, laughing; \"and although I have\nreasons for keeping all relief from the fiddler as long as possible, I\nam so curious to hear your performance, that I, for my part, consent to\nyour taking a turn of his instrument, provided he will allow you.\"\n\n\"We'll try him,\" replied the laird, briefly, and at the same time\nstepping down from his high place, and thereafter proceeding with Jones\ntowards the musician of the evening, in order to offer his services in\nthe way of assisting him.\n\n\"Friend,\" said Jones to the one-eyed minstrel, while the laird stood\nbehind, or rather beside him, waiting the result of his\napplication--\"friend, have you any objection to be relieved a little in\nyour labours? Here is a brother musician, who would gladly take a turn\nwith you, provided you would favour him with the loan of your\ninstrument.\"\n\nThe only reply of the fiddler was a sullen, dissentient growl; for he\nwas as averse to speaking as to exposing his countenance.\n\n\"What! won't you lend our friend here your fiddle?\" said Jones, now\nbursting out into a fit of suppressed laughter, which seemed, from its\nheartiness, and the relief which it evidently afforded him, to have been\nlong pent up. \"Do, man, do--you had better do. _I'll_ be much obliged to\nyou\"--with marked emphasis on the pronoun, which he further increased by\na gentle but significant tread on the toe of the perplexed minstrel,\nwho, after returning the secret intimation of Jones by a smile and an\nintelligent leer of his open eye, handed the fiddle to the laird without\nsaying a word.\n\nThe incident which we have just described was unobserved by any other\nparty but those concerned in it; or, at least, if it was observed, it\nwas not understood; and in this predicament also stood he who had the\nbest opportunity of seeing it--namely, the laird. He saw all that passed\nbetween Jones and the fiddler; but he could not make out what it meant;\nnor did he seem to concern himself about discovering it. Having got the\nfiddle into his possession, the laird commenced tuning it with great\nassiduity, and with a bow stroke that showed he was well practised in\nthe use of the instrument. The tuning effected to his mind, he struck\nup, with great vigour, a ranting Scotch reel, which he played with\nuncommon spirit and skill. At first, the novelty of the measure took the\ngreater part of the audience by surprise. For a time they could make\nnothing of it; but music being a universal language, both the spirit and\nrhythm of the tune soon began to be perceived and appreciated; and, with\na little schooling from Jones, who seemed not only to understand the\nmusic, but to be delighted with it, the dancers were placed in the order\nof a reel; and, by a vigilant superintendence of their motions on the\npart of the latter, they contrived to get through the figure with\ntolerable correctness. All were delighted with the new dance. It was\nrepeated again and again, and every time with increased success, and a\ndiminishing necessity for the interference of Jones, who, having entered\nfully into the spirit of the mirthful train, whooped and yelled as\nvociferously as ever the laird had done. His enthusiasm was infectious;\nall caught it--even the broad-beamed wife of Vander Tromp, who moved\nunder the inspiring influence of the laird's bow with an agility that no\none could have believed her ponderous person capable of; while the\nothers, including mine portly host himself, flung, and flew, and\nshuffled, as madly as the witches in the midnight dance in Alloway Kirk.\nThe spell, in short, of the laird's music was complete, and each owned\nthe hilarious spirit which it was so well calculated to diffuse over all\nwho were within reach of its influence--in other words, over all who\nwere within hearing of the laird's admirably-played fiddle. Inspired\nwith additional glee by these indications of the powerful effect of his\nmusic, the laird still further heightened its influence by breaking out,\nas he played, into short, abrupt shouts, which were responded to, from\ntime to time, by the male dancers, but with most especial emphasis by\nJones, who seemed to be, altogether, at the very acme of human\nenjoyment.\n\nIt was while the revellers were thus dinning the drowsy ear of night\nwith their obstreperous mirth, and while they were yet in the full\ncareer of enjoyment, that four persons suddenly entered the kitchen of\nthe Drouthsloken. They were in the garb of seamen, wearing large, shaggy\npea-jackets, and low, round-crowned, glazed hats, with circular flaps\nprojecting behind. Although, however, all were dressed nearly alike,\nthere was one who evidently took the lead amongst them. He was a young\nman, and had an air of authority in his manner to which the rest seemed\nto pay deference. Some differences, too, in his outer habiliments,\nnotwithstanding of the general resemblance that prevailed in this\nparticular, pointed him out as of a superior grade to the others. This\nperson was not unknown to the inmates of the house. He was recognised as\nCaptain Hagedorn of the Jungfrau of Rotterdam--a man of fierce,\nirascible temper, and an ardent, although not very acceptable, admirer\nof Juliana. On his entrance, therefore, he was immediately greeted as an\nacquaintance by Tromp, his wife, and their two daughters--by Juliana,\nhowever, with an evident confusion and embarrassment of manner. To these\ngreetings, Hagedorn vouchsafed the return only of a surly and\nunintelligible muttering, while he proceeded to provide himself with a\nchair, on which he placed himself directly opposite the one-eyed\nminstrel, at whom he threw, from time to time, looks of the most\nmalignant ferocity.\n\nAll, especially Juliana, who had reasons for fearing the worst, seemed\nimpressed with the belief that the fellow was bent on mischief, and that\nhe had come there for the especial purpose. Of this they were more\nconvinced, on observing the brass-tipped sheaths of cutlasses projecting\nfrom beneath the pea-jackets of the intruders. Their fears were not long\nof being realised.\n\n\"Tromp,\" said Hagedorn (we take the liberty of translating, in this, and\nall other similar cases), \"I thought you kept a regular, decent house.\nSuch is the character you pretend to, at any rate.\"\n\n\"And such,\" replied Tromp, with a blush of honest indignation, \"is the\ncharacter I maintain. Who shall gainsay it?\"\n\n\"Why, there are some things going on here to-night that don't look much\nlike it,\" replied Hagedorn. \"Know ye, Tromp, or does Juliana know, who\nthis one-eyed gallant is?\" pointing to the late serenader.\n\n\"Whether they do or not, they shall soon know, and so shall you to your\ncost, Hagedorn!\" replied the minstrel, starting to his feet, and hastily\nstripping off the disguise, eye-patch and all, in which he was\nenveloped; a proceeding which discovered to the astonished\nonlookers--not, however, including either Jones or Juliana, who had a\nprevious knowledge of his identity--a tall, handsome,\ngentlemanly-looking young man, well known as Sir Lionel Musgrave, one of\nthe gayest and most respected of those English gentlemen who shared the\nmisfortunes and exile of Charles II. during the existence of the\nCommonwealth.\n\n\"Ha!\" said Hagedorn, starting to his feet, on Musgrave discovering\nhimself. \"So, I have unearthed the fox, eh!\" And, as he spoke, he made a\ngrasp at Musgrave's throat; which the latter evaded by adroitly stepping\nback a pace, when he instantly drew his sword and made a pass at\nHagedorn, who, however, skilfully warded it off with his cutlass, to\nwhich he had had recourse the moment he missed his hold of his\nantagonist. These proceedings were, of course, a signal to all the other\nmen in the apartment to muster on their respective sides; and this they\ninstantly did. Hagedorn's men immediately drew; Jones and his party did\nthe same; and the women ran screaming from the scene of the impending\ncontest. In one instant after, a general melee commenced. There were\ndeep oaths, overturning of tables, and clashing of swords in every\ndirection, and all the other characteristics of a tremendous and very\nserious hubbub. Blows, too, were not wanting. They fell thick and fast\non all sides.\n\nHitherto our friend the laird had remained an idle, but\nsufficiently-astonished spectator of the strange and sudden scene that\nhad been thus brought before his visual organs. Though an idle, he was\nnot altogether, however, a mute witness of the proceedings that were\ngoing forward.\n\n\"'Od! this _is_ a queer business!\" he muttered to himself. \"Wha on earth\nwad hae thocht that yon blin-ee'd, broken-doon-lookin soul o' a fiddler\nwad hae turned oot a braw young swanky like that? Na, na, that'll no\ndo,\" suddenly added the laird, and now referring to the circumstance of\nJones being hard pressed by two of the intruders. \"Twa on ane--that'll\nnever do.\" And the laird looked around him for some weapon wherewith he\nmight compensate the odds against his friend. Nothing of this kind more\nefficient than the tongs presenting itself, the laird leaped down from\nthe table on which he had been perched in the quality of musician, and,\nseizing the afore-mentioned instrument by the feet, advanced upon the\nfoe, shouting, \"Stan to them, Jones! stan to them, lad! till I gie them\na taste o' the tangs!\" And, in the same instant, he discharged a blow at\nthe head of one of Jones' assailants that laid him senseless on the\nfloor. Finding his first effort so successful, the laird repeated the\nexperiment on the prostrate man's companion with precisely the same\nresult. Down he went also with a fractured skull. \"That's the way!\"\nshouted the laird, now greatly excited by his own destructive exertions;\n\"ca' them down like nine-pins! Soop them aff the face o' the yearth!\"\n\nAt this moment, the laird's Io Paeans were interrupted by the entrance of\na party of the town-guard, whom Tromp had summoned to his aid. These\nimmediately seized on the intruders, as they were pointed out by the\nlatter--the fallen men having so far recovered as to be now sitting up,\nalthough evidently sick and giddy from the effects of the laird's blows,\nand looking, as he said himself, \"unco white aboot the gills\"--and\nmarched them off to the guard-house, to answer in due time to the\njudicial authorities of the city for the breach of the peace of which\nthey had been guilty.\n\nOn the kitchen of the Drouthsloken being cleared of the enemy, an\ninvestigation into the extent of personal injury sustained took place,\nwhen it was found that this was, after all, very trivial, consisting\nonly of two or three slight flesh wounds, of which Musgrave bore two,\nand one or two others one apiece.\n\n\"And now, laird,\" said Jones, addressing the latter, \"what share of the\nhonours have you got?\"\n\n\"Deil a scratch,\" replied the laird. \"Feth, I didna gie them time for\nthat. I didna stan whilly-whain wi' them, wi' a bit shabble in my haun,\nas ye a' did, but gied them richt knock-me-doon thuds at ance--sent them\nowre like stots, ane after the ither. Feth! commen me to a pair o' tangs\nin a kitchen row. It maks clean wark. I'll think mair o' them as a\nweapon, baith o' offence and defence, than ever I did.\"\n\n\"In such hands as yours, laird, they certainly are a\nsufficiently-formidable weapon. Had it not been for them and you\ntogether, I would scarce have got off so scatheless as I have done. I\nowe you a good turn, and it shall not be forgotten. I promised you an\nintroduction to the king; and I shall not only fulfil that promise, but,\nas my word goes a long way with him, I shall give such an account of you\nas, I answer for it, will insure you a favourable reception, and\nprobably procure you some still more substantial tokens of his regard.\"\n\n\"Ou, thank ye, sir, thank ye,\" said the laird; \"but I dinna see that I\nhae dune onything the nicht that should entitle me to ony special favour\nfrae his most gracious Majesty. What interest can he possibly hae in a\nkitchen collyshangy like this?\"\n\n\"More than you're aware of, perhaps, laird; but never mind that in the\nmeantime. Here comes Tromp, to read us a lecture, I daresay, on the\nevening's occurrences, although it was none of our fault either. Ha,\nMusgrave, my spark!\" continued Jones, and now turning to that\ngallant--\"didst think I couldn't have known thee? 'Od's fish, man, I\nwould have known the cut of thy jib, although thou hadst been sewn in a\nsack.\"\n\n\"Faith, your ----\" A wink from Jones prevented the word that was about\nto follow. The wink was understood. \"Faith, my friend,\" said Musgrave,\nlaughing, \"to tell a truth, I had no idea you were here. It was intended\nfor a stolen march--to see whether I could not win my wager, by cutting\nye out in the good graces of our landlord's fair daughter July.\" The\nconversation between Jones and Musgrave was here interrupted by the\napproach of Tromp, who came not, as the latter had suspected, to\ncomplain of what had occurred, but merely to request that the gentlemen\nwould now retire, as it was getting late, and as his household was in a\nstate of great alarm and confusion, in consequence of what had taken\nplace.\n\nThe request was too respectfully made, and in itself too reasonable, to\nadmit of the smallest objection. The party immediately donned their hats\nand cloaks, when Jones, taking the laird by the hand, told him to remain\nwhere he was for the night, and that he would wait upon him on the\nfollowing morning to conduct him to the king.\n\nAgreeably to his promise, early in the forenoon of the following day,\nJones, attended by a gay band of cavaliers, entered the apartment in\nwhich the laird was at breakfast.\n\n\"Oh, Mr Jones, hoo are ye?\" said the latter, rising from his seat on the\nentrance of the former. \"I'm sure this is very guid o' ye. Nane the waur\no' the bit stramash we had last nicht, I hope?\"\n\n\"Oh! not a bit, not a bit, kind thanks to you for that, laird,\" replied\nJones. \"Now, my friend,\" continued the latter, \"I am better than my\nword: I promised to bring you to the king; instead of this, I have\nbrought the king to you. Any objection, laird, to take me for your\nlawful, but unfortunate king? I am Charles,\" he said, in a tone of more\nearnest emphasis.\n\nNeed we describe the laird's amazement at this astounding disclosure? We\nneed not. The reader will conceive it. Although he looked unutterable\nthings, all that he said was--\n\n\"Gude preserve me! is that a fact?\" pronounced in the slow, deliberate\ntone of overwhelming and perplexed amazement.\n\nThe sequel of our tale is soon told. Charles settled a small pension on\nthe laird--all that his circumstances at the time would afford--on which\nhe lived for several years at the Hague. He subsequently found his way\nback to Scotland, the distracted state of the king's affairs preventing\nthe regular payment of his pension. In the meantime, years rolled on,\nand changes took place, and amongst these came the Restoration. Charles\nwas restored to the throne of his ancestors. On this throne the monarch\nhad not been many days seated, when he was informed by one of the pages\nin waiting that they had been much annoyed by an old grey-headed\nScotchman, with a large flat blue bonnet on his head, insisting on\nadmission to His Majesty's presence.\n\n\"Did he give his name?\" replied the monarch.\n\n\"He did, please your majesty,\" replied the page; \"he said he was sure\nthat, if we would inform your majesty that it was the Laird of Lucky's\nHow who sought admission, your majesty would instantly grant him an\naudience.\"\n\n\"He was right,\" said Charles, smiling. \"I recollect the honest man well.\nAdmit him next time he presents himself.\"\n\nThe laird came, was admitted, and was received with a most cordial\nwelcome by the good-natured monarch. They talked over the occurrences of\nthe evening they had spent in the kitchen of the Drouthsloken; and the\nlaird was finally dismissed, with a promise, shortly afterwards\nredeemed, of his being reinstated in his patrimonial lands. To this\nother gratuities were added, to an amount that amply compensated him, as\nhe often himself said, for all that he had suffered in the royal cause.\nSome will say, perhaps, and with too much truth, that Charles was not so\ngrateful to all his friends; but, in the present instance, we have only\nto do with the case of the Laird of Lucky's How.\n\n\n\n\nTHE ABDUCTION.\n\n\nThe farm of Kelpiehaugh, at a short distance from Lessudden, was, at an\nearly period of the St Boswell's meetings, occupied by Giles Ramsay--a\nman who, as often happens in Scotland, was not loth to admit that \"his\ngrey mare was the better horse.\" He liked the philosophy of the old\nballad quoted by Shakspere, and received it as a general maxim, that\n\"nought's to be had at a woman's hand\" unless, in every case, \"ye gie\nher a' the plea.\" And, verily, Matty did not love him the worse for his\ncorrect notions of woman-kind, though, as for anything like gratitude\nfor his easy submission to her entire authority, she knew nothing of the\nsentiment, if she did not heartily despise it. The reason was indeed\nplain enough; for she had the capacity to know that, whatever\nsuperiority nature intended her husband should possess over her, in his\ncharacter of one of the lords of the creation, he had none whatever in\nthe capacity of her husband. In this there was a secret which she\ncommunicated to no one; and that was simply, that Giles was, in all\nrespects, a stupid, simple, honest \"cudden,\" and she was one of the\ncleverest dames that ever made a good-natured husband cry \"barlafummil\"\nin a matrimonial skirmish. Yet, with all the guidwife's cleverness, she\nhad not been able either to prevent Giles from getting behind with his\nrent--the more by token as, we fancy, that Kelpiehaugh was too dear--or\nto get \"the glaikit hizzy,\" Mary, her daughter, well buckled to a canny\nlaird, who might help them to pay up their arrears. The first was\nclearly no marvel; but the second might have been termed some what\nextraordinary, seeing the young woman was as fair as Dowsabell.\n\nSomething as regarded the rent depended upon the next sale of cattle at\nSt Boswell's, for which honest Giles had ready six as good stirks as\never grazed on a green lea; and it was arranged between him and the\nbetter partner of the matrimonial firm, that he must get six pounds for\nevery head of them, otherwise he might have small chance for \"love's\nroundelay\" on his return.\n\n\"It will mak thirty-six pounds, Giles,\" said Matty; \"and that will\nenable us to pay up ten pounds o' oor arrears.\"\n\n\"And what will I get for a superplus o' a pound a-head on them?\" said\nGiles.\n\n\"The liberty to buy a new gown for Mary,\" replied she, \"that we may try\nto get her aff at the next fair. But, if ye sell them for a pound less,\nI rede ye to seek a quieter bield for your hame than Kelpiehaugh will be\non your return.\"\n\nAnd so primed, old Giles set off with his six stirks to St Boswell's. He\narrived at the green, and exposed his bestial in the most favourable\nmanner he could; but he found that Matty's price did not accord with the\nhumour of the buyers, who probably thought proper to judge for\nthemselves in the question of value. The time passed, and Giles saw\nbefore him nothing but the necessity of driving the stirks back again to\nKelpiehaugh--an operation he by no means relished. As he stood musing on\nthe apparently forlorn hope of a customer, an old man, much bent, with a\ngrey beard, and a patch over his left eye as big as the blind of him of\nforging celebrity, \"Blackpatch\" himself, came up to him, and at once\noffered him eight pounds a-head for his stock. The old farmer wondered,\nsmiled, and accepted. The bargain was struck, and forty-eight good\npounds were instanter placed in the hands of the seller.\n\n\"Now I have a favour to ask of you, good Mr Ramsay,\" said the buyer.\n\n\"It will be an unreasonable request I winna grant to ane wha has gien me\nmy ain price,\" replied the farmer. \"What is't?\"\n\n\"That you will drive the cattle home to Kelpiehaugh, and keep them there\nat my risk and cost till I send for them,\" said the other.\n\n\"Granted, and wi' thanks,\" said the farmer.\n\n\"I have another favour to ask,\" said the other.\n\n\"As mony's ye like, sir, if they're a' o' a kind,\" answered the farmer,\nsmiling. \"Out wi't.\"\n\n\"That you'll give me a bed at Kelpiehaugh to-night,\" said the old man.\n\"I have a distance to ride, and would fain halve the stage, by making\nyour house a half-way resting-place.\n\n\"Of a surety, sir,\" replied the farmer; \"ye'll hae the best bed and the\nbest victuals Kelpiehaugh can boast o', and nae boast after a', though\nMatty, I am proud to say, kens hussyskep as weel as ony woman in a' the\nshirradom. Will ye gang wi' me, or come yersel?\"\n\n\"I will come by myself,\" said the buyer. \"I have some other affairs to\nsettle before the fair breaks up, and it may be later than your time\nbefore I have finished.\"\n\nThe matter being thus arranged, the two parted. Giles was anxious to\nknow who his customer was; but no one could tell anything of him, and\nthe hour getting forward to the gloaming, he set off again for his farm,\nwith his forty-eight pounds in his pocket, and the cattle before him. On\nhis approaching Kelpiehaugh, Matty, along with her fair daughter, was at\nthe door, waiting for him. It was now dark; but she could hear his voice\nin articulations which pleased her not. \"Hey! hey! yaud! yaud!\" and then\ncame the sound of a thwack on the backs of the lazy troop he was driving\nbefore him.\n\n\"And ye've brought them back again, ye sorry simpleton?\" cried the wife.\n\nThe husband answered nothing, but continued thumping at the nolt with\nhis \"hey,\" and \"yaud,\" and \"phew\"--every ejaculation having the effect\nof an objurgatory attack on the dame herself.\n\n\"Ay, ay,\" she cried, \"thump them and drive them into the shed, Giles,\nthat they may be ready for the roup o' our plenishing and stocking. The\nauctioneer's hammer will knock them down wi' mair pith than that rung ye\nare using, wi' a' the spite o' an angry disappointed man, wha couldna\nmak a sale o' his ain kye.\"\n\nHer cutting words had still no effect upon the good-natured farmer, who\ncontinued his operations till he got the six steers safely lodged in\ntheir shed. He then came into the house quietly, and, with a \"heigh-ho,\nthat job's weel owre,\" sat him down by the side of the fire, opposite to\nhis wife and daughter. For some minutes there was silence in the house\nof Kelpiehaugh; the reason whereof was that Matty's authority was for\nonce apparently disregarded, or set at naught, by the apparent absence\nof all tokens of fear and contrition on the part of her mate. She had\nalready indicated sufficiently her sense of his stupidity, and given him\na peremptory notice of what he might expect for the next half-year to\ncome; yet there was he, against all custom, and all the laws of marital\nsubordination, sitting as easy and comfortable as if he merited her\npraise and deserved her blessing. She could only look daggers at him,\nwith occasionally an expression of staring wonder at a nonchalance that\ndisproved twenty years of authority.\n\n\"Is there naething in Kelpiehaugh for its master to eat or drink?\" said\nhe, at last, in a calm, soft voice. \"A hard day's wark deserves\nsomething at e'en.\"\n\n\"Is he adding impertinence to his folly?\" thought the dame, as she sat\ndoggedly silent and immoveable.\n\n\"Come, Mary,\" added he; \"since Matty will gie us naething, rise, lassie,\nand gie your father the best that's in the house, and, by way o' bribe,\nhere's a new gown to ye--the bonniest and brawest I could find at St\nBoswell's.\"\n\nThe girl started up and laid hold of the dress. The bright hues glared\non her eyes. The dame cast a side-eye on the gaudy article.\n\n\"Waur and waur, Giles,\" she ejaculated. \"Are ye mad, man? What, in the\nname o' a' that's guid or ill, possessed ye? Will that gown pay our\nrent?\"\n\n\"Maybe it may,\" rejoined Giles. \"Mary's the bonniest lass on this side\no' the Tweed, and beauty's nae waur o' being weel buskit. It may bring\nher a husband wha'll pay our rent; and, if it doesna, there's nae\nskaith, seeing we may yet be able to do it oursels.\"\n\n\"The man's as mad as a March hare, or a gled-stung quey,\" cried Matty.\n\n\"But am I to get nae supper, Matty?\" rejoined he, with the same\ncalmness.\n\n\"The deil a bit,\" ejaculated the dame.\n\n\"Maybe this may bribe ye,\" said he, as he pulled out of another pocket a\ngown-piece, as bright as the other, for his beloved spouse.\n\nThe charm had no power, save that of increasing the wonder of the dame;\nand the statement which immediately followed, that there was a stranger\nto be entertained at Kelpiehaugh that night, roused her still farther.\nIt was not till she began to look more narrowly into the face of her\nhusband, that she observed a dry humour about him, that might be\nanything but the result of an unsuccessful attempt to dispose of his\nbestial, and, going up to him, she shook him heartily by the shoulders.\n\n\"Come, come, Giles,\" she said, \"there's a secret at the bottom o' a'\nthis, and maybe this may explain it.\"\n\nAnd, seizing his pocket-book, she opened it, and pulled forth the bunch\nof notes. They were counted on the instant, and the eyes of the dame\nbrightened up at every addition to the calculation. The farmer explained\nall, and, in the course of his narration, Matty's wonder waxed great\nagain. She was not altogether satisfied. She looked at the notes, to see\nthat they were not forged; glanced at Giles; fell into a brown study;\nlooked at Mary; hemmed and heyed; and began to make preparations for the\nstranger. In about an hour afterwards, the old customer arrived, was\nushered in to the fire, and took his seat, while Giles went to look to\nthe putting-up of his horse, which, he observed, was as clever and\nclean-limbed a creature as that which carried the \"fair ladye\" and \"true\nThomas\" over the Eildon Hills. The supper was, in the meantime, in the\nact of being served up. The old man coughed and told stories, Mary\nlistened, and Matty eyed her guest with a peculiar expression, which\nmade him rub his beard, cough more and more, and retire farther into the\nrecess which he had taken possession of. Nor would the supper draw him\nforth; for he said he had supped before he came, yet had he no objection\nto drink the ale which Matty handed him, and was as merry as an old man\nmight be, who had seen so many summers as his beard betokened. Many a\nthing they talked of, but they all concerned the farmer, and his wife\nand daughter; for the never a word would he say of himself, either as to\nwhat he was, or where he lived--the dry skeleton of a name, Mr\nFarquharson, being all he gratified them with, while, in return, he\nasked so much of the condition and doings of his host and family, that\none might have thought he intended either to pay their arrears of rent,\nor marry the daughter, at the very least. The supper, of which he\npartook not, being done, he said he wished not to put them about in\ntheir arrangements, and would be very well pleased to lie in the small\nbed behind him, unless that were set apart for some other of the family.\n\n\"That ye may weel hae, sir,\" said Matty on the instant, \"if ye hae a\nfancy to it. A sma' reward for the guid price ye gae for the cattle.\nMary can sleep for a nicht in the kitchen--for Jenny is at St Boswell's,\nand winna be hame before the morn.\"\n\n\"You will have only one night's trouble of me,\" replied the old man;\n\"but you may have more of the cattle--eight at least--and I think I will\nbetter pay you beforehand, Mr Ramsay, that there may be no mistake when\nthe men come to take them away.\"\n\nAnd he put into the farmer's hand three times the sum he would have\ndemanded for the keeping of the steers. The farmer would have refused\nthe money, but Matty, whose by-play all along had been unnoticed by her\nhusband, pinched him on the arm, and the words of rejection died away in\nhis mouth. The parties afterwards retired to bed, leaving the strange\nvisiter in the apartment allotted to him.\n\n\"I never did a better day's wark, guidwife,\" said the farmer to his\npartner, when they went up-stairs.\n\n\"Hush! hush! man, ye dinna ken what ye have done,\" replied she; and the\nnext moment she was busy whispering something in the ear of the farmer.\nHe started instantly, cried, \"Impossible, impossible!\" and stood for a\nmoment in dismay and consternation. But Matty gave him no time for\nthought. She was again busy with his ear; and the next exhibition he\nmade was of an opposite character--a strange expression was upon his\nface, and he slapped her upon the back in the extravagance of a feeling\nthat, whether betokening good-humour or not, seemed to have no bounds.\nIn a short time, the house was as quiet as Grimalkin himself could have\nwished it, when bent on a hunting foray. All had apparently gone to bed,\nand the stillness continued till considerably after midnight. A slow tap\nat the kitchen-door showed that one individual at least was astir.\n\n\"Mary, Mary, are you awake?\" said a voice, that at least was\nuninterrupted by a cough.\n\nThe answer was a whisper from within. After some parley, the door was\nopened, and a series of secret doings, among which the opening of the\nouter door of the house, a recourse to the stable, the saddling of the\nfleet horse, and other furtive preparations for a departure, were the\nmost important. During all this time, the figure of a female wrapped in\na cloak stood in the recess of the door. The horse was quietly walked to\nthe loan, and the mantled figure glided as secretly as a ghost, who\nknows that the pimp Gallus will shortly awaken, to the starting-post.\nOne swing brought her to the pad, and another placed before her one whom\nthe light of the faint moon exhibited without a bend in his body or\nbeard on his chin. Away they set--\n\n  \"On, on they rade, and farther on--\n    The steed gaed swifter than the wind--\n  Until they reach'd a desert wide,\n    And living land was left behind.\"\n\nNot a word passed between the couple. The one was occupied spurring on\nthe steed, and the other clung to him, as if love had nerved her arms,\nand made them as tenacious of the grasp of his waist as Lenora, of\nGerman celebrity, was of the soulless body of her Wilhelm. Sometimes he\nslackened his pace, to ascertain whether the guidman of Kelpiehaugh was\nup and away in quest of runaway bride, like the Graemes after the heiress\nof Netherby, over Cannobie-lee; and then, when he thought he heard the\nclatter of a horse's hoof, he applied the spur again, and away they\nwent, over moss and muir, with such speed as love and fear in the rider\nmay alone impart to the obedient steed. At other times, the space of a\nfew minutes was devoted to soft whispers, and the gallant pressed the\nencircling arms of his fair one, and sighed as he felt her embrace as\ntight as a lover's heart could wish. He was as happy as one who is on\nthe verge of the enjoyment of stolen pleasures can be in a world where\nlawful indulgences had no zest for him; and he turned his head for the\nmuffled kiss, which was granted as freely as any rieving lover, even\nLochinvar himself or Jock o' Hazeldean, could have desired. Nor less was\nhe pleased with the pressure of her fair arms, which accompanied or\nfollowed the other demonstrations of her affection, and the speed of his\nsteed, now safe, as he thought himself, from all pursuit, was quickened,\nthat he might reach the goal, where all the joys of a long-sighed-for\npossession awaited him. At length he gave his horse breathing-time, and,\ntaking himself a long inspiration--\n\n\"When, think ye, Mary,\" said he, \"I will send for the six steers I\npurchased from your father yesterday?\"\n\n\"Maybe never, Robert,\" was the whispered reply.\n\n\"You say right, love. It was never my intention,\" said he. \"I thought it\nbut fair to leave old Giles some consideration for his daughter.\"\n\nA squeeze was the expression of the gratitude felt by the female for the\nboon so generously bestowed on the farmer of Kelpiehaugh.\n\n\"Was I known, think ye?\" he continued. \"I liked not the sharp eye of\nyour mother. By my faith! I quailed under it. The devil an ancient\ncarlin duenna in an old romance ever observed so sharp a look-out for\nthe safety of her ward. But, ha! ha! Mary, we have outwitted the old\ndame, and let her catch us now, if she can. We want only two miles of\nLangholm, and then, hey! hey! and be merry, as the song says--\n\n  'Now all this time let us be merry,\n  And set nocht by this world a cherry.'\n\nSafe in my house at Langholm, Mary, let Giles and his old dame enjoy the\nbargain they have got. They may sell the steers at the next fair of St\nBoswell's; but I will not so soon part with my Mary.\"\n\n\"Na, I hope not,\" replied the whispering female. \"But hearna ye the\nsounds of a horse's feet?\"\n\nThe lover turned his head.\n\n\"Your father, by the rood!\" cried he; and, clapping spurs again to his\nhorse, they set off at a quick gallop, with a view to distance their\npursuer, who was no other than Giles Ramsay himself, mounted on one of\nhis quickest plough-horses, and brandishing a huge cudgel, in the double\nact of beating his nag and threatening vengeance on the fugitives.\n\nThe pursued were now in danger of being overtaken; for the greater speed\nof the hunter was counterbalanced by the greater burden, and it was\nclearly a cast-up whether they would be able to escape the vengeance\nthat awaited them. But, whatever might be the issue, there was no want\nof energy in either hand or heel of the abductor; and he lashed and\nspurred his steed more furiously as his fears increased--\n\n  \"Still looking the sidelong woods among,\n    Before, around him, and behind;\n  And aye, whene'er the echo rung,\n    The steed flew swifter than the wind.\"\n\nAnd no less energetic was the fearful pursuer, whose hearty thwacks upon\nthe curpan of his shaggy cart-tracer, mixed with loud halloos, might be\nheard in the distance, awakening the echoes of the silent night. The\nlover relished not the appearance, and still less the cries, of the\nlusty farmer; and as little apparently did his companion--who, as the\nhorse increased his speed, grasped her abductor round the waist--wish to\nfall into the hands of the enraged pursuer. Away they scoured, and,\n\"Fear not, Mary--love will distance the old churl,\" fell from the lips\nof the panting lover, in reply to the inspiring pressure of her arms;\nwhile, \"Na, na, Robert, flee for the love o' heaven,\" added more energy\nto the spur, and more passion to his breast. They reached the skirts of\nthe woody Langholm; but it was not the abductor's intention to stop at\nhis residence, while he was in danger of being overtaken; so, striking\nto the left, and dashing into a _corrie_, or deep lirk of a hill, he\nstretched on with the flight of desperation. His wish was to clear the\nfern brae, as the height was called, and, getting into the thick wood at\nthe back, make a sudden turn, and elude the quick eye of the farmer; but\nthe latter kept dashing and bounding on, hallooing in the distance, and\nstill brandishing his oaken ryss, in the most fearful demonstrations of\na vengeance that would be contented with nothing less, apparently, than\nthe body of the one, and the life of the other. Still the fond female\nturned her eyes behind, and, giving her companion reports of the\nprogress of the pursuer, kept up his energies and alive his spirit.\n\n\"All the work of that accursed old duenna, your mother,\" muttered he.\n\n\"Ay, ay, nae doot, nae doot,\" rejoined she, and hugged him again more\nclosely than ever. The turn of the fern hill did not seem, however, to\nbring the relief which it promised, for the couple were still within\nhail of the redoubted Giles; and his shouting reverberated among the\nrocks like the tally-ho of the hunter, or rather like the deep-mouthed\nbay of the pack.\n\nBut here a more extraordinary phenomenon presented itself, and that was\nan accession of strength to the sturdy Giles of no fewer than three\nhorsemen, who, probably attracted by his war-whoop, had tendered their\nservices in endeavouring to overtake and seize the fugitives. This\ncircumstance was proclaimed by a united cry of the whole pursuers, which\nrung in the ears of the lover like the howl which met the Florentine on\nhis visit to the region of the wicked in Hades. There was, however, more\nin the appearance of the strangers, as seen in the light of the now\nbright moon, than in their war-shout that carried dismay to the breast\nof the abductor. What this was, he told not; but his muttering of \"Who\ncan have brought him and his servants to this part of the country at\nthis time?\" satisfied his companion that he knew the individuals who had\nthus opportunely joined the cause of the farmer; and now, if indeed that\nwere possible, he urged his panting steed forward at a still quicker\npace. His chance of escape was diminishing every moment. The horses of\nthe assistants were fleeter than those of the farmer; and, if he did not\nsucceed in overtaking the fugitives, it was too evident that they would\naccomplish for him the object he had in view. The lover seemed doubtful\nwhat he should do--whether still to press on, lay down his charge, or\nmake a sweep round the hill, and take refuge in Langholm. A clump of\ntrees now intervening between him and the party, he appeared to resolve\nsuddenly on the last manoeuvre; and his reason probably was, that he\nmight have time to secrete his fair one among some of the outhouses of\nthe mansion before the pursuers came up. Acting upon this resolution, he\nturned the head of his horse, swept in by the tail of the height, struck\ninto a loan, and, after a rapid run of a few minutes, was opposite to\nthe house of Langholm.\n\n\"Quick! quick, Mary! jump and follow me,\" he cried, as he took her in\nhis arms. \"This way,\" and he flew first to one door and then another.\nThey were shut, and he had no alternative left but to take his fair\ncharge into the mansion itself. Rushing up-stairs, and dragging after\nhim his abducted love, he reached a small bedroom, thrust her into it,\nshut the door, locked it, and returned to face boldly his pursuers. By\nthe time he arrived at the landing-place, his horse had sought the\nstable; and there was no apparent sign, save his appearance there at\nthat hour, of his having been engaged in the unlawful undertaking for\nwhich he had been so hotly pursued.\n\n\"I have paid well for my love-errantry,\" said he, as he took a\nhandkerchief, and wiped the sweat from his face. \"There is not another\nbeauty in Scotland for whom I would have toiled as I have now done. Have\nI given them the slip? Mayhap I may, unless I am right in that fearful\nconjecture, suggested by the appearance of my strange pursuers.\"\n\n\"Ho, there!\" cried the voice of a man, rushing up on horseback. \"What is\nthis, Robert?\"\n\n\"My father!\" ejaculated the youth; \"what has brought you from Craigton\nat this hour?\"\n\n\"Robert! Robert!\" ejaculated a voice from a bedroom window, at that\nmoment drawn up--\"why have you placed a woman in my bedroom, and locked\nher in?\"\n\n\"Is that you, my love?\" rejoined the father, in answer to the cry of his\nwife. \"Why, here is some infernal mystery. Your mother and I arrived\nhere to-day. We heard you were at St Boswell's, and I left her here that\nI might go and join you at the market. Now I have returned to witness a\nscene that baffles all my wits. Here is a man who has a claim upon you\nwhich your mother corroborates by her extraordinary inquiry.\"\n\nThe cavalcade at that moment came up--Giles in the rear, still\nbrandishing his rung, and muttering incoherent threats against the\nabductor. The youth was surrounded: his father cried for information,\nhis mother screamed from the window. Giles demanded restitution, and the\nvoice of the abducted female was heard in shrill tones over all.\n\n\"Ha! Matty, lass, this is sad wark,\" cried the farmer, on recognising\nthe voice of his wife.\n\n\"Is it possible, Robert Melville,\" said the father, \"that you could\ndisgrace your family and your pedigree, by carrying off the wife of this\nhonest farmer--a woman stricken in years--and place her in the bedroom\noccupied by your mother?\"\n\n\"It's owre true,\" cried Giles, with something like a suppressed laugh.\n\"I see her face at the window. He came to Kelpiehaugh habited as an auld\nman, wi' a grey beard stuck on his chin, and a scratch wig on his head;\nand, in return for a supper and a bed, carried aff my helpmate, wi' whom\nI hae lived, in love and honour, for thirty years.\"\n\nThe scene was getting more extraordinary. The young man was sceptical of\nthe truth of Giles' statement; but he could not disprove it by stating\nwhat he conceived to be the veritable fact--that he had run away with\nMary, the young daughter of the farmer of Kelpiehaugh. He looked at the\nlatter, then turned up his eyes to the window, where he then saw only\nthe face of his mother. Her cries still rung in his ears; the father\ncalled for the key; Giles insisted on the truth of his statement; and\nthe inquiries of the servants mingled with the general confusion. By an\nimpulse he could not resist, he gave his father the key; the door was\nopened, and the mother, who was now dressed, came down-stairs, along\nwith her husband, followed by the female, on whom they turned eyes in\nwhich wonder and indignation alternated their suitable expressions. The\nfemale threw back her hood.\n\n\"We hae had a lang and a hard ride, Mr Melville,\" said she. \"My feth, ye\ndid weel, but your horse did better; and, Giles, man, ye did as I never\nsaw ye do before.\"\n\n\"I couldna want ye, Matty,\" replied Giles; \"and, if I havena testified\nmy love for ye by this nicht's wark, never a man in Scotland ever proved\nhis affection for his wife.\"\n\nThe absence of all ill-humour, the winks which Matty directed to the\nwonderstruck youth, and his apparent amazement, added to the puzzle\nwhich perplexed the minds of the father and the mother.\n\n\"What does all this mean, Robert?\" cried the mother.\n\n\"For God's sake, explain this extraordinary affair!\" rejoined the\nfather.\n\nThe youth was still mute. At length Matty whispered something in his\near. He spoke for the first time since the scene commenced.\n\n\"It may be as you say, Mrs Ramsay,\" said he.\n\n\"Aweel, it's a' richt,\" replied she; \"but it may please Giles and mysel\nif ye will acknowledge it in the presence o' your father and mother.\"\n\n\"I have no objections,\" replied he; and, turning to his parents, who\nunderstood not one word of all this dialogue, and far less of the\nstrange scene still acting around them, he added, \"I hereby declare, in\npresence of you, as witnesses, that I hereby renounce all claim----\"\n\n\"To whom?\" cried the mother; \"to another man's wife--an aged matron?\nFie, Robert! Say no more. Close the lips that would dishonour a son in\npresence of his parents.\"\n\n\"I hereby renounce all claim to six stirks at present lying at the farm\nof Kelpiehaugh, and promise never to trouble Giles Ramsay for the same.\"\n\n\"It's a' settled and adjusted,\" cried Matty. \"I am satisfied; and Giles,\nI fancy, you are no ill-pleased wi' my nicht's wark?\"\n\n\"I dinna ken which o' us hae dune best,\" replied the farmer. \"Between\nus, our arrears o' rent will be paid up. My bargain was guid; but I\nfreely admit yours is better.\"\n\n\"Then this affair is at last arranged?\" said the youth.\n\nThe farmer assented. The worthy couple bade adieu to their friends, and\nproceeded on their way to Kelpiehaugh. We cannot tell what explanations\ntook place at Langholm between the young man and his parents; neither\ncan we tell precisely the import of the conversation that took place\nbetween the farmer and his wife on their journey homewards; but we\nstrongly suspect they enjoyed a hearty laugh at the clever manoeuvre\nof the dame. It is probable that Giles himself was in the secret; at\nleast the good-humour he exhibited in getting again possession of his\nspouse would lead us to believe that he had been a willing party in the\nplot that had been so cleverly laid and executed. How far the daughter\nwas to blame has not been recorded; and, to do justice to the farmer and\nhis wife, they never taxed her with indiscretion. She was some time\nafterwards married, and so put beyond the power of the wild youth who\nhad been so completely foiled by the genius of a clever dame.\n\n\n\n\nSIR PATRICK HUME.\n\nA TALE OF THE HOUSE OF MARCHMONT.\n\n\nSir Patrick Hume of Polwarth was elected representative of the County of\nBerwick in the year 1665, being then in the twenty-fifth year of his\nage. He was a lover of freedom, a lover of his country, and a staunch\nPresbyterian. In those days, however, a love of freedom was a dangerous\nprinciple either to avow or to carry into Parliament. The tyrant\nCharles, whom some falsely call the Merry Monarch, was then attempting\nto rule the empire with a rod of iron. You have all heard of his Long\nParliament, and of his afterwards governing the country, like an\nabsolute tyrant, without a Parliament at all. Fettered and servile as\nparliaments then were, young Hume had boldly stood forward as the\nadvocate of civil and religious liberty; and, when the arbitrary monarch\nsent down a mandate to Scotland for a levy of men and of money, that he\nmight carry his plans of despotism the more effectually into execution,\nSir Patrick resisted the slavishness with which it was about to be\nobeyed.\n\n\"What!\" exclaimed he, \"are we mere instruments in the hands of the\nking--creatures appointed to minister to his pleasure? Are we not\nrepresentatives of the people of Scotland--the representatives of their\nwants and their wishes, and the defenders of their rights? And shall we,\nas such, at the mere nod of a monarch, drag them from following their\nplough in the valley, or attending their hirsels on the hill--shall we\ndo these things, and lay contributions on their cattle, on their corn,\nand on their coffers, merely because His Majesty wills it? Pause, my\ncountrymen. The king has no authority to compel such a measure, and it\ncan only be rendered legal by the concurrence of the assembled\nrepresentatives of the people.\"\n\n\"Treason!\" vociferated the Duke of Lauderdale, who was the arch-minion\nof Charles; \"before the Parliament of Scotland, I denounce Sir Patrick\nHume as a dangerous man--as a plotter against the life and dignity of\nour sovereign lord the king!\"\n\n\"What!\" exclaimed Sir Patrick, indignantly fixing his eyes upon\nLauderdale. \"Though there may be amongst us a slave who would sell his\ncountry for a royal smile, I still hope that this is a FREE Parliament,\nand it concerns all the members to be FREE in what concerns the nation.\"\n\nFrom that day, Sir Patrick Hume became a suspected man, and the eyes of\nthe king's creatures were upon him; and when, two years afterwards,\nCharles endeavoured to put down the people by the sword, and establish\ngarrisons throughout the country, again the Laird of Polwarth stood\nforemost in the ranks of opposition, and resisted his power. The king\naccordingly ordered his privy council to crush so dangerous a spirit;\nand Sir Patrick was confined in Stirling Castle, where, with the\nexception of a short interval, he was imprisoned for two years.\n\nBritain had long been distracted with the pretended discovery of\nfabulous or ridiculous plots against the royal family; and the perjury\nof paid miscreants, like the infamous Titus Oates, was causing the\nscaffolds to run with gore. But tyranny being glutted with Catholic\nblood, and the extinguishing of what were called Popish plots, the\nmyrmidons of Charles (who lived a libertine, and died a Papist)\nprofessed that they had discovered a Protestant plot against his royal\nperson. In this plot the incorruptible Algernon Sydney, Lord Russell, Mr\nBailie of Jerviswoode, and Sir Patrick Hume, were included. They beheld\ntheir common country withering and wasting beneath the grasp of a\ntyrant; and true it is they had united together to restore it to\nfreedom, but they were innocent of designs against his life, or even of\na wish to dethrone him. They did not, however, act sufficiently in\nconcert, and were unable to bring their plans into operation. A price\nwas set upon their heads--some fled into exile, and others sought refuge\non the mountain and in the wilderness; while the amiable Russell died\nupon the scaffold.\n\nIt was near nightfall, in the month of September, 1684, when Jamie\nWinter, who was joiner on the estate of Polwarth, ran breathless up to\nRedbraes Castle, and knocked loudly at the door. It was opened by John\nAllan, the land-steward, who, perceiving his agitation, inquired--\n\n\"In the name o' guidness, Jamie, what's happened, or what do ye want?\"\n\n\"Dinna ask, Maister Allan,\" replied Jamie; \"but, for Heaven's sake, tell\nme, is Sir Patrick at hame? and let me speak to him presently, as ye\nvalue his life.\"\n\n\"Follow me, then, Jamie,\" said the other, \"and come in quietly, that the\nservants mayna observe onything extraordinar; for we live in times when\na man canna trust his ain brither.\"\n\nThe honest joiner was ushered into a room where Sir Patrick sat in the\nmidst of his family, acting at once as their schoolmaster and their\nplaymate.\n\n\"Weel, James,\" said the laird, \"I understand ye hae been at Berwick the\nday. Ye've got early back. What uncos heard ye there?\"\n\n\"I watna, Sir Patrick,\" replied the other; \"now-a-days, I think, there's\nnaething unco that can happen. Satan seems to have been let loose on our\npoor misgoverned country. But I wish to speak to your honour very\nparticularly, and in private, if you please.\"\n\n\"You may speak on, James,\" said the laird; \"I am private in the midst o'\nmy ain family.\"\n\n\"Wi' your guid leave sir,\" returned the cautious servant, \"I wad rather\nthe bairns were oot o' the way, for what I hae to say is no proper for\nthem to hear, and the sooner ye are acquainted wi' it the better.\"\n\nSir Patrick led his younger children out of the room, but requested Lady\nPolwarth and their eldest daughter, Grizel, a lovely dark-haired girl,\nabout twelve years of age, to remain.\n\n\"You are the bearer of evil tidings, James,\" said he, as he returned,\n\"but you may tell them now--it is meet that my wife should hear them, if\nthey concern me; and,\" added he, taking Grizel's hand in his, \"I keep no\nsecrets from my little secretary.\"\n\n\"God bless her!\" said James, \"she's an auld-farrant bairn, as wise as\nshe's bonny, I ken that. But, your honour, I am, indeed, the bearer of\nevil tidings. A party o' troopers arrived at Berwick this morning, and\nit was nae secret there that they would be baith at Jerviswoode and\nRedbraes before midnicht. I heard them talk o' the premium that was set\nupon your life, and slipped out o' the town immediately, without\nperforming a single transaction, or speaking a word to a living\ncreature. How I've got alang the road is mair than I can tell; for I was\nliterally sick, blind, and desperate wi' grief. I've this minute\narrived, and whatever can be done to save you maun be done instantly.\"\n\nLady Polwarth burst into tears. Sir Patrick grasped the hand of his\nfaithful servant. Little Grizel gazed in her father's face with a look\nof silent despair, but neither spoke nor wept.\n\n\"Oh, fly! fly instantly, my dear husband!\" cried Lady Polwarth, \"and\nHeaven direct you.\"\n\n\"Be composed, my love,\" said Sir Patrick; \"I fear that flight is\nimpossible; but some means of evading them may perhaps be devised.\"\n\n\"Oh, my leddy,\" said Jamie Winter, \"to flee is out o' the question\nathegither. Government has its spies at every turn o' the road--in every\nhouse in the country--even in this house. Our only hope is to conceal\nSir Patrick; but how or where is beyond my comprehension.\"\n\nMany were the schemes devised by the anxious wife--many the suggestions\nof her husband, and honest Jamie proposed numerous plans--but each was,\nin its turn, rejected as being unsafe. More than an hour had passed in\nthese anxious deliberations; within three hours more, and the king's\ntroops would be at his gate. Grizel had, till now, remained silent, and\ndashing away the first tear that rolled down her cheek, she flung her\narms around her father's neck, and exclaimed, in an eager and breathless\nwhisper--\n\n\"I ken a place, faither--I ken a place that the king's troopers and his\nspies will never find out; and I'll stop beside ye, to bear ye company.\"\n\n\"Bless the bairn!\" said Sir Patrick, pressing her to his breast; \"and\nwhere's the place, dearest?\"\n\n\"The aisle below Polwarth Kirk, faither,\" returned Grizel. \"Nae trooper\nwill find out such a hiding-place; for the mouth's a bit wee hole, and\nthe long grass, and the docks, and the nettles grow owre it, and I could\nslip out and in without trampling them down; and naebody would think o'\nseeking ye there, faither.\"\n\nLady Polwarth shuddered, and Sir Patrick pressed the cheek of his lovely\ndaughter to his lips.\n\n\"Save us a', bairn!\" said Jamie, \"there's surely something no earthly\nabout yer young laddyship, for ye hae mair sense than us a' put\nthegither. The aisle is the very place. I'll steal awa, and hae a kind\no' bed put up in it, and tak ither twa or three bits o' necessary\nthings; and, Sir Patrick, ye'll slip out o' the house and meet me there\nas soon as possible.\"\n\nWithin an hour, Sir Patrick had joined Jamie Winter in the dark and\ndismal aisle. The humble bed was soon and silently fitted up, and the\nfaithful servant, wishing his master \"farewell,\" left him alone in his\ndreary prison-house. Slow and heavily the hours of darkness moved on. He\nheard the trampling of the troopers' horses galloping in quest of him.\nThe oaths and the imprecations of the riders fell distinctly on his\nears. Amidst such sounds he heard them mention his name. But his heart\nfailed not. He knelt down upon the cold damp floor of his\nhiding-place--upon the bones of his fathers--and there, in soundless,\nbut earnest prayer, supplicated his father's God to protect his\nfamily--to save his country--to forgive his persecutors, and to do with\nhim as seemed good in his sight. He arose; and, laying himself upon his\ncold and comfortless bed, slept calmly. He awoke shivering and benumbed.\nFaint streaks of light stole into the place of death through its narrow\naperture, dimly revealing the ghastly sights of the charnel-house, and\nthe slow reptiles that crawled along the floor. Again night came on, and\nthe shadows of light, if I may use the expression, which revealed his\ncell, died away. A second morning had come, and a second time the feeble\nrays had been lost in utter darkness. It was near midnight, and the\nslender stock of provisions which he had brought with him were nigh\nexhausted. He started from his lowly couch--he heard a rustling among\nthe weeds at the mouth of the aisle--he heard some one endeavouring to\nremove the fragment of an old gravestone that covered it.\n\n\"Faither!\" whispered an eager voice--\"faither--it is me--yer ain\nGrizel!\"\n\n\"My own, devoted, my matchless child!\" said Sir Patrick, stretching his\nhands towards the aperture, and receiving her in his arms.\n\nShe sat down beside him on the bed--she detailed the search of the\ntroopers--she stated that they were watched in their own house--that a\nspy was set over the very victuals that came from their table, lest he\nshould be concealed near, and fed by his family.\n\n\"But what of that?\" continued the light-hearted and heroic girl; \"while\nmy plate is supplied, my faither's shall not be empty; and here,\" added\nshe, laughing--\"here is a flask of wine, cakes, and a sheep's-head. But\nI will tell you a story about the sheep's-head. It was placed on a plate\nbefore me at dinner-time. The servant was out o' the room, naebody was\nlooking, and I whupped it into my apron. Little Sandy wanted a piece,\nand, turning round for it, and missing the head, 'Ah, mother!' he cried,\n'our Grizzy has swallowed a sheep's-head, bones and a', in a\nmoment!'--'Wheesht, laddie!' said my mother; 'eat ye next ane\nthen.'--'Oh, ye greedy Grizzy!' said Sandy, shaking his little nieve in\nmy face, 'I'll mind you for this.'--'I'm sure Sandy will ne'er forget\nme,' said I, and slipped away out to hide the sheep's-head in my own\nroom; and as soon as I thought naebody was astir, I creeped out quietly\nby the window, and got down here behint the hedges; and I'll come every\nnicht, faither. But last nicht the troopers were still about the house.\"\n\nIn spite of his misery, Sir Patrick laughed at the ingenuity of his\nbeloved and heroic daughter; then wept and laughed again, and pressed\nher to his bosom.\n\nHe had passed many weeks in this cheerless dungeon, with no companion\nduring the day save a volume of Buchanan's Psalms; but every night he\nwas visited by his intrepid daughter, who at once supplied him with\nfood, and beguiled the hours of his solitude. He was sitting in the\ngloomy cell, conning over his favourite volume--the stone at the\naperture had been pushed aside a few inches to admit the light more\nfreely, and the weeds at the entrance were now bowed down and withered\nby the frost--a few boys were playing in the churchyard, and tossing a\nball against the kirk. Being driven from the hand of an unskilful\nplayer, it suddenly bounded into the aisle. Sir Patrick started, and the\nbook dropped from his hand. Immediately the aperture was surrounded by\nthe boys, and the stone removed. They stood debating who should enter,\nbut none had sufficient courage. At length one more hardy than the rest\nvolunteered to enter, if another would follow him. The laird gave\nhimself up as lost, for he knew that even the tale of a schoolboy would\neffect his ruin. He was aware he could disperse them with a single\ngroan; but even that, when told to his enemies, might betray him. At\nlength three agreed to enter, and the feet of the first already\nprotruded into the aisle. Sir Patrick crept silently to its farthest\ncorner, when the gruff voice of the old gravedigger reached his ear,\nshouting--\n\n\"The mischief's in the callants, and nae guid. What are ye doing there?\nDo ye want the ghaists o' the auld Humes aboot yer lugs?\"\n\nThe boys fled amain, and the old man came growling to the mouth of the\naisle.\n\n\"The deevil's in the bairns o' Polwarth,\" said he; \"for they wad disturb\nthe very dead in their graves. I'll declare, they've the stane frae the\nmouth o' the aisle!\"\n\nHe stooped down, and Sir Patrick saw his grim visage through the\naperture, and heard him thus continue his soliloquy, as he replaced the\nstone--\n\n\"Sorrow tak the hands that moved the stane! Ye're hardly worth the\ncovering up again, for ye're a profitless hole to me; and I fancy him\nthat I should lay in ye next, be he whaur he likes, will gang the gate\nthat his freend Bailie gaed yesterday on a scaffold. A gravedigger's a\npuir bisness, I am sorry to say, in our king's reign; and the fient a\nane thrives but the common executioner.\"\n\nSo saying, he enveloped Sir Patrick in utter darkness. That night Grizel\nand her father left the aisle together, and from her he learned the\nparticulars of what he had heard muttered by the gravedigger, that his\nfriend, Mr Bailie of Jerviswoode, had been executed the previous day.\n\nDisguised, and in the character of a surgeon, he by byways reached\nLondon, and from thence fled to France. On the death of Charles, and\nwhen the bigot James ascended the throne, Sir Patrick was one of the\nleaders of the band of patriots who drew their swords in behalf of a\nProtestant succession.\n\nThat enterprise was unsuccessful; and, after contending, almost\nsinglehanded, against the enemies of his religion and his country, he\nand his family sought refuge in a foreign land. He assumed the name of\nDr Peter Wallace, and they took up their abode in Utrecht. There poverty\nand privations sought and found the exiles. They had parted with every\ndomestic, and the lovely Grizel was the sole servant and helper of her\nmother, and, when their work was done, the assistant of her father in\nthe education of the younger children; for he had no longer the means of\nproviding them a tutor. Yet theirs was a family of love--a family of\nhappiness; and poverty purified their affections. But their remittances\nfrom Scotland were not only scanty but uncertain. Till now Sir Patrick\nhad borne his misfortunes with resignation, and even cheerfulness; he\ncared not that he was stripped of attendants, and of every luxury of\nlife; yet at times the secret and unbidden tears would start into his\neyes, as he beheld his wife and his fair daughter performing, without a\nmurmur, the most menial offices. But the measure of his trials was not\nyet full--luxuries were not only denied him, but he was without food to\nset before his children. The father wept, and his spirit heaved with\nanguish. Grizel beheld his tears, and she knew the cause. She spoke not;\nbut, hastening to her little cabinet, she took from it a pair of\njewelled bracelets, and, wrapping herself up in a cloak, she took a\nbasket under her arm, and hurried to the street. The gentle being glided\nalong the streets of Utrecht, with her eyes fixed upon the ground, and\nshunning the glance of the passengers, as if each knew her errand. She\nstood before a shop in which all manner of merchandise was exposed, and\nthree golden balls were suspended over the door. She cast a timid gaze\ninto the shop--thrice she passed and repassed it, and repeated the timid\nglance. She entered--she placed the bracelets upon the counter.\n\n\"How much?\" was the laconic question of the shopman.\n\nGrizel burst into tears. He handed her a sum of money across the\ncounter, and deposited the bracelets in his desk. She bounded from the\nshop with a heart and a step light as a young bird in its first pride of\nplumage. She hastened home with her basket filled. She placed it upon\nthe table. Lady Polwarth wept, and fell upon her daughter's neck.\n\n\"Where have you been, Grizel?\" faltered her father.\n\n\"Purchasing provisions for a bauble,\" said she; and the smile and the\ntear were seen on her cheek together.\n\nBut many were the visits which the gentle Grizel had to pay to the\nGolden Balls, while one piece of plate was pledged after another, that\nher father, and her mother, and her brethren, might eat, and not die;\nand even then the table of Sir Patrick, humble as it was, and\nuncertainly provided for, was open to the needy of his countrymen. Thus\nthree years passed--the memorable 1688 arrived. Sir Patrick was the\nfriend, the counsellor, and supporter of King William--he arrived with\nhim in England--he shared in his triumph. He was created Lord Polwarth,\nand appointed Sheriff of Berwickshire; and in 1696, though not a lawyer,\nbut an upright man, he was made Lord Chancellor of Scotland, and created\nEarl of Marchmont, and Lord of Polwarth, Redbraes, and Greenlaw. He was\none of the most ardent promoters of the Union; and with it ceased his\npolitical career. In 1710, when the Tories came into power, the earl\nbeing the staunchest Whig in Scotland, he was deprived of the office of\nSheriff of Berwickshire, but was reinstated in 1715. His lady being\ndead, he came to take up his residence in Berwick-upon-Tweed; and there,\nwhen the heroic Grizel, who was now a wife and a mother (being married\nto the son of his unfortunate friend, Mr Bailie of Jerviswoode), came\nwith her children and friends to visit him for the last time, as they\ndanced in the hall, though unable to walk, he desired to be carried into\nthe midst of them, and, beating time with his foot--\n\n\"See, Grizel,\" exclaimed the old patriot, \"though your father is unable\nto dance, he can still beat time with his foot.\"\n\nShortly after this, he died in Berwick, on the 1st of August, 1724, in\nthe eighty-third year of his age--leaving behind him an example of\npiety, courage, and patriotism, worthy the imitation of posterity.\n\n\n\n\nTHE SERJEANT'S TALES.\n\nTHE PACKMAN'S JOURNEY TO LONDON.\n\n\nAt the next opportunity, I got Serjeant Square to resume the narrative\nof his adventures.\n\nNo feeling that the human mind is called upon to sustain (said he) is\nmore depressing than the consciousness of being alone in a strange place\nwithout friend or acquaintance--the populous city and the desert are\nalike lonely. I have been, in the wildernesses of America and in London,\nthe victim of this saddening sensation, and felt it perhaps less keenly\nwhen a solitary wanderer in the trackless wilds; for there bodily\nexertion, and the hopes of soon being in the haunts of men, deadened its\nforce; while, in the populous city, I felt as if I had, after severe\nsuffering and toil, attained an object to me worse than worthless.\nAmidst the densest crowds, after all, a man can only feel himself truly\nalone when no hand is held out to him, no eye beams the glance of\nrecognition, and all is strange as a dream. Such were my feelings on the\nmorning after my arrival in Berwick, on my way to London on foot.\nFortune had been adverse to me in my native city, Edinburgh--in truth, I\nhad hitherto been her plaything; and, even now, had no definite object\nin view. Tired of my walk, I had agreed with the captain of a trader for\nmy passage by sea, for the remainder of my journey; and lay upon my bed,\nawaiting the morning light, a prey to my feelings, and musing upon my\nchequered fortunes. The wind began gradually to rise and mourn sadly\nthrough the windows and in the chimney of the room where I lay. As the\nmorning advanced, the storm increased and raged, so that no vessel could\nput to sea. After walking down to the harbour, I returned back to my\ninn, half resolved not to proceed to the south, but return to Leith in a\nvessel that was also ready to sail, loaded with grain. I felt myself as\nif I had been a child, without a will of my own, not caring what became\nof me. Had I been seized with a mortal disease, I would, I thought, have\nwelcomed death as a relief; so completely had my spirits, somehow or\nother, become depressed. How I escaped the pressgang, I have often\nwondered since; for they were very diligent in impressing seamen at this\ntime, and I was in seamen's clothes. Perhaps the fearless manner in\nwhich I walked about had led them and the informers to suppose that I\nhad a protection, or was belonging to some ship, and at large on leave\nof absence.\n\nAfter breakfast, as I sat conversing with one of the captains about the\nweather and other trivial matters, a person entered the room with a pack\nupon his back, and inquired if any of the gentlemen would be so kind as\nlook over his assortment of goods; strongly recommending some silk\nhandkerchiefs.\n\n\"No,\" said the person with whom I was conversing, gruffly. \"I want none\nof your goods. You packmen are all swindling knaves.\"\n\n\"Not all knaves, my good sir. There are knaves in all trades, I allow;\nbut there are honest men, too.\" And, addressing himself to me, he\nrepeated his request.\n\nHis voice at first had sounded in my ears like some well-known sound,\nand roused my attention; but in vain I endeavoured to call to mind where\nI had heard it. I had not yet looked towards him; but the instant I did,\na mutual recognition took place. He set his pack upon one of the tables\nof the tap-room. Our hands were clasped in each other's. \"Square!\" and\n\"Wilson!\" were uttered with mutual feelings of joy and surprise. I had\nmet a companion of my early days and sufferings. Often had we spent the\nlong and chilling winter nights, huddled together to keep each other\nwarm, in the snuggest corner we could find; hungry and ill clothed,\noften had we shared the precarious morsel of charity with each other,\nwhen either could have devoured it all. We had not met since I had first\nleft Edinburgh, many years before; and, if a tear was shed for my\nmysterious disappearance, it was by Bill Wilson. A glow of pleasure,\nsuch as I had never felt before, thawed the icy feeling that had chilled\nmy mind. How delightful must some of the stronger affections be, when\nthe meeting of an early associate can cause so much pleasure! We stood\ngazing in silence upon each other for some time, ere we could find words\nto express our feelings. At length they were poured forth in\ncongratulations and kind inquiries. To be alone, we retired to my\nbedroom, where I gave him a full account of all that had befallen me\nsince we last met, and the present unsettled state of my resolves. He\nheard me with varying interest, until I had concluded.\n\n\"Square,\" said he, \"you have been sorely knocked about, a passive agent,\nwithout an object, save to enjoy or suffer the present hour. Now, to\nsucceed, we must have an aim, and hold it in sight, whatever may befall;\neven should it often elude our grasp, we must not despair or relinquish\nit for another. My wish is an old age of independence. I may die this\nnight, or I may live until old age has long impaired my energies. To\nobtain this, my wish, I have, from circumstances, chosen my present\ncalling; nor have I allowed the most adverse fortune to shake my\nresolve, or change my method of recovering it; for perseverance is the\nonly road that leads to success. Fortune placed you in America at your\noutset in life. You forsook the path others have trod in with success.\nYou prospered at sea, and threw the golden opportunity away for a whim;\na third time you were placed in fortune's way; a dark cloud passed over\nit; you gave way to your feelings, and are once more, with years of lost\ntime, where you commenced.\"\n\nAs he spoke, a feeling anything but gratifying passed over my mind. I\nfelt that what he said was strictly true; that I had been living, until\nnow, without an aim, either of avarice or ambition--my thoughts never\nhaving extended to the future, nor a care for to-morrow having ever\noccupied my mind. His cares, again, were all for to-morrow. This\ndifference could not have arisen from education; for in this we were\nboth alike. He, in short, had more prudence. But to proceed. I requested\nhim to give me an account of the manner in which he had lived since we\nhad been separated.\n\n\"You know, John,\" he began, \"that we were twins in adversity upon the\nstreets of Edinburgh, equally friendless and penniless. After your\ndeparture, I felt for a few days very sad and lonely. I sought you\neverywhere in vain, and made every inquiry; but who cared aught about a\nhomeless beggar-boy? Had a dog as strangely disappeared, the public\ncrier would have proclaimed him through the streets. I began, young as I\nwas, seriously to reflect upon my desolate situation, and plan in my\nmind ways to mend it. The childish wishes we had often formed of being\nrich, and the happy dreams of what we would do if we were so, rose with\ntenfold force into my memory, and I resolved to be rich; but how to\nattain my aim was the rub. Wishing, I knew well, brought no gain. It\nmust be toiled for, and steadily pursued. A tradesman I could not hope\nto be. No one would receive me for my labour during my apprenticeship,\nand clothe and feed me; and I was too young and weak for labouring work\nin town or country. There was one way alone open to me--to commence\nmerchant. You may smile at the word; but you shall see. It was not my\nchoice; but what have the poor to do with choice? My object now was to\nobtain a capital to commence business upon. I was far from fortunate. It\nwas nearly a month before I had accumulated a groat; yet my labour and\nanxiety were intense. No gentleman appeared on horseback in the city,\nwhom I did not follow, in anxious hopes to get, by holding his horse, a\npenny, to increase my capital. In messages I was more indefatigable than\nusual. No length of space or weight of load daunted me, if a penny was\nto be earned; but it appeared to my eager mind that the gentlemen, at\nthis time, required less service than usual, and those that employed me\nwere more liberal of their food than halfpence. Still I steadily held on\nunflinching, adding halfpenny to halfpenny, my mind a prey to a new\nfear, that of losing my treasure. But I had joys mixed with my fears;\nfor, when I retired to a quiet corner, and counted again and again my\nincreasing store, what a pleasure I felt in adding a halfpenny to it,\nand carefully wrapping up the paper! When I had reached my eightpence, I\ncould delay my undertaking no longer. I felt I had attained my first\nstep; and, with a feeling of importance to be envied, proceeded to a\nbookseller's shop, and purchased ballads, of which I got, for my groat,\none dozen and three, with a piece of paper to wrap them in, and left the\nshop, exulting that I was now a merchant, and had goods to dispose of.\n\n\"As it was not my intention to sing them on the streets--for from this\nmy pride revolted--I set off in the direction of Lasswade, calling at\nevery door to offer my wares. In two days I had sold off my whole stock,\nand returned to town for more ballads. After a time, I added other small\nbooks, and my trade prospered amazingly. My living cost me nothing; my\nvoice was good, and a supper and bed to the pedlar-boy, were the\npurchase of my songs, at the cottar's or the farmer's ingle. During the\nfirst year my two groats had grown to nearly a pound, and my ambition\nhad grown with it. Pins, tapes, and thread were added to my store; my\nexcursions were extended, and Bill Wilson was a known and a welcome\nguest over the whole county of Mid-Lothian. My toil was great, but my\nstrength seemed to increase with my load. I had now in view my second\nstep in advance, a horse and cart to carry my load. Years had passed on;\nmy pack, worth twenty pounds, was all my own, and I had two pounds in my\npocket; it was far on in the year, and the day was short and louring. I\nhad some goods bespoke for a bridal, which required to be delivered on\nthe following day. My route lay over the Soutra Hill; and had the\nweather kept up, my task was easy of accomplishment--so I cheerily\nplodded on, counting my gains; but scarce had I reached the ascent, when\nthe wind began to moan along the dreary waste, and thin flakes of snow\nto fall, while the blast, from the east, blew right in my face. I\nquickened my pace; but the storm increased before I reached the top, the\ndrifting snow blinding me, and the fitful gusts almost lifting me off my\nfeet. Cold and biting as was the air, I was wet with perspiration, from\nmy load and my struggles against the blast. I could not see two yards\nbefore me; I was truly alone in the howling waste, yet I yielded not to\ndespondency, but struggled on for life. I had, it seemed, deviated from\nthe road, for all was now a trackless waste, when suddenly I stumbled\nand fell on the edge of a declivity, and my pack, the whole of my\nwealth, bounded from me, in what direction I knew not. It was vain to\nlook for it in such a situation, in such a storm; but what is wealth\nunder such circumstances, when life is scarcely to be hoped for?\n\n\"When I recovered my feet, I was bruised, and began to chill. Hope of\nescape had nearly fled; despondency was stealing fast upon me; but life\nis sweet, and so I urged on, as much to overcome the intense cold I\nfelt, as with any hope of finding a shelter from the pitiless storm. The\nmagnitude of my loss never once entered my mind in this struggle for\nexistence. I would have given all the remainder of my hard earnings for\nthe sight of a cottage, in which to preserve my life. In this, my hour\nof need, I was snatched from death. As I stood, unable to move a step\nfarther, and on the point of sinking upon the snow, to rise no more, the\nsound of a dog, barking loudly, fell upon my ear. There was life in the\nwelcome sound; and, with an energy I had felt myself incapable of a\nminute before, I started off towards the spot from whence the sounds\nproceeded, calling at intervals with all my strength, and listening as\nthe barking of the dog became more and more distinct. At length I could\nperceive the light shine dimly through the drifting snow, from a cottage\nwindow, which, having reached, I entered, almost exhausted. I was kindly\nreceived by the humane inmates, to whom I told my piteous tale. The\nstorm still howled without. The good woman made for me a shake-down upon\nthe floor, close by the fire, whereon to pass the night. After my\nbenumbed limbs were restored to animation, the good man of the house\ntook the book, and, after the worship, in which I joined with a fervour\nI had never felt before, we all retired to rest, the family speaking all\nthe comfort to me their feeling hearts could dictate, and promising to\nrise before dawn, to assist in searching for my pack. All was still\nwithin; but the storm raged with unabated violence without, and for\nhours sleep forsook my pillow. I was tormented with heat; pains shot\nthrough my frame, and before the dawn I was in a raging fever, and\nunable to rise. The good people of the house were sore distressed. I\ngave them the best information I could where to search for my pack; but\nit was very vague, for I knew not myself the spot where it had bounded\nfrom me, and I was at this time two long Scotch miles from the Soutra\nHill, and one mile off the highway. The storm of the preceding evening\nhad been followed by a partial thaw after daybreak; but all, save where\nthe wind had blown the snow from the heights, lay a trackless waste. Far\non in the day the searchers returned from their fruitless labours,\nfatigued and hungry. I was myself much worse; no doctor was to be had\nnearer than Haddington, neither was there accommodation for me in the\nhouse. Ill as I was, I had no choice. A horse and cart were, at my\nrequest, procured, and, carefully wrapped up, I was conveyed to\nHaddington. What followed for some days I know not. I will hurry on. I\nwould not have been so minute, were it not to show you that there are\nshipwrecks and disasters on land as well as at sea.\n\n\"When I recovered my consciousness, I found myself in an obscure garret,\nthe dwelling of a lone and pious widow, who had taken into her house the\nsick stranger, when all else had refused. I had occupied her only bed,\nwhile she passed her nights, seated by her scanty fire, and nursed me in\nmy delirium and fever. The good doctor had attended me as assiduously as\nif I had been his own son, and aided the widow in supporting me. The\nsnow had been all off the ground for many days; and whoever had found my\nstore had kept it concealed, for I never heard of it. I was once again\npenniless, and worse than I was at the commencement; for I was indebted\nto my kind landlady and the doctor. My two guineas and seven shillings\nwere still in my pocket untouched; for the pious widow had, even in her\nstraits, on my account held them sacred, and they knew from the people\nwho brought me of my ruinous misfortune. When I became able to move\nabout, I besought them to accept of even one of the guineas as a\nremuneration; but their answer was, they would give me credit until I\nwas enabled to pay them in full--and, thank God, I have done this long\nago.\n\n\"It was well up in February before I could resume my toils.\nDisheartening as my misfortune had been, my ultimate object, and the\nmeans of attaining it, I had never for one moment allowed to pass from\nmy mind. It was now that the reward of honesty and fair dealing was felt\nby me, and proved of immense advantage in enabling me to recover my\nloss. There was not a merchant with whom I had ever dealed, who did not\noffer me his goods in trust, to what amount I chose; but to avoid debt\nhas ever been my maxim, and I took no more than my finances would allow.\nI had only a smaller assortment, and returned the sooner. I was\nastonished at the rapidity of my own sales--for all had heard of my\nmisfortunes, and pitied me; and, if I was expected, no other packman had\nany chance. What was required, if not in my pack, I got orders for, and\nbrought at the appointed time. From that day to this, everything has\nprospered with me. I have attained my second step, and am now on my way\nto London, and other towns, to purchase goods, and a horse and cart. To\ncover my expenses, I am doing a little business by the way. An extensive\nshop, and at length a competency, are, I trust, not far distant.\"\n\nBy mid-day, the gale of wind had considerably abated; the tide being in\nthe evening, the vessels could not depart. We sat chatting together. The\nperseverance and success of my companion had made a deep impression on\nme. I began to think that I might do worse than follow his example; for\nI had never left my country through choice.\n\n\"Wilson,\" said I, \"do you think I could be converted into a packman? I\ncare not what I do for an honest livelihood. I have often heard that an\nold packman makes a good merchant--I am willing to try if an old\nmerchant can make a good packman. I have a few guineas to purchase goods\nwith. If you will tell me what are the proper kinds, we will go\ntogether, by sea, to London, where you are going, and make our\npurchases: are you agreed?\"\n\n\"No! Square, no! I will never agree to trust myself upon the fickle\nelement, when there is no occasion for it, besides manifest loss. With\nwhat goods are in my pack, I will travel free to London, and put a pound\nin my pocket, at least. If you have any thought of turning to my\nprofession, you must study economy and a placid temper--'take the bit\nand the buffet with it.' I have not a doubt you may succeed, if you\nstick to it in earnest; and I have no objection to give you all the\ninformation I can, before we part.\"\n\nI myself had, indeed, no other motive for going by sea to London, than\nto avoid the fatigue and get quickly there; so it was agreed that I\nshould proceed with him, and learn from his experience. My sailor's\ndress was sold, and one similar to his own purchased; and, while this\nwas being done, he told me that he had upon his person, carefully\nconcealed, an order from the Royal Bank of Scotland, upon the Bank of\nEngland, for one hundred and sixty guineas, which he had doubly secured.\nIt was, he said, not indorsed, nor would he indorse it, until he was\nobtaining the cash. \"There are such things as robberies,\" he said, \"and\nmuch worse. I have left a letter and instructions at the bank, and with\nWidow Craig, who nursed me in my sickness (we have been as mother and\nson since then), that, if my order is not called for within twelve\nmonths, she is to give my letter to the worthy doctor, who will receive\nthe amount, and administer to the widow's comforts. What remains at her\ndeath, I cheerfully bequeath to him. You may smile at this; but our\ntrade is one not without danger even in Scotland; and in England, where\nhighwaymen and footpads are plenty, we travel with our lives in our\nhands.\"\n\nBefore the evening closed, I was all ready to start upon my new line of\nlife. As Berwick, he said, was not a proper place to lay in a store of\ngoods to sell again with a sufficient profit, I purchased only a few\npounds' worth of hardware, Wilson being so kind as sell me, at cost, one\ndozen of Barcelona silk handkerchiefs, of which he had a great supply,\nand which he esteemed as valuable and light of carriage. The remainder\nof my cash he made me take out of my purse, saying that none but those\nwho knew not the value of money carried it in purses. It was as if the\nowner had collected it for the first who chose to put his hand in his\npocket, or for a vain display.\n\n\"Square,\" said he, \"if you had a thousand guineas in your pocket, among\nstrangers never show or say you have a coin in gold. Tempt no man to\nevil. The poor travel safe, when the rich are in peril. Allow me to\nplace your guineas in the bank.\"\n\nHe then opened the lining of the waistband of my small-clothes, and\nstitched them in so dexterously, that no one could have thought there\nwas coin there.\n\n\"Now,\" says he, \"we are all ready to start for London on the morning.\nThe way is long, and our burdens heavy; but they will get lighter as we\nmove along. Our lodging for to-morrow night is Belford. I shall manage\nso that we shall reach it before dark. The direct distance is only\nfifteen miles; but we may travel thirty in quest of customers. You are\nnot now, as you were a few months since, to expect that customers will\ncome to you--the pack is a travelling counter, and must move about.\"\n\nNext morning, after an early breakfast, we crossed the Tweed, and walked\non, with our packs slung over our shoulders--the weather cool and\npleasing. I felt a buoyancy of spirits I had not experienced for some\ntime; I dreamed waking dreams, and built castles in the air. Wilson sung\nsnatches of songs. I had once more entered on a new walk in life, and\nbegun at the right end, as Wilson said in one of his sage remarks.\n\n\"Square, your last misfortune arose from this--you began business at the\nwrong end; you commenced too soon and too full. No man can manage money\nwell who knows not, by earning, the value of it. Be prudent--be cunning,\ntoo, if you please; but use not your cunning to wrong any one--a\nshilling won by fraud is a pound of loss. I have known many since I\nbegan who have hastened to be rich in that way; but they have all failed\nin their attempts. Those who once dealt would never deal with them\nagain; their means of success became every journey more circumscribed.\nHere is a farm-steading--we must try how we are to succeed on the south\nof the Tweed.\"\n\nI will not weary you with our hawking adventures. We progressed on our\njourney with various success, but constantly with gain, our packs\nlightening apace; I liking the profession very ill. I loved not money\nsufficiently to bend my mind to the slights and insults we were often\nforced to endure. Upon Wilson they had no effect in ruffling his temper.\nHe would smile, and, with a slyness of humour, turn their bitterest\ntaunts against the taunters, or banter them into good-humour, and effect\na sale. He would, indeed, be as good-humoured under insult as if he had\nbeen civilly treated; while I was on the eve of bursting into a rage,\nand either looking sulky or returning taunt for taunt. Indeed, before we\nreached Northallerton, I had made up my mind to relinquish my new\ncalling as soon as we got to London; and told Wilson so. He shook his\nhead.\n\n\"John Square, you are one of those who, for want of firmness, never get\non in the world. When there is an object to gain, we must not be scared\nfrom it by trifles, or neglect an honest mean that leads to success. You\nhave commenced at the hardest part of a packman's life--his journey in\nEngland. But, ho! here is Northallerton. To-morrow we will strike off\nthe eastern road, and go to York. I expect to see some acquaintances\nthere.\"\n\nThus we journeyed on, I more through a dogged stubbornness not to yield,\nthan any love I had for the mode of life I had chosen, until we were a\nfew miles from York, where we overtook a brother of the trade. As soon\nas he came in sight, Wilson said--\n\n\"There is Simon Hepburn, the Praying Packman, as the profane call him,\nor Pious Simon, his more befitting name; for he really is a good,\nwell-meaning man. I have known him for some years, neither richer nor\npoorer; his pack or cash seldom exceeds twenty pounds, yet he could\neasily increase his store, if he had ambition; but that he wants; and\nhis gains are always spent upon objects of charity or piety. He is never\nwithout Bibles or pious books, which he bestows, in free gift, where he\nthinks they may be of use; he has only particular houses where he stops,\nand he is always a welcome guest, superseding the goodman of the house,\nfor the time, in the Christian office of a teacher. The most pleasing\nand edifying evenings I have ever spent were with him. When he is in\nHaddington, Widow Craig's is his home; and, although we are two of a\ntrade, happy am I when we meet. You shall judge for yourself. His\nhistory is a most singular one, and nothing gives him more pleasure than\nto relate it. Let him speak for himself.\"\n\nWe quickened our pace, and soon overtook him. He was a man, to all\nappearance, above sixty years of age; his hair was white as snow, with a\nshade of care at times upon his regular features, that flitted off, and\nwas succeeded by a gleam of internal satisfaction. The smoothness of his\nbrow, and the fulness of his features, bore an unusual contrast to the\nwhiteness of his locks, the appearance of age and youth being strangely\ncombined, while his whole appearance was winning in the extreme. When we\ncame up to him, Bill said--\n\n\"Simon, I am happy to have met you; how come you on?\"\n\n\"Far beyond my deserts,\" said he. \"How are you? and how did you leave my\nworthy friend the widow?\"\n\n\"In good health,\" said Bill; \"I thank you. I have been just talking of\nyou to my friend Square here, who would feel obliged were you to give\nhim an outline of your strange history, as we walk on to York.\"\n\n\"Certainly, Bill, certainly; it may be of use to him. He is a new\nbeginner in his present craft, as I was when the events happened that I\nam going to relate.\n\n\"The changes that occur both in nations and families,\" said Simon, \"are\nsoon felt by the individuals. Lawsuits and bad management had reduced\nthe once extensive patrimony of our family to a small farm. At my\ngrandfather's death, my father, who had married, as his father thought,\nfar beneath him, had three sons. My oldest brother, before he succeeded,\nwent to Holland, having got a commission in the Scottish brigade; the\nsecond attended the farm, at which I assisted until I was about\neighteen. I grew weary of farming, and resolved to become a merchant. I\nwas induced to this by the success of several who had left our\nneighbourhood, done well after a few years' travel as packmen, and were\nthen settled in various towns, and prosperous. It was in the beginning\nof May, as soon as the weather became settled, that I left the\nneighbourhood of Annan, with a few pounds, on my way to Dumfries, and\nthence to Edinburgh; my object being to furnish my pack. I had a\nrelation of my mother's, a wholesale merchant, in the first town, who\nhad promised to do all in his power for me, as far as advice and a few\narticles would go. Cheerful and full of hope, I strode along, till,\nwithin about two miles from Dumfries, I overtook a young and interesting\nfemale, accompanied by a young man. We entered into conversation as we\nwalked along. She appeared sad, and often sighed; while he was taciturn,\nand appeared to avoid conversation. When within a few hundred yards of\nthe town, they stopped behind for a minute or so, and then, the man\nleaving her, she overtook me, and we entered the town together. I\nlearned from her that she was on her way to Edinburgh, and, having a\nbrother married in Dumfries, she was going to his house for some\narticles belonging to her, and her fellow-traveller was to meet her\nthere.\n\n\"Anxious to commence my new mode of life, I had soon completed my\nbusiness with my friend. He was standing at the door when I came up with\nthe young woman, and, laughing, inquired if she was my sweetheart or\nwife. In the course of two or three hours, I was again upon the road\ntowards Moffat, on my way to Edinburgh, with my light pack upon my back,\nas happy as a king. As I passed the side of a young plantation that\nskirted the road, a few miles from Dumfries, I saw, lying on the side of\nthe way, a small bundle, tied in a silk handkerchief. I immediately\npicked it up; and, after standing a few minutes, and looking around to\nsee if any one was in sight who might have dropped it, I called aloud,\nbut there was no answer. I continued my pace, rejoicing in my good\nfortune. At about a quarter-of-a-mile from the spot, there was a\npublic-house, into which I entered, for a little refreshment, and to\ninquire if they would purchase anything I could supply them. I placed\nthe bundle I had picked up and my pack upon the table, got what I asked\nfor, and then inquired if they would purchase. During my stay, two\nfarm-servants came in; and, when I was about to depart, they, seeing me\nlift the bundle from the table, inquired if it was my own. I hesitated\nfor a moment, and, unfortunately, said that it was. They looked at each\nother; no more passed, and I resumed my journey towards Moffat, which I\nwas anxious to reach before nightfall. I accomplished it; and, stopping\nat a cheap lodging-house, had an early supper, and went soon to bed,\nweary with my day's walk.\n\n\"Scarce had I fallen asleep, when I was aroused by a loud knocking at\nthe door, and the sound of many voices. Before I was fully awake, I was\nseized in my bed, and my hands bound tightly together. My terror became\nextreme--I shook in every limb. In vain I strove to speak, and inquire\nwhat all this meant. I could only see that every eye was bent on me with\nan expression of horror and rage. My clothes were searched, and then\nforced upon me. I was not allowed to assist myself--my hands were\nunbound to get on my coat; but a man held each arm while another pulled.\nThey seemed afraid I would do something desperate, and were as coarse\nand cautious as if I had been a ferocious animal; yet I was passive from\nexcess of fear; and, although numbers were speaking, I was in such a\nstate that I could not collect the purport of their conversation.\nExecrations sounded in my ears above the confusion of voices, and the\nfirst sentence I made out was spoken by my landlady:--'Oh, the\nbloody-minded young wretch!' she cried. 'Who would have thought it, to\nlook at him? But I hope they will hang him as high as Haman. And, after\nall, to come into a lone widow's house to bring disgrace on it. Take him\naway, sirs, as quick as you can, or I shall be an undone woman, and my\ncharacter entirely lost.'\n\n\"Astonished at what the woman said, I inquired what offence I had\ncommitted--or where. O God! what was my horror to learn that I was\ncharged with murder!--that the bundle in my possession had been the\nproperty of the victim of some ruthless villain--and that I was taken\nfor him! In vain I protested my innocence. The two men were present to\nwhom I had said, when they inquired, that the bundle was my own. I was\nthus, by my own confession--if not a murderer--a convicted liar. No one,\nfor a moment, thought me innocent. So strong was their conviction of my\nguilt, that had the laws not deterred them, they would have rejoiced to\nhave put me to death on the spot. Even this would have been kindness, in\na worldly sense, to what I was doomed to suffer.\n\n\"It was nearly eleven o'clock at night, but clear and bright; the moon\nwas nearly full; the air a little sharp, but not cold, when I was\nplaced, bound hand and foot, in a cart, and accompanied by the two men\nand two officers. I thought my heart would have burst. I opened not my\nmouth to speak in answer to their questions, cruel taunts, and\nupbraidings. I saw I was an object of horror and loathing to them--and\ndeservedly so, had I been the guilty creature they had cause to think\nme. I passed the melancholy time we were upon the road in tears, and\nprayers that my innocence might be made manifest; but I knew not yet the\nextent of my misery. At length the cart stopped at the door of the\npublic-house; my feet were loosened, and I was desired to come down, and\nenter the same room where I had been in the afternoon. A crowd of\nhorrorstricken people were huddled round the fireplace. In the wooden\nbed lay an object, covered with a white sheet, resembling a human body.\nI had never seen a corpse laid out in my life; yet the idea rushed upon\nmy mind that this was one; and my blood curdled in my veins, as the\nconviction came over me that it was one that had met its fate by\nviolence. I trembled, while the large drops of sweat stood upon my brow.\nAll eyes were turned to me; a grim smile of malicious satisfaction was\non the faces of some, while horror and pity were equally strongly marked\nupon the countenances of others. My natural feelings were, to all\npresent, a sure indication of my guilt. I would have sunk to the ground\nhad not the two men supported me. My head fell upon my breast. I\nrequested a little water, in a voice scarcely audible. It was given me,\nand the sickness went off. One of the officers then, taking a lamp, went\nto the bed, and removed the sheet from the body. My eyes involuntarily\nfollowed him; a cry of horror escaped my lips; and I felt my muscles\nbecome rigid. Before me lay the body of the female I had parted with in\nhealth early in the forenoon, at the shop-door of my relation,\nshockingly mangled, her long fair hair clotted with blood, and her mild\nblue eyes, that had smiled upon me, dulled by the shade of death. I\ncould only groan. My sufferings at this sight were beyond utterance. All\nin the room moved to the bed, and placed their hands upon the bosom of\nthe dead, and protested their innocence. I was ordered to do the same;\nbut I could not summon resolution to touch the body. My whole nature\nrevolted from the contact.\n\n\"'I am innocent!' I cried; 'God knows I am innocent! I know nothing of\nthis foul murder. Ask me to cut off my hand, or place it in the burning\nfire, among the live coals; but ask me not to touch that bloody body,\nfor pity's sake!'\n\n\"My appeals were vain; they only served to confirm the prepossessions of\nmy hearers that I was guilty. As I stood, shrinking from the fearful\nobject as far as those who held me would permit, a cry arose that I was\nthe murderer beyond a doubt, and that I should be compelled to touch the\nbody. One of the officers seized my hand; those who held me pushed me\ntowards the bed; I struggled in vain; my hand was held fast as I was\nforced along; and the consequence was, that it came with force upon the\nchest of the murdered victim, when a gurgling sound issued from the\ngaping wound. I became insensible.\n\n\"When my faculties returned, it was the grey of the morning. We were\nentering the town of Dumfries; I in the cart, and the murdered body by\nmy side. I was lodged in the jail--a criminal already condemned in the\neyes of my fellow-men. Even the felons and debtors in prison avoided my\nsociety. At my examination before the sheriff, I trembled at the array\nof circumstantial evidence that was brought against me. My own relation\nadmitted that he had seen us together at his shop-door. The young woman\nhad gone from thence to her brother's, and staid only a short\ntime--telling them she was on her way to Edinburgh, and was to meet a\nyoung man, who was to accompany her there. She had been seen by the two\nmen lingering upon the Moffat road, near the planting, a short time\nbefore, with the same bundle in her hand that I had said was mine when\nthey saw me in the public-house with it in my possession. They had\nthought it strange, but paid no attention until the body of the young\nwoman was discovered in the wood a few hours after, and still warm. I\nhad been pursued, and the property proved to belong to the victim of my\ncruelty. My terror at being apprehended, and my refusal to touch the\ndead body, all militated against me. I was fully committed as the\nmurderer, without hope of escape, innocent as I was of the crime. To\nthis damning evidence, all I had to advance was my unheeded assertion of\nmy innocence.\n\n\"From the beginning of May until the month of September I lay in jail--a\nstranger to comfort of any kind. Every anguish was mine, except remorse.\nI was looked upon by all, except my parents, as the most hardened\nvillain on earth. No one doubted my guilt, except my parents; and it was\nonly their parental feelings that made them doubt and pray that, if\ninnocent, the really guilty might be discovered. I will not attempt to\ndescribe the scenes between me and my parents. They both wished that the\ngrave might hide their shame before the fatal day of the execution of\ntheir son; for all chance of proving my innocence seemed out of the\nquestion. The worthy minister that visited the jail firmly believed in\nmy guilt; to all my solemn asseverations of innocence, he only replied\nby holding forth on the dangers of hardened crime, with earnest\nexhortations for me to confess and make atonement as far as was in my\npower. He would for hours lay before me the horrors of appearing before\nmy Maker with a lie in my mouth. My pride was wounded by the good man's\nwell-meant efforts. I began to avoid him as much as possible; and, when\nI could not, I was silent and sullen. This, also, was held to be a sure\ntoken of my guilt. Alas! I was not hardened; but I was heart-broken. My\nBible was my only companion--my soother and support; for I found no\nthreat there but against the wicked. Its Author was the searcher of\nhearts. In it I found I was really guilty of many crimes which my\nfellow-men thought nothing of; but there I also found a Saviour and\nMediator. My mind became humbled and composed; and, while I still\nsolemnly asserted my innocence of the murder, I did it with temper and\nmeekness.\n\n\"'Worthy sir,' I said to the clergyman, 'appearances have deceived you.\nIf it is the will of God that the innocent should suffer, for some wise\npurpose, his will be done. If it is not so, my guiltlessness of blood\nwill be made evident in this world--at least I shall be declared\ninnocent on that great day when all shall render their account--in this\nmatter, innocent, save of the guilty falsehood I stated, that the\nunfortunate female's bundle was my own. Alas! I wished not to keep the\nproperty from the rightful owner. My thought at the time was, that, if I\nowned that I had found it, they would take it from me, or make a\ndisturbance about it. Had they only said a few words more, I had told\nthe truth; and thus, probably, have contributed to the proof of my\ninnocence.'\n\n\"At length, the Lords of Justiciary entered the town. None but those who\nare within the walls of a jail, awaiting their arrival, can conceive the\ndread sensation of fear and hope awakened in the breasts of criminals by\nthe clang of the trumpets and shouting of the mob, as the pageant\nproceeds through the streets. How bitter are the feelings produced by\nthe joyous shouts of the thoughtless people! forgetful, or heedless, of\nthe fates of their fellow-mortals. Next day I was led into the court,\nmore dead than alive. My head became giddy. Everything before me--the\ncrowded court, the judges, jury, and officers--became a confused mass; a\nmurmur as if of horror sounded in my ears from the assembled multitude;\nthe fatal bundle lay upon the table before me. At length all was ready;\nand, the indictment having been read aloud by the clerk, the judge, in a\nsolemn voice, asked if I was guilty or not. After a gasp or two for\nbreath--\n\n\"'O my lord!' I said, 'I am as guiltless of this crime as the unborn\nbabe. Have mercy on me!' And I sank upon the table before me,\noverpowered.\n\n\"The public prosecutor then opened the case, and harrowed up my soul\nwith the fearful account of the diabolical deed. He almost persuaded me\nI was the murderer; so clearly did he reason from appearances. The\nwitnesses were called; a chain of circumstantial evidence was made out;\nall that was awanting in it was, that I had not been seen to do the\ndeed. Witnesses I had not one. Those whom I could have called could have\nsaid nothing but what they had already said, and it was wrested to my\ndisadvantage by my own story; for I was a self-convicted liar, and\nlittle better than a thief, in my attempt to appropriate what was not my\nown--even in the most favourable construction my able counsel could put\nupon my case. The jury, without leaving their box, pronounced me guilty,\nwithout a dissentient voice. The judge put on the fearful black hat upon\nhis head; and, after a heart-harrowing speech upon my guilt, pronounced\nsentence of death upon me. I was to be taken back to the jail, and from\nthence to the spot where the murder had been committed, and hung in\nchains on the second market-day in October. How I was removed from the\ncourt I cannot tell; neither can I tell what intervened for some hours.\nThe last thing strongly impressed upon my memory is a burst of\nsatisfaction in the court, when the sentence was passed upon me, and the\nhooting of the crowd without; yet, strange to say, I slept soundly after\nthe irons were riveted upon my ankles, and awoke to find my doom fixed,\nand my days on earth numbered. I became, in a manner, resigned to my\nfate. Indeed, save for my parents, I had no other regret in leaving the\nworld; yet, at times, an anxious wish would steal upon my mind that I\nmight be saved from my unmerited death. It was the shuddering of nature\nat entering upon eternity. The hope never left me that my innocence\nwould, at one time or another, sooner or later, be made manifest to my\nfellow-men--for murder will not hide, nor innocent blood cry from the\nearth in vain. The hours flew past with fearful rapidity; the\nneighbouring clock seemed never to cease to strike the hour. Night\nfollowed day, and day night, as if there was no interval between; yet\nthere was a heaviness upon me that bowed me down. My last Sabbath on\nearth arrived; the day was spent in devotion--my heart-broken parents,\nwho now were convinced of my innocence, pouring out their souls with\nmine to the Throne of Grace. If ever there was on earth a foretaste of\nthe joys of heaven, I felt it that day in the condemned cell, loaded\nwith irons. We had taken farewell of each other, in the full assurance\nof soon meeting where there is no sorrow or shame. The bitterness of\ndeath was past. My thoughts were no longer of this world.\n\n\"The Monday passed on. There was but one whole day more for me on the\nearth. Wednesday was to be my last. On the morning of Tuesday, as soon\nas the jail was opened, my brother, who had always thought hardly of me,\nand visited me only twice, rushed into my cell, and, weeping, fell upon\nmy bosom. After a few minutes, he sobbed--\n\n\"'My brother! Simon, my brother! can you forgive me for thinking so\nhardly of you?'\n\n\"'My brother,' I replied, 'I have ever thought of you in grief and pity,\nnever in anger. My heart blesses you for this kindness.'\n\n\"'You are innocent, my own Simon! You are cleared of this crime. All is\nmade manifest. The worthy minister is at present with the provost, who\nwill write to the sheriff to delay the fatal day, until your pardon\ncome.'\n\n\"I heard no more: a faintness came over me; my heart ceased to beat, and\nall consciousness left me for some time. When I recovered, we fell upon\nour knees, and poured out our souls in thanksgivings. At that time I\ndedicated the whole remainder of my days to the service of that merciful\nGod who had made clear my innocence, and spared my parents and friends\nfrom shame.\n\n\"When we had become composed, I learned from him the wonderful manner in\nwhich my innocence had been discovered, and the guilty punished by the\nhand of the sufferer's own brother. She had resided in the parish of\nCaerlaverock, with a brother, a widower, as his housekeeper, for some\nyears; and it had been understood that she was soon to marry a young\nman, a stranger, who had come some years before into the parish. He was\non intimate terms with her brother; but her other friends did not\napprove of the connection, as his character was none of the best. Her\nbrother was of a thoughtless, jovial disposition, and saw no harm in\nhim, for he was an excellent boon-companion, and they were thus\ninseparable on all occasions of festivity. On the Saturday afternoon\nbefore the day appointed for my execution, they had gone out with their\nguns to shoot for amusement. Both had been drinking pretty hard; and it\nwas observed that the stranger had for some time almost entirely given\nhimself up to intoxication, especially since the death of Grace, his\nsweetheart. This was attributed to his grief, and begat pity for him,\nand no one was more assiduous in endeavouring to cheer his gloom than\nher brother. After their search for game, they were returning to the\nvillage, when, by some accident, the gun which Grace's brother carried\nwent off, and lodged its contents in the body of his companion, who\nfell, dreadfully wounded. A surgeon was sent for, who gave little hopes\nof his recovery. No blame could be attached to his companion, as the\naccident was seen by several, and the grief of Grace's brother was\nexcessive. On the Sabbath, the stranger was much worse. His mind seemed\nto suffer more than his body; and words of fearful import escaped from\nhim at intervals, which harrowed up the souls of those who attended him.\nCries of despair, mixed with horrid imprecations, burst from his lips.\nYet death evidently was approaching fast to seize his victim. When they\nspoke of sending for the minister to pray with and console him, he\nblasphemed, and thus spent he his last Sabbath on earth. Through the\nnight he fell into a troubled sleep, and began to mutter. Gradually his\nwords became more distinct. He talked of Grace, and recounted her murder\nas he had perpetrated it; writhed in remorse, and called for mercy from\nmy injured spirit, as if I had already suffered. As soon as the morning\ndawned, the minister was sent for, and what the guilty man had said in\nhis sleep recounted to him. He was now very low; the hand of death was\non him; and, for some time, he was deaf to the remonstrances of the\ndivine. But at length he confessed all; told that they would find the\nknife with which he had done the fearful crime buried at the back of the\ncottage where he lay. All was written down by the minister. The knife\nwas found, stained with the blood of his victim. I was now as much the\nobject of pity as I had been of hatred and horror. That day my irons\nwere struck off; I had the freedom of the jail until my pardon arrived,\nand was visited by numbers of the inhabitants, who loaded me with\npresents. But my feelings of gratitude were principally awakened on my\nparents' account, for the joy it imparted to them. Many, many years have\npassed since that event, but it is ever present with me, and spurs me on\nin my labours of love, in comforting and winning souls to God.\"\n\nSo deeply had I been interested in the narrative of the Pious Pedlar,\nthat we had reached York, and stood at the door of the Duke of\nMarlborough public-house, before I was aware of the distance we had\nwalked after he commenced. As this was the house where Bill and a number\nof others in his line were in the habit of staying during the time they\nwere in the town, we entered, and found two or three, who, like\nourselves, had come to purchase goods. I was astonished at the haughty\nmanner in which they returned our salutation. The landlord, who seemed\nto know all his guests well, received William and Simon with a hearty\nwelcome; and, shaking me by the hand, wished me success in my new\ncalling, expressing his hope that I would find everything in the\nMarlborough to my liking. We were then ushered into a small room, where\ndinner was to be served to us. When we were comfortably seated, I\nremarked to Bill the impression the lofty bearing of the others had made\nupon me, and inquired if he knew the cause. He laughed--\n\n\"Quite well,\" said he; \"there is an aristocracy among pedlars as well as\nother callings. They belong to the waggoners, and would think it a\ndegradation to associate with us bearers. We are a grade beneath them;\nbesides, the waggoners are, for the most part, gentlemen by birth--the\nyounger cadets of decayed houses of long standing. With a little capital\nto commence with, they never dealt in small quantities, their line lying\nin supplying the retailers in distant towns, and many of them are very\nwealthy. Upon my return from London, when I have purchased my horse and\nwaggon, I will be entitled to rank with them, but will never be treated\nas the equal of those who have both birth and waggons; nevertheless, I\nwill be a waggoner until I commence business in my own shop, when I will\nbe a grade higher than even waggoner; and, with economy and my usual\nperseverance, I may be a bailie, or even provost, of the town I settle\nin. Only think of that, John Square! Stick to your present occupation,\nand, without trusting the stormy ocean, you may, by following my\ncounsel, succeed as well as I or any one.\"\n\n\"My young friend,\" said the pious Simon, \"all these are good in\nsubjection; but a higher aim ought to be your guide through life; for\nall these give not peace to the soul.\"\n\nWhile he spoke, we were joined by other two of our own rank, to whom my\ntwo companions were barely civil, and very distant. Both were well\nadvanced in years, with a forward cast of countenance and a look of low\ncunning strangely blended, which they endeavoured to make pass for\nfrankness. Having settled our small bill, and left our packs in charge\nof the landlord, I walked out to see the minster, they to transact some\nbusiness of their own.\n\nI returned when the shades of evening fell, and found that Wilson and\nSimon had arrived some time before me, and were seated by themselves.\nThere were several others in the room in general conversation, in which\nwe took no part. The two whom I had left before I went out were still in\nthe same position, evidently under the influence of liquor. They were\nclearly unwelcome; their conversation was only calculated to beget\ndisgust in well-regulated minds, consisting of anecdotes of fraud and\nimposition, of which they seemed proud of being the heroes.\n\n\"These two,\" said Simon to me, \"are a specimen of those who bring\ndisrepute upon any callings, and much more so on ours. They are not\nwithout talents, but they cultivate them to unprofitable ends. I have\nknown them for many years; and, with all their boasted cunning, they\nare, I believe, poorer at this moment than they were when I first knew\nthem, and must still become poorer, for their character is gone. The\npublic fear to deal with them, and will not do it, even when they would\nact honestly. They are forced to range far, to places where they are\nunknown; and even there they are every year circumscribing and planting\nthorns for others to walk over. They, besides, are ever under the fear\nof injury from some one or other whom they have defrauded. Such are the\nfruits of dishonest dealing.\"\n\nAll our business being transacted, it was agreed that we should continue\nour route for London, to purchase silks and light goods, and return by\nthe same route to Scotland. William having purchased a small waggon and\nhorse, together with a small assortment of woollens, my stock remained\nmuch the same, and was slung over my shoulder, save when, for ease, and\nthere were no houses on the road, I placed it in the waggon; for I was\nweary of my pedlar's life, and only endured it until I should reach\nLondon. We arrived at Hatfield, about twenty-five miles from London,\nearly in the afternoon, and resolved to stay for the night, as Wilson\nhad hopes of doing some good in the neighbourhood. As for me, I had\nceased, much to his chagrin, to attempt any sales, as my pack was now\nmuch reduced. While he was gone, I sat at the inn-door, amusing myself\nin the best manner I could--sometimes musing on my strange fate, at\nothers gazing listlessly upon the passers-by--when a post-chaise drove\nup to the door at a furious rate. The horses were extremely blown, and\ncovered with perspiration. A gentleman and lady descended from the\nchaise; she evidently was under restraint, and looked anxiously and\nfearfully around. Our eyes met; I thought she gave her hand that was\ndisengaged a movement, as if she wished me to come to her. She was in\ntears. I rose, and moved to approach, but she was hurried into the house\nbefore I could advance; for I was in doubt--yet her look expressed what\nher hand signalled. I thought it strange, for a moment; but this feeling\ndied away, for I might have been deceived. The gentleman came to the\ndoor, to hurry the people, as they were rather slow, as he thought, in\nprocuring fresh horses. I good-naturedly went to assist the postilion.\nAs I stood before the chaise, I looked up to one of the windows, and saw\nthe female weeping at it. Our eyes again met; she clasped her hands\nimploringly, and, taking a small packet, placed it behind the\nwindow-shutter, and, raising her clasped hands to heaven, looked\nearnestly at me. I gave a nod of assent. She retired from the window.\nAll this had passed quickly as a shadow. In a few minutes they were\nagain in the chaise. As it passed off, I again gave a nod, and a languid\nsmile passed over her face. I entered the house, and inquired of the\nlandlord who they were; but got no information, as he said they were\nunknown to him. I requested to have a glass of brandy-and-water in the\nroom where the lady had been. As soon as it was brought, and he had\nretired, I looked behind the window-shutter, and, taking out the parcel,\nfound it to contain a sum of money and a sealed letter, upon the inside\nof the wrapper of which was written in pencil--\"Benevolent stranger,\nwhoever you are, for mercy's sake and all that is dear to you, deliver\nthis as directed, with your utmost despatch, and snatch a\nfellow-creature from misery. Let this supply your immediate wants, and\nan ample reward shall follow. Use all despatch, I again implore you.\"\n\nI was for a few minutes lost in amazement. The letter was addressed to\nCaptain James H----, Strand, London. Could this be my old patron and\ncaptain? There was not one moment to lose. I descended to the bar, and\ntold the landlord I must set off for London immediately, and requested\nhis advice how I was to proceed. He told me I must make the journey on\nhorseback, as he had not another pair of horses. I told him that was\nimpossible, as I had never been on horseback in my life, and I could\nwalk it faster and with more ease than I could ride. I would walk on to\nBarnet before dark, and get a chaise there if I could find none sooner.\nAs I was on the eve of setting off, he found means to procure an old\nphaeton; and, while it was getting ready, I wrote to Wilson that\ncircumstances forced me to London, but that I would perhaps see him in\nthe morning. At all events, I made him heartily welcome to my pack, as I\nmeant to carry it no more, wishing him health and prosperity if we\nshould not meet.\n\nI mounted the high-hung, crazy vehicle, with a lad to drive and bring it\nback, having satisfied mine host to his utmost wish. By half-past ten\no'clock, I reached the jeweller's in the Strand, whose first floor\nCaptain H----occupied, and found him at home. His lady was also present.\nHis surprise was great at my entering. Our joy was mutual, and only\ndamped by my relating the strange manner in which I had again had the\npleasure of seeing him. He broke the letter open, and having hastily\nperused it, turned to his wife, who sat pale and anxiously looking at\nhim--\"My love, I must be off this instant, and endeavour to rescue\nCatherine from her unpleasant thraldom. Do not be alarmed--there is no\ndanger. During the time I am getting all ready, you may peruse the\nletter.\" Saying this, he rung the bell, and ordered his servant to\nprocure a post-chaise as quickly as he could, and send in refreshments\nfor me. Mrs H---- was dissolved in tears, as she had read the letter to\nan end. When we were again alone, \"James,\" said she, \"this proceeding of\nMaster Wilton is very cruel to my cousin; although he is her guardian,\nhe has, I should think, no right to wound her feelings, and hurry her\nabout the country in this mysterious manner. I am fearful he has some\nreason he is ashamed to confess. My dear James, be careful of yourself\nfor my sake; I shall be miserable until your return.\"\n\n\"There is not the smallest occasion, my love; I shall write you as soon\nas I arrive at Mr Wilton's. In the morning, you must write a note to Mr\nStenton, to call upon you. Show him your cousin's letter, and order him\nto take what steps he may judge necessary in this affair.\"\n\n\"Can it be possible,\" said she, \"that my aunt approves of this\nproceeding? He could not have removed Catherine without her consent.\"\n\n\"I shall soon know, my love. The dear girl must not be allowed to suffer\nfrom their designs or caprice.\"\n\nAt this moment the chaise was announced to be at the door, and in a\nshort time we were in it, and rattling along towards Barnet, where we\nchanged horses, and were in Hatfield a little after daybreak. During our\ndark and comfortless ride, I told him all that had befallen me since we\nparted in Lisbon. He had only been in London a few months, where he had\ncome upon business--an uncle of his wife's having died some time before,\nleaving the bulk of his fortune to his two nieces--Catherine, the young\nlady whose letter I had brought to London, and his wife. To Catherine,\nhis favourite sister's daughter, he had left, besides an equal sum in\ncash, all his landed and other property. Mr Wilton's sister, the aunt of\nboth, was a rich widow, but of a morose and finical temper. Catherine\nhad been brought up by her some fifty miles from London, and Mr H----\nhad no idea until my arrival that she had not been still with her. \"I\nhope there is no foolish love affair in this strange business,\" said he;\n\"for Catherine is a warmhearted, susceptible girl. Her father was our\ncountryman, and my intimate friend.\"\n\nAs Mr Wilton's property lay near Baldock, about eighteen miles distant,\nand no post-horses were to be got, the captain, on horseback, set off\nalone; I was to follow on foot, which I preferred, to Stevenage, where I\nwas to wait until I heard from him. After a hasty parting from my\nfellow-traveller Wilson, which was not without regret on both sides, I\nset off for Stevenage; he saying, as he shook my hand--\n\n\"John Square, I hope you will never want, but you will never be rich.\nYou are as unstable as water.\"\n\nI had only been in the inn at Stevenage a short time, when a servant\narrived with a note, informing me that Captain H---- had got all\narranged to his satisfaction, and would return to London on the\nfollowing day, requesting me to hasten thither with a letter for Mrs\nH----; which I did, and took lodgings for myself in Lower Thames Street.\nWhen the captain and I again met, I found present the young lady and\nanother gentleman. I was most graciously received by all. The uncle of\nCatherine was likewise present, and, turning to his niece, said--\n\n\"So this is the messenger you contrived to engage, strictly as I watched\nyou in this foolish affair. I see that a woman's invention, like her\nlove, has no bounds\"--saying which, he good-humouredly patted the happy\nand blushing Catherine under the chin.\n\nThe captain retired with me to a separate room, where he told me that\nthe whole had arisen out of the anger of his wife's aunt, who had set\nher heart upon marrying her niece to a young clergyman of her\nneighbourhood, for whom she had not the smallest regard, and whose\nassiduities were hateful to her, as her heart was already engaged to Mr\nStenton, a distant relation of her own; but, as his circumstances were\nnot sufficiently prosperous to enable them to marry, she had concealed\ntheir love from all but Mrs H----.\n\n\"The death of her uncle, and my arrival in London, altered her views.\nShe rebelled against her aunt's authority, and refused to see the\nclergyman as a lover. This threw the old lady into a paroxysm of rage.\nPoor Catherine was locked up, and, all her repositories being searched,\nMr Stenton's letters were found. They were immediately sealed up, and a\nletter written to Mr Wilton, her brother, of the most alarming kind for\nthe safety of his now wealthy niece, representing that she meant to\nthrow herself and fortune away upon some peasant in the neighbourhood.\nHe had posted, on receipt of the packet, to his sister, when his fears\nwere further excited by the old lady's conjectures. Catherine was\nunconscious of what had passed, until she was summoned to the presence\nof her uncle, whom she had seldom before seen. He is a good-hearted, but\na positive, irascible man. No explanation was asked. When all appeared\nso plain against the trembling girl, she was, by her uncle and aunt,\nhurried into a post-chaise, and was on her way to Mr Wilton's. She had\ncontrived to write to me during the short time she was allowed to\nprepare for the journey, but had no opportunity until, struck by your\nmanners, she resolved to shorten her confinement by trusting you, as her\nuncle's anger was so great that he had scarce spoken to her since they\nentered the chaise, but to threaten and abuse her. When I arrived, an\nexplanation and reconciliation had taken place, and the marriage will\nfollow in a few weeks. It only remains for you to consider in what\nmanner we can serve you.\"\n\nI returned him my thanks for their kind intentions; and said the young\nlady's purse, which I would not affront them by offering to return, was\nmuch more than sufficient reward for all I had done; and, begging I\nmight not detain him longer from his friends, I bade him adieu,\npromising to call in a day or two.\n\n\n\n\nCHARLES LAWSON.\n\n\n\"Tak a faither's advice, Betty, my woman,\" said Andrew Weir to his only\ndaughter--\"tak a faither's advice, and avoid gaun blindfolded to your\nruin. Ye are sune aneugh to marry these seven years yet. Marry! preserve\nus! for I dinna ken what the generation is turning to, but I'll declare\nbits o' lasses now-a-days haena the dolls weel oot o' their arms, till\nthey tak a guidman by the hand. But aboon everything earthly, I wad\nimpress it upon ye, bairn, that ye canna be owre carefu o' your company;\nmind that a character is a' a woman has to carry her through the warld,\nand ye should guard it like the apple o' your e'e; and remember, that\nfolk are aye judged o' frae the company they keep. Now, how often maun I\nwarn ye no to be seen wi' Charles Lawson? He's a clever lad, nae\ndoubt--naebody denies that; but, oh, Betty, Betty, woman! wad ye only\nreflect that a' gifts are no graces; and I am far mistaen if he hasna a\nserpent's heart as weel as his tongue. He has naething o' the fear o'\nGod before his een--ye canna deny that. In ae word, he is a wild,\nthoughtless ne'er-do-weel; and I charge ye--I command ye--Betty, that ye\nne'er speak to him again in your born days; or, if ye do, ye surely will\nhae but little satisfaction to break your faither's heart, and bring him\nto the grave wi' sorrow and wi' shame--for that, Betty, that wad be the\nend o't.\"\n\nElizabeth heard him, and bent her head upon her bosom to conceal her\nconfusion. The parental homily was too late--she was already the wife of\nCharles Lawson.\n\nHaving thus begun our story in the middle, it is necessary that we go\nback, and inform the reader, in a few words, that Andrew Weir was a\nrespectable farmer on the north side of the Tweed, and withal a decent\nand devout Presbyterian, and an elder in the kirk. Charles Lawson's\nparents were originally from Northumberland. They had known better days,\nand, at the period we have alluded to, were struggling with a hard farm\nin the neighbourhood of Andrew Weir's. Charles was not exactly what his\nfather-in-law had described him; and, were we to express his portrait in\na line, we should say, he had blue eyes and a broad brow, a goodly form\nand open heart. The ringlets which parted on Elizabeth's forehead were\nlike the raven's wing, and loveliness, if not beauty, nestled around the\ndimples on her cheeks. Their affection for each other began in\nchildhood, and grew with their years, till it became strong as their\nexistence.\n\nA few weeks after Andrew Weir had delivered the advice we have quoted to\nhis daughter, Charles Lawson bade farewell to his parents, his wife, and\nhis country, and proceeded to India, where a relative of his mother's\nhad amassed a fortune, and who, while he refused to assist them in their\ndistress, had promised to make provision for their son. As we are not\nwriting a novel in three volumes, we shall not describe the scene of\ntheir parting, and tell with what agony, with what tears, and with what\nbitter words, Charles tore himself from his father, his mother, and his\nyet unacknowledged wife. The imagination of the reader may supply the\nblank. Hope urged him to go--necessity compelled him.\n\nAfter his departure, Elizabeth drooped like an early lily beneath the\ninfluence of a returning frost. There were whisperings among the matrons\nand maidens of the neigbouring village. They who had formerly courted\nher society began to shun it; and even the rude clown, who lately stood\nabashed in her presence, approached her with indecent familiarity. The\nfatal whisper first reached Andrew's ear at a meeting of the\nkirk-session, of which he was a member. He returned home troubled in\nspirit, a miserable and a humbled man, for his daughter had been his\npride. Poor Elizabeth confessed that she was married, and attempted to\nprove what she affirmed. But this afforded no palliation of her offence\nin the eyes of her rigid and offended father.\n\n\"Oh, what hae I been born to suffer ?\" cried he, stamping his feet upon\nthe ground. \"O, you Witch o' Endor!--you Jezebel!--you disgrace o' kith\nand kin! Could naething--naething serve ye but breaking your puir auld\nfaither's heart? Get out o' my sicht!--get out o' my sicht!\"\n\nHe remained silent for a few moments--the parent arose in his\nheart--tears gathered in his eyes.\n\n\"But ye are still my bairn,\" he continued. \"Oh, Betty, Betty, woman!\nwhat hae ye brocht us to?\"\n\nAgain he was silent, and again proceeded--\n\n\"But I forgie ye, Betty! Yes, if naebody else will, your faither will\nforgie ye for your mother's sake, for ye are a' that I hae left o' her.\nBut we canna haud up our heads again in this pairt o' the\ncountry--that's impossible. I've lang thocht o' gaun to America; and now\nI'm driven till't.\"\n\nHe parted with his farm, and in the ensuing spring proceeded with his\ndaughter to Canada. We shall not enter upon his fortunes in the New\nWorld--he was still broken in spirit; and, after twelve years'\nresidence, he was neither richer nor happier than when he left Scotland.\nElizabeth was now a mother, and the smiles of her young son seemed to\nshorten the years of her exile; yet, ever as she returned his smile, the\nthought of the husband of her youth flashed back on her remembrance, and\nanguish and misery shot through her bosom as the eagle darteth on its\nprey. Her heart was not broken; but it fell like a proud citadel,\nburying the determined garrison.\n\nCharles Lawson had not been in India many months, when a party of native\ntroops attacking the property of his relative, Charles, who had fallen\nwounded amongst them, was carried by them in their retreat into the\ninterior of the country, where, for several years, he was cut off from\nall intercourse or communication with his countrymen. On obtaining his\nliberty, he found that his kinsman had been for some time dead, and had\nleft him his heir. His wife--his parents--doubt--anxiety--impatient\naffection--trembling hope--all hastened his return. At length the white\ncliffs of Albion appeared before him, like a fair cloud spread on the\nunruffled bosom of the ocean; and in a few days more the green hills of\nhis childhood met his anxious eye.\n\nIt was the grey hour of a summer night as he again approached the roof\nthat sheltered his childhood. His horse as if conscious of supporting an\nalmost unconscious rider, stopped involuntarily at the threshold. He\ntrembled upon the saddle as a leaf that rustles in the wind. He raised\nhis hand to knock at the door, but again withdrew it. The inmates of the\nhouse, aroused by the sound of a horse stopping at the door, came out to\ninquire the cause. Charles gazed upon them for a moment--it was a look\nof agony and disappointment--his heart gave one convulsive throb, and\nthe icy sweat burst from his temples.\n\n\"Does not--does not Mr Lawson live here?\" he inquired, almost gasping\nfor words to convey the question.\n\n\"Mr Lawson! Na, na, sir,\" replied the senior of the group, \"it's lang\nsince he gaed awa. Ye ken he gaed a' wrang, puir man, and he's no lived\nhere since the hard winter, for they didna come upon this parish.\"\n\n\"Did not come upon this parish!\" exclaimed Charles; \"heaven and earth!\nwhat do you mean?\"\n\n\"Mean! what wad I mean,\" answered the other, \"but just that they were\nremoved to their ain parish! Is there ony disgrace in that?\"\n\n\"Oh, my father!--my poor mother!\" cried Charles, wildly.\n\n\"Mercy, sir!\" rejoined the astonished farmer, \"are ye Maister Charles?\nBairns! haste ye, tak the horse to the stable. Losh, Charles, man, and\nhow hae ye been? But ye dinna ken me, man; I'm your auld schulefellow,\nBob Graham, and this is my wife, Mysie Allan--ye mind o' Mysie! Haste\nye, Mysie lass, kill twa ducks, and the bairns and me will hool the\npeas. Really, Charles, man, I'm sae glad to see ye!\"\n\nDuring this harangue, Charles, led by his warmhearted friend, had\nentered the dwelling of his nativity; where Mr Graham again continued--\n\n\"Ye aiblins dinna ken that auld Andrew Weir was sae sair in the dorts\nwhen ye gaed awa, that he set aff wi' Betty for America. But I hear they\nare comin hame again this back end. The bairn will be a stout callant\nnoo, and faith ye maun marry Betty, for she was a mensefu lass.\"\n\nCharles could only reply by exclaiming--\n\n\"America!--my wife!--my child!\"\n\nHaving ascertained where he would find his parents, early on the\nfollowing morning he departed, and about five in the afternoon\napproached the village where he had been told they resided. When near\nthe little burying-ground, he stopped to look upon the most melancholy\nfuneral procession he had ever witnessed. The humble coffin was scarce\ncoloured, and they who bore it seemed tired of their burden. Three or\nfour aged and poor-looking people walked behind it. Scarce was it\nlowered into the grave, ere all departed save one, meanly clothed in\nwidow's weeds, and bent rather with the load of grief than of years. She\nalone lingered, weeping over the hastily-covered grave.\n\n\"She seems poor,\" said Charles, \"and if I cannot comfort her, I may at\nleast relieve her necessities;\" and, fastening his horse to the gate, he\nentered the churchyard.\n\nShe held an old handkerchief before her face, only removing it at\nintervals to steal a hurried glance at the new-made grave.\n\n\"Good woman,\" said Charles, as he approached her, \"your sorrows demand\nmy sympathy--could I assist you?\"\n\n\"No! no!\" replied the poor widow, without raising her face; \"but I thank\nyou for your kindness. Can the grave give up its dead?\"\n\n\"But why should you remain here?\" said he, with emotion; \"tell me, could\nnot I assist you?\" And he placed a piece of money in her hand.\n\n\"No! no!\" cried the widow, bitterly, and raising her head; \"oh, that\nMary Lawson should have lived to be offered charity on her husband's\ngrave!\"\n\n\"My mother! Gracious heaven, my mother!\" exclaimed Charles, casting his\narms around her neck.\n\nShall we describe the scene that followed? We will not--we cannot. He\nhad seen his father laid in the dust, he had met his mother on his\nfather's grave----But we will not go on.\n\nIt was some weeks after this that he proceeded with his widowed mother\nto his native village, to wait the return of Elizabeth. Nor had he to\nwait; for, on the day previous to his return, Elizabeth, her son, and\nher father, had arrived. Charles and his parent had reached Mr\nGraham's--the honest farmer rushed to the door, and, hurrying both\ntowards the house, exclaimed--\n\n\"Now, see if you can find onybody that ye ken here!\"\n\nHis Elizabeth--his wife--his son--were there to meet him; the next\nmoment she was upon his bosom, and her child clinging by her side, and\ngazing on his face. He alternately held both to his heart--the mother\nand her son. Andrew Weir took his hand--his mother wept with joy, and\nblessed her children. Bob Graham and his Mysie were as happy as their\nguests. Charles Lawson bought the farm which Andrew Weir had formerly\ntenanted; and, our informant adds, they live on it still.\n\n\n\n\nBON GAULTIER'S TALES.\n\nMRS HUMPHREY GREENWOOD'S TEA-PARTY.\n\n\nMrs Humphrey Greenwood was a stirring, lively, good-natured sort of\nperson; had touched the meridian of her years; was mistress of a\ncomfortable income; and possessed, withal, the privileged vivacity of a\nwidow. Nobody gave nicer tea-parties than she; nobody managed to keep\nsuch a number of eligible bachelors on her visiting-list, and\npossessing, as she did, the nicest discrimination in drafting these in\namong the young ladies under her patronage, what wonder if no\ninconsiderable proportion of the matrimonial arrangements of her friends\ndeduced their origin from these dangerously-seductive sofas in her snug\nlittle drawing-room?\n\nIt was in that snug little drawing-room that Mr Simon Silky first saw\nthe future Mrs Simon; it was on one of those dangerously-seductive sofas\nthat he found courage to put that question which procured him a better\nhalf, and a comfortable settlement for life for Miss Jemima Linton.\n\nMiss Jemima Linton was still in that fluctuating period, between girl\nand womanhood, at which young ladies giggle a great deal, and seem to be\nalways in a flutter, when Mr Simon Silky first met her. She was fair in\ncomplexion, with light hair and blue eyes; her face, in short, had all\nthe delicacy of a wax doll, and nearly as much expression. She could say\n\"yes, sir!\" and \"no, sir!\" at the proper intervals in the course of a\n_tete-a-tete_ conversation, and, when warmed a little into familiarity\nand ease, could even hazard an observation with reference to the\nweather, without changing colour above twice in the course of it. In a\nword, she was one of those excessively bashful and retiring young\nladies, who always look as if they thought a man was going to make\nviolent love to them, and who, if your conversation happen to diverge\nfrom the beaten track of the smallest of small talk, take fright, and\nare off as fast as possible to whisper to some of their companions, \"La!\nwhat a strange man that is!\"\n\nThis was the very kind of person for Mr Simon Silky, who was a bit of a\nsentimentalist in his way. When he met Miss Jemima Linton, the fair\nideal on whom his fancy had often dwelt seemed to be realised. He came,\nhe saw, and was conquered.\n\nOn entering Mrs Greenwood's drawing-room, one evening that he had been\ninvited there to meet \"a few friends in an easy way,\" having arrived\nrather late, he found the party already assembled. The fire blazed\ncheerfully out upon a bevy of tittering misses, who were seated on\neither side of it, whispering to each other in a timid and confidential\ntone, with here and there a young man amongst them making convulsive\nefforts to render himself amusing, while two or three putty-faced\njuniors, with very white shirt-collars, and very brightly-polished\npumps--who had been called in to stop gaps in quadrilles, and render\nthemselves otherwise useful--sat in the background, for the most part\ntwo on a chair, and speculating how many of the cakes that glistened on\nthe table they might appropriate to themselves with any degree of\ndecency. Mrs Humphrey Greenwood, the presiding divinity of this motley\ngathering, vulgarly yclept a \"cookie-shine,\" was planted behind a\nbrightly-burnished brass urn of liberal dimension, that hissed loudly on\nthe table.\n\n\"Mr Simon,\" she exclaimed, advancing from her post of honour--\" Mr Simon\nSilky, I'm so glad to see you; I really thought you had been going to\ndesert us.\"\n\nOur hero blustered out some inarticulate apology, to which his hostess\nof course paid no attention, but hurried on into the work of\nintroduction.\n\n\"Mr Silky, Miss Silliman, Miss Gingerly, Miss Barbara Silliman, Miss\nEggemon, Miss Jemima Linton; I think you know all the rest. Mr\nScratcherd, you know Mr Silky.\" Mr Scratcherd grinned an assent. \"Mr\nSilky, Mr Slap'emup. You'll find a seat for yourself somewhere. Try if\nsome of the ladies will have pity, and take you in among them.\"\n\nAll this time, Mr Silky was engaged in distributing a comprehensive bow\nto everybody about him--an ordeal which, in any circumstances, to a\nnervous man like him, was no joke. But his agitation had the finishing\ntouch given it by Mrs Greenwood's facetious observation as to the ladies\n_taking him_ IN _among them_. The blood rushed to his temples, and he\nsubsided into a vacant chair, with a remark, directed to nobody in\nparticular, as to how very warm the room was. Attention having been once\ndrawn to this interesting fact, it became the topic of conversation for\nsome five minutes, which gave Mr Simon Silky time to cool down, and to\nlook about him a little. In the course of his survey, his eyes alighted\non Miss Jemima Linton, who just at that moment happened to be\nscrutinising his outward man. Their eyes met; a glance of quick\nintelligence passed between them. The lady lowered hers, blushing up to\nthem as she did so; and the enraptured Simon muttered to himself, \"What\ncharming confusion!\" He felt a novel sensation gathering about his\nheart. Could it be love? At first sight, too. Many deny it, but we say\nthat all genuine love is at first sight.\n\n  \"He never loved, who loved not at first sight.\"\n\nMr Simon Silky was a reader of the Beauties of Shakspere. This line took\npossession of his head, and he mused and looked, looked and mused, till\nhe was roused from his reverie by Mrs Greenwood calling upon him to\nassist in handing round the \"cups which cheer but not inebriate.\" He\nstarted up, with a very vague notion of what he was to be about, and\ngrasping a tea-cup, which his hostess informed him was Miss Jemima\nLinton's, in one hand, and a plate of cheesecakes in the other, he\nstumbled up to the lady, and consigning the cakes to her outstretched\nhand, held out the tea-cup to Miss Eggemon, who sat next, inquiring if\nshe would please to be helped to a little cake. Miss Eggemon tittered,\nand exclaimed,\n\n\"Well, I never!\"\n\n\"Gracious! the like of that, you know!\" simpered Miss Silliman, burying\nher face in Miss Eggemon's neck.\n\n\"How very absurd!\" sneered Miss Gingerly, who was verging to\nold-maidishness, and had a temper in which vinegar was the principal\ningredient.\n\n\"Bless me, Mr Silky! what _are_ you about?\" cried Mrs Greenwood.\n\n\"Oh--why--yes--no--I see--beg pardon--dear me!\" stammered poor Silky,\nreddening like an enraged turkey-cock, as he handed Miss Linton the cup,\nout of which the greater part of its contents had by this time been\nshaken and seizing the dish of cakes with a sudden jerk, deposited\none-half of them in the lady's lap, and the other half on the carpet.\n\n\"Tell me, where is fancy bre_a_d?\" said Mr Horatio Slap'emup, who was a\nwit in his own small way, pointing to the cakes, which our hero was\nendeavouring to bring together again from the different corners into\nwhich they had wandered. A general laugh greeted him on every side as he\nrose from his knees covered with confusion. He looked at the fair Jemima\nas he did so. There was not the vestige of a smile on her face. \"Good\nkind soul! _she_ does not join in the vulgar mirth of these unfeeling\ncreatures!\" thought the unhappy Silky. \"She pities me, and pity is akin\nto love.\" It did not strike him that there might be another reason for\nher gravity. The spilled tea and greasy cheesecake had spoiled her white\nmuslin dress irremediably, for that night at least--a circumstance\ncalculated certainly to make any young lady melancholy enough; but this\nnever entered the brain of Mr Simon Silky. Happy man!\n\n  \"Where ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise.\"\n\nWith some difficulty he regained his chair, after stumbling over a\nfootstool, and crushing the tail of a King Charles cocker, that was\nsnorting on the hearthrug in all the offensiveness of canine obesity.\nHis distress was at its climax.\n\n  \"When sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions,\"\n\nthought he, recurring once more to the Beauties of Shakspere. His ears\nfelt as if they had been newly scalded, and objects floated in hazy\nconfusion before his eyes. He commenced sipping his tea with desperate\nenergy, wishing for a moment that it had been so much prussic acid. The\npatter of many voices sounded in his ears. They must be talking of him,\n\"for they laughed consumedly;\" and that confounded Slap'emup was\nobviously getting up a reputation for wit by cutting minute jokes at his\nexpense.\n\n\"You've been at the Exhibition, Mr Silky,\" said Mrs Greenwood, recalling\nhim from the state of mental imbecility into which he was fast sinking.\n\n\"The Exhibition, you said, ma'am! Yes, yes, certainly, the Exhibition.\nOh yes!\" rejoined Mr Silky, struggling to concentrate his scattered\nfaculties.\n\n\"Well, what is your opinion about the portrait?\" continued his hostess.\n\n\"Portrait, really--which of them--there's so many?\"\n\n\"Why, Mr Silky, what _has_ come over you to-night? The ladies have been\nlike to pull each other to pieces, for the last five minutes, about the\nportrait of an officer a little to the left of the door of the first\nroom; and, I declare, you have not heard a word that has been going.\nPretty doings, Mr Simon; and who, may I ask, is the happy lady that so\nengrosses your thoughts?\"\n\n\"Oh, Mrs. Greenwood!\"\n\n\"Well, well, then, if it's a secret, I won't press it! But what is your\nopinion of the portrait? Miss Barbara Silliman here maintains it is\nbeauty in the abstract.\"\n\n\"Oh he's quite a love of a man!\" broke in Miss Barbara, in a rapture of\naffectation; whereat Miss Gingerly appeared mightily shocked, and pursed\nup her mouth till it looked like a parched apple.\n\n\"But Miss Linton, on the contrary, says she thinks it rather plain for a\nmilitary man. Now, we want your decision on this knotty point.\"\n\n\"Oh, why, really--a portrait of an officer, I think you said. Fair\ncomplexion, flaxen ringlets, and light blue eyes--beautiful, indeed!\nThat is to say--I don't know; but\"--and here poor Silky looked\nhopelessly about for an idea--\"upon the whole, I think I declare for\nMiss Linton.\"\n\n\"Well, really, Mr Simon, that _is_ coming to the point. Jemima, my dear,\ndo you hear what Mr Silky says? Declares for you already! Upon my word,\na fair proposal!\" said Mrs Greenwood, catching up the allusion, and\nlooking excessively matronly and significant.\n\n\"Fair complexion, flaxen ringlets, light blue eyes!\" broke in Miss\nBarbara Silliman, with that delicate spitefulness to which young ladies\nare subject, when they suspect any of their rivals of having produced an\nimpression on one of the male creatures. \"A pretty officer, indeed! It's\nyou, Miss Linton, that Mr Silky means. Quite a conquest, I declare.\"\nHaving said this for the benefit of the company, she murmured to\nherself, \"I wonder at the man's taste. A gawky minx!\"\n\nIf Mr Silky felt uncomfortable before, he was now reduced to the lowest\npitch of personal misery. He tried to smile, as if he took the thing as\na good joke; but the contortions of his visage were galvanic. Everybody,\nhe was sure, was looking at him, and he stammered out some inarticulate\nwords, by way of extricating himself from his awkward position. What\nthey were he knew not; but they only seemed to have made matters worse;\nfor another titter ran round the circle, and showers of badinage\nassailed him on every side. Mr Simon Silky began to speculate whether\nsitting on the points of a score of red-hot toasting-forks could be\nworse than his present torment.\n\nHe was pursuing this agreeable train of reflection, when the removal of\nthe table to a corner of the room, and a general commotion, occasioned\nby the pushing back of sofas, and the laying away of chairs, made him\naware that dancing was about to commence. The men, as they always do on\nthese occasions, clustered together near the door, pulling on\ngloves--such of them as had them--and talking very thick and fast about\nnothing at all.\n\n\"Miss Gingerly, may I ask you to give the young folks a set of\nquadrilles?\" inquired Mrs Greenwood.\n\n\"Certainly--with a great deal of pleasure,\" coldly responded Miss\nGingerly, blowing her nose with the end of her pocket-handkerchief,\nwhich she extracted partially from her black satin bag for the purpose,\nand feeling particularly venomous at being cut out of the dance, and her\nvery, very faint chance of captivating a partner therein.\n\n\"Oh, thank you,\" said Miss Eggemon, laying her hands affectionately on\nMiss Gingerly's wrists. \"You play quadrilles so nicely.\" And then\nturning to Miss Jemima Linton, Miss Eggemon whispered, confidentially,\n\"Such a player you never heard. Not three bars in time. How provoking\nMrs Greenwood should ask her to play. Just listen; did you ever hear the\nlike of that?\"\n\nMiss Gingerly had laid her black satin bag on the piano, drawn herself\nup with all the frosty-faced dignity of waning maidenhood, and was\nperforming a prelude before commencing operations, which was chiefly\nremarkable for its ingenious flights from key to key, and bewildering\naccumulation of false concords.\n\n\"Gentlemen, find partners for yourselves,\" said the lively Mrs\nGreenwood; and the gentlemen, after looking at one another, disentangled\nthemselves from the knot into which they were gathered, and, shuffling\nup each to the lady that pleased his fancy, solicited the honour of her\nhand. The couples had taken their places, and Miss Gingerly was dashing\naway into the heart of the \"Highland Laddie,\" when it was discovered\nthat there was still a couple awanting.\n\n\"Mr Silky, you dance?\" said all the men at once to that gentleman, who\nwas sitting pensively in a corner.\n\n\"Oh, really!\" replied Silky, smiling a sickly smile, and making vague\nprotestations of inability.\n\n\"Not dance!\" said the vivacious Mr Slap'emup. \"Fie on you!--oh, fie! And\nMiss Linton looking at you there, like Eve on the eve of Paradise, as if\n\n  'She would be woo'd, and not unsought be won.'\"\n\nThere was nothing for it but that Silky should make up to Miss Jemima,\nand lead her out to dance. This he did among the nods, and winks, and\nwhispers of all present; and by the time he got into his place in the\nquadrille, he did not very well know which end of him was uppermost.\nAway rattled Miss Gingerly at the \"Highland Laddie,\" and away bounced\nthe dancers through the mazes of the figure. Dancing a quadrille is with\nsome people no trifling matter, and Mr Simon Silky was one of these. He\nbent to it all the energies of his not over-powerful mind; and, while it\nlasted, beyond a passing word or two, he had no conversation to bestow\nupon his partner. It was amusing to see with what earnestness he watched\nthe movements of those who preceded him, and, when his own turn came,\nthe exhibition he made would have made a Timor grin. First, he threw out\nhis arms to steady himself, and then jerking forward his right foot,\nbrought himself suddenly into the centre of the floor, where he began\nthrowing his legs confusedly about, till they seemed to be involved in\nhopeless entanglement. All the time he kept his eyes fixed anxiously\nupon his shoe-ties. It was obviously a critical affair with him to\npreserve his equipoise, and each time that he got back safely to his\nplace, a sigh broke from him, as if a great burden had been taken off\nhis mind, and he wiped the sweat away that glistered in heavy beads upon\nhis brow. At length the quadrille ended. Mr Silky thanked heaven; and,\nleading the fair Jemima to a seat, planted himself at her side, and\nmanfully endeavoured to open up a conversation with her.\n\nDance succeeded dance, and by degrees the elements of the party got\ntolerably well interfused. Poor Miss Gingerly wrought away at her\neverlasting set of Scotch quadrilles, and nobody ever volunteered to\nrelieve her of her task, \"she played so well.\" At intervals some of the\nyoung ladies quivered through a fashionable ballad, and occasionally an\nattempt was made to get up one of those melancholy chants, which, by\nsome strange misnomer, pass current in society for glees. In these, Mr\nScratcherd, who sang bass, distinguished himself so signally, that loud\ncalls were made upon him for a song, and Mr Scratcherd, after a little\npreliminary modesty, yielded to the call. He then began raving about an\n\"Old Oak Tree,\" and groaned up and down the scale, till his voice became\nlost in the bottom of his neckcloth. Serious fears were entertained\nwhether he would be able to get it up again, but these happily turned\nout to be unfounded. Again his voice mounted to its natural level, and\nafter rolling about for some time, \"grating harsh discord,\" wore itself\nout in a cadence of confused gutturals. \"Bravo, bravo,\" cried the men.\n\"A very fine quality of bass,\" exclaimed his friend, Slap'emup, who\naffected to be a judge; and Mr Scratcherd blew his nose, and fell back\nin his chair in a state of great personal satisfaction.\n\nWith a thoughtful regard for the comforts of her guests, Mrs Greenwood\nhad, early in the evening, thrown open her little back drawing-room, in\nwhich were placed abundance of refreshments, to sustain them through the\nfatigues of dancing and conversation. By a succession of visits to this\nroom, Mr Simon Silky had succeeded in giving firmness to his nerves. He\nwas gradually becoming less and less bashful. There must have been\nsomething bracing about the atmosphere of the apartments, for to this,\nand not to the bottle of port, to which he was observed to have frequent\nrecourse, must be attributed that jauntiness of step and slipshod\nvolubility of tongue which he now displayed. He danced every dance, and\nfor the most part with Miss Jemima for his partner. What though his\nuncouth gestures provoked a smile, and his assiduities to the young lady\nwere commented on at every hand. He cared not. His spirit was in the\nthird heaven of exaltation, and the whole world might go hang for him.\n\n\"Miss Linton,\" he exclaimed, seizing her hand fervently--they were\nseated on a sofa in the back drawing-room, while the others were\nlabouring through a country-dance in the front--\"Miss Linton, hear me\nfor a moment. Let me use this opportunity of stating what I have long\nfelt--what I now feel--what I shall always feel.\" And again Mr Silky\npressed her hand tenderly in both of his.\n\n\"Oh, sir!\" timidly responded the lady.\n\n\"Yes, adorable Jemima! I can no longer repress my emotion. You see\nbefore you a victim to your charms. The moment I beheld you, I don't\nknow how it was, but my heart thrilled with a transport delightful as it\nwas new. I felt--I felt--in short, I felt as I never felt before. My\nsenses forsook me, and I said and did I know not what. These soulless\ncreatures treated my confusion with ridicule; but, in your eyes,\nmethought I could read pity, compassion, commiseration, sympathy. Say,\nwas I right, or was I misled by the fond delusions of my own passion?\"\n\n\"Oh, sir!\" again exclaimed the bewildered Jemima.\n\n\"That look! I was not then deceived. Oh extend that pity into love! I\nlay myself and my fortune at your feet.\" And here Mr Simon Silky slipped\noff the sofa and down upon his knees, overcome partly with love and\npartly with intoxication. \"Dearest Jemima! say only that you will be\nmine?\"\n\n\"Oh, sir!\" once more sighed the blushing maiden, dropping her head upon\nthe shoulder of her suitor, who acknowledged the movement by snatching a\nkiss from her pouting lips.\n\n\"Ods! that came twangingly off. I'm afraid we're like to spoil sport\nhere,\" exclaimed Mr Slap'emup, who at this moment entered the room, with\nMiss Gingerly on his arm.\n\n\"Gracious! how very improper!\" cried Miss Gingerly, wishing from the\ndepth of her soul that it had only been her own case.\n\n\"What's improper, ma'am?\" retorted Silky, turning to her a look of\ndrunken gravity, and endeavouring, with no little difficulty, to get on\nhis legs again. \"If I choose to kiss this young lady, or this young lady\nchooses to kiss me, that's no business of yours, I suppose? 'Have not\nsaints lips, and holy palmers, too?' as the divine Shakspere says; and\nwhat are lips for, I should like to know, if not to kiss? Don't frown at\nme, Miss Graveairs. I'm a man--a man, ma'am, and I shall do just as I\nplease. Shan't I, Jemima, dear?\"\n\nHe turned for an answer to his appeal; but the young lady had left the\nroom.\n\n\"Jemima, I say,\" continued Silky, getting more and more overcome. He\nlooked around the room; and, finding no trace of the lady, began\nchanting in a lackadaisical tone--\n\n  'And has she then fail'd in her truth,\n  The beautiful maid I adore?'\n\nBut I don't care that for her!\" And he tried to snap his fingers; but\nfailed in the attempt. \"It's an ungrateful world--a vile world.\"\n\n\"Oh, gracious me! let me away,\" exclaimed Miss Gingerly, in alarm. \"He's\ncertainly tipsy.\"\n\n\"Tipsy--tipsy! Who's tipsy? Let me see her. Woman, woman, to get\nyourself into such a state! I'm ashamed of you; I am indeed. But it's\nthe weakness of the sex.\n\n  'Frailty, thy name is woman!'\"\n\nThis apostrophe was addressed to some visionary female that flitted\nbefore Mr Silky's mental optics, and whom he followed, with his hands\ngroping before him, with the voice and gesture of Mr Charles Kean\npursuing the airdrawn dagger in the character of Macbeth. \"Laugh away;\nit's very amusing, isn't it! Nero fiddled while Rome was burning; but I\nknow better.\"\n\n\"Mr Silky, you'll better go home,\" said Mrs Greenwood, who, with the\nremainder of the party, had by this time entered the room.\n\n\"Home! exactly so. I _am_ at home, my charmer--perfectly at home; and\nyou're at home; we're all at home. But no more wine, Mrs Greenwood;\ntemperance and teetotalism for ever. We are beset with temptations in\nthis wicked world--temptations, I say--Jemima, you're an angel! It is as\nmuch as a man can do to preserve his uprightness.\" And, in proof that it\nwas more than he could, down rolled our hero on the floor, in a profound\nstupor.\n\n\"Carry Master Silence to bed,\" remarked the ingenious Slap'emup, highly\ntickled with the catastrophe that had befallen the too--too bashful\nSilky.\n\nA coach was procured, and he was conveyed to his lodgings, where the sun\nfound him in bed at noon next day. His dreams had been of the most\nghastly kind. He had fancied himself compelled, by a fiend, to swallow\nhuge goblets of port wine, strongly adulterated with brimstone, and\ndragged about by a fury, who held his neck within a halter. The fiend\nwas Slap'emup--the fury, Miss Jemima Linton. He started from his dream,\nand with his hand pressed against his aching head, fell to adjusting the\nconfused reminiscences of the previous evening's proceedings. He\nremembered nothing but that he had proposed for the hand of some young\nlady or other, and had been accepted. Well for him it was that memory\nwent no farther, or he would never have found courage to visit Mrs\nGreenwood again. That he did visit her again, however, may be inferred\nfrom an announcement which the newspapers, not many weeks after, gave to\nthe public:--\n\n\"Married at Edinburgh, on the 6th instant, Mr Simon Silky to Miss Jemima\nLinton.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE RECLUSE OF THE HEBRIDES.\n\n  \"Still caring, despairing,\n    Must be my bitter doom;\n  My woes here shall close ne'er\n    But with the closing tomb.\"--BURNS.\n\n\nI resided some years ago in the Island of Tyree, which is one of the\nmost western of the Hebrides; and, in the course of my business, had\noften occasion to cross by the base of Ben Chinevarah, whose rugged and\nsterile appearance impresses the mind with a sickening sadness. The\nnarrow footpath sometimes dives into the deep and sullen gloom of the\nmountain glen, whose silence is unbroken, save by the torrent's red\nrush, and again winds along the edge of the steep precipice, among the\nloose rocks that have been hurled from their beds aloft by the giant\nefforts of time, where the least false step would precipitate the unwary\ntraveller into the abyss below. There no cheering sound of mirth was\never heard, the blithe whistle of the ploughman never swelled upon its\nechoes, nor often did the reaper's song disturb its gloomy silence. The\near is assailed, on the one hand, by the discordant and dismal notes of\nthe screech-owl; and, on the other, by the angry roar of the waves that\nbeat, with ceaseless lash, the broken shore. A small hut now and then\nbursts upon the view, raising its lowly roof beneath the shelter of the\nmountain rock, and adds to the cheerlessness of the scene. One of those\nsmall cottages often attracted my notice, by its external neatness, and\nthe laborious industry by which a small garden had been formed around\nthe dwelling; and by degrees I ingratiated myself into the good graces\nof its owner, who, I found, by his knowledge and conversation, was of a\ndifferent cast from the dwellers around him. I knew by his accent that\nhe was a foreigner; and, feeling an interest in him, I often endeavoured\nto gain some account from him of the early part of his life; but when\nthe subject was hinted at, he at once changed the conversation.\n\nHaving occasion last summer to spend some days at the house of a friend\nin Argyleshire, I availed myself of this opportunity to visit my old\nacquaintance at Tyree. I found him stretched on the bed of sickness, and\nfast verging towards his end. When last I had seen him, his appearance,\nthough infirm, evinced but few signs of physical decay; and, though the\nstorms of scores of winters had blown over him, still his eye sparkled\nwith animation, and his raven locks retained the fresh and jetty colour\nof the native of \"Italia's sunny clime.\" But now, how changed the\nappearance! His eyeballs were dim, deep sunken in their sockets; a few\nscattered grey hairs waved carelessly over his finely-arched eyebrows;\nand his forehead and cheeks were deeply furrowed with the traces of\nsickness and secret wo. When I entered the lowly dwelling, he raised his\nlacklustre eyes, and stretched forth his hand to meet my grasp.\n\n\"And is Heaven yet so kind,\" said he, raising his wasted hand in thanks\nto the Disposer of all good, \"as to send one pitying friend to soothe my\ndreary and departing moments? Ah, sir, the hand of the grim tyrant is\nlaid heavily upon me, and I must soon appear in the presence of an\noffended Deity. If you knew how awful are the feelings of a mind loaded\nwith iniquity, of a soul immersed in guilt, when the last moment is\napproaching that separates us from mortality, and the misdeeds of a\nwicked life stand in ghastly array, adding stings to an already seared\nconscience, you would shrink at what you now deem the gay dreams of\nyouthful frailty, and shun the delusive and seducing snares of a\nwretched world.\"\n\nPointing to a block of wood alongside his pallet bed, he desired me to\nbe seated, and, after drying the tear of sorrow from his swollen eye, he\nthus proceeded:--\n\n\"Often, in those moments when the sweet beams of health were mine, have\nyou desired a recital of the events of my past life; but a feeling of\nshame withheld me from the task. Now, when I have nothing to fear but\ndeath and the dread hereafter, if you will have the patience to hear me,\nI will briefly unfold to you the causes which reduced me from a state of\naffluence, to become a fugitive amid the rugged rocks and the inclement\nskies of a foreign land.\"\n\nI assented, and he went on with his story.\n\n\"My name,\" said he, \"in the more fortunate years of my life, was\nAlphonso; and the city of Venice gave me birth. I was the only child of\nan opulent citizen, and need scarcely inform you that no restraint was\nlaid upon my inclinations when a child; and the dawn of manhood beheld\nme plunged amid every intemperance which that luxurious city then\nafforded. Money was plentifully supplied me by my parents to support my\nextravagances; and I sought after happiness among the rounds of pleasure\nand the gay circles of society; but I only met with desires ungratified,\nhopes often frustrated, and wishes never satisfied. I had a friend. He\nwas called Theodore. I loved him as dearly as a selfish being like\nmyself _could_ love any one. He shared in all my pleasures.\n\n\"An amorous, jealous, and revengeful disposition is commonly laid to the\nshare of the Italians; and, with sorrow I confess, that formed the\nprincipal ingredient of my character. I had reached my twentieth year of\nthoughtlessness and folly, when, one night at the opera, a young lady in\nan opposite box attracted my attention; and my eyes were insensibly\nriveted upon the beauteous figure. I need not tell you that she was\nbeautiful--she was loveliness itself. I will not trespass on your time\nin describing the new and pleasing sensations that arose in my bosom;\nyou have trod the magic paths of pleasure, and bowed to the charms of\nbeauty: they are not unknown to you.\n\n\"I felt that all my libertine pursuits had only been the shadows of\npleasure; and from that moment I determined to abandon them, and fix my\nlove on her alone. We became acquainted, and I found that she was as\nworthy of the purest love as my fond wishes desired. She was the only\nchild of Count Rudolpho; and, for the space of three months, I was a\nconstant visiter at her father's palazzo. In due time I pleaded the\nforce of my love. But what were the sensations of my soul, when the tear\nstarted from her eye of beauty, and the dreadful sentence burst upon my\near--'I am the bride of Theodore!'\n\n\"I burst from her presence with a palpitating heart, and returned\nhomewards, agitated by the conflicting passions of despair and revenge.\nI drew my sword from its sheath, and promised the blood of Theodore, of\nthe friend of my bosom, to its point. The steel trembled in my grasp as\nthe vow fell from my lips, and my heart recoiled at the idea of shedding\nblood; but the still small voice was an unequal match with the baneful\nprinciples of a corrupted soul.\"\n\nThe recluse stopped, and the loud sobs of sorrow and repentance alone\nburst upon the gloomy silence of the scene. The hectic flush of fever\nplayed and wantoned across his pallid features, as if it seemed to exult\nin the weakness of mortality, and delight in the loveliness of its own\nsoul-loathed ravages. The tears dropped large and plentiful from his\neyes, and his spirit seemed bended and broken with the racking\nremembrance. I bent over the wasted form of the wretched penitent, and\nwhile I poured the voice of comfort in his ear, and wiped the tears from\nhis eyes, his soul resumed its wonted firmness, and even a smile beamed\nupon his blanched lips, as he grasped my hand, and pressed it to his\nbosom in silence, and with thankfulness.\n\n\"Behold!\" said he, drawing an old sword from beneath the side of his\nmiserable straw pallet--\"behold this steel, red-rusted with the blood of\nTheodore, from which the bitter tears of sixty long winters have been\nunable to efface the stain. Pardon the feelings of an infirm old man. My\nsoul weeps blood at the remembrance.\n\n\"I pitched upon the bridal eve of Theodore for that of his death, and\nthe seizure of his bride; and hired the leader of a band of ruffians to\nassist me in the scheme. The fatal night, so big with horror, at last\narrived. The sun sank sullenly into the shades of the west, and his\ndeparting gleams glanced redly and angrily upon me. The raven wings of\nearly night fell upon Venice; and I stepped into my gondola, with my\nhired followers. We set forward upon our errand. The palazzo of Count\nAlbert was soon gained. Busy nature waxed calm and hushed; the artisan\nhad retired to the sweets of his lowly but happy cottage; the\nconvent-bell had tolled, solemn and slow, the vesper knell; and then\n\n  'Uprose the yellow moon,'\n\nsilvering the rippling waters of the canals, and glancing its beams upon\nthe glittering palaces of Venice. It was a lovely night; but my soul ill\nbrooked the calm grandeur of the scene.\n\n\"By the treachery of a servant, my comrades were admitted into Count\nRudolpho's grounds, whilst I attended the nuptial rites with the\nwell-dissembled face of friendship. Joy was dancing in every eye but\nmine. My hand trembled at times on the hilt of my poniard, and I awaited\nthe favourable moment with a degree of impatience bordering on frenzy.\nMany a fair maid was there, tripping amid the joyous throng, whose\nbeauty might have warmed the frigid heart of an anchorite; but my eyes\nand mind were upon the dear, dear Violetta: she was lovelier than ever,\nbut--she was the spouse of Theodore.\n\n\"The garden of the count was remarkably beautiful, and the trees in it\nhad been grandly festooned with variegated lamps on the present\noccasion. The night was pleasant and calm, and the youthful couple\nretired from the crowded saloon to the garden for a few minutes, to\nenjoy the freshness of nature. I silently followed, unperceived, till\nthey seated themselves in an arbour, whose beauty was unworthy of a\nvillain's tread. Then suddenly I presented myself at the entrance; and\nthe unsuspicious Theodore rose to embrace me. How shall I give utterance\nto the rest? My friend rose to embrace me; and I drew my poniard, and\nwas about to plunge it into his bosom, when Violetta, whose attention\nthis action had not escaped, rushed between us, to stay my hand. Horror!\nher heart received the blow I had intended for her husband. She uttered\na piercing cry, and fell, a bleeding corpse, at my feet.\n\n\"The sound attracted the attention of my ruffianly associates, who were\nready at hand, to carry off the bride, and they hurried to the spot.\nTheodore, at first surprised and terror-stricken, now roused himself to\nenergy. With the fury of a maniac, he rushed upon me, and felled me\nsenseless to the earth. How long I lay in this situation I know not; but\nwhen my senses returned, the palazzo was in flames, and the clashing of\nswords and the groans of the wounded sounded horribly in my ears. And\nthis was my doing. I had been the means of introducing into Count\nRudolpho's grounds a band of desperadoes, to whom bloodshed was\nfamiliar; and I doubted not that they were at their work of blood and\nrapine. I repented of the deed, but it was too late.\n\n\"The murdered Violetta lay on the ground at a short distance from me;\nthe moonbeams played full upon her ghastly and distorted features; and\nher robes, her bridal robes, were deeply stained with blood. Her pulse\nhad long since ceased to beat, and she felt cold to the touch. Resolved\nthat no profane hand should consign to the earth her blessed remains, I\nthrew the body across my shoulder, and fled with it from the garden. I\nfelt not the weight of the burden, for excitement made me 'hardy as the\nNemean lion's nerve.' I soon reached the canal, leaped into my gondola\nwith my precious burden, and, shortly afterwards, gained my father's\npalace. Ere the moon set, I had dug a deep grave in his garden, in which\nI buried her on whom I had doated, bedewing the earth with my tears as I\nproceeded in my work.\n\n\"It was at length completed; and, with the morning's dawn, I fled from\nVenice. Despair added wings to my flight, and the land of France\nreceived me in her fostering arms. I have, since that time, wandered in\nmany a clime, to wear away my grief, but in vain. I have fought under\nthe banner of your king; and, though my arm was never palsied in the day\nof battle, death has been denied me. I now lie here, aged and forlorn.\nThe hand of death is heavy on me, and chilly tremors are creeping over\nmy exhausted frame. The just decrees of God have denied me even a friend\nto close my weary eyes; and my dust must mingle with the dust of\nstrangers, far, far from the sepulchre of my fathers, and the home of my\nchildhood.\"\n\nAfter a short pause, the Recluse continued--\n\n\"Here, sir,\" said he, \"take this sword--it has been the constant\ncompanion of my travels--its blade is unsullied by ignoble blood; and\nwhen you look upon it, after the grave receives the wretched Alphonso,\nit may convey a lesson that volumes could not inculcate.\"\n\nI received the sword from his hand, which was trembling and cold. He\nturned his face from me; and before I had time to speak, a deep groan\nannounced his departure to the mansions of another world. I called the\ninmates of the adjoining cottage, who took charge of the body; and I\nleft the spot with a feeling which words cannot express, but which will\nbe understood by those who look with the eye of pity upon the errors of\na fellow-mortal.\n\n\n\n\nELLEN ARUNDEL.\n\n\nEllen Arundel was the only daughter of an officer in the British\nservice, who, with his sword for his patrimony, had entered early into\nthe profession of arms as the means of maintenance; and he had,\naccordingly, pursued it with that enthusiastic spirit of honour which is\ndictated by the considerations of family pride, the hope of fame, the\ndread of disgrace, and the most ardent love of glory.\n\nThe utmost height, however, to which he had risen, when he committed the\nfolly of matrimony, by uniting his destiny to that of the portionless\ndaughter of a venerable, respectable, unbeneficed clergyman, was that of\na lieutenant in a foot regiment. By dint of careful management on the\npart of his wife, they contrived to live happily together, nor did the\nincrease of their family--for Ellen made her appearance within the first\nyear after their marriage--add to their difficulties.\n\nIn the care and superintendence of their darling daughter, did their\nyears roll on in humble content. If they heaved a sigh, it was for their\nEllen's future welfare; if they breathed a wish, it was to see her\nplaced in a situation which might guard her against the attacks of\npoverty, and the designs of iniquity. From the former, they were aware,\nbeauty and accomplishments would prove no shield; and they trembled when\nthey reflected that they might prove the most powerful incitement to the\nlatter. The sweets of life are not to be enjoyed without its\naccompanying embitterments. The regiment in which Mr Arundel served\nreceived orders to embark for America, in transports already prepared\nfor the reception of the British forces. On the communication of this\nintelligence, so subversive of their little plans of economy and\nfelicity, Mrs Arundel earnestly entreated that she and Ellen might be\nthe companions of his voyage. For awhile Mr Arundel would not consent to\nthis, from a fear of incurring expense which they were unable to\nsupport; but all the difficulties which the narrowness of their finances\nsuggested were obviated by a thousand little arrangements, the ingenious\ndevices of love; and the command of a company, which was conferred upon\nhim before the embarkation, relieved them from their anxiety.\n\nFew events happened, either during their voyage, or on their arrival at\nBoston, except that the assiduities of a young officer of another\nregiment, who accompanied them in the transport, seemed to have made\nsome impression on the heart of Ellen Arundel. She listened to his tales\nof love, with the full sanction of her parents, and sighed out the\nconfession that his passion was returned. Mr Meredith was formed on the\nmodel which Captain Arundel had, in idea, fixed on for the husband of\nhis Ellen. To the qualifications of a soldier, he added those which most\nhighly adorn private life; nor was his income limited, for he was the\nonly son of a gentleman of fortune. But both Captain Arundel and Mr\nMeredith were too regardful of decency and propriety to hasten an event\nof so much importance, till the father of the young gentleman had been\nmade acquainted with the attachment; and letters from Captain Arundel\nand the lover were, accordingly, prepared, for the purpose of being\ndespatched to Europe by the first ship that should sail.\n\nBut alas! these precautions were soon rendered unnecessary, by events\nwhich dissolved the bonds of affection. On that day when the attack of\nBunker's Hill occasioned a carnage which thinned the British ranks,\nCaptain Arundel and Mr Meredith stood foremost in the bloody contest.\nAccident had placed them in the same brigade: they fought and fell\ntogether. The body of the young officer was carried off by the\nAmericans; and the mortally-wounded captain conveyed to the habitation\nof his wretched wife and daughter, where, shortly afterwards, he\nexpired.\n\nThe keen and piercing anguish felt by Ellen and her mother, in\nconsequence of this sorrowful event, had changed to silent and corroding\nmelancholy, when they embarked for their native land, after having\nreceived every attention which the governor and garrison could offer as\na tribute to the memory of the deceased. On their arrival in Britain, a\npension was granted to Mrs Arundel, which, in the event of her death,\nwas to be continued to her daughter; and with this they retired to a\nsmall village northward of the Scottish metropolis, where a maiden\nsister of Captain Arundel, who was remarkably fond of Ellen, resided.\n\nBut, as no retirement will conceal the charms of beauty, nor any circle,\nhowever confined, prevent the fame of accomplishments from spreading\nbeyond its limit, Mr Newton, a widower of independent fortune, not much\npast the prime of life, having been told of Ellen, resolved to visit the\nArundels. An opportunity soon presented itself. The house which the\nladies inhabited was advertised for sale; and, under pretence of an\nintention to purchase, he wrote Mrs Arundel, desiring to know when it\nwould be convenient for him to call; to which Mrs Arundel returned a\npolite answer, naming an early day.\n\nMr Newton went; and, after he had viewed the house and gardens with the\nair of an intending purchaser, Mrs Arundel, desirous of cultivating the\nacquaintance of so distinguished a neighbour, asked him to stay tea;\nwhich being unhesitatingly accepted, he was introduced to the fair, the\namiable, the still mourning Ellen. Prepared by the universal voice to\nadmire, love was the immediate consequence of a visit, which he\nrequested leave to repeat, in terms with which civility could not refuse\nto comply; and a few weeks confirmed Mr Newton the ardent and the\nprofessed lover of Ellen. But her heart was still engaged; nor could she\nabandon even a hopeless passion. The character, the fortune, the\nunobjectionable person of Mr Newton, were urged to her, by her only\nfriends, with such energy, but mildness, of persuasion, that, enforced\nby the declarations of her admirer, she was prevailed upon to promise\nhim her hand, though not her heart; and a day was named for the\ncelebration of their nuptials.\n\nThe necessary preparations now engaged the attention of Mr Newton and\nthe two matron ladies; whilst Ellen passively yielded to the assiduities\nof her friends, and suffered the adornments of her person, and the\nintended provisions of settlement to be adjusted, without once\ninterfering.\n\nA few mornings before the appointed day, as Ellen was seated at\nbreakfast with her mother and aunt, a note was put into her hands. She\nsaw at a glance that it was from Mr Newton; and she immediately handed\nit across the table to Mrs Arundel, who read:--\n\n\"MADAM,--That your heart is not at all interested in the intended event,\nyou have, with candour, frequently acknowledged to me. You will not,\ntherefore, even wish to receive an apology for my releasing you from an\nunsuitable engagement.\n\n\"My long-lost son--my son whom I had for years resigned to Heaven--is\nrestored to me; and Providence, which has bestowed on me this consummate\nhappiness, will not permit me to add to it a wish which concerns myself.\nHe is young; he is amiable; and more worthy of your regard than I am. It\nis my sincere wish that he should become your husband. I shall,\ntherefore, take an early opportunity of introducing him to you.\n\n\"My real name is _not_ what you have hitherto considered it to be. I\nchanged it when, on the supposed death of my son, I retired from my\nusual place of residence to a distant part of the kingdom, to avoid the\nimportunities of some worthless relations; but, until I have the honour\nof disclosing to you in person my real name, I beg to subscribe myself,\nMadam, yours very truly,\n\n\"J. B. NEWTON.\n\n\"_To Miss Ellen Arundel._\"\n\nWhen this most extraordinary epistle was read, Ellen turned deadly pale,\nand would certainly have fallen to the ground, had not a young man\nentered through the window which opened out on the lawn, and caught her\nin his arms. He was followed by Mr Newton.\n\n\"Ellen,\" exclaimed the latter, \"behold my son!\"\n\nThe sorrowing girl cast her eyes upon the form of him who held her.\n\n\"Meredith!\" she cried, and threw herself, weeping, upon his shoulder.\nHer tears were tears of joy. Little more remains to tell. Ellen Arundel\ngave her hand to the son on the very day which had been appointed for\nher nuptials with the father.\n\n\n\n\nCHATELARD.\n\n\nSome time after the unfortunate Queen Mary had established her court at\nHolyrood, on her return from France, to ascend the throne of her\nancestors, a stranger arrived at a certain tavern or hostelry, kept by\none Goodal, at the foot of the Canongate of Edinburgh. The former had\nlast come from Leith, where he had been landed from a French vessel some\ntwo or three hours previously. He was a young man, probably about three\nor four and twenty, tall and handsome in person, of a singularly\npleasing countenance, and of mild and exceedingly gentleman-like\ndemeanour. His lofty forehead and expressive eye bespoke the presence of\ngenius, or, at least, of an intellect of a very high order; while his\ngeneral manners indicated a refined and cultivated mind. There was\nmarked, however, on the brow of the interesting stranger very palpable\ntraces of saddening thoughts--his whole countenance, indeed, exhibiting\nthe characteristics of a deep and rooted melancholy; but it was of a\ngentle kind, and bore no likeness to the stern gloominess of\ndisappointed ambition. His sadness was evidently a sadness of the\nheart--the result of some grievous pressure on its best and tenderest\nfeelings and affections.\n\nAfter having partaken of some refreshment, the stranger desired a small\nmeasure of wine to be brought him. This order was executed by mine host\nin person; and, indeed, from what afterwards followed, it seemed to have\nbeen given with an express view to that result; for, on the landlord's\nplacing the wine before his guest, the latter requested him, with great\npoliteness of manner, to sit down and share it with him; saying that he\nwanted a little information on two or three particular points. Mine\nhost, seating himself as desired, expressed his readiness to afford him\nany information of which he himself was possessed. Having thanked the\nformer for his civility, and pressed him, not in vain, to taste of his\nown wine, the stranger said--\n\n\"Is the queen, my friend, just now at Holyrood?\"\n\nHe was answered in the affirmative. The querist paused, sighed, and next\ninquired if she walked much abroad--what were the hours she devoted to\nthat recreation--whether she was accompanied by many attendants on these\noccasions--and whether her ordinary promenade was a place easy of\naccess. Having been informed on all these points, he again relapsed into\nthought, and again sighed profoundly. After a short time, however, he\nonce more recovered himself, and suddenly exclaimed, but more by way of\nsoliloquy than inquiry--\n\n\"Is she not beautiful--transcendently beautiful?\"\n\nMine host, who was not a little surprised by the abruptness of the\nquestion, and the enthusiasm of manner in which it was expressed,\nreplied, that she surely was \"Just as bonny a creature as he had ever\nclapt ee on--a plump, sonsy, nice-lookin lass.\"\n\nA slight expression of disgust, or rather of horror, at the homely terms\nemployed by mine host in speaking of the beauty of the queen, passed\nover the countenance of his guest. It was, however, but momentary, and\nwas not observed, or at any rate not understood, by him whose language\nhad called it forth.\n\n\"Ay, beautiful is she,\" went on the enthusiastic stranger, leaning back\nin his chair, and gazing on the roof, in a fit of ecstasy, and in\nseeming unconsciousness of the presence of a third party--\"beautiful is\nshe to look upon, as is the rising sun emerging from the purpled east;\nbeautiful as his setting amidst the burnished clouds of the west; lovely\nas the full moon hanging midway in her field of azure; grateful to the\nsight as the green fields of spring, or the flowers of the garden; and\npleasant to the ear are the tones of her voice, as the song of the\nnightingale in the grove, or the sound of the distant waterfall.\"\n\nHere the speaker paused in his rhapsody, continued silent for some\nmoments, then suddenly returning, as it were, to a sense of the\ncircumstances in which he was placed, he brought his hands over his\nforehead and eyes, as one recovering from an agony of painful and\nmelancholy thoughts. Surprised by this extraordinary conduct of his\nguest, the landlord of the house began to conceive that he had got into\nthe company of a madman; yet he marvelled much what description of\nmadness it could be, since it was made evident only when the queen was\nspoken of--the stranger speaking on all other subjects rationally and\ncomposedly.\n\n\"She walks not much abroad, you say, my friend?\" said the latter,\nresuming the conversation which he had broken off to give utterance to\nthe rhapsody which has just been quoted.\n\n\"Very seldom, sir,\" replied mine host; \"for ye see she doesna fin hersel\nquite at hame yet amang us; but she'll come to by and by, I've nae\ndoot.\"\n\n\"And she is not easy of access, you say--no chance of one being able to\nthrow himself in her way?\"\n\n\"Unco little, I should think,\" replied mine host, \"unless she could be\nfa'n in wi' gaun to the chapel to mass; for she still abides by thae\nabominations, for a' John Knox can say till her.\"\n\nA flush of resentment and indignation crossed the pale countenance of\nthe stranger at the last expressions of the innkeeper, and he threw a\nglance at him strongly expressive of these feelings, but suddenly\nchecked himself, paused for a moment, and then resumed his queries in\nthe calm and gentle tones which seemed natural to him--\n\n\"How likes she the country, know ye?\n\n\"Indeed, I canna weel say,\" replied mine host; \"but I rather doot, frae\nwhat I hear, she's no athegither reconciled till't yet. She thinks, I\ndaursay, we're rather a roughspun set o' folk--a wee thing coorse i' the\ngrain or sae.\"\n\n\"Ay, that ye are, that ye are,\" said the stranger, with more candour\nthan courtesy, again throwing himself back in his chair, and again\nbeginning to rhapsodise as before. \"She is among ye--the beautiful, the\ngentle, the accomplished, the refined--as a fawn amongst a herd of\nbears. She is in your wild and savage land, like a lovely and tender\nflower growing in the cleft of a rock--a sweet and gentle thing,\nblooming alone in the midst of rudeness and barrenness. Oh, uncongenial\nsoil! Oh, discordant association! Dearest, cruellest, loveliest of thy\nsex!\"\n\nIf mine host was amazed at the first outpouring of his guest's excited\nmind, it will readily be believed that it was not lessened by this\nsecond ebullition of fervour and passion. He, in truth, now became\nconvinced that he was distracted; and, under this impression, felt a\nstrong desire to be quit of him as soon as possible. With this view, he\ntook an early opportunity of stealing unobserved out of the apartment--a\nfeat which he found no difficulty in performing, as his guest seemed\nultimately so wholly wrapped up in his own thoughts, as to be quite\nunconscious of what was either said or done in his presence. Soon after\nmine host had retired, the stranger ordered paper, pen, and ink to be\nbrought him. They were placed upon his table, he himself the while\nwalking up and down the apartment with measured stride and downcast\nlook, as if again lost in profound and perplexing thought; and at\nintervals the sound of his footsteps, thus traversing his chamber, was\nheard throughout the whole of the night. The stranger had slept none; he\nhad not even retired to seek repose; but those periods during the\nnight--and they were of considerable length--in which all was silent in\nhis apartment, were employed in writing; and when morning came, the\nresult of his labours was exhibited in a letter, curiously, or rather\nfancifully, folded, tied with a green silk thread, and highly perfumed.\nThis letter was addressed on the back, \"To the Most Illustrious\nPrincess, Mary, Queen of Scotland.\"\n\nHaving brought the proceedings of the stranger to this point, we will\nshift the scene to the sitting apartment of the queen in Holyrood. Here,\nsurrounded with her maids, the young and lovely princess was, at the\nmoment of which we speak, engaged in working embroidery, and laughing\nand chatting with her attendants, amongst whom were two or three young\nFrench ladies, who had accompanied her from France. The queen and her\nmaids were thus employed, then, when the gentleman-usher, who stood at\nthe door of the apartment, entered, and, with a low obeisance, presented\na letter to the queen. It was the same as that addressed to her by the\nstranger, and above referred to. The queen took the letter, with a\ngracious smile, from the person presenting it, and, contemplating it for\na moment, before she opened it, with a look of pleased surprise--\n\n\"This, sure,\" she said, \"is from none of our Scottish subjects: the fold\nis French.\" And she sighed. \"It has the cut and fashion of the _billet\ndoux_ of St Germains; and,\" she added, laughing, \"the precise flavour,\ntoo, I declare. But I should know this handwriting,\" she went on; \"I\nhave seen it before. This, however, will solve the mystery.\" And she\ntore the letter open, and was instantly employed in reading it, blushing\nand smiling by turns, as she proceeded with the perusal. When she had\ndone, \"Maria,\" she said, raising her eyes from the paper, and addressing\none of her French ladies, \"who, think you, is this letter from?\"\n\n\"I cannot guess, madam,\" replied the young lady appealed to.\n\n\"Do try,\" rejoined Mary.\n\n\"Nay, indeed, I cannot,\" said the former, now pausing in her work, and\nlooking laughingly at her mistress. \"Perhaps from the Count Desmartine,\nor from Dufour, or Dubois.\"\n\n\"No, no, no,\" replied the queen, laughing; \"neither of these, Maria; but\nI will have compassion on your curiosity, and tell you. Would you\nbelieve it?--it is from Chatelard, the poet.\"\n\n\"Chatelard!\" repeated the maiden, in amazement. \"What in all the earth\ncan have brought him here?\"\n\n\"Nay, I know not,\" said the queen, blushing, for she guessed, or rather\nfeared, the cause. \"But read, and judge for yourself,\" she added,\nhanding her attendant the letter, which contained a very beautiful\nlaudatory poem, full of passion and feeling, addressed to herself, and\nwhich the writer concluded by requesting that he might be permitted to\nform part of her court; declaring that it would be joy inexpressible to\nhim to be near her person--he cared not in how mean a capacity. The\nhaving opportunities of seeing and serving her, he said, would reconcile\nhim to any degradation of rank--to any loss, save that of honour.\n\n\"In truth, very pretty verses,\" said the lady-in-waiting, returning the\npoem to the queen; \"but, methinks, somewhat over-bold.\"\n\n\"Why, I do think so too, Maria,\" replied Mary. \"Chatelard rather forgets\nhimself; but poets, you know, have a license, and I cannot be harsh to\nthe poor young man. It would be cruel, ungenerous, and unworthy of me.\"\n\n\"But what say you, madam, to his request to be attached to your court?\"\n\n\"Really, as to that, I know not well what to say, indeed,\" rejoined the\nqueen. \"Chatelard, you know, Maria, is a gentleman, both by birth and\neducation. He is accomplished in a very high degree, and of a graceful\nperson and pleasing manners, and would thus do no discredit to our\ncourt; but, I fear me, he might be guilty of some indiscretions--for he\nis a child of passion as well as song--that might lead himself into\ndanger, and bring some blame on me. Still, I cannot think of rejecting\naltogether his humble suit, so prettily preferred; and, if he would\npromise to conduct himself with becoming gravity and reserve in all\nmatters, and at all times, I should have no objection that he was\nattached to our court. I will, at all events, make trial of him for a\nshort space.\"\n\nHaving said this, the queen, now addressing the ladies present\ngenerally, went on--\n\n\"Ladies, I will shortly introduce to you a new gallant; but I pray ye\ntake care of your hearts; for he is, I warrant ye, one especially given\nto purloining these little commodities. He is handsome, accomplished,\nand a poet; so mind ye, ladies, I have warned you--be on your guard.\nKerr,\" she now called out to a page in waiting, \"go to the hostelry\nwhence this letter came, and say to the gentleman by whom it has been\nsent, that we desire to see him forthwith. Let him accompany you, Kerr.\"\n\nThe page instantly departed; and we will avail ourselves of his short\nabsence on this mission, to say briefly who Chatelard was--what was his\nobject in coming to the Scottish court--and of what nature were the\nfears which the queen expressed regarding him.\n\nChatelard, then, was a young French gentleman of rank, of rare\naccomplishments, and a poet of very considerable excellence. His seeking\nto attach himself to Mary's court, was the result of a violent and\nunhappy attachment to her person; and her fears for him, proceeding from\na suspicion of this attachment, were, that he would commit himself by\nsome rash expression of his feelings. She was displeased with his\npresumptuous love, yet found she could not, as a woman, but look on it\nwith pity and compassion and hence her disposition to treat with\nkindness and affability its unhappy victim. Prudence, indeed, would\ncertainly have dictated another course than what Mary pursued with\nChatelard, in thus admitting him to her presence; but Mary's error here\nwas an error of the heart, and more to be regretted than blamed.\n\nIn a short while after the messenger had been despatched with the\ninvitation to Chatelard, the door of the queen's apartment was thrown\nwide open, and that person entered. His bow to the queen was exceedingly\ngraceful; and not less so, though measured with scrupulous exactness in\ntheir expression of deference, were those he directed to her ladies.\nChatelard's countenance was at this instant suffused with a blush, and\nit was evident he was under the excitement of highly-agitated feelings;\nbut he lost not, for a moment, nor in the slightest degree, his presence\nof mind; neither did these feelings prevent him conducting himself at\nthis interview with the most perfect propriety.\n\n\"Chatelard,\" said the queen, after the ceremonies of a first salutation\nwere over, \"I perceive you have lost none of your cunning in the gentle\ncraft. These were really pretty lines you sent me--choice in expression,\nand melodiously arranged. I assure thee it is a very happy piece.\"\n\n\"How could it be otherwise, madam,\" replied Chatelard, bowing low, \"with\nsuch a subject?\"\n\n\"Nay, nay,\" said Mary, laughing and blushing at the same time, \"I am no\nsubject, Chatelard, but an anointed queen. Thou canst not make a subject\nof me.\"\n\nChatelard now in turn blushed, and said, smiling, \"Your wit, madam, has\nthrown me out; but, avoiding this play on words, my position is good,\nundeniable. All men acknowledge it.\"\n\n\"Go to--go to, Chatelard--thou wert ever a flatterer. But 'tis a poet's\ntrade. Thou art a dangerous flatterer, however; for thou dost praise so\nprettily that one cannot suspect thy sincerity, nor be angry with thee,\neven when thou deservest that they should. But enough of this in the\nmeantime. Thou mayst now retire; and I think the sooner the better, for\nthe safety of these fair maidens' hearts, and your own peace of mind,\nwhich a longer stay might endanger. Our chamberlain will provide thee\nwith suitable apartments, and see to thy wants. Mark,\" she added,\nlaughingly, \"we retain thee in our service in the capacity of our\npoet--of court poet--a high and honourable appointment; and thy reward\nshall be the smiles and approbation of these fair ladies--the beauty of\nall and each of whom I expect thou wilt forthwith embalm in immortal\nverse.\"\n\nChatelard, bowing, was now about to retire, when the queen, again\naddressing him, said, \"We will send for thee again in the afternoon, to\nbear us company for awhile, when thou wilt please bring with thee some\nof thy newest and choicest madrigals.\"\n\nExpressing a deep sense of the honour proposed to be conferred on him,\nof the queen's kind condescension, and avowing his devotedness to her\nservice, Chatelard withdrew, and was provided with the promised\napartments by the express orders of Mary herself. To these apartments we\nshall follow the enthusiastic but audacious lover. On being left alone,\nChatelard again fell into one of those reveries which we have already\ndescribed, and again launched into that strain of extravagant adulation\nwhich, on another occasion, we represented him as indulging in. Again he\ncompared Mary, in his incoherent ravings, to everything that is\nbeautiful in earth, sea, and sky; but comparing her to these only that\nhe might assert how far she surpassed them. There were mingled, too,\nwith his eulogiums, on this occasion, expressions of that imprudent\npassion which subsequently at once urged him to commit the most daring\noffences, and blinded him to their consequences. Poor Chatelard's\nravings, in the instance of which we are just speaking, were\nunconsciously uttered; but they were unfortunately loud enough to arrest\nthe attention of the domestics, who were passing to and fro in the lobby\ninto which the door of his apartment opened. These, attracted by his\nrapturous exclamations, listened, from time to time, at his door, and\nwere highly amused with the rhapsodies of the imprudent poet. The\nlatter, becoming more and more vehement, and, in proportion, more\nentertaining, the domestics finally gathered in a cluster around the\ndoor, to the number of six or eight, and, with suppressed laughter,\noverheard all that the excited and unguarded inmate chose to utter.\nThat, however, was so incoherent, or at least of so high-flown a\ncharacter, that the listeners could make nothing of it; and, as they\ncould not, they immediately concluded it to be nonsense, and the speaker\na madman. But there came one to the spot, at this unfortunate moment,\nwho, with sharper intellect and more apt comprehension, at once\ndiscovered the meaning that lurked under the florid language of the\npoet's ill-timed soliloquies.\n\nWhile the servants were crowded around the door of Chatelard's\napartment, too intent on their amusement to notice the approach of any\none, another party, we say, had advanced to within a few paces of where\nthey stood. Here, with his arms folded across his breast, he had\nremained observed for several seconds, gazing with a look of surprise\nand displeasure on the merry group assembled around the poet's door. He\nwas, however, at length discovered, when the knot of listeners instantly\nbroke up in the greatest hurry and alarm.\n\n\"How now,\" exclaimed the unexpected intruder--a person of about thirty\nyears of age, of rather slender form, of cold and haughty demeanour, and\naustere countenance--\"How now?\" he exclaimed, in a voice whose tones\nwere naturally severe--\"what means this idling?--what do ye all here,\nknaves, in place of attending to your duties?\"\n\nInstead of answering this question, the terrified domestics were now\nendeavouring to make off in all directions; but the querist's curiosity,\nor perhaps suspicion, having been excited by what he had seen, he\ninstantly arrested their progress, by calling on them, in a voice of\nincreased severity and vehemence, to stop.\n\n\"Come hither, Johnstone,\" he exclaimed, addressing one of the\nfugitives--\"I must know what you have been all about.\" And, without\nwaiting for an answer, \"Who occupies this apartment?\" he inquired,\npointing to that in which was Chatelard.\n\n\"And please ye, my lord,\" replied Johnstone, bowing with the most\nprofound respect--\"ane that we think's no very wise. He's been bletherin\nawa there to himsel, saving yer honour's presence, like a bubbly-jock,\nfor this half-hour back, and we can neither mak tap, tail, nor mane o'\nwhat he's sayin.\"\n\n\"What! a madman, Johnstone?\" said the Earl of Murray, the queen's\nhalf-brother, for it was no less a personage; then hurriedly added, \"Who\nis he?--what is he?--where is he from?--when came he hither?\"\n\nThe man answered categorically--\n\n\"I dinna ken, my lord, wha he is; but, frae the thinness o' his chafts,\nI tak him to be ane o' your French laun-loupers. He cam to the palace\nabout twa hours syne.\"\n\nThe earl's curiosity was now still further excited, and, without saying\na word more, he drew near to the door of Chatelard's apartment, and\nbecame also an auditor of the poor poet's unguarded language; but not\nsuch as it was in the case of the listeners who had preceded him; to him\nthat language was perfectly intelligible--at least to the extent of\ninforming him of Chatelard's ambitious love. To Murray this was a secret\nworth knowing; and, in the hope that he might discover this attachment\nto be reciprocal, and thus acquire an additional influence over the\nqueen, his sister, at the expense of her reputation, he considered it a\nsingularly fortunate incident. Perhaps he expected that it would do even\nmore for him than this: that it would eventually help him to the\naccomplishment of certain daring views towards the crown itself, of\nwhich he was not unsuspected. Whether, however, he was able to trace, in\ndistinct and definite lines, any consequences favourable to himself from\nthe fact which had just come to his knowledge, it is certain he was\npleased with the discovery, and considered it as an important\nacquisition. That he viewed it in this light, indeed, was evident even\nby his countenance, cautiously guarded as its expressions ever were.\n\nOn being satisfied of the fact of Chatelard's attachment to the queen,\nhe withdrew from the door with a look and brief expression of\nsatisfaction, and went directly in quest of the chamberlain. On finding\nwhom--\n\n\"So, Mr Chamberlain,\" he said, \"we have got, I find, another animal\nadded to our herd of fawning, drivelling courtiers. Pray, who or what is\nhe, this person who has taken up his quarters in the northern gallery,\nand by whose authority has he been installed there?\"\n\n\"By the queen's, my lord,\" replied the chamberlain. \"I have had express\nand direct orders from the queen herself, to provide the gentleman with\napartments in the palace, and to see to his suitable entertainment.\"\n\n\"Ah, indeed,\" said the earl, biting his lip, and musing for a moment.\n\"By her own express orders!\" he repeated. \"It is very well.\" Then, after\na pause--\"Know ye this favoured person's name, Mr Chamberlain?\"\n\n\"Chatelard,\" replied the latter.\n\n\"Chatelard! Chatelard!\" repeated the earl, mechanically, and again\nmusing; \"why, I think I have heard of that gallant before. He is one of\nthose triflers called poets, me-thinks--a versifier, a scribbler of\njingling rhymes. Is it not so?\"\n\n\"I have heard the queen say so, my lord,\" replied the chamberlain. \"She\nhas spoken of him in my hearing as a poet.\"\n\n\"Ah! the same, the same,\" said the earl; \"but how obtained he access to\nthe queen, know ye?\"\n\n\"Through his own direct application, my lord. He addressed a poetical\nepistle to her majesty, I understand, from Goodal's hostelry, where he\nhad taken up his quarters in the first place, requesting permission to\nwait upon her.\"\n\n\"And it was granted?\" interrupted the earl.\n\n\"It was, my lord; and he has already had an audience.\"\n\n\"Ah! so!\" said the earl, without yet betraying, or having, during any\npart of this conversation, betrayed, the slightest emotion or symptom of\nthe deep interest he took in the communications which were being made to\nhim. \"Know ye,\" he went on, \"if that favour is to be soon again\nconferred on him? When will he again be admitted to the presence?\"\n\n\"That, my lord, rests on the queen's pleasure; but I hear say that he is\nto attend her again this evening in her sitting apartment.\"\n\n\"So, so,\" said the earl, nodding his head, as he uttered the words. And,\nturning on his heel, he walked away without further remark.\n\nFrom the officer with whom he had just been speaking, the Earl of Murray\ncarefully concealed the motives which had prompted his inquiries, but\ndetermined, henceforth, to watch with the utmost vigilance the\nproceedings of the queen and Chatelard, until some circumstance should\noccur that might put them both fairly within his power. Unaware of the\ndangerous surveillance under which he was already placed, it was with a\ndelight which only he himself perhaps could feel, that Chatelard\nreceived, in the evening, the promised invitation from the queen to\nattend her and her ladies in their sitting chamber. The invitation was\nconveyed in some playful verses--an art in which Mary excelled--written\non embossed paper. The enthusiastic poet read the delightful lines a\nthousand times over, dwelt with rapture on each word and phrase, and\nfinally kissed the precious document with all the eagerness and fervour\nof a highly-excited and uncontrollable passion. Having indulged in these\ntender sensibilities for some time, Chatelard at length folded up the\nunconscious object of his adoration, thrust it into his bosom, took up a\nsmall _portfeuille_, covered with red morocco leather, gilt, and\nembossed, the depository of his poetical effusions, and hurried to the\napartment of the queen, where he was speedily set to the task of reading\nhis compositions, for the entertainment of the assembled fair ones; and\nit is certain that on more than one of them the tender and impassioned\nmanner of the bard, as he recited his really beautiful verses, added to\nhis highly prepossessing appearance and graceful delivery, made an\nimpression by no means favourable to their night's repose. It would,\nhowever, perhaps be more tedious than interesting to the reader, were we\nto detail all that passed on the night in question in the queen's\napartment; to record all the witty and pleasant things that were said\nand done by the queen, her ladies, and her poet. Be it enough to say,\nthat the latter retired at a pretty late hour; his imprudent passion, we\ncannot say increased--for of increase it would not admit--but\nstrengthened in its wild and ambitious hopes.\n\nFrom that fatal night, poor Chatelard firmly believed that his love was\nreturned--that he had inspired in the bosom of Mary a passion as ardent\nas his own. Into this unhappy error the poet's own heated and disturbed\nimagination had betrayed him, by representing in the light of special\nmarks of favour, occurrences that were merely the emanations of a kind\nand gentle nature--thus fatally misled by a passion which, if notorious\nfor occasioning groundless fears, is no less so for inspiring unfounded\nhopes. Such, at any rate, was its effect in the case of Chatelard on the\nnight in question. On gaining his own chamber, he flung himself into a\nchair, and spent nearly the whole of the remainder of the night in the\nindulgence of the wildest and most extravagant dreams of future bliss;\nfor, in the blindness of his passion and tumult of his hopes, he saw no\ndangers, and feared no difficulties.\n\nFrom this time forward, Chatelard's conduct to the queen became so\nmarked and unguarded in various particulars, as to excite her alarm, and\neven to draw down upon the offender some occasional rebukes, although\nthese were at first sufficiently gentle and remote. Nor did the\nimprudences of the infatuated poet escape the cold, keen eye of Murray.\nHe saw them, and noted them; but took care to wear the semblance of\nunconsciousness. It was not his business to interrupt, by hinting\nsuspicions, the progress of an affair which he hoped would, on some\noccasion or other, lead to consequences that he might turn to account.\nFeeling this, it was not for him to help Chatelard and the queen to\nelude his vigilance, and defeat his views, by discovering what he\nobserved, and thus putting them on their guard. This was not his\nbusiness; but it was his business to lie concealed, and to spring out on\nhis quarry the instant that its position invited to the effort. Coldly\nand sternly, therefore, he watched the motions of Chatelard and his\nsister; but was little satisfied to perceive nothing in the conduct of\nthe latter regarding the former which at all spoke of the feelings he\nsecretly desired to find. As it was impossible, however, for the earl\npersonally to watch all the movements of Chatelard, he looked around him\nfor some individual of the queen's household whom he might bribe to\nperform the duties of a spy; and such a one he found amongst the\nattendants whom Mary had brought with her from France, of which country\nhe was also a native. The name of this ungrateful and despicable wretch,\nwho undertook to betray a kind and generous mistress, whenever he should\ndiscover anything in her conduct to betray, was Choisseul--a man of\npleasing manners and address, but of low and vicious habits. Without any\ncertain knowledge of his character, or any previous information\nregarding him, the Earl of Murray's singular tact and penetration at\nonce singled him out as a likely person for his purposes. On this\npresumption, he sent for him, and, cautiously and gradually opening him\nup, found that he had judged correctly of his man.\n\n\"Choisseul,\" he said, on that person being ushered into his presence, \"I\nhave good reason to think that you are one in whom I may put trust; and,\nin this assurance, I have selected you for an especial mark of my\nconfidence. Do you know anything of this Chatelard, who has lately come\nto court?\"\n\n\"I do, my lor'. He is countryman of my own.\"\n\n\"So I understand. Well, then, I'll tell you what it is, Choisseul: I\nbelieve the fellow has come here for no good--I believe, in short, that\nhe has designs upon the queen. Now, my good fellow, will you undertake\nto ascertain this for me? Will you watch their proceedings, watch them\nnarrowly, and give me instant information of anything suspicious that\nmay come to your knowledge--and ye shall not miss of your reward?\" added\nthe earl, now opening a little desk which stood before him, and taking\nfrom it a well-filled purse.\n\nChoisseul, with many bows and grimaces, readily undertook to play the\nknave, and, with still more, took the price of his knavery, the purse\nalready alluded to, which the earl now handed him.\n\n\"Now, Choisseul,\" said Murray, just before dismissing the miscreant, \"I\nmay depend on you?\"\n\n\"Mine honneur,\" replied the Frenchman, placing his hand on his breast,\nwith a theatrical air, and bowing to the ground as he pronounced the\nwords--\"Je suis votre serviteur till die.\"\n\n\"Enough,\" said the earl, waving his hand as a signal to him to retire;\n\"be vigilant and prompt in communicating with me when you have anything\nof consequence to say.\"\n\nChoisseul again bowed low, and left the apartment. In the meantime, the\ngallant, accomplished, but imprudent Chatelard, hurried blindly along by\nthe impetuosity of his passion, and altogether unsettled by the\nintoxicating belief that his love was returned--a belief which had now\ntaken so fast a hold of his understanding that nothing could loosen\nit--proceeded from one impropriety to another, till he at length\ncommitted one which all but brought matters to a crisis; and this was\navoided only by its having escaped the vigilance of Choisseul, and\nhaving been compassionately concealed by the queen herself.\n\nOn retiring one night, early in February, 1563, to her sleeping\napartment, Mary and her attendants were suddenly alarmed by an\nextraordinary movement in a small closet or wardrobe, in which was kept\nthe clothes the queen was in the habit of daily using. The maids would\nhave screamed out and fled from the apartment, but were checked in both\nthese feminine resorts by observing the calm and collected manner of\ntheir mistress, in which there was not the slightest appearance of\nperturbation.\n\n\"Ladies, ladies,\" she exclaimed, laughingly, as her attendants were\nabout to rush out of the room, \"what a pretty pair of heroines ye are!\nShame, shame! ye surely would not leave your mistress alone, in the\nmidst of such a perilous adventure as this. Come hither,\" she added, at\nthe same time stepping towards her toilet, and taking up a small silver\nlamp that burned on it, \"and let us see who this intruder is--whether\nghost or gallant.\"\n\nSaying this--her maids having returned, reassured by her\nintrepidity--she proceeded, with steady step, towards the suspected\ncloset, seized the door by the handle, flung it boldly open, and\ndiscovered, to the astonished eyes of her attendants, and to her own\ninexpressible amazement, the poet Chatelard, armed with sword and\ndagger. For some seconds the queen uttered not a syllable; but a flush\nof indignation and of insulted pride suffused her exquisitely lovely\ncountenance.\n\n\"Chatelard,\" she at length said, in a tone of calm severity, and with a\ndignity of manner becoming her high state and lineage, \"come forth and\nanswer for this daring and atrocious conduct, this unheard-of insolence\nand presumption.\" Chatelard obeyed, and was about to throw himself at\nher feet, when she sternly forbade him.\n\n\"I want no apologies, presumptuous man,\" she said--\"no craving of\nforgiveness. I want explanation of this infamous proceeding, and that I\ndemand of you in the presence of my attendants here. Know ye not, sir,\"\nshe went on, \"that your head is forfeited by this offence, and that I\nhave but to give the word, and the forfeit will be exacted?\"\n\n\"I know it, I know it,\" exclaimed Chatelard, persisting in throwing\nhimself on his knees; \"but the threat has no terrors for me. It is your\ndispleasure alone--fairest, brightest of God's creatures--that I fear.\nIt is----\"\n\n\"Peace, Chatelard,\" interrupted Mary, peremptorily. \"What mean ye by\nthis language, sir? Would ye cut yourself off from all hope of pardon,\nby adding offence upon offence? Rise, sir, and leave this apartment\ninstantly, I command you; I will now hear neither explanation nor\napology.\"\n\n\"Then, will you forgive me?\" said Chatelard; \"will you forgive a\npresumption of which----\"\n\n\"I will hear no more, sir,\" again interrupted the queen, indignantly.\n\"Begone, sir! Remain another instant, and I give the alarm. Your life\ndepends on your obedience.\" And Mary placed her hand on a small silver\nbell, from which had she drawn the slightest sound, the poet's doom was\nsealed, and she would have rung his funeral knell.\n\nChatelard now slowly rose from his knees, folded his arms across his\nbreast, and with downcast look, but without uttering another word,\nstrode out of the apartment. When he had gone, the queen, no longer\nsupported by the excitement occasioned by the presence of the intruder,\nflung herself into a chair, greatly agitated and deadly pale. Here she\nsat in silence for several minutes, evidently employed in endeavouring\nto obtain a view of the late singular occurrence in all its bearings,\nand in determining on the course which she herself ought to pursue\nregarding it.\n\nHaving seemingly satisfied herself on these points--\n\n\"Ladies,\" she at length said--these ladies were two of her Maries, Mary\nLivingstone and Mary Fleeming--\"this is a most extraordinary\ncircumstance. Rash, thoughtless, presumptuous man, how could he have\nbeen so utterly lost to every sense of propriety and of his own peril,\nas to think of an act of such daring insolence?\"\n\n\"Poor man, I pity him,\" here simply, but naturally enough, perhaps,\ninterrupted Mary Fleeming. \"Doubtless, madam, you will report the matter\ninstantly to the earl?\"\n\n\"Nay, Mary, I know not if I will, after all,\" replied the queen. \"I\nperhaps ought to do so; but methinks it would be hardly creditable to\nme, as a woman, to bring this poor thoughtless young man to the\nscaffold, whither, you know, my stern brother would have him instantly\ndragged, if he knew of his offence; and besides, ladies,\" went on the\nqueen, in whose gentle bosom the kindly feelings of her nature had now\ncompletely triumphed over those of insulted dignity and pride, \"I know\nnot how far I am myself to blame in this matter. I fear me, I ought to\nhave been more guarded in my conduct towards this infatuated young man.\nI should have kept him at a greater distance, and been more cautious of\nadmitting him to familiar converse, since he has evidently misconstrued\nour affability and condescension. There may have been error there, you\nsee, ladies.\"\n\n\"Yet,\" said Mary Livingstone, \"methinks the daring insolence of the man\nought not to go altogether unpunished, madam. If he has chosen to\nmisconstrue, it can be no fault of yours.\"\n\n\"Perhaps not,\" replied Mary. \"As a queen, I certainly ought to give him\nup to the laws; but as a woman I cannot. Yet shall he not go unpunished.\nHe shall be forthwith banished from our court and kingdom. To-morrow I\nshall cause it to be intimated to him that he leave our court instantly,\nand Scotland within four-and-twenty hours thereafter, on pain of our\nhighest displeasure, and peril of disclosure of his crime.\"\n\nHaving thus spoken, and having obtained a promise of secresy regarding\nChatelard's offence from her two attendants, Mary retired for the night,\nnot however, quite assured that she was pursuing the right course for\nher own reputation, in thus screening the guilt of the poet; but\nnevertheless determined, at all risks, to save him, in this instance at\nleast, from the consequence of his indiscretion. On the following\nmorning, the queen despatched a note to Chatelard, to the purpose which\nwe have represented her as expressing on the preceding night, and, in\nobedience to the command it contained, he instantly left the palace, but\nin a state of indescribable mental agitation and distraction; for in the\ndetermination expressed by the queen he saw at once an end to all his\nwild hopes, and more unendurable still, an assurance that he had wholly\nmistaken the feelings with which Mary regarded him. We have said that\nChatelard obeyed one of the injunctions of the queen--that was, to leave\nthe palace instantly. He did so; but whether he conformed to the other\nthe sequel will show.\n\nTwo days after the occurrences just related, Mary set out for St.\nAndrew's; taking the route of the Queensferry, and sleeping the first\nnight at Dunfermline, and the second at Burntisland. On the evening of\nher arrival at the latter place, the queen, fatigued by her journey,\nwhich had been prolonged by hunting and hawking, retired early to her\napartment. Here she had not been many minutes, when the door was thrown\nsuddenly open, and Chatelard entered.\n\n\"What! again, Chatelard!\" exclaimed Mary, with the utmost indignation\nand astonishment. \"What means this, sir? How have you dared to intrude\nyourself again into my apartment?\"\n\nWithout making any reply to this salutation, Chatelard threw himself on\nhis knees before the queen, and, seizing the skirt of her robe, implored\nher pardon for his presumption; adding, that he had been impelled to\nthis second intrusion solely by a desire to explain to her the motives\nof his former conduct, which, he said, had been wrongly interpreted, and\nto bid her farewell before he went into the banishment to which she had\ndoomed him.\n\n\"Rise, sir, rise,\" said Mary; \"I will listen to no explanations forced\non me in this extraordinary manner. I desire that you instantly quit\nthis apartment. This repetition of your offence, sir, I will neither\nbear with nor overlook. Rise, I command you, and begone!\"\n\nInstead of obeying, the infatuated poet not only persisted in remaining\nin the position he was in, but, still keeping hold of the queen's robe,\nbegan to speak the language of passion and love. The queen endeavoured\nto release herself from his hold, and was in the act of attempting to do\nso, when the door of the apartment, which Chatelard had closed behind\nhim, was violently thrown open, and the Earl of Murray entered. Having\nadvanced two or three steps, he stood still, and, folding his arms\nacross his breast, looked sternly, but in silence, first at the queen,\nand then at Chatelard; keeping, at the same time, sufficiently near the\ndoor to prevent the escape of the latter, in case he should make such an\nattempt. Having gazed on them for some time without opening his lips,\nbut with an ominous expression of countenance--\n\n\"Well, Sir Poet,\" he at length said, addressing Chatelard, with cold\ndeliberation, \"pray do me the favour to enlighten me as to the meaning\nof your having thus intruded yourself into the queen's apartment. Why do\nI find you here, sir, and wherefore have I found you in the position\nfrom which you have just now risen? Pray, sir, explain.\"\n\n\"I came here, my lord,\" replied Chatelard, with firmness and dignity,\n\"to take leave of Her Majesty before returning to France, for which I\nset out to-morrow.\"\n\nAn ironical and incredulous smile played on the stern countenance of\nMurray. \"A strange place this, methinks, and a strange season, for\nleave-taking; and yet stranger than all the language in which I just now\nheard you speak. You are aware, I presume, sir,\" he added, \"that you are\njust now in the queen's sleeping apartment, where none dare intrude but\non the peril of their lives. But probably, madam,\" he said, now turning\nto the queen, without waiting any reply to his last remark, \"you can\nexplain the meaning of this extraordinary scene.\"\n\n\"You had better, my lord,\" replied Mary, evasively--for she was still\nreluctant to commit the unfortunate poet--\"obtain what explanations you\ndesire from Chatelard himself. He surely is the fittest person to\nexplain his own conduct.\"\n\n\"True, madam,\" said Murray, sneeringly, \"but I thought it not by any\nmeans improbable that you might be as well informed on the point in\nquestion as the gentleman himself.\"\n\n\"Your insinuation is rude, my lord,\" replied the queen, haughtily; and,\nwithout vouchsafing any other remark, walked away to the further end of\nthe apartment, leaving the earl and Chatelard together.\n\nMurray now saw, from the perfectly composed and independent manner of\nthe queen, that he could make out nothing to her prejudice from the case\nbefore him, nor elicit the slightest evidence of anything like\nconnivance, on the part of Mary, at Chatelard's intrusion. Seeing this,\nhe determined on proceeding against the unfortunate poet with the utmost\nrigour to which his imprudence had exposed him, in the hope that\nseverity would wring from him such confessions as would implicate the\nqueen.\n\nHaving come to this resolution--\"Sir,\" he said, addressing Chatelard,\n\"prepare to abide the consequences of your presumption.\" And he\nproceeded to the door, called an attendant, and desired him to send the\ncaptain of the guard and a party to him instantly.\n\nIn a few minutes, they appeared, when the earl, addressing the officer\njust named, and pointing to Chatelard, desired him to put that gentleman\nin ward; and the latter was immediately hurried out of the apartment.\nWhen the guard, with their prisoner, had left the queen's chamber, the\nearl walked up to Mary, who, with her head leaning pensively on her\nhand, had been silently contemplating the proceedings that were going\nforward in her apartment.\n\n\"Madam,\" said Murray, on approaching her, \"I think you may consider\nyourself in safety for this night, at any rate, from any further\nintrusion from this itinerant versifier; and it shall be my fault if he\never again annoys you or any one else.\"\n\n\"What, brother!\" exclaimed Mary, in evident alarm at this ambiguous, but\nominous hint--\"you will not surely proceed to extremities against the\nunfortunate young man?\"\n\n\"By St Bride, but I will though,\" replied Murray, angrily. \"Why, madam,\nhas not your reputation as a woman, and your dignity as a queen, both\nbeen assailed by this insolent foreigner, in the daring act he has\ndone?\"\n\n\"Nay, my lord,\" replied the queen, haughtily, \"methinks it will take\nmuch more than this to affect my reputation. I indeed marvel much to\nhear you speak thus, my lord. My dignity, again, can be debased only by\nmine own acts, and cannot be affected by the act of another.\"\n\n\"Nevertheless, madam,\" rejoined her brother, \"ye cannot stop slanderous\ntongues, and I know not how the world may construe this circumstance.\nBoth your honour and station require that this presumtuous knave suffer\nthe penalty of his crime in its utmost rigour. What would the world say\nelse? Why, it would have suspicions that ought not for an instant to be\nassociated with the name of Mary Stuart.\"\n\n\"But you will not have his life taken, brother?\" said Mary, in a gentle\ntone--subdued by the thoughts of the severe doom that threatened the\nunfortunate gentleman, and placing her hand affectionately on the earl's\narm as she spoke. \"Can ye not banish him forth of the realm, or imprison\nhim--anything short of death, which, methinks, would be, after all, hard\nmeasure for the offence?\"\n\n\"You have reasons, doubtless, madam,\" said the earl, coldly and bluntly,\n\"for this tenderness.\"\n\n\"I have,\" said Mary, indignantly; \"but not, my lord, such as you would\nseem to insinuate. My reasons are, humanity and a feeling of compassion\nfor the misguided and unhappy youth.\"\n\n\"Chatelard shall have such mercy, madam, as your Majesty's Privy Council\nmay deem him deserving of,\" replied the earl, turning round on his heel,\nand quitting the apartment.\n\nOn leaving the presence of the queen, the Earl of Murray retired to his\nown chamber where he was shortly after, waited upon by Choisseul, who\nhad been for some time watching his return.\n\n\"Ha, Choisseul art there?\" said the earl, with an unusual expression of\nsatisfaction on his countenance, on the former's entrance. \"Thou hast\ndone well, friend: I found matters exactly as you stated, and am obliged\nby the promptness and accuracy of your information.\"\n\n\"Vere happy, my lor', I am serve to your satisfaction,\" replied\nChoisseul, bowing low. \"I vas vatch Monsieur Chatelard as vone cat shall\nvatch vone leetle mice, and did caught him at las.\"\n\n\"You did well, Choisseul, and shall be suitably recompensed. Dost know\nhow the fellow came here, and when?\"\n\n\"He did come in vone leetle barque, my lor' from over de riviere, on de\ntodder side opposite.\"\n\n\"Ah, so!\" said the earl. \"Well, you may now retire, Choisseul. To-morrow\nI shall see to your reward.\"\n\nChoisseul bowed, and withdrew.\n\nWhen he had retired, the earl sat down to a small writing table, and,\nlate as the hour was, began writing with great assiduity--an employment\nat which he continued until he had written eight or ten different\nletters, each of considerable length. These were addressed to various\nmembers of the Queen's Privy Council in Edinburgh, and to some of the\nlaw officers of the crown. They were all nearly copies of each other,\nand contained an account of Chatelard's conduct, with a charge to the\nseveral parties addressed to repair to St. Andrews on the second day\nfollowing, for the purpose of holding a court on the offender, and\nawarding him such punishment as the case might seem to demand.\n\nOn the day succeeding that on which the occurrence just related took\nplace, the queen and her retinue proceeded to St. Andrews, whither the\nprisoner Chatelard was also carried; and, on the next again, the\nunfortunate gentleman was brought to trial, the scene of which was an\napartment in the Castle of St Andrews, which had been hastily prepared\nfor the occasion. In the centre of this apartment was placed a large\noblong oaken table, covered with crimson velvet, and surrounded by a\ncircle of high-backed chairs, with cushions covered with the same\nmaterial. These were subsequently occupied by eight or ten persons of\nthe Privy Council, including Mary's secretary of state, Maitland of\nLethington, who sat at one end of the table. At the opposite end sat the\nEarl of Murray; the prisoner occupying a place in the centre at one of\nthe sides. During the investigation which followed into the offence of\nChatelard, the Earl of Murray made repeated indirect attempts to lead\nhim to make statements prejudicial to the queen; urging him, with a show\nof candour and pretended regard for justice, to inform the court of\nanything and everything which he thought might be available in his\ndefence, without regard to the rank or condition of those whom such\nstatements might implicate. This language was too plain to be\nmisunderstood. Every one present perceived that it conveyed a pointed\nallusion to the queen. Chatelard, amongst the rest, felt that it did so,\nand indignantly repelled the insinuation.\n\n\"I have none,\" he said, \"to accuse but myself; nothing to blame but my\nown folly. Folly, did I say?\" went on the fearless enthusiast; \"it was\nno folly--it was love, love, love--all-powerful love--love for her, the\nnoblest, the loveliest of created beings, for whom I could die ten\nthousand deaths. It was love for her who has been to me the breath of\nlife, the light of mine eyes, the idol of my heart; around which were\nentwined all the feelings and susceptibilities of my nature, even as the\nivy entwines the tree--the constant theme of my dreams by night; the\nsole subject of my thoughts by day. It has been hinted to me that I may\nblame freely, where to blame may serve me. But whom shall I blame? Not\nher, surely, who is the object of my idolatry--my sun, moon, and\nstars--my heaven, my soul, my existence. Not her, surely; for she is\nfaultless as the unborn babe, pure and spotless as the snow-wreath in\nthe hollow of the mountain. Who shall maintain the contrary fies in his\nthroat, and is a foul-mouthed, villanous slanderer.\"\n\nHere the enthusiastic and somewhat incoherent speaker was abruptly\ninterrupted by Maitland of Lethington, who, rising to his feet, and\nresting his hands on the low table around which Chatelard's judges were\nseated, said, looking at the prisoner--\n\n\"Friend, ye must speak to your defence, if ye would speak at all. This\nthat you have said is nothing to the purpose; and you cannot be\npermitted to take up the time of this court with such rhapsodies as\nthese, that make not for any point of your accusation. Think ye not so,\nmy lords?\" he added, glancing around the table.\n\nSeveral nods of assent spoke acquiescence. When Maitland had concluded--\n\n\"I have done, then, my lords,\" said Chatelard, bowing, and seating\nhimself. \"I have no more to say.\"\n\nA short conversation now took place amongst the prisoner's judges, when\nsentence of death was unanimously agreed to, and he was ordered to be\nbeheaded on the following day, the 22d of February, 1563.\n\nOn the rising of the court, the Earl of Murray repaired to the queen,\nand informed her of the doom awarded against Chatelard. Mary was greatly\naffected by the intelligence. She burst into tears, exclaiming--\n\n\"Oh, unhappy, thrice unhappy, countenance! thou hast been given me for a\ncurse, instead of a blessing--the ruin of these who love me best--that,\nby inspiring a silly passion, at once dangerous and worthless, will not\npermit one to remain near me in the character of friend! My lord, my\nlord,\" she continued, in great agitation, \"can you not, will you not\nsave the unhappy young man? I beseech thee, I implore thee, by the ties\nof consanguinity that connect us, by the duty ye owe to me as thy\nsovereign, to spare his life!\"\n\n\"You know not what you ask, madam,\" replied Murray, stalking up and down\nthe apartment. \"How can his life be spared consistently with your\nhonour? Save him, and you will set a thousand slanderous tongues\na-wagging. It may not, must not, be.\"\n\nMary herself could not deny the force of this remark, and, finding she\nhad nothing to oppose to it, she flung herself into a chair, and again\nburst into tears. In this condition the earl left her, to give orders\nrespecting the execution of Chatelard on the following day, and to put\nanother proceeding in train for obtaining that result which he had aimed\nat on the trial of the unfortunate young man. Sending again for\nChoisseul--\n\n\"Friend,\" he said, on that person's entering the apartment, \"I wish\nanother small piece of service at your hands.\"\n\nChoisseul bowed, and expressed his readiness to do anything he might be\nrequired to do.\n\n\"I vas proud to discharge all de drops of my blood in your service, my\nlor',\" said the knave, with a profound obeisance.\n\nThe earl carelessly nodded approbation.\n\n\"To-night, then, Choisseul,\" he went on, \"you will repair to the dungeon\nin which Chatelard is confined. You will see him as a friend. You\nunderstand me?\"\n\n\"Ah, well, my lor', vere well.\"\n\n\"Just so. Well, then, you will hint to him that you have reason to\nbelieve he might yet save his life by confessing a participation in his\nguilt on the part of the queen. You may add, though not as from me, of\ncourse, that I have no doubt of his having been encouraged to those\nliberties for which his life is forfeited; and you may say that you know\nI feel for him, and would readily procure his pardon, if he would only\ngive me a reasonable ground or pretext for doing so, by showing that\nthere were _others_ equally in fault with him. Do you entirely\nunderstand me, Choisseul?\"\n\n\"Entirely, my lor',\" replied the latter; \"bright, clear, as noonday at\nthe sun.\"\n\n\"So, then, return to me when you have seen Chatelard, and let me know\nthe result,\" said the earl.\n\nChoisseul once more withdrew, to perform the treacherous and knavish\npart assigned him. About midnight he sought the dungeon of the unhappy\ngentleman, and, having been admitted by the guards, found him busily\nemployed in writing; the indulgence of a lamp, with pen, ink, and paper,\nhaving, at his most earnest request, been afforded him. Indeed, these\nwere more readily and willingly given than he was aware of. They were\ngiven in the hope that he would commit something to writing which,\nwithout his intending it, might compromise the character of the queen.\nBut in this her enemies were disappointed.\n\nOn Choisseul's entering Chatelard's dungeon, the latter, as we have\nalready said, was busily engaged in writing. He was inditing a last\nfarewell to the queen in verse. On this employment he was so intent,\nthat he did not observe, or at least pay any attention to, the entrance\nof Choisseul, but continued writing on till he had completed his task,\nwhich now, however, occupied only a very few minutes. On finishing--\n\n\"'Tis done,\" he said, and threw down his pen with violence on the table.\n\"These are the last notes of the harp of Chatelard. Ha, Choisseul!\" he\nimmediately added, and only now for the first time seeming conscious of\nthat person's presence; \"I am glad to see you, my countryman. This is\nkind. I thought there were none in this strange land to care for me. But\nthey shall see, Choisseul,\" he added, proudly, \"how a Frenchman and a\npoet can die. That is, boldly and bravely. He were no true poet whose\nsoul was not elevated above the fear of death. I said, my friend,\" he\nwent on, after a momentary pause, and sighing deeply as he spoke, \"that\nI thought there were none in this land to care for me, or to sorrow for\nme--and perhaps it is so; but there is one, Choisseul, whom I would not\nwillingly believe indifferent to my fate. She surely, much as I have\noffended her, will say, 'Poor Chatelard!' Nay, methinks I see a tear\nstanding in that peerless eye, when she recalls the memory of her\ndeparted poet. That--that, Choisseul,\" said the unhappy captive, with an\nenthusiasm which even the near approach of death had not been able to\nabate--\"that would be something worth dying for!\"\n\nChoisseul smiled.\n\n\"You hold your life lightly, indeed, Chatelard,\" he said, speaking in\nhis native language, \"if you think its loss compensated by a woman's\ntear.\"\n\n\"Ah, Choisseul, but such a woman!\" exclaimed Chatelard.\n\n\"Well, well,\" replied the former, again smiling; \"but you can have no\ndoubt that _she_ at least will regret your death. _She_ loved you too\nwell not to deplore your fate.\"\n\n\"Did she?\" exclaimed Chatelard, eagerly, and with such a look of inquiry\nand doubt as greatly disappointed the asserter. \"You know who I mean,\nthen; but how know ye that which you have just now said? Assure me that\nye speak true, Choisseul, and I shall die happy.\"\n\n\"Ah, bah! you know it yourself, my friend, better than I,\" replied the\nlatter. \"No use in concealing it now,\" he added, with an intelligent\nlook.\n\n\"Concealing what, sir?\" said Chatelard, in a tone of mingled surprise\nand displeasure.\n\n\"Why, the affection the queen entertained for you,\" replied Choisseul.\n\"We all know, my friend, you would not have done what you did, had she\nnot encouraged your addresses. And I'll tell you what, Chatelard,\" he\nwent on, \"I have reason to believe that your life would yet be spared,\nif you would only show that this was so.\"\n\n\"Ah, I understand you,\" said Chatelard, with suppressed passion. \"If I\nwill accuse the queen--if I will put her in the power of her\nenemies--her enemies will be obliged to me. In other words, I may save\nmy life by sacrificing her reputation; and it would be little matter\nwhether what I said should be true or not. Is it not so, Choisseul?\"\nThen, without waiting for an answer--\"Villain, devil that thou art,\" he\nexclaimed, now suddenly giving full swing to the passion that had been\nraised within him, \"how hast thou dared to come to me with such an\ninfamous proposal as this? Didst think, most dastardly knave, that my\nsoul was as mean as thine own? Begone, begone, ruffian! Thy presence,\nthy breath, pollutes my dungeon more than the fetid damps that exhale\nfrom its walls--more than the noxious reptiles that crawl on its floor.\nBegone! begone, I say!\" And he seized the now trembling caitiff by the\nthroat, and dashed him against the door of the cell, with a violence\nthat instantly brought in the guards who were stationed on the outside.\nThese, seeing how matters stood, hurried Choisseul out of the dungeon,\nand again secured the door on its unfortunate inmate.\n\nOn leaving Chatelard, Choisseul repaired to the Earl of Murray, but with\ninfinitely less confidence in his looks and manner than on the former\noccasion when his villany had been successful. To the earl he detailed\nthe particulars of his interview with Chatelard; not forgetting to\nmention the rough treatment he had received from the infuriated poet.\n\n\"Then he'll confess nothing, Choisseul?\" said Murray, when the former\nhad done speaking.\n\n\"Not anything at all, my lor'. Dere is no hope; for he make no more of\ndying than I do of taking vone leetle pinch of snuff.\"\n\n\"Obstinate fool,\" exclaimed the earl, evidently chagrined and\ndisappointed. \"Let him die, then! You may retire, Choisseul,\" he\nabruptly added.\n\nChoisseul obeyed.\n\n\"His execution, at any rate, shall be public,\" said the earl to himself,\nwhen the latter had left him. \"Perhaps he may make some confession on\nthe scaffold, and it will be well to have it amply testified.\"\n\nOn the following day, Chatelard was led out to execution, when his\ngentleman-like appearance and noble bearing excited the utmost sympathy\nof the crowd. On ascending the scaffold, he pulled a small volume from\nhis pocket, opened it, and read aloud, with great dignity and composure,\nRonsard's Hymn on Death. When he had done, he turned towards that part\nof the Castle of St Andrew's where he supposed the queen to be, and,\nkissing his hand, waved a graceful adieu, exclaiming--\"Farewell,\nloveliest and most cruel princess whom the world contains!\"\n\nHaving uttered these words, he laid his head, with the utmost composure,\non the block. The axe of the executioner fell, and the high-souled,\naccomplished, but enthusiastic Chatelard was no more.\n\n\n\n\nCHRISTIE OF THE CLEEK.\n\n\nThough the records of history and everyday experience teach us that\nhuman nature, when pressed beyond certain limits by the force of stern\nnecessity, loses all trace of the lineaments of the lord of the\ncreation, and degenerates as far below the grade of brute existence as\nit is, when not subjected to any such power, above it; yet it is\nremarkable how determinedly mankind cling to a sceptical incredulity in\nregard to those facts which derogate, in a very great degree, from the\ndignity of the character of their species. The story of Christiecleek\nhas been considered by many as only fit for being, what it has been for\nfive hundred years, a nursery bugbear, and yet it is narrated by Winton,\none of the least credulous of historians, was attended by circumstances\nrendering it highly probable at the time, and has been corroborated by\ninstances of _civilised_ cannabalism, produced by necessity, in cases of\nshipwreck, of almost yearly occurrence.\n\nThe united powers of war and famine, which have so often poured forth\ntheir fury on the devoted head of poor Scotland, at no time exhibited\ngreater malignity than in the beginning of the reign of David II. For\nabout fifty years, the country had scarcely ever enjoyed a year of\nquiet--with, perhaps, the exception of a short period of the reign of\nBruce. Repeatedly swept from one end to the other by the invading armies\nof the Edwards, carrying the sword and the faggot in every direction,\nshe was, on the very instant of the departure of the foreign foes (in\nall cases starved out of a burned and devastated land), laid hold of by\nthe harpies of intestine wars. The strong resilient energies of the\ncountry could have thrown off the effects of one attack, however severe\nand however protracted; but a series of incursions of the same disease,\nat intervals allowing of no time for recruiting her powers, produced a\npolitical marasmus--a confirmed famine--one of the most dreadful evils,\nincluding in itself all others, that ever was visited on mankind.\n\nIt would be difficult to draw a picture--because imagination falls short\nof the powers of a proper portraiture--of the misery and desolation of\nScotland at the time we have mentioned. The land had got gradually out\nof cultivation, and the herds of black cattle and sheep, on which the\npeople relied, in default of the productive powers of agriculture, had\nbeen either driven into England, or consumed by the myriads of soldiers\nof the English invading armies. Great numbers of the people, having\nnothing wherewith to allay the pangs of hunger, though they had plenty\nof money, quitted their country in despair, and took refuge in Flanders.\nThose who had no money to pay their passage, left their homes, and\nbetook themselves to the woods, where, to appease their agonies, they\nlay on the ground, and devoured, like the inhabitants of their sties,\nthe acorns and the nuts that had fallen from the trees. In the want of\nthese, the very branches were laid hold of and gnawed; and many poor\ncreatures were found lying dead, with the half-masticated boughs in\ntheir clenched hands. The only remedial influence that was experienced,\nwas the growth of dysenteries and other intestine diseases, which,\nproduced by hunger and becoming epidemic, kindly swept off thousands who\nwould otherwise have died of protracted famine.\n\nAt a wild spot near the Grampian Hills, a number of destitute beings had\ncollected, for the purpose of catching deer (a few of which still\nremained), to keep in the spark of life. They agreed to associate\ntogether, and divide their prey, which was dressed in a mountain cave,\nwhere they had assembled. Every morning they sallied forth, women and\nall, on the dreadful errand of taking advantage of chance, in supplying\nthem with any species of wild animals that came in their way, to satisfy\nthe imperative demands of hunger. They got a few creatures at first,\nconsisting chiefly of hares and foxes, and occasionally wolves, as\nferocious and hungry as their captors; and such was the extremity to\nwhich they were often reduced, that they sat down on the spot where the\nanimals were caught, divided the smoking limbs among their number, and\ndevoured them without any culinary preparation.\n\nThis supply very soon ceased--the animals in the neighbourhood having\neither been consumed or frightened away to more inaccessible places. The\nwretched beings, like others in their situation, had recourse to the\nwoods for acorns; but the time of the year had passed, and no nuts were\nto be found. Weakness preyed on their limbs; and several of their\nnumber, unable longer to go in search of food, which was nowhere to be\nfound, lay on the floor of the cavern in the agonies of a hunger which\ntheir stronger companions, concerned for their own fate, would not\nalleviate. All ties between the members of the association began to give\nway before the despair of absolute famine. They ceased all personal\ncommunication; silence, feeding on the morbid forms of misery called up\nby diseased imaginations, reigned throughout the society of skeletons,\nand hollow eyes, which spoke unutterable things, glanced through the\ngloom of the cavern, where a glimmering fire, on which they had, for a\ntime, prepared the little meat they had procured, was still kept up, by\nadding a few pieces of wood from the neighbouring forest. No notice was\ntaken of each other's agonies, nor could the groans which mixed and\nsounded with a hollow noise through the dark recess, have been\ndistinguished by the ear of sympathy; an occasional scream from a female\nsufferer who experienced a paroxysm of more than her ordinary agony, was\nonly capable of fixing the attention for an instant, till individual\npain laid hold again of the tortured feelings.\n\nA person of the name of Andrew Christie, a butcher, originally from\nPerth, had endeavoured, at first, to organise the society, with a view\nto save himself and his fellow-sufferers. He was a strong, hardy man;\nand, if any of the number could be said to retain a small portion of\nself-command, in the midst of the horrible scene of suffering which\nsurrounded them, it was this man. He was still able to walk, though with\ndifficulty, and continued to feed the fire, going out occasionally and\nseizing on grubs that were to be found about the mouth of the cavern.\nThe others were unable to follow his example, and even he latterly was\nunfitted for his loathsome search. All were now nearly in the same\npredicament: agony and despair reigned throughout, to the exclusion of a\nsingle beam of hope of any one ever again visiting the haunts of man. At\nChristie's side a woman ceased to groan; an intermission of agony was a\ncircumstance, and the only circumstance to be remarked. The thought\nstruck him she was dead; he laid his hand upon her mouth to be assured\nof the fact; she was no more! The dead body was a talisman in the temple\nof misery--in a short time, that body was gone!\n\nThe Rubicon of the strongest of natural prejudices was passed, with the\ngoading furies of hunger and despair behind. A prejudice overcome is an\nacquisition of liberty, though it may be for evil. The death of the\nwoman had saved them all from death; but the efficacy of the salvation\nwould postpone a similar course of relief. Christie saw the predicament\nof his friends, and proposed in the hollow, husky voice of starvation,\nthat one of their number should die by lot, and that then, having\nrecovered strength, they should proceed to the mountain pass and procure\nvictims.\n\nThis oration was received with _groans_, meant to be of applause. The\nlot of death fell on another woman, who was sacrificed to the prevailing\ndemon. A consequent recovery of strength now fitted the survivors for\ntheir dreadful task. They proceeded to the mountain pass, headed by\nChristie, and killed a traveller, by knocking him on the head with a\nhammer, and then removed him to the cavern, where his body was treated in\nthe same manner as that of the woman on whom the lot of death had\nfallen. They repeated this operation whenever their hunger returned;\nmaking no selection of their victims, unless when there was a choice\nbetween a foot-passenger and a horseman--the latter of whom, always\npreferred for the sake of his horse, was dragged from his seat with a\nlarge iron hook, fixed to the end of a pole--an invention of Christie's,\nserving afterwards to give him the dreadful name by which he became so\nwell known. That which hunger at first suggested became afterwards a\nmatter of choice, if not of fiendish delight. The silent process of\nassuaging the pain arising from want subsequently changed into a banquet\nof cannibals; the song of rivalry was sounded in dithyrambic measure\nover the dead body of the victim, and the corrybantic dance of the\nwretches who required to still conscience by noise, or die, was footed\nto the wild music which, escaping from the cavern, rung among the hills.\nSuch were the obsequies which Scotchmen, resigning the nature of man,\namidst unheard-of agonies, celebrated over the corpses of their\ncountrymen.\n\nThese things reached the ears of government; and an armed force was\ndespatched to the hills to seize the cannibals. Several of them were\ncaught; but Christie and some others escaped, and were never captured.\nThe bones of their victims were collected, and conveyed to Perth; where,\nupon being counted, it appeared that they had killed no fewer than\nthirty travellers. From these transactions sprung that name,\nChristiecleek, which is so familiar to the ears of Scotchmen.\n\"Christiecleek! Christiecleek!\" became instantly the national nursery\nbugbear. No child would cry after the charmed name escaped from the lips\nof the nurse; and even old people shuddered at the mention of a term\nwhich produced ideas so revolting to human nature, and so derogatory of\nScottish character.\n\nNow it is said that, some time after the performance of the dreadful\ntragedy we have narrated, an old man in the town of Dumfries, who had\nthree children by his wife, quarrelled her often for the use of a term\nintended simply to pacify her children when they cried, but which he\ndeclared was too much even for his ears. He was a respectable merchant,\nhad earned a considerable sum of money by his trade, and was reputed a\nmost godly man, attending divine service regularly, and performing all\nthe domestic duties with order and great suavity of manner. His\nneighbours looked up to him with love and respect, and solicited his\ncounsel in their difficulties. His name--David Maxwell--was applauded in\nthe neighbourhood, and he received great sympathy from all who knew him,\nin consequence of having, as was reported, lost an only brother among\nChristiecleek's victims--a fact he had concealed from his wife, till her\nuse of the name compelled him to mention it to her, but which afterwards\ncame to be well known.\n\nThe silence of the mother had, however, no effect upon the urchins, who,\nthe more they were requested to cease terrifying each other by their\nnational _terriculamentum_, \"Christiecleek,\" the more terrible it\nappeared to them, and the more they used it. If they abstained from the\nuse of the word in the presence of their parents, they were the more\nready to have recourse to it in the passages of the house, and in the\ndark rooms, and wherever the dreaded being might be supposed to be. The\npastime was general throughout Scotland; and David Maxwell's children\nonly followed an example which has been repeated for five hundred years.\n\"Christiecleek!--Christiecleek!\" What Scotchman has not heard the\ndreaded words? Time rolled on, and the Misses Maxwell resigned their\nchildish pastime for the duties of women. Their father had become a very\nold man; and the attentions which their mother could not bestow, were\nwillingly yielded by the young women, who were remarked as being very\nbeautiful, as well as very good. They loved their father dearly, and\nlooked upon their filial duties as willing tributes of affection. After\nthey became intrusted with the secret, they substituted for the cry of\ntheir youth, which had given their father so much pain, pity for the\nbrother of the victim of the execrated fiend.\n\nAt last David Maxwell came to die; and, as he lay on his bed, surrounded\nby his wife and daughters, he seemed to be wrestling with some dreadful\nthought which allowed him no rest, but wrung from him, incessantly,\nheavy groans and muttered prayers. His wife pressed him to open his\nheart to her, or, if he was disinclined to repose that confidence in her\nwhen dying, which he had awarded to her so liberally during a long\nunion, he should, she recommended, send for Father John of the Monastery\nof St Agnes, and be shrived. The daughters wept as they heard these\nmelancholy statements, and the old man sympathised in their sorrow,\nwhich seemed to give him additional pain. At last he seemed inclined to\nbe communicative, and, after a struggle, said to his wife--\n\n\"Wha is to tak care o' my dochters when I am consigned to that cauld\nhabitation whar a faither's love and an enemy's anger are alike unfelt\nand unknown? My effects will be sufficient for the support o' my\nhousehold; but money, without a guardian, is only a temptation to\ndestroyers and deceivers. If I could get this point settled to my\nsatisfaction, I micht die in peace.\"\n\n\"You never tauld me o' yer freens, David,\" said his wife--\"a\ncircumstance that has often grieved me. The hundreds o' Maxwells in the\nStewartry and in Dumfries-shire surely contain among them some relation,\nhowever distant; but my uncle will act as guardian to our dochters, and\nye hae tried his honesty.\"\n\n\"Yet I dinna want relations,\" groaned the dying man. \"I hae a\n_brither_.\"\n\n\"A brither,\" ejaculated the mother and daughter in astonishment; \"was he\nno killed by the monster, Christiecleek, in the Highland cavern?\"\n\n\"No,\" answered David, with great pain.\n\n\"Whar lives he, and what's his Christian name?\" cried the wife, in\namazement.\n\n\"Is it his _Christian_ name ye ask?\" said the old man. \"Surely David,\"\nreplied the wife--\"his surname maun be Maxwell.\"\n\n\"But it is not Maxwell,\" said he, still groaning.\n\n\"Not Maxwell!\" said the wife. \"What is it then?\"\n\n\"_Christie!_\" ejaculated David, with a groan.\n\nThe mention of this name produced a strange effect on the minds of the\nwife and daughters, who, in the brother, saw (as they thought) at once\nthe hated Christiecleek, and found an explanation of the horror which\nDavid Maxwell had uniformly exhibited when the name was mentioned in his\npresence. They had at last discovered the true solution of what had\nappeared so wonderful; and, having retired for a few minutes, to allow\ntheir excitement to subside, they, by comparing notes, came to the\nconclusion that their father, having been ashamed of his connection with\nthe unnatural being, had changed his name, and dropped all intercourse\nwith him; but that now, when he was about to die, his feelings had\noverpowered him, and forced him to make the awful confession he had\nuttered. Pained and shamed by this newly-discovered connection, they\nwere not regardless of what was due to him whose shame and grief had\nbeen even greater than theirs, and, accordingly, resolved to yield all\nthe consolation in their power to the good man who could not help having\na bad brother. On their return to the bedside, they found him in great\nagony both of mind and body.\n\n\"This brither, David,\" said the wife, \"I fear, is little worthy o' your\nfriendship, and the change o' your name is, doubtless, the consequence\no' a virtuous shame o' the connection. But can it be possible that he is\nthat man o' the mountain cavern, whose name terrifies the bairns o'\nScotland, and maks even the witches o' the glens raise their bony hands\nin wonder and execration? Tell us, David, freely, if this be the burden\nwhich presses sae heavily on yer mind. Yer wife and dochters will think\nnae less o' you for having been unfortunate; and consolation is never\nsae usefu as when it is applied to a grief that is nae langer secret.\nThe surgeon's skill is o' little avail when the disease is unknown.\"\n\nThis speech, containing apparently the fatal secret, produced a great\neffect upon the bedridden patient, who rolled from side to side, and\nsawed the air with his sinewy hands, like one in a state of madness.\n\n\"We were speakin o' guardians for my dochters,\" said he, at last, \"and I\nsaid I had a brither whase surname is Christie. You promised me\nconsolation. Is this your comfort to a deein man? For twenty years I\nhave hated the mention o' that dreadfu name; and now, when I am on my\ndeath-bed, speakin o' curators for my bairns, ye rack my ears by tellin\nme I am the brither o' _Christiecleek_! Would Christiecleek be a\nsuitable guardian for my dochters? Speak, Agnes--say if ye think\nChristiecleek would tak care o' their bodies and their gowd as weel as\nhe tended the victims o' the Highland cave?\"\n\nThe wife saw she had gone too far, and begged his pardon for having made\nthe suggestion.\n\n\"Ye will forgive me, David,\" said she, \"for the remark I hae dune ye\ngreat injustice; for how is it possible to conceive that sae guid a man\ncould be sae nearly related to a monster? But ye hae to explain to me\nthe change o' name. How hae you and your brither different surnames?\"\n\n\"_Because_,\" said the dying man, turning round, and staring with\nlacklustre eyes broadly in the face of his wife--\"_because I am\nChristiecleek!_\"\n\n\n\n\nTranscriber's notes:\n\n- Obvious punctuation errors repaired.\n- Title page: No glossary included in the original.\n- pg 010: 'ferula' corrected to 'ferule'\n- pg 081: 'douce' corrected to 'douse'\n- pg 095: 'iron gripe' corrected to 'iron grip'\n- pg 107; 'spitfire' corrected to 'Spitfire'\n- pg 211: 'neices' corrected to 'nieces'\n- pg 223: 'Shakpere' corrected to 'Shakspere' (to match GWL)","title":"Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland, Volume 09","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":92255}