{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_34147/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_34147","id":"gutenberg_34147","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/34147","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. VIII.\n\nLONDON:\n\nWALTER SCOTT, 14 PATERNOSTER SQUARE\n\nAND NEWCASTLE-UPON-TYNE.\n\n1885.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS.\n\nTHE DOOM OF SOULIS, _(JOHN MACKAY WILSON)_\n\nHARDEN'S REVENGE, _(ALEXANDER LEIGHTON)_\n\nTHE PHYSIOGNOMIST'S TALE, _(OLIVER RICHARDSON)_\n\nTHE GOOD MAN OF DRYFIELD, _(ALEXANDER CAMPBELL)_\n\nTHE SURGEON'S TALES, _(ALEXANDER LEIGHTON)_\n\n    THE CHERRY-STONE\n    THE HENWIFE\n    THE ARTIST\n\nTHE BRIDE, _(JOHN MACKAY WILSON)_\n\nTHE HENPECKED MAN, _(JOHN MACKAY WILSON)_\n\nMORTLAKE.--A LEGEND OF MERTON, _(JAMES MAIDMENT)_\n\nTHE SERJEANT'S TALES, _(JOHN HOWELL)_\n\n    THE BEGGAR'S CAMP\n\nLEEIN JAMIE MURDIESTON, _(ALEXANDER CAMPBELL)_\n\nDUNCAN M'ARTHUR, _(ALEXANDER CAMPBELL)_\n\n\n\n\nWILSON'S TALES OF THE BORDERS, AND OF SCOTLAND.\n\n\n\n\nTHE DOOM OF SOULIS.\n\n    \"They roll'd him up in a sheet of lead--\n      A sheet of lead for a funeral pall;\n    They plunged him in the caldron red,\n      And melted him--lead, and bones, and all.\"--LEYDEN.\n\n\nA Gazetteer would inform you that Denholm is a village beautifully\nsituated near the banks of the Teviot, about midway between Jedburgh and\nHawick, and in the Parish of Cavers; and perhaps, if of modern date, it\nwould add, it has the honour of being the birth-place of Dr. Leyden.\nHowever, it was somewhat early on a summer morning, a few years ago,\nthat a young man, a stranger, with a fishing-rod in his hand, and a\ncreel fastened to his shoulders, entered the village. He stood in the\nmidst of it, and, turning round--\"This, then,\" said he, \"is the\nbirth-place of Leyden--the son of genius--the martyr of study--the\nfriend of Scott!\"\n\nFew of the villagers were astir; and at the first he met--who carried a\nspade over his shoulder, and appeared to be a ditcher--he inquired if he\ncould show him the house in which the bard and scholar was born.\n\n\"Ou, ay, sir,\" said the man, \"I wat I can; I'll show ye that instantly,\nand proud to show you it, too.\"\n\n\"That is good,\" thought the stranger; \"the prophet is dead, but he yet\nspeaketh--he hath honour in his own country.\"\n\nThe ditcher conducted him across the green, and past the end of a house,\nwhich was described as being the school-house, and was newly built, and\nled him towards a humble building, the height of which was but a single\nstorey, and which was found occupied by a millwright as a workshop. Yet,\nagain, the stranger rejoiced to find that the occupier venerated his\npremises for the poet's sake, and that he honoured the genius of him who\nwas born in their precincts.\n\n\"Dash it!\"[1] said the stranger, quoting the habitual phrase of poor\nLeyden, \"I shall fish none to-day.\"\n\n[Footnote 1: This was a common expression of Leyden's, and, perhaps, was\nin some degree expressive of his headlong and determined character.]\n\nAnd I wonder not at his having so said; for it is not every day that we\nstand beneath the thatch-clad roof--or any other roof--where was born\none whose name time will bear written in undying characters on its\nwings, until those wings droop in the darkness of eternity.\n\nThe stranger proceeded up the Teviot, oftentimes thinking of Leyden, of\nall that he had written, and occasionally repeating passages aloud. He\nalmost forgot that he had a rod in his hand--his eyes did anything but\nfollow the fly, and, I need hardly say, his success was not great.\n\nAbout mid-day, he sat down on the green bank in solitariness, to enjoy a\nsandwich, and he also placed by his side a small flask, containing\nspirits, which almost every angler, who can afford it, carries with him.\nBut he had not sat long, when a venerable-looking old man saluted him\nwith--\n\n\"Here's a bonny day, sir.\"\n\nThe old man stood as he spoke. There was something prepossessing in his\nappearance he had a weatherbeaten face, with thin white hair, blue eyes,\nthat had lost somewhat of their former lustre, his shoulders were rather\nbent; and he seemed a man who was certainly neither rich nor affluent,\nbut who was at ease with the world, and the world was at ease with him.\n\nThey entered into conversation, and they sat down together. The old man\nappeared exactly one of those characters whom you will occasionally find\nfraught with the traditions of the Borders, and still tainted with, and\nhalf believing in, their ancient superstitions. I wish not to infer that\nsuperstition was carried to a greater height of absurdity on the Borders\nthan in other parts of England and Scotland, nor even that the\ninhabitants of the North were as remarkable in early days for their\nsuperstitions, as they now are for their intelligence; for every nation\nhad its superstitions, and I am persuaded that most of them might be\ntraced to a common origin. Yet, though the same in origin, they change\ntheir likeness with the character of a nation or district. People\nunconsciously made their superstitions to suit themselves, though their\nimaginary effects still terrified them. There was, therefore, a\nsomething characteristic in the fables of our forefathers, which fables\nthey believed as facts. The cunning deceived the ignorant--the ignorant\nwere willing to deceive themselves; and what we now laugh at as the\nclever trick of a _hocus-pocus_ man, was, scarce more than a century\nago, received as a miracle--as a thing performed by the hand of the\n\"prince of the powers of the air.\" Religion without knowledge, and still\nswaddled in darkness, fostered their idle fear; yea, there are few\nsuperstitions, though prostituted by wickedness, that did not owe their\nexistence to some glimmering idea of religion. They had not seen the\nlamp which lightens the soul, and leadeth it to knowledge; but having\nperceived its far-off reflection, plunged into the quagmire of\nerror--and hence proceeded superstition.\n\nBut I digress into a descant on the superstitions of our fathers, nor\nshould I have done so, but that it is impossible to write a Border tale\nof the olden time without bringing them forward, and, when I do so, it\nis not with the intention of instilling into the minds of my readers the\nold idea of sorcery, witchcraft, and visible spirits, but of showing\nwhat was the belief and conduct of our forefathers. Therefore, without\nfurther comment, I shall cut short these remarks, and simply observe,\nthat the thoughts of the young stranger still running upon Leyden, he\nturned to the elder, after they had sat together for some time, and\nsaid--\n\n\"Did you know Dr. Leyden, sir?\"\n\n\"Ken him!\" said the old man; \"fifty year ago, I've wrought day's wark\nbeside his father for months together.\"\n\nThey continued their conversation for some time, and the younger\ninquired of the elder if he were acquainted with Leyden's ballad of\n\"Lord Soulis.\"\n\n\"Why, I hae heard a verse or twa o' the ballad, sir,\" said the old man;\n\"but I'm sure everybody kens the story. However, if ye're no perfectly\nacquaint wi' it, I'm sure I'm willing to let ye hear it wi' great\npleasure; and a remarkable story it is--and just as true, sir, ye may\ntak my word on't, as that I'm raising this bottle to my lips.\"\n\nSo saying, the old man raised the flask to his mouth, and, after a\nregular fisher's draught, added--\n\n\"Weel, sir, I'll let ye hear the story about Lord Soulis:--You have no\ndoubt heard of Hermitage Castle, which stands upon the river of that\nname, at no great distance from Hawick. In the days of the great and\ngood King Robert the Bruce, that castle was inhabited by Lord Soulis.[2]\nHe was a man whose very name spread terror far and wide; for he was a\ntyrant and a sorcerer. He had a giant's strength, an evil eye,[3] and a\ndemon's heart, and he kept his _familiar_[4] locked in a chest. Peer and\npeasant became pale at the name of Lord Soulis. His hand smote down the\nstrong, his eye blasted the healthy; he oppressed the poor, and he\nrobbed the rich. He ruled over his vassals with a rod of iron. From the\nbanks of the Tweed, the Teviot, and the Jed, with their tributaries, to\nbeyond the Lothians, an incessant cry was raised against him to heaven\nand to the king. But his life was protected by a charm, and mortal\nweapons could not prevail against him.\"\n\n[Footnote 2: He was also proprietor of Eccles, in Berwickshire, and,\naccording to history, was seized in the town of Berwick; but tradition\nsaith otherwise.]\n\n[Footnote 3: There is, perhaps, no superstition more widely diffused\nthan the belief in the fascination of an evil eye, or a malignant\nglance; and, I am sorry to say, the absurdity has still its believers.]\n\n[Footnote 4: Each sorcerer was supposed to have his familiar spirit,\nthat accompanied him; but Soulis was said to keep his locked in a\nchest.]\n\nThe seriousness with which the narrator said this, showed that he gave\nfull credit to the tradition, and believed in Lord Soulis as a sorcerer.\n\n\"He was a man of great stature, and his person was exceeding powerful.\nHe had also royal blood in his veins, and laid claim to the crown of\nScotland, in opposition to the Bruce. But two things troubled him: and\nthe one was, to place the crown of Scotland on his head; the other, to\npossess the hand of a fair and rich, maiden, named Marion, who was about\nto wed with Walter, the young heir of Branxholm, the stoutest and the\nboldest youth on all the wide Borders. Soulis was a man who was not only\nof a cruel heart, but it was filled with forbidden thoughts; and, to\naccomplish his purpose, he went down into the dungeon of his castle, in\nthe dead of night, that no man might see him perform the 'deed without a\nname.' He carried a small lamp in his hand, which threw around a lurid\nlight, like a glow-worm in a sepulchre; and as he went, he locked the\ndoors behind him. He carried a cat in his arms; behind him a dog\nfollowed timidly, and before him, into the dungeon, he drove a young\nbull, that had 'never nipped the grass.' He entered the deep and the\ngloomy vault, and, with a loud voice, he exclaimed--\n\n\"'Spirit of darkness! I come!\n\n\"He placed the feeble lamp upon the ground, in the middle of the vault;\nand with a pick-axe, which he had previously prepared, he dug a pit, and\nburied the cat alive; and as the poor suffocating creature mewed, he\nexclaimed the louder--\n\n\"'Spirit of darkness! come!'\n\n\"He then leaped upon the grave of the living animal, and, seizing the\ndog by the neck, he dashed it violently against the wall, towards the\nleft corner where he stood, and, unable to rise, it lay howling long and\npiteously on the floor. Then did he plunge his knife into the throat of\nthe young bull, and, while its bleatings mingled with the howling of the\ndying dog, amidst what might be called the blue darkness of the vault,\nhe received the blood in the palms of his hands, and he stalked around\nthe dungeon, sprinkling it in circle, and crying with a loud voice--\n\n\"'Spirit of darkness! hear me!'\n\n\"Again he digged a pit, and, seizing the dying animal, he hurled it into\nthe grave, feet upwards;[5] and again he groaned, while the sweat stood\non his brow, 'Come, spirit! come!'\n\n[Footnote 5: These are the recorded practices which sorcerers resorted\nto, when they wished to have a _glimpse_ of _invisible_ spirits.]\n\n\"He took a horse-shoe, which had lain in the vault for years, and which\nwas called, in the family, the _spirit's shoe_, and he nailed it against\nthe door, so that it hung obliquely;[6] and, as he gave the last blow to\nthe nail, again he cried--'Spirit, I obey thee! come!'\n\n[Footnote 6: In the account of the trial of Elizabeth Bathgate, wife of\nAlexander Pae, maltman in Eyemouth, one of the accusations in the\nindictment against her was, that she had \"ane horse-schoe in ane darnet\nand secriet pairt of your dur, keepit by you thairopoun, as ane devilish\nmeanis and instructions from the devill.\" But the superstitions of the\nBorders, which it is necessary to illustrate in these Tales, as\nexemplifying the character of our forefathers, are more particularly\ndwelt upon, and their absurdity unmasked, in the Tales entitled, \"Betty\nBathgate, the Witch of Eyemouth;\" \"Peggy Stoddart, the Witch of\nEdlingham;\" and \"The Laidley Worm of Spindlestone Heugh.\"]\n\n\"Afterwards, he took his place in the middle of the floor, and nine\ntimes he scattered around him a handful of salt, at each time\nexclaiming--\n\n\"'Spirit! arise!'\n\n\"Then did he strike thrice nine times with his hand upon a chest which\nstood in the middle of the floor, and by its foot was the pale lamp, and\nat each blow he cried--\n\n\"'Arise, spirit! arise!'\n\n\"Therefore, when he had done these things, and cried twenty-and-seven\ntimes, the lid of the chest began to move, and a fearful figure, with a\nred cap[7] upon its head, and which resembled nothing in heaven above,\nor on earth below, rose, and, with a hollow voice,[8] inquired--\n\n[Footnote 7: Red-cap is a name given to spirits supposed to haunt\ncastles.]\n\n[Footnote 8: In the proceedings regarding Sir George Maxwell, it is\ngravely set forth, that the voice of evil spirits is \"rough and\ngoustie;\" and, to crown all, Lilly, in his \"Life and Times,\" informs us,\nthat they speak Erse; and, adds he, \"when they do so, it's like\nIrishmen, much in the throat!\"]\n\n\"'What want ye, Soulis?'\n\n\"'Power, spirit! power!' he cried, 'that mine eyes may have their\ndesire, and that every weapon formed by man may fall scatheless on my\nbody, as the spent light of a waning moon!'\n\n\"'Thy wish is granted, mortal!' groaned the fiend; 'to-morrow eve, young\nBranxholm's bride shall sit within thy bower, and his sword return bent\nfrom thy bosom, as though he had dashed it against a rock. Farewell!\ninvoke me not again for seven years, nor open the door of the vault, but\nthen knock thrice upon the chest, and I will answer thee. Away! follow\nthy course of sin, and prosper; _but beware of a coming wood_!'\n\n\"With a loud and sudden noise, the lid of the massy chest fell, and the\nspirit disappeared, and from the floor of the vault issued a deep\nsound, like the reverbing of thunder. Soulis took up the flickering\nlamp, and, leaving the dying dog still howling in the corner, whence he\nhad driven it, he locked the iron door, and placed the huge key in his\nbosom.\n\n\"In the morning, his vassals came to him, and they preyed him on their\nbended knees that he would lessen the weight of their hard bondage; but\nhe laughed at their prayers, and answered them with stripes. He\noppressed the widow, and persecuted the fatherless; he defied the\npowerful, and trampled on the weak. His name spread terror wheresoever\nit was breathed, and there was not in all Scotland a man more feared\nthan the Wizard Soulis, the Lord of Hermitage.\n\n\"He rode forth in the morning, with twenty of his chosen men behind him;\nand wheresoever they passed the castle or the cottage, where the\noccupier was the enemy of Soulis, or denied his right to the crown,[9]\nthey fired the latter, destroyed the cattle around the former, or he\nsprinkled upon them the dust of a dead man's hand, that a murrain might\ncome amongst them.\n\n[Footnote 9: If legitimacy could have been proved on the part of the\ngrandmother of Lord Soulis, he certainly was a nearer heir to the crown\nthan either Bruce or Baliol.]\n\n\"But, as they rode by the side of the Teviot, he beheld fair Marion, the\nbetrothed bride of young Walter, the heir of Branxholm, riding forth\nwith her maidens, and pursuing the red-deer.\n\n\"'By this token, spirit!' muttered Soulis, joyously, 'thou hast not\nlied--to-night young Branxholm's bride shall sit within my bower!'\n\n\"He dashed the spur into the side of his fleet steed, and, although\nMarion and her attendants forsook the chase, and fled, as they perceived\nhim, yet, as though his _familiar_ gave speed to his horse's feet, in a\nfew seconds he rode by the side of Marion, and, throwing out his arm, he\nlifted her from the saddle, while her horse yet flew at its fastest\nspeed, and continued its course without its fair rider. She screamed\naloud, she struggled wildly, but her attendants had fled afar off, and\nher strength was feeble as an insect's web in his terrible embrace. He\nheld her upon the saddle before him--\n\n\"'Marion!--fair Marion!' said the wizard and ruffian lover, 'scream\nnot--struggle not--be calm, and hear me. I love thee, pretty one!--I\nlove thee!' and he rudely raised her lips to his. 'Fate hath decreed\nthou shalt be mine, Marion, and no human power shall take thee from me.\nWeep not--strive not. Hear ye not, I love thee--love thee fiercely,\nmadly, maiden, as a she-wolf doth its cubs. As a river seeketh the sea,\nso have I sought thee, Marion, and now, thou art mine--fate hath given\nthee unto me, and thy fair cheek shall rest upon a manlier bosom than\nthat of Branxholm's beardless heir.' Thus saying, and still grasping her\nbefore him, he again plunged his spurs into his horse's sides, and he\nand his followers rode furiously towards Hermitage Castle.\n\n\"He locked the gentle Marion within a strong chamber, he\n\n    'Woo'd her as the lion woos his bride.'\n\nAnd now she wept, she wrung her hands, she tore her raven hair before\nhim, and it hung dishevelled over her face and upon her shoulders. She\nimplored him to save her, to restore her to liberty; and again finding\nher tears wasted and her prayers in vain, she defied him, she invoked\nthe vengeance of Heaven upon his head; and, at such moments, the tyrant\nand the reputed sorcerer stood awed and stricken in her presence. For\nthere is something in the majesty of virtue, and the holiness of\ninnocence, as they flash from the eyes of an injured woman, which\ndeprives guilt of its strength, and defeats its purpose, as though\nHeaven lent its electricity to defend the weak.\n\n\"But, wearied with importunity, and finding his threats of no effect, on\nthe third night that she had been within his castle, he clutched her in\nhis arms, and, while his vassals slept, he bore her to the haunted\ndungeon, that the spirit might throw its spell over her, and compel her\nto love him. He unlocked the massy door. The faint howls of the dog were\nstill heard from the corner of the vault. He placed the lamp upon the\nground. He still held the gentle Marion to his side, and her terror had\nalmost mastered her struggles. He struck his clenched hand upon the huge\nchest--he cried aloud, 'Spirit! come forth!'\n\n\"Thrice he repeated the blow--thrice he uttered aloud his invocation.\nBut the spirit arose not at his summons. Marion knew the tale of his\nsorcery--she knew and believed it--and terror deprived her of\nconsciousness. On recovering, she found herself again in the strong\nchamber where she had been confined, but Soulis was not with her. She\nstrove to calm her fears, she knelt down and told her beads, and she\nbegged that her Walter might be sent to her deliverance.\n\n\"It was scarce daybreak when the young heir of Branxholm, whose bow no\nman could bend, and whose sword was terrible in battle, with twice ten\narmed men, arrived before Hermitage Castle, and demanded to speak with\nLord Soulis. The warder blew his horn, and Soulis and his attendants\ncame forth and looked over the battlement.\n\n\"'What want ye, boy,' inquired the wizard chief, 'that, ere the sun be\nrisen, ye come to seek the lion in his den?'\n\n\"'I come,' replied young Walter, boldly, 'in the name of our good king,\nand by his authority, to demand that ye give into my hands, safe and\nsound, my betrothed bride, lest vengeance come upon thee.'\n\n\"'Vengeance, beardling!' rejoined the sorcerer; 'who dare speak of\nvengeance on the house of Soulis?--or whom call ye king? The crown is\nmine--thy bride is mine, and thou also shalt be mine; and a dog's death\nshalt thou die for thy morning's boasting.'\n\n\"'To arms!' he exclaimed, as he disappeared from the battlement, and\nwithin a few minutes a hundred men rushed from the gate.\n\n\"Sir Walter's little band quailed as they beheld the superior force of\ntheir enemies, and they were in dread also of the sorcery of Soulis. But\nhope revived within them when they beheld the look of confidence on the\ncountenance of their young leader, and thought of the strength of his\narm, and the terror which his sword spread.\n\n\"As hungry tigers spring upon their prey, so rushed Soulis and his\nvassals upon Sir Walter and his followers. No man could stand before the\nsword of the sorcerer. Antagonists fell as impotent things before his\ngiant strength. Even Walter marvelled at the havoc he made, and he\npressed forward to measure swords with him. But, ere he could reach him,\nhis few followers who had escaped the hand of Soulis and his host fled,\nand left him to maintain the battle single-handed. Every vassal of the\nsorcerer, save three, pursued them; and against these three, and their\ncharmed lord, young Walter was left to maintain the unequal strife. But,\nas they pressed around him, 'Back!' cried Soulis, trusting to his\nstrength and to his charm; 'from my hand alone must Branxholm's young\nboaster meet his doom. It is meet that I should give his head as a toy\nto my bride, fair Marion.'\n\n\"'Thy bride, fiend!' exclaimed Sir Walter; 'thine!--now perish!' and he\nattacked him furiously.\n\n\"'Ha! ha!' cried Soulis, and laughed at the impetuosity of his\nantagonist, while he parried his thrusts; 'take rushes for thy weapon,\nboy; steel falls feckless upon me.'\n\n\"'Vile sorcerer!' continued Walter, pressing upon him more fiercely,\n'this sword shall sever thy enchantment.'\n\n\"Again Soulis laughed; but he found that his contempt availed him not,\nfor the strength of his enemy was equal to his own, and, in repelling\nhis fierce assaults, he almost forgot the charm which rendered his body\ninvulnerable. They fought long and desperately, when one of the\nfollowers of Soulis, suddenly and unobserved, thrusting his spear into\nthe side of Sir Walter's horse, it reared, stumbled, and fell, and\nbrought him to the ground.\n\n\"'An arrow-schot!'[10] exclaimed Soulis. 'Wherefore, boy, didst thou\npresume to contend with me?' And suddenly springing from his horse, he\npressed his iron heel upon the breast of his foe, and turning also the\npoint of his sword towards his throat, 'Thou shalt not die yet,' said\nhe; and turning to the three attendants who had not followed in the\npursuit, he added, 'Hither--bind him fast and sure.' Then did the three\nhold him on the ground, and bind his hands and his feet, while Soulis\nheld his naked sword over him.\n\n[Footnote 10: When cattle died suddenly, it was believed to be by an\narrow-shot--that is, shot or struck down by the invisible dart of a\nsorcerer.]\n\n\"'Coward and wizard!' exclaimed Walter, as they dragged him within the\ngate, 'ye shall rue this foul treachery.'\n\n\"'Ha! ha! vain boasting boy!' returned Soulis, 'thou indeed shalt rue\nthy recklessness.'\n\n\"He caused his vassals to bear Walter into the strong chamber where fair\nMarion was confined, and, grasping him by the neck, while he held his\nsword to his breast, he dragged him towards her, and said, sternly,\n'Consent thee now, maiden, to be mine, and this boy shall live; refuse,\nand his head shall roll before thee on the floor as a plaything.'\n\n\"'Monster!' she exclaimed, and screamed aloud, 'would ye harm my\nWalter?'\n\n\"'Ha! my Marion!--Marion!' cried Walter, struggling to be free. And,\nturning his eyes fiercely upon Soulis--'Destroy me fiend,' he added,\n'but harm not her.'\n\n\"'Think on it, maiden,' cried the sorcerer, raising his sword; 'the life\nof thy bonny bridegroom hangs upon thy word. But ye shall have until\nmidnight to reflect on it. Be mine, then, and harm shall not come upon\nhim or thee; but a man shall be thy husband, and not the boy whom he\nhath brought to thee in bonds.'\n\n\"'Beshrew thee, vile sorcerer!' rejoined Walter. 'Were my hands unbound,\nand unarmed as I am, I would force my way from thy prison, in spite of\nthee and thine!'\n\n\"Soulis laughed scornfully, and again added, 'Think on it, fair Marion.'\n\n\"Then did he drag her betrothed bridegroom to a corner of the chamber,\nand ordering a strong chain to be brought, he fettered him against the\nwall; in the same manner, he fastened her to the opposite side of the\napartment--but the chains with which he bound her were made of silver.\n\n\"When they were left alone, 'Mourn not, sweet Marion,' said Walter, 'and\nthink not of saving me--before to-morrow our friends will be here to thy\nrescue; and, though I fall a victim to the vengeance of the sorcerer,\nstill let me be the bridegroom of thy memory.'\n\n\"Marion wept bitterly, and said that she would die with him.\n\n\"Throughout the day, the spirit of Lord Soulis was troubled, and the\nfear of coming evil sat heavy on his heart. He wandered to and fro on\nthe battlements of his castle, anxiously looking for the approach of his\nretainers, who had followed in pursuit of the followers of Branxholm's\nheir. But the sun set, and the twilight drew on, and still they came\nnot; and it was drawing towards midnight when a solitary horseman\nspurred his jaded steed towards the castle gate. Soulis admitted him\nwith his own hand into the courtyard; and, ere the rider had dismounted,\nhe inquired of him hastily, and in a tone of apprehension--\n\n\"'Where be thy fellows, knave? and why come alone?'\n\n\"'Pardon me, my lord,' said the horseman, falteringly, as he dismounted;\n'thy faithful bondsman is the bearer of evil tidings.'\n\n\"'Evil, slave!' exclaimed Soulis, striking him as he spoke; 'speak ye of\nevil to me! What of it?--where are thy fellows?'\n\n\"The man trembled and added--'In pursuing the followers of Branxholm,\nthey sought refuge in the wilds of Tarras, and being ignorant of the\nwinding paths through its bottomless morass, horses and men have been\nburied in it--they who sank not fell beneath the swords of those they\nhad pursued, and I only have escaped.'\n\n\"'And wherefore did ye escape, knave?' cried the fierce sorcerer; 'why\ndid ye live to remind me of the shame of the house of Soulis?' And, as\nhe spoke, he struck the trembling man again.\n\n\"He hurried to the haunted dungeon, and again performed his\nincantations, with impatience in his manner and fury in his looks.\nThrice he violently struck the chest, and thrice he exclaimed,\nimpetuously--\n\n\"'Spirit! come forth!--arise and speak with me!'\n\n\"The lid was lifted up, and a deep and angry voice said, 'Mortal!\nwherefore hast thou summoned me before the time I commanded thee? Was\nnot thy wish granted? Steel shall not wound thee--cords bind thee--hemp\nhang thee--nor water drown thee. Away!'\n\n\"'Stay!' exclaimed Soulis--'add, nor fire consume me!'\n\n\"'Ha! ha!' cried the spirit, in a fit of horrid laughter, that made even\nthe sorcerer tremble. '_Beware of a coming wood!_' And, with a loud\nclang, the lid of the chest fell, and the noise as of thunder beneath\nhis feet was repeated.\n\n\"'Beware of a coming wood!' muttered Soulis to himself; 'what means the\nfiend?'\n\n\"He hastened from the dungeon without locking the door behind him, and\nas he hurried from it, he drew the key from his bosom, and flung it over\nhis left shoulder, crying 'Keep it, spirit!'\n\n\"He shut himself up in his chamber to ponder on the words of his\nfamiliar, and on the extirpation of his followers; and he thought not of\nMarion and her bridegroom until daybreak, when, with a troubled and a\nwrathful countenance, he entered the apartment where they were fettered.\n\n\"'How now, fair maiden,' he began; 'hast thou considered well my\nwords?--wilt thou be my willing bride, and let young Branxholm live? or\nrefuse, and look thy fill on his smooth face as his head adorns the\npoint of my good spear?'\n\n\"'Rather than see her thine,' exclaimed Walter, 'I would thou shouldst\nhew me in pieces, and fling my mangled body to your hounds.'\n\n\"'Troth! and 'tis no bad thought,' said the sorcerer; 'thou mayest have\nthy wish. Yet, boy, ye think that I have no mercy: I will teach thee\nthat I have, and refined mercy too. Now, tell me truly, were I in thy\npower as thou art in mine, what fate would ye award to Soulis?'\n\n\"'Then truly,' replied Walter, 'I would hang thee on the highest tree in\nBranxholm Woods.'\n\n\"'Well spoken, young Strong-bow,' returned Soulis; 'and I will show thee,\nthough ye think I have no mercy, that I am more merciful than thou.' Ye\nwould choose for me the highest tree, but I shall _give thee the choice\nof the tree from which you may prefer your body to hang_, and from whose\ntop the owl may sing its midnight song, and to which the ravens shall\ngather for a feast. And thou, pretty face,' added he, turning to Marion,\n'sith you will not, even to save him, give me thine hand, i'faith, if I\nmay not be thy husband, I will be thy priest, and celebrate your\nmarriage, for I will bind your hands together, and ye shall hang on the\nnext branch to him.'\n\n\"'For that I thank thee,' said the undaunted maiden.\n\n\"He then called together his four remaining armed men, and placing\nhalters round the necks of his intended victims, they were dragged forth\nto the woods around the Hermitage, where Walter was to choose the fatal\ntree.\n\n\"Now a deep mist covered the face of the earth, and they could perceive\nno object at the distance of half a bow-shot before them; and ere he had\napproached the wood where he was to carry his merciless project into\nexecution--\n\n\"'The wood comes towards us!' exclaimed one of his followers.\n\n\"'What!--_the wood comes!_' cried Soulis, and his cheek became pale, and\nhe thought on the words of the demon--'_Beware of a coming wood!_'--and,\nfor a time, their remembrance, and the forest that seemed to advance\nbefore him, deprived his arm of strength, and his mind of resolution,\nand before his heart recovered, the followers of the house of Branxholm,\nto the number of fourscore, each bearing a tall branch of a rowan-tree\nin their hands,[11] as a charm against his sorcery, perceived, and\nraising a loud shout, surrounded him.\n\n[Footnote 11: It is probable that the legend of the \"_coming wood_,\"\nreferred to in the traditions respecting Lord Soulis, is the same as that\nfrom which Shakspere takes Macbeth's charm--\n\n    \"Till Birnam Wood shall come to Dunsinane.\"\n\nThe circumstances are similar.]\n\n\"The cords with which the arms of Marion and Walter were bound were\ninstantly cut asunder. But, although the odds against him were as twenty\nto one, the daring Soulis defied them all. Yea, when his followers were\noverpowered, his single arm dealt death around.\n\n\"Now, there was not a day passed that complaints were not brought to\nKing Robert, from those residing on the Borders, against Lord Soulis,\nfor his lawless oppression, his cruelty, and his wizard-craft. And, one\nday, there came before the monarch, one after another, some complaining\nthat he had brought diseases on their cattle, or destroyed their houses\nby fire, and a third, that he had stolen away the fair bride of\nBranxholm's heir, and they stood before the king, and begged to know\nwhat should be done with him. Now, the king was wearied with their\nimportunities and complaints, and he exclaimed, peevishly and\nunthinkingly, '_boil him, if you please, but let me hear no more about\nhim_.' But,\n\n      \"'It is the curse of kings to be attended\n    By slaves that take their humour for a warrant;'\n\nand, when the enemies of Soulis heard these words from the lips of the\nking, they hastened away to put them in execution; and with them they\ntook a wise man, one who was learned in breaking the spells of\nsorcery,[12] and with him he carried a scroll, on which was written the\nsecret wisdom of Michael the Wizard; and they arrived before Hermitage\nCastle, while its lord was contending single-handed against the\nretainers of Branxholm, and their swords were blunted on his buckler,\nand his body received no wounds. They struck him to the ground with\ntheir lances; and they endeavoured to bind his hands and his feat with\ncords, but his spells snapped them asunder as threads.\n\n[Footnote 12: Dr. Leyden represents this personage as being \"True\nThomas, Lord of Ersylton;\" but the Rhymer was dead before the time fixed\nby tradition of the death of Lord Soulis, which took place in the time\nof Robert the Bruce, who came to the crown in 1308, and the Rhymer was\ndead before 1299, for in that year his son and heir granted a charter to\nthe convent of Soltra, and in it he describes himself _Filius et haeves\nThomae Rymour de Erceldon_.]\n\n\"'Wrap him in lead,' cried the wise man, 'and boil him therewith,\naccording to the command of the king, for water and hempen cords have no\npower over his sorcery.'\n\n\"Many ran towards the castle, and they tore the lead from the turrets,\nand they held down the sorcerer, and rolled the sheets around him in\nmany folds, till he was powerless as a child, and the foam fell from his\nlips in the impotency of his rage. Others procured a caldron, in which\nit was said many of his incantations were performed, and the cry was\nraised--\n\n\"'Boil him on the Nine-stane rig!'\n\n\"And they bore him to where the stones of the Druids are to be seen till\nthis day, and the two stones are yet pointed out from which the caldron\nwas suspended. They kindled piles of faggots beneath it, and they bent\nthe living body of Soulis within the lead; and thrust it into the\ncaldron, and, as the flames arose, the flesh and the bones of the wizard\nwere consumed in the boiling lead. Such was the doom of Soulis.\n\n\"The king sent messengers to prevent his hasty words being carried into\nexecution, but they arrived too late.\n\n\"In a few weeks there was mirth, and music, and a marriage feast in the\nbowers of Branxholm, and fair Marion was the bride.\"\n\n\n\n\nHARDEN'S REVENGE.\n\n\nFrom a state of high civilisation, it is curious to look back upon the\nmanners and modes of life of our ancestors of barbarous times; and the\ncontrast never can be presented in stronger hues than in the picture of\nthe lives of the old Borderers, who so completely realised Hobbes'\ntheory of the beginning of society (fighting and stealing for their\ndaily bread), and that of the quiet, sedate men of industry and peace of\nthese days, whose blood never rises beyond the degree of the heat of a\nmoney-making ambition. A shiver comes over us, when we read of the son\nkilled in a feud, carried in to his mother a corpse; of the father of a\nfamily, and the laird of many broad acres, laid before his weeping wife\nand children, the dead victim of a strife with his next neighbour; of\nfamilies rendered houseless and homeless, often by a marauding kinsman;\nof the never-ceasing turmoil, strife, cruelty, and revenge, of the whole\ninhabitants of that distracted part of our country. We read, pause,\ntremble, and hug ourselves in the happy thought that we have been born\nin more auspicious times, when the sword is turned into the ploughshare,\nthe castle into the granary, and the fire of enmity softened and changed\ninto the fervour of love and friendship. Yet, alas! if we carry our\nthoughts farther, how little may we have to felicitate ourselves on in\nthe pictured contrast? Rudeness has its evils; but is civilisation\nwithout them? If the household of the Border chief was begirt with\ndangers of rieving and spoliation, the domestic _lares_ kept it free\nfrom the inebriated and demoralised son, whom the genius of civilisation\nsends from the city haunts of pollution, to lift his hand against his\nparent. If the _ingenium perfervidum_, of a roving life carried the\nhusband from the arms of the wife, perhaps to be brought home a corpse,\nshe seldom witnessed in him the victim of any of the thousand civilised\ncrimes which render the common thief, the fraudulent bankrupt, the\nswindler, the gambler, the disloyal-spouse, the drunkard, worse than\ndead to her. If a well-directed revenge might deprive the inmates of the\nturret of a rude home, the strength was, at least, free from the inroads\nof the messenger or poinder, whose warrant has a crueller edge than the\nfalchion of an enemy. We advocate not the cause of robbery, though\ndignified by the name of war or revenge, or coloured by the hues of a\nchivalric spirit of daring; but, when we look around us, and see how\nmuch civilisation has accomplished for our bodies and our intellects,\nand how little for our hearts or our morals, we hesitate to condemn our\nancestors for crimes which they were taught to believe as virtues, to\nattribute to them an unhappiness which they viewed as the mere chance of\nwar, and to laud the civilised doings of our own times, when the\ncriminal has not the excuse of a want of proper education to palliate\nhis offences against the laws of his country. We are led into these\nremarks by some rising reminiscences of the doings of old Wat Scott of\nHarden, the most gnarled, most crooked, and sturdiest stem of the tree\nof that old family. He lived in the fifteenth century, the hottest\nperiod of Border warfare, and occupied the old seat of the family,\nHarden Castle--a place of considerable strength, situated on the\nbeetling brink of a dark and precipitous dell, not far from the river\nBorthwick, and facing a small rivulet which brawled past to meet the\nlarger stream. The place was suitable to the castle and its possessor;\nfor the stronghold contained in security the sturdy riever, and the glen\nwas a species of _massy more_ for the cattle which he _made_ his own\nupon the good old legitimate principle of _might_, so much despised in\nthese days of statutory legislation, when the acts of Parliament extend\nto twenty times the size of the Bible.\n\nMany anecdotes and stories have been recorded of Walter Scott of Harden;\nand we ourselves, we believe, have, in prior parts of our work, noticed\nhim favourably. There can be little doubt, indeed, that he was a perfect\nman--that is, according to the estimate of qualities in the times in\nwhich he lived, as gallant in love as he was bold in war; and surely,\nletting the latter rest on his undisputed fame, the former could not be\nbetter proved than by his having, when still a fine bold riever, wooed\nand won the \"Flower of Yarrow,\" Mary Scott, the daughter of Philip Scott\nof Dryhope--a young maiden, whose poetical appellation, expressive as it\nis, would go small way in carrying to the minds of those curious in\nbeauties the perfections she enjoyed from nature. Of the manner in which\nHarden conducted his operations on the heart of this famous beauty, it\nmay be difficult now to speak with that certainty which is applicable to\nhis seizure and appropriations of his neighbours' live stock generally;\nbut, judging from the analogy of the boldness of his other exploits, and\nfrom the circumstance that his father-in-law stipulated in the\nmarriage-contract that he was \"to find Harden in horse meat and man's\nmeat, at his tower of Dryhope, for a year and a day, but that (as five\nbarons pledge), at the expiry of that period, his son-in-law should\nremove _without attempting to continue in possession by force_,\"[13] it\nmay be presumed that the riever was not, in this instance, lost or\nforgotten in the lover. Old Dryhope _knew_ him from the early fame he\nhad acquired; and, while he had no objection to give him the Flower of\nYarrow for his wife, he saw the necessity of providing against the\noccurrence which would, in all likelihood, have taken place, of Walter\ntaking up his residence at Dryhope Tower, and becoming laird, at the\nsame time that he kept a firm hold of Harden and his other lands. The\nspirit of _appropriation_, in short, was so strong and overpowering in\nthe heart of the bold chief, that, as was frequently alleged of him, it\nwas dangerous to let him sit down on a creepy stool belonging, to a\n_bona fide_ proprietor; for three minutes' occupancy seemed to produce\nin him all the effects of the long positive prescription; and he never\nlooked at an article of man's making, or nature's production, without\nconsidering whether it were a moveable or a fixture.\n\n[Footnote 13: The contract is extant in the charter-chest of the present\nrepresentative. Neither Harden nor the Flower of Yarrow could write\ntheir names.--ED.]\n\nThe only period of Harden's life in which his peculiar notions of _meum_\nand _tuum_ were lost sight of, was during the sweet moon of his marriage\nwith Mary Scott. For one lunation, the poor Border proprietors were\nsafe; and, if the Harden motto, _Cornua reparabit Phoebe_, had any\nmeaning in it, it was the only moon of his life that did not light him\nforth to commit some depredation. His marriage, with the slight\nexception already stated, had no such effect in modifying his\nappropriating spirit, as marriages now-a-days produce on reclaimed\nrogues or roues, for Mary Scott although the fairest of all the fair\nwomen of her time, had the same relish for cooking other people's kye,\nthat her husband Walter felt in bringing them home. There was not a wife\nin all the Borders that served up \"the feast of spurs\" to her lord with\ngreater regularity, and more attention to the rules of proper hussyskep,\nthan the Flower of Yarrow. If Walter came in crying for supper--\n\n    \"Haste ye, my dame--what cheer the night?\n      I look to see your table dight;\n    For I hae been up since peep o' light,\n      Driving the dun deer merrilie\"--\n\nHer reply was just as spirited and ready;--\n\n    \"Are ye sae keen set, Wat? 'Tis weel--\n      I'faith, ye'll find a dainty meal;\n    For it's a' o' the guid Rippon steel,\n      And ye maun digest it manfullie.\"\n\nThe spirit of the riever, inborn, and strengthened by education and\nexample, became, in the case of Harden, as it did in that of many a one\nelse of the Border lairds, a regular household duty; and perhaps a more\npeaceable husband than he might have felt a difficulty in resisting the\nauthority of so fair a governess as Mary Scott.\n\nIn the course of a long period, occupied by Harden in his daily duty and\npastime of overturning the rights of moveable property--and sure he must\nhave been a happy man whose hobby was his duty--his helpmate bore him no\nfewer than six sons, who inherited the spirit of their father, and the\nbeauty of their mother. They came all to man's estate, and there was not\none of them who disgraced the principles of education which their father\ntook so much care to instil into them, as well by precept as by the\nexample daily laid before them, of levying black mail, and keeping the\ndark glen well filled with the cattle of their neighbours. It was the\nambition of Harden that each of his sons should be an independent\nproprietor, who might rieve, in after times, on his own account; and, at\nthe time when our story properly begins, he could count four fine\nproperties which he intended for the inheritance of four of the six\nyouths. Two remained to be provided for, and a point soon came to be\nmooted at the fireside of Harden Castle--how two fitting lairdships\nmight be acquired for them, so that it might never come to be said, by\nposterity, that Wat of Harden was unable to steal, or win by power or\npurchase, a good domain for every one of the sons of the Flower of\nYarrow. The great difficulty, of course, lay in the nature of the thing\nto be acquired, because, unhappily, an estate could not be carried away;\nand there had already begun to be introduced a practice on the Borders\nof regulating the rights of land by pieces of parchment skins, whereby\nthe outside of a sheep--a creature itself easily conveyable--was made to\nvest a right in the land on which it grazed. No doubt, the charter\nchest might be carried away, and Walter had courage enough to enable him\nto accomplish that object; but still there remained many difficulties in\nthe way; doubles of the charters were apt to make their appearance at a\nfuture day, and the best fire that could be produced at Harden Castle\nwas not sufficient to burn out the vestiges of proprietorship which the\nsword of its master could so easily overturn.\n\nAs his years increased, the anxiety of the old laird waxed stronger and\nstronger on the subject which lay nearest to his heart. He had often\ncast his eye on the property of Gilmanscleugh, not far distant; and he\nhad even counted the broad acres, to ascertain if they would make a\nsuitable inheritance for one of his sons. It belonged, also, to a family\nof Scotts--a circumstance that increased its peculiar fitness for the\npurpose he had so long cherished, as his son would still be a Scott of\nGilmanscleugh, and the injustice of the appropriation would be\ndiminished, by his being chief of the clan, and having a species of\nsuperiority over its proprietor. By an unfortunate agreement of tempers,\nthe two families had long remained on a sort of friendly footing; and\nHarden had never been able to bring about such a feud as might give him\na pretext for denouncing Gilmanscleugh at head-quarters, when he might\nhave got the envied property forfeited, and a grant of it to himself. No\ndoubt, he had often taken from Gilmanscleugh his kye, but what neighbour\nhad been fortunate enough to escape, and what victim of his cupidity\ndared to resent an injury where resentment would have brought upon his\nhead an evil a thousand times greater than that attempted to be avenged?\nIt was even a species of favour conferred on a small proprietor to have\na theft committed upon him by old Harden, because he was generally sure\nto be protected against more unscrupulous aggressors by the old lion,\nwho liked to preserve what he himself might come to require; and so\nGilmanscleugh, like many others, had suffered meekly the contributions\nlaid upon him--for the double object of retaining his old chief's\nfriendship, and preserving the rest of his stock from the hands of the\nother marauders, who were continually roaming about to take whatever\nthey could violently lay hands upon. The situation of Harden was,\ntherefore, that of the wolf in the fable; but he had never yet been able\nto come to the resolution of asserting that the lamb had rendered the\ndescending water muddy to him who drank further up the stream. On this\nimportant subject he did not disdain to take the advice of Mary, who\ncould see no reason, any more than Walter himself, why the chief of the\nScotts should not be able to provide a landed portion for two of his\nsons, when the whole of Liddesdale and the Debateable Land contained so\nmuch good ground lying ready for the taking. She, moreover, was also\npartial to Gilmanscleugh, and only lamented that it was not large enough\nto form two good properties; though that, of course, was no reason why\nit should not be taken, _quantum et quale_, for one of her sons, leaving\nthe other to be provided for by some other estate out of the many that\nlay around them.\n\n\"By my faith, Mary,\" said Walter, \"if Gilmanscleugh had four legs to it,\nit should not be long the property of its present master.\"\n\n\"And if my Walter had the arms he used to have,\" replied she, \"it should\nnot be long ere it was Harden's. My power hath faded. Formerly, if the\nFlower of Yarrow had asked Harden to give her Gilmanscleugh for a\njointure, it would have been hers ere next morn heard the cock crow in\nHarden glen, but years bring fears.\"\n\n\"Not to Harden, Mary, love. He knoweth not the meaning of the vile word.\nYour dished spurs make me as sharp-set now, as they did when the cook\nwas the fairest maid in Yarrow.[14] It is these sheep-skin rights, lass,\nthat prevent me from bestowing Gilmanscleugh on one of our sons.\"\n\n[Footnote 14: Mary Scott is well known to have been as famous for the\ncooking of spurs as for her beauty.]\n\n\"She who cooks Rippon steel, Wat, needeth a fire,\" replied she.\n\"Charters will burn. I'll give ye the spurs, if ye'll give me the\nparchment. It will roast one of Gilmanscleugh's kye.\"\n\n\"But I have no cause of quarrel, Mary,\" said Harden.\n\n\"If I were to swear on the altar at Melrose,\" replied she, laughing,\n\"that Harden, wishing cows, asked for a cause, there wouldn't a\nsimpleton on the Borders believe my oath. Where be thy wits, Wat? What\nbetter cause of quarrel need ye now than you ever did--a good hanger?\"\n\n\"You would not have me kill my kinsman, Mary, to get his lands for our\nson? By the moon of our armorials, I've slain enough. Nothing now will\nmake me take a man's life but anger, unless he be an Englishman, and\nthen I'll do it for love.\"\n\n\"There is no use for killing,\" rejoined she, \"I'll give ye the steel\nfeast in the morning, and set ye forth for Gilmanscleugh kine. Take them\nall, with the pet lamb that frisks before the door, on the green lea,\nand if this do not make Scott complain, I had no title to be called the\nFlower of Yarrow. If he complain, ye want no more. Ranshakle the house,\nbring me the parchment rights, and I'll have a fire 'bleezing bonnilie.'\nOne who hath cooked spurs may cook parchment.\"\n\n\"But there may be copies, Mary--doubles o' the rights,\" said Wat.\n\n\"Aweel, my fire's big enough,\" answered she. \"I've seen ye take\nfivescore o' sheep in one night, and the deil's in't if ye cannot take\ntwo skins.\"\n\n\"Good faith, but thou'rt the Flower o' the Yarrow rievers, Mary! Now,\ntell me where I shall get a property for our remaining son?\"\n\n\"Gilmanscleugh may serve them both,\" replied she.\n\nThese last words were spoken by Mary as she went out of the room; and\nWalter, having no opportunity of asking what she meant (though, indeed,\nshe meant nothing more than that the property might be large enough to\nserve both), continued to mutter the words for a time, with a view to\nask her for an explanation.\n\n\"Gilmanscleugh may serve them both,\" he repeated. \"The woman hath gone\nmad. It is not enough for one of them. Has she lost the spirit of our\nhouse, and brought down her ambition to a mailing? By my faith, Dryhope\nitself will make up the deficiency; and, if nothing else can be got,\nDryhope shall be taken for my youngest.\"\n\nAfter this manner old Walter ruminated on the unexplained statement of\nhis wife; and, by repeating it again and again, roused the pride that\nlay at the bottom of his heart, and made him wax even angry with the\nwife of his bosom, and she the Flower of Yarrow, and the mother of his\nsix sons. But, angry as he was, he was also weary, having been hunting\nin the forest during the day; and he went to sleep, muttering, as he\nstruggled ineffectually with the drowsy god, some oaths peculiar to\nhimself, and to the effect that, take Gilmanscleugh when he chose, it\nshould not suffice for the portion of two sons.\n\nIn the morning he awoke, but did not forget the statement of Mary, that\nhad given a momentary impulse to his bile, and, repairing to the\nbreakfast-room, he found there his six sons and his wife, who, from some\nfugitive indications of face and manner, appeared to be engaged in some\nby-plot, in which she was the exclusive actor. Her original beauty,\nwhich acquired for her the poetical soubriquet by which she was so well\nknown, still vindicated a place among the ravages of advanced ago, and\nher spirit, in place of falling with her bodily strength, had increased,\nand was continually breaking forth in expressions of vivacity and\nhumour, which sustained the heart of the old chief, and made her the sun\nof the domestic circle which she had so long graced with her beauty. She\nwas now in the very height of her most delightful occupation--serving up\nwith her own hands the morning meal of her brave Wat and her six gallant\nsons, the parallel of whom, for make and manhood, might not again be\nfound in broad Scotland. So happy was she, and so full of the joyous and\nsoul-cheering fire of a woman's humour, that the six youths sat and\nlooked at her with mute expressions of sons whose filial eyes saw, in\nthe Flower of Yarrow, more beauties of mind and person than even\nexuberant nature had bestowed; and old Wat himself smiled as he gazed\nupon her, and finally relinquished his _malice prepense_, which had been\nurging him forward to ask her for an explanation of what she had said on\nthe previous evening--that Gilmanscleugh would suffice for a portion to\nthe two sons of proud Harden. The parties sat down to the morning meal;\nand as the old chief took off the cover of the first dish, a loud laugh,\nin which he heartily joined, announced the fulfilment of the spirited\ndame's promise of the previous evening, for there was nothing beneath it\nbut a pair of spurs, made of shining Rippon steel, and presenting, in\ntheir sharp rowels, little power of assuaging the hunger of the youths,\nwho had been hunting in the neighbouring dells, and could have eat, as\nthe saying goes, the horse behind the saddle. Harden knew the meaning of\nthe manoeuvre; for he recollected the statement of the dame, that she\nwould present to him the feast of spurs, to send him to Gilmanscleugh\nfor a portion to her sons, and, nothing loth to receive the sharp hint,\nhe exhibited, through his rough growling laugh, the fire and keenness of\nhis rieving spirit, which was now to be gratified by the luxury of an\nadventure.\n\n\"What game shall these Rippon rowels prick us to, Mary?\" cried the\nchief, still laughing.\n\n\"A good portion for our youngest,\" replied she; \"the broad acres of\nGilmanscleugh, and all the kye thereon, and eke the kist that holds the\nparchment; which last is to be placed in my safe keeping.\"\n\n\"And why not for our _two_ youngest?\" rejoined Harden, recollecting with\na slight bitterness mixed with his good humour, her former statement.\n\"May not Gilmanscleugh serve both of our unprovided sons? What right\nhave the sons of the Flower of Yarrow to more than the half of what hath\nserved one Scott of Gilmanscleugh? By my faith, Mary! if I had not so\ngood a breakfast before me, I would quarrel with my Flower for her\ndepreciation of the honour of Harden, and were it not for that contract\nthy father wheedled out of me, I'd seize Dryhope in revenge.\"\n\n\"And forfeit the five pledges,\" replied she, laughing. \"But, Wat, had we\nnot better measure Gilmanscleugh first, before we quarrel about its\nproportions.\"\n\n\"I have driven too many of his cattle over it to Harden Glen, not to\nknow the breadth of it,\" said he, keeping up the humour. \"But come, my\nboys, we shall take a better gauge of its dimensions to-day. Harden\nnever rieves by day; but the light of the sun tells us best what the\nmoon may light us to.\"\n\nAnd having breakfasted on something more substantial than the dish of\nspurs, the old laird, and his sons were prepared to sally forth to take\na survey of Gilmanscleugh's flock, with a view to those ulterior\noperations which might have the effect of precipitating its unlucky\nproprietor into such a quarrel with his sturdy superior as might afford\nthe latter a pretext for carrying his object of ambition into effect. To\ncover their proceedings, they took with them their hunting-graith,\nwithout forgetting the stirrup-cup, or rather without being allowed, by\nthe provident solicitude of the spirited dame, to forget that essential\npreparative to a Borderer's forth-going, whether he was bent on\nhunting, rieving, or wooing. Mounted on their strong shaggy garrons,\nwith bows slung over their shoulders, swords by their sides, and the\naccompaniment of two wolf-dogs of great size and strength, and a number\nof stag-hounds, all yelling around, till their voices awakened the\nsleeping echoes of the glen, and formed a rugged harmony with the long\nshrill winding of the hunter-horns, they presented in the features of\nthe group, that mixture of the war and the chase, sport and spoliation,\nwhich marked all the roving parties of that extraordinary period and\nstill more extraordinary place. The mother of six such sons had\npresented to her a fair subject of exultation in the party that stood\nbefore her; and her eye, which still retained the blue light of that of\nthe Flower of Yarrow, spoke the pride which swelled her bosom, as it\npassed, in laughing intelligence, from one fair face and manly person to\nanother.\n\n\"It was as a hunter I first saw you, Walter, from Dryhope Tower,\" said\nshe; \"and he who hunted for a wife, may well hunt for a portion to her\nchildren.\"\n\n\"If I bring down Gilmanscleugh,\" replied Wat, laughing, \"it will be a\nhigher quarry than the Flower of Yarrow.\"\n\n\"You thought not so then, Wat,\" rejoined she, in the same spirit; \"but\nlove giveth way to ambition. That day thou callest Gilmanscleugh thine\nown, I will busk me again, as I once busked thy bonny bride, and put thy\nonce-cherished Flower of Yarrow in fair competition with the broad acres\nof Gilmanscleugh. By my troth, thou wouldst be a bold man to prefer the\nnew love to the old.\"\n\n\"I would not give thee, woman,\" rejoined he, \"for all Branxholm's wide\ndomains, with the whole of Ettrick Forest to boot; so hold thy peace,\nand apply thee to thy hussyskep; for, by my sword, we will come home\nhungry men.\"\n\nAnd old Wat's horn sounded again among the hills. The signal for\nstarting was well known, and away they dashed down the steep, with that\nspeed which the Borderers always exhibited--a consequence, perhaps, of\nthe habit of getting off with their booty in the fear of a rescue. They\nwere soon out of the sight of the fond dame, who long afterwards sat at\nthe small window on the east side of the tower, listening to the notes\nof the horn, as they reverberated among the heights, and died away like\nthe parting notes of mountain spirits that seek their dark recesses in\nthe opening morn. A true Borderer's wife, she never feared for the\nresult of an expedition of either hunting or harrying; and, as yet, a\nprosperous fate, by saving her husband and her six sons from the dangers\nto which their mode of life exposed them, had visited her with no cause\nof a wife's sorrow or a mother's affliction. But such was her heroic\nspirit, that, much as she loved these objects of her affection, she\ncould have acted the Spartan dame over the dead body of the dearest\namong them, and quelled the bursting heart with the thought that he had\ndied nobly in the vocation to which his fate had called him. It was not\nthat habit had worn out the ordinary solicitude of the female heart;\nfor, if custom had recognised the actions of a rieving female in the\naffair of moveable property as well as of moveable hearts, we dare to be\nbold enough to say that Mary Scott would have been as famous as an\namazon scaumer, as she was as the Flower of Yarrow. Many an expedition\nshe had planned; and it was often more easy for Harden to satisfy\nhimself as to the number of good cattle he might lodge in the glen, than\nit was to come up to the expectations of his better half, who, as the\nballad says, if he had brought her less than ten, would not have \"roosed\nhis braverie.\" Nor was Harden's wife singular in the possession of these\nunfeminine feelings of Border heroism; for, as women are generally seen\nto take on the hues and complexions of the minds of their lords, the\nBorder dames were generally remarkable for the spirit with which they\napplauded the deeds of their husbands, and the fortitude with which they\nbore the consequences, often lamentably tragic, which resulted from the\nwild life they were habituated to lead. In her present situation, Mary\nScott thought only of the fair property of Gilmanscleugh, which she\nconceived so well suited for the heirloom of her two sons that still\nwanted provisions; and she had already in her mind's eye the bickering\nflame that was to consume the parchment rights, and roast the oxen that\nwould serve for the celebration of the new acquisition to the wealth and\nproperty of Harden.\n\nMeanwhile the hunting troop spread through the surrounding woods,\nsounding their horns, but caring less for the dun deer of the Scotch\nhills than for the black cattle of Gilmanscleugh. They had not proceeded\nfar, being still within the limits of Harden's lands, when they heard\nthe hunting-horn of some party in the distance; and the old chief\nimmediately despatched one of his sons--whom he styled the Forester,\nfrom his love of the sports of woodcraft--to prick his garron forward,\nand ascertain who it was that had the hardihood to drive the dun deer so\nnear to Harden's glen. The young man obeyed, and as he proceeded, he\nfound that the huntsman, whoever he was, had, probably from hearing the\nsounds of the approaching chief, retired to the westward, with a view to\navoid the coming party. This construction on his conduct was the first\nthought that arose on the mind of young Harden, and it came with the\nsuspicion that the sound of the stranger's horn indicated no other a\nvisitor to the Harden woods than that very Gilmanscleugh against whom\nhis father and mother had been nourishing the schemes which might\ncontribute to the gratification of their ambition. With these thoughts\ncame another--viz., that he, the young Harden, who was one of the\nunprovided sons for whom Gilmanscleugh was intended, would contribute\nto the satisfaction of both his father and mother, if he made short work\nof the projected scheme, and, by urging the proprietor of the envied\nproperty to a quarrel and battle, got quit of him by a bilbo thrust, and\nthus settle in an instant an affair which apparently occupied a great\ndeal more thought than it was entitled to. The idea brought a whole\ntrain of the most delightful cogitations that had ever yet fired his\nyoung fancy. He would anticipate the views of his father; set off by\ncontrast the simplicity of his own act--a simple extension of the\nsword-arm--with the intricate machinery of his parents' scheme of\nambition; enjoy the surprise of his father and the wonder of his mother\nwhen he told them that he had, by an unlucky quarrel, killed\nGilmanscleugh, and asked, with affected simplicity, what would become of\nthe property? show himself the best of the six sons of Harden, and\nworthy of the best smile of the Flower of Yarrow. The accumulation of\nrising thoughts and stirring feelings inflamed his mind; and, striking\ndeep the rowels into his garron's side, he pricked forward at the rate\nof a quick gallop, with the wolf-dog Grim bounding before him, baying\nforth a deep yell, and his tongue hanging half-a-foot over his\nbloodthirsty jaws. He kept his pace for a considerable time, and was\nalready far from his father's party, when he saw Gilmanscleugh's dog,\nalso a wolf-hound, and known to him by the peculiarity of his colour,\nbeing almost white, bounding away to the left--in the track, doubtless,\nof his master. The moment the dogs perceived each other in the\nbreathless, foaming condition into which their race had inflamed them,\nthey closed in a fell struggle, and made the wood ring with the sounds\nof their wrath. Gilmanscleugh heard the affray, and returned to save his\nfavourite hound from the jaws of Harden's, which was so famous\nthroughout the forest, that no animal of its species, or indeed of any\nother in the wood, could stand before it. Coming up, he struck the\nfierce animal of his chief; and young Harden, coming from behind,\nupbraided him for assaulting his dog, in such terms of galling abuse\nthat the insulted man turned and laid his hand on his sword. The act was\nfollowed by a similar movement on the part of the Forester--in another\nmoment they were engaged in fight, and the period of a minute did not\npass away before the young and beautiful son of Harden lay upon the\nground, a bleeding corpse!\n\n\"Ho, for Gilmanscleugh!\" cried the victor, as he sheathed his bloody\nsword, and saw all the danger of his situation. \"Ho, for Gilmanscleugh!\nand that without blast o' horn; for every tree o' Harden woods will rise\nup to avenge the death o' the Flower o' Yarrow's favourite son!\"\n\nAnd he struck his horse's sides, and urged him forward, calling out for\nhis dog Wolf, who was as anxious to get out of the clutches of Grim, as\nhis master was to get out of the reach of Harden.\n\n\"Wolf! Wolf!\" he cried, as he turned round. \"For\nGilmanscleugh--hame--hame--ho! I have killed a dun deer to-day, whose\numbles will tell the seer a sad tale o' our house, and whose corbin bane\nwill bring mony a Harden corbie to Gilmanscleugh.\"\n\nBut Wolf was too firmly in the fangs of Grim; and now Harden's horn was\nsounding in shrill tones in the hollows, announcing to the unfortunate\nvictor the near approach of the fierce chief, but no longer awaking the\near of the victim, who lay already stiff among the green leaves of the\nforest. The dogs were still fast, and he must spend as much time in\ndisengaging them as would bring the father of the slain youth to the\nscene of his sorrow and revenge, or he must braid on with the top-speed\nof his favourite Sorrel, and leave his dog an evidence of the deed,\nthat, if traced to him, would bring ruin on his home, his wife, and his\nchildren, and all the retainers of Gilmanscleugh. Springing off, and\nnerved with the force of despair, he flung himself on the wrestling\ndogs, and laying hold of the throat of Harden's, he clutched it with\nsuch strength that the animal opened his jaws, gasping for breath, and\nturning up his eyeballs beneath the lids, fell on his side; but his\nrevengeful opponent, no sooner free from the gripe which had bound him,\nseized Grim in his turn; and Gilmanscleugh saw before him an alternation\nof a process of choking that would consume more than his hurrying\nmoments. There was not an instant for deliberation: seizing his sword,\nhe stuck it into the heart of the dog, and, detaching Wolf, sprung to\nhis saddle, and flew through the forest with the speed of light; while\nhis faithful animal, seeing no longer life in his enemy, forsook his\nprey and his revenge, and bounded away after his flying master. But too\nmuch time had, unfortunately for Gilmanscleugh, been already lost in\ndisengaging the dogs; for the twang of a bow announced to him, as he\nhurried on, that a messenger more fleet than Sorrel was after him, and,\nlooking round, he saw his faithful attendant fall to the ground, with a\nlong shaft quivering in his smoking side.\n\n\"There is my king's evidence left behind me,\" muttered he, as he stuck\nthe rowels deeper in the sides of his horse. \"Wae to Gilmanscleugh when\nHarden has to avenge the death o' a son slain by his arm! Braid on, good\nSorrel, to a flaming stable, and carry your master to what may be sune a\nlordless ha'!\"\n\nThe speed of his horse soon took him out of the reach of Harden and his\nsons--but not before they had seen him in the act of flight, and brought\ndown his dog by an arrow sent from the unerring hand of the old chief's\nnamesake. On coming up to the place where his favourite lay extended\ndead on the ground, with his face upturned to heaven, and, though partly\ncovered by his bonnet's plume that had fallen down in the flight,\ndisplaying too evidently the rigid muscles of death, his father and his\nbrothers uttered a loud cry of astonishment and grief, and ran to\nsatisfy themselves of the terrible truth, that the beautiful youth was\nindeed dead. The satisfaction was easy and ready: enough of blood lay in\na pool by his side to have carried in its stream two young lives; and a\nsingle glance at his pale face struck the mind with the palsy which\ndeath in the human countenance so strangely produces. His sword, firmly\ngrasped in his hand, told also a part of the story, which was eked out\nby the body of the dead Grim and that of his lifeless antagonist, which\none of the sons had brought to the place where the group stood, and\nlooked at each other in mute grief. But that was only for a moment. The\nheavy, tear-filled eye of sorrow of the father changed in an instant,\nand flashed forth the fire of revenge, and, as every one of his five\nsons clutched their swords, loud cries rent the air--\"Ho! for\nGilmanscleugh with the sword and the fire-faggot!\" So entirely were the\nfiery youths led away by the impulse of the new feeling, that they had\nall remounted their garrons, clanging their drawn swords, and uttering\ntheir deep-mouthed cries, without reflecting for a moment that the body\nof the dead youth had to be disposed of, and that all their party was\nnot able to take Gilmanscleugh Tower, and put its inmates to the sword.\n\n\"Hold! ho! my brave sons!\" cried the father, as the fire of his revenge\nbeamed through his tears. \"Why this hurry? A hundred years would not\ncool our fire, and a sudden revenge lacketh the fulness of satisfaction.\nWe must take home the body of my dead son to his mother. It will be her\nduty to swathe it and to lay it out. It is the first time she hath had\nthis work to do; and, as she does it, she will recollect her words of\nyestreen when she said that Gilmanscleugh would serve for both of my\nsons. Too true, alas! Gilmanscleugh hath satisfied one; Gilmanscleugh\nshall satisfy the other.\"\n\nThe youths, burning as they were for satisfaction, saw the necessity of\nagreeing to the recommendation of their father; and, dismounting again,\nthey lifted the stiff body from among the clotted grass, and, wrapping\nit in a mantle, laid it over the backs of two of their horses, and\nproceeded in mournful procession towards home, where Mary Scott as yet\nsat at the castle window indulging in the meditation to which the\nexpedition of her husband and her sons had given rise. The sounds of the\nhorn that had struck her ear had long ceased, and she pictured to\nherself the bold party scouring over Gilmanscleugh, the intended\ninheritance of her son, the Forester, the best beloved of her, as he was\nof his father, for boldness, filial affection, and beauty. She did not\nexpect them till the evening was far gone, and then it would be her duty\nand greatest delight to prepare for them the cheerful bickering fire,\nand the warm refreshing meal, and welcome them to their home and their\npleasures with her accustomed looks of satisfaction, her well-chosen\nwords of good-humour, and her questions of success, put in such form as\nmight afford the opportunity of recounting their deeds of arms or\nwoodcraft. Many a time had she enjoyed these highest pleasures of the\ndutiful wife, affectionate mother, and spirited companion; and there was\nyet time and opportunity in store for her to enjoy them again with\nundiminished relish. Casting her eyes over the side of the glen, she saw\nthe procession of her husband and five sons, with the dead body of the\nsixth, coming slowly along the middle of the dell. This was not the way\nin which old Wat of Harden usually returned to his castle; there were no\ncattle driven before him, no winding of his horn among the hills, no\nwhoop of triumph from his rough throat. The slow tread of the horses'\nfeet, as they paced the sod, came upon her ear with a dead, hollow\nsound; and her heart became busy with its mystic divinations, before her\neye could trace all the details of the unusual scene. But feature by\nfeature of this first representation of a mother's bereavement opened\ngradually on her view; she ran over the faces of her sons and that of\nher husband, and soon distinguished the beloved victim; the expressions\nof the countenances of the bearers told her the extent of the calamity,\nif the form of the extended body, where Death sat triumphant, and gave\nforth those indications of his presence which cannot be misunderstood,\nhad left any doubt on her mind that her fair Forester was no more. But\nher griefs knew no feminine paroxysms, the strength of her nerves\nenabled her to contemplate even the scene of a dead son with that\nstrange calmness which the strongest feeling can draw from the depths of\nthe mental constitution, as its cover and panoply in the hour of\nnature's greatest need. As the procession approached, she saw Harden\ndraw his hand over his eyes, and the sobs of the youths fell on her ear.\nYet she descended with firmness to meet a sight which, contemplated by a\nmother, is perhaps the most harrowing that can be exhibited to mortal\neye--a dead son, and that son her hope and pride. At the entrance she\nmet her husband, who took her hand, and, as he held it, waved to the\nconductors to pause in their progress.\n\n\"Let them come in, Wat,\" said she. \"I know all--my Forester is dead.\nCome forward, my sons, and let me see him who was once my pride, and\ntell me what cruel cause hath reft me of my boy.\"\n\nThe sons came forward, and, taking the body by the head and feet,\ncarried it into the tower, where, having placed it, they stood around,\nsilently looking on what was, an hour before, their beloved brother, in\nthe heyday of youth and beauty.\n\n\"Who hath done this deed?\" inquired the mother, as she looked on the\npale face of her son, with feelings too deep for tears.\n\n\"Gilmanscleugh,\" answered Walter.\n\nThe word operated like electricity on the minds of the sons, as they\nstood silently looking at the corpse. Revenge had for a moment been\nclouded by grief, and the talismanic influence of the name of the\ndestroyer drew aside the vapours, and exposed again the fiery sun of\ntheir resentment. A simultaneous movement carried their hands to their\nswords, and every face was turned to the door; but the eye of old\nWalter, looking askance through a bush of shaggy grey brows, watched\nkeenly every motion; and, as they rushed out to raise the cry of\ndestruction to Gilmanscleugh and its master, he called them back, and\nhurried them into a side-room with grated windows and a strong door,\nwhere were contained, as in a stronghold, the title-deeds of Harden, and\nother valuable things which required security. \"Let us consult, my bold\nyouths, let us consult,\" he said, as he pushed the last one in; and the\nmoment they were all fairly enclosed, he turned the key in the lock, and\nput it into his pocket.\n\n\"Give me the Forester's bloody doublet,\" he cried to his wife, \"with the\nhole made by Gilmanscleugh's sword in the right breast.\"\n\n\"What mean ye, Wat?\" answered Mary, as, lifting her eyes from the face\nof the corpse, she noticed these extraordinary proceedings on the part\nof her husband. \"Why do you lock up our five sons, when vengeance calls\nthem to Gilmanscleugh? and why ask ye for the bloody vest, which should\nbe the pennon to fly over the smoking ruins of the destroyer's tower? If\nyou are to stop revenge, lock up the mother with her sons; for my heart\nbeats with the pulsations of man's courage, and I will cease to feel as\na woman till this blood be avenged. If thou wilt not lead on our sons to\nGilmanscleugh, let me undertake the task; and mark well the issue of a\nwoman's foray, when a son's bloody doublet hangs on the point of the\nspear.\"\n\n\"Recollect ye not your words, Mary?\" answered Wat, hurriedly. \"Said ye\nnot that Gilmanscleugh would serve for both our sons? That one lying\nthere is satisfied; by the powers of revenge, the other shall not be\ndisappointed. The doublet! come, wife, the doublet!--and see that you\ngive our sons meat enough, through the west hole of the strong-room, to\nkeep their blood warm and their hearts glowing for three days. Let our\ndead Forester lie there for that time; but turn his head to\nGilmanscleugh. The doublet! come, quick!\"\n\nMary could not understand the meaning of these words; but she well knew\nthat the resolutions of her husband, when determined, were founded on\nprudence and principle, and beyond the affecting capabilities of mortal\nman; so she proceeded to take from the body of her son the doublet,\nwhich was stained with blood, and perforated in the right breast by the\nsword which had deprived him of life. Having removed it, she handed it\nto Walter, who, holding it up to the light, looked through the hole,\nand, with that strange mixture of a peculiar humour with the deepest\nseriousness of human nature for which he was remarkable, declared, with\na grim smile, that he saw through it the lands of Gilmanscleugh, and the\nHarden arms over the door of the old tower; then, wrapping up the\nvestment, he hurried to the outer court, and, binding it to the front of\nhis saddle, mounted, and clapping spurs to his horse, was, in a few\nmoments, away at a hard gallop over the hills.\n\nConfused by these abrupt and incomprehensible proceedings, Mary had not\nbeen able to make the necessary effort to get an explanation, though it\nis doubtful if all her entreaties would have been successful in wringing\nfrom the determined and cunning old chief what were his intentions.\nReturning to the apartment where the dead body lay, she found there a\nduty which would occupy the time till her husband returned--in watching\nthe corpse of her beloved Forester, and tracing in his rigid, pallid\nfeatures the traces of those expressions of his beautiful face which\nused to extend so much influence over the hearts of his father and\nmother, and bring love to him from all sides on the rapid wings of\nsympathetic attraction. On one side lay the corpse she had to watch; at\nthe other were her five remaining sons, enclosed as prisoners, and\nprevented from executing the revenge with which she burned, or extending\nto her the comforting and assuasive assistance of their presence and\nconversation. As she looked on the face of the corpse, she heard the\nimpatient murmurings of her sons, who, burning to get forth to satisfy\nthe yearnings of their hearts, demanded of her, through a small opening\nin the door, what was the intention of their father in thus keeping them\nfrom so just and necessary an object as the vindication of the honour of\nHarden, and the taking of blood for blood.\n\n\"We shall not be balked of our revenge, mother,\" cried the youngest.\n\"The Forester's blood cries more loudly than the voice of our father.\nCall the retainers, and break open the door, that we may get free.\nHaste, good mother!\"\n\n\"Haste! haste!\" added other voices.\n\n\"I cannot disobey Harden's commands,\" replied she, \"though the face of\nthis fair corpse seems to beckon me to the satisfaction of a mother's\nheart, at the price of a wife's rebellion. My Forester's glazed eyes are\nfixed on me, and say, 'Open, and let my brothers free, that my blood may\nbe avenged.' I cannot obey. Three days you must remain there--three days\nmust the Forester lie in his shroud--then will Harden be back, and he\nwill bring with him the bloody doublet to hang on the point of your\nspears.\"\n\n\"Whither is our father gone?\" rejoined the impatient youths.\n\n\"I know not, but these were his words,\" replied she. \"I am to watch my\nForester's body, and feed you through the west bole, for three days.\"\n\n\"We cannot survive three days unrevenged, mother,\" said another. \"We\nwill take on ourselves the responsibility of release. Send us Wat's\nJohn, and he will break down this door. Bethink ye, good mother, that\nGilmanscleugh may fly, and the Forester's ghost may wander for twenty\nmoons in Harden's Glen, upbraiding his five brothers for not avenging\nhis death.\"\n\n\"I cannot disobey your father,\" again said she.\n\n\"Then we will force our freedom, mother,\" cried the third son.\n\n\"Disobedient boy, say not the word,\" answered she. \"Wait the three days,\nand, if you will, nurse during that time your fire; for, if I am not\ndeceived, your father will require of you as much avenging wrath as you\nhave to bestow, when his horn sounds again his return to Harden.\"\n\nWith difficulty did Mary prevail on the impetuous youths to refrain from\nan effort to effect their freedom. For the three appointed days, she sat\nin the room by the side of her dead son; and at every meal-hour she\nhanded in the food necessary for the sustenance of her prisoners. Nor\ndid she conceive that she had any title to rest from her watchful\nlabour, or to cease her care of the dead body, even during the hours of\nnight, till she saw his death avenged. The midnight lamp was regularly\ntrimmed, and hung upon the wall, that its glimmering flame might fall\nupon the pale face of the youth, as he lay rolled up in the shroud which\nhis mother had prepared for him, while sitting by the bier. At the\nsolemn hour of midnight, she sat silent and sad, looked now in the face\nof the dead, listened to hear if any sound of a horn without announced\nthe approach of her husband, or of a messenger from him, and then\ninclined her ear, to catch the broken words of revenge muttered by her\nsons in their sleep, or the strains of mournful lamentations for the\ndeath of their brother, which the energy of their grief forced from them\nat those intervals when their revenge was overcome by the more intense\nfeeling. Groans and sighs, muttered oaths, sobs, and expressions of\nimpatience, mixed or separate, told continually the workings of their\nminds. The speech of the dreamer was often mixed with the conversation\nof those awake; but so well acquainted was the mother with the sounds of\ntheir voices, that she could distinguish the one from the other. The\nquestion was often put by one who slept--\"Are the three days past yet?\"\nand those awake gave him the answer he could not hear. Then some of them\nseemed to clutch his neighbour in his dreams, and call out, that he had\nnow caught him, and would avenge on him the death of the Forester,\naccompanying his speech with a struggle, as if he were in the act of\nstabbing Gilmanscleugh. Another would call to the mother, to know the\nhour; and, when she told him that it was midnight, or an hour past\nmidnight, he would sigh deeply, as if he felt the hours of the three\ndays winged with lead. Then again, a victim of nightmare groaned with\nfear, at the vision of the Forester's ghost, and cried, that it would\nnot have long to walk the glen, for that the three days were fast on the\nwing. The shrill scream of a passing eagle or solitary owl, wakening\nthose who slumbered in a half sleep, was mistaken for their father's\nhorn, and an appeal to the mother was required to rectify the mistake.\nAll these things passed in her hearing, and threw a gloom over her mind,\nwhich was not relieved by the look which she every moment stole at the\ndead face, as it shone white as the shroud in the light of the lamp: but\nshe stood the trial, and continued her watch. The beam of a deadly\nrevenge indicated the steadfastness with which she adhered to her\nresolution never to rest till she knew that Gilmanscleugh had expiated\nby his life the murder of her son.\n\nSince the departure of Harden, no intelligence had come from him; and so\nstrange had been his conduct when he went away, that his wife had often\nto combat the rising thought, that the fate of his favourite son had\nunsettled his intellects, and driven him away from the scene of his\nloss, in some wild dream of superstitious retribution. The locking up\nof his sons was the very reverse of the conduct which his revengeful\nnature might have dictated; and the taking with him the bloody doublet,\nthrough the sword-hole in which he declared he saw the lands of\nGilmanscleugh his own, was far more like the act of a madman, than that\nof one who had duties to perform to himself, to his wife and children,\non that sorrowful occasion, more serious and difficult than he had ever\nyet been called upon to fulfil. These thoughts rising throughout the\ndark night, when her ears were pained by the strange noises proceeding\nfrom the excitement of her sons, and her eye had nothing to rest on but\nthe dead body of him who lay stretched by her side, stung her with\nanguish, and filled her heart with boding anticipations of terror. The\nthird night was on the wing; and, though twelve o'clock had passed,\nthere was no appearance of her husband. Her sons had become more than\nordinarily restless, and said that, if their father did not make his\nappearance in the morning, they would disregard all authority, and call\nto the retainers to break down the door with battle-axes, and set them\nat liberty. She heard them in silence, and trembled to communicate to\nthem the thoughts that had been passing through her mind as to the\nsanity and safety of their father. In a little, the restless prisoners\nbegan to fall over into their troubled sleep, and the moon, newly risen,\nsent in through the small windows a bright beam, that lay on the face of\nthe corpse. She had wrought up her mind almost to a conviction that her\nhusband had, in a fit of madness, thrown himself into the Borthwick, or\notherwise committed suicide, and figured to her diseased fancy his body\nplaced alongside of her son's, and with that same pale beam resting on\nit, and exhibiting to her the features which she had so long looked on\nwith delight, made rigid by the grasp of death. Every sound was now\nhushed, with the exception of the occasional broken mutterings of her\nsons, and the notes of the winged inhabitants of the upper parts of the\ntower, who cawed their hoarse omens to the midnight wanderer in the\nforest. Every thought that rose in her mind was charged with a double\nportion of awe; and cold shivers, in opposition to her efforts to be\nfirm, ran over her from head to heel, and precipitated her farther and\nfarther into the depths of her fancied evils. Superstition might have\nborrowed a thousand aids from the circumstances in which she was placed;\nbut, though she was beyond the influence of the direct operation of that\npower, the thoughts of evil which she had some reason for indulging,\nborrowed a part of their dark hue from the clouds in which the mystic\ngoddess is generally enshrined: the individual would indeed have been\nmore than woman who could have sat in the situation in which she was\nplaced, and measured her evils with the gauge of calm reason.\n\nWhile sunk in these gloomy reflections, a shrill blast of a horn\nreverberated among the hills. \"That is our father's horn!\" cried the\nsons, who awoke with the sound; and Mary herself knew the signal of the\napproach of her husband. She rose from the side of the corpse, and,\nlooking forth from the window, saw, by the moon's light, Harden himself\nhastening towards the tower. In a moment he bounded from his horse, and\nin another he appeared before his wife.\n\n\"To horse! to horse! my sons!\" he shouted, as he came forward. \"Now for\nGilmanscleugh, with the fire and the sword of Harden's revenge!\"\n\nA loud shout from the chamber where the sons lay announced the relief\nwhich this statement brought to their frenzied minds. The door was\nopened, and the prisoners were set at liberty. Without waiting for\nrefreshment, the old chief, having cast a look on the dead body, hurried\nwith his liberated sons to the court, where every retainer was summoned\nto attend his master. A large party was assembled in a very short time,\nand, with the moon as their guide, the cavalcade, making the castle ring\nwith Harden's war-cry, issued with rapid steps out of the ballium, and\ntook the road to Gilmanscleugh. They arrived at the place of their\ndestination while the moon shone still clear in the heavens; and\nHarden's sons observed that their father now took no precautions, as was\nusual in his night attacks, to prevent the assailed party from knowing\nhis approach. He marched them silently, deliberately, and boldly up in\nfront of the tower of Gilmanscleugh, where Scott, who had fondly\nimagined that his act had not been traced to him, was residing in a\nsecurity that had been daily increasing, but was now so soon to be\nended. The whole party were ranged in front of the devoted tower, and\nHarden's horn was sounded for entrance. Scott appeared at the window,\nand asked the pleasure of Harden, and the purpose of his call at that\nunusual hour, though he well knew to what he owed the fearful visit.\n\n\"I have a paper, under the king's hand, to read to thee, Gilmanscleugh,\"\nreplied Harden.\n\n\"We had better read it in the mornin,\" replied Scott. \"Our lights are\nout in the tower. I will wait ye at yer ain time; but let it be in the\nlicht o' day.\"\n\n\"The moon is Harden's time,\" rejoined the chief. \"If thou wilt not let\nus in to read it, here, in the light of this torch, brought for the\noccasion, thou shalt hear the words of majesty. I am only the royal\ncommissioner, and must do my duty.\"\n\nThe torch was held up, and Harden calling forth one of his retainers,\nwho had been a clerk in a convent, ordered him to read a royal charter\nwhich he put into his hands. The man obeyed, and read the document which\npurported, in the few words of these old land rights, that the king, for\nthe love and favour he bore to Walter Scott of Harden, had conveyed and\nsettled upon him and his heirs the lands, tower, and appurtenances of\nGilmanscleugh, which formerly belonged to William Scott, but had fallen\nto the crown by escheat, in consequence of the constructive rebellion of\nthe said William Scott, in killing the son of Harden, known by the name\nof the Forester, when engaged in hunting on his father's lands. The\ncharter gave, in addition, full power to the said Walter Scott to take\nimmediate possession of the property, and to adopt all necessary steps\nfor ejecting the former proprietor and his family from the same.\n\n\"Thou hast heard read the king's writ,\" cried the chief. \"What sayest\nthou to the royal authority? I come here peaceably to demand the\npossession of Gilmanscleugh. If you will consent to depart, and give me\nup the key of the tower, I will pass my honour for the safety of thee\nand thine. If not, I will enforce the king's authority. Take a\nquarter-of-an-hour to decide. I will wait the decision.\"\n\nThis announcement produced surprise on all hands, as well to the unhappy\nproprietor, who was to be deprived of his lands that had come to him\nfrom his ancestors, as to the sons of Harden, who were to be deprived of\nthat species of revenge they had burned for, and considered to be the\nonly one suited to the occasion which called for it--the life of the\nslayer. While Gilmanscleugh retired to consider of the proposal, the\nsons of Harden crowded round him, and implored him to retract his\ncondition of extending safety to the person of the murderer of their\nbrother. The old chief--who had already counted all the advantages and\ndisadvantages of the bargain, and saw how much better were the broad\nacres of Gilmanscleugh, which the king had given him for the loss of his\nson, than the life of its master, which, although he took, he could make\nnothing of, seeing that it would vanish in the act of capture--replied\ncalmly, to their warm entreaties, that the lands were his revenge, and a\nvery good revenge, too; but he promised them that, if Scott did not\nimmediately comply with his request, they would have their pleasure of\nhim and his whole household, to kill, or wound, or burn, or hang, as\nthey chose. This addition roused the spirits and restored the hopes of\nthe sons, who could not suppose that a man would give up his property in\nthe easy manner anticipated by their father. Yet so it turned out; for\nin a short time Scott appeared again, and stated that, upon condition of\nhim and his household being permitted to go forth safe and free, he\nwould instantly deliver to him the key of the tower. The bargain was\nstruck; and in a short time the extraordinary scene was witnessed of a\nwhole family leaving the home of their fathers on a quarter-of-an-hour's\nnotice, and wandering away to beg a habitation and a meal from those who\nwere their dependants. Scott's wife had in her arms a sucking child, and\nthree other children held by her garments, and cried bitterly as they\npassed on through the fierce troop, who looked the daggers of a\ndisappointed revenge. A sister of his wife's tended a sickly son of\nScott's, who was borne forth on a board carried by two of his retainers;\nand there was seen, hobbling along, with a long piked staff in her hand,\nthe laird's mother, who had gone to Gilmanscleugh sixty years before,\nand born in it seven sons and three daughters. Then came Scott himself,\nwith the keys in his hand, at the sight of whom Harden's sons moved\ninvoluntarily forward, as the instinctive desire of revenge for a moment\novercame the command of their father. The keys were handed forth in dead\nsilence; and the servants of the ejected laird wiped their eyes as they\nbeheld the melancholy scene. They wandered slowly and reluctantly away.\nHarden looked back as the last of them were disappearing in the wood.\n\"Revenge enough,\" he muttered--\"revenge enough, and to spare.\" He then\nentered and took possession of the tower, in which he left as many of\nhis men as were sufficient to guard it. He then returned with his sons\nand a part of his troop to Harden, where he found Mary Scott still\nsitting by the side of her dead son, in conformity with a custom among\nthe Borderers, derived from the land of Odin, that the corpse of a\nmurdered relative should not be committed to the earth till his death\nwas avenged. She looked up in the face of Harden as he entered, and the\nblue eye of the Flower of Yarrow searched wistfully for tokens of a deed\nof stern retribution. Such is the power of custom and education, that\none of the fairest of women, who, if she had lived in the nineteenth\ncentury, might have been a Lady Fanny, and shrunk, according to fashion,\nfrom the sight of a murdered worm, deemed it necessary, from duty, and\nfelt it as consonant to the feelings of her sex, to look her\ndisappointment at not observing, on the clothes or arms of her husband\nand sons, the signs of a wrong righted by blood.\n\n\"Is it thus that Harden comes, with bright steel and unsullied clothes,\nfrom the house of the murderer of his fairest son?\" cried she. \"Look at\nthat corpse, and blush deep as the crimson that dyes the lily-lire of\nour boy. Is there no vengeance, Walter? Is there no satisfaction, my\nsons?\"\n\n\"Whether, Mary,\" replied Harden, \"would you accept a charter to the\nlands of Gilmanscleugh to Harden and his heirs for ever, or the life's\nblood of its master, as a satisfaction for the death of our boy who lies\nthere, killed by his hand?\"\n\n\"I would rather enjoy the lands,\" replied she, \"and let the murderer\nenjoy, if he can, the life that is spared to him. Our revenge is double;\nfor, while life may be painful to him, the lands will yield us pleasure\nin after years.\"\n\n\"Here, then,\" said he, \"is a charter to the lands of\nGilmanscleugh\"--holding out the parchment. \"I got it from the king as my\nsatisfaction; and now we may indeed say, as you strangely predicted,\nthat Gilmanscleugh hath served both of our sons.\"\n\nOn the following day, the unfortunate son of Harden was buried; and,\nlong afterwards, the lands of Gilmanscleugh remained in the family under\nthe name of Harden's Revenge.\n\n\n\n\nTHE PHYSIOGNOMIST'S TALE.\n\n\nHill and valley were clad in the cold and glistening mantle of winter,\nand the snow floated softly, though chillingly, against the cheek of a\nyoung and apparently weary traveller, who was plodding his way along the\nhigh road towards Annan. He was a youth of about nineteen, tall and\ngood-looking, apparently of the labouring class, and carried a small\nbundle on a stick over his shoulder. I happened to be walking homewards\nin the same direction, and had been for some time watching him with\ngreat interest--my attention having been excited by his handsome and\nintelligent countenance, and by the expression of deep and settled\nsorrow which clouded it. Absorbed in the gloom of his own thoughts, he\nseemed not to heed the cold, and bleak, and desolate scene around him;\nor perhaps it might be more congenial to his feelings than the brightest\nlandscape of summer; for who has not felt, in the first hours of grief\nand deprivation, a morbid seeking after, and clinging to, objects which\nserve to cherish and keep alive our feelings of gloom and depression? He\nstarted, as if awakened from a dream, when I addressed him with some\ntrifling remark upon the weather; but there was something in the tone of\nhis voice, when he answered me, which increased my prepossession in his\nfavour. After some trifling conversation, I took an opportunity to\nremark, and to express my sympathy for, his evident dejection, at the\nsame time hinting my wish to know the cause of it, and, if possible, to\nremove it. Many of my readers will no doubt think this sudden and\nuncalled-for interest in a perfect stranger romantic and injudicious;\nbut I have rather Quixotic opinions on many subjects, and, among others,\nis a love of judging of character by countenance; and if I choose to\nrun the risk of \"paying for my whistle,\" I do but follow in the\nfootsteps of wiser and better men. Events proved, as the reader will\nlearn in the course of this story, that in this instance, at least, my\njudgment had not deceived me. The young man was evidently affected by\nthe interest which I seemed to feel in him; and, after some little\nhesitation, said, with a strong Roxburghshire accent, \"I feel grateful\nfor your kindness, sir; yours is the first friendly voice I have heard\nsince I left home, and the accents of sympathy fall as soft upon the\nwounded spirit as the snow-flakes on the warm ground, melting as they\nfall.\"\n\nWe were now close to my gate, and I invited the lad to enter and refresh\nhimself. This offer he accepted with the warmest thanks; and when seated\nby the comfortable fire in the kitchen, from which I dismissed for a\nshort time my only servant, he told me the simple tale of his sorrows. I\nam not enough of a Scotchman to attempt to do justice to his national\ndialect; so much the better, perhaps, for my English readers; but I fear\nthat what I gain in fluency I shall lose in expression. His name, he\nsaid, was Dalzell; he was the son of a respectable and thriving merchant\nin Kelso, who had given him, in his early years, the best education the\nplace afforded, with the view of preparing him, at a future day, for the\nministry; but before he was fifteen years old, his father, who was\ncommonly reputed wealthy, died insolvent, and his mother and he were\nleft in a state of utter destitution. Grief for the loss of her husband,\ncombined with anxiety of mind, occasioned by the unexpected change in\nher circumstances, shortened the days of his beloved mother, and he was\nleft in the world alone. A neighbouring farmer, pitying his distress,\ntook him into his service, and treated him with the greatest kindness\nand consideration. In this place he had remained nearly four years, and\nhad every reason to think that his master looked upon him more in the\nlight of a friend than a servant. He had done his duty faithfully and\nconscientiously, because it _was_ his duty; but he was not happy; his\nthoughts were constantly reverting to former days, and to his blighted\nprospects, and he began to feel thoroughly discontented and disgusted\nwith his menial situation, when, all at once, a powerful and absorbing\nfeeling, like Aaron's serpent, swallowed all the rest. He loved! In the\nmoments when his impatient spirit most winced beneath the yoke of\nservitude, light as it was, one glance at the bright blue eye and\nwinning smile of Grace Douglas was sufficient to chase the cloud from\nhis brow, and to cheer his heart with the thought that he had still\nsomething worth living for. She was his master's only daughter, just\nseventeen, and as bright and beautiful a creature as ever the eye of a\nlover rested upon. Even her beauty, however, would have failed in making\nany impression on the senses of the gloomy and discontented youth, had\nnot the better feelings of his heart been excited by her tender\nsympathy. She knew his story; and, by her silent and unobtrusive\nattentions, showed her pity for his misfortunes. Her tones of kindness\ninvested her, in his opinion, with a charm beyond mere beauty; his proud\nheart was melted, and his long-pent-up affections were lavished upon\nthis new object with a violence that alarmed himself. It was not long\nbefore he was awakened to the consciousness that his love was returned;\nbut that consciousness, blissful as it seemed at first, only gave\nadditional bitterness to his reflections, when he thought of the\ndifference in their respective situations. Poor, friendless, and\ndependent, a labourer working for his daily bread, how could he hope to\ngain the wealthy farmer's consent to a union with his daughter? and\nwithout _that_ consent, she had said that, much as she loved him, she\nnever would be his. Prompt and impetuous, his resolution was soon\nadopted; he could not bear suspense, and was determined to put an end\nto it at once. He told his master all; told him that he could not bear\nto deceive him; that he loved his daughter, but that he was well aware\nit would be madness and presumption in him, situated as he was at\npresent, to hope for his approval of his passion; that he could not live\nin the presence of the object of his hopeless affection; but that he\nmeant to depart, and to endeavour, by his own exertions in some other\nsphere of life, to remove what he hoped was the only bar to his\nwishes--his poverty; his birth and education, he said, were equal to her\nown, and he trusted that his master had never had occasion to think\notherwise than well of his private character. The good farmer was much\nsurprised and affected by this disclosure, and, in reply, spoke in the\nwarmest terms of commendation of his young friend; but said that, as a\nprudent father, he could not think of giving his consent to a union\nwhich the want of means might render an unhappy one to both parties; and\nthat, much as he esteemed him, and grieved as he would be to part with\nhim, he perfectly agreed as to the propriety and necessity of his\ndeparture. Next day, followed by the tears and good wishes of all the\ninmates of the farm, he left the house, a sorrowful but a sanguine\nwanderer. He had met his mistress before his departure; their parting\nwas sad and tender. He vowed unwavering constancy and attachment, but\nwould not accept an offered pledge of the same kind from her, leaving\nher free, he said, to think of or forget him. He told her he felt he was\nmeant for better things; that brighter days would come; and that then he\nwould return to prove that he was worthy of her. His intention, he said,\nwas to go to sea; he had always a secret liking for it; and in the war\nwhich was now raging, he had no doubt that opportunities of\ndistinguishing himself would present themselves. He was determined to do\nhis duty steadily and perseveringly; her image would be ever present\nwith him, to cheer him in the hour of danger, and to nerve him to\nexertion. With such a prize in view, he said, he felt confident in his\nown resolution, and was sanguine in his hope that fortune would\neventually smile upon him.\n\nSuch was the simple and affecting tale of the wayfarer. I was as much\npleased with the modest, yet firm and determined manner in which he\nexpressed himself, as with the narrative itself. I did not attempt to\ndissuade him from his purpose, but, on the contrary, urged him to\npersevere. I told him of the many gallant commanders who had\ndistinguished themselves in the naval annals of their country, and who\nhad risen to rank and fame from as humble a condition as his own. It was\nwith the greatest difficulty I persuaded him to accept of pecuniary\nassistance to help him on his journey, and then only on the score of its\nbeing a loan, which, if he lived, he could at some future time repay.\n\n\"I shall never forget your kindness to a friendless stranger, sir,\" said\nhe, as he grasped my hand at parting. \"To have met with such an\nunexpected friendship at my first outset, I may well consider a\nfavourable omen; and I trust that the recollection of it will act as an\nadditional incentive to prove myself worthy of it.\"\n\nYears passed on, and I heard nothing further of my interesting\nacquaintance. In the meantime, I had become a husband and father; and my\nwife, to whom I had related the story of the young adventurer, felt\nequally interested with myself in his welfare, and we used often to\nspeculate as to his probable fate. Ten years after the rencounter with\nwhich my story commences, I was sitting reading to my wife in the\ndrawing-room, after breakfast, when we were startled by a knock at the\nfront-door, followed by the servant's announcement that a gentleman\nwished to speak to me. I desired that he might be shown up-stairs, and\nhastened to meet him, thinking it was one of my neighbours, from whom I\nexpected a visit. But what was my surprise when a tall, handsome man,\nwith dark, sunburnt features, and whose person was quite strange to me,\ngrasped my hand, and shook it most cordially, at the same time smiling\nas he watched the doubting scrutiny of my gaze, as a faint recollection\nof his features crossed my mind.\n\n\"I see you are puzzled, my dear sir,\" said he; \"you do not remember me.\"\n\n\"I have a confused idea of having seen features like yours before,\" said\nI; \"but where or when I cannot at this moment recall to my\nrecollection.\"\n\n\"I do not wonder at your not remembering _me_,\" replied he, \"but your\ndisinterested kindness made an impression on a grateful heart, which\nneither time nor change have weakened. I am, or rather was, the boy\nDalzell--the poor, friendless, desolate wanderer, whom you cheered with\nyour benevolence, and animated by your advice. Do you remember me now?\"\n\n\"I do--I do,\" said I, returning his warm grasp; \"and most happy am I to\nsee you again, and to see you thus; for I perceive that your sanguine\nhopes have not been disappointed, and that you have risen from your\nhumble station to one more worthy of you.\"\n\n\"Fortune has indeed favoured me beyond my deserts,\" answered he. \"I told\nyou that my having met so kind a friend at my outset was a fortunate\nomen; it proved so. I entered the service as a boy before the mast; I am\nnow a lieutenant in His Majesty's navy.\"\n\n\"I congratulate you with all my heart; but your modesty must not\nattribute your success to good fortune alone, there must have been merit\nlikewise to deserve it. But I forget; I have a new acquaintance to\nintroduce to you--my wife; a new acquaintance, but an old friend, I can\nassure you; for she has long been acquainted with, and felt interested\nin, your story.\"\n\nMy wife cordially welcomed him, and expressed her gratification at his\nreturn home in health and happiness.\n\n\"Alas, madam!\" said he, \"happiness, I fear, is as far from me as ever. I\ntold my kind friend there, that I felt confident fortune would smile\nupon me: I was then a sanguine boy. Fortune _has_ smiled upon me; I have\nrisen from the humble station in which I commenced my career; I have\ngained for myself rank and competency; and I am now a disappointed\nman--the hope that cheered me on in my career is blighted. I returned to\nthe home in which I had left all that was most dear to me in life: I\nfound it deserted; my old master was dead--died in poverty; and\nGrace--my Grace, was gone, no one knew whither.\"\n\nWe were both too much shocked at first by this announcement to be able\nto express our sympathy; but, on reflection, I expressed my conviction\nthat there was no cause for serious alarm; that, while there was life,\nthere was hope; and that no doubt he would, ere long, succeed in gaining\nsome intelligence which would lead to the discovery of the orphan's\nretreat. I told him I would write to some friends in the neighbourhood\nof Kelso, who would, I was sure, be happy to exert themselves in making\nthe necessary inquiries; and that I was able and willing to accompany\nhim as soon as he thought proper, to assist him in his search. He was\nmuch gratified by the offer of my services, which he seemed inclined to\navail himself of immediately.\n\n\"No, no, my friend,\" said I; \"we have too lately found you, to part with\nyou so easily. You must stay with us a few days at least, until I\nreceive answers from Kelso, and afterwards, when we have succeeded in\nthe object of our search, make this house your home till you have one of\nyour own.\"\n\nAt first he seemed rather impatient at the delay; but gradually became\nmore tranquillised and cheerful. He gratefully accepted my offer of\nextended hospitality, and pleased us by the frankness with which he\nseemed immediately to take us at our word, and to feel himself at home.\nWe were both delighted with him; his manners were as pleasing as his\nconversation was entertaining. On my requesting him to favour us with an\naccount of his adventures since we parted, he replied, \"No one has a\nbetter claim than yourself, my dear sir, to be informed of the progress\nof an adventure of which you witnessed and cheered the commencement; but\nI feel an unwillingness to commence a story, the hero of which is the\nnarrator, who, to do justice to it, must speak more of himself than is\neither seemly or agreeable.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" said I, \"do not allow your modesty to stand in the way of our\nenjoyment. Speak fully and freely, in the consciousness that you are\ntalking to friends, who will be pleased with the narration of the most\ntrifling incidents connected with one in whose fate they have always\nfelt the warmest interest.\"\n\nHe bowed, and without further preface commenced as follows:--\"After I\nleft you, I made the best of my way to London, and from thence to\nPortsmouth, where I volunteered on board the Dareall frigate, fitting\nout for the Cape station. I was asked if I wanted to ship as an able or\nordinary seaman, and replied that I had never been at sea, but that I\nwas active and willing. The lieutenant seemed pleased with my appearance\nand with my answer. 'You're just the lad for us, then,' said he; 'if\nyou're active and willing, we'll soon make you _able_. I like the cut of\nyour jib, my lad; and, if you perform as well as you promise, I've no\ndoubt you'll make a smart fellow yet. Here, Telford,' said he to a\nboatswain's mate standing near, 'I give this youngster into your charge;\nmake a man of him.'\n\n\"'Ay, ay, sir. Come along, young blowhard,' said he, 'as the first\nleaftennan has trusted your edicashun to me, we must saw wood at once,\nand see what we can make of that block of yourn. Can you handle a\nmarlinspike?'\n\n\"'No.'\n\n\"'Can you reef or steer, or heave the lead?'\n\n\"'No.'\n\n\"'Then what the devil _can_ you do?'\n\n\"'I can read and write, and keep accounts.'\n\n\"'Oh, ho!--a reg'lar long-shore gemman!--the makings of a sea-lawyer!\nAnd so you can't do nothin' but read and write?'\n\n\"'Yes, there's one thing I can do, and am determined to do--to learn\neverything you will take the trouble to teach me. _You_ knew nothing\nbefore you were taught--how can you expect _me_ to do so?'\n\n\"'Well, there's reason in that, anyhow,' said he; 'and if so be you pays\nattention, why, there's no saying but we may see _you_ a bosun's mate\nsome o' these days. But I say, young un, make your number. The poor\ngulpin doesn't understand me'--(this was said half aside). 'What's your\nname?'\n\n\"'Dalzell.'\n\n\"'Dalzell! Dalzell!' said he; 'blow'd if that isn't a Kelso name! Where\nd'ye hail from, eh?--where d'ye come from?'\n\n\"'Scotland.'\n\n\"'Ay, that's as plain as the nose on your face, whenever you open your\nmouth. Now, nobody would never go for to doubt me to be an Englishman by\nmy lingo. But I'll tell you a bit of a secret--I'm a Scotchman born and\nbred.'\n\n\"'Well, I can tell you a secret too, if you'll promise not to tell it.'\n\n\"'Speak on, youngster. I'll never blab till you give me leave. I'm as\nsilent as the ship's bell, as never speaks till it's tolled.'\n\n\"'Well, then, _Telford's_ a Kelso name, as well as Dalzell. Many a\npenny-bap have I bought, when I was at school, at old Jamie Telford's;\nand, if I'm not mistaken, I'm speaking to his son.'\n\n\"'Did you know the old boy? Bless his old heart! Well, you're right for\nonce in your life, my boy; but how the devil did you find me out?'\n\n\"'I've often heard the old man talk of his son Tom, the boatswain's\nmate; and your name and your talking of Kelso together made me fancy you\nmust be the man.'\n\n\"'Well, that beats cock-fighting! Give us your hand, my hearty! I'll\nstick to you through thick and thin, for the sake of the old town and\nthem as lives in it, and if I don't, call me a liar, that's all, and see\nwhat I'll give you. But who are _your_ people? I suppose that's part o'\nthe secret you were going to tell me?'\n\n\"'It was; and you will keep it?'\n\n\"'In coorse; didn't I tell you so afore?'\n\n\"I then told him my story, which he heard with great attention, and\nwhich evidently increased his respect for me. 'I have often heard tell\nof your father,' said he, 'and for his sake I'll do all I can for his\nson. I liked the looks of you before--I like you ten times better now;\nit shan't be my fault if you don't larn your duty. I'll live to see you\nan _admiral_ yet--who knows? You're right, however, to keep your story\nsecret, for some o' these devil's limbs would be jeering about your\nbeing a gemman in a cog, as they calls it, come to sea to wear out his\nold toggery.'\n\n\"The good-hearted fellow kept his promise. Never had scholar a more\nzealous and indefatigable teacher, and never had teacher a pupil more\nanxious to avail himself of his advantages. We were detained for nearly\nthree weeks, and I made the most of my opportunities. During the day, my\nfriend Telford employed all his leisure time in initiating me into the\nmysteries of knotting and splicing, and in teaching me the names and\nuses of the various ropes; and at night, when there were none to laugh\nat my awkward exhibitions, he encouraged me to go aloft, and to learn\nto make active use of my hands and feet. When we went on shore on\nliberty, he used to hire a boat, and teach me how to handle the oar: in\nfact, my kind instructor neglected no means of teaching me how to make\nmyself useful. My whole heart and soul were in the matter, and my\nprogress was proportionably rapid; and I was cheered on to redoubled\nexertion by the kind encouragement of the first lieutenant, who\ncomplimented Telford highly on his success. Before the ship sailed, I\nwas on a par, as to qualifications, with many who, without a similar\nstimulus to exertion, had been some time at sea. I could hand, reef,\nand--no, I couldn't steer--but I knew all the marks on the lead-line,\nand had often taken a sly cast. I was constantly on the watch for\ninstruction, always on the alert to start forward when any particular\nduty was required, and, by evincing a habitual desire to do my duty\nactively and well, I soon gained ground in the opinion of my superiors.\nThe caterer of the midshipman's mess had been disappointed in his\nservant, and wished to promote me to that _high_ honour. I thanked him\nheartily for his kind intentions, but declined his offer; as I wished, I\nsaid, to learn my duty as _seaman_. This coming to the ears of the first\nlieutenant, increased his good-will towards me. 'We shall make something\nof that young man yet,' said he. A circumstance occurred a few days\nbefore we sailed, fortunate in its results as far as concerned me, but\nwhich might have terminated fatally. The captain's son, one of our\nmidshipmen, a fine boy of thirteen, had been forward on the forecastle\nwith some orders, and, in returning aft again, stopped to look over the\ngangway. How the accident happened I know not, but he lost his balance,\nand toppled over into the water. The men were below at supper at the\ntime, but I happened to have just come on deck, and had passed him to go\nforward, when I heard the plunge, and, turning round, missed him from\nthe deck. I instantly surmised what had happened, and, raising the cry\nof 'A man overboard!' I dashed over after him. There was a strong tide\nrunning, and objects were indistinct in the dusk of the evening, but I\nfortunately caught sight of him, and reached him just in time, for he\nwas sinking. By dint of great exertion, I contrived to support him while\nI edged down to a buoy, some distance astern, to which we clung till\ntaken off by a boat from the frigate. The captain, who was on board at\nthe time, thanked and praised me before the whole ship's company for my\ngallantry, as he was pleased to call it, in saving the life of his son;\nand the boy, after whispering to his father, came up to me, and\npresenting me with his watch, begged that I would accept it as a mark of\nhis gratitude. I have it still. From that day, both father and son\nbehaved with the most marked kindness to me, and took every opportunity\nof showing their good-will. For some weeks after we sailed for the Cape:\nnothing particular occurred beyond the regular routine of duty; but, at\nthe end of that time, the captain wanted some one to assist his\nsecretary, and the word was passed round the decks by the\nmaster-at-arms, for those who were good writers among the crew, to send\nin specimens of their penmanship. I was one of the candidates. Our\nspecimens were sent to the captain, and all the writers were ordered\naft.\n\n\"'Who is the writer of this specimen?' said the captain, pointing to\nmine.\n\n\"'I am, sir.'\n\n\"'And is the motto your own?' (It was, 'When a man's foot is on the first\nstep of the ladder, he should never rest till he reach the top.')\n\n\"'Yes, sir.'\n\n\"'Indeed!--you seem to try to act on that principle. Go on as well as you\nhave begun, and there is no telling where you may stop. In the meantime,\nyou may act as assistant to my secretary.' He then called the first\nlieutenant, Mr Barlow, and walked up and down the deck with him some\ntime; after which Mr Barlow beckoned to me to come to him:--'Dalzell,'\nsaid he, 'Captain Edwards and myself have both had reason to be\nsatisfied with you since you joined the ship, and, as you have proved\nyourself to be qualified to assist his clerk, we wish to keep you\nseparate from the ship's company, and to allow you to mess with the\nmidshipmen, if they have no objection.'\n\n\"I felt a flushing of the cheek and a fluttering of the heart. I felt\nthat _the first step of the ladder_ was under my foot.\n\n\"'I hope they can make no objection to me on account of character, sir;\nand my birth and education place me nearly on an equality with them.'\n\n\"'Ah! how came you to be here then? You took to bad courses, I suppose,\nand so your friends sent you to sea, to reclaim you: was that it?'\n\n\"'No, sir. Misfortune and necessity brought me here, united with the\nlove of the profession of a sailor. It is a duty, however, which I owe\nto you as well as myself, on the present occasion, to appear in my true\ncolours; and to tell you a tale which I would otherwise have kept\nsecret, and which is only known to myself and my kind friend and\ntownsman, Telford, the boatswain's mate.' I then proceeded to relate to\nhim what I have already told you. Both the captain and Mr Barlow\nappeared to be much interested in my narrative, and were pleased to\ncompliment me upon my independence of spirit, and the clear and distinct\nmanner in which I expressed myself. 'After this,' said Captain Edwards,\n'there can be no bar to your messing with the young gentlemen, as I\nsuppose you have no objection to their hearing your story?'\n\n\"'None whatever, sir.'\n\n\"'Begging your pardon, Captain Frederick,' said Mr Barlow; 'I know a\nmidshipman's berth too well, and he may tell of his birth and his\nmisfortunes; but let him know the love, sir, and you'll never hear the\nend of it.'\n\n\"'I daresay you're quite right, Mr Barlow. Dalzell, I have no doubt you\nwill be discreet in your communications, for your own sake.'\n\n\"That same day I was admitted into the midshipmen's mess, and was\ntreated by them with the greatest kindness and consideration. My life\nwas now a comparatively easy one, as I had hardly any duty to perform,\nexcept that of writing; but I determined in my own mind, if possible, to\nprove myself as quick as a clerk as I had endeavoured to do as a sailor.\nI was fortunate enough, in my new capacity, not only to please my\nimmediate superior, but to add to the captain's good opinion of me. One\nstormy night, as we were nearing the Cape, I was letting go some rope on\nthe poop, the hands having been called out to reef topsails, when\nsomething fell heavily upon the deck almost close to my feet. The night\nwas so dark that I could not distinguish what it was; but I thought that\na coil of rope, or something of that kind, had been thrown out of the\ntop by the motion of the ship, and I began to feel about, to discover\nwhat it might be. My hand touched something soft and warm, and at the\nsame time I heard a faint groan. I immediately gave the alarm, and a\nquartermaster brought up a lantern, by the light of which we discovered\nthe lifeless body of young Hawkins, one of our midshipmen. He had been\nup furling the mizzen-royal, had lost his footing, and been precipitated\nto the deck. Poor fellow! he never spoke again--that groan had been his\nlast. A few days after his death, the captain called the hands out, and\ntold me, before them all, that he had entered me on the ship's books as\nmidshipman, as a reward for my good behaviour; and he had no doubt that\nthe same high sense of duty which had been the means of raising me to\nthe quarterdeck would incite me to do credit to the appointment. He\nthen told the ship's company to obey my orders for the future as their\nofficer, and then dismissed them. I was immediately surrounded by the\nmidshipmen, all of whom cordially congratulated me upon my appointment,\nand resolved to have a jollification on the occasion. I was much amused\nwith my old friend Telford, who took the earliest opportunity of\ntouching his hat to me, and calling me Mr Dalzell.\n\n\"'Why, Telford, what makes you so distant?' said I, offering my hand at\nthe same time.\n\n\"'No, sir, thank ye,' said he; 'I knows my place better nor that. If so\nbe you likes to give us your flipper down in your cabin, well and good;\nbut not here, sir--not afore the people--'twould look too free-and-easy\nlike. I'm plain Tom Telford still; but you've got a handle to your name\nnow, Mr Dalzell.'\n\n\"My messmates laughed heartily, and Tom was desired to come down to the\nberth, where he shook me heartily by the hand, and wished me all manner\nof success, and then tossed off a tumbler of strong grog in the most\napproved fashion: nose invisible--eyes raised heavenward--out-stretched\nlittle finger--gurgling noise in the throat, ending with a suffocating\ngasp of enjoyment, and a sweeping over his mouth with the cuff of his\njacket.\n\n\"I pass over a number of trifling incidents in my naval career, and\nshall proceed at once to the sad catastrophe by which I was deprived of\nmy kind friend and benefactor, the captain, and of most of those with\nwhom I had passed so many happy days. We were lying at anchor in Table\nBay, one fine afternoon in November, the 4th of the month. The weather\nwas perfectly calm, but there was a heavy swell, and clouds had been for\nsome time gathering to the northward, and many of our weather-Solomons\npredicted a storm. In the midshipmen's berth, however, there were no\ncroakers. It was the eve of the 'Gunpowder Plot,' and many a tale was\ntold of boyish pranks, and of the bonfires and fireworks of schoolboy\ndays. There was no care for the future, no anticipation of evil; all was\nlife, and thoughtlessness, and mirth. Alas! alas! how little did we\nthink what one day might bring forth! At daylight of the 5th, it was\nblowing a heavy gale from the northward, a quarter from which there is\nno shelter in Table Bay. The sea came tumbling in in long and heavy\nsurges, and the ship plunged deeply and violently. The hands were called\nout at ten o'clock--'Down yards and masts!' The fore and main yards were\nlowered, and the topmasts were struck, and the ship, relieved by the\nremoval of so much top weight, rode more easily. At noon, so little\napprehension was felt for the effects of the storm, that a salute was\nfired in commemoration of the day. The gale gradually increased in\nviolence; and at half-past twelve, after a heavy pitch, the cry was\nheard, 'The small bower has parted!'--'Let go the sheet!' was the order\nin reply, followed by the heavy plunge of the anchor. Such a mountainous\nsea was running at this time, that every soul on board seemed to\nanticipate the fatal result that followed. The ship was pitching bows\nunder, shipping green seas over all--the sky was murky black--vivid\nflashes of lightning burst from it almost incessantly--and the loud\nrattling of the thunder, every now and then, was heard far above the\nhowling of the gale and the roaring of the sea. Every eye was fixed in\neager anxiety on the cables, which every now and then were buried in the\nsea, and then, as the ship rose to the swell, were seen far ahead of\nher, high above the surface of the water, stiff and rigid as bars of\niron.\n\n\"I know not how it happened, but, amid all the uproar around me,\nsurrounded by faces which spoke but too plainly fears for the result,\nand conscious that our danger was imminent, I felt a kind of unnatural\nbuoyancy of spirits, a secret conviction that, whatever might happen, I\nshould escape unhurt. Telford stared at me, and muttered, 'The lad's\nfey, as they used to say in the North.' At two o'clock, the best bower\ncable parted, and the spare anchor was let go, but the cable went almost\nimmediately. Our danger was now most imminent; our sole dependence was\non our sheet cable; and it was evident to all on board that _that_ could\nnot long resist the heavy strain. Our ensign was now hoisted, union\ndownward, that well-known signal of extreme distress; and the mournful\nbooming of our guns seemed to our excited imaginations to be the knell\nof our passing minutes. At seven o'clock, a cry was heard, which, like\nan electric shock, was passed from one end of the ship to the other in a\nmoment, stunning the most daring spirits with its dreaded import. The\nsheet cable had parted, and the ship was at the mercy of the wind and\nsea. An order was now given for every man to provide for his own safety,\nand a scene of the greatest confusion ensued. For about ten minutes, the\nship continued to drive before the wind, and then struck, with a\ndreadful crash, upon a reef of rocks, broadside to the shore. The main\nand mizzen masts were immediately cut away, and the foremast soon after\nwent by the board. To add to our horrors, the gun-room was discovered to\nbe on fire, and in a short time the smoke came eddying up from the\ndifferent hatchways in such volumes as to prevent any communication with\nthe lower deck. Feeble would have been the efforts of man in opposing\nthe devouring flame; but here, element was fighting against element, and\nthe sea claimed the mastery; the vast bodies of water which were\nconstantly dashing over the ship effected, in about ten minutes, what no\nhuman exertion could have performed, and we were saved from a fiery, to\nanticipate a watery death. The scene on board the wreck was now awful in\nthe extreme; every sea that broke over her swept away new victims; and\nthose who were left clinging to life with the energy of despair,\nshuddered, as they missed their companions, in the anticipation of\ntheir own approaching doom. Several of the crew, maddened by the horror\nof a slow and lingering death, plunged desperately into the jaws of\ntheir watery tomb, to put an end at once to their suspense; and others,\nin a vain attempt to reach the shore, were carried out to sea by the\neddy, and perished miserably, crying in vain for help from their\nhelpless shipmates. About half-past nine, the poop was washed away, and\nforming a large raft, afforded a flattering prospect of deliverance.\nSeventy or eighty of the crew jumped overboard, and, by great exertion,\ncontrived to reach it. We who remained on board watched their motions\nwith intense anxiety, and, for the moment, forgot our own danger in the\ncontemplation of theirs. An involuntary shout burst from us, when we saw\nthem reaching the raft in safety, and borne onwards towards the shore;\nbut, alas! a heavy sea struck the floating wreck when only a short\ndistance from the beach, and, turning it over and over, engulfed all its\nwretched occupants.\n\n\"'Poor fellows!' said Telford, who was clinging to the ring-bolts by my\nside, 'their cruise is up! They've reached their anchorage, and we may\nget our ground-tackle ready as soon as we like!'\n\n\"'Oh no!' replied I; 'while there's life there's hope, Telford. Keep up\nyour heart, man--we shall weather this bout yet.'\n\n\"'Heaven in its mercy grant that _you_ may, Mr Dalzell! but there is a\nweight on _my_ heart, a dark feeling that my hour has come. I shall\nnever see the bonny banks of Tweed again--never, never! If you should\nlive, sir, to get back to Kelso, tell my good old father----'\n\n\"'Hold on for your life!' shouted I, as a giant sea came rushing and\nroaring towards the wreck.\n\n\"It burst over us; and when, gasping and half-suffocated, I was able to\nopen my eyes, I looked round--my poor companion was gone. A dark body\nwas visible, for a moment, on the surface of the sea, some forty yards\ndistant, and that was the last I saw of my kind friend Telford. Soon\nafter this, the wreck gave a heavy lurch towards the shore, and then, as\nthe sea receded, rolled back again, and separated into three parts. I\ncaught hold of some part of the floating wreck, and, after being\nrepeatedly washed off, and recovering my station, I contrived to lash\nmyself securely to it, and then exhausted nature found relief in\ninsensibility. When I recovered, I found myself lying on the beach,\nsurrounded by the bodies of my unfortunate shipmates, and, raising\nmyself on my knees, I breathed a silent thanksgiving to Heaven for my\nalmost miraculous escape. Hearing a faint groan near me, I groped my way\ntowards the spot whence the sound proceeded--the night was very dark,\nbut a flash of lightning revealed to me the object of my search. It was\nthe body of a seaman stretched upon his back--the right arm extended on\nthe sand, and the left covering the face. At first I thought it was a\ncorpse that lay before me, so stiff, so cold, so motionless did it seem\nto be; but, on putting my hand on the breast, I felt the pulsation of\nthe heart, and in a few moments low stifled moanings were heard, like\nthose of a person labouring under the influence of nightmare. I spoke to\nthe sleeper, but without receiving any answer; but, the muttering still\ncontinuing, I shook him gently.\n\n\"'Holloa!' shouted he, as he started to his feet.\n\n\"What was my surprise and delight, when I recognised the voice of\nTelford, whom I thought I had seen swallowed up by the waves.\n\n\"'Telford!' said I, 'is that you?'\n\n\"'Why, who else should it be?' replied he; 'eh, old boy, who else should\nit be?'\n\n\"To my great surprise, I now perceived that my poor shipmate was\nhalf-seas-over, as we call it.\n\n\"'Telford.' said I, 'do you not know me?'\n\n\"'Oh, Mr Dalzell! I ax your pardon; I didn't know it was you, seeing\nthat all cats are grey alike in the dark. I've had a reglar snooze; but\nI hope I may never snooze again, if I'm to have such another dream.'\n\n\"'What have you been dreaming about?'\n\n\"'Why, sir, I dreamed I was a-drowning, and that I was going down, down,\ndown, when I heard your voice calling out, 'Come, Telford, I'm not an\nadmiral yet;' and with that you took me by the cuff of the neck, and\nthen I opened my eyes, and you had a hold o' me, sure enough. But\nd--n--ax your pardon, sir,' said he, fumbling about; 'but it's enough to\nmake a parson swear.'\n\n\"'Why, what's the matter?'\n\n\"'Why, sir, I've lost my call;[15] no wonder my pipe's put out.'\n\n[Footnote 15: Silver whistle, used by the boatswain and his mates.]\n\n\"'Is that all? You may thank Heaven you did not lose your life. You had\nlittle hope of saving it when we last parted.'\n\n\"'Indeed! why, then, it can't have been a dream, after all. Blowed if I\ndon't think I'm a little crazy in my upper works; my head is all in a\nwhirl, and there's fifty thousand sparks dancing before my eyes. I say,\nMr Dalzell, what was that you said about losing life, and all that\ngammon? Ax your pardon, sir--hopes no offence,' continued he, laying his\nhand with drunken familiarity upon my shoulder. 'Holloa! why, you're as\nwet as a half-wrung swab, and I'm not much better myself! What's the\nmeaning of that?'\n\n\"'Why, the meaning of it is, that we have both had a most providential\nescape from drowning. You must be crazy, indeed, if you have already\nforgot the sad events of the last few hours. When you were swept off the\nwreck of the poor old Dareall, I little expected to see you again. I\ncould almost have sworn that I saw you go down.'\n\n\"'The wreck!--ay, I remember it all now! Providential escape, _indeed_.\nOnly think of a man, as my old father used to say, putting an enemy\ninto his mouth to steal away his brains! I had clean forgotten all about\nit. Howsoever, I'll take my 'davy I was so full of water, that, afore I\nknowed what I was about, I took rum enough in to make me a\n_tumbler_--ha, ha!'\n\n\"'You seem to treat the matter very lightly, Telford; I see nothing\nlaughable in it.'\n\n\"'Why, Lord love your honour, when the grog's in, the wit's out, you\nknow, as the old song says.'\n\n\"'But where did you get the grog? You were sober enough, and sad enough,\ngoodness knows, when we parted; and how did you escape?'\n\n\"'Why, your honour, I rode ashore on the back of a breaker,[16] and, as\nsoon as I landed, I knocked my horse on the head, and found a drop of\ncapital rum inside, and, as I was devilish cold and wet, I made a little\ntoo free with it mayhap.'\n\n[Footnote 16: Breaker--a small cask.]\n\n\"'Well, well, it's fortunate it's no worse. Can you walk, do you think?\nWe had better make the best of our way to the town.'\n\n\"'Walk!--to be sure I can, your honour, though perhaps I may steer a\nlittle wild or so; but, if you'll heave ahead, I'll follow in your wake,\nand then you won't be so apt to notice me if I give a yaw now and then.'\n\n\"We soon fell in with a party of light dragoons, by whom we were most\nkindly welcomed, and who assisted us in making our way to Cape Town. We\nafterwards heard that these gallant fellows had greatly distinguished\nthemselves during that awful night by their humane daring; forcing their\nhorses into the surf, to rescue the struggling survivors of the crew,\nmany of whom would have perished but for their timely aid. In the town,\nwe met with several of our unfortunate shipmates, to whom and to\nourselves the inhabitants behaved with the greatest kindness and\nattention. At daylight next morning, a mournful sight presented itself;\nand we then ascertained the full extent of our sad loss. The whole line\nof beach was thickly strewed with dead bodies, and fragments of the\nwreck. There were only four officers and about fifty men saved--three of\nthe lieutenants, the purser, surgeon, and two midshipmen, were\nfortunately on shore at the time of the accident; all the rest of the\nofficers, and about three hundred and fifty seamen, perished. Three\nwaggon-loads of corpses were taken to a place near the hospital, and\ninterred; and about one hundred bodies, dreadfully mangled, were buried\nin one large pit on the beach, near where they were found. The body of\nmy kind friend, the captain, was never recovered, but those of the other\nofficers were interred, the Sunday following, with military honours. So\nended my unfortunate outset in the Dareall. The survivors of her crew\nwere drafted into other ships, and the officers were sent home by the\nfirst opportunity. I afterwards joined the Sunbeam frigate, and in due\ncourse of time got my promotion in her. As soon as she was paid off, I\nhastened to Kelso, fondly hoping there to find the prize, the hopes of\nobtaining which had for years cheered me onwards. You know how I have\nbeen disappointed. And now, my kind friends, the story of my adventures\nis ended.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" said I, \"you have told us the _story_, but not the _whole_ story;\nyou have still an account to give of your cruise in the Sunbeam; do not\nflatter yourself you are going to escape so easily.\"\n\n\"You must excuse me, my dear sir; I am not accustomed to act as my own\ntrumpeter; when Telford comes, he may take the office upon himself.\"\n\n\"What became of that poor fellow? He must be a rough diamond.\"\n\n\"Rough enough; but as good-hearted a fellow, and as fine a specimen of\nhis class, as ever lived. I wonder he has not been here before this\ntime, for I told him I meant to come here; and he said he would give you\n'a hail' as he went past, to let you know I was coming. I suppose he has\n'hove to,' as he would call it, by the way.\"\n\n\"But how does he know the place?\"\n\n\"Oh, he knew the neighbourhood from my description of it immediately;\nand, said he, 'if I make his number when I get there, some one will tell\nme where he hangs out.'\"\n\n\"Well, I shall be glad to see him whenever he comes. Anna, my love,\"\nsaid I to my wife, \"Mr Dalzell will be ready, I daresay, to do justice\nto your luncheon whenever it makes its appearance.\"\n\nWe were comfortably seated at the table, discussing our strawberries and\ncream, when the sound of a loud shrill whistle thrilled through our\nears, followed by a rough hoarse voice, bellowing words which my wife\nand I could not understand. We both started from our seats, and ran to\nthe window, which was open to admit the cool air, though the blind was\ndown to exclude the sun. Dalzell sat still, and burst out laughing. On\ndrawing up the blind, we saw a stout, dark-looking man, with an open and\ncheerful countenance, dressed like a sailor. His little shining\ntarpaulin hat was _flapped_ down upon the back of his head, and his long\nblack hair hung in curls about his forehead and ears. His left arm was\n\"absent without leave\" from his empty sleeve, and in his right hand he\nheld the little silver pipe which had caused all the commotion.\n\n\"Ax your pardon, sir,\" said he, touching his hat, when he saw me; \"I\nmade bold to call the hands out to muster, to see if one Leaftennan\nDalzell would answer to his name. Hopes no offence, sir.\"\n\n\"Ah, Telford, my fine fellow, how are you?\" said Dalzell, peeping over\nour shoulders.\n\n\"God bless your honour!\" said he, respectfully raising his hat; \"I'm as\npleased to hear the sound of your voice as if it were the pipe to grog.\"\n\n\n\"That's saying a great deal, Tom. Why, you sway about _now_ as if you\nwere a little top-heavy.\"\n\n\"Oh no, your honour; I've only been freshening the nip[17] once or\ntwice, and my bread-basket's a little empty.\"\n\n[Footnote 17: Sailor's term for taking a dram.]\n\n\"Well, come in, Tom,\" said I, \"and we'll try to fill it for you.\"\n\nTom was soon established in a comfortable berth in the kitchen, and did\nample justice to the good cheer which was placed in abundance before\nhim. As soon as he had good time to shake his cargo into its place, he\nwas summoned into the parlour. At first he demurred a little to change\nhis quarters, saying that he was more in his own place in the galley[18]\nthan in the cabin; but his reluctance was overcome when he saw spirits\nand water precede him. When he came in, he stood in the doorway, making\nsundry bobbing attempts at a bow, twirling his hat round and round, and\nlooking as bashful as a young maiden.\n\n[Footnote 18: Kitchen.]\n\n\"Come in, Tom,\" said I. \"Sit down, and tell us all your adventures.\"\n\nTom, however, was too polite a man, in his own way, to sit down in the\npresence of his officer, till the lieutenant said--\n\n\"Come, come, Tom, bring yourself to an anchor at once.\"\n\nThus authorised, he plumped into a chair, and, putting his hat under it,\ncarefully deposited there a large quid of tobacco, which he dislodged\nfrom its snug quarters in his left cheek.\n\n\"Now, Tom, carry on,\" said Mr Dalzell.\n\n\"Why, your honour,\" said Tom, slyly glancing at the table, \"I'm in no\nspirits for spinning a yarn just now.\"\n\nI laughed, and filled a tumbler with whisky and water, to which Tom paid\nhis respects with evident satisfaction.\n\n\"Mr Dalzell has told us,\" said I, \"of your escape from the wreck of the\nDareall--and a wonderful one it was.\"\n\n\"You _may_ say that,\" replied he; \"I never had such a narrow squeak in\nmy life.\"\n\n\"But tell us something about yourself, and Mr Dalzell. I suppose you\nhave been in action together?\"\n\n\"Action!--Lord love ye, sir, we were hardly ever out of it! If I were to\ntell you all, I'd have nothing else to do for the next week. I always\nsaid I'd live to see him an admiral, and I say so still; and if ever man\ndeserved a flag, there sits the man, for a braver officer and a better\nseaman never trod a plank, though I says it as shouldn't say it, seeing\nas how I first taught him to reef and steer.\"\n\n\"Come, come, Tom,\" interrupted Dalzell, \"if you are going to spin such a\nyarn as that, the sooner you cut it the better.\"\n\n\"Ax your honour's pardon, but I must speak. Didn't you save my life in\nthat 'ere action with the Flower-de-louce? Haven't you been the best\nfriend to me I ever had? Haven't you often saved me from the gangway\nwhen I've dipped my whiskers too deep into the grog-kid? And can I sit\nquiet with such a glass as this before me?\" emptying the tumbler as he\nspoke.\n\n\"Well, that's enough, Tom. If you're so fond of your grog, you had\nbetter get on with your story as fast as you can, for not a drop more\nshall you taste till you have finished.\"\n\n\"But, bless your heart, sir, how am I to begin? I'm like a marine adrift\non a grating, or an ass in a hay-field. I've got lots o' yarns to tell,\nbut I don't know which way to turn myself among them.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Dalzell, \"I'll go and take a walk, and leave you to your\nown devices;\" and he left the room.\n\n\"Now, your honour,\" said Tom, addressing me, \"I'll tell you a famous\ntrick our captain sarved the Johnny Croppoes.[19] He was a dashing fellow\nthat, and never stuck at nuffen: a reglar fire-eater--'ud face the devil\nhimself. We was a-cruising off the coast of France, when the look-out\nhails the deck--'A strange sail ahead!' Well, there was crack on\neverything, below and aloft--clear ship for action--beat to quarters,\nand all that; and we were soon near enough to see a snug,\nbusiness-looking craft, brig-rigged, standing to the westward under easy\nsail. So we fired a gun to leeward, and hoisted English colours, and she\ndid the same, and hauled her wind to join us. When she came within hail,\nwe found she was an English privateer, and the captain of her said he\nhad something of consequence to tell our commander, and he was ordered\nto come on board. Well, the news soon spread over the ship, that the\nprivateer had seen two French merchantmen at anchor under the guns of a\nsmall battery; that he was not strong enough to cut them out himself,\nand that he had hailed a king's ship the day before to tell her so, but\nhe was not believed.\n\n[Footnote 19: Nautical for \"Crapaud\"--nickname for the French.]\n\n\"'Well,' says our captain, says he, 'I'll have a slap at them at all\nevents.'\n\n\"'I'll lead the way, sir, if you'll allow me.'\n\n\"'But'--and here they went into the cabin with the first luff; and,\nafter staying there for some time, out they comes, and the captain of\nthe privateer jumps into his boat, and shoves off.\n\n\"'You understand?' shouted the skipper to him.\n\n\"'Perfectly, sir.'\n\n\"Our captain looked as pleased as Punch, and we all saw there was\nsomething in the wind. The privateer stood to the French coast under\neasy sail, and we followed in her wake. Word was passed for volunteers\nfor a cutting-out job, and there wasn't a man o' the ship's company as\ndidn't come forward; but they couldn't all go--that was sartain; and\nthere was many a long face amongst those that were not chosen; but the\nothers, you'd a-thought they were going to a _hop_ at the point, they\nwere so pleased at the thoughts o' the fun. Well, when we'd got well in\nsight o' the land, the privateer made all sail, and shaped a course\nalong the coast, and we cracked on in chase; but then we put a drag over\nthe bows to keep us astarn, and though we made a great show, we didn't\ngain upon her. We all wondered at this strange move, but we wondered\nstill more when we saw French colours flying from our peak, and heard\nthe orders given to fire the bow-chasers, but to aim wide o' the mark.\nWe saw the shot drop into the water, first on the one quarter, then on\nthe other, of the privateer; but devil a one struck her; and she, with\nher English colours flying, kept peppering away at us with her\nstarn-chasers; but her shot, like ours, all fell wide of the mark. By\nthis time we were well in with the shore, and could see two fine large\nmerchant ships lying at anchor close under the guns of a small battery\nnear the town, which lined the beach of a snug bay. The privateer\nimmediately hauled her wind off the coast, as if afeared o' the guns o'\nthe battery, and we did the same. We could see the beach crowded with\npeople hurrying to look at the running fight between the French frigate,\nas they thought (she had been one once), and the English privateer.\nWell, this game lasted for some time; lots o' smoke and noise, for we\nyawed two or three times to give her a broadside, and to let her get\naway from us, till at last we gave it up for a bad job, and bore up\nunder easy sail for the bay we had before seen. We stood in, clued all\nup, and came to an anchor with a very short scope of cable, and brought\nto, all ready for weighing again. The boats were lowered and manned, and\na few jollies[20] were stowed away in the starn-sheets out o' sight. The\nbeach was crowded with people anxious to hear the news; even the\nswaddies,[21] except two or three sentries, deserted the battery, now\nthat all danger was past, as they thought. Well, the gig pulled towards\nthe shore, just to amuse the Frenchmen, while another boat pulled\ndirectly to the battery, and, in quarter less no time, the sentries were\nknocked down, and the guns were tumbled off their carriages--there were\nlots o' crowbars and handspikes in the boat. Meantime, two other boats\nboarded the merchantmen, and afore you could say Jack Robinson, their\ncrews, never dreaming of the English, were secured, their cables cut,\nand the boats towing them out, without a single shot being fired, or a\nman hurt. By this time the topsails were at the masthead aboard the\nfrigate, and the anchor weighed, and she stood quietly out of the bay,\nand hove to. The French ensign was then hauled down, and with three\nroaring cheers from our ship's company, the red flag of Old England was\nrun up in its stead. In a short time crews were put on board the prizes,\nthe boats were hoisted in, and we shaped our course for the Channel.\nWhat do you think o' that now, sir, for a clever move?\"\n\n[Footnote 20: Marines.]\n\n[Footnote 21: Soldiers.]\n\n\"Capital, capital! I never heard a better. But what part of the play did\nMr Dalzell and you act?\"\n\n\"Oh, I says nuthen. I knows who was the first officer to mount the\nbattery, and who was the man as trod upon his heels; but that is neither\nhere nor there. Kelso for ever! says I. I says nuthen.\"\n\nI could not help laughing at Tom's expressive \"nuthens.\"\n\n\"Kelso for ever, indeed!\" said I. \"Then the two Kelso men were foremost,\neh?\"\n\n\"It's of no use denying it, sir, or making a secret of what's no secret\nat all. I believe that job was the 'casion of Mr Dalzell's having a swab\ntacked to his shoulder.\"\n\n\"A swab!--what's a swab?\"\n\n\"It's what you long-shore gemmen calls an appleeat,[22] I believe, sir;\na bunch o' gold yarns a leaftennan wears on his shoulder.\"\n\n[Footnote 22: Epaulette.]\n\n\"Oh, ay! I understand.\"\n\n\"Oh, how pleased he was when he got his commission some time after; and\npleased was I to see his happy face, for I knowed he was a-thinking of\nthe bonny lass he left behind him at Kelso. I hope he'll soon take her\nin tow now for life.\"\n\nGreat was the sorrow the good-hearted fellow expressed, when I told him\nof Dalzell's disappointment. He swore he would find Grace Douglas, if\nshe were above ground; and that he would leave no means untried, as long\nas he had health and strength to persevere.\n\n\"Well, but how did you lose your arm, Tom?\"\n\n\"Oh, your honour, it was in that 'ere action with the Flower-de-louce.\nWe were blazing away at each other as hard as we could lather, and I had\njumped into the main-chains to do something I was ordered, when, crack!\na musket-ball strikes me on the arm, and I fell overboard as helpless as\na sucking-pig; and I'd have gone down like a pig of lead, if Leaftennan\nDalzell hadn't banged overboard after me, and supported me to the rudder\nchains, where we hung till they gave us a rope. Long life to him! says\nI--I lost my arm, but I got a pension, and we both on us got lots o'\nprize money.\"\n\nAt this point of Tom's yarn, Mr Dalzell called to me through the\nwindow--\n\n\"Here are some young visiters coming, Mr Thomson.\"\n\nI looked out, and replied--\n\n\"Oh, they are my two boys. I forgot to tell you that I am a father as\nwell as a husband. The little fellows have been with their nurse,\nspending the forenoon at my sister's--the house you see there, through\nthe trees. Let us go and meet them.\"\n\nAnd out we all sallied, Tom bringing up the rear. As we approached\nthem, the nurse, who was talking and playing with the children, looked\nup, and, seeing Dalzell, uttered a faint scream, and turned deadly pale.\n\n\"Holloa!\" said I, hurrying towards her; \"what is the matter with the\ngirl?\"\n\nMy companion, however, was beforehand with me. He rushed past me, caught\nher in his arms, and, calling her his \"dear, dear Grace,\" kissed her\npale cheek till the blood mantled rosy red upon it again; while she\nmurmured, \"Dear Edward, then you have not forgot your Grace?\"\n\nIt was quite a romantic scene altogether, with a slight touch of the\nludicrous. There was the girl hanging on Dalzell's arm, half-fainting,\nher head hanging back, her bonnet off, and her long, fair hair floating\nin the breeze; while hysterical sobs of joy burst from her every now and\nthen; my little George roaring might and main, and sobbing out, \"Naughty\nman! bite Nelly;\" Dalzell, pale and agitated, alternately kissing her\ncheek and hugging her to his bosom; my wife crying; Tom Telford whirling\nround and round, waving his hat over his head, and flourishing his empty\nsleeve in the air; and I, the most sensible person in the group,\nstanding staring in delighted astonishment at this pleasing and\nunexpected denouement. After the first excitement occasioned by this\nunlooked-for meeting was over, we all returned to the house, eager to\nhear Grace Douglas's account of her adventures.\n\nBefore she begins, however, I must beg the reader's patience till I\nrelate how she happened to be in my service. About a twelvemonth before,\nmy wife was obliged to part with her nurserymaid, in consequence of her\nrepeated acts of misconduct; and, not being able to replace her in the\nneighbourhood, she begged me to advertise for one in the public prints.\nIn answer to this advertisement, a young and very lovely woman presented\nherself, whose appearance immediately prepossessed us in her favour. Her\nmanners were mild and gentle, and such as were little to be expected in\none in her rank of life. When asked for a character, she replied that\nshe had never been in service; that she was an orphan, and had none to\nrecommend her; that, if we liked to try her, she hoped and trusted she\nwould give us satisfaction--at least no endeavour should be wanting on\nher part. She declined giving any account of her family, merely saying\nthat adverse circumstances had obliged her to resort to this means of\nseeking a subsistence. _She_ did not care about wages; all that she\nwished for was protection and a comfortable home. My wife, much as she\nwas pleased with her appearance and manner, was unwilling to make what\nshe considered the dangerous experiment of engaging an unknown\ncharacter; but I overruled her objections, in which I was materially\nassisted by mamma's darling, little George, who, attracted by the mild\ncountenance and sweet voice of the stranger, clung to her side, and\ncried for her to remain. My wife could not resist the appeal; and Ellen\nStewart, as she wished to be called, became one of our family, and soon\nproved herself worthy of our confidence. The substance of her previous\nhistory, as she related it to Dalzell, was as follows:--\n\nA succession of bad crops, and of unfortunate farming speculations, had\nobliged her father to give up the farm in which they had so long lived\nhappily together. His health had been long declining; and, when he died,\nshe was left almost destitute. She had a maternal aunt, who was willing\nand anxious to share with her her trifling pittance; but she was\ndetermined not to be a burden on one who was hardly able to support\nherself. At this time our advertisement met her eye, and she immediately\nhastened to answer it--resolved, under an assumed name, to submit to the\nduties of a menial station, which she was sure, if her poor but proud\naunt were let into the secret, she would indignantly oppose. She had\nwritten to her aunt, to assure her of her welfare, but without\ndisclosing the name of her place of abode. She had had, before her\nfather died, two very eligible offers of marriage, which she rejected;\nfor she felt sure, she said, that her own Edward would return. Three\nweeks afterwards, the long-tried constancy of the lovers was\nrewarded--mutually rewarded; for they were worthy of each other. I had\nthe pleasure of giving away the bride; and honest Tom enjoyed an extra\nglass of his favourite grog on the occasion, by way of \"wetting his\ncommission,\" as he called it--Dalzell having installed him as a kind of\nJack-of-all-trades in his new establishment. The only drawback to his\nperfect happiness was, that he never lived to see his master an admiral.\n\n\n\n\nTHE GOOD MAN OF DRYFIELD.\n\n\n\"To Let, the Mansion-house of Dryfield. This is a small, genteel,\nself-contained house, beautifully situated on the banks of the Clyde,\nwith large garden and seven acres of fine arable land attached. Rent\nmoderate. Premises will be shown, and other particulars given, by Mr\nPentland, farmer, Minnigrain, near Dryfield, who is also empowered to\ntransact all matters relative to the letting of the house and grounds.\"\n\nSuch, good reader, was an advertisement that appeared in the \"Caledonian\nMercury\" some six-and-twenty years ago. Well, but what on earth has an\nadvertisement of this sort to do with the Border Tales? Patience, kind\nfriend--patience; and, as a certain humorous song--whose title we have\nforgotten--says, \"you shall hear.\" This advertisement, commonplace as it\nmay seem, possessed some interest for me at the time it appeared; for at\nthat very moment I was commissioned, by a friend then resident in\nJamaica, but who was contemplating an immediate return to his native\ncountry, to look out for exactly such a place as that described in the\nannouncement above quoted.\n\nHaving some recollection of the place myself, which I had casually seen\nseveral years before, as I passed on the top of the mail, I felt\nconvinced that it was precisely such a residence as my friend desired.\nUnder this impression, I determined on paying Dryfield a visit, and\nmaking a personal survey of the premises. Conform thereto, the following\nmorning found me on the top of the mail. In six hours afterwards, I was\nat Minnigrain, and in the presence of its worthy occupant, Mr Pentland.\nHe was a decent, substantial-looking farmer--plain and unsophisticated\nin his manners, intelligent, and shrewd, with a spice of humour about\nhim which he seemed to have some difficulty in controlling.\n\nHaving mentioned to Mr Pentland the purpose of my visit, and my wish to\ntake a look of Dryfield and its premises, he instantly accompanied me\nthither--having previously provided himself with a couple of keys: one\nto procure us access to the garden, through which it was necessary to\npass to reach the house; the other to admit us to the house itself.\n\nOur way lay through a romantic wood, that grew on a steep bank\noverhanging the Clyde, and which was traversed by various winding paths.\nHaving taken one of these, we soon threaded the little forest, and,\nemerging at its western side, found ourselves on a green lawn, at the\nfurther end of which stood the mansion-house of Driffel, as it was more\nshortly pronounced by the natives. It was a compact and\ncomfortable-looking house, but had evidently been long untenanted.\nEverything around it was running to waste. The honeysuckle, with which\nits walls had been clothed, had fallen from its fastenings, and was idly\nsweeping the footpath below; the flower-plats in front were over-run\nwith weeds; the garden was uncropped; and shrubs, bushes, and trees were\nrevelling in an unprofitable luxuriance. Everything, in short, bespoke\nneglect, and the absence of a presiding care and taste.\n\n\"The house does not seem to have been tenanted for a long time, Mr\nPentland?\" said I, as we walked towards the house.\n\n\"'Deed, it's a gey while since there was what ye may ca' a reglar tenant\nin't,\" replied my companion. \"We hae had families, from time to time,\nfor a month or twa in the summer season, but nae reglar tenant since Mr\nDarsy himsel left, and that's gaun noo in ten years since.\"\n\n\"Is Mr Darsy dead?\"\n\n\"Ou no! He gaed abroad for the benefit o' his health--him and his man\nRamsay. He was to hae been back in six months, but he has never returned\nyet. But I'm sure the blessin o' the poor and the needcessitous'll\nfollow the worthy man wherever he goes.\"\n\n\"He was a benevolent man, was he?\"\n\n\"That he was, sir. Just ane o' the best men breathin. Some folk thocht\nhim a wee whimsical now and then; but his heart was in the richt place.\nHe had just five hunner a-year; and I'm sure he gied awa three o't in\ncharity, if he gied a saxpence.\"\n\n\"Any family?\"\n\n\"No; he never was married. It's said that he was ance crossed in love in\nhis younger days; but whether this be sae or no, I dinna ken. There was\nnaebody lived here wi' him but an auld maiden sister, his man Ramsay,\nand twa servant lasses. His sister's dead; and it's thocht it was partly\nher death that sent him awa frae Dryfield; for they war just\nextraordinar attached to ane anither. Just to show you, sir, how worthy\na man he is,\" continued Mr Pentland, \"the rent o' this property is, by\nhis orders, to be handed owre to the minister, for the use o' the poor\no' the parish.\"\n\nJust as the conversation had reached this point, we reached the door of\nthe house. Mr Pentland inserted the key, but found some difficulty in\nturning the lock, from its having become stiff and rusted through\ndisuse. While he was engaged in alternately coaxing and forcing the\nobstinate bolt, my attention was attracted by an inscription on the\nstone over the doorway. This inscription was in part concealed by some\nstraggling branches of honeysuckle which had broken loose from their\nfastenings, and were hanging over it. These I removed with the end of my\nstick, and having done so, read--\n\n    \"To balance fortune by a just expense,\n    Join with economy magnificence.\"\n\nThe quotation I remembered was from Pope, and thought it rather a\npeculiar sort of taste that had placed it where I now saw it.\n\nBy this time, Mr Pentland had succeeded in opening the door; and we\nentered. I found the house to be an excellent one--well finished,\ncommodious, and judiciously arranged.\n\nHaving gone through all the rooms, we finished our survey by a visit to\nthe kitchen. On entering this apartment, the first thing that caught my\neye was a small board over the fireplace, on which, in gilt letters on a\nblack ground, were the following lines:--\n\n    \"To worth or want, well-weigh'd, be bounty given\n    And ease, or emulate the care of Heaven;\n    Whose measure full o'erflows on human race,\n    Mend Fortune's fault, and justify her grace.\"\n\n\"What!\" said I, \"Pope again?\"\n\nMr Pentland smiled. \"Ou ay, sir,\" he at length said, \"Mr Darsy had an\nawfu wark wi' Pope; and so had his man Ramsay. It was that brocht them\nfirst thegither, and it's maistly that has keepit them thegither ever\nsince, nearly thirty year. Mr Darsy was aye gi'ein us screeds o' Pope;\nand onybody that could quote Pope to him was sure to win his favour, and\nto get a' the assistance he could gie them in whatever way they micht\nwant it. It was a queer conceit o' his; and mony a time the worthy man\nwas imposed on, by designin folk, through the medium o' this fancy. When\nony o' that kind wanted his assistance, they had naething ado but get\ntwa or three lines o' Pope by heart, come to him wi' a lang face, and\ntak an opportunity o' slippin out the lines, and their business was\ndone. I've seen him actually shed tears when he was quotin his favourite\nauthor. He was just clean crazed about him. He made me a present o' the\n'Essay on Man,' and gied me nae rest, nicht or day, till I got every\nline o't by heart.\"\n\n\"But he did you a good service in that, my friend,\" said I: \"it is a\nnoble poem--full of fine thoughts, beautifully expressed.\"\n\n\"Nae doot o't,\" replied Mr Pentland: \"I like the poem weel, and think as\nmuch o' Pope as ony man. He is a great philosopher, as well as a great\npoet; but my excellent friend, Mr Darsy, just carried the thing a wee\nowre far. His admiration o' him, or rather his constant and open\nexpression of that admiration, bordered on the ridiculous: it amounted\nto a weakness--although, in other respects, Mr Darsy was a man of great\ngood sense. I've heard him and his man Ramsay--for he's just as great an\nadmirer o' Pope as his master--firin quotations at ane anither for an\nhour thegither. Indeed they never spoke for five minutes without\nexchangin a couplet or twa, and seldom conversed on onything else but\nthe merits o' Pope.\"\n\nIn this sketch of the worthy proprietor of Dryfield, I thought I\nrecognised--what I always took much delight in contemplating--an\noriginal character; and this was one of the best sort--a compound of\noddity and benevolence. What had just been told me of him was enough to\nexcite my curiosity, but far from being enough to gratify it. This,\nhowever, I hoped circumstances would yet effect for me; for, feeling\namused by Mr Darsy's peculiarities, and interested by his worth, I\ndetermined on learning all about him that I could; and ample opportunity\nfor doing so was subsequently afforded me.\n\nHaving expressed to Mr Pentland my satisfaction with the house, and my\nwish to take it, he proposed that we should adjourn to his residence,\nand there settle the transaction by missive. We did so; and when the\nbusiness was concluded, Mr Pentland kindly suggested that, as the day\nwas now far advanced, I had better remain with him all night, and return\nhome the following morning with the first coach. To this proposal,\nseeing that it would afford me an opportunity of learning something more\nof Mr Darsy, I at once agreed, and was soon after put in possession, by\nmy good host, Mr Pentland, of some particulars regarding that\ngentleman, which I have thought might not be found unamusing.\n\n\"Of Mr Darsy's early history,\" said Mr Pentland, who, at my request,\nbegan an account of his late worthy neighbour immediately after the\ndinner-cloth had been drawn, \"I do not know much. He was bred,\noriginally, I believe, for the church, but never took orders; for what\nreason I am ignorant; but have heard it alleged, that it was owing to an\nextreme diffidence of nature, which shrank at the idea of speaking in\npublic.\n\n\"Fortunately, his circumstances, although far from being affluent, were\nsuch as to enable him to yield to this timidity; and I am not sure that\nhe ever adopted any regular profession in lieu of the one he abandoned.\nHe bought Dryfield about twenty years since, when he also came to reside\nthere; and it was then my acquaintance with him began. From that period\ntill his departure for France, we lived in the closest intimacy and\nfriendship; and during all that period I never heard or saw anything of\nhim but what redounded to his honour. To quote his own favourite\nauthor--for he set us a' a-quoting Pope--\n\n    'Him portion'd maids, apprenticed orphans, bless'd--\n    The young who labour, and the old who rest.'\n\nHe was truly the Man of Ross in all that is kind and benevolent.\"\n\n\"Oh, say,\" said I, smiling--\n\n    'Oh, say, what sums that generous hand supply--\n    What mines to swell that boundless charity?'\"\n\nMy kind host laughed heartily, and readily replied--\n\n    \"'Of debts and taxes, wife and children clear,\n    This man possess'd five hundred pounds a-year.\n\n\"Such a sum, or one thereabouts, was, in truth, all his dependance; yet\nthe good he did with it was amazing.\n\n\"When Mr Darsy came first to our neighbourhood, his family consisted of\nhis sister only, and one servant-maid; and it is probable it would never\nhave received any addition, but for the circumstance which added Sandy\nRamsay to the establishment--as original a character as his master.\nSandy was a sort of general jobber of country work--a good hand at\ncutting drains, clipping hedges, and felling and thinning timber, making\nand erecting wooden railings, &c. &c.\n\n\"But, besides, and better than all this, Sandy was a learned man. He\nread a great deal, and was not a little vain of his acquisitions in this\nway. He was, however, a lively, good-natured little fellow, and very\ngenerally liked, notwithstanding that he gave himself out for a\nphilosopher, and looked very grave and wise when he was asserting his\npretensions to that character, or when he thought those pretensions were\neither overlooked or denied.\n\n\"Such was Sandy Ramsay, and such was the person whom Mr Darsy found one\nmorning, shortly after his arrival at Dryfield, working at a wooden\nrailing at a little distance from the house.\n\n\"'Good morning, honest man,' said Mr Darsy, approaching him with that\nkindly familiarity of manner which distinguished all his intercourse\nwith his inferiors.\n\n\"'Guid mornin, sir,' replied Sandy, resting on the wooden mallet with\nwhich he was driving the rails. 'Grand wather for the country, sir.'\n\n\"'Excellent,' rejoined Mr Darsy. 'The crops in this neighbourhood look\nuncommonly well, and I think we shall have both an early and a plentiful\nharvest. Thanks be to God!'\n\n\"'Yes, sir, as ye say, thank God for't,' replied Sandy. 'There's a\nreasonable prospect o' baith peace and plenty in the country; and, as\nPope says,\n\n    'This day be bread and peace my lot;\n      All else beneath the sun,\n    Thou knowest if best bestow'd or not;\n      And let thy will be done!'\n\n\"'Ah, Pope, my friend!' said Mr Darsy, his eye sparkling with delight.\n'So you are conversant with Pope, are you?'\n\n\"'A wee bit, sir; his works form the staple o' my readin. I admire baith\nhis poetry and his philosophy.'\n\n\"'Ah, indeed! Well, do you know, I like that,' replied Mr Darsy. 'I'm\none of Pope's worshippers, too; he is my guide, philosopher, and\nfriend--\n\n    'Correct with spirit, eloquent with ease,\n    Intent to reason, or polite to please.'\n\n\"'Yes, sir; and, better still,' replied Sandy, 'he\n\n                        'Turn'd the tuneful art\n    From sounds to things, from fancy to the heart.'\n\n\"'And,' shouted Mr Darsy, in ecstasy--\n\n    'For Wit's false mirror held up Nature's light--\n    Show'd erring Pride _whatever is, is right_.'\n\n\"'And,' exclaimed Sandy, energetically, and waving his hand aloft, in\nthe excitation of his feelings, as he spoke--\n\n    'That reason, passion, answer one great aim;\n    That true self-love and social are the same.'\n\n\"Mr Darsy, striking his stick emphatically on the ground--\n\n    'That virtue only makes our bliss below,\n    And all our knowledge is ourselves to know.'\n\n\"Having thus finished the concluding part of the 'Essay on Man' between\nthem, Mr Darsy, with a gracious and benevolent smile, held out his hand\nto Sandy, seized that of the latter, and shook it with cordial warmth.\nFrom that moment, notwithstanding the disparity of their social\nposition, they were sworn friends.\n\n\"In a short time after this, Mr Darsy proposed to Sandy to enter his\nservice, at a fixed rate of wages, to look after his garden, and be\notherwise generally useful. To this proposal the latter readily\nassented; and they have been together ever since, quoting Pope to one\nanother daily, and daily descanting on the merits of their favourite\nauthor.\n\n\"Having now got an able and active assistant in Sandy Ramsay, and one\nwho had a very competent knowledge of agricultural affairs, Mr Darsy\ndetermined on cultivating the few acres of ground which he had bought\nalong with the house of Dryfield. His resolution before had been to let\nthem; but he now bethought him of keeping them in his own hands. These\nlands had been allowed to run to waste by the former proprietor, who was\na great speculator in everything, and in every way, where there was no\nchance of remuneration. One of these speculations was, to build, at\nvarious intervals, over the grounds alluded to, a number of fantastic\ntower-like structures, for a purpose which none could guess, and which\nwas wholly unknown to all but the contriver himself.\n\n\"Whatever the purpose was, however, for which these towers were erected,\nthey were never applied to it. Some other whim struck the noddle of the\nspeculator, and they were allowed (most of them only half-built) to fall\ninto ruins--an eyesore to look at, and an encumbrance to the ground.\n\n\"These stone-and-lime vagaries Mr Darsy now determined on removing, and\nof applying the surrounding lands to their proper use. Full of this\ndesign, which had suddenly struck him one day as he was out walking, he\nhastened, on his return, to the garden where Ramsay was at work, and\ntold him of his intentions.\n\n\"'I shall have all these lands laid down in corn, Sandy,' said Mr\nDarsy.\n\n\"'Richt, sir, richt,' replied the former, thrusting his spade into the\nground, and resting his elbow on the apex of the upright handle. 'Quite\nricht, too.'\n\n\"'Another year,' said Mr Darsy--\n\n    'Another _year_ shall see the golden ear\n    Embrown the slope, and nod on the parterre;\n    Deep harvests bury all his pride has plann'd,\n    And laughing Ceres reassume the land.'\n\n\"'Yes, sir,' replied Sandy--\n\n    ''Tis use alone that sanctifies expense,\n    And splendour borrows all her rays from sense.'\n\n\"'No doubt of it, Sandy,' said Mr Darsy. 'Beautiful sentiment, and\nadmirably expressed.'\n\n\"The project of cultivating the land having been thus settled by the\nassistance of Pope, Sandy was instructed to look out for the necessary\nmeans, proper implements, and, first and most important of all, a pair\nof good stout draught horses. This last want of Mr Darsy's was one that\nsoon became known throughout the country; and, as Mr Darsy was always\nreckoned a liberal and punctual man to deal with, he had soon abundance\nof offers; and they were not a whit the less numerous, perhaps, that he\nwas thought to be no great judge of the article he wanted.\n\n\"Amongst those whose ears Mr Darsy's want of a pair of horses reached,\nwas a certain dealer in horse-flesh, of the name of William Craig, as\ngreat a rascal as Scotland perhaps ever had the honour of producing; but\nhe was withal a pleasant knave, and always cheated with the greatest\ngood-humour imaginable. The smile was never off his countenance,\nexcepting when he saw it for his interest to look grave, and then he\ncould put on a face of sympathy and sentiment that it would break your\nheart to look at. He was, in short, a most plausible and most\naccomplished scoundrel--clever, and well-informed.\n\n\"On hearing that Mr Darsy wanted a couple of horses, and that he had\nalready rejected several that had been offered him--\n\n\"'I'll try my hand on him,' said Willie; 'and if I dinna fix him, blame\nme.'\n\n\"'Do you mean by gi'ein him a fair bargain, Willie?' inquired the friend\nto whom he had made the boast above quoted.\n\n\"'Never did that in my life to onybody, and I'm no gaun to begin now,'\nreplied Willie.\n\n\"'Then, how do you propose to fix him, Willie, as ye ca't?'\n\n\"'Leave that to me,' said the honest horse-jockey. 'I'll do him owre as\nclean's a leek. I'll _trot_ him out as cleverly as I ever did ony beast\nwi' four legs. I hae the secret o' him.'\n\n\"'What do you ca' the secret o' him, Willie? What do you mean by that?'\n\n\"'Aha, lad! How's your mother?' replied Willie, laughing, and touching\nthe side of his nose emphatically with the point of his forefinger.\n'I'll keep my thumb on that till I hae tried it.'\n\n\"On that very afternoon, Willie posted off to Dryfield with a couple of\nhorses on which he had practised every secret of his art to give them a\npassable appearance. On one of the horses Willie himself was mounted;\nthe other he led by a halter; and, thus disposed, arrived at a swinging\ntrot at Mr Darsy's. That gentleman had seen his approach from a window,\nand, guessing the purpose of his visit, was now at the door to receive\nhim.\n\n\"Willie touched his hat:--\n\n\"'Heard, sir, that ye war in want o' a pair o' guid workin beasts,' said\nWillie, 'and hae broucht ye twa prime anes here to look at. No a bonnier\nor better pair between this and Johnny Groat's, and just a real bargain\nas to price.'\n\n\"'Why, my good fellow, I certainly do want a couple of good draught\nhorses,' replied Mr Darsy, eyeing Willie's bargain with a scrutinising\nlook; for he had already been so often the subject of attempted\nimposition in the way of horse-dealing, that he could not help\nentertaining suspicions of the intentions of every one who approached\nhim for such a purpose. 'I certainly do want a couple of good draught\nhorses,' he said; 'but really, being no great judge myself, and some\nattempts having been made to take me in, I--I----'\n\n\"'Feth, I weel believe that, sir,' interposed Willie. 'It's just\nincredible the villany that's practised in this trade o' ours.\nSome men hae nae conscience, and wad sell their very souls for\ngould--gould--gould--that curse o' the human race, that some think was\n\n            'Sent to keep the fools in play,\n    For some to heap and some to throw away.\n    But _I_, who think more highly of our kind\n    (And surely Heaven and _I_ are of a mind),\n    Opine that Nature, as in duty bound,\n    Deep hid the shining mischief under ground.'\n\nThat's my opinion, sir,' continued Willie; 'and I houp ye'll excuse the\nliberty I hae taen o' gi'ein ye't in poetry, but Pope comes tricklin'\naff my tongue, whether I will or no, just like water aff a dyuck's\nback.'\n\n\"'Excuse ye, my friend!' said the astonished and delighted Mr Darsy,\nwith a gracious smile. 'My dear sir, your quotation requires no apology.\nIt is appropriate, and to the purpose. A fine idea--tersely and pithily\nexpressed. The man, sir, who studies Pope as he ought to be studied, and\nwho acts on the principles he inculcates, will infallibly secure\n\n    'What nothing earthly gives or can destroy--\n    The soul's calm sunshine, and the heartfelt joy.'\n\n\"'Yes, sir,' replied Willie:--\n\n    'Say, in pursuit of profit and delight,\n    Who risk the most--that take wrong means, or right,\n    Of vice or virtue, whether blest or curst;\n    Which meets contempt, or which compassion first;\n    Count all the advantage prosperous vice attains--\n    'Tis but what virtue flies from and disdains.'\n\n\"'It is, it is!' shouted Mr Darsy, in ecstasy. 'Enough, my dear sir,\nenough,' he said, extending his hand to Willie, while a tear of emotion\nglistened in his eye. 'Come into the house, and take a little\nrefreshment, and let us see if we cannot make a bargain about these\nhorses. They look very well, and, I daresay, will suit my purpose.'\n\n\"'Just the very thing, sir, ye may depend on't,' replied Willie, who had\nnow dismounted, and was holding both horses by the halters. 'There's\nthat black ane, I'm unco sweer to part wi't; but the want o' siller gars\na puir man mak mony a sacrifice baith to his interest and to his\nfeelins. O' that black horse, sir, I may safely say there's no his match\nin the county; yet I daurna, nor wadna, ask his price for him, for it\nwad be considered just an imposition.'\n\n\"'But, my good friend,' interposed Mr Darsy, 'I hope you do not think\nthat I would take advantage of you in any way--that I would avail myself\nof the urgency of your necessities, to give you less than the just value\nof your horse. God forbid! You shall have his price, be that what it\nmay.'\n\n\"'Oh, I'm no misdootin that, sir, no the least; but----'\n\n\"'I say, my friend, by the way' (here again interrupted Mr Darsy, as\nthey approached the house, being now within a few yards of the door),\n'be so good as make no allusion to Pope in the presence of my sister,\nwhom you will likely see; for she, poor woman, has just as little\nphilosophy about her as the rest of her sex. \"Woman and fool,\" you\nknow--\n\n    'Woman and fool are both too hard to hit;\n    For true no-meaning puzzles more than wit.'\n\n\"Willie smiled. 'No far wrang, sir, I daresay. It's, I doot, owre true.'\n\n\"'She's a good, kind-hearted creature,' resumed Mr Darsy; 'but if there\nbe any one thing on earth that she abhors above all other things, it is\nPope. She cannot endure his name, ever since she read his \"Characters of\nWomen;\" but you and I, my friend, know that there is more truth in that\nessay than her sex would willingly allow.\n\n    'In men we various ruling passions find;\n    In women, two almost divide the kind.\n    Those, only fix'd, they first and last obey--\n    The love of pleasure, and the love of sway.'\n\n\"Having now reached the house, Mr Darsy desired Willie to remain a\nminute in charge of the horses, until he went for his factotum, Sandy\nRamsay, whom he wished to see the animals, and whose judgment he meant\nto consult, as to their purchase. Sandy he found, as usual, in the\ngarden.\n\n\"'Here is a decent, honest, well-informed, and intelligent man, Sandy,'\nsaid Mr Darsy, 'with a pair of horses for sale, which I wish you to come\nand look at.'\n\n\"'What ca' they him, sir?' inquired Sandy.\n\n\"'Why, I don't know; I didn't ask his name,' replied Mr Darsy.\n\n\"'I hope it's no Willie Craig,' said the former, drawing on his coat;\n'for he's a slippery chiel, Willie; an' I wadna say that even my caution\nwad be a match for his cunning.'\n\n\"'Whether his name be Craig or not, I do not know,' replied Mr Darsy;\n'but this I do know, that he seems to be a very intelligent and\nconscientious man. He is a great admirer of our favourite author, Sandy,\nand quotes him with great propriety and facility; and of such a man I\nwould not willingly believe any ill.\n\n\"'He quotes Pope, sir, does he?' exclaimed Sandy. 'Then, sir, he's just\nthe man. That's Willie Craig, beyond a' manner o' doot; and the biggest\nrogue this day in Scotland.'\n\n\"'Come, come, Sandy,' said Mr. Darsy, a little severely, shocked at the\nidea of a rogue quoting Pope, and disbelieving the existence of such a\nmoral incongruity--'come, come, Sandy,' he said, 'you judge too harshly;\nyou speak unguardedly. The man is, I doubt not, a very honest man; and\n\"an honest man,\" you know, Sandy, \"is the noblest work of God.\"'\n\n\"'I've seen that disputed, sir,' said Sandy; 'an' I think, after a' wi'\nsome success. A man of great parts an' genius is surely a nobler\ncreature than a'.'\n\n\"'I'm grieved, Sandy, to find your moral perceptions so weak,' here\ninterrupted Mr Darsy. 'Don't you see, or rather will you not see,\nthat----'\n\n\"'I really canna see, sir,' interrupted Sandy, in his turn 'that----'\n\n\"'Well, but let me explain myself,' again interrupted Mr Darsy; and,\nhaving at length obtained this permission, he went on to expound the\ndisputed text, after his own views of its bearings.\n\n\"Sandy replied; Mr Darsy rejoined; and a hot dispute, of a good\nhalf-hour's continuance, ensued between master and man, on the moral\npoints involved in the quotation; such disputes, by the way, being a\nfrequent occurrence between them; for, although they agreed most\ncordially on the general merits of Pope, there were many minute\npoints--some as to the meaning of passages; others as to their\nmorality--on which they differed, as on the present occasion, and on\nwhich they spoke for hours on end.\n\n\"To return to the instance just now under notice: they were thus\nengaged--that is, settling the moral bearing of the quotation above\ngiven--and so earnest in their employment, as to be totally oblivious\nof everything else--and, amongst the rest, Willie Craig and his\nhorses--when Miss Darsy came running into the garden, just as her\nbrother had begun a new section of his defence of Pope, with--\n\n\"'Pope, sir--I say Pope distinctly means----'\n\n\"'Gracious heaven, Mr Darsy!' exclaimed Miss Sarah, 'are you at that\nodious Pope again? Have you forgotten that there has been a man with two\nhorses waiting on you for this half-hour past? It is too bad--too bad,\nMr Darsy.'\n\n\"'I acknowledge it, my dear--I acknowledge it,' replied the benevolent\nand good-natured Popite, smiling kindly on his sister; 'but I am sure\nthe honest man will forgive me when I tell him the cause.'\n\n\"'Will he?' said his sister. 'I should rather think he will consider it\nan aggravation of the offence.'\n\n\"'There you are wrong, Sarah, my dear,' rejoined Mr Darsy; 'for the man\nunderstands these things.'\n\n\"'What!' exclaimed his sister, in alarm; 'does _he_ quote Pope, too? Do\nhorse-jockeys quote Pope?'\n\n\"'And why not, my dear?' said Mr Darsy, gladly seizing on this general\nquery to avoid making any discoveries on the particular one. 'Why not,\nmy dear? Why may not a horse-jockey understand and appreciate Pope as\nwell as any other man? There is nothing to hinder him.'\n\n\"'Oh, certainly not,' replied Miss Darsy; 'but oh! if he was dosed with\nPope as I am--if he had Pope! Pope! ringing in his ears night and day,\nin all situations and on all occasions, as I have--he would grow sick,\nsick, at the very name.'\n\n\"'Ah, Sarah, Sarah!' replied her brother, smiling--\n\n        'Believe me--good as well as ill--\n    Woman's at best----\n\n\"'Pope again!' screamed Miss Darsy, putting her fingers in her ears, and\nrushing distractedly away from her Pope-mad brother.\n\n\"The latter looked after her with a smile of pity, and perhaps a very\nslight matter of contempt mingled with it, and began again, and finished\nwith additional emphasis, the quotation in which he had been\ninterrupted. Then, turning to Sandy--\n\n\"'Let us go and take a look at this honest man's horses, Sandy,' he\nsaid. 'We have used him rather ill, after all; but I'll explain.'\n\n\"In the next minute the parties had met, and the first thing Mr Darsy\ndid was to explain to Willie, as he had proposed to do, the reason of\nhis absence.\n\n\"'A' richt, sir--a' richt,' replied Willie, graciously. 'There's far\nfrae bein ony harm dune; and, besides, your excuse is a guid ane,\nalthough ye had been an hour langer.'\n\n\"Willie, at the special request of Sandy Ramsay, now proceeded to put\nhis horses through their paces; and, while the former was at a little\ndistance in the performance of this duty--'Is that the man you meant,\nSandy?' said Mr Darsy.\n\n\"'I dinna ken him by sight, sir--only by repute,' replied Sandy; 'but,\nif he quotes Pope to you, he maun be the man, for he's a cunning\nscoundrel, and doubtless kens you're fond o' the little crooked poet.'\n\n\"'Sandy, Sandy, you have a scurrilous tongue,' said Mr Darsy. 'You'll\nfind the man prove an honest one, I have no doubt, and will, I am sure,\nfeel then ashamed of what you are now saying to his prejudice.'\n\n\"'Maybe, sir; but I'll be surer o' my man after I hae heard a quotation\nor twa, and still surer after ye hae bocht the horses; for if he doesna\n_do_ ye, he's most assuredly no Willie Craig.'\n\n\"Here the conversation was interrupted by the return of the\nhorse-dealer, who approached them, leading one of his horses at a full\ntrot. Both animals having been subjected to this display--\n\n\"'Now, my good friend,' said Mr Darsy, 'what's your price?'\n\n\"'Why, then, juist to be at a word wi' ye, sir,' replied Willie, taking\noff his hat with one hand, and scratching his head with the other, 'I'll\ntake thirty guineas for the black ane, and twenty for the brown; and I'm\nsure that's a dead bargain--juist throwing the cattle awa. It's no a\nmonth since I was offered forty guineas in my loof for that black beast,\nbut I wasna sae hard pressed for siller then as I'm noo, and I refused\nit.'\n\n\"'Sandy,' said Mr Darsy, turning to the farmer, 'what do you say to\nthese prices? You have some knowledge of horses.'\n\n\"'I say, sir, that, as near as I can guess, they're juist aboot the\ndooble o' what they ocht to be. That black horse, if I'm no mista'en, is\nbroken-winded, and 'll be dead lame in a week; and the brown ane's no a\ngrain better.'\n\n\"Willie looked at Mr Darsy with a smile of conscious integrity, and of\ncalm contempt at once of the slander and the judgment of the slanderer.\nThe unsuspecting Mr Darsy returned the look, attributing Sandy's\ndecision to prejudice.\n\n\"'Come now, Sandy,' said the farmer, 'forget that you have any interest\nto serve in this matter, and deal fairly between man and man.'\n\n\"'But it's no between man and man, sir,' said Sandy; 'it's between man\nand a horse-jockey; and it's weel kent that's no a fair match. It wad\ntak the deil himsel to deal wi' a horse-couper.'\n\n\"Willie smiled again the smile of conscious innocence; and, turning to\nMr. Darsy, said--\n\n\"'I rather think ye will agree wi' me, sir, that\n\n    'Honour and shame from no condition rise;\n    Act well your part'--\n\nand he looked expressively at Sandy--\n\n    _there_ all the honour lies.'\n\n\"'Unquestionably,' replied Mr Darsy, 'it is\n\n    'Worth makes the man, and want of it the fellow;\n    The rest is all but leather and prunello.'\n\n\"'Yes, sir,' said Willie--\n\n    'For modes of faith, let graceless zealots fight,\n    His can't be wrong whose life is in the right.'\n\n\"'Certainly not--certainly not,' exclaimed Mr Darsy, in raptures.\n\n    'One self-approving hour whole years outweighs\n    Of stupid starers, and of loud hurrahs.'\n\n\"'Nae denyin't,' said Willie; 'and to a' wha doot it, I wad say--\n\n    Know, then, this truth (enough for man to know),\n    Virtue alone is happiness below.'\n\nAnd, as he repeated the last line, he laid his hand with solemn emphasis\non his heart.\n\n\"This last quotation did Willie's business.\n\n\"'Come, come,' said Mr Darsy, shedding tears of delight, and taking\nWillie by the arm to conduct him into the house, 'let us settle this\nsmall matter at once, and off hand. Just say at once, my friend, the\nlowest sum you really will take for these horses, and they are mine.\nSandy there is a well-meaning man, but he has his prejudices, as we all\nhave.'\n\n\"'Weel then, sir, juist to be at a word wi' ye,' replied Willie, 'I'll\ntak nine-and-twenty guineas for the black horse, and nineteen for the\nbrown ane; and if that's no a bargain, I never gied or got ane in my\nlife.'\n\n\"'They're no worth the half o't, I manteen,' exclaimed Sandy,\nenergetically.\n\n\"'Hush, Sandy, hush, man,' said Mr Darsy. 'I'm sure the horses are a\nfair bargain. This honest man would never ask more than they are worth.'\n\n\"'Wadna he, feth? said Sandy, with a satirical smile. 'Sir, I'm thinkin\nye'll fin out that before ye're a week aulder. Wait ye till the horses\nhae been twa days in the plough, and ye'll see whether he has asked mair\nthan the worth o' them or no. I wadna trust him farrer than I could\nthrow a bull by the tail.'\n\n\"'Sandy, Sandy,' exclaimed Mr Darsy, in a deprecating tone, 'you have\nreally a scandalous tongue. Have you forgot that beautiful verse in the\nuniversal prayer--\n\n    'Teach me to feel another's wo;\n    To hide the fault I see;\n    That mercy I to others show,\n    That mercy show to me.'\n\n\"'That's a' very weel, sir; but I canna agree to hide the _cheat_ I\nsee--that's a different sort o' thing a'thegither.'\n\n\"'Sandy,' said Mr Darsy, in a still more angry tone, 'I really will hear\nno more of this.' And thus rebuked, Sandy said no more; he saw it would\nbe useless.\n\n\"Leaving the latter in charge of the horses, Mr Darsy and Willie now\nwent into the house; and there the latter received the price of his\ncattle, together with a comfortable refection, during which he and his\nhost kept up a running fire of quotations from Pope.\n\n\"The former, as the reader will recollect, had cautioned the latter not\nto make any allusion to the author just named in the hearing of his\nsister; and this caution Willie observed. He took care to make no\nquotations while she was present; but he had not been put on his guard\nagainst her overhearing them, and the consequence was, that some of them\nwere made in a tone so emphatically loud, that she did overhear them,\neven from the distance of an adjoining apartment. Perhaps few else than\nMiss Sarah could have discerned what were the words so spoken; but _her_\nears were so sensitively alive to the language of the abhorred Pope,\nthat she at once recognised them; and on doing so, immediately sent for\nher brother to come and speak with her, for she had known him to have\nbeen repeatedly swindled by Pope-quoters before, some of whom had\ncommitted a scrap or two to memory for the express purpose.\n\n\"'James,' said Miss Sarah, on his coming into the apartment where she\nwas,'I hear that man quoting Pope. Now, James, I beg you'll be on your\nguard; for you may depend upon it he intends to cheat you. Recollect how\noften you have been taken in by Pope-quoters. There was the man that\nborrowed five pounds from you, on the strength of a quotation; there was\nthe man that got your name to a fifty-pound bill, of which you had\nafterwards to pay every farthing, through precisely a similar claim on\nyour bounty--for he had no other; then there was the fellow whom you\nrecommended to the wood-merchants, and who forged a bill on his\nemployers; then there were the silver spoons that you bought from the\npackman, and that turned out to be pewter and tin--all because they\nquoted Pope; then there was----But it would take me a week to go over\nhalf the impositions of which you have been the victim, through that\ndetested and detestable Pope.'\n\n\"To this tirade poor Mr Darsy listened with the utmost patience and\nmeekness, while a smile of good-nature, blended with an expression of\npity for his sister's blindness to the merits of the poet, played on his\nintelligent and benevolent countenance.\n\n\"'Well, Sarah, my dear,' he said, when his sister had done speaking, 'if\nI have been taken in by these people, as I am willing enough to allow I\nhave, whether does the shame and disgrace lie with them or me?'\n\n\"'I do not know, James, where the shame and disgrace lie,' said his\nsister; 'but I have a pretty good guess, and so have you, where the loss\ndoes. But all that I have to say, just now, James, is--be on your guard\nin your dealings with this Pope-quoting horse-couper.'\n\n\"Mr Darsy was about to come out with a quotation in reply--he had a\nvery apt one at his finger ends--but, recollecting that this would only\nfurther irritate his sister, he made a violent effort, and suppressed\nit, and merely said, with his usual benevolent smile, 'I'll take care,\nSarah, my dear; I'll take care.' And, saying this, he left the\napartment, and, rejoined Willie Craig, who soon after took his leave,\nwith his money in his pocket, and a good dose of whisky punch under his\nbelt.\n\n\"On leaving the house, Willie came accidentally across Sandy Ramsay, who\nwas at the moment in the act of yoking the black horse to a cart.\n\n\"'Ye hae gotten a prime beast there, Sandy,' said Willie.\n\n\"'If we hae, I'm thinkin we hae paid as weel for him,' replied the\nlatter dryly. 'I'm dootin ye hae saft-saped the master to some purpose.\nYe hae come Pope owre him, as ither folks hae dune before ye.'\n\n\"Willie smiled significantly, clapped his finger to his nose, and walked\non without vouchsafing any other reply.\n\n\"'What horse is that, Sandy?' said Mr Darsy on the forenoon of the\nsecond day after Willie Craig's visit, as the former approached the\nhouse, leading an old grey, lame beast by the halter.\n\n\"'Do ye no ken him, sir?' replied Sandy, with an ominous smile.\n\n\"'No,' rejoined Mr Darsy, gravely.\n\n\"'Indeed, it's little wonder. This is Willie Craig's _black_ horse, but\nyour grey ane.'\n\n\"'What do you mean, Sandy?' said Mr Darsy, in a tone of alarm. 'You\ndon't mean to say that that's my horse, my black horse?'\n\n\"'It's a' that's for him, sir?' replied Sandy. 'A shower o' rain's made\na' the difference. It has washed him into what ye see him--made him as\ngrey as an auld rat. But his change o' colour's no the warst o't. See,\nhe hasna a leg to staun upon, and every teeth that was in his head's\nfaun oot. There they are, every ane.' And Sandy pulled a handful of\nhorse-teeth out of his pocket. 'I hurried him hame out o' the plough,'\ncontinued Sandy, 'before he wad fa' in pieces a'thegither, as I expected\nevery moment he wad do.'\n\n\"Mr Darsy held up his hands in amazement at this most extraordinary\nmetamorphosis of his famous black charger, and muttered an ejaculation\nof surprise at the very strange occurrence, but said nothing for a few\nseconds. Although he said nothing, however, he felt a good deal; not for\nthe pecuniary loss it involved--for that he did not care--but for the\ncredit of the admirers of Pope. His sister, too--what would she say to\nit? Here was another instance of imposition chargeable against his\nadored author, to add to the long list of which she was already in\npossession. It was an awkward affair. He would ten times rather that the\nprice of the horse had been thrown into the sea; and this he would\ncheerfully have done, had the alternative been put in his power. But\nthere was no help for it.\n\n\"'Sandy,' said Mr Darsy, after musing for a moment on the astounding\ndeception which had just come to light, 'I'll tell you what it is,\nregarding this very strange affair. I think it very possible--nay, very\nlikely--that the man Craig has been himself imposed upon with this\nhorse, and that he knew nothing of its defects; for I cannot believe\nthat so decent, intelligent, and well-informed a man as he is, could be\nguilty of such villany as this. I cannot believe it. Now, then, Sandy,\nI'll tell you what you'll do--you'll take the brown horse----'\n\n\"'Wi, your leave, sir, I'll no do that, for yon beast's no chancy to\ncome near, let alane to ride. He's the maist vicious brute I ever saw,\nand 'll neither hap, stap, nor win. I dinna think ye'll ever get ony\nguid o' him.'\n\n\"'God bless me!' exclaimed Mr Darsy, confounded at this additional\nmisfortune; 'he seemed quiet enough when brought here by Craig.'\n\n\"'Nae doot o't, he did,' replied Sandy; 'and heaven knows hoo the\nscoundrel managed it! But he's a very different thing noo, I can tell\nye, sir.'\n\n\"'Dear me! that's really odd,' said Mr Darsy. 'Well, then, Sandy, I'll\ntell you what you'll do: you'll go to our good neighbour Mr Pentland,\nand get the loan of a pony from him, and ride over the length of\nCraig's--he lives, you know, at Longlane; it's only about nine miles\ndistant--and tell him what has taken place; and I have no doubt he will\nat once refund the money, or, at any rate, give us other horses instead\nof those we have bought. He, indeed, said he would do the former, if we\nfound anything wrong with them within a month.'\n\n\"'Catch him there, sir, if ye can,' said Sandy. 'The deil a bodle o' the\nprice he'll ever gi'e back. He's no sae saft in the horn as that. He wad\npromise ye, I ha'e nae doot--he promises the same thing to every ane he\nsells a horse to; but whar's the man ever got a penny back frae Willy\nCraig, for a' that? I would gie half-a-croon mysel to see him.'\n\n\"'Well, well, but do you just try him, Sandy,' said Mr Darsy; 'and I\nhave no doubt you will find all turn out right, notwithstanding of\nappearances.'\n\n\"Thus summarily enjoined, Sandy obtained the loan of a pony, mounted,\nand set off for Longlane, to have an interview with Willie Craig on the\nsubject of his master's purchase.\n\n\"Willie was standing at the door of his own house when Sandy approached;\nand, knowing well what he came about, would have retreated; but it was\ntoo late. He was seen; and, aware of this, he kept his ground manfully,\nand resolved to face out fearlessly the coming storm, as he had done\nmany a one of a similar kind before. On Sandy's approach, Willie,\nthrusting his hands into his breeches-pockets, and bursting into a loud\nlaugh, hailed his coming visiter with--\n\n    'Come, then, my friend! my genius! come along!'\n\n\"'Ay, I'll come along,' replied Sandy, angrily; 'and maybe to your cost.\n\n\"'Awake, my St John!' shouted Willie--\n\n    'Awake, my St John! leave all meaner things\n    To low ambition, and the pride of kings;\n    Let us (since life can little more supply),\n    Than just to look about us, and to die----'\n\n\"'Come, come, Willie, nane o' yer blarney for me,' said Sandy, now\ndismounting. 'Ye're no gaun to saft-sape me that way. What kind o'\nhorses were they ye selt us?\n\n\"'Just the very pick o' the country,' replied Willie, coolly.\n\n\"'Ay, if ye mean the warst,' said Sandy. 'But to come to the point at\nance--I'm sent here, Willie, by Mr Darsy--although I ken weel it's a\nfruitless errand--to tell ye that yer horses hae turned oot to be no\nworth their hides; that yer black ane has changed to a dirty grey wi' a\nshower o' rain, and is dead lame; and that the brown ane'll neither work\nin plough nor cart.'\n\n\"'Dear me, Sandy, ye surprise me!' replied Willie, with a look of\namazement as like the genuine as it was possible for any man to assume.\n\n\"'Maybe I do,' said Sandy; 'but I hardly believe it. However, this\nbeing the case, my master has sent me to say that he expects you'll\nrefund him the siller, as ye promised, or find him ither twa horses\nworth the amount, in their stead.'\n\n\"'Whee-ee-ee-ou!' whistled Willie. 'Is that the next o't? Weel, I didna\nthink your maister was sae unreasonable a man as that comes to, Sandy;\nbut there's a heap o' queer folk in this world.'\n\n\"'My feth! there's that,' said the latter; 'and some o' them no far\naff.'\n\n\"'As lang's _ye're_ sae near, ye may say that, Sandy,' replied Willie;\n'but to gie ye an answer to Mr Darsy, tell him, wi' my compliments,\nSandy, that there's a truth among Pope's maxims that he doesna seem to\nhae fan oot. Tell him, wi' my best respects, that, in\n\n    'Spite of pride, in erring reason's spite,\n    One truth is clear, whatever is, is right.\n\nTell ye him _that_, Sandy, and I'm sure he'll be perfectly satisfied.'\n\n\"'Do ye no mean to refund the money, then?' inquired Sandy.\n\n\"'Deil a cowrie,' said Willie.\n\n\"'Nor to gie him ither horses in exchange?'\n\n\"'No a hoof.'\n\n\"'Weel, then, _ye_ are an infernal scoundrel--that's a' I hae to say,'\nreplied Sandy, remounting his pony, and starting off on his return home.\n\n\"On arriving at Dryfield, Sandy hastened to Mr Darsy's apartment, to\ninform him of the result of his mission, but, on opening the door, drew\nhastily back again, on finding a stranger in the room.\n\n\"'Come in--come in, Sandy,' said Mr Darsy, on observing the former\nretreating. 'This gentleman will excuse your intrusion; for he is a\n\n    'Friend to truth! of soul sincere,\n    In action faithful, and in honour clear.'\n\n\"It might be so--of this we shall be better able to judge by and by; but\nthe reader will think with us, we have little doubt, that this was\nsaying rather too much of an acquaintance of half-an-hour; for no longer\nhad the stranger been known to him by whom he was thus so highly\ncomplimented. Mr Darsy's visitor was, or at least represented himself to\nbe, an itinerant preacher, who, aware, as he said, of that gentleman's\nbenevolence and hospitality, had taken the liberty of calling on him as\nhe passed on his pious vocation. This account of himself and calling,\nhe wound up with a very apt quotation from Pope; and, we need hardly\nadd, that it was to this circumstance he was mainly indebted for the\nrapid progress he had made in Mr Darsy's affections.\n\n\"To return to our story:--On Mr Darsy's repeating the couplet above\nquoted, the stranger, who was a decent, quiet, elderly man, dressed in\nsomewhat rusty blacks, smiled at the compliment, and looked graciously\non Sandy, as if at once to assure him that he need be under no restraint\non his account, and that he was, in truth, the worthy person which Mr\nDarsy had represented him to be. Thus encouraged, Sandy entered the\napartment; and, at Mr Darsy's request, told the result of his mission.\nOn hearing it, the worthy man merely shook his head, and said--\n\n\"'Well, well, Sandy, there's no help for it. We must just take better\ncare next time.'\n\n\"He then explained to the stranger gentleman the nature of the\ntransaction. The good man was horrified, held up his hands in amazement,\nand recited, with much feeling and solemnity--\n\n    'The good must merit God's peculiar care;\n    But who but God can tell us who they are!'\n\n\"'Ah, who indeed?' said Mr Darsy, smiling. 'There is the difficulty.'\n\n\"'Ay, there, indeed, it is,' said the stranger, smiling in his turn.\n'Who but God can tell the pure from the impure of heart? Who but he\nseparate the tares from the wheat, the corn from the chaff? None else,\nindeed, my respected friend'--looking benevolently on Mr Darsy.\n\n\"'My dear sir,' replied the latter, emphatically, and taking his\nbenevolent looking visiter by the hand, to mark his deep sense of the\ntruths which he delivered--'my dear sir,' he said, adding no more in\nwords, but _looking_ the remainder of the sentence, which, when\ntranslated, said--'you speak well and wisely.' After a moment--'My good\nsir!' exclaimed Mr Darsy, glancing at his visiter's shoes, which\nappeared much travel-soiled, 'I suspect you have had a long walk to-day.\nYou seemed fatigued. Now, you will take a little of something or\nother--a glass or two of wine, or a little brandy, or something of that\nsort, till dinner is ready.'\n\n\"'You are too good--too good, my very excellent and much-respected\nfriend,' replied the stranger; 'but,' he added, with a subdued yet\nsignificant look, 'there are other men of Ross than he whom Pope\ncelebrated. There are others--\n\n    'Whose causeway parts the vale with shady rows,\n    Whose seats the weary traveller repose.'\n\n\"This couplet, which was given in a mild and gentle tone, was so\npalpably directed to Mr Darsy, that he could not avoid seeing its\nintended application to himself; and, seeing this, he shook his head and\nsmiled a disclaimer.\n\n\"'My good friend,' he said, 'I have but slender pretension to any\nportion of that noble character, so masterly drawn by the immortal bard\nof Twickenham; yet do I agree with what the poet elsewhere says, that\n\n    'All fame is foreign but of true desert--\n    Plays round the head, but comes not to the heart--\n    One self-approving hour whole years outweighs\n    Of stupid starers and of loud hurrahs;\n    And more true joy Marcellus, exiled, feels,\n    Than Caesar with a senate at his heels.'\n\n\"The stranger smiled, bowed, and looked benevolently on his host.\n\n\"'Beautiful--beautiful!' he exclaimed, in a tone of rapture. 'How\nterse--how forcible! Yet, Mr Darsy, there are those--ay, there are those\nwho say that Pope is no poet!'\n\n\"Mr Darsy smiled grimly.\n\n\"'I have heard,' he said, 'that there are such monsters in human shape;\nbut I have never been so unfortunate as to meet with one of them. If I\ndid, I do not know what I should do. I think I should murder the Goth\noff-hand. I believe I should. No human patience could stand against such\nheresy--such blasphemy, as I may call it.'\n\n\"Mr Darsy now rung the bell, and desired the servant to put some wine\nand brandy on the table. The order was immediately complied with, and\nthe two Popites forthwith drew in.\n\n\"'Wine or brandy, my dear sir?' said Mr Darsy.\n\n\"'Why,' said the gentle stranger, who, by the way, had given in his name\nas Claythorn--'why,' he said, with a quiet, pleasant smile, 'I will take\na little brandy, if you please. Wine doesn't agree with me. I find the\nalcohol safer.'\n\n\"'Then help yourself, my dear friend,' replied Mr Darsy; and Mr Darsy's\nfriend did help himself, and that with a liberality which was rather\nsurprising in one of his cloth; although it would not have surprised any\none who had studied and drawn the proper conclusion from the appearance\nof his nose, which was of a bright, luminous red. Having finished his\nfirst jorum, Mr Darsy pressed his dear friend to another tifter; and his\ndear friend, nothing loth, did as he was desired; presenting\nsatisfactory evidence, that a love of Pope and of brandy-and-water were\nperfectly compatible, doubt it who might. Opened up by the benign\ninfluence of the alcohol, the itinerant preacher now began to give Pope\nby the yard. Before, he had dealt him out sparingly--in bits and\nfragments: he now gave whole pages on end, to the inexpressible delight\nof his entertainer, who, having been induced, by the rarity of the\noccasion--the meeting with so enthusiastic an admirer of his beloved\nbard--to take a glass or two of wine extra, gave as ample measure in\nreturn.\n\n\"The conversation between the two Popites was thus reduced to\nnothing--only a word or two now and then; the rest was entirely made up\nof quotations. While Mr Darsy and his guest were thus employed, a\nservant came to announce that dinner was on the table. Both immediately\nrose to their feet. When they had done so, Mr Darsy took the preacher by\nthe hand, and said, in an under tone--\n\n\"'Now, my dear good friend, when you go down stairs you will see my\nsister. She will dine with us. A good creature as ever lived--an\nexcellent creature. But--but--I am ashamed to say it. The fact is, and\nyou know it, my dear friend, that\n\n                    'Good, as well as ill,\n    Woman's at best a contradiction still.'\n\n\"'My sister, in short, my dear friend, has no fancy for our adored bard.\nI can't account for it; but so it is. Therefore, if you will just be so\ngood as say nothing about him while she is present, it will be as well.\nNo quotations, you understand. We'll have our revenge for this restraint\nwhen she retires. We will resume the subject then, my dear sir,' added\nMr Darsy, slapping his guest, in a friendly and jocose way, on the\nshoulder, as he spoke. 'We'll have a night of it; and I'll smuggle down\n_his_ works from my library, and we will glance them over together when\nwe've got the room to ourselves. That will be a treat, eh?'\n\n\"Thus cautioned as to his conduct in the presence of Mr Darsy's sister,\nMr Claythorn descended to the dining-room with his host. Not a word--not\nthe most distant allusion to Pope--escaped either of the two gentlemen;\nso that, whatever Miss Darsy's suspicions of the case might be--and she\ncertainly looked as if she had some suspicions of it--nothing transpired\nto give her assurance of the fact. On her retiring, however, the pent-up\nsluices of the Popites were thrown open, and out there rushed two\nimpetuous streams of poetry; sometimes blending, sometimes alternating,\nand sometimes running counter to each other. Mr Darsy was\ndelighted--more than delighted with his friend; for he had never, in the\nwhole course of his life, met with one who could quote his favourite\nauthor with such facility and at such length, as the guest whom he was\nnow entertaining; neither had he ever met with one who had so deep, so\nthorough a reverence for the mighty moral poet.\n\n\"This was altogether, in short, one of the happiest nights he had ever\nspent in his life. At its close, Mr Darsy accompanied his guest--who he\ninsisted should remain with him all night--to his bedroom, and parted\nfrom him there with a very apt quotation, to which his friend replied\nwith another no less felicitous, which he delivered in a very feeling\nand impressive manner. On the following morning--\n\n\"'What keeps your reverend friend, brother?' said Miss Darsy, somewhat\nsneeringly--for she had strong suspicions of the stranger's being a\nPopite--as she sat at the breakfast-table, waiting the appearance of\nthat person, before proceeding to discharge the duties of the morning\nmeal.\n\n\"'Really, my dear, I don't know,' replied Mr Darsy. 'The poor man is\nfatigued, I daresay; and we sat up rather late last night.'\n\n\"'Ay, brother, I fancy you found him a very pleasant intelligent\ncompanion,' said Miss Darsy, with a look and tone of peculiar meaning.\n\n\"What this meaning was, Mr Darsy perfectly understood. He knew that his\nsister was at once insinuating her suspicions of the stranger's Popism,\nand driving at a discovery of the fact. Aware of this, and by no means\ndesirous of coming to an explanation on the subject, Mr Darsy, without\nnoticing his sister's remark, said he would 'just step up-stairs to see\nwhat was keeping Mr Claythorn,' and deliver himself (but of this he said\nnothing) of a happy quotation which had occurred to him, and which he\nthought would form an exceedingly appropriate greeting.\n\n\"He entered his friend's bedroom; there was no movement. He drew aside\nthe curtains; the bed was unoccupied. The Pope-quoter had decamped. He\nwas off; and off, too, were a dozen silver spoons and a small gold\nwatch; all of which property had been unguardedly left in the room in\nwhich he slept.\"\n\nHere ended my good host's (Mr Pentland) anecdotes and sketch of the\nworthy proprietor of Dryfield; but, he added, he could give as much more\nof the same kind, if I chose, as would fill half-a-dozen volumes. I\nthanked him, and said that I would rest content with what he had been\nkind enough to give me, in the meantime; but that, if the readers of the\n\"Border Tales\"--for which, I told him, I intended these\nmemorabilia--desired any more, I should, perhaps, take the liberty of\napplying to him again.\n\n\n\n\nTHE SURGEON'S TALES.\n\n\n\n\nTHE CHERRY-STONE.\n\n\nI have always been anxious to avoid giving publicity to details of my\nprofession which might harrow the feelings of mankind--than which, I\nbelieve, nothing is more easy of accomplishment by those who are, as I\nam, in the daily exercise of painful operations on the human body. Pain\nhas been gifted to man as an inheritance, so ample, in so many forms and\ncomplexions, in so many directions, that we have only to think, and we\nfeel it--we have only to look, and we see it--we have only to speak or\nact, and we rouse it. Yet so wonderfully are we constituted, that we do\nnot hate it more than we _love_ it; while we are all engaged in the\ngeneral endeavours to banish it and conceal it, we have such a craving\nappetite for it, in the second-hand form of narrative, that we gloat\nover pictures of suffering with the feelings of an epicure, and seek and\ncall for the stimulus of sighs, and groans, and tears, with an avidity\nonly equalled by our desire of personal happiness. A final cause might\nbe traced in this extraordinary feature of the human mind, if we were\ncurious to know the ways of the Almighty, the modes he has had recourse\nto, to fit us for life, and prepare us for death; but this is not my\nobject, nor, while I continue to draw pictures from life--charged with a\nmoral that may instruct, truth that may edify, or results that may show\nthere is good in evil, and wonderful deliverances from apparently\nirremediable wo--is it my desire to minister to the mysterious appetite\nfor sorrow, according to its wants, or the abilities which a long\nexperience might enable me to exercise with greater effect than many\nsensitive minds might approve.\n\nSome time ago, I had been on a visit to a neighbouring town, where I had\nbeen called to give my professional advice to a patient who had more\nfaith to place in me than in his neighbouring practitioners. I was\nreturning in the stage-coach, along with a number of other passengers,\nwhen my attention was directed to a poor woman sitting by me, with a\nyoung girl in her lap, apparently in great distress. The face of the\ninvalid, who appeared to be about twelve years of age, was covered by a\nwhite napkin, which her mother, with a careful hand, lifted from time to\ntime, to see how her daughter (for such she turned out to be) was\naffected by the motion of the vehicle. Two or three people around, from\nthe same town, and who seemed to know the history of the pair, evinced a\ngreater degree of anxiety and curiosity about the state of the poor girl\nthan might have been expected from an ordinary case of illness. They\nspoke to each other in a low tone; and I could hear my own name\nmentioned in such a manner as indicated plainly that they did not know\nme. Though I had not been a professional man, and had not had my\ncuriosity roused by the mention of my name, I could not have refrained\nfrom inquiring into the state of the little victim of so much disease,\nand the object of so much solicitude. Turning round, I asked the mother\nif she would allow me to remove the napkin, and look at her whose face\nit covered. She assented with a ready, anticipative willingness; and I\nlifted softly the white covering. The sight was extraordinary, even to\nme, who was in the habit of daily seeing strange faces, strangely marked\nby the powers of the fell fiends that feed on the lacerated feelings of\npain-stricken mortals. The girl, though twelve years of age, was reduced\nto the size and weight of a child of half her little period of life. Her\nface was as white as the snow-coloured covering which shaded it; her\neyelids were closed, as if she were in a deep slumber; her lips, wide\napart, were as white as her cheek; and, notwithstanding of the change in\nall the natural lineaments of her countenance, there was such a\nregularity, or rather beauty of outline, lying in the calmness and\ncomposure of what one of fancy might conceive of a sleeping sylph, that\nI felt my sympathies more strongly roused by what may be termed the\npoetical accidents of the patient, than could have been effected by the\nmere aspect of a cruel disease.\n\nAs I sat looking at the face of the half-lifeless being, and musing a\nlittle on the supposed nature of her complaint, previously to an inquiry\nat her mother for the particulars of her case, I saw rise, on a sudden,\nand as if by the power of some heart-born impulse, a feeling throughout\nall the fine, attenuated muscles, that changed the angelic quietness of\nher countenance into the shrinking and contorted motions of a pain that\nseemed to bring despair on its wings, as a colleague to strike as soon\nas its own pang was inflicted. I could see, also, that there was mixed\nwith the expression of pain an indication of terror, as if the poor\nvictim apprehended some onset of the enemy that had already laid her so\nlow, similar to what she had been already in the habit of experiencing.\nIn an instant it came: the whole chest, throat, and face were grasped by\na convulsive spasm, and a cough, shrill and piercing, as if the breath\npassed with difficulty through the windpipe, accompanied by the long\ndrawback of apparent croop, that sounded like the yell of a strangling\ndog, struck our ears, and produced a feeling of consternation among\nthose who were as yet better acquainted with her extraordinary case than\nI was. I had never experienced anything of the same kind; for the\nsymptoms that separated her complaint, whatever it was, from the most\npainful diseases of the windpipe known to us, were at first sight\napparent. The sound prevented me from getting intelligence from her\nmother, who was, besides, under such alarm and anxiety, that she paid\nlittle attention to those around her. The rattling of the coach was a\ngreat aggravation of the attack; and the noise of a grating wheel, not\nunlike that wrung from the poor victim, mixed with it, and rendered the\nscene frightful. After lasting about ten minutes, the harrowing\nsymptoms stopped suddenly; in a few minutes, I saw again before me the\nsame placid countenance, with the closed eyelids, and the same lifeless\nappearance I had witnessed before the attack came on.\n\nI now got an account from the mother of the cause of her daughter's\ndistress. About two months previously, the girl had been eating\ncherries; and one of the stones having been involuntarily thrown back\ninto her throat, she had endeavoured to prevent the operation of\nswallowing it, from a fear that it would injure her, and thus produced\nan irregular action among the muscles of deglutition, which precipitated\nthe hard substance into the windpipe. The first effects of this accident\nwere grievous in the extreme; for the sensibility of that exquisitely\ntender part of the body roused the muscles to efforts of expectoration,\nand brought on fits of the most intense coughing, which lasted until the\nstrength of the body having failed, the irritability of the passage\ndied, through the pure inanition of the exhausted system. Every energy\nprostrated, she would be for a time quiet, until the _pabulum_ of the\nirritability was again supplied by the mysterious operation of nature,\nwhen the same painful spasms of the muscles were renewed, with another\nlong fit of coughing--every re-drawn breath forcing its way with a\nshrill sound, and suggesting the fear that she was every moment on the\neve of being choked. This was again succeeded by a calm, to be followed\nby a similar exacerbation; and thus was her life reduced to an\nalternation of agony and rest without peace; and all the time the\nreductive process of famine (for she could scarcely swallow a morsel\nwithout the greatest pain) went on, till she was reduced to a perfect\nskeleton. Having been the pride of her parents, as well from her beauty\nas her amiable mind and manners, she was watched night and day with a\nsolicitude scarcely less painful than her own dreadful condition; and,\nas both the doctors of the small town seemed irresolute as to the\ncourse to be pursued, the victim was left lying on her back, and\nsuffering those violent and incessant attacks, for the period of six\nweeks, without any effectual effort being made for her relief. At last,\nhowever, the urgent nature of the case, which interested almost all the\ninhabitants of the place, forced the medical men to try, at last, the\nonly evident operation that could be of any service; and an incision was\nmade into the windpipe, with a view to get hold of the stone. Whether it\nwas that they had calculated on wrong data, in regard to the locality of\nthe peccant and cruel intruder, or whether the operation was otherwise\nunskilfully performed, I know not; but the result was, that, after\nputting her to so intolerable pain, they were obliged to sew up the\nopening they had made, and again resign her to her miserable fate. Many\nof the neighbours got angry at this issue, and blamed the surgeons; but\nno one would lend a helping hand to pay the expense of bringing a more\nsuccessful operator to the spot; so that all was vain reproof, with\nstill the same fate to the interesting sufferer. At last, the mother,\nwho could stand no longer the appalling sight of her daughter suffering\nworse than a thousand deaths, while a remedy on earth could be found,\nhad come to the resolution of travelling by the coach to the residence\nof one who might, by an extensive experience, be supposed to be able\nto yield relief; and, having got a letter of introduction to\nDr ---- (myself), she was thus far on her way to my residence.\n\nI heard the poor woman's story; and, when I took the letter from her,\nand told her that I was the individual she was travelling to, I could\ndiscover that her face was on the instant lighted up with hope; even the\npoor sufferer on her knee lifted up her eyelids, and fixed her clear\nblue eyes on my face with a piteous supplication that I shall never\nforget. I told the mother that she should have come to me long before;\nbut that she was not yet too late--for that I had strong hopes of being\nable to extricate the stone, and restore her child to health. My words\nfell on the ear of the patient; and I could see by the tear in her\neye--the only indication she could give of her gratitude--for she was\nunder a continual terror of moving a single muscle of her face--that she\nunderstood perfectly what I said. The passengers seemed to be as much\nmoved as those more nearly interested, and turned their eyes on me as if\nI had been one gifted beyond ordinary mortals with the means of\nbenefiting mankind. We got forward, luckily, without another attack of\nthe ruthless foe that haunted the innocent victim with such unremitting\nhatred; and, on our arrival at our place of destination, I made\narrangements for the mother and daughter being lodged in a friend's\nhouse not far from my own, that my patient might be as much as possible\nunder my eye, until I deemed it a proper time (for she required\nstrength) to perform the operation which I meditated.\n\nI considered well what I had to do, and had no doubt of my success; but\nI was met by some untoward disadvantages. I found that there was no\npossibility of imparting to her strength--the incessant reductive\nworkings of her spasms counteracting all my energies in this direction,\nand compelling me to a speedy application of my means of salvation. The\nprior wound had not been sufficiently cured, and the pain she had\nsuffered under the mangling hands of her first tormentors left such a\nvivid impression on the tortured mind of the sufferer, that, anxious as\nshe was to get the stone extracted, and to breathe again freely the air\nof heaven, she shuddered at the thought of being subjected to the knife\nof the operator. I used every seductive artifice to soothe her fears; I\nshowed her the small instrument with which I would give her peace and\nhealth, and painted to her fancy the happiness she would again enjoy in\nromping among the green fields as in former days, freed from the terror\nof the slightest motion that now enslaved her. She lay and heard me,\nopened her eyes, sighed, and shut them again with a slight shake of her\nhead, and a shudder, as if all arguments had failed; then, as I rose,\nthrew after me a look of supplication, as if she wished me to try again\nto bring her to the point of resolution to free herself from the dreaded\nenemy that held her so firmly and securely in his grasp. She little knew\nthat she was utterly powerless to resist--a child might have held her\nhands, while the operation was performed, against her will; but I wished\nto avoid compulsion; though I feared that, if she would not consent, I\nwould be necessitated, from the gradual decay of the little remaining\nstrength she had, to save her quickly, against her own fears of the\nmeans of her salvation.\n\nIn the afternoon of the same day I had appointed to perform the\noperation against her will, her mother came to me and said that the\ninvalid had made signs to her that she would now submit herself to my\npower. I lost no time in getting my assistants, and waiting upon her\nbefore the resolution should depart; but, what was my disappointment to\nfind that she had, in the meantime, been seized with an attack of\ncoughing, so much more serious than any she yet had, that I expected\nevery moment to see her die of suffocation. Her mother sat beside her,\nweeping and looking on her with an expression of agony; and the little\nsufferer presented to me such an appearance of emaciation and weakness,\nthat I doubted if I could venture to touch her with a knife, even if her\nrelentless foe allowed her once more to escape for a little time. The\ncoughing and spasms again ceased; but she lay as one dead. I could\nscarcely feel a pulse in her, and her pale, beautiful face was as calm\nand benign as if she had been soothed by a divine aspiration, in place\nof being tortured the moment before by an agony that twisted every\nmuscle of her countenance. She lay in this state about ten minutes, at\nthe end of which time she again opened her eyes, and made a faint sign\nto her mother that she was prepared. I lost no time. In a moment I had\nmade the incision; and so well had I calculated the locality of the\nstone, that I was able to seize it on the very first insertion of the\nnippers. I drew it out, and held it up to her eye. The sight of it\noperated like magic. She started up on her feet, and, running a few\npaces, while the blood flowed plentifully down her white throat, clapped\nher hands, and cried, \"It's out--it's out!\" She would have fallen\ninstantly, for the impulse that had overcome her weakness was like a\nshock from a galvanic battery, that moves, and in an instant leaves all\ndead as before. I seized her, just as she was falling; and, having\nplaced her again on the sofa, sewed up the wound. Before I left her, I\nsaw her breathing freely the unobstructed air. Her blue eye was\nilluminated with joy; and such was the immediate effect of giving a free\npassage to the breath of life, that one might have marked the rapid\nchange of returning health going on throughout her whole system. In a\nshort time she recovered, and returned home.\n\nI saw this interesting patient three years afterwards--a fine, blooming\nyoung woman.\n\n\n\n\nTHE HENWIFE.\n\n\nI have often made observations on that extraordinary disease,\nhypochondria; and chiefly on the cases where it presents the phasis of a\nfalse conception of the existing condition of external circumstances\naffecting the patient, accompanied by a terror of their operation on his\nfortunes and prosperity. These are common. I conceive that they argue a\nlesser derangement of the cerebral functions, than where there occurs a\ntotal overturn of the conception of personal identity; and the\nconviction of _self_ passes into a belief that the patient is actually\nsomething else than himself--nay, something else than a man at all, and\neven something else than an organised being. In both cases, there is,\nof course, a false conviction, and so far they range under the same\nhead; yet, as the conception of identity is among the first, and\nstrongest, and steadiest of all the states or acts of the mind, it may\nbe presumed to require a stronger deranging impulse to effect the\noverthrow of an idea that often remains unimpaired amidst the very\nwrecks of the intellect, than to produce those conditions of ordinary\npartial derangement of the rational or perceptive powers which daily\ncome under our observation. Yet--and it is a curious feature of these\npitiful states of the diseased mind, and one that argues ill for the\nsuperiority of man over the passing humours of a fluctuating\ntemperament--wherever there is a false conception of identity, passing\ninto an idea that the patient is something different from himself, he\nbecomes an involuntary humorist; and, while the ordinary maniac brings\ntears to the eyes of the shuddering beholders, he, in his character of\nan animal or piece of inert matter, produces nothing but a tickling\nsensation of exquisite ludicrousness, passing often into broad laughter,\ncertainly the greatest enemy of pity. Now, I approach a case of this\nkind with feelings entirely different; and, while I thus confess that I\ncan contemplate no state of derangement but with pity, I shall leave a\ngrave narrative of an extraordinary instance of false conviction--true\nin all its details[23]--to be read and relished according to the fancies\nand humours of the public.\n\n[Footnote 23: We understand that another case of human incubation\noccurred, somewhere about the Crosscauseway or Simon Square, of\nEdinburgh, in Dr Gregory's time.--ED.]\n\nIn a large old land of houses in ---- Street, commonly known by the name\nof the Ark, and occupied by a number of small families in the lower\ngrade of society, an old woman, Margaret B----, had lived for many\nyears, chiefly upon the bounty of a noble family in the country, whom\nshe had served in the capacity of poulterer--_vulgariter_, henwife. She\nhad been for some time ailing; and I was requested by those who took an\ninterest in her, to pay her occasionally a visit, in the course of my\nprofessional rounds in the neighbourhood of her dwelling. I could\ndiscover, for a time, no marked complaint about her. Living lonely, she\nhad fallen into a lowness of spirits, which, as one of her neighbours\ninformed me, was most effectually removed or ameliorated for a time, by\na recurrence to the remembered employments of her former years. She was,\nin particular, curiously addicted to thinking and speaking of her former\nextensive establishment of fowls at ---- House; and made reference to\nspeckled favourites by special name, as if she had treated them by\ndistinctions of superiority, beauty, and utility, after the manner of\nfond mothers, who indulge a habit of fantastic favouritism among their\nchildren. I myself noticed this garrulous peculiarity; but, accustomed\nto all manner of eccentricities, as well healthy as morbid, I attributed\nher freaks to a foolish fancy, that sought for food among the cherished\nrecesses of a fond memory of the past. By degrees, however, she\nunderwent a considerable change; falling into moods of silent\nmelancholy, which lasted for days, and rising from them to luxuriate,\nwith a fervour that engrossed her whole soul, on the favourite theme,\nwhich seemed to present every day new attractions for her moody mind.\n\nAs I passed one day along the passage that led to her humble dwelling,\nher nearest neighbour, a favourite gossip, met me, and whispered,\nsecretly and mysteriously, into my ear, that old Margaret, as she called\nher, had been, during the whole day, occupied with the regulation of an\nimagined establishment of her old favourites, the hens. She had been\ncalling them to her by name; using all the technicalities of the\ndomestic fowler's vocabulary; driving some of the more forward away, and\nendearingly encouraging the backward favourites to participate in the\nmeal of scattered barley she threw upon the floor. The woman added, that\nshe feared she was mad, and yet she laughed at the symptoms of her\nimputed insanity. I went forward, and, on opening the door, saw good\nevidence of the truth of my informant's story in the grain that lay\nabout in every direction; but the occupation was gone, the industrious\nfowler had sunk into a fit of melancholy, and sat, with a drooping head\nand heavy eye, looking into the fire. She was dogged and silent; and,\nthough I touched gently the irritable chord, I got no response: the\nillusion was gone, and had left nothing in her mind but the darkness of\na morbid melancholy which I possessed no secret to remove.\n\nThis state of gloom lasted, I understood--for I could not get her\nvisited in the meantime--for three days, during which she scarcely spoke\nto her neighbours, whose curiosity, roused by her previous conduct,\nsupplied the place of the kindness which ought to have stimulated\ncharitable attentions. At the end of that time, she awoke from her\ndream, and spoke with her accustomed sense on any subject that was\nstarted in her presence; but during the night she was heard again busy\nin her old occupation of feeding her feathered family; and several of\nthe neighbours had even been at the pains to leave their beds, and\nlisten to her one-sided dialogue and strange proceedings, as a matter of\nintense curiosity. I got a second report of these acts from the same\nneighbours, and very properly set the patient down for one of those\nunfortunate beings, too common in our land, who are afflicted with\ntemporary derangement, which sometimes shows itself in the form of a\nfancied presence of some familiar object, and a passing into a condition\nor position occupied in some prior part of the life of the afflicted\nindividual. These objects are too common to excite in us any particular\ncuriosity; and, having made a report to those interested in her that I\nfeared she was subject to temporary fits of insanity, I left to them the\nchoice of the ordinary expedients in such cases.\n\nSome weeks afterwards, the neighbour whom I had formerly seen, called\nand told me that the patient had not been attended to as her situation\nrequired, and that she had passed into a new condition, so extraordinary\nand incredible, that she could not trust her tongue to tell it to a\nrational being, and therefore urged me to come and witness for the truth\nof what no mortal would otherwise believe, by the evidence of my eyes. I\nasked her to explain what she meant; but she replied by a laugh, and\nwent away, stating, that, unless I visited her soon, I might lose one of\nthe most strange sights I had ever witnessed in the course of all my\nextended and long practice. I had seen so much of the wild vagaries of\ndistempered minds, so many metamorphoses of fancied identities, and such\nextraordinary instances of imaginary metempsychoses, and other freaks in\nlunatics, that I felt no more curiosity on the subject of the woman's\nexcited report than I do in ordinary cases; but, in about an hour\nafterwards, I found leisure to call and make a proper judgment of what\nmight, after all, be a matter exaggerated by the clouds of ignorance.\n\nAs I proceeded up the stair, and along the passage, I observed several\nheads peeping out at me, and heard titters and whispers in all\ndirections, as if the neighbours were all a-tiptoe with curiosity to\nenjoy the doctor's surprise at what he was to behold. The woman who had\ncalled me came running out from the middle of three or four old gossips\nlike herself, and, holding away her head to conceal a suppressed laugh,\nperhaps mixed with a little affected shame, led the way before me to the\npatient's room. I was grave all the while, as becomes my profession; and\nI was besides displeased, as I ever am, when I see the misfortunes of my\nfellow-creatures made the subject of ill-timed mirth, merely because the\nmost dreadful of all the visitations of man puts on grotesque\nappearances and ludicrous impersonations of fantastic characters.\n\nWhen I entered, I observed no one in the room. The patient's seat by the\nfire was empty. A strange noise met my ear--\"Cluck, cluck, cluck!\" which\nthe woman requested me to pause and listen to. It seemed to me a human\nimitation of the sounds of the feathered mother of a young brood in our\nbarn-yards. I was astonished, and felt my curiosity rise as high as my\nconductress might desire. She proceeded to a dark corner of the room,\nwhere I saw a large tub half-filled with straw, with the poor victim\nsitting in it, in such a position that her head and shoulders only could\nbe observed. I now ascertained that the strange sounds came from the\noccupant of the old seat of Diogenes; yet still my understanding was at\nfault. I stood and gazed at the spectacle before me, while my\nconductress seemed to enjoy my perplexity, and I heard the repressed\nlaughter of those in the passage who had come near enough to listen to\nour proceedings.\n\n\"That is a strange seat, Margaret,\" said I. \"What means this?\"\n\nI was answered by a repetition of the same extraordinary sounds--\"Cluck,\ncluck, cluck!\"\n\nI looked gravely at the neighbour for a serious explanation. I could see\nno humour in the melancholy indications of drivelling madness, and added\na stern expression to the gravity with which I intended to subdue a\ncruel and ill-timed levity. The woman felt awed and abashed, but it was\nonly for a moment; she stooped down, and, putting her hands among the\nstraw upon which the invalid sat, pulled out a couple of eggs. A louder\nrepetition of the sounds, \"cluck, cluck,\" followed, as if the incubator\nfelt an instinctive parental anger at the temerity of the spoiler of her\ninchoate progeny. To satisfy her humour, the woman replaced the eggs,\nand the cluck ceased.[24]\n\n[Footnote 24: The reader may be here reminded of the well-known case of\nthe confessor to the French King. He was long under the delusion of\nbeing a cock; he tried to fly, perched upon cross rafters, picked minced\nmeat out of a wooden trencher, and crowed regularly every morning.--ED.]\n\n\"There are two dozen of these beneath her,\" said the woman. \"Lord ----'s\ngamekeeper brought them in to her four days ago, to serve for food to\nher. I saw her go out for the straw, and she borrowed the tub from me.\nShe built her nest on the night afterwards, and she commenced sitting\nthere immediately when it was completed, so that she has already sat\nthree days and nights. We heard the 'cluck' through the partition; and,\nupon coming in, found her as you now see her.\"\n\n\"Has she got any food?\" said I, with a still graver aspect, as I saw my\ninformant watching for a smile to repay her for her extraordinary\ninformation, and keep her in countenance.\n\n\"Nothing but some peas of barley,\" replied the woman, with something of\nseriousness assumed with great difficulty. \"See here.\"\n\nAnd she pointed to a small cup placed by the side of the tub, in which\nsome of the grain mentioned was contained, and alongside of it a small\nvessel of water.\n\nThe truth was now fully apparent. A false conviction of as extraordinary\na nature as I had yet witnessed had taken entire possession of the\ninvalid's mind. It was not difficult, on ordinary and vulgar data, to\naccount for the peculiar turn of the malady in the case of this woman,\nbecause all her life had been spent among fowls; yet I must bear my\nprofessional testimony to the fact, that, among the many instances of\nfalse conceptions of identity I had previously witnessed, and have since\nseen, I never knew a case where the peculiarity of the conviction had\nany relation whatever to the prior habits of mind or body of the\ninvalid. The deranging power, whatever it is, has often no respect to\npre-existing habits or associations; but, on the contrary, seems to\ndelight in a capricious triumph over all the ordinary acts of the mind,\nand delights to introduce an imagined form and character as widely\nopposed as the antipodes to the prior conceptions of the unfortunate\nindividual. The case before me was, therefore, in this respect\ninteresting; for, as to the grotesque conditions of the fancied change,\nthough calculated to produce an extraordinary effect on vulgar minds, I\nlooked upon them, philosophically, as only another instance of the\nendless variety of melancholy changes to which our frail natures are\nexposed.\n\nI proceeded to ask my informant if any means had been taken to draw the\ninvalid from her position, and got for answer, that several of the\nneighbours had come in and endeavoured to prevail upon her to renounce\nher charge; but that, having failed in their efforts, they had on\nseveral occasions removed her by force, and in opposition to strenuous\nstruggles, and extraordinary sounds of mixed anger and pitiful sorrow.\nNo sooner, however, were their backs turned, than she _flew_ to her\nseat, and manifested the greatest satisfaction by peculiar noises, at\nbeing again reinstated in her charge of her inchoate brood, which she\nwas terrified would, by growing cold, be deprived of the principle of\nvitality she was busy in communicating to them. I tested, by my own\nefforts, her instinctive force of affection, by taking her by the arms\nand endeavouring to remove her; but she sent up such a pitiful cry,\nmixed with her imitative cluck and cackle, that I let her go, as much\nthrough a sudden impulse of fear as from an inability to lift her by the\npower of my arms. I then put down my hand to remove some of the eggs,\nbut was in an instant attacked as fiercely as if the invalid had in\nreality been the creature she fancied herself to be; and the manner of\nthe attack was so true to the habits of the feathered mother, that, even\nin the midst of my philosophy and concern for the unhappy being, I\ntrembled for my professional gravity. She had fancied that the\nprotuberance on her face was a beak, and used that organ with such\neffect, that, on missing my hand, she darted the fancied organ of\ndefence on the corner of the tub, and produced a stream of blood, which\nI required to quench by the vulgar but effectual mode of placing down\nher back the key of the door. During all the struggle, the \"cluck,\ncluck\" was kept up, accompanied with a shaking of her clothes, as if she\nhad been raising the feathers to evidence farther for her instinctive\nanger.\n\nI now left this unhappy individual to the charge of the woman, with a\nrecommendation (I could do nothing more) to endeavour to get her weaned\nfrom her situation and habit. Two or three of my brother practitioners\nhaving heard the circumstances, visited her during that afternoon, and\nwitnessed, as they informed me, the same symptoms that had been seen by\nme. Two days afterwards, I visited her again, having, in the meantime,\nwritten to Lord ----'s steward an account of the state of the family's\npoor _protege_, with some advices as to how she ought to be disposed of.\nI found her still in the same position, and if possible more determined\nto defend her brittle charge. I expressed to the attendant some surprise\nthat a human being should have been allowed to remain so long in a\npredicament which seemed to throw some discredit upon our vindicated\nsuperiority over the lower animals; but she answered me by stating that\nthe patient had become so fierce and vindictive, when an attempt was\nmade to remove her from the tub, or to take the eggs from under her,\nthat every one was afraid to go near her. A prejudice had, moreover,\ntaken possession of the neighbours, that she was under the power of some\nevil spirit; and those who ventured to look at her, as she sat clucking\nover her charge, gratified their intense curiosity by putting their\nheads in at the door. As I approached her, I saw plainly that a fiercer\nspirit had taken possession of her, probably from the attempts that had\nbeen made to displace her, and overcome her extraordinary instinct. Her\neyes glanced as if fired by the impulse of strong anger, and her \"cluck\"\nsounded with a wilder and more unearthly sound than when I saw her\nbefore; but she spoke not a word, and, indeed, since ever she had\nbetaken herself to the nest, she had been heard to utter no other sounds\nthan those that are peculiar to the bird she personated. These symptoms\nimparted to her a most impressive and terrific aspect, altogether\nincompatible with any feeling of the ludicrous. I have seen mad people\nin every mood; and, although I have observed them assume attitudes and\nlooks more suggestive, of course, of the terror of personal injury, I am\nquite free to confess, that I never saw any one whose appearance was so\nproductive of those indefinable feelings of pity, fear, and awe, so\noften roused within the walls of an asylum. Nature was not only\nchanged--it was overturned; human feelings represented the instincts of\nthe brutes that perish; and the organs, motions, and attitudes of our\nspecies, were made to subserve, with an intense anxiety that was painful\nto behold, the impulses of creatures in the lowest grade of creation. I\nconfess that my feelings were, on this occasion, harrowed; and, if I\nwere to search for any feature in the spectacle before me, more than\nanother, that tended to produce in me this effect, I would say that it\nwas the hideous intensity of the instinctive anxiety that beamed in her\ndull sullen eye, as I proceeded forward to the place where she covered\nand defended her charge, aided by the horrid interminable cluck that\nground my ears with its unnatural sound.\n\nI was obliged to leave her again, still in the same predicament; for the\nwoman declared that she, for her part, would not again meddle with her,\nunless assisted by her neighbours; and they, possessed of the terror of\nthe evil spirit, would not approach her. I got her, however, to promise\nto give her some meat; but this, she said, was of no easy\naccomplishment, for the invalid was possessed of the idea that nothing\nought to be eaten by one in her \"particular situation,\" but what a hen\nmight pick up in its bill and swallow. She had discarded broth and\nbutcher-meat; and the few crumbs she had picked up off a platter that\nhad been placed before her would not suffice to keep in her life.\n\nThat same evening, an extraordinary scene took place in the house of\nthis demented creature. I had not been informed that she had any near\nrelations; but it happened that, when she was still in the same\nextraordinary position, an only son, a fine open-hearted fellow, a\nsailor, who had been absent from her for seven years, arrived, buoyant\nwith hope, and fired with desire to see his mother happy and well. Good\nheavens! what a sight was presented to him! I witnessed not the\nharrowing meeting; but the old neighbour was present, and attempted an\ninadequate description of it to me. She did not know her son; and when\nhe approached her, to greet her with a son's love, she exhibited the\nsame symptoms of fury, and clucked the dreadful sounds of her defensive\nanger in his agonised ear. What he saw, and what he heard, opened up to\nhim the hideous mystery. He rushed out of the house, and had not again\nreturned.\n\nNext day, the butler of the family who took charge of her called on me.\nI accompanied him to the house, when one or two of the neighbours were\nprevailed upon to lend their assistance in getting her removed by force.\nThe scene that followed was an extraordinary one. She resisted them to\nthe last; as the struggle increased, her eye became more fiery, and her\nunearthly screams more loud and discordant--passing through all the\nnotes of an incensed hen-mother, and attaining, at times, to the harsh\nscream which one may have heard from that feathered biped, when\nseparated from her brood, and pursued by a band of urchins. The task of\nmere removal was not a difficult one, and was soon accomplished. Some\ncurious observer examined the eggs, and found that not one of them was\nbroken, so carefully had she performed her supposed duty of incubation.\nIf she had sat the requisite time, there is not a doubt they would have\nbeen duly and legitimately hatched.\n\nSuch are the details of this extraordinary case. It is needless to say\nthat it may transcend human belief. That is nothing, because belief is\ntoo much regulated by experience. I waited on the poor woman afterwards.\nThe idea haunted her for about two months, and then gave place to some\nother wild conceptions, that in their turn gave way to others of a more\nrational character. Her son returned, and saw, with pleasure, the change\nthat had taken place upon his parent. Latterly she became perfectly\nrational; but, if any one alluded in the remotest degree to her position\nin the tub, she shuddered with horror, and evaded the subject, as if it\nhad terrors too dreadful to be borne.\n\n\n\n\nTHE ARTIST.\n\n\nIn the course of my practice, I have paid some attention to the effects\nof the two great stimulants, whisky and tobacco, on the bodies and\nhabits of the votaries of excitement. There is a great difference in the\naction of the two substances; and I know no more curious subject for the\ninvestigation of the metaphysical physician, than the analysis of the\nvarious effects upon the mind produced by all the stimulating narcotics\nwhich are used by man, for the purpose of yielding pleasure or\nmitigating pain. I have myself committed to paper some thoughts upon\nthis subject, which may yet see the light; and many of the conclusions I\nhave deduced from my reasoning and experience, may be found to be\ncurious, as well as instructive. I have found, for instance, that people\nof sanguine temperaments are greater drinkers than smokers; and those of\na dull, phlegmatic cast are greater smokers than drinkers. A man that\nsmokes will almost always drink; but a man that drinks will not always,\nnor indeed often, smoke. The two habits are often found combined in the\nsame individual; but it is, notwithstanding, a fact, that, if the smoker\nand drinker could always command the spirit, he would very seldom or\never trouble himself with the other. I am led into these remarks by a\ncase that occurred in my practice not very long ago, where the two\nhabits joined in an extraordinary manner their baneful influences in\nclosing the mortal career of one of those unfortunate votaries.\n\nI was first called to William G----, a very ingenious artist, when he\nlay under a severe attack of what we call _delirium tremens_, or\ntemporary insanity, produced by, or consisting of (for the proximate\ncause is often the disease itself), highly irritated nerves, the\nconsequence of a succession of drinking fits. I found that he had been\n\"on the ball,\" as they say, for three weeks, during which time he had\ndrunk forty-two bottles of strong whisky. Like many other people of\ngenius, whose fits of inspiration (for artists have those fits as well\nas poets) make them work to excess, and leave them, as they wear out,\nthe victims of ennui and lassitude, he was in the habit of applying\nhimself to his business with too much assiduity, for the period,\ngenerally, of about a month. Exhausted by the excitement of thought and\ninvention kept up too long, he fell regularly down into a state of dull\nlethargy, which seemed to be painful to him. He felt as if there was a\nload upon his brain. A sense of duty stung him, after a few days'\nidleness, poignantly; and, while he writhed under the sting of the sharp\nmonitor, he felt that _he could not_ obey the behest of the good angel;\nand yet could not explain the reason of his utter powerlessness and\nincapacity for work. If he had allowed this state, which is quite\nnatural, and not difficult of explanation, to remain unalleviated by\nstimulants for a day or two, he would have found that, as the brain\nagain collected energy, he would have been relieved by the _vis\nmedicatrix_ of nature herself; but he had no patience for that; and\ndrink was, accordingly, his refuge and relief. The first glass he took\nwas fraught with the most direful power--it threw down the floodgates of\na struggling resolution; the relief of the new and artificial impulse\nraised his spirits: another application inflamed his mind; and then\nbottle after bottle was thrown into the furnace, until the drink-fever\nlaid him up, and brought upon him the salutary nausea which overcame the\nrebellious desire. This system had continued for more than ten years. He\nhad been gradually getting worse and worse; and, latterly, he had\nresigned himself to the cognate influence of the narcotic weed.\n\nWhen I got an account of this young man--for he was still comparatively\nyoung--and saw some of the exquisite pieces of workmanship, both in\nsculpture and painting, he had executed, I felt a strong interest in his\nfate. He was, indeed, one example out of many, where I had contemplated,\nwith tears that subdued my professional apathy, genius, commonly\nsupposed to be the rarest, if not the highest gift of mortals, working\nout, by some power inherent in itself, the ruin of the body, mind, and\nmorals of its possessor. This victim I saw lying under the fell power of\none of the most frightful of diseases, brought on by his own\nintemperance; and not far from his bed lay a half-finished\nScripture-piece--a work which, if finished, would have brought him money\nand fame. He presented the ordinary appearances of his complaint.\nEmaciated and pale, he laboured under that union of ague and temporary\nmadness which _delirium tremens_ exhibits. All the motions of his nerves\nseemed to have been inverted; those servants of the will had got a new\nmaster, which kept them, by his diabolical power, in continual action.\nHis arms were continually in motion, aiming at some object present or\nideal; but, instead of making direct for it, vibrating in sudden\nsnatches backward and forward; his legs were also in continual\nagitation, kicking up the bedclothes, then being stretched forth, as if\nheld by a spasm; and his eyes, red and fiery, seemed to fly from object\nto object, as if the vision of a thing burned the orbs, and made them\nroll about for a resting-place. Thousands of _muscae volitantes_, or the\nimaginary flies that swarm round the heads of victims of this complaint,\ntormented him by their ideal presence, and kept his snatching, quivering\nhands in continual play, till, by seizing the bed-posts, he seemed,\nthough only for a moment, to get a relief from his restlessness. He knew\nno one; and sudden burning thoughts flashing upon his heated brain,\nwrung from him jabbering exclamations, containing intensive words of\nagony or mirth. The rest of his convulsed muscles was only purchased at\nthe expense of such a morbid increase of the sense of hearing, that the\nscratch of a pin on the wall pained him as much as if the operation had\nbeen performed on his brain--a symptom often so strongly marked in\nregular brain-fever, and often detected in this last stage of the\ndrunkard's disease. The sense of the pupil of the eye was of the same\nmorbid character. A stream of light produced in him a scream, suggesting\nthe analogy of the sound of the night-bird, the owl, when light is\nsuddenly let into a nest among the young brood. The delights of life,\nsunbeam and sound, were transformed into poisons; so that his own vivid\npictures, or the most melodious of songs, would have produced a\nconvulsive spasm. Food was nauseous to him, and water swallowed by\ngulps, in the intervals of spasms, was all that could be taken without\npain, to quench the burning fires within.\n\nSuch is a faithful picture of a disease produced by ardent spirits. I\nrecommend it to the votaries of intemperance. The moment I saw the\npatient, I knew his disease; and the particulars furnished to me by an\nold woman who kept his house only corroborated my opinion. The remedies\nin such cases are well known to us, and were instantly applied. He\nremained in the same state nearly all the next day; but began to show\nsymptoms of recovery on the morning following. Nature prevailed, and he\ngot gradually better; having, while his weakness was on him, a strong\n_antipathy_ to ardent spirits--a symptom of the drunkard I have often\nobserved. The interest I felt in him made me call often; and I had a\nlong conversation with him on the philosophy and _morale_ of his\nintemperance. He went himself to the very depths of the subject; and I\nfound, what I have often done in regard to other drunkards, that no one\nknew better the predisposing causes, the resisting energies, the\nconsequences--everything connected with the fearful vice; but all his\nphilosophy ended, as these often do, in the melancholy sentence, that\n\"there are powers within us greater than reason or philosophy.\"\n\nAfter the fearful attack he had had, he remained sober for about a\nmonth, and got a great length with his Scripture-piece. I called often\nto see his progress, to inspirit him in a continuation of his efforts,\nand support him in his self-denial. Matters seemed to be progressing\nwell, and I hinted as much to his housekeeper; but she shook her head,\nand replied, calmly, \"that she had seen the same scene acted, ten times\na-year, for ten years.\" She added, \"that he would break out again in a\nday or two;\" and accordingly, on the next day, I discovered he had begun\nto lag in his work, to draw deep sighs, and to exhibit a listlessness,\nall premonitory signs of a relapse. Knowing that he was at times a\nsmoker, I suggested to him the trial of tobacco, at this critical\nperiod. He said he had tried that remedy before; but acknowledged that\nperhaps he had not carried it far enough. I therefore set him agoing;\nadvising him to keep to it steadily, for I had succeeded once before, in\na very extreme case, in drawing out the one vice by the\nother--undoubtedly a lesser. So he began well, and persevered for about\na week, during which time he had also got pretty well on with his work,\nhaving finished in that time two of the most difficult heads in the\nwhole piece.\n\nI had now some greater hopes of him, and told the housekeeper to do what\nshe could to aid me in my efforts. Two days afterwards I called, and met\nthe old woman at the door. She shook her head ominously as I passed her.\nI opened the door, and went in. On a chair opposite to his picture sat\nthe artist, with his pallet in his left hand--the brush had fallen from\nhis right--his head was hung over the back of the chair, and his\ncravatless neck bent almost to breaking. Beside him sat a bottle empty;\nthere was no glass beside it. I took up the vessel, and smelled it. It\nhad been filled with whisky. I now looked at the picture. It was\ndestroyed. His burin had been drawn over it like a mop, and dashed\nbackwards and forwards, as if he had taken a spite at it, and been\ndetermined to put an end in one moment to the work of six months!\n\nThere was now no occasion for a doctor; a drunkard fairly broken out is\nfar beyond our help or care. I left him, and told the housekeeper to\ncall and tell me when the fit was over. She did so; and I called again.\nI found him sitting on the same chair, perfectly sober, but so thin and\nwan, that he seemed like one taken from that place \"where one inheriteth\ncreeping things, and beasts, and worms.\" His languid bloodshot eye was\nfixed on the picture, and tears were stealing down his white cheeks.\nWhen I entered, he held his hands up to his face, to cover the shame\nthat mantled on his cheek, and deep sobs heaved his bosom. I was moved,\nand sat down beside him without speaking a word.\n\n\"O God!\" he exclaimed, \"what am I to do with myself? Is there no remedy\nagainst this vice?--has the great Author of our being thus left us with\nan inheritance of reason, and a power that sits like a cockatrice on our\nbrains, and laughs at the God-sent gift? See--see the fruit of six\nmonths' hard labour! I expected fame from that, and money. I would have\ngot both. The fiend has triumphed. When I awoke from my dream, I heard\nhis laugh behind the canvas. I am undone.\"\n\nAnd he wrung his hands like a demented person, and sobbed bitterly. I\nwas still silent; for any words I could have uttered would have\ndestroyed the impressiveness of the scene before me. When I had allowed\nthe sensation of remorse to sink deeper into him, I spoke:--\n\n\"I am glad that you have wrought this destruction,\" said I. \"You have\nproduced an antidote to your own poison--let it work. I have no\nmedicines in my laboratory that have half the efficacy of that once\nsplendid emanation of your genius--now the monument of your folly, and\nto be, as I hope, the prophylactic to save you from ruin and death.\"\n\n\"Ah, God help me! it is a dear medicine,\" groaned he. \"I feel that I\nnever can produce such a work again.\"\n\nAnd he hung down his head, as if the blackest cloud that covers hope had\nthrown over him its dark shadow. I again observed silence, and he\nremained with his head on his breast for several minutes, without\nexhibiting a symptom of life beyond the deep sigh that raised his ribs.\n\n\"You must hang that picture upon the wall,\" said I. \"It is the most\nvaluable you ever painted. Look at it daily, and, before the sun goes\ndown, begin another on the same subject.\"\n\nMy words produced no effect upon him, and indeed I knew that he was in a\ncondition that entirely excluded external aid to his revolving thoughts.\nHe was in the pit of dejection, which lies on the far side of the\nelevation of factitious excitement--a place of darkness, where the\nscorpions of conscience sting to madness, and every thought that rises\nin the gloomy, bewildered mind appears like a ghost that walks at\nmidnight over open graves and bones of the dead. To some, these spectres\nhave spoken in such a way as to rouse the dormant principles of\nenergetic amendment, that lie beyond the reach of precept, or even that\nof conscience; but to the greater part of mankind this place of wailing\nand gnashing of teeth yields nothing but an agony that only tends to\nmake them climb again the delusive mount from which they had fallen,\nthough only again to be precipitated into the dreadful abode where, in\nthe end, _they must die_. I knew that words had no effect upon my\npatient. I rose accordingly, and left him to the unmitigated horrors of\nhis situation, in the expectation that he might be one of the few that\nderive from it good. I had no fear of his falling again, immediately,\ninto another fit; for the period of nausea was only begun, and he was\nsafe in the keeping of a rebelling stomach, whatever he might be in that\nof burning conscience.\n\nHe remained, as his housekeeper told me, in that state of depression for\ntwo days, often recurring to the monument of his folly, the destroyed\nScripture-piece; weeping over it, and ejaculating wild professions of\namendment, clenched by oaths in which the blessed name of God was made\nthe guarantee of the strength of a resolution which the demon of his\nvice was standing with glaring eyes ready to overturn. I have no faith\nin outspoken resolves of wordy declamation: not sure of ourselves, we\nfortify our weak resolutions through the ear and the eye, by spoken and\nwritten adjurations, and promises of amendment. After the medicine of\ndejection had wrought its utmost effect, I waited upon him. He was\narrayed in melancholy and gloom: but the agony of the lowest pit was\ngone, and he stood on a dangerous middle place, between a temporary\nfulfilment of his resolutions and a relapse. With a patient of this sort\nI never _continue_ a system of argumentation and disputation. I am\nsatisfied it does injury; for it reaches the moral sore only to irritate\nit, and an argument surmounted, or sworn resolution vanquished, is a\ntriumph and a _pabulum_ to the spirit of the foe greater than years of\ndomination. I told him, what he confessed frankly, that he stood, for a\nday or two, on the dangerous ground from which he had so often fallen,\nand requested him authoritatively, as if I had assumed the reins of his\njudgment which he had thrown over the back of his passions, to begin\ninstantly another painting, and try once more the American weed. Command\nsometimes, persuasion never, succeeds with a drunkard. He set about\nstretching his canvas, and put on the first coat of the foundation of\nhis picture. I told him I would call again in a week; but that, as it\nwas not a part of my profession to reclaim drunkards, I would\ndiscontinue my efforts in his behalf, if I found that, at the end of\nthat time, he had swerved from his resolution. The sense of degradation\nin the mind of these lost votaries of intemperance, while it inclines\nthe unhappy individuals often to resign themselves to the command (from\nwhich, however, they often break) of those they respect, responds keenly\nto the manifestations of disregard and loss of esteem with which they\nare visited in consequence of their failing. He felt strongly the manner\nof my treatment, and I thought and observed even tears working for vent\nfrom his still bloodshot eyes.\n\n\"You, and all good men, have a privilege to despise him who has not the\napproval of his own conscience,\" he said. \"I could bear your persuasive\nreproof; but the thought that I have rendered myself unworthy of the\ntrouble of one I esteem, to save me from the ruin I have madly prepared\nfor myself, sends me to that deep pit of despair, from which I have even\nnow struggled to get free. You saved me from death; and I was no sooner\ncured than I plunged headlong again into the gulf from which my disease\nwas derived. I have made myself an ingrate, and a beggar; spurned your\nadvice, and destroyed the work from which I expected honour and reward.\nI see myself as through a microscope, and you have diminished me still\nfarther. Heaven help me!\"\n\n\"You have powers within you, sir,\" replied I, with affected sternness,\n\"through the medium of which you might have surveyed yourself as through\nthe telescope; and your size would not have been greater than that\npotential moral magnitude to which you might long ere now have arrived,\nand which is still within your own power. I exhort not--I leave you to\nyourself.--_In te omne recumbit._\"\n\n\"I know it, I know it,\" he cried, with a swelling throat. \"My ruin or my\nsalvation lies within my own breast. For ten years I have resolved, and\nre-resolved; and it is only three days since I destroyed that picture,\nand rose with fiery eyes and a burning heart to survey the consequences\nof my vice. O God! where is this to end? You saw what I suffered when\nextended on that bed, racked with pain; my brain on fire; my intellect\noverturned; my muscles twisted by spasms; my eyes and ears tortured by\nimaginary sights and sounds; with conscience in the back-ground, waiting\ntill reason should bring to the avenging angel its victim. In that every\nmortal on earth might have found a lesson, but a drunkard. I found none.\nThe very fire of my fever filled my soul with a thirst which\nprecipitated me again deeper than ever in my old sin. I have got my\nsenses again; and my bloodshot eyes have surveyed, and shall survey,\nthat sad monument of my vice and folly--that child of my dreams, with\nwhich my pregnant fancy travailed with a delightful pain; and to which\nmy fond hopes of honour, wealth, and happiness were directed--now, alas!\ndead--killed by my rebellious hand. From that dead body I have extracted\na virtue which, with the powers of the amulet, shall guard me more\neffectually than the lesson of my bodily agony from further destruction.\nBelieve me, sir. Aid me once again. If I fail this time, discard me for\never.\"\n\nAs he finished, he hung his head over the chair, and covered his face\nwith his hands, to hide from me his agonised face. I told him that it\nwas my intention to try what effect the destroyed picture would have\nupon him.\n\n\"You have made a fair beginning,\" said I. \"Persevere--keep to the new\npicture to-morrow and to-morrow. I shall call in a week.\"\n\n\"You shall find me at work, and an altered man,\" he said; and a blush\ncame over his face, as he tried to open some subject to me of a delicate\nnature. \"I--I have for some time thought,\" he continued, \"that the way\nin which I live--a bachelor, with few domestic enjoyments--has a part of\nthe blame of this horrid vice that has taken possession of my soul. Had\nI a wife, my sensibilities would be fed, my ennui relieved, my home made\ncomfortable, and my ardour for my profession keeping my mind in the\ndelightful bondage of fancy, I might thus satisfy all the cravings of my\nfeelings, and be independent of the liquid fire and the envenomed weed.\"\n\n\"You are a perfect AEsculapius,\" replied I. \"Had I lectured to you for a\nweek from the manual of Galen, I could not have suggested a better\nmedicine; but, mark you, I know not if you have properly described the\nmanner of its operation. A wife will do all for you that you have\ndescribed; but there is a greater virtue in her; and that is, that she\n_ought_ to produce in you a salutary terror of making her unhappy. This\nis a part of love--and I know no greater conservative element of the\npure passion. If you fall again into your old habits, you will render an\ninnocent individual miserable; and that thought ought to make you fly\nthe poison as if it were distilled from the herbs of Medea or Circe.\"\n\n\"Oh, I feel it, I feel it,\" he replied; \"and am thankful to you for the\nsuggestion. Like Pygmalion, I fell in love with a face that I sculptured\nlast year. Every line I chiselled was engraven on my heart, and I have\ndreamed of her ever since. She is herself an artist, and paints\nbeautifully. Our sympathies are kindred; and, though I never declared my\npassion, from a fear that my bad reputation for inebriety may have\nreached her, I have _looked_ it, and have reason to think that I may\nsucceed.\"\n\n\"Try,\" said I; \"and I shall then have every hope of you.\"\n\nI left him, and heard some time afterwards that he had married a very\npretty young lady, the daughter of an old artist that lived in the same\ntown. It was not, however, (as I understood), till he had made a solemn\npromise and _oath_ to the old gentleman, who was possessed of some\neccentricities, that he would renounce his habit of drinking, that the\nyoung female artist was yielded to him. I felt still the same interest\nin the man of genius, and called shortly after the marriage, to see how\nhis _medicine_ had wrought. I found him as happy as the day was long.\nHis picture was going on even during the honeymoon, and seemed to\nreflect a part of the sweet luminary's glory. The young wife, who was\nreally pretty, and imbued with a strong love of both the artist and his\nart, looked over his shoulder as he proceeded with his work. I was\ndelighted with the couple, and told him that the moment he had finished\nthe picture he was occupied with, I wished him to give me a portrait of\n\"the Doctor.\" He promised; and I left them, in the confidence--at times\ninterfered with by my experience of the insidious power of the\ndemon--that he would never again have recourse to his old habit.\n\n\"To go to see a cousin\" is, as all married people know, a very pretty\nand very usual mode of keeping up the flame of love in the hearts of the\nyoung worshippers of Hymen. Mrs G---- went, accordingly (so I learned at\na future period), to see a friend who lived in the country. The artist\nwas left again by himself, and promised to his loving wife, who left him\nwith a kiss of true affection, that he would have the piece he was\nengaged on finished by the time she returned, when he was to commence\nwith my portrait.\n\n\"Never fear, Maria,\" he said, as he embraced her. \"You have made me a\nnew man. God bless you for it! I am happy now. Oh, that blessed thought,\nso opportunely confirmed by Dr ----! I shall paint him like an angel for\nit.\"\n\nAnd, laughing through his tears, he again kissed her, and she left the\nhouse with the intention of returning in a week, with an affection\nincreased, and the satisfaction of seeing the painting imbued with all\nthe glory of his high genius.\n\nI was, in the meantime, and while these love matters were going on,\nengaged in the pursuits of my profession. I knew nothing of them, but\nwished them happy, and thought all was right. I was sitting, after a\nday's labour, in my study. It was about eleven o'clock at night. I was\nstartled by the artist's old housekeeper, who burst in upon me in great\nterror. Her eyes were absolutely starting from their sockets; and she\nstood before me with her mouth open, but without being able, for a time,\nto utter a syllable.\n\n\"What is the matter?\" said I.\n\n\"Come to my master, for heaven's sake!\" she cried, after some struggles\nof the throat. \"He is vomiting fire.\"\n\n\"What can the woman mean?\" said I, as I took up my hat, and hastened to\nthe victim.\n\nI soon found a sufficient explanation. The poor artist was lying on his\nback on the floor. There were a great number of empty bottles scattered\n_per aversionem_ round him. A blue, flickering flame was burning in his\nmouth, which was as black as a piece of coal. His eyeballs were turned\nup, and convulsive movements shook his frame. I was at no loss for the\ncause. A tobacco-pipe and a candle were beside him. After he had filled\nhis stomach with whisky for six days, and drunk no fewer than thirteen\nbottles, he had, in endeavouring to light his pipe, set fire to the\nspirit that lay on his lips and in his mouth--the flame sought its way\ndown the pharynx till it came to the full body of liquid in his stomach,\nand all was, in a moment, on fire. I need not dwell on the issue of this\ncase. The poor artist was dead in an hour. Where was his resolution?\nThis is no overcharged picture of the effects of drunkenness.\n\n\n\n\nTHE BRIDE.\n\n\nFifty years ago, William Percy rented a farm that consisted of about a\nhundred acres, and which was situated on the banks of the Till. His\nwife, though not remarkable for her management of a farmhouse, was a\nwoman of many virtues, and possessed of a kind and affectionate heart.\nThey had an only daughter, whose name was Agnes; and, as she approached\ntowards womanhood, people began to designate her the _Rose of\nTill-side_. Her beauty was not of the kind that dazzles or excites\nsudden admiration; but it grew upon the sight like the increasing\nbrightness of a young rainbow--its influence stole over the soul as\nmoonlight on the waters. It was pleasant to look upon her fair\ncountenance, where sweetness gave a character to beauty, mellowing it\nand softening it, as though the soul of innocence there reflected its\nimage. Many said that no one could look upon the face of Agnes Percy and\nsin. Her hair was of the lightest brown, her eyes of the softest blue,\nand the lovely rose which bears the name of _Maiden's Blush_ is not more\ndelicate in the soft glow of its colouring than was the vermilion tint\nupon her cheeks. She was of middle stature, and her figure might have\nserved a sculptor as a model. But she was good and gentle as she was\nbeautiful. The widow mentioned her name in her prayers--the poor blessed\nher.\n\nNow, Agnes was about eighteen, when a young man of her own age, named\nHenry Cranstoun, took up his residence for a few months in her father's\nhouse. He was the son of a distant relative of her mother, and was then\narticled as a clerk or apprentice to a writer to the signet in\nEdinburgh. He also was the only child of his parents; for, though they\nhad had eight others, he was all that death had left them. He was the\nyoungest son of his mother; and there was a time when there was no\nmother had greater cause to be proud of her children. Yea, as they hand\nin hand, or one by one, went forth on the Sabbath morning with their\nparents to their place of worship, there was not an eye that looked not\nwith delight or admiration on the little Cranstouns. The neatness of\ntheir dress, the loveliness of every countenance, the family likeness of\neach, the apparent affection of all, the propriety of their demeanour,\ninterested all who looked upon them. But as untimely flowers, that by a\nreturning frost are stricken down in beauty, so drooped, so perished,\nthis fair and happy family. Some had said that they were too beautiful\nto live; and, as they also manifested much quickness and wisdom for\ntheir years, there were others who said to Mrs Cranstoun, as she was\nshedding their shining hair upon their brows, that she would never comb\nan old head! This is a cold, cruel, and ignorant prophecy; it has sent\nforeboding and unhappiness into the bosom of many a fond mother; but, in\nthis case, it needed not the gift of a seer to foretell the gloomy\ntidings. Consumption lurked amidst the beauty that glowed on every\ncheek; and seven of the fair family had fallen victims to the progress\nof the insidious destroyer, till Henry alone was left. And now, even\nupon him also, it seemed to have set its mark. The hollow cough and the\nflushed cheek, the languidness by day and the restlessness by night,\ngave evidence that the disease was there.\n\nChange of air and less study were recommended by the physicians, as the\nonly means by which Henry might be saved; and he was sent over to\nNorthumberland, to the house of William Percy, his mother's friend.\n\nIt was about that period of the year which is spoken of as the \"fall of\nthe leaf,\" when Henry Cranstoun first arrived at Till-side. William\nPercy had just gathered in his harvest, and Henry met with the kindly\nwelcome of a primitive family. The father and mother, and their\ndaughter, received him as one whom they were to snatch from the hands of\ndeath. In a few days, the goat's milk, and the bracing air, which came\nwith health on its wings from the adjacent mountains, wrought a visible\nchange in the appearance of the invalid. His cough became more softened,\nhis eyes less languid, his step more firm, and he panted not as he\nwalked. He felt returning strength flowing through his veins--in his\nbosom, in the moving of his fingers, he felt it. He walked out by the\nside of Agnes--she led him by the banks of the Till, by the foot of the\nhills, by the woods where the brown leaves were falling, and by the\nsolitary glen.\n\nPerhaps I might have said that the presence of Agnes contributed not\nless than the mountain air and the change of scenery to his restoration\nto health. Of this I have not been told. Certain it is that her beauty\nand her gentleness had spread their influence over his heart, as spring,\nwith its wooing breath, awakens the dreaming earth from its winter\nsleep. It was not the season when nature calls forth the soul to love;\nfor the cushat was silent in the woods, the mavis voiceless on the\nthorn, the birds were dumb on every spray, the wild-flowers had closed\ntheir leaves and drooped, and the meadows lost their fragrance. But, as\nthey wandered forth together, a lark started up at their feet; it raised\nits autumn song over their heads; it poured it in their ears. Both\nraised their eyes in joy towards the singing bird; they listened to it\nwith delight. His fingers were pressed on hers as he heard it, as though\nhe would have said--\"How sweet it is!\" But the lustre forsook his eyes\nwhile he yet listened--he sighed, and was silent. They returned home\ntogether, and Agnes strove to cheer him; but his spirit was heavy, and\nhe pressed her hand more fervently in his. The song of the lark seemed\nto have touched a chord of sadness in his bosom.\n\nHenry was heard walking backward and forward in his room throughout the\nnight; and on the following morning at breakfast he put a paper into the\nhands of Agnes, on which was written the following rhymes:--\n\n\nTHE LARK'S AUTUMNAL SONG.\n\n(INSCRIBED TO AGNES PERCY.)\n\n    Again in the heavens thy hymn is heard,\n             Bird of the daring wing!\n    When last ye sprang from the daisied sward,\n             Making the welkin ring,\n    Thy lay the dreaming buds awoke--\n    Thy voice the spell of winter broke--\n    The primrose, on the mossy brae,\n    Burst beauteous into life and day,\n             And smiled to hear thee sing!\n    The children clapp'd their tiny hands;\n    The shout rang through their little bands,\n             Hailing the bird in spring!\n    Thy lay made earth and air rejoice,\n    And nature heard thee as an angel's voice.\n    Again in the heavens thy hymn is heard,\n             Bird of the mournful song!\n    A lonely daisy yet decks the sward,\n             The last of the summer throng.\n    While here and there, upon the brae,\n    Some primrose, _languid as the ray\n    Of hope that vanisheth away\n             Upon the cheek of death_,\n    Untimely opes its golden wing,\n    Mistaking, as it hears thee sing,\n    That thou art come to tell of spring,\n      And not of winter's wrath.\n    But now thy strain is as one that grieves--\n    Thou singest the dirge of the falling leaves!\n    Again in the heavens thy hymn I hear,\n             Bird of the merry song!\n    Thou art ringing a lay in old winter's ear--\n    Ye bid him farewell, and ye welcome him here--\n            Ye help the old man along!\n    Ye are singing to look on the fruits of the year\n    Gather'd in, and in ripeness, with plenty around;\n    And ye pour o'er earth's fulness a rapturous sound.\n    Ye are singing a strain that man should have sung--\n    Man with ingratitude seal'd on his tongue:\n    At _seed-time_, thy joyous and _hope-breathing_ lay,\n    To the ploughman was sung, as an anthem, all day,\n    And now at his _harvest_ ye greet him again,\n    And call him to join in thy _thanksgiving_ strain.\n\nAgnes wept as she perused the foreboding lines, which he had marked in\nwhat printers call Italics, in the second stanza, by drawing a line\nunder them. She felt interested in the fate of Henry Cranstoun--deeply\ninterested. We believe that, like the gentle Desdemona, she wished that\n\n    \"Heaven had made her such a man;\"\n\nfor, though the young writer to the signet spoke not\n\n    \"Of war, and broils, and battles,\"\n\nhis tongue was the interpreter of nature--he dwelt as an enthusiast on\nits beauties, its mysteries, its benevolence, its glorious design; and,\nthrough all, he would point\n\n    \"Through nature up to nature's God!\"\n\nIt is a common saying, \"that you cannot put an old head upon young\nshoulders!\" but, if ever the truth of the saying might be disputed, it\nwas in the case of Henry Cranstoun. The deaths of his brothers and his\nsisters had rested upon his young mind--they had struck it with\nawe--they had made him to feel that he, too, must die--he, indeed, felt\nas though the shadow of death were creeping over him; and the thoughts\nand the hopes of eternity early became the companions of his spirit. He\ntreasured up the words of the inspired preacher, \"Remember thy Creator\nin the days of thy youth.\" He treasured them up, and he practised them;\nand his deportment gave him a deeper interest in the eyes of the\nNorthumberland farmer and his family.\n\nWilliam Percy was esteemed by his neighbours as a church-going and a\ngood man. He was kind to his servants; he paid every man his own; he\nwas an affectionate husband and a fond father; the poor turned not away\nmurmuring from his door; and every Sunday night he knelt with his wife\nand with his daughter, before their Maker, in worship, as though it were\na duty which was to be discharged but once in seven days. Now, it was\nlate on Saturday night when Henry Cranstoun arrived at their house; and,\non the following evening, he joined in the devotions of the family. But\nMonday night came, and the supper passed, and the Bibles were not\nbrought. Henry inquired--\n\n\"Is it not time for worship?\"\n\nThe question went to the conscience of the farmer--he felt that before\nhis Creator, who preserved him, who gave him every breath he drew, he\nhad knelt with his family but once a-week. \"Is not He the Almighty of\nall time and of all eternity?\" asked his conscience; \"and have I not\nserved Him as though He were Lord of the Sabbath only? I forsake him for\na week--where should I be if He left me but for a moment?\"\n\n\"Agnes, love,\" said he aloud, \"bring the books.\"\n\nShe cheerfully obeyed, and the Bibles were laid upon the table. The\npsalm was read, and the voice of praise was raised; and as the hinds in\nthe adjoining houses heard the sound, they followed the example of their\nmaster. Hitherto, like their employer, they had lifted their voices in\nthanksgiving but once a-week, as if a few minutes spent in praise and in\nprayer, and in the reading of a chapter, were all that was necessary for\nexample to a family, or for gratitude to Him who sustained, protected,\nand gave them being from moment to moment. I should not dwell upon this,\nwere it not that there are many good and Christian parents who conceive\nthat they fulfil the injunction of \"praying often with and for their\nchildren,\" by causing them to kneel around them on a Sabbath night. But\nthis, certainly, is a poor fulfilment of the oath which they have\ntaken--or which, if they have not taken, they are equally bound to\nperform. I do not say that the man who daily prays with his family will\nhave the gratification of seeing all of them following in his footsteps,\nor that all of them will think as he thinks; but he may be of one sect,\nand some of them of another; yet, let them go where they will--let them\nbe thrown into what company they may--let temptation assail them in\nevery form, and absence throw its shadows over their father's house--yet\nthe remembrance, the fervour, the words of a father's prayers, will\ndescend upon their souls like a whisper from heaven, kindling the memory\nand awakening the conscience; and if the child of such a man depart into\nsin, the small still voice will not die in his ear. Nay, the remembrance\nof the father's voice will be heard in the son's heart above the song of\nthe bacchanal, and the lowly remembered voice of psalms rise upon his\nmemory, making him insensible to the peal of instruments. I have\nlistened to the sonorous swell of the organ in the Roman church and the\nEpiscopal cathedral, to the chant of the choristers and the music of the\nanthem, and I have been awed by the sounds; but they produced not the\nfeelings of peace and of reverence--I might say of religion--which are\ninspired by the lowly voices of a congregated family joining together in\ntheir hymn of praise. I have thought that such sounds, striking on the\near of the guilty, would arrest them in their progress.\n\nSuch was the change which Henry Cranstoun introduced into the house of\nhis host. From that moment, Agnes regarded him with a deeper interest,\nher father loved him, and her mother looked on him as a son. But,\nalthough his mind had been early imbued with serious impressions, he was\na lover of all that was beautiful in nature--he was warm of heart and\neloquent of speech--and his form was such as the eye of a maiden might\nlook on with complacency.\n\nChristmas had passed before he left the house of his mother's friend,\nand health again glowed on his cheeks, strength revisited his frame. No\none that saw Henry Cranstoun upon his entering the house of Mr Percy\nthree months before, and who had not seen him in the meanwhile, would\nhave known him to be the same individual. But Agnes noted no change in\nhim. She knew that his health was now restored; but she had begun to\nhope and love at the same moment, and she had never thought that Henry\nwould die. His eyes had ever been bright to her--his voice ever\npleasing; and her beauty, her gentleness, her sweetness of temper, her\nkindness, her looks, her tones of affection, had fallen upon his bosom,\ntill every thought, save the thought of Agnes, was banished.\n\nHe was to leave her father's house: he bade her _farewell_. Till that\nmoment, they had not known how dear they were unto each other. They had\nnever spoken of love; and, to hearts that do love, there is little need\nfor such declarations. The affection of every glance, the guarded\ndelicacy of every action, speaks it more plainly than the impassioned\neloquence of language. True eloquence is feeling, and feeling dictates\nthe words to be used, pouring them forth in the full tide of the heart's\nemotion; but, though love also be feeling, it is not of that kind which\nmakes men eloquent. True love is dumb as true gratitude. It speaks from\nthe glowing eye and the throbbing bosom; from the hand passionately\ngrasped--not from the tongue.\n\nHenry and Agnes said little; but they fell upon the necks of each other\nwhen they parted. She wept, and from his eyes the tear was ready to\nfall. He kissed her brow, and said that in the spring he would return.\n\nHe left Northumberland, and his parents welcomed him as one received\nfrom the dead. He was strong and healthy, and he alone, of all their\nchildren, seemed to have overcome the power of the destroyer. Yet a week\nnever passed but he wrote to his friends, who had snatched him as from\nthe gates of death; or rather, I should say, that he wrote to the gentle\nAgnes, requesting that the expression of his gratitude might be given to\nher parents, until he returned to thank them. But spring came; and with\nit Henry Cranstoun returned to Till-side. Health still glowed in his\neyes, and beamed upon his cheeks. He was fond of angling, and, with his\nrod in his hand, he sought amusement in the gentle art; yet his\nfavourite pastime afforded him no pleasure, save when Agnes was by his\nside, and then they would sit down on the brae-side together, with her\nhand in his, and the fishing-rod on the ground, and they forgot that he\nhad gone out to fish, until evening came, and he returned with his creel\nempty.\n\nThus five years passed on, and twice in every year Henry Cranstoun\nvisited his friends in Northumberland. He had commenced practice in\nEdinburgh; fair prospects opened before him; his marriage-day was fixed;\nand need I say that the bride was Agnes?\n\nThe ceremony was to be performed in the parish church, which was\nsituated about a mile from her father's house. Henry was only expected\nto arrive an hour or two before the marriage was to take place. The\nbosom of fair Agnes throbbed with tumultuous joy. Her parents gazed upon\nher, blessed her, and were happy. She sat before them, arrayed, a bride\nfor the altar. He whom she loved and they esteemed was that day to make\nher his wife. Her mother gazed on her with pride--she blessed her Agnes.\nHer father's heart glowed within him. The bridemaidens were come--Agnes\nwas impatient, but still happy; no fear, no doubt, had risen in her\nmind. She knew her Henry.\n\nBut the last hour arrived, and Henry came not. Her uneasiness increased.\nThe servants were sent to a neighbouring hill; but no chaise, no\nhorseman, appeared in sight. Agnes became unhappy; paleness overspread\nher cheeks. The company were silent. Her father's watch hung over the\nmantelpiece, and she sat at the opposite side of the room; yet its\nticking fell upon her ears slow and heavy, as sounds from a hammer on an\nanvil. Tears, which she had struggled to conceal, now gathered in her\neyes. Some evil had befallen Henry, she said, and wept.\n\nThe hour which had been appointed for the ceremony was past; but still\nhe came not. Her fears, her anxiety, increased, and she wept the more,\nrefusing to be comforted. She knew not what she feared; but her breast\nwas filled with misery. She had received a letter from him but three\ndays before. She read it again--it breathed the language of impassioned\naffection, but his truth she doubted not; yet there was an incoherency,\na vehemence, in some parts of the letter, which were not like the style\nof Henry. A vague horror shot across her thoughts, and her hand\ntrembled, as she laid the letter aside.\n\nStill the servants were despatched to see if he approached, and at\nlength they brought tidings that two horsemen were riding towards the\nhouse. Agnes strove to wipe away the tears from her eyes, but her heart\nyet throbbed, and others rose in their place. The horsemen drew near the\nhouse. Those of the company who beheld them from the windows drew back\nwith a look of dismay. Agnes clasped her hands together, as she beheld\nthe expression of their countenances. The evil she apprehended was about\nto be revealed. The parish clergyman and the minister of the\ncongregation to which Mr Percy belonged entered the room. She started\nfrom her seat as they entered--she wrung her hands on her bosom--her\neyes seemed fixed and motionless with misery--her lips moved--her tongue\nstruggled for utterance.\n\n\"Be comforted!\" said one of the reverend visiters, kindly.\n\n\"Is my Henry dead?\" she exclaimed--\"is he dead?\"\n\n\"He is not dead,\" was the reply; \"but----\" and the clergyman hesitated a\nmoment to proceed.\n\n\"_His mind is dead!_\" added the wretched bride, and sank back in her\nmother's arms. The dismal thought flashed upon her soul; the vague\nhorror that she had shrunk from before became tangible--the incoherence\nand vehemence of passages in his last letter were suddenly and fearfully\ninterpreted.\n\nThe tidings which the clergyman had to communicate, her fears had\nalready told. The mind of Henry Cranstoun had become a wreck. A cloud\nfell upon his reason; and, on the day that he was to lead his bride to\nthe altar, he was placed an inmate of the gloomy cells of Bedlam.\n\nSeveral months had passed, and the grief of Agnes became more tranquil,\nbut not less deep. She entreated permission to visit her bridegroom in\nthe place of his confinement, and her parents fondly endeavoured to\ndissuade her from her purpose; but it became the one--the ruling wish of\nher heart--and they consented. Her father accompanied her to the dreary\nprison-house. But I shall not attempt to describe the heartrending\ninterview, nor to tell how the iron which fettered him entered her soul.\nHe knew her--he wept before her as a child--he exclaimed, \"My brain!--my\nbrain!\" and pressed his hand upon his brow. Around him were strewed\nscraps of paper; she beheld her name upon each; they were covered with\nverses of love and of wildness. But I will not dwell upon the harrowing\nscene, upon the words that were spoken, and the fitful gleams of reason\nthat flitted across his soul, as his eyes remained riveted on the face\nhe loved. But when her father, with a faltering voice, suggested that\nthey should depart, and took her hand to lead her from the cell, a\nscream of loud and bitter agony burst from the wretched maniac.\n\"Agnes--Agnes!\" he cried; and his wailing was as the lamentation of a\nlost spirit. Anguish overpowered her, and she was borne insensible from\nthe cell in her father's arms.\n\nSeven long and dreary years passed, and the mind of Henry was still\nbewildered; still was he an inmate of the melancholy asylum, and no hope\nwas entertained of his recovery. But the heart of Agnes knew no\nchange--for him she still shed the secret tear and offered up the secret\nprayer.\n\nBut her father's fortunes were altered. He had been induced to enter\ninto a speculation with one who deceived him, and in it the industry of\nyears was swallowed up and lost. He was obliged to leave his farm, and\nhe now resided in a small cottage in its neighbourhood. Still there were\nmany who sought the hand of the fair Rose of Till-side; but she chose\nrather to brood over the remembrance of poor ruined Henry than to listen\nto their addresses. But amongst them was a young gentleman named Walker,\nwhose condition was far above hers, and who for two years had vainly\nsought a place in her affections. In the day of her father's distress,\nhe had been his friend, and he yet sought to place him again in a state\nof independence. The health of Mr Percy, also, began to decline; the\ninfirmities of age were growing upon him; and the little that he had\nbeen able to save from the wreck of his capital was wasting rapidly\naway. He became melancholy with the thought that he should die a pauper,\nor leave his wife and his daughter in want; and, in the presence of\nAgnes, he often spoke of Mr Walker--of the excellence of his\ncharacter--of his wealth--of what he had done for him in the midst of\nhis misfortunes--of what he still desired to do--and of his affection\nfor her. She listened to her father's words in sorrow and in silence,\nand, on her pillow by night, she wept because of them. To her the\nremembrance of Henry Cranstoun was dearer than the temptations of\nwealth, and her heart clung to him with a constancy which neither time,\nmisery, nor hopelessness could shake. She was grateful to her father's\nfriend for the kindness he had shown him, and for the generosity of the\nproposals he had made--yet she found that she could not love him, that\nher bosom had room for none but Henry.\n\nPoverty, however, entered her parents' dwelling, and her father seemed\ndrooping for lack of nourishment which his increasing feebleness\nrequired. Her mother, too, sat silent and melancholy, occasionally\nraising her eyes to her daughter's face, with a look that implored her\nto save her father. The old man had been ordered wine daily; but their\npenury was now such that they could not purchase it, and the plainest\nfood had become scanty on their table.\n\nSuch was their situation, and they were sitting sorrowful together, when\nMr Walker entered the room. He approached Agnes respectfully, he took\nher hand.\n\n\"Dear Agnes,\" he began, \"can one with so kind a heart look with\nindifference on the wants and the sufferings of a father and a mother?\nIt is in your power to make them happy, to restore them to prosperity.\nFor two years I have sought your hand, without meeting one look of\nencouragement or one word of hope. Yet believe me, Agnes, I admire the\nconstancy which induces you to cherish a hopeless passion, and reject\nme. If not for my sake, yet for the sake of your poor father, for that\nof your fond mother, yea, for your own sake, dearest, permit me to call\nyou mine. I do not ask your love now; give me but your esteem, and I\nwill study to deserve your affection. Dear friends, plead for me,\" he\nadded, addressing her parents.\n\nHer father laid his hand upon hers--\"Dear Agnes,\" said he, \"your father\nis now a poor man--he is very poor. I fear the hand of death is already\nupon me; and when I am gone, who will provide for your poor mother--who\nwill protect thee, my child? It is the only wish of my heart to see you\nprovided for, and your father would die in peace. And oh, my Agnes, as\nyour father's dying request, permit me to bestow your hand upon this\ngenerous youth.\"\n\n\"Save us, my sweet one!\" cried her mother, and she flung her arms around\nher daughter's neck.\n\n\"It is done!\" exclaimed Agnes, bursting into tears; and she stretched\nout her hand to Mr Walker.\n\nA few weeks afterwards, and the village bells rang a merry peal,\nchildren scattered flowers, and there was joy on every face, save upon\nthe face of the fair bride, who went as a sacrifice to the altar. She\nheard not the words of the clergyman as he read the ceremony. She\ntrembled, she would have fallen to the ground, but that the bridesmaid\nsupported her.\n\nThe marriage party were returning by a footpath from the church, the\nsorrowful bride resting on the arm of her bridegroom. A stranger met\nthem--he turned aside, that they might pass. His eyes fell upon the\ncountenance of the bride.\n\n\"O Heavens! my Agnes!\" cried the stranger, in a voice of agony.\n\n\"Henry! my Henry!\" screamed the wretched bride, and, starting from the\nside of the bridegroom, she sank on the breast of the stranger.\n\nThat stranger was indeed Henry Cranstoun. A severe illness had brought\nhim to the verge of death, and with his restoration to health reason was\nrestored also. He had come to take his bride to his bosom--he met her\nthe bride of another. It was a scene of misery.\n\n\"O Agnes! Agnes!\" groaned Henry, \"would to Heaven I had died! You are\nanother's, though your heart is mine! Farewell! Farewell!--we must meet\nno more! I have endured much, but never misery like this!\"\n\nShe could only exclaim, \"Henry!\" and speech failed her--recollection\nfled. Henry Cranstoun struck his hand upon his brow, and rushed wildly\naway. Agnes was conveyed to her father's house, as being nearer than\nthat of her bridegroom's. She was laid upon her bed, she seemed\nunconscious of all around, and her tongue only uttered the word \"Henry.\"\nShe rose not again from the bed on which she was laid, and within a week\nher gentle spirit fled. The shock which Henry had met with occasioned a\nrelapse of the fever from which he had but recently recovered. He was\ntaken to the village inn. He felt that death was about to terminate his\nsufferings, and when he heard of the death of his Agnes, he requested to\nbe buried by her side. Within three weeks he died, and his latest wish\nwas fulfilled--he was laid by the side of Agnes Percy, and a rose-tree\nwas planted over their grave.\n\n\n\n\nTHE HENPECKED MAN.\n\n\nEvery one has heard the phrase, \"_Go to Birgham!_\" which signifies much\nthe same as bidding you go to a worse place. The phrase is familiar not\nonly on the Borders, but throughout all Scotland, and has been in use\nfor more than five hundred years, having taken its rise from Birgham\nbeing the place where the Scottish nobility were when they dastardly\nbetrayed their country into the hands of the first Edward; and the\npeople, despising the conduct and the cowardice of the nobles, have\nrendered the saying, \"_Go to Birgham!_\" an expression of contempt until\nthis day. Many, however, may have heard the saying, and even used it,\nwho know not that Birgham is a small village, beautifully situated on\nthe north side of the Tweed, about midway between Coldstream and Kelso;\nthough, if I should say that the village itself is beautiful, I should\nbe speaking on the wrong side of the truth. Yet there may be many who\nhave both heard the saying and seen the place, who never heard of little\nPatie Crichton, the bicker-maker. Patie was of diminutive stature, and\nhe followed the profession (if the members of the _learned professions_\nbe not offended at my using the term) of a cooper, or bicker-maker, in\nBirgham for many years. His neighbours used to say of him, \"The puir\nbody's henpecked.\"\n\nPatie was in the habit of attending the neighbouring fairs with the\nwater-cogs, cream-bowies, bickers, piggins, and other articles of his\nmanufacture. It was Dunse fair, and Patie said he \"had done\nextraordinar' weel--the sale had been far beyond what he expeckit.\" His\nsuccess might be attributed to the circumstance that, when out of the\nsight and hearing of his better half, for every bicker he sold, he gave\nhis customers half-a-dozen jokes into the bargain. Every one, therefore,\nliked to deal with little Patie. The fair being over, he retired with a\ncrony to a public-house in the Castle Wynd, to crack of old stories over\na glass, and inquire into each other's welfare. It was seldom they met,\nand it was as seldom that Patie dared to indulge in a single glass;\nbut, on the day in question, he thought they could manage another gill,\nand another was brought. Whether the sight of it reminded him of his\ndomestic miseries, and of what awaited him at home, I cannot tell; but,\nafter drinking another glass, and pronouncing the spirits excellent, he\nthus addressed his friend:--\n\n\"Ay, Robin\" (his friend's name was Robin Roughead), \"ye're a happy\nman--ye're maister in your ain hoose, and ye've a wife that adores and\n_obeys_ ye; but I'm nae better than naebody at my ain fireside. I'll\ndeclare I'm waur: wife an' bairns laugh at me--I'm treated like an\noutlan' body an' a fule. Though without me they micht gang an' beg,\nthere is nae mair respeck paid to me than if I were a pair o' auld\nbauchels flung into a corner. Fifteen years syne I couldna believed it\no' Tibby, though onybody had sworn it to me. I firmly believe that a\nguid wife is the greatest blessin that can be conferred upon a man upon\nthis earth. I can imagine it by the treasure that my faither had in my\nmither; for, though the best may hae _words_ atween them occasionally,\nand I'm no saying that they hadna, yet they were just like passin\nshowers, to mak' the kisses o' the sun upon the earth mair sweet after\nthem. Her whole study was to please him and to mak' him comfortable. She\nwas never happy but when he was happy; an' he was just the same wi' her.\nI've heard him say that she was worth untold gold. But, O Robin! if I\nthink that a guid wife is the greatest blessin a man can enjoy, weel do\n_I_ ken that a scoldin, domineerin wife is his greatest curse. It's a\nterrible thing to be snooled in your ain house--naebody can form an idea\no't but they wha experience it.\n\n\"Ye remember whan I first got acquainted wi' Tibby, she was doing the\nbondage work at Riselaw. I first saw her coming out o' Eccles kirk ae\nday, and I really thocht that I had never seen a better-faured or a more\ngallant-looking lass. Her cheeks were red and white like a half-ripe\nstrawberry, or rather, I should say, like a cherry; and she seemed as\nmodest and meek as a lamb. It wasna very lang until I drew up; and,\nthough she didna gie me ony great encouragement at first, yet, in a week\nor twa, after the ice was fairly broken, she became remarkably ceevil,\nand gied me her oxter on a Sunday. We used to saunter about the\nloanings, no saying meikle, but unco happy; and I was aye restless whan\nI was out o' her sight. Ye may guess that the shoemaker was nae loser by\nit during the six months that I ran four times a-week, wet or dry,\nbetween Birgham and Riselaw. But the term-time was drawing nigh, and I\nput the important question, and pressed her to name the day. She hung\nher head, and she seemed no to ken weel what to say; for she was sae mim\nand sae gentle then, that ye wad hae said 'butter wadna melt in her\nmouth.' And when I pressed her mair urgently--\n\n\"'I'll just leave it to yersel, Peter,' says she.\n\n\"I thocht my heart wad louped out at my mouth. I believe there never was\na man sae beside himsel wi' joy in this warld afore. I fairly danced\nagain, and cut as many antics as a merryandrew. 'O Tibby,' says I,\n\n    'I'm owre happy now!--Oh, haud my head!\n    This gift o' joy is like to be my dead.'\n\n\"'I hope no, Peter,' said she; 'I wad rather hae ye to live than dee for\nme.'\n\n\"I thocht she was as sensible as she was bonny, and better natured than\nbaith.\n\n\"Weel, I got the house set up, the wedding-day cam, and everything\npassed owre as agreeably as onybody could desire. I thocht Tibby turning\nbonnier and bonnier. For the first five or six days after the weddin,\neverything was '_hinny_,' and '_my love_,' and '_Tibby, dear_,' or\n'_Peter, dear_.' But matters didna stand lang at this. It was on a\nSaturday nicht, I mind, just afore I was gaun to drap work, that three\nor four acquaintances cam into the shop to wush me joy, and they\ninsisted I should pay off for the weddin. Ye ken I never was behint\nhand; and I agreed that I wad just fling on my coat and step up wi' them\nto Orange Lane. So I gaed into the house and took down my market coat,\nwhich was hangin behint the bed; and after that I gaed to the kist to\ntak out a shilling or twa; for, up to that time, Tibby had not usurped\nthe office of Chancellor o' the Exchequer. I did it as cannily as I\ncould; but she had suspected something, and heard the jinkin o' the\nsiller.\n\n\"'What are ye doing, Patie?' says she; 'whar are ye gaun?'\n\n\"I had never heard her voice hae sic a sound afore, save the first time\nI drew up to her, when it was rather sharp than agreeable.\n\n\"'Ou, my dear,' says I, 'I'm just gaun up to Orange Lane a wee while.'\n\n\"'To Orange Lane!' says she; 'what in the name o' fortune's gaun to tak\nye there?'\n\n\"'O hinny,' says I, 'it's just a neebor lad or twa that's drapped in to\nwush us joy, and, ye ken, we canna but be neebor-like.'\n\n\"'Ay! the sorrow joy them!' says she, 'and neebor too!--an' how meikle\nwill that cost ye?'\n\n\"'Hoot, Tibby,' says I, for I was quite astonished at her, 'ye no\nunderstand things, woman.'\n\n\"'No understand them!' says she; 'I wish to guidness that ye wad\nunderstand them though! If that's the way ye intend to mak the siller\nflee, it's time there were somebody to tak care o't.'\n\n\"I had put the silver in my pocket, and I was gaun to the door mair\nsurprised than I can weel express, when she cried to me--\n\n\"'Mind what ye spend, and see that ye dinna stop.'\n\n\"'Ye need be under nae apprehensions o' that, hinny,' said I, wishing to\npacify her.\n\n\"'See that it be sae,' cried she, as I shut the door.\n\n\"I joined my neebors in a state of greater uneasiness o' mind than I had\nexperienced for a length o' time. I couldna help thinkin but that Tibby\nhad rather early begun to tak the upper hand, and it was what I never\nexpected from her. However, as I was saying, we went up to Orange Lane,\nand we sat doun, and ae gill brocht on anither. Tibby's health and mine\nwere drunk; we had several capital sangs; and, I daresay, it was weel on\nfor ten o'clock afore we rose to gang awa. I was nae mair affected wi'\ndrink than I am at this moment. But, somehow or ither, I was uneasy at\nthe idea o' facing Tibby. I thought it would be a terrible thing to\nquarrel wi' her. I opened the door, and, bolting it after me, slipped\nin, half on the edge o' my fit. She was sitting wi' her hand at her\nhaffit by the side o' the fire, but she never let on that she either saw\nor heard me--she didna speak a single word. If ever there was a woman\n\n    'Nursing her wrath to keep it warm,'\n\nit was her that nicht. I drew in a chair, and, though I was half-feared\nto speak--\n\n\"'What's the matter, my pet?' says I--'what's happened ye?'\n\n\"But she sat looking into the fire, and never let on she heard me.\n'E'en's ye like, Meg Dorts,' thought I, as Allan Ramsay says; but I\ndurstna say it, for I saw that there was a storm brewing. At last, I\nventured to say again--\n\n\"'What ails ye, Tibby, dear?--are ye no weel?'\n\n\"'Weel!' cried she--'wha can be weel? Is this the way ye mean to carry\non? What a time o' nicht is this to keep a body to, waiting and fretting\non o' ye, their lane? Do you no think shame o' yoursel?'\n\n\"'Hoot, woman,' says I, 'I'm surprised at ye; I'm sure ye hae naething\nto mak a wark about--it's no late yet.'\n\n\"'I dinna ken what ye ca' late,' said she; 'it wadna be late amang yer\ncronies, nae doubt; but if it's no late, it's early, for I warrant its\nmornin.'\n\n\"'Nonsense!' says I.\n\n\"'Dinna tell me it's nonsense,' said she, 'for I'll be spoken to in na\nsic way--I'll let you ken that. But how meikle has it cost ye? Ye wad be\ntreating them, nae doubt--and how meikle hae ye spent, if it be a fair\nquestion?'\n\n\"'Toots, Tibby!' said I, 'whar's the cause for a' this? What great deal\ncould it cost me?'\n\n\"'But hair by hair makes the carle's head bare,' added she--'mind ye\nthat; and mind ye that ye've a house to keep aboon your head noo. But,\nif ye canna do it, I maun do it for ye--sae gie me the key o' that\nkist--gie me it instantly; and I'll tak care how ye gang drinkin wi' ony\nbody and treatin them till mornin again.'\n\n\"For the sake o' peace I gied her the key; for she was speakin sae loud\nthat I thocht a' the neebors wad hear--and she had nae suner got it,\nthan awa she gaed to the kist and counted every shilling. I had nae\ngreat abundance then mair than I've now; and--\n\n\"'Is that a' ye hae?' said she; 'an' yet ye'll think o' gaun drinkin and\ntreatin folk frae Saturday nicht till Sabbath mornin! If this is the\nlife ye intend to lead, I wush to guidness I had ne'er had onything to\nsay to ye.'\n\n\"'And if this is the life ye intend to lead me,' thought I, 'I wush the\nsame thing.'\n\n\"But that was but the beginnin o' my slavery. From that hour to this she\nhas continued on from bad to worse. No man livin can form an idea o'\nwhat I've suffered but mysel. In a mornin, or rather, I may say, in a\nforenoon, for it was aye nine or ten o'clock afore she got up, she sat\ndoun to her tea and white scones and butter, while I had to be content\nwi' a scrimpit bicker o' brose and sour milk for kitchen. Nor was this\nthe warst o't; for, when I cam in frae my wark for my breakfast, mornin\nafter mornin, the fire was black out; and there had I, before I could\nget a bite to put in my mouth, to bend doun upon my knees and blaw it,\nand blaw it, till I was half-blind wi' ashes--for we hadna a pair o'\nbellowses; and there wad she lie grumblin a' the time, ca'in me useless\n_this_, and useless _that_; and I just had to put up wi' it. But, after\nour first bairn was born, she grew far warse, and I becam mair and mair\nmiserable every day. If I had been sleeping through the nicht, and the\nbairn had begun a kickin, or whingin--then she was at the scoldin, and I\nwas sure to be started out o' my sleep wi' a great drive atween the\nshouthers, and her crying--\n\n\"'Get up, ye lazy body, ye--get up, and see what's the maiter wi' this\nbairn.'\n\n\"An' this was the trade half-a-dizen o' times in a nicht.\n\n\"At last, there was ae day, when a' that I had dune was simply saying a\nword about the denner no bein ready, and afore ever I kenned whar I was,\na cracky-stool that she had bought for the bairn cam fleein across the\nroom, and gied me a dirl on the elbow, that made me think my arm was\nbroken. Ye may guess what a stroke it was, when I tell ye I couldna lift\nmy hand to my head for a week to come. Noo, the like o' that, ye ken,\nwas what mortal man couldna stand.\n\n\"'Tibby,' said I, and I looked very desperate and determined, 'what do\nye mean by this conduct? By a' that's gracious, I'll no put up wi' it\nony langer!'\n\n\"'Ye'll no put up wi' it, _ye cratur_!' said she; 'if ye gie me ony mair\no' yer provocation, I'll pu' yer lugs for ye--wull ye put up wi' that?'\n\n\"It was terrible for a man to hear his ain wife ca' him _a\ncratur_!--just as if I had been a monkey or a laupdoug!\n\n\"'O ye disdainfu' limmer,' thought I; 'but if I could humble your proud\nspirit, I wad do it!' Weel, there was a grand new ballant hawkin about\nthe country at the time--it was ca'd 'Watty and Meg'--ye have nae doubt\nseen't. Meg was just such a terrible termagant as my Tibby; and I\nremembered the perfect reformation that was wrought upon her by Watty's\nbidding her farweel, and threatenin to list. So it just struck me that I\nwad tak a leaf out o' the ballant. Therefore, keeping the same serious\nand determined look, for I was in no humour to seem otherwise--'Tibby,'\nsays I, 'there shall be nae mair o' this. But I will gang and list this\nvery day, and ye'll see what will come owre ye then--ye'll maybe repent\no' yer conduct whan it's owre late.'\n\n\"'List! ye _totum_ ye!' said she; 'do ye say _list_?' and she said this\nin a tone and wi' a look o' derision that gaed through my very soul.\n'What squad will ye list into?--what regiment will tak ye? Do ye intend\nto list for a fifer laddie?' And as she said this, she held up her\noxter, as if to tak me below't.\n\n\"I thought I wad hae drapped doun wi' indignation. I could hae strucken\nher, if I durst. Ye observe I am just five feet twa inches and an\neighth, upon my stokin-soles. That is rather below the army\nstandard--and I maun say it's a very foolish standard; for a man o' my\nheight stands a better chance to shoot anither than a giant that wad\nfire owre his head. But she was aware that I was below the mark, and my\nthreat was of no avail; so I had just to slink awa into the shop, rubbin\nmy elbow.\n\n\"But the cracky-stool was but the beginnin o' her drivin; there wasna a\nweek after that but she let flee at me whatever cam in the way, whenever\nI by accident crossed her cankered humour. It's a wonder that I'm in the\nland o' the living; for I've had the skin peeled off my legs--my arms\nmaistly broken--my head cut, and ither parts o' my body a' black and\nblue, times out o' number. I thought her an angel whan I was courtin\nher; but, O Robin! she has turned out--I'll no say what--an adder!--a\nteeger!--a she fury!\n\n\"As for askin onybody into the house, it's a thing I durstna do for the\nlife that's in my body. I never did it but ance, and that was whan an\nauld schulefellow, that had been several years in America, ca'ed at the\nshop to see me. After we had cracked a while--\n\n\"'But I maun see the wife, Patie,' says he.\n\n\"Whether he had heard aboot her behaviour or no, I canna tell; but, I\nassure ye, his request was onything but agreeable to me. However, I took\nhim into the house, and I introduced him wi' fear and tremblin.\n\n\"'Tibby, dear,' said I--and I dinna think I had ca'ed her _dear_ for ten\nyears afore--'here's Mr W----, an auld schulefellow o' mine, that's come\na' the way frae America, an' ca'ed in to see ye.'\n\n\"'Ye're aye meetin wi' auld schulefellows, or some set or ither, to tak\nye aff yer wark,' muttered she, sulkily, but loud enough for him to\nhear.\n\n\"I was completely at a loss what to do or say next; but, pretending as\nthough I hadna heard her, I said, as familiarly and kindly as I could,\nthough my heart was in a terrible swither--'Bring out the bottle, lass.'\n\n\"'Bottle!' quo' she, 'what bottle?--what does the man mean?--has he\npairted wi' the little sense that he ever had?' But had ye seen her as\nshe said this!--I've seen a cloud black when driven wi' a hurricane, and\nI've seen it awfu' when roarin in the agony o' thunder; but never did I\nsee onything that I was mair in fear o' than my wife's face at that\nmoment. But, somehow or ither, I gathered courage to say--'Hoots, woman,\nwhat's the use o' behavin that way? I'm sure ye ken weel aneugh it's the\nspeerit bottle.'\n\n\"'The speerit bottle!' cried she, wi' a scream; 'and when was there a\nspeerit bottle within this door? Dinna show yoursel aff to your American\nfreend for a greater man than ye are, Patie. I think, if wi' a' that ye\nbring in I get meat and bits o' duds for your bairns, I do very weel.'\n\n\"This piece o' impudence completely knocked me stupid, for, wad ye\nbelieve it, Robin, though she had lang driven a' my freends frae about\nthe house, yet never did ony o' _her_ freends ca'--and that was maistly\nevery Sunday, and every Coldstream market-day--but there was the bottle\nout frae the cupboard, which she aye kept under lock and key; and a\ndram, and a bit short-bread nae less, was aye and to this day handed\nround to every ane o' them. They hae discovered that it's worth while to\nmake Patie the bicker-maker's a half-way house. But, if I happen to be\nin when they ca', though she pours out a fu' glass a-piece for them, she\ntakes aye guid care to stand in afore me when she comes to me, between\nthem and me, so that they canna see what she is doing, or how meikle she\npours out; and, I assure ye, it is seldom a thimblefu' that fa's to my\nshare, though she hauds the bottle lang up in her hand--mony a time, no\na weetin; and again and again have I shoved my head past her side, and\nsaid, 'Your health, Mrs So-and-so'--or, 'Yours, Mr Such-a-thing,' wi' no\nas meikle in my glass as wad droun a midge. Or, if I was sae placed that\nshe durstna but, for shame, fill a glass within half-an-inch o' the tap\nor sae, she wad gie me a look, or a wink, or mak a motion o' some kind,\nwhich weel did I ken the meanin o', and which was the same as\nsaying--'Drink it if ye daur!' O Robin, man! it's weel for ye that no\nkens what it is to be a footba' at your ain fireside. I daresay, my\nfreend burned at the bane for me; for he got up, and--\n\n\"'I wish you good-day, Mr Crichton,' said he; 'I have business in Kelso\nto-night yet, and can't stop.'\n\n\"I was perfectly overpowered wi' shame; but it was a relief to me when\nhe gaed awa--and I slipped out after him, and into the shop again.\n\n\"But Tibby's isna the only persecution that I hae to put up wi'; for we\nhae five bairns, and she's brought them a' up to treat me as she does\nhersel. If I offer to correct them, they cry out--'I'll tell my\nmither!'--and frae the auldest to the youngest o' them, when they speak\naboot me, it is _he_ did this, or _he_ did that--they for ever talk o'\nme as _him!--him!_ I never got the name o' _faither_ frae ane o'\nthem--and it's a' her doings. Now, I just ask ye simply if ony faither\nwould put up wi' the like o' that! But I maun put up wi't. If I were\noffering to lay hands upon them for't, I am sure and persuaded she wad\nraise a' Birgham about me--my life wadna be safe where she is--but,\nindeed, I needna say that, for it never is.\n\n\"But there is ae thing that grieves me beyond a' that I hae mentioned to\nye. Ye ken my mither, puir auld body, is a widow now. She is in the\nseventy-sixth year o' her age, and very frail. She has naebody to look\nafter her but me--naebody that has a natural right to do it; for I never\nhad ony brothers, as ye ken; and, as for my twa sisters, I daresay they\nhave just a sair aneugh fecht wi' their ain families, and as they are at\na distance, I dinna ken how they are situated wi' their guidmen--though\nI maun say for them, they send her a stane o' oatmeal, an ounce o'\ntobacco, or a pickle tea and sugar, now and then, which is very likely\nas often as they hae it in their power; and that is a great deal mair\nthan I'm _allowed_ to do for her--me that has a right to protect and\nmaintain her. A' that she has to support her is fifteenpence a-week aff\nthe parish o' Mertoun. O Robin, man!--Robin, man!--my heart rugs within\nme, when I talk to you about this. A' that I hae endured is naething to\nit! To see my puir auld mither in a state o' starvation, and no to be\nallowed to gie her a saxpence! O Robin, man!--Robin, man!--is it no\nawfu'? When she was first left destitute, and a widow, I tried to break\nthe maiter to Tibby, and to reason wi' her.\n\n\"'O Tibby, woman!' said I, 'I'm very distressed. Here's my faither laid\nin the grave, and I dinna see what's to come o' my mither, puir\nbody--she is auld, and she is frail--she has naebody to look after or\nprovide for her but me.'\n\n\"'You!' cried Tibby--'you! I wush ye wad mind what ye are talkin about!\nYe have as many dougs, I can tell ye, as ye hae banes to pike! Let your\nmither do as ither widows hae done afore her--let the parish look after\nher.'\n\n\"'O Tibby, woman!' said I; 'but if ye'll only consider--the parish money\nis very sma', and, puir body, it will mak her heart sair to receive a\npenny o't; for she weel kens that my faither would rather hae dee'd in a\nditch than been behauden to either a parish or an individual for a\nsaxpence.'\n\n\"'An' meikle they hae made by their pride,' said Tibby. 'I wush ye wud\nhaud your tongue.'\n\n\"'Ay, but Tibby,' says I, for I was nettled mair than I durst show it,\n'but she has been a guid mother to me, and ye ken yoursel that she's no\nbeen an ill _guid-mother_ to ye. She never stood in the way o' you an'\nme comin thegither, though I was paying six shillings a-week into the\nhouse.'\n\n\"'And what am I obliged to her for that?' interrupted my Jezebel.\n\n\"'I dinna ken, Tibby,' says I; 'but it's a hard thing for a son to see a\nmother in want, when he can assist her. Now, it isna meikle she\ntakes--she never was used wi' dainties; and, if I may just tak her hame,\nlittle will serve her, and her meat will ne'er be missed.'\n\n\"'Ye born idiot!' cried Tibby. 'I aye thought ye a fule--but ye are\nwarse than a fule! Bring your mither here! An auld, crossgrained,\nfaut-finding wife, that I ne'er could hae patience to endure for ten\nminutes in my days! Bring her here, say ye! No! while I live in this\nhouse, I'll let ye ken that I'll be _mistress_.'\n\n\"Ay, and maister too, thought I. I found it was o' nae use to argue wi'\nher. There was nae possibility o' gettin my mither into the house; and\nas to assisting her wi' a shillin or twa at a time by chance, or paying\nher house rent, or sending her a load o' coals, it was perfectly out o'\nthe question, and beyond my power. Frae the nicht that I went to Orange\nLane to this moment, I hae never had a saxpence under my thumb that I\ncould ca' my ain. Indeed, I never hae money in my hands, unless it be on\na day like this, when I hae to gang to a fair, or the like o' that; and\neven then, before I start, her leddyship sees every bowie, bicker, and\npiggin, that gangs into the cart--she kens the price o' them as weel as\nI do; and if I shouldna bring hame either money or goods according to\nher valuation, I actually believe she wad murder me. There is nae\ncheatin her. It is by mere chance that, having had a guid market, I've\noutreached her the day by a shillin or twa; and ane o' them I'll spend\nwi' you, Robin, and the rest shall gang to my mither. O man! ye may\nbless your stars that ye dinna ken what it is to hae a termagant wife.\"\n\n\"I am sorry for ye, Patie,\" said Robin Roughead; \"but really I think, in\na great measure, ye hae yoursel to blame for it a'!\"\n\n\"Me!\" said Patie--\"what do ye mean, Robin?\"\n\n\"Why, Patie,\" said Robin, \"I ken it is said that every ane can rule a\nbad wife but he that has her--and I believe it is true. I am quite\nconvinced that naebody kens sae weel where the shoe pinches as they that\nhae it on; though I am quite satisfied that, had my case been yours, I\nwad hae brought her to her senses long afore now, though I had\n\n    'Dauded her lugs wi' Rab Roryson's bannet.'\n\nor gien her a _hoopin_ like your friend the cooper o' Coldingham.\"\n\n\"Save us, man!\" said Patie, who loved a joke, even though at\nsecond-hand, and at his own expense; \"but ye see the cooper's case is\nnot in point, though I am in the same line; for, as I hae observed, I am\nonly five feet twa inches and an eighth in height--my wife _is not the\nweaker vessel_--that I ken to my sorrow.\"\n\n\"Weel, Patie,\" said Robin, \"I wadna hae ye to lift your hand--I was but\njokin upon that score, it wadna be manly;--but there is ae thing that ye\ncan do, and I am sure it wad hae an excellent effect.\"\n\n\"Dearsake! what is that?\" cried Patie.\n\n\"For a' that has happened ye,\" said Robin, \"ye hae just yoursel to\nblame, for giein up the key and the siller to her management that nicht\nye gaed to Orange Lane. That is the short and the lang o' a' your\ntroubles, Patie.\"\n\n\"Do you think sae?\" inquired the little bicker-maker.\n\n\"Yes, I think sae, Peter, and I say it,\" said Robin; \"and there is but\nae remedy left.\"\n\n\"And what is that!\" asked Patie, eagerly.\n\n\"Just this,\" said Robin--\"_stop the supplies_.\"\n\n\"_Stop the supplies!_\" returned Patie--\"what do you mean, Robin? I canna\nsay that I fully comprehend ye.\"\n\n\"I just mean this,\" added the other; \"be your ain banker--your ain\ncashier--be maister o' your ain siller--let her find that it is to you\nshe is indebted for every penny she has the power to spend; and if ye\ndinna bring Tibby to reason and kindness within a month, my name's no\nRobin Roughead.\"\n\n\"Do ye think that wad do it?\" said Patie.\n\n\"If that wadna, naething wad,\" answered Robin; \"but try it for a\ntwelvemonth--begin this very nicht; and if we baith live and be spared\nto this time next year, I'll meet ye again, and I'll be the death o' a\nmutchkin, but that ye tell me Tibby's a different woman--your bairns\ndifferent--your hail house different--and your auld mither comfortable.\"\n\n\"O man, if it might be sae,\" said Patie; \"but this very nicht, the\nmoment I get hame, I'll try it--and, if I succeed, I'll try ye wi' a\nbottle o' wine, and I believe I never drank ane in my life.\"\n\n\"Agreed,\" said Robin; \"but mind ye're no to do things by halves. Ye're\nno to be feared out o' your resolution because Tibby may fire and storm,\nand let drive the things in the house at ye--nor even though she should\ngreet.\"\n\n\"I thoroughly understand ye,\" said Patie; \"my resolution's ta'en, and\nI'll stand by it.\"\n\n\"Gie's your hand on't,\" said Robin; and Patie gave him his hand.\n\nNow the two friends parted, and it is unnecessary for me either to\ndescribe their parting, or the reception which Patie, on his arriving at\nBirgham, met with from his spouse.\n\nTwelve months went round, Dunse fair came again, and after the fair was\nover, Patie Crichton once more went in quest of his old friend, Robin\nRoughead. He found him standing in the horse market, and--\n\n\"How's a' wi' ye, my freend?\" says Patie.\n\n\"Oh, hearty, hearty,\" cries the other; \"but how's a' wi' ye?--how is yer\nfamily?\"\n\n\"Come and get the bottle o' wine that I've to gie ye,\" said Patie, \"and\nI'll tell ye a' about it.\"\n\n\"I'll do that,\" said Robin, \"for my business is dune.\"\n\nSo they went into the same house in the Castle Wynd where they had been\ntwelve months before, and Patie called for a bottle of wine; but he\nfound that the house had not the wine license, and was therefore content\nwith a gill of whisky made into toddy.\n\n\"O man,\" said he to Robin, \"I wad pay ye half a dizen bottles o' wine\nwi' as great cheerfu'ness as I raise this glass to my lips. It was a\ngrand advice that o' yours--_stop the supplies_.\"\n\n\"I am glad to hear it,\" said Robin; \"I was sure it was the only thing\nthat would do.\"\n\n\"Ye shall hear a' about it,\" said Patie. \"After parting wi' ye, I\ntrudged hame to Birgham, and when I got to my house--before I had the\nsneck o' the door weel out o' my hand--\n\n\"'What's stopped ye to this time o' nicht, ye fitless, feckless cratur\nye?' cried Tibby--'whar hae ye been? Gie an account o' yoursel.'\n\n\"'An account o' mysel!' says I, and I gied the door a drive ahint me, as\nif I wad driven it aff the hinges--'for what should I gie an account o'\nmysel?--or wha should I gie it to? I suppose this house is my ain, and I\ncan come in and gang out when I like!'\n\n\"'Yours!' cried she; 'is the _body_ drunk?'\n\n\"'No,' says I; 'I'm no drunk, but I wad hae you to be decent. Where is\nmy supper?--it is time that I had it.'\n\n\"'Ye micht hae come in in time to get it then,' said she; 'folk canna\nkeep suppers waitin on you.'\n\n\"'But I'll gang whar I can get it,' said I; and I offered to leave the\nhouse.\n\n\"'I'll tak the life o' ye first,' said she. 'Gie me the siller. Ye had\nfive cogs, a dizen o' bickers, twa dizen o' piggins, three bowies, four\ncream dishes, and twa ladles, besides the wooden spoons that I packed up\nmysel. Gie me the siller--and, you puir profligate, let me see what ye\nhae spent.'\n\n\"'Gie you the siller!' says I; 'na, na, I've dune that lang aneugh--_I\nhae stopped the supplies_, my woman.'\n\n\"'Stop your breath!' cried she; 'gie me the siller, every farthin, or wo\nbetide ye.'\n\n\"It was needless for her to say _every farthin_; for, had I dune as I\nused to do, I kenned she wad search through every pocket o' my claes the\nmoment she thocht me asleep--through every hole and corner o' them, to\nsee if I had cheated her out o' a single penny--ay, and tak them up, and\nshake them, and shake them, after a' was dune. But I was determined to\nstand fast by your advice.\n\n\"'Do as ye like,' says I; 'I'll bring ye to your senses--_I've stopped\nthe supplies_.'\n\n\"She saw that I wasna drunk, and my manner rather dumfoundered her a\nlittle. The bairns--wha, as I have tauld ye, she aye encouraged to mock\nme--began to giggle at me, and to mak game o' me, as usual. I banged out\no' the house, and into the shop, and I took down the belt o' the bit\nturning-lathe, and into the house I goes again wi' it in my hand.\n\n\"'Wha maks a fule o' me now?'\n\n\"And they a' laughed thegither, and I up wi' the belt, and I loundered\nthem round the house and round the house, till ane screamed and anither\nscreamed, and even their mither got clouts in trying to run betwixt them\nand me; and it was wha to squeel loudest. Sae, after I had brocht them\na' to ken what I was, I awa yont to my mither's, and I gied her five\nshillins, puir body; and after stoppin an hour wi' her, I gaed back to\nthe house again. The bairns were a' abed, and some o' them were still\nsobbin, and Tibby was sittin by the fire; but she didna venture to say a\nword--I had completely astonished her--and as little said I.\n\n\"There wasna a word passed between us for three days; I was beginning to\ncarry my head higher in the house, and on the fourth day I observed that\nshe had nae tea to her breakfast. A day or twa after, the auldest lassie\ncam to me ae morning about ten o'clock, and says she--\n\n\"'Faither, I want siller for tea and sugar.'\n\n\"'Gae back to them that sent ye,' says I, 'and tell them to fare as I\ndo, and they'll save the tea and sugar.'\n\n\"But it is of nae use dwellin upon the subject. I did stop the supplies\nmost effectually. I very soon brocht Tibby to ken wha was her\nbread-winner. An' when I saw that my object was accomplished, I showed\nmair kindness and affection to her than ever I had dune. The bairns\nbecame as obedient as lambs, and she soon came to say--'Peter, should I\ndo this thing?'--or, 'Peter, should I do that thing?' So, when I had\nbrocht her that far--'Tibby,' says I, 'we hae a but and a ben, and it's\ngrievin me to see my auld mither starvin, and left by hersel wi' naebody\nto look after her. I think I'll bring her hame the morn--she'll aye be\no' use about the house--she'll can knit the bairns' stockins, or darn\nthem when they are out o' the heels.'\n\n\"'Weel, Peter,' said Tibby, 'I'm sure it's as little as a son can do,\nand I'm perfectly agreeable.'\n\n\"I banged up--I flung my arms round Tibby's neck--'Oh! bless ye, my\ndear!' says I; 'bless ye for that!--there's the key o' the kist and the\nsiller--from this time henceforth do wi' it what ye like.'\n\n\"Tibby grat. My mother cam hame to my house the next day. Tibby did\neverything to mak her comfortable--a' the bairns ran at her bidden--and,\nfrae that day to this, there isna a happier man on this wide world than\nPatie Crichton the bicker-maker o' Birgham.\"\n\n\n\n\nMORTLAKE.--A LEGEND OF MERTON.\n\n\n\"Pray, sir, will you condescend to inform me by what title you presume\nto set your foot on my grounds? Have I not already warned you; and if I\nuse you now severely, the blame must rest with yourself.\"\n\nThese words were addressed by Sir Thomas Bruce Vavasour, in an evident\nstate of excitement, to a young lad apparently of about nineteen, but in\nreality not much above sixteen, whom he met traversing the grounds of\nMerton. Tom Vallance did not condescend to inform his interrogator why\nhe had presumed to intrude where his presence seemed far from welcome,\nor explain why, on the present occasion, he happened to have in his hand\na gun, which suspicious folks might be apt to suppose was intended to\ncreate some little confusion among the game on this well-preserved\nestate. He returned no very distinct answer; but some inarticulate\nsounds issued from his mouth, which, no doubt, were intended to\ndeprecate the rage of the hasty and irritable baronet; but which seemed\nto have the effect only of heightening his ire, as he turned round to\nhis keeper, who, with one of the servants, was at his back, and bade\nthem secure the fowling-piece with which the youth was furnished--a\ncommand which was instantly obeyed; and the lad, not prepared for the\nsudden attack, was without difficulty disarmed.\n\n\"Now, my lad,\" quoth Sir Thomas, \"you had better be off, unless you wish\nme to use violence; for I will not allow my property to be trespassed\nupon, and my game destroyed, by you and the like of you.\"\n\nTom stood firm, scowling on the baronet. At length he gained nerve\nenough to say--\n\n\"Give me back my gun. You have no right to rob me, nor shall you.\"\n\n\"But you shall submit, my little cock-sparrow. Don't suppose I want to\nkeep your twopenny-halfpenny pop-gun. Here, John, just take Master Tom\nby the shoulders, and turn him off my grounds; and you, Peter, carry\nthis rubbishy thing to Mrs Vallance, and tell her it would better become\nher to keep her son behind the counter of her shop, to serve her\ncustomers with farthing-candles and brown soap, than allow him to\nvagabondise about the country poaching. If he does not mend his manners,\nI've a pretty good guess that some of those days he'll either take a\nvoyage at the expense of his country, or get his neck thrust into a\nnoose.\"\n\nThis was certainly impertinent. It was, moreover, unjust and uncalled\nfor; as, whatever might be said to the charge of Tom Vallance, on\naccount of his predilection for field sports, no impeachment lay\notherwise to his moral character. But Sir Thomas was in a passion; and,\nlike all persons in that state, spoke without reflection. Naturally of a\nhasty and irritable temper, he had received a letter that morning which\nexcited his ire excessively, and as, upon issuing from the mansion, the\nlad Vallance crossed his path, the first burst of his wrath fell on his\ndevoted head. Tom felt deeply the insult. He had been accustomed to a\nshake of the head, and sometimes a sharp word; but Sir Thomas, upon the\nwhole, used him well enough; for, as his mother had been housekeeper in\nthe family during the lifetime of Sir Marmaduke Vavasour, who had\nmarried the heiress of Merton, the lad was looked upon, or rather he\nlooked upon himself, as a sort of licensed person on the grounds. To be\ndeprived of his gun was bad, but to insinuate moral turpitude was worse;\nand, forgetful of the rank of his tormentor, he exclaimed--\n\n\"I am no thief--I am as honest as yourself, Sir Thomas! and bitterly,\nbitterly shall you rue this day! When I set my foot next time on your\ngrounds, it will be for no good to you.\"\n\nSaying this, he turned on his heel, and, extricating himself suddenly\nfrom the hands of the servants, cleared a ditch which opposed his\nretreat, and was speedily out of reach.\n\nThe passion of Sir Thomas was not lessened by this unexpected reply,\nfollowed as it was by the speedy evasion of the speaker; and, as Tom was\nout of his reach, he transferred his wrath to the attendants, who were\nscolded in the most exemplary style for not knocking the young rascal\ndown. After indulging some time in this agreeable relaxation, he\nreturned to the house, looking all the while, as his men said, \"like a\nbear wi' a sair head.\"\n\nSir Thomas Bruce Vavasour was the third son of an English baronet of\nancient lineage, who, by intermarriage with Isabella, daughter, and\nafterwards sole heiress, of Reginald Bruce of Merton, in the County of\nRoxburgh, eventually carried that estate into his family. He had three\nbrothers, two elder and one younger than himself. By the marriage\ncontract, the English estate, which was considerable, was destined to\nthe elder son, the Scottish one to the second son. Thomas got a\ncommission, went abroad, and, after much battling about, attained the\nrank of general, when, by the death of his brother William, he succeeded\nto Merton; and a few years afterwards, the demise of the eldest brother,\nwho broke his neck whilst fox-hunting, gave him the extensive manor of\nVavasour Castle, and the title of a baronet. The younger brother married\nan heiress, by whom he had one son, whom, after his demise, he left\nunder the guardianship of Sir Thomas--excluding Mrs Vavasour from all\ncontrol. The uncle carefully superintended the education of his\nward--became much attached to him--and, during the holidays, frequently\ntook him to Merton, to the infinite displeasure of Mrs Richard Vavasour,\nwho cordially hated her brother-in-law. When he grew up, those visits\nwere discontinued, partly as he was studying for the bar, and partly to\nplease his mother, whom he considered he was in duty bound to propitiate\nas much as he could--rather a difficult task, as she was a capricious,\nfine lady, with violent and vindictive feelings. Edward was about\nfour-and-twenty, and had formed an attachment to a lady--his equal in\nbirth and fortune--but who did not meet with the mother's approbation.\nShe demanded that the match should be broken off--Edward\nremonstrated--she persisted; and, after a war of words, matters remained\nprecisely as they originally were: he avowing a fixed determination to\nmake himself happy, notwithstanding Mrs Vavasour's threats of vengeance.\nThis he accordingly did; and his mother, bursting a blood-vessel, soon\nafterwards died, leaving a sealed letter to be sent, after her demise,\nto Sir Thomas, whom she hated.\n\nThree weeks had elapsed from the date of this interview, when, one\nevening early in the month of September, a party of farmers (for it was\nmarket-day) were sitting, after dinner, in the public inn of the county\ntown, when the landlord suddenly entered, exclaiming--\n\n\"Gracious! a dreadful murder has just been committed. The Laird of\nMerton has been killed in his own house!\"\n\nThis announcement was received with equal astonishment and horror by\nthose assembled; and the intruder had every possible question to answer\nas to the time, place, and person, that the half-muddled brains of those\npresent could devise; and such a Babel of voices arose in sweet discord,\nthat a gentleman, who sat in the parlour alone, and who had arrived by\nthat day's mail, was so much disturbed as to ring violently, to know why\nhis meditations were thus so unharmoniously interrupted.\n\n\"Waiter,\" said he, \"why this disturbance? Cannot your farmers dine here\nwithout kicking up a riot?\"\n\n\"Oh, sir, it's the murder!\"\n\n\"What murder?\"\n\n\"The General, sir, who lives at Merton, sir, found stabbed in his own\nsitting-room, sir!\"\n\n\"Stabbed, do you say? It cannot be!\"\n\n\"Quite true, sir, as I'm a waiter! And they have got the murderer in\ncustody.\"\n\n\"Murderer! impossible! What mean you?\" exclaimed the traveller, hastily.\n\n\"Why, sir, the fellow that killed Sir Thomas is taken redhand, I think\nthey call it.\"\n\n\"Who is he?\"\n\n\"Just Tom Vallance, sir--an idle fellow, to be sure, but the last person\nthat I would have thought would do such a thing.\"\n\n\"What! the son of the old housekeeper?\"\n\n\"Yes. Do you know him, sir?\"\n\n\"Not I; but I've heard of his mother. What inducement could he have to\ncommit so dreadful a crime?\"\n\n\"Revenge, sir! The General, some two or three weeks since, seized his\ngun, and, poor gentleman, abused Tom fearfully, for he was in one of his\nterrifics; and Tom told him the next time he was on his grounds he would\ndo for him--at least so it is said.\"\n\n\"Dreadful! And what was this Tom Vallance, as I think you call him?\"\n\n\"Nothing, sir. His mother is an industrious woman; and the lad was not\nthat bad fellow neither--but dreadfully idle. He had a good education;\nbut his father dying two years since, Tom left school; and his mother,\nin place of sending him back, kept him at home. She was so fond of him\nthat she let him do whatever he liked.\"\n\n\"How can she afford to maintain him?\"\n\n\"She is very industrious, sir; and, as she was daft fond of him, every\npenny she could scrape together went into his pockets.\"\n\n\"Where is the accused?\"\n\n\"Tom, sir, do you mean? Why, before the sheriff, making his\ndeclaration.\"\n\n\"Who succeeds the late baronet?\"\n\n\"His nephew--a very nice chap. He was often at Merton when a lad; but he\nhas not been here for many years. He'll be better liked than his uncle,\nthough the old fellow was not so bad neither. But I must go, sir, for I\nhear the bell ringing in the travellers'-room.\"\n\nSo saying, he whipped his napkin under his arm, and withdrew with\npraiseworthy celerity.\n\nThe unknown traveller paced slowly up and down the room, apparently very\nmuch perplexed in his mind. He muttered--\n\n\"Strange!--very strange!--caught in the room--a previous threat--all\nconcurs.\"\n\nShortly afterwards he again rang the bell, ordered in and paid his bill;\nand, taking a post-chaise to the next town, waited there only until the\nmail from Edinburgh to London stopped to change horses, and, having\nprocured a seat, arrived in due time in the metropolis.\n\nThe investigation of facts connected with the death of Sir Thomas\nproceeded, and a strong case was made out against the accused. The two\nservants swore to the threat; and, although not giving exactly the\nwaiter's version of it, made it pretty nearly as bad; for, not having\nheard the precise words, they supplied the defect in hearing by\ngeneralising. \"He threatened,\" they said, \"to be revenged, and that he\nwould come to the grounds for that purpose;\" or used some such words,\nshowing a determined resolution of getting \"_amends_\" of their master.\nThat the General met his death by a stab in the heart was plain enough;\nand that the servants found Tom beside him, grasping a bloody knife, was\nequally so. Presumptions were, therefore, strongly against him; nor did\nhis declaration or judicial statement help him much; for he admitted,\nafter some little hesitation, that he had slipped into the grounds to\nredeem his threat of revenge by carrying off some very fine peaches, of\nwhich the General was very proud, and which he intended as a present to\na neighbouring friend. Knowing that Sir Thomas was accustomed to take\nhis _siesta_ immediately after dinner, which was usually at five--for he\nfollowed a fashion of his own in this respect, which has, since his\ntime, become popular--and that the gardener left at six, he lurked about\nthe grounds till after that period, and then, easily getting into the\ngarden, thought it prudent to see how the land lay before he proceeded\nto his labour of love.\n\nThe house of Merton was an old-fashioned building; or rather series of\nbuildings erected at different times; and the present possessor, who had\na fancy for horticulture, had added an apartment, which opened by a\nglass-door upon a terrace, from which, by descending a few steps, he\nentered the garden. This room was, necessarily, remote from the rest of\nthe mansion, and here Sir Thomas uniformly dined, summer and winter.\nAfter dinner was removed, and the dessert and wine placed on the table,\nthe servants withdrew, and were forbidden to enter till seven o'clock,\nwhen coffee was served. Of all this Tom was perfectly cognisant.\n\nNow Tom asserted that, as a precautionary measure, he resolved to peep\ninto the room in question, to ascertain whether Sir Thomas was asleep\nbefore he took his boyish revenge; and seeing the glass-door which led\ninto the garden open, he proceeded, cautiously and slowly, till he got\nthere, when, looking in, he observed his old enemy lying on the floor on\nhis face. Astonished at this, and forgetting all sense of personal risk,\nhe advanced to raise the baronet, when he discovered that he was dead,\nand a knife lying beside the body, which he picked up. Fear tied up his\ntongue for some few seconds, and he had barely time to give utterance to\nan exclamation of horror, when, the door opening, the servant gave the\nalarm, and before he had time to collect his scattered senses he was a\nprisoner. All this might have been true, and perhaps the story would\nhave been treated with more consideration than it obtained, had it not\nbeen for the _previous threat_, which naturally induced a strong\nsuspicion against Tom. The result was, that, after the ordinary form had\nbeen gone through, the unhappy youth was fully committed to take his\ntrial for the murder of Sir Thomas Vavasour Bruce Vavasour of Vavasour\nand Merton, Baronet.\n\nThe heir, at this eventful period, was in England, whither the body was\ntransmitted, and deposited in the Vavasour mausoleum.\n\nMeanwhile Tom remained for some weeks in the county jail, in a condition\nfar from enviable. All attempts to induce a confession of guilt were\nabortive; he persisted in his declaration of innocence; but, as parties\naccused are not usually in the habit of confessing their crimes, these\nprotestations were not considered worth much. Indeed, the only person he\ncould convince was his poor mother, who gave implicit confidence to his\nassertions.\n\nA change, and one for the better, had come over the accused in prison.\nHow bitterly did he regret his former idle moments--how deeply did he\nlament the burden he had been on his mother! Many a vow did he make,\nthat, if he could get quit of this charge, he would eschew his former\ncourse of life, and be all a fond parent could ask. About the tenth day\nbefore the approaching sittings, Tom was visited by a gentleman, who\nproffered his assistance as his adviser. He had heard, he said, of the\ncase, and was anxious, on his mother's account, to afford his aid; but\nhe required a full and ample statement, without any concealment. Tom\nanswered, he had nothing to conceal; and he recapitulated everything he\nhad formerly stated.\n\nThe stranger listened attentively, and, after his client had concluded,\nshook his head. \"Tom, you may be innocent--there is the impress of truth\nin what you state, and I can hardly doubt you; but still the evidence\nagainst you is so strong, that, if you go to trial, I am fearful--very\nfearful of the result.\"\n\nTom's face, which had brightened as the stranger commenced, became\nclouded ere the remarks were finished, and when they terminated he burst\ninto tears. \"Oh, sir!\" he sobbed, \"have pity on a poor misguided lad,\nwho never meant evil to any one--who is as innocent of the crime of\nwhich he is accused as you are. Save me, sir--oh, save me! if not on my\nown account, at least on that of my poor mother, who will break her\nheart if I am condemned!\"\n\n\"I would willingly save you if I could,\" was the rejoinder; \"but I\ncannot influence juries--I cannot sway the court.\"\n\n\"And must I die, then? Must I, before my time, go down to my grave\ndishonoured and disgraced? Oh, sir, if it had pleased Heaven to visit me\nwith a deadly sickness, I would have left the world without one sigh\nexcept for my mother! But to be degraded as a felon--to be branded as a\nmurderer--it is too--too much!\" He became so agitated that grief choked\nhis utterance.\n\nThe stranger, obviously affected, took his hand. \"Tom, have you\nfirmness? There is a way, perhaps.\"\n\n\"How?\" exclaimed the lad, eagerly.\n\n\"This room is only one storey from the ground, and escape is possible.\"\n\n\"Escape! No, no! The windows are barred with iron, besides, if I escape,\nit looks like guilt, and I cannot bear that.\"\n\n\"But will staying behind prove your innocence? Will your suffering the\nlast penalty of the law convince the world that you did not commit the\nmurder?\"\n\n\"True--very true! If I live, my innocence may yet be proved. But how to\nget through the window?\"\n\n\"That can be easily managed, if you will act like a man. It is now\nearly. I will be with you again before the prison shuts. Remember, not\none word to your mother. You may console her by saying that your\nagent--for such I am--has given you hopes. Nothing more. Remember!\" So\nsaying, he departed, leaving Tom to meditate upon this extraordinary\nexpedient.\n\nIt was rather late when the stranger, who called himself Mortlake,\nreturned. Tom had kept his promise, and, by affording his mother hopes\nof an acquittal, contrived to infuse a happiness to which her bosom had\nbeen for many a week a stranger.\n\n\"Now, Tom!\" said Mr Mortlake, in a low tone, \"attend to me. I have\nbrought you a file, some aquafortis, and a silken ladder. Apply the\nliquid to the bars, and it will gradually eat into the iron--then use\nyour file, and the first impediment to your flight will be removed. Next\nfix the silken ladder firmly, and your descent is easy. Do not begin\nyour operations until the inmates of the jail are asleep. You may get\neverything ready by the evening of the day after the morrow. As the\nclock strikes twelve, assistance will be at hand, and descend with the\nfirst stroke, if all is right. Some one will be waiting for you. He will\nwhisper into your ear 'follow,' and you must follow as speedily as\npossible. But, again, I caution you to keep this a secret from your\nmother. Buoy her up with hopes; talk confidently of your acquittal; that\nyou are to have a learned barrister from Edinburgh. This will get wind,\nand prevent any suspicion of your intended escape. Once safe, your\nmother will receive due notice; and be assured she shall not be allowed\nto suffer one moment more of suspense than is absolutely necessary. You\nwill not see me again in prison, I hope.\"\n\nTom's feelings were overcome. He seized Mortlake's hand, and pressed it\nto his lips, while tears flowed in torrents from his eyes. He could not\nspeak.\n\nMortlake was affected. \"And yet, poor kind-hearted boy,\" he said,\n\"people could deem you guilty of a murder. How little did they know you!\nBut away with tears. Be a man. You have a difficult part before you. See\nyou flinch not!\" Then changing his tone, and speaking loudly, \"Well! I'm\noff to Edinburgh, where I shall see Andrew Crosbie. I have great faith\nin him; and, as he is not a greedy man, I daresay, Tom, I may get him to\ncome here.\"\n\nAt this moment the jailer entered, saying it was time to leave; and\nMortlake, pressing Tom's hand, bade him farewell, until his return from\nEdinburgh.\n\nTom treasured every word in his heart--not one syllable escaped his\nlips, that might induce the most suspicious person to imagine he\ncontemplated flight. He spoke sensibly of his case; inducing his mother,\nand one or two persons whom curiosity had prompted to visit him, to\nsuppose that he was very sanguine of acquittal; and, as the fame of\nAndrew Crosbie extended over Scotland as a shrewd man and an able\nlawyer, this result was not thought by any means chimerical.\n\nWhen the evening came, Tom commenced operations. He applied the liquid\nas directed, which soon corroded the iron at the bottom. The sides and\ntops were more difficult, but their partial destruction was in time\naccomplished; and, when the eventful evening came, he had little\ndifficulty in removing the grating. It was, of course, only injured at\nthe ends; and, as the window was oblong, by altering the position of the\ngrating, he obtained a substance sufficiently strong to which he\nattached the rope-ladder. Getting up to the window, he placed the\ngrating reversed in the inside, and threw the ladder on the outside. To\nsoften the fall of the iron after he had descended, he placed his\nmattress and bedclothes below; and having thus made every preliminary\narrangement, with the first stroke of twelve he commenced his descent;\nand, ere the last had died upon the breeze, the ground was reached in\nsafety.\n\nA figure, enveloped in a cloak, approached hurriedly, and whispered,\n\"follow!\" He tossed a bundle to the fugitive, then turned to the left.\nThe order was obeyed; and, after the lapse of an hour and a-half, Tom\nfound himself in a wood, and the stranger, opening a dark\nlantern--sliding shades at the side of which had previously been pulled\ndown--disclosed to the eyes of Vallance the features of his agent,\nMortlake.\n\nThe bundle was untied, and Tom found it to contain a capacious wrapper,\na shawl, and bonnet with a veil. Those Tom was required to put on, and\nthis matter being accomplished, the journey was resumed, and in about\ntwo hours they arrived at a small hamlet or village, where they found a\ngig waiting for them. Mortlake then addressed his companion:--\"My dear\nEmily! be more composed--never mind your father--I will write to him,\nand all will yet be put to rights.\"\n\nTom, who had been previously instructed, spoke \"small like a woman;\"\nand, after some affected coyness, entered the carriage, when the parties\ndrove off, leaving the man who had taken charge of the vehicle under the\nevident conviction that the strange man was a sad blackguard, and that\nthe veiled lady was some unfortunate young woman who had been deluded\naway by his devices.\n\nThe news of Tom's escape excited universal astonishment, and no means\nwere left untried to trace his footsteps; but every exertion was in\nvain, and his pursuers were completely at fault. It was universally\nadmitted that some one must have furnished him with the implements that\nhad procured his liberation; and his mother was, as a matter of course,\nthe first one on whom suspicion lighted. The poor old woman, when the\nfact was announced, was equally amazed and pleased; but she could\nfurnish no clue. Tom had seen a few people in prison, yet it was evident\nthey had nothing to do with the escape. It was at last resolved that the\nagent was the accessory; but here the good people were at fault again,\nfor no one, except the jailer, remembered having seen him, and he could\ngive but a very imperfect description of him. He might be tall or\nso--rather think he was, but not sure--wore powder, and had, he\nbelieves, a black coat, but did not think he would know him again. This\nwas all that could be elicited.\n\nA reward of fifty pounds was offered by the magistrates for the capture\nof Tom; and Sir Edward Bruce Vavasour increased it to one hundred and\nfifty, expressing, at the same time, his anxiety that the accused should\nbe retaken.\n\nWhilst all were in a state of excitement, fresh fuel was added to the\nflame by the following letter, bearing the Liverpool post-mark, which\nMrs Vallance received from her son:--\n\n     \"DEAREST MOTHER,--I am well, and as happy as one unjustly\n     accused can be. Though fate has sundered us, you are ever in my\n     thoughts. I have found a protector--fear not for me. You shall\n     regularly hear from\n\n     \"Your affectionate son,\" &c.\n\nBeneath was written:--\"Your son will be yet a blessing to you. Accept\nthis trifle.\" And a twenty-pound-note was found enclosed.\n\n\"What a fool!\" said the wise ones; \"only to think of letting us know\nwhere he is.\" And, upon the hint, away trotted the officers with a\ncriminal warrant, to be backed, as it is termed, by an English Justice\nin Liverpool, where, to their great vexation, he was not to be found.\n\nMeanwhile, the object of their pursuit was out of all danger. His friend\nand he at last found themselves on the road to Wooler.\n\n\"Tom!\" said Mortlake, when they alighted at the inn, \"you must pass for\nmy wife. I have everything provided for that purpose in my portmanteau;\nmeanwhile, keep down your veil, and wrap your cloak about you.\"\n\nHe then took out a complete suit of female apparel, and speedily his\nprotege was metamorphosed into a tall and handsome, although somewhat\nmasculine, female. We need not tire our readers with a detail of the\nsubsequent journey southward, and may only mention that Mortlake left\nthe horse and gig at Wooler, where, obtaining a seat for himself and his\ncompanion in the mail, they arrived in safety at Barnet. Here Tom\nresumed his sex; and, in a new suit of clothes, appeared, as he really\nwas, a good and intelligent-looking young man.\n\nFrom Barnet, the travellers proceeded in a chaise to London, where\nMortlake took lodgings, and, after the lapse of a few days, disclosed to\nthe youth his ulterior purposes.\n\n\"Mr Vallance----\" said he.\n\n\"Do not call me 'Mr.' If you do, I shall think I have offended you.\"\n\n\"Well, Tom, then. Listen to what I have to say. You have been my\ncompanion now for nearly three weeks. During that time I have studied\nyou, and the opinion I have formed is favourable. You possess good\nqualities and excellent talents: these have been obscured, but not\nextinguished, by your recent follies--not to give them a harsher name.\nBy giving way to passion, and using threats, which, from you, were ill\njudged and ill timed, you have barely escaped an ignominious death. Far\nbe it from me to say that the late owner of Merton was justified in the\nintemperate language he used; but you know that at times he had no\ncontrol over himself, and you should have made allowances for what was\nreally a disease. Of your innocence I have not the slightest doubt,\notherwise I would never have aided your escape from jail. I think the\nlesson you have had is one you can never forget; and I prophesy that\nThomas Vallance may yet assume that position in society which good\nconduct and perseverance ever secure.\"\n\nTom heard this eulogium, qualified as it was, with great delight. \"Try\nme! Oh, try me, my best friend! Give me an opportunity of evincing, by\nthe propriety of my conduct, how much I feel your benevolence! To please\nyou shall be the study of my future life.\"\n\n\"Well, Tom, you shall have a trial. But you must leave me, and cross the\nseas. It is not safe for either of us that you remain here.\"\n\nTom's countenance fell \"And must I leave _you_--the only being in the\nworld, save my mother, whom I love? But your commands are to me as laws,\nand they shall be obeyed.\"\n\n\"Well, then, the family with which I am connected has large possessions\nin Antigua, and there is a wealthy mercantile establishment over which I\nhave no inconsiderable control--so much so, that any recommendation from\nme or mine will meet with immediate attention. I shall place you there\nas a clerk, and if you discharge the duties of the office\nsatisfactorily, means shall be afforded of advancing you: in one word,\neverything shall be made to depend upon your good behaviour.\nPreparations have already been making for your departure, and I have\nprocured from the senior partner of Mortlake, Tresham, & Co., an order\nfor your appointment, with a letter of recommendation to Mr Tresham, the\nresident partner, whose good graces I sincerely wish you may acquire.\"\n\n\"Mortlake--is he a relation of yours?\"\n\n\"Yes; but you must ask no questions--seek to know nothing beyond what I\nchoose to disclose. You must renounce your name. You will therefore, in\nfuture, be known as Thomas Mortlake, the son of a distant relation of\nmine. Such is the legend that must be circulated. Now, write to your\nmother. Would to heaven I could permit an interview! but that cannot be.\nGive me the letter, sealed if you choose, as I have a particular mode of\ntransmitting it to her, and I wish it to appear, as the former one did,\nthat it came from Liverpool. Be cautious and guarded in what you\ncommunicate; but mention that, in future, she shall have such an\nallowance as will make her easy for life. Now, farewell for a few hours,\nand be sure to have your letter ready when I return.\"\n\nTom was left to his own reflections. The letter to Mrs Vallance was\nwritten; and, by the time that Mortlake returned, Tom was sufficiently\ncomposed to veil his feelings, and meet him as of old.\n\n\"Everything is arranged,\" said Mortlake. \"In a few days you sail from\nthe Thames by the brig Tresham. You will have every accommodation\nafforded that a gentleman can require; a suitable wardrobe is preparing;\nin short, my dear young friend, you shall appear to these West Indians\nas their equal, and in such guise as suits the proud name of Mortlake.\nOne thing more, and I have done. The present Baronet of Vavasour has,\nthrough his mother, property in Antigua, and is distantly related to the\nelder partner of the firm. You will, therefore, seem as if you knew him\nnot; and, even in regard to myself, I wish little or nothing said. That\ncuriosity will be excited, I doubt not, but I leave you to baffle it.\"\n\nTime passed with unusual rapidity--so, at least, Mr Thomas Mortlake\nopined; and the day of his departure having at length arrived, he was\nnot a little startled when his friend made a very early appearance,\naccompanied by a young lady. Advancing towards him, she said--\"Mr\nMortlake! I am happy to have had this opportunity of seeing you previous\nto your departure, and of personally wishing you every success in the\ncalling in which you are about to engage. Your friend has no secrets\nfrom me, and I am acquainted with every particular of your singular\nhistory.\"\n\n\"Yes!\" exclaimed his protector; \"I conceal nothing from this lady, and\nshe feels as much interest in you as I do myself. We propose to\naccompany you to the ship.\"\n\nTom felt somewhat confused by this unexpected introduction; but that\nnatural sense of propriety which is inherent in some minds, and which\nothers vainly endeavour to obtain, enabled him to acquit himself in a\nmanner that gave equal satisfaction to both visiters. The party then\nproceeded to the vessel, where Mortlake and the lady satisfied\nthemselves that due provision had been made for the accommodation of\ntheir protege.\n\n\"Mr Mortlake!\" said the lady at parting, \"I have used the freedom of an\nold friend, and placed in your cabin a small collection of books, which,\nI have no doubt, will materially help to deprive your voyage of half its\ntedium; and, when you arrive at the place of your destination, if you\ncould devote any leisure hours to their study, be assured the benefit\nwill be incalculable.\"\n\n\"Believe me,\" he answered, \"my kind patrons, whatever may be my fate, I\nnever can forget the wondrous acts of kindness that have been lavished\non me. If an anxious desire to discharge the duties of my office--if a\ndetermination to surmount difficulties, coupled with a firm resolution\nto act fairly and honourably by my neighbours--can be taken as an\nearnest of my anxiety to please, on this you may rely; and, if my\nexertions be crowned with success, the pleasure will be doubled when I\nremember it is all owing to you.\"\n\n\"Tom,\" said Mr. Mortlake, \"you are eloquent; but time flies, and we must\npart.\"\n\n\"I have but one request more--no doubt it is needless. Be kind! oh be\nkind to my poor mother!\"\n\n\"On that,\" replied the lady, \"you may depend. And now, farewell!\"\n\nTom took her hand, and pressed it respectfully to his lips; then,\nturning to his friend, tried to give utterance to \"farewell!\" The word\nwould not pass his lips; forgetting all difference of rank, he threw his\narms around Mortlake's neck, and wept. In a moment, as if ashamed of his\nfreedom or want of manliness, he hastily withdrew from his embrace.\n\nMortlake was moved. He pressed the lad affectionately to his\nbreast--\"God bless you, my dear fellow; in me you have ever a steady\nfriend. And now, farewell!\"\n\nThey separated; and years elapsed ere Mortlake and his friend again met.\nWe will now follow the strange fortunes of the junior.\n\nYoung Mortlake--for so he must in future be termed--suffered the usual\ninconveniences of a sea voyage; and, if ever his boyish inclination,\ninfluenced by a perusal of the fascinating fiction of \"Robinson Crusoe,\"\nhad given him a fancy for the pleasures of a seafaring life, they\nyielded speedily to the irresistible effects of sea-sickness.\n\nThe vessel reached the island in about six weeks, and Tom presented his\ncredentials to Mr Tresham, from whom he met a favourable reception. He\nhad an apartment assigned to him in the house, and was treated as one of\nthe family. To the duties of the counting-house, irksome in the outset,\nhe became soon reconciled. His anxiety to please was not overlooked by\nhis master, who, finding him able and apt, gradually raised both his\nrank and his salary. Before five years had elapsed, he was head clerk in\nthe establishment. Favourites are not much liked; but Tom bore his\nhonours so meekly, and was so obliging, without being obsequious, that\nhis rise neither excited envy nor surprise--indeed, it was looked upon\nas a matter of course; and the astonishment would have been, not that he\nhad risen, but that he had _not_ risen in the establishment.\n\nWhen he first arrived, he was pestered with questions as to birth,\nparentage, and education. These ordinary, but impertinent queries, he\nparried with equal good-humour and tact. All that could be extracted\nfrom him was, that he was protected by Mr Mortlake, and that that was\nhis own name. Mr Tresham, however, put no questions. Sir Edward Vavasour\nwas rarely mentioned. Little was known of him, excepting that several\nthousands a-year were annually remitted to England as the produce of his\nestates. Latterly, Tom observed that these returns were made to account\nof Lord Mortlake. This puzzled him; and, upon a question to Tresham\nbeing hazarded, he coldly answered--\n\n\"The possessions of Sir Edward Vavasour belong now to Lord Mortlake; but\nremember the request of your benefactor--to ask no questions.\"\n\nOther matters of more importance now occupied our hero's mind, and he\ngave himself no further thoughts on the subject. The first fruits of his\nlabour were piously remitted to his mother, through his English\ncorrespondent. From her he (through the same channel) learned that Sir\nEdward Vavasour had given her a nice little cottage and garden, on the\nVavasour estate, in England, rent-free, and that she had sold off\neverything in Merton, as the recollections there were unpleasant--the\nreason assigned being her former services as housekeeper in the family.\nNo attempt had been made by him to elicit a confession of her son's\nresidence. She farther stated, that she regularly received twenty pounds\nevery half-year from some unknown person; and that she was, therefore,\nas happy as she could be in the absence of her son.\n\nThe letters from his patron were warm and affectionate. Some little\npresents Tom had ventured to make; and a few of those lovely tropical\nshells, transmitted to the unknown young lady, were cordially accepted,\nnot so much for their value, as for the indications they afforded of the\nunabated regard of the giver. Tom devoted a certain portion of each day\nto study. His early education had been, so far as it went, good; and he\nwas enabled, by severe application, to master the Roman authors, and\nenjoy their beauties.\n\nThe death of his mother, during the fourth year of his residence in the\ntropics, was a heavy blow to him. He had lived in hopes of coming back\nto Britain with a fortune sufficient to support her in affluence; but\nhis pious intention was frustrated. One consolation he had, that the\nkind lady who, with his patron, took such an especial interest in his\naffairs, had watched over her dying moments, and afforded her every\ncomfort.\n\nIn the tenth year of his sojourn, a great revolution in his fortunes\ntook place. One morning, Mr Tresham called him into his private room.\n\n\"Mortlake,\" said he, \"you have been now ten years in our service; and,\nduring that time, I have never had cause to find the slightest fault\nwith you. The demise of the senior partner compels me to visit England.\nYour patron has written me urgently to admit you as a partner; now,\nalthough his recommendation must have weight with me, I can assure you\nthat I need no solicitation to do an act of justice. I rejoice, by\nadding your name to the firm, to show you how much I esteem you, and\nwhat unbounded confidence I have in you.\"\n\nTom justly felt gratified by this communication. He was grateful for the\nnever-slumbering care of his English patron, and equally so for the\npersonal regard of Tresham, who, having thus removed a considerable\nportion of the burdens of commerce upon his younger partner, left the\nisland, and safely arrived in London, where, for several months, he was\nengaged in adjusting the company's accounts, and effecting a settlement\nwith the representatives of the deceased. The business, meanwhile, went\non under the name of Tresham, Mortlake, & Co., and was managed with as\nmuch prudence and profit by the junior partner as it had previously been\nby the senior one.\n\nTresham having realised a fortune, at the age of fifty resolved to\nreturn to England to enjoy it. Upon this occasion, his nephew, who had\ncome out some time after Tom, became a partner, and, just twenty years\nfrom the period of his advent, did Thomas Mortlake, Esq., resolve, at\nthe age of thirty-six, to return to his native land, leaving the\naffairs of the company to be exclusively managed by young Tresham, who\nwas fully adequate to the task.\n\nHe embarked in a vessel of the company's; and having had a fair wind, in\na few weeks beheld the chalky cliffs of Old Albion. He found his patron\nand Tresham awaiting his landing, and a carriage ready to bear him away.\nThe meeting was cordial. Twenty years had not affected his patron much.\nHe was about forty-five years of age, but looked perhaps a little\nyounger. There was a dignity about his manner which Tom had never\npreviously remarked; but there was no lack of kindness; on the contrary,\nit was obvious at a glance that his return was most acceptable to his\nfriend. Nor was Tresham less friendly.\n\nAs Tom stepped into the carriage, he was thunderstruck to observe a\ncoat-of-arms on the panels, with a _baron's_ coronet.\n\n\"Indeed! Mr Tresham, have you been raised to the peerage?\"\n\nTresham smilingly replied--\n\n\"Not yet. We don't know, however, what may happen. Irish peerages may be\nhad cheap. The carriage is not mine: it belongs to one of our best\ncustomers, Lord Mortlake.\"\n\n\"Bless me!--how kind in his lordship!\" was the rejoinder. \"Is he, sir, a\nfriend of yours?\" turning to his patron.\n\n\"I think,\" was the answer, \"I should know him better than most people;\nbut come, tell me how affairs are going on in Antigua.\"\n\nA desultory conversation followed, which lasted nearly the whole period\nof their journey. At last the vehicle approached a magnificent baronial\nseat, through a long avenue of lime-trees, then in full blossom.\n\n\"Here we are!\" said the elder Mortlake. Upon leaving the carriage, Tom\nand his companions entered a spacious hall of the olden time, the\nproprieties of which had been carefully preserved, and which was pretty\nmuch in the same state as it had been during the reign of Elizabeth.\nTaking Tom by the hand, his friend welcomed him to his family residence,\nand told him that a lady up-stairs--an old friend of his--was waiting to\nreceive him. \"But,\" added he, \"you will perhaps require to go to your\napartments.\"\n\nTom, having put himself to rights, was led by Mortlake to the\ndrawing-room, where he beheld his mysterious female visitant and a young\nlady of about nineteen, who, from her resemblance, it was not difficult\nto discover was the daughter of his host. Two fine-looking aristocratic\nlads, the one aged perhaps sixteen, and the other nearly eighteen, were\nstanding beside their sister, chatting and laughing with Mr Tresham.\n\nThe lady rose to receive her guest, when Tresham interposing,\nexclaimed:--\n\n\"Allow me--Lady Mortlake, Mr Mortlake; Mr Mortlake, Lady Mortlake.\"\n\nTom was confused, certainly; but his good manners did not forsake him,\nand he expressed his gratification at again beholding the lady, in\nappropriate and feeling terms.\n\n\"Mr Mortlake,\" said she, \"I am happy--very happy--to receive you at\nVavasour, which, I trust, you will consider as your home.\" Turning to\nher daughter--\"Emily, my love, this is Mr Mortlake, whom you have heard\nyour father and myself talk of so frequently.\" He was next introduced to\nthe sons, by whom he was received with equal kindness. His patron then\ntook Tom aside.\n\n\"The mystery,\" said he, \"will soon be explained; in me you behold Lord\nMortlake; but, on that account, not less your sincere friend. No one,\nnot even Tresham, but believes you to be a relation of the family,\nexcept Lady Mortlake and myself; so be collected, and assume a\ncharacter which, some day or other, I confidently hope may be yours\nlegally.\"\n\nThe latter words sounded strangely in our hero's ears; but this was a\nday of wonders, and when they were to end he could not conjecture.\n\n\"Sir Edward Vavasour?\" he whispered.\n\n\"Is no more!\" was the reply.\n\nA week passed happily, and Mortlake, in the society he esteemed and\nrespected, was superlatively blessed. One morning after breakfast, Lord\nMortlake took him into the library; and, locking the door, bade him be\nseated.\n\n\"Mortlake,\" said his lordship, \"the time for explanation is at hand; it\nought not any longer to be delayed; but, before disclosing much that may\nastonish you, be assured that I make the disclosure without seeking any\npledge of secresy from you. I shall leave it entirely to yourself, when\nyou have heard all, to take what course you may judge expedient.\"\n\n\"My lord! do not think so meanly of the creature of your bounty as to\nsuppose that, whatever may be the nature of your communication, I shall\never use it to your prejudice.\"\n\n\"Make no rash promises, Mr Mortlake. Hear me, and decide. I told you Sir\nEdward Vavasour was no more; and yet he is only so in one sense--his\ntitle is merged in a higher one: he is now Lord Mortlake!\"\n\n\"Gracious Providence! Sir Edward Vavasour Lord Mortlake? Can it be\npossible?\"\n\n\"It _is_ possible; Lord Mortlake is before you. But hear me out. You are\nprobably aware that the late Sir Thomas Vavasour had a younger brother,\nRichard; and it has perhaps come to your knowledge that he was married\nto Miss Mortlake, a lady of birth and fortune, the daughter of an\nextensive proprietor in Antigua. Mrs Vavasour was a Creole by birth, and\na woman of violent passions. Her husband led a very unenviable\nlife--but let me pass that over. Of that marriage I was the sole\noffspring, and was named heir by my maternal grandfather to his large\nestates, after the demise of my parents. This equitable arrangement of\nhis property created a prejudice in my mother's mind against me, as she\ncould not brook the idea of being interfered with in the use of that\nwhich she thought she was entitled to enjoy without control. When my\nfather died, I was placed under the superintendence of my uncle, Sir\nThomas, who, himself a proud and passionate man, had a great contempt\nfor his equally proud and passionate sister-in-law; hence a new seed of\nenmity was sown.\n\n\"My mother wished to make a fine gentleman of me: my uncle detested the\nwhole tribe of 'puppies,' and determined to make a man of me. He\ncarefully provided for my education; and, at the proper time, placed me\nin the Temple, where I studied jurisprudence for a few years with\nconsiderable success. The heir of a large estate, my uncle never wished\nme to do more than acquire habits of industry and application. My mother\ndid all she could to unsettle me--but in vain. I had a will of my own,\nand was by no means disposed to become her vassal.\n\n\"She was descended, through the intermarriage of one of the Mortlakes\nwith a co-heiress, of the ancient Barons de Mortuo Lacu, who figured\nduring the reign of the Edwards. This Mortlake was heir-male of the last\nbaron; but his stock had come off before the family were ennobled. Now,\nMrs Vavasour had a very intense desire to become Baroness de Mortuo\nLacu, or Mortlake; and as she had a legal claim--being the undoubted\nrepresentative of a co-heiress--it required political influence only to\naccomplish her object. My uncle could have effected this; but he gave\nthe most decided opposition. He had no idea that the Vavasour name\nshould be entombed, even in the sepulchre of the peerage. In his\nestimation, the Vavasours, who had fought with Coeur de Lion in the\nHoly Land, who had perished by dozens in the wars of the Roses, who had\nbled with Richmond at Bosworth, and who had taken up arms against the\nomnipotent Cromwell, were worth all the Mortlakes that ever breathed.\n\n\"For this opposition my uncle was never forgiven by Mrs Vavasour. She\nvowed vengeance, and she kept her vow. She presented a petition to the\nKing, which was referred to the Peers; and, after incurring enormous\nexpense in proving her pedigree, she succeeded in obtaining a decision\nfinding the barony in abeyance amongst the co-heirs of the last Lord\nMortlake, and that she was the representative of the eldest co-heir.\nThus far she got, but not one step farther. The desired writ of summons\nwas withheld. Meanwhile, she got entangled in pecuniary difficulties. In\nthis situation, she, to my surprise, applied to Sir Thomas for a loan.\nThe result of this application may be anticipated; for, while refusing\nher request, my uncle took the opportunity of reading her a severe\nlecture upon her extravagance and ambition. She was in a towering rage\nupon receipt of his answer; but, as I was of age, I thought it my duty,\nespecially as the Peerage proceedings were to my ultimate advantage, to\nraise a sum of money upon my eventual interest, by which means her debts\nwere paid off. The consequence of this was, that, whilst I propitiated\nmy mother on the one hand, I offended my uncle on the other.\n\n\"I was at this time in love with the present Lady Mortlake. She was well\nconnected, had fortune, and was sufficiently accomplished; but she did\nnot come within my mother's list of advantageous wives. She was neither\nfashionable nor cared about fashion; and could not disguise her contempt\nof idle and silly women of quality. My mother placed her interdict upon\nmy nuptials. I remonstrated, but to no purpose; and, although under no\nobligation to consult my relatives, I wished at least to have the\ncountenance of Sir Thomas, and I took the bold step of writing to him.\nTo my gratification and surprise, I received a gracious answer; and, I\npresume, my mother's opposition was itself, in the estimation of my\nuncle, a sufficient recommendation. Acting upon his consent and\napprobation, I married; but the result was fatal to Mrs Vavasour, who,\nupon learning what had taken place, got into one of her tremendous\npassions, and burst a blood-vessel. After lingering a few weeks, she\ndied, leaving behind her a letter, which was fated to be the cause of\nboth our troubles. A few days after its transmission, I received an\nepistle from him, which, from its incoherency, indicated, as I supposed,\npositive insanity. I resolved to lose no time in visiting him; but, as I\nwished my intended journey to be kept quiet, I gave out that I was\nmerely going to Liverpool for a few days, where my wife had some\nrelations. I arrived at Jedburgh; and, as Merton was not far off, I\nresolved to walk there; and I calculated that I should arrive about the\ntime that my uncle was taking his evening _siesta_. Leaving my\nportmanteau at the inn, I proceeded on my way; and, as I was familiar\nwith every inch of ground, took a by-path, which led into the policy,\nand which terminated in a door that opened into the garden. This door\nwas kept open until the gardeners left their work, when it was locked\nfor the night. I passed through, towards the stairs which descended from\nthe terrace into the garden; and, in a few minutes, found myself in the\npresence of Sir Thomas.\n\n\"My uncle was not a little startled at my unexpected appearance. He had\napparently partaken freely of wine--at least he was in a state of\nexcitement.\n\n\"'By what right do you come here?' was the first inquiry.\n\n\"'Why, my dear uncle, I was surprised at your late letter, and came\npersonally to ascertain what you meant.'\n\n\"'Mean! and do you pretend, sir, to be ignorant of my meaning?'\n\n\"'Indeed, uncle, I am.'\n\n\"'Uncle--don't uncle me, sir--I am no uncle of yours.'\n\n\"I now thought his insanity undoubted.\n\n\"'Be composed, my dear sir,' I rejoined; 'do you not know Edward\nVavasour, your attached nephew?'\n\n\"He rose--his eyes had a peculiar expression--one I had never witnessed\nbefore: naturally of a dark-grey, they seemed to take the hue of a fiery\nred, and they glared fearfully.\n\n\"'The house of Vavasour is doomed--its last hour has come;' and, saying\nthese words he drew from his pocket-book a letter, which he threw\ntowards me. I seized it; and judge of my horror when I perceived this\npaper.\"\n\nLord Mortlake then took from his escritoire the following letter:--\n\n     \"SIR THOMAS,--You have had your triumph--my triumph comes now.\n     The despised Mortlake rejoices in the extinction of the proud\n     Vavasour. Know, haughty man, Edward is not the son of your\n     brother!\"\n\n\"It is not possible to describe my feelings, Tom, at this instant--my\nhead turned round. That the statement was false, I doubt not; for I knew\nbetter than Sir Thomas the deep feeling of hatred my mother could\nentertain, and did entertain against us both.\n\n\"'Uncle, this letter is the legacy of an enemy--allow me to retain it,\nand I will bring positive evidence to disprove the assertion it\ncontains.'\n\n\"My uncle was too much excited to listen to me. In a hoarse and angry\nvoice, he muttered--\n\n\"'Give me the letter, you villain!'\n\n\"I endeavoured to pacify him, but without success; when, suddenly\nrising, he seized a knife, and, rushing forward, made a thrust at me\nwith it. I avoided the blow, and retreated. He, incautiously advancing,\nlost his footing, and fell with the knife underneath. I hastily stepped\nforward to raise him, but had not strength to do so; for, by one of\nthose strange and unaccountable accidents, which not unfrequently give\nthe air of romance to real life, the point of the knife had been turned\ntowards his body, and, passing between his ribs, had pierced his heart.\nHe died in an instant. I endeavoured again to raise the body, but in\nvain. I drew out the knife, and blood then came with it. To describe my\nsituation at this terrible moment is impossible: my uncle dead at my\nfeet--no one to witness how the accident happened--I might be dragged as\na felon to trial for his supposed murder. My grief for his unhappy end\nwas soon absorbed in fears for my own safety--for, here was I, the\napparent heir, discovered with the man to whom I was to succeed, a\nbleeding corpse beside me; then the quarrel between us--the stigma\nthrown upon me by my vindictive parent, which, for aught I knew, Sir\nThomas might have bruited abroad--all this made me tremble. Even if\nacquitted, still the suspicious circumstances of the case would be\ngreedily seized upon by the public, which never judges favourably, and a\nstain would have been cast upon the family name never to be effaced. My\nuncle was past all human assistance, and my remaining could not aid him.\nI therefore fled, unobserved by any one; and barely three hours had\nelapsed from my leaving the inn, until I was again its inmate. At a late\nhour I heard a noise of voices, which accorded ill with my morbid state\nof feeling. I rang to know the cause; and the answer to my inquiry was\nthe announcement that a dreadful murder had been committed upon Sir\nThomas Vavasour, and that you, Tom, had been taken into custody, under\nsuch circumstances as warranted the strongest presumptions of your\nguilt.\n\n\"My astonishment could only be equalled by the horror I felt at having\ncaused an innocent fellow-creature to be placed in hazard of his life.\nHowever, I was sufficiently collected; and, having learned that you\ncould not be brought to trial for some time, I left the place with the\nfirm resolution that, be the consequences what they might, not one hair\nof your head should be injured.\n\n\"I had no secrets from my wife, and to her I disclosed everything. After\nsome deliberation, we agreed that it was best, if possible, to procure\nyour escape from the prison; as, if that could be accomplished, there\nwould be no necessity for any disclosures to gratify the inquisitive and\nmalicious. I resolved to act by myself, without the assistance of any\none. My first object was to prevent interference of the country writers;\nand this I accomplished easily enough, by creating an impression that\nthey would give offence to the new Baron of Merton, if they ventured to\nassist you. Thus I deprived you of the advice of these worthies, which,\nafter all, was no great loss. I should have regretted your imprisonment,\nhad I not been informed that you were a _mauvais sujet_, and that the\nrestraint would do you no harm, as it might induce you to reflect.\n\n\"With my wife's assistance, I procured a female dress, bonnet and cloak.\nI also bought a file, a rope-ladder, and some aquafortis, as I thought\nit would be no very difficult matter to help you out of an old Scotch\ncounty jail. Lady Mortlake had an uncle resident a mile or two from\nLiverpool. This fact presented an ostensible object for a trip, and we\nset off together. I left her with her relative; and, crossing the\ncountry, I got to Jedburgh in good time. I was quite unknown, as, prior\nto my last eventful visit, many years had passed by since I had been in\nthe County of Roxburgh. I gave myself out to be an Edinburgh writer,\nwhich was believed.\n\n\"I thus got free access to you, and the result I need not repeat. The\ngig I bought for the purpose, as well as the horse. I had them in\nreadiness at a village at some distance, having given the landlord of\nthe inn to believe that it was merely an ordinary case of elopement. In\norder to mystify the folks of Jedburgh, your letter was enclosed under\ncover to my wife, who herself drove to the post-office, and put it in\nthe box, in this way destroying every possibility of detection. I caused\nthe body of Sir Thomas to be interred at Vavasour, where his two\nbrothers had previously been buried. This prevented the necessity of my\npersonal presence at Merton, where perchance I might have been\nrecognised as the person who left the counting-house so hurriedly on the\nday of the supposed murder. I have never lived at Merton since; it is\noccupied by the factor, and, in virtue of the deed of entail, the\nScottish estates belong now to my second son. I induced your mother to\nreside on the English estate, where my wife could personally attend to\nher comfort. The rest you know. Our travels made me intimately\nacquainted with you, and I found you had talent, tolerable acquirements,\nand an affectionate heart; and I was determined to aid you, if you would\nbe but true to yourself. Your vices were the result of idleness, and the\nfoolish indulgence of a fond mother. Do not think me harsh when I say\nso; but, Tom, had you not been removed from her, you would have been\nlost. Oh, what have parents to answer for, by allowing their children to\ntake their own way! From my connection with Antigua, I had no difficulty\nin providing for you. My cousin, Mr Edward Mortlake, managed my West\nIndian estates--a source of revenue to the company of which he was\nsenior partner. I had merely to signify my wishes to place a young\nfriend in his counting-house, and it was granted. Neither he nor Tresham\nknew your real history--they both thought you some off-shoot of the\nMortlakes. The latter was expressly desired to conceal my name, and to\navoid notice of the Vavasour family as much as possible. And he kept the\nsecret well. My accession to the Vavasour estates brought without any\ntrouble that which my misguided mother so much coveted; for, as my\npolitical support was not to be despised, ministers induced the king to\nterminate the abeyance, and I received my summons as Baron Mortlake. The\nstory imposed upon my poor uncle by Mrs Vavasour was, as I was from the\nfirst assured, a malicious fiction of her own; for, luckily, I was able\nto trace out the whole circumstances connected with my birth; and the\ntestimony of the nurse and medical man, which I obtained in a quiet way,\nwere perfectly conclusive. Indeed, legally, my mother's declaration\navailed nothing; but I was anxious, morally, to satisfy myself, as far\nas I could, that I was the son of her marriage with Mr Richard Vavasour.\nI have now told you all. As I was the accidental cause of your perilous\nsituation and loss of character, it was but common justice to assist you\nas far as lay in my power. You have raised yourself to respectability\nand affluence, partly by my recommendation, but principally by your own\nexertions. You owe me, therefore, nothing; and, on the contrary, I am\nstill considerably your debtor. If, after reflection, you think a\ndisclosure necessary to clear the reputation of Tom Vallance, you have\nmy full permission to make it.\"\n\n\"Never, my dear lord--or, if you will allow me to term you, my dear\nfriend--shall I make the slightest use of your confidence. You have,\nfrom a worthless and idle vagabond, metamorphosed me into a reputable\nand honest man. Tom Vallance has ceased to exist; but the heart of Tom\nMortlake is too deeply attached to his benefactor ever to do anything\nthat would cause him the slightest pain.\"\n\n\"You are a noble fellow, Tom, and well deserve your fortune.\"\n\nSeveral months after this conversation, the public journals announced\nthat \"Thomas Mortlake, Esq., of the firm of Tresham, Mortlake, &\nTresham, was married, by special license, at Vavasour, to Emily, eldest\ndaughter of the Right Honourable Edward Lord Mortlake.\" If an\naccomplished and sweet-tempered wife, a fine family, an attached friend,\ngood health, and a competent fortune, could make any one happy, then Tom\nMortlake was superlatively blessed.\n\n\n\n\nTHE SERJEANT'S TALES.\n\n\n\n\nTHE BEGGAR'S CAMP.\n\n\nI recur again to the strange adventures of Serjeant Square, and present\nanother section of them to the readers of the \"Border Tales:\"--\n\nWith ruined prospects, and friendships severed by death (he began), I\nresolved to bid, once more, farewell to my native Edinburgh.\n\nI passed two or three days in this listless manner, each being to see me\nput in force my resolution to depart; till at length, having provided\nmyself with a seaman's dress, taken the powder out of my hair, seized a\nstout stick, and provided a small bundle of necessaries, I once more set\nout upon the world, caring little whether I went to the south or the\nwest, to London or Bristol, to Greenock or Port-Glasgow. I had, in my\nabsent state of mind, almost unconsciously, or perhaps from habit, taken\nmy way down the Canongate, and had reached the girth cross--a few steps,\nand the streets of Edinburgh would pass from under my feet, perhaps for\never. I neither knew nor cared. A flood of painful recollections came\nover me, as I stood scarce knowing for what object I had paused. So\ndoubtful and indifferent, so undecided did I stand, that, to put an end\nto the recollections that pained me whilst I hesitated, I took a piece\nof copper from my pocket, and, tossing it up into the air, I cried, \"A\nhead for England--a lady for Scotland!\" The halfpenny tingled at my\nfeet, the king's head looked to the sky, and, as if relieved of a care,\nI moved quickly on, nor once looked behind, until I had placed Arthur's\nSeat between me and the city.\n\nThus moving along, sometimes listlessly, at others quickening my pace, I\nhad journeyed on until I had reached the neighbourhood of Berwick. The\nday had been overcast with partial light showers; several times I had\nresolved to stay for the remainder of the day and night in the next inn\nI came to; but, enticed by partial clearings up of the weather, I still\nwalked on, until towards sunset, when the weather all at once put on\nthe most threatening aspect and the rain fell very heavily. There was\nneither house nor shelter of any kind in sight; the thick, dense clouds\nthat came driving from the west completely obscured the twilight I had\ncalculated upon. At length I perceived, at a small distance from the\nroad, a house, with light issuing from the windows. I knocked for\nadmittance, which was at once cheerfully given, and every exertion made\nfor my comfort by the kind host and hostess--a farmer and his wife. To\nmy inquiries if they could oblige me with a bed for the night--\n\n\"You are kindly welcome to the shelter of our roof,\" said the farmer,\n\"and a seat by the fire; and, were it not for a strange circumstance,\nyou might have both a room and a bed.\"\n\n\"William--William!\" said the wife, with a look of great alarm, \"do not\nspeak of it; I could not think of even putting a dog there, far less a\nChristian. I will give the stranger a pair of blankets, and make a good\nfire for him; but do not speak of that fearful room. I wish the laird\nwould allow us to pull it down.\"\n\n\"Grace, my woman,\" replied he, \"I did not mean him to pass the night in\nit. I only, without thinking any harm, mentioned it. I wish, as well as\nyou, that it were taken down.\"\n\nStruck by their strange discourse, I requested my kind host to tell me\nthe history of the apartment that seemed to give them so much\nuneasiness.\n\nDrawing his seat more near to the fire--\"I have not the smallest\nobjection,\" said he, \"as it will show, whatever is the cause of the\nstrange disturbances, that there is no blame on our part. This bit land\nthat I farm has been in our family for more than two nineteen years, and\nthe third nineteen of the lease is nearly expired. Both the old and\npresent lairds have been good landlords to us--we could not well refuse\nany small favour they required at our hands; and, indeed, we always\nfound ourselves the gainers for any little that was in our power. A few\nmonths after the rebels were defeated, and the rebellion quelled by the\nbattle of Culloden, the young laird came back to the Big House again\nsafe, and we all rejoiced. On the day after his arrival, he came to our\nhouse to visit us, for he was always like one of ourselves. I saw there\nwas something upon his mind, he was so douce and thoughtful--not in the\nleast like his former way, which was all laughing and chatting with\nevery one. It did not become me to inquire the cause; so, after staying\na short time, he requested me to come out and take a turn with him, to\nsee some young trees that had been planted before he joined the king's\narmy. As soon as we were a short distance from the house, he stopped,\nand, looking me full in the face--\n\n\"'William,' said he, 'I believe you would not do anything to harm or\nbring me into trouble.'\n\n\"I think my face flushed, for I found my ears glow at the supposition.\n\n\"'No, laird; I would far rather harm or bring myself into trouble. Who\nhas belied me to your honour? I am certain neither thought nor word of\nmine ever gave you cause to suspect me.'\n\n\"I really felt hurt and grieved for a moment, until he took my hand in\nhis, and smiled.\n\n\"'William,' said he, 'I am sorry if I have unintentionally hurt your\nhonest feelings. I have nothing but good faith in you. I have an affair\nof importance on hand, and you must aid me.'\n\n\"'With all my heart,' replied I. 'Only tell me what I am to do.'\n\n\"'There is one for whose safety I am most anxious,' continued he; 'his\nlife is in danger. In my own house he cannot be concealed; in yours he\nmay. I shall provide for it, if you are willing to encounter the risk\nand inconvenience. You have no family or servants that reside with you.\nI shall build an apartment attached to your house, which he shall\noccupy; and you will attend to all his wants, and administer to his\ncomforts as much as in your power.'\n\n\"To all this Grace and I gave our hearty consent. Everything was made\nready in much less time than I could have conceived possible; the laird\nsuperintending all himself, and we obedient to his will. When all was to\nhis mind, he went from home for a few days, leaving word with me, that\nwhoever should give me his letter, authorising me to put them in\npossession of the room, I was at once to comply, and ask no questions.\n\n\"For those who had taken any part with the prince, it was a troublesome\nperiod. The cruelties committed by the king's troops in the Highlands,\nmade our blood run cold in our veins; and we now pitied those whom we\nhad a few months before hated and feared. Numbers were in prison,\nwaiting a bloody release, more objects of pity than those who were\nbutchered outright. The law sometimes realises the tales of the\ncrocodiles, and weeps over the victims it is intent to devour. Well, the\nsecond evening after the laird left us, there came to our door a poor,\naged man, scarcely able to support himself upon his staff; his keen,\ngrey eyes were at one time fixed upon the ground, and the next, when he\nlooked up, piercing into my inmost thoughts. With a tone of voice which\naffected humility, he requested rest and a little food. There was a\nround fulness in the subdued tone, that ill assorted with the apparent\nage of the individual; yet I welcomed him into the house--for the needy\nnever left our door empty. When he was seated, I saw his searching eye\nscan the apartment. Grace was seated at her wheel, while I had been\nreading to her the 'Pilgrim's Progress,' and the book lay on the table.\nThe first words he spoke were to inquire if there were any other inmates\nin the house except ourselves. When I answered him that there were not,\nhe stretched his body erect as he sat on his chair. I could scarce\nbelieve my eyes. Grace gave a faint cry of surprise and fear. I looked\nto the gun that hung over the mantelpiece--for that he was a robber in\ndisguise, was my first impression. It lasted, however, only for a\nmoment; for, taking a letter from his pocket, he gave it to me. It was\nthe promised letter from the laird; and so, taking the candle from the\ntable, I requested him to follow me. He rose from the seat, and, clothed\nas he was in his beggar's weeds, I seldom had seen a more majestic\nfigure, as he passed into the little apartment. Without uttering a word,\nhe threw himself upon a seat, and motioned me to retire. I felt awed by\nhis presence, and withdrew, shutting the door after me, and leaving him\nto his meditations. Grace prepared some supper for him; and, tapping on\nthe door, inquired if he would partake of it. He replied no; and begged\nnot to be disturbed until he called in the morning.\n\n\"Wondering at what we had seen, and who our guest could be, we retired\nto rest. I could hear at times the stranger groan heavily; and Grace,\nwho slept little through the night, said she believed he had never lain\ndown, for she had heard him at times walking and sighing heavily. Yet,\nafterwards, we had more to wonder at. For many weeks, he never allowed\nany of us to enter his room. At night only he would walk forth, after we\nwere in bed. His food was handed in to him at the door. I never saw him,\nneither did Grace; for he only exposed his hands, and part of his arms,\nwhen he took anything from her at the door. At first we felt very\ncurious, and formed many conjectures who he could be; but, as the laird\nstill remained in Edinburgh, we could learn nothing. Gradually, we\nbecame accustomed to all his humours, and thought little of them. Our\nfew neighbours seldom visited us, and they never suspected there was any\nperson except ourselves in the house. His taciturn and secluded manner\nat length wore off. Grace first was admitted to his apartment, then\nmyself. Previous to this, a large trunk of books and necessaries, along\nwith a letter to me, arrived at the Big House. I was to get the whole\nconveyed here in the best manner I could, for 'the gentleman,' as we\ncalled him, which I immediately set about. From this time he became an\naltered man. The almost misanthropical turn he had shown entirely left\nhim; a shade of touching sadness overcast his countenance; and it\nappeared to me that his grey locks seemed more bleached by care than\ntime; for his voice was full and melodious, and his face unmarked by a\nwrinkle.\n\n\"The executions at Carlisle, and the beheading scenes at Tower Hill, had\nbeen over for some time before the change of which I speak took place.\nPleasing as it was to us, another source of discomfort, and a far more\ntrying one, was discovered: he was a rank papist!--an idolater!--a\nworshipper of painted and graven images! Judge you what we two\ncovenanted adherents of the Church of Scotland, in all her purity, felt,\nto have a part of our roof turned into a temple of Dagon! We were sore\nbeset. What to do, we knew not. If the laird had been at home, our duty\nwas plain before us--to demand back my pledge, which I never meant\nshould shelter the enemies of truth, or convert my house into the abode\nof idolatry, to the risk of the salvation of our precious souls. But I\nknew not where to find him; and besides, much as I detested our guest's\nmode of worshipping, I could not divest myself of a secret love for\nhim--he was so condescending, so grand, yet so humble and polite in all\nhe did; and I could not say there was anything amiss in his conduct,\nsave the way in which he had decorated his lonely apartment. Grace there\nwas not half so much perplexed as I was. 'Poor gentleman,' she said, 'if\nhe is pleased, it would be wrong in us to find fault. I have nae doubt\nhe is a poor, misled, ignorant papist, and wish from my heart he was as\nwell informed as we are; but, if he thinks he is right, we may pity, but\nI wadna distress him. We must set a good example, and pray for his\nenlightenment night and morning.'\n\n\"I yielded to what she said, partly because I had an affection for him,\nand partly because I agreed in her sentiments; yet I never entered the\nidolatrous scene without feeling a shudder come over me. Upon the top of\nhis little table stood a crucifix and an open book, by the side of which\nlay a string of beads. At the foot of his bed there was a picture of\nJesus on the Cross; and upon his breast he wore another, which I often\nsaw him take out and kiss, with his face raised to heaven, in an\nexpression of joy and hope, while the tears stole down his face. Yet I\ncould never think he had peace in his faith; for he was always\nattempting something to secure his eternal happiness--night after night\nflogging his bare shoulders--week after week tasting only bread and\nwater--on Friday refusing flesh or fowl--and, in the spring of the year,\nliving for weeks on eggs, bread, or milk. Surely, thought I, if the\npapists are Christians, they do not feel the faith in Jesus that a true\nChristian enjoys; for this worshipper obeys the traditions and commands\nof men more than the Word of God. I often wished to expound the truth to\nhim; but we never, in all our converse, entered upon matters of faith. I\nworshipped with Grace, as my fathers had done, by ourselves, and he in\nhis room, in perfect harmony. Yet, if strictness of walk and self-denial\nbe accounted holiness, he was far more holy than we; for, though his\nmind was not so much at ease in his faith, his yoke appeared grievous,\nand his burden heavy; and new penances, as he called them, were proofs\nof his ever coming short in his own estimation of his attainable object.\nPoor gentleman, he fell a victim to his own endeavours to attain peace\nof mind by his austerities! He would have been a bright and a shining\nlight, had he only been brought up in the truth, as Grace and I had\nbeen. But I am growing tedious, and wandering from the subject. To be\nshort, his life continued to be what I have described. We continued to\nlove him as a father; and poor Colin\" (pointing to an old dog that lay\nat our feet) \"was his friend and constant companion. No one, save the\nlaird, Grace, and myself, knew he was in our house; and, after two or\nthree years, the laird called upon him often, and passed a few hours\nwith him; but he seemed to feel pleasure only when alone, and engaged in\nhis superstitious devotions. About twelve months since, he began\nevidently to decline in health, and the laird wished to remove him to\nthe Big House, and procure medical attention; but this he would not hear\nmentioned.\n\n\"'I have vowed,' said he, 'to the Virgin, never to leave this place\nalive; but, if you will send to Edinburgh, and get me a priest of our\nHoly Faith, that I may receive the last rites and consolations of the\nTrue Church, my soul will thank you and depart in peace--you, my friend,\nknow whom. If possible, I would wish you to learn if he is still alive;\nhe will not refuse to come.'\n\n\"In a few days after, a stranger came to our door, and gave me a letter\nfor the strange gentleman. I had not seen him for several days, Grace\nbeing his sole attendant; and even she dared not interrupt him but as\nlittle as possible. I was shocked at the change I saw upon him. He lay,\npale and exhausted, his eyes bent on the crucifix, and his thin, wasted\nhands clasped upon his bosom, as if he had been entranced. The sickly\nlight of the wax candle that burned beside the crucifix cast a strange\nlight upon the dead-like body before me. I started back, and looked\naghast. The noise of my entrance had aroused him.\n\n\"'What want you, William?' he inquired, in a hollow voice.\n\n\"'It is a letter for you, sir,' said I, 'brought by a stranger, whom the\nlaird said I might admit.'\n\n\"A glow of pleasure passed over his face, as, with an effort, he raised\nhimself, and took the letter from my hand.\n\n\"'Blessed Jesus!' he said, 'my prayers are heard! Admit him. He brings\nme peace and salvation through the Church. My penitence and penances\nhave prevailed.'\n\n\"After the stranger, who was a Papist priest, was admitted, they\nremained alone until our guest died, which was on the second day after.\nHe was buried by the laird. What or who he was, we never knew. All his\nbooks and papers were taken away; but the consequences of his residence\nstill remain, as a punishment for harbouring a Papist, and suffering\nidolatry under our roof. The room he possessed and died in is, we are\ncertain, disturbed by a spirit. We hear the door open and shut at night,\nand strange noises startle us from our rest. Two visiters, one after the\nother, who attempted to sleep in it, were terrified almost out of their\nsenses; and it is for this reason we could not offer it to you to sleep\nin.\"\n\nMy curiosity was as much awakened by the vague account the good people\ngave me of the room in its present state, as my interest had been\nexcited by the account of the poor outlaw. I am, I confess, not more\nbrave than other people. I never courted danger for the love of it, or\nfled from it to meet dishonour; and, as for the reality of spectres, I\nneither believe nor disbelieve in them; having, in all my travels, never\nseen a legitimate one, nor troubled my head about them. As much through\ncuriosity, I believe, as anything else--for I am sure it was not the\nlove of a good bed, far less an adventure--I told my hosts I would with\npleasure sleep in the room, if they would allow me; and, after some\nhonest endeavours to dissuade me, they consented. Supper and\nfamily-worship being finished, we all three entered the apartment--the\ngood woman insisting upon our company while she prepared my bed, and her\nhusband going more cheerfully when I proposed to accompany them. All\nthe little duties were done by the dame in a hurried, timid manner; and,\nwhile she was occupied, I looked round. The door was only fastened by a\nwooden latch, which opened by a string hung upon the outside. The whole\ninterior had a simple, clean, neat look, which pleased me. After a hasty\ngood-night and God be with you, they withdrew. When I was left alone,\nthe account I had just heard of the strange individual who had for so\nlong a period inhabited the apartment passed over my mind; and who or\nwhat he could be gave rise to many a conjecture. I became low-spirited\nat the thought of the many miseries that human nature is liable to,\nunder reverses of fortune from which neither birth nor riches can\nprotect us. In this frame of mind I retired to rest--the idea of\nanything supernatural never entering my mind, and no shade of fear\ndiscomposing my thoughts. I soon fell asleep. How long I had slept I\nknow not; but I was awakened by a slight noise at the door of the room,\nas if some one had put his hand upon it. I now felt alarmed, and\nexpected to witness some fearful sight. The door opened and shut with a\nfaint clang. I heard a movement on the floor. A cold sweat came over me.\nI raised myself upon my elbow. All was dark--impenetrably dark, and I\nsaw nothing; but the curtains at the foot of the bed shook violently.\n\n\"Who is there?\" I attempted to inquire; but only a faint murmur escaped\nmy lips.\n\nA strange noise and movement on the floor again took place, and I bolted\nup and sat in the bed. The curtains again moved at the head; and, as I\nthought, were partially opened. Still nothing was to be seen, and I put\nforth my hand to grope. Something as cold as death touched it. This was\nmore than I could endure. I sunk upon the bed, buried my head in the\nclothes, and would have cried out; but that terror had paralysed every\nfaculty. Whatever was the cause of my alarm, I now found that the object\nhad come into the bed, and was either seated or lying between me and the\nwall. I dared not uncover my head, or put out my hands to ascertain what\nit might be. The icy feeling still thrilled through my frame; and thus I\nlay in mortal agony, under the conviction that the object still reclined\nimmoveable by my side. My firmness gradually began to return; and with\nit came calm reflection. I thought I heard a heavy breathing; and slowly\nuncovered my head to hear it better. Once more I summoned a desperate\nresolution to put forth my hand. What did my hand encounter?--the shaggy\ncoat of a dog. A gentle whine followed; the next moment my hand was\nlicked by a warm tongue. I smiled at my late alarm. It was Colin.\n\nSoon after daybreak I was awakened by my host, who came to inquire how I\nhad passed the night. He was agreeably surprised to find me safe and\nwell. To his inquiries, I related the adventure of the night without\nconcealing my fears, and the chance there was of my having added one\nmore testimony to the evil report of his apartment. The gratitude of the\ngood people was extreme. They overwhelmed me with their thanks. They\nsaid I had rendered them a service they could not sufficiently repay. I\nhad removed a cause of dread which had cast a gloom over their minds for\nmany months; and, continued William--\n\n\"How silly it was in me not to know or think that it might be\nColin!--for both the people who fled the room in terror gave the same\naccount of the early part of the adventure. Colin, poor thing,\" he said,\nas he patted the head of the dog, \"you little knew the evil you did your\nmaster and mistress. You and he that is gone were dear friends and\ninseparable companions. No Christian could have shown more concern at\nhis death. You never came out from beneath his bed while the body lay on\nit; and, when he was carried out, Grace had to hold you, to prevent your\nsnapping at the company as they bore him away. For long you visited his\ngrave, and sat for hours upon it. It is the remembrance of your old\nfriend that makes you still visit his room when all is quiet at night.\nHe that is now 'where the Lord will,' taught you to take the string in\nyour mouth and pull the latch, that, always welcome, you might enter\nwhen you chose.\"\n\nDuring this address to the dog, he looked wistfully in the face of his\nmaster, as if he comprehended all that was said. The weather having now\ncleared up, the morning was beautiful. After breakfast, I bade adieu to\nmy kind hosts, with a promise that if I ever passed that way I should\nmake their house my home, and sleep in the room I had freed from its\nevil name.\n\nAs I moved cheerfully along the road, chanting some snatch of a song to\nkeep up my spirits, my ears were assailed, at a sudden bend of the road,\nby a rough voice.\n\n\"Holloa, messmate, cast here a few coppers to help to revictual a hulk\nall the doctors in the world could not refit for sea!\"\n\nTurning my eyes to the roadside, I saw, seated upon a bank, two strange\nobjects--a stout young man, in a tattered seaman's dress, with one arm\noff by the shoulder and the other by the elbow, and a young,\ngood-looking, but tattered female by his side. In a moment my hand was\nin my pocket, and, drawing near to them, the female rose and held out\nher palm in dumb show.\n\n\"Not so fast, young woman,\" said I, as I was putting a half-crown into\nhis vest-pocket; \"it is for Jack.\"\n\n\"Bless your honour,\" said he, \"it's all one. That there young one is my\nwife; poor thing, she was struck dumb in real earnest, when she saw me\ncome home to her thus maimed. Bless her pretty face, she did not\nforsake poor Bill for all that.\"\n\nWhile he spoke, a strong feeling came upon me that I had seen his face\nbefore; but when or where I could not call to mind. As I stood gazing\ninto his face, he looked as scrutinisingly at me.\n\n\"Were you ever in the East Indies?\" inquired I.\n\n\"To be sure I was. In that place I lost my precious limbs,\" replied he.\n\n\"Then you must be Bill Kay, whom Captain H----and I left at Bombay,\"\nsaid I.\n\n\"And you are Jack Square,\" said he. \"Give me your hand, old shipmate.\"\nAnd he held up the stump to me, and burst out a-laughing as I shook the\nsleeve.\n\nThe female gave him an angry look, with so much more of meaning than\nanger, that I thought she knew all we said.\n\n\"Come, Betsy, don't be sulky,\" said he; \"I wish to have a bit of a talk\nwith my old mate. Come, be a good girl, and let us go back to Berwick.\nJack Square, you will not be ashamed to walk home with us?\"\n\nThe wife nodded a consent, and away we trudged to the town, from which\nwe were only a small distance.\n\nDuring our walk, I told him that I was on my way to London to look out\nfor a vessel to India, as my fortune had been adverse in Scotland; and I\nwas sick of the land, and careless what became of me.\n\n\"Never strike to an enemy, or quit the pumps while your vessel can\nfloat,\" cried he. \"There are many ways of leading a jovial life. You\nwere always my friend, and a good fellow. Give me your word, Jack, you\nwill either stay and join us, or pass on and do us no harm, and I will\nhave no secrets from you. Speak the word.\"\n\n\"I know not what you mean,\" I replied. \"As for joining you. I do not\nthink, in the meantime, I shall, until I know better about it; and as\nfor hurting you or doing any harm, I give you my sincere assurance I\nwill not, however much I might gain by it.\"\n\n\"Betsy, my dear,\" said he, \"we are not going to the kenn, we will go\nhome. I wish to entertain my old friend.\"\n\nWe then altered our direction, and, after proceeding down a dark and\ndirty lane, entered a neat and well-furnished room. As soon as we\nentered, and the door was shut--\n\n\"Betsy,\" said he, \"there is no use for gammon now; find your tongue,\nlass, and help me to find my arms.\"\n\n\"As you please, Billy,\" said the dumb wife. And both retired to another\napartment, from whence they soon returned--she well dressed, and Bill as\nperfect in every limb as when we had parted, he to remain in India, and\nI to return home.\n\nI believe he had told her his intention and who I was in the time they\nwere away; for, seeing my surprise, he laughed aloud, while she,\nsmiling, took me by the hand, and welcomed me to their house. Now that\nher begging disguise was thrown off, she really was a most bewitching\ngirl, of the gipsy cast--brilliant black eyes and hair, her features\nregular, almost to perfection--the loveliest brunette I had ever seen.\nBill smiled good-naturedly at the admiration my looks expressed, as I\ngazed at her; and, slapping me on the shoulder--\n\n\"Square,\" said he, \"is she not a beauty? You must not fall in love with\nher if you stay--that I must make a condition.\"\n\nWe all laughed.\n\nI said, if I fell in love, I could not help it; the fault was his for\nbringing me into temptation. A large square bottle of brandy and a jug\nof water were set on the table, and while the wife was busy preparing\ndinner, Bill gave me the following account of himself:--\n\n\"You know, Jack, I am no scholar,\" he began; \"only a pretty good seaman,\nas far as hand, reef, or steering goes; so I soon found India was no\nplace for me, in a regular country ship. I could not abide these black,\nlazy, cowardly rascals of lascars; and there were crowds of them in all\nthe vessels I could find. They are well enough in fair weather; but when\nit blows the heart is blown out of them. They are either in the way, or\nskulking in corners; so I took the first opportunity of returning home\nto Britain again. When I came to London, I got into all manner of\nmischief, and lost my guineas like winking, above two hundred in one\nweek; and the remainder, clothes and all, in one night in Wapping; for I\nawoke in the morning in the watch-house, bruised, and with only a\nwatchman's greatcoat thrown over me. I had been thrown out of a window,\nor pushed down some stair, and in that state they told me I was found by\nthe watchman. I had now time to reflect, but nothing to reflect upon,\nfor all I had in the world was a shirt and a pair of trousers. There was\nno charge against me, so I walked from the watch-house like a man adrift\nin an old boat, without oars or food. I went to the wharves, for pity or\nemploy. I got fitted in a kind of way; but could not find a vessel, for\nthere were too many like myself. What to do I knew not. More than once I\nthought of doing as I had been done by--that is, helping myself where I\ncould; but, although I was often without food, and slept in the streets\nor under a boat, I, somehow, could not bring my mind to that. I often\nwished I was again in Scotland, where I had friends and was known; but\nhow to get there I knew not. At length the thought came into my mind--I\ncould beg my way down. I could be no worse than I was in London--and\nwhere was the odds? A beggar in London was no better than a beggar in\nScotland, or anywhere else; for my Scotch pride was by this time starved\nout of me; so off I set, but was poorly enough off, for I was not then\nup to the trade, so my stout look and honest truth met nothing but\nunkindness and insult. At length, one day, as I was on the point of\ndying from starvation (for England is not a country for an honest\nbeggar), I fell upon a gang of gipsies, upon the borders of a heath,\nmaking merry. I joined them, and was kindly and hospitably received.\nBetsy there was one of the troop. From the moment I saw her, I took a\nfancy to her pretty face--joined the gang for her sake, and soon won her\nregard and love. I was now content and happy. We had victuals of the\nbest in plenty, and roamed where we pleased, with no restraint but our\nown wills. I found there was some tough work before my hand. Betsy had\none or two pretenders to her love, in her own and other gangs, and my\nrivals were not to be lightly thought of, for in their minds none but\nthe brave deserve the fair. It is, win your bride and keep her while you\ncan. There was one stout, active fellow, whom her parents intended for\nher husband, but Betsy had no wish for the match, and my arrival\nconfirmed her dislike to him. Our loves were only known to ourselves,\nand our interviews stolen, until my services had gained me the esteem of\nher father. He was patriarch or head of the gang, and kept the common\nstock, guiding our movements and directing our operations as far as our\nwayward fancies could be guided--partly by argument, partly by yielding,\nbut seldom by resorting to punishment, for all was done for our good, to\nthe best of his judgment. No one thought of resisting his control, and\nif any became discontented they left the gang--a step by no means\ndesirable, for our safety lay in the strength of the camp. There is\nscarce a gang but is at feud with some other gang or gangs, and when\nthey meet, nothing but the flight of the weaker, or some other\noverruling cause, prevents a battle, in which murders are not\nunfrequently committed.\n\n\"Under the tuition of Betsy, I became a most expert beggar, as you\nwitnessed this morning. My contributions to the common stock often\nequalled the amount of all the others put together. I became the pride\nof the gang; and no wonder--for I strove for Betsy, and was cheered on\nby her acclaim, while I was scowled at by my rivals, who were quick\nenough, though her parents had no suspicion of it, to see her preference\nof me. When we thought it proper time, I proposed to the father for the\nhand of his daughter. He had no objection to me as a son-in-law, further\nthan that he had all but promised her to Long Ned, but would leave it to\nBetsy and myself to manage the affair as we best could, and would\ninterfere no farther with his authority than for the good of the gang.\nIf Betsy was pleased, he cared not whether Long Ned or I had her. When I\ntold her the result of my conference with her father, she was as well\npleased as myself.\n\n\"'Bill,' she said, 'you will not win me from Long Ned with both ease and\nhonour. He is no contemptible rival. He will be at you as soon as he\ncomes to the camp, for his mother will tell him. Now, be a man, and do\nnot yield while you can stand to him, for, much as I love you--and you\nknow I love you dearly--I could not marry you if you are beat. Nay, the\npeople might make me marry him, and you must leave the gang, or your\nlife would not be safe for one night. What says my Bill?'\n\n\"I looked upon the lovely girl with astonishment, her language was so\nunlike anything I had ever heard from a woman. In Scotland here, if a\nwoman knew her lover was to fight, she would almost go distracted, and\ndo all in her power to prevent him. I could scarcely believe my ears, I\nwas as yet so little used to their ways. As I stood looking at her, a\nshade of anger passed over her face, and the tears came into her eyes;\nshe turned away her head, and sobbed aloud. This roused me.\n\n\"'What ails my Betsy?\" I said, taking her in my arms. She still sobbed,\nand pushed me from her.\n\n\"'I am the most unfortunate girl in the world, she cried. 'I love a man,\nand he is a coward.'\n\n\"'A coward, Betsy!' cried I. 'What do you mean? I am no coward. I fear\nnot the face of clay.'\n\n\"Turning to me with one of her sweet smiles--\n\n\"'I am not deceived, then, in my Bill?' she said. 'He is not afraid of\nLong Ned?'\n\n\"'No, my love; nor of the whole gang, one after another--one down,\nanother come on,' said I. 'Are we friends again?'\n\n\"'O Bill, we are more than friends,' she sobbed. 'I love you dearly, and\nam proud of you.'\n\n\"Arm-in-arm, we returned to the tents.\n\n\"Long Ned had just come home after an excursion; so, as soon as he saw\nus, his rage knew no bounds; and his dark eyes flashed fire, as he came\nforward and ordered me to quit my hold of the girl. There were few words\npassed between us; every one knew what was to take place, so no one\ninterfered further than to see fair play. You recollect, Square, I\nalways loved a bit of a row. The lessons I took on board from Sambo, the\nblack cook, stood me now in great stead. I learned from him the African\nmode, to hold the stick with both hands by the ends, and cover the body\nwith it, more especially the head, having thus the advantage of striking\nwith either hand, and puzzling my opponent. Ned, who was an expert\ncudgel-player, chose that weapon, I, nothing loth, agreed. Two sticks of\nequal length were chosen. Betsy at my side, held my jacket, while Ned's\nmother held his. His anger was so great, he could scarce restrain\nhimself until we were ready. I knew my task, and was cool--as if I\nwaited the boatswain's call to go. So away we went. I at once felt my\nadvantage; and, expert as he was, he could not reach me--my mode\nembarrassed him. I hit him on both sides, not severely, as I might with\nease have done, but he had never touched me. We paused, for a minute or\ntwo, for breath.\n\n\"'Ned,' says I to him, 'I bear you no malice. I could have struck you\ndown every time I have touched you. Yield me Betsy, and be friends.'\n\n\"'I will die first,' he cried, kindling in rage.\n\n\"'And if you yield, I will disown you,' said his mother.\n\n\"As he made at me again--'Don't spare him,' cried Betsy, 'as you wish to\nwin me.'\n\n\"This was enough; but he plied me so hard for some time, that it was\nwith difficulty I could defend myself. I had been hit slightly several\ntimes before an opportunity offered, so active was he and quick in his\nassaults. But my mode was not nearly so exhausting as his; and it being\nnow my turn, I embraced it: down he went as if he had been shot. His\nmother raised him up, and encouraged him to renew the fight; while Betsy\nwiped some blood from my face, which came from a slight wound in the\nforehead; and, squeezing gently my hand, said I was her own brave boy;\nable to win a wife, and protect her. I see you do not much admire my\nstory, but it shows the character of the people I was among. So, the\nshort and the long of it is, Long Ned was carried to his tent, beaten to\nhis mother's satisfaction; and I was married to Betsy next day,\nagreeably to the gipsy fashion--that is, a feast was given to all the\ngang--and her father delivered her up to me with a long harangue,\nconcluding by declaring us man and wife, and the others wishing us joy.\n\n\"Betsy and I did not remain long with the gang after this. Long Ned and\nhis mother were our implacable enemies, and neither of us were safe from\ntheir revenge--not that I cared a straw for them openly, but I knew\ntheir character too well to be at ease. Betsy and I left them, have\nlived well and comfortably since, and could save money, only there is no\noccasion for it. We, like all the men of superior minds in the world,\nlive by our wits; there is no occasion for working when we can live\nwithout. I never want money and a good diet. Now, you say you have no\nparticular object in view, save to get a ship for India: and why should\nyou court difficulties and dangers abroad, when there is so rich a\nprospect before you at home? From experience, I can assure you no trade\nis so easy, or quickly learned, as begging. The first day is the worst;\nafter that it came quite natural and agreeable.\"\n\nThere was a romance and bustle in the events he had narrated, which had\na strange charm for me, and opened up a new leaf in the book of life. I\nhad no conception of beggary but as extreme misery, and, until now, held\nthem as synonymous terms, from what I had witnessed in Edinburgh in the\nearly part of my youth. I had had no idea of the regular systematic\nbeggar. My notions were formed upon the destitute widow and orphan,\nthose whom I had herded with, who shrunk from importunity, and scarce\nlet their wants be known, enduring hunger to the extreme ere they\nstealthily crept forth from their abodes of wretchedness, and returned\nas soon as their urgent wants were satisfied. To Bill I made known my\nsurprise at the history he had given me of himself, and my wonder that\nany one should ask charity, save those who had no other means of\nsupporting themselves.\n\n\"I once knew as little of the matter as you,\" said he, \"but this I know\nnow were none but the really needy to ask charity, they would soon be\nsupplied, and fare well, but it is too good a trade, once begun, to be\ngiven up easily. But here is Betsy, to tell us dinner is ready.\"\n\nThe repast did honour to her cooking, and consisted of the best the town\ncould afford. She herself sat at table, more lady-like than I thought it\npossible a gipsy girl could have done.\n\n\"Bill,\" says I, \"if your trade were as honourable as it appears to be\nprofitable, I would commence it this night.\"\n\n\"And what is more dishonourable in it, than any other calling a man may\nchoose to live by?\" said the young wife, with a smile. \"Is not the\nwhole bent of every one's mind to get as much from every one of his\nfellow-men as he can? Does not the king and his ministers get all they\ncan from the people by taxation? Do not the ministers of the church get\nall they can from their flocks? Do not the lairds get all they can for\ntheir lands, the merchant get all he can for his goods, and the poor man\nget all he can for his labour? Real utility or value enters not into\ntheir minds at bargain-making. It is how they can get most of their\nneighbour's property, in the safest and easiest manner. What is honour\nbut a fluctuating opinion? As I have heard my father say when he spoke\nthe words I am now uttering--it is honourable for kings to take their\nsubjects from their peaceful employments, and send them to plunder and\ndestroy other states, it is honourable to be one of the plunderers; for\none man to shoot another for some trifling word is honourable. Every\nnation has its own notions of this same thing called honour. But we of\nthe wandering tribe think it means gold, for he that has got the most of\nit is the most esteemed, and he that has not a penny in his purse has\nnot a jot of honour, though he had all the virtues. And why? Because,\nfrom the king to the beggar, no one can expect to add to their store\nfrom him. He is an egg already eaten--an empty shell; and, as such,\ncrushed and thrown aside. These are the words of my father.\"\n\nI heard the bewitching creature with astonishment, and could not but\nadmire how easily every class finds consolation to themselves, by\narguing as it suits their views. I had often before remarked, that when\nnumbers of any class associated, they rose in their own estimation; but\nI had no idea that the beggars carried it so far.\n\n\"But it is under deceit and false pretence,\" said I, to enjoy the\npleasure of hearing her speak, \"you extort money from the humane and\ncharitable. I would rather work to the death.\"\n\n\"That is a matter of choice or education,\" replied she. \"We use no more\ndeceit than is necessary to obtain our object, and all the world do the\nsame, while we do more to give pleasure to the good than any other\nclass. Don't we keep alive the kindly feelings of man? My Bill there, as\nyou saw him this morning, was a walking lecture upon the miseries of\nwar, and I am sure, from what I saw in your looks at the time, that you\nfelt a real pleasure in having it in your power to give him the\nhalf-crown--nay, had you walked on, you would have slept the sounder for\nit. Had you tippled it, or spent it foolishly, you would have regretted\nparting with it. Even now, that you think we had no need of it, your\nself-esteem is only wounded at being imposed upon; but your heart\nupbraids you not for your good intentions; and may not a beggar feel\npleasure in the success of his arts as much as those of another\ncalling?\"\n\n\"Does not Betsy speak like a parson?\" said Bill. \"I can't say I feels as\nif all was right when I am rigged out for an excursion; but, somehow,\nshe appears to have reason on her side; and, even if I were to get a\nship, I must leave my pretty Bess, so I just get on; and I am now pretty\nwell used to it. If I had staid by my trade, as my parents wished me, I\ncould have wrought for her at home, but Betsy is pleased, and I have no\nmore to care for.\"\n\n\"And why should I not?\" she quickly replied. \"I have been bred to it,\nand know nothing else. I could not live mewed up in a house, however\ngrand. A wide heath, or a dark wood, with a few light, verdant, sunny\nspots embossed in its bosom, has far more charms for me than a crowded\ncity or painted room; and the piece of money, dexterously obtained, has\na beauty about it that does not belong to the fixed income. I had as\nsoon be in my grave as a sober citizen; for there would be as much\nexercise for the mind in the one case as the other.\"\n\nFor a moment I looked with admiration at the lovely girl, as her face\nglowed with animation while she spoke; but pity soon took its place,\nsuggesting the mournful reflection, that a mind of her powers was in a\nstate of nature, and what it might have been, had it been cultivated. A\nsigh escaped me at the thought of my own inability to lend instruction.\nShe saw the cloud upon my brow.\n\n\"Come, Bill,\" she said, laughing, \"you neglect your friend; he grows\nsad. Shall we to the kenn to-night? We are expected.\"\n\n\"To be sure, Betsy,\" replied he. \"Square, fill your glass; and don't\nbreak your heart because Betsy is my wife, and can't be yours. There\nwill be rare fun, I expect, and would advise you to go.\"\n\nI was in that mood at the time, between the serious and the sad,\ncontrasting the pious and modest Helen Grey with the pert and forward\nbeauty before me. Both were lovely in their persons--but how different\nin expression and mind! Helen was a lily, modest, and filling the air\naround her with a mild perfume; Betsy, an exotic flower, of surpassing\nbeauty, with an odour so powerful, it required time to render it not\noffensive; yet it was a lovely flower, and in a skilful gardener's hands\nwould have been the honour of his plots, and the object of his pride.\nUnder the example and tuition of Helen, I had felt some serious\nimpressions--at times a thorn, at others a balm, as my own wayward\nactions were approved or condemned. I wished to speak seriously to the\ninteresting creature before me, but could not find resolution. I was\nconscious that it would be an evening of regret if I was left alone, so\nI agreed to accompany them.\n\n\"Hurrah!\" shouted Bill; \"you will, I see, be a mumper yet. But you can't\nappear in that rig, Square; you could not get admittance. Betsy will\nfurnish you out of my store. Will you be a soldier, a sailor, or a\nruined, burned-out tradesman? I guess you will be a tar?\"\n\n\"Certainly,\" I replied.\n\n\"Shall you lack a whole fin, or part of one, or be lame of a leg? Make\nyour choice.\"\n\n\"Oh, half-an-arm,\" said I, now ripe for the fun I expected.\n\nIn a few minutes Betsy had me so completely changed, I hardly knew\nmyself, even when I looked in the glass. An immense long tie of false\nhair--mine being then of a sandy colour, the same nearly as Bill's--was\nbrought forth, opened, and my own shorter tie secured in it. With a\nliquid she browned my face. To this I at first objected, until she\nassured me that she would wash it off in the morning. An old pair of\ncanvas trousers, a ragged jacket, a shabby vest and hat, were given to\nme. When I came to put on the jacket, she caused me to double my arm,\nlaying my hand upon the top of my shoulder; and there was a case in the\ntattered arm, made of leather, to receive it. With difficulty my doubled\nlimb was forced in, presenting the elbow first. For some time the\nconstrained position pained me, for there was a flap of leather that\ncame over my open hand, and was made fast to my trousers, to diminish\nthe bulk.\n\n\"Where did you lose your arm, my good lad?\" said the smiling Betsy, as\nshe offered a halfpenny in jest.\n\n\"Faith, I do not know, mistress, if you have not cut it off for me,\" I\nreplied.\n\n\"Jack, that will never do,\" said she, \"I will send for the constable,\nyou impostor;\" and she turned, smiling, from me, with all the airs of a\nfine lady; then, turning round, and assuming the attitude of a beggar,\n\"Bless your pretty face,\" she said, \"sweet lady, spare a halfpenny to a\npoor tar, who lost his precious limb in defending the beauties of Old\nEngland.\"\n\n\"I have no coppers.\"\n\n\"Oh, bless you, beautiful lady,\" she continued, \"I would die of want,\nwere it not for angels like you;\" and she whined along the floor, as if\nshe had followed some one.\n\nBill and I could not refrain from laughter.\n\n\"Does she not do it in style?\" he said, exultingly. \"Take the dear\ncreature's advice, and copy her, and you need never want a good bed and\na good diet, besides money in your fob, and be a jolly beggar.\"\n\n\"Are there more kinds of beggars than one?\" said I.\n\n\"Oh,\" replied he, \"there are many kinds; for instance jolly beggars,\nsturdy beggars, humble beggars, and randy beggars. I had forgot the\ngentle beggars; but you will see them of all description.\"\n\nAnd away we trudged--Betsy as an old decrepid woman, and with so\nwell-managed a metamorphosis, that I, who saw the change effected, could\nscarce believe my eyes. Bill was not the same person I had seen in the\nmorning; he only wanted his left arm, which was bandaged by his side,\nand his leg supported at the knee by a wooden substitute for the lower\npart of it.\n\n\"This,\" said he, \"was my last cruising dress when I was among them. I\nwas maimed, as you see, in the gallant Admiral Hawke's own ship, when we\ndefeated Conflans. You may have either lost your fin there or at Cape\nBreton, for our meetings are a kind of masquerade--no one knows his\nfellow, but as in the character he for the time assumes.\"\n\nAfter a few turns through dark alleys, we arrived at a low dirty-looking\npublic-house. As we entered, Bill whispered in my ear--\n\n\"Now, Square,\" said he, \"this is Liberty Hall--every one eats what he\npleases, drinks what he pleases, and, I may say, speaks as he pleases.\nAll I advise is, do not be too ready to take or give offence. Betsy has\nagreed to sit by you--be guided by her.\"\n\nWe entered one by one. A single flickering light was attached to the\nwall; everything bespoke the most abject poverty, until we had passed\nthrough a second small apartment, when the sound of voices, mixed with\nboisterous laughter, fell upon my ears.\n\n\"We are too late, I fear,\" said Betsy; \"the fun is begun.\"\n\nThe next moment the door opened--and such a scene! I did not think the\nuniverse could have produced such a collection of apparent misery and\nmutilation. The miraculous pool of Siloam, the evening before the angel\ndescended to trouble the waters, I really believe, never furnished such\na spectacle of incurables. To be more particular would only disgust you:\nall was hilarity and vulgar enjoyment. Viands of the richest\nkinds--roast fowls, and meats of all varieties--smoked on a table at one\nside of the room, and which, as called for by the guests, was cut off in\nproportion to the amount ordered, handed to the expectant guest, and the\nmoney received before the plate was delivered. Some had done, and\ncommenced their favourite liquors; others were doing justice to the\ncookery--praising, and not a few finding fault.\n\n\"What shall I have the pleasure of handing to Mr Kay?\" cried the\nlandlord, bowing.\n\n\"Betsy, my love, what shall we have?\" said Bill.\n\n\"What you please, Bill, for myself. Square, what do you wish?\" she said.\n\n\"Oh, I care not,\" I replied.\n\n\"Then, landlord, a duck; and have you any green peas yet?\"\n\n\"The season is backward; I have some,\" replied he, \"but they are a\nlittle high-priced.\"\n\n\"So much the better--send half-a-crown's worth with the duck, for me and\nmy friends.\"\n\n\"Well, Kay, you always do the thing genteelly; but who is this friend of\nyours?\" said a fat little man, in very rusty black, of a clerical cut.\n\n\"An old messmate of mine, I met by chance to-day--a real good un.\"\n\n\"As Mr Kay's friend, I drink your health, and our better acquaintance.\"\n\n\n\"Thank you, doctor,\" said Kay; and I did the same.\n\nAfter every one had satisfied his appetite, and got his liquor before\nhim, the noise of voices, joined to the boisterous laughter, was\nabsolutely deafening--all were in committees of twos and threes,\ntalking. I began to despair of getting my curiosity gratified by Betsy\non the spot; for the noise was so great that to whisper was impossible.\nNever in my life had I witnessed such unbounded apparent happiness and\nglee--all was enjoyment. At length a little hunch-backed caricature of a\nman leaped upon the head of the table, and, seated like a Turk,\ncrosslegged, struck the table with a wooden mallet, and, in a hoarse,\ncroaking voice, commanded silence and attention to their president for\nthe night. In a minute all was still. Without rising to his feet, he\ncroaked forth--\n\n\"Ladies and gentlemen, we are met here to forget the cares and toils of\nthe day. You have all (or you have your purse to blame) had your\npleasure of the eatables--of the drinkables you shall have the same\nprovided. I add no more, save a word for our worthy landlord. He says,\nif we do not be less noisy, and give him less trouble than the last time\nwe met, he must either cease to enjoy our company, or be on more\nintimate terms with the magistrates--an honour he does not covet. He has\nbeen a man to be sought after by the authorities already. Now, ladies\nand gentlemen, I call on Rhyming Bob for his last new song--ruff him in.\nUp rose a tall, gaunt, shabby-genteel, pale-looking figure, bowed to the\ncompany, and began, in a cracked voice, affectedly to chant some\ndoggerel verses against the Ministers of State. I looked inquiringly at\nBetsy.\n\n\"Oh, that is the poet,\" said she; \"a gentle beggar by nature and\nprofession, he has no shift but his verses, and a poor shift it makes\nfor him. He bothers the gentry with his rhymes; sometimes gets kicked\nout, sometimes a six-pence. Hand him, when done, a glass Bill; he has\nbeen more fortunate than usual, if he has one of his own. He had better\nattended to teaching his scholars than song-writing. Our friend the\ndoctor here is also a gentle beggar--he gets nothing on the streets and\nhighways--he writes a good letter as a distressed clergyman or reduced\nman of education, and lives well, as you see. A great number, almost all\nthe maimed, are jolly beggars, like Bill, and what you are to be. They\nhave numerous ways of earning a subsistence, and spend it as freely.\nThey never take anything save money in charity, for, poor souls, they\nare too feeble to carry heavy gifts.\"\n\nThe noisy applause of the poet's song put a stop to our whispering. When\norder was restored, Mrs Kay was called upon for a song. Betsy\nimmediately stood up in her old woman's attire, and astonished me,\nlittle as I know of music, by the sweetness of her voice, and the effect\nwith which she sang, \"An old woman clothed in grey.\" Twice was she\nobliged to sing it to the company, which she did with the utmost good\nnature. When the deafening applause had abated, or, I may rather say,\nthe storm of noises had ceased, a stout, red-haired, broad-shouldered,\nrather shortish man was called upon to sing. He gave a Welsh song, the\nair of which was pretty, but the words uncouth to my ear.\n\n\"That is one of the sturdy beggars,\" said Betsy; \"he refuses nothing\nthat is given him, carries all upon his person, and often, before he\nreaches the proper place to dispose of his gatherings, they amount to\nthe weight of many stones. He always tells the charitable, when asked\nwhat is his complaint that prevents him from working--I can't speak the\nWelsh word, but it means 'sheer laziness.' The people are confounded at\nthe, to them, unintelligible and strange name of the disease, and are\nready to relieve the afflicted man. Once or twice, they say, he has been\ndetected by countrymen of his own, who laughed at his impudence, and\ngave the true meaning of the words. The sturdies are a numerous class.\nThe randies are nearly, if not, of the same class; they abuse and\nthreaten until they are supplied, when they dare with impunity. The\nhumble, poor creatures are old or real cripples--take what they get, and\nare thankful; there is not one of them here this night that I see.\"\n\nWe had now sat in the pandemonium for nearly three hours. The potency of\nthe liquor had for some time began to preponderate--angry words were\nexchanging, and some were sleeping, with their heads leaning upon the\ntable. Bill himself was more than half-seas over, and began to bawl out\na sea-song. Betsy and I endeavoured to keep him in order, and wished him\nto retire. We had succeeded, and were rising to leave the company--Bill\nonly half-inclined--when a stranger entered the hall of confusion and\ndrunkenness. We were on our feet. I saw Betsy turn pale as death, and\nturn her head aside. A number of voices called out, \"Hurrah! hurrah!\nhere is Long Ned.\" A young female, whose eye I had noticed was seldom\nturned from where we sat, cried out--\n\n\"Betsy, you are not going away because your old sweetheart, Long Ned,\nhas come in?\"\n\n\"Shiver my timbers if we are!\" cried Bill; and in a moment sat down and\ncalled for more liquor. I, as well as Betsy, saw that the envious female\nwas bent on mischief; but how to prevent it I knew not. Long Ned had\nseated himself at the other side of the table, gloomy as Satan. I felt\nher tremble, as she sat by my side, I believe more through rage at the\nfemale than fear. Long Ned was evidently bent on some mischief or other,\nand he was quite sober. Bill and he eyed each other for some time. Betsy\nwas coaxing him, to get him away, as well as myself.\n\n\"No, I will not leave the room,\" he said, \"while that scoundrel is in\nit; I will face him, or fight him out, if he says an uncivil word to you\nor myself.\"\n\nThe same female sat only one seat from him; I saw them whispering\ntogether. Betsy's dark eyes glanced fire. She unbuckled his timber leg,\nand took it off. Scarce was this done, when Ned said aloud--\n\n\"Tell me, Kay, how much you have sold the jilt Bessy for. I see she is\nvery gracious with your ac----\" He had only got thus far, when the\nwooden leg was launched across the table, and felled him to the ground.\n\nA scene of uproar and confusion no words can express ensued; the lights\nwere extinguished; blows were dealt furiously around; and the sleepers\nawoke and joined in the strife. Bitterly did I regret my curiosity, as\nwell as the bondage my arm was in from its long confinement; it was\nbenumbed and painful. As I had no immediate interest in the strife, I\nretired to one corner of the room, where I found several as anxious as\nmyself to escape. Shouts of murder and groans were mixed with vengeful\ncries. At length the door was burst open, and a body of constables\nentered. The moment I saw this I slipped along the side of the room and\ndarted past them, receiving in my flight several severe blows, and\nleaving the skirts and breasts of my jacket in the hands of those in the\nway who attempted to stop my career. I turned down the first opening I\ncame to, and ceased to run, as no one appeared to follow me.\nFortunately, I had the old canvass trousers and vest above my own, in\nwhich was secured my guineas and silver. With some difficulty I freed\nmyself from the jacket, then I with ease got off the others, and had the\nmortification to find myself, pretty late in the evening, without a\nlodging, jacket, or hat.\n\nAs I began to cool, and find myself secure from pursuit, the contusions\nI had received from the staves of the constables pained me very much,\nparticularly one I had received upon the head; I put up my hand, and\nfound it bleeding pretty fresh. Thus was I in a fine mess to seek for a\ndecent lodging, or account for my present plight. As I turned over in my\nmind for a plausible story, I perceived a respectable-looking inn still\nopen, and made straight for it. There were several seafaring men, like\ncaptains of coasters, sitting in the tap. When I entered, all eyes were\nturned upon me. The landlord insisted upon turning me out, without\nallowing me to speak. The company took my part, and insisted that I\nshould be heard. I had now my story ready as near the truth as I\ndared--I told them I was a stranger from Scotland, on my way to London,\nin quest of a vessel, and had only arrived in the town that evening,\nwhen I had had a quarrel and fight, having been insulted, and some one\nhad carried off my hat, jacket, and bundle; but that I had plenty of\nmoney to pay my way. As soon as I had finished, the landlord became all\ncivility; I got my head bound up, and a good lodging, and got intimate\nwith one or two of the captains before I retired to bed.\n\nNext morning my head ached, but nothing to speak of. I arose, sent for a\ndealer in clothes, and purchased a jacket and hat, had breakfast, and\ntook a walk through the town. As I did not intend to leave it until I\nhad heard the issue of the brawl, nothing else was talked of. The fight\nbetween them and the constables had been long and severe, for they made\na desperate resistance; and it was not until several of the inhabitants\nhad reinforced the civil power, that the beggars were secured, and\nlodged in jail, male and female. I wished only to know the fate of Bill\nand Betsy, and then started upon my journey--I wished to have no further\nintercourse with them. My bundle, and necessaries in it, I had given up\nfor lost, unless they were liberated, at least Betsy, through the course\nof the day. I could not have found my way to their room without inquiry;\nand this it was neither prudent nor of any use to make, until they were\nliberated. Well, the magistrates were busy examining them, I was told,\nthe whole forenoon, and the issue was, that all the able-bodied\nrascals--Bill amongst the rest--were sent to man His Majesty's navy, and\nthe females were to be confined, and then banished the town for ever.\n\nI returned to my inn, and, by appointment, met my new acquaintances, the\ncaptains;--one of them, the captain of a brig, was loading grain for\nLondon. I was weary of walking on foot, and agreed with him for a\npassage, leaving my conductors to the beggars' ball in durance; the\nmales expecting to be sent off in a day or two, and the females making\nout their solitary confinement, preparatory to their banishment.\n\n\n\n\nLEEIN JAMIE MURDIESTON.\n\n\nWith the exception of one unhappy failing, delicately hinted at in the\ntitle of this sketch, there was nothing really bad in the character of\nMr. James Murdieston. He was an honest, civil, inoffensive, and obliging\nman; but--we neither can nor will conceal the fact--a most determined\ninventor. Yet his lies had no malevolence in them. They were all of the\nvainglorious kind, and never bore reference to any man or woman's\ncharacter or affairs. On the whole, as defensible as lies can be, they\nwere also as harmless. To profession, an enlightener of the world, not\nas a philosopher or teacher of science, but simply as a candle-maker, he\nwas so far a benefactor of mankind, but on a very humble scale--having\nonly the wants of a very small village to supply with the produce of his\nmanufacture.\n\nWith this preamble, we proceed to say, that it happened once upon a time\nthat Jamie Murdieston had to go to Glasgow, on some particular\nbusiness--we believe it was to make a purchase of tallow. On this\noccasion, as on all others when his presence was necessary in the\nwestern metropolis, Jamie took the coach--an opportunity which he always\nprized highly, as affording him admirable scope for the exercise of his\ntalent for romancing. At home, where his propensity was well known, he\ncould get few listeners and still fewer believers; but, on the top of a\ncoach, where he was not known, he was always sure of finding both; and\nhe never failed to make an excellent use of his advantage. It was a\ngreat comfort and satisfaction to Jamie, when he stumbled on an\nunwincing believer. It was a perfect treat to him, since it was one\nwhich he rarely enjoyed. On the occasion of which we are\nspeaking--namely, Jamie's visit to Glasgow--he found himself, on\nascending the coach, seated beside a very engaging young lady, who had\npreferred the outside to the inside, on account of the extreme warmth of\nthe weather, and also for the purpose, as she herself informed Jamie, of\nmore fully enjoying the scenery through which they might pass.\n\n\"Quite richt, mem,\" replied Jamie, on his fair and frank\nfellow-traveller informing him of this last particular, as they rolled\nalong. \"Quite right, mem; for the kintra hereawa is just uncommon\nbeautifu--just uncommon. Do ye see, mem, that bit glisk o' the Clyde,\nthere?--that's a spot I should mind weel, and I will mind it till the\nday o' my death.\"\n\n\"Indeed, sir!\" said the young lady to whom these remarks were addressed.\n\"Pray, what circumstance is it, may I ask, which so solemnly binds your\nrecollections to that particular locality?\"\n\n\"A melancholy aneugh are, I assure ye mem; that's to say, it micht hae\nbeen melancholy, an it warna that Providence had sent me just in time to\nsave the life o' a fellow-cratur.\"\n\nOn this communication being made to her, the young lady for whose\nedification it was intended discovered a degree of agitation and\nsurprise, for which the circumstance itself would hardly account. As it\nescaped Jamie's notice, however, and she was aware that it did so, she\nmerely said--\"Dear me, sir, what was the occurrence you allude to, and\nwhen did it happen?\" But there was an eagerness and an anxiety in her\nmanner, when putting these queries, which she could not altogether\nconceal. Jamie observed it with inward satisfaction, hailing it as an\nassurance that whatever he might communicate would be at once taken for\ngospel. Feeling thus encouraged, Jamie replied--\n\n\"I'll tell ye a' aboot it, mem. Ye see it was just aboot this time\ntwelmonth, I think--yes, just exactly aboot this time--that, as I was ae\nday fishin in the Clyde, at the spot I pointed oot to ye, I was suddenly\nstartled by hearin an awful scream, and, immediately after, a tremendous\nsplash in the water. 'Somebody fa'en in!' says I; and I instantly flang\ndoon my rod, on which I had, at the moment, a saumont fifty pun wecht,\nif he was an unce--and ran roun the bit projectin bank that had keepit\nme frae actually seein what had happened. A weel, on doin this, doesna I\nsee a woman's bonnet floatin on the water--it was a' I could see--and\ngann fast doun wi' the stream, which was geyley swelled at the time.\nSoon becomin aware that the bonnet was on the head o' some unfortunate\nperson, and that she maun perish in a few seconds, if no attempt was\nmade to rescue her, I, without a moment's thocht, threw aff my coat and\nshoon, and jumped in after her; and, as gude luck wad hae't, was the\nmeans o' savin her life; but it was a teuch job, for, by the time I\nreached her, she had sunk, and it wasna till I had dived three times\nthat I got haud o' her. But I _did_ get a grup o' her; and I assure ye I\nheld it, and never let it go till I had her safely on the bank, puir\nthing, and a bit bonny cratur she was.\"\n\nThus far had Jamie got in his interesting story, and much further he\nwould have gone, had he not been suddenly interrupted by his fair\nauditor, who, seizing him by the hand, in a transport of joy and\nsurprise, exclaimed--\n\n\"O my deliverer, my deliverer!--_I_ was the person whom you saved; and\ndelighted will my father, who's inside the coach, be, when he learns we\nhave found you at last. But why, why,\" continued the grateful girl,\nlooking all the gratitude she felt in Jamie's face--\"why did you so\nabruptly and suddenly withdraw yourself, after having done such a\ngenerous and noble deed? We could never find you out, nor obtain the\nsmallest trace of you, although hardly a day has passed since then that\nwe have not made some attempt to accomplish either the one or the other.\nIt was cruel of you not to afford us an opportunity of evincing the deep\nand everlasting gratitude we felt towards you.\"\n\nWe leave the reader to conjecture what was Jamie's amazement on finding\nhimself thus addressed by his fair companion; for we suppose we need\nhardly say that every word of his story about rescuing a young lady from\ndrowning was a lie--an unmitigated, and, so far as he knew certainly, an\nutterly foundationless lie. Well may we then, we think, call on the\nreader to conceive, if he can, Jamie's surprise, when he found his\nnarrative thus strangely converted into truth. He by no means liked it,\nfor it threatened to lead to some awkward discoveries; and, under this\nimpression, he endeavoured to back out, and to separate the two cases by\nsome additional remarks.\n\n\"That's odd,\" he said, on the young lady's imposing on him the character\nof her deliverer--\"verra odd,\" he repeated, but with considerable\nembarrassment in his manner; \"but I dinna think ye're the young leddy I\nsaved that day; she was a hantle stouter than you, and a guid deal\naulder.\"\n\n\"The very same, the very same, I assure you, sir,\" rejoined his fair\ncompanion, laughingly. \"There was no accident of the kind you mentioned,\nat the place you pointed out, during all last summer, but my own. This I\nknow, from our having lived there from the month of March to October. So\nyou must not attempt to balk me of the happiness of believing I have\nfound my deliverer.\"\n\nHere, then, was a poser for Jamie. The young lady, it seems, was\nfamiliar with the place, and knew that no accident, except the one\nwhich, by so odd and unhappy a coincidence for Jamie's veracity, had\nbefallen herself, had occurred there at the period he stated. He must,\ntherefore, either confess to a lie, or quietly pocket the compliments\nthat were thrust on him. On the latter he naturally enough determined;\nbut he wanted no more acknowledgments, as he found them sit on him\nrather awkwardly. In truth, he now began to show as great a reluctance\nto advert to the subject as he had before shown forwardness, and was\nmost evidently desirous of waiving it altogether; but this his fair\ncompanion would by no means allow. She was by far too full of the\nextraordinary chance, and extraordinary good fortune, as she reckoned\nit, of having thus so strangely met with her deliverer, to allow the\nmatter to drop.\n\nBefore going further, we may as well advert to a circumstance which may\nhave a little startled the reader. This is, how it should have happened\nthat Jamie's story of a rescue should have had a counterpart in fact. As\nto this matter, we can only vouch for its being perfectly true. It was a\ncoincidence--certainly an odd one, but not more odd than many that have\nhappened, and are daily occurring. The facts of the case, as we may say,\nwere these:--The young lady's father, who was a wealthy Glasgow\nmerchant, possessed a very pretty little cottage, which he and his\nfamily occasionally occupied during the summer months, at a short\ndistance from the banks of the Clyde, and near to the very spot which\nJamie had so unfortunately chosen as the scene of his exploit; and,\nstill more unluckly for Jamie, it happened that the young lady in\nquestion had actually met with such an accident as that which formed the\ngroundwork of his romance. Moreover, she had, in the case alluded to,\nbeen rescued from a watery grave by a person who chanced to be angling\nnear the spot at the time; but this person had no sooner brought her on\nshore, being assured that her recovery was certain, although she\nappeared at the time insensible, and seen her safely in the charge of\nsome people who had hurried to the scene of the accident, than he had\nsuddenly and abruptly withdrawn, and was no more seen or heard of.\nThese, then, were the facts of that case which so strangely tallied with\nJamie's fiction. It is true that, had the fact and the fiction been\ncarefully collated, a good many small discrepancies would have appeared,\nthat would have at once stripped Jamie of his self-assumed honours; but\nthis not having been done, and the leading incident being the same in\nboth, no such result took place.\n\nTo resume our story. On the arrival of the coach at Glasgow--an event to\nwhich Jamie had been looking forward with great impatience, as the only\noccurrence that could relieve him from his present awkward\npredicament--he bade his fair companion a hurried good-by, and, heedless\nof her remonstrances and entreaties, was hastening down the side of the\ncoach, to make his escape, when the father of the young lady, to whom\nthe latter had hastily communicated the discovery of her deliverer, by\nleaning over the top of the coach, and speaking through the upper part\nof the doorway, suddenly intercepted him.\n\n\"Too bad, sir, too bad,\" said the old gentleman, smilingly, \"to try and\nescape us again. But we have you this time, and will take care that you\ndo not.\" Saying this, Mr. Alston held out his hand to Jamie, and, on\ngrasping the latter's, shook it with the most cordial warmth,\nexpressing, at the same time, the deepest sense of the mighty obligation\nunder which he lay to him, for having so nobly saved his daughter from\nan untimely death--\"An obligation,\" said the good old gentleman, \"which\nI can never repay.\"\n\n\"Dinna speak o't, sir, dinna speak o't,\" said Jamie, in the greatest\nembarrassment, and wishing, the while, that his tongue had been\nblistered when he first opened his mouth on the ill-starred subject of\nthe rescuing. \"Dinna speak o't,\" he said, \"it't just what ae\nfellow-cratur should do for anither.\" And, having said this, Jamie was\nabout to make a sudden bolt, when the old gentleman, perceiving his\nintention, dexterously hooked his arm within Jamie's right; while his\ndaughter, who had by this time joined them, did the same by his left,\nand thus secured him.\n\n\"Away from us you shall not get,\" said Mr. Alston.\n\n\"Indeed you shall not,\" interposed his daughter.\n\n\"You must go home with us,\" resumed the former, \"and receive the thanks\nof my dear wife, who will be delighted to see you, and those of Ellen's\nbrothers and sisters. They are all, I assure you, as grateful to you as\neither I or Ellen herself can possibly be.\"\n\n\"Much obleeged, sir, much obleeged,\" stammered out Jamie, in great\ndistress of mind; \"but, ye see, it's impossible--althegither oot o' the\nquestion; for I have some important business to do, that maun be dune\nbefore I go onywhaur.\"\n\nAnd he struggled to free himself from his captors; but in vain. They\nheld on with a determined gripe.\n\n\"No, no, you must not leave us,\" exclaimed Mr Alston, \"we must not lose\nsight of you, now that we have you. I should be sorry to be the cause of\nany interruption to your business; but we will not detain you an\ninstant. I merely wish, in the meantime, to show you the way to my\nhouse, that you may find it readily when you want it, which I expect\nwill be the moment you get your business finished.\"\n\n\"Really, sir, really,\" exclaimed Jamie, despairingly, and holding\nback to repress the forward movements of Mr. Alston and his\ndaughter--\"really, sir, really I canna gang. I canna on no account. The\nbusiness I hae on haun maun be instantly attended to, and winna admit o'\nthe sma'est delay.\"\n\n\"Well, in that case,\" said the pertinacious Mr. Alston, \"I'll accompany\nyou, and wait your conveniency; and Ellen here will, in the meantime, go\nhome and apprise her mother of her having met with you, and tell her\nthat we shall be there in--in--in what time shall I say?\"\n\n\"An hour--an hour--an hour,\" exclaimed the perplexed romancer, in great\ntribulation--\"say an hour.\"\n\n\"Well, an hour, Ellen. Tell your mother we'll be home in an hour,\" said\nMr. Alston; \"and let her have a little supper prepared for us by that\ntime, and let a bed be got in readiness for our dear friend here. You'll\ntake up your quarters with us, of course,\" turning to Jamie.\n\n\"Oh, surely, surely--wi' great pleasure,\" exclaimed Jamie, hurriedly,\nand scarcely knowing what he said--\"wi' great pleasure, but far owre\nmeikle trouble.\"\n\n\"Trouble!\" said Mr. Alston, contemptuously; \"you, the preserver of my\ndear daughter's life, talk of trouble! No--no; we shall be but too happy\nto have you, to show you, as far as we can, the deep sense we all\nentertain of the unrequitable obligation we lie under to you.\"\n\n\"Don't lose sight of him, papa!\" here exclaimed Miss Alston, in clear\nsoft tones, as she tripped away.\n\n\"No fear, my dear--I'll hold him fast,\" replied her father; and, while\nhe did so, he clutched Jamie with a still surer gripe.\n\nJamie now saw that the old boy was determined not to part with him until\nhe should have run the gauntlet of the whole family's gratitude; and\nonce more did he devoutly wish that his tongue had been anywhere but in\nhis mouth when he first broached the unhappy story of the drowning\nadventure. He had never got into such a scrape before with any of his\nsmall _nouvelettes_, and he almost determined that he would never\npublish another--that he would henceforth deal in nothing but\nwell-authenticated facts. The question, in the meantime, however, was,\nhow to escape the threatened consequences of the one with which he was\nnow entangled, and this question was a poser. There was but one way, and\non this Jamie finally determined. This way was, to bolt for it--to show\nthe old boy a pair of clean heels; and thus at once cut the connection.\nThere was no other way of dealing with the dilemma. Having made up his\nmind to this proceeding, Jamie suddenly stopped at a certain close-mouth\nin the Trongate, and, intimating to his escort that he had a call to\nmake there, requested him to wait an instant till he returned.\n\n\"I'll no keep ye a minnit,\" said Jamie, \"no ae minnit.\"\n\nAnd, leaving the old boy to mount guard till his return, he proceeded up\nthe close, at first leisurely; but, on gaining a turn, which concealed\nhim from his Cerberus, he fairly took to his heels, and emerged in a\ndistant street, to which the close led. Here Jamie drew bridle and\nbreath together, and thanked goodness for his escape; expressing, at\nthe same time, a fervent hope that he would never again meet with Mr.\nAlston or any of his family. Having thus got his head out of the noose,\nJamie adjourned to the quarters which he usually occupied when he went\nto Glasgow; and, on the following day, sallied out to transact the\nbusiness which had brought him to the city. It was not, however, with a\nmind perfectly at ease that Jamie went about this business; for he\ndreaded every moment encountering Mr. Alston or his daughter; and, under\nthis terror, he kept a sharp look-out as he went along, always cutting\nsuddenly across the street, when he got his eyes on any person or\npersons of suspicious appearance--that is, on any old gentleman or young\nlady who bore a real or fancied resemblance to Mr. Alston or his fair\ndaughter; and the sequel will show that his precaution was not an\nunnecessary, although, alas! a vain one.\n\nJust as he turned the corner of a street, who should Jamie see coming\ntowards him, and at the distance of about fifty or eighty yards, but the\nmuch-dreaded Mr. Alston, his daughter, and a brother, a young man of\nabout four-and-twenty! On recognising them, Jamie instantly stopped\nshort, and, after a moment's reflection, determined on having again\nrecourse to his heels--no other way of escape, as in the former\ninstance, appearing practicable. To this proceeding Jamie was further\ninduced by an impression that he had not been seen, or at least\nrecognised; but in this, as will appear, he was mistaken. However, not\naware of the fact, Jamie turned quickly round, and fairly ran for it.\nBut, as we have already hinted, he had been both seen and known by the\nAlstons, and they, believing his anxiety to avoid them proceeded from\nexcessive modesty, and a timid nature that shrank from the noise of its\nown good deeds, resolved on compelling Jamie to submit to their\nacknowledgments; and, acting on this resolution, the young man (who, by\nthe way, was provided with an admirable pair of legs for such purposes)\nwas despatched by his father and sister in pursuit. The effect of this\nproceeding on Jamie, who had become aware of it, by happening to turn\nround for an instant during his flight, was to accelerate his speed. He\nflew like the wind, knocking about and overturning several people in his\nrapid and furious career. Thus the run continued for several minutes,\nwhen Jamie, feeling his wind failing him, and becoming thereby sensible\nthat he could not hold out much longer, made a sudden dive up a\nclose--one of those convenient retreats for \"gentlemen in difficulties;\"\nand, by this cleverly-executed movement, succeeded in fairly throwing\nout his pursuer, who, from the crowded state of the street, did not\nperceive the ruse, but held on his way vigorously, and afforded Jamie\nthe inexpressible satisfaction of seeing him rush past the mouth of the\nentrance in which he was concealed. Feeling now in comparative safety,\nwhich, however, he further insured by going half-way up a stair, Jamie,\nwho was a good deal blown by his exertion, took off his hat, and began\nwiping the perspiration from his face and forehead with his\npocket-handkerchief, and doing all he could to recover his nearly\nexhausted breath.\n\n\"Hech,\" said Jamie, on beginning to respire more freely, and still\nwiping his face assiduously, \"this has been athegither a deevil o' a\njob. Such a rumpus to be kicked up a' out o' nothing! Chased as if I was\na mad dog! It was the maist unlucky _ane_ ever I tell't but catch me\nagain savin onybody frae beein drooned! I'll no touch that style again\nin a hurry, I warrant.\" And with such disjointed remarks as these on his\nunhappy essay in his peculiar art, Jamie beguiled the short time which\nhe thought it necessary to remain in his concealment. This expired--or,\nin other words, thinking the coast now clear--Jamie stole cautiously\ndown the stair, and, on arriving at the bottom, peeped into the close\nbefore venturing out. The survey being satisfactory, Jamie emerged, and\nstealing down the close like a cat, repeated at the foot of it the\noperation of peeping round him, before taking the bold measure of\nstepping into the street. No enemy was in sight, Jamie drew his breath\nfor a desperate adventure. It was a rush he meditated, which should at\nonce carry him clear of the dangerous locality; and he accomplished it.\nFrom that hour, Jamie saw no more of the Alstons, and thus got out of\nthe entangled web which he had woven for himself; but it was not long\nbefore he manufactured another, and a much more troublesome one.\n\nThe day on which the event in Jamie's life which we have just recorded\ntook place, was one of great stir and excitation in Glasgow. It was the\nday of the execution of the Radical, Swan; whose death, on account of\nhis crime having been a political one, was to be attended with some of\nthe appalling ceremonies and peculiar proceedings that usually mark the\nexecution of traitors.\n\nFollowing the general current of the population which, as the hour\nappointed for the horrid exhibition was at hand, was drawing towards the\njail, Jamie soon found himself at the place of execution. Here the\ngeneral, and in some things the particular, appearance of the\npreparations for the approaching tragedy, showed that it was to be one\nof a very unusual kind. A strong party of foot-soldiers surrounded the\ngibbet, while the approaches at either end of the jail were occupied by\ndragoons, who, from the peremptory manner in which they performed their\nduty, in repelling all attempts at affecting a passage by the way which\nthey guarded, sufficiently showed that their orders had been unusually\nstrict. The crowd and general excitement was immense.\n\nAmongst the other objects that attracted Jamie's notice in this imposing\nscene, was a man holding a white horse, and standing a little way aloof\nfrom the crowd. The animal was an ordinary cart-horse, and the person\nwho held it seemed to be a carter by profession. The situation of both\nseemed an odd and unsuitable one, considering attendant circumstances;\nand they, of course, attracted some notice, and excited some curiosity;\nthe more so that the man looked as if he and his horse had some\nbusiness there, and waiting for something or other. Jamie, among the\nrest, was struck with these indications, and, making up to the man,\nbluntly but civilly said--\n\n\"What are ye gaun to be aboot wi' the horse here, frien?\"\n\n\"A job I dinna like verra weel,\" replied the man, whose face was pale,\nand lips white, with some strong internal feeling.\n\n\"What sort o' a job may that be?\" inquired Jamie, his curiosity still\nfurther excited by this answer.\n\n\"If ye wait a while, ye'll see,\" replied the person addressed, in a\nmanner that intimated a desire to hold no further communication on the\nsubject. Jamie took the hint, and walked off. In less than\nquarter-of-an-hour after, the dense mass of human beings that surrounded\nthe gibbet seemed all at once struck with some new and strong feeling of\nexcitement. A suppressed cry or exclamation rolled over that immense sea\nof heads; and the apathy which prevailed before was exchanged for a\nfeeling of intense eagerness and restless curiosity. The first act of\nthe tragedy had commenced; and it was the intelligence of this that was\nnow working its way through the crowd, and producing the excitement\nalluded to. Conscious, with others, that the appalling proceedings of\nthe occasion had opened, Jamie rushed towards the iron railings which\nenclosed a narrow paved way that ran round three sides of the jail, and\nthere saw a scene more horrible than anything that even his own fertile\nimagination could have conceived. This was a hurdle, a machine somewhat\nresembling a Kamtschatkan sledge, raised slightly at either end, and to\nwhich was yoked the identical white horse, held by the head by the\nidentical person, who had attracted Jamie's notice a short while before.\nWithin this hurdle was seated, at one end, the executioner, with a\nbroad, bright, short-handled axe resting on his shoulder; and opposite\nto him, in the other end, sat a quiet, composed-looking old man, of\nabout sixty or sixty-five years of age. This was Swan, the unhappy man\nwho was to suffer. In a second or two, the sledge moved on towards the\nscaffold; and in a second or two more Swan appeared upon the fatal\nplatform. He was perfectly calm and collected throughout the whole of\nthis trying scene, as was made sufficiently evident by his turning round\nto the executioner, and saying, with perfect composure, and an air of\nunconcerted simplicity, \"Tammas, did ye ever see sic a crowd?\" In a\nshort time after, the miserable man was thrown off; and when he had hung\nabout a quarter-of-an-hour or twenty minutes, three town-officers were\nseen to mount the scaffold and approach the body, which they immediately\nproceeded to lower--a ghastly spectacle, as they had to shoulder,\nhandle, and support the corpse in the hideous operation. That operation\nperformed, the body was placed in a position for decapitation, when\nsuddenly another personage appeared on the scaffold. His step was quick\nand hurried. He wore a mask on his face, and was wrapped up in a loose\nblack gown, which entirely concealed his person. On ascending the\nplatform, this appalling personage, without looking to the right or\nleft, quickly passed his hand round or over the neck of the dead man, as\nif to ascertain the proper place to strike. This done, he, with the same\nexpedition, raised the axe, and at one blow severed the head from the\nbody, and instantly thereafter glided from the scaffold, as mysteriously\nand rapidly as he had ascended it; the whole being the work of not more,\nperhaps, than a minute.\n\nAll this, then, Jamie Murdieston saw, and it struck him with horror. But\nwill the reader believe that it should have been the means of getting\nhim into another of his lying predicaments? All will think, we daresay,\nthat it should have had a very opposite effect, and have rather laid\nthan aroused the fibbing spirit that was within him. But, verily, such\nwas not the case.\n\nOn the evening of the same day, Jamie betook himself to a coffee-room,\nto spend an hour, which he found hanging heavy on his hands, in taking a\npeep of the papers, and listening to the varied and desultory\nconversations which are usually to be heard in such places of resort.\nBeing of a social and communicative disposition, Jamie soon began to\ntake a share in the general talk. This talk, for the most part, as might\nbe expected, bore reference to the recent execution, and to the popular\nmovements out of which it had arisen.\n\n\"I'll tell you what it is,\" said Jamie, who was at this particular\nmoment pretty considerably muzzed--\"I'll tell ye what it is,\" he said,\naddressing two men who sat opposite him, and with whom he had got into\nfamiliar conversation--\"the government had better no try ony mair o'\nthae tricks\" (meaning executions for political offences), \"or they'll\nmaybe get their kail through the reek. There's mair mischief brewin in\nthe country than they're aware o'.\"\n\n\"Faith, it's just as ye say, frien,\" said one of the persons spoken to.\n\"There _is_ some wark gaun on that'll bother the big-wigs at Lunnun,\nwhen the proper time comes. But _we're_ no just ripe yet. Onything doin\namang the _Friends_ in your pairt o' the country?\"\n\n\"We're gettin on cannily, but surely,\" replied Jamie, with a significant\nlook to the querist. Then, with a wink, pregnant with mysterious\nintelligence--\"I ken twa or three things aboot thae matters that haena\nbeen cried at the cross.\"\n\nOn this, one of the men opposite Jamie stretched himself across the\ntable, and whispered in his ear--\n\n\"Are ye headin ony movement in your quarter, noo?\"\n\nJamie replied with an expressive nod, and a look of great importance;\nbut did not think it necessary, or perhaps safe, to speak.\n\n\"Gie's yer haun, my frien,\" said the man who had whispered in Jamie's\near, with an air of high-wrought enthusiasm. \"I honour you for your\nprinciples,\" he added, shaking, with great cordiality, the hand that was\nextended to him, and at the same time turning off the contents of his\nglass to Jamie's success.\n\n\"Thank ye, frien--thank ye,\" said Jamie, who, the reader will see, had\nall at once set up for a Radical leader. \"I'll tell ye what,\" he\ncontinued, now leaning over the table towards his cronies, and speaking\nin a cautiously low tone--\"as I see ye're friens o' the guid cause, I'll\ngie ye some intelligence that ye'll be glad aneugh to hear, I daresay.\nWe're, ye see, a hunner strong in oor quarter, and as fine a set o'\nstout, resolute fallows as ye wad wish to see, and a' ready to turn oot\nat a moment's notice. I'm their captain, ye see. They hae done me the\nhonour o' makin me their captain--a very unworthy, but a very willin\nane. But, ah! sirs, we had a sad fecht to get arms; and they wad never\nhae been gotten an I hadna advanced a hunner poun oot o' my ain pouch;\ntakin bills frae the committee for the amount, payable oot o' the first\nand readiest whan a's settled.\"\n\n\"I'm sure _the_ cause is much indebted to ye,\" here interrupted one of\nJamie's new friends. \"And hoo are ye armed noo, then?\"\n\n\"Ou, pretty weel--pretty weel,\" replied Jamie--\"maistly pikes; for, ye\nsee, wi' oor sma' funds, we couldna touch fire-arms, although there's a\nfew o' thae among us too. But oor pikes'll be found troublesome things,\nI'm thinkin. They're made after a fashion o' my ain invention. This is\nthe shape, ye see.\" And here Jamie dipped his forefinger into his\ntumbler, and therewith proceeded to draw the figure of a very\nformidable-looking weapon on the table. \"That, ye see, is for stabbin,\nand that's for cuttin, and that's for hookin, and that's for knockin\ndoon,\" continued Jamie, pointing out the various properties of the\ncomplex instrument. \"Winna that be a botherer?\"\n\n\"My feth, in guid hauns it'll be that,\" responded one of Jamie's\nfriends; and added, \"Are ye drillin hard?\"\n\n\"Every nicht that we hae the least glint o' moonshine,\" replied Jamie,\nwithout a moment's hesitation. \"I gie them twa hours o't every nicht,\nand am teachin them a new sort o' pike exercise, that'll be fand, if I'm\nno mistaen, particularly effectual in keepin off horse.\"\n\n\"Where learned ye the use o' that weapon, sir, if I may take the liberty\nof asking?\" inquired the former querist.\n\nFew questions found Jamie unprepared with an answer.\n\n\"I'll tell ye that, frien,\" he replied. \"It was in the Lancers. I was\nnine years a serjeant in that corps, which I left after the battle of\nWaterloo, in consequence o' a severe wound I got in that engagement. But\nwhat's come o' yer frien?\" here said Jamie, suddenly interrupting\nhimself, and now adverting, for the first time, to the absence of the\ncompanion of the person whom he addressed, and who had slipped out,\nwithout saying anything, about a quarter-of-an-hour before.\n\n\"He'll be here in a minute,\" was the reply; and the calculation was\nperfectly correct. In about a minute, the man appeared, but not alone.\nHe was now accompanied by three most equivocal-looking persons.\n\n\"That's your man,\" he said, with an inclination of his head towards\nJamie Murdieston.\n\n\"Friend,\" said one of the strangers, laying his hand on Jamie's\nshoulder, \"you'll come along with us, if you please.\"\n\n\"Alang wi' you!\" exclaimed Jamie, in the utmost amazement. \"I wad like\nto ken whar and what for, first.\"\n\n\"We'll let you know all that by and by, friend,\" replied the spokesman\nof the party; \"but, in the meantime, you _must_ go with us; so there's\nno use in palavering about it.\"\n\n\"I'll be hanged if I do, then,\" said Jamie, resolutely, \"till I ken what\nfor. 'Od, this is a pretty business! Do you tak me to be a robber or a\nmurderer?\"\n\n\"No, but we take you to be a traitor, a conspirer against the\ngovernment, and a leaguer with its enemies; and as such I apprehend\nyou,\" said the spokesman, at the same time collaring Jamie, and calling\non his assistants to aid him in making a forcible capture of his person.\nThe call was instantly obeyed. Jamie was seized on all sides, at one and\nthe same instant of time, and, despite of a loud and most earnest denial\nof all hostility to the government, or of ever having in any way or\nmanner whatever aided in disturbing the peace of the realm, was dragged\nout of the apartment, and finally snugly deposited in an airy cell in\nthe city jail.\n\nOn being left to himself, Jamie, in no very happy mood, seated himself\non a bench that ran along the wall, threw one leg over the other,\nplanted his elbow on his knee, and, supporting his head with his hand,\nbegan to entertain himself with some reflections on the very\nextraordinary predicament into which he had been thus so suddenly and\nunexpectedly thrown.\n\n\"Preserve us, this is awfu!\" said Jamie. \"Waur a great deal than the\ndroonin business. What the deevil tempted me to speak such nonsense? But\nwha could hae thocht this wad hae come o't? A bit harmless piece o'\nfalderal. Yon twa maun hae been a pair o' infernal scoundrels--that's\nclear; and as clear is it that I'm in a most wickedly-awkward situation.\nI maun, I suppose, either submit to be hanged peaceably, or confess that\nI hae been tellin a most unconscionable lee--no a very pleasant\nalternative; but the last's better than the first, I reckon.\"\n\nJamie's communings were at this time interrupted by the entrance of the\njailer, who came to see that all was right for the night.\n\n\"Man,\" said Jamie, addressing him, and trying to smile graciously, in\norder to propitiate his good-will, \"this is a queer business.\"\n\n\"I rather think you'll find it so,\" replied the jailer, coolly, and\nunaffected by Jamie's soothing advances. \"Both a queer business, and a\nserious one.\"\n\n\"It was a' a joke, man,\" said Jamie.\n\n\"Perhaps so,\" said the jailer; \"but, like many other jokes, you may\nchance to find it attended with rather awkward consequences.\" And,\nwithout saying more, the man banged to the door with a violence that\nmade the long passage on which it opened ring with an iron sound, and\nleft Jamie to find what repose he might.\n\n\"The fallow'll no believe me,\" he said, on being again left to himself,\n\"nae mair than if he kent me.\"\n\nOn the following morning, Jamie was conducted in procession, by three or\nfour criminal officers, into the presence of the Procurator-Fiscal, when\na precognition on his case immediately ensued.\n\n\"Well, sir,\" said the latter, at the same time referring to a paper\nwhich lay on his desk before him, \"so you have taken up arms against the\ngovernment.\"\n\n\"Naething o' the kind, my lord, I assure you,\" said Jamie.\n\n\"What, sir! do you mean to deny your spontaneous acknowledgment of the\nfact, made last night in the presence of two credible witnesses?\"\n\n\"Indeed do I, my lord.\"\n\n\"Why, you _may_,\" replied the fiscal, emphatically; \"but, I fear, it\nwill do no good. Have you not mustered a body of armed men, or at least\ntaken the command of such a body, with the intention of overthrowing the\ngovernment of the country?--and have you not furnished them with funds\nto procure arms?--and are you not in the habit of training them nightly,\nas their captain, or leader, in military exercises?--and----\"\n\n\"It's a' a lee, my lord--a lee frae beginnin to end,\" here interposed\nJamie, earnestly. \"I just spoke a' that nonsense for a bit o' diversion.\nIt's just a way I hae, you see\" (thus delicately did Jamie allude to his\nfailing), \"o' amusin mysel and my friens.\"\n\n\"Oh, then, you mean to deny _in toto_,\" said the fiscal. \"In that case,\nwe must adopt other proceedings; and, in the meantime, you return to\njail.\"\n\nTo his old quarters, accordingly, Jamie was forthwith carried, and there\nlay for three entire days, until the result of the inquiries which were\nset on foot established that he was indeed no traitor, but a most\ninveterate and incorrigible liar. It is said, however, that Jamie, after\nthis, was a great deal more cautious as to the nature and character of\nhis romances, and as to the when, where, and to whom they were\npromulgated.\n\n\n\n\nDUNCAN M'ARTHUR.\n\n\nIn the year 1778, Mr M'Donald, an extensive West India planter, from the\nisland of Jamaica, came to Scotland, on a visit to his friends and\nrelations in the West Highlands; amongst whom he spent several months,\ngoing from place to place, living a week or two here, and a week or two\nthere, as chance or other circumstances directed.\n\nDuring one of these migrations, this gentleman came one day,\naccidentally, in a solitary place on the banks of Loch Awe, on a little\nkilted, barelegged, and bareheaded Highland boy, busily employed in\nlaunching a little fleet of paper-sailed boats on the lake. The\nsituation in which Mr M'Donald was at the moment placed, was one of\nthose which strongly predispose one to enter into conversation with\nwhomsoever chance may throw in the way, without much regard to age, sex,\nor appearance. The day was delightful--it was in the middle of June; the\nplace lonely, and the scenery around of the most sublime and beautiful\nkind--the most beautiful, perhaps, in the Highlands of Scotland; and\nthis, as our readers know, is no mean character of its perfections.\nThese were the circumstances, then, in which Mr M'Donald was placed on\nthe occasion to which we have alluded, and on him they had the effect\nwhich they would have had on anybody else--namely, that of opening up\nthe sympathies of his nature, of extinguishing the littleness of pride,\nand of inducing one general feeling of benevolence; and it was in this\nhappy frame of mind that he now reined in his horse, and accosted the\nyoung stranger.\n\n\"Well, my little fellow,\" he said, \"what's this you're about?\"\n\nThe boy looked up in his face, and blushed and smiled at the same time,\nbut made no reply, conceiving one unnecessary, as his employment was\nsufficiently evident. There was in that single look of the boy's,\nhowever, an expression of openness and intelligence that at once caught\nMr M'Donald's fancy; and he immediately added, good-naturedly, \"Where\nare all these ships going to?\"\n\nThe boy again looked up in his face and laughed, but now vouchsafed a\nreply:--\n\n\"To the West Indies, sir, for cargoes of rum and sugar.\"\n\nThis was spoken in pretty fair English, though strongly tinctured with\nthe Celtic accent.\n\n\"Indeed!\" rejoined Mr M'Donald; \"my word, but you are an extensive\ntrader, if it be the case, as I have no doubt it is, that all these fine\nships are your own. What's your name, my little fellow?\"\n\n\"Duncan M'Arthur, sir.\"\n\n\"Are you at school?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir; I'm just now on my way home from it.\"\n\n\"What are you learning there?\"\n\n\"English, writing, and arithmetic.\"\n\n\"Can you write pretty well?\"\n\n\"Ou ay, sir--middlin.\"\n\n\"Count?\"\n\n\"Ay--middlin, too, sir.\"\n\n\"That's a clever fellow. How should you like, now, to go abroad, and see\nthe world? How should you like to go where you have just now sent these\nships?\"\n\n\"It's mysel, sir, wad like it weel,\" said the boy, his sharp,\nintelligent little eye brightening with the idea; \"but my faither\ncouldna want me for herdin the cows, and helpin him wi' his peats.\"\n\n\"Where does your father live, my boy?\" inquired Mr M'Donald.\n\n\"At the Ferry o' Bunaw, sir.\"\n\nIt was within half-a-mile of the house to which the latter was just\ngoing, and where he intended stopping for a few days, previous to his\nleaving the country for good and all.\n\n\"Well, my little fellow,\" he said, \"I am going to Blackhouse. You know\nit, I fancy?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\"Well, call upon me there to-morrow forenoon. Ask for Mr M'Donald. I\nwish to speak further with you.\"\n\nThe boy promised, and Mr M'Donald rode off.\n\nNow, it would not be easy for us to say what were the latter's\nintentions regarding the little barelegged boy; and for this simple\nreason--that he did not well know himself. He had, however, taken a\nfancy to the boy--that is certain--and felt a disposition to do him a\nservice, although he had not yet thought of what nature this should be,\nor how it was to be done. He had, in truth, no definite views on the\nsubject; but he had not ridden far, when these began to assume something\nof a tangible shape, and this was, to take the boy into his service as a\npersonal attendant, provided his parents should agree to it.\n\nTrue to his appointment, little Duncan waited next day on Mr M'Donald,\nhis face well washed, and his hair carefully combed over his forehead.\n\n\"Ah, Duncan, are you there?\" said the latter, on his entering the\napartment where he was. \"I'm glad to see you. You said yesterday,\nDuncan, that you would like to go abroad.\"\n\n\"Weel wad I like that, sir,\" replied the little bare-breeched\nHighlander, \"if my faither could spare me.\"\n\n\"Did you speak to your father on the subject, Duncan?\"\n\n\"I tell't him that I met you, sir, and what you said.\"\n\n\"Ay; and what did he say, my little fellow?\"\n\n\"He said, sir, 'The shentleman's been shoking you, Duncan; but ye may go\ndown to Blackhouse, as he pade you, and see what he has to say.'\"\n\nAnd Duncan looked at Mr M'Donald as if he would be glad himself to know\nwhether there was anything of a joke in the matter. Indeed, it was for\nthis purpose that he repeated his father's words, cunningly availing\nhimself of them to elicit the information he wanted.\n\n\"Joking you, Duncan!\" repeated Mr M'Donald, smiling. \"By no means; and\nof this I'll soon convince both you and your father.\"\n\nHaving said this, he took up his hat and stick, and desired the boy to\nconduct him to his father's.\n\nThe house was one of the poorest class; and it was evident, from\neverything within and around it, that it was a hard struggle with its\noccupants to make, as the saying has it, \"the two ends to meet.\"\n\nHaving found Duncan's father, Mr M'Donald explained to him his views\nregarding his son. These were readily acceded to by both the boy's\nparents, who, though they sorely grudged to part with their little\nDuncan, yet saw that it might be for his advantage, and therefore felt\nthemselves called on to sacrifice their own feelings in a case which\nseemed to involve his future welfare. At this interview it was settled,\nin short, that he should enter the service of Mr M'Donald, and of course\nleave the country with him when he went.\n\nThree days after this, Duncan bade farewell to his parents and the home\nof his childhood. His patron was about to set out for Greenock, and\nthere to embark for Jamaica. The parting was a bitter one. His father\nclasped him in his arms; and, while those tears, which no danger to\nhimself, and no sufferings merely his own, could ever have drawn from\nhim, streamed down his rugged cheeks, he fervently and solemnly prayed,\nin Gaelic--in his own impressive language--for a blessing on his child.\n\n\"When I have had such a parting as this, Duncan,\" he said,\nafterwards--\"and many of them I've had with my brethren, and with more\nremote but still dear friends--it was the honour of our country and our\nname that caused the separation. They had girded on the sword, and went\nto seek distinction in the ranks of war, and on the field of battle.\nThey went to be soldiers, Duncan; and I could wish that you had been now\nfollowing their footsteps. But it may be better as it is. Your days may\nbe more, though your reputation should be less. A different destiny\nseems meted out for you.\"\n\nBut it was in the case of his mother that the parting of little Duncan\nwas most affecting. She held the boy to her bosom, as if she meant that\nhe should never again leave it, and loaded him with all the tender\nepithets which her memory could supply, and with which the Gaelic\nlanguage so much abounds. On exhausting these, she proceeded to deplore\nthe approaching separation from her child, in that affecting strain, at\nonce metaphorical and poetical, peculiar to her country on such and\nsimilar occasions.\n\n\"This day, my Duncan,\" she said, \"the light of the sun is obscured to\nyour mother's eyes, and he shines not as he did before. The green woods\nhave lost their verdure, and the once sparkling waters of the fountain\ntheir brightness. A dark cloud is on the face of the sun, that will\nlong, long remain, though none but your mother's eye will see it; a\nblight, that she alone can perceive, is on the lovely woods of Ardmoran;\nand, pure though the waters of the fountain may appear to others, to\nher, Duncan, they will henceforth seem soiled and discoloured.\"\n\nSuch was the figurative language in which Duncan's mother went on to\ndescribe her feelings as they were, and as she anticipated they would\nbe; and such was the strain in which she deplored the impending\nseparation from her child.\n\nBut this could be but of short duration. The moment of final separation\narrived, and Duncan hastened to rejoin his master, who was about to\nembark in a small sailing vessel (there being then no steamboats on the\nClyde) for Greenock.\n\nOn going up the river, the boy was observed by the captain of the vessel\nleaning over the side, and gazing with the most earnest attention at\nsomething on the shore. The man's curiosity was excited by the\ncircumstance, and he asked him what he was looking at so intently.\n\n\"Oh, sir,\" replied Duncan, with great simplicity of manner, \"I'm looking\nat yon beautiful hoose yonder,\" pointing to a handsome house that stood\namidst an embowering wood on the face of a gentle acclivity. \"It's the\nbonniest I ever saw.\"\n\n\"Yes, my man, it's a very fine house,\" replied the skipper. \"Should you\nlike to live in such a house as that?\"\n\nThe boy looked up in his face and smiled--\"That I would, sir; and, if I\nhad plenty of money, I would buy't, for I have never seen such a pretty\nplace.\"\n\n\"Why, man,\" replied the good-natured seaman, \"perhaps you may be able to\nbuy it yet, or at least as good.\"\n\nDuncan smiled, and shook his head; but, from this moment, the vision of\nthat house took possession of the boy's fancy, by one of those\nunaccountable and uncontrollable emotions of the mind, which all must\nhave felt in particular instances; and, as long as he lived, he never\nforgot it. It haunted him in his sleep, and was the frequent\nresting-point of his memory, when far away in a foreign land. It was,\nindeed, a boyish fancy; but it was one of those enduring ones that no\nvicissitudes of after-life have power to efface, but that, on the\ncontrary, grow the brighter, the further they are removed by distance or\nby time.\n\nShortly after arriving in Greenock, Duncan's nether man was arrayed, for\nthe first time, in a pair of inexpressibles and the kilt thrown aside.\nTo these were added a trim short coat, ornamented with the M'Donald\nlivery; and a smart hat, adorned with a gold band--and thus was the\nfirst step of Duncan's metamorphosis completed.\n\nFor some time, the trousers bothered him a good deal as they felt\nextremely tight and uncomfortable--not allowing his limbs that freedom\nof motion which they enjoyed in such perfection beneath the airy\nenvelopes of the kilt; but he in time got used to them, and even allowed\nlatterly that they were a very good contrivance.\n\nPrevious to this, however--that is, previous to striking the\nkilt--Duncan had made several excursions around the town, his master\nhaving left him in the hands of the tailor, and gone to see some\nfriends in Glasgow, where he meant to spend a day or two before\nembarking. One of these excursions included a visit to that paradise of\na place that had caught his eye in coming up the Clyde. It was only\nthree or four miles distant; and he found it, on a nearer inspection,\nall that his fancy had conceived it from a more distant view. But\nDuncan's curiosity prompting him to venture farther into the enclosed\ngrounds than was permitted to strangers, he was seen by one of the\nguardians of the place; and his kilt not increasing the man's notions of\nhis respectability, or of the innocency of his intentions, he gave him\nchase, with a loud whoop and holloa. Duncan saw the enemy approaching,\nand took to his heels, and finally succeeded in clearing the outermost\nfence, just in time to save himself from a good drubbing.\n\nThis incident, on which he had by no means calculated, disturbed his\nideas of his Elysium a little, and convinced him that the beauties he so\nmuch admired were not at all intended for the enjoyment of such poor\nlittle ragged rascals as himself--that they were reserved for the great\nand the wealthy alone.\n\nSome days after this, Duncan embarked, with his master, for Jamaica,\nwhere they arrived safely, at the end of about the usual period consumed\nin that voyage. And with this event the first act of our little drama\ncloses. The curtain is dropped, and a distinct division in the story is\nmarked. A brief interval, and the curtain is again raised; but by no\nmeans so brief is the time that elapses in the progress of our tale--for\nthis is no less than thirty years.\n\nIt was, then, on a fine summer day, precisely thirty years after Duncan\nM'Arthur had embarked with his master for Jamaica, that a splendid\ncarriage, with servants in livery, was seen rolling along the Gourock\nroad. On coming opposite a certain gate, which led to a handsome house\non the face of a low hill (it was the same house which had so much taken\nthe fancy of the little barelegged Highland boy thirty years before),\nthe carriage stopped, and the gentleman who occupied it, seemingly\nattracted by a large board suspended from a tree, stepped out and read\non the latter--\"This house and adjoining property on sale.\"\n\nHaving obtained this piece of information, he opened the gate, and\nwalked leisurely up towards the house, carefully examining the grounds\nas he went along. On arriving in front of the mansion, he was accosted\nby a feeble old man, who approached him with the most profound respect;\nand, bowing low, inquired if he wished to inspect the premises. The\nstranger looked hard for some seconds at the querist, without making any\nreply; but at length answered, \"Yes, my honest man, I do wish to look at\nthe premises. The house and grounds are on sale, I see.\"\n\n\"They are, sir,\" replied the old man--\"and a bonny spot it is.\"\n\n\"The place certainly looks very well,\" replied the gentleman. \"Is the\nhouse in good repair?\"\n\n\"Excellent, sir. The factor, Mr M'Ausline, keeps a' in guid order, baith\nwithout and within; kennin it's the only way to bring a customer.\"\n\n\"Ah! he's right there.\"\n\nThe stranger, conducted by the old man, now went through every room in\nthe house, and examined them with a care and minuteness that showed he\nentertained serious intentions regarding the property. The house\ninspected, he proceeded to the garden, looked into all the outhouses,\nand made a general survey of the grounds in the immediate neighbourhood\nof the house. This done, he slipped a crown-piece into the old man's\nhand, and returned to his carriage, which was waiting him where he had\nleft it.\n\nOn the next day, the very same carriage of which we have spoken drew up\nbefore Mr M'Ausline's door; and the lackey having rung the bell, and\nascertained that that person was within, the same gentleman who had\noccupied it on the preceding day jumped out, and entered the house.\n\nOn being ushered into the apartment in which Mr M'Ausline was--\n\n\"You have, sir, I believe,\" he said, \"the management of the sale of\nBellevue House and grounds?\"\n\n\"I have, sir.\"\n\n\"Well, Mr M'Ausline, I have been looking at them; and if you and I can\ncome to terms, it is not unlikely that I may become the purchaser.\"\n\nMr M'Ausline bowed.\n\n\"What is the upset price, sir?\"\n\n\"Twenty-five thousand pounds, sir.\"\n\n\"A long price.\"\n\n\"Why, sir, it's well worth the money,\" said the factor.\n\n\"Perhaps it may, sir; but let me look at the plans, &c., if you please.\"\n\nThey were immediately produced, and, in a few minutes, the stranger and\nMr M'Ausline were up to the elbows in papers; the former examining every\ndocument connected with the property, and the latter explaining and\nenlarging on each as it came under investigation.\n\nAt the conclusion of this scrutiny, the stranger rose to depart, saying,\nat the same time, to Mr M'Ausline, that he would hear from him in a day\nor two.\n\nJust as he was going away, the latter asked, with some hesitation of\nmanner, as if he feared the question might be thought rude, if he would\nhave the goodness to favour him with his name.\n\n\"Dear me,\" replied the stranger, \"how stupid that I did not think of\nmentioning that of my own accord! It is one of the first things I should\nhave communicated to you. My name, sir, is M'Arthur--Duncan M'Arthur,\nlate of the Island of Jamaica.\"\n\nMr M'Ausline bowed low at the name; for, although he did not know Mr\nM'Arthur personally, it was one with which he was familiar, and which he\nknew was that of one of the wealthiest men in the West Indies. Need we\nadd, that this Mr M'Arthur was no other than the little kilted,\nbarelegged Highland boy whom we introduced to the reader at the outset\nof our story.\n\nHow he arrived at the high degree of prosperity which he now enjoyed, we\nshall make known before we have done; but, in the meantime, we shall\nconduct his transaction with M'Ausline to a close.\n\nAgreeably to his promise, Mr M'Arthur again called on that gentleman, at\nthe expiry of about a week, and having previously satisfied himself of\nthe value of the property in dependence, concluded the purchase, and\npaid down the money.\n\nOn the very same day, he went down again to Bellevue, which was now his,\nthe identical house which had so much struck his fancy when a boy.\n\nOn this occasion, he was again attended by the old man of whom we have\nalready spoken.\n\n\"Well,\" said Mr M'Arthur, on the latter approaching him, \"I have\nconcluded the purchase for this place. The money is paid, and it is now\nmine.\"\n\n\"I'm glad to hear it, sir, and long may you live to enjoy it!\" replied\nthe old man.\n\n\"Thank you, my friend--thank you. What's your name?\"\n\n\"James Moffat, sir.\"\n\n\"Ay, well, James,\" continued Mr M'Arthur, \"do you recollect of chasing a\nlittle barelegged Highland boy out of these grounds one day, about--let\nme see--ay, I daresay it will be about thirty years since? See, there,\"\nhe added, pointing to a particular piece of ground--\"there is the very\nspot on which he stood when you discovered him; and there\" (pointing to\na particular part of the fence which enclosed the grounds) \"is precisely\nthe place where he escaped you. Do you recollect of this, James?\"\n\nThe old man thought for a moment; then looking in Mr M'Arthur's face,\nand smiling, \"Yes, sir, now that you remind me of it, I do recollect the\ncircumstance, and very distinctly. The little fellow had come, I\nthought, to carry off some of our hens and chickens, as we were then,\nand are yet, very much annoyed by young depredators of that description.\nBut may I ask your honour how your honour happens to know so well about\nthat affair?\"\n\n\"Troth, James,\" replied Mr M'Arthur, laughing, \"I have good cause to\nknow well about it; for that boy was no other than myself, James.\"\n\nJames looked unutterable things on this announcement being made to him,\nand could only come out with the words--\"Impossible, sir! It canna be.\"\n\n\"Nothing at all impossible in it, my honest friend,\" replied Mr\nM'Arthur, again laughing. \"It was indeed I, James; but I deny having had\nany felonious intentions on your hens and chickens, or anything whatever\nbelonging to you. It was curiosity alone that prompted me. I was struck,\nboy as I was, with the beauties of the place, and had just taken the\nliberty of coming in to enjoy them a little.\"\n\n\"Aweel, sir, the like o' this I never heard o', or met wi', or onybody\nelse, I daresay. Wha wad ever hae thocht or dreamt o' such a thing?\"\n\n\"It is certainty rather odd, my friend,\" said Mr M'Arthur; \"but you know\nit has been often said, and truly, that more strange things have\nhappened in real life than ever were invented by story-tellers.\"\n\n\"I've often heard that, sir,\" replied the old man; \"and I consider this\na very remarkable proof o't.\"\n\n\"Yes, James,\" continued Mr M'Arthur, \"at the moment when you discovered\nme, a barefooted and barelegged boy, trespassing on your premises, I had\njust formed the resolution which I have this day, at the distance of\nthirty years, carried into effect. I had then determined that I should\npurchase this property, if ever I became rich enough to do so. But,\"\nadded Mr M'Arthur, smiling, \"every dog has his day, James. You turned me\noff the grounds when you had the power, and you will not think it\nunreasonable, now that I have it, if I turn you off--eh?\"\n\nThe poor old man looked a little disconcerted at this speech; not being\nquite sure whether it was spoken in jest or earnest.\n\n\"I canna say, sir,\" he said, looking at the querist doubtingly, and with\na forced smile, \"but what it wad be but fair.\"\n\nMr M'Arthur saw the uneasiness which his joke had created, and hastened\nto relieve the old man's fears, by assuring him that he was welcome to\nremain on the property, rent free, as long as he chose; and not only\nthat, but that he should have every indulgence and accommodation which\nhe might require.\n\nHaving brought our story to this point, we now return to trace the\ncourse of those events which raised Mr M'Arthur from the humble station\nin which he began life, to be one of the wealthiest of our colonial\nmerchants.\n\nSome time after his arrival in the West Indies, the junior clerk in Mr\nM'Donald's counting-house died; and the latter, having found Duncan an\nactive, smart, and scrupulously honest lad, and, moreover, possessing\nthe qualification of writing a fair hand, together with that of a pretty\ncompetent knowledge of figures, he at once proposed to him to take the\nplace of the deceased clerk.\n\nDuncan readily closed with the proposal, threw off his livery, laid down\nhis towel, and mounted the stool, quill in hand. In this situation, he\nremained for three years, discharging his duties greatly to the\nsatisfaction of his employer. At the end of the period above named, the\nclerk immediately above him also died, and Duncan, as a matter of\ncourse, stepped into his place, in which he continued to distinguish\nhimself by his steadiness and abilities, and by the general excellence\nof his moral character--virtues which eventually raised him, step by\nstep, to the responsible situation of head clerk of the firm.\n\nTwo or three years after he had attained this promotion, however, an\nevent occurred that gave him a much more rapid lift than was likely to\nproceed from the ordinary course of events.\n\nHaving, about the end of the period alluded to, gone into the interior\nof the island on some business of his employer, an insurrection of the\nnegroes had in the meantime occurred, and involved the whole country in\nterror and alarm. When Mr M'Arthur left home, all was quiet, and nothing\nof the kind suspected; nor indeed did he know anything of it, until some\nruinous sugar-mills and deserted plantations, which he passed on his way\nhomewards, informed him of the fearful event. As yet, he had seen none\nof the insurgents themselves--a fortunate circumstance for him; for, if\nthey had fallen in with him, they would, to a certainty, have murdered\nhim. Aware of this, and also guessing at the general state of the\ncountry, Mr M'Arthur hastened homewards with all speed; but his journey\nwas considerably lengthened by the necessity he was under of taking\nby-paths and circuitous routes, to avoid any straggling parties of the\ninsurgents who might be wandering about. Notwithstanding all the haste\nhe could make, therefore, and though well mounted, night overtook him\nlong before he could reach Kingston, the place of his destination; and,\nto make matters worse, he was benighted in a wild and remote woody\nstrath, at the base of the Blue Mountains, which had long been famous as\nthe haunt of runaway negroes, and where, from the inaccessible nature of\nthe surrounding heights, they were enabled to defy all the force that\ncould be brought against them.\n\nIt was now pitch dark, and Mr M'Arthur, not well knowing his way, was\nguiding his horse slowly and cautiously through the intricacies of the\nplace, when a wild whooping and yelling, which he knew to proceed from\nan assemblage of negroes, suddenly struck on his ear, and filled him\nwith apprehensions for his safety, as he was totally unarmed--although\nthis was, perhaps, a matter of no great importance, for resistance would\nhave been vain against such odds as he had no doubt the number of the\nnegroes presented.\n\nOn hearing the cries alluded to, and which seemed to proceed from\npersons at no great distance, Mr M'Arthur reined in his horse, and\nadvanced still more warily than before. His progress, however, slow as\nit was, brought him round the base of the high projecting rock that\ncovered the entrance to an extensive green hollow, from the upper end of\nwhich again rose a precipitous wall of rock, on whose summit, a kind of\nnatural platform, were assembled the negroes whose cries he had heard.\nThey had kindled a large fire, and around this they were capering and\ndancing with a wildness of glee, to which--as Mr M'Arthur judged, from\nthe outrageous and unsteady manner of most of them--rum had largely\ncontributed.\n\nThe sight was an alarming one to a person in Mr M'Arthur's situation;\nbut he was a man of strong nerve and singular resolution, and he\ntherefore determined to ascertain precisely what the negroes were about,\nand, if possible, whose they were. That they were a party of the\ninsurrectionists he had no doubt; and he therefore thought it not\nunlikely that, if he could approach them without being perceived, he\nmight gather some information regarding their intended future\nproceedings, or regarding what they had already done, that might be\nturned to good account.\n\nHaving come to this resolution, he dismounted, secured his horse to a\ntree, and advanced cautiously on foot to the bottom of the rocks on the\nsummit of which the negroes were assembled. On reaching the position, he\nlooked upward, and saw that the ascent was both a difficult and a\ndangerous one; but not having yet forgot the practice he had had in such\nfeats in the Highlands, he determined on attempting it; and this he did\nwith such success, that he, in a very short time, found himself--his\nhead, at any rate--on a level with the ground occupied by the negroes,\nand within a very few yards of them. On obtaining a view over the edge\nof the cliff, the first thing that attracted Mr M'Arthur's attention was\na naked cutlass lying on the grass, and fully within his reach. Of this\nweapon he determined to possess himself; and, by watching a fitting\nopportunity, he succeeded in getting hold of it unobserved, when he drew\nit gently towards him, and found his confidence greatly increased by the\ntimeous acquisition. The most remarkable object that presented itself to\nthe daring adventurer's notice, was a slender female figure, wrapped up\nin a large, light-coloured cashmere shawl, and who was wildly but vainly\nstruggling to free herself from the grasp of a stout, ferocious-looking\nnegro, who had thrown his arms around her, and was evidently forcing\nhimself on her as a lover, grinning hideously in her face, as he\nsputtered away at the gibberish which he intended for the language of\nlove.\n\nMr M'Arthur saw at once that the lady--for such she had every appearance\nof being--was a captive in the hands of the ruffians; probably, he\nthought, the daughter of some of their masters, whose property they had\nlaid waste; and his blood boiled within him at witnessing the\nindignities to which the unfortunate girl was exposed; and he determined\non making a desperate effort to save her.\n\nGrasping his cutlass firmly in his hand, he leaped, with one spring, on\nthe level ground occupied by the negroes; and waving on high his weapon,\nwhich flashed in the ruddy light of the fire, shouted out, as if he were\nsupported by others--\"Here they are!--down with the villains! Shoot\nthem! shoot them!\" And he dashed into the middle of the band, and with\none blow of his cutlass struck the ruffian whose arm was round the\nfemale to the earth, a dead man.\n\nThe ruse of M'Arthur, in the meantime, took completely. The negroes,\nbelieving that a large force was coming on them, fled with the utmost\nprecipitation in all directions, leaving the gallant adventurer, with\nthe captive lady, sole possessors of the field. But the former, judging\nthat they would soon return on finding that he was alone, ran up to the\nterrified girl, and taking her hurriedly by the hand, without waiting to\nput any questions to her, or even to look at her, urged her to fly with\nhim instantly.\n\nAware of the propriety of this measure, the latter instantly obeyed; and\ntaking her deliverer by the arm, both hastened away from the spot. But\nM'Arthur, being wholly unacquainted with the locality of the place, knew\nno other way of escaping but that by which he had come; and by this way\nit was impossible the fragile, timorous creature he supported could go.\nBut M'Arthur was a stout, as well as courageous man; and in this dilemma\nhe did not hesitate an instant in adopting the only course which\npresented itself.\n\nHe suddenly flung his left arm around the slender waist of his fair\ncompanion, and, raising her from the ground, proceeded to descend the\nrocks with her; holding on, from time to time, with his right hand, as\nhe passed from one stepping place to another.\n\nSteady of step, stout of heart, and quick of eye, M'Arthur descended in\nsafety with his precious burden; when, having placed her on her feet,\nhe, with one single word, urged her further flight till they arrived at\nthe spot where his horse was secured.\n\nNor had the flight of the fugitives been a whit more expeditious than\nwas necessary; for ere they had gained the bottom of the descent, the\nnegroes, as M'Arthur conjectured they would do, had returned; and\nseemingly now assured that they had been deceived, began to search\naround, whooping and yelling in the most frightful manner, for their\ndeceiver and his companion.\n\nIndeed, they appeared at one time to have discovered them, or at least\nto have conjectured which route they had taken; for several shots were\nfired in the direction in which they were--a fact which the fugitives\nascertained by two or three bullets striking within a few yards of them.\n\nOn reaching his horse, M'Arthur unloosed him, sprung on his back, and\nquick as thought, lifted the lady behind him; and having secured her to\nhimself, by passing a silk neck-cloth around both, continued his\nflight--at first cautiously, till he cleared the loose stones and\nbrushwood with which the place was encumbered; and then at full speed\nfor the distance of eight or ten miles, when, being aware of his near\napproach to Kingston, and, consequently, to a situation of comparative\nsafety, he reined in the exhausted animal; and it was now that an\nextraordinary denouement connected with the fate and fortunes of the\nfugitives took place. It was now, and not till now--for circumstances\nhad hitherto permitted no conversation between them--that M'Arthur\nlearned who the lady was whom he had so gallantly rescued from the\nbrutality of the rebel negroes.\n\nHaving checked the speed of his horse, M'Arthur turned round to his fair\ncompanion, and said, \"May I now ask, madam, to whom I have had the\nhonour of doing this little piece of service to-night?\"\n\n\"Don't you know me, Mr M'Arthur?\" was the reply, in a soft and gentle\ntone, not unmingled with surprise that, as the speaker had recognised\nher deliverer, she had not been recognised by him.\n\n\"No, indeed, madam,\" said M'Arthur, turning again round, but now with a\nlook of intense curiosity; for, although his answer had been in the\nnegative, the tones of the voice were familiar to him.\n\n\"Don't you know Miss M'Donald--Flora M'Donald--Mr M'Arthur?\" rejoined\nthe lady, smiling.\n\n\"Gracious heaven! is it possible?\" exclaimed Mr M'Arthur, now aware that\nshe who spoke to him was no other than the daughter of his employer,\nbetween whom and himself there had long been a secret and unavowed\nattachment--an attachment which they had never breathed to each other,\nbut which did not the less certainly exist.\n\nThe exclamation of surprise and delight--for this feeling was also\nstrongly expressed in it--which we have just recorded, Mr M'Arthur\nfollowed up, by inquiring how she had come into the dreadful situation\nin which he had found her.\n\nThis Miss M'Donald briefly explained, by stating that a party of\ninsurgent negroes had attacked her father's premises, burned his mills\nto the ground, plundered his house, and, on their retreat, had carried\nher along with them.\n\nMuch more than this passed between the lovers, thus strangely brought\ntogether; but we do not think it necessary to record it; and, therefore,\nnot to interrupt the progress of our story, we proceed to land them\nsafely at Mr M'Donald's residence, a short distance from Kingston, where\nMr M'Arthur left his fair charge, and proceeded himself to the town just\nnamed--Mr M'Donald being there at the moment, on some matters connected\nwith the insurrection. On his finding the latter--\n\n\"Oh, Mr M'Arthur!\" he exclaimed, in great agitation and distress of\nmind, \"isn't this a dreadful business! I'm ruined--ruined for ever! I\ncan no longer hold up my head--I can no longer be good for anything in\nthis world!\"\n\n\"Dear me, sir,\" said M'Arthur, \"has the destruction of your property\nbeen so great?\"\n\n\"Destruction of my property!\" reiterated Mr M'Donald; \"no--no; that is\nnothing--nothing at all. A few thousands will repair that. It's the loss\nof my daughter I bewail--my poor, dear Flora!\" And he burst into tears.\n\"You have doubtless heard, Mr M'Arthur,\" he continued, after a short\nwhile, \"that the ruffians have carried her off, God knows whither; and\nher death--worse than her death--is, I fear, certain.\"\n\n\"Mr M'Donald,\" said Mr M'Arthur, \"be no longer under any uneasiness\nregarding your daughter. She is safe, and at this moment under her\nfather's roof, unscathed, unharmed.\"\n\n\"How, Mr M'Arthur?\" exclaimed the distracted father, in wild excitement;\n\"my daughter safe--my daughter at home! Surely you do not dare to\ndeceive me? Swear to the truth of it--swear to the truth of it,\nM'Arthur, and half my fortune is yours!\"\n\n\"I will, without hesitation, swear to the truth of it, sir, if you\ndesire it, certainly, and on much easier terms than you propose. But let\nme first tell you what has happened.\"\n\nAnd he proceeded to detail the whole circumstances of his adventure with\nthe insurgent negroes, as has been already related.\n\nWhen he had done, Mr M'Donald, whose feelings had been wrought to the\nhighest pitch by the narrative, flew towards him, folded him in his\narms, and said--\n\n\"God bless and prosper you, Mr M'Arthur, for what you have this day done\nto me and mine!\"\n\nIt was all he could say. His emotion prevented further utterance.\n\nImpatient to see his daughter, the happy father, accompanied by\nM'Arthur, now hastened home; and the interview between parent and child,\nwhich instantly followed, was most affecting. Flora rushed into her\nfather's arms, exclaiming--\n\n\"My dear father!\"\n\nShe could say no more, and buried her head in his bosom.\n\n\"Thank God--thank God, my child, that I see you again safe!\" fervently\nejaculated her father, at the same time straining the beloved being of\nwhom he spoke to his bosom.\n\nAfter the lapse of a few minutes, and when the emotion of both had a\nlittle subsided, taking his daughter by the hand, Mr M'Donald led her\ntowards her deliverer--who stood looking out of a window at the farther\nend of the apartment, that he might not seem to witness the expression\nof their feelings--and, on coming up to him, said, smiling as he spoke--\n\n\"Mr M'Arthur, I promised you the half of my fortune, if the intelligence\nyou brought me of Flora's safety were true, and I did this without being\naware that I was indebted to you for that inexpressible happiness; but\nnow, knowing this, I must throw something into the bargain. What would\nyou think, then, Mr M'Arthur, of my daughter here as a make-weight on\nthis occasion?\"\n\nM'Arthur looked confused and incredulous.\n\n\"Nay, I'm in earnest, Mr M'Arthur,\" continued Mr M'Donald. \"You have won\nher, and have the best right to wear her; and, to tell you both a truth,\nI've long thought, and not with much displeasure, that you were not\nindifferent to each other; and therefore I anticipate no very serious\nobjections on this occasion on either side. What say you, Flora? Have\nyou any objection to take Mr M'Arthur for your husband? Come now, be\nhonest, be candid.\"\n\nFlora looked to the ground, blushed, but made no reply.\n\n\"Answer me, Flora,\" said her father, \"have you any objection to receive\nyour deliverer as your husband?\"\n\n\"I have always considered it one of my first duties to obey my father,\"\nreplied Flora, in gentle accents.\n\n\"Enough, my dearest girl--enough,\" said her father, embracing her\ntenderly. \"Now, Mr M'Arthur,\" he continued, smiling as he spoke, \"will\nyou have the goodness to state your objections to accepting the hand of\nmy daughter?\"\n\n\"I would, sir, very readily, if I had any,\" replied Mr M'Arthur, smiling\nin his turn, but almost entirely deprived of his presence of mind by the\ngreat and unexpected happiness and good fortune with which he found\nhimself thus so suddenly blessed. \"But--but----\" and he stammered out\nsomething about felicity, eternal gratitude, choice of his heart; which\nMr M'Donald, as he could not make out, though he perceived and\nappreciated the feeling from which his confusion proceeded, suddenly\narrested by saying--\n\n\"That'll do, Mac--that'll do. You would make a speech if you could, but\nit's not necessary. I know all you would say. But, Flora,\" he continued,\nnow in a bantering humour--\"Mac tells me that he had rescued you before\nhe knew who you was; thus plainly intimating that it was no partiality\ntowards you in particular that induced him to do what he did. What do\nyou think of that?\"\n\n\"Why, papa, I think the more of him for it,\" said Flora, blushing as she\nspoke. \"His gallantry was the more generous, the more disinterested. It\nwas a deed of true knight-errantry--the rescuing of a distressed damsel,\nwithout regard to who or what she was. She was in jeopardy, and that was\nenough for him.\"\n\n\"Excellent, Flora--very ingenious defence!\" exclaimed her father,\nlaughing, and rubbing his hands with glee. \"Commend me to a woman for\nready apology, for prompt excuse, for defending what is indefensible.\"\n\nWe need not prolong the scene. In a fortnight afterwards, Miss Flora\nM'Donald was married to Duncan M'Arthur, Esq. of Rose Vale; and the\nlatter became an equal partner in the concerns of his father-in-law, by\nwhich, in the course of a few years, he realised a handsome fortune,\nwhich was further increased on the death of his patron, who left him,\nfor behoof of his wife and children, the whole of his immense wealth.\nSuch is the story--and a true tale it is--of the little barelegged and\nbareheaded Highland boy whom we saw running wild on the banks of Loch\nAwe.\n\nIt is almost unnecessary to add--yet our story would be incomplete\nperhaps without it--that the parents of Mr M'Arthur participated in his\nprosperity, and that in precise proportion with its advancement. Indeed,\nto minister to the comforts of the authors of his being was one of his\nfirst cares, and one of the very first purposes to which he applied the\nmeans which his good fortune put in his power--a circumstance indicative\nof so amiable and beautiful a trait of character, as would alone lessen\nour wonder at the singular degree of prosperity that attended its\npossessor--leaving us, is it does, impressed with a conviction that no\none who owned such an excellent disposition could be otherwise than\nsuccessful in the world.\n\n\nEND OF VOL. VIII\n\n\n\n\n\n<pre id=\"pg-footer\">","title":"Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland, Volume 08","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":93503}