{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_34145/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_34145","id":"gutenberg_34145","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/34145","summary":null,"tags":["Category: British Literature","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. V.\n\nLONDON:\n\nWALTER SCOTT, 14 PATERNOSTER SQUARE\n\nAND NEWCASTLE-UPON-TYNE.\n\n1885.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS.\n\n\nBILL STANLEY; OR, A SAILOR'S STORY, _(JOHN MACKAY WILSON)_\n\nTHE SURGEON'S TALES, _(ALEXANDER LEIGHTON_)\n\n    THE CONSCIENCE STRICKEN\n\nRATTLING, ROARING WILLIE, _(ALEXANDER CAMPBELL)_\n\nBILL WHYTE, _(HUGH MILLER)_\n\nTHE PROFESSOR'S TALES, _(PROFESSOR THOMAS GILLESPIE)_\n\n    THE LAST OF THE PEDLARS\n\nDUNCAN SCHULEBRED'S VISION OF JUDGMENT, _(ALEX. LEIGHTON)_\n\nARCHY ARMSTRONG, _(JOHN MACKAY WILSON)_\n\nTHE DOUBLE-BEDDED ROOM, _(WALTER LOGAN)_\n\nTHE HIGHLAND BOY, _(ALEXANDER CAMPBELL)_\n\nMAJOR WEIR'S COACH, _(JOHN HOWELL)_\n\nTHE DIVINITY STUDENT, _(DAVID M. MOIR, \"DELTA\")_\n\n\n\n\nWILSON'S TALES OF THE BORDERS, AND OF SCOTLAND.\n\n\n\n\nBILL STANLEY; OR, A SAILOR'S STORY.\n\n\nReader, if thou hast never visited the Fern Isles, but intendest to\nvisit them, thou hast a pleasure in reserve--a positive, downright,\nprofitable pleasure--profitable as regards the health of the body, for a\ntrip upon the sea makes the blood feel ten years younger, and dance in\nthe veins as merrily as the waves around us; and profitable also to the\nmind, by filling it with fresh objects for wonder and contemplation; and\nit is a fact very generally overlooked, that the poor jaded mind stands\nas much in need of new objects to work upon, as its plebeian neighbour,\nthe body, stands in need of rest or change of diet. It is a matter of\nsmall consequence, whether you go in a yacht or in a steamer; in the\nformer you will have as much pleasure, in the latter more punctuality.\nBut it is a matter of much consequence what sort of company you have on\nboard--in a word, what materials your fellow-voyagers are made of. If\nthey be all your exceedingly good-natured sort of people--people bowed\ndown with politeness and a desire to please--you won't be half an hour\nat sea till you find them dead as uncorked small beer that has stood an\nhour in the sun, or insipid as milk and water. I had as lief dine upon\ndried veal as be mewed up a day with such society. If you wish to\nrelish the company, and to see character developed, be careful to have\nit sprinkled with the salt, the pepper, and the mustard of human\ndispositions; as for the vinegar, even a drop of that would be too much.\nSickness might improve your health for the future, but would impair your\npleasure for the present; and, in truth, seasickness appears to be as\npale, ghostly, and uncomfortable a companion as a man may meet withal.\nBut, if the day be fine, and the breeze moderate, there is but little\nchance of your being sick. At any rate, you will find about half a pound\nof well-boiled ham, just as the vessel kisses the salt water, an\nexcellent preventive; and half the pleasure of a sea trip lies in the\nrelish, the _salt_, which it gives to the homeliest morsel.\n\nWhen the Ferns are first seen, what appeared but two, or, at most, three\nislands, are now found to be a cluster of sixteen or twenty--the\nocean-homes of ten thousand times ten thousand sea-fowls; which now may\nbe seen rising in myriads, blackening the air and covering the surface\nof the islands, as if a thunder-cloud hung over them--anon their snowy\nwings flash in the sunbeams, countless specks of light begem the seeming\ncloud, and flickering for a moment, assume the appearance of a\nmagnificent rainbow instinct with motion,--and, again, as if turning\nfrom the flashing of their own beautiful plumage, settle like darkness\non the rocks. To appreciate the striking effect of these islands, it is\nnecessary to sail round them, as well as to land upon them. Each appears\nto be surrounded by a pier or bulwark of nature's masonry. What is\ntermed the Pinnacle Island, is the most impressive. We have been\ninformed that it bears a strong resemblance to St. Helena--the grave of\nEurope's conqueror. The pinnacles are a mass of perpendicular rocks,\nrepresenting towers, battlements, and fortifications, apparently as\nperfect to the eye as if formed by the hands of man, but that their\nterrible strength seems to frown in mockery on his puny efforts. They,\nalone, are worth visiting again and again. They make man feel his own\ninsignificance, and the power of the Omnipotent voice that called into\nexistence the mighty ocean and the wonders of its bosom. Burns, on\nvisiting a place in the Highlands, said it was \"enough to make a\nblockhead a poet;\" and we say that the man who could visit the Fern\nIsles without feeling the influence of poetry within him, has a head as\nstupid as the sea-fowl that inhabit them, and an imagination as\nimpenetrable as the rocks that compose the pinnacles.\n\nAbout three years ago, a mixed party left Newcastle, in a steamer, on a\npleasure excursion to the islands. Amongst the company, there was a man\nof a weather-beaten but happy and intelligent countenance, whose age\nseemed to be at least sixty, and whose general appearance and manners\nindicated that he was an old seaman, and perhaps had been a purser or a\nsailing-master in the navy, or the commander of a merchantman, who had\nmade enough to enable him to cast anchor ashore, in peace, quiet, and\nplenty, for the remainder of his days. His shrewdness, his knowledge,\nand his humour, soon rendered him a favourite with the company.\n\nOn arriving at the islands, the party went on shore; and, dividing\nthemselves into groups, sat down, and spread out their provisions on the\nrocks; about a dozen prevailed upon the old sailor to accompany them,\nand to be their messmate. After dinner, they began to sing, and the old\ntar was called upon for a song.\n\n\"Gentlemen,\" said he, \"I never could raise a single stave in my life;\nbut, if it's all one to you, I will spin you a sailor's yarn.\"\n\n\"Agreed,\" cried they--\"all! all!\"\n\n\"Well,\" began the old seaman, \"it was a year or two before the short\npeace of Amiens, that two young seamen were sitting in a public-house\nin North Shields, which I shall please to speak of as the sign of the\nOld Ship; and its landlord I shall call Mr. Danvers. The name of the one\nsailor was William Stanley, the other Jack Jenkins. Jack was but a plain\nfellow, though no lubber; but Bill was a glorious young fellow--the\nadmiration of everybody; though only the son of a poor laundress, who\nwrought hard to bring him up, while a boy, he had contrived to get\nknowledge and book-learning enough to have been made commodore of a\ncollege. I may here tell you, too, that old Danvers had a daughter\ncalled Mary--one of the best and prettiest girls on all Tyneside. She\nwas Bill's consort on all occasions; and they were true to each other as\na needle is to the Pole. Jack and he were friends and shipmates; and\nbeing sitting together--\n\n\"'I say Bill,' said his comrade, 'as we are to sail upon a long voyage\nto-morrow, what say you for a run up to Newcastle to the theatre\nto-night? You shall take Polly Danvers, and I shall take my old woman.'\"\nFor Jack was married.\n\n\"'It is of no use thinking of it,' answered he; 'I am brought up here as\nthough it were my last mooring.'\n\n\"'Whew! whew!' whistled the other--'with pretty Polly for a chain cable.\nBut I don't ask you to part company with each other. So let us make\nready and start.'\n\n\"'No,' added Stanley; 'the best play and the best actors in the world,\nwould be to me to-night like a land-lubber sitting smiling and piping\nupon a flute on the sea-banks, while I was being dashed to pieces by the\nbreakers under his feet.\n\n\"'What are you drifting at, Bill?' said Jenkins; 'your upper works seem\nto have hoisted a moon-raker.'\n\n\"'I am unhappy, Jack,' said he, earnestly, 'and the cause presses like\nlead upon my heart. It throbs like fire within my forehead. For more\nthan twenty years I have been tossed about as a helmless vessel,\nwithout compass or reckoning. It is hard, Jack, that I can't mention my\nmother's name, but the blush upon my cheek must dry up the tear that\nfalls for her memory. Three months ago, as you know, I came home, with\nthe earnings of a two years' voyage in my pocket, and I found----O\nshipmate! when I expected to have flung my savings into my mother's lap,\nI found her dying in a miserable garret, with scarce a blanket to cover\nher! She had been long ill; and the rich old rascal called Wates, (who\ncame to this part of the country some years ago), seized all but the\nstraw on which she lay, for his rent. I thought my heart had burst as I\nflung myself upon the ground by her side. A mist came over my eyes. I\nneither knew what I saw nor heard. I felt her cold arms clinging round\nmy neck. She spoke--she told me _my father's name_! Comrade! it was the\nfirst time I had heard it! The word father pierced my heart like a\ndagger, and, in my agony, I knew not what she said. I started, I\nentreated her to repeat it again! But my mother was silent!--she was\ndead!--the arms of a corpse were fastened round my neck! With the breath\nwhich uttered the name she had not spoken for more than twenty years,\nher spirit fled--and I--I cannot remember it.'\n\n\"'Vast there, Bill!' cried Jack, wiping a tear from his eyes; 'that is\ntragedy enough without going to the play for it. But, for the sake of\nMary Danvers, the prettiest girl on Tyneside (not even excepting my old\nwoman), cheer up, my lad!'\n\n\"'If that should cheer me,' said he, 'I believe it is the principal\ncause why I am sad to-day.'\n\n\"'Why, then,' said Jack, 'don't you take an example by me, and run your\nfrigate to church at once? You will find a plain gold ring is a precious\nfast anchor.'\n\n\"'But what,' replied Stanley, 'if the old commodore, her father, won't\nallow me to take her in tow?'\n\n\"'He won't!' cried Jenkins--that's a goodun! Old dad Danvers won't allow\nyou to splice with her! What's his reason? I'm sure he can't say but you\nare as sober as the chief judge of the Admiralty.\n\n\"'To-night,' replied Stanley, in a tone of agitation, 'he found her in\nmy company, and called, or rather dragged her away: and, as they went, I\nheard him upbraid her bitterly, and ask if the meanness of her spirit\nwould permit her to throw herself away upon----upon'----William became\nmore agitated, the words he had to utter seemed to stick in his throat;\nand his friend Jenkins exclaimed--'Upon a better man than ever he was in\nhis life! But what did he say, Bill--_upon_ what was she going to throw\nherself away?'\n\n\"'Upon a beggar's nameless _bastard_! he said,' groaned poor Stanley,\nstriking his hand upon his brow.\n\n\"'What d'ye say?'cried Jenkins, clenching his fist; 'had the old\nfellow's ribs not been removed off the first letter, this hand had\nshivered them! Flesh and blood, Stanley, how did ye endure it?'\n\n\"'I started to my feet,' said he; 'my teeth grated together; but I heard\nher gentle voice reproving him for the word, and it fell upon my heart\nlike the moon upon the sea, Jack, after a storm. My hand fell by my\nside. He is _her_ father, thought I; and, for the first time in his\nlife, Will Stanley brooked an affront.'\n\n\"Just as he was speaking, a gentle tap came to the door, 'Good night,\nJack,' added he; 'I understand the signal, the old cruiser is off the\ncoast, and now for the smuggling trade.'\n\n\"I may tell you that the reason why old Danvers was so averse to his\ndaughter keeping company with Bill Stanley was, that there was a\nhypocritical middle-aged villain, called Squire Wates (the same that\nBill spoke of as having sold off his mother, and left her to die upon\nstraw), I hate the very name of the old rascal! Well, you see, this\nsame Squire Wates that I am telling you of, came from abroad somewhere,\nand bought a vast deal of property about Shields. He was said to be as\nrich as an Exchange Jew--and perhaps he was. He had cast an eye upon\nMary Danvers, and the grey-haired rascal sought, through the agency of\nhis paltry yellow dross, to accomplish the destruction of the innocent\nand beautiful creature; and thinking that Will Stanley was an obstacle\nto the accomplishment of his purpose, he determined to have him removed.\nHe also persuaded old Danvers that he wished to make his daughter his\nwife. Conscience!--after half drowning such a hoary-headed knave, I\nwould have hung him up at a yard-arm, without judge or jury, and buried\nhim in a dunghill without benefit of clergy. He employed a fellow of the\nname of Villars as a confederate in his base intentions--one who had\nbeen thrice a bankrupt, without being able to show a loss that he had\nsustained, or pay a shilling to his creditors. This creature he\nprofessed to set up in business--in something connected with the West\nIndia trade--and he prevailed on landlord Danvers to embark in the\nspeculation, and to risk all that he had saved in the _Old Ship_ for\nfive-and-twenty years. So that the firm--if such a disgraceful\ntransaction might be called by that appellation--went by the designation\nof _Villars & Danvers_. The firm, however, was altogether an invention\nof Wates, to promote his designs. There was another whom they engaged in\ntheir scheme--a fellow who was a disgrace to the sea--the very spawn of\nsalt water--a Boatswain Rigby; and the frigate to which he belonged was\ncruising upon the coast for the protection of the coasters. But you will\nhear more about these worthies by-and-by.\n\n\"It was within a few hours of the time, when, as I told you before, Bill\nStanley and Jack Jenkins were to sail upon a twelvemonth's voyage. The\nvessel to which they belonged was lying out in the harbour below\nTynemouth Castle, and sweethearts and wives were accompanying the crew\nto the beach, where a boat was waiting to take them aboard.\n\n\"Mary had ventured to accompany William part of the way towards the\nbeach to bid him adieu; and when, through fear of her father finding\nthem together, she would have returned, he held her hand more firmly\nwithin his, and said--'Fear nothing, love; it is the last time we shall\nsee each other for twelve months. Come down as far as the boat; and do\nnot let it be said, when it pulls off, that Bill Stanley was the only\nsoul in the ship's crew, that had not a living creature on the shore to\nwave _good-by_ to--or one to drop a tear for his departure, more than if\nhe were a dog. If I be alone and an outcast in the world, do not let me\nfeel it now.'\n\n\"'Willingly,' she replied, 'would I follow you, not only there, but to\nthe ends of the earth. But my father will be on the beach, watching the\nboat; or, if he be not, the spies of another will be there, and my\naccompanying you would only make my persecution the greater during your\nabsence.'\n\n\"'What!' exclaimed he, 'have I then a rival for your affections, one\nthat I know not of, and whose addresses are backed by your father's\ninfluence? Who is he?--or what is his name? Tell me, Mary--I conjure\nyou, by your plighted faith.'\n\n\"'Give not the name of a rival,' said she, 'to a hypocritical wretch,\nwhose heart I would not tread beneath my heel, for fear of pollution! A\nrival!--William, I would not insult the meanest reptile that feeds upon\ngarbage, by placing it in competition with a hypocrite so base and mean!\nA rival!--rather would I breathe the vapours of a ploughed charnel-house\nfor ever, than be blasted with his breath for a single hour! No--my\nheart is yours--it is wholly yours--fear not.'\n\n\"'Mary,' said he, solemnly, 'if I am worthy of your love, I am not\nunworthy of your confidence. You would not, you could not, bestow such\nlanguage on the most worthless, where personal indignity had not been\noffered, or intended you. Name him, I adjure--nay, I _command_ you,' he\nadded wildly; 'it will yet be three hours till the vessel sail, and in\nthat period I will avenge the indignity that has been offered to you.'\n\n\"'Speak not of such a thing,' said she; 'whatever be his designs,\nagainst such a persecutor she is a weak woman who cannot defend herself.\nWould you raise your hand against a worm, or draw a sword against a\nvenomous fly? Come, think not of it--look not so; would a vessel of the\nline throw a broadside into a paltry cock-boat? Punish him!--no, despise\nhim!'\n\n\"'It may be so,' he rejoined; 'but my heart is to yours as the eyelid is\nto the eyeball, and even a moth between them causes agony. Name him,\nthat I may judge of his power to do evil, or the vessel which is this\nday to sail--sails without me.'\n\n\"'Then, that your contempt may equal mine,' added she, 'think of the\ncreature _Wates_! He whose name stands first on the list of _published_\ncharities--and who sends the newsman abroad to trumpet his piety, while\nvillany lurks in his grey hairs.'\n\n\"'What!' he exclaimed wildly--_Wates_! the murderer of my mother!--who\nsent his minions to sell the very bed from beneath her, and left her to\nperish on the ground! Justice! where sleep thy thunderbolts! Mary, we\nshall return--I go not to sea to-day!'\n\n\"'William,' said she affectionately, 'do you then fear to trust me? Did\nhe carry honours in his right hand, and in his left the wealth of the\nworld, and lay them both at my feet--I feel that within me that would\nspurn them from me, as I would an insect that crawled upon me to sting\nme. To you would I give my hand and beg for a subsistence, rather than\nshare with him the throne of an empire. What then do you fear? In your\nown words, if I am unworthy of your confidence, I am unworthy of your\nlove.'\n\n\"'No, Mary!' he cried, 'it is not fear. Wrong not yourself, neither\nwrong my bosom, that is full to bursting, by harbouring such a thought.\nWhen darkness issues from the sunbeams, I will doubt your affection;\nwhen a whirlwind sweeps across the sea, and the billows rise not at its\nvoice, I will fear your truth--not till then. But I know that to\nassociate the name of the most virtuous woman with that of a villain, is\nto make the world suspect her. Ah, Mary! in the innocence of your own\nheart you suspect not the iniquity of which some are capable. Let the\nname of a libertine be attached to the character of a man, and\nespecially of a rich man, till his crimes are heaped up like a world of\nsin upon the shoulders of their contemptible author, and the next sun\nthat rises, in the eyes of the world melts away their enormity, if not\ntheir remembrance; but, if the mere shadow of such a villain's breath\npass over the character of a woman, its stains will remain fixed and\nimmoveable, growing in blackness and gathering misery, until life and\nmemory have made their last port. I will not speak of revenge, to\ndistress you--but I shall not undertake this voyage. I will remain on\nshore, not to guard your innocence, but to protect your name from\nslander.'\n\n\"'William,' she answered, 'ignorant of the world I may be; but I know\nthat your remaining on shore would only give rise to the calumnies which\nyou would wish to prevent. You would make yourself an object for the\nlaughter and remarks of your shipmates; and would disoblige your owners,\nwho, after this voyage, have promised you the command of a vessel. And\nfor what would you do this, but through fear of a wretch on whom I could\nnot waste a single thought, and on whom I regret that I have thrown\naway a single word.'\n\n\"At that moment Jack Jenkins, with his wife Betty, weeping like a\nmermaid under his arm, hove in sight, and the moment he beheld his\ncomrade, he called out--'Hollo, Bill! how did you and Polly manage to\npass the old Commodore of _the Ship_; I saw him keeping a look-out abaft\nthere.' But his wife sobbed while he was speaking, and, as he approached\nhis shipmate, he continued--'Take aback in time, Bill, and don't\nmarry--I ask your pardon, Polly, and yours too, Betty, my love,' kissing\nhis wife's cheeks; 'I don't exactly mean not to marry, either--but this\nparting company breaks up one's heart, like an old fir-built craft that\nis not fit for fire-wood. I wish the lubber's back had a round dozen\nthat invented the word--_good-by_! It always sticks in my throat, like\npushing a piece of old junk down it.'\n\n\"While he was speaking, a king's cutter shot round a point of land, with\na pack of lobsters abaft; and the black fellow, Boatswain Rigby, sat in\nher bow. She was within twenty yards of where they stood.\n\n\"'Fly, William!--fly!' said Mary, wildly; 'it is you they seek--my heart\ntells me it is you--oh, fly!'\n\n\"'Be not afraid, dearest,' said Stanley; 'I do not think they mean harm\nto us, and, if they did, flight is impossible.'\n\n\"'Oh, run! run!' cried Betty Jenkins; 'see--the marines are handling\ntheir muskets.'\n\n\"'Run! why, it's of no use running,' said her husband; 'the lobsters\nwould bring a fellow up with their pepper-boxes before he could run a\nquarter of a cable's length.'\n\n\"The boat took the ground, and Rigby, with a party of sailors and\nmarines, sprang on shore.\n\n\"'Well, my hearties,' said the boatswain, 'will either of you volunteer\nto serve his Majesty?'\n\n\"'Why, sir'----Jack Jenkins was replying, when his wife placed her hand\nupon his mouth, saying--'Are you a fool, Jack?'\n\n\"'What!' said the boatswain, 'no volunteers! Well, we want but one of\nyou. This is our man,' and he touched Stanley on the shoulder with his\ncutlass.\n\n\"'Oh!' cried Mary, addressing the boatswain, as she fell upon William's\nneck; 'spare him! spare him! and with my last coin I will endeavour to\nprocure a substitute in his stead.'\n\n\"'It won't do, my pretty maiden,' said Rigby; 'in these times we can't\nlose so promising a prize, for a woman's tears. Marines, to the boat\nwith him.'\n\n\"'Hold! servile slaves!' cried Stanley, as they attempted to drag him\naway; 'allow me to bid adieu to my Mary and to my friends here, or I\ndefy the worst you can do.'\n\n\"'Quick, then,' said Rigby, 'the service cannot wait for farewells.'\n\n\"Mary still clung to William's arm. 'Good-by, Jack,' said he, with the\nsalt water rolling in his eyes, and his heart ready to burst--'and when\nyou return from the voyage, see that you keep the land-sharks off my\npoor Mary, for the sake of your old messmate.'\n\n\"'Belay, Bill!' cried Jenkins; 'my heart's afloat. Heaven bless you,\nlad, and be at ease respecting Polly. Should any lubber pull alongside,\nmy name's not Jenkins if I don force him to strike his colours, and\nshove off with broken timbers. Good-by, Bill--give me your hand; and\nthough they were my last words, I say--I'm blowed if ever I shook the\nflipper of a better fellow!'\n\n\"'Mary!' sobbed he, pressing her to his heart; 'farewell, love!--we\nshall meet again!--you won't forget Bill Stanley!'\n\n\"'Stay! oh, stay!' she exclaimed. But the boatswain waved his hand\nimpatiently, and his crew rudely tearing them asunder, William Stanley\nwas dragged to the boat, and borne on board the frigate.\n\n\"Well, twelve months passed, after the impressment of William Stanley,\nand Squire Wates found that his wealth offered no temptation to Mary\nDanvers, to enable him to effect her ruin. He, however, had inveigled\nher father into his meshes; and, through the pretended failure of the\nmercantile speculation in which Villars and old Danvers had been\nengaged, the former brought a claim of five hundred pounds against the\nlatter, who had lost his all. And the plan of the villains was, that\nVillars should cast the old man into prison, and that Wates should come\nforward, and professing to pay the debt, set the father at liberty, and\nobtain, through the daughter's gratitude, what her virtue spurned. To\nensure success to this master-stroke of their wickedness, it was to be\nattended by a mock-marriage, in which Boatswain Rigby (the frigate to\nwhich he belonged being again lying off Tynemouth), was, for a\n_consideration_, to officiate as chaplain.\n\n\"It was on the very day that this piece of iniquity was hatched, that\nJack Jenkins, having returned--and having learned from his wife, and\nfrom Mary Danvers, of some of the attempts that had been made by Squire\nWates, during his absence, and since the impressment of his\ncomrade--hurried to the house of the old rascal, with a rope's end in\nhis hand. He found the street door open, and, without knocking, he went\nto the foot of the stairs, and demanded to see Squire Wates.\n\n\"'You can't see him, fellow,' said a portly, pampered man-servant.\n\n\"'Can't see him!' roared Jack; 'he shall see me presently, and feel me\ntoo. So, come along, Mr. Powdered-pate; shew me where he is, or I'll\ncapsize you head and heels.'\n\n\"The old villain, himself, hearing the uproar, came blustering out of a\nroom, crying--'Who are you, fellow? and how dare you, in such a manner,\nbreak into my house? What is your business with me?'\n\n\"'Vast there with your questions, old leprous-livered knave!'\nvociferated Jenkins. 'As to who I am, I am a better fellow than ever\nstood in your shoes; and, as to daring to break into your house, before\nI leave it, I shall dare to break your head! And as to my business with\nyou, I intend to make you _sensible_ of that too;' and as he uttered the\nword _sensible_, he shook the piece of rope in his hand, and\ncontinued--'Now, I have answered your questions; answer one to me. Do\nyou remember a lad of the name of Bill Stanley--eh?'\n\n\"The Squire shook with terror; but endeavouring to assume an air of\nauthority, stammered out--'No--no--fellow; I--I know no such person.\nBegone, sir. Be--begone, I say.'\n\n\"'Smash me if I do!' added Jenkins. 'And belike you don't know Polly\nDanvers, either? Well, perhaps this piece of old junk may sharpen your\nmemory!'\n\n\"Wates called upon his servants for assistance.\n\n\"'Hands off, ye beggarly swabs! or kiss the boatswain's sister!'\ncontinued the sailor, laying lustily around him, and causing the\ndomestics to shrink back. 'Vast there!' he continued, laying hold of the\nsquire, who attempted to escape; 'not so fast--I an't quite done with\nyou yet. Now, you see, I'm an old friend and shipmate of Bill Stanley's;\nand the day that he was pressed, and you were the cause of it, Bill says\nto me--'Jack,' says he, 'when I am away, see that no land-shark comes\nalongside my Polly.' 'Fear nothing, Bill,' says I, 'hang me if I\ndon't--there's my hand on't.' Now, I've been at sea ever since, until\nthe other day, and my old woman tells me that you, you cream-faced\nscoundrel, not only had the impudence to pull alongside Polly Danvers,\nbut had the audacity to propose----shiver me if I can name it--but take\nthat!'\n\n\"And so saying, he began to lay the rope fiercely round the shoulders of\nhis victim; and, as the servants again closed upon the sailor to rescue\ntheir master, he dashed them to the ground, to the right and to the\nleft, and finally rushed out of the house, crying--'Who shall say that\nJack is the lad that would break his promise?'\n\n\"I told you it was a part of the plot of Wates, that his confederate\nVillars, was to cast old Danvers into prison, on account of the\npretended debt. The old landlord was sitting in the parlour of the _Old\nShip_, trembling at the horrors of a jail, and fearing every moment the\nentrance of a sheriff's officer to arrest him, while his wife and\ndaughter endeavoured to comfort him, and he said mournfully--'Wife,\nafter being married thirty years as we have been, I did not expect that\nwe should have been parted in this way. I did not think that, after\ntoiling in the _Old Ship_ here for twenty years, to save a matter of\nmoney for our daughter, I should lose all, and my hair grow white in a\nprison. But it is of no use mourning about it; for I question if those\nfor whom we wished the money would have thanked us. I know I would not\nhave seen a father or mother of mine dragged to jail like a common\nthief, if I by any means could have prevented it.' And, as he spoke, he\ncast a look of sorrow and upbraiding upon Mary, who wept on her mother's\nshoulder.\n\n\"'Don't be cruel, husband,' said his wife; 'how can you distress our\ndaughter? I am sure she can't help the state we are reduced to, any more\nthan I can. But I always said what all your jobbing and trafficking in\ncompany with the bankrupt Villars, would end in. I know thou'rt\nsuffering enough, and we are all suffering; but don't be reflecting upon\nour dear Mary, for a better child never parents had.'\n\n\"'I an't making reflections,' replied he, peevishly; 'only I'm saying, I\nwould not have stood so by my father. It is no reflection to say that\nMary might have been a lady, and then I am sure I should not have been\ndragged from the parlour--where I have sat for twenty years--to a\ndungeon in a jail.'\n\n\"'Father!' said Mary, 'what would you have me do? Would you have me\nbecome an object for the virtuous to shun, for your enemies to triumph\nover and despise, and for the abandoned to insult? Would you have me to\nsell my purity, my peace of mind, my present and eternal happiness, to a\nmiscreant who carries sanctity on his brow, and morality between his\nteeth, while his heart is a putrid sepulchre? Would you have me do this\nto save you from a prison?--and to which you have been brought by your\nown simplicity. To assist you, I will become the servant of servants--I\nwould brush the dust from the shoes of strangers, in this house where I\nwas born. But, while the tear blanches my cheeks for your misfortunes,\ncause them not to burn with shame.'\n\n\"'Why, daughter,' replied he, angrily, 'I don't understand thy high\nwords at all. But though I don't know so much of my dictionary as thou\ndost, I know those books you read have turned thy head with foolish and\nhigh notions. I know you wont have Mr. Wates, because he is a thought\noldish, and belike doesn't make love like one of the romance sparks you\nread about. But, I say, I'm neither blind nor deaf, and, for all that\nyou have said, I know as how it is marriage, and nought else, that Mr.\nWates intends. But, rich as he is, you won't have him, but will see your\npoor old father dragged through the streets, like a thief to a prison. O\nMary! it is a sore thing to have an ungrateful child!'\n\n\"'O husband!--husband!' said Mrs. Danvers; 'they were thy high notions,\nand none of our dear daughter's, that has brought us to this. But it is\nnot my part to add to thy sorrows, when thou art about to be torn from\nmy side. Alack! I never thought to be made a widow in this sort.'\n\n\"'Wife!--wife!' cried he impatiently; 'be it my blame, or whose blame it\nmay, we can't make a better of it now; but it is very hard to have lost\nthe earnings of twenty years, and to be parted from wife and child.\nDon't be angry with me, daughter. Your father meant all he has said or\ndone for your good. Come, give your old father a kiss and forgive him.\nIt may be the last he will ever receive from you in his own house.'\n\n\"She threw her arms around his neck and wept; and while the father and\ndaughter embraced each other, a sheriff's officer entered the house.\n\n\"'Well-a-day!--well-a-day!' cried Mrs. Danvers, as she perceived him;\n'thy errand, and the disgrace of it, will break my heart.'\n\n\"'Don't be distressed, good woman,' said the officer, 'it is no such\ndisgrace but that many of the best in the country must submit to it\nevery day. Mr. Danvers,' added he, 'I am sorry to inform you, you must\nwalk with me. This paper will inform you, you are my prisoner.'\n\n\"'It is very hard,' said the old man; 'I say, sir, it is very hard to be\ncalled a prisoner in a free country, for doing nothing at all. Heaven\nknows about this here debt that is brought against me, for I don't. But\nI know that locking me up in a jail won't pay it.'\n\n\"'Oh, cruel law!' exclaimed Mary; 'framed by fools, and put in force by\nusurers. Let justice laugh at the wise law makers, who shut up the\nsprings, and expect the reservoirs to be filled.'\n\n\"'Why, miss,' said the official, 'I didn't make the law; I be only the\nofficer of the law. So come along, Mr. Danvers, my good man, for I can't\nstop all day to hear your daughter's speeches. I have other jobs of the\nsame sort in hand, and business must be attended to.'\n\n\"'Go, unfeeling man,' answered Mary, 'we will go with you. Bear with\nmisfortune, my dear father, like a man. I will accompany you--take my\narm. If I have hung upon yours with pride, upon more joyful occasions,\nit shall not be said that I was ashamed for you to rest upon mine, when\nthey led you through the streets to a prison.' And she accompanied him\nto the place of confinement.\n\n\"It was two days after old Danvers had been taken to prison, that the\nfrigate into which William Stanley had been impressed made towards the\nland, and rode off the mouth of the Tyne, while a boat's crew were\nordered on shore. Boatswain Rigby, apprehensive that William would\nrequest to be one of them, and that his request might be granted, had,\nprevious to the boat leaving the vessel, sought to quarrel with him, and\nstruck him; and requested of the lieutenant that, in consequence of the\ninsolence he had used towards him, he should not be permitted to go on\nshore, but, as a punishment, placed on duty.\n\n\"Poor Stanley was walking the deck, saying unto himself--'Refused\npermission to go ashore! Yes, Rigby! petty tyrant as thou art, thou\nshalt rue it! Refused a privilege that would have caused a slave to\nrebel, had he been denied it. But the time will come, when we shall meet\nupon terms of equality; and were his cowardice equal to his\nbrutality--yea, were he shielded by a breast-plate hard as his own\nheart--my revenge shall find a passage through both; and his blood shall\nwash out the impression and the shame of the blow with which to-day he\ndared to smite me as a dog. The remembrance of that blow sticks as a\ndagger in my throat--its remembrance chokes me!' And, hurried on by the\nagitation of his feelings, he spoke aloud as he continued. 'Not only\ndenied to set my foot upon the place of my nativity, but struck!--yes,\nstruck like a hound, by a creature I despise! O memory!' he added,\n'torture me not! Here, every remembered object strikes painfully on my\neyeballs! The church and the church-yard, where my mother's body now\nmingles with the dust, are now before me, and I am prohibited from\nshedding a tear upon her grave. The banks of the Tyne, where I wandered\nwith my Mary, while it sighed affection by our side, and the blue sea,\nwhich lay behind us, raising a song of love, are now visible--but though\nthey are still beautiful, they are as beautiful things that lived and\nwere loved, but that are now dead!'\n\n\"In the intensity of his feelings he perceived not a boat which drew\nalongside; and, while he yet stood in a reverie, his old crony, Jack\nJenkins, sprang on board, and, assisted by a waterman, raised Mary\nDanvers to the deck.\n\n\"'Yonder he is,' exclaimed Jack, 'leaning over the gunwale, as\nmelancholy as a merman making his last will and testament in the\npresence of his father Neptune.'\n\n\"Stanley started round at the voice of his friend; he beheld his\nbetrothed wife; for you know they were the same as betrothed--they had\nvowed to be true to each other, and, I believe, broken a ring betwixt\nthem.\n\n\"'My own Mary!' he cried, and sprang forward to meet her. The poor\nthings fell upon each other's neck, and wept like children.\n\n\"'Shove me your fist, my hearty,' cried Jenkins, 'as soon as you have\ndone there. I thought I would give you a bit of an agreeable surprise.'\n\n\"'There, Jack!--there, my honest old friend!' cried Bill, stretching out\nhis one hand, and with the other supporting his sweetheart. 'My head and\nheart are scudding beneath a sudden tempest of joy! Speak, Mary, love!\nlet me again hear your voice thrilling like music through my breast! O\nJack! I am now like one who has been run down in a squall at midnight,\nand ere he is aware that the waters have covered over him, finds himself\naloft, listening to the harps of the happy.'\n\n\"'I don't know what this is like, Bill,' said the other; 'but it an't\nlike those meetings we used to have.'\n\n\"'Why so silent, love,' said William, addressing Mary; 'in another hour\nI shall be off duty, and in one day of happiness let us forget the\npast.'\n\n\"'Dear William,' she replied, 'I know not what I should say, nor what I\nshould conceal. I have so little of joy to communicate, that I would not\nembitter the pleasure of the present short hour, by a recital of the\nevents that have occurred during your absence.'\n\n\"'Hide nothing from me, Mary,' said he earnestly; 'but tell me, have my\nforebodings, regarding the monster Wates, been but too true? Or are your\nparents----You tremble love--you are pale! O Jenkins, speak!--tell me\nwhat is the meaning of this?'\n\n\"'Drop it, Bill, my dear fellow,' said the other, 'drop it. You have got\nPolly alongside of you there, with a heart as sound and true to you as\nwhen you left her; and don't distress her with questions; she didn't\ncome aboard for that. I served out the old fellow Wates, as you\nrequested me, with a rope's end, t'other night, and that pretty smartly\ntoo. And, with regard to father Danvers, why, poor soul, somehow or\nother, misfortune has got the weather-gage of him, and the other day he\nwas taken to jail. So, say no more about it, Bill--we can't mend it.'\n\n\"'Why,' he exclaimed, stamping his foot as he spoke, 'why am I a slave?\nAnd who, my beloved Mary--who now shall protect you? But I can still do\nsomething. I have a bank bill for a hundred pounds, the savings of\nformer voyages. I know not why I took it out of my locker this morning.\nI had it carefully placed away with the ringlet which I cut from your\nbrow, dearest. Here are both; I will keep the ringlet, and think it\ndearer than ever; take you the note, my love; it may be of service to\nyour father.'\n\n\"'No, no, William,' she cried, 'I must not, I cannot! Dearest, most\ngenerous of men, do not _pity_ me, or I shall wither in your sight. Look\non me as you were wont. But, oh! let me not stand before you as a\nbeggar. Keep it--as you love me, keep it--make me not ashamed to look in\nyour face.'\n\n\"'Then take it, Jack, take it,' said Stanley, handing him the note; 'do\nwith it as I desire. Say nothing more now; for here comes our Boatswain\nRigby, the curse of our ship's crew, and the disgrace of the service.'\n\n\"Mary shuddered as Rigby approached them; and boisterously said--'Who\nhave you got there, fellow, and you upon duty? I shall report you\ninstantly. Some of your old friends, and meditating an escape with them,\nI see.' And, turning to Jenkins, he added--'Who, sir, gave you\npermission to come on board this vessel, and to bring _a woman of that\ndescription_ along with you? Off, instantly, or I shall detain you too.\nYou, girl, must remain;' and he approached her familiarly to take her by\nthe arm. Stanley sprang forward, exclaiming--'Hold, sir, hold! You have\ninsulted her by your words; but touch not, as you would remain a living\nman, the hem of her garment.'\n\n\"'Begone to your duty, presumptuous slave!' cried the boatswain\nfiercely; 'begone!' And as he spoke, he raised his hand, and struck him\non the breast.\n\n\"'Again!--ha!--ha!--ha!' exclaimed William, like a demon laughing\nthrough excess of torture; 'twice you have struck me, Rigby,\nto-day!--struck me in the presence of her who is dearer to me than life!\nNow, heaven have mercy on thee!' And, seizing the boatswain by the\nbreast, he hurled him violently on the deck, and planted his foot upon\nhis bosom.\n\n\"'William!--dear William!' cried Mary; 'forbear!--forbear!'\n\n\"'Bill, Bill, my dear fellow!' cried Jack, 'don't lose your life for the\nsake of a ruffian.'\n\n\"William continued standing with his foot upon his breast, laughing in\nthe same wild and fearful manner, and shouting--'struck me!' while Rigby\ncalled for help. A number of the ship's crew sprang forward to the\nrescue of the boatswain, who, rising, cried--'The irons instantly! Set a\ndouble watch over him! He has attempted, as ye have witnessed, the life\nof an officer, and his first promotion shall be the yard-arm.'\n\n\"While they were placing the irons upon him, Mary threw herself at\nRigby's feet, exclaiming--'Oh, spare him!--save the life of my\nWilliam!--by her that bore you, or that loves you, save him!--save him!'\n\n\"'Rise, Mary!' cried William, 'that our farewell glance be not one of\nreproach. Pray for vengeance on my enemy! Farewell, Jack--for ever this\ntime! See my Mary safe!' And, as they were bearing him away, he turned\nhis head towards her, and cried--'Dearest, we shall meet hereafter,\nwhere the villain and the tyrant cannot enter.'\n\n\"She fell insensible on the deck, and, in a state of unconsciousness,\nwas conveyed on shore by Jenkins.\n\n\"The frigate was commanded by Captain Sherbourne, and, when the officers\nwere assembled to hold a court-martial over poor Stanley, he said,\naddressing Rigby--'There is not a man in the British navy, Boatswain\nRigby, more determined than myself to preserve order and discipline; but\nwhile, as captain of this vessel, I am compelled to enforce the law, I\nam no advocate for the inhuman and degrading lash; nor can I, with\nindifference, sentence a brave fellow to be hung up for doing that which\nthe best feelings of his nature, and the sentiments that make a hero,\nprompted him to do. I sit here as a judge, and am neither advocate for\nthe prisoner, nor your accuser; but, if the law must be satisfied, the\noffence, wherever it is found, shall be punished, whether in the\naccused or the accuser. For it has not escaped my observation, that no\nofficer under me has ever found a fault in the prisoner, save yourself.\nAre you then resolved and prepared to prosecute your charge?'\n\n\"'I am both resolved and prepared, Captain Sherbourne,' said Rigby; 'and\nI demand the satisfaction of the laws of my country and the service, not\nonly as an officer who has been insulted and injured, but as a British\nofficer and subject, whose life has been attempted.'\n\n\"'This is a serious charge, boatswain,' said Captain Sherbourne; 'let\nthe prisoner be brought forward.'\n\n\"The culprit was brought up, guarded, and in fetters, and, being placed\nbefore his judges--'Prisoner,' began the captain, 'I deeply regret that\none of your appearance, and of your uniform excellent conduct and\ncourage, while under my command, should be brought before me under such\ncircumstances as those in which you now stand; and I regret the more\nthat, if the charges be proved, the proofs of your former character and\ncourage, which are known to us, will be of no avail. You are charged not\nonly with striking your commanding officer, which is in itself a heinous\noffence, but also with attempting his life. Do you plead guilty or not\nguilty?'\n\n\"'That,' replied the prisoner, 'is as your honours please to interpret\nthe deed. But there is no such charge reckoned against me in the\nlog-book aloft.'\n\n\"'You then plead not guilty,' said the captain.\n\n\"'I am guilty,' answered he, 'of having acted as it was the duty of a\nman to act. I am guilty of having convinced a villain, that a proud\nheart may be found beneath a plain blue jacket. I am guilty of having\nproved that there are souls and feelings before the mast, as high-minded\nand as keen as upon the quarter-deck. But 'the head and front of my\noffending hath this extent, no more.'\n\n\"'He speaks bravely,' muttered some of those who heard him; 'the\nchaplain himself couldn't have said it so well by half.'\n\n\"'Boatswain,' said the captain, in the hearing of the prisoner, 'state\nthe particulars of your charge against him.'\n\n\"'While it was his turn on duty,' said Rigby, 'I found him neglecting\nit, and plotting his escape from the frigate, in conversation with a\nsuspicious-looking man, and a girl of common fame'----\n\n\"'Tis false!--despicable recreant!--'tis false!' interrupted William,\nwildly; 'she is spotless as the fountains of light! Breathe again\ndishonour on her name, and these chains that bind me shall hurl you,\nwith the falsehood blistering on your tongue, down to'----\n\n\"'Silence, young man!' interposed the captain, 'I command you. If you\nhave cause of complaint you will afterwards be heard. You may be\nmistaken, Mr. Rigby, regarding the character of the young woman, and you\nwill not better your cause in our eyes, by unnecessarily blackening the\nprisoner's.'\n\n\"'Captain Sherbourne,' inquired the boatswain, in an offended tone, 'do\nyou question my honour?'\n\n\"'I permit no such interruptions, sir,' said the captain; 'we sit here\nto deal with facts, not with honour. Go on with your charge.'\n\n\"'When,' resumed Rigby, 'I overheard him plotting his escape from the\nservice, and commanded him to his duty, he haughtily rebelled; and, on\nmy ordering the strangers on shore, he sprang forward, and dashing me on\nthe deck, stamped his foot upon my breast, threatening and attempting to\nmurder me, as these witnesses will prove.'\n\n\"'Stand forward, my good fellows,' said Captain Sherbourne, addressing\ntwo of the seamen, who had been witnesses of the assault, and assisted\nin rescuing the boatswain 'Give your evidence truly. What do you know\nof this affair?'\n\n\"'Why your honour,' said the first seaman, 'just that the boatswain was\nlying upon the deck, and that Bill there had his foot upon his breast.'\n\n\"'Do you suppose,' inquired the Captain, 'he had a design upon his\nlife?'\n\n\"'Please your honour,' answered the seaman, 'I can't say; but you had\nbetter ask himself. If he had, he won't deny it; for I'll take my Bible\noath that Bill, poor fellow, never hove the hatchet in his life--and I\ndon't believe he would do it to save his life. I could always be as sure\nof what he said, as I am of our latitude when your honour's own hands\nworks it out.'\n\n\"'Well,' inquired the Captain, addressing the other sea man, 'what\nevidence have you to offer?'\n\n\"'I don't know anything about evidence, your honours,' answered the\nseaman. 'The boatswain was lying on the deck, and poor Bill had his foot\nupon his breast sure enough, and was laughing in such a dismal way as\nmade me think that he had gone maddish through ill-usage or something.\nFor, poor fellow, he was never easily raised, and though brave as a\nlion, was harmless as a lamb--all the crew will swear that of him.'\n\n\"'Prisoner,' said the Captain, 'I am sorry that the evidence of these\nwitnesses, who seem as sorry for your fate as I am, but too strongly\nconfirm, at least a part of the charges against you. If you have\nanything to say in your defence, the court is inclined to hear you.'\n\n\"'I am neither insensible of, nor ungrateful for the kindness of my\ncommander,' answered William; 'and for the sake of her and her only, of\nwhom the boatswain dared to speak as one dishonoured, I do not hold life\nwithout its value. But I disdain to purchase it by the humiliation of\nvindicating myself farther from the accusations of a wretch whom I\ndespise. Let the law take its award. Death is preferable to being the\nservant of a slave.'\n\n\"'I know not,' whispered Captain Sherbourne to his first lieutenant,\n'how my lips shall pronounce sentence of death on this brave young\nfellow. His heroic courage and his talents compel me to revere and love\nhim--and there is something, I know not what, in his features, haunts me\nas a lost remembrance.' Then turning toward the prisoner he\nadded--'Before the sentence of the court is passed, whatever requests\nyou may wish to have performed, I will see them faithfully carried into\neffect.'\n\n\"'Thanks! thanks!' replied William; 'I have but little to offer in\nreturn for your goodness; but the same spirit that made me resent the\nindignity of my accuser, would, were my hands free, cause me to embrace\nyour knees. I have but three requests to make. I wish my watch to be\ngiven to her who is dearest to me on earth--Mary Danvers; my quadrant\nand other matters to my friend Jenkins, who sails in the ship\n'_Enterprise_,' now lying in the river; and my last request is, that,\nwith the ten guineas belonging to me, and now in the possession of the\npurser, a stone may be placed upon my mother's grave--which Mary Danvers\nwill point out--with these words chiseled upon it--\n\n    TO THE MEMORY\n\n    OF THE\n\n    AMIABLE AND UNFORTUNATE\n\n    MATILDA STANLEY.\n\n    BY DESIRE OF HER UNFORTUNATE SON.\n\n\"'Matilda Stanley!' exclaimed Captain Sherbourne in a tone of agitation,\n'was that the name of your mother?'\n\n\"'It was, your honour,' replied William, 'and there were few such\nmothers.'\n\n\"'And your father!--your father!' repeated the Captain, with increased\nagitation; 'what knew you of him?'\n\n\"'Alas! nothing!' exclaimed the prisoner bitterly, and the tears gushed\ndown his cheeks; 'but, oh, recal not to my memory in a moment like\nthis--recal not my mother's--No! no! my sainted mother!'\n\n\"'O conscience! conscience!' exclaimed the Captain, starting to his\nfeet, and gasping in eagerness as he spoke. 'One question more--and your\nmother's father was a dissenting clergyman in the village\nof--name!--name the place! on that depends your life, and my happiness\nor misery.'\n\n\"'In the village of ---- in Westmoreland,' replied William; 'but he\nsurvived not his daughter's broken heart. You knew them, then? Oh, did\nyou know my father?'\n\n\"'My son! my son! come to a father's heart,' exclaimed the Captain,\nspringing forward and falling on his neck; '_I am your father!_ Shade of\nmy wronged Matilda! look on this!'\n\n\"'My father!' exclaimed William, 'have I found him! and in such an hour!\nBut, if you loved my mother, wherefore'--\n\n\"'Upbraid me not, my son,' interrupted the Captain, 'mingle not gall\nwith my cup of joy. Your mother was my wife--my first, my only one.\nCircumstances forced me to exact a promise from her, that our marriage\nshould be concealed until I dared to acknowledge it, and long captivity\nsevered me from her; until, on my return, I could obtain no trace of\neither of you. How I have mourned for her, all who now stand beside me\nhave been the daily witnesses. My son! my son!'\n\n\"'My father! O my father!' exclaimed William; 'but at this moment you\nare also my _judge_.'\n\n\"'No! no!' cried the Captain. 'Seamen, strike off the fetters from your\ncommander's son. Rigby, at another tribunal I will be surety for the\nappearance of my son.'\n\n\"The fetters were struck off from William's hands and feet, and officers\nand men burst simultaneously into three times three, loud, long, and\nhearty cheers.\n\n\"The boatswain, fearing that a worse thing might come upon him, fell on\nhis knees before the Captain, and made a full confession of his shameful\nintrigue with Squire Wates, and begged forgiveness, as his kidnapping of\nWilliam had been the means of finding the commander his son. The rascal\nwas forgiven, but dismissed the frigate.\n\n\"But I must return to poor Mary. She was sitting beside her father in\nthe prison, when he addressed her saying--'Come, come, child, thou\nsaidst thou wouldst sing and read to me, and is this thy\nsinging--nothing but sighing and tears. I'm saying, is this thy promised\nsinging, daughter?--but it is perhaps the fittest singing for a jail.'\n\n\"'Ah, father!' said Mary, 'you know I would not willingly add to your\nsorrows. But can you forbid me to weep for him, who, from childhood, has\nbeen to me as a brother--whom I have long regarded as a husband, and\nwho, _for my sake_, must in a few hours die as the vilest criminal.'\n\n\"'Why, I'm saying, daughter,' said old Danvers, 'let's have no more\nabout it. I'm as sorry for Bill Stanley as thou canst be for thy life.\nBut I say, girl, they can expect no better who fly in the face of a\nfather. I am sure we have distress enough of our own, if we would only\nthink about it, without meddling with that of other people. Is it not\nbad enough that thy father is shut up here within these iron bars, and\nperhaps thou and thy mother will be driven to beg upon the streets, when\nthou mightest have been riding in thy carriage. I'm saying, is not this\nmisery enough, without thy crying about what thou hast nothing to do\nwith. Why, Mary, thou mayest be thankful thou an't his wife.'\n\n\"'Father! father!' she said, wringing her hands together, 'murmur not\nat our lot, nor upbraid me with sympathising in misery to which yours is\nmercy! What are the sufferings of want compared with what I now feel! To\nsave him I could smile and be happy, though doomed to beg and kiss the\nfoot that spurned me from them.'\n\n\"The sheriff's officer and Mrs. Danvers at this moment entered, and the\nlatter rushed towards her husband, exclaiming--'O husband! husband! the\nworst is come at last! They have seized house and all!--and, Mary, thou\nand I are left without a house to cover us! Thou hast no home now,\nhinny! Your father is shut up in this filthy prison, and your mother\nnever knew what misery was till now!'\n\n\"'Wife! wife!' cried old Danvers, 'what dost thou say?--seized the\nhouse, too!--and my wife and daughter driven to the street! O wife!--I\nsay, I wish I had never been born! Mary! Mary, love! what wilt thou do\nnow?'\n\n\"'Do not, my dear parents,' said Mary, 'repine at the hand of\nprovidence. HE who clothes the lily, and feeds the fowls of the air,\nwill not permit us to perish in the midst of Christians.'\n\n\"'Daughter! daughter!' cried her mother, 'thou little knowest what a\nhard-hearted and wicked world we live in! Humanity and honesty, and\neverything that is good, have gone out of it. The world was not so when\nI knew it first.'\n\n\"'Well! well!' cried old Danvers; 'if the world be as bad as you say it\nis, it is one comfort that I shall not be long in it; for I cannot live\nto know that my wife and child are beggars, and that I am a prisoner,\nstarving in a jail.'\n\n\"At this moment, Wates entered the room, and addressing Mr. Danvers,\nsaid--'I have but this morning heard of your misfortunes, Mr. Danvers,\nand have not lost a moment in hastening to offer my assistance. To your\ndaughter I now offer my _hand_, my fortune, and my heart; and let her\nbut say she will accept them, and this day ends your imprisonment.'\n\n\"'There! old woman!' exclaimed Mr. Danvers, in ecstasy, 'what dost thou\nand our daughter think of that? Did I not say that Mr. Wates meant\nmarriage, and nothing else but marriage--and was not I right? Thou shalt\nhave her, sir, with a father's blessing, and I will pray for thee the\nlongest day I have to live. Fall on thy knees, mother Danvers--fall on\nthy knees, and thank the kind, good, generous gentleman. Daughter, why\ndost thou stand there and say nothing? Did I not always say thou wast\nborn to be a lady?'\n\n\"'For the sake of human nature, Mr. Wates,' said Mary, 'I will suppose\nthat your intentions are now honourable. I will believe that you mean\nkindly, that you are willing to assist my parents, and rescue them from\ntheir distress. But, could I even forget the past--could I forget that\nfor many months you have sought my destruction, and have striven to make\nme become that which would have made me to be despised in my own eyes,\nand an outcast in those of others--if, sir, I could even forget these\nthings, I could not give my hand to one whom my heart has been\naccustomed to detest. For your offered kindness I would thank you with\ntears, but I can only repay you with gratitude. If, however, your\nassistance to my parents is only to be procured through my consenting to\nyour wishes, they must remain as they now are, until it shall please\nprovidence to send them a more disinterested deliverer. Betwixt us there\nis a gulf fixed that shall ever divide us--it is death and\naversion--therefore think not of me.'\n\n\"'Daughter!' cried the old man wrathfully, 'hast thou taken leave of thy\nsenses altogether?'\n\n\"'Come, Mary, love,' said her mother; 'now that poor William must be no\nmore, and that Mr. Wates means honourably, be not obstinate--do not\nsuffer your father to die in a place like this, and your mother to beg\nupon the streets.'\n\n\"'Mother!' cried Mary, vehemently, 'with the last of my blood will I\ntoil for your support; but speak not of that man to me. Keep, sir, your\nwealth for one to whom it may have attractions, and to whom you have\nnever offered dishonour. I despise it, and I despise you; and this\nshallow and cruel artifice will avail you nothing.'\n\n\"'Consent,' said Wates, 'and to-night our hands shall be united.'\n\n\"'Wife! wife!' cried the old man, 'we will humble ourselves at her feet;\nbelike she won't see her father and mother weeping, on their knees\nbefore her, and say to them--die!' And they knelt before her.\n\n\"'Rise! my parents!--rise!' she exclaimed; 'if ye would not have your\ndaughter's blood upon your head. Monster!' she added, turning to Wates,\n'can ye talk of marriage to me, when he to whom my heart and vows are\ngiven, if he be not already dead, must in a few hours die a death of\nshame!'\n\n\"'And will you not save him,' said Wates, eagerly.\n\n\"'Save him!--how? how?' she cried.\n\n\"'Consent to be mine, and within an hour I shall procure his pardon,'\nsaid he.\n\n\"'Villain! villain! would you deceive me with the snare of the devil?'\nshe exclaimed.\n\n\"'I swear it,' he answered.\n\n\"'Save him! save him!' she exclaimed wildly; but again cried\nsuddenly--'No, no!--wretch, ye mock me!'\n\n\"'Yes, he mocks you, Mary,' said Jack Jenkins, who had just entered. 'I\ncould find in my heart to kick the old murderer through those iron\ngratings; for I know it is all through him that poor Bill must, before\nthe sun go down, lose his life.'\n\n\"While Jack was speaking, the locks of the prison doors were again\nheard creaking, and in rushed William, his father, and the officers of\nthe frigate, and they dragged the rascal Rigby along with them.\n\n\"There was a cry of 'Mary!' 'William!' and a rush to meet each other.\nBut the best scene was the confusion of Wates, when his brother knave\nexposed his villany; and Captain Sherbourne ordering them to begone,\nJack Jenkins rushed after them, for the pleasure of kicking them down\nthe prison stairs; but Bill, catching him by the arm, said--'Messmate,\nlet me introduce you to _my father_!\n\n\"'_Your father!_' exclaimed Mary; and it would have been hard to say\nwhich of the two was nearest fainting. They left the prison together,\nold Danvers and all; and Mary and Bill were soon spliced. They were the\nhappiest couple alive. He rose to be post captain; and I hope to see him\nan admiral. So, gentlemen, that's an end to my yarn.\"\n\n\"But,\" inquired the company, \"what became of Jack Jenkins?\" \"Why,\nI am Jack Jenkins,\" answered he; \"sailing-master, with half-pay of\nfive and sixpence a-day, besides two shillings as interest for\nprize-money--thanks to my old friend Bill.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE SURGEON'S TALES.\n\n\n\n\nTHE CONSCIENCE-STRICKEN.\n\n\nAt a dark period of the world, not yet so far back, in point of time, as\nmodern conceit would place it, many facts in philosophy constituted a\nmere page of fable in the estimation of those whose belief in witchcraft\nand other fanciful agencies was unbounded; but, in our enlightened\ntimes, things are so curiously reversed, that some of the real events of\nhuman life--the every-day workings of that wonderful organ, the human\nheart--are viewed sceptically, as delusion, deception, or invention, by\nthose whose faith is pinned to the floating mantle of philosophy, though\nit cover the wildest theory that ever set fire to enthusiasm. The facts\nI have to relate in this chapter, though true, may, from their\nextraordinary nature, be apt to be classed among creations of the fancy;\nyet I would rather that their credibility were tested by the mind of the\nplain and argute man of the world, than by that of the philosopher, who\nwith his head down in the well, kicks at inexplicable mysteries growing\non its brink.\n\nIt is not my object to treat metaphysically any of those powers of the\nmind which, either in health or disease, exhibit, in certain states,\nmany extraordinary phases. The struggling energies of conscience loaded\nwith crime, have been witnessed by philosophers who have denied the\nexistence of the moral sense as an original power; but of what avail is\ntheir scepticism, when they are bound to admit that this great sanction\nof God's law is incident to all mankind--having been found as vivid and\nstrong in the new-found islands of Polynesia, as it ever was in the Old\nWorld? It would be for the interest of mankind if those who call\nthemselves its teachers, and dignify themselves with the name of\ninvestigators of truth, had looked more often at the workings of this\nextraordinary power--witnessed and described the agonies of the heart\nconvulsed by its throes, heard and narrated the piercing cries and the\nflaming words that are wrung from the throat of him who is under its\nscorpion lash, felt and told the horrors of those sights and\nsounds--instead of inquiring whether it is connate or constructed by\nsocial and political institutions. Yet this, too, has been done, and\nwell done; and it is not because the effects are unknown, or have been\ninadequately described, that I contribute the results of my experience\non this interesting subject, but simply because I conceive they cannot\nbe too well known, or too forcibly delineated, in a country where a\nstruggling competition of interests and a fierce ambition are exerted\nhourly in attempting to still the voice of the monitor that so\nindefatigably and thanklessly whispers a better life.\n\nAbout twelve o'clock on the night of the 15th of December, 18--, I was\naroused by a loud knocking at my bedroom door--a mode of calling me to\nmy patients different from that generally followed by my domestics; and,\nupon my requesting the servant to come in, he entered hurriedly, with\nsome one behind him, who called out, in the dark, that Mr. T----, a\nretired undertaker, whom I had been in the habit of attending, had been\nshot by an assassin, but that life remained, and might eventually be\npreserved, by my speedy attendance. I dressed instantly, and accompanied\nthe messenger--a nephew of the wounded man, called William B----, whom I\nrecollected to have seen in his house, and in whom he had much\nconfidence--to where my services were thus so urgently required. We had\nabout a mile to walk--the residence being beyond the town, in the midst\nof a small plantation of fir trees, and too well situated for the\naccomplishment of any felonious or murderous intention which the reputed\nriches of the proprietor might generate in the minds of ruffians. The\nnight was pitch dark; our path was rendered more doubtful by a heavy\nfall of snow, which, having continued all day, had ceased about two\nhours before; and I was obliged to trust almost implicitly to my guide,\nwhose familiarity with the road rendered it an easy task for him to get\nforward. As we hurried on in the darkness and silence which everywhere\nreigned, my companion informed me that the shot was directed against the\nvictim through the window of his bedroom, while he was sitting warming\nhis feet at the fire, previous to retiring to rest; and that, the\nindividuals in the house having been roused, one had taken charge of the\nwounded man, others had gone in search of the perpetrator, and he, the\nnarrator, had flown for me, in the hopes of yet saving the life of his\nguardian and benefactor.\n\nOn arriving at the skirts of the planting, we met some domestics with\nlights, and perceived that they were busy endeavouring to trace some\nwell-marked footsteps impressed on the snow, and which, they said, they\nhad been able to follow from the window where the shot was fired. I\nrequested them to desist for a short time, as they seemed to be\nincurring the danger of defacing or so confusing the foot-prints, by the\nirregular and excited manner in which they wore performing this\nimportant duty, that they could not be identified. They agreed to remain\nwith the lights until I came to them, or sent some one more capable of\nconducting the investigation, and, in the meantime, I hurried on to the\nhouse, where a most appalling scene presented itself to my eyes. On the\nfloor, which was literally swimming in blood, lay the body of Mr. T----,\nwith two people--an old woman, the housekeeper, and a middle aged\nperson, whom I understood afterwards to be another nephew of the wounded\nman, of the name of Walter T---- (the son of a brother, while my\ncompanion, the messenger, was the son of a sister)--bending over him,\nand endeavouring to stop a wound, made by a pistol bullet, near the\nregion of the heart. The work of the assassin was not entirely finished:\nthere was still a fluttering uncertain life in the body, which shewed\nitself rather by its struggles against the overpowering energies of\ndeath, than by any proper living action; a hemorrhage in the lungs,\nparalysing their vitality, and filling up the air cells, fought, inch by\ninch, the province of the breath, which forced, at intervals, its way,\nby a horrid crepitation, through the aperture in the side, while, as the\nwound was producing fresh supplies, it was not difficult to see how the\ncontest would terminate. In the pangs of choking, the wretched man\nheaved himself about, and lifted his hands to his mouth in the vain\neffort to force an entry to that element so signally the food of life.\nThe peculiar, and to us doctors, well-known barking noise of the\n_cynanche trachialis_, (or as the name implies, the strangling of a\ndog,) a few torsels of the body, and shivers extending from head to\nfoot, preceded a sigh as deep as the relentless following blood in the\nlungs would permit; and, in a few moments, he expired.\n\nLeaving the body to the charge of the housekeeper, I called Walter T----\nto accompany me to where the individuals stood with the lights, with the\nview of tracing the foot-prints in the snow to the hiding place of the\ncool-murderer, who had committed apparently so gratuitous a crime. When\nwe arrived at the spot, several other people had collected, among whom\nwere some sheriff officers on their way to the scene of the murder, but\nwho stopped to join in, or rather superintend this investigation. The\nfoot-prints around the spot where the people had collected were too much\nmixed and confused to be capable of being traced for some distance;\nbut, further on, they were again discernible and traceable, and, at one\nplace, the extraordinary appearance presented itself to one of the\nofficers, of a well defined figure of a pistol imprinted on the snow,\nwith the finger points of a hand applied to lifting it from the\nground--suggesting to the mind of every one present the unavoidable\nconclusion that the murderer had dropped the instrument of his crime in\nthe hurry of his retreat, and had snatched it up again as he continued\nhis flight.\n\nWe proceeded onwards slowly, aided by several lights brought from the\nhouse; and, though the darkness of the night presented many difficulties\nto a successful search, we were still able to progress with certainty to\nthe termination of the murderer's route. Whenever two distinct marks\nwere traced, we felt no difficulty in identifying them, from the unusual\ncircumstance of one of them bearing the impress of nail heads, and the\nother not, as if only one of the shoes worn by the culprit had undergone\nthe coarse process of repair, in which, in Scotland, short nails with\nbroad heads are often used. As we proceeded onwards, some one cried out\nthat the prints led to the dwelling of Walter T----; a remark which\nseemed to be about being verified by that individual's house now\nreflecting from its dark walls the glare of the lights, while the\nfootsteps were clearly verging towards the door. I looked round and\nstared full in the face of the man, as it was darkly revealed to me by\nthe flickering tapers; and, though I could perceive no indications of\nterror, there were clearly discernible signs of confusion, which,\nhowever, might have been the consequence of innocence as well as of\nguilt.\n\nIn a few minutes, we traced the foot-prints to the very threshold of the\ndoor of Walter T----'s house; and, upon the instant, one of the sheriff\nofficers laid hold of the suspected man, who looked wildly around him,\nas if he wished to escape from the grasp of justice, and at last\nappealed to me if it was fair to blast the character of an individual\nby an apprehension on such slender evidence as the tracing of a\nfoot-print among the snow from one house to another. I replied, that I\nthought the evidence very inadequate to authorize a confinement, and\nthat, as to the mere detention, he could, by taking off his shoes, and\nallowing them to be compared with the foot-print, remove the suspicion,\nand be set at liberty. The man pointed significantly and triumphantly to\nthe foot-prints he had that instant made, and had been making during the\nwhole course of the investigation, and we saw at once that, although the\nsize of the impression was nearly the same in both, there was no\nindication of nails in the prints of the shoes he wore; a fact he\nverified by instantly taking off and exhibiting them to the officers;\nwho, after a minute inspection, admitted that the impressions we had\nbeen tracing could not have been formed by the shoes exhibited. This\nclearance was deemed sufficient by those present; but one of the\nofficers suggested a search of the house, in which he remarked, very\nproperly, the person might be secreted whose foot-prints we had been\ntracing; and the party immediately entered. There was no person within,\nnor could anything be seen to justify those suspicions that had been\nroused by the evidence afforded by the foot-prints in the snow; and the\nofficers and party were about to retire, when some one pointed to a kind\nof garret, formed by planks or boards laid on some cross beams that\nextended between the two walls of the cottage, and quite sufficient to\nhave contained a man. The officer accordingly mounted by means of a\nladder; and he had scarcely got up, when he cried out, in a voice that\nmade us all start, that he had succeeded in his search. I had no doubt\nthat he had found there the concealed murderer; and the silence that\nensued for a few minutes, as the officer rendered his discovery,\nwhatever it was, available--coming in place, as it did, of an expected\nuproar, struggle, or fight--imparted to the scene, at this moment,\ngreat mystery, which was, however, partly removed by the descent of the\nofficer, holding in his hands a pistol and a pair of shoes.\n\nThe appearance of these articles, so strangely and providentially traced\nby their images in the snow, produced a great sensation, for no one\ndoubted but that they were the very evidences we were in search of; and\nso indeed they turned out to be, for the foot-prints and the shoes\ncompletely agreed, and the impression of the pistol on the snow was upon\nexamination, found to be clearly that of the one discovered. It was\nagain referred to me whether sufficient evidence had not now been\nprocured to authorize the apprehension of the suspected man, who still\nremained in the grasp of the officer; and I felt myself, for the first\ntime of my life, dragged, by the force of circumstances, into an\ninvestigation neither suited to my feelings and habits, nor connected\nwith my profession, for the discharge of one of the duties of which I\nhad been called out of bed at that late hour of the night. Unwilling\neven with the evidence before me, to pass sentence against the man, I\ninquired of William B----, his cousin, who stood by me, what kind of\ncharacter he bore; and ascertained from him that he was a person of idle\nhabits, and had been in the practice, for many years, of living upon\nwhat money he could extort, by threats or entreaties, from the deceased,\nwho had done much for him, and had never received even thanks for what\nhe had done; that he had known them have many quarrels, and one in\nparticular a short time before that night; and that the deceased had\nthreatened, by making a will, to deprive the ungrateful nephew (his\nheir) of any part of his effects--a step now prevented by his violent\ndeath, which would put the latter, if not guilty of this great crime, in\npossession of his property, which was very considerable. These\ncorroborating circumstances bore heavy upon me; yet, such is force of\nhabit, I would have felt less pain in amputating one of the suspected\nman's limbs, than I experienced (and, though it is twenty years since\nthat night, I have the recollection of the painful feeling still) in\ngiving my required sanction to a commitment that might be the first step\nin a progress to the scaffold. During the few moments of deliberation\nthat passed, before I could bring my mind to pronounce my verdict, the\nunfortunate man sought, with a fearful eye, my countenance. A shaking\nterror, that chased every drop of blood from his face, and struck his\nlimbs with the feebleness of a child, was exposed by the lights that\nflared at intervals on his person; and every one read in these\nindications of fear, the evidences of his guilt. My opinion was\ndelivered in accordance with that of the other persons assembled. The\nagitation of the culprit rose to such a degree, that he fell upon the\nground, and, grasping my limbs with the convulsive clutch of despair,\nscreamed for mercy, till the echoes rung through the planting, and came\nback upon the ears of the relentless abettors of justice. The more eager\nwere his energetic appeals to feelings that were steeled against the\ncries and sobs of a murderer, the more determined were the people to do\ntheir duty to the injured laws of their country; and as he, on\nrelinquishing the grasp of my knees, was extended on the ground, laying\nabout him, and casting up the snow, which he clutched with his hands,\nand even bit in his agony, he was again laid hold of by the officers,\nassisted by the people, and carried struggling to the nearest place\nwhere a cart could be procured to drive him to jail.\n\nNext day I was examined by the law officers, and stated the facts I had\nwitnessed, as I have now related them from my notes. Many others were\nexamined, and, among the rest, William B----, and the housekeeper I had\nseen hanging over the body of Mr. T----; the latter of whom, I\nunderstood, gave testimony to the effect that she had, some days before\nthe murder, heard her master accuse the pannel of having stolen from him\nhis watch; and an officer who had searched the house, and found the\nwatch in a place not far from that where the shoes and pistol had been\nfound, produced it to the men of the law, while the housekeeper and\nWilliam B---- identified it as the deceased's property. Some days\nafterwards, a great advance was made in the evidence by another\ndiscovery, to the effect that the pannel had been in the practice of\nstating, to various people to whom he owed money, that he would pay\nthem, with compound interest, when his old uncle (the deceased) was\ndead, as he, in the character of heir-at-law, would succeed to all his\nproperty; and, on one occasion, he had, in some drunken orgies,\nproceeded so far as to propose as a toast, in presence of his cousin,\nWilliam B----, who spoke to the fact, a quick and safe passage to the\nsoul of his uncle over the Stygean stream, which, to him, the heir,\nwould become as rich in gold as Pactolus. A great number of other\ncorroborative facts and circumstances were spoken to by many witnesses,\nwhich, at this distance of time, I cannot recollect: the evidence was,\non the whole, deemed by the men of the law sufficient to justify a\ntrial, which accordingly took place some time afterwards, and at which I\nwas examined as a principal witness.\n\nThe scene of that day was, in an eminent degree, heart-rending; the\nfacts proved seemed to strike the unfortunate man like thunderbolts,\ndriving him into a state of stupor from which he was no sooner roused\nthan he was again stricken with the same paralysing proof of his crime.\nThe hand of the Almighty appeared to be occupied in tracing, before the\naverted eyes of the murderer, the secret purpose he had devised in the\nrecesses of his heart, far removed, as he thought, from mortal eye, yet\nnow revealed as evidence to consign him to the death he was unprepared\nto meet; and, as he prayed, ejaculated, wept, and swooned by turns, the\npeople assembled in court, while they could not doubt his crime, or\nconceal from themselves its enormity, pitied the victim of such agony of\ntorture as he was apparently suffering, only, too, on the very threshold\nof his misery.\n\nHaving remained in court after my examination, I was called upon by the\njudge, on more occasions than one, to administer what relief was in my\npower to the unhappy being, as he lay apparently senseless under the\nbolt of some truth that came on him from the witness-box, as if to seal\nhis doom in this world. I could do little for him, when he was struck by\nthese moral impulses, except by administering stimulants; but, on one\noccasion, he lay so long under an attack of syncope, that I felt myself\ncalled upon to have him removed, for a short time, to an ante-room,\nwhere I took from him some ounces of blood. I have watched the eyes of\npatients brought back to sensibility, life, and hope, and seen the ray\nof the brightening prospect of health, success, and happiness, dawn on\nthe drowsy orb; but I had not before witnessed the return of sense and\nintelligence to be directed, at the first glance, on a gallows, and I\nshuddered as I perceived the breaking in on his clouded mind of the\nconsciousness of the situation in which he was placed--the terror of\nagain facing that court, and that damning evidence, and the recoiling\neffort he made to escape--alas, how vain!--from the grasp of the\nofficers, as they again proceeded to carry him to the court-room. When\nplaced again at the bar, upheld by the officers, pale and trembling, the\nrelentless forms of justice proceeded; the witnesses resumed the chain\nof evidence, and the unfortunate man was again subjected to the rack,\nunder the torture of which his weakened body recoiled with feebler\nefforts, as exhausted nature denied the supply of the sensibility of\npain. But the charge of the judge, which was hollow against the\nprisoner, ingenious in its reasonings and stern in its conclusions,\nagain revived the slumbering agonies, and the return of the verdict\n\"Guilty\" by the jury, was the signal for the commencement of a scene\nwhich the hardest hearted person in the court could not witness without\nhorror. A shrill scream ran through the court-room, and was followed by\nthe extraordinary sight of the prisoner clambering over the bar,\nclutching the clerks' seat, and struggling, against the grasp of the\nofficers, to get forward to the bench, on which the judge sat adjusting\nthe black cap with a view to pronounce the sentence of death. The roused\njudge vociferated to the officers, blaming them for their remissness;\nbut his voice was overcome by the ejaculations of the prisoner, who\ncried for mercy, till, vanquished by the men, who held him firmly down,\nand even stopped his mouth, he fell senseless within the bar, deaf to\nthe words of the fatal sentence, which now, in the midst of death-like\nsilence, rolled over the court with a solemnity never perhaps witnessed\nin any place of justice before or since.\n\nOn being carried to the jail, whither I accompanied him at the request\nof the judge, he was with difficulty brought back to a state of\nconsciousness; but it was only to be able to fill the prison with his\nunavailing cries. I could do him no good; and, though used to\nexhibitions of pain and misery, I was unable to witness longer this most\nintensive picture of the most agonized condition of unhappy man. I left\nhim, but I was repeatedly called to him again, in the interval which\nelapsed between this period and the day of his execution, to bring the\nstrength of our art to bear against the effects of a determination to\nrefuse all sustenance, and to resist all the confirmatory aids of\nnecessity, resignation, and religion. All the efforts of the jailor were\nnot able to get him to take food; the unabated strength of his despair\noccupied every nerve, and chased from his mind all lesser pains of\nhunger or bodily privations and wants; his moral apoplexy had extended\nits deadening effects to his physical system; and, as he lay chained by\nthe leg to his stone couch, it could have been detected only from low\nmurmuring groans, alternated, at long intervals, with sudden yells, that\nthere was any real living action in his mind or body.\n\nThe ministrations of the clergymen who attended him were likely to be of\ngreater service to him than anything within the power of our\nprofessional art; yet they informed me that such was the force of the\nagony under which he laboured, that all their efforts had been\nunavailing to introduce into his mind any one sustaining or comforting\nprinciple or sentiment. For many days, his determination to take no food\ncontinued as strong as at the beginning, whereby his whole system became\nemaciated and deranged; and, even when the burning pangs of hunger and\nthirst, the most acute of all bodily pains, rose upon him to such a\nheight that his moral anguish was forced, for a moment, to cede some\nportion of the territory of feeling to their irresistible impulse, he\ngave way to the imperative necessity like a maniac, starting up and\nseizing the can of water that stood by his couch, and, after draining it\nto the bottom, dashing it from him, and falling back again into the\ndepth of his misery.\n\nThe period of his execution was approaching; but he had become so weak\nthat I gave it as my opinion that he would not be able to walk to the\ngallows. A fever had been induced by the inflammation which generally\nresults from hunger, acting on what we call the _primae viae_; and now,\nwhen the moral pyrexia had so far weakened his brain, that the material\nof suffering seemed almost to be exhausted, he was attacked on the side\nof the flesh with pains and paroxysms of agony, not much less acute than\nthose he had suffered, and was still, to a great extent, undergoing,\nfrom his mental and incurable causes of misery. I had a duty to perform,\nand I did perform it, by applying to this man, who was already\n\"betrothed to death,\" those remedies that might enable him to walk into\nthe arms of his grim bridegroom; yet, I do not blush to own and\nacknowledge, that I secretly sighed that God would overcome my efforts,\nand, by taking the poor victim to himself, save him from the death which\nawaited him at the gallows foot. Yet, how vain are the aspirations of\nmortals, in those emergencies claimed by Heaven as its own vindicated\nperiods and purposes of divine wrath! The food he rejected, when he was\n_able_ to reject it, was supplied in the form of broths, when he was no\nlonger sensible of the reception of that which was to sustain him for\nthe bearing of the agony he dreaded, of all others--a violent death\nbefore an assembled multitude. He was saved from one death for the\npurpose of suffering another, and that in very spite of himself, through\nthe instrumentality of the most pitiable state of man, the want of\nconsciousness. When he came to be informed of the manner in which his\nlife had been protracted and saved, for the purpose of being forcibly\ndragged from him by the relentless arm of public justice, he raved like\na madman, expending the remnant of strength that had been saved to him\nin imprecations against me, in unavailing screams and clanking of the\nchain that still clung to his emaciated limbs.\n\nOn the day of his execution he was as feeble as a child; but the gallows\ndoes not admit the plea of illness as an excuse for non-attendance.\nEmaciated and exhausted, he swooned in the hands of the officers, as\nthey knocked from his limbs the chains that might as well have been\napplied to the infant that has not yet essayed its first attempt to\nwalk; and, if the necessary time had been allowed for recovering him\nentirely from these repeated fits, the period comprehended in his\nsentence might have expired, and he would have been beyond the reach of\nthe law. The executors of justice, themselves the very slaves of form,\nrepudiated all ceremony, and the unfortunate being was carried to the\ncart, to be roused, by its horrid wheels, from a swoon to the awful\nconsciousness of being in the act of being hurried to the scaffold,\nwhich he had not strength to mount, and yet could not escape. The scene\nthat now presented itself was such that many individuals, whose morbid\nappetite for horror was insatiable, flew from the place of execution,\nunable to stand and witness the spectacle of a human being falling from\none swoon into another, incapable of keeping his feet, and lifted\n_softly_, as by the hands of nurses, to receive around his neck the cord\nthat was to strangle him by his own weight. Yet I was forced to witness\nthis sight; for, by a strange contradiction of duties, I was called upon\nto attend the _patient_, and, by the use of stimulants, to render him\nsusceptible of the pangs of death. Yet what was my art, my medicaments,\nto those of the executioner of the last act of the law, whose quick and\nsudden jerk ended in a moment life, disease, terror, and all the ills\ncoiled up in the mortal frame of miserable man!\n\nThe circumstances attending the execution of Walter T---- (though not\nthe condemnation, which was reckoned just), were such as to rouse\nconsiderably the public attention, and the prints of that day were\nfilled with disquisitions as to the expediency of wounding the feelings\nof a nation, by executing a man in a situation of mind and body\ncalculated to excite pity and commiseration, and to exclude the feeling\nof satisfaction which ought to follow the punishment of the most heinous\nof all crimes. Yet all this was plainly absurd; for, if punishments were\nto wait the bodily condition of malefactors, the art of man would soon\ncheat the gallows of its dues, and retribution would be the\nstalking-horse of deceit. The unusual sufferings of this individual were\ncommemorated in a manner very different from the ephemeral columns of\ndaily prints; for Dr. ----, to whom his body, conform to the sentence,\nwas delivered for dissection, anatomized it; and two years after, I\npurchased from him, for the price of fifteen guineas, the entire\nskeleton, to supply a want in my museum, and facilitate the osteological\nstudies of my apprentices.\n\nDuring the twenty years that passed after the period of his execution, I\nseldom cast my eyes upon that dry crackling memorial of the unhappy man,\nas it hung in grim majesty and stoical defiance of the changes of time,\nand of those exacerbations of passion which, in its animated condition,\npenetrated its very marrow, without a cold shivering remembrance of his\nsufferings. On the patella or knee-pan of the left limb there was\nwritten, by Dr. ----, who constructed the skeleton, the words \"Walter\nT----, a murderer, executed at ----, the -- day of ----.\" I wrote, on\nthe patella of the other limb--\"For the extraordinary circumstances\nattending his execution, see the ---- newspaper, published on the same\nday;\" and I retained a copy of the print in my museum, to gratify the\ncuriosity of those who might be interested in the fate of the being\nwhose bones, as they crackled to the touch, sung that peculiar and\nheart-striking _memento mori_, which few people, not professionally\ninterested in the sight, can hear and forget. The indescribable interest\nproduced by a skeleton is well known, among anatomists, to produce in\nyoung students a peculiar facility in acquiring a knowledge of the\nimmense number of bones, many of them bearing long Greek names, which go\nto make up the aggregate of the human system; but the fate of Walter\nT----, which I always communicated to my apprentices, adding the part I\nmyself acted in the dark drama, imparted a peculiar interest to the grim\nspectacle, which no memory, however treacherous, could, even with the\nassistance of years, disregard or renounce.\n\nFor a period of fifteen years after the execution of that unfortunate\nman, my avocations did not lead me into any correspondence of a\nprofessional character with the individuals who resided at the house of\nMr. T----, the murdered man; but I understood generally, though I could\nnot now tell how I got the intelligence, that William B----, his nephew,\nhaving succeeded to the deceased's effects, occupied his house, had got\nmarried, and had a large family of children. About the month of\nDecember, in the year ----, I was, however, called again to the same\nhouse in the fir planting, into which I had not been since that night on\nwhich I witnessed the death-struggles of its former proprietor. The\nemergency which now took me there, was the illness of William B----, who\nhad been seized with that disease called _tic doloureux_, perhaps the\nmost excruciating of all the ailments incident to the human frame. We\nare entirely ignorant of its causes, whether procatartic or\nproximate--all we can say of it being, that it is an affection of the\nnerves of the face, and particularly of that branch of the fifth pair\nwhich comes out at an aperture below the orbit; and that it is attended\nwith such pain--coming on in an instant, generally without premonitory\nwarning--that the devoted victim of its cruelty is often thrown on his\nback on the floor, where he lies, during the existence of the attack, in\na state even beyond what can be figured of the wildest exacerbation of\nfevered frenzy. I have seen a strong man, who could have stood\nunappalled before a cannon mouth in the field of battle, running about\nlike a madman, as he felt some internal monitor (a peculiarity in his\ncase) telling him that an attack was coming on--holding out his hands,\ncrying wildly for help, or as if he had been flying from the clutches of\na hundred demons, and, in a moment after, laid on his back, in the full\ngrasp of the relentless tormentor, uttering the most heart-rending\nscreams, and requiring the power of several people to hold him down.\n\nUnder an attack of this frightful complaint, I found William B----, who,\nbeing in the clutch of a paroxysm, was scarcely conscious of my\npresence. He was extended on his back on a sofa; his fingers were\n(according to the practice of these victims) pressed on that part of the\nface where the pain shoots from; sharp cries, keeping pace with the\nintermitting pangs, were wrung reluctantly from him, filled the house,\nand might have been heard beyond it; his limbs were restless, striking\nthe foot and sides of the couch, and sometimes dashing them as if he\nwould have broken and destroyed all resisting objects; his eye glanced\nfiercely around, as if he disdained the supplication of mortal aid in so\nhopeless a cause. I knew the nature of the disease too well to hope to\nbe able to do him, at that time, any service; the patient himself, by\nthe pressure he was applying to the seat of the pain, was doing all that\ncould be done to ameliorate his sufferings; and, having told his wife\nthat I could be of greater use to him at a time when the pain was off\nhim, I left him, with the intention of calling again, to suggest the\napplication of the only remedy yet known for this complaint.\n\nIn a few days, accordingly, I called again, and found the patient\nrecovered from a new attack which had come on during the previous night.\nHe was greatly exhausted, looked pale and anxious, and dreaded intensely\nanother paroxysm, which he said he could not be able to bear. He\nendeavoured to describe to me his feelings, when the disease arrived at\nits greatest height, and correctly distinguished between those neuralgic\npains, and the fiercest of those that attack the viscera and muscles;\nbringing out, in his unprofessional language, what I have witnessed,\nthat there is often a power felt by the sufferer of resisting, by some\nindescribable internal process, the latter kind of pain, while, in the\nformer (and the _tic doloureux_ is the worst species), the victim is\nconscious of no power within himself of even _bearing_--all his\nenergies, thoughts, and stoical resolutions being put to flight and\nrouted by the fierce, lancinating, burning pangs; and even despair, the\nordinary refuge of the miserable, seems to deny the tortured spirit the\ngrim relief of its dark haven.\n\nAs the patient proceeded in his description, he occasionally drew deep\nsighs, looked despairingly, and shuddered--all symptoms of the complaint\nfrom which he had suffered so much, and might still suffer; and, after a\npause, he asked me, with a timid look, if the disease was known to\nmedical men, or if I thought it _peculiar to him_. I replied that the\ncomplaint was well known, and very far from being uncommon; but that,\nunfortunately, we had not very many remedies to which we could resort or\ntrust for a cure. He looked as if he did not believe me, or doubted my\nstatement, and then asked what the best remedy was. I answered that it\nwas an operation, whereby we divided a part of the facial nerve; and\nrecommended to him the trial of that experiment, for as yet we could not\npronounce certainly of its efficacy. He did not seem to be inclined to\ngo into my views; and I asked him if he feared the pain of the\noperation, and yet dared to face that of his disease, which was a\nthousand times greater. He replied that he cared nothing for the pain of\nthe operation; but yet he felt that he _could not_ undergo it. I looked\nat him with surprise, and requested an explanation; but he answered me\nby the question--\"Are we not sometimes bound to bear pain?\" And, as he\nuttered these words, he seemed to feel great distress. I replied that I\nthought we were bound rather to get quit of pain by every means in our\npower, and that all mankind acted on that principle--a circumstance to\nwhich my profession owed its existence and success.\n\n\"But if this extraordinary, this _miraculous_ pain is not sent for some\npurpose,\" he said, \"why is it that, the moment I think of removing it,\nan attack comes upon me?\" I cannot explain that, I replied; and he then\nwent on. \"The last time you were sent for, I was seized, after my wife\ndespatched you the message; and now,\" holding up his hand, \"behold it\ncomes again, the very instant I begin to talk of a remedy! Yet I must\nsuffer--it is ordained that I must suffer--it is right and just that I\nshould suffer. Welcome, ye dreadful messenger whom I fear and tremble\nat, yet love! You see, sir, he comes!\"\n\nThe unhappy man spoke truth: an attack of his disease came on him at\nthat moment, and he fell back on the couch, screaming, and pressing,\nwith all his force, his hand against the seat from which the pains\nlancinated through the bones and muscles of his face. His cries brought\nhis wife to his assistance; but it is one of the characteristics of this\ndisease, that assistants and comforters can only look on and weep, so\nutterly does it defy and mock all human efforts. I left him in the\ncharge of his wife, to whom I gave some directions, rather to revive her\nhope and remove from her countenance a painful anxiety that clouded it,\nthan with any hope of affording relief. As I proceeded through the\nplanting in which the house was situated, I heard his cries for some\ndistance; and, while I pitied the victim, called up into my mind his\nsentiments, which struck me as being peculiar and mysterious. His\nconviction of some connection between an attack of his complaint and his\nattempt to get it removed, was clearly a fancy; yet the existence of\nsuch an idea indicated something wrong either in his mind or\nconscience--even with the admission that a pain so extraordinary might\nitself suggest, to a sober-minded man, some thoughts of Divine\nretribution, where there was no crime to be expiated of a deeper die\nthan the most of mankind are in the habit of committing.\n\nWhatever might be the ground of the delusion under which the patient\nlaboured, it was necessary, at all events, to remove the notion that an\neffort to cure the disease had any supposed mysterious connection with\nan attack; the best way of accomplishing which was to hold forth, by\ncalling and applying remedial processes, the handle of an occasion to\nthe unseen power to make the attack, which, if not taken advantage of\n(and who could suppose it would?) might expose the absurdity of his\nsuspicion or conviction. I accordingly called again next day, and\nobserved, as I entered, that the patient's eye scanned me with a look as\neloquent as words, that I had brought with me another attack of his\ncomplaint. I ascertained that he had not had an attack since the one I\nwitnessed, and then told him, that, as he would not consent to allow the\nnerve to be severed, I had brought a lotion which might prove\nefficacious, if applied to the diseased parts in the manner I explained\nto him. I held out to him the bottle, but he looked at it with fear, and\nsaid, he _could not_, he _dared not_ take it.\n\n\"Doctor,\" said he, \"this disease must take its course. It never was\ndesigned for ordinary mortals, and I cannot believe that you or any\nmedical man ever witnessed in another these excruciating tortures. There\nis nothing human about this visitation.\" \"Nonsense,\" said I, \"I know\nnothing of miraculous diseases.\" \"Like the forked lightning,\" he\nproceeded, \"it leaves no trace of its progress. There is no wound, no\ninflammation, no fever, not a spot in the skin, to tell that, under it,\nand, as it were, touching it, there exists agonies, in comparison of\nwhich the pain of red-hot irons applied to the skinless flesh (under\nwhich nature would claim the relief of sinking) is as nothing; for I\ncannot faint--I cannot get refuge in insensibility--I cannot die.\"\n\"Still, all natural,\" said I. \"No,\" he went on, \"speak no more of\nremedies against Heaven's visitations; but let me suffer, that, by\nsuffering, I may expiate. I shall immediately have another visit from my\nmessenger. Oh, sir, who shall help him that is accursed of Heaven.\"\n\nHe turned his body from me, to hide his face, and I could perceive that\nhe shook as if from a spasm of the heart. I told him that he talked like\none under the dark veil of religious melancholy, or rather like one who\nhad something on his conscience different from the ordinary burden of\nhuman frailty, making him attribute to retribution what was only a\ndisease incident to mankind; that Heaven was not against the cure of any\nmortal; and that he would, for certainty, have no attack that day, nor,\nperhaps, for several days, especially if he used the lotion I\nrecommended to him. He heard me in silence, shaking, at intervals, his\nhead, solemnly and incredulously, turning his eyes to heaven, and\nclasping his hands as if in mental adjuration. \"It will not do,\" he\ncried. \"I have more faith in the language of this monitor than in that\nof frail man. I will have another attack instantly. Leave me! Why will\nyou force me thus to brave heaven, between, whose dread powers and me\nthere is a secret compact recorded here--here?\"--striking his chest.\n\"This disease I fear and tremble at; but it is _not_ hell, and, by\nbearing the one, I may avoid the other. So do I claim these pangs,\nsharper than scorpions' tongues, as my right, my due, my redemption. Oh\nGod! what a price do I pay for relief from eternal fire!\"\n\nHe sat down as he concluded these mysterious words, in an attitude of\nexpectation of the coming paroxysm, and I conceived that my best reply\nto his wild and incoherent ideas would be, the refuting fact of the\nabsence of any attack at that time. I, therefore, left him; and, as I\npassed along the passage to the door, was met by his anxious wife, who\ninquired of me, with tears in her eyes, if I knew what this malady was,\nwhich, leaving no trace of its presence, yet produced such a pain as she\nnever thought mortal was doomed to suffer; and, above all, she was\nsolicitous to know if I had got any insight into her husband's mind,\nwhich was loaded with some awful burden in some degree connected with\nthis calamity; for, since ever the first attack, she had got no rest at\nnight, and no peace during day--his haunted vigils, his sleep-walking,\nhis dreaming, his agonies, and prayers, being unremitting and\nheart-rending, as well to him as to her. She wept bitterly as she\nconcluded this account of her sufferings.\n\nI could give her little satisfaction beyond assuring her that the\ndisease had nothing supernatural about it, as her husband thought, and\ngiving it as my opinion that the unusual character of the complaint\nmight, in a serious, contemplative-minded man, have given rise to the\ndelusion that it came direct from heaven as a punishment of errors\nincident to fallen humanity. I informed her, also, of my expectation of\nremoving this delusion, partly by impressing him with the disappointment\nhe would likely feel that day in experiencing no attack consequent upon\nmy remedial endeavours; and, in a short time, I might prevail upon him\nto allow me to perform the operation I had recommended.\n\nI left the poor woman praying fervently that I might succeed; for, until\nsome change was effected on her husband's mind, she could expect little\npeace, far less happiness, on earth. As I proceeded homewards, I had\ngreat misgivings as to my having exhausted the secret of this man's\nmisery; yet my efforts at fathoming the true mystery of this unusual\nimputation of a disease to the avenging retribution of an offended God\nwere unavailing, and I left to time to discover what was beyond my\npower.\n\nAs I expected, I found, on my next call, that no attack had followed my\nlast visit. The patient was somewhat easier; yet his mind was apparently\nstill greatly troubled. I impressed him with the vanity of the delusion\nunder which he laboured, and prevailed upon him to consent to the\napplication of the stimulating lotion to the scat of the disease. In\nyielding this consent, he underwent a great struggle; I noticed him\nseveral times in the attitude of silent prayer, and, as I was about to\nbegin the application of the medicine, he recoiled from my grasp,\nturning up his eyes, muttering indistinct words, and trembling like one\nabout to undergo a severe punishment. All this had nothing to do with\nthe character of the simple stimulant I was about to apply, but was\nclearly the working of his terror at the application of a remedial\nprocess of any kind to a heaven-sent disease; and I was latterly obliged\nto use a degree of force, assisted by the energies of his wife, before I\nsucceeded in my endeavours to get the medicine applied. His fears and\ntremors, silent prayers and murmurings, continued during the whole time\nI was occupied in rubbing in the liniment; and, when I had finished, he\nfell on his knees and prayed silently for several minutes, and then\nthrew himself down exhausted on the couch.\n\nTwo days afterwards, I called again, and found that there had still been\nno new attack of the disease--a fact communicated to me, on my entrance,\nby Mrs. B----, who was auguring from it the happiest results. On the day\nfollowing, however, he had a most violent onset immediately before I\ncalled; and I ascertained that, for two days previous, the liniment had\nbeen discontinued, in consequence of a return of the patient's\nconscientious scruples; so that I could now reverse upon him his own\nargument, which I did not fail to do, pointing out to him and impressing\nupon him that, in place of Heaven being offended at his using remedial\nmeasures, he had now experienced its displeasure at not adopting those\nmeans which Providence points out to man for arresting the progress of\ndisease. I therefore urged him, with all the force of my reasoning and\npower of persuasion, to consent to undergoing the operation I had\nproposed, the dividing of the nerve--backing my arguments with the\nstated conviction that, if he did not consent, he might be a martyr for\nmany years to the most painful of diseases, and be deprived of all\ncomfort in this world. He heard me in vain; for his conscientious\nscruples had leagued with his former terror, and he rejected my advice;\nbut he did it as one compelled by a secret power, which overawed him by\nits stern decrees, and scattered his opposing resolutions with the\nbreath of its whisper.\n\nJustice to myself and my profession required that I should not visit\nagain a man who rejected my advice, and whose case seemed fitted rather\nfor the ministrations of a servant of Christ than a disciple of\nAEsculapius. Several days passed without my hearing anything of the\ncondition of the unhappy patient; but I had no hopes of his having got\nquit of his neuralgia, which too often adheres to its victim like a\ndouble-tongued adder.\n\nOne evening I was in my study, reading an old copy of Celsus, over a\nfire nearly exhausted, and by the light of a candle, whose long black\nwick indicated the attention I was devoting to the old physician. The\nnight was dark and windy, and I was assured that, if no emergency\ndemanded my presence out of doors (which I fervently wished), I stood\nlittle risk of being disturbed by any _walking_ patients, generally\ndeemed by us the most troublesome of all our employers. At my side hung\nmy skeletons; and, among the rest, that of Walter T----; around were\nother monuments of the frailty and the agonies of human life, all too\nfamiliar to me to take off my attention from the old chronicler of\ndiseases, their causes, symptoms, and cures.\n\nWhile thus occupied, my bell rang with great violence and I started up\nfrom the study into which I had fallen. In an instant, my door was flung\nopen. William B---- stood before me, the picture of a man who had broken\nout of bedlam: his eyes flashed the fire of an excruciating agony; his\nright hand was pressed convulsively on his cheek; his left made wild\nsigns, intended to supply the want of words which his tongue could not\nutter; every symptom indicated that he was under the full grasp of his\nimplacable enemy. Recovering his breath, he cried out, \"I cannot bear\nthis any longer.\" \"Patience,\" said I. \"No!\" he proceeded, \"the extent of\nhuman powers of suffering may be overrated by superior avengers. I must\nbrave Heaven, or die under its exaction of the last pang of an\noverstrained retribution; death will not come to my prayer, and I am\nstung to rebellion. Will you, sir, use your operating knife against the\nwrath of Heaven? I am resolved. Though conscience cannot be amputated,\nthis hell-scorched nerve may be severed. Come next what will, this must\nbe ended. I am at last prepared.\"\n\nThis frenzied burst, wrung from a mind labouring under some terrible\nburden, startled and alarmed me; and it was some moments before I could\nperceive the meaning which was veiled under his strange words and\nmanner. He had been seized with an attack of his complaint, and, unable\nto bear it, had run out of the house to seek some relief at my hands. I\nrequested him to be seated; and, though I had to struggle with the\ndisadvantage of candle light, and the want of one of my assistants, I\nresolved upon performing the operation before the agony had abated.\n\nI accordingly rung for my oldest apprentice, and made preparations for\nthe work, which, though simple, requires skill and care. The patient was\nseated on a chair, formed for receiving the back of the head on a soft\ncushion, and used by me for operations on the upper extremities.\nEverything was ready; my apprentice came in, and, as he passed quickly\nforward, struck his head against the skeleton of Walter T----, that hung\nat the side, and a little to the back of the operating chair on which\nthe patient was seated. That _perterricrepus_ of dry bones crackled as\nthe body swung from side to side, and attracted the attention of the\nman, whose eye, tortured as he was, sought fearfully the cause of the\nstrange noise.\n\nI saw that his attention was in an instant rivetted on the figure, and\nperceived that his look was directed to the words (written in large\nletters) on the knee pan. The knife was in my hand, and my apprentice\nwas about to lay hold of his head. The attitude of the man arrested my\neye, and I witnessed, what I have often heard of, but never saw before,\nthat extraordinary erection of the hair of the head, produced by extreme\nfear, and known by the name of horripilation.\n\nI now thought he was afraid of the knife--but I was soon undeceived.\nWith a loud yell he started up suddenly and violently--his hair seemed\nto move with horror--his body was in the attitude of flying from the\nfigure, yet his limbs obeyed not his fear; he stood rivetted to the\nspot, with his eyes chained on the skeleton, his lips wide open, and his\nhands extended. In this position he remained for several seconds, while\nmy apprentice and I gazed on in wonder on the horror-stricken victim.\n\n\"I said I would brave Heaven,\" he exclaimed in wild accents, \"by curing\na heaven-sent disease; but is Heaven to be braved by man? How came that\nfigure there?\"\n\n\"That is easily explained,\" said I.\n\n\"It is\"--he continued--\"my cousin, Walter T----, who died for me? Is he\nnot heaven-sent also? See, he moves and nods his grim head at me, and\nsays, 'You shall not escape the vengeance of the Almighty. The nerve\nshall _not_ be cut, and your agonies must continue to the last moment of\nyour existence.' And who has a better right to speak these flaming\nwords, than he whose cause is vindicated by the powers above--he whose\nagonies, produced by me--me, wretched, miserable man!--were ended by an\nunjust death on the scaffold, where I should have expiated the crime for\nwhich he suffered. Guard me from that grim spectre! I cannot stand that\nsight!\" And, with a loud crash, he fell on the floor.\n\nIn the midst of the confusion produced in my mind by what I had seen and\nheard, the glare of a revealed mystery flashed upon me; and I shuddered\neven to think of what might turn out to be true. Could it it be possible\nthat that wretched man whose bones hung before me--whose sufferings at\nhis trial, in the jail, on the scaffold, were unprecedented, and such as\nno man ever endured--was innocent of the crime for which he was hanged?\nEven the suspicion was too painful to me; and I recoiled from the\nskeleton, as my eye, led by my thoughts, rested on the grim memorial.\nThe agitation into which I was thrown rendered me incapable of thought.\n\"Get him home! get him home!\" I cried to my apprentice, and sought, in\nthe retirement of another room, some refuge from these sights, and an\nopportunity of calmly contemplating all the bearings of this apparently\ndreadful discovery.\n\nMy apprentice, with difficulty, got the unhappy man into my coach, and\ntook him home. Next day, I was called, early in the forenoon, by an\nexpress from his wife. I found him in bed, in the very room where Mr.\nT---- was murdered. An attack of his disease was upon him, and his\nconscience had roused him to a degree bordering on madness.\n\nVain, indeed, would be my effort to describe what I now saw and heard;\nthe powers of the physical and moral demons that externally and\ninternally, at the same moment, wrung his nerves and fired his brain,\nseemed to vie with each other in the degree of torture to which they\nwere capable of elevating his sufferings. His broken exclamations shewed\nthat he was more and more convinced that the pain he endured was a part\nof the punishment of the crime that lay on his conscience; and, being\nonly a foretaste of that he was doomed to suffer in another world, his\nimagination was haunted by the shadows of coming ills, a thousand times\nmore terrible than were those he was struggling with, dreadful as those\nwere. Screams, prayers, and ejaculations, succeeded each other\nunremittingly. As Despair threw over him her dark mantle, he raised\nhimself in the bed, and, grasping the bedclothes, wrung them between his\nhands, and twisted them in intricate torsels round his arms, beating his\nhead against the posts, and gnashing his teeth with the fury of a\nmaniac.\n\nI waited until the paroxysm should pass over, in order to get from him\nthe dreadful truth. His wife looked on him with eyes where no tear\nsoftened the fiery glance of horror and despair, and I conjectured, from\nher changed appearance, that she had heard some part of his confession.\nAll at once he became calm, and I perceived he fixed his look upon me. I\nreturned steadily his glance. Holding out his arms, he said, with an\neffort to resist an impulse to fury--\n\n\"Doctor, it must out. Heaven knows it, and what avails it that it is\nconcealed from earth? Dear wife! once the beloved of my soul, know ye\nthat, for ten years, you have nightly taken to your soft confiding\nbosom, a----.\" Here he stopped, as if the word were a physical thing\nsticking in his throat.\n\n\"A kind husband,\" said his wife.\n\n\"A murderer!\" he said--\"ay, the murderer, first of an uncle, and then of\na cousin! Turn from me your eyes, and I will confess all--for now my\nrelief is in confession; and that will not be satisfied till I throw\nmyself at the back of the prison door, and cry through the gratings to\nlet me in for mercy's sake. I lived with my uncle, but I was not his\nheir; and the death that seemed long a-coming, could, at any rate, only\nbenefit my cousin, Walter T----, whose apparition I saw yesterday, and\nsee now--dreadful sight! My bad habits generated a morbid desire for\nmoney, which I could not want. I stole my uncle's watch, and heard him\nblame my cousin. My fancy took the hint, and I formed, with a care\nworthy of a better cause, a deep scheme, whereby I might, by one spring,\njump into the possession and enjoyment of wealth. I waited the first\nfall of snow, and, with my cousin's stolen shoes, walked from that\nwindow to his house, where I deposited the originals of the foot-prints,\ntogether with a pistol and the stolen watch, by introducing them through\na small skylight on the top of his house. I then returned to my uncle's\nhouse by another path, entered his bedroom, where he was sleeping at the\nfire, pretended that some one was at the window, drew it up so that the\nservants might hear it, turned round, shot (with another pistol) my\nuncle through the chest, and cried out at the window to stop the\nmurderer. An alarm was raised; some one ran for my cousin, who was found\nin his own house; while I hastened for you, who became a tool in my\nhands. Why need I proceed? What follows is known. What preceded my\ncrime, I have no patience to tell: how I seduced my cousin, in moments\nof intoxication, to engage in conversations afterwards proved against\nhim; how I got my uncle to blame him for stealing the watch, in presence\nof the housekeeper; and many other ingenious treacherous schemes. By\ngetting my cousin convicted, I removed out of the way the only\nimpediment between me and my uncle's property. He was hanged, and I took\nhis place as my uncle's heir. Thus was I guilty of a double murder. How,\nO God! have I been brought to tell what I have for fifteen years\nshuddered to think of? But it has been wrung from me by a heaven-sent\ncalamity, which has, for these few moments, intermitted, by Heaven's\ndecree, to allow me breath and power to make this confession; and now,\nbeing done, my pain comes again, and these crackling bones of Walter\nT---- rattle in my ears and dance before my eyes. Whither shall I fly\nfor refuge? Heaven, earth, and hell are against me--my own flesh wars\nwith my soul, and my soul with my flesh!\"\n\nAnd he again twisted the clothes round his arms, and wrestled with the\nopposing energies of his own muscles. On the other side of me was a\nscene not less affecting. His wife, struck to the heart by the horrible\nconfession, had fallen on the floor in a swoon. Shall I confess it? The\ninstant I saw in her signs of recovery, I hurried out of the house. What\nI heard and saw; what I cogitated of the part I took in the death of\nthat poor innocent man, Walter T----; what my fancy conjured up of his\nagonies, contrasted with his innocence, and the injustice that was done\nto him, by the misdirected laws of his country--was too much for me, and\nI flew for relief to the duties of my profession.\n\nI afterwards requested my assistant to attend the unhappy patient in my\nplace. He reported to me that, when he called next day, William B----\nwas in a condition, if possible, worse than that in which I had\nwitnessed him. He had contracted an irresistible desire to throw himself\ninto the hands of justice; and, in order to get his wish effected, had\nleaped from the window in his shirt, and had got a considerable way\nthrough the planting, on his way to the house of the procurator-fiscal.\nHe was overtaken and seized; but he fought long with the people who had\ncaught him--making the wood ring with his screams, and crying that, as\nthe murderer of his uncle and cousin, it was necessary, ordained by\nheaven, and conform to justice, that he should be hanged.\n\nMy assistant had been able to yield him no relief; and I was called upon\nby Mrs. B----, who entreated me, with tears in her eyes, to try and\ndevise some means of putting an end to the terrible state of suffering\nin which she was placed. She attempted to make me believe that her\nhusband was deranged in his mind, and had merely _conceived_ the\ncircumstances of the confession he had made in my presence. I did not\nendeavour to undeceive the poor woman; but the conclusion I had come to\nwas almost exclusive of any doubt of the truth of what had been wrung\nfrom the patient; and I contented myself with stating that, if there was\nany delirium about him, it might be relieved by the cessation of the\npainful disease which, in all likelihood, produced it. She then inquired\nif it were not possible, by any means, however violent, to attempt a\ncure of the disease, in spite of the opposing efforts of her husband;\nand I replied, that the remedy formerly proposed might be resorted to if\nthe patient were bound down, or held by the energies of strong men,\nwhile the operation was in the act of being performed; but that such a\nstep could only be justified by derangement or madness, and the\nuncertain nature of the remedy was, besides, a strong reason against its\nbeing so applied. Glad to grasp at any hope of reducing the amount of\nher misery, she was not inclined to hesitate, for an instant, about the\npropriety or possibility of the scheme of relief I had hinted at, and\nsaid she would have individuals present in the house to apply the\nnecessary restraining force, at any time I chose to fix for carrying the\npurpose into execution. For the sake of the poor woman and her\ndistressed family, I felt disposed to make one other attempt at\nameliorating a grief which, however, I feared, had its cause much beyond\nthe reach of a surgeon's knife, and fixed an hour next day for attending\nat the house, with a view to ascertain if any consent could be wrung\nfrom the unhappy man to allow something to be done at least for his\nbody.\n\nI accordingly kept my appointment; but found that matters had, in the\nmeantime, assumed a different and more serious aspect. The patient was\nnow bound down by strong ropes, and two stout men sat beside him, ready\nto resist his efforts to escape, or to commit any act of violence. He\nhad that morning jumped from his bedroom window, and flown, in a state\napproaching to nakedness, to the prison, situated about two miles\ndistant, at the door of which he knelt down, and beseeched the jailor,\nin tones of piteous supplication, to receive him into what he called his\n_sanctuary_. The jailor, seeing a naked man supplicating to get _in_ to\na place so generally feared and shunned, concluded he was mad, and paid\nlittle attention to his asseverations--made, as he said, before God,\nthat he was guilty of murder, and wished to be hanged, with a view to an\nexpiation of his crime. Having got his name, the jailor sent to his\nwife, and, assistance having been brought, he was carried home, crying\nbitterly all the way that no one would take vengeance on him, and ease\nthe burning pangs of his mind, by punishing him according to the extent\nof his crime.\n\nThe moment I entered, I saw, by the peculiar light and motion of his\neye, that he was on the point of madness, which would likely exhibit\nitself in the form of a brain fever. He looked wildly at me, and,\ntugging at the ropes, attempted to release himself. I remember many of\nhis expressions, which, however affecting through the ear, would appear\nonly as rant to a reader.\n\nThe supernatural strength of an access of brain fever enabled him to\nburst the cords; and the attendants were obliged to apply their hands to\nkeep him down, until they could again bind him. Phrenitis, with all its\nhorrors, had commenced. The history of a brain fever is the history of a\nman when he has ceased, from the very extremity of his agony, to\ninterest feelings, which seek in vain for traces of humanity in the\nraving maniac; and why should I try to describe what never has been, and\nnever will be described with any approach to the terrible truth? Heaven\nwas at last merciful, and closed his sufferings with the seal of death.\n\n\n\n\nRATTLING, ROARING WILLIE.\n\n\nRattling, Roaring Willie, an ancient Border minstrel, was a well-known\ncharacter, in the south of Scotland, in the time of James V. His title,\nSir Walter Scott supposes, was derived from his bullying disposition;\nbut this, we humbly think, is not precisely the term which the great\nnovelist ought to have employed on the occasion. It rather does Willie\nan injustice; for, although, according to Johnson, bully means no more\nthan a noisy, quarrelsome person, yet usage has associated with it a\ncertain degree of cowardice; and we are apt to look on a bully as a\nvainglorious fellow, who is much more ready with his tongue than his\nhands. Now, this was by no means the case with Willie. He certainly was\na rattling, roaring boy, as described by his soubriquet; but he was no\ncraven; he could drink and fight with any man that ever handled cup or\ncudgel; was at all times as ready to bite as to bark; and, indeed, it\nwas his pugnacious disposition that ultimately caused his\ndestruction.[1]\n\n[Footnote 1: This sturdy beggar of whom Sir Walter Scott makes mention,\nwas hanged at Jedburgh for having killed in a duel, fought with swords,\none of his own profession. If the combatants had been knights, the\nsurvivor would have stood a better chance for a title than for a\nhalter.--ED.]\n\nOur intention at present, however, is, not to enter into a defence of\nWillie's character, which we suspect must now be left to shift for\nitself, but to relate an adventure of his which is not very generally\nknown; and therefore, we go on to say, that our \"jovial harper\" once\ntook it into his head to treat himself to a tramp through Fife, to see\nwhat kind of ale they brewed on the other side of the Frith, and\ngenerally, to see what sort of living he might pick up there. Having\ncome to this resolution, Willie slung his harp on his back, took a stout\ncudgel in his fist, and, after partaking of a Hawick gill with a crony\nin the ancient little town from which the celebrated measure just spoken\nof takes its name, he started, and drank, and fought, and roared, and\nplayed his way through the country, till he arrived at the shore of\nLeith, where he intended ferrying over to Kinghorn. The ferry boat had\njust put off, when Willie reached the quay, all breathless and\nexhausted--for he had run every step of the way from Edinburgh, where he\nhad stopped to refresh his inward man; and where he would have tarried\nmuch longer in the discharge of this important duty, had he not been\ntold that, if he did not make haste, he would certainly lose the boat.\nOn perceiving the latter pulling away from the shore--\"Haud there!\nhaud!\" roared out Willie. \"Back, ye villains! and tak me owre; and I'll\ngie ye a stoup o' the best in Kinghorn.\"\n\nObedient to Willie's summons--the more so, perhaps, on account of the\npromise that was associated with it--the boatman put about, and the\nminstrel was taken on board, and in due time safely deposited on the\nopposite shore; where, having redeemed his pledge to the seamen, he\nstarted for the interior of the country; and, after a walk of some\nfifteen or twenty miles, which he had traversed with various success, he\nmade up to a respectable looking house at a little distance from the\nroad, where he proposed to seek quarters for the night.\n\nThe house alluded to was the residence of the laird of Whinnyhill, or\nWinnel, as he was more shortly called.\n\nBeing a total stranger in the place, Willie assumed a modesty of manner\nand quietness of demeanour which, it must be confessed, were not amongst\nthe number of his natural failings; but he felt that he could not, with\npropriety, use the same freedom here that he did in his own part of the\ncountry, where he was well known to everybody. It was, therefore, with\nthis sort of mock-modesty, that Willie appeared at the laird of\nWhinnyhill's gate, and sought a night's quarters from a person who\nhappened to be standing at the said gate when he approached. This person\nwas the laird himself.\n\n\"A night's quarters!\" said the latter, in reply to Willie's request,\nand, at the same time, eyeing him archly, and exhibiting a degree of\nrespect in his manner which Willie was grievously at a loss to\nunderstand--\"that ye shall hae, sir--a score o' them an' ye choose, and\nthe best that my puir hoose can afford, to the bargain.\" And, after\nbestowing on his visitor another look of intelligence, which intimated a\nvast deal more than the latter could comprehend, the laird conducted him\ninto the house. On entering, Willie made directly, and of his own\naccord, for his usual quarters in such cases--the kitchen; but this he\ndid in direct opposition to the laird, who was conducting him towards\nhis best apartment. On observing, however, that Willie insisted on\ntaking the former course--\n\n\"Weel, weel, sir,\" he said, laughing, \"ye will hae yer joke oot, I see;\nbut ye'll do me the honour\" (this he said in a whisper) \"to join me ben\nthe hoose when ye tire o' yer amusement?\"\n\nTo this proposal, Willie, though perfectly at a loss to comprehend the\nmeaning of all this extraordinary kindness, readily assented; but, in\nthe meantime, proceeded to the destination which he had originally\nproposed to himself. Here he found assembled the domestic servants of\nthe family--lads and lassies, to the number of eight or nine. This was\njust what Willie wanted--an auditory; and he lost no time in giving them\na taste of his calling. In ten minutes, he had the kitchen in an uproar\nwith noise and laughter. He sang, danced, played, and pulled the girls\nabout, till one and all declared they had never seen such a harumscarum\nchiel in all their lives. To all these various sources of entertainment,\nhe added some of his best stories, which, as much from the sly and\n_pawky_ manner in which they were told, as from their inherent humour,\nwere found to be irresistible; and the consequence was, that there was\nnot one within hearing of them capable of doing anything else than\nlaughing or listening to the sly narrator.\n\nWillie, in short, as he always was, was triumphant. Amongst the merry\nminstrel's auditory on this occasion, was the laird himself; and none\nseemed more to enjoy the fun than he did, although there was all along\nin his manner that most unaccountable degree of respect for his guest,\nwhich had already marked his conduct towards him, and which the object\nof it had such difficulty in comprehending. If this circumstance,\nhowever, puzzled Willie, how much more was he confounded, when the laird\nwhispered to him, that, \"as they had now had plenty o' daffin, he would\nbe glad of his company ben the hoose, where the guidwife had prepared a\nbit comfortable supper for them!\" It was in vain that Willie said, he\n\"wad just remain where he was, and tak a mouthfu' alang wi' the\nservants--that he was not in the habit of sitting at gentlefolks'\ntables,\" &c. No excuses of this or any other kind would avail with the\nlaird, who again bestowed on Willie one of those mysterious looks of\nintelligence which have been already alluded to, and insisted upon his\naccompanying him \"ben the hoose.\" Finding that his host would take no\ndenial, and perceiving, moreover, that it was at least all well meant,\nWillie at length followed the laird, and soon found himself seated at a\nplentiful board, with the \"guidwife\" dressed in her best at the head.\n\nMuch, however, as all this surprised the jovial harper, it did not in\nthe least disconcert him, or deprive him, in any degree, of the\npresence of mind and ready wit--shall we add impudence?--that was\nnatural to him. Diffidence, as has been already hinted, was no part of\nhis character; and he, therefore, very soon found himself perfectly at\nease in his unwonted situation, and joked away with the laird and his\nwife till the roof rang again with the laughter of a joyous party; but\nit was not till the bottle had been introduced, and had made several\nrounds, that Willie began to shine forth in meridian splendour. The\nstimulating liquor had no sooner begun to operate, than he broke out\ninto the wild and obstreperous glee which so signally characterised him\nin his cups; and renewing (but now with double effect, in consequence of\nthe drink he had swallowed, and the generally comfortable state in which\nhe found himself after an excellent supper) the part he had acted in the\nkitchen, he roared, and shouted, and sang, till the very rafters\nshook--slapped the goodwife on the shoulders, and gripped the hand of\nthe husband till he nearly squeezed the blood out of his finger ends.\n\nBoth the laird and his lady were delighted with their guest; and it is\ncertain that he was no less pleased with them. As it got late, however,\nthe latter retired from the apartment, and left her husband and Willie\nto finish the night and the bottle by themselves--a task which they\ninstantly set about with great zeal and good will. Cup followed cup with\nmarvellous celerity, and with each the bonds of friendship between the\nrevellers were drawn closer and closer. They grasped each other's hands\nin the fulness of their hearts, and joined together in the choruses of\nthe bacchanalian ditties, with which Willie, from time to time, at once\nvaried and enlivened the festivity of the evening. It must be remarked,\nhowever, that, during the night, the laird had more than once hinted to\nhis guest that he knew more of him than he was perhaps aware of.\n\n\"However, let that flee stick to the wa',\" he would add. \"I'm no ane to\nspoil onybody's sport, much less yours. Only tak my advice, sir, and tak\ncare o' yoursel, if ye be gaun through the Middlemass wood; for there's\nbeen twa or three loose-looking chiels seen dodgin aboot there since\nyesterday morning.\"\n\n\"Ye ken mair o' me than I'm aware o', my honest friend,\" said Willie, on\nthe occasion alluded to, in reply to his host's hints and insinuations,\nand at the same time slapping him on the shoulder. \"I weel believe that,\nfor I'm weel kent in the south country; but, bating the drap drink, and\na sough about my being rather fond o' the lassies, ye could hear nae ill\no' me, I think.\"\n\n\"Oh, no, sir--the ne'er a bit,\" replied his host; \"nae ill ava. Thae twa\nthings just comprehend the very warst I ever heard o' ye.\"\n\n\"And as to the chiels in the Middlemass wood, laird,\" continued Willie,\n\"I'll tak my chance o' them. An' I should forgather wi' them, I hae a\nbit airn here\" (and he clapped his hand on his sword) \"that has stood me\nin guid stead mony a time before, and I'm willin to trust a guid deal\ntill't yet. I can either tak or gie a clour, when such things are gaun.\"\n\n\"'Od, sir, but ye play yer character to the life!\" shouted out the\ndelighted laird. \"I've seen twa or three maskins and mummins in my day,\nbut confound me if ever I saw ane come up to ye! Ye haena said or dune a\nthing the nicht oot o' joint--a' clean and richt, as if ye had been at\nthe trade a' yer life.\"\n\n\"The deil's in the man!\" replied Willie, in amazement at the singularity\nof the laird's remarks, \"and havena I been at it a' my life--ay, sin' I\nwas nae bigger than a pint stoup.\"\n\n\"Ah! ha! ha! very guid, very guid,\" roared out Whinnyhill. \"There's nae\ndrivin ye into a corner, I see, sir. Here's to ye again, sir, and lang\nmay ye be spared to amuse yersel and ither folk too!\" Saying this, the\nlaird, who was already within a trifle of being floored, turned over\nsuch another quantity of liquor as threatened to consummate the\ncatastrophe.\n\nHis example was immediately followed by Willie, who, though far from\nbeing in a perfectly sound condition, was yet, from long practice,\nbetter able to stand his drink than his host. Still both were in such a\nstate that it was impossible their carouse could go on much longer; and\naccordingly, by common consent, it soon after came to a close, but not,\nit must be observed, before they had finished every drop of drinkable\nliquor that stood before them. This accomplished, the laird, though his\nway was but a devious one, conducted the minstrel to his sleeping\napartment, where he left him for the night; and here again the latter's\nsurprise was excited, by finding that he had been shown into what was\nevidently the best bedroom in the house. The sheets were as white as a\nwreath of snow, while the bed itself was of the softest down, presenting\nto Willie a very striking contrast to the bundles of straw and coarse\nragged mats which formed his usual couch during his peregrinations.\n\nOn observing this climax to the singularly kind treatment which he had\nmet with in his present quarters, Willie flung himself down into a\nchair, and endeavoured to think as well as he could over the events of\nthe night, and to see if he could hit upon any plausible conjecture\nregarding the cause of the extraordinary hospitality that had been shown\nhim; and, with a look of drunken gravity, he began thus to cogitate\nwithin himself.\n\n\"The deil hae me, but this beats a'! I've often heard the folk o' Fife\nwere queer folk, and, by my faith, I find it true. But it's a' on the\nricht side. I wish I could find such queer folk everywhar I gaed to. Nae\nqueer folk o' this kind in our part o' the country. Faith, Willie, lad,\nye fell on yer feet whan ye cam here. The best in the hoose! Naething\nless, as I'm a sinner; and as much drink as\"--here Willie hiccupped\nviolently--\"as ony decent man wad wish to hae under his belt--that's, no\nto be the waur o't; and, to crown a', a bed that micht ser' the King\nhimsel. This _is_ what I ca' treatin a man weel. And such a canty hearty\ncock o' a landlord, too! I haena seen his match this mony a day, and I'm\nfear'd they're owre thin sawn for me to see't for mony a day to come.\"\nAnd here Willie paused for a considerable time, to indulge in fancies\nwhich were either too profound or came too thick for utterance. At\nlength, however, starting up from his reverie, having been unable,\nevidently, to make anything of his conjecture, \"I'm much obliged to him,\nat ony rate,\" he muttered, \"and that's a' I can say about it.\" And,\nimmediately after, he tumbled into bed. Willie, however, had not lain\nhere more than a minute, when his attention was attracted by a low\nmurmuring, as if of two persons in conversation in the adjoining\napartment.\n\nThe partition, which was close by his ear, was of wood; and he found\nthat, by listening attentively, he could gather pretty fully all that\npassed; and to this employment, therefore, he immediately betook\nhimself, when he discovered that the laird and his wife were the\nspeakers. The result of Willie's application on this occasion was his\noverhearing the following conversation. His own share of it, as it was\nof course interjectional and inaudible to the parties, we put within\nparentheses.\n\n\"But are ye sure it's him, John, after a'?\" said the laird's better\nhalf.\n\n(\"Him!--wha?\" muttered Willie.)\n\n\"Sure that it's him, guidwife!\" replied the laird, hiccupping at\nintervals as he spoke. \"Deil a doot's o' that! Did ye ever ken me\nmistaen in my life, when I said I was sure o' a' thing? I kent him the\nmoment I clapped my ee upon him, although I never saw him in my life\nbefore.\"\n\n(\"Did ye, faith?\" here again interjected Willie, who had no doubt that\nhe himself was the subject of the conversation to which he was\nlistening. \"My word, then, but ye're a gleg chiel.\")\n\n\"There's that about him that canna be mistaen by ony thing o' a quick\nee, however he may disguise himsel.\"\n\n(\"Disguise himsel! What does the body mean by that? Whan did I disguise\nmysel, unless it war wi' liquor? Maybe he means that though.\")\n\n\"And, besides,\" continued the unconscious speaker, \"hadna I certain\ninformation, frae a quarter that I couldna doot, that he had set oot on\nane o' his vagaries, and that there was every reason to believe that he\nhad come oor way. And it's the very dress, too, that was described to\nme.\"\n\n(\"By my troth, then, but that's queer aneuch!\" here quoth Willie. \"Wha\nthe deil could hae tellt you that I was on the tramp, and that I was\ncoming this way? My very dress described, too--'od, that's\nunaccountable.\")\n\n\"It's a queer notion that o' the man's wanderin aboot the country this\nway,\" here interposed the laird's wife. \"I'm sure he maun meet wi' mony\nodd adventures whan he's on thae tramps.\"\n\n(\"Deil a doot's o't--mony a ane; and that I hae met wi' the nicht's ane\no' them. But what's strange in the notion o' me gaun aboot the country?\nHow else could I mak a leevin o't?\")\n\n\"His faither had the same trick before him,\" replied the laird to his\nwife's remarks.\n\n(\"That's a curst lie--my faither, honest man, was a douce, decent,\nsober-livin weaver.\")\n\n\"I reckon't, guidwife, a lucky thing that he has come oor way.\"\n\n(\"Do ye, indeed!--then, feth, say do I.\")\n\n\"He'll no forget oor kindness, I dare say.\"\n\n(\"The ne'er a bit o' that I'll do.\")\n\n\"And maybe he'll help us to oor ain again, frae the laird o'\nHaudthegrip.\"\n\n(\"Wi' great pleasure. But hoo do you expect such a service as that frae\nthe like o' me?\")\n\n\"I've heard o' his doin the like afore. But I say, guidwife, mind we\nmaunna just let on barefacedly that we ken wha he is; for I can see,\nfrae the way he took my hints the nicht, that he doesna like it. A' that\nI could do, I could na drive him into a corner on that subject. He aye\nshyed the question. Sae we maun tak nae mair notice o't; for ye ken\nkings are kittle cattle to deal wi'.\"\n\n(\"Kings! Whar the deevil are ye noo, laird? What's a' this aboot?\")\n\n\"So they're said to be, John,\" replied the laird's better half; \"and I\nthink the less we hae to do wi' them the better.\"\n\n(\"My feth, ye're richt there, guidwife, as I ken to my cost. I was ance\nvery near hanged by the king by mistake, amang a wheen Border rievers\nthat he strung up. The rope was aboot my neck before he wad listen to my\nstory, or be convinced that I wasna ane o' the gang.\")\n\n\"This is the first night,\" continued the laird's wife, \"ever a king was\nunder my roof, and I hope it'll be the last.\"\n\nHere we must interrupt the dialogue for a moment to say that it would\nhave done any man's heart good to have seen the expression of Willie's\ncountenance when this last sentence reached his ear. The painter's art\nalone could convey a correct idea of the look of perplexity and\namazement which it exhibited. A glimmering of the facts of that singular\ncase which will shortly be made to appear plain enough, began to break\nin upon him. But, as he could not yet entirely trust to its feeble\nlight--in other words, could not believe what he heard, or rather could\nnot believe that it applied to him--he lay as still as death, scarcely\ndaring to breathe till he should gather something more regarding the\nstrange insinuation that had just reached him; and for this he had not\nlong to wait.\n\n\"Speak laigh, Jenny--speak laigh, woman,\" said the laird, in reply to\nhis wife's disloyal remark. \"He's maybe no sleepin; and I wadna for the\nbest cow in my byre that he heard ye say what ye hae said. I assure you,\nfor my part, guidwife, I'm very proud o' the honour. He's just as guid a\nfellow as ever I spent a nicht wi'. My faith, he tooms his bicker like a\nman, as your greybeard 'ill witness in the mornin, guidwife.\"\n\nHere a loud and long-drawn whee-o-ou from Willie announced that he was\nnow fully enlightened on the mysterious subject of the extraordinary\nattention, kindness, and hospitality of the Laird of Whinnyhill, and his\nwife.\n\nThere was, in short, he felt, no longer any doubt of the fact, that he\nhad been mistaken by them for no less a personage than the king, James\nV., who as all our readers know was in the habit of going about the\ncountry frequently in disguise; and it was true, as the laird had said,\nhe had heard that he was at this moment abroad on one of those whimsical\nperambulations; and it was farther true, that he was in the\nneighbourhood of Whinnyhill.\n\nHere, then, was rather an odd predicament for the south-land harper. And\nhe felt it to be so.\n\n\"Ta'en for the king, as I'm a sinner!\" said Willie--thus following up\nthe whistle of amazement with which he had hailed the disclosure of the\nastounding fact. \"'Od, this cowes the gowan! I've met wi' mony a queer\nthing in my life, but this beats a' oot and oot, as the weaver's wife\nsaid when she couldna find an end to the puddin.\" And Willie forthwith\nproceeded to ruminate internally on the singular situation in which he\nnow found himself; and it was while thus ruminating that he was struck\nwith the bright idea which forms the leading feature in the sequel of\nour tale. This idea was, to maintain the character which had been thrust\nupon him, and to continue to enjoy the good living which, judging from\nwhat he had already met with, was likely to accrue from the deception.\nHe determined, therefore, to try and throw a little more dignity into\nhis manner, and to be a little more guarded in his language--a good deal\nof which he felt would scarcely be becoming in a king, whatever\ncharacter he might choose to personify; and, in conclusion, he resolved,\nin all cases where he should perceive that he was not mistaken for a\nprince in disguise--which he was conscious would, after all, be but\nseldom--to give such hints as should induce the desired belief; and,\nwhere it should appear to exist, to confirm it by the same means.\n\nHaving chalked out this line of conduct for himself, and having indulged\nin a few more speculations on the subject, Willie resigned himself to\nsleep, and, in the morning, awoke--a king in disguise.\n\nTrue to the resolutions he had formed overnight, and not without ability\nto act up to them, Willie, on the laird's entrance into the apartment in\nthe morning, to inquire how he had slept, looked as majestic as he\ncould; and, in a familiar, but somewhat condescending manner, saluted\nhim with--\n\n\"Ha, laird! how dost? None the worse for thy potations last night? On my\nroyal--ah! on my word, I mean--thou hast been nearer regicide than thou\nwotest of. Another such night and I would be a dead man!\"\n\n\"The deil a fear o' ye, sir!\" said the laird, now fully confirmed in his\nbelief that it was James that stood before him. \"It's no a drap guid\nsoun' liquor that'll kill ye, I warrant; and it was nane o' the warst ye\nhad last nicht, I assure ye. It wad hae been ill my pairt if it had.\nAnd noo, sir,\" he continued, producing at the same time a huge bottle of\nbrandy which he had hitherto concealed behind his back--\"Ye'll just tak\na hair o' the dog that bit ye. A toothfu' o' this,\" filling up a large\ncup, \"'ll keep the cauld morning air aff yer stomach; for, nae doot,\nsir, yours, after a', is just like other folks.\"\n\n\"Richt soond advice, laird, as I'm a--a sinner. I'll pledge thee most\ncheerfully,\" said Willie, stretching out his hand to take the proffered\ncup, and, thereafter, draining it to the bottom with an eagerness and\nrelish that amazed even the laird, who certainly thought it rather odd\nin a king.\n\n\"Anither, sir?\" said the latter, encouraged by the rapidity of his\nguest's execution, and looking at him slily as he spoke.\n\n\"Why, laird, I don't mind if I do,\" replied Willie. \"It warms me like a\nyard o' Welsh flannel. If my mother's milk had been like that, laird, I\nwould have been sucking still!\" Saying this, he turned over another cup\nwith undiminished gusto. Here, in truth, was a weak point in Willie's\ncharacter. He could not resist liquor; and had the laird persevered in\ngiving him more drink, he would very soon have unhinged him; for there\nis little doubt that he would have forgotten his assumed dignity, and\nhave swallowed much more than became a king at that unseasonable hour.\n\nLuckily for his guest, however, the laird desisted from pressing the\nbottle farther, and this danger was avoided.\n\nWillie, again conducted by his host, now proceeded to an apartment,\nwhere he found a sumptuous breakfast prepared for him, of which he\npartook with an appetite that impressed his host with a very high and\nsatisfactory opinion of the state of his sovereign's health; and, being\na loyal subject, the circumstance filled him with unfeigned joy.\n\nOn the conclusion of the repast--\"Weel, sir,\" said Willie's host, \"what\ndirection do ye propose takin noo? I hear there's to be a gran' hanlin\nat Braehead the nicht. Ye might get some rare fun there, sir, an' ye\ngaed--just o' the kind ye like.\"\n\n\"Why, thank ye, Whinnyhill--thank ye for the hint! I'll just e'en go\nthere, then. But what's the occasion, laird?\"\n\n\"A very guid ane, sir--a hoose-heatin. The laird o' Tumlinwa's takin\npossession o' his new hoose, and he's no ane to stint his freens o'\neither meat or drink when he brings them thegither. Ye'll want for\nnaething, I'se warrant ye.\"\n\n\"Why, faith, mine honest friend, and these are just the quarters I\nlike,\" replied Willie, very well pleased to have got such a useful hint\nas to the direction he ought next to take.\n\n\"But,\" continued the laird, \"mind the Middlemass wood, sir, and keep a\ngleg ee about ye when ye're passin through't; for, as I was sayin\nbefore, there's some gay unchancy chiels thereabouts enow.\"\n\n\"Never fear me, laird,\" replied Willie; \"I'll gie as guid's I get ony\nday--let who likes try't.\"\n\nWillie being now ready to resume his journey, and having expressed a\nwish to do so without farther delay--for, in truth, he was not sure how\nlong he might escape detection--the laird accompanied him a little way,\nto see him, as he said, fairly on his way.\n\nAt parting, Willie took his host by the hand, and said, with all the\ndignity he could muster, and with a look which was intended to convey a\ngreat deal more than it would have been perfectly proper to express--\n\n\"Fare-ye-well, laird, and many thanks for your hospitality. Depend upon\nit, I will not soon forget it. It may stand thee in good stead some\nday.\" And with this he walked off with as much majesty as he could\nconveniently assume, leaving the laird of Whinnyhill highly delighted\nwith his good fortune in having had an opportunity of making the\npersonal acquaintance and friendship of his sovereign.\n\nWillie, in the meantime, pursued his way; and, after two or three hours'\nsmart walking, found himself entering the wood about which he had been\ncautioned by his late host; and, although as indifferent to danger of\nthe kind here threatened as most men, he thought there would be no harm\nin keeping the sharp look-out recommended to him.\n\nHe now accordingly proceeded with a more wary step, and kept peering\naround him as he advanced, to prevent his being taken by surprise. And\nit was not long ere he found that neither his own caution nor the hints\nwhich his late host had given him were unnecessary. When he had got\nabout half way through the wood, he perceived three or four\nsuspicious-looking fellows skulking amongst the trees a little in\nadvance of him, and directly in the route he was pursuing.\n\n\"By St. Andrew, there they are!\" said Willie, on observing the persons\nalluded to--\"the very chiels the laird spoke aboot, or I'm greatly\nmistaen.\" And he began to free his sword hilt from those parts of his\ngarment which were likely to interfere with its ready use. Although\nsomewhat alarmed at the appalling odds against him, Willie resolutely\nheld on his course till he arrived within a few paces of the foremost,\nwho stood directly in his way with a drawn sword in his hand, and who he\nnow perceived was masked and muffled to the eyes in a cloak, as were\nalso all his companions.\n\nOn perceiving the hostile attitude of the fellow, Willie also drew,\nstopped short, and demanded the reason of his being thus interrupted in\nhis peaceful progress. To this inquiry no immediate reply was made. The\nruffians seemed doubtful of their object--indeed, Willie overheard them\nsay as much; and they appeared, besides, rather disconcerted by his\nresolute bearing and by the circumstance of his being armed. This he\nalso overheard. Observing their hesitation, and thinking his assumed\ndignity, if announced, might terrify the fellows, and save him from the\nperils of an unequal encounter, Willie called out to them--\"What, ye\nknaves! would ye kill your King?\" Never were expressions more unluckily\nchosen--never imposition worse timed.\n\n\"It is him! it is him!\" shouted out the ruffians in reply. \"Down with\nthe tyrant!--down with the spoiler! Strike, Geordie, strike, for a\nthousand merks.\" And the whole rushed upon Willie at once, repeating\ntheir cries of \"Down with the tyrant! the spoiler!\" &c. But this was\nmuch easier said than done. Willie instantly retreated before his\nenemies. But it was by no means from fear. He was practising a very\ningenious _ruse_; and it was one that he brought to a very successful\nissue. He retired from his assailants in order to separate them; and,\nhaving succeeded in this, he suddenly turned round, and, before the man\nwho was nearest him was aware of his intention, ran him through the\nbody. Having accomplished this dexterous feat, which he did quick as\nthought, he continued his flight until another had got considerably in\nadvance of his companions, when he repeated the experiment, but this\ntime by striking a desperate back blow with his sword, which, taking\nfull effect on the face of his pursuer, inflicted a hideous wound that\ninstantly disabled him from all further exertion. The other two, seeing\nthe fate of their associates, and horror-struck with the ghastly\nappearance of him that was just wounded, lost heart, and fled. But, for\none of them at least, this attempt was vain. Willie's blood was now up;\nand, not content with what he had already done, he gave chase, shouting\nout, as he pursued, \"Down wi' the tyrant, ye villains! By St. Andrew,\nwe'll see wha'll be doun first! If I dinna gie ye yer kail through the\nreek, may I never chew cheese again!\" And with this--for Willie was as\nsupple of limb, as dexterous and ready of hand--having overtaken the\nhindmost of the fugitives, he ran the flying ruffian through the back,\nwho instantly fell forward on his face, a dead man. Thinking he had now\ndone enough, and not a little exhausted with the exertions he had made,\nWillie, allowing the last of his assailants to escape, flung himself on\nthe ground, to recover breath, exclaiming, as he did so, after a long\ndrawn respiration, \"Hech, but this has been a deevil o' a teuch job!\nThis kingcraft 'ill never do. Here have I been as near murdered on\naccount o't as ony decent man wad wish to be. I've nae notion o' the\ntred ava, whar ye're cuttled up ae nicht like a sick wife, wi' the best\nto eat and drink, and the next to hae yer throat cut. It's no the thing,\nby ony means.\"\n\nSuch were the reflections in which Willie indulged on this occasion--an\noccasion which had shown him that the life of a king, as kings and\nsubjects were in Scotland in his time, whatever respect it might procure\nhim, in some instances was one of no small peril. Although, however, he\nhad determined, from the experience which he had just had of the dangers\nof royalty, to resign the character, and disavow all claims to its\ndignities very shortly, he yet resolved on going through with it for one\nday longer--that is, until he had tried what sort of treatment it would\nprocure him at Braehead, whither, the reader will recollect, he was now\nproceeding on the recommendation of the laird of Whinnyhill.\n\nIn this resolution, therefore, he in a few minutes started once more to\nhis feet, and resumed his journey, leaving the dead bodies of the slain\nwhere they had fallen; but not, it must be observed, before he had\ncarefully searched them, to see whether or not there was anything about\nthem to reward him for the trouble of killing them. But in this he was\ndisappointed. On none of them was there anything of the smallest value.\n\n\"'Od, ye've been as puir's mysel,\" he said, on completing his fruitless\nscrutiny into the pockets of the deceased. \"Deil a bodle! No as muckle\nas wad supper a midge.\"\n\nHaving said this, he rose from the kneeling posture to which his\nemployment had reduced him, and, as we have already said, resumed his\nmarch through the Middlemas wood.\n\nLeaving Willie to prosecute his journey, we request the reader to return\nwith us to Whinnyhill, where we shall find a circumstance occurring\nwhich is intimately connected with the denouement of our tale.\n\nShortly after the former's departure from the place just named, another\nstout carle of a mendicant appeared at the laird's gate. It was the\ndinner hour, and, as was then customary in the country, and is so still,\nwe believe, in some places, the doors were all carefully secured, and no\negress or ingress permitted, till the conclusion of the meal. To this\nexclusion, however, the person now seeking admission to the laird's did\nnot seem willing to submit; for he began to thunder at the gate with an\nimpetuosity and vehemence that scarcely beseemed his very humble\ncalling; and, as if this was not enough, he shouted out at the top of\nhis voice to the inmates to open the gate to him.\n\nYet, however unbecoming his conduct, or however insolent it may be\nthought, it had the desired effect of procuring him the service he\nwanted.\n\nThe laird himself answered the call, though certainly more for the\npurpose of letting out his wrath on the noisy intruder, than to let him\nin.\n\n\"My feth, friend,\" he said, his anger greatly increased when, on\nopening the gate, he found that it was a common vagrant who sought\nadmittance, \"but ye're no blate to rap at folk's doors this gaet. An' ye\nhad been the best man in the land, ye couldna hae been baulder. My\ncerty, it's come to a pretty pass, when beggars bang at yer door like\nlords!\"\n\n\"The devil's in the old churl!\" replied the undaunted beggar. \"Dost not\nsee that I'm knocked up with fatigue, man, and didst think I was to\nstand here starving of hunger, if a few knocks at your gate was to bring\nme a little nearer to some refreshment? Come, Whinnyhill,\" continued the\nfree and easy beggar, at the same time slapping the former familiarly on\nthe shoulder, \"I know ye, man, I know ye to be a good honest fellow, and\none who grudges nobody either bite or sup. So, let's have something to\neat directly.\" And he bestowed another hearty smack on the laird's\nshoulder.\n\n\"By my feth, sirrah?\" replied the latter, amazed and irritated at the\nsingular ease and impudence of the mendicant, and above all at his\npresumptuous familiarity, \"but that's a new way to seek awmous. 'Od,\nfreen, an' ye lack onything, it 'ill no be for want o' askin't.\"\n\n\"Why, Whinnyhill, how should I get, if I didn't ask?\" said the\nmendicant. \"Take my word for't, Whinny, when you want a thing there's\nnothing like asking. Your modest fool always comes off with an empty\nhand, and maybe an empty stomach too. Why, man, dost think people will\nrun after one offering one what one wants without solicitation? No, no;\nand, besides, a thing that's worth having is always worth asking.\"\n\n\"Ye're maybe no far wrang there, freend,\" said the laird; \"but ye'll\nallow me to say that ye're ane o' the bauldest, no to say ane o' the\nimpudentest beggars, I hae seen for a while. Nevertheless, ye may step\ninto the kitchen there, and get a mouthfu' o' what's gaun; but mind ye,\ndinna kick up such a stramash at my yett again, when ye come seekin an\nawmous, or I'll maybe let ye cool your heels awhile or ye win in, and\nthankfu' if I dinna set the dog on ye.\"\n\n    \"The beggar man he thumped at the yett\n      Till bolt and bar did flee, O,\n    And aye he swore, as he thumped again,\n      That denied he wadna be, O.\n        Fal de ral, al al al, reedle al de ral,\n        Fal de ral, al al al, de reedle ee di.\n\n    \"The beggar man he thumped at the yett\n      Till bolt and bar did flee, O,\n    When wha should come out but the laird himsel,\n      And an angry man was he, O.\n              Fal de ral,\" &c.\n\nSuch was the reply, chaunted with great vociferation and glee, which the\nsturdy beggar vouchsafed to the laird's more candid than courteous\nremarks; and it would have been much longer, to the extent probably of a\nscore of verses, had not Whinnyhill impatiently broken in with--\n\n\"Wow, man, but ye're an ill-mannered graceless loon as ever I saw atween\nthe twa een. The greatest person in the land, man, is mair humble and\nrespectfu' than you, when he's gaun about the country as ye're doin, and\nmicht weel be an example to you and the like o' you.\"\n\n\"What mean ye, laird?--of whom do ye speak?\" said the sturdy beggar,\nevidently somewhat disconcerted by the former's remark.\n\n\"Mean!\" replied the laird, sharply--\"I mean, sirrah, that the king\nhimsel, when he ca's at ony decent man's house for a nicht's quarters,\nin his rambles through the country, is far mair civil and discreet than\nye are.\"\n\n\"Indeed,\" said the mendicant. \"Dost know the king personally, Whinny?\nDidst ever see him in the guise thou allud'st to?\"\n\n\"Wad ye be the better if ye kent?\" replied the laird, angrily; then\nadding, in better humour, as if recollecting it was something to boast\nof--\"To be sure I do, sirrah! and weel I may, seein that he sleepit here\na' last nicht, and's no three hours awa yet.\"\n\n\"What, Whinny!--the king! The king here last night!\" exclaimed the\nmendicant, now exhibiting in his turn, symptoms of surprise and\namazement. \"Surely you are jesting, laird?\"\n\n\"Jestin, sir! I'm jestin nane,\" said Whinnyhill, angrily. \"The king\n_was_ here last nicht, sirrah!\"\n\n\"Impossible, Whinny!\"\n\n\"Confound ye, sir!--wad ye make me a leear to my face?\"\n\n\"Oh, no, no, laird,\" replied the former, laughing; \"but you may be\nmistaken in your man. At any rate, if it is not impossible, it is\ncertainly odd, Whinny.\"\n\n\"Odd, sir. What's odd about it? Do ye think the king wad think himsel\ndemeaned by takin a nicht's quarters frae me?\"\n\n\"Nay, nay; not at all--by no means, laird,\" replied the mendicant\neagerly, as if anxious to do away the offensive impression--\"by no\nmeans. The man would be unworthy of being a king who should think there\nwas any degradation in sitting beneath the roof-tree, and partaking of\nthe hospitality, of an honest and respectable man like you, Whinny. My\nsurprise, laird, was at finding that the king had been here; for I was\ninformed that he was in an entirely different part of the country. Pray,\nWhinny, what like a fellow was this king you speak of?\"\n\n\"What like a _fellow_, sir!\" replied the laird, in extreme wrath. \"My\nfeth, ye're no blate to speak o' yer sovereign in thae disrespectfu'\nterms. Fellow, in troth! Repeat that word again, sir, in the same breath\nwi' the king's name, and if I dinna teach ye better manners, blame me!\nYe've muckle need o' a lesson, at ony rate.\"\n\n\"Very good, Whinny--very good,\" said the sturdy beggar, laughing\nheartily at the angry earnestness of the laird. \"I meant no offence,\nman--none whatever. I've as great a respect for the king as you can\npossibly have.\"\n\n\"It doesna look like it,\" interrupted the laird.\n\n\"But it is so, nevertheless, I assure you,\" replied the former; \"and I\nlike you all the better, believe me, for your loyalty.\"\n\n\"Ye like me a' the better!\" said the laird. \"And wha the deil cares\nwhether ye like me or no? By my troth, but ye're very condescendin!\"\n\n\"Well, well, Whinny,\" replied the mendicant, again laughing. \"But tell\nme, how did you know the king in his disguise? Are ye sure it was him,\nafter all?\"\n\n\"Sure enough,\" said the laird gruffly; \"he mair than half confessed it\nhimsel.\"\n\n\"Oh, he did!--then, there can be no doubt of it--none. I should like to\nsee his Majesty, laird. Pray, can you tell me which way he has gone?\"\n\n\"Ye're very inquisitive, freen,\" replied the latter; \"and to be plain\nwi' ye, I like neither that nor your familiarity. The king's awa to\nBraehead--and that's the last ye'll hae frae me; sae step into the\nkitchen and get a mouthfu', and then tak yersel aff as sune's ye like.\"\nAnd with this the laird was about to walk off, when the mendicant, who\ncontinued to stand still where he was, called him back and said--\n\n\"Laird, harkee--canst keep a secret?\"\n\n\"If it's worth keepin, maybe I can.\"\n\n\"Well, then,\" rejoined the former, \"although not very nice in these\nmatters, I'm not altogether reconciled to taking my refection in your\nkitchen, though, I confess it, most particularly hungry; and therefore\nask you what would you think now, if I was the king, and that person,\nwhoever he is, whom you took to be the king, was an impostor?\"\n\n\"Wow, man, but that's a clumsy trick,\" replied the laird, chuckling at\nhis own ready sagacity and penetration. \"I'm owre far north, lad, to be\ncome owre that way.\"\n\n\"Well, laird,\" said the mendicant (who--we need conceal the fact no\nlonger from the reader--was indeed no other than James himself), \"well,\nlaird,\" he said, smiling, \"I assure you your penetration is at fault\nthis time; for I tell you I am the king, Whinny!\"\n\n\"And I tell you,\" replied the laird, \"that I dinna believe a word o't;\nand mair, for your impudence in attempting to impose upon me, ye shanna\nget bite or sup here this da Tak my word for that.\"\n\nDropping here the dialogue, we relate the sequel in simple narrative. It\nwas in vain that James endeavoured to pacify the irritated laird, and to\nprevail upon him to believe that he really was the king, or to induce\nhim to let him have the refreshment of which he stood so much in need.\nObstinate at all times, Whinnyhill was particularly so on this occasion;\nand not all that the good-humoured monarch could say could move him from\nhis purpose of denying him admittance to his house, or affording him the\nslightest hospitality.\n\nFinding his efforts in vain, James at length gave up the task as\nhopeless; but, though not a little disappointed--for he felt both\nfatigued and hungry--he saw that he could not be displeased, since his\nchurlish treatment by the laird, singularly enough, proceeded from his\nlove and respect for himself. It greatly puzzled James, however, to\nconceive who it could possibly be that had taken up his incognito (for\nthat some one had done so he felt assured), and seemed so successful in\nthe use of it. The trick was a new one to him, and he could not help\nbeing tickled with the ingenuity of the impostor in hitting on so novel\nan idea. His curiosity, too, to see his rival, was great; so great that,\non finding he could make nothing of the laird of Whinnyhill, he\ndetermined on setting out immediately for Braehead, a distance of about\nsix or seven miles, whither he had been told his counterpart had gone;\nand, acting on this resolution, he started directly for that\ndestination.\n\nOn passing through the Middlemass wood, which was the direct and\nshortest route to the place he was going to, the king's attention was\narrested by the dead bodies which Willie had left behind him, and which\nwere still lying as they had fallen.\n\n\"Ha!\" exclaimed James, suddenly stopping on perceiving them, \"what's\nthis? Here has been some lawless work, which I must inquire into when I\nreturn to Falkland.\" A hollow groan at this moment fell on the king's\near, and directed him to the spot, at a little distance, where lay the\nman who had been so severely wounded on the face by the back stroke of\nWillie's rapier. King James stooped over the dying man, and inquired who\nhe was, and what was the meaning of the horrid scene around him. The\nmutilated wretch fixed his glassy and almost sightless eyes on the face\nof the king, and said, speaking at long intervals, and as distinctly as\nhis little remaining strength would permit.\n\n\"I am a dying man, stranger; but I deserve my fate.\"\n\n\"Indeed!\" said James--\"then thy iniquities must have been great, for\nthou'rt in very bad case. What hand dealt thee that cruel blow, man?\"\n\n\"The king's,\" replied the wounded man.\n\n\"The king's!\" said James, in astonishment--\"what mean ye?\"\n\n\"I mean,\" said the dying man, \"that it was the king's sword that left me\nas you now see me. We waylaid him in this wood, expecting he would come\nthis way--and he did, in disguise; but he was too many for us, being\narmed, which we did not look for.\"\n\n\"And what motive, miserable man,\" said James, \"had you for attacking the\nking? I'm sure to you, and such as you, he has ever been a gracious\nprince. To none but his insolent and tyrannical nobles, who would make\nslaves of you and a puppet of him, has he ever been accused of\nseverity.\"\n\n\"I acknowledge it,\" said the dying man. \"But we were hired to do the\nbloody work.\"\n\n\"Ha! hired!\" exclaimed James, in alarm! \"who hired you? Speak, speak,\nman--who hired you?\"\n\n\"That I will not tell,\" replied the man; \"for I've been under\nobligations to him. But stranger,\" he continued, \"as you would have the\nblessings of a dying man upon your head, you will--you will----\"\n\nHere the speaker seemed on the point of expiring; and the king,\nperceiving this, and dreading that that event would take place before\nthe dying man could make any further disclosures--\n\n\"I will what? I will what?\" he said, eagerly and impatiently.\n\n\"You will,\" resumed the wounded man, after a short interval, \"repair to\nFalkland, and tell the king--the king--to beware of--of----\"\n\n\"Whom, whom, man?\" again interrupted James, breathless with the feeling\nof intense interest that now possessed him--\"whom, man, for a thousand\npounds!\" he exclaimed, forgetting, in his impatience and eager\ncuriosity, his assumed character.\n\nApparently heedless, however, or unobservant of the questioner's\nemotion, the dying man at length slowly added, \"Of the Earl of\nBothwell\"--and expired.\n\n\"Ha! Bothwell! Bothwell!\" repeated James, now falling into a profound\nreverie; \"ay, is he at these pranks? He shall be cared for, however. I\nwarrant he plays no more of them. But it would seem,\" continued the\nking, musing, \"that this impudent varlet, my counterpart, has stood me\nin good stead here, and, by mine honour, done me good service too. Had\nit not been for him, however unwittingly he may have thus come between\nme and danger, I must have been slain by these ruffians. I'll forgive\nthe dog his impudence, after all. Nay, he deserves a reward, and he\nshall have it too.\" Having said this, or rather thought it, James\nresumed his journey; and we shall avail ourselves of the opportunity\nwhich this circumstance affords, to throw in a word or two, explanatory\nof the discontented spirit which had led to the attempt on the king's\nlife above spoken of.\n\nJames V., it is well known, though an amiable and generous prince, and\npossessed of many excellent qualities besides, was particularly\nobnoxious to his nobles, on account of his persevering and successful\nefforts to restrain and limit the exorbitant power which they had\nacquired during his minority, and which they showed no disposition to\nrelinquish on his assuming the reins of government.\n\nWith this political hostility, as it may be called, to his nobles,\nJames, recollecting what he had suffered from them in his youth, mingled\na feeling of bitter personal dislike; and the consequence was, an\nunrelenting and unremitting course of persecution on the one hand, and\nof impatient endurance on the other; and the attempt on the king's life,\nwhose consequences our hero, Willie, had so opportunely averted, was one\nof the ebullitions of that treasonable spirit which this state of\nmatters had engendered.\n\nTo return to our tale. Little more than an hour's walking having brought\nJames to Braehead, he entered the house, which was one scene of mirth\nand festivity from one end to the other; and, uninvited, and, we may\nadd, unopposed too, walked into the kitchen, where a number of country\ngirls and their sweethearts were assembled, to share in the good cheer\nand jollity of the evening.\n\nOn entering the apartment, the king's attention was instantly attracted\nby a conspicuous figure seated at the farther end, and very enviably\nplaced between two uncommonly pretty girls, whom he was entertaining\nwith a volubility of tongue and noisy glee that seemed to afford them\ngreat delight, and to have carried him far into their good graces. But\nthe influence of the exuberant spirits of this joyous but somewhat\nobstreperous person, was by no means confined to his two fair\nsupporters. He had, by the time James entered, evidently secured that\npre-eminence which belongs to the character usually known by the title\nof the cock of the company. He was, in short, obviously in undisputed\npossession of the popular voice; and there was no doubt was considered\nby every one there as first fiddle of the evening.\n\nThis jovial person, we need hardly say, was no other than our friend\nWillie; and James, as he eyed him, at once guessed that he was the\nperson who had done him the honour of representing him at Whinnyhill.\n\nSatisfied of this, the disguised monarch stole quietly round to where\nWillie was seated, and whispered in his ear this courteous inquiry--\n\n\"I say, friend, who the devil are you?\"\n\n\"And, I say,\" exclaimed Willie, looking hard at the querist, and by no\nmeans making any secret of his inquiry--\"Wha the deevil are ye?\"\n\n\"Just what you see me,\" replied James--\"going about the country seeking\na living wherever I think it likely I may pick it up.\"\n\n\"Nae harm in that ava, freen,\" said Willie. \"Puir bodies maun leeve some\nway or anither. They're no gaun to die at a dike side if they can get a\nmouthfu' for the askin.\"\n\n\"Surely not, surely not, friend,\" replied James. \"But, I say,\" he\nadded--and now drawing Willie close to him, in order that the\ncommunication he was about to make might be inaudible to those beside\nhim--\"do you think I don't know you, sir, notwithstanding your\ndisguise? If you do, you are mistaken. I know you well, sir. You are the\nking!\"\n\n\"And what though I be, sir?\" said Willie, boldly, but secretly surprised\nto find royalty thus again thrust upon him. \"What's that to you? But, I\nsay,\" he added, and now whispering in his turn, \"as ye value yer head,\nmum's the word aboot that 'enow; for I'm in very guid quarters whar I\nam, and hae nae wish to gang amang the gentry. Sae keep a calm sough\naboot it, or ye may fare the waur.\"\n\n\"Nay, nay, now,\" replied James; \"I really cannot endure to see my\nsovereign in such an humble situation as this--a situation so unworthy\nof his dignity. It is unseemly and painful to behold. I will not endure\nit!\"\n\n\"But it is my pleasure, sirrah,\" said Willie, angrily and\nimpatiently--\"and that's aneuch. Sae, mak nor meddle nae mair wi't, or\nye'll maybe rue't. Do ye think I want to mak a spectacle o' mysel?\"\n\n\"Excuse me; but positively, sir, I must insist on your being treated\nwith more respect. I must inform the laird of your being here.\" And,\nwithout waiting for any farther remonstrances on the subject from\nWillie, or paying any attention to his anxious calls to him to return,\nthe disguised monarch hurried out of the apartment, and desired one of\nthe servants of the house to inform his master that a person wished to\nspeak to him on important business, and that he would find him in front\nof the house.\n\nHaving dispatched this business, James walked out, and, at a little\ndistance, awaited the laird's appearance. On his approach--\"Well,\nlaird,\" said the King, \"dost know me? I think thou should'st. We have\nseen each other before.\"\n\nThe person thus addressed looked silently and earnestly for some time at\nthe disguised monarch, as if perplexed by the question; but at length\neagerly and joyously exclaimed, at the same time doffing his cap or\nbonnet \"with the most profound respect--\n\n\"I do, sir--I do. You are the king!\"\n\n\"Hush, hush,\" said James. \"Not a word of that just now. My crown's in\ndanger, laird. There's a rival near my throne. Dost know, laird, that\nthere's another king in your kitchen at this moment?\"\n\n\"You are pleased to be merry, sire. Pray, what does your Majesty mean?\"\nreplied the laird, smiling, yet evidently at a loss to comprehend the\njoke.\n\n\"Why, I mean precisely what I have said, laird. There is, I repeat it,\nanother king in your kitchen just now; and a rattling, stalwarth looking\nfellow he is, with a couple of very pretty girls, one on each side of\nhim. But here is the truth of the matter, laird,\" continued the king,\ncompassionating the former's perplexity--\"here's a fellow, at this\nmoment, in your kitchen, who has taken it upon him to assume my\nincognito, and has, in this character, already imposed upon Whinnyhill.\"\n\n\"The knave!\" exclaimed the laird. \"We must have him instantly hanged.\"\n\n\"Nay, nay--not so fast, laird. The fellow deserves a fright, and he\nshall have it; but he has done me good service, though unwittingly, and\nI must forgive him.\" And James here proceeded to relate the adventure in\nthe Middlemass wood, which is already before the reader.\n\nWhen he had done. \"Now, laird,\" he said, \"we shall have some amusement\nwith the rogue. You shall wait on him; and, professing to take him for\nwhat he represents himself to be, respectfully invite him, nay, insist\non him joining you and your friends at your own table; for I rather\nthink he'll flinch it if he can; and I shall, by-and-by, send in a\nmessenger to announce my arrival, and to seek admittance; and we shall\nthen see how the rogue looks.\"\n\nThe laird, who was himself a bit of a humourist, readily entered into\nthe spirit of the jest, and immediately set about its execution.\nProceeding to the kitchen, he walked up, hat in hand, to where Willie\nwas seated between his two doxies; and standing respectfully before him,\ninformed him that, from some intelligence he had just received from\nWhinnyhill, he had come to solicit his illustrious guest to accompany\nhim to a place more befitting his dignity, though still far from being\nworthy of it.\n\n\"Why, laird,\" replied Willie, after his best manner, \"I thank ye; but,\nto tell you a truth, I'd rather remain where I am. I'm amazingly well\nhere, and cannot think of leaving these twa bonny lasses.\" And here the\ngallant harper chucked the girls under the chin.\n\n\"Nay, excuse me,\" said the laird, bowing low; \"but I must insist on your\naccompanying me. I will explain myself farther when we get to a more\nfitting place.\"\n\n\"Why, if you do insist, laird,\" said Willie, \"I really do not see that I\ncan refuse you.\" And with this he arose, though with evident reluctance,\nfrom his seat; and, after comforting his fair companions with an\nassurance that he would rejoin them as soon as he could, followed the\nguidance of his host. This conducted him into an apartment where were a\nnumber of people assembled round a well-stored table, in the full career\nof social enjoyment. Willie by no means relished this display of\ncompany, as it greatly increased the chances of detection; but he\nresolved to brave it out the best way he could.\n\nOn his entrance, the party, to all of whom the hint had been given of\nwhat was going forward, rose to their feet, and stood respectfully till\nWillie was fairly planted in a large arm-chair at the head of the table,\nwhen they resumed their seats. Every degree of respect and attention was\nnow shown to the mock king which could have been bestowed upon the real\none--with this exception, that he was plied with fully more liquor than\nit would have been altogether becoming to have pressed upon an anointed\nsovereign. In this, however, Willie himself saw nothing derogatory, and\ntherefore continued to swallow all that was offered him, till he got, as\nwas usual to him in such cases, into most exuberant spirits, when he\nbegan to entertain the company with some of his choicest songs and\nstories, and with the usual effect of \"setting the table in a roar.\"\nWillie was, in short, in a fair way of becoming, if not king of\nScotland, at least king of the company; and had attained about mid\ncareer in his bright track of jollification, when a messenger entered,\nand informed the master of the house that a person desired to see him on\nbusiness of importance. The laird, instantly obeying the summons,\nwithdrew. In a few minutes, however, he returned; and, with an air of\nsurprise and perplexity, said, addressing the company, but more\nparticularly Willie--\"Gentlemen, here is a very strange matter. Here has\na person arrived at my house, who insists on it that he is the king, and\ndemands admittance.\"\n\n\"Admittance!\" roared out Willie, evidently a good deal discomposed by\nthe communication--\"on no account admit him, laird. Tie the impostor\nneck and heel, and throw him into the nearest burn! Pack him off\ninstantly.\"\n\n\"Nay, nay, sir,\" replied the laird; \"I think we had better admit him,\nand leave it to you and him to decide which of you has the best claim to\nthe dignity.\" And before Willie could make any farther objection, James\nhimself was ushered into the apartment.\n\nOn his entrance--\n\n\"Where,\" he exclaimed, with a fierce frown--\"where is the impudent\nvarlet that has been imposing on the credulity of my subjects, by\nassuming my incognito? Art thou the knave?\" he immediately added; and\nnow addressing Willie, who, completely crestfallen, was looking at him\nwith the most rueful expression of countenance imaginable.\n\n\"And if I am, man,\" said Willie, in a piteous tone, in reply to this\nhome charge, \"ye needna mak sic a stramash aboot it, nor look sae dooms\nangry either. I'm sure yer royalty's no a whit the waur o' me haen't on\nfor a wee bit; and, guid kens, ye're welcome till't back again, for it\ndoesna fit me. Sae tak it, sir, and muckle guid may't do ye!\"\n\nHere James could contain his gravity no longer, but burst into a loud\nlaugh. \"And what, you knave,\" he said, \"put it into your head to\npractise this imposition? You have fairly deceived Whinnyhill.\"\n\n\"The ne'er a bit o' me did that, sir,\" said Willie, now somewhat\nrelieved of his fears, by the king's good humour. \"He deceived himsel,\"\nAnd here Willie related, to the great amusement of James, the\nconversation which he had overheard between the laird of Whinnyhill and\nhis wife; and concluded with, \"So ye see, sir, he made me a king whether\nI wad or no; and, as he put on the coat, I just wore't, although it was\nlike to cost me dear aneuch in the Middlemass wood.\"\n\n\"I've heard of that too, sirrah,\" replied the king, again laughing; \"and\nit is for the good service thou didst me there, that I now feel disposed\nnot to hang you.\"\n\n\"That's an ugly word, sir.\"\n\n\"Go to, go to, you knave!\" said the good-humoured monarch, smiling; and,\nat the same time, drawing forth a well-filled purse from beneath his\nouter garment, and thereafter throwing it towards Willie--\"There,\nsirrah, take that, and get thee gone; but mark me, my royal brother, see\nthou dost not try this prank again, else your quarrel and mine may be a\nmore serious one than it has been on this occasion.\"\n\nGlad to get off on such favourable terms, Willie sneaked out of the\napartment without making any further remarks and next day set out on his\nreturn to his native district, forswearing kingcraft and the kingdom of\nFife for ever.\n\n\n\n\nBILL WHYTE.\n\n\nI had occasion, about three years ago, to visit the ancient burgh of\nFortrose. It was early in winter, the days were brief though pleasant,\nand the nights long and dark; and, as there is much in Fortrose which\nthe curious traveller deems interesting, I had lingered amid its\nburying-grounds and its broken and mouldering tenements, till the\ntwilight had fairly set in. I had explored the dilapidated ruins of the\nChanonry of Ross; seen the tomb of old Abbot Boniface, and the bell\nblessed by the pope; run over the complicated tracery of the Runic\nobelisk which had been dug up, about sixteen years before, from under\nthe foundations of the old parish church; and visited the low, long\nhouse, with its upper windows buried in the thatch, in which the\nfar-famed Sir James Mackintosh had received the first rudiments of his\neducation. And, in all this, I had been accompanied by a benevolent old\nman of the place, a mighty chronicler of the past, who, when a boy, had\nsat on the same form with Sir James, and who, on this occasion, had\nseemed quite as delighted in meeting with a patient and interested\nlistener, as I had been in finding so intelligent and enthusiastic a\nstoriest. There was little wonder, then, that twilight should have\novertaken me in such a place, and in such company.\n\nThere are two roads which run between Cromarty and Fortrose; the one,\nthe king's highway; the other, a narrow footpath that goes winding for\nseveral miles under the immense wall of cliffs which overhangs the\nnorthern shores of the Moray Frith, and then ascends to the top, by\nnarrow and doubtful traverses along the face of an immense precipice,\ntermed the Scarf's Crag. The latter route is by far the more direct and\nmore pleasant of the two to the day traveller; but the man should think\ntwice who proposes taking it by night. The Scarf's Crag has been a scene\nof frightful accidents for the last two centuries. It is not yet more\nthan twelve years since a young and very active man was precipitated\nfrom one of its higher ledges to the very beach--a sheer descent of\nnearly two hundred feet; and a multitude of little cairns which mottle\nthe sandy platform below, bear witness to the no unfrequent occurrence\nof such casualties in the remote past. With the knowledge of all this,\nhowever, I had determined on taking the more perilous road: it is fully\ntwo miles shorter than the other; and besides, in a life of undisturbed\nsecurity, a slight admixture of that feeling which the sense of danger\nawakens, is a luxury which I have always deemed worth one's while\nrunning some little risk to procure. The night fell thick and dark while\nI was yet hurrying along the footway which leads under the cliffs, and,\non reaching the Scarf's Crag, I could no longer distinguish the path,\nnor even catch the huge outline of the precipice between me and the sky.\nI knew that the moon rose a little after nine; but it was still early in\nthe evening, and, deeming it too long to wait its rising, I set myself\nto grope for the path, when, on turning an abrupt angle, I was dazzled\nby a sudden blaze of light from an opening in the rock. A large fire of\nfurze and brushwood blazed merrily from the interior of a low-browed but\nspacious cave, bronzing with dusky yellow the huge volume of smoke,\nwhich went rolling outwards along the roof, and falling red and strong\non the face and hands of a thickset, determined-looking man, well nigh\nin his sixtieth year, who was seated before it on a block of stone. I\nknew him at once, as an intelligent, and, in the main, rather\nrespectable gipsy, whom I had once met with, about ten years before, and\nwho had seen some service as a soldier, it was said, in the first\nBritish expedition to Egypt. The sight of his fire determined me at\nonce. I resolved on passing the evening with him till the rising of the\nmoon; and, after a brief explanation, and a blunt, though by no means\nunkind invitation to a place beside his fire, I took my seat, fronting\nhim, on a block of granite, which had been rolled from the neighbouring\nbeach. In less than half-an-hour, we were on as easy terms as if we had\nbeen comrades for years, and, after beating over fifty different topics,\nhe told me the story of his life, and found an attentive and interested\nauditor.\n\nWho of all my readers is unacquainted with Goldsmith's admirable stories\nof the sailor with the wooden leg, and the poor half-starved\nMerry-Andrew! Independently of the exquisite humour of the writer, they\nare suited to interest us from the sort of cross vistas which they open\ninto scenes of life, where every thought, and aim, and incident, has at\nonce all the freshness of novelty and all the truth of nature to\nrecommend it. And I felt nearly the same kind of interest in listening\nto the narrative of the gipsy. It was much longer than either of\nGoldsmith's stories, and perhaps less characteristic; but it presented a\nrather curious picture of a superior nature rising to its proper level\nthrough circumstances the most adverse; and, in the main, pleased me so\nwell, that I think I cannot do better than present it to the reader.\n\n\"I was born, master,\" said the gipsy, \"in this very cave, some sixty\nyears ago, and so am a Scotchman like yourself. My mother, however,\nbelonged to the Debatable-land, my father was an Englishman, and of my\nfive sisters, one first saw the light in Jersey, another in Guernsey, a\nthird in Wales, a fourth in Ireland, and the fifth in the Isle of Man.\nBut this is a trifle, master, to what occurs in some families. It can't\nbe now much less than fifty years since my mother left us, one bright\nsunny day, on the English side of Kelso and staid away about a week. We\nthought we had lost her altogether; but back she came at last, and, when\nshe did come, she brought with her a small sprig of a lad, of about\nthree summers or thereby. Father grumbled a little--we had got small fry\nenough already, he said, and bare enough and hungry enough they were at\ntimes; but mother shewed him a pouch of yellow pieces, and there was no\nmore grumbling. And so we called the little fellow, Bill Whyte, as if he\nhad been one of ourselves, and he grew up among us, as pretty a fellow\nas e'er the sun looked upon. I was a few years his senior; but he soon\ncontrived to get half a foot a-head of me; and, when we quarrelled, as\nboys will at times, master, I always came off second best. I never knew\na fellow of a higher spirit; he would rather starve than beg, a hundred\ntimes over, and never stole in his life; but then for gin-setting, and\ndeer-stalking, and black-fishing, not a poacher in the country got\nbeyond him; and when there was a smuggler in the Solway, who more active\nthan Bill? He was barely nineteen, poor fellow, when he made the country\ntoo hot to hold him. I remember the night as well as if it were\nyesterday. The Catmaran lugger was in the Frith, d'ye see, a little\nbelow Carlaverock; and father and Bill, and some half dozen more of our\nmen, were busy in bumping the kegs ashore, and hiding them in the sand.\nIt was a thick smuggy night; we could hardly see fifty yards round us;\nand, on our last trip, master, when we were down in the water to the\ngunwale, who should come upon us, in the turning of a handspike, but the\nrevenue lads from Kirkcudbright! They hailed us to strike in the devil's\nname. Bill swore he wouldn't. Flash went a musket, and the ball whistled\nthrough his bonnet. Well, he called on them to row up, and up they came;\nbut no sooner were they within half-oar's length, than taking up a keg,\nand raising it just as he used to do the putting-stone, he made it spin\nthrough their bottom, as if the planks were of window glass; and down\nwent their cutter in half a jiffy. They had wet powder that night, and\nfired no more bullets. Well, when they were gathering themselves up as\nthey best could--and, goodness be praised! there were no drownings\namongst them--we bumped our kegs ashore, hiding them with the others,\nand then fled up the country. We knew there would be news of our night's\nwork; and so there was; for, before next evening, there were\nadvertisements on every post for the apprehension of Bill, with an\noffered reward of twenty pounds. Bill was a bit of a scholar--so am I for\nthat matter--and the papers stared him on every side.\n\n\"Jack,\" he said to me, \"Jack Whyte, this will never do, the law's too\nstrong for us now; and, if I dont make away with myself, they'll either\nhave me tucked up, or sent over seas to slave for life. I'll tell you\nwhat I'll do. I stand six feet ion my stocking soles, and good men were\nnever more wanted than at present. I'll cross the country this very\nnight, and away to Edinburgh, where there are troops raising for foreign\nservice. Better a musket than the gallows!\"\n\n\"Well, Bill,\" I said, \"I dont care though I go with you. I'm a good\nenough man for my inches, though I aint so tall as you, and I'm woundily\ntired of spoon-making.\"\n\nAnd so off we set across the country that very minute, travelling by\nnight only, and passing our days in any hiding hole we could find, till\nwe reached Edinburgh, and there took the bounty. Bill made as pretty a\nsoldier as one could have seen in a regiment; and, men being scarce, I\nwasn't rejected neither; and, after just three weeks' drilling--and\nplaguy weeks they were--we were shipped off, fully finished, for the\nsouth. Bonaparty had gone to Egypt, and we were sent after him to ferret\nhim out; though we weren't told so at the time. And it was our good\nluck, master, to be put aboard of the same transport.\n\nNothing like seeing the world for making a man smart. We had all sort of\npeople in our regiment--from the broken-down gentleman to the\nbroken-down lamp lighter; and Bill was catching, from the best of them\nall he could. He knew he wasn't a gipsy, and had always an eye to\ngetting on in the world; and, as the voyage was a woundy long one, and\nwe had the regimental schoolmaster aboard, Bill was a smarter fellow at\nthe end of it than he had been at the beginning. Well, we reached\nAboukir Bay at last. You have never been in Egypt, master; but, just\nlook across the Moray Frith here, on a sunshiny day, and you will see a\npicture of it, if you but strike off the blue Highland hills that rise\nbehind, from the long range of low sandy hillocks that stretches away\nalong the coast, between Findhorn and Nairn. I don't think it was worth\nall the trouble it cost us; but the king surely knew best. Bill and I\nwere in the first detachment, and we had to clear the way for the rest.\nThe French were drawn up on the shore, as thick as flies on a dead\nsnake, and the bullets rattled round us like a shower of May-hail. It\nwas a glorious sight, master, for a bold heart! The entire line of sandy\ncoast seemed one unbroken streak of fire and smoke; and we could see the\nold tower of Aboukir, rising like a fiery dragon at the one end, and the\nstraggling village of Rosetta, half cloud, half flame, stretching away\non the other. There was a line of launches and gun-boats behind us, that\nkept up an incessant fire on the enemy, and shot and shell went booming\nover our heads. We rowed shorewards, under a canopy of smoke and flame;\nthe water was broken by ten thousand oars; and, never, master, have you\nheard such cheering; it drowned the roar of the very cannon. Bill and I\npulled at the same oar; but he bade me cheer, and leave the pulling to\nhim.\n\n\"Cheer, Jack,\" he said, \"Cheer!--I am strong enough to pull ten oars,\nand your cheering does my heart good.\"\n\nI could see, in the smoke and the confusion, that there was a boat stove\nby a shell just beside us, and the man immediately behind me was shot\nthrough the head. But we just cheered and pulled all the harder; and the\nmoment our keel touched the shore, we leaped out into the water, middle\ndeep, and, after one well directed volley, charged up the beach with our\nbayonets fixed. I missed footing in the hurry, just as we closed, and a\nbig whiskered fellow in blue, would have pinned me to the sand, had not\nBill struck him through the wind-pipe, and down he fell above me; but\nwhen I strove to rise from under him, he grappled with me in his death\nagony, and the blood and breath came rushing through his wound in my\nface. Ere I had thrown him off, my comrades had broken the enemy, and\nwere charging up the side of a sand hill, where there were two\nfield-pieces stationed that had sadly annoyed us in the landing. There\ncame a shower of grape shot, whistling round me, that carried away my\ncanteen, and turned me half round; and when I looked up, I saw, through\nthe smoke, that half my comrades were swept away by the discharge, and\nthat the survivors were fighting desperately over the two guns, hand to\nhand with the enemy. Ere I got up to them, however--and trust me,\nmaster, I did'nt linger--the guns were our own. Bill stood beside one of\nthem, all grim and bloody, with his bayonet dripping like an eaves-spout\nin a shower. He had struck down five of the French, besides the one he\nhad levelled over me; and now, all of his own accord--for our sergeant\nhad been killed--he had shotted the two pieces, and turned them on the\nenemy. They all scampered down the hill, master, on the first\ndischarge--all save one brave, obstinate fellow, who stood firing upon\nus, not fifty yards away, half under cover of a sandbank. I saw him load\nthrice ere I could hit him, and one of his balls whisked through my hat;\nbut I catched him at last, and down he fell--my bullet went right\nthrough his forehead. We had no more fighting that day. The French fell\nback on Alexandria, and our troops advanced about three miles into the\ncountry, over a dreary waste of sand, and then lay for the night on\ntheir arms.\n\nIn the morning, when we were engaged in cooking our breakfasts, master,\nmaking what fires we could with the withered leaves of the date-tree,\nour colonel and two officers came up to us. The colonel was an\nEnglishman--as brave a gentleman as ever lived--ay, and as kind an\nofficer, too. He was a fine-looking old man, as tall as Bill, and as\nwell built, too; but his health was much broken; it was said he had\nentered the army out of break-heart on losing his wife. Well, he came up\nto us, and shook Bill by the hand, as cordially as if he had been a\ncolonel like himself. He was a brave, good soldier, he said, and, to\nshow him how much he valued good men, he had come to make him a\nsergeant, in room of the one we had lost. He had heard he was a scholar,\nhe said, and he trusted his conduct would not disgrace the halberd.\nBill, you may be sure, thanked the colonel, and thanked him, master,\nvery like a gentleman; and, that very day, he swaggered scarlet and a\nsword, as pretty a sergeant as the army could boast of--ay, and for that\nmatter, though his experience was little, as fit for his place.\n\nFor the first fortnight, we didn't eat the king's biscuit for nothing.\nWe had terrible hard fighting on the 13th; and, had not our ammunition\nfailed us, we would have beaten the enemy all to rags; but, for the last\ntwo hours, we hadn't a shot, and stood just like so many targets set up\nto be fired at. I was never more vexed in my life, than when I saw my\ncomrades falling round me; and all for nothing. Not only could I see\nthem falling; but in the absence of every other noise--for we had ceased\nto cheer, and stood as silent and as hard as foxes--I could hear the\ndull, hollow sound of the shot, as it pierced them through. Sometimes\nthe bullets struck the sand, and then rose and went rolling over the\nlevel, raising clouds of dust at every skip. At times, we could see them\ncoming through the air like little clouds, and singing all the way as\nthey came. But it was the frightful smoking shot that annoyed us most;\nthese horrid shells. Sometimes, they broke over our heads in the air, as\nif a cannon charged with grape had been fired at us from out the clouds;\nat times, they sank into the sand at our feet, and then burst up like so\nmany Vesuviuses, giving at once death and burial to hundreds. But we\nstood our ground, and the day passed. I remember we got, towards\nevening, into a snug hollow between two sandhills, where the shot\nskimmed over us, not two feet above our heads; but two feet is just as\ngood as twenty, master; and I began to think, for the first time, that I\nhadn't got a smoke all day. I snapped my musket, and lighted my pipe,\nand Bill, whom I hadn't seen since the day after the landing, came up to\nshare with me.\n\n\"Bad day's work, Jack,\" he said; \"But we have at least taught the enemy\nwhat British soldiers can endure, and, ere long, we shall teach them\nsomething more. But here comes a shell! Nay, do not move,\" he said; \"it\nwill fall just ten yards short.\" And down it came, roaring like a\ntempest, sure enough, about ten yards away, and sank into the sand.\n\"There now, fairly lodged,\" said Bill; \"lie down, lads, lie down.\" We\nthrew ourselves flat on our faces--the earth heaved under us, like a\nwave of the sea, and in a moment, Bill and I were covered with half a\nton of sand. But the pieces whizzed over us; and, save that the man who\nwas across me had an ammunition bag carried away, not one of us more\nthan heard them. On getting ourselves disinterred, and our pipes\nrelighted, Bill, with a twitch on the elbow--so--said he wished to speak\nwith me apart; and we went out together, into a hollow, in front.\n\n\"You will think it strange, Jack,\" he said, \"that, all this day, when\nthe enemy's bullets were hopping around us like hail, there was but just\none idea that filled my mind, and I could find room for no other. Ever\nsince I saw Colonel Westhope it has been forced upon me, through a\nnewly-awakened dream-like recollection, that he is the gentleman with\nwhom I lived ere I was taken away by your people; for, taken away I must\nhave been. Your mother used to tell me, that my father was a Cumberland\ngipsy, who met with some bad accident from the law; but I am now\nconvinced she must have deceived me, and that my father was no such sort\nof man. You will think it strange; but, when putting on my coat this\nmorning, my eye caught the silver bar on the sleeve, and there leaped\ninto my mind a vivid recollection of having worn a scarlet dress\nbefore--scarlet bound with silver; and that it was in the house of a\ngentleman and lady, whom I had just learned to call papa and mamma. And\nevery time I see the colonel, as I say, I am reminded of the gentleman.\nNow, for heaven's sake, Jack, tell me all you know about me. You are a\nfew years my senior, and must remember better than I can myself, under\nwhat circumstances I joined your tribe.\"\n\n\"Why Bill,\" I said, \"I know little of the matter, and, 'twere no great\nwonder though these bullets should confuse me somewhat in recalling what\nI do know. Most certainly we never thought you a gipsy like ourselves;\nbut then I am sure mother never stole you; she had family enough of her\nown, and, besides, she brought with her, for your board, she said, a\npurse with more gold in it than I have seen at one time, either before\nor since. I remember it kept us all comfortably in the _creature_ for a\nwhole twelvemonth; and it wasn't a trifle, Bill, that could do that. You\nwere at first like to die among us. You hadn't been accustomed to\nsleeping out, or to food such as ours. And, dear me! how the rags you\nwere dressed in used to annoy you; but you soon got over all, Bill, and\nbecame the hardiest little fellow among us. I once heard my mother say\nthat you were a _love-begot_, and that your father, who was an English\ngentleman, had to part from both you and your mother on taking a wife.\nAnd no more can I tell you, Bill, for the life of me.\"\n\nWe slept that night on the sand, master, and found, in the morning, that\nthe enemy had fallen back some miles nearer Alexandria. Next evening\nthere was a party of us dispatched on some secret service across the\ndesert. Bill was with us; but the officer under whose special charge we\nwere placed was a Captain Turpic, a nephew of Colonel Westhope, and his\nheir. But he heired few of his good qualities. He was the son of a\npettifogging lawyer, and was as heartily hated by the soldiers as the\ncolonel was beloved. Towards sunset, the party reached a hollow valley\nin the waste, and there rested, preparatory, as we all intended, for\npassing the night. Some of us were engaged in erecting temporary huts of\nbranches, some in providing the necessary materials, and we had just\nformed a snug little camp, and were preparing to light our fires for\nsupper, when we heard a shot not two furlongs away. Bill, who was by far\nthe most active among us, sprung up one of the tallest date-trees, to\nreconnoitre. But he soon came down again.\n\n\"We have lost our pains this time,\" he said; \"there is a party of\nFrench, of fully five times our number, not half a mile away.\" The\ncaptain on the news, wasn't slow, as you may think, in ordering us off;\nand, hastily gathering up our blankets, and the contents of our\nknapsacks, we struck across the sand just as the sun was setting. There\nis scarce any twilight in Egypt, master; it is pitch dark twenty minutes\nafter sunset. The first part of the evening, too, is infinitely\ndisagreeable. The days are burning hot, and not a cloud can be seen in\nthe sky; but no sooner has the sun gone down, than there comes on a\nthick white fog, that covers the whole country, so that one can't see\nfifty yards around; and so icy cold is it, that it strikes a chill to\nthe very heart. It is with these fogs that the dews descend; and deadly\nthings they are. Well, the mist and the darkness came upon us at once;\nwe lost all reckoning; and, after floundering on for an hour or so,\namong the sandhills, our captain called a halt, and bade us burrow as we\nbest might among the hollows. Hungry as we were, we were fain to leave\nour supper, to begin the morning with, and huddled all together into\nwhat seemed a deep, dry, ditch. We were at first surprised, master, to\nfind an immense heap of stone under us; we couldn't have lain harder had\nwe lain on a Scotch cairn; and that, d'ye see, is unusual in Egypt,\nwhere all the sand has been blown by the hot winds from the desert,\nhundreds of miles away, and where, in the course of a few days' journey,\none mayn't see a pebble larger than a pigeon's egg. There were hard,\nround, bullet-like masses under us, and others of a more oblong shape,\nlike pieces of wood that had been cut for fuel; and, tired as we were,\ntheir sharp points, protruding through the sand, kept most of us from\nsleep. But that was little, master, to what we felt afterwards. As we\nbegan to take heat together, there broke out among us a most\ndisagreeable stench; bad, at first, and unlike anything I had ever felt\nbefore, but at last altogether overpowering. Some of us became dead\nsick, and some, to show how much bolder they were than the rest, began\nto sing. One half the party stole away one by one, and lay down outside;\nfor my own part, master, I thought it was the plague that was breaking\nout upon us from below, and lay still, in despair of escaping it. I was\nwretchedly tired, too, and, despite of my fears and the stench, I fell\nasleep, and slept till daylight. But never before, master, did I see\nsuch a sight as when I awoke. We had been sleeping on the carcases of\nten thousand Turks, whom Bonaparty had massacred about a twelvemonth\nbefore. There were eyeless skulls grinning at us by hundreds from the\nside of the ditch, and black, withered hands and feet sticking out, with\nthe white bones glittering between the shrunken sinews. The very sand,\nfor roods around, had a brown iron-like tinge, and seemed baked into a\nhalf-solid mass, resembling clay. It was no place to loiter in; and you\nmay trust me, master, we breakfasted elsewhere. Bill kept close to our\ncaptain all that morning; he didn't much like him, even so early in\ntheir acquaintance as this--no one did, in fact; but he was anxious to\nlearn from him all he could regarding the colonel. He told him, too,\nsomething about his own early recollections; but he would better have\nkept them to himself. From that hour, master, Captain Turpic never gave\nhim a pleasant look, and sought every means to ruin him.\n\nWe joined the army again on the evening of the 20th March. You know,\nmaster, what awaited us next morning. I had been marching, on the day of\nour arrival, for twelve hours, under a very hot sun, and was fatigued\nenough to sleep soundly. But the dead might have awakened next morning.\nThe enemy broke in upon us about three o'clock. It was pitch dark. I had\nbeen dreaming, at the moment, that I was busily engaged in the landing,\nfighting in the front rank beside Bill, and I awoke to hear the enemy,\noutside the tent, struggling in fierce conflict with such of my comrades\nas, half-naked and half-armed, had been roused by the first alarm, and\nhad rushed out to oppose them. You will not think I was long in joining\nthem, master, when I tell you that Bill himself was hardly two steps\na-head of me. Colonel Westhope was everywhere at once that morning,\nbringing his men in the darkness and the confusion, into something like\norder; threatening, encouraging, applauding, issuing orders--all in a\nbreath. Just as we got out, the French broke through, beside our tent,\nand we saw him struck down in the throng. Bill gave a tremendous cry of\n'Our colonel! our colonel!' and struck his pike up to the cross into the\nbreast of the fellow who had given the blow. And, hardly had that one\nfallen, than he sent it crashing through the face of the next foremost,\ntill it lay buried in the brain. The enemy gave back for a moment; and,\nas he was striking down a third, the colonel got up, badly wounded in\nthe shoulder; but he kept the field all day. He knew Bill the moment he\nrose, and leant on him till he had somewhat recovered. 'I shall not\nforget, Bill,' he said, 'that you have saved your colonel's life.' We\nhad a fierce struggle, master, ere we beat out the French; but, broken\nand half-naked as we were, we did beat them out, and the battle became\ngeneral.\n\nAt first, the flare of the artillery, as the batteries blazed out in the\ndarkness, dazzled and blinded me; but I loaded and fired incessantly;\nand the thicker the bullets went whistling past me, the faster I loaded\nand fired. A spent shot, that had struck through a sandbank, came\nrolling on like a bowl, and, leaping up from a hillock in front, struck\nme on the breast. It was such a blow, master, as a man might have given\nwith his fist; but it knocked me down; and, ere I got up, the company\nwas a few paces in advance. The bonnet of the soldier who had taken my\nplace, came rolling to my feet ere I could join them. But, alas! it was\nfull of blood and brains; and I found that the spent shot had come just\nin time to save my life. Meanwhile, the battle raged with redoubled fury\non the left, and we in the centre had a short respite. And some of us\nneeded it. For my own part, I had fired about a hundred rounds; and my\nright shoulder was as blue as your waistcoat.\n\nYou will wonder, master, how I should notice such a thing in the heat of\nan engagement; but I remember nothing better than that there was a flock\nof little birds shrieking and fluttering over our heads for the greater\npart of the morning. The poor little things seemed as if robbed of their\nvery instinct by the incessant discharges on every side of them; and,\ninstead of pursuing a direct course, which would soon have carried them\nclear of us, they kept fluttering in helpless terror in one little spot.\nAbout mid-day an _aide-de-camp_ went riding by us to the right.\n\n'How goes it? how goes it?' asked one of our officers.\n\n'It is just _who will_,' replied the _aide-de-camp_, and passed by like\nlightning. Another followed hard after him.\n\n'How goes it now?' inquired the officer.\n\n'Never better, boy!' said the second rider. 'The Forty-Second have cut\nBonaparty's Invincibles to pieces, and all the rest of the enemy are\nfalling back!'\n\nWe came more into action a little after. The enemy opened a heavy fire\non us, and seemed advancing to the charge. I had felt so fatigued,\nmaster, during the previous pause, that I could scarcely raise my hand\nto my head; but, now that we were to be engaged again, all my fatigue\nleft me, and I found myself grown fresh as ever. There were two\nfield-pieces to our left that had done noble execution during the day;\nand Captain Turpic's company, including Bill and me, were ordered to\nstand by them in the expected charge. They were wrought mostly by seamen\nfrom the vessels--brave, tight fellows, who, like Nelson, never saw\nfear; but they had been so busy that they had shot away most of their\nammunition; and, as we came up to them, they were about despatching a\nparty to the rear for more.\n\n'Right,' said Captain Turpic; 'I don't care though I lend you a hand,\nand go with you.'\n\n'On your peril, sir!' said Bill Whyte, 'What! leave your company in the\nmoment of the expected charge? I shall assuredly report you for\ncowardice and desertion of quarters, if you do.'\n\n'And I shall have you broke for mutiny,' said the captain. 'How can\nthese fellows know how to choose their ammunition without some one to\ndirect them?'\n\nAnd so off he went to the rear, with the sailors; but, though they\nreturned, poor fellows! in ten minutes or so, we saw no more of the\ncaptain till evening. On came the French in their last charge. Ere they\ncould close with us, the sailors had fired their field-pieces thrice;\nand we could see wide avenues opened among them with each discharge. But\non they came. Our bayonets crossed and clashed with theirs for one half\nminute; and, in the next, they were hurled headlong down the declivity,\nand we were fighting among them pell-mell. There are few troops superior\nto the French, master, in a first attack; but they want the bottom of\nthe British; and, now that we had broken them in the moment of their\nonset, they had no chance with us, and we pitched our bayonets into them\nas if they were so many sheaves in harvest. They lay in some places\nthree and four tier deep--for our blood was up, master,--just as they\nadvanced on us, we had heard of the death of our general; and they\nneither asked for quarter nor got it. Ah, the good and gallant Sir\nRalph! We all felt as if we had lost a father; but he died as the brave\nbest love to die. The field was all our own; and not a Frenchman\nremained who was not dead or dying. That action, master, fairly broke\nthe neck of their power in Egypt.\n\nOur colonel was severely wounded, as I have told you, early in the\nmorning; but, though often enough urged to retire, he had held out all\nday, and had issued his orders with all the coolness and decision for\nwhich he was so remarkable; but, now that the excitement of the fight\nwas over, his strength failed him at once, and he had to be carried to\nhis tent. He called for Bill, to assist in bearing him off. I believe it\nwas merely that he might have an opportunity of speaking to him. He\ntold him that, whether he died or lived, he would take care that he\nshould be provided for. He gave Captain Turpic charge, too, that he\nshould keep a warm side to Bill. I overheard our major say to the\ncaptain, as we left the tent--'Good heavens! did you ever see two men\nliker one another than the colonel and our new sergeant?' But the\ncaptain carelessly remarked, that the resemblance didn't strike him.\n\nWe met, outside, with a comrade. He had had a cousin in the\nForty-Second, he said, who had been killed that morning, and he was\nanxious to see the body decently burried, and wished us to go along with\nhim. And so we both went. It is nothing, master, to see men struck down\nin warm blood, and when one's own blood is up; but oh, 'tis a grievous\nthing, after one has cooled down to one's ordinary mood, to go out among\nthe dead and the dying. We passed through what had been the thick of the\nbattle. The slain lay in hundreds and thousands--like the ware and\ntangle on the shore below us--horribly broken, some of them, by the\nshot; and blood and brains lay spattered on the sand. But it was a worse\nsight to see, when some poor wretch, who had no chance of living an hour\nlonger, opened his eyes as we passed, and cried out for water. We soon\nemptied our canteens, and then had to pass on. In no place did the dead\nlie thicker than where the Forty-Second had engaged the Invincibles, and\nnever were there finer fellows. They lay piled in heaps--the best men of\nScotland over the best men of France--and their wounds, and their\nnumber, and the postures in which they lay, showed how tremendous the\nstruggle had been. I saw one gigantic corpse, with the head and neck\ncloven through the steel cab to the very brisket. It was that of a\nFrenchman; but the hand that had drawn the blow, lay cold and stiff, not\na yard away, with the broadsword still firm in its grasp. A little\nfarther on, we found the body we sought. It was that of a fair young\nman; the features were as composed as if he were asleep; there was even\na smile on the lips; but a cruel cannon shot had torn the very heart out\nof the breast. Evening was falling. There was a little dog whining and\nwhimpering over the body, aware, it would seem, that some great ill had\nbefallen its master; but yet tugging, from time to time, at his clothes,\nthat he might rise and come away.\n\n'Ochon, ochon! poor Evan M'Donald!' exclaimed our comrade; 'what would\nChristy Ross, or your good old mother, say to see you lying here!'\n\nBill burst out a-crying, as if he had been a child; and I couldn't keep\ndry-eyed neither, master. But grief and pity are weaknesses of the\nbravest natures. We scooped out a hole in the sand with our bayonets and\nour hands, and, burying the body, came away.\n\nThe battle of the 21st broke, as I have said, the strength of the French\nin Egypt; for, though they didn't surrender to us until about five\nmonths after, they kept snug behind their walls, and we saw little more\nof them. Our colonel had gone aboard of the frigate, desperately ill of\nhis wounds--so ill that it was several times reported he was dead; and\nmost of our men were suffering sadly from sore eyes ashore. But such of\nus as escaped, had little to do, and we contrived to wile away the time\nagreeably enough. Strange country, Egypt, master. You know, our people\nhave come from there; but, trust me, I could find none of my cousins\namong either the Turks or the Arabs. The Arabs, master, are quite the\ngipsies of Egypt: and Bill and I--but he paid dearly for them\nafterwards, poor fellow--used frequently to visit such of their\nstraggling tribes as came to the neighbourhood of our camp. You, and the\nlike of you, master, are curious to see _our_ people, and how we get\non--and no wonder; and we were just as curious to see the Arabs. Toward\nevening, they used to come in from the shore or the desert, in parties\nof ten or twelve; and wild-looking fellows they were; tall, but not very\ntall; thin, and skinny, and dark; and an amazing proportion of them\nblind of an eye--an effect, I suppose, of the disease from which our\ncomrades were suffering so much. In a party of ten or twelve--and their\nparties rarely exceeded a dozen--we found that every one of them had\nsome special office to perform. One carried a fishing net, like a\nherring have; one, perhaps, a basket of fish, newly caught; one a sheaf\nof wheat; one, a large copper basin, or rather platter; one, a bundle of\nthe dead boughs and leaves of the date tree; one, the implements for\nlighting a fire; and so on. The first thing they always did, after\nsquatting down in a circle, was to strike a light; the next, to dig a\nround pot-like hole in the sand, in which they kindle their fire. When\nthe sand has become sufficiently hot, they throw out the embers, and,\nplacing the fish, just as they had caught them, in the bottom of the\nhole, heaped the hot sand over them, and the fire over that. The sheaf\nof wheat was next untied, and each taking a handful, held it over the\nflame till it was sufficiently scorched, and then rubbed out the grain\nbetween their hands, into the copper plate. The fire was then drawn off\na second time, and the fish dug out, and, after rubbing off the sand,\nand taking out the bowels, they sat down to supper. And such, master,\nwas the ordinary economy of the poorer tribes, that seemed drawn to the\ncamp merely by curiosity. Some of the others brought fruit and\nvegetables to our market, and were much encouraged by our officers; but\na set of greater rascals never breathed. At first, several of our men\ngot flogged through them. They had a trick of raising a hideous outcry\nin the market place for every trifle--certain, d'ye see, of attracting\nthe notice of some of our officers, who were all sure to take part with\nthem. The market, master, had to be encouraged, at all events; and it\nwas some time ere the tricks of the rascals were understood in the\nproper quarter. But, to make short, Bill and I went out one morning to\nour walk. We had just heard--and heavy news it was to the whole\nregiment--that our colonel was despaired of, and had no chance of seeing\nout the day. Bill was in miserably low spirits. Captain Turpic had\ninsulted him most grossly that morning. So long as the colonel had been\nexpected to recover, he had shown him some degree of civility; but he\nnow took every opportunity of picking a quarrel with him. There was no\ncomparison in battle, master, between Bill and the captain; for the\ncaptain, I suspect, was little better than a coward; but, then, there\nwas just as little on parade the other way; for Bill, you know, couldn't\nknow a great deal, and the captain was a perfect martinet. He had called\nhim vagrant and beggar, master, for omitting some little piece of duty;\nnow, he couldn't help having been with _us_, you know; and, as for\nbeggary, he had never begged in his life. Well, we had walked out\ntowards the market, as I say.\n\n'It's all nonsense, Jack,' says he, 'to be so dull on the matter; I'll\ne'en treat you to some fruit. I have a Sicilian dollar here. See that\nlazy fellow with the spade lying in front, and the burning mountain\nsmoking behind him; we must see if he can't dig out for us a few\n_prans'_ worth of dates.\n\nWell, master, up he went to a tall, thin, rascally-looking Arab, with\none eye, and bought as much fruit from him as might come to one-tenth of\nthe dollar which he gave him, and then held out his hand for the change.\nBut there was no change forthcoming. Bill wasn't a man to be done out of\nhis cash in that silly way, and so he stormed at the rascal; but he, in\nturn, stormed as furiously, in his own lingo, at him, till at last\nBill's blood got up, and, seizing him by the breast, he twisted him over\nhis knee, as one might a boy of ten years or so. The fellow raised a\nhideous outcry, as if Bill were robbing and murdering him. Two officers,\nwho chanced to be in the market at the time, came running up at the\nnoise; one of them was the scoundrel Turpic; and Bill was laid hold of,\nand sent off under guard to the camp. Poor fellow! he got scant justice\nthere. Turpic had procured a man-of-war's man, who swore, as he well\nmight, indeed, that Bill was the smuggler who had swamped the\nKirkcudbright custom-house boat. There was another brought forward, who\nswore that both of us were gipsies, and told a blasted rigmarole story,\nwithout one word of truth in it, about the stealing of a silver spoon.\nThe Arab had his story, too, in his own lingo; and they received every\nword of it; for my evidence went for nothing. I was of a race who never\nspoke the truth, they said--as if I weren't as good as a Mahommedan\nArab. To crown all, in came Turpic's story, about what he called Bill's\nmutinous spirit in the action of the 21st. You may guess the rest,\nmaster. The poor fellow was broke that morning, and told that, were it\nnot in consideration of his bravery, he would have got a flogging into\nthe bargain.\n\nI spent the evening of that day with Bill, outside the camp, and we ate\nthe dates together, that in the morning had cost him so dear. The report\nhad gone abroad--luckily a false one--that our colonel was dead; and\nthat put an end to all hope, with the poor fellow, of having his case\nrighted. We spoke together for, I am sure, two hours--spoke of Bill's\nearly recollections, and of the hardship of his fate all along. And it\nwas now worse with him, he said, than it had ever been before. He spoke\nof the strange, unaccountable hostility of Turpic; and I saw his brow\ngrow dark, and the veins of his neck swell almost to bursting. He\ntrusted they might yet meet, he said, where there would be none to note\nwho was the officer and who the private soldier. I did my best, master,\nto console the poor fellow, and we parted. The first thing I saw as I\nopened the tent door next morning, was Captain Turpic, brought into the\ncamp by the soldier whose cousin Bill and I had assisted to bury. The\ncaptain was leaning on his shoulder, somewhat less than half alive, as\nit seemed, with four of his front teeth struck out, and a stream of\nblood all along his vest and small clothes. He had been met with by\nBill, who had attacked him, he said, and, after breaking his sword,\nwould have killed him, had not the soldier come up and interfered. But\nthat, master, was the captain's story. The soldier told me, afterwards,\nthat he saw the captain draw his sword ere Bill lifted hand at all; and\nthat, when the poor fellow did strike, he gave him only one knock-down\nblow on the mouth, that laid him insensible at his feet; and that, when\ndown, though he might have killed him twenty times over, he didn't so\nmuch as crook a finger on him. Nay, more; Bill offered to deliver\nhimself up to the soldier, had not the latter assured him that he would\nto a certainty be shot, and advised him to make off. There was a party\ndispatched in quest of him, master, the moment Turpic had told his\nstory; but he was lucky enough, poor fellow, to elude them; and they\nreturned in the evening, just as they had gone out. And I saw no more of\nBill in Egypt, master.\n\nNever had troops less to do than we had, for the six months or so we\nafterwards remained in the country; and time hung wretchedly on the\nhands of some of us. Now that Bill was gone, I had no comrade with whom\nI cared to associate; and, as you may think, I often didn't know what to\ndo with myself. After all our fears and regrets, master, our colonel\nrecovered, and, one morning, about four months after the action, came\nashore to see us. We were sadly pestered with flies, master. I have\nseen, I am sure, a bushel of them on the top of our tent at once. They\nbuzzed all night by millions round our noses, and many a plan did we\nthink of to get rid of them; but, after destroying hosts on hosts they\nstill seemed as thick as before. I had fallen on a new scheme this\nmorning. I placed some sugar on a board, and surrounded it with\ngunpowder; and, when the flies had settled by thousands on the sugar, I\nfired the powder by means of a train, and the whole fell dead on the\nfloor of the tent. I had just got a capital shot, when up came the\ncolonel, and sat down beside me.\n\n'I wish to know,' he said, 'all you can tell me about Bill Whyte; you\nwere his chief friend and companion, I have heard, and are acquainted\nwith his early history. Can you tell me ought of his parentage.'\n\n'Nothing of that, colonel,' I said; 'and yet I have known Bill almost\never since he knew himself.'\n\nAnd so, master, I told him all that I knew; how Bill had been first\ntaken to us by my mother; of the purse of gold she had brought with her,\nwhich had kept us all so merry; and of the noble spirit he had shown\namong us when he grew up. I told him, too, of some of Bill's early\nrecollections; of the scarlet dress trimmed with silver, which had been\nbrought to his mind by the sergeant's coat the first day he wore it; of\nthe gentleman and lady, too, whom he remembered to have lived with; and\nof the supposed resemblance he had found between the former and the\ncolonel. The colonel, as I went on, was strangely agitated, master. He\nheld an open letter in his hand, and seemed, every now and then, to be\ncomparing particulars; and, when I mentioned Bill's supposed recognition\nof him, he actually started from off his seat.\n\n'Good Heavens!' he exclaimed, 'why was I not brought acquainted with\nthis before!'\n\nI explained the why, master, and told him all about Captain Turpic; and\nhe left me with, you may be sure, no very favourable opinion of the\ncaptain. But I must now tell you, master, a part of my story which I had\nbut from hearsay.\n\nThe colonel had been getting over the worse effects of his wound, when\nhe received a letter from a friend in England, informing him that his\nbrother-in-law, the father of Captain Turpic, had died suddenly, and\nthat his sister, who, to all appearance was fast following, had been\nmaking strange discoveries regarding an only son of the colonel's, who\nwas supposed to have been drowned about seventeen years before. The\ncolonel had lost both his lady and child by a frightful accident. His\nestate lay near Olney, on the banks of the Ouse; and the lady, one day,\nduring the absence of the colonel, who was in London, was taking an\nairing in the carriage with her son, a boy of three years or so, when\nthe horses took fright, and, throwing the coachman, who was killed on\nthe spot, rushed into the river. The Ouse is a deep, sluggish stream,\ndark and muddy in some of the more dangerous pools, and mantled over\nwith weeds. It was into one of these the carriage was overturned;\nassistance came too late, and the unfortunate lady was brought out, a\ncorpse; but the body of the child was nowhere to be found. It now came\nout, however, from the letter, that the child had been picked up,\nunhurt, by the colonel's brother-in-law, who, after concealing it for\nnearly a week, during the very frenzy of the colonel's distress, had\nthen given it to a gipsy. The rascal's only motive--he was a lawyer,\nmaster--was that his own son, the captain, who was then a boy of twelve\nyears or so, and not wholly ignorant of the circumstance, might succeed\nto the colonel's estate. The writer of the letter added that, on coming\nto the knowledge of the singular confession, he had made instant search\nafter the gipsy to whom the child had been given, and had been\nfortunate enough to find her, after tracing her over half the kingdom,\nin a cave, near Fortrose, in the north of Scotland. She had confessed\nall; stating, however, that the lad, who had borne among the tribe the\nname of Bill Whyte, and had turned out a fine fellow, had been outlawed,\nfor some smuggling feat, about eighteen months before, and had enlisted,\nwith a young man, her son, into a regiment bound for Egypt. You see,\nmaster, there couldn't be a shadow of doubt that my comrade, Bill Whyte,\nwas just Henry Westhope, the colonel's son and heir. But the grand\nmatter was where to find him. Search as we might, all search was in\nvain; we could trace him no further than outside the camp, to where he\nhad met with Captain Turpic. I should tell you, by the way, that the\ncaptain was now sent to Coventry, by every one, and that not an officer\nin the regiment would return his salute.\n\nWell, master, the months passed, and at length the French surrendered;\nand, having no more to do in Egypt, we all re-embarked, and sailed for\nEngland. The short peace had been ratified before our arrival; and I,\nwho had become heartily tired of the life of a soldier, now that I had\nno one to associate with, was fortunate enough to obtain my discharge.\nThe colonel retired from the service at the same time. He was as kind to\nme as if he had been my father, and offered to make me his forester, if\nI would but come and live beside him; but I was too fond of a wandering\nlife for that. He was corresponding, he told me, with every British\nconsul within fifteen hundred miles of the Nile; but he had heard\nnothing of Bill, master. Well, after seeing the colonel's estate, I\nparted from him, and came north, to find out my people, which I soon\ndid; and, for a year or so, I lived with them just as I have been doing\nsince. I was led, in the course of my wanderings, to Leith, and was\nstanding, one morning, on the pier among a crowd of people, who had\ngathered round to see a fine vessel from the Levant, that was coming in\nat the time, when my eye caught among the sailors a man exceedingly like\nBill. He was as tall, and even more robust, and he wrought with all\nBill's activity; but, for some time I could not catch a glimpse of his\nface. At length, however, he turned round, and there, sure enough, was\nBill himself. I was afraid to hail him, master, not knowing who among\nthe crowd might also know him, and know him also as a deserter or an\noutlaw; but you may be sure I wasn't long in leaping aboard and making\nup to him. And we were soon as happy, master, in one of the cellars of\nthe Coal-hill, as we had been in all our lives before.\n\nBill told me his history since our parting. He had left the captain\nlying at his feet, and struck across the sand, in the direction of the\nNile, one of the mouths of which he reached next day. He there found\nsome Greek sailors, who were employed in watering; and, assisting them\nin their work, he was brought aboard their vessel, and engaged as a\nseaman by the master, who had lost some of his crew by the plague. As\nyou may think, master, he soon became a prime sailor, and continued with\nthe Greeks, trading among the islands of the Archipelago, for about\neighteen months, when, growing tired of the service, and meeting with an\nEnglish vessel, he had taken a passage home. I told him how much ado we\nhad all had about him after he had left us, and how we were to call him\nBill Whyte no longer. And so, in short, master, we set out together for\nColonel Westhope's.\n\nIn our journey, we met with some of our people on a wild moor of\nCumberland, and were invited to pass the night with them. They were of\nthe Curlit family; but you will hardly know them as that. Two of them\nhad been with us when Bill swamped the custom-house boat. They were\nfierce, desperate fellows, and not much to be trusted by their friends\neven; and I was afraid that they might have somehow come to guess that\nBill had brought some clinkers home with him. And so, master, I would\nfain have dissuaded him from making any stay with them in the night\ntime; for I did not know, you see, in what case we might find our\n_weasands_ in the morning; but Bill had no fears of any kind, and was,\nbesides, desirous to spend one last night with the gipsies; and so he\nstayed. The party had taken up their quarters in a waste house on the\nmoor, with no other human dwelling within four miles of it. There was a\nlow, stunted wood on the one side, master, and a rough, sweeping stream\non the other: the night, too, was wild and boisterous; and, what between\nsuspicion and discomfort, I felt well nigh as drearily as I did when\nlying among the dead men in Egypt. We were nobly treated, however, and\nthe whisky flowed like water, but we drank no more than was good for us.\nIndeed, Bill was never a great drinker; and I kept on my guard, and\nrefused the liquor, on the plea of a bad head. I should have told you\nthat there were but three of the Curlits--all of them raw-boned fellows,\nhowever, and all of them of such stamp that the three have since been\nhung. I saw they were sounding Bill; but he seemed aware of them.\n\n'Ay, ay,' said he, 'I have made something by my voyaging, lads, though,\nmayhap, not a great deal. What think you of that there now, for\ninstance?'--drawing, as he spoke, a silver-mounted pistol out of each\npocket--'these are pretty pops, and as good as they are pretty; the\nworst of them sends a bullet through an inch board at twenty yards.'\n\n'Are they loaded, Bill?' asked Tom Curlit.\n\n'To be sure,' said Bill, returning them again, each to its own pouch.\n'What is the use of an empty pistol?'\n\n'Ah,' replied Tom, 'I smell a rat, Bill. You have given over making war\non the king's account, and have taken the road to make war on your own.\nBold enough, to be sure.'\n\nFrom the moment, they saw the pistols, the brothers seemed to have\nchanged their plan regarding us--for some plan I am certain they had.\nThey would now fain have taken us into partnership with them; but their\ntrade was a woundy bad one, master, with a world more of risk than\nprofit.\n\n'Why lads,' said Tom Curlit to Bill and me, 'hadn't you better stay with\nus altogether? The road won't do in these days at all. No, no, the law\nis a vast deal over strong for that; and you will be tucked up like dogs\nfor your very first affair. But, if you stay with us, you will get on in\na much quieter way on this wild moor here. Plenty of game, Bill; and,\nsometimes, when the nights are long, we contrive to take a purse with as\nlittle trouble as may be. We had an old pedlar, only three weeks ago,\nthat brought us sixty good pounds.--By the way, brothers, we must throw\na few more sods over him, for I nosed him this morning as I went\nby.--And, lads, we have something in hand just now that, with to be sure\na little more risk, will pay better still. Two hundred yellow boys in\nhand, and five hundred more when our work is done. Better that, Bill,\nthan standing to be shot at, for a shilling per day.'\n\n'Two hundred in hand, and five hundred more when you have done your\nwork!' exclaimed Bill. 'Why, that is sure enough princely pay, unless\nthe work be very bad indeed. But, come, tell us what you propose. You\ncan't expect us to make it a leap in the dark matter.'\n\n'The work is certainly a little dangerous,' said Tom, 'and we of\nourselves are rather few; but, if you both join with us, there would be\na vast deal less of danger indeed. The matter is just this. A young\nfellow, like ourselves, has a rich old uncle, who has made his will in\nhis favour; but then he threatens to make another will that won't be so\nfavourable to him by half; and you see the drawing across of a\nknife--so--would keep the first one in force. And that is all we have to\ndo before pocketing the blunt. But, then, the old fellow is as brave as\na lion; and there are two servants with him, worn-out soldiers like\nhimself, that would, I am sure, be rough customers. With your help,\nhowever, we shall get on primely. The old boy's house stands much alone;\nand we shall be five to three.'\n\n'Well, well,' said Bill, 'we shall give your proposal a night's thought,\nand tell you what we think of it in the morning. But, remember, no\ntricks, Tom! If we engage in the work, we must go share and share alike\nin the booty.'\n\n'To be sure,' said Tom; and so the conversation closed.\n\nAbout eight o'clock, or so, master, I stepped out to the door. The night\nwas dark and boisterous as ever, and there had come on a heavy rain. But\nI could see that, dark and boisterous as it was, some one was\napproaching the house with a dark lanthern. I lost no time in telling\nthe Curlits so.\n\n'It must be the captain,' said they; 'though it seems strange that he\nshould come here to-night. You must away, Jack and Bill, to the loft,\nfor it mayn't do for the captain to find you here; but you can lend us a\nhand afterwards, should need require it.'\n\nThere was no time for asking explanations, master; and so up we climbed\nto the loft, and had got snugly concealed among some old hay, when in\ncame the captain. But what captain, think you? Why, just our old\nacquaintance, Captain Turpic!\n\n'Lads,' he said to the Curlits, 'make yourselves ready; get your\npistols. Our old scheme is blown; for the colonel has left his house at\nOlney, on a journey to Scotland; but he passes here to-night, and you\nmust find means to stop him--now or never!'\n\n'What force and what arms has he with him, captain?' asked Tom.\n\n'The coachman, his body servant, and himself,' said the captain; 'but\nonly the servant and himself are armed. The stream outside is high\nto-night; you must take them just as they are crossing it, and thinking\nof only the water; and, whatever else you may mind, make sure of the\ncolonel.'\n\n'Sure as I live,' said Bill to me, in a low whisper, ''tis a plan to\nmurder Colonel Westhope! And, good Heavens!' he continued, pointing\nthrough an opening in the gable, 'yonder is his carriage, not a mile\naway. You may see the lantherns, like two fiery eyes, coming sweeping\nalong the moor. We have no time to lose; let us slide down through the\nopening, and meet with it.'\n\nAs soon done as said, master; we slid down along the turf gable, crossed\nthe stream, which had risen high on its banks, by a plank bridge for\nfoot passengers, and then dashed along the broken road in the direction\nof the carriage. We came up to it, as it was slowly crossing an open\ndrain.\n\n'Colonel Westhope!' I cried, 'Colonel Westhope!--stop! stop!--turn back!\nYou are waylaid by a party of ruffians, who will murder you if you go\non.'\n\nThe door opened and the colonel stepped out, with his sword under his\nleft arm, and a cocked pistol in his hand.\n\n'Is not that Jack Whyte?' he asked.\n\n'The same, noble colonel,' I said; 'and here is Henry, your son.'\n\nIt was no place or time, master, for long explanations; there was one\nhearty congratulation, and one hurried embrace; and the colonel, after\nlearning from Bill the number of the assailants, and the plan of the\nattack, ordered the carriage to drive on slowly before, and followed,\nwith us and his servant, on foot, behind.\n\n'The rascals,' he said, 'will be so dazzled with the flare of the\nlantherns in front, that we will escape notice till they have fired, and\nthen we shall have them for the picking down.'\n\nAnd so it was, master. Just as the carriage was entering the stream, the\ncoachman was pulled down by Tom Curlit; at the same instant, three\nbullets went whizzing through the glasses, and two fellows came leaping\nout from behind some furze to the carriage door. A third, whom I knew to\nbe the captain, lagged behind. I marked him, however; and when the\ncolonel and Bill were disposing of the other two--and they took them so\nsadly by surprise, master, that they had but little difficulty in\nthrowing them down, and binding them--I was lucky enough to send a piece\nof lead through the captain. He ran about twenty yards, and then dropped\ndown, stone dead. Tom escaped us; but he cut a throat some months after,\nand suffered for it at Carlisle. And his two brothers, after making a\nclean breast, and confessing all, were transported for life. But they\nfound means to return in a few years after, and were both hung on the\ngallows on which Tom had suffered before them.\n\nI have not a great deal more to tell you, master. The colonel has been\ndead for the last twelve years, and his son has succeeded him in his\nestate. There is not a completer gentleman in England than Henry\nWesthope, master, nor a finer fellow. I call on him every time I go\nround, and never miss a hearty welcome; though, by the by, I am quite as\nsure of a hearty scold. He still keeps a snug little house empty for me,\nand offers to settle on me fifty pounds a-year, whenever I choose to\ngive up my wandering life, and go and live with him. But what's bred in\nthe bone won't come out of the flesh, master, and I have not yet closed\nwith his offer. And, really, to tell you my mind, I don't think it quite\nrespectable. Here I am, at present, a free, independent tinker--no man\nmore respectable than a tinker, master--all allow that; whereas, if I go\nand live with Bill, on an unwrought-for fifty pounds a-year, I will be\nhardly better than a mere master tailor or shoemaker. No, no, that would\nnever do! Nothing like respectability, master, let a man fare as hard as\nhe may.\n\nI thanked the gipsy for his story, and told him I thought it almost\nworth while putting it in print. He thanked me, in turn, for liking it\nso well, and assured me I was quite at liberty to put it in print as\nsoon as I choose. And so I took him at his word.\n\n\"But yonder,\" said he, \"is the moon rising, red and huge over the three\ntops of Belrinnes, and throwing, as it brightens, its long strip of fire\nacross the Frith. Take care of your footing, just as you reach the top\nof the crag; there is an awkward gap there on the rock edge that reminds\nme of an Indian trap; but, as for the rest of the path, you will find it\nquite as safe as by day. Good-by!\"\n\nI left him, and made the best of my way home; where, while the facts\nwere fresh in my mind, I committed to paper (for the express purpose of\nhaving it inserted among the Border Tales) the gipsy's story.\n\n\n\n\nTHE PROFESSOR'S TALES.\n\n\n\n\nTHE LAST OF THE PEDLARS.\n\n    \"Atlas was so exceeding strong,\n    He bore the skies upon his back,\n    Just as a pedlar does his pack.\"--SWIFT.\n\n\nThe whole framework of society has been so much altered within these\nlast sixty years, that a person who has been born within that period,\nunless from tradition, must remain entirely ignorant of the manners and\nhabits of his immediate predecessors. _Now_, highroads, carriages by\nland and water, with all manner of facilities of intercourse, have\nbrought every part of the country, even the most remote corners, into\ncontact, as it were, with every other part. Any great or engrossing fact\nor feeling flies immediately, on wings of paper, and in characters of\nink, from land's-end to land's-end. But, formerly, this was very far\nfrom being the case. The press, as a vehicle of public news, was\naltogether in its infancy. Roads _were_ not, or they were all _but_\nimpassable; and the one end of the island might be sunk into the sea,\nwithout the other extremity having any immediate perception of the loss.\nBut we must not conclude, on this account, that our forefathers were\nwithout curiosity, or without the means of gratifying that passion for\nnews which is deeply seated in our nature. Not at all; the very\ninconveniences of their position produced, in a great measure, the means\nof reciprocal intelligence.\n\nThere were the tailor and the trogger, but, above and beyond all, the\npedlar, the most respected and interesting of all walking and migrating\ngazettes, who, in the non-existence of woollen-drapers and haberdashers,\nnailed, like bad silver, to a locality, wandered from Dan to\nBeersheba--in other words, from Glasgow to Manchester, and _vice\nversa_--carrying all manner of fashionable clothing on their backs, and\na vast assortment of fore-night gabble in their heads. As these\nitinerant merchants behoved to be young and strong, so they were\ngenerally unmarried, and kept up a kind of running fire with the lasses.\nTheir opportunities of observing the characteristics of the farmer's\nfireside were unbounded, as they not unfrequently remained stationary\nfor two or three days in one place. After several years of laborious\ntravel, and enormous profits, at little or no expense in point of diet,\nsuch individuals generally purchased a stout horse, to carry the\nincreased load of goods. The horse, again, was ultimately attached to a\nwaggon, and the waggon, at last, stuck in the midst of some flourishing\nvillage or town, and became a regular haberdashery shop. Thus, through\nindustry, all but dishonest parsimony, prudence, and perseverance, a\ncomfortable independence often crowned the old age of the packman; and\nhe was not unfrequently found with a fishing-rod by the mountain-stream,\nor with a book in the corner of his snug little garden, towards the\nclose of his varied and eventful history. It was but the other day that\nwe attended the sale of an old bachelor of this description--the last,\nwe believe, of the race--and that, amidst a parcel of old books and\npapers, which we purchased _en masse_, we discovered a well written and\nsomewhat extended manuscript, from which we intend to cull a few\nchapters for the amusement of our readers.\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\nIt is now upwards of sixty years (says the packman) since I first took\nyard-wand in hand, and pack on back, addicting myself to much pedestrian\ntravel, with the view of supplying dames with needles and shears,\nmaidens with shawls and Bibles, and servant lads with watch-chains and\nwaistcoat pieces. Having, at last, and after many wanderings and much\nconverse with men, women, and children--not to mention dogs, which, in\nthe hill-country, are numerous and noisy--having, I say, at last\nreached, as it were, a port or haven of rest, I sit here in my arm\nchair, with old Ponto on one side, and my not less faithful friend, the\nschoolmaster, on the other, keeping a calm look out over the ocean upon\nwhich I have been tossed, and recalling, as well as endeavouring in the\nbest way I can to narrate, the somewhat varied incidents of my past\nlife.\n\nIt is quite true that I was never properly bred for any profession, but\nwas simply educated in the reading of English, and in the keeping of\naccounts, and may, therefore, be supposed to be very unfit for anything\nlike grand composition, or style of language; but in case this narrative\nshould, by any accident, as they say, _see the light_, I must premise\nthat I am possessed of advantages of which the reader, till I inform\nhim, cannot possibly be apprised. I have the benefit of my friend the\nschoolmaster's strictures; of which, however, I shall only avail myself,\nin regard to the language, and that merely when I am fairly convinced\nthat he is right and that I am wrong. With the wording of this very last\nsentence, Dominie Tawse finds fault, and insists upon it, that there is,\nI think he calls it, a \"pleonasm\" in it; but of this he has failed to\nconvince me, and I therefore suffer the sentence to stand as it was\noriginally written. In fact, I have a great respect for my good friend,\nthe Dominie's opinions, in most occasions, but really, in regard to\ncomposition, his taste has been perverted by certain rules and\nregulations, to which he gives very hard names, and to which, in my\nopinion, he sacrifices both ease and sense.\n\nI pass over the history of my early days. Were I to enter upon them, I\nshould write a volume, and still have volumes to write; for I was born\nin a mountain glen, beside a mountain stream--my father being a\nshepherd--and where I grew insensibly into an affectionate friendship\nfor everything around me; for my dear and indulgent mother; for my douce\nand sagacious father; for our two dogs, Help and Watch; for the old grey\ncat; for all manner of wooden trenchers, spoons, and ladles; for the\nstream that winded past the byre-end; for every fin that shoot across\nthe pool; for the sheep bleating upon the brae and glen; for the glen\nand brae themselves; for the mist, the clouds, the sky, the sun, the\nmoon, the stars--which all seemed made for and subservient to us, and us\nalone. I pass over the killing of my first trout, with a crooked pin, my\nnoviciate in fishing, and my amazing progress and success in after\nyears; but I cannot pass over a song, which, in these my days of\nyouthful glee, I laboured into something like the tune, I think, of\n\"Blue Bonnets over the Border:\"--\n\n    \"Oh, would you wish to gang to the fishing, lad--\n      Ye maun get up in the morning sae early,\n    Wi' step like the roe-deer, and blythe heart and glad,\n      And tackle in order, to start to it fairly.\n    Away! while the sleepers around you are dreaming,\n    Away! while the grey eye of morning is beaming,\n        Ere the mist leaves the mountain,\n        The wild duck the fountain,\n    Or the pure light of day o'er the world is streaming.\n\n    \"Gang down by the glen where the burnie rows gently,\n      When the light western breeze the stream ripples over;\n    By the deep eddied pools, where, silent and tently,\n      The trout keep his watch, 'neath the willowed bank's cover\n    And there, with the fly, where the water winds slowly,\n    Neatly and clean throw it out just below you;\n        Watch for him steadily,\n        Strike at him readily.\n    And run him till, faint, on the sward he lies lowly.\n\n    With the well-seasoned bait in the streams that are fleetest,\n      Fish the large yellow fellows, two pounders or more;\n    You are sure of a tune to the fisher's ear sweetest,\n      For the sound of the pirn is all music before.\n    He comes with a boil, like a deep caldron gasping,\n    So sudden and keenly the tempting bait grasping--\n        Hark to him dashing!\n        See to him splashing!\n    Now he pants on the green, and your hand cannot clasp him.\"\n\nI pass over, likewise, the mournful recollection of my worthy father's\ndeath. He was swept away in an avalanche, which, on the melting of the\nsnow, detached itself from the mountain's brow. He and Help perished\ntogether. Oh, I remember, as it were but yesterday, Watch's look when he\nentered the house, and all but told us in words what had happened. But\nwhat avail such recollections? My father was dead, and, in a few hours,\nmy mother followed him; she was seized prematurely with her pains, and,\nere assistance could be procured, there was a dead mother and a\nstill-born child. I wonder yet that I kept my senses; but I was\nstupified. My uncle, a gruff and worldly-minded, but shrewd carle,\narranged and managed everything, and took me home with him, the day\nafter the double funeral.\n\nMy mother's brother--with whom I now lived, and by whom I was educated,\nin the town of Moffat, Dumfriesshire--had made a respectable\nindependence as a packman; and having only one son, and being a widower,\nhe found no great inconvenience in accommodating me. His son was grown\nup; and, having a natural taste for a sea-faring life, he was, soon\nafter my arrival, placed as middy on board of an East Indiaman; so my\nuncle and I had the whole house to ourselves. But my uncle's temper was\nbad; and there was that in his manner to me which seemed ever and anon\nto say--You are devilishly in my road, I wish I were quit of you.\nAccordingly, being now a pretty well-educated lad of seventeen, I cast\nabout in my own mind for a profession, or some way or other of\nsupporting myself, independent of my snarling relative. Jamaica, I\nremember, was thought of, and I even had some pairs of shoes made for\nthe voyage; but the person died on whose patronage my uncle relied, and\nthe scheme luckily blew up. I wrote a good hand, and was quite master of\nbook-keeping, both by single and double entry; so I was put to a\nwriter's desk in Dumfries, with many admonitions, and much wise\ninstruction. But I had been accustomed to the hills and streams, and\nfishing, and all the varieties of an active life; and so, one fine\nevening, I went out to walk on the banks of the Nith, but forgot to\nreturn to my desk next morning. In fact, I had returned to Moffat,\ntelling my uncle that I was tired of sitting, and would rather, like\nhimself, carry a pack. At this he seemed at first somewhat startled;\nbut, finding me resolute, he at last consented, and agreed to furnish me\nwith credit to the amount of L20 sterling. A suitable box was\naccordingly purchased, and a somewhat limited assortment of penknives,\nwatch-seals, scissors, thimbles, needles, pins, brooches, Bibles, and\nPsalm-books, with a small assortment of shawls, waistcoat pieces, and\nKilmarnock night-caps, &c., were selected and packed up; and the\nfollowing morning was fixed upon for my departure, when my uncle\nrequested my company for a little in his own small sitting room, off the\nkitchen.\n\n\"You are about,\" said my uncle, \"to enter upon a profession, the profits\nof which, if rated according to shop regulations, would be altogether\ninadequate to the recompense of your risk and trouble; you must,\ntherefore, effect an 'assurance,' as it were, by disposing of every\narticle at the highest price you can possibly obtain. Ask, if you mean\nto secure a reasonable and a remunerating profit, at least double the\nprime or original cost; and thus you can afford to be prigged, or beat\ndown from penny to penny, till you all but swear that the purchaser has\nthe article below prime cost. In all your travels, never lodge at an inn\nor public house. One single instance of this, well authenticated, would\nruin your trade for ever; for every lad and lass, every guidman and\nguidwife, would infallibly conclude, that, if you could afford such\nexpensive accommodation, it must undoubtedly be at their cost--it must\nbe exacted from the ribbons, shawls, gown and waistcoat pieces, with\nwhich you supply them. You must, therefore, fix, as soon as may be, upon\nyour points or stations of regulated half-yearly or yearly calls; and\nthis is undoubtedly one of the nicest and most delicate points of your\nprofession, and must be managed, not so much on any general principle,\nas by a reference to character and circumstance. There are, undoubtedly,\nmany farm-houses, from which the sooner that you depart, and relieve the\ndogs of their clamour, the better. But this is not their universal or\neven general character. Whenever you find the guidwife couthy and\nheartsome, the guidman gruff, and frank, and honest, and the daughters\nyoung and buxom, there deposit your pack on Saturday night, and if\ngreatly pressed, do not lift it again till Tuesday or Wednesday morning.\nMonday or Tuesday, if you are up to your trade, can be advantageously\nemployed in exhibiting, bit by bit, and at intervals, the wonders of the\npack; in retailing, with a corresponding parsimony, your country and\ncity news; and in disposing of as many articles on trust (for you must\nnever deal for ready money only), as may entitle you to announce your\nreturn with new patterns and fashions that day six or twelve months. To\nthe sheep or stock-farmer in particular, your periodical visits will be\nthe welcomest: for, as he lies at a distance from shops or cities, his\nwants will be numerous, and his knowledge of the market price imperfect\nin proportion. To him, too, you can render yourself useful on various\noccasions. At speaning and smearing time, in particular, you can lend\nhim a lift; for you must never grudge a little labour of this sort, to\nsecure you a good market, and a welcome back again. There is a way, too,\nof gratifying your customers, and of benefiting at the same time\nyourself, which you would do well to observe: Whenever occasion may\noffer, your maxim is to please them on the spot, and without delay; for\ndelays in purchasers, like those in other matters, are dangerous. Your\npack is exposed, and every eye is turned intently upon its many\nattractions. The farmer's daughter is mightily pleased with a particular\npattern, but wishes it more of a superior quality. The only test,\nhowever, which your inexperienced customer has of quality, is _price_.\nYou have asked, I shall suppose, five shillings, which may be about\ndouble its value, for this pattern; but it will not do--a finer article\nis wanted. You immediately recollect that you actually have such an\narticle somewhere else, and bustle over your goods in great seeming\nconfusion. At last, up the pattern turns; but the price is high--in\nfact, you did not mean to part with it, as it was in a manner bespoke by\nan old customer. Thus, the _very identical_ shawl is disposed of at\ndouble the price, and your customer is obliged at the same time. The\nneat performance of this allowable imposition, requires, however, some\nprevious practice, so that no suspicion may, in any case, attach to you.\n\n\"Never,\" continued my uncle, after inhaling his usual large allowance of\nsnuff--\"never neglect golden opportunities, or favourable occasions. A\ndeath is one of those most propitious occurrences; and, if it take place\nsuddenly, and in one of your 'starting families,' so much the better.\nHasten forward, or backward, (as may suit your purpose, on such\noccasions), with all possible dispatch. Night and day you must continue\nyour travel towards the house of mourning, and, after suitable inquiries\nand condolences, which must never be overtasked, you may, as it were\nincidentally, mention that, by the most strange coincidence, your\npresent stock of mourning articles is full and good. A whole black suit\nfor the guidman, or a gown, at least, and ribbons for the mistress, will\nyield a profit more than equal to console your grief, and reconcile you\nto the behests of Providence.\n\n\"The lassie, again, who is thinking of marriage, will easily be\nrecognised by her bashful look and embarrassed manner. You will soon\nlearn to observe the great approaching event, in a laughing eye and an\nexcited demeanour--\n\n    \"Coming events cast their shadows before;\"\n\nand, under the advanced shadow of this coming event, you will be able to\nspread out your pack to some purpose. Whatever of head-gear, ribbon, or\nlace, flutters in the wind, adorns the countenance, or borders a dress\ngown, you will be ready to afford, at prices greatly reduced since last\nseason. Bridegrooms, too, make presents; and for this purpose you must\nhave neat-bound Bibles, gilt Psalm-books, and Boston's \"Fourfold State.\"\nMarriages have a natural tendency towards, and connexion with\nchristenings; and you will be a lame calculator if you cannot make it\nyour business to be present on these occasions, with such dresses as\ninfancy, thus circumstanced, is known to require.\n\n\"Fairs, too, and markets, are never beneath your notice; not that I\nwould advise you to attend indiscriminately such public resorts. There\nis danger in this; for if, whilst selling, as you would be compelled to\ndo, your goods at a fair market price, some of your muirland customers\nshould observe it, your private and more lucrative trade would be\nendangered; but, in markets sufficiently remote from your ordinary\nroute, no such consequences are to be apprehended, and there you may\noccasionally get rid of some old and rather unsaleable stock.\n\n\"One of the most important secrets of the trade is, the recovery of bad\ndebts; for, however delighted your customers may be with their fine new\nfashionable articles when they are purchased, the day of payment is\nalways an unwelcome day.\n\n    \"So comes the reckoning, when the banquet's o'er,\n    The awful reckoning, and men smile no more.\"\n\n\"Servants, too, frequently change their service, and you will often have\ngreat difficulty in tracing them out. In every instance, almost, some\nparticular procedure must be resorted to. In one case, you may succeed\nby threats, and by pretending to read a warrant of apprehension; in\nanother, a little flattery may not be amiss, particularly with the fair\nsex. 'It is, indeed, a pity that the price is not forthcoming: for you\nnever saw _her_ look so handsome as she did in the still unpaid article.\nCould she only manage the one-half now, you would take her\nacknowledgment for the other half, next time you came about,' &c. &c. In\ndesperate cases, desperate measures must be resorted to. For example,\"\ncontinued my knowing instructor, \"I'll tell you how I once recovered\nthirty shillings, which I had fully given up as lost.\n\n\"There was a servant lass, in the parish of Penpont, who had the\nhardihood not only to refuse me payment, but actually to aver that she\nowed me not a farthing, that she had already paid me, and would not pay\nme twice over. True, she had no receipt for the money; but then I was in\nthe habit of receiving money without giving or being asked for any\nreceipt whatever. What was to be done? There had been no witnesses of\nthe transaction. Was I to sit quietly down, not only under the loss, but\nunder the suspicion that I was capable of charging twice for the same\npurchase? I, at last, after much meditation, devised and carried into\neffect the following method of recovery. I shut myself up in a room, in\nthe village of Penpont, for a day or two, and took care to have it\nnoised abroad, by means of a boy whom I had bribed into the secret,\nfirst, that I had been taken suddenly and extremely ill, and lastly,\nthat I had died. This report I took particular care to have conveyed to\nthe ears of my fair debtor. She resided about two miles from the\nvillage. In a day or two, my messenger repaired to the lady, averring\nthat I had left him, being a near relative, my heir, and that he had\nfound a debt due by her in my books, which debt he requested her to\nliquidate incontinent. To this proposal Tibby opposed words and actions\nof the most disdainful and reproachful character, calling my agent many\nbad names, and at last setting him to the door by actual violence. In\nthe meantime, knowing what was likely to occur, I hove in sight, at the\nfurther extremity of a grass field, in full uniform, with my well-known\npack on my back, and my yard-wand in my hand.\n\n\"'Aweel,' says Sandy, 'if ye winna pay, I canna help it; but there\n_he's_ coming to speak to you _himsel_. So ye can e'en settle the\nbusiness atwixt ye.'\n\n\"'The Lord forbid!' exclaimed Tibby, looking towards my approach, with\nstaring eyes, and limbs trembling like an aspen leaf--'The Lord Almighty\nforbid, Sandy! Come here! come here! Wait a moment till I get the key of\nmy trunk! Here, here! there's the money, every shilling, and see ye\nletna the awfu' dead creature come ony nearer us.'\n\n\"And thus I recovered my just debt, and afforded a source of much\ngood-humoured merriment to the neighbourhood for many days afterwards.\"\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\nIt was on a fine morning in the latter end of the month of October, that\nI took yard-wand in hand, and pack on back for the first time. The sun\nshone slanting and sweetly over wood, and vale, and hill-side; and the\nlight and airy gossamer (at this season _only_ visible) lay in gleaming\nand floating lines, over grass fields and ploughed lands. I bent my way\nto the mountains, well knowing that there, at a distance from shop or\nmarket, I should most likely meet with a sale for my goods, and should,\nat the same time, fix the prices, without fear of check or detection. By\nthe time that I had reached Locherben, the sun had set, and the twilight\nwas still lingering on the tops of the twin Queensberries. The herds\nwere coming in from the hills; the guidman was steeking some yetts in\nthe inclosure of the in-fields; and the guidwife, with some half-a-dozen\nservant lasses, were busily employed in domestic arrangements. Dogs were\neverywhere to be seen, meeting in unity, or snarling defiance over some\ncontested pot from which they were extracting a rather scanty meal. I\nleaned my pack on a fail or turf dike, which enclosed a few ill-thriven\ncabbages, and waited patiently an invitation from some chance inmate to\nenter. At last, a canny lass came out, with a tub full of sheeps\nentrails, which she proceeded to cleanse and scour in the passing\nstream. She took up her station near to where I leaned, and, blithely\nsinging the while, proceeded, with kilted coats, and sleeves tucked up\nto the shoulders, to perform her work. Having cast a random glance\naround her, she immediately perceived that she was not alone--and,\nwithout any feeling or appearance of embarrassment, immediately\nproceeded to address me--\n\n\"And what are _you_, sitting there, like a craw in the mist? and what's\nthat lying behint you, man?--Losh preserve us! hae ye gotten a coffin on\nyer back, or are ye just a kintra lad, gain hame wi' yer sister's kist\non yer shoulders?--Speak, body, speak this minute, or I'll come alang\nyer chafts wi' a nievefu o' thairms!\"--Thus saying, she actually left\nthe pure water which she was so busy defiling, and, brandishing some\nscore of yards of the tripe in her right hand, was in the act of\naccomplishing her threat, when I suddenly disengaged myself from the\narm-strings of my pack, and, parrying the blow which was aimed at me, I\nclosed at once with my fair adversary, and, ere she could raise a\nscream, sufficient to alarm the whole town land, I had taken as many\nfavours from her as ever Apollo did from Daphne. To scream so loud and\nshrill as to bring down upon us half-a-dozen dogs, and nearly as many\nherds, was the work of an instant; but of an instant during which she\nwas made distinctly to perceive that I was no lassie, but a young fellow\nof some spunk and mettle.\n\n\"What's the matter wi' Jenny?\" said a stout figure, snugly wrapped up in\nthe shepherd's toga.\n\n\"Matter!\" replied Jenny--\"matter!\"--adjusting her dress, and now red\nfrom ear to ear--\"why, I believe, after a', there is nae great\nmatter--but that body frightened me sae with his kists and his coffins,\nI was amaist out o' my wits.\"\n\n\"Kists and coffins, ye gomeril woman!--why, that's a packman; and I'll\nwarrant he has as mony shawls, and gown-pieces, and ribbons, and as\nmuckle braw Brussels lace in his box, as wad set ye fleeing to kirk on\nSabbath, like an Indian queen. Come in, lad--come ben--it's getting\ndark, and ye're far here frae ony neighbour town--come away, and ye\nshall hae yer supper in the spense, and yer bed in the cha'mer--and\nJenny there into the bargain, if ye will only promise to mak us rid o'\nher for guid and a'.\"\n\n\"Jenny!--hegh! that's ane indeed!\" responded the fair tripe\nscourer.--\"I'se warrant, guidman, ye wad soon be sending a' owre the\ncountry, and sticking up bits o' paper on the kirk doors, war I only\nfour-and-twenty hours amissing; and, as for Wee Watty there--if there be\na bauk low enough to hang him, ye wad be sure to find him, ere the first\ntwal hours were owre, dangling frae't, like a periwinkie candle hanging\nto a spit.\"\n\nUpon this sally of Nanny's wit, all things were put to rights, and the\npackman was snugly lodged _versus_ the guidman, the guidwife, and God\nonly knows how many persons, in the spence, or small apartment adjoining\nto and looking in upon the kitchen. The chapman's drouth is\nproverbial--and, to assuage it, I was immediately supplied with a cog o'\ncrap-whey, bannocks, and a ram-horn spoon, just to put aff the time till\nsupper was ready! In the meanwhile, the inmates of the farmer's kitchen\nbegan and continued to congregate. Some half-score of acres of inland\ncroft had just been reaped, and there had been the promise of a hett\nsupper and a dance, to conclude the comparatively insignificant grain\nharvest. James Hogg, then a youth of twenty-four, acted as chief\nmusician, and contrived to extract from the thairms of an old time-worn\nfiddle, some sounds, which, when assisted by a lively imagination and\nhigh animal spirits, passed for music. And the guidman led off the dance\nwi' the guidwife--snapping his fingers, and springing three or four\ntimes over the kitchen fire. The guidwife enjoyed the fun exceedingly;\nand, though encumbered in more ways than one, spread her napkin over her\nbreast--adjusted her pockets and nether garments, and presented herself\nevery now and then to the guidman, with a sly look and a sidelong bob. I\nwas lucky enough to get hold of Nanny, whom, in spite of Wee Watty, as\nhe was termed, I drew at once into the centre of the whirlpool, and\nthere we went, hand in hand, round and round, with the velocity of\nplanets whose orbits are limited--Wee Watty, for the time, having\nsupplied himself with Nell Morrison, a tall, prepossessing wench,\nwho seemed to rejoice in vexing my partner, Nanny, who was\nmanifestly Wee Watty's favourite. Shepherds--as Wilson would say,\nshepherdesses--sported around, like giants dancing to Polyphemus; and\nboys, girls, and dogs caught the infection--screaming, barking, singing,\nleaping, and reeling, as God gave them instinct. Hogg seemed amazingly\ndelighted, and, ever and anon, removed his hand from the strings of the\nfiddle, to flourish it aloft in the air, and then come down flap upon\nsome sonsy cummer's neck, as she demanded \"Dainty Davie,\" \"Jenny\nNettles,\" or \"The Highlandman kissed his Mother\"--the triad which\ncomposed our fiddler's whole stock of tunes!\n\nAt last, supper came, in the shape of boiled bloody puddings, haggis,\nking's-hood, and a long _et cetera_ of inferior occupants of the\ninterior of a sheep-skin. There was, besides, a sprinkling of whisky,\nadministered in its natural purity, and, after a song or two from Nanny,\nand Hogg, who gave \"Donald Macdonald\" in his own style, sleep began to\nintimate his claims, and we all stepped off our several ways to bed.\n\nI could easily perceive, as I imagined--for there is a masonry in all\nmanner of love concerns--that I had made a favourable impression upon\nNanny, and that she would have no great objection to spend an hour or\ntwo in my company when all the other inmates, and, amongst them, Watty\nTelfer, had gone to rest. I had learned all this by certain signs, and\nwinks, and nods, and squeezes, which are Hebrew to all but the parties\nconcerned; and I took my way across the closs to the cha'mer, under a\nfirm conviction that I should meet Nanny behind the great peat stack\nwhenever the last dog had ceased to bark. Accordingly, I was early at\nthe place of rendezvous, and waited, with some impatience, the approach\nof my fair visitant. The night was dark and somewhat misty, and I could\nnot distinctly see to any distance. At last, a figure began to move in\nthe distance, closely wrapped up in a Scottish plaid, from foot to head,\nand stretching forward its head as if in the act of listening. \"Is that\nyou, Nanny?\" was whispered, and responded to by a silent nod of assent;\nand, ere I could make any farther observation, Nanny was close by my\nside. To my surprise, however, she refused to permit me to unveil her\nface, and spoke so low that I was difficulted in getting at the import\nof her words.\n\n\"Is Watty Telfer to bed?\" said I.\n\n\"Yes--oh yes,\" was the response; \"and you and I will play him a trick,\nif you will only assist me.\"\n\nI promised immediately to be art and part--for I liked fun and frolic\ndearly, and I thought Watty was the only obstacle to my suit with fair\nNanny.\n\n\"Watty sleeps by himsel in the stable aboon the naigs; and, if you will\ngo up the ladder, which I will show you, you will find his clothes lying\nupon an old chair just at the ladder-head. Now, just slip quietly one of\nyour best waistcoat-pieces into his pocket, and we will swear, to-morrow\nmorning, that Watty entered the auld cha'mer, when you were asleep, and\nstole the piece. I will be answerable to you for the money.\"\n\nThe scheme pleased me exceedingly; so I ascended the ladder and\ndeposited the goods as directed. But, when I turned about again to\ndescend, I found the ladder, as well as my directress, absent without\nleave. What was to be done? I could not descend without risk to my neck\nfrom the stable loft; and yet I was afraid that, if Watty should awake,\nhe would take me for a thief, and, perhaps, tumble me headlong from the\ndangerous position which I occupied. In feeling, therefore, about me, to\nascertain if there was no other method of escape, I was immediately\nseized by the neck, and grasped so closely that I had almost been choked\nere I could ejaculate--\"Help! murder!\" _&c_. Not a word was said in\nreply; but I felt cords passing around my body in various directions,\nand myself tied down, like Gulliver, flat on the boards and beams\nbeneath me. I expostulated--threatened--coaxed my tormentors--for I felt\nthere were two--but all to no purpose. My destiny was fixed, and there I\nlay supine, whilst my mischievous jailors manifestly slept, and even\nsnored aloud. At last, worn out with watching and vexation, I fell\nsoundly asleep; and, when I awoke, it was broad daylight. I found my\nlimbs unloosed, my tormentors gone, and the ladder by which I had\nascended restored.\n\nNext day, I learned that, instead of playing a trick upon any one, I had\nmyself been imposed upon, to the immense amusement of Nanny and the\nwhole household. It was not Nanny, but wee Watty Telfer, with whom I had\nconversed by the peat stack. It was _he_, set on by James Hogg, who had\ngot me up the ladder, and then, entering himself by another passage, had\nassisted a fellow-servant in binding me, and in ultimately releasing me\nfrom limbo. Well, what, good reader, did I do on this occasion? Did I\nimmediately take things in great dudgeon, and depart with my pack in\ngreat wrath? No such thing. I had listened to my uncle to little purpose\nhad this been the result. On the contrary, I immediately displayed my\ntempting articles before the young couple, Watty and Nanny, who were\nactually bride and bridegroom, and sold to the whole family, the young\nfolks included, not less than upwards of ten pounds of goods; not one\nfarthing of which would I have pocketed had I been the fool to resent my\nsomewhat disagreeable usage. Ever after this adventure, I was a welcome\nvisitant at Locherben; and Nanny Telfer who is now the mistress of a\nlarge family, and has servants of her own, patronises me to a very\nconsiderable extent. Wee Watty has become staid and industrious, and\nrents a sheep-farm from the Duke of Buccleuch, on which he seems to\nthrive amazingly. Indeed, all the duke's tenantry are in a very thriving\ncondition; for this simple reason--that they are not rack-rented.\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\nIT was about dusk when I was caught in a mist on the borders of\nScotland. I had made my way from Manchester, by Kendal and Penrith, and\nwas on a long stretch across the bleak muirs which separate England from\nScotland, as you advance towards the village of Castletown on the\nLiddle. Not being familiar with the footpath which I was tracing, I\nfairly lost my way, and had some severe pulls, through mosses and\nravines of no ordinary depth and extent. Still, I was young and strong,\nand not subject to superstitious fears. At last, however, I was\nenveloped in close and almost palpable darkness, or rather\nwhiteness--for the ground-mist rose, and crawled, and trailed, white,\nand damp, and still, all around me. I even felt as if it entered my very\nnostrils, and made a portion of myself. I could scarcely see the two\nends of my pack, as they peeped over my shoulders. My faithful dog\nNeptune, of the Newfoundland breed, went on, however, gaily and\ncaressingly before me; and seemed to say, at every return, \"Another\neffort, master--one pull more--and we shall be alongside of the\nflesh-pots of Mr. Elliot, laird of Whithaugh.\" All at once, I came to\nthe brow of a precipice, from which my faithful monitor warned me to\nretreat; and while in the act of so doing, I thought I heard human\nvoices in the linn beneath. Neptune, too, gave loud note of the\ndiscovery; and in an instant was engaged in mortal warfare with a\nbull-dog of great power and fierceness. Whilst I was endeavouring, with\nmy yard-wand, to separate the combatants, a stout, tall, and somewhat\nungainly figure came, with a long horsewhip, to my assistance. The\ncombatants, seeing how matters stood, were content to adopt the\ngrowling, instead of the tearing system; and separated, as if by mutual\nagreement, that matters should not long remain as they were. However, a\nleash of strong cord, with a neck-band, made fast Neptune's opponent,\nand rendered it safe for Neptune and me to accept of the stranger's\ninvitation to join their camp.\n\nThe camp was, indeed, of a novel and somewhat strange description. Over\na brawling current, which, as I was told, at this point separated\nEngland from Scotland, there were extended from rock to rock, poles and\nbranches of dwarf-elder and saughs, which were growing, or rather\ndecaying, on each side of the glen or linn. These branches and poles\nwere again traversed by cords, which kept them in close order and\nregular position. Over all, were laid turf, and spret, and bog-hay,\nwhich formed a kind of isthmus betwixt the two kingdoms. When you stood\nin the middle of this erection, you were neither in England nor in\nScotland, but _medio tutissimus_; and, should the civil power show its\nmiscreant front on the one side, you could immediately retreat to the\nother, and _vice versa_ with regard to that of England. The gipsies were\nthe famous Yetholm band, and had lived here for some time past,\ndisposing during the day-time, of their pots, pans, ram-horn spoons, and\nother kitchen conveniences; and spending the night under shelter of\ntheir tents, located, or rather suspended, as above-mentioned, in riot,\nuproar, revelment, and debauchery. There were about an equal number of\nmen and women, but no children--these being left at Yetholm, where they\nremained stationary during the winter months. Their king or leader was\nat this time Cuthbert, or Cubby Elliot, who boasted of his long descent\nand connection with the laird of Whithaugh, on the skirts of whose\nproperty he was now encamped. The use which Cubby made of his\nrelationship with Whithaugh, was to amerce him in a fat wedder every\ntime he came round, together with a gallon of whisky, in consideration\nfor which voluntary donation he protected his hen-roost and barn-yard\nfrom all manner of gipsy depredation. This was sheep-night, as it was\ncalled--the evening, namely, on which the Whithaugh wedder was to be\ndiscussed, and the whisky was to be drunk; and the whole company was in\nthe middle of the wassail, when I stumbled upon their retreat.\n\nBeing not unknown to Cuthbert, whom I had even met at Whithaugh's\nfireside, I ran no risk either of insult or violence; but, on the\ncontrary, was hailed with an uproarious welcome, which made the grey\ngled quit the cliff above. The small cask containing the laird's _due_,\nas they called it (mountain dew was then a term unknown), lay in the\nmidst of the encampment, alongside of a blazing heap of brushwood, which\nseemed, ever and anon, to threaten with conflagration the whole\nerection; and the sheep, roasted, or rather broiled, in its own skin,\nbetwixt two forked poles, was subjected every now and then to an\nincision from the large whangers or knives, which, like Hudibras' sword,\n\"served more purposes than one.\" The mist sat close above; the flames\nroared in unison with the torrent beneath; the barrel gave out its\nglutting contents in horns and cups; the bare poles of the sheep began\nto appear in the shape of ribs; the song, the jest, the jeer, the howl,\nthe tumble, the almost quarrel, were all in their height, when I thought\nI heard a distant but terrific sound. With difficulty I procured a\ntemporary suspension of noise. It was manifestly distant thunder. No\nmatter--on went the carousal. A young man who had lately joined the\ngang, made a conspicuous figure; he was evidently over head, ears, and\nshoulders, in love with Ellen Elliot, the king's fair and buxom\ndaughter. The fellow was such a one as I have never seen before nor\nsince. He had the eye of a hawk or eagle; a nose corresponding; high\ncheek-bones; fair or yellowish hair, forking out like lightning in every\ndirection; a red beard, fully a month old; and the limbs, and nerves,\nand muscles of a giant. He twisted a horse-shoe in two behind his back;\nheld out a musket by the extremity of the muzzle, his arm at full\nstretch; and lifted up Ellen Elliot, tossing her up in the air, and\ncatching her again, like a tennis ball. His name I have since learned,\nthough I am not at liberty to divulge it, as he now occupies a chair in\none of our most celebrated universities, which he adorns with as much\nvigour and originality as he did that night the tinkler's gathering. It\nis thus that men of genius study human nature to advantage, and not in\nthe turning over of quarto volumes from one year's end to the other; and\nit was thus that the great and celebrated Christ---- N---- acquired that\nrichness of illustration and vigour of conception which have raised him,\nin this respect, above every living name. Long may he live!--and often\nmay the fresh and vigorous effusions of his pen recall to my\nrecollection the astonishing gambols and revelment of this evening! At\nlast, however, the cask gave out its last benediction--the utmost effort\nof man or woman could not extract a drop more; limbs became supple, and\neyes misty, muddy, heavy, and shut. Men slid down in their garments, and\nsnored aloud; women disappeared into the now closing obscurity, and\nhuddled together under eaves and covering; the embers emitted, or were\nabout to emit, their last gleam, when the young and extraordinary person\nI have described, made up to me. I had thought him drunk; but he was\nnot--it was all assumed. We entered immediately into conversation, and\nhe made me acquainted with his resolution of stealing away from the\nfrolic whilst the company slept. In this he was joined by me, and we\nwere upon the point of putting our resolution into execution, when a\nsudden gleam of lightning shone in upon us, and two or three large\npieces of hail, or rather ice, came down with the force and velocity of\nshot. All at once, the waters of the linn began to tumble about in an\nunusual manner--the Gullet, or Gray Mare's Tail, immediately above us,\npresented, even through the shade of night, a fearful projection of\nflood; the gullets roared and choked, and accumulated sticks, and turf,\nand heath, in their descent; and, ere a single individual could be\naroused, the whole erection on which the whole gang were sound sleeping,\nwas swept down the flood. Piteous was indeed the picture, and terrible\nthe screams; but after the obstruction behind which the waters had\naccumulated gave way, the stream narrowed in its course, and many were\nleft on dry land, almost without any efforts of their own. The fearless\nstranger was everywhere--he seemed now to be amphibious; and Neptune,\ntoo, was of the greatest service. I myself was not awanting either in\ncourage or enterprise; and so it came to pass, that, in a few seconds,\nall had mustered, save one, the buxom and frank-hearted Ellen Elliot.\nThe father raved, and dashed anew into the gullets. \"Search Hell's\nCaldron!\" was the almost universal cry. This was a terrible pool, some\nway down the stream. My young friend flew off; and I saw him leap some\ntwenty or thirty feet into the black and boiling flood; he came up again\nexhausted, but exclaiming--\"She is here! she is here!\" Her father's\nplunge was simultaneous with the last words; down they both went\ntogether, and up they brought betwixt them poor Ellen Elliot. She was\napparently dead; but, being laid on the brink of the pool, with her head\ndownwards, much water escaped from her mouth. \"She lives! she lives!\"\nexclaimed parent and lover at once; \"oh, kindle a fire!\" It was done, I\nnever knew how, as if by magic. Spirits from a small flask in her\nfather's side-pocket were made use of first externally, and latterly\ninternally. Ellen awoke in terrible pain, she travailled fearfully into\nlife; but at last she became sensible, and her first words were--\"Bless\nme! what a terrible dream I have had!\"\n\nAll is well that ends well. Ellen Elliot, the fair gipsy, is now Lady\nWhithaugh; the old man in his dotage having taken it into his head to\nmarry again, though he was at the time a grandfather. She is one of my\nmost steady customers, and I have no doubt that, when the old,\nkind-hearted, and easy-tempered laird shall have taken his leave, she\nmay very soon after take her leave of widowhood--and why not? Then will\nbe \"a wedding,\" and there (perhaps) may be the writer and the reader of\nthese _chapters_! Amen!\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\nAs I was wending my way from the hospitable mansion of Whithaugh, up\nHermitage Water, I was decoyed, by the near appearance of the old\ncastle, to deviate a little from the straight but steep and difficult\nroad to Hawick, to visit the ruins of this old Border keep--where Queen\nMary once lodged, and Bothwell once met her--where still sleeps the\nstern ghost of Soulis, and the tremendous bones of the Count of Baldar.\nAs the stream abounded in fish, I undid my pack, and, from the upper\ncorner, extracted a fishing-rod, which I had purchased at Kendal, and\namused myself, for an hour or two, in this most fascinating amusement.\nAlas! I have lived to see other times and other circumstances!--rivers\nwithout fish, and fishers without spirit: the one spoiled of their\nfinny inhabitants by every chemical abomination, and the other contented\nwith a brace of parr or a triad of minnows. But to my narrative. I soon\nfilled a bag which I carried for the purpose, and was at last compelled\nto give up the sport, from my inability to carry any additional weight.\nBy this time, I had reached the old castle, and taken an eye measurement\nof its meaningless and monotonous architecture. Strength and security\nseem to have been the only objects pursued in its erection. But time had\ndestroyed the one, and the other had ceased to be an object. I was on\nthe point of leaving this keep--with many suitable reflections on the\nchanges which time had wrought since Soulis roasted his foes, or cut\nthem to pieces in the dungeon with the saw-mill--when I thought that I\nperceived a little thread of blue smoke escaping through the loose\nstones by which the interior of the ruined walls was occupied. This\nnaturally excited my suspicion that there were more doings going on than\nI was aware of; so, depositing my trouts and my pack on the green bank\nof the Hermitage Water, I began to peer and poke about, with the end of\nmy fishing-rod, amongst the stones. Neptune, too, had smelt a rat, and\nwas busy, nose, and feet, and tongue, in assisting me in some mighty\ndiscovery. But all our efforts were in vain: the smoke ceased to issue,\nif indeed it had been smoke at all; and, although Neptune encompassed\nthe old tower as often as Moses did the city of Jericho, yet still the\nimmense walls stood true to their foundation; and, night coming on, we\nwere compelled, though reluctantly, to leave the spot. Having determined\nto reach Hawick this night, I pushed on, there being good moonlight,\nthough the evening was cold; and Neptune, as usual, kept on the advance,\ngiving me timely intimation of whatever might, or might seem, to\napproach us. At or near the top of the ridge which separates the vale of\nthe Hermitage from that of the Kitterick, there stood, and perhaps\nstill stands, a small public-house, built for the accommodation of such\ntravellers as pass this way, dreary and difficult as it is. Into this,\nNeptune and I thrust our noses, and found a large family of children\ngathered around a blazing peat fire. We took our position immediately by\nthe fire, and learned from the children that their mother was milking\nthe cow--that their father had been killed in a quarry some months\nago--and that there was a great number of fine-dressed gentlemen _ben_\nthe house. The mother, a decent, melancholy-looking woman, soon entered,\nwith the milk-stoup in her hand, and immediately proceeded to replenish\nthe gill-stoup with a very different beverage, for the use of her\nben-house customers.\n\n\"She didna ken weel what to mak o' them,\" she said; \"but she thought, by\ntheir way o' speaking, and their dress, and ither accoutrements, they\nwere maybe limbs o' the law--the deil's agents, excisemen--wha wadna let\na puir body live, if they could prevent it.\"\n\nAt this time, one, who seemed to be the commander of the party, entered\nthe kitchen, manifestly flustered with drink; and, seeing my fish-bag\nlying on the dresser, immediately seized it, exclaiming, \"By G--! what\nhave we got here?\" However, he was soon disabused, if he imagined it to\ncontain any illicit commodity; and, slipping a half-crown into my hand\n(which I willingly accepted), he ordered the fish to be immediately\nprepared for his supper, and that of his companions. They were, indeed,\na jolly company, and, after a little while, invited me to partake of the\nproduce of my own sport, and of a due qualification of whisky. In the\ncourse of an hour or two, we got exceedingly well acquainted; and I\nfound, at last, from several incidental observations, that they had\nreceived information of an illicit still being in the neighbourhood, and\nwere about to surprise those engaged in it so soon as the moon should\nset, and their approach might be covered by the darkness.\n\nUpon finding how the land lay, it immediately occurred to me that my\nuncle would have contrived to turn this incident to his professional\nadvantage. It was manifest that, although their information extended to\nthe whereabouts, they were ignorant of the exact spot where the illicit\nmanufacture of whisky was, in all probability, going forward. In fact,\nthey were led to believe that an old shieling, or shepherd's hut,\nconstructed out of a mountain cairn, was probably the place where the\nwork was proceeding. I opened my mind to them somewhat cautiously, by\nproposing that they should deal with me in such goods as my pack, so\nrecently replenished at Manchester, would supply. They were all very\nshy, and expressed their _contempt_ indeed of any such preposterous\nproposal. But, when I hinted that I was in possession of such\ninformation as might lead to the accomplishment of their object, they\ntook at once at the bait, and agreed that, not only they, but their\nwives and families, should be supplied from my stores. Fancy waistcoats,\nwatch-chains, twelve-bladed knives, razors, snuff-boxes, and\npocket-books, were immediately secured, and handsomely paid for; and\nNeptune and I (for I verily believe he understood the whole transaction)\nhad the pleasure of making a very considerable profit, by gaining at\nleast 100 per cent. upon the whole concern. About 11 o'clock--for they\nwere now impatient to secure their prize--we advanced, seven strong\n(exclusive of Neptune), upon the old tower of Hermitage.\n\nBut our approach had been anticipated, and the bird was flown. Some\nfriendly imp, one of the family where we had so recently been convened,\nhad probably given the necessary intimation to the illicit distillers;\nand, after much searching, and some curious discoveries of dark\npassages, and dungeons half filled with rubbish, we found a cask or two\nof recently distilled spirit, with a few vats or tubs which had not been\nremoved. It was manifest, however, from what we had discovered, that my\ninformation had been correct, and that, though flown, the bird would not\nbe at any great distance. The whisky was removed to the public-house\nwhich we had just left; and, when we were in the act of returning upon\nour footsteps, we were met by a bare and curly-headed callant, about\ntwelve years of age, who seemed inclined, when too late, to avoid any\nencounter. This excited our suspicion; and he was immediately secured,\nand questioned hard, whether he knew anything about the distillery in\nthe Auld Tower.\n\n\"Na,\" said the urchin, \"I ken naething about tilleries; but I ken weel\nthere's something no canny about the place.\"\n\n\"What makes you think so, my man?\"\n\n\"Ou, I dinna ken--I reckon it will be Auld Soulis' ghost; for he was an\nawfu wicked man, my mither says, and canna get rest in his grave at nae\nrate. I hae seen lichts about the auld place mysel.\"\n\nAnd hereupon the rascal looked about him, as if afraid to speak out,\nand, in a low voice, gave us to understand that he had just met an\nawesome sight: it rowed owre the body, and owre the body, and rumbled\naway down the linn into the miller's house yonder. It was for a' the\nwarl' like a whean corn-sacks, dyed black, and clinking ane against\nanither.\n\n\"Why, man, corn sacks dinna clink.\"\n\n\"Maybe no; but the deil's sacks are different. I reckon they wadna stand\nfire, unless they clinked.\"\n\nThere was no resisting this logic; so our informant was desired to show\nus the direction in which the apparition had gone. He pointed to a glen\nor linn on Hermitage Water, and to a light which flitted before us,\nappearing and disappearing at intervals. Down the glen we instantly\nrushed, through some brushwood, and along a narrow pass. When we had\nreached the mill-steading, the light had disappeared; and, on\ninvestigation, our informant likewise. We found the miller still at\nwork, and not a little surprised at our untimely and really unwelcome\nvisit. It was manifest now, that we had been imposed upon by the knowing\nurchin, who, to give time for escape to the illicit traders, had trumped\nup the ghost story, well knowing that a direct information might have\nbeen suspected. In a word, we were completely out; and, where the\ndistillers betook themselves, whether across the Border, or into some of\nthe almost inaccessible mountains of Eskdalemuir, remains to this day a\nsecret. However, I had made my market, and earned additional patronage\nby a chance adventure, which was quite in my uncle's way, and gave me\nassurance that, by pursuing a similar course in future, I should\nundoubtedly prosper.\n\nMy next advantageous hit was made at Moffat. To this favourite resort of\nthe invalid, the idle, and the wealthy, there had been added this season\na dinner, given by the advocates in Edinburgh to the future _author_ of\nthe poems of Ossian. Macpherson had just published some fragments of the\nGaelic poetry, and had excited the attention of the learned world, by\nhis announcing that, if he had the means, he would collect through the\nHighlands many larger and more valuable works of Ossian and other bards.\nI had been lucky enough to have purchased, when at Glasgow, a cheap\nremnant of the Macpherson tartan, having heard that it would take in\nEngland--but I was mistaken; and I could not prevail upon a single\ngentleman or lady of any note, betwixt Carlisle and Manchester, to\npatronise it.\n\nTheir patronage, in my trade, as in most others, is everything. Only get\nsome celebrated country belle to sport a particular and uncommon pattern\nat a market or at church, and the fate of your napkin-web is fixed. Only\nget the laird's eldest son to appear in the gallery, at church, in a\nwaistcoat of a particular stripe and combination of colours, and every\nboor in the parish will purchase the like, at three or four prices. Only\nget a bride, on her wedding-day, to sport the newest ribbon, and your\nbox is immediately emptied. It is thus that pedlar profit is realized,\nand a certain degree of notoriety, if not popularity, is obtained. I had\ngot a waistcoat made, for my own use, out of this bit of unsaleable\ntartan--not, indeed, at the time anticipating any advantage, but the\nordinary wear, from the garment. But, as good fortune would have it--and\nshe has much to say in all professions--this very waistcoat was, in a\nsense, the making of me. I appeared in the town of Moffat in this tartan\nwaistcoat, and had the good fortune, as I stood opposite to the inn-door\nwhere the company were to dine, adjusting my pack, and preparing to\nexpose my goods to public view, to be observed from the window by\nMacpherson himself. He immediately announced the fact of the nature of\nthe tartan which I wore to the gentlemen around him. They immediately\nbegan to wonder if the pedlar had any more of the same pattern in his\npack; and, from one thing to another, it was agreed, at last, to address\nme on the subject. Down they came--for they had yet half-an-hour to wait\nfor dinner; and, having made the necessary inquiries, were answered,\nsomewhat shyly, by me, that I \"didna ken but I micht hae a wee bit o'\nthe same web.\" (In fact, I had upwards of two hundred yards deposited\nsnugly in a friend's house, as I passed to England, besides the remnant\ncarried along with me!) So I opened out my supply, and, in a few\nseconds, I sold the whole of it.\n\nNext day, my pack was exposed at the principal well; and, to my no small\ndelight, I saw Macpherson himself, with upwards of a score of advocates,\nall sporting the tartan. The thing took like wildfire; piece after\npiece, (always the last!) I produced and sold; and had I been possessed\nof double, or even ten times the quantity, I verily believe I might have\nsold it, at any price. The very shepherd lads, from Queensberry and\nErrickstane, were down upon me, coaxing and urging me to let them have a\nwaistcoat-piece, at any price. But the more fixed merchants of the place\nsaw my advantage; and, by dismissing an express to Glasgow, in two or\nthree days had their windows filled with the Macpherson. The fever,\nhowever, was over. Macpherson himself, waistcoat and all, had set out on\nhis celebrated Highland search; the advocates had returned to their\nbriefs; and the Moffat haberdashers had reason to regret their hasty\nproceedings in this matter. I had, however, realized a round sum of\nprofit--not less than forty pounds--on this hit; and was content to\nlimit my sale to the more ordinary commodities of my pack, for the rest\nof the time which I sojourned here.\n\nFrom Moffat, I took the road, across the hills, to Durrisdeer. At this\ntime, the famous M'Gill was minister of this parish. He was a man\ncelebrated, in his day, for fervency in preaching; for marrying a Miss\nGoodfellow, (who had paid for his education, and was on the wrong\nside--I don't say of fifty, but at least of seventeen;) and for his\nextensive powers and experience in _haggis_-eating. The \"Kirkton\" of\nDurrisdeer--a small cluster of houses around the church--has been\ncelebrated by Burns, in his \"Tam o' Shanter\"--\n\n    \"And at the Lord's house, even on Sunday,\n    Thou drank wi' _Kirkton_ Jean till Monday.\"\n\nThis parish is principally mountainous, and, consequently, pastoral; and\nthe shepherds and sheep-farmers were, at the time of which I speak, in\nthe habit of transacting their worldly affairs, after church time, on\nthe sabbath evenings. This traffic was carried on in small, thatched\nale-houses, some of which still remain, kept in general, by old women.\n(one of whom lived to see 114 years!) and, in one particular exception,\nby a jolly young lass, yclept \"Kirkton Jean.\" Nobody knew Jean better\nthan Burns; and though, in his admirable poem, he places her near the\nDoon, yet, in fact, she was a nymph of the Carron, and a parishioner of\nDurrisdeer. It grieves me sore to say it, but Jean, though a stanch and\nsteady believer and kirk-goer, though a great favourite with the\nminister, and with all the younger part of the plaided mountaineers, was\ndetested by many decent women, and, in particular, by Mrs. M'Gill, who\nsaid she could not bear the sight of her. Her house, however, was much\nresorted to, and her company, as well as her ale, much sought after;\nand, when I reposed my pack on Jean's chest-lid, she gave me a hearty\nwelcome, and, telling the old, blind body, her grandmother, that here\nwas the pedlar, greeted me in the most kind and couthy manner possible.\nIt was not my usual wont to put up in a public-house, where I had to pay\nfor my food and bed; but I had my reasons in this case, as the reader\nwill see anon. I arrived on the Tuesday of the sacrament, and attended\nsermon on Thursday and Saturday, as well as on Sunday.\n\nMonday, however, came at last; and it was towards this Monday that I was\nlooking during all the previous days; for this Monday was, in fact, the\ngreat market day of the parish. After M'Gill had preached in the open\nair to a vast multitude, (for he was the most popular preacher of the\npresbytery,) man, wife, and wean, master, servant, merchant--all classes\nand denominations of Christians--were immediately up to the ears in\ndrink and traffic, buying, selling, hiring, _niffering_, as if religion\nand its observances had been unknown amongst them. The mind of man is a\n_queer_ concern--at least, the heart, on the best authority, is\n\"deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked;\" and, really, the\n\"Kirkton\" of Durrisdeer, in the days of M'Gill, and on the Monday of the\nsacrament in particular, but too manifestly exhibited the truth of this\nobservation. I had placed my pack on a stand, by the kirk-stile; and, as\nthe congregation dispersed, they had one and all an opportunity of\nseeing my goods in a state of full display. I had no rival, unless a\nvery decent old woman might be considered as such. She sold a few\narticles of dress, such as stockings and plaids, all of her own and her\ndaughter's manufacture; but mine were Manchester and Glasgow goods of\nthe very newest fashion, and worn by every lady and gentleman of quality\nbetwixt the two great marts. As the evening advanced, Jean's house\nbecame more and more difficult of access. My station was what is termed\nthe spence, or the mid-room or closet, betwixt the kitchen and the\n_ben_. There I stood, with my ellwand in my hand, measuring off\nwaistcoat-pieces, displaying shawls, and exhibiting watch-chains and\nknives, till late in the evening. Some moorland farmers purchased\nlargely on credit--a mode of dealing which I greatly relished, for two\nreasons: first, because it gave me an opportunity of visiting them in\ntheir mountain homes; and, secondly, because I could then with a safe\nconscience, or, at least, without challenge, charge double the original\nprice. I need not, and I shall not, proceed with the sequel of the\nevening's events. From Jean, I learned that old Fingland, who was now a\nwidower, had actually asked her in marriage; and that, in a few days,\nshe should, in all probability, be Mrs. Gibson. The poor, doited,\ndrunken body had a good farm from the Duke of Buccleuch; and, having got\nrid of his family by his first spouse, thought himself entitled to enter\nanew into the hallowed and often-tried state. He lived to repent his\nprecipitancy and indiscretion; for Jean ruined him in a few months, and\nmaking a moonlight flitting, was afterwards found in the Grassmarket of\nEdinburgh, mistress of the public-house called the Harrow. But here my\nnarrative must conclude for the present.\n\n\n\n\nDUNCAN SCHULEBRED'S VISION OF JUDGMENT.[2]\n\n\n[Footnote 2: The vision here recorded will carry a greater interest to\nthe reader, when he knows that it is not a _mere_ fancy. Many still\nliving can recognize in the narrative all the circumstances of the real\nadventure. We think proper thus to authenticate our tale, to prevent it\nfrom being classed among current versions (taken from our own original),\nwhich have no more foundation than may be claimed for other good\nstories.--ED.]\n\nWell, it is always the same. We are fed by the moralities just as we are\nby potatoes. We must be always repeating the dose to keep the world in\norder, and thus it is that we go on. We see many examples of the\nextraordinary discovery of evil designs attempted to be concealed by all\nthe craft of cunning man; nay, it is impossible to doubt, even with the\nmany cases before us of the apparent success of criminal schemes, that\nit is a part of God's providence to lay open the secret actings--often\nthe secret thoughts--of those who contravene his laws. The modes by\nwhich this purpose is fulfilled are as various as the designs\nthemselves; and though some of them may not appear to be consistent with\nthe seriousness and gravity of an avenging and punishing retribution, we\nare not, on that account, to doubt their authority or undervalue their\neffect. Now, we have a case to record of an extraordinary and ludicrous\ndiscovery of roguery, which, as well on account of its truth as the\nmoral which, amidst all its grotesqueness, it inculcates, deserves to be\nremembered. It may do good too to that \"muckle ne'er-do-weel,\" Human\nNature, who is still enjoying his grin at the schoolmaster, the\nphilanthropist, and the bible.\n\nIn that manufacturing town which has lately risen to considerable\neminence, called Dunfermline, there lived, some time ago, a person of\nthe name of Duncan Schulebred, by trade a weaver--or, as he chose rather\nto be called, a manufacturer, a term which the inhabitants love to apply\nto every man who can boast the property of a loom and its restless\nappendage. We believe the people of that town to be as honest and\nindustrious as those of any mercantile place in the kingdom; but they\nhave too much good sense to think of claiming for their entire\ncommunity, a total exemption from the inroads of dishonesty and\ndeceit--vices which prevail in every corner of this land. Unhappily, the\nindividual we have mentioned had allowed himself to become a slave to\nthose evil propensities which are concerned in the collecting together\nof ill-gotten wealth, and never left any feasible plan unattempted,\nwhich might present any chance of gratifying the ruling passion by which\nhe was mastered. He was a little man, with a florid complexion, and the\nsmall twinkling eye which almost invariably accompanies cunning. His\nwalk was that of a man accustomed to carry under his left arm a web of\nhuckaback, and in his right hand a staff ellwand; and his style of\nspeech, bland, conciliating, and persuasive, was derived from the habit\nof wheedling customers into exorbitant terms. He was a great coward, as\nwell physical as moral--the consequence, doubtless, of being a dishonest\ntrader. Altogether too contemptible to be hated, his greatest enemy was\nhis own conscience, of which he stood in such terrible awe, that his\nwife was often obliged, during the dark hours of the reign of that\nmysterious agent, to rise and light a lamp for the purpose of exorcising\nthe spirit which, seated on his heart, tormented him with the gnawing\ninflictions of its pain.\n\nThis trick of his conscience had hitherto been unable to prevent Duncan\nfrom using his short ellwand, and acting dishonestly. The moment he got\ninto daylight and active life, he, like all other cowards, despised the\nenemy from which he thought himself at the time safe. In a\nstrong-minded man, conscience produces resolution; in a weak, it gives\nrise merely to fears and vacillation. It is not often that greedy,\ncunning men are given to intoxication; yet we are obliged to add this\nvice to the character of Duncan Schulebred, who, exhibiting, however,\nthe one vice in the other, never failed to get intoxicated, if he could\neffect his purpose at the cost of his neighbour--a result he often\nachieved, by leaving the tavern after he had got enough--on pretence of\nreturning in a few minutes to the company of his unsuspecting victim.\n\nLike many others of the peripatetic manufacturers of Dunfermline, Duncan\nSchulebred sold through the country the cloth he fabricated at home; so\nthat, for one half, the winter, of the year, he _sat_, and for the\nother, the summer, he _travelled_. By the same means and ratio, Duncan\nSchulebred was one half of the year sober, and the other inebriated; for\nhe could fleece no pot companion in his native town, where he was known;\nwhile, throughout the country, he could walk deliberately out of every\nale-house on the road, and leave his travelling companions to pay for\nhis drink, in exchange for that society which they had enjoyed.\n\nNow, in the course of his journey, this individual had occasion, during\nthe latter end of a summer, to be in Edinburgh, where he usually sold a\nconsiderable part of his stock. During the day, he had been in treaty\nwith a person of the name of Andrew Gavin, a pettifogging writer,\nresiding near the Luckenbooths, for the sale of a web of linen, which\nthe latter, like a trout with a bait on a clear day, approached and\nexamined, and looked at and felt, and yet still seemed irresolute in his\ndetermination to be caught. The weaver's twinkling eye saw and admired\nthe gudgeon; the linen, to a _safe_ extent, was unrolled, its texture\nfelt with a \"miller's thumb,\" its qualities extolled, and its price\nwondered at by him who fixed it and smiled inwardly at his profit and\nthe trick by which he realized it. The unwary purchaser, though a man of\nthe law, was at last caught--the bargain was struck, the money paid; and\nall that remained was, that Duncan Schulebred, in addition to cheating\nhim in the manner to be explained, should, after his usual practice, get\ndrunk at the expense of his customer.\n\nThe two parties accordingly repaired to a tavern known by the name of\nThe Barleycorn, where they sat down deliberately, to indulge in a deep\npotation. In the midst of their orgies, the customer, who had a humour\nof his own, took many \"rises\" out of his companion, who submitted to his\nfun, in consideration of his determination to leave him to pay \"the\nscore,\" which would put \"the laugh on the other side.\" As they went on\nin their potations, Duncan Schulebred gradually drifted from one\ncondition of evil to another. Originally his desire was simply to cheat\nthe writer as a man. This was mere vulgar selfishness. He would have\n\"done\" any man after the same fashion, because it was his nature. But in\nthis instance, he was concerned in the purpose of cheating a\npettifogger, whose very occupation it was to cheat every poor litigant\nthat came in his way. Here was a great occasion for Duncan Schulebred.\nHe felt another motive prompting him to the gratification of his\nwickedness, and that was pride--the pride of circumventing those who\ncircumvent others. Ah, Duncan Schulebred! you never thought of the\nugliness of this peculiar aggravation of sin, when the evil genius\nrejoices in itself--when it is puffed up with the glory of exaltation,\nwhen instead of being checked by conscience, it is rather inspired by\nconscience \"turned back side fore--all the wrong way.\" Neither did he\nconsider that the said conscience has an ugly trick of springing round\ninto the normal state, with a jerk not over pleasant to sinners. But\neven here Duncan Schulebred did not stop, for his pride of overcoming\nthe \"devil's limb,\" was inflamed by revenge, in consequence of the\npettifogger having traduced Dunfermline; not that Duncan Schulebred had\nany patriotism, even in Dr. Johnson's sense of that virtue; but that he\nfelt all the hits as directed against himself, just as every knave is\nalways trying on the cap, and declaring that it is no fit. Behold\nselfishness, pride, and revenge, all met in one purpose; and as probably\nthe writer had as many motives for attempting, by urging Duncan to\ndrink, to enlarge the bill--the two were antagonists worthy of each\nother.\n\nTheir wordy war only made the writer and the weaver more thirsty; every\nargument was followed by a draught, which slaked at once both thirst and\nrevenge. The more they drank the warmer they grew in defence of their\nrespective towns, till they came to that condition of topers, when, by\nthe mere operation of their potations, they become unable even to\n_dispute_. All confirmed drunkards have in their drunkenness some ruling\nprinciple, which; however far gone they may be, regulates their wayward\nmovements. The writer's habit was to sit when he thought he could not\nstand--one which many sober men might do well to adopt. The weaver's,\nagain, was to _walk_ when he wished not to stand the reckoning--a\nprudent maxim which never left him, even when all other ideas had been\nwashed from his brain. It was now about one o'clock in the morning, and\nthey had drank so much that neither of them could tell--for neither had\nany interest in a matter which did not seem to concern his pocket--how\nmuch would require to be paid; it was enough for Duncan Schulebred, that\nhe knew that something, and not little, _must_ be paid--and now was the\ntime for escape.\n\n\"We were speakin o' the law,\" said Duncan Schulebred, winking with\ncunning and hiccuping with drink--\"I fancy they never refuse siller at\nthe _bar_ here, ony mair than they do in Dumfarlan. There is only this\ndifference atween the twa--that the folk wha resort to _your_ bar pay\nwhen they enter, we (hiccup) pay as we gae oot. Rest yersel there till I\ncast up the bill, and if I hae ony _plea_ wi' the landlord, ye can come\nand plead it.\"\n\n\"That's kind, Duncan,\" said the writer--\"it will be the only plea I ever\nhad from a Dunfermline weaver. If I gain it, we must have a--another\ngill.\"\n\n\"Twa o' them,\" replied Duncan, trying to rise. \"We maun, at ony rate,\nhae (hiccup) the stirrup-cup, ye ken\"--laughing and twinkling again his\nreeling eyes.\n\n\"O yes, but I--I fancy I must pay for _that_, seeing you are the\ntraveller, and--and are besides to pay all this tremendous bill, that\nlies, doubtless, on the bar like a--a lawyer's memorial.\"\n\n\"Ye're an example o' an honest, ay, a generous writer,\" said Duncan\nSchulebred--\"wha could hae thocht ye wad hae offered to pay the\nstirrup-cup? I'll send yer wife a piece o' dornock for that, as weel as\na screed o' huckaback and harn, to keep up a gratefu' recollection o' me\nafter I'm awa. I'll no be a minute at the bar; for it's a place (hiccup)\nI dinna like.\"\n\n\"Here,\" cried the writer, riping his pocket--\"take with you and pay at\nthe same time the price of the stirrup-gill--one settling will serve\nall.\"\n\n\"Ye're richt, Mr. Gavin,\" replied Duncan Schulebred, receiving the\nmoney; \"but that's a sma sum (hiccup) in comparison o' what I hae to\npay; but it's pleasant to discharge the obligations o' honour.\"\n\nNow, the wily huckaback manufacturer was, as he spoke, approaching the\ncorner where his staff ellwand lay--an article he stood more in need of\nat that time (short measure as it was) than ever, on any other occasion\nof _taking off_, he had encountered. The recourse to it for the purpose\nof merely going to the bar, could not fail to raise suspicions in the\nmind of the writer; but then, again, was he to lose a _short_ measure,\nwhich, getting into the hands of a writer, might be sent--in revenge of\nthe trick he had already played him, in selling a web of linen damaged\nin the heart, and that he was about to play--to the public authorities,\nwho would hunt him to Dunfermline, and ruin him by the exposure? Not he.\nHe besides required it for his support, for he could scarcely stand. In\nthis dilemma, he had again recourse to his wits.\n\n\"I'm no sure aboot thae folk ben the hoose,\" said Duncan Schulebred,\nholding up the ellwand. \"They may try to cheat me, seein I'm a simple\ncratur, besides being twa _sheets_ i' the wind--(hiccup)--dinna ye think\nthat I should tak my stick i' my hand, as a kind o' lawburrows and\nprotection? No to say I would think o' usin't, but simply to keep the\npublican in awe, and within just and lawfu measure.\"\n\n\"Take it with thee, take it with thee, man,\" said the writer. \"Say it is\na--a Dunfermline baton, the sign of your constableship, and you will\nfind the bill two inches shorter.\"\n\n\"Ingenious cratur!\" ejaculated Duncan, with a hiccup, and the old leer\nof his grey eyes. \"A law plea never can fail, surely, in the hands o' a\nman wi' sic a power o' suggestion as ye hae. But ye forget that\nDumfarlan batons are no sae lang as Dumfarlan ellwands--(hiccup)--the\npower o' authority there's short, but the reach o' oor honesty's\nprodigious. That's a guid sign: our batons are short because we are\nquiet and civil, and our ellwands are lang because we are honest. Wad ye\nbelieve it, noo, that that ellwand o' mine, in spite o' the wear and\ntear o' walkin wi't, is a haiil inch different frae yer Edinburgh\nyards?\"\n\nThis attack against the honesty of Edinburgh roused the blood of the\nwriter, and another wordy battle was like to commence; but Duncan\nSchulebred saw at once, that, if he put off more time, the people of the\nhouse might, from the lateness of the hour, come and insist upon the\nreckoning on the spot--a measure which all his wits would not enable him\nto counteract. The open mouth of the writer was therefore shut, by a few\nconciliatory words from the aggressor:--\n\n\"I dinna say, Mr. Gavin,\" added Duncan Schulebred, \"whether the inch\nbelanged to Dumfarlan or Edinburgh. Ye may tak the benefit o' a\n_presumption_ in yer ain favour till I come back. Mony ane o'\nyer tribe stick langer by a presumption than that, and, till it grows\ninto a fact, it canna injure an honest man like me. Guid\"--(he was\ngoing to add \"night,\" and leered grotesquely at his own\nimprudence)--\"guid--(hiccup)--guid luck to my speedy settlement o' the\nlawin!\"\n\nThen Duncan Schulebred staggered to the door, which he opened so gently\nthat the writer might, if he had not been drunk, have suspected him of\nfoul play. His foot was scarcely heard on the passage; but a sound, as\nif from the end of the stairs, indicated that some one had missed a\nstep. No notice of it was taken by the writer, who sat with his eye\nfixed on the candle, concocting, like a good poet, one of those works of\nimagination called a preliminary or dilatory defence. Formerly, these\nworks of fancy were very rife among lawyers, and, before the judicature\nact, they used to reach a second or even a third edition, under the form\nof \"amended defences,\" \"re-amended defences,\" and so forth. They are not\nnow so much in favour, though the fancy which produces them is still as\nvivid as ever. How long Andrew Gavin sat dreaming over his intended work\nwe cannot say; but never was poet more rudely, importunately, and\nunpleasantly roused from his dream, by the hand of a messenger-at-arms,\nthan was the unsuspecting victim of Duncan Schulebred's treachery, as he\nwas called upon by the landlord to pay the bill. He had no money upon\nhim--the small sum he had given to the weaver to pay the last or\nstirrup gill, and which the varlet had carried away with him, having\nbeen all his remaining cash, after paying the price of the linen. He\nrequested the importunate landlord to wait a little, to ascertain if\nDuncan would return; but the man wished to get to bed; and Andrew's\ncredit being somewhat worn, like that of many others of his overdone\nprofession, the publican insisted upon him leaving his watch, as a\npledge for the payment of the money. The writer's pride--a quality never\nawanting in the race, especially when they're in liquor--was roused; he\nroared; he refused to _impignorate_, as he called it, his watch; he\nswore that he would rather remain in durance all night than succumb to\nthe unreasonable demand of the publican. The man was as resolute as he,\nand, without saying a word, turned the key in the lock, and left the\nwriter to dream over his legal works of fancy in the dark.\n\nMeanwhile, the wily Duncan Schulebred, having recovered from a fall on\nthe last step of the stair--produced by that impatience of slight\nobstacles which seizes an ambidexter at the successful termination of a\nwell-concerted and better-executed scheme--proceeded down the Canongate.\nHe was out and out intoxicated; but the wish to cheat, so long as it was\nin operation, kept his mind from that confusion which, his purpose being\neffected, immediately seized him. He was not certain of the direction in\nwhich he was moving; but he was satisfied with the idea that he was\ngoing _from_ the sign of The Barleycorn, and any destination was better\nthan that. A confused intention of sleeping all night in the town of\nLeith, with the view of catching the Fife boat in the morning, at last\nwrought its way through the cloud which overhung his mind; and having\nfound himself as far as the Watergate, he continued his progress until\nhe came to what is called the Easter Road, leading directly down to the\nLinks. The air produced its usual effect upon a man who was filled to\nthe throat with liquor; and every step he took he found himself getting\nmore and more unsteady, and more and more unfit for prosecuting his\njourney. He was, however, still conscious of his condition, and felt\ngreat alarm lest some one should assail him, and take from him his\nmoney. By and by, even his consciousness left him, and he rolled from\nside to side, engrossing, for his own particular ambulation, the whole\nbreadth of the road. Several times he came down, and, being unable to\nrise without many repeated attempts, lay on the ground for considerable\nperiods. The necessity of motion of some kind is the last idea parted\nwith by an intoxicated traveller; and Duncan Schulebred still retained\nit, even after he had lost his ellwand, his chief means of support. On\nand on he struggled, falling, and lying, and rising, and to it again,\ntill he got at length as far as the green called the Links of Leith--an\nopen space always as disadvantageous to the drunk man as it is pleasant\nto the sober. A road with two sides may be got over--the dikes keep him\non; but an extended area of grass, with radiating openings all round, is\na kind of place which a man in Duncan Schulebred's position, without the\nrudder or compass of consciousness, must always view with great\nuneasiness. Accordingly, Duncan Schulebred did beat about in this large\ncircle for several hours, and at last entered a street which leads down\nto that called Salamander Street.\n\nHaving reached the south side of this street, Duncan Schulebred kept\nclose by the walls and houses, stepping along, unwilling to trust\nhimself again to open space. Alas! he knew nothing of whither he was\nprogressing; he had lost all recollection of what he had been engaged\nin; he was unconscious of what he was doing; and he was utterly ignorant\nof all localities. As he moved past the houses, he came to an opening,\nand, staggering to a side, entered a small avenue into which it led, and\nproceeded along it, still holding by the wall, until he got into what\nhe thought was a large house. There he lay down, and fell in an instant\ninto a sleep, disturbed by those frightful dreams that haunt the pillow\nof the dissolute and the wicked.\n\nHaving lain for hours, Duncan Schulebred began at last to show some\nsigns of returning consciousness, rolling his body backwards and\nforwards, as if under the effect of a night-mare of the fancy, or of\nthat more terrible night-mare of the conscience by which he was often at\nhome so relentlessly ridden. And so he was. Frightful dreams had filled\nhis mind with terrors; and, having produced a kind of half-waking state,\nwere followed, as they usually were, by the gnawing of his old enemy. A\ndim recollection came on him of all the wickedness he had committed--the\nnumber of innocent individuals he had cheated by his short measure and\nhis damaged linen; the shirking of publicans, the duping of travellers,\nhis drunkenness, his lies, his false pretences--all his thoughts being\naccompanied by the terrors of his roused conscience, which whispered\npunishment by fire and brimstone, and filled his half-sleeping fancy\nwith vivid images of the place of punishment. It is not unlikely that\nthis half-waking, dreamy cogitation, was aided insensibly by the painful\noperation of external sense, conveying some dim intelligence of what was\ngoing on around him--the operations of glass-blowing on a great scale.\n\nA large furnace was lighted, and blown up to a red heat; vivid flames\nshot forth from a fire, which was, from time to time, supplied with\ngreat quantities of fuel; at every blow of a large pair of bellows, the\nliving light flashed through the space around, which was comparatively\ndark, from the disproportion between the large area, and the few lights\nyet lighted. Obscure-looking beings were occupied about the furnace, the\nlight striking on their sallow faces, and leaving all again in an\ninstant nearly dark; a number of others were busy in the distance,\nperforming other operations, dipping long tubes in some substance, and\ninflating a ball, till, red and glowing, it expanded into a fire globe.\nThe dark beings were active in their movements, darting backwards and\nforwards between the furnace and the reservoirs, with the hot, red,\nglaring globes at the end of the tubes, and crossing and recrossing each\nother, in the dark obscure, so as to present the appearance of demons\nengaged in some mysterious doings of their avenging spirits. In all\nthis, the fiery globes were the only appearances clearly discernible in\ncontinuation; the figures and faces of the individuals being only at\nintervals shown by the glare thrown upon them by the glowing furnace, as\nit responded to the loud murmuring bellow of the inflating and\nfire-producing blast.\n\nThis condition did not last long; Duncan Schulebred awoke to the full\nconviction of being in the very place of the damned. He heard the\nroaring of the bellows; then he saw huge red walls rising up to heaven;\nthen his eyes turned round on that terrific furnace, vomiting forth its\nliving fire, while the bearers of the burning globes, hurrying to and\nfro past him and around him, and plunging their fiery weapons into the\nreceptacles, doubtless, of the condemned wicked--claimed, on every side,\nhis rapt and terrified gaze. Fear prevented him from moving; his\ncogitations took the form of a soliloquy; and he communed with himself\non his awful condition.\n\n\"Mercy on my puir soul!\" exclaimed Duncan Schulebred, but so as not to\nlet any eavesdropping devil hear him--\"am I _here_ at last? When I was\nin the body, how aften did I think and dream o' the bottomless pit?--can\nit be that I'm now in it? Alas! it's owre true! What hae I, a wicked\ncratur, now to expect frae thae fiends for a' the sins dune i' the body?\nBut when did I dee? I dinna recollect the circumstance o' my\ndeath--dootless apoplexy--ay, ay, I was aye fear't for't. Yet did I no\nfa' doon the stair o' The Barleycorn? I did--that's it--I had been\nkilled by the fa'. Death's a sma' affair to this. What a fiery furnace\nfor a puir sinner! See hoo the devils run wi' their burning brands,\nforkin them into thae pits, whar lie craturs in the same condition wi'\nmysel! But why do they no come to me? Ah! the furnace is for me. I see\nSatan himsel at the bellows, and it's no for ilka sinner _he_ wad\ncondescend to work. It's for Duncan Schulebred, wha cheated the folk by\na short ellwand at the rate o' thirty-six inches o' claith a-week for\nfifteen years--wha drank, and lee'd, and deceived--wha committed sins\nredder than scarlet and mair numerous than the mots i' the sun--wha\ndee'd i' the very act o' cheating Andrew Gavin, by selling him a wab o'\ndamaged linen, and leaving him to pay the bill at The Barleycorn. Alas!\nam I at last in this awfu place!\"\n\nAs he ended, he heard pronounced in a hollow voice, by some Belphegor\nbehind him:\n\n    \"Now, Duncan, thou wilt get thy fairin',\n    For here they'll roast thee like a herrin'.\"\n\n\"Ay, ay!\" groaned Duncan.\n\nThen a dark figure appeared before him, holding in his hand one of the\nfiery globes:--\"Where,\" cried he, \"is the weaver who cheated the public\nat the rate of thirty-six inches of cloth per week, and died in the very\nact of cheating our _special friend_, Andrew Gavin the writer (for every\nwriter is our special friend, and must be protected by us, so long as he\nwrites lying defences and long memorials), by selling him damaged linen,\nand leaving him to pay his tavern bill? Where is the scarlet rogue, that\nwe may burn out the red of his sins by the red fire of this glowing\nfurnace?\"\n\nA loud yell uttered by the Mephistophileses and Asmodeuses was the reply\nto this speech, and went to the very heart of the devoted Duncan\nSchulebred. The principal, followed by his demons, approached him; he\nwas lying, shaking and groaning, upon his back, and looked at the\nlegion, with their flaming brands, with an expression of countenance\ntranscending anything that could be produced by mere earthly agony, or\ndescribed by a mere goose quill of the upper world.\n\n\"What is thy name, sinner?\" asked the Prince.\n\n\"Mercy on me!\" ejaculated Duncan Schulebred, \"I'm in for't now! An'\nplease your excellent Majesty,\" replied he, in a voice scarcely audible,\nfrom the pure effect of terror, \"Duncan Schulebred, wha, when in the\nupper warld, was by trade a puir weaver in the toun o' Dumfarlan. I did\nyer Honour some service i' my sma' way, and hope ye winna be sae ill to\nme as ye threaten. Oh, keep thae fierce fiends, wi' their burning\ntorches frae me, and I'll confess to ye a' my crimes. Be mercifu' to a\npuir sinner!\"\n\n\"What service didst thou ever do to me?\" said Satan.\n\n\"I made ye some freens,\" replied Duncan Schulebred, still groaning. \"I\ndid a' that was i' my power to get the craturs i' the upper warld to\ndrink wi' me till they were sae drunk that ye might hae run awa wi' them\nas easily as ye carried aff Doctor Faustus or danced awa wi' the\nexciseman. Oh, think o' that, and save me frae that awfu furnace!\"\n\n\"Confess, sinner,\" said the Devil, \"that thou didst that for the purpose\nof getting more easily quit of the tavern bills. Thou didst also cheat\nthe lieges by a false measure.\"\n\n\"Lord, he kens everything,\" muttered Duncan--\"I confess I did cheat the\nlieges; but I assure yer Majesty, upon my soul--now no muckle\nworth--that I never cheated ony o' yer Majesty's freens; for I aye dealt\nwi' honest folk. Surely that's a reason for some mercy.\"\n\n\"Recollect thyself, varlet,\" said Satan--\"didst never cheat a writer?\"\n\n\"How correct he is!\" muttered Duncan Schulebred, with a groan. \"Ou\nay--true, true--a' writers are yer Majesty's freens. I forgot. I did\ncheat Andrew Gavin, by sellin him a wab o' rotten linen, and leavin him\nto pay the lawin at The Barleycorn--a name your Majesty, dootless, weel\nkens.\"\n\n\"I think I should,\" replied Satan, \"seeing _that_ is _my_ grain,\nwherewith I work greater wonders than ever came out of the mustard seed.\nThis place is fed with barleycorns--we bait our hooks with\nbarleycorns--we spread barleycorns under our men-nets--the very man who\nsang the praises of the grain, under the personification of 'John\nBarleycorn,' and of its juice, under the soubriquet of 'barley-bree,'\ntook our bait; but a redeeming angel touched him on the fore part of the\nstomach, and made him throw it, and heaven now boasts that glorious\nprize.\"\n\n\"Miserable as I am, I'm very glad o't,\" said Duncan, whose fears began\nto decline. \"I wadna like to see our darling poet in sic a place as\nthis.\"\n\n\"Impudent varlet!\" said the Devil. \"In with him into the furnace! Yet,\nstay. How much money did you cheat our friend Andrew Gavin of?\"\n\n\"I needna try to conceal it,\" said Duncan to himself. \"He kens it as\nweel as I do. Here it is\" (speaking out) \"and some mair--ye may hae it\na', if ye'll no consign me to that red-hot fiery furnace. Fearfu, fearfu\nplace!\"\n\n\"Count it out,\" said Satan.\n\nDuncan complied with trembling hands and Beelzebub took up the money.\n\n\"That is a most precious commodity,\" said he. \"They say, above, that our\ndwelling is paved with good intentions--they should rather say, that it\nis paved with gold, a metal with which the ancient infidels said heaven\nwas constructed. Never was there a greater error. 'The root of all evil'\ncannot surely be found in the very birth-place of good.\"\n\n\"I ken, at least,\" said Duncan Schulebred \"that it was gowd that brought\nme here. Cursed trash! It is the gowd, and no the puir sinners deceived\nby't, that should be put into the furnace. Weel, weel has it been ca'd\nthe root o' a' evil. Oh, cursed dross! what am I to suffer for ye?\n\n    'Yon warld's gear, when I think on\n    Its pride, and a' the lave o't;\n    Fie! fie! on silly coward man,\n    That he should be the slave o't.'\"\n\n\"Doth the creature malign our staple commodity,\" said Satan, \"and say it\nshould be melted? Well, away with him, Asmody, to the furnace!--melt\n_him_!\"\n\nNow did Duncan scream for mercy, while the dark spirits laid hold of\nhim, and proceeded to carry him to the mouth of the furnace, at last\nblown up into a fearful red heat. He continued to roar with very great\nvociferation, making all the cone ring, and casting about his legs and\narms, like one distracted. Those who were not engaged in carrying him,\nbrought within an inch of his face, their burning globes of glass, and\nmade indications as if they would apply them to his body; the bearers,\nturning his head to the fiery volcano, laid it within a foot of the\nburning coal; the whole ceremony was accompanied by a chorus of really\nfrightful yells, set up by the operators, and made to echo and\nreverberate throughout the area of the cone. Independently, altogether,\nof the conviction of being in the hands of the Evil One and his legions,\nthe situation of Duncan, with his head within a foot of a furnace, and\nsurrounded by wild-looking howling beings, intent apparently on his\ndestruction, would have terrified a pretty stout heart; but he _truly_\nbelieved himself on the very eve of being punished for his crimes, by\nbeing thrust head-foremost into the burning furnace, from which no power\ncould save him. And who could contemplate that position without horror?\nHis agony was, in short, inexpressible, except by screams; and it was\ncruelly prolonged by affected manoeuvres, such as blowing the bellows,\nand stirring and restirring the coals, to make them burn more fiercely,\nfor the more adequate reception of the greatest of human sinners that\nhad ever been consigned to the pit.\n\nHaving held him for some time in this position, Satan, seeming to\nrecollect himself, cried out--\n\n\"Meph, do thou get the red-hot pincers. We were oblivious. He has not\nconfessed all his crimes. We will pinch him for a few hours before we\nconsign him to the fire, which is not, at any rate, red enough for so\ngreat a sinner. Asmody, lay him down close to the furnace, and now, a\npair of pincers for each leg and arm. We will make him cry as loud as I\ndid myself when St. Dunstan had me by the nose.\"\n\nThen was Duncan Schulebred laid before the furnace, screaming at the top\nof his voice, and his eyes rolling about like fiery balls. The pincers\nwere brought and put into the furnace, and the bellows again sent forth\ntheir dreadful sound; the howling was increased; and all the dark\nspirits, as they uttered their yells, danced round him, waving their red\nglobes, and every now and then bringing them within a few inches of his\nface. The pincers were getting hot apace, by the fierce blowing of the\nbellows; and one of the legion held the head of the victim so as to\nforce him to contemplate the instruments of his torture. Still the\nconfusion grew worse confounded--the noise of the blowing forge, the\nhowling of the legion, the groaning and screaming of Duncan, the loud\nword of command of the Prince, all blending together; while the rapid\nmotions of the dancers, and the rising and falling of the bellows, again\nmade the eyes of the distracted being reel like those of a maniac.\n\nThis punishment was continued until it appeared that the terrified\nDuncan Schulebred was about to faint. His cries ceased, and fear seemed\nto lose its effect over him. It was surely time to stop, as even\namusement may be carried to the verge of death--and the unfortunate\nDuncan was more like death than life. The Prince accordingly gave the\nsign to his legion, and in an instant the bellows ceased to blow, and\nthe men to dance, and all was as still as death. Apprehensive of having\nkilled the victim by pure fright, the Prince, assisted by some of the\ncrew, lifted him to a distance from the furnace, and having held up his\nhead so as to get him to sit, some whisky was brought in by a\nMephistophiles. As he sat pale and trembling, and looking wistfully\nabout him, the chief actor filled up a glass of the spirits, and offered\nit to him. He seemed irresolute and timid--looking first at the whisky,\nthen at the devils, and much at a loss what to think of his position.\nHis grotesque appearance forced the chief actor to smile: the effect was\ninstantaneous--Duncan caught the favourable indication, and took the\nglass into his hands.\n\n\"I didna think,\" said he, \"that there was ony o' _this_ kind o' liquor\nhere. I expected naething but melted brimstone, said to be the staple\ndrink o' your dominions. But is it really whisky? It's surely\nimpossible--if the circumstance got wind aboon, that there was whisky in\n_these parts_, there wad be nae keepin folk out. How dinna ye spread the\nintelligence? Surely ye're no sae keen for recruits as ye were when ye\ndanced awa wi' the exciseman.\"\n\n\"It is already known on earth that whisky was first brewed in\nPandemonium,\" said the actor. \"The nectar belongs to heaven, the wine to\nearth, and the whisky to the infernal regions. A thousand poets have\nsung about the drink of the gods, and a little old fellow--a Greek--who\nlies in one of these troughs, getting his wine-heated pate cooled with\nbrimstone every five minutes, danced and sang the praises of wine till I\ngot hold of him at the age of eighty. The only poet who has let out the\nsecret of whisky being first brewed in our regions was a person of _the_\nname of M'Neil, who sang--\n\n    'Of a' the ills puir Caledonia\n      E'er yet pree'd, or e'er will taste,\n    Brewed in Hell's black Pandemonia,\n      Whisky's ill has scaithed her maist.'\n\nI tried to get hold of the fellow, for his impudence in maligning our\nfavourite liquor; but he wrote some sweet poems, and the gods took him\nunder their wing.\"\n\n\"Ye were muckle indebted, I think, to Hector,\" replied Duncan\nSchulebred, \"for tellin the folk that whisky was brewed here. It will\nsave your Majesty a warld o' trouble; for customers, o' their ain\naccord, will come 'linkin to the black pit' in millions, if they're sure\no' the _spark_.\"\n\n\"They _are_ sure of the _spark_,\" replied the Prince. \"But we give it\nhere only as a medicine whereby we recover our patients that they may be\nthe more able to feel our torments. The moment thou drinkest, the\npincers will be applied.\"\n\n\"Then I beg leave to decline the liquor,\" said Duncan Schulebred, \"I see\nnae use for fire baith ootside and in; besides, I hae renounced the\npractice o' drinkin at another person's expense--a tred I followed owre\nlang in the upper regions, to my sad cost this day.\"\n\n\"Thou hast paid for this with the money thou gavest me,\" said the actor.\n\n\"That's mair than I ever did upon earth,\" said Duncan with a leer which\nhe could not restrain.\n\nNow, it will have been seen that the truth had for some time been\ndawning upon the mind of Duncan Schulebred. He looked round and round\nhim, and every look added fresh proof of the delusion under which he\nlaboured. Peering into the face of Satan, he even was bold enough to\nsmile, accompanying the act with one of his inimitable leers. It was\nimpossible to resist this look of sly humour; and the whole company\nbroke out into a fit of laughter, which made all the cone ring again.\nThen seizing the whisky he looked round upon all the parties, and,\nbowing, said--\n\n\"Gentlemen, I'm obleeged to ye for the trouble ye hae taen on my\naccount. I see now how the land lies; but though I ken the haill extent\no' this awfu delusion, dinna think that the part ye hae played is a\npiece o' mere fun and humour, to form afterwards the foundation o' a\nguid story. Ye hae dune mair this mornin for the regeneration o' a puir\nsinner than was effected by a' the sermons I ever heard frae the pulpits\no' Scotland. I've confessed my crimes to ye, and I canna expect that\nthis cone is to confine for ever my evil reputation. It maun gae abroad\nand condemn me, and ruin me; but\" (lowering his voice seriously) \"I will\ndefy it to prevent me frae following the course I hae this day\ndetermined to pursue. Frae this hour henceforth, to that moment when it\nmay please Heaven to tak me frae this warld, I shall be an upright, a\nsober, and a religious man; the folk I hae injured, cheated, and robbed,\nI will try to benefit to the utmost extent o' my puir ability; every day\no' my life will be dedicated to the service o' the Almighty, and the\nguid o' his craturs. My first step will be to gang to Edinburgh, and pay\nback to Andrew Gavin the price o' the damaged linen he purchased frae\nme, and to settle the tavern bill at The Barleycorn, to assist me\nwhereunto ye will dootless gie me back my siller. This resolution I\nconfirm thus.\" And he flung the whisky into the furnace, which blazed\nup, a kind of holocaust, as a thanksgiving for the regeneration of a\nsinner.\n\nDuncan Schulebred's money was paid back to him honestly, and the actors\nwere well pleased that they had, out of their amusement, wrought so\nextraordinary a miracle. The regenerated man departed from the\nglass-works, and proceeded, according to his intention, direct to\nEdinburgh. He called first at Andrew Gavin's house.\n\n\"Is Mr. Gavin within?\" said he to Mrs. Gavin.\n\n\"My husband,\" said the disconsolate wife, \"has not been at home all\nnight. The last time I saw him was when he departed with you. What have\nyou done with him? I fear some sad mischief has befallen him; for unless\nhe is at a proof or after a _fugy_, he never stays out of his own house\nat night. But what kind of linen was that ye sold him?\"\n\n\"It was a piece o' _rotten_ linen I sauld him,\" replied Duncan\nSchulebred.\n\nMrs. Gavin looked at him in amazement.\n\n\"Ay, and,\" he continued, \"your husband is dootless locked up in The\nBarleycorn, because he couldna--puir man!--pay the lawin that I should\nhae paid, and ran awa and left him to pay.\"\n\nMrs. Gavin's amazement was increased.\n\n\"Ay, and,\" continued he, \"I hae cheated thoosands besides you and yer\nhusband--a greater sinner than I hae been, ye wadna find between the\nMull o' Galloway and John o' Groats. If I had got my due, I wad hae been\nhanged, or at least sent to Botany Bay.\"\n\n\"Are you mad, or do you glory in your wickedness?\" said Mrs. Gavin.\n\n\"Nane o' the twa,\" said Duncan. \"I am as wise as ye are; and, in place\no' gloryin in my wickedness, I am as repentant as a deein martyr.\"\n\n\"Repentance is nothing without works,\" replied she.\n\n\"Warks!\" ejaculated Duncan. \"Bring, bring me the rotten linen.\"\n\nThe astonished woman went and brought the article.\n\n\"There's the siller,\" said Duncan, \"I got fra yer husband for that wab.\nI'll sell it noo for what it is--a piece o' vile deception. Need ye a\ncommodity o' that description?\"\n\n\"I think I could find use for it,\" said Mrs. Gavin. \"It has one good\nend, but you will come to an ill one when you\"----\"roll it down,\" she\nwould have said, but Duncan caught her:--\n\n\"When ye cheat yer neighbour,\" added he. \"Ye're quite right, madam; a\nrotten-hearted wab is just like a rotten-hearted man--they baith come to\nan ill _end_. Oh, hoo gratefu I am to thae glass-blawers, wha hae blawn\nawa my crimes, and converted and reformed me!\"\n\n\"He is surely mad, after all,\" muttered Mrs. Gavin, to herself--\"who\never heard of glass-blowers converting sinners? I have always understood\nthat glass-blowers are free livers, and need repentance themselves as\nmuch as other folk. How could they convert you, man?\"\n\n\"There are strange mysteries i' the warld,\" said Duncan; \"but we will\nbetter let that subject alane. We only, after a', see 'as through a\nglass darkly.' Stick to the linen--what is it worth?\"\n\nMrs. Gavin stated a price, Duncan accepted her offer, and the damaged\nlinen was sold.\n\n\"Noo,\" said Duncan, \"I'll send ye yer husband.\"\n\n\"I will be obliged to you,\" said Mrs. Gavin; \"and if you can get the\nglass-blowers to give him a blast, your kindness would be increased far\nbeyond my poor powers of recompense.\"\n\n\"Ah, madam,\" said Duncan, \"writers are owre well accustomed to _blasts\no' the horn_, to care for ordinary wind-fa's. I ken nae better thing for\nan ill husband (no sayin that Andrew is liable to that charge) than a\nblast o' a wife's tongue. God be praised, Janet Schulebred will hae nae\nmair cause to lecture me! We will now live happily durin the remaining\nportion o' the time o' oor pilgrimage. I hae aye taen something hame to\nher. Last year I took some whisky bottles--probably made at the\nglass-warks o' Leith; this time I intend to tak a family Bible. Guid\nday, madam, I'm awa to The Barleycorn; and frae that I gang to a Bible\nrepository, and then hame.\"\n\nHe repaired to The Barleycorn. He saw the landlord standing at the door,\nwith a sombre face. He had the key of the room in his hand, and looked\nthe very picture of a jailor. He knew Duncan instantly, and was\nproceeding to seize him, when the latter surrendered himself with so\nmuch good humour that the publican gave up his purpose and smiled at the\nprospect of getting his money.\n\n\"You forgot to come back last night,\" said the man. \"Mr. Gavin says that\nyou were the principal debtor to me for my drink, and that he was merely\nsurety or cautioner. Is that true?\"\n\n\"Perfectly true,\" replied Duncan. \"I promised to pay the bill, and\nshould hae paid the bill; but I was determined I wadna pay the bill.\nAccordingly, I ran awa for nae ither purpose than to avoid payin it.\"\n\n\"A trick ye'll no play a second time,\" said the publican seizing him.\n\n\"No,\" said Duncan, taking out the money, \"seein I am come to pay ye\nplack and farthin. Let us adjourn to Mr. Gavin's prison.\"\n\n\"The vera place I intended to tak ye to,\" said the man.\n\nThey proceeded to the room where Andrew was confined, and found him\nsitting in a sombre fit of melancholy. As they entered, he looked at\nDuncan with an appearance of mixed anger and satisfaction. The latter\nfeeling predominated, as his mind suggested that the poor weaver had\nbeen prevented by drunkenness from returning immediately to pay the\nbill, and had now come to make amends.\n\n\"I have been angry at you, Duncan,\" said he; \"but I might have had more\nfaith in your honour, than to doubt you, without better proof of\ndishonesty than not returning (when you were not able) to pay your\ndebts.\"\n\n\"Ye couldna hae a better proof o' my dishonesty,\" replied Duncan,\nsternly; \"for, last nicht, when I ran awa withoot payin the lawin, I had\nnae mair intention o' comin back than I had o' gangin doun to the\nbottomless pit.\"\n\nAndrew looked at the speaker with the same amazement as was exhibited by\nhis wife.\n\n\"How comes it, then,\" said the writer, \"that thou hast returned here\nthis morning?\"\n\n\"I hae got some new _licht_,\" replied Andrew. \"Ye ken--\n\n    'So long's the lamp hold's on to burn\n    The greatest sinner may return.'\n\nI hae returned, no only to this tavern to pay my debt, but to a proper\nsense o' what is due to Heaven and to my fellow-creatures. I am a\nchanged man, sir. Nae 'vision o' judgment,' penned by Southey or Byron,\never transcended that o' the bottle-blawers o' Leith.\"\n\nThe writer considered him mad, and trembled for the payment of the bill,\nwhich could not be extorted from a maniac. The tavern-keeper took a\ncalmer view, and thought he was still drunk.\n\n\"What are ye starin at?\" said Duncan. \"Did ye never before see a\nrepentant sinner? Bring yer bill, sir. And, Mr. Gavin, I refer ye to\nMrs. Gavin for some information, regarding a wab o' rotten linen I sauld\nye yesterday, bought back again, and sauld again to her this mornin.\"\n\nThe tavern-keeper brought the bill, which Duncan discharged.\n\n\"I cheated ye, Mr. Gavin, also o' the price o' the stirrup-cup.\"\n\n\"Let us drink it now,\" said Mr. Gavin--\"Bring us a gill\"--to the\ntavern-keeper.\n\nThe whisky was brought, and the writer took cleverly his morning dram,\na practice which the craft has latterly renounced, but which they should\nhave recourse to again, as a glass of whisky is a good beginning to a\nday's roguery, and has, besides, sometimes the same effect upon the\nconscience that it produces on the toothache--stills the pain. A glass\nwas next filled out for Duncan. He took it up and held it in his hand.\n\n\"Your fire's no sae guid as the ane I saw last nicht,\" he said to the\ntavern-keeper.\n\n\"It is only newly lighted,\" was the apology of the host.\n\n\"It may be the better o' that,\" said the other, throwing the whisky into\nthe grate, and making the fire blaze up. \"Sae should a' burnin, fiery\nliquors be used. They might then warm the outsides, in place o' burnin\nthe insides o' sinners. Ye hae seen some o' the first acts o' my\nrepentance. This is ane o' them. Ye may hear and sae mair, if ye\nconsider Duncan Schulebred worthy o' yer consideration, and trace his\nconduct through this weary, wicked, waefu warld, during the remainin\nperiod o' an ill-begun but (I hope) weel-ended life.\"\n\n\n\n\nARCHY ARMSTRONG.\n\n\nFor thirty years Sandy Armstrong of the Cleughfoot had been one of the\nmost daring and successful freebooters of his clan. His name was a sound\nof terror on the Borders, and was alike disagreeable to Scotch and\nEnglish ears; for, like Esau, Sandy's hand was against every man, and\nevery man's hand against him. His clan had been long broken and without\na leader, and the Armstrongs were regarded as outlaws by both nations.\nCleughfoot, in which Sandy resided, was a small square building of\nprodigious strength, around it was a court-yard, or rather an enclosure\nfor cattle, surrounded by a massy wall, in which was an iron gate strong\nas the wall itself. The door of the dwelling was also of iron, and the\nwindows, which were scarce larger than loop-holes, were barred. It was\ngenerally known by the name of \"Lang Sandy's _Keep_,\" and was situated\non the side of the Tarras, about ten miles from Langholm. Around it was\na desolate morass, the passes of which were known only to Sandy and his\nfew followers, and beyond the morass was a decaying but almost\nimpenetrable forest. Sandy, like his forefathers, knew no law, save\n\n    \"The good old law--the simple plan--\n    That they should take who have the power,\n    And they should keep who can.\"\n\nHe had had seven sons, and of these five had fallen while following him\nin the foray, the sixth had been devoured by a blood-hound, and he had\nbut one, Archy, his youngest, left, to whom he could bequeath his\nstronghold, a fleet steed, and his sword. Land he had none, and he knew\nnot its value: he found it more profitable to levy blackmail, to the\nright and to the left, on Englishman and on Scot; and he laughed at the\nauthority of Elizabeth and of James, and defied the power of the Wardens\nof their Marches--\"Bess may be Queen o' England,\" said he, \"and\nbook-learned Jamie, King o' braid Scotland, but Sandy Armstrong is lord\no' the wilds o' Tarras.\"\n\nOn the death of Elizabeth, Sandy and his handful of retainers had been\nout in the raid to Penrith; in that desperate attempt, some of them had\nfallen, and others had been seized and executed at Carlisle. But Sandy\nhad escaped, driving his booty through the wilds before him to\nCleughfoot. On one side of the court-yard stood a score of oxen and six\nfleet steeds, and on the other was provender for them for many days. On\nthe flat roof of Cleughfoot Keep sat Sandy Armstrong; before him was a\nwooden stoup filled with _aqua vitae_, and in his hand he held a small\nquegh, neatly hooped round, and formed of wood of various colours. It\nhad a short handle for the finger and thumb, was about two inches in\ndiameter, and three quarters of an inch in depth, and out of this vessel\nSandy, ever and anon, quaffed his strong potations, while his son Archy,\na boy of twelve years old, stood by his side, receiving from his parent\na Borderer's education. But, leaving the freebooter and his son on the\nturret of their fastness, we shall also, for a few moments, leave\nDumfriesshire, and carrying back our narrative for some weeks, introduce\nthe reader to the ancient town of Berwick-upon-Tweed.\n\nOn Wednesday, the 8th of April, 1603, every soul in the good town of\nBerwick was up by daybreak;--wife and maiden flaunted in their newest\ngowns, with ample fardingales, and the sweating mechanic looked as\nspruce in his well brushed \"jack,\" as a courtly cavalier. By sunrise,\nthe cannon thundered from the ramparts. Before noon, the Marshal, Sir\nJohn Carey, at the head of the garrison, composed of horse and foot,\nmarched out of the town towards Lamberton, firing _feu-d'-joies_ as they\nwent, while the cannon still pealed and the people shouted. The thunder\nof the artillery became more frequent--the bells rang merrily--the\nvolleys of the garrison became louder and more loud, as though they\nagain approached, and \"He comes!--He comes!\" shouted the crowd; \"Hurra!\nHurra!--the King! the King!\" The garrison again entered the town, they\nfiled to the right and left, lining the street. In front of Marygate\nstood William Selby, the gentleman porter, with the keys of the town.\nThe voice of the artillery, the muskets, and the multitude, again\nmingled together. James of Scotland and of England stood before the\ngate--Selby bent upon his knee, he placed the keys of the town in the\nhands of the monarch, who instantly returned them, saying, \"Rise, _Sir_\nWilliam Selby, an' saul o' me, man, but ye should take it as nae sma'\nhonour to be the first knight made by James, by the grace of God, an'\nthe love o' our gracious cousin, King o' England an' Scotland likewise.\"\nHis Majesty, followed by the multitude, proceeded down Marygate, through\nthe files of the garrison, to the market-place, where the worshipful\nHugh Gregson, the mayor, his brother aldermen, the bailiffs, and others\nof the principal burgesses, waited to receive him. The mayor knelt and\npresented him with a purse of gold and the corporation's charter. \"Ye\nare a leal and considerate gentleman,\" said the king, handing the purse\nto one of his attendants--\"worthy friends are ye a'; and now take back\nyour charter, an' ye sall find in us a gracious and affectionate\nsovereign, ready to maintain the liberty and privileges it confers upon\nour trusty subjects o' our town o' Berwick.\" Mr. Christopher Parkinson,\nthe recorder, then delivered a set and solemn speech, after which the\nking proceeded to the church, where the Rev. Toby Mathews, Bishop of\nDurham, preached a sermon suited to royal ears. On the following day,\nthe demonstrations of rejoicing were equally loud, and his Majesty\nvisited the garrison and fortifications; and as he walked upon the\nramparts surrounded by lords from Scotland and from England, and while\nthe people shouted, and the artillery belched forth fire, smoke, and\nthunder, the monarch, in order to give an unquestionable demonstration\nof his courage, in the presence of his new subjects, boldly advanced to\nthe side of one of the cannon, and took the match from the hands of the\nsoldier who was about to fire it. Once--twice--thrice, the monarch\nstretched forth his hand to the touch-hole, but touched it not. It was\nevident the royal hand trembled--the royal eyes were closed--yea, the\nroyal cheeks became pale. At length the quivering match touched the\npowder, back bounded the thundering cannon, and back sprang the\nterrified monarch, knocking one of his attendants down--dropping the\nmatch upon the ground, and thrusting his fingers in his ears--stammering\nout, as plainly as his throbbing heart would permit, that \"he feared\ntheir drum was split in twa!\" Scarce had his Majesty recovered from this\ndemonstration of his bravery, when a messenger arrived with the\nintelligence that the Armstrongs and other clans had committed grievous\ndepredations on the Borders, and had even carried their work of\nspoliation and plunder as far as Penrith.\n\n\"Borders, man!\" quoth the king, \"our kingdom hath nae _borders_ but the\nsea. It is our royal pleasure that the word _borders_ sall never mair be\nused: wat ye not that what were the _extremities_ or _borders_ o' the\ntwa kingdoms, are but the _middle_ o' _our_ kingdom, an' in future it is\nour will an' decree that ye ca' them nae langer the borders, but the\n_middle_ counties. An' now, Sir William Selby, as we were graciously\npleased yesterday by our ain hand, to confer on ye the high honour o'\nknighthood, take ye twa hundred and fifty horsemen, and gae ye up our\nmiddle counties, commanding every true man in our name, capable o'\nbearing arms, to join ye in crushing and in punishing sic thieves and\nrievers; hang ilka Armstrong and Johnstone amang them that resists our\nroyal will--an' make the iron yetts o' their towers be converted into\nploughshares. Away, sir, an' do your wark surely an' right quickly.\"\n\nOn the following day, Sir William Selby set out upon his mission; and\nbefore he had proceeded far, he found himself at the head of a thousand\nhorsemen. They burned and destroyed the strongholds of the Borderers, as\nthey went, and the more desperate amongst them who fell into their hands\nwere sent in fetters to Carlisle.\n\nIt was early in May, and the young leaves, bursting into beauty and\nbeing, were spreading their summer livery over Tarras forest, and the\nbreeze wafted their grateful fragrance over the morass; even on the\nmorass itself, a thousand simple flowers, like fragments of beauty\nscattered in hand-fuls amidst the wide-spread desolation, peeped forth;\nand over the sharp cry of the wheeling lapwing rang the summer hymn of\nthe joyful lark, when, as we have said before, Sandy Armstrong sat on\nthe turret of Cleughfoot with his son by his side.\n\n\"Archy,\" said the freebooter, \"this warld is turning upside down, an'\nhonest men hae nae chance in't. We hear o' naething noo but law! law!\nlaw!--but the fient a grain o' justice is to be met wi' on the Borders.\nA man canna take a bit beast or twa in an honest way, or make a bonfire\no' an enemy's haystack, but there's naethin' for't but Carlisle and a\nhempen cravat. But mind, callant, ye ha'e the bluid o' the Armstrongs in\nyour veins, and their hands never earned bread by ony instrument but the\nsword, and it winna be the son o' Sandy o' Cleughfoot that will disgrace\nhis kith and kin by trudging at a ploughtail, or learning some beggarly\nhandicraft. Swear to me, Archy, that ye will live by the sword like your\nfaithers afore ye--swear to your faither, callant, an' fear neither\nJamie Stuart, his twa kingdoms, nor his horsemen--they'll ha'e stout\nhearts that cross Tarras moss, and there will be few sheep in Liddesdale\nbefore the pot at Cleughfoot need nae skimming.\"\n\n\"I will live like my faither before me--king o' Tarras-side,\" said the\nyouth.\n\n\"That shall ye, Archy,\" rejoined the freebooter; \"an' though the Scotts\nan' the Elliots may, like fause louns, make obeisance to the king, and\nget braid lands for bending their knees, what cares Sandy Armstrong for\ntheir lands, their manrents, or their sheep-skins, scrawled owre by a\nsilk-fingered monk--his twa-handed blade and his Jeddart-staff shall be\na better title to an Armstrong than an acre o' parchment.\"\n\nThe boy caught the spirit of his sire, and flourished his\nJedburgh-staff, or battle-axe, in his hand. The father raised the quegh\nto his lips--\"Here's to ye, Archy,\" he cried, \"ye'll be cooper o' Fogo!\"\n\nHe crossed his arms upon his breast--he sat thoughtful for a few\nminutes, and again added--\"Archy--but my heart fills to look on ye--ye\nare a brave bairn, but this is nae langer the brave man's country.\nCourage is persecuted, and knaves only are encouraged, that can scribble\nlike the monks o' Melrose. Ye had sax brithers, Archy--sax lads whase\nmarrows warna to be found on a' the lang Borders--wi' them at my back\nan' I could hae ridden north and south, an' made the name o' Sandy\nArmstrong be feared; but they are gane--they're a' gane, and there's\nnane left but you to protect and defend your poor mother when I am gane\ntoo; and now they would hunt me like a deer if they durst, for they are\nbutchering guid and true men for our bit raid to Penrith, as though the\nlife o' an Armstrong were o' less value than an English nowt. If ye live\nto be a man, Archy, and to see your poor auld mother's head laid in the\nmould, take my sword and leave this poor, pitifu', king-ridden, an'\nbook-ruined country; an' dinna ye disgrace your faither by makin'\nbickers like the coopers o' Nicolwood, or pinglin' wi' an elshin like\nthe souters o' Selkirk.\"\n\nThe sleuth-dog, which lay at their feet, started up, snuffed the air,\ngrowled and lashed its tail. \"Ha! Tiger! what is't, Tiger?\" cried Sandy,\naddressing the dog, and springing to his feet.\n\n\"Troopers! troopers, faither!\" cried Archy, \"an' they are comin' frae\nilka side o' the forest.\"\n\n\"Get ready the dags,[3] Archy,\" said the freebooter; \"it's twa lang\nspears' length to the bottom o' Tarras moss, an they'll be light men and\nlighter horses that find na a grave in't--get ready the dags, and cauld\nlead shall welcome the first man that mentions King Jamie's name before\nthe walls o' Cleughfoot.\"\n\n[Footnote 3: Pistols.]\n\nThe boy ran and brought his father's pistols--his mother accompanied him\nto the turret. She gazed earnestly on the threatening bands of horsemen\nas they approached, for a few seconds, then taking her husband's\nhand--\"Sandy,\" said she, \"I hae lang looked for this; but others that\nare wives the now shall gang widows to bed the night, as well as Elspeth\nArmstrong!\"\n\n\"Fear naething, Elspeth, my doo,\" replied the riever; \"there will be\nblood in the way if they attack the lion in his den. But there's a lang\nand tangled moss atween them an' Cleughfoot. We hae seen an enemy nearer\nan' be glad to turn back again.\"\n\n\"They will reach us, faither,\" cried Archy; \"do ye no see they hae\nmuffled men before them?\"\n\n\"Muffled men! then, bairn, your faither's betrayed!\" exclaimed the\nfreebooter, \"an' there's naething but revenge and death left for Sandy\nArmstrong!\"\n\nHe stalked rapidly around the turret--he examined his pistols, the edge\nof his sword, his Jedburgh-staff, and his spear. Elspeth placed a steel\ncap on his head, and, from beneath it, his dark hair, mingled with grey,\nfell upon his brow. He stood with his ponderous spear in one hand and a\npistol in the other, and the declining sun cast his shadow across the\nmoss, to the very horses' feet of his invaders. Still the horsemen, who\namounted to several hundreds, drew nearer and nearer on every side, and\nimpenetrable as the morass was to strangers, yet, by devious windings,\nas a hound tracks its prey, the muffled men led them on, till they had\narrived within pistol shot of Cleughfoot.\n\n\"What want ye, friends?\" shouted the outlaw--\"think ye that a poor man\nlike Sandy Armstrong can gi'e upputtin' and provender for five hundred\nhorse?\"\n\n\"We come,\" replied an officer, advancing in front of the company, \"by\nthe authority o' our gracious prince, James, king o' England and\nScotland, and in the name o' his commissioner, Sir William Selby, to\npunish and hand over to justice Border thieves and outlaws, o' whom we\nare weel assured that you, Sandy Armstrong, o' the Cleughfoot, are habit\nand repute, amangst the chief.\"\n\n\"Ye lie! ye lie!\" returned the outlaw; \"ye dyvors in scarlet an'\ncockades, ye lie! I hae lived thir fifty years by my ain hand, an' the\nman was never born that dared say Sandy Armstrong laid finger on the\nwidow's cow or the puir man's mare, or that he scrimpit the orphan's\nmeal. But I hae been a protector o' the poor and helpless, an' a\ndefender o' the cowan-hearted, for a sma' but honest blackmail, that\nother men, wi' no half the strength o' Sandy Armstrong, wadna ta'en up\nat their foot.\n\n\"Do ye surrender in peace, ye boastin' rebel?\" replied the herald, \"or\nshall we burn your den about your ears?\"\n\n\"I ken it is death ony way ye take it,\" rejoined the outlaw--\"ye would\nshow me an' mine the mercy that was shown to my kinsman, John o'\nGilnokie,[4] and I shall surrender as an Armstrong surrenders--when the\nbreath is out.\"\n\n[Footnote 4: This subject forms another of the Border Tales.]\n\nFire flashed from a narrow crevice which resembled a cross in the\nturrets--the report of a pistol was heard, and the horse of the herald\nbounded, and fell beneath him.\n\n\"That wasna done like an Armstrong, Archy,\" said the freebooter; \"ye hae\nshot the horse, an' it might hae been the rider--the man was but doing\nhis duty, an' it was unfair and cowardly to fire on him till the affray\nbegan.\"\n\n\"I shall mind again, faither,\" said Archy, \"but I thought, wi' sic odds\nagainst us, that every advantage was fair.\"\n\nWhile these events transpired, Elspeth was busied placing powder and\nballs upon the roof of the turret; she brought up also a carabine, and\nputting it in her husband's hands, said--\"Tak ye that, Sandy, to aim at\ntheir leaders, and gie Archy an' me the dags.\"\n\nThe horsemen encompassed the wall; Sandy, his wife, and his son, knelt\nupon the turret, keeping up, through the crevices, a hurried but deadly\nfire on the besiegers. It was evident the assailants intended to blow up\nthe wall. The freebooter beheld the train laid, and the match applied.\nAlready his last bullet was discharged. \"Let us fire the straw among the\ncattle!\" cried little Archy. \"Weel thought, my bairn!\" exclaimed the\nriever. The boy rushed down into the house, and in an instant returned\nwith a flaming pine torch in his hand. He dropped it amongst the cattle.\nHe dashed a handful of powder on the spot, and in a moment half of the\ncourt-yard burst into a flame. At the same instant a part of the\ncourt-wall trembled--exploded--fell. The horned cattle and the horses\nwere rushing wildly to and fro through the fire. The invaders burst\nthrough the gap. Elspeth tore a pearl drop from her ears,[5] and,\nthrusting it into the pistol, discharged it at the head of the first man\nwho approached the house. It was evident they intended to blow up the\nhouse, as they had done the wall. Sandy had now no weapon that he could\nrender effective but his spear, and he said--\"They shall taste the prick\nof the hedgehog before I die.\" He thrust it down furiously upon them,\nand several of them fell at his threshold, but the deadly instrument was\ngrasped by a number of the besiegers, and wrenched from his hands.\n\n[Footnote 5: The wives and daughters of the Borderers, at this period,\nwore numerous trinkets--spoils, no doubt, presented them by their\nhusbands and wooers.]\n\nThe sun had already set, darkness was gathering over the morass, and\nstill the fire burned, and the cattle rushed amongst the armed men in\nthe court-yard.\n\n\"Elspeth,\" said the freebooter, \"it is not your life they seek, and they\ncanna hae the heart to harm our bairn. Gie me my Jeddard-staff in my\nhand--an' fareweel to ye, Elspeth--fareweel!--an eternal fareweel!\nArchy, fareweel, my gallant bairn!--never disgrace yer faither!--but ye\nwinna--ye winna--an' if I am murdered, mind ye revenge me, Archy! Now we\nmaun unbar the door, and I maun cut my way through them or perish.\"\n\nThus spoke the Borderer, and with his battle-axe in his hand, he\nembraced his wife and his son, and wept. \"Now, Archy,\" said he, \"slip\nand open the door--saftly!--saftly!--an' let me rush out.\"\n\nArchy silently drew back the massy bars; in a moment the iron door stood\najar, and Sandy Armstrong, battle-axe in hand, burst into the\ncourt-yard, and into the midst of his besiegers. There was not a man\namongst them that had not heard of the \"terrible Jeddart-staff o' Sandy\nArmstrong.\" He cleaved them down before him--his very voice augmented\ntheir confusion--they shrank back at his approach; and while some fled\nfrom the infuriated cattle, others fled from the arm of the freebooter.\nIn a few seconds he reached the gap in the court-wall--he rushed upon\nthe moss;--darkness had begun, and a thick vapour was rising from the\nmorass. \"Follow me who dare!\" shouted Sandy Armstrong.\n\nArchy withdrew into a niche in the passage, as his father rushed\nout;--and as the besiegers speedily burst into the house, amongst them\nwas one of the muffled men[6] bearing a torch in his hand. Revenge fired\nthe young Borderer, and, with his Jedburgh-staff, he made a dash at the\nhand of the traitor. The torch fell upon the floor, and with it three of\nthe fingers that grasped it. The besiegers were instantly enveloped in\ngloom, and Archy, escaping from the niche from whence he had struck the\nblow, said unto himself--\"I've gien ye a mark to find out who you are,\nneighbour.\"\n\n[Footnote 6: A muffled man was one who, for his future safety, assumed a\nmask or disguise in leading the enemy to the haunt of his neighbours or\nassociates whom he betrayed.]\n\nThe besiegers took possession of Cleughfoot, and the chief men of the\nparty remained in it daring the night, while a portion of their\nfollowers occupied the court-yard, and others, with their horses,\nremained on the morass. Archy and his mother were turned from their\ndwelling, and placed under a guard upon the moss, where they remained\nthroughout the night; and, in the morning, Cleughfoot was blown up\nbefore them. They were conveyed as prisoners to Sir William Selby, who\nhad fixed his quarters near Langholm.\n\n\"Whom do ye bring me here?\" inquired the new-made knight; \"a wife and\nbairn!--Hae ye been catching sparrows and let the eagle escape?--Whar\nhae ye the head and the hand o' the outlaw?\"\n\n\"Troth, Sir Knight,\" replied an officer, \"and his head is where it\nshouldna be--on his ain shouthers. At the darkenin' he escaped upon the\nmoss; three troopers, guided by a muffler and a sleuth-dog, pursued him;\nan' as we crossed the bog this mornin', we found ane o' the troopers\nsunk to the middle in't, an' his horse below him; and far'er on were the\ndead bodies o' the other twa, the sleuth-dog, and the muffled man. I am\nsorry, therefore, to inform ye, Sir Knight, that Sandy Armstrong has\nescaped, but we hae made a bonefire o' his keep, an' brought ye his wife\nand his son--wha are Armstrongs, soul and body o' them--to do wi' them\nas ye may judge proper.\"\n\n\"Tuts, man,\" replied Sir William, \"wad he hae us to disgrace our royal\ncommission by hangin' an auld wife an a bairn? Gae awa, ye limmer,\nye--gae awa wi' your brat,\" he added, addressing Elspeth, \"an' learn to\nlive like honest folk; or, if ye fa' in my way again, ye shall dance by\nthe crook frae a woodie.\"\n\n\"Where can I gang?\" said she sorrowfully, as she withdrew. \"O Archy! we\nhae neither house nor hauld--friend nor kindred!--an' wha will shelter\nthe wife and bairn o' poor persecuted Sandy Armstrong!\"\n\n\"Dinna fret, mother,\" said Archy; \"though they hae burned Cleughfoot,\nthe stanes are still left, an' I can soon big a bit place to stop in;\nnor, while there's a hare in Tarras wood, or a sheep on the Leadhills,\nshall ye ever want, mother.\"\n\nThey returned in sorrow to the heap of ruins that had been their\nhabitation; and Elspeth, in the bitterness of her spirit, sat down upon\nthe stones and wept. But after she had wept long, and the sound of her\nlamentation had howled across the desert, she arose and assisted her son\nin constructing a hut from the ruins, in which they might lay their\nheads. In two days it was completed, but, on the third day, the\ndisconsolate wife of the freebooter sank on her bed of rushes, and the\nsickness of death was in her heart.\n\n\"Oh, speak to me, mother!\" cried Archy; \"what--what can I do for ye?\"\n\n\"Naethin', my bairn!--naethin'!\" groaned the dying woman--\"the sun's\nfa'in dark on the een o' Elspeth Armstrong; but, oh, may the saunts o'\nheaven protect my poor Archy!\"\n\nShe tried to repeat the only prayer she had ever learned--for religion\nwas as little understood in the house of a freebooter as the eighth\ncommandment. Poor Archy wrung his hands and sobbed aloud.\n\n\"Dinna die, mother--oh! dinna die!\" he exclaimed, \"or what will become\no' your Archy!\" He rushed from the hut, and with a broken vessel which\nhe had found among the ruins, he brought water from the rivulet. He\napplied it to her lips--he bathed her brow--\"O mother! mother, dinna\ndie!\" he cried again, \"and I will get you bread too!\" He again hurried\nfrom the hut, and bounded across the moss with the fleetness of a young\ndeer. It was four long miles to the nearest habitation, and in it dwelt\nRingan Scott, a dependent of the Buccleuchs. There had never been\nfriendship between his family and that of Sandy Armstrong, but, in the\nagony of Archy's feelings, he stopped not to think of that nor of aught\nbut his dying mother. He rushed into the house--\"Gie me bread!\" he\nexclaimed wildly, \"for the love o' heaven gie me bread, for my mother is\nperishin'!\"\n\n\"Let her perish!--an may ye a' perish!\" said a young man, the son of\nRingan, who stood by the fire with his right hand in a sling, \"ye's get\nnae bread here.\"\n\n\"I maun!--I shall!\" cried Archy, vehemently. Half of a coarse cake lay\nupon the table; he snatched it up, and rushed out of the house. They\npursued him for a time, but affection and despair gave wings to his\nspeed. Breathless, he reached the wretched hut, and, on entering, he\ncried--\"Mother, here is bread! I have gotten't! I have gotten't!\" But\nhis mother answered him not. \"Speak, mother! O mother, speak! here is\nbread now--eat it an' ye'll be better,\" he cried, but his mother was\nstill silent. He took her hand in his--\"Are ye sleepin', mother?\" he\nadded--\"here is bread!\" He shook her gently, but she stirred not. He\nplaced his hand upon her face; it was cold as the rude walls of the hut,\nand her extended arms were stiff and motionless. He raised them, and\nthey fell heavily and lifeless. \"Mother!--mother!\" screamed Archy; but\nhis mother was dead! He rushed from the hut wildly, tearing his hair--he\nflung himself upon the ground--he called upon his father, and the glens\nof Tarras echoed the cry; but no father was near to answer. He flew back\nto the hut. He knelt by his mother's corpse--he rubbed her face and her\nbosom--he placed his lips to hers, and again he invoked her to speak.\nNight drew on, and, as darkness fell over the ghastly features of the\ncorpse, he fled with terror from the hut, and wandered weeping\nthroughout the night upon the moss. At sunrise he returned, and again\nsat down and wept by the dead body of his mother. He became familiar\nwith death, and his terror died away. Two nights more passed on, and the\nboy sat in the desolate hut in the wilderness, watching and mourning\nover the lifeless body of his mother. On the fourth day, he took a\nfragment of the iron gate, and began to dig her grave. He raised the\ndead body in his arms, and weeping, screaming, as he went, he bore it to\nthe tomb he had prepared for it. He gently placed it in the cold earth,\nand covered it with the moss and the green sod. All the day long he\ntoiled in rolling and carrying stones from the ruins of his father's\nhouse, to erect a cairn over his mother's grave. When his task was done;\nhe wrung his hands, and exclaimed, \"Now, poor Archy Armstrong hasna a\nfriend in the wide world!\" While he yet stood mourning over the new-made\ngrave, a party of horsemen, who were still in quest of his father, rode\nup and accosted him. His tragic tale was soon told, and, in the\nbitterness of his heart, he accused them as being the murderers of his\nfather and his mother. Amongst them was one of the chief men of the\nElliot clan, who held lands in the neighbourhood. He felt compassion for\nArchy, and he admired his spirit; and, desiring him to follow him, he\npromised to provide for him. Archy reluctantly obeyed, and he was\nemployed to watch the sheep of his protector on the hills.\n\nEighteen years passed away. Archy was now thirty years of age; he had\nlearned to read, and even to write, like the monks that were in Melrose.\nHe was the principal herdsman of his early benefactor, and was as much\nbeloved as his father had been feared. But at times the spirit of the\nfreebooter would burst forth; and he had not forgiven the persecutors,\nor, as he called them, the murderers of his parents. Amongst these was\none called \"Fingerless Dick,\" the son of Ringan Scott, of whom we have\nspoken. Archy had long known that he was one of the muffled men who had\nconducted Selby's horsemen to his father's house, and that he was the\nsame from whose hand he had dashed the torch with his battle-axe. Now,\nthere was to be a football fray in Liddesdale, and the Borderers\nthronged to it from many miles. Archy was there, and there also was his\nenemy--\"Fingerless Dick.\" They quarrelled--they closed--both came to the\nground, but Scott was undermost. He drew his knife--he stabbed his\nantagonist in the side--he was repeating the thrust, when Archy wrenched\nthe weapon from his hand, and, in the fury of the moment, plunged it in\nhis breast. At first the wound was believed to be mortal, and an attempt\nwas made to seize Archy, but clutching an oaken cudgel from the hands of\none who stood near him--\"Lay hands on me wha dare!\" he cried, as he\nbrandished it in the air, and fled at his utmost speed.\n\nArchy knew that though his enemy might recover, the Scotts would let\nloose the tender mercies of the law upon his head, and instead of\nreturning to the house of his master, he sought safety in concealment.\n\nOn the third day after the fray in Liddesdale, he entered Dumfries. He\nwas weary and wayworn, for he had fled from hill to hill, and from glen\nto glen, fearing pursuit. He inquired for a lodging, and was shown to a\nsmall house near the foot of a street leading to the river, and which,\nwe believe, is now called the Bank Vennel; and in which, he was told,\n\"the pig folk and other travellers put up for the night.\" There was a\nmotley group in the house, beggars and chapmen, and amongst the former\nwas an old man of uncommon stature; and his hair, as white as snow,\ndescended down upon his shoulders. His beard was of equal whiteness, and\nfell upon his breast. An old grey cloak covered his person, which was\nfastened round his body with a piece of rope instead of a girdle. He\nappeared as one who had been in foreign wars, and he wore a shade or\npatch over his left eye. He spoke but little, but he gazed often and\nwistfully on the countenance of Archy, and more than once a tear found\nits way down his weather-beaten cheeks. In the morning when Archy rose\nto depart, \"Whither gang ye, young man?\" inquired the old beggar,\nearnestly--\"are ye for the north or for the south?\"\n\n\"Wherefore spier ye, auld man?\" replied Archy.\n\n\"I hae a cause, an' ane that winna harm ye,\" said the stranger, \"if ye\nwill thole an auld man's company for a little way.\"\n\nArchy agreed that he should accompany him, and they took the road\ntowards Annan together. It was a calm and glorious morning: the Solway\nflashed in the sunlight like a silver lake, and not a cloud rested on\nthe brow of the majestic Criffel. For the space of three miles they\nproceeded in silence, but the old man sighed oft and heavily, as though\nhis spirit were troubled. \"Let us rest here for a few minutes,\" said he,\nas he sat down on a green knoll by the way-side, and gazing steadfastly\nin Archy's face--\"Young man,\" he added, \"your face brings owre my heart\nthe memories o' thirty years--and, oh! persecuted as the name is--answer\nme truly if your name be Armstrong?\"\n\n\"It is!\" replied Archy, \"and perish the son o' Sandy Armstrong when he\ndisowns it!\"\n\n\"An' your faither--your mother,\" continued the old man, hesitating as he\nspoke--\"do they--does she live?\"\n\nIn a few words Archy told of his father's persecution--of his being\nhunted from the country like a wild beast--of the destruction of the\nhome of his childhood--of his mother's death, and of her burial by his\nown hands in the wilderness.\n\n\"Oh! my poor Elspeth!\" cried the aged beggar, \"Archy! my son! my son! I\nam your faither! Sandy Armstrong, the outlaw!\"\n\n\"My faither!\" exclaimed Archy, pressing the beggar to his breast. When\nthey had wept together,--\"Let us gae nae farer south,\" said the old man,\n\"but let us return to Tarras moss, that when the hand o' death comes, ye\nmay lay me down in peace by the side of my Elspeth.\"\n\nWith a sorrowful heart Archy told his father that he was flying from the\nlaw and the vengeance of the Scotts. \"Gie them gowd as a\npeace-offering,\" said the old man, and he pulled from beneath his coarse\ncloak a leathern purse, filled with gold, and placed it in the hands of\nhis son. For nearly twenty years Sandy had served in foreign wars, and\nobtained honours and rewards; and on visiting his native land, he had\nassumed the beggar's garb for safety. They returned to Tarras-side\ntogether, and a few yellow coins quashed the prosecution of \"Fingerless\nDick.\" Archy married the daughter of his former employer, and became a\nsheep-farmer; and, at the age of fourscore years and ten, the old\nfreebooter closed his eyes in peace in the house of his son, and in the\nmidst of his grandchildren, and was buried, according to his own\nrequest, by the side of Elspeth in the wilderness.\n\n\n\n\nTHE DOUBLE-BEDDED ROOM.\n\n          \"Say you love\n    His person--be not asham'd of't; he's a man,\n    For whose embraces, though Endymion\n    Lay sleeping by, Cynthia would leave her orb,\n    And exchange kisses with him.\"\n\n    _Massinger._\n\n\n\nThe morn was fair, the sky was clear, when Mr. Andrew Micklewhame set\nhis foot aboard one of the \"Stirling, Alloa, and Kincardine Steam\nCompany's\" boats, at the Chain Pier, Newhaven, for the purpose of\nproceeding to the first-named place, on a visit to his old friend, Davie\nKerr, who had been, for upwards of twenty years, a respectable\niron-monger in that romantic town. On reaching Alloa, however, where, as\nevery one knows, the steamers pause for such length of time as enables\nthem to take in a supply of coals, and the tide to run up, it began to\nrain, in the manner best expressed by the household phrase, \"auld wives\nand pipe stapples.\" Notwithstanding this, Andrew being determined to\nmake the most of his time--for a week was the utmost limit of his leave\nof absence from the Edinburgh cloth establishment, in which he was in\nthe habit of wearing away his days and his coat sleeves--ascended from\nthe cabin where he had been luxuriating over the only volume--the first\nof \"Wilson's Tales of the Borders\"--of which its library could boast;\nand unfurling his umbrella, walked ashore in the fond hope of seeing or\nhearing something worth the seeing or hearing. And Andrew was not\ndisappointed; for, to his unspeakable delight, he descried against the\ngable-end of a white house, a play-bill, on which \"Venice Preserved,\"\nappeared in letters of half-an-inch deep; the part of Pierre, by Mr.\nFerdinand Gustavus Trash, and Jaffier, by Mr. Henry Watkins. The\nafterpiece, \"Rob Roy.\" Being extremely partial to theatrical amusements,\nof whatever description, and, moreover, being a contributor to a\ndramatic review published weekly in the Scottish metropolis, it occurred\nto Mr. Andrew Micklewhame that here he might, in all probability, find\nmaterials sufficient on which to establish a funny critique, that would\nprint to the extent of at least six of the twelve pages of the aforesaid\ndramatic review, and yield him good pay. Such an opportunity was not to\nbe lost. He, therefore, resolved on remaining at Alloa that night to\nwitness the performances, and proceeding to Stirling next morning by the\nearliest conveyance.\n\nHaving arranged this to his own content, he stalked majestically into an\ninn--without stopping to notice the sign which projected angularly over\nthe door, bearing the representation of a ship in full sail, among\nemerald waves, with moon-rakers and sky-scrapers ingeniously mixed up\nwith the indigo clouds above--and stoutly called for a pint of porter\nand a biscuit, to take the edge off his appetite. This inn rejoiced not\nin a landlord; he that _was_ the landlord had, some twelve years before,\ntaken himself off to \"that undiscovered country from whose bourne no\ntraveller returns;\" and his widow had not been lucky enough to meet with\nanother ready and willing to let himself become entangled with her in\nthe meshes of matrimony. The waiters who had, in her husband's time,\nbeen wont to serve the customers, had either died out, or gone to other\nand better situations, and left her with one solitary maid of all\nwork--the same who had officiated as barmaid to the inn for fifteen\nyears.\n\nThis maid of all work--Kirsty by name--was a tall, hard-featured woman,\nof--by her own acknowledgment--two-and-forty; not very tidy in her\nadornment, nor very bewitching in her manner. She it was who brought\nMr. Andrew Micklewhame the pint of porter and the biscuit.\n\n\"I suppose, my dear!\" said Andrew--(he had been a gay deceiver in his\nyouth, and, ever since that period, the phrase, \"my dear!\" had stuck to\nhim, and always when speaking to a female did he use it)--\"I suppose, my\ndear,\" continued he, \"I can have tea, and a beef-steak, or something of\nthat kind, to it, in\"--(here he stopped, and looked at his watch, from\nwhich he ascertained that it was then half-past four o'clock)--\"in an\nhour and a half; and, as I purpose staying here to-night, I should like\na bed. Will you arrange this for me?\"\n\n\"Ye can easily get yer tea, sir,\" said the woman of forty-two, looking\npleased at being addressed, \"my dear;\" \"but, as for the bed, unless ye\nlike to sleep in a dooble-bedded room, we canna gie ye accomodation. The\nlad that sleeps in ane o' the beds, is a decent sort o' a callant. We\ndinna ken much aboot him though; for he only comes here at nicht for his\nbed; and in the mornings, after his breakfast, awa' he gangs, and we\nnever sees his face till nicht again; except upon the Sundays, when he\naye has a pairty o' braw leddies an' gentlemen to dinner wi' him. He has\nleeved that way for a fortnicht or three weeks; an' my mistress hasna\nbeen the woman to ask him for a penny. Fegs! I'm thinkin' she has taen a\nnotion o' the callant. What he is or what he diz we dinna ken, an'\nnaebody can tell us.\"\n\n\"Mysterious being!\" inwardly ejaculated (as the novelists' phrase goes)\nMr. Micklewhame; then turning to Kirsty, with an inquiring look, he\nsaid--\"Is he genteel in appearance? of good address? of pleasing manner?\nIs he\"----\n\n\"Ou, ay!\" was the reply; \"he's a' that--I never see'd a genteeler young\nman in a' my days; and sae handsome too; sic black whiskers, an' sae\nbroad aboot the shouthers. My certie, he's a stalworth chiel. An', as\nfor his address; heth man, he often gies me a kiss in the mornings as\nhe gangs oot, and promises me anither whan he comes back again. Ye\nneedna be the least feared to sleep in the same room wi' him.\"\n\n\"Feared!\" muttered Micklewhame. \"Afraid of a man with black whiskers and\nbroad shoulders! I flatter myself I never was afraid in my life.\" So\nsaying, he elevated himself on his pins to the same degree as he rose at\nthat moment in his own estimation. Then turning to the table whereon he\nhad deposited his hat, he seized it up, and, with a dexterous jerk,\nstuck it on his head, at the same time exclaiming--\"You may prepare the\nbed for me--I'll sleep in the room with this mysterious man; and, while\nthe tea is getting ready, I'll just take a short stroll.\"\n\nWith these words he left the inn.\n\nMr. Andrew Micklewhame was a middle-aged man, with a rotundity of\ncorpus, and a bachelor to boot. In his youthful days his love for the\nfair sex had partaken more of a general than a particular character; and\nnow that he had arrived at the meridian of life, his taste had grown too\nparticular for him to choose a partner for the remainder of his days\nfrom among those unmarried ladies whom he ranked among his\nacquaintances. \"Girls,\" he would say, \"are not now half so pretty, nor\nhalf so domestic, as they were in my young days.\" Then he would enter\ninto a long tirade against the march of intellect, usually ending with a\nfew observations upon pianoforte playing, and cooking a beef-steak, the\nlatter accomplishment being in his opinion--as it is in that of every\nwell-thinking person--the greater accomplishment of the two. One lady\nwas too young; another was too old; a third was too tall; a fourth was\ntoo small; a fifth had no money; a sixth _had_ money, but was downright\nugly; a seventh was ill-tempered: in short, with every one on whom his\nmatrimonial ideas had condescended to settle, he had some fault to\nfind. There is no pleasing one who is predetermined not to be pleased.\n\nOnce, indeed, at a party to which he had been accidentally invited, he\nhad felt a kind of a sort of a nervous tremulousness come over him on\nbeing set down at the supper table beside a lady, who, he discovered,\nwas a widow; not from her garb, however; for widows--that is, young\nwidows free of encumbrance--usually dress themselves in a much gayer\nmanner than they were wont to do when \"nice young maidens.\" He had made\nhimself as agreeable as it was in his power to do, drinking wine with\nher at least half-a-dozen times, and otherwise doing, as he supposed,\n\"the polite.\" Nay, he even went so far as to volunteer his services in\nseeing her home; and on the way over (she was from the country, and,\n_pro tempore_, resided with a friend in Bruntisfield Place, fronting the\nLinks), he had the boldness to pop the question. He was accepted, and\ninvited to breakfast with the lady the following morning. The morning\ncame; but Andrew did not go--the fumes of the wine having subsided, and\n\"Richard being himself again.\" He had taken a second thought on the\nsubject, and determined on remaining a bachelor; by which arrangement\nthe Widow Brown was, like Lord Ullin for his daughter, \"left lamenting.\"\nWho her husband had been? whether she had money? what was her situation\nin life? were what Andrew tried long and earnestly to discover, but in\nvain--the Widow Brown seemed wrapped in mystery; and, from that hour,\nwhen he imprinted a kiss upon her lips, under a lamp-post, at two\no'clock in the morning, in Bruntisfield Place, he had neither seen nor\nheard of her. Years--six in number--had elapsed since then, and Andrew\nhad not ventured to accept another invitation to an evening party; but,\nas soon as his business for the day was over, he returned to his\nsolitary lodging in Richmond Street; and, for the remainder of the\nevening, followed the example of the gentlemen of England, and \"lived\nat home at ease,\" never stirring out, except to pay an occasional visit\nto the theatre.\n\nThe localities of Alloa were quite unknown to Andrew, for the best\nreason in the world--he had never been in it before; but, by dint of\nattending to the usual expedient resorted to on like occasions--that of\nfollowing his nose--in the space of a few minutes he discovered that his\nfeet, or fate, had led him into a dockyard, where a vessel was just upon\nthe point of being wedded to the ocean. Some women and men--the former,\nas usual, predominant--were seated on logs beneath a shed; others, the\nmore impatient seemingly, were walking about with umbrellas and parasols\nabove their heads--young men with young misses--old men and babes.\nChildren in their first childhood, of various shapes and sizes, chiefly\nbarefooted, were scampering among the wet sawdust, round about the logs\nof wood, in the shed and out of it, quite absorbed in the\nspirit-stirring game of \"tig\"--ever and anon yelping out each other's\nnames, and otherwise expressing their joy at not being \"it.\" Among their\nseniors there was a great deal of gabble to very little purpose, with a\npreponderate share of bustle and agitation.\n\nCarpenters were thumping away at the blocks on which the vessel rested,\nmaking more noise than progress. At length the blocks were fairly driven\nout, and away boomed the vessel into the Forth, amid the cheers of the\nassembled spectators. The general interest then subsided; and in a few\nminutes thereafter, with exception of the carpenters and some stray\nchildren, the dockyard presented the picture of emptiness. The din had\nended; and the multitude, reversing the condition of Rob Roy, had left\ndesolation where they had found plenty.\n\nTea over, Mr. Andrew Micklewhame, having first seen to his accommodation\nfor the night, and secured a place in the Stirling omnibus, which was\nadvertised to start the next morning precisely at nine, wended his way\nquietly to the theatre. It was in the Assembly Room--a rumbling old\nmansion, on the windows of which \"time's effacing fingers\" had taken\n_pains_ to leave their mark so effectually, that sundry detachments of\nold soot-bedizzened \"clouts\" filled up those interstices where glass had\nonce been. \"The nonpareil company of comedians\" entertained their\naudiences and held their orgies on the second floor--the first being\noccupied as an academy, where \"young gentlemen are taken in and done\nfor.\" The scenes in which the establishment rejoiced were five in\nnumber. Luckily, \"Venice Preserved\" did not require so many; but in \"Rob\nRoy\" the manager was compelled to make them perform double duty; and,\nconsequently, the same scene was thrust on for the inside of a village\ninn apartment in Bailie Nicol Jarvie's, and the interior of Jean\nM'Alpine's change-house. The audience department was most gorgeous;\nthere were boxes, pit, and gallery; or, in other words, front, middle,\nand back seats--the term \"boxes\" being applied to the front form, to\nwhich there was a back attached, most aristocratically garnished with\ngreen cloth, with brass nails in relief. At the farther end of this form\n\"an efficient orchestra\" was placed. It consisted of a boy to play the\npanpipes and the triangles at one and the same moment, a lad to thump\naway at the bass drum, and a blind man to perform on the clarionet--the\nlast being dignified in the bills by the title of \"leader of the\norchestra, and conductor of music.\" The whole under the immediate\nsuperintendence of Mr. Ferdinand Gustavus Trash.\n\nAfter an immensity of preliminary puffs into the clarionet, occasional\nrattles on the drum, and consultations among themselves as to the air to\nbe played, the musicians struck up the spirit-stirring \"All Round my\nHat;\" which, though achieved in beautiful disregard of time and concord,\nwas received with great--ay, with very great applause, by the\nmomentarily increasing audience, some of whom mistook it for \"God Save\nthe King,\" and, in an extreme fit of loyalty, bawled out--\"Off hats!\nstand up!\" with which command many did not hesitate to comply.\n\nThere was a pause, interrupted at length by the loudly expressed wish of\nthe gods that the curtain should draw up. Up it went accordingly, and\n\"Venice Preserved\" commenced with some show of enthusiasm. Belvidera was\npersonated by an interesting female of five-and-thirty, who, after\nparting in tears from Jaffier, a youth of eighteen, as the means of\nacquainting the audience with her extraordinary vocal abilities,\nconsoled herself and them with that very appropriate ditty--\"Within a\nMile of Edinburgh Town,\" accompanied by the orchestra. The Doge of\nVenice, not to be outdone, as it were, left his throne after the\nterrific disclosures of Jaffier, and, in honest exultation at the\ndiscovery of the horrid plot, solaced the mysterious Council of Ten\nwith--\"I was the boy for bewitching them.\" The bass drum was\nparticularly distinguished in the accompaniment.\n\nIn a critique of the performances which Mr. Micklewhame wrote, he\nsays--\"It would have greatly added to the delight of those conversant\nwith the pure English idiom, had many of the actors paid a visit, for a\nshort time, to the _first_ floor of the Assembly Room, ere venturing to\nappear on the second.\"\n\nThe meagreness of the company compelled several of the principal\nperformers to play inferior parts, in addition to those against which\ntheir names appeared in the bill. For instance, in \"Rob Roy,\" the same\nperson who performed Rashleigh had to \"go on\" in the capacity of a\npeasant, and sing a bass solo in the opening glee. Owen and Major\nGalbraith were _done_ by the same individual. Mattie sung in the opening\nglee, and danced the Highland Fling at the Pass of Lochard, with Dougal\nand Bailie Nicol Jarvie. Some of the audience were scandalized at the\nappearance of Mattie on this occasion, and began to entertain great\ndoubts of the morality of the bailie, when they saw his handmaid in his\ncompany so far from the Trongate.\n\nSeated on _the_ front form, with green cloth back studded with brass\nnails, and immediately behind a row of six penny dipped candles,\ntastefully arranged in order among an equivalent number of holes in a\nstick placed in front of the drop-scene to divide the audience from the\nactors, Andrew Micklewhame gazed on all this with the stoical\nindifference of one who is used to such things: in short, he gazed on it\nwith the eye of an experienced critic--the best of all possible ways to\nmar one's enjoyment of a play. Occasionally, however, he felt inclined\nto indulge in a hearty laugh; but the dignity of the critic came to his\naid, and he restrained it by turning away his face from the stage and\ncasting his scrutinizing glance around the inhabitants of the seats in\nthe rear, or listened to the remarks of those in the pit. It was during\nthe latter part of the performance of the first act, and the interval\nbetween it and the second, that he, in this manner, overheard the\nfragments of a conversation carried on, _sotto voce_, in the seat\nimmediately behind him. He had the curiosity to steal a glance at the\nspeakers. They were a young woman, with fine dark eyes, and a young man,\nof apparently five-and-twenty years of age, with cheeks _red_olent of\nrouge, enveloped in a faded Petersham greatcoat, whom Andrew immediately\nset down as belonging to the company of comedians. He could hear the\nyoung woman with the dark eyes upbraiding the young man with the\ncoloured cheeks for deserting her; then the young man said he had\nintended to write her soon, with some money, so she ought not to have\nfollowed him.\n\n\"I am pretty well situated in lodgings here at present,\" continued the\nyoung man; \"but I cannot venture to take you there to-night, for the\nfact of my being a married man would not, were it known, raise me in\nthe estimation of the landlady. But I will procure other lodgings for\nyou after the play is over; and if you do not hear from me in the\nmorning, at farthest by ten, you may call for me at the inn where I am\nstaying.\" He ended by observing that he was wanted in the next act to go\non as a Highlander; and, accordingly, he left her, and crept in behind\nthe curtain.\n\nThere was nothing very extraordinary in all this; yet, though Andrew\nknew that such occurrences happened daily, he could not help thinking of\nwhat he had just overheard, and feeling interested in the damsel of the\nsparkling eyes. He did not dare, however, to take another peep at her,\nas he thought it would be too marked; and when he rose, at the\ntermination of the performances, to go away, the seat behind him was\nquite vacant; nor could he discern, among the dense mass of human beings\nthat obstructed the door-way, the slightest vestige of her, or the youth\nin the shabby greatcoat who had acknowledged himself her husband.\n\nThe rain had not ceased when Mr. Micklewhame left the Assembly Room, so\nhe hurried to his inn with all possible despatch. Mr. Micklewhame prided\nhimself on his knowledge of the principles of economy; and when he\ntravelled he invariably made it a point to take no more than two meals\nper diem--breakfast and tea--both with a meat accompaniment; but this\nevening--this particular evening--as he sat toasting his toes before an\nexcellent fire, in a comfortable parlour of a comfortable inn, and heard\nthe rain pattering against the casement, it, somehow or other, entered\ninto his head that a tumbler of punch would be by no means amiss. A\ntumbler of punch was ordered in accordingly; after that came a second;\nand a third; and--no, we can't exactly say that there was a fourth. At\nall events, there was a marked inclination, first towards one side of\nthe staircase, and then towards the other, in Mr. Andrew Micklewhame's\nascent to his bedroom that evening. Nay, more; he attempted to kiss\nKirsty as she was depositing the candlestick upon the table; but he\nmissed his aim, and measured his length on the floor. By the time he was\nup again, Kirsty had vanished.\n\nMr. Micklewhame was a little annoyed that he could not use the\nprecaution of bolting his door. The mysterious man, with the black\nwhiskers and broad shoulders, had not yet claimed his bed, although it\nwas pretty well on towards\n\n    \"The wee short hour ayont the twal.\"\n\n\"I don't half like this sleeping in a double-bedded room, with a man I\nnever saw,\" he thought, but did not venture to say it aloud, lest some\none might be within ear-shot, and set him down as a coward. \"I wonder,\"\nexclaimed he, as he proceeded to undress before the yet glowing embers\nof a consumptive fire, \"whether--hic--whether the f--f--fellow snores. I\nsha'n't sleep, I'm sure--hic--I sha'n't--hic--sleep, if the f--f--fellow\nsnores.\"\n\nHaving delivered himself of this very sensible observation, he got into\none of the beds in the best way he could, covered himself up warm, and\nfell fast asleep.\n\nDreams visited his pillow; distorted visions, in which Kirsty, the\ndark-eyed damoiselle, and the man with the black whiskers, bore\nprominent parts, flitted across his fancy. Then he felt himself borne\nthrough the air by a vulture in a shabby brown greatcoat, which set him\ndown on the top of a high house, and flew away. He thought he got up and\ngroped his way along the house-top; but, missing his footing, he fell\nover, and would certainly have had his brains dashed out upon the\npavement below, had not the motion of his descent caused him to start\nand awaken. All was still within the chamber. He looked out of bed, but\ncould discover no signs of the appearance of his mysterious neighbour;\nso he composed himself to sleep again. This time, however, he was not so\nsuccessful as at first; for it was only after some time that he could\ncoax himself into a sort of doze--something betwixt sleeping and waking.\nWhile in this state, he fancied he saw the man in the brown greatcoat\nenter the room; then he saw a flash of light; then he imagined he smelt\nsulphur; and then, all of a sudden, he felt himself in reality pulled\nhalf out of bed.\n\n\"Hollo, hollo!\" cried he; \"what the deuce is the matter?\" and he rubbed\nhis eyes until he found himself wide awake.\n\n\"Sir, sir!\" cried a voice, \"you've made a mistake--you've got into my\nbed in place of your own.\"\n\nAny one in Andrew's place but Andrew himself would have cursed and sworn\nlike a trooper at a person daring to awaken him from a comfortable\nsnooze upon such slight pretences; but Andrew was a peaceable man--he\nnever liked to make any disturbance--and he actually, without saying a\nword, turned out of the bed he had warmed for himself, and allowed the\nstranger to get into his place. He was sure, at all events, that he had\nnot given up his bed to any but the lawful tenant of the room; for a\nblink of fire-light gleamed upon a pair of extensive whiskers, with\nshoulders to correspond. The features struck Andrew as being familiar to\nhim; but he could not, though he tried, for the life of him, recollect\nwhere he had before seen them. He cursed the fellow's impudence, as he\ndiscovered that the smell of sulphur which had saluted his olfactory\nnerves, was _not_ the smell of sulphur, but of a candle having been\nblown out. He did not dare, though, to utter a word on the subject. He\nfelt very much afraid--indeed, so much so, that it was not till after an\nhour's perambulation through the room, that he could prevail on himself\nto lie down in the empty bed. Again he fell fast asleep.\n\nWhen he awoke, the morning light was streaming into the room through the\nchinks of the shutters. He wondered very much what o'clock it was, as he\nremembered that he purposed setting off by the omnibus at nine, and\ngroped about for his watch. Horror!--he had left it beneath the pillow\nof the other bed.\n\nJumping to the floor with considerable agility, and opening the shutters\nwith a bang, in the hope that noise and daylight would bring him\ncourage, the first objects that met his astonished gaze, were a shabby\nbrown greatcoat and a shocking bad hat, lying carelessly on a chair. Had\nany one asked Andrew to shave his head without soap, or give sixpence\nfor a penny loaf, he could not have been more amazed or terror-stricken\nthan he was at that moment. That the shabby brown greatcoat and the\nshocking bad hat belonged to the mysterious man with the black whiskers,\nand that the mysterious man with the black whiskers, and he who had sat\nbeside the damsel with the bright eyes at the play, were one and the\nsame individual, Mr. Andrew Micklewhame had not the smallest doubt, and\nthereupon he began to get a little fidgetty regarding his watch. The\ncurtains of the bed were closely drawn--so closely that Andrew could not\nsee in; and he did not just like at first to open the curtains and\ndisturb the whiskered youth in the same manner as the whiskered youth\nhad disturbed him. No. Andrew was a more generous-minded man than that.\n\nHe paced the room for some time, fancying all sorts of things about the\nowner of the shabby brown greatcoat, but never taking his eye off the\ncurtains, resolved to rush forward on the first appearance of their\nopening.\n\n\"'Tis for no good this fellow lives here,\" thought Andrew. \"All a sham,\ntoo, his being connected with these players. I have no doubt in my own\nmind that he is either the murderer of Begbie in disguise, or a\nresurrectionist. Ah! perhaps he has run away from the world, and come\nhere for the purpose of committing suicide in a quiet way. But, no; why\nshould he? That's quite improbable.\" And, after thinking all this, he\npaused for about five minutes, then exclaimed, not aloud, however--\"I\ncan bear this suspense no longer. Ecod! I'll ask the fellow who he is,\nand, at the same time, claim my watch!\"\n\nSo saying, he rushed forward with a determined air, drew the curtains,\nand discovered--the bed was empty!\n\n\"He can't have gone far, for he has left his coat and hat behind him,\"\nwere Andrew's reflections; and as he said this, he looked for his watch,\nand then for his clothes. Amazement! they were all gone; watch, shirt,\ncoat, vest, and inexpressibles--all had vanished. In a paroxysm of fury\nhe rang the bell; and, presently, the voice of Kirsty, from without,\ninquired, as she half-opened the door, and thrust forward a pair of well\nworn Wellingtons, which Andrew recognised as not belonging to him--\"D'ye\nplease to want onything else?\"\n\n\"Anything else!\" roared Andrew, choking with rage, and utterly\nregardless of the respect due to the sex of the speaker. \"Come in here,\nand help me to find my trowsers!\"\n\n\"O you--ye'll wait awhile, I'm thinkin, or I do siccan a thing.\"\n\n\"Zounds! that infernal fellow must have carried them off!\" muttered\nAndrew.\n\n\"Na, na,\" said Kirsty; \"it's no the infernal gentleman ava, man. I wadna\nbe the least surprised but it's that auld punchy buddy that sleepit in\nthis room last nicht, and ran awa this morning, wi' the nine o'clock\nomnibush, without payin his reckonin, that's ta'en yer breeks; but ye\nneedna mind, ye can just pit on _his_ for a day.\"\n\nThis was too much. To be told that he himself was the thief of his own\no-no-we-never-mention-ems, and that he had run away that morning without\npaying his reckoning, was more than Andrew Micklewhame could bear.\n\n\"Are you mad, woman?\" cried he. \"Confound you, I'll leave your house\ninstantly, and bring an action for the recovery of my clothes.\"\n\n\"Your claes, quotha--your claes. My man, thae tricks winna do here, I\ncan tell ye. Ye're fund oot at last. My certie, to hear a fallow speakin\no' claes, whan it's weel kenned he had nae mair than a brown greatcoat,\nan auld hat, an' a pair o' boots I wadna gie tippence for. Ye're fund\noot at last. There's twa chaps below has twa or three words to say to\nye.\"\n\n\"They may go to the devil, and you along with them!\" was Andrew's pert\nrejoinder.\n\n\"Bide a bit--just bide a bit. Hy,\" cried Kirsty, seemingly over the\nbanisters of the stair, to some unknown individual or individuals below.\n\"Stap up this way, will ye?\"\n\nAnd fast upon the heels of this summons, in walked two justice of peace\nofficers, who, despite the asseverations of Mr. Andrew Micklewhame that\nhe was himself and no other, ordered him to don the brown greatcoat, and\nthe shocking bad hat, and follow them.\n\n\"We've pursued you from Queensferry,\" said the first--\"round by\nEdinburgh, Glasgow, and Stirling; and Grog the innkeeper is determined\nto punish you, unless you pay him for the eight weeks' board you had in\nhis house, and our expenses over and above.\"\n\nIt was in vain that Mr. Micklewhame protested he had never been in\nQueensferry in his life; nor had he the honour of the acquaintance of\nGrog, the innkeeper; but, at length, seeing that it was impossible to\nconvince the officers to the contrary he thought it advisable to pay\nthe amount of their demand, and trust to law and justice afterwards for\nretribution. Even with this he found himself unable to comply--his\npurse, containing every rap he owned in the world, was in the pockets of\nhis inexpressibles.\n\nThere was no help for it. With despair in his countenance, he donned the\nshabby brown greatcoat and the dilapidated Wellingtons, took the\nshocking bad hat in his hand, and, in silence, followed the officers of\njustice down stairs, determining to appeal to the generosity of the\nlandlady, who, he had no doubt, would give full credence to his story.\n\nThe present mishap of Mr. Micklewhame had arisen solely from the fact of\nhis having taken so much toddy overnight, which was the cause of his\nsleeping longer and more soundly in the morning than usual. Kirsty, ever\nvigilant, had gone to the door of the double-bedded room and knocked, at\nthe same time calling out, with a stentorian voice, that \"the omnibush\nwas ready to start.\" All this was unheeded by Andrew, who slept on,\nutterly unconscious of the progress of time. Not so, however, was it\nwith the other occupant of the chamber; for no sooner did he hear\nKirsty's summons, than a lucky thought occurred to him; and he bawled\nthrough the door, in tones \"not loud but deep,\" that he would be down\ninstantly. He then proceeded, in the coolest manner possible, to adorn\nhimself in the habiliments of his somniferous neighbour; which, he soon\nperceived, were a \"world too wide\" for him--a fault which he instantly\nremedied by the assistance of a pillow, disposed of after the manner he\nhad seen greater actors than himself \"make themselves up\" for the\ncharacter of Falstaff. Thus equipped, he removed Andrew's watch from\nbeneath the pillow, and placed it in the same pocket it had occupied the\npreceding day; took off his portable bushy whiskers, and put them in his\npocket; then bidding adieu to his brown greatcoat and napless hat,\nwhich, with the accompaniment of a pair of well-worn Wellington boots,\nhad been his only attire for many a day, he strode from the apartment,\ncarefully shutting the door behind him. As he got to the foot of the\nstairs, there was Kirsty in the outer passage. For a moment he felt\nundetermined what course next to pursue; but his never-failing wit came\nto his aid, and, stepping into a side room, the window of which looked\nout into the street, he desired Kirsty to bring him his bill of\nfare--_i. e._, the bill of fare peculiar to Mr. Andrew Micklewhame--and\na sheet of writing-paper, with pens and ink. Those being brought, and\nKirsty having shut the door, leaving him \"all alone in his glory,\" he\nscribbled a few lines on the paper, and made it up in the form of a\nletter. This was no sooner done, than the \"impatient bugle\"--_vulgo\nvocato_, tin horn--of the ominous cad, who stood on the opposite side of\nthe street, just behind the omnibus, holding open the door with his left\nhand, blew a blast so loud and shrill, that all those in waiting in the\nstreet, who had serious intentions of proceeding to Stirling by that\nconveyance, seemed, of one accord, to know that it was their last\nwarning; so, shaking hands with the friends who had come \"to see them\noff,\" they scrambled nimbly up the steps of the omnibus, and passed from\nbefore the view of the bystanders into its ponderous interior. Our actor\nsaw this, and, without more ado, he opened the window and jumped into\nthe street. His letter he deposited in the post-office receiving-box,\nand his body in the omnibus, which, being now full, the cad banged to\nthe door, gave the signal to the driver, and off the omnibus rattled;\nnor did Kirsty or her mistress know of the escapement of their guest,\nwhom they both believed to be Andrew Micklewhame, until he was a\nconsiderable part on his way to Stirling.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nKirsty was in the bar, stamping the post-mark on some letters--for her\nmistress was post_master_--and talking to a young woman with bright\neyes.\n\n\"The villain that he is!\" said Kirsty. \"A married man! Wha wad hae\nthocht it? an' a playactor too, crinkypatie! He'll be doon the noo, and\nye'll see him then. There's twa gentlemen gaen up to him a wee while\nago.\"\n\nAt this moment the landlady opened the door of a parlour off the bar,\nand handed to Kirsty some letters, which she had been ostensibly\narranging for delivery--in reality, making herself acquainted with their\ncontents.\n\n\"Here's six for delivery, and one to lie till called for!\" Kirsty took\nthem; and as her mistress shut the door, read aloud from the back of the\nletter--\"'To lie till called for.' The name, 'Mrs. Isabella Young!'\"\n\n\"What!\" exclaimed the dark-eyed young woman starting, \"a letter for me?\"\nand she almost snatched it out of Kirsty's hand. A gleam of joy played\nupon her handsome face as she read--\n\n     \"DEAR ISY,--I enclose you a crown; if you want more, apply to\n     Manager Trash for my arrears of salary. I'm off to Perth with\n     the toggery of an old fellow who slept in the same room with me\n     last night. They'll perhaps talk of pursuing me; if so, detain\n     them as long as possible, and follow, at your leisure,\n\n     \"Your affectionate\n\n     \"PATRICK YOUNG.\"\n\nAt this juncture appeared Andrew in the custody of the two officers; and\nthe damsel of the dark eyes, taking her cue from the document she had\njust perused, rushed forward and threw herself into his arms,\nexclaiming, \"My own, my lost one!--Oh, do not--do not drag my husband\nfrom me!\" The latter part of her sentence was addressed to the officers\nof justice.\n\n\"Loshifycairyme!\" cried Kirsty; \"he's lost his bonny black whiskers, and\nturned fatter nor he was!\" Then, after a moment's reflection, she\nadded--\"But thae player buddies can do onything!\"\n\n\"My pretty one,\" said Andrew, \"I know nothing of you!\" Yet the young\nwoman still clung to her embrace. \"You vile woman,\" he continued, waxing\nwroth, \"get you gone. I'll tell your husband if you don't!\" But Mrs.\nYoung clung close and closer to him. He then addressed himself to\nKirsty, desiring her to inform her mistress that he wished to say a few\nwords to her. \"Tell her,\" he continued, \"that I am in great tribulation\nhere, and I wish her to advance a small sum of money to these gentlemen,\nwhich will be returned with grateful thanks as soon as I get to\nEdinburgh.\"\n\nKirsty grumbled a little at being sent on such an errand; but proceeded\ninto the little parlour off the bar. In a few seconds she returned,\nsaying--\"My mistress'll no advance money to ony man unless to her lawfu'\nhusband; and she says gif ye like to marry her, she'll do't, but no\nunless. I'm sure I dinna ken what she means, seeing ye're a married man\nalready!\"\n\n\"What!\" exclaimed Andrew, \"marry a woman I never saw?\"\n\n\"On nae ither condition will she advance the money. Between oorsels, my\nmistress is worth at least twa thousand.\"\n\n\"Two thousand pounds!\" thought Andrew. \"The speculation wouldn't be such\na bad one after all.\" And, after a show of hesitation, he gave a\nreluctant consent, as the only way, and a speedy one, to relieve him\nfrom his difficulties. His private debts amounted to at least a hundred\npounds; and with two thousand pounds he could pay that; ay, and live\nlike a prince besides.\n\nThe whole party was ushered into the little back parlour, where, to\ncomplete Andrew's amazement, he descried, seated over a cup of coffee,\nthe identical Widow Brown to whom he had given the slip six years\nbefore. She rose and shook him by the hand.\n\n\"Be not amazed!\" she said. \"The moment I saw you, from the window of\nthis room, enter my inn yesterday, I recognised you, and my love for you\nreturned. I know all.\" She certainly did, for she had read Patrick\nYoung's letter to his wife. \"I shall procure your immediate release; and\nshould you rue the consent you have just given, you are free to return\nto Edinburgh as you came--a single man!\"\n\n\"Generous woman!\" cried Andrew, sinking on one knee, \"this--this is too\nmuch! Think ye I could again desert you? No, by heaven!\"--Here he laid\nhis hand upon his breast, and turned up the white of his eyes in an\nattempt to look pathetic. The widow raised him and led him to a seat.\nThe officers were dismissed; and the damsel with the dark eyes escaped\nthrough the open door as they went out, fearful of being detained for\nher deceitful attempt upon the person of Andrew Micklewhame.\n\nIn a few days the nuptials were solemnized; and Andrew Micklewhame ever\nblessed the lucky chance that led him to Alloa.\n\nHistory is silent regarding the ultimate fate of Mr. Patrick Young; but\nit is to be hoped that he was either hanged or sent to Botany Bay.\nNeither Mr. nor Mrs. Micklewhame thought it worth their while to pursue\nhim for the injuries he had done them; and Grog, the innkeeper, could\nnot, for his myrmidons had lost the scent of the stroller from the\nmoment he fled from Alloa.\n\n\n\n\nTHE HIGHLAND BOY.\n\n\nStrange, sometimes, are the destinies of men, and mysterious the ways of\nProvidence. In these expressions there is nothing new, for they have\nbeen repeated a thousand times before; but we are not sure that they\nhave often been more strikingly illustrated than in the following short\nnarrative--alas! \"owre true a tale.\" Within a short distance of the town\nof Inverary, in Argyleshire, there lived, towards the middle of last\ncentury, a person of the name of M'Lauchlane. He was a miller to\nbusiness; but, if any idea be formed of his circumstances as such, or of\nthe general condition and appearance of his establishment, from those of\nthe \"jolly millers\" of the low country, with their large, well-built,\nslated mills, filled with expensive machinery--their comfortable houses,\nand rough and round abundance--it will be a very erroneous one. The\nhighland miller--he, at any rate, of the last century--was a very\ndifferent person, and very differently circumstanced. His business was\ntrifling, as it must, of necessity, have been, in a country yielding but\nlittle corn--just sufficient, and barely so, to support, with other\naids, its thin and widely scattered population. His mill was a small,\nthatched, crazy building; and its machinery (almost all of wood), the\nclumsy, rude workmanship of the miller himself. Such, at any rate, was\nM'Lauchlane's establishment--a very poor affair; and very poor, though\nvery industrious, and an honest and upright man, was M'Lauchlane\nhimself. Yet, strange as it may seem in a person in his situation in\nlife, he was not only an upright man, but a man of some education, of a\ngrave and intelligent cast of countenance, and of a tall and athletic\nform.\n\nFor fifteen years, M'Lauchlane toiled on his little farm with unwearied\nassiduity, struggling with a barren soil, that scarcely yielded a\nsubsistence for his family, leaving no surplus for sale, the rent being\npaid by a few black cattle reared for the purpose; and more than half of\nthat time dividing this labour with attendance on his little mill; and\nother fifteen years, had he lived so long, would, in all probability,\nhave found him still thus employed, had not a circumstance occurred\nwhich suddenly changed his destiny. He quarrelled with his landlord, and\nresolved suddenly, in a fit of exasperation, upon leaving his mill. He\nnever gave any further particulars of the occurrence which had galled\nhis proud spirit. He never said what was the cause of quarrel between\nhim and his laird; but the fancied disgrace of some harsh word which the\nlatter had used towards him, preyed on his mind, and, in less than a\nfortnight after, he resigned his mill and his farm, and proceeded to the\nlow country in search of employment. This he found in Edinburgh, where\nhe had some friends, in the humble capacity of a caddie, or chairman.\n\nOn leaving the place of his residence in the Highlands, M'Lauchlane left\nbehind him, until he should fall into some way of earning a subsistence,\nhis wife, a son, and two daughters. The son was, at this period, about\nfifteen years of age; a fine, manly-looking boy, of kind and amiable\ndispositions, the pride of his mother's heart, and the stay of his\nfather's hopes. It was not doubted that, on the latter obtaining\nemployment, he would succeed in procuring some situation or other in\nEdinburgh for his son also; and, with these, and sundry other little\nplans and prospects, the family of M'Lauchlane, including himself,\nlooked forward to the enjoyment of some happy days. Having obtained\nemployment himself, M'Lauchlane lost no time in looking out for an\nengagement for his son; and, at length, found an opening for him in a\nmerchant's counting-house in Leith. This good fortune he speedily\ncommunicated to his family, desiring that James should immediately set\nout for Edinburgh. James, however, had been already unexpectedly\nprovided for, although not altogether to his liking. He had been engaged\nto assist some salmon-curers who had an establishment in the\nneighbourhood; and with these he was now employed. The wages, however,\nwere small, and the work heavy; but it was considered by the dutiful boy\nhimself a desirable situation, as it enabled him to reside with his\nmother, whom he tenderly loved, and to contribute more promptly and\nefficiently to her support than if he were at a distance. On these\naccounts, therefore, he determined to remain in his present employment\nfor some time at least--this was till the ensuing term, when it was\nproposed that the whole family should proceed to Edinburgh, to join\ntheir head; and this was stated in reply to James' father, who, though\nhe longed to have his boy with him, acquiesced in its propriety; and\nthus matters stood for several weeks, when it was found that James'\nstrength was unequal to the labour imposed on him. The poor lad was long\nunwilling to admit this, even to himself, and continued to toil on with\nuncomplaining perseverance; but a mother's anxiety and scrutinizing\nsolicitude soon discovered what he would have concealed. She saw, from\nhis wan cheek and sunken eye, that he was tasked beyond his strength,\nand that a continuance much longer in his present employment might even\nendanger his life. Impressed with this idea, she insisted on him\nquitting it, and proceeding immediately to Edinburgh to join his father.\n\n\"But, mother,\" said the affectionate boy, \"what will you do without me?\nMy wages, though small, are a great help to you.\"\n\n\"They are, James, no doubt,\" replied his mother; \"but what are your\nwages, or what would all the gold and silver in the world be to me,\ncompared to your life, my child? Think ye that anything could compensate\nthat to your mother, James? No, no; all the wealth of the Indies, my\nson, would be nothing to me, if anything was to happen you. Besides, you\ncan help me even where you are going. You can remit me a little of your\nwages, along with what your father sends from his; and, at the term, you\nknow, which is now only four months distant, we will all be together\nagain, and as happy as the day's long.\"\n\nThus reasoned with, and feeling his own physical inadequacy to continue\nin his present employment, the boy finally consented to leave it, and to\nproceed to Edinburgh, to join his father. It was not thought necessary\nto give the latter any previous intimation of this change in his son's\nviews; and no communication, therefore, took place on the subject.\n\nThe day fixed for the boy's departure having arrived, a little bundle,\ncontaining some small articles of wearing apparel, and some bread and\ncheese, was made up for him by the hands of his doting mother, whose\ntears fell fast and thick on the little humble package, as she tied it\nup. This completed, the boy took down a staff from amongst many that\nwere hung to the roof of the cottage, thrust one end of it through the\nbundle, shouldered it manfully, clapped his bonnet on his head, and was\nabout suddenly to rush out of the house, finding that he could not stand\na more deliberate parting; when his mother, flying after him, caught him\nby the arm just as he had reached the door, and, murmuring his name,\nclasped him in her arms, and, in silent anguish, pressed him\nconvulsively to her bosom. The weeping boy returned the fond embrace of\nhis mother; but, at length, tore himself away, and hurried off, with a\nspeed that soon carried him out of her sight.\n\nThe lad had now a long journey before him, not less than a hundred and\nfifty miles, the whole of which was to be performed on foot, for there\nwere then no conveyances on his intended route; and, although there had,\nhe had no money to pay for their use; but, as he was active and\nvigorous, and accustomed to rove over his native hills like a young\ndeer, a journey on foot of even a hundred and fifty miles had nothing\nformidable whatever in it for him; and it was, therefore, with a\nfearless heart and bounding step that he now took the long, wild, and\ndreary highland road, that was to conduct him to the city in which his\nfather resided.\n\nIn about four months after the boy had left home to join his father in\nEdinburgh, his mother, with her two daughters, also proceeded to that\ncity, and for the same purpose; the period having arrived which,\naccording to previous understanding, was to see the family once more\nunited under one roof. We will not attempt to describe the poor mother's\nfeelings of joyous anticipation on this occasion, as she looked forward\nto the exquisite happiness of embracing the two objects whom she loved\nbest on earth, her husband and son. These feelings were such as the\nreader can imagine for himself without our aid or interference.\n\nOn M'Lauchlane's wife and daughters arriving, which they did in due time\nand in safety, at the humble domicile which the farmer's dutiful\naffection had provided for them in Edinburgh, the first question she\nasked of her husband, and she put it ere she had yet fairly entered his\ndoor, was--\n\n\"Where is James? Where is my dear boy, Fergus?\"\n\n\"Why, Margaret,\" replied M'Lauchlane, laughingly, \"you should know that\nfully better than I do. Where did you leave him?\" The boy had never\nreached his father's house.\n\n\"Come, come, now, Fergus, none of your tricks,\" said his wife, smiling.\n\"Tell me where my boy is--I cannot rest till I see him.\"\n\n\"Ha, ha!\" rejoined her husband, now laughing outright, \"you keep up the\nfarce very well, Margaret; but, come, now, let James be produced; for\n_I_ am impatient to see him. You want to tantalize me a little.\"\n\n\"Or rather it is you that wish to tantalize me, Fergus,\" replied his\nwife, good-humouredly; \"but do not keep me longer in pain, I beseech\nyou. Go and bring James to me immediately. Do now, I entreat of you.\"\n\n\"Margaret,\" said M'Lauchlane, now somewhat alarmedly--for the earnest\nmanner of his wife struck him as very strange, and as carrying very\nlittle of jocularity in it--\"Margaret,\" he said, gravely, \"is this jest\nor earnest? Is James not with you?--and, if he is not, where is he?\"\n\n\"Gracious heavens!\" exclaimed his wife, in an agony of horror--she in\nturn having marked the serious manner of her husband--\"what is this come\nover us? O Fergus, Fergus,\" she said, in dreadful agitation, and\nflinging her arms around her husband in wild despair, \"has not James\nbeen with you for these three months past? He left home to come to you\nthen, and I always believed him to be with you. O my God, my God! where\nis my child? What has come over my boy?\" And she gave way to a fearful\nand uncontrollable paroxysm of grief.\n\nDuring this scene, her husband sat silent and motionless; but there were\ndreadful workings going on in his bosom. His face was deadly pale, and\nhis lips quivered with agonizing emotion.\n\n\"I have never seen him, Margaret,\" he at length said, in a slow and\nsolemn tone--\"never seen him. What has come over my boy?\" And the strong\nman burst into tears.\n\nWe need not prolong our description of the scene of misery which ensued\non the appalling discovery being made, as it now was, that the poor boy\nhad never reached his destination. His distracted father instantly set\nabout the apparently hopeless task of ascertaining what had been his\nfate; but, for some weeks after, all remained as great a mystery as\never; and no exertion or inquiries he could make, led to the slightest\nelucidation of the fact. At length, however, a clue to the mystery was\nobtained. It was gradually unwarped, and a train of circumstances\nfinally unfolded the dreadful tale. In disclosing this tale to the\nreader, however, we have no occasion whatever to go through the tedious\nand digressive process by which M'Lauchlane ultimately arrived at the\nhistory of his unfortunate son's fate. Ours is a much simpler and much\neasier task. It is merely to place the facts in their order, divested of\nall extraneous matter; and this will be best done by our retrogressing a\nlittle, and resuming the history of the unhappy boy's proceedings after\nleaving his mother, at the point where we left it.\n\nOn the evening of the second day after his departure, the lad arrived at\nStirling, and had thus accomplished about half his journey. On reaching\nthis town, where he intended remaining for the night, young M'Lauchlane\nrepaired to a certain public-house, which he knew, by report, to be much\nfrequented by his countrymen, when going to and from the Highlands and\nthe low country. This house was usually crowded with guests; but it\nhappened that it contained but one on the night of his arrival. The\nsolitary stranger was an Irishman, on his way to Edinburgh, as he said,\nto look for employment. Between young M'Lauchlane and this person--they\nbeing the only two guests in the house--a familiar footing was soon\nestablished, chiefly through the advances of the latter, who affected a\nsudden and strong liking for his young companion, whom he insisted on\ntreating with some liquor. In the morning, they breakfasted together,\nand, immediately after, set out together for Edinburgh--M'Lauchlane\ndelighted with the kindness and rattling off-hand glee of his companion,\nwho seemed, to his unsuspicious and unsophisticated nature, one of the\nbest and merriest fellows he had ever met with. In place, however, of\nshowing an anxiety to prosecute the journey with the expedition natural\nto those seeking a distant destination, M'Lauchlane's companion seemed\nbent on living by the way. Every mile, and often within shorter\ndistances, he insisted on his young friend's taking some refreshment\nwith him. He would, in truth, scarcely pass a single public-house on the\nroad; but he paid, in every instance, for the entertainment to which he\ninvited his companion. Two consequences resulted from this manner of\nproceeding. These were--young M'Lauchlane's getting, for the first time\nin his life, somewhat intoxicated; and the expiry of the day, before\nthey had completed their journey that comprehended the distance between\nStirling and Edinburgh. The shades of evening were thus just beginning\nto gather, as the travellers reached a small village about six or seven\nmiles from Edinburgh; and it had become pretty dark by the time they had\ngot midway between the two places just named. At this particular\nlocality, young M'Lauchlane and his companion passed a well-dressed,\nrespectable-looking, elderly man, on the road, who was going in the same\ndirection with themselves. On having gone beyond him, about the distance\nof a hundred yards or so, the Irishman suddenly stopped, and addressing\nhis young friend, said--\n\n\"I owe that old rascal that we passed just now, a grudge, and have a\ngood mind to go back and give him a taste of this twig, by way of\nrecompense\"--shaking a stout cudgel that he carried in his hand. \"Will\nyou lend me a hand?\"\n\nStupefied, or rather, perhaps, distracted with the drink which he had\nswallowed, the poor, unreflecting boy at once agreed to assist his\nfriend in revenging the injuries of which he complained. What these\nwere, or when, where, or how they had taken place, he never thought of\ninquiring. It was enough for him that his companion had been injured,\nand enough also for him was the assertion of the latter that he had been\nso, and that the old man they had just passed was the inflictor of this\ninjury.\n\nIn a minute after, the old man, whom they had now approached, was\nknocked down by the bludgeon of the Irishman--young M'Lauchlane standing\nclose by. On his falling--\n\n\"Tip his watch there,\" said the former, in a hurried whisper to his\ncompanion, at the same time nudging him with his elbow; \"and feel if the\nold fellow has any clink in his pockets. Out with it if he has. He owes\nme ten times more than he has about him, let that be what it may.\"\n\nWithout a moment's thought or hesitation, the unthinking boy, doing as\nhe was desired, flung himself on the prostrate old man, seized his watch\nchain, and had just dragged it from its pocket, when he was seized by\nthe collar from behind. On turning round, he found himself in the\ncustody of two men, who had come up accidentally, unheard and\nunobserved, at least by him; but not by his companion, who, aware of\ntheir approach, had, without giving the unfortunate lad warning, darted\nthrough a hedge, and disappeared. It was in vain that the unhappy youth,\non perceiving the dreadful predicament in which he stood, urged the\nextenuating facts of the case to his captors. All the circumstances of a\nhighway robbery, aggravated by personal violence, were too apparent, and\ntoo clearly referable to M'Lauchlane as the perpetrator, to allow of\nanything he might assert to the contrary being for an instant believed.\n\nOn the recovery of the old man (whose face was streaming with blood)\nfrom the temporary stupefaction which the blow he had been struck had\ncaused, M'Lauchlane was conveyed a prisoner to Edinburgh, handed over to\nthe police, and eventually thrown into jail on a capital charge.\n\nWe may here pause a moment to remark that, at the period of our tale,\nthe penal code of this country was enforced, with the most unrelenting\nferocity, against all offenders who came within the reach of its\nsanguinary enactments. Mercy was then unknown in the dispensation of the\ncriminal laws, which, written in blood, were executed to the letter,\nwithout regard to any of those considerations which are now permitted to\nhave their influence on the side of clemency. The ultimate fate of the\npoor Highland boy may be anticipated; and this the more certainly, that\nhis seducer was never taken, or even heard of; so that no chance was\nleft him of the facts of his unhappy case being ascertained.\n\nShortly after being committed to prison, he was capitally indicted to\nstand trial before the court, which happened to be held in Edinburgh\nabout six weeks after his apprehension; and, on the evidence of the old\nman and the two persons who had assisted in his capture, he was\nconvicted of highway robbery, condemned to death, and actually executed\nat the usual place of execution; neither the boy's extreme youth, nor\nthe extenuating circumstances connected with his case (which, indeed,\nthe Court was not bound to believe, seeing there was only his own bare\nunsupported assertion of the facts), having the slightest effect on his\njudges, who, partaking at once of the spirit of the times and of the\nlaws, were sternly rigorous in the execution of what they conceived to\nbe their duty--seeing no safety for society but in a frequent and\nunsparing use of the gibbet.\n\nWe have now to explain the most extraordinary part of this piteous\ncase--and that is, how it was that the poor boy's parents knew nothing\nof his miserable fate till it was discovered by the inquiry of which we\nshall shortly speak. In the first place, his father took it for granted\nthat he was at home with his mother, and his mother believed that he was\nwith his father, and thus his absence was known to neither; and,\ntherefore, no unusual interest regarding him was excited. During his\nconfinement, and at all his precognitions, the infatuated boy steadily\nrefused--though for what reason we know not--to give up his name, or to\ngive any account of himself whatever. He would neither tell where he\ncame from, where or to whom he was going, nor what nor who were his\nparents; and in this resolution he remained to the last; and, as no one\nknew him, he was thus finally executed, without any single particular\nbeing known regarding him, excepting that for which he suffered. Neither\ncould he be prevailed upon to make known his situation to any of his\nfriends. In short, he seemed to have determined to prevent his fate from\never being associated with his identity.\n\nWhat his motives were for this extraordinary conduct--whether it arose\nfrom a fear of disgracing his family, or from tenderness to the feelings\nof his parents--we cannot tell, nor will we trouble the reader with\nconjectures which he can make as well for himself. We content ourselves\nwith relating the facts of the melancholy case, as they actually and\ntruly occurred.\n\nIt was by an inquiry at the police-office of Edinburgh, whither he had\ngone, as a last expedient, to endeavour to find some trace of his son,\nthat M'Lauchlane obtained the intelligence that led to the discovery of\nhis unhappy fate. He had gone to the office, however, without the most\nremote idea that he should there learn anything of his boy as a violator\nof the laws, but merely as a repository of general intelligence on such\nsubjects as that in which he was at the moment interested. Having\nstated his errand to two officers whom he found there, they asked him to\ndescribe the boy. This he did; when the men looked significantly at each\nother. Poor M'Lauchlane observed the look; and he felt his heart failing\nhim, as he imagined, and too truly, that he saw in it something ominous.\n\n\"Do you know anything of my boy?\" he said, looking piteously at the\nofficers.\n\nThey made no reply, but seemed a good deal discomposed. They felt for\nthe unfortunate father--having little or no doubt, from the personal\ndescription, and other particulars he gave of the boy, that it was he\nwho had been executed for the robbery on the Stirling road.\n\n\"Tell me, for God's sake, if you know anything of my son,\" said the poor\nfather, imploringly, after waiting some time in vain for an answer to\nhis first inquiry of a similar kind.\n\nThe men would have still evaded a reply, and were, indeed, both edging\nout of the apartment, to avoid being further pressed on the subject,\nwhen M'Lauchlane seized one of them by the arm, and besought him not to\nleave him, without giving him what information he possessed on the\nsubject of his inquiry. \"Has any accident happened him?\" said the\nmiserable father. \"Is he dead? Tell me, for Heaven's sake, tell me the\nworst at once. I can bear it. If he is dead, I say, God's will be done.\nIs it so or not, my friend?\" again said M'Lauchlane, with a look of\nwretchedness that the man could not resist.\n\n\"I am afraid he is,\" was the reply.\n\n\"Still, I say God's will be done,\" said M'Lauchlane, endeavouring to\ndisplay a composure he was far, very far from feeling. He next inquired\ninto the time and manner of his death. On being informed, the unhappy\nman instantly sank down on the floor in a state of insensibility. He had\nlittle dreamt of such a horrible catastrophe; and, however resigned he\nmight have been to his boy's having met with a natural death, his\nfortitude was unequal to the dreadful trial it was now called on to\nsustain. On coming again to himself, the unfortunate man left the office\nwithout exchanging a word with any one, and returned to his own house.\nWhen he entered, his wife, as was her usual practice, eagerly inquired\nif he had yet heard any tidings of their son; but she soon saw that she\nhad no occasion whatever to put the question. The haggard countenance of\nher husband--a countenance in which the utmost depth of human misery was\nstrongly depicted--assured her at once that tidings had been heard of\nthe boy, and that these were of the most dismal kind.\n\n\"He's dead, then,\" she screamed out, on looking on the wo-begone, or\nrather horror-stricken face of her husband--\"my boy is gone.\" And she\nflung herself on the floor in a paroxysm of grief and despair.\n\nTo his wife's exclamations, M'Lauchlane made no reply, but threw himself\non a bed, and buried his head beneath the clothes. But this covering did\nnot conceal the dreadful writhings of the crushed spirit beneath. The\nbedclothes heaved with the violent emotions that shook the powerful\nframe of the miserable sufferer. From that bed M'Lauchlane never again\nrose. He never, however, told his wife of the unhappy death her son had\ndied; steadily and even sternly resisting all the importunities on that\nappalling subject; and whether she ever learned it, we are not aware.\n\n\n\n\nMAJOR WEIR'S COACH.\n\nA LEGEND OF EDINBURGH.[7]\n\n\n[Footnote 7: A legend, similar to that here given, was current in\nGlasgow a number of years ago, and for ages before. The hero's name was\nBob Dragon, whose income, when alive, was said to have been one guinea a\nminute. His coachman and horses were said, as those of the major, to\nwant the heads. The most curious trait of the Glasgow goblin horses, was\nthat they went down to the river to drink, although they had no heads.\nThe superstitions of most European countries have a similar origin: the\nGermans have their spectre huntsman; the coaches and horses of Major\nWeir and Bob Dragon are of the same character. The antiquary will find\nthe trial of Major Weir in Pitcairn's \"Criminal Trials;\" and the lover\nof such stories may consult \"Satan's Invisible World Discovered.\"--ED.]\n\nThe time of our story was September, early in the seventies of the last\ncentury, or it might be the end of the sixties--it matters not much as\nto the year--but it was in the month of September, when parties and\npolitics had set the freemen and burgesses of the royal burghs by the\nears--when feasting and caballing formed almost their whole employment.\nThe exaltation of themselves or party friends to the civic honours\nengrossed their whole attention, and neither money nor time was\ngrudgingly bestowed to obtain their objects. The embellishment and\nimprovement of the city of Edinburgh were keenly urged and carried on by\none party, at the head of which was Provost Drummond. He was keenly\nopposed by another, which, though fewer in number, and not so well\norganized, was not to be despised; for it only wanted a leader of nerve\nand tact to stop or utterly undo all that had been done, and keep the\ncity, as it had been for more than a century, in a position of stately\ndecay. The wild project of building a bridge over the North Loch was\nkeenly contested; and ruin and bankruptcy were foretold to the good\ntown, if the provost and his party were not put out of the council\nbefore it was begun to be carried into execution.\n\nThe heavens were illuminated by a glorious harvest moon, far in her\nsouthings; the High Street was deep in shade, like a long dark avenue;\nthe dim oil lamps, perched high upon their wooden posts, few and far\nbetween, gleamed in the darkness like glow-worms--as two portly figures\nwere seen in earnest discourse, walking, not with steady step, up the\nHigh Street.\n\n\"By my troth, deacon!\" said one of them, \"I fear Luckie Bell has had too\nmuch of our company this night. I had no idea it was so late. There is\nthe eighth chime of St. Giles': what hour will strike?\"\n\n\"Deil may care for me, Treasurer Kerr!\" hiccuped the deacon.\n\n\"Preserve me, deacon!\" replied the treasurer, \"it has struck twelve!\nWhat shall I say to the wife? It's to-morrow, deacon! it's to-morrow!\"\n\n\"Whisht, man, whisht! and no speak with such a melancholy voice,\" said\nthe other. \"Are you afraid of Kate? What have we to do with to-morrow?\nIt is a day we shall never see, were we to live as long as Methusalem;\nfor, auld as he was, he never saw 'to-morrow.' It's always to come, with\nits cares or joy.\" And the deacon stood and laughed aloud at his\nconceit. \"Let to-morrow care for itself, Tom, say I. What can Kate say\nto you? What the deil need you care? Have we not had a happy evening?\nHave we not been well employed?\" And they again moved on towards the\nCastlehill, where the deacon resided.\n\nThomas Kerr was treasurer of the incorporation, and hoped at this\nelection to succeed his present companion, whose influence in the\nincorporation was great, and to secure which he was, for the time, his\nhumble servant, and assiduous in his attentions to him--so much so,\nthat, although his own domicile was in St. Mary's Wynd, at the other\nextremity of the High Street, his ambition had overcome his fears of his\nbetter half, and, still ascending the long street, he resolved to\naccompany the deacon home; not, however, without some strong misgivings\nas to what he might encounter at his return. Both were in that happy\nstate of excitement when cares and fears press lightly on the human\nmind; but the deacon, who had presided at the meeting, and spoken a good\ndeal, was much more overcome than his treasurer; and the liquor had made\nhim loquacious.\n\n\"Tom, man,\" again said the deacon, \"you walk by my side as douce as if\nyou were afraid to meet Major Weir in his coach on your way down the\nwynd to Kate. Be cheerful man, as I am. Tell her she will be deaconess\nin a fortnight, and that will quiet her clatter, or I know not what will\nplease her; they are all fond of honours. We have done good work this\nnight--secured two votes against Drummond; other three would graze him.\nPluck up your spirit, Tom, and be active; if we fail, the whole town\nwill be turned upside down--confound him, and his wild projects, of what\nhe calls improvements! The deil be in me, if I can help thinking--and it\nsticks in my gizzard yet--that he was at the bottom of the pulling down\nof my outside stair, by these drunken fellows of masons; the more by\ntoken that, when, after much trouble, I discovered them, and had them\nall safe in the guardhouse, he took a small bail, and only fined them\ntwo shillings a-piece, when it caused me an expense of ten good pounds\nto repair the mischief they had done; and, more than that, I was forced\nto erect it inside the walls; for they would not allow me to put it as\nit was, or grant me a Dean of Guild warrant on any other terms. They\nsaid it cumbered the foot-pavement, although, as you know, it had stood\nfor fifty years. From that day to this I have been his firm opponent in\nand out of the council. Tom, are ye asleep? Where are your eyes? What\nhigh new wall is this? See, see, man!\"\n\n\"This beats all he has done yet!\" said the treasurer; \"a high white wall\nacross the High Street, and neither slap nor style that I can see!\nWonderful, wonderful! A strange man that provost!\"\n\n\"He has done it to vex me, since I came down to Luckie Bell's,\" replied\nthe deacon. \"It was not there in the early part of the evening. He must\nhave had a hundred masons at it. But I'll make him repent this frolic\nto-morrow in the council, or my name is not Deacon Dickson!\"\n\n\"What can he mean by it, deacon?\" rejoined the other. \"I see no purpose\nit can serve, for my part.\"\n\n\"But it does serve a purpose,\" hiccuped the deacon; \"It will prevent me\nfrom getting home. It is done through malice against me, for the efforts\nI am making to get him and his party out of the council.\"\n\nDuring the latter part of this discourse, they had walked, or rather\nstaggered, from side to side of the street. Between the pillars that,\nbefore the great fires in Edinburgh, formed the base of the high\ntenement standing there, and St. Giles' Church, being the entrance into\nthe Parliament Square, and between St. Giles' and the Exchange\nbuildings, the full moon threw a stream of light, filling both the\nopenings, and leaving all above and below involved in deep shade. It was\nthe moon's rays thus thrown upon the ground, and reaching up to the\nsecond windows of the houses, that formed the wall which the two\nofficials observed.\n\n\"Deil tak me,\" ejaculated the deacon, \"but this is a fine trick to play\nupon the deacon of an incorporation in his own town! Were it not for\nexposing myself at this untimeous hour, I would raise the town, and pull\nit down at the head of the people. Faith, Tom, I will do it!\" And he was\non the point of shouting aloud at the pitch of his voice, when the more\nprudent treasurer put his hand upon the mouth of the enraged deacon.\n\n\"For mercy's sake, be quiet!\" said he. \"What are you going to be about?\nIs this a time of night for a member of council to make a riot, and\nexpose himself in the High Street? To-morrow will be time enough to pull\nit down by force, if you cannot get a vote of the council to authorise\nit. No doubt it is a round-about way and a sair climb; but just, like a\nwise and prudent man, as you always are, put up with it for one night,\nand come along down the Fishmarket Close, up the Cowgate, and climb the\nWest Bow, to the deaconess, who, I have no doubt, is weary waiting on\nyou.\"\n\n\"Faith, Tom, I am in part persuaded you advise well for once,\" replied\nthe deacon; \"so I will act upon it, although I am your deacon, and all\nadvice ought to come from me.\"\n\nAnd away they trudged. Both were corpulent men; but the deacon, having\nbeen several times in the council, was by much the heavier of the two.\nDown they went by the Fishmarket Close, and up the Cowgate, the deacon,\nsulky and silent, meditating all the way vengeance against the provost;\nbut, in ascending the steep and winding Bow, his patience entirely left\nhim; he stopped, more than once, to wipe the perspiration from his brow,\nrecover his breath, and mutter curses on the head of the official. At\nlength, they reached the deacon's home, where his patient spouse waited\nhis arrival. Without uttering a word, he threw himself upon a chair,\nplacing his hat and wig upon a table. It was some minutes before he\nrecovered his breath sufficiently to answer the questions of his anxious\nwife, or give vent to the anger that was consuming him. At length, to\nthe fifty-times put questions of--\n\n\"Deacon, what has vexed you so sorely? what has happened to keep you so\nlate?\" he broke forth--\n\n\"What vexes me? what has kept me so late? You may, with good reason,\ninquire that, woman. Our pretty provost is the sole cause. You may be\nthankful that you have seen my face this night.\" And he commenced and\ngave an exaggerated account of the immense wall that the provost had\ncaused to be built, from the Crames to the Royal Exchange, reaching as\nhigh as the third story of the houses; and the great length of time he\nhad been detained in examining it, to discover a way to get over or\nthrough it--all which the simple deaconess believed, and heartily joined\nher husband in abusing the provost.\n\n\"Had a wall been built across the Castlehill,\" she said, \"when the\nhighlandmen were in the town, and the cannon balls flying down the\nstreet, I could have known the use of it; but to build a wall between\nthe Crames and the Royal Exchange, to keep the Lawnmarket and Castlehill\npeople from kirk and market--surely the man's mad!\"\n\nThe treasurer had been for some time gone ere the worthy couple retired\nto rest, big with the events that were to be transacted on the morrow,\nfor the downfall of the innovating provost. The morning was still grey,\nthe sun was not above the horizon, when the deaconess, as was her wont,\narose to begin her household duties; but, anxious to communicate the\nstrange conduct of the provost, in raising the wall of partition in the\ncity, she seized her water stoups, and hurried to the public well at the\nBowhead, to replenish them, and ease her overcharged mind of the mighty\ncircumstance. Early as the hour was, many of the wives of the good\ncitizens were already there, seated on their water stoups, and awaiting\ntheir turn to be supplied--their shrill voices mixing with those of the\nmore sonorous tones of the highland water-carriers, and rising in\nviolent contention on the stillness of the morning, like the confusion\nof Babel.\n\nThe sensation caused by the relation of the deaconess of her husband's\nadventure of the preceding evening, was nothing impaired by the story\nbeing related at second-hand. Arms were raised in astonishment as she\nproceeded with her marvellous tale of the high wall built in so short a\nspace by the provost. After some time spent in fruitless debate, it was\nagreed that they should go down in a body and examine this bold\nencroachment upon the citizens--and away they went, with the indignant\ndeaconess at their head.\n\nFor some hundred feet down the Lawnmarket, the buildings of the jail and\nLuckenbooths hid that part of the street from the phalanx of Amazons;\nbut, intent to reconnoitre where the wall of offence was said to stand,\nthey reached the Luckenbooths, and a shout of laughter and derision\nburst from the band. The deaconess stood petrified, the image of shame\nand anger. No wall was there--everything stood as it had done for years!\n\n\"Lucky Dickson,\" cried one, \"ye hae gien us a gowk's errand. I trow the\ndeacon has been fu' yestreen. Where is the fearfu wa' ye spak o', that\nhe neither could get through nor owre? Ha! ha! ha!\"\n\n\"Did ye really believe what he told you, Mrs. Dickson?\" screamed\nanother. \"It was a silly excuse for being owre late with his cronies. He\nsurely thinks you a silly woman to believe such tales. Were my husband\nto serve me so, I would let him hear of it on the deafest side of his\nhead.\"\n\n\"You need not doubt but that he shall hear of it,\" responded the\ndeaconess; \"and that before long. But, dear me, there must have been\nsome witchcraft played off upon him and the treasurer last night; for,\nas true as death, they baith said they saw it with their een. There's\nbeen glamour in it. I fear Major Weir is playing more tricks in the town\nthan riding his coach. There was no cause to tell me a lie as an excuse,\nfor I am always happy to see him come hame safe at ony hour.\"\n\nBy this time they had returned to the well, where they resumed their\nwater vessels and hurried home, some to report the strange adventure the\ndeacon had encountered the night before, and the deaconess to tell her\nbetter half of the delusion he had been under. Before breakfast time,\nthe story was in every one's mouth, from the Castle to the Abbey-gate,\nand as far as the town extended. On a clear moonlight night, for many\nyears afterwards, Deacon Dickson's dike was pointed out by the\ninhabitants; and at jovial parties we have heard it said--\"Sit still a\nlittle longer; we are all sober enough to get over Deacon Dickson's\nwall.\"\n\nThe treasurer, who was not so muddled by the effect of the evening's\nentertainment as the deacon, yet still impressed by the idea of the\nwall, proceeded homewards by the same route whereby he had reached the\ndeacon's, but now much refreshed by the walk, and night, or rather\nmorning air--for it was nearly one o'clock. As he approached the\nBow-foot Well, the sobbing of a female broke the stillness of the night:\nhe paused for a few minutes, and, looking towards the spot from whence\nthe sound came, urged by humanity, he drew more near, till he perceived\nan aged female almost concealed by the dark shade of the well, against\nwhich she leaned to support herself. As soon as he saw her distinctly,\nwith an emotion of grief and surprise he exclaimed--\n\n\"Mrs. Horner!--what has happened? Why are you here at this untimeous\nhour?--or what is the cause of your grief?\"\n\n\"Thomas Kerr,\" replied she, \"I am a poor unfortunate woman, whom God\nalone can help. Pass on, and leave me to my misery.\" And she buried her\nface in her hands, while the large drops of anguish welled through her\nwithered fingers.\n\n\"I cannot leave you here in such a state,\" said he again. \"Come home,\nmy good woman, and I shall accompany you.\"\n\n\"I have no home,\" was her sad reply. \"Alas! I have no home but the\ngrave. I am a poor, silly, undone woman, in my old age. Comfortable, and\neven rich as I was, I am now destitute. I have neither house nor hall to\ncover my grey hairs. Oh, if I were only dead and buried out of this\nsinful world, to hide the shame of my own child. An hour is scarce\npassed since I thought my heart would burst in my bosom before I would\nbe enabled to reach the Greyfriars' church-yard, to lay my head upon\nWillie Horner's grave, and the graves of my innocent babes that sleep in\npeace by his side. I feared my strength would fail; for all I wish is to\ndie there. I did reach the object of my wish, and laid myself upon the\ncold turf, and prayed for death to join as he had separated us; but my\nheart refused to break, and tears that were denied me before, began to\nstream from my eyes. The fear of unearthly sights came strong upon me,\nstronger even than my grief. Strange moanings and sounds came on the\nfaint night wind, from Bloody Mackenzie's tomb, and the bright moonlight\nmade the tombstones look like unearthly things. I rose and fled. I will\ntarry here, and die in sight of the gallows stone; for it was here my\nonly brother fell, killed by a shot from cruel Porteous' gun; and on the\nfatal tree which that stone is meant to support, my grandfather\ncheerfully gave his testimony for the covenanted rights of a persecuted\nkirk. Leave me, Thomas Kerr--leave me to my destiny. I can die here with\npleasure; and it is time I were dead. To whom can a mother look for\ncomfort or pity, when her own son has turned her out upon a cold world?\nI am as Rachel mourning for her children. I will not be comforted.\" And\nthe mourner wrapped her mantle round her head with the energy of\ndespair, and, bending it upon the well, burst anew into an agony of sobs\nand tears.\n\nThe treasurer felt himself in an awkward situation. He paused, and began\nto revolve in his mind what was best to be done at the moment--whether\nto obey the widow or the dictates of humanity. His better feeling\nprompted him to stay and do all in his power for the mourner, whom he\nhad known in happier times; but his caution and avarice, backed by the\ndread of his spouse, urged him, with a force he felt every moment less\nable to resist, to leave her and hurry home. As he stood irresolute, the\nvoice of the stern monitor sounded in the auricles of his heart like the\nknell of doom, and roused into fearful energy feelings he had long\ntreated lightly, or striven to suppress when they rose upon him with\ngreater force. He ran like a guilty criminal from the spot. The wailings\nof the crushed and pitiable object he had left, had given them a force\nhe had never before known, and he urged his way down the Cowgate head as\nif he wished to fly from himself--the traces of the evening's enjoyments\nhaving fled, and their place being supplied by the pangs of an awakened\nconscience. There was, indeed, too much cause for his agitation, often\nhinted at by his acquaintances, but in its full extent only known in his\nown family--a striking similarity between the situation of his own\nmother and that of Widow Horner. The cases of the two aged individuals\nagreed in all points, save that he had not yet turned her out of doors;\nand conscience told him that even that result had been prevented, more\nby the patient endurance of his worthy parent herself, than any kindly\nfeeling on the part of her son.\n\nThe father of the treasurer, and the husband of Widow Horner, had both\nbeen industrious, and, for their rank in life, wealthy burgesses of the\ncity. At their death, they had left their widows with an only child to\nsucceed them and be a comfort to their mothers, who had struggled hard\nto retain and add to the wealth, until their sons were of age to\nsucceed and manage it for themselves. Their sole and rich reward, as\nthey anticipated, would be the pleasure of witnessing the prosperity of\ntheir sons. That they would be ungrateful, was an idea so repugnant to\ntheir maternal feelings, that, for a moment, it was never harboured in\ntheir bosoms. A cruel reality was fated to falsify their anticipations.\n\nThe treasurer had, before he was twenty-five years of age, married a\nfemale, whom his fond mother had thought unworthy of her son; and to\nprevent the marriage she had certainly done all that lay in her power.\nHer endeavours and remonstrances had only served to hasten the event she\nwished so much to retard and hinder from taking place; the consequence\nwas, that the hated alliance was made several weeks before she was made\naware of it, by the kindness of a gossiping neighbour or two. Much as\nshe felt, and sore as her heart was wrung, she, like a prudent woman,\nshed her tears of bitter anguish at the want of filial regard in her\nson, in secret. She at once resolved to pardon this act of ingratitude,\nand, for her son's sake, to receive her unwelcome daughter-in-law with\nall the kindness she could assume on the trying occasion. Not so her\ndaughter-in-law, who was of an overbearing, subtile, and vindictive turn\nof mind. The mother of her husband had wounded her pride; she resolved\nnever to forget or forgive; and, before she had crossed her threshold, a\ndeep revenge was vowed against her, as soon as it was in her power to\nexecute it. The first meeting was embarrassing on both sides; each had\nfeelings to contend against and disguise; yet it passed off well to\noutward appearance--the widow from love to her son, striving to love his\nwife--the latter, again, with feigned smiles and meekness, affecting to\ngain her mother-in-law's esteem; and so well did she act her part, that,\nbefore many days after their first interview had passed, Thomas was\nrequested to bring his wife into the house, to reside in the family,\nand to save the expense of a separate establishment. From that hour the\nhouse of Widow Kerr began to cease to be her own, for the first few\nmonths almost imperceptibly. Thomas, although a spoiled child, was not\nnaturally of an unfeeling disposition, but selfish and capricious from\nover-indulgence. Amidst all his faults, there was still a love and\nesteem of his mother, which his wife, seeing it would be dangerous\nopenly to attack it, had resolved to undermine, and therefore laid her\nwicked schemes accordingly. In the presence of her husband, she was, for\na time, all smiles and affability; but, in his absence, she said and did\na thousand little nameless things, to tease and irritate the good old\ndame. This produced complaints to her son, who, when he spoke to his\nwife of them, was only answered by her tears and lamentations, for the\nmisery she suffered in being the object of his mother's dislike. To\nhimself she referred, if she did not do all in her power to please his\nmother. These scenes had become of almost daily occurrence, and were so\nartfully managed, that the mother had the appearance of being in the\nfault. Gradually, the son's affection became deadened towards his\nparent; she had ceased to complain, and now suffered in silence. For her\nthere was no redress--for, in a fit of fondness, she had made over to\nher son all she possessed in the world. She was thus in his power; yet\nher heart revolted at exposing his cruelty. The revenge of the wife was\nnot complete, even after the spirit of the victim was completely\ncrushed, and she had ceased to complain. Often the malignant woman would\naffect lowness of spirits, and even tears, refusing to tell the cause of\nher grief until urged by endearments, and obtaining an assurance that he\nwould not regard her folly in yielding to her feelings; but she could\nnot help it--were it not for her love to him, she knew not in what she\nhad ever offended his mother, save in preferring him to every other\nlover who had sought her hand. Thus, partly by artifice, but more by her\nimperious turn of mind, which she had for years ceased to conceal, the\ntreasurer was completely subdued to her dictation; and, by a just\nretribution, he was punished for his want of filial affection, for he\nwas as much the sufferer from her temper as his mother was the victim of\nher malice. With a crushed heart, the old woman ate her morsel in the\nkitchen, moistened by her tears. Even her grandchildren were taught to\ninsult and wound her feelings. So short-sighted is human nature, the\nparents did not perceive that by this proceeding they were laying rods\nin pickle for themselves, which, in due time, would be brought in use,\nwhen the recollection of their own conduct would give tenfold poignancy\nto every blow.\n\nOn the occasion to which we have alluded, the situation and wailings of\nWidow Horner still rung in the ears of the treasurer. All his acts of\nunkindness to his parent passed before him like a hideous phantasmagoria\nas he hurried down the Cowgate. He even became afraid of himself, as\nscene after scene arose to his awakened conscience--all the misery and\nindignities that had been heaped upon his parent by his termagant wife,\nhe himself either looking on with indifference, or supporting his spouse\nin her cruelty. Goaded by remorse, he still hurried on. The celerity of\nhis movements seemed to relieve him. He had formed no fixed resolution\nas to how he was to act upon his arrival at home. A dreamy idea floated\nin his tortured mind that he had some fearful act to perform to ease it,\nand do justice to his parent; yet, as often as he came to the resolution\nto dare every consequence, his courage would again quail at the thought\nof encountering one who had, in all contentions, ever been the victor,\nand riveted her chains the more closely around him on every attempt he\nhad made to break them. In this pitiable state, he had got as far\ntowards home as the foot of the College Wynd, when the sound of a\ncarriage approaching rapidly from the east roused him and put all other\nthoughts to flight. With a start of horror and alarm, he groaned--\"The\nLord have mercy upon me! The Major's coach! If I see it, my days are\nnumbered.\" And, with an effort resembling the energy of despair, he\nrushed into a stair foot, and, placing both his hands upon his face to\nshut out from his sight the fearful object, supported himself by leaning\nupon the wall. As the sound increased, so did the treasurer's fears; but\nwhat words can express his agony when it drew up at the foot of the very\nstair in which he stood, and a sepulchral voice issued from it--\n\n\"Is he here?\"\n\n\"Just come,\" was the reply in a similar tone.\n\n\"Then all's right.\"\n\n\"O God! have mercy on my sinful soul!\" screamed the treasurer, as he\nsank senseless out of the foot of the stair upon the street.\n\nHow long he remained in this state, or what passed in the interval, he\ncould give no account. When he awoke to consciousness, he found himself\nseated in a carriage jolting along at a great speed, supported on each\nside by what appeared to him headless trunks; for the bright moonlight\nshone in at the carriage window, and exhibited two heads detached from\ntheir bodies dangling from the top. The glance was momentary. Uttering a\ndeep groan, he shut his eyes to avoid the fearful sight. He would have\nspoken; but his palsied tongue refused to move, even to implore for\nmercy. Wringing his hands in despair, he would have sunk to the bottom\nof the coach upon his knees, but was restrained by the two figures. He\nfelt their grasp upon his arms, firm as one of his own vices. The same\nfearful voice he had first heard fell again on his ear--\"Sit still.\nUtter no cry. Make a clean breast, as you hope for mercy at the major's\ntribunal. He knows you well; but wishes to test your truth. Proceed!\"\n\nWith a memory that called up every deed he had ever done, and sunk to\nnothingness any of the actions he had at one time thought good, he\nseemed as if he now stood before his Creator. All his days on earth\nappeared to have been one long black scene of sin and neglected duties.\nHis head sunk upon his breast, and the tears of repentance moistened his\nbosom. When he had finished his minute confession, a pause ensued of a\nfew minutes. The moon, now far in the west, was sinking behind a dense\nmass of clouds. The wind began to blow fitfully, with a melancholy\nsound, along the few objects that interrupted its way, and around the\nfearful conveyance in which he sat, more dead than alive. The measured\ntramp of the horses, and rattling of the carriage, fell on his ear like\nthe knell of death. He felt a load at his heart, as if the blood refused\nto leave it and perform its functions. Human nature could not have\nsustained itself under such circumstances much longer. The carriage\nstopped; the door opened with violence; his breathing became like a\nquick succession of sobs; his ears whizzed, almost producing deafness.\nStill he was fearfully awake to every sensation; a painful vitality\nseemed to endow every nerve with tenfold its wonted activity; all were\nin action at the moment; his whole frame tingled; and the muscles seemed\nto quiver on his bones. The same hollow voice broke the silence.\n\n\"Thomas Kerr, your sincerity and contrition has delivered you from my\npower this once. Beware of a relapse. Go, do the duty of a son to your\nworthy parent. You have been a worse man than ever I was on earth. I\nhave my parent's blessing with me in the midst of my sufferings; and\nthere is a soothing in it which the wretched can alone feel.\"\n\nQuick as thought he was lifted from the coach and seated upon the\nground. With the speed of a whirlwind, as it appeared to him, the\ncarriage disappeared, and the sound died away. For some time he sat\nbewildered, as if he had fallen from the clouds. Gradually he began to\nbreathe more freely, and felt as if a fearful night-mare had just passed\naway. Slowly the events of the night rose in regular succession. The\nforlorn and desolate widow; the hideous spectres in the coach, that,\nwithout heads, spake and moved with such energy--the whole now passed\nbefore him so vividly that he shuddered. At first he hoped all had been\na fearful dream; but the cold, damp ground on which he sat banished the\nfond idea. He felt, in all its force, that he was now wide awake, as he\ngroped with his hands and touched the damp grass beneath him. All around\nwas enveloped in impenetrable darkness. Not one star shone in the murky\nsky. How much of the night had passed, or where he at present was, he\nhad no means of ascertaining. The first use he made of his restored\nfaculties was to rise upon his knees, and pour out his soul to God,\nimploring pardon and protection in this hour of suffering. He rose with\na heart much lightened, and felt his energies restored. Stumbling\nonwards, he proceeded, he knew not whither, until, bruised by falls and\nfaint from exhaustion, he again seated himself upon a stone, to wait\npatiently the approach of dawn. Thus, melancholy and pensive, he sat,\neager to catch the faintest sound; but all was silent as the grave, save\nthe faint rustling of the long grass, waving around him in the night\nbreeze, that was chilling his vitals, as it, in fitful gusts, swept past\nhim. The hope of surviving the night had almost forsaken him, when the\ndistant tramp of a horse fell on his longing ears. Then the cheerful\nsound of a popular air, whistled to cheer the darkness, gladdened his\nheart. In an ecstasy of pleasure, he sprung to his feet. The rolling of\nwheels over the rugged road, was soon added to the cheering sounds. With\ncaution he approached them over hedge and ditch, until, dark as it was,\nhe could discern the object of his search almost before him--a carrier's\ncart, with the driver seated upon the top, whistling and cracking his\nwhip to the time.\n\n\"Stop friend, for mercy's sake, and take me up beside you.\"\n\n\"Na, na,\" replied the carrier; \"I will do no such foolish action. Hap,\nBassie! hap!\" And, smacking his whip, the horse increased its speed.\n\"Come not near my cart, or I will make Caesar tear you in pieces. Look to\nhim, Caesar!\" And the snarling of a dog gave fearful warning to the poor\ntreasurer to keep at a distance; but, rendered desperate by his\nsituation, he continued to follow, calling out--\n\n\"Stop, if you are a Christian; for mercy's sake, stop and hear me. I am\na poor lost creature, sick and unable to harm, but rich enough to reward\nyou, if you will save my life. I am no robber, but a decent burgess and\nfreeman of Edinburgh; and where I am at present I cannot tell.\"\n\n\"Woo, Bassie! woo!\" responded the carrier. \"Silence, Caesar! Preserve us\nfrom all evil! Amen! Sure you cannot be Thomas Kerr, whose shop is in\nSaint Mary's Wynd?\"\n\n\"The very same; but who are you that know my voice?\"\n\n\"Who should I be,\" rejoined he, \"but Watty Clinkscales, the\nNorth-Berwick carrier, on my way to the town; for you may know well\nenough that Wednesday morning is my time to be in Edinburgh; but come up\nbeside me, man, and do not stand longer there. If you have lost\nyourself, as you say, I will with pleasure give you a ride home this\ndark morning; but tell me how, in all the world, came you to be standing\nat the Figgate Whins, instead of being in your warm bed? I am thinking,\nfriend Kerr, you have been at a corporation supper last night.\"\n\nWhile the carrier was speaking, the treasurer mounted the cart, and took\nhis seat beside him. They moved slowly on. To all the questions of the\ncarrier, evasive answers were returned; the treasurer felt no desire to\nbe communicative. As they reached the Watergate, the first rays of\nmorning shone upon Arthur's Seat and the Calton Hill. Before they\nentered, the treasurer dismounted, having first rewarded his conveyer to\nthe town, and proceeded to his home by the south back of the Canongate,\nfaint and unwell. When he reached his own door, he was nearly exhausted.\nIt was opened to him by his anxious mother, who had watched for him\nthrough the whole night. Alarmed by his haggard and sickly appearance,\ntimidly she inquired what had happened to him, to cause such an\nalteration in his looks in so short a time. The tears started into his\neyes as he looked at her venerable form, degraded by her attire. He took\nher hand in both his, and, pressing it to his lips, faltered out--\n\n\"Oh, my mother! can you pardon your undutiful son? Only say you will\nforgive me.\"\n\n\"Tammy, my bairn,\" she replied, \"what have I to pardon? Is not all my\npleasure in life to see you happy? What signifies what becomes of me,\nthe few years I have to be on earth? But you are ill, my son--you are\nvery ill!\"\n\n\"I am indeed very unwell, both in body and mind,\" said he. \"Say you\npardon me, for the manner in which I have allowed you to be treated\nsince my marriage; and give me your blessing, lest I die without hearing\nyou pronounce it.\"\n\n\"Bless you, my Thomas, and all that is yours, my son! with my blessing,\nand the blessing of God, which is above all riches! But go to your bed,\nmy bairn, and do not let me make dispeace in the family.\"\n\nAt this moment his spouse opened the door of the bedroom, and began, in\nher usual manner, to rate and abuse him for keeping untimeous hours.\nStill holding his mother's hands in his, he commanded her, in a voice he\nhad never before assumed to her, to be silent. She looked at him in\namazement, as if she had doubted the reality of his presence; and was on\nthe point of becoming more violent, when his fierce glance, immediately\nfollowed by the sunken, sickly look which one night of suffering had\ngiven him, alarmed her for his safety, and she desisted, anxiously\nassisting his mother to undress and put him to bed.\n\nHe soon fell into a troubled sleep, from which he awoke in the\nafternoon, unrefreshed and feverish. His wife was seated by his bed when\nhe awoke. Turning his languid eye towards her, he inquired for his\nmother. A scene of angry altercation would have ensued; but he was too\nill to reply to the irritating language and reproaches of his spouse.\nThe anger increased his fever, and delirium came on towards the evening.\nA physician was sent for, who at once pronounced his life to be in\nextreme danger; and, indeed, for many days it was despaired of.\n\nThe horrors of that night were the theme of his discourse, while the\nfever raged in his brain. The smallest noise, even the opening of a\ndoor, made him shriek and struggle to escape from those who watched him.\nHis efforts were accompanied by cries for mercy from Major Weir; his bed\nwas the coach, and his wife and mother the headless phantoms.\nClinkscales had told the manner and where he had found him, on the\nmorning he was taken ill. The sensation this excited through the city\nbecame extreme. Deacon Dickson told the hour in which he left his house,\nand the language of the sufferer filled up the space until he was met by\nthe carrier. The nocturnal apparition of the major's carriage had, for\nmany years, been a nursery tale of Edinburgh. Many firmly believed in\nits reality. There were not awanting several who affirmed they had seen\nit; and scarce an inhabitant of the Cowgate or St. Mary's Wynd, but\nthought they had heard it often before the present occurrence.\n\nThat the treasurer had by some means been transported to the Figgate\nWhins in the major's coach, a great many firmly believed; for two of the\nincorporation on the same night had been alarmed by a coach driving\nfuriously down the Cowgate; but they could not describe its appearance,\nas they had hid themselves until it passed, fearful of seeing the\nspectre carriage and its unearthly attendants. It was at least certain\nthat, of late, many had been aroused out of their sleep by the noise of\na carriage; and, the report gaining ground, the terror of the citizens\nbecame so great that few chose to be upon any of the streets after\ntwelve at night, unless urged by extreme necessity. This state of\nfoolish alarm, as the magistrates called it, could not be allowed to\ncontinue within their jurisdiction; and they resolved to investigate the\nwhole affair. Several were examined privately; but the treasurer was too\nill to be spoken to, even by his friend the deacon. There was a strange\nharmony in the statements of several who had really distinctly heard the\nsounds of horses' feet, and the rumbling of a carriage, and the ravings\nof the unfortunate treasurer. The authorities were completely at a stand\nhow to proceed. Several shook their heads and looked grave; others\nproposed to request the ministers of the city to watch the major's\ncarriage, and pray it out of the city. But the provost's committee sent\nfor the captain of the train-bands, and consulted with him: he agreed to\nhave twelve of the band and six of the town-guard in readiness by twelve\nat night, to waylay the cause of annoyance, should it make its\nappearance, and unravel the mystery. That there was some unlawful\npurpose connected with it, several of the council had little doubt.\nThese meetings were private, and the proceedings are not on record to\nguide us. It was with considerable difficulty the captain could get the\nnumber of his band required for the duty; they chose rather to pay the\nfine, believing it to be a real affair of diablerie; for their earliest\nrecollections were associated with the truth of the major's night\nairings. For several nights the watch was strictly kept by many of the\ncitizens; but in vain. No appearance disturbed the usual stillness of\nthe night in the city; not even the sound of a carriage was heard. The\nwhole affair gradually lost its intense interest, and ceased to be the\nengrossing theme of conversation. The sceptics triumphed over their\nbelieving acquaintance; and the mysterious occurrence was allowed to\nrest.\n\nThe election week for deacon of the crafts at length arrived. All was\nbustle among the freemen; the rival candidates canvassing and treating,\nand their partisans bustling about everywhere. City politics ran high;\nbut the treasurer, although recovered, was still too weak to take an\nactive part in the proceedings. Deacon Dickson, on this account,\nredoubled his exertions--for the indisposition of his treasurer had\nderanged his plans; and it was of great importance, in his eyes, to have\none of his party elected in his place. Had Kerr been able to move about,\nto visit and flatter his supporters, his election was next to certain,\nso well had the whole affair been managed. Kerr was accordingly dropped\nby him, and a successor pitched upon, who could at this eventful period\naid him in his efforts against the candidate of the Drummondites, as the\nsupporters of the provost were called.\n\nOn the Thursday, when the long lists were voted, the deacon carried his\nlist, and every one of the six were tried men, and hostile to the\ninnovations of the provost and his party. The deacon was in great\nspirits, and told the treasurer, whom he visited as soon as his triumph\nwas secure, that, if not cut off the list in shortening the leet, his\nelection was sure. On the list coming down from the council, neither\nKerr nor the person Dickson wished were on the leet; both had been\nstruck off, and the choice behoved to fall upon one of three, none of\nwhom had hoped, at this time, to succeed to office. Their joy was so\nmuch the greater, and the election dinner not less substantial.\n\nIt was the evening of the election, closely bordering upon the\nmorning--for all respected the Sabbath-day, and even on this joyous\noccasion, would not infringe upon it--that a party of some ten or twelve\nwere seen to issue from one of the narrow closes in the High Street, two\nand two, arm in arm, dressed in the first style of fashion, with bushy\nwigs, cocked hats, and gold-headed canes. At their head was, now old\nDeacon Dickson, and his successor in office. They were on their way,\naccompanying their new deacon home to his residence, near the foot of\nSt. Mary's Wynd in the Cowgate, and to congratulate the deaconess on her\nhusband's elevation to the council. None of them were exactly tipsy; but\nin that middle state when men do not stand upon niceties, neither are\nscared by trifles. The fears of the major's coach were not upon them;\nor, if any thought of it came over them, their numbers gave them\nconfidence. Leaving the High Street, they proceeded down Merlin's Wynd\nto the Cowgate. Scarce had the head of the procession emerged from the\ndark thoroughfare, when the sound of a carriage, in rapid advance, fell\non their astonished ears. The front stood still, and would have\nretreated back into the wynd, but could not; for those behind,\nunconscious of the cause of the stoppage, urged on and forced them out\ninto the street. There was not a moment for reflection, scarce to utter\na cry, before the fearful equipage was full upon them. Retreat was still\nimpossible; and those in front, by the pressure from behind, becoming\ndesperate by their situation, the two deacons seized the reins of the\nhorses, to prevent their being ridden over. In a second, the head of the\ncoachman (held in his hand!) was launched at Deacon Dickson, with so\ntrue an aim that it felled him to the ground, with the loss of his hat\nand wig. Though stunned by the blow, his presence of mind did not\nforsake him. Still holding on by the reins, and dragged by the horses,\nhe called lustily for his companions to cut the traces. The head of the\ncoachman, in the meantime, had returned to his hand, and been launched\nforth, with various effect, on the aggressors. Other heads flew from the\nwindows on each side, and from the coach-box, in rapid, darting motions.\nThe cries of the assailants resounded through the stillness of the\nnight; fear had fled their bosoms; there was scarce one but had received\ncontusions from the flying heads, and rage urged them on to revenge.\nCandles began to appear at the windows, exhibiting faces pale with fear.\nSome of the bolder of the male inhabitants, recognising the voice of\nsome relative or acquaintance in the cries of the assailants, ran to the\nstreet and joined the fray. Dickson, who had never relinquished his\nfirst hold, recovered himself, severely hurt as he was by the feet of\nthe horses, which were urged on, short as the struggle was, up to the\nCollege Wynd, in spite of the resistance. At the moment the carriage\nreached the foot of the wynd, the door on the left burst open, and two\nfigures leaped out, disappearing instantly, although closely pursued. In\nthe confusion of the pursuit, the coachman also disappeared. No one\ncould tell how, or in what manner he had fled, he appeared to fall from\nthe box among the crowd; and, when several stooped to lift and secure\nhim, all that remained in their hands was a greatcoat, with basket work\nwithin the shoulders, so contrived as to conceal the head and neck of\nthe wearer, to which was fastened a stout cord, the other end of which\nwas attached to an artificial head, entangled in the strife between the\nhorses and the pole of the coach. Two similar dresses were also found\ninside. The coach was heavily laden; but with what, the authorities\nnever could discover, although envious persons said that several of the\ntradesmen's wives in the Cowgate afterwards wore silk gowns that had\nnever before had one in their family, had better and stronger tea at\ntheir parties, and absolutely abounded in tobacco for many weeks. But\nwhether these were the spoils of the combat with the infernal coach, or\nthe natural results of successful industry, was long a matter of debate.\n\nAs for the coach and horses, they became the prize of Deacon Dickson and\nhis friends, never having been claimed by the major. The sensation\ncreated on the following day by the exaggerated reports of the fearful\nrencounter and unheard of bravery of the tradesmen, was in proportion to\nthe occasion. Several of the assailants were reported to have been\nkilled, and, among the rest, the deacon. For several days, the inn-yard\nof the White Hart was crowded to excess to view the carriage and horses.\nAs for the deacon, no doubt, he was considerably bruised about the legs;\nbut the glory he had acquired was a medicine far more efficacious to his\nhurts than any the faculty could have prescribed. At the first toll of\nthe bells for church, he was seen descending from the Castle Hill\ntowards the Tron Church, limping much more, many thought, than there was\noccasion for, supported by his battered gold-headed cane on one side,\nand holding by the arm of the deaconess on the other. With an affected\nmodesty, which no general after the most brilliant victory could better\nhave assumed, he accepted the congratulations he had come out to\nreceive. When he entered the church, a general whisper ran through it,\nand all eyes were upon him, while the minister had not yet entered.\nThis was the proudest moment of his life. He had achieved, with the\nassistance of a few friends, what the train-bands and city-guard had\nfailed to accomplish; that it was more by accident, and against his will\nhe had performed the feat, he never once allowed to enter his mind, and\nstoutly denied when he heard it hinted at by those who envied him the\nglory he had acquired.\n\nAs soon as the afternoon's service was over, he proceeded to the\ntreasurer's house, to congratulate him on his re-election to the\ntreasurership, and give a full account of his adventure. To his\nexaggerated account, Kerr listened with the most intense interest; a\nfeeling of horror crept over his frame as the deacon dwelt upon the blow\nhe had received from the coachman's head, and the efficacious manner in\nwhich the two inside phantoms had used theirs, concluding with--\n\n\"It was a fearful and unequal strife--devils against mortal men.\"\n\n\"Do you really think they were devils, deacon? Was it really their own\nheads they threw about?\" said the treasurer.\n\n\"I am not clear to say they were devils,\" replied the other; \"but they\nfought like devils. Severe blows they gave, as I feel this moment. They\ncould not be anything canny; for they got out from among our hands like\na flash of light.\"\n\nThe deacon's vanity would have tempted him to say he believed them to be\nnot of this earth; but the same feeling restrained him. Where there had\nbeen so many actors in the affair, he had as yet had no opportunity of\nlearning their sentiments; and, above all things, he hated to be in a\nminority, or made an object of ridicule. Turning aside the direct\nquestion of the treasurer, he continued--\n\n\"Whatever they were, the horses are two as bonny blacks as any\ngentleman could wish to put into his carriage. By my troth, I have made\na good adventure of it? I mean to propose, and I have no doubt I shall\ncarry my motion, that they and the major's coach be sold, and the\nproceeds spent in a treat to the incorporation. Make haste, man, and get\nbetter. You are as welcome to a share as if you had been one of those\npresent; although, indeed, I cannot give you a share of the glory of\nputting Major Weir and his devils to the rout--and no small glory it is,\non the word of a deacon, treasurer.\"\n\nThe load that had for many days pressed down the treasurer's spirits\ngradually passed off as the deacon proceeded, and a new light shone on\nhis mind; his countenance brightened up.\n\n\"Deacon,\" he said, \"the truth begins to dawn upon me, and I feel a new\nman. Confess at once that the whole has been a contrivance of the\nsmugglers to run their goods, availing themselves of the real major's\ncoach. It was a bold game, deacon, and, like all unlawful games, a\nlosing one in the end. Still, it is strange what inducement they could\nhave had for their cruel conduct to me on that miserable night, or how I\nwas enabled to survive, or retained my reason. I have been often lost in\nfearful misery upon this subject since the fever left me; but you, my\nfriend, have restored peace to my mind.\"\n\nAnd they parted for the evening. The treasurer's recovery was now most\nrapid. In a few days, all traces of his illness were nearly obliterated,\nand he went about his affairs as formerly. An altered man--all his\nwife's influence for evil was gone for ever; calmly and dispassionately\nhe remonstrated with her; for a few days she struggled hard to retain\nher abused power; tears and threatened desertion of his house were\nused--but he heard her unmoved, still keeping his stern resolve with a\nquietness of manner which her cunning soon perceived it was not in her\npower to shake. She ceased to endeavour to shake it. His mother was\nrestored to her proper station, and all was henceforth peace and\nharmony.\n\nSeveral years had rolled on. The deaconship was, next election, bestowed\nupon Treasurer Kerr. He had served with credit, and his business\nprospered. The adventure with the major's coach was only talked of as an\nevent of times long passed, when, one forenoon, an elderly person, in a\nseaman's dress, much soiled, entered his workshop, and, addressing him\nby name, requested employment. Being very much in want of men at the\ntime, he at once said he had no objection to employ him, if he was a\ngood hand.\n\n\"I cannot say, I am, now what I once was in this same shop,\" he replied.\n\"It is long since I forsook the craft; but, if you are willing to employ\nme, I will do my best.\"\n\nThe stranger was at once engaged, and gave satisfaction to his\nemployer--betraying a knowledge of events that had happened to the\nfamily, and that were only traditionary to his master. His curiosity\nbecame awakened; to gratify which, he took the man home, one evening,\nafter his day's work was over. For some time after they entered the\nhouse, the stranger became pensive and reserved--his eyes, every\nopportunity, wandering to the mother of his master, with a look of\nanxious suspense. At length, he arose from his seat, and said, in a\nvoice tremulous with emotion--\n\n\"Mistress! my ever-revered mistress! have you entirely forgot Watty\nBrown, the runaway apprentice of your husband?\"\n\n\"Watty Brown, the yellow-haired laddie,\" ejaculated she, \"I can never\nforget. He was always a favourite of mine. You cannot be him; your hair\nis grey?\"\n\n\"My good mistress, old and grey-headed as you see me,\" said he, \"I am\nWatty Brown; but much has passed over my once yellow head to bleach it\nwhite as you see. My master here was but an infant in your arms, when I\nleft Edinburgh. Often have I rocked him in his cradle. After all that\nhas passed, I am here again, safe. I am sure there is no one present\nwould bring me into trouble for what is now so long passed.\"\n\n\"How time flies!\" said she. \"The Porteous mob is in my mind as if it had\nhappened last week. O Watty! you were always a reckless lad. Sore, sore\nyou have rued, I do not doubt, that night. Do tell us what has come of\nyou since?\"\n\n\"Well, mistress, you recollect there was little love between the\napprentices of Edinburgh and Captain Porteous. All this might have\npassed off in smart skirmishes on a king's birthday, or so; but his\nbrutal behaviour at poor Robinson's execution, and slaughter of the\ntownsmen, could not be forgiven by lord or tradesman. Well, as all the\nland knows, he was condemned, and all were satisfied; for the guilty was\nto suffer. But his pardon came; the bloodshedder of the innocent was to\nleave the jail as if he had done nothing wrong! Was this to be endured?\nMurmurs and threats were in every tradesman's mouth; the feuds of the\napprentices were quelled, for a time; all colours joined in hatred of\nthe murderer. Yet no plan of operations was adopted. In this combustible\nframe of mind, the drums of the city beat to arms. I rushed from this\nvery house to know the cause, and saw the trades' lads crowding towards\nthe jail. I inquired what was their intention.\n\n\"'To execute righteous judgment!' a strange voice said, in the crowd.\n\n\"I returned to the shop; and, taking the forehammer, as the best weapon\nI could find, in my haste, with good will joined, and was at the door\namongst the foremost of those who attempted to break it open. Numbers\nhad torches. Lustily did I apply my hammer to its studded front. Vainly\ndid I exert myself, until fire was put to it, when it at length gave\nway. As I ceased from my efforts, one of the crowd, carrying a torch,\nput a guinea into my hand, and said--\n\n\"'Well done, my good lad. Take this; you have wrought for it. If you are\nlike to come to trouble for this night's work, fly to Anstruther, and\nyou will find a friend.'\n\n\"While he spoke, those who had entered the jail were dragging Porteous\ndown the stairs. My heart melted within me at the piteous sight. My\nanger left me, as his wailing voice implored mercy. I left the throng,\nwho were hurrying him up towards the Lawnmarket, and hastened back to\nthe workshop, where I deposited the hammer, and threw myself upon my\nbed; but I could not remain. The image of the wretched man, as he was\ndragged forth, appeared to be by my side. Partly to know the result,\npartly to ease my mind, I went again into the street. The crowds were\nstealing quietly to their homes. From some neighbour apprentices I\nlearned the fatal catastrophe. I now became greatly alarmed for my\nsafety, as numbers who knew me well had seen my efforts against the door\nof the jail. Bitterly did I now regret the active part I had taken. My\nimmediate impulse was to fly from the city; but in what direction I knew\nnot. Thus irresolute, I stood at the Netherbow Port, when the same\nperson that gave me the guinea at the jail-door approached to where I\nstood. Embracing the opportunity, I told him the fear I was in of being\ninformed upon, when the magistrates began to investigate and endeavour\nto discover those who had been active in the affair.\n\n\"'Well, my good fellow, follow me. It will not serve your purpose\nstanding there.'\n\n\"There were about a dozen along with him. We proceeded to the beach at\nFisherrow--going round Arthur's Seat, by Duddingston--and were joined by\nmany others. Two boats lay for them, on the beach, at a distance from\nthe harbour. We went on board and set sail for Fife, where we arrived\nbefore morning dawned. I found my new friend and acquaintance was\ncaptain and owner of a small vessel, who traded to the coast of Holland.\nHe scrupled not to run a cargo upon his own account, without putting the\nrevenue officers to any trouble, either measuring or weighing it. He had\nbeen the intimate friend of Robinson, and often sailed in the same\nvessel. I joined his crew; and, on the following day, we sailed for\nAntwerp. But why should I trouble you with the various turns my fortunes\nhave taken for the last thirty-seven years? At times, I was stationary,\nand wrought at my trade; at others, I was at sea. My home has\nprincipally been in Rotterdam; but my heart has ever been in Auld\nReekie. Many a time I joined the crew of a lugger, and clubbed my\nproportion of the adventure; my object being--more than the gain--to get\na sight of it; for I feared to come to town--being ignorant as to how\nmatters stood regarding my share in the Porteous riot. We heard in\nHolland only of the threats of the government; but I was always rejoiced\nto hear that no one had been convicted. Several years had passed before\nit was safe for me to return; and, when it was, I could not endure the\nthought of returning to be a bound apprentice, to serve out the few\nmonths of my engagement that were to run when I left my master. Years\npassed on. I had accumulated several hundred guilders, with the view of\ncoming to end my days in Edinburgh, when I got acquainted with a\ntownsman deeply engaged in the smuggling line. I unfortunately embarked\nmy all. He had some associates in the Cowgate, who disposed of, to great\nadvantage, any goods he succeeded in bringing to them. His colleagues on\nshore had provided a coach and horses, with suitable dresses, to\npersonate Major Weir's carriage, agreeably to the most approved\ndescription. The coach and horses were furnished by an innkeeper, whom\nthey supplied with liquors at a low rate. My unfortunate adventure left\nthe port, and I anxiously waited its return for several months; but\nneither ship nor friend made their appearance. At length he came to my\nlodgings in the utmost poverty--all had been lost. Of what use was\ncomplaint? He had lost ten times more than I had--everything had gone\nagainst him. His narrative was short. He reached the coast in safety,\nand landed his cargo in part, when he was forced to run for it, a\nrevenue cutter coming in sight. After a long chase, he was forced to run\nhis vessel on shore, near St. Andrew's, and got ashore with only his\nclothes, and the little cash he had on board. He returned to where his\ngoods were deposited--all that were saved. The coach was rigged out, and\nreached the Cowgate in the usual manner, when it was attacked and\ncaptured, in spite of stout resistance, by a party of citizens. What of\nthe goods remained in the neighbourhood of Musselburgh, were detained\nfor the loss of the horses and coach. I was now sick of Holland, and\nresolved to return, poor as I left it, to the haunts of my happiest\nrecollections. To be rich, and riches still accumulating in a foreign\nland, the idea of what we can at any time enjoy, a return--makes it\nbearable. But poverty and disappointment sadden the heart of the exile;\nand make the toil that would be counted light at home, a burden that\nsinks him early in a foreign grave.\"\n\n\"Did your partner make no mention of carrying off one of the townsmen in\nthe coach?\" said the treasurer.\n\n\"Excuse me, master, for not mentioning it,\" replied Walter. \"He did give\nme a full account of all that happened to you, and all you said; and\nregretted, when he heard of your illness, what, at the time, he was\nforced to do in self-preservation. When you fell out of the stair he\nmeant to enter, he knew not who you were--a friend he knew you could not\nbe, for only other two in the city had his secret. That you were a\nrevenue officer, on the look-out for him, was his first idea. He was as\nmuch alarmed as you, until he found you were insensible. Not a moment\nwas to be lost. The goods were hurried out, and you placed in the\ncarriage, which was on its way from town before you showed any symptoms\nof returning consciousness. His first intention was to carry you on\nboard his lugger, and convey you to Holland, then sell you to the Dutch\nEast India Company, that you might never return to tell what you had\nbeen a witness of that night. The terror you were in, the sincerity of\nyour confession, and belief that you were in the power of the major,\nsaved you from the miserable fate he had fixed for you. Pity struggled\nagainst the caution and avarice which urged him to take you away. Pity\ntriumphed--you had been both play and schoolfellows in former years. You\nwere released--you know the rest.\"\n\nThe wife and mother scarce breathed, while Wattie related the danger the\ntreasurer had been in; he himself gave a shudder--all thanked God for\nhis escape. Wattie Brown continued in his employ, as foreman over his\nwork, and died about the year 1789. Widow Horner did not long survive\nthat night of intense anguish--she died of a broken heart in her son's\nhouse. It was remarked by all, that, while Thomas Kerr prospered, Walter\nHorner, who was at one time much the richer man, gradually sank into the\nmost abject circumstances, and died a pensioner on his incorporation,\nmore despised than pitied. And thus ends our tale of Major Weir's famous\nnight airings in Edinburgh.\n\n\n\n\nTHE DIVINITY STUDENT.\n\n    \"So fades, so perishes, grows dim, and dies,\n    All that the world is proud of.\"\n\n    WORDSWORTH.\n\n\nAlthough the revelations of a divine philosophy have taught us no more\nto entertain the blind notions of the Epicureans of old, that everything\nis the result of chance--or to agree with the Stoics, that the\nrevolutions of the planetary system decree the fates and regulate the\nactions of mankind--yet the vicissitudes of human life, and the\nuncertainties of earthly hope, continue no less frequently to be the\ntheme of the poet, and the regret of the philosopher. The truth is deep;\nnor is it ever suffered to be so long uncalled forth from our memories\nas to allow of its force being blunted. Striking and melancholy examples\ncontinually crowd upon us. Daily we are summoned to behold some noble\naspiration blasted--to behold youth cut off in the bud--learning\ndisappointed of its reward--worth suffering under the grip of\nmisfortune--and industry sowing the wind to reap the whirlwind. These\nare dread and warning lessons to us, yet affording the surest marks of\nproof, that this sublunary and distempered world cannot be the final\nabode of man; that the seeds sown here will grow to maturity in a more\ngenial clime; and that the events which now baffle the scrutiny of our\nmoral reason, will yet appear to us revealed in clear and unperplexed\nbeauty.\n\nThe story I am now about to narrate is simple in the extreme, yet\naffording scope for melancholy, and, it is to be hoped, not unprofitable\nmeditation.\n\nRobert Brown, a Scottish carrier, living in a remote district in\nRoxburghshire, contrived to bring up his family, consisting of five\nsons, by a course of unwearied industry and rigid economy, to an age at\nwhich the youngest had attained his sixteenth year--a time when it was\nthought by his friends that he might be able to take himself as a\nburthen from off his father's hands, and set about something towards his\nultimate provision for life.\n\nConsistently with their humble condition in the world, his brothers had\nall received the usual education of the Scottish peasantry--that is to\nsay, they had been taught reading, writing, and the elements of\narithmetic; and, at suitable ages, had been alternately called from\nschool to assist in farm work. They were fortunate in obtaining\nemployment from the neighbouring landlords; and, though the servants of\ndifferent masters, none of them were above two miles distant from their\nfather's cottage. William, the youngest, had been destined from the\ncradle for something superior to the rest. They looked far forward,\nthrough the vista of years, to him as the pride of their old age, and\nthe representative who was to carry down the respectability, credit, and\ngood name of the family, to the succeeding generation. So far from the\nrest being chagrined at the partiality thus openly avowed, they\ncontributed, \"each in his degree,\" to the furtherance of the plan\nchalked out by their parents; judging, with honest pride, if William was\ndestined to move in a sphere somewhat superior to their own, that a\nportion of the common approbation must necessarily be reflected on\nthemselves, his relations. Thus all were united and amiable; no selfish\nand grovelling feelings introduced themselves to mar the cordiality of\naffection, or interfere with motives so upright and so honourable.\n\nThe object of this concentrated flood of generous love was certainly not\nan unworthy one. Having been born some years posterior to the other\nmembers of the family, he had never been a sharer in the youthful\nsports of his brothers, but was remembered by them as a favourite object\non their Saturday evening meetings at their father's cottage. The frame\nof William was by no means so robust as that of the rest; and his dark\nglossy hair only set off more plainly the pale, and sometimes sallow hue\nof complexion. From both of these circumstances, his comparative youth,\nand his comparative delicacy of constitution, he ran a considerable\nchance of being, what is commonly termed, a spoiled child. He had, of\ncourse, contracted, from indulgence, a waywardness of disposition,\nwhich, however, by his innate modesty and good sense, was kept within\nvery excusable limits, and soon wore entirely away, as the forwardness\nof boyhood began to subside into the more pensive thoughtfulness of\nmaturer years.\n\nAfter having exhausted all the means of instruction which an adjacent\ntown supplied, he was obliged to have recourse to the grammar school of\na neighbouring parish, about four miles distant from his home. For two\nyears, neither summer's heat nor winter's snow were for a day allowed to\nfrustrate his walking thither. He never returned till late in the\nafternoon; sometimes the evening star was the herald of his approach;\nand, during the brief days, towards the end or about the commencement of\nthe year, darkness had set in before his face glimmered by the bickering\nfire of his parental hearth. Habits of temperance had been familiar to\nhim all his days. Some cheese and oaten cake, regularly deposited in his\nsatchel, served him for dinner, during the interval of school hours,\nafter mid-day--and these he ate, walking about or reclining on the turf;\nbut the warm tea and toast always awaited his evening arrival, and were\nset before him with all a mother's mindfulness and punctuality.\n\nHe was diligent at his books; and, being endowed by nature with good\nparts, he made a very fair and promising progress. He had none of that\nintellectual cleverness which makes advances by sudden fits and starts,\nand then relapses into apathy and idleness; but his steady industry, his\nattention, and his assiduity, gave omens favourable to his success,\nwhile his gentle and conciliatory manners gained him not only the love\nof his schoolfellows, but the esteem of his instructor.\n\nIt was now evident, that, from the pains and expense taken in regard to\nhis education, he was destined for the pulpit--that climax of the\nhonours and distinctions ever aimed at by a poor but respectable\nScottish family. Years of rigid economy had been passed, almost without\naffording any hope as to the ultimate success and attainment of their\nlaudable end.\n\nHis destination, almost unknown to himself, having been thus early\nfixed, it was resolved that he should be sent to Edinburgh, to attend\nthe college there, professedly as a student of divinity. The expense,\nresulting from this resolution, bore hard upon their slender\ncircumstances; but they were determined still farther to exert\nthemselves, indulging the fond hope, that, one day or other, they would\nreap the reward of their honourable endeavours in the prosperity of\ntheir son.\n\nTo the university he set off, amid the ill-concealed tears of some, and\nthe open and hearty blessings of all--so much were they attached to one,\nwho, till that day, had never been even more temporarily separated from\nthem, without many a caution, perhaps little required, to guard against\nthe evil contaminations of the capital--little thinking, in their simple\nminds, that the slender means allowed him were barely sufficient for\nnecessary purposes, without indulging in any uncalled for luxury, and\nthat gold is the only key that fits pleasure's casket.\n\nHe found himself seated in the Scottish metropolis, in a cheap but snug\nand comfortable lodging, and encompassed by other sights and sounds\nthan those which he had been accustomed to. The change struck on his\nheart with a low deep feeling of despondency, which a little time,\nconjoined with the urbanity and kindness of all around him, was\nsufficient to dissipate. The immense mass of lofty and majestic\nbuildings, exhibiting their roofs in widening circles around him, and\nstretching far away, like the broken billows of an ocean, created\nthoughts of tumult, discord, and perplexity, when contrasted with the\nserene beauty of the calm pastoral district which he had left; and, amid\nthe nightly crowd of population which engirded him, a sense of his own\nindividual insignificance fell, with a crushing weight, on his spirit.\nThe deeply engrafted strength of virtue and religion, however, at length\nprevailed, restoring to his mind its usual buoyancy; and he began to see\nobjects in the same degree of relative value, but with a widely enlarged\nscope of sensation. He set about his studies with vigour and alacrity;\nand, keeping in recollection the circumstances of his relatives, he\ndetermined not only to avoid all unnecessary expense, but to exercise\nthe most rigid economy. Few hours were allowed to sleep, and almost no\ntime allotted to exercise and recreation. The hopes his father\nentertained he determined should not be frustrated, nor the confidence\nthey reposed in him be shown erroneous, by any negligence on his part;\nwhile, by persevering with assiduity and ardour, he trusted, sooner than\nthey expected, to relieve them of the burthen of his support--a burthen\nwhich, he knew, could not fail to press heavy on them all, however\ncheerfully supported.\n\nIn a course of the utmost economy, sobriety, and temperance, anxiously\nendeavouring to allow no opportunity of improvement to pass by\nunimproved, the winter session wore through, and left behind on his\nheart very few causes for self-disapprobation.\n\nTowards the end of April, the pale student returned to the cottage of\nhis father. Worn out by unwearied and unremitting studies, the vernal\ngales of the country came like a balsam to reanimate his flagging\nspirits; and the hopes that the object of so much exertion and care\nwould be ultimately crowned with success, gained a strong hold on the\nmind it had threatened almost to forsake. In the crowd of the city he\nfelt too deeply his own insignificance--an isolated stranger, poor and\nunknown of all, striving with a feverish hope, at rewards most likely to\nbe carried away by more powerful interests. But here he felt a grain of\nself-importance return to elevate his fallen thoughts. The budding\nhawthorn, the singing birds, and the blue sky, were all delightful; and\nhe began to lose his own bosom fears in the general exultation of\nnature.\n\nThe first ebullience of parental joy at his return, together with the\ncongratulations of his affectionate brethren, having gradually subsided,\nfew days were indeed allowed for idle recreation; and the same\nindustrious course was persevered in.\n\nOf the cottage, which consisted of three apartments, one of which served\nfor kitchen, another was entirely set apart for William, that no\ninterruptions might at any time disturb him. In the summer mornings he\nwas up with the lark; but he closed not his book with her evening song.\nHis studies were carried far into the silence of the night, and the\nbelated traveller never failed to mark the taper gleaming from the\nwindow of his apartment.\n\nSummer mellowed into autumn, which, with its fruitage, flowers, and\nyellow corn fields, also passed away; and again the hoar-frost lay\nwhitely at morning on the wall of the little garden. Towards the end of\nOctober, our student, a second time, set out on his journey to\nEdinburgh.\n\nThe life of a college student is not one of incident or variety. Day\nafter day calls him to the same routine of employment; and week is only\nknown from week by the intervention of Sabbath repose. Suffice it,\ntherefore, to say, that the second season passed away like the first, in\nfrugal living and indefatigable exertion, and left our hero, at its\nclose, the same uncorrupted, simple-hearted, and generous-minded youth,\nas when he first left the shadow of his father's door. His dress and his\nmanners were very little altered. Amid the hum and the bustle of\nthousands, wealthy and toiling after wealth, he was an individual\napart--a hermit standing on the rock, and listening to the roar of\nlife's billowing ocean, but launching not his bark on its dim and\ndangerous waters.\n\nHis delicacy made him feel acutely, that the expenses which he had\nnecessarily incurred, must weigh heavily on those upon whose open, but\nnecessarily circumscribed bounty, he depended. It was, therefore, agreed\non, at his own suggestion, to open a school for a season, in some one of\nthe neighbouring villages. He hoped, by this means, to be enabled to\nraise a small fund for future exigencies, and to be indebted to his own\nindustry for what necessity had hitherto obliged him to be dependent for\non the bounty of others. Alas! this commendable design was but the\nprotracting of a course of study already too severe for his tender and\ndelicate constitution.\n\nThe scheme was, however, immediately acted on. A school in the village\nof Sauchieburn was opened, and, in a brief space, everything succeeded\nto the utmost of his expectations--for the school-room speedily began to\nfill; and, by a conscientious discharge of his duty to his pupils, the\naffection of their parents began to flow towards him. Although the\nquarterly payments were small, he contrived to lay aside by much the\nlarger half. From the natural timidity of his disposition, conjoined\nwith the fear of making acquaintances which might lead him into\nexpenses, he lived almost alone, spending the leisure of his afternoons\nin walking with his book in his hand through the fields; his evenings\npassed over in solitary study.\n\nNot long after his settlement, Mr. Allan, a farmer of some consideration\nin the neighbourhood, requested him to devote an hour or two daily to\nthe tuition of his boys. In every point of view, this was a favourable\ncircumstance for him. His labours were handsomely remunerated; and an\nintroduction secured for him into a well-informed and rather elegant\ncircle.\n\nThe family in whose house he lodged were little removed above the order\nof peasantry, but remarkable not only for their cleanliness and for the\ncomfort of their dwelling, but for that integrity in their small\nconcerns, and devout feeling of religious truth, still so frequently\nfound united to narrow circumstances in the nooks and byways of\nScotland, and constituting, certainly, not the least valuable gem in the\ncoronal of her honour. Here he was regarded with looks of love; and his\nminutest wants attended to, with that scrupulous zeal which can only be\nexpected from parental tenderness. He was regarded not only as a member\nof the family, but looked up to as something that was above them--doing\nhonour to their dwelling. Every possible care was taken to render his\nsituation as agreeable as possible to him; and his health was inquired\nafter, by the kind inmates, with the most anxious and affectionate\nsolicitude.\n\nBut the dark work was begun within, and the canker, which was to destroy\nthe rose of health, was already committing dreadful ravages. He uttered\nno complaint; and, if pain was felt, its pangs were unacknowledged. A\nlanguor of the eye, an unusual paleness of the face, and the bursting\nforth of large drops of perspiration on the least exertion, were the\nonly indications of declining health. The school was attended to as\nusual--not an hour was sacrificed to his weakness; and day succeeded\nday, and week followed week, without relaxation and without amendment.\nThis could not last. The interregnum between receding health and\napproaching disease is generally of short duration, and the vacant\nthrone is either greedily seized on by the angel or the demon.\n\nHe was getting gradually worse--gradually weaker. He had tried all those\nlittle remedies commonly prescribed for coughs, without advantage, and\nin secret. What was next to be done, he hardly knew. The school could no\nlonger be continued, as he was unable to leave his room. After so much\nreluctant delay, a medical practitioner was consulted.\n\nOn inquiry, it was found that, for some weeks, he had been expectorating\nblood--he had nocturnal perspirations, hectic flushes, and almost\nincessant cough. His appetite was gone, and his whole frame in disorder.\nPoor William said, that he hoped he should soon be better, and able to\npersevere with his school. A week passed over, and matters were rapidly\ngetting worse; yet it was not without reiterated persuasions, that the\npale scholar could be persuaded to return for a season to the home of\nhis fathers.\n\nWe must not omit, that, during his confinement, every attention was paid\nto William by the family of the Allans, and such small luxuries as his\nstate seemed to require were sent by them unsolicited. Mr. Allan himself\nrepeatedly called for him; and, one afternoon, as Miss Mary had walked\nas far as the village, she summoned up resolution to inquire at the\ndoor. William heard her voice, and requested her to come in. As he sat\nin a large stuffed chair, propped with pillows, his appearance evidently\nshocked her; and, when she wished to speak to him, her voice swelled in\nher throat. He extended his hand to her, and told her he would soon be\nbetter; but his long thin fingers thrilled her to the heart by their\ntouch. She stood for a minute beside him; and, after again shaking hands\nwith him, departed. Her sensations, during her solitary walk home, may\nbe more easily imagined than described.\n\nIt was noted by the servants, that Miss Mary happened to be always the\nfirst to receive the communications of the messenger sent to the village\nof Sauchieburn. It was also remarked that the tidings, whether\nfavourable or otherwise, could be read in a countenance not yet hardened\nby artifice, as so to belie the feelings of the heart.\n\nHome he returned at length. To paint the distress of the family, on that\noccasion, at such a reappearance of one whom they had loved so tenderly,\nfor whom they had done, and were yet willing to do, so much, were a\nheart-rending and melancholy task. As he entered the door, the mother\nrushed out to embrace her weak and emaciated son; and, throwing her arms\naround his neck, kissed his pale cheek with an agony of distress, while\nthe tears, in spite of opposition, gushed in burning drops over her\nfurrowed cheeks to the ground. The father grasped him by the hand, and\nsupported him, with cheering words, into the apartment which of old he\nhad inhabited. It had been but little used since he had last been its\noccupant; and the neat, clean, but plain furniture, remained almost as\nhe had left it.\n\nHe was put to bed after the fatigue of travel, and every heart in that\nhouse was sorrowful. The poor scholar could not fail to see the distress\nso visible on his return; and his heart sank as the clouds of fate\nlowered over him. His brothers, as they dropped in, one after another,\nfrom the fields, approached affectionately to the bedside, and, taking\nhis long, thin fingers in their toil-hardened hands, lamented his case,\nbut cheered him with many a word of comfort, which almost belied\nthemselves, from the uncertain tone in which they were uttered. And no\nwonder, for the alteration in his appearance was dreadful; and it was\nevident, to the least observant glance, that the poor young man was far\ngone in a consumption.\n\nFor some weeks the change of air, and the sight of so many countenances,\nso anxiously interested in his welfare, seemed to work a favourable\nchange; and the gloom on his spirits began gradually to subside. In the\nsunny fore-noons, a chair was placed for him in the little garden behind\nthe house. The spot commanded an extensive view of the country; and it\namused him to look on the jolly reapers in the neighbouring field, and\nlisten to their simple music while gathering in the yellow harvest\ntreasures. Around him were many tall ash-trees, well remembered in the\nthoughts of other years. The gooseberry bushes, each of which was\nfamiliar to his memory, had shed their fruits, and were beginning to\nshed their leaves; but, on the later currants, some depending red and\nwhite strings were yet visible. The summer flowers were disappearing;\nbut the more hardy roots, the spearmint, the gillyflower, the thyme, and\nthe southernwood, sent forth to the autumnal air \"a faint decaying\nsmell.\" The beehive in the corner of the hedgerow was still unremoved,\nand the buzz of its never idle inhabitants filled the whole air with a\ncontinual pleasant murmur. The birds were all singing amid the beauty of\nnature, and, ever and anon, the lark, springing up on twinkling wings,\nsent a fainter and yet fainter note from its receding elevation.\n\nSo many agreeable images, so much affectionate attention, soothed the\nwounds that no earthly medicine could heal. In a short time, debility\nrendered him completely bed-ridden, and the tyrant of the human race\nbetokened his approach \"by many a drear foreboding sign.\"\n\nIt was one evening, when all the brothers had dropped in, one after\nanother, that symptoms of rapid dissolution showed themselves. They sat\ndown in silence around the hearth, and looked frequently, first at\nWilliam and then at each other; while, at intervals, the fortitude of\nmanhood could not forbear a half stifled sob. They saw that the curtain\nof death would soon be let down over eyes so beloved; and many a hurried\nglance of affection--and the agitated countenance--and the quivering\nhand--seemed to say, in silent eloquence, \"Would to God I could die in\nmy brother's stead!\"\n\nWilliam was not insensible to the afflicting scene around him. He told\nthem to bear up, and assured them that he suffered neither pain of body\nnor mind. \"Heaven is wise in all its decrees,\" said the dying youth;\n\"mourn not much for me; we shall, I trust, all meet again in Heaven. I\nonly set out on my journey a little while before you. I feel that I have\nbeen much, too much of a burden to you all\"----\n\nHere he was eagerly interrupted by all of them, who conjured him not to\nspeak in that manner, and that it was almost unkind of him to do so.\n\n\"Well,\" continued William, \"I feel your affection as I ought. The reward\nhath not perished, and shall not be taken away, though now God calls\nupon me to leave you.\"\n\nHe then requested his father to read to him the latter part of the 15th\nchapter of 1st Corinthians, which he did with a composed and steady\nvoice, amid the silent tears of his children, and the frequent sobs of\nthe almost heart-broken mother, who leant with her face on the\nbedclothes, holding in hers the emaciated hand of her son. The soul of a\nmother can only comprehend the depth and the agony of her sufferings at\nthat hour, when called on to part with her last born--the Benjamin of\nher small household.\n\nIn a short time his exhaustion was so great, that his efforts to speak\nwere unavailing, and he fell into a gentle slumber, from which he never\nawoke--breathing his soul out upon the silent midnight without a groan!\n\nHowever much the stroke of death may be expected, it never arrives\nwithout a violent shock to the feelings of all around. Here the grief\nwas deep, but it was not upbraiding; and every pang was tempered by the\ngentle consolations of Christianity.\n\nThe mournful news was communicated to the inhabitants of Sauchieburn;\nand, amid the regrets of many a grateful parent, bright tears fell from\nthe eyes of childhood, at the thoughts of their kind instructor's death.\nFor a time, with the buoyancy of feeling incident to their years, they\nhad considered the few first day's of play as something favourable and\nfortunate. Feeling the pleasurable effects, they forgot the melancholy\ncause. But now the \"hope deferred\" was taken away, and nothing but\nuncertainty and doubt were left in its place. They looked on the shut up\nwindows and closed door of the school-house with a mingled feeling of\ncuriosity and regret. The more affectionate said to each other, \"our\nmaster shall never hear us lessons any more; they are going to lay him\nin the church-yard; we shall never see him again;\" while the more\nselfish-minded busied themselves with conjectures about him who should\ncome to them in his stead. The sorrows of childhood are of short\nduration; the heart is then like the softened wax, which takes all\nimpressions--the one obliterates the other, and the last, whatever be\nits import, is still the deepest.\n\nNot so evanescent was the melancholy at the house of the Allans. The two\nboys who had been under his charge spoke often of him as their kind\nmaster to Miss Mary, who seldom answered them but with a stifled accent,\nand an involuntary tear in her eye. That, almost unconsciously to\nherself, some impression had been made on her heart was evident. The\nfeelings, perhaps, were reciprocal, for William had never mentioned her\nbut in terms of deep respect, mingled with something of tenderness and\nadmiration; but the wide gulf that separated them prevented him from\nhaving, even for a moment, indulged one dearer hope.\n\nCertain it is, from whatever cause it might arise, that the health of\nMary Allan declined rapidly, even to a state of the utmost delicacy; and\nthe cheerful, lively girl, could hardly be recognised in the pale,\nemaciated, but still beautiful features, over which the ray of pleasure\nnow seldom shot even a transient gleam. But time, the grand physician of\nall human troubles, by slow, but sure degrees, began the healing of the\nwound so afflictingly felt by her, and by the whole cottage family.\nThough, after the first burst of sorrow was over, each turned to his\nwonted avocation, yet the mainspring of activity was felt to be broken;\nand the heart often refuses, for a long period, to mould itself for the\nreception of new feelings and altered objects. Life assumes a different\naspect; and the thoughts are often tardy to accommodate themselves to\nchange, and its inevitable concomitants.\n\nThe remaining brothers met in the cottage of their parents, as\nheretofore, on the Saturday evenings; and, for a long time, the blank\nwas felt--a chair was unoccupied--a beloved face was absent; but\nresignation to the decrees of Providence at length triumphed over the\nyearnings of natural affection. The father, on whose temples the few\nremaining hairs were changed to white, read the portion of Scripture\nwith accustomed gravity, from the \"big ha' Bible;\" and exhibited a\nlesson, to all around, of noble, steadfast, and unshrinking piety.\n\nThe books, the papers, and everything that had belonged to William, were\npreserved by his relations with an affectionate regard, amounting almost\nto veneration; and, in a short time, a plain tombstone was erected at\nthe head of the turf under which his ashes lay, inscribed simply with\nhis name and age.\n\nAs the church was at more than two miles' distance from the cottage, the\nfamily usually spent the intervals between the forenoon and afternoon\nservices, in loitering about the burial-ground. Around the grave of\nWilliam, often were the whole remaining family observed, seated in the\nsunshine, upon the daisied turf, with their open Bibles in their hands.\n\nThe health of Miss Allan gradually recovered its former tone; but the\nshock she had sustained threw a shadow of change over her whole\ncharacter. A degree of thoughtfulness and pensive grace hung around her\nlooks and motions, softening down sorrow to resignation, and gaiety to\ncheerfulness. She grew more passionately fond of the beauties of\nexternal nature, and enjoyed a serene pleasure in solitary walks.\nSometimes, in the light of the setting sun, when an azure shadow hung\nover the hills, when the clouds were tipped with refulgent glory, and\nthe note of the blackbird, \"most musical, most melancholy,\" burst on the\near from the neighbouring coppice, the eye of the passenger has,\nunawares, intruded on the privacy of her grief, as she stood silently\ngazing on the grave of him who had gone up before her into heaven.\n\nEND OF VOL. V\n\n\n\n\n\n<pre id=\"pg-footer\">","title":"Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland, Volume 05","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":93528}