{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_34144/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_34144","id":"gutenberg_34144","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/34144","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Historical Novels","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Short Stories","Scottish Borders (Scotland) -- Fiction"],"text":"</pre>\n\n\n\nProduced by David Clarke, Mary Meehan and the Online\nDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n                     WILSON'S TALES OF THE BORDERS\n\n                            AND OF SCOTLAND.\n\n                HISTORICAL, TRADITIONARY, & IMAGINATIVE.\n\n                            WITH A GLOSSARY.\n\n                               REVISED BY\n\n                           ALEXANDER LEIGHTON\n\n              ONE OF THE ORIGINAL EDITORS AND CONTRIBUTORS.\n\n\nVOL. IV.\n\nLONDON:\n\nWALTER SCOTT, 14 PATERNOSTER SQUARE\n\nAND NEWCASTLE-UPON-TYNE.\n\n1885.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS.\n\n\nTHE SOLITARY OF THE CAVE, _(JOHN MACKAY WILSON)_\n\nTHE MAIDEN FEAST OF CAIRNKIBBIE, _(ALEXANDER LEIGHTON)_\n\nTHE PROFESSOR'S TALES, _(PROFESSOR THOMAS GILLESPIE)_\n\n    EARLY RECOLLECTIONS OF A SON OF THE HILLS\n    THE SUICIDE'S GRAVE\n\nTHE SALMON-FISHER OF UDOLL, _(HUGH MILLER)_\n\nTHE LINTON LAIRDS, OR EXCLUSIVES AND INCLUSIVES, _(ALEXANDER\nLEIGHTON)_\n\nBON GUALTIER'S TALES, _(THEODORE MARTIN)_\n\n    COUNTRY QUARTERS\n\nTHE MONK OF ST. ANTHONY, _(ALEXANDER CAMPBELL)_\n\nTHE STORY OF CLARA DOUGLAS, _(WALTER LOGAN)_\n\nTHE FAIR, _(JOHN MACKAY WILSON)_\n\nTHE SLAVE, _(JOHN HOWELL)_\n\nTHE KATHERAN, _(ALEXANDER CAMPBELL)_\n\nTHE MONKS OF DRYBURGH, _(ALEXANDER CAMPBELL)_\n\n\n\n\nWILSON'S TALES OF THE BORDERS, AND OF SCOTLAND.\n\n\n\n\nTHE SOLITARY OF THE CAVE.\n\n\nOn the banks of the Tweed, and about half a mile above where the\nWhitadder flows into it on the opposite side, there is a small and\nsingular cave. It is evidently not an excavation formed by nature, but\nthe work of man's hands. To the best of my recollection, it is about ten\nfeet square, and in the midst of it is a pillar or column, hewn out of\nthe old mass, and reaching from the floor to the roof. It is an\napartment cut out of the solid rock, and must have been a work of great\nlabour. In the neighbourhood, it is generally known by the name of the\nKing's Cove, and the tradition runs, that it was once the hiding-place\nof a Scottish king. Formerly, it was ascended from the level of the\nwater by a flight of steps, also hewn out of the rock; but the\nmouldering touch of time, the storms of winter, and the undermining\naction of the river, which continually appears to press southward, (as\nthough nature aided in enlarging the Scottish boundary,) has long since\nswept them away, though part of them were entire within the memory of\nliving men. What king used it as a hiding-place, tradition sayeth not:\nbut it also whispers that it was used for a like purpose by the \"great\npatriot hero,\" Sir William Wallace. These things may have been; but\ncertainly it never was formed to be a mere place of concealment for a\nking, though such is the popular belief. Immediately above the bank\nwhere it is situated, are the remains of a Roman camp; and it is more\nthan probable that the cave is coeval with the camp, and may have been\nused for religious purposes--or, perchance, as a prison.\n\nBut our story has reference to more modern times. Almost ninety years\nhave fallen as drops into the vast ocean of eternity, since a strange\nand solitary man took up his residence in the cave. He appeared a\nmelancholy being--he was seldom seen, and there were few with whom he\nwould hold converse. How he lived no one could tell, nor would he allow\nany one to approach his singular habitation. It was generally supposed\nthat he had been \"out,\" as the phrase went, with Prince Charles, who,\nafter being hunted as a wild beast upon the mountains, escaped to France\nonly a few months before the appearance of the Solitary on Tweedside.\nThis, however, was merely a conjecture. The history and character of the\nstranger were a mystery; and the more ignorant of the people believed\nhim to be a wizard or wicked man, who, while he avoided all manner of\nintercourse with his fellow-mortals, had power over and was familiar\nwith the spirits of the air; for, at that period, the idle belief in\nwitchcraft was still general. His garments were as singular as his\nhabits, and a large coarse cloak or coat, of a brown colour, fastened\naround him with a leathern girdle, covered his person; while on his head\nhe wore a long, conical cap, composed of fox-skins, somewhat resembling\nthose worn now-a-days by some of our regiments of dragoons. His beard,\nwhich was black, was also permitted to grow. But there was a dignity in\nhis step, as he was occasionally observed walking upon the banks over\nhis hermitage, and an expression of pride upon his countenance and in\nthe glance of his eyes, which spoke him to have been a person of some\nnote.\n\nFor three years he continued the inhabitant of the cave; and, throughout\nthat period, he permitted no one to enter it. But, on its appearing to\nbe deserted for several days, some fishermen, apprehending that the\nrecluse might be dying, or perchance dead, within it, ascended the\nflight of steps, and, removing a rude door which merely rested against\nthe rock and blocked up the aperture, they perceived that the cave was\ntenantless. On the farther side of the pillar, two boards, slightly\nraised as an inclined plane, and covered with dried rushes, marked what\nhad been the bed of the Solitary. A low stool, a small and rude table,\nwith two or three simple cooking utensils, completed the furniture of\nthe apartment. The fishermen were about to withdraw, when one of them\npicked up a small parcel of manuscripts near the door of the cave, as\nthough the hermit had dropped them by accident at his departure. They\nappeared to be intended as letters to a friend, and were entitled--\n\n\n\"MY HISTORY.\"\n\nDear Lewis, (they began,) when death shall have sealed up the eyes, and\nperchance some stranger dug a grave for your early friend, Edward\nFleming, then the words which he now writes for your perusal may meet\nyour eye. You believe me dead--and would to Heaven that I had died, ere\nmy hands became red with guilt, and my conscience a living fire which\npreys upon and tortures me, but will not consume me! You remember--for\nyou were with me--the first time I met Catherine Forrester. It was when\nher father invited us to his house in Nithsdale, and our hearts, like\nthe season, were young. She came upon my eyes as a dream of beauty, a\nbeing more of heaven than of earth. You, Lewis, must admit that she was\nall that fancy can paint of loveliness. Her face, her form, her auburn\nringlets, falling over a neck of alabaster!--where might man find their\nequal? She became the sole object of my waking thoughts, the vision that\nhaunted my sleep. And was she not good as beautiful? Oh! the glance of\nher eyes was mild as a summer morning breaking on the earth, when the\nfirst rays of the sun shoot like streaks of gold across the sea. Her\nsmile, too--you cannot have forgotten its sweetness! never did I behold\nit, but I thought an angel was in my presence, shedding influence over\nme. There was a soul, too, in every word she uttered. Affectation she\nhad none; but the outpourings of her mind flowed forth as a river, and\nher wit played like the ripple which the gentle breeze makes to sport\nupon its bosom. You may think that I am about to write you a maudlin\ntale of love, such as would draw tears from a maiden in her teens, while\nthose of more sober age turned away from it, and cried--'Pshaw!' But\nfear not--there is more of misery and madness than of love in my\nhistory. And yet, why should we turn with affected disgust from a tale\nof the heart's first, best, purest, and dearest affections? It is\naffectation, Lewis--the affectation of a cynic, who cries out, 'vanity\nof vanities, all is vanity,' when the delicacy of young affection has\nperished in his own breast. Who is there bearing the human form that\nlooks not back upon those days of tenderness and bliss, with a feeling\nakin to that which our first parents might have experienced, when they\nlooked back upon the Eden from which they had been expelled? Whatever\nmay be your feelings, forgive me, while, for a few moments, I indulge in\nthe remembrance of this one bright spot in my history, even although you\nare already in part acquainted with it.\n\nWe had been inmates beneath the roof of Sir William Forrester for\nsomewhat more than two months, waiting to receive intelligence regarding\nthe designs of his Excellency, or the landing of the Prince. It was\nduring the Easter holidays, and you had gone to Edinburgh for a few\ndays, to ascertain the feelings and the preparations of the friends of\nthe cause there. I remained almost forgetful of our errand, dreaming\nbeneath the eyes of Catherine. It was on the second day after your\ndeparture, Sir William sat brooding over the possible results of the\ncontemplated expedition, now speaking of the feeling of the people, the\npower of the house of Hanover, the resources of Prince Charles, and the\nextent of the assistance he was likely to receive from France--drowning,\nat the same time, every desponding thought that arose in an additional\nglass of claret, and calling on me to follow his example. But my\nthoughts were of other matters. Catherine sat beside me, arranging\nEaster gifts for the poor; and I, though awkwardly, attempted to assist\nher. Twilight was drawing on, and the day was stormy for the season, for\nthe snow fell, and the wind whirled round the drift in fantastic\ncolumns; but with us, the fire blazed blithely, mingling its light with\nthe fading day, and though the storm raged without, and Sir William\nseemed ready to sink into melancholy, I was happy--more than happy. But\nattend, Lewis, for I never told you this; at the very moment when my\nhappiness seemed tranquil as the rays of a summer moon at midnight,\nshowering them on a mountain and casting its deep, silent shadow on a\nlake, as though it revealed beneath the waters a bronzed and a silent\nworld, the trampling of a horse's feet was heard at the gate. I looked\ntowards the narrow window. A blackish-brown, shaggy animal attempted to\ntrot towards the door. It had rough hanging ears, a round form, and\nhollow back; and a tall lathy-looking figure, dismounting from it, gave\nthe bridle to Sir William's groom, and uttered his orders respecting it,\nnotwithstanding of the storm, with the slowness and solemnity of a\njudge. And, fearful that, although so delivered, they might not be\nobeyed to the letter--\n\n'A merciful man regardeth the life of his beast,' said he, and stalked\nto the stable behind them.\n\n'There go a brace of originals,' thought I; and, with difficulty, I\nsuppressed a laugh.\n\nBut Catherine smiled not, and her father left the room to welcome the\nvistant.\n\nThe tall, thin man now entered. I call him tall, for his stature\nexceeded six feet; and I say thin, for nature had been abundantly\nliberal with bones and muscle, but wofully niggard in clothing them with\nflesh. His limbs, however, were lengthy enough for a giant of seven\nfeet; and it would be difficult for me to say, whether his swinging\narms, which seemed suspended from his shoulders, appeared more of use or\nof incumbrance. His countenance was a thoughtful blank, if you will\nallow me such an expression. He had large, grey, fixture-like, unmeaning\neyes; and his hair was carefully combed back and plaited behind, to show\nhis brow to the best advantage. He gave two familiar stalks across the\nfloor, and he either did not see me, or he cared not for seeing me.\n\n'A good Easter to ye, Catherine, my love!' said he. 'Still employed wi'\nworks o' love an' charity? How have ye been, dear?' And he lifted her\nfair hand to his long blue lips.\n\nCatherine was silent--she became pale, deadly pale. I believe her hand\ngrew cold at his touch, and that she would have looked to me; but she\ncould not--she dared not. _Something forbade it._ But with me the spell\nwas broken--the chain that bound me to her father's house, that withheld\nme from accompanying you to Edinburgh, was revealed. The uncouth\nstranger tore the veil from my eyes--he showed me the first glance of\nlove in the mirror of jealousy. My teeth grated together--my eyes\nflashed--drops of sweat stood upon my forehead. My first impulse was to\ndash the intruder to the ground; but, to hide my feelings, I rose from\nmy seat, and was about to leave the room.\n\n'Sir, I ask your pardon,' said he--'I did not observe that ye was a\nstranger; but that accounts for the uncommon dryness o' my Katie. Yet,\nsir, ye mustna think that, though she is as modest as a bit daisy\npeeping out frae beneath a clod to get a blink o' the sun, but that we\ncan hae our ain crack by our twa sels for a' that.'\n\n'Sir Peter Blakely,' said Catherine, rising with a look expressive of\nindignation and confusion, 'what mean ye?'\n\n'Oh, no offence, Miss Catherine--none in the world,' he was beginning to\nsay, when, fortunately, her father entered, as I found that I had\nadvanced a step towards the stranger, with I scarce know what intention;\nbut it was not friendly.\n\n'Sir Peter,' said Sir William, 'allow me to introduce you to my young\nfriend, Mr. Fleming; he is _one of us_--a supporter of the good cause.'\n\nHe introduced me in like manner. I bowed--trembled--bowed again.\n\n'I am very happy to see you, Mr. Fleming,' said Sir Peter--'very happy,\nindeed.' And he stretched out his huge collection of fingers to shake\nhands with me.\n\nMy eyes glared on his, and I felt them burn as I gazed on him. He\nevidently quailed, and would have stepped back; but I grasped his hand,\nand scarce knowing what I did, I grasped it as though a vice had held\nit. The blood sprang to his thin fingers, and his glazed orbs started\nfarther from their sockets.\n\n'Save us a'! friend! friend! Mr Fleming! or what do they ca' ye?' he\nexclaimed in agony; 'is that the way you shake hands in your country? I\nwould hae ye to mind my fingers arena made o' cauld iron.\n\nThe cold and the snow had done half the work with his fingers before,\nand the grasp I gave them squeezed them into torture; and he stood\nshaking and rattling them in the air, applying them to his lips and\nagain to the fire and, finally, dancing round the room, swinging his\ntormented hand, and exclaiming--\n\n'Sorrow take ye! for I dinna ken whether my fingers be off or on!'\n\nSir William strove to assure him it was merely the effect of cold, and\nthat I could not intend to injure him, while, with difficulty, he kept\ngravity at the grotesque contortions and stupendous strides of his\nintended son-in-law. Even Catherine's countenance relapsed into a\nlanguid smile, and I, in spite of my feelings, laughed outright, while\nthe object of our amusement at once wept and laughed to keep us company.\n\nYou will remember that I slept in an apartment separated only by a thin\npartition from the breakfast parlour. In the partition which divided my\nchamber from the parlour was a door that led to it, one half of which\nwas of glass, and in the form of a window, and over the glass fell a\npiece of drapery. It was not the door by which I passed from or entered\nmy sleeping room, but through the drapery I could discover (if so\nminded) whatever took place in the adjoining apartment.\n\nThroughout the night I had not retired to rest; my soul was filled with\nanxious and uneasy thoughts; and they chased sleep from me. I felt how\ndeeply, shall I say how madly, I loved my Catherine; and, in Sir Peter\nBlakely, I beheld a rival who had forestalled me in soliciting her hand;\nand I hated him. My spirit was exhausted with its own bitter and\nconflicting feelings; and I sat down as a man over whom agony of soul\nhas brought a stupor, with my eyes vacantly fixed upon the curtain which\nscreened me from the breakfast parlour. Sir Peter entered it, and the\nsound of his footsteps broke my reverie. I could perceive him approach\nthe fire, draw forward a chair, and place his feet on each side of the\ngrate. He took out his tobacco-box, and began to enjoy the comforts of\nhis morning pipe in front of a 'green fire;' shivering--for the morning\nwas cold--and edging forward his chair, until his knees almost came in\nconjunction with the mantelpiece. His pipe was finished, and he was\npreparing to fill it a second time. He struck it over his finger, to\nshake out the dust which remained after his last whiff; he struck it a\nsecond time, (he had been half dreaming, like myself,) and it broke in\ntwo and fell among his feet. He was left without a companion. He arose\nand began to walk across the room; his countenance bespoke anxiety and\nrestlessness. I heard him mutter the words--\n\n'I will marry her!--yea, I will!--my sweet Catherine!'\n\nEvery muttered word he uttered was a dagger driven into my bosom. At\nthat moment, Sir William entered the parlour.\n\n'Sir,' said Sir Peter, after their morning salutations, 'I have been\nthinking it is a long way for me to come over from Roxburgh to\nhere'--and he paused, took out his snuff-box, opened the lid, and\nadded--'Yes, sir, it is a long way'--he took a pinch of snuff, and\ncontinued--'Now, Sir William, I have been thinking that it would be as\nwell, indeed a great deal better, for you to come over to my lodge at a\ntime like this.' Here he paused, and placed the snuff-box in his pocket.\n\n'I can appreciate your kind intentions,' said Sir William, 'but'----\n\n'There can be no _buts_ about it,' returned the other--'I perceive ye\ndinna understand me, Sir William. What I mean is this'--but here he\nseemed at a loss to explain his meaning; and, after standing with a look\nof confusion for a few moments, he took out his tobacco-box, and\nadded--'I would thank you, sir, to order me a pipe.' The pipe was\nbrought--he put it in the fire, and added--'I have been thinking, Sir\nWilliam, very seriously have I been thinking, on a change of life. I am\nno great bairn in the world now; and, I am sure, sir, none knows better\nthan you (who for ten years was my guardian), that I never had such a\ndegree of thoughtlessness about me as to render it possible to suppose\nthat I would make a bad husband to any woman that was disposed to be\nhappy.' Once more he became silent, and taking his pipe from the fire,\nafter a few thoughtful whiffs, he resumed--'Servants will have their own\nway without a mistress owre them; and I am sure it would be a pity to\nsee onything going wrong about my place, for every body will say, that\nhas seen it, that the sun doesna wauken the birds to throw the soul of\nmusic owre a lovelier spot, in a' his journey round the globe. Now, Sir\nWilliam,' he added, 'it is needless for me to say it, for every person\nwithin twenty miles round is aware that I am just as fond o' Miss\nCatherine as the laverock is o' the blue lift; and it is equally sure\nand evident to me, that she cares for naebody but mysel.'\n\nLewis! imagine my feelings when I heard him utter this! There was a word\nthat I may not write, which filled my soul, and almost burst from my\ntongue. I felt agony and indignation burn over my face. Again, I heard\nhim add--'When I was over in the middle o' harvest last, ye remember\nthat, in your presence, I put the question fairly to her; and, although\nshe hung down her head and said nothing, yet that, sir, in my opinion,\nis just the way a virtuous woman ought to consent. I conceive that it\nshewed true affection, and sterling modesty; and, sir, what I am now\nthinking is this--Catherine is very little short of one-and-twenty, and\nI, not so young as I have been, am every day drawing nearer to my sere\nand yellow leaf; and I conceive it would be great foolishness--ye will\nthink so yourself--to be putting off time.'\n\n'My worthy friend,' said Sir William, 'you are aware that the union you\nspeak of is one from which my consent has never been withheld; and I am\nconscious that, in complying with your wishes, I shall bestow my\ndaughter's hand upon one whose heart is as worthy of her affections as\nhis actions and principles are of her esteem.'\n\nSir Peter gave a skip (if I may call a stride of eight feet by such a\nname) across the room, he threw the pipe in the grate, and, seizing the\nhand of Sir William, exclaimed--\n\n    'Oh, joy supreme! oh, bliss beyond compare!\n    My cup runs owre--Heaven's bounty can nae mair!'\n\n'Excuse the quotation from a profane author,' he added, 'upon such a\nsolemn occasion; but he expresses exactly my feelings at this moment;\nfor, oh, could you feel what I feel here!'--And he laid his hand upon\nhis breast. 'Whatever be my faults, whatever my weakness, I am strong in\ngratitude.'\n\nYou will despise me for having played the part of a mean listener. Be it\nso, Lewis--I despise, I hate myself. I heard it proposed that the\nwedding-day should take place within a month: but the consent of\nCatherine was not yet obtained. I perceived her enter the apartment; I\nwitnessed her agony when her father communicated to her the proposal of\nhis friend, and his wish that it should be agreed to. Shall I tell it\nyou, my friend, that the agony I perceived on her countenance kindled a\nglow of joy upon mine? Yes, I rejoiced in it, for it filled my soul with\nhope, it raised my heart as from the grave.\n\nTwo days after this, and I wandered forth among the woods, to nourish\nhope in solitude. Every trace of the recent storm had passed away, the\nyoung buds were wooing the sunbeams, and the viewless cuckoo lifted up\nits voice from afar. All that fell upon the ear, and all that met the\neye, contributed to melt the soul to tenderness. My thoughts were of\nCatherine, and I now thought how I should unbosom before her my whole\nheart; or, I fancied her by my side, her fair face beaming smiles on\nmine, her lips whispering music. My spirit became entranced--it was\nfilled with her image. With my arms folded upon my bosom, I was\nwandering thus unconsciously along a footpath in the wood, when I was\naroused by the exclamation--\n\n'Edward!'\n\nIt was my Catherine. I started as though a disembodied spirit had met me\non my path. Her agitation was not less than mine. I stepped forward--I\nwould have clasped her to my bosom--but resolution forsook me--her\npresence awed me--I hesitated and faltered--\n\n'_Miss_ Forrester!'\n\nI had never called her by any other name; but, as she afterwards told\nme, the word then went to her heart, and she thought, 'He cares not for\nme, and I am lost!' Would to Heaven that such had ever remained her\nthoughts, and your friend would have been less guilty and less wretched\nthan he this day is!\n\nI offered her my arm, and we walked onward together; but we spoke not to\neach other--we could not speak. Each had a thousand things to say, but\nthey were all unutterable. A stifled sigh escaped from her bosom, and\nmine responded to it. We had approached within a quarter of a mile of\nher father's house. Still we were both silent. I trembled--I stood\nsuddenly still.\n\n'Catherine!' I exclaimed, and my eyes remained fixed upon the ground--my\nbosom laboured in agony--I struggled for words, and, at length, added,\n'I cannot return to your father's--Catherine, I cannot!'\n\n'Edward!' she cried, 'whither--whither would you go?--you would not\nleave me thus? What means this?'\n\n'Means! Catherine!' returned I--'are ye not to be another's? Would that\nI had died before I had looked upon thy face, and my soul was lighted\nwith a fleeting joy, only that the midnight of misery might sit down on\nit for ever!'\n\n'Oh, speak not thus!' she cried, and her gentle form shook as a blighted\nleaf in an autumnal breeze; 'speak not language unfit for you to utter\nor me to hear. Come, _dear_ Edward!'\n\n'_Dear_ Edward!' I exclaimed, and my arms fell upon her neck--'that word\nhas recalled me to myself! _Dear_ Edward!--repeat those words\nagain!--let the night-breeze whisper them, and bear them on its wings\nfor ever! Tell me, Catherine, am I indeed _dear_ to you?'\n\nShe burst into tears, and hid her face upon my bosom.\n\n'Edward!' she sobbed, 'let us leave this place--I have said too\nmuch--let us return home.'\n\n'No, loved one!' resumed I; 'if you have said too much, we part now, and\neternity may not unite us! Farewell, Catherine!--be happy! Bear my\nthanks to your father, and say--but, no, no!--say nothing,--let not the\nwretch he has honoured with his friendship blast his declining years!\nFarewell, love!' I pressed my lips upon her snowy brow, and again I\ncried--'Farewell!'\n\n'You must not--shall not leave me!' she said, and trembled; while her\nfair hands grasped my arm.\n\n'Catherine,' added I, 'can I see you another's? The thought chokes me!\nWould you have me behold it?--shall my eyes be withered by the sight?\nNever, never! Forgive me!--Catherine, forgive me! I have acted rashly,\nperhaps cruelly; but I would not have spoken as I have done--I would\nhave fled from your presence--I would not have given one pang to your\ngentle bosom--your father should not have said that he sheltered a\nscorpion that turned and stung him; but, meeting you as I have done\nto-day, I could no longer suppress the tumultuous feelings that\nstruggled in my bosom. But it is past. Forgive me--forget me!'\n\nStill memory hears her sighs, as her tears fell upon my bosom, and,\nwringing her hands in bitterness, she cried--\n\n'Say not, _forget_ you! If, in compliance with my father's will, I must\ngive my hand to another, and if to him my vows must be plighted, I will\nkeep them sacred--yet my heart is yours!'\n\nLewis! I was delirious with joy, as I listened to this confession from\nher lips. The ecstasy of years was compressed into a moment of deep,\nspeechless, almost painful luxury. We mingled our tears together, and\nour vows went up to heaven a sacrifice pure as the first that ascended,\nwhen the young earth offered up its incense from paradise to the\nnew-born sun.\n\nI remained beneath her father's roof until within three days of the time\nfixed for her becoming the bride of Sir Peter Blakely. Day by day, I\nbeheld my Catherine move to and fro like a walking corpse--pale,\nspeechless, her eyes fixed and lacking their lustre. Even I seemed\nunnoticed by her. She neither sighed nor wept. A trance had come over\nher faculties. She made no arrangements for her bridal; and when I at\ntimes whispered to her that _she should be mine_! O Lewis! she would\nthen smile--but it was a smile where the light of the soul was not--more\ndismal, more vacant than the laugh of idiotcy! Think, then, how unlike\nthey were to the rainbows of the soul which I had seen radiate the\ncountenance of my Catherine!\n\nSir Peter Blakely had gone into Roxburghshire, to make preparations for\ntaking home his bride, and her father had joined you in Edinburgh,\nrelative to the affairs of Prince Charles, in consequence of a letter\nwhich he had received from you, and the contents of which might not even\nbe communicated to me. At any other time, and this lack of confidence\nwould have provoked my resentment; but my thoughts were then of other\nthings, and I heeded it not. Catherine and I were ever together; and for\nhour succeeding hour we sat silent, gazing on each other. O my friend!\ncould your imagination conjure up our feelings and our thoughts in this\nhour of trial, you would start, shudder, and think no more. The glance\nof each was as a pestilence, consuming the other. As the period of her\nfather's return approached, a thousand resolutions crowded within my\nbosom--some of magnanimity, some of rashness. But I was a\ncoward--morally, I was a coward. Though I feared not the drawn sword nor\nthe field of danger more than another man, yet misery compels me to\nconfess what I was. Every hour, every moment, the sacrifice of parting\nfrom her became more painful. Oh! a mother might have torn her infant\nfrom her breast, dashed it on the earth, trampled on its outstretched\nhands, and laughed at its dying screams, rather than that I now could\nhave lived to behold my Catherine another's.\n\nSuddenly, the long, the melancholy charm of my silence broke. I fell\nupon my knee, and, clenching my hands together, exclaimed--\n\n'Gracious Heaven!--if I be within the pale of thy mercy, spare me this\nsight! Let me be crushed as an atom--but let not mine eyes see the day\nwhen a tongue speaks it, nor mine ears hear the sound that calls her\nanother's.'\n\nI started to my feet, I grasped her hands in frenzy, I exclaimed--'You\n_shall_ be mine!' I took her hand. 'Catherine!' I added, 'you will\nnot--you SHALL not give your hand to another! It is mine, and from mine\nit shall not part! And I pressed it to my breast as a mother would her\nchild from the knife of a destroyer.\n\n'It SHALL be yours!' she replied wildly; and the feeling of life and\nconsciousness again gushed through her heart. But she sank on my breast,\nand sobbed--\n\n'My father! O my father!'\n\n'Your father is Sir Peter Blakely's friend,' replied I, 'and he will not\nbreak the pledge he has given him. With his return, Catherine, my hopes\nand life perish together. Now only can you save yourself--now only can\nyou save me. Fly with me!--be mine, and your father's blessing will not\nbe withheld. Hesitate now, and farewell happiness.'\n\nShe hastily raised her head from my breast, she stood proudly before me,\nand, casting her bright blue eyes upon mine, with a look of piercing\ninquiry, said--\n\n'Edward! what would you have me to do? Deep as my love for you is--and I\nblush not to confess it--would you have me to fly with you accompanied\nby the tears of blighted reputation--followed by the groans and\nlamentations of a heart-broken father--pointed at by the finger of the\nworld as an outcast of human frailty? Would you have me to break the\nlast cord that binds to existence the only being to whom I am related on\nearth--for whom have I but my father? My _hand_ I shall _never_ give to\nanother; but I cannot, I will not leave my father's house. If Catherine\nForrester has gained your _love_, she shall not forfeit your _esteem_. I\nmay droop in secret, Edward, as a bud broken on its stem, but I will not\nbe trampled on in public as a worthless weed.'\n\n'Nay, my beloved, mistake me not,' returned I--'when the lamb has\nchanged natures with the wolf, then, but not till then, could I breathe\na thought, a word in your presence, that I would blush to utter at the\ngate of Heaven. Within two days, your father and his intended son-in-law\nwill return, and the father's threats and tears will subdue the\ndaughter's purpose. Catherine will be a wife!--Edward a----\n\n'Speak not impiously,' she cried, imploringly--'what--what can we do?'\n\n'The present moment only is left us,' replied I. 'To-night, become the\nwife of Edward Fleming, and happiness will be ours.'\n\nHer pulse stood still; the blood rushed into her face and back to her\nheart, while her bosom heaved, and her cheeks glowed with the agony of\nincertitude, as she resolved and re-resolved.\n\nBut wherefore should I tire you with a recital of what you already know.\nThat night, my Catherine became my wife. For a few months her father\ndisowned us; but when the fortunes of the Prince began to ripen, through\nhis instrumentality we were again received into his favour. Yet I was\ngrieved to hear, that, in consequence of our marriage, Sir Peter\nBlakely's mind had become affected; for, while I detested him as a\nrival, I was compelled to esteem him as a man.\n\nBut now, Lewis, comes the misery of my story. You are aware that, before\nI saw my Catherine, I was a ruined man. Youthful indiscretions--but why\ncall them indiscretions?--rather let me say my headlong sins--before I\nhad well attained the age of manhood, contributed to undermine my\nestate, and the unhappy political contest in which we were engaged had\nwrecked it still more. I had ventured all that my follies had left me\nupon the fortunes of Prince Charles. You know that I bought arms, I kept\nmen ready for the field, I made voyages to France, I assisted others in\ntheir distress; and, in doing all this, I anticipated nothing less than\nan earldom, when the Stuarts should again sit on the throne of their\nfathers. You had more sagacity, more of this world's wisdom; and you\ntold me I was wrong--that I was involving myself in a labyrinth from\nwhich I might never escape. But I thought myself wiser than you. I knew\nthe loyalty and the integrity of my own actions, and with me, at all\ntimes, to feel was to act. I had dragged ruin around me, indulging in a\nvague dream of hope; and now I had obtained the hand of my Catherine,\nand I had not the courage to inform her that she had wed that of a\nruined man.\n\nIt was when you and I were at the University together, that the spirit\nof gambling threw its deceitful net around me, and my estate was sunk\nto half its value ere I was of age to enjoy it; the other half I had\nwrecked in idle schemes for the restoration of the Stuarts. When,\ntherefore, a few weeks after our marriage, I removed with my Catherine\nto London, I was a beggar, a bankrupt, living in fashionable misery. I\nbecame a universal borrower, making new creditors to pacify the clamours\nof the old, and to hide from my wife the wretchedness of which I had\nmade her a partner. And, O Lewis! the thought that she should discover\nour poverty, was to me a perpetual agony. It came over the fondest\nthrobbings of my soul like the echo of a funeral bell, for ever pealing\nits sepulchral boom through the music of bridal joy. I cared not for\nsuffering as it might affect myself; but I could not behold her suffer,\nand suffer for my sake. I heard words of tenderness fall from her\ntongue, in accents sweeter than the melody of the lark's evening song,\nas it chirming descends to fold its wings for the night by the side of\nits anxious mate. I beheld her smiling to beguile my care, and fondly\nwatching every expression of my countenance, as a mother watches over\nher sick child; and the half-concealed tear following the smile when her\nefforts proved unavailing; and my heart smote me that she should weep\nfor me, while her tears, her smiles, and her tenderness, added to my\nanguish, and I was unable to say in my heart, 'Be comforted.' It could\nnot be affection which made me desirous of concealing our situation from\nher, but a weakness which makes us unwilling to appear before each other\nas we really are.\n\nFor twelve months I concealed, or thought that I had concealed, the\nbankruptcy which overwhelmed me as a helmless vessel on a tempestuous\nsea. But the Prince landed in Scotland, and the war began. I was\nemployed in preparing the way for him in England, and, for a season,\nwild hopes, that made my brain giddy, rendered me forgetful of the\nmisery that had hung over and haunted me. But the brilliant and\ndesperate game was soon over; our cause was lost, and with it my hopes\nperished; remorse entered my breast, and I trembled in the grasp of\nruin. Sir William Forrester effected his escape to France, but his\nestates were confiscated, and my Catherine was robbed of the inheritance\nthat would have descended to her. With this came another pang, more\nbitter than the loss of her father's fortune; for he, now a fugitive in\na strange land, and unconscious of my condition, had a right to expect\nassistance from me. The thought dried up my very heart's blood, and made\nit burn within me--and I fancied I heard my Catherine soliciting me to\nextend the means of life to her father, which I was no longer able to\nbestow upon herself: for, with the ruin of our cause, my schemes of\nborrowing, and of allaying the clamour of creditors, perished.\n\nBut it is said that evils come not singly--nor did they so with me; they\ncame as a legion, each more cruel than that which preceded it. Within\nthree weeks after the confiscation of the estates of Sir William\nForrester, the individual who held the mortgage upon mine died, and his\nproperty passed into the hands--of whom?--heaven and earth! Lewis, I can\nhardly write it. His property, including the mortgage on my estate,\npassed into the hands of--Sir Peter Blakely! I could have died a\nthousand deaths rather than have listened to the tidings. My estate was\nsunk beyond its value, and now I was at the mercy of the man I had\ninjured--of him I hated. I could not doubt but that, now that I was in\nhis power, he would wring from me his 'pound o' flesh' to the last\ngrain--and he has done it!--the monster has done it! But to proceed with\nmy history.\n\nMy Catherine was now a mother, and longer to conceal from her the\nwretchedness that surrounded us, and was now ready to overwhelm us, was\nimpossible; yet I lacked the courage, the manliness to acquaint her with\nit, or prepare her for the coming storm.\n\nBut she had penetrated my soul--she had read our condition; and, while I\nsat by her side buried in gloom, and my soul groaning in agony, she took\nmy hand in hers, and said--\n\n'Come, dear Edward, conceal nothing from me. If I cannot remove your\nsorrows, let me share them. I have borne much, but, for you, I can bear\nmore.'\n\n'What mean ye, Catherine?' I inquired, in a tone of petulance.\n\n'My dear husband,' replied she, with her wonted affection, 'think not I\nam ignorant of the sorrow that preys upon your heart. But brood not on\npoverty as an affliction. You may regain affluence, or you may not; it\ncan neither add to nor diminish my happiness but as it affects you. Only\nsmile upon me, and I will welcome penury. Why think of degradation or of\nsuffering? Nothing is degrading that is virtuous and honest; and where\nhonesty and virtue are, there alone is true nobility, though their owner\nbe a hewer of wood. Believe not that poverty is the foe of affection.\nThe assertion is the oft-repeated, but idle falsehood of those who never\nloved. I have seen mutual love, joined with content, within the clay\nwalls of humble cotters, rendering their scanty and coarse morsel\nsweeter than the savoury dainties of the rich; and affection increased,\nand esteem rose, from the knowledge that they endured privation\ntogether, and for each other. No, Edward,' she added, hiding her face\nupon my shoulder, 'think not of suffering. We are young, the world is\nwide, and Heaven is bountiful. Leave riches to those who envy them, and\naffection will render the morsel of our industry delicious.'\n\nMy first impulse was to press her to my bosom; but pride and shame\nmastered me, and, with a troubled voice, I exclaimed--'Catherine!'\n\n'O Edward!' she continued, and her tears burst forth, 'let us study to\nunderstand each other--if I am worthy of being your wife, I am worthy of\nyour confidence.'\n\nI could not reply. I was dumb in admiration, in reverence of virtue and\naffection of which I felt myself unworthy. A load seemed to fall from my\nheart, I pressed her lips to mine.\n\n'Cannot Edward be as happy as his Catherine,' she continued; 'we have,\nat least, enough for the present, and, with frugality, we have enough\nfor years. Come, love, wherefore will you be unhappy? Be you our\npurser.' And, endeavouring to smile, she gently placed her purse in my\nhands.\n\n'Good Heavens!' I exclaimed, striking my forehead, and the purse dropped\nupon the floor; 'am I reduced to this? Never, Catherine!--never! Let me\nperish in my penury; but crush me not beneath the weight of my own\nmeanness! Death!--what must you think of me?'\n\n'Think of you?' she replied, with a smile, in which affection,\nplayfulness, and sorrow met--'I did not think that you would refuse to\nbe your poor wife's banker.'\n\n'Ah, Catherine!' cried I, 'would that I had half your virtue--half your\ngenerosity.'\n\n'The half?' she answered laughingly--'have you not the whole? Did I not\ngive you hand and heart--faults and virtues?--and you, cruel man, have\nlost the half already! Ungenerous Edward!'\n\n'Oh!' exclaimed I, 'may Heaven render me worthy of such a wife!'\n\n'Come, then,' returned she, 'smile upon your Catherine--_it is all over\nnow_.'\n\n'What is all over, love?' inquired I.\n\n'Oh, nothing, nothing,' continued she, smiling--'merely the difficulty a\nyoung husband has in making his wife acquainted with the state of the\nfirm in which she has become a partner.'\n\n'And,' added I, bitterly, 'you find it bankrupt.'\n\n'Nay, nay,' rejoined she, cheerfully, 'not bankrupt; rather say,\nbeginning the world with a small capital. Come, now, dearest, smile, and\nsay you will be cashier to the firm of Fleming & Co.'\n\n'Catherine!--O Catherine!' I exclaimed, and tears filled my eyes.\n\n'Edward!--O Edward!' returned she, laughing, and mimicking my emotion;\n'good by, dear--good by!' And, picking up the purse, she dropped it on\nmy knee, and tripped out of the room, adding gaily--\n\n    'For still the house affairs would call her hence.'\n\nFondly as I imagined that I loved Catherine, I had never felt its\nintensity until now, nor been aware of how deeply she deserved my\naffection. My indiscretions and misfortunes had taught me the use of\nmoney--they had made me to know that it was an indispensable agent in\nour dealings with the world; but they had not taught me economy. And I\ndo not believe that a course of misery, continued and increasing\nthroughout life, would ever teach this useful and prudent lesson to one\nof a warm-hearted and sanguine temperament; nor would any power on\nearth, or in years, enable him to put it in practice, save the daily and\nendearing example of an affectionate and virtuous wife. I do not mean\nthe influence which all women possess during the oftentimes morbid\nadmiration of what is called a honeymoon; but the deeper and holier\npower which grows with years, and departs not with grey hairs--in our\nboyish fancies being embodied, and our young feelings being made\ntangible, in the never-changing smile of her who was the sun of our\nearly hopes, the spirit of our dreams--and who, now, as the partner of\nour fate, ever smiles on us, and, by a thousand attentions, a thousand\nkindnesses and acts of love, becomes every day dearer and more dear to\nthe heart where it is her only ambition to reign and sit secure in her\nsovereignty--while her chains are soft as her own bosom, and she spreads\nher virtues around us, till they become a part of our own being, like an\nangel stretching his wings over innocence. Such is the power and\ninfluence of every woman who is as studious to reform and delight the\nhusband as to secure the lover.\n\nSuch was the influence which, I believed, I now felt over my spirit, and\nwhich would save me from future folly and from utter ruin. But I was\nwrong, I was deceived--yes, most wickedly I was deceived. But you shall\nhear. On examining the purse, I found that it contained between four and\nfive hundred pounds in gold and bills.\n\n'This,' thought I, 'is the wedding present of her father to my poor\nCatherine, and she has kept it until now! Bless her! Heaven bless her.'\n\nI wandered to and fro across the room, in admiration of her excellence,\nand my bosom was troubled with a painful sense of my own unworthiness. I\nhad often, when my heart was full, attempted to soothe its feelings by\npouring them forth in rhyme. There were writing materials upon the table\nbefore me. I sat down--I could think of nothing but my Catherine, and I\nwrote the following verses\n\n                    TO MY WIFE.\n\n    Call woman--angel, goddess, what you will--\n      With all that fancy breathes at passion's call,\n    With all that rapture fondly raves--and still\n      That one word--WIFE--outvies--contains them all.\n    It is a word of music which can fill\n      The soul with melody, when sorrows fall\n    Round us, like darkness, and her heart alone\n    Is all that fate has left to call our own.\n\n    Her bosom is a fount of love that swells,\n      Widens, and deepens with its own outpouring,\n    And, as a desert stream, for ever wells\n      Around her husband's heart, when cares devouring,\n    Dry up its very blood, and man rebels\n      Against his being!--When despair is lowering,\n    And ills sweep round him, like an angry river,\n    She is his star, his rock of hope for ever.\n\n    Yes; woman only knows what 'tis to mourn\n      She only feels how slow the moments glide\n    Ere those her young heart loved in joy return\n      And breathe affection, smiling by her side.\n    Hers only are the tears that waste and burn--\n      The anxious watchings, and affection's tide\n    That never, never ebbs!--hers are the cares\n    No ear hath heard, and which no bosom shares\n\n    Cares, like her spirit, delicate as light\n      Trembling at early dawn from morning stars,\n    Cares, all unknown to feeling and to sight\n      Of rougher man, whose stormy bosom wars\n    With each fierce passion in its fiery might;\n      Nor deems how look unkind, or absence, jars\n    Affection's silver cords by woman wove,\n    Whose soul, whose business, and whose life is--LOVE.\n\nI left the verses upon the table, that she might find them when she\nentered, and that they might whisper to her that I at least appreciated\nher excellence, however little I might have merited it.\n\nLewis, even in my solitary cell, I feel the blush upon my cheek, when I\nthink upon the next part of my history. My hand trembles to write it,\nand I cannot now. Methinks that even the cold rocks that surround me\nlaugh at me derision, and I feel myself the vilest of human things. But\nI cannot describe it to-day--I have gone too far already, and I find\nthat my brain burns. I have conjured up the past, and I would hide\nmyself from its remembrance. Another day, when my brain is cool, when my\nhand trembles not, I may tell you all; but, in the shame of my own\ndebasement, my reason is shaken from its throne.\n\nHere ended the first part of the Hermit's manuscript; and on another,\nwhich ran thus, he had written the words--\n\n\n\"MY HISTORY CONTINUED.\"\n\nI told you, Lewis, where I last broke off my history, that I left the\nverses on the table for the eye of my Catherine. I doubted not that I\nwould devise some plan of matchless wisdom, and that, with the money so\nunexpectedly come into my possession, I would redeem my broken fortunes.\nI went out into the streets, taking the purse with me, scarce knowing\nwhat I did, but musing on what to do. I met one who had been a\nfellow-gambler with me, when at the University.\n\n'Ha! Fleming!' he exclaimed, 'is such a man alive! I expected that you\nand your Prince would have crossed the water together, or that you would\nhave exhibited at Carlisle or Tower Hill.'\n\nHe spoke of the run of good fortune he had had on the previous\nnight--(for he was a gambler still.) 'Five thousand!' said he, rubbing\nhis hands, 'were mine within five minutes.'\n\n'Five thousand!' I repeated. I took my Catherine's purse in my hand.\n\nLewis! some demon entered my soul, and extinguished reason. 'Five\nthousand!' I repeated again; 'it would rescue my Catherine and my child\nfrom penury.' I thought of the joy I should feel in placing the money\nand her purse again in her hands. I accompanied him to the table of\ndestruction. For a time fortune, that it might mock my misery, and not\ndash the cup from my lips until they were parched, seemed to smile on\nme. But I will not dwell on particulars; my friend 'laughed to see the\nmadness rise' within me. I became desperate--nay, I was insane--and all\nthat my wife had put into my hands, to the last coin, was lost. Never,\nuntil that moment, did I experience how terrible was the torture of\nself-reproach, or how fathomless the abyss of human wretchedness. I\nwould have raised my hand against my own life; but, vile and\ncontemptible as I was, I had not enough of the coward within me to\naccomplish the act. I thought of my mother. She had long disowned me,\npartly from my follies, and partly that she adhered to the house of\nHanover. But, though I had squandered the estates which my father had\nleft me, I knew that she was still rich, and that she intended to bestow\nher wealth upon my sister; for there were but two of us. Yet I\nremembered how fondly she had loved me, and I did not think that there\nwas a feeling in a mother's breast that could spurn from her a penitent\nson--for nature, at the slightest spark, bursteth into a flame. I\nresolved, therefore, to go as the prodigal in the Scriptures, and to\nthrow myself at her feet, and confess that I had sinned against Heaven,\nand in her sight.\n\nI wrote a note to my injured Catherine, stating that I was suddenly\ncalled away, and that I would not see her again perhaps for some weeks.\nAlmost without a coin in my pocket, I took my journey from London to\nCumberland, where my mother dwelt.\n\nNight was gathering around me when I left London, on the road leading to\nSt. Alban's. But I will not go through the stages of my tedious journey;\nit is sufficient to say, that I allowed myself but little time for sleep\nor rest, and, on the eighth day after my leaving London, I found myself,\nafter an absence of eighteen years, again upon the grounds of my\nancestors. Foot-sore, fatigued, and broken down, my appearance bespoke\nway-worn dejection. I rather halted than walked along, turning my face\naside from every passenger, and blushing at the thought of recognition.\nIt was mid-day when I reached an eminence, covered with elm trees, and\nskirted by a hedge of hawthorn. It commanded a view of what was called\nthe Priory, the house in which I was born, and which was situated within\na mile from where I stood. The village church, surrounded by a clump of\ndreary yews, lay immediately at the foot of the hill to my right, and\nthe road leading from thence to the Priory crossed before me. It was a\nraw and dismal day; the birds sat shivering on the leafless branches,\nand the cold, black clouds, seemed wedged together in a solid mass,\nready to fall upon the earth and crush it; and the wind moaned over the\nbare fields. Yet, disconsolate as the scene appeared, it was the soil of\nchildhood on which I trod. The fields, the woods, the river, the\nmountains, the home of infancy, were before me; and I felt their\nremembered sunshine rekindling in my bosom the feelings that make a\npatriot. A thousand recollections flashed before me. Already did fancy\nhear the congratulations of my mother's voice, welcoming her\nprodigal--feel the warm pressure of her hand, and her joyous tears\nfalling on my cheek. But again I hesitated, and feared that I might be\nreceived as an outcast. The wind howled around me--I felt impatient and\nbenumbed--and, as I stood irresolute, with a moaning chime the church\nbell knelled upon my ear. A trembling and foreboding fell upon my heart;\nand, before the first echo of the dull sound died in the distance, a\nmuffled peal from the tower of the Priory answered back the invitation\nof the house of death, announcing that the earth would receive its\nsacrifice. A veil came over my eyes, the ground swam beneath my feet;\nand again and again did the church bell issue forth its slow, funeral\ntone, and again was it answered from the Priory.\n\nEmerging from the thick elms that spread around the Priory and stretched\nto the gate, appeared a long and melancholy cavalcade. My eyes became\ndim with a presentiment of dread, and they were strained to torture.\nSlowly and silently the sable retinue approached. The waving plumes of\nthe hearse became visible. Every joint in my body trembled with agony,\nas though agony had become a thing of life. I turned aside to watch it\nas it passed, and concealed myself behind the hedge. The measured and\ngrating sound of the carriages, the cautious trampling of the horses'\nfeet, and the solemn pace of the poorer followers, became more and more\naudible on my ear. The air of heaven felt substantial in my throat, and\nthe breathing I endeavoured to suppress became audible, while the cold\nsweat dropt as icicles from my brow. Sadly, with faces of grief, unlike\nthe expression of hired sorrow, passed the solitary mutes; and, in the\ncountenance of each, I recognised one of our tenantry. Onward moved the\nhearse and its dismal pageantry. My heart fell, as with a blow, within\nmy bosom. For a moment I would have fancied it a dream; but the train of\ncarriages passed on, their grating roused me from my insensibility, and,\nrushing from the hedge towards one who for forty years had been a\nservant in our house--\n\n'Robert!--Robert!' I exclaimed, 'whose funeral is this?'\n\n'Alack! Master Edward!' he cried, 'is it you? It is the funeral of my\ngood lady--your mother!'\n\nThe earth swam round with me--the funeral procession, with a sailing\nmotion, seemed to circle me--and I fell with my face upon the ground.\n\nDejected, way-worn as I was, I accompanied the body of my mother to its\nlast resting-place. I wept over her grave, and returned with the chief\nmourners to the house of my birth; and there I was all but denied\nadmission. I heard the will read, and in it my name was not once\nmentioned. I rushed from the house--I knew not, and I cared not where I\nran--misery was before, behind, and around me. I thought of my Catherine\nand my child, and groaned with the tortures of a lost spirit.\n\nBut, as I best could, I returned to London, to fling myself at the feet\nof my wife, to confess my sins and my follies, to beg her forgiveness,\nyea, to labour for her with my hands. I approached my own door as a\ncriminal. I shrank from the very gaze of the servant that ushered me in,\nand I imagined that he looked on me with contempt. But now, Lewis, I\ncome to the last act of my drama, and my hand trembles that it cannot\nwrite--my soul is convulsed within me. I thought my Catherine pure,\nsinless as a spirit of heaven--you thought so--all who beheld her must\nhave thought as I did. But, oh! friend of my youth! mark what follows. I\nreached her chamber. I entered it--silently I entered it, as one who has\nguilt following his footsteps. And there, the first object that met my\nsight--that blasted it--was the man I hated, my former rival, he who\nheld my fortunes in his hand--Sir Peter Blakely! My wife, my Catherine,\nmy spotless Catherine, held him by the arm. O heaven! I heard him\nsay--'_Dear Catherine!_' and she answered him, 'Stay!--stay, my best, my\nonly friend--do not leave me!'\n\nLewis! I could see, I could hear no more.\n\n'Wretch!--villain!' I exclaimed. They started at my voice. My sword,\nthat had done service in other lands, I still carried with me.\n\n'Draw! miscreant!' I cried, almost unconscious of what I said or what I\ndid. He spoke to me, but I heard him not. I sprang upon him, and plunged\nmy sword in his body. My wife rushed towards me. She screamed. I heard\nthe words--'Dear Edward!' but I dashed her from me as an unclean thing,\nand fled from the house.\n\nEvery tie that had bound me to existence was severed asunder. Catherine\nhad snapped in twain the last cord that linked me with happiness. I\nsought the solitude of the wilderness, and there shouted her name, and\nnow blessed her, and again----but I will go no farther. I long wandered\na fugitive throughout the land, and, at length perceiving an apartment\nin a rock, the base of which Tweed washes with its waters, in it I\nresolved to bury myself from the world. In it I still am, and mankind\nfear me.\n\nHere abruptly ended the manuscript of the Solitary.\n\nA few years after the manuscript had been found, a party, consisting of\nthree gentlemen, a lady, and two children, came to visit the King's\nCove, and to them the individual who had found the papers related the\nstory of the hermit.\n\n\"But your manuscript is imperfect,\" said one of them, \"and I shall\nsupply its deficiency. The Solitary mentions having found Sir Peter\nBlakely in the presence of his wife, and he speaks of words that passed\nbetween them. But you shall hear all:--\"\n\nThe wife of Edward Fleming was sitting weeping for his absence, when Sir\nPeter Blakely was announced. He shook as he entered. She started as she\nbeheld him. She bent her head to conceal her tears, and sorrowfully\nextended her hand to welcome him.\n\n'Catherine,' said he--and he paused, as though he would have called her\nby the name of her husband--'I have come to speak with you respecting\nyour father's estate. I was brought up upon it; and there is not a tree,\na bush, or a brae within miles, but to me has a tale of happiness and\nlangsyne printed upon it, in the heart's own alphabet. But now the charm\nthat gave music to their whispers is changed. Forgive me, Catherine, but\nit was you that, as the spirit of the scene, converted everything into a\nparadise where ye trod, that made it dear to me. It was the hope, the\nprayer, and the joy of many years, that I should call you mine--it was\nthis that made the breath of Heaven sweet, and caused sleep to fall upon\nmy eyelids as honey on the lips. But the thought has perished. I was\nwrong to think that the primrose would flourish on the harvest-field.\nBut, Catherine, your father was my guardian--I was deeply in his debt,\nfor he was to me as a father, and for his sake, and your sake, I have\nredeemed his property, and it shall be--it is yours.'\n\nLost in wonder, Catherine was for a few moments silent; but she at\nlength said--\n\n'Generous man, it must not--it shall not be. Bury me not--crush me not\nbeneath a weight of generosity which from you I have been the last to\ndeserve. I could not love, but I have ever esteemed you. I still do. But\nlet not your feelings hurry you into an act of rashness. Time will heal,\nif it do not efface the wounds which now bleed; and you may still find a\nheart more worthy of your own, with whom to share the fortune of which\nyou would deprive yourself.'\n\n'Never! never!' cried he; 'little do you understand me. Your image and\nyours only was stamped where the pulse of life throbs in my heart. The\ndream that I once cherished is dead now--my grey hairs have awoke me\nfrom it. But I shall still be your friend--yea, I will be your husband's\nfriend; and, in memory of the past, your children shall be as my\nchildren. Your husband's property is encumbered--throw these in the fire\nand it is again his.' And, as he spoke, he placed the deeds of the\nmortgage on a table before her.\n\n'Hear me, noblest and best of friends!' cried Catherine--'hear me as in\nthe presence of our Great Judge. Think not that I feel the less grateful\nfor your generosity, that I solemnly refuse your offers, and adjure you\nto mention them not in my presence. As the wife of Edward Fleming, I\nwill not accept what he would spurn. Rather would I toil with the sweat\nof my brow for the bare crust that furnished us with a scanty meal; and\nif I thought that, rather than share it with me, he would sigh after the\nluxuries he has lost, I would say unto him--'Go, you are free!' and,\nhiding myself from the world, weary Heaven with prayers for his\nprosperity.'\n\n'Ye talk in vain--as I have said, so it is and shall be,' added he. 'And\nnow, farewell, dear Catherine.'\n\n'Stay! stay!--leave me not thus!' she exclaimed, and grasped his arm. At\nthat moment her husband returned and entered the room--and you know the\nrest. But, Sir Peter Blakely was not mortally wounded, as the Solitary\nbelieved. In a few months he recovered, and what he had promised to do\nhe accomplished.\n\n\"That is something new,\" said the fisherman who had found the\nmanuscript; \"and who told ye, or how do ye know?--if it be a fair\nquestion.\"\n\n\"I,\" replied he who had spoken, \"am the Lewis to whom the paper was\naddressed.\"\n\n\"You! you!\" exclaimed the fisherman; \"well, that beats a'--the like o'\nthat I never heard before.\"\n\n\"And I,\" said another, \"am Sir Peter Blakely--the grey-haired\ndreamer--who expected the April lily to bloom beneath an October sun.\"\nAnd he put a crown into the hand of the fisherman.\n\n\"And I,\" added the third, \"am the Solitary himself--this my Catherine,\nand these my children. He whom I thought dead--dead by my own hand--the\nman whom I had wronged--sought for me for years, and in this my\nhermitage that was, he at length found me. It was the grey dawn when I\nbeheld him, and I thought that the ghost of the murdered stood before\nme. But he spoke--he uttered words that entered my soul. I trembled in\nhis presence. The load of my guiltiness fell as a weight upon me. I was\nunable to speak, almost to move. He took my hand and led me forth as a\nchild. In my confusion the papers which you found were left behind me.\nAnd now, when happiness has shed its light around me, I have come with\nmy benefactor, my friend, my Catherine, and my children, to view the\ncell of my penitence.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE MAIDEN FEAST OF CAIRNKIBBIE.\n\n\nHe who has been present at a real Maiden, or Scotch feast of\nharvest-home, if it should happen that he belongs to the caste that\nmakes the light fantastic toe the fulcrum of the elegant motions of the\nquadrille, and Hogarth's line of beauty the test of the evolutions of\nmodern grace, might wish that the three sisters had long ago resigned\ntheir patronage of the art of dancing, and left the limbs of man, and\ntheir motions, to the sole power of the spirit of fun and good humour.\nCenturies have passed away since first the Maiden called forth the\nsalient energies of the harvest-weary hinds and rosy-cheeked damsels of\nScotland. We have only now amongst us the ghost of the old\nspirit-stirring genius of \"the farmer's ha'.\" The modern vintage feast\nis only a shadow of the old _Cerealia_--the festival of festivals, as it\nhas been called--at which the young and the old of ancient Greece and\nRome resigned themselves to the power of the rosy god, and the _nil\nplacet sine fructu_ was seen in every bright eye, heard in every glad\nvoice, and listened to in every tripping measure. The Scotch Maiden was\nonce what the vintage feasts of the Continent were, and still are. The\nhinds and maids of one \"town\" were present at the harvest-home of\nanother; reciprocal visits kept up the spirit of the enjoyment; the\nfields and farmers' ha's resounded with the merry pipe; the whirling\nreel mixed up the dancers in its \"uniform confusion,\" the flowing bicker\nwas \"filled and kept fou;\" kisses, \"long and loud,\" vindicated a place\nin the world of musical sound; and the Genius of Pleasure ran away with\nheart and soul to her happy regions--declaring that, for one solitary\nnight in the year, the power of sorrow should have no authority over\nmournful man. The Maiden of Cairnkibbie, a farm on the property of\nFaulden--too long ago for the mention of a specific period, but while\nMaidens (to descend to a pun) were still in the height of their beauty\nand bloom--was one of the most joyous scenes that ever graced the green,\nor made the rafters of the barn ring with \"hey and how rohumbelow.\" The\nfarmer, William Hume--some far-off friend of the Paxton family--was\nrich, as things went in those days; and a gaucy dame, and a fair\ndaughter, Lilly, blessed him with affection and duty. No lass ever\ngraced a Maiden like Lilly Hume; and no free farmer's wife ever extended\nso hearty a patronage to the feast of fun as did the sleek and\ncomfortable guidwife of Cairnkibbie. The pretty \"damysell\" was as jimp\nas \"gillie\"--\n\n    \"As ony rose her rude was red,\n    Her lire was like the lillie.\"\n\nand far and near she defied all manner of bold competition in those\ncharms that go to deck the blooming maids of Scotland. Natural affection\nmade her the pride of her parents; and a simplicity that did not seem to\nhave art enough to tell her of her own beauty, endeared her to those who\nmight have been expected to have been smitten with envy, or crossed with\na hopeless passion.\n\nThere was many a lass \"as myld as meid\" at the Maiden of Cairnkibbie,\nand many a Jock, and Steenie, and Robyne, as braw as yellow locks\nbrushed bolt upright in the face of heaven could make any of God's\ncreatures. But many of the merry-makers did not trust to such ornaments\nof nature: for Steenie Thornton, from the town of Kelton, the gay lover\nof Jess Swan from the same town, had his locks tied behind with a yellow\nribbon got from her fair hand, and his \"pumps\" boasted the same\ndecoration; the sprightly Will Aitken, the best hand at a morris-dance\nin all the Merse, had his jacket \"browden\" with \"fowth o' roses\" stuck\ninto the button-holes by Jean Gillies from Westertown; the fiercest\nwrestler of the Borders, Jock Hedderick, who cherished Bess Gibson,\npushed forward his bold breast, to exhibit to the goggle eyes of\nwondering admiration a vest sewed by her delicate fingers at intervals\nstolen from cheese-making; and Pat Birrel, the noted scaumer, who was\naccounted more than \"twa hen clokkis\" by Kirsty Glen the henwife's\ndaughter of Earlston, lifted his feet high in mid-air, to shew the\ngushets in his hose wrought by her lily hands. Nor did the screechin\ngilpies lack ornaments to set off their fair persons. Some had bright\nyellow gloves of \"raffal right;\" and many, with kirtles of \"Lincome\nlight, weel prest wi' mony plaits,\" pulled the trains in most menacing\nbundles through the pocket-holes, to shew at once how bright were their\ncolours, and how many a \"breid\" was wasted in their amplitude. Many had\nornaments that tongue could not describe--because they were the first of\ntheir kind, and required a new vocabulary to do justice to their\nbeauties. But, ornamented or plain, the revellers were all alike filled\nwith the spirit of the Maiden; and, if their \"Tam Lutar,\" the piper, did\nnot skirl them up to the point of enjoyment to which they all struggled,\nand danced, and drank, and screamed to get, sure it was that no fault\nwas attributable to the merry-makers themselves: nor was the guidman's\ndaughter, Lilly Hume, less joyous than the merriest. Although at her\nfather's harvest-feast she was accounted a lady, she was the humblest of\nthe \"hail menyie;\" and never refused to draw up through her pocket-holes\nthe ends of her falling yellow kirtle, as a preparation for another\nreel, at the supplicatory bend or bow of the humblest hind, albeit he\nwas adorned with neither bright crimson nor ochre yellow.\n\nThe \"Tam Lutar\" of the feast--a blind piper, who began to play when he\nfirst felt the incipient effects of the first bicker, blew stronger as\nthe fumes of the potations rose higher, declined as the liquid impulse\nfell, and even stopped when the drink entirely sunk--was well supplied\nwith the \"piper's coig,\" a girded vessel of jolly good ale, that lay\nbeside him, and was ever and anon filled, as the dancers felt the music\nbeginning to lag in spirit. Away they flew, to the airs of\n\"Gillquhisker,\" \"Brum on tul,\" \"Tortee Solee Lemendow,\" and other good\nold tunes, now forgotten, though their names are mentioned by Sir James\nIngles; the resilent heels spurned the earth; the fore part of the foot,\nwhere the spring lies, dealt out those tremendous thuds on the suffering\nfloor which heretofore were reckoned the true and legitimate soul of\ndancing, and now, alas! displaced by the sickly _slip_ of the French\ngrace; the \"dancing whoop\" rung around, inspired every soul, and\nlightened every heel; Jock Splaefut \"bobbit up wi' bends;\" and Jenny set\nto him, and \"beckit,\" and set again, and turned, and away glided through\nthe mazes of the reel--\n\n    \"For reeling there micht nae wench rest;\"\n\n\nand came back, and set and \"beckit\" again; till, \"forfochtin faynt\" with\npure dancing toil, the reelers gave place to the country dancers, who\ntoiled and _swat_ in the same degree for the period of their sweet\nlabours. Then was the breathing time in the far corners appropriated to\nthe cooling tankard, the dew of which left on the panting lips ran a\nconsiderable risk of being dried up by the heat of love, elicited from\nthe kiss that smacked of love and ale.\n\nAt a corner in the end of the room, a crowd had collected; and some high\nwords were passing between Will Aitken and Jock Hedderick, on a question\nthat seemed to interest the dancers. Those standing about were washing\ndown large mouthfuls of bannocks by draughts of strong beer, while they\nwiped the sweat from their brows, and listened to the subject in\ndispute. At intervals some one was heard at the door, playing and\nsinging.\n\n    \"He played sae schill, an' sang sae sweet,\"\n\nthat Lilly Hume felt interested in the musician. He was a beggar, who\nboldly claimed admittance to the Maiden, by what he called the \"auld\nrights o' the gaberlunzies of Scotland,\" who were declared entitled to\nenter into the feast of the harvest home, to dance thereat, and drink\nthereat, and kiss the \"damysells\" thereat, with as much freedom as the\ngayest guest. This demand was resisted by Jock Hedderick, who besides\ndisputed the authority of the ancient custom; which, on the other hand,\nwas upheld by Will Aitken, whose supple tongue was so powerful over his\nopponents that\n\n    \"He muddelt them down like ony mice;\"\n\nand, notwithstanding the terror of the scaumer's arm, prevailed upon the\nguidman and the company to hold sacred the rights of hospitality of the\nland, and admit the \"pauky auld carle,\" with his pipes and his wallets.\nAs soon as the decision was given, Lilly ran to the door, and, taking\nthe gaberlunzie by the hand, brought him in. A loud laugh resounded\nthroughout the room, to the profit of the proud and merry dancers, and\nat the expense of the jolly beggar, who, young and stalwart, and borne\ndown by sundry appendages, containing doubtless meal and bread, \"cauk\nand keil,\" \"spindles and quhorles,\" and all the et-ceteras of the\nwallet, stood before them, and raised in return such a ranting, roaring\nlaugh, as well apparently at himself as his company, that, by that one\neffort of his lungs, he made more friends than many a laughter-loving\npot companion might make in a year. Then in an instant he struck this\nmerry-maker on the back, and slapped that on the shoulder, and kissed\nthe skirling kitties with such a jolly and hearty spirit of free\nsalutation, that he even added flame to the already burning passion of\nfrolic, and raised again the rafter-shaking laugh, till it drowned all\nthe energies of Lutar himself, albeit his coig had that instant been\nfilled.\n\nBut this was only vanity, while the stomach of the jolly gaberlunzie was\nas yet empty. A large stoup was brought to him by Will Carr, a\ngood-looking young man of gentle demeanour, the only person who in that\npairing assembly seemed to want his \"dow.\" A shade of melancholy was on\nhis cheek, and, as he offered the gaberlunzie the stoup, he cast an eye\non Lilly, the meaning of which seemed to be read in an instant by the\nbeggar.\n\n\"Ha! ha!\" cried the latter; \"ye are the true welcomer, my braw youth.\nThae wild chiels an' their glaiket hizzies wad fill the beggar wi' the\nsound o' his ain laugh, as if he were a pair o' walking bagpipes. But,\nho, man, this is sour yill.\n\n    The bridegroom brought a pint of ale,\n      And bade the piper drink it.\n    'Drink it?' quoth he, 'and it so staile;\n      Ashrew me, if I think it!'\n\nYe've anither barrel in the corner yonder--awa!--the beggar maun hae the\nbest.\n\n    This Maiden nicht it is his right,\n    And, faith he winna blink it.\"\n\nAnd so he cadgily ranted and sang, swearing that the best ale and the\nprettiest lips in the whole house should that night be at his command.\n\nWhile Will Carr brought him ale out of another cask, Lilly Hume took\naway his wallets, and laid them in a window-sole at his back. Having\ntaken a waught of the ale so long that the bystanders looked on with\nfear, lest he might never recover his breath again, he returned the\nstoup empty to Will, telling him to fill it again, as he intended to\nassist the legitimate Lutar in blowing up the spirits of the company--a\nwork which would require \"fowth o' yill.\" Without farther preface, he\nblew up his bags with a skirl that seemed to shake the house, and,\ndashing fearlessly into the time, poured so much joyous sound into the\nthick air of the heated apartment, that the weary-limbed dancers threw\noff their languor, and fell to it again with a spirit that equalled\nthat of their first off-set. But his musical occupation did not prevent\nhis attention to the looks and actions of Lilly Hume and Will Carr.\n\n\"How dinna ye dance, hinny?\" said he, in a low voice to Lilly. \"How\ndinna ye dance, man?\" he repeated, as he turned his head to Will. \"Think\nye yer sittin there's a compliment to me, wha am blawing awa my lungs\nhere, for the very purpose o' makin ye dance?\"\n\nThe two young people looked at each other, and then at the guidman, who\nsat at a little distance.\n\n\"Tell me the reason, my bonny hinny,\" he added; and, as he blew again,\nleant his ear to hear the answer. \"Eh! come now, my white lily,\" he\npersisted. \"I'm a safe carle, and can spae fortunes as well as blaw up\nthae green bags wi' thriftless wind. I may tell ye o' a braw lot, if\nye'll only open yer lips and gie me some o' yer secrets.\"\n\n\"My faither winna let me dance wi' Will Carr,\" at last replied Lilly,\nblushing from ear to ear.\n\n\"How! how!\" answered the gaberlunzie, taking the pipes suddenly frae his\nmouth--\"no let ye dance wi' a decent callant, the bonniest hensure o'\nthe hail menyie! What crime has he committed, hinny? Eh?\"\n\n\"He's puir,\" answered Lilly, innocently.\n\n\"Ha! a red crime that, Lilly,\" answered he; \"if he had killed a score o'\nGod's creatures in a Border raid, he micht hae been forgi'en; but wha\nforgies poverty? But do ye like Will Carr, hinny?\"\n\n\"My faither and mither say sae,\" answered Lilly.\n\n\"Ay, ay,--I see whar the wind blaws,\" said the gaberlunzie. \"But ye\n_will_ dance wi' him. I, as a beggar, hae a richt to the fairest hand o'\nthe maiden--yer faither daurna refuse ye to me; an' let Will tak yon\nquean wi' the yellow ribbons in her wimple, an' we'll a' mix in ae\nreel. Will, man, awa an' ask yon bloomin hizzy wi' the rose rude to\ndance wi' ye.\"\n\nWill obeyed; and the beggar, having brought the tune to a termination,\nstepped boldly up into the middle of the floor, holding by the hand the\nfair Lilly Hume; while Will, with his blushing quean, Bess Gordon, took\ntheir stations opposite.\n\n\"Up wi' the 'Hunts o' Cheviot,' Tam,\" cried the beggar; \"an blaw as if\nye wad blaw yer last. Gie him yill there, an' I'll play for him a hail\nhour, if he gars the roof-tree o' Cairnkibbie dirl to the gaberlunzie's\ndance.\"\n\nThe expectation of a merry bout brought others to the floor, and even\nthe guidman and guidwife of Cairnkibbie, themselves, rose and \"buckled\nto the wark,\" as cleverly as the youngest gipsy of the whole assembly.\nThen up blew the \"Hunts o' Cheviot,\" in the quickest of Tam's\nale-inspired manner, and away banged the jolly gaberlunzie, as if the\nspirit of Cybele's priests had seized his heart; \"and like a lyon lap,\"\nas if he would have foreleeted Lightfute himself, and \"counterfeited\nFrans.\" He clapped his hands, till the echoes came back from the roof;\nand the exhilarating hoogh! hoogh! which can only be given forth by the\nthroat of a Scotchman, when good liquor has wet it and fired the brain\nthat moves it, was heard by every ear, and felt by every heart. The very\npiper was delighted with the ranting chield, and ever, as his clap and\nhoogh! hoogh! resounded through the barn, the yells of the pipes seemed\nto rise higher and higher, and echoes of the same sounds came from the\nimitative spirits of the dancers.\n\n\"Hurra for the gaberlunzie!\" shouted Will Aitken.\n\n\"The jolly beggar, for ever!\" cried Steenie Thornton; and the smiles of\nthe hizzies, and occasional slaps on the back, administered to the\njolly roisterer, as they met and passed him in the midst of the reel,\ntestified their most perfect satisfaction with the king of his tribe.\n\n\"Here, Will, here man,\" whispered the beggar, as he rioted in his wild\nhumour, and twirled Will Carr about to face Lilly, while he left her for\nBess Gordon. \"Set to her, man, and dinna spare a kiss and a good squeeze\no' her hand, as ye see the auld anes' backs to ye.\"\n\nAnd then he drowned his remark with his hoogh! hoogh! sprung up yard\nhigh, and clapped his knees opposite the blooming Bess, who would not\nhave given her jolly new partner for a' the Will Carrs in Scotland.\n\n\"Change the measure, Tam,\" cried the beggar, as he foresaw the\ntermination of \"The Hunts of Cheviot.\" \"Up wi' 'King William's Note,'\nman. Fill his coig, ye lazy loons! Noo, Tam!--hoogh! hoogh!--there up\nyet, higher and higher, man--hoogh, hoogh!\"\n\nThe piper felt the inspiration, up mounted the notes to the highest and\nliveliest measure, and away again flew the merry dancers under all the\nimpulse of the new tune. The clap on the beggar's knee ever and anon run\nalong, and still he twirled round Will Carr to face Lilly--though not\nbefore he had taken her round the fair neck, and kissed her, \"nothing\nloath\"--and again presented himself to the welcome face of Bess, whose\nrosy lips he \"prec'd\" as often as his many laborious evolutions, hooghs,\nclaps, and cries to the piper would permit. He even made _tacks_ to the\nside reels, and, laying hold of the damsels of his neighbours, kissed\nthem from lug to lug, and then came back with a roar of laughter behind\nhim, to greet of new Bess Gordon, to whom he seemed more welcome for his\ngallantry. The guidwife of Cairnkibbie herself was violently laid hold\nof round the neck and saluted with a loud smack, which, sounding in the\nears of the guidman, produced a hearty laugh at the boldness, which was\nexcused by the reckless jollity of the extraordinary gaberlunzie. Nor\ndid he yet allow them to flag.\n\n\"Keep at it, Will!\" he cried to the young man. \"Ye'll hae aneuch o'\nLilly for ae nicht, or my name's no Wat Wilson. Aneuch o' 'King\nWilliam's Note,' Tam. Come awa wi' anither--'In Simmer I mawed my\nmeadow,' wi' double quick time. Look to his bicker there, ye culroun\nknaves, wha'll neither dance, drink, nor mak drink!\"\n\nThe piper heard the appeal, and struck up the new tune with great glee--\n\n    \"Gude Lord, how he did lans!\n\nAnd again the inspiring strain, coming in a new measure, filled the\ndancers with new energies. There never had been such a reel since ever\nreels were danced. Heaven knows how long it had lasted, and yet the\nperformers felt no weariness, all through the inspiring devilry, as they\ntermed it, of the gaberlunzie, whose war-cry was as loud and uproarious\nas ever, and his leaps in the air as high as they had been at the first\noff-go. He now played off a new trick. He twirled round the partner of\nthe next reel, and made him take his place before Bess Gordon, while he,\nambitious of a new face, took the place of his neighbour, and continued\nthe sport in his new locality and company. Bess regretted her change;\nbut his new position was soon changed, for he played the same trick with\nthe next reeling party, and so on through the whole four--for such was\nthe number up at once; and he continued to \"prec the mou's\" of every\nyoung maiden on the floor, and, returning with many a hoogh, and clap,\nand leap to his old position, he seemed inclined to keep up the sport\ntill the elder dancers should drop to the ground with sheer fatigue. It\nseemed to the guidman of Cairnkibbie that there was no remedy but a nod\nto Piper Tam, who, himself almost blown out, observed with pleasure the\nmaster's indication, and stopped the music even in the very midst of the\nleaping joy of the interminable gaberlunzie, who would have danced\napparently till next moon, if he could have got any one strong enough\nand willing enough to dance with him.\n\nHe was now a universal favourite; all flocked round him as he wiped the\nperspiration from his forehead, and declared they had never seen such a\nspirited dancer before. His name, Wat Wilson, flew through the barn, and\nevery one wondered how they had never seen such a jolly beggar in those\nparts before. But Wat said nothing of his _unde_, his _ubi_, or his\n_quo_; he only drank to the crowd around him; and, with Lilly on one\nside of him, and Will Carr on the other, he seized again his own pipes,\nand, forcing Tam to his feet, and crying to a new party to start, struck\nup one of the liveliest airs that the folks of the Merse had ever heard.\nIn an instant again the barn was resounding with mirth; his strains were\nirresistible.\n\n    \"Then all the wenches te he they playit,\n    And loud as Will Aitken leuche;\n    But nane cried, Gossip, hyn your gaits,\n    For we have dansit aneugh.\"\n\nAt least none cried they had danced enough while the beggar played; for\nthe very heels seemed to obey the influence of his spirit, as if they\nhad been gifted with some power of sympathy, independently of the bodies\nto which they were attached. The dance was kept up till the dancers\ntired--for the beggar's lungs were as tough as his feet; and when all\nhad, for a time, tired of dancing, they assembled round their guest,\nwho, of his own accord, struck up many a ranting song, and, by his\nhumour, made the laugh resound through the barn. So fond grew they of\nhis song and his jokes, that they felt no inclination, for a time, to\nresume again the dance. They drank and laughed, and screamed at every\nnew sally of his wit, and every humorous turn of his song; and no one\nknows how long this scene might have lasted--for the gaberlunzie seemed\ninexhaustible--when a sound of horses' feet at the door claimed the\nattention of the revellers, and some one cried out that a party of\nhorsemen were come to demand the body of a thief, who had that day, at\nDunse, stolen the silver mace of King James, and was suspected to be at\nthis Maiden, under the assumed dress of a wandering piper.\n\n\"That is the man,\" cried a belted knight, as, having dismounted, he trod\nforward into the middle of the barn, and pointed to the happy\ngaberlunzie, who had that instant finished his song.\n\n\"Ye lee,\" answered the beggar, in an instant, as he stood up, surrounded\nby his friends.\n\n\"Ha, sirrah!\" answered the stranger, \"this boldness will avail thee\nnothing. I know thee; and these, thy new-made friends, will not save\nthee from the execution of our orders. There are witnesses against thee,\nwho saw thee steal the silver mace. Forward, ye sooth-saying men!\"\n\nTwo men entered, dressed nearly in the same style as the first, and\nbearing all the marks and insignia of the grade of Knights.\n\n\"Is not this the thief?\" inquired the first.\n\n\"It is--we will swear to him. He snatched the mace from the royal\nmace-bearer, in the streets of Dunse, and made off with it amidst the\nhue and cry of the populace, whose speed he outran as he would that of\nthe greyhound.\"\n\n\"Guid faith,\" replied the guidman of Cairnkibbie, \"if our friend ran as\ncleverly as he has danced this nicht, a' the greyhounds o' the Merse\nwadna hae catched him.\"\n\n\"Will ye gie me up to the beadles, freends,\" cried the beggar, \"or will\nye stand by him wha has sought yer protection, and partaken o' yer\nhospitality?\"\n\n\"Gie ye up!\" ejaculated the spirited old farmer; \"in faith, na. If King\nJamie war the Cham o' Tartary, or had three kings' heads on his\nshouthers in place o' ane, we'll defend ye while there's a flail in the\nbarn o' Cairnkibbie.\"\n\nA shout of approbation followed the speech of the old farmer. The\nmaidens, whose chins still smarted from the rub of his jolly beard, flew\nfor flail, and rung, and \"hissil ryss,\" and in an instant every willing\nhand held a weapon.\n\n\"We'll defend him to the last drap o' oor bluid,\" cried Will Carr, as he\nmanfully stood forward, and brandished a huge hazel rung.\n\n\"And, by my saul,\" cried the scaumer, Jock Hedderick; \"if we fecht as\nhe'll fecht, whether for auld feid or new, noytit pows and broken banes\nwill tell the fortune o' the nicht, lang before the play's played.\"\n\n\"Ha, ha! guidmen, and true guidmen, and true!\" cried the beggar,\nundaunted and laughing; \"thank ye, my hinny, Lilly, for this green\nkevel! By the haly rude, come on now, ye silver-necklaced bull-dogs o'\nroyalty:--\n\n    'The beggar was o' manly mak,\n      To meet him was nae mows,\n    There darena ten come him to tak,\n      Sae noyt will he their pows.'\n\nYe should ken that sang, if ye hae lear aneugh in your steel-bound\nnoddles. Come on, ye calroun caitiffs!\"\n\n\"Search his wallet,\" cried the foremost of the strangers; and six or\nseven men rushed into the barn, and made direct for the window-sole\npointed to by the chief; but Will Swan and Will Carr, with half a dozen\nmore stout hensures, flew forward and anticipated the searchers.\n\n\"Give me my meal-pocks,\" cried the gaberlunzie; and, having got hold of\nhis wallet, he slung it over his shoulders, and, to the surprise of\nevery one, took out the mace said to have been stolen, and, holding it\nin his left hand as a badge of his authority, continued, laughing like a\ncadger, to gibe the strangers--\n\n\"Beggars hae a king as weel as belted bannerets,\" he cried: \"see ye my\nbadge? Ken ye wha ye seek? Heard ye ne'er o' Wat Wilson the king o' the\nbeggars, crowned on Hogmanay, on the Warlock's Hill near Dunse, in\npresence o' a' the tribe o' kaukers and keelars, collected from Berwick\nto Lerwick. This is the beggar's badge. Tak it if ye dare. By ae wag\no't, yer bairns will be kidnapped, your kye yeld, and your mithers'\nbanes stricken wi' the black sickness.\"\n\n\"Guidman of Cairnkibbie,\" said the foremost knight, \"thou hast now\nevidence in that bold beggar's own hand, that he hath stolen a part of\nthe king's regalia--an act of high treason, incurring death to him and\nall that give him shelter. Take the badge, examine it, and thou'lt find\non it the royal arms. See to thy predicament. If I report a rescue,\nthou'rt ruined. James will punish thee as a resetter. These misguided\nmen will fall in thy ruin, and sorely wilt thou repent having harboured\nand defended a thief and a vagabond. Wilt thou give him up, or must we\ntake him at the expense of our blood and thine?\"\n\n\"A' fair words,\" answered the guidman; \"but this beggar is our guest. He\nsays the badge is his ain, and truly I am bound to say that King Jamie\nhimsel is nae mair like the king o' this auld land, than this jolly\ngaberlunzie is like the king o' his tribe. Every inch o'm's a king. He\nsings like a king, dances like a king, drinks like a king, and kisses\nthe lasses like a king--and, king as he is, feth we'll be his loyal\nsubjects. What say ye, guid hearts?\"\n\n\"The same, the same,\" cried many voices; and a brandishing of flails and\nkevels showed that they were determined to act up to their pledge of\ndefending the jolly gaberlunzie to the end. Matters now assumed a\nserious aspect.\n\n\"Thy ruin be on thine own heads!\" cried the chief of the strangers.\n\"Draw for the rights of King James, claim our prisoner, and take him\nthrough the blood of rebels who dispute the authority of their king!\"\n\nThe men from without now began to rush into the barn with drawn swords;\nand seemed to expect that, when the steel was made apparent, no serious\nresistance would be offered. Their expectation, however, was vain; for\nthe hinds did not seem to fear the naked swords, and several of them had\nalready aimed blows at the heads of the enemy. The beggar was moving to\nthe right and to the left with great rapidity; brandishing his huge\nkevel, and whispering something into the ears of his friends. The\nguidman was busy getting the women removed by a back door; and, in the\nmidst of all the uproar, there seemed some scheme in operation on the\npart of the defenders, which would either co-operate with their warlike\ndefence, or render the shedding of blood unnecessary. The assailants\nclearly did not wish to use the glittering thirsty blades; and continued\nto ward off the blows of the hinds, and to push them back, with a view\nto get hold of him who was the object of their search. He, in the\nmeantime, was directing some secret operation with great adroitness and\nspirit. The confusion increased; the size of the barn, and the pressure\nof the assailants forward, apparently with a view to take away the power\nof the long sticks, prevented in a great measure the full play of the\nhinds' arms, and some of the king's men were engaged in a powerful\nwrestle, with the intention of disarming the hinds, and thus achieving a\nvictory without loss of blood; but their efforts in this respect would\nhave been attended with small success, if the tactics of the beggar had\nbeen a deadly contest. The assailants still pushed on, and it seemed\nthat their opponents were fast receding, while the clanging of sticks on\nthe swords, and the hard breathing and cries of those engaged, seemed to\nindicate a severe and equally contested strife. The defendants were\nlatterly pushed up to the very farthest end of the apartment, and it\nseemed apparent that, if they did not make a great effort to redeem\ntheir position, and acquire room for the circle of their staves, they\nmust resign the contest. But an extraordinary evolution was now\nperformed. The back door was opened; in an instant, every hind\ndisappeared from the faces of their foes; the door was locked and\nbolted; and the king's men turned to retrace their steps and seek the\nenemy outside. That turn exposed their position, and the trick of the\ngaberlunzie. The front door was also shut, locked, and riveted. On every\nside they were shut in, confined in a dark barn, and all means of escape\nentirely cut off. It was in vain that they roared through the key-holes\nof the doors. The gaberlunzie, who regulated all the motions of the\nsuccessful party, responded to them in words of cutting irony, and even\nset agoing the swelling notes of his pipes, to celebrate his triumph by\na poean in the form of a pibroch.\n\n\"Ye may tell yer king,\" he cried, loud enough for them to hear--\"that\nis, when ye get out, if ye ever experience that blessed fortune--that he\nis not the only king in these realms. And surely Scotland is wide enough\nfor twa. I hae my subjects, he has his; an' Wat Wilson's no the\npotentate that wad ever interfere wi' Jamie Stuart, if Jamie Stuart will\nlet alane Wat Wilson. If I happen to pass Dunse on the morn, I shanna\nfail to report favourably o' yer prowess; an', abune a', I shall tell\nhim o' the condition o' his belted knichts--how\n\n    'There was not ane o' them that day\n      Could do ane ither's bidden,\n    And there lie three and thretty knights\n      Thrunland in ane midden.'\n\nCome now, my friends, we'll adjourn the feast to the ha', an' let the\nknights tak their nicht's rest in the barn, after a' the toil o' their\ndesperate battle.\"\n\nA loud shout responded to the spirited speech of the gaberlunzie; and\nthe feelings of the kidnapped and discomfited men-at-arms, on hearing\nthe triumph of the beggar, who had out-manoeuvred them, may be\nconceived, but could not well be expressed by an ordinary goose-quill.\nThe guidman of Cairnkibbie took as hearty a laugh as the rest, at the\ntrick thus successfully played off upon the king's men, and his laugh\nwas nothing the less for the quantity of good ale he had drank before\nthe fray began, and without which potation, perhaps, he would not have\npatronised an act which might bring him into trouble. There was one\nthing that, even through the fumes of the ale, struck him as very\nremarkable--the confined knights made scarcely any noise. There was no\nblustering or swearing of vengeance, nor threat of the king's\ndispleasure, nor endeavours to break the doors. They submitted to their\ndurance like lambs in a sheepfold, and seemed to have lost their spirits\nas well as courage, when they found themselves completely within the\npower of their enemy. What could this mean? There was a mystery in it,\nwhich the farmer, who was an arch old fox, could not explain; and when\nhe put a question to the gaberlunzie, the answer increased his\ndifficulty, for the beggar laughed, and attributed the quietness and\nmeekness of the foes to the terror of his prowess, and the awe which his\nname inspired throughout a great part of Scotland.\n\n\"This is the most extraordinary deevil,\" said the farmer to himself,\n\"that it has been my fortune to meet. His dancing, roaring, rioting,\ndrinking, piping, singing, joking, fechting, seem a' on a par; an' nane\no' them are beat by his power o' winning the hearts o' young an' auld.\nHe has forced me to like him, will I or nill I; an' my dochter Lilly,\nan' my guidwife Jean, are nae less fond o' him than I am. Here, noo, is\nour Maiden broken up, my barn made a warhold, mysel a seneschal o' the\nking's troops, my head in a loop, an' my fortunes hanging in the wind o'\nthe royal displeasure--a' brocht aboot by a wanderin beggar, wha forced\nhimsel into oor happy meeting at the very point o' the bauldest tongue\nthat ever hung in man's head; an' yet sae supple that it has won the\nvery hearts o' the men that strove to keep him oot, an' brocht me into\nthe hardest scrape I ever was in my life.\"\n\nCogitating in this prudential way, the guidman was fast coming to the\nconclusion that he was in a position of great danger; and that it was\nnecessary that he should take the proper steps for freeing himself from\nthe consequences of his imprudence as soon as it was possible. He turned\nround to look for the gaberlunzie, that he might commune with him on the\nprudence of letting the king's men free. The greater number of the men\nand women had gone into the house; and some of them stood at a distance,\ntheir forms revealed by a glimpse of the moon, which, freed from a\ncloud, began to illumine the holms of Cairnkibbie.\n\n\"Where is the beggar?\" inquired the farmer at Will Carr.\n\n\"Where is the beggar?\" cried Will Carr to his neighbour.\n\n\"Where is the gaberlunzie?\" shouted several voices at once.\n\nThe gaberlunzie was gone. Steenie Thornton said he saw a person mount\none of the troopers' horses that stood at the door of the barn, and,\nturning round the corner of the steading, gallop off at the top of his\nspeed. He thought it was one of the hinds, who was trying the mettle of\nthe king's horses, and would return instantly, after he had indulged\nhimself with a ride. Now it was apparent to all that it was the strange\ngaberlunzie himself. He had crowned all his extraordinary actions of the\nevening by stealing one of the horses of the king, or his knights, and,\nwith meal-pocks, wallet, pipes, and stolen mace, was \"owre the Borders\nand awa,\" and might never be seen or heard of again; while the farmer,\nwho now saw the extent of his danger, must stand the brunt of the king's\nvengeance, and be tried for forcing the king's messengers in the\nexecution of their duty, for shutting them up in his barn, and stealing\n(for he would be charged with it) one of the horses, the property of his\nsovereign. The whole company now assembled around the farmer, whose\nposition was apparent to the bluntest hind that ever danced at a Maiden.\nSome proposed to follow the beggar, and bring him back again; but he had\nalready exhibited such a power of locomotive energy and daring spirit in\nthe former adventures of the evening, that it seemed vain to attempt to\novertake him with the quickest steed that was at their command. The\ndifficulty was great, and, apparently, insuperable; and the whole scene\nenacted by the gaberlunzie appeared like a dream. The farmer swore\nagainst him mighty oaths, and directed against himself a part of the\nobjurgatory declamation. But how was he to get out of the scrape? If the\ndoors were opened, and the armed knights let loose, the whole company\nmight be slaughtered, in the fury of the enraged men-at-arms, who would\nattribute to the farmer and his men their discomfiture, the loss of the\nthief, their confinement, and the loss of the horse. To keep them\nconfined was, also a fearful resource; for they must be let out _some\ntime_, and every minute of their confinement would add fuel to the flame\nof their resentment. Many opinions were given. Some were for getting\nassistance to enable them to stand on the defensive, against the\nexpected attack, on the knights being let free. Some again were for\nstriking a bargain \"wi' the fou hand,\" as the saying goes, and letting\nthe pursuers free, upon their word of a knight that they would not\nmolest them. This latter plan seemed the best; and a good addendum was\nmade by the greatest simpleton of the whole meeting--viz., that they\nshould include in this act of amnesty the loss of the horse. The farmer\nproceeded to act upon this resolution.\n\n\"We are friendly inclined to ye,\" said he, in a tone of voice that might\nreach the prisoners. \"Your enemy was that accursed gaberlunzie, wha maun\nbe the very deevil himsel; for he it was wha blew us up against ye, and\nmade us, a parcel o' quiet men, fecht against the servants o' our lawfu\nking. The cunning rogue's awa, and left us to bear the dirdum o' his\nfeint or folly; and, a' ungeared as we are for war, we wish, withoot\neither dewyss or devilry, to ken the condition upon which ye will get\nyer liberty.\"\n\nA loud laugh from within was the reply to this speech. What next could\nthis mean? The farmer was confounded, the hinds stared, and every one\nlooked at another. Here were men who five minutes before were fighting\nlike fiends, who had been deceived and confined, struck and ill-used,\nindulging in a good jolly laugh at the broaching of a question\nconcerning their liberty. The mystery was increased, the affair was more\nextraordinary, the development more difficult and distant.\n\n\"Ay, ay,\" continued the farmer, \"ye may laugh; but, maybe, the laugh may\nbe on the ither side when ye get oot. This may be an assumed guid\nnature, to blind us. I'm as far ben as ye, though no in the barn. Come,\ncome. It is a serious affair. Will ye pledge the honour o' a knight,\nthat, if I draw the bolts, ye'll let alane for let alane?\"\n\n\"Surely, surely,\" was the ready reply, and another laugh accompanied the\ncondition.\n\n\"Right merry prisoners, by my saul!\" continued the farmer. \"Will they\nlaugh at the loss o' their horse, I wonder?\" (To his friends.)\n\n\"That's a' very weel,\" he continued, in a higher voice. \"I hae witnesses\nhere to the pledge; but I'm sorry to inform ye that that deevil o' a\nbeggar, wha stole yer king's mace, is aff and awa, the Lord kens whaur,\nwi' the best horse o' a' yer cavalcade. Will ye forgie this to the\nboot?\"\n\nAnother burst of laughter responded from the barn, mixed with cries of--\n\n\"Ay, ay; never mind the horse. Let him go with the mace. The king of the\nbeggars deserveth a steed.\"\n\n\"Weel, these are the maist pleasant faes I ever saw,\" said the farmer;\n\"but I hae a' my fears there's a decoy duck i' the pond. Haud firm yer\nkevels, friends, in case a' this guid nature may, like the blink o' an\nautumn sun, be followed by the fire-flaughts o' their revenge.\"\n\nThe men stood prepared to fight, if necessary; the bolts were withdrawn,\nand out came the knights, as merry as larks, making the air resound with\ntheir laughter. The farmer and his friends were still more amazed, as,\nfor their very souls, they could see nothing in discomfiture and\nimprisonment to make any man laugh. But the fact was now certain, that\nthe prisoners were right glad and hearty; and the sincerity of their\ngood humour was to be tested in a manner that seemed as extraordinary as\nanything that had yet been witnessed on this eventful evening. Not one\nof them ever mentioned the beggar or the loss of the horse--a\ncircumstance remarkable enough; and, not contented with this scrupulous\nregard of the treaty, the chief of them, slapping the farmer on the\nback, proposed that, as they had so unceremoniously broken up the sports\nof the evening, they should not depart till they saw the dancing again\ncommenced, and till they each and every man of them should dance a reel\nwith the blooming maidens they had seen on their entry. This request,\nthough as remarkable as the former proceedings, was received with loud\napplause. The parties were again collected; Tam the piper again took his\nseat; the ale flowed in its former abundance; and in a short time the\nbrave knights were seen tripping it gaily through the mazes of the merry\ndance. This was another change of the moral peristrephic panorama of\nthat extraordinary evening; and, as the farmer looked at the merry\nknights with their surtouts of green, and their buff baldricks and\nclanging swords, busy dancing in that very barn where they had, a few\nminutes before, been fighting like Turks, he held up his hands in\nwonder, and would have moralised on the chances and changes of life, if\na barn had been a proper place, a Maiden a proper occasion, and the hour\nof relief from a great evil a proper time for the indulgence of such\nfancies.\n\nThe knights danced only for a very short time; and there can be no doubt\nthat they did their best to please themselves, and to exhibit to their\nhost and his friends the greatest triumphs of the gay art; but all their\nefforts only tended to bring into higher contrast their best and most\nintricate evolutions, their highest and most joyous humours, their\npleasantest and merriest tricks, with the devil-daring, jumping,\nroaring, laughing, kissing, and hugging of the jolly gaberlunzie, who\noutran all competitors in the production of fun, as much as ever did an\nArab steed the plough-nag at a fair gallop. There was not a knight among\nthem that could, as the saying goeth, \"hold the candle to him;\" and as\nfor the private opinions of the \"damysells,\" the very best judges of the\nproperties of man, they would not have given one hair in the beard of\nthe jolly gaberlunzie for all the short crops of the chins of all the\nknights put together. His thefts and vagaries were lost, like spots on\nthe sun, in the blaze of his convivial splendour; and, coming and flying\noff like a comet, as he had done, he had left them in a darkness which\nall the tiny lights of the good-natured crew of bannerets could not\nillumine beyond the twinkle that only served to exhibit more clearly\ntheir gloom. _Sic transit gloria mundi!_--they might never see his like\nagain.\n\nThe knights, after enjoying themselves in the manner we have mentioned,\nmounted their horses, (the one whose steed was stolen, having borrowed\none from the farmer,) and having been supplied with a good stirrup-cup,\ngalloped away, without ever having said one word, either of good or\nevil, of the mysterious gaberlunzie of whom they came in search. The\nMaiden was finished soon after, and the guidman of Cairnkibbie retired\nwith his guidwife to rest, and in their waking moments to wonder at the\nstrange events of the day. The fears of evil, resulting from his own\nconduct, had in a great measure ceased; but, alas! they ceased only to\nbe revived in the morning, and increased to a degree that made him still\nlament having forced the king's messengers, and harboured a thief. About\neleven o'clock of the succeeding day, a horseman, booted and spurred,\narrived in great haste at the door of the farm-house of Cairnkibbie, and\nrequested to see the guidman.\n\n\"What's your will, sir?\" said the farmer to the messenger, as he went to\nthe door.\n\n\"I bear his Highness the King's schedule, to be delivered to William\nHume, the tenant of Cairnkibbie.\"\n\n\"The King's schedule!\" answered William, as he took the paper out of the\nmessenger's hands--\"what hae I dune to offend the king?\"\n\n\"Read it,\" said the messenger; and William complied.\n\n\"These are to show our high will and pleasor, that whereas ane\ngaberlunzie, of the name of Wat Wilson, or at least ane wandering\nvagabond to whom that denomination does by common use or courtesie\neffeir, did, in our guid toun of Dunse, on Wednesday last past, of this\ncurrent month of October, when our servitors and officers marching\nrank-on-raw, before and behint our person, reft frae the hands o' our\nmace-bearer, our mace of authority, fabricat of real siller, and\nembossed with dewysses of goold, whar-with he did flee trayterly to the\nprotection and refuge of thee, William Hume, tenant of Cairnkibbie, wha,\nwith thy tenants, domestics, and retainers, and others, did harbour\nhim, even against our officers of justice, wham thou didst pummel, and\nlik, and abuse in a maist shameful manner, and thereafter didst confine\nin ane auld barn the whyle thou didst let off the said gaberlunzie, and\nsteal ane o' the very choicest horses o' our knights; for all the whylk\nthou (and eke thy aiders and abettors) shalt answer at our present\nambulatory Court, at our auld burgh of Dunse, wharto thou art summonit\nby this schedule, to attend on the day after thou receivest this, at 12\nof the forenoon; whylk, if thou disregardest, thou shalt dree the\npunishment o' our righteous vengeance. Given at Dunse, this----day of\nOctober 15--. JAMES R.\"\n\n\"The Lord hae mercy on the house o' Cairnkibbie!\" ejaculated the farmer,\nas he read this fulmination of an incensed king's wrath. \"What am I to\ndo? How can I face the king after abusing his officers, and harbouring\nthe thief wha stole the royal mace, as weel as the horse o' his officer?\nCan ye no intercede for me, sir, or at least gie me some advice how I am\nto act in this fearfu business?\"\n\nAnd the farmer stamped on the ground, and paced backwards and forwards\nin great distress. The officer who brought the schedule seemed to\nsympathise with the unhappy man; but, looking over to the door of the\nfarm house, and seeing Lilly standing on the landing-place, combing her\nfair locks, he smiled as if some hope for the unfortunate farmer had\nbroken in on his mind.\n\n\"Is that your daughter?\" said he.\n\n\"It is,\" answered the farmer; \"but that question has sma' concern with\nthis present misery that has overtaken the house o' her father.\"\n\n\"More than thou thinkest, mayhap,\" answered the horseman. \"Bring her\nwith thee, man, to Court. The king cannot resist the appeal of beauty.\nIf that fair wench will but hold up that face of hers, while thou\nsettest forth thy defence, I'll guarantee thy liberation for a score o'\nplacks. But see thou attendest; otherwise, messengers will be sent to\nforce thy presence.\"\n\nSaying these words, the messenger clapped spurs to his horse, and was\nout of sight in an instant, leaving the poor farmer in a state of\nunabated terror. He went into the house, and reported the direful issue\nof last night's adventure to his wife and daughter. The sympathetic\ncommunications of their mutual fears increased their sorrow and\napprehension, till the females burst into tears, and the guidman himself\ngroaned, at the prospect of his inevitable ruin. During the day and the\nnight, the subject formed the continual theme of their conversation; and\nthe terror of meeting the sovereign, the weakness of the defence, and\nthe fear of ruinous consequences, alternated their influence over their\nclouded minds, without a moment's intermission of ease. The guidwife was\ndetermined she would not leave her husband in the hands of his enemies;\nLilly agreed to accompany them, at the request of her father; and Will\nCarr, with one or two of the farm-servants, were to go as exculpatory\nwitnesses. The farmer had in his grief resolved upon a candid defence.\nThe truth, he was satisfied, might bring him off, while any attempt at\nconcealment or falsification could not fail to hasten and increase the\npunishment he dreaded. At an early hour next day, the party were all on\ntheir way to Dunse; the farmer dressed in his long blue coat and blue\nbonnet, his wife with her manky kirtle and high-crowned mutch, bedizened\nwith large bows of red ribbons; and Lilly, with her \"Lincolme gown\" and\nwimple-bound hair, looking like the Queen of May herself. On their entry\ninto the town of Dunse, they were met by two men having the appearance\nof officers, who claimed them in the king's name as criminals, and\nconducted them to a small castle at the end of the town, at that time\nused as a garrison for the king's troops. After passing through a long\npassage (their hearts palpitating with terror and awe), they came to a\nroom of a large and stately appearance, hung round, as they could see by\ntheir side glances--for they were terrified to look up--with loose\nhangings of rich cloth, whereon were many curious figures, that seemed\nto stand out apart from that on which they were set forth. About the\nmiddle of the room--so far as they could guess by their oblique\ninvestigation--they were seated on a species of \"lang settle;\" and when\nthey found themselves seated, they began (after drawing nearer and\nnearer to each other) to look up and around.\n\nThere was a considerable number of individuals in the hall, some\nstanding and some sitting, and all dressed in the most gorgeous style.\nOn an elevated seat, covered by a temporary canopy of velvet, sat the\naugust monarch of Scotland, the Fifth James; and at his feet were three\nor four individuals in the habiliments of barons. All this was little\nsuited to calming the beating hearts of the simple individuals who were\nso strangely situated. There was not (and the circumstance seemed\nstrange) an ordinary individual present. Those who acted as officers\nwere clearly knights, or high gentlemen in the confidence of the king.\nAll was silence for a few minutes, when a loud voice called out the name\nof \"William Hume.\"\n\n\"Here,\" answered William, with a choking voice, while his wife and\ndaughter shook till their very clothes rustled.\n\n\"Stand up, sir,\" cried the same fearful voice again.\n\nWilliam obeyed; and now, unimaginable awe! the voice of Majesty itself\nsounded through the hall.\n\n\"Read the indictment, Dempster,\" said the King.\n\nThe indictment was accordingly read.\n\n\"Is it true, sir,\" began his Majesty, \"that thou didst harbour this man\ncalled Wat Wilson, knowing him to have stolen our mace, and thereafter\ndidst beat and confine our messengers who were sent to apprehend him?\"\n\nLike many other timid witnesses, William Hume, regained his\nself-possession the moment he was fairly committed to giving evidence by\na plain question being put to him.\n\n\"I cam here this day,\" replied William, looking up and around him with\nincreasing confidence, \"to tell your Highness God's truth. I canna deny\nthe charge.\"\n\n\"Knowest thou the punishment of deforcing the king's messengers?\"\nrejoined the King.\n\n\"No, yer Highness,\" replied William; \"but my fears tell me it's no\nsma'.\"\n\n\"Hast thou anything to say in palliation of thy crime?\"\n\n\"Owre muckle, I fear, yer Highness,\" answered William. \"I say owre\nmuckle; for now, when I look back upon the dementit proceedings o' that\nnicht, I have almost come to the conclusion that that gaberlunzie wha\nhas brought me into a' this trouble, was neither mair nor less than his\naugust Majesty wha\"----\n\n\"Who, who?\" cried the King impatiently; while several of the lords began\nto laugh, and whisper, \"He knows him, he knows him.\"\n\n\"--Than his august Majesty,\" continued William, \"wha haulds his court\nthere--there\"--(pointing his finger downwards.) \"To be plain, yer\nHighness, I do on my saul believe he was the Deevil himsel!\"\n\nThe king laughed a loud laugh, and all the barons burst fair out into a\nhearty \"guffaw;\" while some of them muttered, \"A compliment--a\ncompliment, in good faith, to the King\"--a whisper which, if William\nHume had heard, he might have construed into a hint that the gaberlunzie\nwas no other that the king himself; but, luckily for the naivete of\nWilliam's testimony, he remained in his ignorance.\n\n\"What, man!\" exclaimed the King, when he had again arranged his jaws\ninto something like gravity--\"Dost thou believe he was the Devil?\"\n\n\"Troth do I,\" replied William, now getting bolder by the laughter that\nhad rung in his ears; \"and the mair I think o' him and his wild and\nwonderfu' feiks and freits, the mair satisfied am I o't.\"\n\nWilliam's adherence to his position produced another burst of merriment.\n\n\"What _did_ he do,\" continued the King, \"to entitle him to that\ncharacter? It would ill become us to punish a subject for the acts of\nthe Evil One.\"\n\n\"What did he _no_ do, your Highness?\" ejaculated the farmer--\"he did\neverything the enemy could do, and man couldna. We were hauldin our\nMaiden when he cam to the door, and were determined no to let him in;\nbut he turned a' oor hearts in an instant, and the enemies o' his\nentrance becam the freends o' his presence. Then began he to act his\npart: he played as nae man ever played; drank as nae man ever drank;\ndanced, and made ithers dance, langer and blyther than ever man did on\nthe face o' this earth; caught men's hearts like bullfinches wi' his\nsangs, the women's by the rub o' his beard; and sent through a' and owre\na' sic a glamour and witchery o' fun, and frolic, and enjoyment--ay, and\nluve o' himsel--that nae mortal cratur was ever seen to hae sic power\nsince the days o' Adam.\"\n\nWilliam drew breath, and the king and lords again laughed heartily.\n\n\"But a' that was naething,\" continued William; \"I'm a plain man, as ye\nmay see--and wha, looking at me, would say that a mortal gaberlunzie\ncould twist me round his finger as easily as he could do a packthread?\nYet this beggar did that. Your Highness' troops cam to seize him--and\nwha before ever saw the guidman o' Cairnkibbie harbour a thief? The\nDeevil had thrown owre me and the hail menyie the charm o' his cantraps.\nWe swore we would defend him--ay, even though we saw the stowen mace in\nhis hand; we did defend him, and he had nae mair to do than to blaw in\noor lugs, when clap went the barn-doors, and a' yer Highness' knights\nwere imprisoned as if by magic. Could a beggar o' ordinar flesh and\nblude hae dune a' that, yer Highness?\"\n\nWilliam again drew breath, and again the hall resounded with the laugh\nof the king and his lords.\n\n\"But even a' that was little or naething,\" continued William again; \"for\nto pay us for a' the guid we had dune him, he made himsel invisible, and\nrode aff like a fire-flaught on ane o' the knight's horses; and frae\nthat eventfu hour to this, we hae ne'er seen his face.\"\n\n\"Art satisfied, my Lord of Ross?\" said the King in a whisper, to a lord\nthat sat beside him. \"Is our wager won? Have we, as we essayed,\nsucceeded in our undertaking? Have we in the form of a beggar, so\nwrought upon the hearts of the members of a Maiden feast, as to gain\ntheir love to the extent of making them defend the gaberlunzie against\nthe king's knights, inspiring them to fight, and win the day in a fought\nbattle, and latterly riding home on one of the enemy's horses? Ha! ha!\nwe opine we have--what say our judges?\"\n\n\"The game is up,\" replied the Lord of Ross. \"I acknowledge myself beat.\nYour Highness has won the day.\"\n\nAnother laugh sealed the triumph of the king, and William Hume stared in\namazement at the extraordinary mummery that was acted around him.\n\n\"William Hume,\" said the King, \"this is an artifice on thy part to\nescape our vengeance. I go to put on the black cap, and to return to\npronounce thy fate. Thou hast admitted the crime; and to lay it on the\ndevil's back, is only the common way of the wicked.\"\n\nLilly, on hearing the mention of the black cap, screamed, the mother\ncried for mercy, and the thunderstruck farmer waited to receive his\ndoom. The king went out, and returned in a short time in the cap of Wat\nWilson, holding in his hand the stolen mace. A new light broke in upon\nthe mind of the criminal--he perceived at once the identity of the king\nand the beggar; and the fears of all were in a moment dispelled.\n\n\"Stand up, Lilly Hume and Will Carr,\" said the monarch.\n\nThe voice of royalty sounded like a death-knell in the ears of the\nmaiden. Her mind ran back to that eventful hour when she told the beggar\nthe secret of her love; and she felt even yet the hug of the king, and\nthe royal kiss burning on her lips. She blushed to the temples, and\ncould scarcely stand without the support of her father, who now, when he\nsaw how the land lay, had recovered all his fortitude, with a portion of\nwell-founded hope that the services he performed to the beggar-king\nwould meet with their reward.\n\n\"So your faither, Lilly, will not allow you to marry Will Carr,\" resumed\nJames, \"because he is puir?\"\n\n\"Guid Lord!\" muttered William to himsel--\"hoo comes he to ken that\ntoo?--a family secret that I could scarcely breathe in my ain lug for\nits injustice, and now I see to be punished as it deserves.\"\n\nLilly hung her head. She could not open her lips. The mention of her\nhumble love by a king and in the presence of nobles, was so far beyond\nthe ordinary experience of her obscure life, and held such a contrast to\nthe secret breathings of her affection in her stolen meetings with her\nlover among the broom knowes of Cairnkibbie, that she thought the world\nitself was undergoing some extraordinary convulsion. Turning round, she\ncaught the eye of Will Carr, who, having more courage, infused some\nportion of his confidence into the blushing girl.\n\n\"Is that true, William Hume?\" rejoined James, who despaired of getting\nan answer from Lilly.\n\n\"Deed, an' it's owre true, yer Highness,\" answered the farmer; \"but I\nthought there wasna a mortal on earth knew the circumstance but mysel\nand my wife; for, begging your Highness' pardon, I was ashamed to tell\nit to the lassie hersel, for fear she might hae communicated it to\nWill's freends, wha are decent people, and canna help their poverty.\"\n\n\"Dost thou still stand to thy objection to the match?\" again asked\nJames.\n\n\"If your Royal Highness, as Wat Wilson,\" replied the farmer, smiling,\n\"could command me and the hail household o' Cairnkibbie to do your\nbidding, and turn us round your finger like a piece o' packthread, I\nmicht hae sma chance o' resistin yer authority as king o' Scotland. I\nhae nae objection noo to the match, seem that a king gies oot the bans.\"\n\n\"William Hume,\" resumed the laughing monarch, \"hear thy doom. For the\nlove thou didst extend and show to our royal person, we give thee a free\ngrant of the lands of Cairnkibbie, upon this one condition--that thou\nconsentest to the union of Lilly Hume with Will Carr, to whom we shall,\nout of our royal purse, give, as a marriage portion, two hundred marks.\"\n\n\"I canna disobey the command o' Wat Wilson,\" replied William with a dry\nsmile. \"He has already exercised great authority owre us a', and we\nwinna throw aff our allegiance in this eventfu day.\"\n\nA general laugh wound up the scene. The young couple were married, and a\nmerry wedding they had of it; but there was one great exception to the\ngeneral joy, and that was, that although there was many a good dancer\npresent, and Tam Lutar was not absent, there was not to be seen or heard\nthe jolly beggar who had, on the former occasion, been the soul of the\nMaiden. James became afterwards engaged in more serious concerns, and\nthere were few who knew anything of his nocturnal exploit. The Humes\nwere told to keep it a secret; and the lords who were present had too\nmuch regard for their king to expose his good-humoured eccentricities.\nWhen Hume became proprietor of Cairnkibbie, the people speculated; but\nlittle did they know, so well had the secret been kept, that the grant\nproceeded from the farmer's supposed misfortune, or that Wat Wilson the\nbeggar, who danced so jovially at the Maiden, was the individual who had\ntransformed William Hume from a simple farmer to one of the small Border\nlairds who held their heads so high in those days; and far less was it\nknown that the same individual had brought about the marriage of Lilly\nHume and Will Carr.\n\nThus have we attempted to describe one of those wild frolics in which\nthe young King James V. of Scotland occasionally indulged. If he had\nlived to an advanced age, his subjects might have had as much reason to\nadmire the king as they had to love the royal gaberlunzie, who, wherever\nhe took up his quarters, whether \"in a house in Aberdeen,\" or in the\nbarn of Cairnkibbie, sent the fire of his spirit of love and fun\nthroughout all with which he came in contact.\n\n\n\n\nTHE PROFESSOR'S TALES.\n\n\n\n\nEARLY RECOLLECTIONS OF A SON OF THE HILLS.\n\n\nI have oftentimes thought, what, I dare say, has been thought again and\nagain by thousands before I was born, and will be thought by as many\nmillions after I have ceased both to think and speak--I have thought\nthat, if any one were to give an exact transcript of his feelings and\nexperience, in early life in particular--without any connecting link\neven, beyond that of time and place--such a written record could not\nfail to be exceedingly interesting. The novelty of the scene; the\nuncloyed character of the feelings; the harpy-clutching nature of the\nimagination; the variety of sources within and without, from which\npleasure is derived and is derivable--all these form a mine of\ndelightful insight, which has not, perhaps, ever yet been exhausted--a\nmine conducting to, and losing itself in, that far-away central darkness\nwhich precedes perception, recollection, existence. I remember--and it\nis an awful remembrance--the death of my grandmother when I was only\nfour years old. There she lies in that bed. Alongside of that sheet,\nthere are my mother and the minister kneeling in prayer. The whisper is\nconveyed to the minister's ear--\"Sir, she has win to _rest_!\" Oh, that\nsweet word rest!--rest negative, rest positive--rest from, rest in, rest\namidst a sea of troubles--rest in an ocean of glorious happiness! \"Sir,\nshe has win to rest!\" I can never forget the words, nor the look, nor\nthe place, nor the all which then constituted _me_. The minister pauses\nin the middle of a sentence, he rises from his knees, and, taking my\nmother's hand in his, as well as mine in the other, he approaches the\nbed of death; but, O my soul, what an impression is made upon me! My\ngrandmother--the figure with the short cloak over her shoulders, the\ncheck apron, the tobacco-box, and the short cutty-pipe--the speaking,\nconversing, kind-hearted figure--what is _it now_? Asleep!--but the\neyes are open, and frightfully unmeaning. Asleep!--but the mouth is\nsomewhat awry, and there is an expression unknown, intolerable,\nterrible, all over the countenance.\n\nAnd this is death! I cannot stand it. I fly to the door--to the brae--to\nthe hill. I dash my face, shoulders and all, into a bracken bush, and\nweep, weep, weep myself asleep. When I awake, it is a dream; I am amused\nwith the white table-cloth, the bread and cheese, and wine bottle. I am\namused with the plate, salt, and earth placed on the breast of the\ncorpse. I am amused with the coffining; but, most of all--oh,\ndelightful!--with the funeral--the well-dressed people--the numbers, the\nservices of bun, shortbread, wine, and spirits; and above all, with\nvarious little bits and drops which fall to my share. I firmly believe I\ngot fuddled on the occasion. Such is man; for men are but children of a\nlarger growth. Now, there is only _one_ event, circumstance, incident,\nfirmly and fairly told--and it is interesting exceedingly: how\ninteresting, then, would all the incidents and events of early life be,\nwere they only narrated with equal faithfulness! So one may say; but, in\nso saying, they will be misled and mislead. There are few things which I\nremember so vividly as this. Death! I have seen thee since! Thou hast\ntorn from me mother, brother, friend, and, above and beyond all, thou\nhast been betwixt these arms, murdering her whom my soul loved--the\npartner of my life--the mother of my babes--the balm of my soul--the\nglory, ornament, and boast of my existence; and yet, and yet my\ngrandmother's death is more vividly imprinted on brain and heart than\nany other event of a similar nature. Proof impressions sell dear! and\nproof feelings--oh, how deep are the lines, how indelible the\nengravings! They are cut on steel with a graving tool of adamant. The\nheart and the brain must be reduced to their elemental dust, ere these\nimpressions can wear out--and yet I was only four years and six months\nold!\n\nI saw it--ay, and I see it still--a poor innocent lamb. I had kissed it,\nand hung about its neck on the sunny brae. People said it was not\nthriving: I would not believe it. It was my companion. I often fed it\nwith milk; put my finger into its little toothless mouth, and made it\nlap the invigorating and nourishing liquid. It had no parent, no friend,\nin a manner, but me, and I was only five years old, in petticoats; a\nvery semblance of humanity; a thing to be strode over in his path by\nmankind of ordinary stature. But there came a blight, a curse, a\ndreadful change, over my dear and endearing pet. It was torn--ay,\ndreadfully torn, by some nightly dog. When I first found it, it was\nscarcely alive, lying bleeding; its white, and soft, and smooth skin\ndragged in the mud, torn and untouchable. There was a knife applied; but\nnot to cure; it was to kill, to put out of pain. I could not stand it; I\nwent into convulsions, screamed, and almost tore myself to pieces. \"My\nlamb! my wee lambie! my dear, dear sweety!\"--but it had passed, and I\nwas alone in my existence. But, oh! it was a fearful lesson which I had\nlearned--a dreadful truth which I had ascertained. Youth, as well as\nage, is subject to death: dreadful!\n\nThere she sits in loveliness--there, there, in the midst of that hazel\nbush, snug in her retreat, her yellow bill projecting over the brow of\nher nest: smooth, black, and glittering are her feathers, and her eye is\nthe very balmy south of expression. Yet there is a watchfulness and a\ntimidity in her attitude and movement--she is not at ease, for that eye\nhas caught mine, as they protrude upon her betwixt two separated\nbranches; and, after two or three hesitating stirs, she is\nout--off--away; but perched on a neighbouring bough, to mark and watch\nmy proceedings. And _he_, too, is there; _he_, her companion and\nhelpmate; he who was singing, or rather whistling, so loud on that tall\nand overtopping birch; he who was making the setting sunlight glad with\nhis music--who was, doubtless, chanting of courtship, and love, and\nunion, and progeny. Yes! _he_ has left his branch and his sun; he has\ndropped down from his elevation, to inquire into the cause of that\nsudden chuckle, by which his lady bird has alarmed him. There are four\neyes upon me now, and all my proceedings are registered in two beating\nbosoms. But the nest is full--it is full of life--of young life--of the\ngorling in its hair, and incipient tail--of yellow gaping bills, all\nthrust upwards, and crying, as loud as attitude and cheep can do, \"Give,\ngive, give!\" Surely Solomon had never seen a blackbird's nest with\nyoung, else he had given it a place amongst his \"gives!\" This was my\nfirst nest. It was discovered when I was only five years old; it was\nvisited every day and every hour; the young ones grew apace; they\nfeathered into blackness; they hopped from their abode; they flew, or\nwere essaying to do so, when--O world! world! why, why, is it so with\nthee!--destruction came in a night, and the feathers of my young ones\nwere strewed around their once happy and crowded abode. There had been\nother eyes upon them than mine. Yes! eyes to which the night is as\nnoonday--vile, green, elongated eyes, and sharp, penetrating, and\nunsparing teeth, and claws, stretched, crooked, and clutching; and, in\nshort, the cat had devoured the whole family!--not one was left to the\ndistracted parents. I shall never, never forget their fluttering\nmovements, their chirpings, their restlessness, their ruffled feathers,\nand all but human speech. There was revenge in my young bosom--mad and\nterrible revenge. I snatched up the murderer--all unconscious as she was\nof her fault. I ran with her, like a fury, to a deep pool in the burn. I\ndashed her headlong into the waters--from which, of course, she readily\nescaped, and, eyeing me with a look of extreme surprise from the\nfurther bank, immediately vanished into the house. Though we were great\nfriends before this event--and I would gladly have renewed our\nintercourse afterwards, when my passion had subsided--yet Pussy never\nforgave me, at least I know that she never trusted me, for I could never\ncatch her again.\n\nThat's the pool--the very bumbling pool, where we bathed, and stood\nbeneath the cascade, for a whole summer's day. There were more than one\nor two either--there were many of us; for we collected as the day\nadvanced, and still those who were retreating, upon encountering those\nwho were advancing, would turn with them again, and renew their\nimmersions. It was summer--and such summer as youth (for I was only six)\nalone can experience--it was one long blaze of noontide radiance. The\nsun stationary, as in the valley of Jehosophat; the trees, green, leafy,\nshady, rejoicing; the very cattle dancing in upon the cooling element;\nand the grasshopper still dumb. The heat was intense, yet not\noverpowering; for we were naked--naked as were Adam and Eve prior to sin\nand shame--naked as is Apollo Belvidere, or the Venus de Medicis. We\nwere Nature's children, and she was kind to us; she gave us air that was\nbalm; sunbeams that wooed us from the pool; and water again that enticed\nus from the open air! What a day it was of fun and frolic, and splash,\nand squatter, and confusion! Now jumping from the brow into the deep;\nnow standing beneath the Grey Mare's Tail, the flashing cascade; now\nlaving--like Diana on Actaeon--the water from the pool on each other's\nlimbs and faces; now circling along the green bank, in sportive chase\nand mimic fray, and again couching neck deep in the pool. But the awful\ndinnle is on the breeze; the black south hath advanced rapidly upon\nmeridian day; the white and swollen clouds have boiled up into spongy\nfoam; and there runs a light blue vapour over the inky cloud beneath.\nHist!--whisht!--it's _thunner_! and, ere many minutes have escaped, we\nare each quaking every limb at our own firesides.\n\nMany recent winters have made me cry, What has become of winter? I\nwished Government would fit out an expedition to go in quest of him. He\nmust have been couching somewhere, the funny old rogue, behind the Pole;\nhe must have been coquetting with the beauties of Greenland or Nova\nZembla. He has, last season, condescended to give us a glimpse of his\nicy beard and hoary temples. Oh, I like the old fellow dearly!--but it\nis the old fellow only. As to him of modern times, I know not what to\nmake of him--a blustering, blubbering, braggadocio; making darkness his\npavilion, for no other purpose than to throw pailfuls of water on the\nheads of women and children; letting out his colds and influenzas from\nhis Baltic bags, and terrifying our citizens with \"auld wives,\" broken\nslates, and shivered tiles. But my winter of 1794--what a delightful\ncompanion he was! He did his work genteelly; his drift was a matter of a\nfew hours; but they were hours of vigorous and terrible exertion. Some\nten score of sheep, and some twenty shepherds, perished within a limited\nrange, in one wild and outrageous night. It was, indeed, sublime--even\nto me, a youth of eight years of age, it was fearfully sublime. Can\nanything be more beautiful than falling and newly-fallen snow. _There_\nyou see it above, and to a great height, shaping into varied and\nconvolving forms. It nears, it nears, it nears, and lights in your\nlittle hand, a feathery diamond, a crystallized vapour, an evanescent\nloveliness! But the tempest has sounded an assail, and the broadened\nflakes are comminuted into blinding drift--the earth beneath blows up to\nheaven, whilst the heaven thunders its vengeance upon the earth. The\nrestless snow whirls, eddies, rises, disperses, accumulates. Man cannot\nbreathe in the thick and toiling atmosphere. The wreaths swell into\nrounded and polished forms, and, on a sudden, disappear. The air has\ncleared, has stilled, and the sharp and consolidating frost has\ncommenced. What a sea of celestial brightness! The earth wrapped in an\nalabaster mantle, the folds of which are the folds of beauty and\nenchantment. Days of glory, and nights of splendour. The moon, in her\nown blue heaven, contracted to a small circumference of clear, gaseous\nlight; the hills, the hollows, the valleys, the muirs, the mosses, the\nwoodlands, the rocky eminences, the houses, the churchyards, the\ngardens, the whole of external nature beneath her, giving up again into\nthe biting and twinkling air an arrowy radiance of far-spread light.\nHere and there the course of a mountain torrent, or of a winding river,\nmarked with a jagged and broken line of black. The bay of the house-dog\nheard far off--the sound of the curlers' sport, composed of a mixture of\nmoanings--the \"sweep,\" the \"guard,\" the \"stroke,\" the homebred and\nhearty shout and guffaw--the Babel mixture of noises, coming softened\nand attuned from the distant pond. It is the \"how-dum-dead\" of winter.\nChristmas has passed, with its happiness wished and enjoyed--it is the\nlast night of the year; long and fondly-expected Hogmanay! We are\nabroad, amongst the farm-houses and cottars' huts--we pass nothing that\nemits smoke. Our disguises are fearful, even to ourselves, as we\nencounter each other unexpectedly at corners. Cakes, cheese, and all\nmanner of eatables are ours, even to profusion. And who would not endure\nmuch of life, to have such exquisite fan renewed!\n\nBut my first trout!--killed--fairly landed out of the water--dancing\nabout in all its speckled beauty on the green bank: this was indeed an\nevent--this was an achievement of no ordinary interest. Fishing! to thee\nI owe more of exquisite enjoyment than to any other amusement whatever.\nI am a mountain child--born, and nursed, and trotted about from my\ncradle on the winding banks of a bonny burn, through whose waters there\nlooked up eyes, and there waved fins and tails. I have taken, again and\nagain, in after life, the wings of the morning, and have made my\ndwelling with the stunted thorn, the corbie nest, the croaking raven,\nthe willie-wagtail, and the plover, and the snipe, and the lapwing. I\nhave seen mist--glorious mist!--in all its fantastic shapes, and\nopenings and closings, from the dense crawling blanket of wet to the\nbright, sun-penetrated, rent, and dispersing tatterment of haze. I have\nstudied all manner of cloud, from the swollen, puffed up, and rolling\ncastellation, to the smooth, level, and widespread overshadowing. The\nbreezes have been my companions all along. I could scan their merits and\ndemerits with a fisher's eye, from the rough and sudden puff, urging the\npool into ridges of ripple, to the steady, soft, and balmy breath that\nmerely brought the surface into a slight commotion. Burns, too, I have\nstudied, and streams, and gullets, and weils, and clay-brows, and\nbumbling pools. I have fished in the Caple with Willie Herdman. (See\nBlackwood, volume sixth.) I have fished in the Turrit with Stoddart.\n(See his admirable book on Angling.) But the true happiness of a fisher\nis solitude. Oh, for a fine morning in April, fresh, breezy, and\ndark!--a mountain glen, through which the Dar or the Brawn threads its\nmazy descent; the bottom clear, and purified by a recent flood; the\nwaters not yet completely subsided--something betwixt clear and muddy--a\nlight blue, and a still lighter brown.\n\nNot a shepherd, nor a sheep, nor a living creature within sight--nothing\nbut the sound of the passing stream, and the plash of the hooked and\nlanding trout. A whole immensity of unexhausted stream unfurled before\nme; the day yet in its nonage; my pockets stuffed with stomach store;\nmy mind at ease; my tongue ever and anon repeating, audibly--\"Now for\nit, this will do, there he has it, this way, sir, this way; nay, no\ntricks upon travellers--out, out you _must_ come--so, so, my pretty\nfellow, take it gently, take it gently!\" But I am forgetting my first\ntrout in the thousand and tens of thousands which have succeeded it. I\nhad a knife--I know not how I got it; perhaps I bought it at a Thornhill\nfair, with a sixpence which the guidman of Auchincairn gave me as my\nfairing, or perhaps--but no matter; as Wordsworth would say, \"I had a\nknife!\" and this knife was my humble servant in all manner of duties; it\nwas, in fact, my slave; it would cut bourtree, and fashion scout guns;\nit would make saugh whistles; it would fashion bows and arrows; it would\npare cheese, and open hazel nuts; it was more generally useful than\nHudibras' sword--and I felt its value. In fact, what was I without my\nknife? A soldier without his gun, a fiddler without his fiddle, a tailor\nwithout his shears. And yet this very knife, dear and useful as it was\nto me, I parted with--I gave it away, I fairly bartered it for a\nbait-hook with a horse-hair line attached to it. But then I had seen,\nand seen it for the first time, a trout caught with this very hook and\nline. Having a hook and line, I cut myself, from an adjoining wood, a\nrowan-tree fishing-rod, which might serve a double purpose, protecting\nme from the witches, and aiding me in catching trout. Away I went, \"owre\nmuirs and mosses mony o',\" to the glorious Caple, of which I had heard\nmuch. I baited my hook with some difficulty; for worms, whatever boys\nmay be, are not fond of _the sport_. I stood alongside of the deep black\npool. I saw the deception alight in the water, and heard the plump; it\nsank, and sank, by a certain law, which philosophers have named\ngravitation; it became first pale-white, then yellow, then almost red,\nas it sank away into the dark profundity of mossy water. It lay still\nand motionless for a few instants. At last it moved; ye powers! it cuts\nthe water like an edged instrument--it pulls--pulls strongly. The top of\nthe rod touches the surface of the pool--something must be done--I am\nall trepidation. But, by mere strength of pulling and of tackle, a large\nyellow-wamed, black-backed fellow lies panting on the sand bank at the\nfoot of the pool.\n\n    \"And its hame, hame, hame,\n      Fain wad I be;\n    And it's hame, hame, hame,\n      To my ain mammie!\"\n\nI ran home with all possible rapidity; and displayed, on a very large\npewter plate, my first trout, to my kind and affectionate parent. My\nhappiness was completed.\n\nThe woods!--I was born in the woods; man lives originally in the\nprimeval forests, with the exception, perhaps, of the Arab, the\nBabylonian, and Egyptian; wherever there was sufficient soil and\nsuitable climate, there was wood, from Lapland to Capetown, from the Bay\nof Biscay to the Yellow Sea. The American forests still exist, where\neven the axe of European civilization has not reached them. There woods\nare natural to man; he turns to them as to something, he cannot well\ntell how or why, congenial to his nature. At least so I have felt it,\nand feel it still in my recollections of early life. Plantations are\nstiff and artificial, generally consisting of a dense field of regular\nsimilarity; but natural wood, the offspring of our own soil, the\nindigenous plants of Scotland--the birch, for example, with its bending\nand elegant twigs, its white stem, and grateful fragrance; the eternal\noak, with its leafy shade; the tough ash, with its pointed leaf; the\nlowly hazel, with its straight stems and fragrant nuts; the saugh, the\nwillow, the thorn-sloe, the haw, the elder, the bourtree, the crabtree,\nthe briar, and the bramble--all these consociate lovingly, and actually\ndid consociate around, and almost over, the humble but snug cot where I\nfirst drew breath. There, my first herald of day was the song of the\nlinnet, thrush, or blackbird; there, my first efforts were made in\ngaining the top of some little ash or birch; there, my first riches\nconsisted in a few pints of ripened and browned nuts, kept in the leg of\na footless stocking, against the ensuing Halloween. But Halloween has\nnow become a mere name--_et preterea nihil_, still _stat nominis umbra_,\nsufficient to make me recollect with delight the exquisite pleasure\nwhich I enjoyed in anticipating as well as in observing this festival.\nThe crabtree yielded its reddest and ripest fruit for the occasion; a\ncasual apple was hooked over the hedge of the castle orchard for the\nsame purpose; but, above and beyond all, nuts were gathered, dried and\nstored away into sly corners and out-of-the-way places. What amusement\nso delightful as nut-gathering! There they hang to the afternoon sun,\nbrown and ready to escape from their husks or shells. There are twosome\nclusters, and threesome clusters; and if you could reach without shaking\nthat topmost branch (but there is the difficulty and the danger), you\nmay even secure a twelvesome cluster--a glorious knot of lovely\nassociates, that would crumble from their abodes into your hands like\ndried leaves! You pass on from bush to bush; but you have been\nanticipated. Will or Tam, or Jock or Jamie, or all four, have been there\nbefore you, and have left you nothing but a scanty gleaning. Here and\nthere, you are enabled to extract from the centre of a leafy shade, an\nill-ripened, because an unsound, single nut, which serves no better\npurpose than to break your jaws with its emptiness, in cracking it. But\nyou push away into the interior--the _terra incognita_ of the woodland;\nand, standing out by itself, aired and sunned all over, you find a\nlittle branch of scroggs, stinted and ill-leaved, but really covered all\nover with the most exquisite fruitage. Long, large, are the nuts you\nhave thus acquired; and you chuckle inwardly, as you contemplate a\nprize which has been reserved for your exclusive use. With what despatch\nare cluster after cluster accumulated into handfuls, and then again into\npocketfuls, and then, at last, into cap, hat, or bonnetfuls, till you\nbecome a kind of shellicoat, a walking _nuttery_, a thing of husks and\nkernels! The voice of your companions is loud and frequent, in the\nlanguage of inquiry into the state of your success; but you preserve a\ndeep silence, or answer prevaricatingly, by, \"you have got a few--not\nmany--very bad place this,\" &c. &c. At last you come upon them with the\nastonishment of display, and expose your treasure with ineffable\nfeelings of triumph. You have distanced them all. Your Halloween fortune\nis made--you are a happy being.\n\nBut Halloween comes at last--Scotland's Halloween--Burns' Halloween--the\nHalloween of centuries upon centuries--of the Celt amidst his mountains,\nthe Saxon in his valley, the Druid in his woods, King James the First in\nhis palace--and old Janet Smith in her humble cottage. It was at Janet\nSmith's that I held the first Halloween of which I have any distinct\nrecollection. There was a kind of couthiness about old Janet, which made\nher hearth the resort of all the young lads and lasses, boys and girls,\naround. On Halloween, Janet had on her best head-gear, her check apron,\nand clean neck napkin.\n\nWe had such burning of nuts, such pu'ing of stocks, such singing of\nsongs, such gibing, laughing, cracking, tale-telling, and, to crown all,\nsuch a gallant bowl of punch, made from a sonsy greybeard, which the\nyoung men had taken care to store previously with the needful, that I\nwent home half crazy, and, my mother affirmed, continued so for several\ndays to come.\n\nYe gods! what superstitious notions peopled my brain ever since! I\nrecollect such fears about the invisible world becoming visible--I\nwalked amidst a multitude of unseen terrors, ever ready to burst the\ncasement of immateriality, and to stand, naked, confessed, in material\nsemblance, before me. There was the fairy, the inhabitant of the green\nunploughed knowe, the green-coated imp, intent on child-stealing, or\nrather barter, and jingling her bridle through the high air on\nHalloween; there was the ghost, awful, solemn, and admonishing, pointing\nwith the finger to buried treasure or murder glen; there was the wraith,\nlittle less terrible, and clothed in a well-known presence,\nprognosticating death or sore affliction; there was the death-watch,\ndistinctly heard tick, ticking, all night long, in the bed-post; there\nwere the blue lights seen in round spots on the bed-head, on the very\nnight when three lads and three lasses perished in the boat; there was\nthe muckle deil himself, driving in a post-chaise, over the\n\"chaise-craig,\" or panting, like a bull-dog, at the nightly traveller's\nfeet; and, over and above all these, was \"Will o' the Wisp,\" skipping\nabout from one side of the moss to the other, and always placing itself\nbetwixt you and your home.\n\n\"D'ye see that?\" said my cousin, Nelly Laurie, a girl of eighteen, to\nme, when my years could be reckoned by the number of the muses.\n\n\"What! what is it!\" I exclaimed; and my attention was directed towards a\nmoss, or morass, through which our footpath lay, on our way home, about\nten o'clock of a dark, damp, and cloudy night.\n\n\"There! there it's again!\"\n\nThere is something in the word \"it\" most indefinitely terrific. Had she\nsaid _he_ or _she_, or even that ghost, or that wraith, or that bogle,\nit would not have been half so startling; but \"it\"--do you see it?--see\na thing without a name, a definition--a mere object, shorn of its\naccidents or qualities! This is indeed most awful. With fear and\ntrembling, I lifted up mine eyes, and beheld--O mercy, mercy!--a light\nin the middle of the moss, where no light should have been; and it was\nfloating and playing about, blue as indigo, and making the darkness\naround it visible. My joints relaxed, and I fell to the earth, incapable\nof motion. I was a mere bundle of loose and unconnected bones, sinews,\nand muscles. My cousin stood over me, incapable of deciding what would\nbe done; at last, it was discovered that to advance homewards was better\nthan to retrograde, as we were already more than half-way on our course.\nI was instructed to repeat, and to continue repeating, aloud, the Lord's\nprayer; whilst she, on whose shoulders I lay like a dead sheep,\ncontinued to give audible note to the tune of the twenty-third psalm. It\nwas, indeed, an odd concert for the devil, or his emissary, Mr. William\nyclept \"of the Wisp,\" to listen to; for, whilst I was roaring out, in\nperfect desperation, \"Our Father which art in Heaven,\" she was\narticulating, in a clear and overpowering tone, \"The Lord's my\nshepherd;\" whilst I slipt into \"Hallowed be thy name,\" she advanced\nwith, \"I'll not want--he makes me down to lie!\"--and, sure enough, down\n_both of us lay_, with a vengeance, in the midst of a moss-hole, into\nwhich, from terror and the darkness of the night, we had inadvertently\nplunged. \"What's the meaning of all this, sirs!\" exclaimed a well-known\nvoice. It was my mother's, God bless her! I clung to her like grim\ndeath, and never quitted my hold till I was snugly lodged above the\nfire, near to the lamp, and with dog, cat, my cousin, and my mother,\nbetwixt me and the dark doorway passage! I did not get a sound sleep for\nmonths and years afterwards! Such are thy miseries, unhallowed, unmanly\nsuperstition! Disease may relax the body and enervate the whole frame;\nbut thou art the disease of the soul, the fever of the brain.\nMisfortunes may be borne--pain must be endured till it is cured--but\nsuperstition such as _this_, is neither endurable nor curable. I am not\nyet completely cured of it, now that I have entered my sixtieth year.\nWere you to send me into an empty, dark church, at midnight, and through\na surrounding churchyard, peopled with the bodies of the dead, I durst\nnot go, though you gave me large sums of money. And is my judgment or\nreason in fault? Not at all; it is my feelings, my moral nature; my very\nblood has got such a blue tinge that I verily believe it would look like\nthe blue ink I am writing with, were it caught in a tea-cup! Sir Walter\nScott was bit, too, and so are nine-tenths of the _living_, though they\nwon't allow it. It has now become, like latent heat, an unseen agency;\nbut it still acts, and powerfully, on civilized, and even learned man!\n\nSeeking of birds' nests is a glorious amusement, and the knowledge of a\nlarge amount of these is a possession to be boasted of. I know of a\nlinnet's nest, says one--and I of a robin's, says another--I of\nshilfa's, says a third; but a fourth party comes in with his mavis, and\nall competition is at an end. The mavis is indeed a Scottish\nnightingale; he sings so mellow, and so varied--his brown spreckled\nbreast turned up to the rising or the setting sun, he pours o'er the\nwoodland a whole concert of harmony; and then he awakens into\ncompetition the blackbird, with his AEolian whistle; the green and grey\nlinnet, with their sharp and sweet tweedle-twee; the goldfinch, with his\nscarlet hood and song of flame; and the lark on the far-off fell, with\nhis minstrelsy of heaven's border. But what to a boy, a boy of eight or\nnine, is all this song and sunshine, in comparison with the fact--\"I\nknow of five birds' nests!\" Why, this annunciation is enough to settle\nyour doom--you may almost apprehend assassination, so much must you be\nenvied. But true it is, and of verity; I once knew five birds'\nnests--all containing eggs or young. Oh, I remember them as it were only\nof yesterday. Time has only engraved, with a tool of adamant, the\nimpression deeper and deeper. There was the snug and pendulous abode of\nthe little kitty-wren. It was beneath the brow of the burn, covered over\nfrom winds and rains by the incumbent bank and brushwood. It was a\nplum-pudding, with a hole made by your thumb on one side; a stationary\nfootball, composed of all things soft and comfortable, covered on the\noutside with fog or moss, and in the inside lined with the down of\nfeathers; and there were from sixteen to twenty little blue _peas_ in\nit; and the little hen sat on them daily, and opposed her little bill\nvigorously to my intrusive finger. She was not afraid--not she! she\nfought manfully, \"_pro aris et focis_;\" if not, as the Romans say,\n\"_manibus pedibusque_;\" nor, as the savage Saxons say, \"tooth and nail,\"\nnor, as the shepherd of Ettrick says, \"knees and elbows an' a',\"--still\nshe fought with the instruments with which nature had endowed her, with\nher bill and her little claws, and she fought it most vigorously. O\nNature! thou art a fearful mystery of wisdom--thou makest the meekest\nand most timid natures bold as lions when their progeny are concerned.\nLook at the hen--poor chucky, that scrapes her pittance from the doorway\nor dunghill, whom the veriest whelp which can bark and tumble over will\nscare into wing and screech--put the hen on eggs, give her an infant\nbrood, show her danger from dog, man, bear, or lion--who's afraid? Not\nshe at least; she will dance on the nose of the mastiff, she will fly in\nthe face of humanity, whether in the shape of man, woman, boy, or child.\nThe warrior looks fierce in his regimentals and armour; but what cares\nshe for guns, bayonets, swords, and pistols? Not a peppercorn! Her young\nones are behind her, and she will meet the armed monster, with foot,\nbill, wing, and with a fearful intonation of terrifying sounds. No\nHighland regiment, even at Prestonpans, ever set up a more alarming\nbattle shout. She is never conquered--like Achilles, she is\n\"invincible;\" but so soon as her progeny need no more her care or her\nprotection--so soon as they have been pecked into estrangement, and sent\nto scrape and provide for themselves--she resumes all her mild and\nfeminine qualities--she is plain \"chucky\" again! The linnet's nest is\ncovered with scales of a silky whiteness--the fine thin _laminae_ which\ncover the bark of the oak, of that very tree in the cleft of whose\nbranches her nursery is fixed. Inside of this little nicely-proportioned\ncup, there are five beautifully-spotted eggs--a white ground with a grey\nspot, flung over the whole shell with a most charming regularity. And\nthere is a nest in that stone wall which surrounds the plantation--it is\nthat of the stone-chatter--filthy, unsonsy bird, fit companion for the\nyellow yeldring, which conceals her treasure 'neath a tuft of grass on\nthe bent, and is trodden under foot. They are both deserving of all\ndetestation; the one for drinking every May morning of the\ndevil's-blood, and the other for many an impertinent jest and chatter.\nLet them perish in one day--let their eggs be blown, and hung up as\nornaments in strings along the brow of the household looking-glass, or\nsmashed to atoms by the stroke of an urchin previously blinded.\n\n    \"For he ne'er would be true, she averred,\n      That would rob a poor bird.\"\n\nIt was whilst engaged in robbery of this kind, that I was first checked\nby the tears and entreaties of Mary--of my dear cousin, Mary Morison.\nAlas! poor Mary! thou wast mild, beautiful, kind, merciful; yet thy days\nhave been numbered, and thou art gone--\n\n    \"Unde negant redire quenquam;\"\n\nand I, a lubber fiend in comparison with thy beauty and gentleness--I, a\npersonification of cruelty and horror in comparison with thee--I am\nstill alive, and thinking of thee--whilst thou art not even\n_dust_--\"_etiam periere ruinae_.\" Forty-five years confound even dust,\nand reduce to a fearful nonentity all that smiled, and charmed, and\ninspired. But of this enough--this way madness lies.\n\nThat was a terrible conflagration at Miramichi. I think I hear it\ncrashing, thundering, crackling on; before it the wild beasts, the\nserpents, the cattle--man! poor, houseless, helpless, smoke-enveloped,\nand perishing man. The reason why I can conceive so vividly of this\nawful and comparatively recent visitation is this--I was accustomed to\n\"set muirburn\" when a boy of nine or ten. The primeval heath of our\nmountains was strong, bushy; and, when dry in spring, exceedingly\ninflammable. I was a mountain child; for, on one side of my dwelling the\nheather withered and bloomed up to the door; and when one thinks of the\n\"bonny blooming heather,\" it is quite refreshing; it blooms when all\nthings around it are withering, during the later months of harvest; but\nthen, oh, then, it puts on such a russet robe of beauty--a dark evening\ncloud tipped and tinged with red--a mantle of black velvet spangled with\ngold; and its fragrance is honey steeped in myrrh. Yet when withered in\nMarch and April, it is an object of aversion to the sheep farmer, who\nprefers green grass and tender sward; and he issues to impatient boyhood\nthe sentence of destruction. Peat follows peat, kindled at one end, and\nheld by the other; the hillside or the level muir swarm with matches;\ncarefully is the ignition communicated to the dry and widespread heath;\nfrom spot to spot--in lines and in circles--it extends and unites--the\nwind is up, and one continuous blaze is the almost immediate\nconsequence. It is night, dark night--the clouds above catch and reflect\nthe uncertain gleam. The heathfowl wing their terrified flight--through,\nabove, and beneath the rolling and outspreading smoke. The flame gathers\ninto a point; and, at the more advanced part of the curvature, the force\nand blaze is terrible. A thousand tongues of fire shoot up into the\ndensity, and immediately disappear. Who now so venturous as to dash\nheadlong through the hottest flame, and to recover from beneath the\nchoking night his former position? There goes--a hat--a cap--a bonnet!\nThey have taken up their position in the pathway of the devouring flood\nof fire--and who so brave, so daring, as to extricate his own property\nfrom instant destruction? Hurrah! hurrah! from a score of throats, mixes\nwith the thunder, the crackle, the roll--all is power, novelty, ecstasy;\nbare heads and bare feet dance and show conspicuously upon the still\nsmoking turf. Here an adder is seen writhing and twisting in the agonies\nof death. There a half-burned hat evinces the fun and the folly of its\nowner. But, oh, horrible! what is that on the edge of vision, in the dim\nand hazy distance; it comes forward, bounding, turning, and bellowing,\nfearful and paralysing; it is the bull himself escaped from his fold,\nand maddened by the smoke and blazing atmosphere. He comes down upon the\ncharge, tail erect, and head down, tossing all that is solid under his\nfeet, and looking through the scattered earth with eyes glaring as well\nas reflecting fire. Achilles, Hector, Agamemnon, Wallace, Wellington,\nnever entered a field of battle with such a terrific presence. He seems\nas if he had just escaped from a Roman or Spanish arena. He is\ndesperately infuriated; and woe be to him who shall be overtaken by this\nmuscular tornado in his weakness and his fears! We are off!\n_diffugimus_! We are nowhere to be found. One has made for a distant\nwall surrounding the heather park, and is in the act of climbing it. The\nbull is in full chase, armed with two short but powerful horns. The\nfugitive has just laid hold of an upper stone to assist his ascent; but\nthe faithless help has given way; stone and he are lying alongside of\nthe dyke. The bull is in full scent. The noise has directed him. He\nnears--he nears--he nears! My God! the urchin's life is not worth two\nminutes' purchase.\n\n    \"Now, do thy speedy, Arnot Wull--\n    'Twill take it all to clear the bull!\"\n\nBravo! the summit is gained; the feet of the pursued are seen flying in\nmid air; he has sprung from the summit at least twenty feet; but the\nwhole weight of the pursuing brute is upon the crazy structure; it gives\nway with a crash, and down rush stones over stones, and the poor maimed,\nbruised brute over all. What! Mr. Bull! are you satisfied?--why not\ncontinue the sport? But the game is up; Will has regained his mother's\ndwelling, and now lives to record this wonderful, this all but\nmiraculous escape. Catch me setting muirburn again!\n\nI was very unwilling, at the age of nine, to be sent to school--I had\nformed for myself a home society with which I was perfectly satisfied;\nbut the decree had gone forth, and to school I must go, to learn Latin,\nconducted by a scholar of some standing. I had three miles to walk, but\nI would have wished them ten. Shakspeare shows the characters with whom\ntime gallops, and, amongst others, with a thief who is to be hanged on a\ncertain day--he might have mentioned a schoolboy, with shiny morning\nface, going unwillingly to school. When I came within sight of the\nlarge, many-windowed building, my heart beat sorely with alarm. All was\nnew to me--the boys, the masters, the house, the grounds around it; in\nfact, I was about to pass into a new state of being. I was bursting the\nshell, and coming forth into real life. Hitherto I had seen nobody but\nthe herd-callan, the Gibson family, my mother and _her_ aunts. I was\nexceeding smart and mischievous, no doubt; but my sphere of operations\nwas confined; now it was about to be enlarged--I must face three hundred\nboys and girls in the park or school play-ground of Wallacehall. All\neyes would be turned upon me; my very dress would undergo a scrutiny;\nnor would I easily escape the seasoning welcome, a hearty drubbing: all\nthis I anticipated, and all this and more I soon experienced. When I\nset up my face in the play-ground about half-past eight (nine being the\nschool hour), all was commotion. Alas! how many are now motionless who\nwere then active--_still_, who were then vociferous--_cold_, whose\nhearts were then beating warm and buoyant! When the disk of my\ncountenance appeared at the entrance into the park or play-ground, I was\nimmediately smoked. One fellow came up with the most affected\ngood-nature, and hoped my _mither_ was with me. I would be in great\ndanger, he said, without her. A second one bid me tie my shoe, and,\nwhilst I was stooping, hauled me heels over head. I had not fairly\nrecovered my natural position, when I was hit on the side of my head\nwith a ball, till my eyes glanced fire; anon, the drive, the crowd, the\nscramble carried me along with it completely off my feet. I was pelted,\nbruised, buffeted, and even kicked. Human nature could stand it no\nlonger--my spirit, even that of the Devil, was awakened within me--I\nstruck out around me with all my might, and at random--somebody's nose\nhappened to come in the way of my knuckles, and it bled; he struck back\nagain, and the blood sprang from my lips. A ring was formed--to it we\nwent--I, running in upon him head and shoulders, \"knees and elbows an'\na',\" laid him flat; unfair play was proclaimed--my antagonist was\nraised; but he was pale and breathless; he said he was _hearted_, and\nhad almost fainted; so I got a cheap victory, and eternal glory! I took\nmy place amongst the boys, unmolested and respected in future. I would\ntwaddle through a pretty decent volume, about public and private\neducation, and everybody but my bookseller would think I was speaking\nsense; but I will spare my reader and myself, and only add, in one\nsentence, that a public seminary, well conducted, is the best of all\nschools _for the world_--preparation for the buffetings, kickings, and\njostlings of life.\n\n\n\n\nTHE SUICIDE'S GRAVE.\n\n\nThe suicide's grave--where is it? It is at the meeting or crossing of\nthree public roads; the body has been thrust down, under the darkness of\nnight, into a coffinless grave. The breast, formerly torn and lacerated\nby passions, has lately been mangled into horrid deformity by the\npointed stake; and the traveller, as he walks, rides, or drives along,\nregards the spot with an eye of suspicion, and blesses his stars that he\nis a living man. The suicide's grave--where is it? On the bare and cold\ntop of that mountain which divides Lanark from Dumfriesshire. There you\nmay see congregated the hoody craw, and the grey gled, and the\neagle--but they are not congregated in peace and in friendship; they are\nfearful rivals, and terrible notes do they utter as they contend over\nthe body of her who was fair, and innocent, and happy. Alas, for Alice\nLorimer! Her story is a sad one, and it would require the pen of a\nSterne or a Wilson to do it justice. But the circumstances are of\nthemselves so full of mournful interest, that, even though stated in the\nmost simple language, they cannot fail, I should think, to\ninterest--nay, I will say it at once, to excite sympathy and pity; for\nwhy should we not pity the unhappy and unfortunate? They are pitied in\npoverty, in obscurity, in sickness, in death. Why should not we even\npity the guilty and abandoned? They are pitied in prison, on the day of\ntrial, and, most of all, in the hour of execution. There--even there--on\nthat platform, the murderer himself obtains that sympathy which we\nrefuse to the suicide. He who has only ruined, destroyed himself, is\nheld in greater abhorrence than the man who has ruined innocence, and\neven murdered the unhappy mother and unborn babe. Away with such unjust\nand ungenerous distinctions! Away, and to the highway and to the\nmountain top, and to the raven, and the falcon, and the eagle, with the\nseducer and the murderer; and let the poor suicide's grave, in future,\nbe in consecrated ground, where remembrance may soon overlook his woes\nand his very existence. Let him sleep unknowing and unknown in the\nchurchyard of his fathers. Alice Lorimer, I myself knew--I was\nintimately acquainted with her--I was a companion and a favourite. In\nfrosty weather we have frequented the same slides, and, when Alice was\nin danger of falling, I have caught her in my arms; we have hopped\ntogether for hours, playing at beds, and I even made Alice privy to all\nmy birds' nests. Hers was indeed a playful, but a gentle nature. Her\nheart was light, her voice clear and cheerful, and her whole affections\nwere engrossed by an only surviving parent, a widowed father. Alice was\nhis first-born and his last. Her mother had given her life at the\nexpense of her own; and her father, a shoemaker in the village of\nCroalchapel, devoted his whole spare time to the education of Alice.\nOften have I seen him, with the shoe on the last, and the elshun in his\nhand, pursuing his daily labours; but listening attentively all the\nwhile to Aly's readings. It was thus the child was taught to read the\nBible, to say her prayers, and ultimately to make her father's dinner\nand her own. Their cottage stood at what was termed the \"_head_ of the\ntown,\" on a sunny eminence looking to the west; behind it were the shade\nand the shelter of many trees, of the widespread oak, the tall ash, and\nthe sweetly-scented birch. On Sabbath afternoons, John Lorimer might be\nseen with his beloved child, clean and neatly dressed, ascending to the\ntop of the Bormoors braes; and, from the green summit of the eminence,\nlooking abroad over a landscape, certainly not surpassed by any which\nhas yet come under the writer's observation. On his one hand lay the\nworn and silver-clasped Bible, from which portions of the gospels were\noccasionally read, and on the other reposed Poodle, a little wire-haired\ndog of uncommon natural parts, which had been greatly improved by\neducation. Poodle could bark, and do all manner of things. His eyes\nwould \"glisten in friendship, or beam in reply.\" His nose was a\nplatform, from which many little pieces of bread had been tossed up into\nthe air, and afterwards snapped. He was all obedience to little Alice in\nparticular; and, at her bidding, would do anything but swim--he had,\nsomehow or other, contracted an aversion for the water, probably\nreferable to some mischievous boys having one day thrown him into\nCloseburn Loch.\n\nAlice and I went to school together. Her father's cottage lay directly\nin my way, and I called daily for the sweet girl. The other boys laughed\nat me, and made a fool of me, and asked me if I had seen Alice this\nmorning. I could not stand this; for I reverenced the little innocent\nlamb--so I hit the Mr. Impertinence a blow in the stomach, which sent\nhim reeling over several benches. I was no more taunted about Alice\nLorimer. There were a number of older and less feminine girls at the\nschool at this time. At play-hours these congregated by themselves\nbehind the school, whilst the boys occupied the play-ground in front.\nAlice was one day severely handled by a neighbour's daughter, who had\nfixed a quarrel on her, and then beat her severely, calling her all\nmanner of names, and, amongst others, honouring her with my own. I found\nthe poor child--for I was a few years older--in tears, as we met in the\nCastle-wood on our way home. It was with difficulty that I drew, bit by\nbit, the whole truth from her; and I resolved to punish, in one way or\nother, the rude and ill-hearted aggressor in this matter. I could not\nthink of punishing her myself; but I got Jean Watson, the servant-maid\nof the factor's clerk--a kind of haverel, who sometimes threw me an\napple over the hedge in passing--I got her to catch the culprit after\ndark, and to chastise her in her own way. I know not how it was\neffected, but it produced loud screams, and much merriment to me; for I\nwas lying all the while _perdu_ on the other side of the hedge. Tibby\nMurdoch was a most revengeful person--quite the antipodes to sweet Alice\nLorimer. She was the daughter of a quarryman, who had come, only a few\nyears before, to reside in the place, and work at the Laird of\nCloseburn's lime-works. How difficult it is for poor blind mortals to\nsee the consequences of their actions! Had I then fully perceived what\nthis act of retaliation was to lead to--what dismal consequences were to\nfollow--I would rather have sunk at once into perdition than have been\nconcerned in the affair. Tibby Murdoch's father was a brutal and a\npassionate man; and, understanding from his daughter how matters stood,\nand that poor Alice Lorimer had been the cause of his daughter's\ndisaster, he left his work at mid-day, and, taking a horse-whip in his\nhand, entered the shoemaker's shop, and not finding Alice, without more\nado, he proceeded to apply it to John Lorimer's shoulders. John Lorimer\nwas a little, but a strong and well-made man, and, though the other was\ntall, bull-headed, and extremely athletic, John immediately threw aside\nhis instruments of labour, which he felt it was dangerous to use on the\noccasion, and closed at once with the enemy. The struggle was severe;\nbut John Lorimer, having got a hold of Murdoch about the middle, fairly\nlifted him off his feet, and dashed him down on the floor. Murdoch's\nstrength, however, was superior to John's; and he contrived to roll over\nupon his enemy, and at last to thrust his head immediately under a\ngrate, which stood in a corner of the shop, containing live coals for\nmelting some rosin which was about to be used. The crucible, with the\nmelted and boiling rosin was upturned; and, unfortunately, the whole\ncontents were spread over John Lorimer's face. He was dreadfully burned;\nbut, what was worst of all, he lost the sight of one eye by the\naccident, and was very materially injured in the other. On an\ninvestigation by the proper authorities, Murdoch was convicted of the\nassault, and imprisoned for twelve calendar months. During his\nimprisonment, revenge upon poor Lorimer was his constant theme; and,\nwhen the time expired, he removed to the parish of Keir, and found\nemployment in a lime-work belonging to Dr. Hunter of Barjarg. He was\nstill, unfortunately, within an hour's walk of Croalchapel, and lay,\nlike a cat in a corner, watching his prey. In the meantime, John\nLorimer, though greatly deformed in his countenance, recovered the use\nof one eye, and pursued his quiet and useful labour as formerly. As his\ndaughter Alice advanced in years, she grew in loveliness and virtue. At\ntwelve years of age she became her father's housekeeper; and conducted\nherself in that capacity with surprising sense and prudence. It was at\nthis time that I left school for college; and I spent the last night\nwith Alice Lorimer. I was then a lad of sixteen, and she, as I have\nsaid, was twelve. What had I to do in the Castle-wood, by moonlight, and\nlate after her father had gone to rest, with Alice Lorimer! Gentle\nreader, have a little patience, and exercise a little Christian charity,\nand, upon my honour, I will tell you all! But, in the first place, I\nmust know your sex, and whether or not you have ever been sixteen years\nold. If your sex corresponds with my own, and your information on the\nother subject is equal to my own, then you will understand the thing\ncompletely. I was then as innocent as it is possible for a youth of\nsixteen to be; nay, I was absolutely shy and bashful to a great degree,\nand would have shrunk from any advances, even to innocent familiarity,\nwith the other sex. But I was not in love with Alice Lorimer. True, she\npreferred my company to that of any other person, save her\ndearly-beloved father; true, she sat on my knee, as she did on that of\nher parent, unconscious of any different feeling in the two positions;\nbut we never talked of love; I would as soon have thought of talking of\nour being king and queen; and as to Alice, her friendship for me was as\npure as the love of angels. She could not think of parting with me--of\nperhaps (and she burst into tears) never seeing me again. I must write\nto her--and I must come back and see her, and talk funnily to her\nfather, who liked a joke--and I must--I forget how many \"musts\" there\nwere; but they lasted till half-past one o'clock. I parted with her at\nher father's door. I never saw her again!\n\nI was coming down Enterkin late in a fine moonlight night in the spring\nof 1806. I was on my way to join a family in Galloway, where I long\nacted in the capacity of tutor. I had then attained my twenty-first\nyear; and I chanced to be calculating--as I expected seeing Alice\nLorimer on the following day--what her age must be. Let me see, said I,\nso audibly that I started at my own utterance, as did a little pony I\nrode; and what followed was the sum of my reflections. I calculated, by\nthe common rule of proportion, that if Alice was twelve when I was\nsixteen, she would be seventeen now that I was twenty-one. Seventeen! I\nrepeated, just seventeen!--and I urged on the pony instinctively, as if\nhastening towards Croalchapel. But I had been five years at Edinburgh at\nCollege. What a change had come over the spirit of my dreams during that\nperiod! I had had to contend with fortune in many ways; had been often\ndisappointed, and sometimes driven almost to despair; again I had\nprospered, got into lucrative employment, become a member of speaking\nsocieties, distinguished myself by talking sense and nonsense right and\nleft. I had spent many merry evenings in Johnie Dowie's; and had seen\nLady Charlotte Campbell and Tom Sheridan in a box at the theatre. In\nfact, I was not now the same being I was when I left for College; and I\nfelt that, however fair and faultless Alice Lorimer might be, she could\nnever be mine--I could never be hers; our fortunes were separated by a\nbarrier which, when I went to College, I did not clearly perceive. In\nfact, my ambition now taught me to aim at the bar or the church; and I\nknew that, for years to come, I must be contented with a single life,\nwhich, in Edinburgh in particular, I had learned to endure without\nmurmuring. Yet I thought of poor Alice with most kindly feelings, and\nhad some secret doubts upon the propriety of exposing myself in her\npresence to a revival of old times and former feelings. In this tone of\nmind I was jogging on, with half a bottle of Mrs. Otto's (of Lead-hills)\nbest port wine under my belt, and endeavouring to collect some rhymes to\nthe word Lorimer; but either the muse was unpropitious, or the word,\nlike that mentioned in Horace, refused to stand in verse; it so happened\nthat I had given up the effort, and was about to dismiss the subject\naltogether, when I discovered, near the bottom of the pass, a number of\nfigures advancing upon me in an opposite direction. As they came up the\npass, under a meridian moon, I could discover that they carried\nsomething on a barrow, which, on nearer inspection, I found to be a\ncoffin. I drew my pony to the side of the road, lifted my hat\nreverentially, and the party, consisting of upwards of twenty, passed in\nsolemn silence. The incident was a little startling, and somewhat\nunnatural, not to say superhuman; for, why were these people carrying a\ncoffin up the long and narrow pass which separates Lanark from\nDumfriesshire, so late at night, and in such mysterious silence? A\nthought struck me, which contributed not a little to ease my mind in\nregard to supernaturals; were they a company of smugglers from Bowness,\ntaking this method of carrying forward their untaxed goods to Lanark and\nGlasgow? Ruminating on this subject, and laughing inwardly at my own\ningenuity and discernment, I arrived at last at Thornhill, where I\nremained for the night. Next morning I reached Croalchapel, on my way to\nmy birthplace. I went up to that very door at which I had parted with\nAlice, some five years before, and endeavoured to open it; but it was\nshut and locked. I looked in at the end-window, above the fire-place;\nbut there was neither fire nor inhabitant--all was silence. My heart\nsank within me; and a neighbour, who saw my ignorance and mistake,\nadvertised me that both parent and child were no more; and that Alice\nLorimer was _buried_!--here he hesitated, and seemed to retract the\nexpression--\"at least,\" said he, \"committed to the earth last night!\"\n\n\"Was she not buried by her father in the burial-ground of the Lorimers\nof Closeburn?\" said I, hastily, and in an agitated tone. The man looked\nme in the face attentively, and, probably then for the first time\nrecognising me, waved his hand, burst into tears, and left me. I\nhastened to the home of my fathers, half distracted. My mother still\nlived and enjoyed good health--from her I learned the following\nparticulars.\n\nJohn Lorimer's sight, she said, served him for a time, during which he\nwrought as usual, and his daughter grew to be a tall and handsome woman;\nbut at last it began to fail, and he would put the elshun into a wrong\nplace, or thrust it into his hand. Alice perceived this, and was most\nanxious to provide for her father under this irremediable calamity. She\ntook in linen and bleached it on the bonny knowe among the gowans; she\nspan yarn, and sold it at Thornhill fairs; in short, she did all she\ncould to support herself and her father in an honest and honourable way.\nBut it was a severe struggle to make ends meet. In the meantime she had\nseveral offers of marriage; but refused them all, as she could not think\nof leaving her poor blind parent alone and helpless, and none of her\nlovers were rich enough to present a home to a supernumerary inmate. One\nevening, whilst, after a severe day's labour, she was sitting with old\nPoodle (her constant companion, but now likewise blind) by the fire, Mr.\nJohn Murdoch made his appearance. Her father had gone early to bed in\nthe shop end of the house, and did not know of the man's visit. He came,\nhe said, as a repentant sinner to relieve her necessities. He had\noccasioned her father's blindness, and he was glad to be made the\ninstrument of bringing some pecuniary relief. Thus saying, he put into\nher hands a five-pound note, and, without waiting for a reply, took his\ndeparture. This startled poor Alice not a little; she looked at the\nmoney, then thought of the man, and again listened to see if her father\nwas sleeping--at last, she put it into her chest, determined not to make\nuse of it unless in case of necessity. The factor, who had hitherto been\nlenient, became urgent for the rent. There were two years due, and the\nfive-pound note exactly covered the debt; away therefore it went into\nthe factor's hands, and poor Alice returned thanks on her knees to\nHeaven, that had sent her the means of keeping from her father the\nknowledge of their situation.\n\nIn a few days Murdoch found her at the washing-green, and entered more\nparticularly into the history of the money. He said it had been sent by\none who had seen and admired her. He was on a visit at Barjarg, the\nproprietor being his uncle. He was the son and heir of a very rich man,\nnot expected to live many months. He was determined to please himself in\nmarrying, having observed great misery arise from adopting a contrary\nplan and he wished, in fine, to cultivate a further acquaintance with\nAlice, to whom he had sent another five-pound note in the meantime. In\nshort, after exhibiting great reluctance to agree to a secret interview,\nand after having again and again tried to get words to communicate the\nwhole matter to her father, a young gentleman of gaudy and genteel\nappearance made his way out of the adjoining wood, and was introduced\nby Murdoch as young Johnstone of Westerhall. Few words passed--poor\nAlice was quite nonplussed--she felt that she was not equal to this\nawful trial, and yet there was something fearfully pleasant in it. A\nyoung man, handsome and rich--her father blind and helpless--her hand\nquite at her own disposal--and independence and comfort brought to the\ngood man's house for life. Her lover, however, did not press the thing\nfurther that time; he took his departure along with Murdoch, and\nAlice was a second time left to her own reflections. These, however,\nsoon informed her that she was on the brink of perdition. She ran at\nonce to her father, and, in a paroxysm of feeling, informed him of all\nthat had passed. He reproved her, but gently, for her having devoted the\nmoney to the purpose which she mentioned; informed her that he was\nricher than she supposed, for he had just five pounds which her sainted\nmother had put into his hand on the marriage day; and that he was\nkeeping, and had kept it sacred against the expenses of his funeral. He\nwould now willingly give it to recover their house, and to free her from\nall temptation to sin. Alice wept; but she felt comforted in the\nassurance that, by repaying the money, and breaking off all connection\nwith Murdoch and Johnstone, she was doing the right and the safe thing.\nAccordingly, she went to bed with a satisfied mind, determined next day\nto find out Murdoch's dwelling, and have everything settled to her\nfather's advice and her own wish. She dressed herself in her best; and\nset out, soon after breakfast, for Barjarg Castle, never to see her\nfather again. She was betrayed by the revengeful Murdoch to a\ndissipated, a heartless debauchee; was carried by force betwixt Murdoch\nand him in a chaise to Dumfries; was lodged by Johnstone in convenient\nquarters. Every art was used to reconcile her to her situation: but all\nin vain; she stood her trials nobly; detected the old game of a private\nmarriage; and afterwards refused to be united to Johnstone on any terms\nwhatever. But in the meantime, poor John Lorimer missed his daughter,\nand immediately guessed the cause of it. Tibby Murdoch took care to\ninform him, for his comfort, that Alice had run away with the young\nLaird of Westerha', and, giggling and laughing all the while, that they\nwere living very comfortably and lovingly in Dumfries. The blind man\nknew this to be all a lie, but he knew enough to kill him; he knew that\nhis daughter was young and beautiful--that a villain had been\nendeavouring to inveigle her--that a still greater villain, Murdoch, had\nbetrayed her--and that, in a word, she was now a poor dishonoured woman.\nHe knew, or thought he knew, all this, and was found dead next morning\nin his bed. The doctors said he died of apoplexy! If it was, it was a\nmental apoplexy. Tired with fruitless efforts to gain his purpose,\nJohnstone at last permitted Alice to depart. In a few hours she was at\nher father's house; but it was desolate and silent. A paper, which was\nput into my hands, was evidently written by Alice. She expressed her\ndetermination to follow her dear father into another and a better world,\nand hoped Heaven would forgive her. It was her funeral I met at\nEnterkin. Hers was\n\n    \"The poor suicide's grave.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE SALMON-FISHER OF UDOLL.\n\n\nIn the autumn of 1759, the Bay of Udoll, an arm of the sea which\nintersects the southern shore of the Frith of Cromarty, was occupied by\ntwo large salmon wears, the property of one Allan Thomson, a native of\nthe province of Moray, who had settled in this part of the country a few\nmonths before. He was a thin, athletic, raw-boned man, of about five\nfeet ten, well nigh in his thirtieth year, but apparently younger; erect\nand clean-limbed, with a set of handsome features, bright intelligent\neyes, and a profusion of dark-brown hair, curling round an ample expanse\nof forehead. For the first twenty years of his life, he had lived about\na farm-house, tending cattle when a boy, and guiding the plough when he\nhad grown up; he then travelled into England, where he wrought about\nseven years as a common labourer. A novelist would scarcely make choice\nof such a person for the hero of a tale; but men are to be estimated\nrather by the size and colour of their minds, than the complexion of\ntheir circumstances; and this ploughman and labourer of the north was by\nno means a very common man. For the latter half of his life, he had\npursued, in all his undertakings, one main design. He saw his brother\nrustics tied down by circumstance--that destiny of vulgar minds--to a\nyouth of toil and dependence, and an old age of destitution and\nwretchedness; and, with a force of character which, had he been placed\nat his outset on what may be termed the table-land of fortune, would\nhave raised him to her higher pinnacles, he persisted in adding shilling\nto shilling and pound to pound, not in the sordid spirit of the miser,\nbut in the hope that his little hoard might yet serve him as a kind of\nstepping-stone in rising to a more comfortable place in society. Nor\nwere his desires fixed very high; for, convinced that independence and\nthe happiness which springs from situation in life lie within the reach\nof the frugal farmer of sixty or eighty acres, he moulded his ambition\non the conviction; and scarcely looked beyond the period at which he\nanticipated his savings would enable him to take his place among the\nhumbler tenantry of the country.\n\nOur firths and estuaries at this period abounded with salmon--one of the\nearliest exports of the kingdom; but from the low state into which\ncommerce had sunk in the northern districts, and the irregularity of the\ncommunication kept up between them and the sister kingdom, by far the\ngreater part caught on our shores were consumed by the inhabitants. And\nso little were they deemed a luxury, that it was by no means uncommon,\nit is said, for servants to stipulate with their masters that they\nshould not have to diet on salmon oftener than thrice a-week. Thomson,\nhowever, had seen quite enough, when in England, to convince him, that,\nmeanly as they were esteemed by his countryfolks, they might be rendered\nthe staple of a profitable trade; and, removing to the vicinity of\nCromarty, for the facilities it afforded in trading to the capital, he\nlaunched boldly into the speculation. He erected his two wears with his\nown hands; built himself a cottage of sods on the gorge of a little\nravine, sprinkled over with bushes of alder and hazel; entered into\ncorrespondence with a London merchant, whom he engaged as his agent; and\nbegan to export his fish by two large sloops, which plied, at this\nperiod, between the neighbouring port and the capital. His fishings were\nabundant, and his agent an honest one; and he soon began to realize the\nsums he had expended in establishing himself in the trade.\n\nCould any one anticipate that a story of fondly-cherished, but hapless\nattachment--of one heart blighted for ever, and another fatally\nbroken--was to follow such an introduction?\n\nThe first season of Thomson's speculation had come to a close; winter\nset in; and, with scarcely a single acquaintance among the people in the\nneighbourhood, and little to employ him, he had to draw for amusement on\nhis own resources alone. He had formed, when a boy, a taste for reading;\nand might now be found in the long evenings, hanging over a book, beside\nthe fire; by day, he went sauntering among the fields, calculating on\nthe advantages of every agricultural improvement; or attended the fairs\nand trysts of the country, to speculate on the profits of the drover and\ncattle-feeder, and make himself acquainted with all the little mysteries\nof bargain-making.\n\nThere holds, early in November, a famous cattle market in the ancient\nbarony of Ferntosh; and Thomson had set out to attend it. The morning\nwas clear and frosty, and he felt buoyant of heart and limb, as passing\nwestwards along the shore, he saw the huge Ben-Nevis towering darker and\nmore loftily over the Frith as he advanced; or turned aside, from time\nto time, to explore some ancient burying-ground or Danish encampment.\nThere is not a tract of country of equal extent in the three kingdoms,\nwhere antiquities of this class lie thicker than in that northern strip\nof the parish of Resolis which bounds on the Cromarty Frith. The old\ncastle of Craig House, a venerable, time-shattered building, detained\nhim, amid its broken arches, for hours; and he was only reminded of the\nultimate object of his journey, when, on surveying the moor from the\nupper bartizan, he saw that the groups of men and cattle which, since\nmorning, had been mottling in succession the track leading to the fair,\nwere all gone out of sight; and that, far as the eye could reach not a\nhuman figure was to be seen. The whole population of the country seemed\nto have gone to the fair. He quitted the ruins, and, after walking\nsmartly over the heathy ridge to the west, and through the long\nbirch-wood of Kinbeakie, he reached about mid-day the little straggling\nvillage at which the market holds.\n\nThomson had never before attended a thoroughly Highland market; and the\nscene now presented was wholly new to him. The area it occupied was an\nirregular opening in the middle of the village, broken by ruts, and\ndung-hills, and heaps of stone. In front of the little turf-houses on\neither side, there was a row of booths, constructed mostly of poles and\nblankets, in which much whisky, and a few of the simpler articles of\nforeign merchandise, were sold. In the middle of the open space, there\nwere carts and benches, laden with the rude manufactures of the\ncountry--Highland brogues and blankets; bowls and platters of beech; a\nspecies of horse and cattle harness, formed of the twisted twigs of\nbirch; bundles of split fir, for lath and torches; and hair tackle and\nnets, for fishermen. Nearly seven thousand persons, male and female,\nthronged the area bustling and busy, and in continual motion, like the\ntides and eddies of two rivers at their confluence. There were\ncountrywomen, with their shaggy little horses, laden with cheese and\nbutter; Highlanders from the far hills, with droves of sheep and cattle;\nshoemakers and weavers, from the neighbouring villages, with bales of\nwebs and wallets of shoes; farmers and fishermen, engaged as it chanced\nin buying or selling; bevies of bonny lasses, attired in their gayest;\nploughmen and mechanics; drovers, butchers, and herd-boys. Whisky flowed\nabundantly, whether bargain-makers bought or sold, or friends met or\nparted; and, as the day wore later, the confusion and bustle of the\ncrowd increased. A Highland tryst, even in the present age, rarely\npasses without witnessing a fray; and the Highlanders, seventy years\nago, were of more combative dispositions than they are now; but Thomson,\nwho had neither friend nor enemy among the thousands around him, neither\nquarreled himself, nor interfered in the quarrels of others. He merely\nstood and looked on, as a European would among the frays of one of the\ngreat fairs of Bagdad or Astracan.\n\nHe was passing through the crowd, towards evening, in front of one of\nthe dingier cottages, when a sudden burst of oaths and exclamations rose\nfrom within, and the inmates came pouring out pell-mell at the door, to\nthrottle and pummel one another, in inextricable confusion. A grey\nheaded old man, of great apparent strength, who seemed by far the most\nformidable of the combatants, was engaged in desperate battle with two\nyoung fellows from the remote Highlands, while all the others were\nmatched man to man. Thomson, whose residence in England had taught him\nvery different notions of fair play and the ring, was on the eve of\nforgetting his caution and interfering; but the interference proved\nunnecessary. Ere he had stepped up to the combatants, the old man, with\na vigour little lessened by age, had shaken off both his opponents; and,\nthough they stood glaring at him like tiger cats, neither of them seemed\nin the least inclined to renew the attack.\n\n\"Twa mean pitiful kerns,\" exclaimed the old man, \"to tak odds against\nane auld enough to be their faither! an that, too, after burning my loof\nwi' the het airn! But I hae noited their twa heads thegither! Sic a\ntrick!--to bid me stir up the fire, after they had heated the wrang end\no' the poker! Deil but I hae a guid mind to gie them baith mair o't\nyet!\"\n\nEre he could make good his threat, however, his daughter, a\ndelicate-looking girl of nineteen, came rushing up to him through the\ncrowd. \"Father!\" she exclaimed, \"dearest father! let us away. For my\nsake, if not your own, let these wild men alone; they always carry\nknives; and, besides, you will bring all of their clan upon you that are\nat the tryst, and you will be murdered.\"\n\n\"No muckle danger frae that, Lillias,\" said the old man. \"I hae little\nfear frae ony ane o' them; an' if they come by twasome, I hae my friends\nhere to. The ill-deedy wratches, to blister a' my loof wi' the poker!\nBut come awa, lassie; your advice is, I daresay, best after a'.\"\n\nThe old man quitted the place with his daughter; and, for the time,\nThomson saw no more of him. As the night approached, the Highlanders\nbecame more noisy and turbulent; they drank, and disputed, and drove\ntheir very bargains at the dirk's point; and, as the salmon-fisher\npassed through the village for the last time, he could see the waving of\nbludgeons, and hear the formidable war-cry of one of the clans, with the\nequally formidable, \"Hilloa! help for Cromarty!\" echoing on every side\nof him. He kept coolly on his way, however, without waiting the result;\nand while yet several miles from the shores of Udoll, daylight had\ndeparted, and the moon at full had risen, red and huge in the frosty\natmosphere, over the bleak hill of Nigg.\n\nHe had reached the burn of Newhall--a small stream, which, after winding\nfor several miles between its double row of alders, and its thickets of\ngorse and hazel, falls into the upper part of the bay--and was\ncautiously picking his way, by the light of the moon, along a narrow\npathway which winds among the bushes. There are few places in the\ncountry of worse repute among believers in the supernatural than the\nburn of Newhall; and its character seventy years ago was even worse than\nit is at present. Witch meetings without number have been held on its\nbanks, and dead lights have been seen hovering over its deeper pools.\nSportsmen have charged their fowling-pieces with silver when crossing it\nin the night-time; and I remember an old man who never approached it\nafter dark without fixing a bayonet on the head of his staff. Thomson,\nhowever, was but little influenced by the beliefs of the period; and he\nwas passing under the shadow of the alders, with more of this world than\nof the other in his thoughts, when the silence was suddenly broken by a\nburst of threats and exclamations, as if several men had fallen\na-fighting, scarcely fifty yards away, without any preliminary quarrel;\nand, with the gruffer noises, there mingled the shrieks and entreaties\nof a female. Thomson grasped his stick and sprang forward. He reached an\nopening among the bushes, and saw in the imperfect light the old robust\nLowlander of the previous fray attacked by two men armed with bludgeons,\nand defending himself manfully with his staff. The old man's daughter,\nwho had clung round the knees of one of the ruffians, was already thrown\nto the ground and trampled under foot. An exclamation of wrath and\nhorror burst from the high-spirited fisherman, as, rushing upon the\nfellow like a tiger from its jungle, he caught the stroke aimed at him\non his stick, and with a sidelong blow on the temple, felled him to the\nground. At the instant he fell, a gigantic Highlander leaped from among\nthe bushes, and raising his huge arm, discharged a tremendous blow at\nthe head of the fisherman, who, though taken unawares and at a\ndisadvantage, succeeded, notwithstanding, in transferring it to his left\nshoulder, where it fell broken and weak. A desperate but brief combat\nensued. The ferocity and ponderous strength of the Celt, found their\nmore than match in the cool, vigilant skill, and leopard-like agility of\nthe Lowland Scot; for the latter, after discharging a storm of blows on\nthe head, face, and shoulders of the giant, until he staggered, at\nlength struck his bludgeon out of his hand, and prostrated his whole\nhuge length by dashing his stick end-long against his breast. At nearly\nthe same moment the burly old farmer, who had grappled with his\nantagonist, had succeeded in flinging him, stunned and senseless,\nagainst the gnarled root of an alder; and the three ruffians--for the\nfirst had not yet recovered--lay stretched on the grass. Ere they could\nsecure them, however, a shrill whistle was heard echoing from among the\nalders, scarcely a hundred yards away. \"We had better get home,\" said\nThomson to the old man, \"ere these fellows are reinforced by their\nbrother ruffians in the wood.\" And, supporting the maiden with his one\nhand, and grasping his stick with the other, he plunged among the bushes\nin the direction of the path, and, gaining it, passed onward, lightly\nand hurriedly, with his charge; the old man followed more heavily\nbehind; and, in somewhat less than an hour after, they were all seated\nbeside the hearth of the latter, in the farm-house of Meikle Farness.\n\nIt is now more than forty years since the last stone of the very\nfoundation has disappeared; but the little grassy eminence on which the\nhouse stood may still be seen. There is a deep-wooded ravine behind,\nwhich, after winding through the table-land of the parish, like a huge\ncrooked furrow--the bed evidently of some antediluvian stream--opens far\nbelow to the sea; an undulating tract of field and moor--with here and\nthere a thicket of bushes, and here and there a heap of stone--spreads\nin front. When I last looked on the scene, 'twas in the evening of a\npleasant day in June. One half the eminence was bathed in the red light\nof the setting sun--the other lay brown and dark in the shadow. A flock\nof sheep were scattered over the sunny side; the herd-boy sat on the\ntop, solacing his leisure with a music famous in the pastoral history of\nScotland, but now well-nigh exploded--that of the _stock_ and _horn_;\nand the air seemed filled with its echoes. I stood picturing to myself\nthe appearance of the place, ere all the inmates of this evening, young\nand old, had gone to the churchyard, and left no successors behind them;\nand as I sighed over the vanity of human hopes, I could almost fancy I\nsaw an apparition of the cottage rising on the knoll. I could see the\ndark turf walls; the little square windows, barred below and glazed\nabove; the straw roof, embossed with moss and stone-crop; and, high\noverhead, the row of venerable elms, with their gnarled trunks and\ntwisted branches that rose out of the garden wall. Fancy gives an\ninterest to all her pictures--yes, even when the subject is but a humble\ncottage; and when we think of human enjoyment--of the pride of strength\nand the light of beauty--in connection with a few mouldering and\nnameless bones hidden deep from the sun, there is a sad poetry in the\ncontrast which rarely fails to affect the heart. It is now two thousand\nyears since Horace sung of the security of the lowly, and the\nunfluctuating nature of their enjoyments; and every year of the two\nthousand has been adding proof to proof that the poet, when he chose his\ntheme, must have thrown aside his philosophy. But the inmates of the\nfarm-house thought little this evening of coming misfortune--nor would\nit have been well if they had; their sorrow was neither heightened nor\nhastened by their joy.\n\nOld William Stewart, the farmer, was one of a class well-nigh worn out\nin the southern Lowlands, even at this period; but which still comprised\nin the northern districts no inconsiderable portion of the people; and\nwhich must always obtain in countries only partially civilized and\nlittle amenable to the laws. Man is a fighting animal from very\ninstinct; and his second nature, custom, mightily improves the\npropensity. A person naturally courageous, who has defended himself\nsuccessfully in half-a-dozen different frays, will, very probably, begin\nthe seventh himself; and there are few who have fought often and well\nfor safety and the right, who have not at length learned to love\nfighting for its own sake. The old farmer had been a man of war from his\nyouth. He had fought at fairs, and trysts, and weddings, and funerals;\nand, without one ill-natured or malignant element in his composition,\nhad broken more heads than any two men in the country side. His late\nquarrel at the tryst, and the much more serious affair among the bushes,\nhad arisen out of this disposition; for, though well-nigh in his\nsixtieth year, he was still as warlike in his habits as ever. Thomson\nsat fronting him beside the fire, admiring his muscular frame, huge\nlimbs, and immense structure of bone. Age had grizzled his hair and\nfurrowed his cheeks and forehead; but all the great strength, and\nwell-nigh all the activity of his youth, it had left him still. His\nwife, a sharp-featured, little woman, seemed little interested in either\nthe details of his adventure or his guest, whom he described as the\n\"brave, hardy chield, wha had beaten twasome at the cudgel--the vera\nlittlest o' them as big as himsel.\"\n\n\"Och, guidman,\" was her concluding remark, \"ye aye stick to the auld\ntrade, bad though it be; an' I'm feared that, or ye mend, ye maun be\naulder yet. I'm sure ye ne'er made your ain money o't.\"\n\n\"Nane o' yer nonsense,\" rejoined the farmer--\"bring butt the bottle an'\nyour best cheese.\"\n\n\"The guidwife an' I dinna aye agree,\" continued the old man, turning to\nThomson. \"She's baith near-gaun an' new-fangled; an' I like aye to hae\nrouth o' a' things, an' to live just as my faithers did afore me. Why\nsould I bother my head wi' _improvidments_, as they ca' them? The\ncountry's gane clean gite wi' pride, Thomson. Naething less sairs folk\nnoo, forsooth, than carts wi' wheels to them; an' it's no a fortnight\nsyne sin' little Sandy Martin, the trifling cat, jeered me for yoking my\nowsen to the plough by the tail. What ither did they get tails for?\"\n\nThomson had not sufficiently studied the grand argument of design in\nthis special instance, to hazard a reply.\n\n\"The times hae gane clean oot o' joint,\" continued the old man. \"The law\nhas come a' the length o' Cromarty noo; an' for breaking the head o' an\nimpudent fallow, ane runs the risk o' being sent aff to the plantations.\nFaith, I wish oor Parliamenters had mair sense. What do they ken aboot\nus or oor country? Diel haet difference do they mak atween the shire o'\nCromarty an' the shire o' Lunnon; just as if we could be as quiet beside\nthe red-wud Hielanmen here, as they can be beside the queen. Na,\nna--naething like a guid cudgel;--little wad their law hae dune for me\nat the burn o' Newhall the nicht.\"\n\nThomson found the character of the old man quite a study in its way; and\nthat of his wife--a very different, and, in the main, inferior sort of\nperson, for she was mean-spirited and a niggard--quite a study too. But\nby far the most interesting inmate of the cottage was the old man's\ndaughter--the child of a former marriage. She was a pale, delicate,\nblue-eyed girl, who, without possessing much positive beauty of feature,\nhad that expression of mingled thought and tenderness which attracts\nmore powerfully than beauty itself. She spoke but little--that little,\nhowever, was expressive of gratitude and kindness to the deliverer of\nher father--sentiments which, in the breast of a girl so gentle, so\ntimid, so disposed to shrink from the roughnesses of active courage, and\nyet so conscious of her need of a protector, must have mingled with a\nfeeling of admiration at finding, in the powerful champion of the recent\nfray, a modest, sensible young man, of manners nearly as quiet and\nunobtrusive as her own. She dreamed that night of Thomson, and her first\nthought, as she awakened next morning, was whether, as her father had\nurged, he was to be a frequent visitor at Meikle Farness. But an entire\nweek passed away, and she saw no more of him.\n\nHe was sitting one evening in his cottage, poring over a book--a huge\nfire of brushwood was blazing against the earthen wall, filling the\nupper part of the single rude chamber of which the cottage consisted\nwith a dense cloud of smoke, and glancing brightly on the few rude\nimplements which occupied the lower--when the door suddenly opened, and\nthe farmer of Meikle Farness entered, accompanied by his daughter.\n\n\"Ha! Allan, man,\" he said, extending his large hand and grasping that of\nthe fisherman; \"if you winna come an' see us, we maun just come an' see\nyou. Lillias an' mysel were afraid the guidwife had frichtened you\nawa--for she's a near-gaun sort o' body, an' maybe no owre kind spoken;\nbut ye maun just come an' see us whiles, an' no mind her. Except at\ncounting-time, I never mind her mysel.\" Thomson accommodated his\nvisitors with seats. \"Yer life maun be a gay lonely ane here, in this\neerie bit o' a glen,\" remarked the old man, after they had conversed for\nsome time on indifferent subjects; \"but I see ye dinna want company\na'thegither, such as it is\"--his eye glancing as he spoke over a set of\ndeal shelves, occupied by some sixty or seventy volumes. \"Lillias there\nhas a liking for that kind o' company too, an' spends some days mair o'\nher time amang her books than the guidwife or mysel would wish.\"\n\nLillias blushed at the charge, and hung down her head; it gave, however,\na new turn to the conversation; and Thomson was gratified to find that\nthe quiet, gentle girl, who seemed so much interested in him, and whose\ngratitude to him, expressed in a language less equivocal than any spoken\none, he felt to be so delicious a compliment, possessed a cultivated\nmind and a superior understanding. She had lived, under the roof of her\nfather, in a little paradise of thoughts and imaginations, the\nspontaneous growth of her own mind; and, as she grew up to womanhood,\nshe had recourse to the companionship of books--for in books only could\nshe find thoughts and imaginations of a kindred character.\n\nIt is rarely that the female mind educates itself. The genius of the sex\nis rather fine than robust; it partakes rather of the delicacy of the\nmyrtle, than the strength of the oak; and care and culture seem\nessential to its full development. Who ever heard of a female Burns or\nBloomfield? And yet there have been instances, though rare, of women\nworking their way from the lower levels of intellect to well-nigh the\nhighest--not wholly unassisted, 'tis true--the age must be a cultivated\none, and there must be opportunities of observation; but, if not wholly\nunassisted, with helps so slender, that the second order of masculine\nminds would find them wholly inefficient. There is a quickness of\nperception and facility of adaptation in the better class of female\nminds--an ability of catching the tone of whatever is good from the\nsounding of a single note, if I may so express myself, which we almost\nnever meet with in the mind of man. Lillias was a favourable specimen of\nthe better and more intellectual order of women; but she was yet very\nyoung, and the process of self-cultivation carrying on in her mind was\nstill incomplete. And Thomson found that the charm of her society arose\nscarcely more from her partial knowledge, than from her partial\nignorance. The following night saw him seated by her side in the\nfarm-house of Meikle Farness; and scarcely a week passed during the\nwinter in which he did not spend at least one evening in her company.\n\nWho is it that has not experienced the charm of female\nconversation--that poetry of feeling which developes all of tenderness\nand all of imagination that lies hidden in our nature? When following\nthe ordinary concerns of life, or engaged in its more active businesses,\nmany of the better faculties of our minds seem overlaid; there is little\nof feeling and nothing of fancy; and those sympathies which should bind\nus to the good and fair of nature, lie repressed and inactive. But in\nthe society of an intelligent and virtuous female, there is a charm that\nremoves the pressure. Through the force of sympathy, we throw our\nintellects for the time into the female mould; our tastes assimilate to\nthe tastes of our companion; our feelings keep pace with hers; our\nsensibilities become nicer, and our imaginations more expansive; and,\nthough the powers of our mind may not much excel, in kind or degree,\nthose of the great bulk of mankind, we are sensible that, for the time,\nwe experience some of the feelings of genius. How many common men have\nnot female society and the fervour of youthful passion sublimed into\npoets! I am convinced the Greeks displayed as much sound philosophy as\ngood taste in representing their muses as beautiful women.\n\nThomson had formerly been but an admirer of the poets--he now became a\npoet; and, had his fate been a kindlier one, he might perhaps have\nattained a middle place among at least the minor professors of the\nincommunicable art. He was walking with Lillias one evening through the\nwooded ravine. It was early in April, and the day had combined the\nloveliest smiles of spring with the fiercer blasts of winter. There was\nsnow in the hollows; but, where the sweeping sides of the dell reclined\nto the south, the violet and the primrose were opening to the sun. The\ndrops of a recent shower were still hanging on the half-expanded buds,\nand the streamlet was yet red and turbid; but the sun, nigh at his\nsetting, was streaming in golden glory along the field, and a lark was\ncaroling high in the air, as if its day were but begun. Lillias pointed\nto the bird, diminished almost to a speck, but relieved by the red light\nagainst a minute cloudlet.\n\n\"Happy little creature!\" she exclaimed--\"does it not seem rather a thing\nof heaven than of earth? Does not its song frae the cloud mind you of\nthe hymn heard by the shepherds? The blast is but just owre, an' a few\nminutes syne it lay cowering and chittering in its nest; but its sorrows\nare a' gane, an' its heart rejoices in the bonny blink, without ae\nthought o' the storm that has passed, or the night that comes on. Were\nyou a poet, Allan, like any o' your two namesakes--he o' \"The Seasons,\"\nor he o' the \"Gentle Shepherd\"--I would ask you for a song on that bonny\nburdie.\" Next time the friends met, Thomson produced the following\nverses:--\n\n              TO THE LARK.\n\n    Sweet minstrel of the April cloud!\n      Dweller the flowers among!\n    Would that my heart were formed like thine,\n      And tun'd like thine my song!\n    Not to the earth, like earth's low gifts,\n      Thy soothing strain is given;\n    It comes a voice from middle sky,\n      A solace breathed from heaven.\n\n    Thine is the morn; and when the sun\n      Sinks peaceful in the west,\n    The mild light of departing day\n      Purples thy happy breast.\n    And, ah! though all beneath that sun\n      Dire pains and sorrows dwell,\n    Rarely they visit, short they stay,\n      Where thou hast built thy cell.\n\n    When wild winds rave, and snows descend\n      And dark clouds gather fast,\n    And on the surf-encircled shore\n      The seaman's bark is cast--\n    Long human grief survives the storm,\n      But thou, thrice happy bird!\n    No sooner has it passed away,\n      Than, lo! thy voice is heard.\n\n    When ill is present, grief is thine;\n      It flies, and thou art free;\n    But, ah! can aught achieve for man\n      What nature does for thee!\n    Man grieves amid the bursting storms\n      When smiles the calm he grieves;\n    Nor cease his woes, nor sinks his plaint\n      Till dust his dust receives.\n\nAs the latter month of spring came on, the fisherman again betook\nhimself to his wears, and nearly a fortnight passed in which he saw none\nof the inmates of the farm-house. Nothing is so efficient as absence,\nwhether self-imposed or the result of circumstances, in convincing a\nlover that he is truly such, and in teaching him how to estimate the\nstrength of his attachment. Thomson had sat, night after night, beside\nLillias Stewart, delighted with the delicacy of her taste and the\noriginality and beauty of her ideas--delighted, too, to watch the still\npartially developed faculties of her mind, shooting forth and expanding\ninto bud and blossom under the fostering influence of his own more\nmatured powers. But the pleasure which arises from the interchange of\nidea and the contemplation of mental beauty, or the interest which every\nthinking mind must feel in marking the aspirations of a superior\nintellect towards its proper destiny, is not love; and it was only now\nthat Thomson ascertained the true scope and nature of his feelings.\n\n\"She is already my _friend_,\" thought he; \"if my schemes prosper, I\nshall be in a few years what her father is now; and may then ask her\nwhether she will not be _more_. Till then, however, she shall be my\nfriend, and my friend only; I find I love her too well to make her the\nwife of either a poor, unsettled speculator, or still poorer labourer.\"\n\nHe renewed his visits to the farm-house, and saw, with a discernment\nquickened by his feelings, that his mistress had made a discovery with\nregard to her own affections somewhat similar to his, and at a somewhat\nearlier period. She herself could have, perhaps, fixed the date of it by\nreferring to that of their acquaintance. He imparted to her his scheme\nand the uncertainties which attended it, with his determination, were he\nunsuccessful in his designs, to do battle with the evils of penury and\ndependence without a companion; and, though she felt that she could deem\nit a happiness to make common cause with him even in such a contest, she\nknew how to appreciate his motives, and loved him all the more for them.\nNever, perhaps, in the whole history of the passion, were there two\nlovers happier in their hopes and each other. But there was a cloud\ngathering over them.\n\nThomson had never been an especial favourite with the stepmother of\nLillias. She had formed plans of her own for the settlement of her\ndaughter, with which the attentions of the salmon-fisher threatened\nmaterially to interfere. And there was a total want of sympathy between\nthem besides. Even William, though he still retained a sort of rough\nregard for him, had begun to look askance on his intimacy with\nLillias;--his avowed love, too, for the modern, gave no little offence.\nThe farm of Meikle Farness was obsolete enough in its usages and modes\nof tillage, to have formed no uninteresting study to the antiquary.\nTowards autumn, when the fields vary most in colour, it resembled a\nrudely executed chart of some large island--so irregular were the\npatches which composed it, and so broken on every side by a surrounding\nsea of moor, that here and there went winding into the interior in long\nriver-like strips, or expanded, within, into friths and lakes. In one\ncorner there stood a heap of stones, in another a thicket of furze--here\na piece of bog, there a broken bank of clay. The implements with which\nthe old man laboured in his fields were as primitive in their appearance\nas the fields themselves--there was the one-stilted plough, the\nwooden-toothed harrow, and the basket-woven cart, with its rollers of\nwood. With these, too, there was the usual misproportion on the farm, to\nits extent, of lean, inefficient cattle, four half-starved animals\nperforming, with incredible effort, the work of one. Thomson would fain\nhave induced the old man, who was evidently sinking in the world, to\nhave recourse to a better system--but he gained wondrous little by his\nadvice. And there was another cause which operated still more decidedly\nagainst him: a wealthy young farmer in the neighbourhood had been, for\nthe last few months, not a little diligent in his attentions to Lillias.\nHe had lent the old man, at the preceding term, a considerable sum of\nmoney; and had ingratiated himself with the stepmother, by chiming in\non all occasions with her humour, and by a present or two besides. Under\nthe auspices of both parents, therefore, he had now paid his addresses\nto Lillias; and, on meeting with a repulse, had stirred them both up\nagainst Thomson.\n\nThe fisherman was engaged one evening in fishing his nets; the ebb was\nthat of a stream tide, and the bottom of almost the entire bay lay\nexposed to the light of the setting sun, save that a river-like strip of\nwater wound through the midst. He had brought his gun with him, in the\nhope of finding a seal or otter asleep on the outer banks; but there\nwere none this evening; and, laying down his piece against one of the\npoles of the wear, he was employed in capturing a fine salmon that went\ndarting like a bird from side to side of the inner enclosure, when he\nheard some one hailing him by name from outside the nets. He looked up,\nand saw three men, one of whom he recognised as the young farmer who was\npaying his addresses to Lillias, approaching from the opposite side of\nthe bay. They were all apparently much in liquor, and came staggering\ntowards him in a zig-zag track along the sands. A suspicion crossed his\nmind that he might find them other than friendly; and, coming out of the\nenclosure, where, from the narrowness of the space and the depth of the\nwater, he would have lain much at their mercy, he employed himself in\npicking off the patches of sea-weed that adhered to the nets, when they\ncame up to him and assailed him with a torrent of threats and\nreproaches. He pursued his occupation with the utmost coolness, turning\nround, from time to time, to repay their abuse by some cutting repartee.\nHis assailants discovered they were to gain little in this sort of\ncontest; and Thomson found in turn that they were much less disguised in\nliquor than he had at first supposed, or than they seemed desirous to\nmake it appear. In reply to one of his more cutting sarcasms, the\ntallest of the three, a ruffian-looking fellow, leaped forward and\nstruck him on the face; and in a moment he had returned the blow with\nsuch hearty good-will that the fellow was dashed against one of the\npoles. The other two rushed in to close with him. He seized his gun,\nand, springing out from beside the nets to the open bank, dealt the\nfarmer, with the but-end a tremendous blow on the face, which prostrated\nhim in an instant; and then cocking the piece and presenting it, he\ncommanded the other two, on peril of their lives, to stand aloof. Odds\nof weapons, when there is courage to avail oneself of them, forms a\nthorough counterbalance to odds of number. After an engagement of a\nbrief half minute, Thomson's assailants left him in quiet possession of\nthe field; and he found, on his way home, that he could trace their\nroute by the blood of the young farmer. There went abroad an exaggerated\nand very erroneous edition of the story, highly unfavourable to the\nsalmon-fisher; and he received an intimation, shortly after, that his\nvisits at the farm-house were no longer expected: But the intimation\ncame not from Lillias.\n\nThe second year of his speculation had well-nigh come to a close, and,\nin calculating on the quantum of his shipments and the state of the\nmarkets, he could deem it a more successful one than even the first. But\nhis agent seemed to be assuming a new and worse character: he either\nsubstituted promises and apologies for his usual remittances, or\nneglected writing altogether; and, as the fisherman was employed one day\nin dismantling his wares for the season, his worst fears were realized\nby the astounding intelligence that the embarrassments of the merchant\nhad at length terminated in a final suspension of payments!\n\n\"There,\" said he, with a coolness which partook in its nature in no\nslight degree of that insensibility of pain and injury which follows a\nviolent blow--\"there go well-nigh all the hard-earned savings of twelve\nyears, and all my hopes of happiness with Lillias!\" He gathered up his\nutensils with an automaton-like carefulness, and, throwing them over his\nshoulders, struck across the sands in the direction of the cottage. \"I\nmust see _her_,\" he said, \"once more, and bid her farewell.\" His heart\nswelled to his throat at the thought; but, as if ashamed of his\nweakness, he struck his foot firmly against the sand, and, proudly\nraising himself to his full height, quickened his pace. He reached the\ndoor, and, looking wistfully, as he raised the latch, in the direction\nof the farm-house, his eye caught a female figure coming towards the\ncottage through the bushes of the ravine. \"'Tis poor Lillias!\" he\nexclaimed. \"Can she already have heard that I am unfortunate, and that\nwe must part?\" He went up to her, and, as he pressed her hand between\nboth his, she burst into tears.\n\nIt was a sad meeting--meetings must ever be such when the parties that\ncompose them bring each a separate grief, which becomes common when\nimparted.\n\n\"I cannot tell you,\" said Lillias to her lover, \"how unhappy I am. My\nstepmother has not much love to bestow on any one; and so, though it be\nin her power to deprive me of the quiet I value so much, I care\ncomparatively little for her resentment. Why should I not? She is\ninterested in no one but herself. As for Simpson, I can despise without\nhating him; wasps sting, just because it is their nature, and some\npeople seem born in the same way, to be mean-spirited and despicable.\nBut my poor father, who has been so kind to me, and who has so much\nheart about him--his displeasure has the bitterness of death to me. And\nthen he is so wildly and unjustly angry with you. Simpson has got him,\nby some means, into his power--I know not how; my stepmother annoys him\ncontinually; and, from the state of irritation in which he is kept, he\nis saying and doing the most violent things imaginable, and making me so\nunhappy by his threats.\" And she again burst into tears.\n\nThomson had but little of comfort to impart to her. Indeed he could\nafterwards wonder at the indifference with which he beheld her tears,\nand the coolness with which he communicated to her the story of his\ndisaster. But he had not yet recovered his natural tone of feeling. Who\nhas not observed that, while, in men of an inferior and weaker cast, any\nsudden and overwhelming misfortune unsettles their whole minds, and all\nis storm and uproar, in minds of a superior order, when subjected to the\nsame ordeal, there takes place a kind of freezing, hardening process,\nunder which they maintain at least apparent coolness and\nself-possession? Grief acts as a powerful solvent to the one class--to\nthe other, it is as the waters of a petrifying spring.\n\n\"Alas, my Lillias!\" said the fisherman, \"we have not been born for\nhappiness and each other. We must part--each of us to struggle with our\nrespective evils. Call up all your strength of mind--the much in your\ncharacter that has as yet lain unemployed--and so despicable a thing as\nSimpson will not dare to annoy you. You may yet meet with a man worthy\nof you; some one who will love you as well as--as one who can at least\nappreciate your value, and who will deserve you better.\" As he spoke,\nand his mistress listened in silence and in tears, William Stewart burst\nin upon them through the bushes; and with a countenance flushed, and a\nframe tremulous with passion, assailed the fisherman with a torrent of\nthreats and reproaches. He even raised his hand. The prudence of Thomson\ngave way under the provocation. Ere the blow had descended, he had\nlocked the farmer in his grasp, and with an exertion of strength which\nscarcely a giant would be capable of in a moment of less excitement, he\nraised him from the earth, and forced him against the grassy side of the\nravine, where he held him despite of his efforts. A shriek from Lillias\nrecalled him to the command of himself. \"William Stewart,\" he said,\nquitting his hold and stepping back, \"you are an old man, and the father\nof Lillias.\" The farmer rose slowly and collectedly, with a flushed\ncheek but a quiet eye, as if all his anger had evaporated in the\nstruggle, and, turning to his daughter--\n\n\"Come, Lillias, my lassie,\" he said, laying hold of her arm, \"I have\nbeen too hasty--I have been in the wrong.\" And so they parted.\n\nWinter came on, and Thomson was again left to the solitude of his\ncottage, with only his books and his own thoughts to employ him. He\nfound little amusement or comfort in either; he could think of only\nLillias--that she loved and was yet lost to him.\n\n\"Generous, and affectionate, and confiding,\" he has said, when thinking\nof her, \"I know she would willingly share with me in my poverty; but ill\nwould I repay her kindness in demanding of her such a sacrifice.\nBesides, how could I endure to see her subjected to the privations of a\ndestiny so humble as mine? The same heaven that seems to have ordained\nme to labour and to be unsuccessful, has given me a mind not to be\nbroken by either toil or disappointment; but keenly and bitterly would I\nfeel the evils of both, were she to be equally exposed. I must strive to\nforget her, or think of her only as my friend.\" And, indulging in such\nthoughts as these, and repeating and re-repeating similar\nresolutions--only, however, to find them unavailing--winter, with its\nlong, dreary nights, and its days of languor and inactivity, passed\nheavily away. But it passed.\n\nHe was sitting beside his fire, one evening late in February, when a\ngentle knock was heard at the door. He started up, and, drawing back the\nbar, William Stewart entered the apartment.\n\n\"Allan,\" said the old man, \"I have come to have some conversation with\nyou, and would have come sooner, but pride and shame kept me back. I\nfear I have been much to blame.\"\n\nThomson motioned him to a seat, and sat down beside him.\n\n\"Farmer,\" he said, \"since we cannot recall the past, we had, perhaps,\nbetter forget it.\"\n\nThe old man bent forward his head till it rested almost on his knee, and\nfor a few moments remained silent.\n\n\"I fear, Allan, I have been much to blame,\" he at length reiterated. \"Ye\nmaun come an' see Lillias. She is ill, very ill--an' I fear no very like\nto get better.\" Thomson was stunned by the intelligence, and answered he\nscarcely knew what. \"She has never been richt hersel,\" continued the old\nman, \"sin' the unlucky day when you an' I met in the burn here; but for\nthe last month she has been little out o' her bed. Since mornin there\nhas been a great change on her, an' she wishes to see you. I fear we\nhavena meikle time to spare, an' had better gang.\" Thomson followed him\nin silence.\n\nThey reached the farm-house of Meikle Farness, and entered the chamber\nwhere the maiden lay. A bright fire of brushwood threw a flickering\ngloom on the floor and rafters, and their shadows, as they advanced,\nseemed dancing on the walls. Close beside the bed there was a small\ntable, bearing a lighted candle, and with a Bible lying open upon it, at\nthat chapter of Corinthians in which the Apostle assures us that the\ndead shall rise and the mortal put on immortality. Lillias half sat,\nhalf reclined, in the upper part of the bed. Her thin and wasted\nfeatures had already the stiff rigidity of death, her cheeks and lips\nwere colourless, and, though the blaze seemed to dance and flicker on\nher half-closed eyes, they served no longer to intimate to the departing\nspirit the existence of external things.\n\n\"Ah, my Lillias!\" exclaimed Thomson, as he bent over her, his heart\nswelling with an intense agony. \"Alas! has it come to this!\"\n\nHis well-known voice served to recall her, as from the precincts of\nanother world. A faint melancholy smile passed over her features, and\nshe held out her hand.\n\n\"I was afraid,\" she said, in a voice sweet and gentle as ever, though\nscarcely audible through extreme weakness, \"I was afraid that I was\nnever to see you more. Draw nearer--there is a darkness coming over me,\nand I hear but imperfectly. I may now say with a propriety which no one\nwill challenge, what I durst not have said before. Need I tell you that\nyou were the dearest of all my friends--the only man I ever loved--the\nman whose lot, however low and unprosperous, I would have deemed it a\nhappiness to be invited to share? I do not, however--I cannot reproach\nyou. I depart and for ever; but, oh, let not a single thought of me\nrender you unhappy; my few years of life have not been without their\npleasures, and I go to a better and brighter world. I am weak and cannot\nsay more; but let me hear you speak. Read to me the eighth chapter of\nRomans.\"\n\nThomson, with a voice tremulous and faltering through emotion, read the\nchapter. Ere he had made an end, the maiden had again sunk into the\nstate of apparent insensibility out of which she had been so lately\nawakened; though, occasionally, a faint pressure of his hand, which she\nstill retained, shewed him that she was not unconscious of his presence.\nAt length, however, there was a total relaxation of the grasp--the cold\ndamp of the stiffening palm struck a chill to his heart--there was a\nfluttering of the pulse, a glazing of the eye--the breast ceased to\nheave, the heart to beat--the silver cord parted in twain, and the\ngolden bowl was broken. Thomson contemplated, for a moment, the body of\nhis mistress, and, striking his hand against his forehead, rushed out of\nthe apartment.\n\nHe attended her funeral--he heard the earth falling heavy and hollow on\nthe coffin-lid--he saw the green sod placed over her grave--he witnessed\nthe irrepressible anguish of her father, and the sad regret of her\nfriends--and all this without shedding a tear. He was turning to depart,\nwhen some one thrust a letter into his hand; he opened it almost\nmechanically. It contained a considerable sum of money, and a few lines\nfrom his agent, stating that, in consequence of a favourable change in\nhis circumstances, he had been enabled to satisfy all his creditors.\nThomson crumpled up the bills in his hand. He felt as if his heart stood\nstill in his breast; a noise seemed ringing in his ears; a mist cloud\nappeared as if rising out of the earth and darkening round him. He was\ncaught, when falling, by old William Stewart, and, on awakening to\nconsciousness and the memory of the past, found himself in his arms. He\nlived for about ten years after, a laborious and speculative man, ready\nto oblige, and successful in all his designs. And no one deemed him\nunhappy. It was observed, however, that his dark brown hair was soon\nmingled with masses of grey, and that his tread became heavy and his\nframe bent. It was remarked, too, that, when attacked by a lingering\nepidemic, which passed over well-nigh the whole country, he of all the\npeople was the only one that sank under it.\n\n\n\n\nTHE LINTON LAIRDS, OR EXCLUSIVES AND INCLUSIVES.\n\n\nIn no part of her Majesty's widespread dominions does mighty Aristocracy\nrear its proud head with greater majesty than at Linton. There are, or\nwere, in the neighbourhood of that ancient borough, no fewer than\nforty-five lairds, all possessing portions of the soil; and from the\nsoil it is that the big genius of aristocratic pride derives, like the\nold oak, the pith of her power. It is of no avail to say--and we, being\nourselves of an ancient family, as poor as the old dark denizens of the\nsoil who were displaced by the Norwegian brown species, despise the\ntaunt--that fifteen out of the whole number of Linton lairds were, at\none period, on the poor's box. Gentry, with old noble blood in their\nveins, are not a whit less to be valued that they are beggars, for it is\nthe peculiar character of gentle blood, that it never gets thinner by\npoor meat. A low marriage sometimes deteriorates it; and hence the\nhorror of the privileged species at that kind of degradation; but the\ntenth cousin of a scurvy baronet will retain the purity of the noble\nfluid, in spite of husks, acorns, and onions. All the efforts of the\npatriots called radicals--even if they should have recourse to the\nstarving system, by taking the properties of their masters--will never\nbe able to bring down to a proper popular equal consistency the blood of\nthe old stock; and so long as they dare not, for the spilling of their\nown thin stuff, _let out_ the life stream of their lords, they must\nsubmit to see it running in the old channels as ruby and routhy as it\ndid in the reign of Malcolm Canmore.\n\nBut you may say that Laird Geddes of Cauldshouthers was no Linton laird,\nand was never on the poor's box. Take it as you please, we will not\ndispute with you if you come from Tweeddale. You are, perhaps, of the\nold Hamiltons of Cauldcoats, or the Bertrams of Duckpool, or the Hays\nof Glenmuck, or the old tory lairds of Bogend, Hallmyre, or Windylaws,\nand may challenge us, like a true knight, for endeavouring to reduce the\ngrandeur of your compeers; and therefore, to keep peace, we will be\ncontented with the admission that Gilbert Geddes was the thane, or, as\nMiss Joanna Baillie would have it, according to the distinction\nindicated in the line, \"the _thanies_ drinking in the hall,\" the\nthanie--that is, the lesser Thane of Cauldshouthers, in the shire of\nPeebles. True, there was in that county, properly only one thane, viz.,\nhe of Drumelzier, whose castle, now in ruins, may still be seen near\nPowsail; but of the lesser order there were many; and, if any\ngutter-blooded burgher of Linton had, in his cups at Cantswalls, alleged\nanything to the contrary, he might have been set down as a leveller. The\nproperty of Cauldshouthers was of that kind comprehending a mixture of\nbog, mire, and moss, which is indicated by its name. Indeed, almost all\nthe estates in that shire bore names no less appropriate; and, though\nsome proprietors, such as Montgomerie, Veitch, Keith, and Kennedy, have\nendeavoured to impart a gentility to their possessions by rechristening\nthem, they did so, we shrewdly suspect, to conceal the fact that they\nwere new comers, and not of the noble old Hallmyres, Bogends, Blairbogs,\nand Cauldcoats. Not so, however, Gilbert Geddes, for the laird was of\nthe good ancient stock of Cauldshouthers, and gloried in the name as he\ndid in the old blood that had come down through honourable veins,\nunadulterated and unobstructed--save probably by a partial congelation,\nthe effect of the cold barren lands--until it landed, with an\naccumulation of dignity, in his own arteries, and those of his sister,\nMiss Grizelda.\n\nNothing in the world could have been more natural than that one of so\nold a family should endeavour to keep up the stock by marriage; yet it\nwas true, and as lamentable as true, that Mr. Gilbert had not been\nable--though the fiftieth summer had shone on Cauldshouthers since he\nwas born in the old house--to get matters so arranged as to place\nhimself within the noose in a manner befitting his dignity. Somehow or\nanother, the other proprietors around, such as Bogend and Glenmuck,\npretended to discover that their blood was thicker than that of the\nGeddeses, and not a scion of their stocks would they allow to be\nengrafted on the good old oak of Cauldshouthers. It is, however, an old\nsaying, that fortune favours the brave in marriage as in war, and the\nadage seemed fair to be realized, for, one day, the laird came from\nLinton a walking omen of prospective success, and the very first words\nhe said to his sister Grizelda boded good.\n\n\"Ken ye the dame Shirley, wha lives at the east end o' Linton?\" said he,\nas he sat down on the big oak chair in the mansion of Cauldshouthers.\n\n\"Better than you do, Gilbert,\" rejoined the sister. \"Her maiden name is\nBertram; but wha her husband was is no easy tauld. They say he was a\ncaptain in England, but I canna say she has ony o' the dignity o' a\ncaptain's widow. Report says naething in her favour, unless it be that\nshe's a descendant o' the Bertrams o' Duckpool.\"\n\n\"Ah, Grizel!\" ejaculated Gilbert, \"if ye could mak out that pedigree, a'\nher fauts would be easily covered, especially with the help of the five\nthousand she has got left her by a cotton-spinner in St. Mungo's. Ye\nmaun try and mak out the pedigree, Grizel. Set about it, woman; mair\ndepends on't than ye wot.\"\n\n\"What depends on't?\" replied the sister.\n\n\"Maybe the junction o' the twa ancient families,\" rejoined he.\n\n\"Are ye serious, brother?\" said Grizel, as she stroked down her boddice,\nand sat as upright as the dignity of the family of Cauldshouthers\nrequired.\n\n\"Indeed am I,\" rejoined the laird. \"I want to be about with Bogend and\nGlenmuck, who refused me their dochters. Ken ye the antiquity o' the\nBertrams?\"\n\n\"Brawly,\" was the reply of the stiff Grizelda. \"They count as far back\nas the fifth James, who, passing through Tweeddale, was determined to\npay nae court to the Thane of Drumelzier; and yet he couldna mak his\nway--in a country where hill rides upon hill, and moss joins moss, frae\nTweedscross to the Cauldstane-slap--without some assistance, the mair by\nnote that he stuck in the mire, and might have been there yet, had it no\nbeen for Jock Bertram, a hind, who got the royal traveller and his men\nout, and led them through the thane's lands, to Glenwhappen. John got\nthe mire whar the king stuck, which was called Duckpool, as a free gift\nto him and his heirs. But we o' Cauldshouthers are aulder, I ween, than\neven that, and we maun keep up our dignity.\"\n\n\"So we maun, Grizel; but you've forgot the best part o' the story, how\nthe Thane o' Drumelzier having heard that a stranger had passed through\nhis lands without paying him homage, rode with his men, mounted on white\nhorses, after the rebels, and cam up with them just as the king was\ncarousing after his journey. The thane, I wot, was sune on his knees.\nBut we're aff the pin o' the wheel, Girz. The question is, could the\nfamily o' Geddes o' Cauldshouthers stand the shock o' a marriage wi' a\ndoubtfu' descendant o' Jock Bertram, with five thousand in her pouch?\"\n\n\"We're sae _very, very_ ancient, ye see Gib,\" replied the sister, as she\nlooked meditatingly, and twirled her two thumbs at the end of her rigid\narms. \"Indeed, we're a'thegither lost in mist, and, for aught we ken, we\nmay be as auld as the Hunters o' Polmood, wha got a grant o' the twa\nHopes frae Malcolm Canmore. Duckpool is a mere bairn to Cauldshouthers,\nand this woman mayna be a real Bertram after a'. There were English\nBertrams, ye ken--Bertram the Archer was o' them, and he followed the\ntrade o' robbery.\"\n\n\"And what auld honourable family about the Borders ever got their lands\nin ony other way, Girz!\" replied the brother.\n\n\"Nane, of course,\" rejoined Grizel; \"but maybe Mrs. Shirley comes frae\nthe real Bertrams, and five thousand might be laid out in draining the\nlands. Nae doubt she wad jump at ye, Gib!\"\n\n\"That makes me laugh, Girz!\" rejoined the brother. \"The legatee o' a\ncotton-spinner jump at the Laird o' Cauldshouthers! Ay, if he wad stoop\nto let her--that's the question, sister; and there's nae other, for I\nwas wi' the dame this very day, within an hour after Rory Flayem, the\nLinton writer, gave me the hint o' her gude fortune. I cam on her wi' a'\nthe force o' the dignity o' our family, and the very name o' our lands\nmade her shiver in tory veneration. She was thunderstruck at the\nhonour.\"\n\n\"I dinna wonder at that,\" replied Grizel. \"I mysel hae aften wondered at\nthe ancientness o' our house, and pity the silly fools wha change the\nnames o' their properties. Ha, ha! I fancy if the Duke o' Argyle had\nbeen ane o' the auld Blairbogs, he wadna hae changed the name o' their\nauld inheritance to that o' 'The Whim.'\"\n\n\"Na, faith he, Girz!\"\n\n\"And, by my troth,\" continued the sister, \"I think the guidwife o'\nMiddlebie, wha bade us change Cauldshouthers to Blinkbonny, was a wee\nenvious, and deserved a catechising for her pains.\"\n\n\"There's nae doubt o't,\" added the brother. \"But we're aff the wire\nagain, Girz. Is it really your honest opinion that our honour would\nstand the shock o' the connection wi' the Widow Shirley?\"\n\n\"The Emperor o' Muscovy,\" replied the sister, with a toss of her head,\n\"didna lose a jot o' his greatness by marrying the cottager. The eagles\no' Glenholme stoop to pick up the stanechaffers and fatten on them; and,\nreally, I think, a'thing considered, that Cauldshouthers might, without\na bend o' the back, bear up a burgher.\"\n\n\"The practice is, at least, justified by the aristocracy,\" added\nGilbert; \"and, ye ken, that's enough for us. It wad tak a guid drap o'\nburgher bluid, and mair, I wot, if there's ony o' the Duckpool sap in't,\nto thin that o' the Geddeses.\"\n\n\"And even if our honour was a wee thing damaged,\" rejoined the sister,\n\"that might be made up by our lands being changed frae bog to arable,\nthough, I believe, the bog, after a', is the auldest soil o' the\ncountry. Even the sad fate o' Nichol Muschet didna a'thegither destroy\nthe respectability o' the Bogha's. There's great ancientness in bogs,\nyet as there's a kind o' fashion now-a-days about arable, I wadna be\nagainst the change to a certain limited extent. Ye hae now my opinion on\nthis important subject, Gilbert, and may act according to the dictates\no' the high spirit o' our auld race.\"\n\nThe door opened, and Rory Flayem entered.\n\n\"Weel, hae ye made the inquiry?\" said the laird. \"Has Mrs. Shirley\nreally got a legacy o' the five thousand?\"\n\n\"I have seen the cotton-spinner's will!\" replied the writer, \"and there\ncan be nae doubt of the legacy.\"\n\nWhy more?--Next day the spruce laird was rapping at the door of the\nwidow heiress. He entered with the cool dignity of his caste; and might\nhave come out under the influence of the same cool prudence, had not his\nhonourable blood been fired by the presence of one of those worthies\nalready hinted at--a Linton laird--who could have been about nothing\nelse in the world than trying to get a lift from off the poor's box, by\nthe assistance of the Widow Shirley.\n\n\"Your servant, sir,\" said the Linton portioner; \"I did not think you had\nbeen acquainted here. Ane might rather hae expected to hae seen you\nabout Bogend or Glennmuck, where there are still some braw leddies to\ndispose of.\"\n\nThe remark was impertinent, doubtless, and horribly ill-timed, because\nCauldshouthers had been rejected by Bogend, and he was here a suitor\ncompeting with one who desecrated the term he gloried in, and whom,\nalong with the whole class of Linton lairds, he hated mortally and he\nhad a good right to hate them, for some of them with no more than ten\npounds a-year, were still heritors, and not only heritors, but ancient\nheritors, not much less ancient than the Geddeses themselves, so that\nthey were a species of mock aristocrats, coming yet so near the real\nones in the very attributes which the latter arrogated to themselves,\nthat it required an effort of the mind to distinguish the real from the\nfalse. But Mr. Gilbert admitted of no such dubiety, and marked the\ndifference decidedly and effectually. He did not return the Linton\naristocrat an answer, but, drawing himself up, turned to the window as\nif to survey his competitor's estate, which consisted of a rood or two\nof arable land, and to wait till the latter took his hat. The Linton\naristocrat very soon left the room; and however unimportant this slight\nevent may appear, it was in fact decisive of the higher aristocrat's\nfate, for the blood of the Geddeses was up, and the heat of tory blood\nis a condition of the precious fluid not to be laughed at.\n\n\"Ye'll hae nae want o' thae sma' heritor creatures after ye, dame,\" said\nhe, as he condescended to sit down by the blushing widow.\n\n\"Yes,\" answered she, with great simplicity. \"Fortune, Mr. Geddes, brings\nfriends, or, at least, would-be friends, and one who has few relations\nrequires to be on her guard.\"\n\n\"It is everything in thae matters,\" said the proprietor, \"to look to\nrespectability and station. Thae Linton bodies ca' themselves lairds,\nbecause they are proprietors o' about as muckle ground as would mak guid\nroomy graves to them. A real laird is something very different. And it's\na pity when it becomes necessary that _we_ should shew them the\ndifference.\"\n\n\"Ah, you are of an ancient and honourable family, Mr. Geddes,\" said the\nwidow. \"Cauldshouthers is a name as familiar to me as Oliver Castle, or\nDrochel, or Neidpath, or Drumelzier.\"\n\n\"I see ye hae a proper estimate o' the degrees o' dignity, dame,\" said\nhe; \"and, doubtless, ye'll mak the better use o' the fortune that has\nbeen left ye; but I could expect naething less frae ane o' the\nDuckpools. I'm thinking ye're o' the right Bertrams.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" replied she; \"and then my husband was descended from the\nShirleys, Earl Ferrars, and Baron Ferrars of Chartley. His arms were the\nsame as the Beauchamps, at least he used to say so. What are your's, Mr.\nGeddes?\"\n\n\"Maybe ye dinna ken heraldry, dame!\" replied the laird. \"Our arms are\nvert, _three peat bags_, argent--the maist ancient o' the bearings in\nTweeddale; as, indeed, may be evinced frae the description--peat land\nbeing clearly the original soil. Would it no be lamentable to think that\nsae ancient a family should end in my person.\"\n\n\"It is in your own power to prevent that, Mr. Geddes!\" answered she.\n\n\"Say rather in your power, dame Shirley!\" rejoined he, determined to cut\nout the Linton heritor by one bold stroke.\n\n\"O Mr. Geddes!\" sighed the widow, holding her head at the proper angle\nof _naivete_.\n\n\"Nae wonder that she's owrepowered by the honour,\" muttered the suitor,\nas he took breath to finish what he had so resolutely begun. \"I am\nserious, madam,\" he continued. \"To be plain wi' ye, and come to the\npoint at ance, I want a mistress to Cauldshouthers; and you are the\nindividual wham I hae selected to do the honours o' that important\nsituation.\"\n\n\"Oh--O Mr. Geddes!\" again cried the dame. \"You have _such_ a winning way\nof wooing!\"\n\n\"I fancy there canna be the slightest breath o' objection,\" again said\nhe, in his consciousness of having ennobled her in an instant by the\nmere hint of the honour.\n\n\"She would be a bold woman, besides a fool, that would reject so good an\noffer,\" replied she, burying her face in a napkin.\n\n\"That she would,\" rejoined Gilbert--\"baith bauld and an idiot; and now,\nsince ye hae received the honour wi' suitable modesty and gratitude,\nthere is just ae condition that I wad like satisfied; and that is, that\nye wad do your best to support the dignity o' the station to which you\nare to be elevated. Your ain pedigree, ye see, is at best but a dubious\nconcern; and, therefore, it will require a' your efforts to comport\nyoursel in such a way as to accord suitably wi' the forms and punctilios\no' aristocracy. It is just as weel, by the by, that ye hae few\nrelatives; because, while the honour o' our ancient house may retain its\ncharacter, in spite o' a match maybe in nae sma' degree below it, it\nmight become a very different affair in the case o' a multitude o' puir\nbeggarly relations.\"\n\n\"I am nearly the last of my race, Mr. Geddes,\" replied she. \"Is it not\nstrange that we should be so very like each other?\"\n\n\"Ay, in _that_ particular respect,\" added the laird, as a salvo of their\ninequality.\n\nAnd, after some farther concerted arrangements, the heritor left his\naffianced, and proceeded to Cauldshouthers, to report to Grizelda what\nhe had achieved. In a short time, accordingly, the marriage was\nsolemnized; and a very suitable display was made in the mansion of\nCauldshouthers, where there were invited many of the neighbouring\naristocrats. There were the Bogends, and the Hallmyres, and the\nGlenmucks, and others, some of whom, though they had asserted a\nsuperiority over the Geddeses, and turned up their noses at the match\nwith a burgher widow with five thousand pounds, made by the vulgar\noperation of cotton-spinning, yet could not refuse the boon of their\npresence at the wedding of one of their own sect of exclusives. Miss\nGrizelda acted as mistress of the ceremonies, and contrived, by proper\ntraining, to make the bride go through the aristocratic drill with much\neclat. She had correct opinions, as well as good practice, in this\ndepartment. It is only the degenerate modern town-elite, among the\nexclusives, who pretend that _easiness_ of manners--meaning thereby the\ntotal absence of all dignified _stiffness_--is the true test of\naristocratic breeding. The older and truer stock of the country--such as\nthe Geddeses--despise this beggarly town-born maxim: with them nothing\ncan be too stiff; buckram-attitudes and dresses are the very staple of\ntheir calling. And why not? Any graceful snab or snip, of good spirits,\nwhen freed from the stool or board, may be as free and frisky as a\nkitten; but to carry out a legitimate and consistent stiffness of the\ngodlike machine with an according costiveness of speech and loftiness of\nsentiment, can belong only to those who have been born great; and so, to\nbe sure, these were the maxims on which Grizelda acted in qualifying the\nbride to appear in a becoming manner before the Tweeddale grandees.\nEverything went off well. The dame was given out as a Duckpool; and it\nmust have been fairly admitted, even by the proud Bogends, that she\ncould not have acted her part better though she had been in reality\ndescended from that house, so favoured by the fifth James, at the very\ntime that he brought Drumelzier to his knees at Glenwhappen.\n\nAnd it may thus be augured, that the Thane of Cauldshouthers was\nsatisfied. The manners imparted to Mrs. Geddes by the sister, seemed to\nadhere to her; and though the Glenmucks alleged that her dignified\nrigidity was nothing but burgher awkwardness, it was not believed by\nthose who knew that gentle blood hath in it some seeds of spleen.\n\n\"She performs her pairt wi' native dignity,\" was Gilbert's opinion\nexpressed to his sister; \"and seems to feel as if she had been born to\nsustain the important character she has to play, as the wife o' ane o'\nthe auldest heritors o' Tweeddale. But ye maun keep at her, Girz; and,\nwhile you are improving her, I'll be busy with the bogs. We'll mak a'\narable that will be arable.\"\n\nAnd straightway, accordingly, he set about disposing of a part of his\nwife's tocher, in planting, and draining, and hedging, and ditching,\nwith a view to impart some heat to Cauldshouthers, in return for the\nwarmth which the fleeces of coarse wool had yielded to him and others.\nMeanwhile, the training within doors went on. Tea-parties were good\ndiscipline; and at one of these, the mistress of Bogend and her two\ndaughters, and the mistress of Hallmyre and her daughter and nephew, and\na number of others, witnessed the improvement of their new married\nneighbour. Pedigrees were always the favourite topic at Cauldshouthers.\n\n\"I maun hae Mrs Geddes's reduced to paper,\" said the laird, \"for the\nsatisfaction o' ye a'. I like a tree--there's a certainty about it that\ndefies a' envy. There's few o' us, I wot, that can count sae far back as\nthe Bertrams.\"\n\n\"Mrs. Geddes might tell us off hand,\" said the mistress of Bogend,\npiqued of course. \"I could gie the Bogends from the first to the last.\"\n\n\n\"And I hae a' the Ha'myres on my tongue's end,\" said she of that old\nfamily.\n\n\"And I could gie the Geddeses, stock and stem,\" added Grizelda.\n\n\"But it doesna follow that Mrs. Geddes has just the same extent o'\nmemory,\" said the laird, as a cover to his half-marrow.\n\n\"Indeed, my memory is very poor on family descents,\" said the wife; \"and\nthere is now none of our family left to assist my recollections.\"\n\n\"Ah, Janet,\" cried a voice from the door, which had opened in the\nmeantime and let in a stout huckster-looking dame and two children. \"I\nam right glad to see you sae weel settled,\" she continued, as she\nbustled forward and seized the mistress of the house by the hand. \"But\nit wasna friendly, it wasna like a sister, woman, no to write and tell\nme o' yer marriage. Heigh! but I am tired after that lang ride frae\nGlasgow. Sit down, childer; it's yer aunty's house, and, by my faith,\nit's nae sma affair; but oh, it has an awfu name.\"\n\nThe speaker had it all to herself, save for a whisper from the lady of\nBogend, who asked her of Hallmyres if this would be another of the\nDuckpools. The others were dumb from amazement; and the new-comer\ngloried in the silence.\n\n\"Wasna that a lucky affair--that siller left us by the cotton spinner?\"\nshe rattled forth with increasing volubility. \"Be quiet, childer. Faith,\nlass, if we hadna got our legacy just in the nick as it were, our John,\nwha was only makin six shillings a week at the heckling, wad hae gi'en\nup the ghaist a'thegither.\"\n\nThe laird was getting fidgetty, and looked round for the servant;\nGrizelda was still dumb; the Bogends and Hallmyres were all curiosity;\nand Mrs. Geddes looked as if she could not help it. All was still an\nopen field for the speaker.\n\n\"But, dear me, lass,\" again cried the visiter, \"we never heard o'\nSerjeant Shirley's death.\"\n\n\"If ye're ony friend o' Mrs. Geddes's,\" said the laird, recovering\nhimself, \"you had better step ben to the parlour, and she'll see you\nthere.\"\n\n\"Ou, I'm brawly where I am, sir,\" replied she of St. Mungo's. \"There's\nnae use for ceremony wi' friends. Ye'll be Janet's husband, I fancy?\nKeep aff the back o' yer uncle's chair, ye ill-mannered brat.\"\n\n\"There is a woman in the parlour wishes to see yon, Mrs. Geddes,\" said\nthe servant.\n\n\"What like is she?\" cried the Glasgow friend. \"Is she a weel-faured\nwoman, wi' a bairn at her foot?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" was the reply.\n\n\"Just bring her in here, then,\" continued the speaker. \"It's our sister\nBetty. I asked her to meet me here the day, and she was to get a cast o'\na cart as far as Linton. She was to hae brocht Saunders wi' her, but\nthere's some great folk dead about Lithgow, and he's been sae thrang wi'\ntheir mournings that I fancy he couldna win.\"\n\n\"Are these your sisters, Mrs. Geddes?\" said the lady of Bogend, who\nprobably enjoyed secretly the perplexity around her.\n\n\"I can answer for mysel,\" replied the visiter; \"and whether this be\nBetty or no, I'll soon tell ye;\" and she rose to waddle to the door to\nsatisfy the inquiry of the lady of Bogend. \"The truth is, madam,\" she\nsaid, by way of favoured intelligence, as she passed the chair of the\nlatter, \"we're a' sisters; but, if we had been on the richt side o' the\nblanket--ye ken what I mean, if our faither and mither had been\nmarried--the siller left us by our uncle the cotton-spinner wad hae been\ntwice as muckle. Is that you, Betty?\" she bawled at the door. \"Come in,\nwoman.\"\n\n\"Save us!--save us!--the honour o' the Geddeses is gane for ever,\"\ngroaned Gilbert.\n\n\"It's just me, Peggy,\" responded another voice from the passage; and the\nheavy tread of a weary traveller, mixed with the cries of a child,\nannounced an approach. The two entered. The woman was dressed like the\nwife of a man of her husband's profession, who had got a recent legacy.\n\n\"Saunders is coming, after a,\" cried Betty, as she entered. \"He got done\nwith the mournings on Wednesday. He's in the public-house, alang the\nroad there, taking a dram wi' a friend, and will be here immediately.\nJohn, I fancy, couldna win. Ye're weel set doon, Janet,\" she continued,\nas she stood and stared at the room, turning round and round. \"My troth,\nlass, ye hae fa'n on yer feet at last. It was just as weel the sergeant\nde'ed. Sit ye there, Geordie, and see if ye can learn manners enough to\nhaud yer tongue.\"\n\nThe little cousins, Geordie, Johnny, and Jessie, entered instantly into\na clattering of friendly recognizances; and the two mothers bustled\nforward to chairs alongside of their sister, the lady of the house,\nwhose colour had come and gone twenty times, and all power of speech had\nbeen taken away from her by a discovery as sudden as it was unpleasant.\nYet what was to be done? Was the aristocratic Grizelda to sit and see\ntea filled out for the wives and weans of a dresser of yarns, and an\nartificer of garments? Was the honour of the Geddeses of Cauldshouthers\nto be scuttled by a needle and a hackle-tooth? But matters were not\ndestined to remain even upon the poise of these pivots. The little\nnephew of Hallmyres, annoyed by the burgher-bairns, struck one of them a\nblow in the face, which the spruce scion of the Lithgow tailor returned\nwith far more gallantry than might have been expected from one of his\ndegenerate caste. The cousin Johnny took the part of his relative; and\nmatters were fast progressing towards hostilities, when the lady of\nHallmyres rose to quell the incipient affair.\n\n\"Aff hands, my woman,\" cried Peggy, suddenly leaving her chair.\n\n\"Ay, ay,\" added Betty, \"we hae at least a right to civility in the house\no' our sister. We come kindly and friendly, as may be seen frae what's\nin my bundle--a gude bacon ham, and a gude cassimir waistcoat, sewed by\nSaunders' ain hands, for the guidman o' Cauldshouthers, and a' we want\nis something like friendliness in return. Just let the bairns alane.\nThey'll gree fine when better acquaint.\"\n\n\"Mrs. Geddes,\" said Grizelda, with a puckered face and a starched\nmanner, \"ye'll better tak yer friends ben the house.\"\n\n\"Awa wi' them!\" added the laird. \"We maun hae a reckoning about a'\nthis.\"\n\n\"There's no the sma'est occasion for't,\" responded Betty. \"The bairns\nwill agree fine. Just let them play themselves while we're taking our\ntea. Saunders will be here immediately.\"\n\n\"A guid advice,\" added Peggy; \"but wha are our friends, Janet? Canna ye\nspeak, woman? This will be Mr. Geddes, my brither-in-law, I fancy; and\nthis will be Girzie, my gude-sister; but as for the ithers, I ken nae\nmair about them than I do o' the brothers and sisters o' the sergeant,\nwham I never saw.\"\n\n\"And here comes Saunders, at last,\" cried Betty, rising, and running to\nthe window. \"I will gang and let him in.\"\n\nBustling to the door, she executed her purpose, and straightway appeared\nagain, ushering in, with a face that told her pride in her husband, a\nCrispinite, wonderfully _bien fait_, dressed in a suit of glossy black,\nclean shaven, and as pale as any sprig of nobility.\n\n\"Mr. Geddes, I presume,\" said he, rubbing his hands, which retained the\nmarks of the needle, if not the dye of the mournings.\n\n\"Here's a chair for ye, Saunders,\" cried Betty. \"Ye'll no be caring for\ntea, after the gill ye had wi' yer auld foreman, at the sign o' the\n'Harrow,' yonder. Had ye ony mair after I left ye? I'm no sure about yer\ne'e. There's mair glamour in't than there should be. Sit ye down, and\nI'll bring the bundle with the ham and the waistcoat.\"\n\nGrizelda held up her hands in amazement.\n\n\"For the love o' heaven, leave us, good leddies,\" she said to her\nfriends.\n\n\"Oh ay,\" added the laird, \"leave us, leave us, for mercy's sake.\"\n\n\"You have got into a duckpool,\" whispered the lady of Hallmyres, as she\nrose, followed by the others; \"and I wish you fair out of it. Good\nby--good by.\"\n\n\n\n\nBON GUALTIER'S TALES.\n\n\n\n\nCOUNTRY QUARTERS.\n\n\nA pleasanter little town than Potterwell does not exist in that part of\nher Majesty's dominions called Scotland. On one side, the hand of\ncultivation has covered a genial soil with richness and fertility. The\nstately mansion, \"bosomed high in tufted trees,\" occasionally invites\nthe eye, as it wanders over the landscape; while here and there, the\nriver Wimpledown may be seen peeping out amid the luxuriant verdure of\nwood and plain, and seeming to concentrate on itself all the radiance of\nany little sunshine that may be going. On the other side, again, are\nnothing but impracticable mountains--fine bluff old fellows--that\nevidently have an extensive and invincible contempt for Time, and, like\nother great ones of the earth, never carry any _change_ about them. Look\nbeyond these, and the prospect is indeed a fine one--a little\nmonotonous, perhaps, but still a fine one--peak receding behind peak in\nendless series, a multitudinous sea of mountain tops, with noses as blue\nas a disappointed man's face, or Miss Harriet Martineau's stockings.\n\nWith a situation presenting such allurements for the devotees of the\npicturesque, is it wonderful that Potterwell became a favourite resort?\nBy the best of good fortune, too, a spring, close by, of a peculiarly\nnauseous character, had, a few years before the period we write of,\nattracted attention by throwing into violent convulsions sundry cows\nthat had been so far left to themselves as to drink of it, besides\ncarrying off an occasional little boy or so, as a sort of just\nretribution for so far suppressing his natural tastes as to admit it\nwithin his lips. Dr. Scammony, however, had taken the mineral water\nunder his patronage; and his celebrated pamphlet upon the medicinal\nproperties of the Potterwell Mephitic Assafoetida Waters at once fixed\ntheir reputation, while it materially augmented his own. A general\nsubscription was projected, with a view to the erection of a pump-room.\nThe plan took amazingly; and, from being left to work its way out, as\nbest it might, through the diseased and miserable weeds with which it\nwas overgrown, the spring all at once found itself established in a\nhandsome apartment, fitted up with a most benevolent attention to the\nwants of such persons as might repair thither with the probable\nchance--however little they might be conscious of the fact--of dying by\na watery death.\n\nIt was a bright sparkling morning in August, and there was an\nexhilarating freshness in the air, that caused the heart to leap up, and\nmake the spirit as unclouded as the blue sky overhead. The pump-room was\nthronged, and every one congratulated his neighbour on the beauty of the\nmorning.\n\n\"At your post as usual, Stukeley!\" said a smartly-dressed young man,\nstepping up to Mr. Stukeley--a well-known frequenter of the wells since\ntheir first celebrity--and shaking him warmly by the hand. \"I do believe\nyou are retained as a check upon the pump woman, that you keep such a\nstrict look out after her customers. How many doses has she administered\nto-day? Come now, out with your note-book, and let me see.\"\n\n\"Oh, my dear Frank, if you really want to know, I am the man for\nyou--Old Cotton of Dundee, four and a-half, and his daughter took off\nthe balance of the six. What do you think I heard him whisper to\nher?--'Hoot, lassie, tak it aff, it's a' paid for;' and she, poor soul,\nwas forced to gulp it down, that he might have the satisfaction of\nknowing that full value had been given for his penny. Then there was\nRunrig the farmer from Mid-Lothian, half-a-dozen; the man has a frame of\niron, and a cheek as fresh as new-mown hay; but somebody had told him\nthe water would do him good, and he has accordingly taken enough to make\nhim ill for a fortnight. Then, there was Deacon Dobie's rich widow--fat,\nfair, and forty--she got pretty well through the seventh tumbler; but,\nit's a way with her, when she begins drinking, not to know when to stop;\nwhich, by the way, may account for her having been, for some time, as\nshe elegantly expresses it, 'gey an nervish ways, whiles.' After her\ncame\"----And Stukeley was going on to enumerate the different visiters\nof the morning, checking them off upon his fingers as he proceeded, when\nhis friend, Frank Preston, stopped him.\n\n\"For Heaven's sake, have done; and tell me, if you can, who those two\nfops of fellows are at the foot of the room? They only came a week ago;\nand, though nobody knows who they are, they have made the acquaintance\nof half the people here.\"\n\n\"I see nothing very odd in that. I know nothing of the men; but they\ndress well, and are moderately good-looking, and have just sufficient\nassurance to pass off upon the uninitiated for ease of manner and\nfashionable breeding. A pair of parvenus, no doubt; but what is your\nmotive for asking so particularly about them?\"\n\n\"Oh, nothing, nothing! Only, I am to meet them at the Cheeshams\nto-night, and I wished to know something of them.\"\n\n\"So, so! sets the wind in that quarter? A rival, Master Frank? It is\nthere the shoe pinches, is it?\"\n\n\"A rival--nonsense! What should I care whether the puppies are attentive\nto Emily Cheesham or not?\"\n\n\"Why more to her than to her sister Fanny? I mentioned no names. Ha!\nMaster Frank, you see I have caught you. Come, come, tell me what it is\nannoys you?\"\n\n\"Well,\" stammered out Frank Preston,--\"well, the fact is--the fact is,\none of them has been rather particular in his attentions to Emily, and\nI am half-inclined to think she gives him encouragement.\"\n\n\"And, suppose she does, I see nothing in that but the harmless vanity of\na girl, pleased to have another dangler under her spell.\"\n\n\"That is all very well, but I don't like it a bit. It may be so, and it\nmay not. Her encouragement to him is very marked, and I don't feel easy\nunder it at all, I don't.\"\n\n\"Why, Frank, you must both have a very poor opinion of Miss Emily, and\nbe especially soft yourself, to give yourself any concern in the matter.\nIf you have deemed her worthy of your regards, and she has given you\nwarrant for thinking you have a claim upon them, and yet she now throws\nyou off to make way for this newer lover, your course is a clear one.\nTurn from her at once, and fortify yourself with old Withers' lines--\n\n    'If she be not made for me\n    What care I for whom she be.'\"\n\n\"Excellent philosophy, if one could but act upon it. But what annoys me\nabout the business is, that I am sure these fellows are a pair of snobs,\nand are playing themselves off for something greater than they are.\"\n\n\"Very possibly; but that is just a stronger reason for taking my advice.\nIf Miss Emily can be gratified with the attentions of such persons,\nleave her to the full enjoyment of them. Don't make yourself miserable\nfor her folly.\"\n\n\"Oh, I don't make myself miserable at all, not in the least; only, I\nshould like to find out who the fellows are.\"\n\nThe young men, of whom Preston and Stukeley had been speaking, and who\nnow lounged up the room, describing semicircles with their legs at every\nstep they took, were certainly never meant for the ordinary tear and\nwear of the hard-working every-day world. Their dress had too fine a\ngloss upon it for that, their hair much too gracefully disposed. They\nwere both rather below the middle size, both dark in the complexion,\nbut one of them much more so than the other. The darker slip of humanity\nhad cultivated the growth of his hair with singular success. It fell\naway in masses from his forehead and temples, and curled, like the rings\nof the young vine, over the velvet collar that capped a coat of\nsymmetrical proportions. Circling round the cheeks, and below the chin,\nit somewhat obtruded upon the space which is generally occupied by the\nface, so that his head might truly be said to be a mass of hair,\nslightly interspersed with features. His friend, again, to avoid\nmonotony, had varied the style of his upper works, and his locks were\nallowed to droop in long, lanky, melancholy tangles down his sallow\ncheeks; while, perched upon either lip, might be seen a feathery-looking\nobject, not to be accounted for, but on the supposition that it was\nintended to seduce the public into a belief of its being a moustache.\nBoth were showily dressed. Both had stocks terminating in a cataract of\nsatin that emptied itself into tartan velvet waistcoats, worn probably\nin honour of the country; both had gold chains innumerable, twisting in\na multiplicity of convolutions across these waistcoats; both had on\nyellow kid gloves of unimpeachable purity, and both carried minute canes\nof imitation ebony, with which, at intervals, they flogged, one the\nright and the other the left leg, with the most painful ferocity. They\nwere a noble pair; alike, yet, oh, how different!\n\n\"Eugene, my boy,\" said the darker of the two, in a tone of voice loud\nenough to let half the room hear the interesting communication, \"we must\nsee what sort of stuff this here water is--we must, positively.\"\n\n\"Roost eggs, Adolph, whisked in bilge-water, with a rusty tenpenny nail.\nFaugh! I'm smashed if I taste it.\"\n\n\"Not so bad that for you,\" returned Adolph, smiling faintly; \"but you\nmust really pay your respects to the waters.\"\n\n\"'Pon my soul, I shawn't. I had enough of that so't of thing in Jummany,\nthe time I was ova with Ned Hoxham.\"\n\n\"That was the time, wasn't it, that you brought me over that choice lot\nof cigaws?\"\n\n\"I believe it was,\" responded Eugene, with the most impressive\nindifference, as if he wished it to be understood that he had been so\noften there that he could not recall the particulars of any one visit.\n\n\"I know something of Seidlitz and Seltzer myself,\" resumed the darker\nAdonis, \"and Soda water too, by Jove, for that matter, and they're not\nbad things either, when one's been making a night of it, so I'll have a\ntry at this Potterwell fluid, and see how it does for a change.\"\n\nIn this manner the two friends proceeded, to the infinite enlightenment\nof those about them, who, being greatly struck with their easy and\nfacetious manners, stood admiringly by with looks of evident delight!\nThe young men saw the impression they were making, and, desirous of\nkeeping it up, went on to ask the priestess of the spring, how often,\nand in what quantities she found it necessary to doctor it with Glauber\nsalts, brimstone, and assafoetida. The joke took immensely. Such of\nthe bystanders as could laugh--for the internal agitation produced by\nthe cathartic properties of their morning draught, made that a somewhat\ndifficult and dangerous experiment--did so; and various young men, of no\nvery definite character, but who seemed to support the disguise of\ngentlemen with considerable pain to themselves, sidled up, and\nendeavoured to strike into conversation with our Nisus and Euryalus,\nthinking to share by contact the glory which they had won. All they got\nfor their pains, however, was a stare of cool indifference. The friends\nwere as great adepts in the art and mystery of _cutting_, as the most\nfashionable tailor could be; and, after volunteering a few ineffectual\nefforts at sprightliness, these awkward aspirants to fame were forced to\nfall back, abashed and crest-fallen, into the natural insignificance of\ntheir character.\n\nThese proceedings did not pass unnoticed by Preston and his elderly\nfriend, who made their own observations upon them, but were prevented\nfrom saying anything on the subject to each other by the entrance of a\nparty, which diverted their attention in a different direction. These\nwere no other than Mrs. Cheesham and her two accomplished daughters,\nMiss Emily and Miss Fanny Cheesham. Mrs. Cheesham's personal appearance\nmay be passed over very briefly; as no one, so far as is known, ever\ncared about it but herself. She was vain, vulgar, and affected; fond of\nfinery and display; and the one dominant passion of her life was to\ninsinuate herself and her family into fashionable society, and secure a\nbrilliant match for her daughters. They, again, were a pair of\nattractive showy girls; Emily flippant, sparkling, lively; Fanny,\ndemure, reserved, and cold. Emily's eyes were dark and lustrous--you saw\nthe best of them at once; and her look, alert and wicked. These\ncorresponded well with a well-rounded figure, a rosy complexion, and\nfull pouting lips, that were \"ruddier than the cherry.\" Fanny was tall\nand \"stately in her going;\" pale, but without that look of sickliness\nwhich generally accompanies such a complexion, and her eyes, beautiful\nas they were when brought into play, were generally shrouded by the\ndrooping of her eyelids, like those of one who is accustomed to be\nfrequently self-inwrapt. With Emily you might sport in jest and raillery\nby the hour; but with Fanny you always felt, as it were, bound to be\nupon your best behaviour. They passed up the room, distributing nods of\nrecognition, and occasionally stopping to allow Mrs. Cheesham to give\nher invitations to a _soiree musicale_ which she intended to get up that\nevening.\n\n\"Your servant, ladies,\" said old Stukeley, raising his hat, while his\nfriend followed his example. \"You are late. I was afraid we were not to\nhave the pleasure of seeing you this morning. Pray, Miss Emily, what new\nnovel or poem was it that kept you awake so late last night that you\nhave lost half this glorious morning? Tell me the author's name, that I\nmay punish the delinquent, by cutting up his book, in the next number of\nour review?\"\n\n\"Cut it up, and you will do more than I could; for I found myself\nnodding over the second page, and I feel the drowsiness about me still.\"\n\n\"The opiate--the opiate, Miss Emily? Who was its compounder? He must be\na charmer indeed.\"\n\n\"Himself and his printer knows. Only some unhappy bard, who dubs us\nwomen 'The angels of life,' and misuses us vilely through a dozen cantos\nof halting verse. The poor man has forgot the story\n\n    'Of man's first disobedience, and the fruit\n    Of that forbidden tree whose mortal taste\n    Brought death into the world and all our woe,'\n\nor he would have christened us daughters of Eve by a very different\nname.\"\n\n\"O you little rogue! you are too hard upon this devotee to your dear\ndeluding sex. It is only his excess of politeness that has made him\nforget his historical reading.\"\n\n\"His politeness! Fiddlestick! I would as soon have a troop of boys\ninflict the intolerable tediousness of their calf-love upon me as endure\nthe rhapsodies of a booby, who strips us of our good flesh and blood,\nfrailties and all, to etherealize us into an incomprehensible compound\nof tears, sighs, moonshine, music, love, flowers, and hysterics.\"\n\n\"Emily, how you run on!\" broke in Mrs. Cheesham. \"My dear Mr. Stukeley,\nreally you must not encourage the girl in her nonsense. I declare, I\nsometimes think her tongue runs away with her wits.\"\n\n\"Better that, I'm sure, madam, than have it run away without them,\"\nresponded Stukeley, in a deprecating tone, which threw Mrs. Cheesham,\nwhose intellect was none of the acutest, completely out.\n\n\"Girls, there are Mr. Blowze and Mr. Lilylipz,\" said Mrs. Cheesham,\nlooking in the direction of the friends, Adolph and Eugene; \"you had\nbetter arrange with them about coming this evening.\"\n\nEmily advanced, with her sister, to the engaging pair, who received them\nwith that peculiar contortion of the body, between a jerk and a shuffle,\nwhich young men are in the habit of mistaking for a bow, and was soon\ndeep in the heart of a flirtation with Adolph, while Fanny stood\nlistening to the vapid nothings of Eugene, a very model of passive\nendurance. Frank Preston was anything but an easy spectator of this\nmovement; nor was Emily blind to this; but, like a wilful woman, she\ncould not forbear playing the petty tyrant, and exercising freely the\npower to torment which she saw that she possessed.\n\n\"You will be of our party to-night, gentlemen,\" continued Mrs. Cheesham.\n\"We are to have a little music. You are fond of music, Mr. Stukeley, I\nknow; and no pressing can be necessary to an ama_toor_ like you, Mr.\nFrancis. I can assure you, you'll meet some very nice people. Mr. and\nMrs. M'Skrattachan, highly respectable people--an old Highland family,\nand with very high connections. Mr. M'Skrattachan's mother's sister's\naunt--no, his aunt's mother's sister--yes, that was it--Mr.\nM'Skrattachan's aunt's mother's sister; and yet I don't know--I dare say\nI was right before--at all events, it was one or other of them--married\na second cousin--something of that kind--of the Duke of Argyle, by the\nmother's side. They had a large estate in Skye or Ross-shire--I am not\nsure which, but it was somewhere thereabout.\"\n\nStukeley and Preston were glad to cover their retreat by acceptance of\nMrs. Cheesham's invitation; and, leaving her to empty the dregs of the\ndetails which she had begun into the willing ears of some of her more\nsubmissive friends, they made their escape from the pump-room.\n\nSlopbole Cottage, where the Cheesham's were domiciliated during their\nsojourn at Potterwell, was situated upon the banks of the Wimpledown, at\na distance of somewhat less than a quarter of a mile from the burgh. It\nhad, at one time, been a farm-house; but, within a few years, it had\nbeen recast: and, by the addition of a bow window, a trellised door, and\na few of the usual et ceteras, it had been converted into what is by\ncourtesy termed a cottage ornee. It was an agreeable place, for all\nthat, shaded by the remnants of a fine old wood--the rustling of whose\nfoliage made pleasant music, as it blended with the ever-sounding plash\nand rushing of the stream.\n\nWhen Frank Preston arrived at Slopbole Cottage that evening, he found\nthe drawing-room already well stocked with the usual components of a\ntea-party. The two exquisites of the morning he saw, to his dismay, were\nalready there. Adolph was assiduously sacrificing to the charms and wit\nof Miss Emily, while his shadow, Eugene, was--but Preston did not care\nabout that--as much engaged in Macadamising his great conceptions into\nsmall talk suitable for the intellectual capacity of Miss Fanny. Mrs.\nCheesham regarded these proceedings with entire satisfaction. The\nfriends, to her mind, were men of birth, fashion, and fortune, and the\nvery men for her daughters. Besides, there was a mystery about them that\nwas charming. Nobody knew exactly who they were, although everybody was\nsure they were somebody. None but great people ever travel _incog_. They\nwere evidently struck by her daughters. Things were in a fair train;\nand, if she could but make a match of it, Mrs. Cheesham thought she\nmight then fold her hands across, and make herself easy for life. Her\ndaughters would be the wives of great men, and she was their mother, and\nevery one knows what an important personage a wife's mother is.\n\n\"Two very fine young men, Mr. Francis,\" said Mrs. Cheesham. \"Extremely\nintelligent people. And so good looking! Quite _distingue_, too. It is\nnot every day one meets such people.\"\n\nFrank Preston threw in the necessary quantity of \"yes's,\" \"certainly's,\"\nand so forth, while Mrs. Cheesham continued--\n\n\"They seem rather taken with my girls, don't they? Mr. Blowze is never\naway from Emily's side. His attentions are quite marked. Don't you\nthink, now, they'd make a nice pair? They're both so lively--always\nsaying such clever things. I never knew Emily so smart either; but that\ngirl's all animation--all spirits. I always said Emily would never do\nbut for a rattle of a husband--a man that could talk as much as herself.\nIt does not do, you know, really it does not do for the wife to have too\nmuch of the talk to herself. I make that a principle; and, as I often\ntell Cheesham, I let him have it all his own way, rather than argue a\npoint with him.\"\n\nThis was, of course, an exceedingly agreeable strain of conversation to\nthe lover, to whom it was no small relief, when Mrs. Cheesham quitted\nhis side to single out her musical friends for the performance of a\nquartette. At her summons, these parties were seen to emerge from the\nvarious recesses where they had been concealing themselves, in all the\nmajesty of silence, as is the way with musical amateurs in general. Miss\nFanny, who was really an accomplished performer, was called to preside\nat the pianoforte, and Mr. Lilylipz rushed before to adjust the\nmusic-stool and turn over the leaves for her. Mr. Blewitt got out his\nflute, and, after screwing it together, commenced a series of blasts\nupon it, which were considered necessary to the process of tuning. Mr.\nHarrower, the violoncello player, turned up the wristbands of his coat,\nplaced his handkerchief on his left knee, and, after a preliminary\nflourish or two of his hands, began to grind his violoncello into a\nproper sharpness of pitch. Not to be behind the rest, Mr. Fogle screwed\nhis violin strings first up, and then he screwed them down, and then he\nproceeded to screw them up again, with a waywardness of purpose that\nmight have been extremely diverting, if its effects had not been so very\ndistressing to the ears. Having thus begot a due degree of attention in\ntheir audience, the performers thought of trying how the results of\ntheir respective preparations tallied.\n\n\"Miss Fanny, will you be kind enough to sound your A?\" lisped Mr.\nBlewitt.\n\nMiss Fanny did sound her A, and again a dissonance broke forth that\nwould have thrown Orpheus into fits. It was then discovered that the\ndamp had reduced the piano nearly a whole tone below pitch, and Mr.\nBlewitt's flute could not be brought down to a level with it by any\ncontrivance. The musicians, however, were not to be baulked in their\npurpose for this, and they agreed to proceed with the flute some half a\ntone higher than the other instruments. But there was a world of\npreliminary work yet to be gone through; tables had to be adjusted, and\nbooks had to be built upon music stands. But the tables would not stand\nconveniently, and the books would fall, and then all the work of\nadjustment and library architecture had to be gone over again. At last\nthese matters were put to rights, and, after a few more indefinite\nvagaries by Messrs. Blewitt, Harrower, and Fogle, the junto made a dash\ninto the heart of one of Haydn's quartetts. The piano kept steadily\nmoving through the piece. Miss Fanny knew her work, and she did it. The\nothers did not know theirs, and they _did for_ it. After a few faint\nsqueaks at the beginning, Mr. Blewitt's flute dropped out of hearing\naltogether, and, just as everybody had set it down as defunct, it began\nto give token of its existence by a wail or two rising through the storm\nof sounds with which the performance closed, and then made up its leeway\nby continuing to vapour away for some time after the rest had finished.\n\n\"Bless my heart, are you done?\" cried Mr. Blewitt, breaking off in the\nmiddle of a solo, which he found himself performing to his own\nastonishment.\n\nMr. Harrower and Mr. Fogle threw up their eyes with an intensity of\ncontempt that defies description. To be sure, neither of them had kept\neither time or tune all the way through. Mr. Harrower's violoncello had\ngrowled and groaned, at intervals, in a manner truly pitiable; and Mr.\nFogle's bow had done nothing but dance and leap, in a perpetual staccato\nfrom the first bar to the last, to the entire confusion of both melody\nand concord. But they had both managed to be in at the death, and were\ntherefore entitled to sneer at the unhappy flutist. Mr. Eugene Lilylipz,\nwho had annoyed Miss Fanny throughout the performance, by invariably\nturning over the leaf at the wrong place, now broke into a volley of\nraptures, of which the words \"Devaine\" and \"Chawming,\" were among the\nprincipal symbols. A buzz of approbation ran round the room, warm in\nproportion to the relief which the cessation of the Dutch concert\nafforded. Mr. Harrower and his coadjutors grew communicative, and vented\nan infinite quantity of the jargon of dilettanteism upon each other and\nupon those about them. They soon got into a discussion upon the merits\nof different composers, whose names served them to bandy to and fro in\nthe battledore and shuttlecock of conversation. Beethoven was cried up\nto the seventh heaven by Mr. Harrower, for his grandeur and sublimity,\nand all that sort of thing.\n\n\"There is a Miltonic greatness about the man!\" he exclaimed, throwing\nhis eyes to the ceiling, in the contemplation of a visionary demigod. \"A\nvastness, a massiveness, an incomprehensible--eh, eh?--ah, I can't\nexactly tell what, that places him far above all other writers.\"\n\n\"Every man to his taste,\" insinuated Mr. Blewitt; \"but I certainly like\nwhat I can understand best. Now I don't understand Beethoven; but I\n_can_ understand Mozart, or Weber, or Haydn.\"\n\n\"It is very well if you do!\" retorted the violoncellist, reflecting\nprobably on the recent specimen Mr. Blewitt had given of his powers. \"It\nis more than everybody does, I can tell you.\"\n\n\"Od, gentlemen, but it's grand music onyhow, and exceeding justice you\nhave done it, if I may speak my mind. But ye ken, I'm no great shakes of\na judge.\"\n\nThis was the opinion volunteered by Mr. Cheesham, who saw the musicians\nwere giving symptoms of that tendency to discord for which they are\nproverbial, and threw out a sop to their vanity, which at once restored\nthem to order. As he said himself, Mr. Cheesham was no great judge of\nmusic, nor, indeed, of any of the fine arts. He had read little, and\nthought less; and yet, since he had become independent of the world, he\nwas fond of assuming an air of knowledge, that was exceedingly amusing.\nThere was nothing, for instance, that he liked better to be talking\nabout than history; and, nevertheless, that Hannibal was killed at the\nbattle of Drumclog, and Julius Caesar beheaded by Henry the Eighth, were\nfacts which he would probably have had no hesitation in admitting, upon\nany reasonable representation.\n\nBy this time, Mr. Stukeley had joined the party, and was going his\nrounds, chatting, laughing, quizzing, and prosing, according to the\ndifferent characters of the people whom he talked with. When he reached\nMr. Cheesham, he found him in earnest conversation with Mr. Lilylipz,\nregarding the ruins of Tinglebury, an abbey not far from Potterwell, of\nwhich the architecture was pronounced, by Mr. Lilylipz, to be\n\"_suttinly_ transcandent beyond anythin_k_. It is of that pure\nGraeco-Gothic, which was brought over by William the Conqueror, and went\nout with the Saxons.\"\n\nStukeley encouraged the conversation, drawing out the presumptuous\nignorance of Mr. Lilylipz, and the rusty nomeanings of the parent\nCheesham into strong relief.\n\n\"Gentlemen, excuse me for breaking up your _tete-a-tete_. Have you got\nupon 'Shakspeare, taste, and the musical glasses?'\" said Miss Emily,\njoining the trio. \"Mr. Lilylipz, your friend tells me you sing. Will you\nbreak the dullness, and favour us?\"\n\n\"Oh, I never do sing; and, besides, I am suffering from hoarseness.\"\n\n\"Come, come,\" replied Miss Emily, \"none of these excuses, or we shall\nexpect to find a very Braham, at least.\"\n\n\"Now, _r_eally!\" remonstrated Mr. Lilylipz.\n\n\"Oh, never mind his nonsense, Miss Cheesham,\" exclaimed Mr. Blowze, from\nthe other side of the room. \"Lilylipz sings an uncommonly good song,\nwhen he likes. Give us 'the Rose of Cashmere,' or 'She wore a wreath of\nRoses.' Come away, now--no humbug!\"\n\n\"Oh, that will be delightful!--pray, do sing!\" were the exclamations of\na dozen voices, at least. \"Mr. Lilylipz' song!\" shouted the elderly\ngentlemen of the party; and, forthwith, an awful stillness reigned\nthroughout the apartment. Upon this, Mr. Lilylipz blew his nose, coughed\nthrice, and, throwing himself back in his chair, rivetted his eyes, with\nthe utmost intensity, upon a corner of the ceiling. Every one held back\nhis breath in expectation, and the interesting young man opened upon the\nassemblage with a ballad all about an Araby maid, to whom a Christian\nknight was submitting proposals of elopement, which the lady appeared to\nbe by no means averse to, for each stanza ended with the refrain, \"Away,\naway, away!\" signifying that the parties meant to be off somewhere as\nfast as possible. Mr. Lilylipz had just concluded verse the first, and\nthe \"Away, away, away!\" had powerfully excited the imagination of the\nyoung ladies present, when the door opened, and the clinking of crystal\nware announced the inopportune entrance of a maidservant bearing a\ntrayful of glasses filled with that vile imbroglio of hot water and\nsugar coloured with wine, which passes in genteel circles by the name of\nnegus. All eyes turned towards the door, and Mrs. Cheesham exclaimed,\n\"Sally, be quiet!\" but Mr. Eugene was too much enrapt by his own\nperformance to feel the disturbance, and he tore away through verse the\nsecond with kindling enthusiasm. \"Away, away, away!\" sang the vocalist,\nwhen a crash and a scream arrested his progress. The servant maid had\ndropped the tray, and the glasses were rolling to and fro upon the floor\nin a confusion of fragments, while the delinquent, Sally, shrieking at\nthe top of her voice, was making her way out at the door with all the\nspeed she was mistress of.\n\n\"What the devil's that?\" cried one. \"The careless slut!\" screamed\nanother. \"Such thoughtlessness!\" suggested a third. \"What the deuce\ncould the woman mean?\" asked a fourth. \"It's the last night she sets\nfoot in my house!\" exclaimed Mrs. Cheesham, thrown off her dignity by\nthe sudden shock.\n\n\"Bless me, you look unwell!\" said Mr. Cheesham to Mr. Lilylipz, who had\nturned deadly pale, and was altogether looking excessively unhappy.\n\n\"Oh, it is nothing. Only a constitutional nervousness. The start, the\nsurprise, that sort of thing, you know; but it will go off in a moment.\nI shall just take a turn in the air for a little, and I'll be quite\nbetter.\"\n\nThe ladies were engaged in the contemplation of the wreck at the other\nend of the room, and Mr. Lilylipz, accompanied by his friend, stepped\nout at one of the drawing-room windows, which opened out upon the lawn.\nFrank Preston looked after them, and saw them in the moonlight, passing\ndown the banks of the river among the trees, apparently engaged in\nearnest conversation.\n\n\"What do you think of this business, eh?\" said Stukeley, rousing him\nfrom a reverie, by a tap upon the shoulder. \"Queerish a little, isn't\nit?\"\n\n\"Queerish _not_ a little, I think; and blow me if I don't get to the\nbottom of it, or the devil's in it. That girl knows something of Mr.\nEugene, I'll be sworn. We must get out of her what it is.\"\n\n\"Oh, no doubt she does. It wasn't the song that threw her off, although\nit was certainly vile enough for anything; it was himself; that is as\nclear as day. Let us off, hunt out the wench, and get the secret from\nher.\"\n\nThey left the room by the open window, and passing round the house to\nthe servants' entrance, walked into the kitchen, where they found Sally\nlabouring under strong excitement, as she narrated the incident which\nhad led to her precipitate retreat from the drawing-room.\n\n\"To think of seeing him here; the base deceitful wretch! Cocked up in\nthe drawing-room, forsooth, as if that were a place for him or the likes\nof him. Set him up indeed--a pretty story. But I know'd as how he'd\nnever come to no good!\"\n\n\"Who is he, my dear?\" inquired Stukeley.\n\n\"Who is he, sir!--who should he be but Tom Newlands, the son of Dame\nNewlands of our village.\"\n\n\"Oh, you must certainly be mistaken.\"\n\n\"Never a bit mistaken am I, sir. I have too good reason for remembering\nhim, the wretch! Oh, if I had him here, I wouldn't give it him, I\nwouldn't? I'd sarve him out, the deludin' scoundrel. But he never was\ngood for nothing since he went into the haberdashery line.\"\n\n\"A haberdasher, is he? Capital!--capital! The man of fashion, eh,\nFrank?\"\n\n\"The young man of _distingue_ appearance!\"\n\n\"And who's his friend, Sally?\"\n\n\"What! the other chap? Oh, I don't know anything about him, except that\nhe's one of them man millinery fellows; and a precious bad lot they are,\nI know.\"\n\n\"Glorious!--glorious!\" cried Stukeley, crying with delight, as he walked\nout of the place with his friend. \"Here's a discovery for some folks,\nisn't it? The brilliant alliance, the high family, et cetera, et cetera,\nall dwindled into a measurer of tapes. Aren't you proud of having had\nsuch a rival?\"\n\n\"Oh, come, don't be too hard upon me on that point. Mum, here we are at\nthe drawing-room again. Not a word of what we have heard. If these\nscamps have made themselves scarce, as I think they have, good and well.\nBut, if they venture to shew face here again, I shall certainly feel it\nto be my duty to pull their noses, and eject them from the premises by a\nsummary process.\"\n\n\"Oh, never fear, they will not put you to the trouble. They are off for\ngood and all, or I am no prophet.\"\n\nStukeley was right. The evening passed on, and the friends returned not.\nInfinite were the surmises which their absence occasioned, but the\ngeneral conclusion was, that the interesting Mr. Lilylipz had found\nhimself worse, and had retired to his inn for the night, along with his\nfaithful Achates. Morning came, but the friends did not make their\nappearance at the pump-room as usual. They were not at their inn; they\nwere not in Potterwell. Whither they had wended, no one knew; but, like\nthe characters in the ballad, which had been so oddly broken off, they\nwere \"away, away, away.\" They had come like shadows, and like shadows\nthey had departed.\n\nSome months afterwards, Mrs. Cheesham and her daughter Emily entered one\nof the extensive drapery warehouses of Edinburgh, to invest a portion of\ntheir capital in the purchase of a _mousseline de laine_. They had seen\nan advertisement which intimated that no lady ought, in justice to\nherself, to buy a dress of this description without first inspecting\nthat company's stock of the article. They were determined to do\nthemselves justice, and they went accordingly.\n\n\"Eugene,\" said the superintendent of the place, \"shew these ladies that\nparcel of goods. A very superior article, indeed.\" Eugene! Eugene! the\nladies had good reason to remember the name; and what was their\nsurprise, on looking round, to see the exquisite of Potterwell bending\nunder a load of dress pieces? If their surprise was great, infinitely\ngreater was his dismay. His knees shook; his eyes grew dim; his head\ngiddy. His hands lost their power, and, dropping the bundle, the unhappy\nEugene stumbled over it in a manner painfully ignoble. Mrs. and Miss\nCheesham turned to quit the shop, when there, behind them, stood the\ndashing Adolph. \"The devil!\" he exclaimed, and, ducking dexterously\nunder the counter, disappeared among sundry bales that were piled beyond\nit. The lesson was not lost. Mrs. Cheesham had had quite enough of\nquality-hunting to satisfy her; and Miss Emily found out that it was\ndesirable to be wise as well as witty, and gave her hand to Frank\nPreston, who forgave her temporary apostacy, not only because it had\nbeen smartly punished by the result, but for the sake of the many\nestimable qualities which Miss Cheesham really possessed. Miss Fanny\nstill roams, \"in maiden meditation, fancy free,\" but she cannot do so\nlong, or there is no skill in man. At all events, when she does want a\nhusband, she will not go in search of him to COUNTRY QUARTERS.\n\n\n\n\nTHE MONK OF ST. ANTHONY.\n\n    \"When the devil was sick, the devil a monk would be;\n    When the devil grew well, the devil a monk was he.\"\n\n\nIn that very ancient and very filthy quarter of the town of Leith,\ncalled the Coal Hill, there flourished, in days of yore, a certain\nhostelrie kept by one David Wemyss. This house, which was distinguished\nby the figure of a ship, carved in high relief in stone over the lintel\nof the door, was one of good repute, and much resorted to by the\nseafaring people who frequented the port.\n\nBut it was not alone the good cheer and reasonable charges, for both of\nwhich \"The Ship\" was remarkable, that brought so many customers to David\nWemyss: for this patronage he was as much indebted to his own civil and\nobliging manner, as to the considerations just mentioned, although,\ndoubtless, these had their due weight with all considerate and\nreflecting men.\n\nWith all David's civility of manner, however, there was thought to be a\nspice of the rogue in him; just the smallest thing possible; but it was\na sort of good-humoured roguery. In the small trickery he practised,\nthere was as much to laugh at as to deprecate; for, being a facetious\nsort of personage himself, everything he did--good, bad, and\nindifferent--had a touch, less or more, of this quality about it; so\nthat he could hardly be said to have been liked a bit the less for his\nleft-handed propensities; the more especially that these were never\nexhibited in his dealings with his guests or customers, to whom he\nalways acted the part of an obliging and conscientious landlord. He knew\nthis to be for his interest, and therefore did he abide by it.\n\nAt the period at which our story opens, namely, the year 1559, the\nReformation, if it had not yet driven papacy entirely out of the land,\nhad, at least, compelled it to retire into holes and corners, and to\navoid, as much as possible, the public eye. One of the last retreats of\nthe denounced religion in its adversity, was the preceptory of St.\nAnthony, in Leith. For the protection, or rather endurance, which it\nfound here, it was indebted to the circumstance of the town's being, in\nan especial manner, under the patronage of Mary of Guise or Lorraine,\nthe mother of the unfortunate Scottish queen of that name.\n\nConceiving Leith to be, as it was, a convenient point from which to\ncorrespond with France, and well situated for the reception of such\nsupplies as might be sent her from that country, to enable her to make\nhead against her discontented nobles, Mary made the town, as it were,\nher own; and to identify herself still more closely with it, made it\nalso, for some time, her place of residence.\n\nTo this circumstance, then, was it owing, that after they had almost\nwholly disappeared everywhere else, a few monks might still be seen\nmoving stealthily and crest-fallen through the streets of Leith. These\nbelonged to the preceptory of St. Anthony, which stood at the upper or\nwestern end of the long, tortuous street, called the Kirkgate.\n\nBut even from this, one of its last places of refuge, was prelacy now\nabout to be driven. The town, at the particular period to which our tale\nrefers, was besieged by the lords of the congregation, aided by an army\nof three thousand English, under Lord Gray of Wilton, who had been\ndespatched for this purpose by Elizabeth, to whom the Reformers had\nappealed in their necessities.\n\nThe reader, then, will understand that he is in a beleaguered town: that\nhe is in Leith during the famous siege of that ancient seaport; when it\nwas invested on all sides by the enemies of prelacy, and against whom it\nwas defended, chiefly by a body of French troops, under a general of the\nname of D'Oysel, who had been sent from France to aid the Queen Regent\nin maintaining her authority in the kingdom.\n\nHaving despatched these preliminaries, we proceed with our story.\n\nIt was on a certain evening in the latter end of April, or beginning of\nMay, 1559, that mine host of \"The Ship\" was suddenly summoned from his\ncellar, at a moment when he was employed in tapping a new hogshead of\nclaret, by a gentle rap at a quiet back door which stood just beside the\nhatchway that led to the cellar in question.\n\nThis door, which had been contrived, or struck out, for the\naccommodation of private and confidential customers, who did not care to\nbe seen entering \"The Ship\" by the front door, was accessible only\nthrough a complicated labyrinth of mean buildings, on a spot still known\nby the name of the Peat Neuk, and so called, from its having been the\npublic depository of that description of fuel, before coals came into\nthe general use in which they now are, and have long been.\n\n\"Wha's this?\" muttered David Wemyss to himself, on hearing the gentle\nrap at the back door above spoken of, and, at the same time, laying down\na bright tankard of claret, which he had just drawn from the newly\nbroached hogshead. \"Lang Willie Wilson, the herrin curer, I dare say, or\nthe skipper o' the Cut-luggit Sow o' Kirkcaldy.\"\n\nThus conjecturing who his visiter might be, David Wemyss approached the\ndoor, undid its fastenings, and admitted, not Willie Wilson, the herring\ncurer, nor the Kirkcaldy skipper, but a certain worthy brother of the\npreceptory of St. Anthony, by name Peter Drinkhooly. Peter, who wore the\ndress of his order, namely, a loose, black cloth gown, had long been one\nof mine host of \"The Ship's\" private and confidential customers. He\ndearly loved a stoup of fresh claret; but both his character and calling\ncompelled him to go cautiously about such carnal indulgences, and to\ntrust no front doors with his secret.\n\nPeter, however, although addicted to vinous propensities, was not what\ncould be called a \"jolly friar.\" He was rather a quiet, maudlin sort of\na toper; neither boisterous in manner, nor reckless in disposition. He\ncould, however, drink with the face of clay.\n\n\"Oh, father, is that you?\" said David, on perceiving the black gown and\nslouched hat of his visiter. \"I thocht it had been Willie Wilson, or the\nskipper. Stap awa in by there,\" pointing to the well-known sanctum of\nthe backdoor customers; \"and I'll gie ye a tasting o' a fresh tap I was\njust at whan ye cam in.\"\n\nWithout saying a word in reply, Friar Drinkhooly glided into the little\ndark closet indicated by mine host, and there awaited the reappearance\nof the latter from the cellar with the promised sample of the new butt.\nBoth quickly came.\n\n\"Awfu' times--father, awfu' times thae,\" said David, placing a tankard\nof claret on the table, and seating himself directly opposite his guest.\n\"If this siege continues muckle langer, guid kens what'll become o' us.\nThey tell me that some o' the Frenchmen hae ta'en to eatin their dead\nhorses already, for want o' better provender. But they can cook up\nonything, thae Frenchers, and can mak, I'm tell't, a savoury mess oot o'\na pair o' auld boots. But come, tak a mouthfu' o' that,\" continued mine\nhost, shoving the tankard towards his guest, \"an' tell me what ye think\no' our new browst.\"\n\nFather Drinkhooly, who had not yet spoken a word, or in any other way\nnoticed what had been addressed to him, than by nods and shakes of the\nhead, readily obeying the gratifying invitation, seized the tankard,\nand, at one pull, emptied it of half its contents. Having performed this\nfeat, he replaced the vessel on the table, wiped his mouth with a quiet,\ncomposed air, and, in a soft under-tone, said--\n\n\"Fair liquor, David--fair liquor. What size is the cask?\"\n\n\"It's a gey thumper,\" replied mine host; \"big aneuch, I hope, to see oot\nthe siege o' Leith.\"\n\n\"Ay, the heretic is pressing us hard, David. The strength of the wicked\nis prevailing,\" said Father Drinkhooly; \"but there will be a day of\ncount and reckoning. It is coming, David, coming on the wings of the\nthunder, to blast and destroy the sacrilegious spoilers; to scaith and\nrender barren this accursed land.\"\n\n\"Weel, I wadna wonder,\" replied David, looking very serious; for,\nalthough he cared little for either the new religion or the old, he had,\nif anything, rather a leaning towards the latter; at least, so was\nsuspected; but this was a point not easily decided on, owing to the very\naccommodating nature of David's doctrines, which, at a moment's notice,\ncould adapt themselves to any circumstances.\n\n\"I wadna wonder,\" said David; \"for I'm sure the spoilin and ravagin\nthat's gaun on is aneuch to bring down the judgments o' Heaven on us.\nHeard ye if there hae been mony killed the day?\"\n\n\"Alas! a very great number,\" replied Father Drinkhooly. \"There has been\na terrible slaughter to-day, at the western block-house. The brethren\nand I have shrived some twenty or thirty departing souls, who fell by\nthe cannon-shot of the enemy--two of them officers and men of rank in\nthe French army--worthy, pious men--who have left something considerable\nto the brotherhood. But God knows if we will be permitted te enjoy it.\"\n\n\"Ay,\" said David, pricking up his ears, as he always did when money, or\nproperty in any shape, became the subject of conversation--\"That was a\nlucky wind-fa'; for I daresay the brethren are no oot o' need o' a wee\nassistance o' that kind enow. Times are no wi' them as they used to be.\nWhat feck, noo, if it's a fair question, did the twa Frenchmen leave\nye?\"\n\n\"It's not usual for us to speak of these things, David,\" replied Father\nDrinkhooly--\"not usual for us to make these things the subject of\nirreverent discussion; but, as thou art an old friend, I will gratify\nthy curiosity--doing the same in confidence. Here,\" continued the worthy\nfather, slipping his hand under his cloak, and drawing out a leathern\nbag well stored with coin, \"here are a hundred and fifty crowns of the\nsun placed in my hands by one of these dying Christians, and here are\nthree gold rings, worth fifty merks each, that were given unto me by the\nother, under pledge of saying fifteen masses for the well-being of the\nsoul of the departed donor.\"\n\n\"My feth! no a bad day's work,\" said David. \"It's an ill wind that blaws\nnaebody guid. The siege is no like to be such a bad job for ye, after\na'. Though ye should be driven oot o' the preceptory the morn, ye'll no\ngang empty-handed; and that same's a blessin. But here's to ye, father,\nand Gude send us mair peacefu' times;\" saying this, mine host of \"The\nShip\" cleared off the remainder of the tankard. On his replacing the\nlatter on the table, brother Drinkhooly peered into the empty vessel\nwith a half involuntary spirit of inquiry.\n\nHis host smiled. Then--\"We maun replenish, I fancy,\" he said.\n\nFather Drinkhooly simply nodded acquiescence, saying not a word.\n\nIn half a minute after, another tankard of claret reamed on the board,\nbetween mine host and his guest. By the time this second supply of the\ngenerous fluid was exhausted, brother Drinkhooly began to exhibit\ncertain odd changes of manner. From being solemn and taciturn, he became\nenergetic and talkative, thumping the table violently when he wished to\nbe particularly impressive, and displaying, altogether, a boldness and\nvivacity which strangely contrasted with the quiet meekness of his\ndemeanour but half an hour before. The claret then was doing its duty;\nfor to its exciting influence were these changes in the moral man of\nbrother Drinkhooly, of course, attributable.\n\nIt would not, we fear, much interest the reader to follow out in all its\ndetails the debauch now in progress of celebration by the landlord of\n\"The Ship\" and his worthy guest. Be it enough to say, that it finally\nended in the latter's getting so overcome that he did not think it would\nbe consistent either with his own character or the credit of the\npreceptory, to return to the latter until he had had previously, an hour\nor two's sleep.\n\n\"'Deed, I dare say ye'll no be the waur o't,\" said mine host, on brother\nDrinkhooly's suggesting the propriety of this proceeding, \"for that\nclaret's gey an' steeve. I fin thae twa jugs touchin my ain garret a wee\nthing, and it used to tak sax to do that. But I'm no so able to staun't\nnoo, as I was wont.\"\n\nThis was certainly true; but, even yet, David was more than a match over\nthe claret stoup for any two men in the county. His capacity in this way\nwas extraordinary; and no contemptible proof of the fact was afforded on\nthe present occasion; for, while the priest was all but completely\nprostrated, his host had not, to use his own phrase, \"turned a hair;\"\nalthough he had drank quantity for quantity with the vanquished\nchurchman.\n\nAlways kind and attentive to the wants of his guests, and, from a fellow\nfeeling, especially tender of those who were in the helpless condition\nof brother Drinkhooly, David, desiring the latter to take his arm,\nconducted, or rather, smuggled him into a small back bedroom, helped him\noff with his gown and shovel hat, and tumbled him into bed, where he\nleft him, with a promise to awake him at the expiry of two hours.\n\nHaving thus disposed of his clerical friend, David betook himself to the\nduties of the house: to the filling of measures of wine, brandy, and\nale, to the running hither and thither, supplying the wants of one party\nof customers, soothing the impatience of another, and joining in the\ndrunken laughter of a third.\n\nDavid was thus employed, when he was attracted to the door by an\nalarming outcry on the street. On reaching the latter, he saw a boy\napproaching at his utmost speed, and bawling out--\n\n\"A priest, a priest! For the love o' God, a priest to shrive a dying\nsinner. A priest, a priest!\"\n\n\"What are ye screaming at, ye young rascal?\" exclaimed David,\nintercepting the boy, and catching him by the breast. \"Wha wants a\npriest?\"\n\n\"It's a French offisher, sir, that has just been struck enow wi' a\ncannon-shot on the ramparts,\" replied the boy; \"and, as I was passing at\nthe time, he bade me rin for a priest.\"\n\n\"Was there naebody beside him?\" inquired David.\n\n\"No ane, sir; and there's naebody yet--for he's lyin doon at the east\nend o' the rampart, whar never a shot was kent to come before, as\nneither town's folk nor Englishers is ever in that quarter.\"\n\n\"Is he sair hurt?\" said David.\n\n\"I'm thinking he is,\" replied the boy. \"But I maun awa up to St.\nAnthony's, and get ane o' the brethren.\" \"Ye needna fash, my man,\" said\nmine host of \"The Ship.\" \"Hae, there's a groat to ye. There's ane o' the\nbrethren in my house, and I'll send him up immediately to the puir man.\"\n\nThe boy, well enough satisfied with this conclusion to his mission, went\nhis ways, seeking to have nothing farther to do with the matter.\n\nNow, good reader, would you suspect it, that our friend David Wemyss\nwas at this moment acting under the influence of one of the most wicked\ntemptations that ever led an unhappy wight from the paths of\nrighteousness? You would not; yet it is true--too true. Tempted by the\nexhibition of the bequests confided to brother Drinkhooly by the two\nwounded French officers, David Wemyss, beguiled by the devil, conceived\nthe atrocious idea of arraying himself in the hat and gown of the\nunconscious churchman, and of officiating as father confessor to the\ndying gentleman on the ramparts, in the hope that he too would leave\nsomething to the preceptory, and make him the interim recipient of the\nbequest. Circumstances, David thought, were favourable to the adventure.\nThe night was dark, and the wounded man was lying at a remote part of\nthe rampart, where there was no great chance of his being annoyed with\nmany witnesses. The whole affair, besides, he calculated, would not\noccupy many minutes.\n\nEncouraged to the sacrilegious undertaking by this combination of happy\ncircumstances, David Wemyss hastened, on tiptoe, to the chamber of the\nsleeping brother, and, in a twinkling, had himself bedight in the gown\nand hat of the latter.\n\nThus arrayed, he stole out by the back door, and, taking all the by-ways\nhe could, hastened, as fast as his legs could carry him, towards the\nsouth-eastern extremity of the ramparts, where, as described to him, the\nwounded man was lying. David was thus pushing along, when he suddenly\nfelt himself slapped on the shoulder by some one behind. He turned\nround, and beheld a man closely muffled up in a cloak, who thus\naddressed him:--\n\n\"Your pardon, holy father, for this somewhat uncourteous interruption;\nbut the urgency of my case must plead my apology. An expiring sinner,\nholy father, claims your instant attendance. I will conduct you to her.\nWill you have the goodness to accompany me?\"\n\n\"Impossible--impossible,\" replied the counterfeit monk, in great\nperturbation at this most unexpected interruption, and threatened\nexpose. \"I'm juist gaun on an errand o' the same kind enow, and canna\nleave ae sinner for anither.\"\n\n\"You will oblige me by accompanying me, good father,\" said the stranger,\nin a mild tone, but with a firmness of manner that was rather alarming.\n\"You will oblige me by accompanying me, good father,\" he said, _looking_\na little surprised at the style of the holy father's language, but\nmaking no remark on the subject.\n\n\"Canna, sir--canna, canna, canna, on ony account,\" repeated the unhappy\nbrother of St. Anthony, with great volubility, and endeavouring to push\npast the stranger, who stood directly in his way, and who kept dodging\nin his front to prevent his succeeding in any attempt of this kind.\n\n\"Nay, now, good father, if you please--now, if you please, and without\nmore bandying of words; for the case is urgent, and there is not a\nmoment to lose.\"\n\n\"Man, it's oonpossible--utterly oonpossible,\" replied David, with\ndesperate energy. \"I tell ye it's oonpossible.\"\n\n\"Do not compel me to use force, good father,\" said the stranger, calmly\nbut determinedly.\n\n\"Force--force!\" reiterated the horror-stricken monk. \"Wad ye use force\nto a holy brither o' the preceptory? That wad be an awfu like thing.\"\n\n\"I must; you drive me to it,\" said the stranger--\"Heaven knows how\nunwillingly. My orders were peremptory. They were to accost the first of\nyour brethren I met; to entreat him to accompany me; and, if he refused,\nto compel him. The first I have done; the latter I must proceed to do;\nbut, rest assured, no personal injury shall be done you; and you shall,\nmoreover, be well rewarded for your trouble.\"\n\nHaving said this, the stranger gave a low whistle, when he was\nimmediately joined by two men, who had been concealed in a dark passage\nclose by, and who the unhappy monk saw were well armed.\n\n\"Now, good father,\" resumed the person by whom the latter had been first\naccosted, \"I trust you will see the folly of any attempt at resistance,\nshould you--which God forfend!--be indiscreet enough to entertain any\nsuch idea. Excuse me hinting farther, holy father, that any attempt at\noutcry, or at giving the slightest alarm of any kind, will be attended\nwith unpleasant consequences.\"\n\n\"But--but--but\"--exclaimed the distracted innkeeper, with rapid\nutterance.\n\n\"No buts, if you please, good father, but follow me,\" interrupted the\nstranger; and, saying this, he moved off, while his two companions\nplaced themselves one on either side of their charge, and requested him\nto proceed.\n\nScarcely knowing what he did, but seeing very clearly that there would\nbe imminent personal danger in farther remonstrance or resistance, the\nunlucky monk obeyed. This, however, he did only until he should have had\ntime to reflect on his best course of proceeding--that is, until he\nshould have taken it into due consideration whether he had not better\nbrave exposure, and at once avow himself as no brother of St. Anthony,\nbut David Wemyss, landlord of \"The Ship,\" on the Coal Hill of\nLeith--reserving to himself, however, the right of keeping the secret of\nhis purpose in assuming the garb of the brotherhood. Having weighed the\nmatter well, and taken all probable and possible consequences into\naccount, David finally determined on making the confession above alluded\nto--hoping by this means to put an end to the awkward proceedings now in\nprogress and to accomplish, of course, at the same time, his own\nliberation. Having come to this resolution--\n\n\"Hey! hey!\" he exclaimed, in a slightly raised voice, to draw the\nattention of the principal of his three guards or captors, who was still\nwalking a little way in advance.\n\nThe person thus hailed stopped until David came up. The latter took him\naside a little way, and whispered in his ear--\n\n\"I say, man, this is a' a mistak thegither. I'm no a monk. I'm no ane o'\nthe brotherhood at a', man.\"\n\nThe man stared at him with surprise for a few seconds, without saying a\nword. At length, a satirical, or perhaps rather incredulous smile\nplaying on his countenance--\n\n\"Come, come, now, father; that will never do,\" he said. \"But I excuse\nyour attempt, though a clumsy one, to impose on me; for the duties of\nyour office have now become dangerous, and I do not wonder that you\nshould seek to avoid them as much as possible. I was prepared for\nthis--I was prepared for reluctance; and hence the precautions I took to\ncompel, in case of failing to persuade.\"\n\n\"But I assure ye, sir, most seriously, that it's true I hae tell't ye,\"\nexclaimed David, with desperate eagerness, \"I'm nae mair a monk than ye\nare.\"\n\n\"And, pray, who the devil are you then?\" exclaimed the stranger.\n\n\"'Deed, to tell you a Gude's truth, I'm juist plain Davy Wemyss o' 'The\nShip,' on the Coal Hill.\"\n\n\"Umph! oh! Don't know such a person; never heard of him.\"\n\n\"Od! that's queer,\" here interposed David, hastily. \"I thocht everybody\nkent me.\"\n\n\"Not I for one,\" replied the stranger drily; \"but, to cut this matter\nshort, in the first place, I am not bound, good father, or hosteller, or\nwhatever you are, to believe you; in the next, my orders were\nperemptory: I was instructed to accost the first person I met in\nclerical garb, and entreat him to accompany me; and, if he did not do so\nwillingly, to compel him, as I told you before. So, there's an end of\nit. If you really be not what you appear to be, I can't help it. That's\na point you must settle with others, not with me; I have nothing to do\nwith it. My duty's done when I have brought you along with me; and that\nduty I am determined to do.\"\n\nSaying this, the speaker, without waiting for farther remark or\nremonstrance, walked on, having previously made a sign to his two\nassistants to look to their charge.\n\nWhat mine host of \"The Ship's\" feelings or reflections were, on finding\nhimself thus cut off from all chance of escape from his awkward\npredicament, it would be rather tedious to describe. The reader will\nbelieve that they could not be very pleasant; and that is enough.\n\nWhatever these feelings were, however, they did not hinder David Wemyss\nfrom entering, or rather attempting to enter, into conversation with the\ntwo men to whose charge he was confided.\n\n\"Od, men,\" he said, on their resuming their march, \"this is an awkward\nsort o' business. I'm sure ye ken me weel aneuch--dinna ye?\"\n\nThe only reply was a shake of the head.\n\n\"Davy Wemyss o' the Coal Hill? Ye canna but ken me, I should think,\"\nadded the latter.\n\n\"No voord Ainglish,\" at length replied one of the men.\n\n\"Oh, ye're Frenchmen; ye belang to the Queen's Guard?\" said David, now\nenlightened on the subject of their silence. \"Weel, this is waur and\nmair o't,\" he continued. \"Sma chance noo o' makin oot my case.\"\n\nIn the meantime, the party, who had taken their way by the quietest and\nmost circuitous routes, were rapidly approaching the wooden bridge over\nthe Water of Leith, which, in these days, formed the only communication\nbetween the opposite sides of the river.\n\nHaving gained the bridge, they proceeded alongst it; and, thereafter,\nmade for a certain outlet in the ramparts situated in this quarter. This\noutlet, as might be expected, seeing that the town was at this moment\nunder siege, was strongly guarded, and no egress or ingress permitted\nexcepting to persons properly accredited.\n\nOf such, however, seemed to be the person who had captured the unlucky\nhero of our story; for, on David and his escort coming up to the gate,\nthey found the way prepared for them by the former, who, keeping still\nin advance, had arrived there before them.\n\nWithout word or question, then, they were permitted to pass through.\n\nAt this point, David was strongly tempted to make his case known to the\nguard at the gate; but, perceiving that they too were all Frenchmen, he\nthought it would be of no use, as they would not understand him. So he\nheld his tongue.\n\nThe guard--who, we need hardly say, were staunch Catholics to a\nman--were, in the meantime, sadly annoying David with reverences to his\nclerical character. They formed themselves into two lines, that he might\npass out at the gate with all due honour, and kept touching their caps\nto him, with the most respectful obeisance, as he walked on between\ntheir ranks.\n\nHaving gained the outside of the wall, Wemyss' escort, still led on by\ntheir principal, conducted him, by circuitous routes, towards the mills\nof Leith, at the distance of about a quarter of a mile from the town.\n\nHere, under a shed, they found four horses ready saddled and bridled, in\ncharge of a groom, who seemed to have been waiting their arrival. So\nsoon as the party came up, the latter, without waiting for orders,\ndisappeared for an instant; and, in the next, presented himself leading\nforth the four horses, two by each hand. On one of these David,\nnotwithstanding his most earnest entreaties to the contrary, which he\nbacked by earnest assurances that \"he was nae horseman,\" was immediately\nmounted. His guards mounted one a-piece of the others; and the whole\ncavalcade now proceeded, at a round trot, towards Edinburgh--poor Wemyss\nbouncing terribly with the roughness of the motion, to which he had been\nbut little accustomed.\n\nOn approaching the city, the leader of the party, who, on horseback as\non foot, still kept in advance, suddenly drew bridle, and waited the\ncoming up of the holy brother and his escort.\n\nOn the former drawing near--\n\n\"Our route, father, lies through Edinburgh,\" he said. \"Now, as these are\ntroublesome times for persons of your cloth, I would recommend your\nconducting yourself, for your own sake, as warily as possible. We shall\ntake the quietest routes, in order to avoid observation; and I beg that\nyou will neither say nor do anything while we are passing through the\ncity calculated to defeat our caution or attract notice.\"\n\nHaving said this, and without waiting for any reply, the speaker rode\non, leaving his charge to follow with his escort.\n\nThe party had now passed the village of Broughton, when, turning in an\neasterly direction, they passed round the eastern base of the Calton\nHill, descended to the south back of the Canongate, traversed its whole\nlength, and finally entered the city by Leith Wynd.\n\nFor some time, the horsemen passed along without attracting any\nparticular notice; and, very probably, would have continued to do so,\nhad it not been for an idle boy, who, catching a glimpse of the brother\nof St. Anthony's flowing gown and slouched hat, just as the party had\nturned into the High Street, set up a loud cry of--\n\n\"Prelacy's mounted! prelacy's mounted! Hurra! hurra! Prelacy's mounted!\nand riding to----.\"\n\nContinuing to follow the cavalcade, and continuing his clamour also, the\nmischievous little rascal soon had a crowd at the heels of the horsemen.\nThe boy's exclamations spoke the spirit of the times; so that others of\na similar character soon arose from twenty different quarters, and from\nas many different voices.\n\n\"Doon wi' the limb o' Satan!\" shouted one.\n\n\"Doon wi' the man o' sin!\" shouted another.\n\n\"Pu' Papery frae its throne o'iniquity!\" exclaimed a third.\n\n\"Strike your spurs into your horse's sides, and let us shew them clean\nheels for it,\" said the leader of the party, addressing his unhappy\ncharge, by whose side he was now riding, and speaking in a low but firm\nand earnest tone.\n\n\"But, man,\" began the latter, who appeared to be in great trepidation.\n\n\"You'll be murdered else,\" said the former, interrupting him sharply,\nand, at the same moment, striking the spurs into his horse's sides--a\nproceeding which instantly carried him clear of the crowd, and, shortly\nafter, out of sight and out of danger.\n\nThe prudent example of their leader was quickly followed by the other\ntwo men, who, also, clapping spurs to their horses, soon found\nthemselves out of the tumultuous throng by which they were surrounded,\nto whose tender mercies they left their unhappy charge, who being, as he\nsaid himself, no horseman, was unable to extricate himself from the now\nfast-thickening crowd.\n\nDespairing of being able to effect his escape by any effort of\nhorsemanship, the poor innkeeper, though with little hope of being\nbelieved, determined on divulging the facts of his case to the\nmob--always, however, of course, reserving to himself the original\npurpose for which he had assumed the unfortunate dress he now wore, the\ncause of all his trouble.\n\nHaving come to this resolution, he began to address the mob, some of\nwhom had already laid hands on him, for the purpose of dragging him from\nhis horse.\n\n\"Guid folks,\" began David, \"I'm nae mair a munk than ony o' ye. I'm\"----\n\nAt this moment, a well-aimed brick-bat took the unfortunate speaker on\nthe right temple, and tumbled him senseless from his horse.\n\nThe mob, somewhat appalled by the suddenness of this catastrophe, and\nimagining that the unhappy man was killed outright, stood aloof for a\nfew seconds, when David, almost instantly recovering from the stunning\neffect of the blow, which had unhorsed him, started to his feet, and,\nfinding the press around him not very dense, pushed his way through it,\nand took to his heels.\n\nThis proceeding was the signal for a general chace, and it instantly\ntook place. Relieved from the apprehension of having a murder to answer\nfor, the mob, with shouts of exultation, started after the fugitive at\nfull speed. Down Leith Wynd went David, instinct taking him in the\ndirection of home; and down after him, like an avalanche, or raging\ntorrent, went the mob, whooping and yelling as they rushed along.\n\nMaddened and distracted with terror, David's progress was splendid, and,\nhad nothing occurred to interrupt it, would soon have carried him out of\nthe reach of his enemies; but the steepness of the street, which had\naided his velocity, also increased its perils. For a long while he kept\nhis feet on the abrupt declivity, like a winged Mercury; but a\ntreacherous inequality in the pavement brought him suddenly, and with\ndreadful violence, down on his face, while, partly over and partly on\nhim, went half-a-dozen of the foremost of the pursuers, tripped up by\nhis abrupt and unlooked-for prostration.\n\nThose who fell on the unhappy victim of popular fury, now instantly,\nand, as they lay, betook themselves to avenging their fall by tearing\nand worrying at the unlucky cause of their accident; while others coming\nup, added to his punishment by an unmerciful infliction of kicks and\nbuffets, that quickly deprived him of all consciousness.\n\nIt was at this critical moment that a person, apparently of\nconsideration, approached the crowd, and asked some of those who were\nhovering around it, what was the meaning of the uproar.\n\n\"They're bastin a Papist--a fat priest o' Baal, they hae gotten hand\no',\" said a burly fellow who, from the leathern apron he wore, appeared\nto be a shoemaker. \"Giein him a taste o' Purgatory before they send him\nto ----, just by way o' seasonin.\"\n\n\"What, is this more of the accursed doings of the spoilers and\npersecutors of the church,\" exclaimed the stranger, in a tone of deep\nindignation. \"Are they about to add murder to robbery;\" and, drawing his\nsword, he rushed into the crowd, calling out--\"Stand aside, ye caitiffs!\nshame on ye; would ye murder a defenceless man? Would ye bring Heaven's\nwrath upon your heads by so foul a deed?\"\n\nThe crowd, either awed by the bold bearing of the stranger, or taken by\nsurprise by the suddenness of his assault, readily opened a way for him,\nso that, in an instant, he stood by the bruised, battered, and senseless\nbody of our unhappy brother of St. Anthony.\n\nSeeing that the latter was in a state of utter unconsciousness, though\nstill living, the stranger, after clearing a circle around the prostrate\nman, addressing those near him, said--\n\n\"Ten crowns will I give to any three or four amongst ye who will bear\nthis unfortunate person whither I shall conduct them. It is not far:\nonly to the southern side of the city.\"\n\nFor a few minutes there was no answer to this invitation; but it was\nheard with a silence which shewed that it had made an impression--that\nreligious zeal and hatred were giving way to cupidity.\n\nAt length, a brawny-armed smith, with shirt rolled up to his shoulders,\nstepping out of the crowd, said--\n\n\"Well, I'm your man for one. I say, Bob, and you Archy,\" he continued,\nturning round, and selecting two persons from the mob, \"will ye no join\nus in giein a lift to the carrion? Ten croons are no to be fand at every\ndike-side.\"\n\nWithout making any reply in words to this appeal, the two persons named\ncame forward, although with a somewhat dogged and sullen air, and were\nabout to seize limbs a-piece of the still unconscious victim of popular\nhatred, with the view of thus transporting him, as if he had been a dead\ndog, to the destination proposed for him, when the person who had now\ntaken the unfortunate man in charge, objected to the unseemly and\ninhuman proceeding, and offered an additional crown for a bier or litter\non which to place him.\n\nThe activity of the smith, stimulated by the increased reward, quickly\nproduced the conveniency wanted. It was but a coarse and clumsy article;\nbeing nothing more than a few rough boards hastily put together; but it\nanswered its purpose indifferently well.\n\nOn this latter, then, the body of our unlucky brother was now\nplaced--his face dreadfully swollen and disfigured; and the procession\nmoved off, with a shouting and laughing mob at its heels.\n\nLeaving David thus disposed of, we will return to Leith for a space, to\nsee how Drinkhooly came on, denuded as he was of his shovel hat and his\ngown.\n\nOn awaking from his nap, the worthy churchman, not well pleased that\nDavid had not come to rouse him as he promised, started up in great\nuneasiness, lest the gates of the preceptory should be shut, and his\ncharacter as a regular living man be thereby injured.\n\nWhat was the surprise of the good man, however, to find that he had been\nstripped of his gown while he slept, and left in his shirt sleeves.\nAlarmed at the circumstance, brother Drinkhooly began searching the\napartment for the missing garment, and also for his hat, which he now\nfound had likewise gone astray.\n\nBeing able to discover no trace of the missing articles, he commenced\nrapping on the door to bring some one to his assistance, although very\nunwilling to expose himself in his present predicament to any but his\nwell-beloved crony, David Wemyss. He could not help himself, however.\nHis gown and hat he must have. He could not leave the house without\nthem, and without assistance they could not be got.\n\nThe worthy brother's rapping on the door being unattended to, he\ncommenced with his heel on the floor, a proceeding which he had often\nfound, as it has been facetiously termed, an \"_effectual calling_.\"\n\nIn the present instance, it brought mine host's wife into his presence.\nOn her entering--\n\n\"Good woman, good Mrs. Wemyss, I would say, know ye anything of mine\nouter garment? My gown, know ye where it has been deposited? I likewise\nlack my hat, good Mrs. Weymss; know ye what has become of it?\"\n\n\"Truly, your reverence, I dinna ken,\" replied Mrs. Weymss, beginning to\nbustle about the apartment in search of the desiderated articles; \"but\nthey canna be far aff, surely. Does your reverence no mind whar ye laid\nthem?\"\n\n\"My hat, I recollect perfectly--there being no reason why I should not\nrecollect it--I laid on this chair by the bedside here. Now it is gone.\nMy gown I laid nowhere, but kept on me. So, of that garment I must have\nbeen denuded even while I slept. It is strange. Is my good friend David\nnot in the way? He would, doubtless, explain all, and help me to mine\nouter covering and head-gear?\"\n\n\"Indeed, no, your reverence, David's no in the way; and I canna tell\nwhar he is. He's been missing oot o' the house thae three hours; and\ngaed aff without telling ony o' us whar he was gaun, or what he was gaun\naboot. Indeed, nane o' us kent when he gaed. Sae he maun hae slippit aff\nunco cannily.\"\n\nIn the meantime, the search for the missing articles of dress went on\nvigorously, but without any good result. They were nowhere to be found.\n\n\"What's to be done?\" said the good father in a despairing tone, as he\nthrew himself into a chair. \"I cannot go through the streets in this\nindecent condition, and, if I remain longer, I will be deemed a\ndisregarder of canonical hours. What is to be done?\"\n\n\"Deed it's an awkward thing, your reverence, and how ye are to gae hame\nin your sark sleeves, and your bald head to the win, I dinna see.\"\n\n\"I'll tell you what you'll do for me, my good Mrs. Weymss,\" said the\nworthy father, after thinking a moment: \"You'll send up your little girl\nto the preceptory, and I'll give her a message to Brother Christie. I\nthink he'll oblige me in a strait. He'll send me down a gown and hat\nwherewith I may hie me home, and your good husband, and my good friend,\nDavid, will, doubtless, find me mine own garments when he returns.\"\n\n\"Surely, your reverence, surely; Jessy'll be but owre prood to do your\nreverence's biddin,\" replied Mrs. Weymss, and she hastened to call her\ndaughter.\n\nOn the girl making her appearance, the worthy brother gave her her\ninstructions.\n\nHe desired her to go to the preceptory; to ask a private word of Brother\nChristie; and to say to him that he, Drinkhooly, had got into\ntribulation. That, having some matters of private concernment to talk\nover with mine host of \"The Ship,\" he had called on him, and that, while\nthere, overcome with exhaustion, in consequence of his late fatiguing\nduties, he had fallen asleep, and that, while he slept, some one had\nremoved his gown and hat, and that he could nowhere find the same, and\ncould not therefore return to the preceptory unless his good brother,\nChristie, would furnish him with the loan of these two articles, the\nwhich, he had no doubt, he would readily do.\n\nCharged with this rather long-winded message, the girl departed on her\nmission. In less than a quarter of an hour she returned, but brought\nneither hat nor gown.\n\n\"Has he refused them?\" inquired the worthy brother, with a look of\ngrievous discomfiture, when he saw the girl enter without the\nmuch-desired articles. \"What did he say?\"\n\n\"He said, sir,\" replied the girl, who was both too young and too\nsingle-minded to think of saving any one's feelings at the expense of\ntruth, \"that, if ye had drank less o' David Wemyss' claret, ye wad hae\nkenned better what had become o' your gown and hat.\"\n\n\"_O scandalum magnatum!_\" exclaimed the indignant priest. \"Doth he--doth\nBrother Christie accuse me of vinous indulgences? Him whom I have, a\nhundred times, helped to his dormitory, when incapacitated therefrom by\nthe excess of his potations. And he would not give thee the garments?\"\n\n\"No, please you, sir; he said ye micht gang without the breeks for him.\nHe wadna send ye a stitch.\"\n\nIt became now matter for serious consideration what was to be done. It\nwas true that the good father might easily have been arrayed for the\nnonce in a coat and hat of his friend, David Wemyss', and might, so\nattired, pass unheeded through the streets. But how was he to account\nfor his appearance in such an unseemly garb at the preceptory. It might\nlead to some awkward inquiries as to how the good brother had spent the\nevening.\n\nThere was no other way for it, however. So, equipped in the deficient\narticles from mine host of \"The Ship's\" wardrobe, Brother Drinkhooly\nstole out of the house, slunk along the streets, gained the gate of the\npreceptory, knocked thereat, whispered two or three words of explanation\nto the porter, with whom he was fortunately in good terms, and, finally,\ngot snugly to his own dormitory without detection.\n\nTo return to mine host of \"The Ship.\" It was not for nearly twelve hours\nafter the occurrence of the tragical affair of Leith Wynd, that David\nWemyss was restored to a consciousness of existence. When he was,\nconceive, if you can, reader, his surprise and amazement to find himself\nin a superb bed, hung round with rich crimson velvet curtains, and whose\ncoverlets were of satin fringed with gold. The room, which was also\ngorgeously furnished, was so darkened when David awoke from the\nrefreshing sleep which had restored him to the possession of his senses,\nthat it was some time before he discovered all the splendours with which\nhe was surrounded.\n\nWhen these, however, had at length begun to take his eye, he started up\non his elbow, and, with a mingled look of perplexity, consternation, and\nbewilderment, commenced a survey of the magnificent chamber of which he\nthus so strangely and inexplicably found himself an occupant.\n\nHow or when he had been brought there, he could not conceive; neither,\nfor a good while, had he any recollection whatever of the pummelling\nwith which he had been favoured in Leith Wynd. The operation, however,\nof certain physical effects of that incident--namely, a painful aching\nof the bones, and an almost total inability to move either leg or arm,\ngradually unfolded to him, although only in a dim and confused manner,\nthe occurrence of the preceding night.\n\nIn the meantime, David went on with his survey of the apartment, during\nwhich he perceived two objects that convinced him that he was in the\nhouse of a Roman Catholic--of one of those who still clung to the\nancient religion of the kingdom, and who held in detestation and\nabhorrence the doctrines of the new faith.\n\nThese objects were a large painting, over the fire-place, of the Saviour\non the Cross, and a small silver crucifix which stood on a table close\nby the side of the bed; there was also lying on the floor, opposite the\ncrucifix, and near to it, a crimson velvet cushion with gold tassels on\nwhich were such indentations as intimated its having been recently knelt\nupon.\n\nHaving completed the examination of his new premises, David Wemyss threw\nhimself back on the bed, in order to take a deliberate survey in his own\nmind of his present strange position, and of all the circumstances\nconnected therewith.\n\n\"'Od, but this is a most extraordinar affair, and a dooms awkward ane,\"\nthought David, to himself. \"Wha wad hae dreamed o't. Wha wad hae dreamed\nthat sae simple a thing as me putting on Drinkhooly's goun, wad hae led\nto a' this mischief.\n\n\"What'll they think's become o' me in Leith? And what'll I say for mysel\nwhan I gae back? And what'll Drinkhooly do for his goun? Od, they'll\nexcommunicat him; they'll ruin him. God help us, it's an awfu' business.\nBut, whar am I?--Wha's house is this, and hoo got I till't? And hoo and\nwhan am I to get hame again; for I fin' that I couldna keep a leg under\nme enow, an it were to mak me provost o' Edinburgh.\"\n\nAt this moment, David's somewhat disjointed, though pertinent enough\nreflections, were interrupted by the entrance of some one into the\napartment.\n\nThe intruder, whoever he was, came in on tiptoe, as if fearful of\ndisturbing the occupant of the apartment; and, on approaching the bed,\npeered cautiously into it, to see whether he was awake.\n\nDavid, without saying a word, stared at the person, who appeared to be a\nserving man or cook, from his wearing a blue velvet cap on his head--the\nusual head-dress of such persons in those times, and his bearing a\nsteaming silver posset dish in one hand.\n\nDavid, as we have said, stared at the man, without saying a word--a line\nof proceeding which he adopted, in order that the other, by speaking\nfirst, might give him a sort of cue by which to guide himself in the\nimpending colloquy.\n\nSeeing that the patient was awake, the man, bowing respectfully, said:--\n\n\"I trust, holy father, I find you better. Here is a posset which has\nbeen prepared for you by the directions of our leech, worthy Dr. Whang\no' the Cowgate Head, which you will be so good as take.\"\n\n\"My man,\" said David, without either accepting or refusing the proffered\nposset, \"I'm misdoubtin that there's a sad mistak in this business\na'thegither. Howsomever, let that flee stick to the wa' for the present.\nCan ye tell me whar I am, and hoo I cam here?\"\n\n\"Most assuredly, holy father. You are just now in the house, and under\nthe protection and guardianship of Lady Wisherton of Wisherton Mains,\nwhose house is situated about two hundred yards south of the Kirk of\nField. As to the manner of your coming here, holy father, it was\nthis:--Her ladyship's son, Lord Boggyland, coming up Leith Wynd last\nnight, found you in the midst of a crowd of sacrilegious ruffians, who\nwere murdering you, and who had already, by their brutal treatment,\ndeprived you of all consciousness. Seeing this, his lordship, who, as\nall his family--his good and pious mother included--are staunch\nadherents of the old religion, instantly interfered in your behalf, and\nhad you conveyed to his mother's house, where, as I have already said,\nyou are at the present moment.\"\n\n\"Umph,\" muttered David. \"Is that the way o't. Then, I fancy, I'm juist\noot o' the fryin-pan into the fire.\"\n\nThe serving-man, not perceiving the applicability of the remark,\nalthough somewhat surprised at it, made no reply, but again pressed the\nposset on the suffering martyr.\n\n\"Weel, weel, let's see't then,\" said David, raising himself up in the\nbed. \"There can be nae great harm in that, I fancy. It'll no mak things\nmuckle waur than they are. Is't onything tasty?\"\n\nHis attendant assured him that he would find it very pleasant, being\nmade by her ladyship's own hands, who long enjoyed a high reputation for\nmanufacturing possets and comfits of all sorts.\n\nHaving raised the lid of the posset dish, and flavoured it contents,\nDavid pronounced it \"savoury;\" when, taking spoon in hand, he cleared\nout the vessel in a twinkling.\n\n\"A gusty mouthfu' that,\" said mine host of \"The Ship,\" throwing himself\nluxuriously back on his pillow, \"although I think it wadna been the waur\no' a wee hair mair brandy in't.\"\n\nThe serving-man having done his errand, now left the room, retiring with\nthe same careful step and respectful manner with which he had entered,\nand left David once more to his own reflections.\n\nIn these, however, he was permitted but a very short indulgence. His\nattendant had not been gone five minutes, when the door of the\napartment was again gently opened, and an elderly lady, of tall and\nmajestic form, arrayed in a close fitting dress of black velvet, with a\ngold chain round her neck, from which was suspended a large diamond\ncross, entered the sick man's chamber. It was Lady Wisherton herself.\nApproaching, with stately step, but with a look of tender concern, the\nbed on which her patient lay--\n\n\"It rejoices me much, holy father,\" she said, \"to learn, from our good\nand faithful servitor, William Binkie, that your reverence begins to\nfeel some symptoms of amendment.\"\n\n\"Ou, thank ye, mem, thank ye,\" replied David, with no small trepidation;\nfor the dignified and stately appearance of his visiter had sadly\nappalled him. \"I fin' mysel a hauntle better, thanks to your leddyship's\nkindness--takin' ye to be Leddy Wisherton hersel', as I hae nae doot ye\nare.\"\n\n\"You are right in your conjecture, good father,\" replied Lady Wisherton,\nrather taken aback by the very peculiar style of his reverence's\nlanguage, which she did not recollect ever to have met with in any other\nperson in holy orders before. The circumstance, however, only puzzled\nher; it did not, in the smallest degree, excite in her any suspicion of\nthe real facts of the case. \"You are right in your conjecture, good\nfather,\" she said, \"I am Lady Wisherton.\"\n\n\"So I was jalousin, mem,\" said David, who, by the way, we may as well\nmention here, had made up his mind to endeavour to avoid exposure, by\nnot saying or doing anything to undeceive Lady Wisherton as to his real\ncharacter, and to trust to some fortunate chance of getting, undetected,\nout of the house.\n\n\"O father!\" said Lady Wisherton, bursting out into a sudden paroxysm of\npious excitation, \"what is to become of our poor persecuted church?\nWhen will a judgment descend on this unholy land, for the monstrous sins\nby which it is now daily polluted. Oh, dreadful times!--oh, unheard of\niniquity! that a priest of God--a father of our holy church--should be\nattacked on the public streets of this city, and put in jeopardy of his\nlife by a mob of heretical blasphemers! When will these atrocities\ncease? Oh, when, when, when?\"\n\n\"Deed, mem, it's no easy sayin,\" replied the subject of this pathetic\nlamentation. \"They're awfu' times. Nae man leevin ever saw or heard o'\nthe like o' them. There, doon at Leith enow, they're murderin ane\nanither by the dizzen every day, and no comin a bit nearer the point\nafter a'. Heaven kens whar it's to end. In the meantime, they hae gien\nme a confounded lounderin; I fin' that in every bane o' my body.\"\n\n\"You have been sorely abused by them, indeed, father,\" replied Lady\nWisherton. \"But a day of retribution is coming. You will be avenged,\nterribly avenged.\"\n\n\"There was ae fallow, in particular, amang them, that I wad like to see\ngettin a guid creeshin,\" replied David: \"_that_ was a great big\nscounneril o' a blacksmith, wi' his shirt sleeves rowed up to his\nshouthers. He was the warst o' the lot. I got mair and heavier waps frae\nhim than frae a' the rest put thegither.\"\n\nAgain, Lady Wisherton looked surprised at the style of language in which\nher reverend patient spoke, his last remarks being particularly rich in\nthe homely vernacular of the country, and greatly was her perplexity\nincreased by the discordance between his calling and his manner, which\nwas every moment becoming more and more marked; still she did not, nor\ncould suspect the truth.\n\n\"Was it not a blessing of Providence, father,\" resumed Lady Wisherton,\n\"that my son, Lord Boggyland, happened to be in Leith Wynd at the time\nyou were attacked by these sacrilegious ruffians?\"\n\n\"Feth, my leddy, it was just that,\" replied David--\"A Gude's mercy. They\ngied me a bonny creeshin as it was; but they wad hae dished me clean oot\nan it hadna been for him. Feth, yon fellows care nae mair for a man's\nlife than they wad do for a puddock's.\"\n\n\"Your reverence's face is much swelled,\" said Lady Wisherton, suddenly\nattracted by the swollen and discoloured countenance of her patient.\n\"Greatly swelled. You must allow me to bathe it with my lotion.\"\n\n\"Nae occasion, mem, nae occasion, thank ye; I dinna find it ony way\npainfu. Besides, I'll try and get up, towards the darkenin, and be\nsteppin doon to Leith; for they'll be wonderin there what's come o' me.\"\n\nIt will be seen from this that our brother of St. Anthony contemplated\nan early retreat from his present quarters; and further, that he meant\nto avail himself of the obscurity of night to effect that retreat. But\nthis was a point not to be so very easily managed as he thought.\n\n\"Leave my house this afternoon!\" exclaimed Lady Wisherton, in the utmost\namazement. \"That, with your reverence's leave, indeed, you shall not do.\nYou shall remain where you are, under my tendance, until you be\nperfectly recovered, which we dare not hope for under a fortnight, at\nthe very least. But, in the meantime, good father, you shall have every\nattendance, every comfort which you can desire, or of which your\nsituation will admit. My son and I are but too happy, although we\ndeplore the cause, of having been presented with an opportunity of\ntestifying our reverence and love for a minister of our holy religion.\n\n\"As to your fears,\" she continued, \"for any uneasiness among your\nfriends in Leith, on account of your absence, be not concerned about\nthat, good father; I have provided for it. I have sent notice to the\npreceptory of your misfortune, relating all that has happened, and\ngiving intimation that you are in my house, and in safety; so have no\ndoubt that some of the brethren will be here in the course of the\nevening.\"\n\nHere was a pretty piece of information for the already but too much\nperplexed martyr to the old faith. Intimation had been sent to the\npreceptory, and half-a-dozen of the brethren would be in upon him\nimmediately, and a dreadful expose would, of course, follow. It was a\nmost trying crisis, and David but too sensibly felt it to be so. He felt\nas if he could have wished the house to fall upon him, and bury him in\nits ruins.\n\nAppalled and horrified, however, as he was at this impending\ncatastrophe, he said nothing, but, anxious to be left alone, in order to\nhave an opportunity of thinking over his position, and of taking into\nconsideration what had best be done, he began to affect drowsiness; when\nhis noble hostess, taking the hint, quietly left the apartment.\n\nHearing the door close, David first opened one eye cautiously, and then\nthe other; then turning gently round, peered over the edge of the bed to\nsee if the coast was clear. Discovering that it was, he threw himself\nagain on his back, and, fixing his eyes on the roof, began thinking as\nhard as he could how he was to get out of his present dilemma. The\nsequel will tell the result of his deliberations.\n\nOn that same night, about twelve of the clock, David Wemyss' worthy\nspouse--who had been in great distress at his sudden disappearance, and\nwho was fully impressed with the belief that he had fallen over the quay\nand had been drowned--was startled by a low tap-tapping at the back door\nof \"The Ship.\" Thinking it might be some one with tidings of her lost\nhusband, she instantly got up, lighted a candle, and, although under no\nlittle apprehension and alarm, opened the door, when, lo! who should\nenter but her beloved David himself. She instantly set up a scream of\ndelight.\n\n\"Whisht, whisht, woman,\" said David, stealing into a back apartment as\nfast as he could. \"This is no a business to blaw about. The calmer sough\nwe keep the better.\"\n\n\"But, gude sake, David,\" said his wife, on rejoining him, after having\nsecured the door, \"whar hae ye been a' this time, and whar hae ye gotten\nthat awfu-like face?\"\n\n\"I hae gotten a hantle mair than that, guidwife, although ye dinna\nsee't,\" replied David. \"I dinna believe there's a hale bane in my entire\nbuik. I hae had a bonny time since I left ye; aneuch to serve a man his\nhale life time; and yet it was a' crammed into ae four-and-twenty hours.\nBut gie me a mouthfu o' brandy, guidwife, and I'll tell ye a' about it.\"\n\nDavid now proceeded with his narration, giving his wife a detailed\naccount of the series of adventures related in the foregoing pages. To\nthese we have now to add only a reference to one or two points, which\nwill be considered, probably, as requiring some explanation.\n\nFirst, as to how our brother of St. Anthony escaped from Lady\nWisherton's. This he effected by the simple process of stealing out of\nthe house after dark. There was no other way for it, and he was\nfortunate enough to succeed in the somewhat hazardous attempt, by\ndropping himself from a window of a story in height, at the back part of\nthe house.\n\nWho the person was who first laid hands on mine host of \"The Ship,\" on\nhis first appearance in his new character, or by whom he was employed,\nhe never certainly knew, but suspected afterwards that he was a retainer\nof Lord Borthwick's, who was then in Leith with the Queen Regent.\nWhither, however, he meant to have taken him, or who the sufferer was\nfor whom the last duties of religion were wanted, he never learnt; nor,\nindeed, for obvious reasons, did he ever inquire. The whole, in short,\nwas a subject on which David Wemyss always thought the less that was\nsaid the better; and, acting on this opinion, it was one which he\ncarefully abstained from making matter of conversation.\n\nAll his caution, however, could not prevent some hints of his adventure\nfrom getting abroad. These hints some of the little ragged scapegraces\nof the Coal Hill wrought into the following rhymes, which, in dark\nnights, they were in the habit of shouting in at the door of \"The Ship,\"\nto the great annoyance of its landlord, who might frequently be seen\nrushing out, stick in hand, to inflict summary punishment on the\noffenders:--\n\n    \"Davie Wemyss gaed oot a priest,\n      By filthy lucre temptit;\n    Davie Wemyss cam hame again.\n      And thocht naebody kent it.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE STORY OF CLARA DOUGLAS.\n\n    \"The maid that loves,\n    Goes out to sea upon a shattered plank,\n    And puts her trust in miracles for safety.\"--_Old Play._\n\n\nI am a peripatetic genius--a wanderer by profession--a sort of Salathiel\nSecundus, \"doomed for a term,\" like the ghost of Hamlet's papa, \"to walk\nthe earth,\" whether I will or not. Here, however, the simile stops; for\nhis aforesaid ghostship could traverse, if he chose, amid climes far\naway, while the circuit of my peregrinations is, has for sometime\nbeen, and must, for some short time more, necessarily be, confined\nto the northern extremity of \"our tight little island\"--_vulgo\nvocato_--Scotland. In my day I have seen many strange sights, and met\nwith many strange faces--made several hairbreadth 'scapes, and undergone\ninnumerable perils by flood and field. On the wings of the wind--that\nis, on the top of a stage-coach--I have passed through many known and\nunknown towns and villages; have visited, on foot and on horseback, for\nmy own special edification and amusement, various ancient ruins, foaming\ncataracts, interesting rocks, and dismal-looking caves, celebrated in\nScottish story. But better far than that, and dearer to my soul, my foot\nhas trod the floors of, I may say, all the haberdashers shops north of\nthe Tweed: in short, most patient reader, I am a travelling bagman.\n\nIn this capacity I have, for years, perambulated among the chief towns\nof Scotland, taking orders from those who were inclined to give them to\nme, and giving orders to those who were not inclined to take them from\nme, unless with a _douceur_ in perspective--viz., coachmen, waiters,\nbar-maids, _et hoc genus omne_. From those of the third class, many are\nthe witching smiles lighting up pretty faces--many the indignant glances\nshot from deep love-darting eyes, when their under neighbours, the lips,\nwere invaded without consent of parties--which have saluted me\neverywhere; for the same varied feelings, the same sudden and\nunaccountable likings and dislikings, have place in the breasts of\nbar-maids as in those of other women. As is the case too with the rest\nof their sex, there are among them the clumsy and the handsome, the\nplain and the pretty, the scraggy and the plump, the old and the young;\nbut of all the bar-maids I ever met with, none charmed me more than did\nMary of the Black Swan, at Altonby. In my eyes she inherited all the\ngood qualities I have here enumerated--that is to say, she was handsome,\npretty, plump, and young, with a form neither too tall nor too short;\nbut just the indescribable happy size between, set off by a manner\npeculiarly graceful.\n\nIt was on a delightful evening in the early spring, that I found myself\nseated, for the first time, in a comfortable little parlour pertaining\nto the Black Swan, and Mary attending on me--she being the chief, nay,\nalmost the only person in the establishment who could serve a table. I\nwas struck with her loveliness, as well as captivated with her engaging\nmanner, and though I had for thirty years defied the artifices of blind\nCupid, I now felt myself all at once over head and ears in love with\nthis village beauty. Although placed in so low a sphere as that in which\nI then beheld her, there was a something about her that proclaimed her\nto be of gentle birth. Whoever looked upon her countenance, felt\nconscious that there was a respect due to her which it is far from\ncustomary to extend to girls in waiting at an inn. Hers were\n\n    \"Eyes so pure, that from their ray\n    Dark vice would turn abashed away.\"\n\nHer feet were small and fairy-like, from which, if her voice, redolent\nof musical softness--that thing so desirable in woman--had not already\ninformed me, I should have set her down as being of English extraction.\n\nSeveral months elapsed ere it was again in my power to visit Altonby.\nDuring all that time, my vagrant thoughts had been of Mary--sleeping or\nwaking, her form was ever present to my fancy. On entering the Black\nSwan, it was Mary who bounded forward to welcome me with a delighted\nsmile. She seemed gratified at my return; and I was no less so at the\ncordiality of my reception. The month was July, and the evening\nparticularly fine; so, not having business of much consequence to\ntransact in the place, and Mary having to attend to the comforts of\nothers, beside myself, then sojourning at the Black Swan, I sallied\nforth alone--\n\n    \"To take my evening's walk of meditation.\"\n\nWhen one happens to be left _per se_ in a provincial town, where he is\nalike unknowing and unknown--where there is no theatre or other place of\namusement in which to spend the evening--it almost invariably happens\nthat he pays a visit to the churchyard, and delights himself, for an\nhour or so, with deciphering the tombstones--a recreation extremely\nhealthful to the body, and soothing to the mind. It was to the\nchurchyard on that evening I bent my steps, thinking, as I went along,\nseriously of Mary.\n\n\"What is she to me?\" I involuntarily exclaimed; \"I have no time to waste\nupon women: I am a wanderer, with no great portion of worldly gear. In\nmy present circumstances it is impossible I can marry her; and to think\nof her in any other light were villanous. No, no! I will no longer\ncherish a dream which can never be realized.\"\n\nAnd I determined that, on the morrow, I should fly the fatal spot for\never. Who or what Mary's relations had been, she seemed to feel great\nreluctance in disclosing to me. All I could glean from her was, that she\nwas an orphan--that she had had a sister who had formed an unfortunate\nattachment, and broken their mother's heart--that all of her kindred\nthat now remained was a brother, and he was in a foreign land.\n\nThe sun was resting above the summits of the far-off mountains, and the\nyew trees were flinging their dusky shadows over the graves, as I\nentered the burial-place of Altonby. The old church was roofless and in\nruins; and within its walls were many tombstones over the ashes of\nthose who, having left more than the wherewithal to bury them, had been\nlaid there by their heirs, as if in token of respect. In a distant\ncorner, I observed one little mound over which no stone had been placed\nto indicate who lay beneath: it was evidently the grave of a stranger,\nand seemed to have been placed in that spot more for the purpose of\nbeing out of the way than for any other. At a short distance from it was\nanother mound, overtopped with grass of a fresher kind. As I stood\nleaning over a marble tombstone, gazing around me, a figure slowly\nentered at the farther end of the aisle, and, with folded arms and\ndowncast eyes, passed on to those two graves. It was that of a young man\nof perhaps five-and-twenty, though a settled melancholy, which\noverspread his countenance, made him look five years older. I crouched\nbehind the stone on which I had been leaning, fearful of disturbing him\nwith my presence, or rousing his attention by my attempting to leave the\nplace.\n\nAfter gazing with a vacant eye for a few moments upon the graves, he\nknelt down between them. His lips began to move, but I heard not what he\nsaid. I thought he was praying for the souls of the departed; and I was\nconfirmed in this by hearing him at last say, with an audible voice:--\n\n\"May all good angels guard thee, Clara Douglas, and thou, my mother!\"\n\nAs he uttered these last words, he turned his eyes to the newer grave. I\nthought he was about to continue his prayer; but, as if the sight of the\ngrave had awakened other feelings, he suddenly started up, and, raising\nhis hands to heaven, invoked curses on the head of one whom he termed\ntheir \"murderer!\" That done, he rushed madly from the church. All this\nwas very strange to me; and I determined, if possible, to ascertain\nwhose remains those graves entombed.\n\nOn leaving the churchyard, I was fortunate enough to orgather with an\nold man, from whom I learned the melancholy story of her who occupied\nthe older-looking grave. She was young and beautiful. Accident had\ndeprived her father of that wealth which a long life of untiring\nindustry had enabled him to lay past for his children; and he did not\nlong survive its loss. Fearful of being a burden to her mother, who had\na son and another daughter besides herself to provide for out of the\nslender pittance which remained to her on her husband's death, Clara\nDouglas accepted a situation as a governess, and sought to earn an\nhonourable independence by those talents and accomplishments which had\nonce been cultivated for mere amusement. The brother of Clara, shortly\nafterwards, obtained an appointment in the island of Madeira.\nUnfortunately for Clara, a young officer, a relative of the family in\nwhich she resided, saw her, and was smitten with her charms. He loved\nand was beloved again. The footing of intimacy on which he was in the\nhouse, procured him many interviews with Clara. Suddenly his regiment\nwas ordered to the Continent; and when the young ensign told the\nsorrowful tidings to Clara, he elicited from her a confession of her\nlove.\n\nMonths passed away--Waterloo was fought and won--and Ensign Malcolm was\namong those who fell.\n\nWhen the death-list reached Scotland, many were the hearts it\noverpowered with grief; but Clara Douglas had more than one grief to\nmourn: sorrow and shame were too much to bear together, and she fled\nfrom the house where she had first met _him_ who was the cause of all.\nNone could tell whither she had gone. Her mother and sister were\nagonized, when the news of her disappearance reached them. Every search\nwas made, but without effect. A year all but two weeks passed away, and\nstill no tidings of her, till that very day, two boys seeking for\npheasant's nests upon the top of a hillock overgrown with furze--which\nthe old man pointed out to me at a short distance from the place where\nwe stood--accidently stumbled upon an object beneath a fir-tree. It was\nthe remains of a female in a kneeling posture. Beneath her garments, by\nwhich she was recognised as Clara Douglas, not a vestige of flesh\nremained. There was still some upon her hands, which had been tightly\nclasped together; and upon her face, which leant upon them. Seemingly\nshe had died in great agony. It was supposed by some that she had taken\npoison.\n\n\"If your time will permit,\" added the old man, as he wiped away a tear,\n\"I will willingly show you the place where her remains were found. It is\nbut a short distance. Come.\"\n\nI followed the old man in silence. He led the way into a field. We\nclimbed over some loose stones thrown together, to serve as a wall of\ndivision at the farther extremity of it, and slowly began to ascend the\ngrassy acclivity, which was on both sides bordered by a thick hedge,\nplaced apart, at the distance of about thirty feet. When half way up, I\ncould not resist the inclination I felt to turn and look upon the scene.\nIt was an evening as fair as I had ever gazed on. The wheat was\nspringing in the field through which we had just passed, covering it, as\nit were, with a rich green carpet. Trees and hills bounded the view,\nbehind which the sun was on the point of sinking, and the red streaks\nupon the western sky \"gave promise of a goodly day tomorrow.\n\nIf, thought I, the hour on which Clara Douglas ascended this hill was\nas lovely as this evening, she must indeed have been deeply bent upon\nher own destruction, to look upon the world so beautifully fair, and\nnot wish to return to it again. We continued our ascent, passing among\nthick tangled underwood, in whose kindly grasp the light flowing\ngarments of Clara Douglas must have been ever and anon caught as she\nwended on her way. Yet had she disregarded the friendly interposition.\nAlong the margin of an old stone quarry we now proceeded, where the\npathway was so narrow that we were occasionally compelled to catch at\nthe furze bushes which edged it, to prevent ourselves from falling over\ninto the gulf beneath. And Clara Douglas, thought I, must have passed\nalong here, and must have been exposed to the same danger of toppling\nheadlong over the cliff, yet she had exerted herself to pass the fatal\nspot unharmed, to save a life which she knew would almost the instant\nafterwards be taken by her own hand. Such is the inconsistency of human\nnature. Our course lay once more through the midst of underwood, so\nthickly grown that one would have supposed no female foot would dare\nto enter it.\n\n\"Here,\" cried the old man, stopping beside a dwarfish fir tree, \"here is\nthe spot where we found the mortal remains of Clara Douglas.\"\n\nI pressed forward, and, to my surprise, beheld one other being than my\nold guide looking on the place. It was the same I had noticed at the\ngrave of Clara Douglas, within the walls of the ruined church of\nAltonby. I thought it a strange coincidence.\n\nSummer passed away, winter and spring succeeded, and summer came again,\nand with it came the wish to see Mary once more. However much I had\nbefore doubted the truth of the axiom, that \"absence makes the heart\ngrow fonder,\" I now felt the full force of its truth. My affection for\nMary was, day after day, becoming stronger; and, in spite of the\ndictates of prudence, my determination never to see her again began to\nfalter; and one evening I unconsciously found myself in the yard of the\nBlack Swan. Well, since I had come there at any rate, it would be\nexceedingly foolish to go away again without speaking to Mary; so I\ncalled to the stable boy to put up my horse. The boy knew me, for I had\nonce given him a sixpence for running a message, and he came briskly\nforward at my first call, no doubt with some indistinct idea of\nreceiving another sixpence at some no very distant date.\n\n\"Eh! Mr. Moir,\" said the boy, while I was dismounting, in answer to my\nquestion, \"What news in the village?\"\n\n\"Ye'll no guess what's gaun to happen? Our Mary, the folk say, is gaun\nto be married!\"\n\nOur Mary! thought I, can _our_ Mary be _my_ Mary? and, to ascertain\nwhether they were one and the same personage, I inquired of the boy who\nour Mary was.\n\n\"Ou!\" replied he, \"she's just bar-maid at the inn here.\"\n\nI started, now that this disclosure had unhinged my doubts; and\nsubduing, as well as I was able, my rising emotion, I boldly asked who\nwas \"the happy man.\"\n\n\"They ca' him a captain!\" said the boy, innocently; \"but whether he's a\nsea captain, an offisher in the army, or a captain o' police, I'm no\nthat sure. At ony rate, he aye gangs aboot in plain claes. He's been\nstaying for a month here, an' he gangs oot but seldom, an' that only in\nthe gloamin.\"\n\nAfter thanking the boy, and placing the expected silver coin in his\nhand, I turned the corner of the house in my way towards the entrance,\ndetermined, with my own eyes and ears, to ascertain the truth of the\nboy's statement. The pace at which I was proceeding was so rapid, that,\nere I was aware of the vicinity of any one, I came bump against the\nperson of a gentleman, whom, to my surprise, I instantly recognised as\nthe mysterious visitant to the grave of Clara Douglas, and to the spot\nwhere her relics were found. He seemed to regard me with a suspicious\neye; for he shuffled past without uttering a word. His air was\ndisordered, his step irregular, and his whole appearance was that of a\nman with whom care, and pain, and sorrow had long been familiar.\n\nCan this be the captain? was the thought which first suggested itself to\nme. It was a question I could not answer; yet I entered the Black Swan,\nhalf persuaded that it was.\n\n\"Ah! Mr. Moir,\" cried Mary, coming forward to welcome me in her usual\nway, the moment she heard my voice, \"you have been long a stranger. I\nfancied that, somehow or other, I was the cause of it, for you went away\nlast time without bidding me good-by.\" I held her hand in mine, I saw\nher eyes sparkle, and the blush diffuse her cheek, and I muttered a\nconfused apology. \"Well! I am so glad to see you,\" she continued. \"It\nwas but yesterday I spoke of you to the captain.\"\n\n\"The captain,\" I repeated, while the pangs of jealousy, which had,\nduring the last five minutes, been gradually lulled over to sleep,\nsuddenly roused themselves. \"Who is the captain, Mary?\"\n\n\"Oh! I'm sure you will like him when you become acquainted with him,\"\nsaid she, blushing. \"There is something so prepossessing about him, that\nreally I defy any one not to like him.\" The animation with which she\ngave utterance to these words made me miserable, and I cursed the\ncaptain in my heart.\n\nThe next day passed over without my being able to obtain a sight of my\nrival; and, when I walked out in the afternoon, he had not yet risen.\nMary's assigned reason for this was, that he was an invalid; but his was\nmore the disease of the mind than of the body. In his memory there was\nimplanted a deep sorrow, which time could never root out. In my walk,\nthe churchyard and the venerable ruins of the church were visited--I\nstood again beside the grave of the hapless Clara Douglas, and her\nmelancholy story afforded me a theme for sad reflection, which for a\nwhile banished Mary and all jealous fears from my mind.\n\nIt was evening when I reached \"mine inn.\" On passing the parlour window,\na sight met my eye which brought the colour to my cheeks. A tall,\nnoble-looking man lay extended upon the sofa, while Mary leant over him\nin kindly solicitude, and, with marked assiduity, placed cushions for\nhis head, and arranged his military cloak. This, then, must be the\ncaptain, and he and my mysterious friend were not the same. That was\nsome consolation, however.\n\nThus as he lay, he held Mary's hand in his. My breast was racked with\nagony intense; for\n\n    \"Oh! what a host of killing doubts and fears,\n    Of melancholy musings, deep perplexities,\n    Must the fond heart that yields itself to love,\n    Struggle with and endure.\"\n\nOnce I determined on flying from the scene, and leaving my rival in\nundisputed possession of the village beauty; but, having been resolved\nthat no woman should ever have it in her power to say she made me\nwretched, I screwed my courage to the sticking place, and, on seeing\nMary leave the parlour, I shortly afterwards entered it.\n\nThe stranger scarcely noticed my entrance, so intently was his attention\nfixed upon the perusal of a newspaper which he held in his hand. I sat\ndown at the window, and, for want of something better to do, gazed with\na scrutinizing eye upon the gambols of the ducks and geese outside.\n\nAfter some time Mary came in to ask the captain what he would have for\nsupper.\n\n\"This is the gentleman I spoke of,\" she said, directing her expressive\nglance towards me.\n\n\"Mr. Moir must pardon my inattention!\" said the stranger, laying down\nthe paper; \"I was not aware that my pretty Mary's friend was in the\nroom.\"\n\nHis urbane manner, his soft winning voice, made me feel an irresistible\nimpulse to meet his advances. He proposed that we should sup together,\nand I sat down at the table with very different feelings from those\nwhich had been mine on entering the parlour that evening. I felt\ninclined to encourage an intimacy with the man whom, but a short while\nbefore, I had looked upon with aversion.\n\nAs the night wore on, I became more and more captivated with the\nstranger. His conversation was brilliant and intellectual; and, when we\nparted for the night, I began to find fault with myself for having for a\nmoment harboured dislike towards so perfect a gentleman. I resolved to\nstay a few days longer at Altonby, for the purpose of improving our\nacquaintance. The stranger--or, as he was called at the inn, \"the\ncaptain\"--expressed delight when he was informed of my resolution; and,\nalthough he seldom rose before the afternoon, we spent many pleasant\nhours together.\n\nOn the evening of the third day of my sojourn, he expressed a wish that\nI would accompany him in a short walk. Notwithstanding his erect and\neasy carriage, there was a feebleness in his gait, which he strove in\nvain to contend against; and it was but too evident that a broken\nspirit, added to a shattered constitution, would speedily bring him to\nhis grave.\n\nLeading the way into the churchyard, to my surprise he stopped at the\nresting-place of the ill-starred lady, the story of whose untimely end I\nhad so patiently listened to the last time I visited Altonby.\n\n\"I am exceedingly fortunate,\" said the captain, \"in having met with one\nso kind as you, to cheer the last moments of my earthly pilgrimage. You\nsmile--nay, I can assure you that I feel I am not long for this world.\nThe object of my visit to this spot, to-night, is to ask you to do me\nthe favour, when I am dead, of seeing my remains laid here--here, beside\nthis grave, o'er which the grass grows longer than on those around;\" and\nhe pointed to the grave of Clara Douglas. After a moment, he\ncontinued:--\"Unlike other men, you have never annoyed me by seeking to\ninquire of me, who or what I am; and, believe me, I feel grateful for\nit. I would not wish that you should ever know the history of the being\nwho stands before you. When the earth closes over my coffin, think of\nhim no more.\"\n\nAlthough the captain had done me the honour of calling me unlike other\nmen--a distinction most folks are so exceedingly desirous of\nobtaining--I must own that I had hitherto felt no common degree of\ncuriosity concerning him; and now that there was no prospect of it being\ngratified, its desire increased tenfold, and I would now have given\nworlds, if I had had them, to have learned something of the birth,\nparentage, and education of the captain.\n\n\"And now,\" he added, \"I beseech you, leave me for a short time--I would\nbe alone.\"\n\nIn silence I complied, sauntering outside the ruins, and seeking to\nfind, in my old avocation of perusing the tombstones, the wherewithal to\nkill the time during which the captain held communion with the dead; for\nI could not help thinking that it was for such a cause he had desired to\nbe left to himself.\n\nTen--twenty minutes passed, and the captain did not appear. I retraced\nmy steps, and again entered the ruins, by the farther end. The gloom\nwhich prevailed around--the monuments which intervened--and, above all,\nthe distance at which I then was from the grave of Clara\nDouglas--prevented me from descrying the captain. I had advanced a few\npaces when I heard voices in high altercation. I stopped; and, as I did\nso, one of the speakers, in whose clear intonation I could recognise the\ncaptain, said--\"On my word, I returned here the instant my wounds were\nhealed--I returned to marry her--and my grief could not be equalled by\nyour's when I heard of her melancholy fate.\"\n\n\"Liar!\" exclaimed the other; \"you ne'er intended such. My sister's\nwrongs call out aloud for vengeance; and here--here, between her grave\nand that of our sainted mother--your blood shall be offered up in\natonement.\"\n\nThis was instantly followed by the report of a pistol. I rushed forward,\nand beheld, O horror! the captain stretched upon the ground, and the\nblood streaming from a wound in his breast. I caught a glimpse of his\nassassin, as he fled from the church; it was the stranger whom I had\nseen, on a former visit, at the grave of Clara Douglas, and beside the\nfir-tree where her remains had been found. I made a motion to follow\nhim, but the captain waved me back--\"Let him go,\" said he; \"I forgive\nhim. I have no wish that he should die upon the scaffold.\" So saying, he\nfell back exhausted; and, in my haste to procure assistance for him, I\nquite forgot the assassin, until it was too late.\n\nThe captain was conveyed to the Black Swan, where, with Mary to attend\nhis every want, he was, no doubt, as comfortable as if he had had a home\nto go to, and a beloved wife to smooth his dying pillow. Mary bestowed\nmore than ordinary care and attention upon him, which, although she had\ndeclared to me that she could never love the captain so well as to marry\nhim, should he ever condescend to make the offer, brought back\noccasionally a pang of jealousy to my heart. I could not exactly\nunderstand the extent of her regard for him.\n\nHaving business to transact at a neighbouring town, I left Altonby the\nnext day, with a determination to return, ere the lapse of a week, to\nsee the captain, I feared for the last time. I had been but two days\ngone, when I received a note from Mary, informing me that he was daily\nbecoming worse, and that it was the fear of his medical attendant that\nhe could not live four-and-twenty hours. With the utmost speed, I\ntherefore hastened back to the Black Swan, where, indeed, I saw that the\nsurgeon had had quite sufficient reason for his prediction--the captain\nwas greatly altered since I last saw him. Wan and emaciated, he lay in\nresignation upon his couch, calmly waiting the approach of death. He\nseemed quite composed.\n\nTaking my hand in his, he reminded me of his wish regarding his\nburial-place. I assured him that it should strictly be complied with. A\nsmile lighted up his pale countenance for an instant, as I pledged\nmyself to this. He then drew from under his pillow a parcel of letters,\ntied together with a faded ribbon, and desired me to consign them, one\nby one to the flames. With an eager eye, and a countenance full of\nexcitement, did he watch them as they consumed away. I did not dare to\nexamine minutely the address on the letters, but, from the glance I had\nof them, I could see they were all written in an elegant female hand.\nWhen all were gone--\"And this,\" said he, \"is like to human life--a blaze\nbut for an instant, and then all is ashes.\" He paused, and then\ncontinued, as he held a small packet in his hand, more in soliloquy than\nif he were addressing me--\"Here is the last sad relic I possess--shall\nI?--Yes! yes! it shall go as the others have gone. How soon may I follow\nit?\" He stretched forth his hand towards me. I took the packet.\nInstantly, as if the last tie which bound him to the earth had been\nhastily snapped asunder, the captain fell backwards upon his couch. I\nthrust the packet into my bosom, and ran to afford him assistance. He\nwas beyond human help--he was dead!\n\nThe grief of Mary knew no bounds when the dismal tidings were conveyed\nto her; she was like one distracted. Mine was more chastened and\nsubdued.\n\nThe remains of the captain were duly consigned to that spot of earth he\nhad pointed out to me. After his death, there was found a conveyance of\nall his property, which was pretty considerable, to Mary, accompanied\nwith a wish that I would marry her. To this arrangement Mary was quite\nagreeable; and accordingly, our nuptials were solemnized in about six\nmonths after the death of the captain. It was then that Mary confided to\nme that she was the sister of Clara Douglas; but when I made inquiry at\nher concerning the nature of her attachment to the captain, she always\navoided answering, and seemed not to wish that his name should be\nmentioned in her hearing.\n\nSeveral years passed, and I had forgotten all about the packet which the\ncaptain on his death-bed had placed in my hand, till one day, in looking\nfor something else, which, of course, I could not find--(no one ever\nfinds what he wants)--I accidentally stumbled upon the packet. Curiosity\ninduced me to open it. A lock of black hair, tied with a piece of\nlight-blue ribbon, and a letter, were its contents. Part of the letter\nran thus:--\"Enclosed is some of my hair--I don't expect you to keep it,\nfor I have heard you say you did not like to have any such thing in your\npossession. I will not _ask_ you, lest I might be refused; but if you\ngive me some, I'll get it put into one of my rings, and shall never,\nnever part with it.\" This letter bore the signature of Clara Douglas!\n\nHere, then, was a solution of all the mystery. The captain was the lover\nof Clara, and this had been the cause of Mary's intimacy with him.\n\nOf the fate of the brother I afterwards heard. He was killed in a street\nbrawl one night in Paris, and Mary never knew that he was the assassin\nof the captain.\n\n\n\n\nTHE FAIR.\n\n\nYou may smile, reader, at the idea of a story entitled--THE FAIR; but\nread on, and you may find it an appropriate title to a touching, though\nsimple tale. This may seem like the writer's praising his own\nproduction--but that is neither here nor there amongst authors--it is\ndone every day; and not amongst authors only, but amongst all trades,\ncrafts, and professions. If a man does not speak well of his own wares,\nwhom does he expect to do it for him, when every person is busy selling\nwares of his own? You know the saying--\"He's a silly gardener that\nlichtlies his ain leeks.\" But to go on with THE FAIR. On a Fair day,\nnature always turns out hundreds of her best human specimens of\nunsophisticated workmanship. Did you ever examine the countenances of a\nrustic group around a stall covered with oranges and sweetmeats--a bevy\nof rustic beauties, besieging the heart and the pockets of a rural\nbachelor of two-and-twenty? The colour of one countenance is deep and\nvarious as the rainbow--a second emulates the rose--a third the\ncarnation--while the face of a fourth, who is deemed the old maid of her\ncompanions, is sallow as a daffodil after a north wind. There blue eyes\nwoo, and dark eyes glance affection, and ruby lips open with the jocund\nlaugh; and there, too, you may trace the workings of jealousy, rivalry,\nand envy, and other passions less gentle than love, according as the\noranges and gingerbread happen to be divided amongst the fair\nrecipients. You, too, have heard the drum beat for glory, and the shrill\nnote of the fife ring through the streets, while a portly sergeant, with\na sword bright as a sunbeam, and unsheathed in his hand, flaunted his\nsmart cockade, or belike shook a well lined purse as he marched along,\nor, halting at intervals, shook it again, while he harangued the gaping\ncrowd--\"Now, my lads--now is the time for fortune and glory! There, by\nJupiter! there is the look--the shoulders--the limbs--the gait of a\ncaptain at least! Join us, my noble fellow, and your fortune is\nmade--your promotion is certain! God save the King! Down with the\nFrench!\"--\"Down wi' them!\" cries a young countryman, flushed with \"the\nbarley bree,\" and, borrowing the sword of the sergeant, waves it\nuncouthly round his head--feels himself a hero--a Sampson--a Caesar--all\nthe glories of Napoleon seem extinguished beneath his sword arm. \"Down\nwi' them!\" he cries again more vehemently, and again--\"Hurra for the\nlife of a sodger!\"--and the next moment the ribbon streams from his\nSunday hat. On such incidents turns our present story.\n\nWillie Forbes was a hind in Berwickshire. He was also the only child and\nthe sole support of a widowed mother, and she loved him as the soul\nloveth the hope of immortality; for Willie was a dutiful son and a kind\none, and, withal, one of whom many mothers in Scotland might have been\nproud; for his person was goodly as his heart was affectionate; and\noften as his mother surveyed his stately figure, she thought to\nherself--as a mother will--that \"there wasna a marrow to her Willie in\na' braid Scotland.\" Now, it chanced that, before Willie had completed\nhis twenty-third year, they were \"in need of a bit lassie,\" as his\nmother said, \"to keep up the bondage.\" Willie, therefore, went to Dunse\nhiring, to engage a servant; but, as fate would have it, he seemed to\nfix upon the most unlikely maiden for field-work in the market. At a\ncorner of the market-place, as if afraid to enter the crowd, stood a\nlovely girl of about eighteen. Her name was Menie Morrison. \"Are ye for\nhiring the day, hinny?\" said Willie, kindly. \"Yes,\" was the low and\nfaltering reply. \"And what place was ye at last?\" \"I never was in\nservice,\" said she; and as she said this, she faltered more. \"An' where\ndoes your father live--what is he?\" continued Willie. \"He is dead,\"\nanswered Menie, with a sigh. Willie paused for a few moments, and\nadded--\"And your mother?\" \"Dead, too!\" replied the maiden; and tears\ngushed into her eyes. \"Puir thing! puir thing!\" said Willie; \"weel, I'm\nsure I dinna ken what to say till't.\" \"You may look at this,\" said she;\nand she put into his hands a slip of paper. It was her character from\nthe minister of the parish where she had been brought up. \"That's very\nexcellent,\" said Willie, returning the paper; \"very satisfactory--very,\nindeed. But--can ye--can ye hoe?\" added he, hesitatingly. \"Not well,\"\nanswered she. \"I like that, that's honest,\" added he; \"hoein's easy\nlearned. Can ye milk a cow?\" \"No,\" she replied. \"That's a pity,\"\nreturned Willie. But he looked again in her face; he saw the tear still\nthere. It was like the sun gilding a summer cloud after a shower--it\nrendered her face more beautiful. \"Weel, it's nae great matter,\" added\nhe; \"my mother can learn ye.\" And Willie Forbes hired Menie Morrison\nthrough his heart. In a short time, Menie became an excellent servant.\nWillie and his mother called her--\"_our_ Menie.\" She loved her as a\ndaughter, he as a man loveth the wife of his bosom; and Menie loved both\nin return. She had been two years in their service, and the wedding-day\nof Menie and Willie was to be in three months. For a few weeks, Willie,\nfrom his character and abilities, had been appointed farm-steward. He\nlooked forward to the day when he should be able to take a farm of his\nown, and Menie would be the mistress of it.\n\nBut Berwick Fair came--Willie had a cow to sell, and Menie was to\naccompany him to the fair. Now, the cow was sold, and Willie was\n\"gallanting\" Menie and three or four of her companions about the\nstreets. He could not do less than bestow a fairing upon each; and he\nled them to a booth where the usual luxuries of a fair were spread out.\nAt the booth, Willie found his master's daughter with some of her own\nacquaintances. She was dressed more gaily than Menie Morrison, and her\nface was also fair to look upon, but it wanted the soul, the charm that\nglowed in the countenance of the humble orphan. It had long been\nwhispered about the farm-stead, and at the farm-steads around it, that\n\"Miss Jean was fond o' Willie Forbes;\" and some even said that it was\nthrough her partiality he obtained his stewardship. Menie had heard\nthis, and it troubled her; for more easily than a breath moves the down\non the thistle, will a word move the breast of a woman that loves. Miss\nJean accosted the young steward for her fairing. \"Ye shall hae that,\"\nsaid Willie, \"but there's naething guid enough here for the like o'\n_you_--come awa to ane o' the shops.\" So saying, he disengaged his arm\nfrom Menie Morrison's, and without thinking of what he did, offered it\nto his master's daughter, and left Menie and her friends at the booth.\nPoor Menie stood motionless, a mist seemed to gather before her eyes,\nand the crowd passed before her as a dream. \"Ye see how it is,\" observed\nher companions; \"_naething here guid enough for her_!--if ye speak to\nhim again, Menie, ye deserve to beg on the causie!\" Her pride was\nwounded--her heart was touched--a cloud fell upon her affections. Such\nis human nature that it frequently happens revenge and love are at each\nother's elbows.\n\nNow, Menie was not without other admirers; and it so happened that one\nof these, who had more pretensions to this world's goods than Willie\nForbes, came up at the moment, while her bosom was struggling with\nbitter feelings. For the first time Menie turned not away at his\napproach. He was more liberal in his fairings than Willie could have\nbeen. As the custom then was, and in some instances still is, there were\nthe sounds of music and dancing. Willie's rival pressed Menie and her\ncompanions to \"step up and hae a reel.\" They complied, and she\naccompanied them, scarce knowing what she did.\n\nIn a few minutes Willie returned to the booth, but Menie was not there.\nHis eyes wandered among the crowd--he walked up and down the streets,\nbut he found her not. Something told him he had done wrong--he had\nslighted Menie. At length a \"good-natured friend\" informed him she was\ndancing with young Laird Lister. The intelligence was wormwood to his\nspirit. He hastened to the dancing-room, and there he beheld Menie, \"the\nobserved of all observers,\" gliding among her rustic companions lightly\nas you have seen a butterfly kiss a flower. For a moment and he was\nproud to look upon her as the queen of the room; but he saw his rival\nhand her to a seat and his blood boiled. He approached her. She returned\nhis salutation with a cold glance. Another reel had been danced--Willie\noffered her his hand for her partner in the next. \"I'm engaged,\" said\nthe hitherto gentle Menie; \"but maybe Miss Jean will hae nae\nobjections--_if there's onything guid enough for her here_.\" At that\nmoment, Willie's rival put his arm through Menie's--she stood by his\nside--the music struck up, and away they glided through the winding\ndance! Willie uttered a short, desperate oath, which we dare not write,\nand hurried from the room. But scarce had he left, till confusion and a\nsickness of heart came upon Menie. She went wrong in the dance--she\nstood still--her bosom heaved to bursting--she uttered a cry, and fell\nupon the floor.\n\nShe, in her turn, felt that she had done wrong, and, on recovering, left\nher companions, and returned home alone. She doubted not but Willie was\nthere before her. The road seemed longer than it had ever done before;\nfor her heart was heavy. She reached his mother's cottage. She listened\nat the door--she heard not Willie's voice; and she trembled she knew not\nwhy. She entered. The old woman rose to meet her. \"Weel, hinny,\" said\nshe, \"hae ye got back again? What sort o' a fair has there been? Where\nis Willie?\" Menie turned towards the bink, to lay aside her bonnet, and\nwas silent. \"What's the matter wi' ye, bairn?\" continued the old woman;\n\"is Willie no wi' ye; where is he?\" \"He is comin', I _fancy_,\" returned\nMenie; and she sobbed as she spoke. \"Bairn! bairn! there's something no\nricht,\" cried the mother, \"between ye. Some foolish quarrel, I warrant.\nBut tell me what he's done; and for sending my Menie hame greetin',\nI'll gie him a hamecomin'!\" \"No, no, it wasna Willie's wyte,\" replied\nMenie, \"it was mine--it was a' mine. But dinna be angry.\" And here the\nmaiden unbosomed her grief, and the old woman took part with her,\nsaying--\"Son as he's mine, ye just served him as he deserved, Menie.\"\nHer heart grew lighter as her story was told, and they sat by the window\ntogether watching one party after another return from the fair. But\nWillie was not amongst them; and as it began to wax late, and\nacquaintances passed, Menie ran to inquire of them if they had seen\nanything of Willie; and they shook their heads and said, \"No.\" And it\ngrew later and later, till the last party who left the fair had passed,\nsinging as they went along; but still there were no tidings of Willie.\nMidnight came, and the morning came, but he came not. His mother became\nmiserable, and, in the bitterness of her heart, she upbraided Menie, and\nMenie wept the more. They sat watching through the night and through the\nmorning, listening to every sound. They heard the lark begin his song,\nthe poultry leap from their roost, the cows low on the milk-maidens, and\nthe ploughman prepare for the field; yet Willie made not his appearance.\nTime grew on till mid-day, and the misery of the mother and of Menie\nincreased. The latter was still dressed in the apparel she had worn on\nthe previous day, and the former throwing on her Sunday gown, they\nproceeded to the town together to seek for him. They inquired as they\nwent along, and from one they received the information, \"I thought I saw\nhim wi' the sodgers in the afternoon.\" The words were as if a lightning\nhad fallen on Menie's heart--his mother wrung her hands in agony, and\ncried, \"My ruined bairn!\" And she cast a look on poor Menie that had\nmore meaning than kindness in it.\n\nThey reached the town, and as they reached it, a vessel was drawing\nfrom the quay--she had recruits on board, who were to be landed at\nChatham, from whence they were to be shipped to India. Amongst those\nrecruits was Willie Forbes. When he rushed in madness from the\ndancing-room, he met a recruiting party on the street--he accompanied\nthem to their quarters--he drank with them--out of madness and revenge\nhe drank--he enlisted--he drank again--his indignation kindled against\nMenie and against his rival--he again swore at the remembrance of her\nrefusing him her hand--he drank deeper--his parent was forgotten--he\ntook the bounty--he was sworn in--and while the fumes of the liquor yet\nraged in his brain, maddening him on and drowning reflection, he was\nnext day embarked for Chatham. The vessel had not sailed twenty yards\nfrom the quay--Willie and his companions were waving their hats, and\ngiving three cheers as they pulled off--when two women rushed along the\nquay. The elder stretched out her arms to the vessel; she cried wildly,\n\"Gie me back my bairn!--Willie! Willie Forbes!\" He heard her screams\nabove the huzza of the recruits--he knew his mother's voice--he saw his\nMenie's dishevelled hair; the poisonous drink died within him--his hat\ndropped from his hand--he sprang upon the side of the vessel--he was\nabout to plunge into the river, when he was seized by the soldiers and\ndragged below. A shriek rang from his mother and from Menie; those who\nstood around them tried to comfort and pity them; and, by all but\nthemselves, in a few days the circumstance was forgotten.\n\n\"Who will provide for me now, when my Willie is gane?\" mourned the\ndisconsolate widow, when the first days of her grief had passed. \"I\nwill,\" answered Menie Morrison; \"and your home shall be my home, and my\nbread your bread, and the Husband o' the widow, and the Father o' the\norphan, will bring our Willie back again.\" The old woman pressed her to\nher breast, and called her \"her mair than daughter.\" They left the\nfarm-stead, and rented a very small cottage at some miles' distance, and\nthere, to provide for her adopted mother, Menie kept two cows; and, in\nthe neighbouring markets, her butter was first sold, and her poultry\nbrought the best price. But she toiled in the harvest-field--she sewed,\nshe knitted, she span--she was the laundress of the gentry in the\nneighbourhood--she was beloved of all, and nothing came wrong to bonny\nMenie Morrison. Four years had passed, and they had twice heard from\nWillie, who had obtained the rank of sergeant. But the fifth year had\nbegun, and, from a family in the neighbourhood, Menie had received\nseveral newspapers, that, as she said, she \"might read to her mother\nwhat was gaun on at the wars.\" She was reading an account of one of the\nfirst victories of Wellington in the east, and she passed on to what was\nentitled a GALLANT EXPLOIT. Her voice suddenly faltered--the paper shook\nin her hands. \"What is't--oh! what is't, Menie?\" cried the old woman;\n\"is't onything aboot Willie?--My bairn's no dead?\" Menie could not\nreply; she pressed her hands before her eyes and wept aloud. \"My son! my\nson!\" exclaimed the wretched widow--\"oh! is my bairn dead?\" The\nparagraph which had filled Menie with anguish, stated that a daring\nassault had been led on by Sergeant Forbes of the 21st, after his\nsuperiors had fallen; but that _he also fell mortally wounded_ in the\nmoment of victory. I will not attempt to paint their sorrow. Menie put\non the garments of widowhood for Willie, and she mourned for him not\nonly many but every day. He had fallen in the arms of glory, yet she\naccused herself as his murderer.\n\nFive years more had passed. It was March; but the snow lay upon the\nground, and the face of the roads was as glass. A stranger gentleman had\nbeen thrown from his horse in the neighbourhood of the widow's cottage.\nHis life had been endangered by the fall, and he was conveyed beneath\nher lowly roof, where he remained for weeks, unable to be removed. He\nwas about fifty or sixty years of age, and his dress and appearance\nindicated the military officer. Menie was his nurse; and if her beauty\nand kindness did not inspire the soul of the veteran with love, they\nmoved it with sympathy. He wished to make her a return, and, at length,\nresolved that that return should be an offer of his hand. He knew he was\nin his \"sere and yellow leaf,\" and his face was marked with wounds; but\nfor those wounds he had a pension; he had his half-pay as Major, and\nthree thousand pounds in the funds. He would show his gratitude by\ntendering his hand and fortune to the village maiden. He made known his\nproposal to the old woman--maternal feeling suggested her first reply:\n\"She was to be my Willie's wife,\" said she, ruefully, and wiped away a\ntear; \"she was to be my daughter--and she _is_ my daughter; I canna part\nwith my Menie.\" But prudence at length prevailed, and she added: \"But\nwhy should she be buried for me? No, sir, I winna wrang her; ye are owre\nkind--yet she deserves it a', an' I will advise her as though she had\nbeen my ain bairn.\" But Menie refused to listen to them.\n\nWhen the sun began to grow warm in the heavens, a chair was brought to\nthe door for the invalid, and Menie and her mother would sit spinning by\nhis side, while he would recount his \"battles, sieges, fortunes.\" And\nthus, in an evening in May, as the sun was descending on the hills, ran\nhis story: \"Fifty of us were made prisoners. We were chained man to man,\nand cast into a dark, narrow, and damp dungeon. Our only food was a\nscanty handful of rice, and a cup of water once in twenty-four hours.\nDeath, in mercy, thinned our numbers. A worse than plague raged amongst\nus--our dead comrades lay amongst our feet. The living lay chained to a\ncorpse. All died but myself and my companion to whom I was fettered. He\ncheered me in fever and sickness. He took the water from his parched\nlips and held it to mine. And, maiden, I have been interested in you\nfor his sake; for in his sleep he would start, and mention the name of\nMenie!\"\n\n\"Oh, sir!\" interrupted Menie and the old woman at once, \"what--what was\nhis name?\"\n\n\"If the world were mine, I would give it to know,\" replied the Major,\nand continued: \"He succeeded in breaking our fetters. We were left\nunguarded. 'Let us fly,' said he; but I was unable to follow him. He\ntook me upon his shoulders. It was midnight. He bore me to the woods.\nFor five days he carried me along, or supported me on his arm, till we\nwere within sight of the British lines. There a party of native horsemen\ncame upon us. My deliverer, with no weapon but a branch which he had\ntorn from a tree, defended himself like a lion in its desert. But he\nfell wounded, and was taken prisoner. A company of our troops came to\nour assistance; I was rescued, but my noble deliverer was borne again\ninto the interior; and three years have passed, and I have heard no more\nof him.\"\n\n\"But it is five years since my Willie fell,\" sighed Menie, Morrison. Yet\nshe brooded on the word--_Menie_.\n\nA wayfaring man was seen approaching the cottage. As he drew near, the\neyes of the Major glistened--his lips moved--he threw down his crutch.\nHe started, unaided, to his feet--\"Gracious Heaven!--it is himself!\" he\nexclaimed; \"my companion!--my deliverer!\"\n\nThe stranger rushed forward with open arms--\"Menie!--mother!\" he cried,\nand speech failed him. It was Willie Forbes! Menie was on his bosom--his\nmother's arms were round his neck--the old Major grasped his hand.\nReader, need I tell you more. Willie Forbes had fallen wounded, as was\nthought, mortally; but he had recovered. He had been made a prisoner. He\nhad returned. Menie gave him her hand. The Major procured his\ndischarge, and made him his heir. He took a farm; and on that farm the\nMajor dwelt with them, and \"fought his battles o'er again,\" to the\nchildren of Willie and Menie Forbes.\n\n\n\n\nTHE SLAVE.\n\n\nSome of the inhabitants of Edinburgh, who, some years since, were in the\nhabit of enjoying the pure air and delightful prospects which the head\nof Burntsfield Links and the Burghmuirhead afford, may remember the\nperson of whose eventful life I am about to narrate a few passages. He\nwas a square-built, thick-set old man, short in stature, with a\nweather-beaten countenance; which, though harsh in its expression at the\nfirst glance, exhibited, in conversation, all the traits of a mind\ninfluenced by humane sentiments and benevolent feelings. He was often to\nbe seen standing near the wells, at the south border of the Links, where\nthe females bleach their linen; gazing steadfastly upon them, his rough\nfeatures in continued change, as if some inward feelings completely\nengrossed his whole faculties, and indulging in frequent mutterings, as\nif the occupations of those whose motions he was observing had roused\nsome latent thoughts that had been laid up in his memory in former\nyears. When I saw him first, he was busy looking at a few sprightly\nyoung females, whose loud laugh enlivened the scene of the\nbleaching-ground, as they were splashing the water on each other in\nmerriment. His features had something fearful in them. Anger flashed\nfrom his dark blue eyes, his shaggy eyebrows which covered them were\nknit, his teeth were compressed; and such unaccountable passion I had\nnever seen so fearfully expressed. I almost shrunk from him; yet\ncuriosity detained me, and I saw his features gradually relax, and a\nlanguid smile succeed his fearful frown. The change was as unaccountable\nas the contrast was striking, and I could scarcely believe that I still\nlooked upon the same individual. The circumstance prejudiced me against\nhim; for I attributed his fixed gaze upon the females to a cause very\ndifferent from the true one; though why he should frown upon them I was\nstill at a greater loss to understand. I saw him every day on the\ngolfing ground; I wished for no intercourse with him, though there was a\nstrange anxiety in my mind to know more of him; and, often as I followed\nthe game we were busily engaged in, my eyes would involuntarily turn to\nwhere he stood or walked; and so habituated did I become to his presence\nthat, when he was absent, I felt as if all was not as it used to be on\nthe golfing ground. No one of whom I made inquiries knew aught of him;\nall I could learn was, that he was known by the name of the Captain, and\nhad a black servant, who, with an aged female, constituted his whole\nhousehold at Morningside, where he resided in one of those small\nself-contained villas in that retreat.\n\nOne morning towards the end of September, I was up rather earlier than\nusual, as I had engaged to accompany some friends upon a small party of\npleasure; and, taking a turn, I had sauntered down past Merchiston\nCastle, to see how the reapers were getting on with their labour in the\nharvest-fields. There I met the identical Captain, the subject of my\ncuriosity, coming up the road, accompanied by a female, who leant upon\nhis right arm as if she walked with difficulty; while in his left he\ncarried a young child, whose head lay upon his broad shoulder, pillowed\nas if asleep, or depressed with sickness; and his black servant, who\nbore a considerable burden, walked by their side. The female was\nevidently poor, but neat and clean; and her features were pale as death,\nwith an expression of sickness and languor which roused my sympathy with\nmy approbation of the Captain's benevolence--for I was satisfied he was\nengaged in an act of charity.\n\n\"Billy,\" I heard him say, \"you had as well go on before, and tell Mary\nto make all ready for our arrival. Poor thing!--she is a sailor's wife,\nand one of us.\"\n\n\"Yes, Massa, I do so--gladly do so,\" replied the negro. And away he\nmoved from them, past me, with the bundle upon his arm; the smile that\nlit up his black face giving it, in my estimation, a look more\ninteresting than I thought an African's could possess. The female looked\ngratefully at her supporter; and, as the Captain gazed first at her,\nthen at her babe, I could see his clear blue eye glisten with tears--my\nown heart swelled, my bad impressions left me in a moment, and I could\nhave put him in my bosom; I bowed to him with true reverence, as if I\nasked pardon for the injustice I had done him, and he looked at me as if\nhe was gratified, and gently nodded his head--all the return he could\nmake, so fully occupied was he with his benevolent labours.\n\n\"My good sir,\" said I, \"since you seem to be engaged in a noble act, may\nI request to be allowed to lend my aid?\"\n\n\"Certainly, with all my heart,\" replied he; \"for I fear this good woman\ngets on but poorly with all the assistance I can give her.\"\n\n\"God bless you both,\" said the woman, as I gave her my arm, \"for your\nkindness! Oh, my baby!--my poor baby, I fear, has got his death in the\ncold of this miserable night. My husband! little did you think that your\nPeggy was so near, and exposed to the bare heavens, sick and houseless,\nor you would have come to her help.\"\n\nI requested her not to exert herself; and, as we proceeded, I learned\nthat the Captain and Billy, having been out early, had found the female\nand child in the middle of a group of reapers, who had discovered her at\nthe entrance of the field, chilled, and almost deprived of sense, with\nthe infant wrapped up in her bosom; and they had in part restored her to\nsome faint degree of consciousness when the Captain arrived, and took\nthe whole charge upon himself and his servant. The negro had used all\nthe expedition in his power, and met us before we reached the house.\n\n\"Massa,\" said he, \"you give me the piccaninny--I carry it, if you\nplease.\"\n\nThe child opened its languid eyes as he laid hold of it; and, looking in\nthe negro's face, screamed with fright, leaned towards its mother, (who\nsoothed it with her voice, in vain,) and nestled once more upon the\nCaptain's shoulder, clasping its little arms friendly round his neck.\n\n\"Let him remain, Billy,\" said he; \"I think the young one loves me.\"\n\nIn a few minutes we reached the house, where Mary received the female\nand child with all a mother's care, while the Captain and I looked on\nwith feelings of satisfaction. I bade him adieu, promising to call in\nthe evening. The day on which I had anticipated to be so happy, hung\nrather heavy upon my hands than otherwise; and I longed much for an\ninterview with the Captain, expecting, when an intimacy was established,\nto be much amused with his conversation, as, from his appearance, he was\nno common character, and he had already roused my curiosity, by some\nbroken hints of his adventures. I waited upon him, and found the female\nmuch restored, and the negro nursing the child, who appeared as much\npleased with his nurse as he had been alarmed in the morning. After the\nfirst compliments were exchanged, I learned that the woman was the wife\nof a sailor, and on her way to Leith, to join him. She had journeyed on\nfoot from Lanark, where she had been living with her mother during the\ntime he had been on a voyage to the South Seas. Having got accounts of\nhis arrival in London, and his being to be in Leith, where he had got a\nberth in one of the Leith and London smacks, and where he wished her to\ncome and reside, she had set out, but come off her road to visit a\nrelation she had, who resided in Colinton, and with whom she had\nintended to stay during the night; but, unfortunately, she found that\nher relation had been dead for some weeks. The shock and grief had a\ngreat effect upon her; and, having no other acquaintance in the place,\nshe had resolved to proceed to Edinburgh, as she calculated there was\nsufficient time for her to do so before it would be dark, and the\nweather was delightful. Oppressed with her bundle, and sunk by her\ngrief, she had plodded on, in hopes of soon meeting the husband of her\nlove; yet still her progress was slow, and the sun had set for some\ntime, and the shades of evening had begun to thicken, ere she reached\nCraig-Lockhart; but the spires of the distant city began to rise in\nview, and she hoped soon to see the end of her toil, when, from\nover-exertion, or some other cause, she became sick and faint--her limbs\nbent beneath her--and with difficulty she made her way to a gate, to be\noff the roadside, in hopes that the attacks would soon go off, and she\nwould resume her way. She fainted; and, when she came to her senses\nagain, her babe was crying piteously upon her bosom. It was completely\ndark; and, after stilling the child, she in vain attempted to rise and\nresume her journey. It was far beyond her strength; and fear, bordering\non despair, took possession of her mind. It was very chill; and,\ncovering her infant in the best manner she could from the cold, she,\nalmost without hope, commended herself to God, and, weeping, resigned\nherself calmly to her fate. She never expected to survive until the\nmorning. The tedious hours rolled on, she knew not how--her child slept\nsoundly, and her heart was in close communion with that merciful God who\nsustained her in all this misery--until the voices of the reapers\nsounded upon her ears like heavenly music, and hope once more warmed her\nbreast; yet she was, at their first coming up, so weak that she could\nscarcely speak--a symptom that surprised her, for she was unconscious of\nher extreme exhaustion, and her heart was hale from the manner in which\nshe had employed her thoughts during the cheerless hours.\n\nThis is almost the words of the poor creature, who now was able to move\nabout, and expressed a wish to proceed to Leith--a step that would not\nbe heard of by the Captain, who said he would not allow her to depart\nuntil he had ascertained that her husband had arrived; and the name of\nthe smack in which he sailed having been ascertained, we looked into the\nnewspapers for the arrivals and departures at Leith, and found that the\n_Czar_ had not arrived. The grateful Margaret agreed to remain, to the\ndelight of the negro, who appeared as fond of the child as if it had\nbeen his own. At the Captain's request, I agreed, with pleasure, to stay\nsupper.\n\n\"How I do love black Billy!\" said my host; \"this is a new trait of him;\nhe is bold as a lion, faithful as a dog, and yet mild as a lamb.\"\n\n\"Sir,\" said I, \"you appear to have a great regard for your black\nservant; I believe, from what I see, he is worthy of it.\"\n\n\"He is not my servant,\" said he--\"he is my friend; yet it would grieve\nhim to see any one do any little office for me, besides himself. He is\nas humble as he is good; and if you knew his history and mine, you would\nnot be surprised at what I now say of him.\"\n\n\"Nothing that I know of would give me more pleasure,\" replied I, \"than\nto know a little more of him and his friend, would he be so kind as\noblige me.\"\n\n\"With all my heart,\" replied the old man, \"if you have the patience to\nhear me.\"\n\nSupper was at this time brought in by Billy, and soon despatched, when\nwe drew in our chairs, and, seated by the fireside, I felt as if I had\nbeen on intimate terms with him for many years.\n\n\"My name is William Robertson,\" he began; \"I am a native of Edinburgh,\nborn within the sound of St. Giles' bells. My parents were once in a\nrespectable line of business; but they died when I was very young,\nleaving me to the care of my paternal uncle--for I was an only child.\nThis uncle, who has long since rendered his account at that\njudgment-seat where we must all appear, took possession of all my\nfather's property, and became tutor to me. I was too young, at the time,\nto know my loss, but soon felt it in all its bitterness; for he used me\nvery ill, so much so that I trembled at his voice. I was quite\nneglected, and allowed to ramble about as much as I pleased, amongst the\nother idle boys of the neighbourhood. I could read and write a little at\nthe death of my parents, which was all the instruction I received. I was\nnow nearly thirteen; and, as my uncle's abuse became quite intolerable\nto me, I left the house, boy as I was, and entered on board a trader at\nLeith, which was on the point of sailing for America. The captain, who\nwas one of the best of men, waited upon my uncle before we sailed; and,\nI believe, as much by threat of compulsion by law, as any entreaty he\nused, got from him a few necessaries for me--for, besides his other ill\nusage, he kept me miserably clad. The five years I sailed in the\n_Bounty_ of Leith, were the happiest I had ever spent--for my kind\nmaster had me taught navigation, and everything necessary for a seamen\nto know; but, in the middle of this prosperity, when I was to have been\nmade his mate next voyage, the American war broke out, and I was\nimpressed as soon as our vessel cast anchor in Leith Roads. I was only\ngrieved to be parted from my kind captain, who was as vexed to leave\nme--but in vain he applied to have me set at liberty; and, to be short,\nI served out the period of the war, and was in a good deal of service.\nThe seventy-four I was in being; on the West India station, I was not\npaid off for some months after the peace. On arriving at Portsmouth, I\nfollowed the usual course of sailors; and, having gone to amuse myself\nwith some of my shipmates, I got robbed of all I had in the world; and,\nwhen I came to my senses, I found I had not even a sixpence in my\npocket, a shoe on my feet, or a hat on my head. I was thus in a strange\nplace, quite destitute; but I soon got a loan of some money from one of\nmy comrades, who had been more prudent or more fortunate than myself,\nand set off for London to proceed to Leith. I learned there, from a\nLeith trader, that the _Bounty_ had been taken by the French, and that\nmy old captain had left going to sea; so I gave up all thoughts of\nreturning to Leith. Berths were at this time not to be obtained--the\nseamen were to be seen wandering upon the quays of every port, begging\nfor employment in vain; and thus, young and vigorous as I was, I was\nreduced to great want. In this dilemma, I thought of writing to my\nuncle--being advised by one of my acquaintances, who knew much more of\nthe world than I did, to do so, and threaten to call him to account for\nhis intromissions with my father's effects, if he did not send me, by\nreturn of post, a few pounds for my immediate wants. I waited most\nanxiously for an answer, which I duly received; but it brought me no\nsupply, and I learned that he had been for a long time bankrupt, and was\nat this time, if possible, in greater want than myself. In a day or two\nafter, I got a berth in a Bristol trader, whose master was an old\nmessmate of mine, and who having told me I had a better chance in\nBristol than in London, I cheerfully made the run; but I found berths as\ndifficult to be obtained there as in London; and, in this desperate\nstate of my affairs, I was persuaded to go a voyage to the coast of\nAfrica, in a slaving ship--a species of employment that no seaman will\nengage in if he can do better. The men are in general not well used; and\nthe danger is great as regards life, both from fatigue and the climate.\nYou must not judge of me by this voyage; for the slave trade was then as\nlegitimate as any other branch of commerce, and much the same, for\npopularity or unpopularity, as it is in America at the present time.\"\n\n\"I don't think harshly of you on this account,\" replied I; \"I only beg\nyou to be as circumstantial as you can regarding this inhuman branch of\ntraffic, now so happily destroyed by the unwearied efforts of Christian\nbenevolence.\"\n\n\"To proceed, the vessel lay at King's Road, waiting my arrival on board,\nto overhaul her stores, to see what might be awanting. Her name was the\n_Queen Charlotte_; she mounted twenty-two guns; her captain was called\nby the seamen the Gallipot Captain, as he had formerly been doctor on\nboard the same vessel, and, her captain having died in her last voyage,\nhe was now the commander, in consequence of having brought her home. I\nwent on board in the captain's boat, which was waiting for me, and to my\ngreat joy, found an old messmate who had sailed in the Exeter man-of-war\nwith me. He was now second-mate of the _Queen Charlotte_, and I was\nengaged as boatswain. We were soon ready for sea; and unmoored about\neight o'clock, the wind chopping about to the east. The captain and\npilot came on board through the night, and we set sail for the African\ncoast on the morning of the 1st of May, 1788. We passed the island of\nMadeira on the 8th of the month; and having got beyond the Canary and\nCape de Verd islands, all became bustle on board, making preparations\nfor the coast; the carpenters fitting up barricades to keep the male and\nfemale slaves apart, and the cooper getting ready all the tubs and\nvessels for their use. Though in anticipation, I may say that the males\nare never allowed to see the females until they are put on shore. The\nchildren are with the women, in general; but are at times allowed to run\nat large all over the ship; and merry little creatures they are, and\nsoon pick up a number of English words. The first land we made was Cape\nPalmas.\n\n\"Still steering along the coast, keeping a good offing, until we passed\nCape Three Points and Cape Coast Castle, we crossed the Bight of Benin,\nand made the land again, which is so low that you can scarce distinguish\nit from the water--the tall palms resembling a large fleet of ships. The\nweather was so thick and hazy that we lay at the Bar five days before\nwe could venture in--the tide running so strong, at full moon, that it\nis with difficulty the boats can pull against it. Upon our getting up,\nwe found about thirty sail of large ships, some of them fitted up for\none thousand slaves, all (save a few completely slaved) waiting for\ncargoes, several with none on board, and others half-full. There was one\nsad memento of the unhealthiness of this vile place which made a deep\nimpression on me, thoughtless as I was. There was a beautiful French\nship lying at anchor off the town, without one single person alive on\nboard that had come out in her from Europe--captain, doctor, and all had\ndied; and the agent had written to the owners to send out a new crew,\neither to complete the voyage or carry her back to France. This was a\nsad sight for us; and we all heartily wished ourselves safe out of a\nplace where never a day passed without two, three, or more European\nsailors being rowed on shore, from the ships, to be buried. I shall not\nwound your feelings by all the details of this disgusting traffic. We\nlonged much for King Peppel, the sovereign of the place, to come on\nboard, to break trade, as it is called; for no native merchant dare\neither to buy or sell until he has got his 'dash' or present, and made\nhis selection of the goods that are on board, at the same time that he\nfixes the prices himself. At times his Majesty is very backward, and a\nlong time elapses before he comes on board--for he is as cunning and\npolitical as any European statesman that ever penned a protocol; but the\ncaptain, who had been often here before, knew well the customs of the\nplace, and how to entice him quickly to his wishes. In the morning,\nafter we were all prepared, he sent his boat to the town, under the\ncommand of the mate, who carried a private 'dash' for his Majesty,\nconsisting of a blue uniform, all covered with gold lace, so stiff that\nit would scarcely fold. This had the desired effect; for the answer was,\nthat he would visit the _Queen Charlotte_ next day--and this was the\nninth since our arrival.\n\n\"In the morning all was again bustle, preparing for a sumptuous dinner\nfor the king, in which there behoved not to be forgot a huge\nplum-pudding, and a roast pig, two dishes upon which depend the good or\nill humour of his Majesty; and the larger the fragments are, the better\nis his humour, as all that is not consumed at the time is taken ashore\nwith him. It was necessary that everything of value should be carefully\nput out of sight; for the moment it attracts the attention of the king,\nhe will immediately ask for it, and never cease to importune until he\nhas obtained it. There is no use in refusing, if you mean to trade; and\nall you can do, is to make the best terms for yourself you can, on the\nprinciple of present for present.\n\n\"About eleven o'clock, we heard from the shore a confused sound of drums\nand horns; and, soon after, the royal canoe, formed of one single tree,\nput off in great state, with nearly one hundred men paddling her along,\nher colours flying, and about a dozen of musicians in her bow, some\nblowing upon antelopes' horns, others beating upon drums and other\nthings, and the remainder chanting or singing in a voice as melodious as\nthe horns and drums. His Majesty sat upon a platform, in an arm-chair,\nin the centre of the canoe, surrounded by his favourites, all of whom he\ninvites to his feasts. They were dressed agreeably to their tastes--his\nMajesty's uniform consisting of a cocked hat, a blue laced coat and red\nvest, with a shirt ruffled at breast and wristbands, and about six or\nseven yards of calico wrapped round his loins; while his legs and feet\nwere wrapped in flannel, as he was at this time suffering from gout. He\nappeared to be about fifty years of age, portly in his appearance, but\nextremely fat. When he was hoisted upon deck, his attendants carried\nhim, chair and all, into the cabin, where they passed a jovial\nafternoon, and matters were arranged to the satisfaction of all parties.\nThe king had seven puncheons of brandy, and other articles in the same\nproportion, for his dash; which was immediately put on shore.\n\n\"Next forenoon, our decks were crowded by the native merchants,\nbargaining for the cargo, which was soon arranged, and the half of the\nvalue paid in advance--a custom rendered necessary, from the traders not\nhaving the slaves in the town, but being obliged to go up the river to\npurchase them at the new moon. This being in a few days, we had to wait\npatiently. On the night before they set out, the sound of drums and\nhorns never ceased, while parties with lighted torches were to be seen\nall along the beach, down to the water's edge, placing offerings of\nfowls, manilla, and dried fish, upon stakes, for the use of their\njew-jew or god, that he might give them a prosperous voyage. The object\nof their worship is the guana, a creature having much the same\nappearance as the alligator, but smaller; and so completely domesticated\nthat they go out and in to the huts at pleasure. Indeed, the natives\nbuild huts for them, where victuals are regularly placed every day.\n\n\"On the morning, they set off with their canoes loaded deep with goods,\nand well armed. Of the proceeds of this expedition we only got twenty\nslaves, with assurance that our cargo would be completed next trip, as\nthey had made arrangements up the country for more. Of those we received\nat this time, all had to get their hurts fomented and dressed, so much\nhad they been injured, from the manner in which they had been secured by\nthe traders; and it was some days before they were completely recovered.\nThe gyves we put on did not gall the ankles, while they were secure; but\ntheir greatest inconvenience was that, on whatever occasion one had to\nmove, the companion of his chain had to accompany him. During our\ntedious stay, it was my duty often to go to King Peppel's town for\nwater, and there I recollect well, I met a handsome young female slave,\nwho used to weep much, and importune me, in Negro English, to purchase\nand carry her to the West Indies with me. I was much surprised at this\nrequest, for the blacks are in general very averse to leave the country;\nand having made inquiry into her history, found it to be most cruel. I\nnever was so sorry for a slave as I was for that young creature. She had\nbeen taken captive at the surprisal and plunder of her native town--her\nhusband having escaped--and, being heavy with child, had been delivered\non her way to the coast, where she and her infant were shipped for the\nWest Indies. In the voyage out, the captain having taken a fancy to her\nperson, kept her in his cabin, and did not sell her, but brought her\nagain to Bonny, where he had come for a new cargo. It so happened that\nher husband had, like herself, been reduced to slavery, and was brought\non board the very ship in which she was. Her feelings may more easily be\nconceived than described. Neither flattery nor punishment could make her\ncomply with the captain's wishes; and he was so provoked, that he\nexchanged her for another slave with King Peppel, who had passed his\nword never to sell her to any one of the European traders. Her husband\nand child were meanwhile carried away, and she was left behind, to\nlinger out a life of hopeless grief.\n\n\"Let me hasten to leave this horrible place. I could make your heart\nsick by relating a hundredth part of what I was forced to witness. As to\nwhat happened in our own ship, I cannot avoid. After next new moon, we\nreceived the remainder of our cargo--four hundred slaves, male and\nfemale. The receiving them on board is the most heart-breaking and\ndisagreeable part of the whole of a slaving voyage. When they come first\non board, extreme terror is expressed in every feature; and their tears\nand groans while being put in irons few hearts can withstand, even\nthough hardened by two or three voyages. This was my first and last; I\ncursed my folly a thousand times, and would have rejoiced to have been\na beggar in Scotland rather than where I was. The men are chained by the\nankles, two and two, then placed within their own barricade; so that\nhusband and wife, sister and brother, may be in the same ship, and not\nknow of it. When they come first on board, many of them refuse to eat or\ndrink, rather choosing to die than live, and thinking we only wish them\nto feed, that they may become fat and fit for our eating--a prejudice\nmany of them firmly believe in, and founded on the notion that the\nwhites are men-eaters, and purchase them to carry to market like\nbullocks. While this feeling is in their mind, which is called the sulky\nfit, there is much trouble with them. The men remain silent and sullen,\nthe women weep and tremble. Arguments, could we speak the different\ntongues, would be of no avail--the cat is the only remedy; and that is\nadministered until they comply. The sight of it, or a few strokes in\ngeneral, is sufficient for the females; but many of the males will stand\nout a long time, and, during the flogging, never utter a groan--snapping\ntheir fingers in the face of their tormenters, and crying, 'O Furrie! O\nFurrie!' (Never mind!) always a sure token of their despair and\nrecklessness. We were very fortunate in getting our cargo so soon. We\nhad two or three visits of King Peppel alongside in his begging\ndisguise--and wished no more. His custom was to visit each ship, meanly\ndressed, and in a whining voice, equivalent to a demand, beseech an\nalms--and he never begged in vain, for the royal beggar always got a\nhandsome present; and, indeed, the ultimate success of the voyage\nrequired this, in consequence of his unlimited power over his subjects.\n\n\"Having got on board the lime-juice and other necessaries, all we\nrequired was the royal leave to depart; and at length his Majesty came\non board, in as great state as at first--the same scene was acted over\nagain--his parting-present was little inferior to the former, the\ndifference being, that this was called a farewell present, and was\nreturned by a man slave, and two elephant's teeth. The price of a prime\nmale slave was, at this time, in Bonny, equal to an elephant's tooth of\nsixty-five pounds weight, or one thousand billets of red wood--nearly\nL10 of English money.\n\n\"Next day we set sail for St. Vincent, to our great joy, having lain\nhere exactly six weeks and one day. Both the crew and the slaves began\nto grow very sickly. The duties of the crew were very severe, and, as\ndisease prevailed, these became more and more disagreeable. As you seem\ninterested, I will give you a faint, unconnected sketch of the run; but\nI would much rather pass it over, though the _Queen Charlotte_ was\nremarked for her care and humanity to the slaves. To proceed:--\n\n\"Next morning, the negroes were forced upon deck, and the place where\nthey had passed the night upon the bare boards, naked as they were born,\nwas scrubbed with lime-juice, until every stain was removed. When upon\ndeck, chained by the ankles, two and two, a strict watch behoved to be\nkept over them, to prevent them from throwing themselves overboard--a\nremedy for their sufferings they are keen to resort to for the first\nfortnight; and, when the state of the weather would permit, the drum and\nfife being played, they were compelled to dance at least twice a day, to\nmake their blood circulate, and promote their health. At these times,\nthere was such a clanking of chains and stamping upon the decks, you\nwould have thought they would have been beaten to pieces by them; and no\nwonder, when they were about two hundred lusty fellows, all in violent\nexercise at one time. At first the cat was forced to be employed; but\nthey are very fond of the drum, and soon call of themselves for\n\"jiggery-jigg,\" as they term it; will take the instruments themselves,\nbeat their own time in their own way, and dance away in then own\nfashion.\n\n\"We had four or five different nations on board. Of one nation we had\nonly twenty, and these we found were more than enough, from the trouble\nthey gave us, forcing us to confine them by themselves, as all the other\nnations were afraid of them, and said they were men-eaters. These stood\nnearly six feet high, and stout in proportion; their teeth were ground\nto a point, and fitted into each other like a rat-trap; their nails were\nlong and strong; they were sullen and untractable, and of consequence\noften flogged to make them eat, at which times their looks, as they\nsnapped their fingers in your face, and growled 'O Furrie!' to one\nanother, were horrible. In vain was all our care and attention to them,\nand every indulgence consistent with the safety of the ship. They had\neach two glasses of brandy, and sometimes three, per day; but some\nnations would not taste it, while others would drink as much as we would\nhave given them. Those who did not take their allowance would keep it in\ntheir bekka, (cocoa-nut shell;) and when any of the crew did them any\nlittle service, they would wait an opportunity, and beckon as slily as\npossible, and give it to them. It was really beautiful to witness their\nkindness to each other of the same nation. If any of us gave one of them\na piece of salt beef--of which they were very fond, but of which they\nwere allowed none, for fear of creating thirst--he that got it, though\nit were no larger than my finger, would pull it, fibre by fibre, and\ndivide it equally, making, with scrupulous accuracy, his own proportion\nno larger than any of the others; while the man that gave it would get\nthe grateful negro's day's allowance of liquor for it, when we went\nbelow to secure them for the night. Before they were turned below, they\nwere carefully searched, lest they had concealed a nail, or any bit of\niron, in their bekka, or little bag, by which they might have been\nenabled to undo their chains; and in the mornings, their irons and\nberths were as carefully examined. But what availed our care and\nattention, where sickness and death reigned triumphant? Never a day\npassed but one or two were thrown overboard, some days three; and,\nduring our run to St. Vincent, of six weeks, we lost, out of a cargo of\nfour hundred, one hundred and twenty. Two of the crew also died, and I\nmyself was given up for death by the captain; but, contrary to his and\nmy own expectation, I recovered rapidly. After I began to get\nconvalescent, I had picked up a few of the poor creatures' words, and\ndid my best, weak as I was, to relieve their wants, which were very\nurgent. The captain, from the very first, when he observed my dislike to\nthe service I had engaged in, and the pity expressed in my looks, told\nme to take it easy, for that I would soon get accustomed to it. But I\nnever could. Their complaints and piteous moans ceased not, night nor\nday. Although they were, in the night, confined below, and the crew had\nslung their hammocks on deck, under a spare sail, or anywhere they\nthought they would be most out of the sounds, still their moanings\ndisturbed our sleep. Vain was the threat, 'Nappy becca--paum paum,' (Be\nquiet--I will beat you,) and the cat shaken over them. 'Eerie eerie\ncucoo' (I am sick plenty) was the reply. 'Biea de biea' (I want the\ndoctor) sounded from every part; but 'Biea menie' (I want water) was the\nconstant cry at all times--yet we were liberal in our allowance, and\nconstantly supplying them with it.\n\n\"We gave them hot tea, when sick, made of pepper and boiled water, which\nthey relished very much, crying often--'Biea de biea ocko menie--eerie\neerie cucoo.' (I want the doctor and hot water--I am very sick.) This\nwould often be repeated from twenty voices at once, in their soft,\nplaintive manner of speaking, as they gathered confidence from the time\nthey had been on board. As long as they were able to move, we forced\nthem to the deck; but we in general found them dead in the morning, when\nwe went below to send them up. Often did the companion of the dead man's\nchain feign death, to be thrown overboard with him; but the cat was\nalways applied to test him, and he was kept alive against his will. All\nthis happened oftenest within the first fortnight or three weeks; for,\nby the fourth week, we had gained their confidence in a great measure,\nand their fears had worn off. The captain's custom was, when we found\nany one of them cheerful, and apparently easy in mind, to take off their\nchains, clothe them in a pair of trowsers and frock, and give them a\ncharge over their fellows. Then they became proud, and stalked over the\ndeck like admirals--and none more ready with the cat than they. Thus we\ngained upon them fast--the others envying those whom they saw dressed\nand trusted; so that, before we reach the end of the voyage, they were\nall, except some indomitable spirits, clothed, and walking the deck.\nThough still strictly watched, we allowed some of them to go aloft, and\nthey soon became useful, more especially the boys, who before they left\nthe vessel, were, some of them, no despicable seamen. When freed of\ntheir irons, and dressed, if they got the loan of a razor, or even a\npiece of broken bottle, they would shave, and cut their hair in their\nown fashion, and become, if possible, more vain and proud of their\nappearance. In the middle of this heart-rending misery, at least to me,\nthere was one ray of light that enlivened the gloom.\n\n\"We had on board of us a son of Bonnyface, the prime minister or chief\nfavourite of King Peppel. He had been intrusted to Captain Waugh, as a\ngreat favour, to take him to England for his education, and we were to\ntake him out again next voyage. Billy Bonnyface acted on board like a\nministering angel. He was a sweet boy, and of great service to the\ncaptain, in soothing and giving confidence to the slaves, and attending\nthe sick. He felt most acutely for their distress, and was constantly\npleading with the captain for some little comfort or other for them--the\ntears streaming down his ebony face, in which the unsophisticated\nworkings of his young mind were more moving than his words. All looked\nupon him as a friend, while by those whose language he spoke he was\nalmost adored. All the crew, too, loved him; for to every one of them he\nhad rendered some little service, by interceding for them with the\ncaptain, over whom his influence was great. A smarter or more active boy\nI never saw; he spoke English, for a negro, very well, and took great\ndelight in teaching the black boy-slaves, who learned amazingly fast. I\nknow not how it was, but little Billy loved me more than any other of\nthe crew, and I can safely say there was no love lost. When he had a\nmoment at leisure he was ever with me. You can judge by my looks if\nthere was anything comely in them; yet the dear boy often hung round my\nneck and kissed me, while I held him to my bosom, and he called me Dad\nRobion.\"\n\nHere the worthy captain paused, as if from extreme emotion. I felt as if\nI could have wept myself. He hastily resumed--\n\n\"I am an old fool. I shall go on, if I don't sicken you with my gossip.\"\n\n\"Proceed,\" I said--\"in charity, proceed.\"\n\n\"I thank you,\" he replied. \"Till now I had almost persuaded myself that\nno one cared for what I said, but Billy.\" And here he rung the bell, and\nthe negro entered. \"Billy,\" said he, \"it wears late; bring an extra\nglass, and take your wonted seat.\"\n\n\"Tank you, massa,\" said the negro; \"rather sit wit Mary. Picaninny no\nsleep yet.\"\n\n\"Well, Billy, as you please,\" he said, and resumed.\n\n\"On proceeding to the southward, we got becalmed eleven days in 2 deg. east\nlongitude. After a few days lying logging and motionless upon the water,\ndespondency began to take possession of our minds; our water and\nprovisions were wearing fast away, and the slaves dying fast, three and\nfour being often thrown overboard at once. The most gloomy and fearful\nideas began to occupy our minds--death stared us in the face, and we\nwere utterly powerless. On the tenth day, the men began to gather\ntogether in parties, and whisper what they feared to speak aloud. They\nlooked with an evil eye upon our chief mate, who was both feared and\nhated; to the crew he was tyrannical, but to the slaves he was cruel in\nthe extreme; and little Billy avoided him as if he had been a fiend. He\nwas, indeed, a hardened slaver of many years' standing; but the\ncircumstance that would have sealed his doom was, that, on his last\nvoyage to the coast, the ship he was in had been becalmed in the same\nlatitude for twenty weeks; the captain, doctor, and all on board\nperished, except himself, two boys, and two of the slaves, out of\nforty-six Europeans and four hundred slaves, which they left the coast\nwith. This was a subject he never wished to hear mentioned, and did all\nin his power to avoid being spoken to about; but he and I being on the\nbest of terms, in consequence of my having laid him under deep\nobligation to me at Bonny, he yielded to my request, and gave me the\nfollowing details:--\n\n\"'We left the coast of Africa all well,' he said; 'in better health than\ncommon, and in high spirits. Nothing particular happened until we were\nabout the place where we now are, when we had, first, variable winds for\nsome days; then all at once it fell a dead calm, and our sails hung\nloose upon our masts. We felt no uneasiness at first, as such things\nare usual in these latitudes; and we only regretted the loss we were\nsustaining in our cargo, who had become very sickly, and were dying\nfast. Thus three weeks passed on, and despair began to steal upon\nus--our provisions and water began to threaten a short-coming, and it\nwas now agreed to shorten our allowance of both, until a breeze sprung\nup. Our crew were listlessly loitering about the deck, and adding to the\nhorrors of our situation by relating dismal stories which they had heard\nof vessels becalmed in these latitudes; and their spirits sank still\nlower and lower. Thus, week followed week, and no relief came--our\ndespondency deepened--more than one-half of our slaves were already\ndead; and, by the fourteenth week, our water was almost spent, when it\nwas debated by the crew whether we should not force the remainder of the\nslaves overboard. We were reduced to perfect skeletons by anxiety and\nwant; and the slaves were much worse off than even we. When the result\nof the council was made known to the captain and mate, they gave a\ndecided refusal, and armed themselves, threatening to shoot the first\nman who would again propose it; and it was again agreed to shorten yet\nfurther our scanty allowance of water. On the sixteenth week, the\nEuropeans began to die as fast as the slaves, who were now reduced to\none hundred and four, the crew to thirty-six. Our sufferings were\nterrible. Our thirst parched and shrivelled up our throats. So listless\nwere we, that the slaves were now allowed to be at large, and many of\nthem leaped overboard, yelling fearfully as they splashed in the water,\nwe not caring to prevent them, but rather wishing that they might all\nimmolate themselves in the same way. We scarcely ever slept when we lay\ndown; our torments were so great that we would start up in a state of\nstupefaction, and wander over the deck like ghosts, until we sank down\nagain, exhausted. The eyes of all were dim, some glaring bloodshot, red\nas raw beef. Several of the crew leaped overboard in a state of wild\nderangement; others would be walking or conversing in their usual way,\nand suddenly drop down dead, expiring without a groan. Thus did we\nlinger out eighteen weeks, when the captain took to his cabin, and died\nthrough the night. Death's progress was fearful until the end of the\nnineteenth week, when all that remained alive out of such a number,\nwere, of the Europeans, only myself and two boys, who kept up better\nthan the men, and two young slaves. But by this time, there was no\ndistinction between black and white: we lay, side by side, looking over\nthe bulwarks of the vessel upon the glassy expanse of water; then to our\nsails that hung upon our masts like sere-cloths; then at each other--and\nour hearts felt as if they had ceased to beat. The heat was intolerable.\nWe had only half a barrel of water on board, and such water as none\nashore would have allowed to remain in their house; it was putrid, yet\nwe were grieved at the smallness of the quantity; for in our present\ncondition it was more precious than gold or diamonds, and was to us most\nsweet. There was still as little appearance of a wind springing up as on\nthe first day of the calm. I was thus in possession of the vessel,\nwithout the means of working her, should a breeze spring up. The fear of\nthis made me enlarge the allowance of water to the two slaves and boys,\nas on their lives my only chance of escape depended; for, were they to\ndie, I must, like all my fellows, also die in the calm, or become the\nsport of the winds and waves, when this appalling stillness in nature\nshould cease to chain me to this fatal spot. How could I express what we\nfelt when we first beheld the ripple upon the distant waters, as the\nlong-looked for wind came gently along! We stretched out our arms, we\nwept like children, and the burning drops smarted upon our chopped and\nblistered faces--the breeze reached our decks, we felt as if our thirst\nhad fled and we were bathed in pure water so balmy did it feel. The\nsails that had hung loose upon the yards for twenty weeks began to\nfill. The vessel moved through the water; I stood at the helm; and we\nsoon left this fatal latitude far behind. I never left the deck until we\narrived at Barbadoes. When overcome by sleep, one of the boys steered by\nthe directions I gave, until I awoke again, and took the helm; and when\nthe pilot came on board, as we neared the island, we had not one gill of\nwater in the ship.'\n\n\"My heart sank within me,\" continued the Captain, \"at this recital. We\nwere in the same place, and had every prospect of sharing a similar\nfate. We were on short allowance of water; and it is the remembrance of\nthese few fearful days that, as I walk alone, will at times even yet\ncome over my mind, and, while their horror is upon me, vivid as it was\nat the time, if I see water recklessly wasted, I feel angry, until the\nillusion has fled, and then I bless God that I am in the middle of green\nfields, and not that watery waste that glowed like a furnace from the\nintense rays of the sun, and where nothing met the anxious gaze of the\nsufferer but an expanse of water and sky, both equally bright and\nunvaried, without cloud in the one or swell in the other, all still as\ndeath, save any noise in the vessel, which, if ever so small, was, at\nthis time, fearfully acute to our ears. On the afternoon of the eleventh\nday, fortunately for the mate, and equally so for us all, a breeze came\nrustling along the waters, our sails filled, and we glided along with\njoyful hearts. Great was the deliverance to us all, but greatest to that\nthreatened victim; for, had we continued many days in the same\nsituation, the ship's crew would have made a Jonah of him and thrown him\noverboard, as the man himself did not hesitate to say our bad fortune\nwas solely on his account.\n\n\"On our arrival at St. Vincent, the slaves became very dull and\nlow-spirited, especially when they saw from our decks the gangs of\nnegroes at work in the fields, as we passed up along the shores of the\nislands. We were now all busy preparing them for the market,--that is,\ngiving them frocks and trowsers, and making them clean; while the\ncaptain sent on shore for the black decoys, to raise their spirits and\ngive them confidence. These decoys are black women, who are some of them\nfree, and others slaves. They make a trade of it, and are well paid; the\nmoney, if they are free, being their own--if slaves, their masters\nreceive it. They come on board gaily dressed, covered with tinsel and\nloaded with baubles, of which they have a great many to give away to the\nslaves. As soon as they come on board, under pretence of looking for\nrelations or former friends, (the decoys are of all of the different\nnations that come from the coast,) they address each in their own\ntongue; tell them a number of cock-and-bull stories; point to\nthemselves; profess all manner of joy to see them in this land of wealth\nand happiness, where they will soon be as gay and happy as they are;\nand, to show their riches and friendship for them, distribute the\nbaubles among them before they leave the vessel. This has all the\ndesired effect. The poor creatures immediately become full of spirits,\nand anxious to get on shore. The business of the voyage was now\naccomplished; for they were all sold by the agents on shore, and we knew\nno more of them. As soon as the ship was cleared of the slaves, the\ncarpenters commenced to take down the barricades, and we to prepare for\nreturning home, taking in water for ballast. I had no wish to return to\nBritain at this time, as berths were so difficult to be had when I left\nhome, and I told Captain Waugh so; but he refused to let me leave the\nvessel, for he had not many good seamen in his crew; and I having signed\nthe articles for the whole voyage, did not choose to forfeit my wages\nthus dearly won--so I at once made up my mind to return, and thought no\nmore of it. We remained here for seven weeks before the captain got all\nhis business settled, during which time I would have wearied very much,\nhad it not been for little Billy, who was seldom from my side. As I went\nvery little ashore, he preferred staying with me to going even with the\ncaptain, who was as well pleased at the choice, as his sole object was\nto be well spoken of by the boy to his father when they returned to the\ncoast, that he might have the favour of old Bonnyface, who was King\nPeppel's chief minister, and had greater influence with him than any of\nhis other favourites.\n\n\"Billy himself was one of the sweetest tempered and smartest boys of his\nage I ever saw, yet irascible to madness at the least affront from any\none; for his nature had never been subject to the least training, and\nhis passions were under no control. His countenance was the true index\nof his heart; and if any of the men intentionally gave him offence, his\nlarge black eyes would flash in an instant, he would spring at them like\na tiger, to tear them with his teeth, and it would be some time before\nwe could get him appeased; but, when the rage died away, he would think\nno more of it, nor would he complain to the captain, as he knew that the\nman would have been punished. However, it was only when some of the crew\nreturned on board the worse of liquor, that they ever meddled with him;\nfor otherwise there was not a man in the ship but would have as soon\nthought of leaping overboard, as giving him the slightest offence.\n\n\"Billy began to weary to get under way as much as myself; and when I\nasked him why he was so anxious to get to Britain, he replied, simply--\n\n\"'I much want to make book speak! You make book speak! Dad Robion, and\nall white man make book speak! Dat gives much power, dat make big\nman--so me wish to make book speak.'\n\n\"'I am happy,' I said, 'to hear you say so. Will you learn if I teach\nyou, Billy, while we lie here? It will be so far good for you that you\nwill not have to begin when we reach Bristol.'\n\n\"'You make my heart glad,' he replied. 'You teacha me--me all heart, me\nall attention, me never tink but what you say.' And he threw his arms\nround my neck.\n\n\"I was much affected, and seriously thought about what I had undertaken;\nfor there were many difficulties to surmount--the greatest of which was\nthe want of a proper book to begin with. There was not such a thing on\nboard; so I got from the carpenter a smooth board, and formed the\nletters, telling him their names, and giving them to him to form after\nme. This he took the utmost delight in, and learned amazingly fast, for\nhe was ever at his board; and, before we left the island, he knew words\nof one and two syllables in my book of navigation, the only one I had,\nsave my pocket Bible, which he took great delight to hear me\nread--putting occasionally such puzzling questions to me as made me\nblush. When I told him it was the book of the white man's religion, he\nused to shake his head, and say--\n\n\"'Me no tink dat; for white man swear, white man steal, he drink over\ntoo much, he do what book say no; how dat?'\n\n\"I felt it quite impossible, from what he saw in our own crew, and what\nhe had seen of the other white men at Bonny, to make him believe that\nwhite men had any rule of conduct but their own inclinations and\navarice. I sighed, and gave up the task; for what is instruction or\nprecept to an ingenuous mind, without example; and our profession is\nbelied by too many around, who acknowledge and claim the faith as theirs\nby word, and yet give it the lie by their actions.--At length we sailed,\nand reached King's Road on the 1st of January, 1789.\n\n\"I was so fortunate as get a berth, as mate, on board a West Indiaman,\nwhich was taking her cargo on board. Billy was, meanwhile, put to\nschool, and I saw him every evening, at his request, and by Captain\nWaugh's leave. When he heard I was going to leave Bristol, and not to go\nback to the coast in the _Queen Charlotte_ again, he wept, and\nimportuned me, in the most moving terms, to go to Bonny with him, where\nhe would cause his father to give me as many slaves as I pleased, and he\nwould send his own people to get them for me. I was vexed to part with\nhim, and did what I could to soothe him before my departure; but still I\nleft him disconsolate. I once more left Bristol in the beginning of\nFebruary, and had a fine run to Jamaica, where I left the vessel, with\nthe consent of my captain, having made an exchange with a lad belonging\nto Bristol, who was mate in an American trader, and wished to get home,\nas he did not keep his health well in these climates; and, as he was an\nacquaintance of the captain's, all parties were agreeable. I now\ncontinued for several years in the carrying trade between the different\nislands and the continent of America, saved money very fast, purchased a\nshare of a large brig, and sailed her successfully as captain. The war\nwas now raging between Britain and the French Republic; but it did not\naffect my prosperity, for, being now a naturalized American, my ship and\npapers were a passport to me, and I sailed unmolested by the fleets and\nprivateers of both nations. But my heart was British, and rejoiced in\nthe superiority she held at sea, as if I had been in the British\nservice, and fighting for my country. For ten years everything had\nprospered with me. I thought myself rich--for I never was\navaricious--and had some thoughts of returning to Edinburgh, when the\nfailure of a mercantile house in Charlestown reduced me once more to a\ncouple of thousand dollars. There was no use of fretting. I had all to\ndo over again, and to it I set. 'I am yet not an old man, and, if I am\nspared (a few years are neither here nor there), I will be content with\nless this bout--so here goes.' I made over my claim upon the bankrupts\nto the other creditors for a small sloop that had belonged to them, and\nbegan the coasting trade again. I sold my sloop soon after, bought a\nbrig, and took a trip in her to Kingston in Jamaica--when, what was my\ngrief and surprise, to see, in the first lighter that came alongside the\nvessel, my old friend Billy! I could at first scarcely believe my eyes;\nI thought I knew the face, but could not call to my recollection where I\nhad seen it, yet I felt I had known it by more than a casual meeting. I\nwas at this time sitting at my cabin window; I saw that the person who\nhad attracted my attention so much was a slave, and allowed the\ncircumstance to pass out of my mind for the time, as I was busy with\nsome papers, and had only been attracted by the sound of the oars as\nthey passed under the stern of the vessel. On the second trip of the\nlighter I was on deck, and the same individual was there. I caught again\nhis eye; and, as I gazed upon him, he uttered a cry of surprise,\nstretched forth his arms for a second, then shook his head sorrowfully,\nand sunk it upon his bosom, as if in despondency. That it was Billy, I\nhad not now the most distant doubt; my heart leaped to embrace him,\nslave as he was. But how he had come into his present situation I could\nnot conceive. I requested the black who had charge of the _Double\nMoses_(the name of the craft), to send Billy upon deck; and, as soon as\nhe reached it, I held out my hand to him. I believe my eyes were not\ndry; his were pouring a flood of tears upon my hand, which he kissed\nagain and again. The crew and others looked on in amazement. The captain\nof a brig shaking hands with a black slave! Such an occurrence they had\nnever witnessed; for my crew were native Americans, and looked upon\nnegroes as an inferior race of men. He was now a stout young man, but\nrather thin and dejected; he was naked, save a pair of old trousers, and\nhis shoulders and back bore the scars of many old and recent stripes.\nHis former vivacity was now nowhere to be traced in his melancholy\ncountenance--the independence of his former manner had all forsaken\nhim--he was, in truth, a broken-in spirit and crushed slave. I resolved\nat once to purchase his liberty, if within my power, and told him so,\nwhen he fell at my feet, wept, and kissed my shoes before I could lift\nhim up. He had not as yet opened his lips--his heart was too full,\nemotion shook his frame; and, to ease the feeling that seemed like to\nchoke him, I went from the cabin to the state room, leaving him alone,\nwhile I sought out a jacket and light vest for him. I staid no longer\nthan was necessary to give him time to recover. It was ever engraven\nupon my heart, that look of gratitude he gave me. His attempt to speak\nwas still a vain effort. He was another man's slave and liable to\npunishment. I requested him to go away to his duty, and not tell any one\nwhat I meant to do, lest his master should ask an exorbitant sum, if he\nthought I was resolved to purchase at any price. So he went into the\n_Moses_, and pulled ashore; but kept his gaze constantly on me.\n\n\"As soon as my business would permit, I went on shore before sun-down to\nmake inquiries about his purchase from his present master, and was\npleased to find that he was the property of the merchant to whom my\ncargo was consigned. I told him at once frankly off hand that I wished\nto purchase a slave of his, to whom I had taken a fancy. He replied, I\nwas welcome to any of them at a fair valuation, and then called his\noverseer--for he himself cared little about his slaves, hardly knowing\nthem by sight--and inquired if I knew his name. I told him the one I\nmeant was called Billy, and described him. The overseer at once knew\nwhom I meant, and said I would be welcome to him at cost, for he was a\nstubborn, sulky dog, and gave him much trouble, and, besides, was\ngetting rather sickly; so that, if I chose, I might have him for two\nhundred dollars. I at once agreed, and, after supper, went on board,\nhappy that I had succeeded so well; for Billy was to be handed over to\nme in the forenoon, as soon as the notary had made out the transfer. At\nlength he came on board, joy beaming in every feature; but so much had\nhis noble spirit been crushed and broken, that he still felt his\ninferiority, and stood at an humble distance. He had been taught the\nsevere lesson of what it was to be a slave. When I met him first, all he\nknew of the white man was the most humble submission to King Peppel and\nhis father's humours. Their word was law to them at Bonny--how great the\ncontrast to him here! He was insulted, despised, and tortured by the\nlash, by those very whites he had been taught, when a child, to look\nupon as scarcely his equals. Had he been even a prince in the interior,\nhis bondage to the whites would not have been half so galling. I\nbeckoned him to follow me to the cabin, where I got from him an account\nof his adventures since I had left him in Bristol.\n\n\"The captain left him at school on his next voyage to the coast, and did\nnot take him out until the second year, when Billy could read English\nwell, and had learned to cipher and write a tolerable hand. On being\ndelivered safe to his father, the prime minister was proud of his\naccomplishments. Captain Waugh was most liberally rewarded; King Peppel\nwas glad to have one about him, who could make 'book speak.' Billy had\nevery appearance of rising into great favour; but, poor fellow, the\naccomplishments his father was so proud of, proved the ruin of them\nboth, and of all their family. In King Peppel's court there was as much\nambition, intrigue, and rivalry, as in the most civilised in Europe; nor\nwere the political plotters less scrupulous in the means they used to\noverturn the influence of a rival. They first began to hint, in an\nindirect manner, that Bonnyface had sent his son to the white man's\nland, to learn obi, and write 'feteche' or charms. The King, for some\ntime, only laughed at them; but their endless inuendoes gradually began\nto poison his mind; and, while he became cool and more cool in his\nmanner, the secret enemies had bribed the priests, or 'feteche' men, who\nalso envied Billy his accomplishments, and they openly declared that it\nwas not good to have white man's 'feteches' in the black man's country.\nOld Bonnyface saw the storm gradually thicken around him, without the\nmeans of averting it; but this torturing state of uncertainty came to a\nclose. The King, who had been ailing for some time, and applying to the\nsurgeons of the slave ships, without much relief, was advised to try the\nphysicians of his own country. These were the priests and feteche men;\nand this was the opportunity so long desired by the enemies of Billy's\nfamily. It was declared by all that there was a white man's 'feteche'\nupon him, and they could not remove it; but gave no opinions as to who\nit was that had put it on the King. It could be none of the white men in\nthe river, for they all were his friends for trade; and then they\npaused, and shook their heads, received their presents, and retired. No\none gave the least surmise to the King, who was the charmer; for this\nhad been done months before. All that had been hinted of Bonnyface and\nBilly going to Britain rushed upon the King's mind, aggravated by fear.\nNext day saw Bonnyface's head struck off, to break the 'feteche;' and\nthe interesting Billy, and all the members of the family, were sold for\nslaves to the Europeans, their wealth confiscated to the King, and a\npart of it bestowed upon those who had wrought their ruin. I brought\nBilly home with me--and here ends my narrative, at least for this\nevening.\"\n\nIt now being rather late, I bade the Captain good night, and called\nagain in the morning, after breakfast, when I found that the mother and\nbabe were quite restored. Upon inquiry, we learned that the name of her\nhusband was William Robertson. As the day was remarkably fine, I walked\nwith the Captain to the reading-room, and found that the _Czar_ had\narrived at Leith the day before. We took the stage, and rode down, and\nsoon had the pleasure to see the husband of the Captain's guest. When\nthey met, the Captain seemed much affected at sight of him, and, in an\nagitated manner, inquired of what part of Scotland he was a native. He\nsaid he was born in the Grassmarket of Edinburgh; and, upon further\ninquiry, we found that he was the Captain's cousin, the son of his\nuncle, who had married after his bankruptcy, and died, leaving his son\ndestitute, who, from necessity, had gone to sea. To conclude, William\nRobertson came home to Morningside with us a happy man. His wife and\nchild resided with the Captain until his death, and that of Billy, who\ndid not survive him many months. The cousin sailed his own vessel out of\nGreenock, and that was the last account I had from him.\n\n\n\n\nTHE KATHERAN.\n\n    Sae rantingly, sae wantonly,\n    Sae dauntingly gaed he--\n    He played a spring and danced it roun\n    Beneath the gallows tree.\n\n\nIn the latter end of the summer of the year 1700, as a party, consisting\nof two ladies and two gentlemen, were returning to Banff, the place of\ntheir residence, from a distant excursion into the Highlands, they were\novertaken by the dusk of evening in the Pass of Benmore, one of the\nwildest and most desolate spots in the north of Scotland. The ladies of\nthis party were both young, and one of them, in particular, surpassingly\nbeautiful. This lady's name was Ellen Martin, the daughter of a\ngentleman of great wealth, residing in the neighbourhood of the town\nabove named. At the period we introduce her to the reader, Ellen had\njust completed her nineteenth year. She was rather under than above the\naverage stature of her sex; but her fragile form was exquisitely\nmoulded, and perfect in all its proportions. Her countenance was oval,\nglowing with health, and strikingly expressive of a disposition at once\nconfiding, open, and affectionate. In truth, it was impossible to look\non the youthful form of Ellen Martin, without feeling that you saw\nbefore you the very perfection of female loveliness. But, if there was\nany particular time or occasion when that beauty was seen to greater\nadvantage than another, it might have been when, shaking aside with a\ngentle motion of her head the profusion of fair glossy ringlets with\nwhich it was adorned, she looked up with her large intelligent, but soft\nblue eye, and her small rosy lips apart, to catch more distinctly what\nconversation might be passing around her. At such a moment, and in such\nan attitude as this, she seemed, indeed, more like one of those aerial\nbeings that fancy delights to create, than a creature of mortal mould.\n\nThe female companion of Ellen Martin, on the occasion of which we have\nspoken and are about more fully to speak, was an intimate friend. One of\nthe gentlemen was a near relation of Ellen's, the other the brother of\nher friend. The party, all of whom were mounted on little Highland\nponies, having been overtaken by the dusk, began to feel rather uneasy\nat their situation, as they had yet fully fifteen miles of wild and\nhilly road to travel before they could reach any place of shelter. They\nhad been perfectly aware, when they set out in the morning, of the\ndistance they had to accomplish, and knew, also, that considerable\nexpedition was required to enable them to complete with daylight the\nnecessary journey; but, full of health and spirits, and possessed of\ntastes capable of enabling them to enjoy the splendid scenery which had\nmet them at every turn in their mountain path, they had loitered on the\nway till they found that they had expended all their time, and had yet\naccomplished little more than half their journey. In this dilemma, there\nwas nothing for it but to push on--a simple enough corrective of their\nerror, apparently, but one by no means to them of very easy adoption;\nfor they did not well know in what direction to proceed. Under these\ncircumstances, one of the gentlemen called a halt of the party, to\nconsider of what was best to be done, and to see if their united\nintelligence could make out where they were precisely, and help to the\nselection of the best route by which to prosecute their journey. To add\nto the unpleasantness of their situation, it began to rain heavily, and\noccasional peals of distant thunder growled amidst the hills.\n\nThe party were at this instant crowded together beneath the shelter of a\nprojecting rock, whither they had retired, to avoid the beating rain,\nand to hold the consultation to which we have above alluded. Unpleasant,\nhowever, as their situation was, they felt no great alarm. The ladies,\nindeed, expressed some uneasiness occasionally; but it was quickly\nbanished by the rattling glee of their male companions, who, elated with\nexperiencing something like an adventure, were in high spirits, and\nendeavoured to communicate the same feeling to their fair friends.\nEllen, who with all her gentleness of nature and delicacy of form, was\nof a highly romantic and enthusiastic disposition, was gazing pensively\non the mighty masses of hill that rose around her on all sides, and anon\ndown into the deep hollow of the pass, to whose highest point they had\nnearly attained, when she thought she perceived, through the obscurity\nof the twilight, a human figure ascending the pass in the direction of\nthe party. She called the attention of her friends to the approaching\nobject, which, in a few minutes was sufficiently near to exhibit the\noutline of a man of tall stature. He was advancing rapidly, with the\nlight springy step peculiar to the Highlanders, and was traversing with\napparent ease, ground, which, from its ruggedness and steepness, would\nhave rendered the progress of one accustomed to such travelling, slow,\nlaborious, and painful. The person now approaching seemed not to feel\nany such difficulties. He bounded lightly and rapidly over the ground,\nand in a few minutes was within a few yards of where they stood. On\nobserving the party, he made towards them, and, doffing his bonnet with\ngreat politeness, and with the air of a prince, inquired, after\napologising for his intrusion, whether they stood in need of any such\nassistance as one who knew the country well could afford them, and was\nready to give.\n\nThe person who now stood before the party, and who made this friendly\ninquiry, was a young gentleman--at least one whose appearance and manner\nbespoke him to be such. He was dressed in the full Highland costume of a\nperson of consideration of the period to which our tale refers; but was\nfully more amply and carefully armed than was even then usual amongst\nhis countrymen. In his belt he wore, besides the dirk, the common\nappendage, a couple of pistols, and, by his side, a broadsword of the\nmost formidable dimensions. The figure of this person, who appeared to\nbe about five-and-twenty years of age, was singularly handsome; his\ncountenance mild and pleasing in its expression, yet strongly indicative\nof a bold and determined spirit--advantages which were finely set off\nby the picturesque dress in which he was arrayed, and which he wore with\nmuch dignity and grace, and by his erect and martial bearing. His whole\nfigure, in short, was remarkably striking and prepossessing.\n\n\"I fear,\" said the stranger, addressing the party, and smiling as he\nspoke, \"that you have miscalculated the height of our hills and the\nbreadth of our muirs, that you are so late abroad.\"\n\n\"It is even so, sir,\" said one of the gentlemen; \"we have been idling\nour time, and are now reaping the fruits of our thoughtlessness. We\nneither know well where we are, nor which way we ought to go. I suppose\nwe must just make the most of the situation we are in for the night,\nalthough these rocks are but very indifferent covering.\"\n\n\"Why, I must say I would not feel much for your case, gentlemen,\" said\nthe stranger, \"though you had to sleep on the heather for a night--I\nhave done it a thousand times; but such quarters would ill suit these\nfair ladies, I fear.\"\n\n\"Yet they must be content to put up with it for this night at any rate,\"\nsaid one of the gentlemen; \"for we can make no better of it.\"\n\n\"Perhaps _we_ may make better of it,\" said the stranger. \"Something must\nbe done to get these ladies under shelter. Let me see.\" And he mused for\na moment, then added--\"If I thought you would not be overly nice as to\nthe elegance of your quarters, and if you would accompany me for a\ndistance of a couple of miles or so, I think I could promise you, at\nleast, the shelter of a roof, and such entertainment as our Highland\nhuts afford.\"\n\nThe friendly offer of the stranger being gladly accepted by the party,\nwho, one and all, declared they would be exceedingly thankful for any\nsort of quarters, the whole set forward under the conduct of their\nguide. Whether directed by choice or by chance, the latter, at starting,\ntook Ellen's pony by the bridle, and was subsequently most assiduous in\nguiding the animal by the easiest and safest tracks. Nor did he once\nquit his hold for a moment during the whole of their march. This\ncircumstance naturally placed Ellen and the stranger frequently by\nthemselves; since, as leaders, they generally kept several yards in\nadvance of their party--a circumstance which was not lost on the latter,\nwho aimed at, and succeeded in making, perhaps a somewhat more than\nfavourable impression on his fair companion, by his polished manners and\nlively and intelligent conversation.\n\nWe will not say that the effect of these qualifications was not\nheightened by the personal elegance and manly beauty of their possessor;\nneither will we say that the romantic and susceptible girl was not\npredisposed, by the same cause, to discover, in all he said, fully more,\nperhaps, than would have been apparent to a more indifferent listener.\nBe this as it may, it is certain that on this night, and on this\nparticular occasion, Ellen Martin felt, and felt for the first time,\nthe, to her new, strange, and delightful emotions of incipient love.\nWhat avails it to say that prudence should have forbidden this? The\nobject of Ellen's sudden regard was a stranger, a total stranger. His\nname even was not known, nor his rank in society otherwise than by\nconjecture, which, though favourable, was, of course, vague and\nuncertain. The circumstances, too, in which he had been met with, were\nsuch as to preclude all possibility of connecting any one single\nelucidatory fact with his history. But when, in a young and\ninexperienced mind, did love submit to be controlled by reason? and when\ndid the young heart exhibit the faculty of resisting impressions at\nwill? Certainly not in the case of Ellen Martin, who was, at this\nmoment, placed precisely in those circumstances most eminently\ncalculated for exciting, in susceptible bosoms, the one great and\nengrossing passion of the female heart.\n\nAfter about an hour's travelling, the party, with their guide, arrived\nat a solitary house situated in a little glen or strath overhung with\nprecipitous rocks, and through which wound a narrow and irregular road,\nthat led in one direction over the hills that stretched far to the west,\nand in the other to the lower grounds, from which the neighbouring\nmountains rose. The house itself, although apparently a very old one,\nwas of the better order of houses in the Highlands at that period. It\nwas two stories in height, roofed with grey slate, and exhibited at wide\nintervals small dingy windows filled with the thick, wavy, and obscure\nglass of the time. Altogether it had the appearance of being the\nresidence of a person of the rank of a small proprietor or tacksman. As\nthe party approached the house, all was quiet within and around it. Not\na light was seen, or movement heard. The hour was late, and the inmates\nhad been long to rest. When within a short distance of the house, the\nconductor of the party, addressing the latter, said:--\n\n\"You will be so good as wait here, my friends, for a few minutes, until\nI prepare Mr. Chisholm for your reception. He is an old and intimate\nfriend of mine, and will be glad, on my account, to show you every\nkindness in his power.\"\n\nHaving thus expressed himself, he left them, and, in a few moments\nafter, returned to conduct them to the house, where they were received\nwith great kindness by the landlord, a middle-aged man of respectable\nappearance and mild manners. On entering, the party were ushered into a\nlarge room, where a servant girl was busily employed in kindling a fire\nof peats. These quickly bursting into flame, the travellers, in a very\nfew minutes, found themselves enjoying the agreeable warmth of a blazing\nfire. But the kindness of their host was not limited to external\ncomforts. With true Highland hospitality, the board was loaded with\nrefreshments of various kinds; huge piles of oaten cake, with\nproportionable quantities of eggs, cheese, butter, cold salmon, and\nmutton ham, and, though last, not least, a little round, black, dumpy\nbottle of genuine mountain dew.\n\nDelighted with their reception, pleased with each other, and urged into\nthat exuberance of spirits which good cheer and comfortable quarters are\nso well qualified to inspire, especially when they present themselves so\nunexpectedly and opportunely as in the case of which we are\nspeaking--the party soon began to get exceedingly merry; so much so,\nthat they finally determined, as morning was now fast approaching, not\nto retire to bed at all, but to spend the few hours they intended\nremaining where they were. In this resolution they were the more readily\nconfirmed by a certain proceeding of their late guide, in happy\naccordance with the mirthful feelings of the moment. This was his taking\ndown from the wall a fiddle, which hung invitingly over the fire-place,\nand striking up some of the liveliest airs of his native land. The\neffect was irresistible; for he played with singular grace and skill,\nstriking out the notes with a distinctness, precision, and rapidity,\nthat gave the fullest effect possible to the merry strains which he\npoured on the ears of the captivated listeners. The party were\nelectrified. The gentlemen leapt to their feet, the table was removed\nbodily, with all its furniture, to one side of the apartment, and, in an\ninstant after, the ladies also were on the floor. In another, the whole\nwere wheeling through the mazes of a Highland reel. Nor did the\nmerriment cease till the rising sun alarmed the revellers, by suddenly\npouring his effulgence into the apartment. On this hint, the music and\nmirth both were instantly hushed; and the party, throwing aside the\nlevity of manner of the preceding hours, began, with business looks, to\nprepare for their departure. Their host pressed them to stay breakfast;\nbut, being anxious at once to get forward and to enjoy the morning ride,\nthis invitation they declined. Their ponies, which had been in the\nmeantime carefully attended to by their hospitable landlord, were\nbrought to the door, and in a few minutes the whole party were mounted,\nand were about to start, when the circumstance of their late guide's\nagain taking the reins of Ellen's pony in his hand, and apparently\npreparing to repeat the service of the previous night, for a moment\narrested their march; all protesting that they would on no account\npermit him to put himself, by accompanying them, to the slightest\nfurther inconvenience on their account. With what sincerity Ellen joined\nin this protest--for she did join in it--we do not know; but it is\ncertain that her opposition to his accompanying them did not appear at\nall so cordial as that of her companions.\n\nThe objections of the party, however, were politely, but peremptorily\noverruled by their guide, who reconciled them to his determination of\nescorting them, by remarking that, without his assistance, they would\nnever find their way amongst the hills, and that, moreover, he was going\nat any rate several miles in the very direction in which their route\nlay. These assurances, particularly the latter, left no room for farther\ndebate, and the party proceeded on their way; the guide and Ellen, as\nbefore, leading the march. But, as it was now daylight when any little\nchance distance that might occur between the parties was of less\nconsequence and less attended to, they were always much farther in\nadvance than on the preceding night; indeed, frequently so far as to be\nfor a considerable time out of sight of their companions. In this\nproceeding, Ellen had, of course, no share whatever. It was solely the\nresult of a certain little course of management on the part of her\nescort, who availed himself of every opportunity of widening the\ndistance between his fair companion and the other members of the party.\nIt was on one of these occasions, when the lovers--for we may now\nwithout hesitation call them such--had turned the shoulder of a hill\nwhich Ellen's guide knew, calculating from the distance which the party\nwere behind, would conceal them from the view of the latter for a\nconsiderable time--it was on this occasion, we say, that he suddenly\nseized Ellen by the hand, and, ere she was aware, hurried it to his\nlips; but, as quickly resigning it--\n\n\"Ellen,\" he said, looking up to her with an expression of tenderness and\ncontrition that instantly disarmed the gentle girl of the resentment\ninto which the freedom he had just taken had for an instant betrayed\nher--\"forgive me--will you forgive me? That cursed impetuosity of\ntemper--the failing of my race, Ellen--has hurried me into an\nimpropriety. I have offended you. I see it--but do forgive me.\"\n\n\"On condition that you do not attempt to repeat it,\" said Ellen,\nsmiling, though there was evidently much agitation in her manner.\n\n\"I promise,\" replied the offender. A pause ensued, during which neither\nspoke. At length, Ellen's guide, who seemed to have been struggling with\nsome powerful and oppressive motion, suddenly, but gently arrested the\nprogress of the pony on which she rode, and said, in a voice altered in\ntone by intensity of feeling--\n\n\"Ellen, I wish to God we had never met!\"\n\n\"Why should you entertain such a wish?\" inquired Ellen, timidly, and\nblushing as she spoke.\n\n\"Because then I had not been broken-hearted,\" said her companion, with a\nsigh. \"I had still retained my peace of mind--my step should still have\nbeen light on the heather, and my thoughts free and careless as the\nwind upon the mountains.\"\n\n\"You speak in enigmas,\" replied Ellen, blushing deeper than before. \"I\ndo not understand you,\" she added, but with a manner that contradicted\nthe assertion.\n\n\"Then I will be more plain with you, Ellen,\" replied her companion:--\"I\nlove you, I love you, fair girl, to distraction.\"\n\nThis declaration was too unequivocal to be evaded; yet poor Ellen,\nthough her heart responded to the sentiment, knew not what reply to make\nin words. Her agitation was extreme--so great as almost to impede her\nrespiration.\n\n\"We are strangers, sir,\" she at length said--\"total strangers; and such\nlanguage as this should, if spoken at all, be spoken only when it is\nwarranted by a longer and more intimate acquaintance. Ours is literally\nbut of yesterday, although you have certainly crowded into that short\nspace as much kindness as it would possibly admit of; and I and my\nfriends are grateful for it--sincerely grateful. Still we are but\nstrangers.\"\n\n\"Strangers, Ellen!\" replied her lover, getting more and more energetic\nand impassioned as he spoke--\"no, we are not strangers--at least you are\nnone to me. From the first instant I saw you, you were no longer a\nstranger. From that instant, you had a home in this heart, and on that\ninstant you stood before me confessed one of the loveliest and gentlest\nof your sex. What more would an age of acquaintance have discovered?\nWhat more is there need to learn.\"\n\nAt this instant, a shout from one of the gentlemen of the party\ninterrupted the enthusiastic speaker, and put an end, for the time, to\nthe conversation of the lovers. The call, however, that had been made on\ntheir attention by their friend, being merely intended to intimate that\nthey had them in view, Ellen's guide soon found another opportunity of\nrenewing his suit. We do not, however, think it necessary that we should\nrenew a description of it--tedious as the conversation of all lovers is\nto third parties. We shall only say, then, that, long ere Ellen and her\nhandsome and accomplished guide parted, the affections of the simple,\nconfiding girl were unalterably fixed. Whether they were happily\ndisposed of, the sequel will show.\n\nAfter having crossed \"muirs and mountains mony o',\" Ellen and her lover\narrived on the ridge of a hill, which commanded a distinct, though\ndistant view of the town of Banff, when the latter suddenly stopped,\nand--\"Ellen,\" he said, \"here we must part. I can proceed no farther with\nyou; but it will go hard with me if I do not see you very soon again.\"\n\n\"Nay,\" said Ellen, \"since you have come so far with us, you must go yet\na little farther. You must go on to the town, and afford us an\nopportunity of acknowledging the obligations under which we lie to you.\nMy father will be most happy to see you.\"\n\nThe expression of a sudden pang crossed the fine countenance of the\nstranger. His lip quivered, and his brow contracted into momentary\ngloom; but, with what was apparently a strong effort, he subdued the\nfeeling, whatever it was, which had caused this indication of mental\npain, and replied, after a brief pause--\n\n\"No, Ellen, it cannot be. I must not--I--I dare not enter Banff with the\nlight of day.\"\n\n\"Dare not!\" said Ellen, in surprise. \"Why dare you not? What or whom\nhave you to fear?\"\n\n\"Fear?\" replied her companion, somewhat distractedly--\"I fear the face\nof no single man, weapon to weapon; but, were I to enter Banff, I might\nnot have such fair play. There are some persons there with whom I am at\nfeud; and my life would be in danger from them. This was what I meant,\nwhen I said that I dared not enter Banff. Yet it is not that I would not\n_dare_, either,\" he added, raising himself proudly to his full height,\nand laying an emphasis expressive of defiance on the word; \"but it would\nbe foolhardy--absurdly imprudent. I cannot--I may not go further with\nyou, Ellen.\"\n\nHere the conversation was interrupted by the approach of the rest of the\nparty, who at this moment rode up to Ellen and her companion. These, on\nbeing told that the latter was now about to leave them, repeated, and in\nnearly similar words, the invitation which Ellen had already given him;\nbut it was not in similar words to those he had used on that occasion,\nhe answered them. To them he merely said that pressing business called\nhim in another direction, and repeated that, where they now were, they\nmust part. He however, promised, though with the manner of one who has\nno fixed intention of fulfilling that promise, that the first time he\nwent to Banff, if circumstances would permit, he would certainly pay\nthem a visit.\n\n\"Since you will not go with us, then,\" said one of the gentlemen, \"at\nleast inform us to whom we are indebted for the extraordinary kindness\nwhich you have shewn us. Favour us with your name if you please.\"\n\n\"My name, sir!\" said the late guide, smiling. \"Why, that is a matter of\nno consequence. You will know me when and wherever you may see me again,\nI dare say, and that is enough.\" Saying this, he shook hands with each\nof the party--with Ellen this ceremony was accompanied by a look and\npressure of peculiar intelligence--and bounded away with the same light\nand elastic step with which he had approached them on the preceding\nnight, and was soon lost to view.\n\nIt would not be easy for us to say precisely what were the opinions\nentertained by Ellen's party, of the warm-hearted but mysterious person\nwho had just left them. These were various, vague, and indefinite. That\nhe was a person far above the ordinary classes of the country, was\nevident from his dress, his manner, and his accomplishments. The first\nwas that of a gentleman, the latter were those of a man of education and\ntalent. These obvious proofs of his rank there was no gainsaying; nor\nwould they admit of any difference of opinion. But it had not escaped\nthose who were now engaged in discussing the subject of the stranger's\nprobable history, that, during the whole time they had been together,\nneither his name, profession, nor place of residence, had ever\ntranspired. They had not been at any time alluded to, even in the\nslightest or most distant manner. It was only now, however, that the\noddness of this circumstance seemed to strike the members of the party\nwith the full force of its peculiar character. Each now asked the other\nin surprise, if they had not ascertained any of the particulars just\nmentioned from the stranger; and all declared that they had not. More\nextraordinary still, as it now appeared on reflection, his name had\nnever once been mentioned by the person in whose house they had passed\nthe previous evening. In this investigation, the circumstance of the\nstranger's having declined to give his name at parting was not of course\nforgotten. The affair altogether was a singular one--a conclusion at\nwhich all arrived; but it was one also, which their discussion could\nthrow no light on; and this being sensibly felt by all, the subject was\ngradually dropped.\n\nTo what extent the doubts and indefinite suspicions with which the\nmystery associated with their late guide had inspired the various\nmembers of the party, were shared by Ellen, we do not know; but we\nsuspect that, in her bosom, they were mingled with feelings that had the\neffect of giving them a totally different character from what they\nassumed in the minds of her companions. In her case, these doubts or\nsuspicions were wholly unassociated with any idea unfavourable to the\ncharacter of him whose conduct excited them. She saw, indeed, that there\nwas a degree of concealment on the part of that person; but she never,\nfor a moment, dreamt that it proceeded from any reasons involving\nanything disgraceful. In the fondness of her love, she conceived it\nimpossible that a being of so kind and generous a heart, of so\nprepossessing appearance and manners, and of so noble a form, could ever\nhave been guilty of anything which should subject him to the debasing\nfeelings of either shame or fear. She felt there was mystery, but she\nwas satisfied it was not the mystery of crime; and, under this\nconviction, she continued to cherish the love which had thus so suddenly\nsprung up in her own guiltless and guileless bosom. The party, in the\nmeantime, were rapidly approaching the place of their respective\nresidences, and a very short time after saw that consummation attained.\n\nIf we now allow somewhere about the space of a month to elapse, and if\nwe then look, in the dusk of a certain evening, into a certain retired\ngreen lane or avenue, at the distance of somewhat less than a quarter of\na mile from the residence of Ellen Martin's father, in the vicinity of\nthe town of Banff, and which, being on the property of the latter, was\nsecluded from all intrusion, we shall then and there find two persons\nwalking together, in earnest and secret conversation. If we approach\nthem nearer, we shall discover that they are lovers; for there is the\ngentle accent and the endearing concourse of fond hearts. They are Ellen\nMartin and her mysterious lover; and this is the fifth or sixth night on\nwhich they have so met since they parted at the time and in the manner\nbefore described.\n\n\"But why this mystery, James?\"--for this much of his name had she\nobtained--Ellen might have been overheard, by an eavesdropper, saying to\nher lover on this occasion, as she leant on his arm, and gazed fondly in\nhis face. \"Why all this mystery?--why is it that you come and go only\nunder the shade of night?--and why is it that you shun the face of man\nwith such sedulous anxiety?--and why, above all, are you always so\ncarefully armed? Oh, do confide in me, James, and tell me all. Relieve\nmy mind. Tell me the reason of these things. You wrong me by this\nmystery; for it implies a suspicion of my sincerity--it implies that you\nthink me unworthy of being trusted.\"\n\n\"Doubt your sincerity, Ellen!--think you unworthy of being trusted!\"\nsaid the person whom she addressed, emphatically but tenderly. \"Sooner\nwould I doubt the return of yonder moon--sooner would I doubt that the\nsea would flow again after it has ebbed--than doubt your sincerity,\nlove; but I cannot, I will not, I dare not give you the information you\nask; for, with that information I would loose you for ever; and what,\nthink you, would induce me to inflict such misery as that on myself? Be\ncontent, Ellen, in the meantime at least, with an assurance of my\nlove--yes, unworthy as I am,\" he exclaimed, with increased fervour, \"of\na love as strong, as sincere, as pure as ever existed in a human bosom.\"\n\n\"I never doubted it, James--I never doubted it,\" said Ellen, bursting\ninto tears, and leaning her head fondly on the shoulder of her lover;\n\"and I will not press you further for that information which you seem so\nreluctant to give. I will, in the meantime, as you say, confide in your\nfidelity, and leave the rest to some future and happier hour.\"\n\n\"Happier hour, Ellen!\" said her companion, with a bitter smile. \"Alas?\nthere is no happier hour than this in store for me. But it is happiness\nenough.\" And he chanted in a low, but mellifluous voice--\n\n        \"There's glory for the brave, Ellen,\n          And honour for the true;\n        There's woman's love for both, Ellen--\n          Such love's I find in you.\n\n        \"There's wealth into the Indies, Ellen,\n          There's riches in the sea--\n        But I would not give for these, Ellen,\n          One little hour with thee.\"\n\n\"A poor bargain, James,\" said Ellen, smiling and blushing at the same\ntime. \"You are a fair poet, but very indifferent chapman, if that be a\nspecimen of your bargain-making.\"\n\n\"It may be so, Ellen,\" replied her companion, also smiling; \"yet I am\nwilling to abide by the terms.\"\n\nAt this instant, a rustling noise was heard amongst the bushes close by\nwhere the lovers stood. The mysterious stranger started, hurriedly freed\nhis sword hilt from the folds of his plaids, muttering, as he did so--\n\n\"Ha! have they dogged me? They shall rue it. By heaven, they shall rue\nit!--I shall not be taken cheaply!\" And he half unsheathed his weapon,\nas he stood listening for a repetition of the sounds which had alarmed\nhim; but they were not repeated; and the uneasiness of the lovers\ngradually subsiding, they resumed their conversation. At the expiry of\nanother \"little hour,\" the lovers parted, and parted to meet no more--a\nmisfortune which they but little anticipated; for a solemn promise was\ngiven by both to meet in the same place and at the same hour on that day\nse'ennight.\n\nAs it may lead to the gratification of some curiosity on the part of the\nreader regarding the mysterious lover of Ellen Martin, we shall follow\nhis footsteps after leaving her in the manner just described. We may as\nwell, first, however, make the reader aware that these visits of the\nperson alluded to were by no means of very easy accomplishment. They\ncost him a journey, over mountain and moor, of upwards of a score of\nmiles; but he was light of foot, nimble as one of the deer of his native\nmountains, and such a feat to him was not one which he deemed much to\nboast of. If we follow him, then, as proposed, on the night in question,\nwe shall find him performing such a journey as we have alluded to, and\nfinally arriving at a deep but narrow glen, or ravine, far up amongst\nthe hills, and accessible only at one extremity, and even here of such\ndifficult entrance that none but those intimately acquainted with it\ncould effect it. This knowledge, however, the person whom we are now\naccompanying possessed. He ascended the natural barrier by which the\nravine was closed with a sure but rapid step; when, having gained its\nutmost height, and ere he descended on the opposite side, he extricated\na small bone or ivory whistle from the folds of his plaid, and drew from\nit a short, low, but piercing sound. Had he omitted this precaution, his\nlife would have been the forfeit; for, concealed amongst the copsewood,\nat a little height inside of the glen, lay a sentinel with loaded rifle,\nwhose duty it was instantly to fire on any one entering without such\nintimation previously given of his being a friend. Having sounded the\nwhistle, the person of whom we were speaking, without waiting for any\nresponse--for none was required--plunged down into the ravine below,\nbounding from crag to crag like a hunted chamois, and trusting for\nsecurity on each airy footing to a handful of the lichen which grew from\nthe precipitous wall of rock down which he was descending.\n\nHaving gained the bottom of the ravine, he pushed on towards its centre,\nwhen he again ascended, and now made for a clump of copsewood, which\ngrew at a considerable height on the side of the glen. This gained, he\ndashed the branches aside, and, in the next instant, plunged into a\ncavern whose dark mouth they concealed. Accompanying him thus far also,\nwe shall find the companion of our travels reaching a large and lofty\nchamber, in the centre of which burnt a huge fire of peats, built on a\ncircular piece of rude masonry, and around which are seated eight or ten\nmen. Here and there may be seen resting against the walls of the chamber\nthe large steel basket-hilts of broadswords, and, in different corners,\naccumulations of plaids and bonnets. Another object also will strike\nus. This is several immense sides of beef, and several carcases of\nmutton, hung up in various parts of the cave, all ready for the\noperations of the cook. Neither the character of the place, nor of those\nby whom it is occupied, can be mistaken. It is a den of Highland\nkatherans.\n\nThe reception by the latter of the person whom we have just intruded\nupon them, was very markedly cold and distant; and it was rendered more\nso by the contrast between his manner to them on his entrance, and\ntheirs to him. The former was cheerful and conciliatory, the latter\nsullen and repulsive.\n\n\"The eagle's eyry is not now in the cleft of the rock,\" said one. \"It is\nin the barn-yard.\"\n\n\"Ay, the deer has left the mountain, and gone to herd with the swine,\"\nsaid another.\n\n\"I understand you, friends,\" replied the intruder. \"You do not approve\nof these wanderings of mine. You think I am taming down into some such\nanimal as a Lowland shopkeeper or Wanshaw weaver--and perhaps it is so,\nin some measure; but I cannot help it. I acknowledge that the whole\nenergies of my nature--all the feelings of my heart--have undergone a\ntotal change, both in character and direction. I certainly am not the man\nI was. I feel it, and therefore feel that I am no longer fit to be your\nleader.\"\n\n\"Macpherson,\" said one of the men, \"you guess part of our feelings\ntowards you just now, but not all. There is in these feelings at least\nas much of fear for your safety in these excursions of yours, as\ndispleasure with your neglect of us and our common interest. You know\nthat we love you, Macpherson, for yours is the generous and open\nhand--yours is the hand that was never raised in anger against the\nunoffending or the helpless, and never closed in hard-heartedness\nagainst the needy.\"\n\n\"No, thank God,\" replied the person thus eulogized--\"much evil as I have\ndone, the shedding of blood is no part of it. Personal injury I have\nnever yet done to any man, nor to any man shall I ever do it, unless in\nself-defence. Neither can the poor ever say they asked from me in vain.\nBut, my friends,\" went on the speaker, \"this is but a melancholy strain.\nCome, let us have something of a livelier spirit, and let me see if I\ncannot introduce it.\" Having said this he went to a corner of the\ncavern, where lay a large wooden chest. This he opened, and drew out a\nviolin. It was a favourite instrument, and well could the person who now\nheld it, employ it. Seating himself on an elevated bench of stone, which\nhad been erected by the inmates of the cavern against the wall, he\ncommenced playing some cheerful airs, and with such effect that he very\nsoon dissipated the angry feelings of his auditors, and brought\nexpressions of benevolence and good will into these rugged countenances,\nthat had been but a little before lowering with gloom and discontent.\nThe skilful minstrel, perceiving the effect of his music--an effect,\nindeed, which former experience had taught him to anticipate with\nperfect certainty--now changed his strain, and launched into a series of\nthe most thrilling and pathetic airs, all of which he played with\nexquisite taste and expression.\n\nHad any one at this moment watched the fierce and weather-beaten faces\nof those who were listening in breathless silence to the delightful\ntones of his violin, they might have marked in the eye of more than one,\nan unbidden tear, and on all an expression of deep sympathy with the\nspirit of the music. At length the musician ceased; but it was some time\nbefore the spell which he had thrown over his auditors was broken. For\nsome seconds, there was not a word or a movement amongst them--all\ncontinuing to remain in the fixed and pensive attitude in which the\nmelancholy strains had bound them.\n\nHaving brought his performances to a close, the musician, half in\nearnest and half playfully, hugged his violin, as if exulting in its\npower, to his bosom, embraced it as if it had been a living thing, and\nhurried with it to the chest from which he had originally taken it, and\nthere again carefully deposited it. His reception on now returning to\nthe party whom he had just been entertaining with his music, was very\ndifferent from what it had been on his first entrance. Their better and\nkindlier feelings had been touched by his strains--a sympathetic chord\nin each bosom had been struck; and the effects were sufficiently visible\nin the altered manner of those who were thus affected towards him whose\nskill had produced the change. The transition of the feelings of\nadmiration was natural and easy from the music to the musician; and\nlooks and words of kindness and forgiveness now greeted the mountain\nOrpheus, who took his place among the rest, to share in some refreshment\nwhich had been, in the meantime, in preparation.\n\nLeaving the katherans employed in discussing this repast, which\nconsisted simply of roasted kid, we will proceed to divulge the whole of\nthat secret regarding the chief personage of our tale, which we have\nhitherto so carefully kept. This personage, then, was no other than the\ncelebrated freebooter, Macpherson. This man, as is well known, was the\nillegitimate son of a gentleman of family and property in\nInverness-shire, by a woman of the gipsy race. He was brought up at his\nfather's house; but, on the death of the latter, was claimed and carried\naway by his mother; when, joining the wandering tribe to which she\nbelonged, he acquired their habits, and finally became the character\nwhich we have represented him--namely, a leader of a band of katherans.\nHe was a person of singular talents and accomplishments, of uncommonly\nhandsome form and feature, of great strength, yet, though of a lawless\nprofession, of kind and compassionate disposition. Such was the hero of\nour tale--such the lover of Ellen Martin, although little did that poor\ngirl yet know how unhappily her affections had been placed.\n\nHaving nothing whatever to do with the proceedings of Macpherson and his\nband during the interval between the parting of the former with Ellen\nand the period of the proposed meeting--these having but little interest\nin themselves, and being in no way connected with our story--we will at\nonce pass this space of time, and bring up our narrative to the day on\nwhich Macpherson was again to set out for the trysting place. His motive\nand feelings in this matter he confided only to one friend out of all\nhis comrades. This man, whose name was Eneas Chisholm, was the son of\nthe person at whose house the reader will recollect the party, of which\nEllen was one, was so hospitably entertained on the night they had lost\ntheir way on the mountains. It was he, also, who had eulogized the\ngenerosity and clemency of Macpherson, as we a short while since\nrecorded. He was a young man, and, both in manner and disposition, much\nlike Macpherson himself. He possessed all his warmth and sincerity of\nheart, katheran as he was; but was greatly his inferior in talents and\nin personal appearance. Taking an opportunity when none else were near,\nMacpherson informed this person that he intended on that evening\nrepeating his visit to Banff.\n\n\"It is madness, Macpherson,\" said Eneas--\"downright madness. You surely\ndo not calculate on the risk you run, in these desperate adventures of\nyours, of falling into the hands of the sheriff. You are well known, and\nit is next to a miracle that you escape.\"\n\n\"No danger, Eneas, none at all man,\" replied Macpherson, in the\nconfidence of his own prowess, and not a little perhaps, in that of his\nagility. \"I have done more daring things in my day on far less\ninducement; and,\" he added, proudly, \"give me fair play, Eneas, my sword\nin my hand, and not any six men in Banff will take James Macpherson\nalive.\"\n\n\"But they may take him dead, though, Macpherson,\" said Eneas, \"and you\ncan hardly call that escaping, I think.\"\n\n    \"Cheer up, cheer up my bonny, bonny May\n      Oh, why that look of sorrow?\n    He's wise that enjoys the passing hour--\n      He's a fool that thinks of the morrow!\"\n\nexclaimed Macpherson, slapping his friend jocosely on the shoulder. \"Why\nman, Ellen Martin I must see, and Ellen Martin I will see, let the risk\nbe what it may--ay, although there were a halter dangling on every tree\nbetween this and Banff, and every noose were gaping for me.\"\n\n\"Then, at least, allow three or four of us to accompany you, Macpherson,\nin case of accidents,\" said Eneas.\n\n\"No, no; not one, Eneas,\" replied Macpherson--\"no life shall be perilled\nin this cause but my own. If I am unfortunate, I shall be so alone. I\nalone must pay the penalty of my own rashness and imprudence. I would\nnot put a dog's life in jeopardy, let alone yours, in such a matter as\nthis. But I'll tell you what,\" he added: \"I'll exact a promise from you,\nEneas.\"\n\n\"What is that?\" said the latter.\n\n\"It is,\" replied Macpherson, \"that, if I am taken, and taken alive, you\nwill do what you can to have my violin conveyed to me to whatever place\nof confinement I may be carried.\"\n\n\"It is an odd fancy,\" said Chisholm, smiling; \"but I promise you it\nshall be done, since you desire it.\"\n\n\"I do,\" replied Macpherson. And here the conversation between him and\nhis friend terminated; and, shortly after, the former having carefully\narmed himself, set out alone on his perilous journey. The sun, when he\nleft the glen, had already sank far down into the west; while his\nslanting rays were yet beating with full fervour and intensity on those\nsides of the rocks and hills that looked towards the setting luminary,\ntheir opposite fronts were involved in a rapidly deepening shade, and\nthe valleys were beginning to be darkened with a premature twilight. But\nMacpherson had calculated his time and distance accurately. Three hours\nof such walking as his would bring him to the goal he aimed at, and then\nthe gloaming would be on the verge of darkness. And it was so, in each\nand all of these particulars. He arrived at the trysting-place precisely\nat the time and in the circumstances he desired. On reaching the\nappointed spot, Ellen was not yet there. Neither did he expect she\nshould; but he felt assured that she would very soon appear. Under this\nconviction, he seated himself on a small green bank, closely surrounded\nwith thick shrubbery or copsewood, and, thus situated, awaited her\narrival.\n\nLeaving Macpherson thus disposed of for a time, we shall advert to a\ncircumstance of which he was but little aware, although it was one which\ndeeply, fatally concerned him. He had been seen and recognised. The\npersons--for there were two--who made the discovery, dogged the\nill-starred freebooter to the place of his appointment with Ellen,\nwhere, seeing him stop, one of them hurried away to communicate the\nimportant intelligence to the sheriff, while the other remained to keep\nwatch on the motions of the unsuspecting outlaw. On the former's being\nintroduced to the presence of the dreaded officer just named--\n\n\"What would you give, Mr. Sheriff,\" he said, \"to know where Macpherson\nthe freebooter is at this moment?\"\n\n\"Why, not much, man,\" replied the sheriff, \"unless he were so situated\nas to render it probable that I could take him. I have known where he\nwas myself a hundred times, but dared not touch him.\"\n\n\"But I mean as you say--I mean in a situation where he may be easily\ntaken,\" rejoined the man. \"I know where he is at this instant, and all\nalone too--not one with him.\"\n\n\"You do!\" exclaimed the Sheriff, with great animation for the capture of\nMacpherson had been long one of the most anxious wishes of his heart.\n\"Where, where is he, man?\" he added, impatiently.\n\n\"Let me have half-a-dozen well-armed men with me,\" replied his\ninformant, \"and for fifty merks I will make him your prisoner.\"\n\n\"Done!\" said the Sheriff, exultingly--\"fifty merks shall be yours, of\nwell and truly told money, the instant you put Macpherson into my power;\nand, instead of half-a-dozen men, you shall have a whole dozen, and I\nmyself will accompany you. Is he far distant?\"\n\n\"Not exceeding a mile.\"\n\n\"So much the better--so much the better,\" said the Sheriff, rubbing his\nhands with glee. \"If we take him, a worthier deed has not been done in\nScotland this many a day. It were worth a thousand merks a-year to the\nshire of Banff alone.\"\n\nIn less than fifteen minutes after this conversation had passed, a\nsudden bustle might have been seen about the old town-house of Banff.\nThis was occasioned by a number of men, amongst whom was the sheriff,\nhurriedly ransacking the town armoury for such warlike weapons as it\ncontained, each choosing and arming himself with the best he could find.\nThis choice, however, was neither very extensive nor varied; the stock,\nchiefly consisting of some rusty Lochaber axes, and a few equally rusty\nhalberds and broadswords, kept for the array of the civic guard on\ngreat occasions--sometimes of love and sometimes of war.\n\nThe party having all now armed themselves, were drawn up in front of the\ntown-house, when the sheriff, placing himself at their head, gave the\nword to march; and the whole moved off under the guidance of the person\nwhose intelligence had been the cause of their turning out. After they\nhad proceeded about a mile, the latter called a halt of the party, and\ntaking the sheriff two or three paces in advance, pointed out to him the\nspot in which he had left Macpherson, and where, as they were informed\nby the man who had remained to watch his motions, and who at this moment\ncame up to them, he still was.\n\nA consultation was now held as to the best mode of proceeding to the\ncapture of the dreaded outlaw--a feat by no means considered either a\nsafe or an easy one by those by whom it was now contemplated; for all\nwere aware of his prowess, and of the desperate courage for which he was\ndistinguished.\n\nMacpherson, in the meantime, wholly unconscious of his danger, was still\nquietly seated on the small green bank where we left him. Ellen had not\nyet appeared, and he was listlessly employed in drawing figures on the\nground with the point of his scabbard, when he was suddenly startled by\na similar noise amongst the bushes with that which had alarmed him on a\nformer occasion. He sprung to his feet, drew a pistol from his belt with\nhis left hand, and his sword from its sheath with his right, and, thus\nprepared, awaited the result of the motion, which he now saw as well as\nheard. The rustling increased, the foliage rapidly opened in a line\napproaching him, and, in an instant afterwards, his friend, Eneas\nChisholm, stood before the astonished freebooter.\n\n\"Eneas!\" he exclaimed, under breath, but in a tone of great surprise.\n\n\"Hush, hush!\" said Eneas, seizing his friend by the arm--\"not a word. In\nfive minutes you will be surrounded. You have been recognised and\ndogged. There are a dozen of the sheriff's men within five hundred yards\nof you, planning your capture. Let us be off--off instantly,\nMacpherson,\" he continued, urging the latter onwards. \"If we can gain\nthe town, we may escape. I know a place of concealment there.\"\n\n\"Nay, but Ellen--Ellen, Eneas!\" said Macpherson, hanging backwards, and\nresisting the efforts of his friend to drag him away.\n\n\"Fool, fool, man!\" said Eneas, passionately, and still urging him\nforcibly along. \"An instant's delay, and both you and I are in the hands\nof our deadliest enemies.\"\n\n\"We can fight, Eneas.\"\n\n\"Ten times a fool!\" exclaimed the latter, with increasing anger. \"Fight\na dozen men, all as well armed as ourselves!--and observe, besides,\" he\nadded, \"your obstinacy will sacrifice me as well as yourself.\"\n\n\"Ay, there you have me,\" replied Macpherson. \"That shall not be--God\nforbid!\" And he hurried along with his friend.\n\nAt this instant, a shrill whistle was heard from the copsewood.\n\n\"They are on us,\" exclaimed Eneas, as, with one bound, he cleared a five\nfeet wall that intervened between them and the highway that led to the\ntown of Banff.\n\nHe was instantly followed by Macpherson, who, having thrown his sword\nover before him, cleared the impediment with yet greater ease. Having\ngained the road, the two outlaws hurried towards the town. No pursuer\nhad yet appeared; and it seemed as if they had already effected their\nescape. In this fancied security, the fugitives slackened their pace,\nthat they might not incur the risk which would attach to a suspicious\nhaste. During all this time, not a word more than we have recorded had\npassed between them. They had pursued their way in silence, and were\nthus just entering the town, when Macpherson suddenly felt himself\nseized by both arms from behind. Their route had been marked, and they\nwere intercepted.\n\nMacpherson, exerting his great personal strength, with one powerful\neffort freed himself from the grasp of his assailants--for there were\ntwo--flinging both, at the same instant, to the ground by a sudden and\nviolent extension of his arms. Having thus set himself at liberty, he\nhastily drew his sword, and stood upon the defensive. His friend, Eneas,\nalso drew, when they found themselves opposed to at least a dozen--the\ntwo who had sprung on Macpherson, being now joined by their comrades.\nUndaunted by the number of their enemies, and aware of what would be\ntheir fate if taken, the intrepid outlaws determined on a desperate\nresistance. Macpherson, with his other accomplishments, was an admirable\nswordsman, and he felt that he had not much to fear from the unskilled\nrabble to whom he was opposed, so long as he could keep them from\nclosing with him--and in this conviction he coolly awaited their onset.\nIt was some minutes before this took place; for their opponents, awed by\ntheir fierce and determined bearing, hung back. At length, however, they\nseemed to be gathering courage by degrees, as they came gradually moving\non, till they were within two or three paces of Macpherson and his\ncomrade, when two of the boldest of them made a sudden rush on the\nformer, with the view of rendering his weapon useless, by closing on\nhim; but the attempt was fatal to the assailants. With a fierce shout of\ndefiance and determination, Macpherson struck down the foremost, with a\nblow that split his head to the chin, while his comrade despatched the\nother by running him through the body. Both the outlaws, on striking,\nleapt back a pace or two, so as to maintain the necessary distance\nbetween them and their enemies, who were still pressing on. But,\npanic-stricken by this, the first results of the encounter, they now\npaused, and entered into a hasty consultation, which ended in the\nresolution of their attacking simultaneously, and in a body, and thus,\nby mere force, bearing down their opponents. Acting on this resolution,\nthe whole rushed forward, with loud shouts, when a desperate conflict\ntook place. For a long time, both Macpherson and his friend not only\nwarded off the numerous cuts and thrusts that were made at them, but\nbrought down several of their assailants, one after the other; and the\nissue of the contest seemed very doubtful, great as the odds were\nagainst them.\n\nIn the meantime, however, Macpherson, though fighting desperately, was\ncompelled to yield ground, to avoid being closed upon and surrounded;\nfor the pressure of the crowd was now greatly increased by an accession\nof town's people, who, having heard the din of the conflict, hastened to\nthe scene to witness it, and to assist in the capture of the\nfreebooters. Finding himself in danger of being assailed from behind, he\nrushed to one side of the street, and, placing his back to the wall of a\nhouse, flourished his sword, and defied the whole host of enemies who\npressed upon him; and out of that whole host there was not one who would\ncome within reach of the courageous outlaw thus desperately at bay. For\nfully a quarter of an hour he kept a circle of several yards clear\naround him, and having in this interval gained breath, it seemed\nextremely doubtful that he should be captured at all; for it was\npossible that, by a desperate effort, he might cut his way through his\nassailants and effect his escape. In truth, seeing the timidity of his\nenemies from the circumstance of none of them daring to approach him,\nsome such proceeding he now actually contemplated. But a counter\nmeasure was at this moment in operation, which prevented its execution,\nand placed the outlaw in the hands of his enemies.\n\nA person from the crowd entered the house, against the wall of which\nMacpherson was standing, by a back door, and proceeded to an apartment,\none of whose windows was immediately above and within a few feet of him.\nOpening this window cautiously, this person having previously provided\nhimself with a large heavy Scotch blanket, threw it, as broadly extended\nas possible, over the outlaw, thus blinding him and disabling him from\nusing his weapon. The crowd beneath--marking the proceeding which\nMacpherson, from his position, could not--watching the moment when the\nblanket descended, rushed in upon him, threw him to the ground,\ndisarmed, and secured him; his friend, Eneas, who had been early\nseparated from him in the melee, and who had not attracted, during any\nperiod of the conflict, so much of the attention of their common\nenemies, having contrived, previous to this, to effect his escape.\n\nOn being captured, he was bound, conveyed to prison, and a strong guard\nplaced over him. On the following day, an elderly woman, dressed in the\nantique garb of her country--the Highlands--was seen walking up and down\nin front of the jail in which Macpherson was confined, and ever and anon\ncasting a look of anxious inquiry towards the building. A nearer view of\nthis person discovered that her eyes were red with weeping; but all her\ntears had been already shed, and the first excess of grief had passed\naway; for both her look and manner, though still expressive of deep\nsorrow, were grave, staid, and composed--nay, even stern. Occasionally,\nhowever, she might be seen, as she stood gazing on the prison-house of\nthe unfortunate outlaw, rocking to and fro with that slow and silent\nmotion so expressive of the intensity of mental suffering.\nOccasionally, too, a low murmuring of heart-rending anguish might be\nheard issuing from her thin parched lips. But she held communion with no\none, and seemed heedless of the passers by. At length she crossed the\nstreet, and having knocked at the massive and well-studded outer-door of\nthe prison, inquired if she might see the principal jailor. He was\nbrought to her. On his appearing--\n\n\"The deer of the mountain,\" said his strange visiter, \"is in the toils\nof the hunter. Oh! black and dismal day that that proud and gallant\nspirit that was wont to roam so wild and so free should be cooped up\nwithin the four stone walls of a loathsome dungeon--that those swift and\nmanly limbs should be fettered with iron--and that the sword should be\ndenied to that strong arm which was once so ready to defend the\ndefenceless!\"\n\n\"What mean ye, honest woman?\" said the jailor, who was a good deal\npuzzled to discover a meaning in this address.\n\n\"What mean I?\" exclaimed his visitor, sternly. \"Do not I mean that the\nbrave is the captive of the coward--that the strong has fallen before\nthe weak--that the daring and fearless has been circumvented by the\ntimid and the cunning? Do not I mean this?--and is it not true? Is not\nJames Macpherson a prisoner within these walls, and are not you his\nkeeper?\"\n\n\"It is so,\" replied the astonished functionary.\n\n\"I know it,\" said his visitor. \"Then will you convey this to him?\" she\nsaid, bringing out a violin from beneath her plaid.\n\nThe jailor looked in amazement, first at the woman, and then at the\ninstrument.\n\n\"What!\" he at length said, \"take a fiddle to a man who's going to be\nhanged! That is ridiculous.\"\n\n\"It is his wish,\" said the former, briefly. \"The wish of a dying man.\nWill you convey it to him?\"\n\n\"Oh, if it be his wish, he shall surely have it,\" said the jailor; \"but\nit is the oddest wish I ever heard.\"\n\n\"You _will_ convey it to him, then?\" replied the stranger, with the same\nsententious brevity as before.\n\n\"I will,\" was the rejoinder.\n\nThe woman curtsied and withdrew in the same cold, stern, and formal\nmanner she had maintained throughout the interview. On her departure,\nthe jailor proceeded to Macpherson's dungeon with the extraordinary\ncommission with which he had been charged. The latter, on seeing the\nwell-known instrument, snatched it eagerly and delightedly from its\nbearer, exclaiming--\"Welcome, welcome! thou dear companion of better\ndays! thou solacer of many a heavy care! thou delight of many a happy\nhour! Faithful Eneas!\" And with the wild, strange, and romantic\nrecklessness of his nature, he immediately began to play in the sweetest\ntones imaginable--tones which seemed to have acquired additional pathos\nfrom the circumstances of the performer--some of the melancholy airs of\nhis native land; and from that hour till the hour of the minstrel's\ndoom, these strains were almost constantly heard pouring through the\nsmall grated window of his dungeon. But they were soon to cease for\never. Macpherson was, in a few days afterwards, brought to trial, and\ncondemned to be hanged at the cross of Banff.\n\nOn the day on which he suffered the last penalty of the law, he\nrequested the jailor to send some one with his violin to him to the\nplace of execution. The request was complied with. The instrument was\nput into his hands as he stood at the foot of the gallows, when he\nplayed over the melancholy air known by the name of \"Macpherson's\nLament.\" It had been composed by himself while in prison. On concluding\nthe pathetic strain, he grasped his violin by the neck, dashed it to\npieces against the gallows, and flung the fragments into the grave\nprepared for himself at the foot of the gibbet. In a few minutes after,\nthat grave was occupied by all that remained of Macpherson the\nFreebooter.\n\nWe have now, we conceive, to gratify the reader's curiosity on one point\nonly--and this is accomplished by adverting to Ellen Martin. The unhappy\ngirl ultimately ascertained, though not till long after his execution,\nwho her mysterious lover was; but neither the history of her attachment\nto him, nor her intimacy with him, was ever known to any one besides his\nfriend Eneas; for to none other had he ever named her. Nor, during his\nconfinement, or at any period after his capture, had he ever made the\nslightest allusion to her. This, indeed, from motives of delicacy\ntowards her, he had studiously and carefully avoided.\n\nOn Ellen, the effect of a grief--for the discovery of her lover's real\ncharacter had not been able to efface the impressions which his handsome\nperson and gentle manners had made upon her young heart--the effect, we\nsay, of a grief which she durst not avow, was that of inspiring a\nsettled melancholy, and determining her on a life of celibacy. In the\ngrave of Macpherson was buried the object of her first love, and she\nnever knew another.\n\n\n\n\nTHE MONKS OF DRYBURGH.\n\n\nThese worthies were celebrated for \"guid kail;\" but they were no less\nremarkable for their ingenuity in directing the wealth of their\nneighbours and dependents into their own coffers. In common with others\nof their profession, they assailed the deathbeds of the wealthy, and\npersuaded the dying sinner that he had no chance of heaven unless he\ncame handsomely down for their holy brotherhood before his departure.\n\nIt was for such a purpose as this that two of the brethren of Dryburgh\nset out, one day, in great haste, to visit the old Laird of Meldrum,\nwho, they had been informed, was suddenly brought to the point of death;\nand the information was but too true--for the old man had not only\narrived at the point of death, but had passed it, and that ere they\ncame. In other words, the laird was dead when they arrived, and their\nservices, of course, no longer required.\n\nThis was a dreadful disappointment to the holy men; for they had\nreckoned on making an excellent thing of the job, as the laird had been\nlong in their eye, and had been carefully trained up for the _finale_ of\na handsome bequest.\n\nIt was with long faces, therefore, and woful looks, that the monks\nreturned to their monastery, and reported the unlucky accident of the\nlaird's having slipped away before they had had time to make anything of\nhim in his last moments. The disappointment was felt by all to be a\ngrievous one, for the laird had been confidently reckoned upon as sure\ngame. While in this state of mortification, a bright idea occurred to\none of the brethren, and he mentioned it to the rest, by whom it was\nhighly approved of.\n\nThis idea was to conceal the laird's death for a time; to remove his\nbody out of the way, and to procure some one to occupy his bed, and pass\nfor the laird in a dying state: then to procure a notary and witnesses,\nhaving previously instructed the laird's representative how to conduct\nhimself--that is, to bequeath all his property to the monastery: this\ndone, the living man to be secretly conveyed away, the dead one restored\nto his place again, and his death publicly announced.\n\nThis ingenious scheme of the monk met with universal approbation, and it\nwas determined that it should be instantly acted upon.\n\nFortunately, so far, for the monks, there was a poor man, a small farmer\nin the neighbourhood, of the name of Thomas Dickson, who bore a\nsingularly strong personal resemblance to the deceased--a circumstance\nwhich at once pointed him out as the fittest person to act the required\npart. This person was, accordingly, immediately waited upon, the matter\nexplained to him, and a handsome gratuity offered him for his services.\n\n\"A bargain be't,\" said Thomas, when the terms were proposed to him;\n\"never ye fear me. If I dinna mak a guid job o't, blame me. I kent the\nlaird weel, and can come as near him in speech as I'm said to do in\nperson.\"\n\nThe monks, satisfied with Thomas's assurances of fidelity, proceeded\nwith their design; and, when everything was prepared--the laird's body\nremoved out of the way, Thomas extended on his bed, and the curtains\nclosely drawn round him--they introduced the notary, to take down the\nold man's testament (having previously intimated to the former that he\nwas required by the latter for that purpose), and four witnesses to\nattest the facts that were about to be exhibited. Everything being in\nreadiness--the lawyer with pen in hand, and the witnesses in the\nattitude of profound attention--one of the monks intimated to the dying\nman that he might now proceed to dictate his will.\n\n\"Very well,\" replied the latter, in a feeble, tremulous tone. \"Hear me,\nthen, good folks a'. I bequeath to honest Tammas Dickson, wham I hae\nlang respeckit for his worth, and pitied for his straits, the hail o' my\nmovable guids and lyin' money. Put doon that.\" And down _that_\naccordingly went. But if the house had flown into the air with them, or\nthe ghosts of their great-grandfathers had appeared before them, the\nmonks could not have expressed more amazement or consternation than they\ndid, at finding themselves thus so fairly outwitted by the superior\ngenius of the canny farmer. They dared not, however, breathe a word of\nremonstrance, nor take the smallest notice of the trick that was about\nbeing played them; for their own character was at stake in the\ntransaction, and the least intimation of their design on the laird's\nproperty would have exposed them to public infamy--and this Thomas well\nknew. It was in vain, therefore, that they edged round towards the\nbed--concealing, however, their movements from those present--and\nsqueezed and pinched the dying laird. He was not to be so driven from\nhis purpose. On he went, bequeathing first one thing and then another to\nhis honest friend Thomas Dickson, till Thomas was fairly put in\npossession of everything the laird had worth bequeathing. Some trifles,\nindeed, he had the prudence and discretion to bestow upon the monks of\nDryburgh; but trifles they were, truly, when compared to the valuable\nlegacy he left to himself.\n\nWhen the dying laird had disposed of everything he had, the scene\nclosed. The discomfited monks returned to their monastery--the notary\nand the witnesses departed--and Thomas Dickson, in due time, stepped\ninto a comfortable living, and defied the monks of Dryburgh, on the\nperil of their good name, even to dare to hint how he had come by it.\n\n\nEND OF VOL. IV\n\n\n\n\n\n<pre id=\"pg-footer\">","title":"Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland, Volume 04","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":92474}