{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_34146/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_34146","id":"gutenberg_34146","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/34146","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. VII.\n\nLONDON:\n\nWALTER SCOTT, 14 PATERNOSTER SQUARE\n\nAND NEWCASTLE-UPON-TYNE.\n\n1885.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS.\n\n\nJUDITH THE EGYPTIAN; OR, THE FATE OF THE HEIR OF RICCON, _(JOHN MACKAY\nWILSON)_\n\nTHE DROICH, _(ALEXANDER LEIGHTON)_\n\nTHE LYKEWAKE, _(HUGH MILLER)_\n\nTHE PENNY WEDDING, _(ALEXANDER CAMPBELL)_\n\nTHE AMATEUR LAWYERS, _(ALEXANDER LEIGHTON)_\n\nTHE PROFESSOR'S TALES, _(PROFESSOR THOMAS GILLESPIE)_\n\n    FAMILY INCIDENTS\n    HOME AND THE GIPSY MAID\n    THE RETURN\n\nTHE POOR SCHOLAR, _(JOHN MACKAY WILSON)_\n\nTHE LAIRD OF DARNICK TOWER, _(J. H. )_\n\nTHE BROKEN HEART. A TALE OF THE REBELLION, _(JOHN MACKAY WILSON)_\n\nTHE CATERAN OF LOCHLOY, _(JAMES MAIDMENT)_\n\nSERJEANT'S TALES, _(JOHN HOWELL)_\n\n    JOHN SQUARE'S VOYAGE TO INDIA\n\n\n\n\nWILSON'S TALES OF THE BORDERS, AND OF SCOTLAND.\n\n\n\n\nJUDITH THE EGYPTIAN; OR, THE FATE OF THE HEIR OF RICCON.\n\n    \"The black-eyed Judith, fair and tall,\n    Attracted the heir of Riccon Hall.\n\n           *       *       *       *       *\n\n    For years and years was Judith known,\n    Queen of a wild world all her own;\n    By Wooler Haugh, by silver Till,\n    By Coldstream Bridge, and Flodden Hill:\n\n    Until, at length, one morn, when sleet\n    Hung frozen round the traveller's feet,\n    By a grey ruin on Tweedside,\n    The creature laid her down and died.\"--_Border Ballad._\n\n\nMore than three hundred years have elapsed since the people called\nGipsies first made their appearance in this country; and, from all that\nI have been able to trace concerning them, it seems to have been about\nthe same period that a number of their tribes or families proceeded\nnorthwards, and became dwellers and wanderers on the Borders. Their\nchief places of resort, and where, during the inclemency of winter, they\nhorded or housed together, were, Kirk Yetholm, Rothbury, Horncliff,\nSpittal, and Tweedmouth. I believe that there are none of them now in\nHorncliff, which, on the bringing in of the muir, ceased to be a refuge\nfor them; and there are but few in Spittal. But, in Rothbury and Kirk\nYetholm, they still abound, and of late years have increased in\nTweedmouth--that is, during the winter season, for they take to the\nhedges as soon as the primrose appears, and begin their wanderings. The\nprincipal names borne by the different tribes in these parts are Faa,\nYoung, Gordon, Bailie, Blyth, Ruthven, and Winter. Their occupations\nare chiefly as itinerant muggers or potters, horners or \"cuttie-spoon\"\nmakers, tinkers or smiths and tin-workers, and makers of besoms and\nfoot-basses. They are still, with very few exceptions, a wandering and\nunlettered race, such as their fathers were when they first entered\nBritain. At Kirk Yetholm, however--which is their seat of royalty on the\nBorders, and where they have a lease of the houses in what is called\nTinkler Row, for nineteen times nineteen years, on payment of a quit\nrent--they have not been so neglectful of the education of their\nchildren as in other parts of the country.\n\nAt the period of their first appearance in this kingdom, the land was\noverrun with thieves and vagabonds, who, in the severe and sanguinary\nlaws of Queen Elizabeth and her father Harry, were described as\n\"_loyterers_\" and \"_sturdy beggars_;\" and it is more than probable that\nmany of these, finding the mode of life followed by the gipsies\ncongenial to them, associated with or intermarried amongst them, and so\nbecame as a part of them; and this may account for many, calling\nthemselves gipsies, having European, or, I may say, British features.\nBut the real gipsy there is no mistaking--their dark piercing eyes and\nAsiatic countenance mark them as distinctly as do the eyes and peculiar\nfeatures of a Jew. (By the by, I wonder that no searcher after the\nmarvellous has endeavoured to prove them to be a remnant of the lost\ntribes of Israel.) Like the Jews, they are scattered over the whole\nearth--like them, they are found in every land; and in every land they\nremain a distinct people.\n\nWho they are, or whence they came, are questions involved in\nconsiderable mystery. Their being called Gipsies or Egyptians in this\ncountry, I hold to be a popular error which they themselves propagated.\nEgypt, from the earliest period, was distinguished above all lands for\nits soothsayers and diviners; and, as the chief occupation of the\nwanderers then was (and in many places still is) fortune-telling, they\nhad cunning enough to profess to be Egyptians, or natives of the land\nwherein was taught the mysteries of rolling away the clouds which\nconceal fate and futurity. They have neither the language nor the\nmanners of the Egyptians. No reason could be assigned for their leaving\nthe land of the Pharaohs; and, although the gipsies of the present day\nprofess to be Egyptians, they can bring forward no proof in support of\nthe pretension. From all that I have read concerning them, it seems to\nme to be clearly proved that they are natives of Hindostan, where they\nformed a part of the lowest caste of Indians, called Pariars or\nSuders--a class held in detestation and abhorrence by the other castes.\nThat the gipsy clans have a language peculiar to themselves, and which\nthey frequently speak amongst themselves, is well known. It is not a\nwritten language; and they have endeavoured to conceal a knowledge of it\nfrom the people amongst whom they dwell. They have called it\n_gibberish_; and it has been very generally believed to be nothing more\nthan what is usually understood by that term, or that at most it was a\nsort of _slang_, similar to the phrases used among thieves. This is an\nerror. So far as those who have examined it have been able to ascertain,\nthe secret language spoken by the British gipsies appears to be, with\nbut trifling corruptions, the same as that which is spoken by the Indian\ncaste of Suders in Hindostan.[1]\n\n[Footnote 1: We subjoin a few words as specimens. They are taken from\nthe Glossaries of Grellmann and Richardson.--ED.\n\n    _Gipsy._  _Hindostanee._  _English._\n\n    Bebee      Beebe         An Aunt.\n    Mutchee    Muchee        Fish.\n    Can        Kan           The Ear.\n    Gur        Ghur          A House.\n    Riah       Raye          A Lord.\n    Dai        Da'ee         Mother.\n    Mass       Mas           Food.\n    Nack       Nak           The Nose.\n    Loon       Loon          Salt.]\n\nBut a stronger proof that the gipsies scattered over Europe derive their\norigin from the Suders of India is demonstrated by the facts that the\nSuders were the only people who professed the art of palmistry--that\nthey, like the gipsies, are a wandering race--that their occupations are\nalmost identically the same, being fortune-tellers, dancers, and\nwandering musicians--that the smiths amongst them go about exactly in\nthe same manner as the tinkers, in this country--that, like the gipsies,\ntheir favourite food is that of animals that have died of disease--that,\nlike them, they have no fixed religion--and, like them, they endeavour\nto conceal their language. And the certainty of their being originally\nthe same people is further strengthened, from the Suders having fled in\nthousands from India, during the murderous ravages of Timur Beg in 1408,\nwhich corresponds with the period of the first appearance of the gipsies\nin Europe. And that they are not Egyptians is strongly proved by the\nfact, that there are tribes of them in Egypt, where, as in other\ncountries, they are regarded as _strangers and foreigners_.\n\nI may have wearied the patience of the reader with this long and perhaps\nprosy introduction; but there may be some to whom it will not be\nuninteresting, as throwing a light on the probable origin of a singular\npeople, of whom Judith the gipsy was one. And now to our story.\n\nOne of the chief men amongst the gipsies on the Borders, at the\nbeginning of the last century, was Lussha Fleckie, who was only inferior\nin authority among the tribes to King Faa, who dwelt at Kirk Yetholm,\nand boasted of reigning lord over a _free_ people. Lussha's avocations,\nlike the avocations of all his brethren, were mere apologies for\nidleness. He was one day a tinker, on another a grinder, and on a third\na wandering piper. He was a man of great stature and uncommon strength,\nand renowned for his exploits as a fisher and a sportsman.\n\nThe name of his wife was Mariam, and they had a daughter, called Judith,\nwho, as she grew up towards womanhood, became known throughout Roxburgh\nand Northumberland as the Gipsy Beauty, or the Beautiful Gipsy. The\nappellation was not unmeritedly bestowed; for, though her skin was\nslightly tinged with the tawny hue of her race, a soul seemed to glow\nthrough her regular and lovely features, and the lustre of her dark eyes\nto throw a radiance over them. She was tall, and her figure was perfect\nas her face--it was symmetrical and commanding. Yet she was at once\nconscious of her beauty and vain of it, and her parents administered to\nher vanity. They had her fingers adorned with trinkets, her neck with\nbugles; for Lussha Fleckie, like most of his race, was fond of gold and\nsilver ornaments; and, amongst others, he had in his possession a silver\nurn, which had been handed down to him through generations, and in which\nhis fathers, as he now did, had deposited the fruits of their spoils and\nplunder, until it was filled with rich coins as a miser's coffer. He\ntherefore, although a vagrant, was not a poor man, and could afford to\ndeck the charms of his daughter. Judith was early initiated by her\nmother into the mysteries of the sybilline leaves--her education indeed\nextended no farther; and, at the age of fifteen, she was an adept in the\nart of palmistry. The proudest ladies in broad Northumberland or fair\nRoxburghshire eagerly submitted their hands to the inspection of the\nbeautiful fortune-teller. The searching brightness of her dark eyes\nseemed to give a prophetic reality to her words; and, as she caused them\nto kindle with apparent joy or become transfixed at the discovery of\ncoming wo, her fair and high-born patrons have trembled before her, and\ninquired, \"What is it, Judith?\" And, being a favourite with them all,\nfor they both loved and feared her, her person was bedecked with their\ncast-off garments.\n\nIt was early in summer when about forty of the Faa people encamped near\nthe foot of the Eildon Hills. A few minutes served for the erection of\ntheir portable village in a secure and sheltered situation, and\nspeedily, supported on pieces of crossed branches, the caldrons swung\nover the crackling fires, each of which blazed fierce and merrily from\nbetween two stones. Savoury exhalations impregnated the air, and gave\ntoken of a feast. The banquet being spread upon the sward, when it was\nfinished, and the brandy cup had been sent round, Lussha Fleckie took up\nhis Northumbrian pipes, and began to play a merry reel. Old and young,\nmen, women, and children, started to their feet, and joyous\n\n     \"Tripp'd the light fantastic toe.\"\n\nJudith glided through the midst of them, with her bright waving tresses\nfalling on her shoulders, as queen of the glad scene. Of her it might\nhave been said--\n\n    \"A foot more light, a step more true,\n    Never from heath-flower dash'd the dew;\n    Even the light harebell raised its head,\n    Elastic from her airy tread!\"\n\nHer partner in the dance was Gemmel Graeme; and in his veins also flowed\ngipsy blood. Gemmel was now a youth of twenty, and one of the most\ndaring of his race. A passionate enthusiasm marked his disposition. In\nagile sports and feats of strength he had no competitor. In these he was\nwhat Lussha Fleckie had been. He boasted of his independence, and that\nhe had never placed a finger on the property of friend or neighbour, nor\nbeen detected in levying his exactions on a stranger or a foe. His\nmerits were acknowledged by all the tribes on the Borders; and, though\nhe was not of the royal family of Faas, many looked to him as\nheir-apparent to the sovereignty. He held in princely contempt all\ntrades, professions, and callings, and thought it beneath the dignity of\na \"lord of creation\" to follow them. When, therefore, he accompanied the\ntribes in their migrations from place to place, he did not, as was the\nhabit of others, assume the occupation of either tinker, grinder,\nbass-manufacturer, or the profession of a musician--but he went forth\nwith his gun and his hound, or his leister and net, and every preserve,\nplantation, and river supplied him with food, and the barns of strangers\nwith bread.\n\nJudith was two years younger than Gemmel Graeme, and he had not looked\nupon her lovely face with indifference; for the stronger passions and\nthe gentler feelings of the soul find a habitation in the breast of the\nwandering gipsy as in those of other men. He had a bold manly bearing,\nand an expressive countenance. Judith, too, had seen much of his\nexploits. She had beheld him, to the neck in water, struggle with the\nstrong salmon, raise it up, and cast it on the shore. She, too, had\nwitnessed instances of his daring spirit, and in every sport had seen\nall vanquished who dared to contend with him. Yea, when the scented\nblossom, like fragrant fleece, overspread the hawthorn hedgerows, and\nthe primrose and wild violet flowered at its roots--when the evening\nstar shone glorious in the west, brightening through the deepening\ntwilight--when the viewless cuckoo sighed \"goodnight\" to its mate, and\nthe landrail took up its evening cry--then have Judith and Gemmel sat\ntogether by the hedge-side, at a distance from the encampment, with her\nhand in his. Then he would tell her of the feats he had achieved, of the\nwrestling-matches he had won, or the leaps he had made, and, pressing\nher hand, add, \"But what care I for what I do, or for what others say,\nwhen the bright een o' my bonny Judith werena there to reward me wi' a\nblink o' joy!\"\n\n\"Ye're a flatterer, Gemmel,\" whispered she.\n\n\"No, bonniest,\" answered he; \"I deny that; I am nae flatterer. But if I\nwere, ye are far beyont flattery sic as mine; and it is nane to say,\nthat to my een ye are bonnier than yon gowden star, that shines by its\nsingle sel' in the wide heavens--and to me ye are dearer than the\nmountain is to the wild deer, or the green leaves to the singing birds.\"\n\nThen he would press his lips to hers, and she blushed, but upbraided him\nnot. But in the character of Judith, as in that of every woman over\nwhose bosom vanity waveth its butterfly wings, there was something of\nthe coquette. She did not at all times meet the affections of Gemmel\nwith mutual tenderness, though she loved him beyond any one else, and\nwas proud to see him wear her yoke. She had often smiled upon others,\nwhile her eyes glanced cold as illuminated ice upon him. Yet never was\nthere one on whom she so smiled that repented not having courted or\nobtained it. For, as Gemmel's hand was strong and his love passionate,\nso was his jealousy keen and his revenge insatiate. There were cripples\nin the tribe, who owed their lameness to the hand of Gemmel, because, in\nsome instance, Judith had shown a capricious preference to them while\nshe slighted him.\n\nNow, as has been said, it was a day of feasting and rejoicing amongst\nthem, and Judith was Gemmel's partner in the dance. Walter, the young\nheir of Riccon, was riding round the Eildons, with his grey goshawk upon\nhis arm, and his servant following him; and hearing sounds of music and\nshouts of revelry, he turned in the direction from whence they\nproceeded. He drew up his horse within a few yards of the merry group,\nand, from the first glance, the striking figure and the more striking\nfeatures of Judith arrested his attention. His eyes followed her through\nthe winding mazes of the dance. They sought to meet hers. Gemmel Graeme\nobserved him, and a scowl gathered on his brow. When the dance was\nended, he led Judith to a green hillock on which her father sat, and\napproaching the heir of Riccon, inquired, fiercely, \"What want ye,\nsir?--what look ye at?\"\n\n\"Troth, friend,\" replied Walter, the master of Riccon, who was of too\ncourageous a temperament to be awed by the face or frown of any man, \"I\nlook at yer bonny partner, and I want to speak to her, for a lovelier\nface or a gentler figure my een haena looked on since my mother bore\nme.\"\n\n\"Sir,\" retorted Gemmel, more fiercely, \"ye hae yer grey goshawk, yer\nhorses, and yer servant; I dinna covet them, and dinna ye covet what is\nmine, and to me mair precious. Awa' the road ye cam, or ony road ye\nlike, but remain not here. Your company isna desired. Is it the manners\no' you gentry to break in where ye are uninvited? Again, I warn ye,\n_while the earth is green_, to turn your horse's head away! I, Gemmel\nGraeme, wha never vowed revenge but I satisfied it, warn ye!\"\n\n\"As well,\" replied young Walter, haughtily, \"might you vend your threats\nupon the rocks that compose those cloven mountains, as waste them upon\nme. I shall speak wi' your bonny partner;\" and he struck his spurs into\nhis horse to proceed towards her.\n\nGemmel grasped the bridle, and in a moment horse and rider were upon the\nground.\n\n\"Gemmel Graeme!\" shouted Lussha Fleckie, \"is that the welcome ye gie to\nstrangers? Foul fa' ye! ye passionate tyke!--tak yer hands aff the\ngentleman, and if he wishes to join in oor merriment he's welcome. Gae,\nJudith, bring forward the gentle stranger.\"\n\nGemmel withdrew his hand from young Walter's throat; and, as he did so,\nhe uttered wild and bitter words, and flung himself, as if in\ncarelessness, on the ground, his head resting on his hand.\n\nJudith, at her father's bidding, went and conducted the heir of Riccon\nto where her father sat and the late dancers were assembled, and Gemmel\nwas left alone. A brief conversation passed between Lussha and Walter,\nduring which the latter failed not to express his admiration of Judith.\nHer father smiled--there was a look of triumph in the eyes of her\nmother. The pipes again struck up, the dance was resumed, and Walter the\nheir of Riccon was the partner of Judith; while Gemmel Graeme lay upon\nthe ground, gazing upon them and gnashing his teeth.\n\n\"We maun see that nae harm come to the young Riccon oot o' this,\"\nwhispered some of the eldest of the tribe to each other, who had not\nagain joined in the dance, \"for Gemmel is kicking his heel upon the\nground, and whistlin' to himsel', and the horse-shoe is on his brow. It\nwas wrong in Lussha to provoke him. There is an ill drink brewing for\nthe young laird. He is dancing owre gunpoother where the touch-fire is\ncreeping to it.\"\n\nThe dance was ended, and young Walter, taking a costly ring from his\nfinger, placed it on Judith's, and whispered, \"Wear it for my sake.\" And\nher cheeks seemed more lovely as she blushed, smiled, and accepted the\ngift.\n\nGemmel started to his feet as he beheld this. But Walter dashed his\nspurs into his horse, and, riding away, in a few minutes was out of\nsight. Gemmel glanced upbraidingly on Judith, and he passed by her\nparents in sullenness and in silence.\n\nBut the heir of Riccon had not ridden far, when he turned round and said\nto his servant, \"We go now to Melrose, and from thence we shall go back\nand watch the movements o' the party we have seen. Mark ye weel the\nmaiden wi' whom I danced, and whose marrow ye never saw; for rather\nwould I that she was lady o' Riccon Ha', than that I shouldna meet her\nagain.\"\n\nShortly after the departure of Walter, some of the tribe, perceiving\nthat what had passed between him and Judith was likely to lead to a\nquarrel between Lussha Fleckie and Gemmel Graeme, and knowing, from the\nnature of both, that such a quarrel would be deadly in its results,\nproposed that the festivities should terminate, and the encampment break\nup. The proposal was carried by a majority of voices; and even Lussha,\nthough conscious of the reason why it was made, knew so well the fiery\nand desperate nature of him who was regarded by the tribe as the future\nhusband of his daughter, that he brooked his own temper, and agreed to\nit. And, while they began to move their tents, and to load their asses\nand their ponies, Gemmel stood, whistling moodily, leaning against a\ntree, his eyes ever and anon directed with an inquisitive scowl towards\nthe tent of Judith's father, his arms folded on his breast, and at\nintervals stamping his foot upon the ground; while his favourite hound\nlooked in his face, howled, and shook its tail impatiently, as though it\nknew that there was work for it at hand.\n\nEarly on the following day, the servant of the heir of Riccon returned,\nand brought him tidings that the encampment had broken up, and Judith\nand her father had erected their tent in the neighbourhood of Kelso;\nfor, as the ballad upon the subject hath it,\n\n    \"Often by Tweed they saunter'd down\n    As far as pleasant Kelso town.\"\n\nWalter mounted his horse, and arrived within sight of their tent before\nthe sun had gone down. At a distance from it he perceived Judith. She\nwas alone, and holding her hand towards the declining sun, gazing upon\nher fingers as if admiring the ring he had presented to her on the\nprevious day. He rode to where she stood. She seemed so entranced that\nshe perceived not his approach. She was indeed admiring the ring. Yet\nlet not her sex blame her too harshly: men and women have all their\nfoibles--this was one of Judith's; and she was a beautiful but ignorant\ngirl of eighteen, whose mind had never been nurtured, and whose heart\nhad been left to itself, to be swayed by every passion. He\ndismounted--he threw himself on his knees before her--he grasped her\nhand. \"Loveliest of women!\" he began----But I will not follow him\nthrough his rhapsody. Such speeches can be spoken but at one period of\nour lives, and they are interesting only to those to whom they are\naddressed: therefore I will spare my readers its recital. But it made an\nimpression on the heart of Judith. He spoke not of _his_ feats of\nstrength, of his running, leaping, and wrestling, as Gemmel did; but he\nspoke of _her_, and in strains new but pleasant to her ear. And,\nalthough she had chided her first lover as a flatterer, she did not so\nchide the heir of Riccon. Vanity kindled at his words, and even while he\nknelt and spoke before her, she forgot Gemmel, and already fancied\nherself the jewelled lady of Riccon Hall.\n\nHe perceived the effect which his first gift had produced, and he saw\nalso how earnestly she listened to his words. He wore a golden repeater,\nwhich he had purchased in Geneva, and which was secured by a chain of\nthe same metal, that went round his neck. He placed the chain around her\nneck, he pressed the watch upon her bosom. In her bosom she heard, she\nfelt it beat, while her own heart beat more rapidly.\n\n\"Hark!--hark!\" said he, \"how constantly it beats upon your breast--yet,\ntrust me, loved one, my heart beats more truly for you.\"\n\nBefore they parted, another assignation was arranged. From that period,\nfrequent interviews took place between Walter and the lovely Judith, and\nat each visit he brought her presents, and adorned her person with\nornaments. Her parents knew of his addresses, but they forbade them not.\n\nNow, one evening they had taken up their abode in a deserted building\nnear to Twisel Bridge; and thither the young laird came to visit Judith.\nHer father invited him into what had once been an apartment in the\nruined building, and requested him to sup with them. Walter consented;\nfor the love he bore to Judith could render the coarsest morsel sweet.\nBut, when he beheld the meat that was to be prepared and placed before\nhim, his heart sickened and revolted, for it consisted of part of a\nsheep that had died; and, when Lussha beheld this, he said, \"Wherefore\nshudder ye, young man, and why is your heart sick? Think ye not that the\nflesh o' the brute which has been slain by the hand o' its Creator, is\nfitter for man to eat than the flesh o' an animal which man has\nbutchered?\"[2]\n\n[Footnote 2: Gipsies always assign this as a reason for their preferring\nthe flesh of animals that have died to that of such as are\nslaughtered.--ED.]\n\nWalter had not time to reply; for, as Lussha finished speaking, a dog\nbounded into the ruins amongst them. Judith started from the ground; she\nraised her hands, her eyes flashed with horror.\n\n\"Ah!\" she exclaimed, in a voice of suppressed agony, \"it is\nGemmel's--Gemmel's hound! Fly, Walter, fly!\"\n\n\"Wherefore should I fly?\" returned the youth; \"think ye, Judith, I am\nnot able to defend myself and you against any man? Let this fierce\nbraggart come.\"\n\n\"Away!--haste ye away, sir!\" said Lussha, earnestly, grasping him by the\narm, \"or there will be blood and dead bodies on this floor! Come away!\nGemmel Graeme is at hand, and ye dinna ken him sae weel as I do!\"\n\nWalter would have remonstrated, but the gipsy, still grasping him by the\narm, dragged him to a door of the ruin, adding, \"Steal away--quick!\nquick among the trees, and keep down by the Till to Tweedside. Dinna\nspeak!--away!\"\n\nIt was a grey midnight in July, and the heir of Riccon had not been\nabsent three minutes, when Gemmel Graeme stalked into the ruin, and with\nhis arms folded sat down upon a stone in sullen silence.\n\n\"We are glad to see ye, Gemmel,\" said Mariam; \"ye hae been an unco\nstranger.\"\n\n\"Humph!\" was his brief and cold reply.\n\nThe supper was spread upon the ground, and the mother of Judith again\nadded, \"Come, Gemmel, lad, it is o' nae use to be in a cankered humour\nfor ever. Draw forward and help yersel'--ye see there is nae want.\"\n\n\"So I see!\" replied he, sarcastically; \"did ye expect company? I doubt\nyer fare would hardly be to _his_ palate!\"\n\n\"What do you mean, Gemmel?\" cried Lussha; \"think ye that we are to put\nup wi' yer fits?--or wherefore, if ye hae naething to say, come ye\nglunching here, wi' a brow as dark and threatening as a nicht in\nDecember?\"\n\nGemmel rose angrily, and replied, \"I hae something to say, Lussha, and\nthat something is to Judith, but not in your presence. Judith, will ye\nspeak wi' me?\" added he, addressing her.\n\nJudith, who had sat in a corner of the ruin, with her hands upon her\nbosom, covering the watch which young Walter had given her, and\nforgetting that the golden chain by which it was suspended from her neck\nwas visible, cast a timid glance towards her father, as if imploring his\nprotection.\n\n\"I am no sure, Gemmel,\" said Lussha, \"whether I can trust my daughter in\nyour company or no. If I do, will ye gie me yer thumb that ye winna harm\nher, nor raise your hand against her.\"\n\n\"Harm her!\" exclaimed Gemmel, disdainfully: \"I scorn it!--there's my\nthumb.\"\n\n\"Ye may gang, Judith,\" said her father.\n\nJudith, with fear and guilt graven on her lovely features, rose and\naccompanied Gemmel. He walked in silence by her side until they came to\nan old and broad-branched tree, which stood about forty yards from the\nruin. A waning summer moon had risen since he arrived, and mingled its\nlight with the grey gloam of the night, revealing the ornaments which\nJudith wore.\n\n\"Judith,\" said Gemmel, breaking the silence, and raising her hand from\nher bosom, with which she concealed the watch, \"where got ye thae braw\nornaments? Has yer faither found a heart to lay his fingers on the\ntreasures in the silver jug?\"\n\nShe trembled, and remained silent.\n\n\"Poor thing! poor thing!--lost Judith!\" exclaimed Gemmel. \"I see how it\nis. For the sake o' thae vile gewgaws, ye hae deserted me--ye hae\nsacrificed peace o' mind, and bidden fareweel to happiness! O Judith,\nwoman!--wha is the flatterer noo? Do you mind syne we sat by the\nhedge-side thegither, when the corn-craik counted the moments round\nabout us, and tried to mind us hoo they flew--when the sun had sunk down\nin the west, and the bonny hawthorn showered its fragrance owre us, as\nthough we sat in the garden where our first parents were happy? Do you\nmind o' thae days, Judith?--and hoo, when my heaving bosom beat upon\nyours, as we sat locked in ilka other's arms, I asked, 'Will ye be\nmine?' and ye let yer head fa' on my shouther, and said, '_I\nwill!_'--Judith! do ye mind o' thae things, and where are they noo?\"\n\n\"Gemmel Graeme,\" replied she, and she wept as she spoke, \"let me gang--I\ncanna bide wi' ye--and ye hae nae richt to put yer questions to me.\"\n\n\"Nae richt!\" he returned. \"O Judith! hae ye forgotten a' yer vows?--or\nhae ye forgotten the time when, in caulder nichts than this, when the\nsnaw was on the ground, and the trees were bare o' leaves, that ye hae\nstood or wandered wi' me, frae the time that the sun gaed down, until\nthe sea-birds and the craws sailed owre our heads seeking for their food\non the next morning?--and now ye tell me ye canna bide wi' me! O Judith!\nye hae dune what has made my heart miserable, and what will mak yer ain\nas miserable?\" And as he spoke he still held her hand.\n\n\"Let me gang, Gemmel,\" she again sobbed, and struggled to wrest her hand\nfrom his grasp--\"I hae naething to say to ye.\"\n\n\"Then ye will leave me, Judith!\" he cried, wildly--\"leave me for ever,\nwi' a withered heart and a maddened brain!\" She answered him not, but\nstill wept and struggled the more to escape from him.\n\n\"Then gang, Judith!\" he cried, and flung her hand from him, \"but beware\nhoo we meet again!\"\n\nSome months after this, and when the harvest-moon shone full on the\nfields of golden grain, and the leaves rustled dry and embrowned upon\nthe trees, there was a sound of voices in a wood which overhung the\nTweed near Coldstream. They were the voices of Walter the heir of Riccon\nand of Judith.\n\n\"Leave,\" said he, \"dear Judith, leave this wandering life, and come wi'\nme, and ye shall be clad in silks, dearest, hae servants to wait on ye,\nand a carriage to ride in!\"\n\n\"Ah!\" she sighed, \"but a wandering life is a pleasant life; and, if I\nwere to gang wi' ye, would ye aye be kind to me, and love me as you do\nnow?\"\n\n\"Can ye be sae cruel as doubt me, Judith?\" was his reply.\n\n\"Weel,\" returned she, \"it was for yer sake that I left Gemmel Graeme, wha\nis a bald and a leal lad, and one that I once thought I liked weel. Now,\nI dinna understand about your priests and your books, but will ye come\nbefore my faither and my mother, and the rest o' oor folk, and before\nthem swear that I am yer lawfu' wife, the only lady o' Riccon Ha', and I\nwill gang wi' ye?\"\n\n\"My own Judith, I will!\" replied Walter, earnestly.\n\n\"You will not!\" exclaimed a loud and wild voice, \"unless over the dead\nbody of Gemmel Graeme!\"\n\nAt the same moment a pistol flashed within a few yards of where they\nstood, and Walter the heir of Riccon fell with a groan at the feet of\nJudith. Her screams rang through the woods, startling the slumbering\nbirds from the branches, and causing them to fly to and fro in\nconfusion. Gemmel sprang forward, and grasped her hand. \"Now, fause\nane,\" he cried, \"kiss the lips o' yer bonny bridegroom!--catch his\nspirit as it leaves him! Hang roond his neck and haud him to yer heart\ntill his corpse be cauld! Noo, he canna hae ye, and I winna!\nFareweel!--fareweel!--fause, treacherous Judith!\"\n\nThus saying, and striking his forehead, and uttering a loud and bitter\nscream, he rushed away.\n\nJudith sank down by the dead body of Walter, and her tears fell upon his\nface. Her cries reached the encampment, where her parents and others of\nher race were. They hastened to the wood from whence her cries\nproceeded, and found her stretched upon the ground, her arms encircling\nthe neck of the dead. They raised her in their arms, and tried to soothe\nher, but she screamed the more wildly, and seemed as one whose senses\ngrief has bewildered.\n\n\"Judith,\" said her father, \"speak to me, bairn--wha has done this? Was\nit----\"\n\n\"Gemmel!--wicked Gemmel!\" she cried; and in the same breath added, \"No!\nno!--it wasna him! It was me!--it was me! It was fause Judith.\"\n\nGemmel Graeme, however, had dropped his pistol on the ground when he\nbeheld his victim fall, and one of the party taking it up, they knew him\nto be the murderer. Lussha Fleckie, touched by his daughter's grief, and\ndisappointed by his dream of vain ambition being broken, caused each of\nhis party to take a vow that they would search for Gemmel Graeme, and\nwhosoever found him should take blood for blood upon his head.\n\nAnd they did search, but vainly, for Gemmel was no more heard of.\n\nTwelve months passed, and autumn had come again. A young maniac mother,\nwith a child at her breast, and dressed as a gipsy, endeavoured to cross\nthe Tweed between Norham and Ladykirk. The waters rose suddenly, and as\nthey rose she held her infant closer to her bosom, and sang to it; but\nthe angry flood bore away the maniac mother and her babe. She was\nrescued and restored to life, though not to reason, but the child was\nseen no more.\n\nFor thirty years the poor maniac continued at intervals to visit the\nfatal spot, wandering by the river, stretching out her arms, calling on\nher child, saying, \"Come to me--come to yer mother, my bonny bairn, for\nye are heir o' Riccon, and why should I gang shoeless amang snaw! Come\nto me--it was cruel Gemmel Graeme that murdered yer bonny faither--it\nwasna me!\"\n\nIt was in January the body of a grey-haired woman, covered with a\ntattered red cloak, was found frozen and dead, below Norham Castle. It\nwas the poor maniac Judith, the once beautiful gipsy. Some years\nafterwards, an old soldier, who had been in foreign wars, came to reside\nin the neighbourhood, and on his death-bed requested that he should be\nburied by the side of Judith, and the letters G. G. carved on a stone\nover his grave.\n\n\n\n\nTHE DROICH.\n\n\nOn the evening of that eventful day which saw Patrick Hamilton, Abbot of\nFerne, the young and learned Scotch proto-martyr to the Protestant\nfaith, bend his head and resign his soul at the burning stake, in the\nhead-quarters of Scottish superstition--St Andrews--a young man was\nslowly bending his steps from the scene of execution towards his home, a\ngood many miles distant. The effect produced by that day's proceedings\nwas, as is well known, felt throughout all Scotland, where the scene of\nmartyrdom was, as yet, one of these _mira nova_ which startle a country,\nand extort from the innermost recesses of the heart thoughts and\nfeelings as new as intense. In the case of Hamilton, there were many\nfeatures calculated, in an eminent degree, to strike deep into the minds\nof a sympathetic and meditative people; and doubtless, his birth,\ndescended from the royal house of Albany--his learning, derived from the\ndeep wells of Mair's philosophy--and his extreme youth--were not the\nleast impressive; yet there was something in the mere _manner_ of his\ndeath--abstracted even from the species of immolation not altogether new\nto Scotland, cruelly mangled, as he was, by an awkward or cold-blooded\nexecutioner--that deepened and riveted the effect produced by the\nextraordinary scene of his martyrdom. If casual or merely curious\nspectators might dream of that scene till their dying hour, we may form\nsome estimate of what the friend and college companion of the\nmartyr--for such was the young man whom we have now introduced to the\nreader--felt and thought, as, with eyes bent on the ground, he\nprosecuted his journey homewards, after witnessing the execution. Imbued\nhimself with the spirit of the new faith, he had that day seen it\nproved, in a manner little less than miraculous. One of the softest and\ngentlest of mankind, who would have shrunk from the sight of pain\ninflicted on the meanest of God's creatures, had been enabled, by\ncelestial influence, to stand, in the midst of a scorching and\ndestroying fire, undaunted, unmoved, with smiles on his countenance, and\nwords of exhortation on his lips. The feelings of the religionist were\nroused and sublimed by the contemplation of one of heaven's marvels; but\nthe pity of the man and the friend was not lost in the admiration of the\nheaven-born fortitude that simulated total relief from bodily agony.\nTears filled the eyes of the youth, and were wiped away only to rise\nagain with the recurring thoughts of the various stages of the trial and\ntriumph of his beloved friend. He had already wandered a considerable\ndistance; but the space bore no proportion to the time occupied; for he\nhad sat down often by the roadside, hid his face in his hands, and been\nlost in a species of charmed contemplation of images at which he\nshuddered.\n\nWhile yet some miles from the end of his journey, the shades of night\nbegan to fall over the undulating heights that form the end of the Ochil\nchain to the west; but, as yet, the sun, the only object seen in the\nwhole horizon, appeared in full disk, red and lurid, like the mass of\nember-faggots which, some hours before, lay in the street of St Andrews,\nsurmounted by the blackened corpse of the martyr. The traveller turned\nhis eye in the direction of the luminary; but quickly passed his hand\nover his brow, from an instinctive feeling of horror, as a dim wreath of\ncloud, stretching along the superior part of the fiery circle, seemed to\nrealise again, in solemn magnificence, the sight he had witnessed. The\naltitude of the object which suggested the resemblance, with the\ngorgeousness in which it was arrayed, again claimed the aspiring\nthought, that the spirit of his friend, sublimed by the doctrines of\nthe new faith, was even then journeying to the spheres which he\ncontemplated. The final triumph of the martyr was completed in the scene\nof his agonies; and the seal of eternal truth was, by God's finger,\nimprinted on the doctrines he had published and explained in the midst\nof the melting fire of the furnace. Placing his hand in his breast, he\ndrew forth the beautiful Latin treatise which his friend had composed on\nthe subject of the justification of the sinner, through a believing\nfaith in Him who was foretold from the beginning of time; and, sitting\nagain down by the side of a hedge, he struggled, in the descending\ntwilight, to store his mind with some of those precepts which were\ndestined to claim the reverence of an enlightened world. He was soon\nlost in the rapt meditation in which the spirits of the early reformers\nrejoiced amidst the persecution with which they were surrounded, and was\nagain in regions brighter than those of this world, in communion with\nhim who, when the flames were already crackling among the faggots, cried\nout, \"Behold the way to everlasting life!\" From the exalted sphere of\nhis dreamy cogitations he looked down with a contempt which, as his head\nreclined among the grass, might have been observed curling the lip of\nindignant scorn, upon all the thousand corruptions of the Old\nChurch--its sold indulgences, its certified beatifications, its pardons,\nits soul-redeeming masses, its chanting music, its sins, and its\nineffectual mortifications. The bright spirit of Christianity, arrayed\nin her pure garment of white, was before the view of his fancy; her\nclear seraphic eye beamed through his soul: and, with finger pointed to\nheaven, she invited him to brave the pile and the persecution of men,\nand gain the crown which was now encircling the temples of Hamilton. He\nthought he could then have died as his friend had perished, and that the\npangs of the circling flames would have been felt by him merely as the\nsmart pungency of a healing medicament, which the patient rejoices in as\nthe means of acquiring health.\n\nHow long he remained under the influence of this beatific vision he knew\nnot himself. He had fallen asleep. He opened his eyes: the sun had now\ngone down into the western main; and all that was left of his glory was\na thin stream of wavy light, which, shooting across the dark firmament,\nlooked like the wake of the passing spirit of his friend on its journey\nto heaven. He arose. The searching dews of evening had penetrated to his\nskin; a cold shiver shot through his frame; and again, clutched by the\nhumbling and levelling harpies of worldly feelings, fears, and\nexperiences, he felt all the terror of his former sensations when he\nbeheld the corpse of the martyr sink with a crash among the embers,\nwhich, as they received the body, sent forth a cloud of hissing,\ncrackling sparkles of fire, mixed with a dense cloud of smoke.\n\n\"Alas! this spirit of mine is strong only in dreams,\" he muttered to\nhimself, as the shiver of the night air passed over him. \"It is as the\neagle of Bencleugh, which, with his eye in the sun and his feet under\nhis tail-plumes, will resist the storms that shiver the pines of the\nOchils; yet bring him to earth, and draw one feather from his wing, and\nhe can only raise a streperous noise amidst the sweltering suffocation\nof his earth-crib.\"\n\nHe had scarcely uttered the words, when he saw the short, thick figure\nof a man coming along the road, enveloped in a gown, and bearing a stick\nlike a thraw-crook in his hand. Starting to his feet, he stood, for a\nmoment, to see if he could recognise the individual.\n\n\"Good even to ye, young Master o' Riddlestain,\" said the individual, as\nhe came up, and was recognised by the youth--\"good even to ye; and God\nsend ye a warmer bed than the hedge-beild, and a caulder than ane o'\nbleezing faggots.\"\n\n\"Good even, Carey,\" replied the youth. \"I return your salutation. The\none lair, as a beadsman of Pittenweem, you may have experienced ere now;\nthe other you stand in small fears of. From St Andrews, if I can judge\nfrom your allusion to the sad doings of to-day in that part?\"\n\n\"Ye guess right,\" replied the beadsman, as they proceeded forward, side\nby side; \"but how could you guess wrang, when every outlyer and\nrinner-about in the East Neuk has been this day at the head-quarters o'\nprelacy. A strange day and a selcouth sight for auld een. It's no often\nthat Carey Haggerston carries a fu' ee and a fu' wallet.\"\n\n\"Then you were moved by the fate of poor Hamilton, Carey?\" replied the\nyouth.\n\n\"And wha, Papist or heretic, could stand yon sight wi' dry een?\" replied\nthe man, in a voice that trembled in the sinews of his throat. \"I wad\nhae gien a' the bodles the prelates threw me--the mair by token, I\nthink, that the puir callant was writhing in the fire-flaughts o' their\nanger--for ae stroke wi' this kevel at the head o' yon culroun caitiff\no' an executioner. The bonny youth was roasted as if he'd been a capon\nfor the table o' the cardinal, only there was mair smoke than might hae\nsuited his lordship's palate, I reckon.\"\n\n\"You have got a good awmous, Carey, will sleep sound, and think nothing\nof it on the morrow?\" said the youth.\n\n\"Anster Fair was naething to it,\" replied the beadsman. \"The scene\nseemed to open the hearts o' prelates and priors, that never gave a\nplack to a bluegown before. I held up the corner o' my gown beneath the\nchapel o' the cardinal, and, sure enough, there were mair groats than\ntears fell into it. Ah, sir, though my wallet was yape, my heart was\nyouden. But we're near the haugh road to Riddlestain, Master Henry, and,\nas the night is loun and light, I carena though I step up past the\nQuarryheugh wi' ye.\"\n\n\"You may expect small alms from the Droich,\" said Henry.\n\n\"No muckle, I daresay,\" replied the bluegown; \"but I stand in nae fear\no' him, and that's mair than the bauldest heart o' the East Neuk can\nsay. I wad stroke the lang hair o' the creature any day for an awmous,\nunearthly as he is.\"\n\n\"Know you aught of this extraordinary being, Carey?\" said the youth, as\nthey turned up the haugh loan.\n\n\"Ye're no the first nor the hundredth that has put that question to the\nbeadsman,\" replied the other, as he looked up with a side-glance in the\nface of the questioner. \"Everybody thinks I should ken auld Mansie o'\nthe Quarryheugh--the mair by token, I fancy, that naebody on earth kens\nmair o' him than just that he is a hurklin, gnarled carle, wha cam to\nthe Quarryheugh some months syne, and biggit, wi' his ain hands, a beild\nwhich has mair banes than stanes in its bouk.\"\n\n\"I know more of him myself than that, Carey,\" said the young man.\n\n\"What ken ye?\" rejoined the other, with a laugh.\n\nHenry's silence was probably meant as a quickener of the beadsman's\ngarrulity.\n\n\"Ye may ken, maybe,\" said the other, \"that he speels the sides o' the\nQuarryheugh--that is, whar there are trees to haud by--like a squirrel,\nswinging frae ae ryss to anither, and sometimes dangling over the deep\npool aneath him, like a showman's signboard, or a gammon frae the\nkitchen ciel o' the Priory o' Pittenweem; but the creature's legs are\nnae bigger than an urchin's, while his trunk and arms are like the knur\nand branches of an oak. What ken ye mair o' him? What kens ony ane mair\no' him, an it bena that he has been seen, in the moonlight, howking the\nbanes o' the dead Melvilles o' Falconcleugh frae the side o' the quarry,\nwhar it marches wi' the howf o' the auld house that stands by the brink?\nAn auld wife's tale, doubtless, though maybe he needed the banes for his\nbiggin.\"\n\n\"I believe the people in these parts would know more of him, were they\nnot afraid to go near him,\" said the youth. \"They stand peeping over the\nquarry brink at him, as if he were the 'gudeman of the croft,' Mahoun\nhimself.\"\n\n\"And nae ferly either, Henry,\" said Carey; \"for his face speaks as\nclearly o' the skaith o' fire as did that o' Patrick Hamilton when yon\ngust o' wind drove the flames to the east, and showed his cheeks--sae\npale, alace! and like a delicate leddy's, as they ance were--burnt as\nbrown as the wa's o' Falconcleugh House there.\"\n\nThe two speakers had now arrived at the old mansion of the Melvilles,\nwhich stood on the brink of the deep crater, whose high sides had\nprocured for it the appellation of the Quarryheugh. At the side or end\nnext the chasm, rose, beetling over it, a high turret, perforated in\nseveral storeys by small embrasures, and surrounded by three tiers of\nbartisans. From this flanking strength, the two side walls--relieved, at\nintervals, by circular projections containing spiral stairs--ran back,\nand were terminated by an ordinary gable, the inclined sides of which\nwere cut in gradually-receding steps. The care which seemed to have been\ntaken in securing the casements by closed shutters within, indicated,\nmore certainly than did the general appearance of the withered house,\nthat, though unoccupied, it was still deemed suitable for serving the\nuses of a dwelling, and that the choughs and stannyels that perched on\nits roofs were mere tenants at will, and might be removed on a day's\nwarning. For a considerable distance around, there was nothing to be\nseen but a bare heath, the dark brown aspect of which suggested the\nprobability of its having been swept by the destroying flames of\nmuirburn. Even the few straggling boulders that shot up their grey heads\nthrough the scanty gorse stems, springing from their bases, wore a\nblack, scathed appearance, as if they had still retained the traces of\nthe ravage of the sweeping scourge. Hidden, except to near gazers amidst\nthis wild waste, and shelving down from the tower of the mansion, the\nchasm or quarry, in the form of a huge crater, lay deep and still, with\na dark mass of greenish-hued water reposing like another Dead Sea in its\nbosom. Around two sides of it, where there was a sufficiency of soil to\nsupport them, grew a number of stunted pines, the heads of none of which\nappeared above the superior circle; but, dipping down, added to the\ndarkness of the water beneath, by the shadows they flung over its\nsurface. At the eastern part, and where the pines in that direction\nended, there seemed to have fallen down a large portion of the\nsuperincumbent bank, whereby there was formed a species of island, whose\nnearer edge might be about ten feet from the bank from which it had been\nsevered.\n\nOn this insular spot, which was now accessible from the mainland by\nmeans of two pine trunks thrown across and wattled together, lived the\nextraordinary individual whose form and habits had, in the conversation\nof the two speakers, been, in a partial manner, described. The small\ndomicile he had reared for himself was entirely composed of materials\nsupplied by the chasm in which it was situated, and constructed in the\nrudest manner of a self-taught artist, whose object was to shield\nhimself from the inclemency of the weather, without any view to\ncomforts, which he either despised, or deemed it unsafe or improper to\nindulge. It was, indeed, a mere rough shieling, with four walls,\ncomposed of rubble stones, mixed with--what probably excited more wonder\nthan all the other supernatural attributes of the place, and the being\nhimself--a due proportion of bones, collected from the cemetery of the\nfamily of Falconcleugh House, which had, on some disruption of the sides\nof the chasm, been laid open on its western side. The roof was supported\nby one or two rough trunks of pines, thrown in a slanting direction\nacross, and composed of small twigs and leaves, wattled and compressed\nin such a manner as to save the inmate from a part, at least, of\nheaven's more profuse inundations.\n\nThe bare and scorched wilderness around, over which the eyes of the\nbeadsman and his companion were wandering, as they approached the scene\nof their conversation, had now resigned its embrowned hue, for the not\nless dreary and mystic tinge of the blue light of the young moon, as she\nstruggled with the falling darkness. The circumstances of the still\nunseen chasm being tenanted by the only living mortal within the\ncircumference of the bleak waste, and he himself, calculated, by his\nunusual formation of body, and imputed mystic powers and attributes, to\naid the pregnant associations connected with his lonely condition, was,\nby those acquainted with the locality of Falconcleugh Muir, naturally\ncombined with the dismal celebrity of the place for these deeds of\nviolence so common at that period in Scotland. Whatever may have been\nfelt by his less imaginative companion, whose familiarity with the overt\nproceedings of the occult powers of the waste and the ruin may have\nblunted his perceptions of the supernatural, it is at least certain, and\nassuredly no marvel either, that Henry Leslie surveyed the scene around\nhim with the feelings natural to the time and the country when and where\nhe lived. The dark figure of the house rose before him, claiming the\nhomage due to the genius of the place, where it was almost the only\nobject that arrested the eye. Replete in itself with the elements of\ngloomy associations, connected with the fate of the once happy Melvilles\nwho resided there, it threw a wizard power over the surrounding\nheath-waste, investing the bleak inanity of Nature's most negative\ncondition with an interest which could not have been possessed by her\nmultiform productions. The absence of material objects of thought lent\neven a species of positive character of inspissated essence to the blue\nhaze of the atmosphere, which seemed to hang like a mighty sea in the\ndeepest stillness of nature's silence. For some time, neither of the\nparties had uttered a word. The brush of their feet on the heath, and\nthe sound of their breath, were intensified by the silence into noises\nthat to the younger of the two seemed startling and painful.\n\n\"Hooly, hooly,\" muttered the beadsman, as his last step brought him to\nthe chasm; \"loun and canny, young master--loun and lightly,\" he added,\nas he sat down on what seemed to have been a step of a ruined porch,\nclose by the building, and by the brink of the shelving heugh. \"Eh! but\nthis silence is gousty and elric. That corbie's grane was like the roar\nof a lion. Didna ye think the drum o' yer ear would crack wi' the\nsound?\"\n\nHenry seated himself by the bluegown on the stone, and they both turned\ntheir eyes down on the deep hollow, where the waters seemed as dark as\nthe Stygian stream.\n\n\"I hear nae stir in the howe,\" said the beadsman, \"and see naething but\nthat rickle o' a house standing on that eerie pinnacle, like a craw's\nnest on the tap o' a tree in a glen. The creature's surely sleeping\nafter his day's wark; for he works like a dergar, and nae man kens what\nat. He maks neither wicker corbins nor quhorls, like the rest o' his\nDroich species.\"\n\n\"Hist! Carey; heard ye not a noise?\" said the youth.\n\n\"A hungry stane hawk spooming down the quarry after some raven that has\nbeen picking the banes o' the Melvilles,\" replied the other.\n\"Wear-awins! there's a sad change on Falconcleugh now,\" he continued, as\nhe turned his face to the walls. \"The fire o' the ha' has been eighteen\nyears extinguished; and when it may be lighted again, it will be to warm\nfremmet blude o' the spoiler o' the auld family. Heard ye that Gilbert\nBlackburn o' Kingsbarns, the commendator o' Pittenweem, is shortly to\ntak up his residence here, whar, methinks, he has as little right as the\npuir beadsman.\"\n\n\"No,\" replied Henry, as, keeping his eye on the house of the strange\ninhabitant, he lent his ear to the gaberlunzie man.\n\n\"It is even so,\" continued the old man. \"It is now eighteen years, come\nthe time, since George Melville, the last o' his ancient race, was\nburned for a heretic in Bordeaux. He was driven frae that mansion there,\nand the braw lands o' Falconcleugh, by Gilbert Blackburn, the persecutor\no' the heretics, even he wha had a hand in raising the black stake at\nthe cross o' St Andrews the day. I saw his ee, red as the burning\nfaggots, fixed on the puir youth. I'm thinking I didna thank him for his\nawmous.\"\n\n\"You seem friendly to the heretics, Carey, yet live by the kirk,\" said\nthe youth, withdrawing his eye from the chasm.\n\n\"The kirk's penny has as mony placks in't as a heretic's--the mair by\ntoken, they hae baith three,\" replied Carey. \"I hae my ain thoughts o'\nthe auld faith and the new doctrines; but it's better to live by the\naltar than be burned on't.\"\n\n\"It might have been well for the earthly part of Patrick Hamilton, had\nhe observed your worldly wisdom,\" said Henry.\n\n\"Ay; but his soul wadna hae been in yon blue lift the night,\" replied\nCarey, looking up to the sky. \"Na, na, nor might that o' puir\nFalconcleugh have been there afore him, if he had bowed his head at the\nauld altar. Yet _he_ tried to save his body by fleeing to France--vain\nflight, for his persecutor, Kingsbarns, wrote incontinent to the\nauthorities at Bordeaux, to watch him as an enemy to the holy kirk. Then\ncam the sough, as pleasant to the ears o' Kingsbarns as the whistlin'\nwinds to the outlaying bluegowns, that his victim was burned. His bonny\nwife, ane o' the Blebos, wha fled wi' him, died o' a broken heart; and\nnow, they say, the race is dune. Whist! whist! Gude and the rude! What's\nthe creature doing amang the trees o' the howe at this time o' nicht?\"\n\nA rustling noise arrested the ears of the speakers, and Henry's eye was\nturned in the direction of the sound. The short stunted figure of a man\nwas dimly seen down among the pines, working his way along the face of\nthe precipice, by means of his arms alone, swinging from one stem to\nanother, and occasionally resting for a moment, by remaining suspended,\nin an apparently dangerous and fearful, yet perfectly composed manner,\nover the water in the deep basin of the crater. Continuing this\noperation, in which there was clearly exercised an extraordinary\nbrachial power and energy, he approached, with marvellous rapidity, his\ndwelling; and, by one or two more salient movements, in which there\ncould not be observed, any more than in his prior progress, the\nslightest use made of his inferior extremities, he came to the wattled\ntrunks lying across the cleft. Seizing these with the same extraordinary\npower of grasp, he hung for a few seconds in mid-air, suspended by the\nhands; then, by two or three successive throws and jerks, which made the\npines bend and creak, he reached the insular height whereon his hovel\nwas erected, and drawing himself up, he sat down, apparently in a\nresting attitude, upon the brink of the riven bank. In this position he\nremained for a considerable time, with his head bent downwards, as if he\nwere wrapped in deep meditation. The rough croaking of some crows that\nhad been disturbed by the rustling movements he had made among the pines\nceased, and, in the hushed silence that again reigned over the bleak\nwaste, there might have been heard his deep inspirations, as he drew\nbreath after his exertions. Turning round, and applying himself again to\nhis hands, he began to move along on the narrow space between the walls\nof his house and the edge of the height, making his arms the principal\ninstruments of his progress, and using his short inferior extremities as\nsubserving agents. The motion thus produced seemed to be a compromising\nmedium between the crawl and the spasmodic jump of a wounded quadruped;\nyet he made rapid progress; went round the small dwelling, and was seen\nagain at the other side in an attitude which showed, that, however\nineffectual his lower limbs might be in the operation of ambulation,\nthey could yet support his broad, thick-set trunk. Standing erect, he\nexhibited an elevation of about four feet and a-half, a stature\nwhich--in an individual of corresponding dimensions in other\nmembers--might not have been sufficient to entitle him to enter the pale\nof the \"Droichs;\" but, when viewed in relation to the almost gigantic\nbreadth of his chest and shoulders, the troll-like size of his head, and\nthe extreme length of his arms, could not fail, when seen through the\nmedium of the moonlight, and in the locality of a blasted heath-waste,\nto suggest a relationship to some of the stout \"elfin\" of Scandinavian\nfable.\n\nThe two spectators felt all the charm of the feelings of the\nsupernatural in watching the motions of the eremite; and, probably--in\nso far, at least, as regarded the younger of the two--the interest was\ndeepened by their total inability to understand his motions, as, having\nlooked steadfastly for a few minutes down into the chasm, he again\nbetook himself to his quadrupedal amble; entered his hut, and emerged\nwith something in the form of a large volume--the brass clasps of which\nglittered in the moonlight--bound to his waist. The small space between\nthe door and the end of the wattled trunks he cleared by a series of\nshort, rapid, bounding strides, without the aid of his arms; and\nthrowing his body again on the ground, he remained in that position for\na few minutes, after which he again seized the end of the trunks, swung\nhimself along them, and entered among the trees. The dark figure of his\nbody was now indistinctly seen moving, by the same jerking, propulsive\nthrows, from tree to tree, by which he had cleared the space before;\nand, getting beneath the shadow of the mansion, he disappeared from the\nview of the spectators, at the same time that the cracking of a branch,\namid the sound of a splash in the water, came upon their ears. They\nneither heard nor saw more of him. The deepest silence reigned\neverywhere; and the dreary scene seemed as if in an instant deprived of\nevery trace of living sound or motion, save the deep-drawn breath and\npalpitating throbs of the heart of the younger of the two observers.\nOvercome with the pressure of awe, he sat bound to his stone-seat, and\nturned his eye on the face of the beadsman, where he found an expression\nvery different from what he expected.\n\n\"Is the creature not down in that dreadful basin of pitchy waters?\"\nmuttered he.\n\n\"And if he were,\" replied Carey, as he twinkled his grey eye, unmoved,\nin the face of the youth, \"what would ye do, young Master o'\nRiddlestain? Seek him, as the baron did his brood-sow in the well, on\nthe top o' the towering Bech, and maybe find mair than ye want--a farrow\no' young water elfs? Na, na! let him alane--he'll no drown. He's maybe\neven now kissing some water queen in the bottom o' the loch.\"\n\nThe youth looked inquiringly in the face of the bluegown; but the same\nexpression was still there. He was sorely puzzled: the feelings of\nhumanity were throbbing in his heart in audible pulses. The old beggar\nwas in one of his humours, and held him by the skirt of his coat as he\nattempted to rise, while at the very moment, as he imagined, a human\nbeing was perishing in the waters. He sat breathless, with his ear\nchained to the abyss, and his eye searching in vain for some traces of\nmeaning in the face of his arch companion. The same hushed stillness\npervaded the scene of dreary desolation; neither the sound of a\ndeath-struggle nor of living motion could be distinguished, and it was\nas difficult to account for an individual endowed with life and the\ndesire of self-preservation drowning without a sigh or groan, as it was\nfor the sudden disappearance of every trace of a still living being in\nthe dismal abyss into which he had so mysteriously descended.\n\n\"It's a' owra now, at ony rate, Master Henry!\" said the bluegown, adding\nto the youth's perplexity by a hint so directly opposed to his prior\nconfidence, \"the deil mair o' a sound comes frae earth, water, or air,\nthan that croak o' a raven that even now flew o'er the quarry loch.\nWe'll e'en be seeking hame, I think. I hae back to the road to\nPittenweem to gae, and ye've a mile a-gate between ye and Riddlestain.\nGude e'en to ye!\"\n\nAnd, without even troubling himself to look over the quarry brink, the\nbeadsman began his ordinary half-trotting pace; and in a short time\nHenry saw him, in the distance, making rapid progress over the heath.\nMeanwhile he was himself at a loss what to think or what to do. The\nstrange manner of the beadsman led him at one time to suppose that he\nwas satisfied that no misfortune had occurred to the inhabitant of the\nquarry; and at another, his parting words, joined to the inexplicable\ndisappearance of the extraordinary individual, inclined him to an\nopposite belief, and filled him with painful feelings of\nself-crimination for not having rendered a timely assistance in behalf\nof a fellow-creature. He could not yet move himself from the spot.\nPlacing himself on his breast, he looked over the brink of the chasm,\ngazing through between the trees on the deep, sullen pool, which, like a\nsleeping monster, satiated with prey, lay as still as death. His ears\nwere not less occupied: for a space, not less than half-an-hour, he lay\nin this position, without seeing or hearing the slightest indication of\nanything that might solve the mystery. He was enveloped in the gloom of\nhis own personal experiences of the day. The thoughts of the calcinated\ncorpse of Hamilton, and the speaking spirit of the wild place where he\nlay, all combined with the painful feelings of the inquiry in which he\nwas engaged to render his mind susceptible of morbid influences, and\nfecundative of supernatural creations of awe. He resolved frequently to\nrise suddenly to escape from the depressing yet charmed influence of the\nplace, and the inexplicable circumstances connected with it, and\nresolved, on the following moment, to endure still the creeping\nsensations of fear that run over him, in the hope of getting the mystery\ncleared up. His watch, however, still proved ineffectual. More time\npassed, but the silence continued unbroken by any sound, save,\noccasionally, the flap of a night-bird's wing, as it floated past, or\nthe dying scream of a victim, awakened to die in the talons of the hawk.\nRising, at length, he cast another look over the chasm, and bent his\nsteps to Riddlestain.\n\nWhen he reached home, he found his parents waiting impatiently for him.\n\n\"It is all over,\" said he, as he sat down, and covered his face with his\nhands. \"The martyr has received his crown. God have mercy on us who are\nof the new faith!\"\n\n\"And we are in danger from the commendator Blackburn,\" replied old\nRiddlestain. \"He has taken the lands of Falconcleugh; and he will not be\ncontented till he get Riddlestain also. Where is the martyr's treatise\non the saving efficacy of faith? You took it with you to day to St.\nAndrews.\"\n\n\"Here, here,\" replied Henry, as he searched his bosom for the brochure.\n\"No, no--it is gone!\" he continued, as he rose and looked wildly around\nhim. \"I was reading it by the wayside; and, overcome with fatigue and\nsuffering, I reclined, and slept--and now I find the book is gone. What\nmay come of this, when our enemies are ranging the land with the fiery\nfaggot?\"\n\n\"Saw you no one by the way?\" said the father.\n\n\"Only Carey, the wandering beadsman of Pittenweem,\" replied the son.\n\n\"Seek him--seek him, ere you sleep, Henry! Our lives depend on your\nrecovering that book, which they call heretical, because it shows us the\ntrue way to that place where priests have no power. But the way it leads\nis through earthly flames, and we are not yet so well prepared for that\nordeal as he who passed to-day.\"\n\nThe young man flew out of the house, and taking his way again past\nFalconcleugh, without stopping to know more certainly the fate of the\ninhabitant of the quarry, he was hurrying on in the direction which he\nsupposed had been taken by the bluegown, when he heard a noise, as if of\nthe opening of a door of the old mansion. The sound startled him, and he\nreturned and placed himself in the shade of the walls. In a few minutes,\nhe saw the old beadsman, who he thought had betaken himself to his\nquarters at Pittenweem, come forth, in the company of a young woman\nrolled up in a cloak. They hurried onwards as if afraid of discovery;\nand Henry, following them, traced them to the small cottage of Mossfell,\nabout a half-a-mile distant from Falconcleugh. \"My own Margaret again at\nFalconcleugh at a late hour,\" muttered the youth to himself, as he saw\nthe young woman part with the bluegown, and betake herself to the\ncottage, while Carey proceeded on his way to Pittenweem. The youth\nallowed him to continue his course until he came to the spot where he\nhad been reading the book. He then made up to him.\n\n\"Thus far only on your way, Carey?\" said he, as he overtook him.\n\n\"Nae farther, Master Henry,\" was the reply, accompanied by a\nscrutinising twinkle of the beadsman's eye, as if to ascertain whether\nthe questioner had noticed his proceedings. \"But what has brought you\nagain frae Riddlestain, at this late hour?\"\n\n\"It is not to ask you what I know you will not tell me, Carey--the\nsecret of Mansie of the Quarryheugh, and whether he be now in the bottom\nof the waters. I am myself in danger; and would know if you met any one\non the road to-night, ere you came up to me?\"\n\nAs he spoke, he proceeded to search for the heretical tract.\n\n\"So it was you,\" said the beadsman, \"from whom, when sleepin by the\nroadside, was ta'en the written heresy that Blackburn's clerk, Geordie\nDempster, was busy reading to his fellow-traveller, John o' the Priory,\nin Dame M'Gills, at the Haughfoot. The body o' young Riddlestain will be\na cinder ere the sun has gane twelve times owre the East Neuk. If the\ncommendator got Melville o' Falconcleugh burned in France, will he,\nthink ye, hae ony great difficulty in getting Henry Leslie burned in\nScotland?\"\n\n\"Your words carry fire in them, Carey; but I have not said that the book\nwas mine.\"\n\n\"There's nae occasion for the admission,\" replied the bluegown,\n\"especially to ane wha lives by the auld kirk, and maybe ought, even\nnow, to turn his face to St. Andrews, to evidence against you. You may\nbe safe at Riddlestain for this night, but scarcely owre the morn. I\nwill gie ye warnin, if ye will trust me.\"\n\n\"I will,\" replied Henry.\n\nAnd the bluegown, waving his wand, continued on his journey, while the\nyoung man turned his steps, in fear, towards home. He again came to the\ncottage of Mossfell, and stood before the door. Margaret Bethune resided\nthere, under the protection of old Dame Craigie. She was reputed an\norphan; and, as such, she had secured the interest of the family at\nRiddlestain. By other claims she had secured the affection of the son;\nand never, until this night, had he observed in her conduct aught that\nexcited any other feeling than love and respect, nor had what he had\nwitnessed in any material degree altered the opinion he had formed of\nher. Yet, what object had she to serve by visiting the dark chambers of\nFalconcleugh with a wandering bluegown, at so late an hour of the night.\nHe had heard from the servants at Riddlestain that she had been seen\nstealing from the old mansion at late hours; but she had uniformly\navoided his inquiries for information. On this occasion, she might have\ngone to inquire as to the fate of Mansie, who had, apparently, been\nplunged into the waters. Yet why did the beadsman avoid the subject, and\nnot offer satisfaction on a matter of importance to any one possessed of\na spark of humanity? The danger of his own situation did not prevent him\nfrom indulging in these thoughts; and, as he stood and listened, he\nascertained that the inmates had not gone to bed.\n\n\"I will see,\" he muttered, \"whether Margaret and her old friend observe\nthe same silence.\"\n\nAnd he rapped at the door. He got admittance; and, seating himself by\nthe fire--\n\n\"I am disturbed,\" he said. \"As I returned this night from the scene of\nthe death of my friend, I stood, with old Carey the beadsman, over the\nquarry of Falconcleugh, watching the motions of the old cripple who\nlives in that strange place. We heard a plash in the waters, and saw no\nmore of him. Is it possible that he is drowned, and I, confused by\nselfish fears for my own safety, neglected to rouse my father's servants\nto make search for a fellow-creature.\"\n\nHe watched the countenance of Margaret as he spoke and finished. There\nwas no trace there of the effects of a sensibility which usually\nresponded to the minutest detail of suffering. He waited for her\nexplanation of the object of her own visit to the quarry, but none was\nforthcoming.\n\n\"Ye needna fear for auld Mansie,\" said the dame. \"If every plash o' a\nloose stane o' the auld wa's--ay, or a heughbane o' the auld Melvilles,\nor broken branch in the waters o' the quarry--were a sign o' his death,\ntwenty times has he dreed the doom.\"\n\n\"You spoke of your own danger, Henry,\" said Margaret, retreating from\nthe subject. \"Is it from the persecutors of our secret, holy faith, who\nhave this day burned Hamilton at St. Andrew's?\"\n\n\"It is--it is, Margaret,\" rejoined the youth, as he rose, dissatisfied\nat what he supposed a trait of disingenuousness or secret mystery. \"I\nmay be compelled to leave Scotland, if I would not follow my friend\nthrough the flames. But old Carey the beadsman, or Mansie the cripple,\nmay console you in my absence.\" And, with these words, he hastened to\nthe door.\n\n\"What mean you, Henry?\" said the girl, as she hastened after him, and\nstopped him, by seizing tremblingly his hand.\n\n\"Lovers have no secrets, Margaret,\" replied he. \"You might have told me\nat once that you and the beadsman were at Falconcleugh. Why, if it was\nnothing more but a compliance with the dictates of humanity, to see\nwhether or not, as we suspected, a fellow-creature had fallen into the\nbasin, where was the reason for secresy? I am now satisfied the Droich\nis safe. He is nothing to me more than to others, who stand, and stare,\nand wonder at so strange a being in so strange a place; but a straw in\nthe wind may tell us the direction of the argosy, and by this I may\nconvict you of a want of ingenuousness. To-morrow I may be in flight for\nmy life, in these tearful times, when the faggot surrounds the altar of\nthe true faith; and how could I trust one with my secret who denies me\nsatisfaction in a matter that concerns us scarcely more than it does the\nordinary people of the world.\"\n\n\"Who said that I was at Falconcleugh this night?\" answered she. \"Was it\nthe beadsman? Tell me Henry, am I betrayed by one of whom neither you\nnor I can deserve better? for he eats the unholy fruits of the faith he\npretends to disown.\"\n\n\"No; Carey is as secret as yourself,\" rejoined he; \"and, I hope, as true\nto me, who am also in his power.\"\n\n\"Thank God!\" ejaculated she, \"and now, Henry, if you love me, no more of\nFalconcleugh or its maimed inhabitant. Will you promise?\"\n\n\"You put me to an unfair test, Margaret. I will reply to you in the same\nspirit. Will you, if I am forced to fly my country, accompany me as my\nwife?\"\n\n\"I cannot,\" replied she. \"There is one here who claims the sacrifice to\nmy first love.\"\n\n\"Man or woman?\" inquired he.\n\n\"I cannot answer more,\" said she. \"The time is not come. When it is\ndecreed that the fire shall no longer burn on the street of St. Andrews,\nyou shall know all. Meanwhile, fly, if flight will save you; and take\nwith you the pledge that I am yours, in heart and spirit, in all that\nbelongs to true affection.\"\n\n\"So be it,\" he replied, hurriedly, and with a look of dissatisfaction.\n\"Farewell! and it may be for ever.\"\n\nWith these words he left the cottage, and hurrying to Riddlestain, gave\nan account of the dangerous situation in which he was placed. His father\nsaw the peril with perhaps a keener perception of the probable\nconsequences. The act of 1525 against heretics was in full force, and\nthe church authorities eked out its sanctions by wrested texts of\nScripture, with an ingenuity and thirst of blood that threatened\ndestruction to all heretics. It was resolved that Henry should be\nregulated by the warnings of the beadsman, whose sources of information\nwould enable him to save the son of his old friend from ruin, if not\ndeath. The night was passed by the inmates of Riddlestain with fearful\nforebodings, and next morning, and during a part of the day, Henry\nexpected a secret visit from the beadsman. As the evening approached, he\nventured forth to look for the bearer of intelligence, but as yet he\nwas not visible. The moon had risen, and was again flinging her beams\nover the muir of Falconcleugh, and the old mansion of the Melvilles\nstood in solemn darkness in the midst of the scene. Again he was\noccupied by the thoughts suggested by what he had seen on the previous\nnight, and what he had heard from Carey and Margaret, yet all his\nattempts to unravel their conduct and converse was unavailing, and he\nfelt half inclined to seek again the cottage at Mossfell, to put the\nmaiden to another test, while he would ease her mind of the reflections\nwhich the abrupt if not cruel terms of his departure would inevitably\nsuggest. In the midst of his reverie he was startled by a noise, and, on\nlooking round, he saw the dark figure of the inhabitant of the\nQuarryheugh coming along by his peculiar springing movement. He had\nnever before seen him beyond the precincts of the hollow where he had\ntaken up his residence; and felt as he might have felt on the approach\nof some being from another world. Every now and then the creature\nstopped, and beckoned him forwards, but Henry retained his position as\nif transfixed to the ground, and, in a short time, the hermit was by his\nside, with his face--which was covered with long hair, and the features\nalmost obliterated by scars--turned up to him in the full light of the\nmoon.\n\n\"The fires of other lands,\" said he, \"are as scorching as those of the\nScotch faggot. Thou wouldst yet fly to them, and leave the commendator\nBlackburn to seize Riddlestain, while thy father suffers the fate thou\nwouldst avoid.\"\n\n\"Let him remain,\" replied Henry, \"who has faith and fortitude to pass\nthrough the fiery ordeal. You did not, good Mansie, see Hamilton's\nblackened body sink among the blazing faggots.\"\n\nA half-suppressed groan rumbled in the throat of the Droich.\n\n\"What I have seen--what I have felt, thou may'st never know,\" said he.\n\"But see, there are the church emissaries already after thee.\"\n\nHenry looked round, and saw some horsemen scouring along the muir, at a\nconsiderable distance, in the direction of Riddlestain. Throwing himself\ndown on the heath to avoid being seen, he remained in that position for\na few minutes, and by the time he again lifted his head, his Mentor was\na considerable distance from him, working his progress forwards, on his\nhands and knees, with great effort. The next moment a hand was on his\nshoulder, and he shuddered with terror.\n\n\"I'm maybe owre late,\" said the beadsman. \"Quick, quick?--Blackburn and\nhis hounds are awa' to Riddlestain wi' a warrant to apprehend you.\"\n\nHenry followed the beadsman, who hurried on towards Falconcleugh.\n\n\"Now for your choice,\" said he. \"Auld Mansie was giein ye counsel,\nmaybe, to stay and stand your doom. What say ye--flight or flaught, an\nexile or an eizel?\"\n\n\"I am unresolved,\" replied the youth.\n\n\"And by the faith o' the auld kirk, ye hae muckle time to ponder.\nSee!--see! the bloodhounds have changed their course; their scent lies\nthis way.\"\n\n\"I am lost!\" ejaculated the young man.\n\n\"It maun be!--it maun be!\" responded the beadsman, as he stood by the\ndark walls of Falconcleugh mansion, and seemed to hesitate. \"There's\nnaeither mean. Here, here,\" he continued, as he descended some steps,\nand taking Henry by the arm, hurried him down, and then applied a key to\na low door of the mansion, which he opened.\n\n\"There, there,\" he muttered, as he pushed the youth into a dark chamber.\n\"I will turn their muzzles to the south.\"\n\nThe door was shut, and Henry immediately after heard the loud call of\nsome horsemen, inquiring of the beadsman whether he had not with him a\ncompanion.\n\n\"Beggars hae short acquaintanceships,\" replied the bluegown. \"The word\nawmous severs good company. Wha are ye after wi' the loose rein and the\nbloody spur?\"\n\n\"Henry Leslie, younger, of Riddlestain,\" replied one of the men.\n\"Whither has he gone?\"\n\n\"My een lack now their former licht,\" replied the beadsman, \"but if ye,\nwha are younger, look weel to the east, ye'll see something yonder\nthicker, I ween, than a munebeam. Ye ken what I mean. Ane wha has got an\nawmous frae his father canna speak plainer, even to the friends o' the\nauld kirk.\"\n\n\"Well said, old Carey,\" cried the men, as they set forth with redoubled\nspeed in the direction pointed out by the beggar.\n\nNow, left to himself in a dark chamber of the old mansion of the\nMelvilles, Henry began to look round him for some place where, in the\nevent of a search being there made for him, he might, with greater\nchance of success, elude their efforts. Mounting up a few steps, he\nreached a recess in the wall, which had once been enclosed by a door,\nthe hinges of which still adhered to the stones, and there he crouched,\nunder the gloom of an anxiety that pictured in the future the images of\nthe various forms of persecution to which the heretics of the time were\nexposed. There was scarcely any light in the chamber. The flapping of\nthe wings of bats, that had been adhering, in a state of torpor, to the\nroof, was the only sound that met his ear. A noisome damp pervaded the\natmosphere; and a creeping sensation ran over his flesh, which,\nco-operating with his fear and solitude, made him shiver. For two hours\nhe heard no indications of any one approaching the building; he began to\nthink of removing, while, now being dark he could escape to some greater\ndistance from his enemies; yet he deemed it a dubious measure, while the\nabsence of the beadsman augured danger from without. All was again\nstill: the bats had again betaken themselves to the walls and the roof,\nand the sound of a cricket might have been heard throughout the extent\nof the dreary chamber. At length the grating sound of the hinges of a\ndoor startled him, and he stretched forth his head to watch the\nmovement. The door opened, and a young woman, rolled up in a cloak,\ncautiously entered, taking from under her mantle a lantern, which she\nwaved round and round, as if to ascertain that there was no one within.\nShe then closed the door, and, proceeding to the side of the chamber\nnext the quarry, made some audible knocks upon the side of an opening,\nsomewhat of the form of a window, through which only a faint gleam of\nlight had been able to struggle. This done, she sat down on the floor,\nand sighed heavily, muttering broken sentences in which the name of him\nwho witnessed her strange proceedings could be distinguished. After a\nfew minutes, the trees of the Quarryheugh, agitated by some living\nimpulse, gave forth a rustling sound which, in the prevailing silence of\nthe still night, reached the interior, and was observed by the listener.\nThe movement continued, until the figure of the stunted inhabitant of\nthe quarry appeared at the aperture, and, by two or three convulsive\nefforts, he flung himself into the apartment. The light from the lamp\nfell upon the couple. The girl still sat on the floor, and her companion\nreclined by her side, throwing out his maimed limbs, and turning up his\nface--which might have been fraught with terror to another--in the\ncountenance of her who seemed to regard him with demonstrations of\naffection.\n\n\"Blackburn, the old enemy of our house, is forth again,\" said he; \"and\nyoung Riddlestain may fall. Are you prepared?\"\n\n\"It is to be hoped he will fly, father, and be yet saved to me,\"\nanswered she, sorrowfully, while she took some edibles from a small\ncorbin and placed them before him. Then drawing her hand over her\neyes--\"When is this wo and watching to cease?--when may I own my\nkindred, my love, and my faith?\"\n\n\"Weep not--weep not,\" said the other; \"or let it be up in the chamber of\nthy mother, whither I nightly drag those maimed and scorched limbs, that\nthe heart which burns for vengeance on the enemies of the Melvilles may\nbe quenched with the tribute of a love that mourns the dead. She cured\nthese fragments of members when rescued from the stake, that I might\ncome back to my country, a wreck whom none may recognise and all may\nscorn, but a daughter who must yet pity while she loves.\"\n\n\"Would that my love and my pity might be known,\" replied she. \"How often\nhave I asked permission to proceed to the court, to plead on my bended\nknees for relief to one who has already suffered what might expiate a\nthousand heresies--ay, more than death.\"\n\n\"While the commendator lives, it is vain, Margaret. I have waited for\nhim long, to show him, in the mansion of my fathers, what his power has\nachieved--ha! ha! I would do him homage as the holder of a pendicle of\nthe lands he has wrested from me--even the Quarryheugh. It is my duty.\nThese arms, which the fires spared, might yet let him feel the strength\nof a vassal who has no power to follow him to the wars against the\nfaithful.\"\n\n\"You fear me, father!\" ejaculated the girl, as she bent over him, while\nhe murmured, in growling accents, his threats. \"The commendator is a man\nof power, and may get finished what his agents so wofully left undone in\nyour exile.\"\n\n\"Power,\" groaned the other--\"power, when alone in this dark chamber with\nme, to whom yet is left these arms!\"\n\n\"Heaven keep him long away!\" replied Margaret; \"for your strength is a\nby-word to the creatures who gaze at you till they fly in fear from one\nthey deem supernatural. Hush--a door has opened above.\"\n\n\"Hie thee to Mossfell--quick--quick, child.\"\n\n\"Oh remember that you have a daughter!\" ejaculated she, as she\nretreated.\n\n\"And that I had a wife whom my wrongs killed--yea, that I had once the\nface and form of a man!\" he added, as he flung the fragments of victuals\nout of the window, and then swung himself out by the immense strength of\nhis arms.\n\nThe sound from above, which had thus startled the father and daughter,\nnow chained the ear of Leslie whose curiosity had been roused and\ngratified by the strange scene he had witnessed. Footsteps now sounded\noverhead; and, by and by, the tread was heard on the inside stairs\nleading to the lower apartment. At the same moment, the door from which\nMargaret had issued opened quickly, and the head of another individual\nwas presented. It was too dark for Leslie to ascertain who it was; but\nthe words \"Escape--fly,\" repeated hurriedly, satisfied him that it was\nthe beadsman who was thus making an effort to save him. It was too late;\nthe sound on the stairs indicated a near approach, and Leslie behoved to\nrun the risk of being captured where he was, rather than make an effort\nto escape, which would be too clearly ineffectual. Several individuals\nnow entered from the stair; and, by their statements, Leslie could\nperceive that they were in search of him.\n\n\"The bird, if ever here caged, has flown,\" cried one, as he approached\nthe door and found it open.\n\n\"Then he cannot be far off,\" said another. \"After him, and I shall wait\nhere that you may report progress.\"\n\nSeveral of the company immediately rushed to the door.\n\n\"Leave the light, Dempster,\" cried the voice of the last, and a man took\nfrom his cloak and placed on the floor a lantern. They were in an\ninstant gone, and he who was left began to pace along the dark room. He\nwas closely muffled up to the chin; and, as he continued to walk\nbackwards and forwards, he occasionally seized the folds of his riding\ncloak, and wrapped them round him, ejaculating broken statements, as his\nthoughts and feelings rose on the suggestion of his situation and\npursuits.\n\n\"I shall get Riddlestain for my pains,\" said he; \"ay, even as I have got\nFalconcleugh. The Church is a kind mother to her children; yet, has not\nthis gift been as yet useless to me? Why? Down, down, rebellious answer\nof a coward heart--I am not afraid to occupy the house of him who\nexpired in the flames by the condemnation which I accomplished. Now is\nthe test. The bones of the Melvilles lie white in the Quarryheugh. I am\nalone in their old residence, and tremble not.\"\n\nAnd, as he argued against his fears, he quickened his step, listening,\nat intervals, for sounds from without. Not altogether satisfied that he\nwas alone, he took the lantern and held it up so that the light might\npenetrate into the corners of the chamber.\n\n\"All is still, lonely, and dreary,\" said he again, as he approached the\nnorth wall, and placed his head in the aperture. He started. There was a\nface there such as man might not look on and be not afraid. The lantern\nfell from his hands, and lay on the floor unextinguished. Receding\nbackwards, and still keeping his eye on the object, he sought the low\ndoor on the west, and, finding it locked, betook himself to the stair,\nup which he flew with a rapidity corresponding with his fears; but it\nwas only to descend again in greater difficulty, after he essayed an\nexit in that direction in vain, against a door also locked.\n\n\"Oh! the Droich!\" at length he exclaimed, as if suddenly recollecting\nhimself, and affecting a composure well enough suited, probably, to his\ndiscovery, yet scarcely authorised by his finding himself a prisoner.\n\nAt the moment of his exclamation, the cripple bounded on the floor, and\nstood before him on his knees with his arms folded, and his scorched\nface reflecting the glimmer of the lantern that lay before him emitting\na weak light.\n\n\"Gilbert Blackburn!\" sounded in deep accents through the chamber. The\ncommendator recoiled and recovered himself.\n\n\"Mansie--so do the people call you,\"--said he, affecting conciliation,\n\"you are but an uncourteous vassal--taking up your habitation on\nanother's lands without leave, and startling your overlord by the humour\nof your gesture, while you should be paying his ground-fees.\"\n\n\"Mayhap, your honour,\" replied the cripple, \"may remit these on behalf\nof my misfortunes. See you these limbs, and this countenance? I will\nshow you them by the light of this lamp. Come closer to me. They say I\nam frightful to behold. Pshaw! Art thou afraid of a living man?--and yet\nthou didst now vaunt of thy courage, till thou didst even say that the\nspirits of the Melvilles would not terrify thee. Come closer to me,\nGilbert Blackburn, and see if thou canst recognise in these\nfeatures--horrid though they be--aught of the traces of one whom thou\ndidst once think so well of that thou didst envy his lands of\nFalconcleugh.\"\n\n\"What! are you man or monster?\" cried the commendator, as he receded\nbefore the progressive movements of his enemy.\n\n\"Both species are here,\" rejoined Melville; \"I am a man, though like the\nother denomination. They called me George Melville, when I bore another\nshape, and I was of Falconcleugh. By that name I once lived happy in\nthis mansion blessed with love and the reward of good offices. By that\nname, too, I worshipped God by the light of reason; and by that name was\nburned at the stake, till pity relieved me, and amputation saved the\nwreck that was not worth saving. Art thou not satisfied? Search these\nfeatures. All is not gone. Enough of evidence there may be yet found to\njustify my claim for the remission of my ground-dues of Quarryheugh.\"\n\nAs he spoke, his countenance exhibited, in the midst of its deformity,\nthe traces of a fury that was only for a few minutes kept in abeyance by\nthe offering of bitter satire. The commendator, overcome by fear, and\nconsciousness of a cruel and heartless purpose, kept receding; while\nMelville sure of his prey, and eying him with remorseless hatred,\napproached him by a series of leaps and contortions, more after the\nmanner of an enraged and maimed beast of prey than that of a human\nbeing. The fame of his strength had gone forth with that of his other\nsingular attributes; and probably, even if Blackburn had been gifted\nwith ordinary courage, he would have quailed before the approach of the\nextraordinary being. Fear, however, had taken possession of a mind\ndevoid of all courage, and he flew round the chamber, imploring that\nmercy which he had never shown to others. Leslie, who witnessed the\nextraordinary scene, meditated an interference, but he quelled the\nthought from a sense of his own danger, and continued through the gloom\nto mark the conduct of the parties. The pursuit was short. Blackburn,\nfinding himself pressed towards an angle, attempted feebly to use his\nsword. It was seized and snapped asunder, and, next instant, he was down\nin the iron grip of his ruthless foe--writhing in the agony of fear, as\nhe felt himself drawn towards the window that overlooked the chasm of\nthe quarry. Twice the energies of an ordinary man of courage might not\nhave resisted the cripple; and, though the struggles of despair\nsometimes transcend all calculation of supposed strength, they were too\napparently, in this instance, unavailing. Two or three gigantic efforts,\nand the commendator was on the brink of the descent--his back to the\nchasm, his face to that of his intended destroyer. The light of the lamp\nserved to show Leslie the countenance of the victim, and a part of that\nof Melville; and he shuddered at the fearful expression of agony on the\none part, and vengeance on the other. Not a word was spoken, but the\nchamber was filled with deep-drawn respirations. A faint scream burst\nfrom the commendator, and down, down he went into the chasm of dark\nwaters; Melville drew a deep breath, as if he once again enjoyed the\nfree use of his lungs, remained silent for a few minutes, and then\ndeliberately issued from the aperture, by the mode he had been in the\nhabit of following, and which, to him, was attended with no danger.\n\nLeslie was terror-struck. His first thoughts concerned his own position.\nFound there, he would be reputed the murderer of the commendator; and he\nhastened down to betake himself to flight. The doors defied his efforts;\nand he put his head out of the window, only to withdraw it with a\nshudder of horror. In a few minutes, the door was opened by the\nbeadsman.\n\n\"Ye'll be as weel oot here, I'm thinkin, Master Henry,\" said he.\n\n\"Know you what has been done, Carey?\" cried Henry.\n\n\"I ken that baith you and I are owre lang here,\" replied the beadsman,\nas he hurried out.\n\nIn a few minutes the muir was clear. The two took different directions;\nnor was Henry Leslie heard of again for a period of two years. During\nthis interval, an investigation was made into the circumstances\nattending the murder of Blackburn. There was no evidence brought home to\nMelville; and the opinion prevailed that the commendator had fallen\naccidentally into the chasm. Melville, meanwhile, withdrew himself again\nto the Continent, where he died. The property was again restored to\nMargaret, in consideration of the injuries sustained by her parents. The\ndeath of Hamilton produced, throughout Scotland, so great an effect,\nthat the prosecutions for heresy were for a time suspended, and Leslie\nreturned to his native country. From the circumstance of Falconcleugh\nand Riddlestain being afterwards in the family of the Leslies, we may\naugur something of a union between the two lovers of our story. We\nmerely, however, throw out this as a conjecture--our attention having\nbeen chiefly directed to the more important parts of the strange legend\nwe have now given, which certainly does not exceed credibility.\n\n\n\n\nTHE LYKEWAKE.\n\n\nI know no place where one may be brought acquainted with the more\ncredulous beliefs of our forefathers at a less expense of inquiry and\nexertion, than in a country lykewake. The house of mourning is naturally\na place of sombre thoughts and ghostly associations. There is something,\ntoo, in the very presence and appearance of death, that leads one to\nthink of the place and state of the dead. Cowper has finely said, that\nthe man and the beast who stand together, side by side, on the same\nhill-top, are, notwithstanding their proximity, the denizens of very\ndifferent worlds. And I have felt the remark to apply still more\nstrongly when sitting beside the dead. The world of intellect and\nfeeling in which we ourselves are, and of which the lower propensities\nof our nature form a province, may be regarded as including, in part at\nleast, that world of passion and instinct in which the brute lives; and\nwe have but to analyse and abstract a little, to form for ourselves\nideas of this latter world from even our own experience. But by what\nprocess of thought can we bring experience to bear on the world of the\ndead? It lies entirely beyond us--a _terra incognita_ of cloud and\ndarkness, and yet the thing at our side--the thing over which we can\nstretch our hand--the thing dead to us but living to _it_--has entered\nupon it, and, however uninformed or ignorant before, knows more of its\ndark, and, to us, inscrutable mysteries, than all our philosophers and\nall our divines. Is it wonder that we would fain _put it to the\nquestion_--that we would fain catechise it, if we could, regarding its\nnewly-acquired experience--that we should fill up the gaps in the\ndialogue which its silence leaves to us, by imparting to one another the\nlittle we know regarding its _state_ and its _place_--or that we should\nsend our thoughts roaming in long excursions, to glean from the\nexperience of the past all that it tells us of the occasional visits of\nthe dead, and all that in their less taciturn and more social moments\nthey have communicated to the living. And hence, from feelings so\nnatural, and a train of associations so obvious, the character of a\ncountry lykewake and the cast of its stories--I say a _country_\nlykewake, for in at least all our larger towns, where a cold and barren\nscepticism has chilled the feelings and imaginations of the people,\nwithout, I fear, much improving their judgments, the conversation on\nsuch occasions takes a lower and less interesting range.\n\nI once spent a night with a friend from the south, a man of an inquiring\nand highly philosophic cast of mind, at a lykewake in the upper part of\nthe parish of Cromarty. I had excited his curiosity by an incidental\nremark or two of the kind I have just been dropping; and, on his\nexpressing a wish that I should introduce him, by way of illustration,\nto some such scenes as I have been describing, we had set out together\nto the wake of an elderly female who had died that morning. Her\ncottage--a humble creation of stone and lime--was situated beside a\nthick fir wood, on the edge of the solitary Mulebuy, one of the\ndreariest and most extensive commons in Scotland. We had to pass, in our\njourney, over several miles of desolate muir, sprinkled with cairns and\ntumuli--the memorials of some forgotten conflict of the past; we had to\npass, too, through a thick, dark wood, with here and there an\nintervening marsh, whitened over with moss and lichens, and which, from\nthis circumstance, are known to the people of the country as the _white\nbogs_. Nor was the more distant landscape of a less gloomy character. On\nthe one hand, there opened an interminable expanse of muir, that went\nstretching onwards, mile beyond mile, bleak, dreary, uninhabited, and\nuninhabitable, till it merged into the far horizon. On the other, there\nrose a range of blue, solitary hills, towering, as they receded, into\nloftier peaks and bolder acclivities, till they terminated on the\nsnow-streaked Ben Weavis. The season, too, was in keeping with the\nscene. It was drawing towards the close of autumn; and, as we passed\nthrough the wood, the falling leaves were eddying round us with every\nwind, or lay in rustling heaps at our feet.\n\n\"I do not wonder,\" said my companion, \"that the superstitions of so wild\na district as this should bear in their character some marks of a\ncorresponding wildness. Night itself, in a populous and cultivated\ncountry, is attended with less of the stern and the solemn than mid-day\namid solitudes like these. Is the custom of watching beside the dead of\nremote antiquity in this part of the country?\"\n\n\"Far beyond the reach of either history or tradition,\" I said. \"But it\nhas gradually been changing its character, as the people have been\nchanging theirs; and is now a very different thing from what it was a\ncentury ago. It is not yet ninety years since lykewakes in the\nneighbouring Highlands used to be celebrated with music and dancing; and\neven here, on the borders of the low country, they used invariably, like\nthe funerals of antiquity, to be the scenes of wild games and\namusements, never introduced on any other occasion. You remember how Sir\nWalter describes the funeral of Athelstane. The Saxon ideas of\ncondolence were the most natural imaginable. If grief was hungry, they\nsupplied it with food, if thirsty, they gave it drink. Our simple\nancestors here seem to have reasoned by a similar process. They made\ntheir seasons of deepest grief their times of greatest merriment; and\nthe more they regretted the deceased, the gayer were they at his wake\nand his funeral. A friend of mine, now dead, a very old man, has told me\nthat he once danced at a lykewake in the Highlands of Sutherland. It was\nthat of an active and very robust man, taken away from his wife and\nfamily in the prime of life; and the poor widow, for the greater part of\nthe evening, sat disconsolate beside the fire, refusing every invitation\nto join the dancers. She was at length, however, brought out by the\nfather of the deceased. 'Little, little did he think,' he said, 'that\nshe would be the last to dance at poor Rory's lykewake.'\"\n\nWe reached the cottage, and went in. The apartment in which the dead lay\nwas occupied by two men and three women. Every little piece of furniture\nit contained was hung in white, and the floor had recently been swept\nand sanded; but it was on the bed where the body lay, and on the body\nitself, that the greatest care had been lavished. The curtains had been\ntaken down, and their place supplied by linen white as snow; and on the\nsheet that served as a counterpane, the body was laid out in a dress of\nwhite, fantastically crossed and recrossed in every direction by\nscalloped fringes, and fretted into a species of open work, at least\nintended to represent alternate rows of roses and tulips. A plate\ncontaining a little salt was placed over the breast of the corpse. As we\nentered, one of the women rose; and, filling two glasses with spirits,\npresented them to us on a salver. We tasted the liquor, and sat down on\nchairs placed for us beside the fire. The conversation, which had been\ninterrupted by our entrance, began to flow apace; and an elderly female,\nwho had lived under the same roof with the deceased, began to relate, in\nanswer to the queries of one of the others, some of the particulars of\nher last illness and death.\n\n\nTHE STORY OF ELSPAT M'CULLOCH.\n\n\"Elspat was aye,\" she said, \"a retired body, wi' a cast o' decent pride\naboot her; an', though bare an' puirly aff sometimes, in her auld days,\nshe had never been chargeable to onybody. She had come o' decent,\n'sponsible people, though they were a' low aneugh the day--ay, an' they\nwere God-fearing people, too, wha had gien plenty in their time, and had\naye plenty to gie. An' though they had been a' langsyne laid in the\nkirkyard--a' except hersel, puir body!--she wouldna disgrace their guid\nname, she said, by takin an alms frae ony ane. Her sma' means fell oot\no' her hands afore her last illness. Little had aye dune her turn--but\nthe little failed at last; an' sair, sair thocht did it gie her, for a\nwhile, what was to come o' her. I could hear her, in the butt-end o' the\nhouse, ae mornin, mair earnest an' langer in her prayers than\nusual--though she never neglected them, puir body--an' a' the early part\no' that day she seemed to be no weel. She was aye up and down; an' I\ncould ance or twice hear her gaunting at the fireside; but, when I went\nben to her, an' asked what was the matter wi' her, she said she was just\nin her ordinar. She went oot for a wee; an' what did I do but gang to\nher amry, for I jaloused a' wasna richt there; an', oh! it was a sair\nsicht to see, neebors; but there was neither a bit o' bread nor a grain\no' meal within its four corners--naething but the sealed-up greybeard,\nwi' the whisky, that, for twenty years an' mair, she had been keeping\nfor her lykewake; an', ye ken, it was oot o' the question to think that\nshe would meddle wi' it. Weel did I scold her, when she cam in, for\nbeing sae close-minded. I asked her what harm I had ever done to her,\nthat she would rather hae died than hae trusted her wants to me; but,\nthough she said nothing, I could see the tears in her ee; an' sae I\nstopped, and we took a late breakfast thegither at my fireside.\n\n\"She tauld me that mornin that she weel kent she wouldna lang be a\ntrouble to onybody. The day afore had been Sabbath, an' every Sabbath\nmornin, for the last ten years, her worthy neebor the elder, whom they\nhad buried only four days afore, used to call on her, in the passing on\nhis way to the kirk. 'Come awa, Elspat,' he would say; an' she used to\nbe aye decent an' ready; for she liked his conversation; an' they aye\ngaed thegither to the kirk. She had been contracted, when a young lass,\nto a brither o' the elder's--a stout, handsome lad; but he had been\nca'ed suddenly awa, atween the contract an' the marriage, an'\nElspat, though she had afterwards mony a guid offer, had lived single\nfor his sake. Weel, on the very mornin afore, just sax days after the\nelder's death, an' four after his burial, when Elspat was sittin dowie\naside the fire, thinkin' o' her guid auld neebor, the cry cam to the\ndoor just as it used to do; but, though the voice was the same, the\nwords were a wee different. 'Elspat,' it said, 'mak ready an' come awa.'\nShe rose hastily to the window, an' there, sure enough, was the elder\nturning the corner in his Sunday's bonnet an' his Sunday's coat. An'\nweel did she ken, she said, the meanin o' his call, and kindly did she\ntak it. An' if it was but God's wull that she suld hae enough to put her\ndecently under the ground without going in debt to ony one, she would be\nweel content. She had already the linen for the dead-dress, she said;\nfor she had span it for the purpose afore her contract wi' William, an'\nshe had the whisky, too, for the wake; but she had naething anent the\ncoffin an' the bedral.\n\n\"Weel, we took our breakfast, an' I did my best to comfort the puir\nbody; but she looked very down-hearted for a' that. Aboot the middle o'\nthe day, in cam the minister's boy wi' a letter. It was directed to his\nmaster, he said; but it was a' for Elspat; an' there was a five-pound\nnote in it. It was frae a man who had left the country, mony, mony a\nyear afore, a guid deal in her faither's debt. You would hae thought the\npuir thing wad hae grat her een out when she saw the money; but never\nwas money mair thankfully received, or taen mair directly frae Heaven.\nIt set her aboon the warld, she said; an' coming at the time it did, an\nestate o' a thousand a-year wadna be o' mair use to her. Next mornin she\ndidna rise, for her strength had failed her at ance, though she felt\nnae meikle pain, an' she sent me to get the note changed, an' to leave\ntwenty shillings o't wi' the wright for a decent coffin, like her\nmither's, an' five shillings mair wi' the bedral, an' to tak in\nnecessaries for a sick-bed wi' some o' the lave. Weel, I did that; an'\nthere's still twa pounds o' the note yonder in the little cupboard.\n\n\"On the fifth mornin after she had been taken sae ill, I came in till\nask after her--for my neebor here had relieved me o' that night's\nwatchin, and I had gotten to my bed. The moment I opened the door I saw\nthat the hail room was hung in white, just as ye' see it now; an' I'm\nsure it staid that way a minute or sae; but when I winked it went awa. I\nkent there was a change no far off; an' when I went up to the bed,\nElspat didna ken me. She was wirkin wi' her hand at the blankets, as if\nshe were pickin aff the little motes; an' I could hear the beginning o'\nthe dead rattle in her throat. I sat at her bedside for awhile, wi' my\nneebor here; and when she spoke to us, it was to say that the bed had\ngrown hard and uneasy, and that she wished to be brought oot to the\nchair. Weel, we indulged her, though we baith kent that it wasna in the\nbed the uneasiness lay. Her mind, puir body, was carried at the time;\nshe just kent that there was to be a death an' a lykewake; but no that\nthe death an' the lykewake were to be her ain; an' whan she looked at\nthe bed, she bade us tak down the black curtains an' put up the white;\nan' tauld us where the white were to be found.\n\n\"'But where is the corp?' she said; 'it's no there--where is the corp?'\n\n\"'O Elspat, it will be there vera soon,' said my neebor; an' that\nsatisfied her.\n\n\"She cam to hersel an hour afore she departed. God had been very guid to\nher, she said, a' her life lang, an' he hadna forsaken her at the last.\nHe had been guid to her when he had gien her friens, an' guid to her\nwhen he took them to himsel; an' she kent she was now going to baith Him\nand them. There wasna such a difference, she said, atween life and death\nas folk were ready to think. She was sure that, though William had been\nca'ed awa suddenly, he hadna been ca'ed without being prepared; an' now\nthat her turn had come, an' that she was goin to meet wi' him, it was\nmaybe as weel that he had left her early; for, till she had lost him,\nshe had been owre licht an' thochtless; an' had it been her lot to hae\nlived in happiness wi' him, she micht hae remained licht an' thochtless\nstill. She bade us baith fareweel, an' thanked an' blessed us; an' her\nlast breath went awa in a prayer no half-an-hour after. Puir, decent\nbody!--but she's no puir now.\"\n\n\"A pretty portrait,\" whispered my companion, \"of one of a class fast\nwearing away. Nothing more interests me in the story than the woman's\nundoubting faith in the supernatural; she does not even seem to know\nthat what she believes so firmly herself, is so much as doubted by\nothers. Try whether you can't bring up, by some means, a few other\nstories furnished with a similar machinery--a story of the second sight,\nfor instance.\"\n\n\"The only way of accomplishing that,\" I replied, \"is by contributing a\nstory of the kind myself.\"\n\n\"The vision of the room hung in white,\" I said, \"reminds me of a story\nrelated, about a hundred and fifty years ago, by a very learned and very\ningenious countryman of ours--George, first Earl of Cromarty. His\nlordship, a steady Royalist, was engaged, shortly before the Restoration\n(he was then, by the way, only Sir George Mackenzie), in raising troops\nfor the king, on his lands on the western coast of Ross-shire. There\ncame on one of those days of rain and tempest so common in the district;\nand Sir George, with some of his friends, were storm-bound in a solitary\ncottage, somewhere on the shores of Loch Broom. Towards evening, one of\nthe party went out to look after their horses. He had been sitting\nbeside Sir George, and the chair he had occupied remained empty. On Sir\nGeorge's servant, an elderly Highlander, coming in, he went up to his\nmaster, apparently much appalled, and, tapping him on the shoulder,\nurged him to rise. 'Rise!' he said, 'rise! There's a dead man sitting on\nthe chair beside you.' The whole party immediately started to their\nfeet; but they saw only the empty chair. The dead man was visible to the\nHighlander alone. His head was bound up, he said, and his face streaked\nwith blood, and one of his arms hung broken by his side. Next day, as a\nparty of horsemen were passing along the steep side of a hill in the\nneighbourhood, one of the horses stumbled, and threw its rider; and the\nman, grievously injured by the fall, was carried, in a state of\ninsensibility, to the cottage. His head was deeply gashed, and one of\nhis arms was broken, though he ultimately recovered; and, on being\nbrought to the cottage, he was placed, in a death-like swoon, in the\nidentical chair which the Highlander had seen occupied by the spectre.\nSir George relates the story, with many a similar story besides, in a\nletter to the celebrated Robert Boyle.\"\n\n\"I have perused it with much interest,\" said my friend \"and wonder our\nbooksellers should have suffered it to become so scarce. Do you not\nremember the somewhat similar story his lordship relates of the\nHighlander who saw the apparition of a troop of horse ride over the brow\nof a hill, and enter a field of oats, which, though it had been sown\nonly a few days before, the horsemen seemed to cut down with their\nswords. He states that, a few months after, a troop of cavalry actually\nentered the same field, and carried away the produce, for fodder to\ntheir horses. He tells, too, if I remember aright, that, on the same\nexpedition to which your story belongs, one of his Highlanders, on\nentering a cottage, started back with horror;--he had met in the\npassage, he said, a dead man in his shroud, and saw people gathering\nfor a funeral. And, as his lordship relates, one of the inmates of the\ncottage, who was in perfect health, at the time of the vision, died\nsuddenly only two days after.\"\n\n\nTHE STORY OF DONALD GAIR.\n\n\"The second night,\" said an elderly man, who sat beside me, and whose\ncountenance had struck me as highly expressive of serious thought, \"is\nfast wearing out of this part of the country. Nor should we much regret\nit, perhaps. It seemed, if I may so speak, as something outside the\nordinary dispositions of Providence, and, with all the horror and\nunhappiness that attended it, served no apparent good end. I have been a\ntraveller in my youth, masters. About thirty years ago, I served for\nsome time in the navy. I entered on the first breaking out of the\nRevolutionary War, and was discharged during the short peace of 1801.\nOne of my chief companions on shipboard, for the first few years, was a\nyoung man, a native of Sutherland, named Donald Gair. Donald, like most\nof his countrymen was a staid, decent lad, of a rather melancholy cast;\nand yet there was occasions when he could be quite gay enough too. We\nsailed together in the Bedford, under Sir Thomas Baird; and, after\nwitnessing the mutiny at the Nore--neither of us did much more than\nwitness it, for in our case it merely transferred the command of the\nvessel from a very excellent captain to a set of low Irish doctor's-list\nmen--we joined Admiral Duncan, then on the Dutch station. We were barely\nin time to take part in the great action. Donald had been unusually gay\nall the previous evening. We knew the Dutch had come out, and that there\nwas to be an engagement on the morrow; and, though I felt no fear, the\nthought that I might have to stand in a few brief hours before my Maker\nand my Judge, had the effect of rendering me serious. But my companion\nseemed to have lost all command of himself; he sang, and leaped, and\nshouted--not like one intoxicated--there was nothing of intoxication\nabout him--but under the influence of a wild irrepressible flow of\nspirits. I took him seriously to task, and reminded him that we might\nboth at that moment be standing on the verge of death and judgment. But\nhe seemed more impressed by my remarking, that were his mother to see\nhim, she would say he was _fey_.\n\n\"We had never been in action before with our captain, Sir Thomas. He was\na grave, and, I believe, God-fearing man, and much a favourite with, at\nleast, all the better seamen. But we had not yet made up our minds on\nhis character--indeed, no sailor ever does, with regard to his officers,\ntill he knows how they fight; and we were all curious to see how the\nparson, as we used to call him, would behave himself among the shot. But\ntruly we might have had little fear for him. I have sailed with Nelson,\nand not Nelson himself ever showed more courage or conduct than Sir\nThomas in that action. He made us all lie down beside our guns, and\nsteered us, without firing a shot, into the very thickest of the fight;\nand, when we did open, masters, every broadside told with fearful\neffect. I never saw a man issue his commands with more coolness or\nself-possession.\n\n\"There are none of our continental neighbours who make better seamen, or\nwho fight more doggedly, than the Dutch. We were in a blaze of flame for\nfour hours. Our rigging was slashed to pieces; and two of our ports were\nactually knocked into one. There was one fierce, ill-natured Dutchman,\nin particular--a fellow as black as night, without so much as a speck of\npaint or gilding about him, save that he had a red lion on the\nprow--that fought us as long as he had a spar standing; and, when he\nstruck at last, fully one-half the crew lay either dead or wounded on\nthe decks, and all his scupper-holes were running blood as freely as\never they had done water at a deck-washing. The Bedford suffered nearly\nas severely. It is not in the heat of action that we can reckon on the\nloss we sustain. I saw my comrades falling around me--falling by the\nterrible cannon-shot, as they came crashing in through our sides; I\nfelt, too, that our gun wrought more heavily as our numbers were\nthinning around it; and, at times, when some sweeping chain-shot or\nfatal splinter laid open before me those horrible mysteries of the inner\nman which nature so sedulously conceals, I was conscious of a momentary\nfeeling of dread and horror. But, in the prevailing mood, an unthinking\nanger, a dire thirsting after revenge, a dogged, unyielding firmness,\nwere the chief ingredients. I strained every muscle and sinew; and amid\nthe smoke, and the thunder, and the frightful carnage, fired and loaded,\nand fired and loaded, and with every discharge sent out, as it were, the\nbitterness of my whole soul against the enemy. But very different were\nmy feelings when victory declared in our favour, and, exhausted and\nunstrung, I looked abroad among the dead. As I crossed the deck, my feet\nliterally splashed in blood; and I saw the mangled fragments of human\nbodies sticking in horrid patches to the sides and beams above. There\nwas a fine little boy aboard, with whom I was an especial favourite. He\nhad been engaged, before the action, in the construction of a toy ship,\nwhich he intended sending to his mother; and I used sometimes to assist\nhim, and to lend him a few simple tools; and, just as we were bearing\ndown on the enemy, he had come running up to me with a knife, which he\nhad borrowed from me a short time before.\n\n\"'Alick, Alick,' he said, 'I have brought you your knife; we are going\ninto action, you know, and I may be killed, and then you would loose\nit.'\n\n\"Poor little fellow! The first body I recognised was his Both his arms\nhad been fearfully shattered by a cannon-shot, and the surgeon's\ntourniquets, which had been fastened below the shoulders, were still\nthere; but he had expired ere the amputating knife had been applied. As\nI stood beside the body--little in love with war, masters--a comrade\ncame up to me to say that my friend and countryman, Donald Gair, lay\nmortally wounded in the cockpit. I went instantly down to him. But never\nshall I forget, though never may I attempt to describe, what I witnessed\nthat day, in that frightful scene of death and suffering. Donald lay in\na low hammock, raised not a foot over the deck; and there was no one\nbeside him, for the surgeons had seen at a glance the hopelessness of\nhis case, and were busied about others of whom they had hope. He lay on\nhis back, breathing very hard, but perfectly insensible; and in the\nmiddle of his forehead there was a round, little hole, without so much\nas a speck of blood about it, where a musket bullet had passed through\nthe brain. He continued to breathe for about two hours; and, when he\nexpired, I wrapped the body decently up in a hammock, and saw it\ncommitted to the deep. The years passed; and, after looking death in the\nface in many a storm and many a battle, peace was proclaimed, and I\nreturned to my friends and my country.\n\n\"A few weeks after my arrival, an elderly Highland woman, who had\ntravelled all the way from the further side of Loch Shin to see me, came\nto our door. She was the mother of Donald Gair, and had taken her\nmelancholy journey to hear from me all she might regarding the last\nmoments and death of her son. She had no English, and I had not Gaelic\nenough to converse with her; but my mother, who had received her with a\nsympathy all the deeper from the thought that her own son might have\nbeen now in Donald's place, served as our interpreter. She was strangely\ninquisitive, though the little she heard served only to increase her\ngrief; and you may believe it was not much I could find heart to tell\nher; for what was there in the circumstances of my comrade's death to\nafford pleasure to his mother? And so I waived her questions regarding\nhis wound and his burial as I best could.\n\n\"'Ah,' said the poor woman to my mother, 'he need not be afraid to tell\nme all. I know too, too well that my Donald's body was thrown into the\nsea; I knew of it long ere it happened; and I have long tried to\nreconcile my mind to it--tried when he was a boy even; and so you need\nnot be afraid to tell me now.'\n\n\"'And how,' asked my mother, whose curiosity was excited, 'could you\nhave thought of it so early?'\n\n\"'I lived,' rejoined the woman, 'at the time of Donald's birth, in a\nlonely shieling among the Sutherland hills--a full day's journey from\nthe nearest church. It was a long, weary road, over muirs and mosses. It\nwas in the winter season, too, when the days are short; and so, in\nbringing Donald to be baptised, we had to remain a night by the way, in\nthe house of a friend. We there found an old woman of so peculiar an\nappearance, that, when she asked me for the child, I at first declined\ngiving it, fearing she was mad, and might do it harm. The people of the\nhouse, however, assured me she was incapable of hurting it; and so I\nplaced it on her lap. She took it up in her arms, and began to sing to\nit; but it was such a song as none of us had ever heard before.'\n\n\"'Poor little stranger!' she said, 'thou hast come into the world in an\nevil time. The mists are on the hills, gloomy and dark, and the rain\nlies chill on the heather; and thou, poor little thing! hast a long\njourney through the sharp, biting winds, and thou art helpless and cold.\nOh! but thy long after-journey is as dreary and dark. A wanderer shalt\nthou be over the land and the ocean; and in the ocean shalt thou lie at\nlast. Poor little thing! I have waited for thee long. I saw thee in thy\nwanderings, and in thy shroud, ere thy mother brought thee to the door;\nand the sounds of the sea, and of the deadly guns, are still ringing in\nmy ears. Go, poor little thing! to thy mother--bitterly shall she yet\nweep for thee--and no wonder; but no one shall ever weep over thy grave,\nor mark where thou liest amid the deep green, with the shark and the\nseal.'\n\n\"'From that evening,' continued the mother of my friend, 'I have tried\nto reconcile my mind to what was to happen Donald. But, oh! the fond,\nfoolish heart! I loved him more than any of his brothers, because I was\nto lose him soon; and though, when he left me, I took farewell of him\nfor ever, for I knew I was never--never to see him more, I felt, till\nthe news reached me of his fall in battle, as if he were living in his\ncoffin. But, oh, do tell me all you know of his death. I am old and\nweak, but I have travelled far, far to see you, that I might hear all;\nand surely, for the regard you bore to Donald, you will not suffer me to\nreturn as I came.'\n\n\"But I need not dwell longer on the story. I imparted to the poor woman\nall the circumstances of her son's death, as I have done to you; and,\nshocking as they may seem, I found that she felt rather relieved than\notherwise.\"\n\n\"This is not quite the country of the second sight,\" said my friend; \"it\nis too much on the borders of the Lowlands. The gift seems restricted to\nthe Highlands alone, and it is now fast wearing out even there.\"\n\n\"And weel it is,\" said one of the men, \"that it should be sae. It is\nsurely a miserable thing to ken o' coming evil, if we just merely ken\nthat it is coming, an' that come it must, do what we may. Hae ye ever\nheard the story o' the kelpie that wons in the Conan?\"\n\nMy friend replied in the negative.\n\n\nTHE STORY OF THE DOOMED RIDER.\n\n\"The Conan,\" continued the man, \"is as bonny a river as we hae in a' the\nnorth country. There's mony a sweet sunny spot on its banks; an' mony a\ntime an' aft hae I waded through its shallows, whan a boy, to set my\nlittle scantling-line for the trouts an' the eels, or to gather the big\npearl-mussels that lie sae thick in the fords. But its bonny wooded\nbanks are places for enjoying the day in--no for passing the nicht. I\nkenna how it is; it's nane o' your wild streams that wander desolate\nthrough a desert country, like the Aven, or that come rushing down in\nfoam and thunder, owre broken rocks, like the Foyers, or that wallow in\ndarkness, deep, deep in the bowels o' the earth, like the fearfu'\nAuldgraunt; an' yet no ane o' these rivers has mair or frightfuller\nstories connected wi' it than the Conan. Ane can hardly saunter owre\nhalf-a-mile in its course, frae where it leaves Contin till where it\nenters the sea, without passing owre the scene o' some frightful auld\nlegend o' the kelpie or the water-wraith. An' ane o' the maist\nfrightfu'-looking o' these places is to be found among the woods o'\nConan House. Ye enter a swampy meadow, that waves wi' flags an' rushes\nlike a corn-field in harvest, an' see a hillock covered wi' willows\nrising like an island in the midst. There are thick mirk woods on ilka\nside; the river, dark an' awesome, an' whirling round an' round in mossy\neddies, sweeps awa behind it; an' there is an auld burying-ground, wi'\nthe broken ruins o' an auld Papist kirk, on the tap. Ane can still see\namang the rougher stanes the rose-wrought mullions o' an arched window,\nan' the trough that ance held the haly water. About twa hunder years\nago--a wee mair maybe or a wee less, for ane canna be very sure o' the\ndate o' thae auld stories--the building was entire; an' a spot near it,\nwhar the wood now grows thickest, was laid out in a corn-field. The\nmarks o' the furrows may still be seen amang the trees. A party o'\nHighlanders were busily engaged, ae day in harvest, in cutting down the\ncorn o' that field; an', just aboot noon, when the sun shone brightest\nan' they were busiest in the work, they heard a voice frae the river\nexclaim, '_The hour but not the man has come_.' Sure enough, on looking\nround, there was the kelpie stan'in in what they ca' a fause ford, just\nfornent the auld kirk. There is a deep black pool baith aboon an' below,\nbut i' the ford there's a bonny ripple, that shows, as ane might think,\nbut little depth o' water; an' just i' the middle o' that, in a place\nwhere a horse might swim, stood the kelpie. An' it again repeated its\nwords--'_The hour but not the man has come_;' an' then, flashing through\nthe water like a drake, it disappeared in the lower pool. When the folk\nstood wondering what the creature micht mean, they saw a man on\nhorseback come spurring down the hill in hot haste, making straight for\nthe fause ford. They could then understand her words at ance; an' four\no' the stoutest o' them sprang oot frae amang the corn to warn him o'\nhis danger, an' keep him back. An' sae they tauld him what they had seen\nan' heard, an' urged him either to turn back an' tak anither road, or\nstay for an hour or sae where he was. But he just wadna hear them, for\nhe was baith unbelieving an' in haste, an' wauld hae taen the ford for\na' they could say, hadna the Highlanders, determined on saving him\nwhether he would or no, gathered round him, an' pulled him frae his\nhorse, an' then, to mak sure o' him, locked him up in the auld kirk.\nWeel, when the hour had gone by--the fatal hour o' the kelpie--they\nflung open the door, an' cried to him that he might noo gang on his\njourney. Ah! but there was nae answer, though; an' sae they cried a\nsecond time, an' there was nae answer still; an' then they went in, an'\nfound him lying stiff an' cauld on the floor, wi' his face buried in the\nwater o' the very stone trough that we may still see amang the ruins.\nHis hour had come, an' he had fallen in a fit, as 'twould seem, head\nforemost among the water o' the trough, where he had been smothered--an'\nsae, ye see, the prophecy o' the kelpie availed naething.\"\n\n\"The very story,\" exclaimed my friend, \"to which Sir Walter alludes, in\none of the notes to 'The Heart of Midlothian.' The kelpie, you may\nremember, furnishes him with a motto to the chapter in which he\ndescribes the gathering of all Edinburgh to witness the execution of\nPorteous; and their irrepressible wrath, on ascertaining that there was\nto be no execution--'_The hour but not the man has come_.'\"\n\n\"I remember making quite the same discovery,\" I replied, \"about twelve\nyears ago, when I resided for several months on the banks of the Conan,\nnot half-a-mile from the scene of the story. One might fill a little\nbook with legends of the Conan. The fords of the river are dangerous,\nespecially in the winter season; and, about thirty years ago, before the\nerection of the fine stone bridge below Conan House, scarcely a winter\npassed in which fatal accidents did not occur; and these were almost\ninvariably traced to the murderous malice of the water-wraith.\"\n\n\"But who or what is the water-wraith?\" said my friend. \"We heard just\nnow of the kelpie, and it is the kelpie that Sir Walter quotes.\"\n\n\"Ah,\" I replied, \"but we must not confound the kelpie and the\nwater-wraith, as has become the custom in these days of incredulity. No\ntwo spirits, though they were both spirits of the lake and the river,\ncould be more different. The kelpie invariably appeared in the form of a\nyoung horse; the water-wraith in that of a very tall woman, dressed in\ngreen, with a withered meagre countenance, ever distorted by a malignant\nscowl. It is the water-wraith, not the kelpie, whom Sir Walter should\nhave quoted; and yet I could tell you curious stories of the kelpie,\ntoo.\"\n\n\"We must have them all,\" said my friend, \"ere we part; meanwhile, I\nshould like to hear some of your stories of the Conan.\"\n\n\"As related by me,\" I replied, \"you will find them rather meagre in\ntheir details. In my evening walks along the river, I have passed the\nford a hundred times out of which, only a twelvemonth before, as a\ntraveller was entering it on a moonlight night, the water-wraith started\nup, not four yards in front of him, and pointed at him with her long\nskinny fingers, as if in mockery. I have leaned against the identical\ntree to which a poor Highlander clung, when, on fording the river by\nnight, he was seized by the goblin. A lad who accompanied him, and who\nhad succeeded in gaining the bank, strove to assist him, but in vain:\nthe poor man was dragged from his hold into the current, where he\nperished. The spot has been pointed out to me, too, in the opening of\nthe river, where one of our Cromarty fishermen, who had anchored his\nyawl for the night, was laid hold of by the spectre when lying asleep on\nthe beams, and almost dragged over the gunwale into the water. Our\nseafaring men still avoid dropping anchor, if they possibly can, after\nthe sun has set, in what they term _the fresh_--that is, in those upper\nparts of the Frith where the waters of the river predominate over those\nof the sea.\n\n\"The scene of what is deemed one of the best-authenticated stories of\nthe water-wraith, lies a few miles higher up the river. It is a deep,\nbroad ford, through which horsemen, coming from the south, pass to\nBrahan Castle. A thick wood hangs over it on the one side; on the other,\nit is skirted by a straggling line of alders and a bleak muir. On a\nwinter night, about twenty-five years ago, a servant of the late Lord\nSeaforth had been drinking with some companions till a late hour, at a\nsmall house at the upper part of the muir; and when the party broke up,\nhe was accompanied by two of them to the ford. The moon was at full, and\nthe river, though pretty deep in flood, seemed no way formidable to the\nservant; he was a young, vigorous man, and mounted on a powerful horse;\nand he had forded it, when half-a-yard higher on the bank, twenty times\nbefore. As he entered the ford, a thick cloud obscured the moon; but his\ncompanions could see him guiding the animal; he rode in a slanting\ndirection across the stream, until he had reached nearly the middle,\nwhen a dark, tall figure seemed to start out of the water, and lay hold\nof him. There was a loud cry of distress and terror, and a frightful\nsnorting and plunging of the horse; a moment passed, and the terrified\nanimal was seen straining towards the opposite bank, and the ill-fated\nrider struggling in the stream. In a moment more he had disappeared.\"\n\n\nTHE STORY OF FAIRBURN'S GHOST.\n\n\"I suld weel ken the Conan,\" said one of the women, who had not yet\njoined in the conversation; \"I was born no a stane's cast frae the side\no't. My mother lived in her last days beside the auld Tower o' Fairburn,\nthat stan's sae like a ghaist aboon the river, an' looks down on a' its\nturns an' windings frae Contin to the sea; my father, too, for a\ntwelvemonth or sae afore his death, had a boat on ane o' its ferries,\nfor the crossing, on week days, o' passengers, an' o' the kirk-going\nfolks on Sunday. He had a little bit farm beside the Conan; an' just got\nthe boat by way o' eiking out his means--for we had aye aneugh to do at\nrent-time, an' had, maybe, less than plenty through a' the rest o' the\nyear, besides. Weel, for the first ten months or sae, the boat did\nbrawly. The Castle o' Brahan is no half-a-mile frae the ferry, an' there\nwere aye a hantle o' gran' folk comin and gangin frae the Mackenzie, an'\nmy faither had the crossin o' them a'. An', besides, at Marti'mas, the\nkirk-going people used to send him firlots o' bere an' pecks o' oatmeal;\nan' he soon began to find that the bit boat was to do mair towards\npaying the rent o' the farm than the farm itsel.\n\n\"The Tower o' Fairburn is aboot a mile and a-half aboon the ferry. It\nstan's by itsel on the tap o' a heathery hill, an' there are twa higher\nhills behind it. Beyond, there spreads a black, dreary desert, where ane\nmicht wander a lang simmer's day withoot seeing the face o' a human\ncreature, or the kindly smoke o' a lum. I daresay nane o' you hae heard\nhoo the Mackenzies o' Fairburn an' the Chisholms o' Strathglass pairted\nthat bit o' kintra atween them. Nane o' them could tell where the lands\no' the ane ended or the ither began, an' they were that way for\ngenerations, till they at last thocht them o' a plan o' division. Each\no' them gat an auld wife o' seventy-five, an' they set them aff ae\nMonday, at the same time, the ane frae Erchless Castle, an' the ither\nfrae the Tower--warning them, aforehan', that the braidness o' their\nmaisters' lands depended on their speed; for where the twa would meet\namang the hills, there would be the boundary. An' you may be sure that\nneither o' them lingered by the way that morning. They kent there was\nmony an ee on them, an' that their names would be spoken o' in the\nkintra-side lang after themsels were dead an' gane; but it sae happened\nthat Fairburn's carline, wha had been his nurse, was ane o' the slampest\nwomen in a' the north o' Scotland, young or auld; an', though the ither\ndid weel, she did sae meikle better, that she had got owre twenty lang\nHighland miles or the ither had got owre fifteen. They say it was a\ndroll sicht to see them at the meeting: they were baith tired almost to\nfainting; but no sooner did they come in sicht o' ane anither, at the\ndistance o' a mile or sae, than they began to rin. An' they ran, an'\nbetter ran, till they met at a little burnie; an' there wad they hae\nfocht, though they had neer seen ane anither atween the een afore, had\nthey had strength aneugh left them; but they had neither pith for\nfechtin, nor breath for scolding, an' sae they just sat down an' girned\nat ane anither across the stripe. The Tower o' Fairburn is naething noo\nbut a dismal ruin o' five broken storeys--the ane aboon the other--an'\nthe lands hae gane oot o' the auld family; but the story o' the twa auld\nwives is a weel-kent story still.\n\n\"The laird o' Fairburn, in my faither's time, was as fine an\nopen-hearted gentleman as was in the hail country. He was just\nparticular guid to the puir; but the family had ever been that--ay, in\ntheir roughest days, even whan the tower had neither door nor window in\nthe lower storey, an' only a wheen shot-holes in the storey aboon. There\nwasna a puir thing in the kintra but had reason to bless the laird; an'\nat ae time he had nae fewer than twelve puir orphans living aboot his\nhoose at ance. Nor was he in the least a proud, haughty man; he wad chat\nfor hours thegither wi' ane o' his puirest tenants; an' ilka time he\ncrossed the ferry, he wad tak my faither wi' him, for company just,\nmaybe half-a-mile on his way out or hame. Weel, it was ae nicht aboot\nthe end o' May--a bonny nicht, an hour or sae after sundown--an' my\nfaither was mooring his boat, afore going to bed, to an auld oak-tree,\nwhen wha does he see but the laird o' Fairburn coming down the bank? Od,\nthocht he, what can be taking the laird frae hame sae late as this? I\nthocht he had been no weel. The laird cam steppin into the boat, but,\ninstead o' speakin frankly, as he used to do, he jist waved his hand, as\nthe proudest gentleman in the kintra micht, an' pointed to the ither\nside. My faither rowed him across; but, oh! the boat felt unco dead an'\nheavy, an' the water stuck around the oars as gin it had been tar; an'\nhe had just aneugh ado, though there was but little tide in the river,\nto mak oot the ither side. The laird stepped oot, an' then stood, as he\nused to do, on the bank, to gie my faither time to fasten his boat an'\ncome alang wi' him; an', were it no for that, the puir man wadna hae\nthocht o' going wi' him that nicht; but, as it was, he just moored his\nboat an' went. At first he thocht the laird must hae got some bad news\nthat made him sae dull, an' sae he spoke on, to amuse him, aboot the\nweather an' the markets; but he found he could get very little to say,\nan' he felt as arc an' eerie in passing through the woods, as gin he had\nbeen passing alane through a kirkyard. He noticed, too, that there was a\nfearsome flichtering an' shrieking amang the birds that lodged in the\ntree-taps aboon them; an' that, as they passed the _Talisoe_, there was\na colly on the tap o' a hillock that set up the awfullest yowling he had\never heard. He stood for awhile in sheer consternation, but the laird\nbeckoned him on, just as he had done at the river side, an' sae he gaed\na bittie farther alang the wild rocky glen that opens into the\ndeer-park. But, oh! the fright that was amang the deer! They had been\nlying asleep on the knolls, by sixes an' sevens, an' up they a' started\nat ance, and gaed driving aff to the far end o' the park as if they\ncouldna be far aneugh frae my faither or the laird. Weel, my faither\nstood again, an' the laird beckoned an' beckoned as afore; but, Gude tak\nus a' in keeping! whan my faither looked up in his face, he saw it was\nthe face o' a corp--it was white an' stiff, an' the nose was thin an'\nsharp, an' there was nae winking wi' the wide open een. Gude preserve\nus! my faither didna ken where he was stan'in--didna ken what he was\ndoing; an', though he kept his feet, he was just in a kind o' swarf,\nlike. The laird spoke twa-three words to him--something aboot the\norphans, he thocht; but he was in such a state that he couldna tell\nwhat; an' whan he cam to himsel, the apparition was awa. It was a bonny\nclear nicht when they had crossed the Conan; but there had been a\ngatherin o' black cluds i' the lift as they gaed, an' there noo cam on,\nin the clap o' a han', ane o' the fearsomest storms o' thunder an'\nlightning that was ever seen in the country. There was a thick gurly aik\nsmashed to shivers owre my faither's head, though nane o' the splinters\nsteered him; an' whan he reached the river, it was roaring frae bank to\nbrae like a little ocean; for a water-spout had broken amang the hills,\nan' the trees it had torn doun wi' it were darting alang the current\nlike arrows. He crossed in nae little danger, an' took to his bed; an'\nthough he rase an' went aboot his wark for twa-three months after, he\nwas never, never his ain man again. It was found that the laird had\ndeparted no five minutes afore his apparition had come to the ferry; an'\nthe very last words he had spoke--but his mind was carried at the\ntime--was something aboot my faither.\"\n\n\nTHE STORY OF THE LAND FACTOR.\n\n\"There maun hae been something that weighed on his mind,\" remarked one\nof the women, \"though your faither had nae power to get it frae him. I\nmind that, whan I was a lassie, there happened something o' the same\nkind. My faither had been a tacksman on the estate o' Blackhall; an', as\nthe land was sour an' wat, an' the seasons for awhile backward, he aye\ncontrived--for he was a hard-working, carefu' man--to keep us a' in meat\nand claith, and to meet wi' the factor. But, wae's me! he was sune taen\nfrae us. In the middle o' the seed-time, there cam a bad fever intil the\ncountry; an' the very first that died o't was my puir faither. My mither\ndid her best to keep the farm, an' haud us a' thegither. She got a\ncarefu', decent lad to manage for her, an' her ain ee was on everything;\nan' had it no been for the cruel, cruel factor, she micht hae dune gay\nweel. But never had the puir tenant a waur friend than Ranald Keilly. He\nwas a toun writer, an' had made a sort o' livin, afore he got the\nfactorship, just as toun writers do in ordinar. He used to be gettin the\nhaud o' auld wives' posies when they died; an' there was aye some\nlitigious, troublesome folk in the place, too, that kept him doing a\nlittle in the way o' troublin their neebors; an' sometimes, when some\ndaft, gowkit man, o' mair means than sense, couldna mismanage his ain\naffairs aneugh, he got Keilly to mismanage them for him. An' sae he had\npicked up a bare livin in this way; but the factorship made him just a\ngentleman. But, oh, an ill use did he mak o' the power that it gied him\nowre puir, honest folk. Ye maun ken that, gin they were puir, he liked\nthem a' the waur for being honest; but, I daresay, that was natural\nenough for the like o' him. He contrived to be baith writer an' factor,\nye see; an' it wad just seem that his chief aim in the ae capacity was\nto find employment for himsel in the ither. If a puir tenant was but a\nday behind-hand wi' his rent, he had creatures o' his ain that used to\ngang half-an'-half wi' him in their fees; an' them he wad send aff to\npoind him an' then, if the expenses o' the poindin werena forthcoming as\nweel as what was owing to the master, he wad hae a roup o' the stocking\ntwa-three days after; an' anither account, as a man o' business, for\nthat. An' when things were going dog-cheap--as he took care that they\nshould sometimes gang--he used to buy them in for himsel, an' pairt wi'\nthem again for maybe twice the money. The laird was a quiet, silly,\ngood-natured man; an' though he was tauld weel o' the factor at\ntimes--ay, an' believed it, too--he just used to say, 'Oh, puir Keilly,\nwhat wad he do gin I were to pairt wi' him? He wad just starve.' An' oh,\nsirs, his pity for him was bitter cruelty to mony, mony a puir tenant,\nan' to my mither amang the lave.\n\n\"The year after my faither's death was cauld an' wat, an' oor stuff\nremained sae lang green, that we just thocht we wouldna get it cut ava.\nAn' when we did get it cut, the stacks, for the first whilie, were aye\nheatin wi' us; an' when Marti'mas came, the grain was still saft an'\nmilky, an' no fit for the market. The term came round, an' there was\nlittle to gie the factor in the shape o' money, though there was baith\ncorn an' cattle; an' a' that we wanted was just a little time. An--but\nwe had fa'en into the hands o' ane that never kent pity. My mither hadna\nthe money gin, as it were, the day, an' on the morn, the messengers\ncame to poind. The roup was no a week after; an', oh, it was a grievous\nsicht to see hoo the crop an' the cattle went for just naething. The\nfarmers were a' puirly aff wi' the late har'st, an' had nae money to\nspare; an' sae the factor knocked in ilka thing to himsel, wi' hardly a\nbid against him. He was a rough-faced, little man, wi' a red, hooked\nnose--a guid deal gien to whisky, an' vera wild an' desperate when he\nhad taen a glass or twa aboon ordinar; an', on the day o' the roup, he\nraged like a perfect madman. My mither spoke to him again an' again, wi'\nthe tear in her ee, an' implored him, for the sake o' the orphan an' the\nwidow, no to harry hersel and her bairns; but he just cursed an' swore\na' the mair, an' knocked down the stacks an' the kye a' the faster; an'\nwhan she spoke to him o' the Ane aboon a', he said that Providence gied\nlang credit, an' reckoned on a lang day, an' that he wad tak him intil\nhis ain hands. Weel, the roup cam to an end, an' the sum o' the whole\ndidna come to meikle mair nor the rent, an' clear the factor's lang,\nlang account for expenses; an' at nicht my mither was a ruined woman.\nThe factor staid up late an' lang, drinking wi' some creatures o' his\nain, an' the last words he said, on going to his bed, was, that he hadna\nmade a better day's wark for a twelvemonth. But, Gude tak us a' in\nkeeping! in the morning he was a corp--a cauld, lifeless corp, wi' a\nface as black as my bannet.\n\n\"Weel, he was buried, an' there was a grand character o' him putten in\nthe newspapers, an' we a' thocht we were to hear nae mair aboot him. My\nmither got a wee bittie o' a house on the farm o' a neebor, an' there we\nlived dowie aneugh; but she was aye an eident, working woman, an' she\nnow span late an' early for some o' her auld freends, the farmers'\nwives; an' her sair-won penny, wi' what we got frae kindly folk wha\nminded us in better times, kept us a' alive. Meanwhile, strange stories\no' the dead factor began to gang aboot the kintra. First, his servants,\nit was said, were hearing aye curious noises in his counting office. The\ndoor was baith locked an' sealed, waiting till his freends would cast\nup, for there were some doots aboot them; but, locked an' sealed as it\nwas, they could hear it opening an' shutting every nicht, an' hear a\nrustling among the papers, as gin there had been half-a-dozen writers\nscribbling among them at ance. An' then, Gude preserve us a'! they could\nhear Keilly himself, as if he were dictating to his clerk. An', last o'\na', they could see him in the gloamin, nicht an' mornin, ganging aboot\nhis hoose, wringing his hands, an' aye, aye muttering to himsel aboot\nroups and poindings. The servant-girls left the place to himsel; an' the\ntwa lads that wrought his farm, an' slept in a hay-loft, were sae\ndisturbed, nicht after nicht, that they had jist to leave it to himsel\ntoo.\n\n\"My mither was ae nicht wi' some o' her spinnin at a neeborin\nfarmer's--a worthy, God-fearing man, an' an elder o' the kirk. It was in\nthe simmer time, an' the nicht was bricht and bonny; but, in her\nbackcoming, she had to pass the empty hoose o' the dead factor, an' the\nelder said that he would tak a step hame wi' her, for fear she michtna\nbe that easy in her mind. An' the honest man did sae. Naething happened\nthem in the passing, except that a dun cow, ance a great favourite o' my\nmither's, came up lowing to them, puir beast! as gin she wauld hae\nbetter liked to be gaun hame wi' my mither than stay where she was. But\nthe elder didna get aff sae easy in the backcoming. He was passing\nbeside a thick hedge, when what does he see but a man inside the hedge,\ntaking step for step wi' him as he gaed! The man wore a dun coat, an'\nhad a huntin-whip under his arm, an' walked, as the elder thought, very\nlike what the dead factor used to do when he had gotten a glass or twa\naboon ordinar. Weel, they cam to a slap in the hedge, an' out cam the\nman at the slap; an', Gude tak us a' in keeping! it was, sure aneugh,\nthe dead factor himsel! There were his hook nose, an' his rough, red\nface--though it was, maybe, bluer noo than red; an' there were the boots\nan' the dun coat he had worn at my mither's roup, an' the very whip he\nhad lashed a puir gangrel woman wi' no a week afore his death. He was\nmuttering something to himsel; but the elder could only hear a wordie\nnoo an' then. 'Poind and roup,' he would say, 'poind and roup;' an' then\nthere would come out a blatter o' curses--'Hell! hell! an' damn, damn!'\nThe elder was a wee fear-stricken at first, as wha wadna? but then the\nill words, an' the way they were said, made him angry--for he could\nnever hear ill words withoot checking them--an' sae he turned round wi'\na stern brow, an' asked the appearance what it wanted, an' why it should\nhae come to disturb the peace o' the kintra, and to disturb him? It\nstood still at that, an' said, wi' an awsome grane, that it couldna be\nquiet in the grave till there were some justice done to Widow Stuart. It\nthen tauld him that there were forty gowd guineas in a secret drawer in\nhis desk, that hadna been found, an' tauld him where to get them, an'\nthat he wad need gang wi' the laird an' the minister to the drawer, an'\ngie them a' to the widow. It couldna hae rest till then, it said, nor\nwad the kintra hae rest either. It willed that the lave o' the gear\nshould be gien to the puir o' the parish; for nane o' the twa folk that\nlaid claim to it had the shadow o' a richt. An' wi' that the appearance\nleft him. It just went back through the slap in the hedge; an', as it\nstepped owre the ditch, vanished in a puff o' smoke.\n\n\"Weel, but to cut short a lang story, the laird and the minister were at\nfirst gay slow o' belief--no that they misdoubted the elder, but they\nthocht that he must hae been deceived by a sort o' waking dream. But\nthey soon changed their minds, for, sure enough, they found the forty\nguineas in the secret drawer. An' the news they got frae the south about\nKeilly was just as the appearance had said--no ane mair nor anither had\na richt to his gear, for he had been a foundlin, an' had nae freends.\nAn' sae my mither got the guineas, an' the parish got the rest, an'\nthere was nae mair heard o' the apparition. We didna get back oor auld\nfarm; but the laird gae us a bittie that served oor turn as weel; an',\nor my mither was ca'ed awa frae us, we were a' settled in the warld, an'\ndoin for oorsels.\"\n\n\nTHE STORY OF THE MEALMONGER.\n\n\"It is wonderful,\" remarked the decent-looking, elderly man who had\ncontributed the story of Donald Gair--\"it is wonderful how long a\nrecollection of that kind may live in the memory without one's knowing\nit is there. There is no possibility of one taking an inventory of one's\nrecollections. They live unnoted and asleep, till roused by some\nlikeness of themselves, and then up they start, and answer to it, as\n'face answereth to face in a glass.' There comes a story into my mind,\nmuch like the last, that has lain there all unknown to me for the last\nthirty years, nor have I heard any one mention it since; and yet, when I\nwas a boy, no story could be better known. You have all heard of the\ndear years that followed the harvest of '40, and how fearfully they bore\non the poor. The scarcity, doubtless, came mainly from the hand of\nProvidence, and yet man had his share in it too. There were forestallers\nof the market, who gathered their miserable gains by heightening the\nalready enormous price of victuals, thus adding starvation to hunger;\nand among the best known and most execrated of these was one M'Kechan, a\nresidenter in the neighbouring parish. He was a hard-hearted,\nfoul-spoken man; and often what he _said_ exasperated the people as much\nagainst him as what he _did_. When, on one occasion, he bought up all\nthe victuals on a market, there was a wringing of hands among the women,\nand they cursed him to his face; but, when he added insult to injury,\nand told them, in his pride, that he had not left them an ounce to foul\ntheir teeth, they would that instant have taken his life, had not his\nhorse carried him through. He was a mean, too, as well as a hard-hearted\nman, and used small measures and light weights. But he made money, and\ndeemed himself in a fair way of gaining a character on the strength of\nthat alone, when he was seized by a fever, and died after a few days'\nillness. Solomon tells us that, when the wicked perish, there is\nshouting--there was little grief in the sheriffdom when M'Kechan died;\nbut his relatives buried him decently, and, in the course of the next\nfortnight, the meal fell two-pence the peck. You know the burying-ground\nof St Bennet's--the chapel has long since been ruinous, and a row of\nwasted elms, with white skeleton-looking tops, run around the enclosure,\nand look over the fields that surround it on every side. It lies out of\nthe way of any thoroughfare, and months may sometimes pass, when burials\nare unfrequent, in which no one goes near it. It was in St Bennet's that\nM'Kechan was buried; and the people about the farmhouse that lies\nnearest it were surprised, for the first month after his death, to see\nthe figure of a man, evening and morning, just a few minutes before the\nsun had risen, and a few after it had set, walking round the yard, under\nthe elms, three times, and always disappearing when it had taken the\nlast turn, beside an old tomb near the gate. It was, of course, always\nclear daylight when they saw the figure; and the month passed ere they\ncould bring themselves to suppose it was other than a thing of flesh and\nblood like themselves. The strange regularity of its visits, however, at\nlength bred suspicion; and the farmer himself, a plain, decent man, of\nmore true courage than men of twice the pretence, determined, one\nevening, on watching it. He took his place outside the wall, a little\nbefore sunset, and no sooner had the red light died away on the elm\ntops, than up started the figure from among the ruins on the opposite\nside of the burying-ground, and came onward in its round--muttering\nincessantly as it came, 'Oh, for mercy sake! for mercy sake!' it said,\n'a handful of meal--I am starving! I am starving! a handful of meal!'\nAnd then, changing its tone into one still more doleful, 'Oh,' it\nexclaimed, 'alas, for the little lippie and the little peck! alas, for\nthe little lippie and the little peck!' As it passed, the farmer started\nup from his seat; and there, sure enough, was M'Kechan, the corn factor,\nin his ordinary dress, and, except that he was thinner and paler than\nusual, like a man suffering from hunger, presenting nearly his ordinary\nappearance. The figure passed, with a slow, gliding sort of motion; and,\nturning the farther corner of the burying-ground, came onward in its\nsecond round; but the farmer, though he had felt rather curious than\nafraid as it went by, found his heart fail him as it approached the\nsecond time, and, without waiting its coming up, set off homeward\nthrough the corn. The apparition continued to take its rounds, evening\nand morning, for about two months after, and then disappeared for ever.\nMealmongers had to forget the story, and to grow a little less afraid,\nere they could cheat with their accustomed coolness. Believe me, such\nbeliefs, whatever may be thought of them in the present day, have not\nbeen without their use in the past.\"\n\nAs the old man concluded his story, one of the women rose to a table in\nthe little room, and replenished our glasses. We all drank in silence.\n\n\"It is within an hour of midnight,\" said one of the men, looking at his\nwatch; \"we had better recruit the fire and draw in our chairs; the air\naye feels chill at a lykewake or a burial. At this time to-morrow we\nwill be lifting the corpse.\"\n\nThere was no reply. We all drew in our chairs nearer the fire, and for\nseveral minutes there was a pause in the conversation, but there were\nmore stories to be told, and before the morning, many a spirit was\nevoked from the grave, the vasty deep, and the Highland stream, whose\nhistories we may yet give in a future number.\n\n\n\n\nTHE PENNY-WEDDING.\n\n\nIf any of our readers have ever seen a Scottish penny-wedding they will\nagree with us, we daresay, that it is a very merry affair, and that its\nmirth and hilarity is not a whit the worse for its being, as it\ngenerally is, very homely and unsophisticated. The penny-wedding is not\nquite so splendid an affair as a ball at Almack's; but, from all we have\nheard and read of these aristocratic exhibitions, we for our own parts\nwould have little hesitation about our preference, and what is more, we\nare quite willing to accept the imputation of having a horrid bad taste.\n\nIt is very well known to those who know anything at all of\npenny-weddings, that, when a farmer's servant is about to be\nmarried--such an occurrence being the usual, or, at least, the most\nfrequent occasion of these festivities--all the neighbouring farmers,\nwith their servants, and sometimes their sons and daughters, are invited\nto the ceremony; and to those who know this, it is also known that the\nfarmers so invited are in the habit of contributing each something to\nthe general stock of good things provided for the entertainment of the\nwedding guests--some sending one thing and some another, till materials\nare accumulated for a feast, which, both for quantity and quality, would\nextort praise from Dr Kitchener himself, than whom no man ever knew\nbetter what good living was. To all this a little money is added by the\nparties present, to enable the young couple to _plenish_ their little\ndomicile.\n\nHaving given this brief sketch of what is called a penny-wedding, we\nproceed to say that such a merry doing as this took place, as it had\ndone a thousand times before, in a certain parish (we dare not be more\nparticular) in the south of Scotland, about five-and-twenty years ago.\nThe parties--we name them, although it is of no consequence to our\nstory--were Andrew Jardine and Margaret Laird, both servants to a\nrespectable farmer in that part of the country of the name of Harrison,\nand both very deserving and well-doing persons.\n\nOn the wedding-day being fixed, Andrew went himself to engage the\nservices of Blind Willie Hodge, the parish fiddler, as he might with all\npropriety be called, for the happy occasion; and Willie very readily\nagreed to attend gratuitously, adding, that he would bring his best\nfiddle along with him, together with an ample supply of fiddle-strings\nand rosin.\n\n\"An' a wee bit box o' elbow grease, Willie,\" said Andrew, slily; \"for\nye'll hae gude aught hours o't, at the very least.\"\n\n\"I'll be sure to bring that too, Andrew,\" replied Willie, laughing; \"but\nit's no aught hours that'll ding me, I warrant. I hae played saxteen\nwithout stoppin except to rosit.\"\n\n\"And to weet your whistle,\" slipped in Andrew.\n\n\"Pho, that wasna worth coontin. It was just a mouthfu' and at it again,\"\nsaid Willie. \"I just tak, Andrew,\" he went on, \"precisely the time o' a\ndemisemiquaver to a tumbler o' cauld liquor, such as porter or ale; and\ntwa minims or four crotchets to a tumbler o' het drink, such as toddy;\nfor the first, ye see, I can tak aff at jig time, but the other can only\nget through wi' at the rate o' 'Roslin Castle,' or the 'Dead March in\nSaul,' especially when it's brought to me scadding het, whilk sude never\nbe dune to a fiddler.\"\n\nNow, as to this very nice chromatic measurement, by Willie, of the time\nconsumed in his potations, while in the exercise of his calling, we have\nnothing to say. It may be perfectly correct for aught we know; but when\nWillie said that he played at one sitting, and with only the stoppages\nhe mentioned, for sixteen hours, we rather think he was drawing fully a\nlonger bow than that he usually played with. At all events this we\nknow, that Willie was a very indifferent if not positively a very bad\nfiddler; but he was a good-humoured creature, harmless and inoffensive,\nand, moreover, the only one of his calling in the parish, so that he was\nfully as much indebted to the necessities of his customers for the\nemployment he obtained, as to their love or charity.\n\nThe happy day which was to see the humble destinies of Andrew Jardine\nand Margaret Laird united having arrived, Willie attired himself in his\nbest, popped his best fiddle--which was, after all, but a very sober\narticle, having no more tone than a salt-box--into a green bag, slipped\nthe instrument thus secured beneath the back of his coat, and proceeded\ntowards the scene of his impending labours. This was a large barn, which\nhad been carefully swept and levelled for the \"light fantastic _toes_\"\nof some score of ploughmen and dairymaids, not formed exactly after the\nChinese fashion. At the further end of the barn stood a sort of\nplatform, erected on a couple of empty herring-barrels; and on this\nagain a chair was placed. This distinguished situation, we need hardly\nsay, was designed for Willie, who from that elevated position was to\npour down his heel-inspiring strains amongst the revellers below. When\nWillie, however, came first upon the ground, the marriage party had not\nyet arrived. They were still at the manse, which was hard by, but were\nevery minute expected. In these circumstances, and it being a fine\nsummer afternoon, Willie seated himself on a stone at the door, drew\nforth his fiddle, and struck up with great vigour and animation, to the\ninfinite delight of some half-dozen of the wedding guests, who, not\nhaving gone with the others to the manse, were now, like himself,\nwaiting their arrival. These immediately commenced footing it to\nWillie's music on the green before the door, and thus presented a very\nappropriate prelude to the coming festivities of the evening.\n\nWhile Willie was thus engaged, an itinerant brother in trade, on the\nlook-out for employment, and who had heard of the wedding, suddenly\nappeared, and stealing up quietly beside him, modestly undid the mouth\nof his fiddle-bag, laid the neck of the instrument bare, and drew his\nthumb carelessly across the strings, to intimate to him that a rival was\nnear his throne. On hearing the sound of the instrument, Willie stopped\nshort.\n\n\"I doubt, frien, ye hae come to the wrang market,\" he said, guessing at\nonce the object of the stranger. \"An' ye hae been travellin too, I\ndaresay?\" he continued, good-naturedly, and not at all offended with the\nintruder, for whom and all of his kind he entertained a fellow feeling.\n\n\"Ay,\" replied the new Orpheus, who was a tall, good-looking man of about\neight-and-twenty years of age, but very poorly attired, \"I hae been\ntravellin, as ye say, neebor, an' hae come twa or three miles out o' my\nway to see if I could pick up a shilling or twa at this weddin.\"\n\n\"I am sorry now, man, for that,\" said Willie, sympathisingly. \"I doot\nye'll be disappointed, for I hae been engaged for't this fortnight past.\nBut I'll tell ye what--if ye're onything guid o' the fiddle, ye may\nremain, jist to relieve me now an' then, an' I'll mind ye when a's owre;\nan' at ony rate ye'll aye pick up a mouthfu' o' guid meat and drink--an'\nthat ye ken's no to be fand at every dyke-side.\"\n\n\"A bargain be't,\" said the stranger, \"an' much obliged to you, frien. I\nmaun just tak pat-luck and be thankfu'. But isna your weddin folks lang\no' comin?\" he added.\n\n\"They'll be here belyve,\" replied Willie, and added, \"Ye'll no be blin,\nfrien?\"\n\n\"Ou no,\" said the stranger; \"thank goodness I hae my sight; but I am\notherwise in such a bad state o' health, that I canna work, and am\nobliged to tak the fiddle for a subsistence.\"\n\nWhile this conversation was going on, the wedding folks were seen\ndropping out of the manse in twos and threes, and making straight for\nthe scene of the evening's festivities, where they all very soon after\nassembled. Ample justice having been done to all the good things that\nwere now set before the merry party, and Willie and his colleague having\nhad their share, and being thus put in excellent trim for entering on\ntheir labours, the place was cleared of all encumbrances, and a fair and\nopen field left for the dancers. At this stage of the proceedings,\nWillie was led by his colleague to his station, and helped up to the\nelevated chair which had been provided for him, when the latter handed\nhim his instrument, while he himself took up his position, fiddle in\nhand, on his principal's left, but standing on the ground, as there was\nno room for him on the platform.\n\nEverything being now ready, and the expectant couples ranged in their\nrespective places on the floor, Willie was called upon to begin--an\norder which he instantly obeyed, by opening in great style.\n\nOn the conclusion of the first reel, in the musical department of which\nthe strange fiddler had not interfered, the latter whispered to his\ncoadjutor, that if he liked he would relieve him for the next.\n\n\"Weel,\" replied the latter, \"if ye think ye can gae through wi't\nonything decently, ye may try your hand.\"\n\n\"I'll no promise much,\" said the stranger, now for the first time\ndrawing his fiddle out of its bag; \"but, for the credit o' the craft,\nI'll do the best I can.\"\n\nHaving said this, Willie's colleague drew his bow across the strings of\nhis fiddle, with a preparatory flourish, when instantly every face in\nthe apartment was turned towards him with an expression of delight and\nsurprise. The tones of the fiddle were so immeasurably superior to those\nof poor Willie's salt-box, that the dullest and most indiscriminating\near amongst the revellers readily distinguished the amazing difference.\nBut infinitely greater still was their surprise and delight when the\nstranger began to play. Nothing could exceed the energy, accuracy, and\nbeauty of his performances. He was, in short, evidently a perfect master\nof the instrument, and this was instantly perceived and acknowledged by\nall, including Willie himself, who declared, with great candour and\ngood-will, that he had never heard a better fiddler in his life.\n\nThe result of this discovery was, that the former was not allowed to\nlift a bow during the remainder of the night, the whole burden of its\nlabours being deposited on the shoulders, or perhaps we should rather\nsay the finger-ends, of the stranger, who fiddled away with an\napparently invincible elbow.\n\nFor several hours the dance went on without interruption, and without\nany apparent abatement whatever of vigour on the part of the performers;\nbut, at the end of this period some symptoms of exhaustion began to\nmanifest themselves, which were at length fully declared by a temporary\ncessation of both the mirth and music.\n\nIt was at this interval in the revelries that the unknown fiddler--who\nhad been, by the unanimous voice of the party, installed in Willie's\nelevated chair, while the latter was reduced to his place on the\nfloor--stretching himself over the platform, and tapping Willie on the\nhat with his bow, to draw his attention, inquired of him, in a whisper,\nif he knew who the lively little girl was that had been one of the\npartners in the last reel that had been danced.\n\n\"Is she a bit red-cheeked, dark ee'd, and dark-haired lassie, about\nnineteen or twenty?\" inquired Willie, in his turn.\n\n\"The same,\" replied the fiddler.\n\n\"Ou, that's Jeanie Harrison,\" said Willie--\"a kind-hearted, nice bit\nlassie. No a better nor a bonnier in a' the parish. She's a dochter o'\nMr Harrison o' Todshaws, the young couple's maister, an' a very\nrespectable man. He's here himsel, too, amang the lave.\"\n\n\"Just so,\" replied his colleague. And he began to rosin his bow, and to\nscrew his pegs anew, to prepare for the second storm of merriment, which\nhe saw gathering, and threatening to burst upon him with increased fury.\nAmongst the first on the floor was Jeanie Harrison.\n\n\"Is there naebody 'll tak me out for a reel?\" exclaimed the lively girl;\nand without waiting for an answer--\"weel, then, I'll hae the fiddler.\"\nAnd she ran towards the platform on which the unknown performer was\nseated. But he did not wait her coming. He had heard her name her\nchoice, laid down his fiddle, and sprang to the floor with the agility\nof a harlequin, exclaiming, \"Thank ye, my bonny lassie--thank ye for the\nhonour. I'm your man at a moment's notice, either for feet or fiddle.\"\n\nIt is not quite certain that Jeanie was in perfect earnest when she made\nchoice of the musician for a partner, but it was now too late to\nretract, for the joke had taken with the company, and, with one voice,\nor rather shout, they insisted on her keeping faithful to her\nengagement, and dancing a reel with the fiddler; and on this no one\ninsisted more stoutly than the fiddler himself. Finding that she could\ndo no better, the good-natured girl put the best face on the frolic she\ncould, and prepared to do her partner every justice in the dance. Willie\nhaving now taken bow in hand, his colleague gave him the word of\ncommand, and away the dancers went like meteors: and here again the\nsurprise of the party was greatly excited by the performances of our\nfriend the fiddler, who danced as well as he played. To say merely that\nhe far surpassed all in the room would not, perhaps, be saying much; for\nthere were none of them very great adepts in the art. But, in truth, he\ndanced with singular grace and lightness, and much did those who\nwitnessed it marvel at the display. Neither was his bow to his partner,\nnor his manner of conducting her to her seat on the conclusion of the\nreel, less remarkable. It was distinguished by an air of refined\ngallantry certainly not often to be met with in those in his humble\nstation in life. He might have been a master of ceremonies; and where\nthe beggarly-looking fiddler had picked up these accomplishments every\none found it difficult to conjecture.\n\nOn the termination of the dance, the fiddler--as we shall call him, _par\nexcellence_, and to distinguish him from Willie--resumed his seat and\nhis fiddle, and began to drive away with even more than his former\nspirit; but it was observed by more than one that his eye was now almost\nconstantly fixed, for the remainder of the evening, as, indeed, it had\nbeen very frequently before, on his late partner, Jeanie Harrison. This\ncircumstance, however, did not prevent him giving every satisfaction to\nthose who danced to his music, nor did it in the least impair the spirit\nof his performances; for he was evidently too much practised in the use\nof the instrument, which he managed with such consummate skill, to be\nput out, either by the contemplation of any chance object which might\npresent itself, or by the vagaries of his imagination.\n\nLeaving our musician in the discharge of his duty, we shall step over to\nwhere Jeanie Harrison is seated, to learn what she thinks of her\npartner, and what the Misses Murray, the daughters of a neighbouring\nfarmer, between whom she sat, think of him, and of Jeanie having danced\nwith a fiddler.\n\nPremising that the Misses Murray, not being by any means beauties\nthemselves, entertained a very reasonable and justifiable dislike and\njealousy of all their own sex to whom nature had been more bountiful in\nthis particular; and finding, moreover, that, from their excessively bad\ntempers (this, however, of course, not admitted by the ladies\nthemselves), they could neither practise nor share in the amenities\nwhich usually mark the intercourse of the sexes, they had set up for\nconnoisseurs in the articles of propriety and decorum, of which they\nprofessed to be profound judges.\n\nPremising this, then, we proceed to quote the conversation that passed\nbetween the three ladies--that is, the Misses Murray and Miss Harrison;\nthe latter taking her seat between them after dancing with the fiddler.\n\n\"My certy,\" exclaimed the elder, with a very dignified toss of the head,\n\"ye warna nice, Jeanie, to dance wi' a fiddler. I wad hae been very ill\naff, indeed, for a partner before I wad hae taen up wi' such a\nragamuffin.\"\n\n\"An' to go an' ask him too!\" said the younger, with an imitative toss.\n\"I wadna ask the best man in the land to dance wi' me, let alane a\nfiddler! If they dinna choose to come o' their ain accord, they may\nstay.\"\n\n\"Tuts, lassies, it was a' a piece o' fun,\" said the good-humoured girl.\n\"I'm sure everybody saw that but yersels. Besides, the man's weel\naneugh--na, a gude deal mair than that, if he was only a wee better\nclad. There's no a better-lookin man in the room; and I wish, lassies,\"\nshe added, \"ye may get as guid dancers in your partners--that's a'.\"\n\n\"Umph! a bonny like taste ye hae, Jeanie, an' a very strange notion o'\npropriety!\" exclaimed the elder, with another toss of the head.\n\n\"To dance wi' a fiddler!\" simpered out the younger, who, by the way, was\nno chicken either, being but a trifle on the right side of thirty.\n\n\"Ay, to be sure--dance wi' a fiddler or a piper either. I'll dance wi'\nbaith o' them--an' what for no?\" replied Jeanie. \"There's neither sin\nnor shame in't; and I'll dance wi' him again, if he'll only but ask me.\"\n\n\"An' faith he'll do that wi' a' the pleasure in the warld, my bonny\nlassie,\" quoth the intrepid fiddler, leaping down once more from his\nhigh place; for, there having been a cessation of both music and dancing\nwhile the conversation above recorded was going on, he had heard every\nword of it.--\"Wi' a' the pleasure in the warld,\" he said, advancing\ntowards Jeanie Harrison, and making one of his best bows of invitation;\nand again a shout of approbation from the company urged Jeanie to accept\nit, which she readily did, at once to gratify her friends, and to\nprovoke the Misses Murray.\n\nHaving accordingly taken her place on the floor, and other couples\nhaving been mustered for the set, Jeanie's partner again called on\nWillie to strike up, again the dancers started, and again the fiddler\nastonished and delighted the company with the grace and elegance of his\nperformances. On this occasion, however, the unknown musician's\npredilection for his fair partner exhibited a more unequivocal\ncharacter; and he even ventured to inquire if he might call at her\nfather's, to amuse the family for an hour or so with his fiddle.\n\n\"Nae objection in the warld,\" replied Jeanie. \"Come as aften as ye like;\nand the aftener the better, if ye only bring yer fiddle wi' ye, for\nwe're a' fond o' music.\"\n\n\"A bargain be't,\" said the gallant fiddler; and, at the conclusion of\nthe reel, he again resumed his place on the platform and his fiddle.\n\n\"Time and the hour,\" says Shakspere, \"will wear through the roughest\nday;\" and so they will, also, through the merriest night, as the joyous\nparty of whom we are speaking now soon found.\n\nExhaustion and lassitude, though long defied, finally triumphed; and\neven the very candles seemed wearied of giving light; and, under the\ninfluence of these mirth-destroying feelings, the party at length broke\nup, and all departed, excepting the two fiddlers.\n\nThese worthies now adjourned to a public-house, which was close by, and\nset very gravely about settling what was to them the serious business of\nthe evening. Willie had received thirty-one shillings, as payment in\nfull for their united labours; and, in consideration of the large and\nunexpected portion of them which had fallen to the stranger's share, he\ngenerously determined, notwithstanding that he was the principal party,\nas having been the first engaged, to give him precisely the one-half of\nthe money, or fifteen shillings and sixpence.\n\n\"Very fair,\" said the stranger, on this being announced to him by his\nbrother in trade--\"very fair; but what would ye think of our drinking\nthe odd sixpences?\"\n\n\"Wi' a' my heart,\" replied Willie--\"wi' a' my heart. A very guid\nnotion.\"\n\nAnd a jug of toddy, to the value of one shilling, was accordingly\nordered and produced, over which the two got as thick as ben-leather.\n\n\"Ye're a guid fiddler--I'll say that o' ye,\" quoth Willie, after tossing\ndown the first glass of the warm, exhilarating beverage. \"I wad never\nwish to hear a better.\"\n\n\"I have had some practice,\" said the other, modestly, and at the same\ntime following his companion's example with his glass.\n\n\"Nae doot, nae doot, sae's seen on your playin,\" replied the latter.\n\"How do you fend wi' your fiddle? Do ye mak onything o' a guid leevin\no't?\"\n\n\"No that ill ava,\" said the stranger. \"I play for the auld leddy at the\ncastle--Castle Gowan, ye ken; indeed, I'm sometimes ca'd the leddy's\nfiddler, and she's uncommon guid to me. I neither want bite nor sowp\nwhen I gang there.\"\n\n\"That's sae far weel,\" replied Willie. \"She's a guid judge o' music that\nLeddy Gowan, as I hear them say; and I'm tauld her son, Sir John, plays\na capital bow.\"\n\n\"No amiss, I believe,\" said the stranger; \"but the leddy, as ye say, is\nan excellent judge o' music, although whiles, I think, rather owre fond\no't, for she maks me play for hours thegither, when I wad far rather be\nwi' Tam Yule, her butler, a sonsy, guid-natured chiel, that's no sweer\no' the cap. But, speaking o' that, I'll tell ye what, frien,\" he\ncontinued, \"if ye'll come up to Castle Gowan ony day, I'll be blithe to\nsee you, for I'm there at least ance every day, and I'll warrant ye--for\nye see I can use every liberty there--in a guid het dinner, an' a jug o'\nbetter toddy to wash it owre wi'.\"\n\n\"A bargain be't,\" quoth Willie; \"will the morn do?\"\n\n\"Perfectly,\" said the stranger; \"the sooner the better.\"\n\nThis settled, Willie proceeded to a subject which had been for some time\nnear his heart, but which he felt some delicacy in broaching. This\nfeeling, however, having gradually given way before the influence of the\ntoddy, and of his friend's frank and jovial manner, he at length\nventured, though cautiously, to step on the ice.\n\n\"That's an uncommon guid instrument o' yours, frien,\" he said.\n\n\"Very good,\" replied his companion, briefly.\n\n\"But ye'll hae mair than that ane, nae doot?\" rejoined the other.\n\n\"I hae ither twa.\"\n\n\"In that case,\" said Willie, \"maybe ye wad hae nae objection to pairt\nwi' that ane, an the price offered ye wur a' the mair temptin. I'll gie\nye the saxteen shillins I hae won the nicht, an' my fiddle, for't.\"\n\n\"Thank ye, frien, thank ye for your offer,\" replied the stranger; \"but I\ndaurna accept o't, though I war willin. The fiddle was gien to me by\nLeddy Gowan, and I daurna pairt wi't. She wad miss't, and then there wad\nbe the deevil to pay.\"\n\n\"Oh, an that's the case,\" said Willie, \"I'll say nae mair aboot it; but\nit's a first-rate fiddle--sae guid a ane, that it micht amaist play the\nlane o't.\"\n\nIt being now very late, or rather early, and the toddy jug emptied, the\nblind fiddler and his friend parted, on the understanding, however, that\nthe former would visit the latter at the castle (whither he was now\ngoing, he said, to seek a night's quarters) on the following day.\n\nTrue to his appointment, Willie appeared next day at Gowan House, or\nCastle Gowan, as it was more generally called, and inquired for \"the\nfiddler.\" His inquiry was met with great civility and politeness by the\nfootman who opened the door. He was told \"the fiddler\" was there, and\ndesired to walk in. Obeying the invitation, Willie, conducted by the\nfootman, entered a spacious apartment, where he was soon afterwards\nentertained with a sumptuous dinner, in which his friend the fiddler\njoined him.\n\n\"My word neighbour,\" said Willie, after having made a hearty meal of the\ngood things that were set before him, and having drank in proportion,\n\"but ye're in noble quarters here. This is truly fiddlin to some\npurpose, an' treatin the art as it ought to be treated in the persons o'\nits professors. But what,\" he added, \"if Sir John should come in upon\nus? He wadna like maybe a'thegither to see a stranger wi' ye?\"\n\n\"Deil a bodle I care for Sir John, Willie! He's but a wild harum-scarum\nthroughither chap at the best, an' no muckle to be heeded.\"\n\n\"Ay, he's fond o' a frolic, they tell me,\" quoth Willie; \"an' there's a\nheap o' gay queer anes laid to his charge, whether they be true or no;\nbut his heart's in the richt place, I'm thinkin, for a' that. I've heard\no' mony guid turns he has dune.\"\n\n\"Ou, he's no a bad chiel, on the whole, I daresay,\" replied Willie's\ncompanion. \"His bark's waur than his bite--an' that's mair than can be\nsaid o' a rat-trap at ony rate.\"\n\nIt was about this period, and then for the first time, that certain\nstrange and vague suspicions suddenly entered Willie's mind regarding\nhis entertainer. He had remarked that the latter gave his orders with an\nair of authority which he thought scarcely becoming in one who occupied\nthe humble situation of \"the lady's fiddler;\" but, singular as this\nappeared to him, the alacrity and silence with which these orders were\nobeyed, was to poor Willie still more unaccountable. He said nothing,\nhowever; but much did he marvel at the singular good fortune of his\nbrother-in-trade. He had never known a fiddler so quartered before; and,\nlost in admiration of his friend's felicity, he was about again to\nexpress his ideas on the subject, when a servant in splendid livery\nentered the room, and, bowing respectfully, said, \"The carriage waits\nyou, Sir John.\"\n\n\"I will be with you presently, Thomas,\" replied who? inquires the\nreader.\n\nWhy, Willie's companion!\n\nWhat! is he then Sir John Gowan--he, the fiddler at the penny-wedding,\nSir John Gowan, of Castle Gowan, the most extensive proprietor and the\nwealthiest man in the county?\n\nThe same, and no other, good reader, we assure thee.\n\nA great lover of frolic, as he himself said, was Sir John; and this was\none of the pranks in which he delighted. He was an enthusiastic fiddler;\nand as has been already shown, performed with singular skill on that\nmost difficult, but most delightful, of all musical instruments.\n\nWe will not attempt to describe poor Willie's amazement and confusion,\nwhen this singular fact became known to him; for they are indescribable,\nand therefore better left to the reader's imagination. On recovering a\nlittle from his surprise, however, he endeavoured to express his\nastonishment in such broken sentences as these--\"Wha in earth wad hae\never dreamed o't? Rosit an' fiddle-strings!--this beats a'. Faith, an'\nI've been fairly taen in--clean done for. A knight o' the shire to play\nat a penny-waddin wi' blin Willie Hodge, the fiddler! The like was\nne'er heard tell o'.\"\n\nAs it is unnecessary, and would certainly be tedious, to protract the\nscene at this particular point in our story, we cut it short by saying,\nthat Sir John presented Willie with the fiddle he had so much coveted,\nand which he had vainly endeavoured to purchase; that he then told down\nto him the half of the proceeds of the previous night's labours which he\nhad pocketed, added a handsome _douceur_ from his own purse, and finally\ndismissed him with a pressing and cordial invitation to visit the castle\nas often as it suited his inclination and conveniency.\n\nHaving arrived at this landing-place in our tale, we pause to explain\none or two things, which is necessary for the full elucidation of the\nsequel. With regard to Sir John Gowan himself, there is little to add to\nwhat has been already said of him; for, brief though these notices of\nhim are, they contain nearly all that the reader need care to know about\nhim. He was addicted to such pranks as that just recorded; but this, if\nit was a defect in his character, was the only one. For the rest, he was\nan excellent young man--kind, generous, and affable, of the strictest\nhonour, and the most upright principles. He was, moreover, an\nexceedingly handsome man, and highly accomplished. At this period, he\nwas unmarried, and lived with his mother, Lady Gowan, to whom he was\nmost affectionately attached. Sir John had, at one time, mingled a good\ndeal with the fashionable society of the metropolis; but soon became\ndisgusted with the heartlessness of those who composed it, and with the\nfrivolity of their pursuits; and in this frame of mind he came to the\nresolution of retiring to his estate, and of giving himself up entirely\nto the quiet enjoyments of a country life, and the pleasing duties which\nhis position as a large landed proprietor entailed upon him.\n\nSimple in all his tastes and habits, Sir John had been unable to\ndiscover, in any of the manufactured beauties to whom he had been, from\ntime to time, introduced while he resided in London, one to whom he\ncould think of intrusting his happiness. The wife he desired was one\nfresh from the hand of nature, not one remodelled by the square and rule\nof art; and such a one he thought he had found during his adventure of\nthe previous night.\n\nBringing this digression, which we may liken to an interlude, to a\nclose, we again draw up the curtain, and open the second act of our\nlittle drama with an exhibition of the residence of Mr Harrison at\nTodshaw.\n\nThe house or farm-steading of this worthy person was of the very best\ndescription of such establishments. The building itself was substantial,\nnay, even handsome, while the excellent garden which was attached to it,\nand all the other accessories and appurtenances with which it was\nsurrounded, indicated wealth and comfort. Its situation was on the\nsummit of a gentle eminence that sloped down in front to a noisy little\nrivulet, that careered along through a narrow rugged glen overhanging\nwith hazel, till it came nearly opposite the house, where it wound\nthrough an open plat of green sward, and shortly after again plunged\ninto another little romantic ravine similar to the one it had left.\n\nThe approach to Mr Harrison's house lay along this little rivulet, and\nwas commanded, for a considerable distance, by the view from the\nformer--a circumstance which enabled Jeanie Harrison to descry, one fine\nsummer afternoon, two or three days after the occurrence of the events\njust related, the approach of the fiddler with whom she had danced at\nthe wedding. On making this discovery, Jeanie ran to announce the joyful\nintelligence to all the other members of the family, and the prospect of\na merry dancing afternoon opened on the delighted eyes of its younger\nbranches.\n\nWhen the fiddler--with whose identity the reader is now as well\nacquainted as we are--had reached the bottom of the ascent that led to\nthe house, Jeanie, with excessive joy beaming in her bright and\nexpressive eye, and her cheek glowing with the roseate hues of health,\nrushed down to meet him, and to welcome him to Todshaw.\n\n\"Thank ye, my bonny lassie--thank ye,\" replied the disguised baronet,\nexpressing himself in character, and speaking the language of his\nassumed station. \"Are ye ready for anither dance?\"\n\n\"Oh, a score o' them--a thousand o' them,\" said the lively girl.\n\n\"But will your faither, think ye, hae nae objections to my comin?\"\ninquired the fiddler.\n\n\"Nane in the warld. My faither is nane o' your sour carles that wad deny\nither folk the pleasures they canna enjoy themsels. He likes to see\na'body happy around him--every ane his ain way.\"\n\n\"An' your mother?\"\n\n\"Jist the same. Ye'll find her waur to fiddle doun than ony o' us.\nShe'll dance as lang's a string hauds o't.\"\n\n\"Then, I may be quite at my ease,\" rejoined Sir John.\n\n\"Quite so,\" replied Jeanie--and she slipped half-a-crown into his\nhand--\"and there's your arles; but ye'll be minded better ere ye leave\nus.\"\n\n\"My word, no an ill beginnin,\" quoth the musician, looking with\nwell-affected delight at the coin, and afterwards putting it carefully\ninto his pocket. \"But ye could hae gien me a far mair acceptable arles\nthan half-a-crown,\" he added, \"and no been a penny the poorer either.\"\n\n\"What's that?\" said Jeanie, laughing and blushing at the same time, and\nmore than half guessing, from the looks of the _pawky_ fiddler, what was\nmeant.\n\n\"Why, my bonny leddie,\" he replied, \"jist a kiss o' that pretty little\nmou o' yours.\"\n\n\"Oh, ye gowk!\" exclaimed Jeanie, with a roguish glance at her humble\ngallant; for, disguised as he was, he was not able to conceal a very\nhandsome person, nor the very agreeable expression of a set of\nremarkably fine features--qualities which did not escape the vigilance\nof the female eye that was now scanning their possessor. Nor would we\nsay that these qualities were viewed with total indifference, or without\nproducing their effect, even although they did belong to a fiddler.\n\n\"Oh, ye gowk!\" said Jeanie; \"wha ever heard o' a fiddler preferring a\nkiss to half-a-crown?\"\n\n\"But _I_ do, though,\" replied the disguised knight; \"and I'll gie ye\nyours back again for't.\"\n\n\"The mair fule you,\" exclaimed Jeanie, rushing away towards the house,\nand leaving the fiddler to make out the remainder of the way by himself.\n\nOn reaching the house, the musician was ushered into the kitchen, where\na plentiful repast was instantly set before him, by the kind and\nconsiderate hospitality of Jeanie, who, not contented with her guest's\nmaking a hearty meal at table, insisted on his pocketing certain pieces\nof cheese, cold meat, &c., which were left. These the fiddler steadily\nrefused; but Jeanie would take no denial, and with her own hands crammed\nthem into his capacious pockets, which, after the operation, stuck out\nlike a well-filled pair of saddle-bags. But there was no need for any\none who might be curious to know what they contained, to look into them\nfor that purpose. Certain projecting bones of mutton and beef, which it\nwas found impossible to get altogether out of sight, sufficiently\nindicated their contents. Of this particular circumstance, however--we\nmean the projection of the bones from the pockets--we must observe, the\nowner of the said pockets was not aware, otherwise, we daresay, he would\nhave been a little more positive in rejecting the provender which\nJeanie's warmheartedness and benevolence had forced upon him.\n\nBe this as it may, however, so soon as the musician had finished his\nrepast, he took fiddle in hand, and opened the evening with a slow\npathetic Scottish air, which he played so exquisitely that Jeanie's eye\nfilled with a tear, as she listened in raptures to the sweet but\nmelancholy turns of the affecting tune.\n\nTwice the musician played over the touching strain, delighted to\nperceive the effects of the music on the lovely girl who stood before\nhim, and rightly conceiving it to be an unequivocal proof of a\nsusceptible heart and of a generous nature.\n\nA third time he began the beautiful air; but he now accompanied it with\na song, and in this accomplishment he was no less perfect than in the\nothers which have been already attributed to him. His voice was at once\nmanly and melodious, and he conducted it with a skill that did it every\njustice. Having played two or three bars of the tune, his rich and\nwell-regulated voice chimed in with the following words:--\n\n    \"Oh, I hae lived wi' high-bred dames,\n      Each state of life to prove,\n    But never till this hour hae met\n      The girl that I could love.\n\n    It's no in fashion's gilded ha's\n      That she is to be seen;\n    Beneath her father's humble roof\n      Abides my bonny Jean.\n\n    Oh, wad she deign ae thought to wair,\n      Ae kindly thought on me,\n    Wi' pearls I wad deck her hair,\n      Though low be my degree.\n\n    Wi' pearls I wad deck her hair,\n      Wi' gowd her wrists sae sma';\n    An' had I lands and houses, she'd\n      Be leddy owre them a'.\n\n    The sun abune's no what he seems,\n      Nor is the night's fair queen;\n    Then wha kens wha the minstrel is\n      That's wooin bonny Jean?\"\n\nJeanie could not help feeling a little strange as the minstrel proceeded\nwith a song which seemed to have so close a reference to herself.\n\nShe, of course, did not consider this circumstance otherwise than as\nmerely accidental; but she could not help, nevertheless, being somewhat\nembarrassed by it; and this was made sufficiently evident by the blush\nthat mantled on her cheek, and by the confusion of her manner under the\nfixed gaze of the singer, while repeating the verses just quoted.\n\nWhen he had concluded, \"Well, good folks all,\" he said, \"what think ye\nof my song?\" And without waiting for an answer, about which he seemed\nvery indifferent, he added, \"and how do you like it, Jeanie?\" directing\nthe question exclusively to the party he named.\n\n\"Very weel,\" replied Jeanie, again blushing, but still more deeply than\nbefore; \"the song is pretty, an' the air delightfu'; but some o' the\nverses are riddles to me. I dinna thoroughly understan them.\"\n\n\"Don't you?\" replied Sir John, laughing; \"then I'll explain them to you\nby and by; but, in the meantime, I must screw my pegs anew, and work for\nmy dinner, for I see the good folk about me here are all impatience to\nbegin.\" A fact this which was instantly acknowledged by a dozen voices;\nand straightway the whole party proceeded, in compliance with a\nsuggestion of Mr Harrison, to the green in front of the house, where Sir\nJohn took up his position on the top of an inverted wheelbarrow, and\nimmediately commenced his labours.\n\nFor several hours, the dance went on with uninterrupted glee; old Mr\nHarrison and his wife appearing to enjoy the sport as much as the\nyoungest of the party, and both being delighted with the masterly\nplaying of the musician. But, although, as on a former occasion, Sir\nJohn did not suffer anything to interfere with or interrupt the charge\nof the duties expected of him, there was but a very small portion of his\nmind or thoughts engrossed by the employment in which he was engaged.\nAll, or nearly all, were directed to the contemplation of the object on\nwhich his affections had now become irrevocably fixed.\n\nNeither was his visit to Todshaws, on this occasion, by any means\ndictated solely by the frivolous object of affording its inmates\nentertainment by his musical talents. His purpose was a much more\nserious one. It was to ascertain, as far as such an opportunity would\nafford him the means, the dispositions and temper of his fair enslaver.\nOf these, his natural shrewdness had enabled him to make a pretty\ncorrect estimate on the night of the wedding; but he was desirous of\nseeing her in other circumstances, and he thought none more suitable for\nhis purpose than those of a domestic nature.\n\nIt was, then, to see her in this position that he had now come; and the\nresult of his observations was highly gratifying to him.\n\nHe found in Miss Harrison all that he, at any rate, desired in woman. He\nfound her guileless, cheerful, gentle, kind-hearted, and good-tempered,\nbeloved by all around her, and returning the affection bestowed on her\nwith a sincere and ardent love.\n\nSuch were the discoveries which the disguised baronet made on this\noccasion; and never did hidden treasure half so much gladden the heart\nof the fortunate finder as these did that of him who made them. It is\ntrue that Sir John could not be sure, nor was he, that his addresses\nwould be received by Miss Harrison, even after he should have made\nhimself known; but he could not help entertaining a pretty strong\nconfidence in his own powers of persuasion, nor being, consequently,\ntolerably sanguine of success. All this, however, was to be the work of\nanother day. In the meantime, the dancers having had their hearts'\ncontent of capering on the green sward, the fiddle was put up, and the\nfiddler once more invited into the house, where he was entertained with\nthe same hospitality as before, and another half-crown slipped into his\nhand. This he also put carefully into his pocket; and having partaken\nlightly of what was set before him, rose up to depart, alleging that he\nhad a good way to go, and was desirous of availing himself of the little\ndaylight that still remained. He was pressed to remain all night, but\nthis he declined; promising, however, in reply to the urgent entreaties\nwith which he was assailed on all sides to stay, that he would very soon\nrepeat his visit. Miss Harrison he took by the hand, and said, \"I\npromised to explain to you the poetical riddle which I read, or rather\nattempted to sing, this evening. It is now too late to do this, for the\nexplanation is a long one; but I will be here again, without fail, in a\nday or two, when I shall solve all, and, I trust, to your satisfaction.\nTill then, do not forget your poor fiddler.\"\n\n\"No, I winna forget ye,\" said Jeanie. \"It wadna be easy to forget ane\nthat has contributed so much to our happiness. Neither would it be more\nthan gratefu' to do so, I think.\"\n\n\"And you are too kind a creature to be ungrateful to any one, however\nhumble may be their attempts to win your favour--of that I feel\nassured.\" Having said this, and perceiving that he was unobserved, he\nquickly raised the fair hand he held to his lips, kissed it, and hurried\nout of the door.\n\nWhat Jane Harrison thought of this piece of gallantry from a fiddler, we\nreally do not know, and therefore will say nothing about it. Whatever\nher thoughts were, she kept them to herself. Neither did she mention to\nany one the circumstance which gave rise to them. Nor did she say, but\nfor what reason we are ignorant, how much she had been pleased with the\ngeneral manners of the humble musician--with the melodious tones of his\nvoice, and the fine expression of his dark hazel eye. Oh, love, love!\nthou art a leveller, indeed, else how should it happen that the pretty\ndaughter of a wealthy and respectable yeoman should think for a moment,\nwith certain indescribable feelings, of a poor itinerant fiddler? Mark,\ngood reader, however, we do not say that Miss Harrison was absolutely in\nlove with the musician. By no means. That would certainly be saying too\nmuch. But it is as certainly true, that she had perceived something\nabout him that left no disagreeable impression--nay, something which she\nwished she might meet with in her future husband, whoever he might be.\n\nLeaving Jeanie Harrison to such reflections as these, we will follow the\nfootsteps of the disguised baronet. On leaving the house, he walked at a\nrapid pace for an hour or so, till he came to a turn in the road, at the\ndistance of about four miles from Todshaws, where his gig and\nman-servant, with a change of clothes, were waiting him by appointment.\nHaving hastily divested himself of his disguise, and resumed his own\ndress, he stepped into the vehicle, and about midnight arrived at Castle\nGowan.\n\nIn this romantic attachment of Sir John Gowan's--or rather in the\nromantic project which it suggested to him of offering his heart and\nhand to the daughter of a humble farmer--there was but one doubtful\npoint on his side of the question, at any rate. This was, whether he\ncould obtain the consent of his mother to such a proceeding. She loved\nhim with the utmost tenderness; and, naturally of a mild, gentle, and\naffectionate disposition, her sole delight lay in promoting the\nhappiness of her beloved son. To secure this great object of her life,\nthere was scarcely any sacrifice which she would not make, nor any\nproposal with which she would not willingly comply. This Sir John well\nknew, and fully appreciated; but he felt that the call which he was now\nabout to make on her maternal love was more than he ought to expect she\nwould answer. He, in short, felt that she might, with good reason, and\nwithout the slightest infringement of her regard for him, object to his\nmarrying so far beneath his station. It was not, therefore, without some\nmisgivings that he entered his mother's private apartment on the day\nfollowing his adventure at Todshaws, for the purpose of divulging the\nsecret of his attachment, and hinting at the resolution he had formed\nregarding it.\n\n\"Mother,\" he said, after a pause which had been preceded by the usual\naffectionate inquiries of the morning, \"you have often expressed a wish\nthat I would marry.\"\n\n\"I have, John,\" replied the good old lady. \"Nothing in this world would\nafford me greater gratification than to see you united to a woman who\nshould be every way deserving of you--one with whom you could live\nhappily.\"\n\n\"Ay, that last is the great, the important consideration, at least with\nme. But where, mother, am I to find that woman? I have mingled a good\ndeal with the higher ranks of society, and there, certainly, I have not\nbeen able to find her. I am not so uncharitable as to say--nay, God\nforbid I should--that there are not as good, as virtuous, as amiable\nwomen, in the upper classes of society as in the lower. I have no doubt\nthere are. All that I mean to say is, that I have not been fortunate\nenough to find one in that sphere to suit my fancy, and have no hopes of\never doing so. Besides, the feelings, sentiments, and dispositions of\nthese persons, both male and female, are so completely disguised by a\nfactitious manner, and by conventional rules, that you never can\ndiscover what is their real nature and character. They are still\nstrangers to you, however long you may be acquainted with them. You\ncannot tell who or what they are. The roller of fashion reduces them all\nto one level; and, being all clapped into the same mould, they become\nmere repetitions of each other, as like as peas, without exhibiting the\nslightest point of variety. Now, mother,\" continued Sir John, \"the wife\nI should like is one whose heart, whose inmost nature, should be at once\nopen to my view, unwarped and undisguised by the customs and fashions of\nthe world.\"\n\n\"Upon my word, John, you are more than usually eloquent this morning,\"\nsaid Lady Gowan, laughing. \"But pray now, do tell me, John, shortly and\nunequivocally, what is the drift of this long, flowery, and very\nsensible speech of yours?--for that there is a drift in it I can clearly\nperceive. You are aiming at something which you do not like to plump\nupon me at once.\"\n\nSir John looked a good deal confused on finding that his mother's\nshrewdness had detected a latent purpose in his remarks, and endeavoured\nto evade the acknowledgment of that purpose, until he should have her\nopinion of the observations he had made; and in this he succeeded.\nHaving pressed her on this point:\n\n\"Well, my son,\" replied Lady Gowan, \"if you think that you cannot find a\nwoman in a station of life corresponding to your own that will suit your\ntaste, look for her in any other you please; and, when found, take her.\nConsult your own happiness, John, and in doing so you will consult mine.\nI will not object to your marrying whomsoever you please. All that I\nbargain for is, that she be a perfectly virtuous woman, and of\nirreproachable character; and I don't think this is being unreasonable.\nBut do now, John, tell me at once,\" she added, in a graver tone, and\ntaking her son solemnly by the hand; \"have you fixed your affections on\na woman of humble birth and station? I rather suspect this is the case.\"\n\n\"I have, then, mother,\" replied Sir John, returning his mother's\nexpressive and affectionate pressure of the hand--\"the daughter of a\nhumble yeoman, a woman who----\" But we will spare the reader the\ninfliction of the high-flown encomiums of all sorts which Sir John\nlavished on the object of his affections. Suffice it to say, that they\nincluded every quality of both mind and person which go to the adornment\nof the female sex.\n\nWhen he had concluded, Lady Gowan, who made the necessary abatements\nfrom the panegyric her son had passed on the lady of his choice, said\nthat, with regard to his attachment, she could indeed have wished it had\nfallen on one somewhat nearer his own station in life, but that,\nnevertheless, she had no objection whatever to accept of Miss Harrison\nas a daughter-in-law, since she was his choice. \"Nay,\" she added,\nsmiling, \"if she only possesses one-tenth--ay, one-tenth, John--of the\ngood qualities with which you have endowed her, I must say you are a\nsingularly fortunate man to have fallen in with such a treasure. But,\nJohn, allow me to say that, old woman as I am, I think that I could very\neasily show you that your prejudices, vulgar prejudices I must call\nthem, against the higher classes of society, are unreasonable, unjust,\nand, I would add, illiberal, and therefore wholly unworthy of you. Does\nthe elegance, the refinement, the accomplishments, the propriety of\nmanner and delicacy of sentiment, to be met with in these circles, go\nfor nothing with you? Does----\"\n\n\"My dear mother,\" here burst in Sir John, \"if you please, we will not\nargue the point; for, in truth, I do not feel disposed just now to argue\nabout anything. I presume I am to understand, my ever kind and indulgent\nparent, that I have your full consent to marry Miss Harrison--that is,\nof course, if Miss Harrison will marry me.\"\n\n\"Fully and freely, my child,\" said the old lady, now flinging her arms\naround her son's neck, while a tear glistened in her eye; \"and may God\nbless your union, and make it happy! I would rather ten thousand times\nsee you marry such a girl as you have described, than that you should do\nby her as many young men of your years and station would be but too\nready to do.\"\n\nSir John with no less emotion returned the embrace of his affectionate\nparent, and, in the most grateful language he could command, thanked her\nfor her ready compliance with his wishes.\n\nOn the day following that on which the preceding conversation between\nSir John Gowan and his mother took place, the inmates of Todshaws were\nsurprised at the appearance of a splendid equipage driving up towards\nthe house.\n\n\"Wha in a' the world's this?\" said Jeanie to her father, as they both\nstood at the door, looking at the glittering vehicle, as it flashed in\nthe sun and rolled on towards them. \"Some travellers that hae mistaen\ntheir road.\"\n\n\"Very likely,\" replied her father; \"yet I canna understand what kind o'\na mistake it could be that should bring them to such an out-o'-the-way\nplace as this. It's no a regular carriage road--that they micht hae\nseen; an' if they hae gane wrang, they'll find some difficulty in\ngetting richt again. But here they are, sae we'll sune ken a' about it.\"\n\nAs Mr Harrison said this, the carriage, now at the distance of only some\ntwenty or thirty yards from the house, stopped, a gentleman stepped out,\nand advanced smiling towards Mr Harrison and his daughter. They looked\nsurprised, nay confounded; for they could not at all comprehend who\ntheir visiter was.\n\n\"How do you do, Mr Harrison?\" exclaimed the latter, stretching out his\nhand to the person he addressed; \"and how do you do, Miss Harrison?\" he\nsaid, taking Jeanie next by the hand.\n\nIn the stranger's tones and manner the acute perceptions of Miss\nHarrison recognised something she had heard and seen before, and the\nrecognition greatly perplexed her; nor was this perplexity lessened by\nthe discovery which she also made, that the countenance of the stranger\nrecalled one which she had seen on some former occasion. In short, the\nperson now before her she thought presented a most extraordinary\nlikeness to the fiddler--only that he had no fiddle, that he was\ninfinitely better dressed, and that his pockets were not sticking out\nwith lumps of cheese and cold beef. That they were the same person,\nhowever, she never dreamed for a moment.\n\nIn his daughter's perplexity on account of the resemblances alluded to,\nMr Harrison did not participate, as, having paid little or no attention\nto the personal appearance of the fiddler, he detected none of them; and\nit was thus that he replied to the stranger's courtesies with a gravity\nand coolness which contrasted strangely with the evident embarrassment\nand confusion of his daughter, although she herself did not well know\nhow this accidental resemblance, as she deemed it, should have had such\nan effect upon her.\n\nImmediately after the interchange of the commonplace civilities\nabove-mentioned had passed between the stranger and Mr Harrison and his\ndaughter--\n\n\"Mr Harrison,\" he said, \"may I have a private word with you?\"\n\n\"Certainly, sir,\" replied the former. And he led the way into a little\nback parlour.\n\n\"Excuse us for a few minutes, Miss Harrison,\" said the stranger, with a\nsmile, ere he followed, and bowing gallantly to her as he spoke.\n\nOn entering the parlour, Mr Harrison requested the stranger to take a\nseat, and placing himself in another, he awaited the communication of\nhis visiter.\n\n\"Mr Harrison,\" now began the latter, \"in the first place, it may be\nproper to inform you that I am Sir John Gowan of Castle Gowan.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" said Mr Harrison, rising from his seat, approaching Sir John, and\nextending his hand towards him--\"I am very happy indeed to see Sir John\nGowan. I never had the pleasure of seeing you before, sir; but I have\nheard much of you, and not to your discredit, I assure you, Sir John.\"\n\n\"Well, that is some satisfaction, at any rate, Mr Harrison,\" replied the\nbaronet, laughing. \"I am glad that my character, since it happens to be\na good one, has been before me. It may be of service to me. But to\nproceed to business. You will hardly recognise in me, my friend, I\ndaresay,\" continued Sir John, \"a certain fiddler who played to you at a\ncertain wedding lately, and to whose music you and your family danced on\nthe green in front of your own house the other night.\"\n\nMr Harrison's first reply to this extraordinary observation was a broad\nstare of amazement and utter non-comprehension. But after a few minutes'\npause thus employed, \"No, certainly not, sir,\" he said, still greatly\nperplexed and amazed. \"But I do not understand you. What is it you mean,\nSir John?\"\n\n\"Why,\" replied the latter, laughing, \"I mean very distinctly that _I_\nwas the musician on both of the occasions alluded to. The\npersonification of such a character has been one of my favourite\nfrolics; and, however foolish it may be considered, I trust it will at\nleast be allowed to have been a harmless one.\"\n\n\"Well, this is most extraordinary,\" replied Mr Harrison, in great\nastonishment. \"Can it be possible? Is it really true, Sir John, or are\nye jesting?\"\n\n\"Not a bit of that, I assure you, sir. I am in sober earnest. But all\nthis,\" continued Sir John, \"is but a prelude to the business I came\nupon. To be short, then, Mr Harrison, I saw and particularly marked your\ndaughter on the two occasions alluded to, and the result, in few words,\nis, that I have conceived a very strong attachment to her. Her beauty,\nher cheerfulness, her good temper, and simplicity, have won my heart,\nand I have now come to offer her my hand.\"\n\n\"Why, Sir John, this--this,\" stammered out the astonished farmer, \"is\nmore extraordinary still. You do my daughter and myself great honour,\nSir John--great honour, indeed.\"\n\n\"Not a word of that,\" replied the knight--\"not a word of that, Mr\nHarrison. My motives are selfish. I am studying my own happiness, and\ntherefore am not entitled to any acknowledgments of that kind. You, I\nhope, sir, have no objection to accept of me as a son-in-law; and I\ntrust your daughter will have no very serious ones either. Her\naffections, I hope, are not pre-engaged?\"\n\n\"Not that I know of, Sir John,\" replied Mr Harrison; \"indeed, I may\nventure to say positively that they are not. The girl has never yet,\nthat I am aware of, thought of a husband--at least, not more than young\nwomen usually do; and as to my having any objections, Sir John, so far\nfrom that, I feel, I assure you, extremely grateful for such a singular\nmark of your favour and condescension as that you have just mentioned.\"\n\n\"And you anticipate no very formidable ones on the part of your\ndaughter?\"\n\n\"Certainly not, Sir John; it is impossible there should.\"\n\n\"Will you, then, my dear sir,\" added Sir John, \"be kind enough to go to\nMiss Harrison and break this matter to her, and I will wait your\nreturn?\"\n\nWith this request the farmer instantly complied; and having found his\ndaughter, opened to her at once the extraordinary commission with which\nhe was charged. We would fain describe, but find ourselves wholly\nincompetent to the task, the effect which Mr Harrison's communication\nhad upon his daughter, and on the other female members of the family, to\nall of whom it was also soon known. There was screaming, shouting,\nlaughing, crying, fear, joy, terror, and amazement, all blended together\nin one tremendous medley, and so loud, that it reached the ears of Sir\nJohn himself, who, guessing the cause of it, laughed very heartily at\nthe strange uproar.\n\n\"But, oh! the cauld beef an' the cheese that I crammed into his pockets,\nfather,\" exclaimed Jeanie, running about the room in great agitation.\n\"He'll never forgie me that--never, never,\" she said, in great distress\nof mind. \"To fill a knight's pockets wi' dauds o' beef and cheese! Oh!\ngoodness, goodness! I canna marry him. I canna see him after that. It's\nimpossible, father--impossible, impossible!\"\n\n\"If that be a' your objections, Jeanie,\" replied her father, smiling,\n\"we'll soon get the better o't. I'll undertake to procure ye Sir John's\nforgiveness for the cauld beef an' cheese--that's if ye think it\nnecessary to ask a man's pardon for filling his pockets wi' most\nunexceptionable provender. I wish every honest man's pouches war as weel\nlined, lassie, as Sir John's was that nicht.\" Saying this, Mr Harrison\nreturned to Sir John and informed him of the result of his mission,\nwhich was--but this he had rather made out than been told, for Jeanie\ncould not be brought to give any rational answer at all--that his\naddresses would not, he believed, be disagreeable to his daughter,\n\"which,\" he added, \"is, I suppose, all that you desire in the meantime,\nSir John.\"\n\n\"Nothing more, nothing more, Mr Harrison; she that's not worth wooing's\nnot worth winning. I only desired your consent to my addresses, and a\nregular and honourable introduction to your daughter. The rest belongs\nto me. I will now fight my own battle, since you have cleared the way,\nand only desire that you may wish me success.\"\n\n\"That I do with all my heart,\" replied the farmer; \"and, if I can lend\nyou a hand, I will do it with right good will.\"\n\n\"Thank you, Mr Harrison, thank you,\" replied Sir John; \"and now, my dear\nsir,\" he continued, \"since you have so kindly assisted me thus far, will\nyou be good enough to help me just one step further. Will you now\nintroduce me in my new character to your daughter? Hitherto, she has\nknown me only,\" he said, smiling as he spoke, \"as an itinerant fiddler,\nand I long to meet her on a more serious footing--and on one,\" he added,\nagain laughing, \"I hope, a trifle more respectable.\"\n\n\"That I'll very willingly do, Sir John,\" replied Mr Harrison, smiling in\nhis turn; \"but I must tell you plainly, that I have some doubts of being\nable to prevail on Jane to meet you at this particular moment. She has\none most serious objection to seeing you.\"\n\n\"Indeed,\" replied Sir John, with an earnestness that betokened some\nalarm. \"Pray, what is that objection?\"\n\n\"Why, sir,\" rejoined the latter, \"allow me to reply to that question by\nasking you another. Have you any recollection of carrying away out of my\nhouse, on the last night you were here, a pocketful of cheese and cold\nbeef?\"\n\n\"Oh! perfectly, perfectly,\" said Sir John, laughing, yet somewhat\nperplexed. \"Miss Harrison was kind enough to furnish me with the very\nliberal supply of the articles you allude to; cramming them into my\npocket with her own fair hands.\"\n\n\"Just so,\" replied Mr Harrison, now laughing in his turn. \"Well, then,\nto tell you a truth, Sir John, Jane is so dreadfully ashamed of that\ncircumstance that she positively will not face you.\"\n\n\"Oh ho! is that the affair?\" exclaimed the delighted baronet. \"Why,\nthen, if she won't come to us, we'll go to her; so lead the way, Mr\nHarrison, if you please.\" Mr Harrison did lead the way, and Jane was\ncaught.\n\nBeyond this point our story need not be prolonged, as here all its\ninterest ceases. We have only now to add, then, that the winning\nmanners, gentle dispositions, and very elegant person of Sir John Gowan,\nvery soon completed the conquest he aimed at; and Jeanie Harrison, in\ndue time, became LADY GOWAN.\n\n\n\n\nTHE AMATEUR LAWYERS.[3]\n\n\n[Footnote 3: One of the characters of this tale may be easily recognised\nby some of the older Edinburgh agents. It has been said of him, that one\nday a travelling packman was seen to enter his farmhouse with a large\nbook under his arm, and in about a quarter-of-an-hour afterwards to\nissue with a book of a very different appearance. The farmer had \"swapt\"\nhis family Bible for Erskine's \"Institute of the Law of Scotland.\" From\nthat day he became litigious, and from that day he could date the\ncommencement of his ruin.--ED.]\n\nThe profession of the law is one of the highest respectability; the\nstudy itself a sufficiently interesting one, nevertheless of its having\nbeen called dry by those whose genius it does not suit, or by those\nwhose pockets have been made lighter by some of its technical behests;\nyet we cannot conceive what there is, either in its language, its\ntechnicalities, or its general practical operation, or its application,\nto captivate the fancy of any one not connected with it professionally.\nBut, of a surety, the science has had many amateur attaches--men whose\nwhole souls were wrapped up in multiplepoindings, who loved summonses,\nwho were captivated by condescendences. Strange customers for the most\npart--original geniuses in some of the queerest senses of the word. Born\nwith a natural propensity for litigation, possessed of a most\nunaccountable aptitude for everything that is complicated and involved,\nthe law becomes with these persons, not only a favourite, but an\nengrossing study--engrossing almost to the exclusion of everything else.\nLaw, in short, becomes their hobby. Of law they constantly speak; of law\nthey constantly think; of law, we have no doubt, they constantly dream.\nThe victims of this curious disease--for disease it is--are generally to\nbe found amongst the lower and uneducated classes, and are, for the most\npart, men of confused intellect and large conceit, all of them, without\nany exception, imagining themselves astonishingly acute, shrewd, and\nclever fellows--sharp chaps, who know much more than the world is aware\nof, or will give them credit for--screws for bungs of any\ndimensions--dungeons of wit and wisdom. For these persons the jargon of\nthe law has charms superior to the sweetest strains that music ever\npoured forth. They delight in its uncouthness and unintelligibility,\nemploy it with a gravity, composure, and confidence which, when\ncontrasted with their utter ignorance, or, at best, confused notions of\nits meaning, is at once highly edifying and impressive.\n\nYet, notwithstanding of the natural tendencies of such persons to legal\npursuits and studies, they do not generally betake themselves to them\nspontaneously, or without some original influencing cause. They will be\nfound, for the most part, to have been started in their legal career by\nsome small lawsuit of their own, and, being previously predisposed, this\nat once inoculates them with the disease. From that moment to the end of\ntheir natural lives they are confirmed, incorrigible lawyers. They have\nimbibed a love for the science, a taste for litigation, which quits them\nonly with life. All which remarks we have made with the view of\nintroducing to the world, with the grandest effect possible, our very\ngood friend, Mr John Goodale, or, as the name was more generally and\nmore euphoniously pronounced by his acquaintances, Guidyill, who was\nprecisely such a person and character as we have endeavoured to picture\nforth in this preliminary sketch with which our story opens.\n\nGuidyill was a small laird or landed proprietor in the shire of Renfrew,\nor, as it was anciently spelled, Arranthrough. He was a man of grave,\nsolemn demeanour, with a look of intense wisdom, which was hardly made\ngood by either his speech or his actions. It was evident that he was\ndesirous of palming himself on a simple world for a man of shining\nparts, of great penetration and discernment, and profound knowledge. All\nthis he himself firmly believed he was, and this belief imparted to his\nsomewhat saturnine countenance a degree of calm repose, confidence, and\nself-reliance particularly striking. In person, he was tall and thin, or\nrather gaunt, with that peculiar conformation of face which has obtained\nthe fancy name of lantern-jawed. His age was about fifty-five. To\ndescend to items: the laird _always_ wore knee-breeches, and _never_\nwore braces; so that the natural tendency of the former downwards being\nthus unchecked, gave free egress to a quantity of linen, which, taking\nadvantage of the liberty, always displayed itself in a voluminous\nsemicircle of white across his midriff. A small, unnecessary exhibition\nof snuff about the nose completed the _tout ensemble_ of the Laird of\nScouthercakes.\n\nWe have described Mr Guidyill (we prefer the colloquial to the classical\npronunciation of his name) as a small laird, and such he was at the\nperiod we take up his history; but it had not been always so with him.\nHe was at one time the owner of a very extensive property; but lawsuit\nafter lawsuit had gradually circumscribed its dimensions, until he found\nno difficulty in accomplishing that in ten minutes which used to take\nhim a good hour--that is, in walking round his possessions. Yet the\nlaird had still a little left--as much as would carry him through two or\nthree other suits of moderate cost; and this happiness he hoped to enjoy\nbefore he died; for, like a spaniel with its master, the more the law\nflogged him, the more attached he became to the said law.\n\nJust at the particular moment at which we introduce Mr Guidyill to the\nnotice of the reader, he had no legal business whatever on hand--not a\nsingle case in any one even of the petty local courts of the district,\nto say nothing of his great field of action, the Court of Session. It\nwas a predicament he had not been in for twenty years before, and he\nfound it exceedingly irksome and disagreeable; for a dispute with some\none or other was necessary, if not to his existence absolutely, at\nleast most certainly to his happiness. The laird's last lawsuit, which\nwas with a neighbouring proprietor regarding the site of a midden or\ndung-stead, and which, as usual, had gone against him, to the tune of\nsome hundred and eighty pounds, had been brought to a conclusion about a\nyear and a-half before the period we allude to; and, during all that\ntime, the laird had lived contrived to live, we should have said,\nwithout a single quarrel with any one on which any pretext for a\nlaw-plea could be grounded. Moreover, and what was still more\ndistressing, he was not only without a case at the moment, but without\nthe prospect of one; for he had exhausted all the pugnacity that was in\nhis vicinity. There was not now one left who would \"take him up.\" But\nbetter days were in store for the Laird of Scouthercakes--better than he\nhad dared to hope for. One thumping plea, a thorough cleaner out before\nhe died, was the secret wish of his heart, though unavowed even to\nhimself; and in this wish it was permitted him to be gratified.\n\nNow, about the period to which we refer, there came a new tenant to the\nfarm of Skimclean, which farm marched with the remnant of Mr Guidyill's\nproperty. For some days after this person, whose name was Drumwhussle,\nhad taken possession of his new farm, the laird kept a sharp look-out on\nhis proceedings, in the hope that he would commit some trespass or\nother, or perpetrate some encroachment, which would afford standing-room\nfor a quarrel; but, to the great disappointment of our amateur lawyer,\nno such occurrence took place. In no single thing did, or would,\nSkimclean offend. No; Skimclean would not throw even a stick on his\nneighbour's grounds, of whose exact lines of demarcation he seemed to\nhave a most provokingly accurate knowledge. Losing all hope of his new\nneighbour's giving any offence spontaneously--that is, through\nignorance, or involuntarily, or purposely, or in any way--Scouthercakes\ndetermined on visiting him, in the desperate expectation that an\nacquaintanceship might throw up something to quarrel with--that\nfamiliarity might breed, not contempt, but dislike--that friendship\nmight give rise to enmity. This conduct of the laird's certainly seems\nat first sight paradoxical; but a little reflection, especially if\naccompanied also by a little experience of the world, will show that it\nwas not quite so absurd or so contradictory as it seems. On the\ncontrary, such reflections and experience would discover, in the laird's\nintended proceeding, a good deal of philosophy, and a very considerable\nknowledge of human nature. Be this as it may, Mr Guidyill determined on\npaying his new neighbour, Skimclean, a visit; and this determination he\nforthwith executed. The latter, whom he had never had the pleasure of\nseeing before, he found to be a little, lively, volatile person, of\ngreat volubility of speech; like himself, a prodigious snuffer; and like\nhimself, too, possessed of a very comfortable opinion of his own\nknowledge and abilities. In another and still more remarkable point in\ncharacter they resembled each other closely. This last resemblance\ninvolved a rather singular and certainly curious coincidence between the\ndispositions of the two worthies, and one which the laird, when he\ndiscovered it, viewed with a very strange mixture of feelings. What\nthese were, and what was their cause, will be best left to appear in the\nprogress of our narrative.\n\nOn Mr Guidyill's having introduced himself to his new neighbour, and\nafter a little desultory conversation on various subjects had taken\nplace, but chiefly on the merits and demerits of the lands of\nSkimclean--\n\n\"Mr Drumwhussle,\" said the laird, planting his stick in the ground\nbefore him, and looking with deep interest on some trees that grew in\nfront of Skimclean's house, \"it's my opinion that ye ocht to cut down\nthae sticks. They shut oot yer licht terribly, man, and tak up a great\ndeal o' valuable grun.\"\n\n\"Ah, ha, laird, catch me there,\" replied Drumwhussle, with a knowing\nlaugh. \"The trees do a' the mischief ye say; but, do ye no ken, that,\nbeing but a tenant, I hae nae richt to cut them, my power being only\nowre the surface, and that, if I did cut them, I wad be liable to an\naction o' damages by the laird, wha wad inevitably recover accordin to\nlaw. A' tacks, ye ken, are granted, '_propter koorum et kultoorum_'[4]\n(ye'll perceive the Latin), an' the fellin o' trees, without consent o'\nthe proprietor, wad be a direck violation. Na, na, I ken better how to\nkeep my feet out o' thae law traps than that, laird.\"\n\n[Footnote 4: Propter curam et culturam.]\n\nWe wish we could describe the look of amazement with which the laird\nlistened to this extraordinary outpouring of law and Latin--this\nflourishing of his own weapons in his face. He was perfectly confounded\nwith it. It was a thing so wholly unexpected and unlooked for, to meet\nwith so accomplished a lawyer as Drumwhussle seemed to be in one of his\nown class and standing, that it was some time before he could say\nanother word on any subject whatever. He was evidently struck with a\nfeeling of mingled respect and awe for his learned neighbour, who, he\nperceived, had decidedly the advantage of him in the article,\nLatin--this being a language with which the laird was not at all\nconversant. Another consideration occurred to the laird, even in the\nmoment of his first surprise. This was, that, should a difference arise\nbetween them, he had found in his new neighbour a foeman worthy of his\nsteel; and that, should they remain friends, they might be of service to\neach other as legal advisers.\n\nIn the meantime, the \"interlockitor,\" as the laird would have called the\nseries of legal sentiments which Drumwhussle had just delivered, was far\nbeyond the reach of his comprehension. He did not understand a word of\nit, and neither could anybody else, we suspect; but, careful of exposing\nhis ignorance--\n\n\"Aweel, Skimclean,\" he said, looking very gravely, \"I'm no sure but\nye're richt, and it may be as weel, after a', to let the trees stan whar\nthey are; but there's a bit land there,\" pointing to a patch of about an\nacre and a-half, which lay low on the side of a small stream, \"that I\nwadna advise ye to crap; for there's no a year that it's no three months\nunder water.\"\n\n\"Ah ha, laird, but that's a _pluskum_,\"[5] replied the vivacious and\nacute Skimclean; \"a case whar the owner o' the land is liable to the\nextent, at ony rate, o' remittin a year's rent. It's a _pluskum_,\nlaird--that's Latin,\" added Skimclean, who always gave such intimation\nto his auditors when he employed that language; from a shrewd suspicion,\nprobably, that it would not otherwise be readily recognised in the very\npeculiar shape in which he presented it.\n\n[Footnote 5: Plusquam tolerabile.]\n\n\"Aweel, I daur say ye're no far wrang there either,\" replied the laird,\nnow perfectly overwhelmed with the legal knowledge of his new neighbour.\n\"I daur say ye're no far wrang there either, but it's best to be\ncowshous;\" and, having delivered himself of this safe and general\nsentiment, the laird looked wiser than ever, and shook his head with an\nair of great intelligence. Hitherto, Scouthercakes, as the reader will\nhave observed, had made no display of his legal acquirements. He had\nbeen too much taken aback by the sudden and unexpected effulgence of\nthose of Skimclean; but it was by no means his intention to allow the\nlatter to remain in ignorance of them. Availing himself of an early\nopportunity, he discharged a volley of law terms at Skimclean, in which\nthe words Rejoinder, Multiplepoinding, Reclaimer, and, above all, the\nphrase, \"Revise the Condescendence,\" sounded most audibly; the latter\nbeing an especial favourite of the laird's, who used it on all\noccasions, on all matters indifferently, and, as everybody but himself\nthought, almost always in the most absurdly inappropriate cases and\ncircumstances.\n\nThe effect on Skimclean, again, of the discovery of the laird's legal\nknowledge was pretty similar to that which the latter had experienced in\nsimilar circumstances, only that there was in the case of Drumwhussle a\nsecret feeling of superiority over the laird, in the matter of intimacy\nwith the science of the law. He, in short, considered the laird's\nknowledge respectable, but his own considerably more so. Now, the laird\nalso, after his first surprise at his neighbour's acquirements had worn\noff a little, began to think Skimclean fully more apt and ready than\nprofound. He considered his own depth, on the whole, rather greater.\nEach, thus, while certainly honouring the legal knowledge of his\nneighbour, enjoyed, at the same time, the comfortable conviction that he\nwas the superior man.\n\nHaving thus come to an understanding regarding each other's character,\nand this having given rise to a friendly feeling on both sides, their\ninterview terminated in Drumwhussle inviting his new acquaintance into\nthe house, to partake of a little refreshment--an invitation which the\nlatter graciously accepted; looking forward to a feast of quiet,\ndeliberate legal discussion with his learned friend.\n\nOn entering the house--indeed, previous to entering it--Mr Guidyill was\nstruck with the singular neatness and good order which everywhere\nprevailed--a point on which his inviter prided himself, and so much\npleased was he with it, that he could not refrain from openly expressing\nhis approbation.\n\n\"A' accordin to law, Skimclean,\" he said, looking around him with a\ncomplimentary air of satisfaction; \"a' accordin to law, I see.\"\n\n\"Ay, ay,\" replied his host, perfectly understanding the laird's\nmetaphorical laudation, and smiling complacently; \"we aye try to keep\nthings in as guid order as possible. I look after everything mysel, and\nsee that a's done as it should be. That's the true way, laird.\"\n\n\"Nae doot o't, nae doot o't,\" said the latter. \"Naething like revisin\nthe condescendence, Skimclean--eh!\" he added, with an intelligent look.\n\n\"Right there, laird,\" replied Drumwhussle, \"as honest Donald Quirkum,\nthe writer, ance said to me whan I consulted him anent a point o' law,\nin the case o' Drumwhussle _versus_ Camlachie. 'Drumwhussle,' said he,\n'Drumwhussle'----But I'll tell ye a' about it presently, laird,\" said\nSkimclean, suddenly interrupting himself, to perform the duties of\nhospitality towards his guest; \"step ben, step ben.\" And he ushered the\nlaird into a little sitting-room in the back part of the house.\n\n\"Now, laird, what wull ye drink?\" inquired Drumwhussle. \"Wull ye tak a\ndrap o' cauld straik, or wad ye hae ony objection to a warm browst?\"\n\n\"Weel, if equally convenient, I'll vote for the toddy,\" replied the\nlaird.\n\n\"I second the motion,\" said Skimclean, now proceeding to a closet in a\ncorner of the room, from which he shortly emerged with his arms and\nhands loaded with bottles, glasses, jugs, and decanters, and all the\nother paraphernalia requisite for the occasion. These arranged on the\ntable, flanked by an enormous cheese, and hot water supplied from the\nkitchen, Drumwhussle commenced brewing _secundum artem_; and having\nproduced the desiderated beverage, handed over half a glass to the\nlaird, for his opinion as to its merits. The laird tasted, gave a short\nsuffocating cough, and, speaking at such intervals as the stifling\naffection afforded--\n\n\"Re-revise the--the con-condescendence, Skimclean. Revise the--the\ncondescendence. It's far owre strong.\"\n\n\"It micht hae a waur faut, laird,\" replied Drumwhussle, \"an' it's ane\nthat's easy mended,\" he added, filling up the jug with hot water. \"Taste\nhim now, laird.\"\n\n\"Accordin to law,\" replied the other, emphatically, after smacking off\nthe half-glass submitted to him. \"Accordin to law at a' points as\naccords. Just the thing now, Skimclean.\"\n\nThe liquor thus approved of was immediately subjected to the process of\nconsumption, which its merits were so well calculated to insure for it,\nand this at such a rate that the consumers very soon began to exhibit,\nin their own persons, rather curious specimens of the effect of strong\ndrink on the animal economy. They began to speak thick and fast, and\nboth at the same time; their conversation chiefly turning on the various\nactions and law proceedings in which they had from time to time been\nengaged.\n\nIt was during this confabulation that Skimclean informed his guest of a\ncertain law-plea in which he was at the moment involved, and in which he\nwas ably supported by the astute Donald Quirkum, already alluded to.\n\n\"The case, ye see,\" said Skimclean, \"the case, ye see, my frien, is jist\nthis:--In the place whar I was last, Craignockan, ane o' my laddies had\na bit gemm cock, a bit steeve fechtin wee beastie, yea, a deevil o' a\ncratur. Aweel, ye see, it happened that our neebor the schulemaster had\nanither, o' whilk he was sae proud that he seemed to think mair o't than\no' his wife. It was beyond a' doot a wonderfu' bird. His son brought\nit--so at least he said--frae Sumatra, in the East Indies--something o'\nthe jungle-cock, or Jago cock species, _gawlus giganteus_[6] ye\nken--ye'll maybe no understand the Latin.\"\n\n[Footnote 6: Gallus giganteus.]\n\n\"Deel an' it may choke ye, as the _gallows_ has dune mony a better man!\"\ninterrupted the laird. \"Purge the record o' a' bad Latin! Ha! ha!\nDrumwhussle, I ken guid Latin frae dog-Latin or cock Latin, just as weel\nas ye do. Purge the record, man, I say.\"\n\n\"Let me alane, man,\" replied Drumwhussle, impatiently; \"ye interrupt my\nstory wi' your scraps o' misapplied learning. You should never insinuate\nan ill motive in English. Do ye no ken lawyers never use the words 'bad\nintention' in designating vice: they veil a' enormities in Latin--for\nthe craturs are sae pure an' delicate-minded that they couldna bear the\nexpression o' man's frailties in the vulgar tongue; _maelice\nprepense--maelice prepense_ is the term you should hae used, man. But\nletten that slip gang--for I excuse ignorance whar knowledge is so\ndifficult o' attainment--the cocks were brought face to face, an', like\ntrue lawyers, they closed--no the record, for the craturs despised a'\ncondescendence o' grievances; they fought upon the mere libel an'\ndefence: a craw on each side _vivy vocey_; and till't they gaed wi' a\npluck seldom witnessed out o' the Parliament House. The upshot may be\neasily predicted: weight, substance prevailed just as in the courts o'\njustice--the 'midden,' a pound heavier than the Sumatra jungle-cock,\nkilled his opponent in five minutes; and Jock, lifting up the victor,\nthat crew a noble triumph in his arms, hurried awa, an' left the\ndominie's cock lying a mere _kappit mortum_--like an interlocutor that's\nallowed to become feenal because nae man can mak either head or tail\no't--on the ground, a corp, or, as Quirkum ca'ed it, a _corpus\ndelichtfu_.\"[7]\n\n[Footnote 7: Corpus delicti.]\n\n\"Capital, capital,\" cried the laird. \"We'll hae a plea, I hope, on the\nground o' damage. A better case for 'plucking' never came before the\nfifteen.\"\n\n\"Ay, and that wi' a vengeance,\" resumed Drumwhussle. \"Though the cock's\nplea was feenal, a _sleeping_ or _dead case_, as lawyers ken, may\nproduce twenty living anes. The dominie valued his cock at the price o'\ntwenty guineas; he was to have been the _pawter_ o' a new breed (he\nsaid) that he intended to produce in Scotland; an' the expense o'\nbringing him frae Sumatra alane was at least the half o' that sum. Like\na sturdy litigant--gemm to the heels--I resisted the demand o' damage,\nan' took my ground on the instant--alleging _preemo_, that the cocks\nfought _sowy sponty_;[8] and, _secundo_, that the slaughtered cock was a\nmere 'blue ginger;' and thus throwing the _onus_ o' proving the contrary\non the back o' the dominie.\"\n\n[Footnote 8: Sua sponte.]\n\n\"A noble device,\" shouted the laird; \"famous pleas in law. Even Corporal\nJooris[9] himsel could na hae ta'en his position better. But proceed,\nproceed. I'm deein to hear the issue. Oh, that that plea had been mine!\nThe chancellor's wig wad hae bobbit owre't; for they say there's nae\nstoure in it, as in the mealy, muddy _scratches_ in our Parliament\nHouse. Come awa wi' the soul-stirring intelligence.\"\n\n[Footnote 9: Corpus juris.]\n\n\"Ay, an' _pouch_-stirring too,\" rejoined Drumwhussle. \"Weel, the dominie\nwas as guid gemm as his cock, an' awa he hied to Paisley, an' put the\ncase into the hands o' that clever deevil o' a cratur Jobbit, who,\n_instanter_, sent me a summons, containing a preamble o' nineteen pages,\nan' a conclusion o' three--seventy-five words a-page, according to my\ncalculation. I declare the screed made my vera een reel, it was sae\nmasterfully Latineezed, turned, interwoven, an' crammed wi' 'saids' and\n'foresaids.' It set forth the said dominie as 'greeting' to the sheriff\nfor the loss o' his cock--a maist cunning an' loyal device o' Jobbit's,\nwha dootless had an ee to the case going before the depute, an' then it\nwent on to narrate\" (Drumwhussle drew out a copy of the summons) \"that\n'the complainer had commissioned the said bird or cock--along with a\nfemale--which was of the species _gallus giganteus_, from the island of\nSumatra, where it is known by the natives of that island by the\nscientific, or vulgar, or common appellative of _ayam bankiva_--all as\nappeareth from Temmink's History of Cocks--and that the complainer's\nintention or object, in so commissioning the said birds from that\ndistant region, was, that he might introduce into our country the\nbreed, which was supposed to be more full of blood and spirit than our\nown breed of poultry, and had, moreover, the advantage of producing more\neggs--insomuch as the female laid all the year through, while the flesh\nwas whiter and more highly-flavoured, approaching, in this respect, to\nthat of the pheasant; that the expense of bringing the said birds from\nSumatra was ten guineas sterling; that the complainer had, by dint of\ngreat ingenuity and perseverance, got the said birds naturalised as\ncompletely as if they had been natural-born subjects of this realm, and\nwas on the very eve of reaping the fruits of his patriotic labours--the\nfame of a breeder of a new species of poultry, and the emoluments of a\nvender or seller of the same to the farmers and bird-fanciers of the\nkingdom--when David Drumwhussle, tenant of Craignockan, actuated by\n_malice prepense_, or by envy, or by fear that his own breed of poultry\n(of the common or dunghill species) would be displaced and superseded by\nthe other and superior kind, or by some other motive or feeling,\nimplying _dolus_, did stir up and excite his son, John Drumwhussle, for\nwhose acts and deeds--being a minor, and not _forisfamiliated_--he was\nliable, to bring--_vi aut clam_--his the said David Drumwhussle's cock,\nand his the said complainer's, into a pugnacious attitude and position,\nand to instigate the same to mortal combat, whereby the said cocks\nhaving engaged _secundum suam naturam_ in a lethal _duellum_, did fight\ntill his, the complainer's, was left in the field dead; that the primary\nconsequence of this premeditated act was, that the female was rendered\nmateless, unproductive, and useless, insomuch as her cohabitation and\nsociety with cocks of this country would never be the means of producing\nthe species of _gallus giganteus_; the secondary, that the complainer\nwas deprived of a source of legitimate gain; and the tertiary, that the\ncountry of Great Britain lost the superlative advantage of an improved\nbreed of poultry.' Thae are the premises.\"\n\n\"An' fine premises they are,\" replied Guidyill. \"Jobbit never laid an\negg mair certain o' producin a weel-feathered bird for the lawyers.\"\n\n\"Ye're richt, laird, sae far,\" replied Drumwhussle; \"but ye've yet to\nlearn that it had twa yolks--twa law-pleas cam out o't. But ye'll hear.\nI needna read the conclusion--a' in the ordinary form, ye\nken:--therefore it ought and should be found and declared, and so forth;\nand that I should be decerned to pay twenty guineas as the value of the\ncock, and damages sustained for the loss of his expected progeny.\"\n\n\"Weel, weel, the defences, the defences,\" cried the laird, in eager\nexpectation. \"Ye wad state the defence on the merits first, I fancy, an'\nthen the preliminary ane.\"\n\n\"The cart afore the horse, ye fule!\" answered Drumwhussle, chuckling. \"I\ndespised a' dilatory pleas, man: I cam to the marrow at ance, an'\ninstructed my agent, Mr Kirkham, or Quirkum, as he is generally styled,\nfor his exquisite adroitness an' cleverness, to use the very highest\nflicht o' his inventive fancy--to consult Erskine an' Stair, an' even\nCorporal Jooris--to dive into the Roman Pawndecs[10]--the deegest--the\ndiscreets--every authority, in fack, he could think o'--no forgetting\nCock on Littletun; and send me a draft o' the defences _siny mory_.[11]\nHe did so, and oh, such a beautiful invention! They set forth, as a kind\no' flourish afore the real tug o' the tournay, that the libel was a big\nlee frae beginning to end; that the pursuer's cock was, even in his ain\nshowing, an alien cratur, an' no entitled to the richts o' natural-born\nsubjects; that he interfered wi' the queens o' the seraglio o' my winged\npotentate--making love to them, crawing to them, an' displaying his\ngaudy wings to them, as if he were lord o' a' the feathered creation;\nthat the defender's cock, acting upon the weel-ascertained richt o'\ndefending conjugal property, slew him, on the strength o' the English\ncase, Jenkins _versus_ Lovelace, where a husband was found justified in\ntaking the life o' ane wha made love to his wife. In the second place,\nit was denied _simpleeciter_ that the cock was o' the species _gawlus\ngiganteus_, being a mere 'blue ginger'--worth five shillins--o' the auld\nbreed o' Scotland, whilk cam frae the stock named by the Greek\nplay-writer, Mr Arrantstuffanes, 'the Persian bird.' We thus threw the\nhail _onus proovandy_ on the back o' the dominie, an', by my faith, he\nfand the weight o't!\"\n\n[Footnote 10: Pandects.]\n\n[Footnote 11: Sine mora.]\n\n\"A noble defence--jist exactly what I wad hae written,\" ejaculated\nGuidyill, in ecstasy. \"Weel, ye wad revise the condescendence after\nthat, I fancy?\"\n\n\"Before it was written, man?\" responded Drumwhussle. \"Na, na; ye ken\nlittle aboot thae things. The dominie was ordered to condescend on what\nhe undertook, and offered to prove in support o' his libel, then we\nanswered, then he revised, then we revised, then he re-revised, then we\nre-revised, then he made an addition, which we answered by a\ncorresponding addition, equal to a re-re-revision.\"\n\n\"Hurrah!\" cried Scouthercakes.\n\n\"Then the record was purged, then closed, an' then we set to\nproving--for the proof was conjunk and confident--wi' a' the spirit o'\nthe cocks themselves. Oh, it was gran' sport! The dominie brought twa\nwitnesses frae Lunnon, to swear to the cock having been brought frae\nSumatra; an' I brought frae Dumbarton, where the best cock mains in a'\nScotland are fought, twa cock-fanciers wha had seen the dominie's bird,\nto swear that it was a 'blue ginger;' then there was sic proving, and\ncounter-proving, witness against witness; the dominie's servant swearing\nto the instigation practised by Jock, my bothie men swearing an _aliby_;\nvaluators for the dominie fixing ae value, and valuators by me fixing\nanither, till I fancy there were nae fewer than fifteen witnesses\na-side.\"\n\n\"Famous, famous!\" cried the laird; \"what a glorious main! Never was sic\na cocking sin the match in 1684, between Forfarshire and the Loudons.\nYou would be decreetit favourably, beyond a' doubt.\"\n\n\"Mr Guidyill,\" answered Drumwhussle, taking up his glass, \"I was cast in\nfifteen guineas, an' a' expenses.\"\n\n\"Gran'!\" exclaimed the laird--\"gran'! Jist as bonny a plea as a man\ncould wish. Ye protested an' appealed.\"\n\n\"I gaed straught to my agent, Quirkum,\" continued Skimclean, \"and stated\nthe case to him, expressin, at the same time, my determination no to\nsubmit to the iniquitous decision o' the sheriff. Aweel, what did Mr\nQuirkum say or do, think ye, on my expressin mysel this way? He never\nspak, but, gruppin me by the haun, looked in my face, an', after a\nminnit, said, 'Drumwhussle, ye're a man o' spirit, an' I honour ye\nfor't. Ye've just now come oot wi' sentiments that do ye the highest\ncredit. I'll manage your case for ye, Drumwhussle. I'll let the dominie\nhear such a cock crawin as he never heard in his life before.' Aweel, ye\nsee, we had the cock flappin his wings in the Court of Session in a\njiffy. And as bonny a case it was, so Mr Quirkum said, as ever he had\nthe haundlin o' in his life. Seemly in a' its bearins, he said, and as\nclean's a leek on our side, a' as ticht an' richt as legal thack and\nrape could mak it. But deil may care--wad ye believe it?--it was gien\nagainst us here, too, cast wi' a' expenses. There was a dish o'\ncockyleeky for ye, laird--cast wi' a' expenses!--an' they war nae\ntrifle, as ye may weel believe; for yon lawyer folk dinna live on muslin\nkail.\"\n\nThe laird shook his head with a concurring emphasis, whose force of\nexpression was greatly increased by certain pungent reminiscences of his\nown disbursements in this way.\n\n\"Aweel, there we are, ye see,\" continued Drumwhussle; \"but we're no beat\nyet. I'll hae't to the House o' Lords, laird, if I should pawn my coat\nfor't.\" And he struck the table with his fist, in token of his high\ndetermination, till jugs and glasses rang again.\n\nDelighted with his host's beautiful spirit of litigation, the laird, in\na corresponding fit of enthusiasm, got up from his seat with a full\nbumper in one hand, and, extending the other across the table towards\nSkimclean--\n\n\"Your haun, Drumwhussle,\" he said, briefly, but with great emphasis.\n\"Your haun, my frien. I honour ye--I respeck ye for thae sentiments.\"\nSaying this, he grasped the extended hand of his host, who had risen to\nmeet his advances, shook it cordially, tossed off the contents of his\nuplifted glass to his success in his law-plea, and concluded with a\npiece of advice.\n\n\"Stick till't, Skimclean,\" he said--\"stick till't as lang's there's a\nbutton on your coat. That's my way. Kittle them up wi' duplies, and\ntriplies, and monyplies, and a' the plies that's o' them--if thae papers\nare allowed in the Hoose o' Lords--an', if they stir a fit, nail them\nwi' a rejoinder and dilatory defences. Gie them't het, Skimclean. Gie\nthem't het; an' if a' winna do, sweep your opponent clean oot o' the\ncourt wi' a multiplepoinding an' infeftment. That's the legal coorse,\naccordin to the new form o' process--no Mr Eevory's, or Mr Berridges, or\nthe like o' thae auld forms--quite oot o' date noo.\"\n\n\"Jist my ain notion o' things preceesely, laird,\" replied Drumwhussle.\n\"Although I say't that shouldna say't, I maybe ken law as weel as some\nthat hae mair pretensions. A' the law in the country, laird, 's no to be\nfan' under puthered weegs.\" (This with a look of great complacency.) \"My\nlair's maybe nae great things, but my law's guid. I'll haud up my face\nto that ony day. An' I'm thinkin, laird, ye ken twa or three things in\nthat way yersel.\"\n\n\"I should,\" replied the laird, with a knowing smile.\n\n\"But ye'll never hae been in the Court o' Session, maybe,\" said\nSkimclean.\n\n\"Revise the condescendence there, Drumwhussle,\" replied the laird. \"A\nscore o' times at the least. It wad hae been a bonny business, indeed,\nif I had never had a case in the Court o' Session. A man wad hae but\nsma' pretension to respeck, in my opinion, that hadna been there wi'\nhalf-a-dizzen.\"\n\nWe here take the liberty of interrupting, for a time, the colloquy of\nSkimclean and his guest, for the purpose of saying, that, although we\nhave given, as we imagine, a pretty correct account of their\nconversation on the occasion to which our story refers, we have by no\nmeans done equal justice to the subject of their potations. On this\npoint we have said little or nothing, an omission which we beg now to\nsupply, by stating most explicitly, that, during the whole time they\nwere engaged in exchanging the sentiments which we have just recorded,\nthey had been also unremitting in their attention to the toddy jug,\nwhich had three several times sank to the dregs under their persevering\ndevotions. It is not necessary to add, we should suppose, that this feat\nwas not performed with impunity, nor that it had the effect of\nconsiderably deranging the faculties of the two lawyers. All this will\nbe presumed--and, if it be not presumed, let it be so immediately; for\nit was the fact.\n\nBoth Skimclean and the laird were now in a state of great felicity and\npersonal comfort. They swore eternal friendship to each other at least\nfifty times over, and on each occasion sealed their amiable\nprotestations by a cordial shaking of hands. But it was not love alone\nthey expressed for each other. There was respect too, the most profound\nrespect for each other's abilities and legal knowledge, declared in no\nvery measured terms. In truth, if their own statements on this subject\ncould have been credited, no two lawyers had ever got together who made\nso near an approach to Coke and Lyttleton. At an advanced period of the\nevening, and just after the fourth jug had been put upon active service,\nSkimclean again adverted to his famous game-cock case, and, having\nmentioned that he was going to Paisley on the following day, to call on\nQuirkum, on the subject of carrying the said case to the House of Lords,\nasked the laird if he would have any objection to go along with him and\nassist in the consultation which would then and there take place.\n\n\"It wad be a great favour, laird,\" said Skimclean; \"for ye ken twa heads\nare better than ane, and three than twa, an', moreover, laird, to tell a\ntruth, there's twa or three points o' law that I'm no jist sure that Mr\nQuirkum's clean up to, an' I wad like a man o' your knowledge to be\npresent. I dinna ken but you an' me, laird, wad bother the best o'\nthem.\"\n\nThe laird smiled slightly but complacently at this conjunct compliment,\nand modestly said that he had never seen the \"law-wir yet that he\ncouldna bambouzle. An' as to gaun in wi' ye the morn to Paisley,\nSkimclean,\" he added, \"that I'll do wi' great pleasure.\" This was said,\nmost assuredly, in all sincerity; for, next to the happiness of having a\nplea of his own, was that of being allowed to have what may be called a\nhandling of the pleas of others; especially if they had a dash of the\nspirit of litigation in them, and gave promise of a protracted and\nobstinate fight; and this the laird saw, with intuitive tact, was the\ncharacter of Skimclean's.\n\nThis matter then settled, the two worthies proceeded to the discussion\nof various other subjects, until the laird, finding that he could hold\nout no longer, suggested, in the midst of a series of violent hiccups,\nthat they should \"clo-close the record, and re-re-revise the\ncondescendence.\" Saying this, the laird got up to his feet, leaned his\nhands upon the table, and as he swung backwards and forwards in this\nattitude, gazed on his friend opposite with a look of drunken gravity.\n\"We maun clo-clo-close the record,\" he repeated, \"and re-re-revise the\ncondescendence.\"\n\n\"That's no accordin to the form o' process, laird,\" replied Skimclean,\nmaking an effort, but an unavailing one, to get up also to his feet.\n\"That's no accordin to form, laird,\" he said; and now making a virtue of\nnecessity, by throwing himself back in the chair which he found he could\nnot conveniently leave.\n\n\"Revise the condescendence, Skimclean,\" rejoined the laird, after a\npause, during which he had been employed in an attempt to collect his\nscattered senses; an operation which was accompanied by sundry odd\ncontortions of countenance, especially a strange working of the lips. \"I\nsay, revise the condescendence, Skimclean. It's baith accordin to law\nan' to form. Ye're no gaun to instruck me, I houp, in a law process.\"\n\n\"Instruck or no instruck,\" replied Drumwhussle, with great confidence of\nmanner, \"ye're as far wrang as ever Maggy Low was, when you speak first\no' closin the record an' then o' revisin the condescendence. Onybody\nthat has ony law in them at a' kens that the revisin o' a condescendence\ntaks place _before_ the closin o' the record, an' no after't.\"\n\n\"Before or after't, it's guid law,\" said the laird, doggedly, and still\nrocking to and fro, as he leaned on the table, and continued gazing with\nlacklustre eye in the face of his learned brother opposite. \"It's guid\nlaw, I'll uphaud; an' it's my opinion, Skimclean--an' I'll just tell\nye't to your face--that for a' your blether o' Latin, I dinna think ye\nhae a' the law ye pretend to. The thorough knowledge is no in ye. That's\nmy opinion.\"\n\nThe reply to this sneer at Skimclean's legal acquirements was of as\nsummary and expressive a nature as can well be imagined. It was the\ncontents of a jug--said contents being somewhere about a quart of\nboiling hot water--discharged with great force and dexterity full in the\nface of the \"soothless insulter,\" accompanied by the appropriate\ninjunction--\"Tak that, ye auld guse; an' if that's no law, it's\njustice.\"\n\n\"Revise _that_ condescendence,\" replied the laird, making a tremendous\neffort to seize his antagonist across the table, in which effort the\nsaid table instantly went over with a tremendous crash, sending every\nindividual article that it had supported into a thousand pieces. In the\nmidst of the wreck and ruin thus occasioned lay the prostrate person of\nthe laird, who had naturally gone down with the table, and who now, as\nwe have said, lay floundering amongst the debris, composed of broken\nbottles, jugs, and glasses, with which the floor was covered.\n\n\"A clear case o' damages,\" shouted Skimclean.\n\n\"Revise the condescendence in that partikler,\" said the laird, rising to\nhis feet, and exhibiting sundry bleeding scars on his lugubrious\ncountenance. \"That cock 'll no fecht, Drumwhussle. The case is no guid\nin law. It wadna stan a hoast in the Court o' Session.\"\n\n\"Wull _that_ stan, then?\" exclaimed Skimclean, making a lounge at the\nlaird's face with his closed fist, which took full effect upon the\nenemy's left eye.\n\n\"I maun mak a rejoinder to _that_,\" said the laird, now attacking his\nhost in turn, and with such effect, as finally to floor him, being,\nalthough the older, by much the stronger man--\"I maun mak a rejoinder to\n_that_,\" he said, first striking at, and then grappling, his antagonist,\nwhen a deadly struggle ensued, which ended in both coming to the floor\nwith an appalling thud.\n\nThe laird, although taken from his feet, still maintained his physical\nsuperiority by keeping the foe under him. He was uppermost, and\nuppermost he determined to remain; and this triumphant position he\nfurther secured himself in by seizing Skimclean by the neckcloth, and,\nby the vigour of his hold, subjecting him to a fac-simile of the process\nof strangulation.\n\n\"What think ye o' my law, noo, ye puir empty pretender?\" said the laird,\nas he gave the other twist to Drumwhussle's neckcloth--\"you and yer\ntrash o' Latin, that ye ken nae mair aboot, I believe, than a cow kens\nabout a steam-engine.\"\n\n\"That's aboot yer ain knowledge o' law, I'm thinkin,\" replied Skimclean,\nchokingly, but boldly; and in gallant defiance of his present adverse\ncircumstances. \"I wad match ony coo I hae in my byre against ye at a\ndefeeckwalt point o' law.\"\n\n\"Do ye fin' _that_?\" said the laird, twisting Drumwhussle's neckcloth\nwith increasing ferocity. \"There's law for ye. There's the strong arm o'\nthe law for ye. Doin summary justice on an ignorant, pretendin idowit.\"\n\nHow or in what way this fierce struggle between the two lawyers would\nhave terminated, we cannot tell, as it was not permitted to attain its\nown natural conclusion. It was interrupted. At the moment that the laird\nhad renewed his efforts on Skimclean's neckcloth, which the reader will\nobserve was doing the duty of a bowstring, the wife of the latter rushed\ninto the apartment, exclaiming--\n\n\"The Lord hae a care o' me! what's this o't?--what's this o't? What are\nye fechtin aboot, ye auld fules?\"\n\n\"A case o' hamesookin, Jenny--a decided case o' hamesookin,\" shouted\nSkimclean. \"A man attacked an' abused in his ain hoose. That's\nhamesookin, an' severely punishable by law.\"\n\n\"Tuts, confound yer law?--mind reason and common sense,\" said\nSkimclean's wife, seizing the laird by the coattails, and dragging him\noff her prostrate husband, of whose _penchant_ for law she had long been\nperfectly sick. \"Mind reason an' common sense, an' let alane law to them\nit belangs to.\"\n\nWhether it was that the combatants had expended all the present\npugnacity of their natures in the contest which had just been brought to\na close, or that the soft tones of Mrs Drumwhussle's voice had suddenly\nallayed their ire, we know not; but certain it is, that the faces of\nboth the lawyers exhibited, all at once, and at the same instant, a\ntrait of amiable relaxation, indicative of a return of friendly feeling,\ntogether with something like a sense of regret, and perhaps shame for\nwhat had passed. It was then, under this change of sentiment, that\nSkimclean replied, laughingly, to his wife--\n\n\"Weel, weel, gudewife, if the laird here's willin, we'll close the\nrecord, an' let byganes be byganes.\"\n\n\"Wi' a' my heart,\" said the former; \"for it's a case that'll no stan\nlaw. Sae we'll just revise the condescendence, an' tak better care for\ntime to come. This wark's no accordin to law.\"\n\n\"Neither law, nor reason, nor sense,\" said Mrs Drumwhussle, who was a\nrattling, but good-natured, motherly sort of woman. \"Ye're jist a pair\no' auld fules--that's what ye are. Noo, laird,\" she continued, as she\nturned round to that worthy--who presented rather an odd spectacle; his\nperson exhibiting, at this moment, a strange combination of ludicrous\npoints--extreme tallness, extreme thinness, extreme drunkenness, extreme\nsnuffiness, if we may use the expression, and a countenance marked and\nmangled in a manner that was absolutely hideous to look upon, although\nthe application of a little simple water would have shown that the said\ncountenance was not, after all, very seriously damaged--\"noo, laird,\"\nsaid Mrs Drumwhussle, laying her hand kindly on the shoulder of her\nhusband's guest, \"ye'll jist stap awa hame, like a guid honest man as ye\nare, an' you an' the gudeman 'll meet the morn, whan ye're baith\nyersels, an' ye'll baith be as guid freens as ever--maybe a hantle\nbetter; for I've kent folk that never could understan ane anither till\nthey had a guid fecht.\"\n\nTo the general tone of this mediatory interference, neither Skimclean\nnor the laird offered any objection. Nay, as we have already shown, it\nmet with their decided approbation; but there was one clause in it, as\nthey themselves would have called it, which both peremptorily resented.\nThis was the insinuation that they were tipsy.\n\n\"Revise that part o' the condescendence, Mrs Drumwhussle,\" said the\nlaird, in allusion to the said insinuation. \"I could discuss a point o'\nlaw as weel as ever I did in my life. I'm as soun's a bell, woman.\"\n\n\"A' ticht an' richt, laird. We're baith that,\" said Skimclean,\nstaggering towards his guest. \"For my pairt, I never was better in my\nlife. Never mair correck. Jenny, ye're wrang--clean wrang, I'm perfectly\n_compous_.\"\n\n\"Aweel, it's perfectly possible,\" replied the latter, laughing; \"but I\ncanna be far wrang in advising the laird here to stap his wa's hame, an'\nyou, Davie, to slip to yer bed.\"\n\n\"Ou, no, no, ye're no wrang there,\" said both the lawyers together; and\nin evident satisfaction with the circumstance of Mr Drumwhussle's having\ndeserted the charge of inebriety, and founding upon other\ngrounds--\"ye're no wrang there,\" repeated the laird; \"for it's gettin\nlate, an' my road's nane o' the straughtest.\"\n\nHaving been provided with his hat and stick, and an old tartan cloak,\nwhich was his constant companion in all his wanderings, the laird now\ncommenced his retreat out of the house, and had gained the outer door,\nwhen his host shouted after him--\n\n\"Mind the consultation, laird--mind yer promise o' gaun to Paisley wi'\nme the morn.\"\n\n\"I'll revise that condescendence, and decern as accords,\" replied the\nlaird, turning half round, to deliver himself of this mystical response.\nThen, resuming his progress, he was soon quit of the house, but not of\nthe premises altogether, as was made manifest by a certain awkward\ninterruption he met with before he had gone fifty yards. This was by a\nhuge watch-dog, within the reach of whose chain one of the laird's lee\nlurches had brought him. Availing himself of the tempting advantage, the\ndog bolted, with a growl like that of a tiger, out of his wooden\ntenement, and, in a twinkling had the laird fast by the cloak, at which\nhe commenced tugging with a violence which all its owner's efforts to\ncounteract, by dragging himself in an opposite direction, could not\novercome. Finding his exertions this way vain, and that a continuance of\nthem would only insure the dissolution of his favourite outer garment,\nthe laird turned upon his enemy, and, making some hits at him with his\nstick--\"Desert the diet, ye brute; an' bring yer action in a regular\nform, an' accordin to law,\" he exclaimed, abruptly; and, by a dexterous\nmovement, avoiding a snap at his leg, which the dog at this moment\nmade--\"Tak yer mittimus,\" he said, discharging another violent blow at\nthe animal, which, however, had only the effect of increasing the\nlatter's ferocity; for the dog now fairly leaped on his back, and\nseizing him by the neck of the coat behind, laid him, in an instant,\nprostrate in the mud. Having thus got the laird down, the dog, without\noffering him further injury, planted a fore-leg on either side of him,\nand, with his muzzle within half-an-inch of his face, commenced a series\nof growls, \"not loud, but deep,\" that indicated anything but a friendly\nfeeling towards his victim.\n\nEven in these circumstances, however, the laird's deep sense of the\npropriety of proceeding strictly \"according to law\" in all cases did not\ndesert him. Looking steadily at the dog, he thus addressed him, in a\nclear, loud voice, imitating, as nearly as he could, the tones of a\ncourt crier:--\n\n\"I, John Guidyill, Laird o' Scouthercakes, summon, warn, and charge you,\nSkimclean's dug, to compear before His Majesty's justices o' the peace\nfor the shire o' Renfrew, within their ordinary court-place, in Paisley,\nupon the 12th day o' October, 1817, at eleven o'clock forenoon, to\nanswer, at the instance o' the above-designed Laird o' Scouthercakes,\nfor an illegal assault made on the said laird's person, on the nicht o'\nthe 2d day o' October, in the aforesaid year, or in the month o'\nSeptember preceding, or the month o' November following. This I do on\nthe 2d day o' October, one thoosan aucht hunner an' seventeen years,\nwith certification as effeirs. John Guidyill.--There, noo, ye're\nregularly ceeted,\" added the laird; \"sae desert the diet for the\npresent; an' see that ye mak punctual compearance in the hoor o' cause.\"\n\nHaving thus delivered himself, the laird made another violent effort to\nfree himself from his captor, and to regain his feet. But, finding this\nvain, he commenced a series of shouts for assistance, that had the\neffect of bringing Mrs Drumwhussle and a formidable body of her\nretainers to the rescue. By the aid of this friendly detachment, the\nlaird was immediately relieved from his perilous situation. On regaining\nhis feet--\n\n\"I tak ye a' witnesses,\" said the laird, \"hoo I hae been abused wi' that\ninfernal brute o' yours; an' it's my opinion that I hae a guid case\nbaith against Skimclean an' his dug. If richtly argued, an action o'\ndamages wad lie, in my opinion, against them baith; an' decreet wad\nfollow, accordin to law, decernin the ane to be hanged, an' the ither to\nbe mulcted o' a soum not exceedin fifty puns sterlin, as law\ndirects--that's my opinion o' the case. But I'll revise the\ncondescendence, an' let Skimclean ken the result the morn.\"\n\nSaying this, the laird gathered his cloak, in which there were now three\nor four tremendous rents, around him, and stalked, or rather staggered\naway, on his progress home, which he reached in safety, and without\nmeeting with any further interruption.\n\nFaithful to his promise, and oblivious of all causes of difference with\nhis host of the preceding night--an obliviousness for which a night's\nsleep and a return to sobriety, co-operating with the irresistible\ntemptation of being permitted to interfere with the latter's law-plea,\nwill sufficiently account--the laird waited, on the following day, on\nSkimclean, and announced his readiness to accompany him to Paisley, as\nhad been previously arranged between them. Skimclean having, in turn,\nexpressed his sense of the obligation, the two lawyers shortly after set\nout for the town just named--a distance of from five to six miles, which\nthey beguiled with learned discussions on the various points of law that\nhad come within the range of their respective experiences. On reaching\nPaisley, our two worthies directed their steps to the residence of Mr\nQuirkum, whom they luckily found at home. This worthy limb of the law\nwas a stout, burly personage, with a loud voice, and tolerably confident\nmanner, although it was pretty generally alleged that his skill in his\nprofession was by no means very profound. This lack of legal knowledge,\nhowever, was compensated by a bold bearing, an unhesitating promptitude\nof decision, an utter fearlessness in delivering an opinion, whether\nright or wrong. Such, then, was the gentleman to whom Skimclean\nintroduced the laird, as \"an intimate frien, wha kent twa or three\nthings in the law line, an' whom he had jist brocht in to gie him an\ninklin o' what was gaun on in the gemm-cock case, in the whilk, he bein\na near neebor, he took a freinly interest.\"\n\n\"Glad to see your _learned_ friend, Skimclean,\" said Quirkum, who\naffected the being a bit of a wag in his own way. \"He'll perhaps help us\nwith a little useful advice, which, you know, is always welcome.\"\n\nAnd Quirkum rubbed his hands with a sort of professional glee, and\nchuckled facetiously at his own banter. Not perceiving the irony of the\nlawyer's remarks, the laird smiled complacently, and said--\n\n\"That he didna pretend to ony very great skeel in law matters, although\nhe had had some experience in that way, too. But that he wad be very\nglad to gie ony hints that micht appear to him, on revisin the\ncondescendence in his frien Skimclean's case, to be likely to be o'\nservice.\"\n\n\"Muckle obliged, I'm sure, laird,\" said Drumwhussle; \"an' sae is my\nfrien Quirkum here, I daresay.\" Then addressing himself to the latter,\n\"Wad ye be sae guid, noo, as gie oor frein here an inklin o' oor case. I\nhae explained to him the gruns o' oor action; but ye can let him mair\nfully into the merits o' the case.\"\n\nNow, Quirkum, although, as already said, no great lawyer, was by no\nmeans destitute of common sense. In fact, he was rather clever in a\ngeneral sort of way, and this cleverness enabled him to see at once what\nkind of a character the laird was. Skimclean he knew well before, and\naccording to this knowledge he acted on the present occasion. He rattled\nover a given quantity of law terms, galloped through two or three\nvarieties of legal processes, and concluded by asking the laird's\nopinion of what they had done, what they were doing, and what they\nshould do. Confounded with the volubility of Quirkum, of whose oration\nhe did not comprehend one word, and yet unwilling to acknowledge his\ndifficulty, the laird adopted the safe course of merely shaking his\nhead, and looking wise. For some seconds he uttered not a word. At\nlength--\n\n\"It seems to me a gey steeve case,\" he said. \"There's twa or three\npoints in't that wad require consideration, an' on the whilk I wadna\nconsider myself jist free to gie an aff-haun opinion. Noo, this bein the\ncase, I'll jist revise the condescendence in my ain mind, an' gie my\nfrien, Skimclean here, the benefit o' the process at anither meetin.\"\n\nThis Quirkum thought pretty well from a man whom he perfectly knew did\nnot understand a word of what he had said; and he knew this, because he\nhad not understood a word of it himself. Not being possessed of this\nimportant secret, however, Skimclean thought the laird's remarks highly\ncreditable to his prudence; and, having expressed himself to this\neffect, concluded by inviting Quirkum and his brother lawyer to adjourn\nwith him to the Brown Cow Inn, to \"tak a bit chack o' dinner;\" adding\nfacetiously, \"that, though law was a very guid thing, it wadna fill the\nwame.\"\n\nThe laird smiled, and Quirkum laughed outright at the sally, and both at\nonce accepted the invitation by which it was associated. Acceptation was\nspeedily followed by accomplishment. In little more than a\nquarter-of-an-hour after, the whole three were seated around a\ncomfortably-covered table in a small, snug back-parlour in the Brown Cow\nInn. Dinner despatched, tumblers were filled up, and a very pleasant\ncareer of talking and drinking commenced, and continued without\ninterruption for somewhere about a couple of hours. At the end of this\nperiod, however, a circumstance occurred which somewhat disturbed the\nquiet sociality of the party. A person, evidently the worse of drink,\nunceremoniously entered the room, and, seemingly unconscious that he was\nintruding, deliberately planted himself in a chair directly opposite the\nlaird. It was some seconds before he appeared to recognise any of the\nparty--as, indeed, it was hard he should, for he knew and was known to\nnone of them, but one. This one was our friend Guidyill, and him he knew\nto his cost; the laird having once defeated him in a law-plea about a\ncertain pathway which passed through the corner of a field on the\nfarmer's property. For the laird, therefore, this man, whose name was\nMoffat, entertained anything but a friendly feeling. It was, however,\nsome little time before he was aware of his being in the presence of his\nancient enemy on the present occasion, the liquor he had swallowed\nhaving considerably impaired his powers of discernment. These, however,\nat length helped him to a knowledge of the fact; and, when they had done\nso--\n\n\"Ho, ho, laird, are _ye_ here?\" he exclaimed, with a look and manner in\nwhich all the grudge he bore Guidyill was made manifest. \"Ony law-pleas\nin the win' 'enow, laird--eh?\"\n\n\"Was ye wantin ane?\" said the laird, coolly. \"I thocht I had gien ye\naneugh o' that.\"\n\n\"Maybe ye hae, an' maybe no,\" replied Moffat. \"But there's some things I\nken, and some things I dinna. I dinna ken what ye're guid for; and I ken\nthat ye're the biggest aul' rogue in the County o' Renfrew--a litigious,\nleein, cheatin rascal.\"\n\n\"Revise that condescendence, frien,\" replied the laird. \"Mr Quirkum and\nSkimclean, I tak ye to witness what that man has said. Defamation o'\ncharacter as clean's a leek--a thumpin action cut and dry. I tak\ninstruments in your hauns, Mr Quirkum, an' employ you to do the needfu'\nin this case. Ye baith distinctly heard what was said, an' 'll testify\nto the fact when ca'ed upon in due coorse o' law.\"\n\nBoth Quirkum and Skimclean at once declared their willingness to do\nso--the latter from a wish to serve his friend, the former from a wish\nto serve himself, as he saw in the affair something like the promise of\na very tolerable job.\n\nIn the meantime, Moffat, rather alarmed at the formal and business-like\nmanner in which his complimentary remarks on the laird's character had\nbeen taken up, first endeavoured to back out of the scrape, and, in\ndefault of success in this, sneaked out of the room, leaving the laird\nan infinitely happier man than he had found him; for he was now provided\nwith a most unexceptionable ground for an action-at-law. It was a most\nunexpected piece of good fortune; chance having done for him in a moment\nwhat a long period of anxiety, directed to the same end, had failed to\naccomplish. It was truly delightful, and the laird _was_ delighted,\ndelighted beyond measure. But, alas! by how frail a tenure is all\nearthly felicity held! By how frail a thread is life itself suspended!\nWe make the remark, and the sequel illustrates it.\n\nThe laird having given instructions on the spot to Quirkum to commence\nan action immediately against his defamer, the party broke up. The\nprofessional member repaired to his own house, and the laird and\nSkimclean mounted the Greenock coach, which passed within a short\ndistance of their respective residences. Fatal proceedings. The coach\nwas overturned, and the laird, falling on his head, received an injury\nwhich, in half-an-hour, proved fatal to him. Skimclean, more fortunate,\nescaped with some slight bruises. The latter was the first to come to\nthe poor laird's assistance after the vehicle had capsised. He found him\nlying on his face on the road, bleeding profusely, and apparently\ninsensible. On turning him round, however, and raising him up a little,\nhe opened his eyes, and, recognising Drumwhussle, said, in a slow and\nscarcely audible tone--\"The record's closed wi' me, Skimclean. I hae\ngotten my mittimus. Fate has decerned against me. It was an irregular\nsummons; but it maun be obeyed, for a' that.\"\n\nThe poor laird was now conveyed to an adjoining house, where he was\nassiduously attended by his friend, Skimclean, to whom his last request\nwas, that he would consult Quirkum, and see whether it would not be\ncompetent for him, Skimclean, to carry on the action against Moffat\nafter his own decease. Shortly after making this request, the poor laird\nsank into a state of insensibility; and, just before he expired, having\nlain for some time previously without moving, scarcely breathing, he\nbegan muttering, evidently in delirium, something which the bystanders\ncould not make out. Skimclean stooped down to catch the words. They were\nquivering on his lip, and proved to be, \"_Clo-clo-close the Record_.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE PROFESSOR'S TALES.\n\n\n\n\nFAMILY INCIDENTS.\n\n\nThere is a beautiful glen in Dumfries-shire, which I would willingly\npoint out to any as the very beau-ideal of all glens whatever. It is, in\nfact, entirely surrounded by high grounds, rising ultimately, towards\nthe north in particular, into hills, or, more properly speaking,\nmountains, making part of the Queensberry range. In the centre of this\nglen, or vale, there is a round and conical green eminence, around which\na small mountain-stream winds and wanders, as if unwilling to encounter\nthe tossings and turmoil of the linn and precipitous course beneath. I\ncould never behold, or even think, of this snug quietude in the bosom of\nunadulterated nature, without, at the same time, considering it as\nemblematic, in a striking degree, of man's experience in life. In\ninfancy and youth all is snug, sunny, and peaceful as this little\nsheltered stream; but the linns and precipices of after-life assimilate\nbut too closely to the foam, and tossing, and tumbling of the passage\nbeneath. On the summit of that grassy mound, there once stood a thatched\ncottage, with which my story is connected.\n\nIt was evening, or rather twilight, or, as emphatically expressed in\nScottish dialect, it was the \"gloaming,\" when Janet Smith, a poor widow\nwoman, sat in her own doorway--\n\n    \"E'en drawing out a thread wi' little din,\n    And beaking her auld limbs afore the sun.\"\n\nA large grey cat occupied the other side of the passage, and a few hens,\nwith the necessary accompaniment, clucked and chuckled, and crowed\naround. Janet sat there in her solitude, an old, infirm, and\ncomparatively helpless creature; but she was wonderfully contented and\nhappy. Her own industry supplied her little wants; and she was\nprotected, in a free house and kail-yard, by Sir Thomas Kirkpatrick,\nthe princely and humane laird of Closeburn. The wheel had just ceased\nits revolution, and her spectacles had just been assumed, with the view\nof reading, by the light of a cheery spark, her evening chapter. A cake\nof oat-bread was toasting at the fire, and a bowl of pure whey was set\nupon a stool, when Janet's ear was arrested by the approach of a\nhorseman, who with difficulty urged his steed up the somewhat\nprecipitous ascent. The horseman had no sooner attained the doorway,\nthan he alighted, and giving his horse to be held by a little urchin,\nwhom he had beckoned from the wood for this purpose, he was at once in\nthe presence of the aged inmate of this humble dwelling. The scene I\nshall never forget; for I was, in fact, the little boy whom he had\nenlisted in his service, by the tempting reward of sixpence. The\nhorseman was tall and well-built; he might be about fifty years of age,\nand every way wearing the garb and the aspect of a gentleman. Having\nadvanced towards the old woman, he looked steadily and keenly into her\nface, while his bosom heaved, and the tears began to indicate deep and\ntender emotion. The old woman seemed petrified with astonishment, and\nfell back into her arm-chair, as if some one had rudely pushed her down\ninto it. At last, old Janet found utterance in these words, pronounced\nin a quavering and almost inarticulate voice, \"In the name of God, who\nor what art thou?\" These words, however, had not been pronounced, when\nthe stranger had already dropped down on his knees, and had actually\nflung himself into the arms of his mother. Yes, of his mother--for so it\nproved to be, that this was the first meeting betwixt mother and child\nfor the space of upwards of forty years. The old woman's mind seemed for\na time bewildered. She endeavoured to clear her eyes, pushed the\nstranger feebly from her, looked him intensely in the face for an\ninstant, and then, uttering a loud scream, became altogether\ninsensible.\n\n\"Oh, what shall I do!\" exclaimed the stranger; \"what have I done? I have\nmurdered--I have murdered the mother that bore me! Oh, that I had staid\nat Brownhill inn till morning, and had apprised my poor parent--alas! my\nonly parent--of my approach!\"\n\nWhilst he was ejaculating in this manner, the old woman's lips began to\nresume their usual colour, and she opened her eyes and her arms at once,\nexclaiming, in an agony of transport--\n\n\"My son! oh, my son! My long-lost, long-dead, long-despaired-of son!\"\n\nThe scene now became more calm and rational. The stranger passed, with\nhis mother, into the humble dwelling. I tied the horse to the\ndoor-sneck, and followed, more from curiosity than humanity. The\nstranger sat down on what he termed his old creepy stool, from which, in\ndays long past, he had taken his porridge. He drew his mother nearer and\nnearer him, kissed her again and again, and the tears fell fast and full\nover his manly and withered cheeks; and, ever and anon, as old Janet\nwould eye her tall and manly son, she would exclaim, looking into his\nface at all the distance which her withered arms could place him--\n\n\"Ay, me, an' is that my wee Geordie?\"\n\nThe facts of Geordie's history I have often listened to with more than\nboyish interest; for this stranger ultimately took up his abode in a\nbeautiful cottage, built on the spot where his original dwelling stood;\nand, as I came and went to Closeburn School, Mr George Smith would take\nme into his parlour, and discourse with me for hour after hour, and day\nafter day, on all the varied incidents of a stirring and eventful life.\nHis father died early, having lost his life by the fall of a tree which\nhe was assisting in cutting down, or felling, as it is termed. George\nwas a first-born, and, indeed, an only child; and the kindness of the\nlaird, with the industry of his mother, combined to rear him into\nboyhood. Being, however, under no paternal authority, he became wild and\nwayward, and, ere he had gained his thirteenth year, he was a greater\nadept in fishing, orchard-breaking, and cock-fighting, than in Ovid and\nVirgil. It was his early fortune to become acquainted with an old\nsailor, who had been in various engagements, particularly in that\nbetwixt Rodney and De Grasse, in the western seas. This sailor, whose\nname was Bill Wilson, and whose trade in his old age was that of\nsmuggling tea and brandy from the Solway to the Clyde, used to fill his\nhead with adventure, and daring purpose, and successful execution. He\nhad listened, he said, for hours to Bill's account of niggers, and\nbuccaneers, and dare-devils, who fed on gunpowder, and walked,\nwhistling, amidst cannon and musket shots. And then, prize-money, and\nPlymouth, and fun, and frolic, all night long! The thing was\nirresistible; so, with a letter in his pocket from Bill to an old\ncomrade in the Isle of Man, then the centre of smuggling, George Smith\ntook a moonlight leave of his mother, and his youthful associates, and\nthe bonny braes of Dunsyette, and was on board a smuggler at Glencaple\nKey ere day dawned. He was conveyed, in the course of forty-eight hours,\nto the Isle of Man, and fairly stowed into the warehouse of Dick\nDavison, in the neighbourhood of the town of Douglas. His first\nadventure was the landing of a cargo of French brandy in the Bay of\nGlenluce; but the night was dark and stormy, and the boat upset; and,\naccording to a published account, all in the boat--namely, three\nsouls--had perished. The fact, however, was, that, whilst clinging to\nthe inverted boat, he had been picked up by a West Indian ship from\nGreenock, which had been driven into the bay by stress of weather, and\ncarried out incontinent, as no land could be made, to the island of\nJamaica. In the meantime, Bill Wilson thought proper to get sick, and to\ndie, and to confess the whole truth, with the dreadful catastrophe, to\nthe poor distracted mother.\n\nWhen George arrived off Kingston, in Jamaica, he resolved upon pushing\nhis way, in one course or another, upon land; so, having bid his captain\ngood-by, and thanked him sincerely for the small trifle of saving his\nlife, he set his foot on shore, almost naked, friendless, penniless. As\nhe entered Kingston, he encountered a runaway steed, which, with a young\nlady screaming on its back, was plunging forwards, and entirely without\ncontrol. George, acting on a natural impulse, threw himself in the way\nof the unruly animal, and, by getting hold of the bridle, at last\nbrought it up; but not without several severe bruises, as he hung\nbetwixt its fore-feet, unable, for want of weight, all at once to check\nthe horse's career. The father of the young lady had now overtaken them;\nand, having alighted, extricated first his daughter, and then poor\nGeorge Smith, from their perilous position. The young lady, who had in\nfact sustained no bodily injury, was loud in praise of him who, by his\npromptitude and intrepidity, had rescued her, in all probability, from\nmuch serious injury, or even from death; and George was immediately\ninvited to accompany the party (for there was a well-mounted servant\nlikewise) home to their villa, in the neighbourhood of the town. As they\nwalked slowly (the young lady refusing to mount anew) up the rising\nground to the south of Kingston, George had sufficient time to unfold\nthe particulars of his short but eventful history; and to interest the\nfather not less by his good sense and sagacity, than he had the daughter\nby his intrepidity and self-devotion. In a word, George found favour in\nthe great man's eyes, and was introduced to the overseer of an extensive\nplantation, with instructions to have him clothed, employed as a clerk\nor slave-driver, and properly attended to in all respects. This seeming\naccident George used always to consider as one of those arrangements of\ndivine Providence, by which good is brought out of seeming evil; and a\ntotal destitution of all the necessaries of life was in his case\nprevented. For three years, George continued to act on these\nplantations, receiving many acts of kindness from his really humane\nemployer; and waxing into vigorous manhood, without seasoning fever, or\nany disease whatever. It was Mr Walker's habit (such was the name of his\nbenefactor) to have George up with him to dine every Saturday, when he\nhad renewed opportunities of becoming acquainted with the young lady\nwhom he had rescued; and who was now budding sweetly into the perfect\nand accomplished woman. The distance in point of wealth, and\nconsequently station (in a country where wealth is the only rank),\nbetwixt George and Miss Walker, kept the eyes of the parent long blind\nto the actual position of affairs. But true it was, and of verity, that\nMiss Walker's heart was fairly won, and George's was as fairly lost,\nwithout one word on the subject of love having been exchanged on either\nside. Wonderful, unsearchable passion!--the electric fluid does not more\nuniversally penetrate nature herself, than does this passion the whole\nframework of society; and yet the ethereal agency is not more remote and\ninscrutable in its workings and doings, than in love--\n\n    \"Sae, lang ere bonny Mary wist,\n    Her peace was lost, her heart was won.\"\n\nIt was the employment of Miss Walker, on warm, yet refreshing evenings,\nto sit in her open verandah or balcony, playing on the harp, and wooing\nall the sea-breezes with the witchery of sweet sounds. To George Smith,\nwho had never been accustomed to such refined and overpowering\nentertainment, this performance and exhibition (for what is there in\nnature so graceful as a fine female hand and arm sweeping the strings of\nthe harp?) was perfect magic. A thousand times, as he sat and gazed,\ntrembling all over, he felt inclined to grasp the fair performer, harp\nand all, to his bosom; and to squeeze them incontinently into himself.\nAgain and again he has arisen, and partly withdrawn, as one would from a\nhouse on fire. Nor was Miss Smith, on her part, insensible to the\npresence of a youth, uncommonly handsome, who had so early recommended\nhimself to her good graces. Her walks and rides over the plantation were\nfrequent; and she took particular pleasure in observing the progress of\nthat part of her father's property over which George Smith more\nimmediately presided. Her questions and inquiries were truly\nastonishing; and she seemed as anxious to learn all about the process of\ncane-cutting and sugar-boiling, as if her own happiness had depended on\nthis knowledge. But George was conscientious; and although loving the\n\"bonny lassie\" (as he said) to distraction, he understood it as a crime\nworse than that of witchcraft--namely, of ingratitude--to disclose his\nfeelings. For some months, matters were in this position--the young\nlady's health manifestly suffering, and George evidently visited by\nstrange and unaccountable fits of silence and mental absence. The\noverseer, who happened to be more quick-sighted than even the father,\nfrom repeated observations, guessed at the truth; and, thinking it his\nduty, immediately apprised Mr Walker of his suspicions. As Mary had been\ndestined for some time to another--to a neighbouring planter, whose\nproperty was adjoining to that of Mr Walker--steps were immediately\ndevised to prevent the lovers from coming to any more definite\nunderstanding on the subject; and, one night, when George had just\nfallen asleep, after having penned a few lines to \"Mary, flower of\nsweetest hue,\" &c., he was forcibly seized upon, manacled, and carried\non board a ship, which was lying at some distance from the harbour. By\ndaylight the vessel was under weigh, and, ere noon, not a blue hill of\nJamaica could be seen from the deck of His Majesty's ship Spitfire. It\nwas needless to remonstrate or grumble--his fate, and the cause of it,\nwere but too manifest; and he almost felt inclined to justify an act,\nwhich at once put it out of his power to prove ungrateful to so kind a\nbenefactor. Still, still the bright idea of Mary haunted his\nimagination, and would not depart from his heart.\n\nIn this frigate of forty-four guns, there was a countryman, and even\ncountryman of his own; who, having more recently left the sweet banks of\nthe silver Nith, was enabled to give him more recent information\nrespecting affairs in Drumfries-shire; and from him he learned that his\npoor mother's heart had broken, and that she was reported to have died a\nfew days before he had left the place. This distressed George\nexceedingly; for, though he had been an idle and wayward boy, under more\nstrict management it might have been otherwise; and he manifestly bore\nin his bosom a kind and a feeling heart. But who can recall the past, or\nthe dead from their appointment? So, in the active discharge of duty as\na seaman, and in the enjoyment of the company of one or two intimate\ncompanions, George confessed that he soon chased, in a great measure,\nthe mournful tidings from his recollection. It was not so easy, however,\nto get rid of Mary: and he used to entertain his friend Tom Harkness\nwith all the outs and ins, the hopes and fears, the pulsations and\necstasies, of his love passion. In this ship, George sailed first to Rio\nJaneiro, then across the Atlantic to Cape Town, back again to the\nAzores, and ultimately, by the coast of France, into Plymouth. Although,\nduring the whole of these voyages, they had no windfalls, no prizes, yet\nhis pay had accumulated, and he landed with fifty guineas in his pocket.\nHaving no friend or home, as he now conceived, to return to, he\nimmediately took coach for London, resolved to make the most, in sailor\nphrase, of his fifty guineas. Over this part of Mr George Smith's\nhistory he himself ever preserved a veil; but I could easily gather,\nthat his conduct, during four weeks spent in London, was, like that of\nmany others similarly situated, anything but prudent, moral, or\npraiseworthy. Having at last got rid of the yellow boys, he bethought\nhimself of returning to Plymouth, and of obtaining a berth as purser, if\npossible, in one of the many ships-of-war then lying in that port. When\non his way down to Plymouth, he became the fellow-traveller, in the\nstage-coach, of a lady of a _certain age_, fair, fat, and forty, who was\non a visit to a relative in the neighbourhood of Portsmouth. As his\nmanners and person were both agreeable, he contrived to get into the\ngood graces of the fair dame, who was yet ignorant of the \"betters and\nthe worse\" of matrimony. So much was the buxom damsel taken with her\ntravelling companion, that she invited him to visit her at \"View\nCottage,\" about a mile from Plymouth. This invitation was willingly\naccepted of--the visit was paid, the reception was most flattering, and,\nin the course of a fortnight, George was in possession of the charming\nMiss Higgenbottom, with one thousand pounds for her portion. With this\nmoney and the wife, George contrived to spend a couple of months at a\nplace near Exeter, as unhappily as possible. His wife was the daughter\nof a rich butcher in Whitechapel, and as unlike her husband in tastes,\ntemper, and pursuits, as possible. She was, moreover, miserably addicted\nto the bottle, which, with the help of a sufficient quantity of opium,\nbrought her to the grave in the course of the time mentioned. As George,\nduring this period, had lived upon the principal of his wife's money, he\nwas just now where he was before--ready to step on board ship, and to\npush his fortune. On board ship, therefore, he went, and was immediately\nin the western seas, keeping a sharp look-out after some privateers,\nwhich had been, for some time past, harassing our traders, and making\nprizes of our merchantmen. At this stage of his narrative, the hero of\nmy tale used to get so animated, that I can still recall nearly the very\nwords which I have heard, I am sure, fifty times at least.\n\n\"We had steered off and on for more than a month, betwixt Demerara and\nSt Domingo, all along the stretch of the Leeward Islands. Our commander,\nCaptain Broughton, was beginning to pet a little at our inactivity, and\nto thrust the tobacco into his left instead of his right cheek--a sure\nmark that he was out of tune. At last a sail appeared on the horizon,\nwhich, from her rigging, seemed of a suspicious character, and the\norders were immediately issued to bear down upon her. As we neared, she\nhoisted British colours, and slipped quietly across our bows.\n\n\"'Oh ho!' exclaimed old 'Broughty;' 'none of your tricks upon\ntravellers, my lad--you are no more British than I am a kail-stock; and\nthat we will very soon ascertain, by putting a few homethrust questions\nto you.' So saying, he ordered two shots to be fired across her bows.\nUpon finding that we were disposed to grapple with her, she instantly\nhoisted her own colours, and sent a broadside right across our quarters.\nThe battle now began in good earnest, and, for a full half-hour, we\nbowled away as if all hell had been on deck. When the smoke cleared a\nlittle, we could see that we had disabled our adversary, by shooting\naway part of his rigging; and the captain's orders were to arm and board\ninstantly. We rushed on board like furies; but, in the desperate\nstruggle, our captain fell, and almost every officer on board. There was\nthe hesitation of a moment, which determined our fate; for the\ndare-devils rushed in upon us, fore and aft, and made sad work of it.\nNot a man, with the exception of myself, the first lieutenant, and the\nsteward, was spared; the cutlass and the deep soon obliterated the\ngallant crew of the Thunderer. It was, indeed, an awful sight; and,\nexpecting every moment to be put to some horrid death by the monsters, I\nleaped from the deck into the sea, and remember nothing more till I\nawoke, as I conceived, in a state of future punishment. But over me\nthere hung a countenance with which I was too well acquainted ever to\nmistake it: it was that of Mary Walker, my first, and dearest, and never\nentirely forgotten love. Her father sat by, wrung his hands in absolute\ndespair; and Mary's face was strangely altered--wan, shrunk, and full of\nextreme misery. I scarcely could credit my senses, and was on the point\nof coming to some explanation, when a terrible tramping and bustle on\nboard bespoke some approaching crisis. It was so. A British seventy-four\nwas in the act of bearing straight down upon the crippled privateer, and\nthe scarcely less disabled Thunderer, and all on board was despair and\ndistraction. Resistance was found to be out of the question; so, in less\nthan an hour, we were all conveyed safely on board of the\nNeptune--Captain Briggs commander. We were immediately carried into\nKingston, and landed, at our own desire--Mr Walker having satisfied\nCaptain Briggs in regard to my discharge from His Majesty's service.\"\n\nThe explanation of the whole matter was this:--Miss Walker, after her\nlover's departure, became very disconsolate, and her health ultimately\nbecame very precarious. The more temperate air of Britain was\nrecommended, and her fond father had sailed with her, with the view of\nplacing her somewhere in Devonshire, with a near relative. He proposed\nto return for a season, to wind up his affairs finally, which, of late,\nhad not prospered, and to spend the remainder of his days and fortune in\nhis native land. They had only sailed twelve hours, when, after a\ndesperate and unequal struggle, they were captured, and put under\nhatches. During the desperate engagement which succeeded, the sequel\nexplains itself. They were ultimately landed in safety at the pier from\nwhich they had started, and all slept, the following night, under Mr\nWalker's roof. George Smith and Mary Walker were married in the course\nof a few months, nor did her husband perceive that her health declined.\nShe lived to become the mother of two children--a boy and a girl--when\nher father, whose affairs, from some unlooked-for losses, had become\nembarrassed, died suddenly, not without some ugly surmises respecting\nthe cause. Smith, after this, had no heart to remain on the island; so,\ncollecting the remnant of a once princely fortune, he embarked, with his\nbeloved wife and children, for Britain. Finding, however, that he could\nnot succeed to his wish in his native land, he set out for Bordeaux,\nwhere he established himself in the wine trade, and, in the language of\nsacred writ, \"begat sons and daughters.\" There he lived many years, in\ndomestic peace and happiness, enjoying the society and affection of a\nmost attached and amiable partner, and getting his family disposed of,\ntill only one daughter remained with him unmarried. At last, death\nrobbed him, in the disguise of a slow or typhus fever, of his beloved\nMary; and, with his beautiful and amiable daughter, he sought again the\nshores of his own Scotland--his beloved Dumfries, his native Closeburn.\nWhilst dining with his daughter at Brownhill, he had learned that his\naged mother was still alive, and an inmate of the same dwelling which he\nhad himself inhabited. The rest of the story can easily be anticipated:\nhis mother was well provided for during the few years--and they were but\nfew--of her _happily_ protracted existence; and his lovely and\naffectionate Eliza is now the mother of seven children, and the virtuous\nand beloved wife of the bumble narrator of these \"Family Incidents.\"\n\n\n\n\nHOME AND THE GIPSY MAID.\n\n\nI have been at school and college, I have read considerably in books,\nand have attended debating societies to satiety. Thus I have picked up a\ndeal of what the world calls useful knowledge and worldly wisdom. But\nthere is one branch of education to which I am more indebted than to any\nother whatever. I was born in the retired solitude of a mountain glen. I\nwas myself alone amongst the mountains, with my mother and two old\nwomen, my relatives. I did not know, at the time, that I was any way\npeculiarly situated. I felt joyous and happy from morn to night; but the\ncause of all this happiness was no matter of inquiry. In fact, I never\nthought of causes at all. I took nature as she appeared, and put no\nimpertinent questions to her. There I lay by a little stream, which,\nafter dancing gaily down a steep and broken rock, became, all at once, a\ndeep _bumbling_ pool. There I lay, amidst the daisies and buttercups of\nspring, on the green plot, listening to the song of a thousand throats,\nand marking the suspended trout, as it rose to the fly, or floated along\nin the watery sunshine. At intervals, I would stretch myself supine;\nand, with my eyes half-closed, convert the clouds which covered in our\nlittle valley into what shapes and forms my fancy pleased. The wild bee\npassed in his hum; but I saw him not. The grasshopper chirruped from the\nadjoining grass; but I marked not his form or his locality. The buzz of\ninsect life was in the air, and on the earth. I was not alone, and I\nfelt it; my companions were the happy, the lively, the rejoicing, the\nexulting; and I partook of all their sentiments. I was, in fact, a unity\nlost in the midst of countless beings--a single throb in the great\nframework of animated nature. And, then, there were the woods which\nembanked and enclosed me all around. The oak, with its spread stole and\nbroad leaf; the glorious birch, rising in pillows of green fragrance,\nand overtopping all; the hazel, in its less aspiring nature, peeping\nfrom betwixt the trees; and the sweet hawthorn, bestudding the brae,\narrayed in a wedding suit of purest white. The tall ash-tree was there,\nand the rowan-tree, and the sloe-thorn, and the rasp-berry, and the\nbramble. The whole valley was my own orchard; and I selected at\npleasure, without check or restraint, the nut, the sloe, and the\nhind-berry. Upon the top of the tall ash, there I sat, with the mavis\nfor my companion on one side, and the blackbird on the other. With all\nmanner of birds I was familiar, from the pyat to the water-wagtail. The\nsearching for nests was my spring recreation, from April till July--I\ncould tell at once the inmate from the construction of its abode. The\neggs of the linnet, goldfinch, yorling, laverock, robin, titling,\nthrush, and blackbird, were as familiar to me as the letters of the\nalphabet. And if I wandered but a mile and a-half up the glen, I was in\nthe midst of barrenness and solitude. The shepherd loomed from the\ndistant horizon--the sheep roved along the steep--the goats clung to the\ncliffs. There the hawk and the raven had their abode; and there hung\ntheir nests from the projecting rock, or the horizontal tree. The heath\nwas the nursery of its wild inmates. The whaup, and plover, and lapwing\npiped, and whistled, and fluttered around me. I was in the midst of\ntheir nesting-ground; and they seemed disposed to sacrifice me to their\nfears. Overhead were the lofty peaks of Queensberry--the greater and the\nless twin pillars--over which the pediment of heaven was spread. The\nmist trailed and deepened. I beheld its approach; and witnessed its\nbreaking up into shreds and patches. I saw the first gleam of the\nsunshine, as it struggled through the density, and stood revealed in all\nthe glory of a full effulgence of sunlight. My fishing-rod, a hazel\nsapling, was in my hand, and I pulled from streams and gullets of the\nmost tiny dimensions large black and yellow trouts. There they lay,\namidst the wet spret, or on the velvet fringe of the streamlet, in all\nthe glory of scale and fin. My soul leaped in unison to their motions;\nand I absolutely danced in ecstasy. When I gained the mountain summit--O\nmy God! what impressions I have had of beauty and sublimity! On the one\nhand, the dark, southern range, ranging away eastward in barren\nmagnitude; on the other, the green and softly-outlined Lead Hills,\nrounded into magnificence. Before me, and stretching far southward, the\ndistant Criffell, lumbering on the horizon; the sunny Solway, gleaming\nin light; the Nith, winding and coqueting with its fertile banks and\nfruitful plains; the Annan, a younger but scarcely less lovely sister,\nrunning its lateral course to the same ultimate destiny, the nascent\nfeeders of the Clyde, Carsehope, and Darr, bursting from their mossy\ncradles into the wilderness around them, rejoicing in their solitudes,\nand in their numerous and undisturbed inmates. Oh, what is\neducation--the alphabet in all its combinations and significations--to\nthis! When in after life I have had occasion to animate my public\naddresses with simile, or to inspire them with sentiment--when at the\ndesk, and with the pen in my hand, I have fished in my brain for\nmetaphor or illustration--I have constantly recurred to my infant, my\nboyish home; to my native glen, and woods, and streams, and cliffs, and\nmountains; and when I have once seated myself on the Cat-craig, or on a\nbranch of the oak or the birch, I feel myself quite at home. I can,\nindeed, call spirits, as I do now, from the depths of imagination and\nfeeling--I can ascend in the spiral movements of that blue smoke, which\nlies so soft and silky between me and the opposite green sward. I can\nsympathise with those devout and happy hearts, which, in simple female\nhabiliments, are now plying the wheel, or preparing the frugal repast\nwithin. I see the domestic fowls, in their sunny happiness, flapping\ntheir wings in the dusty corner of the kail-yard, or crowing in frolic\ntill the echoes are awakened. There is but one world--one sinless,\nsorrowless, painless world--and this is it. Where then were the cares of\nthe great world, which has absorbed this one? Where the jarrings of\nenvy--the justlings of competition--the dread of disappointment--the\nfrenzy of hope--the fever of love--the whole bevy of passions, which\nform the Corrievrecken of the heart! They were then, like Abraham's\nposterity, in Abraham's loins; they were possibilities, mere\nfuturities--sleeping undisturbed and undisturbing in the limbs of\ncontingencies. Alas! that ever my soul awoke from this dream!--that\never, one fine summer evening, I discovered that a change had come over\nmy nature--that I had crept unknowingly into youth--that there was a\nsoft delicious fire in my blood, which made me look beyond my humble\ncottage, with its aged inmates, for gratification and happiness! Oh, the\nexquisite, the ecstatic delight of this first awakening into the manhood\nof feeling!--when the passion-flower is just opening--when the nerves\nare troubled, for the first time, by the sensibilities of sex--when the\nblooming cheek, the rosy lip, the inviting glance, and the\nhappily-moulded rotundities of the female form, become, for the first\ntime, an object of fearful, of indescribable, of trembling interest! I\nask any one of my readers, male and female, Was it not thus with you?\nDid not your first perceptions of the full compass of your nature come\nupon you at once? Come, no blushing now--no shuffling--it was even so;\nbut you never liked to speak of it to any one. You thought that, in this\nrespect, you were singular; but now, that you see I have turned king's\nevidence, you are conscious that what I aver is true. Here, then, I fix\nmy landmark, with the age of puberty; all on this side is school,\ncollege, society, the world, care, troubles, and anxieties; all before\nthis was that paradise from which I still pluck, as on this occasion, an\napple or two, to refresh you and me as we journey along. Come, now,\ngood-natured reader, and I will tell you a tale or anecdote of this\nprimeval state of my being.\n\nIn one of my early fishing excursions, I had the misfortune to lose\nmyself in a dense fog or mist. I wandered on and on, not knowing well\nwhere I was (for it is well known that in such circumstances the most\nfamiliar objects assume a strange and unknown aspect), till at last I\nsat myself down on the brow of a peat-hag, not knowing well whether to\ncry or laugh at my wanderings. Twice had I come upon a tethered horse,\nand twice upon a thorn-tree with a solitary nest in it; so I found that\nI was assuredly walking in a circle, the centre of which, for anything\nthat I could learn to the contrary, might very probably be my own\nhabitation. Whilst employed in listening for the response of a mountain\nstream by which I might be directed, as by an old acquaintance, to a\nmore familiar locality, I thought I heard a kind of strange, unearthly\nnoise, coming from--I could not well tell by the ear--what quarter. I\nlistened again, and all was silent, and I began to think that the noise\nhad proceeded from some bird or beast in my immediate neighbourhood.\nAgain, however, as I moved cautiously across the moss, the sound came\nupon me more distinctly--it was manifestly the sound of wailing and\nmoaning, intermingled with much and hysterical sobbing. What could this\nmean? Night was at hand, the mist was manifestly mingling with the\ncoming darkness, and here I was alone, in the presence, seemingly, of\nsome unearthly being. My head was full of fairies, and brownies, and\nsuch-like supernaturals; and my heart, under such apprehensions, was as\nthat of the bird taken in a snare. It immediately occurred to me that\nthis must be some decoy fairy, employed in entrapping me into that\nunchristian brotherhood. The story of young \"Tam Lean,\" which my mother\nhad often repeated to me, occurred opportunely to augment my\napprehensions and increase my agitation. I already felt as if mounted on\na fairy steed--I was \"pawing the light clouds,\" and shaking my belled\nbridle over my native dwelling, without the power of returning to it.\nWhilst such meditations as these shook my whole frame, the awful voice\nof wo was manifestly approaching me; and I immediately took to my heels,\n\"with all convenient speed, according to the rules of terror.\" But, in\nendeavouring to increase the distance betwixt the object of my fears and\nmyself, I ran immediately and directly in upon it; and had all but\nfainted, as I saw immediately before me a small female figure running\nabout, and crying piteously. The form came upon my vision very\nindistinctly, and induced me to reverse my steps, and set off in double\nswift time in a direction opposite to that in which I had advanced. To\nmy utter horror and amazement, the thing pursued me swiftly, and\nscreaming at the top of its voice. This was indeed appalling, and I\nalready felt as if I had taken up my residence in the dark recesses of a\nfairy-knowe. I ran and screamed, whilst it ran screaming too, through\nmoss and pool, and spret and heath; and there we coursed it\nalong--startling the whaups and miresnipes with our music. At last I was\nfairly overcome, and threw myself head foremost into a peat hag, whilst\nmy pursuer halted immediately over my person. Oh, I could have wished to\nhave concealed myself, at this moment, somewhere near the centre of the\nearth; when a couple of shepherd's curs appeared, and instantly\nafterwards James Hogg, the Mitchelslacks hind (since better known as the\nEttrick Shepherd), stood before me.\n\n\"What's a' this o't, sirs?\" said Hogg, eyeing my tormentor and myself\nwith a look of perplexed inquiry. \"What's the matter wi' ye, Tam, that\nye're derned that gate into the throat o' a moss-hole? Get up, man, an'\ntell me whar ye fell in wi' this bit puir lassie.\"\n\nThe lassie, in the meantime, had clung to the shepherd's knees, and was\nendeavouring, but unsuccessfully, to speak.\n\n\"It's a fairy!\" I exclaimed. \"O Jamie Hogg, it's a fairy!--hae naething\nto do wi't; it has pursued me this _hour_ past\" (not in reality above\ntwo minutes!); \"an' I saw a great many more fairies up by yonder. O\nJamie, dinna meddle wi't; it's uncanny, I'm sure.\"\n\nHereupon the fairy began to give utterance, in tones quite human, to a\nfearful statement, implying that she had been carried off from Annan by\nsome gipsies, and carried away by them to the wild hills; and that,\nabout an hour ago, she had run away in the mist, and had fairly escaped,\nbut became alarmed as the darkness approached, and had followed me, as\nher only guide and protector in these wild hills. I cannot tell how much\nI felt relieved by this statement; and, as I began to gather up my\nmembers into a human shape, I saw plainly that my pursuer was a fine,\nwell-thriven lassie, about ten or eleven years of age, and no unearthly\nfairy, as I had so lately believed. Hogg laughed heartily at my mistake,\ntelling me that I wad find the lasses, by an' by, muckle waur than the\nfairies; and that, instead o' rinnin awa frae them, I wad be rinnin\nafter them. At the time when these words were spoken, I did not rightly\nunderstand their meaning; but, reading them through the spectacles of\nfuture experience, I now understand them to the letter.\n\nJust as this conversation was finished, a great, tall, lumbering, but\nmost athletic fellow bore down upon us through the mist. At sight of\nhim, the poor girl screamed piteously, and clung to Hogg, and begged\nmost imploringly that she should not be given up to that \"terrible man.\"\nHogg had just thrown off his plaid, adjusted his staff, and put himself\ndeterminedly betwixt the stranger and the girl, when down came two\nbrother shepherds, attracted in all probability by the noise, and\nguessing immediately that a battle was about to ensue. When the tinker\nsaw that the odds were thus against him, he bent his course, as if he\nhad mistaken his way, in another direction, and was immediately lost in\nobscurity. Home to my mother's was this poor girl conducted by Hogg and\nme; and for three days and nights she partook of my home and board. Her\nstory was simple and consistent. She had been out pulling rushes, to\nmake a rush-cap, in a wood adjoining to the town of Annan, when she was\naccosted by a woman, who was exceedingly kind to her, giving her some\nsugar-bools, and decoying her by fair words into the centre of the\nforest. There she found four or five men, with a great many women,\nchildren, asses, &c., employed in making spoons, pans, &c., at a fire\nlighted in the open air. The children immediately gathered around her,\nand endeavoured to engage her in some games, whilst the \"terrible man,\"\nas she always designated the chief of the gang, patted her on the cheek,\nand said, \"You must come along with me, and be my daughter.\"\n\nMeantime the whole party were in motion, and the poor child was tossed\ninto a pannier, on the back of an ass, and, being bound down with cords,\nwas carried all night long, she knew not whither. By daybreak she found\nherself on the banks of a mountain-stream, and no human habitation\nwithin view. In this station she had remained for three days, being\nalways kindly used, but observing fearful scenes, and hearing dreadful\nexpressions. At last, being worn out with crying, and partly gained over\nby the companionship of her playmates, she had assumed a more resigned\nand contented appearance, in consequence of which she ceased to be\nwatched with so much vigilance. Taking advantage, however, of the mist,\nand of the absence of the greater part of the women, she had edged into\nthe stream, along the almost dry channel of which she had run, till she\nlost sight of the encampment, and had taken at once to the hill, without\nknowing whither she was flying. Fatigued, however, at last, and\nterrified, she had even resolved to retrace, if possible, her steps,\nwhen the occurrence above mentioned brought her refuge and safety.\n\nI shall never forget the scene which took place on the occasion of the\nrestoration of this sweet girl to her parents, who were immediately\ninformed by Hogg of the asylum which the poor wanderer had found. But,\nas every breast in which the genuine feelings of humanity are implanted\nwill immediately conceive what such a meeting must have been, I shall\nnot attempt to describe it. We were all in tears, and the poor mother\nfainted outright, as she grasped convulsively her lost lamb (as she\ntenderly termed it) to her bosom.\n\nI have lived long, and so has Jeanie Paton, the now respected mother of\na large family, and the wife of honest Willie Paton, the best fisher and\nthe best weaver in all Annandale. When I take my annual excursions\nsouth, their house is my home, and a day's fishing with Willie in the\nAnnan is to me a treat of no ordinary delight--Jeanie welcomes us with\nher best, though, to be sure, I occasionally rub her a little too hard,\nin reference to the circumstance which made us first acquainted.\n\n\n\n\nTHE RETURN.\n\n    \"Alas! regardless of their fate,\n      The little victims play;\n    No sense have they of ills to come,\n      No cares beyond to-day.\"\n\n\nIn passing by coach to Cheltenham, in the year 1831, I dined with a very\nagreeable fellow at Carlisle. It so happened that, in the course of\nconversation, I discovered that he was a class-fellow of mine, some\nforty-five years ago. But we had been separated ever since; nor was\nthere a single feature by which I could recognise his countenance. He\nwore a wig, was sallow, withered, and almost emaciated; whereas Charles\nM'Murdo, the boy of my acquaintance, was a chubby, rosy imp, with a\nheart as light as a feather, and feet as swift as a roe. Nevertheless,\nif I did not recognise him, he soon discovered me: the change upon my\nperson being less remarkable, as I had never left my own country, nor\nbeen any way exposed to extreme climate, either of heat or cold. He\nhaving some business to transact in London, as I had in Cheltenham, we\nagreed, before parting, and whilst the guard was blowing his horn, to\nrendezvous, on my return, at Liverpool, and to proceed north in company\nwith each other. Accordingly, at the appointed day and hour, we met;\nordered a private room and a comfortable dinner at the Saddle, a bottle\nof good old port, and a strict watch upon all intrusion. What a night we\nhad of it! All the scenes of our youth rose into review, and, as glass\nafter glass, and perhaps bottle after bottle, disappeared, our souls\nwarmed, our imaginations fired, our memories, like the churchyard at the\nday of reckoning, \"gave up the dead that were in them,\" and at last we\nall but embraced each other, shaking hands from time to time, as the\ntoast arose to some old remembrance, some school companion now no more.\nThere had been twelve of us in the same class; and my friend and I were\nall that remained (like Job's friends), to think or to speak of the fate\nof the rest. One, two, three, had gone to Jamaica, and had perished,\nsooner or later, in quest or in possession of competence or wealth; two\nhad been ruined by dissipated company at college, had enlisted, and\nperished at Waterloo; one had done well as a surgeon at Sierra Leone,\nbut had fevered at last, and died. In short, the roll-call was\nmournful--we were the skeleton of the class, its ghost, its shadow; but\nwe were alive, beside a comfortable fire, and a cheerful gas-light, and\nwith wine before us; and it is wonderful how soon we forgot the mournful\nrecollection which would ever and anon peep in upon us through the mazes\nof our many-hued discourse. At last our enthusiasm began somewhat to\nsubside; we ordered tumblers and hot water, with the necessary\naccompaniments, drew in the table closer to the fire, for it was the\nmonth of November, and agreed each to give the narrative of his own life\nand experience. My tale was soon told, nor would it be any way\ninteresting to the reader to hear it. I had been a home-bird, and had\nattained, without much adventure or difficulty, a respectable position\nin society; but my old companion had been tossed about in the world, as\nhe expressed it, like a _quid_ of hay in the throat of a cow; and I\nshall endeavour to put the reader in possession of the outline of what\nCharles M'Murdo that night, betwixt the hours of seven and eleven,\nrelated to me in large detail.\n\n\"You know,\" said he, \"my debut: I was sent out to Jamaica by Mr Watson,\na rich planter, to act as clerk on his plantations--in other words, to\nkeep a large and terrible whip in constant employ. Our voyage was\ntempestuous; I frequently felt as if the ship, in her lurches into the\ntrough of the sea, would never reascend, but would go down head foremost\nto the bottom of the Atlantic. But our captain was a skilful seaman,\nkept his men in heart, had his orders promptly obeyed, and we weathered\nthe storm. Landing at Kingston, I was received in, what was termed, a\nwarehouse by an overseer, who, after reading Mr Watson's letter, cursed\nme as a supernumerary, and said I might go where I liked, but I could\nnot be there; they had too many of my sort already. Watson he called an\nold superannuated fool, who was determined, seemingly, to ruin the\nestate by the mere expense of working it. In a little, however, the\nstorm blew over. Having drunk pretty deeply from a tumbler of rum and\nwater--at least so he called it, though for my part I never could\ndiscover any trace of the water, and think this element might easily\nhave proved an alibi in any court of justice--he made me partake of his\nbeverage, and tumble into a corner of a counting-room, beyond a number\nof chairs, desks, and old ledgers. My bed was none of the best, but the\nweather was exceedingly warm, and I contrived to sleep pretty soundly\ntill morning. Next day I was roused betimes by a black slave, naked to\nthe middle, and instructed in my day's work. I was to join some four or\nfive slave-drivers at a common rendezvous, and with them to march\na-field, suitably provided for my task. I saw the poor slaves hard at\nwork--digging the soil, and planting slips of cane, under a most\noppressive sun; I saw, likewise, my hardened and inhuman associates\napplying the scourge to mothers with children at the breast, to the old,\nand to the infirm. I could not stand it; my heart sank within me. Oh,\nhow I sighed for my own native land, with all its advantages and\nendearments!--and how I cursed my ambition, that had been kindled at the\nwheels of the chariot of Mr Watson, who, though born poor as I was, had\nrealised an immense fortune in Jamaica!\"\n\nHereupon he burst out into an eulogy on Britain, and the administration\nwhich had given liberty to the slaves, and at the same time remunerated\nthe unhallowed proprietors; but, after a short pause, during which I\nexpressed my anxiety to hear the sequel of his story, he proceeded:--\n\n\"Well, custom will reconcile one to anything. You will scarcely believe\nme when I tell you that, though shy at first, and backward in the active\ndischarge of my duty, I came at last to regard it as a matter of course,\nand to imagine that the poor blacks did not feel as I did, or experience\nthe pain which such an infliction would have occasioned to myself. I was\none day chastising a fellow, who absolutely refused to labour, on the\nscore of indisposition, which I knew or believed to be put on, when a\nlittle child, of the African breed, came up to me, and, with a look of\nperfect nature and simplicity, said--\n\n\"'Ah, massa, you no have father--you never know father--you no black\nman's boy--you no born at all, massa--you made of stone--you have no\npity for poor black boy's pa!'\n\n\"The speech struck me exceedingly. I immediately ordered the father into\nthe sick-house, and, patting the boy on the head, said he was a good,\nkind-hearted boy, and I would look after him for this. All this was\nrepeated at head-quarters, and I was represented as neglecting my duty,\nand conniving at the idle and the dissolute amongst the slaves; and\nbeing summoned into the overseer's presence, I was examined, confessed\nthe truth, and was immediately dismissed the estate.\n\n\"Where was I to turn?--Without a character, no other plantation would\nadmit my services. The heavens over my head were iron, the earth was\nbrass. I could get no employment, and to beg I was ashamed. I wandered\ndown to the sea-shore, and in my excursion met with several ladies and\ngentlemen, riding on beautiful chargers, talking and laughing loudly all\nthe while--and I wished to be one of them. It was this stimulus which\nhad set me in motion, made me cross the Atlantic, and submit to great\nindignities--and yet here I was, an outcast less valuable than the\nwrecks which lined the bay. No one of the various cavalcades took the\nleast notice of me; and I seated myself, at last, on a rock, and began\nto plunge little water-worn pebbles into the smooth bay. After a\nconsiderable interval of most poignant despair, the little black boy\nmade his appearance, and told me that he had just heard of my dismissal,\nand that his father wished to see me in the hospital. I went with the\nboy half-stupified, and almost unconscious of either motive or motion.\nThe poor, grateful creature wished me to take some money, which he had\naccumulated by his Sabbath-afternoon industry; but I refused it at once,\nthough I did so with tears of gratitude in my eyes. He then informed me\nthat he had formerly slaved on an adjoining plantation, and that his\nformer master was of a more kindly disposition than the present one. He\nhad just heard of the death of one of his clerks, and, if I would\npresent myself immediately, ere the next fleet should arrive with a\nfresh supply of slave-drivers, he had no doubt but, from my appearance,\nand my good hand of writing, I might find employment. I took the honest\ncreature's advice; and, accompanied by little Ebony, made the best of my\nway to Hillside plantation, about a mile and a-half from Kingston. The\nkind-hearted boy went before me, and, chancing to meet Mr Ferguson, the\nproprietor of Hillside estate, he threw himself on his knees before him,\nin the most imploring manner:--\n\n\"'Young gentleman dismissed; but he no ill--he kind to poor father--he\nvery kind to black man when sick. Massa know poor Gabby.'\n\n\"Ere the boy had risen from his knees, I had presented myself to Mr\nFerguson, and told my own story precisely as it stood. Luckily for me,\nMr Ferguson and my former employer were upon the worst terms possible;\nso I found no difficulty in getting a temporary appointment on trial. It\nis said somewhere that despotism is the best of all governments, when\nthe despot is a good man. This is truly verified in these islands.\nNothing can differ more than does the usage of the slaves in different\nplantations. The overseer, Mr Handy, on Watson's plantation, he whom I\nhad just left, was a brutal person, almost constantly under the\nexcitement or reaction of rum, and his slaves were constantly beaten and\nill used in every way; whereas the Hillside slaves were allowed all\npossible indulgences, and really seemed quite happy. They used to go\nabout, on the fine Jamaica evenings, singing, dancing, and playing upon\ninstruments, visiting and returning visits, and enjoying all the\nhappiness of which their state was susceptible. I lived two years on\nthis plantation, and was handsomely paid as a clerk. I now, for the\nfirst time, began to think of accumulating money, with the view of\npurchase or partnership. But an incident occured to me at this stage of\nmy fortunes which gave them an unforeseen turn. I was kidnapped, whilst\nwalking on the sea-shore, rather late one evening, and immediately\ncarried on board a vessel, which sailed ere morning. This had been done,\nas I afterwards understood, under the direction of Handy; who, having\nheard of my good fortune and prosperity, persuaded a brother of his, who\ntraded to Hudson's Bay, in the fur trade, to carry me there, and keep me\nout of his sight. He could not bear to think that I might possibly one\nday come to effect an establishment in his immediate neighbourhood.\nCaptain Handy was a cruel, despotic, weatherbeaten piece of mortality;\nhe carried me in a few months to Hudson's Bay, and had me introduced\ninto a great house in the fur trade. In vain, when I got ashore, did I\nremonstrate against the violence which had been used in regard to me; I\nwas immediately clothed in warm garments, armed with a musket, and\nmarched overland, along with about ten or twelve copper-faced Indians,\ntowards the upper lakes of the St. Lawrence. Our ultimate destination\nwas Lake Superior. There we were commissioned to trade with the Indians,\nexchanging muskets, spirits, and various kinds of cutlery, for\nfur-skins. There was a small settlement in the centre of the lake, but\nthere were not sufficient provisions for the additional numbers during\nwinter; so we were expected to return on land to the settlement on\nHudson's Bay ere the winter set in. But this year the American winter\ncommenced a month earlier than usual, and with unprecedented severity.\nWe had nothing but one log-house to accommodate upwards of thirty\npeople; but this erection was of considerable extent, and leaned against\nseveral growing trees. Our situation became immediately all but\ndesperate. You can have no idea of an American winter in such\nlatitudes.\" (Hereupon I stirred the fire, and helped myself to a glass\nof toddy.) \"The snow comes on at once, and the atmosphere is so loaded\nand thickened with drift, that you may cut it into cubes with a knife.\nAnd then the snow, which in a few hours accumulates over your dwelling\nto the very roof, penetrates everywhere through your wooden erection. In\nspite of a blazing hearth, you are shivering almost in the midst of the\nflame. The horrors of that winter I can never forget; we were, long ere\nNew Year's-day, reduced to our daily shifts for our daily food. Had it\nnot been for our Indian friends, we should have perished of hunger to a\nman; but their skill in archery and even in ball-shooting is altogether\nincredible. Nothing borne on wings over our heads escaped them. The bow\nwas lifted immediately to the eye, the arrow was pointed, and followed\nfor a small space the course of the bird; it flew, but apparently not\nstraight for the object, but greatly in advance of it; but, ere it had\ngained its utmost ascent, the winged and the feathered objects had\ncrossed on their courses, and the prey fell immediately, transfixed by\nthe arrow. We broke the ice, too, of the lake, which was often three\nfeet in thickness, and, with bait prepared by the Indians, of the seeds\nof trees, decoyed occasionally some half-starved fish to our lines. But,\nwith all appliances and means to boot, we became perfect skeletons;\nseveral died of various complaints, all brought on by cold, and spare as\nwell as unwholesome diet. Oh, what would I then have given for a dinner\nsuch as we have enjoyed this day! But, not to fatigue you with\nexclamations and with representations of suffering which to you must\nseem incredible, the winter gave way at last, and its departure was\nagreeably unexpected with its approach; the thaw came as much earlier as\nthe frost had anticipated its average approach. Our boats were again on\nthe lake, and we were enabled to ship off our skins for their ultimate\ndestination, Montreal. As I had shown considerable talents, and what\nthey termed mettle, during the winter trials, the commander of the party\nhad me boated off, along with the skins, for Mr Syme's warehouse, at\nMontreal. Here I met with a friend, in a cousin of my mother. He\nimmediately took me into his warehouse.\n\n\"By this time I was sufficiently tired of a moving life; like the\nrolling stone of the proverb, I had gathered no fog--'_movebam, sed nil\npromovebam_.' I was very happy, therefore, when Mr Syme proposed my\nremaining at least some time with him in the capacity mentioned.\nMontreal, as everybody knows, is situated upon an island in the St\nLawrence, and few places could be more advantageous for trade, or more\npicturesque in appearance. In the centre of the island there rises a\nbeautiful eminence, still covered with trees of the primeval American\nforests; and towards the eastern skies lies the town itself, upper and\nlower, adorned with public buildings, and presenting, as you approach\nit, a very prepossessing aspect. Mr Syme had a warehouse, at a place\ncalled Chine, about eight miles up, and immediately upon the river. Here\nthe furs were shipped for Europe, and Britain in particular, and here it\nwas my duty to remain, except on Sundays, when I constantly dined with\nmy kind relative. Mr Syme had an only daughter, two sons having died,\nand the mother likewise, whilst being delivered of the last. This\ndaughter was now a young woman of nineteen, and sufficiently handsome\nfor matrimony, considering that she was to inherit her father's wealth\nand business, which was itself a mine of gain. Her father, who in many\nrespects was a kind-hearted and a prudent man, was as obstinate as an\nold oak-trunk when he took it into his head to be so. Most people have\nsome weak side or other--and this was his. He had determined, from the\ntime when Samuel Horseman, the rich merchant (the richest, it was\nsupposed, in the island), had rocked his Nancy in the cradle, and had\nsuffered himself to be scorned with the child, that Nancy should one day\nor other be Mrs Horseman; and that thus, by the union of their families\nand their fortunes, there should not be a firm in Montreal that would\nonce be spoken of in the same day with Horseman, Syme, & Co. This idea\nhad grown with the growth of the child, and had strengthened with her\nstrength--it was never twenty-four hours out of his head. But, one\ndreadful afternoon, Horseman arrived from Quebec with a little pretty\nFrench milliner, whom he had married. This was death to Syme's plans and\nprospects, and so he set immediately about cutting Horseman, and looking\nout for some other advantageous way of disposing of his _article_, which\nhad now seen some fourteen summers. But before he could settle upon any\nparticular individual, he was relieved from his disappointment, and\nrestored to his intercourse with Horseman, by a gallant serjeant, who\nclaimed Mrs Horseman as his lawful and married wife; in fact, there were\nseveral claimants; but one was as good as a hundred to Horseman, who by\nthis time was heartily tired of his partner, and would have willingly\nseen her attempting a voyage of discovery over the Falls of Niagara.\nSyme soon redoubled his diligence, and gave his daughter to understand\nthat, so soon as she had attained the age of nineteen, the age of her\nmother when she became a bride, she should be exalted to all the honours\nand privileges of Mrs Horseman.\n\n\"There are two, it is said, at a bargain-making; but that is merely the\n_minimum_: in this case, there were three, and ultimately four. Miss\nSyme had been exceedingly annoyed by her father's unreasonable\narrangement; she, of course, disliked Horseman, as she did everything\nold, ugly, snuffy, and bandylegged; but her father was incessant in his\nimportunities, or rather commands, and matters were in this state when\nthe friend now addressing you made his appearance, and took up his\nprincipal residence at Chine. It was not long before Miss Syme and I\ncame to understand each other. I do not know how it was--I was not\nromantically in love--perhaps it is not in my nature; but I was willing\nto hear the poor girl's story, and to mingle tears with hers. We never\ntalked of love; but yet, somehow or other, it made an inroad upon the\ndebateable territory on both sides, till we felt that we were assuredly\nover head and ears, from the circumstance that, like Darby and Joan,\n'we were ever uneasy asunder.' The father began to smell a rat, as they\nsay--at least you and I have often said whilst at school--and he was in\na furious passion, threatened dismissal to me and imprisonment to Nancy.\nIn the meantime, death, in the shape of an ague, carried Horseman beyond\nthe reach of matrimony--he went to that land where there is neither\nmarrying nor giving in marriage; and I became every day more and more\nuseful to my employer. It was manifest to all that his heart had now\nsoftened, and that he had come to see the utter folly of human schemes\nwhen controverted by the decrees of Heaven. One day he was up at Chine,\nseeing some furs shipped for London; when in passing from the shore to\nthe ship, he slipped a foot and fell into the water. There was no one\nwho observed this but myself, as all the men were busily engaged. I\nimmediately plunged headlong into the somewhat rapid stream. He was not\nto be found. The current had borne him downwards, and a water-dog, which\nwas kept on purpose on board, was in the act, as I perceived, of\ndragging the body ashore. I assisted the animal, and got the credit of\nsaving my friend.\n\n\"I need not delay you longer. I married Mr Syme's daughter, and\nsucceeded, at his death, to the whole concern, which I have just wound\nup; and, having left my wife and an only daughter in London, I am on my\nway to visit, by surprise, my aged mother, who still lives in the place\nof my birth, and to purchase, if possible, a property in the\nneighbourhood, there to spend, in peace, and affection, and domestic\nlove, the evening of my days.--Will you go with me to Lastcairn?\"\n\nI agreed. We drove up the glen, by Croalchapel; and my friend was all\nabsence, and inward rumination, and anticipated delight. But the\nfootsteps of death were on the threshold. His aged parent was still\nalive and sensible, but manifestly fast going. She was made sensible\nthat her long-lost Charlie, who had been so kind to her in her old age,\nwas before her. She tried to stretch forth her withered arm, but it was\nscathed by death. She received the last embrace of her son, said\nsomething about \"depart in peace,\" and fell asleep.\n\n\n\n\nTHE POOR SCHOLAR.\n\n\nReader, if ever thou hast been in \"Babylon the Great,\" or, in other\nwords, in the overgrown metropolis of the southern portion of these\nkingdoms, peradventure you have observed melancholy-looking men, their\ncountenances tinged with the \"pale cast of thought,\" in suits of\nwell-worn black, \"a world too wide,\" creeping, edging, or shuffling\nalong the streets, each belike with a bundle of papers peering from his\npocket. In nine cases out of ten, these neglected-looking men are the\npoor scholars who instruct or amuse the world. You may also find them,\nwith anxiety in their eyes, and hunger sitting at home upon their\ncheeks, wandering in the most secluded corners of the parks, enjoying,\nby way of a substitute for dinner, the apology which the air in the\nparks offers for the pure and unadulterated breath of heaven. Daily,\ntoo, they may be seen in the library of the Museum, poring over an old\nvolume, and concealing their shoes beneath the table, lest they should\n\"prate\" of the scholar's \"whereabouts,\" and ask of the venerable volume,\n\"Are you or we oldest?\" Or you may find them in the corner of some\nobscure coffee-house, poring intently over the periodicals of the day,\nat intervals slowly sipping and mincing the cup of coffee and half slice\nof bread before them. But, in speaking of poor scholars generally, I\nkeep you from the tale of our Poor Scholar.\n\nYou have heard of Longtown, which is a neat, respectable-looking, and\nremarkably clean little town in Cumberland, on the banks of the Esk,\nnear to what is called Solway Moss, and sometimes spoken of as the first\nor last town in England, in the same manner as Coldstream is mentioned\nas the first or last town in Scotland. Well, there dwelt in Longtown a\nrespectable widow, named Musgrave. She derived an income of about eighty\npounds a-year from a property that had been bequeathed to her in the\nWest Indies. She had an only son, whose name was Robert, and who, after\na respectable education in his native place, was bound as an apprentice\nto a medical practitioner in Carlisle. He afterwards attended the\nclasses in Edinburgh; but, before he had taken out all the necessary\ntickets, and before he had obtained the diploma or qualification which\nwas to enable him to use the word \"surgeon\" after his name, something\nwent wrong about the property that was bequeathed to his mother in the\nWest Indies; her remittances ceased, and, after a tedious lawsuit, it\nwas swallowed up altogether.\n\nShe was left in poverty--in utter destitution. The misfortune fell upon\nher heavily; she drooped, pined, mourned, and died; and Robert Musgrave,\nstill under twenty, was left without money and without friends. His\ntalents, however, had excited the notice of several of the professors\nunder whom he had studied; and they, acquiring a knowledge of his\ncircumstances, and feeling an interest in his fate, enabled him to take\nout his certificate as a member of the College of Surgeons.\n\nHe now, with high hopes, and, I need not say, a low pocket, commenced\npractice as a country surgeon in a small village on the Borders. It was\na young man's dream. A surgeon in a country village, and especially a\nyoung one, is generally the worst paid man in it. The war between\npoverty and the necessity of appearing respectable never ceases. The\nclergyman, be he churchman or dissenter, has a certain income, be it\nless or more; but the surgeon lives between the hand and the mouth; and\nhe can hardly, considering his avocation, in Christian benevolence, pray\nfor \"daily bread.\" Such a prayer would be something akin to a\ngravedigger's for an east wind or a \"green Christmas,\" which, as the\nadage hath it, \"maketh a fat kirkyard.\"\n\nNow, Robert Musgrave was a young man, possessed not only of what may be\ncalled talent, but, what is more, of strong and ardent genius; while,\nyoung as he was, his professional skill would have done honour to a\ncourt physician. But, buried in the obscurity of a poor and secluded\nvillage, struggling between gentility and penury, shut out from all\nsociety congenial to his taste, education, and former habits, he became\nheartless and callous, if not slovenly; and, eventually, he sank into a\nsceptic from the _force of appearance_. For, be assured, gentle reader,\nif ye will study mankind closely, and examine into their outgoings and\ntheir incomings, and think of the _why_ for every _wherefore_, ye will\nfind that the reasoning of a shabby coat produces more converts to\neveryday free-thinking or infidelity, than the philosophy of Hobbes, the\nrhetoric of Shaftesbury, the wit of Voltaire, the sophistry of Hume, and\nthe blackguard ribaldry of Paine, united. The neighbouring farmers\nadmitted Doctor Musgrave, as they called him, to be clever; but they\ndespised his poverty, and invited him to their tables only for\namusement. Deprived of books, and without society, while his temperament\nwas framed for both, and feeling himself slighted, he gradually lost his\nrespectability, and became a tippler, if not a drunkard.\n\nI shall here follow out a portion of his history, in a conversation\nwhich he had with a Cumberland farmer, one Peter Liddell, whom he met in\nLondon about three years after he had left his country practice on the\nBorders:--\n\n\"The longer I remained in----,\" said he, \"my situation became the more\npainful. I felt I was becoming something less than the equal of society\nI despised. I found that I had gradually sunk into the odious vice of\ndrunkenness; that I was the companion only of the ignorant and the\nworthless; and poverty, eternal poverty and obscurity, were all that\nappeared before me. But the dormant ambition of boyhood, the dreams that\ndelighted my early years, did not wholly forsake me. I had long\ndetermined to leave the village, and try my fortune in the world; but\nwant of means prevented me. I resolved to tear adversity by the beard,\nand face every obstacle. With difficulty I gathered in as many debts as\nenabled me to proceed to Newcastle, and take a passage to London, where\nI arrived on the first of February, without friends, and almost without\nmoney--in fact, with not five shillings in my pocket.\"\n\n\"Poor fellow!\" said Peter; and they were sitting together in a tavern in\nFleet Street, which is called a north-country house; for Peter was in\nLondon on business, and having met the doctor on the street, they went\ninto the tavern to talk of their native hills, and the \"old familiar\nfaces.\" \"Poor fellow!\" added Peter; and, with a sort of sigh, added,\n\"_Ah_, sirs! it is really well said that the one half of the world\ndoesn't know how the other lives. It would take planning to lay out\nthose five shillings.\"\n\n\"It certainly did,\" said the scholar. \"You are aware that my practice in\nthe village, from a prejudice against what some called my religion, or\nrather my no religion, was exceedingly limited. In fact, I was a\npersecuted man, for principles of which I was as ignorant as themselves;\nand disdaining to accommodate my habits and conversation to their rules,\nthe persecution increased, and the payments made to me became more\nlimited than my practice. I bade fair to become an actual representative\nof Shakspere's apothecary; and would assuredly have thought myself\n'passing rich with forty pounds a-year.' But the one-half of my practice\nwould not pay the expense of wrapping the powders in paper. On sending\nto our village tobacconist's, I have had my own accounts returning as\nsnuff-paper; and, though my success was not, I believe, inferior to most\nin the profession, my patients regarded paying me as throwing money\naway, or as an unnecessary charity; and never did the payments, taking\none year with another, exceed thirty pounds.\"\n\n\"Poor fellow! do ye really say so?\" responded Peter; \"thirty pounds\na-year!--and was that a'? And was ye really not an atheist or a deist,\ndoctor, as the people gied ye out to be?\"\n\n\"Whatever I and the mass of mankind are in our practice, Mr Liddell,\" he\nreplied, \"I am neither, when the small still voice of conscience\nspeaks.\"\n\n\"Gie's your hand--gie's your hand, doctor,\" cried Peter; \"I ask your\npardon for onything I ever thought or said respecting ye, as sincerely\nas ever man did. Conscience is, as ye say, a sma still voice; but I\ndoubt it is one that many will hear aboon the sough o' friends at a\ndeath-bed, the thunders o' the day o' judgment, and the roaring and\nraging o' the bottomless pit. But ye say that ye had barely five\nshillings in your pocket when ye arrived in London here. How, in a' the\nworld, did ye manage to lay it out?'\n\n\"Sixpence,\" replied the scholar, \"went in treating the captain to a\nglass of grog, when we came on shore, including one for myself.\"\n\n\"That was very foolishly spent, however,\" interrupted Peter.\n\n\"And it being night when we landed,\" added the doctor, \"another shilling\nwas spent in the public-house for a bed.\"\n\n\"A bed!\" exclaimed our Cumberland farmer. \"Man, had ye not the gumption\nto sleep aboord, or gie the captain the hint, after treating him wi' the\nglass. That was eighteen-pence clean thrown awa'; and only left ye wi'\nthree-and-sax-pence. Poor soul! what did ye do?\"\n\n\"Beginning to reflect in the morning,\" said the other, \"that\nthree-and-sixpence was not an inexhaustible sum, I agreed to pass over\nthe very useful ceremony of a breakfast; and, strolling about, planning\nwhat to do, and marvelling at all I saw--after narrowly escaping being\njostled to pieces, as I moved slowly from street to street, while every\nsoul in the great city appeared to be walking for a wager but\nmyself--towards three o'clock I dined in an eating-house, for six pence,\nby the side of a coalheaver. The afternoon was also passed in dreamy\nwandering. After nightfall, I became dispirited and fatigued. I was\nstill unable to form any definite plan of proceeding, and I more than\nonce asked myself what I had come to London to do.\"\n\n\"Poor man! I doubt there are too many like ye,\" said Peter.\n\n\"I was satiated with the busy variety of the scene,\" he continued; \"the\nvery changes became as sameness, and I longed only for a place where I\nmight lie down and rest. I obtained a lodging for the night, in a\nsuspicious-looking public-house, for a sixpence; and rising early on the\nfollowing morning, my second day in London was spent as the first had\nbeen, and at the same expense, save a penny--for on that day my dinner\ncost me but five pence. My two shillings and a penny were now sacred,\nand I feared to incur the expense of a night's lodgings. I was passing\nwhat I discovered to be Covent Garden. Crowds were pressing into the\ntheatre. I stood and ran my eyes over the playbill. I saw the names,\nKemble! Cooke! Bannister! Siddons!--The temptation was irresistible.\"\n\n\"Irresistible!\" cried Peter; \"what the mischief do ye mean? I see\nnaething irresistible in the case, unless ye just mean to tell me that\nye are a born fool.\"\n\n\"Siddons! Kemble! Cook! and Bannister!\" proceeded our hero, \"on the same\nboards, and on the same night! I thought myself transported to Elysium!\nI looked for the word _Gallery_, pressed forward with the eager crowd,\nand threw down my shilling. 'Another shilling, sir,' said the man of\nchecks. I had followed the stream of the two-shilling gallery, and\nthus----\"\n\n\"Good gracious!\" exclaimed the farmer, raising his hands \"did ever man\nin his right judgment hear the like o' that?--ye're no to be pitied! I\nwonder ye didna think o' buying a strait-jacket!--ye was fitter for it\nthan a play-house. Doctor, I didna think ye had been such an idiot. But\nI must say that some mothers bring fools into the world after a'. Did ye\nreally no turn back again?--or what did ye do wi' your last penny? It\nwould be thrown away as wisely as the two shillings, I reckon.\"\n\n\"I plead guilty,\" said Robert; \"I acted as a fool, but bore the\nconsequence like a philosopher. My last shilling had disappeared. The\nperformance proceeded--I was delighted, enraptured, overwhelmed. The\ncurtain dropped. The house was crowded to suffocation--my throat was\nparched--and with my last penny--(keep your seat, Mr Liddell)--with my\nlast penny I bought an orange from a fruit-seller in the gallery. The\nsecond piece was concluded. The human mass moved every one to the tavern\nor their homes, a supper and a pillow, and I--I alone of the\nthousands--went forth penniless into the streets, hungry, shivering, and\nfatigued, to wander without hope!\"\n\n\"And served ye right,\" said Peter. \"I dinna pity ye, sir. No, no; after\nthat, I'm done wi' ye. But how did ye get through the night?\"\n\n\"The day dawned,\" resumed Robert Musgrave, \"and I was still\nwandering--fainting, trembling, cold, and benumbed. I had long had some\npretensions to literature. I was born in the midst of poetry. It sang\naround me from the deathless voices of my native Esk, hymning to its\ngreen woods and its massy crags. It looked down upon me from the\nthunder-belted brows of my native mountains, and drew my soul upwards to\nitself. It grew with my growth, it became a part of my being, and, in\nthe midst of my debasement, it parted not from me.\"\n\n\"Famous! famous!--drat, ye're an orator, doctor!\" cried the farmer, in\nadmiration of the eloquent fervour of his countryman. \"Cumberland--and\nwhere is the county like it? I wish, doctor, I had been a bishop for\nyour sake--ye should have had a benefice.\"\n\n\"My luggage,\" continued the other, \"consisted only of a chest containing\nlittle beyond books and manuscripts. With the same feeling which every\nauthor may be supposed to have for his productions, I considered mine\nwere not inferior to others which were puffed and published. I say\npuffed and published; for, now-a-days, it is common for a puff to be\nboth written and published before the work be-praised is in the hands of\nthe printer.\"\n\n\"Coom, now, Maister Musgrave,\" said the farmer, \"not so fast, if you\nplease; I can believe anything that's possible in a reasonable way. But\nhow a book can be praised before it be read and printed, or, as I should\nsay, before it is a book, I canna comprehend. So ye mustna come over me\nin that way, doctor.\"\n\n\"It is not so impossible as you imagine,\" replied the other; \"you know\nthat money is a powerful agent.\"\n\n\"Ay, troth do I,\" said the farmer; \"now I understand ye; I know\n\n    'That money makes the mare to go,\n    Whether she has legs or no.'\"\n\n\"Well,\" resumed the surgeon, \"laying the hope of fame and reward as an\nunction to my wounded spirit, I returned to the vessel, and, intrusting\nmy trunk to the care of a wharfinger, I took from it a bundle of\nmanuscripts--consisting of a novel, poems, essays, and papers on medical\nsubjects--and, with a beating heart, proceeded towards Paternoster Row,\npraying as I went. I passed every bookseller's in the street, measuring\nthe countenance of himself and his shopman. At length, after passing and\nrepassing several doors a dozen times, as often having my feet upon\ntheir thresholds, half drawing my papers from my pocket and thrusting\nthem back again, I ventured into one; and, after a few words awkwardly\nexpressed, holding the manuscripts in my hands, I made known my\nbusiness. The gentleman, without looking at my productions, but not\nwithout looking at me, said his hands were full, and hurried back to\nhis desk. I called on six others; and though my reception with some was\nmore courteous, my success was the same. I applied to the eighth and\nlast. A glimmering of hope returned with the first glance of his\ncountenance. It was not what every one would term inviting; but genuine\nfeeling glowed through a garb of roughness. He received me with\npoliteness, looked over my papers, delicately asked me a few questions,\nwhich I neither knew how to answer nor how to evade; he hinted his fears\nthat I had written on subjects which were not exactly in demand in the\nmarket, and, in conclusion, requested me to leave the manuscripts, and\ncall on him on the following morning. I again went into the streets, to\nhold battle with hunger and anticipation. For several hours, hope and\nhope's fond dreams bore me up; but towards evening, and throughout the\nnight, the wind blew cold and wildly, the rain fell unceasingly. I was\ndrenched and almost motionless, and but for the interference of the\npatrols, I would fain have lain down to sleep, beneath the cover of a\npassage, on the damp earth.\"\n\n\"Oh, help us!\" said Peter, \"what is that o't! I know as well what it is\nto travel by night, and in a' weathers, as anybody; but, poor man! I had\nnone o' your sufferings to contend wi'.\"\n\n\"The longed-for and yet dreaded hour arrived,\" resumed the other. \"I\napproached the shop with feelings as anxious, and not more enviable,\nthan those of a criminal when he is dragged to the bar. The publisher\nwas out upon business, and one of his young men returned me my\nmanuscripts, and a letter, with his master's compliments and thanks. I\ndo not remember leaving the shop. The stupefaction of death was dashed\nupon my soul. I believe that I appeared tranquil; but it was the\ntranquillity of misery immoveable beneath its own load. In despair, I\nbroke open the letter--a guinea fell from its folds at my feet.\"\n\n\"Heaven bless him!\" interrupted the farmer.\n\n\"Amen!\" responded the scholar, and continued: \"Without waiting to read\nthe contents of his note, I hurried into a tavern, to allay the cravings\nof hunger, and to warm, or rather thaw, my almost frozen body. But I\nsickened, and could eat little. I had wanted food until, like a spoiled\nchild, my appetite refused that for which it had yearned. With the still\nopen letter upon my knee, as my joints began to feel the influence of\nreturning heat, I suddenly sank, with my head upon my bosom, into a\ndeep, dreamless sleep; and, being awoke by the rioting of some\nhalf-drunken men, I found one of them had made free with the back part\nof my letter to light his pipe, which had been addressed, after the\nusual silly and absurd fashion common amongst literary men--who ought\nrather to set an example in despising vain frivolities--_B. Musgrave,\nEsq._ 'I beg your pardon, _Squire_,' said the fellow, in a tone of\nirony. 'Here's wishing you a pair of new shoes, and health to wear them,\n_Squire_,' said a third, in the same tone, raising a tankard to his\nlips. And the party broke into a laugh of derision.\"\n\n\"Doctor!\" exclaimed the farmer, indignantly, \"ye deserved all ye got, if\nye didna make a broom o' the bunch o' them, and sweep the house wi' the\nhair o' their heads.\"\n\n\"I am not remarkable for brooking insults,\" added Musgrave, \"and of that\nmore than one of the company had cause to be convinced. In his letter,\nthe bookseller spoke of my writings as displaying considerable\noriginality and genius. Parts of them, he thought, exhibited marks of\nbeing written too hastily, and recommended their omission. He regretted\nthat he durst not hazard their publication; as, unfortunately, too much\ndepended upon patronage, connection, or the influence of a name. He\nrecommended publishing by subscription, and brought forward the example\nof Pope, Burns, and others, to render the advice palatable, as children\nreceive sweetmeats after acid drugs. He begged to enclose a guinea for\ntwo copies to himself; and, wishing me success, he said it would afford\nhim pleasure, by every means in his power, to forward the publication. I\nwill not exhaust your patience by a recital of calamities which a\ncritic, ignorant of their meaning, or ashamed to look back on them,\nwould pronounce vulgar, and in bad taste. Being contented with the\nluxury of half a bed, for which I paid sixpence, I experienced the truth\nof the proverb, that 'misery maketh a man acquainted with strange\nbedfellows.' Beggars, thieves, men of all nations, and of all climes and\ncolours, shared my pillow. But I resolved to husband my guinea,\nindulging myself with sleeping one night, and wandering the streets the\nnext, alternately. It was in vain, in the meantime, that I used every\neffort to obtain the situation of assistant-surgeon. In London, more,\nperhaps, than in any city, appearance is everything; and I carried my\nown condemnation written on my ruined garments.\"\n\n\"Troth, I have remarked there is some truth in what ye say, doctor,\"\nsaid the farmer; \"if a man wishes to prosper, he should never, if\npossible, appear like a shorn sheep wi' the fleece bare on his back.\"\n\n\"My money,\" added the scholar, \"was again reduced to five shillings; and\nto ward off the approach of starvation, I was compelled to renounce the\ncomforts of a bed once in forty-eight hours, as a luxury I could no\nlonger afford. The very shoes left my feet with ceaseless wandering. My\nfeet bled as I walked. My hat became shapeless; I was ashamed to look on\nit. The wind began to sport through my garments, and found loopholes for\nhis sport. My person became like a moving spirit of famine, clothed with\npoverty, and shivering in a storm. My spirit was not broken, but it was\nbowed down. Yielding to the hope of despair, I attempted publishing by\nsubscription. The plan may succeed where a man is known, where he has\nfriends to push the subscription for him, or where he has impudence that\nis proof against insult; but, amongst strangers, it is a hopeless task.\nI was doomed to endure indignities from ignorant and contemptible\nmenials, who, glancing at my figure, thrust the doors in my face, as on\na common beggar! O sir! the recollection haunts me still. It is the only\nact of my life on which I cannot think without a burning blush coming\nover my face. I need not say it was unsuccessful. For thirty successive\nnights I wandered through the streets of this city, exposed to the\nstorms of February and the bleak winds of March, sleeping as I moved\nalong, or standing, and knowing not that I stood, till aroused by the\njest of a passing unfortunate, or rudely driven on by the watchman of\nthe night. Ten times in the hour, I would stumble beneath the oppression\nof sleep to the ground. But I will not detail those days and nights of\nmisery. The scenes I then encountered would provoke a smile and a tear\nat the same moment. They were a mingling of the ludicrous and the\nwretched. Yet, to give you but one or two instances out of many:--One\ncold and weary night, sleep came upon me like death itself. I was\nwandering along Thames Street, and came to Billingsgate. Porters and\noyster-sellers were lounging about the market, some sitting smoking,\nlaughing, or drinking, though it was not an hour past midnight. I sought\nshelter beneath the sheds, and stretched myself upon one of the tables\nor benches. But the cold was intense. My very blood seemed freezing. I\narose and removed to a corner of the market over the side of the river,\nand there, there was one of the open shops, stalls, or sheds, the one\nside of which was screened by a large and loosely-hanging canvas sign,\nfacing the river, of more than six feet square, setting forth the\noccupant of the stall as fishmonger, oyster-dealer, and so forth.\nThrough the lamplight and starlight, I cast a longing and envious look\nat the loose and painted canvas. I took it down, and stretched myself\nupon the bench, spread it over me as a blanket. It was the most\ncomfortable covering I had had for many nights. But scarce had sleep,\nwhich pressed heavily upon me, sealed up my eyelids, when I was aroused\nby a rude hand shaking me by the shoulder, and a ruder voice exclaiming,\n'Holloa! who have we got here?' It was the proprietor of the shed. I\nstarted--rubbed my eyes--stammered out an apology. A crowd of fishwomen\nand porters gathered round us. The fishmonger spoke of calling for the\npolice. I expostulated. He offered to hold me. I raised my hand, and I\nam thankful that his table, which was a fixture, was between him and the\nriver. I rushed through the crowd; and whether the blow which I had lent\nthe fishmonger operated upon their courage and humanity, I cannot tell,\nbut they made way for me. I had not, however, proceeded far, when sleep\nagain became too much for me, and too literally I 'caught myself\ntripping.' Its influence was irresistible, and St Paul's had not yet\nchimed the hour of three. I saw a cart standing beneath an open gateway;\nand, with gratitude in my heart, I lay down on it as a couch of luxury.\nBut there I had not lain long when I was awoke by a person at my side. I\nstarted.\n\n\"'Don't be afraid, sir,' said the intruder; 'it is only a poor brother\nin misfortune!'\n\n\"I turned round and glanced at him through the dim light, but scarce\ncould I discover what manner of man he was, till sleep again 'locked up\nmy senses in forgetfulness.' A little after daybreak, I awoke,\nshivering, my joints stiff, my teeth chattering together, and my whole\nbody a mass of pain. I perceived that my 'poor brother in misfortune'\nwas, or rather I ought to say had been, dressed respectably, yea, even\nfashionably. He carried with him a portfolio, which even in his sleep he\npressed closely beneath his arm. As I arose he awoke; and groaning, he\narose also and accompanied me. I know not whether it was mutual\nwretchedness, or the portfolio beneath his arm, that caused me to feel a\nregard for him at the first glance; but certain it is I was prepossessed\nin his favour. We were a couple of strange, miserable-looking\ncharacters, as we went drowsily, laggardly, and lamely up Fish Street\nHill together. I observed the night-watchmen, who had not left their\nbeat, turned round, and even held up their lanterns--though the\nmorning's light was well advanced--and examined us as we passed. As\nthough our errand or our thoughts were the same, we proceeded towards\nthe Park together; and when the sun arose, he opened his portfolio, and\nexhibited it to me. He was an artist, and an artist, too, of high\npromise. His portfolio contained many bold and vigorous pencil sketches,\nwhere soul, taste, and a daring hand were exemplified. He had also a\nnumber of beautiful pieces in water-colours, which showed that his touch\nwas delicate as well as bold. I took my pencil, and wrote a few lines on\nthe back of one of the Bristol boards on which one of the subjects was\nsketched, and the artist and I became friends. Neither of us had\nwherewith to purchase a breakfast; but, in the forenoon, he had to call\nupon a printseller in the Strand with some of his pieces in\nwater-colours, and we parted with a promise to meet again on the\nfollowing day. But an accident, which I shall afterwards mention,\nprevented me from keeping my engagement; and we parted without the one\nknowing the name of the other. I have not again met with him; but, until\nthis hour, I regret that I learned not the name of a young artist, whom\nI met with under such circumstances, and whose productions manifested\nhigh genius, a correct taste, and a skilful hand. Now, at this period,\nsir, I should tell you that the greater part of the day was generally\nspent in attempts to sleep upon the seats in the Park; and, dreadful as\nthe pangs of hunger were, at length (and this is no idle saying), I\ncould have been content to die beneath their rage, to have purchased but\none hour of rest and repose. The agony of hunger yields to the agony of\nsleep.\"\n\n\"And do you really say, doctor,\" inquired the farmer, \"that ye have\nsuffered a' this in a Christian land, even in this city? I hardly think\nit possible.\"\n\n\"Some may doubt it,\" replied Robert, earnestly; \"but the remembrance of\nwhat I have endured will live as a coal of fire in my heart for ever;\nand the fiftieth part of what I suffered has not been told you. But,\nsir, before I proceed farther with my story, allow me to go back to\nanother part of my history, and advert to another circumstance. You will\nremember--it is more than a dozen years ago--a military gentleman, whom\nwe generally called Colonel Forster, took up his residence on the banks\nof the Esk, a few miles from Longtown. He was, I believe, a\nlieutenant-colonel in the service of the East India Company.\"\n\n\"I remember him perfectly well, Mr Musgrave,\" said the farmer, \"and know\nhim yet; and, moreover, I also remember that ye was particularly fond of\nhis daughter Bertha, and that it was said that it wasna her beauty ye\nwas in love wi', but her siller; for the colonel was understood to be a\nperfect nabob, and I have heard that he forbade you to come about the\nhouse.\"\n\n\"Sir,\" continued Musgrave--and there was a glow of indignation on his\ncountenance--\"I care not what the world may have said, nor what they do\nsay. The lark greeteth not the dawning of the dawn with more fervent\ndelight than I first beheld the fair countenance of Bertha Forster. I\nknew not that her father was rich, and, when I did know it, I grieved\nthat he was so. But to me she plighted her first vow, and pledged her\n'maiden troth;' and, though I knew that, by her fulfilling it, I should\ntake the hand of a penniless bride--for it is true that her father\nthreatened to disinherit her if she kept my company, and to leave all\nthat he was possessed of to a son in India--yet I loved her the more. I\nloved her for herself, and our feelings were reciprocal. Ever shall I\nremember the night on which we parted, previous to my leaving Cumberland\nfor this city. It was in a deep wood, near her father's house. The Esk\nmurmured by our feet, and the grey twilight fell over us. The\nevening-star was in the heavens; and the wood, the star, the river, and\nthe twilight, were the witnesses of our tears and of our vows. But you\nare past the period of life when the recital of such things can be\ninteresting; and respect for her whom my soul worships forbids me to say\nmore. Yet, although her father despised and spurned me, we parted with a\npromise to write to each other, with a declaration to preserve our\nplighted vows inviolate even unto death. It was agreed that I should\nsend my letters to her, addressed to a humble but mutual friend. But I\nwas long in London ere I wrote; for I had not the means of writing; and,\nwhen an answer came to that letter--oh! I never knew real misery till\nthen! She knew not the depth of my wretchedness--the extremeness of my\npoverty! I beheld my name on the board at the post-office amongst the\nlist of persons whose residence could not be found. Day after day I\nvisited it, and stood with my eyes fixed upon my own name, while my\nheart was ready to burst with agony and anxiety. I knew the letter was\nfrom my Bertha; but I had not the few pence necessary to relieve it. I\nhad no means of obtaining them. I was a penniless, houseless stranger,\nunknown to every one in this vast city. And, after gazing on the board\ntill my eyes were dimmed by rising tears, and my brain excited almost to\nmadness, I was wont to flee from the city; and often, in solitude and in\ndarkness, pour forth the bitterness of my spirit to the night winds.\nOften, at such times, in the excess of misery, I have wrung my hands\ntogether, and exclaimed aloud--\n\n\"'What would my poor Bertha think if she knew this!'\n\n\"At length the list of names amongst which mine appeared was removed\nfrom the post-office and replaced by others; and when, after obtaining\nthe means of paying for the letter, I made inquiry after it, I was\ninformed that it had been returned. I doubted not but that she would\nimagine I had forgotten her; and, as I turned away in disappointment and\nin hopelessness, I said unto myself, 'Farewell, my Bertha!'\"\n\n\"Help us, doctor!\" exclaimed Peter; \"is it really possible that anybody\ncan have been so put about for a thirteenpence matter! Yet, how do we\nfling away shilling after shilling, day after day, without ever thinking\no' the road they are going! And how ready we are to say about anything,\n'Oh, it was only a shilling!' But, doctor, when ye think what a relief\n'only a shilling' would have given to your mind at that moment, surely\nye will have considered weel the length and breadth o' every sixpence ye\nhave spent since then. It will be a lesson to me, however, to be more\ncautious how I ever spend thirteenpence again; and, if I find myself\nready to fling it away on any unwiselike or unprofitable purposes, I\nwill just think--'What good will what I am going to do wi' my money do\nme?--and what would Doctor Musgrave have given for it, when he saw the\nletter from his sweetheart, and hadna the thirteenpence to open it?' As\nsure as death!--as we used to say at school, and that is gay sure--had\nany other body told me what ye have said but yoursel, I would have\nlaughed at it. Had I read it in print, I wouldna have believed it. But\nthere is one thing in it, and that is, it just shows us what poor\ndependent creatures we are one upon another. Doctor, ye had a sair trial\nthere for a sma' matter.\"\n\n\"You, sir,\" continued Mr Musgrave, \"no doubt consider London an immense,\nalmost a limitless city; but, sir, it is too small for the bounds of\nmisery. Often have I wandered from Knightsbridge to Mile End, yea, from\nCheswick to the East India Docks, and slowly returned the way I came\nthinking that daylight would never break, and wondering how people spoke\nof London as a great city. They, sir, who would really know the limits\nof London, must shake hands with misery as I have done. They must\nwander its streets by night, without food and without hope, and they\nwill marvel how short they are. People talk of losing themselves amongst\nthe intricacies and many turnings of this city. It is nonsense,\nsir--sheer stupidity. Let them once be lost in misery, in penniless,\nhouseless wretchedness, and should a purse show itself at their feet,\nthey would discover where they were in a moment. The man who has no\nmoney never loses himself in London--none do but fools who have it to\nlose. But, sir, it was on the very night after I had attempted to sleep\nin Billingsgate, beneath the comfortable covering of a fishmonger's\nsign, and dreamed by the side of an artist in a drayman's cart, that I\nwas wandering on the borough side of the river, and had proceeded nearly\nthree miles beyond the Elephant and Castle, when cries for assistance\nroused me from my waking dream. I rushed forward. A gentleman in an open\ncarriage, with his servant, were attacked by four footpads, armed with\nknives and bludgeons. I took up a stone from the road, and, hurling it\nat the head of one of the robbers, when within a few yards of them,\nstretched him on the ground. We were then man to man. I sprang upon\nanother--I grappled with him, overpowered him, and wrenched the bludgeon\nfrom his hands, but not until he had plunged his knife into my side. It\nwas a bad wound, but not a dangerous one. With the bludgeon which I had\nwrenched from the hand of the robber, I rushed upon another of his\nassociates, who, I found, had that moment overcome the gentleman to\nwhose rescue I had providentially arrived. I dealt him a heavy and a\nhearty blow upon his busiest arm, which causing him to find that he had\nonly his limbs left, he took to his heels and ran. The two whom I had\nalready overthrown, had anticipated him in his flight, and, on seeing\nhim run, the fourth followed their example. I attempted to run after\nthem, but fell upon the ground from loss of blood. The gentleman was\nhimself wounded, but slightly; and he, with his servant, raising me\nfrom the ground, and placing me in his carriage, conveyed me to the\nnearest inn. There, after a surgeon had been sent for, and my wound\ndressed, he requested to know who I was, and to whom he was indebted for\nhis liberty and his life. But in all that concerned myself I was silent;\nand, in answer to all questions as to whom or what I was, I was dumb. My\nwound was deep, though not dangerous; and all that I regretted was, that\nI should be left an invalid in an inn, while I had nothing to recompense\nthose who attended on me. After earnestly entreating to know who I was,\nor what was my name--though I have reason to believe that, from my\ndejected appearance, he entertained a most sorry idea of me--the\ngentleman whom I had rescued proceeded onwards to London. But I was\nsilent to all his inquiries. Pride sealed up my tongue, and I shook my\nhead and said nothing. I could not speak--shame and poverty tortured me\nmore than my wound.\n\n\"Within an hour he proceeded on his journey; and, on the following day,\nhe returned with a medical gentleman to visit me. It was with difficulty\nthat I could sit up in my bed to welcome them. The man of surgery began\nby asking many questions, which I answered like a true Scotsman, by\nasking others which startled him; and I heard him whisper to him whom I\nhad rescued--\n\n\"'Sir, he is, without doubt, a member of my profession.'\n\n\"The gentleman--I mean him whom I rescued from the ruffians--came\nforward to me; he took my hand in his--most earnestly he took it--and,\nas he held it, there was something like a tear--a tear of\ngratitude--rolling in his eyes.\n\n\"'Sir,' said he, 'to your courage I owe my life. Allow me to ask by what\nname I shall call my deliverer. It is evident that you are not, or that\nyou have not always been, what your present appearance bespeaks. Let me\nknow, therefore, how I am to thank you--how I can reward you as I\nought.'\n\n\"'Sir,' answered I, 'you are a stranger to me; so am I to you. Let us\nremain so. If you speak of reward, you will cause me to regret what I\ndid in attempting your rescue. Whatever I am, whatever I have been,\nmatters not. I saw a fellow-man attacked and overpowered, and I\nattempted to deliver him. The humblest animal, prompted by its instinct,\nwould have done the same. I am entitled to no thanks for what I have\ndone--and, above all, I wish no questions asked of me.'\"\n\n\"Faith, doctor, ye answered nobly, and just as ye ought to have, if ye\nhad had a hundred pounds in your pocket; but, man, ye stood in your ain\nlight. There is nae saying what he might have done for you. It might hae\nbeen the king or the prime minister for onything ye kenned.\"\n\n\"He might,\" resumed the scholar; \"but he rejoined, 'Sir, I admire the\nindependence of your spirit, but wherefore should you, without cause,\nreject the acquaintance of one who seeks your friendship? You have\nendangered your life to save mine--what stronger claim could you have on\nmy everlasting gratitude? If common feeling prompted you to rescue me,\nsuffer me not to leave you until I have testified that I am actuated by\nsuch feelings, in common with yourself. You refuse to tell me your name;\nmine is William Forster, a colonel in the service of the East India\nCompany.'\n\n\"At the mention of his name my heart leaped within me. The brother of my\nBertha, and of whom I have spoken, was in the service of the East India\nCompany. I dreaded that he and the individual I had saved might be the\nsame person; and I resolved, more determinedly than before, to conceal\nfrom him my name and circumstances. But, finding he could learn nothing\nfrom me, he offered me money. O sir! at that time I could have taken\nhis life--I could have taken my own. To what have I sunk, I thought, or\nwhat am I now, that I should be treated as the veriest beggar that\ncrawls upon the streets! 'Sir,' I exclaimed, wildly, 'keep your\ngold--your dross--your insulting dross. I did not assist you in your\nhour of need, that you should insult my situation by a mendicant's\nreward. I, sir, have the feelings of a gentleman as well as you,\nwhatever I may now seem--therefore torment me not.' He informed me that\nhe had to leave London on the following day; and he entreated that I\nwould tell him who I was, that he might show that he was grateful for\nwhat I had done, in a way that might not be painful to my feelings. But\nthe thought that he was the brother of my Bertha haunted me, maddened\nme, and I waved my hand to him and cried, 'Away! away!' His countenance\nbespoke him to be a man to whom I could have poured forth my whole soul;\nbut even in that countenance I read her lineaments, and my soul moved\nlike an agitated thing that I could feel within me, as I gazed on them.\n\n\"'Go, sir,' I exclaimed; 'and if you will be grateful, be so to one who\nrejoices in having been instrumental in assisting you. Leave me. I ask\nno more, for your questions torture me, and your pecuniary offers insult\nme.'\n\n\"He left me, but never did I behold a man part from another more\nreluctantly, or one who was more under the influence of strong emotion.\nMy wound confined me to the inn for five weeks, and, during much of that\ntime, my thoughts were distracted regarding the bill of the innkeeper.\nBut one day he came to me and said--\n\n\"'Sir, I don't know how you and the gentleman whom you rescued from the\nhighwaymen stand; but one thing I know, he is a gentleman every inch of\nhim. He has paid for all that you have had, or may have for a month to\ncome; and here, master, are fifty pounds which he left me to give to you\nin as delicate a way as I could, for, as he said, you were rather\nproud-spirited. Now, master, here is the money, and he was as safe in\ntrusting it in my hands as if he had put it in the bank.'\n\n\"I knew not what to do; but, after a struggle, and a severe one, I\naccepted the money. You may despise me for what I did----\"\n\n\"Me despise you!\" cried the farmer; \"for what, I would like to ken? It\nis the only wiselike action I have heard you say that you did. The man\nthat would despise another for taking fifty pounds where it was\ndeserved, is a being that doesna understand what money is, or what it\nwas made for. They may despise ye that like, doctor, upon that account,\nbut it winna be me.\"\n\n\"Well, sir,\" resumed Musgrave, \"with the fifty pounds in my pocket, I\nagain appeared upon the streets of London. But a change had passed over\nme. Even the policemen who before had ordered me to 'walk on' knew me\nnot. I was another man--I was as one on whom fashion shed its sunning\ninfluence. I again endeavoured to obtain a situation as an\nassistant-surgeon, but the attempt was unsuccessful. I should have told\nyou that it was owing to being confined with my wound that I was unable\nto meet my 'brother in misfortune,' the artist of whom I have spoken. I\nnow tried my fortune as a writer for the magazines, and was paid for\nwhat I wrote even liberally, as I considered it. But there was one\ndrawback attending this liberality: though I could write an article for\nwhich I received three, four, or seven guineas, in a day (for authors\nalways calculate in guineas, though they are paid in pounds), yet it was\nnot every day, neither was it every month, that I could get such an\narticle accepted; and it was not every magazine that admitted me as a\ncontributor. But by such writing I managed to live; and, as my name\nbecame known, I felt less of the misery which I endured when I first\nembarked in the precarious trade of authorship. Yet a precarious trade I\nstill found it to be. I was enabled to live, but I lived between the\nhand and the mouth.\n\n\"The publisher whom I have already mentioned as having given a guinea\ntowards the publishing of my works by subscription, engaged me to\ntranslate a novel from the French, and a small work from the Italian, of\nwhich language I had but a scanty knowledge. But it does not require the\nperfect knowledge of a language to be a translator which many consider\nnecessary.\"\n\n\"I canna say,\" said Peter; \"I must confess ye are out o' my depths\nthere--but get on wi' your story, for I'm not sure but I may have\nsomething to tell ye.\"\n\n\"Well, sir,\" resumed the scholar, \"after the translations had appeared,\nand when the seductions of a literary life, notwithstanding all its\nprivations and all its uncertainty, had induced me to abandon all\nthoughts of pursuing my own profession, I determined to write for the\nstage. It would be tedious for me to tell you of all the difficulties I\nhad to encounter before I could obtain an audience of the theatrical\nmanagers, or what was called the committee of management. I found them\nmore difficult of access than the Cham of Tartary. As well might I have\nundertaken a mission to Pekin, with the intent of pulling the celestial\nemperor by the button. But at length my object was attained. A tragedy\nthat I had written was accepted, and announced for representation. The\neventful night came. The new drama--my drama--was to be performed. The\nfirst scene went off in silence--in utter silence; and often the actors\nmangled the lines most miserably. They forgot Hamlet's advice. But, as\nthe first act was concluded, pit, boxes, and gallery burst into a tumult\nof applause. I was seated in the pit. The sweat broke upon my brow.\nVanity wrought triumphantly in my bosom. I was the greatest man in\nLondon. The second, the third, the fourth, the fifth acts concluded in\nthe same manner. The curtain fell, and the audience shouted, 'The\nauthor! the author!' For this tribute of public approbation I was not\nprepared. The stage-manager came to me, and still the audience in the\ngallery kept thundering and shouting, 'The author! the author!' He\ninsisted that I should appear upon the stage, and before the audience.\nVain as I was, I sickened at his words; but he took my hand, and led me\nforth. I became as a thing that moves, without a consciousness of, or a\npower over, its moving. I had become pale as death. They led me to what\nthey call the green-room, and they put rouge upon my face. But it was in\nvain, and the cold sweat swept it away, and left my countenance as if\ncovered with wounds. I was led upon the stage as a sheep is led to the\nslaughter. The lights flashed on me, and I beheld twice a thousand eyes\nfixed upon me. I knew not how to act. I trembled--bowed--threw my eyes\nin bewilderment over the multitude; but, as I was about to address them,\non whom amongst that mixed assembly should my eyes fall, but on my\nBertha! I started. A frenzy came upon me. I sprang towards the pit. Yet\nit is in vain for me to tell you, for I knew not what I did. She sat in\na box immediately facing me. I heard a woman's scream; I knew it came\nfrom where she was. The multitude seemed rising, and moving around me,\nand every eye was on me. But I cannot describe to you what I felt or\nwhat I saw. I became unconscious. I knew only that I had seen her--that\nshe was somewhere. There was a noise like that of many waters in my\nears. My head went round--my eyes were blind. When I recovered, I was\nseated in the green-room, and the actors in their strange dresses\nsurrounded me. They endeavoured to restore me to consciousness, as\nthough I had been a sickly maiden that had fainted in their arms; and\nwhen I did recover from the sickness and insanity that came over me--\n\n\"'Where--oh, where,' I cried, 'is my Bertha?'\n\n\"I remember not of having done so; but I have been told that I did. You\nmay think, sir, that I acted wildly, as a madman, or as a fool; but,\nbefore you condemn, think of what I had endured--of my recent misery,\nand of my vanity when shout rose on shout, and the cry from the\nassembled thousands was--'The author! the author!' Such changes, sir,\nwere enough to turn a steadier head than mine.\"\n\n\"For my part, doctor,\" said Peter, \"I have no notion o' plays; I never\nsaw one in my life, and I canna say that I a'thegither comprehend ye.\nBut let me hear about Miss Bertha.\"\n\n\"All that I could learn concerning her was,\" resumed Musgrave, \"that a\nyoung lady in the boxes had uttered a sudden scream as she beheld me and\nthe strange bewilderment that came over me, but that she had immediately\nbeen conveyed away by her friends in a coach. This only have I been able\nto learn. But it was she. Though all else that took place is as a wreck\nupon my memory, I see her before me now as I at that moment beheld her;\nI see still her one wild look that entered my soul, and I yet hear her\nheart-piercing cry, which brought delirium upon me, and rendered me dead\nto every other sound. But, from that night, I have been able to hear no\nmore concerning her. I have sought her in church and in chapel, in the\ntheatres and in the public walks, but never again have I beheld her.\nOften also have I written to Cumberland; but my letters have remained\nunanswered or been returned. She had forsaken me, or she has been\ncompelled to forsake me; for, when I last beheld her, her face still\nbeamed with affection, and her wild and sudden cry was the offspring of\nan old but a still living affection.\"\n\n\"I hear, by what ye say, doctor,\" rejoined the farmer, \"that ye are as\nfond o' Miss Bertha as ever. Now, as I said to ye before, I am not\ncertain but what I have something that ye might wish to hear, to\ncommunicate to ye; and, before doing so, with your permission, I would\njust ask you one or two plain questions. Ye have told me a great deal of\nthe miserable state ye was in after ye came to London, and I would just\nlike to ask ye if ye are bettor off now, and how and in what respect ye\nare so? I trust, therefore, that ye will by no means think the question\nimpertinent; for I assure you, it is for your sake that I ask it, and\nnot for any gratification to mysel.\"\n\n\"Well, sir,\" answered the scholar, \"to be as plain with you as you\ndesire, I have shaken hands with privation, and left it upon the road,\nto form the acquaintance of those who may follow me; or, to be more\nplain with you, I found that literature was a good staff but a bad\ncrutch; and, as I began to gather my feet, I used it accordingly. In a\nword, as my name became known amongst men, my labours became more and\nmore profitable; and, three years ago, thinking that I had obtained the\nmeans of doing so, I made an attempt to resume my profession as a\nsurgeon. For many months, it was but an attempt, and a hopeless one,\ntoo; but gradually practice dawned or crept upon me. I am now employed\nas well as other members of my profession are; and, with the assistance\nof my literary labours, I look back upon the penury with which I\nstruggled, and wish it to remain where I left it. But, though I have\nknown something of the moonshine of fame as it has scattered its rays\nupon my head, and felt also the influence of the warmer beams of profit\nas I began to bask in the sun of popularity, yet there was, and there\nis, one dark and unsunned spot in my heart--and that is, the remembrance\nof my Bertha. Still does imagination conjure up her sudden glance, her\none wild cry and look of agony, as I came forward to receive the\nplaudits of the multitude, when, as the bay-leaves were circling my\nbrow, the prickly brier was rudely drawn across my bosom.\"\n\n\"Well, doctor,\" said Peter, \"ye have not just spoken so plain as I could\nhave wished; but I dare to say that I comprehend ye. When ye eat a meal\nnow, ye ken where the next is to come from; and if Miss Bertha still\nthinks o' ye, and were to gie you her hand, there would be no likelihood\no' her being brought in contact with the privations with which ye have\nmanfully struggled, and which, I am happy to hear (and, I may say, more\nhappy to perceive--for a person's own eyes are excellent witnesses), ye\nhave overcome. Now, sir, hearken to me, for I have something to tell ye.\nI had always a sort of liking for ye, doctor; and though I did see ye\nfoolish and stupid in many things, yet I was sorry for ye, and I said I\nbelieved that ye was a lad o' real genius, and of a right heart at the\nbottom. More than that, I said, that, if ye minded your hand, ye would\nbe heard tell of in the world--and I have not been mistaken, for, even\ndown in Cumberland, we have seen your name in the papers; and a hundred\ntimes have I said to my neighbours--'I always told ye that lad would\nrise to something.' But now, sir--now to the main subject, the one in\nwhich you will feel the greatest interest. Ye say that ye again and\nagain wrote to Miss Bertha to Cumberland, and never got an answer. I am\nin no way surprised at that at all; and for this simple reason, that old\nColonel Forster left Eskside five years ago, and went to reside near a\nplace they call Elstree, about ten miles from this city. Now, the way in\nwhich I am acquainted with the circumstance is this:--About a year after\nye left, the old nabob, as we used to ca' him, bought the farm that I\nrented, and became my landlord. Therefore, when he came to live in this\nquarter, I had to send my rents here. But, sir, he understands that I am\nin London--for I just handed him my rent, being here, the other day--and\nhe has invited me to dine wi' him at his house to-morrow. Now, sir, if\nye hae nae objections, I will just tak you out wi' me as an old friend;\nand if ye're not made welcome, I shall not be welcome either. So, say\nthe word--will ye go wi' me, or will ye not?\"\n\n\"I will--yes, yes, I will!\" answered Mr Musgrave, eagerly.\n\n\"Well, well,\" said Peter, \"there need be no more about it, then--say\nthat I meet you at this house to-morrow at two o'clock.\"\n\n\"Agreed,\" replied the other.\n\n\"But,\" returned Peter, \"there is one thing I forgot to tell ye, and that\nis, that I understand Miss Bertha is on the eve of being married, and\nhighly married, too, they say wi' us. Therefore, ye will not be\nsurprised if ye find your former acquaintance forgotten, or seemingly\nforgotten, which, in such matters, amounts to somewhat about the same\nthing.\"\n\nOn the following day, Mr Peter Liddell and Robert Musgrave entered a cab\nin Fleet Street together, and proceeded towards Elstree.\n\n\"Now,\" said Peter, as they approached the residence of his landlord, \"I\nbelieve that I may be running my head against a wall; for I am well\naware that the old colonel never liked ye. Ye are one who would be\nunwelcome at any time, but doubly so at a time like this, when his\ndaughter is on the point of being married. But I will tell ye what it\nis--I am just as independent as he is. I am as able to live without the\nhelp o' the landlord, as the landlord is to live without the help o' the\ntenant. Therefore, if he puts down his brows at you when we are\nintroduced, I will show him the back o' my coat, and so good-day to\nhim.\"\n\n\"I believe, then,\" said Musgrave, \"that with him I shall be no welcome\nguest; but, if Bertha welcome me, it is enough. You have spoken to me of\nher intended marriage--be it so. If she has forgotten me, if she has\nceased to care for me, I will look upon her and bless her, in\nremembrance of days which have passed away as the shadow of a cloud\npasseth over the earth. But with that blessing hope will depart; for,\nsir, it was the remembrance of her that sustained me in all my\nstruggles. It was the hope that she might, would one day be mine, that\ninduced me to hope against hope, to wrestle with despair. For her sake\nonly have I sought for fame, as a miser would seek after hidden\ntreasure; and when it began to throw its light and its sunniness over\nme, she was the flower that rendered sunlight beautiful--for what is\nthere lovely in light but as a thing which maketh the face of the earth\nfair to look upon?\"\n\nThey drew up at the door of the colonel's residence, and were ushered\ninto a room where he and a party of his friends sat. Peter, who was what\npeople in the south would call a '_cute_ man, was beginning to make an\napology, saying--\n\n\"I beg your pardon, colonel, for the liberty I have taken; but meeting\nwith my old friend, Doctor Musgrave, yesterday, I prevailed on him to\ncome out wi' me, as we were a' Cumberland folk together; and though he\nis a great man now----\"\n\nBut, while Peter spoke, one of the company started forward. He grasped\nour hero by the hand, and exclaimed--\n\n\"My deliverer! Long and anxiously have I sought for you; but, until this\nhour, nothing have I been able to learn respecting you. Father,\" he\nadded, \"this is the gentleman of whom a hundred times you have heard me\nspeak, as having at the peril of his own life saved mine. I have never\nknown or met him again until now. Thank him with me.\" And, as he spoke,\nhe held the doctor's hand between his.\n\nThe old man rose. He evidently laboured to speak to the stranger; but\nother feelings obtained the mastery. He stretched out his hand. He\ntouched Robert Musgrave's--he coldly bowed to him. The blood left his\nface.\n\n\"Father,\" exclaimed the son, \"you are ill. Hath gratitude----\" But he\npaused as he beheld the expression of his father's features. They\nbetrayed anger and agony at the same moment.\n\n\"Son,\" said he, \"I would speak with you: that man--that man;\" and he\npointed to the scholar impatiently, and, beckoning to his son, rose to\nleave the room.\n\n\"Sir,\" said Musgrave, proudly, \"if my presence trouble you, I can\nwithdraw.\"\n\n\"My friend, what mean you?--what means my father?\" asked the brother of\nBertha, who was, indeed, the same individual that the scholar had\nrescued.\n\n\"I dinna ken,\" answered Peter Liddle; \"but, if Doctor Musgrave go the\ndoor, I go to the door too.\"\n\nThe father and the son looked at each other. The glance of the latter\nsought from the former an explanation.\n\nAt that instant the door opened, and the much-talked-of Bertha entered\nthe room.\n\n\"Bertha!\" exclaimed Musgrave, and stepped forward, as if unconscious of\nwhat he did.\n\n\"Robert!\" she rejoined, clasping her hands together. She started--she\nfell back; her brother supported her in his arms.\n\n\"Bertha!--father!--friend!\" he exclaimed, hastily glancing to each as he\nspoke, \"what means this?\"\n\nA man of middle age rose, and, as he hurried from the room, said--\n\n\"Farewell, Forster,\" addressing the old man; \"you have deceived, you\nhave insulted me. The man who is to be your daughter's husband is with\nher now.\"\n\nIt was the intended husband of Bertha that so spoke, and left the\napartment. The old colonel rose to follow him.\n\n\"Stay, father,\" said his son; \"what I have now witnessed requires an\nexplanation. This stranger, to whom I owe my life, you have seen\nbefore--my sister has seen him--and there is something connected with\nyour acquaintance with each other that I must understand.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" cried the old man, \"I have seen him before--I have--I have.\"\n\n\"Bertha?\" said his son; but she raised her hands before her face and\nwept.\n\n\"Sir,\" said the younger Forster, \"I can be grateful. Though I am not\nacquainted with you, my sister is. Let me call my deliverer _brother_!\"\nAnd he took the hand of his weeping sister and placed it in that of\nRobert Musgrave.\n\nThe old man started; but his son soothed him. And Robert Musgrave stood\nwith the hand of Bertha Forster locked in his; and within a few weeks he\ncalled that hand his own, and was happy--and the sufferings that the\nPoor Scholar had endured became as a tale that is told.\n\n\n\n\nTHE LAIRD OF DARNICK TOWER.[12]\n\n    \"Red glared the beacon on Pownell--\n      On Eildon there were three;\n    The bugle-horn on muir and fell\n      Was heard continually.\"--JAMES HOGG.\n\n\n[Footnote 12: Darnick Tower is still in possession of the old family,\nand is at present the property of our respected townsman, John Heiton,\nEsq., the lineal descendant of the hero of the legend.--ED.]\n\nThere is no country in the world that has so many legends, and legends\nof so remarkable a character, as Scotland. The fact is attributable to\nthe peculiar mental form of the Saxon; always with a disposition to look\nback, to cull glorious memories of the past, and from these, again, to\ndistil the spirit of a noble emulation for the present and the future.\nWe are not now speaking of a _dilettante_ antiquarianism, which becomes\n_blase_ over a household utensil, or learned on a relic from the cradle\nof art; but of that moral antiquarianism which courts examples of a\ngrand courage, exercised for the sake of liberty or Christianity, or\nsearches for traits of the domestic or social virtues, upon which the\ntrue greatness of a nation is founded. In this sense, every Scotsman is\nan antiquary--embracing his subject with enthusiasm, and inspiring his\ncontemporaries with the patriotism he himself feels. He cannot see an\nold ruin, be it of a castle or a peel tower, but he must know what its\npossessors did in the days of the red Flodden or the desperate\nDrumclog--a good old grandam, but he must hear of a legend of foray, or\ntournay, or love:\n\n    \"A story old\n    Of baron bold,\n    Or trolled lay\n    Of lady gaye;\"\n\nand laugh or weep over the details, as they come from lips trembling as\nif with inspiration.\n\nNor does time ever end legend, or the love of it, in the true legendary\nlands. Time's embalming yields the incense, which, like the sweetness of\nthe vestal lamp, is fragrant for ever. Every recital, and every\nlistening, is a triumph of the genius of tradition; but, as if the past\nwere a thing of endless development, we are continually meeting with new\ninstances, to add to the treasury of the old, and increase the stock for\nthose who are to come after us, and live our feelings, and our\nthrobbings, and our sighs, over again, even as did those of the\ndearly-beloved ones who have gone before, and now know the traditions of\neternity. Though every nook and corner has been searched, there is\nsomething always left for such gleaners as we; and even now we are\ndiscoverers at the very side and within the verge of the wand of a\nmagician. Notwithstanding that the old tower or peel of Darnick is\ndescribed in the \"Monastery,\" it was practically known to Sir Walter\nScott principally as an ancient pile, which he wanted to possess, to\nimpart some dignity of antiquity to the domains of Abbotsford. If he\nknew that it had been for ages the residence of the good old family of\nthe Heitons, with the sturdy bull for their crest, the sooner their\nrepresentative was engulfed in the Abbotsford swirl the better; for the\nnew edifice was not only to be composed of old armorial stones, but to\nrepresent an _old_ family just brought into being by the modern\nLibitina, Genius.[13]\n\n[Footnote 13: Darnick Tower, so exquisite a bit of Border antiquities,\nwas the chief object of Sir Walter Scott's passion for acquisition, and\nso well known was this foible of his, that he soon obtained the name of\nthe Duke of Darnick. Mr Heiton, though inclined to dispose of a portion\nof the lands, was unwilling to part with the old tower, which had been\nfor hundreds of years in his family. We do not believe that Sir Walter\nhimself ever viewed with any feelings of disrespect a resolution so much\nakin to his own family predilection; but his son-in-law, Mr Lockhart, in\nhis Life of Sir Walter, indulged in a sneer, that the proprietor of the\ntower, _having made money_ in Edinburgh, was unwilling to part with it.\nHe forgot probably the counterpart, that Sir Walter, having also made\nmoney in Edinburgh, was very anxious to get it. The passage is as\nfoolish as it is unjust, because it assumes that, while Sir Walter had a\nright to be proud of _founding_ a family, Mr Heiton was not entitled to\nhold the mark of _representing_ one.--ED.]\n\nNow it was left for us to know something more of the old peel tower in\naddition to what history tells. The traveller by the Tweed cannot fail\nto observe the old peel, as it raises its grey head over the houses of\nthe village of Darnick, a little to the west of Melrose. The real\nantiquary will turn from Abbotsford to examine it, and to admire its\nwonderful preservation, after so many years' exposure to the\ndevastations of time and war. It is many a long day since a gallant\nmember of the house fell, as \"one of the Flowers of the Forest,\" in the\nbattle of Flodden; or since another fought against the bold Buccleugh in\nthe fight with Angus, in the very precincts of the tower; or since\nanother Heiton, or De Heyton, as he was called, got the charter to the\nlands from Queen Mary and Darnley; yet, dating from the last of these\nperiods, and we know for certain the strength then existed, we are left\nto admire the old representative of defence against foray, as a kind of\ncontrast to the modern effort of the Great Unknown, so like an old-new\nworm-eaten charter written in vellum, worm-eaten while on the sheep's\nback--at least not so ancient as the skin of the goat which suckled\nJove!\n\nBut to proceed with our legend of Darnick:\n\nIt happened some time about the year 1526 that Andrew Heiton was sitting\nin his tower of Darnick, thinking of the strange things doing in\nScotland at that time, which was the Augustan Era of the Borderers.\nScott of Buccleugh had risen from the condition of a riever, and would\nhave been a right poor clan, as the ballad says, if every honest man on\nthe Borders had had his own cow. The Homes and the Kers had also risen\ninto great power, and the Elliots, through the greatness of the Scotts,\nstood second in the ranks of these sturdy champions of might against\nright. All was tumult south of the Tweed, but it was not of the old\nforaying kind simply, when cattle made hatred, and hatred made war, when\na Cockburn was against a Tushielaw, an Elibank against a Harden, an\nElliot against a Ker, only because, some twenty years before that, a\nheifer or a sheep had chanced to change its ownership. When the king was\nstrong, the Borderers sometimes made a virtue of necessity, and leagued\ntogether to save their necks; but, strange enough, this brotherhood\nnever stopped their depredations upon one another's property. These were\na necessity, a kind of birthright, and being inevitable, and born with\nthem, and ingrained to the very marrow, they were looked upon in a jolly\nkind of way, even by the losers, because they knew they would have\nbetter luck next time. The only difference was, that, when the king was\nweak, or the crown in minority, their depredations got a wider scope.\nThe quiet proprietors then came in for their contribution, and in reward\nfor this, the greater rievers were grateful enough to do a good act for\ntheir sovereign in their own way, but only if he kept out of their\nprovince, and did not interfere with their feuds. In truth, the\nBorderers never hated their king, when he did not shorten their swords,\nor lengthen their necks. Amidst all their fighting and stealing, there\nwas lurking in their hearts that spirit of chivalry which, surviving in\ntheir descendants, evolved, in the changes of time, into justice and\norder, adorned by sagacity and good manners. So it was that, when King\nJames V. was a minor in the clutches of Angus, and Lennox could do\nnothing to get him at liberty, a number of the greater chieftains were\non the side of the young prince, and among these the Scotts of Buccleugh\nand the Elliots of Stobs; but others, such as the Homes, and Kers, and\nCockburns, were creatures of the Douglas; all the Borderland was divided\ninto king's parties and Douglas' parties, and these again were\npartitioned into lesser rivalships, resulting from their personal feuds;\nso that it often happened that the lesser proprietors knew not what side\nto take, seeing their loyalty interfered with their revenge, or their\nrevenge with their loyalty. In this way, as was said by a writer of the\ntimes, \"a cow was greater than a king.\"\n\nNow the Laird of Darnick was, as we have said, thinking of these things\nin his tower of Darnick. \"My father fell at the red Flodden,\" he said,\nmeditatively, \"and our house has ever been a loyal one. If we joined in\na foray among the green fields of Wells or Harden, or took one upon our\nown account, it was only what we had a right to do, by the laws of the\nBorders, older, I ween, than those of Edinburgh or Scone. For what other\npurpose has the bull upon our crest his horns, if not to show that we\nhad a courage to maintain, and which, thank God, has never been\ndisgraced by an inhabitant of this old peel. By my crest! I love this\nyoung James Stewart as well as I love a Scott, or hate a Douglas, and I\nwill away to meet him on his journey from Jedburgh to Melrose.\"\n\nAnd, calling together his retainers and all those who looked upon the\nold tower as a rallying point, and these having got their shaggy\ngarrons, and as good equipments of shining rippons as they could muster,\nthey set out upon their journey, viewing, as they went along, the rich\npasturing places, to count how many sirloins they could turn out, when a\ngood riever was hungry, and was not forgetful of himself while he was\nmindful of his king and his old country. They arrived in happy time to\njoin the cavalcade, and the eyes of the Laird of Darnick were blessed\nwith the sight of the young prince, though he was the son of the\nimprudent king who led the last Laird of Darnick to his death at\nFlodden.\n\n\"But where is Wat Scott?\" he asked at many among the royal party; \"where\nis he who should be here with his strong arm and his sword, to show his\nmaster the kind of man he has in those parts to help him in his need\nagainst the Douglas, who holds him in a leash, and leads him about his\nown kingdom as if he were a dog, to show his breed and his fine collar.\"\n\nBut no one could answer. Some said that the sturdy but changeable Wat\nof Buccleugh, the most extraordinary man, next to the doughty Harden,\nthat ever led a foray by moonlight, had joined Angus, and turned against\nthe prince, and was to be King of the Borders, or keep the prince in his\nown stronghold of Buccleugh, and rule Scotland himself. And some said\nthat he was afraid of the Douglas, and kept away; and others, that he\nhad gone west among the Johnstones and Blackets to get \"kitchen,\"[14]\nbecause, while the king was about the forest, the kine had got saucy,\nand would not follow a Scott.\n\n[Footnote 14: The Borderers sometimes used the word for flesh-meat; so\nour use of it is no novelty.--ED.]\n\nAll this confused the Laird of Darnick mightily, and he even regetted\ncoming among the royalists, because his display might raise Wat against\nhim some day, and he might have kept his loyalty without endangering his\nclanship. But he could not help himself, now that he was there, and he\nresolved to wait and see whether Wat would turn out to be loyal after\nall.\n\nWhen in this dilemma, and standing amidst the cavalcade, which had\nstopped to recruit about midway, in a field still called the Prince's\nRest, he was surprised by a whisper in his ear:\n\n\"The mistress of Darnick says ye are to stand by Jamie Stewart.\"\n\n\"And by my faith I will,\" he said, as he turned to see who had come with\nthis news from Darnick. \"Did Jessie tell you this herself, Will?\"\n\n\"Ay,\" rejoined Will; \"and what's more, she says that Wat Scott is\nagainst James Stewart, and that, if the riever Buceleugh were ten times\ngreater than he is, all the men of his clan wouldna mak her consent to\ndesert her king.\"\n\n\"Just like the woman!\" said Andrew. \"Not the first time she has\nunearthed the fox, and made him rue the day he has passed the peel. Get\nthee back, and tell her I will obey her--not because it is a command of\na wife, but the request of one who might be a queen. While horse and man\nmay stand, or spear and blade hold together, neither bolt nor bar shall\nkeep me from the king--neither monk nor mass shall break my purpose.\"\n\n\"And what's more?\"\n\n\"What more, man? is not that enough?\" said Heiton.\n\n\"No; there's to be a fight at Darnick; for Wat is to try to tak the king\nat Hallidon Hill, and you are to come hame to the tower, and be ready to\noffer it as a place of refuge for him, and, if necessary, to defend it;\nand if ye winna, she'll defend it hersel.\"\n\n\"Then take this other answer with you: say I will return as soon as I\ncan with credit get away, without creating the suspicion of going over\nto Scott; and in the meantime get everything put into fighting order in\nthe tower. All this I know she can do as well as I.\"\n\nThe messenger departed with the answer; but he had scarcely got out of\nsight, when Heiton encountered another man, whom he knew to be one of\nScott's retainers.\n\n\"Why are you here, man,\" he said, \"and your master collecting his clan\nyonder for treason against his lawful sovereign?\"\n\n\"Because I am come to seek thee, as well as some others,\" replied he.\n\"My master, Walter Scott, sends this to thee, wi' his gude greetings,\nthat to-morrow night, by God's grace, he is to make a surprise on the\nDouglas, and seize him, and confine him in his castle, till the prince\ncan get a better governor, or be able to reign himsel; and thou'rt to\nmeet him, with all the strength thou canst muster, at Hallidon.\"\n\n\"The foul fiend is in thee, man,\" said Heiton; \"for thou dost not speak\nthe truth. It is the king your master wants, and then he will rule\nScotland and all of us as he listeth. Go, tell him I'll stand by the\nprince, though I hate Angus; but if he'll let this alone, I will still\npay him his blackmail.\"\n\nWith this answer, which astonished the messenger, he went away, and the\ncavalcade moved on. There was something like a difficulty into which\nHeiton had got, and he began to cast up the odds. His wife, he knew, was\nseldom wrong in her calculations; Scott was an old wolf, who never\nhesitated to make honesty subserve his policy, and with him policy was\nonly another name for self-seeking.\n\nEven as he so thought he might get out of his perplexity, a knight with\nsplendid armour rode past him, and whispered to him, as if afraid of\nbeing overheard, \"Heiton, if you're for the prince, join Scott.\"\n\n\"The foul fiend is in thee, too,\" muttered Heiton to himself. \"Thou dost\nprevaricate, sir knight. Thinkst thus to trick me with thy jugglery--ha!\nha!\"\n\nNow Heiton was no more than other gallant Border men long in coming to a\npoint, whether it was among black cattle or obscure fancies. His life\nhad been spent in asserting rights which were constantly liable to\ninvasion; and the prompt, fiery, and resolute disposition of the man had\nbeen kept for ever on the alert by the circumstances of his situation.\nBrave to intrepidity, almost to insensibility--strong and active in\nperson--master of his weapons, and always ready to use them in the\nextremity of danger--his aid was courted in many a desperate enterprise\nby the rival clans on the Borders. So, putting spurs to his garron, he\nwas galloping determinedly over the muir, when others might have been\ngroping about for a solution in the intricate chambers of the brain. His\nface was turned to Darnick, and his spurs against his horse's side. Nor\nwas the occasion unworthy of his energy. There was mischief brewing\nabout the very precincts of his peel, and the torrent would be poured on\nthe very heart of his kindred. He might lose his head, or win a charter,\nas the issue might show; and it was impossible that, in a contest where\nroyalty was engaged, or a Douglas endangered, he could, with his\nstronghold in the midst of it, be permitted to be neutral.\n\n\"And by the horns of my crest, I don't wish,\" he said, as he spurred on;\n\"and if I did wish, the mistress of Darnick would teach me a better\nlesson than to shame myself beside the husbands of Yarrow roses or\nEttrick lilies.\"\n\nBut a man is never so ready to be caught, as when his head is above the\nbush; and Heiton's somewhat grand soliloquy was no sooner finished, than\nhe was stopped by a body of Borderers well equipped. \"Bellenden!\"\nsounded in his ears. \"Buccleugh himself!\" he muttered, and in an instant\nhe stood before Wat Scott.\n\nNow comes the storm, thought Heiton to himself, and began to collect his\nthoughts, as the cautious master of a vessel furls his sails, and makes\nhis ship snug, when he discerns the approaching squall.\n\n\"Whither drive you, man, as if the mistress of Darnick waited for ye to\ntake your dinner off the best heifer in our enemy Home's parks?\" said\nScott.\n\n\"Having only a small peel,\" rejoined Heiton, \"it is necessary I should\nlook after it when a thousand Scotts are marching north by west. It is\nnot for crows' nests that Buccleugh marches with a thousand men, and\nwithout a blast of his horn. May I take the liberty to ask why thou'rt\nnot with the followers of the prince?\"\n\n\"Because I wish to do better for my king than follow him,\" said Scott.\n\n\"Make him follow _thee_,\" said Heiton. \"Ay, so it is said; but, Walter\nScott, though I have no objection to be in train, I would not like to\nsee my king there.\"\n\n\"Nor wilt thou, man,\" said Scott. \"Hush! what would Wat Scott do with a\nking? Ha! ha! kings are ill to fodder, and when thou'st fattened them,\nthey don't make the pot boil or keep the spurs out of the pewter dish.\nThere are kings enow besouth the Tweed when Buccleugh is there. Let\nJamie keep north and Wat south, and there will be no strife in Scotland\nbut that of the good old custom of keeping thine own. Come, I want thee\nand thy friends.\"\n\n\"I must know the foray first,\" replied Heiton.\n\n\"And so thou wilt. Come near,\" said Scott. \"Listen. I know that the\nprince wishes to get out of the hands of Angus, and I wish to undo the\ngrasp--understand ye.\"\n\n\"But an thou fail our heads may lick sawdust,\" replied Heiton.\n\"Good-by.\"\n\n\"When wilt thou return?\" cried Scott after him.\n\n\"I will tell thee when I know what's o'clock at Darnick,\" was the reply.\n\nAnd Heiton spurred on more hastily than ever, and never lifted rein or\nrested heel till he was at his own tower.\n\n\"What's brought ye here, man, when the king needs thee?\" said his wife,\nwhen he entered. \"Thou look'st as if the king's headsman were after\nthee, and not thou after his enemies. Saw ye my messenger?\"\n\n\"I did, Jessie,\" replied he; \"but there's one wheel within another\nwheel, and one within that.\"\n\n\"And thou'st lost thy wits among wheels, and may even lose thy head\nunder an axe.\"\n\n\"And 'tis because I fear that I am here,\" he said, \"to tell thee thou'rt\nwrong, lass. Scott wants only to free the king from the hands of the\nDouglas. What am I to do? I am placed between the horns of a dilemma. If\nI go with the king, I go against him, and may see the Heading Hill at\nStirling; if I go with Scott, I go against Douglas, and may lose my head\neven before I get there.\"\n\n\"A woman's wits are like her palfrey,\" said the wife--\"go quickest when\nhardest pressed. Get thee back for the men, and come here to Darnick as\nfast as spurs can drive thee. There's no fear of your being suspected\nof a want of loyalty, for Douglas does not know that Scott is at the\nback of Hallidon; but hark ye, keep out of Scott's path, for he has a\ntrick of keeping live stock when they come in his way.\"\n\n\"And what am I to do when I come back?\" said he; \"for if there's a fight\nat Darnick, will the Laird of Darnick not be expected to be in the\nthickest of it?\"\n\n\"Certainly; and so ye will, man. Mount and go--begone! The cloud must\nsoon rise, or it must sink for ever!\"\n\nAnd Heiton, without putting more questions, returned to the Royal party,\nwhich was now approaching danger. He got the men who had gone with him,\nand returning by a round to avoid Scott, again reached his own peel.\n\nThere was not much time to be lost, for there were signs abroad of the\ncoming cavalcade. People were running hither and thither, under the\nexcitement so natural as a consequence of a Royal procession in a part\nof the country accustomed only to lawless raids. There was a mystery too\namong the more knowing, for Scott's manoeuvre could not be altogether\nhidden. He was in the neighbourhood at no great distance from the Royal\nprocession, and yet he did not show any intention to be of it; but his\nsecret must have been wonderfully kept, for the generality had no\nsuspicion that within less than an hour a bloody contest would eclipse\nby the confusion of its strife the _eclat_ of a Royal presence. Now the\nmistress of Darnick evolved her plans. She sent the men away on various\nerrands, which somehow seemed to be all very necessary, though the\nnecessity never appeared till the moment it was made known.\n\n\"And now Andrew Heiton,\" she said, \"thou'rt not to be found anywhere.\nAway in the donjon there, to remain till I tell thee thou'rt wanted\neither by James Stewart or Wat Scott.\"\n\nThis command Heiton would not obey, till he understood better her\nintentions, and these were conveyed by a whisper which seemed to satisfy\nhim. He did as he was directed, and the portal of the peel tower was\nclosed and bolted.\n\nThe mistress then betook herself to the top, and planted herself where\nshe could see far around without being observed.\n\nNor was all this done more quickly than was required. By and by the\nsigns of the coming procession thickened. The indescribable stir of the\nair on the approach of crowds of human beings might easily be detected.\nThen the sounds of horses' feet, succeeded by the reverberations of\ntrumpets, which the heralds and pursuivants began to blow as the town of\nMelrose came in view. The heraldic ensigns glittered in the rays of an\nunclouded sun; the gay armour of barons and knights cast their\nreflections everywhere, carrying the glory of war under the aspects of\npeace and loyalty. The young prince was seated on horseback, with Angus\non the one side, and George Douglas on the other; their horses equipped\nafter the gaudy fashion of the times, which were not yet beyond the era\nof chivalry, neighing to the sound of the horns, and curveting as if\nunder the very feelings which inspired the riders. The scene was such as\nmight seem the farthest removed from the inspirations of strife. Royalty\nsat enshrined in peace, to receive the _eclat_ of admiration, and be\nblessed with the breathings of gratitude.\n\nBut, quick as a blast of a horn among the hills or the advent of a\nthunder-clap, the terrific cry of \"Bellenden!\" was heard, succeeded by\nthe Border hurrah, and the next instant a thousand wild men, with\nglittering swords in their hands, the terrible battle-axe or the\npiercing spear, rushed more like a cataract than a torrent on the\nall-unprepared and utterly-unsuspicious party. In the midst of them was\nWat Scott, with his stern face and fierce eye. For an enemy to see it\nwas to tremble, for a warrior to be fired. Taken at once, the Royal\nparty swerved like a surging sea. The prince was cared for, and the\nDouglas, maddened by the fear of losing their royal prize, and burning\nwith the revenge of an old hatred, flew from place to place, crying,\n\"For the king! for the king!\" It was answered by the roar of the now\nraised Scotts, returned again by the Royalists, and echoed with an\nenergy redoubled by the rising fury of opposition. The pressure of the\nBorderers increased as their hopes rose, and their repeated hurrahs told\nof their success amidst the clanging of swords, the heavy fall of the\naxe, the sharp risp of the lance. Scott was still paramount, and\neverywhere, pointing, hacking, calling to secure the prince.\n\n    \"The noise of battle hurtled in the air,\n    Horses did neigh, and dying men did groan.\"\n\nAt first and for some time the contest had more the appearance of an\nattack, ill resisted; but it soon ceased to present that aspect, and now\nit was as if every man closed with every man. The sounds of triumph or\nhope died away into hard breathings.\n\n    \"With foot to foot, and eye opposed,\n    In dubious strife they darkly closed.\"\n\n\nWork allowed no time or inclination for exclamations; but death\neverywhere among both parties extorting the groan or the yell, pulled\ndown the proudest and the bravest; but their places were not seen after\ntheir heads fell, for the mass was so thick that there scarcely seemed\nroom for the arm to do the work of the will. Still victory boded well\nfor Buccleugh; and again, as the opposing party began to recede, the\ncries commenced, \"Bellenden! Bellenden!\" but they were not destined to\nbe many times repeated. A loud cheer came from the king's party, even\nwhen they were retiring. It was soon explained. They were being joined\nby the two clans of the Homes and Kers, who had come up hot with revenge\nagainst their old enemy, but with less loyalty than possessed by Scott.\nThe onset of the newcomers was a repetition of that of the Borderers,\nfierce, and bearing the aspect of victory before it was won.\n\nAll this was seen by the mistress of Darnick, and heard by Heiton with\nthe feelings of a caged lion. It was now her time, she saw how victory\npointed. It was impossible for Buccleugh to hold out.\n\n\"Now,\" she said, \"thou knowest whom to fight for with safety. Ere a\nquarter-of-an-hour the king's party will prevail. Get thee into the\nthick of the fight, but as far from Wat Scott as you can. Thou'lt save\nthy head and thy lands, without injuring thy old friend.\"\n\nThe portal was opened, and the master of Darnick was soon fighting\ndesperately in the ranks of the king, his nervous arm dealing death at\nevery stroke. \"Heiton to the rescue!\" was sounded; and his retainers,\nreturning, took the Scotts in flank. This movement was decisive. In a\nshort time the Borderers were in retreat, and the wounded of the king's\nparty conveyed to the tower, where the kind attentions and hospitality\nof the laird hastened their recovery.\n\nThe policy of the mistress of Darnick was soon apparent from the\ntreatment inflicted not only upon the retainers of Scott, but on all\nthose who did not come forward to the help of Angus;[15] and it was this\nlatter consequence, foreseen by her, which dictated her stratagem. She\nknew that it was necessary for Heiton to be on the one side or the\nother; and the good effects of her wisdom were shown in another way.\nAbout thirty years after the battle of Darnick, a new charter was\nbestowed on Heiton; a good sign that he was held in remembrance for\nhaving been found in the ranks of the king; that charter was, no doubt,\nnot by James, who was supposed to favour the design of Scott, but by\nMary, whose counsellors were not led by these distinctions, and who\nlooked only at the open evidences of loyalty.\n\n[Footnote 15: Scott himself was outlawed.--ED.]\n\n\n\n\nTHE BROKEN HEART.\n\nA TALE OF THE REBELLION.\n\n\nEarly in the November of 1745, the news reached Cambridge that Charles\nStewart, at the head of his hardy and devoted Highlanders, had crossed\nthe Borders, and taken possession of Carlisle. The inhabitants gazed\nupon each other with terror, for the swords of the clansmen had\ntriumphed over all opposition; they were regarded, also, by the\nmultitude as savages, and by the more ignorant as cannibals. But there\nwere others who rejoiced in the success of the young adventurer, and\nwho, dangerous as it was to confess their joy, took but small pains to\nconceal it. Amongst these was James Dawson, the son of a gentleman in\nthe north of Lancashire, and then a student at St John's College. That\nnight he invited a party of friends to sup with him, who entertained\nsentiments similar to his own. The cloth was withdrawn, and he rose and\ngave, as the toast of the evening, \"_Prince Charles, and success to\nhim_!\" His guests, fired with his own enthusiasm, rose, and received the\ntoast with cheers. The bottle went round, the young men drank deep, and\nother toasts of a similar nature followed. The song succeeded the toast,\nand James Dawson sang the following, which seemed to be the composition\nof the day:--\n\n    \"Free o'er the Borders the tartan is streaming,\n    The dirk is unsheath'd, and the claymore is gleaming,\n    The prince and his clansmen in triumph advance,\n    Nor needs he the long-promised succours of France.\n    From the Cumberland mountains and Westmoreland lake,\n    Each brave man shall snatch up a sword for his sake;\n    And the 'Lancashire Witch' on her bosom shall wear\n    The snow-white cockade, by her lover placed there.\"\n\nBut while he yet sang, and as he completed but the first verse, two\nconstables and three or four soldiers burst into the room, and denounced\nthem as traitors and as their prisoners.\n\n\"Down with them!\" exclaimed James Dawson, springing forward, and\nsnatching down a sword which was suspended over the mantelpiece. The\nstudents vigorously resisted the attempt to make them prisoners, and\nseveral of them, with their entertainer, escaped.\n\nHe concealed himself for a short time, when, his horse being brought, he\ntook the road towards Manchester, in order to join the ranks of the\nadventurer. It was about mid-day on the 29th when he reached the town,\nwhich is now the emporium of the manufacturing world. On proceeding down\nMarket Street, he perceived a confused crowd, some uttering threats, and\nothers with consternation expressed on their countenance; and, in the\nmidst of the multitude, was Serjeant Dickson, a young woman, and a\ndrummer-boy, beating up for recruits. The white cockade streamed from\nthe hat of the serjeant; the populace vented their indignation against\nhim, but no man dared to seize him, for he continued to turn round and\nround, with a blunderbuss in his hand, facing the crowd on all sides,\nand threatening to shoot the first man that approached, who was not\nready to serve the Prince, and to mount the white cockade. The young\nwoman carried a supply of the ribands in her hand, and ever and anon\nwaved them in triumph, exclaiming, \"Charlie yet!\" Some dozen recruits\nalready followed at the heels of the serjeant. James Dawson spurred his\nhorse through the crowd.\n\n\"Give me one of your favours,\" said he, addressing the serjeant.\n\n\"Ay, a dozen, your honour,\" replied Dickson.\n\nHe received the riband, and tied it to his breast, and placed another at\nhis horse's head. His conduct had an effect upon the multitude; numbers\nflocked around the serjeant; his favours became exhausted; and when the\nPrince and the army entered the town in the evening, he brought before\nhim a hundred and eighty men, which he had that day enlisted.\n\nThe little band so raised were formed into what was called the\nManchester Regiment, of which the gallant Townly was made colonel, and\nJames Dawson one of the captains.\n\nOur business at present is not with the movements of Charles Edward; nor\nneed we describe his daring march towards Derby, which struck terror\nthroughout all England, and for a time seemed to shake the throne and\nthe dynasty; nor dwell upon the particulars of his masterly retreat\ntowards Scotland--suffice it to say, that on the 19th of December the\nHighland army again entered Carlisle.\n\nOn the following morning they evacuated it; but the Manchester Regiment,\nwhich was now composed of about three hundred men, was left as a\ngarrison to defend the town against the entire army of proud Cumberland.\nThey were devoted as a sacrifice, that the prince and the main army\nmight be saved. The dauntless Townly, and the young and gallant Dawson,\nwere not ignorant of the desperateness and the hopelessness of their\nsituation; but they strove to impart their own heroism to the garrison,\nand to defend the town to the last. On the morning of the 21st, the\nentire array of the Duke of Cumberland arrived before Carlisle, and took\npossession of the fortifications that commanded it. He ordered the\ngarrison to surrender, and they answered him by a discharge of musketry.\nThey had withstood a siege of ten days, during which time Cumberland had\nerected batteries, and procured cannon from Whitehaven; before their\nfire the decaying and neglected walls of the city gave way, to hold out\nanother day was impossible; and there was no resource left for the\ndevoted band but to surrender or perish. On the 30th, a white flag was\nhoisted on the ramparts. On its being perceived, the cannon ceased to\nplay upon the town, and a messenger was sent to the Duke of Cumberland,\nto inquire what terms he would grant to the garrison.\n\n\"Tell them,\" he replied, haughtily, \"I offer no terms but these--that\nthey shall not be put to the sword, but they shall be reserved for His\nMajesty to deal with them as he may think proper.\"\n\nThere was no alternative, and these doubtful and evasive terms were\naccepted. The garrison were disarmed, and under a numerous guard placed\nin the cathedral.\n\nJames Dawson and seventeen others were conveyed to London, and cast into\nprison, to wait the will of His Majesty. Till now his parents were\nignorant of the fate of their son, though they had heard of his being\ncompelled to flee from the university, and feared that he had joined the\nstandard of the Prince. Too soon their worst fears were realised, and\nthe truth revealed to them. But there was another who trembled for him,\nwhose heart felt keenly as a parent's--she who was to have been his\nwife, to whom his hand was plighted and his heart given. Fanny Lester\nwas a young and gentle being, and she had known James Dawson from their\nchildhood. Knowledge ripened to affection, and their hearts were twined\ntogether. On the day on which she was made acquainted with his\nimprisonment, she hastened to London to comfort him--to cheer his gloomy\nsolitude--at the foot of the throne to sue for his pardon.\n\nShe arrived at the metropolis--she was conducted to the prison-house,\nand admitted. On entering the gloomy apartment in which he was confined,\nshe screamed aloud, she raised her hands, and springing forward, fell\nupon his neck and wept.\n\n\"My own Fanny!\" he exclaimed, \"you here! Weep not, my sweet one--come,\nbe comforted--there is hope--every hope--I shall not die--my own Fanny,\nbe comforted.\"\n\n\"Yes!--yes, there is hope!--the king will pardon you,\" she exclaimed.\n\"He will spare my James--I will implore your life at his feet!\"\n\n\"Nay, nay, love--say not the king,\" interrupted the young enthusiast for\nthe house of Stewart; \"it will be but imprisonment till all is\nover--the _Elector_ cannot seek my life.\"\n\nHe strove long and earnestly to persuade, to assure her, that his life\nwas not in danger--that he would be saved--and what she wished she\nbelieved. The jailer entered, and informed them it was time that she\nshould depart; and again sinking her head upon his breast, she wept\n\"goodnight.\"\n\nBut each day she revisited him, and they spoke of his deliverance\ntogether. At times, too, she told him with tears of the efforts she had\nmade to obtain his pardon--of her attempts to gain admission to the\npresence of the king--of the repulses she met with--of her applications\nto the nobility connected with the court--of the insult and inhumanity\nshe met with from some--the compassion she experienced from others--the\ninterest that they took in his fate, and the hopes and the promises\nwhich they held out. Upon those hopes and those promises she fondly\ndwelt. She looked into his eyes to perceive the hope that they kindled\nthere, and as joy beamed from them, she half forgot that his life hung\nupon the word of a man.\n\nBut his parents came to visit him; hers followed her, and they joined\ntheir efforts to hers, and anxiously, daily, almost hourly, they exerted\ntheir energies to obtain his pardon. His father possessed an influence\nin electioneering matters in Lancashire, and hers could exercise the\nsame in an adjoining county. That influence was now urged--the members\nthey had supported were importuned. They promised to employ their best\nexertions. Whatever the feelings or principles of the elder Dawson might\nbe, he had never avowed disaffection openly--he had never evinced a\nleaning to the family of Stewart--he had supported the government of the\nday; and the father of Fanny Lester was an upholder of the house of\nHanover. The influence of all their relatives, and of all their friends,\nwas brought into action; peers and commoners were supplicated, and they\npledged their intercession. Men high in office took an interest in the\nfate of James Dawson, or professed to take it; promises, half official,\nwere held out; and when his youth, the short time that he had been\nengaged in the rebellion, and the situation that he held in the army of\nthe Adventurer, were considered, no one doubted but that his pardon was\ncertain--that he would not be brought to trial. Even his parents felt\nassured; but the word of the king was not passed.\n\nThey began to look forward to the day of his deliverance with\nimpatience, but still with certainty. There was but one heart that\nfeared, and it throbbed in the bosom of poor Fanny. She would start from\nher sleep, crying, \"Save him!--save him!\" as she fancied she beheld them\ndragging him to execution. In order to soothe her, her parents and his,\nin the confidence that pardon would be extended to him, agreed that the\nday of his liberation should be the day of their bridal. She knew their\naffection, and her heart struggled with her fears to believe the\n\"flattering tale.\"\n\nJames tried also to cheer her; he believed that his life would be\nspared; he endeavoured to smile and to be happy.\n\n\"Fear not my own Fanny,\" he would say; \"your apprehensions are idle. The\nElector----\"\n\nAnd here his father would interfere. \"Speak not so, my son,\" said the\nold man earnestly--\"speak not against princes in your bedchamber, for a\nbird of the air can carry the tidings. Your life is in the hands of a\nking--of a merciful one, and it is safe--only speak not thus!--do not,\nas you love me--as you love our Fanny, do not.\"\n\nThen would they chase away her fears, and speak of the arrangements for\nthe bridal; and Fanny would smile pensively while James held her hand in\nhis, and as he gazed on her finger he raised it to his lips, as though\nhe took the measure of the ring.\n\nBut \"hope deferred maketh the heart sick;\" and though they still\nretained their confidence that he would be pardoned, yet their anxiety\nincreased, and Fanny's heart seemed unable longer to contain its agony\nand suspense. More than six months had passed, but still no pardon came\nfor James Dawson. The fury of the civil war was spent, the royal\nAdventurer had escaped, the vengeance of the sword was satisfied, and\nthe law of the conquerors, and the scaffolds of the law, called for the\nblood of those whom the sword had saved. The soldier laid down his\nweapon, and the executioner took up his. On the leaders of the\nManchester regiment the vengeance of the bloodthirsty law first fell. It\nwas on the evening of the 14th of July, 1746, James Dawson sat in his\nprison; Fanny sat by his side, with her hand in his, and his parents\nwere ready also, when the jailer entered, and ordered him to prepare to\nhold himself in readiness for his trial in the court-house at St.\nMargaret's, Southwark, on the following day. His father groaned--his\nmother exclaimed, \"My son!\"--but Fanny sat motionless. No tear was in\nher eye--no muscle in her countenance moved. Her fingers grasped his\nwith a firmer pressure--but she evinced no other symptom of having heard\nthe mandate that was delivered. They rose to depart, and a low deep sigh\nissued from her bosom; but she showed no sign of violent grief; her\nfeelings were already exhausted--her heart could bear no more.\n\nOn the following day, eighteen victims, with the gallant Townly at their\nhead, were brought forth for trial before a grand jury. Amongst them,\nand as one of the chief, was James Dawson. Fanny had insisted on being\npresent. She heard the word _guilty_ pronounced with a yet deeper apathy\nthan she had evinced at the announcement of his trial. She folded her\nhands upon her bosom, her lips moved as in prayer, but she shed not a\nsingle tear, she breathed not a single sigh. She arose, she beckoned to\nher attendants, and accompanied them from the court-house.\n\nStill his friends entertained the hope that the Pardon Power might be\nmoved--they redoubled their exertions--they increased their\nimportunities--they were willing to make any sacrifice so that his life\nmight be but saved--and even then, at the eleventh hour, they hoped\nagainst hope. But Fanny yielded not to the vain thought. Day after day\nshe sat by her lover's side, and she, in her turn, became his comforter.\nShe no longer spoke of their bridal--but she spoke of eternity; she\nspoke of their meeting where the ambition, the rivalry, and the power of\nprinces should be able to cast no cloud over the happiness of the soul.\n\nFourteen days had passed, and during that he betrayed no sign of terror;\nshe evinced none of a woman's weakness. She seemed to have mastered her\ngriefs, and her soul was prepared to meet them. Yet, save only when she\nspoke to him, her soul appeared entranced, and her body lifeless. On the\n29th of July an order was brought for the execution of the victims on\nthe following day. James Dawson bowed his head to the officer who\ndelivered the warrant, and calmly answered, \"I am prepared!\"\n\nThe cries of his mother rang through the prison-house. She tore her\nhair--she sank upon the floor--she entreated Heaven to spare her child.\nHis father groaned, he held the hand of his son in his, and the tears\ngushed down his furrowed cheeks. Fanny alone was silent--she alone was\ntranquil. No throe of agony swelled her bosom, flushed in her\ncountenance, or burned in her eye. She was calm, speechless, resigned.\nHe pressed her to his bosom, as they took their last farewell.\n\n\"Adieu!--adieu!--my own!\" he cried. \"My Fanny--farewell!--an eternal\nfarewell!\"\n\n\"Nay, nay,\" she replied; \"say not eternal--we shall meet again. 'Tis a\nshort farewell--I feel it--I feel it. Adieu, love!--adieu! Die firmly.\nWe shall meet soon.\"\n\nNext morning the prisoners were to be dragged on sledges to Kensington\nCommon, which was the place appointed for their execution. In the first\nsledge was the executioner, sitting over his pinioned victims with a\ndrawn sword in his hand. No priest--no minister of religion attended\nthem; and around the sledges followed thousands, some few expressing\nsympathy, but the majority following from curiosity, and others venting\ntheir execrations against all traitors. In the midst of the multitude\nwas a hackney coach, following the sledges, and in it was the gentle\nFanny Lester, accompanied by a relative and a female friend. They had\nendeavoured to persuade her from the fearful trial; but she was calm,\nresolute, and not to be moved, and they yielded to her wish. The coach\ndrew up within thirty yards of the scaffold; Fanny pulled down the\nwindow, and leaning over it, she beheld the piles of faggots lighted\naround the scaffold--she saw the flames ascend, and the soldiers form a\ncircle round them. She saw the victims leave the sledge; she looked upon\nhim whom her heart loved as he mounted the place of death, and his step\nwas firm, his countenance unmoved. She saw him join in prayer with his\ncompanions, and her eyes were fixed on him as he flung papers and his\nhat among the multitude. She saw the fatal signal given, and the drop\nfall--she heard the horrid shout, the yell that burst from the\nmultitude, but not a muscle of her frame moved. She gazed calmly, as\nthough it had been on a bridal ceremony. She beheld the executioner\nbegin the barbarities which the law awards to treason--the clothes were\ntorn from the victims; one by one they were cut down; and the finisher\nof the law with the horrid knife in his hand, proceeded to lay open\ntheir bosoms, and taking out their hearts, flung them on the faggots\nthat blazed around the scaffold. The last spectacle of barbarity was\nJames Dawson, and when the executioner had plunged the knife in his\nbreast, he raised his heart in his hand, and holding it a moment before\nthe horror stricken and disgusted multitude, he cast it into the flames,\nexclaiming, as he flung it from him, \"God save King George!\" Fanny\nbeheld this--her eyes became blind--she heard not the shout of the\nmultitude--she drew back her head into the coach--it dropped upon the\nshoulder of her companion. \"My dear! I follow thee!--I follow thee!\" she\nexclaimed, clasping her hands together. \"Sweet Jesus! receive both our\nsouls together!\" They attempted to raise her head, to support her in\ntheir arms, but she sank back lifeless. Her spirit had accompanied him\nit loved--she died of stifled agony and a broken heart.\n\n\n\n\nTHE CATERAN OF LOCHLOY.\n\n\n\"Were I to lose sight of my native hills, my heart would sink, and my\narm would wither like fern i' the winter blast.\"--ROB ROY.\n\n\n\"And so, my dear lads, you wish me to relate my passage with the\nCaterans of Lochloy?\" said General Dangerfield.\n\n\"Do, father; you will so oblige me,\" replied the younger of his two\nsons.\n\n\"Well, then,\" continued the general, laying his hand upon the boy's\nhead, \"you shall have it; but, remember, no interruption; I must tell my\nstory my own way.\"\n\n\"Agreed!\" replied his eldest son, Edmund, a fine youth of sixteen.\n\n\"Well, to begin at the beginning:--I am a native of Scotland--born on\nthe Borders--of a respectable family well known there--the Jardines of\nthat ilk. I entered the army young, and continued there the best part of\nmy days. I became acquainted in very peculiar circumstances with your\nangel mother, who, having succeeded to the family estates in\nNorthumberland, which had belonged to your uncle and godfather, I\nassumed his name, that these possessions might still be inherited at\nleast nominally by a Dangerfield.\n\n\"I was on service during that lamentable rebellion in which so much\nblood was poured out in an abortive attempt to restore a doomed race to\ntheir kingly possessions. I fought at Culloden; and well remember, and\nwith horror witnessed, the cruelties that followed the victory. The\nSaxons, as we were called, were in consequence execrated; and the\nHighlanders burned with a fierce desire to avenge their slaughtered\nfriends and kinsmen. So circumstanced, it is almost unnecessary to\nremark, that the government troops were peculiarly obnoxious; and it was\nconsequently very dangerous for them to wander to any distance from\ntheir respective stations; as, in many instances where they had been so\nfoolhardy as disregard the strict injunctions on the subject, they never\nreturned to tell the tale.\n\n\"I had leave of absence for a short time; and I therefore quitted my\nquarters, which were at Inverness, in order to spend my Christmas with\nmy relations in Kelso--for I was not then married. As is usual, where\nfriends are happy and comfortable, they were not fond of separating too\nsoon, and I was loth to leave the hospitable board of my entertainers;\nso I lingered as long as I could, and thus made it a matter of necessity\nto proceed northwards with the utmost despatch. It is a long way between\nKelso and Inverness; and I had to proceed on horseback, accompanied by a\nsingle servant. We got on very well till we reached Glasgow, after which\nthe journey was both tedious and vexatious.\n\n\"On the second day after quitting the western metropolis, there came on\na great fall of snow, partially obstructing the roads, which, in those\ndays, were not in the very best state, even in good weather; and, after\npursuing, apparently, the proper route for at least a couple of hours, I\nfound that we had lost our way--no very agreeable discovery, especially\ntowards the close of day. However, there is nothing like putting the\nbest face on a thing when you cannot help it; so we boldly pushed on, in\nthe vain hope of at last getting into the right path. Vain it assuredly\nwas; for, after wandering about till it became dark, we made the\nimportant discovery that we were just as far off as ever from escaping\nfrom our difficulties.\n\n\"'Is not yon a light, sir?' exclaimed my servant. 'See! it is very high\nup.'\n\n\"I looked up, and certainly there was a light; but from what it\nproceeded I could not conjecture. It could hardly be from a house, as it\nwas too much elevated. I desired my servant to follow, and we made for\nthe mysterious place, which was with some difficulty reached; and where,\nto our infinite dismay, in place of finding ourselves in the vicinity of\na house, we discovered that we were at the foot of a tremendous\nprecipice, and the light that had guided us was still glimmering at an\napparently inaccessible height above our heads.\n\n\"In this state of desperation, we hallooed, and made as much noise as\npossible, and were speedily answered by a human voice, inquiring why we\nmade such a disturbance, and what we wanted. I answered,\n\n\"'Shelter for the night, and food; for we are nearly dead from hunger.'\n\n\"To this no reply was made for a few moments, when a voice again\nanswered,\n\n\"'Remain where you are, and I will descend and remove you from this\nplace of danger.'\n\n\"A man then descended from the rocks, and desired us to follow him,\nwhich we did, with some reluctance, more especially as we were compelled\nto leave our horses below.\n\n\"'Never mind the cattle; they will be taken good care of,' said our\nconductor, laying especial emphasis on the word 'good.'\n\n\"I must confess I did not feel by any means comfortable. But what was to\nbe done? Starvation stared us in the face, and the danger of perishing\nby cold, or by falling into some of the deep ravines that lay about us,\nwas but too probable; so I mustered up all my courage, and followed my\nunknown guide, who led me, by a very precipitous and dangerous path, to\na large cavity in the centre of the rock. My servant came last; and,\nwhen we reached the place of our destination, we beheld a vast pile of\nfaggots lighted up in the middle of a prodigious vacuity. The warmth, as\nyou may readily suppose, was very grateful to two travellers benumbed by\ncold; and, while we were standing by the fire, the guide suddenly\ndisappeared, but returned, some few minutes afterwards, from some\nconcealed part of the subterranean habitation, with above fifty armed\nmen.\n\n\"At such a very unexpected, not to say disagreeable, spectacle, in\ncircumstances otherwise sufficiently alarming, both myself and servant\nfelt no small degree of fear. Our trepidation was observed; and one of\nthe number, who seemed to have the command of the rest of the band,\naddressed me to the following purport:--\n\n\"'You can be at no loss to conjecture who we are, and what our ordinary\noccupation is; but you have nothing to fear; for, though we live by what\nis called violence, we are not destitute of humanity. Our depredations\nare never marked by cruelty, and seldom by blood; and those whom\nnecessity has thrown on our care have never either been treated with\nbarbarity or suffered to want. We extort only a little from those who\nare able to spare it, and rather augment than diminish the property of\nthe poor. We know, alas! too well what the consequences would be were we\nto fall into the hands of the rich and powerful; but we are resigned to\nour fate. We can only die once, and our enemies can inflict no greater\nvengeance upon us. Miserable we may be; but we have a fellow-feeling for\nsufferers, and never take advantage of distress: in truth, it is from no\nsordid love of gain, nor is it to pander to vicious habits or immoral\npurposes, that we live in this manner. It is because we have no other\nmode of support; for, after the cruelties that have been perpetrated\nupon their disarmed opponents, it were in vain to expect assistance or\nrelief at the hands of our Hanoverian oppressors.\n\n\"'You see our quarters, and shall have every accommodation they can\nafford you: and, if you can trust us, who have neither inclination nor\nreason to deceive you, we give you a hearty welcome to these adamantine\nabodes, and that with the most perfect sincerity. Our fare is homely but\nwholesome; and our beds, though coarse, are clean. Nor be under any\nconcern for your horses; they too shall share our protection and\nhospitality. We have no hay; but they shall not want. Stables we have\nnone; but can shelter them, for one night at least, from the inclemency\nof the weather.'\n\n\"This address revived our courage, which was not a little augmented upon\nbeing handed a bicker of whisky--mountain dew of the most delicious\ndescription; at least I thought so then, and have never changed my\nopinion since. Talk of the wines of Spain, or of France, or the Rhine, I\nnever felt from them half the delight I experienced in quaffing the\nnectar of the Gael. When we had finished, a supper was laid before us\nwhich might have provoked the appetite of an English alderman, and that\nis saying a good deal. We had blackcock and ptarmigan broiled, or, as it\nis called in Scotland, brandered; fine black-faced Highland mutton done\nto a turn in the live ashes; and a stew of snipes and wild duck, the\naroma of which was perfectly ambrosial. I did ample justice to the good\ncheer, and ate with as much coolness and self-possession as if I had\nbeen seated in Dolly's chop-house, in place of an apparently\ninterminable cave surrounded by caterans; for so the Highland banditti\nare termed.\n\n\"After having satisfied my craving appetite, in which example I had a\nworthy imitator in the person of my servant, rest was the next thing of\nwhich both of us stood in need. My generous host then led me to an inner\napartment in the cave, which seemed at once to be the treasury and the\nmagazine. There two sackfuls of heather were, by his orders, brought in\nand put on end, with the flower uppermost. Then a rope was fastened\nabout the whole to keep it together, and on the top of each was placed a\ndouble blanket. On this simple contrivance, which formed an exquisitely\nsoft and delicious couch, we laid ourselves down.\n\n\"I had some bank-notes about me, and above twenty guineas in gold,\nbesides a very handsome gold watch, and other trinkets of no\ninconsiderable value; but, as I had given them up for lost, I made no\nattempt to secrete any of them. My host, apparently divining my\nsuspicions, insisted upon mounting guard over us--a proposal which I\nstrenuously opposed; but he told me plainly that, unless he kept by me,\nhe would not answer for the conduct of his companions. Against this\nthere was no appeal; and he remained beside us, on the bare rock, all\nthe night.\n\n\"In the morning, we found ourselves alone with this singular being.\nEverything remained as it had been the preceding evening, with this, to\nus, very pleasant exception, that the band of caterans was nowhere to be\nseen. Another fire of wood was speedily kindled; and, as our host told\nus that, before we could reach any place of refreshment, we had to go\ntwenty miles and a bittick--which, being interpreted, means somewhere\nabout five miles more--we took the precaution to lay in a good stock of\ncakes, butter, and cheese, which we washed down with a moderate quantity\nof the nectar of the night preceding.\n\n\"Our repast over, we descended the circuitous path which led from the\ncavern, and which one, uninitiated, might have searched for in vain;\nand, at the bottom, found a lad or gilly holding our horses, which had\nbeen well fed, and were in fine spirits. Our host then declared his\nintention of putting us upon the right track, otherwise, he said, we\nwere sure of losing our way. I desired my servant to dismount and follow\nus on foot; but this the stranger refused to allow, assigning as a\nreason, that he preferred walking, and could, without the slightest\ndifficulty, keep up with the horses. In this way, therefore, we\nproceeded nearly three miles: and, it was evident that, but for his\nfriendly assistance, the chances of getting out of our difficulties\nwould have been very problematical. At last he stopped, and said--\n\n\"'Pursue that path for half-a-mile farther, and you will enter upon the\ngreat road, after which you can have no difficulty in journeying to the\nplace of your destination.\n\n\"I was quite overpowered with this kindness, and felt reluctant to part\nwith my new friend, without, at least, showing how much I appreciated\nhis services.\n\n\"'Sir,' said I, 'I am deeply affected by the whole of your conduct\ntowards me and my servant. I can only hope that, some day or other, I\nmay have it in my power to serve you. I have been treated like a prince,\nwhen I expected, if not to have my throat cut--which I once thought was\ninevitable--at least to have been robbed of everything about me. At\npresent I can only offer you this small remuneration, which I trust you\nwill accept. I am only sorry that it is not more.' As I said this, I\ndrew forth my purse, with the intention of giving him all the gold I had\nabout me, but he stayed my hand.\n\n\"'Sir!' exclaimed the unknown, 'you have seen the way in which I and my\ncompanions live, and you may easily guess that to us gold can be no\nobject. I thank you for the free and liberal way in which it was\nproffered; but I most respectfully beg to decline accepting it. In\nserving you I merely followed a precept which I ever--though a\ncateran--keep in view--to do to others as I would be done by myself. You\nwere in distress, and I relieved you;--there was no merit in doing what\nI knew was merely my duty; and Ranald More will take no reward for\nhaving done that which his heart told him it was right to do.'\n\n\"'Heavens!' I cried, 'are you Ranald More?'\n\n\"'I am!'\n\n\"'Why,' I rejoined; 'your name is a terror to all the country round.'\n\n\"'I know it; but what care I? Let the bloodhounds take me if they can.'\n\n\"'Are you aware that a reward is offered for your apprehension?'\n\n\"'Perfectly.'\n\n\"'Why, then, should you trust yourself alone with two armed men?'\n\n\"To show that he was perfectly regardless of fear, he merely pointed to\nhis claymore, and I must confess that I should not have been anxious for\na single combat, and even with the assistance of my servant, I am not\nquite sure that we might not have come off second best.\n\n\"'But,' continued the cateran, 'you are a gentleman and a man of honour.\nMy secret is safe with you. Bid your servant ride on a few paces.' I\ngave the necessary order; and when we were alone, the cateran proceeded\nto narrate to me the following particulars of his life:--\n\n\"'I was born in the higher ranks of society; but circumstances, which I\nneed not recapitulate, reduced me to the humble condition of a peasant.\nEarly misfortunes compelled me to conceal my name and family, and I\nenlisted as a private soldier. My conduct in the army attracted the\nattention of my superiors; but I had no interest to rise higher than a\nhalbert, and was discharged with the regiment in which I served. When\nPrince Charles landed on his native shores, I refused to join him, as I\nconsidered myself in a manner bound, by my former services, to his\nopponent. I took, therefore, no further interest in this civil broil\nthan to give my humble assistance to many of those persecuted men whom\nthe bloody mandates of the Duke of Cumberland had marked out for\ndestruction. In this way I have gradually collected around me a band of\ngallant fellows, who are ready to follow me on any enterprise, however\ndesperate. It was not choice but necessity that compelled me to my\npresent way of life. Some day or other I shall, in all human\nprobability, be taken, and made an example of, to deter others from\nfollowing the like courses. I only ask, when you hear of my death--in\nwhatever way that may happen--that you will not forget you owed your\nlife to him who never took one but in the cause of his country, when he\nfought for his king, and exposed his own. Farewell.'\n\n\"Then pressing my proffered hand in his, he turned away; and in a few\nminutes the Highland cateran was out of sight.\"\n\n\"Did you never see him again, father?\" inquired Edmund.\n\n\"I did; but in circumstances extremely painful; although to the last\ninterview I had with him I owe that portion of happiness with which\nProvidence was graciously pleased to bless me.\"\n\n\"Indeed! O father, do continue your story!\"\n\n\"Well, Edmund, have patience, and you shall hear all. Time hurried on\nimperceptibly; and, in a couple of years afterwards, I found myself\nraised to the rank of a captain. The regiment had been ordered to\nIreland, where it remained for about a year; but the Highlands of\nScotland not being in a very settled state, it was ordered to that\nkingdom; and, in the month of January, 1748, I found myself once more in\nmy old quarters; a circumstance far from displeasing, as I had many\nfriends there anxious to make me comfortable.\n\n\"The severity of Government had by this time considerably relaxed; and\nas all fears of any new rebellion were at an end, an anxious endeavour\nwas made to reduce the restless Highlanders to some sort of order, and\nput down the straggling bands of caterans that disturbed the\ntranquillity of the country, and kept the proprietors in a perpetual\nstate of anxiety, by lifting, as it was called, their cattle, and other\npredatory acts.\n\n\"Upon inquiring after my old friend, Ranald, I was told he had not been\nheard of for a long time, and that it was generally supposed he had been\nkilled in some of his marauding expeditions.\n\n\"One individual seemed to be peculiarly obnoxious to these worthies, and\nhis cattle had not only been repeatedly carried off, but his granaries\nhad been despoiled. He had bought some of the forfeited estates at\nsmall value, and having the misfortune--for so it was reckoned amongst\nthe proud Highlanders, whose pedigrees were generally as long as their\npurses were short--to be a _parvenu_, his father having been a grocer in\nthe Luckenbooths of Edinburgh, he experienced no mercy from the\ncaterans, and little sympathy from the gentry in his vicinity, who\nlaughed at his misfortunes. To crown all, he had been a commissary in\nthe army of the Duke of Cumberland; and, though neither a bad man nor a\nhard landlord, still his original connection with the bloody duke was a\nsin not to be forgiven, and hence the reason of his peculiar\npersecution.\n\n\"Irritated by a series of provoking outrages, Peter Penny, Esq., of\nGlenbodle, appealed to our commander, and, as he volunteered to guide a\nsmall detachment to the place where he had good reason to believe his\ntormentors were concealed, his appeal was listened to; and, under the\ncharge of one of our lieutenants, a party of some twenty or thirty\nsoldiers proceeded to capture the caterans. As resistance was\nanticipated, they were well armed, and every precaution was adopted to\nprevent surprise by ambush.\n\n\"Of all this I thought nothing. Such occurrences were common; and,\nusually, the objects were accomplished with no very great difficulty. In\nthis case, the result was different; and, although the detachment was\nsuccessful, it was only so at a great expenditure of life; for the\ncaterans gave battle, and were eventually subdued, after killing five of\nthe king's troops, and severely wounding the commander. The laird\nhimself escaped free; for, holding the truth of the adage, that the\nbetter part of valour is discretion, he prudently kept in the rear, and\nthus ran no other risk than a chance shot. Poor fellow, he assured\nme--and I believe he spoke with perfect sincerity--that, had he imagined\nso much blood was to be shed on his account, he had much rather the\ncaterans had stolen every animal on his estate, and carried off its\nentire produce.\n\n\"The defence had been well ordered; and it required little observation\nto see that the chief of the caterans was skilled in military tactics.\nHe fought with infinite bravery, and it was not until a great proportion\nof his band was either killed or wounded that his capture was effected;\nand even this would have been doubtful, had he not been weakened by loss\nof blood. He was, however, brought to Inverness, with one or two of his\nconfederates, who had also been severely wounded. The rest retreated\nsafely to the fastnesses of the mountains.\n\n\"The day following, I was somewhat surprised by an intimation that one\nof the captives was desirous of seeing me. I proceeded to the prison,\nwhen I found a man lying on a heap of straw, evidently in a very\nexhausted state.\n\n\"'This is kind, Captain Jardine, very kind,' he exclaimed. Then, after\npausing a minute, he proceeded, whilst a faint smile passed over his\nface--'When we last met, it was in different circumstances.'\n\n\"'Gracious Providence!' I answered, 'can it be--do I see Ranald More?'\n\n\"'You see all that remains of him--a few short hours, and I shall be\nbeyond the reach of earthly foes. I had once hoped that better days\nwould have come; but they came not. I sought pardon, but it was refused;\ndriven back to my old courses, I am about to pay the penalty of my\nsins.'\n\n\"I endeavoured to reassure him; for, in truth, I felt a sincere esteem\nfor him, and, personally, knew his honourable principles, and deeply\nregretted that so noble a fellow should have been thrown away. I got the\nbest medical advice, procured a comfortable bed, and everything that\nmight tend to alleviate his sufferings during the brief remainder of his\ndays.\n\n\"He was gratified by my attentions. 'One thing consoles me,' he said: 'I\nshall not die the death of a felon. You soldiers have spared me that\ndisgrace.'\n\n\"'Do not despond,' I rejoined; 'whilst there is life there is hope,\nand----\n\n\"Here he interrupted me with--\n\n\"'No--no--no. I would not live if I could; I am weary, and need rest in\nmy grave. Captain,' he continued, 'you have dealt with me kindly and\nconsiderately; would you make me your debtor still farther? I have one\nrequest to make, which, as it does not compromise you in the smallest\ndegree, you will probably grant. It is to convey this ring to the only\nfemale in this world for whom I feel regard; and tell her, that the\nbeing she cherished when all others neglected him, died blessing her.'\n\n\"I assured him I would obey his commands, and that the ring should be\npersonally delivered.\n\n\"Ranald, then, as soon as cessation from pain would allow him, disclosed\nhis history, which was brief but painful. The son of a gentleman of an\nancient family in Northumberland, proud of his descent and large\npossessions, he had formed an attachment to one of the bondagers on his\nfather's estate; and, in a luckless hour, crossed the Borders, and was\nunited to her at Lamberton--the Gretna Green of that part of the\ncountry. The result was the ordinary one--he was disinherited, and cast\noff by his father; and his wife, not matching with one of her own rank,\ncould not put up with her husband's ways, or reconcile herself to those\nhabits of propriety which were essential to her new station in society.\nUnhappiness followed--poverty made him fretful and impatient; although\nwell educated, he would turn his attentions to no useful purpose, and in\na fit of desperation he enlisted. During his banishment from home, he\nsaw none of his relatives excepting his niece, then a girl of fourteen,\nwho loved her uncle, and used, by stealth, to bring to his humble\ndwelling such articles as she thought he might fancy; and endeavoured,\nso far as was in her power, to soften the severity of his situation.\n\n\"The uncle's unexpected departure did not prevent the niece showing\nsimilar attentions to the wife; but these were soon terminated by the\ndemise of the latter, who died with the infant in her accouchment. For\nseveral years after this, nothing was heard of Ranald; but the anger of\nhis father continued unabated.\n\n\"Quitting the army, as I formerly mentioned, he joined the caterans; and\nafter our interview, determined to make an effort to obtain paternal\nforgiveness. He left his retreat; and one evening presented himself\nsuddenly before his father, who was residing at the family seat. He\nthrew himself on his knees, and asked pardon.\n\n\"'Go,' said his father. 'Degenerate son, disgrace not, by your presence,\nthe halls of your ancestors. In vain you supplicate--in vain you attempt\nto move me from my fixed purposes by your assumed penitence.'\n\n\"'Have you no pity for your own offspring--for a being who, but for one\nunhappy act, never caused you a moment's pain--who has ever venerated\nand obeyed you?'\n\n\"No answer was returned.\n\n\"'Say you forgive me--I seek no more; and I will leave you never to\nreturn, until my future acts have shown that I am not entirely unworthy\nof the proud race from whence I have sprung.'\n\n\"The old man was silent.\n\n\"'For years a father's malison has embittered my life, and rendered me\nreckless of all consequences. Your pardon will restore me to myself; and\ncan you refuse to grant it?'\n\n\"Still no response.\n\n\"'If not for one so unworthy as the miserable wretch before you, at\nleast on her account who gave me birth. Say you forgive me.'\n\n\"'Never.'\n\n\"'Father, we meet for the last time; one word would have restored your\nson to happiness, and you refuse it. Farewell for ever!'\n\n\"At this moment the door opened, and a beautiful girl of twenty rushed\nin, and threw herself into the old man's arms.\n\n\"'Oh, sir, do not part in anger with your son; you are so good, so kind.\nI am sure you will restore him to your favour.'\n\n\"He gently disengaged her from his embrace.\n\n\"'Emily,' said he, 'you are a good girl; and on any other subject you\nmight be sure I would listen to your wishes; but on this point I am\nimmoveable; and as Reginald deliberately dissolved the tie between\nfather and son, I no longer recognise him as my child.'\n\n\"Saying this, he left the room.\n\n\"Emily was sadly overcome by this unexpected repulse. She knew her\ngrandfather's inflexibility, but imagined that the lapse of time would\nhave softened his resentment. Her father--the heir apparent--was then on\nthe Continent; and it was doubtful how far even his influence would\nproduce any change on the unnatural anger of his incensed parent.\n\n\"'Dear uncle, you know not how deeply I grieve at this unkind reception.\nOften have I thought on you during your tedious absence, and longed to\nsee you again; and now when my wish is gratified, I have no home here to\noffer you; but we must not part--time yet may make all right; and if you\nwould only take up your abode near us, I would do everything to save\nyou; and when my father returns, we will unite our entreaties to obtain\nyour pardon.'\n\n\"'Sweet girl!' replied Ranald, 'I duly appreciate your kindness; but it\nis vain to contend against fate, and here I cannot--will not stay.'\n\n\"The conversation was interrupted by the entrance of a footman, who,\nwith some confusion and hesitation, intimated that his master wished\nthe strange gentleman would make his visit as short as possible. Having\ndelivered this message, he withdrew.\n\n\"'Emily, farewell! I have ever loved you; and your kindness in this hour\nof trial shows my love was not misplaced.'\n\n\"'Do not leave me, uncle; better days will come.'\n\n\"'It is vain to urge my stay; my father shall be obeyed. Once more,\nfarewell!'\n\n\"His niece found his resolution immoveable. She entreated him to take\nher purse; this he refused. She then placed on his finger a ring: it was\nthe fatal one--the cause of all his misery. The sight of it overcame\nhim. He wept bitterly. Clasping his niece to his arms, he said, in\nfaltering accents--\n\n\"'Beloved girl! this fatal testimonial shall part from me only with\ndeath; and, when you see it again, be assured that all my earthly cares\nare over.'\n\n\"He then quitted the home of his forefathers, never again to return.\nAfter wandering about for months, necessity drove him back upon his old\ncompanions. But he had lost his energy; and it was not until the attack\nupon the caterans that he again became the Ranald More of olden times.\n\n\"The kindness and affection of his niece made a deep impression on\nRanald's mind; and his chief anxiety now was to make her acquainted with\nhis fate, and to let her know that he died a repentant man, in the hope\nof forgiveness in 'another and a better world.'\n\n\"The night before he expired, I sat beside him. Ranald was composed. He\nsaid--\n\n\"'Often, very often, kind friend, have I meditated, after my last\nrepulse, putting an end to my existence; but religion came to my aid,\nand I resisted manfully the temptings of the fiend. Resignation to the\ndivine will, under every disappointment and affliction, is a duty we\nall owe to our great Creator, and this precept of my dear mother was too\ndeeply implanted in my mind ever to be entirely eradicated; forgiveness\nof our enemies she also inculcated; and I can say, with perfect\nsincerity, that I die in peace with all mankind.'\n\n\"'Even your father?' I inquired.\n\n\"'Yes; even that cruel parent, through whose obduracy I am now a\ndegraded felon, is forgiven by me. But no more of this. When you see\nEmily, give her my blessing. Tell her that her dying uncle had her\nalways in his thoughts; and that, in his last moments, he prayed for her\nprosperity and happiness.'\n\n\"As he was evidently much exhausted, I entreated him not to fatigue\nhimself by farther conversation. The clergyman arriving, I took my\nleave, and returned in the morning. He was still sensible; and the man\nwho had sat up with him mentioned that he had been very quiet all night,\nthough he apparently slept very little. When I approached the bedside,\nhe recognised me; and, with extreme difficulty articulated--\n\n\"'Remember!'\n\n\"I assured him that his request should be implicitly complied with. His\nlast words were 'Bless you!' Raising himself, he placed his wife's\nmarriage-ring on my finger, pressed my hand feebly, and, overcome by the\nexertion, fell back on his pillow; a gentle slumber seemed gradually to\ncome over him, from which he never awoke.\n\n\"As he was only known as Ranald More, the secret of his birth and rank\nwas carefully preserved by me; my adventure with him of former years was\ngenerally known, and my anxiety about him, and my following his body to\nthe grave, created no manner of surprise. His companions were tried,\nconvicted, and executed. The death of their leader, and the capital\npunishment inflicted on his followers, had a wholesome effect in that\ndistrict, and 'lifting' of cattle, from that time, became, at least\nthere, somewhat uncommon.\n\n\"Resolved to redeem my pledge, I procured leave of absence, and\njourneyed to Northumberland, where I found the family in mourning for\nthe old gentleman, who had died, strange to say, about a week before his\nson. The delivery of the ring at once announced the cause of my visit,\nand my attentions to the unhappy donor were repaid by the extreme\nkindness of his relatives. Her brother, Edmund, thought he could never\ndo too much for me; and the kind-hearted and beautiful niece of the\nill-fated Ranald became----\" Here he paused.\n\n\"What, father?\" inquired Edmund.\n\n\"YOUR MOTHER.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE SERJEANT'S TALES.\n\n\n\n\nJOHN SQUARE'S VOYAGE TO INDIA.\n\n\nHaving been so much edified by Serjeant Square's narrative of the\nPalantines, I was anxious to hear another section of his adventures.\nNext day, my wish was gratified.\n\n\"After my arrival in Greenock from my voyage to America,\" he\nbegan--\"that land of promise, where I had been carried as a Palantine--I\nhad no wages to receive; for I had wrought my passage home--that is,\ngiven my labour for my food and room in the vessel, and was not entered\nas one of the crew. A miserable passage it was; for the captain being as\ncomplete a tyrant as ever walked a deck, the crew were ill-used, and, of\ncourse, sulky and dissatisfied; and, humble and obedient as I was, the\nbad humour of every one was put forth upon me. The little seamanship I\nhad been so eager to acquire in my voyage out, now stood me in great\nstead, and saved me many a kick and blow. Rough and severe as my masters\nwere, my progress was rapid. Young and nimble as a monkey, with a quick\neye and good memory, I was no despicable seaman before we reached the\nCumbraes. Even the captain, after a severe squall we had off the west of\nIreland, commended me, saying, 'Square, you are worth your room and\nvictuals!' Yet of room I had little, and my victuals were no boast.\nHammock or bedding I had none; but that mattered not to me, who had no\nrest. I was in no watch, but was called up or started with a rope's-end\nat the pleasure of every one, when there was anything to do, from the\ncable tier, or wherever I had stretched my weary limbs to snatch an\nhour's sleep. Still I bore up with a cheerful heart; for hard lying and\nscanty fare were nothing new to me, and I hoped soon to tread the shores\nof my native land. Well, I had only two dollars and a-half in my pocket\nwhen I left Greenock to walk to Auld Reekie. My step was as light as my\nheart. Towards sunset of the second day, I reached the city; and, before\nI thought of rest, I had visited all my former haunts. But a very few\ndays served to dissipate my pleasing dreams of home. I had, for years\nbefore I left Edinburgh, been looked upon as one too many in the city by\nthose who knew me as a dependant; and doubtless, when I disappeared,\nthey had felt relieved of a load they bore but lightly. I had returned\nas poor as I departed; and they looked upon me with frowns, upbraiding\nme with folly for my return from a place where I had a chance of\nsucceeding.\n\n\"In my wanderings, I had entered the King's Park by the eastern stile,\nat the watering-stone, when, as I approached Mushet's Cairn, in the\nDuke's Walk, I heard the clashing of swords on the other side of the low\nwall. Urged by curiosity, I mounted the heap of stones to obtain a sight\nof the combatants. My eyes became fixed upon them; my whole mind was\nfilled with so ardent, so intense an interest, that I could scarcely\nbreathe; yet my feelings were so painful at first, that my heart beat\nthick, and my limbs shook under me. At one instant, I felt a desire to\npart them--the next, to see the scene enacted and ended. I had in my\nmind already taken a side, and wished 'my man' to conquer. They were\nboth, to appearance, gentlemen, and about the same age and stature; one\nof them much slighter made than the other, who pressed him hard, while\nhe appeared to act principally on the defensive; and so cool and\ndexterous was he in the use of his sword, that his opponent, though\nequally master of his, was foiled in all his assaults. It was fearfully\ngrand to see two men so intent upon the destruction of each other. Their\nlooks spoke hatred and determination; their keen eyes were fixed upon\neach other with an intensity I never before thought the eye capable of;\neach seemed fixed immoveably upon that of his adversary; yet a fierce\nvitality beamed in them, motionless as they appeared; while every limb\nand muscle of their bodies was in the most violent action. No sound\narose on the stillness of the scene, except the clash and harsh grating\nof their swords, as they foiled each other in their cuts and thrusts.\nWhile I stood fascinated, gazing upon them, the thinner person--whose\nside I had taken involuntarily, for I knew neither the individuals nor\nthe cause of quarrel--in parrying a thrust, slipped his foot, and sank\nto the ground, his antagonist's sword passing through his body in a\ndownward direction. He lay extended at his conqueror's feet, who, quick\nas thought, seized the hand of his fallen adversary, and detached a ring\nfrom one of his fingers. I stood immoveable on the heap of stones, with\nthe low wall still between us, watching the issue. He disengaged his\nsword, and was in the act of plunging it again into the body. 'Villain!\nvillain!' I shouted; it was all I could utter, horrified as I was. He\nstopped his raised hand, looked round to where I stood, exclaimed, in a\nvoice hoarse from passion, 'Scoundrel, you must die!' and, at the same\nmoment, bounded towards me, with the blood-stained sword in his hand.\nNot a moment was to be lost. Urged by fear, I sprang from the cairn, and\nfled towards the hill, across the swamp. Fearfully I looked over my\nshoulder as I neared the wall; he was evidently gaining upon me. Young\nand fleet as I was, he was far my superior in length of leg and\nstrength; yet my fears did not destroy my presence of mind. I saw that\nit was only by doubling I could escape; for, if the chase were continued\nfor any length of time, he must run me down like a hare; and the fearful\nconsequence gave me energy. At a bound I cleared the wall, and,\nstooping, ran under its shade for some distance before he reached the\nspot I had leaped. He stood (for I heard his panting breath) for a\nsecond, before he perceived the direction in which I had run--a\ncircumstance of the utmost service to me. Down he leaped, and followed\non my track. I again sprang the wall; and, after running a few yards, I\nwas on the highway, and clear of the park. My hopes now were all placed\nin meeting some one or other, to claim their protection, or in reaching\na house before my pursuer could overtake me. I had not run a hundred\nyards towards the Abbey Hill, when I saw three men in sailor's dress\nbefore me, going towards the city. I called to them to stop, for the\nrapid step of my enemy was sounding in my ears like the death-knell.\nThey stood still, and looked back; the next moment I was up to them;\nwhile he that followed leaped the wall, and disappeared in the direction\nof the town. We sought not to pursue him, for I had not yet recovered my\nbreath sufficiently to inform them of what I had been an unconscious\nwitness. As soon as I told my story, the men resolved to go with me, to\nascertain whether the person was dead or required our aid, saying, they\nwere on their way to the Canongate, to meet their captain, by\nappointment, and having yet sufficient time, they would go by the King's\nPark, and bear the unfortunate gentleman to town. When we arrived at the\nspot, we found him seated upon the grass, his head bent forward upon his\nknee, sick and faint, the blood welling from the wound in his side,\nwhich he was making no effort to staunch, and he was plunged in the\ndeepest melancholy. I could hear him sigh heavily ere we crossed the\nwall. When the seamen saw him, they uttered a cry of mingled surprise\nand rage. He raised his head; his face was deadly pale; a faint\nexpression of pleasure passed over it for a moment, then it settled into\ndeep sorrow. He appeared utterly regardless of life; and it was even\nwith gentle violence only that he allowed them to staunch his wound by\nbinding their silk handkerchiefs round his breast. We found that his\nankle was also dreadfully sprained and swelled; and, truly, his agony\nmust have been great from this cause alone; but no complaint or groan\nescaped from him; and I thought I perceived that his sufferings were far\nmore mental than even bodily. From exhaustion or apathy, he allowed us\nto do as we pleased; all he commanded being, to be taken to his vessel,\nand not to the town. So we bore him to a house at Clock Mill, the\nnearest refuge, while I ran to the Canongate to procure a surgeon, and a\nconveyance to carry him to Fisherrow. The surgeon I might bring at my\nown responsibility, for he would not hear of one, wishing evidently to\ndie. The sailors, who recognised me as having been on board the Eliza of\nLondon only a few hours before, in quest of a berth, looked upon me now\nas one of the crew, for the service I had rendered their beloved\ncaptain.\n\nAfter an absence of nearly an hour, I with difficulty procured a\npost-chaise and a surgeon. The injury was found not to be of much\nimportance, the sword having glanced along the ribs, producing only a\nsevere flesh wound, which was dressed, and the dislocation reduced. The\nsurgeon insisted upon his staying where he was, for fear of fever, but\nhe was bent upon proceeding to his vessel; so, accompanied by the\nsurgeon, he set off in the chaise, and I, joining my new comrades on\nfoot, proceeded to the vessel, along with them. The sensation produced\nby the wounded state in which the invalid had come on board, was in\nproportion to the love the men bore to their captain. As soon as we were\nupon the deck, every one on board crowded around us. I gave a true\ndetail of all I had witnessed; every one shook me heartily by the hand,\nand declared he would be my friend to the end of life; but no one was\nmore warmed to me for the little I had done than the mate. The captain's\nwound put on a favourable appearance, and he was declared out of danger.\nIn a few days, the wind chopped about to the westward, and we got under\nweigh, to complete the voyage, being bound for London. Before we weighed\nanchor, the captain caused himself to be carried upon deck, where he sat\ngazing in the direction of Edinburgh until we were out of the Frith; he\nseemed consumed with some secret grief, and had not opened his mouth to\ngive a single order, the mate doing all that was required.\n\n\"When we had passed the islands of May and the Bass, and stood into the\nocean, he called me to him.\n\n\"'Square,' said he, 'I have been informed by the mate how much I am\nindebted to you. The service to me was of small value, insomuch as I had\nrather have perished in the combat, than survived to think that my\ntraitorous rival has triumphed in his villany; but, believe me, young\nman, my gratitude to you is not the less--you shall in me never want a\nfriend.'\n\n\"I thanked him kindly for his assurance, and said it would be my\nendeavour to deserve his friendship. He was soon after removed below,\nand I did not see him until we reached the Thames, and were moored at\nthe Isle of Dogs. The captain, who was part owner, went into furnished\nlodgings while we were delivering our cargo, being still unable to walk,\nfrom the dislocation of his ankle. The greater part of the crew also\nlodged on shore; but I remained on board with the mate, in charge of the\nvessel, and often went to the captain with letters and messages. In one\nof my visits, he desired me to be seated, and give him an account of\nmyself, as he said he had taken an interest in my welfare, and wished to\nserve me, agreeably to his promise, if I continued to deserve it. I gave\nhim a full detail of my life until I came to the encounter I had\nwitnessed between him and his opponent, when I stopped. 'Nay, young\nman,' said he,'I wish to hear an account of what you were witness of,\nfrom your own mouth.' I went on. He heard me with composure, until I\nmentioned the tearing off the ring from his finger. When I came to this\npart of the narrative, his countenance became distorted with rage; he\nground his teeth, and stamped upon the floor; his eyes flashed fire, and\nhis passion seemed too great for utterance. I looked on in silence,\nfearful that, from his weakness, he would fall into a fit. At length, he\nsaid, as if in deep abstraction, and unconscious of my presence--\n\n\"'Faithless Eliza! I thought I had cast it at thy feet in my agony of\nblighted hopes, and felt pleased. It was my intention; but my mind was\na chaos of misery. The traitor Wallace has got the pledge of the love\nyou proved false to. Would that his sword had pierced the heart his\ntreachery has rendered miserable! No; I shall meet him once again, and\none of us shall die----'\n\n\"Then starting to his feet, he supported himself upon the back of a\nchair, his countenance no longer distorted with rage, having changed\ninto a settled, resolute cast, calm and stern. His burst of emotion had\npassed away.\n\n\"'Square,' he said, 'you, like myself, have no tie to bind you to\nScotland, no relation or friend on earth; we are as if we had dropped\nfrom some distant planet, now desolate of inhabitants, into this busy\nworld. Still I must ever remember that any happiness I ever enjoyed was\nin Edinburgh; and my heart's cherished hopes--hopes that have cheered my\nway through toil and danger--were there for ever crushed by the subtle\narts of one I thought my friend. Base wretch! you shall not long exult\nin your villany! Square, you must accompany me back to Edinburgh, as\nsoon as I am able to use this limb with vigour. Do you agree to\naccompany me?'\n\n\"'With pleasure,' I replied; 'whenever or wherever you go, I go'. My\nyoung heart was full of gratitude for the kindness I had received from\nhim; and I felt almost as keenly for his wrongs as if I had been a\nbrother. He saw the workings of my mind in my countenance, and, seizing\nmy hand, said--\n\n\"'Hence forth we shall be as friends.'\n\n\"The surgeon entered at this period of our discourse, and, to the\ncaptain's anxious inquiries, replied that it would yet be some weeks\nbefore his limb would be so strong that he might use it without pain,\nfor any length of time. It was a whole month after this before we left\nLondon, during which I had a private tutor to teach me, and restore any\nlittle instruction I had got at school during the life of my parents. I\nwent no longer on board, save to visit the mate, who was now as master\non the point of sailing; the Eliza being chartered, and her cargo almost\non board. He sailed for Rotterdam eight days before we intended to leave\nLondon for Edinburgh; which we were to do in a chaise. A voyage to\nAmerica, in the present day, gives a landsman less concern than a voyage\nbetween London and Leith did in those days.\n\n\"All being arranged, and the captain's ankle pretty stout, we set off for\nEdinburgh. In our tedious ride over the wretched roads, he was pleased\nto give me the following account of himself:--He was the second son of a\ngentleman of decayed fortune in the north of Scotland. He and his elder\nbrother had been sent, young, to an uncle's in Edinburgh, for their\neducation. His brother had chosen his uncle's profession of the law;\nwhile he, much against his uncle's wish, had preferred the sea. In his\noccasional visits to Edinburgh, when opportunity offered, he had met in\nhis uncle's a lovely young lady, the daughter of a gentleman, who was\nobliged to live in exile for the share he had had in the rebellion. She\nwas under his uncle's protection, as her father's agent and her\nguardian. The young sailor's heart was won by the charms of the gentle\nEliza; he wooed and won her love. Vows of constancy were exchanged on\nboth sides; but, although fortune had smiled upon him, he was still not\nrich enough to maintain his beloved in the rank she was by birth\nentitled to: and it was agreed at their last parting, that, after a few\nmore successful voyages, he should ask her hand in form from his uncle.\nChanged rings were accordingly the memorials of their plighted faiths.\nIt was Eliza's ring that Wallace had torn from his finger on that\neventful evening. Urged by love, he had in his last voyage come far out\nof his regular course to visit his Eliza; and having anchored in\nFisherrow Bay, he flew on the wings of joyous expectation to Edinburgh.\nOn his way he had met an old schoolfellow, who, in answer to his\ninquiries after his friends, told him, as a part of the news of the\nday, that his old schoolfellow and rival, Wallace, was on the eve of\nmarriage to Eliza, and that his addresses were sanctioned by his uncle.\nMaddened by the intelligence, he had hurried to his uncle's, and had the\nbad fortune to see Wallace taking leave of her as he approached the\nhouse; whereupon, in an agony of jealousy and disappointed love, he\nhastened to overtake him. Angry words ensued--Wallace boasted of his\ntriumph, and a challenge was given and received, to meet in the King's\nPark. Urged on by his disappointed hopes, he waited upon Eliza in a\nframe of mind bordering upon distraction. Without prelude or\nexplanation, he upbraided her as the most faithless of women, saying, he\nnow thought as lightly of her love as he had ever highly prized it; and,\nin his fury, thought he had, as he intended, thrown her ring at her\nfeet. At first she had looked alarmed, and wept, surprise held her\nsilent, until all her native pride, and the innate dignity of the\nfemale, were roused by his taunts and reproaches, and she ordered him\nfrom her presence. They parted in mutual anger. Without seeing his uncle\nor any acquaintance in town, he had walked in the most sequestered parts\nof Arthur's Seat and the Hunting Bog, until the hour of meeting his\nrival. They met, and the issue has been told.\n\n\"As we approached the city, he became very dull and uncommunicative,\nsitting absorbed in his own thoughts for hours; the fierce aspect that\nhis countenance had for a long time worn was succeeded by a deep shade\nof sadness. I was young and inexperienced, and knew not how to speak, to\ndivert his mind from the painful feelings that were preying upon him;\nthus we sat silent for hours, until we reached Musselburgh. 'Square!' he\nsaid, starting up, 'I shall soon have my doubts solved. For this some\ntime an idea has haunted my mind, which renders me the most miserable of\nmen. What if, in my madness (I can give it no milder term), I have\nwronged Eliza! She was all goodness and truth, and I ought to have\nweighed well before I reproached her. I have striven to think hardly of\nher, but my heart refuses. Eliza! Eliza! I have lost you for ever; true\nor false, I can never look on thy face again; but Wallace shall not\ntriumph in my misery. I have preferred bringing you with me to any other\nperson, because of your intimacy with Edinburgh. I do not wish it to be\nknown that I am in town, until I have ascertained, through you, what has\noccurred since my last unfortunate visit to it.' I promised cheerfully\nto do my utmost to serve him in any duty he required, and, before the\nevening set in, we were safely lodged in the White Horse Tavern at the\nhead of the Canongate. Our first step was to send for one of the\ncadies--a race of men now extinct; but they were, in their day and\ngeneration, a numerous fraternity in Edinburgh, and the source of\ncommunication, before the invention of the penny post. The affairs of\nthe inhabitants of all ranks were in general well known to them. Their\ntrustworthiness was admitted, and they were often employed in preference\nto domestic servants, in whose gossiping qualities they did not\nparticipate. I named Angus M'Dougal in preference to any other, as I had\nlong known him. I brought him. When he entered, the captain sat with his\nback towards us, wrapped up in his travelling cloak, and avoiding the\nexposure of his face. After our first greeting, I proceeded to make the\nnecessary inquiries, and found that Mr H---- was in town, and went very\nlittle abroad, on account of some distress in his house. The captain\ngave a start, a stifled groan escaped him, and, to relieve his suspense,\nI inquired of Angus if he knew the cause. 'Oh, the cause is no secret,'\nreplied he; 'his ward, Elizabeth, is not expected to recover frae a\ndangerous illness. They say it is the effect o' grief, from a strange\nand hurried occurrence that happened several weeks ago. Miss Eliza had a\nsweetheart o' the name o' Mr Wallace, wha it was supposed was to hae\nmarried her; he was a constant visitor at her uncle's, but there was\nane, they say, she liked better, a nephew o' Mr H----'s, wha was lang\nawa at sea. He appeared suddenly in the house when her guardian was frae\nhame, and as suddenly left it; nor has he been heard o' since. He was\nseen in the King's Park by several, as they think. It's no for me to\nspeak evil o' ony gentleman; but they say that her other sweetheart\nmurdered him, and concealed his body, for next forenoon, Mr H---- was\nsent for express, to come hame to Miss Elizabeth, wha had been out o' ae\nfit into anither ever since she had seen his nephew. Mr H---- sent\neverywhere to inquire for the unfortunate young man, but nae tidings\ncould be had. Mr Wallace had left the town suddenly, but nane could tell\nwhar he had gane. They say he was also seen, latish in the afternoon,\nentering the Duke's Walk to the east. Every part was searched, in vain,\nfor the body, which has never been discovered; but, what has put it\nbeyond a doubt, in the minds of many, that the youth was killed, was,\nthat at a sma' distance within the wall near Mushet's Cairn, the grass\nwas observed to be trodden down, and stained wi' blood. This, and the\nflight o' Wallace, who is said to hae gane owre to Holland to avoid the\nvengeance o' his uncle, are, at best, very suspicious circumstances.\nThis Johnny Square, is a' that I ken o' the matter.'\n\n\"Dismissing the cadie as soon as possible, amply pleased with his\nreward, I hurried to the captain, who was weeping, like an infant, his\nface buried in his handkerchief. I saw that anything I could say, in the\npresent situation, would be intrusion upon grief, too sacred for\ninterference, and too recent to be soothed. After a few minutes, he\nturned to me--'Am I not the most guilty of men,' he said, 'and\ndeservedly the most wretched? I have, by my hasty, jealous temper,\nkilled my Eliza, and banished myself from her presence for ever, even\nshould she recover. Oh! how could I, for a moment, harbour such a\nthought, to the injury of such an angel--far less give utterance to it!\nFool, fool, that I have ever been!--it is fitting you die to atone for\nyour jealous madness.' And he beat his forehead with his clenched fists.\nI became afraid that he intended to do some injury to his person; for\nthere was a fierceness, mingled with agony of mind, in his looks, as he\ngrasped, as if by some involuntary motion, the hilt of his sword, that\nalarmed me. I was on the point, different times, of rushing upon and\ndisarming him; but, at length, this paroxysm was succeeded by one of\nsubdued grief, and he became, to all appearance, as feeble as an infant.\n'Oh, that I could, by any sacrifice,' he cried, in thrilling tones,\n'obtain one glance of my injured Eliza, if it even were my last, to die\nat her feet, pleading for forgiveness!--her esteem, and with it her\nlove, I know I have forfeited for ever! Rash, rash fool that I was!'\nAgain he relapsed into silence, and, taking advantage of this new turn\nof thought, I suggested his writing to his uncle. 'Alas, Square,' he\nsaid, 'I cannot write; my mind is in a chaos of confusion--my brain is\nracked almost to madness.'\n\n\"'Then,' I answered, 'allow me to go, as if I had just arrived in town,\nand expected to have found you there, and to act as occasion requires.\nIf I find I can, there shall be a messenger sent for you to come to your\nuncle's, or, at all events, I shall return in as short a time as\npossible, and give you an account of my success.'\n\n\"'Square, my friend,' he replied, grasping my hand, 'do with me as you\nplease. My heart is broken--my mind is a tumult of agonising reflections\nof what I am, and what I might have been. I blush for the weakness you\nhave witnessed in me; but what man in his folly ever threw from him such\na treasure as I have lost, and lost for ever?'\n\n\"Anxious to alleviate the misery of my benefactor, with hasty steps I\nproceeded to the Covenant Close, to call upon Mr H----, who lived in the\nthird flat in the Scale Stairs. Almost breathless from the speed I had\nused, I 'tirled at the pin.' The door was opened by a genteel\nman-servant in livery, of whom I inquired if Mr H---- was at home, and\nwas answered in the affirmative. I was ushered into an elegant room,\nwhere, after waiting a few minutes, a benign but melancholy-looking old\ngentleman entered:--\n\n\"'Mr Square, I am informed,' said he, 'you wish to see me; may I\ninquire, is your business very pressing, as I am rather engaged at\npresent?'\n\n\"'I humbly beg pardon,' said I; 'I am a stranger to you, and only came\nto town this afternoon. My acquaintance is with your nephew, Captain\nH----, of the Eliza: can you inform me when you expect him in town?'\n\n\"The old man sank into a chair, and remained silent, overcome by his\nfeelings; at length, looking inquiringly into my face, 'Alas! sir,'\ncried he, 'I have now no nephew.'\n\n\"'Excuse me, sir,' I said, 'if I have wounded your feelings. I am\nastonished at what you tell me, for I saw him, in good health, not many\ndays since, and expected him to have been here to-night.'\n\n\"Starting to his feet, he came to where I sat, and, placing his hand on\nmy shoulder, looked anxiously in my face--'Young man,' he said,\nsolemnly, 'have you seen Hugh H---- within these five weeks?'\n\n\"'Certainly,' I replied; 'I saw him in London within these ten days, in\ngood health.'\n\n\"Clasping his hands, and raising his eyes to heaven--'Blessed be God!'\nhe said, 'my nephew is alive, and my Eliza may yet be snatched from the\ngrave!'\n\n\"We now entered into familiar conversation, in which I got from him a\nsimilar account to what the cadie had given us, with the addition only\nof the exertions Mr. H---- had made for the bringing of Wallace to\npunishment for the murder of his nephew. 'That man,' he concluded, 'has\ncome to rejoice that he is in life; for so strong was the circumstantial\nevidence, that, had he been apprehended and brought to trial, there is\nnot a jury who would not have given their verdict Guilty.'\n\n\"In return, I gave him a detailed account of all that I had witnessed,\nand the state of misery in which I had left him. Mr. H---- heard me with\nvaried feelings as I proceeded, and said he had had no idea of the\nattachment between Hugh and Eliza, until this unfortunate affair\ndisclosed it to him; and he feared it had proved fatal to his ward, who\nwas in a very dangerous state--her life even despaired of; but he\ntrusted his nephew's return would be more efficacious than all the\nprescriptions of her physicians; for hers was a sickness of the heart.\n\n\"With a thrill of pleasure at the success of my call, I bade him adieu,\ntaking with me the assurance that he would break the joyful intelligence\nto Eliza, and either call at the White Horse Tavern himself, or send a\nnote by his servant, to his 'poor Hughie, who was ever a passionate\nboy,' to come to him. When I returned, I found him pacing the room with\nhasty steps.\n\n\"'Square,' he cried, in a voice bordering on anger, 'is this what I\nexpected from you? You have stayed an age away.'\n\n\"'I beg pardon, captain, but I have made no unnecessary delay. I bring\nyou tidings of good hope. Your uncle is rejoiced you are safe, and in\ntown; he will either call himself, or send a card for you to-morrow, as\nhe shall judge safest for the sake of Eliza. Meanwhile, he is to break\nthe unexpected news to her.'\n\n\"Joy and grief, hope and fear, now by turns took possession of his mind,\nuntil we retired to rest.\n\n\"Next forenoon we passed in a state of great anxiety. Captain H---- had\nspent a sleepless night, and still paced the room in violent emotion,\nor sank exhausted into his seat. I could not leave him, for the sake of\nhumanity. At length, about two o'clock, Mr H---- came himself to visit\nhis nephew. I cannot describe this meeting; it was painful to all\nparties. The old man had endeavoured to break the news of Hugh's safety\nto his ward without success; she was, he confessed, so much reduced,\nthat he feared the agitation might prove fatal; for every allusion to\nhim, since that melancholy occurrence, had produced a series of fainting\nfits; soon, however, he hoped, with safety, to be enabled to communicate\nthe safety of her Hugh, whom, in her troubled slumbers, he had heard her\nname, while the large drops glistened on or glided from her long dark\neyelashes.\n\n\"'O Hugh, Hugh, what have you done!' said the old man, unconsciously, as\nhe wrung his hands--the tears falling over his venerable face.\n\n\"'Uncle, dear uncle, do not drive me to distraction,' cried the captain;\n'I cannot endure the----'\n\n\"'Pardon me, my boy,' interrupted the uncle; 'I am a silly old bachelor;\nI know not what I say. Dear Hugh, I didn't mean to grieve you; but who\ncan look on yon suffering innocent creature, and speak but as the\nfeelings dictate?'\n\n\"The captain groaned aloud, and hid his face in his handkerchief.\n\n\"Several days were passed in a similar manner before we removed to the\nCovenant Close; but, alas! Captain H---- had arrived too late. The shock\nhad untwisted the thread of life in the gentle Eliza, and it seemed only\nto hold together until his arrival. Joy, no doubt, once more visited\nthat broken heart, when she smiled forgiveness upon her heart-stricken\nlover; but she survived only for three weeks after his arrival, and\nbreathed her last sigh as he bent, almost bereft of reason, over her\nwasted form.\n\n\"During this period, I was quite unoccupied, and walked the streets of\nEdinburgh with a stately gait. How different were my feelings now from\nwhat they once had been on the same spot, in former days, when I had run\nor glided through them, timorous and abject! A child might have taken\nthe wall of me then; now I had a splendid dress, and guineas in my\npocket. I walked erect and resolute as a giant, and would give the wall\nto none; such is the effect of circumstances upon the mind. This, I\nbelieve, is the only time in my life I ever was so foolish. I feared to\nmeet any one who could by any chance have recognised me. Yet in my pride\nI was still a solitary being, too bashful to make new acquaintances with\nthose I thought my equals, and too proud to associate with those I had\nknown before. Thus did I strut about like a solitary peacock in a\nfarm-yard, with this difference, that I became, unlike the haughty bird,\nweary of my own consequence.\n\n\"After the funeral of Eliza, Mr H---- pleaded upon the captain to remain\nin Edinburgh; but he replied that he could not; all the scenes around\nonly added to his melancholy, by recalling to his mind the lovely object\nhe had lost for ever, and brought up the consciousness of the means--his\nown cruelty and jealous temper. In a few days we were once more on our\nway to London, where we arrived in safety, and found the Eliza moored at\nRotherhithe. The captain resumed his active duties; and his grief was\neither more bearable, or, to blunt its edge, he entered more keenly into\ncommerce. I was now appointed second mate. His wish was to obtain a\ndistant freight, unmindful to what part of the world, so that the period\nof his absence from Britain might be the greatest. Not finding one so\nreadily as he wished, he took a rich cargo on board upon his own\naccount, fitted for the Indian market, and we left the Thames in\nNovember, 1751.\n\n\"For several years from this date, I was as happy as any human being\ncould be, for we sailed the Indian Ocean from point to point, in all\ndirections, encountering various turns of fortune, but still progressing\ntowards wealth. I was myself rich, far beyond what I could ever have\nhoped to have been; and as for Captain H----, he had accumulated a\nfortune with which he was satisfied; his equanimity of mind was in some\nmeasure restored; he could talk at times of Eliza with a pleasing\nmelancholy, and spoke of returning once more to Europe. As his vessel,\nthe Eliza, was now old, and not safe for a home voyage, he resolved to\nsell her in the country, and return to Europe a passenger in the first\ncommodious trader. This he actually did at Bombay, giving to each of his\ncrew who had left England with him a handsome present, and the amount in\ncash of their passage-money home, that they might either return at his\nexpense, or stay longer in the country, where there were great\ninducements, if they chose. Me, as my sincere friend, he strongly\nadvised to remain for a few years longer, when I might return an\nindependent man to Edinburgh.\n\n\"This was one of the golden opportunities every man has once in his\npower during his existence of bettering his circumstances for life. My\nevil destiny, or some other cause, made me reject it. I had, for several\nmonths back, as I had had several times before, a strong longing to\nvisit Scotland once more. It is hardly possible for those who have never\nbeen for years absent from their native home, to imagine how\noverpowering this homesickness is, and how little will furnish to a\nlanguishing mind a plausible excuse for a return. I felt a conviction\nthat I was not acting in the best manner for my own interest; yet I\nsoothed down this feeling by the hope that I could return at any time,\nand pursue my fortune. To Captain H---- I stated my wish to return to\nEurope at all events, as I was weary of the Indian clime, and that, as I\nhad left Edinburgh with him, I would, if he had no objections, return in\nthe same vessel. He agreed; and thus we were again fated to go together.\n\n\"After remaining on shore inactive for some weeks, we embarked on board\nthe Traussean, bound for Amsterdam. Would that I had been of the same\nturn of mind and resolution as Mr. Yates, our chief mate, who remained\nin the country, and soon sailed a vessel of his own! I saw him several\nyears afterwards in London, living in wealth and independence, the\nproduce of his toils in India. I gratified my wish at all hazards--he\nobeyed his better judgment; he had his reward--I had mine.\n\n\"From Bombay to the Cape of Good Hope we had a quick and pleasant run.\nWe stopped at the Cape for three weeks, and took in refreshments and\nsome passengers, amongst whom was an old, rich planter, on his return to\nHolland, taking with him a black boy, his slave, one of the merriest and\nmost obliging creatures I ever saw. The little fellow soon became the\nfavourite of every one on board. Pontoben was the joy of every one\nexcept his master, who was ever correcting or finding fault with him. In\none of my sallies, I called the old planter Satan. He was worthy of the\ntitle, and it adhered to him like a burdockhead. A more forbidding\nfigure I have never seen. Tall and bony, he had the appearance of a\ngigantic skeleton covered with shrivelled brown leather; his forehead,\nlarge and deeply-furrowed, rose over two shaggy eyebrows, that\novershadowed eyes of light blue, keen and restless. There was a peculiar\nexpression in his whole face that made even the most daring feel uneasy\non beholding him; and, unless they were excited at the time by hatred\ntowards him, few ever dared his eye. I myself felt that no inducement\ncould ever make me look upon him as a kindred being; and, indeed, he\nrarely spoke to any of his countrymen. His harsh, sepulchral tones were\nseldom heard but in execrations of poor Pontoben, who would leave his\nmaster with the big drops of anguish, from punishment, rolling down his\nebony face; and, in a few minutes after, be seen laughing and sporting\nwith the seamen.\n\n\"On the evening of the seventh day after we had left Table Bay, the sun\nset like an immense globe of deep red fire, and the sky began to be\novercast. The vessel was made all tight for the expected storm; and\ncome, it did, soon after dark, with fearful force. All I had ever\nencountered could not be compared to its violence. The vessel pitched,\ngroaned, and quivered, during the whole night, as if she would have gone\nto pieces; and, when day at length came, with no abatement of the storm,\nit only served to show us the extent of our danger. The sky was dark and\nlowering; heavy masses of clouds obscured the sun, and poured forth\ndeluges of rain; the vessel laboured so much, and the wind was so\nstrong, that no man on board could keep his feet, and the crew were\nlashed to different parts of the vessel, to prevent their being washed\nfrom the decks by the waves, which were every now and then making a\ncomplete breach over us. The captain and I shared the fatigues of the\ncrew as we shared their danger. Another night of darkness and tempest,\nif possible more severe than the first, passed over our heads; still the\nvessel held good, and we hoped to weather the gale; when, just about an\nhour after daybreak, the wind chopped about nearly two points off the\ncompass; the man at the helm, either through fatigue or mismanagement,\nallowed a tremendous sea to strike her too much forward, when she heeled\nso far over that a second wave laid her upon her beam ends. A cry of\ndespair rose in one long, wailing sound, from every one on board; three\nof the crew were hurled into the mountainous ocean, and perished in a\nmoment. The vessel had been making a considerable quantity of water, but\nnot sufficient to cause alarm on that account; but now it was finding\nits way in by the companions from every wave that rolled over us. It is\nin moments such as these that the character of the seaman shines forth\nin all its lustre. For a few minutes, and no more, we were paralysed,\nand looked on in stupor, expecting to go down to the deep; still she\nfloated--the larboard side only a few inches out of the water; the wind\nhad perceptibly declined, still the sea ran as high as ever; and thus,\nfor several hours, we clung to fastenings, in expectation of her going\ndown every instant. We had it not in our power to do anything for our\nsafety; it seemed as if her cargo had shifted in the hold, and the first\nheavy sea would finish all. I cannot say how long this lasted; the rage\nof the tempest at length died away, and it became possible for us to\nact. Her fore and mizzen masts were cut away, when she righted\nconsiderably; and then we commenced to throw what of her cargo we could\nget at overboard, altering the remainder until she righted. When hope\nonce more dawned upon us, exhausted by hunger and fatigue, we stretched\nour weary limbs upon the deck, and sank to rest--the captain of the\nvessel taking the helm, and keeping watch with a few of his exhausted\ncrew, who were soon relieved by short watches, until their strength was\nrestored.\n\n\"Jurymasts were now erected, and we hoped to reach the coast of Portugal\nand refit; but our misfortunes had only commenced, for we found that our\nbread had been completely destroyed by the water we had made during the\nstorm; and, besides, we were not provisioned for a very protracted\nvoyage. It was at once agreed that both passengers and crew should go on\nshort allowance; and, as our vessel was both leaky and sailed badly\nunder her jurymasts, our prospects were now gloomy enough. Satan had\nnever left his berth since the coming on of the storm; but lay and\nblasphemed, and beat poor Pontoben as usual, his temper having evidently\nbecome worse under his privations, though he had many preserves and\nluxuries of his own private property. The captain and myself kept up our\nspirits, in the expectation of falling in with some vessel bound for\nEurope, in which case we would leave the Traussean; but we were not so\nfortunate; for scarce were we refitted from the wrecks of the hurricane,\nwhen we were becalmed for three weeks. I shall not attempt to describe\nthis our melancholy situation on the bosom of the ocean, that lay all\naround as still as death; its glassy brightness dazzling the eye under\nthe intense rays of the sun, and our scanty supply of provisions rapidly\nwearing done. A lingering death from famine seemed inevitable; despair\nbegan to steal upon us; anxiety and fear were visible in the\ncountenances of all. The pious became more fervent in their devotions,\nand the profane more choice in their expressions. All of us moved about\nthe vessel like spectres, seldom exchanging words, every one seemingly\nabsorbed in his own reflections. Vain was the attempt to call up a\ncheerful thought. If a laugh was heard, which some would attempt, it\nlooked more like madness than mirth, and grated upon the ear like some\nunearthly sound; while tales of fearful import and sad forebodings alone\ncould gain the attention of the listeners.\n\n\"This state of the ocean at length changed; a faint breeze sprang up;\nbut, alas! it was unsteady and baffling, and our crippled vessel was ill\nadapted for any but a leading wind. By observation, we were nearly\nequidistant from the coast of Portugal and the Cape; otherwise, to save\nour lives, we would have run the wreck of the Traussean back to Table\nBay. This plan was even urged by several of the crew; but overruled by\nthe captain and majority; for the reason that we could not depend upon\nthe wind lasting long enough to carry us there, and we had more chance\nto fall in with some vessel as we neared Europe. Scarcely able to stand\nto the pumps, for she needed clearing every twelve hours, we persevered\nin our course, the provisions being doled out in the smallest portions\nthat could sustain nature, and diminished till we resembled skeletons\nmore than men. When we commenced the voyage, there were a great many\nmonkeys, parrots, and other birds, intended as gifts to friends in\nEurope. These had long since been consumed by their owners; even the\nvermin we were so fortunate as to catch were indeed a luxury; and every\ninvention was put in practice to ensnare them. The preserves and private\nstock, everything that could sustain life, had been taken from Satan\nand the other passengers, and placed in the common stock; so that no one\nmight fare better than his fellow. We had for some time looked at each\nother with an evil eye, and to wish for a death, that we might avoid the\nnecessity of casting lots; for, strange to say, we clung to life the\nmore tenaciously the more our sufferings increased. I have often since\nbeen amazed to think that, for trivial sufferings or wounded pride, men\nwill voluntarily commit suicide; and yet, among twenty-five individuals,\nto any of whom a natural death would have been a kind relief, this\nfearful remedy was never thought of. With the keenest scrutiny we\ncounted the ships crew and passengers every morning, in hopes that some\none had died in the night. One morning, Pontoben, who had, even amidst\nthe ill-usage he received from his master, stood it out better than any\non board, was amissing, and a search was made for him through the ship\nin vain. At length he was found in his master's berth, beyond him,\ndead--the marks of strangulation upon his throat, evidence to us all\nthat Satan had strangled him through the night. The body was at once\ndemanded; but his master, with execrations, refused to deliver it up, as\nhe maintained the boy was his own property, and he would 'keep it for\nhis own use.' My blood ran cold as I looked upon the murdered boy and\nhis savage master. The lifeless corpse was torn from him, and mangled,\nto be consumed; but neither Captain H---- nor myself could look upon the\nhorrid mess, and several others were similarly affected; but Satan\ngloated over it, and cursed the others for depriving him of the whole.\n\n\"Our sufferings had now reached the limit of human endurance. We were\nunable to stand at the pumps even half-hour spells; and if we ceased to\nlighten the vessel we must soon founder. In this, our last extremity, it\nwas at last agreed to cast the fatal lot, to ascertain who was to die\nto save the rest. We could sustain the gnawing of hunger no longer.\nEvery article of leather, even our shoes, had been consumed. We were all\nassembled upon the quarterdeck, to bide our fate. Sunk and dispirited as\nwe were by famine, we all clung to life with a more intense desire than\nwe had ever done in more prosperous times. The arrangements were thus\nmade:--a large china jar was placed upon the binnacle, into which was\nput a scroll of paper for each person on board, cut and folded exactly\nalike. On one was wrote, 'Gracious God, pardon my sins, and receive my\nsoul, for Jesus' sake.' On the other, 'Merciful God, require not this\ninnocent blood at my hands.' He that drew the first was to die, and he\nthat drew the second was to be the executioner. All the other papers\nwere blank. Everything was prepared before us in the most equitable\nmanner. A period of thrilling suspense intervened, and, all being ready,\nthe captain walked first, placed his hand in the jar, and drew a lot. In\nlike manner, every one on board followed him, each holding his doom in\nhis hand unopened until all was drawn. Another fearful pause ensued.\nEach feared to unroll his paper. Good God! the fatal scroll was in my\nhand, and Satan was to be my butcher!\n\n\"I yet shudder when I call to mind the agony of that moment. All eyes\nbeamed joy, I thought, that they had escaped. I was for a moment\nstupified. Then my brain seemed to whirl round--the light forsook my\neyes--I became incapable of reflection; yet a nervous, convulsive energy\nmade me plead for mercy--a mere instinctive effort; for, had I been able\nto command my thoughts, they would have satisfied me that there was no\nhope. Satan stood by my side, with the knife in his hand, ready for his\nvictim, even yet, when my slumbers are uneasy, I see his tall, hideous\nfigure, rendered, at the time, doubly frightful by famine, standing over\nme, his knife at my throat, and Captain H---- in vain endeavouring to\nhold his hand. My agony and pleadings so melted the whole sufferers,\nthat it was resolved to delay my death until the shades of night had\nonce more covered the ocean, in hopes some ship might heave in sight\nbefore my fate was sealed; if not, the morning never was to dawn for\nme--that day was to be my last in time. Captain H---- kneeled, weeping,\nby my side. He was joined by all the crew, except the satanic planter,\nin heartfelt devotion, and earnest supplication for my deliverance.\nAlas! I could not mould my own thoughts to prayer: a thousand wandering\nfancies crowded through my mind, making all dark chaos, save the lurid\ncoruscations of the horrors of dissolution. Their prayers and\nsupplications sounded in my ears as if they were the noise of broken\nwater on a reef of rocks, in a gentle breeze; and if I mechanically\njoined, or kept imploring pardon and mercy through Jesus for my many\nsins, it was not prayer, for I felt neither peace nor hope while I\ncalled. My heart seemed to take little interest in what my lips were\nuttering. All appeared as if I had been suddenly thrown to the bottom of\na mine in utter darkness. Then, again, the glowing sun, that the day\nbefore seemed stationary in the heavens, so slow had appeared his\nprogress, now seemed to whirl with fearful velocity, as I occasionally\ncast up my despairing eyes to mark his progress.\n\n\"It was now past noon. Captain H---- still sat by my side, with my hand\nclasped affectionately in his, doing his utmost to prepare my soul for\nthe great change. I began slowly to recover from the stupor caused by\nthe sudden announcement of my horrid doom. I joined in prayer with him.\nNever again will I be more fit to die than I became towards the evening.\nI told the captain of the vessel I was now ready to submit to my lot. He\ncould not answer me, his heart was too full; the tears rolled down his\nrugged face, and with a groan he retired to his cabin. Satan, who had\neyed me from the first as if he repined at the delay I had obtained,\ncame forward. The men turned their backs. Captain H---- rose to his feet\nand pushed him back, saying I had been allowed to live until sundown,\nand I should have full time allowed. Some of the crew joined him. As for\nmyself, I had become weary of my horrible suspense.\n\n\"As had been the daily practice since our misfortunes began, several of\nthe crew had been stationed in our remaining mast-head, to look out for\nany vessel that might come in sight; even yet several continued to crawl\nup, to gaze over the expanse of waters, in hopes of relief. Often\nthrough this day had my imploring eyes been fixed on them with anxious\nlooks. Even while I felt weary of my suspense and wished it over, hope\nwould steal over my mind; there was yet some space ere sunset, and my\nprayers for pardon, spite of myself, would end in supplications for\ndeliverance. Suddenly a faint shout arose from the mast-head. It was\nrepeated. I started up, and in voluntarily joined, as it ran along the\ndeck, the blessed cry, 'A sail in sight!' There was life in the sound.\nMany wept, while others laughed aloud. Some clasped their hands in\nsilence, and raised their eyes to heaven. I sank upon my knees; tears of\ngratitude to God poured from my eyes; words were denied me, but my heart\nburned within me with love. I arose and joined the crew, who were gazing\nover the side at the welcome sight, which was nearing us fast. We fired\na gun and hung out a signal of distress, as the sun was now fast sinking\nin the west. She still neared us; but darkness was coming fast, and\nfearing to lose her, a lantern was fixed on the top, and minute guns\nwere fired. The strange vessel occasionally replied; and during this\nlast night of our misery no eye was closed. Each flash of her gun, less\ndistant as she replied, acted upon our depressed minds, inspiring hope.\nFaint as the wind was, it was evident that she neared us, and we\nsteered our almost waterlogged hulk towards the flash of her guns,\nin the best manner we could. When morning dawned, she was within a\nquarter-of-a-league of us. We now made her out to be a Portuguese\nmerchantman; but had she been an Algerine cruiser, we would have hailed\nher with delight. A boat put off from her, and was soon alongside. The\nofficer who came on board was shocked to witness our misery; for indeed\nwe resembled spectres more than men. She proved to be a Portuguese\ntrader of the largest class, bound for Brazil, laden with supplies.\nCaptain H----, who was acquainted with the captain, and spoke a little\nPortuguese, having been several times in Lisbon, acted as interpreter.\nLanguage was not required to tell our miserable state. The Portuguese\nacted with the utmost humanity, and stayed by us for two days. The\ncaptain himself came on board with the first boat load of supplies, and\nsuperintended their serving out--as great an act of humanity as\nfurnishing them; for the people on board the Traussean, now that\nprovisions were on board, became actually mutinous to obtain them--each\nman thinking he alone could have eat the whole supply, so ravenous did\nour appetites feel. We were, at first, only served with half a biscuit\neach, steeped in wine. Impatient as we were for this and much more, as\nsoon as it was given by our benefactors, numbers loathed it, and could\nnot swallow the morsel. I thought, upon receiving my portion, it was\ncruel mockery of our wants to give so little. My desires were all for\nfood, food; yet, when I put the first bit into my mouth, a sickness came\nover me--my stomach refused to receive it. Thus I sat with what my soul\nlonged for in my hand, yet unable to enjoy it, conscious that my\nexistence depended upon it; yet it was by several violent efforts I\nsucceeded in swallowing it. Soon after I fell sound asleep. All were not\naffected in the same manner. Some devoured their allowance and pleaded\nfor more, which was, for a space, refused, until it was thought safe to\ngratify the calls of hunger with more solid food. In about four hours I\nawoke from my sleep, with the most intense craving for food, much more\nso than I had felt during the famine. Captain H---- I found still asleep\nin his berth, to which he had retired. Ten of the crew of the Portuguese\nvessel were at our pumps and in charge of the vessel; for our own crew\nwere incapable of any exertion. All energy seemed to have forsaken us,\nnow that help had been so mercifully bestowed upon us. Gradually the\nallowance of food was increased to us, and next morning our vigour began\ngradually to return. Fortunately the weather was very fine. Our\ndeliverers lay close to us during the night; their boats had been\npassing between the vessels with all they could spare to supply our\nwants, and their own men cheerfully undertook the task we ourselves were\nincapable of. Having done all for us they could, even assisting to refit\nand search for the leak, on the evening of the second day they bade us\nfarewell, and proceeded on their voyage, amply rewarded for their\nkindness. The Portuguese captain made, at parting, a present to Captain\nH---- of six bottles of wine and some other necessaries; for he was now\nconfined to his berth, the privations he had so long endured having made\nhim very feverish and unwell.\n\n\"On the third day after we parted from the generous Portuguese, we\nreached the mouth of the Tagus, when the pilot came on board. He had\nalmost left the vessel again, so great was his alarm and surprise at our\nwretched appearance. We resembled a spectre ship. The Traussean was\nrefitted and ready to sail; but we resolved not to proceed farther in\nher. We could as readily get a passage from Lisbon to Britain as from\nAmsterdam; and what would have induced me to leave her more than what I\nhad suffered in her was the presence of the hated Satan. A feeling of\nhorror crept over me every time I saw him, after that fearful day during\nwhich I was doomed to death. His malign eyes were never off me, as he\nsat like a rattlesnake fascinating a poor squirrel or bird. I did not\nfear him; it was loathing that made me recoil from him. I could have\nencountered him in single combat with a feeling of satisfaction; but he\ngave me or no one a just ground of quarrel, and it was not my nature to\nfix one on him.\n\n\"Having settled with the captain of the Dutch vessel, and removed our\nluggage to the hotel, we remained several weeks, during which Captain\nH---- rapidly recovered. To amuse ourselves, we visited the English\nresident in the town; but our chief resort was to the house of Mr.\nB----, a Scottish merchant, who had a family of two sons and a\ndaughter--the young lady a most engaging girl, and very beautiful.\nCaptain H---- used to spend the most of his time in this family; and\ngradually I could observe a change in his manner and conversation. He\nbecame more gay and cheerful in his manner, at times; then, again, he\nwould resume all the melancholy he felt at our first acquaintance. I\nwas, for some time, at a loss to imagine what caused this change of\ntemper in him. One day, as we sat at breakfast, talking over old\nadventures, he said--\n\n\"'Square, I have observed that you have been rather surprised at my\nmanner of late. In truth, I do not wonder at it. I am not less surprised\nat it myself. That bewitching girl, Helen, has made a fool of me, I\nbelieve. The truth is, I love her to distraction, and fear to\nacknowledge it to myself; yet truth will out.'\n\n\"Then, leaning his head upon his hand, he sighed heavily, 'Poor Eliza!'\nI made no reply for a few minutes, as I was taken by surprise, and knew\nnot what to say. I was, involuntarily on my part, made his confidant. He\ntold me that he had not as yet declared his passion to Helen, and feared\nto do so, lest he should be rejected by her, as there was a young\nPortuguese noble very marked in his attentions. Jocularly, I began to\nlaugh him out of his fears, and urged a bold attempt to win her, if she\nwas his choice, now that he was rich enough to forego all toil and\ncare; for Bachelor Hall was but a lonely dwelling. Before noon, we\nparted--he to declare his unalterable love; I to make some calls upon a\nfew Scotch friends I had picked up. The day passed on cheerfully. I was\nreturning to our hotel as the shades of evening began to fall, having an\nappointment with Captain H---- to attend a party in the evening. I was\nposting quickly along, when, at the Church of St. Geremino, a little\ndistance from our hotel, I saw a crowd collect suddenly. My way led\nthrough the narrow thoroughfare. I passed on, resolved not to stop, when\nthe words 'Assassinated; poor gentleman!' fell upon my ear. Urged by\ncuriosity and humanity, I bustled through the crowd. In the centre lay\nthe captain, weltering in his blood. In a moment, he was supported in my\narms. Opening his eyes, he recognised me, and said--\n\n\"'Square, I have been cowardly murdered by some villain.'\n\n\"Urging silence upon him, I had him immediately conveyed home to our\nhotel, and the surgeon sent for to examine his wound. To my great joy,\nit proved not fatal, but dangerous. The poniard had taken, fortunately,\nan upward direction--entering the left breast, and passing outwards to\nthe top of the shoulder. For several days he lay dangerously ill. In\nsuch a city as Lisbon, it was of no use to offer a reward or make\ninquiries after the assassin, even had death ensued. Mr. B---- and his\nsons called regularly upon him every day, to inquire after him and visit\nhis sick-bed. After he was able to sit up, Helen, attended by her\nbrothers, waited upon him. I was present at their interview. The\ncaptain, on the day of which I have spoken before, had called upon\nHelen, resolved to know her sentiments of him, and either declare his\nlove or to banish her from his mind. The Portuguese noble was also\npresent when he called. Helen's preference had been too apparent; yet no\nopportunity offered for him to declare his passion. His rival watched\nwith jealous care, and seemed determined to wait him out; yet no\nanimosity appeared in his manner; all was, to appearance, joy and mirth.\nThe captain bade Helen adieu, to keep his appointment at the British\nConsul's; Helen gave him her hand to kiss: an interchange of looks had\nfired the Portuguese to madness; quickly he had followed; and, as he\nthought, slain his hated rival. All this had been discovered shortly\nafter the event. But to return.\n\n\"When Helen and her brothers entered, the captain lay upon his couch,\npropped up with pillows. She approached, pale, and evidently overcome by\nemotion; joy beamed in the captain's eye; he stretched forth his hand to\nwelcome her, and she was in the act of presenting hers, when the\ncaptain's hand sank, and he fell back upon the pillows, pale and\novercome. His eye was fixed upon her hand, which had sunk by her side.\nWe looked on in astonishment. In a few minutes the captain recovered,\nand was the first to speak--\n\n\"'Excuse this burst of feeling I cannot control; this moment has\nrecalled to memory the most miserable event of my life. Lady, that\nring?' pointing to her hand with a melancholy smile.\n\n\"'I got it from my poor cousin at her death,' she said.\n\n\"'Thank God!' the captain ejaculated. 'It was once mine; the gift of one\nI loved dearer than life--my dear Eliza, now no more.\"\n\n\"While he said this, the brothers looked upon each other astonished,\nwhile Ellen hung her head, and turned deadly pale. The whole party were\nmuch embarrassed, until the captain gave them an account of his first\nlove, and its fatal issue. During the recital I could see the tears swim\nin Helen's eyes. She took the ring from her finger, and presented it to\nthe captain, who kissed it with fervour, and placed it upon his bosom\nfor a moment, saying--\n\n\"'Dearest Helen, will you be to me all that Eliza was, and allow me to\nkeep this as a token of your promise, until I am thought by you and your\nrelations worthy of you?'\n\n\"Helen blushed, and made no reply; but her eyes were eloquent. Her\nbrothers said they felt themselves honoured, and would consult their\nfather. All were now happy. The elder brother told us the history of the\nring, as far as he knew, as follows:--\n\n\"Their cousin Katherine, a young lady of great expectations and good\nfortune, had been betrothed to a Scotchman in Holland, where she resided\nwith her mother, a widowed sister of their father's; before their\nmarriage, her lover, who had fallen in a duel on the frontiers of\nFrance, had given her the ring. After his premature death, she had\nfallen into a bad state of health, and come to Lisbon to reside, where\nshe breathed her last in the arms of Helen, bequeathing her the ring and\nother jewels of value.\n\n\"Captain H---- now removed to the house of Mr B----, his acknowledged\nfather-in-law to be. I remained no longer in Lisbon than a few weeks\nafter the ceremony, when I bade adieu to Captain H---- and his bride,\nand embarked on board the Emelie for London, many pounds the poorer for\nmy stay in Lisbon; yet rich: I was possessed of several hundred pounds;\nmy mind was more harassed how to lay them out to advantage than it had\nbeen to earn them. In truth I was so unstable in my resolves, I\nsometimes wished I was once again as poor as I was when I left Edinburgh\nfirst with Captain H----\"\n\nEND OF VOL. VII\n\n\n\n\n\n<pre id=\"pg-footer\">","title":"Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland, Volume 07","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":93980}